Responsible Journalism

I have been considering for some time branching out into some of the other, more respected and admired areas of journalism. Not that there’s anything particularly wrong with what I’m doing, per se, but there is an element of frivolity that smacks of immaturity and insignificance. Humor columnists may be necessary, in some small way, in the grand scheme of things — I don’t know, perhaps filling some incredibly specialized evolutionary niche like naked mole rats or something, appearing to the casual observer to be completely unnecessary but ultimately responsible for propping up an entire ecosystem — but one thing we’re not is taken seriously.

Were we all to disappear overnight the effect might resonate throughout the universe and result in consequences dire and disastrous, but as that’s not likely to happen, we will go on in status quo as the redheaded stepchildren of the journalistic arts, enjoyed and snickered at but definitely not marriage material.

Even the most successful and best-loved of the breed seem faintly ashamed of their success, as if they’d made a killing in dildos or enriched plutonium. They know that what they do is silly at best and offensive at worst, and making a living at it is little better than stealing. Investigative journalism, now, that’s a horse of a different color. Ferreting out corruption, exposing charlatans, putting oneself in harm’s way in pursuit of the truth — that’s the true nuts.

Social reformers like Jacob Riis and Upton Sinclair, ripping the covers off of the seamy underbelly of human existence to ensure better lives for the less fortunate. War correspondents like Richard Harding Davis and Martha Gellhorn, putting themselves in the line of fire to bring us the straight dope. Great film critics like Pauline Kael or David Edelstein, keeping Hollywood honest and the moviegoing public informed. These are honorable, respectable professions. Dave Barry, though? Lewis Grizzard? Art Buchwald? Amusing, yes, but something to which one might aspire? Not a clear-thinking individual, surely.

My view is that humor columnists are simply unfit for anything else, not unlike someone born with an undeveloped twin growing out of his torso going to work for a circus sideshow, because what the hell else is he going to do? We do it because we are simply incapable of honest work and have figured out a way to capitalize on our sophomoric musings and hijack column-inches that might be better served as underwear ads or celebrity gossip.

Still and all, I conceived of a plan to dig deep beneath the surface of one of Mendocino’s most enduringly pesky social ills, the hordes of walking wounded plying the streets and occupying the jail cells and bedding down under the bridges. Not the tweakers sliming around and racking up felonies, like the one I saw on my way to an NA meeting this morning karate-chopping trees in the town square, but the determinedly drunk vagabonds splitting their time between Low Gap and the downtown streets, marinating in malt liquor and shuffling around in their fragrant, layered rags. I wanted to talk to these people, to hear and report their stories in an effort to humanize them for those who might consider them past redemption and unworthy of concern. I felt that they might yet have a story to tell, one that might be worth hearing. They weren’t born that way, surely. Something happened to them and I figure some of them were maybe, one time, as respectable as you and I — well, you, anyway. I may be well-groomed and nattily clad, but respectable? Not so much.

To this end I endeavored to hit the mean streets and seek out a subject upon which to practice my stab at meaningful work, and perhaps do a little good in the process. That, I believe, is the essence of real, responsible, memorable journalism — a desire to not just write for the sake of writing, to strive for cleverness as an end in itself, but a desire to effect change and be a crusader for truth.

I would like to point out at this time that the following account is in all ways factual and without embellishment of any kind. You may read it and assume it to be simply more of the usual tomfoolery, but I assure you it is 100% on the level, in keeping with my elevated aspirations to be a real, daily-grade, muckraking, ink-stained son of a bitch.

Before setting off on my mission, I thought I had better outfit myself appropriately in journalistic attire so as to be taken seriously, but the only thing I had that I thought shouted “writer” was an old bucket hat, which for some reason I associate with the trade. I considered a small spiral notebook to display in my shirt pocket but dismissed this as a pointless anachronism, as even the most destitute and bereft of street people carry a smartphone these days. I figured a professional demeanor would probably serve me best and resolved to carry myself in the manner of the giants of the tradition upon whose shoulders I now stood, peering out over the limitless expanse of social pathology and official malfeasance. I donned my hat, squared my shoulders, and strode confidently off into the big wide.

I decided to begin my search for a subject in the Pear Tree Center, where people of the sort I sought like to enjoy the shaded sidewalks, parking their carts and bindles and sitting up against the walls over by the Big 5. Where the wall takes a jog there is a corner that seems to be prime real estate, there being no commercial entrances nearby, and it’s almost always occupied by one or more of the traveling people. This day was no different, and I saw a tall gentleman with his back to me rummaging around in his shopping cart and grumbling incoherently. The cart was piled high with bags and boxes and adorned with two homemade flags representing unknown or perhaps fictional nations in the front, in the manner of a state vehicle. On the lower shelf, where kitty litter and charcoal briquettes generally reside, was a large stuffed dolphin.

Apparently sensing my presence, the fellow turned around and glared at me. He was tall, grayhaired, bearded, with clear light blue eyes that seemed to indicate a possible measure of sobriety, sanity, and intelligence. Definitely a potential interviewee. “How you doin’ today, my man?” I said, cheerily.

“How the fuck do you think I’m doing?” he returned crossly, and turned back around to his cart.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time,” I said.

“Man wants my time,” he said without turning around. “Time is money, right? Good thing for you I operate on the barter system.” He turned around, slowly. “I’ll give you one ass-whippin’ in exchange for your continued presence in my space,” he said, menacingly. “We got a deal?” He smiled broadly and put up his dukes old-style, like the Notre Dame mascot.

“Whoa there,” I said. “I mean you no harm, bro. I’m a writer! I’m just trying to get some interviews for a series I’m doing on uh, people of the, uh, people that, uh…”

“People? What kinda people? I ain’t no kinda people. I ain’t nothin’ but a certified head-buster.”

He turned back to his cart, reached inside, and came out with a flail, the spiked-ball-on-a-chain that most people mistakenly refer to as a mace. A mace has the business end fixed at the end of the handle while a flail allows for free-swinging, which my intended subject was now doing, and dangerously close to my head.

“Never mind,” I said, backpedaling rapidly. “Sorry to bother you, dog.”

“Oh, now I’m a dog? Ruff, ruff, motherfucker. Come on and get some!” He advanced on me, flail held high and whirring through the air. I ran toward Orchard, seriously rethinking my intention to become a serious journalist. As I put more distance between myself and peril, I heard him yelling after me.

“Come back! I got a story for you! Nosy bastard gets murdalized! You damn sissy! Come back here and take your lumps like a man!” and more of that sort.

Sissy I might be, but all the Pulitzers in the world aren’t enough for me to deal with that level of unfriendliness. I figured maybe I should be content with my lot as an observer on the inconsequential and amusing aspects of life, leaving the more serious subjects to those composed of sterner stuff than I. I may not ever be recognized for addressing social ills or exposing government rascals, but on the other hand, my brains will remain firmly ensconced in my skull and not dashed out by a flail-wielding street-demon.