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The Public Blogging of Pomosexuality, Homotextuality, Homophobiaphilia, and Drear Theory (aka Career Theory) [aka Gay4Pay]. We also read the Corner and OpJournal so the right buttock will be punished as well.
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This Zone Doesn't Spin, But It Vibrates Like An Em-Effer
Bill O'Reilly's pre-emptive-strike opener to his show on Wednesday night was one long minute of guilt-consciousness unbound. It was the least convincing thing I'd seen on television since, I don't know, probably some other Baba O'Reilly bullshit opener. I will forever be proud that I had Mr. O. pegged as a twenty-gallon ass hat back when Current Affair was current. Miss Mackris, the harassee, is a piece of work in her own right, judging by her appearance in Aaron Brown's No Chin Zone on CNN. But you just know she's got Baba nailed like a plywood subfloor. Her lawsuit seems oddly written in places (her lawyer was on CNN with her, natch, and likewise impressed me as a goof), but the details make it a fun, fast read. I liked Bill's advice to her following her divorce "to pick up 23 year old men in bars". That specificity is genius, and it made me think more highly of the sage capable of such telling precision than I ever previously had. So Bill is coming out a winner here on some level.
I also enjoyed Bill's itinerary for his Roman holiday:
Defendant stated that he was going to Italy to meet the Pope, that his pregnant wife was going to stay home with his daughter, and implied that he was looking forward to some extra-marital dalliances with the "hot" Italian women.
Sounds like a plan.
But it is paragraph 81 that finally yields the money shot:
81. During the course of defendant BILL O'REILLY's sexual rant, it became clear that he was using a vibrator on himself, and that he ejaculated. Plaintiff was repulsed.
Plaintiff probably boiled her telephone for an hour after she hung up. Right after she disconnected her tape recorder from it, I mean.
Andrew Sullivan has done a good job covering the psychotic reaction* to Long John Kerry's shout out to Mary Cheney, so I don't have much to add. He's right, Kerry's Mary moment is a fascinating Rorschach of submerged attitudes. You only have to see Lynne Cheney shaking her head up and down like a mime performing at a school for the blind (and stupid), while Big Dick Cheney does his best impression of an aggrieved dad and upset human in front of her, to know that Lynne sees all kinds of misshapen, eight-breasted beasts when she looks at the Rorschach.
The conservatives are putting on the best show, but there's amusement at all compass points. While Kaus, Instapundit and countless liberalish others shake their heads less vigorously than Lynne, their tremors are noticeable, too. The e-meters are smoking from coast to coast.
Many thanks to the Johns E. and K. for kicking the whole thing off. It's the highpoint of the campaign so far.
Is it really a story that circulation figures for print media get cooked like a 50 lb sack of potatoes at a hobo hideaway? Isn't the real story here that the NYTimes is changing up on its anonymous source nomenclature? The nameless knowing-ones now speak with the voice of the people:
S.E.C. Inquiry on Circulation at Newspapers Said to Widen
By JACQUES STEINBERG
More than half a dozen newspaper companies have received letters from the Securities and Exchange Commission seeking information about their circulation practices as part of an inquiry prompted by disclosures of inflated sales at other chains, people involved in the inquiry said yesterday.
Among the companies that have received requests for documents from the commission over the last two months are Dow Jones, Gannett, Knight Ridder, McClatchy, The New York Times Company and the Washington Post Company, these people said.
A photographer takes elegant pictures of the scarce, worldly belongings of homeless men in London. Her apologia is worth reading, though she didn't need to make it. Or maybe she did, she swims with theory-sharks it seems.
Escher is the starting point here, of course, but Tchelitchew is wandering around backstage, too.
(Warning to those who refuse to read instructions: Don't just sit there staring at the screen for 5 minutes saying "OK, do something"--not that I would know the feeling. You must use your up and down arrow keys to zoom in and out. Out is more impressive, I find. You might want to stop and ponder the glowing shirt effect of the cage-head hoiminoid. It's an interesting lesson in whiteness and its echo.)
*Ashamed of myself for feeding Gene's delusional tongue-vanity even meta-ironically, even via niche-cast.
The last ten minutes or so of Don Siegel's Coogan's Bluff, with Clint Eastwood playing the cowboy cop bringing southwestern justice to the upper-upper west side (Clint's character was reincarnated later as TV's McCloud, and then again as Crocodile Dundee), are glorious in excelsis. The motorcycle chase is a shambles, the fight is laughably staged (I don't think I've ever seen a movie punch so far off the mark), and the camera angles keep drawing attention to themselves, but none of that matters since the backdrop is an achingly beautiful, autumn drenched, late afternoon Manhattan, in and around the Cloisters. Jesus God, those colors and that light.
The movies' final shot of the ever diminishing Pan Am Building heliport will kill you with nostalgic yearning, if you somehow managed to survive the autumn overdose of Cloisters' monkeyshines.
You see, I write this from the grave. Beneath the first fallen leaves.