I have decided to come out of retirement as a muckraker. The inspiration for resuming my career as a scandal-monger is the abundance of dirt being spread on the Internet, in the nation’s tabloids and spewed from the mouths of right-wing radio and TV lunatics.

This time around, its going to be easy for me to uncover scandals. I plan to rely on the journalistic standards of the goofy birthers and other conspiracy theorists. No more having to dig through courthouse records and/or documents produced by thousands of government bureaucies. No more midnight meetings with secret sources. No more playing the role of con man in extracting information from reluctant, low level criminals. And no need blackmailing people by threatening them with exposure if they fail to cooperate with my muckraking projects.

Henceforth, I am pursuing a new form of journalism, which I call “impressionistic investigative reporting,” or more simply “f–k facts.” So let us begin with an exposé of Rush Limbaugh—the former disc jockey, pill-popper and compulsive liar who has adopted “f–k facts” as his daily mantra.

My claim that Rush Limbaugh is gay is based on overwhelming evidence when compared to the threshhold established in this new era of Internet, tabloid and right-wing muckraking. For example, it is well known that many outspoken homophobes are hiding their own sexuality. Witness the number of homophobic politicians, preachers and high profile public figures who have either come out of the closet or been outed—often by gay publications. A Rush Limbaugh’s quote pretty well sums of up his views.

“…let’s say we discover the gene that says the kid’s gonna be gay. How many parents, if they knew before the kid was gonna be born, [that he] was gonna be gay, they would take the pregnancy to term? Well, you don’t know but let’s say half of them said, “Oh, no, I don’t wanna do that to a kid.” [Then the] gay community finds out about this. The gay community would do the fastest 180 and become pro-life faster than anybody you’ve ever seen. … They’d be so against abortion if it was discovered that you could abort what you knew were gonna be gay babies.”

In short Limbaugh is a homophobe. So moving along to “f–k facts” criteria number two. He arranged to have Elton John perform at his wedding. Music I presume. Granted, Limbaugh reportedly paid the entertainer a million bucks. Maybe everybody has a price. How much money would it take to get Barbra Streisand to sing at the wedding of notorious Nazi, David Duke? Beats the hell out of me. But the question is unimportant since this missive is not about Barbra Streisand. 

Rush Limbaugh “f–k facts” evidence number three. He maintained a home in the Congressional district of Republican Representative Mark Foley—the disgraced politician with a yearning for young pages working in the nation’s Capitol. Again, I quote homophobe Limbaugh who suggested that Foley was target of a plot by Democrats.   

“I’m just thinking out loud here. What if somebody got to the page and said, you know, we want you to set Foley up. We need to do a little titillating thing here. Keep it and save it and so forth. How would you get a kid to do that? Yeah, who knows? You threaten him or pay him. There’s any number of ways given the kind of people that we’re dealing with and talking about here.”

So there you have it folks, three pieces of weak evidence that Rush Limbaugh is gay—more than enough to meet my new standard of “impressionistic investigative reporting.” I’m not saying he is gay. But just think about it.

Meantime, how about Glenn Beck and his plural marriages? I’m still gathering information on this potential exposé. But I already know that he is Mormon. Although the mainstream Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints opposes polygamy, plural marriage is still practiced by a small number of Mormon crazies—meaning that Glenn Beck meets at least two of my ”f–k facts” standards. I will devote more time to ”Dr.” Beck’s multiple nuptials when I uncover a third piece of evidence.

I want to wrap up this shocking missive with a couple of comments about traditional forms of investigative reporting. My career as an “award-winning” digger of dirt was marked by a great deal of serendipity. By happy coincidence, I reported my first ever major exposé—a bribery scheme involving a bank and a state official—three days after burglars broke into the Watergate offices of the National Democratic Party. The ensuing scandal leading to President Richard Nixon’s resignation made muckraking an honorable profession. And for the next 30 years, I rode the an investigative reporting tsunami that took me from journalism anonymity to national semi-prominence as a network correspondent.

Unfortunately, in the late 1980’s and throughout the nineties, aggressive take names and kick ass investigative reporting began to disappear—especially on television. And so did I. Except for an occasional PBS documentary and some consulting work, I retired from digging dirt after CNN bought out my contract a decade ago.

The current issue of American Journalism Review has a lengthy article on the mainstream media’s diminishing commitment to investigative reporting. Be forewarned that the article is long and boring unless you are a news junkie.     

http://www.ajr.org/article_printable.asp?id=4904

I can assure you that whatever is written in American Journalism Review is gospel, given the magazine’s remarkable superb judgment many years ago in displaying my picture on its cover and describing me in a profile as one of the best investigative reporters in the country. I did not ask for a retraction.

