Edit rooms in news networks. New York City. A constant bombardment of images, sounds and information poised to be wrestled into a coherent tease.
“Do we have tape of the prostitute thrown off the roof in the Bronx? K-l-e-b-o-l-d and there’s sound from someone calling from the cafeteria and footage of kids climbing out windows. Mark it: 1:52 our time. We’re making two versions. One, Hallelujah we found his plane and he and his wife are okay. The second…I’m waiting for footage from the archives – want the shot when he was a little boy saluting his father’s casket. When the New York Times calls it damage control, then we call it damage control; and Jesus Christ, what dress are they talking about? We can’t show the body or even the body covered by a tarp or whatever the f*ck that is because Cosby is on our network. Let’s go. Seventy-five, ninety minute Digi-Betas in fast-forward––okay? Do you know what time the statue was pulled down and please-to-Christ tell me the time code on the tapes are all in sync. How many times are we going to use that shot of the outside of the bar? Can’t somebody find a shot of the victim? Facebook? Anything? A flock of seagulls brought it down? The band? Oh…Canada Geese. Pass me the candy jar, Dave. It’s two am…”
Mothers and fathers in parking lots waiting for names to be called. Bodies in ditches on network feeds. Hour after hour of night-vision footage of war.
Digested with Fun Size Snickers.
