Hitchens rightly mocked historian Paul Johnson’s crimson bottom (as I’ve said before, the position of men in the Movement should never be prone, and Britishness is no excuse. ).
Now Johnson, should he choose, can retort with a clever remark or two re: Christopher’s Brazilian wax.
Sorry, were you eating…?
All in the name of journalism, allegedly (chain-drinker Hitch is writing a three-part Vanity Fair series on “self-improvement”, which is like hiring Martha Stewart to cover the World Mud Wrestling Finals).
Which reminds me: I realize that human beings have a bad habit of a) getting really old and b) dying, but when did National Review turn into the Biweekly Festschrift & Eulogy? Every issue these days features at least one fond reminiscence about a recently or almost deceased Big Time Conservative. The late Mrs. Buckley I can understand, but the magazine gives the impression that we are all either dropping like flies or just about to. A few months ago, we were treated to a very long transcript of a speech one of Johnson’s sons had delivered in honor of his father, space that could have been put to better use with three more ads for scotch. Of course, the touching and completely pointless memoir focused on Johnson senior’s regular Papal audiences and not his preference for birch over leather.
