Rachelle Hruska, Dear (Or: "I Am Using Your Name In The Title Of This Post To Ensure The Words "Your Name" Appear Well-Regarded By Google")

Isn't the left-side beautiful? Writing something here is the difference in between climbing into a fluffy, cool, made bed, and laying your head to rest on a pile of angry, craggy rocks.

Anyway. I guess this is where I'm supposed to take the (Kosher-certified/Omaha) beef, right? I was going to wait a week to do this, but in a week this thing would be long gone (and thus, maybe, kinda new again). Two days after and now it's just tired, totally uninteresting, and something we've all moved on from. This is my version of totally burying a news cycle via quicksand effect. Of course, there's that other way of doing it, by just shutting the fuck up, but in the grand tradition of people who can't shut the fuck up (namely: everyone reading this), that's just not gonna to happen.

I've already said: I've had a great time. And if none of the involved parties enjoyed this, you are joyless, sad, and angry. There's been a lot of blood pressure raised over this! I got a stern talking-to in a clurrb! And I'm not going to get into who's "right" and who's "wrong," first, because the only people worth listening to about being right are - and forgive the Garrison Keeler-esque folksy shit here - people who are capable of admitting that they're wrong, who are also (like people who can shut the fuck up) in short demand around these parts. No, the only way to measure this thing is by who "won," and when I say "won," I mean, out of all the people I've interacted with in the last week, who has the lowest blood pressure that isn't plagued by pre-existing medical condition (hypotension, namely). I'm just going to start walking around with one of those portable monitors and being all like "Gimme your arm!" Creepy, yes, but also: statistically effective. And we know how I love me some stat porn (Nic will get this).

Anyway. Here's the email I sent to Rachelle Hruska, and the response I got back. I'm not linking shit. If you're here, you know what happened by now.

1. BlackBook definitely pays guest contributors (well-documented dispute with an in-breach freelancer aside).
2. Real talk: "Largely unpaid staff" is the quote I got from the Times, which you assured me time and time again was "real journalism" and then put me on blast for using that line as a source of information. If other "real journalism" needs to be called up and double-checked, how real is it? If the Times got the story right, they would've written about your "largely paid and cared for" staff and the "largely unpaid content" you receive from friendly contributors on the site. Right? What if I'm not the only reader who drew the conclusions from the Times piece that I did? Should they all call you, too?
3. Paying for writers and paying for journalism are two totally different things. I'm not paid for journalism. I'm paid to blog. Ask anybody at Gawker if they'd call themselves journalists; ask Nick if he'd call any of his writers journalists, I can't imagine he would. [I read the Howard Kurtz piece after writing this. In it, Denton notes that any journalism that happens at Gawker is incidental.] Would you call yourself a journalist? Anybody coming to Gawker for New York Times-level reportage might be a little off the mark (then again, Jayson Blair, so, you know, that whole thing) - they have an obligation towards liability. Gawker's been wrong before; as you said this morning, so have you. Now: let's say an organization only writes what they get straight from the subject (inherently biased in the subject's direction) without providing their readers with context or opinion. Then they're writing press releases and being a mouthpiece of the subject. And what's uglier: an outlet tethered to the information it gets from the subject (and nothing else) or one that can see around the interference the subject's going to post?
4. You blasted me for not calling you before I was going to run my piece. You didn't call me! :(
5. I wouldn't compare what I did to Fox News. Mean! I'm not exploitative and nor do I pride on hurting people; I'd call it ribbing at best and digging into at worst. Fox News is malicious. You know that.
6. You misspelled "plesant." I only care about this because it was the one nice thing I got said about me! Although, in all honesty, I'm probably more plesant than I am pleasant.

