As today is moving day and because I’m not sure how long it will take to get myself settled and my computer and internet connection up and running again, let me just say it’s time for a short break.

I’ll be back as soon as possible, hopefully Tuesday or Wednesday.

Remember a while back when I wrote something nice about the New York Times? No? You don’t? Well, I did.

I take it back.

Forget I said anything.

(Link via Atrios. And I’ve seen that turtleneck.)

A nice, but far from complete, victory for publisher Martha Stewart yesterday: U.S. District Court Judge Miriam Goldman Cedarbaum dismissed count nine of federal prosecutors’ indictment against Stewart, issuing an opinion in which she said “a reasonable juror could not, without resorting to speculation and surmise, find [guilt] beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Judge Cedarbaum wrote in her dense but narrowly drafted opinion:

I have concluded that no reasonable juror can find beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant lied for the purpose of influencing the market for the securities of her company. Another way of putting it would be that in order to find the essential element of criminal intent beyond a reasonable doubt, a rational juror would have to speculate.

According to the New York Times (“Most Serious Charge Against Stewart Is Dismissed,” by Jonathan D. Glater), “Judge Cedarbaum will probably instruct the jury to disregard the securities charge and not to read anything into its absence, lawyers said, although several noted that jurors may or may not pay attention to the order. The judge will probably also prohibit lawyers from trying to lead the jury to draw conclusions from the absence of the charge.”

Although it’s true, as the Times reports, that “until yesterday morning when the judge told lawyers for Ms. Stewart and Mr. [Peter] Bacanovic about her decision, there was no hint that she would dismiss the securities charge,” Judge Cedarbaum previously had alluded to her skepticism, referring to the prosecution’s indictment as “inartfully drawn,” and at one point nearly scolding government attorneys, in remarks that must have stung, “I hope at some point it’s going to be clearer to me what you are charging. There are a lot of things in this indictment I don’t know whether you are or are not charging.”

Moreover, the delay in announcing her decision on the matter, which she took under advisement a week earlier, may have raised some questions. If nothing else, the interim period, in retrospect, gave the judge and her clerks ample time to draft the 23-page opinion.

With U.S. Attorney Karen Seymour’s novel, to say nothing of fanciful, charge of securities fraud dismissed (charges many observers have questioned repeatedly), jurors now will focus more closely on the remaining charges of conspiracy, obstruction, and false statements. Although they carry less severe penalties, these are serious charges. And while Stewart and her attorney, learning of Judge Cedarbaum’s decision, reportedly headed to Chinatown for a celebratory lunch, she can’t be sleeping easily, even for a woman who is said to live on four hours of z’s a night.

The Times reports closing arguments will begin Monday. Instructions to the jury are to be read on Wednesday.

[Post-publication addendum: By the way, why is it so hard for people to call Stewart “a publisher,” as I generally do, or a similar term, rather than something stupid and subtly demeaning like “domestic doyenne” or “style maven”?]

I like this weekend’s terror alert status photo. It’s a remarkable image and I apologize for its less than picture-perfect quality. (I had to shrink it to fit within the sidebar.)

The photo reminds me, as many things do, of my bulldog Mildred. (Listen, buster, if you’re tired of hearing about Mildred, just scroll down or go away, okay?)

I’ve told already the story of choosing Mildred. In the event you missed it, or if you’re just dying to hear it again, see item number 100 in “100 Things About Mildred” (TRR: The Lighter Side of Rittenhouse, March 25, 2003).

She’s an often shy, hesitant, even timid, and sometimes skittish, little girl, and this little-duckling photo reminds me not only of the day I chose Mildred but of her general temperament -- “Hey, I want to get up there!” -- and her physical limitations, about which see item number 78 in the aforelinked piece.

The photo also raises a question, namely, Why are ducklings so different in coloring from how they will look when they are older?

Human infants have perfect skin, a condition from which we know from experience lasts only so long and from there it’s strictly down hill. (And that’s saying nothing about errant and unwanted, and it’s really all unwanted, nose and ear hair.) But the difference in coloring, when it comes to ducks, is remarkable.

Is there an ornithologist in the audience?

I gratefully received a timely gift yesterday. Two books: Why I am a Catholic by Gary Wills, and The Funny Thing Is by Ellen DeGeneres. (Thanks, P.S., a reader from Iowa!)

It being Friday, or more specifically, Friday night, and not really having anything else to do, I went first for the DeGeneres book, ignoring, at least for the evening, the two dozen volumes that had staked claim to my nightstands long before she came along.

Besides, like all good cafeteria Catholics, and we are legion, I save my devotional reading -- a category in which I include Wills, if only because it really ticks off my friend Bill Buckley (and I can say that, because I still have two letters he wrote me years ago) -- for Sundays.

That’s not a hard and fast rule, of course, because on some Sundays I write. On others I watch football or Lifetime TV. On still others I might go to a museum or just take a long nap, or worse, from the whole seven-deadly-sins perspective, engage in gluttonous behavior (see, by way of parallel, “Pizza: Because I Ran Out of Xanax Again,” by Meghan Cox Gurdon).

I’m glad I did, choose the DeGeneres book, I mean, because I needed it.

Like all humor books, The Funny Thing Is is a little uneven, but just a little. It comes with the territory. Even funny people can’t be perfectly funny all the time, not even me. Not even Professor Pinkerton. And she’s really funny. And for a professor, she’s like insanely, almost inappropriately, funny.

But when DeGeneres is funny, as she is throughout this book, she is very funny. And when she’s very funny, she’s hilarious.

My favorite chapter is chapter two, “The Brunch Bunch,” in which DeGeneres relates her customary Sunday tradition of devotional reading. No, not really, I’m just kidding, it’s about her weekly brunches.

At this particular brunch, DeGeneres’s guests included her regulars, Paula Abdul, Diane Sawyer, Gloria Steinem, Donatella Versace, Ed Begley Jr., and Eminem.

But Sawyer brought a guest, “Siegfried or Roy (I’m not sure which one),” DeGeneres writes. And so did Abdul: her dry cleaner. As did Begley Jr.: Tara Lipinski, dressed for skating.

It was too many people for Ellen’s table, raising the dreaded prospect, which so many of us remember from our childhoods, of “the kids’ table.” And it only got worse from there.

A brief excerpt, just to tempt you:

For the first twenty minutes we ate in silence, with the exception of the dry cleaner remarking, “The gazpacho is heavenly.” He pronounced “gazpacho” with a soft “g,” (“jazpacho”), not a hard “g,” the way it should be pronounced. I don’t care where you’re from (and I’m pretty sure he was from Canada), there’s no reason you can’t get it right.

Every time he said it (I think nine times in twenty minutes), I thought Eminem was going to explode. It was almost as if the dry cleaner was mocking Em’s gazpacho -- and it’s his special recipe! He brings it every week. After the third or fourth time the dry cleaner said “jazpacho,” I said, “It’s good gazpacho” saying it correctly with the hard “g,” hoping he’d realize his stupid mistake, but he just kept on as if I was saying it wrong. Even Donatella Versace says it right and she says everything wrong.

Well, when conversation finally began to flow, it was not pleasant. It started harmlessly enough with Siegfried or Roy asking why Paula hangs out with her dry cleaner. Were they friends beforehand and now he just happens to dry-clean her clothes? Did they start chatting when she went to pick up her “outfits,” as he called them? And if so, why wouldn’t her assistant pick up her “outfits”? Paula just stared at Siegfried or Roy with this kind of knowing smile, like she was “onto him” -- you know, the way Paula does. Well, this unnerved everyone and I think the dry cleaner got a little defensive on Paula’s behalf. He started questioning Siegfried or Roy on his own “outfits” and from there it led to why Tara Lipinski was wearing her “outfit.” Tara didn’t understand what he was talking about. It’s all she ever wears.

Okay, just one more:

Tara Lipinski called this morning to see if she had left her purse. I told her she hadn’t come with a purse, and she argued she had indeed come with a purse. I said, “No, you didn’t. We all commented on your skating attire like you were getting ready to perform or something, remember?” […]

A few minutes later I found a purse in my kitchen and felt so bad that I had been so adamant about her not having brought one. I opened it, hoping to find a phone number for her but when I found the driver’s license it was Gloria Steinem’s -- only her real name is Debbie! Oh, the secrets we keep. . . .”

Fair’s fair, now you have to go buy the book. Don’t just go to Barnes & Noble and read chapter two in the aisle. (I know how you think.) After all, the laborer, even if merely a writer, or, lesser still, a comic, is worthy of his or her hire, right?

(The previous sentence paraphrases a verse from the Bible, but you knew that. Surely Susan Sanford did. Before you unpack your concordance, Susie, it’s Luke 10:7.)

Here’s a novel -- novel in the sense of being both invented and inventive -- argument against gay marriage. It was published in the Philadelphia Inquirer as part of the newspaper’s ongoing but intermittent “Voicebox” series (think talk radio but on paper), and it comes from Esther Kurtz of Elverson, Pa., who it appears assembled her thoughts not with pen and paper or with fingers and PC, but with a broken Dictaphone:

Gay marriage will further burden divorce courts already overloaded with issues related to custody, communication breakdowns, and abuse. Then the judges will be asked to step in and become legal caretakers, and that’s not good, either, for the government to do. I suspect the gay revolution is fueled not necessarily by love, hope, and righteous indignation but by financial and dependecy [sic] issues. But, as many of us know, marriage doesn’t help solve these problems. So I think we should wait for the laws to be made in light of the crisis we already have with marriage and families.

Yep, that’s us. Just in it for the money. And to wreak havoc upon divorce courts.

[Note: For a wiser, and more humorous, look at the subject, see “Will Gays Prove to be the Saviours of Marriage?” by Tim Ferguson, The Age (Melbourne), hence “saviours,” February 23. (Thanks to reader H.F.)]

[Post-publication addendum: If you have a few minutes -- And really, when you think about it, who doesn’t? -- why not wander over and check out, oh, I don’t know, Dear Mary?]

(Note: Since “Tina Brown Thursday” lately has appeared here most often on Fridays, I’m technically only a day late this week, and while my excuse is valid -- I’m packing here, moving tomorrow -- my apologies nonetheless.)

Two weeks ago Tina Brown needed a 40-word warm-up before getting down to her customary business: name-dropping and party-hopping.

This week, Brown dispensed with that formality entirely, beginning her column, “A Welcome Diversion for Democrats,” this way:

Jon Bon Jovi’s last big gig was in front of 70,000 people at Giants Stadium, but on Monday night in Manhattan he was playing a dining room.

The occasion was a VIP donor party for John Kerry in an elegant apartment at the Dakota, that legendary West Side pile, hosted by TriBeCa Productions executive Jane Rosenthal, her husband and TriBeCa Film Festival co-founder Craig Hatkoff, and Infinity Broadcasting CEO John Sykes. Eighty big-ticket Democrats from Wall Street and the entertainment world got to mingle over cocktails with the front-runner.

Graciously, Brown allows her readers into the room for a moment, enabling us to catch a bit of the wise and worldly chatter that occurs at the seemingly endless stream of really smart Manhattan parties she attends with that city’s purported power brokers. Example: “My advice to you, senator: Stay strong!”

The rest of the column consists mostly of useless prattle about Ralph Nader. “One can only imagine the extent of Nader’s simmering rage as he watched the rise of [Howard] Dean on the flickering black-and-white TV in his Spartan apartment,” she writes, leading one to wonder whether she’s been having cocktails chez Nader, though, in keeping with his carefully cultivated and closely guarded image, I suspect Nader would more likely serve apple cider in jelly-jar glasses. (And how does Brown know Nader’s place is “Spartan”? I know we’re supposed to believe it’s ever so humble, but I also thought nobody had ever been there.)

Brown ends the column on an odd note -- no, not the sneering tone, that comes with the package -- one that raises, once again, questions about Brown’s mindset regarding gay men. (Remember the “prancing stockbroker”?):

On Tuesday, thanks to the mayor of San Francisco’s nuptial offensive, the president seized the opportunity to change the subject from job loss to gay marriage. This one will prove thornier to Kerry than Ralph Nader. Veterans in drag, where are you?

“Offensive.” That’s subtle.

You’re Togo!

Small, quiet, and very insecure, you could hide in just about any crowd. Even a crowd of one or two people. Even though you’re virtually anonymous anywhere you go, you could have been wealthy if people hadn’t mistreated you and taken your money. This is probably most of why you’re insecure. But some people who study you hard think you’re cute, so maybe you should try to open up a little.

(Take the Country Quiz at the Blue Pyramid. Link via Waremouse.)

That’s eerily accurate.

Executives of the California Public Employees’ Retirement System said in a statement yesterday they have lost “complete confidence” in Walt Disney Co. Chief Executive Office Michael Eisner and the pension plan will not support the re-election of Eisner at Walt Disney’s annual meeting, to be held on Wednesday, March 3, in Philadelphia.

According to a Bloomberg News story published early this morning, the California State Teachers Retirement System, the New York State Retirement Common Fund, and funds in New Jersey, Connecticut, Virginia, and Massachusetts will also oppose Eisner’s reelection.

It’s good to see more aggressive postures on the part of institutional investors, but the decisions may have little practical effect.

The same story reports Eisner “can’t be voted off the board as long as he receives a single vote.”

Eisner surely plans to vote for himself, don’t you think?

In the previous post, below, I wrote, for the second time in as many months, about Bess Myerson, Miss America 1945.

Although I’m inclined here to be rather vague, I recently have been engaged in considerable research about American culture in the immediate post-World War II era, the larger aim, of course, being a book of some sort, or maybe at least a decent article or two. (Or more.)

Myerson is to me an important icon of this period. As such, I would greatly appreciate hearing from readers who remember Myerson’s crowning as Miss America nearly 60 years ago. (For those not aware, Myerson -- a/k/a, which here stands for “almost known as,” Betty Merrick, -- was the first, and still remains the only, Jewish woman to win the title.)

If you have a few moments, please take the time to sit down and write out your thoughts, assuming you have any, and whether you are Jewish or not, or male or female, about Myerson, and what, if anything, you thought of her, what she meant to you, or any experience or contact you may have had with her. (Heck, you can just tell me you thought she was hot.)

I am particularly interested in hearing from then residents of the Bronx, N.Y.

And please, rest assured, all remarks, comments of any stripe, positive or negative, will be held in confidence.

You may send your notes to me here.

Please include, if you would, your mailing address and telephone number in order to facilitate future contact, should that prove desirable or necessary.

[Post-publication addendum: I’m also looking for photos of Miss Myerson circa 1985-1990.]

The time I’ve not spent writing and job-hunting during the last few days I instead have spent packing.

This is the chore to end all chores, but during the past 20 years I have performed it with an alarming frequency. I’m getting used to it.

In so doing, this time around, I have become intimately reacquainted with my book collection, which, if not impressive, is at least characteristically idiosyncratic.

Strange, though, how even if one owns, I don’t know, a thousand books, even the inability to find a stray title or two can cause considerable anxiety.

I’m having exactly that experience with respect to two books: Just Desserts, by Jerry Oppenheimer, an unauthorized biography of Martha Stewart, and When She Was Bad, by Shana Alexander, concerning the infamous “Bess Mess” of the 1980s, which ensnared, among others, and to varying degrees, Bess Myerson, Hortense Gabel, Sukhreet Gabel, Nancy Capasso, Andy Capasso, and Ed Koch.

My inability to locate these volumes is driving me crazy. I’ve checked with friends and relatives, all of whom either have disclaimed possession of one or both books, or, more suspiciously, have not responded to my queries.

If you can help with my replacement strategy, please let me know.

(And before you send me an e-mail, I know that Amazon.com is, justifiably, on labor’s crap list due to its affiliation with Borders Books & Music. Several bloggers and readers have scolded me for my links to Amazon.com. Although I don’t feel great about this, I’ve decided I don’t feel awful about it either, and the links are staying. In my meager defense I offer this: When authors and writers, writ large, individually or collectively, have arranged for Amazon.com to no longer sell their books I will then delete any and all links thereto and completely disassociate Rittenhouse from that enterprise. Until then, yes, I’m still on labor’s side, but there are plenty of people with more at stake in this than me, and I think it’s fair that I wait for them to act first.)

[Post-publication addendum (February 28): My copy of Just Desserts has been located. A dilatory sibling ’fessed up late yesterday.]

Over at Eschaton a reader offered some comments about me, my current situation, and my op-ed piece in the Philadelphia Daily News.

In case you didn’t see it, I thought I would share:

[I]t simply defies belief this man has no job and no one to come home to.

I sorta understand being unemployed, but there have to be 5,000 Philadelphia women who would fight to get into his door. They just don’t know he’s there.

It’s just so [expletive deleted] wrong, to have this brilliant man not ply his skills for pay and to be alone. […]

Thanks for the blog link. The piece was not like his usual style at all, and it was good to get the background.

You know, I get that a lot. The whole let-me-fix-you-up thing. I really do.

Fortune is out with its annual list of “America’s most admired companies.”

In the number-one slot, and for the second year in a row: Wal-Mart Stores Inc.

Incredible.

A few other items from the survey:

Alcoa Inc. is ranked second in the social responsibility category. No wonder Paul O’Neill felt out of place in the Bush administration.

United Parcel Service Inc. is number one according to this criterion. I don’t really know why.

Altria Corp., parent of Philip Morris Inc., is ranked number eight in social responsibility. Even as a smoker, and of Benson & Hedges, a Philip Morris brand, that ranking has my right eyebrow climbing of its own accord. I’m paying $5.20 a pack for that junk. (At least when I’m not buying “Basics,” which I have been lately, and which are every bit as awful as they sound.) Not very sociable, is that? The company’s charitable donations, maybe?

But getting back to Wal-Mart, I suspect many thinking people are concerned about this ranking. They should be. Fortune’s survey, conducted by the Hay Group, solicited the opinions of 10,000 executives, board directors, and securities analysts, the “in-the-know” people.

And these saps, looking at the dense and varied fabric that is American capitalism, picked Wal-Mart above all others.

If they would have their way, this would be your future. Enjoy.

[Post-publication addendum: Reader A.E. writes: “Philip Morris, from what I hear, has a very high level of women and minorities in key management positions. They also are very popular with small businesses. They often pick up the legal fees for small businesses fighting government regulations. (In New York, from what I'm told, the bar owners went to Philip Morris to get them to pay for the lawyers to fight the smoking ban.) The angle they are going to take is to sue New York for violating OSHA regulations because only OSHA can regulate the workplace. I know one bar owner and a convenience store owner who have nothing but praise for them.”]

“Idiot.” “What an idiot.” “He’s an idiot.”

I say that, or things like that, and then I tell my mean-spirited self, again, “Stop using that word.”

So I do. I stop. And then I go and do something really stupid -- idiotic, even -- and read Andrew Sullivan or someone of like mind, and the word comes back to me.

It happened again this evening.

Via Atrios I read an unbelievable collection of avian droppings in the Daily Mountain Eagle, Jasper, Ala., written by Susan Sanford, the bird-cage liner’s copy editor.

I love copy editors. Some of my best friends are, or have been, copy editors. I’ve been copy editing on and off, officially or otherwise, for, I don’t know, something like 18 years, even, occasionally, here at Rittenhouse.

When they’re good, copy editors, I mean, they’re very, very good. But when they’re bad, not only are they very, very bad, some of them still draw a paycheck. Miss Sanford, at least in her incarnation as an editorialist, apparently falls into the latter category.

In “Sodom and Gomorrah Revisited,” Miss Sanford inquires:

My first question is, do these people not read the Bible?

Speaking only for myself, Miss Sanford, yes, I read the Bible regularly, and I have read the Bible for years, and I will go chapter-and-verse with you any day of the week.

(Let me just interject here with a message to those who mock or criticize me for my continued adherence to Catholicism and Christianity: Can you meet Miss Sanford on her “own” ground? No? Would you have me, us, therefore concede that ground to her?)

Then, with incomparable originality of thought and doctrine, Miss Sanford adds:

Have they forgotten Sodom and Gomorrah?

No, Miss Sanford, but may we put the purported events in those two tiny villages of millennia gone by within their proper theological, historical, and cultural context, or is that just too complicated for you?

Miss Sanford adds:

[W]e should be worried that this group and their [sic] supporters have worked diligently to have themselves [sic] -- common sinners, according to God’s word -- declared a special minority.

Excuse me, this woman is a copy editor? Even more, she is the copy editor at the Daily Mountain Eagle? I think I’m being generous in asking who had the night off.

And “common sinners,” that’s a nice touch. Before she throws around stupidity like that I would like Miss Sanford to swear and affirm -- as an oath, like, on the Bible -- that she herself never has had an errant, unapproved, “nice touch,” self-inflicted or otherwise.

Thereafter follows some drool about creationism, Leviticus (though no mention of not being allowed to eat rabbit or pork), all the usual stuff, including some words from noted closet case St. Paul, Miss Sanford’s dribble ending with this pathetic exhortation: “The battle for souls has begun.”

Just now? What the hell have you been doing for the last 20 years?

Bring it on, Susie.

I extend my best and my highest hopes to Diana Moon of Letter From Gotham as she heads to court tomorrow to face her contemptible landlord.

You know, until Miss Thing, my landlord’s agent and the building manager, tried -- unsuccessfully -- to haul me into court, I had little grasp on how intimidating such situations can be.

And that is the whole point: The landlord, developer, banker, what have you, knows he is intimidating, threatening, and scaring you. That’s why he has lawyers. That’s why his lawyers are passing out processes. That’s what he’s paying them for.

Regardless how unjustified or frivolous is his complaint -- and the reason Miss Thing’s attorney said she didn’t withdraw the suit, even after I brought my account up to date, was because I was “rude to one of the doormen” -- he knows he is is likely to have more resources on his side.

Diana, if you can summon even half the intellect and forensic agility you recently marshaled to pummel Ann Coulter, you’ll do just fine.

It’s an unwritten rule at Rittenhouse -- unwritten in no small part because Rittenhouse consists of just one man and his computer, rendering unnecessary the writing of style manuals and the distribution of memoranda -- that there are not to be published here, at any time, for any reason, or under any circumstances, vulgarities or coarse language of any kind.

