The Rittenhouse Review

A Philadelphia Journal of Politics, Finance, Ethics, and Culture

Thursday, November 21, 2002  

I Guess I Just Hate Feeling Left Out

Yes, the rumors are true. The buzz is on point. (Tina Brown fed me that line.) I’m back. I have returned.

And, as you have surely noticed -- in my posts about the Lillygate scandal (Note to progbloggers: Please make, uh, liberal use of that phrase. If nothing else, “Lillygate” beats the hell out of “eagles.”) and the mind of Father Richard John Neuhaus -- that I’m mad as hell and . . . I just might . . . I’m going to . . . Fool me once . . . Oh, I don’t know, I didn’t even see the friggin’ movie, okay?

On the bright side, my sources tell me that because of my return Ann Coulter has started eating again, Andrew Sullivan is fact-checking his own ass, Professor InstaLinker swears he’ll read the articles about which he posts, Matt Drudge is burning that dopey hat, John Fund isn’t going to hit anybody, Daniel Pipes is lunching with Yasir Arafat, Norah Vincent is letting her hair grow (And has moved frighteningly close to Philadelphia!), Lloyd Grove is buying some new ties, Michelle Malkin is researching her immigrant-stock-laden family tree, Tammy Bruce is selling her guns, Howard Kurtz is looking for meaningful employment, Martin Peretz has forsaken Anne’s dowry and really, truly is going to make it on his own this time, Michael Kelly is planning to rejoin the human race, Rush Limbaugh is having those pesky anal cysts removed, Amy Reiter has pledged never again to mention Rebecca Romijn-Stamos, Diane E. has stopped blogging in order to devote her full energy to avoiding colored people on the subway, Peter Bacanovic is going to ask me out, and Peggy Noonan is swearing off acid, for real this time.

By the way, my break was far shorter than I anticipated -- Thank you very much, Eli Lilly! -- but it’s good to be back.

I didn’t accomplish anything I hoped to. For one thing, the stack of magazines and journals on my desk is larger than ever. And while I was gone I noticed there’s another stack in the living room and another on one of my nightstands -- the place where, in days gone by, my copies of the New Yorker went to die but not before mocking me with unrelenting viciousness: “There’s a 90,000-word article about Peruvian anchovy fishermen inside me. And it’s only the first of three parts. I know you want it! Open me! Come to me, baby! Make Uncle William happy!”

I didn’t read any books -- hell, I didn’t even start any books. I haven’t finished unpacking, my exploration of this great city was limited to finding the nearest shoe-repair shop, I didn’t do any non-blog writing (unless signing checks counts), and Mildred still isn’t in daycare.

I want to thank everyone -- and there truly were many -- who sent thoughtful messages, flowers, and small tasteful gifts encouraging a productive break while also revealing their intention to get a new Valium prescription for the interim. My thanks go out as well as to those who sent kind words, flowers, and small tasteful gifts welcoming my return.

For those of you who didn’t send a nice note, flowers, or a small tasteful gift -- Not even a Bundt cake, huh? -- well, just remember I can make adjustments to that blogroll at any time! Only kidding. (A little.)

Well, back to work, people! There’s a war getting on. Three, actually. The war on terror, which during my absence suddenly excluded Osama bin Laden and will someone please explain that to me? The war on Iraq. And the war on the irredeemable sociopaths who make up the Republican Party.

[Note: I stole that line, “Not even a Bundt cake, huh?” from “The Golden Girls.” Sophia said it when the other girls came to visit her, empty-handed, in the convent. I still laugh when I hear that line. And when I say it to myself. Don’t mind me.]

[POST-PUBLICATION NOTE: Skimble sends a Bundt cake. Thanks, pal.]

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