Daily Archives: October 15, 2005

Say what you will about the NYT’s latest exercise in ass-covering (and believe me, Blogistan has only just begun to say what it will about this “modified limited hang-out”) it can’t be denied that the scumbags got right down to cases in the first four graphs.

In a notebook belonging to Judith Miller, a reporter for The New York Times, amid notations about Iraq and nuclear weapons, appear two small words: “Valerie Flame.”
Ms. Miller should have written Valerie Plame.

That name is at the core of a federal grand jury investigation that has reached deep into the White House. At issue is whether Bush administration officials leaked the identity of Ms. Plame, an undercover C.I.A. operative, to reporters as part of an effort to blunt criticism of the president’s justification for the war in Iraq.

Ms. Miller spent 85 days in jail for refusing to testify and reveal her confidential source, then relented. On Sept. 30, she told the grand jury that her source was I. Lewis Libby, the vice president’s chief of staff. But she said he did not reveal Ms. Plame’s name.

And when the prosecutor in the case asked her to explain how “Valerie Flame” appeared in the same notebook she used in interviewing Mr. Libby, Ms. Miller said she “didn’t think” she heard it from him. “I said I believed the information came from another source, whom I could not recall,” she wrote on Friday, recounting her testimony for an article that appears today.

See? She wrote Valerie Flame, not Valerie Plame. It’s a mistake anyone could make — right? Mmmmm, don’t answer that. For where did this Plaming Creature come from? Well Judy can’t recall. When it comes to the written word the ol’ brain pan’s sprung a leak, it seems. Yet when dealing with people, places and things that haven’t been committed to print Judy’s a veritable Truman Capote. In fact the more I think about Judy, the more I wonder what the “Tiny Terror” would have made out of her.

Mincemeat, undoubtedly.

But don’t expect Phillip Seymour Hoffman to do you in the movie dear. Yours is the role Gilbert Gottfried was born to don drag and play. That takes care of the face and body. As for the voice — who else but Jon Lovitz?

“Saddam Hussein had. . .Weapons of Mass Destruction. That’s right. Weapons of Mass Destruction. A guy named ‘Curveball’ told me all about them. Yeah, that’s the ticket.”

And maybe Bill Murray for the song (with apologies to Spike Jones):

My old flame
I can’t even think of her name
But it’s funny now and then
How my thoughts go flashing back again
To my old flame

Or is it Plame?

My old flame
My new lovers all seem so tame
For I haven’t met a gent

So innocent or elegant
As my old flame

No, it was Ahmed. yeah that’s right.

I’ve met so many men
With fascinating ways
A fascinating gaze in their eyes
Some who sent me up to the skies

And left mash notes in my e-mail about Aspens — Oh that Scooter!

But their attempts at love
Were only imitations of
My old flame
I can’t even think of his name

HER named was Plame, I’m told by. . .someone

But I’ll never be the same
Untill I discover what became
Of my old flame

I’ve met so many men
With fascinating ways
A fascinating gaze in their eyes

Oh that Bill!

Some who sent me up to the skies

Oh that Punch!

But their attempts at love
Were only imitations of
My old flame
I can’t even think of his name

Or her name or. . .oh Whatever!

But I’ll never be the same
Untill I discover what became
Of my old flame

Do you have any more questions Mr. Fitzgerald

We are now, of course at the intermission of Act One. Gulp that Orange drink, tuck away that souvenier program, and brace yourself for Act Two — which apparently involves Judy taking some uh. . .time off from the NYT. To write that book we’ve heard tell about? Yeah, that’s the ticket. Of course this, uh hiatus could well be permanent as “Editor & Publisher” insists it should , in which case my favorite number by another Judy comes to mind.

“They say I’m crazy, got no sense,
But I don’t care.
They may or may not mean offence,
But I don’t care;
You see I’m sort of independent,
Of a clever race descendent,
My star is on the ascendant,
That’s why I don’t care.

I don’t care,
I don’t care,
What they may think of me.
I’m happy go lucky,
Men say I am plucky,
So jolly and care free.
I don’t care,
I don’t care,
If I do get the mean and stony stare.
If I’m never successful,
It won’t be distressful,
‘Cos I don’t care.

Some people say I think I’m it,
But I don’t care,
They say they don’t like me a bit,
But I don’t care;
‘Cos my good nature effervescing,
Is one, there is no distressing,
My spirit there is no oppressing,
Just ‘cos I don’t care.

I don’t care,
I don’t care,
If people don’t like me,
I’ll try to outlive it,
I know I’ll forgive it,
And live contentedly.
I don’t care,
I don’t care,
If people do not try to treat me fair.
There is naught can amaze me,
Dislike cannot daze me,
‘Cos I don’t care.

If I call on a friend and she’s “not in,”
Why, I don’t care,
I simply discover I need some pins,
‘Cos I don’t care;
Her feeble slight does but amuse me,
Nothing like it could induce me,
To hand it back none could induce me,
Just ‘cos I don’t care.

I don’t care,
I don’t care,
If she did mean to snub.
I’m feeling so jolly,
T’would be simple folly
To even feel the rub.
I don’t care,
I don’t care,
If I do call on her
And she’s not there.
If she can’t say “Hello,”
She’s not a good fellow,
And I don’t care.

They say my hair’s in silly style,
But I don’t care,
They but amuse me all the while,
“Cos I don’t care;
You see my hair with me’s a fixture,
And it’s color’s not a mixture,
When they call me living picture,
Surely I don’t care.

I don’t care,
I don’t care,
If my hair is not dressed swell;
I’ve got no kick coming –
It’s vastly becoming,
And suits my face so well;
I don’t care,
I don’t care,
I know that style like mine
Is mighty rare.
So no one can “Phase” me,
By calling me “Crazy
Cos’ I do-o-o-n’t care!