Brooks vs. Krugman, Tuesdays in the New York Times
Enter the As Krugman’s Meanwhile, In response Not likely. Next. Best Reason to He’s So this Let’s This fantasy Mike Bloomberg While it Bloomberg, He is a He thinks No fair-minded Bloomberg
cage. The right has been flapping and bleating about Paul Krugman ever since
the 2000 election. It was then that the Princeton economist turned his sights
away from anti-globalization protestors and dug in behind a howitzer, flipped
the safety switch off and started raining hellfire onto the Bush administration
and everything it stands for. Almost three years on, his knuckles are still
white from trigger-grip.
profile has risen, his critics have rallied and are currently led by the National
Review’s feisty little “Krugman truth squad,” which does its best to pick
apart the bearded professor’s twice-weekly, clinical and vicious 700-word
deconstructions of everything White House.
neither Tom Friedman nor William Safire have defended Bush’s fiscal and
foreign policies with anything near the focus, expertise and pure rage with
which Krugman has attacked them, and the result is that Krugman is now the Times
op-ed star emitting the most heat. One of the GOP’s biggest thorns going
into the 2004 campaign, Krugman damn near burns a hole in the page twice a week,
blasting administration claims and logic with titanium-tipped columns. Never
in our lives have we seen a columnist go after an administration so hard and
to Krugman’s ever-more violent grip on his victim’s neck, the Times
this month felt compelled to offer the other side a regular space to meet the
challenge. And so, to the sound of Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger,” the Weekly
Standard’s David Brooks now enters the ring with Krugman every Tuesday.
The question is: Can the witty, even-keeled conservative defend the Bush administration
with enough force to neutralize Krugman’s journalistic napalm?
If their debut Sept. 9 face-off was any indication, Brooks doesn’t own
war paints and hates to mess up his shoes. The morning after Bush’s televised
request for $87 billion and plea for U.N. help, Brooks meekly praised the administration’s
ability to learn from experience while feigning frustration over its inability
to “admit mistakes.” As standard op-ed gruel it was fine, but next to Krugman’s
sword-wielding Samurai wrath, it flickered and died on the page.
right, we’re wrong. We don’t believe in recall elections, and any
rational person who’s followed the current California Cartoon would agree.
When voters elect a candidate, they ought to be stuck with that person for the
duration of his or her term unless criminal activity is proven. Otherwise, elections
have no real meaning.
is purely a hypothetical exercise in explaining why, if such a legislative provision
existed in New York, Mayor Mike ought to be sent packing.
start with this absurd statement, published in the Sept. 9 New York Times, from
the press secretary of the city’s Nanny-in-Chief. Edward Skyler said: “Mayor
Bloomberg was elected to lead New York through a crisis… Because of his
leadership, the best days for New York are yet to come.”
was contained in an article focusing on a Times poll that showed Bloomberg has
a 32 percent approval rating from his constituents. Even Rudy Giuliani, in the
month before he became a national hero two years ago, registered a 55 percent
mark; and this was when Giuliani’s popularity was melting down.
was elected not to “lead New York through a crisis,” but through a fluke of
history. Had the terrorist attacks of 9/11 occurred three months later, Democrat
Mark Green would now be mayor. Trying to buy an election is a 50-50 proposition:
New Jersey Sen. Jon Corzine was successful; Ron Lauder was not. Sen. John Edwards
hit the jackpot in ’98; Steve Forbes blew much of his family’s fortune
in two futile presidential bids. Bloomberg’s moolah was the deciding factor
in the ’01 election because he could dominate the airwaves with commercials
starring Giuliani as his patron. It also helped that the Yankees-Diamondbacks
World Series that year lasted seven games: more prime time for Mike’s ads.
may be true that New York’s “best days” are “yet to come,” it’s unlikely
they’ll be during Bloomberg’s short, accidental tenure.
of course, is a fake Republican—he ran in the GOP primary because it was
easier to win—who believes that Sen. Hillary Clinton is doing a swell job
for New Yorkers. Strike One.
slave to the city’s unions, caving in to their demands while inflicting
economic duress on the rest of the citizenry, regardless of income. Strike two.
that part of his job description includes imposing his morals upon those under
his charge, so he bans smoking from all bars and restaurants and slaps an extraordinary
tax on a pack of smokes, crippling not only the tobacco-addicted but every deli
and bodega in the city that has lost customers who now cross state lines or
use the internet to find cheaper prices. Oh, and he’s also damaged the
nightclub business not only with the cigarette ban but by additionally imposing
“noise pollution” fines. Strike three.
