"I'm not sleeping with him," that's how Rebecca greeted me when I bumped into her at the lobby.
"Oh, hon, no one wants to sleep with him," I said sadly because I knew the one who always had to was me.
But Thomas Friedman is still on his education kick in an attempt to impress Rebecca. Or to impress her breasts.
But I did enroll in some courses this week. I'm not going to wait for the paper of misrecord to realize how unliked Thomas Friedman is. While the money's there, I need to make sure I'm employable after my post-Friedman period. It will come.
I'm not sure whether I'll drop Thomas Friedman before the paper does, but I think he will get droppsed by both of us.
Why?
Did you not read "Facts and Folly"? Despite quoting from a study that mentions that the nation used to be able to provide "high wages," Thomas Friedman never talks about that in his latest "I'm an education time columnist!" op-ed. He whines about the fact that we're so far behind in the use of cell phones but never stops to think that the economy might have some impact there.
Or with broad band access.
It's all about education, which is pre-bubble bust thinking, if you ask me. Since the stock market bubble burst under Bully Boy's watch, an education hasn't meant all that much. His paper's focused on the high end wage earners who've had trouble getting hired. But that's true of the low-end as well. It's just that the paper isn't keen to write up silly Sunday magazine profiles on them.
Teaching does need to be appreciated more and it also needs to provide higher wages. Thomas Friedman, neoliberal that he is, can't come out and with concrete examples on that. It's a "free market" and it's gone global, to hear Thomas Friedman preach it.
But what's really gone global has been poverty. It's even gone domestic.
A point he misses, so naturally Gail Collins loved it.
Thomas Friedman asked me what I thought of his column and I lied. I said it was "beautiful."
Thomas Friedman started crying.
"Oh, Betinna, you don't know how long I've waited to hear that."
But what about all the cab drivers and other ficitional people who populate his column everytime a word of praise to him is uttered?
"It's not the same," he whined. "I'm not putting words into their mouths."
"So you do admit that you make them up!" I exclamined.
Suddenly, Thomas Friedman's mood changed. It was like watching Shirley Temple turn into an ogre before your eyes. He did everything but snarl, "Tina! Bring me the axe!"
When he finally calmed down, he insisted that it wasn't "lying." It was p.r., it was getting the ball rolling. It was "conditioning the people" to accept his greatness.
Still struck me as lying.
Like when he gave details about his mythic proportions to his "trip" at the start of the column. For the record, there was no plane trip. He did catch the Subway (and complain the whole way). And he wasn't reading through reports. He had a copy of Maxim, a copy of Jugs and a copy of Playboy.
Now he did read Teen People this week while he was waiting for the stylist to free up and touch up his highlights.
He tipped the woman a buck. Said that was the "free market" at work as well. Me, I thought it was just another example of how cheap he is.
Which may be why he insists upon doing his own highglights and touch ups "down there" while he gives himself a skin care treatment. "Facts and Follies"? Try"Frostings and Facials." As he was attempting to make himself "pretty" (what is it about the big wimps like my husband and Eric Alterman that always allows them to self-delude about the state of their own masculinty?), I put on some Etta James, cooked some Mexican rice, and wondered if Angelina Jolie had to spend many nights at home while Brad Pitt finished "coloring" his pubes?
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Thursday, March 30, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
The Big Boob likes big boobs
So Rebecca is our blonde neighbor with the big boobs. They are nice boobs. I don't give them a great deal of thought but my husband Thomas Friedman does. He's fixated on them. Everytime we bump into her, his tongue is hanging out and drool's dripping from his mouth. They are nice boobs, but they are just breasts. And, point of fact, with all the canned cheese Thomas Friedman's consumed in the last year, his own boobs are almost as big. Give him another year and he may be able to fit into one of Rebecca's bras.
But Thomas Friedman is obsessed with her breasts and I say all that to say, Thomas Friedman is so obsessed with her breasts that he's now attempting to impress her. Now, if you're married to a man on the edge of middle age who's gone from stocky to portly and now beyond, a man who thinks "highlights" in his hair make up for the lack of regular bathing, you learn not to get jealous. Truth is, outside of a few airheads like Patti, there's not much chance that any woman will come along to take Thomas Friedman off my hands.
But Friday, Thomas Friedman's latest made it into print. "Worried About India's and China's Booms? So Are They" probably confused many readers. What, some may have wondered, is Thomas Friedman doing writing that "every country thinks it behind" and that the United States thinks it behind in math and science after Thomas Friedman made a point of screaming, a few months back, that we were behind in math and science?
The answer lies with Rebecca. Large breasts can inspire him more than even illegal wars. See, Rebecca wrote, back when Thomas Friedman and others were screaming for rote education, "more dreamers not just fact checkers" contained the following:
the 60s had street theater. we could use some more of that today. we could use some more art and some more thought that breaks out of the box. and that's where elaine came in on the third estate sunday review discussion. she and c.i. were talking about how we need new ways of seeing things. as u2 once sang, in better days, 'we need new dreams tonight.' or as carly simon aptly put it, 'let all the dreamers wake the nation.'
i hope educators get that. i hope they get that far behind how well some 1 can spit out a fact they've had drilled into them, it matters that children can think and can think beyond the obvious. that's really the future of any nation and how progress can comes about. you have to go beyond the obvious and beyond the same though pattern.
most of the people i know who are creative or think outside the box are music listeners or actually have musical training. i wonder how worried we are that the cuts to music in school continue and that 'leave every child behind' is set on turning every 1 into robots because the testing and the teaching for the test leaves no time for creativity and really doesn't leave time for thought.
