Howie Kurtz: Jumps the Shark Or, Mr. Kurtz, he Dead

You know how it is with Corsair and Howie. We are tight in that I-watch-you-on-tv-religiously kind of way. And why not? Howie represents that East Coast media elite thing that Corsair is both fascinated and repelled by, in a Lifetime movie of psychotic compulsion sort of way (But not so much Burning Bed as Mother May I Sleep With Danger).

Anyhoo: Just like the heroines of those Lifetime valorizations of victimhood, The Corsair is going to have to cut the cord of an abusive relationship in the end, and ask for that pesky divorce. So I'm going to say it, though it pains me: Howie Kurtz's Reliable Sources has, alas, jumped the shark. I've lost that loving feeling.

Allow me to explain: Old Reliable hasn't been the same since K Street came to Washington and stunk up the joint. Sure, DC has been lousy with special interest money, but journalism was journalism, you know what I mean? We all knew that The Baltimore Sun's Jack Germond could drink the equivalent of the Chesapeake Bay in cognac, but he would always get the scoop and give us a great story and that, in a way, that was how one felt about Beltway DC journalism: flawed, but suffused with yummy nougaty scoop.

That is no longer the case. While Howie Kurtz used to be the bellwether of serious journo talk -- real "1 am on C Span" sort of geeky, but good stuff-- he has increasingly become enamoured with the borish fad of putting Hollywood celebrities on, and them asking dumb, fawning questions. Where's the love, Howie Kurtz; where's the love?

K Street made everyone in our gilded capital think they were movie stars, or at least deserving of the attention of Courtney Love. I have to tell you, though, Howie, Courtney Love doesn't deserve the attention of Courtney Love.

One expected that the demise of that magnum of chloroform, "ombudsman" Bernie Kalb, Reliable Sources was on to bigger and better things.

That was not the case. After Howie Kurtz appeared on K Street in a Starbucks, no less, that was the beginning of the end of that significant and formerly excellent media reporter. Starbucks, indeed!

Soon after Howie put on George Clooney and fawned (dear Lord, how Howie fawned that day) to Rosemary's nephew about being on "Vanity Fair's cover." I guess writing for VF is no longer enough after being on K Street, Howie no longer wants to provide the content, he longs to be the subject. What's next Howie, a publicist and harassing diva-like calls to Page Six? When does it end, Howard Kurtz? How much fame is enough? Mus we endure a Mahogany-like ending to this tragic tale before he, like Diana Ross, another diva of sorts, goes back to his long suffering Billy Dee Williams (the excellent Washington Post) and be satisfied that his lot in life is to give life and conversation to the media class?

But the last straw came last week when The Corsair sat by the tv set, coiled, ready-for-media-chat, Sunday New York Times messily undone at his feet, Kenyan coffee at the ready, waiting for Howie to start the media conversation of the week. The guest of honor? Darrel Hammond, the Saturday Night Live impersonator.

Oh, Howie.