If you’re on MySpace now, you’re a [expletive] cretin. And you’re not only a [expletive] cretin, but you’re poor. Nobody who has beyond an 8th grade level of education is on MySpace. It is for backwards people.
L to R: Isabel Lucas from Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen; Fire Marshall Bill Burns from In Living Color. Just sayin’.
my friends continue to surprise me.
furman: I'm getting frustrated
furman: With the D&D group
jmkdsmboy: from what?
jmkdsmboy: oh
furman: lol
furman: It boils down to we need new players that aren't Daniel and Amanda :P
jmkdsmboy: why
furman: Because I told them explicitly that I wouldn't punish them for having the baby
jmkdsmboy: lol
furman: But the baby tends to be a problem with the flow of game
furman: Carson would like to set some rules in place that would cut back on wasted time
furman: but I know what they're gonna say if we do
furman: In any case
furman: I'm off to the store
Your average journalist usually begins his career with a pop, like a big bottle of champagne. He effervesces about his profession, intoxicating all who encounter him. The party goes on for years as the young journalist conquers deadlines, corrupt politicians, and hidebound editors. But by the time a journalist hits his mid-30s, the music begins to dim and the dancing stops. He starts complaining about falling standards, muttering about the decline of the business, and griping about his place in the journalistic pecking order. Once a happy drunk, he’s now a sad drunk—or worse, a mean one. It’s not that the future has been canceled; he just can’t see it rising over the horizon anymore. The flat and warm champagne at the bottom of his bottle has turned to vinegar.
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—excerpted from a June 30, 2009 Slate post titled “Keeping the Fizz in the Journalism Biz.” This would explain a lot… (via ncroal) |