Other than that, you were definitely right about the following things:

1. "Populist demagoguery" is pretty much the name of the game with every Gawker Media site [especially those vigilant fucking gadget nerds]. That's what I get paid to do, though, that being said, it's not always the populist fire I'm feeding (sometimes, if you've ever read anything by Gawker's frightening weekend commenters, you'd see it's an anarchist minority. They're a readership worth worrying about). Also, what a phrase to use! Whether or not you give a shit about journalism, the writing is most definitely there. [Though I will say, the Sunday Styles specializes in a certain kind of dem-a-gog-ur-y, though most of their readers would think that's a new skin treatment.]
2. "As you know from the Times piece, I left a secure job in finance to take on tremendous risk and a drastic pay cut to build GofG. As it stands, the world we live in isn’t perfect and the income disparity between industries does not always seem “fair” or “right.” A discourse on the root of the problem is probably one that exceeds the scope of both your and my skill sets." (A) It's admirable, and I've said as much often, and (B) you're absolutely right on all counts here.
3. And as Rachel Sklar will be very quick to tell you, I'm still very much a beginner at this. You know this is my seventh weekend, right? I've done some pretty great things (most recently: scooped everyone on the sale of VSL to the Observer, on a Sunday, no quotes required. And I was right!), but when you're writing Gawker single-handedly, nine to thirteen posts a day, and trying to do it during the weekends, your ability to get quotes is limited. (Cajun Boy has the same problems at night [though he did manage to get ahold of the Megan Fox-fatkid-fan identifier!]; but the Gawker Manna From The Gods - the Sunday Times - isn't coming out for him every night). Does that mean I shouldn't write the stories? Shit, I hope not. In both cases, I could've gotten quotes from you and Sklar, and maybe I was wrong for not making a good faith attempt on both ends (though the situation with Sklar is TOTALLY different; she didn't have the information on you - the Times article - out there on her). So: I'm still learning. Isn't that nice, though? There're worse things than a guy who can take his licks and roll with 'em as lessons thereafter. Nice job. We can buy each other rounds 'next time. -f.

Her response to me, below. My comments in bold.

1. i was talking about their interns- i know a couple they are not paid WTF?
2."I understand how the line in the NYTimes article that described GofG as having a staff “largely unpaid” reads, however, your interpretation and understanding of this quotation is incomplete. This quotation, admittedly deserving clarification, attempts to convey the user-generated component of our content structure." id you read that? I did, but Hruska's the one comparing me to the "real journalism" of the Times that needs clairification. Also, funny aside, though: assuming you do pay four people, the Huffington Post only pays five. So you're still better than her.
3 this is much longer discussion
4.i posted on my wee tumblr, not a site that gets --what is it 22 million hit snow? Fuck if I know. Denton probably piles on the numbers anyway. I think he told Sharon Waxman over eggs that we're more read than Google, or something, and she believed it. Which is superb.
5. feelings have nothing to do with this-it's factss I first read that as "fatass," so maybe I'm just projecting. But yes, factss.
6. thank you i fixed and you are pleAsant:) For my first club-oriented altercation, you were as well. I fully expect Rachel Sklar to shake me out over a roof like Suge Knight next time, though.

Are we done?

Heart Of The City (Ain't No Love) - Jay-Z feat. The Roots

To Hell and Back Reliability

So: last Sunday, a Jew, a German, and an Italian walk into a shooting range.

Actually, it was an Italian, a Jew, and a German, in that order. When I arrive at the West Side Pistol Range, strangely - or not - located in the Flatiron District, 99 is already sitting at a plastic table in the lobby, accompanied by a tall, plastic cup of iced coffee. He's staring into the distance, five feet away, into a wall. The normal niceties we greet each other with aren't present. It's 11 AM. I'm sitting at the table, mumbling some shit about getting work done, and sipping away at my paper cup of coffee - emblazoned with The New York Times* logo - and we sheepishly make excuses for The German, who has yet to arrive. 99 is an on-time kind of person: this is somehow contradictory, I find, to the idea of being self-employed.