One might think for such a “mean-spirited” guy, which, at least according to some readers, I am, this would be a challenge. Truthfully, it isn’t. I’m that way in person, too. At least I try very hard to be. Nothing embarrasses me more than walking down the street -- or worse, sitting in a restaurant -- with a friend who’s throwing out this and that crude word within earshot of innocent bystanders. Besides, I firmly believe writers who resort to and rely upon such terms are leaning a little too hard toward the uninventive.

But thinking, as I have been for a few weeks now, about the murder of Faheem Thomas-Childs, and more specifically about the unsuccessful efforts of Philadelphia police to find some half-dozen suspected participants in the gun battle that took that 10-year-old’s life, it’s hard to restrain myself. The words, phrases, and epithets that are coursing through my brain surprise even me.

I have no children. I do, however, have 16 nieces and nephews. As I wrote to a reader recently, I would give my life, without hesitation, for each, any, and every one of them. Put a gun to one of their heads and say to me, “Your life or the kid’s,” I have no doubt whatsoever what my answer would be.

And these are not my children.

So I do not understand how anyone with his or her own children, living anywhere near T.M. Peirce Elementary School, who might know even the slightest thing about the despicable shoot-out there that killed Faheem, would hesitate for a moment before telling the police anything and everything that might pertain to what, according to the Philadelphia Inquirer, is the search for at least six additional suspects in this heinous crime. (Already two suspects, Kareem Johnson and Kennell Spady, have been arrested and charged with Faheem’s murder.)

“Stop the violence!”

Yeah, sure, and stop the slogans. Step up to the plate. Take some responsibility. Take control of your lives and your neighborhoods.

Easier for me to say, I know, but, please, these are your children. The risk to those speaking to the police may be, and probably is, after all, entirely exaggerated. Nonetheless, will you not risk your life for your child?

[Post-publication addendum (February 27): Elmer Smith of the Philadelphia Daily News expresses a somewhat different view in his column today, “Faheem Was Not the Only Victim,” and also provides important information I previously had not heard about neighbors’ cooperation with the police on this case.]

Yesterday morning I trekked to North Philadelphia to attend the public viewing of Faheem Thomas-Childs, the 10-year-old boy recently killed in the cross fire of an apparent drug-dealers’ turf war.

I didn’t go with the intention of writing about it. Rather, and for reasons unclear, Faheem’s story hit me hard, gripping me from the first I heard of it, and readers will remember that I posted several items about the shooting and his death. Like many others at Deliverance Evangelistic Church yesterday, I suppose I was looking for some closure, much as I despise that word.

The experience was far more emotional than I expected. I hadn’t given much thought to whether the casket would be open or closed; kind of silly since the term “viewing” at the very least implies one will be seeing something. Perhaps because Faheem was reported to have been shot in the face, I was thinking this would not be the case.

Until yesterday I had never before in my life seen a dead child. It is truly a shocking sight, horrific even. Although Faheem was not short, his little body didn’t take up even half the casket. Should you ever find yourself heading into a similar situation, I strongly advise that you not go alone.

I’m not sure why, but I noticed Faheem’s feet and shoes immediately. Maybe it was because one approached the casket from that side. Or maybe, I thought later, it’s because I can’t recall ever having seen the feet of the deceased. Are they normally covered?

I admit it: I cried, a lot. I cried there, on the way home, and now and then for the rest of the day. My head was spinning. By evening, I was worn out, and eventually I had a long, hard sleep.

When I arrived home, having no one here to talk with and my usual phone contacts not answering, I did what I suppose most writers would do: I sat down and starting writing. What emerged was an impressionistic essay incorporating the indelible images of the morning, a mix of subtle and obvious allusions, symbols, and connections quite different from my usual style.

The essay appears on the op-ed page of today’s Philadelphia Daily News as “A Day of Death, With Little Blue Sneakers & Unexplained Seagulls.”

Reading the coverage and looking at the photos in this morning’s papers brought back all of the same emotions. (See “Community Says Goodbye to Faheem,” by Dan Geringer, Philadelphia Daily News, and “2,500 Mourn Boy Killed Outside N. Phila. School,” by Vernon Clark and Dwayne Campbell, Philadelphia Inquirer.)

Geringer’s article is outstanding. A few excerpts:

Faheem lay in his pearl gray casket, wearing sneakers, blue jeans, a skull cap, and a shirt covered with colorful images of his brothers and sisters.

The photograph of Faheem’s sweet, soulful face that has become ingrained on the city’s collective consciousness since the shooting lay next to him, and was reproduced on the “Home Going Service” programs and on “Rest in Peace Faheem” shirts worn by many of the 150 attending family members, especially the children.

The photo, taken from the waist up, makes Faheem look bigger than he really was. In his casket, he looked so thin, so vulnerable and so very, very young that, despite the peaceful organ music and the choir’s comforting hymns, the unspeakable horror of the wanton killing hit people hard.

Grown men and macho male teenagers walked away from the casket weeping openly, making no attempt to hide their tears. Children still young enough to believe in Santa Claus sobbed inconsolably as their parents hugged them but allowed them full expression of their grief. […]

Faheem’s third grade teacher, Robert Cunningham, said, “His angelic face told so much about the goodness and virtue within him. . . . If ever there was an innocent bystander, he was the most innocent of bystanders.”

I arrived early and left early, so I was pleased to read reports estimating the number of mourners at more than 2,500. Acel Moore, a Philadelphia Inquirer columnist, today noted the diversity of those in attendance. My impression differed, most likely because I was there with people from the neighborhood, while others, including numerous public officials, came later in the morning. (See: “Honoring a Child Tall Among His Peers.”)

Finally, I learned from today’s Inquirer that Faheem was called “Poppy” by his family. Poppy. That’s what we called my maternal grandfather, Martin, whose name is my middle name. Maybe in some unknown, mysterious way, that was the connection I felt but wasn’t able to see.

My hands are starting to look like old-man hands.

Let’s not talk about my bony legs. This may be the summer I stop wearing shorts.

Did you know potato chips cost 27 cents an ounce? I did the math. I think I remember silver trading at that price at one time.

Someday, someone, somewhere will sell dry dog food in a bag that’s easy to open.

I will never be this kind of writer. I promise. (Link via SnarkSpot, the weblog of Jennifer Weiner, who is not that kind of writer, and who, by the way, is enjoying continued success, the kind of success that makes me want to pull my hair out with envy cheer for a local, yet worldwide best-selling, author.)

In my new house, there is no smoking allowed inside. This is a good thing. [Post-publication insertion: By which I mean, I’m hoping this will help me quit.]

Mildred is gnawing on a hoof of some sort that is filled with peanut butter or a peanut-butter-like substance. Two gigantic burps already. I cannot get her attention. Mildred is in the zone: glazed eyes, Homer Simpson-style gurgling, and everything.

I saw “Miss Thing” today. She wasn’t very friendly. Strange, that. Strange, she.

I have to finish packing. Light blogging ahead.

“On the whole, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” -- W.C. Fields

I’m relieved to tell you today that I believe I finally have turned a corner, a sharp corner veering off the side of a huge rocky cliff, no less.

Thanks to the recent and continued generosity of readers from around the country and overseas (Oh, and I can’t forget Canada here.), The Rittenhouse Review is staying in Philadelphia for the foreseeable future.

“It is as it was” or “it is as it is” or “it is as it should be,” or something like that. (Regardless, Peggy Noonan still has a lot of explaining to do.)

Of course with Rittenhouse staying in Philadelphia that means I’m staying here too. (Actually, that’s primarily, or basically, what this means. The blog is, perish the thought, secondary in all of this, due in no small part to the fact it can be published from anywhere.)

Better, thanks to the good offices of a local reader, I have secured an incredibly attractive housing arrangement beginning later this week.

Even better, I sold an article today. A small piece and there is no guarantee that it will be published. But, heck, I got paid for it.

Best of all, as I walked down Walnut Street this afternoon the phrase “spring in your step” came to mind. I haven’t heard that in my head in a long time. And it feels really good.

Thanks, every one.

And now, or still, I must find a job.

Belated congratulations to all of the winners of the second annual Koufax Awards, especially -- I say especially because he won the award in the category for which I was nominated, namely, best writing -- Billmon of Whiskey Bar.

I guess it’s time I found out where that blog is and what exactly he’s up to, the little sneak.

Just kidding. Congrats, pal.

Junk mail -- oh, sorry, “direct mail” or “targeted marketing” or whatever -- can be so much fun, especially when it’s thoroughly misguided and misdirected.

Recent selections from my mailbox:

Sender: Rep. Marilyn Musgrave (R-Colo.)
Subject: Horrors of gay marriage.
Speculative Source: My since-lapsed subscription to Commentary, my last view into the dark side.
Verdict: Misguided. Despite my ambivalence on the issue, Rep. Musgrave will find no quarter here.

Sender: Geico (Government Employees Insurance Co.)
Subject: Auto insurance.
Speculative Source: Former customer.
Verdict: Misguided. I sold my last car four years ago.

Sender: ING Direct
Subject: Savings accounts.
Speculative Source: No idea.
Verdict: Misguided. Savings? Not just now.

Sender: Providian Financial Corp.
Subject: Ample credit.
Speculative Source: No idea.
Verdict: Misguided. Whoever at Providian arranged for me to have a pre-approved credit line of up to $30,000 ought to lose his job.

Sender: Lufthansa
Subject: Travel to Europe at a two-for one rate.
Speculative Source: Merely living in the “gayborhood.”
Verdict: Bulls eye. The 9-by-6-inch postcard features two handsome twentysomething young men, both sporting sleeveless black t-shirts and well-defined arms, in an embrace that might best be described as “frolicking.” (Relax, Mrs. Musgrave, even you can handle it.) Lufthansa is spreching my language.

“Page Six” of the New York Post today reports, under the headline, “We hear . . .”: “That Liza Minnelli, Gisele Bundchen, and Mike Tyson -- plus the Queen Mary 2 -- are expected in Rio de Janeiro next week for Carneval, the Brazilian version of Mardi Gras.”

Next week?

Shrove Tuesday is tomorrow. Ash Wednesday is the day after. That means Carneval is this week, Mr. Johnson.

In fact, Carneval already has started. Besides, according to other media reports, the Queen Mary 2 arrived in Rio on Saturday.

A ship that big doesn’t just go missing, does it?

Not quite sure what to make of this. This being “A Prettier Jobs Picture?,” by Virginia Postrel, in today’s New York Times Magazine.

It’s a modest little essay about jobs and the purported undercounting of the bountiful same, and as expected, it’s replete with the favorite slogans of the rigidly doctrinaire, including “productivity,” “efficiency,” “ ‘outsourcing’ ” (her scare quotes, not mine), “entrepreneurs,” “self-employed,” “partners,” and “unincorporated businesses.”

Postrel writes:

Many of the jobs that disappeared in the recent recession have indeed vanished forever, according to a recent study by the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. Those workers will not be recalled as the economy improves. New jobs will have to be genuinely new, created in new or expanding enterprises.

But where will they come from? In a quickly evolving economy, in which increased productivity constantly makes some jobs redundant, we notice the job losses. It is much harder to spot where new jobs are emerging. Our mental categories tend to be behind the times. When we think of jobs, we see factories, secretarial pools, police officers, lawyers. We forget all about jobs we see every day.

Postrel would have us believe there’s a veritable economic boom in our midst, we’re just too stupid, too uncreative, to notice. She complains the Bureau of Labor Statistics is of no help in understanding what’s really happening in the economy:

The bureau is good at counting people who work for large organizations in well-defined, long-established occupations. It is much less adept at counting employees in small businesses, simply because there are too many small enterprises to representatively sample them. The bureau’s occupational survey, which might suggest which jobs are growing, doesn’t count self-employed people or partners in unincorporated businesses at all. And many of today’s growing industries, the ones adding jobs even amid the recession, are comprised largely of small companies and self-employed individuals.

So we’re on the lookout for the abundance of truly new jobs. “New new jobs,” I’ll call them.

What and where are these new new jobs? In Robotics? Nanometrics? Molecular biophysics?

No need to think so grandly! Think creatively, argues the author of The Substance of Style: How the Rise of Aesthetic Value Is Remaking Commerce, Culture and Consciousness.

Helpfully, Postrel provides some examples of the great and plentiful -- and creative, let’s not forget creative -- jobs already created in the new new economy: Granite counter-top fabricators (Just $30,000 for the equipment!). Facialists, or givers of facials, or spa workers, or something, it’s not entirely clear. Massage therapists. Manicurists.

Manicurists.

I am not making this up.

If this is someone’s idea of a joke, I wonder exactly who’s laughing.

Not me. At Postrel’s urging, I’m packing up my manicure set and heading off to beauty school.

[Post-publication addendum: I dropped a quick note to Daniel Okrent, “public editor,” or “ombudsman,” of the New York Times, about Postrel’s piece, expressing my outrage on behalf of the millions of unemployed and underemployed Americans, of which we are legion and whose aspirations, while they are likely to include the noble profession of filing fingernails, just might reach a tad higher. Did you?]

[Post-publication addendum (February 23): See also Max Sawicky and Brad DeLong.]

[Post-publication addendum (February 24): See also Seth Farber.]

[Post-publication addendum (February 25): See also Michael Bérubé.]

Granted, it’s a tired metaphor and an irritating hypothetical, but let’s ask anyway: If a major news story is published in a small- or mid-sized newspaper but the “major media” fails to pick it up, was the report ever published at all?

Despite the question’s hackneyed tone, it’s a fair inquiry and one recently explored by Scott Sherman in The Nation (“The Other My Lai,” March 1).

Sherman’s article addresses a stunning four-part series about possible war crimes in Vietnam written by reporters Michael Sallah and Mitch Weiss, published last October in the Toledo Blade that, for all the attention the articles warrant nationwide, might as well have ended on the newsroom floor. (Links to the series can be found here.)

Sherman writes:

Despite its explosive findings, the Blade series . . . was not a front-page story in leading American newspapers, most of which printed truncated summaries published by the Associated Press and Scripps Howard. (Only the Minneapolis Star Tribune, the Arizona Daily Star[,] and a handful of others deemed the wire stories worthy of page 1.) National television greeted the series with silence. [Seymour] Hersh, writing in the November 10 New Yorker, lamented that this “extraordinary investigation...remains all but invisible.” Prodded by Hersh, ABC jumped on the story with two fine segments by Peter Jennings and Ted Koppel, but for the most part the silence continued. The list of major news organizations that have yet to acknowledge the Blade series includes NBC, CBS, CNN, Time, Newsweek, U.S. News & World Report[,] and The Wall Street Journal.

Readers of the New York Times waited eight weeks to hear about the Blade investigation, at which point they encountered, on page A24, a meandering article by John Kifner -- a piece that confirmed the essential facts of the Blade investigation but failed to convey the depth and emotional power of the series itself. […]

No mention of the Blade series appeared on the Times editorial page, a fact that was true for almost every other American newspaper as well. For passion, clarity and good sense, one had to turn to the editorial page of the Bangor [Maine] Daily News . . . Declared an Austin [Texas] American-Statesman editorial, “The army now must come clean about what happened and release all available reports, files and information.” It says much about the timidity of our press that newspapers in Bangor and Austin -- and not the New York Times, Washington Post[,] or Los Angeles Times -- had to take the lead in demanding further investigation into the behavior of soldiers who, by their own admission, committed horrific atrocities in Vietnam.

It’s just another reason, as if you needed one, to vary one’s news sources to the greatest extent possible, something blogs are helping thousands of readers every day. (See, ahem, below.)

ON CURRENT CONTROVERSIES: “Union to Union,” an op-ed on marriage by Kermit Roosevelt III. . . . “Study: Great Barrier Reef Could Collapse by 2100,” an article from Reuters about damage to the reef possibly the result of global warming. . . . “Specter, Toomey Differ Sharply on Issue of ‘Pork’ in Politics,” by Patrick Kerkstra, sparking the question, Has Rep. Pat Toomey (R) forgotten he wants to represent Pennsylvania in the U.S. Senate? We live for pork here. Sometimes it seems like our only hope. (Just kidding.)

ON “THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST”: “Gibson’s Gethsamane,” by Steven Rea, an interview with the film’s director, Mel Gibson. . . . On the same subject: “‘Passion’ Stirs Fervor,” by Jim Remsen, the paper’s faith life editor, on the response of religious groups to the film’s upcoming release; “When Sacred Goes Cinematic, Passions Flare,” by Carrie Rickey; and “Historically, Jesus’ Crucifixion Still a Mystery,” by Peter Enav (Associated Press).

ON CRIME: “Mourning Yet Another Youth,” by Leslie A. Pappas, on the murder of Raymond Dawson, 18, Philadelphia . . . “Changes Sought in Witness Relocation,” by Thomas Ginsberg, addressing the “lack” of witnesses generally, and to the murder of Faheem Thomas-Childs, specifically. . . . Likewise, “Among Fearful Witnesses, a Forced Silence,” by columnist Tom Ferrick Jr.

ON STEEL: “Dreams Replace Steel’s Nightmare,” by Diane Mastrull, on what to do with abandoned steel mills in Bethlehem, Pa. . . . Also by Mastrull, “Pittsburgh Steel Mills Remade into Malls.”

ON LIFE AND WORK: “Towers Wouldn’t Just Alter Skyline,” by Henry J. Holcomb, on the latest developments in Philadelphia’s skyscraper wars (it’s about a lot more than architecture). . . . “Happy to Give Away Millions,” by Patricia Horn, on efforts by local philanthropists Gerry and Marguerite Lenfest to unload an excess of $1 billion. . . . “Cooking Up a New Career,” by Caitlin Francke, on a reporter’s foray into the culinary arts. . . . “Expiring Before Retiring,” by columnist Karen Heller, on working until you die. . . . “Before Lent’s Fast, the Fastnacht,” by Rick Nichols, on baking German doughnuts for Shrove Tuesday at Haegele’s in the Mayfair neighborhood. . . . “A Small-scale Powerhouse Hits 100-year Mark,” by Edward J. Sozanski, on the centennial of the Reading Public Museum, Reading, Pa.

ON SPORTS: “St. Joe’s Remains Perfect,” by Ray Parrillo, on the victory of St. Joseph’s University men’s basketball over local rival Temple University. . . . “Hawks Close in on Big Five History,” by Don McKee.

[Note: Thanks to reader R.Y. for correcting my misassignment Rep. Toomey's party affilication. He's a Republican, not a Democrat. The text above has been corrected.]

“The Boondocks,” the indispensable comic strip produced by Aaron McGruder, this week took up the theme “Most Embarrassing Black People,” affording the cartoonist and his readers yet another opportunity to have some fun at the expense of Michael and Janet Jackson, along with a certain “R. Kelly,” a frequent and recurring McGruder target.

Although I’ve been reading “The Boondocks” since, well, a long time, this morning I finally decided it was high time I learned exactly who this R. Kelly person is.

So, as you might expect, I “Googled” him.

It turns out R. Kelly is somehow involved in the music business. As to his importance within, and influence upon, said business, I still have no idea. Why he so ticks off McGruder, I also still have no idea. I guess McGruder’s word is good enough for me, though I’m at least a little curious.

Clueless about popular music again. Or still. Probably forever.

[Post-publication addendum: Already the Fighting Democrat, more popular-culturally aware than I, writes to advise: “Google R. Kelly and molest.” Okay. I can do that. Oh. Well that’s a whole new ballgame.]

Back in December I took to blogging about Tenet Healthcare Corp.’s proposed closure of the Medical College of Pennsylvania Hospital, located in the East Falls neighborhood of Philadelphia, Tenet’s roughshod (to say the least) treatment of striking nurses there, and its complete and utter disregard for the hospital’s entire staff and the community the facility purports to serve.

Well, MCP is back in the news this week (“Temple Health System Mulling MCP Buy,” by Michael Hinkelman, Philadelphia Daily News, February 20):

Temple University Health System is in “meaningful” discussions with Gov. [Ed] Rendell’s office about possibly acquiring the Medical College of Pennsylvania Hospital from Tenet Healthcare Corp., a Temple spokesman said yesterday.

The discussions have been going on for about a month and include Temple Healthcare’s senior management, said spokesman Andy Smith. […]

Sources said at least one other Philadelphia-based health-care system has expressed interest in MCP. But Susan Anderson, deputy director of Rendell’s Office of Health Care Reform, would not identify any other potential suitors.

Meanwhile, Anderson and Tenet continued to negotiate on a deal that would keep MCP open beyond its scheduled closing date, March 31, in hopes of giving Tenet time to find a buyer.

“I have every reason to believe we have enough of an agreement that we’re extraordinarily close, and we’ll have something to announce [this] morning,” Anderson said.

Said Margaret Shiver, a spokeswoman for Tenet, “These things just take time, but we’re very close and quite confident everything is going to be worked out.” […]

Meanwhile, Philadelphia Common Pleas Judge Matthew D. Carrafiello yesterday postponed until Monday further action on a lawsuit that seeks to stop the closure of MCP.

Now, wait a second. Last we heard, Tenet was telling everyone and anyone -- its staff, its patients, lawmakers, community leaders, shareholders -- that it just couldn’t find a buyer for MCP, and, as a result, there was no other option available to the company but to close the hospital by March 31.

Hmm. Looks like somebody -- Tenet -- didn’t try very hard, considering the potential buyer, Temple University Health System, is just down the road.

Ah, but there’s more. In today’s Daily News Hinkelman reports (“Deal Delays Closing of MCP Hospital,”):

Gov. Rendell and Tenet Healthcare agreed yesterday to keep the Medical College of Pennsylvania Hospital in East Falls open until June 30 -- in hopes of finding a buyer.

And Hinkelman today reveals the second potential buyer: Albert Einstein Healthcare Network.

Moreover, the Daily News reports:

The Temple University Health System has been talking with the governor’s Office of Health Care Reform about MCP for a month, and has submitted a “wonderful” proposal, said Susan Anderson, the office's deputy director and Rendell’s point person in the negotiations.

Tenet has also been negotiating separately with several other health-care entities, Anderson said. “The plan is for Tenet and the state to sit down with the various proposals and all the parties and see what we can work out,” she said. [Emphasis added.]

Call me cynical, but does this not smell funny to anyone else but me?

