Much like Shawn Carter, I can't stay retired.

Last night an angel named Phoebe delivered to me a copy of Liberal Fascism: The Secret History of the American Left from Mussolini to the Politics of Meaning. I would say that Christmas came early, but it was already, you know, Christmas. Kate and I cooked Christmas Eve dinner: this glazed ham(ham!), steamed green beans with garlic, swiss chard with bacon, scalloped sweet potatoes. Your favorite liberal bloggers attended.

Unfortunately, our attempt at holding a dinner reading of Liberal Fascism fell prey to our inability to focus our conversation. We occasionally made very serious and thoughtful arguments, but others had made some of them before in such detail, and still others had made some of them before with such care. Frustrated, we left for the Black Cat, where I noticed Billy Bragg's Talking with the Taxman about Poetry is on the jukebox. I sneered a mixture of disgust and pity at Billy Bragg's inability to recognize his fascism.

So the dinner party's loss is THFTNRs gain. I intend to sit here until at least the NBA doubleheader and blog Liberal Fascism. Although Yglesias correctly located "Holiday In Cambodia" as within the aural canon of liberal fascism, the soundtrack for my attempts at spelunking the caverns of Jonah Goldberg's intellect will be the Joy Division boxed set.