Me, I'm a disheveled, ugly mess. I stayed up late watching Michael Clayton for the first time, and woke up thinking that everyone could be out to fuck me; a great mentality to take with you to the gun range. I arrive two minutes to 11, which is exceptionally early for me. I was told via Curt - our organizer - that the "people at the gun range are really strict about being on time," and if there's anybody you don't want to be late for, it's some grizzled Heston fan who works at a gun range in New York City.

Someone fires off a few rounds in the range behind us, and I nearly piss myself and/or fall over, coffee cup and all. The first gunshot you hear in the morning is a loud one (but not nearly as loud as the guy later firing off a fucking hand cannon two stalls down from us - we don't know what gun he was using, and like we were going to ask). Trying to have a "catching up" conversation while someone is gatting a piece of paper five feet behind you is relatively jarring.

Curt rolls in ten minutes later - our voices had been low; tired. He yells from across the lobby: "Guys! Good morning! What's up?" What's up? Keep your fucking voice down, man. These guys have GUNS. Fucking GUNS. I guess it's worth noting that Andrew made some excuse for not coming, but we know he's a pussy and can't really handle a gun anyway, so, you know, that's cool.

We file into a makeshift classroom and sit at desks, filling out paperwork that releases the West Side Shooting Range of any liability in case they have to take me out for loading the gun inside out and putting a hole anywhere but down the range - an entirely likely outcome.

ENFORCEMENT AGENCY?, one of the questions asks. I lean over to Nic: "Is this where I fill in 'YoungManhattanite.com'?"

"Look at the back," he wearily notes. "I think we might be in trouble." There was a list of, "If you are's" as in, IF YOU ARE A USER OF OR HAVE EVER BEEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF MARIJUANA OR ANY OTHER DRUG, YOU MAY NOT SHOOT HERE. IF YOU ARE ON TRIAL FOR OR HAVE EVER BEEN CONVICTED OF A MISDEMEANOR CRIME, YOU MAY NOT SHOOT HERE. Etcetera. We met at least three of the criteria for not being able to shoot there between us, but Curt tells us that it's fine. "Just be cool." It was, and we were.

The room was mostly women, one of which was a young Asian lady, there by herself, with an abundance of lipstick on. I was worried about her - 99 might ask for her number, which I'd have to stop. People who go to a gun range by themselves, for the first time: worrisome. Small women who go to a gun range by themselves, for the first time, on a Sunday morning, in an abundance of makeup: stay the fuck away.

Our instructor was a nice, well-to-do type - he didn't sound like a New Yorker, which was good: I felt I was in the hands of a professional with limited psychopathic reach. He even helped me tape up a pair of safety goggles, because I'm a right-handed, left-eye-dominant, which means I'm too much of an invalid to be able to close my left eye. Whatever. After twenty minutes of a class that was mostly DO NOT SHOOT ANYBODY WHO WORKS HERE WITH A GUN, we stepped out of the classroom. We sat at a table. We loaded our magazines. We stepped into the stalls. We started to fire. And then, with our Ruger 1022 semi-automatic rifles, some of us aimed.

The most thrilling thing about shooting a gun this morning wasn't hitting the target, which I ceremoniously - and much to everyone's surprise - actually did. No. It's firing a semi-automatic weapon. "Most guns are semi-automatic, dickhead," my roommate later reminds me. This is true, but the last real gun I shot was a single-action lock-and-load at a summer camp^; before that, an air-pistol BB Gun on a camping trip. So I guess this was my first semi-automatic weapon, which I was about to compare to eating my first Eggs Benedict**, but it's different than that. But you know both are dangerous as fuck and probably not good for you. Except one you eat, and the other one can put a bloody fucking hole in someone. So, you know, different, but the same.

Anyway, the thrilling thing about firing a semi-automatic weapon for me was pulling the trigger a bunch of times and hearing the loud BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG, and then clicking the cartridge release, letting it drop to the floor below my stall, and slamming another five-bullet cartridge back in. I felt like Dirty Fucking Harry. In the stalls next to me, Curt and Nic were taking their time; I heard about five or six seconds between each shot. They probably heard about three between every five, for me.

