Dice those chives

Lately I’ve been thinking and Tweeting a lot about Richard Thompson’s prescient song “We’re All Working for the Pharaoh.” Who could ever have imagined pennies would wind up as the new dollars, if you were damned lucky? Food aggregators are apparently offering $12 a post, which is $12 more than the Huffington Post is paying as its founder flogs the Big O to do more about job creation. But things could be worse for the gainfully unemployed: We could have big jobs.

In both my stints at the NYTimes, the restaurant critic was always a protected species, a creature devoted mostly to one vital gig, finding and rating the best places to eat in a city with more than 15,000 choices. I’m still stinging from the acid flung the morning I had to call the PS to plead for a critic’s notebook when we were light on copy. It was way too much to demand (although we got it). So I guess it’s no wonder the JGold Wannabe appears to be so overstretched he’s cranking out stuff for the magazine that would take the Bulwer-Lytton trophy. That may have been the most pretentious lede in the history of food writing. Obviously, you can’t answer readers’ questions, chuckle over your fud and round up recipes without something having to give. Straining at stool can be lethal. Ask Elvis.

Nighttime in Harvard yard

I take it all back. Nice guys don’t have such colossal egos that they actually use the “Ratatouille” Rayner as their Twitter avatars. Can they please just fast-forward and give the JGold wannabe the Pulitzer now to spare us five years of this tortured cleverness and overwrought writing? I hear the other Ivy Leaguers are attaboying away down there, but I could not get past the jump for all the straining at stool. When I pleaded for the Bruni Digester to come back, she Tweeted that it was like your laid-off Uncle Mark taking a stab at writing a press release in his spare time. I think it’s worse: It was as if Michael Steele tried to “what up” on eating out.