Time's Up 60 Minutes - June 2, 2026

Drew Lane’s a stateside legend, flanked by Mark and Trudy—the dream team—so I’m thrilled to drop in.

We’ve got Mark Dolan from the UK—sharp, funny, and my guide through the Markle‑verse—so let’s dive in once he connects.

While we wait, we shake our heads at a fake Bud Light fight ad and the online rage cycle around Pride; people hunt for outrage instead of exhaling.

Great to be here; I’m buzzing, and honestly moved by the invite.

You’ve taught me more about the royals than I ever expected; how did Meghan go from media darling to “the press is racist” so fast?

She wasn’t a Hollywood star, but the UK press rolled out the red carpet because she was new, glamorous, and a dream for headlines; later, any critique got labeled racist to shut down scrutiny.

I didn’t even realize she was mixed‑race at first, so the racism charge blindsided me; where was the line crossed?

Families speculate about babies’ looks all the time; calling that racism was a stretch, and even her dad says race never defined her childhood.

What happens when Thomas Markle passes after all she’s said and done?

That’s her reckoning; he funded her education and adored her, and abandoning him will hang over her legacy—one hospital visit would’ve softened everything.

Is she trying to be Diana without the heart?

Completely; the outfits, the causes, the photo‑ops—Diana’s warmth can’t be faked, and this plays like brand management, not compassion.

She even posted her outfit details after Bondi Beach; was that a breaking point with the press?

They torched her for monetizing a somber stop and doing a commercial pivot at a hospital—shameless and tone‑deaf.

Name a recent good deed from Meghan.

Invictus still matters for wounded veterans, but beyond that, I struggle; her real talent is sheer willpower.

She’s driven yet deeply self‑focused; he lacks the instincts to earn, the money’s drying up, and divorce is the only clean on‑ramp back into the royal fold.

Would the family even take him back?

William’s done after the book and the digs at Kate; Charles might soften because he’s ill and still a father.

Piers Morgan got fired for not buying her Oprah claims; how did that happen?

He stormed off air—unwise—then Meghan wrote the network boss and he was out; brutal PR machine, later reborn on YouTube.

You chopped a mask on TV in 2020; where did you land on COVID policy?

UK lockdowns were over‑the‑top; Sweden, Florida, and Texas showed another path, and Piers tried to cancel me for saying so.

They spend millions on security and even asked U.S. taxpayers to cover them; why the obsession?

Status—motorcades, blue lights, the works—and he’s bored in Montecito with fading A‑list ties and not much to do.

Friends like Jessica Mulroney were dropped in a blink; if the pattern holds, Harry’s expendable too, and she’ll keep the duchess title after a split.

A scorched‑earth memoir would mint her money—think Spare without guardrails—and the palace knows she’d go there.

On Andrew, the institution circled wagons out of habit and the Queen’s indulgence; Fergie, meanwhile, burned cash and cozied up to anyone rich.

She repeats the same origin stories; which ones grate the most?

The “impoverished childhood,” the secret backyard wedding—rewrites that even her father debunks.

We’ve seen the awkward handshake snub and Drew Barrymore’s photo moment; she can’t hide the edge.

Even edited shows can’t sand down her temper; the Mindy Kaling slip, the parody she couldn’t laugh at, and that gift to an anti‑Kate troll all scream thin skin.

Her messaging sidelines men and she punishes the ones closest—her father, her ex, even Harry—while branding everything as female founder gospel.

Between Meghan and Nicola Peltz, who’s worse?

Meghan, because she’d happily see the monarchy collapse; Team Sussex is a lonely camp now, and even Elton’s gone quiet since Spare.

Before we pause, quick music detour: McCartney’s new record plays well, and Elton’s U.S. launch at the Troubadour still echoes through pop history.

Love the show—thanks for having me. Catch you next time.

Craig Melvin’s sit‑down with Jill Biden felt more candid than I expected. She’s still salty about Pelosi, wouldn’t shake her hand at that funeral, and her debate defense—that he might’ve had a stroke or been drugged—doesn’t pass the smell test.

When the only answer left is “that’s my husband,” you’re stuck. The drugging idea is silly, and the Stephanopoulos follow‑up where he mangled names didn’t help.

The book detail about July 21 stood out: Kamala called, asked if he was sure, then pushed for the endorsement. He gave it within a half hour, which read more like a grudging handoff than enthusiasm. Jill clearly wanted him to stay in.

Savannah Guthrie’s JLo interview was frosty. The trailer looked rough, JLo seemed annoyed when attention shifted to her co‑star, and the Today window crowd barely cared.

