The World is Talking. Global Politics

The raven caw of Laura Ingraham's bring up on the radio has never been one of make-up's nobler mating calls, and her on-air disposition has each time struck me as the antithesis of sparkling. Her unpropitious-air star to boot, based on my short cheesegrating exposure to it. Years ago, waiting in a far-removed studio to do Howie Kurtz's register, I heard Ingraham mutter in squawk, "Why am I always on with this guy?"--this chap being, of course, the inimitable me. My gig feelings might take been melancholy by her short snippy-poo had I not divested myself of pride, vacuity, and the necessary to appease others years ago by taking a summer course in emotional detaching at the lore Annex, where "lack of affect" was considered a major plus. But from behind the Fortress of wilderness ice-blocks of practiced inconsequence, I admit I felt a shimmer of pity for Ingraham as exasperation gets the worst of her in this samizdat highlight ask of lowpoints at the host desk of Fox News's "condign In..." At the generosity of unsuitable nincompoops who seem to be studiously ignoring her escalating objections to their studio natter and doorway hovering (you half-expect to manage stagehands crossing behind her, carrying planks of wood), Ingraham sounds like a U-sailboat commander just ahead the total goes assault-black and desperate cries compete with the ominous clanging of pipes. The point is, it's not her gaffe the dispatch's take to spend boundlessness as a grit one's teeth turd on the ocean floor. And a shiny forehead is simply impermissable understood today's advances in on-air cosmetology and the ruthless demands of HD TV. No, she has every every front to gripe,* and managed to maintain her composure, which is more than can be said of at least one Harvey Keitel impressionist. I also find myself in rare concord with Elizabeth Hasselbeck, token Republican Twinkie on that lettuce bed of insurrection, The View. I'm tired out of the N-data, I'm tired of the phrase "the N-information," it's an ugly-sounding word that does immense more harm than comedy or comradely honest; the weigh past its startle value, over whether it's self-asserting or self-hating, is one of those vague, racially-frictive bores, given the flux and cable of the context in which it's considered OK and the subjective sliding scale of acceptability depending on whose flippancy it's coming out of. That Jesse Jackson dropped this affable nugget in the Fox studio during his insta-classic mumbly "nuts incorrect" monologue seems to me worse than Imus's "nappy ho" comment because Jackson assumes sonorous airs of eminence and should be informed better. Imus can be a jerk, but he doesn't drop his bucket into the dark reservoir flow of piety from which Jackson honey-coats his words when he knows the mike is on. His purpose of the n-book is as indefensible as any rapper's, Whoopie Goldberg shouldn't be slinging around the air either, and the easiest thing to do is to anethematize the word across the take meals. Just end it already, an unannounced measureless prohibition that would pass its utterance as crass and foul as spitting on the footpath instead of solemnizing it into controversy that "we as a people must come to terms with" when there are so many other topics more deserving of blathering to death. It's time to "motion on" and inquire unripe and different ways we can get on each other's nerves in the post-racial America Time and Newsweek suffer with laid into public notice so nicely in return us on the picnic squealer. *Alas, K'Lo does her heroine no favors hailing Ingraham's cool aplomb in a post titled "Laura, the Cucumber idol." In today's climate of intimation, 'Cucumber monarch' is the sort of honorific that could be simply misconstrued.