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.

The perils of ungraceful aging

Explain Naomi Cambell, won't you? Seriously, I'm not getting it -- how does one middle-aged lady manage to evade jail time so regularly? And if you were an habitual offender on this scale, wouldn't it be simpler to just convert your entire wardrobe over to Correctional Program Jumpsuit Orange? (And then there's the Michael Jackson Career-vs-Creepiness Dept. question: If you asked anyone under the age of 40, would they say Naomi Campbell is famous for having been a model back in the day, or that she's famous for being a freaky has-been with anger-management issues?)

On this most joyous of days

In honor of Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon, who celebrated their 50th anniversary before they were able to celebrate their legal nuptials; in honor of Robin Tyler and Diane Olson, who made me laugh with the names of their pugs (which are sort of the lesbian equivalent of my male friend who named his cats Steve and Eydie; go ahead and shut off the neon sign, dears, we get it); in honor of Rich and David Speakman, who found a good use for those "stimulus checks" (as the sign says above a certain store downtown, "we got your stimulus package right here), the best bumper sticker I ever saw in Lincoln, Nebraska:

My marriage doesn't need defending. Sorry yours sucks.

It's a beautiful day. Any day with en masse celebration of the love and hope implicit in making a lifelong commitment is a beautiful day. And anyone who tells you different has an inferior understanding of things like love, and hope, and the human heart. Pity them... and keep drowning them out like folks are doing in California tonight.

Grease up, girlie

The hair hopper on Fox News thinks she's making some sort of point when she says that Geraldo Rivera "kisses her hand" after the throwdown below? Cupcake, after what he does to you in this exchange I hope he bought you dinner:

Link: sevenload.com

HT to QuizLaw, watching Faux News so you don't have to. Except when this sort of thing happens.

Wait for it... wait for it...

There's a reason this Associated Press story isn't bylined -- sometimes virtue is its own reward, and sometimes, like this time, the reward is the gift of writing the story's punchline. Silly snarky APlings.