Print journalism has been so good these past months that felt like years. Remember back in 2012, that gleeful feeling you got when you read Pete Wells’ review of the Guy Fieri superfund site in Times Square? Well, I just re-read it and it is a mere amuse bouche for the righteousness served daily by journalists at the Washington Post, New York Times, and smaller dailies in Detroit, Cincinnati, so on. Oh, lord, ProPublica’s piping hot Pulitzer-prize winning online investigative journalism. Just as you might “a plate of pale, unsalted squid rings next to a dish of sweet mayonnaise with a distant rumor of spice,” choke down this justice!
All of this is to say that print journalism is being the kind of excellent that one can only imagine was motivated by a prior laziness, a willful misinterpretation of equal coverage, a cowardice so big it created a universe of language to explain a phenomenon where one word would do (lie); all contributing to the rise of the a leader that in brief, is frickin’ dangerous.
SO! What I mean to say is now is the time to hug your journalist. And, if you like me think human lives are fascinating and the people that spend theirs writing about others even more cause they are themselves fascinating in super intelligent, hard to get along with, quirky beyond all reason ways, please watch the documentary Obit.
Somewhere buried in the documentary the writers address the “isn’t it sad to write about dead people all day” question. I couldn’t agree more with the answer, which is: not at all. They get to write about a life that, likely if it makes The New York Times, is full and brilliant, meaningful, left a legacy, and often lasted a long time.
I feel the same way about taking care of people at end-of-life. Is it sad? Not usually. Not really. No.
I regret even starting with the Guy Fieri stuff. I’ve lost my appetite.