Thomas Friedman: Dull and Duller

Thomas Friedman: Dull and Duller.

This week, that's what I decided he should call his autobiography.

My husband Thomas Friedman, what is there to say? Even his tantrums grew boring this week.

He was a roller coaster ride as usual but, as B.B. King would say, the thrill is gone.

Not even when Nicky K and Mrs. Kristof came over was Thomas Friedman amusing.

Nicky's niece was graduating. And back when Thomas Friedman and Nicky K were talking, Thomas Friedman begged and begged to speak at the graduation.

"I must speak!" he would intone over and over until he sounded like Greta Garbo in reverse.

Finally, and not surprisingly, Nicky K caved. But all of that was before they decided to play their own sad version of Whatever Happened to Baby Bobo Friedman? That was the end of everything. Thomas Friedman mocked and ridiculed Nicky K. Now my husband Thomas Friedman loves to upset Nicky K. But he usually stops once Nicky K's lower lip is trembling.

But as you know, it was very, very ugly.

Nicky K was now in a bind because he had arranged for Thomas Friedman to speak. So ego in hand, he and his wife came for a visit.

Thomas Friedman locked himself in the bathroom which he insists upon calling a "home spa."

Nicky K begged and pleaded, weeping against the bathroom door.

At one point Mrs. K and I exchanged a look. It was obvious she wasn't pleased with her husband's groveling.

I jerked my head towards the kitchen and we went in there to talk over pink lemonaide.

She poured her heart out to me and, though we've frequently gone out to eat as a foursome, we were still really strangers.

Listen to her pour her heart out about how Nicky K always buckled made me realize I didn't have it so bad. Thomas Friedman is easy to control. You just push the vanity button. You tell him he's great or you indicate that he's not great. Either way, he reacts and you can control it.
Most of the time.

But Nicky K's spine is apparently a noodle.

Mrs. K offered that every day their paper is thrown not in the house but in a gulley by the drive. The gulley has a build up of water from the spring rains and each day the paper is too soggy to read. Each morning Nicky K will come back into the house in his purple sweat pants and his raggedy, torn Madonna Like a Virgin concert t-shirt. He will say he will handle it but he never does.

Mrs. K finally said she was calling the paper.

"No, no, you musn't," Nicky K . . . well whined.

He would handle it. So he went outside to wait for the paper the next morning. He waved to the kid and in his hand was a crisp twenty dollar bill. The kid came over.

Nicky K offered him the twenty dollar bill and asked that he not throw the paper in the gully anymore. The kid grinned, snatched the twenty dollar bill, threw the paper into the gully and strode off laughing.

Nicky K wept for hours and hours.

I was just about to tell her about Thomas Friedman's frequent fugue states when he began hollering, his voice booming through the apartment, "Betinna! Prune me!"

Sighing, I stood up and walked into the hallway.

"No prune juice for you, Thomas Friedman," I hollered back.

"Great Gods in heaven!" he shrieked. "I will have prune juice! Prune me!"

As I walked over to the door, Nicky K blew his nose on his shirt cuff and rubbed his red eyes.

"Thomas Friedman, you have been in that 'home spa' for almost 1 hour. You obviously have no problems with regularity. No prune juice for you."

He howled like a wounded animal.

Patting Nicky K on the shoulder, I steered him towards the kitchen while Thomas Friedman continued to cry and howl.

"No prune juice until you get your butt out of that 'home spa!'"

"Why do you be so cruel to me!" Thomas Friedman shrieked. "Why! Why! Why!"

"Knock it off, Baby Jane," I told him. "You want prune juice, get your ass out of that 'home spa' and go talk to Nicky."

Thomas Friedman threw the bathroom door open and charged out in his shorty robe and high drama.

Waving around something thing and white in one hand, Thomas Friedman began to pace madly while hissing, "Nicky, Nicky, Nicky! Must everything be Nicky, Nicky, Nicky?"

He made a large clock line movement with his arm on the question. As he waved the hand around, I recognized what he held between two fingers.

"Nicky, Nicky, Nicky, Nick-vil," Thomas Friedman said pursing his lips and popping his eye balls.

Slapping him on the ass, I said, "No Oscars today, Miss Davis, now get your ass in the kitchen and for God's sake, stop waving around a tampon."

Thomas Friedman sharply turned his head and muttered, "Hmmph!"

But he headed towards the kitchen, shorty robe flying up in the back.

In the kitchen he eventually made up with Nicky K but not before he spent the better part of a half hour sitting on the kitchen table with his knees widely spread in an attempt to harrass Mrs. K and Nicky.

When I called him on that, he giggled coquettishly and tossed his hair back, attempting to call attention to the highlights he had put in this week.

Finally someone noticed them.

"Are you getting more gray hairs?" asked Mrs. K.

Thomas Friedman glared at her while sucking on the tampon.

I handed him his prune juice hoping it would persuade him to put down the tampon.

Either Thomas Friedman screeches in a high drama burst that causes his shorty robe encased body to shake -- or the the even keel Thelma Ritter-style manages to calm him down. Part Bette Davis, part Marilyn Monroe, part Judy Garland, part Sharon Stone and full time creepy, I had to remind myself I was married to this Sybell-like bundle of joy who at any moment might begin acting out the monologue of his favorite scene:

Oh look at you painted up in your little halter top, you're nothing but a litle slut. I'm a Puerto Rican lady senor. You're nothing but a little slut Sybill Ann Dorsett. I'm not a slut. I'm not a slut. I'm not a slut. I ain't no slut!

That can be very embarrassing when we're walking through Central Park and Thomas Freidman is in the mood to "bask" in the "stares of recognition" from others. I always tell Thomas Friedman that they are not looking because they recognized him but because what Molly Shannon can get away with dressed up in a Catholic school girl uniform just comes off bizarre when spewing from the mouth of a stocky, middle-aged man screeching those lines in a public park. The question is, is the hommage to celluloid bitch goddess an act or is it the real thing?

