Category: Uncategorized

nyt corrections book, guardian too

Someone’s assembled a compilation of the most embarrassing corrections run by the New York Times over the last 20 years. Some excerpts:
A review about “Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard,” by Kiran Desai, misspelled the name of the novel’s hero. It is Sampath, not Sanpath. The same review incorrectly identified the character who falls into a vat of broth; it is a spy from an atheist organization, not a monkey or Sampath in the form of a guava.
An article about decorative cooking incorrectly described a presentation of Muscovy duck by Michel Fitoussi, a New York chef. In preparing it, Mr. Fitoussi uses a duck that has been killed.
A caption misidentified a drag queen shown standing behind Quentin Crisp. The performer was Brandywine, not Lady Bunny.
A theater review about the Roundabout Theater Company’s production of Shakespeare’s “Tempest” misinterpreted a gesture. The actors’ intent was to portray 18th-century gentlemen taking snuff, not cocaine.
In yesterday’s issue, The New York Times did not report on riots in Milan and the subsequent murder of the lay religious reformer Erlembald. These events took place in 1075, the year given in the dateline under the nameplate on Page 1. The Times regrets both incidents.
But personally, I’ll wait for the Guardian’s equivalent book, due out in March. They seem to have more fun with the form:
We spelt Morecambe, the town in Lancashire, wrong on Page 2, G2, yesterday. We often do.
In “A (very) occasional series on praise of the sub-editors craft,” we repeated a seven-line section practically word for word. We did not notice but you did.
A caption in Guardian Weekend, page 102, 13 November, read, “Binch of crappy travel mags.” That should, of course, have been “bunch.” But more to the point it should not have been there at all. It was a dummy [placeholder] which we failed to replace with the real caption. It was not meant to be a comment on perfectly good travel brochures. Apologies.

sick, election preview, french kicks, dplan tix

Argh. Sickness has descended upon me — and not the full-blown sickness that would get me out of work: the sinus-dripping, woozy-headed, headachy, general crappiness kind of sick. (I also sound like I’m doing a Tom Waits impression anytime I open my mouth.) I went to bed last night at 8 p.m. and got up at 9:30 this morning. A variety of other things, including word of a couple friends’ suddenly failed relationships, have put me in a fairly sour mood.
Anyway, tomorrow’s election day here in Dallas, and if you stay tuned to dallasnews.com, I’ll be writing the main stories on the mayor’s race and the bond election all night. Assuming I haven’t coughed both lungs up on my keyboard by then.
Four bonus MP3s from up-and-coming NYC band the French Kicks (who sound at times like carbon copies of Jonathan Fire*Eater, a lamented NYC band that self-destructed after one CD not long ago — lots of VU/Stones influence): Young Lawyer (great track, that), The 88, White, So Many Cakes.
Finally, if you like that newfangled rock music and plan to attend the Dismemberment Plan/Death Cab For Cutie global happening at the Ridglea in Fort Worth March 5, tickets are on sale online now at $11.50 a pop. Worth every penny, I assure you. I know several blog-types are going; it might even qualify as a microevent.

archbishop of canterbury, the scepter story

After seven years in the Rayne, La., public schools — not the most nurturing environment — I got lucky and got a full scholarship to this great private school (whose site has been down for most of the last few months). It’s a great school out in the middle of nowhere on the grounds of an abandoned sugar cane plantation, and credit for whatever I’ve been able to do since 1987 largely goes to it.
But there was one, shall we say, issue: most of the kids who went to ESA were quite rich, or at least pleasantly upper middle class. I was poor. This created a variety of complications in my life over the years and helped create the slightly silly class-warrior mentality I had for a long time (and still have every once in a while). But one of the biggest benefits is that I got to tag along on the rich-kid senior trip to the U.K. and France. There were only 43 of us in the senior class, so the trip wasn’t too crowded.
It was a wonderful trip, and one of the highlights was going to Easter services at Canterbury Cathedral. Since ESA was an Episcopal school, visiting the center of all things Anglican was a big deal (even though I, like most of south Louisiana, was raised Catholic). The ceremony was beautiful, and afterward we all gathered with the Archbishop of Canterbury George Carey for a picture.
By chance, I ended up standing next to the Archbish himself for the photo. (My friend Anthony had taken to saying “Bish better have my money” whenever we saw the local Episcopal bishop back home, in homage to and parody of this 1992 rap quasi-classic. So the Archbishop naturally became the Archbish.) After the group shots were taken, one of my classmates asked for the Archbish’s autograph. He was happy to oblige, but there was one problem: one of his hands was full. He was holding the big six-foot-tall bejeweled scepter that all Archbishi get to hold on to, the symbol of his authority within the church. So, logically, he turned to me and asked:
“Could you hold this for me for a minute?”
Um, sure I could. I took the scepter from his hands and briefly considered using my power to issue edicts, or fiats, or bulls, or whatever Anglican top-down orders were called. After all, who could question me — I had the scepter! But instead, I turned to everyone holding a camera near me and asked: “Could someone please take a picture of me with this thing?”
Earlier this week, George Carey announced his retirement as Archbish. I quickly remembered my brush with religious power. But in a moment, the thought shifted to: None of those losers ever sent me a copy of those photos.