The NYTimes opinion section’s former token far-rightie and well-regarded grammar snoot had previously written some of Nixon and Agnew’s most infamous lines, in a speechwriting staff that also included MSNBC’s token wingnut Pat Buchanan. But by modern standards, he was an example of that rapidly dwindling species, a sane Republican who believed in rational persuasion rather than X-treme demagoguery. He’s already missed.

Mount Holyoke College prof Douglas J. Amy insists that “Government is Good,” and has a whole detailed site all about why.

Cenk Uygur, meanwhile, explores the other side of this ideological divide, and decides today’s big business power-grabbers aren’t interested in democracy or even capitalism; but that’s only to be expected from “corporatists.”

Political PR maven Jonah Sachs insists progressives have gotta stop being so damned rational. He argues that public opinion in this country isn’t swayed by analytical arguments but by emotional appeals.

Guess who uses social-media sites the most? That long-neglected demographic caste, the stay-home moms.

Paul Krugman wrote it weeks ago, but I’m still trying to get to the end of his long essay asking the musical question, How Did Economists Get It So Wrong? The answer to his query’s easy, really. Economics is either the most or second-most fraudulant “science” out there (competing with sociology). Economic theory has less to do with the world most of us live in and more in common with the virtual worlds created by or for role-playing gamers

Henry Gibson, who passed away Monday, had a long and solid acting career ranging from Nashville to Magnolia and Boston Legal. But he’ll always be known as “the Poet” on the original Laugh-In. Gibson was a prime example of that show’s basic premise. Laugh-In was suit-and-tie guys (what we’d now call the Mad Men generation) looking gently askew at Those Darned Hippies. Saturday Night Live, by contrast, WAS Those Darned Hippies.

At least Gibson died without the tragic career footnote faced by Peter, Paul and Mary co-singer Mary Travers. She faced her cancer-ridden final months with the indignity of having one of her group’s hit songs reworked into the unauthorized political hatched-job “Barack the Magic Negro.”

…to Greg Palmer, the witty and endearing KING-TV arts and culture commentator and film critic, later a creator of always intriguing PBS documentaries. He proved what television could become.

…to Marilyn Chambers, one of the very first people to become a celebrity for performing real sex in a movie. She continued on, despite typecasting and the advance of years. Her cable softcore comedies of the 1990s were minor entertainment trifles that proclaimed, without preaching, that the formerly young still have bodies and can still enjoy their use.

…but retired from all public life? Ex-Seattleite cartoonist Ward Sutton ponders the possibilities.

…the forthcoming posthumous/unfinished third novel by my main man David Foster Wallace touches upon a theme with which I’d recently been obsessed.

The novel is about people who find their mindfulness by taking on ultra-routine jobs at the Internal Revenue Service.

As D.T. Max quotes in The New Yorker, Wallace’s idea was that “Bliss—a-second-by-second joy and gratitude at the gift of being alive, conscious—lies on the other side of crushing, crushing boredom. Pay close attention to the most tedious thing you can find (Tax Returns, Televised Golf) and, in waves, a boredom like you’ve never known will wash over you and just about kill you. Ride these out, and it’s like stepping from black and white into color. Like water after days in the desert. Instant bliss in every atom.”

I haven’t been pursuing employment at the IRS. But I have had a sequence of temp gigs for the county that involved equally rote tasks, performed accurately and performed all day. I found a great peace in simply going somewhere, doing something, and doing it well.

It may well be that my current search for renumerative employment could lead me back into the stress-filled realm of hustling for individual bottom-feeder freelance gigs.

But I’d enjoyed the clerical equivalent of chopping wood and carrying water. I could really do it some more.

The legendary radio commentator began his national career in 1951 with what, at the time, was a standard program format—15 minutes of news headlines mixed with personal opinions. Harvey outlasted all of that format’s other, now forgotten practitioners (Lowell Thomas, Fulton Lewis Jr., Gabriel Heatter, etc.). Like many of these forebearers, Harvey maintained an attitude of just-plain-folks populism while he advocated conservative policies that pleased big corporate advertisers. And like a lot of radio conservatives past and present, his “hot” personality translated poorly into the “cooler” aesthetic of television.

…today to Blossom Dearie, the legendary jazz artist of the lilting vocals and the assertive piano playing, as heard in dozens of albums and several Schoolhouse Rock shorts.

…today to the memory of Patrick McGoohan, who created, wrote, directed, and starred in perhaps the greatest TV drama ever, then spent his last four decades taking occasional supporting roles and generally looking out for number six.

…of Snowtopia ’08’s final flourish of flurries, we must say goodbye to Eartha Kitt, Ms. “Santa Baby” herself. I had the privilege of seeing her at Jazz Alley sometime in the mid-1990s. She was still as sultry and saucy as ever. I knew I was in the presence of a living goddess; and so did everyone else in the room.