I spent all day putting the final touches on the syllabus for my fall course in Restoration and 18th-Century British Lit, so forgive me for culling more LJ material from elsewhere than my own brain, because my brain is weary, and indulge me in thinking that the following New Yorker piece is freaking hilarious, because it is not often that the culture panders to those of us with an intimate knowledge of both bad ’80s television and the work of James Boswell.
To those several critics who, with but the most superficial knowledge, accuse Don Johnson of haughty and peremptory behavior, I reply that my friend has long suffered from a recurring melancholia, brought on by the exigencies of a career that no critic could ever sustain. In addition, I submit that Don Johnson became (through no fault of his own) a man of painfully divided loyalties: on the one hand, he belonged to the city while, on the other hand, he belonged to the night. We can only imagine the agonies of doubt this must have occasioned within him, as his mind turned first toward the one indebtedness, [and] then toward the other. Moreover, Don Johnson has been troubled at irregular intervals by a very rare disorder whereby the reflections of street lamp cross the lenses of his spectacles in dizzying succession and deafening airs from popular operettas fill his ears. That he has managed even the smallest degree of civility in the face of such impediments I consider a remarkable feat.
Link courtesy of the ever-vigilant folks at Bookslut.