Paulie tried to join the New York Family, for chrissake. And Tony knows it was Paulie who repeated the joke about Ginny Sack and the mole, which led to Johnny Sack screeching for revenge and Tony having clean up the mess. The same thing happened with Phil. Tony had to chose what the opposition wanted over family, resulting in the death by Tony's own hand of his cousin.

And still, Tony lets Paulie live. And he let Christofuh live for how long after Tony knew his nephew was a huge liability?

Therein lies his weakness. He's a tough, ruthless person who also lets some people live longer than he knows to be best for his business interests, and he's pissed when his his crew and his relatives fuck up and place him in that position.

No matter that he knows what the deal is and that he thinks 12 steps ahead of everyone else - the poor murdering thug is torn about killing friends and relatives, and goes ballistic when innocent horses and dancers are brutally murdered.

They all live the life; what were the chances they won't be murdered by someone they know during their lifetime?

Except of late, where someone upthread noted that Tony is angry at everything. Hence the relief of the peyote moment of "I get it." I haven't lived this character's issue with loss of life, but I have taken those buttons, and after the usual barf-o-rama moment, the insights come forth - for a few hours.

Tony's humanistic appeal lies in his moments of gray, moments that may not make sense to some people as most of us would not be in the position to settle scores as he settles them. He can't always come out guns blazing; he has a business to run (and then there's that pesky issue of dead bodies missing and littered all around the countryside; not your every day person's day at the beach).

Tony gets a break because he represents the ultimate rage not taken, and the ultimate rage that is taken, and he has been in each season momentarily redeemed because he loves innocent ducks and, apparently, innocent baby car seats.

Does anyone really think that Debra's article was published for any other reason than to generate 257 letters to the editor blah blah blahing as to the "real" meaning of feminism and women in the "workplace"?

Gad, what an insipid piece. Deb's in a fury. Oh, my, whatever shall we do?

And Shaha Riza is a feminist as much as my pet rabbit is a feminist. Poor Shaha, and the delusion that she was responsible for convincing her lover Wolfowitz to collude with Dick Cheney, Paul Bremmer, Bill Kristol, et al, to use the United States military to attack the country of Iraq.

Deb, you've got some serious issues regarding black men who are married to black women. Or is it about black women who are married to black men? Projection, much?

being played at the Bing was "When The Music's Over."

Turn out the lights.

Please. I beg of you, critics, please NEVER, ever use in another interview the word "fiercely".

"fiercely beloved"

Stop. One critic uses it, and then another, and then....it's a movement! The word "fiercely" is generally teamed up with "independent" and is generic to articles regarding fiercely independent females.

Puts me in mind of when the New Millennium food critics (who are also the Old New Millennium food critics) first began to use the phrase " I TUCKED into my blah blah blah (whatever possible combination of impressive ingredients), and my dinner companion tucker into the...."

....a phrase with which I was familiar from reading O. Henry. Sounds cool, if you began writing short stories literally a hundred years ago. I was, like, oh, no! They can't, like, be serious! Fiercely tucked!

The letter is absolute crap.

As in B.S.

"He sounded like an adolescent girl bursting to tell a secret. Could I give him my credit card number? Apparently, Reagan had been playing some sort of game online and had recently received an e-mail announcing that he'd won some money. All they needed was a credit card.

"Do you think this is real?" he asked me.

"How much did they say you won, Reagan?" I asked.

He lowered his voice. I imagined him putting his hand over his mouth and looking around warily for eavesdroppers. "One point one M," he whispered. "How can I claim it?"

I paused, smiled at his innocence, and then frowned. There seemed no choice but to crush his faint hopes.

"Reagan," I said, "I think it's a scam."

Idiot. Nick, he's asking YOU for YOUR credit card number. YOU smiles at his innocence? Try desperation. How stupid are you?

You don't know crap. My mother and stepfather lived for four years in Nigeria, and yes, the horror. The personal part? The part beyond knowing how dreadfully well a middle-class woman such as myself still lives, in spite of my feeling like I'm barely hanging on, knowing I'm a layoff away or a market crash from an American nuttin' - welp, my stepfather logged into the system of how a white American male of supposedly high means can live out any sick, creepy dream they've ever imagined, in Africa.

I'd tell the whole story, only he's not dead yet. Reading about Nick's idiocies just bring it all back home of what my family has endured due to the fantasies of white American idiots mucking about in Africa, believing they are "interpreting" the inner mind of its citizens while living ever so dangerously for about a minute, and an eternity on paper for the benefit of us dumb Merkins who aren't being driven around countries in which they don't frikin' belong.