On May 1st, I watched the annual White House Correspondents dinner and squirmed. It reminded me of the sense of self-importance that invades the pysches of most reporters—especially the Washington press corps. New York Times op-ed columnist Frank Rich wrote about the dinner this week. http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/09/opinion/09rich.html

Rich doesn’t dwell on the why of such events. But I have to wonder about the tradition of reporters sucking up to politicians, movie stars and an array of celebrities that attend these dinners as guests—most notably the President. And remarkably, when he takes a couple of gentle digs at the media, as Obama did this year, journalists sit with forced smiles. For reasons that escape me, a majority of reporters believe their profession should be exempt from criticism by people they write about. As I wrote in Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, investigative reporting is an exception to this rule.

Investigative reporting is the only craft I know in which practitioners celebrate being called assholes. This aberrant appreciation of verbal assaults used to be quite evident at annual conventions sponsored by Investigative Reporters and Editors, known as IRE.

During four days of narcissistic displays of braggadocio, muckrakers shared secrets of winning big awards, pissing off people and acquiring rectal identities. Between workshops and seminars, reporters prowled hotel corridors, bars, and reception areas to beguile one another with accounts of their journalism heroics―gloating about reputations they tarnished, folks they sent to jail, lawsuits filed against them, and the number of people who honored them with nasty epithets. A perverse pride in quantifying success in terms of loathsome nicknames was a sign of an arrogant sense of infallibility that characterized many investigative reporters.

To reinforce egos, mud-slingers presented awards to one another each year. Prize-winners fondled the trophies when beset with doubts about the virtue of their vocation. As an early award-fondling IRE member, as well as a former member of the organization’s Board of Directors, my critique of the muckraker psyche is a confession of personal flaws, rather than a blanket condemnation of the imperfections of investigative reporters. Still, I observed my own shortcomings in a lot of journalists, who deemed themselves qualified to act as judges, juries and character assassins.

The IRE acronym supposedly  reflects a mindset of members. But it has become a misnomer. Most muckrakers only get mildly irritated nowadays. In the wake of media consolidation, old-fashioned scandal-mongering that sent people to jail has diminished to a point of invisibility―especially on television.

In my 30 year career as an investigative reporter, I attended dozens of journalism events and awards banquets. Indeed, I eventually became the first in my family to ever buy a tuxedo, instead of renting. Admittedly, I enjoyed strutting around as a prize-winning journalist. Awards pretty much defined my career. Still, I felt increasingly uneasy at these gatherings.

Among the most pretentious events early in my career was the New England Emmy presentations that began while I was Director of Investigative Reporting for Boston’s ABC affiliate. In fact, my awards category opened the ceremony, which was locally televised—no doubt causing a mad rush to the remote control by viewers when they learned their regular Saturday evening programming was pre-empted. After my name was announced as the winner for outstanding investigative reporting, I became the first person to receive a New England Emmy. So what did I say as I gazed out over a room of tuxedoed journalists and their guests? Rather than thank Mr. Tuxedo rental agency for my outfit, I mumbled the same bullshit that we hear at all these occasions. “Thanks to colleagues, wives, children, dogs, etc.

Twenty years or so later, my wife and I are in New York City for the national Emmy presentations for news. My CNN reporting on Whitewater had been nominated in the investigative reporting category. Afterwards, I told her that it was the last such event I would attend. The fact that I failed to win had no influence on the decision. It was a simple matter of looking around the room and seeing the national media for what it was—a bunch of of self-important characters, who spent an inordinate amount of time celebrating themselves. And yes, me too.

And that is why I squirmed while watching the White House Correspondents Dinner. The job of journalists is to gather news. Although sucking up to potential sources is an unpleasant part of the job description, there should be limits on the level of humiliation that reporters are willing to accept. Kissing peoples asses on national television goes too far.

As Frank Rich noted in his column, there was a much better way for reporters to spend that particular Saturday night. Manhattan was in near panic because of an attempted car bombing.

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. It is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career.       

I began calling myself an award-winning reporter in 1973. In the years since, the title changed to Peabody award-winning reporter. And it has progressively been altered to my present ego-inflating designation as four time Peabody award-winning reporter. “Hi, my name is John and I’m a four-time Peabody award- winning reporter.” Has a nice ring to it.

Actually, I’ve been more subtle by waiting at least a few minutes to brag about my exalted journalistic achievements in an effort to impress people within hearing range.  However, I haven’t missed many opportunities to indulge in narcissitic proclamations of self-importance. Exceptions include my marriage certificate and drivers license. Neither describes me as a Peabody award-winning reporter.  

