Not only did they suffer the indignity of actually, you know, applying to do Laurel Touby's dirty work, but then they had to be reminded of it in a mass patronizing e-mail she sent out to rejectees. Oh, the indignity:
From: mailer@mediabistro.com (Laurel Touby | mediabistro.com)
Subject: Your Job ApplicationHi there!
Some good news and some bad news.
I got a really great response from the Executive Assistant/Office Manager/Light Reception ad I ran on mediabistro.com. Many of you wrote me enthusiastic, ingenious and downright wonderful letters. I appreciate the hard work that went into those (you know who you are).
When you perused Radar's list of Toxic Bachelors earlier today, did you get the nagging feeling that someone was missing? Someone who, despite his renowned toxic bachelor tendencies, was inexplicably left off the list for reasons unknown. Fortunately, we've found the Lost Toxic Bachelor Entry and have reproduced it at right. Click to enlarge.
Earlier: 'Radar': Famous Dudes Like Poon
Now, anybody who's ever tried to get a novel published is sure to look scornfully upon yesterday's strip. A debut novel, submitted without an agent, gets a $25,000 offer just like that? Go on, pull the other one, it's got a bell at the end. But what makes this scenario truly unbelievable is that he only finished the first draft last month, then managed to rescue it from a fire that broke out in his home at that very moment . . .Okay, no one ever tell Galleycat about: the episodes of Sex and the City where Carrie's newspaper editor somehow brokers her book deal, Emily's Reasons Why Not, Stranger than Fiction, Men in Trees, A Girl's Guide To Hunting and Fishing, Wonder Boys . . . ok, or any fictional depiction of the way publishing works, ever.
Over at Grub Street today, two highly esteemed foodies/ cultural commentators dished about which dishy Top Chef finalist's dishes they had found most compelling. The conversation ran to the innovations of Marcel's foamspiration, Ferran Adria, and whether either finalist could actually run a restaurant (for the record: no. They think Sam could, though: "He's forceful but noncommittal, in a passive-aggressive way.") But it was when talking about villainous caricature Marcel that the discourse took a turn for the, ah, rigorously intellectual:
Sternbergh: Marcel had a Lex Luthor-esque regard for his own intellect.We thought Marcel was more like when Wolverine was brainwashed into becoming an agent for HYDRA, but we're no experts.
Sternbergh: Which, like Lex Luthor, was not entirely unearned.
Ozersky: Either Lex Luthor or Mr. Mxyzptlk.
The Assimilated Negro is the issuing authority for your own personal Ghetto Pass, helping you safely navigate among the people and places of browner territories.
Like the lushest of Shakespearean tragedies, leaving the ghetto is such sweet sorrow. There may be no finer setting to observe the babes of comedy and tragedy both suckling up to Father Nature's bosom to nurse from the same lactating teat. But while we smile and reminisce on sweet serenades of quarter-waters and looseys, we inevitably remember that no one leaves the ghetto on accident. A citified reflection of our own internal duality, the ghetto is both loved and loathed; tragically flawed so that it is most appreciated after it is eventually left behind. Whether you want to be a head coach in the Super Bowl or just a bummy-looking Blipster, no one, not even the president, enters the ghetto without a proper exit strategy.
Visitors to TV-hogging English celebu-chef Gordon Ramsay's restaurant in The London hotel on 54th Street yesterday found something missing from their New York Times—the Dining section.
Apparently unsatisfied by Times restaurant critic Frank Bruni's insanely charitable two-star review, the restaurant—and the hotel—pulled each of the sections carrying the review from every Times on-site. But no matter. It's not like any other fabulous diners can't tell that those "caramelized sea scallops were adorable."
Sigh. Maybe Joseph Epstein was right.
Scaling the mountaintop [ESPN]
Related Negro Bowl I [Deadpsin]
Today's Columbia Spectator offers some helpful insights into how to go about getting a coveted internship. One article, by a student who seems to have been hanging around campus forever, kind of like Eric Stoltz in Beautiful Girls Kicking and Screaming, laments the lameness of his internship experiences, particularly one at Time Asia:
Take my "prestigious" Time Asia editorial internship. This was during the summer of 2001, and I only got the job because my dad works there. Now if a summer in Hong Kong sounds appealing to you, think again. I was living on a houseboat during typhoon season, and the only way I could afford to eat was by running up my dad's tab at the yacht club on shore.Also, shockingly, when he hit his editor up for a job a couple years later, "all he could remember about me was-'ah yes, James, you had some spectacular moments of drunkenness as I recall.'"
