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Last week the Rev. Peter J. Gomes noted to Imus that his appearances on the show are a source of astonishment to his friends. I suspect there’s a fellow commenter/diarist or lurker or two hereabouts that thinks the same about my viewing the show.
But I find the Imus Show is frequently instructive, in a way that transcends Hardball or any of the Sunday morning shows or the other programming of the sputtering media.
Like this morning, when Senator Joe Lieberman graced the show with his bon mots. We learned during the cozy schmoozefest that Imus and his wife dined night before last with the Assistant Secretary of the Senate, Sheila Dwyer, who grew up across the street from Deidre.
We learned that Lieberman still pauses to see what Imus is going to proffer before jumping on the bandwagon—kinda like back in the day when he never believed a black guy could win the White House, so he jumped ship for McCain in true opportunistic Lieberman fashion.
We learned that Lieberman is still a good ol’ warmonger and Repubican at heart.
We learned that Lieberman thinks ol’ Harry’s a good guy. ’nuff said.
And we learned "let me be the first to offer" young Wyatt Imus an internship…’cause it’s still not what you know in Lieberman/Old Washington’s world, it’s who you know.
Just as long as he doesn’t have that Mark Foley thing going.
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crossposted at Prairie Sun Rising
3 Comments
The elites are different from most of us when it’s used not to mean somebody with special gifts to offer the community, but just these jerks that kiss each other’s butts and somehow have fooled a huge segment of this country into thinking they are “salt of the earth.” Yes, they sure are different. But I wish they were as rare as real elites are. The teevee and senate are lousy with these lowly fame-hungry creatures.
They are different.
Which was the whole impetus for the American Revolution.
Another example of the elites, courtesy Maureen Dowd today. Calling for show trials. Hey, works for me. I mean, c’mon. $35,000 for John Thain’s shitter? Oh, I know, it wasn’t really a “toilet”; rather, some sort of fancy schmancy cabinet that doubtless boosted his testosterone level by the size of the price tag alone.
But it–and Thain and the rest of the “masters of the universe”–sure has the stench of one.
You won’t get any argument from me on the content of Dowd’s column. But I do take exception to the title. These are not “Wall Street’s socialist jet-setters.”
They are pirates. And even Jack Sparrow wouldn’t want to be in their company.