Thank you, friends, wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you

* Happy Birthday to:


Mike Watt


Patty Smith


Billy Bragg


Alex Chilton

* Info on the world's fastest elevator.

* A fantasy scenario of The Rude Pundit: A Very Nixon Christmas. excerpt:

"Safire is in the kitchen, late, late at night, having put to bed his latest editorial, one of his last for the Times. In this one, Safire, using Philip Roth's latest novel as a jumping off point, envisioned the scenario of a fantasy George W. Bush having opinions of his own, able to stand up to the neocons, and refusing to go to war in Iraq. This single act, of course, leads to Saddam Hussein's ascent to unparalleled power in the Middle East, with a complicit UN behind him. Oh, ho, ho, we dodged that bullet, Safire thinks, searching for the last of the Hannukah brisket in the back of the fridge. When he closes the fridge door, he notices that the room is still cold. He turns to the counter and jumps, for a moment, as he sees the ghost of his old boss, Richard Nixon. 'How ya doin', ya short-cocked kike?' Nixon asks.

"'Hi, Dick,' Safire says. He's old. He's seen many, many ghosts in his time. And Nixon's been a regular visitor of late.

"'Goddamn, that was a fine, fine fucking editorial you wrote today,' Nixon says, proud that his former speechwriter has succeeded where so many from his administration failed.

"Safire says, 'Actually, it's technically a column. An editorial is generally done by an editor. I'm a columnist.'

"Nixon rolls his eyes, 'Look, Bill, if you correct my fuckin' language one more cocksuckin' time, I'll feed your balls to Satan's bichon frise.'

"'Satan has a bichon frise? I'd've thought pit bulls or something.'

"'Everyone in Hell has a bichon frise. Little fuckers shit and shed, it's all they goddamn do.'

'Brisket?' Safire offers.

"'Got any bacon?' Nixon cracks himself up. Safire shakes his head. He's used to the charm of Nixon's Jew-hating humor. He knows that Nixon's heart is good, despite the judgment of eternity. Nixon continues, 'Holy fuckin' crap, what an amazing column today. That kind of disinformation I couldn't buy in my time. Least I couldn't get away with it. Fuckin' Cronkite, fuckin' Murrow, fuckin' Huntley, fuckin' Brinkley, fuckin' Woodward--'

"'What are you talking about?' Safire interrupts, slicing the brisket and eating it with his fingers. 'I don't contaminate the columns with disinformation.'"