The day the National Review died

Having sworn off its blood pressure raising prattle for several years now, I can't pinpoint when exactly The National Review started on its long, painful death spiral. Certainly, the day that Rich Lowry breathlessly posted about the starbursts in his pants when Sarah Palin winked at him was the equivalent of an acute myocardial infarction and the departure of Chris Buckley signaled the patient's condition was terminal. But I think we can pronounce it officially deceased now that its last remaining coherent writer, David Frum has left the building.

I'm no big fan of Frum's work, but he was at least marginally reality-based in his analysis. He was the last one left. The rest are the kool-aid addled kooks of the Bush water brigade, still clinging to their glory days as the media anointed arbiters of 'serious' discourse.

I won't be shedding any tears over its demise, but it is kind of weird to see it suffer such an ignominious end.

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