Why the NY Times needs a cranio-enema

Hey, remember when that guy totally made up those stories about stuff so he could stay home in Brooklyn and be bipolar? And remember when that lady said we had weapons of mass destruction because some guy said the other guy over there in the hat was pointing at the evidence? And remember... well, pretty much anything Alessandra Stanley's ever written? These fact-challenged moments were all brought to you by the New York Times, the standard in American journalism, which explains so much of the state American journalism is in. And like the news itself -- wait a day and there'll be a fresh batch -- the NYT will always be on tap for another screwup. Why? What's broken with these people? Gawker's got a gorgeous example of how arrogance, contempt and dimwittery combine in an office full of people high on their own effluvia. And folks wonder how Stewart, Colbert and the blogosphere became trusted news sources.

Of course, it's not entirely the fault of arrogant, underinformed writers and editors. The people who run these enterprises are ghouls as well, as Gawker documents. On fire today, Gawker. (Follow that link, BTW, to read a terrific piece by Brayden Simms outlining how "management" did him over on that job. He makes the point that the only safe person in publishing is a freelancer; he's all too correct there.)

But why limit it to Yahoo?

Many years ago, I interviewed at Yahoo for an editorial position; I realized about three hours into the two-day interview that there was no freaking way I would be seating myself in that particular kissing booth. (You know you're walking into a bad scene when the first question you ask your first interviewer precipitates a cascade of Carlin-level cursing. And yes, the following two days were awk-ward.) But I know good folks over there, so it pains me to see the need for the Rezinr. I said pains, not surprises. In case you were wondering what the 2.0 version of FuckedCompany.com was gonna look like.

You should be following: Tiny Ghosts

Because once a week is not too often to chance having your heart ripped out of your body. Go.

Also, candlesticks make a nice gift

Sooner or baseball is a metaphor for just about every aspect of life. In the clip below, baseball is a metaphor for your average editorial meeting: A clusterfuck with one put-out Nebraskan in the middle just trying to get through the inning. (Yes, there are a disproportionate number of Nebraskans in publishing. No, I wasn't really talking about any of the others. They can do their own blogs.)





Of course, things could be even worse. I guess. Wouldn't know. Quit watching the Mariners when the narcolepsy set in. The most entertainment anyone's getting out of those guys in 2008 is the pink-slip parade. Call me a fair-weather fan when tickets get cheaper.

Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits

And goddammit, goddammit, goddammit. Another sumbitch who deserved to see this Presidential election through to the end. My list is getting crowded up something awful. Friendly Atheist has a couple of clips to get you started on the inevitable morning marathon. (ETA: And the best cartoon tribute was...)

Cat seeks good home (to terrorize)

I want a new cat, but if I get this cat I would simply be getting the old cat. Again. Reincarnated. And pissed about it.