A couple years ago, I was at a tech conference outside of Los Angeles when a top executive
from a major publicly traded media company walked up to me and, without solicitation, offered a lament for The Wall Street Journal. Murdoch’s prized possession, after all, had recently parted ways with the incredibly well-liked and estimable Matt Murray—a journalist’s journalist, so to speak, who had seemingly protected the paper from some of its owner’s worst instincts. The same could not necessarily be said of his own predecessor,
the cantankerous Gerry Baker. Honestly, I was surprised by the comment. In the winnowing world of the news media, I assumed that a competitive executive might have welcomed a potentially destabilizing shakeup at a competitor of sorts.
Murray, now the top man in the fractious Washington Post’s newsroom, was eventually replaced by an editor named Emma
Tucker—an unknown, at least in this country, who had led The Sunday Times in the U.K. Tucker was an enigma, and the simple fact that she was British was itself bandied about in a facile media narrative. She happened to be taking over the Journal as Joanna Coles was beginning her equitized adventure of reviving The Daily Beast and WaPo C.E.O. Will Lewis was already midjourney on his voyage to do something with
Bezos’s news project. The implication of this so-called British Invasion, of course, was that these rogue Brits would inject acerbic life and mirth into media vessels of various levels of self-importance.
In the end, it’s been only Tucker who has succeeded in this mission. After restructuring the news organization and torpedoing a generation of old praetorian guard members, she recruited a
new cohort and remade the Journal in her own plucky image. Dow Jones, the Journal’s parentco, has always been a rock-solid business—robustly enterprise B2B, albeit with commercial clients ranging from luxury to auto to the Fortune 500. As such, I often wondered if this economic cushion had made the newsroom bureaucratic and complacent. Under Tucker, however, the paper was reborn as a heat-seeking missile. The Journal led the charge on Biden’s
declining acuity before the disastrous debate. Tucker’s colleagues covered the private and public antics of Elon Musk, and owned the DOGE debacle. The Journal’s renewed prominence was framed most poignantly, of course, by its coverage of the president’s relationship with Jeffrey Epstein.
By juxtaposition, the Journal’s cacophonic editorial
success has framed a somewhat somnolent era for its counterpart, The New York Times. In Mothertucker, my partner Dylan Byers provides exquisite reportage on how this dynamic is playing out. Even competitive hands at the gray lady recognize their adversary’s ability to own the moment. Will the Times, which has surpassed its
pre-Internet market cap, summon the gumption?
But if you only have time to read one piece this weekend, I’d behoove you to sidle up to Julia Ioffe’s latest masterstroke, Lew’s Clues, a profile of Lew Olowski—the State
Department’s newish head of H.R., who happens to be a RIF-happy, Christian evangelizing MAGA warrior with an axe to grind. More discomfittingly, Olowski also appears to have a bizarre penchant for Monster energy drinks and weird corporate sermonizing. “He crushed four energy drinks in an hour,” one former subordinate told Julia. By meeting’s end, in this rendering, “he looked like a coked-out raccoon. He was literally washing his hands and twitching.” Another recalled a meeting at 9 a.m. in
which Olowski slurped three cans of Monster in 30 minutes. According to one senior State Department official, “He just does weird things.”
We all have our quirks, I suppose, but Olowski is one of those largely unknown characters shaping our vital institutions in these often head-scratchingly surreal days. Their agendas and nits are the story of our time, and precisely what you should expect from Puck.