With increasing frequency I find myself distressed whenever I ponder the time, however limited, that I've just invested in reading the political press.
"I think it’s the most blatantly dishonest performance by a presidential candidate I’ve ever seen," says Newt Gingrich about Mitt Romney to the Washington Post in one story just perused; and "It was his newsletter, and it was under his name, so he always got to see the final product ... He would proof it," says a former secretary for Ron Paul's newsletters, in another story scoured.
Reading both pieces in full, I don't know ... maybe two or three minutes of my life transpired? And in what way was my knowledge of current events enriched? How was the world about me thrown into a more enlightened relief? Simply put, what did I learn?
I "learned" that Newt Gingrich is a wretched liar, and that a publisher of political newsletters read his own newsletters.
Right. Nothing. Two, three minutes -- poof, gone, irretrievable. It rather makes one want to crawl off to a closet -- equipped with only a flashlight and an armful of Shakespeare -- and then forget the whole, monotonous, repetitious scene.