What, Is Connie Chung In Control Somewhere?

The Therapist

First of all, and in case you didn't realize this. Matt Drudge has apparently adopted the journalistic credo of keeping the same headlines on his page for a week before changing two of them to reflect current events.

This is not the hallmark of a man on his way up. It's the watermark of a guy who is either spread too thin, or assuming he's got the cat in the bag permanently.

Anyway, this thing about the Jackson prosecution's "celebratory" outing seems dubious--really it has all the telltale signs of journalistic tattling. And I say this despite the fact that FOX is the one with at least the early reports of this.

No matter what you may think about Michael Jackson or his penchant for kids, it is glaringly obvious that the press has done everything in its power to engage in vigorous cheerleading for this man. So in that context, one has to wonder whether or not a story about Tom Sneddon's celebratory night on the town is a bit of ordinance the media hopes will hemorrhage into the jury pool--and thus tick somebody off.

The press is highly skilled at the indirect hit--the kind of bomb throwing that involves laying the grenade out in the open, with the near guarantee that some other indignant soul will pick it up and chuck through the desired portal.

Connie Chung tried this, and thank God, it didn't work. How many people remember when Connie was interviewing Newt Gingrich's mother, when she elicited an "off the record" comment in which Newt's mom said that her son thought Hillary was a "bitch?"

Chung was hoping the inertia from the comment would put a healing salve over the gaping journalistic wound she had inflicted. Fortunately for the rest of us, she was mistaken.

Chung lost her job. her departure did not, however, extricate her from her marriage to that appalling Maury Povich.

This is nothing new. The entire plinth on which sat the LA Riots were stabilizing media pillars of Corinthian quality. Johnnie Cochran was all but alluding to another south central conflagration if Mark Furhrman was not indirectly convicted of saying the N-word during a screen test that included that word in the script. Pretty soon, all appropriate bodies, media and otherwise, took to giving the rectal exam to the detective--despite the fact that no indecorous, rhetorical taboo has been shown to cause the sudden penetrating death of two people, or explain gallons of arterial spray all over a residential sidewalk.

The sins of omission, while stealthily omitted, still exist. In spades. When the World Trade Center was attacked on 9/11/2001, there were some scattered reports of mosques in the Eastern part of our country erupting in their own tickertape sessions. Those stories saw inaugural light, and then disappeared.

When Ronald Reagan died, the internet became an on line clearing house for "I Hope He Went To Hell" tiradists. Dan rather complained that he has to give it an above the fold treatment for more than a few days. Journalists held round table discussions as to why it was considered inappropriate to have Lawrence Walsh dump Ronnie's body out of the casket and white-glove the caisson for Iran-Contra evidence.

Yet, nothing but silent, percolating outrage by the silent majority. No Dateline NBC examinations into the nature of "hate."

These days, Bill Clinton's not looking so good himself. In fact he looks downright terrible. If he were to suddenly expire, the majority of conservative voices would mourn along with everyone else. But, because of the preponderant nature of the internet, one moonbat would start www.billwenttohades.blogspot.com and become the titular representation for the rest of us.

For the record, I wish no untimely demise on President Clinton. I don't want him bumping anybody off our money.

So how'd I get here from the Michael Jackson thing? Well . . .let me think for a minute . . .okay. I remember. In the media's template, Michael Jackson should have been handily acquitted, because they don't like it when any celebrity has their sexual peccadilloes placing them in direct proximity to prison time in which those peccadilloes get to meet the peccadilloes of others:

"Michael, welcome to San Quentin. My name is Lou, but you can call me Macaulay."

But this jury's slow-going is making the press pool nervous. Time equals legitimate evaluation. And this is not supposed to happen, because this is Michael Jackson--the same transmogrified werewolf in Thriller that tell us "Im not like other guys."

I was shocked to learn that one. Honest.

So they run with a story that basically says "Quintessential White People Say Jackson's Going Down" hoping that Jesse Jackson will stop siring bastard children long enough to get outraged, and march his rainbow warriors over the kiddie fountain at Neverland Ranch. They are also hoping that there is a TV in the jury room.

Should Jackson be convicted, it will only resonate with the few sychophantic, maladjusted freaks that stand outside the courthouse, and the two or three cartilagonous, marbly-skinned hermaphrodites that may feel their toddler fetish is being encroached upon by the hyper-extended extremities of the Law.

The rest of us have to strive for our own Neverland. With our own children and without hectoring them while they sleep. Where scary monsters with letter-openers for a nose don't touch them.

Cover that one, media.