Uncle Cecil explains quantum mechanics for you — crunchy versified goodness!

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God, Michael Kinsley’s an embarrassment in this essay. Doesn’t like nonfiction? Didn’t read most of the books he was supposed to evaluate? I read almost nothing but nonfiction and I polish off around 16 books every month — plus work-related reading, plus magazines. And I don’t consider myself well-read enough to hold my own in conversation! Maybe I ought to spend more time around fabulous folk like Kinsley…

I suppose this is a reasonably competent piece on autism and one sufferer, but “unprecendented insight?” Two words for writer Sandra Blakeslee: Temple Grandin. Three more words: The New Yorker. Been covered, and better, before. But hanks you for playing…

Mother of God. I’m in love with Keith Olbermann. No, wait — I AM Keith Olbermann. He just described not only my life but, quite specifically, the last eight months. If you’ve spoken with me lately, you know what I’m talking about; better; you know what I’m likely to do next. (I always knew I liked this cat for a reason. I also always knew I didn’t want to meet him, but maybe I’m thinking differently now.) Bravest thing I’m read in a long time. Love. Olbermann. Me. Yeah.

Ah, another example of why my so-called profession is intellectually bankrupt. David Chase is — has proven himself to be — a great storyteller; we may not understand why The Sopranos is doing what it’s doing right now, but we know from experience that the payoff for sticking with it is likely to be immense. Frazier Moore is a remote-spanker from AP, which is — has proven itself to be — the lowest common denominator even in the cesspool known as American journalism. Tell me, who do you trust?