Erin Burnett is a thirty-something political economy rockstar who anchors her own New York-based prime-time news progran on CNN, Erin Burnett OutFront. Despite being thoroughly photogenic, Burnett didn’t rocket to fame and fortune on her looks alone. In a little under twenty years since graduating from college she has already hit some career highlights that others only dream about.
Right out of college, Burnett was hired by Goldman-Sachs as a financial analyst in its investment banking division, where she worked on mergers and acquisitions and corporate finance. While at Goldman-Sachs CNN offered Burnett a job as a writer and guest booker for Moneyline with Stuart Varney, Willow Bay and Lou Dobbs. Soon after that she was hired by Citigroup as a vice president of Citigroup/CitiMedia, anchoring Citigroup’s financial news network. By 2003 Burnett moved on to cable TV as anchor of Bloomberg on the Markets & In Focus for Bloomberg Television. From 2005 -2011, Burnett hosted Street Signs and co-anchored Squawk on the Street.
I know, I know . . . that’s a very nice “she built it” story, but, trust me, the story’s relevance will be made clear shortly.
I’m sure Scott will get a really prime-time time slot, maybe while the building is evacuated to load the balloon dump:
Other “headliners” include John McCain, Condi Rice and Mike Huckabee, which will surely secure the all-important angry cloud-shouter, Bush-dead-ender and I-like-my-chicken-sandwich-with-a-side-of-homophobia demographics. RNC Chair Rinseus Repeatus said it best: “Ours will be a world-class convention, worthy of the next president of the United States.” Yes. And he thanks you in advance.
Please consider this an open thread if you’d like.
There’s no reason for me to believe that this year’s White House Correspondents’ Dinner will be as interesting as last year’s, what with President Obama’s digs at the billionaire birther Donald Trump after having released his birth certificate (the moneyed gent in question having made priceless faces of discontent), and with the events that followed being, well, what they were. This one doesn’t have the same narrative—but oh, well.
This whole Media Villager/Celebrity/Politician shmoozeapolooza makes me uncomfortable—and yet I must watch. So I’m following the stream on C-Span and Twitter. And, yes, self-loathing. Did I need to mention the self-loathing? Did you see LiLo and Kim Kardashian? OMG!
So, I guess what I’m saying is—if you’re also vicariously hitting the Nerd Prom hard and want to commiserate: I’m here for you and with you.
BRIAN KILMEADE (co-host): Let’s talk about the Trayvon Martin case and what’s going on in Florida right now.
GERALDO RIVERA: Well, I have a different take, Brian, on that. I believe that George Zimmerman, the overzealous neighborhood watch captain should be investigated to the fullest extent of the law and if he is criminally liable, he should be prosecuted. But I am urging the parents of black and Latino youngsters particularly to not let their children go out wearing hoodies. I think the hoodie is as much responsible for Trayvon Martin’s death as George Zimmerman was.
JULIET HUDDY (guest-host): What do you mean?
RIVERA: When you, when you see a kid walking—Juliet—when you see a kid walking down the street, particularly a dark skinned kid like my son Cruz, who I constantly yelled at when he was going out wearing a damn hoodie or those pants around his ankles. Take that hood off, people look at you and they—what do they think? What’s the instant identification, what’s the instant association?
This blows my little mind, because I can always remember my mom always being after me to wear a jacket—a hoodie would totally do. Probably because it covered up my whore-clothes….
I made a point of highlighting the words that really matter, there. Rivera can’t not know better than that, but it hardly matters. Fox needs to let its audience know that Trayvon Martin’s clothes got him killed, rather than murderous bigotry. But Rivera doesn’t say white parents need to tell their kids about the dangers of hoodies, does he? No. He blames some “automatic reflex” to seeing a hoodie on a dark-skinned teen. That automatic reflex? I have no doubt it would have still been there if Trayvon Martin was dressed for church or a job interview.
Stung by the backlash against the GOP’s bizarre and sustained attack on women—what Republicans call “the dance of seduction”—the Breitbart minions left behind to carry on their leader’s legacy found themselves rudderless and adrift. Well, maybe not rudderless, but with such teensy little rudders they’re barely even visible, so expect a great deal of overcompensation.
Much as Tom Friedman gleans man-on-the-street wisdom from the cabbies who ferry him to and fro, I sallied forth from the Cracker Cloister yesterday to mingle with the common folk, securing priceless insights that I will share directly. Unlike Friedman, I didn’t board a G6 and fly to Aspen to pick up a $75,000 speaking fee.
Rather, I played hooky along with my teenage daughter to visit a couple of theme parks, including a park that has a section devoted to a fictional young sorcerer. The fiction-based city to which we traveled for this purpose should be renamed “Or-LINE-do” since visitors spend the majority of their day languishing in queues. There were lines to access the $15 parking lot. Lines to pay an outrageous sum to visit the parks. Lines to have our bags searched. Lines to hear a sales pitch before paying $29.95 for a plastic replica of a wizard’s wand.
There were even lines for lunch seating at The Three Broomsticks tavern and the privilege of paying $40.00 for a bagged salad that reeked of chlorine, a dollop of runny mac ‘n cheese accompanied by a sad cluster of grapes and souvenir tankards of “Butterbeer” (which turns out to be cream soda topped with an oilier incarnation of Cool Whip). Anyhoo, it was at The Three Broomsticks that I obtained “cabbie wisdom” by briefly eavesdropping on the conversation of a pair of 20-something women at the adjacent table.
As they consumed THEIR $20 bagged salads, the young women’s discussion turned to the upcoming Republican debate. They admitted to one another that they hardly pay attention to politics at all and hadn’t watched the previous debates, but both expressed interest in seeing that evening’s tussle. Why? Because they were alarmed about what they’d heard regarding the Republicans’ wholesale assault on women’s rights and birth control.
Thanks to alert Balloon Juice commenter WereBear, I learned that Rush Limbaugh was possibly caught on film picking his snoot in Patriot owner Robert Kraft’s booth during last night’s Super Bowl. There is much speculation about it on the Google: Did he or didn’t he shove his finger knuckle-deep into his nostril in full view of all the swells in the skybox, including Steven Tyler?
Deadspin has a pretty definitive photo here. However, some wingnut site called the “Daily Rushbo” gives the clip the Zapruder treatment and concludes that no nose-picking occurred. Not content to rely on the analysis of someone daft enough to run a Limbaugh fan site, I used advanced digital still analysis techniques and found that the truth is far worse than the original rumor.
First, here’s the Deadspin still:
And here’s a detailed view of Limbaugh in mid-pick—the enhanced image clearly shows a viscous, green glob of mucus dangling from his index finger:
And a couple of frames later, the horrible truth is revealed: Not only did Limbaugh extract a slimy, revolting booger from his snout, he disposed of it by wiping it on the back of his host, Mr. Kraft.
Jesus, that’s disgusting. But it kind of puts the NFL ownership’s rejection of Limbaugh’s bid to join their little club in a new light, doesn’t it? It’s not that the owners were put off by Limbaugh’s constant race-baiting and misogyny; it’s just that he’s one crass motherfucker.
You can always count on My First Newspaper for a good human-interest story, and by “human” I mean you can learn a lot about what makes people tick by viewing them through the prism of animal companionship, and by “interest” I mean like in a Chinese curse.
So now there’s going to be a TV series about pet taxidermy, because of course there is, and I’ll tell ya, I’m not all that comfortable with a reality show exploiting a teenager who thinks she’s a better singer than she actually is, much less someone like this:
Brittany had been with Kaufman, 64, when she lost her son, Billy Giger, who died in 1998 and her husband, Howard Sims, in 2004. Letting go when the dog’s time came was going to be hard.
Sounds like her current state of mind’s a few RDAs short of healthy, right? But hey, on the other hand, furniture won’t scratch the furniture, and a stool won’t… okay, I can’t even joke about this.
