InstaPunk Returns

Ellis Henican You may have seen him on TV. He’s been on a lot of the cable news networks as a pundit-slash-analyst. He’s a reliable, crafty voice for the left on short notice, on almost any subject. He makes his point like most lawyers do, by attacking your argument with the intent of taking it down to components easily smashed with dismissal and ridicule. Most times, your own argument doesn’t have to be made at all, however threadbare the talking points are. That’s how Anthony Weiner built his whole political career while it lasted. Ellis Henican isn’t a lawyer though. He’s not really a politician either. He’s a professional Jack-of-all-trades in the news/media establishment centered principally in New York, though excursions and field trips elsewhere are permitted, of course. His box bio at Wiki describes him as a “ Columnist, author, talk radio, entertainer, voice actor, television, political analyst.” Under Notable Works he lists one book, titled “Home Team,” (a ghosted autobiograp

  First page of the Vennich Manuscript I told you some weeks back that I had been working on a Big Thing, bigger than everything I’d ever done. I have laid all the groundwork. I know the architecture. I have placeholders in position, and text and graphics squirreled away to expand on later, preparing for the massive effort required to turn the architecture into a breakthrough work of fiction that threatens the reality each one of us clings to. But I have run out of time. The simplest math of time is against me. I cannot, could not, possibly complete what I have envisioned, and the realities of tech economics are against me. Even if I were so lucky as to create a potent fraction of my intention, I have gambled on the Internet to provide my longevity, and the Internet is a hungry greedy thing I can’t pay for long enough. Eventually, all will be swallowed and consigned to impenetrable oblivion. What is left to me? Only this. To tell you something of what I had in mind, so that you might c

FBI HQ, the Reichstag, and the East German Stasi HQ. Just setting the scene for a few principal characters. All graphics were created months ago. The context now is viler than before. DOJ FBI Vice President? RINO Minjority Leader Bill Barr

Everyone called him Hiney. He died alone in a  hospital with an amputated leg. I was the only  one who sent flowers. Sad end for a big man. People say a lot of things. So do I. This time I’m saying things I’ve been through you never did. You just start and go. That simple. Takes well over an hour. Folksy and chatty and colloquial enough for you? Better be. I’ve got lots more.

I was so naive. He was 3 generations of Harvard,  a crew jock,  movie star looks, and I really thought he might be President. This is a post made of three comments to a FB friend who lives in Manhattan. The world is going to hell and he’s posting pictures cribbed from someone calling himself ‘Iconic Cool.’ You know. Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly, and the classy babes they see every day uptown.  So I’d had enough and made a Jersey boy jackass of myself on his page. You wanna see it?  Sure you do. ********** I hung up on my 3-yr Harvard roommate, my best man, after years of no contact. We were getting back in touch, he was recounting the humiliation of being escorted from the building with his belongings in a cardboard box, out of a bank of which he had been an executive vice president. He had been a classic golden boy Harvard legacy (father, grandfather Harvard), less than 600 SATs, Middlesex School, and I got him through Harvard. After he failed all his first midterms courtesy of a misgu

  You can’t ever know what it was like to be MeOne. Look at me. Candid shot. Snapshot. Who has ever looked more beautiful? You think Jagger was sexy? Yeah. He was. But I was uniquely so. Who are you looking at in the pics above? Right. Me. I was truly extraordinary to behold. To be so gorgeous, so beautiful, and so smart to boot, I fought hard to preserve my virginity. Truth. What do you think happens? I have never had any small talk to lure women. I just sat there. The one who got me first just insisted. “Put your hand in my pants,” she said. “I can’t stand it any longer.” So I did. You have to understand. I loved her. The drugs finally, slowly, took her away. We were living in West Philly. She was enrolled at Penn. She was doing crank with a disreputable boyfriend. You know. I’m a Harvard pussy. Blustered him away. He pretended he could ride a bike. He crashed my Honda at the curb. Then he went away.  But, there’s always a ‘but’ isn’t there? My parents didn’t like her. Did I care? No