‘You think you’re better’n us?’ the man raised by wolves asked. : The Media Did It

A friend named Corky who works at General Motors is angry over the uproar attending a chemical smell that is fouling the air in the vicinity of the Van Nuys assembly plant.

The Big Stink, as it has come to be known, is traceable to a new paint-spraying operation at GM, and everyone is trying to figure out what to do about it.

Neighbors of the plant complain that the odor is making them sick and don’t feel they should have to raise their babies and prepare their tuna casseroles in an environment faintly reminiscent of a skunk farm.

Corky’s anger, however, is not directed at the smell, at General Motors or even at those who took the problem to the Air Quality Management District in the first place.

He blames the media.

Now, Corky is a decent human being, a good father and a reasonable dog owner. He does not physically abuse his wife, he pays his bills on time and he has never, to the best of my knowledge, held up a liquor store.

But he’s got this hang-up about the media. Corky holds us personally responsible for the Vietnam War, genital herpes, racial strife, women’s liberation and the political unrest in Latin America.

Likewise the Big Stink.

We were having a Bud one day recently at a bar that plays cowboy music when someone mentioned the smell.

“It’s the damned media,” Corky grumbled. “If it hadn’t been for them, all this never would have happened.”

I am old enough to know better than to argue media in a joint with a full-color portrait of John Wayne behind the bar and a jukebox that keeps playing “Okie From Muskogee.”

But it had been a long day and I had consumed more than one beer and, to paraphrase my mother, I am no better at drinking than my drunken father had been.

“Hold on, skipper,” I said to Corky. “The media , as you call it, had nothing to do with pumping that malodious and mephitic cloud of putridity over the sweet little community of Van Nuys.”

Corky had only a vague notion of what I had said and I wasn’t too sure either.

“The media is negative,” he declared in a loud voice. Others, including a man who looked as though he might have been raised by wolves (I swear I heard him growl once), began to take notice.

Corky yanked a mimeographed sheet of paper from his pocket and waved it in the air.

“This tells us all about it!” he proclaimed.

He was holding something called “Positive Facts,” which apparently is a GM house organ or a tract published by the United Auto Workers. I never did get a good look at it.

“What this says,” Corky proclaimed, “is that newspapers are distorting the facts to keep us from getting our raises!”

His rationale, cleaned up for family consumption, was this: by reporting that neighbors of the GM plant hated having to live in constant stink, newspapers had forced the car company to commit $12 million to correct the problem, and that would be money its employees would not get in their next raise.

Ergo, the press was not only composed of troublemakers, but also of union busters.

When Corky put this all together to the approval, I might add, of others in the bar, I hooted loudly. It was a mistake equaled only by a colleague of mine who, years ago, walked into a lumberjack bar and ordered a banana daiquiri.

“You think you’re better’n us?” the man raised by wolves asked.

“As a matter of fact,” I was tempted to say, “I do.”

But, as he stood, I realized that Mother and Father Wolf had done their job well. He was probably 6 feet, 8 inches tall and as lean and hard as tempered steel. It was no time to debate the inherent qualities of a quick mind over a strong body, so I left.

I admit that I grow weary sometimes of the media being blamed for every ugly problem that ambles down the pike. In this case, at least, I could go to the stench-clouded neighborhood around GM and receive a thank you or two from those whose problem we had exposed in the first place.

Surely they would welcome a newspaper columnist on the scene to share the putrid air they breathed.

Trouble was, I couldn’t smell anything different. No chemical odor wafting on the breeze. No paint to pucker the nostrils. It just smelled like L.A. to me.

“I’ll tell you why you can’t smell,” a woman said to me from behind her screen door, “it’s that stinking cigar you’re smoking!”

“Lady,” I said, “my cigar has nothing to do with. . . .”

“Even Jesus couldn’t smell anything with you blowing smoke in his face.”

“I’m not blowing smoke in anyone’s face,” I said, “but if it hides the paint smell, maybe GM ought to just issue cigars in the neighborhood and save itself several million dollars.”

She shut the door in my face.

That’s the trouble with the current anti-smoking campaign. It turns decent people into animals and misdirects their basic hostilities toward those of us who enjoy an occasional expensive cigar.

Corky was right. The old lady wouldn’t have had sense enough to complain if she hadn’t read or heard it was all right to do so. No one is safe.

Damned media.