person would deny the entrepreneurial skills that earned Bloomberg untold billions—he
worked like a dog and deserves every cent. That makes him an unlikely candidate
to skim from the public till, but it also leaves him entirely isolated from
99 percent of his constituents. When the mayor declares that no one would ever
leave New York because it’s the greatest city in the world, that’s
coming from a man who can afford a hike in subway fares, sales, corporate and
tried to pull a mini-Rudy during this summer’s blackout and performed admirably,
traveling throughout the city and issuing bulletins on the status of the crisis—lucky
he wasn’t in Bermuda at the time. Unlike ’77, there was virtually
no crime, which may or not have had something to do with the fact that the electricity
died in the afternoon rather than night. But he didn’t blow it, which is
nothing short of amazing.
Best Reason to
He is a
Daily News Photo Caption
Blog is Sometime No, no, Blogging The blog Best Media Whore Some things Not only Over the Age of 25 Everyone’s Since he “It can’t This is
a four-letter word. Time was—and what a glorious time it was—we could
update our website with personal anecdotes, stories, bits of miscellaneous writing,
and it hadn’t been given a name. Wired was still interesting, the Electronic
Frontier Foundation was fighting the good fight and we early adapters were going
to change the world. That’s right, change the world. We were laying the
foundation for a lush creative paradise.
around 1999, our internetal offspring pulled up in their RVs and turned the
web into a wasteland of irrelevance, indulgence and hackery. The weblog had
been created, and the entire construct was ruined for everyone who’d inadvertently
birthed and championed this “new form.”
go ahead, bloggers and bloglovers, call it a publisher revolution. Just know
that like Magic: The Gathering, fantasy football and rehab programs, blog culture
is a circle jerk. Like missing a rerun of Friends, when you stop reading any
given blog, life is no worse for it.
is not the new journalism. It’s the new zine. They will disappear when
some of the more high-profile bloggers—those who came up from nothing with
a will to write, not those high-vis journos who slummed in the freeform—find
jobs in the mainstream press, where they clearly thirst to be. Their sites will
atrophy, and the left-behinders will become bitter, scream “sellout” and lose
is a dead form within two years. On the outside.
Under the Age of 25
matter. This slightly built, self-promoting 23-year-old resume-enhancing machine
and celeb-sucker first came to our attention by way of his terrible little Holden
Caulfield impersonation act, Important Things that Don’t Matter. We never
would have noticed it, but Amsden’s friend qua informal agent J.T. Leroy
tried to plant a buttery author Q&A in these pages, and we did some sniffing.
A little birdie soon informed us of the true scale of Amsden’s biographical
deceits, not the least of which is his bravado regarding non-existent working-class
roots. In 2003, Amsden milked such lies—with some success—in a frenzied
reach for the title of Next Hot Young Suburban Memoir Thing.
is this kid without talent, he is without shame, and deserves whatever life
awaits the kind of people that want desperately to be Bret Easton Ellis but
never are, no matter how much they lie and try.
churning. Gossip writer Ian Spiegelman introduced himself shortly after we took
over the helm of this ship. He contacted us for two reasons. One, to plug his
debut novel, Everyone’s Burning, a slim volume that’s been written
about by other gossip scribes more than it’s been read. Two, he wanted
us to whack a young writer with whom he’d had a failed sexual relationship.
(The sex part’s not true, so far as we know, but it would make sense, he
was so apoplectic with hate.) Not exactly fans of the little hack in Spiegelman’s
sights, we gladly accepted several hundred words that lambasted—and possibly
has connections at Page Six and Details, b-list-fucker Spiegelman thought he
was doing us a favor by skewering another b-list fucker—thus his insistence
that his hands remain unsullied and face hidden. We must allow him use of a
pseudonym (against our policy) and guarantee that nothing would be traceable
even sound like me,” he whined, as if he bore a strong authorial voice in the
why we keep a safe distance from the incestuous circle of dimbulbs who think
they’re contributing with their gossip pages and idiotic blogs. They’re
cowards and hypocrites, happy to mock and deride as long as they don’t
have to take responsibility for their actions. Ian Spiegelman, nice as he may
be in person, is as useless as a stopwatch at the Special Olympics.
