The Age of Drivel

Curt Mudgeon

Another California sunny morning. The mocking birds are busy in the tree outside my window. They settled here a year ago after driving away a horde of blue jays that screamed at me every time I would step outside. Mocking birds sing beautifully, they don't scream at me, and they don't buzz my cat when he takes a nap on the lawn. I like the critters. It's going to be another terrific California day.

I take a hot shower and set out to shave. I don't really enjoy shaving, but habit has made it a slice of time that is all mine and that I use to get the news on the radio. I tune to KOAF, which has a powerful transmitter and claims to be the leading station of the Bay Area. Its fare is news and talk programs. "Good morning. It's exactly seven o'clock, the time for KOAF News, with the award-winning team of Spike Hornbeam and Jed Pishworth." These guys have been opening their program with this award-winning stuff for more than twenty years, but somehow, this morning, I find the announcement annoying. This news program is just as bad as those of other stations. The reports are characteristically local, don't have any depth, sensationalize trivial matters, and ooze political correctness. I wonder why these guys got an award, and which sort of award. It must be for punctuality, just because they start their segment on time, at exactly seven o'clock. Wow!

After a dreadful piece of saxophone blare that must be the signature of the station, Spike announces "Here is the traffic report from Elmer Pitts in the KOAF jetcopter." Jetcopter? Spike is asking "Elmer, what is presently the situation in terms of the commute?" The situation in terms of the commute? Over a background of chop-chop sounds, Elmer's voice is a tad shaky "Well, Spike, the Bay Bridge is moving slowly ... there has been a three-car accident for an hour on the Bayshore freeway at the San Antonio exit, but a CHP cruiser is there ... another accident is working on Highway 17 at the I-280 exit ramp ... it will be removed soon ..." These are extraordinary news. A bridge is moving, an accident is working, and three cars have been banging one another on the freeway for an hour right in front of a CHP officer. "... thank you Elmer. That was Elmer Pitts from the KOAF jetcopter." Spike must be proud of his "jetcopter" barbarism---look Ma, I made a new word all by myself.

There is a commercial announcement. A man, who seems to be in great pain, sings in a broken, sorrowful voice. Why does he sound so sad? He is not sad at all. He sings of the exhilaration of drinking Folgers coffee in the morning. Things are seldom what they seem.

Jed takes over "... we have on the line Sally Potemkin reporting live from the South Bay about a developing shooting incident." The emphasis on the word "live" indicates that such reports must be a big deal in broadcasting circles. The local television stations are fond of "live" reports at eleven at night on a backdrop of dark empty streets and deserted warehouses, which feature uninteresting blabber on events that took place hours before in broad daylight. Sally's voice barely dominates background traffic noises "... Jed, ... grrr ...vrrroom ... the officer entered the premises and found the deceased lying on a couch in the living-room of the residence. When the officer ... vrrroom ... grrr ...vrrroom ... the deceased made a threatening gesture, upon which the officer shot the deceased twice in the chest area with his service revolver. The man was declared dead from the gunshot wounds." Jed does not wince upon hearing this startling account. He says "Thank you Sally. Good job! That was Sally Potemkin reporting live from the South Bay." In my book, Sally didn't do such a good job. She said that a dead man made a threatening gesture. She also said that he was shot in the chest area. The chest is where I would shoot to kill, even a dead man, and I would bet that a policeman knows that much about his job. But that doesn't really matter. It was good enough to shoot the man in the chest area and miss him because he was dead anyway. I wonder if Sally sometimes listens to the nonsense coming out of her mouth. I guess she doesn't, or she lives in a world where policemen are routinely threatened by dead men.

