Sarah Silverman: "Nothing’s more attractive than an unending monologue about your shortcomings."
Carolyn Hax: "Sometimes surrendering to the awful is more useful than fighting it."
Graham Joyce: "why can’t our job here on earth be simply to inspire each other?"
Dan Harmon: "I believe in magic. I believe in mythology. I believe in shamanism. I believe that spells can be cast and I believe that random things coalesce and reveal themselves to be part of a plan we don’t control, you know."
Nora Ephron: "Never turn down a front-row seat for human folly."
McAlvie "The ultimate downfall of modern civilization won't be war; it'll be Twitter and Facebook."
Jenny Zhang: "A lot of writers swear by routine, but I swear by chaos. There’s enough fucking routine in my life. Every day I have to brush my teeth. Every day I have to smile at strangers. Every day I have to worry about money. Every day I want something I can’t have. Every day I find some way to go on! I know that writing every day for an hour would help me tremendously with writer’s block, but I also know that I need an element of wildness in my writing. I need to know that writing is something I do because it sets me free. It makes me feel golden with confidence. It gives me the gift of gab. I feel like a god. I feel like an entertainer. So write when you damn well please."
Joe Queenan: "If you have read 6,000 books in your lifetime, or even 600, it's probably because at some level you find "reality" a bit of a disappointment. People in the 19th century fell in love with "Ivanhoe" and "The Count of Monte Cristo" because they loathed the age they were living through. Women in our own era read "Pride and Prejudice" and "Jane Eyre" and even "The Bridges of Madison County"—a dimwit, hayseed reworking of "Madame Bovary"—because they imagine how much happier they would be if their husbands did not spend quite so much time with their drunken, illiterate golf buddies down at Myrtle Beach. A blind bigamist nobleman with a ruined castle and an insane, incinerated first wife beats those losers any day of the week. Blind, two-timing noblemen never wear belted shorts."
LogicalDash: "Nobody of any age should have to fend off sexual partners. That such defense is assumed as a part of the cost of adult courtship is suggestive of some more fundamental problem than age difference and its effect on consensuality."
Keith Richards: "I had to invent the job, you know," he said, earlier. "There wasn't a sign in the shop window, saying, "Wanted: Keith Richards."
Caitlin Moran: "As I started to reassess my writing style, I thought about what I liked doing--what gave me satisfaction--and realized the primary one was just... pointing at things. Pointing out things I liked, and showing them to other people--like a mum shouting, "Look! Moo-cows!" as a train rushes past a farm. I liked pointing at things, and I liked being reasonable and polite about stuff. Or silly. Silly was very, very good. No one ever got hurt by silly.
Best of all was being pointedly silly about serious things: politics, repression, bigotry. Too many commentators are quick to accuse their enemies of being evil. It's far, far more effective to point out that they're acting like idiots, instead. I was up for idiot-revealing.
"I am just going to be polite and silly, and point at cool things," I decided. "When I started writing, I would have killed to have one thing to write about. Now, I have three. Politeness and silliness, and pointing. That's enough."
Carolyn Hax: "Unless 15 years’ worth of mail has misled me, no one has ever found love through complaining about the lack of it, and no lonely person has ever felt better for hearing, “You just haven’t found the right person yet.”
David Simon: "Change is a motherfucker when you run from it."
Joe Queenan: "People who read an enormous number of books are basically dissatisfied with the way things are going on this planet. And I think, in a way, people read for the same reason that kids play video games ... they like that world better. It works better, it's more exciting, and it usually has a more satisfactory ending."
Dan Savage: "There isn't someone for everyone. Some of us do wind up alone, and that just fucking sucks and sometimes that stings, and you don't know if you're one of those people who's going to wind up alone until you die alone....So you kind of have to live in hope and build a life for yourself that's rewarding and fun, has friends and pleasure in it, whether you're alone or not."
the painkiller: "I will not be tagged, pinned, circled, liked, tweeted, retweeted or numbered."
Steve Jobs: "Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.
Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.”
Apple: "Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do."
Miss Manners: "Please do not -- repeat, not -- make a hostile approach to knitters. Have you not noticed that they are armed with long, pointy sticks?"
Stephen Tobolowsky: "And of course, nothing is what I figured on in my life. That seems to be a recurring theme."
James Bulls: "When you find yourself walking a true path, you will know it because you will want to walk it no matter the burning Sun, freezing sleet, torrential rain, and treacherous ground. The risks become no less and the journey as always exhausts you, but your desire to brave the challenges never diminishes."
