The Ghost of Tim Russert...spooking gray matter anew

Mi compradre-ette Professor Tracey at Aunt Jemima's Revenge (a whole lotta revenge out there with Nat's) was tripping over the elevation of neo-cremepuff correspondant/ Mary J Blige fan David Gregory to honcho "Meet the Press" over Gwen Ifill and Lord, many other veteran reporter who don't get suckered into yelling "whoopie" on "The Today Show." Check it out here. Part and parcel of Auntie's editorial was a subsequent post on Luke Russert, son of St. Tim. St. Tim--the man who helped destroy TV news in the last decade. No, it really wasn't Rupert Murdoch/Roger Ailes. It was Luke's daddy. David Gregory's current incarnation is just as much Tim Russert's progeny as Aunt Jemima's target Luke. Her thesis: Luke ranks up there with W as talentless, whiteboy affirmative action product.

That's Tim's baby boy on the left, training in TV investigative reporting at UVA--in a pool. Oh and above that's Luke lending is Buffalo Bills schtick to James Carville's expert sports show...um...James Carville's sports show? Yeah, no typo fanboys & girls. But this is the age of no boundaries. Of revenue streams. Of infotainment. Luke's part of a brand. Like Cherry or Diet Coke. Why mess this up with thinking? Brands obviate thinking. That's why sharp TV reporters like Hoda Kotb are playing second fiddle to Kathy Lee Gifford, or, as contraposition example, Linda Ellerbee opted for obscurity before bulima and tit jobs, or remaining silent to fools telling her she getting too old and fat (do they tell Lou Dobbs...or Russert?), or selling out to The View. Sorry Gwen Ifill. Being black was just the nail in the coffin, not the actual coffin. You think too much. Analyze. Explain. Give context. Iz you touched, sista? That ain't what makes the sponsors happy or drives the producers to spoon-feed pap and blazing headlines, or forces what passes for "anchors" these days to editorialize with inanities as if they're at Bingo night...

Thinking? That's what Luke's daddy found boring and passe when he, a hack in the corkscrew world of Albany smoke-filled rooms and political machines, took the chair once occupied by Lawrence Spivak, John Chancellor et al. Who the f- are they? Not important. That was back when TV journalism meant something. Nothing Twitter worthy...

And Tim gleefully turned the analytical style of these folk built into a circus of cliches, confrontation, posturing--all whilst he hob-nobbed as if an insider himself. Talkin' 'bout Luke's grandad constantly. Talkin' 'bout the Bills. Shilling for himself as celebrity, as brand, and in ethical gray regions--many of the politicos he "engaged" every Sunday morning. The ratings climbed. NBC's hagiography was a forgone conclusion. What's the cheapest means of increasing ratings? Well, rather than enlightening the dullards and bumpkins out there, Luke's daddy conspired to be one of them--dumbing things down for all of us. Luke and the NBC bigshots are scrimmaging with a winning game plan.

And we loved Tim, thus we love Luke, right? Especially when NBC/MSNBC, in the style of Citizen Kane, shoved him down our waiting throats during the 2008 campaign. Made him one of "us," like dad. Massaged and overexposed the brand. No matter. You see, NPR caught hell for criticizing Big Tim, as if they'd danced on his grave, and likewise (but for Aunt Jemima and her boy pal Nat and few others) the dismay over Luke's elevation has been sadly muted. Interestingly, while Tim was alive his presence seemed to unite rightwing harpies like Michelle Malkin and Ann Coulter (of all people) with lefty media critics in Slate.com and The American Prospect. Note when Tim moderated the first Democratic Primary debates before his death, this was the one observation that made sense to me, amidst all the congratz on Tim's acumen: "It substitutes the personal anecdote for the policy position, the sound-bite for the substantive answer. It distills the debate into a series of allegedly symbolic, supposedly meaningful moments that can be replayed. "

Another: "Russert knows that the way to the top is to pretend that for all the Georgetown cocktail parties you attend, for all the money you make, for all your heart flutters when the powerful treat you with deference, in truth you may be in Washington but you're not of it. No, deep down you're just a regular guy from the wrong side of the tracks, standing up to the effete swells of the ruling class."

Indeed, Bill Moyers (a thinker) asked Luke's dad if he relied too much on the word of Bush administration officials during our fraudulent march to the Iraq War. Russert, who's not a journalist, recall, answered, "Look, I'm a blue-collar guy from Buffalo. I know who my sources are. I work 'em very hard. It's the mid-level people that tell you the truth." Huh? WTF?

Well, hopefully Luke's got some training, ethics, standards, you query? Wait. He just got out of school. OK, in the spirit of making the news "relatable" to younger folks (like texting, bite-sized) he's branded as the spirit of inexperienced yet energetic youth. I must say even the 20 and 18-somethings (white ones!) I spoke to thought he was a bit dry, dull, smarmy at times, though. But they were tickled he was "one of them." Yes, NBC learned from dad.

Listen, Luke's eulogy of his father was heartfelt, was heartwrenching. But why was it at the National Cathedral? Why was every self-aggrandizing tool from Bill Clinton to W there to pay homage. Folks, you are a sucky reporter if bigshots and politicians come to your funeral to wail. They should come to your funeral to spit on your casket. Otherwise you haven't done your job. But that presupposes your job is to inform, explain, uplift, rather than posture. That's Ed Murrow 101.

Has Luke ever learned about Edward R Murrow and his famous 1957 speech presaging the rise of folk like his dad? Nah. He's thinking revenue streams and new ways to sell to "Millenials" like himself. Hell I'm shocked he wasn't given Meet the Press, quieting the shrieks of his father's ghost when boring ol' Tom Brokaw took over Meet The Press temporarily. NBC has its standards of expertise, we hope. The trouble is, do we?