And in the process of running a 1000-word article titled “Brunch Is for Jerks,” demonstrates that everyone at the Gray Lady has far too much time on their hands:
For me, having a child — and perhaps the introspection that comes with turning 40 — made me realize what most vexes me about brunch: Once the domain of Easter Sunday, it has become a twice-weekly symbol of our culture’s increasing desire to reject adulthood. It’s about throwing out not only the established schedule but also the social conventions of our parents’ generation. It’s about reveling in the naughtiness of waking up late, having cocktails at breakfast and eggs all day. It’s the mealtime equivalent of a Jeff Koons sculpture.
In neighborhoods like mine, where everyone seems to be from somewhere else, people are increasingly alienated from their extended and nuclear families.
Families? Oh, you mean those people whom prominent Timesman David Carr would dub “The Dance of the Low-Sloping Foreheads,” and whom Times columnist Ta-Nehisi Coates would consider racist. I bet they consume far too much air conditioning, refrigeration and toilet paper, to boot.
“Alas, the time of the most despicable man is coming,” Friedrich Nietzsche warned in 1885′s Also sprach Zarathustra, “he that is no longer able to despise himself. Behold, I show you the last man.”
His source was the New York Times.
Related: “An old friend with little use for it describes the Hive as, ‘Hell with good restaurants.'”