The Other Side of the 'News'

BEFORE WE BEGIN, I want to state unequivocally that I have never attempted to open back-channel communications with the Kremlin. I wouldn’t even know where to look for a back channel, although I’m guessing it’s down by the river. I state this partly as an admission that, in this city of nonstop intrigue, this cauldron of shocking and possibly treasonous revelations, this constant stream of leaks and denials, this torrent ...

... I’m sorry, where was I going with this? Oh, now I remember: I live in a city where each day brings another bombshell of treachery and betrayal, but I’m always the last to know. As a journalist, this hurts.

I mean, my office is so close to the action you’d think I’d hear some of this stuff firsthand. I can see the U.S. Capitol Building from our roof (speaking of our roof, anybody know how to get bird poop off a chimney?), and the White House is just a stone’s throw away, assuming you’ve got the arm.

But I’m not on the inside. I’m just the opposite. I’m ... (don’t guess, let me get there) ... on the outside. In a city bubbling over with chicanery, I’ve not gotten one email from a whistle blower inside the government, not a single contact from an unnamed source, or even a phone call from Russian Ambassador Sergey Ivanovich Kislyak, whose name I’ve practiced pronouncing in case I see him at a cocktail party. Not that I’m invited to those any more since the last one, where I planted myself in front of the bowl of shrimp and pretty much ate it all. (I’m closing my eyes now, remembering the taste of the first couple dozen, the sweet tang of the cocktail sauce, and the two times I had to elbow the Russian ambassador out of the way.)

In a town where it seems everybody is getting secret meetings with the Russians, it’s like Putin doesn’t even know I exist. What is this, high school? (Just look at him, sitting over there with the cool kids. And wipe that smug look off your face, Jared. The only reason they let you join the Russia Club after school is because your dad bought you a car!)

SHUT OUT from the information flow of political Washington—and since most newspapers are already covering the countless missteps inside of the Trump administration—the only thing for me to cover is what’s left: the outside, the part where you simply take the White House at its word. Its reality is my reality. Su Casa Blanca, mi Casa Blanca.

I admit, it will be easier. For one thing, everyone from journalists to economists are working hard to debunk the Trump administration’s new budget as cruel and heartless to the poor. But it’s a lot less work to take the White House at face value and report that the U.S. economy will soon experience 3 percent annual growth, that corporations will celebrate their historic tax cuts by building factories and hiring American workers again, and the sick, given no other choice, will just get better. We’ll also get seconds on dessert.

Otherwise, what would be the point of lowering taxes on rich people and cutting the heart out of our safety net? It just wouldn’t make sense.

Likewise, since the media is extensively covering Trump’s withdrawal from the Paris climate accords—an action that exposes our disregard of science and long-standing agreements with trusted allies—it’s left to me to cover the other story: While 195 countries have signed the accord, the U.S. has proudly joined Syria and Nicaragua to make up a powerful Coalition of the Remaining.

No matter that Nicaragua abstained because it felt the Paris accords didn’t go far enough, or that Syria declined because, after years of crimes against humanity, its leaders are afraid they’ll get arrested if they go someplace to sign something. (Nothing takes the fun out of Paris like a forced detour to The Hague.)

But our president does not yield the low ground. He longs for photogenic sunsets purpled by the haze from nearby coal plants, and gleefully anticipates inland property values rising as they soon become waterfront, with lovely views stretching from sea to rising seas.

SO YOU SEE, when you’re a journalist on the outside there are no heavy rocks to turn over, no noxious swamps to empty, no anxiety about our Constitution slowly being shredded. (Bird cages aren’t going to line themselves, after all.) Reporting is a piece of cake, which we can now let them eat.