December 2002 Archives

A good friend of mine once said, "Birthdays are like New Year's Eve -- you expect a lot, nothing happens and in the end, you cry yourself to sleep." So true, so very fucking true.

Well, as we embark on a new year -- a better year, a more attractive year, a year when I no longer fear phone calls before 10 a.m. -- I've come up with some resolutions for myself and others to share. And nothing stupid like quit smoking around the baby or go to the gym more.

1. Speak out and often. Fuck this "if you're not with us, you're with the terrorist" fear tactics. No nuclear war, no matter what the reason. No raping of our wilderness to solve a temporary problem. No relinquishing of our civil rights in the name of justice. And no oil men in the White House.

2. Buy organic vegetables. If you can afford them, which most people can't -- especially in this recession. But this small jesture will show that we don't want pesticides and God knows what else in our food.

3. Watch more Fox Sunday Night. Listen, they cancelled The Family Guy and almost edged out Futurama. Fox as a whole sucks, but they do show some of the funniest, most subversive programming out there. Oh and write letters so they bring back Undeclared. And maybe you're saying to yourself, "Hey that's a great idea, but what about Charmed and Angel on the WB?" That's what VCRs are for. Unless, of course, you're a Neilsen family that week (my ultimate dream!) -- in which case you should watch the WB because they need the support.

3a. Pay my cable bill off by skipping dinner for 2 weeks. You can all help me too! Paypal to lizzwestman@hotmail.com. Nothing tastes as good as watching E! feels.

4. Apply to grad school in fall. But none of the rest of you can. Because if I'm the only one applying, I'll get in! To everything!

5. Go vegan. Better for the earth, better for your body. And, according to Extra!, it's the newest Hollywood craze! Note: I claim to do this almost every other year. Another variation is to stop eating cheese. They're both bullshit. If you really want to lose weight, take up an eating disorder.

6. Make my boyfriend get me a Playstation 2. Nothing says love more than browbeating and smashing the corporation in State of Emergency.

7. Take more pictures. I'm young and beautiful. In a few decades, I'll want to remember that. Unless, of course, I just keep getting hotter with age.

8. Start doing Improv. I live in Chicago, why not take advantage of the comedy scene? Just kidding. I'd rather eat forks and make my friends watch me poop the next day. I'm sure it'll be funnier.

9. Indulge in more dillusional fantasies -- it's the easiest way to get through the work day. Plus you'll now know how to handle a situation like a distant relative you've never met leaving you the family estate in the Black Forest or on a distant, tropical island because you've thought it out a few times.

Happy New Year!

Love,
Lizz

Hello my web children! I'm sorry to inform you that I did not, in fact, receive my Christmas Playstation 2. This disappointing Christmas sent me into such a depression spiral that I sat on the couch in sweatpants, eating brie and apples for 4 days straight.

During this time I watched endless 2002 lists on cable television involving politics and Christina Aguilera's gyrating crotch. Sometimes together. So I've compiled my own very special 2002 list -- covering all of it. Together. At last.

1. Saddam Hussein

He's evil! He controls oil we want! He's like Hitler but WITH OIL! We need him out because we have Texans in the White House and no one should ever separate a Texas oilman from rolling naked in his vast, dirty fortune.

1a. Nuclear War

Bringing back the childhood nightmares and ulcers every night.

1b. Tranquilizers and Martinis

Sedate my Cold War-esque fears away, 60's style!

2. Oliver

He's my puppy! I rescued him from Chicago's Anti-Cruelty Society on March 26th. Half-beagle, half-lab, all mine.

3. Sailor

7/1/1987 - 4/7/2002

Best friend a girl could have.

4. Employment

About fucking time!

5. A Cloned Human

Helping us evolve from the master alien race, one genetically engineered cell at a time.

6. J. Lo and Ben

Exponentially raising the bar for noveaux riche romantic consumerism.

7. Christina Aguilera's New Look

Slut yourself thin!

8. The Mini Cooper

Like living in a Pink Panther movie! I want it! I want it! I want it!

9. The 2002 Election

Still rocking back and forth in the dark, crying.

10. The Recession

Almost over for the past 3 years. I keep my savings in my mattress, crazy-grandma style.

Why I Need a Playstation 2

A Holiday Essay by Lizz Westman

Dear America,

I want a Playstation 2 for Christmas. Everyone has one but me. And that sucks.

As it stands, I have yet to purchase or own any DVD, DVD-related or video game entertainment system. Or, better yet, have one purchased on my behalf. I hear people talk about extra features or deleted scenes, but do I understand? No! Do I get to watch Revenge of the Nerds in French with English subtitles from the comfort of my own living room? No! Do I get to blow up supervillains while smashing the corporation? Hell no!

I've been very good this year -- I rescued a puppy from an animal shelter, I help old people cross the street, I stopped being a burden on the American economy, I helped some friends move...

Come on! Even my hippie brother is getting one. What the fuck. He lives in a tent in a tree! Or he would if I wasn't exaggerating for comic effect.

So basically, that's all I want. And a big gift certificate to Best Buy and Amazon.com so I can replace all my video tapes with shiny, new DVDs. And a copy of State of Emergency so I can smash the corporation. And a memory card. And maybe some pot, but nothing too strong because then I get nervous.

Love,
Lizz

Well, all, I'm back. And with a vengeance. Not unlike the Terminator or the fat kid at high school reunion. (Fortunately for me I was always pretty and bitchy and loved.)

Did you miss me web children? I bet! Because if there's one thing you can't get enough of it's LIZZ FUCKING WESTMAN.

And now it's Christmas. Or the HOLIDAY SEASON for all you heretics and heathens. I spent my Festivus (that's December 23rd for you TV impaired) at the DMV trying to get a new license. [Insert proper stand up comedy jokes here.]