But I do have a weak defense for my braggadocio— or a rationalization depending on one’s point of view. As an under-educated ex-drunk, my journalism prizes became a suit of armor concealing underlying insecurities. Readers of Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger will discover that I had a lot of reasons to feel insecure. Given my trailer trash past, any kind of positive recognition was vital in building a sense of self-worth, and putting me on a path that eventually led from wine-sipping on a New Orleans curbside to semi-prominence as Senior Investigative Correspondent for CNN.

This is the journalism awards season, and I hope reporting prizes will have the same beneficial impact on the lives and careers of recipients.  Pulitzer winners were named this week. Peabody announcements were made a couple of weeks ago. Indeed, a Peabody was awarded to former colleague Graham Messick—now a 60 Minutes producer who gives me far too much credit for advising him when we worked together at CNN. But what the hell, Graham. If you want to say nice things about me, I will confess to making you the man you are today. No need to engage in false modesty at this late stage of my life.

Anyway, several prize panels will disclose winners of various journalism citations this spring. For some reporters, the awards will put them on a career fast track. For others, the recognition validates years of hard work. In either case, the phrase “prize-winning” will be attached to their names for the remainder of their careers.

Since I pretty much built a career on awards, I feel like a world-class hypocrite in saying this. But journalism prizes are not a real measure of the quality of reporting. In my thirty year investigative reporting career, I collected more than two dozen of broadcast journalism’s most prestigious prizes. About half were truly deserved, though none were ever sent back with a notation, “Return to Sender.”

I won’t demean my first two Peabody medallions for investigative reporting by calling them bogus. But the winning entries fell short of what I now define as significant enterprise journalism. My first Peabody story simply added film to  law enforcement intelligence reports that were leaked to me by friendly cops, who wanted to embarrass public officials suspected of corrupt activities—and getting away with it. 

Peabody number two also relied on law enforcement reports. I was provided the names, backgrounds and ongoing suspicious activities of so-called mafia figures living in south Florida. Hiding in a van with a photographer, we captured images of mobsters as they cavorted in the wild. My reports matched the video with their criminal records, and I declared, “There they are folks. Real mobsters.”

The third and fourth Peabody medallions I received were more deserving. Give Me That Big Time Religion was a breakthrough investigative documentary dealing with television evangelism—and Jimmy Swaggart in particular. The one-hour program, which required months of research, combined hard-edged interviews with subtance and style.

A documentary titled, The Best Insurance Commissionere Money Can Buy, earned me a fourth Peabody. It was my most satisfying investigation, prompting a criminal investigation that resulted in prison sentences for state regulators and insurance company executives. But enough about my journalistic heroics. If anyone wants more details, buy the damn book. In short, my point is that Peabody awards are overrated.

The most closely scrutinized broadcast prizes are Columbia University’s DuPont  awards. Columbia also awards Pulitzers. Not to brag (joke), but I have three. Big Time Religion and Best Insurance Commissioner both received DuPonts. I collected another DePont back in my radio days for exposing a bribery scheme that eventually launched my career as an “investigative reporter.”

Although the 4000-member Investigative Reporters and Editors (IRE) has cited me for prizes on three occasions, I find its judging criteria the most disappointing. In the years when I was in hot pursuit of prizes, the IRE awards panel put too much emphasis on “gotcha” stories. My final citation from the organization was in the same year I produced the insurance documentary, however, my IRE prize-winner was a ”gotcha” exposé of corruption in Louisiana’s Alcohol Beverage Control division—a decent yarn, but not nearly as significant as the Best Insurance Commissioner.

That brings me to another topic. Reporters and news organizations with reputations for winning prizes often have an unfair advantage. I’m speaking from ignorance, but it seems the The New York Times and Washington Post regularly receive Pulitzers for stories that are simply a reflection of the superior resources the two newspaper’s, rather than a display of the kind of commitment and enterprise required by smaller publications to produce award-winning projects. But that is just a gut reaction. It’s based on a belief that I probably collected a few awards because judging panels gave me an edge as a result of my reputation, which was greatly exaggerated in the latter days of my career. I was as good as the commitment and resources of the organizations I worked for, and in that respect, I was very fortunate.

My false modesty, by the way, is for the purpose of pointing out flaws in the awards process. It occurs at many levels. The most dangerous is an obsessive attempt by reporters to win prizes. This is especially true for investigative reporters, who too often take shortcuts. Many “investigative stories” nowadays lack context, or omit information that minimizes the impact of exposés. Was I guilty of these sins?

In retrospect, there are investigations that I could have approached differently. But I believe my transgressions were about spin and the occasional deceptions that I used to gather information. I never intentionally reported a story that I even suspected was  inaccurate.

