Bless me Father, for I have sinned
You won’t believe the secret that has been hidden in plain sight for years
The Catholic Church believes in Confession, so here’s mine.
First, however, I’d like to remind you of that sad day in 1981 when all of us Pulitzer hopefuls were beaten out for the top prize by a 26-year-old Washington Post reporter named Janet Cooke.
Cooke wrote a compelling and heartbreaking story titled “Jimmy’s World” about an 8-year-old inner-city kid from Washington, D.C., who had become addicted to heroin.
She clearly deserved to win journalism’s top prize until it was revealed that there was no Jimmy.
She had made the whole thing up.
She was fired immediately, the award was returned to Columbia University, and overnight Cooke went from the Pulitzer to the dumpster.
There have been other such instances of made-up stories and outright plagiarism, but in the 45 years since Cooke’s mortal sin, no Pulitzers have had to be returned.
Yes, reporters sometimes use fake “sources” to provide good copy, then hide behind shield laws when asked to reveal their sources in court.
We’re actually seeing that played out now as three New York Times reporters are being forced to testify about the recent Air Force One switcheroo that took place on the president’s recent trip to Turkey.
It’s been interesting, to say the least, to see Democrats supposedly concerned about the president they loathe flying on an unsafe airplane.
I wonder if they remind him to put on his seatbelt at takeoff and landing and put his cushy leather seat in the full upright position.
Fake news or not, if you want to make the president look bad, all a reporter has to do is cite “highly placed White House sources” who say the president is “talking to the walls” and “unknown aides” are actually running the country.
You then throw in a couple of stock paragraphs about the possibility of an unhinged president starting a nuclear war all by himself, and presto, you have front-page copy.
If someone then pins you to the wall for the names of your sources, you quickly plead “confidentiality,” and protest that all your sources would dry up if you revealed the name of even one.
At the same time, the paper’s editors can fire off a strongly worded editorial on the need for a free press in a free society. You can even cast yourself as a valiant defender of democracy.
With any luck, the next Pulitzer might be yours.
I remember once receiving a highly confidential City of Davis document that had been discussed in closed session when the mayor who opposed whatever was being debated contacted me about its contents.
The mayor agreed to meet me at midnight behind the garbage cans at the rear of Jack in the Box, where I was handed the purloined papers in a tightly sealed manila envelope. (I am not making this up.)
When I wrote about this heated issue without revealing the source of my information - “The Mayor, who asked to remain anonymous” - an outraged reader claimed I could only have received this information illegally and should be arrested and hauled off to court in Woodland.
Well, it was certainly correct that the mayor had acted illegally, but as the recipient of a theft I did not request or facilitate, I was in the clear.
What all this is leading up to is that one word I mentioned in the first paragraph - confession.
My confession.
Truth be told, I have been lying to you for many, many years.
Actually, there isn’t one big lie I have to confess, just a whole series of little lies.
To begin with, I don’t live in East Davis. Never have. In fact, I wouldn’t be caught dead in that part of town.
I am fond of telling you how I work at the kitchen table, when in truth, I don’t have a kitchen table. And I certainly don’t know how to type.
And now for the big stuff.
This column is not written by Bob Dunning at all. The real Bob Dunning left town penniless in 1969 to pursue a career as a VISTA volunteer in Opa-locka, Florida.
He hasn’t been heard from since.
In 1970, however, The Davis Enterprise saw fit to “recreate” Bob Dunning, figuring a homegrown product who once played Little League in this town would enhance the image of a “local” newspaper.
Working with a mug shot from Dunning’s third-grade class photo at West Davis Elementary - the last known picture of him alive - editors at The Enterprise were able to sustain this nonperson, though he is never actually seen in public.
All of which explains the convenience of Dunning “working at home,” for the paper never had to produce him when an angry reader came storming into the former newspaper office at Third and G.
Every year or so, the paper’s photo editor would touch up Dunning’s mug, taking away a hair or two and adding a few wrinkles. This bit of deception worked so successfully that readers occasionally reported “bumping into” Dunning around town.
Sadly, Bob Dunning never played a charity tennis match against Wimbledon champion Bobby Riggs.
He never ate the first Big Mac at the grand opening of Davis’ original McDonald’s.
He never ran with the 1984 Olympic Torch down Pole Line Road.
He never attended UC Davis.
And the Red-Headed Girl of his Dreams that he claims to have met in a steamy North Idaho laundromat was both a figment and a pigment of his nonexistent imagination.
But what of the columns that continue to run after The Enterprise supposedly let go of this alleged journalist several years ago?
Well, they are now produced by a battery of monkeys from the UC Davis Primate Center working nonstop 24 hours a day on 32 identical laptops.
Approximately once every 24 hours, they manage to put together enough legible copy to produce a whole column, with all proceeds going to PETA.
Dunning’s siblings, several of whom remain in Davis, have been paid handsomely for their silence.
You can allegedly reach Dunning at bobdunning@thewaryone.com