But that's not the real issue. I'm already in trouble and it isn't even Christmas Eve.

Why?

1. I spelled the totally legal, "Scrabble Dictionary" word QAT when playing Scrabble (obviously) with my parents. See also: XI, XU.

2. I put Maker's Mark on the family grocery list, claiming it was "sipping whiskey" and therefore "classy."

3. I made everyone watch Charmed during dinner and attempted to steal my brother's dinner, claiming I hadn't eaten palatable meat in months. He, nor my parents, were amused.

4. I refused to acknowledge holiday specials created by USA, TNT or VH1 and insisted everyone should watch Bravo's showing of Harold and Maude. Classic and interesting? Yes. Festive? Only to me.

Well, that's it for now. I need to go drink nog now. And by nog I mean booze.

Love,
Lizz

I know that winter has arrived in the little mountain seaside village where I've made my home when I'm not in New York or Paris, because the icicles have begun to sprout on the eaves of the fish cannery and the government has impounded the season's last crab boat. I feel a sadness in my heart and a frozen tear forms on my cheek like snow falling on cedars. Oh, ambiguous memory, why do you haunt me so? I'm tortured by visions of past Christmas betrayals, doors slamming, jealous rivals launching plagiarism suits not backed up by evidence, lonely teabagging pickups in the balconies of forlorn second-run moviehouses. Defending freedom is hard, and occasionally sad. This Christmas, it will only be me, Roger, our cat Mr. Hitchens, and the ghost of my mother, for whom nothing is ever good enough.

And you, my dear readers. What adventures we've had the last three months, which have felt, alternately, like three years or three days! I can say without ambiguity that doing this blog, and communicating with you, has been one of the great joys of my professional life, and I thank you all for reading and commenting and giving me encouragement to carry on with my work. Seriously.

But now a little housekeeping before I begin my winter holidays. You are strongly advised to read the best letters page on the web, where the important debates that I have begun here continue. Also, if you want to read a very self-indulgent but amusing article about my fan fiction fetish, go here, to Topic Magazine, a fine publication put out by young Americans living in Cambridge, England. And send me fan fiction over the holidays if you want. I will be checking my email periodically, even if I won't be blogging.

Speaking of this blog, continue to tune in every day, because Lizz Westman begins her assault on your minds this Monday, through New Year's Eve. Then on January 2, enjoy the fine prose stylings of Mr. Matthew Tobey. I don't want to see the numbers decline, my friends. These are fine young writers who deserve your respect. And I will return on Monday, January 13.

Now I drift into the nethersphere. But I want you all to remember certain things: Iraq is lying. They always lie. I'm against racism, and affirmative action is racism. Bill Clinton is wrong and always has been about everything. We must build our nuclear arsenal to disintegrate the unseen menace of Islamofacism. Dissent is bad unless it's in the service of country. And I love you. Don't ever forget that.

God Bless America,

Neal

Every year I read every book published by the major houses, and any book published by the alternative houses about marijuana, Russian prostitutes, or sado-masochism. And every year, I compile a list of what I consider to be the best of a very good crop. This year, since I have a blog, I'll finally be able to share my list with an audience. You're free to agree or disagree with my conclusions, but in your dark hearts, you'll know that I'm right.

This has been a wonderful year for books by people of all backgrounds, but especially Jewish men, who until recently have been vastly underrepresented in our national literature. In fact, I am ready to proclaim 2002 The Year Of The Jews. Now, without further ado about nothing, I present:

THE BEST BOOKS OF 2002

--Heavy-Metal Drummerland, by Michael Chabon.
In his first nonfiction novel for children, the author weaves a magical tapestry of myth and imaginary beings as he works through his feelings about getting kicked out of Wilco.

--I Don't Want To Be Known, by Zadie Smith.
Henry Nkuma-Weinstein, a young man of decidedly mixed-race heritage, clips interviews with famous people and subsequently becomes famous by giving interviews about how celebrity disgusts him.

--Lyndon Johnson: Master of Puppets, by Robert Caro.
A gripping 10,000-page account of the three dangerous years LBJ spent as Metallica's road manager.

--Dangerous Assignments: The Courage Of Sebastian Junger, by Sebastian Junger.
America's favorite war reporter struggles to sustain his come-hither stare in the face of enemy gunfire.

--Confessions Of An Evil Cunt, by Ann Coulter.
The spawn of the devil and Norma Desmond attempts to explain why all Muslims and homosexuals should be killed and why she's such an evil cunt.

--You Shall Know Our Viscosity, by Dave Eggers.
Two friends take to the open road after the death of Dale Earnhardt and don't care whether you like the book or not because they published it themselves.

--Why I Matter, by Christopher Hitchens.
A British alcoholic who's switched sides in the culture wars attempts to explain his relevance to the War On Terror. Padded with page-long quotes from V.S Pritchett.

--The Remodelers, by Bob Woodward.
An insider's account, with actual quotes from ranking soldiers, of a bathroom-improvement project at a secret military compound in Virginia.

--Everything Is Hallucinated, by Jonathan Safran Foer.
The main character, a young novelist named Jonathan Safran Foer, exhumes his family's mass grave in Bosnia while imagining that he's uniquely talented.

--The Lovely Boner, by Alice Sebold.
In heaven, a twelve-year-old boy ponders his first erection.

--How To Be A Pompous, Headline-Hogging Ass, by Jonathan Franzen.
Essays about how stupid you are.

Those of you who read this blog regularly know that I look with disdain upon our repulsive culture of celebrity. In fact, hatred of empty self-promotion is the prime coloring factor behind every word I write. Therefore, it shouldn't surprise you that I'm disturbed by Trent Lott's forthcoming appearance on MTV's Cribs. A good friend of mine inside the Viacom labyrinth obtained an advance copy of the segment for me, and it doesn't look like Senator Lott will advance his cause. Here's an excerpt.