Someone -- Tenet -- is playing games here. No surprise, that, given the current “free market” business climate in Philadelphia. To cite just one example, we have Comcast Corp. holding out its hand out for more than $100 million in city and state subsidies for a building, still in the development stage, that might become its new headquarters in Center City. Who could blame Tenet for gaming the system to its best advantage?

What’s worse is that it’s not entirely clear the politicians involved in the talks over MCP think anything of this -- or even have thought about it at all.

Donations to the Faheem Thomas-Childs Memorial Fund may be sent to the Philadelphia NAACP at 1619 Cecil B. Moore Ave., Philadelphia, Pa., 19121.

As previously noted here, Faheem Thomas-Childs, 10, Philadelphia, an A-plus student, died on February 18 after having been shot in the face, caught in the cross fire -- a malicious hail of bullets the count of which ranges from 50 to 100 -- of a suspected drug gang shootout in front of his school, T.M. Peirce Elementary, on the morning (8:30 a.m.) of February 11.

Related links:

“Services Set for Boy Killed in Cross Fire,” by Vernon Clark, Philadelphia Inquirer, February 21. (I’m going to the public viewing [Deliverance Evangelistic Church, 2001 West Lehigh Avenue, Philadelphia]. I don’t care if I have to walk the whole way. There have to be some advantages to being unemployed.)

“One of the City’s ‘Worst People’ Surrenders,” by Nicole Weisensee Egan, Philadelphia Daily News, February 21.

“$105,000 Reward in Faheem’s Killing,” PDN, February 20. (To contribute to the reward fund write: Peirce School Dragnet, Citizens Crime Commission, 1218 Chestnut St., Suite 406, Philadelphia, Pa., 19107.)

“Feds Join Hunt for Faheem’s Killers,” by Weisensee Egan, PDN, February 20.

“Street Vows to Increase Security Near Schools,” by Mark McDonald and Mensah M. Dean, PDN, February 20.

“Fatal Bullet Tied to Suspect,” by Weisensee Egan, PDN, February 19.

“Fatal Bullet Linked to Suspect,” by Thomas J. Gibbons Jr., Philadelphia Inquirer, February 19.

“New Rewards Offered: $10,000 Each in Faheem Killing,” by Dan Geringer, PDN, February 19.

Oh, and by the way, for those of you interested in, or at least able to pay slight attention to, more urgent and pressing matters, the HBO series, “Sex and the City,” ends on Sunday night. Sorry to have bothered you with this.

Believe it or not I don’t like writing about myself, particularly when doing so reveals too much and especially when the associated revelations reflect poorly upon me. Not only does it “not look good,” no matter how hard I try it seems always to end up looking like a pity party.

But as I’ve said before, I write this blog for myself more than anyone else, though I do so also with an eye toward my regular readers: I think I’ve learned over the past nearly two years what they like to read from me and what they don’t.

And so, even with that in mind, this post is about me and more for me than it is for anyone else. If you care little or nothing about the subject, read no farther.

Things are bad here. Really bad. I have at this moment, to my name, exactly $190 in liquid assets and liabilities almost immeasurable. (Talk about your starving, and uninsured -- since September 2001 -- writers. How I will pay for the next round of Zoloft and Klonopin is beyond me.)

This is embarrassing. This is humiliating. This is a disaster.

I don’t know how this happened. I know I’ve been terrible with money my entire life, though, remarkably, things have improved on this point in recent years. For example, I haven’t used a credit card in four years. Can you say that about yourself? Still, I wonder whether I can truly be trusted to manage my own affairs, financially speaking at least. (And I mean that, “at least.”)

Were it not for the generous efforts and support of a sibling, along with a new-found friend, the outpouring of support from Rittenhouse readers, and the indispensable assistance of the aforementioned Philadelphia attorney Lionel Artom-Ginzburg, at the end of this month I would be homeless.

Homeless. I swear, I am not exaggerating. Well, not too much, anyway.

Sure, I can point to this or that uncontrollable happenstance that helped bring me down yet another rung in life, a slide that dates back -- completely unfairly, even nastily and selfishly, on his part -- to a relationship that ended in January 2000, but ultimately this is my fault. I know that. I did this.

But can you imagine how surprised I am, smart guy that I pretend to be, that here is where I sit? Wondering from one day to the next where I will live in a week’s time? And how I will get there? And what I will do when I arrive?

Maybe this is a warning to all of us. Prepare for the worst. Save more. Spend less. Live cheaply. It’s better to be married (or, legal inanities taken into consideration, “partnered”).

Just don’t go here.

Above all else, don’t think you’re immune. Some of you are closer to me than you would rather believe.

You all know I hate my landlord, and that I detest its sometimes-big-haired agent, “Miss Thing,” even more.

She friggin’ tried to take me to court for crying out loud. Given that experience -- favorably resolved thanks, again, to Lionel Artom-Ginzburg -- I do not entertain happily, by any means, the notion of going to court with her/them again.

Nonetheless, it struck me this week that I cannot recall ever having seen a black tenant, African-American or otherwise, in this rather large apartment building. And I’ve been living here for 18 months. And it’s a high-turnover building.

Now, the population of the city of Philadelphia is more than half black. One would think, I think, that a building like this one, in the heart of Center City, even one that describes itself as “upscale” and “contemporary,” which some prospective tenants might read as code words, would have at least a few apartments set aside, apartheid-like, for non-white residents.

I admit, I haven’t scoured the tenant list, one I’m sure Miss Thing would be reluctant to provide me, but still, I’m a pretty observant guy, and I’ve spent my tenure here working at home, meaning I’m around a lot, and almost everyone I see coming in and out of the building, except for the doorpeople (not the maintenance staff, who are uniformly white or Hispanic/Latino), the stray home-healthcare worker, and the occasional delivery person, is not black. The tenants are, presumably, and overwhelmingly, Europeans or European-Americans, along with a smattering of Asians or Asian-Americans.

Seems a little odd.

More odd because the other day I overheard one of the (black) doorpeople/security guards almost actively discouraging a black man from securing contact with the rental agent.

Hey, what you public interest attorneys in Philadelphia do with all this is entirely up to you.

Reader C.P., who recently wrote to The Rittenhouse Review to express concern the site temporarily had neglected to inform readers of the nation’s “terror alert status” -- Concern? C.P. was almost distraught: “How can I prepare for the day without knowing?” -- writes again:

Whew, thank you. I can go on with my day.

After September 11, 2001 some friends here were questioning whether something like that could happen in Savannah[, Ga.]. I agree with you that we hardly meet the profile for a terrorist target. I pointed out that even General William Tecumsah Sherman didn’t burn the city. Why would al Qaeda?

I thought that was clever of me.

Indeed, as “they” say, thinking that particular bon mot, in and of itself, to be so wise an observation.

I promise you, C.P., and the multitudes who depend upon Rittenhouse each and every day for a status report on their very ability to go about their business: I will not let you down.

(Oh, and, uh, by the way, I still need more yellow photos. JPG format, please.)

A short while ago The Rittenhouse Review -- oh, let’s not be so grand -- a short while ago I, in a Dickensian moment, that a nice contrast to my recent Dr. Seuss moment, wrote to the author of I Am Eating My Husband’s Soul:

Please, ma’am, may I have some more? Some more of the most hilarious writing on the web today? Please?

I’m never sure what to do with I Am Eating My Husband’s Soul. Should I check the site every day hoping for a daily dose of laugh-out-loud humor? Or should I resist that powerful temptation and sort of store it up, that in order to spend an hour or so falling off my chair?

Either way it’s great, and if you’re not reading it, you’re missing out. Big time.

(This post is a variant of the much loved “Overheard” series I used to post at TRR: The Lighter Side of Rittenhouse, my “other” blog that recently was folded into The Rittenhouse Review.)

Overseen, in Center City Philadelphia, Friday, February 20, at approximately 9:30 p.m.:

A young woman, 28-ish, wearing strappy, red, sparkly, high-heeled sandals as evening footwear. In Philadelphia. In February. With the ambient temperature at 42 degrees.

Please explain.

Judging from the relentless attention of the media, one would think the nation were up in arms, incipiently revolutionary, or at least thoroughly and irredeemably distraught, unconsolable, adrift, and losing the collective will to live.

No, you wise and faithful Rittenhouse readers, this distress results not from a pervasive and generalized alarum provoked by the Bush administration’s profligate militarism and reckless foreign policy, nor the plight of the poor and unemployed, nor, well, you know.

Instead the hysteria surrounds the impending demise or dissolution or desuetude of that most horrendous of television series, “Sex and the City.” (See, for example, “No More ‘Sex,’” by Ellen Gray, Philadelphia Daily News, February 20, and “Miss Matched,” by Karen Heller, Philadelphia Inquirer, February 21.)

Far too much ink has been spilled and too many trees have fallen -- to say nothing of the 0s and 1s wastefully transmitted hither and yon on the subject -- agonizing over the end of the show and the four remarkably, and uniformly, unattractive (psychologically speaking, of course) women who formed the core of the show’s story lines.

I say: Good-bye, sluts. Good riddance. Don’t let the sheets hit your asses on the way out.

Does the end of “Sex and the City” portend something potentially greater? The broader culture’s sudden collective interest in accomplished women writers, artists, musicians, and businesswomen? (No, sorry, sit down Camille Paglia, Cindy Sherman, Sheryl Crow, and Carly Fiorina, the key word here is accomplished.)

Sadly, this probably is not a key turning point because the show was still quite, and rather inexplicably, popular. Getting (out) while the getting (it) is good, I suppose.

Call me sexist, call me patronizing, call me popular-culturally ignorant (Please!), but I think women deserve better than “Sex and the City.”

And yes, I know, “my people” are no better. It’s sad that, for all of their purported cultural superiority (e.g., “opera queen”), too many gay men know more about, and even idolize, porn stars -- witness: steroid abuse, tattoos, full-body waxing and shaving -- than they do the writers, artists, musicians, and businessmen in their midst and among their cultural heritage.

But that’s just me.

Lou Peluso of Philadelphia writes to the Philadelphia Daily News in response to syndicated columnist Michelle Malkin’s deranged adoration of guns, rifles, and all the men associated with firearms. (Uh, Dr. Freud, please call your office, Dr. Freud.)

An excerpt from Peluso’s letter, published today:

Michelle Malkin, the news media’s plastic centerpiece for the right-wing midgets of the NRA, asks, “Isn’t it time for gun-owning entrepreneurs, tourists[,] and voters to take their business elsewhere?”

That sentiment, if spoken by some liberal, would most likely be termed “treasonous” by Ms. [sic] Malkin.

But such name-calling is expected from our little Ms. [sic] Malkin -- we’ve come to expect that from her. It’s time she got out of that room of mirrors and entered reality. Life isn’t as black-and-white as is her clouded perception of reality.

Ouch. A well deserved ouch.

Somebody get that man a blog!

[Note: Michelle Malkin is married, presumably with the full and complete blessing and recognition, respectively, of both church and state, to one Jesse Malkin. I can only assume, based on her past “work,” that she would prefer the honorific “Mrs.,” perhaps in that most traditional of appelations, one I intend not here to disparage, “Mrs. Jesse (Michelle) Malkin.”]

Let’s see, you decline to seek advice, and subsequently are denied consent. What to do? Toss the whole process in the toilet. After all, it’s only the Constitution of the United States of America.

The latest trashing of the strict intent of the authors of the Constitution (Where have I heard that before?): President Peek-a-Boo today resorted to truly desperate measures -- a recess appointment -- to put Alabama Attorney General William H. Pryor Jr. on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 11th Circuit (Atlanta).

Without approval of the Senate, the clock will tick relentlessly over Pryor’s head while he serves the Bush administration on the court. Happily, if one can find anything remotely satisfying about this disgrace, Pryor will be looking for a job by the end of next year.

Reader C.P. writes:

I was at the Rittenhouse website this morning and saw no terror alert status report.

How can I prepare for the day without knowing?

My apologies, C.P.

Rest assured, if you can: The nation’s terror alert status remains Yellow.

Can you say that? Yellow.

I believe that means “elevated.”

Can you say that? Elevated.

And I say all this knowing you, C.P., live in a small city that ranks kind of not so high on the list of terrorists’ potential hit sites, and that nonetheless, or rather therefore, military and civil authorities in your area should be as well prepared as those in such places as Washington and New York, and therefore are free, or obligated, to incur any and all necessary related expenses, payment by whom it is not for us to ask.

The truth is that thankfully, I guess, we have been on Yellow alert status for quite some time and, as a result, I was starting to run out of appropriate photographs.

I’ll do better going forward knowing you, and who knows how many others, are relying on Rittenhouse to prepare your day, each and every day.

[Post-publication addendum: See new terror alert color status report at right.]

Let’s skip the Washington Post column (“Girls Night Out: The True Joy of ‘Sex’,” pretty self-explanatory anyway, done 100 times already) and go straight to the videotape.

Lloyd Grove writes in today’s New York Daily News:

Buzz-zzzzzz: I’m told that [sic] the ratings slide of Queen of Buzz Tina Brown’s weekly CNBC talk show is Topic A among the chattering class. According to figures released yesterday, last Sunday’s 8 p.m. installment of “Topic A With Tina Brown,” featuring Miramax chief Harvey Weinstein as the guest, drew only 20,000 viewers -- a 67% plummet from the previous Sunday’s debut and a rating so low that it barely registers on the buzz-o-meter.

Typically Tina, that: thinking anyone cares what her business associate Weinstein thinks about anything.

You know, there are blogs, though not this one, that consistently draw more “viewers” than Brown’s “program,” and these blogs are “on” every day, not just once a week.

(Thanks to reader A.E. for the Daily News tip.)

It’s amazing, I think, when my bulldog, Mildred, who is nine cents short of a dime, knows, without any indication from me whatsoever, that’s she’s in the proverbial doghouse.

Earlier this morning Mildred engaged in an extremely rare act of disobedience: She apparently pulled a food bag out of the cabinet, spilled its contents onto the kitchen floor, and sat down for a little binge.

I didn’t witness the event, but I saw plenty of evidence, and Mildred knows better. And I know Mildred knew she misbehaved because when I arrived at the scene she was sitting in her self-imposed “time out” chair, not the chair she prefers.

In the absence of eyewitness testimony, I thought it was inappropriate to scold her or punish her, so I decided to ignore her. Eventually she made her way to the bedroom, and later I went in to lift her up on to the bed. (It’s very high; she can’t make the jump on her own.)

Now here I am in my office, not 50 feet away, eating potato chips (yes, at 10:30 a.m.), and I know Mildred can hear me eating them, and I know she knows what I’m eating, and I know she knows that she really likes them, and I know she knows that she always gets at least two or three bits of almost everything I eat, and she has yet to emerge from the bedroom.

And, no -- and this is to those who really know Mildred, either in person or through the blog -- she is not sleeping. I checked. Twice. She’s in the doghouse, and she knows it, and yet I didn’t put her there.

One more thing: That whole “let’s switch Mildred back to the diet dog food” thing I was talking about? Project abandoned. It was just too much. Way too much.

By the way, saying Mildred is “nine cents short of a dime” reminds me of her days in a certain uptown Manhattan daycare center.

After Mildred had attended the carefully preselected preschool for more than a year (that’s how things “work” there), a new student, André, I believe his name was, entered the class.

Like Mildred, André was a bulldog. Like Mildred, André was mostly white in coloring. And like Mildred, André apparently wasn’t very bright.

During the early weeks after André’s initial enrollment the teachers told me Mildred, as is her wont with the little guys, took to André immediately. Mildred graciously took him under her wing, so to speak. André was pleased by the attention and happy to learn the ways of the world from so elegant an older woman. “Mildred’s showing him around,” they said. “She’s teaching him the ropes.”

I said, through my teeth, “Really? That’s wonderful!”

But I thought to myself, “Oh, this can’t be good.”

And indeed it wasn’t.

André’s parents owners soon discerned what was happening, and not long thereafter Mildred came home with a note. (Now, I should say that Mildred bringing a note home is a really big deal, not only because she is extraordinarily well behaved but also because she lacks opposable thumbs, making the transport of such a note rather complicated, to say the least.)

The note read, in relevant part:

It has been suggested to us that the proper and appropriate physical and mental development of one of our new students, namely André, would be best pursued without the, shall we say, interference of your daughter pet, Mildred.

Parents Owners have asked questions about her developmental and occupational status and potential. Moreover, issues of hygiene also have been raised.

Having known, worked with, and instructed Mildred in, well, the lesser of our vocational arts for more than a year, we must say that we concur with the parents’ owners’ assessment.

As such, be advised we shall henceforth discourage and, if necessary, disrupt, any and all contact between André and Mildred.

And do you know what? Stupid, naïve idiot that I was, I bought into the whole thing. I felt horrible and guilty, not for having subjected Mildred to such absurd and unwarranted scrutiny, but rather for having delayed André’s incipient development into some sort of brilliant champion show dog.

New York does that to people. Even to dogs. And that’s why I live in Philadelphia.

Oh, this ought to be something.

Judge Miriam Goldman Cedarbaum, presiding over the trials of publisher Martha Stewart and her former stockbroker Peter Bacanovic, yesterday said she would allow friends of prosecution witness Douglas Faneuil to testify about conversations they had after Stewart sold shares of ImClone Systems Inc. through Faneuil (“Setback Seen for Broker in Stewart Judge Ruling,” by Constance L. Hays).

According to the Times, “The ruling permits jurors to hear evidence of Mr. Faneuil’s conversations with his friends, in which he apparently told them he had done something wrong and was worried about it.”

Why might this be “something?” Well, after overcoming initial jitters, Faneuil last week displayed a distinct flair for the dramatic during his appearance in U.S. District Court. His theatrics, which reportedly grew more pronounced following the apparent appreciation of some jurors, went so far as to draw an objection from Stewart’s lead attorney, Robert Morvillo. “I’m going to object to the acting,” Morvillo said, but was overruled.

I know, I don’t know these guys, Faneuil’s friends. But believe me, I know these guys. And the whole thing has me almost wishing I were in New York for a chance to watch what’s likely to be quite a performance.

I also know I wouldn’t want to be around Faneuil’s friends the night beforehand: “What are you going to wear?” “I don’t know, what are you wearing?” “I just don’t know!”

It looks like former Treasury Secretary Paul O’Neill isn’t the only Bush administration official who doesn’t buy the White House line.

The New York Times today reports (“Bush Officials Offer Cautions on White House Jobs Forecast,” by Edmund L. Andrews):

Treasury Secretary John W. Snow distanced himself on Tuesday from the Bush administration’s official prediction that the nation would add 2.6 million jobs by the end of this year.

That prediction, which is far more optimistic than that of many private sector forecasters, was part of the annual economic report released last week by the White House Council of Economic Advisers and was immediately echoed by Mr. Bush himself.

But on a tour through Washington and Oregon to promote the president’s economic agenda, Mr. Snow and Commerce Secretary Donald L. Evans both declined to endorse the White House prediction and cautioned that it was based on economic assumptions that have an inherent margin of error.

“I think we are going to create a lot of jobs; how many I don’t know,” Mr. Snow said, adding that “macroeconomic models are based on a lot of assumptions” and are “not without a range of error.” […]

To create 2.6 million jobs by the end of this year, the nation would have to add more than 230,000 positions each month from now until January. But many if not most economic forecasters expect a more modest upswing, largely because the nation’s productivity has been climbing so rapidly that companies have been meeting higher demand without adding workers.

Selling a product in which you have no confidence. That’s the Republican way.

Daniele Gatti of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, in Naples, Fla.

Allen Iverson of the Philadelphia 76ers, in Denver.

Bruce Friedrich of Peta, in Slaughterville, Minn.

[Post-publication addendum February 20: Reader L.F. writes to correct me. Slaughterville is a town in Oklahoma, not Minnesota. My apologies.]

Below are links to articles in today’s local newspapers about the murder of 10-year-old Faheem Thomas-Childs, Philadelphia, caught in the spray of a drug-gang-related gun battle -- somewhere between 50 and 100 bullets were fired, and this at 8:30 a.m. -- in front of his elementary school a week ago today.

(The A-plus student’s death was noted here Tuesday.)

In the Philadelphia Inquirer:

“Death of 10-Year-Old Hits at School’s Heart,” by Vernon Clark and Susan Snyder.

“Another Life Lost to the Guns,” by columnist Acel Moore.

“For a Safer World, Let’s Invest in All Children,” by columnist Lucia Herndon.

And an editorial, “Protecting Children.”

In the Philadelphia Daily News:

“Con Men, Pretending to Collect [Money] for Faheem’s Kin, Stole It Instead,” by Barbara Laker, in which we read: “This is a city with no shame. […] [W]hile he was on life support for five days, con men with cans in their hands, wearing T-shirts emblazoned with his photograph, walked his neighborhood collecting money for themselves. […] To ensure that all donations go to the family, the NAACP has established a memorial fund to pay for Faheem's funeral and to provide scholarships for Faheem’s eight surviving brothers and sisters.”

“Peirce Principal Vows to Use Slaying to Bring Change to School Community,” by Mensah M. Dean

“Gunplay Ends a Child’s Play,” by columnist Elmer Smith

And an editorial, “Philadelphia in the Cross Hairs: Guns Hold the City Hostage.” Pull quote:

Thanks to the pro-gun forces in Harrisburg, Philadelphia has been prevented from passing effective gun-control legislation. […] The only ones who can step in are Gov. [Ed] Rendell and the state Legislature. We expect nothing from the Legislature. What matter the death of a child when there’s all that political muscle from the NRA to tap? But Rendell is apparently not interested either, despite making a lot of noise about suing gun manufacturers when he was mayor. When did he lose his moral compass?

Good question. Probably sometime in January 2003, somewhere along I-76 West.

Shorter Peggy Noonan:

“I perform much better when I write off the top of my head than when I have to answer real questions from real people.”

If I might borrow from Noonan’s own words:

“Not impressive.”

“You can find the transcript of the . . . interview all over the Web. It reads better than it played.”

“[She] seemed tired, unsure and often bumbling. [Her] answers were repetitive, and when [she] tried to clarify them [she] tended to make them worse. [She] did not seem prepared. [She] seemed in some way disconnected from the event.”

“But [her] supporters don’t really expect to be inspired by [her] interviews.”

