無法獲得中國記者證的《紐約時報》猶太裔"記者" Chris Buckley 是骷髏會的成員 !
早在2008 - 2009年 ，我國的國際形象飽受西方媒體妖魔化, 當時國家任人魚肉, 苦無對策, 如今，很高興看到中國這樣充滿信心不給這些長期在中國境內寫蓄意醜化中國的文章的外國記者發簽證, 把這些外國記者置於死地 ! 國家玩這招已玩得非常純熟,
這些外國混蛋也確實無符 ! 雖然明報說這是報復報導溫家寶貪腐 , so what ? 重點是: 你們想要在中國混下去,
必須遵守中國的遊戲規則, 而不是要中國遵守你們的遊戲規則 ! 中國沒有驅逐錯人, 西媒和香港那些反共反華媒體"老作", 說
其實不是 ! 如果真的是明報說這是報復報導溫家寶貪腐, 中國應該驅逐那篇文章的作者, 但中國沒有, 那篇文章的作者仍然在中國, 反之, 維基百科說 Chris Buckley 是骷髏會的成員 !
這是報復報導溫家寶貪腐 !
其實不是 ! 如果真的是明報說這是報復報導溫家寶貪腐, 中國應該驅逐那篇文章的作者, 但中國沒有, 那篇文章的作者仍然在中國, 反之, 維基百科說 Chris Buckley 是骷髏會的成員 !
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紐時記者續證受阻 攜眷抵港過年
- 17小時前
【明報專訊】繼半島電視台駐北京記者陳嘉韻
因無法續簽記者簽證被迫離開中國後，《紐約時報》新入職記者儲百亮（圖）也因無法獲得記者證，昨日攜妻女抵達香港，等待審批，《紐時》對此表示遺憾。《紐
時》在十八大召開前刊文報道國務院總理溫家寶家人擁有巨額財產後，有傳聞稱官方要求停辦新任《紐時》記者證件的消息，但撰寫溫家財產新聞的巴博薩等原已在
內地工作的《紐時》記者，在這篇報道刊登後仍獲續簽簽證。
儲百亮（Chris
Buckley）昨日向本報證實，由於他原有簽證過期，且官方遲遲未審批新的記者簽證，已經在中國報道新聞15年的他，昨日離開中國大陸到達香港。他的妻
子、女兒的簽證都是依附於他的記者簽證，因此她們也必須隨儲一同離開。儲表示，他仍想留在中國工作，但拒絕透露更多信息。曾向溫總提問王立軍事件
儲百亮自1997年開始在中國從事新聞工作，去年10月15日加入《紐約時報》，此前供職於路透社。在十八大前夕的政治新聞報道中，路透社較為活 躍，儲也參加其中。去年3月全國「兩會」期間，正是儲向總理溫家寶提問對王立軍事件後的重慶領導層是否還有信心，這一問題引出溫對薄熙來極為嚴厲的批評， 薄在次日被撤去重慶市委書記一職。
《悉尼先驅晨報》報道稱，儲在行內以「視角平衡與有毅力」著稱。
總編表遺憾 促盡快審批
《紐時》執行總編艾布蘭森（Jill Abramson） 昨日回覆本報電郵查詢稱，《紐時》不止一次請求中國當局續簽儲百亮的記者簽證，但儲仍被迫離開中國大陸，報社對此表示遺憾。她希望當局能盡快給儲審批簽證。
她還希望當局盡快審批另一新入職記者潘公凱（Philip Pan）的簽證。原定接任《紐時》北京記者站站長的潘公凱（Philip Pan），約9個月前已提交記者證申請，但至今仍在香港等待審批。
《紐時》曾披露溫家財產
去年10月下旬，《紐時》記者巴博薩（David Barboza）出版長篇報道，披露溫家寶家人的財產狀况，引來中方強烈不滿。有傳聞稱，潘、儲兩人簽證不獲批，是當局對《紐時》的報復。
外國駐華記者續簽記者簽證時，通常需要先獲發記者證以申請新簽證，全過程需時約兩周，若更換工作機構，簽證續簽則需時1至2個月。當局過往亦曾拖延 審批記者簽證，並且不說明原因。去年5月，半島電視台駐京記者陳嘉韻（Melissa Chan）因為簽證無法續簽，被迫離開中國。無國界記者去年1月公布新聞自由指數，中國在179個國家與地區中排名174。
明報記者
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Christopher Taylor Buckley (born December 24, 1952)[2] is an American political satirist and the author of novels including God Is My Broker, Thank You for Smoking, Little Green Men, The White House Mess, No Way to Treat a First Lady, Wet work, Florence of Arabia, Boomsday, Supreme Courtship, Losing Mum and Pup: A Memoir and, most recently, They Eat Puppies, Don't They?: A Novel. He is the son of William F. Buckley Jr. and Patricia Buckley and inherited Canadian citizenship through his mother.