MTV: So, whaddya say, Trent, show us 'round your crib, yo?

TL: Fo shizzle. This is my main living room, where I chill. This is my X-Box. I like playing myself in Trent Lott Majority Leader 2003. With a special code, you can do a really long filibuster or get a secret rider attached to a bill if you wanna help out your boys in the pharmaceutical industry.

MTV: All right. You got all kinds of plaques and shit on the walls.

TL: Yeah. No doubt. This one's from Citizens For A More Conservative Citizenry, this one's for Free Americans Committed To A Free America, this one's from Daughters Of The Battle Of The Bulge. This is a picture of my dad breaking through a picket line so he could work and feed his family.

MTV: Nothin' wrong with that.

TL: No sir. And right here is something I'm very proud of. My own copy of Little Black Sambo. It was my favorite book when I was a boy.

MTV: Excuse me?

TL: Yep. His face is black as coal, and he uses his jungle guile to outwit that tiger. You go, Little Black Sambo.

MTV: That's some racist bullshit.

TL: What? It's a children's story! Little Black Sambo is a hero. He outwits the tiger! He's a positive role model for little nigra boys and girls everywhere.

MTV: Man. You suck.

TL: No. Don't be fooled by the books I got. I'm still, I'm still Trent from the block.

It just deteriorates from there.

Meanwhile, I must join the chorus of skepticism about the President's proposed missile shield system. For a lot less money, we could just draft LeBron James. Like the current missile system, LeBron misses about three out of every eight times. He has quick hands and an awesome vertical leap. He knows when to pass and when to shoot. And just like Bush's current system, his defense can only improve from here. For a teenager, he shows remarkable poise under pressure. He will cost less than $17 billion, and probably be good for a decade and a half. Who else would we want defending our country? Not some ball-hog like Kobe Bryant, that's for sure.

Those of you who read this blog regularly know that I look with disdain upon our repulsive culture of celebrity. In fact, hatred of empty self-promotion is the prime coloring factor behind every word I write. Therefore, it shouldn't surprise you that I'm disturbed by Trent Lott's forthcoming appearance on MTV's Cribs. A good friend of mine inside the Viacom labyrinth obtained an advance copy of the segment for me, and it doesn't look like Senator Lott will advance his cause. Here's an excerpt.

MTV: So, whaddya say, Trent, show us 'round your crib, yo?

TL: Fo shizzle. This is my main living room, where I chill. This is my X-Box. I like playing myself in Trent Lott Majority Leader 2003. With a special code, you can do a really long filibuster or get a secret rider attached to a bill if you wanna help out your boys in the pharmaceutical industry.

MTV: All right. You got all kinds of plaques and shit on the walls.

TL: Yeah. No doubt. This one's from Citizens For A More Conservative Citizenry, this one's for Free Americans Committed To A Free America, this one's from Daughters Of The Battle Of The Bulge. This is a picture of my dad breaking through a picket line so he could work and feed his family.

MTV: Nothin' wrong with that.

TL: No sir. And right here is something I'm very proud of. My own copy of Little Black Sambo. It was my favorite book when I was a boy.

MTV: Excuse me?

TL: Yep. His face is black as coal, and he uses his jungle guile to outwit that tiger. You go, Little Black Sambo.

MTV: That's some racist bullshit.

TL: What? It's a children's story! Little Black Sambo is a hero. He outwits the tiger! He's a positive role model for little nigra boys and girls everywhere.

MTV: Man. You suck.

TL: No. Don't be fooled by the books I got. I'm still, I'm still Trent from the block.

It just deteriorates from there.

Meanwhile, I must join the chorus of skepticism about the President's proposed missile shield system. For a lot less money, we could just draft LeBron James. Like the current missile system, LeBron misses about three out of every eight times. He has quick hands and an awesome vertical leap. He knows when to pass and when to shoot. And just like Bush's current system, his defense can only improve from here. For a teenager, he shows remarkable poise under pressure. He will cost less than $17 billion, and probably be good for a decade and a half. Who else would we want defending our country? Not some ball-hog like Kobe Bryant, that's for sure.

Note: It's recently come to light that in 1999, Attorney General John Ashcroft spoke at the annual breakfast of Citizens For More Conservative Citizen Councils, a dummy straw-man umbrella group set up by Grover Norquist to shield the Republican National Committee from accusations of rampant homophobia. I've obtained a very fuzzy video of the affair that cuts off about halfway in favor of that episode of Buffy where Willow's boyfriend falls in love with a female werewolf. Anyway, I can confirm that Ashcroft spoke at the banquet and definitely said, "Good morning, it's a pleasure to be here with my fellow fag haters," but after that the audio is obscured by glass-clinking from the busboy station. More on this story as it develops.

Now that Al Gore has mercifully bowed out of the running for the Democratic nomination, taking with him the blind ambition and misguided environmental activism that has plagued his party for too many years, it's time to set a proper agenda for whoever will rise in his place. I support President Bush wholeheartedly in his War On Terror, a just war without end, but I'm not a registered Republican and like most men, I get off on witnessing a good fight. I haven't voted Democrat since 1992, when I cast my ballot for Clinton twice. Here's what a Democrat would have to offer this time to win my love.

--A mandatory wage freeze for ungrateful manservants.

--A legislative package offering comprehensive equal rights to teabaggers.

--The imprisonment of Howell Raines and anyone else at The New York Times who doesn't fully support the War On Terror.

--A National Book Award nomination for my new masterwork Beneath The Axis Of Evil: One Man's Journey Into the Horrors Of War.

--Osama bin Laden's head served hot on a platter.

--Substantial sinecures for leading George Orwell scholars at the new National Museum of Orwellian Thought.