“So [Ms. Noonan] will have a few bad days of bad reviews ahead of [her].”

“[She] couldn’t remember [her] talking points. [She’s] a non-talking-point [gal].”

“I’ve never been able to stick to a talking point in a TV interview in my life.”

The reelection campaign of Sen. Arlen Specter (R-Pa.) is underway. Specter filed the necessary papers with the state election commission (See John Baer’s excellent column in today’s Philadelphia Daily News, “Abstinence Lands on Arlen’s Agenda”), and his campaign is running its first television advertisements, prepared not in anticipation of the general election, but ahead of the Republican party primary challenge from Rep. Patrick Toomey.

I haven’t seen the ad, but the Philadelphia Inquirer on Sunday published one of its brief “Ad Watch” pieces summarizing and analyzing the spot:

Images and words: Pennsylvania’s other senator, Rick Santorum, faces the camera and says: “I’ve heard people say that they think Arlen Specter is a liberal. But let me tell you as a member of the Senate leadership, Arlen Specter was the key vote, not just in supporting the President’s tax plan that created jobs that has revived this economy, but in getting the votes necessary to make that passage possible. Arlen is with us on the votes that matter to move our agenda forward for this president and for the country. I am proud to endorse Arlen Specter.”

Specter is briefly shown with the President, and the words “Arlen Specter cast the deciding vote for the Bush tax cut” appear.

Analysis: It is not clear in which Bush tax cut Specter played a decisive role. A spokesman says it was the May 21, 2003, passage of a 10-year $350 billion cut that passed the Senate 50-50, with Vice President [Richard] Cheney’s breaking the tie. Any of those on the winning side could have been said to have cast the deciding vote.

Wow. Slow start. Unimpressive.

Should he win the party primary, Specter in November still will face a very strong challenge from Rep. Joseph Hoeffel (D).

Hoeffel’s campaign received an added boost this week when it brought on staff Philadelphia attorney and blogger Adam Bonin.

Bonin writes:

This is a Democratic state -- our governor is a Democrat, our largest cities are run by Democrats, and we voted Democratic in the last three Presidential elections. It’s about time our Senate delegation reflected these trends, and the polling suggests that as more voters learn who Joe Hoeffel is, we will. Arlen Specter is vulnerable, and we can beat him.

And Bonin reminds everyone, Pennsylvanians or not, that defeating Specter is going to take money, and plenty of it. So please add Joe Hoeffel to your list of very worthy causes this year. You can donate on line or you can download the contribution form at the same site and then mail a check to Hoeffel for Senate, 1528 Walnut St., Suite 950, Philadelphia, Pa., 19102.

Reuters today reports:

The federal judge in the Martha Stewart trial on Tuesday barred prosecutors from speculating before jurors that the trendsetter and her former stockbroker might have discussed a stock tip cover-up during phone conversations.

U.S. District Judge Miriam Goldman Cedarbaum ruled that while government lawyers may introduce logs of phone calls made between the two defendants while they were being investigated in early 2002, they cannot tell the jury what they think those conversations involved.

“You cannot argue what they said from the phone records,” the judge said, adding that the lawyers also could not encourage the jury to speculate on the content of the conversations. […]

Tuesday’s ruling follows another blow to the government last week when Cedarbaum prohibited prosecutors from calling expert witnesses to testify that Stewart's public denials about receiving a stock tip influenced investors in her own company.

According to Reuters, prosecutors expect to conclude presentation of their case “by Thursday.”

Between now and then prosecutors are expected to focus on a worksheet in broker Peter Bacanovic’s office they allege he fabricated after the fact to support the contention Stewart and Bacanovic had a preexisting agreement to sell her shares of ImClone Systems Inc. when they reached $60.

Earlier reports indicated prosecutors planned to introduce experts on handwriting and ink analysis to support their side. (Yeah, juries really eat that stuff up. Zzzzzz.)

It looks like the securities fraud charge, the most serious of those made against Stewart, has been all but forgotten. We’ve yet to see any material evidence presented on this matter, and with a “by Thursday” conclusion to the prosecutors’ case, there’s little time remaining for such evidence to be presented.

Related links:

“Martha McCarthyism,” by Michael Wolff, New York, February 23.

“Star Witness,” by Jeffrey Toobin, the New Yorker, February 16. (Pull quote: Robert Movillo, Stewart’s lead attorney, in reference to the performance of prosecution witness Douglas Faneuil: “I’m going to object to the acting.”)

Somebody had better pull aside Associated Press reporter Scott Lindlaw and warn him he’s veering off script and out of character.

In a report published by the Philadelphia Inquirer today, Lindlaw actually looked behind the curtain, not only when President Walk On appeared in public but after he was shuffled off stage as well (“President Renews His Call for Permanent Tax Cuts”):

President Bush, brushing aside concerns about the budget deficit, yesterday renewed his demand that Congress extend his tax cuts, and contended that Democrats would raise taxes. […]

Bush spoke at a window factory, the latest such plant he has chosen to showcase what he says are the favorable impacts of his tax policies on small business. His makeshift stage was near the production floor, and he was flanked by small-business owners and an employee.

The White House bills these events as “conversations on the economy,” but there is never disagreement, only positive reinforcement of Bush’s message.

“Mr. President, we have to keep this tax cut,” said Sam Leto, chairman of Tampa Brass & Aluminum Corp.

Bush’s tour of the factory floor was also highly stage-managed. As he entered, a half-dozen workers were steadily polishing windows, as if Bush had walked into an ordinary shift on Presidents’ Day. News cameras snapped away as Bush picked up a caulking gun and hugged workers.

Five minutes after Bush and his entourage of journalists left, the factory floor was deserted, and there was no sign later in the day that production had resumed.

Lindlaw actually had the audacity to say outright that the appearance was “highly stage-managed.” He also implied the President and his minions were scripted. He alluded to the use of props: windows, caulking gun, “flanked by . . . an employee.” And he hinted extras were employed on some kind of per diem.

Reading Lindlaw’s story was almost like being there, seeing the event as it really happened and in its complete context.

Who does he think he is? A reporter or something?

This is an odd choice for quote of the day, not only because there isn’t always a quote of the day here, but also because the remark was made some four years ago and was spoken by an unidentified woman. Oh, well.

“Abandoning his GOP bid in 2000, Utah Sen. Orrin G. Hatch recalled a New Hampshire woman who asked to have her picture taken with him. When he asked if she wanted the photo to send to her children, she replied: ‘No, I’m just trying to finish off the roll.’”

(And just four years later I’ll bet Mary Lou responds, when asked, “That guy? I don’t remember. Someone who ran for president. I forget his name. He’s that senator who really has a thing for ephedra.”)

Faheem Thomas-Childs, elementary school student: 1994-2004.

That which the city greatly feared has come upon us.

Faheem Thomas-Childs

The Philadelphia Inquirer today reports (“Boy Who Was Shot at School is Dead,” by Vernon Clark and Thomas J. Gibbons Jr.):

Faheem Thomas-Childs, the 10-year-old who had been the focus of hopes and prayers since he was shot in the face Wednesday morning while walking to school, died yesterday of his wounds.

The third grader, who was called a “peacemaker” by his teacher at T.M. Peirce Elementary School in North Philadelphia, was pronounced dead at 4:15 p.m. at Temple University Children’s Medical Center, sources said. […]

Faheem’s home on Lehigh Avenue was dark last night. Members of his family, who had kept vigil at the hospital despite the grim prognosis after the shooting, were not available. He had been unconscious from the moment he was wounded.

Faheem and a crossing guard, Debra Smith, were wounded outside Peirce, at 23d and Cambria Streets, by stray gunfire about 8:30 a.m. during a shoot-out between rival gangs. […]

That gun battle unleashed a blizzard of nearly 100 shots in the area as children were arriving for school. […]

During his brief life, Faheem impressed people who knew him. He was an A-plus student and a classroom leader, his third-grade teacher, Robert Cunningham, said in an interview last week.

“He’s polite, gentle,” Cunningham said. “He was a real peacemaker.”

(The Philadelphia Daily News also reports Thomas-Childs’s death, “Boy Caught in Drug-war Crossfire Dies,” by Simone Weichselbaum, Nicole Weisensee Egan, and Catherine Lucey.)

Police have arrested two men in connection with the crime but believe four others also were involved. A local lawmaker and the Daily News have assembled a substantial reward for information that leads to the shooters.

Okay, so kill me, kill me now. Just an hour ago I went on a crazed candy binge, or should I say, a candy-buying binge.

It’s not my fault. Blame the doorman, or the doorperson, the kind woman who is strangely assigned to “man” the front desk, by herself, at night and even late at night.

This isn’t a bad neighborhood, mind you, it’s a good neighborhood, but it’s also a weird neighborhood, and I worry about her sitting down there alone.

Anyway, an hour ago I went out for a pack of cigarettes and before leaving the building I struck up a conversation with said doorwoman. Since I was headed to the nearest bodega, I offered to pick up for her a cup of coffee, a soda, whatever, whatever she might want or need. For reasons not entirely clear just now, our talk soon veered to the subject of candy.

Now that’s an area in which I am expert. I can hold my own with any of the Mars brothers on this subject.

And during our conversation the doorwoman mentioned a desire for “Mallo Cups,” should I be able to find them.

Whoa! Mallo Cups!? “Blast from the Past” and all that.

I can’t remember the last time I had those, let alone thought of them. But I remembered one thing: I loved Mallo Cups.

And so this little jaunt to the corner bodega became something larger: a hunt, a hunt for Mallo Cups.

The nearest shop, sadly, didn’t stock this delicacy.

That didn’t stop me from spending some serious candy money. While there I purchased the following: Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews, Butterfinger, Twizzlers, Sugar Babies, Krackel, Junior Mints, Mr. Goodbar, Amazin’ Fruit Gummy Bears, Swedish Fish, and M&M’s Peanut Butter. (The last of these, packaged in a silver/gray bag, I will say, are completely new to me.)

But no Mallo Cups.

What to do? Where to go?

I know . . . that place on 13th Street, the place where I buy my Razzles, the proprietor of which told me he has customers who buy Razzles there by the stack because they can’t find them anywhere else.

Oh yeah!

They were there.

Mallo Cups.

(Tell me this, though: Where in Philadelphia can I find B-B-Bats?)

Overheard recently in Center City Philadelphia, in the Washington West area, “overheard” in the sense that I was a party to the conversation:

She: “Whenna ya’ movin’ out?”

Me: “I don’t know, Mrs. ______. The lawsuits complicated my plans.”

She: “Da lawsuit was t’rown out.” [Ed.: Actually, the suit was withdrawn by her attorney, under pressure, before, with ample justification, the court itself might have dismissed it.]

Me: “Your lawsuit.”

She: “I know. Yeah. T’rown out.”

Me: “Your lawsuit.”

She: “It’s ovuh.”

Me: “Your lawsuit.”

She: “Whaddya tawkin’ about?”

Me: “Your lawsuit.”

She: “What udderwun iz dere?”

Me: “Watch your mailbox.”

“More nutrition stays in your dog.”

I love that phrase. It comes from Hill’s Science Diet, Topeka, Kan.

It’s meaningful and it conveys the intended and appropriate message, but it is also sufficiently and appropriately vague.

To understand this phrase fully you kind of have to be in on it, and if you’re not, let me spell it out for you: If your dog eats our dog food, she’ll produce less poop.

I’m all for that.

And it’s true, at least with respect to Mildred’s most recent feed formula, Hill’s Science Diet, Sensitive Skin.

“Sensitive Skin”? I know, you’re thinking I fall for all of that kind of crap, but really, she does have sensitive skin. I also treat and feed and groom her as if she were a supermodel, but that’s another story.

Actually, that’s this story. Mildred has been gaining more than a little weight lately, and so I decided I would “transition” her (and I really hate it when people use “transition” as a verb, even though I just did) to Hill’s Science Diet Light Adult Formula, i.e./a.k.a., Jenny Craig for bulldogs.

It’s not going well. Not well at all. Sure, she eats it. Mildred eats almost anything.

But “more nutrition stays in your dog”?

Not eating out of that bag.

The friggin’ nutrition is all over the place.

I’m glad I’m moving out of here.

Devoted reader L.M. writes:

Sometimes, due to a busy week, I’ll get behind on my Rittenhousing. Then, thankfully, a quiet Sunday afternoon will present itself and I’ll choose The Rittenhouse Review over, I don’t know, dusting? Color yourself flattered.

So that’s why I just read your flight-attendants-shouldn’t-pass-out-pretzels piece. Can I just say, “O-M-G!”

This is the touchstone, the connection, that says, “You are not alone.” There are people out there that think as you think.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve voiced the exact same opinion. Flight attendants are not waitresses. [Ed.: Nor are they waiters.] They’re not there to sell drinks or massage the egos of the guys [Ed.: Slobs?] in first class. They’re there for safety.

I don’t think there should be any food or drink service on planes at all. I’d even go so far as to give flight attendants a whole new name and image. [Ed.: Emphasis added.]

Anything to get people to listen to them when they tell you to stop walking around the plane when you’re supposed to be seated, to stow your luggage above your seat -- not the seat 20 rows in front of you that hasn’t boarded yet -- or better yet, check it! [Ed.: Oh, please, L.M., don’t get me started on this one.] Not to mention, “We haven’t boarded your row yet, you self-centered moron. Get back in line.” [Ed.: Though, credit the professionals for being kinder with their words than we would be.]

When a flight attendant tells you to do something, they’re supposed to be treated with respect and have their instructions obeyed.

As tragic as are the stories of the flight attendants on the September 11 flights, what is especially sad to me is the knowledge that, on that day, as they did their jobs, some passengers didn’t listen. Some passengers treated them the same way they always treat flight attendants: as glorified waitresses [Ed.: Or waiters.], there to hand out drinks, be ignored during the safety presentation, and to receive the brunt of customer complaints about every single little thing that is or might be wrong about air travel.

Thanks. It was good to hear your thoughts on the subject. Much appreciated.

I think L.M. is right with respect not only to the drinks-and-peanuts thing, but also to finding a new name for flight attendants, one that more accurately reflects their true responsibilities during flights.

Look, if we can spend millions to devise a five-color security scorecard, one that President Chutes and Ladders understands but one that means nothing to anyone else except “local authorities” in Montana -- like anything is going to happen there -- can’t we at least call these professionals by a term they deserve? One they have earned? One they earn every single day?

Many years ago, while I was living in Washington, I read an article in the Washington Post about the preponderance of Saturday- and Sunday-morning emergency-room visits at area hospitals from otherwise intelligent people who had sliced badly, though probably not maliciously nor intentionally, a finger or two while cutting their morning bagels.

I did almost the same thing this morning.

But I wasn’t a cutting a bagel, I was cutting, or trying to cut, in half, my intended breakfast, an egg roll from last night’s Chinese take out.

I failed miserably. And so, at this moment, while I’m not headed to the nearest hospital, I will admit my left index finger is disabled for at least the short term. (“Nasty gash” is the best phrase that comes to mind.)

I know I could continue to blog, but the number of typos so far incurred in producing this post eagerly lends to the argument that I should take a brief respite.

It doesn’t help that my right index finger, for the past three days, has been afflicted by a tiny cut, possibly a paper cut that despite its miniscule size has been aggravated by the wound’s annoyingly inconvenient position, at least with respect to operating a keyboard, a location that has had me applying, adjusting, removing, and then reapplying bandages with irritating frequency.

I promise nothing. It’s Sunday, after all, and while the newspapers on Sundays typically are thin event-wise, some of them tend to be robust perspective-wise. And it’s not like a couple of little cuts are going to shut me up.

Here’s a strange headline from Saturday’s Philadelphia Daily News:

“Gays Delight Over Judge’s Refusal to Stop Same-Sex Spree.”

Promiscuous? Not us.

Orchestras, along with opera, theater, and ballet companies, around the country are struggling. Really and truly struggling. All too many have pared back their performance schedules, reduced staff, and, in some cases, stopped performing completely, halls and theaters gone dark amid shamefully pervasive filings of bankruptcy.

It seems the Bush administration’s obscene largesse toward the richest of the very rich hasn’t produced any benefits for arts institutions, and here I would include, in addition to orchestras and opera, theater, and ballet companies, museums, historic sites and homes, schools, colleges, and universities, and charities of almost every and any kind. Instead, it’s apparently all gone into the pockets of the greediest of the very greedy.

Listen, the repeal of the estate tax was an incredibly rapacious assault on the tax code and, worse, a shameful war on democracy as we know it; legislation that proved once and for all that despite conservative pretentions of following strict constitutionalism and unerring adherence to the words of the founding fathers, they haven’t read, let alone understood, a word of what those great men wrote.

The estate tax repeal is nothing more, and far less, than a new element of the Bush administration and Republican Party’s ongoing and relentless class warfare. Bizarrely, it is one of their proudest moments, “friends of working families” that they pretend to be.

In addition to saddling the middle and working classes with incredibly unfair tax burdens going forward, this stupidity, this lunacy, is killing and will continue to kill arts and culture in this country for years, and if the Bush gang and its allies have their way, for generations.

This is not a done deal. You can help repeal the disgraceful repeal of the estate tax by visiting the web site of United for a Fair Economy and its affiliate, Responsible Wealth, and take action as these groups advise on this critical issue.

UFE? “Reponsible Wealth”? Who are they? Some crazy left-wing groups? Hardly. Among the groups’ backers are such radicals as Warren Buffet, Bill Gates Sr., George Soros, and Ted Turner.

More narrowly, and more locally, and in the past I have urged readers to be aggressive in supporting local cultural and artistic organizations, I’d like to take a minute to direct the attention of Philadelphia-area readers to some of the lesser known of the multitude of symphonic organizations and associations in the region.

State and local funding: down, cut. Foundation grants: down, cut. With that in mind, I can’t help but think that most, if not each and every one of these orchestras, could use your help. You don’t have to write a check, an unrestricted donation, to support them. Instead, buy a ticket to and attend a concert of one or more of these groups. They’ll get something from the transaction, and so will you. And you more than they, I expect.

Allentown Symphony Orchestra: March 7, 2:00 p.m., Symphony Hall, 23 N. 6th St.: “Three Winning Cellists.” And March 13, 8:00 p.m.: Angie Cheng, violin, performing Debussy, “Prelude a L’apres-midi d’un faune,” Wieniawski, “Violin Concerto No. 1 in F-sharp minor,” and Tchaikovsky, “Symphony No. 5 in E minor.”

Bucks County Symphony Orchestra: February 15, 3:00 p.m., Central Bucks East High School: Bartok, “Hungarian Pictures,” Mozart, “Horn Concerto No. 4,” and Beethoven, “Symphony No. 3 (Eroica). Also, March 26, 8:00 p.m., Lenpae Middle School: Sibelius, “Finlandia,” Rachmaninoff, “Piano Concerto No. 2,” and Rimsky-Korsakov, “Scheherazade.”

Chestnut Hill Community Orchestra: February 15, Church of St. Luke the Evangelist, Glenside, Pa., and February 22, Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Philadelphia (Northeast): Schubert, “Symphony No. 9 in C” and Beethoven, “Violin Concerto in D.” [Ed.: Even if you’re not “into” classical music, this is a program you will enjoy.]

Delaware County Symphony Orchestra: February 29, 3:00 p.m., Meagher Theater, Neumann College, Aston, Pa.: Rossini, “Thieving Magpie Overture,” Brahms/Brio, “Sonata No. 1 for Clarinet and Orchestra,” and Respighi, “Church Windows.”

Delaware Valley Philharmonic Orchestra: March 13, Christian Life Center, Bensalem, Pa.: Stravinsky, “Fire Bird,” Wright/Forrest, “Kismet: Baubles, Bangles, and Beads; and This is my Beloved,” Balakirev, “Overture on Three Russian Folksongs,” and Rimsky-Korsakov, “Scheherazade”.

Lansdowne Symphony Orchestra: March 21, 3:00 p.m., Upper Darby Performing Arts Center, Upper Darby, Pa.: Beethoven, “Consecration of the House Overture,” Haydn, “Sinfonia Concertante in B flat,” and Schumann, “Symphony No. 4 in D minor.”

Lower Merion Symphony: February 28, 3:00 p.m., Rosemont College, Rosemont, Pa.: Selections from “Semiramide,” “Romeo & Juliet,” “Don Pasquale,” “Dance of the Hours,” “Ballo in Maschera,” “La Traviata,” and “Fra Diavolo.”

North Penn Symphony Orchestra: April 3, Trinity Lutheran Church, Lansdale, Pa.: “Annual Evening at the Opera,” including favorite excerpts and highlights from Don Giovanni, The Pearlfishers, Lohengrin, Carmen, The Marriage of Figaro, Tosca, Il Trovatore, Cavalleria, Rusticana, Candide, La Traviata, Rigoletto, La Bohème, and The Barber of Seville.

I love the Philadelphia Daily News. I can’t live without it. The tabloid is delivered to my front door each and every day, except Sundays, of course, on which the paper takes leave of this city. I can’t live without the Philadelphia Inquirer either, another of the newspapers dropped at -- or, more accurately, with respect to both the Inquirer and the Daily News -- at best near my front door every morning. (And I’ve really got to call somebody about that.)

I say all of that knowing full well that I’m not the typical Daily News reader. It’s widely known, particularly among the local intelligentsia that appreciates the tabloid, to say nothing of those within that group who have a grasp on the paper’s core audience, that many, and more likely most, Daily News readers, could -- and would -- easily and happily live without the Inquirer should Knight-Ridder Inc. decide, once again, in the newspapers’ next round of negotiations with the newsroom unions, to try to “cut costs” by pushing the closure of the Daily News.

Look, KRI guys, get real. As they say in Philly, “Ain’t gawnna happin.”

Still, the Daily News this week disappointed me not once, but twice, with scurrilous -- and that is the kindest word I can find -- reporting about Democratic presidential hopeful Sen. John F. Kerry (D-Mass.), in two separate articles by the otherwise outstanding William Bunch, “local angle” be damned.

Because I am not privy to the assignment procedures at the paper, I don’t know that I can blame or chastise Bunch personally for these horrible and, as I suspect he would, if pressed, concede, groundless, pieces, these little scraps of National Enquire-esque reportage that, if they deserved any major media outlet at all, might better have been carried by CNN or Fox News, do not belong in the Daily News, a newspaper that the great Neal Pollack, a former resident of Philadelphia, once called, in an e-mail to me, the American newspaper that best captures the character of the city in which it is published.

