Tony Hendra

Tony Hendra is an author, actor and author of Father Joe: The Man Who Saved My Soul.

Recent Articles

Gated Community

So finally they are gone from our exquisite and majestic rus in urbe -- the collective obscenities of the collective ego of Mr. and Ms. Christo.

What were they supposed to symbolize, these thousands of dishrags hanging from their thousands of kitchen rails? The rigid banality of the urban fabric, gridding and right-angling the rich asymmetry of life into mathematical oblivion? That it's hip, yet again, to be square? Were these emergency signs warning us of a multiple collision just up the highway of American culture? Were they intended to remind us of the jumpsuits worn by the humans we are slowly murdering at Guantanamo Bay?

Or were they just the color of Ms. Christo's hair?

Gated Community

So finally they are gone from our exquisite and majestic rus in urbe -- the collective obscenities of the collective ego of Mr. and Ms. Christo.

What were they supposed to symbolize, these thousands of dishrags hanging from their thousands of kitchen rails? The rigid banality of the urban fabric, gridding and right-angling the rich asymmetry of life into mathematical oblivion? That it's hip, yet again, to be square? Were these emergency signs warning us of a multiple collision just up the highway of American culture? Were they intended to remind us of the jumpsuits worn by the humans we are slowly murdering at Guantanamo Bay?

Or were they just the color of Ms. Christo's hair?

Quis Papem?

Pope John Paul II's brief illness this week brought into the open a debate that has been raging for years in the sanctified corridors of the Vatican: Who will be the next pope? Rome's College of Cardinals has been burning up the DSLs (Divine Subscriber Lines), and cardinals across the world say lobbying and intriguing in the race to succeed the pope has gotten white hot. Several “papabile,” or electable candidates, have emerged:

1. Belgian Jean-Paul Georges Ringaud, cardinal archbishop of the sprawling industrial diocese of Sprout to the east of Brussels, is widely considered to be the standard-bearer for the left-liberal wing of the Church.

That New-Time Religion

My Fellow Democrats,

The tears have dried, the postmortems have been laid to rest, the Zoloft prescriptions have been refilled, the property listings in Canada/Ireland/Costa Rica/Paris/ Prague/Auckland are in the wastebasket. Now that everyone's come back to earth, let me say this: For the third time in four years, the party I am honored to lead has won a great victory. A victory of principle. And with victory comes the question immortalized by the end of that great Democratic movie The Candidate: Now what do we do?

Surprise, Surprise

Sunday, Zero-Minus-10

Dubya, I have a dream. A recurrent dream. No, a nightmare.

You and me are standing on the White House roof -- it's like it's got a widow's walk or something. We can see for miles. There's gazillions of security moms in rank upon rank all the way to the horizon, screaming like Beatles fans, doing the wave, clapping and yelling for you, the guy who kept them safe from terrorism for four years and will for four more.

Suddenly a 50-story Richard Clarke comes stomping down Pennsylvania Avenue, bellowing so loud you can hear him clear across a dozen states. “I apologize to the victims of September 11!” he thunders. “Your government failed you!”

And all those gazillions of security moms go real quiet.

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