Ed Driscoll


MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE BOOBS: James Lileks writes, “Remember after 9/11, when we wondered whether we’d ever get back to feeling normal? I think the answer is “yes.”:

Apparently Justin Timberlake, former suitor of the philosopher and mathematician Britney Spears, was doing a duet with Janet Jackson. She was dressed in what appeared to be formalwear for zombie morticians — that wretched leather S&M chic we have come to expect from our “edgy” artists. Mr. Timberlake was dressed like a slob, of course — he’s the sort of modern male who, when called upon to knot a tie, digs through his stack of Maxims looking for an article titled “What to Do If You Gotta Hit a Funeral.” At the end of the song, Jackson sang “make me naked” — and why not? It wouldn’t be a halftime show without a joyless mechanical bump & grind masquerading as sensuality, set to a grim tuneless squall of sound masquerading as music. And yes, I am now officially in Coot Mode. Whatever happened to the good old halftime shows, when Up With People would come out and sing about Ice Cream Socials and saving kittens that fell down a well? What happened to America?

But I ramble. Point is, Janet — “Miss Jackson,” if you’re nasty — unholstered 50 percent of her bosom, and now the nation is debating whether it was intentional or an accident, and whether Super Bowls of the future will feature enthusiastic deployment of previously shielded body parts.


Indeed. (Or “Exactly”. Or “Heh”, or whatever hep phrase all us cool coots use these days, daddy-o.)