Every bloody day I read a half dozen online US newspapers, at least 2 print Aussie papers (cafes have piles of periodicals), 2 or 3 Fiji news sites, at least a dozen blogs, a half-dozen online magazines and a cornucopia of film, music and writing sites. This doesn't make me special. It just makes me a wonk.
Occasionally, a right-wing columnist will twist a nob in my brain and I'll post a comment. So it was this morning when Glenn Greenwald eviscerated a rotting fish of a column by the Washington Post's Howard Kurtz. In brief, Kurtz listed several scurrilous, right-wing talking points that have been raised about Obama's candidacy. I posted a comment (below) to the WaPo site. Strangely, Kurtz's column was re-headlined a few hours later and all comments were deleted. So ... I resent it (I always copy my comments). At this moment it's still on the WaPo site.
Another DC cocktail hour winds down. 'Little' Howie Kurtz sits at a table, alone, 3 empty hurricane glasses a testament to a fondness for frozen margaritas. At the bar huddle Post colleagues from the Op-Ed page. Howie's nose twitches from their cigar smoke. He sucks the last of his drink through a straw and musters the courage to walk up to the guffawing men.
"Mr Novak," he says, "I read your latest column on Obama and thought ..."
"Go away, kid, ya bother me," Novak says through the side of his mouth.
Demurely, Little Howie tries again.
"Your last column was pure genius, Mr Krauthammer, and I was wondering ..."
"Do I KNOW you?" Krauthammer barks, causing Little Howie to jump backwards.
Remembering a prep school teacher's lecture on social entitlement, Little Howie drops his head, bites his lip, takes a deep breath.
"Mr Will, I read your column on Sen McCain, and have to say you really weren't fair to such a great ..."
"Who said you could come over here?" Will demands. "Go back to your corner, Media Notes urchin." The men laugh and clink tumblers.
Little Howie runs, pushing his way through the well-dressed cocktail crowd until he stands on an empty sidewalk. Tears well in his eyes as he shoves tiny, soft hands deep into his pockets and walks toward a taxi stand.
"I'll show 'em," Little Howie says to the night air. "I'll show 'em but good." A delirious smile curls across his face. "I'll write a column called ... called ... 'Scratching Obama's Teflon'. Yeah ... then they'll HAVE to let me in ..."
Pigeons launch from a rooftop as a screeching laugh cuts the DC night.
No comments:
Post a Comment