Charles Pierce

Charles P. Pierce is a staff writer at The Boston Globe Magazine and the author of Sports Guy and Hard to Forget: An Alzheimer's Story.

Recent Articles

Don't Know Much About History

Dear Idiots: Please, for the love of Zeus -- who's already not happy with his current low-profile, god-wise -- knock it off. The nine of us all have our problems. My sisters and I all have accounts we'd rather fob off on someone else. Look at poor Euterpe. She gets handed flute playing, an easy one-shot portfolio, and then she has to spend all of the 1970s watching over Jethro Tull. (She finally gave up after "Thick As A Brick," which she found indulgent, and that was about the time we all quit smoking dope anyway.) Then there was Erato, watching over love poetry, and everything was fine until somebody dropped Kahlil Gibran in her lap, poor dear. She wound up writing dirty limericks on the wall until we got her help. Thaleia got such a kick out of watching over comedy, and then Adam Sandler started making movies. Just this month, Urania, who'd had astronomy pretty well under control since that Galileo business blew over, had to go all the way to the Underworld to tell them down there...

Steal This Column

In 1954, Hank Ballard and the Midnighters released “Work With Me, Annie,” a song dirtier than the sub-basement of Jack Abramoff's soul. If I were a brilliant modern satirist, I would now write the following without ever referencing the song. Time might put me on its cover. The New York Observer would send me roses every couple of weeks. Steal from me, Annie. Steal from me, Annie. OO-wee, steal from me, Annie. Steal from me, Annie. Steal from me, Annie. Come take it while the takin's good. Annie, please come cheat. That'd be real, real sweet. Oo-hoo, wee-ee. So good to me. And so on. You may go take a shower now. I'll wait. Welcome back. I have begun to notice that I may be the only writer alive from whom my gal Annie Coulter, Queen Of The Ultravixens, has stolen nothing. (I know, I know, the folks at Universal Press Syndicate are standing by their girl, but look for yourself : goods are goods.) The list of her (alleged!) victims now includes not only her former staffers, and not only...

They Got Fooled

Oh, Lord, sometimes, you make the fish so big and the barrel so small. By now, anyone with both a pulse and a healthy sense of the absurd has seen the National Review 's list of the 50 Greatest Conservative Rock Songs. It is entirely possible that someone has seen it and not laughed themselves down the hall, out the door, and into the street. (I didn't stop until I got to the Berkshires.) The author, a hepcat named John J. Miller, who apparently once spun stacks of groovy wax at the Heritage Foundation, a well-known Washington juke where he grew up watching such giants as Sunnyland Feulner and Blind Lemon Rector. He emerged from these humble beginnings to the position he occupies now -- the Alan Lomax Of The Beltway Buffet. I mean, it's not easy finding the essential conservatism of Led Zeppelin's “Battle of Evermore,” but our man teases it out of Robert Plant's addled Tolkienisms. “The tyrant's face is red.” “It's hard to miss the Cold War metaphor,” writes Miller, who perhaps has...

Here Beginneth the Lesson

Just so everyone knows, I have several Personal people in my life, not including those in my immediate family, which includes my Personal Wife and all three of my Personal Children. Elsewhere, I have a Personal Agent, a Personal Mechanic, a Personal Yard Guy (twice a year), several Personal Editors, and my Personal Fencing Coach, a jovial Egyptian who weekly tries in vain to teach me a beat-Four attack with an epee and then retires outside to smoke a cigarette and wonder why the Pharaohs blew town and left him with the likes of me. I do not have a Personal Lord and Savior. Despite the attempts of television preachers, think-tank apostles, and several professional athletes to convince me otherwise, I do not want a Personal Lord and Savior, not even the most popular one ever to come out of the Nazarene artisans' community. While I have no problem with Whoever's eye is on every sparrow, and while I have indeed considered the lilies of the field -- and so has my Personal Yard Man, who...

Just Shoot Me

So, I had a bit of free time at the end of a long couple of days, and I'm floating around the Web, and I come upon this little masterpiece from the man who wrote a book about Woody Guthrie that damned near ruined Bruce Springsteen's music for all of us. Look down there, Joe. See it? Way down there below where you're at right now? That's the shark. I despair often of my Beltway brethren. Most of the time, I feel it's time to march most of them out of Washington forcibly and intern them in a work camp and re-education center somewhere in the northern Smoky Mountains. But that's just me. Occasionally, however, one comes upon such a perfect fractal symptom of the overall contagion that it seems more than worth it to start building rude huts and stocking farm implements for the eventual inmate population. Peggy Noonan and her magic dolphins were one such pustulating example a few years back. Howard Fineman on Bush's comfort in denim and ermine, or whatever the hell he was talking about,...

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