Last Thursday, David Carr died in the newsroom of The New York Times. I'm going to miss him terribly. His attitude was not the cozy-with-power-posturing of a Ben Bradlee, but a link to the Hecht and MacArthur wise guys in fedoras and the ink-stained wretches before them who knew where the bear shat in the buckwheat and were keen to tell you about it. I expect he and his fellow hop-head, Samuel Coleridge, are already cranking out a radical journal with John Thelwall about goings-on in Heaven. Maybe they'll need a cartoonist, or a contributor to the children's activity page.
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