Excerpted from a triumphant email from Krucoff to Gessen:

Now, to be honest, my original plan for the book was to burn it upon pick-up at Gawker HQ (preferably right there in the office using Denton's evil eye laser), then stuff the ashes in an urn, mark it with "pussy" and mail it to you.

Dramatic, huh?

Two things dissuaded me from that: 1) I was reminded of the ugly history of book burning and how Jew-on-Jew desecration wouldn't serve anyone's cause. 2) More importantly, I remembered that *I* am the pussy. There's no way I would actually go through with that. After studied consultation, I concluded you were right on all points in our previous exchange. If we were Facebook friends, I would send you a "You Win!" sticker if such a thing were available in their virtual marketplace.

Instead, Krucoff's current plan is to offer the priceless ($890) book as a door prize at this soup kitchen benefit next Wednesday. And Gessen agreed to do his part, saying:

Sure, I'd be glad to come. We should consult the Talmud—or, failing that, Jewcy.com—as to whether a book can be offered to charity twice, but otherwise I'll be happy to explain how I replaced the Crimson Sports Grille with the 4th Quarter Bar.

Although I think they should charge a lot more than $10 at the door.

Ha, YES WE DO TOO.

The outcome of our saga: An $890 donation to the New York Homeless Coaliton; The opportunity for even more charity, if Krucoff is able to convince the small, effete sliver of New York society that would actually desire to own this obscure volume to come out to a soup kitchen benefit next week; And, most importantly, an odd and short-lived sense of unity among fake enemies on the fake internet arguing about fake writing and stuff, which is how we sum up the culture war.

Never again say that Keith Gessen hasn't accomplished something good.

[Pictured, Krucoff enjoying his new prize on the Gawker office toilet. The backstory to all this is here. Andrew Krucoff's blog is here. Info on the soup kitchen even is here. The most important Tumblr of our time is here.]

Nick Douglas
Jason Calacanis
Jackson West
Anil Dash
Allison Mooney
Lockhart Steele
Scott Kidder
Caroline McCarthy
Kelly Reeves
Jason Kottke
Peter Rojas
Lindsay Robertson
Julia Allison
Anthony Volodkin
Choire Sicha
Nicholas Carlson
Alisa Leonard
Jaclyn Johnson
Ana Marie Cox
Heather Snodgrass
Jessica Coen
Alex Blagg
Rex Sorgatz

Don't Shoot the Canary [YM]

Dude, you cut the page to early. It continues:

"The odd thing about Dodgeball is that it makes you realize you don't actually want to meet most FOAFs, and the awkward, vaguely opportunistic air that pervades every introduction until the other person realizes you won't be providing useful social capital and they stop talking to you makes you stay away from any location from which a number of DBers are checking in?"
99 (Emeritus) | Homepage | 03.05.08 - 11:10 am | #

I'm pretty sure I said it would be like this [YM]

Earlier: No Conde Cafeteria Klatsch for Krucoff

Charity starts at home? Not according to Architectural Digest when an unwanted house guest shows up with madi-money and a smile like a flying buttress.

Obviously certain people at Conde Nast still hold a grudge against me. I have my guesses, most likely Gary Brownell and Jill Bright, the heads of IT and HR respectively who I've never met. Despite what I was told back then, I doubt Si Newhouse or Chuck Townsend were ever briefed about the "leaked email" nonsense. At least I hope they have better things to do.

Anyway, Conde brass recently green-lighted Jess Coen for Vanity Fair and she's been driving the Conde Nast-car in a demolition derby for the past two years. So the issue is not Gawker, it's me. That hurts. Maurie Perl, prepare some talking points. Kit Seelye and my mom will be calling you.

Earlier: Return Of The Wandering Jew?

Please Pass the Potatoes and Charity Plate [YM]
Lunch @ Gehry-design Conde Nast Cafeteria w/top mag ed [eBay]

Earlier: Kruperman Returns

Lunch @ Gehry-design Conde Nast Cafeteria w/top mag ed [eBay]

Earlier: Architectural Digest Editor Takes Second Billing To Conde Nast Cafeteria
Media Bubble, Bursted: Krucoff Fired

Not to be outdone by Diddy, Gawker mascot Andrew Krucoff takes a camera into the bathroom to note the new viral (ha ha, get it?) ad for Jackass 2. The footage is kind of grainy, but the video stream is strong. (It's hard to stop, sorry.) We just want to know if Krucoff was filming with one hand and holding his dick with the other. Because we never figured him to be that coordinated.

