I am aggravated. Since I rarely reread what I’ve already finished, written, edited, suffered over, sent in and argued to defend I am usually semi-able to survive my aggravations.
But comes this sudden gambit of picking on news people. The writers, journalists, filler-in news talkers, commentators, perennially blond TV anchor ladies with their long hair down to their short hair and field reporters who mispronounce the name Kabul and Iran — both places in which I have lived. Why?
Why are street sellers who hustle month-old hot dogs and can’t even read the ads pasted on their rented carts suddenly knocking this profession?
Words count
At deadline, my immediate reaction is the throb of a daylong headache. Then the mail, which should’ve arrived last week comes in, so, in case a check’s in it, you open that first. It’s bills overdue, which I probably paid in the first place. Next is often a torn page which a fan thinks I should deal with. Some days it’s so discombobulating that I even answer my housekeeper’s mail — and hers is from Guyana.
OK, so we’re not all Ernest Hemingway — but he probably couldn’t have knocked off a masterpiece while suffering with a computer that stopped working, a phone that got disconnected, a happening while on deadline, a Verizon that’s dislocating wires, plus making perfect three-minute eggs, plus shutting up my dog, plus working the spelling of Ukraine’s Dnistrovsky and Bklshivtsi townships. I mean, forget Podilski and Shpola.
Then there’s that exact moment when people are returning my calls. Friends, enemies, strangers I know don’t even have phones ring. With a little luck, your life can manage to eff up a whole day.
Meanwhile, WABC radio, which I’m on, needs a quote. Right now, in the middle of my disintegration, they’d like about six minutes for me to riff on Tesla. Tesla? Until 20 minutes ago I thought that was only what was on P. Diddy. Tesla? Then comes a high-class slick magazine requesting my take on Russia, China and Iran interfering with this election. I tell them what’s interfering with this election is Washington, DC. They then call me “stupid” and hang up on me.
Well sourced
Cranky, I then do the intelligent thing. Rush around sharpening pencils — which I no longer need. To gain knowledge due to some important political issues, I call my brilliant friend. He is very smart. However, he is also very unemployed so he hangs up. Next intelligent thing is to knock off a sandwich. After all these necessary preparations I’m exhausted. Also, since the weather’s turned chilly, I have to go for a sweater.
Our building superintendent suddenly shoots up steam in some frenzied burst of energy. I then need to fly around opening windows and putting weights on all my factual papers. Nothing’s on those but I don’t want them to disappear — just in case. And because they contain valuable information on Napoleon — only in case I’m suddenly quizzed about his linen thread count in Elba.
Such fine print
Theoretically, high-class journalists live migratory lives. Possibly because slick magazines and out-of-work writers think reporters are for the birds. But mostly these slick magazines that pee on us only really want to know whose sheets J.Lo is under this week or which Krapdashian just opened a new bra lift.
So, why are new news stories coming up about how useless are reporters and why do we need these people out in the field so we know who’s doing what and how often they’re doing it. If we want to know who’s doing what to who and how often we just need ask the spies from Russia, China, Iran, Palestine and Democratic headquarters. Better they should have mikes, detectives, talking parrots, wired phones, smart earpieces and lip readers to tell civilization what if anything is going on in the White House. Because they know.
Shove AI. Today’s eyes are devices in crevices.