For a fellow practitioner of the journalism craft, meeting James Wolcott for lunch is a daunting prospect. It’s not just because at various times in a long career the TV critic-turned-movie critic-turned-rock critic-turned-media critic-turned-political blogger has secured regular gigs at such totemic outlets as Harper’s, The New Yorker and Vanity Fair, where he now writes a regular column, but more so because the withering quality of his prose is enough evidence to assume the man carries a disemboweling knife in his frontal cortex. Read More
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