Who are the ad wizzzzzards who came up with this one?? [YM]

Earlier: Breaking: Diddy's Gotta Pee

A third of employers in the study sacked staffers in the past year for violating workplace E-mail policies. That's up from about one in four last year.
[...]
Nearly 40% of the employers in the survey have staffers whose job is to read other staffers' E-mails. And almost half the employers regularly check the contents of the E-mails their people send.

Amazing. Who are these people who think their company email account is in any way private? Is this their first time using the internet? Or is it just carelessness before clicking the "send" button? Honestly, you'd think Krucoff's sacrifice would be lesson enough. But oh, how the cubicle bees have forsaken him.

More Workers Axed for Emails [NYDN]

Makor on the Move as 92nd St. Y Places Steinhardt Building on the Market [The Reeler]

At least we can hope.

After the jump, Kruc's announcement.

Today marks the official lifting of the Pulsa diNura curse placed on the House of Gawker Media (or specifically, on Jesse Oxfeld's head) by my mom when I was expelled from Conde Nast for unjust but admittedly comical reasons in October.

It's been a long journey of partially-subsidized unemployment since then, but I had the opportunity to spend a month in Israel and, perhaps more memorably, two hours hiding in the fashion closet at Jane.

All that debt-building fun is over now because I've accepted a job with the 92nd Street Y, where my official title will be web content developer. This means I'll be co-editing the 92Y Blog and taking a role in guiding the Y's web marketing efforts. I look forward to my first foray into the non-profit world. I dream of fireside chats with David Remnick and "laughter yoga" brunches on the Upper West Side.

Oh yeah, please come by Makor tomorrow night and throw tomatoes at Gawker's very own Jess Coen and others in a lively discussion about the Britney/Jessica presidential ticket for '08. [Ed. note: Actually, no. It's been rescheduled for May 10. Good omen, ain't it?]

Earlier: Gawker's coverage of Andrew Krucoff

Earlier: The Last 'Cargo' Post of the Day, We Swear — But It Pertains to Bowling, and Bowling Is Good

Earlier: Gawker Reading Crash: Bonnie Fuller on the Upper West Side

Frank Portman (Dr. Frank of the punk band Mr. T Experience) has written a book called King Dork that's an indictment on the Catcher In The Rye generation(s) and involves, he says, "at least half a dozen mysteries, plus dead people, naked people, fake people, teen sex, weird sex, drugs, ESP, Satanism, books, blood, bubblegum, guitars, monks, faith, love, witchcraft, the Bible, girls, a war, a secret code, a head injury, the Crusades, some crimes, mispronunciation skills, a mystery woman, a devil head, a blow job, and rock and roll." Early reviews are here and here. Welcome to his blog book tour.

First, watch a video "trailer" for the book and listen to Dr. Frank read from it.

Now for some Q&A:

In your back catalog of 10,000 songs there's a mocking number called "I Wrote a Book About Rock-n-Roll." That's not exactly what you've done here but it's close enough. What gives?
It is a book about rock and roll, and I am aware of the irony, obviously. That song lampoons rock critics who think they are rock stars (pretty much all of them, more or less.) But the leap from pretend rock star to pretend novelist is actually not all that great, as it turns out. So maybe I was just a bit wrong about rock journalism back then. I mean, maybe the criticism really is more important and exciting than the thing allegedly being criticized, even though the fact remains that you can't dance to rock criticism no matter how hard you try. Or maybe I was wrong about that, too.

I believe it was possible to twist-n-shout to some of Brent DiCrescenzo's Pitchfork reviews but feel free to name any rock critics you care to call out on this. And what do you think of the current state of rock journalism/-ists? Are music blogs finally achieving the great 'zine dream of championing citizen rock journalism to wipe Spin and Rolling Stone off the map completely?
Well, I guess the kids will dance to anything these days. Talking about rock music always benefits from informality, which is one reason why most people are less irritated by something goofy or pretentious on a music blog than they would be if the same thing appeared in print. You can close the browser or leave a snide comment if you want. But if it's in The New York Times, you automatically think "how much are they paying this guy?" and start to hate yourself or reach for your revolver as the case may be. That's not to say there isn't good formal rock journalism; there is. The best policy is, stop reading at the first mention of Adorno.