I couldn’t agree more.

Still, bring it back up, people.

The Rittenhouse Review needs a new traffic counter, that because the site’s previous vendor has proved itself incapable of arranging for something so simple as a seamless renewal of paid services.

And so I’m asking my fellow bloggers for suggestions, suggestions I advise you beforehand need not and should not include that which is doing business under the name of “SiteMeter.”

Thanks for your help.

Now, come on, tell me, does she not look fantastic in this, or what?

Martha Stewart
Arriving at Federal Court in Manhattan

(And just so you know, that whole “or what” thing makes the entire question, as if there were any, “rhetorical.”)

Look, Bill Keller, you and the rest of the gang at the New York Times knew this coming, “this” being the Bush administration’s unbearably and unconscionably tardy release of what they are calling “all” of the records pertaining to the president’s at best spotty participation in the National Guard during the Vietnam War.

So, why, may I, a devoted reader, ask, wasn’t your staff fully prepared for the event?

“In Haze of Guard Records, a Bit of Clarity,” by David Barstow, is a pretty lame, and obviously uncertain and confused, assessment of the documents released by the White House. (I concede, however, that as with all media time is of the essence, and readers benefit from getting at least something rather than nothing.)

I suppose the link to Barstow’s article from the Times homepage, which states, with uncharacteristic honesty, “Guard Record Resists Easy Review,” might help readers understand that the Times still hasn’t decided what the heck ever went on back then, let alone whether President George W. Bush went absent without leave (AWOL) or, worse, was a deserter under the operative laws of the period.

But, may I remind you, Mr. Keller, first impressions mean a great deal in politics, almost everything, in fact, and because the Times apparently didn’t have a reporter fully up to speed on this issue, a matter of extreme importance that unjustifiably has been lingering for in the background for years (and “lingering” isn’t quite the right word, because more astute outlets beyond the so-called mainstream media have been pounding this issue with informed commentary since before the turn of the century).

Within so narrow a timeframe as the Karl Rove and the gang have granted you, Mr. Keller, the Times, and the rest of what passes for “the media” in this country, your paper’s inability to immediately, authoritatively, and convincingly issue a determination about President Bush’s highly questionable acts in the early 1970s already has left the field wide open -- and untended -- for the masters of the “sound bite”: your colleagues, if you will, at CNN, Fox News, talk radio AM, and among the Bush-lapping punditocracy.

What the hell is going on up there? Anything?

At the Washington Post it was no better. The Post’s first offering, “Many Gaps In Bush's Guard Records,” by Dana Milbank and Mike Allen, was similarly hesitant and cautious, though, sadly, and I think inappropriately, even more complimentary of President Play-Dough’s National Guard record.

Should you ever find yourself in Philadelphia and simultaneously hankering for Turkish food, and I know that particular coincidence of events is unlikely to occur among the even most longstanding, diehard, and regular of Center City Philadelphia residents, point yourself and then head in the direction of Konak, the city’s newest, and in fact only, Turkish restaurant, located at 228 Vine Street in Old City [Phone: (215) 592-1212].

You won’t be disappointed. What am I saying? You’ll love it.

It helps if you go with someone who knows even a bit of perfectly pronounced Turkish.

The staff goes nuts for that.

[Post-publication addendum (February 15): I speak no Turkish whatsoever. My guest did. Does.]

In a typically excellent column in today’s New York Times, Paul Krugman tells readers this year’s Budget of the U.S. Government -- which is not only a “thing” but also a document, a set of documents -- includes in the latter form nearly 30 hagiographic photographs of President George W. Bush (“The Real Man”).

That’s remarkable. Astounding, really. And it’s despicable.

In a previous incarnation -- actually, nothing quite so metaphysical, but rather at my first “real” job -- this document, the Budget of the U.S. Government, sat on my desk year-round: dog-eared, heavily Post-It-ed, and very dirty from my newsprint-tainted fingertips.

Today I probably couldn’t make my way around the book or, more accurately, books -- and I mean that, these things are huge -- but I used to know these volumes like the back of my hand.

And so, like Krugman, possibly even more than he since I was young and stupid then, naïve even, not nearly as jaded as I should have been or have become since that time, I was disgusted -- but not entirely surprised -- to learn that under the current White House occupant this collection of numbers and lines and history and projections and explanatory text and footnotes has been transformed into a veritable campaign pamphlet, all at your expense, courtesy of the Government Printing Office which must, by law, print that which it is told to do.

Krugman writes:

We see the president in front of a giant American flag, in front of the Washington Monument, comforting an elderly woman in a wheelchair, helping a small child with his reading assignment, building a trail through the wilderness[,] and, of course, eating turkey with the troops in Iraq. Somehow the art director neglected to include a photo of the president swimming across the Yangtze River.

It was not ever thus. [Former President] Bill Clinton’s budgets were illustrated with tables and charts, not with worshipful photos of the president being presidential.

Actually, Dr. Krugman, as I know you know, it was never thus.

I just have one question, and perhaps someone who has seen the books can answer this quickly: Is there not one single photograph of the president clearing brush at “the ranch”?

Because, as we all know, everyone belonging to this nefarious cabal, including Karl Rove and Andrew Card, and even Karen Hughes and Barbara Bush the Much Elderess, throw major bone over that stuff.

Speaking of Dr. Seuss moments and of having them -- and we were -- I’m having another such episode this evening, as you can judge from the headline of this post.

I’ve visited or been in or to 21 of the 50 United States, along with the District of Columbia, as shown in the map below (I’ve been to the “red” states, some of which actually are “blue” states.):

[Create Your Own Visited States Map]

Of these, I have lived in the following, in chronological order: New Jersey, New York, Virginia, the District of Columbia, New York (again), and Pennsylvania.

(Fascinating stuff, this, I know.)

As I look at the map I wonder, why have I never been to Rhode Island? Or to South Caro- . . . Never mind.

(By the way, with respect to all of those gray states, of which there are too many I think, I’m open and receptive to invitations.)

My favorite states: New York, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts.

My least favorite states (and I know I’m going to get letters for this): Texas (but I’ve only been to Houston), Louisiana, and Georgia. Or maybe Florida.

[Link/project/activity/idea/assignment via Waremouse.]

Good news today for Martha Stewart. The Associated Press reports (“Judge Blocks Testimony in Stewart’s Trial”) U.S. District Court Judge Miriam Goldman Cedarbaum blocked any expert testimony on whether investors in Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia Ltd. would have considered important Stewart’s public statements proclaiming her innocence amid an investigation of her sale of shares in ImClone Systems Inc.

The testimony, which was to have been presented by witnesses called by federal prosecutors, relates to the securities fraud charges against Stewart, the most serious and, according to many, if not most, commentators, the most specious charges at trial. (Not coincidentally, in my opinion, prosecutors have little direct and material evidence on point and will be relying largely on circumstantial evidence, some of the most important of which Judge Cedarbaum dispensed with today, and none of which has yet to be presented to the jury.)

A.P. reports:

The securities fraud count, the most serious charge against Stewart, accuses her of propping up the stock price of her own company, Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia, by claiming in 2002 that her ImClone sale was proper and that she was cooperating with authorities. […]

The ruling, issued before jurors were in the courtroom, blocks testimony on “whether a reasonable investor would have considered the statements important in making an investment decision,” the judge said.

Meanwhile, the government’s charges of conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and making false statements were badly damaged earlier this week by aggressive questioning from Stewart’s attorneys that produced testimony from prosecution witnesses Catherine Farmer, special agent at the FBI, and Helene Glotzer, an investigator with the Securities and Exchange Commission, that provide more than ample room for reasonable doubt.

Elsewhere, in an editorial published today The Wall Street Journal said, in relation to, among other things, the securities fraud charges, though before Judge Cedarbaum’s decision (“The Trials of Martha”):

From the day the indictment was handed up, we’ve thought there was something strange about prosecuting someone for obstructing justice over a crime that the government doesn’t claim happened. With every day of this trial, our doubts have only grown.

Already the government’s star witness, Doug[las] Faneuil, has admitted that Miss Stewart never asked him to lie or do anything illegal. We know too that the original premise of the investigation turned out not to be true: that ImClone CEO Sam Waksal had tipped her off about an imminent and damaging FDA report about its wonder drug Erbitux. And even in one of the most damning allegations against her -- that she altered a phone message from her broker about her shares in ImClone -- her assistant testified that Miss Stewart immediately thought better of it and ordered her to restore the message back to the original.

In other words, this is looking more and more like a case that should never have been brought. Most troubling is the accusation of securities fraud, if only because the penalties here are the most severe. The heart of the prosecution charge is that in declaring her innocence (and specifically by offering her own version of events), Miss Stewart’s intent was to “defraud and deceive” her own shareholders by “preventing a decline in the market price” of Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia.

Miss Stewart lost in court when she protested that this charge raised First Amendment concerns back in the fall. But even U.S. District Court Judge Miriam Goldman Cedarbaum, who allowed the charge to proceed, conceded that it was a “novel application of the securities laws.”

Remember, unlike other CEOs who have been put through the perp walk, Miss Stewart has not been accused of hiding expenditures off the books, inflating her earnings or raiding the corporate kitty for her personal enrichment. In fact, the stock at issue here (Martha Stewart Living) isn’t even the one she sold (ImClone). Unlike ImClone founder Sam Waksal, moreover, Miss Stewart had no fiduciary obligations to ImClone.

Notwithstanding Judge Cedarbaum, we believe Americans ought to worry about “novel applications” of securities law. That should be especially true in a case such as Miss Stewart’s, where it represents the most serious charge against her. And in an environment in which prosecutors bet that most accused CEOs will prefer a quiet settlement to a messy public fight, we ought to be careful about putting Americans in a position where a charge itself makes them afraid to defend themselves or their institutions. Even the rich and famous.

I don’t want to jump the gun, because if I do I might regret it later and I hate the taste of crow, fowl upon which I have feasted too many times, but will this be one of those cases in which the jury emerges after deliberations and says, “I’m not sure what we were here for”?

Just a few quick comments on Tina Brown’s column in yesterday’s Washington Post (“Meanie Martha Made a Mess”).

Shoving a quick lead out of the way and jumping right in to self-parody, it took Brown a mere 40 words to get to the heart of the matter -- name dropping, in reference, of course, to a party: “At an early-evening gathering at Marlo Thomas’s Park Avenue apartment Monday night in aid of the White House Project . . . .”

Later in the same column we read this, a remark about how Martha Stewart is still making women’s lives difficult: “We wanted her to stand up in the courtroom and bawl her eyes out for the whole rotten, lousy mess, for the plum pudding and the frantic cell phone calls and the fancy, dishonest friends, and the prancing stockbroker . . .”

“Prancing stockbroker”?

This, from guess who, yesterday: “I’ll be on WBUR radio in Boston tonight from 7 till 8 pm on marriage equality. And I’ll be on Aaron Brown’s Newsnight on CNN at 10 pm. The marriage wars are now fully engaged. So to speak.”

Oh yeah, because unless you’re talking to Andrew Sullivan you’re just not having a debate.

I don’t think flight attendants should distribute beverages, meals, or snacks.

Ever.

Not on short flights. Not on long flights. Not on big flights. Not on small flights. Not on any flights at all.

(Sorry, I had a Dr. Seuss moment there. I’m back now.)

Why not? Because that’s not why flight attendants are on the plane. That -- serving beverages, meals, and snacks -- is not why they are, well, attending flights.

All of those tired, old, stupid, frat-boy, and moronic stewardess jokes aside, the primary reason airlines staff flight attendants, and are legally required to do so, is not to make pasty businessmen feel good about their self-important frequent-flying selves, but for the safety of the passengers -- all passengers, not just the self-important frequent-flying pasty businessmen.

Until a few years ago, this concept of safety, which I think most travelers grasped at least to some degree, largely addressed such things as air masks -- “Help yourself before helping the child next to you.” Or is it, “Help the child next to you before helping yourself?” It’s been a while. -- seat-cushion floatation devices, emergency-exit rows, and all of that kind of not so believable stuff about “an incident over water.”

As we learn, or are allowed to learn, slowly and begrudgingly, more about what really happened on September 11, 2001, it becomes obvious that the attention of flight attendants should not be diverted, at any moment, from anything other than the safety of all passengers.

Flight attendants like Amy Sweeney and Betty Ong are, and I hate to sound like some puffy-chested congressman in front of a TV news camera, literally on the front line when it comes to potential, possible, and all-too-real acts of terrorism.

So I say toss the beverage carts. Ditch the dopey drinks. Lose the lunches.

It’s not necessary to militarize the operation -- Sweeney and Ong proved that -- but let’s have the flight attendants focus on safety, not snacks.

I know, you like the peanuts, don’t you?

Bring your own.

Let’s play Twenty Questions.

Except this isn’t a game. It’s real life. People died. Many people died. And people continue to die.

Two years after the infamous terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, William Bunch of the Philadelphia Daily News asked 20 questions -- 20 damned good questions -- about those events and the Bush administration’s actions beforehand and afterward.

Bunch’s article, which received nowhere near the attention it deserved (I blogged about it, but that hardly counts for anything), appeared five months ago.

And with the vast majority of what passes for “the media” in this country either asleep at the wheel or passed out in the back seat with nearly every national politician of both major parties, Bunch’s questions, which I reviewed again tonight, remain unanswered. Every single one of them, with the possible exceptions of numbers 11 and 15.

Here they are again, and while it may appear that I’m swiping a full column from Bunch, I am not, because he attached to each question commentary raising still more questions.

1. What did National Security Adviser Condoleezza Rice tell President Bush about al Qaeda threats against the United States in a still-secret briefing on Aug. 6, 2001?

2. Why did Attorney General John Ashcroft and some Pentagon officials cancel commercial-airline trips before Sept. 11?

3. Who made a small fortune “shorting” airline and insurance stocks before Sept. 11?

4. Are all 19 people identified by the government as participants in the Sept. 11 attacks really the hijackers?

5. Did any of the hijackers smuggle guns on board as reported in calls from both Flight 11 and Flight 93?

6. Why did the NORAD air defense network fail to intercept the four hijacked jets?

7. Why did President Bush continue reading a story to Florida grade-schoolers for nearly a half-hour during the worst attack on America in its history?

8. How did Flight 93 crash in western Pennsylvania?

9. Was Zacarias Moussaoui really “the 20th hijacker”?

10. Where are the planes’ “black boxes”?

11. Why were Donald Rumsfeld and other U.S. officials so quick to link Saddam Hussein to the attacks?

12. Why did 7 World Trade Center collapse?

13. Why did the Bush administration lie about dangerously high levels of toxins and hazardous particles after the WTC collapse?

14. Where is Dick Cheney’s undisclosed location?

15. What happened to the more than $1 billion that Americans donated after the attack?

16. What was the role of Pakistan’s spy agency in the Sept. 11 attacks and the subsequent murder of U.S. journalist Daniel Pearl?

17. Who killed five Americans with anthrax?

18. What happened to the probe into C-4 explosives found in a Philadelphia bus terminal in fall 2001?

19. What is in the 28 blacked-out pages of the congressional Sept. 11 report?

20. Where is Osama bin Laden?

It’s time to put aside the unseriousness. It’s time for some answers.

[Post-publication addendum (February 18): Reader S.B. writes to remind me question number nine is widely considered answered. Check here and also here.]

“This is Amy Sweeney. I’m on Flight 11 -- this plane has been hijacked.”

“Oh, my God.”

New to you?

Doesn’t sound familiar?

Haven’t heard that on the news a hundred times?

You’re forgiven, because the Bush administration, the FAA, the CIA, the FBI, American Airlines, and United Airlines, among a shockingly large number of other decidedly not disinterested parties, would much prefer you didn’t know those words were spoken, early on the morning of September 11, 2001, by Amy Sweeney, until that day an American Airlines flight attendant.

The above quotes are but a tiny portion from what is easily the best reporting to date on the events of 9/11 and efforts by the Bush administration and the airlines to, after the fact, cover up, conceal, hide, obscure, and obfuscate a mounting pile of damning evidence written by Gail Sheehy, for the New York Observer, “Stewardess ID’d Hijackers Early, Transcripts Show.”

I hope Sheehy stays on the story. After all, and I mean this not as an insult, because her piece is mind-boggling in its scope and intensity, but nobody else is working on this.

Among much else, and I’m still digesting the article, Sheehy draws at least my attention to yet another piece of cowboy idiocy on the part of President Paint by Numbers, one I missed earlier: he’s not only Mr. President “Bring It On!” he’s also Mr. President “You Bet!”

Sheehy reports:

At 9:30 a.m., six minutes after receiving orders from NORAD, three F-16’s were airborne, according to NORAD’s timeline. At first, the planes were directed toward New York and probably reached 600 miles per hour within two minutes, said Maj. Gen. Mike J. Haugen, adjutant general of the North Dakota National Guard. Once it was apparent that the New York suicide missions were accomplished, the Virginia-based fighters were given a new flight target: Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. The pilots heard an ominous squawk over the plane’s transponder, a code that indicates almost an emergency wartime footing. General Haugen says the F-16’s were asked to confirm that the Pentagon was on fire. The lead flier looked down and verified the worst.

Then the pilots received the most surreal order of the morning, from a voice identifying itself as a representative of the Secret Service. According to General Haugen, the voice said: “I want you to protect the White House at all costs.”

During that time, Vice President Richard Cheney called President George W. Bush to urge him to give the order that any other commercial airliners controlled by hijackers be shot down. In Bob Woodward’s book, Bush at War, the time of Mr. Cheney’s call was placed before 10 a.m. The Vice President explained to the President that a hijacked airliner was a weapon; even if the airliner was full of civilians, Mr. Cheney insisted, giving American fighter pilots the authority to fire on it was “the only practical answer.”

The President responded, according to Mr. Woodward, “You bet.”

Oh, and by the way, if I were Lisa -- “Lets roll!” (multiple trademark disputes pending) -- Beamer, I’d start pulling back from whatever speaking engagements and other self-promotional events might still linger on the calendar:

Melody Homer is another young widow of a 9/11 pilot. Her husband, LeRoy Homer, a muscular former Air Force pilot, was the first officer of United’s Flight 93. The story put out by United -- of heroic passengers invading the cockpit and struggling with the terrorists -- is not believable to Melody Homer or to Sandy Dahl, widow of the plane’s captain, Jason Dahl. Mrs. Dahl was a working flight attendant with United and knew the configuration of that 757 like the back of her hand.

“We can’t imagine that passengers were able to get a cart out of its locked berth and push it down the single aisle and jam it into the cockpit with four strong, violent men behind the door,” said Ms. Homer. She believes that the victims’ family members who broke a confidentiality agreement and gave their interpretation of sounds they’d heard on the cockpit tape misinterpreted the shattering of china. “When a plane goes erratic, china falls.”

I still think that plane was shot down. If it were, that is a decision I believe could be reasonably justified. Tell us the truth. We can handle the truth.

You really have to read Sheehy’s lengthy and masterful article. Print a copy. Send the link around. Distribute the article to friends and family. Then read it again. Try not to scream out loud the second time.

“Case dismissed!”

Actually, it wasn’t quite as dramatic as that, and the case wasn’t dismissed. Rather, the lawsuit was withdrawn by plaintiff’s attorney earlier today.

An abrupt change of heart, a sudden paroxysm of rationality on the part of the attorney or the building manager?

No, instead, the speedy and professional dispatch of this suit came through the good efforts of Philadelphia lawyer Lionel Artom-Ginzburg, of Solomon Sherman & Gabay, not only the most likable attorney I’ve ever met in my life, but a smart and engaging man who with amazing agility sent the other side cowering into the corner where it belongs.

So there will no fireworks, or at least no opportunity for pyrotechnics, in Philadelphia Municipal Court tomorrow. (Well, there probably will be lots of craziness in court tomorrow, but thankfully none of it will involve me.)

Now, I have to admit, for all of my smart-mouthed bravado about all this, and though I knew I had a strong case, I’m still relieved. Cut me some slack . . . I’ve never been hauled into court before.

(That’s not entirely true. I was once involved in a bizarre civil suit in Washington, two related suits, technically, and more precisely, one in Washington and the other in Arlington, Va., in one as a defendant in a purported class action -- I know, weird, huh? -- and in the other as one of several plaintiffs, with the opposite side in both cases being, if you can believe this, and it wasn’t as bad as it sounds, my employer. The litigation was settled, to the ultimate satisfaction, I think, of but one supremely selfish individual. And perhaps that’s why he’s rich and I’m not.)

Treading on unfamiliar ground, I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, and a judgment against me on the attorneys fees alone, which as of today appeared to me to be the primary matter in dispute, would have hurt me badly. Okay, I was a little scared. More than a little, to tell you the truth.

“Get a lawyer,” they always say.

And they, whoever “they” are, are right. Get a lawyer. And if you ever need a lawyer in Philadelphia, I know a terrific one: the aforementioned Lionel Artom-Ginzburg. You’ll be in good hands.

Thank you, Lionel.

Yikes. According to Bucks County, Pa., prosecutors, it wasn’t what she, Euisoon Cho, knew about the murder of her niece, Katherine Lee, it was what she did.

They think she, Cho, killed her, Lee.

Uh-oh, that crazy liberal nut Michael Bloomberg, Republican mayor of New York, is at it again, worrying and fretting about the nation’s favorite recreational device, handguns, and pistol-packin’ mamma Michelle, also known, at least around here, as Weird Michelle Malkin, is almost as upset about this as she might otherwise be upon learning that a single mother from some darkie kinda country like the Congo or Bolivia or something might actually be on the verge of U.S. citizenship without her prior expressed and written authorization.

Malkin, who last week expounded upon the wholly fictionary notion of “politically correct” vaccines, today discusses, or at least dribbles upon, something she has decided to call, without, of course, defining it, the “politically incorrect constituency [of] ordinary gun owners,” because, as you well know, everybody is just trampling all over their stuff.

