WGBH says its hiring the former WTKK talkers to talk away between noon and and 2 p.m. on weekdays on its "Boston Public Radio" show. The move frees up Callie Crossley and Emily Rooney, who currently hold down the microphones then, to do other things, although the station says they'll continue to get some words in edgewise on the show. 'GBH adds that Edgar B. Herwick III will continue to contribute to the show after the changeover on Feb. 25.
If Menino's not really running things, who is? Dot Joyce? Devoted wife Angela? Dapper O'Neil weighing in from The Great Beyond?
But Menino gets away with this disappearing act because no one wants to get caught crassly speculating about his health should the irrepressible mayor come back 150 percent - like Glenn Close shooting out of the "Fatal Attraction" bathtub.
Margery Eagan is outraged beyond belief that Robert Kraft made that cheesy demo tape to help out his possible girlfriend. Why, why, why, she sputters, the horny ol' goat has demeaned his children and his saintly late wife.
Not that some rich guy needs any help, but how dare she.
Did Kraft abuse this woman? Did he solicit her in a men's room? Is this woman underage? A Russian spy? A known typhoid carrier?
I don't know anything about the Krafts, but if Myra Kraft was as good a person as she seemed in public, I'm going to doubt her last dying wish was that her husband crawl into a shell and never come out after she was gone. Based on what we now know, Robert Kraft didn't break any laws or commit any grave acts of moral turpitude. Is he being silly? Unseemly? Even if the answer is yes, so what? He's an adult, the woman in question is an adult and Margery Eagan is just some pearl clutcher who probably needs to carry around a vial of smelling salts to help her recover from all the horrid, horrid things she spies.
Or did she just feel like taking it easy and tossing out a column on nudie teen pix that adds absolutely nothing to the discussion? She should leave the cranky-old-person stuff to Alex Beam - he's much better at it (although I do like the related poll that includes this option: "Nobody ever sends me sexy photos"). Maybe she's still getting over the journalistic disappointment of not being groped on the Red Line the other day or something.
Margery Eagan is aghast that kids today swear like sailors. Why, back in her day, kids NEVER swore! And they walked uphill both ways in a blizzard to school. And they liked it!
You're busy, so let me sum up Margery Eagan's column today, just in case you don't have the time to read it all:
I'm a woman. I don't like Hillary Clinton. Therefore, women who voted for her wish they could be married to Bill Clinton, and that disgusts me.
Seems Margery Eagan didn't refer to Barack "Osama" once yesterday, but three times. At least the Herald's fixed it online.
Margery Eagan writes some "Oh, mercy, I'm coming down with the vapors!" column about would-be Republican First Ladies showing off their decolletage, and suddenly she's the focus of blinding, white hot fury by Southern Republicans who accuse her of being another Goddamn Yankee Liberal (wait, what? How did I miss the memo that we're all opposed to plunging necklines now?).
The Charleston Daily Mail thunders:
The ever-liberal Eagan wants "Cindy McCain to button up."
That this prudish call comes from a liberal does not surprise me. Over the years "progressives" have wanted us to prohibit the sale of alcohol and to ban smoking and to cover up. ...
OK, I suppose the newspaper of record in a town that still refers to the "War of Northern Aggression" would consider somebody like Eagan to the left of Leon Trotsky (and it's not like she called Fred Thompson's wife a stripper) but when did modesty and prudery become Official Liberal Positions? Does this mean we've ceded our oversight of America's moral turpitude (through our hand on the jugular of popular culture) to Sam Brownback? Nobody in the cabal ever tells me anything anymore!
Via Jules Crittenden.
Tomorrow, the Herald will likely run a Margery Eagan column on the ways some people in their 20s chronicle every last second of their lives via online photos and videos.
After I got off the phone with her, I realized that, oy, taken out of context, some of the things I said could make it seem like I'm one of those curmudgeonly "kids today!" types, with my pants up to my chest as I yell at you to get offa my Internets, dammit, when I actually think this whole thing is pretty cool. Plus, the basic idea really isn't any different than the Super-8 movies and scrapbooks that Margery and I remember from our youths - except you don't have to wait for the photos to come back from the lab (and, well, they can make it easier for complete strangers to snicker at you).
'Course, I'm probably just being paranoid and I'm sure Margery, a fine columnist, won't make it sound like I hate everybody under 30. But just in case: I don't.
Eagan talked to me even after learning I was well past 20-somethingness myself. Dunno if she knew about this.