Okay, Okay, Pareene, FINE.
Maybe this is Pareene’s way of cyber-jostling me. “Hey! Maggie, would you sit up and for the love of Mike and your bank account compose something for chrissakes?” Probably not, but if it was, he’d be right. I had the urge the other day to write something about this ridiculous thing and this admirably well-executed damage control session, and then I realized that, you know what? Who the hell am I to judge, at $2 per word and the cover of a 1.6 million-circulation magazine? When The Guardian asked me to write a “first-person account” of being fired from Gawker, was I tempted? Um, yes. I admit it. And then all of a sudden they were discussing sending a photographer to my house to “capture me in all my defenestrated glory,” (I swear, this approximates the phrase used) and I thought to myself, “Wait just a goddamned minute here.“ So really? There but for the grace of God, a hard-up (but also ingenious!) New York Times Magazine editor, and my own bullshit meter go I. Now if I’d known that photog might be toting a check for fifteen grand, that might have been a whole something else. But those Brits are so irritatingly frugal.
Gawker Alum Report: Where Are They Now?