Malkin, as you might expect, is even more clueless about the popular culture than I am, referring in this column, as she does, to the thoroughly and justifiably forgotten Ted Nugent as a “provocateur/rocker,” and that without alerting readers to which of those characterizations is the more outdated and the more inaccurate, while at the same time seemingly approving of that has-been’s (never was?) assertion that he would happily sport the “Confederate flag,” meaning, I think, as a wardrobe accessory, “forever.” Put the “Stars & Bars” on Michelle’s forehead!

Now, I just want you to know that Michelle is very, very unhappy about the notion that she and her friends and family -- immigrants, I note in passing -- might not be able to travel up and down the island of Manhattan, or even out to the boroughs, without packin’ heat.

How do I know? Well, just read this: “So what does Republican In Name Only Mayor Bloomberg think of all this? He told New York magazine that all of the NRA leaders’ comments were ‘reprehensible.’ In an interview with New York radio station WLIB on Tuesday, he basically gave rank-and-file gun owners the bird.”

Ouch!

Even at Rittenhouse we don’t talk like that.

Clean it up, Michelle!

After that it’s mostly put-your-gun-in-your-purse-and-walk-proudly-and-truly-Republican kind of stuff. Mrs. _____ [Sorry, can’t say that.], please call your office.

How sad for Malkin. Her only “arguments” are just sorry repetitions of those we have heard all too often from the likes of her good friend and colleague, Mary Rosh. And where did that get anyone?

Every blogger finds his referral log interesting, not only in that it reveals the weblogs or web sites that are bringing to him the most traffic, but also, as many bloggers have noted, the interesting searches, by way of Google, Yahoo, AOL Search, or whatever, that sent web surfers his way.

I know I’m in good company in this respect, as I check my log now and then, with a keen eye, when I’m in the mood, toward scrutinizing those arriving here from various search requests.

This morning one in particular caught my eye: “Paula + Zahn.”

Paula Zahn?

I barely know who she is.

I remember CNN colleagues referring to her as one of their “serious” journalists, remarks, frankly, that during my initial affiliation with the “network” I mistakenly thought, later to my chagrin, were either inside jokes or some sort of cultish appreciation of nothingness.

I couldn’t conceive this morning of The Rittenhouse Review actually having taken notice of Zahn, for any reason whatsoever, but, as a Google search reveals, I actually did here mention Zahn, once, and in passing, and that only by way of a quote from the New York Review of Books.

So, hey, thank you referral log. Without that, I never would have known.

I’ve probably mentioned once or twice, here or at TRR, that my bulldog, Mildred, throughout her life has displayed, what shall we call it, a romantic, or at least a decidedly affectionate, inclination toward what I call “the little guys,” small-breed dogs including, unfortunately, that motley gang known most commonly -- and I mean that -- as “Jack Russell terriers.”

I know I’m going to get letters (or at least e-mail) about this, but in what parallel universe are “Jack Russell terriers” considered dogs in even the lowest, the most narrow, the most limited or restrictive, definition of that admittedly not altogether grandiose term?

It was only last year that the American Kennel Club, no doubt responding to millions of owners, a vocal and insanely prolific -- and, I assume, to the AKC, potentially very profitable -- group of the sorely misbegotten, the unwashed masses spawned by the vicious and inhumane overbreeding and subsequent aggressive sales of these animals, all too often at frighteningly discounted prices, decided that “Jack Russell terriers” were actually a distinct breed and not an obvious menace to the canine world specifically and to the greater society generally.

Now we find that the crew that some of us begrudgingly used to call “Jack Russell terriers” suddenly are to be referred to by the seemingly more dignified name of “Parson Russell terriers,” a name that, despite its purposefully clerical and upscale overtones, along with the inclusion of this new, well, class (?), for the first time in so prestigious an event as the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, does nothing whatsoever to hide or conceal the obviously heinous characteristics and traits of this questionable “breed.”

All in all, this is scary and inhumane. Not far west of Philadelphia, in and around Lancaster, Pa., there are hundreds of puppy mills -- the area is notorious for this -- the details of which would assuredly repulse you. Suppose someone out there were to conceive of a new breed, mating this dog and that one, and that one and this one, and this one and that one, and that one and this, over, and over, and over again.

Eventually, this idiot would have on his hands a “new” “breed.” Meanwhile, of course, and in the process of “developing” this “new” “breed,” hundreds of puppies, those left unsold, along with hundreds the breeder, seeking to become the next “Jack Russell,” or, excuse me, “Parson Russell,” even if that lineage is not so disreputable, never even attempted to sell but simply killed by drowning or some other similarly horrific means, might be expended. How convenient.

I sometimes feel guilty for owning a purebred dog, one not obtained or purchased from a shelter. I can only hope that the breeder whose efforts brought us that which is known as Mildred is thoughtful, responsible, and caring. I hate to say it, though. All too often, this is not the case. Let’s enjoy the breeds we have now. There’s more than enough love to go around. And while Mildred may like the little guys, frankly, she’s not the brightest bulb on the string, and what they’re sellin’, I ain’t buyin’. And I hope you won’t either.

I do not have, nor do I carry, any guilt over my decision, years ago, to spay my bulldog, Mildred.

As best I can tell, she’s pretty cool with it too.

And so, re-reading the recent New York Times article about “gay” penguins, among other zoological queers, at the Central Park Zoo and elsewhere, I had to laugh, something that occurs around here with alarming frequency at Mildred’s expense, when reporter Dinitia Smith observed, with respect to Roy and Silo, Midtown New York’s gay penguins: “At one time, the two seemed so desperate to incubate an egg together that they put a rock in their nest and sat on it, keeping it warm in the folds of their abdomens.”

I mean, really, that is just so Mildred.

Not so much the incubating thing, more the really-stupid-sitting-idiot-on-the-rock thing.

She would do that.

I know, I know, there’s always the “runt” of the litter. Why did nobody tell me there is also always the “dud” of the litter? The one I bought.

God, I love this dog.

One of the many strange things about living in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and I could go on and on and on, is that the state, or, forgive me, the commonwealth, has a monopoly on the distribution of liquor and wine through what are commonly known as “state stores,” or, more officially, or at least commercially, in most cases, as Wine & Spirit Shoppes. (“Shoppes.” Isn’t that cute? Isn’t that quaint? Isn’t that just so Lancaster? Good for tourism, I guess.)

What almost nobody in Pennsylvania will say out loud is that the state’s control of liquor distribution means that “sin taxes,” so popular when normal funds -- you know, that which is derived from such things as, I don’t know, corporate profits, employment, wholesale and retail sales, etc. -- are restrained, are thus strictly limited to tobacco.

Do I like or appreciate this? No, of course not. I say that as a pack-a-day smoker who can’t wait to quit.

But how about a nickel, a dime, a quarter, a dollar here or there on bottles of liquor or wine? In Pennsylvania? Unthinkable. Because, and I’m sure you already have put two and two together, increased taxes on booze in Pennsylvania might, just might, reduce the public sector’s revenues. Gosh, can’t let that happen. Instead, let’s go after the smokers, recently hit by yet another 50 cents a pack tax hike.

What the hell, who cares? This nonsense, this commonwealth monopoly, has been in place for decades. What can we do? Let’s live with it.

Well, okay, sure, fine, but here’s one for you. The Wine & Spirit Shoppes are currently promoting and selling a book, The French Paradox and Drinking for Health, by Gene Ford, Tom Hall, and Norman M. Kaplan, that actively and assertively promotes the consumption of alcohol.

It’s right there at the checkout counter.

Isn’t that nice.

The very same legislature and governor’s office that have proved time and again to be willing, eager even, to raise taxes on cigarettes, and lest we not forget, peronsal income, continue to treat liquor and wine, and even beer, not only as completely off limits to additional taxes, but for now, through the state stores, they are doing everything in their power to promote the consumption of the very same beverages.

Am I the only person in Pennsylvania who has noticed this?

[Post-publication addendum: I trust even Norah Vincent, my fellow, and frighteningly nearby, Pennsylvanian, she who, by way of keeper Lisa McNulty, turned down my effort at reconciliation through an invitation to lunch, and who recently has been spotted out and about the web sporting a beard of one sort or another (a personal ad brought to my attention by a prominent feminist writer), and she the co-authoress of the career-summation work that goes by the title, How to Sound Smart, and she who either paid a great deal or nothing at all for her Williams College degree (1990), in philosophy of all things, if you can believe it, understands the reference made in the title of this post.]

I’ve never been so popular in my life. Popular, at least, measured by the number of times my phone rings each day. Sure, sometimes it’s a friend or a sibling or an acquaintance. More often, unfortunately, it’s someone to whom I owe money, or, as these people seem to prefer to call it, “monies” or “funds” or “balances.”

I don’t mind really. I don’t have an answering machine or an answering service through the local telephone utility, i.e., Verizon Communications Corp., and they really hate that word, “utility,” over there, at Verizon, so I don’t have to listen to their spew if I don’t want to.

But I still have Caller ID.

And let me just tell you, you generally, and you to whom I might, and I mean that -- might -- owe monies or funds or balances, if you don’t have the guts to show me, on the Caller ID box, who the hell you are, I’m just not going to answer the phone.

And, trust me, when the box shows 999-999-9999, I’m not fooled. I’m not biting. Hell, even the village idiot wouldn’t be fooled by that transparency.

We are but 36 hours away from the big confrontation: the municipal court’s hearing of Miss Thing’s previously discussed lawsuit against me, a landlord-tenant complaint dating back more than five weeks.

Strangely, I have yet to hear from the court that Miss Thing has withdrawn her hasty, frivolous, and vindictive suit. I say “strange” because all arrears have since been satisfied, including, far beforehand, prior to her complaint in fact, some of those she alleges in her filing.

This apparent negligence on her part can only mean, I think, that Miss Thing is seeking from me the dubious $450.00 of attorneys’ fees she recklessly incurred not only of her own accord but on behalf of all of the building’s tenants, and all of that nonsense, as I’ve said in the past, with respect to a complaint she knew or should have known at the time it was filed was demonstrably false.

You’ve got another thing coming, lady.

TRR: The Lighter Side of Rittenhouse: 2002-2004.

(I regret to inform you there is, and there will not be, an obituary in the New York Times.)

It’s time to call an end to my second, little-noticed, and thoroughly -- and inexplicably -- underappreciated blog, TRR.

This day was inevitable, I think. If you’re not a blogger you can be forgiven for not understanding how much effort the most serious practitioners of this craft put into their work. Speaking only for my little self, I’ve published, between the two sites, on a single day, as many as 12 (maybe more, but that’s the number that sticks in my head), mostly substantive, posts on a single day.

Maniac Maureen Dowd? Two items a week.

Necromancer William Safire? Two items a week.

Weird Michelle Malkin? Two items a week.

Heavily, professionally research-assisted George F. Will? Two items a week.

Shill Charles Krauthammer? Two items a week.

See a pattern here?

I do too, and yet . . . Well, just don’t get me started on that whole these “stars” are pulling large and unconscionably unjustifiable paychecks thing, that as I’m reduced to begging, and have yet to have been invited, in the last four months, to a single interview anywhere. (Not that I dare compare myself to such bright lights.)

Anyway, going forward, TRR will be folded into The Rittenhouse Review. (I’d like to move all of TRR’s already published content to Rittenhouse, but while this is technically feasible, it will be extraordinarily time consuming.)

More accurately, that which otherwise would have be posted at TRR instead will be posted at Rittenhouse.

TRR was labeled, “The Lighter Side of Rittenhouse. With a Slice of Philadelphia Just for the Helluvit.” I liked the blog. But that’s just me. It is no more.

What does this all mean to Rittenhouse readers, those at least, all too many I’m sad to say, who aren’t familiar with TRR?

Well, from now on, like it or not, you can expect to read more at Rittenhouse about Philadelphia: what’s going on here; my observations about the strange, the true, and the strange but, or strange and, true, of this great but weird city; and more of TRR’s surprisingly appreciated “Overheard” series. And, of course, via TRR, my mixed attempts at humor, along with slices of my incredibly boring life.

Be prepared. The purportedly pretentious “seriousness” and “ponderousness” of Rittenhouse -- I don’t know, that’s the kind of thing my critics say about me -- will be reduced or impaired by this merger of the two sites, but I think you’ll like it. At least I hope so.

Anyone who has experienced insomnia, true insomnia, by which I mean the inability to fall asleep not just one or two nights a year, but night after night after night after night, knows how terrorizing this affliction can be.

I suspect a smaller percentage of the afflicted know how incredibly damaging this condition can be.

I speak from experience.

And speaking from experience, here’s a word or two to the would-be wise: Do not, ever, at three or four o’clock in the morning, allow yourself, or your mind, or your brain, to become consumed, let alone convinced, by the idea, or the notion, that cutting your own hair at that very moment would be a productive or beneficial use of your time.

Having been there, again, I’ll tell you that this is what’s going to happen tomorrow:

Jim: “Hello. Sorry to just stop by, but I see Andre is working today.”

Andre: “Hi, Jim.”

Jim: “FIX THIS!”

Although the murder of Katherine Lee, Bensalem, Pa., occurred on Sunday, the story didn’t hit the local dailies (the Philadelphia Inquirer and the Philadelphia Daily News) until today, Tuesday.

As far as I can tell, amateur Hercule Poirot that I am, either her aunt, Euisoon Cho, she of the bloody hands and purse, killed Lee, or Cho knows who did.

I suspect, and truly hope, it’s the latter.

Plenty of Blogger problems tonight. Too many. Again. And too soon after the last damaging round.

I’m glad I’m not paying for this.

Oh, wait, I am paying for this!

Will someone please remind me why I signed up for, and am paying for, BloggerPro, because I don’t remember and lately I can’t conceive of a good reason for anyone to do so.

There are reasons why God, or who or whatever, and I don’t pretend nor claim to have the answers, ordered that women, and not men, would bear children.

The most obvious reason, of course, is that when it comes to pain, men are wimps. Big time.

My ex was such a baby whenever he was sick that it was truly unbearable. One time, when he had a cold, a cold, mind you, he went to sleep early. At around 9:00 p.m., while I was watching television in the living room at the other end of the apartment, his beeper went off, the beeper sitting on the coffee table just in front of me. I picked it up thinking it was his office with some urgent message, and took a look.

“Please bring me Blistex.”

I was confused for a moment -- more than a moment, actually -- and then I figured it out.

This weakling, in his oh-so-impaired state, a cold, mind you, though unable to feed himself, actually was able to reach a phone, dial some numbers, and read a message to someone in Bangalore, all to send a page to me, I who was sitting in the living room of the very same apartment in which his “sick” bed was located.

Okay, but enough about me. Now . . . about her. Her, she, Susie, Susan Madrak, of Suburban Guerrilla, who today is celebrating the 28th birthday of her elder child.

Her post on this occasion, for which I congratulate her, the occasion, not the post, (And only tangentially, on the occasion, her son, Michael, who I’m sure is a fine person and everything, but, really, what did he do? He kept living. He’s 28. Great! Go to it, boy.), reminded me that the reason God, or who or whatever, decided women, and not men, should bear children, is not only that women have a higher tolerance for pain, or at least a far higher threshold for complaining about it, but that they can speak so eloquently and humorously about the experience.

Looks like it’s time for a geography lesson.

The instructor: Me.

The pupil: Philadelphia Daily News columnist Howard Gensler.

The subject: Great Britain.

In his “Tattle” column today, Gensler, while discussing someone named Catherine Zeta-Jones, an actress, I assume, who recently fired her agent, George Freeman, in an apparently horrifically capricious act that has set the kind of tongues that wag about such things wagging, quoted an unnamed Hollywood “insider” about this truly disturbing contretemps and added an odd, and misguided, editorial parenthetical (Actually, it’s placed within brackets, but I’m not sure there’s a separate word for that. A bracketal? That doesn’t sound right.):

“It is shocking,” said an insider. “George took this little-known British actress [she’s actually Welsh] that no one cared about and made her into an Oscar winner.”

Now, you see, Howard, and this is the geography lesson, there is this island, sort of north and somewhat westerly of continental Europe, that is called Britain, or more commonly, and with not a little exaggeration, Great Britain.

On said island live, among many ancient and recent immigrants, three major ethnic groups, three peoples, if you will: the English, historically concentrated in that part of the island known as England; the Welsh, in that part known as Wales; and the Scottish or Scots, in that which is referred to as Scotland.

Collectively, then, these three major ethic groups, or peoples, can be, should be, and are all considered British. Because they live on the same island. The island of that name. Britain.

So, Howard, while this Zeta-Jones person may either hail from Wales or claim ancestry thereto, she is, in fact, also British, and properly may be referred to as such.

I assume you were confusing or equating the terms British and English, but this is both unwarranted and unwise.

Let me introduce you, briefly, to another concept. The United Kingdom. This term, political in origin and nature, refers to a slightly larger entity comprised of Great Britain and that which is strangely, and a reasonable person might think eccentrically, if not illegitimately, known as Northern Ireland, as in, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

Oh, am I boring you? We can pick this up again tomorrow.

[Post-publication addendum: Gensler tells me in an-email that the editorial parenthetical about Zeta-Jones, whoever she is, was added by the PDN’s copy desk. So the lesson, above, is directed, then, not at Gensler, but at the copy desk. Sorry, Howard, but it’s really not my fault, right? How could I have I known? How about lunch? It’s on me.]

Without cable or over-the-air television reception, Mildred and I are following the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show on the web.

The bulldogs were judged Monday night.

Best of breed went to Ch. Phenix’s Fire Chief, a fine specimen, though with a surprisingly small head for a dog (i.e., male). (Born: August, 7, 2000. Breeders: Jo Ann Menefee and Marcel R Daignault. Sire: Ch. Little Ponds Chief. Dam: Ch. DK’s PHD. Owner: Menefee.)

Best of opposite sex was awarded to Ch. All-Star’s Girl Scout Patch, who is truly outstanding. (Born: December 15, 1998. Breeders: Shane Twamley and J. Allen. Sire: Ch. Flippin Scout. Dam: Ch. Arthur’s Queen Miss Maybelline. Owners: Twamley and Allen.) [Photos of the best of breed and best of opposite sex may be found at the Westminster web site.]

No big surprise: In the group judging -- bulldogs are included in the non-sporting group -- the first-, second-, third-, and fourth-place awards went not to the bulldog, but to, in order, a standard poodle (one with the truly and characteristically pretentious name, Ch. Ale Kai Mikimoto on Fifth -- And do you just want to vomit?), a chow chow, a Tibetan terrier, and a French “bulldog.”

The bulldog (also known as the English bulldog) rarely wins in the group contest. Yes, I’m biased, of course, but with all due respect to the many fans of poodles, all of them fine animals I know (the poodles, I mean, not their fans), what is this thing the Westminster judges, among many others, have for standard poodles? I just don’t get it. But then, I’m sure there are plenty of people who don’t “get” bulldogs either, a group that sometimes includes, when the question hits directly at home -- and yes, I’m talking about you, Mildred -- even me.

Sen. John F. Kerry Wins Virginia, Tennessee Primaries

Wait, haven’t I read this before?

WASHINGTON (AP) -- Microsoft Corp. warned customers Tuesday about particularly serious security problems with its Windows software that could let hackers quietly break into their computers to steal files, delete data or eavesdrop on sensitive information.

Microsoft, which learned about the flaws more than six months ago from researchers, said the only protective solution was to apply a repairing patch it offered on its Web site (www.microsoft.com/security/). It assessed the threat to computer users as “critical,” its highest rating.

Unless, of course, AP’s systems have gone haywire and are spewing out old stories.

Nah.

Be advised: The whole John F. Kennedy “Ich bin ein Berliner” thing carries “urban legend” connotations.

I knew that before I posted my February 7 piece “Speaking, or not, Spanish -- and English,” and I’m sorry that some readers interpreted my post as an authoritative statement about that event.

Actually, I merely was employing the device to make a pair of more important points that apparently flew right over the heads of readers who corresponded with me after the fact, including a few fellow bloggers, against whom I assure you I hold no grudges because their remarks were astute, and as always, much appreciated.

First off: Frankly, is it really up to me, an obscure blogger, to correct 40 years of misunderstanding and misapprehension, despite the validity of the greater message? I was just trying to make some points on tangentially related subjects.

Second, what the correspondents failed to realize, to a man and woman, was that my reference to “Ich bin ein Berliner” was, in retrospect, a mistake, but for reasons they remain blissfully unaware. You see, by referring to that 40-years-ago incident, I invited comparisons between apples and oranges.

President Kennedy, while in Berlin, was speaking to Germans (the “apples”), not German-Americans (the “oranges”), and the primary point of my post, my humble addendum to the wise observations of Philadelphia Inquirer columnist Tanya Barrientos, was that American politicians who think they are courting votes by downspeaking to one ethnic group or another (“oranges,” again), can do themselves a disservice. And if not careful, careful in a way that few politicians can understand, they are insulting the very audience they seek to cultivate. (Again, “oranges.”)

Yes, and here I’m moving from the domestic to the foreign, I know, I fully agree, it would be wonderful if an American president could travel overseas and speak fluently the language of one, two, three, five, or seven of the countries he visits.

Sorry, people, it’s never going to happen, and I have discussed this matter in the past. (Teresa Heinz Kerry, who in addition to her ability to speak “volatile” English, also is fluent in Portuguese, French, Spanish, and Italian, will take us all a long way toward that noble, yet ultimately unattainable, goal.)

Completely lost in all of this was my second point, made in the addendum -- “Who reads footnotes?” Ann Coulter, please call your office. -- to my February 7 post in which I described having been characterized at a job interview 17 years ago as a “greasy daigo wop” (my words) by a mid-tier Washington-based interest group. For that oversight, that neglect on my critics’ part, I have no explanation whatsoever.

The law suit recently brought against me by my landlord, or more specifically, by my landlord’s sometimes-big-haired agent, she who also acts -- and I mean that -- as the building’s manager, is crumbling before her own all-too-made-up eyes.

We have agreed not to speak with each other any longer. Any and all contact must be in writing.

Regardless, I’m avoiding the sometimes big-haired one, if only because of the enduring sense of repulsion the sight of her engenders.

It’s not easy, as her office, if one could or should call it that other than, say, the place she parks her butt each day, is just down the hall.

And so is the “trash room,” or the place in which is housed the trash chute, though, as often as said chute becomes jammed or overloaded -- at least once a week -- the space has more than earned the appellation trash room.

