Sarah has alerted me to this Observer piece, whereby the Bizarro world of Caitlin Flanagan is laid out again for those who haven’t kept track. In Rachel Donadio’s article, a certain cocktail recipe was referred to. I wish to assure all readers that the recipe was designed exclusively for determined drinkers looking for a little something off the beaten track. The Pentagon was not involved in the concoction of the recipe. In fact, national reports indicate that the Caitlin Flanagan is now being served in more than a few disreputable establishments and that it has not been a success. If anything, it has furthered sales of Pepto-Bismol. As such, like any horrible beverage idea, the drinker should devote no more than a few minutes, and preferably no time at all, to its namesake.

On a somewhat related note, one should never drink alone in one’s house. Particularly after writing a piece for the New Yorker. Recommendation: perhaps listening and boogeying to some George Thorogood instead.

Of course, a few theories have been tossed around about Ms. Flanagan — specifically, strange nouns. Is she a wit? Perhaps, but only if you find trivializing the service sector tantamount to a well-delivered bon mot from Oscar Wilde. Is she a wag? It depends really on who’s the dog, and it would seem that nannies are. Of course, they are too busy wagging their butts trying to contend with a privleged mother’s child. Is she a delight? Probably not, given that she’s provoked so many calm, amicable and affectionate souls to anger. Is she an utterly maddening interlocutor? Well, she’s utterly maddening. But interlocutors can be found in the pages of bad translations of Russian literature, not around the hallowed grounds of Central Park West. Although her strange questions to Ms. Donadio (“How old are you? What do you think I mean?”) lend credence to a paranoid type. We leave better minds to draw more astute conclusions.