The last comment was made by Nicky K, whispered to his wife but overheard by Thomas Friedman who cocked his head and looked off in the distance as he sipped on the prune juice.
I could just the clunky wheels in his brain attempting to get rolling as he considered whether there was a column in that statement.

That's how it always is when you live with Thomas Friedman, every moment, every scene, he's wondering whether, "Is there a column in this?" Early this week, while watching a grieving Nick Newman return to work on The Young & the Restless, Thomas Friedman got that look.

"Thomas Friedman, there is no column in this," I cautioned.

"But Betinna," Thomas Friedman said, "Brad is telling Nick that he should be at home mourning while Nikki is asking Victor if he's offered to help Nick through this. And all the time Nick is maintaining that he has to be at work because he can't go home and open himself up to those feelings. Don't you get it? The world is flat. The message is all there!"

Thomas Friedman is always looking for a way to promote his own book in these columns. But I told him that he was not going to rip off The Young and the Restless and, besides, he is not grieving. Muttering and ripping at a frayed edge on the front of his shorty robe, Thomas Friedman finally agreed with me.

To distract him, I asked, in my best Dustin Hoffman, "Are you trying to seduce me, Thomas Friedman?"

This so amused Thomas Friedman that he laughed so hard and so long, he began wheezing.

After his coughing fit passed (maybe he should switch to filtered tampons?), he was still beaming.


"Fine, I will do it," Thomas Friedman declared.

Nicky K was happy. Until Thomas Friedman guzzled down the prune juice as though it were a vodka martini.

We knew it was time for a visit with the Albees -- very Who's Afraid of Thomas Friedman and the Big Flat Earth? - so after Nicky K had repeated, "Thomas Freidman is a great man, I am not fit to walk the same earth as Thomas Freidman" for the tenth time, Thomas Friedman finally gave Nicky K a bear hug.

Still hugging Nicky, Thomas Friedman looked at me and Mrs. K, and said, "What can I do? I'm just a people person. Now we shall all go out to eat to some place really special."

"McDonalds?" asked an excited Nicky K.

"Even better," replied Thomas Friedman. "We will all go to Utterly Delicious!"

Knowing we were far more likely to end up at the usual deli on 2nd Street, I didn't share Nicky's excitement. No, I did not dance from foot to foot murmuring, "Utterly Delicious! Utterly Delicious!"

Instead, I just advised Thomas Friedman that if we were going anywhere, he better change out of his shorty robe and into some big boys pants. Looking at the expression on Nicky K's face, I knew he was so happy to be friends with Thomas Friedman again that he'd once again tossed aside his critical thought facilities. But I noticed that Mrs. K was staring a look that seemed to ask, "What fresh hell is this?" She is still to new to the antics of Thomas Friedman to realize that they are best greeted with a yawn. Or, as Thomas Friedman has been known to snarl, "Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy ride."

Thomas Friedman is a petty man

Thomas Friedman is my husband. He is also a petty man. Thursday we went out doors, a rare occurence since it requires him abandoning his beloved shorty robe and putting on pants, to go to a French bakery on 9th Street. Thomas Friedman wanted his rice pudding. Jean Claude repeatedly explained that they had no rice pudding. They had many things. They had eclairs and Napoleon's but, yes, they had no rice pudding.

Thomas Friedman began bellowing, "You and your Freedome Bakery suck! You blow!" over and over until we were asked to leave.

The whole time, Thomas Friedman had a perverse grin on his face that seemed to say, "You don't know who you're messing with buck-o!" Or maybe I just think that because he kept screaming it at Jean Claude.

Regardless, it was with trepidation that I read the column Thomas Friedman kept thursting in my face this morning.

It's, as I told Thomas Friedman, the most embarrassing thing I've ever read. Embarrassing because a child knows better. Embarrassing because I'm married to the global village idiot that wrote it.

Note that he once again claims to be in India. He also says he was in Europe. Ninth Street isn't Europe. But Thomas Friedman says "it adds color."

He manages to insult everyone, not the least of which is any reader who took joy in reading in Friedman's columns. There have to a few of those, right?

He never came off more simple minded. Take this sentence, "It is interesting because French voters are trying to preserve a 35-hour work week in a world where Indian engineers are ready to work a 35-hour day." A thrity-five hour day? Again, Thomas Friedman's defense is it "adds color."

Way to tackle the tough issues, I told him.

"Indians are ready to work harder" than Americans and Europeans probably pissed off at least two continents right there. For someone so quick to point a lazy finger, Thomas Friedman is the king of sloth. Many's a day when the only way I can trick him into getting out of bed before ten is to trick him and tell him that The Young and the Restless is on. He swears Nick Newman is so him. Personally, he reminds me more of Victor of the bad mustache.

So who is this highly pampered man to lecture anyone about hard work?

Take this sentence which made my blood boil: "Sure, a huge portion of India still lives in wretched slums or villages, but more and more of the young cohort are grasping for something better."

That's right, Thomas Friedman, disadvantaged people are disadvantaged because they choose to be. And, of course, because they are lazy.

I read that sentence and wanted to punch him in his latern moon-faced jaw.

Thomas Friedman grew very angry at me. I told him I had even started to speak.

"You see yourself as the Paul Revere of the global village," I informed him, "But in truth, you are the world's Gladys Kravitz, the nosy neighbor on Bewitched, peering in the neighbors' windows and forever getting the details wrong."

Thomas Friedman's face grew bright red and he started huffing and puffing. Picking up a can of cheese, he looked at me and I knew he was considering hitting me over the head with it or, perhaps, throwing it in my face yet again.

"Do not even think about it," I hissed. "And for God's sake, put on some pants. That shorty robe does not go with your stick legs!"