If that seems vaugely familiar to you, it may be because Thomas Friedman took Rebecca's points and put them into the mouth of a corporate businessman. It's why suddenly Thomas Friedman is acting like he wasn't running through the neighborhood, naked, screaming, "More science and math, we're being destroyed by other countries!" (He actually did do that. I heard about it from the building manager who says one more nude outburst from "Thomas Flab-man" and we're out.)
He wants Rebecca to like him. More likely, he just wants her to show him her big breasts.
You and I look at Thomas Friedman and see Norma Desmond with more girth. Thomas Friedman looks in the mirror and sees a desirable reflection. It's the sort of delusion that's allowed him to cheerlead an illegal war. It's the sort of delusion that finds him stocking up on General Tao's chicken instead of heading to a gym. It's the kind of delusion that lets him think he learned anything in college. Most of all, it's the kind of delusion that makes him think he has something to say that people need to hear.
Wednesday, he wrote about "A New Grip On 'Reality.'" That came along as a result of Rebecca's mid-winter tan and plunging neckline when she stopped me at the mailboxes to ask me if I'd read the current Mother Jones article about the environment. I thought he was merely staring at her breasts while he licked his lips, but apparently Thomas Friedman was at least partially listening as Rebecca went into how our dependence on fossil fuel has destroyed the environment.
His new grip was the same as his old grip: a grip on Republicans. He can't hand jerk without wrapping his hand around a Republican apparently. Which is why in a column on the environment he had nothing to say about environmentalists who had long argued that we needed to break our oil dependency. He could, however, name check any and every Republican who has begun to think that maybe we might be better off developing alternative fuels. He wrote about "smart conservatives."
That's Thomas Friedman for you, always in denial and with very limited vision. Add "bad breath" and you'll practically be repeating what our "waitress" told him Friday night. She was counter-help at McDonalds, but Thomas Friedman insisted upon calling her "waitress."
"Waitress," he said drawing out both syllables in an annoying whine, "I believe I'd like you to carry our trays to the table."
"Doesn't work that way, Grandpa," said the woman who couldn't have been more than eighteen.
"Do you realize that in India, people would kill for your job!" Thomas Friedman demanded. "You don't know how good you have it!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Children are starving in India, I've heard it all my life."
"No, you stateside twit, in India they are competative!"
"Are you saying India's better than America?" the woman demanded. "Rob, Vernon, this guy hates America."
They come up to the counter wiping their aprons and asking "What guy?"
"This one," she said pointing at Thomas Friedman, "This idiot in denial with the bad vision and bad breath."
Checking out Rob and Vernon, especially Rob who looked a bit like Slater on Saved by the Bell (we all know how obsessed with that show and the male cast Thomas Friedman is), he began to stammer out a response.
"No, no, I love, I love America."
They stared at him, he averted his eyes. Finally, they walked away from the counter as Thomas Friedman attempted to wipe away his flop sweat.
"My, oh my," Thomas Friedman sighed. "That was almost as dangerous as the Green Zone. I wish they would put me in the Green Zone, then I could really teach them something about inventing stories."
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But Thomas Friedman is obsessed with her breasts and I say all that to say, Thomas Friedman is so obsessed with her breasts that he's now attempting to impress her. Now, if you're married to a man on the edge of middle age who's gone from stocky to portly and now beyond, a man who thinks "highlights" in his hair make up for the lack of regular bathing, you learn not to get jealous. Truth is, outside of a few airheads like Patti, there's not much chance that any woman will come along to take Thomas Friedman off my hands.
But Friday, Thomas Friedman's latest made it into print. "Worried About India's and China's Booms? So Are They" probably confused many readers. What, some may have wondered, is Thomas Friedman doing writing that "every country thinks it behind" and that the United States thinks it behind in math and science after Thomas Friedman made a point of screaming, a few months back, that we were behind in math and science?
The answer lies with Rebecca. Large breasts can inspire him more than even illegal wars. See, Rebecca wrote, back when Thomas Friedman and others were screaming for rote education, "more dreamers not just fact checkers" contained the following:
the 60s had street theater. we could use some more of that today. we could use some more art and some more thought that breaks out of the box. and that's where elaine came in on the third estate sunday review discussion. she and c.i. were talking about how we need new ways of seeing things. as u2 once sang, in better days, 'we need new dreams tonight.' or as carly simon aptly put it, 'let all the dreamers wake the nation.'
i hope educators get that. i hope they get that far behind how well some 1 can spit out a fact they've had drilled into them, it matters that children can think and can think beyond the obvious. that's really the future of any nation and how progress can comes about. you have to go beyond the obvious and beyond the same though pattern.
most of the people i know who are creative or think outside the box are music listeners or actually have musical training. i wonder how worried we are that the cuts to music in school continue and that 'leave every child behind' is set on turning every 1 into robots because the testing and the teaching for the test leaves no time for creativity and really doesn't leave time for thought.
If that seems vaugely familiar to you, it may be because Thomas Friedman took Rebecca's points and put them into the mouth of a corporate businessman. It's why suddenly Thomas Friedman is acting like he wasn't running through the neighborhood, naked, screaming, "More science and math, we're being destroyed by other countries!" (He actually did do that. I heard about it from the building manager who says one more nude outburst from "Thomas Flab-man" and we're out.)
He wants Rebecca to like him. More likely, he just wants her to show him her big breasts.
