What’s there to say about James Crossley’s new book? Not much. Misguided in every aspect of its intention, actually misguided at its core, this resolute display of polemic masks ambitions the author will never realize. His targets? Media hounds, bloggers, and academics, all who supposedly share a lot in common despite their opposite politics. If you’re a biblioblogger who has stereotyped or attacked Arabs in any way, if your reporting of hot-button items (like the Temple Mount) even remotely smacks of partisanship, or if you’ve refused to openly condemn Anglo-American foreign policy given half a chance, then you’ve probably taken a hit or two in this book.
Take the insufferable Loren Rosson. You can get a pretty good idea as to how he is critiqued in his own review for the Nashua Public Library. Loren’s review is kind enough, but then why shouldn’t it be? His politics are almost as bad as Crossley’s, so it’s hard to understand the fuss between them. Crossley doesn’t like stereotypes? Too bad. If he spent a considerable amount of time living abroad in various areas he’d feel differently. Loren respects those he stereotypes? Good. He can go back to Africa and stay there.
It burns me to see liberal multiculturalists set apart in debate, when underneath the smoke-and-mirrors they’re essentially on the same page. I’ve complained about Loren and the Context Group in the past. Crossley is no better. He shoves reality into the dirt and pounds it to within an inch of its life. When the screed is over, we’re left feeling raped, having endured 199 pages, ultimately, for what? A crash course in Political Correctness 101? How to be good little anti-Zionists? To be impressed by the way Crossley scores points against countless bloggers, while going to bat for (of all people) Jim West? To learn that the “Jewish Jesus” isn’t so Jewish that he doesn’t feed supersessionist interests? (Bill Arnal already taught us that.) Patronizing nonsense, all of it, but bound to find favor in circles that send me running to the nearest office of the Euston Manifesto.
Skip this crazed monstrosity and read a cheap spy novel instead. I couldn’t get through it without interludes of exercise and fresh air, and I’m still feeling soiled.