Forget Superman, Where's Lois Lane when You Need Her?

My kingdom for an investigative reporter. The lack of one may eventually cost us ours.

In this day and age, a reporter should be savoring life. There are computers. There are countless ways to fact check. With blogs and twitter and syndicates and feeds, those who want to know and aren't willing to settle for spin, or pedal spin, should be at the top of their game.

And talk about job security, between investigating bills, investigating the campaigns and fact checking the materials put forth by our Congress, by our courts, by our entertainers and our sports heroes; there's scarely be time to eat. So I'm asking reporters to put on their walking shoes, not because I want to hold feet to the fire, but because we can't safeguard our liberties if we buy a bill of goods!

These days, reporters cover the story but they don't investigate. As a columnist, it seems dangerous to accuse a class of people I presumably long to belong to, of falling down on the job. However I see a pattern and it is disturbing.

Tiger Woods was a philandering cad for years and everyone in the sports world that covered him apparently knew it. Nobody reported it until it was revealed by Tiger's actions. Apparently, it was a gentleman's agreement to not reveal Tiger wasn't a gentleman, agreed to by those covering him from Nike to NBC to Sports Illustrated.

Anyone with eyes could see that the skinny speedy Mark McGuire of his early days transformed into a wall of highly stretched bulging flesh and that such a radical body change probably wasn't the result of mere diet and exercise. Steroid abuse in baseball was rampant. Yet it wasn't discussed execpt as a rumor, a vicious rumor, as the path of outsiders and cheaters. No one belled the cat until Canseco.

The Collusion in baseball by the Chicago "Black" Sox has nothing on the collusion by the current sports media to ignore both of these stories "for the good of their respective sports." What else aren't they telling?

Even a cursory glance at the book Game Change indicates there were many unreported stories about candidates that might have made a difference in the horserace of last year. Who knows what hasn't been reported?

The Edwards in the 2007-2008 election race were complete frauds and their staff knew it, and many in the media suspected it. No one investigated it. No one reported it until the National Enquirer brought forth pictures and proof. The stories of the dandy Edwards, of his affair, of his wife's meltdowns, reveal character. The omission of all these stories until a year after the election when a best selling telling book can be marketed, also reveals the lack of character.

Freedom of the press was designed to create a watchdog for the government and the public, not a lapdog for the former that viciously keeps the rest of us off the lawn.

The Acorn scandal has been swept under the rug. No one is seriously upset that tax payer dollars are funding a corrupt organization willing to allow for the immigration and prostitution of minors. No one feels troubled by the President's affiliation with such a morally bankrupt organization, just like no one should be troubled by the affiliation with Rev. Wright or William Ayers. There's no story because there's no AP reporter.

The Healthcare bill has been so clandestine and corrupt a process, it would not be believable as satire. But the cause, the need to create SOMETHING, trumps actual demanding of analysis by the media experts. They're just so happy there will be a bill, it doesn't matter what's in it or how much it costs or what it covers. Again, the power of the press to withhold is even more powerful than its power to expose.

For most of two weeks, the President stayed quiet about the bomber on Christmas day. No one has pinned him down about specifics that will be changed or actual mistakes that were made, they're just eager to say, "He said the buck stopped here! He admitted to the mistake." No one is asking what actually was the error, who made it, and why aren't they fired or at least questioned. The Washington Post went so far as to op-ed a piece anonymously about how the President should take questions from the press about these concerns, and that it is lamentable that he hasn't. But no one is asking any questions anyway. They're just hoping the commander in chief feels chatty at the next press gathering.

We live in an age of opine and talking points, where a clever blog with a crafty take can set the narrative template for political thinking. We pretend nothing is wrong if we can find someone on the dial or on the air we agree with in principle. The problem is opinions are not facts. When opinion substitutes for gumshoe reporting, the compelling story and winning ideology trumps character and trumps truth.

We can hope for the truth to will out, but I'd feel more secure about our political process, about our freedoms and about our government, if a few good reporters would deliberately go about the hard process of connecting the dots and informing the people in a timely fashion; long before writing a tell all book.

Purple Prose Pens in Short Supply!

With the Obama administration having taken the reins of power and freed the land from the oppressive darkness of the evil Bush-Cheney years that shall henceforth be called "the-years-that-could-not-be-named, but-caused-all-that-is-wrong-in-the-world," writers from every corner of the globe are dusting off their thesauruses to rediscover positive adjectives.

Eight years of excoriating vitriol and "I triple dog dare you to Hate Bush more," one upsmanship in the journalistic world has left the media struggling to remember how to give an genuine compliment.

When Bill Clinton was elected president in 92, Newsweek ran a cover with him as Saint George with the pensive and supposedly "hypothetical" question, "Can He Save Washington?" with the Dragon being the obvious bureaucratic monstrosity that everyone denounces except when it's giving your state, special interest, bank, business, or "very special friends," a sizable kickback.

When "W" became president, there were equally silly articles talking about how "the grownups" had arrived. Every election, the news industry gets collective amnesia and works itself into a frenzy that typically would result in the issuing of a restraining order if exhibited by normal human beings.

In articles this week alone, President Obama has compared to Joshua in the Old Testament and John the Baptist and Saint Paul. One person said, hearing him speak was like hearing God. A professor of political theory likened the new president to being both Superman and Clark Kent. Memo to the good doctor, Superman IS Clark Kent! Not to mention the friendly neighborhood Spiderman giving his own web slinging thumbs up to the 44th person to hold the office via a commemorative comic.

