Dana declares a moratorium “on calling Gawker Media people as expert witnesses.”
Every article is like a greased ourobouros in a fucking centrifuge. Enough. Also: Can we never, ever mention Gawker and the Algonquin Round Table in the same sentence — nay, paragraph — again? Really. Dorothy Parker would jump up from the grave and snatch you bald, Butterworth, if it weren’t folicularly impossible.
Butterworth owes the best parts of his [blogging-is-dead-because-it-can’t-all-be-monetized] story to Choire Sicha: “‘The word blogosphere has no meaning,'” he said from across a folding table vast enough to support the battle of Waterloo in miniature (the apartment owes much to eBay, the Ikea of bohemia).”
Out of curiosity, where is the auto-da-fe of Bohemia?
He’s right, though. Sicha, not Butterworth. And then there’s this:
“‘Satire,’ said Choire Sicha, ‘is the most useless cultural effluvia one could possibly produce out of the cultural situation in America right now.'” It’s a bit depressive a pronouncement, no? I say this as someone who enjoys satire. But satire is Moliere. Satire is not mocking the death of an 87-year-old woman who gets run down by a bus.
Sicha doesn’t imply that Gawker is a purveyor of the detestable satire. But I will. Does anybody remember laughter? Does anybody remember Gawker when it was more than just tepid captions underneath party photos that only 125 people care about?
See also rape hilarity.