Iman and David Bowie

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Hughes tried to get his husband elected to Congress, failed, then lost 20 million greenbacks in one year trying to make The New Republic relevant. Twenty million is peanuts in the newspaper business. It should also be peanuts to a 32-year-old with sudden riches from a dubious-as-far-as-I-am-concerned invention that most likely was borrowed from two naive WASPS at Harvard. So he threw in the towel and TNR is up for sale. This is where Rupert Murdoch, the 84-year-old future blushing groom, comes in.
         
The Australian may at times play dirty, but he loses double that amount each year keeping the best New York newspaper alive for thirty years or so. That’s what billionaires should be doing, keeping great papers like The New York Post—founded by Alexander Hamilton—going. And that’s the difference between a Rupert Murdoch and a Chris Hughes. One’s a tough Aussie who creates, the other an effete American who bought a toy that he broke. Give me the Australian any day, and, incidentally, Hughes, why don’t you go with your male bride and reproduce yourself? My only hope now lies with Iman. Will she give me a second chance before I die? One thing is for sure. I will have my keys with me.