Grayed out

I think the rodents in the Taj Sulzberger are chewing through staffers’ mental computer cables. Who does make the best “ribolata”? (If you want to be snide about youngsters’ obsession with food, at least drop the right name.) Why would anyone stick dental floss in her drivel? (A friend theorizes that that particular brain has caramelized and wonders what she gets paid per word.) But I know the answer to that: Someone who would put asses on sandwiches and expect people to keep reading.

What was more surprising was the role reversal between the daily and the weekly. Every fall New York used to go bonkers in its preview issue listing dozens of restaurants with wildly grandiose plans to open, and every spring I would count up how few actually wound up slinging that hash. Now it keeps the roster short and sweet while the presumably more sober publication goes on a bender. Why do I suspect it has still not sunk in that newspapers aren’t just destined to be scooping up poop by nightfall? On the series of tubes, empty promises are forever.