I’ve been thinking about how to get this blog back up and running, even though I’m supposed to be focusing mostly on my new blog, From 50,000 Feet. That’s a blog about business, which means it’s about almost anything I want it to be, since everything is business and business is everything. But it’s not about me.
The problem is simply this: When I was committed to this blog on a daily basis, I wrote what were essentially articles. They were bloggy, but because I’ve written journalism and PR most of my life, I couldn’t let anything go if I hadn’t at least done some research on it and thought about how I wanted to present it. Even if the search was purely personal, I still wanted people to take information from it, information you could use.
Now, that article-writing mentality is switched to my new blog. I just don’t have the time or energy for two such projects. And, well, the other one…I’m getting paid to do it.
But in the two years of steady work on this blog, as I labored over my posts, oh how I envied those great models of blogging, LA Observed, Instapundit and DodgerThoughts for their concision, for their gift of open-endedness, their willingness to just let a thought or an idea live on its own, without all the struts and supports that I felt mine needed. For Kevin Roderick and Glenn Reynolds, that meant they could do 4, 5, 10, 20 posts a day sometimes, while I struggled to do one.
It’s been my problem as a writer for as long as I’ve been a writer. Not writing fast — I’m a whiz, actually — but writing too much. Probably, I should blame my math teachers who drilled into my head that I must “show my work.” But it’s not a #2 pencil world anymore. You’ve all got calculators, and the great thing about calculators is once you’ve got the answer, how you got there doesn’t matter anymore.
So that’s how it’s going to be. I’m not just going to get to the point on this blog. It’ll be all “point” and no “getting to” it.
So what am I thinking right now?
That I need to go for a swim.
That I need to take some paper to be shredded. Three bags full, accumulated over a year or more.
That my feet are cold.
That I can’t believe I’m agreeing with the Dodger management about their hiring of Joe Torre.
That Maureen Dowd’s column on Hillary Clinton is a major return to form for a seemingly burned out writer. A lot of pundits are getting blood transfusions with the approaching end of the Bush era, where the intellectual air had gotten pretty stale.
Keep in mind, if I had to guess right now, I would guess I’m going to be casting my presidential ballot for Mrs. C. But, still, this was good:
When pundettes tut-tut that playing the victim is not what a feminist should do, they forget that Hillary is not a feminist. If she were merely some clichéd version of a women’s rights advocate, she never could have so effortlessly blown off Marian Wright Edelman and Lani Guinier when Bill first got in, or played the Fury with Bill’s cupcakes during the campaign.
She was always kind enough to let Bill hide behind her skirts when he got in trouble with women. Now she deserves to hide behind her own pantsuits when men cause her trouble.
We underestimate Hillary if we cast her as Eleanor Roosevelt. She’s really Alfonse D’Amato. Not just the Senator Pothole role, but the talent for playing the aggrieved victim.
D’Amato pulled off a dramatic upset in ’92 against Robert Abrams, the New York attorney general, by pouncing when Abrams slipped one night and called D’Amato a “fascist.” Though never a sensitive soul about insulting other ethnic groups, D’Amato quickly cast “fascist” as an insult to Italian-Americans, producing an ad with scenes of Mussolini.
“It was sheer gall,” Anthony Marsh, D’Amato’s media consultant, proudly told The Times’s Alessandra Stanley.
Like Alfonse, Hillary has the gift of gall. She can be righteous while playing brass-knuckle politics. She will cozy up to former enemies she can use, like Matt Drudge and David Brock, and back W.’s bellicosity if it helps banish her old image as antimilitary.
There is nowhere she won’t go, so long as it gets her where she wants to be.
That’s the beauty of Hillary.
Well…gotta go to the gym!