Editor's note: This piece originally published Thursday afternoon, April 12, just before CBS announced it was canceling Imus' show. It was subsequently updated to reflect the news.
How iced-out in the bedroom and thumbed-under at work are America's commuters that they find drive-time radio funny? In 2001, a DJ had a pig castrated and slaughtered on-air. In 2002, under the supervision of the duo Opie and Anthony, a couple had sex in the vestibule of St. Patrick's cathedral. In 2004, two Portland, Ore., hosts broadcast the audio from the murder of Nick Berg, to the accompaniment of music and laughter. Connect the data points, they head in only one direction: This past January, a 28-year-old woman, egged on by shock jocks, drank a large amount of water while holding her urine, only to later collapse and die from water intoxication. The reaction by the "suits" and the liberal snobs to these hijinks is in no way anterior to them; it's part of the act. What is Lady Chatterley without Mrs. Grundy? Howard Stern without Pig Vomit? Rush Limbaugh without … well, decent, thoughtful human beings? And what was Don Imus without Al Sharpton?
Ah, there's the rub. The aftermath of Imus' racist gaffe—he disparaged the Rutgers women's basketball team as "nappy-headed hos"— had a depressing man-your-battle-stations feel to it. Thanks to Imus' stupidity, we were forced to pretend once again that Al Sharpton possesses moral capital. We were forced to listen to the (white, rich) journalists who go on Imus to plug their books describe their decision to continue appearing on the program as, not only not hypocrisy, but hypocrisy's opposite, a kind of loyalty and courage. And finally, of course, we were asked to believe, on the strength of his own testimony but almost nothing else, that Imus "is a good person." (The Dilettante has long considered the sentence "I am a good person" to be a Godelian koan, like "This sentence is false." It automatically cancels itself out.) Members of the Rutgers team rightly dismissed Imus' pleading out of hand, but as we load the man into the tumbrel—and send him off to an even bigger gig on satellite—it's worth considering from what contrary impulses his comment originated.
The Dilettante doesn't commute, but he does live in Brooklyn, and once or twice a week, thanks to an edict known as "alternate side of the street parking," he has to move his car; and then, thanks to the cunning of municipal government, the Dilettante has to sit in it. This is my drive time, and during it, I listened to Imus. I usually caught him at about 7:40, for the 20 minutes when he had a Beltway muckety on to flog a book, or just as often, to flog his own muckety self. Here was Imus In The Morning's central, identifying incongruity: a relatively frank discussion of current events with a serious author juxtaposed with the show's every other idiotic tendency. The program was staffed by a claque of sniggering ninnies and headed up by Imus himself, the dean of gutter radio; and as God is my witness, it was never even remotely funny. Imus himself is unlikable; under the guise of "telling it like it is," he's mastered the two basic toddler traits, imperiousness and caprice.
So, why did I listen to the man week after week? A little history is in order. Imus and Howard Stern emerged as formidable media brands in 1982, when they together became featured hosts on WNBC in New York. This was the turning point for talk. WNBC had been a rock 'n' roll station, and both Stern and Imus had been rock 'n' roll DJs whose respective shticks were reserved for the gaps between songs. At the new WNBC, Stern and Imus were not expected to spin records; they were expected to talk. Stern had always been Imus' country cousin, toiling in smaller markets, but in New York, he out-low-roaded Imus; and when he was kicked off of WNBC (for his Dial-a-Bestiality call-in show) and moved to K-Rock, he crushed Imus in the ratings, as he has ever since. Over time, Imus craftily repositioned himself as the high road—or at least not-so-low road—shock jock. His listeners may be fewer, but they are far more affluent. Classic narrowcasting: smaller pond, more gilded lilies, within which I-man has set himself up as a little kingmaker by taking under his protective good graces an even smaller pond, the American book publishing industry.
The pretense of spontaneity brought on by having sportscasters like Sid Rosenberg (kicked off the show for saying of Kylie Minogue's cancer diagnosis, "Ain't going to be so beautiful when the bitch got a bald head and one titty") or executive producer Bernard McGuirk (hired by Imus to do "nigger" jokes) banter in the background was just that, a pretense. When Imus went upscale, he knew he himself could no longer be the principal vehicle for his old brand of taboo-breaking humor, much of it centered on sexism and racism and homophobia, and still court the center-left audience attracted to a 10-minute gabfest with Doris Kearns Goodwin. Imus was the classic '80s brand, shrewdly repositioned for the more genteel '90s. He triangulated. He brought on juvenile white males to say things he could then pretend to deplore. Win-win.
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