By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
3:56 p.m.: All right, it was bad taste. Me, fuckface.
4:07 p.m.: Michael Barber saunters through like he owns the place. He does, doesn't he? Hey, Mike, gimme a verb.
4:07:13 p.m.: "Fuck?" Well, we used that one 37 times last issue. Remember, you guys wanted us to use it more often? Let's make the youth crowd more comfortable, you said.
4:07:34 p.m.: "Well, fuck it then. Float." He's sooo Danny DeVito.
4:21 p.m.: Then it's the art director's turn, W. Luke Ashley (Jim Carrey in Dumb & Dumber, natch). Gimme a noun, Lukey. He writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to me. "Outer spayce." Spayce? "Yeah, spayce. Like up where there's vacuums." Oh, outer space. That's an adjective and a noun. "It's a cont-cept," Ashley says. "Er, contracept..."
4:54 p.m.: What the hell. This is not bad for starters. In fact, it's freakin' serendipitous. "City Blink floats in outer space." This could have gone any which way: City Blink kicks ass. Ha ha ha. Instead, we have a profound truth. I mean, when you really think about it, where the fuck are we? Ms. Rickles will be impressed.
11:01 p.m.: My wife has gone to bed. Not even a good-night, just a harsh laugh.
11:03 p.m.: The movie, the movie. I can't get the movie out of my mind. This little weekly paper. City Blink. Blink and you'll miss it. Danny DeVito fighting to get the circulation up because Dabney Coleman needs to see results. Tony Shalhoub, the enforcer, looks nervously around the newsroom. Who's going to be our savior? Here he comes right now, arm in arm with Jennifer and Naomi. The Madlib columnist. Sharp features, dark hair that falls to one side, a slim athletic build. Yeah, you're right. It's me, Tom Cruise.
11:20 p.m.: Just keep that fuckin' security guard away from me.
11:28 p.m.: Sleep, glorious sleep.