David Thayer

In an otherwise dismal outing the NYT Book Review almost overshadowed the Manny Ramirez to the Mets imbroglio with Joe Queenan’s review of Edward Klein’s book about Hilary Clinton. Like Manny, Hilary flummoxes a large segment of the population who regard her as a Flavian Pretender. Hilary, despite slender ankles and a girlish figure, played Womens Field hockey at Wellesley College, thus assuring future concern about her sexual orientation. Further she often grooved the night away listening to platters according to Queenan quoting Klein. How dissolute is that?

Meanwhile Dubya passed his physical with flying colors in order to be leaner and meaner in the coming struggle to bring John Roberts through the mill and onto the Court. With Bolton in the UN and Manny on the bench, the brutal heat wave has left Karl whispering sweet nothings while manifestly not grooving the night away with editors from Time. Karl did intimate that Manny could be had if enough prospects were in the package…sportswriters will not give up their sources on the Manny deal, nor will they cover field hockey whether played at Wellesley or not. They are simply too principaled for that.

There is a Super Bowl in Guatemala, you know soccer, or soccer-football, if you’re from the Barbara Walters’ generation. Barbara was listed as one of the dangerous people in America in one of those faux provocative works of non-fiction whose authors have the lung capacity to discuss their work with Chris Mathews. Before the Super Bowl thread is lost entirely, let’s examine Barbara’s danger quotient: she often seems to squint while posing a question. Viewers, in turn, squint with her. This is difficult for elderly viewers. Many nursing homes in the Tampa St. Pete area report old timers falling on the floor while Barb works her magic on a subject. That’s damned dangerous.

I remember winning a huge bet with my father, who truly was dangerous, on a Super Bowl game so destined for upset that even if Barbara had grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and whispered “why?” I’d have done it anyway. ( He’s your father, David. This is his home bar. Yet you come in…and bet him in front of all his friends…couldn’t you sense the humiliation? Are you squinting?

Making the bet was easy, Barb. Collecting was the issue. I had to go back to the Home Bar where the old man was surrounded by a squadron of non-union hod carriers. They were laughing at some slob who couldn’t decide between Schmidt’s and Genessee, two of the worst beers ever brewed. Schmidt’s on tap. This is like selling urine samples. My dad greeted me like a long lost friend. Where ya been? Whacha doin? Too bad about the Guatemala situation. He patted an empty stool. I never sat down on those things, Barb, not in the Home Bar. You sit down and twenty years goes by while everyone in your life moves away, grows up, fights crime, whatever. Always remain standing.

Instead of collecting two hundred bucks, I got out of there with eleven beer soaked singles and a brief history of Guatemalan football. You never said which Super Bowl…the old man produced a guy reputed to be an actual Guatamalan to back up the story. It’s Super Bowl weekend, Barb. Somewhere.

Late night blogging is a little like road trip fever that sets in after too many french fries, too many diesel fumes, strange faces wearing plastic badges, the pale sheen of neon sweat on the windshield. You want to know how close you are to the spare relief of a motel best viewed in the pitch dark. It’s a private moment once the room key is in hand. Only you know that you’ve thrown your clothes onto a chair that has seen it all, whose stubby veneer legs seem planted, very inert, facing the bolt on television. Go ahead and don’t brush your teeth, dig those Roy Rogers PJs out of the bag, try to figure out why the light switch is located four feet from the bed, why the remote seems to be melting in your grasp. Dan Rather has deserted you for the local guy, punch mute, punch power, fall out of bed reaching for the goddamned light switch.

This is why you blog. This is why, with the interstate thumping in the background, you drown out the cries and whispers and moans, the slamming doors, heat lightning arguments of strange voices, the slow tick of the air conditioner. Tap away on the keyboard. Tuck those feet under your legs, grab a ten gallon hat, a shot of tequila, and say it. When you’re finished, you’re tired, too tired to wrestle with the innertube disguised as a pillow, the glowing clock set to another time zone, the lead weight of the comforter with the six gun motif. You’re done. Lights out.