Best Media Whore
Over the Age of 25
New York Post Lede
Methods of Expository Writing and Styles of Cultural Criticism, Co-Taught by
Can assholes Years later, But it’s Just consider Seconds Too bad. Orwell strenuously Best Email that Ciao ciao, Over the Age of 25 Thanks for
get tenure? We could hack through a lecture course taught by Christopher Hitchens.
We might even enjoy it. Yeah, that’s us, sitting in the back, taking copious
notes, timing his whiskey shakes like birth contractions, documenting his hangovers.
When things get slow, we shout “Kissinger” as a fake sneeze, and after class
we bust out snide impersonations for our friends, saying “Islamo-fascism” every
when his wheezy near-corpse is rolled out onto MSNBC for one last shouting match
with Chris Matthews, we moan lazily: “That guy’s still alive? Yeah, took
a class with him. Total cock-knocker. For a term paper once, I turned in one
of his Atlantic Monthly pieces as my term paper. His T.A. gave me a B-minus.”
not a lecture course. It’s a seminar, which amps it way beyond our threshold
for pain. In seminars, students are expected to take an active part in class
discussions. In this class, they’ll be expected to argue with a guy who
prides himself on being the world’s most contrary contrarian, who thinks
he has the world’s most caustic wit and deft language skills, who believes
he has never lost an argument. Just look at the toxicity he directed at the
jellyfish of the Nation.
this, please. Christopher Hitchens teaching an undergraduate Liberal Studies
class. According to the New School catalog, in this class, “Mr. Hitchens will
analyze several exemplary cultural critics, and discuss his own experience as
a leading public intellectual.” Imagine the poor little Sylvia Plath-quoting
girl who signs up because it both fits a core requirement and looks like fun.
She doesn’t know from Hitchens, she’s never heard of the Nation, neither
knows nor cares about his political trajectory. One day, she lets slip that
she thinks war is bad for children and other living things.
later, she’s rushing from the room in tears after Hitchens announces that
her “semi-coherent ad hominem attack on my argument is an admission that you
would rather not engage with my arguments and would rather suck off academia’s
tit!” Et cetera, et cetera.
If only she had the staying power—and the good judgment to keep her tofu-hole
shut—she could’ve witnessed Hitchens dressed up in George Orwell’s
skin, Silence of the Lambs style, muttering, “Would you revere me? I’d
revere me.” We expect this class to focus on two things: George Orwell’s
writing (specifically his famous “Politics and the English Language” essay)
and how Christopher Hitchens is George Orwell reborn, despite the fact that
Hitchens’ Earl Grey skin and desk-jockey pudge grant him a passing resemblance
more to the titular animal of “Shooting an Elephant” than its author.
advocated surgically precise language and argued that unclear writing muddles
thought. Hitchens practically chortles with joy in his gushy prose. Of course,
mention that during class and the hungover giant may wake, throwing down upon
you all of his fury. And no, those Paglia quotes will not save you.
led to Removal from the New York Press Masthead
Under the Age of 25
darling. “Hiya, I can only do that for $1 a word. That is a lot more work. what
I can do an intro in my own words and then a Q&A if y’all aint payin
$1 a word. yers, Jt”
the new vocabulary word. Buh-bye. “You may be under pressure, but I’m not
quite sure why you feel it necessary to adopt the tone of a Prussian gauleiter,
and I very much resent the hectoring tone, as though I am some errant schoolboy,
to be dosed with heavy breathing about squirrels. I don’t know about ‘inflexible,’
but you certainly come off as rude. With your phrase ‘I need to get things
in line’ the intimation seems to be that things have been way out of line.”
Best Email that
Over the Age of 25
Historic Event on the Horizon
2004 Republican National Convention
Here we It’s One of the
go. You know that grainy 1968 footage of Tom Hayden running through tear gas
in Chicago’s Grant Park wearing a wig and an oversized football helmet?
For better or worse, New York 2004 is going to put all that to shame. When the
GOP gathers to re-nominate George Bush in August, it will be hard to remember
that SDS and the Yippies ever cared about some guy named Hubert Humphrey. (But
we’ll never forget that Norman Mailer holed up like a coward in his hotel
suite when the shit hit the fan, while Genet and Burroughs were in the smoke.)
11 months away, and already the buzz around the country is making this feel
like the Convention of the Century. Optimistic activists are promising more
Seattle than Chicago.
reasons so few protestors showed up for the ’68 Days of Rage was geography.
