After the New York Times disastrous miscalculation on the 2016 election of Donald Trump, they have gone though a much ballyhooed reformation in order to present the world’s affairs to its readers in a – well, some kinda different format.
A very ugly example of this new format has been its coverage of the recent deaths of Pop star George Michael and Film star Debbie Reynolds.
NYT’s writer Wesley Morris threw out extended stories on Michael and Reynolds lives under the creepy title “An Appraisal.”
Those of us in the civilized world understand “An Appreciation” of someone’s life after they have passed on. But, an “appraisal?”
Appraisals are something you do to a used car. An appraisal is something you do to a piece of property.
After an artist has just died, you do NOT offer up an appraisal.
Unless, of course, you are a crass, wallowing-in-a-moral-morass NYT’s writer.
Need an example of some “appraisals” from NYT’s writer Morris? How about:
“Who the hell is gonna be named Debbie?” on Ms. Reynolds.
Or calling Ms. Reynolds “a casually narcissistic gorgon of a mother.”
Or his vicious hits on George Michael, just a day after his death, ridiculing his “butch” style or making left-handed cuts about his homosexuality.
Incredulously, this quat writer Morris puts this stuff out in a – yes – casually narcissistic manner meant to be chatty and endearing.
If this dude were ever speaking at a wake, we’re sure he’d end up buried before the person in the casket.
How about this: Since we can’t trust The New York Times to properly appraise our current political or world situations, why the HELL do they think they can appraise the lives of artists who have done much to add joy to this world?