Do you ever read a news story and think, “Wow, they must have written that for Martians, because everyone on Earth knows that already”?

Such was the story about text messaging in The Facts, Brazoria County’s newspaper. The headline: “Professionals finding texting to be useful tool,” then it goes on to quote professionals who find texting to be a useful tool.

Beyond the “duh” factor, there’s a kernel of truth here about technology: If you haven’t experienced something for yourself, it’s almost impossible to understand it. Or as my Asian religion professor would say, “The Tao that can be named is not the true Tao.”

I resisted Facebook and Twitter for a long time because I thought they would be time suckers (and I am vindicated). When I asked people what they were like, they all had the same answer, “You’ll just have to try it and find out.”

Because I know some of you will NEVER try social media (Dad), here’s my attempt to explain the surrealism of Twitter and Facebook:

Twitter: You’re sitting in a huge auditorium with thousands of other people. Everyone has a little yellow sticky pad that they’re writing notes on. Everyone is passing these short little notes back and forth. None of the notes are related to each other. These notes pass through your hands and you read them. Some of them are funny, some of them are smart, but most of them make no sense to you whatsoever.

Facebook: You show up at your high school reunion and ho, what’s this? Your work friends are there. And hey, there’s your cousin from Nebraska. And your college roommate and whoa, an ex-lover – where’d HE come from? Better duck into the restroom.

Ever play “Stump the Priest?” It’s a game in Catholic school where you come up with really hard questions for the priest or nun who’s trying to teach Catechism.

Some examples:
– How could God be three people at the same time?
– How did Noah fit two of everything into the ark?
– What’s a Virgin?

But you never could win this game because whenever the priest or nun would get stumped, they always had this answer at the ready, “It’s a mystery, my child.”

That’s one of the bummers about my children being Protestant – this answer doesn’t work on them. I resort to “Hmm, I don’t really know.” Especially when they ask me about things like virgins.

When PR people don’t know the answer to a reporter’s question, they say, “That’s a good question, I’ll get back to you on that.” That buys them time to come up with a good answer.

Maybe next time I’ll just say, “My child, it’s a mystery.”

Sometimes I try to connect the dots between disconnected bits of information I collect during the day, trying to make a pattern like forming a constellation with random stars.

The bits I see today are various stories covering the wide gamut of motherhood. In the middle of the spectrum is a friend from work who bruised her wrist trying to teach her little son how to ice skate. He did fine but she kept falling down. He took her hand, saying, “Mommy, don’t be afraid.” This is normal, daily bread sort of motherhood, the kind I am accustomed to.

On the dark side of the spectrum was a story I ran across accidentally on a news site. I’m sorry to say that if I see a headline about a dead baby, I can’t stop myself from clicking on it, even though I’ll regret it for days. This story was about a baby who was left in his car seat for 8 days straight and died from an infection caused by his own soiled diaper. I don’t know what do to with that kind of information, so today I am tucking it into my collection of random events.

On the brightest side of the spectrum is another story, this one heard on NPR on my drive home, about a mother in China who goes to school with her daughter everyday so she can hold the girl up to use the bathroom. The 12-year-old lost both her legs last year in an earthquake that flattened her school, so now the girl and her mother spend their days at a remote, temporary school in sterile housing. The girl can’t go back to her home in the mountains because she can’t navigate there, and her mother has given up everything to care for her as she continues her schooling among strangers.

So how are these stories connected, other than the fact that they all involve mothers and children in various of stages of neglect, nurture and sacrifice? I feel these events, or something close to them, are happening at this moment in billions of houses across the wide world

The bus is half empty today. Are people driving in to work because they’re afraid of catching swine flu on mass transit? Should I be wearing a mask? Is that person behind me coughing?

Sometimes I feel that my personal panic button is permanently mashed down. Thanks a lot, MEDIA!

Really, it’s stupid of me to blame the media for my constant state of anxiety, isn’t it? Because there’s really no such thing as “the media,” just as there’s no such thing as “the man” (as in, sticking it to “the man”).

I used to be a newspaper editor so I’ve seen the slimy underbelly first hand. Listen to me: There is no amorphous mass called “the media” that thinks with one mind. It just feels as if there is.

If I didn’t know any better, here’s how I’d think “the media” worked:

All the big shot editors in the world gather each morning around a round, Dr. Strange Love table in an underground bunker somewhere at NORAD. Like high rollers out to corner the pork belly market (maybe that’s a bad choice of similes today), they collude with each other to whip us into a daily frenzy. They’re all smoking big stogies, even the women, especially the women, and laughing like crows.

– “ ‘Pandemic’ is too long to fit into a headline. Just use the word ‘doom’ ….”

– “I kinda like ‘aporkalpyse’…”

– “What about the recession? Does it still have legs?”

– “Nah, people are sick of that. Call the White House and see if Obama has the flu. Better yet, call Susan Boyle…”

But it’s not like that (except maybe at FOX). Here’s how typical editors decide on news coverage. Are you ready for this? They look at their competitors and see what they have, and then they go with that. They are covering their butts, making sure they don’t get chewed on by the higher ups.

So the ultimate goal is not audience manipulation: it’s butt protection.

It seems like they’re in collusion, but all they’re really doing is constantly looking at each other for validation that crap is important. It’s not conspiracy; it’s just plain old fear of an ass whuppin’. So there you have it.

Still, if you’re a really good journalist, and believe me, they’re still out there, I’m married to one, you go find stuff out. Then you ask yourself: Does this matter? Can someone benefit from knowing this? And if the answer is anywhere near yes, you run with it.