Despite our agreement to remain orally uncommunicative, I continue to avoid her because, you will not be surprised to learn, I cannot guarantee control over my smart mouth.

But, as I write this, it’s 5-oh-1, meaning 5:01 p.m.

That’s means it’s safe. Safe, because while I don’t know exactly where the building manager is, I know exactly where she is not. Because, now that it is 5:01 p.m., she assuredly is not in the place she parks her butt each day.

And so, if you will excuse me, it’s time to take out the trash, or at least, the trash from my garbage cans.

Have you ever heard or used the phrase, “Time and place”? It’s shorthand for the common sense notion that some statements, acts, and behavior, while suitable in some settings, are not appropriate in others.

The most obvious recent example: The tête-à-teat between Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake at the Super Bowl.

A so-far less publicized example, reported late yesterday by the Associated Press (“American Airlines Pilot Plugs Christianity”):

American [Airlines] Flight 34 was headed from Los Angeles to New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport on Friday when the pilot asked Christians on board to raise their hands, [spokesman] Tim Wagner said.

The pilot, whose name was not released, told the airline that he then suggested the other passengers use the flight time to talk to the Christians about their faith, Wagner said. […]

The pilot also told passengers he would be available for discussion at the end of the flight. Wagner said the pilot had just returned to work from a weeklong mission trip to Costa Rica.

Oh, yeah, right. That’s what I want on a long flight: four hours of “faith sharing” with my “neighbor.” Did the pilot not realize all the doors are locked? And that with new security provisions, airline passengers lack ready access to even the most obscure instruments of suicide?

Washington (PNT News) -- A tragic and sad fire has destroyed the personal library of President George W. Bush. Both of his books have been lost. The president is reportedly devastated -- apparently, he had not finished coloring the second one.

[Note: PNT: Probably Not True.]

Thanks to C.P.

Tanya Barrientos, one of my favorite Philadelphia Inquirer columnists, today has plenty of smart words about the propensity of politicians to repeat history, in this case the contemporary variant of John F. Kennedy’s “Ich bin ein Berliner,” roughly translated as, “I am a pastry.”

These days, in the absence of a German-American voting bloc, that as our relationship with Germany has unnecessarily deteriorated under the Bush administration, the lingua of the day, as Barrientos observes, is Spanish. (“Watch Your Language!”)

Barrientos, who justifiably has had enough, writes:

Many years ago, when I was a reporter in Dallas, I heard a City Council candidate tell a group of Mexican American voters, “Necesito su pollo.” Which means he needed their chicken. What he meant to say was that he needed their apoyo -- which means[,] “support.”

Using sub-Berlitz español to connect with us as a group is condescending at worst, and ridiculous at best.

Here’s my advice. Go ahead and eat the taco. Whack the piñata at the rally. We’ll enjoy the show.

But for goodness sake, after you slip on that sombrero, just address the issues in English and move along.

Sounds reasonable to me. It really is kind of stupid and offensive that many people assume that because another person has a Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish surname he or she must of course speak Spanish, or worse, would prefer to be addressed in that language. There truly is no good reason to assume this is the case. (For example, Linda Chavez, the right-wing, self-appointed spokesman for all things Hispanic -- because, I guess, her father is Spanish, Spanish as in from Spain -- does not speak the language.)

I have some experience with this. I can read and translate Italian (and German and French, and, to a lesser extent, Dutch and Swedish, and more recently, and to an even lesser degree, Spanish), but please don’t ask me, let alone expect me to be able, to speak Italian. My grasp of the language is far too rusty to actually converse in that tongue.

I’ve heard all too many times, “Oh, you learned Italian at home growing up,” an observation offered with a certainty that was patronizing and belittling.

“No,” I answered, “we spoke only English at home. I learned Italian in college. Besides, my mother is Irish-American.” (I’ve tried studying Gaelic a few times, but frankly, I think behind Finnish, and Finnish only, it’s the most difficult Western language to learn. Sorry, Mom. Mom who does not read or speak Gaelic. She’s American, okay?)

Isn’t it weird how people assume, based on one’s surname, that the name represents the entirety of one’s heritage? I have nieces and nephews who carry the Capozzola name whose lineage is but one-quarter Italian. Will they face the same assumption, or has the melting pot melted enough that kids who today are 18, or 13, or five, think nothing of such things? Conversely, I have nephews whose genealogical lines are half Italian but who carry a surname that is German in origin.

Ethnicity is an odd thing. My experience has been that in some cities it counts for and means nothing (e.g., Washington), while in others it counts for and means almost everything (e.g., New York). When I moved from Washington to New York I was struck, time and again, by how often people sprinkled their conversations and their descriptions of others with references to ethnicity.

A co-worker in New York once offered, “I’m dating this new girl. She’s really terrific. Nice Irish girl. Irish-Catholic.” I remember thinking when I heard that characterization, “No one in Washington would ever say such a thing.”

Another time, while I was new at the magazine, I was looking for the office of a certain employee I had not met. “Oh, he’s over near ____’s office. He’s the Greek guy.”

Um . . . okay. So I’m what? Looking for a swarthy sorta fella?

Strange, huh?

Anyway, should I ever be preparing to meet Barrientos -- and there was that one night when I was supposed to look out for Beth Gillin, also of the Inquirer, and Barrientos at a reading by Philadelphia novelist and blogger Jennifer Weiner at the-bookstore-whose-name-dare-not-be-spoken-here-because-of-all-that-union-stuff-that-I’ve-really-got-to-sit-down-and-read-and-analyze-one-of-these-days -- remind me to keep my rudimentary Spanish at home.

As if you needed to.

[Post-publication addendum: Early in 1987, back when I was a neoconservative, I went to a job interview at an interest group of a decidedly conservative bent, closely aligned with the Republican party. The meetings went well, I thought, though I didn’t receive an offer, which was just as well since I accepted a much better position not more than two weeks later. As I was being escorted to the elevators one of the interviewers offered, in what I suspect he thought was an innocent and offhand comment, “You know, you’re not at all what we were expecting.” “Really,” I asked, “what do you mean?” “Well, you know, what with your last name and all.” “I don’t think I understand,” I responded. “You don’t . . . you know . . . with your Italian last name . . . You really don’t look the part.” I was speechless and flabbergasted. “The part”? Oh, I thought, I’m so sorry to disappoint you. I’m sorry I’m not the greasy daigo wop you were anticipating. And by the way, pal, you might want to stop watching those moronic “Godfather” movies. 1987. The mind reels.]

From today’s New York Times (“Love That Dare Not Squeak Its Name,” by Dinitia Smith):

Roy and Silo, two chinstrap penguins at the Central Park Zoo in Manhattan, are completely devoted to each other. For nearly six years now, they have been inseparable. They exhibit what in penguin parlance is called “ecstatic behavior”: that is, they entwine their necks, they vocalize to each other, they have sex. Silo and Roy are, to anthropomorphize a bit, gay penguins. When offered female companionship, they have adamantly refused it. And the females aren’t interested in them, either.

At one time, the two seemed so desperate to incubate an egg together that they put a rock in their nest and sat on it, keeping it warm in the folds of their abdomens, said their chief keeper, Rob Gramzay. Finally, he gave them a fertile egg that needed care to hatch. Things went perfectly. Roy and Silo sat on it for the typical 34 days until a chick, Tango, was born. For the next two and a half months they raised Tango, keeping her warm and feeding her food from their beaks until she could go out into the world on her own. Mr. Gramzay is full of praise for them. [Emphasis added.]

“They did a great job,” he said.

Marilyn Musgrave, please call your office.

Welcome, readers, to another edition of “Tina Brown Thursday.”

I know, it’s Friday, but I was busy yesterday and last night, and it’s my blog and I’ll do what I want with it.

In her latest “phone it in” column for the once-great Washington Post,Tina Brown surprises readers, at Rittenhouse and elsewhere, with her failure to mention even a single “Manhattan dinner party” or “glittering New York fundraiser.”

Strange, but true. With her social calendar bereft of buzzing conclaves of the rich, famous, and inveterately stupid, Brown was forced to try her hand at something, for her, entirely new: a little dabbling in something other than chit-chat over white wine, namely facts, figures, numbers, or more accurately, “facts, figures, numbers.”

Ensconced as she is, and seemingly will be forever, in New York (Has anyone checked her green card lately?), Brown yesterday demonstrated a modicum of awareness of life beyond Fifth and Madison (I know, I know, they don’t intersect, I’m making a point), to say this (“Stress Test: The Candidates with Staying Power”):

The moment when Sen. John Kerry began to win may well have been the day just before Christmas when the man married to money felt obliged to take out a $6.4 million mortgage on his house. It was an act of commitment, like renewing your wedding vows. Until then, running was just a career move. (Everyone else in his Senate class had done it.)

How clever. How smart. How witty. How snide. How Coulter-Sullivan-Kaus-esque.

How ignorant.

Did you catch that subtle yet pernicious lie, the one that apparently went unchallenged at the beautiful ivory tower drab edifice in which is housed the Post?

I’m referring here to this Brownishism: “Everyone else in his Senate class had done it.”

As most readers are fully aware, Sen. Kerry was first elected to the U.S. Senate in 1984.

That puts Sen. Kerry in what is known, at least among the cognoscenti, a group in which I would have thought someone like Brown would have included herself whether she were invited to do so or not, as the body’s “Class II.” (Class II of III, if you’re keeping score at home.)

This bears repeating under a pair of differing formulations:

Sen. Kerry is a member of “Class II” of the U.S. Senate.

Sen. Kerry’s Senate class is that which is known as “Class II.”

According to the most reliable information I was able to find quickly this evening, Sen. Kerry’s Senate class of 33 lawmakers includes such non-presidential-aspirants as:

Sen. Wayne Allard (R-Colo.)
Sen. Max Baucus (D-Mont.)
Sen. Saxby Chambliss (R-Ga.)
Sen. Thad Cochran (R-Miss.)
Sen. Norm Coleman (R-Minn.)
Sen. Susan Collins (R-Maine)
Sen. John Cornyn (R-Texas)
Sen. Larry Craig (R-Idaho)
Sen. Pete Domenici (R-N.M.)
Sen. Richard Durbin (D-Ill.)
Sen. Michael Enzi (R-Wyo.)
Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.)
Sen. Chuck Hagel (R-Neb.)
Sen. James Inhofe (R-Okla.)
Sen. Tim Johnson (D-S.D.)
Sen. Mary Landrieu (D.-La.)
Sen. Frank Lautenberg (D-N.J.)
Sen. Carl Levin (D-Mich.)
Sen. Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.)
Sen. Mark Pryor (D-Ark.)
Sen. Jack Reed (D-R.I.)
Sen. Pat Roberts (R-Kan.)
Sen. John Rockefeller (D-W.Va.)
Sen. Jeff Sessions (R-Ala.)
Sen. Gordon Smith (R-Ore.)
Sen. Ted Stevens (R-Alaska)
Sen. John Sununu (R-N.H.) and
Sen. John Warner (R-Va.).

That makes 28 members of Sen. Kerry’s Senate class, “Class II,” who, contrary to Brown’s “I’m speaking totally off the top of my head here because isn’t this just an editorial meeting -- Paul L., please call your office. -- and I was out late last night at a smart Manhattan dinner party but I’ll expound upon that later in excruciating detail” assertion, have not sought the presidency.

Sure, a small, a very small, handful of Sen. Kerry’s classmates, acting with varying degrees of enthusiasm, seriousness, realism, and success, including Sen. Lamar Alexander (R-Tenn.), Sen. Joseph Biden (D-Del.), Sen. Elizabeth Dole (R-N.C.), and Sen. Tom Harkin (D-Iowa), have been presidential candidates, at least once.

That puts the count of the presidential hopefuls among Sen. Kerry’s classmates at 28-to-4, a tally in which those who never attempted a run at the White House are far outbalanced by those who did, a count that moves to 28-to-5 if we include subject Sen. Kerry.

It’s possible Brown, expert as she purports to be on American politics and culture, and that despite the oh-so-obvious (on so many levels) fact of her being a Briton who lives and “works” not in Washington but in New York, was speaking more narrowly.

Sen. Kerry first won election to the U.S. Senate in 1984, as did presidential candidates Sen. Paul Simon (D-Ill.), former Vice President Al Gore (previously Democratic senator from Tennessee), and former Sen. Phil Gramm (R-Texas).

Perhaps Tina is wiser than I thought. Possibly her more narrow, and thus presumably more astute, though less conventional, definition of “Senate class” puts her in the right?

Sorry, no.

Because even using her narrow definition, we find two gentlemen, also first elected that year, who have not, at least yet, sought to become president of the United States: the aforementioned Sen. McConnell and Sen. Rockefeller. So Brown is wrong on that count as well.

I ask again: Does anyone at the Washington Post read Brown’s columns before they are published?

I know it’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.

By now everyone has heard of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court’s initial and subsequent rulings on gay marriage. Pretty clear-cut, I thought, at least in its latest incarnation. And, for those able to separate their individual passions and lunacies, entirely justified. Not much wiggle room left is there?

And so, pushed to the wall once and for all, President George W. Bush, the great prevaricator and equivocator, and would-be friend of spinner extraordinaire Andrew Sullivan, who has yet to mouth off on this, had this to say about court’s message to Massachusetts legislators:

Today’s ruling of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court is deeply troubling. Marriage is a sacred institution between a man and a woman. If activist judges insist on re-defining marriage by court order, the only alternative will be the constitutional process. We must do what is legally necessary to defend the sanctity of marriage.

Look, as most readers know, I’m a fairly religious guy, and a gay man who has been ambivalent, at most, on the whole marriage issue. But the more these idiots keep pushing their dopey, irrational agendas, the more likely I am to do the obvious, namely, to take a strong stand in my own defense and in defense of what my friend D. and I used to refer to, when code was called for, “PLUs,” meaning “people like us.”

I can’t help but wonder why other religious Americans, particularly those of the most self-righteously fervent variety who also are unfortunate enough to have been stricken by the apparently tenuous sexual orientation known as heterosexuality, cannot accept that, yes, marriage is “a sacred instituition,” but only within the context of organized religion. Outside of that -- and gee whiz, didn’t we find a revolution over this whole thing? -- marriage is a civil ceremony. More narrowly and more accurately, marriage is a government sponsored, supervised, and regulated transaction that sometimes, often even, is conducted in a religious setting.

I’m not married and never have been, so my familiarity with the benefits and obligations of civil society that state and local governments have granted to or expected of me include only the most common and the most the obvious, such as a driver’s license, a voter registration card, and a bunch of jury-duty summonses. There’s nothing “sacred” about any of these. Appropriately, there is no “sanctity” assigned to any of these documents or transactions.

I understand that. I can deal with that. Actually, I like it that way. If I wanted things to be different, I could always, on my own, invoke, respectively, Our Lady of the Highways, Our Lady of the Voting Booth, and Our Lady of the Jury Room, though even I wouldn’t take things that far.

And I ask: When two people get married, whether the ceremony occurs in a church, a synagogue, or even the Plaza Hotel, do they even understand what’s going on? Sure, everyone is happy and excited and all that. Great. Perhaps it’s to be expected they miss a legal nuance or two, especially when the alcohol starts flowing. But do they truly know what they’re doing?

When two people are united in marriage by a priest, a reverend, a pastor, a rabbi, an imam, a Unitarian guy, or whatever, they -- the two people getting married, I mean -- still have to sign a state-issued document attesting to that union. The priest, the reverend, the pastor, the rabbi, the imam, the Unitarian guy, or whatever, are acting as agents of the state. (“By the power vested in me by the state of ____, . . .”) What might to the clueless appear to be solely a religious ceremony only, actually has a dual nature. It is both religious and civil, with the civil aspect holding the higher legal authority.

It is for that reason that those who are joined in marriage by religious figures need not, in this country, subsequently or beforehand, submit to a strictly secular transaction. (It’s also why a divorce is not an annulment and an annulment is not a divorce.)

What is so hard, so difficult, about grasping that concept?

I’m so annoyed and disgusted by the wing-nuts that I wonder now about the wisdom of this procedure, meaning, giving to religious figures the authority, on behalf of the state, to conduct government business, if only because of the massive confusion it has brought about in certain quarters.

Maybe what’s needed right now is for those who choose to be married by a religious figure in a church, a temple, a mosque, or a Unitarian place to submit thereafter or beforehand to a strictly civil ceremony. There’s nothing like having to endure two such events to ram the appropriate notion, the basic legal simplicities, into the heads of the truly ignorant.

It’s probably best not to ask why, but I recently became engaged in a brief e-mail exchange regarding the film -- and I mean that -- “Mother May I Sleep With Danger,” first broadcast on Lifetime TV, television for women and gay men, in 1996.

My correspondent, L.M., sad to say, has never seen the film, but I have, probably three times. It’s really terrific in that so-bad-it’s-good Lifetime kind of way.

But, appropriately captivated by the title, L.M. rightfully has kept this oeuvre within her sights, though mistakenly operating under the assumption the film starred Melissa Gilbert.

Gilbert, as I’ve said before, is the world’s worst actress, which perhaps explains why she is currently able to serve as president of the Screen Actors Guild. And assigning her this title, the world’s worst actress, is no small deal given the competition (see next paragraph).

You see, “Mother May I Sleep With Danger” actually starred not Gilbert, but Tori Spelling, the spermiest member of the country’s vast (and growing) lucky sperm club, along with the almost unbearably handsome Ivan Sergei.

I would hate to ruin the film for anyone, particularly since it’s likely to be broadcast on Lifetime another six or eight times just this year, so if you’re worried about that, stop reading now, but the film’s climax is rather dramatic. If I remember correctly, it involves a confrontation at an isolated lake where Spelling, rowing hither and yon like an incapable millionairess, kills Sergei with an oar.

Or does she?

I suspect the producers were setting up a sequel, one that mercifully -- or mercilessly, depending on one’s feelings about Lifetime TV movies -- has yet to be made.

We can only hope.

Hepatitis B. Eeew. Yuck. Dirty. Poor-people stuff. Not me! Not my newborn “babe”! Not now, not ever.

Michelle Malkin, the right-wing columnist who tears her hair out every time a Mexican crosses the border without her prior expressed and written authorization, is in an entirely new lather this week.

Michelle Malkin would like you to know that she does not have hepatitis B, nor has she been exposed to the virus that causes the condition, nor (at least she implies) has her husband, nor her two “babes,” and they’re just going to keep it that way and the hell with you and your vaccinations and your insinuations and your explanations.

Malkin writes:

Why on earth should we vaccinate our newborn baby against Hepatitis B -- a virus that is contracted mostly through intravenous drug use and sexual contact? That is the question my husband and I had for the doctors and nurses at the hospital where our son was born two and a half months ago.

We didn’t get very good answers. It was “convenient,” “recommended[,]” and “routine,” the medical staff assured us. We wanted more information. . . . [M]y husband and I both work primarily from home, our two children stay at home, and neither we nor our 3-year-old daughter nor our baby (for heaven’s sake!) live the Kid Rock-and-Pamela Anderson Lee lifestyle.

She’s not happy about being “bullied,” but ever the skeptic, the critic, the wise sage, Malkin has a larger agenda:

The “everybody does it” and “for the greater good” arguments worked when we were overcautious, over-trusting, first-time parents who submitted our daughter to every single vaccine without question. This time, we resolved not to be rushed or bullied. We declined to give our son the politically correct Hep B shot, decided to do more research, and then took up the issue with our pediatrician.

There’s a “politically correct” vaccination out there? What the hell kind of insanity is that? Okay, so way back then Stanley Fish, Jacques Derrida, and Andrea Dworkin got kind of carried away, but most of that, Michelle, was literary criticism and theory. It’s all gone on to infect, for lack of a better word, childhood vaccines? In what parallel universe?

Here’s a tip for you, inadequately informed Michelle: You’re worse off than you think, not because “the doctors and nurses” are out to get you, but because “the doctors and nurses” aren’t telling you everything. They’re not telling you the painfully obvious, probably because they assumed, based on what I don’t know, that you already knew it.

Let’s walk down memory lane a bit, shall we, Michelle?

Do you remember when parents took their children to various commercial play areas operating under diverse names, places where dozens of kids, happy and carefree, romped for hours amid hundreds of plastic or rubber balls?

No? I do, and I don’t even have children. I remember friends and family members who took their kids to such play areas, sometimes of their own accord and sometimes because their children’s friends’ birthday celebrations were hosted there.

Oh, it was all fun for a while. The kids loved it, the parents loved it. Even Wall Street loved it.

Eventually, however, these same friends and family members came to call such places “germ warfare zones.”

Why? Because, they told me, within a few days after visiting these establishments their kids, their “babes,” invariably would come down with colds, fevers, rashes, and other obvious and visible, but usually minor, maladies. Putting two and two together, they ultimately steered clear of these places, of which few remain.

What they and most other patrons did not realize was that the “germ warfare zones,” as well as other typical locales where children interact with one another, also offered the opportunity for the transmission from one child to another and another and another of diseases that are most often hidden, with unobservable symptoms, and, sadly, with far more serious long-term consequences.

Now, why is that? Well, as a good parent, I’m sure you, Michelle, know that children aren’t always exactly judicious with respect to where they place their hands and their mouths, nor are they always particularly prudent about the interaction between those two body parts.

In addition, as you are well aware, until a certain age “babes,” toddlers, and even young children typically wear diapers, “pull-ups,” training pants, or similar trappings. And you know why they do this, right? It’s the whole toilet-training thing. Are you still with me?

And, well, I’m sure you know this too, some mothers aren’t as good as you surely are at affixing diapers, pull-ups, training pants, and the like. And some “babes,” toddlers, and children, despite their midsections having been tightly wrapped by diapers, pull-ups, training pants, and the like, being the romp-around types they are born to be, can be observed eventually to be sporting, well, less than tightly wrapped diapers, pull-ups, training pants, and the like.

You see, Michelle, those things, diapers, pull-ups, training pants, and the like, often leak, and they do so through the fault of no one, not the child nor the loving stay-and-work-at-home parents, nor, and I’ll say this before you run to your PC, the single parent or the working mother, or, should I say, the working mother who doesn’t enjoy the privilege of toiling, for what I assume is a very nice salary, in her own living room.