So much for goading you into trash-talking about Chuck Klosterman or Gina Arnold. Anyway, Tom Henderson, the book's anti-Holden, has a smart younger sister Amanda who is nothing like Phoebe Caulfied in Catcher In The Rye, but Tom points out that's because P.C. didn't have "a crazy mom, a dead father, a goofball step-father, and a King Dork brother" and didn't grow up in "blank, characterless Hillmont, CA" but rather "rich, atmosphere-laden, fancy pants Manhattan." Be that as it may, let's jump ahead years after the conclusion of the book — does Amanda Henderson eventually move to hipster Brooklyn or Oakland?
I hate to break it to you, but in later, as-yet-unwritten events, Amanda comes to a rather sticky end. A 19-year-old Amanda makes a brief appearance in the book I'm writing now (not at all a sequel, though it takes place in the same town.) Basically Amanda tries very hard to be normal, doesn't make it, and ends up overdoing the backlash. A tale as old as time.

If my calculations are correct — and I'm basing this on certain landmark dates around a '93 Geo Prizm — this story takes place in the fall of 1999. Yet, these are nerdy kids in their sophomore year of high school living in the San Franscisco Bay Area during the first dot-com boom and there is no mention of computers, the internet, or the apocalyptic fears of the Y2K bug. Not even a Prince reference of what we're gonna party like. Please reconcile or correct my confusion.
Yeah, well done: Fall of 1999.

There are two ways to answer that question, and they approach the same thing in a way. The first is that Tom is an isolated, solipsistic person who is more or less uninterested in the world around him except in the areas of rock and roll, his dead father, and girls. He never mentions the date because he doesn't care what date it is. The only dates he cares about are 1993, when his father died, and 1975 when the Sweet released Desolation Boulevard. He doesn't have a computer in his room. His stepfather has a Mac, but to get online you have to unplug the phone cord and plug it into the back of the computer. Then every time your sister tries to pick up the kitchen phone you get disconnected. Plus she yells at you and mimics your walk or something. It's not all that worth it in the end, especially if you have no friends to email anyway. Tom does have an interest in looking at dial-up usenet porn on Sam Hellerman's computer, but mostly he creates his own porn in his head. As one does.

The other way to look at it is, I as the author didn't want to get bogged down with a lot of date-specific references to technology and pop culture. So I cursed my narrator with this intense isolation and narrowly focused worldview, and with an interest in 70s rock, just to make it easier. My goal wasn't really to recreate 1999 in every detail. Authors sometimes try to do that, in order to make the story feel more true to life, but I often find that it has the opposite effect. You know the type of thing I mean:

It was 1985. "Reagan is our president," I thought to myself, as I sat down on my futon couch and switched on the news. Dan Rather, looking much younger than than his 54 years was reporting on Billy Joel who had just wed Christie Brinkley in a private ceremony. Apple had just introduced the Mac II, I realized suddenly, wondering if this whole New Coke thing was going to work out....

Tom's friend Sam Hellerman is more tech-focused and engaged with the world, and if he were narrating the story, it would be quite different. Tom doesn't mention it, and maybe doesn't even realize it, but Sam Hellerman is actually pretty Y2K obsessed, and spends a lot of time trying to convince his parents to convert their assets to Krugerrands just in case.

OK, I'll buy that, but what do you think blogs, MySpace and other social networking websites have done to the classic teen novel, or adolescene in general for that matter?
I almost hate to admit it but: myspace.com/doctorfrank. MySpace is like Usenet with pictures. As far as I can see, it beats hanging out at the mall.

One thing I have learned from the MySpace profiles of kids who have stumbled into my or my band's orbit is that quite a lot of them at least claim to spend a great deal of time reading books. That's better than most "adults," in my experience, if by "better" one means, "more likely to read my book." That is in fact how I mean it, of course.

Why do all the literary coming-of-age classics seem to have a Catholic angle but then adulthood hits and all the storylines become vaguely or overtly Jewish? (If that doesn't make sense, let me put it another way: Graham Greene vs. Woody Allen, discuss.)
You know, I think this question may actually be a bit too deep for me.

