So my husband Thomas Friedman finally showed up Tuesday at one p.m. He'd been gone how many days? I was so focused on school, I had honestly forgotten he was gone after failing to read in the New York Times of him being mugged or worse.
He showed up in oversize sunglasses, smelling of Ikon vodka and wearing a shorty robe version of a trench coat. A little tipsy but heavy on the dramatics (in other words, basically the same), he stumbled around the living room in his flip flops as he hurried to the window, peaked out the curtains then went to the phone and picked it up listening for I don't know what?
"The Russians are coming," he whispered repeatedly at several points when not muttering darkly, " "Gosudarstvo i Evolutsia."
Sizing him up, I asked, "New shorty robe?"
He ignored me. Lowering his sun glasses and looking over the rims dramatically, Thomas Friedman added, "They are coming and they are coming to get me."
"Thomas Friedman, no one is coming to get you," I sighed. "I could not be that lucky. Now you just sit yourself down on the couch, watch your 'Saved by the Bell' and I'll fix you a grilled cheese sandwich, some coffee and we'll try to get you sobered enough to write that column that Gail Collins keeps screaming she must have in the next few hours."
As I turned to walk to the kitchen, the electricity went out.
"Betinna!" he yelled. "They are coming!"
In the darkness, I could make him out, perched on the sofa, holding a throw pillow at the ready to defend himself. I had to laugh as I pictured an army of KGB agents swarming the apartment while Thomas Friedman held them at bay with a non-lethal pillow fight.
"Gosudarstvo i Evolutsia," he muttered again, honestly creeping me out.
"I'm going to the kitchen, to fix that grilled cheese," I declared turning back towards the kitchen.
Suddenly, he was right next to me, his chunky fingers digging into my upper arm.
"We have no power!" he hissed in my ear, the alcohol on his breath so intense that even I felt a little intoxicated.
"Fortunately," I reminded him, "the stove, like you, runs on gas."
Throw pillow raised at the ready to do maximum non-damage, Thomas Friedman tip-toed into the kitchen with me still muttering "Gosudarstvo i Evolutsia."
As I fixed the grilled cheese, he darted to the window over the sink and peered out giving me a report, "I count ten maybe twelve. They are down below on the street. Dressed as construction workers."
"They are construction workers," I corrected.
He threw back his head and laughed loudly.
"Betinna, you are so simple," Thomas Friedman declared. "When they place you in the gulag, you will not see things so innocently. All this time, we have been worried about Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Syria and Brazil when what we should have been worried about was a reunited Russia, out to crush the world and destroy our very concept of life, liberty and the pursuit of globalization."
"Brazil," I said buttering the bread, "Because Luis Inacio Lula da Silva is going to spearhead the free software movement?"
Thomas Friedman sighed, shook his head and replied, "Yes, Betinna, that and the fact that I do not believe the Lambada is honestly dead."
"The Lambada?" I asked laughing as I put the sandwich in the skillet.
"Do not scoff," Thomas Friedman insisted, "it is the forbidden dance."
I quickly gave up on the idea of making coffee both because the power was out and because it was obvious there was no sobering him up.
Thomas Friedman lumbered around the kitchen to illustrate his point about the 'forbidden dance.'
"There is revolution in these movements," he said quite seriously.
"Plop it down at the kitchen table, Ricky Martin, your sandwich is ready."
Thomas Friedman sat down and began tearing into his sandwich, smacking his lips with delight while he told me he had been held prisoner by "the Russians" for the last five days and how naive we had all been (even Thomas Friedman?) to assume that we had entered into a phase of friendly relations. He predicted the return of bomb shelters, cold war, and the imprisonment of
Yakov Smirnoff and Tatu which were both acts designed to lull us into a false sense of security and lowered expectations.
"That is when they will come for us," he said quite seriously.
In the midst of all of this, the electricity came back on. Thomas Friedman leaped to his feet, throw pillow at the ready, looking around for the non-existant KBG officers he expected to come storming across the linoleum. It was obvious to me that the current conditions in Iraq, the war he helped cheerlead, had finally caused him to crack up.
Pushing him down the hall to the office, I told him he had a column to work on.
"But Betinna, the Russians --" he began.
"You can write all about it in your column," I interrupted. "Just don't sound to nutso, I'd like us to be able to afford a real vacation for Labor Day."
Ten minutes later, he handed me "The Post-Post-Cold War" and asked me to read it before he e-mailed it to Gail.
"It is in code," he declared seriously.
"Well good," I said giving it a quick once over, "at least this time, readers will have a valid reason for not being able to grasp it."
He ignored me and went to the hall closet. Checking it out, for moths?, he finally nodded, told me that if anyone came by I was to say I hadn't seen him, then stepped inside, shut the door and remained inside until Thursday.
I e-mailed the column to Gail who called later.
I thought she was going to ask me, "What is this crap?"
But instead, it turned out that she just wanted to talk about Tom Cruise whom she was convinced had cracked up as a result of his divorce from Nicole Kidman.
"It surely does not help him," she informed me, "Seeing Nicole cavort with that strapping young man in the Chanel ads."
"Gail," I told her, "I see now you how you rose to your current position."
She took it as a compliment. Which explains how so much crap makes the op-ed pages of the paper.
Around six p.m., Yuri V. Ushakov was knocking at our front door. He handed me Thomas Friedman's silk shorty robe and explained that in the missing days, Thomas Friedman had entertained the Russian embassy with humorous tales of a world that was flat, McDonalds as the global equizaler and much more. He did not know, Ushakov said, that the "New York Times" had a humor columnist but now he was very interested in checking out my husband's writing.
It had been a time filled with laughter and vodka, Ushakov informed me, until they had made the mistake of inviting Yegor Gaidar to meet Thomas Friedman. Apparently Gaidar had raised the issue of private properties impact on liberal societies once too often for Thomas Friedman's tastes. The next thing they knew, he was screaming and running stark naked out of the embassy.
At first everyone had laughed because "we love a jolly fat man in my country as much as you do in yours." However, as minutes turned to hours and then a full day, they began to wonder that they might not be dealing with America's print version of Chris Farley and began to worry.
"No, need to worry," I explained after thanking him for returning the shorty robe, "the joke is always Thomas Friedman. Always."
When he sobers up, I intend to ask him what all that talk about Nicky K before he left was about?
thomas friedman
the new york times
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gail collins
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
The hopping mad Thomas Friedman
My husband Thomas Friedman is hopping mad. He doesn't hop too high, laws of gravity prevent that for a man of his size, but he is hopping mad.
Why? He claims "those damn kids" stole his "don't hand out the car to the kids" thread in one of his recent columns for "Darfur." No, they didn't. I told Thomas Friedman that they wrote in terms of refusing to loan your car to a friend, not from the position of a grouchy old man ending his middle-aged years who wanted to ground his children. There is a difference, it's subtle, unlike Thomas Friedman's latest batch of highlights, but it does exist.
He's been so cranky of late. Attacking the Democrats he never agrees with as well as the Republicans he courted so aggresively it was like watching a love sick Sally Rogers decide that, Pickles be damned, Buddy was a man!
With no one left to root for, he invents notions of third-parties (just none existing today -- as if in two years time, a viable third party can be created and win offices) and continues his employer's hobby of smearing Hugo Chavez. Well why not? The paper's about as diverse as a GOP fundraiser.
That's an issue a real thinker could tackle, but Thomas Friedman isn't interested in real issues.
It's so much more pleasing to toss out psychobabble like "First Law of Petropolitics" which is not a new idea but he's trying to coin a phrase since that's really all he can aspire today.
The public shaming of my husband is no one's fault but his own. And he's gotten downright nasty about Nicky K's Pulitzer win. With Memorial Day on the horizon and me about to be buried in college courses, I suggested that we do a b-b-q for that weekend which he was all for. He had a new pair of pumps he wanted to wear and a thong in red, white and blue. I suggested he might want to save that for the Fourth, which caused him to pout, but he really exploded when I suggested that we invite Nicky and Mrs. K.
