The 6 o'clock news is on -- and it's at my door, in my living room,

chopping the air above my head.

Local t.v. news media has camped up our corner, clogging the

intersection at Pestalozzi and 18th, squeezing out dinner traffic

at Frazer's. Their helicopters hack through the air space above my

neighborhood (Benton Park).

I sit a long baseball throw from the corner, watching the

news, knowing the broadcasters are wearing face makeup and jackets

and ties for that clean-above-the-belt appearance; down below, it's

jeans and blue-collar comfort.

A woman sits in the passenger side of one t.v. journalist's

Mercedes SUV, a laptop across her thighs, and she twists up a tube

of lipstick to paint her lips. I don't know. She's not getting on

camera.

I stroll in and around them with my own camera, drawing

glances. "Who is he?" They may wonder, they don't know. But I've

got their names, their call stations. This is my town, my brewery,

my corner. They are my newscasters.

It would seem that none of that matters. This news is already

on its way out of mind. Tomorrow is a new news cycle. Readers will

forget about this as they sleep tonight.

Maybe we all should. After all, A-B is dead. It sold out in

American-dream fashion: Up with capitalism, out with Americanism.

They -- the Busch's and those representing the "little people" shareholders -- stuffed their pockets and mansions with our loyalty, and then

bailed when a fresh face with fatter promises knocked at their

door.

The American Way.