Month: February 2005

  • Feedback Loop

    It’s new-issue Monday, and there is nothing as exciting or scary as setting your work of the previous month before a jury of 65,000 peers. We tend to get feedback of three kinds. First, there are complimentary emails from readers who like what they read, and these are the ones we read repeatedly, we print…

  • Walking The Dog Through A Cemetery

    A man needs only to be turned around once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost. —Henry Thoreau Man will never find the end of the trail. —Robert Hofstadter Probe and rummage and ruminate all we want –through, past, back, forward, beyond, up, out, now— we can’t see through any of it,…

  • The Strange Case Of Luis Rivas

    Everybody, from the coaching staff to the fans in the chat rooms, has been hard on Luis Rivas the last couple years. Most of the criticism directed at Rivas has been justified. The guy had obviously developed some bad work habits that were showing up on the field with a glaring regularity. At times –most…

  • The Sort Of Thing That Used To Trouble My Sleep

    Back in my drinking days my stomach would for damn sure be a lousy mess, and my liver would feel like a fat wad of pate throbbing behind my ribs. I couldn’t sleep for shit and I’d be up and down prowling the drafty house all night in the dark, handling the various little talismans…

  • Pre-disgusted

    At the risk of getting too self referential here, I’m going to recommend Brad Zellar’s blog entry from yesterday. It’s about why his blog is the antithesis of this one. The editor and I are often fairly earnest here…in a Buck Turgidson sort of way. Brad, though, has defined his take perfectly. He’s disgusted, or…

  • Spleen Fully Ventilated, Resting At Home

    We may have gotten a little carried away yesterday, a little intemperate. After all, we love Frank Rich. His far-ranging free association is often a delight to read (but like his neo-con complement, David Brooks, his conclusions are sometimes a little thin). Rich was merely the cart onto which we loaded our rotten apples—it’s nothing…