So if it’s not furloughs, it’s buyouts. If it’s not buyouts, it’s layoffs. If it’s not layoffs, it’s a publisher ousting or a CEO ousting or a VP ousting or an editor ousting or an editor leaving or a manager leaving or a friend leaving or mergers or reorgs or bomb threats or reader hate mail. How in the world has that mix been the last three years of my life? Tonight, so far, I’ve tried: Ash Wednesday church, reading on a train, Girl Scout cookies, beer, It’s Always Sunny, Biggie Smalls, and now Ian Fraizer. I don’t even get upset about all of the chaos anymore. I just get tired.
New Yorker, I love you, but putting even Talk of the Town items behind a paywall? Give me a break. I would really like one. Here’s a link that stole your story. You deserve it. A graf that’s the opposite of all this:
On a recent Sunday afternoon, a north wind held the American flag out almost straight from its pole above the walkway. On the river’s surface, a vast field of broken ice, all white (ice slabs), dark brown (water), and light brown (ice slabs under-water), in a pattern of splendid randomness like winter camouflage, proceeded slowly oceanward. Small buoys, one red, one green, bobbed in mid-channel. Wind wrinkled the open water except in the immediate lee of the ice slabs, where the surface remained glassy smooth, with reflected clouds. Shafts of sunlight came through the clouds occasionally and turned the ice they stuck a powdered sugar white. To the north and south, all landscape lines approximately converged at the river’s faraway perspective points. One of those was four miles distant; the other was nine.