Pierce rips into the odious Meacham (for the very same reasons DougJ did yesterday):
I have long proposed that every single major elite political pundit be frog-marched away from the buffet tables inside the Beltway and deep into the Blue Ridge Mountains, there to be confined to a re-education facility where they will clear trails, and reclaim swampland, and repair dams, and make life lovely for the furry little woodland creatures until every damn one of these hacks has learned not to look at the incredible universe of grifters and charlatans that is our current political elite and in them see the giants of the past. Comes now Parson Meacham, and I suspect he’s going to be working out in the woods until the squirrels up and bury him some winter.
I mean where in the name of god do I go with this kind of fanzine bullshit? (And you had to know Mike Allen would be wrapped up in there, too. With the advent of that promised e-book, we may be close to the event horizon of Washington suck-up-itude.) Meacham’s work here is what Walter Lippmann would’ve produced if he’d worked for Tiger Beat.
I’m in front of the stage cheering, with a lighter held high, and Pierce croons on:
Only Jon Meacham, who knows where they hide the Three Musketeers bars in every green room in Christendom, can look at this Republican field and not see it as being sui generis in terms of rampant, obvious crackpottery. Compare it to other larger Republican primary fields and to some of the losers in them. Michele Bachmann is not Jack Kemp. Rick Santorum is not Ronald Reagan. Herman Cain is not… well, he’s not a serious candidate, and he never was. Rick Perry is not even George W. Bush, Lord save us. Okay, maybe Jon Huntsman is a hyper-conservative John Anderson, and Mitt Romney is a hyper-disingenuous Bob Dole, but Huntsman’s polling in the Marianas Trench, and the entire party wishes Romney would die in a fire. And that’s something that Meacham, in his endless attempt to make chicken salad out of that which you cannot make chicken salad, loses sight of entirely. This field is a festival for fruitcake because so is the party to which it seeks to appeal.
FREEBIRD! FREEBIRD!! FREEBIRD!!!!
Yes, if you are unusually dim, or unusually badly read, or four years old, you may well re-imagine things this way. If you are not, you will recall that, not all that long ago, the Washington political class, with Newt Gingrich proudly (if ironically) in the lead, was in hot pursuit of a president’s penis. I think it’s safe to say that anyone who was alive then, and did not as a result drink himself into alcoholic dementia, still recalls that presidents can be both greatly liked and greatly disliked. The same, it should be noted, can be said for the music of ABBA and the taste of beets. So what? And if Meacham can find a single person not confined to a secure facility who thought it “absolutely certain” that Sarah Palin would be president, even for one day, I’ll let him off his work detail reclaiming the swamp for Christmas. President Palin remains as “unimaginable” a concept as is thoracic surgeon Charles Manson, M.D.
I just threw my panties on the stage.
Seriously, go read the whole thing.