Liar! Too strong? Are fibber, embellisher, or senior-moment mishap better tags? I’m no fan of Bill O’Reilly, but please Lord, don’t let someone dial-up on me something I said thirty years ago. However, I must admit, I fell (not just felt) mesmerized by Mr. O’Reilly’s stern facial expression, name calling, and staunch rebuttal of the corrective accounts, made. Watching it had me shaking in my boots for that Mother Jones reporter. Ooh, Lordy, I thought, O’Reilly’s gonna kick his butt!
It’s something to be said for that tactic. And let’s face it; we’ve seen others do it. To deny in such a vile and affirmative way until the listener almost forgets the subject matter at-hand, and surmises that the accusation must, most definitely, carry no merit. It had to have been a booboo—c ase closed (and on to fresher headlines). And that’s how I felt after hearing Mr. O’Reilly’s rebuttal—until I read the story that started out with —
NEW YORK (AP) – CBS News on Monday released video from four stories it aired about the Falklands War in 1982, all part of a dispute involving Fox News Channel host Bill O’Reilly and his subsequent statements about covering the war.
None of the stories mentions O’Reilly, then a young CBS reporter, or makes any specific reference to a CBS crew member being hurt.
I watched a video report, too. That’s it/That’s all. Because, afraid for myself, I’ll just let the above Associated Press story hang in the air. I ain’t throwing no stones.
Well folks, here’s Lesson 1a: To the big wigs, who may feel so important and/or so far-up-the-ladder that nothing can touch them—they need to respect this digital era we’re living in. So, too, the little guys and gals like me. Guess what Lesson 1 is.
As for me, I loved being a journalist, wearing what I wrote, reported on [using a tape recorder], and that (i.e., my work) which made its way to print like grateful badges of honor. I counted what I did as a privilege. (And, no, that didn’t make me flawless. It caused me to be careful.) Now, I love being a novelist, letting my creative license compose me as imaginative and literary, not as a liar. Still, I know I need to be careful and respectful, period. Any accounted booboos made during my life journey (a journey, ongoing) have only accounted me (thus far) as human, not hurting or disrespectful. If that’s someone’s account, I apologize.
I remember once, shortly after I had read the Terry McMillan novel, titled, Disappearing Acts, I found myself gabbing with a group of girlfriends about love relationships. (I’m lying. I’ve never had a group of girlfriends.) And I said (something like), “Yeah, I know this girl who had a boyfriend who did…” Neck-rolling deep into the responses of Ahh-huhs, What’s-that-you-say, and the I-wish-some %$@^# would try that mess on me, I realized that I did not know some girl who had a boyfriend who did… It was actually a scenario happening to the very lifelike characters inside McMillan’s book that I was recalling. Dern it!
“Oh Lordy!” my innards screamed in the midst (that’s right, my innards screamed) as I could figure out no face-saving no way to exit the story. Because after all, I’m sure I must have been making a valid point (Hot and Crankin’)—about something.
Sadly folks, my memory recalls-not, how I handled my dilemma. But I’m almost positive that I did not ‘fess up. Also, I’m sure I could dial up some worse lie-scenarios in my life. Examples like—“Are you going to the cookout?” My response: “Oh Yeah,” which was my code for, “Hell no.” And—“How does this dress look on me?” My response: “Fine. It looks just fine,” when I was spineless or, perhaps, didn’t care, and I didn’t say, “It’s too tight.” Someone did that to me, one time. And when I partook of the after-pics, in which, I looked hideous, I was devastated. Although, I’m sure I would not have listened to the truth in real-time, that person and I are no longer friends. (I’m lying. We’re still friends.)
Okay, now that we’ve established how, I can’t be trusted (though on the big scheme of things, I’m striving to be), I’m prayerful about it because truth is an ongoing soapbox to climb. And that’s the soapbox, upon which we want to stand. Stripped down, we’re still clothed by our reputations, built.