After this strange report, Spike is back "There have been rumors at City Hall that this year's budget may not be approved by the council. To check on this story, we called councilperson Clara Nett at her office. Hello ... hello ... hello ... well, it looks like we don't have a line here ... hello ... well, let's try again later." "Hello Spike ... hello ...", "Uh, hello Mz. Nett, I think we have some difficulties ... OK ... uh, in terms of the council, as far as the debate, uh, what is the budget situation?" Such incoherence does not faze Mz. Nett. She is an old hand at incoherence, and she proceeds to prove it by answering in kind "Well, Spike, uh, in terms of the budget, you know, my constituents are key, and I have called an emergency town meeting as far as the shortfalls and the impact upon my district, and, you know, in terms of my vote, I think it is important to come to a general consensus within the parameters of the budget, and, you know, my problem-solving skills will be very useful in the decision-making process." Spike takes this inane recitation without flinching. The magic of general-consensus-within-the-parameters and other pishposh must have thwarted the need for further clarification. He says "Please, keep us posted as far as new developments," to which Mz. Nett answers "I'll sure do that. Now, people who want to play a proactive role in terms of the decision-making process can call me at City Hall." Spike is on cloud nine. That was a remarkable live interview, and I can hear him smile. He says, "Thank you for the information as far as the budget, and good luck in terms of the town meeting. This was councilperson Clara Nett speaking to us from City Hall."

In another commercial interlude, a guy with the predictably gravelly voice and heart-rending emotion plugs a song---"like a rock!"---about a GM pick-up truck. How can one be so passionate about pick-up trucks?

Jed is reading another crime report "... an unidentified female who allegedly tried to kidnap a five-year old female was seen entering a white vehicle that fled from the scene. Eyewitnesses could not give a description of the suspect." Is there anything wrong with words like "woman" and "girl"? Now, what was that "vehicle"? A tricycle, a tank, or the eyewitnesses do not know what a car looks like? And then, there is this "suspect," whose description and whereabouts are unknown. Think of a press conference where the chief of police would say "there is a male suspect for last week's axe murder, but we don't have any idea of what he looks like, who he is, or where he is." People would call him a fool and ask for his resignation.

The following commercial has a local automobile dealer advertise cars equipped with "air, power, automatic, and cassette." OK, I think I know what he means, but it's not quite the way he says it.

My shaving is almost over and I turn off the radio. Starting tomorrow morning, I will stop listening to KOAF and its award-winning clowns at exactly seven o'clock. If it takes an expensive short-wave receiver to get a station where English is spoken, I'll buy one.

There used to be a time when the average American could express himself in a direct, concise manner consistent with the language. To be sure, a few unkempt wacks thought that "you know" and "like" made incoherence comprehensible, but this was an oddity that could be imputed to the effects of mind-altering drugs. Social fakirs later declared that the rest of us should listen to these people because their disoriented prattle contained messages of universal truth and wisdom. You see, it's not what they said that mattered, but rather what they meant. Aha! This revelation pleased a lot of inarticulate people who had nothing interesting to say but were begging for attention. In no time, incoherence became the fashion. Along the way, much help came from the ever-expanding bureaucracies of government, business, education, and academe, for which pseudoscientists were busy engineering obfuscatory jargons. This cultural movement was so successful that gibberish is now a national sport. It gave us a great alchemic recipe that transmutes failure into success, idiocy into wit, ignorance into knowledge, ugliness into beauty, and feelings into science. Of course, politicians, journalists, television newsreaders, educators, and corporate managers love it, and for good reason. Since the meaning of incoherent blabber cannot be pinned down, its perpetrator is de facto immune to any sort of accountability.

I am now ready for another day at the office, but an important one. It is the last day as far as my career---er, I mean in my job. As I leave my premises---er, my house---I have a good look at the big tree, the mocking birds, and the blue sky. It's going to be another great California day---in terms of the weather. I start my vehicle---it's a car, doggone it! On the radio, charismatic Vice-President Algore is blundering through another pompous homily. He concludes a heap of platitudes with a resounding "This is the Age of Information." I think he's got it all wrong. This is the Age of Drivel, in terms of the parameters and as far as the general consensus. Like, er, you know what I mean.