Stop knocking journalists theyre the only truth-tellers we have

I am aggravated.Since I rarely reread what I’ve already finished, written, edited, suffered over, sent in and argued to defend I am usually semi-able to survive my aggravations.But comes this sudden gambit of picking on news people.

The writers, journalists, filler-in news talkers, commentators, perennially blond TV anchor ladies with their long hair down to their short hair and field reporters who mispronounce the name Kabul and Iran — both places in which I have lived.Why?Why are street sellers who hustle month-old hot dogs and can’t even read the ads pasted on their rented carts suddenly knocking this profession?At deadline, my immediate reaction is the throb of a daylong headache.

Then the mail, which should’ve arrived last week comes in, so, in case a check’s in it, you open that first.It’s bills overdue, which I probably paid in the first place.

Next is often a torn page which a fan thinks I should deal with.Some days it’s so discombobulating that I even answer my housekeeper’s mail — and hers is from Guyana.OK, so we’re not all Ernest Hemingway — but he probably couldn’t have knocked off a masterpiece while suffering with a computer that stopped working, a phone that got disconnected, a happening while on deadline, a Verizon that’s dislocating wires, plus making perfect three-minute eggs, plus shutting up my dog, plus working the spelling of Ukraine’s Dnistrovsky and Bklshivtsi townships.

I mean, forget Podilski and Shpola.Then there’s that exact moment when people are returning my calls.Friends, enemies, strangers I know don’t even have phones ring.

With a little luck, your life can manage to eff up a whole day.Meanwhile, WABC radio, which I’m on, needs a quote.Right now, in the middle of my disintegration, they’d like about six minutes for me to riff on Tesla. Tesla? Until 20 minutes ago I thought that was only what was on P.

Diddy. Tesla? Then comes a high-class slick magazine requesting my take on Russia, Chin...