Advice for Marcus Brauchli
Of the unsolicited variety as he ascends to the executive editorship of the Washington Post.
"I never saw any evidence that the owners had tried to impose ideological or commercial agendas on the news coverage."
The Journal's integrity was not "preserved" by your expensive silence; Murdoch and Robert Thompson, your successor as Journal managing editor, bat it around Rupert's office every night like kittens playing with yarn.
As Carr writes, a formal protest by you to the board might not have made a real difference. But it would have revealed for the umpteen-thousandth time what a seething bag of deceit and double-dealing Murdoch is. People need to read that news once a year, even if it is old news.
Unless you want your staff to think of you as the guy who zipped his lips for $3 million, may I suggest that you say what Harold Evans and every other editor swindled by Murdoch has ultimately said: I knew Murdoch was capable of lies, monstrous lies, heinous lies, but I thought it would be different with me. I was naive, which is hard for a journalist to admit. I don't want the Murdoch blood money to jinx me, so I'm giving all $3 million of it to my alma mater, Columbia, to endow a chair in his name in the psychology department to study congenital liars.
Or something like that. Just ask yourself, "What cheeky thing would Ben Bradlee say?"
Next up: People are going to give you a hard timeabout not knowing anything about Washington because you've never worked or lived here. Flash them a smile and concede that they're right—but that your ignorance is an asset! One of your missions is to unite the newspaper newsroom on 15th and L Streets and the dotcom newsroom in Arlington, Va. Behind closed doors, make a bunch of weightlifter grunts as you pretend to fuse the two. Then send flowers to your publisher, Ms. Weymouth, to thank her for easing your labors by eliminating its CEO back in April. Then issue a decree. Done.
A couple more words of advice. Don't visit Ben's Chili Bowl until you've lived here a couple of years, and then go by yourself so nobody thinks you're a rube; the best views of the federal city are from Anacostia; and Dashiell Hammett is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. Go visit him.
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