As I left the room, he was muttering something about dosage and saying he'd set me straight.
How? Via another "turbocharged" bedroom session. Thomas Friedman calls it turbocharged sex. I call it premature ejaculation. I am seeing a side of Thomas Friedman that is far from pretty. It makes him flat, hairy ass look quite fetching by comparison.

No "gut check" time for you tonight, Thomas Friedman, sleep on the futon.

It's all liars poker with Thomas Friedman

Well today I read my husband Thomas Friedman's column in print. It's called "America's DNA" and it carries a dateline slug of "New Dehli." I don't know what New Dehli is supposed to mean. It's a chore to get him out of that shorty robe each afternoon since we got back from the brief book tour. Trust me, Thomas Friedman is going nowhere.

For a moment, I considered that perhaps it was supposed to read "New Deli." Every now and then he talks of maybe checking out Utterly Delicious. He brings it up every weekend and usually at least once during the week. But he never goes. He'll decide it's too long of a trip.
And remind me that the 2nd Avenue Deli is both kosher and close by, so why bother?

He'll have the beef goulash or the stuffed cabbage. He has to have the noodle pudding "or why bother going?" he always asks. Due to his cholesterol, his doctor's been on him to have more fruits and vegetables. So lately Thomas Friedman has been having the Whitefish Salad. It's a "salad" in the way that potato salad is a "salad" only less so.

And if you think his shorty robe is a daily nightmare, you should see his shirt and tie after a trip to the 2nd Avenue Deli. It's as though Julia Child merged with Jackson Pollock -- a dirty canvas of culinary delights.

Me, I always get stuck with the potato pancakes. If Thomas Friedman's feeling especially generous, I get a bite of his mud cake. But Thomas Friedman tells everyone, "I don't know what the problem with Betinna is, she only loves to knosh."

So let's be clear that not only is Thomas Friedman not in New Dehli, he hasn't even visited a new deli. While we were on the road with his book tour, he did sample a Jason's Deli but he pronounced it to "goyish" and we left without ordering.

From there, the lies just pile up. In the first paragraph, he mentions his daughter.

"Thomas Friedman, is there something you need to tell me?"

That's what I asked. There are no children around our apartment. No grown children come to visit. I am not aware of having birthed any children. So what was that lie?

"Oh, Betinna, people love children," Thomas Friedman explained without looking me in the eyes. "They love to imagine that a man as great and powerful as I, Thomas Friedman, would be highly potent and a modern day Abraham siring an entire dynasty."

Mmmm-hmmm.

Later on, he tells a story about a man who had clipped a Thomas Friedman column and carried it around with him. The closest that ever came to happening was when the young man kept yelling for Thomas Friedman to pipe down during Monster-In-Law and kept threating to "clip your mustache if you don't shut up, John Bolton!"

That's the sort of thing that happened over and over. People usually thought he was John Bolton. And Thomas Friedman would get so mad.

But outside of a few elderly woman, not a great many people recognized Thomas Friedman on the book tour. The few who did usually made a remark along the lines of, "I did not realize that you weighed so much." Thomas Friedman explained that real life adds ten pounds. I followed that by noting that fake cheese from a can probably adds twenty.

But he just got on my every nerve during the road trip.

Look, some of the things he had to say in his column today were worth hearing. But, as I told him, when I pick our laundry or go to that "exotic" store on 488th on 8th Street to pick up whatever item my husband Thomas Friedman has ordered, the people there are going to think that he is New Delhi and that we have children. He is not in New Delhi and we do not have children.

Thomas Friedman told me that I have a "reality hang up" and advised me to go with the times.
I was not sure if, by the last part, he was trying to sell me a subscription or if he was trying to tell me to go with my gut? But Thomas Friedman only uses the word "gut" to describe the fun he has with fish and, of course, when he reaches orgasm and, admist huffing and puffing that would concern me if this continued for a great period of time or even more than thirty seconds, and cries out "Gut check time!"

Thomas Friedman says no one takes it seriously. While my husband Thomas Friedman has lost some prestige and influence, we are still known at the places where we pay our bills.

I said to him, "It is all a game with you."

Thomas Friedman snapped back, "Liar's Poker! And I never lose!"

That about says it all.

Thomas Friedman's Days of Rage and Whine

Oh it has not been a good time to be my husband Thomas Friedman. He has spent the Memorial Day Weekend alternately in a rage and in a fugue state.

When not yelling and screaming, shaking his fists at the plaster on the ceiling, or stomping his feet, he has been curled up in the fetal position sucking his thumb.

I have not seen anything like this before. Even when Gail Collins changed the op-ed schedule he was not this upset. And that is Gail Collins, not Gale Collins. Before I met Ms. Collins, I assumed all those remarks about the destructive gale Collins was my husband Thomas Friedman's railing against the destructive aspects of nature, that he was truly concerned with the lives of others. Needless to say, in weeks that have followed, I have had to revamp that opinion.

Not even Thomas Friedman's favorite snack, soda crackers and cheese from a can, could calm him down this weekend. Nothing could. At one point I attempted to get him to put on his Judy Miller wig but he was having none of that. When I grabbed diapers and put on the Peggy Noonan mask thinking he might want to play William Safire, he ripped the mask off my face.
Even Iraqi invasion or Bill Keller Kisses Thomas Friedman's ass have not been games he has wanted to play.

At one point, when he was ripping out his hair and wouldn't stop, not even when I pointed out that he couldn't get those highlights he's been considering if he was bald, I dropped to the floor and kissed his feet while saying, "Look, I am Nicholas Kristof." Although that stopped his hair pulling, even me playing Nicky was not enough to end his Days of Rage and Whine.