Amy Argetsinger: "Twitter is a disease, plain and simple. It makes people insane. A decade from now I expect the CDC and FDA will be issuing warnings."
Cary Tennis: "You don't have to "move on" either. Not until you're ready. People say, Oh, you should be grateful. They say, Oh, it's time for you to move on. I'm like, What are you, a cop with a nightstick? I'll move on when I'm done playing the blues on my harmonica, thank you very much."
Mark Morford: "It is 2011 and here is what we know: Reality is fluid, fact is malleable, cause and effect completely uncertain. We know what we don't know, but we also know the opposite."
Charlie Jane Anders: "Just remember, if you flinch from your destiny, you'll never achieve your true greatness — you didn't choose to be chosen, but being chosen means you have to choose."
Roger Ebert: "To put it bluntly, I believe the world is patriarchal because men are bigger and stronger than women, and can beat them up."
Myca: "Jesus is not the reason for the season, and there's no way I need to act like he is. Christmas is a stolen tradition. There's no reason we can't steal it back."
Lady Gaga: "I hate the holidays! I'm alone and miserable, you fucking dumb bit of toy!"
Dianna Agron: "I am trying to live my life with a sharpie marker approach. You can’t erase the strokes you’ve made, but each step is much bolder and more deliberate."
John Mayer: "It occurred to me that since the invocation of Twitter, nobody who has participated in it has created any lasting art. And yes! Yours truly is included in that roundup as well. Let me make sure that statement is as absolute and irrevocable as possible by buzzing your tower one more time: no artwork created by someone with a healthy grasp of social media thus far has proven to be anything other than disposable."
Vanessa, Something Positive: "I like 'em crazy. You hear insane rants, I hear a reminder that the sex is interesting. Oooh! Hear that? Tonight's gonna tingle."
Anonymous: “Your problem is that you want to be an artist. What you need to be is an artisan.”
Sugar: "Ask better questions, sweet pea. The fuck is your life. Answer it."
Wide Lawns: "Often very odd things happen to me. Usually they are not my fault and mostly beyond my control."
Anonymous reporter: “When weird shit happens around here, weird shit really happens around here.”
Anne Johnson: "Today some stranger sent me an email that said, "You are a nut case." Well, I must admit this never would have occurred to me. Everyone else is a nut case. I'm the sane one. I think."
Carl Mayer: "Whenever I start to feel like my life isn’t where I want it to be, “Cops” is there to put everything into perspective. Yeah, I haven’t made all the right moves over the last 34 years, but I’m not hiding from the police under a kiddie pool, either."
John Scalzi: "In retrospect, it’s a little weird to think that my entire future was falling into place as I obliviously tucked into the El Presidente chimichanga platter, but of course, that’s life for you — the most important days of your existence don’t always announce themselves in obvious ways."
Tart and Soul: "Indeed, love comes whether we have braced ourselves for it or not. But commitment offers a choice, tapping us on the shoulder to say, “sorry to bother you. Is this a good time?”
"I can’t even remember—it’s like being born addicted to methadone. I came out of the womb sick with it. Like there’s never been a time in my young life when I didn’t know about and hate stupid-ass Garrison Keillor. But I started hating it more when we ran out of CDs in my girlfriend’s truck.
I could spend the rest of my shitty life listening to A Prairie Home Companion and walk through death’s fucking doors not knowing a thing. The show is an abomination—an entire hour of nothing but one man’s insane, repulsive fantasy. “News from Lake Wobegon.” My God. What a nightmare. It’s inoffensive, it’s bland, it’s plodding. You can feel the wrinkles growing and the blood draining out of your dick. It’s a radio show for guys who married their high-school sweethearts. Model train music. He stretches that hour into eternity. There is absolutely a hell, and it’s in Minnesota, and its demon king is fucking Keillor.
I think Obama will listen to the petition, though. It’s his last year, and people are all excited because he stopped wearing tan suits and lit up the White House rainbow. I think, as his final act, he will pardon Mumia and order the arrest of Keillor to face charges of high treason and sabotage.
I’d gladly listen to some bozo drone on and on about how aerodynamic PT Cruisers are forever into eternity until my fuckin’ skin falls off than hear the dumbass news from Lake Wobegon.
I would absolutely vote for any candidate who ran on a platform of hanging Garrison Keillor.
The only solution is, as I see it, to kill Keillor. Like a strong message must be passed on—that this sort of wrinkle-man tyranny will not stand in the greatest country in the world and also history.
"The East Bay's most exclusive underground Chinese restaurant can be found inside an unassuming bungalow on a residential street nestled high in the El Cerrito hills. Chiu's Moderately Ok Chinese is a dining establishment that's so far under the radar it doesn't have its phone number or hours of business listed anywhere on the internet — but, according to Yelp user "Sung L.," it's so popular customers routinely have to wait in line, and it serves wonton soup and salt and pepper spareribs that are, in the words of Yelp user "Shirell B.," where "heaven can be found on earth."
But I didn't figure that out until after I had driven 45 minutes along winding backroads, fueled by a small number of enthusiastic online reviews and the prospect of a big scoop, to arrive at a cute little house that most certainly didn't look like a restaurant. Still, I didn't give up hope — not even after the middle-aged white lady who answered the door (and who, I'll admit, didn't exactly fit the picture of the "Chiu" I'd conjured up in my mind) politely explained that she'd been living in the house for nineteen years, and, as far as she was aware, there had never been a restaurant there. Helpfully, she suggested that I check out Uncle Wong's around the corner.
In the end, after reaching out to the four Yelpers who wrote the reviews that first sent me on this misadventure, I figured out that the correct explanation was the simplest one: I'd been duped. And it's embarrassing how easy it was to fool me. The first step, if your goal is to prank a food critic, is to come up with a good name for your fake restaurant. Goofy and self-deprecating, "Chiu's Moderately Ok Chinese" is a great restaurant name; possible headlines for my intended review practically wrote themselves.
What does it say about me — or about our food-obsessed culture, which places such a premium on discovering the latest and greatest obscure restaurant — that I fell for such obvious food-writer catnip? What significance is there to the fact that I read four reviews offering little to no actual information about the dishes served at Chiu's — except that they were, in "Amanda W.'s" words, "THE BOMB" — and considered that par for the course? What does it say about Yelp — a company dogged by accusations of unethical business practices — that, as of this printing, a completely fictitious restaurant entry that lists some innocent bystander's home address hasn't been taken down more than a month after it was created? (It was more than a little bit ironic to see, above a series of fake reviews, Yelp's disclaimer: "Your trust is our top concern, so businesses can't pay to alter or remove their reviews.")"
"Thurston got his happy ending, and he never got scammed again."
Scrooge McFuck (not his real name) does not want a chub or an older girl (say, over 30), and he does not want “a black,” and yes, maybe you'll think he's a jerk, but he wants what he wants, and what is so wrong with that? Scrooge could probably have any woman he wants—he's wealthy and single and a TV producer in Las Vegas—and so it's hard to understand why he doesn't just go out there and find someone in a more traditional way.
Until he explains it. See, Scrooge has a Weird Sex Thing he likes, and he finds it hard to bring it up. “I'm not going into detail here”—and he never does, and we will all die not knowing, all of us except a few lucky ladies—“but there are certain things that I enjoy about sex, certain things, and it's difficult to tell the typical date about those things, so I never get past the first date.”
(And here I must confess that I've become obsessed to the point of being unhinged over trying to figure out what sex act Scrooge could possibly want that is so horrible. Is it something plain and regular, like anal? Maybe he wants to wear some lingerie? Does he want to punch her in the stomach while he sucks on a pacifier? Does he need her in a clown suit as he takes a dump on her clown nose? I'll be doing the dishes and it will come to me, these unbidden thoughts that are nonetheless relentless. Often in the past few months, my first thought upon waking up is a new possibility for Scrooge. “Maybe he wants to wear a saddle and be hit with a riding crop while he recites Whitman,” I will tell my husband. “Can I have coffee before we discuss this?” he will answer.)
Thursday: She went out with a scientist in his late fifties whose wife had a medical condition that prevented her from having sex or something else that is obviously completely made up. They didn't get around to the sex stuff until date two, but when they did, he asked for her to tell him incestuous fantasies while they did it—sisters, uncles, whatever. $500, boom.
Friday: She met a European scientist who asked her to accompany him to a conference in New Orleans for $5,000 for a week. She said yes, because that sounded like a vacation compared with the week she'd just had.
For Tigress, the question is not whether she's a prostitute. It's whether the rest of us are idiots.
Back at dinner, I take my glasses off and set them on the table and rub the bridge of my nose. It's been a long time since I began this story, and I have been exposed to no small amount of sociopathy, delusion, denial, and misogyny in the reporting of it."
