Under the Black Flag

Scuppering the Serbs

I live in New York and London, and   among the gruesome sights I’ve had to endure these last few years has been the sight of a vainglorious James Rubin, of Madeleine Albright fame, prancing about the hot spots of these multicultural havens for the rich and infamous.  Rubin is married to Christiane Amanpour, the CNN hussy who takes herself almost as seriously as her hubby takes himself.  I first spotted Rubin holding court at one of Conrad Black’s London garden parties, when the Blacks were still throwing parties.  A few Paris Hilton wannabees were hanging on his every word.  Had it been Gen. George Patton, I would have understood the pose.  But Rubin?

It got worse when Rubin oiled his way into a group of close friends of mine, and I had the bad luck to be seated at the same table as his pompousness.  To say that we disagreed would be a gross understatement.  No insults were exchanged, but I did tell him in no uncertain terms that he could sling his bull in D.C., but that I was an old putana who could spot a phoney social climber a mile away.  We never saw each other again—in fact, it took very little time for my friends to drop him like the proverbial hot potato—but now I read that he’s moving to New York in anticipation of a call from State or the White House, once Queen Hillary is restored to her throne.

What was even more striking than Rubin’s...

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