All I have wanted to do was to get on the computer and collect my thoughts. But there has been no time for that. Friday he was feeling slightly well until Nicky K told him that he thought previous columns were better. Nicky K did not realize that I had written the columns that he was praising. I am not sure how many people grasp that. My husband Thomas Friedman has spun around so many times that a shift in tone at this point just appears to be more back pedaling on his part.

At first, Nicky did not realize how upset Thomas Friedman was. I could tell by the look in his eyes that Thomas Friedman was about to explode. Taking a soda cracker off the platter, Thomas Friedman moved over to Nicky and asked him if he'd like one.

"Yes, thank you," responded Nicky.

Thomas Friedman slammed the cracker into Nicky's face nearly poking out Nicky's eyes and making a mess on the carpet.

"Ow! My eye! My eye! That damn cheese stings!" Nicky screamed.

The two got into a horrible row that only ended when Nicky asked Thomas Friedman if he realized he could have blinded him. Thomas Friedman's response sent Nicky storming out of the apartment.

Here it is in full:

"So what! It's not like you use them or you wouldn't insult the greatest writer of all time --"

That would be Thomas Friedman.

"-- so it would be no loss at all. You Joan Crawford, hand-wringing, simpering, psuedo think-tankering, sincerity oozing Dear Abby of the global village! Get out before I kick you up and down Lexington Avenue in your candy ass!"

Needless to say, Nicky stormed out. I am not sure whether it was due to his offense at the way Thomas Friedman characterized Nicky's writing or whether Nicky realized how serious Thomas Friedman was about kicking his ass up and down Lex.

And so began the Days of Rage and Whine.

Things did not get better when Thomas Friedman learned that Baghdad Burning had criticized his writing.

He printed it up and stormed around the apartment reading aloud from it, spitting out each word as he puffed on one of those thin Cuban cigars while I realized that whether or not Nicky was a "modern day Joan Crawford," Thomas Friedman certainly is the Bette Davis of his set.

Here is one portion that he read aloud:

One thing I found particularly amusing about the article- and outrageous all at once-was in the following paragraph:
"Religiously, if you want to know how the Sunni Arab world views a Shiite's being elected leader of Iraq, for the first time ever, think about how whites in Alabama would have felt about a black governor's being installed there in 1920. Some Sunnis do not think Shiites are authentic Muslims, and they are indifferent to their brutalization."
Now, it is always amusing to see a Jewish American journalist speak in the name of Sunni Arabs. When Sunni Arabs, at this point, hesitate to speak in a representative way about other Sunni Arabs, it is nice to know Thomas L. Friedman feels he can sum up the feelings of the "Sunni Arab world" in so many words. His arrogance is exceptional.

"Arrogance!" he exploded. "I am not arrogant! I am the most generous man in the world! Am I not the most generous man in the world? I am! Betinna, you are a backward woman so Riverbend should be able to relate to you. Get online right now and tell that woman at Baghdad Burning that I am not arrogant! I will dictate what you will write because I know better how to communictate with people like you!"

Needless to say, Riverbend did not respond to the e-mail Thomas Friedman dictated and made me send. Which I am glad about because Thomas Friedman does "shape" events in his narratives. He does promote exceptionalism and, yes, he can be arrogant. As someone who has been on the receiving end of a tossed can of cheese, I would have to say that calling him arrogant is not stretching the truth.

But that was not all that enraged Thomas Friedman. Perhaps to goad him on during his Days of Rage and Whine, Nicky e-mailed him an article he found online. Thomas Friedman was so pleased to see Nicky's e-mail in his inbox.

"Betinna," he called. "Come here at once!"

I was in the kitchen squeezing his prune juice but he said that could wait.

Wondering what the fuss was, I wiped my hands and went to find out.

He was beaming and I was so happy thinking that perhaps his dark mood might be over and he might actually stop his tantrum and possibly bathe and put on something other than his shorty robe.

"Look," he said gesturing to the computer screen. "Nicky has come groveling back to apologize."

"You be nice to him, Thomas Friedman," I said still wiping my hands because prune juice is so sticky. "He has always been very nice to you and stuck up for you. You should not torture him the way you do."

"Nonsense," Thomas Friedman said puffing on his tiny Cuban cigar. "He is the gas bag Baby Jane to my intellectual Blanche. My emotional kicks to his psyche are cleansing for him. That is why I do it."

Baby Jane and Blance are characters in the movie Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? so obviously, even Thomas Friedman grasps that he has Bette Davis-ish qualities and, no, I do not mean his eyes.

"Now sit, my backward Betinna," Thomas Friedman said patting his lap, "and we will read his genuflecting together because all good shamings must include an audience. And Nicky would not be so quick to put on his Third World, sweat shop produced hair shirt if he did not enjoy it on some level."

Trying to aovid a particularly nasty stain, one that looked still damp, on his shorty robe, I sat down as he opened the e-mail . . . and quickly exploded.

There was no "Thomas Friedman, I am humbled before you" kind of talk. It was a link to an editorial and it enraged Thomas Friedman.

Here it is because I so enjoyed it that I bookmarked it thinking that, at a later date when Thomas Friedman is really getting on my nerves, I might print it up and hand it to him.

Editorial: Sunday Times says we attempted to goad Iraq into war in 2002, is Bush a liar or just willing to risk the safety of American citizens?

The Sunday Times has an article by Michael Smith entitled "RAF bombing raids tried to goad Saddam into war." It opens with the following:

THE RAF and US aircraft doubled the rate at which they were dropping bombs on Iraq in 2002 in an attempt to provoke Saddam Hussein into giving the allies an excuse for war, new evidence has shown.
The attacks were intensified from May, six months before the United Nations resolution that Tony Blair and Lord Goldsmith, the attorney-general, argued gave the coalition the legal basis for war. By the end of August the raids had become a full air offensive.
The details follow the leak to The Sunday Times of minutes of a key meeting in July 2002 at which Blair and his war cabinet discussed how to make "regime change" in Iraq legal.Geoff Hoon, then defence secretary, told the meeting that "the US had already begun 'spikes of activity' to put pressure on the regime".

