Have you ever been at a party and had a swell time drinking fancy drinks with nifty folks and suddenly you look up, it’s 3:30 in the morning, all the cool kids have gone home, and you’re stuck on a pee-stained couch drinking vodka and milk cocktails with a pimpled, silent loser pawing your knee? That is the story of the National Review, where David Frum says he’ll no longer be writing. (In this somewhat tortured metaphor, Frum is actually one of the “cool kids,” the party is over, and you have to give Kathryn Jean Lopez a ride home and hope she doesn’t vomit in your car.) MORE »