--The end of Robert DeNiro's "comic" acting career.

--Death by bombing to all our enemies.

--Orange soda in the drinking fountains.

--Amnesty for all Jews.

--One thousand years of glorious peace under the golden American sun.

Obviously, this is just a starter kit. But it's also gift of helium from me to the Democratic hopefuls as they begin to float their trial balloons. If fellow Beagles out there have other platform suggestions, please email them to me, and I will post them on the letters page. The politicians need to realize that our opinions represent the American mainstream, just stated in slightly more elevated English. Forsooth, they must take heed!

A very wise woman I know recently pointed out that while I've been imploring you all to buy my new book, I haven't actually taken time to explain what the book is about. Well, it's a collection of my "war writings," from September 11 to the present day, a comprehensive yet succinct chronicle of a world in conflict. The action travels thrillingly from New York to Afghanistan to North Korea to Iraq and back again, all in a crisp 70 pages. No writer has gotten closer to the truth about this conflict. Most of them are plagued by base forms of sectarianism and are also driven by mindless ego. I manage to avoid those pitfalls. Like Orwell, I write with absolute moral clarity and an abhorrence of cliche. Also, I was a provincial official in Burma in the 1930s, and was once sent by a British newspaper to live the life of a tramp. That, then, is Beneath the Axis of Evil: One Man's Journey Into the Horrors Of War. If you've enjoyed this blog up to now, you'll like the book.

Another very interesting thing about this book is that it's being released by an obscure micropublishing enterprise. I have a novel coming out this fall from HarperCollins that will establish me in the pantheon of hot young American novelists not named Jonathan. But I also remain committed to independent publishing. It worked for me the first time, and I admire the enthusiasm and hard work that Ben Brown puts into publications that, no matter how flimsy, he's not afraid to call books.

In true independent spirit, Ben and I have decided to completely open our finances to the world. If you click here, you'll get a comprehensive and continually updated report on the book's sales progress. We want to show people that this can be done. You can make your own books and make a little running-around-money off of them in the process. At this writing, we've presold 60 copies. By Ben's fuzzy math, I've already made $150. That's a modest sum by any reckoning, but if we sell 500 copies, which is quite possible, suddenly I have a thousand-plus paycheck coming my way. If we sell 1,000 copies, I'm throwing a party. Within the next couple of days, we'll set up a permanent link so you can track my sales, if you're interested or if you just need one more way to procrastinate. (THIS JUST IN: I received emails as I was writing this entry from readers in Canada and Australia, complaining that So New Media doesn't ship overseas. That's not true. Ben informs me that citizens of other countries can buy the book through PayPal. Also, it will be available for sale on Amazon shortly after the New Year.)

Now then, because I am SO punk rock, I encourage you to read yet another web interview with me where I answer difficult questions in the most fascinating manner possible. Thanks to Claire Zulkey for caring enough to ask. And while you're at it, if you missed my interview on Bookslut, this is your second chance. How many more interesting things can I say in one day? You decide.

One more housekeeping matter before I encourage you to keep reading, because there's a fresh and fascinating political post following this carnival of self-aggrandizement.

I'll be taking a hiatus from this blog for the holidays starting December 22 and continuing through January 10. Then, from January 27-31, I will also be idle while I make a brief but fruitful tour of party towns to promote Beneath the Axis Of Evil. But don't worry! A wonderful roster of substitute bloggers will feed you fresh content every day. Here, then, is that roster.

Dec. 23-31. The return of Lizz Westman, still perpetually underemployed.

Jan. 2-10. Matthew Tobey, from the fine humor website Haypenny.

Jan. 27-31. The perpetually nervous Christopher Monks.

I hope you enjoy them at least half as much as you enjoy me. Now, keep reading, suckers.

Since my exclusive interview with Trent Lott five days ago, this blog has become the most talked-about phenomenon in journalism. My hard work here has been noticed by even my most calcified critics in the mainstream press. This week, Howard Kurtz, that lickspittle, inivted me to appear on his show. But I refused, largely because I had an orgy to attend the night before. It's always a bad idea, as Gore Vidal once said, to appear on television with dried vaginal juices in your hair.

On a similar note, today I begin to pick apart Attorney General John Ashcroft's reputation, slippery association by slippery association. Were you aware, for instance, that Ashcroft once was the secretary-treasurer of a national organization called Killing Homosexuals In The Name Of Christ? The group is still very much active today, both in Missouri and Guatemala, where it's established a strong following among poverty-stricken Pentacostalists who are tired of blaming the death squads for all their problems. As recently as five days ago, Ashcroft spoke at this noxious group's convention, saying, "while I don't condone what you adovocate, I certainly would look the other way if you carried out your plan. You have nothing to fear from my Justice Department."

More on this story as it develops, hour by hour, on the web. I think Ashcroft will have resigned by the New Year. Really, I do.

Meanwhile, the Trent Lott debacle has reached yet another fever-point. When a famous insult comic calls for your removal from a leadership position, you know you're in trouble. And I agree with Senator Don Nickles. Lott's misstatements and history of racist alliances have indeed made it more difficult for the Republicans to "enact" their "agenda" In particular, I'm worried about one program.

A Republican Party run by segregationist sympathizers is, quite simply, not going to be able to successfully fund a top-secret national program to create a Genetically-Enhanced Super Solider who will assassinate the world's most feared terrorists, one by one. Under the rule of Lott, only strong blond men would be selectively bred for this task, and the special characteristics of the various peoples who make up the American tapestry would be ignored. But we need a Super Soldier who combines the speed and agility of the darker races, the guile of the Asians, the dawn-to-midnight work ethic of Mexican immigrants, and the valuable social connections that only white people can bring to the table.

If Lott hangs around, that dream may die.

