I suppose I could also call Wolcott the most incessantly boring writer of the 21st century, but, again, that would be redundantly redundant. So, I will just call him Mr. Irrelevant instead.Of course, right now, you are likely scratching your head and wondering who in the Hell James Wolcott is. I will allow Stacy McCain to explain
Pamela Geller’s commentary about Sandra Fluke has caused a conniption on the part of — you guessed, didn’t you? — Charles Johnson. Mr. Jazzy McBikeshorts then got into a Twitter colloquy with the infamously boring James Wolcott, who decided to bring my name into it. A commenter informed me about this, prompting my Twitter reply:
News Flash: James Wolcott, who for years has had a Vanity Fair column nobody reads, now has a Twitter account nobody follows.
Because you have probably never heard of James Wolcott, it is necessary to explain that he is a cadaverous-looking college dropout who spent years as an unpopular media critic at the Village Voice before becoming an unpopular columnist at Vanity Fair. His knowledge of politics is extremely limited, as I noted in April 2008:
If James Wolcott is being paid by the word, his 3,700-word screed in the June issue of Vanity Fair is the Crime of the Century. The article is presented as describing the “vicious Clinton-versus-Obama rupture at Daily Kos” and thus an analysis of “a party-wide split” among Democrats, but it’s really nothing of the kind. In fact, it’s nothing at all. There is no reporting and very little that could be called research. Just massive paragraph after paragraph of florid prose.
So far as anyone can tell, Wolcott never ventures outside Manhattan and can’t be bothered to do any actual reporting. He has attempted to remain “relevant” by adding a blog that nobody reads to his duties at Vanity Fair, whose publisher apparently hired him as a favor to Wolcott’s wife, an editor for the magazine.
Wolcott’s most memorable contribution to the online world was a 2004 post in which he cheered for killer hurricanes — “Mother Nature’s fist of fury, Gaia’s stern rebuke” – to hit America, and thereby inadvertently helped re-elect President Bush.
Last year, Wolcott somehow inveigled Doubleday into publishing his memoir. Nobody read that either, mainly because the author is so notoriously dull, but perhaps also because readers had been warned via a New York Times review that Wolcott “devotes 50 genuflecting pages” of his 258-page memoir to film critic Pauline Kael.
No, I’m not kidding. Really.
Yes, I think that about covers it, and I got to repost Stacy’s shot at Charles “Mr. Jazzy McBikeshorts” Johnson. Of course, you likely have never heard of Charles Johnson either have you? Well, he is a lot like Wolcott, only not as boring. Not that Johnson is not boring, he is, but Wolcott is to boring what Janet Reno was to homely. As Bill Quick notes today
Sitting around shoving red-hot railroad spikes up my nose would be more fun than blogging about James Wolcott. Or Charles Johnson. In fact, the only thing I can think of that would be less fun than blogging about this pair of tools would be being forced to read their dreck.