The view from the street and the TV studio.
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A Hispanic man wanted his picture taken with me. I stood between his wife and him. He told me he was in the Army and was headed for Afghanistan the next day. “You’re a star,” I said. “A real star.” His wife started to cry. I hugged her.
Then I hugged him and gave him my e-mail and told him if he wanted me to send him anything, I would.
What will it be like for him going from this lushness around 49th and Fifth and heading for some dusty miserable spot in Afghanistan where people will try to kill him? Will he even believe there is a place like the ice skating rink at the Rockefeller Center or will he think he dreamt it?
Meanwhile, what was Jesus writing in the dust?
Then back down south. A taxi came within inches of running me over at 47th and Fifth. He was running a light and almost killed me.
Then left at 44th, past Brooks Brothers, and then into the Yale Club. As I went in the revolving door, a middle aged woman with short, close cropped blond hair with one red streak, grabbed me. “Let’s go to the bar and have a drink,” she whispered. She was drunk. I mean, there is drunk and then there was this woman, who was in a coma.
I told her I did not drink and was going to the library. She followed me to the beautiful library. I tried to ignore her. I sat in a leather arm chair. She sat on my lap. “Look,” she said in a thick German accent, “I’ll keep this simple. I want you to come to my crappy little apartment and do me.”
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” she asked.
“One, I’m going back to my hotel to be with my wife, and two, I am going back to my hotel to be with my wife.”
The woman looked a bit like Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner and I was wondering if she would kill me by crushing my skull. But I bravely pushed her off my lap and walked to the elevator. On the elevator was a lovely middle-aged couple from Tulsa. By a great stroke of luck, she glommed onto them and I made my getaway to the men’s room.
When I got out, she was gone. As I left, I ran into Ed Schmults, if I have the spelling right. He was Deputy AG under Ed Meese, under Reagan, if I remember. He was with his stunningly beautiful wife, who was wearing a spectacular mink coat. Women wear fur in New York City. I don’t know what to say about that.
Mr. Schmults greeted me cheerily and off I went back to the Essex House. A long walk for me after a long day. At 59th and Sixth, I saw a pretty young woman with a very short skirt trying to hail a cab. I suggested to her that she walk over to the doorman at the Essex House and he would get her a taxi.
“Are you staying there, Mr. TV Man ?” she asked me.
“Yes, I am,” I answered her.
A man of faith in a godless age is hitting Americans where it hurts.
Mr. and Mrs. American Spectator Reader, let P.J. O’Rourke talk sense to your kids.
In Britain, defending your property can get you life.
The debacle of this president’s administration is both a cause and a symptom of the decline of American values. Unless Congress impeaches him, that decline will go on unchecked. An eminent jurist surveys the damage and assesses the chances for the recovery of our culture.
It won’t take long for conservatives to scratch this presidential wannabe off their 2008 scorecard.
The American Christmas, like the songs that celebrate it, makes room for everybody under the rainbow. Is that why so many people seem to be hostile to it?
Was the President done in by the economy, or by the politics of the economy?
H/T to National Review Online