Things are quiet now. Kristina's iPod has gone to sleep. Aside from some street noise — a passing siren or a honking horn — the only music in our office comes from the printer. Soon these coarse black and whites will be colorful glossies. These proofs will grow to be the pages you turn.
Fred, Brooklyn's "honorary detective" undercover kitty, is dead at the age of one.
Today's Jon Carroll column doesn't <I>exactly</I> answer yesterday's link to Clay Risen's critique of Claire Hoffman's Joe Francis story (man, is this blog getting self-referential or what), but it does neatly expose Risen's glaring flaw: Journalism isn't just one thing.
Watch the blooming of Brooklyn Botanic Garden's titan arum (<I>Amorphophallus titanum</I>), aka the "corpse flower" because it "releases a monstrous stench of putrefaction at peak bloom."
Huckleberry can quit the catnip anytime he wants—honest!
Bagheera, tiring of being compared to a recumbent Modigliani model, tries for some Julian Schnabel neo-expressionism.
I'll have to check with JA to be sure (he remembers these things better than anyone), but I think it was Thursday, August 10, 2000 — exactly six years ago — that I first sat down in front of a computer screen for <i>Stereophile</i>.
<b>KR</b>: "What the hell did you people do to me?"
Possible photo captions:
<I>The Morning News</I>' Clay Risen thinks the <I>LA Times</I> shouldn't have published Claire Hoffman's story on <I>Girls Gone Wild</I> sleazeball Joe Francis. Risen thinks Hoffman couldn't write objectively about a man who assaulted her.