From Denmark With Love
Once, in the distant past, I was a man of tremendous importance. I wore enormous cufflinks, hats, and egos with proper pomp and pretension. I hobnobbed with young men and ladies in certain special circles, feigning interest in their lives while suckling at their souls. I was the last of a dying breed.
Were I not so devoted to trysting with truth, you might have lived out your life without knowing these interesting anecdotes. Fear not. In the heady days of my youth, I attended a student newspaper seminar staffed by some of New Hampshire's finest reporters. It was there that I learned the secret of good journalism.
You see, according to the keynote address, the secret to scribing is neither integrity nor comity nor impeccable penmanship. At least, not according to Mrs. Goldsmith, the assistant editor of a small New Hampshire weekly, who spoke softly, as if her words were reserved for my rapt and impressionable and acne-strewn ears.
No, the key to good journalism (said Mrs. Goldsmith huskily) is having the will to ignore the screaming mother of a small baby with a broken back, lying crying and crumpled and partially impaled upon the base of the towering bleachers from which it fell, in order to accurately and impassively photograph the scene for the front page of the Sunday paper. Why was this the key to good journalism? Because it is the method by which Mrs. Goldsmith was promoted to her position of power. In philosophy they call this post hoc, ergo propter hoc. In journalism, they call it business as usual.
And so, thusly delivered from the able hands of an apt instructor in the art of investigative journalism, I shall now provide you with a look back at the weeks that were. These are actual news stories that I have doggedly culled from the Internet, aided in my efforts only by the forums, a broadband internet connection, and a hearty dose of Xanax. I hope you enjoy them as only the truly vicarious can.