GMontag's Journal: More fame than it deserves by Harold C. Hutchison

One guy still thinks that Eve Fairbanks, the new Stephen Glass of The New Republic, is getting a bad rap for fabricating an article and failing to notify her "dates" that they were really on interviews for an article.

More fame than it deserves... by Harold C. Hutchison at Called As Seen

Begins by calling my complaint "baseless", and he goes on to give us his logic.

I have no objections as to the accuracy of her article - to my knowledge, the parts about me are quite accurate, given the situation. I consider it a great privledge to have met her, no matter what the circumstances behind that meeting were, and I hope that she and I will be able to renew our acquaintance under circumstances that will allow us to keep in touch.

Also, Harold is under the impression that Eve can not respond to us. Well, I did not block her out of this forum. No telling what Harold has done. He has responded on the publication's website. Comments can be made on the article at The New Republic, registeration required. I chose not to sign up.

Look, Harold, she did not write any details about you, whoever you are in the article. Just because you did not spot a lie about you does not mean there aren't any in the article.

If you are 'Flapjacks' we know this:

I'd read that my second date was a writer and a lover of World War II military history, like myself. And yet, upon meeting him, I felt as disoriented as Twain's Yankee in King Arthur's court: I had left home for our date and suddenly found myself, as though coming to after a knockout blow, in an International House of Pancakes in Virginia. Fratty-looking guys overflowed the booths. There was a fellow across from me, fresh out of "The Office." "The 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' star was important during the Columbine shootings," Flapjacks was saying.

"What? Sarah Michelle Gellar?" It turns out she likes guns, and Flapjacks works for the National Rifle Association, and he has opinions on that, as well as many other things, such as immigration, gay marriage, and Tom Clancy. "You know the one thing that really gets me?" he would say, and then he was off. Unlike the night before, I couldn't bring anything to this date; he needed a true believer. So we staggered on. After a time, we came to the sprawling menu, a landscape of pillowy waffles laid out against vast bacon skies, cliffs of jagged, glistening potatoes, and winding rivers of syrup. "Two eggs?" I proposed.

"Country-fried steak, eggs with cheese, a stack of pancakes, and hot chocolate with whipped cream," he replied.

And yet, toward the end of the date, Flapjacks made a surprising confession: Secretly, he hates Michelle Malkin.

So she refrained from slamming IHOP (perhaps she is shooting for a NYT position?), left out any description of you and she got the eggs right? Hell, she got the martinis right on my date, but precious little else. No matter what you wish to think.

Howard Kurtz even has her on record with MY description of what she wore, rather than the description that she wrote in the article.

He also has her with a moronic quote right after I am quoted calling her a "dimwit".

She does not even use the "just following orders" defense that you fabricated for her.

After writing about 'Flapjacks' she then goes on to call my 1972 V8 318 MOPAR a freaking hybrid and pretends that it is a quote from me.

Shooter told me he drives a hybrid car.

At least she did not fabricate me as a Jeff Gordon fan.

If you are Bourbon, we know this:

For my last date, I planned to meet a young Southern lawyer--a man who claims his interests include dueling and buffalo meat--at a funky bourbon bar. We met on a hot Sunday evening and sat outside on a claustrophobic patio. All around us, skinny, bespectacled hipsters were draped idly over their chairs, like sloths in a zoo exhibit. As we chatted, Bourbon and I seemed to become aware that, unlike my other dates, each of us seemed a little too similar to the people at the next table for comfort. "How is it for you," he asked pointedly, "being a conservative in Washington?"

"How come you don't have a Southern accent?" I retorted.

Bourbon, it turned out, did not merely possess one anti-conservative trait. He listened to an avant-garde form of post-rock. He loved show tunes. And, in the middle of our bowl of curly fries, he revealed that he helped maintain a fan site devoted to Tai Shan, the baby panda at the National Zoo. We might as well have met through peta.

It seemed as though ConservativeMatch had failed completely. But later, when I returned home, I looked up my date's website. It was a plea for Tai Shan not to be deported to Red China.

Not much there either. Wanna tell us what could possibly be messed up from the account you were in? Maybe she left out that Bourbon is really Stephen Glass who helped her make up the article?

Eve Fairbanks also writes for The Examiner