New York, March 25, 1911. An eyewitness report as relayed by telephone, disseminated by telegraph, and archived by internet:

I was walking through Washington Square when a puff of smoke issuing from the factory building caught my eye. I reached the building before the alarm was turned in. I saw every feature of the tragedy visible from outside the building. I learned a new sound—a more horrible sound than description can picture. It was the thud of a speeding, living body on a stone sidewalk. . . .

A story all should know.

Online archive of photos, documents, and oral histories hosted by Cornell.

Photo: Ian Britton

I smell horses. Do you smell horses?

“At The Dallas News, a New “Bold Strategy”: Section Editors Reporting to Sales Managers”
by Robert Wilonsky

“Dallas Morning News’ Reorganizes to Bring Sales, Editorial Closer”
by Mark Fitzgerald

Twittersphere consensus: apocalypse.*

* * *

ETA (though I can’t say it’s an improvement):
“News Editor Bob Mong: New Business-Editorial Arrangement Won’t ‘Cross Line’”
by Robert Wilonsky

Believe me, our journalists aren’t shy. If they think this thing isn’t working right, they’ll be the first to tell you. I talked to a lot of people yesterday, and, yes, there’s uneasiness in some areas, . . . but we’re not backing down from this.

Now that’s integrity.

* The bitly/info page shows only the most recent tweets (those from earlier in the day are no longer visible), but the overwhelming sense of dismay seems to hold no matter what time you check in.

E&P and bit.ly/info links thanks to Editor Mark.

Please note: some time in the next three days, this site will move to a new hosting service.

If all goes well, you won’t even notice.

If all goes unwell, there may be blood.

Place your bets!

ETA: 11/10: Yep, something got screwed up. Working on it. Expect a lot of wonky changes for a bit.

Got it!

Jeesh.

Thank you for your patience.

Lately our DSL fluctuates between craptastic and royally fucked, and that is the least of the chaos.

I’ll post as soon as I can. Just wanted to say that I’m not dead yet.

Hope all are well.

I am loving today’s Penny Arcade:

I have had a surprisingly productive day — especially for a Monday — of a few hours of research coupled with a few thousand words of writing on the project-as-yet-to-be-described, a.k.a., The Book. I was lucid enough to post a brief bio on the About page over the weekend, but while my brain is slowly unscrambling, I’m afraid I’m still too spinny/drunk/hungover/on acid/underwater/crazy/Godlike to craft anything new and coherent to post just yet.

So in the meantime, for your reading and schadenfreudic pleasure, is a story that I had posted elsewhere a couple of months ago (before I had this domain set up), the thrust of which is strangely appropriate to my current mental state.

* * *

You’ve got this friend. She’s a pretty smart cat. Well-rounded. Good head on her shoulders. Responsible. Not especially forgetful. Not generally insane.

After a blinding day of migraine pain, she wakes up to discover that the migraine was menstrual in nature. Her head still hurts, but at least the throbbing and sparkly lights have subsided, and she can breathe easy in the knowledge that she doesn’t have to give up gin as a potential trigger. Now the ache and throb is concentrated in her gut, giving her a gait like Gollum, but the day goes on because it must.

While her husband pours himself a cup of coffee, she drops her menstrual cup into a pot of water to sterilize it. Cool invention. (The cup, not the pot.) Comfortable. Latex-free. Top quality, surgical-grade silicone. She has had this thing for a couple of years: she’s got the routine down.

She punches the heat up to high and carries her coffee to her desk to read some email and forums and other non-essentials. In a few minutes, she’ll go in to check that the water is boiling, take off the lid, and set the timer for 20 minutes. She’ll have to go in and add water now and then because the pot is small, but that’s not a hardship.

Unknown minutes later, she hears a pot lid rattle. Remembering what she has entirely forgotten, she Gollums quickly to the kitchen. Hm. No steam coming out anywhere, just something flickering, bright and yellow. Thinking the burner is sparking, she grabs a potholder and lifts the pot, only to discover that the burner is fine. The pot, however, is empty of all water, filled only with a now-chalky-looking menstrual cup with a small yellow flame attached. It’s nestled inside a clear gold pot.

Pretty, she thinks.

She turns to the sink and fills the pot with water. The flame goes out, and the water sizzles, making strange glurping noises. The water turns milky. She puts the pot down on another pot holder and smells more burning, so she picks it up again. The potholder is now scorched.

After about a minute of standing in the middle of the floor with pot arm hanging in midair, inhaling fumes smelling of sour and ash, she figures the pot has cooled enough to put down again. Husband comes in to assess the situation.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I need a new Diva Cup.”

“I’ll turn on the fan.”

Kellie decides that she is not allowed to touch the stove again for the rest of the day.