You and I look at Thomas Friedman and see Norma Desmond with more girth. Thomas Friedman looks in the mirror and sees a desirable reflection. It's the sort of delusion that's allowed him to cheerlead an illegal war. It's the sort of delusion that finds him stocking up on General Tao's chicken instead of heading to a gym. It's the kind of delusion that lets him think he learned anything in college. Most of all, it's the kind of delusion that makes him think he has something to say that people need to hear.
Wednesday, he wrote about "A New Grip On 'Reality.'" That came along as a result of Rebecca's mid-winter tan and plunging neckline when she stopped me at the mailboxes to ask me if I'd read the current Mother Jones article about the environment. I thought he was merely staring at her breasts while he licked his lips, but apparently Thomas Friedman was at least partially listening as Rebecca went into how our dependence on fossil fuel has destroyed the environment.
His new grip was the same as his old grip: a grip on Republicans. He can't hand jerk without wrapping his hand around a Republican apparently. Which is why in a column on the environment he had nothing to say about environmentalists who had long argued that we needed to break our oil dependency. He could, however, name check any and every Republican who has begun to think that maybe we might be better off developing alternative fuels. He wrote about "smart conservatives."
That's Thomas Friedman for you, always in denial and with very limited vision. Add "bad breath" and you'll practically be repeating what our "waitress" told him Friday night. She was counter-help at McDonalds, but Thomas Friedman insisted upon calling her "waitress."
"Waitress," he said drawing out both syllables in an annoying whine, "I believe I'd like you to carry our trays to the table."
"Doesn't work that way, Grandpa," said the woman who couldn't have been more than eighteen.
"Do you realize that in India, people would kill for your job!" Thomas Friedman demanded. "You don't know how good you have it!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Children are starving in India, I've heard it all my life."
"No, you stateside twit, in India they are competative!"
"Are you saying India's better than America?" the woman demanded. "Rob, Vernon, this guy hates America."
They come up to the counter wiping their aprons and asking "What guy?"
"This one," she said pointing at Thomas Friedman, "This idiot in denial with the bad vision and bad breath."
Checking out Rob and Vernon, especially Rob who looked a bit like Slater on Saved by the Bell (we all know how obsessed with that show and the male cast Thomas Friedman is), he began to stammer out a response.
"No, no, I love, I love America."
They stared at him, he averted his eyes. Finally, they walked away from the counter as Thomas Friedman attempted to wipe away his flop sweat.
"My, oh my," Thomas Friedman sighed. "That was almost as dangerous as the Green Zone. I wish they would put me in the Green Zone, then I could really teach them something about inventing stories."
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Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Thomas Friedman got ready for his close up
If there's one thing worse than his writing, it's a photo of my husband Thomas Friedman.
Mrs. K called yesterday to ask me about it. Seems Nicky K couldn't stop laughing.
"Betinna, what look is he going for?"
"What look do you see?"
"Well, honestly, he looks like Angela Landsbury in the midst of dance rehearsal for a road tour of Gypsy."
That's exactly the look I was going for.
I didn't sell Thomas Friedman on it that way.
But I told him his blonde highlights would really be set off by a simple black jersey. I explained that it was "very Audrey Hepburn" and that's really all it took. After an hour of listening to him speak of his own understanding of "empathy."
He claims it was Funny Face that set him on his current course. He was a young 12 year-old boy who happened to come across Funny Face late one night and decided that he too was an empathatic. Or at least that he wanted to be someone "who the whole world wanted."
He can dream, right?
I told him I was just glad that was his first Audrey Hepburn film. Imagine what would have happened if he'd seen Roman Holiday first?
He got very nervous and told me "someday" he'd tell me all about his initial encounters with William Safire.
So what did the New York Times' "empathatic" write about most recently?
Staying the course in Iraq?
It's an unpopular position so it's a natural for Thomas Friedman.
Or as I put it, "People will love your brave voice."
Flattery gets you everywhere with Thomas Friedman.
So he heaped hate on Iran and urged staying in Iraq.
Except for correcting his repeated use of the term "Iranese," I just hailed it as "brilliant."
He wasn't going to praise fellow war pornographer Michael Gordon but I convinced that the paper would keep presenting his underwhelming The World Is Flat as the second best selling book regardless of how Gordon's pornography sold.
He's really scared Gail Collins pretty good if she keeps arguing for it be at number two despite the fact that it's not selling. Or maybe it's just her own little joke: saying his book is a "number two."
It does tend to stink up a room.
"Is it really brilliant?" Thomas Friedman asked of "America's Iran Policy: Iraq."
"It's as brilliant as your carefully manicured nails," I offered. "And as needed."
"Oh, Betinna," Thomas Friedman smiled, clasping his hands together in such a manner as to show off his carefully groomed and clear-polished nails, "You're too good to me."
I truly am.
That's why I didn't even point out, as he twirled around the room singing, that "I'm the Greatest Star" is from the film Funny Girl, not Funny Face.
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Mrs. K called yesterday to ask me about it. Seems Nicky K couldn't stop laughing.
"Betinna, what look is he going for?"
"What look do you see?"
"Well, honestly, he looks like Angela Landsbury in the midst of dance rehearsal for a road tour of Gypsy."
That's exactly the look I was going for.
I didn't sell Thomas Friedman on it that way.
But I told him his blonde highlights would really be set off by a simple black jersey. I explained that it was "very Audrey Hepburn" and that's really all it took. After an hour of listening to him speak of his own understanding of "empathy."