That concludes the formal Q&A. Now Frank will perform a previously unreleased song from the book, "I Wanna Ramone You" (acoustic version).

The Litzkrieg Bop Blog Book Tour for King Dork continues tomorrow at Stereogum, followed by Largehearted Boy, Brooklyn Vegan, and the Jane Mag Guest Blog.

Nothing brings out the drunken college kids like the first vaguely warmer days of spring. (We drunken out-of-college kids drink proudly and consistently, heedless of weather.) So suddenly, here they are. And they're confusing us. To help us understand the folkways of this exotic tribe, we asked Gawker Mascot and amateur anthropologist Andrew Krucoff to don his trusty pith helmet, enlist earnest documentarian Nikola Tamindzic, and head to the remotest depths of the Central Village — the native habitat of this unusual people — to investigate. After the jump, his reports of beer pong, fake IDs, and the dreaded Look of Shame.

The month of March can be a rough one for college students — there's a cruelly calculated collision of midterms, formals, St Patrick's Day, thawing temperatures, Spring Break, and the NCAA basketball tournament. It's the time of year that fungus grows wildly on bedrock advice like, "You can always re-take a class but you can't re-live a party." Madness, thy name is earned.

To re-enter that world I left so many half-baked moons ago, I enlisted Streeter Seidell, co-author of CollegeHumor.com's soon-to-be released Guide to College, to organize a pleasant, nocturnal walking tour (OK, "bar crawl"), blogger Manhattan Transfer who knows a thing or two about local drinking establishments, and Dodgeball Maps to track our activity through the evening. Please join us and watch your step on the NYU Vomit Trail.

After a brief warm-up at College Humor's Tribeca HQ (#1, 9:16PM) for ping-pong and The Warriors stand-up arcade style (basically an XBox shoved into a branded console cabinet) we were led by an NYU sophomore to Lafayette Hall (#2, 9:55PM). If we are to believe the Hong Kong Student Association's Guide to NYU, then "Lafayette is located in Chinatown and is known as the party dorm." These are two facts which we will not dispute.

Entry past security was tougher than boarding Air Force One, and I expected a psychological evaluation before entering. When we eventually got to the gate and wiggled our way back to coach, we were rewarded with miles of (drum and joint roll)... COLLEGE!!!

The Violet Femmes of NYU were cradling 40s of Coors Light. Always classy, sometimes gassy.

The ubiquitous rounds of beer pong. I never quite figured out if they were playing NYU Rules or North Jersey Style.

But in any variation of the game, girl-on-girl boob licking is highly encouraged as a means to distract your opponent and enthrall the crowd.

Or, if you ask nicely and promise not to touch, free peeks might be available. Also, if you couldn't tell by now, that's a Slip-n-Slide tacked to the wall.

The Patron Saint of College Binge Drinking, John 'Bluto' Blutarsky, hangs on the wall as a subtle reminder that it's OK to fondle breasts when wearing a Lance Armstrong wristband.

SOCIALLLLL (!!!) networking is cool, apparently. Facebook.com has facilitated over 1,000,000 sexual acts by consensually drunk students.

Now for a brief interruption to tell you about two new classes from the Gawker Course Catalog:

Applied Drunkenomics: The Bong Tail Theory
The era of the "blockbuster" party is over and the price elasticity of the Pleasure Principle has been stretched and snapped into the millions of niche gatherings at the shallow end of humanity. Guest speakers include Wired's Chris Anderson and Drink Club's Mykel Board

Card Game Theory for Dormies
Studies the competitive and (mostly un-) cooperative behavior that results when several parties with opposing interests must work together to avoid cock-blockage and debt collectors. Learn how to use card game theory to analyze situations of potential conflict for maximum exploitation. Final exam involves throwing a card through a watermelon rind.

So the pre-game portion of the evening was over and it was time to hit the mean streets. Have 20 people in tow? Leave the pros at home and stink-up the 6 train from Canal to Astor Place.

We became "those people" when Mr. Freshman decided to show off his monkey bar skills and spilled the beer deftly hiding in his coat. Even a homeless man moved away from us.

