Judy Miller is stoned out of her fucking mind. (That’s a technical term from the late ’60s/early ’70s. I know. I was there. I recognize the symptoms. Intimately.)

Read the excerpts below from the WAPO article about her called The Reporter’s Last Take
In an Era of Anonymous Sources, Judy Miller Is a Cautionary Tale of the Times by Lynne Duke if you doubt this. Ms Duke may have her own agenda…after all, not only is it now pile-on time regarding the whole BushCo/Iraq fiasco, but WAPO is the NY Times’ main rival and Ms. Duke would probably like nothing better than to take Judy down a notch or ten just on general principles. (Seems like everyone ELSE in the journalism world would like to do so…why not her as well?)

Anyway…read on.

If you have never known a high-strung person on uppers or have never yourself indulged in the peculiarly painful pleasures of that class of drugs…trust me. Clean and sober for 25 years, and I STILL remember it as if it was yesterday.

She is stoned out of her MIND.

Believe it.

…she says emphatically, almost frantically, her crusading eyes brimming with tears. [end, sob, sob]

This is off the record,” she’s saying, her voice high and nasal.

“My fan club from Paris,” she chirps into the phone, in English, before switching to a mix of French and Arabic.

…a parade of Judys appears. Outraged Judy. Saddened Judy. Charming Judy. Wise Judy. Conspiratorial Judy. Judy, the star New York Times reporter turned beleaguered victim of the gossipmongers and some journalists who have made her “sick to death of the regurgitation of lies and easily checkable falsehoods.”

It goes on like this for three hours. She answers questions — or refuses. She turns the tables, asking about her interviewer’s life. She takes calls. She grabs the tape recorder. She waxes eloquent, even in anger. At times, tears well up. There’s something frantic about her —

Her former colleagues use all manner of adjectives to describe Miller, but there is consensus among some two dozen people interviewed that she is, indeed, a volatile person.

Volcanic might be the better word. She erupts. She is known to holler at newsroom clerks, to berate hotel staff while on the road, several colleagues said.

Even in her social life, she is known as a charming hostess at dinner parties with her husband, publishing icon Jason Epstein, a founder of the New York Review of Books — except when there’s an eruption and they start sniping at each other. The explosions pass quickly, and they return to their charming selves.

“But I will make no apologies for my continuous commitment, my desire to pursue stories about threats to our country,” she says emphatically, almost frantically, her crusading eyes brimming with tears.

I’m sorry.

Drugs.

Time release, prescription uppers at the very LEAST.

It goes on like this for three hours. She answers questions — or refuses. She turns the tables, asking about her interviewer’s life. She takes calls. She grabs the tape recorder. She waxes eloquent, even in anger. At times, tears well up. There’s something frantic about her —

More likely, she is on the good ol’ upper class pharmcological carousel. Up, then down. Up, then down. Can’t have one without the…other(s). ‘Round and ’round we go, where we stop even the good Doctor doesn’t know. OR care. As long as he’s paid, Dr, Feelgood (brother to Doctor Big Brother) will keep you going at whatever speed you most desire and can afford to dial in.

She is RACING!!!

With a father who was a mobbed-up, show biz frontman…and if you think the description of her father as someone who “once owned and operated a swank nightclub in the 1940s, called Bill Miller’s Riviera, high on a cliff in Fort Lee, N.J., where Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and a young Sammy Davis Jr. played. Later, he was credited with invigorating the lounge acts at several Las Vegas hotels, bringing in Mae West, Louis Prima, Sonny and Cher and — yes, even Elvis for a long run of sold-out shows.” isn’t the very PICTURE of a mob connected frontman, I’ve got SEVERAL bridges to sell you. (He was even connected to that execrable mob arm breaker, taker of dives and eventual heroin overdoser Sonny Liston…you could look it up. Bad, BAD people.)..and a mother who had been a dancer in ANOTHER mobbed-up club owned by Barbara Walters’ dear daddy Lou, the INFAMOUSLY mob infested Latin Quarter in NYC. (And I can PERSONALLY attest to that…I worked there as a musician and saw the whole game, up close and in my face.)

“Miss Run Amok”.

Yup.

Judith Miller.

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Run, Judy, run.

And her lovely (and OH so wealthy) consort Jason Epstein.

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Class of ’49, Columbia College.

That makes him…what? About 80 years old?

Nasty piece of business, this woman.

Nasty.

And THIS is what spins our country?

Into wars?

Spins policy that murders babies?

Sad.

VERY sad.

The Times, the media, the entire United States of Sleeping Fucking America ought the hang its head in shame.

Even I am ashamed, and I NEVER bought into the scam.

Not for a minute.

Not since Vietnam and JFK’s assassination.

And I am STILL ashamed.

I feel shame when I simply walk past a newstand these days.

If I turn on the TV.

Shame

SHAME on us.

Shame

AG