He claims it was Funny Face that set him on his current course. He was a young 12 year-old boy who happened to come across Funny Face late one night and decided that he too was an empathatic. Or at least that he wanted to be someone "who the whole world wanted."
He can dream, right?
I told him I was just glad that was his first Audrey Hepburn film. Imagine what would have happened if he'd seen Roman Holiday first?
He got very nervous and told me "someday" he'd tell me all about his initial encounters with William Safire.
So what did the New York Times' "empathatic" write about most recently?
Staying the course in Iraq?
It's an unpopular position so it's a natural for Thomas Friedman.
Or as I put it, "People will love your brave voice."
Flattery gets you everywhere with Thomas Friedman.
So he heaped hate on Iran and urged staying in Iraq.
Except for correcting his repeated use of the term "Iranese," I just hailed it as "brilliant."
He wasn't going to praise fellow war pornographer Michael Gordon but I convinced that the paper would keep presenting his underwhelming The World Is Flat as the second best selling book regardless of how Gordon's pornography sold.
He's really scared Gail Collins pretty good if she keeps arguing for it be at number two despite the fact that it's not selling. Or maybe it's just her own little joke: saying his book is a "number two."
It does tend to stink up a room.
"Is it really brilliant?" Thomas Friedman asked of "America's Iran Policy: Iraq."
"It's as brilliant as your carefully manicured nails," I offered. "And as needed."
"Oh, Betinna," Thomas Friedman smiled, clasping his hands together in such a manner as to show off his carefully groomed and clear-polished nails, "You're too good to me."
I truly am.
That's why I didn't even point out, as he twirled around the room singing, that "I'm the Greatest Star" is from the film Funny Girl, not Funny Face.
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the new york times
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thomas friedman is a great man
nicholas kristof
the third estate sunday review
democracy now
michael r. gordon
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
First Among Fools
What's it like to be married to the most hated man in the nation?
That's a question I get a lot.
Not from everyone. For instance, Gail Collins seems over her crush on young Mr. Davy Brooks.
"Oh, Betinna," Gail whispered over the phone, all nervous giggles, "he's such a manly man. You're so lucky to be married to Thomas Friedman."
Well we've known she was out of touch with reality for some time. But the thing that had delighted Gail so, what had turned her from a Friedman-hayta' into a wanna-be-playa' was
"Mr. Nasty, Brutish and Short-Tempered."
I came up with that title.
Thomas Friedman loved it, "Oh Betinna, it's perfect. It describes them perfectly."
Yeah, "them."
The layout of the op-ed page is such that columnist's name (regular ones) appears and then a line below it with the title of the column below that in larger font. So it's like this:
THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN
___________________
Mr. Nasty, Brutish and Short-Tempered
I thought it read perfectly. "Thomas L. Friedman . . . Mr. Nasty, Brutish and Short-Tempered." I'd call it "autobiographical" but he didn't come up with it.
What did he come up with? What triggered the lower the belly desire in Gail?
Thomas Friedman making an ass out of himself.
He really thinks he's loved. And I was egging him on.
"Everyone loves you!"
So he opens with his attempt at silly. A little bit about how he has a job for Dick Cheney but no giggles because he's serious and not about to tell a shooting joke.
Shooting joke? He's writing about Iraq. Does he realize how insensitive he comes off?
Of course not. That would require awareness of others and he only has eyes for Thomas Friedman.
So his big plan is to "get tough" by putting the conficting factions in Iraq (which means officials, he does work for the paper of misrecord, after all) into the same room and locking them in there.
What a brave he-man he is! He's nearly as tough as the dad on Growing Pains.
He also tosses out "Darth Vader" for Cheney, not realizing that joke was funny about three years ago and has since been done to death. But what can never be done to death is a fifty-two year-old using the slang "dude."
He does that.
"Betinna, I think it needs a 'dude,'" he said showing me his work in progress before it appeared in Friday's paper.
"Let me look," I said with false sincerity.
That's how this sentence popped into print: "We need a really bad dude to make it work."
He asked me if I understood that "I'm using 'bad' in the colored sense of the word?"
"Oh, yes!" I agreed. "You'll have everyone on board with this column, Thomas Friedman. My people like nothing then to hear our slang in print."
Cracker.
While Dick Cheney gets to be "tough," Thomas Friedman reduces the people of America to the role of either "mid-wife" or "baby sitter." I'm not sure if that's a sleight against women, one against the people of America, or against mid-wives and baby sitters. It's hard to tell because few can offend so many in a single sentence.
What I said when I read it was, "Genius! Pure genius!"
Corn, pure corn.
"Mr. Cheney, this is your Kodak moment" Thomas Friedman typed away. Not grasping that your average technically aware person is familiar with the fact that digital cameras are replacing traditional ones and then some.
I found it interesting that he is back in love with Cheney. He doesn't think Bully Boy can pull off "Read my lips" -- let alone "mid-wife" democracy in Iraq. I seem to remember Bully Boy's father saying "Read my lips." Guess Junior's not up for it?
His praise of the Kurds and Richard Holbrooke only demonstrated how uninformed he is.
Well he does work for the paper of record. And it's always one embarrassment after another for the New York Times. Never say Thomas Friedman doesn't do his part. Of course, these days it gets harder and harder for Captain Freidman to stand out on the ship of fools.
Fortunately, Friday's column, where he reduced the fate of a country to a time-out, made him first among fools.
the common ills
the new york times
thomas friedman
gail collins
thomas friedman is a great man
That's a question I get a lot.