After a classical education at the Portsmouth Abbey School,[3] Buckley graduated from Yale University in 1975. [4] He was a member of Skull and Bones like his father, living at Jonathan Edwards College.[5]:173 He became managing editor of Esquire Magazine.
In 1981, he moved to Washington, D.C., to work as chief speechwriter for Vice President George H. W. Bush.[6] This experience led to his novel The White House Mess, a satire on White House office politics and political memoirs. (The title refers to the White House lunchroom, which is known as the "mess" because the Navy operates it.)
Thank You for Smoking is another satire, its protagonist a lobbyist for the tobacco industry, Nick Naylor. He followed that with more humor about Washington in the form of Little Green Men, about the government agency investigating UFO sightings. His No Way To Treat A First Lady has the president's wife on trial for assassinating her husband and Florence of Arabia is about a do-gooding State Department bureaucrat in the Middle East. His one serious novel, Wet work, is about a billionaire businessman avenging his granddaughter's death from drugs.
Thank You for Smoking was adapted into a movie written and directed by Jason Reitman, and starring Aaron Eckhart. It was released on 17 March 2006.
Buckley also wrote the non-fiction Steaming To Bamboola, about the merchant marine, as well as contributed to an oral history of Milford, Connecticut, and is an editor at Forbes Magazine. Buckley has written for many national newspapers and magazines, including The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, Time, The Atlantic Monthly, Smithsonian, US News & World Report, Vanity Fair, Vogue, Conde Nast Traveler and numerous humorous essays in The New Yorker.full text : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Buckley_%28novelist%29
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Chris Buckley 的Twitter帳戶顯示他精通中文: https://twitter.com/ChuBailiang
=========================================被迫離開中國的真正原因可能是他這本書 :
光是這本書的書名和
封面圖片就足以讓
中國不高興 !
==========================================Dragon Bait
By ALIDA BECKER
By Christopher Buckley
335 pp. Twelve. $25.99.
Sun Tzu’s Chinese classic, “The Art of War,” gets quite a workout in Christopher Buckley’s latest uproarious political farce, fervently quoted by strivers and schemers in both Beijing and Washington. But while baiting seems to be a highly developed skill on each side, crushing may be only a distant dream — because the disorder in these capitals is hardly feigned. What else could result from a plot that involves desperate aerospace lobbyists, not entirely reliable not-so-secret agents, die-hard capitalist and Communist militarists, the United States equestrian team, a meth lab, Civil War re-enactors and Tibetan Buddhism? Far more apt to cite what one of the Americans calls Rumsfeld’s maxim: “If you can’t solve a problem, make it bigger.”
“Big” is the operative word for the predator drone the size of a commercial jet that’s being flogged by Walter (Bird) McIntyre on behalf of an Alabama-based military-industrial behemoth. So when the unfortunately named Dumbo is shot down by a Congressional committee, Bird and his boss go even bigger, attempting to inflame anti-Chinese sentiment so they can sell the government on Project Taurus, a high-tech weapon system so clandestine its mere name provokes shudders. And yet, as Bird quickly discovers, manufacturing this kind of outrage is a distinct challenge: “It was hard, really, to put any kind of definite face on China. The old Soviet Union, with its squat, warty leaders banging their shoes on the U.N. podium and threatening thermonuclear extinction, all those vodka-swollen, porcine faces squinting from under sable hats atop Lenin’s Tomb as nuclear missiles rolled by like floats in a parade from hell — those Commies at least looked scary. But on the rare occasion when the nine members of China’s Politburo Standing Committee, the men who ruled 1.3 billion people — one-fifth of the world’s population — lined up for a group photo, they looked like a delegation of identical, overpaid dentists.”