Some news to share from across the pond. Denise Mina, author of the Garnethill trilogy and Deception, is expecting in August. If you haven’t read any of her work, start with Garnethill and read all of her books. These are US titles. The UK and Commonwealth have their own titles, except in New Caledonia and parts of the Outer Hebrides.

Simon Kernick is a London based crime writer. Simon asked if I’d seen his latest release titled The Crime Trade. I haven’t but I’ll track it down. His US publisher is St. Martins.

Kevin Wignall, author of For the Dogs and People Die, has updated his web page to include his short story The Window published in EQMM. Kevin also says he’ll be included in an anthology titled Greatest Hits to be released in November. The Forty Third Earl is a big Kevin Wignall fan, often reading his books instead of attending to his prize winning garden.

Under the terms of my probationary status as head writer here, I offer the following heartfelt apologies: Jude Law, you don’t have to read Dante. To all Luxembourgoise: I love fried egg pizza. And, finally, to the Marlboro Assizes Magistrate and members of the XX Augusta Legion stationed near Bath, good luck in your war with the Celts! Remember the Thames Valley Police take a dim view of cavalry assaults during peak traffic hours. Off peak, boys.

Steve Crawford, Morgan Stanley executive, received thirty two million dollars as a severance package when he quit the firm earlier this month. It was not made clear whether Mr. Crawford opted for a check or asked for the money in cash so he could go home and roll around his living room floor as we see so often in movies. A spokesperson for Morgan Stanley refused to speculate about how the unemployed executive is spending his time or his money. I doubt that he’s skulking around bars, sad and embittered. My guess is this: he took the check, grabbed a car service home, changed into a New York Mets jersey, went to the bank, opened an interest bearing checking account, grabbed four million in cash and bought everyone in New York City a hot dog. Yeah, that’s what I would do.

Janet Maslin has been kidnapped by aliens. In her place is a sweet tempered lady whose critical faculties approximate those of Harriet Klausner. Tell us your story, Janet. Were you in the country for a breath of fresh air when all of a sudden you saw bright lights, the heavenly host, little guys in Fox Mulder teeshirts? Or was it the F train again? Please give Janet back to us whoever you are. Many thanks.

Instead of reading Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men, why not read Julia O’Faolain’s No Country for Young Men, a novel that is far superior. McCarthy’s latest novel is reviewed by James Wood in a New Yorker column as long as the novel itself. The elegant takedown bears repeated reading.

Ron Hogan of Beatrice fame is holding a pledge drive, that is he is asking his readers for money. he claims to have raised over nine hundred dollars thus far, about the same amount a bartender makes on a weekend. I passed the idea of begging along to the Forty Third Earl of Watership Down, who had this to say: “I’m certain that if one is deserving of remuneration, a judgment closely held to be sure, that, revolting as it may seem, a certain sharing of the wealth is both healthy and inevitable.” The earl has never gotten over Spartacus.

Maud Newton in the New York Times. With Janet sidelined, Maud looked past the author photo and read the book. These litbloggers are ruthless.

A Chinese general threatened the US with a nuclear strike if Taiwan pursues independence. Perhaps a little whale watching is in order for the general, maybe a Joni Mitchell CD. Or a good book. Cormac? Write the man a note, for crying out loud.

I began reading this debut novel this weekend and am enjoying it a great deal. Maybe by Friday I’ll have a full review prepared. I haven’t heard a lot about Selin’s book, so I hope it doesn’t slide under the radar in the wave of summer books. Does that sentence even make sense?

No matter. Selin’s publicist at Time Warner sent the book a few weeks ago, after the release date, but during my Period of Disorientation following the move. I’m on it now.

Sorry for this blog’s rampant commercialism. Luxembourg is fun. You should go there soon. The aqueducts are really big and the climate for Reinsurers is especially favorable. Always a plus in a Grand Duchy.