Like "the kids," Nicky K just ripped him off. He kept insisting that. Telling me I was too stupid to realize anything, insisting that he had "birthed" all the thinkers of today ("And I've got the hips and stretch marks to prove it, Betinna!") but that he is not given his proper credit. It was part mad genius in a James Bond type film, part Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" and totally disgusting.
"Your ego is on full display in everything you write," I informed him, "but until you learn to put it back in your pants in real life, you're going to find yourself with a lot of 'alone' time."
What did I know, he screamed.
I knew enough, I informed him, to be against the war he cheerleaded.
He pooh-pahed that in a fussy manner, with a ridiculous facial expression that I won't characterize, while insisting that I was a fool because I still trusted Nicky K.
He was pacing around the room, shorty-robe flying in the breeze that motion from a man of his girth creates. (That could solve the energy crisis!)
Finally, he stopped, spun around (like Linda Blair in "The Excorist" -- or maybe I just thought that because he'd spilled split pea soup on his robe two days ago and refused to let me wash it), and hissed, "Saint Nicky! Sweet, innocent Saint Nicky! What do you know, Betinna, you idiot, is that Saint Nicky's the one who found you!"
With that he stormed out.
Nicky K found me? What did he mean by that?
I haven't been able to ask because Thomas Friedman's now been gone for three days in a row. He has a column in print tomorrow so I'm sure he'll show up then, demanding I read it.
If he's still alive. It was rather later when he stormed out and I can imagine what could happen to a portly man with badly frosted hair who was wearing a shorty robe and thong as he stalked the streets of NYC in the dawn hours. I keep checking the TV for a "Dateline" special on a cross-dressing, middle-aged man, found raving in Central Park after a vicious attack.
thomas friedman
the new york times
nicholas kristof
thomas friedman is a great man
the common ills
the third estate sunday review
Why? He claims "those damn kids" stole his "don't hand out the car to the kids" thread in one of his recent columns for "Darfur." No, they didn't. I told Thomas Friedman that they wrote in terms of refusing to loan your car to a friend, not from the position of a grouchy old man ending his middle-aged years who wanted to ground his children. There is a difference, it's subtle, unlike Thomas Friedman's latest batch of highlights, but it does exist.
He's been so cranky of late. Attacking the Democrats he never agrees with as well as the Republicans he courted so aggresively it was like watching a love sick Sally Rogers decide that, Pickles be damned, Buddy was a man!
With no one left to root for, he invents notions of third-parties (just none existing today -- as if in two years time, a viable third party can be created and win offices) and continues his employer's hobby of smearing Hugo Chavez. Well why not? The paper's about as diverse as a GOP fundraiser.
That's an issue a real thinker could tackle, but Thomas Friedman isn't interested in real issues.
It's so much more pleasing to toss out psychobabble like "First Law of Petropolitics" which is not a new idea but he's trying to coin a phrase since that's really all he can aspire today.
The public shaming of my husband is no one's fault but his own. And he's gotten downright nasty about Nicky K's Pulitzer win. With Memorial Day on the horizon and me about to be buried in college courses, I suggested that we do a b-b-q for that weekend which he was all for. He had a new pair of pumps he wanted to wear and a thong in red, white and blue. I suggested he might want to save that for the Fourth, which caused him to pout, but he really exploded when I suggested that we invite Nicky and Mrs. K.
Like "the kids," Nicky K just ripped him off. He kept insisting that. Telling me I was too stupid to realize anything, insisting that he had "birthed" all the thinkers of today ("And I've got the hips and stretch marks to prove it, Betinna!") but that he is not given his proper credit. It was part mad genius in a James Bond type film, part Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" and totally disgusting.
"Your ego is on full display in everything you write," I informed him, "but until you learn to put it back in your pants in real life, you're going to find yourself with a lot of 'alone' time."
What did I know, he screamed.
I knew enough, I informed him, to be against the war he cheerleaded.
He pooh-pahed that in a fussy manner, with a ridiculous facial expression that I won't characterize, while insisting that I was a fool because I still trusted Nicky K.
He was pacing around the room, shorty-robe flying in the breeze that motion from a man of his girth creates. (That could solve the energy crisis!)
Finally, he stopped, spun around (like Linda Blair in "The Excorist" -- or maybe I just thought that because he'd spilled split pea soup on his robe two days ago and refused to let me wash it), and hissed, "Saint Nicky! Sweet, innocent Saint Nicky! What do you know, Betinna, you idiot, is that Saint Nicky's the one who found you!"
With that he stormed out.
Nicky K found me? What did he mean by that?
I haven't been able to ask because Thomas Friedman's now been gone for three days in a row. He has a column in print tomorrow so I'm sure he'll show up then, demanding I read it.
If he's still alive. It was rather later when he stormed out and I can imagine what could happen to a portly man with badly frosted hair who was wearing a shorty robe and thong as he stalked the streets of NYC in the dawn hours. I keep checking the TV for a "Dateline" special on a cross-dressing, middle-aged man, found raving in Central Park after a vicious attack.
thomas friedman
the new york times
nicholas kristof
thomas friedman is a great man
the common ills
the third estate sunday review
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Thomas Friedman's Trash Dump Psuedo Politics
Next month, I start college and I'm excited but nervous. My husband, Thomas Friedman, says I'm not focusing on him enough. I replied, "Unless you're going down to the drug store and buying the Depends, we ain't playing William Safire and Peggy Noonan."
It's his sex game, let him be the one standing in line with the Depends. I'm tired of the weird looks I get. It's not really even a "sex game" -- or at least not one for two. Thomas Friedman gets off on it but diapering "Willie" does nothing for me.
He kept whining and whining, so finally last week, I said, "Show me one of your columns."
See, I used to read that garbage all the time. But now I'm focused on preparing for college and really don't have the time to read junk/trash. I know he fancies himself a modern day Montesquieu but, let's be honest, there are more philosophical truths in the writings of Erma Bombeck. I made the mistake of saying that out loud and started in with a diatribe about how his "The World Is Flat" is the natural successor to "The Spirit of the Laws."
I interrupted and asked, "You want me to read this or not?"
He shut up. "Gas Pump Geopolitics" was the title.
----------------
No sooner did I finish then he asked, "Well, did you get it?"
"Yes, Rose," I replied. " 'Never let go.' They let you run this crap?"
Jerking the column from my hands, Thomas Friedman huffed, "It is not crap. 'Titanic' was a wonderful movie. And what do you mean, 'Yes, Rose'?"
Kate Winslet he's not. Except maybe in his mind.
But who am I to gripe? If I'd just smiled and said "Wonderful" I could have day dreamed for half an hour while he went on about just how wonderful his writing was. Instead, he was thrusting another column at me.
This one was called "Go West, Old Men." Right away, I had mixed feelings. It would be fun to live on the west coast but I am about to start college. Then I read past the title and saw that Thomas Friedman wasn't speaking about himself. I know! I was surprised to. With his sassy highlights and that ridiculous black turtleneck he insists upon wearing in public, he's a dead ringer for Bea Arthur. But make a joke about "The Golden Girls" and watch him blow his top.
"Black is slimming, Betinna," he whines.
White boy's lecturing me about Black?
"And it's very Bo-ho, I'm like Marilyn Monroe at the Actors' Studio or Audrey Hepburn in 'Funny Face!' "
I guess he's been brushing up on his 'motivation.' That would explain the added 'drama' in the column. Such as this statement:
It was surely no accident that President Hu made his first stop in the U.S. in Washington State -- not Washington, D.C. -- to dine with Bill Gates, who gave him the "state dinner" that the Bush White House refused to extend.