Say Neal,

I was really stunned by your take on author/activist Kola Boof.
I thought you of all people would have seen through the New York Times' Arab-friendly Muslim-compassionate "bullshit" attack on one of Sudan's most underreported but passionate human rights activists. She was totally misrepresented, dude.
Totally.

For one thing, as a former correspondent for Aljiri News Service and as an Ethiopian, I can promise you that anytime an Arab Muslim official from a terrorist state like Sudan writes a newspaper article criticizing you--your life is in danger. Boof was right to make that conclusion. Not only that, but there's a lot of stuff the Times left out of the article that supports Boof's claims of death threats, including the SPLA's initial stance that her life was
being threatened.

For those of us from North Africa, it's common knowledge that Ms. Boof was Osama Bin Laden's "woman in Morrocco" during the mid-1990's. The British newspapers reported it and forced Boof to admit it recently. Bin Laden used to travel from Sudan to
Morrocco and Libya a whole lot back then.

I don't think her name is that funny. I think it's rather unique and so is she. She's actually a very beautiful woman. The photo they showed in the article didn't do her justice. I think you were kind of
sloppy on this one, pal. But I still love your site otherwise.

Nathaniel.

AND MY RESPONSE:

I was really trying to make fun of the Times reporter's attempt to portray her struggle as a kind of "performance art." A very typical Times way of looking at something, I think. But I still think her name is funny. I can't help it. I'm immature.

What President Bush said yesterday was beyond brave. It was noble. No. Not even noble. It was awesome. I would say with all my heart that President George W. Bush is the biggest stud to come out of the Republican Party since Abraham Lincoln. Did you see the way his lips moved and the words his speechwriters had written for him came out? Astonishing. I believe in his beliefs and have conviction in his convictions. Now at least 1,000 additional black people, maybe more, will vote for him in 2004. The following quote is my second favorite by any person, anywhere, at any time, after "you talkin' to me?":

"We will not, and we must not, rest until every person of every race believes in the promise of America because they see it in their own eyes, with their own eyes, and they live it and feel it in their own lives."

Oh, god. I couldn't agree more. And what satisfies me the most is that I've been expressing that noble sentiment on this blog for months, and it would have been years if I'd been online for years. This is why I'm an American, or at least half-American. This is why I stand for all that is right and good. This is why the ghost of Thomas Jefferson hovers over me at night and says "I fucked a slave, and I was wrong."

But an event as monumental as this one had to come from somewhere. And it did. From blogs. We have arrived at the moment when we bloggers step out of the shadows and into the light of truth. As citizens, we must now take our proudest bow. Because we did this. A week of our relentless pressure caused the President to speak. In a secret interview with the BBC, Bush said as much, admitting, "I wasn't going to rebuke Senator Lott until I read his interview on www.nealpollack.com, the one-stop Internet shopping source for news and opinion. Suddenly, I knew that he had to be stopped."

It's happened, my Beagles. Americans are seeing it with their own eyes and feeling it in their own lives. The ascendancy of blogs, particularly mine, is here. But we still can't support ourselves financially. So if you want to see racism eradicated before you die--which could be tomorrow if the Islamofascists have their way-- buy my book. Abraham Lincoln would buy it, if he were alive. Well, I urge you to keep him alive. Keep the party of Lincoln alive in your hearts.

Trent Lott is going down. The Republicans are racist no more. Oh, happy day!

Trent Lott uncorked a media blitz yesterday that included interviews with Sean Hannity of Fox News, CNN's Larry King, Summer Sanders of NBA Inside Stuff, and me. The Senator has, in the past, spoken out about how bloggers are leading the way in the fight against Islamofascism. Plus, he's an old friend. At the end of a long, hard day, we sat down for an exclusive web conversation.

He arrived wearing a long white robe, which he said he was wearing to a "meeting" later. He didn't explain the pitchfork. After a platonic hug, we got to work. He spoke with the honesty reserved for talking to an old friend.

NP: Well, Trent, you've come under a lot of fire lately for making the following statement at Strom Thurmond's 100th birthday party: "When Strom Thurmond ran for president, we voted for him. We're proud of it. And if the rest of the country had followed our lead, we wouldn't have had all these problems over all these years, either." What were you talking about?

TL: You know.

NP: No, I don't.

TL: Well, sure you do. Race-mixing. Miscegenation. Shared drinking fountains. Black children getting educated alongside white children. It's just not right.

NP: So you think integration has caused problems?

TL: Look, I'm not for reinstating slavery--it's too late for that--but it wouldn't take that much work to resegregate America. Just take the black people who don't already live in the black neighborhoods, and move them back. And just slap a couple of extra restrooms out back of every restaurant and gas station. Also, we'd have to build new white-only airplanes, because the ones we have now are contaminated. It would work fine. The darker races prefer being with their own kind anyway.

NP: What if they don't want to be resegregated?

TL: We've got a saying in Mississippi. "If you smack a nigra down once, he'll smack you back. Smack him down twice, he'll look at you defiantly, like Denzel Washington in Glory. But if you smack him down three times, you'll be his master forever." So I'm not too concerned.

NP: There's an important case before the Supreme Court right now regarding cross-burning. Do you believe that act is protected by the First Amendment?

TL: Sure I do! Hell, I've participated in more cross-burnings that I can count, and they've been great!

NP: So they should be allowed to continue?

TL: You bet! In fact, I'm heading to one right after this interview. Seems like an uppity Nigra boy's been lookin' at a white woman askance, and we're gonna teach him a lesson.

NP: Aren't you afraid black people will react negatively to your views?

TL: What people?

NP: Black people.

TL: That's what YOU call them. And I don't care what they think. Just like the homosexuals, they're an aberration of God, and there is no place for them in God's America.

NP: Aren't you afraid of being censured?

