Elephant dung, not cow dung.
What? We went with John and Becca and Chris and saw Brotherhood of the Wolf which is (impressively) the closest thing to a Hong Kong historical action flick I’ve ever seen take place in 18th century France, and then cooked dinner for Steve and Sara (asparagus with egg and cheese, right out of The Moosewood Cooks at Home, and kukkakaalialaatikko, and bread-machine bread), and then it snowed, I mean it actually frickin’ snowed for the first time in like two years, and the cats hated it, and anyway, whatever; none of that is really worth talking about, because people enjoying themselves and laughing and cracking off-color jokes over chopped cauliflower and laughing (and yelling, but laughing) at the antics of people who can’t remember how exactly it is you drive in this snow stuff, none of that makes for gripping literature, precisely. Schadenfreude, that’s what puts butts in seats.
So: without further ado: some highlights from the New York Times’ corrections over the past 30 years or so.
(PS: Don’t tell Jenn I told you, but she’s working on some character art and I’m writing some copy for her for Dicebox that should be going up soon. Prepping to spread some word of mouth at APE—or at least, to have some lucky friends who are actually going spread it for us. But mum’s the word, for now.)
