Herb Matthews and I were celebrating his dead-day last week (July 30, for Herb – “Here’s dirt in your eye!”) at Rubell’s new place. I should say “newest” place. Qiana Club. The place is painful, but not as painful as Herb’s whining about how he’s the forgotten man of our paper’s editorial board. I kept telling him to look around at the nobodies we have here – almost all of them worked on 43rd Street, and nobody even knows they died, that’s how dull they are.
Anyhoo, who gets resurrected today by right-wing blogger and Catoist Jim Powell? Herb! I called him and read it to him – well, just the last page, since most of it had to do with yours truly. He was thrilled, until I got to the last line and Acton’s old bromide about power and corruption. “How dare he appropriate a condemnation of that Pope and use it on me? Tell Powell that I said if you want to make a frittata, amigo, you gotta bust a few huevos!”
On that topic: Would somebody explain to me why Mastai-Ferretti went to that other place? Chasm 3 here on C8 has its own Popeville, that’s how many of those Italians we ended up with here. They have their own Swiss pool boys and everything. Like a little Vatican, really.