George is a news junkie. He reads the dailies; he listens to NPR; he watches CNN. He has a compulsion to be informed. The problem is that he doesn’t just digest the news; he has emotional reactions to it.
In February and March, he slogs through heavy rains on the way to work. It rains and rains, and he says to his wife, Marge, “Well, all this rain cancels out golf and tennis, but at least we’ll have enough water.” However, he learns that this is not the case. Invariably, year after year, the Chronicle dolefully reports, “Rain only a drop in the bucket,” and, “No help for drought.” No matter how much it rains, it’s never enough. George wonders what happens to all that water. Is it slurped down by squirrels and ferrets as it drops from the sky? Does it hit the ground and immediately evaporate? Why doesn’t all that rain fill up the reservoirs? Do they leak?
This isn’t the only disconnect between George’s experience and what he reads in the paper. The New York Times reports that the airlines’ on-time record has improved over last year. He’s reading this while he sits in an airplane at a gate at JFK. The pilot announces that the plane will be delayed because the weather over Newark is bad, and their planes have to use the JFK corridor. After a couple of hours, the pilot says, “I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that we have been cleared to taxi out to the runway; the bad news is that there are twenty-five planes ahead of us.” George composes a letter in his head to the New York Times. It contains expletives that are not deleted.
April 15 is approaching. Tax time. George is a dutiful taxpayer. He even keeps a few receipts during the year. He shouldn’t worry, but each year the IRS plants stories in the media about delinquent taxpayers who have been prosecuted and disgraced. These stories have exactly the effect intended by the IRS: they produce terror, if not compliance. George worries that he may have overstated the market value of the wide ties he donated to Goodwill. Will the IRS engage in “rendition” and send him to a secret location where hooded men will give undue attention to his fingernails?
George reads about the stimulus package. There is not a single thing in that package or in any other bailout that will help him or anyone he has ever known. He hates stories about the stimulus. They cause his viscera to contract. He makes over $250,000 a year. That is his misfortune. He has spent half his life acquiring the education and training to succeed, but now he will be reduced to standing on a corner with a tin cup. Every time he turns on the news, there is another proposal to reduce his income. An increase in his income tax rate, an increase in capital gains tax, a reduction in his mortgage deduction. No remedy for his devastated 401k. No deduction for his Wednesday night poker losses. Only a constant drumbeat that he should be ashamed for making so much money. He is sure he will get a directive that says unless his Lexus has a solar panel on its roof, he has to trade it in for a Prius. The new mantra is, “And the wealthy shall be made to pay for their sins.”
George turns on the local news at 6:00. For the third time this week he listens to a story about a random shooting on a dark street—it’s either gang-related, a drug deal gone bad, or a case of mistaken identity. And not all of the bullets land in bad neighborhoods. These stories make George nervous. He simply cannot afford to shed blood on his Armani blazer. He resolves to walk only in crowds and close to buildings that have doormen. He won’t get involved with drugs, except for Tylenol.
Not all the stories have negative implications. George gets a kick out of the periodic reports about the people who win lotteries around the country. He himself buys a couple lottery tickets every week. Sometimes the winners are a team of laborers who clean out stables at a racetrack. Sometimes the winners are a couple. The guy is about seventy; he’s rumpled, built like the Michelin Man, wears suspenders, and has three teeth. His wife is photographed by his side, wearing a dress whose pattern was last seen on linoleum. Anyway, they have won $50 million and have indicated they intend to keep working but will move out of their trailer park. George enjoys these stories but wonders why no one who wears a suit and tie has ever won a lottery.
George also enjoys reading about medical advances. Every day there’s a story about drugs that starve cancer cells or fool them, or eat them up, but the bottom line is that cancer continues to be a killer. George is convinced that stem-cell research will eventually find cures for diabetes, heart disease, Parkinson’s, and hangnails. The only problem is that every breakthrough has a caveat that, for the moment, the discovery has no practical significance. It will take about three generations before the new procedures get through FDA trials and can actually help people.
Then there are the stories for which George has lost all patience. If he hears any more reports of baseball players using steroids, he will give up his Giants tickets and develop an interest in curling. George has a simple solution to the unending revelations: let’s just assume all ballplayers use steroids, and any mention of a ballplayer in the media will be accompanied by an asterisk. And then we can move on. George figures that Barry Bonds won’t go on trial until we are all driving electric cars and Paris Hilton has won an Oscar.
