She may be smart, but she doesn’t seem to know much about men. But in real life, journalists are feeling the chill.
The stylish grandmother acted like a stammering child caught red-handed, refusing to admit any fault and pointing the finger at a convenient scapegoat. But now I want a full accounting. I want to know every awful act committed in the name of self-defense and patriotism.
Have you thought about using even fewer than 140 characters? In a droll nod to shifting technology, there’s a British red telephone booth in the loftlike office that you are welcome to use but you’ll have to bring in your cellphone.
Maybe it’s because I’m staying at the Sunset Tower on Sunset Boulevard, but I keep thinking of newspapers as Norma Desmond.
I dreamed that Spock saved our planet, The Daily Planet of journalism. Newspapers are an “endangered species,” as John Kerry called us in a Senate hearing last week, just as the Vulcans are in the new prequel. He gave me that wry Spock look.
Papers are still big. It’s the screens that got small.
Newspapers no longer know how to live long and prosper. It’s enough to make a Vulcan weep.
The really complicated question is what she hopes to gain from this.
This is quite touching, given that the start of the 21st century will be remembered as the harrowing era when an arrogant Republican administration did its best to undermine checks and balances.
I had dinner once with John and Elizabeth Edwards, when he first burst onto the national scene.
You could probably see your own name if you stayed long enough,
I heard about a woman who tweeted her father’s funeral. Whatever happened to private pain?
If you were out with a girl and she started twittering about it in the middle, would that be a deal-breaker or a turn-on?
To save journalism, Google has to know my most intimate secrets?
I feel better for a minute, until I realize that the only reason he knew that I wasn’t so easily replaceable is that Google had been looking into how to replace me.
(Tip via Jason Boog)