Chicago is in the middle of the country. Another reason was the deathwish lurking
behind the radical calls to “kill the pigs.” Everyone’s a lot smarter and
more serious this time around (right?), and the Republicans are walking right
into one of the larger bellies of the anti-Bush beast. Don’t expect a fizzle.
One of the
Waste of Public Funds
Those New Walk Signs
And talk With New The NYCDOT
this way. It seemed to start slowly. You’d see one here and there. But
suddenly by the end of the summer—whoosh—they were everywhere. It
was like a flash flood. Every last “Walk/Don’t Walk” sign in the city had
been replaced with those Lite-Brite LED pictograms of a hand and a pedestrian.
York in such a financial mess, with basic services being cut left and right,
why is the DOT wasting millions on the equipment and manpower it must have taken
to replace all those walk signs with the fancy new Lite-Brite jobs? Sure, the
bulbs in the old ones tended to burn out regularly, but for godsakes, there
was nothing fundamentally wrong with them. Replacing a few bulbs every day has
got to be cheaper than throwing the whole damned thing away and hooking up a
isn’t saying, but our guess is that the reversion to pictograms instead
of written English is just the city’s own, quiet first step toward admitting
that the public schools just aren’t going to get any better over the next
“Fight the Two publicists, Our first You have This whole
pow—oh, wait, that’s me!” So we’re looking into tales that a
minor rock mag is trading positive reviews in exchange for advertising dollars.
(We’ve already confirmed that reviewers routinely give good reviews to
one another’s bands.) We start with the publicists, which may seem laughable
to real journalists, but we’re not looking for a Pulitzer here. We want
access to that supercool new wave of publicists who are really into the music
and care about both their acts and the kids on the street.
though friendly and helpful, have no good dirt to dish. The third, however,
is more than friendly. She ignores our inquiry, but quickly contacts the magazine
in question—Magnet, if you care—to let them know that we’re asking
about their editorial policies.
thought is to wonder why proud punk publicist Tris Laughter is invested enough
in Magnet to want to protect them. Then we remember that this is the same lady
who, inspired by her strong feminist sensibilities, refused to alert the Donnas
that Playboy was interested in talking to the band about a photo layout to promote
The Donnas Turn 21.
to respect a gal like Laughter—that is, if you’re selling out your
editorial to corporate interests. Or, if you’re a band who wants a prudish
publicist to make moral decisions as to what you should and shouldn’t do
with your own fucking career.
punk thing is working out quite well, isn’t it?
Campaign of Terror
Close Indian Point
No one here gets out alive. Since then, They don’t History We actually
We first saw the Indian Point Safe Energy Coalition poster taped to the side
of a pay phone on 1st Ave. It depicted a map of NYC in crosshairs, with the
words: “EVACUATION: IMPOSSIBLE” (referring to some official statement on the
odds against a timely evacuation of Manhattan, in the event of a larger disaster
than the WTC attacks) emblazoned over it in a pseudo-military stencil font.
on NY1, we’ve seen commercials produced by Riverkeeper—the Coalition’s
foremost member—as well as their fallout-orange ads on the sides of bus
kiosks and their postcards (“What exactly do WEAPONS of MASS DESTRUCTION look
like?”) in the wall racks of restaurants and bars. The card—created by
something calling itself Think Tank 3 and preprinted with the smarmiest of form
letters—is addressed to the wife of the chairman of the “Nuclear Regulatory
Commision” [sic]. It begins, “Dear Mrs. Diaz, My name is ______ but you can
call me Joe Public.” It goes on to implore Mrs. Diaz to explain to her husband
the dangers of keeping Indian Point power plant open in a “post 9/11 environment”
and closes with “I don’t mean to be pushy, but since this is urgent maybe
you could talk to him at dinner tonight?”
mean to be pushy? The point of this obnoxious, scatterbrained campaign, we gather,
is to get the power plant shut down. This is a reasonable cause with which we
absolutely empathize; none of us wants a nuclear plant in our backyard. What
we can’t get behind are the manipulative scare tactics Riverkeeper and
its associated “think tank” are using to get their point across to the residents
of New York City.
has shown us that nuclear power plants are enough of a threat all on their own.
