I have no idea what Rupert Murdoch will do with the Journal. But I do know hilarity when I hear it. On the road to Boston (on the way to São Paulo) this morning, at about 5 a.m., I listened to some interviews with editors and writers at the Journal following the announcement of the decision to sell to Mr M. One editor, fit to be tied and clearly expecting the immediate end of the world as he's known it, summarized his chagrin and disgust: "It's all about money."
I just about ran off the road as I choked with laughter. It's not that I doubt that Murdoch will make ideological changes, nor do I expect to agree with some of those changes. No, my response, the life-endangering laughter, is tied, no more and no less, to the name of the beleaguered editor's paper per se. This is the WALL STREET journal. And, last I heard, Wall Street is precisely and by design "all about money." (Albeit aiming to produce economic well-being.)
The WSJ is ... and has been ... and doubtless always will be ... by definition ... all about money.
(My thanks to that discombobulated editor—anything that can produce a laugh at 5 a.m. is worth a salute.)