"It was surely no accident"? Doesn't saying "It was no accident" make the same point? He's like a starlet determined never to roll on a bed half-naked again. I suspect it won't be long before he's wearing his glasses in public to look like an intellectual. In his final paragraph, he asks, "Why waste the gas?" That's a question I can get behind and wish he'd ask it of himself each time he thinks he needs to write another column.
I had a party planned. Really more of a gathering. And seeing that it was almost time for that to begin, I pretended to like the column to avoid him pulling out his notebook full of laminated "Best Of Thomas Friedman" columns. (If you guessed the notebook contains every column he's ever written, you'd be guessing right. Well, every writer needs at least one fan, right?)
"You really think it was wonderful?" he asked. "Which parts? I think I was most 'on' in the third paragraph. 'On' throughout, but I'm really impressed with that third paragraph. That's not to take anything away from paragraphs four or five, which are also quite impressive . . ."
"Uh-huh," I added every few seconds to make him think I was listening and, most important, agreeing as I set out trays of snacks.
I caught something about "sense-memory," on the third trip from the kitchen and figured A&E must have aired a bio on Marilyn this month.
The doorbell rang and pretty soon, there was Wally, Rebecca, Jess, Ty, Cedric, Elaine, Mike & Nina, Kat, Ava and C.I. Trina came in with some wonderful dishes.
So we spent the evening listening to music and discussing a number of topics. Primarily what to do about a certain situation in a certain nation.
Most of the evening, Thomas Friedman spent with his back turned to everyone.
Wally pointed to Thomas Friedman and asked me if he was having trouble with his bowel movements?
No, I explained that Thomas Friedman was merely trying to flex his buttucks because he's convinced Wally thinks he's attractive. All the straining and grunting came from the fact that the butt is pure flab.
"Ignore him," I advised, "life's so much nicer when you do."
Which is pretty much what we did even when he asked Wally if he wanted to feel his "quads." Bored, he offered to let people do canned cheese shots off his body.
"Any takers? No? Wally? No? Oh. Okay."
As soon as everyone left, he trashed them all. Ava and C.I. were nothing but TV critics, he said haughtily. Elaine was a bad influence me, he declared.
As I rinsed off the trays, I told him it was too bad he felt that way because I'd be joining them all for the big march Saturday, April 29th.
"So! So!" he screamed. "You're all so boring! Even Wally thought so. You all intimidate that poor farm boy. He wanted to feel my quads but the way you all rolled your eyes, he decided not to."
"Yeah, that's it," I said turning off the faucet.
Walking past him, I headed for the bedroom.
I woke up a few hours later and he wasn't in bed. Thinking he might be brooding and do something foolish, like last week when he attempted suicide by injesting a box full of laxitives (which, if you think about it, really was an "inner" suicide for him), I grabbed my robe, non-shorty robe, and walked through the apartment.
He was at the computer. I started to head back to the bedroom when I realized that wasn't a fake nude of Zach or Slater or any of the "Saved By the Bell" boys he usually looks at, it was text. Reading over his shoulder, I saw: "Here's The Plan The World Needs."
"Thomas Friedman, you are not stealing their idea!" I snapped causing him to lurch in his chair, fall and hit the ground with a mighty thud.
He was about to argue when he must have seen how serious I was. Since he has only two speeds and argue was eliminated, he fell back on whine.
"Please, please," he cried sounding like an adenoidal teenager. "It would really chafe Nicky's K rear if I got this into print! You have no idea how prissy he's been since he won the Pulitzer! John Tierney told me he's insisted that the paper furnish him with a padded toilet seat and his own stall. They're calling it 'Nicky's Throne!' "
He begged. He pleaded. He said if he'd stolen "Should This Marriage Be Saved?" two years ago, he would be considered "the prophet of the paper!"
"As opposed to?" I asked.
"The blonde bombshell that I am," he replied full of defiance.
"Well, you can't be a blonde bombshell and smart," I said turning off the computer and walking out of the room.
"Jayne Mansfield was!" he hollered rushing after me. "She had a genius I.Q.!"
So far, he's avoided the topic. But he refuses to let me see his column for tomorrow so I am suspicious. Trash Dump Psuedo Politics is all that Thomas Friedman has to offer and even that's no longer cutting it. I'm concerned that all the attention Kaavya Viswanathan has recently received may be giving Thomas Friedman the wrong ideas.
the new york times
thomas friedman
john tierney
trinas kitchen
kats korner
cedrics big mix
the daily jot
thomas friedman is a great man
nicholas kristof
sex and politics and screeds and attitude
the common ills
mikey likes it
like maria said paz
the third estate sunday review
It's his sex game, let him be the one standing in line with the Depends. I'm tired of the weird looks I get. It's not really even a "sex game" -- or at least not one for two. Thomas Friedman gets off on it but diapering "Willie" does nothing for me.
He kept whining and whining, so finally last week, I said, "Show me one of your columns."
See, I used to read that garbage all the time. But now I'm focused on preparing for college and really don't have the time to read junk/trash. I know he fancies himself a modern day Montesquieu but, let's be honest, there are more philosophical truths in the writings of Erma Bombeck. I made the mistake of saying that out loud and started in with a diatribe about how his "The World Is Flat" is the natural successor to "The Spirit of the Laws."
I interrupted and asked, "You want me to read this or not?"
He shut up. "Gas Pump Geopolitics" was the title.
----------------
No sooner did I finish then he asked, "Well, did you get it?"
"Yes, Rose," I replied. " 'Never let go.' They let you run this crap?"
Jerking the column from my hands, Thomas Friedman huffed, "It is not crap. 'Titanic' was a wonderful movie. And what do you mean, 'Yes, Rose'?"
Kate Winslet he's not. Except maybe in his mind.
But who am I to gripe? If I'd just smiled and said "Wonderful" I could have day dreamed for half an hour while he went on about just how wonderful his writing was. Instead, he was thrusting another column at me.
This one was called "Go West, Old Men." Right away, I had mixed feelings. It would be fun to live on the west coast but I am about to start college. Then I read past the title and saw that Thomas Friedman wasn't speaking about himself. I know! I was surprised to. With his sassy highlights and that ridiculous black turtleneck he insists upon wearing in public, he's a dead ringer for Bea Arthur. But make a joke about "The Golden Girls" and watch him blow his top.
"Black is slimming, Betinna," he whines.
White boy's lecturing me about Black?
"And it's very Bo-ho, I'm like Marilyn Monroe at the Actors' Studio or Audrey Hepburn in 'Funny Face!' "
I guess he's been brushing up on his 'motivation.' That would explain the added 'drama' in the column. Such as this statement:
It was surely no accident that President Hu made his first stop in the U.S. in Washington State -- not Washington, D.C. -- to dine with Bill Gates, who gave him the "state dinner" that the Bush White House refused to extend.
"It was surely no accident"? Doesn't saying "It was no accident" make the same point? He's like a starlet determined never to roll on a bed half-naked again. I suspect it won't be long before he's wearing his glasses in public to look like an intellectual. In his final paragraph, he asks, "Why waste the gas?" That's a question I can get behind and wish he'd ask it of himself each time he thinks he needs to write another column.
I had a party planned. Really more of a gathering. And seeing that it was almost time for that to begin, I pretended to like the column to avoid him pulling out his notebook full of laminated "Best Of Thomas Friedman" columns. (If you guessed the notebook contains every column he's ever written, you'd be guessing right. Well, every writer needs at least one fan, right?)
"You really think it was wonderful?" he asked. "Which parts? I think I was most 'on' in the third paragraph. 'On' throughout, but I'm really impressed with that third paragraph. That's not to take anything away from paragraphs four or five, which are also quite impressive . . ."
"Uh-huh," I added every few seconds to make him think I was listening and, most important, agreeing as I set out trays of snacks.
I caught something about "sense-memory," on the third trip from the kitchen and figured A&E must have aired a bio on Marilyn this month.
The doorbell rang and pretty soon, there was Wally, Rebecca, Jess, Ty, Cedric, Elaine, Mike & Nina, Kat, Ava and C.I. Trina came in with some wonderful dishes.
