You should be aware that Mr. David Brooks has been huddled under his kitchen table for a week, weeping inconsolably, with only a very large bottle of what he calls "My good friend and fellow Reinhold Niebuhr scholar, Mr. Tequila" for company.
And due to this latest, blackout chapter in his indefinite hiatus from reality, rumor has it that Mr. Brooks' "writing" has been outsourced to an "intern" he picked up at a bar adjacent to the Columbia University School of the Arts where Mr. Brooks was spending the evening in the company of "My dear friend and fellow Edmund Burke enthusiast, Mr. Whiskey".
Rumor also has it that the only editorial directions the "intern" could discern were "Art...n'stuff. An' Freddy Douglass! Love that guy! Or...Oliver Wendell Douglas? Hehehe! Shit. Look it up. But no p'litics! Mmm sicka p'litics."
Since I am taking an indefinite hiatus from 11.5 years of weekly Brooksological presentations, I leave it to Mr. Charlie Pierce to tell the tale:
What the Hell Is David Brooks Talking About?Also Yastreblyansky is always worth a visit:
A recurring feature.
Brooks tackles Frederick Douglass, SupermodelAs for me, well the very least I can do is provide a sound track.
And never let it be said that I do not do the very least I can do.