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Regaining Trust

Over at The Federalist, Mollie Hemingway discusses ways that the national press has lost the trust and confidence of middle America, and suggests ways they can begin gaining it back.  Her suggestions and thought process are excellent, and I suggest everyone check it out.

After reading through her piece, I thought I’d make a couple suggestions of my own:

 

 

Quit lying to us

I quit watching CBS News, which I had made my primary national news source for my entire life, after Dan Rather reported false stories about George W. Bush’s military service.  I had made watching Walter Cronkite a part of my day when I was in kindergarten, so it was quite a habit to break. Since then, none of the national news outlets have impressed me.  I find few outright lies, but there is a heck of a lot of selective reporting, verbal shading, and refusal to report anything that hurts the politics of “our side”.

We come to the news for facts so that we can make good decisions.  If we can’t trust the information you give us, we’re going to go somewhere else for those facts.  Want to know why so many people are taken in by fake news sites, including ones that aren’t meant as satire?  It’s because we’ve found we can’t trust the ‘real’ journalists to tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  If you lie to us, only tell half the story, or outright ignore important events, then you will continue to lose us.

Stop devoting a large part of your efforts to entertainment and trash

When I was young, the nightly national news mentioned movies maybe twice a year, and one of them was Oscar Night.  Tabloid journalism was only found in disreputable magazines and newspapers, and human interest got between thirty and sixty seconds out of a half-hour program.

Now, I am bombarded with vignettes about the special meaning of the latest blockbuster art house movie, coupled with ‘news’ about the antics of entertainers and their hangers-on.  Bonus footage is given to any female with large breasts or an ass that looks like a question mark, or a male with a bit of scruff on his chiseled features and a sardonic smile.

There are literally millions of websites devoted to trash reporting and entertainment news.  Quit trying to draw the eyeballs of the disinterested by dragging programming down to that level.  If you want to be taken seriously, do serious work.

Overuse of hyperbole and histrionics is not helpful

First, Reagan was sitting up all night, plotting how to subvert our freedoms and start a nuclear war.  Next, Bush was working to put us all under the thumb of a New World Order.  Clinton was going to send in black helicopters to murder us in our sleep, while George W. Bush was sending an entire generation of men off to create an American empire to enrich his friends.  Obama has been the root of all evil for the last eight years, while Donald Trump is either a greedy bumbler who will ruin the republic, a stooge of business and foreign interests, or a mastermind genius manipulator who is looking to set himself for life as God Emperor of the White States of America.

In between that, we have “ICE AGE! NO, ACID RAIN! NO, GLOBAL WARMING! NO, CLIMATE CHANGE!” as well as “ILLEGAL ALIENS! CRACK ZOMBIES! WELFARE QUEENS!”  splashed across newspapers, websites, and news broadcasts.  Every politician that stands in opposition to a journalist’s politics is worse than Hitler, or a communist, or a socialist, a crypto-fascist, or a secret Muslim.

Meanwhile, I’m shutting off my television and looking for alternate websites to get my news.

Y’all have been shouting at us so much that I’ve lost the ability to hear those frequencies anymore.  When you need to shout about something because IT’S ACTUALLY IMPORTANT, I won’t hear you. Learn to use your inside voice.

Draw a bright, hard line between news and editorial work

A lot of the journalists on the national platforms (cable news, major newspapers, websites) have lost the integrity of putting what they know on page 1 and putting what they think about what they know on page 6.

“Senator Backwash, who has not answered questions on when he stopped beating his wife, questioned the Assistant Junior Under Secretary for Corn Sexuality Studies during a long, tense, intrusive series of meaningless questions into the crucial necessity of researching the mating habits of the Lower Missouri River Corn Weasel.” has become a common way for someone to say “Senator Backwash posed several difficult questions to a representative of the Agriculture Department during yearly budget hearings.”