So we spent the evening listening to music and discussing a number of topics. Primarily what to do about a certain situation in a certain nation.
Most of the evening, Thomas Friedman spent with his back turned to everyone.
Wally pointed to Thomas Friedman and asked me if he was having trouble with his bowel movements?
No, I explained that Thomas Friedman was merely trying to flex his buttucks because he's convinced Wally thinks he's attractive. All the straining and grunting came from the fact that the butt is pure flab.
"Ignore him," I advised, "life's so much nicer when you do."
Which is pretty much what we did even when he asked Wally if he wanted to feel his "quads." Bored, he offered to let people do canned cheese shots off his body.
"Any takers? No? Wally? No? Oh. Okay."
As soon as everyone left, he trashed them all. Ava and C.I. were nothing but TV critics, he said haughtily. Elaine was a bad influence me, he declared.
As I rinsed off the trays, I told him it was too bad he felt that way because I'd be joining them all for the big march Saturday, April 29th.
"So! So!" he screamed. "You're all so boring! Even Wally thought so. You all intimidate that poor farm boy. He wanted to feel my quads but the way you all rolled your eyes, he decided not to."
"Yeah, that's it," I said turning off the faucet.
Walking past him, I headed for the bedroom.
I woke up a few hours later and he wasn't in bed. Thinking he might be brooding and do something foolish, like last week when he attempted suicide by injesting a box full of laxitives (which, if you think about it, really was an "inner" suicide for him), I grabbed my robe, non-shorty robe, and walked through the apartment.
He was at the computer. I started to head back to the bedroom when I realized that wasn't a fake nude of Zach or Slater or any of the "Saved By the Bell" boys he usually looks at, it was text. Reading over his shoulder, I saw: "Here's The Plan The World Needs."
"Thomas Friedman, you are not stealing their idea!" I snapped causing him to lurch in his chair, fall and hit the ground with a mighty thud.
He was about to argue when he must have seen how serious I was. Since he has only two speeds and argue was eliminated, he fell back on whine.
"Please, please," he cried sounding like an adenoidal teenager. "It would really chafe Nicky's K rear if I got this into print! You have no idea how prissy he's been since he won the Pulitzer! John Tierney told me he's insisted that the paper furnish him with a padded toilet seat and his own stall. They're calling it 'Nicky's Throne!' "
He begged. He pleaded. He said if he'd stolen "Should This Marriage Be Saved?" two years ago, he would be considered "the prophet of the paper!"
"As opposed to?" I asked.
"The blonde bombshell that I am," he replied full of defiance.
"Well, you can't be a blonde bombshell and smart," I said turning off the computer and walking out of the room.
"Jayne Mansfield was!" he hollered rushing after me. "She had a genius I.Q.!"
So far, he's avoided the topic. But he refuses to let me see his column for tomorrow so I am suspicious. Trash Dump Psuedo Politics is all that Thomas Friedman has to offer and even that's no longer cutting it. I'm concerned that all the attention Kaavya Viswanathan has recently received may be giving Thomas Friedman the wrong ideas.
the new york times
thomas friedman
john tierney
trinas kitchen
kats korner
cedrics big mix
the daily jot
thomas friedman is a great man
nicholas kristof
sex and politics and screeds and attitude
the common ills
mikey likes it
like maria said paz
the third estate sunday review
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Thomas Friedman is the Meanest Generation
Yesterday, we had friends over. Or rather, I had friends over. Thomas Friedman appears to have burned every bridge and tunnel he had. (Bridge and tunnel? I've ghost written too many columns for my husband.) Jane Fonda was going to be the guest on Cover to Cover with Denny Smithson and we would listen at six p.m. and then have dinner.
I think it was probably an interesting interview. I can't tell you that it was because neither I nor my guests could hear most of it. That was due to Thomas Friedman continuing his grudge against Jane Fonda.
"Why doesn't Danny interview me!"
He meant Denny.
"I'm twice as interesting. He wants protest? When I was removed as class treasurer, they accused me of taking the missing funds! Me!, I staged a protest. It lasted two weeks. They reinstated me. They said, 'Friedman, anything to stop the whining and tears.' But that was just there way of saving face!"
Saving face?
I called Mrs. K last Thursday to see how she was handling the news about Nicky K's Pulitzer win. She was thrilled. We spoke about how great it was for Nicky and then, near the end of the conversation, she raised an issue.
Someone had been leaving nasty notes on Nicky K's desk.
"Death to Kristof!" read one. "You are nothing! You will die a nothing! I am rooting for your death! In death, you may remember who your friends were and who the smiley faces who rooted for your crash-burn-smoke were!"
Uh-oh.
"It's just so strange, Betinna," Mrs. K said. "I mean, the win's good for everyone at the paper. It's free publicity and all."
"Uh-huh," I replied, sweating bullets ("and grenades," if I wanted to write like Thomas Friedman).
"You don't know anything about it, do you? I keep trying to figure out who would leave such things."
"No, this is the first I've heard of it," I said honestly.
"It's just so strange. And they're on 'Saved By The Bell' stationary."
Did she know.
"Oh, gotta' go," I said nervously. "Something's about to burn in the oven."
"Sure," Mrs. K said. "By the way, they had smears on them, the notes did."
She knew. She knew.
"It appeared to be some form of cheese."
Damn him and his fanny pack! He carried that canned cheese everywhere.
"Oh, I see smoke, gotta' run," I said nervously.
"Betinna, Nicky and I both know that Thomas has been leaving the notes."
Busted.
I apologized, explained that Thomas Friedman was . . . well Thomas Friedman. And that they weren't threats, just "wishes."
She made it clear that she didn't blame me but that before she and Nicky would visit again, Thomas Friedman would have to apologize. An occurence as rare as him airing out his shorty robe.
Which he wore to my party. Jelly stains and all. His consolation to me, what passes for dressing for company in his mind, was to wear mesh boxers instead of a g-string. I know he thinks he's hot, but looking at him, I was reminded of the song in "Pillow Talk" that goes, "He's a rolly-polly . . ."
But how could I be embarrassed by what he was wearing? I was too busy being shamed by what he was saying.
He was full of bluster about his column from last Friday, "The Greenest Generation." He cornered Jess and asked if he'd read it? Jess made the mistake of saying "no." Honesty is never always the last policy with Thomas Friedman. He whipped a copy out of his shorty robe and insisted that Jess read it then and there.
Jess did so and handed it back silently.
Thomas Friedman wasn't going for that. Like Gail Collins mooning over Davy Brooks, Thomas Friedman feels that a compliment and himself must be merged. I could see the car speeding up the ramp, headed for the highway and the 16 wheeler that wasn't going to yield.
"Smell the C20?" Jess asked. "I guess you thought it was funny."
"It was funny!" Thomas Friedman yelled with so much rage that his body shook sending tiny ripples through both his shorty robe and his ass fat.
Jess joined Rebecca, Elaine and Cedric at the table I'd set up buffet style and Thomas Friedman turned bright red.
The doorbell rang and I was thinking, "Saved by the Bell!"
Then, remembering those pictures of Screech and Slater that Thomas Friedman keeps under his pillow, I wiped that thought from my brain. He's taken a photo of Screech with his mouth open and one of Slater standing to make it look as though Screech is before Slater's crouch with his mouth open. When I found it, he was humilated and pouted for a good half hour before assuring me that it was an art project he was working on, a collage when it was completed, and attempted to turn the topic to Gail Collins whose new office nickname is "Ecquine."
I opened the door and there was our new neighbor Wally. I was just about to warn him to stay away from my husband, the second-rate, if not third, Thomas Friedman when suddenly he was upon us, squirting canned cheese in his mouth and extending a hand.
"You read?" Thomas Friedman said through a mouth filled with cheese.
"Lou Reed's here?" Wally asked.
