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Right Timesman


His book, Bobos in Paradise (subtitled The New Upper Class and How They Got There), is not so much political as anthropological commentary. Gentle (and amusing) sociology rather than raging (or dyspeptic) attacks. He is, in the book, almost self-consciously superficial. He does not seem to take himself very seriously. He is an observer of manners rather than of weighty things. Indeed, his general view of the world, and his approach to understanding it, is to make amusing and arch distinctions between kinds of people—people who, one might assume, make up the Times’ readership. (“Fifties intellectuals discussed No Exit,” he writes. “Contemporary intellectuals discuss no-load mutual funds.”) As a writer and conservative, he seems like a better-behaved P. J. O’Rourke. Conservative is not even the main point. Bobos in Paradise is just clever social commentary, in the genre of, say, Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point (if Gladwell had called himself a conservative, the Times might have selected him).

In other words, Brooks, at least on paper, seemed to fit perfectly into the dinner party Gail Collins had in mind.

Now, it is not clear that anyone at the Times, even after he started talking about promiscuity and spiritual suicide, thinks he doesn’t fit in—it would be impolite to say as much about a guest. And the Times is polite. (And, too, since the op-ed is effectively a tenured position, a Supreme Court of journalism, Times people must take a long and tolerant view.)

What’s more, the dinner party is not even such an apt metaphor, because everybody at the op-ed page eats alone. You get hired for the most prominent job in journalism and then no one talks to you—other than your copy editor. Krugman, in fact, has kept his day job at Princeton, and seldom shows up at the Times. Brooks, who moved to the paper in September, has the requisite large office in the Times’ Washington bureau (reporters get cubicles, but columnists get executive offices) but doesn’t write there, and has yet to furnish it. So he doesn’t really know what anyone thinks of him. He hasn’t, at any rate, been upbraided by Times colleagues who have had multiple sexual partners in a year.

He doesn’t know if, after all, he’s the right kind of conservative. “The tone,” he says, with some mild concern, might not be “something I’ve got quite right.”

There is the column he wrote in the form of a memo to Tom DeLay about the Republican convention and the plan to rent a boat for the delegates to keep them off the streets of New York. Brooks tries to speak here as the hip conservative, the conservative who knows New York (Brooks grew up in Stuyvesant Town—indeed, he’s a Jewish conservative). And yet, his is a hick’s New York—complete with painful bagel jokes.

Or there is his proud-to-be-not-sophisticated column about fashion magazines: “As you know, there are two kinds of women’s magazines in the world, nonsmiling and smiling. In the nonsmiling magazines, which tend to be upscale, the models in the photo spreads wear these blank or haughty expressions because, you know, happiness is so middle class.”

Or his insistent Pollyanna-isms: “Can anybody think of another time in history when a comparable group of young people”—the soldiers in Iraq—“was asked to be at once so brave, fierce and relentless, while also being so sympathetic, creative and forbearing?”

And in another make-nice column: “I am relaunching my campaign around one simple slogan: Stop the War. I don’t mean the war in Iraq. I mean the war at home. I mean the partisan war between Republicans and Democrats that rages every day in Washington and produces behavior that would be unacceptable in any other arena of life.”

Then there’s the column about the relative insignificance of religion in American political life: “If George Bush and Howard Dean met each other on a political platform, they would fight and feud. If they met in a Bible study group and talked about their eternal souls, they’d probably embrace.”

It is possible that the dinner-party planners at the Times are in fact wondering just how this white-bread fellow got to the table. On the other hand, including this sort of goody-goodyism and energetic mildness and self-conscious out-of-townerism among its representative sensibilities might be part of a broader plan. As the Times moves from elite paper to national suburban daily, the nature of the dinner party changes.

“If you’re excluding me,” Brooks says, matter-of-factly, “you’re excluding most of the country.” Which, I point out to him, the Times always has mostly excluded.

It is also possible that Brooks represents an odd attempt by the Times to stamp its own imprimatur on conservatism. A friendly, mild, stay-at-home, Norman Rockwell conservatism against the onslaught of the more demanding types. The world as the Times wishes it were.

Of course, what does the New York Times really know about conservatives, and their true heart, and the specter of spiritual suicide that they carry with them?

He could get to be a big bore, this dinner-party guest, or he could get really weird and funky.


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