purejuice: (acey zorro)
The closure of the News of the World -- a Murdoch owned British tab, its richest -- was announced today amid allegations of police bribery, a Tory-inspired Scotland Yard cover up, and that its employees had hacked the telephones of as many as 4,000 people, ranging from Prince William's aides to the families of casualties in Iraq and a murdered girl.

The editor under whom the charges first began to snowball resigned and went to work for the prime minister as the Conservative party's number one Downing Street spokesman.

Jeez! He's about to be arrested!

Almost all the advertisers of NotW had pulled out, Murdoch has not fired its flame-haired editrix, although everyone else has been axed, amid plans to take another Murdoch property, The Sun, into seven-day-a-week publication to replace the Sunday-only NotW.

NotW editrix Brooks with Cameron spokesman/NotW editor Coulson in happier days

The British tabs are, as a friend of mine who is (you pick) a distinguished Columbia J-school grad reporter/a natural criminal, once pointed out, the home of the world's best reporters.

This story is so juicy I have to read it with a bib.


Murdoch and his piece-of-work wife, Wendi, nee Deng Wenge, who, at 42, is 700 hundred years younger than he, and who got her green card by snaking her sponsor's husband who was a mere 30 years older than she, arrive today at the Sun Valley plutocrats' summer camp.
purejuice: (Default)
“It’s a nice trade fish and chips.” conceded Nitsa with a soulful smile, sitting with her arms crossed, casting her blue eyes around the shop where they spent the last thirty-eight years and almost speaking to herself, “We are happy here. The people are very nice and most of the customers are our friends. You always ask after everybody’s families.”

purejuice: (Default)
As usual, the Fug Girls and the philosophers of aesthetics in their comments on Lady Gaga's red carpet outfit at the Grammys take the cake.


They're all correct. And brill, just brill.
purejuice: (Default)
Sometimes the news reaches just the body temp IQ that makes me frisky.

In England, Cameron's communications director, the former editor at that respectable news source, Murdoch's News of the World, who resigned from the newspaper after one of his reporters was jailed for hacking into royaltys', pols' and celebs' telephones, has finally also resigned from the conservative cabinet.

Also, another shadow cabinet member has resigned in the wake of his police bodyguard's suspension for having an affair with the cabinet member's wife.

Here, "someone" in LiLo's "camp" has offered the Betty Ford attendant who alleged LiLo came in over the wall, after curfew, drunk, $25,000 to drop assault charges against LiLo.

Octomom has filmed, in the home which she shares with her 14 children, in their playroom and in her bedroom, a video in which she is wearing a bustier and is whipping a mustachioed man in diapers and a baby bonnet. This after claiming she would never, ever do a porno.

There's was another one that just made me lie on my back with all four paws in the air, but I'm giggling too hard to remember which it was.

In other news, I am moving slowly toward achieving the immensely complicated simple dinnner party here on Sunday.

Today, Boston brown bread... )

...and lemon glazed lemon cake. )
purejuice: (cuba cat)
Unhappy Hipsters is hilarious and so right on for about three minutes.

Then you start to want to slit your wrists. Nobody is more repulsive than arhictecture freaks.
purejuice: (billy budd)
Here is the new Pepys. I know you've been searching high and low for one, but this one is the real thing.

purejuice: (Default)
I belong to a bunch, among which the most active is the mushroom hunters of D.C. and the old time musicians of Blacksburg, VA, and the least active of whom are the genocide scholars. Not for lack of material, I hasten to add, with extermination of one's own kind at least as prolific as morels in the Blue Ridge.

Today on the Virginia Woolf listserv, this most extraordinary piece from Believer magazine, resurrecting from the births and censuses and ships' passenger lists of 19th century England the roommate Leonard Woolf, husband of Virginia, had in Ceylon as a civil servant in 1905.

There's a whole long piece about this guy and why Leonard must have hated him, headlined THE DEATH OF A CIVIL SERVANT: IN 1905 MODERNISM AND FANTASY MET IN THE JUNGLES OF COLONIAL CEYLON.

Like Woolf and Dutton, modernism and fantasy are each other’s uncanny double.

The resemblance isn’t immediately obvious.



I have to tell you it's so far off the mark, and so inordinately assiduous about a person who had absolutely no relevance to Leonard Woolf's modernism, of which he was totally unaware in 1905, and absolutely no relevance to Woolf's life in Ceylon or anywhere else, except as an example of the kind of completely out-to-lunch loser expat with which the foreign services of the world teem, that I can only fall back in my chair and say to myself, again, why do the wicked prosper? There is a kind of Jewish-Prince-who- writes ethos, in which every twee idea and thrice-shitty pun -- or even really excellent and famous and career-defining prose about, oh, let's say jacking off -- is assayed with a coy simper as something Mama Will Dote Upon.

The author of this Leonard wank, Lev Grossman, has written such a piece forcing one of the literary canon's great iconoclasts into a relationship with fantasy. Grossman inflates the tenuous connection, and indeed the roommate's dubious role as a fantasist, in just such an ohhh-aren't-I-a-clever-little-man manner. It is this what-if streak of fantasy, that is, a form of nostalgia for the future, in which the willfully inflated story of the road not taken -- or the fate of the loathed roommate left pounding out Beethoven on an out-of-tune piano for one of the local lady missionaries -- has always given me the willies. Woolf tells the story impeccably, as an eye witness, and the image of his roommate entertaining the missionary ladies in sweaty Ceylon is perfectly rendered. What happened to the man in that vignette is far less interesting than the clever little man Grossman thinks, and it makes my skin crawl to think he spent time looking this "fantasist" up.

I have a relative, one of the ones who inherited the boring and malicious depression, but not the brilliant and creative mania of our progenitress, who has spent his whole life figuring out what if. The jacking-off, I can't even begin to go there. And, of course, not working. 'Cause his mother told him he was a genius and didn't have to.

Leonard Woolf was more of the Jeremiad apocalypse Fabian socialist type of Jewish Prince. And he hated his mother.

Go, Leonard.


purejuice: (Default)

January 2012



RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 22nd, 2017 05:15 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios