“There are people who lost their jobs trying to harm me, and if you pass on these damaging claims without your own reporting to back them up that will become a serious problem,” Mr. Fager wrote in a text message, which CBS News aired on Wednesday’s “Evening News” in a segment reported by Ms. Duncan.
This story also reports Fager’s co-workers at 60 Minutes stunned that a text message could undo years of good work. How is this a fireable offense? they ask.
Anyone willing to threaten a fellow professional is more a criminal than a colleague. That’s all there is to it. If you’d wield your power as seen above, how else are you brandishing it? I wouldn’t dare work with Fager if he hints at his behind-the-scenes power as a bludgeon. Stockholm Syndrome is real. Get a replacement who would deny allegations without gesturing at violent mythmaking.
(I’m going to lift the point of this essay wholecloth, so you really should read it.)
On a week seeing attempts at rehabilitation of war hero (as in he’s a hero to wars for always supporting them) John McCain and candy-man George W. Bush, I was lucky enough to read about Samar Hassan. She’s pictured above. During the Iraq war, her parents were gunned down in front of her because dad was thought to be a suicide bomber. He was driving a little fast, after all. The photo captures the immediate aftermath.
Samar Hassan was interviewed for a 2017 documentary. Then eighteen years old, she was asked how she would reply if men like McCain and Bush told her they were sorry. She says:
I will never forgive them. I will just leave it to God. God will punish them. If they were in front of me, I would want to drink their blood. Even then I wouldn’t be satisfied.
Why do we go out? Because if what we want more than anything is to attain self-confidence, health, energy, and peace of mind, we should stay in. We could be like little Buddhas, meditating and masturbating and watching TV. And we could imagine ourselves to be brilliant, and kind, and good speakers, and good listeners, and utterly loving – and there would be no way to prove it otherwise.
I’ve re-visited this essay about four times in less than a year and it still sees right through me. I spend a week alone and imagine myself the zen paragon of humankind. Then I head to a bar and speak to one other friend and the illusion crashes, the Matrix glitches: sure I can still re-direct bullets, but they tend to ping straight at loved ones.
Eliese wants to tell you a story. She wants to tell you a story, but there are so many things about which she cannot speak. Particle physics, for example. Also, industrial psychology, protein synthesis, polymer science, and the peculiar magic that makes water bugs skate so perfectly on a pond. She wants to tell you a story, but she lacks so many things. Multivariable calculus. Pie making. And there is so much she has forgotten. The conjugation of the verb vouloir, the purpose of a Golgi body, the middle name of her first boyfriend. Eliese does, however, know about horses. She can talk about horses. She knows equitation and conformation and equine disease. For example, Eliese knows that white horses must be bred with care. Sometimes, a white horse is born with a fatal genetic disorder known as lethal white syndrome. A foal with this disorder will appear healthy at birth. It will stand and suckle and sniff its mother’s scent. A new, white life. But deep inside the foal’s gut, something has gone wrong. Its colon has not formed properly. It cannot expel waste. These foals always die—either naturally and painfully over the course of a few days, or through euthanasia. A white, perfect body splayed dead on the straw. The violence of a harbored, hidden waste.
This is one that I’m not going to expound upon. It’s a story we’ve heard before but is new and deserving of our attention every time. It’s more-than-okay when a story other than my own conveys a “shut up and listen, for a rare shining moment, shut the fuck up, dude.”
Pitch: Just send me there to solve the mystery. I’ll do it. Whatever, who cares, me and my cat will go to Dustmouth, Straya and get supremely drunk, tanned, and gator-bit. Eleven people in town? I can absolutely turn eleven strangers into confidants in, like, a month. I’ll be mayor by month two. What are you afraid of, editors?
*looks up from clipboard, slides pen into labcoat pocket* hm yes our experiments seem to show that this is tite as hell *aliens burst from containment pod, shredding my innards*
I think it’s important to de-normalize (“aberrize?”) men lusting after teen girls. It’s too normal. And the fact that this story only slides under the lens after Walker’s death is shameful. His girlfriends’ age was reported in In Touch Weekly while he was still alive; what did the readers think at that time? Did any of them write in? If so, were their reactions published?
And ultimately, do we call him a pedophile? I think this grey area exists because we’re scared to brand people as pedophiles when they aren’t abusing a child younger than 13. But then ephebophilia has been co-opted by those who seek to defend behavior like Walker’s. I guess he’s just a predator, huh? And yet that seems too soft, given men–myself included–are predators.
I’ve spent about three weeks telling friends that by the next generation, face tattoos are going to be acceptable. They all scoffed. Good news: I trust old-ass newspapers when it comes to trends more than I do my same-aged friends.
Let’s cover some options:
The Duplitat, meant to confuse and ward off attackers.
Bregashi 7evenZer0, because Tekashi 6ix9ine has 69 tattooed on his body sixty-nine times and I can’t let him win.
Pride Day, because sometimes a Facebook filter just isn’t enough.
Ponce Lyfe, which, unfortunately, I have to wait until he dies before getting it inked. And he will never die, so…
As I’ve exhorted every time the topic has come up these past weeks: we are breaking thousands of children. Thiago’s story is every single imprisoned kid’s. Irrevocably harmed. We’re guilty.