Mo Dowd's Sheet-Caking

Unless you have been living under a rock--which is starting to sound appealing, you know this was a super shitty week in America with a hurricane ripping through Puerto Rico and a massacre in Las Vegas. I was eating lunch with people at work and the conversation turned to events of the week.

"Did you read the article in the New York Times about 'bump stocks' used by the shooter Vegas?" my manager asked.

Ah, no. Since living under a rock isn't viable, I've been skipping the first section and reading the second, third and fourth sections of the New York Times. I should be reading the front page, but I don't. I can find out what is happening from people at work, my dad, my kids and my friends Facebook. Even the business section is nauseating these days with constant reports of sexual discrimination in Silicon Valley. Yesterday, Harvey Weinstein was on the front page for harassing women half his age. Bleck.

What did I read the other day? A piece by Maureen Dowd on the actor Idris Elba. If the Boy had been a girl, her name would have been Maureen. The most beautiful girl in my high school was named Maureen, and Maureen Dowd is one of my favorite newspaper columnists, second to Mike Royko. Mike would have been a funny name for a girl, and even though the Boy was a boy, there are too many Michaels in my family to add another.

I digress. This must Mo Dowd's version of Tina Fey's sheet-caking. After years of writing hard-hitting pieces about what now seem to be reasonable and rational politicians, it seems like she has given up.

I imagine what she thought: I could write a piece about the evil, idiot President, or I could interview a hot actor. 

After about three seconds, she chose the hot actor.

As much as I love Maureen Dowd, I had to wonder: Does this piece count as journalism? It seems like she is mostly interested in getting laid here, and she is not too transparent about it. Or, maybe I am reading too much into the piece. Maybe she is nothing more than an adoring fan. Here is some evidence. The article reads like a booty call to me, but you can judge yourself...

"In a world where most movies disappoint and true stars are rare, Mr. Elba is magnetic. He is tall and muscular...His father once advised him to look people in the eyes. In our A.D.D. planet, it works. Mr. Elba does not look away at his phone, at the waitress when he asks for a knife, at his publicists trying to hustle him along or at his steak salad and steak and eggs. His expressive brown eyes are always on you... His vibe is cool but his career is frenetic.

So at long last, we need to know: Does he like martinis? Offering his most suave look, Mr. Elba murmurs: “I like them stirred. Not shaken. Jesus Christ, did I just say that out loud?”"

What did I do? Did I say, "This is a ridiculous piece of fluff," put it down and read about hurricane victims with no power? Did I write the New York Times and say "Mo Dowd has the hots for this guy. You call this journalism?" and read instead about the cancer epidemic in Africa? Did it matter that for six lines out of a few hundred Dowd asked about racism and Trump, and the rest were dedicated to whether or not Elba would be the next James Bond?

Nope. I read every word of what Maureen Dowd wrote.

Twice.