While nonstop sermons aimed at whites to wash away their original sin of racism are on full throttle, spare a thought for poor old Jesse Jackson. The black activist who was running for president at the time called New York City “Hymietown” but later apologized and was forgiven by the media. Worse, he later told a reporter that if he spotted a black man walking behind him he would take defensive measures. Yet again Jesse was ...
NEW YORK—Here we go again, the annual holiest of holies is upon us, although to this oldie last Christmas feels like it was yesterday. Funny how time never seemed to pass quickly during those lazy days of long ago, but now rolls off like a movie calendar showing the days, months, years flashing by. Nostalgia is said to be corny, but for me it’s one of the many joys of Christmas. Everyone remembers past Christmases, whether ...
HARBOUR ISLAND, BAHAMAS—A singer named Shawn Mendes recently announced to millions of his fans that: “The truth is, it’s so hard to be human.” Gee whiz, poor Mendes, and I thought I had drawn the short straw of life. Depressed as I was about how hard it is to be human, friends like Prince Pavlos of Greece and Arki Busson came to my rescue. They picked me up from my hovel on Park Avenue and whisked me to a private ...
NEW YORK—I received a letter from a longtime reader, James Hackett, inquiring about books I am reading. It is not often that I get letters that delight me, as this one did, especially when one reads letters from readers to newspapers and magazines in the United States. Lots of them seem sanctimonious, holier-than-thou; others I suspect are written by glossy magazines themselves promoting their own celebrity culture ...
NEW YORK—There are times while living in this here dump of New York when I doubt if anyone’s heard of the word magnanimity. By the looks of it, no one among the left-wing media circles has. That egregious Amanpour woman called Trump a Hitler on CNN after the election, which reminds me: During my dinner’s drunken aftermath, I noticed a man in my house who hardly bothered to greet me as host, one James Rubin, a vulgar ...
NEW YORK—Who was it who first coined the expression “It ain’t over until the fat lady sings?” The great Yogi Berra got credit for it, but what he really said was “It ain’t over till it’s over.” Well, I think it is all over, although it’s going to be dragged out by The Donald, who never knows when to stop. But as Roger Kimball writes in American Greatness, the fix was in; that’s why the man who lived in a ...
NEW YORK—Election-night parties are usually dreadful affairs, with the idiot box blaring and hysterical listeners screaming out the latest info. American TV pundits are smug trained seals with too much makeup and blow-dry, and they all sound the same with their rehearsed stentorian voices. Brian Williams, or the hero of Iraq as I call him after he got caught lying about a missile attack on the chopper he was riding—he was ...
NEW YORK—Back when people used to read newspapers, they called it a “human interest” story; now it appears as just another statistic. The utter drivel expressed daily by the know-nothings in social media will have ignored it, but for a dreaded Biden sheet that actually published the story: A young Japanese man came over to the Bagel from Tokyo to make it as a jazz pianist, and that he did. He started a trio of his own and ...
If you thought comedy was dead because of woke hysteria, fear no longer. Hollywood has come to the rescue. The Academy—a misnomer if there ever was one—has decreed that a movie can no longer be eligible for an Academy Award unless it meets certain criteria. A group of greedy lowlifes will now decide what’s good for us to view, but such are the joys of La La Land nowadays. (Surely you’ve read about it: In order to be ...
NEW YORK—Election-night fever is heating up, and I hope the party I’m giving on the evening of Nov. 3 will not end in fisticuffs. All my guests except one are Trump haters, so my dinner looks a bit like the Last Supper in reverse. Never mind. Many who pretend to know are predicting a Biden landslide, including yours truly, so at least I’ll have a reason to drown my troubles in very good Frog red, and serve my guests ...
NEW YORK—It’s nice to finally be in the Bagel, a place where the cows have two legs and no bells around their necks. I walk daily around the park that lies two blocks away from my house and stick to the Upper East Side in general. The park is by far the best part of Manhattan, and it’s better than ever because of you-know-what. Yes, the virus has chased away the tourists, and without tourists the rickshaws that had turned ...
New York, New York, once a wonderful town The people are crap and the mayor’s a clown The only safe space is a hole in the ground... NEW YORK—I could go on, but why be so negative? Arriving from bucolic Switzerland, Newark feels like Katanga circa 1960. If this isn’t a third-world-country airport, I don’t know what is. Newark is known as the murder capital of America, but it’s not PC to mention it because Newark is ...
Juliette Gréco’s recent death in her 90s brought back some melodramatic memories. Back in 1957 Gréco was one of France’s premier chanteuses of torch songs, a very sexy young woman all dressed in black with auburn hair and very white skin, who sang of doomed love and romantic longing. Darryl F. Zanuck, the legendary ex-head of 20th Century Fox, had fallen rather hard when he saw her perform in a Parisian Left Bank bistro ...
GSTAAD—It is not exactly a stop all the clocks occasion, let alone cut off the telephones, but I’ve finally come to a decision: My looking-at-cows time is over. I am going to leave good old Helvetia and find something nice in the green and pleasant land I hear about sung in hymns in British churches. Easier said than done. The reason I want to move is that I’ve had it. For the first time in my life I’m bored with my ...
GSTAAD—I’ve been wrestling all week with indecision, the kind that tests one’s soul, and the uncertainty is killing me. It’s like having to choose between Keira Knightley and Jennifer Lawrence, when it’s normal to want both. No, I’m not being greedy, and it’s not even my fault, but that of my esteemed colleague Douglas Murray, author of The Madness of Crowds and a fellow columnist at The Spectator. Two weeks ago, ...
Exactly fifty years ago last month I was lolling by the pool of the St. Georges Hotel in Beirut surrounded by bikini-clad women of uncertain virtue, spooks, pimps, journalists, and rotund Lebanese playboys who gave a bad name to the genre. The scene was straight out of the movie Casablanca, except we all wore swimming trunks and there was no Rick to run the show. I was waiting for two Paris Match journalists who had a car to ...