Look at Three Mile Island. Look at the meltdown at Chernobyl, popularly accepted
to be the greatest nuclear catastrophe in the history of mankind. But while
you’re at it, look at what was behind them: Accidents. Human error. Clearly,
we pose more of a threat to ourselves than any foreign agents could, but somehow,
this doesn’t stop Riverkeeper from hopping on the terrorist bandwagon to
achieve its ends.
appreciate Riverkeeper’s vigilance in other areas, like educating us on
GE’s dumping of PCBs in the Hudson, or pushing through 1997 legislation
to protect the NYC Watershed. This is why it disappoints and sickens us to see
them stoop in this new campaign. There are more responsible, more effective
methods of educating and motivating New Yorkers in regard to Indian Point. Poking
at open wounds that are only marginally related to the cause is little more
than psychological terrorism.
No one here gets out alive.
Cameo by a New York Press Box
Daily News (Sept. 12, 2003)
Stealth Smut in a National Advertisement
Mature Invitation to Loin-based Fraternization
Mom, get So say the Inside are How to Turn How to Slip How to Remove How to Gain All of which It is not What MILF We don’t
off my friends! “The dating world has changed…” the little black booklet
informs us. “Women, and lots of them, are throwing themselves at men.”
makers of Axe deodorant, whose advertising campaign suggests that wearers will
become so irresistible that they’ll need the Axe Wearer’s Handbook
tips for men unprepared to be so pussy-laden:
a Fivesome into a Manageable Threesome
out Without Waking Her Up
Access to a Janitor’s Closet Without a Key
are middlebrow boy humor, on par with a good pull-my-finger moment. Worthy of
note, however, is How to Escape a Friend’s Mom:
uncommon for a young man wearing Axe to be approached by a friend’s mother
who can’t control her arousal. This is known as a MILF (Mature Invitation
to Loin-based Fraternization). When confronted with a MILF, take a minute to
consider the implications of fulfilling a MILF request—e.g. violent husband
or awkward social situation—then quickly execute your escape plan.
actually stands for, as Axe’s target audience knows, is Mother I’d
Like to Fuck. Factcheckers may consult milf.com, milf.net, milf.org, even milf.de
(“M.I.L.F. – Willst du die Mutter meiner Kinder sein?”).
know if the ad agency responsible for the Axe Wearer’s Handbook told their
client the true meaning of MILF, or if they snuck it past a boardroom of old
men. Either way, we applaud the oblique use of offensive profanity in a national
So say the
How to Turn
How to Slip
How to Remove
How to Gain
All of which
It is not
Flawed Metaphor in a Response to a New York Press Cover Story
Chuck Klosterman on MediaBistro
YOU ARE As a MediaBistro MB: Clearly CK: That Actually, Here’s MB: Clearly CK: I compare
SUCH AN ASSHOLE. Two weeks after our Chuck Klosterman cover story ran, the hot
critic took part in Q&A with Chris Gage for MediaBistro. The resulting article
opened with this ungodly lede: “Chuck Klosterman is an incredibly talented yarn-spinner.
He knows so well how to build a story and wring out its punchline and significance
that you’d think he was raised by an ancient tribe of devoted oral historians.”
production, the interview was intended as a lesson for aspiring pop-culture
journalists. When the interviewer eventually tired of the “How can I, too, parlay
my masturbatory obsessions into a book deal?” line of inquiry, he turned his
attention to the house that Russ Smith built:
other people seem to find you entertaining as well—though perhaps not the
New York Press.
was really weird, a very weird thing. I got an email that day that said, “This
guy you’ve never heard of has written a piece for a publication you’ve
never read and is attacking what you look like and claiming you’re the
anti-Christ.” I still have a hard time understanding how I would warrant that.
But, I don’t know. It wasn’t hurtful, it was just strange. I’ve
been asked about this constantly, and I compare it to how if you’re walking
down the street and some schizo guy comes up to you and vomits on you: You wouldn’t
be hurt by that, you’d just think it’s weird. I keep saying the word
“weird” over and over again, but it’s the only way I can describe it.
Chuck, that’s not quite right. If your “schizo guy” were vomiting at random,
then the vomit could have landed anywhere, on anyone. But it didn’t. It
landed on you. For a reason.
how that exchange should have read:
other people seem to find you entertaining as well—though perhaps not the
New York Press.
it to how if you’re walking down the street and some schizo guy comes up
to you and says, “Hey, are you Chuck Klosterman?” And you say, yeah, and he
says, “Your book sucks and you make me sick and I hate everything about you,
your culture, your approach to writing, your smug face and the mediocrity you
bring into this world that we’re forced to share with you.” And then he
sticks his fingers in his mouth and vomits on you. You wouldn’t be hurt
by that, you’d just think it’s weird.