Not from everyone. For instance, Gail Collins seems over her crush on young Mr. Davy Brooks.
"Oh, Betinna," Gail whispered over the phone, all nervous giggles, "he's such a manly man. You're so lucky to be married to Thomas Friedman."
Well we've known she was out of touch with reality for some time. But the thing that had delighted Gail so, what had turned her from a Friedman-hayta' into a wanna-be-playa' was
"Mr. Nasty, Brutish and Short-Tempered."
I came up with that title.
Thomas Friedman loved it, "Oh Betinna, it's perfect. It describes them perfectly."
Yeah, "them."
The layout of the op-ed page is such that columnist's name (regular ones) appears and then a line below it with the title of the column below that in larger font. So it's like this:
THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN
___________________
Mr. Nasty, Brutish and Short-Tempered
I thought it read perfectly. "Thomas L. Friedman . . . Mr. Nasty, Brutish and Short-Tempered." I'd call it "autobiographical" but he didn't come up with it.
What did he come up with? What triggered the lower the belly desire in Gail?
Thomas Friedman making an ass out of himself.
He really thinks he's loved. And I was egging him on.
"Everyone loves you!"
So he opens with his attempt at silly. A little bit about how he has a job for Dick Cheney but no giggles because he's serious and not about to tell a shooting joke.
Shooting joke? He's writing about Iraq. Does he realize how insensitive he comes off?
Of course not. That would require awareness of others and he only has eyes for Thomas Friedman.
So his big plan is to "get tough" by putting the conficting factions in Iraq (which means officials, he does work for the paper of misrecord, after all) into the same room and locking them in there.
What a brave he-man he is! He's nearly as tough as the dad on Growing Pains.
He also tosses out "Darth Vader" for Cheney, not realizing that joke was funny about three years ago and has since been done to death. But what can never be done to death is a fifty-two year-old using the slang "dude."
He does that.
"Betinna, I think it needs a 'dude,'" he said showing me his work in progress before it appeared in Friday's paper.
"Let me look," I said with false sincerity.
That's how this sentence popped into print: "We need a really bad dude to make it work."
He asked me if I understood that "I'm using 'bad' in the colored sense of the word?"
"Oh, yes!" I agreed. "You'll have everyone on board with this column, Thomas Friedman. My people like nothing then to hear our slang in print."
Cracker.
While Dick Cheney gets to be "tough," Thomas Friedman reduces the people of America to the role of either "mid-wife" or "baby sitter." I'm not sure if that's a sleight against women, one against the people of America, or against mid-wives and baby sitters. It's hard to tell because few can offend so many in a single sentence.
What I said when I read it was, "Genius! Pure genius!"
Corn, pure corn.
"Mr. Cheney, this is your Kodak moment" Thomas Friedman typed away. Not grasping that your average technically aware person is familiar with the fact that digital cameras are replacing traditional ones and then some.
I found it interesting that he is back in love with Cheney. He doesn't think Bully Boy can pull off "Read my lips" -- let alone "mid-wife" democracy in Iraq. I seem to remember Bully Boy's father saying "Read my lips." Guess Junior's not up for it?
His praise of the Kurds and Richard Holbrooke only demonstrated how uninformed he is.
Well he does work for the paper of record. And it's always one embarrassment after another for the New York Times. Never say Thomas Friedman doesn't do his part. Of course, these days it gets harder and harder for Captain Freidman to stand out on the ship of fools.
Fortunately, Friday's column, where he reduced the fate of a country to a time-out, made him first among fools.
the common ills
the new york times
thomas friedman
gail collins
thomas friedman is a great man
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Club Membership: One
"Perfect."
That's what I told my husband Thomas Friedman when he showed me his latest column ("Letting India in the Club?") before he turned it in. I was sure he'd come off like the biggest idiot on the op-ed page and he did.
Though Maureen Dowd gave him a close run with her "Nipping and Tucking on Both Coasts." Comparing plastic surgery to lying a nation into war was one of her loonier moments. Fortunately for her, Thomas Friedman tried for sincerity which is always wackier than when he's trying to coin phrases.
He can't help it, he's just not concerned with or about anyone but himself. Just this morning, on our way out, a woman called, "Hold the elevator, Mr. Friedman."
While we waited for her to join us, Thomas Friedman was pursing his lips and mouthing "Hold the elevator." Then he started looking at his watch and muttering, "What is her problem! How long is this going to take!"
When the woman joined us, she smiled and Thomas Friedman mocked her behind her back. When we got to the first floor, Thomas Friedman could no longer hide his superior attitude.
"Okay, that's it, move your butt, old lady! Some of us have lives to live!"
I apologized to the woman and, on the street after, scolded Thomas Friedman for yelling, "She's eighty-two and uses a walker."
"So she should use it! It's Thursday! The only day Soon-yi doesn't work at Dollar China! Hurry up! We'll miss the won ton soup!"
"Liang!" I corrected. "Thomas Friedman, you are so anti-social."
"Nonsense," Thomas Friedman replied, "I love people."
"Gail Collins?"
"I said people," Thomas Friedman spat out increasing his stride and pushing two people out of the way as he ran to the door.
After helping the blind man and the nun up from the sidewalk, and explaining to the nun that she hadn't been shoved by John Bolton, I walked over to Thomas Friedman and pointed out that they didn't unlock the front door for five more minutes.
"Torture!" Thomas Friedman yelped banging on the door and hopping from foot to foot as though he needed to visit the little boy's room.
