jessica coen dotcom

You freaking pansy.

Washington Post online executive editor Jim Brady has stepped down from his post: "I'm beat up, tired, burned out."

Either that, or a terribly misguided promo for the Surf Lodge Back-Alley Advocate

So the Montauk monster is really just a viral marketing campaign for some pro-life org, right?

Me: I'll have a small skim macchiato, please.
Barista: Is two percent okay?
Me: Oh, are you out of skim?
Barista: No, we've got some.

We have this conversation every day.

A woman's right to choose

Anyone else notice how politicians talk about Hillary ending her campaign as if it's an unwanted pregnancy?

"Hillary, of course, will make the decision as to if and when she ends [it]."

"I think that it would be inappropriate and awkward and wrong for any of us to tell Senator Clinton when it is time for [it] to be over. This is her decision and it is only her decision."

"It's her decision to make and I'll accept what decision she makes."

No offense or anything

So I finally got around to watching the video of Buzz Bissinger — who I guess had once somehow convinced the journalism world that he wasn't a developmentally disabled lunatic? — go apoplectic on Will Leitch (and, more accurately, blogs and bloggers in general). And as I was marveling at not his inability but his refusal to differentiate between a blog's posts and its comments, and the tremendous offense he's taken at this wild, maddening internet thing which, I suspect, not so much "pisses the shit" out of him as it does terrify him such that his bowels are painfully and uncontrollably triggered by a special combination of his own ignorance and stupidity, I had but one single thought:

I cannot wait for that generation to die.

And before I even let myself start thinking how sad that is, I remember that he probably looks at us and wishes we were never born.

Elsewhere

Noelle Hancock, she of the hot, blonde bod and witty, pissy prose, is guesting over on Daily Intel for an extended spell. She's funny, so go fawn when you have a sec.

Also! I don't suppose this counts as "political writing," but: Keith Olbermann and Hillary Clinton play nice.

But really: What good is the New Yorker if you're not getting it until Friday?!

It's Friday, and unless it arrived in my mailbox while I've been at the office, I have yet to receive the latest New Yorker. This is the second week this has happened in the past month, kindasortanotreally. The first time I was pissy about this, I HAD received the magazine on time, but was pathetically guilty of fetching the mail while under the influence, burying it under a pile of crap, and then not remembering any of it (see previous post). But seeing as I've only collected my mail while sober this week, I feel justifiably irritated — but also like that irritation is sprinkled with candy-coated bits of redemption? Yeah! Cue movie-guy voice: "...But this time, she had to lose her mail before she could truly find herself..."

The stuff that keeps me awake at night

The week of March 24, I never received my New Yorker. And each day that I opened my mailbox during that week and saw I had yet to receive the issue, I made a mental note to fire off a quickie rant: What's the goddamn point of getting the new New Yorker on Wednesday—no, wait, Thursday—make that Friday—er, on Satur—yeah. Never got the magazine, never got around to bitching about it either. (I'm sure you feel totally slighted having missed out on that.)

AND THEN: Last night I was cleaning up and going through the various piles of magazines and bills that I leave in little stacks all over my apartment. Buried in deep in a pile with a bunch of stuff NOT EVEN FROM THAT WEEK'S MAIL, the missing New Yorker. Pristine. Untouched. I have no idea how it got up the four flights of stairs to my apartment and wriggled its way under the mound of receipts, scarves, months-old magazines, and loose change attractively decorating that particular side table, but there it was.

Actually, I do have some idea how it got there there. Who doesn't love to come home and grab the mail after six or seven glasses of wine? And what bothers me is not that I quite possibly have a problem grabbing my mail while blackout drunk, but that now I'll never know on what day I actually did get the magazine. That's the real issue here.

Née Videogum

Today brings the much-awaited launch of Videogum, helmed by the bong-smackingly funny duo of Lindsay Robertson and Gabe Delahaye. On a personal note, I consider one of these kids intimately involved with a lot of the fantastic trouble I've gotten into over the past three or four years, so I'm genuinely thrilled to see him embark on an exciting, content-making frenzy of his own. And Lindsay, it's really great to see you doing something cool too!

(Also, I have to darkly concur with Balk: It's always cringey-fun to watch your friends kick off a new project that will inevitably lead to that first panicked morning when, sleepily and unwittingly, they will wake up and realize that there is suddenly NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT. But, like, that won't happen for at least another three weeks! Kidding. Kind of. Mazel!)

Stick with what you know

My college education has finally been put to good use with a hard-hitting listicle about strumpets and floozies. Alas, as the writer, I couldn't include myself in the roundup. Editor was a real prick about it.

Also, it's Journey.

Watching this, you feel like an archaeologist who's excavated a Byzantine coin: It's ancient, intricate, and totally beautiful.

I am a menace to the public and a danger to those around me

I'm not sure what the hell was wrong with me this morning other than a lack of sleep (had to get up extra early), but usually I'm not incredibly mortifying when I'm just tired. But today was special. First I ran into someone on the sidewalk — no reason, just was staring into the black hole in front of me and didn't notice the human being who happened to be standing right there. Then things got epically bad: I had my nose shoved in the paper as I was walking off the subway (like the Bottega Veneta story was so compelling that I had to read it while I was walking? As I said, I was really out of sorts) and I actually GOT IN THE TURNSTILE WITH A GIRL. Like, crammed myself in the same rotation with her. Oh, and? It wasn't the regular turnstile, but rather one of those floor-to-ceiling ones that resembles a cage. And then my bag got caught and I'd realized what I done, and she realized she had a total freak pressed against her ass. I will never forget the look she gave me.

To be fair, I'd be freaking out too.

Start writing the obit: Choire's without internet.

(Yes, I'm trying this Twitter business. It's a slippery slope after Tumblr. And despite the current evidence, I'm going to try not to repeat myself across all these ever-exciting new mediums.)

Unrelated: Dumbest thing I wrote today. Nice to know I can still pound out the throwaway crap.

Today in my professional development

I exercised editorial restraint by not allowing a slavery reenactment for a photo shoot.

PS: Can someone please help me out so that, amongst other things, my Tumblr starts posting here? And can I do that without totally abandoning MT? I have so many questions! I'm obviously techtarded. But if you take pity on me, I can pay you in balls of lint and sticky pennies!

Dispatch from JFK

Trying to decide where to eat at the jetBlue food court is really just a matter of deciding what's going to make you vomit the least upon take-off. Tonight, I've decided it's a single slice of what I think is tomato and mozzarella pizza from Famiglia "Pizzeria," but we'll see what it's really made of when it comes back up. If this sounds disgusting (and it should), consider the alternatives: I came dangerously close to getting in line at the delightful Cheeburger Cheeburger (simply because it had the most people waiting to place an order and therefore, I half-assedly reasoned, must be the best option — a urine mirage in this desert of fear), which was conveniently located next to a not-as-tempting Mex in the City. I lingered about two seconds too long in front of Sky Asian "Bistro" (bistro? Really? Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves here?) and faced the persistence of a lonely woman who was clearly enthusiastic about her perhaps reasonable egg rolls, but I knew that wasn't going to work out once we got in the air. So tonight, Famous Famiglia, it's just you and me. Together, not quite forever, but at least for the next 43 minutes 'til we hit the open skies.