Anyway. I did okay. I hit the center of my target a few times and after the thrill of hitting the target was gone, I just went for the loud noises. I am a luddite with no regard for precision, talent, or skill. Just loud noises^^.

We finished 100 rounds. We sat at the table, rolling up our shot-out targets. Curt did far better than I did - that wasn't hard - but even he admitted to the thrill of popping off rounds with little regard for aim.

99 starts rolling his targets up, and Curt stops him. "Woah, man. Jesus." He had more or less pumped 17 rounds into the center of his target. "Holy shit."

"Yeah, you know, I just saw what was happening with the first one and re-adjusted my aim here, held the gun this way, until I finally knew where the bullet was going." Spoken like a true by-trade designer. Just, you know, put this thing here, put that thing there. And then SHOOT IT DEAD-FUCKING-CENTER. It was like that moment where R. Lee Ermey discovers Private Pyle is a marksman - not entirely unexpected, totally impressive, and a little scary. Except I'm Private Pyle and I couldn't shoot the broad side of an N-Train.

Leaving the place, I noticed a sign on one of the counter-windows: SIG SAUER - TO HELL AND BACK RELIABILITY. I jam a finger at the sign: "We should have that somewhere near our masthead."

At brunch, we didn't save. We had orange juice with bubby wine in them, and Curt ordered soft-boiled eggs, which I just don't understand - so much work! Nic didn't say anything, but I could tell he was fascinated with watching Curt eat them, with precision. Kind of a European thing, those soft-boiled eggs.

We starting talking about sketch comedy. Curt noted that it's "for retards," and quickly added an "I apologize if you have any mentally deficient people in your family. But it really is." I almost convinced him my sister was retarded, but then told him I didn't have a sister.

The takeaway is this: who's the bigger pussy? The guy who walks out of the West Side Pistol Range with his own gun, or the guy who walks out and has a mimosa?

I'd like to think it's the former, but it probably isn't. Then again, I guess I'd rather be a pussy: I really do enjoy having brunch. It's nice.

Anthrax, Looking Down The Barrel Of A Gun (Beastie Boys cover)

*This is worth noting because someone is still stealing my fucking Times subscription, and I couldn't stop thinking about this until I got to the gun range, sans paper, with the only New York Times-issued paraphernalia I had on me this morning being that goddamn coffee cup. Listen, you dickless thief: if you're reading this, and there's any takeway for you, buddy, remember: I am a fucking marksman. Or someone I know, is.

^Not the Jewish summer camp; they would never have rifllery at a Jewish summer camp. Most Jews don't like guns. Figure it out. Also, really, though, it's kind of a Goy thing.

**Definitely a Goy thing (ham and dairy). For the record, so is mayonnaise, or so my grandmother says.

^^ This also describes approximately 30% of the YM Masthead's Writing Style, so at least I'm in good company.

Hand on the glock

Hi friends. Can we all get together and rise up against the fucking glockenspiel? Seriously, this once obscure Teutonic travesty has now become the go-to mallet instrument when you're looking to convey just-shy-of-treacly sincerity. Case in point: Fucking Juno (I added the "fucking," the movie is actually just called "Juno.") Throughout that flick, which, admittedly, I have yet to see, but based on the previews and these genuinely hilarious promo clips, I think I can offer up an informed opinion...throughout that flick, the characters run around on tippy toes to the sound of the goddamn glokenspiel. And who can blame them, really? How else are you expected to move about as bipeds when confronted with the glock? Just try shuffling, or better yet, sauntering. You can't do it. You have to get up on your toes and prance around.

Of course, it's not just movies, but the goddamned indie bands who are flogging the glock. (Yes, it also means masturbation.) I blame Beck, as always.

And as usual, thanks to my advanced age, I've run out of steam on this one.