We arrived safely, if not entirely dry, and after the requisite good luck spinning of the Astor Place cube for better lays, we headed to Roll-n-Roaster (#3, 11:47PM). Neighborhood blogs like Gothamist and Curbed don't write about it, but the Sheepshead Bay institution has an admirable outpost in the East Village. It may become our new home. Why?

Answer: $3.75 pitchers of beer!! (I mean, iced tea, dear NYU officials.) Plus, food fit for the intestinal fortitude of Tony Soprano. This picture is obviously the evening's money shot. Three points, all fishnet. It reeks sweetly of college on every level.

Next we headed to Euro-football hangout Nevada Smith's (#4, 12:26AM), Man U-obsessed by day but NYU-infested at night, where we were greeted by a bouncer who was stingier than Petr Cech in goal. All but a few of us were booted by the legal ID test so we took our red-faced cards to Cooper 35 Asian Pub (#5, 12:35AM) where the barrier to entry was considerably lower.

As was the talent, but we made creepy, crawly friends.

Cleavy ones, too.

This breast thing is nearly impossible to escape. Unfortunately the too polite faux-lesbo vibe to this picture would even make their parents approve.

We gave one last salute to Asian Pub and a toast to the girl who made me order her a "woo-woo" but then refused to drink it. Note: this is poor form no matter how young or old you are. D minus.

Last stop of the evening was at Josie Woods Pub (#6, 1:21AM), the Rheingold-standard in underaged undergrad NYU bars. A basement level place described here as "Probably the worst bar I've ever been to, but NYU youngsters and guys huntin' illegal tail seem to love it here. But for anyone with an ounce of class or the desire to not be ogled like you're in a porno, go somewhere else." In other words, this place was awesome.

These guys were with us all night and talked a good game of how easy it is to hook up. "Dude, NYU is the best college for guys. 60/40 girl/guy ratio and 30 percent of the guys are gay. Do the math." Hold on to your abacus, fellas. The interlocking chug of brotherhood solves another equation. Better known as the "the null set."

On the other hand, if you really want to impress a girl, the best make-out sessions are usually held in locations with high sanitation standards. Like bathrooms.

And the subway.

As for the rest of us, who knows. I can only speak for myself — I passed out on my couch nuzzling with a doner kebab sandwich. Got the Look of Shame from my roommate the next morning.

Just like college.

Earlier:
Gawker Walker Tour: The Horror of the Meatpacking District
Gawker Walker Tour: Michael Musto's Gay Chelsea

• Nadine Hay-ahbsh.
• Andrew Crew-cough.
• Tom Sko-kuh.
• Jeff Burr-KO-vuh-see.
• Corky Shuh-mosh-ko.

Earlier:
Gawker Explainer: Names in the News
Gawker Explainer: More Names in the News
Related:
Gawker's coverage of Nadine Haobsh
Gawker's coverage of Andrew Krucoff
Tom Scocca's Media Mob [NYO]
Jeff Bercovici's Memo Pad [WWD]
Archive search for Siemaszko [NYDN]

Mac, thanks for the pic link

Anyway, in the spirit of transparency and giving credit where it's due, I wanted to point out that Jesse Oxfeld found the strength from his sickbed to contribute two posts yesterday and a little bird sent me the intern's to-do list. Blog bylines be damned, I feel better now.

Comment invitations will be sent out shortly. If you don't get one I'm sorry. It wasn't really merit-based. First-come, first-serve is how things are done around here. - Adam Slushpilitz

"Sick duty" calls, quite literally, and they've asked me to pitch in here for the next couple of days. If you're thinking I'm just that dude who was "released" from Conde Nast then you're right, but my sleazy history as "Gawker mascot" goes back further than I should freely admit.

Hang tight and please send in tips, including pics of your mom. I haven't the foggiest clue about what's going on with New York, media, or pop culture these days. Smart money says I won't last past noon. - Adam Slushpilitz

Previously: Media Bubble, Bursted: Krucoff Fired and 'VF' Picks on Li'l Ole Gawker

Yes, folks, he's back.

And we hear he can get you a great deal — such a bargain! just for you! — on that camera you've been looking for. (Now, the extended warranty you're gonna want, yes? Yes. Good.)

Welcome home, trusty mascot.

