gastropoda

The latest evidence the backfield is on life support at the hometown paper, though, was the report on the model whose leg was amputated by Photoshop for a Health Department ad warning of the diabetes risk from supersizing both sodas and physiques. The hole awaiting the truck to drive through was: How could a photographer sell a photo for that use without knowing who the subject was? No release? But of course it took the followup to answer that, without acknowledging that maybe running the poor guy’s face blew his cover. (I assume that was fair use because it was a news story?) At least he was a good sport and signed off with a great quote about singing and dancing and not charging an arm and a leg if the sugar-water companies wanted to hire him for their own campaign. Not gonna happen (only anorectics guzzle in ads), but here’s a thought: NYC should hire him for the next set of save-yourself ads. Who would ever order a Big Gulp again?

Relatedly, I’ve long argued that journalism went down the tubes, and not the ones Al Gore invented, once it became a profession for the elite rather than a job open to a college dropout like me who learned by doing. And nothing made that clearer than the sad tale of the pea & the princesses (or, more likely, princes) down to the Taj Sulzberger, whose refined sensibilities are so refined they simply cannot work amid the aromas of meat cooked by those lowly tradesmen in the lobby. They’re apparently actually allowed to work from home while the ventilation is tweaked. In a just world, a Subway franchise would take up residence there; nothing smells more foul to me than that fake yeast. But then they would probably think it smelled like Team America.

If I were the cynical sort, I’d almost suspect formerly arboreal media had something to do with the Taco Bell lawsuit pointing out the obvious: 99 cents cannot buy you an all-beef anything. What else would sell full-page ads in these desperate days?

I thought it was just me dislocating my shoulder trying to heft all the recipe troves this season; one actually takes it as a point of hyperbolic pride to be cited as weighing “15 pounds.” But Anne Mendelson also noticed: The cookbook stack is too damn high.