The quote is part of a pithy but brilliant N.Y. Post piece about the grand opening of a “Newseum” which is nothing more than a monument to c-list celebrity egotism. Peters served in the military for 20 years prior to joining the journalist fold and has some sharp criticism for those people who think they’re more important than the story they cover:
I don’t really begrudge journalists their we-love-us monument. Massive egos need a massive building (total of 643,000 sq. ft., including a new Wolfgang Puck restaurant). But isn’t something fundamentally wrong when there’s plenty of donor funding available for a museum glorifying those who cover our wars, but not a cent to tell the stories of those who fight them?
Having served in our Army for more than two decades, followed by a decade’s adjunct membership in the media, I have to tell my new colleagues to get a grip: You are not the story.
Let’s be honest: Journalists are parasites. Whether war correspondents or metro-desk editor, we live off the deeds and misdeeds of others. They do, we tell. Without the soldiers, cops and firemen (or the politicians, terrorists and criminals), there ain’t no stories.
And for the record: I don’t throw words around. The primary definition of “parasite” in the Oxford English Dictionary (Fifth Edition) is “a person who lives at the expense of another person or of society in general.”
To paraphrase Johnnie Cochran, “If the epithet fits, you must admit.”
Awesome. One of the only things I miss about living in N.Y is picking up a Post from the corner deli (along with one of the best iced coffees ever made, pured from a pot kept in the deli meat freezer into a frosted cup of ice) and reading editorials like these.
Peters goes on to detail the decline of the journalist from plucky reporter out to get his story to elitist snob out to prove he’s better than everyone else:
What happened? It’s pretty straightforward. Journalism was always something of an outsiders’ profession. The great war correspondents of the past – Ernie Pyle, Richard Tregaskis, Edward R. Murrow, Bill Mauldin and their like – either came up from the same tough streets or small towns as the soldiers they covered or at least knew the kind of folks who served in the ranks.
Not these days, pardner. Today, big-media journalism is a white-collar, insiders’ profession that grows more elitist by the year.
The change began in Vietnam, when ambitious young men (and some women) looking for kicks after college went slumming amid the carnage. Some had big talents; all had big egos.
That’s when journalists began casting themselves as the heroes of their stories, as the courageous fighters for truth, as the saviors of the nation and all humanity.
Then came Watergate, when two young reporters brought down a presidency and were rewarded by successive bestsellers and a film in which two real-life nebbishes were played by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman.
Journalism faculties boomed. Journalism began to be written for other journalists, for prizes, not for the people.
From “All The President’s Men” forward, journalism was the ultimate career for the well-educated, well-connected young voyeur who didn’t want any bottom-line responsibility (just a byline, thanks). No need to get dirty, at least not for very long. Just make fun of the young soldiers or cops who get dirty every day.
It’s gotten so bad that one middleweight media concern in DC now does all it can to hire only Ivy League grads.
Anyone who has met a journalist or, like me, has had to spend time with would be journalist grad students knows exactly what he means. Read the rest, it’s perfect lazy Friday reading.
