Bottom rail on top, Julian
When you're Don Quixote, life kind of sucks, sometimes. Early on in Julian Assange's tilt against the windmills of western politics, I wondered what would happen if somebody began to leak his little secrets.
Well, now we know: or at least, we're beginning to find out. It is hilariously hypocritical, and rather what one would expect. How dare they!! The name of this game is that Don Julian gets to criticise everyone, but nobody gets to turn the tables on Don Julian.
This would be sharper still if the media who enabled Wikileaks in the first place (you know who you are) were capable of showing some spine as the tale of his Scandinavian amusements unfolds. Some are...that is, some are still able to smell news and go after it. Others are being, well, craven.
I'm working my way through the first volume of Mark Twain's autobiography, whose unexpurgated version is appearing as he intended a century after his death. At one point, he expands on the amount of time, energy and hot air devoted to the sensations of any particular moment, sensations which aren't likely to merit more than a footnote when the histories come to be written.
Not long ago, the pundits hinted that Wikileaks would be a game-changer. Now we perceive a self-inflicted shift, and perceive prescience in Twain. If we really expected a sea change, we would need an instrument as powerful as the Internet, but a mastermind less weak than Don Julian.
Well, now we know: or at least, we're beginning to find out. It is hilariously hypocritical, and rather what one would expect. How dare they!! The name of this game is that Don Julian gets to criticise everyone, but nobody gets to turn the tables on Don Julian.
This would be sharper still if the media who enabled Wikileaks in the first place (you know who you are) were capable of showing some spine as the tale of his Scandinavian amusements unfolds. Some are...that is, some are still able to smell news and go after it. Others are being, well, craven.
I'm working my way through the first volume of Mark Twain's autobiography, whose unexpurgated version is appearing as he intended a century after his death. At one point, he expands on the amount of time, energy and hot air devoted to the sensations of any particular moment, sensations which aren't likely to merit more than a footnote when the histories come to be written.
Not long ago, the pundits hinted that Wikileaks would be a game-changer. Now we perceive a self-inflicted shift, and perceive prescience in Twain. If we really expected a sea change, we would need an instrument as powerful as the Internet, but a mastermind less weak than Don Julian.
Labels: media criticism, Wikileaks
posted by Uncle | 01:44
1 Comments:
He does also seem to have far too much giggling teen in his, shall we say, physical socializing. He could use some development of his executive function for some self-control - less to hide that way, don't you know.
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