The upper echelons of American journalism have become the exclusive monopoly of former teacher’s pets, who as children were never sent to the principal’s office, who as teenagers were never suspended for showing up drunk for chemistry class, who as college students never woke up at 6:30 a.m. on the porch of the ATO house, who never played in a rock band or sold a pound of weed or dove from a 50-foot cliff into an abandoned rock quarry.
Washington journalism is like some kind of perverse alternative reality where the Beta males are dominant.
It is therefore not surprising that the effete elite of American journalism sneers at Mark Levin. What Levin possesses — and what the typical 21st-century journalist never has possessed nor ever will — is the double-dog-dare-ya boyish audacity that the Ordinary American naturally admires.
That’s Robert Stacy McCain, who seems to think that yelling your head off on the radio is a lot more daring than I do.
I’ll say this though: if RSM ever writes an autobiography I’ll definitely read it.