Anything for a Story

I've often heard it said that there's a fine line between stupidity and courage. I'm not sure I agree, but I'll grant adherents to that adage that our national media coverage of Hurricane Kakillya is an exercise in one of the two. Amid all the winds of change a-blowin' down in New Awleuhns and other Southern coastal cities, we see daily footage of reporters standing by washed-out roadsides in hip-waders, in hotel parking lots where roofing debris may whip by and crush them any second, or bent nearly double in the driving rain. The slitted eyes, the death grip on the microphone, the weathered slicker buttoned up to their throats--now that takes dedication, or perhaps an adrenaline junkie. Or maybe just good old-fashioned skull-rattling idiocy. When it's raining cats and dogs--nay, Saint Bernards and tigers--you will not find me scaling the tallest tree for a better glimpse of the oncoming tornady that our beloved hurricane du jour just belched forth. Nor will you find me prancing amongst the downed power-lines as they whip back and forth, crackling at me like angry adders. You won't see me holding onto a road sign for dear life, flapping in the wind like a flag unfurled.

What's next? Hanging ten on an onrushing tsunami, for that once-in-a-lifetime chance at getting the perfect shot of a wave crest? Are we incapable of reporting on these devastating wonders of nature from the relatively safe confines of a building or news vehicle? Or is it the possibility of a toetagged reporter that draws our eyes, when Ross' effete whining on a rerun of Friends just doesn't quite do it for us? I suppose ratings are everything, these days, even at the jeopardizing of the newshound's safety.

For those of you sloshing through the gumbo in Louisiana, I wish you the best. I don't understand you, but I hope for your safety. But please remember that you're expected back at the asylum, thirty minutes after Katrina's tantrum abates.