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The column this month is especially mean-spirited, even vicious—partly because it’s being written in the middle of another hot, muggy summer, partly because I’m still p.o.’ed from watching the political conventions, and partly because, after a little humid soul-searching, I realize that I only write this stuff for the money and because I have an ax to grind, in that order.

November 1, 1980
Richard C. Walls

Prime Time

I Don’t Like Anything

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