"Won ton soup! Won ton! Won ton! Won ton!" he hollered.
And that's the Thomas Friedman that wrote Wednesday's column.
He wants what he wants, when he wants it and how he wants it. Which is why he can "applaud President Bush's desire" after so recently slamming him. It's why he can write that India is a "beacon of tolerance and stability" one sentence after nothing, in passing, "today's bombings in India." Why he can see nuclear as a good thing. Why he can see it as a "club."
He'd told himself no more Ritz crackers and canned cheese until he finished his column. So it was rush-rush, "Let them have this, but not . . . This is good, that is bad . . ." while all he was wanting was to stick the can of cheese in his mouth and inhale.
The pages weren't even done spitting out of the ink jet printer before he was wolfing down his cheese and crackers.
Mouth full, he asked me, "So what do you think?"
Before I could answer, he was tossing the can in the trash and asking, "More cheese?"
Thomas Friedman's focus is always Thomas Friedman.
That's why he feigns interest in other nations. He can reduce entire people to cab drivers and "local color" -- when he bothers to mention them at all. It's much easier to "address issues" when you can render the people invisible. So he poses as the global Robin Leach, dashing here and there, instead of really addressing an issue, he toys with it as only someone truly disinterested in the world around him can. Nepal? It matters about as much to him as the Senate's "cure" for the NSA spying.
the new york times
thomas friedman
gail collins
maureen dowd
the world today just nuts
the bullies and the tyrants
the common ills
cedrics big mix
the daily jot
That's what I told my husband Thomas Friedman when he showed me his latest column ("Letting India in the Club?") before he turned it in. I was sure he'd come off like the biggest idiot on the op-ed page and he did.
Though Maureen Dowd gave him a close run with her "Nipping and Tucking on Both Coasts." Comparing plastic surgery to lying a nation into war was one of her loonier moments. Fortunately for her, Thomas Friedman tried for sincerity which is always wackier than when he's trying to coin phrases.
He can't help it, he's just not concerned with or about anyone but himself. Just this morning, on our way out, a woman called, "Hold the elevator, Mr. Friedman."
While we waited for her to join us, Thomas Friedman was pursing his lips and mouthing "Hold the elevator." Then he started looking at his watch and muttering, "What is her problem! How long is this going to take!"
When the woman joined us, she smiled and Thomas Friedman mocked her behind her back. When we got to the first floor, Thomas Friedman could no longer hide his superior attitude.
"Okay, that's it, move your butt, old lady! Some of us have lives to live!"
I apologized to the woman and, on the street after, scolded Thomas Friedman for yelling, "She's eighty-two and uses a walker."
"So she should use it! It's Thursday! The only day Soon-yi doesn't work at Dollar China! Hurry up! We'll miss the won ton soup!"
"Liang!" I corrected. "Thomas Friedman, you are so anti-social."
"Nonsense," Thomas Friedman replied, "I love people."
"Gail Collins?"
"I said people," Thomas Friedman spat out increasing his stride and pushing two people out of the way as he ran to the door.
After helping the blind man and the nun up from the sidewalk, and explaining to the nun that she hadn't been shoved by John Bolton, I walked over to Thomas Friedman and pointed out that they didn't unlock the front door for five more minutes.
"Torture!" Thomas Friedman yelped banging on the door and hopping from foot to foot as though he needed to visit the little boy's room.
"Won ton soup! Won ton! Won ton! Won ton!" he hollered.
And that's the Thomas Friedman that wrote Wednesday's column.
He wants what he wants, when he wants it and how he wants it. Which is why he can "applaud President Bush's desire" after so recently slamming him. It's why he can write that India is a "beacon of tolerance and stability" one sentence after nothing, in passing, "today's bombings in India." Why he can see nuclear as a good thing. Why he can see it as a "club."
He'd told himself no more Ritz crackers and canned cheese until he finished his column. So it was rush-rush, "Let them have this, but not . . . This is good, that is bad . . ." while all he was wanting was to stick the can of cheese in his mouth and inhale.
The pages weren't even done spitting out of the ink jet printer before he was wolfing down his cheese and crackers.
Mouth full, he asked me, "So what do you think?"
Before I could answer, he was tossing the can in the trash and asking, "More cheese?"
Thomas Friedman's focus is always Thomas Friedman.
That's why he feigns interest in other nations. He can reduce entire people to cab drivers and "local color" -- when he bothers to mention them at all. It's much easier to "address issues" when you can render the people invisible. So he poses as the global Robin Leach, dashing here and there, instead of really addressing an issue, he toys with it as only someone truly disinterested in the world around him can. Nepal? It matters about as much to him as the Senate's "cure" for the NSA spying.
the new york times
thomas friedman
gail collins
maureen dowd
the world today just nuts
the bullies and the tyrants
the common ills
cedrics big mix
the daily jot
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
The Chicken Lays An Egg
Thomas Friedman likes to pretend he grapples with the big issues of our times. This from the man who spent forty minutes this morning whining about the fact that the elastic had gone out of his Hanes briefs.
"Why does it happen, Bettina? Why?"
Because you're grossly overweight?
Because all that canned cheese and Ritz crackers has to go somewhere?
No, no, he insisted. There was a cosmic reason.
It reminded me of his column last Friday, "The Big Question."
Headlines can be so misleading. But Thomas Friedman likes to believe everything about him is "big." Reality's never born that out.
So wanting to grab some of the attention that Bob Herbert and Paul Krugman have been getting, Thomas Friedman decides to pen his anti-war statement. Friedman being Friedman, he couldn't pull it off.
