I shouldn’t have laughed so hard when I saw this.
Works Every Time
This BizWeek article on how fast food joints don’t give a crap about healthy eating is accompanied by a slideshow of Bad Things We Love, which features some great headlines.
I’ve been afraid to try Coca Cola BlaKKK, but my drink of choice in grad school gets its own page in the slideshow:
With its cheap price, large bottles, and high levels of alcohol, no good can come from Colt 45. Its high alcohol content categorizes the drink as malt liquor rather than beer, and a bottle of Colt 45, now owned by Pabst, is sure to give your liver an unnecessary workout.
Relief Effort
Well, after busting my ass for a couple of weeks on this writing-heavy issue of the magazine, with plans to work through the long weekend in order to get the pages out Wednesday morning, I discovered that another magazine at our company is way off schedule and is shipping with ours from the printer. So, according to our production coordinator, I have more time (like into the week after) to get this issue wrapped up.
So there’s a profound sense of relief going on, with me and my associate editor. We haven’t said anything to our salespeople; so no telling!
But an ever weirder feeling of relief comes from the fact that I finished reading The Power Broker this morning. I started Caro’s epic biography of Robert Moses in the middle of May, and 6-7 weeks is a long time for me to spend on a single book (let’s leave out last year’s reading of Proust, which sorta breaks out into 7 books). As I told Amy a few nights ago, “I think this is the first book I’ve ever read in which the page count reaches four digits.”
The book was absolutely amazing. I recommend it to anyone who’s interested in how New York City “got that way,” as well as anyone who wants a good illustration of
a) how your good intentions can lead everyone else to hell;
b) how city authorities function(ed) a lot differently than elected officials, operating like a kingdom (complete with dark tower);
c) how idealism can get squashed like a bug;
d) how much of a douche Robert Moses could be; and
e) how one can be a creative visionary force, and be completely wrong.
That said, it’s a giant book: 1,165 pages of not-so-great typography. But the portrait it paints is fantastic.
Now, as I said, there’s also a relief factor. See, for weeks now, I’ve been bringing that volume with me to work. Lately, I’ve been going out for take-out lunch, parking in a lot, sitting in the back of the car and listening to Howard Stern replays while eating, then, when I’m through, turning off the satellite-radio and reading 15 or 20 pages of the book. It’s been pretty consuming.
Today, about to head out for some sushi, I thought, “I have nothing to read.” Walking in the door tonight, I thought, “I don’t have to kill myself on the magazine, and I don’t have any more of The Power Broker to read. Wow.”
Anyway, that’s Life As I Know It. I watched a little of the NBA Draft last night, but no one wore any really breathtaking ensembles (Amy & I were waiting for the 18-button, triple-breasted suit and vest, but gave up and watched an episode of Buffy instead).
And now it looks like I actually will get out to that staging of Measure For Measure this weekend.
Unless I start another book. . .
Make Mine Miller’s Crossing
Good thing Ian didn’t bring up his Navy record
Last December, Amy & I stopped in on one of the hotels in New Orleans where we were planning to reserve a block of rooms for guests at our wedding. The place was still under reconstruction, but one of the upper floors had just been refurnished, the desk clerk told us. The guard would take us up and show us around, if we wanted.
The guy took us upstairs and we toured a couple of the newly decorated rooms. They looked great. Walking behind the security guard, I noticed the large sidearm hanging from his belt, and I thought, “This guy could be a complete psycho. He could shoot us right now and dump our bodies somewhere, and no one would find us.”
It was a weird, passing thought, but it was conditioned by being in a pretty abandoned city.
The hotel worked out for a bunch of our guests, even if my buddy Ian and his family had a problem with their door not locking correctly and had to get moved to a new room at a weird hour (sorry, guys).
This morning, I was scrolling through Drudge and came across a news item about — wait for it — a psycho security guard at a New Orleans hotel popping a visitor in the face with his .40 while they argued over who had the more extensive military record!
“Well,” thought I, “it couldn’t possibly be the same hotel . . . Oh, wait. Yeah, that’s the Royal Saint Charles, alright.”
ARE you stupid?
Writing my Top Companies profile of GlaxoSmithKline, I came across congressional testimony about the acts that animal rights knuckleheads have committed against GSK employees.
Yesterday, working on Roche‘s profile, I came across some moonbats who think that the avian flu is a hoax meant to enrich Donald Rumsfeld.
I, on the other hand, still think SARS was just a cover-up for the T-virus.
What a drag
No Mermaids, But Plenty of Hitler Cats
The weather’s pretty grotesque here in NJ/NY today, so we’re going to pass on the Mermaid Parade at Coney Island. Someday I’ll get to see it. . .
Till then, enjoy a parade of cats that look like Hitler.
Hey, Big Ed!
The Official VM Wife thinks Gatorade missed a major chance in its Big Head TV campaign
when they didn’t use Giada De Laurentiis
Think of how much money they could have saved on special effects!
Oops, etc.
Here’s an entertaining fashion article in the Washington Post on the meltdown that is Britney:
During the “Dateline” interview, Spears tearfully implored the paparazzi to leave her alone. Her pleas were reasonable and tugged at the heart. One came close to forgetting that she had encouraged the attention with her provocative videos, snake-charming stage performance, open-mouthed Madonna-kissing, 15-minute marriage, grotesquely narcissistic reality show and second husband known for displaying the tawdry, laconic demeanor of a pimp on weed.