"No," I explained, "he's asking if you read -- and he means his column,"
Wally looked the portly vision, clad in silk shorty robe, up and down before asking if Thomas Friedman wrote for some gay weekly out of Key West?
"The New York Times," Thomas Friedman replied.
"Oh, I hate that rag. Nothing but distortions on battles, distortions on Iraq and war pornography?"
I expected Thomas Friedman to explode but, for once, he surprised me. Which surprised me as well because I feel like I've logged enough miles with Friedman to be an expert and able to point out all the histrionic markers as well as points of intensity.
"See, I do dress snazzy," Thomas Friedman said to me, "He thinks I'm gay. Everyone knows gay men are the best dressers."
"Yeah," I said grabbing Wally's arm and leading him into the apartment, "you're right up there with the Village People."
"They were not gay, Betinna!" Thomas Friedman erupted. "They were not gay!"
Thomas Friedman got over his outrage quickly and was soon sling sass and his ass as he strutted around the room.
Pointing to Wally, Thomas Friedman told everyone, "He wants to Brokeback my Mountain!"
Which was followed, always with, "How about you?"
What initially was greeted with curious stares and the occasional polite laughter (it was a joke, wasn't it?) quickly became a never ending embarrassing moment.
I felt as though I were six inches tall and wished I could hop into his fanny pack, zip it up and disappear.
But I couldn't and, apparently, he couldn't stop shoving his column at people.
We'd missed most of Jane Fonda's interview and I was getting ticked off.
By the time he'd cornered Rebecca and was reading his column, aloud, to her, I'd had enough.
"Thomas Friedman, you have destroyed my party!" I yelled.
He attempted to ignore me and continue reading while Rebecca had that "What Am I? An Asshole Magnet?" look on her face.
"No one wants to read your lazy ass column!" I shouted across the room. "No one cares what you think and they certainly don't care for your shoving your own responsibility off on college students. Save the eco-system? Why don't you think about what you can do instead of telling colleges what to do? Or is this like every other column and our life, or lack of it, in the bedroom? When there's something that needs to be done, you'll just wait to see if anyone else will."
"How dare you!" Thomas Friedman screamed. Tearing himself away from Rebecca's cleavage, he faced me.
"I am a sensitive man! I am touchy-feely! I am a kind hearted soul! That's why, next year, it will be me and not Nicky the K winning the Pulitzer!"
"Not, if you keep writing this crap!" I shot back. "What's up with telling colleges what to do? Have you told the Times how they could be more energy effcient? No. You just want to push the burden off on others yet again."
He called me a few unmentionable names, insisted he was the most sensitive, most caring man alive and turned on Cedric for eating a Ritz Cracker.
"Mine!" he hollered, grabbing the roll of crackers and storming off to the bedroom.
"Was that a floor show or a freak show?" Cedric wondered.
Me? I don't wonder. Every day living with The Meanest Generation is a freak show.
the new york times
thomas friedman
gail collins
cedrics big mix
the daily jot
thomas friedman is a great man
nicholas kristof
sex and politics and screeds and attitude
the common ills
mikey likes it
like maria said paz
the third estate sunday review
kpfa
cover to cover with denny smithson
jane fonda
I think it was probably an interesting interview. I can't tell you that it was because neither I nor my guests could hear most of it. That was due to Thomas Friedman continuing his grudge against Jane Fonda.
"Why doesn't Danny interview me!"
He meant Denny.
"I'm twice as interesting. He wants protest? When I was removed as class treasurer, they accused me of taking the missing funds! Me!, I staged a protest. It lasted two weeks. They reinstated me. They said, 'Friedman, anything to stop the whining and tears.' But that was just there way of saving face!"
Saving face?
I called Mrs. K last Thursday to see how she was handling the news about Nicky K's Pulitzer win. She was thrilled. We spoke about how great it was for Nicky and then, near the end of the conversation, she raised an issue.
Someone had been leaving nasty notes on Nicky K's desk.
"Death to Kristof!" read one. "You are nothing! You will die a nothing! I am rooting for your death! In death, you may remember who your friends were and who the smiley faces who rooted for your crash-burn-smoke were!"
Uh-oh.
"It's just so strange, Betinna," Mrs. K said. "I mean, the win's good for everyone at the paper. It's free publicity and all."
"Uh-huh," I replied, sweating bullets ("and grenades," if I wanted to write like Thomas Friedman).
"You don't know anything about it, do you? I keep trying to figure out who would leave such things."
"No, this is the first I've heard of it," I said honestly.
"It's just so strange. And they're on 'Saved By The Bell' stationary."
Did she know.
"Oh, gotta' go," I said nervously. "Something's about to burn in the oven."
"Sure," Mrs. K said. "By the way, they had smears on them, the notes did."
She knew. She knew.
"It appeared to be some form of cheese."
Damn him and his fanny pack! He carried that canned cheese everywhere.
"Oh, I see smoke, gotta' run," I said nervously.
"Betinna, Nicky and I both know that Thomas has been leaving the notes."
Busted.
I apologized, explained that Thomas Friedman was . . . well Thomas Friedman. And that they weren't threats, just "wishes."
She made it clear that she didn't blame me but that before she and Nicky would visit again, Thomas Friedman would have to apologize. An occurence as rare as him airing out his shorty robe.
Which he wore to my party. Jelly stains and all. His consolation to me, what passes for dressing for company in his mind, was to wear mesh boxers instead of a g-string. I know he thinks he's hot, but looking at him, I was reminded of the song in "Pillow Talk" that goes, "He's a rolly-polly . . ."
But how could I be embarrassed by what he was wearing? I was too busy being shamed by what he was saying.
He was full of bluster about his column from last Friday, "The Greenest Generation." He cornered Jess and asked if he'd read it? Jess made the mistake of saying "no." Honesty is never always the last policy with Thomas Friedman. He whipped a copy out of his shorty robe and insisted that Jess read it then and there.
Jess did so and handed it back silently.
Thomas Friedman wasn't going for that. Like Gail Collins mooning over Davy Brooks, Thomas Friedman feels that a compliment and himself must be merged. I could see the car speeding up the ramp, headed for the highway and the 16 wheeler that wasn't going to yield.
"Smell the C20?" Jess asked. "I guess you thought it was funny."
"It was funny!" Thomas Friedman yelled with so much rage that his body shook sending tiny ripples through both his shorty robe and his ass fat.
Jess joined Rebecca, Elaine and Cedric at the table I'd set up buffet style and Thomas Friedman turned bright red.
The doorbell rang and I was thinking, "Saved by the Bell!"
Then, remembering those pictures of Screech and Slater that Thomas Friedman keeps under his pillow, I wiped that thought from my brain. He's taken a photo of Screech with his mouth open and one of Slater standing to make it look as though Screech is before Slater's crouch with his mouth open. When I found it, he was humilated and pouted for a good half hour before assuring me that it was an art project he was working on, a collage when it was completed, and attempted to turn the topic to Gail Collins whose new office nickname is "Ecquine."
I opened the door and there was our new neighbor Wally. I was just about to warn him to stay away from my husband, the second-rate, if not third, Thomas Friedman when suddenly he was upon us, squirting canned cheese in his mouth and extending a hand.
"You read?" Thomas Friedman said through a mouth filled with cheese.
"Lou Reed's here?" Wally asked.
"No," I explained, "he's asking if you read -- and he means his column,"
Wally looked the portly vision, clad in silk shorty robe, up and down before asking if Thomas Friedman wrote for some gay weekly out of Key West?
"The New York Times," Thomas Friedman replied.
"Oh, I hate that rag. Nothing but distortions on battles, distortions on Iraq and war pornography?"
I expected Thomas Friedman to explode but, for once, he surprised me. Which surprised me as well because I feel like I've logged enough miles with Friedman to be an expert and able to point out all the histrionic markers as well as points of intensity.
