Michael Wolff Never Met a Waiter or Editor He Didn't Offend
Oh this is so wonderful, this profile of Michael Wolff by Irin Carmon. She really is very good. It is obviously a portrait of a person with a near-disability, a man who must argue about things and make up his mind about things near-randomly; his reversals of opinion based on "facts" are sudden and confusing. He is now more than ever one of those dogs that barks for attention—he was that as a New York mag columnist and he is now more than ever that as a blogger—which weirdly, sort of makes me admire him and his chronic, unsurpassed assholism. Eventually he turns on everyone who was ever a friend to him—yes, perversely, admirable! Oh it is enjoyable to have him as a neighbor here in the East Village, with all the other cranks; Gary Indiana up to his neck in white powder around the corner, Michael Musto pumping by on his bicycle… now our neighborhood of crazies is complete.
He was a better writer with hair.
It's a Samson thing.
Greil Marcus wrote such a cutting review of his first book in Rolling Stone that I'm kinda pissed I can't even remember enough of it to paraphrase.
Reading Wolff is like being trapped with some belligerently opinionated drunk in a bar.
I saw Michael Musto on TV the other day — he said he lived in Murray Hill.
Teaching Barbarino to read remains his greatest achievement.