Looks like nepotism's privileges only go so far, eh James?
TODO is one daily thing recommended for you, by us.
With each passing year it seems increasingly unlikely that Brian Hennigan's Patrick Robertson will ever see print in this country, so we're just going to insist that you order it from England. First published in 2000, it tells the story of Patrick Robertson, a traveling salesman in the machine tools industry. While on business in Bangkok he is kidnapped by the People's Earth Friendly Liberation Group, the world's most inept eco-terrorists. (They have mistaken him for a different Patrick Robertson, from the IMF.) Stranded in the rainforest, Patrick must escape the group's clutches, navigate the jungle, and find his way back to civilization. The book is subtitled "A Tale of Adventure," but it's actually an astounding work of comedy. Hennigan's pitch is perfect: No matter how ridiculous the situation, Robertson remains detached and cynical, offering up little life lessons like the following:
Today's installment of Casual Indie Racism comes courtesy of that old chestnut, the Daily Slope message board (why not start with the best, right?), where a poster laments that his late, great hipster hangout, the Royale, has seemingly become overrun with ... well, you can read for yourself:
A little tip to those long time Park Slope folks who dig having a drink at Royale and listening to progressive, modern rock. Learn from this mistake. I used to go to Royale a lot, it's a very groovy bar, that is, until recently. The place has apparently changed hands and kids, it's not pretty. We went there about two weeks ago and as the evening progressed, sure enough I started to notice a change in the music and then the crowd. And while we all sat in a booth realizing what a mistake we had made, our table became increasingly surrounded by angry, pissed off looking ghetto thugs.
To be fair, though, there's just more of Rosie's and Barbara's asses to kiss.
Sarah Silverman on the View [YouTube]
Trash day never looked so dire as it did outside 213 East 10th Street this morning. Grody! Bedbugs ahoy!
Or, maybe, this some sort of brilliant disposal ploy—instead of creepy-crawley futon covers, maybe the trash is stuffed with underage condom-free Czech porn, unshredded financial documents, and a thousand review copies of Slate culture gal Meghan O'Rourke's latest volume of verse?
This morning, Page Six informed us that Parsons design dept chairman (and Project Runway superstar) Tim Gunn would be announcing his resignation today, along with the happy news that he's going to be Liz Claiborne's new chief creative officer. And so he did, in his characteristic endearingly melodramatic fashion. "This memorandum is very difficult for me to write, because my heart and soul reside at Parsons and the University and, more specifically, with all of you in the Department of Fashion Design," it begins. Awww, we love you Tim! We love your smooshy widdle face!! Uh, sorry. The full memo is after the jump.
A couple weeks ago, we noted the departure of Village Voice reporter Jarrett Murphy, one of the pre-New Times staffers who had continued to be one of the lone voices of old-school Voice writing, with pieces on the city jails, housing, and other such Important Issues that typically make our eyes glaze over, but which we know Matter nonetheless. Anyway, today comes word that Murphy has found what sounds like a much more comfortable home at the activist publication City Limits, where he'll be heading up a new publication called City Limits Investigates, a quarterly that'll be comprised of one piece of long-form investigative journalism.
But just what is City Limits, anyway? Well, according to their mission statement, they've been "lauded as 'an essential metro resource' by theVillage Voice"--which makes sense, seeing as the Voice has pretty much abdicated that responsibility.
BuzzFeed notes the latest trend sweeping the nation: drunken acts of homosexual-type behavior.
Heterosexual people getting so wasted, they slip into seemingly gay acts. The loose definition: "It is when you are soooo drunk (wasted) and dudes start dancing with you and you just sort of go along with it and then they start putting their arms around you and you just kind of keep rolling with it because you're drunk and you sort of think the dude is being your dancefloor bro, but then when you sober up you realize that the situash is sort of weird. when this happens, you tell your friends, 'dude, i got so gaysted last night.'"Still, probably better than having to let your buddies know that you got completely gassfucked.
Gaysted [BuzzFeed]
