If you've emailed me at espiers@endgameresearch.com anytime in the last few months, I haven't gotten your email. (That address expired and I forgot to change it.)
I can be reached at Elizabeth_Spiers AT newyorkmag DOT COM.
I'll be reading at Lindsay Robertson's Ritalin Reading next Tuesday, the 28th at Piano's (8 PM.) It will be a unique opportunity to watch me laugh at my own jokes and spew beer into the audience. You don't want to miss it. Really.
Belatedly:
· Steven Levy did a nice profile of Gawker Media in the last issue of Wired wherein Jason Calacanis called my decision to go to New York Magazine "the worst decision made by a media blogger to date." Based on the number of people who have mentioned that quote to me since the article came out, I'd estimate the current circulation of Wired magazine to be somewhere around 5.2 billion readers. To answer the Most Frequently Asked Question: no, I'm not pissed at Jason. He's entitled to his opinion, however much it dumbfounds me.
In an interview last year, Dave Hirschman from Mediabistro asked me what I wanted to get out of Gawker and I said that the ideal scenario would be a magazine job.
Because I'm a lifelong pessimist with exceedingly low expectations, I said it in the same vein that most people answer the question, "If you had three wishes, what would they be?"
"Well, as long as we're imagining fantastical scenarios, I'd like a gajillion dollars, a time travel machine and three more wishes--ha ha ha."
So basically, I'm sitting here a year later with a gajillion dollars, a time travel machine and three more wishes--still a bit stupified about the whole thing--and Jason can't believe I'm happy with that.
Dude! It's a gajillion dollars! (And a time machine! And three more wishes! Exactly what I wanted; holy shit!)
I mean, I didn't even say I wanted a good magazine job.
· Dan Radosh did a lovely piece for the New Yorker on my agent, Kate Lee, a few weeks ago. If it were possible to use the word "dude" again and retain a shred of dignity, I'd make some quasi-hip-hop gesture with my arms and say something vaguely frat-boy-ish, like, "Dude! Kate fucking rocks!"
Okay, you're right; I would never do that.
But Kate does, in the classical sense of the word, rock.