Prose of the day

James Wolcott, in his blog at Vanity Fair.

The word "surreal" is so oft over- and misused these days (Teresa Rebeck has fun with a blonde party girl's oh-wow usage of "surreal" in her play The Scene), but this sight qualified: Kissinger, slumped into himself, as if burdened and buried under his own ponderous self-importance, his head--as craggy and ancient-eternal as a Koren drawing of a Galapagos lizard--protruding from a shiny, ripply black Yankees jacket that looked fresh off the souvenir rack. It seemed wrong that Kissinger should enjoy a cushy spot to watch the Yankees lose, that he should still be here after Norman Mailer and Kurt Vonnegut have gone. Perhaps he's hanging on long enough for the United States to embark on another foul, misguided war so that he can squeeze out one or two more appearances on Charlie Rose and grace us with his "unique perspective" in a guttural voice thick with stones and ash.

Damn, I'd give at least a half-dozen appendages to do that. (A person can type with his tongue, right?)