Dear Luke, I hate tyranny as much as you. But we need to be pragmatic. Most revolutions fail. I suggest you fix up your uncle’s finances, study hard, and apply to the Academy. Don’t waste time trying to become a star pilot—much too risky. Get a job as an interrogator. (Do you have weird intuition or influence on the weak-minded? Could help.) Once you’re established as Chief Rebel-hunter, try to capture one of their leaders. Offer to release her as a triple agent. She’ll feed you expendable Rebel cells. You’ll protect her. You should be able to parley your success into political power. Once you have a loyal fleet, you can restore freedom to the galaxy! Don’t worry about this ‘Force’ myth. It’s bait for rubes. (If you find out otherwise, write immediately.)
Listen: you already know what to do. Just befriend one of the human Avatars. Pretend you’re fascinated by his way of life. Learn everything you can about acting human. Then bait him to your World Tree and use your nerve bridge to put your mind into his human body!
My parents are dead. I want to use my billions to punch crime. Good plan?
"It was a woman who said she was disgusted by what she had seen in our newspaper and that we were not welcome here: "You used foul language, there are ads for hookers in there, and you're going to harm my children." And I said, "Look, I've got children. This paper isn't meant for them." She said, "I know you've got children. I know where your son plays ice hockey." And I paused for a moment and said, "Are you really threatening me?" She said, "You can take that however you want." And she hung up. And I thought, "Wow, fuck." That's how it started."
"Five weeks into it, I wrote a cover story about the OC Democratic Party, "They Eat Their Own." It so enraged the people at the Swallow's Inn, where the chairman of the party used to hang out, that they tore a rack of Weeklys and threw it into the street. I think it was then that I knew I was doing the right thing."
"After he lost the [first] race, he said, "I'm not threatening you, but I'm going to have both your kneecaps broken." But to show you how times change, a couple of years ago, he and his wife sent me a Christmas card with the sweetest message. And I asked his son, Mark, "Are they going senile?" He said, "No. They kind of respect you now. You were the only guy who never gave up."
"When I first met Will, he made me think of Christian Bale in American Psycho. There was something almost replicate-like to the guy, but as I got to know him, I realized what an amazing, genuine person he was."
"Every Thursday morning, [the ad staff] would grab our coffees and read through the paper and make sure we didn't have any issues that would create blowback from our advertisers. When Will ran the ship, he really kept it church and state. So we generally were never given a head's up as far as what stories would be running. I remember a story that was critical of a band that played the House of Blues, and we almost lost their account, and they were advertising a lot. So a lot of reps would get pissed and threaten to quit and this and that. Or they'd cry, and there'd be all kinds of drama: "I can't believe they'd do that. I work so hard to get the accounts, and then editorial slams them. What the fuck?""
"This is probably everything you need to know about the Weekly: Donald Bren builds the Irvine Spectrum. He says this is what he's most proud of, this is who he is. At the same time, it comes out he has two love children and hasn't been supporting them. So Will says to me, "Go out to the Spectrum, walk around and see if anything comes to you." So I walk around and happen to notice there are a lot of phallic-looking things out there. Obelisks, columns, all this kind of stuff. And I say, "There's seems to be a lot of penis out there, man." He says, "Write it." So I write a piece called "Don Bren's Phallus Complex," but because the Spectrum was new, they were advertising everywhere, including the Weekly. They had a huge budget with us, and I can't tell you how fast they pulled their ads."
"Every couple of weeks, in the office, I'd run into the poor lady who had that account, and I knew she wanted to stab me in the head with a plastic fork. My little piece cost her thousands of dollars; she probably had to pull her kids out of private school."
"Later on, Tori Richards, Don Haidl's PR person--how many rape defendants get a press person, right?--introduces me to Haidl as we ride down on the elevator. We get out, and I'm walking away, and Haidl stops and yells my name, "Hey, Scott!" I turn around and he says, "Nice to meet you, buddy," then points his finger like this [mimics shooting a gun]. And I was like, "Ahhh, dude, you have no idea. I'm not going anywhere. I'm living here." For five and a half years, I was on that case. To this day, I could probably talk about everything in that case more than any other journalist. I wanted to know everything. I read every brief, attended every hearing. No other journalist did this. And I discovered a man who bribed his way into that job, who just wanted the cachet of having the badge and the title and the power. And these are the people who have control of us in some of these agencies, warped people like him. I give him that he was a legitimately caring person, gave a lot to his family and friends, but even that turned into trouble with [his son] Greg, since he clearly didn't have any boundaries. "Daddy will rescue me, no matter what."
