Shroud of Turin / May 3 2002

A frightening voice on Washington Week in Review rouses me from a long somnolence during which I was dreaming The News wasn't lies. I seemed to have been listening with close attention for weeks-must have been-soaking in The News like sunshine-yes it was spring it was all spring; I could quote all the latest information. And now I'm awake I don't remember a word.

Consider the phenomenon of phony relics. The Cardiff Giant. Barnum's Mermaid. That old Jesus Tissue. And Walter Cronkite-who was sent off to Valhalla on a flaming ceremonial bier in my very distant youth. The nation mourned those pipe-scarred lips ("No more words from Uncle Walter!") in their gray passing-I remember. Years ago! Uncanny how many years he's kept on rumbling out at feast days and alarms. Walter Cronkite: His the utterance which issues from the shrine-infallible-a mystery of physics-the condensation of an atmosphere beyond agenda-living proof that Truth is still in charge-and that The News has a key to its executive restroom.

What a hoax! Almost as clever as CHOMSKY!