For those wondering why I haven't posted anything about Judith Miller's so-called "confessional" in yesterday's New York Times, it's because I haven't been able to focus long enough to give the article (and the one by her colleagues) the attention it warrants. It happens when you're a woman and you're 50, wink wink nudge nudge. It sucks, but it happens.
Others, however, who AREN'T suffering from menopausal brain fog, weigh in.
Farhad Manjoo in Salon is astonished that the paper allowed the already-discredited Miller to be its chief reporter on the Plame case. It's astonishing that in the aftermath of "parsing the definition of 'is'", people associated with the case are still insisting that referring to "Joseph Wilson's wife" or "Valerie Flame" isn't "naming" her:
...it's actually of little importance whether Libby ever uttered the words "Valerie Plame" in his chats with Miller. By pointing out that Joe Wilson's wife worked for the CIA, Libby was clearly identifying Plame even if he wasn't naming her. And identifying an undercover operative to a reporter may constitute a violation of the 1982 Intelligence Identities Protection Act, the law that many observers have long presumed the prosecutor is focusing on.
John Aravosis wonders why Kneepads was granted a "secret" security clearance, and what agreement she might have made with the Administration in order to get it. This makes her look no better than Armstrong Williams.
Kevin Drum thinks the path of the outing runs from Frederick Fleitz to John Bolton to Novakula and Miller.
Joe Gandelman thinks Miller is full of shit when she claims she can't remember who told her about Valerie Plame.
I tend to agree...and I wonder for whom she's still covering.
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