"There were constantly people trying to bring in subpoenas for Will and Scott to try to get their sources. Just like I dealt with every other crazy person who came into reception, I'd tell them to have a seat, and an hour later, I'd tell them, "Oh, I'm sorry; they're not in the office." I wouldn't even leave my chair."
"Then "Mission Accomplished," which came out the Thursday after the [presidential] election. The one with Bush on the cover flipping off a camera. When we published it, I thought, "This is why I work at the Weekly"--because we can do shit like that. But, oh, God, we had so much fucking blowback: angry phone calls, angry letters, racks being stolen. It was crazy."
"¡Ask a Mexican! was purely meant to be a one-week thing. We'd sometimes do these random, absurd columns for a week, like Ask a Nuclear Physicist. In fact, the week Gustavo's ran, we also had one called Ask a Canadian, since we had an intern from Canada."
"The future seemed limitless at the end of 2004. If this were a Ken Burns documentary, you'd hear some foreboding music right about now."
"It's hard to celebrate 10 years of the Weekly when you're busy hating the president."
"One thing they always told us is "We'll never sell you guys to the New Times." We had heard all these horror stories about the New Times. A big part of it was Lowery and Wielenga had worked for New Times Los Angeles and had horrible experiences. And the two chains seemed to hate each other. They seemed bitter rivals. [David] Schneiderman always said, "Don't worry. We'll never sell you to the New Times." So what happened? They sold us to the New Times."
"I don't how many times I heard the phrase "We run a cookie-cutter operation." The publications needed to look the same, and we were different."
"I was horribly jealous, horribly jealous. I'm the voice of the paper! Me! I burst into tears to the point where the tears came out of my eyes horizontally like laser beams, and I said, "It's not that I'm not happy for him; it's just that I'm so totally not happy for him." It took me a minute of insane jealousy, and then I was so glad for him and said, "We have to get some champagne for when he comes back," and I meant it. But what he heard through the grapevine was "Rebecca's not happy for you," and no one ever bothered to tell him the second part."
"That story stands out because it was us alone for a long time, for years, while other journalists mocked me. They were afraid to take the sheriff on. When I was covering the Haidl case, I started learning about issues with the sheriff. They just kept mounting and mounting. And at some point, I said, "I'm going to learn as much as I can about Mike Carona, and if at the end of it, it's bullshit, then it's bullshit. But if it's not, I'm never going to leave him alone." The thing about Mike is, he's like anybody else. He's not a monster. There's some great parts to his personality. But even when he knew I was looking at him, he told me, "You're never going to win this." He told me this to my face. And I was, "You know what? It doesn't matter. I'm not going to stop."
"When they got around to me, they asked, "What can we do to keep everyone here?" I said, "Just leave us alone. Let us maintain this paper the way it is. We have a great crew."
"The reality is that newspapers develop their own culture. It didn't matter that [New Times] won every award there was to win in journalism or we knew how to put out a good newspaper. That doesn't matter to the people on the ground working for a paper that is being absorbed. There's a lot of fear. And it is disruptive and disturbing. It doesn't matter how good you are or how much better papers have become under your leadership. People give in to their imagination."
"All the people who we had worked with and cared about and were used to were suddenly gone, and we had to keep doing what we do in spite of the emotional trauma."
"But in retrospect, I would say that guys at [Village Voice Media] should be absolutely fucking grateful in one respect: In a year and a half, they would have to slash payroll dramatically, and the people who had left made it that much easier for them."
"Duvall apparently had no idea his dais microphone became live beginning about a minute before the start of a cable-televised committee hearing as he detailed an ongoing extramarital affair [with a lobbyist whose client had business before a committee he sat on]. The married father of two mentioned his mistress' unmentionables ("little eye-patch underwear"), how often they had made love ("a lot!"), how much he enjoys spanking her ("Yeah, I like it"), what he told her about why he spanked her ("Because you're such a bad girl!") and other intimate details ("She's all, 'I am going up and down the stairs, and you're dripping out of me!' So messy!")."
Mostly this just makes me glad I got booted out of journalism early (the previous recession) before this shit went down.
"We were the second outlet to run the photo [of Thomas' battered face, which quickly went viral], and I remember Vickie said we should put it on the cover. I thought it was a great idea, but Ted said no. I can't remember his objection, but he did not like sexual or violent images. But imagine the frickin' impact it would have had? Will would have done it in a heartbeat. I would have done it. But Ted said no. And I'm thinking, "Fuck, man. What the hell is going on?" That, in my mind, was the turning point when he lost us. It's not something he did. It's something he didn't do."
