Columnist Scott Dickensheets: Mea culpa; I'm sorry; Forgive me

THESE ARE strange, dark days for journalism.

If you read the papers, you know it's not safe to read the papers. The New Republic has apologized for the falsifications of its writer Stephen Glass, as has Rolling Stone and George, where Glass also published. A metro columnist for the Boston Globe apologized for making up a few wee facts and quotations in her work. CNN and Time have issued red-faced mea culpas for going with an unsubstantiated report that American troops gassed villagers in the Vietnam war.

Clearly a bandwagon is forming. And it's in that spirit of coming clean, of fessing up, of getting things off my chest, that I hereby apologize for a few relatively minor fudgings and carefully tinkered-with half-truths in some recent columns.

I'm sorry I accused Henderson police of using deadly nerve gas to subdue unruly jail inmates. In my defense, let me say that I only "wrote" that story in the sense that I typed it with my fingers; I didn't "write" it in the sense of actually being responsible for the information. That's a small distinction, perhaps, but one crucial to contemporary journalism.

In a related apology, I'm sorry about that little follow-up column "proving" that Henderson police had bombed their own people, the Kurds of northern Henderson. I was way off base with that one, and, anyway, the Kurds live in southern Henderson. I'll be more careful next time.

I'm sorry for that "guest column" by Monica Lewinsky. Yeah, I wrote it. She didn't really say that thing about "the subpoena of love." I had no idea anyone would check that out.

Likewise, the quotes I attributed to President Clinton in last week's column on his China trip -- "I went because I'm sick of Asian soft money -- I wanted to pick up some Asian hard cash" -- weren't exactly 100 percent accurate.

I'm sorry I reported that startling advance in cancer treatment based on yak squeezings. I admittedly jumped the gun that time, but only because I was overcome by hope, both for a cure, at long last, and a hefty merit raise, at longer last.

I'm sorry for that column detailing my surprise victory at Wimbledon. I don't in fact have "a graceful all-court game," "ground strokes like smart bombs," and "the best tennis hair since the Andre Agassi of old." I'm also sorry to Pete Sampras, whom I didn't "beat like a gong" before "handing him the worst loss of his professional career and knocking him from the No. 1 ranking." Oh, and I didn't break Roger Maris' home-run record, either.

I'm sorry about claiming that my 5-year-old had been accepted to Harvard Medical School; I wouldn't have done it if I didn't have that script for "Doogie Hauser -- the Next Generation" in development at the time. What father wouldn't have done the same?

I'm sorry for claiming that I'd been offered the editorship of the New Yorker, which certainly wasn't true, even if it's a great idea. Truth being what it is these days, is there really much difference between something being theoretically possible and having actually happened?

I'm sorry for that column about religion and guns -- er, wait, that one was completely accurate. Well, what the heck, I'm still sorry for it.

I certainly feel better now. As I was telling Ken Starr over drinks last night, nothing says "I'm sorry" like saying "I'm sorry." This sort of thing won't happen again, I promise.

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