The Pornography of Bad News

It’s been true for decades. But it hasn’t made any difference. I keep doing it, but nothing changes. Nothing takes notice. Nothing says that things will change for the better. And things don’t change for the better.

And yet, I keep doing it.

Everyday, starting early before breakfast, and then after my two-mile walk, and then through breakfast, and then after breakfast: I read and then listen to the world news.

I get out of bed and turn on National Public Radio. Then I sit down and read half of two newspapers: the New Haven Register and the New York Times, which I have delivered early in the morning by a man named Erick.

I then go on my two-mile walk and feed two groups of birds and then return home and eat breakfast. During breakfast, I read the second half of the two newspapers, and then listen to the hour-long BBC news hour on the radio broadcast from New York Public Radio.

In the evening, I often listen to the political commentary on MSNBC and watch more TV news on the BBC.

So I have a pretty good idea of what mayhem is taking place in the world. I read and hear stories and interviews about people being killed or starved to death, children dying from bombs and malnutrition, governments terrorizing their own people or people next door, so-called friends of my government acting like savages, whole populations under the tyrannical thumbs of their governments, people arrested for trying to escape the ravages of their own countries and looking for sanctuary in countries that turn their backs on them.

I read and watch millions of people supporting a thug for president who promises to be a “dictator” if and when he takes over. I read about other world leaders killing their opponents. I read about America that has more guns than people and whose guns are used to kill children in school.

And I think: What the fuck am I doing?

Nothing I read or hear or see gives me the power to change a goddamn thing of importance. Everything terrible I learn about the world stays terrible year after year and has remained terrible during my 86 years of life. And it is not about to change for the better just because I subscribe to the print edition of the New York Times or listen to the clear rationality of the BBC.

The human race is the most toxic element on Earth. And today’s global menu is providing a dog’s breakfast of hate and pain to make matters truly venomous.

If I could give one Palestinian child a peanut butter sandwich, that would do more good than my reading all the op-ed essays in the Times or listening to all the expert analysis on Meet the Press.

When all the good that people do or wish for can be annihilated in an instant by a drone in Ukraine or a bombed out hospital in Gaza, no amount of analysis or lamentation can make the agony less gut-wrenching or despairing.

Perhaps my daily dose of awful news is a moral price I should pay for not having to live the agony of others. Maybe the tears in my eyes when I read about the death and suffering of Palestinian children are the necessary whiplashes I inflict upon myself as a secular penitent in my private Way of the Cross.

If so, it is a cheap kind of pain that barely extends beyond the teacup.

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