He got fired.

He got fired because he made up a story that got the newspaper in BST (Big Shit Trouble).

We had this weekly column called Outlines where we'd profile a gay person or couple in about 300 words. Its purpose was to be entertaining and let other gay folks know that there were other ordinary but special in their own way gay folks out there just like them. We always had trouble finding new people to write about for this column because they pretty much had to be out in all aspects of their life, and as anybody who's ever worked for a gay newspaper knows, there are basically only 12 really out people in any major metropolitan area, and they serve on every committee and are always the talking heads the TV people call when they need a spokesperson for the gay community. Everybody else is like, "No, I don't want to be in your stinkin' paper. Your story on blah, blah, blah pissed me off. And what if my grandmother saw that?"

This reporter (and admittedly, it was right after our editor had committed suicide and things were pretty stressful) couldn't find a subject to do an Outlines on. So he took a picture of somebody he barely knew but happened to have a picture of her, and made up a bogus string of 300 or so words about her life and how she's a happy lesbian. Except it wasn't really her life, and she isn't a lesbian. Somebody who knew her saw it, sent it to her in Florida, and suddenly some lawyers got very happy.

I think the paper settled out of court.

So do I say anything to my Exec. Ed.?

This is sort of a rhetorical question. I don't think I'll say anything to her. I mean the guy got fired. Sort of served his time for that mistake. As far as I know he's the most ethical reporter on the face of the planet now. Okay. Dilemma over.

If you don't read Lileks.com, you're really missing out. Check out the Daily Bleat for Thursday, March 13.

My favorite quote (about a jazz artist): "I know he�s held in bemusement among some hard-core types, mainly because the music does not feel like a Q-tip dipped in caustic lye and jammed into your ear canal for your own good."

That "caustic lye" part is exactly how I feel about the atonal bleating that is some jazz "music." God. Remember those "I hate it when that happens" characters that Joe Piscopo and Billy Crystal used to do on Saturday Night Live? I would pretty much rather do anything that those guys talked about hating when it happened (like inserting a knitting needle into a nostril and poking holes through your sinus cavity) than listen to that no-beat, no-tune honking type of jazz. It's like the musicians pick up their horns and scream "I'm on heroin! I'm on heroin! I think there might have been something wrong with that last tab," through the mouthpiece while flailing at the valves and call it music that's too sophisticated for regular people to "get."

We're going to go to one of those rip-off joint, pick-pocket infested travelling carnivals tonight. I was thinking earlier that I might not be up to it, but now I've changed my tune. Tune. Get it? It's called a segue.

I just home we don't get mugged or die a tragic, horrible carnival ride death. Oh, man. I probably shouldn't have done that Google search on "carnival ride death."