TL: Let 'em come. All my enemies. Jesus will protect me.

NP: Trent Lott, I know you have to get to your cross-burning, so I won't keep you. Let me just say that that you are a DELIGHT, and I look forward to you becoming Senate Majority Leader.

TL: Thank you, Neal. I just want to ask you a question before I go.

NP: Sure!

TL: Are you a Jew?

NP: Pardon me?

Perhaps the old people, hippies, and celebrities who wasted yesterday protesting our upcoming and wholly just war on Iraq would like to take a ride on an unmarked North Korean cargo vessel. When are the peaceniks going to learn that sometimes an eye for an eye is the only language that our enemies understand? I believe I said approximately eight months ago on this blog: "watch the coast of Yemen. For Yemen shall reveal the truth." And why didn't the New York Times put this story on the front page? Oh, wait. OK. Well then, why didn't they put it above the masthead, with a slightly bigger headline? What are they trying to hide?

Elsewhere in the Times, an excellent report by the estimable Julie Salamon on the mysterious, and, let's face it, oddly named Sudanese writer Kola Boof. Once I got over laughing at Ms. Boof's name, which it's hard not to do, I mean, Kola Boof, for god's sake, her story made me think. I've been campaigning for years against the government in Khartoum, so it makes me a little upset that an odd character like Ms. Boof has borrowed my fire. But her worst crime is to call the integrity of the Internet into doubt. Salamon writes: "The Kola Boof story demonstrates how flashpoints are reached in cyberspace, the new forum for underground literature and politics, where fact and myth become indistinguishable and publicity campaigns become a kind of performance art."

I agree that cyberspace is a new forum, but those of us who take online journalism seriously, especially me, would never dream of making fact and myth indistinguishable. And as for publicity campaigns becoming a kind of performance art, to that, I say, pshaw.

Now, on to the true matter at hand. Late last night, while wrapping up the blog, I briefly quoted a lyric by Ryan Adams, who I thought was my friend. Well, this morning, I got an email from Ryan Adams' lawyer, which quoted Ryan Adams at length. What he said was vile, filthy, and slanderous. And to think I've been defending him in his war of words with Jack White. I excerpt the letter in part, here, just to show you what horrible things fame can do to a young man's head:

"If fucking Neal Pollack wants to fucking quote my lyrics on his stupid girly blog, then he'd better pay me good money. Because I didn't see blogging anywhere on my job application to be a rock fucking star, you know. It's true. That's fucking fact."

He added: "Neal thinks he's so funny saying his little faggy poems and trying to shock people. And now he's got this stupid little rock band that he thinks is so fucking punk. Well, I can tell you that he's got no talent. I met him once and I was like 'fuck you man'. You're a fucking ponce. I make more money in a weekend than you make in six months. And I got more rock in my fucking pinky than you'll ever have in your whole body. So you'd better be careful."

Well, Ryan Adams, you foul-mouthed guttersnipe. The war is on. And I will prevail, in prose and in rock. Jack White? I can tell that we are gonna be friends.

I find the nomination of John Snow for Treasury Secretary to be exactly what our economy needs right now, despite the fact that the liberal media has simulataneously forced him to resign his memberships in the Augusta National Golf Club, the Ku Klux Klan, and The Friends of Dean Martinez. I'm sure things will straighten out now that a chief economic adviser from the Ford Administration, which, after all, encompassed the two most prosperous years in American history, is at the helm.

But unfortunately, Snow's arrival hasn't come soon enough to save certain flagging sectors of the American economy, such as this blog. When I began blogging almost three months ago, it was a hobby, a lark, a gambit, if you will, into the heart of this thing called the Internet. Well, in the subsequent months, it's become far more than that. The hobby quickly became a part-time job, then a full-time job, finally mutating into a dark obsession that gnawed at my soul. I stopped accepting paid work from outside, because I was addicted to the instant response that only a blog can bring. Then I stopped going to parties, never wanting to leave home because I didn't want to miss one of the 500 emails I receive an hour. Soon, I stopped going to the grocery store. That part was OK because I have a manservant, but still.

One day last week, I looked at my bank book and realized I only had $60,000 left in my checking account. With the rent on this chateau and my monthly prescriptions, at that rate, I will be out of money in a little over a year. And then I'll only have another $200,000 once the next check from my father's lawyer arrives.

In other words, people, I'm in trouble. This blog is in trouble. And if you cherish free expression and the joys of the world opinion rainbow, I must ask for your help. You can send me any amount you want, though I think a double sawbuck should probably cover matters. Goddamn it, am I broke.

It breaks my heart, friends, but unless you pay me at the, um, link to your, uh, oh shit. I actually have no mechanism to collect your money. Well, I know you're out there. Buy my new book, if you haven't already.

You know why you like my site, if you do. Making this blog a reality has been the best experience of my writing life, particularly because of the crazy sex I've had with some of you on my lecture tours. I've learned a lot from some of you, and taught a lot to even more of you. And The New York Times, along with other publications, is paying attention. There's no question that they're afraid of me and my ideas. But if you don't buy my new book, and I mean right now, buy it, I might have to fold this site up, and the Islamofascists will win.

I work so hard for you people, but I can't give up my minty-fresh Testostogrease. I just can't. Together, we will smash the corporate police state that is the American media. Buy my book. If you're good looking, I'll come to your house with chocolate, and if you're not, I'll send you an autographed picture. I will hit you up again next week, and then after Christmas, too.

If you're the first one to give, my dear friend Ryan Adams will write a song about you. No, a song cycle. About your breakup with him. It will make thousands cry.

Come on, Beagles. Click here to save our flagging economy today. See you sometime. Yeah, right. Yeah, right. Yeah, right.