He sees war as a more orderly version of a global McDonalds. It's something to get the riff-raff motivated.
So the most he can do is offer a chicken v. egg scenario as he attempted to wonder whether Iraq was the way it was due to Saddam Hussein or whether that's just the way 'those people' are?
He never could figure out his 'riddle.' He lost interest in it as he chased down even more pedistrian phrases. For instance, "This is the season of decision."
Thomas Friedman really does picture himself as the coach in Hoosiers. I'm not sure what, if anything, that has to do with his fondness for hunting down fake nudes online of the male cast members of Saved By The Bell, but he really does see himself as the one who can deliver that inspirational speech right before the fourth quarter and get the 'team' to give it up for God and Glory.
That's why he acts like we're on the verge of seeing the war lose public support. Oh, seer Friedman, tell me next whether the paper arrived yesterday? Did the milk go sour this morning?
If there's anything larger than his ass, it's his sense of self-importance.
And I'm done trying to bring him down to earth. I think I'll just feed into it. Watch him humiliate himself even further. As though praising L. Paul Bremer's book isn't humiliating enough. He's practically Dexter Filkins, so deep is his denial, so self- righteous his finger pointing.
He did it Friday. His big anti-war column turned out to be more half-assed denial from the man who's next book should be called The Brain Is Dead. Till then, he keeps clucking because he just laid another egg.
the new york times
dexter filkins
the common ills
thomas friedman is a great man
the common ills
"Why does it happen, Bettina? Why?"
Because you're grossly overweight?
Because all that canned cheese and Ritz crackers has to go somewhere?
No, no, he insisted. There was a cosmic reason.
It reminded me of his column last Friday, "The Big Question."
Headlines can be so misleading. But Thomas Friedman likes to believe everything about him is "big." Reality's never born that out.
So wanting to grab some of the attention that Bob Herbert and Paul Krugman have been getting, Thomas Friedman decides to pen his anti-war statement. Friedman being Friedman, he couldn't pull it off.
He sees war as a more orderly version of a global McDonalds. It's something to get the riff-raff motivated.
So the most he can do is offer a chicken v. egg scenario as he attempted to wonder whether Iraq was the way it was due to Saddam Hussein or whether that's just the way 'those people' are?
He never could figure out his 'riddle.' He lost interest in it as he chased down even more pedistrian phrases. For instance, "This is the season of decision."
Thomas Friedman really does picture himself as the coach in Hoosiers. I'm not sure what, if anything, that has to do with his fondness for hunting down fake nudes online of the male cast members of Saved By The Bell, but he really does see himself as the one who can deliver that inspirational speech right before the fourth quarter and get the 'team' to give it up for God and Glory.
That's why he acts like we're on the verge of seeing the war lose public support. Oh, seer Friedman, tell me next whether the paper arrived yesterday? Did the milk go sour this morning?
If there's anything larger than his ass, it's his sense of self-importance.
And I'm done trying to bring him down to earth. I think I'll just feed into it. Watch him humiliate himself even further. As though praising L. Paul Bremer's book isn't humiliating enough. He's practically Dexter Filkins, so deep is his denial, so self- righteous his finger pointing.
He did it Friday. His big anti-war column turned out to be more half-assed denial from the man who's next book should be called The Brain Is Dead. Till then, he keeps clucking because he just laid another egg.
the new york times
dexter filkins
the common ills
thomas friedman is a great man
the common ills
Thursday, March 02, 2006
A "social lunch" at the New York Timid
Life with Thomas Friedman. It's never calm. It's never rewarding, but it's never calm.
So Gail Collins is having some problems with his columns and calls us both in for a meeting because she seems to think she and I are still friends.
"Bring your wife," she tells Thomas Friedman. "It's really more of a social lunch."
The first topic on the list is his column from yesterday, "Who's Afraid of a Gas Tax?"
"Uh, the whole paper, fat ass!" Gail snaps at him.
Obviously, her idea of a "social lunch" differs from most.
"Well, I had a problem the week before," I offer spearing my salad and wondering who told Gail Collins that a salad qualified for "a lunch." Especially a salad that consisted of nothing more than iceberg lettuce and ranch dressing.
I look up and see Gail Collins is glaring at Thomas Friedman and he's got his beady eyes fixed on her unibrow.
"You are supposed to make the world safe for neo-liberalism," Gail says not blinking. "You are not supposed to advocate higher taxes."
It was like watching two wide-eyed cats as both continued to stare without blinking.
I study them for a few minutes as I try to eat the "salad."
"Gail, this isn't really cutting it."
"What's that, Betinna?"
"Look at this," I say waving my fork over "the salad."
"You have to request tomatoes! They are extra!" Gail Collins snaps, pulling open a drawer in her desk, grabbing her purse, digging around for something and then slapping a bit of a tomato on top of the lettuce. One. A single slice.
They really go all out at the New York Timid.
Pushing the plate aside, I clear my throat with the hope of catching their attention.
But they're doing their war dance and I think they're strangely excited by it.
"Okay, in 'Empty Pockets, Angry Minds,' my husband Thomas Friedman --"
" 'The great Thomas Friedman'," Thomas Friedman corrects me.
"Don't push it," I reply. "In that column, he wrote about the desecration of the Koran and trotted out the tired fiction that the Newsweek article on the Koran led to violence."
"Betina, I'm working from a list here," Gail huffed. "I will get to the positives shortly."