Yes, hello. Archduke Ferdinand Maria here. The Grand Duchy of Luxembourg is a proud sponsor of this blog, despite some misgivings. Last night the Forty Third Earl of Watership Down rang to say that he hated the new blog and this nanny business. What of literature? he asked. Graf Ersnt von Hohenzollern reported some “big chuckles” so we remain sanguine for the moment.

Visit the Grand Duchy! Observe our remarkable Roman aqueducts. We have fried egg pizza and fries with mayonaisse. Best of all, no French people will mock your colorful clothing, sudden changes of direction, or loudness in confined spaces. We don’t mind! Thanking you so very much. ADFM ( dictated but not read. signed but not sealed.) Adieu.

It all comes full circle, doesn’t it? A reader, perhaps the only reader, asked if I’d seen the story of the nanny fired for blogging. Certainly a bitter irony on a day when The Board is threatening this correspondent with a Judith Miller style Babylonian captivity. It goes to show how writers are treated when the Google page rank of significance (GPRS) offers a goose egg. Anyway, I did read the article in the NY Times (GPRS Very High) choked on my Wheaties, and wondered how the nanny in question appreciated her former employer rendering sour details of her inner life in the cold font of frontline journalism.

Helaine Olen employed a twenty six year old teacher as a nanny. Apparently bruised by the experience of having a previous babysitter, her word, not mine, become pregnant by her longtime boyfriend, Olen decided to nip her nanny’s budding fascination with Tucker Carlson. Tucker Carlson, that obscure object of desire. One wonders if in the Olen household pregnancy results from watching adorable conservative commentators on television. Or what might result from the nanny’s unusual affection for the New Yorker. A dangling modifier in the Times piece led me to believe that the toddler, not the nanny, had started a blog. You can’t fire a toddler.

Too put upon to read Paul Krugman(GPRS Unknown) Ms. Olen experienced envy as she read the online diary of her nanny. She describes teetering on the decision point until mysterious tummy aches suffered by her nanny resulted in Judgment Day. By the end of the piece she had exposed her nanny as a fairly typical young woman who was having more than fun than her boss. Cute story. There’s a happy ending in which Ms. Olen assures us that her erstwhile employee has landed on her feet, and that Olen continues to read the blog, the very blog that cost the young woman her job.

Seneca once said, “life’s finer days for us poor humans, fly first.” That’s right, Ms. Olen. Write an article about Seneca.

It all comes full circle, doesn’t it? A reader, perhaps the only reader, asked if I’d seen the story of the nanny firedf for blogging. Certainly a bitter irony on a day when The Board is threatening this correspondent with a Judith Miller style Babylonian captivity. It goes to show how writers are treated when the Google page rank of significance (GPRS) offers a goose egg. Anyway, I did read the article in the NY Times (GPRS Very High) choked on my Wheaties, and wondered how the nanny in question appreciated her former employer rendering sour details of her inner life in the cold font of frontline journalism.

Helaine Olen employed a twenty six year old teacher as a nanny. Apparently bruised by the experience of having a previous babysitter, her word, not mine, become pregnant by her longtime boyfriend, Olen decided to nip her nanny’s budding fascination with Tucker Carlson. Tucker Carlson, that obscure object of desire. One wonders if in the Olen household pregnancy results from watching adorable conservative commentators on television. Or what might result from the nanny’s unusual affection for the New Yorker. A dangling modifier in the Times piece led me to believe that the toddler, not the nanny, had started a blog. You can’t fire a toddler.

Too put upon to read Paul Krugman(GPRS Unknown) Ms. Olen experienced envy as she read the online diary of her nanny. She describes teetering on the decision point until mysterious tummy aches suffered by her nanny resulted in Judgment Day. By the end of the piece she had exposed her nanny as a fairly typical young woman who was having more than fun than her boss. Cute story. There’s a happy ending in which Ms. Olen assures us that her erstwhile employee has landed on her feet, and that Olen continues to read the blog, the very blog that cost the young woman her job.

Seneca once said, “life’s finer days for us poor humans, fly first.” That’s right, Ms. Olen. Write an article about Seneca.