"See, I do dress snazzy," Thomas Friedman said to me, "He thinks I'm gay. Everyone knows gay men are the best dressers."
"Yeah," I said grabbing Wally's arm and leading him into the apartment, "you're right up there with the Village People."
"They were not gay, Betinna!" Thomas Friedman erupted. "They were not gay!"
Thomas Friedman got over his outrage quickly and was soon sling sass and his ass as he strutted around the room.
Pointing to Wally, Thomas Friedman told everyone, "He wants to Brokeback my Mountain!"
Which was followed, always with, "How about you?"
What initially was greeted with curious stares and the occasional polite laughter (it was a joke, wasn't it?) quickly became a never ending embarrassing moment.
I felt as though I were six inches tall and wished I could hop into his fanny pack, zip it up and disappear.
But I couldn't and, apparently, he couldn't stop shoving his column at people.
We'd missed most of Jane Fonda's interview and I was getting ticked off.
By the time he'd cornered Rebecca and was reading his column, aloud, to her, I'd had enough.
"Thomas Friedman, you have destroyed my party!" I yelled.
He attempted to ignore me and continue reading while Rebecca had that "What Am I? An Asshole Magnet?" look on her face.
"No one wants to read your lazy ass column!" I shouted across the room. "No one cares what you think and they certainly don't care for your shoving your own responsibility off on college students. Save the eco-system? Why don't you think about what you can do instead of telling colleges what to do? Or is this like every other column and our life, or lack of it, in the bedroom? When there's something that needs to be done, you'll just wait to see if anyone else will."
"How dare you!" Thomas Friedman screamed. Tearing himself away from Rebecca's cleavage, he faced me.
"I am a sensitive man! I am touchy-feely! I am a kind hearted soul! That's why, next year, it will be me and not Nicky the K winning the Pulitzer!"
"Not, if you keep writing this crap!" I shot back. "What's up with telling colleges what to do? Have you told the Times how they could be more energy effcient? No. You just want to push the burden off on others yet again."
He called me a few unmentionable names, insisted he was the most sensitive, most caring man alive and turned on Cedric for eating a Ritz Cracker.
"Mine!" he hollered, grabbing the roll of crackers and storming off to the bedroom.
"Was that a floor show or a freak show?" Cedric wondered.
Me? I don't wonder. Every day living with The Meanest Generation is a freak show.
the new york times
thomas friedman
gail collins
cedrics big mix
the daily jot
thomas friedman is a great man
nicholas kristof
sex and politics and screeds and attitude
the common ills
mikey likes it
like maria said paz
the third estate sunday review
kpfa
cover to cover with denny smithson
jane fonda
Thursday, April 20, 2006
When friends are awarded, Thomas Friedman goes fugue
It was shaping up to be a peaceful period. I'm nervous about starting classes in June so I've already bought my books and started reading one, Iraq: The Logic of Withdrawal, which is wonderful. I've been reading a little, stopping to think. All that went out the window when my husband Thomas Friedman had a crying jag/fugue state that was so bad, I had to write a few of the columns.
That, itself, wasn't a problem. All I had to do was sit at the computer and ask myself, "WWID?"
(What Would Idiot Do?) I got to work in a reference to Riverbend of Baghad Burning. Otherwise, I just acted the stooge. (P.S. Even Gail Collins didn't notice that Thomas Friedman wasn't writing the columns.)
What caused the fugue? What caused my pleasant ride to screech to a halt?
At first I thought he might have ripped his silk shorty robe. He'd tossed it to the floor and collapsed next to it. I picked it up. It was dirty but otherwise, no problem. Okay, it was going to be hard getting the foundation off the neck. When did he start wearing foundation?
I asked myself that and then remembered the Friday night he spent peering the mirror examing his pores and not-so-fine lines. All that thinking must have tired him out because he stumbled to the bed and fell asleep face down. Since then, he sneaks a little on here and there. When Showtime aired "Liza With A Z!", he was in evening make up including mascara. He complained it was hard to hear "Miss M." over my laughing.
So it wasn't the shorty robe. Had we run out of canned cheese and Ritz crackers? No, that couldn't be it. The pantry was stocked with both. Had someone gotten possed on "Passions"? He's obsessed with that show lately. You can't call it a soap opera because he claims it has "global implications." He's obsessed with Whitney and the monk and torn over Sherridan's choice of Chris instead of Luis. Sounds like a soap opera to me.
So he's flat on the floor and I point out that if he were really hurting he would be curled into a ball.
He opens one eye and glares at me.
Then he snaps, "Like a ball? Like a globe? "The World Is Flat," Betinna, flat!"
Even at high drama, he has to plug his crappy book.
Bored, I sit on the couch and turn from "Saved By The Bell" which causes him to struggle to get up from the floor. When you're soft, flabby and large, it's not easy to go from prone to upright. It is, however, amusing to watch.
Thomas Friedman blamed it on his hot pink thong which he claimed was riding up.
Turning back to Screech and Slater, Thomas Friedman told me that the worst thing in the world had just happened.
"Oh my God," I think out loud, "we just nuked Iran."
"Worse, Betinna, far worse."
I'm trying not to picture doomsday scenarios and remember that this might have to do with his soap opera -- like Sherridan finally made a decision and stuck to it -- when he blurts it out.
"Nicky won the Pulitzer!"
"Well, good for him."
"Betinna, you are not grasping the situation. He won!"
"I'll call his wife and we'll have them over for dinner. But you are wearing more than a thong and short robe, no one needs your full moon every time you bend over in the middle of dinner."
He grabs me roughly by the shoulders and presses his face into mine. He's so close I can see the bags under his eyes that the foundation doesn't cover. I'm smelling the canned cheese on his breath and wondering if I need to give him make up lessons.
Hygene never took but maybe make up lessons will?
"He won! That means I lost!"
"Oh, Thomas Friedman," I sigh. "It's not a competition."
"It is! It is! It's a competion and I lost!"
Then he collapses to the floor for real, curls into a ball and doesn't speak for days.
Those were some of the best days of my life.
Then, Tuesday night, he snapped out of it.
He sprung from the floor with a speed and agility not characteristic of his girth.
Immediately, he began spinning a yarn of how he had lobbied the Pulitizer committee on Nicky K's behalf. He felt it was the least he could do for his protege. As his fantasy world unfolded, I started thinking, "My life is a really bad soap opera. With no sex and no hot guys taking off their shirts. Just a fat ass with both cheeks flapping in the wind, curtain cheeks that drape all over everything."
He sat down to write his column for Thursday (without thanking me for covering for him).
But nothing came. I figured this was like when we are bed and I know how that limp story ends, so I headed to the bedroom and went to sleep.
I awoke the next morning to find him in full crisis mode. He was puffing away on an unlit cigarette. A 100 so he wasn't exactly butching it up.
I could tell he'd been crying from the mascara patterns that had dried on his face. Very Tammy Faye despite what he was saying.
"I've come to a conclusion, Betinna. The world doesn't like manly men!" he shrieked, pacing back and forth, shorty robe flying in the wind.
"The world has turned agains the Bully Boy and now me!" he continued.
I tried picturing the two "manly men" in a mano-mano fight but all I could picture was him getting to third base with Bully Boy and I loathe Bully Boy but . . . I mean Thomas Friedman is kind of like the death penalty -- you don't wish him on your worst enemy.
This hatred of manly men was all the doing of the nonstop critiques by the likes of Gloria Steinem and two TV critics named Ava and C.I. It was a plot to destroy the last of the manly men, Thomas Friedman.
Well he would not be destroyed! No, he would beat them at their game. They wanted wimpy? He'd give them that. On the last point, we were finally in agreement. Which led to Thursday's column which is kind of anti-war in a sort of cover your own ass way -- which may be the only way he can write. Fine, but if he's going to cover his own ass in print, who's stopping him from doing the same in real life? (I know I'm not.)
