New York writers (and writers who tend to write for New York publications, but live in, say, Paris) tend to exhibit a strange literary tic that involves inserting "my good friend" before recognizable names—or, more often, finding recognizable names to insert after "my good friend" and deftly working them into whatever they happen to be writing or casual conversation. For example:

Christopher Hitchens: Myyyyyy good friend, Emile Zola...
Edit: Zola is dead, Chris.
Hitchens: Myyyyyy good friend, the late Emile Zola...
Edit: Dead since 1902.
Hitchens: Myyyyyy good friend, Salman Rushdie...

In media, the my good friend (MGF) invocation often precedes the swift and violent insertion of a sharp metal object into the recognizable name's rear torso. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

We were going to leave this week's Bernie Weinraub piece to FishbowlLA to dismantle, but everyone else has already dismantled it along the expected lines and besides, we found another angle that was far more important. Instead of writing about Weinraub's article, we'll write about people writing about Weinraub's article. Like Nikki Finke, who exhibits clear signs of MGF syndrome, invoking her relationship with Weintraub ("my pal"=Los Angelese for "my good friend") early and often in her critique of his farewell piece:

First, let me fully disclose that I won't be attacking my pal Bernie personally over what is a beautifully written, though emotionally befuddled, look back at his 14 years inside and outside the entertainment business. (I'm especially sad that he revealed that incident in which he fell asleep during an interview with Jim Carrey, because I used it to blackmail him almost daily.) But for days now, my answering machine and e-mail have been filled with "What did you think of it?" messages, so I feel compelled to publicly examine Bernie's 2,800-word tale of his Hollywood-style seduction.