My friend who goes by the moniker Agent 69 thinks I’m an interesting person. If anyone thinks I’m interesting I tend to want to hang out a bit more with them because, well, I don’t get that reaction very often. Although I must say it does bring to mind the Groucho Marx line of not wanting to be part of any club that would have him as a member. Nevertheless, I had a lunch with him today and, as often is the case, we grumbled about various political banalities. To our mutual credit, very few swear words were used in this session.
The subject came up about the political class and the media that write about them. Specifically, about the strange relationship of media and how it is billed as our guardians of truth and yet have a cozy relationship with the people we need guarding from. It was in evidence this weekend when President Obama was having a going-away party for administration hatchet man David Axelrod who was leaving to run the reelection campaign for the president. First, let me state my bias and pray that Mr. Axelrod is a complete and utter failure in his revised role. At any rate, as Egypt and much of the Middle East was burning, our tirelessly-working president was goofing off with his staff and a number of invited elite journalists.
It makes one scratch the balding side of the head to get around the idea that supposedly objective journalists could maintain that objectivity and still make the A List for future parties and sleepovers at the White House. If a reporter were to write a slightly critical story about the president, would he or she be taken off the invite list? The worry of losing the status – and the access – in this manner could make any reporter give pause about what they’d write.
When I was a lowly paid sportswriter, there was a definite dividing line about consorting with the athletes we were writing about. It was almost a point of professional pride that we could care less about hanging out with the athletes, invited or not. And, the bigger the name, the less we wanted to seem star-struck. The reporters who cover the White House these days seem to feel just the opposite and can’t wait to write in their diary about how the president remembered their name. In fact, there is a big snit going on from the reporters who weren’t invited to the White House soiree.
Back when it was cool to be an aloof sportswriter, I had a story lead that went, “The Texas Rangers stink, and Mike Hargrove was the stinkee.” I was proud of that line and proud that I had called out the Rangers’ only all-star player. With my chest puffed up, I proudly went to the Rangers’ practice field the next day and was talking to manager Bobby Valentine. As we were discussing what Valentine might do when he became a former manager, a baseball whizzed by my head and I could feel the wind of the ball as it missed my nose by an inch. Valentine looked down and tried to hold off a chuckle. I looked around and couldn’t tell who had thrown the ball, although my great deductive skills had narrowed the field to Hargrove, who was about 50 yards away. A moment later another ball zipped by my head and, putting two and two together, I figured Hargove was throwing the ball at me. So I said, “Skip, I think Hargrove is trying to hit me on the head with a baseball!” Valentine said, “Naw, if he was trying to hit you, he would have.” The next day, Hargrove went 0-4 in an 8-0 loss and I wrote of the Ranger’s star player, “Hargrove looked about as sharp as white sox and a black tuxedo, but he sure can throw the ball with great accuracy.” The 6'-4" Hargrove grabbed me in the clubhouse the next day and asked me to autograph my article. So much seems to have changed in the relationship with reporters and the people they report on. It’s also true that much has changed in the expectations placed on the reporters by those they’re covering. And that’s sad.
Years ago, I was traveling with a few old political hands and they were having fun telling me about all the dirty little secrets of California’s elected legislators. Republicans and democrats both had skeletons that needed to be nailed shut in the closet. One maintained a collection of child pornography in his office and another once punched his wife in the nose because she met the pizza guy half naked. Another was found in a hammock with a 16-year-old babysitter, another was considered the cocaine dealer for the Senate and its staff. Most were alcoholics and few had anything resembling scruples. But they had one thing in common: they were protected from any of this information coming out by the Capitol dome.
While we are led to believe that republicans hate democrats and vice versa, the simple truth is that they don’t hate each other enough to engage in mutually assured destruction. So the details of the frailties of our elected mortals stays in the family; in part because they are aware of their own frailties and in part because they are protecting the image of our elected officials as servants of the public and the essence of truth and justice. The real story couldn’t be farther from the truth.
And this is where we have to give the stink-eye to the media. If I know these stories, imagine what the seasoned journalists know. I once asked undoubtedly the most important political reporter why he didn’t write about the dirty secrets in the Capitol. He told me if he did, it would be the last story he’d write and he’d be out of job. While I know politicians have stirred us into a rough employment environment, I wonder what happened to the days when an editor would give a reporter the boot for sitting on a story that was far more in the interest of the public than remaining on the A list for party invites. Woodward and Bernstein, where are you when we need you?
