Last night I watched Chris Matthews on "Hardball" spit, sputter and indignantly rage against the neocon worms crawling out of their rotted woodwork to denounce the Obama administration's foreign policy. His emotional explosions were rare form, even for the Irish ire of Matthews, as he railed at Donald Rumsfeld for cluelessly censuring Obama's "mismanagement" of Afghanistan relations and fumed at Mitt Romney's witless revisionism about "the president's naivete with regards to Russia."
Matthews was on fire. He was beside himself. He just barely remained seated as he ripped into the abjectly fucked-up, colossally wrong and spectacularly dimwitted Bush-Cheney & Friends, who treated Americans and Iraqis to nearly 200,000 needless deaths and $4-$6 trillion in squandered, adventuristic funds. He was angrier than I had ever seen him. He was both inflamed sides of an old "Crossfire" screaming match--that embarrassing television spectacle of yore, recently revived, but on Xanax.
And to my surprise I found that his performance--all its frothy fuming and high-volume raging--was a great and very needed watch.
For I have found myself being lulled of late--not consistently, but too consistently for intellectual comfort--into nearly apathetic boredom with these neocon twits. They huff and they puff with abandon, aiming to stir national passions into yet another disastrous blunder; they prove correct time and again the epigrammatic Yeats that "The best lack all conviction, while the worst / Are full of passionate intensity."
Matthews's attempt last night was to flip the aphorism. Good for him.