"We're sitting in the conference room, and out of the blue, Ted says, "I want you news guys to give me all your confidential sources, their telephone numbers, their addresses, their cell numbers, their office numbers." And if you know me at all, I have FBI agents, federal judges, prosecutors. I've got confidential sources--could you imagine? I said, "Okay, let me play this out. You're going to call a federal judge, and you're going to say what? 'Hi, I'm Ted Kissell?' And he's going to go, 'Who the fuck are you, and how did you get my number?' You're going to call FBI agent so and so? 'Who the fuck are you?'" It was a ridiculous request. I get home, and he writes me an email, and it says, "Because you were the most"--whatever word he used--"you were the biggest asshole, you're going to give all of them to me first . . . and Nick, you're next tomorrow morning." Dude, can you imagine the email I wrote back? I can tell you right now it had so many cuss words and "f-you"s in it. I was furious. Think about the relationships I developed. To have a confidential source called by your boss whom they don't know, not even know your name? You're dead in the water; they're going to say to you, "Dude, I gave you my home number, and you're going to give it to this dickwit?"
"I go into my office, and Ted comes in and says, "You've got to get them on my side. You're not one of them anymore." And in my mind, I'm thinking, "Who the fuck are you to tell me I'm not one of them? Sure, I have the title of managing editor, but we were here long before you, and you don't know the sacrifices we had to do to keep the paper up as much as we had." Then he walked out, and he was mad. First time he ever got really mad at me. A few weeks later, Ted resigns. And, holy fuck, I'm the editor of OC Weekly. From sarcastic letter-writer with no experience in journalism to editor in chief, Arellano's trajectory was complete."
"I could tell we had a change for the better in morale immediately once I came in. I think they knew that I could not be bought--they knew I was on their side, and more important, they knew I was going to work my ass off as much as I was asking them to work."
"The people we have today are more buttoned-down than the old guard. There's no Rebecca, no Lowery, there's no Dave. There never will be. I'm not seeking to re-create the past. The past is past, and it will never be re-created. What I've always sought to do is to make what we are today an extension of that, to still be part of that family tree, to have that DNA from the past in the present day."
"So I thought, "Let's do a cover package on the lack of African-Americans in Orange County." But how would we do it? We can't be too serious about it. Dustin came up with the idea to make the cover a Where's Waldo? kind of thing."
"The story comes out, and it's just craziness. People start calling the paper, thinking we're ridiculing black people, threatening to kick my ass. It's one of my favorite issues we've ever done. I also think it was one of the most hated issues we've ever done. People started hating. "Why do you have to talk about the lack of black people in OC? Black people don't live here because Orange County is too good for them." The comments were obnoxious."
"We're in a meeting talking about our  Summer Guide, which had the theme "Barely Legal." And everyone is pitching ideas on how to get away with things that are illegal or barely legal, and someone pitched how to make absinthe, which is illegal in the U.S. And I was real quiet. Then it was my turn. And I said, "I believe in being a good Samaritan. I don't think we should be writing things that will give people ideas." And Gustavo said, "Write about your hesitation with this issue." So I did."
"All I have to say about Kushner is that me calling him the Stuart Smalley of print journalism was nothing but truth. And gracias for winning me two LA Press Clubs awards for Best Business Story for my stories on him!"
"But for a paper that is as great as the Weekly, it's all about writing your own chapter, and you can't get mired in the past."
At the beginning of 2015, word came down that the Weekly was up for sale. Again. Kristine Hoang, clubs editor, 2015: The week after I got hired, I found out we're going to be sold. It's been a great learning experience, but there is an air of not knowing what's going to happen. Arellano: It's tough. In this modern era of journalism, you don't know what's on the horizon. I told my crew, "This is the reality of the situation. I'm not going to stand by and weep and moan. Sure, it's scary times, but if you want to quit, you go in my good graces, and we'll give you a send-off at Memphis Cafe. But if we're going to go, we're going to go out in a blaze of glory. And if you stay, you're going to work your ass off, just like me." And I'm not calling this the end times. This paper has a future. We remain as vicious and funny as always because we're the Weekly. It's like that Kinks song, "Last of the Steam-Powered Trains": We're going to remain who we've always been until our dying day. When that dying day is, I know don't, but as long as I'm the editor of the paper, that's how we're going to be."
"Simply put, the Weekly saved Orange County from itself."
"Life is life and there’s things in life you don’t like about it. But rather than gripe about it, grab a pen and write about it. Who knows? You may just inspire someone whose life is shrouded in darkness to finally shine and make something bright about it.’”