"But Jon Lee Anderson disproved that fiction."
"Who?" they both cried out as though we were doing call-and-response.
"Jon Lee Anderson."
"I really don't know that name," Gail Collins snapped.
"He writes for The New Yorker."
"Nonsense, Jane Mayer is The New Yorker!"
"Okay," I say determined to make this point, "Karzai was out of the country, he was here in the United States. The night letter was a call to violence while he was out of the country."
Gail looked at Thomas Friedman, he looked at her, they both started giggling.
"Silly, Betinna, you shouldn't believe everything you read unless it's in the New York Timid," Thomas Friedman giggled studying his salad.
"Oh, heavens yes!" Gail Collins giggled. "Dear Betinna, always so easily taken in!"
Thomas Friedman began chortling and the less said about that the better.
So they knew nothing of Jon Lee Anderson's article? I guess they hadn't assigned a reporter to do a book report the week that story ran in The New Yorker?
Having bonded over a common enemy, Bully Boy and the Shi'ites proceeded to . . . Woops, Gail Collins and Thomas Friedman found themselves in harmony for the rest of the "lunch." He asked for more ranch dressing, she drug out her purse again and tossed him a few packets. They muched like two cows grazing. I found myself thinking of the Nina Simone song "Pirate Jenny" and how I could apply it to my own life.
As lunch wound down, Gail pulled me aside to tell me that her efforts weren't working on Davey Brooks. How strange, she was telling him that she was really, really into animals -- large farm animals? Yes, she had.
"I'm beginning to think he doesn't like animals," Gail whispered.
"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case, Gail. You just need to try harder. By the way, congratulations on the new hire. Linda Lavin was always so good on Alice," I said sailing past a very confused Collins.
the common ills
the new york times
thomas friedman
gail collins
david brooks
kats korner
thomas friedman is a great man
So Gail Collins is having some problems with his columns and calls us both in for a meeting because she seems to think she and I are still friends.
"Bring your wife," she tells Thomas Friedman. "It's really more of a social lunch."
The first topic on the list is his column from yesterday, "Who's Afraid of a Gas Tax?"
"Uh, the whole paper, fat ass!" Gail snaps at him.
Obviously, her idea of a "social lunch" differs from most.
"Well, I had a problem the week before," I offer spearing my salad and wondering who told Gail Collins that a salad qualified for "a lunch." Especially a salad that consisted of nothing more than iceberg lettuce and ranch dressing.
I look up and see Gail Collins is glaring at Thomas Friedman and he's got his beady eyes fixed on her unibrow.
"You are supposed to make the world safe for neo-liberalism," Gail says not blinking. "You are not supposed to advocate higher taxes."
It was like watching two wide-eyed cats as both continued to stare without blinking.
I study them for a few minutes as I try to eat the "salad."
"Gail, this isn't really cutting it."
"What's that, Betinna?"
"Look at this," I say waving my fork over "the salad."
"You have to request tomatoes! They are extra!" Gail Collins snaps, pulling open a drawer in her desk, grabbing her purse, digging around for something and then slapping a bit of a tomato on top of the lettuce. One. A single slice.
They really go all out at the New York Timid.
Pushing the plate aside, I clear my throat with the hope of catching their attention.
But they're doing their war dance and I think they're strangely excited by it.
"Okay, in 'Empty Pockets, Angry Minds,' my husband Thomas Friedman --"
" 'The great Thomas Friedman'," Thomas Friedman corrects me.
"Don't push it," I reply. "In that column, he wrote about the desecration of the Koran and trotted out the tired fiction that the Newsweek article on the Koran led to violence."
"Betina, I'm working from a list here," Gail huffed. "I will get to the positives shortly."
"But Jon Lee Anderson disproved that fiction."
"Who?" they both cried out as though we were doing call-and-response.
"Jon Lee Anderson."
"I really don't know that name," Gail Collins snapped.
"He writes for The New Yorker."
"Nonsense, Jane Mayer is The New Yorker!"
"Okay," I say determined to make this point, "Karzai was out of the country, he was here in the United States. The night letter was a call to violence while he was out of the country."
Gail looked at Thomas Friedman, he looked at her, they both started giggling.
"Silly, Betinna, you shouldn't believe everything you read unless it's in the New York Timid," Thomas Friedman giggled studying his salad.
"Oh, heavens yes!" Gail Collins giggled. "Dear Betinna, always so easily taken in!"
Thomas Friedman began chortling and the less said about that the better.
So they knew nothing of Jon Lee Anderson's article? I guess they hadn't assigned a reporter to do a book report the week that story ran in The New Yorker?
Having bonded over a common enemy, Bully Boy and the Shi'ites proceeded to . . . Woops, Gail Collins and Thomas Friedman found themselves in harmony for the rest of the "lunch." He asked for more ranch dressing, she drug out her purse again and tossed him a few packets. They muched like two cows grazing. I found myself thinking of the Nina Simone song "Pirate Jenny" and how I could apply it to my own life.
As lunch wound down, Gail pulled me aside to tell me that her efforts weren't working on Davey Brooks. How strange, she was telling him that she was really, really into animals -- large farm animals? Yes, she had.
"I'm beginning to think he doesn't like animals," Gail whispered.
"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case, Gail. You just need to try harder. By the way, congratulations on the new hire. Linda Lavin was always so good on Alice," I said sailing past a very confused Collins.
the common ills
the new york times
thomas friedman
gail collins
david brooks
kats korner
thomas friedman is a great man
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