Journalists are, even if they’re not overtly trying to move an agenda, going to be influenced by their own beliefs and prejudices.  They’re human, after all.  But if a reporter can’t be honest enough to separate their activism from reporting the facts, then they should leave news and go into punditry full time.

If I have to work to separate the facts from the advocacy, you’ve gone a long way to losing me as a consumer.  If you lose me as a consumer, you lose me as a possible receptive audience for when I want to hear your advocacy.

Take a good, hard look at the pool of journalists in your organizations and start creating a diversity of opinion

Diversity of race, religion, national origin, gender, sexual orientation, and belly buttons in or out can add richness to any organization.  But when your product is information, you have to add diversity of thought as well, or all you’ll put out is pablum and screed.

If all you have on your staff are rock-ribbed, Kool-Aid drinking conservatives or Ivy League liberal arts majors who can quote from both Das Kapital and The Collected Wisdom of Woodrow Wilson,  then your echo chamber is indeed vast and comfortable.  When I want to read or watch news and commentary about a controversial topic, I don’t want to hear 90% of the message going one way, with a token whack job from the other side brought along for comic relief.  On a panel of five people, two should go one way, two should go the other way, and one should reflect me, who is in the middle trying to figure out the facts and what they mean.

 

Anyway, these are just my suggestions.  Go and check out Mrs. Hemingway’s article, and let me know what you think in comments.

A Year of Poetry – Day 236

 It's good the great green earth to roam,
Where sights of awe the soul inspire;
But oh, it's best, the coming home,
The crackle of one's own hearth-fire!
You've hob-nobbed with the solemn Past;
You've seen the pageantry of kings;
Yet oh, how sweet to gain at last
The peace and rest of Little Things!

Perhaps you're counted with the Great;
You strain and strive with mighty men;
Your hand is on the helm of State;
Colossus-like you stride .
 .
 .
 and then
There comes a pause, a shining hour,
A dog that leaps, a hand that clings:
O Titan, turn from pomp and power;
Give all your heart to Little Things.

Go couch you childwise in the grass,
Believing it's some jungle strange,
Where mighty monsters peer and pass,
Where beetles roam and spiders range.
'Mid gloom and gleam of leaf and blade,
What dragons rasp their painted wings!
O magic world of shine and shade!
O beauty land of Little Things!

I sometimes wonder, after all,
Amid this tangled web of fate,
If what is great may not be small,
And what is small may not be great.
So wondering I go my way,
Yet in my heart contentment sings .
 .
 .
O may I ever see, I pray,
God's grace and love in Little Things.

So give to me, I only beg,
A little roof to call my own,
A little cider in the keg,
A little meat upon the bone;
A little garden by the sea,
A little boat that dips and swings .
 .
 .
Take wealth, take fame, but leave to me,
O Lord of Life, just Little Things.

-- Robert William Service, The Joy of Little Things

A Year of Poetry – Day 235

How much shall I love her?
For life, or not long?
“Not long.”

Alas! When forget her?
In years, or by June?
“By June.”

And whom woo I after?
No one, or a throng?
“A throng.”

Of these shall I wed one
Long hence, or quite soon?
“Quite soon.”

And which will my bride be?
The right or the wrong?
“The wrong.”

And my remedy – what kind?
Wealth-wove, or earth-hewn?
“Earth-hewn.”

— Thomas Hardy, The Echo Elf Answers

A Year of Poetry – Day 234

I loathe that I did love,
In youth that I thought sweet,
As time requires for my behove,
Methinks they are not meet.

My lusts they do me leave,
My fancies all be fled,
And tract of time begins to weave
Grey hairs upon my head,

For age with stealing steps
Hath clawed me with his crutch,
And lusty life away she leaps
As there had been none such.

My Muse doth not delight
Me as she did before;
My hand and pen are not in plight,
As they have been of yore.

For reason me denies
This youthly idle rhyme;
And day by day to me she cries,
“Leave off these toys in time.”

The wrinkles in my brow,
The furrows in my face,
Say, limping age will lodge him now
Where youth must give him place.

