On Deadline: The corrosive political payoff of spin and lies On Deadline: The corrosive political payoff of spin and lies (December 03, 2003)

by Jay Thorwaldson

Spin. That four-letter euphemism has become synonymous with politics within my lifetime as a journalist -- from Palo Alto to Washington, D.C.

In its least virulent form, it means bending perceptions to fit a political position, favor a candidate or reflect an ideology. It may be derived from the early American phrase, to "spin a yarn."

It means the conscious, deliberate, strategic attempt to create a perception that may or may not reflect an actual situation. (Spin differs from honest perceptions, interpretations and beliefs, which can vary significantly.) It even has spun off its own profession, spin doctor, a certified expert at spin, with a Bachelor of Spin degree.

"Lying" is the unvarnished, un-spun definition of hard spin. But spin sounds so much more acceptable and respectable. Everyone does it, right? Everyone has to do it to win an election, right?

In the recent Palo Alto election, allegations of lies came from both sides of the 800 High St. "Measure C" referendum battle. Both sides deny lying themselves but splashed L-word allegations across their respective Web sites at one point or another. Denial is a core component of spin, one should realize.

There was plenty of spin to go around in the City Council race, too, blatant or subtle -- enough perhaps to be worthy of a Ph.D. thesis.

As a journalist, one becomes acutely aware of what is real and what is spun goods -- the barnyard straw served up as threads of gold by often nameless modern Rumpelstiltskins, the professional or amateur campaign consultants. When one's stock-in-trade is information, you tend to take it seriously when you find you've been supplied with bad product.

And if you've gone to print or broadcast with the bad stuff, you have the added factor of feeling snookered -- and, worse, of having been made an accomplice in snookering the public.

I've always felt seriously disappointed when I find out someone -- sometimes a person I have known for years, sometimes a state or national leader on TV -- has looked me in the eyes and lied, for whatever purpose or political advantage.

But is it a real advantage?

My first journalistic acquaintance with a political-advantage lie occurred decades ago when John F. Kennedy was running for President. I was on my way home from San Jose State to Los Gatos and was passing the tiny Monte Sereno City Hall when I saw a small crowd out front. A slim, handsome young man was standing on a folding chair.

"That's Ted Kennedy!" I realized, whipping my '49 Dodge coupe into the parking lot and grabbing for a notebook. Sure enough, the dapper young Kennedy was exhorting the crowd to vote for his older brother. A typical stump speech -- a folding-chair speech.

Diligently, I began counting heads. The next morning I called Gene Johnson, editor of the local paper, to ask if she knew about the appearance. Yes, she said, the head of the local Democratic committee called in. Then she added that it was an impressive turnout on short notice. Huh? Yes, 500 people was pretty good, she said.

"But I counted 55," I said. The word "spin" hadn't been coined yet -- lies were still just lies. Yet the chairman had spun the actual turnout by a factor of 10. He was a local dentist and a respected community leader. The cost to him was that the local editor never again trusted his word, and as I recall she reported the discrepancy so others learned of it.

He had traded a short-term political "image" boost for a long-term loss of credibility in the community.

Some advantage. (Well, too bad he got caught, cynical campaign advisors would say.)

This was the same year the Eisenhower Administration was caught in a direct lie about the U-2 spy plane incident. Officials in President Eisenhower's name said the high-tech spy plane shot down by the Russians was a NASA weather-research plane with a civilian pilot -- instead of a CIA spy plane piloted by Air Force Captain Francis Gary Powers.

Only the severely naive would be shocked at our use of spy planes, or the need for secrecy in such matters. But one expects a demurrer, not a blatant falsehood. And this bald-faced lie, which came to light over about a week, was a special shock to someone raised in an "I like Ike" family.

I wasn't alone. The U-2 event marked the beginning of an Age of Skepticism for millions of Americans who value being told the truth, or as much of the truth as possible, instead of lies. The decade of Vietnam for many added to the seed of mistrust planted by that U-2 lie, creating a bipartisan Age of Cynicism that spread from Lyndon Johnson to Richard Nixon and beyond.

Echoes can be heard today in the apparently growing public reaction to a "tell 'em anything" mentality that seems to have re-infected politics, locally, nationally and internationally.

Some advantage.

Maybe someday the campaign strategists will rediscover the strength of the simple advice, "Tell the truth."

But who would believe it?

Jay Thorwaldson is editor of the Weekly. He can be e-mailed at jthorwaldson@paweekly.com.

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