Marty Baron, my old Morrissey Boulevard amigo, has nothing to do with the Washington Post‘s opinion section. Generally, this is a good arrangement for a newspaper. But, in this case, it’s really too bad, because it’s time once again for somebody to stage an intervention over there. Fred Hiatt’s domain is having another one of its manic Beltway incestual episodes. First, there’s this bit of treacle, for which everyone responsible back to Stilson Hutchins should be fired.
In the name of god, please shut up.
This bit of cutesy-poo nonsense is going to stand with Sally Quinn’s legendary hissy-fit over the arrival of the Arkansas Travelers into the White House, and with Richard Cohen’s plea for mercy on behalf of Cap Weinberger because they both cruised the same produce aisles, as decent arguments for Ben Sasse’s old proposal to move the nation’s capital to Omaha.
But that wasn’t the worst of it this week because, as part of the effort to ram through the nomination of Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court, Fred Hiatt (or someone like him) decided we needed to hear from Kenneth Starr, who, if god were truly just, would be mowing the lawns outside battered women’s shelters for the rest of his life.
Will we never be rid of this pious faker? Sure, Kavanaugh argued pro forma against all the icky parts of the Starr Report, but not before he made sure that they all were part of the official record. (Whether he simultaneously was leaking the hot stuff is a matter that now rests with the consciences of the journalists who lapped up what the Starr investigation was spooning out.) Here we have the perfect parlay: The Baylor Enabler Endorses His Former Ejaculation Gumshoe. John Marshall weeps.