After I wrote my first blog post here, I felt a certain sense of satisfaction. I felt like I'd excavated something difficult about ethnicity and gender and literature and identity. Imagine my shock when I saw the ads by Google.
The truth is this: nobody is born famous. So why do so many people act as though they are already part of the elite groups of authors? About only 3% of authors actually makes a living on their writing alone.
My point wasn't about who quotes whom properly, it was about all the shameful mistakes, lies and mis-attributions that appear in Going Rogue. The book is an insult to everything John Wooden stood and stands for.
If you eat meat from factories you have not absorbed the reality of factory farms. If you truly understood what happens inside these windowless animal jails and abattoirs, you simply would not eat this meat.
I piled cringe upon cringe Friday -- first because I read Steven Pinker's vivisection of Malcolm Gladwell's new collection, second because of what I found when I Googled a flub Pinker wielded against Gladwell.
I was a little leery reading Palin's book and wondering if she really had read Aristotle and Plato. Somehow I didn't think so. But I thought, maybe, just maybe, she might have read Sir John. Apparently not.