Stanley claims my leg as his own.
Way too busy to be doing this, but today's David Brooks' column was too rich not to comment. One of my work pals lives not far from our Mr. Brooks and had told me yesterday that he saw him walking around on Sunday looking all pink and sweaty. Anyway, he too read today's travesty and sent me the following email:
I should have punched him. If John Ford was around, he
would have directed me to punch him. . . . right in middle of 36th
Street, NW, right in front of my aghast wife, right in front of my awestruck
two young sons.
And then later, as he sat down in his over-air conditioned
home office and contemplated this morning’s column, an icy cold minute steak
placed strategically over the purplish lump just below his right eye (I nailed
him with a left hook you see. . . one that would have made Jack Dempsey proud),
our Grey Lady’s squat middle-aged bald social commentator may have come upon a
different conclusion: some men have no problem crossing the threshold
after kicking the ass of the great American dweeb!
Really, doesn't this man have an editor? Or a spouse he reads his column to? Is there no thought so half-baked, so ill-conceived, that it can't make it into his column?
- Regarding Trayvon Martin and the extraordinary ugliness shown on the right toward an unarmed teenager killed by a gun-wielding asshole, I suggest you take a look at Roy's column in the Village Voice.
- Jesus, it's like racist bonus day. This kind of thing reads like a parody of the suspicious nature of driving, walking, breathing while black. Richard Cohen has long been a piss-in-his-pants, fraidy cat, kind of racist -- but this is spectacular even by his dubious standards.
I have to get back to work because if I keep reading this stuff I will be drinking my lunch.
What say you?