He began every day with a naked woman

Andrew Klavan has a new short story in the current City Journal which is posted on their website.

For those of you who are unacquanted with Mr. Klavan he is a sucessful novelist and screenwriter (works include Don't Say A Word and True Crime) and is one of the small, but growing, number of Hollywood personalities willing to publically admit to being a conservative.

It is said that conservatives in TV, the radio and internet do not do enough to support the work of conservatives in the arts.  There is much truth in this.  When, for example, was the last time you saw Sean Hannity or Glenn Beck invite a conservative writer, director or actor on their television show to discuss their latest project?

Conservatives need to do more than just complain about how left-wing the entertainment industry is.  They need to aggressively support other conservatives when they venture into the arts.

To that end I highly recomend that you pop over to City Journal and read The Windows.  Here is a taste:

He began every day with a naked woman. FemArt.com had a new one each week. He didn’t subscribe to the site. The free 30-second sample video was enough. Explicit, even exploratory, without being overtly sexual or pornographic. Just a nude girl or sometimes two posing or laughing or running on a beach or through the grass or by a lake or near a railroad track. Not the likeliest scenarios, admittedly—he sometimes pitied the women for the harsh stones or gritty sand against their bare flesh—but their images beguiled his imagination and brought him to life.



Then there was e-mail. Notes from the Fever Swamp. Fears; conspiracies; dire predictions. I hear my upstairs neighbors whispering at night. . . . The president is one of them. . . . It’s all foretold in Revelation. . . . They have the materials they need for the Times Square attack. . . .



Sometimes there was a personal threat as well. There was one today, in fact. We’re getting closer, Stein. You can count your days on a single hand. A single finger maybe. . . .