In fact, as I embark on a new career as an “impressionistic investigative reporter,” I invite the magazine to embrace my “f–k facts” initiative. In the role of pioneering new opportunities for unemployed investigative reporters fired by the mainstream media, I hope American Journalism Review will again considering putting my picture on the cover.

Although it has been two decades since the first cover article, I’m prettier now. That late career facelift really helps out.

My memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, is available at amazon.com and independent bookstores. It offers much more than $19.99 worth of laughs. The book is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career.

Only two people—an unidentified massuese and a famous politician—know what happened in a Portland, Oregon hotel room four years ago. She said. He said. And she offered to say a lot more about her encounter with Al Gore if the National Enquirer paid her a million bucks. The tabloid declined, but claimed she said enough in a freebie conversation. I can guess the extent of  information.

“Hi, I’m with the National Enquirer. Did you file a police report in 2006, accusing Al Gore of sexually assaulting you?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Yes, but you have to pay me $1-million.

“I can’t do that.”

“Goodbye.”

“Stop the presses,” the reporter screams to his editor. “We’ve confirmed the story.”

There may have been more corroboration. But I doubt it. Through a spokesperson, Gore denies the woman’s allegation. But without trying to contact him, the scandal sheet went with a thinly sourced story of a woman, who waited two weeks to report the alleged attempted assault to police. Then, she withdrew the complaint. Now, nearly four years later, the story is revived. Do I smell a lawsuit? Is this the reincarnation of Paula Jones? Oh, Paula’s not dead. Just forgotten. At least by me.

Actually, massueses are part of my illustrious career. And a tale is forthcoming. First, though, a recapitualation of Gore’s rub down, which has the smell of a shakedown. For juicy details, I refer readers to a Seattle Internet news site.

http://blogs.seattleweekly.com/dailyweekly/2010/06/al_gores_portland_massuese_pro.php

It doesn’t take a journalistic wizard to discern that the story is filled with holes. Yet, versions have begun appearing in the mainstream media. Editors must make decisions based on the fact that the National Enquirer was accurate in its revelations about the “love child” of former U.S. Senator and Presidential candidate John Edwards. Therefore, everything it prints must be true. It’s a sad commentary on the quality of contemporary newsgathering.

But here is a true story about an ambitious redneck reporter willing to risk his soul to get ahead (no pun intended) in television. I lift the anecdote from my “less selling” memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger. In 1973, the Miami Beach Vice Squad was among the early news sources I developed in my first TV job as the chief investigative reporter for south Florida’s then NBC affiliate.

Miami Beach morals protectors provided me material for the tawdriest story of my career. I launched a fearless probe of massage parlors. Salons with exotic names like Salome, Grecian Girls, and China House were actually “jerk-off” joints. Undercover detectives made the discovery while assigned to the dangerous task of getting massages.

 “When she began to manipulate my penis,” one arrest report stated, “I identified myself as a police officer and placed her under arrest. Did not ejaculate.” What a guy.

Based on the police reports, I proposed a single story to News Director Gene Strul. He wanted a series―plus corroboration. He sent me on a company-paid tour of every south Florida massage parlor that advertised in local newspapers. Traveling the grease circuit, I determined beyond a shadow of doubt what services were offered.

“Ironically, the movie Deep Throat has been banned from Miami Beach,” I intoned in my first report. “Yet, it’s possible in Miami Beach to purchase the real-life version of the sexual activity that is the movie’s theme. Oral sex.”

I disclosed the services offered by thirteen places. An on-screen graphic designated “M” for masturbation, “OC” for oral copulation, and “I” for intercourse. Below each was a price list. A massage parlor at the rear of an auto body shop in an industrial area charged five-dollars for a hand-job. The bargain probably caused a traffic jam in the neighborhood. How I developed conclusive evidence of these services remains confidential. To paraphrase a Las Vegas motto, what happens in massage parlors, stays in massage parlors.