We realize that our readers are far more intelligent than the mainstream press corp but indulge us as we address the above. The Bully Boy and his cohorts went around screaming that we didn't want a "mushroom cloud," that Saddam Hussein had chemical and biological weapons. To accept those lies today, in the face of The Sunday Times of London's story, you have to accept that the Bully Boy was perfectly okay with the United States being attacked with nuclear, chemical or biological weapons. If that were true, then the only response would be to call for an immediate impeachment. The leader of the country is not supposed to actively court the destruction of our nation.

But to believe the lies we were told, that truly is the most obvious conclusion.

Of course, the fact of the matter is that we were lied to. Everything we were told leading up to the invasion and everything that's followed can be characterized as lies and more lies.

Lying a nation into war is a pretty serious offense.

Now there are some who feel that the recent defense of Newsweek has awakened our press corps. We'd love for that to be the case. However, it can also be argued that the press is just closing ranks, protecting their own and still willing to swallow every lie the administration feeds them and duly spit it back out in a report.

Look, this is a serious matter. We'd even be willing to hold our tongues regarding Judith Miller and other stenographers if The New York Times or any other institution wanted to do now what they should have been doing in the lead up to the invasion, investigating the administration's claims and telling the people the truth.

Scott Shane, Douglas Jehl or Monica Davey (or anyone else) could be front paged with stories about the difference between what we were told and actual reality and we'd be willing to hold our tongues about Miller and the others. (Miller's the most infamous, she was far from the only one. And to date, no television program has issued any mea culpa that we're aware of.)

Why could a group of smart asses like The Third Estate Sunday Review do that? Because the bigger picture demands that Americans start getting some truth with their journalism. It's past time for some truth. We spent thirty minutes discussing this (Ava, Jim, Jess, Ty, Dona, Rebecca, Betty and C.I.) and we all agree that the truth coming out now (strongly and on the front page -- not tucked safely inside the paper where it can be ignored) is a great deal more important than Miller's head on a platter at this moment in time.

What we're saying is that we could take The Times running truth telling stories without requiring them to note "by the way Judith Miller reported this differently." (Or any newspaper or TV program doing the same without making a point to name their reporters who got it wrong.) And here's a thought, who knows the lies that were told better than Miller? Get her committed to exposing reality and team her up with someone more trust worthy and let it rip. We're willing to bet that the sympathy she's been unable to garner for her current court issues, despite repeated attempts to garner sympathy, would suddenly emerge.

We're not going to spin here and say that all is forgiven and forgotten regarding Miller (to focus on The New York Times). That's not the case. It never will be. But if The New York Times wants to get back into the news business, we're perfectly willing to table our criticism of Miller for several months. Because we feel, and we can only speak for us, that the truth on the invasion/occupation is far more important than any individual reporter.

The latest from London's Sunday Times is explosive (as was the Downing St. memo). The press seems to have awakened a bit after the attacks on Newsweek. Our guess is that the way the domestic press handles the very serious issues emerging from across the Atlantic will tell us whether recent press coverage was about truth telling or protecting one of their own.

Lastly, we'll give credit to BuzzFlash for making The Sunday Times article their main headline.As always, the editorial is the last feature (other than our "note") that we work on. As soon as we finish everything else, we rush around online (BuzzFlash is always one of the stops) to come up with potential topics for our editorial. There was no debate this week. All eight of us agreed that the only topic was The Sunday Times revelations. Congratulations and thanks to BuzzFlash for catching the story and prominently running it at their website.

posted by Third Estate Sunday Review @ Sunday, May 29, 2005

Oh, did that make Thomas Friedman mad.

He was peeved that his paper was being called to task for their own actions. But he was especially mad that Judith Miller got mentioned.

"What is this obsession with Judith Miller!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face. "I am American's sweetheart, not Judith Miller! When will the world start to give me my props! Why must they disrespect me and dis me thusly!"

"Now, Thomas Friedman," I said evenly, "Judith Miller was not praised. So perhaps you should be glad that you were not mentioned."

"Nonsense!" he sputtered. "They mentioned Scott Shane, Douglas Jehl and Monica Davey! Who's ever heard of those nobodies! I work at the paper and I don't even know those losers!
You cannot mention the paper and not mention me! I am the paper! I will have to speak with Bill Keller about this! These damn bloggers! Arm chair critics on a ride at Magic Mountain with no concept of what and who I am! They will tremble at my might! Tremble! I am the great Thomas Friedman and I will not be ignored! Keller will have to institute a new policy ASAP or it will be his A-S-S! He will have to declare that whenever the paper is mentioned it will be called 'Thomas Friedman's New York Times!' That every comment on the paper will include my name! There has not been a greater miscarriage of justice ever, not even when Britney Spears was denied a deserving Oscar nomination for her delightful and engaging turn in the emotionally draining but spiritually uplifting Crossroads! Why do these silly fools deny those of us who sparkle and entertain, who warm the hearts of America, their due? When will I get my props!
Betinna, talk to your peeps, give them the 411 and tell them Thomas Friedman is a great man!
Like Hillary Duff's moving performance in the modern day classic A Cinderalla Story, I have been ignored! Must we all wear thigh high boots and engage in oral sex like that hideous Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman to be rightly crowned America's sweetheart!"

I was about to suggest that thigh high boots or not, engaging in oral sex might be something he should consider because Lord knows I could use a little satisfaction and reciprocation but he was still raging and I fell to the floor as he suddenly stood up and began pacing around the room.

"Must the 411 come from the AP wire for me to get my props! When will the global village issue a cry of 'Raise the roof, y'all!' for me, the great Thomas Friedman! Give me my props!"

