The editor responds:We're sorry, Kurt, but our faces were buried in a most divine chestnut and wild mushroom ravioli with seared foie gras and amontillado sauce. What was your question again?
THE DAY THE MUSIC STOPPED
It seems the Write of Passage for most columnists, critics and print media commentators is the gritty moment when it's time to evoke, in satire, the voice of some recognizable public figure (Jim Washburn's "Snake of the Union," Jan. 25). What gives most of us hacks a great deal of pause is the looming specter of public scorn soon to come from other writers, surely a peevish lot who invariably prefer to contribute to the attack than defend their brethren—"a ham-handed attempt at capturing the elusive argot of the streets" would be one of the milder jibes. Therefore, I doff my headwear to Washburn's final paragraphs—after the music stopped. I'm green with envy. Be assured I don't say that often.