"He instinctively can find the shining greatness of our American culture and does a good job of highlighting it (although he also does have those rare lapses when he writes about hockey, but that is something caused by impurities in the Eastern waters or something)." Erik Keilholtz
Under the patronage of St. Tammany
Mark C. N. Sullivan is an editor at a Massachusetts university. He is married and the father of three children. Email
Frank Chance, Cubs baseball player, stands with a person dressed in a devil's costume on the field of the West Side baseball grounds, Chicago, circa 1907.
Bosom companions: The Herald's Margery Eagan eyes the candidates' trophy wives and asks, does cleavage play well among Bible Belt Republicans or New Hampshire primary voters?
How else to explain, as debate week begins, the bursting out all over by GOP front-runners’ wives? What’s with this ample - and aging - display of decolletage?
…The only candidate who could be helped were his wife to show some cleavage is Dennis Kucinich, the Democrat who looks like a cross between Alfred E. Neuman and My Favorite Martian. Somehow, much to worldwide amazement, he managed to snare as bride No. 3 this 6-foot-tall, redheaded beauty 31 years his junior. It makes one pause: Did we underestimate Kucinich’s charms? What does she see that we missed?
“He has the wisdom of an ancient and the energy of youth,” explains Elizabeth Kucinich, who’s always explaining about the husband who reaches her chin. Says Dennis, “When you make connection on a soul level, age is not important. I’ve never seen myself as time-bound.”
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Roger Kimball was asked by Power Line to comment on a Dartmouth exhibit billed as a "major public art project" that "explores globalization through human hair." He replies:
Four hundred and thirty pounds of human hair, 40,000 haircuts, and one “avant-garde Chinese artist”—what nonsense! And where is Dartmouth, which after all is supposed to be an institution of higher education—an institution, that is, where the exercise of critical discrimination is developed and refined, not abandoned in wholesale abdication of intellectual and moral responsibility—where I ask is Dartmouth while this drama is enacted on its campus, basking in the luster of its name and reputation? Why are there no Dartmouth professors saying No! to such pseudo-avant-garde garbage? It is true that, as a species, academics are distinguished by pusillanimity and herd behavior, but wouldn’t you hope that in exchange for lifetime tenure people who were paid to exercise critical judgment might, just occasionally, exercise critical judgment and utter something that challenged the mendacious cultural clichés that have so disfigured the art world? Dartmouth’s hairy hoax is one of those events that inspires a weary sort of depression, edged with nausea.
It’s so tired, so cynical, so adolescent in its “look-at-me, look-at-me” narcissism that one hardly knows how to respond.
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