Any journalist who has covered elected officials for even a short period of time is likely to have heard this: Why don’t you write stories about all the good things we are doing? Often, it comes from politicians who are under fire, for incompetence or worse. Usually it’s desperation, an attempt to divert unwanted attention from bad news. Some go so far as to spend tax dollars on spin doctors, to spread their good news stories. Or they make their own videos or newsletters to crow about what their “achievements.” One purpose of this weekly column is to provide you with insights into the newsroom, and this one examines an aspect of the relationships between journalists and some of the people they cover. The best answer I can offer to the cringeworthy question about why we don’t write the politicians’ good news stories comes from someone else. It’s an anecdote from my reporting days. I was working with a reporting partner on a story about potential misdeeds by police, who were under investigation on the orders of a mayor. My partner and I learned of a tie between the misdeeds and the police chief and were trying to ferret out details. (Because this was long ago, I’m not identifying the city, mayor or chief. There’s no need to drag their names through old mud.) We were at our desks in the newsroom when Tomo -- Tom O’Hara -- then The Plain Dealer’s managing editor, stopped by to ask why the police chief wanted to talk to him. We weren’t surprised. The chief was not the first public official to go over our heads, but it was a ploy that would never work with an old-school journalist like Tomo. We explained what we were chasing, and Tomo went to his office to return the chief’s call. He came back later and said the three of us would meet with the chief at the station. He said the chief wanted Tomo to be there when he talked with us. When we arrived, though, the chief’s assistant stepped out to tell us the chief wished to talk to Tomo alone. Tomo declined, noting that he was just there to sit in, that my partner and I were the ones doing the reporting. The chief’s representative left to relay that message but soon returned to say the chief insisted on an audience with Tomo alone. Tomo gave us a look that said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this,” and left us to sit stewing in the waiting area. After a while, we were ushered into a conference room with the chief, some other police brass and Tomo. Tomo quickly took the floor. I didn’t take notes or record what he said, but it went something like this: So, here we are. My guys are looking for details about your past relationships and any connection to a growing investigation. And you’re thinking they’re just out to get you for no good reason. The chief nodded. You think we’re being completely unfair because you’ve done nothing wrong to deserve this attention and should not have your reputation tarnished by a story. The chief nodded a little more noticeably , a smile starting across his face. On top of that, you’re thinking that you and your department are doing great work, protecting the citizens and catching the bad guys. From where you sit, we’re always reporting the bad news about the department when we should be telling good news stories about how your folks go out every day to heroically provide service to residents. The way Tomo delivered the message, one might think he actually agreed with the chief’s perspective, and the chief was excitedly sitting forward and vigorously nodding. I pause here to give you an idea of exactly how this was going, and the best way to illustrate the cartoonish reaction of the chief is a cartoon -- Bugs Bunny. In 1950, the folks at Looney Tunes produced a Bugs Bunny short called the Rabbit of Seville, almost entirely set to music from the overture to the Barber of Seville, an opera by Gioachino Rossini. The short is filled with typical slapstick mayhem with Bugs and Elmer Fudd, but the scene I note has Elmer in a barber chair while Bugs massages his scalp with hair tonic and something called Figaro Fertilizer. The massage finished, Bugs holds up a mirror, and Elmer grows increasingly ecstatic – just like the police chief -- as what appears to be hair grows on his bald head. And then the hair sprouts flowers, crushing Elmer’s rapture and restarting the mayhem. (You can see the scene here. https://youtu.be/Fy6OaUxDxVg) The police chief was having the same moment of rapture as Tomo talked. He clearly thought he had won over our managing editor. And then came the chief’s flower-sprouting moment. Well, guess what: it’s not news that you do your job. That’s what the taxpayers pay you for. You’re supposed to serve the citizens and keep them safe. Doing what you’re supposed to do isn’t news. News is what’s interesting. It’s the stuff that’s not supposed to happen. And if these reporters get information that something is not right, it’s their job to figure it out and write it. That’s what they get paid for. The chief was crushed, falling back in his chair and losing his smile. Tomo went on for a bit. We suspected he laid it on thick for our benefit; knowing how annoyed we were to be left in the waiting room. His point, though, was delivered magnificently. He wasn’t saying we don’t write human interest stories about people who do good jobs. Nor was he saying that all news we report is bad. His message was that news is what’s interesting and unexpected. We don’t write stories to say the mail was delivered today. Or that garbage was collected. Or that grass got mowed. It’s not interesting. And for those politicians who ask why we’re not writing about all the good things they are doing, the fact is that we do. If an elected leader launches a new program to solve a problem, we do write about it. We have stories like that all the time. Skilled politicians with successful records, though, generally don’t ask why we don’t write about the good things they are doing. It is the lousy leaders who ask the question. They somehow forget that they sought their jobs – by begging you to vote for them -- to do public service but have come to think of themselves as victims of the mean-spirited media. Reporters quickly learn that when leaders resort to the pathetic question, their days in leadership likely are numbered, and reporters can start thinking about their replacements. Or, to quote Bugs after he dispatches Elmer in the Rabbit of Seville, “NEXT!” I’m at cquinn@cleveland.com. Thanks for reading. | 