Having finished it, all was good in the world again and he was ready for me to play Peggy Noonan (I hate the wig!) and him to play William Safire. I spent about two hours diapering him and rediapering him.
And that has been pretty much the last few days. If William Safire requires Depends, if -- big if, I find it hard to believe he'd greet Noonan with, "Peggy, Willie made boom-boom. Change my nappy." But every time I turned around, that's what I heard. That and how his no-war-on-Iran made him the sensitive type (among the neocons?) and he just knew the Pulitzer committee would now pull Nicky K's award and give it to "the great Thomas Friedman."
I'm waiting for the explosion that's sure to follow when another of his fantasies implodes. It won't be pretty. Things seldom are with Thomas Friedman.
the new york times
thomas friedman
the common ills
baghdad burning
the third estate sunday review
thomas friedman is a great man
That, itself, wasn't a problem. All I had to do was sit at the computer and ask myself, "WWID?"
(What Would Idiot Do?) I got to work in a reference to Riverbend of Baghad Burning. Otherwise, I just acted the stooge. (P.S. Even Gail Collins didn't notice that Thomas Friedman wasn't writing the columns.)
What caused the fugue? What caused my pleasant ride to screech to a halt?
At first I thought he might have ripped his silk shorty robe. He'd tossed it to the floor and collapsed next to it. I picked it up. It was dirty but otherwise, no problem. Okay, it was going to be hard getting the foundation off the neck. When did he start wearing foundation?
I asked myself that and then remembered the Friday night he spent peering the mirror examing his pores and not-so-fine lines. All that thinking must have tired him out because he stumbled to the bed and fell asleep face down. Since then, he sneaks a little on here and there. When Showtime aired "Liza With A Z!", he was in evening make up including mascara. He complained it was hard to hear "Miss M." over my laughing.
So it wasn't the shorty robe. Had we run out of canned cheese and Ritz crackers? No, that couldn't be it. The pantry was stocked with both. Had someone gotten possed on "Passions"? He's obsessed with that show lately. You can't call it a soap opera because he claims it has "global implications." He's obsessed with Whitney and the monk and torn over Sherridan's choice of Chris instead of Luis. Sounds like a soap opera to me.
So he's flat on the floor and I point out that if he were really hurting he would be curled into a ball.
He opens one eye and glares at me.
Then he snaps, "Like a ball? Like a globe? "The World Is Flat," Betinna, flat!"
Even at high drama, he has to plug his crappy book.
Bored, I sit on the couch and turn from "Saved By The Bell" which causes him to struggle to get up from the floor. When you're soft, flabby and large, it's not easy to go from prone to upright. It is, however, amusing to watch.
Thomas Friedman blamed it on his hot pink thong which he claimed was riding up.
Turning back to Screech and Slater, Thomas Friedman told me that the worst thing in the world had just happened.
"Oh my God," I think out loud, "we just nuked Iran."
"Worse, Betinna, far worse."
I'm trying not to picture doomsday scenarios and remember that this might have to do with his soap opera -- like Sherridan finally made a decision and stuck to it -- when he blurts it out.
"Nicky won the Pulitzer!"
"Well, good for him."
"Betinna, you are not grasping the situation. He won!"
"I'll call his wife and we'll have them over for dinner. But you are wearing more than a thong and short robe, no one needs your full moon every time you bend over in the middle of dinner."
He grabs me roughly by the shoulders and presses his face into mine. He's so close I can see the bags under his eyes that the foundation doesn't cover. I'm smelling the canned cheese on his breath and wondering if I need to give him make up lessons.
Hygene never took but maybe make up lessons will?
"He won! That means I lost!"
"Oh, Thomas Friedman," I sigh. "It's not a competition."
"It is! It is! It's a competion and I lost!"
Then he collapses to the floor for real, curls into a ball and doesn't speak for days.
Those were some of the best days of my life.
Then, Tuesday night, he snapped out of it.
He sprung from the floor with a speed and agility not characteristic of his girth.
Immediately, he began spinning a yarn of how he had lobbied the Pulitizer committee on Nicky K's behalf. He felt it was the least he could do for his protege. As his fantasy world unfolded, I started thinking, "My life is a really bad soap opera. With no sex and no hot guys taking off their shirts. Just a fat ass with both cheeks flapping in the wind, curtain cheeks that drape all over everything."
He sat down to write his column for Thursday (without thanking me for covering for him).
But nothing came. I figured this was like when we are bed and I know how that limp story ends, so I headed to the bedroom and went to sleep.
I awoke the next morning to find him in full crisis mode. He was puffing away on an unlit cigarette. A 100 so he wasn't exactly butching it up.
I could tell he'd been crying from the mascara patterns that had dried on his face. Very Tammy Faye despite what he was saying.
"I've come to a conclusion, Betinna. The world doesn't like manly men!" he shrieked, pacing back and forth, shorty robe flying in the wind.
"The world has turned agains the Bully Boy and now me!" he continued.
I tried picturing the two "manly men" in a mano-mano fight but all I could picture was him getting to third base with Bully Boy and I loathe Bully Boy but . . . I mean Thomas Friedman is kind of like the death penalty -- you don't wish him on your worst enemy.
This hatred of manly men was all the doing of the nonstop critiques by the likes of Gloria Steinem and two TV critics named Ava and C.I. It was a plot to destroy the last of the manly men, Thomas Friedman.
Well he would not be destroyed! No, he would beat them at their game. They wanted wimpy? He'd give them that. On the last point, we were finally in agreement. Which led to Thursday's column which is kind of anti-war in a sort of cover your own ass way -- which may be the only way he can write. Fine, but if he's going to cover his own ass in print, who's stopping him from doing the same in real life? (I know I'm not.)
Having finished it, all was good in the world again and he was ready for me to play Peggy Noonan (I hate the wig!) and him to play William Safire. I spent about two hours diapering him and rediapering him.
And that has been pretty much the last few days. If William Safire requires Depends, if -- big if, I find it hard to believe he'd greet Noonan with, "Peggy, Willie made boom-boom. Change my nappy." But every time I turned around, that's what I heard. That and how his no-war-on-Iran made him the sensitive type (among the neocons?) and he just knew the Pulitzer committee would now pull Nicky K's award and give it to "the great Thomas Friedman."
I'm waiting for the explosion that's sure to follow when another of his fantasies implodes. It won't be pretty. Things seldom are with Thomas Friedman.
the new york times
thomas friedman
the common ills
baghdad burning
the third estate sunday review
thomas friedman is a great man
Monday, April 10, 2006
My 'caring' husband Thomas Friedman worries I don't have time to appreciate his 'genius'
It's been a busy period and I haven't had time to record my thoughts in this computer journal. I've decided I'm just going to sit down and take some time this evening and what makes it up, makes it up. To make sure I wasn't bothered, I grabbed a big serving tree, sprayed the can cheese all over it and handed it to Thomas Friedman. He complained that I should make "such a delicious meal" when Gilmore Girls is on but I think he's fine with watching Tyra Banks as he laps at the cheese. (We're out of crackers, not that my husband Thomas Friedman noticed.)
So I was speaking to Elaine about wanting to get some college courses under my belt awhile back because, let's face it, this marriage isn't going to last and, if it does, reading Thomas Friedman's columns indicate that it's only a matter of time before he moves into a suite at Bellevue.
She has a friend at The New School and could get me in despite the fact that I have no school records. So I'm enrolled for the summer session (starts June 5th).
Of course Thomas Friedman hit the roof. Money was the chief concern until he learned I actually had some financial assistance. Then he started in on, "How will you have time for school and to cook my meals, to clean my clothes, to clean our home and to appreciate my genius?"
I assured him that appreciating his genius never took any time on my part.
Then I buttered him up and said, "Thomas Friedman, I just want to be an iota, a smidge as smart as you. I know that I, being from a backwater village, could never be as talented as you, but I would lilke to do this to honor you."
