So "Hey mom! Eat me! And Father O'Brien! Fuck off!" would be totally acceptable? Cool!
So that's where Julia Allison ended up.
If my boss ever sends me a virtual box of chocolates I'm reciprocating with a real life drum kit for his kid.
Oh, right. Jay McInerney. He wrote a book about John Edwards' girlfriend. I loved the scene when he tripped over her coming out of the Waverly Inn and broke his foot.
In a way, Gawker editors are our waitresses and waiters. We read you so that we don't have to bother with the Times or the other insufferable rags.
And apparently we do tip... with page hits. Ka-ching! Here's another coin in your cup.
@Choire: This was a totally fantastic post that made me consider the existence of god.
It makes me consider that there is a god because McDarrah is the second douchebag I've tangled with that in the past year got convicted for sexually harrassing children.
Tim McDarrah has played off daddy's fame for decades, now, but Junior has always been as mediocre as he has been meanspirited. I once got into a shouting match with him on the job, when he worked for The NY Post, after he viciously taunted the children of a deceased man the day after the guy committed suicide.
The guy is less than pond scum.
Commenters that object to involving his deceased family member in a story reminding us of the sins of the son ought to keep that in mind: Timothy was the yellowest of "journalists," always reaching for the most sensational angle, running roughshod over the innocents (so it's no surprise here that he preyed upon children outside of journalism, too). This post is one of those moments when true justice is served by a blog post.
Standing ovation!
You can take the magazine out of Boston but you can't take the Boston out of the magazine.
Why is he a jerk? Because he can be!
As Danny Fields likes to say, affectionately, "musicians are assholes."
I find the jerkiness endearing. It offers hope. It says, "you, too, young Skywalker, may someday be able to live off royalties, not suck up to anyone, and still get invited to the best parties."
C'mon, it's "personal assistants," not musicians, that will, say, kill a band manager, at least according to today's headlines. I think the Gawker Guide probably said the same thing, come to think of it.
Come to think of it, that telephone answering machine message he left for his kid serves as an excellent audition for a talk radio hosting gig.
The best part was the opening skit, in which the "Bill Clinton" character dressed up as Gawker regular "Mystery" for Halloween. I thought y'all would be all over that this morning.
After the self-inflicted black eye she got from the debate the other night, who can blame her for not wanting to be photographed?
Yikes. An identity crisis moment. I hate them all, but if they all hate each other, which enemy of my enemy might therefore be my friend?
It's that they came to NY believing the Hollywood version of a bohemian paradise, but when they saw it filled with neo-victorians, their little brats and baby carriages, and snotty NYU students yapping on cell phones in the accents of their own hick towns, who can blame them for suddenly realizing that there is no god.
Others, of course, just stepped onto the window ledge - the only place they were allowed to smoke a cigarette - and simply fell.
The question came off more hopeful than inquisitive. After all, there's not much job security for a panelist on The View.
That's the format of Meet The Press. Every Sunday features a "fake back and forth with a fake candidate." Colbert's just more authentically fake.
I'd been wondering what Balk is up to.
This is like a Benazir Bhutto homecoming caravan.
Now we just wait for the wire reports that Denton survived the bombing.
@The One: You are correct! I'd give you a cigar, but it's probably illegal, too.
Meanwhile, over lunch, I got thinking about this thing and realized it's the inversion of a popular series of jokes: A gal walks out of a bar...
Back before the smoking ban one could fall off a bar stool with dignity.
So there! In a way, Giuliani is to blame.
Klass struggle!