Earlier: Gawker's Coverage of Andrew Krucoff
Related (if only moderately accurate): Gawker Frums Out [Jewish Week]

Kotel-All Exclusive [Young Israelite]
Earlier: Gawker's coverage of Andrew Krucoff

Given that the service is at the Western Wall at 8 o'clock Thursday morning, and given the ten-hour flight to Tel Aviv, the time change, El Al's lengthy security check-in procedures, and the fact we haven't even started to pick out outfits, let alone pack, we figure our only chance to make it would be to catch the 11:50 out of JFK tonight, which would get us to Ben Gurion tomorrow afternoon and give us time to get over to Jerusalem, shluff a bit, and still make Krucoff's maftirTorah portion. (Apparently there's no maftir at a non-Shabbat BM. We had no idea, having never been to one.)

We also figure booking a flight to Tel Aviv a mere 12 hours in advance is the surest way to get ourselves on a terrorist watch list. So we're afraid we're going to have to pass. (Also, we have dinner plans tonight.)

Still: Mazel tov, Kruc.

Now someone please send pictures.

Agora for Your Thoughts [Young Israelite]
Andrew Krucoff Bar Mitzvah Invite [Jewlicious]

See, apparently we're "Mediawank.com."

And it would seem mascot Krucoff is "Adam Slushpilitz."

And the hi-larious item is a theoretically satiric exchange of "letters" among Graydon Carter, contributing editor Edwin Coaster, Slushpilitz, and VF's old friend Josh Freelantzovitz. (And may we add: The mild anti-Semitism of these manufactured zhlubby characters always having Jewish last names is really a nice touch.)

Transcriptions of the letters are after the jump. Prepare yourself for comedic gold.

EDWIN COASTER

11/4/05

Graydon:

My part-time assistant Kirsten came over this morning in tears, telling me that some of my letters to you, and some of her letters to you on my behalf, were reprinted on some website called Mediawank.com. They called me a "fat check collector" and her my "latest blow-up doll bubblehead." And you a "Saville Row-upholstered Canadian twit." Kirsten was deathly fearful that I'd suspect her of leaking the letters. I took her into my arms and told her not to worry, and managed to keep her in my grasp for a good 240 seconds, really getting a nice feel for the contours of her back. Anyhoo, I think I know did the leaking: That beady little freelance fact-checker Adam Slushpilitz, who's had it in for me ever since I told him off for screwing up the Sandy Duncan-Peter Falk-Sammy Davis time line in my piece about Hollywood glass eyes. Every time I get him as a checker, he puts me through hell. I think it's time you grilled that little bastard under the interrogation lamp.

Best,
Ed

ADAM SLUSHPILITZ

Nov. 10, 2005

Dear Mr. Carter:

Fine, you can let your goons escort me from the C.N.P. building with all of my belongings. But I shall not repent. I shall go public with the whole thing at Mediaweek! Adam Slushpilitz will become the blogosphere's cause celebre, and you will be exposed for the Saville-Row upholstered Canadian twit you are.

Adam Slushpilitz

BROOKLINE BOYS ASSOCIATES
Management Company

November 11, 2005

Dear Graydon:

Perhaps you remember me. I am Josh Freelantzovitz, a former writer with whom you corresponded at length in the late 1990s. Recently, I set up a management company with my brother, Joel, to handle the business affairs of your friend Ed Coaster and his fianc e, Amy Sacco. But in light of Ed's and your unconscionable treatment of my friend and colleague Adam Slushpilitz, I have decided to sunder this potentially lucrative business relationship. Ed Coaster is dead to me.

Not since you failed to retain Joel Stein as Calendar Boy has on of my dear friends been so shabbily treated by you. How dare you! I have some powerful friends in the blogosphere, all of whom are prepared to say belittling things about your hair on a daily basis until you make amends with Adam. Watch your back, my friend. Watch your back.

Take care now,
Josh Freelantzovitz

When you're done laughing — boy, that was quick — let us quickly highlight the subtle addition of Joel Stein to the cabal affronting Messrs. Carter and Coaster. That's good work — several-dollars-a-word work, clearly.

Oh, and that VF photo shoot we once did? Yeah, that spread is so never gonna run now.

Vanity Fair [Official site]

We told you a few days ago that we'd finally received (written) word that Gawker mascot Andrew Krucoff had safely arrived in Jerusalem and gotten started on his Talmudic study. Now we have photo evidence.