As a MediaBistro
CK: I compare
Scary September News Story
Saudis Consider Going Nuclear
Gulp. The Israel has
Saudis—you know, that shaky oil dynasty with al Qaeda connections—have
been talking about joining the club for decades. Now, faced with the near-term
prospect of a nuclear Iran, they’re said to be considering it seriously
at the highest levels in Riyadh. So it’s worth taking a hard look at what
would be required to stop Saudi Arabia and Iran from joining the club: A security
architecture guaranteeing a nuclear-free Middle East. And that means you, too,
Israel. Until the world reckons with Israel’s 200 atomic warheads, the
logic of proliferation will unfold in the region no matter how much Washington
huffs and puffs. Nor will Israel be able to freeze history with its warplanes
been the nuclear power that dare not speak its name for 40 years, but faced
with the prospect of a fully nuclearized Middle East, the world may finally
be ready to confront the consequences of its ongoing double standard. It’s
Gillette Venus’ “Now in Pink”
Sink the But this Nope again. We have Gillette
pink. First, we assumed Gillette was indulging in campy nostalgia when we saw
the Pink ad featuring four bathing-suit-clad models assuming silly action poses
while driving down the street in a pink convertible.
was no clever throwback. It was a ham-fisted attempt to convince women to trade
in their perfectly suitable blue Venus razor for the newest model. Does the
pink upgrade possess the power of Gillette’s mighty Mach3? Does it, perhaps,
sport a new pivoting head system that reduces nicks while shaving? How about
a built-in shaving- cream dispenser?
Gillette’s ad campaign is based around a question: “What is it about pink
that makes you feel so good?”
yet to think of an answer, because every time we see the ladies of Pink partying
away—be it on a building or in the pages of a glossy—we consider not
shaving ever again.
may be the best a man can get, but when it comes to women, they have a long
way to go, baby.
Term Coined by a Lad Magazine in the Dying Days of the Lad Magazine
Same as Wendy Coleman, How cute. Nice try,
it ever was. The first time a magazine approached us for coverage was when the
horrid L Magazine hired a very sweet but clearly inexperienced woman to beg
us for a story. We declined politely, noting that the L would probably be out
of business before we went to press. Our turnaround is measured in hours.
director of marketing and promotions for Razor Magazine (a publication of Razor
Media LLC), became number two. In a letter from the company’s Scottsdale,
AZ headquarters, we were told that Razor is the “logical choice on newsstands
today for the twenty-something ‘post-lad’ reader.” The Razor “formula”
is one of “sophistication with sex appeal,” a formula that Playboy and GQ are
“striving to emulate.” Unlike Maxim, FHM and Stuff, Razor wasn’t yanked
from the Wal-Mart shelves—clear proof that it’s nothing like the “typical
We don’t dispute that GQ may not offer your average twentysomething what
he’s looking for in a magazine. But the Razor “formula” of half-naked women,
dating advice, video game reviews, gadget reviews, a light smattering of “serious”
articles, Details dropout Anka Radakovich and a 34-year-old publisher posing
with a cigar hardly warrants coining a new marketing term.
Wendy, but “post-lad” is a very weak, very silly attempt to be “lad” without
the cloying stink of the reprehensible Maxim and Stuff and the countless knockoffs
that were pee in the pool of our corner newsstand. Try relaunching Razor as
something original, and we’ll consider assigning that story.
“And What Was His Crime?”
West Side Spirit (May 15, 2003)
Press Release for a Christian Magazine
what is God doing? “Filling the need for media that effectively reaches God-hungry,
mainstream savvy twentysomethings, RELEVANT magazine is gaining recognition
not only in the Christian marketplace, but in the mainstream market as well…
covers God, life and progressive culture with a fresh perspective not found
in any other publication. Each issue offers in-depth features, columns and reviews
on issues that affect this generation. It examines what God is doing and saying
today and spotlights the people and events shaping culture. The magazine pushes
boundaries, asks questions, spots trends and challenges worldviews—all
while helping readers pursue God in everyday life.”
Consistently Ugly Cover Illustrations
New York Observer
you people had money? We at New York Press occasionally make a mistake with
an illustrator, too. But the key is, guys, to learn from those mistakes.
