April 2007
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O m' god. I'm having a serious attack of Irony Overload. This is no joke. In the last few days, the news has been saturated with extreme instances of Natural Irony. It's dangerous stuff. Left unchecked, you know, IO can progress to Morbid Cynicism (MC), which is terminal. The cases to which I refer are…
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For the life of me, I cannot remember whether I read Scaramouche because I was entranced by the movie, or whether it was the other way around, and I surrendered my 16 cents to the Leader Theater because I had already fallen in love with Rafael Sabatini's historical romances. I know that I gorged myself…
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OK, it's time to get going. Could we put the house lights on, please. Here's the first question. Raise your hand if you think that the loss of 5.000,000 e-mails by the White House was simply an accident. That it was unintended. Anyone? Yes, I see a couple of hands in the back, and there's…
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Regular readers of this blague are well aware that I have repeatedly indulged my bemusement at the names of extinct or obsolescent horsedrawn conveyances. My point is that modern readers, who know precisely what is signified — in design, in metal, rubber and plastic, and especially in social value — by such words as Jeep,…
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In The Lake of the Woods sold well and was much adulated in 1994. It's been on my reading list for a long time, and I've finally gotten around to it. In plot, it's uncannily reminiscent of Sloan Wilson's The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit (on which I reported some months ago). Wilson's novel…
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I remember exactly when I first heard of James Agee's A Death in the Family. It was in Ithaca in 1958. The late Edward Ruhe, who was then a young instructor in English, stopped me on the street and asked if I had read it. He said I must, and, obedient lad that I was, I…
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We take the small aluminum bat and the "safety" baseball to the concrete schoolyard and I try to pitch the ball at the exact level where the grandson swings. Every time he makes contact, the ball rolls a hundred or so feet until gravity and friction kick in (I have no fielders behind me). Grandpa…
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Why doesn't Dick Cheney put a bullet in his brain? It would do him (and his reputation) a world of good. What could possibly stand in his way? Once he sprinkles the ratsbane on his porridge — and, of course, leaves behind a detailed and humble letter of apology – he will begin to free…