However, if the National Enquirer will give me a million bucks, or any fraction thereof, I will gladly share my secrets. And speaking of journalism low-lifes, how about the Minnestoa “reporter,” who slipped into a 12-step recovery meeting to “out” the homosexuality of a gay Lutheran pastor. The group, a spin-off of Alcoholics Anonymous and similar confidential fellowships, was formed to help its members deal with their sexuality.

http://www.minnpost.com/braublog/2010/06/22/19134/lavender_outs_lutheran_pastor_–_by_crashing_confidential_support_group

The rationale for the so-called ”exposé” was the minister’s homophobic statements on a radio show he hosted. The “outing” appeared in a gay publication that, ironically, is headed my a man with 27-years of sobriety in AA. I wonder what kind of AA meetings he attends? There is no excuse for violating a tradition of confidentiality that other journalists have abided by for decades.

Readers of this blog and my memoir are aware of my 39-plus years as an AA member. But it was only after much soul-searching that I wrote about my  membership. That’s because my recovery from the depths of alcoholism defines me personally, spiritually and professionally. There is no way I could have otherwise given an account of my achievements—and failures. But with respect to identifying others in the fellowship, the Tradition of  anonymity is sacrosanct. I cannot imagine identifying folks who attend meetings without their permission to do so. And even then, only in a need-to-know context—usually in discussions involving AA friends.

For the most part, journalists have abided by the Tradition. Indeed, Alcoholics Anonymous celebrates its 75th anniversary next weekend. Thousands of members will gather in San Antonio, Texas to express gratitude for a program that offered a new way of life.

I will be among the grateful.

My memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, is available at amazon.com and independent bookstores. It offers much more than $19.99 worth of laughs. The book is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career.

Glenn Beck has reached a milestone by signing up the 400th radio station for his syndicated show. Being a fair guy and knowing that a few drooling right-wingers scan this blog, I refer readers to Glenn’s website listing all the stations that air his rants. 

http://media.glennbeck.com/content/radio/

Happy now?

The headline of today’s blog post refers to the dilemma faced of AM radio station ownrs. Over the past two decades, listeners have deserted AM radio with the speed of folks fleeing a theater following a shout of “fire.” That is, of course, until Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck and other talk show hosts representing the lunatic fringe came along.

In a strange turnabout, listeners tune in to hear these characters shout “fire.” They have become the ”saviors” of AM radio. Otherwise, folks listen to FM stations, satellite or personal digital collections. Air America was once a liberal alternative. But nobody cared. Or listened. The network went into bankruptcy earlier this year.

There are also a few stations that depend on ESPN for programming. However, all sports, all the time can get boring for people who don’t go to sleep wearing baseball caps and/or football helmets.

That brings me to Savior with a capital “S.” Many AM stations around the country have been “saved” by religious programming. In fact, Jimmy Swaggart Ministries controls 28 radio stations—AM and FM—mainly in the south and midwest. And his programs are carried by many other stations. In fact, radio was the financial salvation of the disgraced preacher’s ministry following sex scandals that nearly destroyed Swaggart’s $150-million a year organization.

Moreover, religious and Gospel music programming has salvaged untold numbers of AM and FM radio stations—especially in rural areas. On long drives, it is interesting and sometimes entertaining to scan stations and listen to preachers of every persuasion. Radio time is relatively cheap on small stations. So just about any pastor can afford to spread his or her message on the airwaves. And they can recoup the investment with a pitch to listeners for contributions. Long before TV evangelists spiritually manipulated audiences for a few dollars, preachers found radio to be a lucrative venue.

The irony in contemporary radio is that the Becks and Limbaughs violate every principle of Christianity. Their messages of hate, distortion and misinformation contaminate the airwaves. Even more curious is that a large segment of their listening audiences profess to be “good Christians.” Yet, they have no qualms about proselytizing the gospel of the loonies.

By the way, is Rush Limbaugh gay? I don’t have any evidence to suggest that he is, but why shouldn’t I ask questions and spread unfounded rumors in the same manner as Limbaugh and his ilk. After all, he paid Elton John a million dollars to play at his recent wedding to bride number four. And right-wing homophobics like Limbaugh often get caught in gay scandals. Just asking. Sometimes, I can’t resist taking cheap shots.

Anyway, this whole issue of choosing between Glenn Beck, et al, and Jesus causes me to wonder about my own choices as the owner of a radio station on the brink of bankruptcy. I’ve been in that position.

After starting my broadcasting career almost a half century ago in a tiny radio station in Northern California, I began harboring a dream of ownership. In my minds eye, I could see me in the owners chair, making all the decisions about programming and format. Twenty years later, I fulfilled my wish. A partner and I bought KCLF, an AM station in New Roads, Louisiana. Its signal barely reached across the Mississippi River to Baton Rouge, where I was then a mini-Mike Wallace exposing crime and corruption in the Capitol City.

