Every morning we wake up at a distressingly early hour, gather our belongings, and head into a darkened office. More often than not we bump our knee on the table near the thing that opens the grate even though we've done it every day for the last month before and should know better by this point. We turn on our computer, crank up a little music (we're listening to a lot of Eyvind Kang's The Story of Iceland a lot lately; also, the Philip Bailey-Phil Collins duet "Easy Lover," for some reason), and start assimilating every different, and often not-so-very different, story out there about Rupert Murdoch's attempt to purchase Dow Jones.

It is thankless, repetitive work that results in a relatively small post that few people care about and fewer even read, and yet, it is our job. Oh, we don't expect sympathy: there's plenty worse we could be doing (Conrad Black trial roundups, for instance! Much worse! Or you know, weeping in a permalancer's cubicle at Viacom) but we just want you to have a sense of our state of mind when this Stalker sighting came over the transom this afternoon:

Rupert Murdoch

59th and Park Avenue
chillin on Park Ave, rocking the suit.

Finally! Our life's work, validated!