Rule Tasmania

My new word for what I’m looking for at press events is blodder: Anything to feed the series of tubes. And so I found myself at the kids’ table at a very lavishly underwritten event where two of my seatmates were genuinely mystified at how a relatively high-profile columnist of sorts for a holier-than-thou outlet can live on what are now described as “food media trips,” those little skid-greasers that old-timers like us would call junkets. Sinking stocks must drag down all standards. As always, though, it was a lot of gavage for a little gossip. My payoff came afterward, when I swung by Union Square for milk, eggs and asparagus and saw a bunch of half-nekkid, very buff guys in cowboy hats holding up signs promoting whatever that silly show is about marrying a farmer. Coincidentally, a pouter pigeon from the soiree passed by and I overheard him saying with great outrage: “Those are so not farmers.” Takes a Village Person to know one, I guess.