Watching him puff away on that tiny cigar and gesture dramatically with it, I'd argue Thomas Friedman already has one prop. Eye balls popping and shorty robe flying as he stormed around the room, I wondered when the latest tantrum would end.

I didn't have to wait long before he collapsed to the floor and began banging his fists against it as he repeatedly screamed, "Give me my props! Give me my props! Give it up for your global Daddy!"

After thirty minutes of this, and numerous calls of complaints from neighbors, Thomas Friedman finally curled into a fetal position and began sucking his thumb. He's been like that for over eighteen hours.

His last words to me, before insterting his thumb into his mouth, were said with moist, red eyes: "Just tell me this, who's gonna' love my ass? Huh? Who's gonna' love my ass?"

Last time this happened, I wasted a great deal of time worrying. Today, I have just ran the sweeper around him and enjoyed being able to be the one to control the remote control and watch what I wanted. For the last eighteen hours, anyway, it has been a vacation.

Thomas Friedman wants a little more night music

I read my husband Thomas Friedman's column and could only think: "That's what happens when I make the mistake of thinking I can listen to my music. I'm rocking out while hand washing Thomas Friedman's boxers -- not just the silk ones but the cotten-poly blends as well -- and he's ripping off Lenny Kravitz."

Ever since we spent 8 days on the road to hell and heartland, Thomas Friedman has taken to referring to himself as a refugee of the road.

Honestly, you'd think Thomas Friedman just got off the chitlin circuit opening for the Ike & Tina Turner Review the way he keeps moaning about "life on the road." In his column, I noticed that eight days became six weeks. I asked him about that and Thomas Friedman replied "poetic license. Didn't you learn anything from Laura Bush posing as a Desperate Housewife!"

I had tried for days to use something similar with his shorts but Thomas Friedman insisted that he cannot feel sexy in drawers that smell like the heartland.

I suggest that maybe he could use them during playtime to pretend to be Kevin Costner and we could play Field of Dreams instead of Iraqi invasion but Thomas Friedman shot that idea down.

"Okay," I said still trying, "What about Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It?"

Though this did lead to a twenty minute discussion of whether or not he should get highlights, it was otherwise a waste of time.

"What about," I was grasping at straws here, "Reese Witherspoon's boyfriend in Sweet Home Alabama?"

"Why not Witherspoon!" Thomas Friedman howled. "I am America's sweetheart! More so than that Judy Miller!"

Now who can argue with logic like that?

"Okay, you be Reese," I told Thomas Friedman who looked happy for about ten seconds before he started bawling.

"But, but," Thomas Friedman sputtered while blowing his nose on a kitchen towel, "she's got fat arms!"

To get him to stop snotting all over the kitchen towels I just washed, dried and folded, I gave up.

"You know what? I'll wash your shorts by hand."

Blowing his nose in a fresh kitchen towel, Thomas Friedman nodded.

So I got to work on washing his shorts by hand in the kitchen sink while Thomas Friedman tried to settle down. He's been so emotional since I started him on those vitamins.

As I was scrubbing one particularly nasty stain, I heard him chuckle.

"Betinna," he giggled. "What's the matter with Kansas?"

"I don't know. What?"

"It's flat and it smells!" he chortled gasping for breath. "And so are the people!"

"Now Thomas Friedman," I said as gently as possible, "we didn't go to Kansas."

"So what!" Thomas Friedman exploded. "The joke is funnier this way. Remember Laura Bush slaying them with her jokes about being a Desperate Housewife!"

"Thomas Friedman," I said as calmly as possible, "if you put that in your column, you are going to offend a lot of people in Kansas."

"So what!"

"So people in Kansas buy books too."

"Gosh golly darn it!" Thomas Friedman hollered kicking the kitchen table. "You always spoil my fun! I hate you!"

"But you love Judy Garland and The Wizard of Oz and Dorothy is from Kansas."

"So," he whined pouting. "I love 'The Trolley Song' too. Does that mean I can't write about mass transportation?"

Sniffle, sniffle, sniffle went his nose. Stomp, stomp, stomp went his feet. Zing, zing, zing went my mood as he headed out of the room.

I plugged in the casette player in the kitchen. Thomas Friedman swears it is the very latest in home stereo equipment. Fishing the Lenny Kravitz tape out of from a drawer, I was set to finish washing those shorts and forget all about Thomas Friedman.

That may be a little harsh. He did buy me the Lenny Kravitz tape at Goodwill.

I should probably stop here to explain.

Goodwill is a store Thomas Friedman takes me to for most of my shoes and pantyhose (for dresses, he just buys me sheets which he says make me look exotic). Thomas Friedman says Goodwill is a very exclusive store and that is why he never worries that we will bump into anyone we know there.

One time, I thought I swore Judy Miller. Thomas Friedman did not agree.

I said, "Thomas Friedman, that is either Judy Miller or someone has stolen your Judy Miller wig!"

But Thomas Friedman told me there was no way it was Judy Miller because the only thing she needs is some integrity and you can't purchase that second-hand.

So there I am washing Thomas Friedman's dirty drawers and singing along with Lenny Kravitz:

Does anybody know how many lives we've lost?
Can anybody ever pay the cost?
What will it take for us to join peace my friends?
Does anybody out there even care?

I love the song, it's called "Does Anybody Out There Even Care?" I love singing along with that.
But then this morning, I'm out of excuses and Thomas Friedman keeps pestering me to finish reading his column.

Read this:

Is there any constituency that should be clamoring for a sane energy policy more than U.S. industry? Is there any group that should be mobilizing voters to lobby Congress to pass the Caribbean Free Trade Agreement and complete the Doha round more than U.S. multinationals? Should anyone be more concerned about the fiscally reckless deficits we are leaving our children than Wall Street?

