Sometimes the New Yorker is just Grand

I have not read The Da Vinci Code, nor will I. Contrary to the liberal current assumptions, one need not read every book in the world in order to "fairly evaluate it."

Next time some liberal says something to that effect, ask them what they thought of the middle part of Mein Kampf.

Some books are trash, and some directors are capable of making films that are little more than trash. It might be well loved trash, but no one is going to accuse Mr. Howard of being a serious artist.

So, without having read the book, nor seen the movie, nor having any plans at either, I am still on pretty safe ground to say that this Da Vinci nonsense is trash. I have it on multiple, good authorities.

Now, the New Yorker is a hit and miss proposition. The name says it all: smug, insular, but more often than not, right. It is the journal of blue staters, many of them smart, and all of them sure of their smartness, which is a little better than the smugness of red staters, but I am sure that the loyalists of the Republicans and Democrats will perfectly despise spending eternity with each other.

Anyway, I love when I find bits like this in the New Yorker. I have yet to read my dead tree version, so I have to thank Julie for pointing this out.