I have made no secret of my Sunday morning habit of pressure-testing my cerebral arteries by indulging in a bit of Meet the Press. I didn't understand the appeal of political talk shows when I was younger, and apparently this is because yelling at senators is an adult vice, like whiskey and cigars, the taste for which must be acquired over time.
Meet the Press is the senior show on the chatter circuit, having been on the air as long as there's been air to be on and sporting the slogan "If it's Sunday, it's Meet the Press," and it serves as a reliable bellwether of what political matters are currently considered important by people who dwell east of the Hudson and south of Harlem.
Thing is, the pack of hippies, SWPLs, Social Justice Warriors, and wannabe-Europeans who have taken over 30 Rock like SDS protestors did the dean's office at Berkley have steadily run the old gray mare into the ground. We have reached the point that this most venerable property in the political talking head circuit has slipped to third place in the ratings and was preempted yesterday by a Limey soccer game, and likely will be in future weeks by the Monaco Grand Prix and the French Open.
Really, though, that fulfills the apparent current mission of Meet the Press quite nicely. Because the only things that'll make a Manhattanite feel more European (and therefore better) than being lied to about government healthcare plans by a political appointee are cheering for Manchester City F.C., watching Frogs play tennis on dirt, and being snubbed by Bernie Ecclestone.