Not as tiring a job as being Michael Newman, a New York Times op-ed Kapo trying with all his might throw shade on the last of the old-fashioned “Voice of the People” columnists.
And that’s because, like Lina Lamont, Michael Newman “ain’t people.” He’s
“A shining star in the cinema firm-a-ment. Says so, right heah.”
A fortiori Newman is the NYT’s Designated Driver of Class Warfare — the Upper Middle keeping the Lower Orders in their place.
No wonder he’s upset with someone so antipathetic to such social ordering.
A job in which neither Newman, nor anyone else at the New York Times has ever shown so much as the slightest interest in doing, be the prelate in question Franny Spellman (the ruling libertine of New York in the 50’s, and the most fearsome figure of my childhood) or anyone else.
Pretty much all you need to know about this book — and Jimmy Breslin, too, but you probably already know about him — is in that paragraph. Its aims are modest yet honorable, and its empathy seems genuine. But in the end, the book comes back to its true subject, Jimmy Breslin.
The “but you probably already know about him,” meaning “but you know precisely what we want you to think about him.” And that is that Jimmy Breslin is merely a preening narcissist — unlike Nicholas Kristof one assumes.
Once upon a time, Breslin might have ridiculed the author of that sentence.
And there’s no reason to ridicule it now, unless you write for the New York Times, whose fealty to the status quo is such that its given to ridicule anyone who would assume the moral responsibility that the system lacks — and act accordingly.
Are we to suppose that Mr. Newman believes George W. Bush will rue the day he started talking with a Texas accent? Somehow I doubt it.
“Tiresome” only to the Kapos — whose loyalties are solely to their own class.
Commonplace observations have no “casual bigotry” about them. But then Newman is the sort to believ that no “casual bigotry” was involved in the Affirmative Action responsible for the carrers of Colin Powell, Condi Rice, and Clarence Thomas.
This is Newman’s easy out. Praise him for writing about his dead daughter — that’ll show “fairness.” But it’s Newman who’s the “sob sister,” not Breslin.
There’s noting “pat” about exposing mendacity. Moreover, “self-importance” scarcely begins to describe the hubris of these men in frocks, as Terence Davies came to realize after spending all of his childhood and a good part of his adolescence begging their forgivess of the “sin” of loving other men — while they were guilty of the real crime of raping boys.
Not to readers of the New York Times it doesn’t. They want to know what’s “in” and what’s “hot” — and morality just doesn’t make it for them.
As for REAL commentary, they’re obliged to turn to the inane class-hatred-obsessed blatherings of Our Miss Brooks, the snarky rants of the Unindicted Co-Conspirator , the dippy ditherings ofDora Bailey and on special occasions The Creature From the Blog Lagoon herself.
Only in the New York Times does morality take on the aspect of a Julia Child recipe.
Not just the hierarchy — the thuggish presumptuousness of organized religion itself.
The invention of a giant invisible bi-polar Daddy-in-the-sky to mete out punishment and reward is arrant nonsense.
“No other world, alas, this is the one to change.” Gore Vidal said somewhere. (Major Gay Jeopardy bonus points to the first FaBlog reader to find it. )
Actually they do. Now more than ever.