The harbinger of death,
To me I see him ride,
The cough, the cold, the gasping breath
Doth bid me provide

A pickaxe and a spade,
And eke a shrouding sheet,
A house of clay for to be made
For such a guest most meet.

Methinks I hear the clark
That knolls the careful knell,
And bids me leave my woeful wark,
Ere nature me compel.

My keepers knit the knot
That youth did laugh to scorn,
Of me that clean shall be forgot
As I had not been born.

Thus must I youth give up,
Whose badge I long did wear;
To them I yield the wanton cup
That better may it bear.

Lo, here the barèd skull,
By whose bald sign I know
That stooping age away shall pull
Which youthful years did sow.

For beauty with her band
These crooked cares hath wrought,
And shippèd me into the land
From whence I first was brought.

And ye that bide behind,
Have ye none other trust:
As ye of clay were cast by kind,
So shall ye waste to dust.

— The Second Baron Vaux of Harrowden Thomas, Lord Vaux, The Aged Lover Renounceth Love

A Little Gift

Just to mix things up a bit, I’m going to publish the segments of my sort-of short story, “The War”, on the dates included in the story.  This started out as a series of blog posts a few years ago, which I expanded on and polished a bit to include in Escort Duty.

There will be quite a few posts in the first few days and weeks, then maybe one every few months until next Christmas, when the story will end.  If you’re so inclined, please feel free to grab a copy of Escort Duty for yourself and see how it ends before next December, but please don’t ruin it for the rest.

One warning – This isn’t a kid’s story.  I don’t go into all the gory details, but some of the language and images in the story might be upsetting.

The first installment will go live in a few minutes.  Enjoy!

 

Bragging About My Lovely Wife

The Irish Woman, she of the flashing green eyes, has had one of her designs chosen as the logo for the Louisville Zoo’s black tie fundraiser next summer:

To say that I’m proud would be an understatement.  I need to get a copy printed so we can frame it and put it up in her office.

Review – En Route

Most of you are familiar with Kelly Grayson, proprietor of the Ambulance Driver Files blog.  He’s been a speaker at a myriad of EMS conferences, educated more people than I’ve met, and has been a helping hand to countless sick and injured people throughout his career.

(Side note – Kelly’s teaching recently came in handy for Girlie Bear.  While doing training with her ROTC class, she surprised her instructors by being able to properly put on a tourniquet in a short amount of time.  She learned it from Kelly in one of his Shooter Self Care classes.)

Recently, Kelly re-released his book, “En Route – A Paramedic’s Stories of Life, Death, and Everything In Between“.  It’s a collection of vignettes from his experiences in the first few years of his career.  He tells us tales that will make you laugh until your sides hurt, as well as those that will make your heart ache.

Grayson is an expert storyteller, and even though these stories are short bites of his life, he draws a complete picture and draws you into every one of them.  His stories flow very well, and you will find yourself immersed as you read.

The book is a quick read, and it leaves you looking forward to the sequel.  If you’re looking for something to read in front of the fire while Old Man Winter shakes the house, this is it.

 

Full Disclosure – Kelly Grayson and I have been friends for several years. I have taken first aid training from him, broken bread with him, and he mentions me as part of his ‘tribe’ in the final pages of the book. That being said, I enjoyed this book and look forward to his follow-on works. I think you will too. I paid full price for my copies of the book, and received nothing from him for doing this review.

A Year of Poetry – Day 233

The clouds had made a crimson crown
Above the mountains high.
The stormy sun was going down
In a stormy sky.
Why did you let your eyes so rest on me,
And hold your breath between?
In all the ages this can never be
As if it had not been.
— Mary Elizabeth Coleridge, A Moment

A Year of Poetry – Day 232

I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not—yet can I scape no wise—
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
— Sir Thomas Wyatt, I Find no Peace

A Year of Poetry – Day 231

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,-
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.

— Emily Dickinson, A Bird Came Down