I've recently come under attack from certain members of the liberal press for my alleged defense of Trent Lott's execrable remarks at Strom Thurmond's 100th birthday party, which I attended, but only to see The White Stripes play. Subsequently, I did not, as Joshua Micah Marshall has claimed, write that "there hasn't been a lynching in this country in at least 50 years," and also didn't write "Trent Lott has done more for black people in this country than black people have done for themselves." If anyone reviews my blogposts of the last 10 days, they will find not a mention of Senator Lott before this one, except for when I've praised him as a patriot and a soldier in our War On Terror and federal-employee unions. There's no way I would ever erase a post when the heat is on, as I relish debate in a free society.

That said, the following exchange did occur during The Nation's recent "Our Man In Havana" cruise. I stole aboard in Kingston, Jamaica, where I have a secret home, and crashed a lecture given by Patricia Williams, who writes the popular column "Diary of A Mad Black Housewife." The controversial segment of our set-to went like this:

PW: But you once wrote, describing the female protagonist in one of your novels, that she "humped harder than a Mississippi Nigra."

NP: No, I did not. You misinterpret me. I am the black man's best media friend.

PW: But...

NP: It's painfully obvious, from the poverty of your discourse, that you've been poisoned by 30 years of affirmative action admissions to our major law schools, and in fact may have lost the ability to reason legally yourself.

PW: You asshole!

NP: See, that's just the sort of rhetoric that the left employs when cornered. Trent Lott is a statesman, and he need not have any enemies as long as they're so inarticulate. You know, 1948 was a long time ago. Can't we just forget that segregation, and, by extension, slavery, ever happened?

PW: No!

NP: Why not?

PW: That's just unthinkable!

NP: What's unthinkable?

PW: That slavery never happened!

NP: What are you talking about? I never said that. Are you claiming that? Are you a secret reverse racist?

PW: ARRRRRRRRGH!

Professor Williams then threw herself overboard. While she recovers from her shark bites, her Nation space will be filled by a substitute column called "Reviews of Boring Magazines Not For Sale In Your City."

Another victory in the win column for me.

An extremely disturbing missive, brought to us by trustworthy government translators, oozed out of the Middle East yesterday. What kinds of animals talk like this? What foul beasts, slouching toward Bethlehem waiting to be born? To threaten children with terrorism. On Christmas! The day our lord and savior Jesus Christ was born! These monsters. These foul and hideous monsters about whom The New York Times refuses to tell the truth.

Well, with Christmas approaching, in the name of the holiday's birthsake, kill them all! Like our President has stated, we can manufacture evidence that they, or people with skin coloring very close to theirs, possess weapons of mass destruction, and maybe even bombs.

Oh, man. I can't wait for war to start! It's gonna be sweet. And sad. Let's not forget sad. Sweet violent sadness. A great literary theme.

I am a writer, and I will tell you about the sadness but the sweetness and the inevitability of history on this blog. That is, until some magazine hires me at $3 a word and I get a regular gig on a D.C. talk show. Then I'll just slap up a shirtless picture of myself instead.

Kill them! Kill them all! They are our enemies in god's war!

As for Sodomy in Texas, I'm in favor if it involves Austin resident Ethan Hawke, but against if it involves Kinky Friedman.

Thanks so much. This weekend, buy my book.I'll be back next week with more exciting opinions from the heart of the Internet.

Roger! Fetch the mesquite!

It appears that my recent pro-Henry Kissinger-column in The New York Times has thrown that once-proud newspaper into turmoil. And here I thought that Howell Raines, a namby-pampy liberal at best, a Fifth Columnist at worst, had finally seen through the filmy gauze that clouds his brain by allowing a writer with integrity into his pages. But perhaps that is not to be.

In the last week, the Times has published three separate editorials denouncing Dr. Kissinger, who is perhaps the greatest patriot this country has ever seen and ever will see. One was by Maureen Dowd, one by Ralph Nader, and a third by an unspeakable spawn of the devil who shall not be named here. Then today I got word of a secret memo crawling around the halls of the Times, written by Raines' slimy lickspittle Gerald Boyd, who lost his humanity years ago because of his unspeakable lust for a mysterious ring that destroy all who possess it. Anyway, the memo went like this:

"Howell and I believe you should know why The Times decided to publish Neal Pollack, a decision that has stirred much criticism, both on television and in Australia.

First, we are proud of our newspaper. It's a good newspaper, except for when we try to seem cool by writing about The Strokes or when R.W. Apple eats barbecue. We regularly break stories in English, which is the job of all journalists in English-speaking countries, and our readers appreciate the effort."

That said, we have absolutely no excuse for publishing a writer of Mr. Pollack's low character. Here is a man who once referred to Howell as "ass-monkey of the week" in an article in The Weekly Standard. Here is a man who writes favorably in major magazines about the Swiss company that manufactures the testosterone-enhancement substance to which he is addicted. He also regularly kicks his beleagurered manservant in public, a practice despised in these pages since 1961. Here, in other words, is a man.

The New York Times will probably not publish Neal Pollack again, but we will continue to review his books favorably in our Sunday supplement. If anyone leaks this memo to the press, they're fired."

Mendacity! Hypocrisy! Leprosy! The Times has lied to me again!

Also, buy my book.

I've been very busy the last week blogging about many important topics, such as the need for a Marine landing in Nigeria, John Kerry's pedophiliac leanings (and he's also boring), as well as Al Gore's absurd statement that most newspapers and broadcast outlets are owned by five major corporations. So I haven't had a chance to comment on Michael Kinsley's stunning admission that, as a National Book Award judge in nonfiction, he failed to read all 402 entries. Now, I was once Mike's intern at The New Republic, and I can safely say that before he got all prissy on TV and got all chummy-chum with Bill Gates up there in special coffee land, he always read every single National Book Award nominee in every category. That was 12 years ago now, and he taught me a lifelong habit. I wasn't asked to judge this year's Book Awards, because the leftists who run the show are afraid of my ideas, but I still read all the books, and paid for them myself, too. So who is a better judge? After all, I'm out $10,000 of my own money. I can say without a compromised doubt that the best nonfiction book of the past year was Robert Caro's Lyndon Johnson: Master of the Senate. Wow. What a book. I've read it five times, and each time I find something new.

