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On Schedule

About a week ago, I was feeling pretty happy with myself. I was a proofreading machine. I was marking things in red and sending corrections to our designer. I was as clear as last Saturday, as succinct as a pushpin. I was downloading files, naming folders, and clicking and dragging stuff like nobody's business. I was shipping things to prepress like I knew what I was doing. I was shipping things to prepress like I knew what prepress was!

But that was last week. This week, I'm sick and tired of the October issue. I wish it would die. The Ad Index came in and…

Ten Years After

Ten years after Big Blue beat Garry Kasparov, people are still fighting over the definition of "really playing chess" is.

Mental Maturity

Once we understand it, maybe we can create more of it.

Are Americans Amateurs?

When it comes to trash talk, it would seem so. Numbers two and four completely cracked me up.

Why Newspapers Are Screwed

Silicon Alley Insider tells a horror story.

Hat tip to Mike Pope.

Huckleberry's Come Hither Look

Admit it—the lad simply smolders.

Everybody's a Ham

Bagheera tries her hand at the dramatic chipmunk meme.

A Philipic, A Manifesto

B. R. Myers is fightin' mad about high-faluting writin'.

Gosh, I do love a good rant.

Mem, Mem, Mem

Paul West writes the first aphasic memoir. As a writer, I find the loss of language skills the most terrifying boogie man of them all.

Queen of the Nicht

Florence Foster Jenkins was many things. A teacher, a philanthropist, and a kind and generous friend, by many accounts. What she was not, was a gifted vocal artist, despite her unshakable belief to the contrary.

Possessed of a "sliding scale" and lacking any conception of pitch or rhythm—heck, she was barely capable of sustaining a note—what Jenkins had was the money to pursue her dream. She hired concert halls and passed out tickets to her recitals to her close circle of friends. She recorded records and gave them to her coterie. She sold out her 1944 Carnegie Hall recital.

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