Absentee ownership of KCLF provided me an AM radio education. I learned it was a shortcut to bankruptcy. My big mistake was programming the station with what I liked—old time rock and roll from the fifties and sixties. In a small community with a large population of African Americans and an equal number of young people, all of whom preferred FM, I was doomed from the get-go. The station eventually put me in bankruptcy court.     

Glenn, Rush and the others were not around to offer me salvation. Although KCLF carried a few religious broadcasts, Jesus was not present enough to keep the creditors from the door. Its now easy for me to criticize station owners who opt to carry hate-filled programming to avoid financial ruin. But in retrospect, WWJD? What would John do? Or have done? 

I’m lucky. I never had to make the choice.

My memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, is available at amazon.com and independent bookstores. It offers much more than $19.99 worth of laughs. The book is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career.   

Trash disseminated in viral e-mails and publications seemingly printed in the lock-down wards of mental hospitals, as well as the distortions of people like Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh, is the price we endure to protect our First Amendment freedoms. A bargain price, actually. I’ve often heard the cliche that “I will fight to the death to protect the freedoms of of press and speech.” But if it ever comes to down to hand-to-hand combat, I will have to hold my nose and grit my teeth when defending some of the characters who exploit the First Amendment for financial and/or political gain.

Sadly, a scared and angry segment of victims accept much of the trash they read or hear as absolute fact, especially if it provides an some sort of explanation for the uncontrollable circumstances that impact their lives. People react rather than think when backed into corners by the loss of careers and financial security, fear of ethnic groups and religions they don’t understand, and the helplessness that overwhelms them in dealing with tragedies.

A close friend and good Republican whose knee doesn’t jerk when speaking with “liberals” like me— forwarded a viral e-mail of the worst kind today. He ask, “How is it possible to print trash like this?” The first two paragraphs of this post is the answer I sent him.

The missive in question is typical of wing-nut mentality. The writer stoops to exploiting homophobia by accusing the President, a few of his aides and several other public officials—liberal Democrats except for a retired Republican Senator—of being members of a notorious bathhouse for gays. The author and the website from which this fable emanates tries to paint a scenario built around a Chicago men’s club. But he offers not shred of evidence to support any allegation in the lengthy “column.”

Maybe the guy is plain ass crazy. However, my guess is he has problems dealing with his own sexuality. That is frequently the case among outspoken right-wing homophobes. I’ve lost count of the number of these guys who have been exposed as gays, or caught up in other sex scandals.

I’m reasonably certain the e-mail sent to me is being discarded by recipients possessing I.Q.’s that reach double digits. Yet, there will be a few people saying, “Have you read…blah, blah?” Toxic politics has created The Church of the Bizarre made up of a congregation of susceptible believers baptized by immersion in e-mails claiming the President was born in Africa.

The believe wild rumors and allegations must be true since they are part of the written word, instead of being passed along by whispers and rhetoric heard at Ku Klux Klan rallies and Tea Party events. But the “written word” does not transform fiction into reality.

Three decades ago, I was covering the life and travails of notorious mobster, Meyer Lansky when book was published about his mafia buddy, Lucky Luciano. As a I sat outside a grand jury room next to Lansky unsuccessfully trying to question him, a cop brought him a copy to autograph. The book gave a purported history of the association between the two organized crime figures. Lansky scribbled, “All that is written is not true,” a phrase he probably high-jacked from another author. Whatever the source, though, it has widespread application today, particularly  when reading Obama tales.   

And speaking of the President—a “straight” shooter aiming for a piece of B.P.’s butt, though not for gay sex—he visits Louisiana and the Gulf Coast for the fourth time, mainly because that is what Presidents are supposed to do. An important role of the nation’s Chief Executives is to press the flesh of victims of tragedies, often at the cost of ignoring other important issues requiring their presence in Washington. The trips are necessary to reassure disaster victims that they are not forgotten and ”will be made whole.”

There is, however, the inherent danger a politicizing the oil spill. Since the rig exploded, Democrats and Republicans alike have postured for the benefit of cameras. Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal is the biggest beneficiary. By acting like the man in charge, he has recovered from the “weeny-like” nationally television speech in 2009 that almost doomed his future prospects of becoming a Presidential candidate. He is doing a good job.

But Jindal has to walk a political tightrope or God forbid, homophobic characters of the far-left—I presume there are a few—will begin sending out toxic e-mails accusing him of being gay.

My memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, is available at amazon.com and independent bookstores. It offers much more than $19.99 worth of laughs. The book is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career.