We Deserve Better Election Coverage

The first thing we have to do is get rid of the Electoral College and run the Presidential election like every other election in the United States: the candidate with the most votes wins. Period.

Second, we have to stop putting people like Steve Kornacki (above) on the air. Nothing personal, Steve, but that rolled-up sleeves, electronic billboard, breathless excitement about who’s polling better may be visually appealing to the 20-something television news producers who create this stuff. But it’s a huge disservice to Americans. It’s not a horse race; it’s not a sporting contest; it’s not a Las Vegas-style gambling odds display. It’s an election for our highest political office.

Third, we have to actually balance our coverage of the candidates. As someone much wiser than me said, “If Candidate X says it’s raining, and Candidate Y says it’s sunny, your job as a journalist is not to report ‘both sides.’ Your job is to look out the window and find out.”

An example of this false balance/false equivalence reporting we’re plagued with now is the old joke about a theoretical New York Times headline for a story regarding the Flat Earth Society: “Opinions Vary On The Shape Of The Earth.”

And by balance, I don’t mean every political story about Candidate X has to run the same amount of time for Candidate Y. And not everything any candidate says, or Tweets, or posts is worthy of coverage. Let the adults in the newsroom – not the consultants or the ad salespeople – use their judgment about what’s news and what isn’t.

I’m not suggesting we turn the clock back to 1980, but Walter Cronkite really was pretty good at balancing stories and reporting election results.

Nowadays, it seems news organizations use polls the way drunks use lampposts: more for support than illumination. Polls don’t mean anything any more. Sampling errors are baked into the America of the 21^st century.

Do we really need stories like this? Do our candidates have to be “exciting?”

Oh, and one more thing.

Could we please refrain from using cutesy terms like “Veepstakes” when we’re covering elections which will determine who will literally be a heartbeat away from the highest office in our country?

Thanks.

I feel better now.

And you damn kids stay off my lawn!!!

Chance Encounter In Westport

 

The first thing I noticed was the car. An Audi A8 with New York plates. Expensive car, but then in Westport, Connecticut, you see quite a few exotic and expensive cars. A lot of very wealthy people live in Westport. I mean, there are not a lot of small communities that have a Tiffany’s store on their main drag.

I had taken my wife to a doctor appointment at a clinic in Westport. It was a pleasant, mild summer afternoon, but still too hot to park in the sun and sit there for an hour, so I backed into a parking slot in the shade.

The Audi sedan had pulled into a handicap slot. It was in direct sunlight. I had all the windows down and the sunroof open in our car, to better enjoy the breeze. The expensive Audi was directly across from me, idling, windows up. I was reading a book on my trusty Kindle.

Several minutes later I looked up again at the Audi, still idling, but just as I happened to glance up, the driver turned the engine off and lowered the windows. I heard jazz coming from the Audi, soft, but audible. Small combo, great tenor sax player.

A few more minutes passed. I looked up from my Kindle again when I heard the Audi start up. I saw the backup lights go on. The driver slowly backed into a slot right next to me, in the shade. Now I could hear the jazz more clearly. “Sounds like Sonny Rollins,” I thought to myself.

I could see the driver of the Audi now. A middle-aged woman. There was somebody in the passenger’s seat, but I couldn't see that person. I could hear the music clearly from what had to be a premium sound system in the expensive sedan. It wasn’t blasting; just loud enough for the people in the Audi to hear it, and, given the proximity to me, both cars with windows down, I could hear it, too.

It must have been a CD or something; the music just went from one track to another with a few seconds of silence in between. So, it wasn’t a radio station; maybe it was one of those satellite stations that features one particular artist. But as much of a jazz sax virtuoso as Sonny Rollins is, I didn’t think he’d be “mainstream” enough for a satellite channel that plays nothing but Sonny Rollins cuts. I wasn’t absolutely sure the sax player was Rollins, but if not, it sure sounded like him.

From time to time, the woman who was the driver would make a short comment about the music. She’d say things like, “Oh, that was a nice phrase,” and, “Wow- where did you get the idea for that passage?” She had to be talking to the passenger that I couldn’t see, and if he was responding to her, I couldn’t hear him well enough to understand. Soft-spoken.

After ten or fifteen minutes of this impromptu concert, I saw my wife come out of the clinic, so I started the car and drove ahead to pick her up. Sometimes she uses a rollator to help mobility (I use one all the time) and as I was folding it up and putting it into the back end of our SUV, I noticed the people who were in the Audi had gotten out and were walking toward the clinic entrance. It was an elderly gentleman being assisted by the driver.

I made eye contact with both of them and smiled. “I loved your music – I couldn’t help but hear it,” I said. “Are you Sonny Rollins?” I asked. The lady flashed a thousand-watt smile and said, “You know his music?” I told her that I loved jazz and that decades ago I’d done a jazz show on radio. “Where?” she asked. “Wisconsin, back in the ‘70’s.”

She turned to face the elderly gentleman, now, obviously Sonny Rollins, and said, “He knows who you are. He likes your music. He used to do a jazz show on the radio.” While he’d been expressionless, suddenly he looked at me and smiled. It was clear to me that this woman must have been much more than just a chauffeur, she must be his caregiver.

The woman and I exchanged a few more bits of conversation. She’d been playing the music through her phone to the Audi’s sound system. Sonny stood mute. The woman pulled up a photo on her phone, showed it to me, and said, “Here he is, back in the ‘70’s.” I told her again how much I enjoyed his music and was so glad to have this chance to meet him.

“May I shake his hand,” I asked. “Sure,” she said, then turned to Sonny and said, “He wants to shake your hand.” He smiled and stuck his hand out and we shook hands. I told him what a pleasure it was to meet him. He nodded briefly and smiled again, very softly saying "thank you." Then he looked toward the path that led to the door of the clinic. I knew that was my cue to end the encounter.

They walked toward the door, the woman helping him every step of the way. She turned and asked, “Do you guys come here regularly? I mean, we could meet up and have lunch or something -talk jazz. He'd enjoy that.” I shook my head as my wife said, “Not really, we're here only once in a while.” The woman said, “Well I’m so glad that there are still people who enjoy his music,” and then we said our goodbyes. They went into the clinic; we went home.

 

Five-time Grammy award winner Sonny Rollins is 93 years old. He retired from playing several years ago. He is considered one of the greatest jazz musicians in the world. He played with essentially every great jazz musician and made more than 60 LP’s.