I'm about to demand a giant group hug between New York's editors and freelancers. Okay, no I'm not, the class hatred amuses me too much. Here's an editor's charitable response to this week's pissed-off writer:

I don't know how its done at whatever place this freak was referring to, but it seems I'm working in the edit business at the wrong place. I'm in a senior position at a major-market pub I decline to name... I think I've worked 10 14-hour days in a row keeping my pub interesting and relevant and cleaning up the messes that incompetent freelancers and underlings leave in their copy... and worrying if there will actually BE another issue next cycle...Who the fuck does this low-life think she is (has to be a SHE.) [Ed. Oh my.]

Kudos to freelance writers for playing by their own rules and trying to be creative without being a slave to Conde Nasty.

Maybe there's real journalism to be done other that lifestyle fluff for the Conde Nast? [F]rankly, anyone with an undergrad English degree from Kenyon can write that lifestyle bilge. The reason she's a freelancer is because she can't run with the people who make the edit world go round, and because she probably got passed over for a "cushy staff gig" and is grossly embittered about it. Hey bitch, next to the chip on your shoulder there's a big flashing neon sign on your forehead. It says "I'm jealous." Go fuck yourself. If you're such a gift to modern media, go do something really interesting like start your own book. Then you can bitch....