Guthrie could only say she loves rom‑coms, not that this one looks good. With a straight‑to‑Netflix drop and JLo overselling it, I’m calling a flop.

In Tampa, the Black Crowes crowd chanted “USA” at a goofy Uncle Sam mascot and Chris Robinson snapped. Why fight your own audience over a harmless chant?

Old stories resurface when he does this. The Jimmy Page dust‑up was brutal—cancelling hot dates under a back‑pain excuse, and that habit of skipping hits because he “didn’t feel like it.” Then you look at pricey tickets and empty seats and think, retire the mascot before the chants chase people out.

Track Stars with Chet Hanks was weirdly fun. He vapes, rattles off Cheryl Crow, Sublime, Bare Naked Ladies, even T. Rex, and detours into name‑drop stories—light, sticky content that works.

Brad Pitt popped up in France with Ines de Ramon, met Fincher, and there’s noise about a Cliff Booth spin‑off. Meanwhile, the Jolie drama continues—Maddox scrubbing “Pitt” and that eyebrow‑raising assistant director credit on her film.

The track‑meet killing is bleak. The accused sat in the wrong team’s tent, refused to leave, got tugged from a chair, pulled a knife, and stabbed the star athlete in the chest. A GiveSendGo hit six‑hundred‑plus grand, bail dropped to two‑fifty, and the defense is leaning into self‑defense and claims of harassment.

Why bring a knife to a high school meet? The lawyer’s “cleaning cleats” line won’t sell a jury.

The family moved into a high‑priced rental for “security,” while their messenger says the money is to fight white supremacy. The optics are not helping.

Burning Man’s Orgy Dome is crowdfunding a rebuild after wind wrecked their carport maze. Eighty mattresses, armies of sheets, AC units, and “truckloads of lube” on the budget—disgustingly on brand.

If the demand’s that high, participants can bring their own supplies. No one should underwrite other people’s laundry.

CBS News is chaos. The new boss pushed edits, emails leaked, Sharyn Alfonsi blasted management, the chief isn’t renewed, and yet 60 Minutes still finished up about nine percent. Then Scott Pelley torched the new EP, Nick Bilton, in a staff meeting that someone recorded.

They called the mass exits Black Thursday, and the egg‑freezing two‑parter last weekend was a slog. Two parts to say “it’s not guaranteed” felt padded.

Legacy TV is shrinking while budgets pretend it’s still 2005. Tony Dokoupil got dinged for a Taiwan cross when rivals were in China, ratings are half of what they were, and yet the infighting is public. Viewers notice.

Locally, Brad Galli is leaving a good TV job for YouTube, and Jason Carr Drive proves you can live on restaurants and personality. The hard part is ad math—promo‑code buys or you’re gone, insertion ads pay peanuts, and if you chase sponsors before the content works, they won’t stick.

Kristin Cavallari dropped a doozy: an A‑lister on date two said he had a “mole issue,” asked to show it while they were in towels, and essentially flashed as an icebreaker.

Two great dates—Sunset Tower, then a Beverly Hills Hotel suite with swims, separate showers, dinner on the patio—and in that in‑between, he floated the body‑insecurity line and unveiled the “mole.”

It’s a creepy play dressed up as vulnerability. He was fishing for a green light, and that’s not it.

She still went to dinner after, so it didn’t end the night—but as a move, it’s all kinds of no.

Alright, who’s the A‑lister with the outsized legend? I toss the blind item on the table and let everyone fire off guesses.

I’ve been in that situation, and the hype didn’t match what was in front of me. We kissed, I kept my boundary, later realized the brag felt like a tactic, and I’m genuinely glad I passed.

I keep it loose with a filthy zinger and say I hope it’s Pete Davidson, just to keep the game spicy.

I read a Reddit thread calling him a raging narcissist with a weirdly skinny lower half, which fits the story.

Then we queue up the Jacksons in Wichita covering Michael when Marlon steps clean off the stage mid-song while the band keeps rolling.

He pops up like nothing happened, the tiny crowd eats it up, but nobody’s mistaking that voice or look for Michael, and Jackie keeps grooving while glancing over.

You can hear the vocal keep going after the mic drops, which sure sounds like a track.

We also spot Dr. Stuart Fisher in the tabs sizing up Trump’s health; he says the weight is up, flags heart risk, and notes his Atkins bona fides.

I don’t buy any White House doctor’s spin for Trump or Biden, then riff about JFK getting juiced up on the back nine.

We wrap with tomorrow’s tease: Jim’s top ten rock singers of the nineties, maybe the Boner Line, Tom Asway dropping in, and a thanks to Mark Dolan.