Clinton, All 25 Pounds of Him

Okay, so all the white noise from the first week or two of his book launch has quieted a bit. The tables full of his groaning, door-stopper of a memoir have mostly been placed back from the entrance to most bookstores, and it's possible to actually experience a full day of media monitoring and come across fewer than 37 stories about Slick Willy and his first rough draft of his own history.

He's admitted in various interviews that that's the nickname that he always hated worst. And of course only a dumb-as-doornails neanderthal Republican--of which we unfortunately appear to have about 70 million in this country--would say that his presidency, for all its misdemeanor pecadillos, isn't looking pretty good in light of the Cheney Gang and their unprecedented hijacking attempt of an entire country, its traditions and constitution.

But will you (or I) actually purchase that damn book and read it? I've yet to decide. There are so many already purchased and yet unread standing ahead of it, some whispering and others shouting to be heard. Eventually, of course, I will (though probably after it hits the discount table, cause I'm cheap). In the meantime, ever-stalwart Slate, political wonkery's favorite online gathering place, has published this helpful cheat sheet for the best highlights of the book.

But for my money, the best take on the whole thing came in a June 25th Wall Street Journal review of the Clinton book. Mark Steyn rightly complains that he's outraged that the publisher, after shelling out a $10-million advance, let Clinton get away with "dead pol-speak" such as his "inappropriate encounter" with the full-bodied enchantress Monica, she of the famously besmirched blue dress. Instead, he suggested that the ex-prez should have penned something like this, and I quote: "The shaft of light from the dying sun through the Oval Office window caught the swell of her bosom as she slid the extra-large pepperoni across the desk. I knew it was wrong. I'd penciled in that evening for bringing peace to Northern Ireland, but what the hell, the two sides of that troubled island's sectarian conflict were seperated by as deep a divide as the plunging cleavage now beckoning from her low-cut angora sweater. Ulster could wait."

Gee, wish I'd written that...