And, sure enough, when Buckley shifts the scene to the party leadership’s enclave near Tiananmen Square, the president of the People’s Republic, Fa Mengyao, is revealed to be a mild-mannered, self-effacing centrist suffering from mostly mundane afflictions: indigestion, insomnia and an inability to quit smoking. If anyone could be said to specialize in the political equivalent of a root canal, it’s his minister of state security and minister of national defense, who will soon be drawn into a potentially catastrophic rivalry not only with President Fa but with their opposite numbers across the Pacific, thanks to Bird’s light-bulb moment: “The Dalai Lama is the one thing having to do with China that Americans actually care about.” And if His Holiness’s recent bout with what appears to be “a bad clam” or a stomach bug can be repositioned as a poisoning attempt by the Chinese (“Who needs evidence when you’ve got the Internet?”), Bird will be on his way to creating “the biggest martyr since Anne Frank.”
Assisting in — and quickly commandeering — this effort is Angel Templeton, “tall, blond, buff, leggy, miniskirted” and the very public face of a Washington think tank called the Institute for Continuing Conflict. (“We’re not,” she coyly explains, “really into deterrence at ICC.”) Semi-cowed, Bird attempts to impress Angel by dropping hints about the Taurus project, wild inventions (or are they?) inspired by the texts of the unpublishable novels he bangs out at night, full of “manly men with names like Turk and Rufus, of terrible yet really cool weapons.” Which prove irresistible to this single mother of an 8-year-old named Barry (as in Goldwater) who gets to spend weekends at the Aberdeen Proving Ground firing M1 Abrams tanks while Mom is busy busting up Bird’s marriage to a ferocious equestrienne whose major ambition is to compete for the Tang Cup — in Xian, China.
Buckley bounces the action back and forth between Beijing and Washington, with each side placing frantic calls to Henry Kissinger. Weekends are spent at Bird’s picturesque farm in the Virginia horse country, an establishment that also shelters his widowed mother (an Alzheimer’s patient devoted to the reality-television show “1,000 Stupid Ways to Die”), his younger brother (a Civil War buff who has adopted the persona of a Confederate cavalry colonel) and a dentally challenged caretaker (who may be responsible for the strange odor emanating from the woods). A Taiwanese shrimp boat, the Cleveland Clinic, the Cheyenne Mountain Norad base and the “braying jocularity” of a private club offer more opportunities for plot enrichment, but Buckley seems to have the most fun using them as pretexts for amusing asides. “E-mails were the new herpes: you were never rid of them.” “He knew this much: After eight years of marriage a wife possessed better sonar than a submarine.” And, from the increasingly harried Bird, “Is being a novelist considered some kind of disability?”
Buckley clearly doesn’t think so. And in conjuring a world in which the besieged leaders of China and America wind up as surreptitious best friends while using the combined forces of religion and warfare to produce an “elegant solution” to their tension-filled standoff, he’s offering a few hours of comic respite from a real world in which even domestic cooperation seems increasingly fantastical. “The difficulty of tactical maneuvering,” one of his characters reflects, quoting Sun Tzu yet again, “consists in turning the devious into the direct, and misfortune into gain.” On the evidence here, Buckley finds the devious far more appealing than the direct, but he’s got the misfortune-into-gain part utterly handled.
Alida Becker is an editor at the Book Review.
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Christopher Buckley’s satirical novels do not normally prompt cognitive dissonance. But there’s something jolting at work in his latest, “They Eat Puppies, Don’t They?” This book means to be funny, but it’s about China, currently one of the least funny places on earth. It’s not a period piece, but it is badly dated. Much of its charm is derived from a heroine who seems modeled on Ann Coulter. Much of its hilarity comes from contemplating how to kill off the Dalai Lama and what to do with his corpse.
