THE HITCH?
THE HITCH? You just have to love Christopher Hitchens. Some snippets from Matt Labash’s Weekly Standard piece on him:
As he stood there, rumpled and slightly jetlagged in blue jeans and a black leather jacket, he looked sort of like the Fonz–if the Fonz had been a British former socialist who could pinch large swaths of Auden from memory.
“I don’t usually start this early,” said Hitchens with feigned reluctance, “but holding yourself to a drinking schedule is always the first sign of alcoholism.”
When I came back out, Hitchens was having a smoke, and [P.J.] O’Rourke had rejoined him. Watching the two of them, I suddenly had a sinking feeling. If our convoy went up in flames, I wouldn’t even rank in the group obituary. It would read something like, “Found next to Hitchens and O’Rourke was an unidentified crispy critter from the British newspaper, the Evening Standard.”
Go read the rest, already.
