I'm crushed. I'm not sure there is anyone beyond who I know and love whose death could rattle me more than Tim Russert's. I adore him, and having tea with him every Sunday morning was pure pleasure.
There is no replacement. The bull pen is empty. The TV journalism reservoir is nearly dry.
I do get the vast majority of my news from the print guy's. The Warren Strobel's or Jonathan Landay's of the world keep me informed, but Sunday morning the television is king. It's a mindless sort of intravenous way to be royally fed the news.
So, looking forward, who will those people of interest meet with each weekend? There is Andrea Mitchell, whom I deeply respect, yet still insufficient for the role. Chris Mathews? His looming threat of running for political office turns me off. Who's left? Who has the footwork to dazzle a guest into parting with information that reveals more than their projected self? I can't come up with a single name. The extra sleep will do me some good.
Mr. Russert, may you be a half hour in heaven before the devil knows your dead.
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