It was a typical Memorial Day Saturday in the East Bay - dry, hot and quiet. One of those days where you can be in the sun or the shade and not really know the difference. At least where I was, biking out in the back roads of the hills between Moraga and Hayward, where the strange folk of the redwoods live.
The hills were starting to get steep there on the Moraga side when a van rounded the bend, headed in my direction. A green minivan, to be exact, and I would describe it later to the police sergeant as, “a typical soccer mom ride.” But I wasn’t worried at that point. The weird communities in the hills that live in the dark shade of the woods and only come out for Bar Mitsvahs, First Communions and 83 cent sales at REI don’t tend to be dangerous people. And besides, I seldom suspect arbitrary people of insanity. But maybe I should.
The vehicle passes me at clocking roughly 50 kilometers an hour. Moments before it did I felt the two wet impacts against my chest like exploding beer cans or worse. BOOM! WHAMMO!
The wind was stolen from me and my orientation disappeared. But my grip on the handlebar tightened with the sudden shock which is the only thing that prevented me from being hurled into the thicket of dry branches and broken thorns on the side of the pavement. I somehow managed to slow the bike down before I stumble off of it onto the poorly shorn weeds between the road and the pit of branches next to it. I collapsed, half of my body still on the pavement. There was a strange, light sugary smell in the air.
What the hell was that? I wondered.
“oowwwwwwwwww,” I said, my mouth continuing the line of thought. And why the hell is everything sticky?
I looked up at my chest and didn’t see red, which suprised me. I’d figured that the wetness of the impact had to be the blood that would’ve been pouring out of my chest cavity after being hit with that shotgun round, or at least with that beer can that exploded on my chest at that speed.
But everything was white. Loads of creamy spillage that made it look like a hippopotomus had just explosively ejaculated all over me. I didn’t even know hippos could explosively ejaculate.
“Aw, what the fuck?” I said to the dry expanse around me. I looked around the rest of my body for any other wounds but found that the pain was focused only on my chest, radiating outwards along with the rest of the viscousy white liquid that smelled strangely of wheat yogurt.
I looked back to the spot where I was hit and sure enough two yogurt containers lay strewn on the road and in the weeds, totally exploded. My bike looked OK except that it was covered in as much Activa Wheat yogurt as I was. The sun is baking the yogurt on me on that black asphalt and the previously pleasant smell was turning sour before my very nostrils.
I peeled my shirt off and examined my chest. A little tender and red, but no bleeding. A ‘Dannon’ logo was stamped just above my right nipple, but I was fine. My breath was returning to me.
“Huh,” I said out loud, “Assault with a dairy weapon.”
I laughed out loud like an idiot on the road. I was still laughing when somebody drove by and tried to offer a hand. I considered the very strong possibility that I am way beyond helping.
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Well, friends — it’s happened to you now, perhaps not for the first time: you found your way to this here little bit of internet real estate and you want the show. You went to all the trouble to click on the link in your email or whatever. Some of you even typed the damn URL into the address bar. Bravo.
So you went to all that work and what do you find here? Another post on the media mess. That’s right.
Why, god — why? you ask yourself. Why won’t he post something fun or at least something I can follow, like Lindsey Lohan’s hair, her crack addiction or the Warriors or something that, like, all my friends are talking about?
I worry about you sometimes, reader.
Nonetheless…
–
In what was sure to be the momentous turn around for the image of the mainstream media, all hell broke loose and the potential crumbled and fell to shit.
An accident on interstate 880 at the MacArthur Maze of the Bay Area; it was the chance for the local channels to show their merit, to report what happened and to give us information alongside a captivating story. You know — journalism. And to do it on the scene. Get back to it. Do it now.
This thing was a wet dream for journalists with nothing else to do - it had it all:
- an exploded gasoline tanker that was melting concrete with its combustible contents even as the story played out
- a collapsed freeway at the heart of the San Francisco Bay Area
- traffic problems as far as the eye can see and the clock can count
- politicians on the scene, making no sense
And all on a Sunday night. Think of it, reader. Think about Monday morning. Think of the potential to do the right thing.
–
Naturally they fucked it up and made a mess of things. Media crews were either dispatched to the scene or else just attracted to it like children to an ice cream truck. And what were they there to do? Were they there to cover the story? Were they there to describe the impact to the community and the options to the leaders and to investigate the facts with the depth and passion that their junior college journalism professors had inspired in them? Were they going to ask the tough questions and get the straight answers out of the ones with a stake in the ordeal no matter what lines they had to cross?
Sure, Goose.
Nah, they were kissing the ass of whatever was the easiest political target to put on the screen at that moment. Whatever attracted the most viewers and called and grasped the most attention for more than 6 seconds would get the spotlight.
Why? Because short attention spans in your audience means that advertisers want you to have people’s attention for slightly less than a minute so that whatever is left can be their 30 second blurb, for which they pay handsomely. It’s all about the dollars involved. You know it is. Rupert Murdoch gets all giddy when something like this happens.
Besides, you’re not supposed to as why to a thing like this. It’s not a questions of reasons, just incentives.
So the local news networks recorded a segment on the brief facts they barely knew at the time - a rig crashed, exploded, melted a freeway - yeah, I see that much from the hellish fire behind you. Then they married it to the most dramatic footage they got of the flames and the onlookers, and hiccuped it back to viewers every five minutes. The spastic reporting added nothing on every new replay except to say that they still didn’t know anything at all, which also, was obvious.
What they did do is give the Governator a forum to declare a moment for himself when he offered taxpayer moneys to pay for a free day of BART for everyone, even if it was just for the day. That his proposal made no sense and added nothing to anyone’s benefits didn’t seem to be on the edge of anyone’s tongue, including the news team.
The amazing thing? Not one media outlet offered a report of what it would cost the tax payers and what the benefits would be. Not one.
Instead, they reported an interview with the taxi driver that took the non-injured truck driver to the hospital.
You fucking twats.
And I’m not just talking about the media, because they’re beyond helping. Remember that they report this silliness because of - not in spite of - you people. It’s your lack of attention to detail that makes this all real. It’s your addiction to gossip that takes the focus away from what’s important, and it’s your pathetic lack of continuing education that keeps the circle of doom alive and well.
The solution should be obvious but mother nature is in over her head and we’re going to have to rely on our own stupidity and eradicate ourselves. We’re well beyond being flooded out because many of us already have Hobie Cats. I still need to get one.
In other news, a Washington prostitution ring! The guy is 65 and married. He’s a politician, for christsake, saying “they sent women over to my hotel room for massages but there was no sex.” That’s practically the same thing as saying, “I paid for whores,” isn’t it?
Again: who is asking the questions?
No one.
Posted in Politics, Rants | No Comments…