On Rupert Rosebud, see this and this. I always look forward to the moron defense, so popular with captains of industry: “Gee, I’d love to help you guys, but I just can’t remember things too good. If only I was as smart as you fellas, with all your lawyers and documents and everything! But I just woke up one day and there I was CEO. Nobody ever tells me anything, and every time I ask about stuff or make some little suggestion they just laugh at me and hand me a private jet to play with and off they go off to do whatever it is they do. Sometimes I just cry myself to sleep wishing I wasn’t such an idiot.”
I was a great Howard Dean fan because he, like the two Roosevelts, came from the high-WASP moneyed aristocracy. All three grew up with self-satisfied, over-privileged assholes and understood that the slowest of their old playmates went to Wall Street, just as the slowest of the British aristocracy were historically packed off to the church or the military. Inconceivable that Dean would have been as impressed by the wisdom of moneylenders as Obama has been. As with Clinton, the circumstances of Obama’s life have made him a shape-shifter. The best we can hope for as president of a plutocracy is the occasional election of a traitor to his class, a renegade plutocrat.
Before we leave this repellent subject, recall that Murdoch, like William Randolph Hearst before him, didn’t lift himself up by his own bootstraps (that being, as we too often forget, an impossibility). He is just another fat rich kid, born on third base under the impression he hit a triple — like Donald Trump, Mitt Romney, the Koch brothers, George W. Bush, Richard Mellon Scaife, and so many, many other living arguments for a Death Tax set at a comfortable 100 percent.