First it was the Metro, and now this gauntlet-throwdown from the City Paper’s painful example of why taking a badly under-resourced and, as a result, aggressively mediocre alt-weekly on-line only makes for a droopy-dog blog, a.k.a. The Clog. Really now, ‘Prophets of Rage’? Good grief. How high was Hickey when he thought that was funny or clever? Loathe though we are to share some of our precociously large and scandal-driven foot traffic with a cyber-doorstop like the Clog, this sucker-punch-wrapped-in-a-rimjob is just too nakedly jealous and syntactically-challenged to ignore:
Wednesday, October 25th, 2006 at 11:48 am
posted by a.d.amorosi We might not think much of Phawker from Philly Weekly guy Jon Valania.
We don’t hate it. We just uhhhh…
- its creepy Jethro Tull-Aqualung lp-look-alike letch-iness
- its out-the-box steals from his ex-boss (calling Amorosi “the Count” was a two decade-old joke when his former employer used it, and used it, and used it.)
- its Hot Document “leaks” — the impending strike troubles at PNI/DN/PI – that everybody , and not just media-insiders – knew about days previous
- its run of elder guy quotes: We Know It’s Only Rock N’ Roll But We Like It
No wonder Valania’s whipmaster looks like he’s ready to run. That photo just looks creepy in so many ways, jooknow.
(We LOVE the Media Matters For America thing, though! And the wrestling flikcrs)
But Gawker – the NYC snarksite that Phawker and Philebrity should probably still worry about lawsuits from? We love. Adore it daily. Always have. And now it’s got a little previously-at-PW stuff in it as PWs former A&E editor Doree Shafrir, is now associate editing at Gawker.com
Check that shit here.
After Jim Knipfel and before Tommy Up and Neil Ferguson, Shafir offered me one of the few reasons to regularly likee PW as Shafir’s writing was consistently sharp; consistently Shafir City. She’s done stuff for The New York Observer as well as co-creating a literary mag up in the boroughs, The Crier.
This, of course, means war. First, let us second the emotion and say, um, HOORAY FOR DOROTHY, too. Ding-dong the witch is dead. But enough about Dorothy and Toto, the Wicked Witch of the West and her flying monkeys, except to say that you, Sir, have terrible taste in PW writers. And for god sakes man, it’s great that she got that gig an’ all but you don’t have to perform analingus. Then again, why stop now, right?
Let us respond to your persnickety disses one by one:
1. Creepy Jethro Tull-Aqualung lp-look-alike letch-iness:
Like most of the shit that comes out of your pen, we have no earthly idea what in-the-fuck you’re talking about. Frankly, we’re beginning to wonder if you even do.
Sorry, we just think that’s funny. What, you never repeated a joke? Besides, if the foo shits, wear it. Oh, and for the record, you can’t really be “shitcanned” from something you volunteered for, and did gratis five days a week for four to six months, not for money but for love. Kinda like your writing career, huh Anj?
Sure everybody “knew.” Sweeney crowed the same thing to us after we scooped his ass. But all you twinks had was hearsay, Angelo, which you can’t print, while Phawker had HARD COPY PROOF, which you can. And so we did. It’s called journalism, look into it, son.
4. Its run of elder guy quotes: We Know It’s Only Rock N’ Roll But We Like It:
Again we would refer you to our response to number one, except to say that pot-calling-kettle-a-negro is beneath you, Angleo. You’re older than dirt. Stop kidding yourself that people think otherwise. Or better yet, stop worrying about it so much. It makes you look a little sad. We’re older than dirt — and you’re older than us so by definition you are older than dirt. But you know what, Angelo, it’s OK. In fact, it’s only right and natural. Finally, as for that photo, everything — even that body language you find so “creepy” — was entirely scripted. (Also, you should know there is no Santa Claus and pro wrestling is fixed. The Easter Bunny, however, is totally for real.) We wanted to do the shit-eating grin hug shot. Sweeney wanted to do a shot in the men’s room like we just bumped into each other at the urinal, with both of us looking away, as if to say, ‘Well, this is uncomfortable.’ So we compromised, for once. Lastly, we were both fairly wasted. So let it go already, fer chrissakes. The Sweeney Vs. Valania feud was the game the cool kids on the playground were playing weeks ago. That game is now over. And once again, Angelo, you’re too little and too late. Hugs.