Vanity Fair‘s James Wolcott, who has been a hero of mine since I don’t know when, has very kindly mentioned my McSweeney’s column on his blog.
For a quick understanding of why I love Wolcott’s writing so much, read this post about Bernie Kerick, from back in the dark days of 2004:
Kerik exuded too much quiet authority and dramatic effect, trying a shade too hard to convey that he knew things he couldn’t speak of and was working from the deep inside, privy to secrets that he carried locked inside the bank vault of his barrel chest. I could see how this tough-guy shtick–which obviously wasn’t entirely shtick, but a tough streak that had been refined into an urban lawman persona–would impress fake swaggarts like, well, George Bush, who likes to play dress-up as a range hand and fighter pilot to show what a Hungry man entree he is.
I’m still trying to come to terms with the knowledge that Mr. Wolcott likes my work. The only thing that would top it is if E.B. White came back from the dead and told me I was pretty.