Apr 30 2010
Witness the unfathomable genius of Bill Kristol in action.
Off-shore drilling is “quite safe” and “very environmentally clean, except … when there’s a disaster like this”
~ Bill Kristol, real man of genius, except . . .
Yes, Bill Kristol is a real man of genius, except when he is talking.
More below the fold, except what is below the fold
Dec 30 2007
There has been a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth and rending of garments over the coming ascension of Bill Kristol to the august pages of The New York Times. I’m afraid to say that I mostly agree with Andy Rosenthal (as reported by Editor and Publisher, h/t Atrios), I don’t understand what the fuss is all about. After all, “We have views on our op-ed page that are as hawkish or more so than Bill”.
If you expect The New York Times to be a progressive voice championing the values of the “community” they supposedly serve, the citizens of the Metropolitan New York area, they do; but that “community” may not have exactly the demographics you think. The Gray Lady stands for the truth of the informed insider, the justice of the powerful and connected, and the Wall Street Way.
They are mired in the media madness that traps most of the dead tree dying dinosaurs. Confronted with their own inevitable extinction as organs of influence they are in denial of the retreat of the ice age, doomed to suffocate under the tangled fur of the web of deceit and lies they have peddled over the last 20 years.
There was a time I’d read 4 or more newspapers a day, The Courant, The Times, The News, and The Stars Hollow Shopper, and consider myself informed. More than that I’d read the supermarket glossies- Time, Newsweek, and U.S News and World Report. WCBS Newsradio 88 with traffic and weather together at 8, 18, 28, 38, 48, and 58 minutes past the hour (WINS was first in the format, but not clear channel).
The only ones who survive are WCBS (did I mention traffic and weather together?) and The Stars Hollow Shopper (♥ me some coupons).
The disconnect in the plain reality that my own two eyes show me every single day and the dusty dirty gray tissues stained with blood and other less identifiable and honorable fluids that pile up in our landfills as pristine and unread as the day it was delivered on your doorstep, useful as a stop or for wrapping fish or lining litter boxes and bird cages; has led me to more productive pursuits.
Earlier (but not in the new media of record thank goodness) I mourned the passing of these shambling shadows of former greatness, these future fossils of folly and hubris; now I ignore them as irrelevant when I don’t hunt them for sport.