Tucker Carlson—if the name needs an introduction—appears through a screen; it is supposed the man assumes many roles, to-wit: the corporate media talking-head; the most influential anchor on air; the one speaking truth to power; the one lying for ratings; the peddler of conspiracies and misinformation; the surveyor of fact and falsehood. Carlson—as decried or described—and via his prime-time vehicle, Tucker Carlson Tonight, is the most-watched cable news program in the United States. He, in his owns words, “ask[s] the questions that you would ask—and demand[s] answers.” He reports. You decide. The medium is the message. Heed or ignore him. Change the channel, or consider this:
Before, Tucker Carlson—the man—was, at heart and in practice, a print journalist. His most recent book, The Long Slide, is a self-curated collection of that study and work. If “[m]agazine journalism is worth remembering,” Carlson, like some old soldier, has retread the ink he spilled in the field. Concerning a not-too-distant past, Carlson opines that “[i]f you wanted perspective, there was no choice. [The] local newspaper was thin. The internet didn’t exist. . . . If you wanted to understand what the rest of the world was like, you read magazines.” Notwithstanding the power of your own voice, humans, before we were ensnared by cable perhaps, trusted in the primacy of the written word, the 20th century variety produced and marketed at some monthly speed for popular consumption. However hot, or cool, the media, what was important was a certain posture, the profession of communication—the actor, the meaning, the substance behind this modern messenger, and as received by the audience. Here, the print newspaper and magazine, having passed their golden years, or having been passed by and speeding into retirement, gets a send-off.
Carlson wants you to know why he wrote. The reporter, according to Carlson, was a free man. “If they could prove it, they could write it. Period.” He was, and one could suppose, is, still proud to be one. They were—if by slight—honored. They were dogmatic skeptics. Guardians of free inquiry, at cost. The man bound to the priceless right to state what he wanted, for a fee. A class specifically protected by the Bill of Rights, or at least a class composing a Fourth Branch of Government. No more. He posits, as the ticker turns, the body politic has been corrupted. Censorship creeps. Partisans rule. Editors are activists. The mob cancels. The nation rages. Speak your truth, but what of it? Quid est veritas? Carlson is both actor and witness—over thirty years—as to these manufacturers or manipulators of opinion. Decide for yourself, he may say. Or, at least, he wants you to buy what he’s been writing.
Off the teleprompter, Carlson guides the reader—in pertinent part—through a mostly pre-Amazonian landscape, or before the world we are now plugged into. “Enjoy the time capsule,” he quips. It’s hard not to: “[i]n order to produce a decent magazine piece, you had to go places, meet people, see unusual things. It was an adventure every time.” Among the first selections, Carlson submits a buddy travelogue with Al Sharpton during the Liberian Civil War, a commentary on the merits of British colonial architecture, meditations on car rides with Ron Paul, ruminations on meeting a sickly Hunter S. Thompson, and the time he worked one summer in a baked bean factory. Some pieces are fresh. Some have expired. In this store, one can find something to suit their tastes, or turn their stomach. The text is prepared to finish in a sitting, or to take in portions. Carlson prefaces the content and context of each work—but he doesn’t set the table.
Some cannot digest anything Carlson says, or has said. Is there an opportunity for reason? No lights, no camera; he is off script. His mind and pen (his typewriter, word processor, Apple Notes) are arranged upon the subject stereotype. Take him at his word, or don’t. Agree with him, or not. The journalist maintains an open mind.
If Carlson, chronicler of the times, stumbles upon the importance of his work, it’s largely in its lack of. The who’s who of old—of the 1990s, the 2000s—are largely forgotten now, unnotable, deceased. He reports: “[d]eath and irrelevance are coming for all of us. That’s the one certain thing. Repeat that to yourself every morning, and things fall into perspective.” The same ending for the author and reader as the “yellowing magazine stories about dead and irrelevant people that make up this book.” His family grows up in mere pages. What was important existed in the moment. Carlson does well to remember, or to not forget. Whichever way this rock gets shined—stained yellow journalism or sheen golden humanitas—the value of the treasure (or the publishing deal) is the man’s alone. Appraise it for what it’s worth.
It, again, cannot escape discussion that, Carlson, in the current sphere, is a man in mind, the man on the news. The writer, the reporter, the anchor, takes and gives what it sees to an audience as captive as it is credulous. Whether rhetoric cost lives or speaks truth to power—whatever the observer finds—one must ask: does it reveal a truthful self? Does it allow the opportunity for truth? That is, as Carlson surmises, the touchstone of journalism. For the publisher today, in the capacity to meet that ideal, Carlson would say it has been a long slide. Or at least a long, strange trip. Whatever your slant, this is undoubtedly a brave new world. Carlson just wanted to write about it.
If Carlson is a victim of his own success, or excess, he has penned something to remember what he thought it was and should be. He still gets to ask the questions. We still get to know the answers. Screened or not, for a subscription, or as advertised. To these truths, maybe it won’t matter, and if you need to know, maybe it won’t be the same tomorrow. If you want perspective, get out there, look around, and ask some questions—if you can. That’s all a journalist is supposed to do. And that’s all the news that’s fit to print.
Written by Garrett Wilkerson (Cal’s older brother)
Brains and Brawn 