Maggie Shnayerson

Great news, everybody!

"Eco-friendly actor Leonardo DiCaprio has added his name to a new campaign to banish junk mail. The superstar has signed a petition demanding the US government acts to allow citizens to opt out of unwanted post. Dubbed 'Do Not Mail', the campaign is the brainchild of international environmental group ForestEthics." - Ireland Online

Thank God someone's finally doing something about this issue—I'm constantly hounded through the mail by all these CauseHead actors, and it's really such a waste of environmental resources. For instance, this weekend, I got yet another horribly vague and unconvincing piece of direct mail from an "actor and environmentalist," upon which I of course immediately spilled coffee and I—oh. Oh dear. Hmm.



Leo tells me he's working with "America's most effective environmental action group." Hey, maybe sending two pounds of paper pulp to my house is more environmentally effective than writing me an email, what the hell do I know? I'm not an actor or anything. Fucking polar bears. Should you care to check out the rest of Mr. DiCaprio's missive and his horrifying signature, it's after the jump.

Which one of the Parker Brothers came up with this hideous and probably long-overdue concept of giving Rich Uncle Pennybags a debit card and a fucking Segway on which to token his way around the board? Okay, so this particular travesty is about two years old, but it's new and fresh to me, as is my deep and unabiding indignation over this perversion of my—nay, the American—childhood.

The gamemakers tried to keep the spirit of Monopoly's delusional real estate market alive—in this version, you can buy Times Square for a couple million bucks. But since you can also mortgage your property at a subprime adjustable rate to a predatory lender who will suck both your reality show winnings and you dry—and not in a good way—they still blow for this one. Hard.

Sigh. Possibly I too am finally, undeniably, incontrovertibly, officially, irrevocably old. Or maybe I'm just a cranky sentimental crab. Balk?

Any others I missed?

To employ a heavy-handed but probably apt metaphor, headlines like this are the journalist's version of using the cop code "NHI," for No Humans Involved. Good luck to the reporters working for a newspaper with an enfeebled operations, sales, or circulation department. Your job just got a lot harder, and you're probably next.

Oh, it's only the state governor's resignation speech, Posties, don't worry. It's probably not all that important to get it right.

Here's how I feel, late in the game, about last week's cybercry over former Gawker writer Emily Gould's apparent relationship with Keith Gessen of n+1, her onetime boss's lengthy and lame review of it and her subsequent post on Jezebel:

Gould's blog is filled with commenters going round the bend (like this and this one too.) Perhaps most annoying because he or she is subtly insane instead of overtly so? The commenter who criticizes Gould's feminist sensibility thusly: "And aren’t you fucking a guy about a decade your senior?"

Yes, because true feminism can really only be embodied by robbing the cradle. Guess who else fucked a guy about a decade her senior? Elizabeth Cady Stanton, for fuck's sakes.