I wasn’t going to say anything about Jeffrey Toobin. What’s the point? The news broke 48 hours ago. (I think, anyway. It might have been two weeks, or 10 years.) Everything that needed to be said has been said. All the jokes, made. All the takes, aired. Besides, I was feeling gloomy. I generally like Toobin’s work; he’s the contemporary historian that Bob Woodward should be, and as CNN talking heads go, he’s brighter and more accessible than most. I’ll miss him, at least a little.
Then the Rudy Giuliani news broke this afternoon, and all I can think is this:
When does it end? Do men actually die holding onto their cocks, hoping to wring one more thrill out of the little devil? I say this out of bewilderment, not exasperation. I like and appreciate men; they’re spectacular creatures, and I count many among my friends, but I will never not be astonished by their ability to, as Ashley Morris once said, follow their dicks to places they wouldn’t go with a gun.
Toobin is 60. Giuliani is 76. I didn’t think erections even arrived that easily for septuagenarians. (Maybe that’s what he was trying to get started when he stuck his hand down his pants. Or maybe he was just scratching his junk. Or maybe, in the old game said to be played by Christopher Hitchens, you can replace “heart” in any title, expression or what-have-you with the word “dick” and get a far more accurate statement:
The dick wants what it wants. The dick is a lonely hunter. Everybody’s got a hungry dick. And so on.
I’m cleaning closets this week. It’s emotional work, finding caches of old photos and letters. Emotional work is exhausting work, of course. I’m trying to get a post thought out in my head, but this is what you get for now.
Bloggage: The U.S. duck stamp, a competition for artists, has a new requirement this year:
The paintings submitted for this year’s federal duck stamp contest feature familiar images of wildlife art: A Cinnamon Teal bobs on a mountain lake. Two Brant tuck in to land in coastal chop. A placid pair of Red-breasted Mergansers float side by side, their jaunty crests aglow in early morning light.
But a closer look at the contest entries reveals other, less expected details. In scene after scene, wooden duck calls—which hunters use to lure in the birds—drift along the water or rest in the reeds. In several others, empty plastic shotgun shells litter the shallows and the shore.
This unusual abundance of hunting paraphernalia is the result of the Trump administration’s recent rewrite of the rules for the annual competition sponsored by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (FWS). Unrelated to the Postal Service, the federal duck stamp is a permit required for hunting waterfowl. Each year’s contest determines the winning art that appears on the following year’s stamp. In May, the FWS changed the competition’s rules to make its permanent theme “celebrating our waterfowl hunting heritage.” And it added a requirement that all submitted artworks “must also include appropriate waterfowl hunting-related accessories or elements.”
Ai-yi-yi, this country.