I know, I know, citizens of the Scruggs Nation, I know. You will see this post and be stricken with nostalgia for the days of the 20,000-word Scruggs Nation posts, the ones that took me five hours to write, the days when the feds were rattling, the Scruggs was battling and Dickie’s friends were skedaddling. Time moves on, however, and we deal with the world as it is.
Yes, you say, but you should at least headline this post with the Scruggs Lite designation, as it is not a full-blown employment of creative powers, not a worthy successor to the Scruggs Nation line. And to that I say this: I considered this, but thought the headline might be misinterpreted as applying to the quality of the New Yorker article on Scruggs that I am going to talk about today. And it is a fine story, so I would not wish to give this impression.
As you may recall, this story came out about the time I was headed to Florida and also when I hit a particularly nightmarish patch of extreme busyness, which continues in full force. So I did not read the New Yorker article until Dunn Carney’s marketing director, Marjory Morford, left a copy on my chair one day last week. Although I am a subscriber, I couldn’t find that issue at home, which is not entirely surprising — I have a 4-year-old daughter who likes those little subscription cards that fall out of the magazine when you open it, and she may have walked off with it and hidden it in her private library, wherever that happens to be at the time.