More from the Economist, and this really torques me: One in five Republicans and 34% of Democrats favor gay marriage, yet "around half the public think that gay couples have the legal right to adopt children." So, what, gays and lesbians are essentially a nanny class? Such bullshit.

I read a lot of Bust while in WV; Julie and Catharine are such badass hostesses, there are a couple dozen mystery novels in the headboard of the guest-bedroom bed just in case a visitor should be felled by three-and-two insomnia � I read the Michael Connelly and Minette Walters and out of spite declined to get so much as my fingerprints on the Jonathan Kellerman � and the bathroom is as good as a reference library for back issues of the feminist rag in question. Thing One I do not dig about Bust: OK, in the Spring 2003 issue, page 38, here is interview subject and Steve�s girlfriend Frances McDormand: "And it�s a question of practice, of learning what works for you and what doesn�t. Like, I do not wear high heels, I can�t. There�s not even any point in my choosing something where I�m supposed to wear high heels, because it�s not gonna happen." Same issue, page 37: here is an accompanying photo of F. McD, lying on a sofa smoking a cigarette (cool) and wearing what, class? That�s right, high heels. Thing Two I do not dig: Sometime over the past few years Bust has become Kantorized, the contributors are less established and more web-based and uhh no offense ladies but this has substantially brought down the overall quality of the writing; I wish to god some enterprising grad student in English would write a dissertation on the fallacy that having a web site necessarily equals the ability to think critically and write well. Thing Three: Holy balls are the typos egregious, holy fucking balls. Barka lounger. It�s perverse, the way these are most often manifested in the names of women the magazine ostensibly seeks to uphold and honor: Betsy Johnson, Angie Dickenson. And the same person has been on the masthead as a "Proofreader" for at least the past few years. If I were the editor I would have fired the stupid crackhead after the issue (sorry, I forgot to write down which one) that contained all of these: Helen Gurly Brown, Anne Richards, Pat Benetar, Katherine Hepburn, Vivian Gornik. And I would have put a curse on her and her descendants after the Fall 2002 extravaganza that in the course of two lousy pages allowed to pass all of the following: Dermot Mulrooney, Ron Leibman, ad nauseum, Lion�s Gate Films, and the assertion that the film "Secretary" is based on the Gaitskill novella (!) "Bad Behavior" (!!). It doesn�t make me a jack feminist to give a damn about quality and accuracy, and if you don�t agree with me no offense ladies but I�ll take you out back and shove a super-plus tampon down your bleeding-heart throat. Yeah, there�s probably some partial truth to the old saw that women have to try twice as hard as men to be taken half as seriously � so how goddamn taxing is it, Colleen Kane, to make the effort to spell people�s names correctly? You, personally, make it easier for those who are looking for an excuse to dismiss Bust to do just that, to write it off as an amateur-hour production that doesn�t have the same level of gravitas as the institutions it would critique. You are part of the problem. And you, you make people ask why someone so incompetent has not been fired, and since there is no conventionally credible explanation you make them hatch dark and hostile, not-seriously-taking theories about the publication you represent. Stand up for your sisters, do your part for feminism, and resign. Also of note from the past few years� issues, here is some exceptionally risible writing I copied out, from a review of "Personal Velocity": [Rebecca Miller�s] arresting, broody camerawork [sic] caresses the eye, but the original fiction�s wry scrutiny comes off glib on screen [sic]. Perhaps that�s because Miller depends on a (male) voice-over to articulate what these clammed-up women do not say or know about themselves, which, disconcertingly, strips them of their subjectivity; and, bonus!, here is our old grandstanding pal Dan Savage, turning the opportunity to comment on the success of "Sex and the City" into an occasion for narcissism and self-congratulation: When I started writing "Savage Love" nine years ago, I wanted to write a column about sex that reflected how people actually talk about it. This series is successful because it allows this kind of blunt talk�

But, and I have to say this, in the Summer 2002 issue there is a review of Guided By Voices� "Isolation Drills" that makes me willing to take back everything I have just said. I don�t remember what the overall tone of the review was � frankly my response to Bust�s music and film reviews tends to be along the lines of either it�s-so-horrible-I-can�t-look or, opposite-ly, that of a slavering, jonesing rubbernecker � but the point is that the review made reference to GBV live and "Robert Pollard�s beer-soaked, shamanic presence." And holy fucking balls is that perfect, that "beer-soaked, shamanic," it is so accurate and so correct, it is criticism and reportage rolled into one with guacamole on top, it takes Thomson's "rare, fragrant" out back and, well, shoves a tampon down its throat. I�d cut off a finger right now, my middle finger, if I knew that in my life I would ever write something so pithy and poetic and true. And isn�t that what it�s all about?

Steve, who is pondering an entr�e into blogging, wonders whether it is possible to be (a) a voice in the culture, his terminology not mine, who is (b) anonymous. And you wonder why we are so ideally matched. P.S. I am still a big fan of the thighs. They went skiing last week while I was away, and, whoa, I am not opposed to that in the slightest. Last night we went out and met an old friend and colleague of Steve�s who was visiting for Thanksgiving, we met the old friend and not his wife because the wife, at the same time, was out with Steve�s ex M, who is apparently one of her dearest pals. I don�t have the uber-titsy bod or the social standing or the impressive education or the ditto job or the record of posh-restaurant-patronizing or the money family and otherwise or the ski-bunny cred, but I�ve got the bruh-bruh-brains � Catharine, I name-checked Garry Wills! � and the unaccountably appealing New York story, and, I believe it because I have *decided* to, the narrative is on my side. Plus, as you know, despite the white tarantula I moisturize like a champ. I don�t think this guy, Mark, went back to his hotel room and declared to his wife, of Steve, O how the mighty have fallen. Because of the location of said hotel room, the place where we all met up was Peso�s (Vanessa is laughing), and even though I was way older and brunetter and soberer and in my black knit turtleneck much more clothed than the average female patron there, I still don�t think he said any such thing at all. Is this progress?

Morgantown is the birthplace of Jerry West, whose boyhood house I passed the day I went out running and got lost twice and spent a lot more time out running than I had anticipated. It is very hilly in Morgantown and if I lived there and did this regularly, I daresay I might even grow an ass. People like to honk their horns at runners, which I could not decide whether I think is friendly or threatening. I crossed the bridge over the mighty Monongahela into Westover while inside my head I was singing "Tallahassee." Jacqueline Kennedy ordered all her White House glassware from Morgantown artisans. Those are all the facts about Morgantown that I can recall right now, drinking Seattle beer as I am. Oh, and I am two degrees of separation from Avril Lavigne and, I might as well admit this, the odds are better than good that I am two degrees of sex-partner separation from Leni Riefenstahl. Julie gave me a recipe for a Bulgarian stew with lentils and lots of red bell peppers, and today when I went to the fruit stand shopping, as I arrived the stockboy was changing the sign by the red peppers from 99� each to 2 for $1. There are many different ways in which to have a charmed life. I need to remember that.

Dennis, get a diary! I want to read it.