(Not directly, mind you. Does he call us? Does he write? Would it be so hard just once in a while to check in with people who are worrying about him? Apparently it would be. Well, one day we won't be around anymore. And then how will he feel?)

The bloggers at Jewlicious caught up with The Kruc in Jerusalem the other night, where, it seems, he joined them for a lively night of boozing and gesticulating.

It's nice to know some things never change.

Gawker Mascot Alive and Well in Jerusalem [Jewlicious]
Earlier: Andrew Krucoff Is Alive and Well and Loving Eretz Yisrael

But, finally, within a few hours this afternoon, we got two emailed confirmations that he's fine. (Neither directly, though. What? We're chopped liver now?) And, finally, there was a post at youngisraelite:

I'm here, all is well, and the indoctrination process is in full action mode. It's a pretty hardcore religious environment but I knew I wasn't signing up for a month of MTV Yeshiva Beach House.

This is all good news. But then comes this:

Anyway, I've decided I won't be blogging much of this trip. I'm presently sitting on a stoop getting free wifi on the edge of the Old City's Jewish Quarter near the Armenians and I don't have time for this. The end of days are nigh and there's a lot of Torah to study until then.

Won't be blogging? End of days? Torah to study? And, again: Won't be blogging?

Oy. We now can't shake the suspicion that Krucoff, upon his return, will be selling us electronics.

Future Bible Heroes! [youngisraelite.com]

First, the backstory: Krucoff is, as you may have heard, currently unemployed. He's also Jewish, but only nominally. He's currently dating a sexy and sassy jack modern-ortho chick, who has piqued his interest in making his Judaism at least slightly more than just nominal. And he likes to travel.

Mash that all up like a big bowl of chopped liver, and you get your answer? Kruc's leaving for Israel.

He successfully conned some educational group into funding his trip, and he launched, natch, a limited-edition new blog, and so he's jetting off to Ben Gurion Saturday. He'll be Jewing himself up for a month or so — perhaps being brainwashed into rightwing Zionism while he's at it — and you can read all about it at youngisraelite.com.

You can even donate to the cause, too, if you want. (Visa and MasterCard accepted!) Though God knows why you would. Tout le New York bloggers hit the Krucoff sendoff at Lolita last night, where instead they simply donated a few drinks.

Photos of the festivities, by non-Semitic Gawker photog Nikola Tamindzic, await after the jump. But you'll have to figure out who everyone is on your own. Because we had far too many of those aforementioned drinks to even think about writing captions.

Next week in Jerusalem!

Earlier: Gawker's coverage of Andrew Krucoff

Which is to say, after 24 hours of polling, your overwhelming choice for us to recommend to Time managing editor Jim Kelly as a potential Person of the Year is the safe, obvious, middle-American choice: Mother Nature. Mother — who, as Brian Williams said, should be personified on Time's cover by Bea Arthur — got a whopping 30.8 percent of the vote.

We do appreciate, though, that your second and third choices were Fabian Basabe and Andrew Krucoff.

The full results are after the jump.

And, we suppose: Go Mother Nature!

Gawker Media polls require Javascript; if you're viewing this in an RSS reader, click through to view in your Javascript-enabled web browser.

I was recently hired on to the company and had to go through orientation on the first day. Since I am a rehire at the company, I can still remember my first orientation a few years ago. This time around there were a few additions. Everyone has to sign a confidentiality agreement now, and communication with outside entities is discussed at length. While the HR rep was dancing around the issue, one of the other people in the room mentioned the Krucoff incident specifically. CNP is apparently working on policies that are blog specific. Kind of makes me feel like I witnessed a little bit of history.

Which makes us, what, the Brits who shot Crispus Attucks?

Earlier: Andrew Krucoff

From: Krucoff's Mom
To: Krucoff
Subject: W and Vogue
Date: Fri, 28 Oct 2005 10:19:50 -0400

I just cancelled my subscriptions — when asked why I truthfully answered W is too large, Vogue too heavy and totally irrelevant, and I wasn't too thrilled with the Conde Nast organization. Now I get some money back — I'll buy a few of the Krucoff buttons!

Krucoff's mom is right, of course. (Then again, when isn't a Jewish mother?) W really is too big, and Vogue really is too heavy. And none of us is too thrilled with the organization.