That's my husband Thomas Friedman attempting to "borrow" from Lenny Kravitz.

I pointed that out too and boy, did Thomas Friedman get mad. He started insisting that the world could use "a little more night music!" and that the paper could have more than one in-house poet.

He was so upset, I slipped two vitamins into his prune juice and patted his tummy until he felt better. Tomorrow's another column and Thomas Friedman is still blocked. He says that is a sign of a great artist. When Thomas Friedman starts talking about "great artist," that usually means I'm going to end up having to write his column for him at the last minute.

The Great Thomas Friedman Cracks Another One

Like a ripped pillow, stuff and stuffing seep out ofmy husband Thomas Friedman's head. It ain't alwayspretty.

Thomas Friedman hates it when I say "ain't." While he finds it amusing to use it from time to time for"street cred," he really hates it when I use it.

Just the other day, I was dusting the end tables and singing softly to myself. "If you need me
. . . call me . . . ain't no mountain high enough to keep me from you."

"Betinna!" Thomas Friedman hollered, his voice climbing ever higher on each syllable.

He's been drinking a lot of Mountain Dew since his book tour so, assuming he was blocked again and needed his prune juice, I headed for the kitchen. He started right after me insisting that I not use "that word."

What word?

"Wouldn't it be better to sing 'Isn't no mountain high enough?' I think it would be. I think the best way of conveying a message is to use proper grammar."

"Thomas Friedman," I said, slamming down the bag of prunes, "the song is titled 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough.' If it was good enough for Diana Ross, it is good enough for me."

"But it does not sound pretty, Betinna," Thomas Friedman said gingerly lifting and examining the bag of prunes.

"Well it's accurate," I insisted, "Now go change from your shorty robe into a pair of pants. Gail Collins is coming over and you may think the world is flat but neither your belly or ass are and she doesn'tneed to be exposed to them."

Thomas Friedman stood glaring at me for a moment, but then quickly jogged out of the kitchen, still holding the bag of bruised prunes, his shorty robe flying up in the back as usual.

So I've just gotten the platters of soda crackers ready and am topping them off with canned cheese when Thomas Friedman came rushing in, arm extended to offer me the prunes. As I squeezed them to make a glass of prune juice for him, I looked Thomas Friedman up and down.

Thomas Friedman was wearing a blue t-shirt with "Just Dew It!" on the front and a pair of pajama bottoms. While he wasn't looking, I slipped one of my vitamins into his glass. Since he has gone on his Mountain Dew kick, I have worried that he might not be getting enough nutrients or vitamins. I think I was right to worry because, although he still has his pouty episodes, he is now much more easy going. It is amazing how cranky a loss of vitamin C can make a person.

With a giggle, he grabbed his glass of and downed its contents. Noting how happy Thomas Friedman seemed to be, I thought I could suggest that he might want to dress up since Ms. Collins is his boss.

Thomas Friedman spewed his prune juice out of mouth and nose as he began sputtering, "Gail Collins is not my boss! I am Thomas Friedman. I work for no one. Certainly not for Gail Collins! In fact, is that the can of cheese I see on the counter? I hope you are not planning to waste the soda crackers and canned cheese on her because she does not have the good taste
to appreciate the finer things in life."

Patting him on the back, I told him to just drink his prune juice. Within moments, his nasty mood had subsided and he had grabbed the can to make pornographic figures on the soda crackers. I did question their appropriateness but figured he was enjoying himself so much that I'd just keep my opinion to myself.

Then Ms. Collins arrived, not wearing pajamas. She seemed surprised to see me face to face, mumbling something about my looking nothing like my pictures. I didn't realize Thomas Friedman kept photos of me at work. I was so touched, I made a mental note to put a little energy into the next round of Iraqi Invasion.

Ms. Collins was there to explain that Thomas Friedman's book was number one for the second week in a row. You'd think Thomas Friedman would be happy and, at first, he was. However, he wanted a book review in the Sunday section to note that his book had been number one for five weeks. Ms. Collins, who seemed not at all surprised by Thomas Friedman's outfit, explained that couldn't happen because the editor of the book review would not agree to go along with that. The actress, as Thomas Friedman refers to her, had held the number one spot for three of the last five weeks with her book.

Thomas Friedman began to whine and moan about how it would hurt his book sales. Thinking quickly, Ms. Collins replied, "The best P.R. is straight talk."

That was the title of Thomas Friedman's column today.

I could have told her, don't poke the bear.

"How dare you quote Thomas Friedman to Thomas Friedman!" Thomas Friedman yelled.

Then he stormed out of the room, stopping at the doorway to holler, "No 'is!' I used a ":!"
You can't even get that right you regressive cheese eater."

With that he was gone.

Ms. Collins apologized profusely for eating the soda cracker with cheese. I explained to her that Thomas Friedman was not referring to that, he was calling her a "rat."

"A rat?"

"Cheese eater," I explained, nibbling on a soda cracker.

Nodding, Ms. Collins reached for another cracker and commented, "What a curious cheese design?"

Before I was forced to think of something clever, Thomas Friedman flounced back in wearing his shorty robe.

After making a raspberry, he proceeded to turn around, bend over and unnecessarily hike his shorty robe to moon Ms. Collins.

"Oh my goodness," gasped Ms. Collins.

"Read it and weep, baby, read it and weep! The great Thomas Friedman cracked another one!"

Roaring at his "wit," Thomas Friedman skipped out of the room.

Ms. Collins looked at me, I looked at her.

What do you say after something like that?

8 Days on the road to hell and heartland

For the last eight days, I've been in every flea ridden, cheap motel room you can imagine. The kind of rooms where the glasses, plastic, in the bathroom have spots on them even before you take them out of the plastic. My husband Thomas Friedman's latest book isn't doing as well as it should be doing or as well as he expected it to be doing. So we've gone from one city to another, with him doing multiple signings in each city. The crowds have been rather sparse. In fact, only my husband Thomas Friedman refers to them as "crowds."

