Newshound
Journalists like to think that they are stalwart watchdogs, loyally guarding their beloved master (truth, justice, American way, etc) against Corruption, Greed, Deception and Dishonesty. It’s a nice, friendly image. People of the world, feel safer because your guard dog is watching the bad guys, making sure YOU are safe.
Yeah. Bullshit.
Journalists are dogs, yes. But I don’t imagine myself, nor many of my fellow journalists as “watchdogs”. We don’t “watch”. We hunt. We sniff around, unwanted, distrusted, black shapes amongst the marble white of bureaucracy’s halls. Snarling carrion hounds, picking the flesh off even the leanest of carcasses. When we find something limping, weak and vulnerable, we’ll strike, quickly and mercilessly, and pull it down with us, devouring it. We’re hungry–we’re always hungry, and we can’t eat enough.
Frankly, it’s a better image. More honest, perhaps. I don’t think we’re in this business to help people. Some, like myself, may want to. But the system isn’t suited to that. Idealism may take people into journalism, but pragmatism, dogged determination, and an unending, savage hunger keeps them in the game.
But what makes a journalist? What do we do that is so different from anyone else? It isn’t that we’re more noble. We aren’t humble messengers telling you what’s what. Journalists are a collection of well-informed, and well connected citizens who take the time to call people in the middle of the day and ask them what they are doing. What they are doing, why they are doing it, and who are they doing it for. Anyone can do it.
Oh, but I suppose that’s the problem. Years of schooling, money spent, and entire industry built to print “journalism”. Think your morning weather report is cheap? No way. All those graphics, those nice suits, those cameras, the makeup and lighting–ha! Costs a fortune. Ahhh, but the money is running out, isn’t it? The newshound is hungry, and for once, he can’t find enough to eat. The meat is still there, but it’s not enough. Somehow, he’s starving to death.
Well, that’s ok. Fortunately, he mated with the right bitch somewhere along the way. There’s litters of little hounds out there, gnawing happily at whatever scraps they can find. Of course, the big dog snatches it all up, leaves little behind, but there’s only one of him–and his myriad children are VERY hungry.
One day, the Newshound may find himself in a corner. Alone, unwanted, half-dead. And then, from all around, the glittering eyes will appear. One by one, the children of the Hound will fall upon him, cracked and yellowed teeth gnashing at the darkness. There will be blood.
Blood as black as ink, running down a pale white page. And there will be no headlines that day. The Newshound gets no obituary. No one wants to write it.
But somehow, you’ll know the weather. You’ll know the traffic. You’ll know who won last night’s game.
And the world moves on.