The leakage is a problem. It’s neither pretty nor pleasant, especially if the effluent comes from a child not your own. Moreover, once you have left the rarefied atmosphere, the cocoon if you will, that is the Malkin residence, that presumably perfectly sterile laboratory you have created, the leakage -- And you know what we’re talking about here, right? Number one? Number two? Pee? Poop? -- can be a health hazard.

Now, I know everything is hunky dory at the Malkin house, and that’s just great, but out in the real world to which your “babes” some day will have to be exposed, at least occasionally, not everything is so perfect, so tidy, and so protected. And, believe it or not, you cannot be with your children all the time. I dare say, even as one who has no children, that you will, if you don’t already, sometimes prefer it that way. If nothing else, it is essential for your “babes”’ development that it be thus.

So, while the hepatitis B virus may be not swarming about your precious hearth, it may not even be present there at all, it’s out there, and for a while, probably while you weren’t paying any attention, it was out there a whole lot. And it was being passed from one child to another with an alarming frequency that no amount of parental supervision or career privilege could prevent.

Thankfully, things are different now. Infections have been reduced substantially. I suppose it’s possible this is the result of a sudden proliferation of husbands and wives, daddies and mommies, both working at home and keeping the kids there with them all the time, but I doubt it.

I say that because the world in which you, Michelle, operate every single day, is not the norm. I’m sure it’s wonderful. And I know, for certain, there are millions of Americans, most of them poorer than you and Jesse, who would give anything for the very fortunate life you lead. You are truly blessed. I wish you and your family the very best, including long and healthy lives. I really do.

In the meantime, though, I think it’s better for everyone, even the “babes” Malkin, to be vaccinated against this surprisingly easily transmitted (again: kids, diapers, hands, mouths) and potentially deadly disease.

As I’ve said here before, I miss a lot. Much of what I miss I miss because I don’t watch television and rarely listen to the radio, leaving me fairly well detached from the popular culture. But I’ve always thought, at least when it comes to politics, that I’m more than reasonably well informed, that I’m aware, observant, astute even.

So will someone please explain to me what the hell is the vested interest of organizations like the Free Market Foundation and Americans for Tax Reform in the issue of gay marriage?

You know, years ago groups not altogether unlike these were called fronts.

Maybe it’s time that word was brought back into our discourse.

I would have preferred to begin this post by telling you that at noon today great strides were made in Philadelphia, the cradle of liberty, in the pursuit thereof -- liberty meaning, in this case, the ability to sit peacefully, not harassed and not terrorized, in an already disgracefully vandalized city park -- but I can’t. It was merely a Whiffle-ball game, and the way it was organized, probably with an eye toward the average age of the participants, there wasn’t a whole lot of running going on, let alone striding.

And no, there wasn’t a large crowd of spectators on hand, this being the most inside of inside base Whiffle ball, but it was a lot of fun.

At issue: the ongoing controversy over skateboarding in John F. Kennedy Plaza, also known as LOVE Park, discussed here Tuesday and last week.

While at the game I met, among others, both Noel Weyrich of Philadelphia magazine, he who instigated, or inspired, or launched, or sparked, or whatever, the entire event, as well as Ronnie Polaneczky, the Philadelphia Daily News columnist with whom Rittenhouse in the past has, in her tactful and gracious phrasing, “exchanged words.”

I spoke briefly with Larry Platt, editor of Philadelphia, and renewed my acquaintance with Frank “Sorta Slugger” Burgos, the punk who heads the editorial pages of the Daily News.

I didn’t play. Having swapped e-mail with Weyrich beforehand, I figured I was just being held in reserve. Regardless, and fortunately, Philadelphia magazine, on whose side of this controversy, at least as expressed by Weyrich, I stand, was amply, ably, and enthusiastically represented.

The magazine’s staff was undaunted by rumors the Philadelphia skateboarding community (also known, to some of us, as the “street rats”) was planning to show up en masse (though they of course didn’t -- can’t, as in aren’t able to -- use that term), in support of the newspapers, a pair of very fine dailies, a broadsheet and a tabloid, that but a fraction of said rats have ever read in their lives.

My staying on the sidelines was just as well for everyone involved, because the way the “field” was laid out on the “pavement” [Translation: sidewalk.] on North Broad Street there wasn’t room for me in my usual outfield position, that being one with which you might not be familiar, namely, far right field.

Remember back in school when you were playing softball and they sent the worst baseball player over to right field? Yeah, I was that guy. Except in my case, when I went to the customary right-fielder position, I found there was already someone there. Okay, what’s up with that?

“Move back,” they would tell me. “Farther back,” they added. “Keep going!” Already humiliated, I then heard: “Yeah, that’s it. Only more. Farther back! Okay, that’s about right. But don’t do anything without asking first.”

Don’t worry, I’m not bitter. (But if you think you’re cheating off me on tomorrow’s Latin quiz you’ve got another coming, pal.)

At today’s game there was no obvious police presence, nor did Philadelphia Newspapers Inc., the Knight-Ridder Inc. subsidiary that publishes both the Philadelphia Inquirer and the Daily News, send out the goon squad, which, I heard from someone at the game, is a function KRI has farmed out to Pinkerton’s, a real P.R. disaster in Pennsylvania, if you catch my drift.

Still, once in a while I looked up and I would swear I saw some muckety mucks glaring at all of us from the upper reaches of the ivory tower. (What do I care? I don’t work there, either at the papers or the magazine. Why not? Uh, gee, well, um, I don’t know.)

After a spirited string of innings, and to Polaneczky’s great surprise, no beer whatsoever, the game, between the Daily News and Philadelphia, ended in a low-scoring, very gentlepersonly, 1-1 tie.

And do you know what? That’s so very Philadelphia.

Stop. Enough. No more. Those Americans who are still conscious, or who can at least read, don’t believe you and they would be hard pressed to be convinced by your transparent lies. And if we’re going to have an “independent” inquiry into the matter -- Iraq’s alleged stockpiles of weapons of mass destruction and the delivery capability associated therewith -- just shut up in the meantime.

Appearing before the Senate Armed Services Committee, Secretary of Defense Donald H. Rumsfeld yesterday said it is “too early to conclude Iraq did not possess chemical and biological weapons before the U.S.-led invasion last March,” according to a report in today’s Philadelphia Inquirer (“Rumsfeld, CIA: Arms May Yet be Found,” by Drew Brown).

What’s up with this guy? Does he think he’s the only person in the country with a calendar on the wall? It’s February for crying out loud! We’ve been looking for almost a year, and that’s after months of inspections under the auspices of the United Nations.

According to the Inquirer, Rumsfeld believes weapons inspectors “need[] more time to assess what happened to any stockpiles and that weapons may yet be found.”

Wait a second there, Don. Inspectors need “more time”? Why the complacency? Before we started spewing billions down this particular rat hole time was of the essence. And now we need to just “kick back,” as the kids say? Exactly which rocks in Iraq have not yet been overturned?

Almost laughably, Rumsfeld told lawmakers, “Saddam Hussein . . . did not behave like someone who was disarming and wanted to prove he was doing so.” Well, either that or he pulled one over on you, smarty pants.

Ever the master of obfuscation, the defense secretary also said, “As Dr. David Kay has testified, what we have learned thus far has not proven [sic] Saddam Hussein had what intelligence indicated and we believed he had, but it has also not proven [sic] the opposite.”

Known unknowns and unknown unknowns, or something like that I guess.

Look, it’s long since past the time this guy was given the old heave-ho. If President George W. Bush won’t do it, and there’s no reason to believe he will, it’s up to the American people to do it for him, and for us.

Over at “The Corner,” where the staff of what remains of National Review goes to throw snot on the wall, Jonah Goldberg yesterday wrote, as part of his “gibbeting list” (I guess you had to have been there):

Well, I don’t like John Dewey as a nominee because he seems [sic] to be [sic] a decent guy, whatever mistakes he may have made.

Does anyone, and I mean anyone, think or believe that Goldberg has read even one sentence of Dewey?

Sidney Hook, please call your office. Oh, wait, you’re dead. And so is Dewey. And cretins like Goldberg are stomping on your graves.

Hey, let’s all have some fun at the expense of Bill O’Reilly, courtesy of The Best Page in the Universe. (The title of the article, while by no means, or at least not by most means, offensive or obscene, cannot be republished at this site because it includes a word that is on that section of the admittedly old-fashioned, even archaic, publication guidelines of The Rittenhouse Review known as “the index.”)

(Made you look, didn’t I? Listen, we just don’t use that word here. I can’t, ahem, conceive of it ever entering our discourse. Actually, it did come up -- sorry -- once, that word, I mean, either at Rittenhouse or TRR, I can’t find the post just now, but the inexplicably popular play under discussion was referred to in that post simply as “The Monologues.”)

Anyway, the Best Page in the Universe essay begins:

This guy [Ed.: O’Reilly] is the epitome of narcissism, and coming from a guy whose website is titled “The Best Page in the Universe,” that’s saying a lot. If I had to describe Bill O’Reilly in a phrase, it would be “sock-sniffer.” You know[,] the kind of guy who comes home from a long day of work, his feet have been sweating all day, his socks are ripe with the pungent aroma of stale milk and wet leather, and after he finally sits down to take his socks off, but just before he throws them in the hamper, he takes a quick sniff to sample his odors.

And it just gets better from there.

By the way, does O’Reilly remind anyone else of their one creepy uncle from Long Island or someplace like that who . . . Oh, sorry, never mind.

[Thanks to J.R.C. for the tip.]

Eric Alterman, writing at his blog Altercation, today offers a list of suggestions for a Democratic “shadow cabinet” that reads like a beautiful dream.

Among the names Alterman lists, and you’ll have to go over there to find out who’s named to which slot: Wesley Clark, Anthony Zinni, Max Cleland, Joseph Stiglitz, Joseph Wilson, Laura Tyson, Paul Krugman, Elliot Spitzer, Gary Hart, and John Lewis.

Now, how great does that sound, especially the Elliot Spitzer, Gary Hart, Laura Tyson, and Paul Krugman parts?

You know, it doesn’t have to be just a beautiful dream or only a “shadow cabinet.” This could be the real cabinet.

Let’s keep our eyes on the ball -- on the prize -- people.

During my long career in financial journalism and securities analysis, I never bought into the great big Jack Welch myths, all of which were emerging into folklore during that same time. Welch, the former chairman and chief executive officer of General Electric Co., struck me as overrated, overhyped, and overexposed. Meanwhile, G.E.’s financial statements were, if not indecipherable, certainly deficient in their disclosure. And profits at the corporate behemoth grew with a consistency that, considering G.E.’s myriad businesses, was, if I may be kind, suspicious.

I didn’t buy Welch’s first book, Jack: Straight from the Gut. And I know I’m not going to purchase his second work, already in progress and slated to carry the hackneyed title, Winning.

According to the New York Times, Welch, who received a $4 million advance from publisher HarperCollins, will be joined in this latest project by his ethically challenged fiancée, former Harvard Business Review editor Suzy Wetlaufer.

According to Welch, “Winning is a book for the people in business who sweat, get their nails dirty, hire, fire, make hard decisions, and pay the price when those decisions are wrong.”

Yep, it’s the same Jack Welch. You remember Jack Welch, don’t you? The guy with the dirty fingernails? Or as the great one put it to the Times just this week, “my greasy fingernails.” (What, no manicurists in Stamford or Fairfield, Conn.? Or in Lost Tree or Palm Beach, Fla.? Or in New York or in Boston or on Nantucket?)

According to the Times, the future Mrs. Welch said Winning “would be full of practical business advice, divided into three sections: working within an organization, dealing with competitors[,] and handling matters of life and career.” (Um, like what? Marriage and divorce?)

Oh, wow! Sounds fascinating! Haven’t seen that kind of book before, have we?

From where come the ideas to fill so thrilling a tome? Welch says it’s his recent experience on the lecture circuit. (Hence, I suppose, the “greasy fingernails.”)

“I’ve been talking to armies of people,” the disarmingly modest and self-effacing Welch told the New York Times, adding, “And I realized that I had answers to questions about managing that people at lower levels could really use.”

Oh, please. I once managed nearly 50 people. If you’re managing even half that small number and you think you have time to read “management bibles,” just face it, you’re not doing your job.

And God help the gullible C.E.O.-wannabe who shells out $25 or $30 to read what I fully expect will be nothing more than Wetlaufer’s dressing up of Welch’s stump speeches. (And if you’ve read HBR, you know “dressing up” is a relative phrase.)

The publisher, anyway, or I should say, of course, is excited: “This is the book Jack was born to write,” gushed Jane Friedman, president and chief executive of HarperCollins. “This is the one, as a businessperson, that I will follow word for word,” Friedman added, neglecting to explain exactly what, now that she is the head of one of the nation’s largest publishing houses, she still needs to learn.

According to the Times, Friedman, who is strikingly out of touch with young people today, believes the book will be “sought-after reading for high school and college students.”

I can see the ad blurbs already: “Stolen from school book fairs everywhere!”

Said Friedman, apparently without a trace of embarrassment: “Young people grow up today wanting to be a policeman, a fireman, a C.E.O. Jack can teach to all of that.”

That Jack Welch, he’s amazing! Not only can he teach budding C.E.O.s how to massage earnings and manage Wall Street expectations -- Thank heaven for G.E. Finance! -- he can also teach them how to catch bad guys and put out fires and stuff.

Just as the obsequious fawning over corporate “titans” and “giants” and “geniuses,” one of so many absurd excesses of the ’90s, was beginning to die a deservedly ignominious death, along come Jack Welch and Suzy Wetlaufer, the William Agee and Mary Cunningham of the new millennium -- though, fortunately, without a corporation to trash and devour -- to rev up the entire discredited enterprise.

I think I’ll pass.

[Thanks to M.A.C. for the tip.]

Do you live in or near Philadelphia?

Do you, or can you, or do you think you can, play Whiffle ball?

Are you interested in taking on and whipping the pants off the “big-media” powers that be, meaning the editorial boards of the Philadelphia Inquirer and the Philadelphia Daily News?

Would you like to send a message to the skateboarders, the “street rats” as they are known among those who actually live and work and play in Center City, those who for years have occupied and terrorized John F. Kennedy Plaza and neighboring areas, an emphatic note to that they are not welcome?

If so, please join me in joining my, I guess, new-found “colleagues” from Philadelphia magazine, including the incomparable Noel Weyrich, for a game of Whiffle ball in front of the headquarters of the Inquirer and Daily News on Thursday, February 5, at noon, and, in indicating your interest, send me an e-mail.

This is going to be a blast.

[Note: The fourth paragraph of this post was edited post-publication solely for clarity of expression.]

These days I take my moments of satisfaction where I can get them, and I had a supreme such moment just an hour ago.

Thanks to the incredible generosity of a devoted reader, Philadelphia’s answer to the like-minded George Soros and its reasoned counterpart to the demented Richard Mellon Scaife, I was able today to hand my landlord’s agent a cashier’s check that not only brings me up to date with all my obligations but takes me to the end of February.

So the entire exercise through which she’s putting me, viz., going to court next week, is now moot.

What will she do?

Will she continue to seek attorneys’ fees of $450.00 for a complaint she knew or should have known was demonstrably false? Will she conjure up new allegations? Or will she just drop the entire matter?

Stay tuned.

[Post-publication addendum (February 4): More landlord fun. It seems Miss Thing is starting to wake up. Yesterday she sent around a maintenance woman to take care of the six repair requests I filed last week, two of which I took care of myself over the weekend, having grown tired of the wait, and two of which were included in my initial damage assessment report filed some 18 months ago. By the way, did you know my apartment building doesn’t have a recycling program or strategy? I did. I knew that, I mean.]

Apologies for the ketchup blogging, but if you read just one thing today, may I suggest “Judy, Judy, Judy,” by Katha Pollitt from the latest issue of The Nation.

It’s a killer piece about public enemy number-one, the media, and its ongoing bizarre treatment of Democratic presidential candidate Howard Dean and his wife, Judith Steinberg Dean. Pollitt offers a withering dissection of the attention accorded to Mrs. Dr. Dean, outrageous behavior that, in a just world, would have more than a handful of journalists in a desperate search to restore their deservedly ruined reputations.

Pull quote (long but worth it):

The attack on Dr. Judy began on the front page of the New York Times (you know, the ultraliberal paper) with a January 13 feature by Jodi Wilgoren, full of catty remarks about her “sensible slipper flats and no makeup or earrings” and fatuous observations from such academic eminences as Myra Gutin, “who has taught a course on first ladies at Rider University in New Jersey for 20 years.” It seems that Dr. Steinberg “fits nowhere” in Professor Gutin’s categorizations. Given that she counts Pat Nixon as an “emerging spokeswoman,” maybe that’s not such a bad thing. “The doctors Dean seem to be in need of some tips on togetherness and building a healthy political marriage,” opined Maureen Dowd, a single woman who, even if she weds tomorrow, will be in a nursing home by the time she’s been married for twenty-three years like the Deans. Tina Brown, another goddess of the hearth, compared Dr. Judy to mad Mrs. Rochester in Jane Eyre. On ABC News’s Primetime, Diane Sawyer put both Deans on the grill, with, according to Alexander Stille, who counted for the L.A. Times, ninety negative questions out of a total of ninety-six. Blinking and nodding like a kindly nurse coaxing a lunatic off a window ledge, Sawyer acted as if she wanted to understand Dr. Judy’s bizarre behavior: She keeps her maiden name professionally (just like, um, Diane Sawyer, a k a Mrs. Mike Nichols); she doesn’t follow the day-to-day of politics (like, what, 90 percent of Americans?); she enjoyed getting a rhododendron from Howard for her birthday. Throughout this sexist inquisition, Dr. Steinberg remained as gentle as a fawn, polite and unassuming -- herself. “I’m not a very ‘thing’ person,” she said when Sawyer pressed too close on that all-important rhododendron. She allowed as how she was not too interested in clothes -- whereupon Sawyer cut to a photo of Laura Bush, smiling placidly in a red ball gown.

Okay, if you read just two things, next read “First-Class Lady,” by Ronnie Polaneczky in yesterday’s Philadelphia Daily News, a thoughtful profile of Teresa Heinz Kerry and the perfect counterweight to Michelle Malkin’s recent, and very strange, doodlings on the same subject, which the Daily News also published yesterday.

A quick pull quote from Polaneczky’s article:

It remains to be seen, of course, whether Teresa Heinz Kerry is able to shed that “volatile” adjective that has been used -- inexplicably, in my opinion -- to describe her. To me, the word conjures images of a crazed Heinz Kerry crashing through the White House west wing, threatening the staff with a broken Cristal bottle. From what I can tell, though, what seems to make her “volatile” in pundits’ minds is that she speaks in sentences that don’t sound drained of all life by some public-relations handler.

I’m sure I could come up with a third article, but other duties call.

There are several particularly slippery people in the Bush administration, an outfit that has raised untrustworthiness to an art form. For that reason, it’s good to see early pressure, taking the customary Washington form of leaks to the media, for the upcoming inquiry into purported intelligence failures surrounding Iraq’s alleged development of weapons of mass destruction to extend beyond the Central Intelligence Agency and to include the two rogue intelligence operations that apparently operated out of the Office of the Vice President and the Department of Defense.

“Cheney Key to Iraq Probe, Critics Say,” by Jonathan S. Landay, Warren P. Strobel, and Joseph L. Galloway in today’s Philadelphia Inquirer offers an early look. The reporters write:

What went wrong with intelligence on Iraq may never be known unless the inquiry proposed by President George Bush examines secret intelligence efforts led by Vice President Richard Cheney and Pentagon hawks, current and former U.S. officials said yesterday.

The critics said Bush may limit the inquiry’s scope to the CIA and other agencies, and ignore the key role the officials said the administration’s own internal intelligence efforts played in making the case for war.

The officials, who spoke on condition of anonymity because of the sensitivity of the issue, did not dispute that the CIA failed to accurately assess the state of Iraq’s weapons programs. But they said intelligence efforts led by Cheney magnified the errors through exaggeration, oversights and mistaken deductions. [Emphasis added.]

Those efforts bypassed normal channels, used Iraqi exiles and defectors of questionable reliability, and produced findings on former dictator Saddam Hussein’s links to al-Qaeda and his illicit arms programs that were disputed by analysts at the CIA, the State Department and other agencies, the officials said.

“There were more agencies than CIA providing intelligence . . . that are worth scrutiny, including the [Pentagon’s now-disbanded] Office of Special Plans and the office of the vice president,” said a former senior military official who was involved in planning the Iraq invasion. […]

Senior officials yesterday revealed new details of how Cheney’s office pressed Secretary of State Colin L. Powell to use large amounts of disputed intelligence in a February 2003 presentation to the U.N. Security Council that laid out the U.S. case for an invasion.

A senior administration official said that during a three-day pre-speech review, Powell rejected more than half of a 45-page assessment on Iraqi weapons of mass destruction compiled by Cheney’s chief of staff, I. Lewis Libby, and based on materials assembled by pro-invasion hard-liners in the Pentagon and the White House.

Powell also jettisoned 75 percent of a separate report on al-Qaeda, said the official.

Still, he said, Libby continued pressing Powell unsuccessfully right up until a few minutes before the speech to include dubious information purportedly linking Hussein to the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

And while we’re at it, let’s not forget National Security Adviser Condoleezza “Mushroom Cloud” Rice.

Taking his cue from, and following the lead of, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphors, President George W. Bush, U.K. Prime Minister Tony Blair will launch, as The Guardian puts it, “an inquiry to establish why Iraq appears to be devoid of weapons of mass destruction.”

Over to you, Prime Minister John Howard. You’re typically the next to fall in line.

After that, I suppose, will come Italy, Poland, Palau . . .

A quick pull quote from “Squeaky Clean? Not Even Close,” by Amanda Hesser in the New York Times:

Chuck Gerba, a professor of environmental microbiology at the University of Arizona who has studied bacteria in home kitchens, said that he found that people who had the cleanest-looking kitchens were often the dirtiest. Because “clean” people wipe up so much, they often end up spreading bacteria all over the place. The cleanest kitchens, he said, were in the homes of bachelors, who never wiped up and just put their dirty dishes in the sink.

So there.