It's true - this "good cheer" is starting waaay too early:
Here's Everything Jonathan Franzen Currently Hates to make it up,...
“If Anyone Can Save the Washington Post, It’s Jeff Bezos
The newspaper now has an owner who’s a master of finding new ways of selling old things.”
On Nov. 12, 2010, Tina Brown gathered the staff of her Web site The Daily Beast in the third-floor conference room at its Chelsea offices with its commanding views of the Hudson. Brimming with the fervor she has brought to all her endeavors, she delivered some surprising news: the Web site would merge with Newsweek, a once-proud but struggling magazine brand.
Ms. Brown, according to staff members who were present, spoke excitedly about the potential synergies for advertisers across platforms and promised to produce a new form of magazine journalism, where digital would drive print instead of the other way around. But after a few softball questions from the staff, Peter Lauria, the company’s media reporter, braved a more skeptical one:
Given that the two publications lost more than $30 million in the previous two years, he asked, why was it a good idea to put them together? And if The Beast was on schedule to break even in 18 months, how much longer would it take now that Newsweek was part of the mix?
Ms. Brown says she has no recollection of that particular meeting, but half a dozen employees who say they were present said the atmosphere immediately turned awkward. The famous editor gave no ground. The target, she said, remained 18 months.
More than two and a half years later, Ms. Brown has missed the mark. Synergies have long since slipped away. After the magazine hemorrhaged tens of millions of dollars, Barry Diller, the billionaire media mogul whose company owns both publications, publicly called the purchase of Newsweek “a mistake” and the original plan to save it “stupid.” On Saturday, the company announced that it had sold Newsweek for an undisclosed amount to the digital news company International Business Times.
The Friday before Labor Day, 11 days earlier, was perhaps the year’s slowest day at FSG’s Union Square headquarters. Lynn Buckley, who’d designed the book jacket for The Corrections, happened to be among the very few people still in the office. So was Peter Miller, Franzen’s publicist. Early in the afternoon, he called out to her suddenly from his office across the hall. “Oh my god, you won’t believe it,” he shouted. “The most amazing thing that ever happened for a book just happened for The Corrections!”
“What happened?” Buckley asked, “Did it win the Pulitzer Prize?” “No,” he said, “It’s an Oprah selection!”
The Corrections was the 45th pick of Oprah’s Book Club, but it was among only a handful chosen right on publication. “I guess it helps a book sell more than a Pulitzer, right?” Buckley says now. “That just seems crazy to me.”
Franzen felt much the same way. Around lunchtime, someone called him at home and told him to expect a call from the New York Times in 45 minutes. Would he be home? Sure, he said, befuddled by the cloak-and-dagger routine from a paper he’d already written for. Actually, it was Harpo, Oprah’s company, securing the line as though it were one of Roger Straus’s ancient CIA contacts. “Everything was bogus from the start,” Franzen says. “My first encounter with Harpo Productions was being told a lie.” Here’s how he remembers the ensuing phone conversation:
“Jonathan?”
“Yes?”
“Oprah Winfrey!”
“Oh. Hi. I recognize your voice from TV.”
Awkward silence; deep breath from Oprah.
“Jonathan, I love your book, and we’re going to make it our choice for the next book club!”
“That’s really great—my publisher’s gonna be really happy,” he said in an even tone.
They hung up soon after. “I think she was surprised that I wasn’t moaning with shock and pleasure,” Franzen says now, a decade later, even after a very public show of reconciliation. “I’d been working nine years on the book and FSG had spent a year trying to make a best-seller of it. It was our thing. She was an interloper, coming late, and with an expectation of slavish gratitude and devotion for the favor she was bestowing.”
“Critics of the president are convinced that Barack Obama will do lasting damage to the U.S. I doubt it.”
Obama came to power in the third year of large Democratic congressional majorities. In his first referendum, he lost the House and he may soon lose the Senate; in other words, there followed a somewhat normal reaction against a majority party. Obama’s popularity rating is well below 50%, despite an obsequious media and a brilliantly negative billion-dollar campaign that long ago turned Mitt Romney into a veritable elevator-using, equestrian-marrying, canine-hating monster.
It is still too soon to tell what the political legacy of the hip-hop generation will be. But if our stance toward our past leads us in this moment to conclude, as Jay Z has recently done, that our mere presence “is charity,” then we are off to an incredibly bad start.
In response to Harry Belafonte’s call for the more prominent members of the hip-hop community – folks like Jay Z and wife Beyoncé — to step up and use their considerable cultural and economic power to influence the political questions of our times, Jay Z has asked us to accept his view that his “presence is charity.” Frankly, the hubris, arrogance and myopia of Jay’s statement leave me scratching my head.
I started working at Lululemon in 2011, weeks after Brittany Norwood gruesomely murdered Jayna Murray in Lululemon's Bethesda store. None of my co-workers spoke about what happened. Our store manager was awfully smiley about it. You'd start to think, "These things happen." But they don't. Women rarely bludgeon each other to death. When they do, there's usually more at stake than a pair of allegedly stolen yoga pants. Looking back on the incident, I can't help but remember the hysterical, highly feminized air I breathed at Lululemon, an alternate universe with its own opaque value system and ominous doublespeak. Work was hardly ever about selling running tights; factor in feedback, integrity checks and the incessant pressure to look effortlessly cool, and Lululemon labor is much more akin to a game of Survivor.
It's been over a year since Brittany Norwood received a life sentence without the possibility of parole and I still can't imagine her beautiful young victim bleeding, taking her last breath amongst all those pretty yoga things. So I forced myself to look at the published crime photographs. They're all gore, straight out of a horror scene, but one picture in particular sends shivers down my spine. It's an image that begs, I think, for a better understanding of how Lululemon's culture may have played a role in the terrible, grisly Bethesda tragedy. How brainwashing, bullying and manipulation might be enough to send an already psychologically, emotionally vulnerable person over the edge. Or at least create an environment that's enough of a pressure cooker for one woman to stab another over three hundred times. It's a picture of the Lululemon employee room. On the door, in chalk paint, it says, "May each of us equally enjoy happiness and the root of happiness." Most of the lettering is pastel pink, but the word "equally" is written in red. And there's blood splattered all over the floor.