The way his chest puffed out and his ego swelled, it was surprising there was room for me in our living room. But it did the trick. He relented.
It was easier convincing him to let me go than my actual interview with Elaine's friend. He wanted to address the issue of my husband's columns. This was on March 31st and Thomas Friedman's "Iraq At the 11th Hour" had just been printed in that day's paper.
"I know you're a friend of Elaine's and I understand you're difficult situation," Prof said, "but I'm honestly concerned that you might not be able to keep up."
I was thinking he meant due to my lack of transcripts (or any knowledge of my past before 2005). He didn't. He was concerned about my knowledge base "since you are married to, forgive me for being blunt, the global idiot."
He began tentatively noting that Thomas Friedman began his column praising himself. His column, try his day? He delivers speeches to himself for thirty minutes each morning and claims they are morning affirmations but they sound to me like self-praise.
"Who's the sexiest? No, not Orlando Bloom. No, not Angelina Jolie. It's you! Thomas Friedman, you, I, are, am, the sexiest in the world. You have the body of a Dega. The mind of Einstein. And if there's only one thing more impressive than your studly body, it's your humility. Yes, it is. You know it is. Thomas Friedman, you are a god."
The Prof burst out laughing as I recited that in my cruelest impersonation of Thomas Friedman. Still I felt it lacked something because a stocky man in a shorty robe can never be fully conveyed by a woman of my size fully dressed.
I then ripped the column apart.
He writes about the tensions between Shi'ites and Sunnis that are escalating and offers, "One embedded, this cycle of fear and revenge is almost impossible to break." Now? Now, he's noting that. Three years plus of occupation and he thinks only now that fear and revenge are effecting Iraq?
He then went on to write that "Donald Rumsfeld's criminally negligent decision not to deploy troops in Iraq to begin with created this security vacuum." I offered, "Kind of thought the invasion might have helped. No illegal invasion, no security vaccum."
I noted that he wrote of "happy talk" and explained that he'd been rejected by the right as not sufficiently macho (well there's the shorty robe issue again) and was now attempting to get some "props from this online site called The Common Ills. He's obsessed with being mentioned there because they cover the New York Times and he believes that he is that paper of record. C.I.'s been using 'Operation Happy Talk' to denote each wave of propaganda and he thought by using 'happy talk,' he could get a shout out from The Common Ills."
Finally, I noted his closing sentence: "It is five minutes to midnight." If Thomas Friedman's not watching his own Saved By The Bell marathon, he's in bed long before nine. The only reason he gets up is to fix a snack (he says he has a thyroid condition and if he doesn't eat 4 meals a day with frequent snacks, he'll be a rail) is when he has a nasty gas attack.
I was really glad that Prof was laughing throughout my commentary and nodding his head in agreement. He asked if I'd read "Should This Marriage Be Saved?"
"Read it?" I replied. "I live it."
Telling me I'd done well, he officially welcomed me to the campus and asked me to do something about Thomas Friedman quoting right-wing bloggers. You better believe I did. I lectured him about Riverbend of Baghdad Burning. I was aided by the fact that she was noted Sunday, April 2nd at The Common Ills.
"Oh, Betinna!" Thomas Friedman squealed as he worked on his April 7th column, "I'm finally going to get my just praise at The Common Ills!"
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
the new york times
thomas friedman
the common ills
baghdad burning
like maria said paz
thomas friedman is a great man
So I was speaking to Elaine about wanting to get some college courses under my belt awhile back because, let's face it, this marriage isn't going to last and, if it does, reading Thomas Friedman's columns indicate that it's only a matter of time before he moves into a suite at Bellevue.
She has a friend at The New School and could get me in despite the fact that I have no school records. So I'm enrolled for the summer session (starts June 5th).
Of course Thomas Friedman hit the roof. Money was the chief concern until he learned I actually had some financial assistance. Then he started in on, "How will you have time for school and to cook my meals, to clean my clothes, to clean our home and to appreciate my genius?"
I assured him that appreciating his genius never took any time on my part.
Then I buttered him up and said, "Thomas Friedman, I just want to be an iota, a smidge as smart as you. I know that I, being from a backwater village, could never be as talented as you, but I would lilke to do this to honor you."
The way his chest puffed out and his ego swelled, it was surprising there was room for me in our living room. But it did the trick. He relented.
It was easier convincing him to let me go than my actual interview with Elaine's friend. He wanted to address the issue of my husband's columns. This was on March 31st and Thomas Friedman's "Iraq At the 11th Hour" had just been printed in that day's paper.
"I know you're a friend of Elaine's and I understand you're difficult situation," Prof said, "but I'm honestly concerned that you might not be able to keep up."
I was thinking he meant due to my lack of transcripts (or any knowledge of my past before 2005). He didn't. He was concerned about my knowledge base "since you are married to, forgive me for being blunt, the global idiot."
He began tentatively noting that Thomas Friedman began his column praising himself. His column, try his day? He delivers speeches to himself for thirty minutes each morning and claims they are morning affirmations but they sound to me like self-praise.
"Who's the sexiest? No, not Orlando Bloom. No, not Angelina Jolie. It's you! Thomas Friedman, you, I, are, am, the sexiest in the world. You have the body of a Dega. The mind of Einstein. And if there's only one thing more impressive than your studly body, it's your humility. Yes, it is. You know it is. Thomas Friedman, you are a god."
The Prof burst out laughing as I recited that in my cruelest impersonation of Thomas Friedman. Still I felt it lacked something because a stocky man in a shorty robe can never be fully conveyed by a woman of my size fully dressed.
I then ripped the column apart.
He writes about the tensions between Shi'ites and Sunnis that are escalating and offers, "One embedded, this cycle of fear and revenge is almost impossible to break." Now? Now, he's noting that. Three years plus of occupation and he thinks only now that fear and revenge are effecting Iraq?
He then went on to write that "Donald Rumsfeld's criminally negligent decision not to deploy troops in Iraq to begin with created this security vacuum." I offered, "Kind of thought the invasion might have helped. No illegal invasion, no security vaccum."
I noted that he wrote of "happy talk" and explained that he'd been rejected by the right as not sufficiently macho (well there's the shorty robe issue again) and was now attempting to get some "props from this online site called The Common Ills. He's obsessed with being mentioned there because they cover the New York Times and he believes that he is that paper of record. C.I.'s been using 'Operation Happy Talk' to denote each wave of propaganda and he thought by using 'happy talk,' he could get a shout out from The Common Ills."
Finally, I noted his closing sentence: "It is five minutes to midnight." If Thomas Friedman's not watching his own Saved By The Bell marathon, he's in bed long before nine. The only reason he gets up is to fix a snack (he says he has a thyroid condition and if he doesn't eat 4 meals a day with frequent snacks, he'll be a rail) is when he has a nasty gas attack.
I was really glad that Prof was laughing throughout my commentary and nodding his head in agreement. He asked if I'd read "Should This Marriage Be Saved?"
"Read it?" I replied. "I live it."
Telling me I'd done well, he officially welcomed me to the campus and asked me to do something about Thomas Friedman quoting right-wing bloggers. You better believe I did. I lectured him about Riverbend of Baghdad Burning. I was aided by the fact that she was noted Sunday, April 2nd at The Common Ills.
"Oh, Betinna!" Thomas Friedman squealed as he worked on his April 7th column, "I'm finally going to get my just praise at The Common Ills!"
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
the new york times
thomas friedman
the common ills
baghdad burning
like maria said paz
thomas friedman is a great man
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Thomas Friedman's Frostings and Facials
"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?
thomas friedman
the common ills
mikey likes it
kats korner
sex and politics and screeds and attitude
trinas kitchen
the new york times
gail collins
etta james
thomas friedman is a great man
"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?
thomas friedman
the common ills
mikey likes it
kats korner
sex and politics and screeds and attitude
trinas kitchen
the new york times
gail collins
etta james
thomas friedman is a great man
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