The Lynn Hirschberg piece on M. I. A. in Sunday's New York Times magazine is a repulsive piece of work. It floats pastel balloons of faux flattery and then shoots them down with an anti-aircraft gun, with the end result a portrait of a rock star who sounds something like a fraud. Ms. Hirshberger criticizes M. I. A. for standing up for poor people while living in Brentwood. Which confuses me. Is Jerry Lewis a fraud because he doesn't live in the children's ward at Cedars Sinai? M. I. A. commiserates with women in Sri Lanka while she gives birth "in a private room in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center." What, because she's ethnic and politically-active she should just squat down and squeeze the kid out at the corner of Sunset and Doheny?

I don't get Ms. Hirschberg's implied outrage. Are you supposed to stop caring about the poor once you get rich?

Threaded through the insults, though, Ms. Hirschberg seems to have a larger plot afoot. "Wouldn't it be great," she might have thought to herself, "if I can get M. I. A. to eat something that only filthy-rich white people eat while she's spouting all that claptrap about the poor?"

She sets the stage for her plot, I'm thinking, by choosing a Beverly Wilshire Hotel restaurant for their interview. That'll fix her, Ms. Hirschberg might have thought, because they ain't serving no rice and beans there. Judging from the retaliatory recording M. I. A. put up on her website, Ms. Hirschberg makes her first move almost the second ass hits seat.

"The only thing I've ever eaten here is french fries," bubbles Ms. Hirschberg. "They have three different kinds of french fries. They have, like, truffle -- " Ms. Hirschberg's words halt abruptly here, and you imagine her swallowing her tongue. "Can't give it away! Can't tip her off!" might have flashed through her head, because she immediately backtracks. "They have like three different kinds," she seems to correct. "It's very elaborate."

At this point it sounds like there's an edit in the audio tape. Maybe this is where Ms. Hirschberg decides M. I. A. is "surprisingly petite and ladylike," because, you know, young female rappers are always butch and refrigerator-sized. Meanwhile, maybe M. I. A. peruses the menu, but still can't decide. "I'm just going to have some starter," she says.

"Get whatever you like because the New York Times is paying," says Ms. Hirschberg. You know she's got her fingers crossed, like PLEASE GOD ORDER SOME CHAMPAGNE!

Maybe M. I. A. starts talking about Sri Lanka here, or about the Tamil Tigers, or about singing while pregnant on the Grammys. And maybe Ms. Hirschberg just can't concentrate while her plot is afoot. Because her next line on M. I. A.'s recording dwells on a familiar topic. "There's one that's truffled, one that's spicy, and one that's classic. They come, like, in little baskets."

At this point, you can almost picture M. I. A. thinking, "Could you please SHUT UP about the goddamn french fries?" But Ms. Hirschberg is probably sending up flares for the nearest waiter. "Can we order the french fries?" she asks. "That come on the bar menu? The basket?"

If you're sensing desperation in all this, you are not alone.

It's possible the rest of the meal was uneventful. Perhaps at this point Ms. Hirschberg kicked her shoes off and loosened her girdle, because she knew she'd won. If M. I. A. said anything even remotely political while she was eating, Ms. Hirschberg would bag her game.

Unity holds no allure for Maya — she thrives on conflict, real or imagined. “I kind of want to be an outsider,” she said, eating a truffle-flavored French fry.

Ms. Hirschberg, I'm not sure why you're a journalist, considering M. I. A. seems to be the person who's offering the truth here. If you wanted reality in this article, you'd have added the disclaimer "that I ordered because they're really elaborate and they're, like, in little baskets and they're really, really YUMMY!!!" But no, you set up the photo and then you snapped it.

Making you a bully and a bitch.

I'll even throw in fries with that.