So: Support Krucoff! Cancel your subscriptions!

Or at least just send us some memos.

Earlier: Andrew Krucoff

Online Writers Can Quickly Become Slaves to Instant Ratings [Romenesko]

You could also try the ever-useful Tor; it has the side effect of anonymizing all your internet browsing, so aside from your browser cache & cookies your employer can't tell what you're looking at.

We advise further that you never trust anyone — especially us. Because we hear that right now, at this very moment, a certain two Gawker editors are at a photo shoot for Vanity Fair, mere days after Conde Nast fired official Gawker Martyr Andrew Krucoff.

Keep those memos coming, people.

Help me find a personal email venue that my employer can't block [Ask MetaFilter]
[Photo illustration by lowculture]

"Time magazine has already come out to say their sources are still talking to them," Mr. Jones said yesterday. "We should watch whether the Plame case inspires prosecutors to start going after reporters in a wholesale way. We may also see more conditional anonymity now where journalists tell sources 'I'll protect you if I don't go to jail.'?"

There has been some source-related fallout this week, however. Andrew Krucoff, a Conde Nast researcher, was fired Tuesday for leaking an internal staff memo to Gawker, a Manhattan news and gossip Web log. He was escorted from the building.

Valerie Plame to Andrew Krucoff in 500 words. Now that's how you pad a story.

Lasting effect of Plame case on press murky [WT]

Earlier:
Media Bubble, Bursted: Krucoff Fired

Now, we just have to get publisher Kyle Crafton and founder Laurel Touby to recognize the wisdom of the masses. Honestly, they'd have to be crazy to pick anyone else... Oh.

[Final results, in their entirety, available here.]

lots of talk at work today about krucoff — at least among certain folks known to forward things to gawker. it does seem like the conde highers-up have successfully instilled a certain degree of fear into would-be leakers, or at least enough so as to get them chattering about it. the question of the day, though, is whether the means exist to monitor things like gmail. my guess is no, but i'm no scientist. nobody wants to get fired, though; the indignity of being led out of the tower by a human resources person and deposited on the sidewalk like some "apprentice" contestant is unpleasant to contemplate.

So let's block that contemplation, if we can. Who's a scientist out there? Who knows what sort of monitoring Conde is likely to employ? Even better, who's a mole within Conde IT and knows what sort of monitoring they employ? Comment if you're a commenter; email us if you're not: tips@gawker.com.

And, dear God, please please please help us determine that they can't — or, at least, don't — track Gmail/Yahoo/Hotmail usage. Because otherwise we're fucked.

UPDATE: Of course the day we write, "Hey, let us know in Comments what you think," is the day Comments breaks. Summary of the many responses coming soon. [Comments are fixed. Rejoice.]

Earlier:
Media Bubble, Bursted: Krucoff Fired
Krucing Off: Si Newhouse Would Like to Exploit Your Children
Krucing Off: Discount Shopping for Conde Nasties"

It is with regret and surprise that FishbowlNY reports that our source at CNN has been fired, unfortunately for Fishbowl-related reasons. Tom Thomsen, a now-former CNN employee and director of a weekly performance (unrelated to mediabistro) in which I participate, told me that he was fired from CNN for the following reasons: speaking about the company to an outside source without authorization; revealing information about a meeting where executives were speaking to employees, not the general public; and granting an outside person access to the company for inappropriate reasons and sharing proprietary company information with that person.

And just one day after Krucoff's ousting from Conde Nast. We know imitation is the highest form of flattery. But we can't help thinking Sklar has finally taken things a bit too far.

Fishbowl's Source at CNN Is Fired [FishbowlNY]

This was sent last week to Fairchild employees:

Just a reminder that we want you and your kids, nieces, nephews and pals ages 3-9 to help make a big splash on our launch day, Monday, November 7th. For those of you who haven't RSVP'd already, here are the details:

We'll meet in the lobby of 750 Third Avenue at 3:30pm sharp to don Cookie sweatshirts and hop on big yellow school buses to visit two of New York's top advertising agencies, where the kids will hand-deliver copies along with balloons and cookies (of course) to our top clients. What a photo op!!

What a photo op, indeed — assuming your baby's not too fat.

The complete memo is after the jump.

[Got other CNP memos? Send 'em over, no