I refer them to as "couples" and the occasional "threesome." Or rather I did until I noticed how the latter got Thomas Friedman's bushy eyebrows wagging. As if his libido needs any more excitement right now. Most night's it's like he's snorting or mainlining Viagra. I don't mind all that much, the five to six minutes give me a period to reflect and organize my plans for the next day. Right about the time that he's crying out, "Gut check time!" I've finished my personal inventory.

But the "neighbors" are far less than tolerant than I am. It was the rare night that management didn't ring up the room to ask us to hold it down. Thomas Friedman would get off the phone and lecture me about the noise level. I have no idea why, I'm not even bothering to fake moans of late. And I'm certainly not the one repeating, "Mommy! Mommy! Oh Mommy!" a half dozen times before finishing with the hollered cry of "Gut check time!"

But I'm grasping that Thomas Friedman, besides being hugely jealous of the actress who is outselling him, is also not one to grab the blame. One might even suggest that he's one to push the blame off on others.

I don't know what's up with me lately. I ran out of vitamins on the second day. I attempted to get the bottle refilled at a local pharmacy but Thomas Friedman freaked. I guess the world can not know that Thomas Friedman's wife has a vitamin deficiency? So I attempted to up my vitamin C intake via gallons of orange juice and fresh lemons but for whatever reason, they did not induce the calm, pleasing feeling I've grown so used to.

I've been "a nasty little insurgent" during this time period according to Thomas Friedman. For instance, at a book signing at one store, I was flipping through this amazing book entitled Stop The Next War Now and that alone ticked off Thomas Friedman because I was seated right next to him at the table. Probably also ticked him off because when he was inscribing one book, the woman who was purchasing it told him he was the finest author and that his books were the best. I asked her, "Have you read this book by CodePink?"

Oh, did that make him mad.

Then Sunday he said to me, "Betinna, how about we do like the locals in this backwater town and go to the movies." I think we were in San Francisco and I believe it's a coastal city but whatever. Thomas Friedman was ranting and raving as he looked at the movie posters about how the quality films were no more and how he'd give anything for "one more good Steven Segal flick" when I saw there was a movie having a sneak preview. I went to buy the tickets to it because Thomas Friedman is convinced that he'd be recognized and mobbed if was in line for tickets. He may have been right because there was this one guy in the parking lot who kept pestering him with, "Aren't you?" but unless he's changed his name to John Bolton, I don't believe my husband Thomas Friedman was recognized.

So we go into the theater and Thomas Friedman says he's sure whatever we'll see will be mildly amusing in a sophomoric manner and offering his opinion of low brow comedies when the man from the parking lot yells out, "Hey, John Bolton! Pipe down! I'm trying to watch the trailers!"
Thomas Friedman's face went bright red and he assured me how lucky for that man it was that I was present because otherwise it would be "fist 'a cuffs."

"John Bolton, I ain't kidding! I'll kick your loud ass if you don't shut it!" yelled out the man as Thomas Friedman relaxed, to the point of shrinking, in his chair.

The credits came up and I don't think Thomas Friedman was paying attention to the movie until Jane Fonda, I'm sorry, "the actress." Thomas Friedman has forbidden me from ever mentioning her name. The actress walks on to the screen. Thomas Friedman starts hissing and booing and whispering things like, "Go write another workout book!" I'm missing most of the dialogue and trying to figure out what was said because everyone in the theater is laughing like crazy. I look over to Thomas Friedman and see that the man from the parking lot has him dangling in the air, holding him by the back of his shirt collar and advising him, "I've had enough of your crap, John Bolton! Either you shut it or we take it outside!"

The rest of the movie, Thomas Friedman didn't say another word. And Monster-in-Law was so funny that I laughed along with everyone else and didn't even really mind the smell of pee emenating from my husband Thomas Friedman. Maybe I've grown accustomed to it from the times when I have to wear the Peggy Noonan mask and he plays William Safire as I diaper him?
I am not sure. But it was a great movie. And I kept pointing that out as we left the theater.

Thomas Friedman pouted all night. Even when I offered to play Bill Keller and kiss his ass, he didn't really get into it.

That was basically life on the road. We ate at one McDonalds after another. For breakfast, lunch and dinner. I found out that the culinary efforts of Ronald McDonald make my husband Thomas Friedman rather gassy. Between bowel explosions, he explained that "is often a by product of fine cuisine."

Thing got nasty in Seattle where one young male at a bookstore called him "a decaying waste of flesh and mind." Thomas Friedman said the young man was a rabble rouser. I don't know about that but the ten-year-old did look rather sharp in his Boy Scouts uniform and certainly had a great vocabulary for his age.

I told him that he should work that into a column, about how smart the youth of today was. Thomas Friedman did not like that idea at all and if you saw his Friday column in print, you know that he attacked the youth of today as behind every other nation in the world. Thomas Friedman can really hold a grudge.

As we pulled out of the last town yesterday and headed towards home in "Pixie" (the name Thomas Friedman has given to the vintange automobile he bought for our road trip) (did I mention it was a Pinto hatchback?), Thomas Friedman reflected, "I have spent eight days on the road to hell and heartland!"

If he hadn't kept sobbing, I might have reminded him that "we" had spent eight day. But when he finally did stop crying, it was only to pull over and make me drive for the next twelve hours straight.

It was not a pleasant journey. We got home about, finally, about an hour ago. Thomas Friedman told me to "climb the walls" until the sun comes out and then he will go get me more prescribed vitamins. He also made a joke I did not understand. Something about it was too bad we were not in Florida because then he could have just borrowed from Rush. Who is this Rush?