There were articles about how the seagulls were in awe of the crowds as they soared overhead. 1000 stars seemed to gleam back at the President as he took the oath and the throngs took their pictures. The poetry flowed from every pen, except the poet's. The combined reverence of Couric, Oberman, Matthews and others rivaled love notes written by 14 year old nerds to the head cheerleader in ABC afterschool specials.

But we have been told, drool over the man's physique, fawn at his every utterance and please don't disturb the historic nature of the moment or the good vibrations half the nation is feeling in it's Pepsi One euphoria by asking any questions. We have to get with the program!

But how to compete when so much praise has already been given? Alas, I'm not sure there are superlatives left in the English language that haven't already been ascribed.

Here is my fledgling attempt to outdo the media in their dog like devotion. Comparing Obama to figures from the bible seems so "Right wing." We are an enlightened people. We eshew such pedestrian references as childish things. To venerate the President and properly acknowledge his place in history, we must go further back to summon icons worthy of such an individual.

First the academics should substitute Barrack's name anywhere in the Illiad or other Greek Myths, they find the name Zeus. The same should be done in Nordic, Odin shall now be Obama as well. There shall be a Buddah Obama, the Dahli Obama, and so forth.

The scientific community should then create a constellation using the National Star Registry and call it Obama. It will use every star visible to the Earth. Any stars having prior names shall shed them in light of the need to honor this historic leader.

Next, Congress must accelerate the Mint's production of quarters so that the only ones in circulation are Obamas. In Barrack we trust, all others pay Obamas. In fact, in light of the current fiscal situation, all other currency shall be seized to help pay for the bail out. It would have happened anyway, this just speeds up the process.

Then we can render unto Obama, what is Obama's. And all will be well. There will be Peace.

Ahhhhhhh, I feel it. The oneness.
All Hail Caesar!

Forty-one and Awaiting Maturation

At my age, I’m supposed to be educated, sophisticated and worldly wise.
There is a stack of books that educated people are supposed to have read, important things like the complete works of Dickens and Shakespeare, The Ancient Art of War, Das Kapital, the Federalist papers and Moby Dick. I am waiting for retirement to get to this list, when not reading them will be chucked up to old age and poor eyesight.

Adults are also supposed to like things like coffee and wine, sushi and blue cheese not accompanied by super hot Buffalo wings and beer. They can watch documentaries on war and read the serious sections of the paper with total recall. They wear jeans and sneakers for gardening and football games only, and they don’t voluntarily choose to dine at places that wrap the food in paper. As I understand it, some of them even listen to and love opera.

I am waiting for those chemical enzymes to kick in and transform me from a fairy tale loving, French fry noshing comic book reading plebian into a character out of a Henry James novel; who coifs her hair and wears dark form fitting frocks and speaks in mysteriously compelling short phrases that bewilder and bewitch those around her as she passes through the heathers without stepping into a gopher hole.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to mature. I dutifully checked out Bleak House from the library and read a play each summer from Shakespeare. I keep ordering wine at restaurants but I never finish a glass. I know how to talk about tannins and the deepening flavors and all that, but what I really think when I drink wine is, why didn’t I order a diet coke? I have eaten sushi with friends who love it and survived, but can’t figure out why no one doesn’t just say, “Hey this is a great piece of fish, just give it five minutes in a pan with garlic and olive oil.” I think they’re just trying to avoid doing the pots and pans in the kitchen.

My sister has bought me CD’s of opera, explaining which pieces were her favorites. She has also taken me to drink my first Starbucks, I got a violent headache after three sips. I had a similar reaction to the opera. My husband buys tickets to the symphony. We go. He shuts his eyes to listen. If I shut my eyes, I snore. My music tastes haven’t ever left the early 80’s and high school.

I have taught myself to read the editorial section before I hit up the funnies and the sports, but it’s rather like sitting through math class in High School before lunch. I do it, but only because I ought, and much of the front section just rolls past my brain which is fixated on what happened today in “For Better or Worse.”

So here I am at 41 and I still want big parties on my birthday with wrapped presents and a frosted cake with all the candles. I know the Saturday morning line up my kids watch, and I sneak my TV viewing under the responsible adult headline of “Parental Supervision.” I change the channel if I don’t like the cartoon or its animation. I read comic books inside of real books like “Seven Habits of Highly Successful People” and wear jeans or shorts 350 days out of the year. I don’t own a form fitting frock and I talk in breathless longwinded excited loud sentences. It’s not that I don’t like wine, opera and all things sophisticated; they just aren’t my first preference.

Given the fact that much of my life is lived like a stone that just perpetually skips on the water (never slowing or stopping to sink below the surface), introspection is not one of my strong suits. It requires a quieter mind and spirit than my temperament allows. Yesterday, my son was invited to take a course on manners and etiquette, designed to teach freshmen of high school how to act like the adults they will some day become. As I looked at the requirements that the boys wear jackets and ties, and the girls, dresses and gloves I wondered if one day my kids would grow out of their childhood tastes. I’d be left to go to McDonald’s, watch Disney movies and listen to Duran Duran on my own.

But then I remember, my husband prefers burgers to fois gras, and chocolate shakes to champagne. The other day, he came home with tickets for a baseball game and proposed a camping trip for the 4th of July weekend. After dinner, he asked for ice cream. So I stopped by the bookstore today, and even though, the complete works of Evelyn Waugh were on sale near the front of the store, I picked up the latest Fantastic Four comic for him, and tonight, we’re going to see Kung Fu Panda. Maturity can wait, at least until it feels fun and not like an assignment to eat my broccoli.

I will say though, some of that opera isn’t so bad. Thanks sis.