This time Mr. Buckley, that reliable source of superbly erudite chuckles, seems to have been body-snatched by a snobbish and lazy twin. It seems impossible that the sly boots behind “Thank You for Smoking” could write dialogue like “Helen Keller could connect those dots” or “They’re more nervous about China than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
To be fair, Mr. Buckley’s vocabularic gifts remain consummate, especially when it comes to elegant Latin versions of less elegant English lingo. So perhaps the problem lies with his decision to depict Sino-American relations as creakily hostile. There are characters in “They Eat Puppies, Don’t They?” who regret the winning of the cold war, and they don’t entirely seem to be joking.
The book’s main character is Bird McIntyre, a defense industry lobbyist who cooks up ultra-virile, ultra-bad adventure novels in his Walter Mittyesque imagination. Lobbyist? Bad writing? The heart soars at such prospects from Mr. Buckley, and at his dependably anthropological grasp of Washington manners. (“Perception problem,” the book points out, is “Washington-speak for ‘reality.’ ”)
It also helps that Bird works for a company — called Groepping-Sprunt, thanks to Mr. Buckley’s rare gift for dreaming up credibly ludicrous names — that could better its fortunes by secretly stirring up trouble.
“Not since the end of the cold war had so many military been given the heave-ho,” Mr. Buckley writes, adding that the pensioning off of admirals and generals adds up to “an aggregate of over 300 stars so far.” International hostilities could provide a shot in the arm to the missile business, whatever the collateral damage that comes with it, though nobody in the book is saying, à la “Dr. Strangelove,” that we wouldn’t get our hair mussed.
Still, “They Eat Puppies, Don’t They?” acknowledges its obvious debt to “Strangelove” for plot inspiration.
The story connects Bird with one of America’s most bellicose political showboats, Angel Templeton, the long-legged, outlandishly flirty head of something called the Institute for Continuing Conflict. (There’s another of Mr. Buckley’s inspired strokes of nomenclature.)
Angel dresses like a dominatrix and writes books with titles like “The Case for Preemptive War: Taking the ‘Re-’ Out of Retaliation.” She likes to pick fights on political talk shows and has lots of enemies, like the grieving military mothers who throw their offspring’s Purple Hearts at her.
“You know you’re doing your job when they have to bring you in through the basement,” she says on her way into a television studio.
Mr. Buckley’s previous book was “Losing Mum and Pup,” a nonfiction account of how he weathered the deaths of his parents, William F. Buckley and Patricia Taylor Buckley. In light of that, it’s hard to know what to make of the fact that Angel Templeton sounds oddly like his father, speaking of “the dewy-eyed freshmen in the cushy groves of academe” and using words like “persiflage” in casual conversation.
Even weirder is that Comrade President Fa Mengyao, president of the People’s Republic of China and general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party, has nightmares about seeing the face of his dead father on a dumpling that Fa has, to his horror, devoured.
This novel’s main har-har involves the way Bird and Angel elevate a minor news report about the Dalai Lama into American suspicions that the Chinese are trying to kill the man Bird calls “a 75-year-old sweetie pie with glasses, plus the sandals and the saffron robe and the hugging and the mandalas and the peace and harmony and the reincarnation and nirvana. All that. We can’t get enough of him.”
Meanwhile, China’s leaders are so old school that they are free of the headline-making dissidents and corruption scandals that plague them today. They behave like pure totalitarian stereotypes, scheme about the Dalai Lama and make laughable mistakes about American culture. They think this country’s best-known humor show is called “Saturday Night Liver.”
The Chinese aspects of “They Eat Puppies, Don’t They?” are disappointing. Mr. Buckley’s satirical insights about American-Chinese relations were worth looking forward to, but they will have to stay that way.
The most hackneyed parts of this book are those depicting Bird as the henpecked husband of an ambitious horsewoman named Myndi, who wants him to pay for expensive animals so that she can qualify for the United States Equestrian Team. Not much could be more trite than Bird’s using “Ride of the Valkyries” as his ringtone for Myndi when she calls.
“They Eat Puppies, Don’t They?” is an oddball title for this book. It will make some readers mindful of Chinese consumption of dog meat. But it also recalls the 1969 film “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?,” what with Myndi and her hobby. When a McIntyre horse develops an injured tendon, Bird finds himself “fantasizing about dog food factories and the excellent work they do.”
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