Wow, two of our premier reigning media titans, Mr. Howard Dean and Ms. Star Jones, are on the fast train to nowhere and the world, it appears, is taking very little notice of their sad, sudden and seemingly unplanned departures from the big city terminals.
Mr. Dean, the one time Chairman of the greatest and most vibrant of all the many liberal political parties thrashing around on the planet today, has seen his once vast influence as chief party theoretician wane and gradually disappear over the past few months, as he wallows nose deep in some prickly political polder.
In fact, as a direct result of his own powerful lunacy, his inchoate speeches, his inability to manage his vituperative outbursts, a singular failure to match his hazy national outlook to that of the major Washington D.C. based power brokers, his unusual verbal assaults on sanctified "core" constituencies like the gay movement, his open courting of the oh, so disturbing Christians and their unnerving values, his promises to reach out to Democrats in heavily Republican states, his alleged mismanagement of scarce Democratic funds because of his spendthrift "grassroots" policies, and the like, Mr. Dean has eschewed painting himself into a corner and has opted, instead, for troweling himself onto the very end of a high diving board over an empty concrete pool.
There he finds himself attired in street clothes, barefoot, before a crowd expecting something along the lines of a Mark Spitz turnout, though his antics and showmanship up the ladder and across the platform have known no bounds and have served to titillate a sleepy media awakening for his final plunge.
Mr. Harry Reid, in a noticeable volte face, has called in leading anthropologists to get a batter handle on Mr. Dean's troubled antecedents, believing they may yet hold the secret to it all, as they examine his pronounced brow ridges, prognathous jaw line and over-sized molars. They say a report on this subject, paid for by Mr. Reid's PaC, is due out in a few weeks
Mr. Harry, it is reported, has begun privately calling Mr. Dean a "throw back," and folks on his staff are a bit reluctant to ask if this turn of phrase applies to undersized fish or to the evolutionary term, understanding Mr. Reid's continued testiness following the whole free boxing tickets caper and the hallway jostling, chortling, and strident coughing which accompanied the untimely exposure.
In the mean time, poor Howard has been reduced to bowdlerizing his own speeches while claiming to speak on his own behalf.
Noting that much of his once highly prized and flammable swamp gas and recurrent St. Elmo's fire has been extinguished by the constant carping from the left, Mr. Dean explained last Tuesday, "I don't want to speak for the whole Democratic Party because every time I do, I get into trouble, so I'll speak for myself."
and all was said before Mr. Dean launched into a heated diatribe centered on his unique interpretation of the late 1960s, completed it appears, without the assistance of lysergic acid diethylamide applied to sugar cubes, once plentiful peyote, and the mescaline which addled so many in those once halcyon and high times.
and as Howard Dean accelerates thanks to Mr. Isaac Newton's mechanics, he's joined in his plunge onto the concrete by another muse, the irrepressible Star Jones, who has also slipped and slid away from a television show made, apparently, just for her.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm no great shakes as a judge of talent, though I did note that the 1929 Yankees possessed a good deal of it and that Vince Lombardi concentrated on the basics for success. But the TV angle is a mystery to me, as is the whole sordid political business.
But it appears that Star Jones, after a pretty good run at yessing and noing with Ms. Barbara Walters, a noted liberal diva with a heart of gold and a short fuse comprised of detonation cord, which is both good and bad, suddenly found herself on the outs — a situation not unlike that dogging Mr. Howard Dean today.
and having identified her plight, Ms. Star, nee Reynolds, jumped the gun, called the affair for what it was, bunk, for hanging around and sucking up to Ms. Walters, bid fair adieu, and bolted the set.
But the pundits are telling her that she's got to move fast for another show, another bite at the TV apple, that fame is fleeting, that she could end up like Joan Lunden and J. Fred Muggs, both of whom departed quickly and were quickly lost to the public while leaving the studios.
all of which brings us back to Mr. Dean and his flight from an empty terminal to nowhere.
What is Howard going to do when the empty plane lands, the door opens and he walks up the ramp and finds himself all alone in an vacant airport without a single soul waiting for him, save the old janitor pushing a forlorn broom, the clock frozen in time, the eerie Twilight Zone music, and a nattily attired Rod Serling, holding the proverbial Chesterfield straight, slowly speaking into the same camera that once waited for him?
Just what will Mr. Howard Dean and Ms. Star Jones Reynolds do in retirement?
Perhaps they could work together on a prequel.
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