(Sorry for not posting yesterday. A personal matter commanded my attention.)
When Brad Friedman published his first "guest blog
" by Lydia Cornell, the author and actress best-known for her role in Too Close for Comfort
, I sent Brad a private message telling him to do whatever he could to promote this lady's work.This is just the sort of person we need on our side
, I told him. She's the anti-Coulter. Smart, creative and appealing. Warm where Coulter is cold. Genuinely spiritual -- as opposed to Coulter's strange and acidic religiosity. In short, Lydia seems nice
The obvious contrasts must have grated on Coulter (who, as some of you may recall, once ducked out of the second half of a radio debate with Brad Friedman). Instead of ignoring Cornell's column, Coulter responded by publishing a childish tirade -- and by printing Lydia's personal contact information, including her phone number, on her own page.
Most telling of all: She actually insulted Lydia's looks
: "Well, death is certainly sexier than Lydia Cornell."
Before proceeding, let's make something quite clear.
The first two images show Ann Coulter.
These are two pictures of Lydia Cornell.
My girlfriend's first response: "Ann Coulter looks like she had her last face lift done by a Mack truck."
Now, this blog does not usually print snide remarks about personal appearance. Who am I to judge? I'm the epitome of ursine scruffiness, and I never met a lasagna I didn't like. In truth, most
of us are unlovely. Go to (say) any crowded DMV in any working class neighborhood, tote up the number of good-looking individuals, and you'll find that perhaps 90% of the human race is something other than a natural friend to the camera. Yet there's a lot of love and sex out there; somehow, human beings keep finding ways to tolerate pandemic homeliness.
The trouble is, some don't
easily tolerate our natural tendency toward homeliness -- at least, not when the evidence is displayed in the mirror. A certain type of person cannot hide the fact that he or she wants to be considered much more comely or handsome than is actually the case. That's always been the sad thing about Coulter: She dresses like someone who desperately longs for bombshell status, as though wrapping that hideous skeletal frame in black leather micro-minis will somehow make those prominent bones as jumpable as they are countable.
Suddenly I feel sad for Ann Coulter. I won't publish her phone number and other personal info, even though I have the data to hand and I'm just ornery enough to do that sort of thing. Her remark was much more self-revelatory than she intended: She's trapped in there
, and doesn't want to be.
That's why she devotes her life to spewing venom. Even if every liberal vanished, she'd no doubt spend her time finding something to hate instead of something to celebrate. Odium is her junk; spewing insult is her way of shooting up. For most of us, life is a stew occasionally flavored by love and occasionally peppered with hate. For Coulter, hate is the only ingredient.
That's why she wants death for anyone who does not believe as she does. That's why she uses Jesus as though he were an Uzi. That's why this hard-drinking, hard-smoking, bed-hopping Femme-Domme still pretends to be a "Christian."
Consider one of her most infamous Coulterisms: "Saying 'Merry Christmas' is like saying 'Fuck you!'" Look carefully at the phrasing: Not only does she define Christianity purely in terms of attacking others, the statement carries characteristic overtones of bizarre sexuality. What kind of mind takes pride in such a sentiment? How does Ann propose to explain those words to Jesus? If you went back in time twenty, forty, fifty years and repeated that statement, everyone -- and I mean every single person
, regardless of his or her politics -- would think you had gone nuts.
One doesn't need a degree in the psychoanalytic arts to see the mechanisms at work in this mind. There's one person Ann hates more than she hates any liberal: Herself.