Frank Rich is Off Today
I am not a real blogger, of course, merely a weekend pinch-hitter, a lowly brunch cook of blogtopia, as it were, trusted enough to competently sling out some slop for the regulars who wander in with nothing better to do until the jefe shows up on Monday. After enough time I settled into being an essayist, duty means a 750 word piece (play with a net, as the demigod Krugman intoned) every weekend morning, every month, all year, unless you absolutely can’t.
Blogging has very accurately been described as a Death March of Bataan activity, a very difficult daily grind of unpaid lonely advocacy for nothing but pittance. One might think two essays a week—often three—would be no big deal, but after about a year one gets an inkling of just how hard daily political writing often is, an arena of very dirty, lousy political play in a world of hurt.
I was fortunate enough at Netroots Nation to ask a panel of blogging titans (Jesse and Amanda of Pandagon, Atrios of Eschaton, The Rude One from The Rude Pundit, and the incomparable heroine Digby of Hullabaloo) to ask these great minds how in fact they kept going year after year, what motivated them to keep slogging through in tough times. Amanda gave a ridiculously mentally healthy answer of gratitude for the privilege, Atrios said his commenters sustained him, while The Rude One blew me off with a line that his limited notoriety nonetheless delivered a supply a free booze and blowjobs.
Decent answers, but still a little evasive (gratitude my ass, I know there are mornings when vomiting is preferable to being chained to the blog again) and of dismaying zero utility for a morning precisely such as this, a political dead zone of dull lousy re-hashed grim news, a sickening miasma of godawful-unnecessary suffering and death I somehow have to be a decent writer in without drowning in anger and futility. I never write the day before, every essay published is essentially a first draft from a mind stone cold on a topic at start.
Eight years after the absolute disgrace of election 2000 that literally robbed our country of its rightful leader and plunged us into this hell of the 21st century our American journalism corps has only gotten worse, if that were somehow possible. Unable to find anything to write about in the news I went to Media Matters, perhaps here there would be something I could latch onto to hopefully nudge justice a tiny bit closer into our world, but much to my dismay it’s just the same old story, a great country crippled and smashing into successive disasters because we have no way to tell the truth to ourselves.
Because the journalists responsible for coverage of political campaigns simply don't give a damn about the truth, or about balance, or about what is important and what is not. They're thrilled to spend three days talking about a substance-free attack because it amuses them that the attack used Paris Hilton's image.
I don’t think I will ever solve the mystery of how this ever came about, how rational adult Americans who even call themselves professionals could degrade into such moronic disastrous dolts right in front of us. Yes they’re hopelessly enmeshed into rewarding a corporate agenda and yes they pay no penalty for not growing up so they won’t—but it still will never explain the galactic callousness of these giggling lying hyenas, they look it in form but they hardly seem human to me.
Oh God, Frank Rich is off today, so while America loses two wars, crushes its people in inequality and no health care on a warming polluted planet the United States gets this grossly offensive harping gossiping harlot Maureen Dowd, Jesus if I had to read her every day while trying to publish I’d go stark raving mad.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Barack Obama must continue to grovel…this bellyflop of utter bullshit merely heralds of column of any vicious gossip, rumor and sickening immaturity she can stuff into it (Obama is too skinny), anything but keeping our election focused on the horrendous problems our people suffer from.
This is why I blog every weekend, a desperate attempt to inject any kind of rational truth into our political discourse. Our journalism corps is an utter disastrous disgrace, we can be so much better than this, and when Frank Rich is off one of our precious few decent journalists is gone, leaving a wasteland of Dowd and Friedman at the New York Times. I don’t dare read Friedman, after Dowd I can only deal with so much filth, hoping this puny text and tiny efforts pay off in some future year when we actually have an election about our people.