Anyway, congratulations to the winners this year. May they have long and fruitful careers. The nation is in dire need of prize-winning journalism.

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. It is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career.  

Inside journalism circles there is much weeping, wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth over the National Enquirer’s Pulitzer Prize nomination for an exposé of John Edward’s loose zipper. As someone who built an investigative reporter career based on journalism prizes, I say, “Who gives a flying…whatever?”

I evolved over 30 years of muckraking from reporter to ”investigative” reporter to “award winning” investigative reporter to “Peabody” award winning investigative reporter  to “four-time” Peabody award winning investigative reporter to ”retired” four time Peabody award winning investigative reporter. At various junctures, all the above phrases were used in job-seeking letters and various other capacities—including egotistical boasts about my prowess as a journalist.

But the fact of the matter is I didn’t deserve all (emphasis on all) the accolades, which is easy to say since I no longer send résumés to prospective employers. Indeed, these days my boasting is confined to Facebook, mass e-mails, my website, this blog, book peddling in radio and TV interviews, during personal appearances and in conversations with everyone in earshot. Why? Because the prizes give me a sense of legitimacy.

And legitimacy is what the National Enquirer seeks. That ain’t going to happen, whether it receives the Pulitzer or not. The weekly tabloid will continue to be a supermarket curiosity that features blazing headlines to  titillate shoppers standing in line at check-out stands. Who among us has not been tempted to buy the Enquirer after seeing a particularly provocative headline? I’m reasonably certain I have bought an issue, though I don’t know when and why. Maybe it was after I received a $50.00 check from the Enquirer.

 An Enquirer reporter had contacted me about some aspect of the Jimmy Swaggart sex scandals. My recollection is that I was not much help. Surprisingly, though, a check arrived a few days later and I faced the dilemma of taking money from a trashy tabloid. I considered my options for at least a full minute before racing to the bank to cash the windfall.

Anyway, regardless of what pointy-head journalism professors and self-righteous reporters say, I believe the Enquirer deserves a Pulitizer. The damning pictures and accompanying stories about John Edwards knocking up a woman who worked for his Presidential campaign significant. It is not comparable to the Washington Post’s Watergate reporting by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward. Still,  the Enquirer’s enterprise exposed the hypocrisy of a leading candidate and even the possible misuse of campaign funds.

In my mind, that fits the definition of investigative reporting, although a better definition would be ”investigative skulking.” The reporters nailed down the story by staking out the offices of obstetricians and a hotel lobby where Edwards was photographed before and after a visit with his paramour.

In my early days as an “investigative reporter, skulking was a television speciality. The first two Peabody medallions I collected were for secretly collecting video in Miami while concealed in a “snoop van.”  My initial spying adventure caught south Florida’s top state prosecutor and a prominent judge meeting on a weekly basis with bookies, who had close ties to notorious mobster Meyer Lansky. My reporting consisted of learning about the meetings from law enforcement sources, then sitting in the back of the van in a shopping center parking lot for several Saturdays as a photographer filmed the encounters. I expended a little bit more effort in documenting the story by tracking the gamblers back to meetings with Lansky.

By primitive television investigative reporting standards, my reporting and the video passed for high art. So much so that TV Guide did a lengthy article praising me and reporters at other Miami stations for our innovative skulking.  

My second Peabody was also a  result of spying—this time on so-called mafia racketeers. My enterprise consisted of adding pictures to law enforcement intelligence reports that were leaked to me. Again, I spent considerable time in the back of a van, as well as going out on my own with a hand-held camera to catch the bad guys on film. In retrospect, neither of my early “investigative” stories would warrant consideration for major journalism prizes today. Despite these disparaging comments about two of my Peabody awards, both remain displayed on the wall of my office. I never considered returning them to sender.

More deserving were my third and fourth Peabody awards—one for an investigative documentary about TV preacher Jimmy Swaggart’s financial dealings and his spiritual manipulation of followers, the other a documentary exposing the corrupt dealings between Louisiana’s Insurance Commissioner and a company he was supposed to regulate. The regulator and executives of the insurance company all went to prison.

These kind of results are an important consideration in awarding journalism prizes. There is no doubt that the National Enquirer  investigation of John Edwards got results, even though the mainstream media was slow to acknowledge the truth of the stories. Now that we know the truth, I hope the Pulitizer panel will give the tabloid its just reward.

In today’s journalism environment, the threshhold of legitimacy has sunk so low that anything deserves award consideration if it goes beyond the speculation of idiot pundits and the opinions expressed by airhead anchors and correspondents. 

I have deliberately omitted the “F” word because bad journalism applies to every television network.