His basic price is $725 for any pet up to 10 pounds plus $49 for every pound over that.
Imagine how many living animals you could care for with that kind of money! That’s… uh… well, all that’d buy you is a couple cat spays and some flea preventative. Never mind, that’s not the salient point anyway; these people are obviously sick—not sick sick, but clearly grief-stricken to an extent that’s landed them squarely in mental-illnessville. They need help, not a quadrupedal doorstop. Imagine how much therapy you could buy with that kind of… a psychiatrist visit costs what?!
Hmm. Hold on one sec while I do a quick back-of-the-envelope calculation here… (jot jot jot) carry the one… divided by pain... well I’ll be damned, looks like it is I who’s been barking up the wrong tree here.
Parker! C’mere buddy, we gotta talk about how I’m going to cope with your inevitable passing. I’ve been reading about this freeze-drying process, and I think it might be just the answer to…
Hey, you’re not Parker, you’re an iguana or something. How’d you get in here, little lizard dude?
Lemme just get my shoes on and I’ll set you free outside. Then I can get back to discussing end-of-life issues with my d… WAIT A MINUTE.
Watch the whole spectacle streaming here. The little lumpy avaricious “historian” against the hiccuping Animatronic, dogwhistles at fifteen paces, plus extra-Birther-friendly Ricky Santorum and the little doctor as Inspector Javert.
Whoa Nellie! Droopy-eyed bit player and former savior of the GOP Fred Thompson is ready to lay his leathern hand in benediction on one of the survivors of tonight’s steel-cage, charnel-house four-way grudge match (which will of course be live-blogged, either under a spandy-new image, or here, if Mrs. Polly doesn’t get back from her errands in time to put up a new one and no one else is arsed, as they say, to bother). Who will get the Thompson nod, not to be confused with Thompson on the nod? Oh breathless me!
Here is that open football thread we have been clamoring for! The Pollys are ensconced before their 19” Panasonic, enthralled before yet another angelic-wife-drowned-by-husband story on “Dateline,” as Mr. Polly informs me that the Giants are losing, and a proper fan never watches his team lose. (Mr. P is a Yankee fan, so his behavior may be recognizeable.)
I tried to learn to enjoy football once, by reading “Football For Dummies,” and after ten pages of picayune rules about measurements, I realized I hated football more than when I started, but I can appreciate a good catch replayed in slo-mo. Meanwhile, Stone Phillip’s jaw is jutting so far forward it just may break the screen.
So are any great plays being made or anything? It’s not like I’m going to know.
(opening credits: a static photo of Chuck Todd’s head atop a tiny cartoon body skydives into the studio, landing just out of frame—when he stands up it’s the real Chuck Todd)
Hey DC dudes and beltway babes, welcome to Chuck’d! I’m your host Chuck Todd, faithful lackey of the ruling class TO THE XTREME. On today’s show I take on Stephen Colbert and give that little rabblerouser the what for! (pantomimes guitar solo) He says he’s a satirist, but I’d say he’s more like Jonathan Not So Swift, am I right? (high fives man in front row) Or maybe Won’t Rogers, BAM. (high-fives woman is aisle seat) All I know is, (applies hand sanitizer) never the Twain shall meet! Okay, folks, got a great show today, my band is in the house—give it up for LIXPITL. (makes devil horns)
After these messages from our sponsors for goods and services that I am ALL ABOUT, DAWG, (dollar-sign wipe to reaction shot of mascot Bobo the Cocktail Wienerdog) we’ll be right back with more Chuck’d! We’ve taken the truth… and Chuck’d it!
(band launches into Iron Maiden’s “Powerslave,” cut to commercial)
h/t Michael Bérubé, maybe? Had to search high and low for an embeddable clip and when I finally found one, there he was, right on the channel page there. So Professor, if you had anything to do with me being able to get my hands on this, have a hat tip! Just the tip, though.