25 March 2012
Dear Dr. Bones,
You must report for yourself, naturally, but the reason why Paddy and I prefer slumming here at Pajama Junction NJ to Classier locales full of (for example) weekly neostandardisers an’ monthly criterionmongers is mostly the prosopography. 
This seasonably chilly neosabbath morning, for example, cultivated despite and the Muses and thou and I are treated to "a freelance writer and homeschool dad for ... six children [who] also blogs."
’Tis a fine pajamatesque touch, by the way, or conceivably a subtle refinement of YaleoDrama™ic neo-art, that we should be advised at the bottom of the neospecimen’s bloggin’ that it "also blogs." Good to know for sure, at any rate, that we are not encountering the Oracles of Father Duane merely because the Face Police suddenly decided to leak them at the behest of an Employin’ Corporation. Though I suppose the Rev. does not actually possess an E. C.  It seems to me a little less than cloth-coat-Republicanine ‘respectable’ not to have an E. C. to nestle comfy under the whight wing of. I mean, if the Slackers ever decided to infiltrate the seried ranks of the Daughters of Virtue & Sons of Wisdom, L.L.C., wouldn’t we very likely pretend to be "free-lance"? That sounds a lot whighter than ‘unemployed’ does, to this tin ear, at least.
Alternatively, suppose the youngest of the brat pack is forty-seven, an’ their dear Papà is already collectin’ swill from the Ponzi Security Administration (contingencies which the product blurb does not quight rule out): well, ‘retired’ is better than ‘unemployed,’ but definitely not in the same Class with "free-lance," respectabigglewise. 
 For those of them from Rio Limbaugh, I guess that would be "the goodvolks you run into." Or better on stilts: "ABSOLUTELY the goodvolks you run into."
 Everything can be turned into a can of worms if one scrutinizes it closely enough. I trust that it does not matter for I.R.S. confiscation purposes, or to get a loan from ScroogeBank, whether some particular scribble was the fruit of freelance writin’ or only of (therapeutic self-)bloggery. A very thin line there, I presume, and one not really visible at all from as far off as 02139.
Q. ¿Does the Squire of Simon Pajama actually *pay* for such stuff?
A. ¿How should Eye know? The doin’s of the Secret Sector are, oddly enough, secret.
Q. I was wondering whether his freelordship was just sorry for the sick kids.
A. That’s SIX kidds. Six children, rather, an’ all of ’em to be presumed viable until proven otherwise.
 Wingnutettes an’ wingnuts bein’ what they are, worst- (or at least bad-) -case analysis is always advisable. Nevertheless, the Rev. Duane *could* be just gettin’ ’round to incorporatin’ himself one of these days. Sort of like that Joe the Wurzelbacher fellow whight-wingers used to bark about all the time. Once transmogrified into an LLC, the neospecimen can pose as a Hero of PettyBiz--a ¡Philanthropic Creator of Jobs!--ever after at no additional expense, even if the only salaried position actually in sight anywhere is its own. As we saw in our catechism segment, the great beauty of the Secret Sector is that hardly anythin’ at all is "actually in sight anywhere." Or won’t be after Mittens gets in.
From the standpoint of agitprop criticism, our chief concern now as always, I don’t think you can plausibly disagree that ‘Incorporated’ is at least as superior to "free-lance," as the latter is to ‘unemployed’. But let me know, please, Dr. Bones, if you want to give denial a spin.
For that matter, Father Duane could be a traditional _rentier_, relyin’ on "independent means" such as one finds mentioned (but never in gorey detail) in Victorian novels. Or one of those specifically Homeland™ic breed of neogentleman who have forgotten their [double-entry bookkeepin’].