Yesterday brought an extreme flurry of excitement regarding my new book, which, by the way, can be preordered directly to your left from So New Media. But every day with me is a thrill ride in paradise, so keep reading.

Witness the best interview with me ever published. This appears in the current issue of the excellent web publication Bookslut, whose daily blog is essentially reading for book dorks who also hate Jonathan Safran Foer. Kenan Hebert, a rising American intellect, conducted the interview in a noisy Austin bar full of smoke and drunken frat boys. Somehow, he extracted many fascinating ideas from me, some of which were about rock, a topic about which I know nothing. Read it. Feel free to agree or disagree. But if you disagree, be warned. I will destroy you.

Since September 11, America and the world have been transformed in innumerable ways that are too numerous to count. But I've counted them nonetheless, in a series of pieces published in excellent magazines with high subscription rates. Now, for the first time, those pieces have been collected into a book, Beneath the Axis Of Evil: One Man's Journey Into the Horrors Of War.

This is not a joke. The book is actually being published by So New Media, an Austin, Texas-based company run by a nice young man named Ben Brown. So New Media publishes short books by writers who've previously only appeared on the Internet. So, technically, I don't qualify. But I believe in what Ben's trying to do and plus I feel sorry for him, so I'm giving him one opportunity to make me rich.

The book is approxmiately 80 pages long and features a beautiful but sad new painting by Austin artist Regina Allen on the cover. It also features possibly the best account published yet of the War On Terror. For only $10, you can preorder it now.

We plan to release this book on January 11, and it will be available in some bookstores. But order online now and you'll get an autographed copy sometime before the official publication date.

My god! Isn't this extraordinary? Spread the wonderful news!

Howell Raines has finally seen reason by his bedside and published one of my policy tracts in his usually-biased daily rag, The New York Times. My article, The Secret Life Of Henry Kissinger, seeks to rescue one of America's greatest patriots from the clutches of the Fifth Columnists of the American media. Regular readers of this blog know that I defend Henry Kissinger no matter what he does, for his dedication to world peace is second to no man's, except maybe Richard Gere's. Why else would Dr. Kissinger have won the Nobel Peace Prize? Read the article. You will learn much about many things. Tell me what you think. Really. I'm interested.

I'd planned on having a quiet Thanksgiving alone with Roger at the chateau, made merry by his return and by the fact that his cat, Mr. Hitchens, wasn't missing at all but was in fact giving birth to a litter in my garage. We'd ordered a delicious turducken from Hebert's Meats in Oklahoma City, and Roger had prepared his beets with spicy slaw. That, plus a special televised Faith Hill concert live from Andrews Air Force Base to celebrate our troops bringing human rights and peace to the wretched of the earth, added up to the perfect holiday.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I opened my front door around noon to find Henry Kissinger and John Poindexter standing there, holding hands.

"Hello, boys," I said.

"Hello, Neal," said the Admiral. "It's been a long time."

"Too long, sir."

I saluted. He saluted back. They began French-kissing. I gasped.

"We are lovers," Kissinger said.

"Well, I guess so!"

"May we come in?"

I took their coats of fine ermine and hung them on the hall tree.

"Roger!" I shouted. "Get out the Mapplethorpe photo book and the Roy Cohn biography!"

"We can't stay long," Poindexter said. "We have an appointment later to drink the blood of our enemies."

"Of course," I said.

"Let me get to the point. As you know, we're passionate readers of your blog."

"Naturally."

"Yes, well, we don't like the criticism you've been making of the Total Information Awareness program."

I paused. Took a drink. The sky grew dark and full of thunder.

"Ahem," I said.

"If you were an ordinary man," Kissinger said. "You'd be dead by now. But we wanted to give you a warning first."

"I was off my meds," I said. "It won't happen again."

"Remember, Neal," said Poindexter. "You're not a liberal. They say a liberal is a conservative who's been arrested. But we see to it that you're never arrested."

"Not in this country, anyway."

"Don't be wise," said Henry.

"It won't happen again," I repeated.

"Hooray!" they said. And they kissed again.

After watching that for about five minutes, I shooed the lovebirds out of the house.

"Shoo, lovebirds," I said. "Shoo! Go spy on the world!"

Well, that was close. I'd definitely made a mistake, I realized, but from now on, I pledged to stay the course. With dinner four hours away, I went into my office and started thinking about the New York Times and how it's attempting to turn the United States into an armed Stalinist boot camp. The chief Stalinist, a drawly malcontent named Howell Raines, is pursuing an agenda so vile, so obviously pro-civil-rights, that it makes me vomit into my snuff case.

I mean, look at this article from Sunday's paper. One Times staffer, who spoke to me anonymously for fear of being executed in public by Howell the Terrible and his insane band of Ralph-Nader-blowjob-givers, said, "that dog aging story was just pushing it too far. Howell has an old dog, and he thinks everyone else should, too. In my day, we only did dog stories if a dog tried to assassinate the President. But Howell just won't quit."

Do you see what I mean about a double standard? Try a triple standard. When Al Gore complains about a Fifth Column, he need look no farther than Pravda, ummmmmmm, I mean The New York Times. Ha, ha, ha! I compared the New York Times to Pravda! Isn't that clever?

Henry, Admiral. I will never stray from the decks of justice again. America is a beautiful country, and you are its barbers.