New York Times Editorial
“NOW’s Woman Problem”
Half a loaf’s Still, for NOW is an NOW, a parody The Times One caveat:
better than none. Whenever the Times’ editorial page prints something sensible,
we immediately suspect a hidden agenda. It’s no secret that the paper longs
for Sen. John Kerry to challenge President Bush next year; absent, of course,
an entry by Hillary Clinton or possibly Al Gore.
those who don’t read between the lines, the Times’ spot-on ridicule
of both the National Organization of Women (NOW) and footnote presidential candidate
Carol Moseley Braun, the ethically challenged former senator from Illinois,
was a refreshing respite from the usual fare of “quagmires” and “tax cuts for
institution in serious disrepair, challenging Jesse Jackson for another category
we can think of, “Best Anachronism.” Who, besides the Nation’s Katha Pollitt
and perhaps a few herbal-tea drinkers in Greenwich Village, takes NOW seriously
anymore? The group’s steadfast defense of the lecherous Bill Clinton—because
he’s in favor of abortion, the only issue that matters—in the 90s
was a disgrace, especially considering its hysterical attacks on Clarence Thomas.
The Supreme Court Justice, you see, was accused of watching pornography and,
of course, was a Republican. A far worse sin, in NOW’s warped thinking,
than Clinton’s public humiliation of his wife and daughter.
of itself, has endorsed Moseley Braun for president in 2004.
had it right on Sept. 14: “[I]t is hard to see a principle that distinguishes
Ms. Braun’s candidacy, other than perhaps the right of a tarnished former
official to seek the nation’s highest office. By racing to assist Ms. Braun’s
candidacy, the leaders of NOW showed loyalty to someone with a long relationship
with the organization, going back to the unsuccessful struggle to enact the
Equal Rights Amendment. But they also trivialized the important role women will
play in the coming election, and made themselves look silly to boot.”
Do the Times editors believe that women haven’t played “important” roles
in past elections? Tsk, tsk.
Half a loaf’s
NOW is an
NOW, a parody
Newspaper Commemoration of 9/11
William Bunch of the Philadelphia Daily News
Loose ends. On Sept. Who made Why were Why did What’s Bunch isn’t
If ever a day commanded a prolonged, nationwide head-hanging moment of silence,
it’s Sept. 11. But two years later, we’re not yet at a point where
we can be satisfied with a nod, a flag and a prayer. As William Bunch of the
Philadelphia Daily News reminded us, there are still a lot of unanswered questions
hanging uneasily over the memories of the dead.
11, Bunch listed 20 of these questions, among them:
a fortune on Sept. 10, 2001, when the trading ratio on United Airlines was 25
times greater than normal at the Pacific Exchange?
Rumsfeld and others in the administration so quick to link the attacks to Saddam
the Bush administration lie about dangerously high levels of toxins and hazardous
particles after the WTC collapse?
in the 28 blacked-out pages of the congressional Sept. 11 report?
the only journalist asking these questions, but we thank him asking them so
pointedly on a day when so many others were busy scoring points with easy, maudlin
Sign that You’ve Arrived
You’re a Meta Tag for a Porn Site
the company you keep. “chubby teens nude…lick creek…medical diagram
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New Free New York Publication
New York Sports Express
Ignorant Banshee of a Pundit
Is this One needn’t Somehow, Pulling
ding on? This walking self-parody should be the shame of the right, but somehow
isn’t. In 2003, Coulter treated the reading public to Treason, the third
of her semi-literate screeds, whose theme bears a startling resemblance to the
previous two—namely, that everything wrong with America is the fault of
liberals, while everything right about it is the work of conservatives.
be a communist to admit that maybe those crazy labor radicals were on to something
when they suggested having weekends, or that the silly black people might have
had a point about riding in buses and sitting on benches. And never mind the
feminists who spent the 1990s vainly calling attention to the depravities of
Coulter gets a pass. Her more centrist apologists call her “provocative,” as
though that alone warrants her being taken seriously.
down your pants in Grand Central Station and screaming, “Hey ladies, come and
get it!” is provocative. It is also boorish, juvenile and insipid, and, come
to think of it, is an apt-enough metaphor for Coulter’s work: Her books
are acts of indecent exposure. Reading them is like watching someone scream
at a cash-register clerk for no good reason—you start to wonder if they
were born without the mechanisms that give most of us