Thomas Friedman, though — now there’s a fella what’s gettin’ paid. Paid handsomely. The man is probably doing the backstroke through his own private bank vault right this minute.
For writing things like this.
Or, previously, this.
And even though it feels about as sporting as watching a canned hunt, I insist you read this and this.
Again, this man is filthy rich and respected as an intellectual, while countless talented, thoughtful writers are forced to beg a small audience for pocket change to keep their Internet connection on. I have no interest in understanding a world in which this state of affairs can exist, only renouncing it.