misslizzers (misslizzers) wrote,
misslizzers
misslizzers

Epistolary Activism

Since the cock-knockers at the Dig are no longer printing my letters, I thought I would vent my frustrations on you, the select population that is my "readership."

Basically, for a month and a half or so, the goddamn Dig has pulled their crossword, putting nothing in its place but more worthless ads - the day they weasel in a little sodoku to pacify us, is the day I start burning Digs in effigy.

I have had a close relationship with the Dig crossword since I first moved to Boston. Every Wednesday I would leave my favorite yoga class and grab a copy hot off the presses, flipping like a madwoman to the back to see who this week's crosslord was. [For reference, I moved here the week L. Ron Hubbard was the "author." Which for you out-of-towners, means every clue would thematically bash Scientology.] Then I would decide which one of my friends would most appreciate that week's offering, photocopy it at work, write a letter on the back, and then do the crossword on the sly at work, which altogether was my favorite way to kill a couple of hours.

Ever seen As Good As It Gets? Telling me there is no more crossword is like telling Jack Nicholson's character he's not allowed to wash his hands anymore.

And I mean, Boston's got a lot going for it, and I rave all the time about the Emerald Necklace and more artisanal ice cream this side of Wisconsin, and I was hanging out here when the Sox were winning the series, but the Dig Crossword was seriously the thing I was most proud of us for. It was a last bastion of regionalism and fucking funny at the same time. I've done a lot of crosswords in my day, some of them offering you a wry, intellectual chuckle for your efforts, but none besides the Dig have had me stifling laughter that could have cost me my job.

So I started a letter-writing campaign, to no blasted avail. Here is the latest offering they passed up. (Call me if you want me to make you a sandwich board and we'll go picketing):

Dear Dig,

I'd like to reply to Bryan Decker's well-intentioned suggestion that those of us suffering in a post-Dig crossworld can find "crossword bliss" at the New York Times. Sorry, what? That's like saying, "Oh, The Daily Show has been cancelled? Cheer up, you can always tune into the raucous entertainment of Wall $treet Week."

The Dig was famous for such crosslords as "Madonna's newly adopted son, who realizes that she is a 200-year old insect who needs to drink the blood of the young to survive," or "Steve Urkell dying in a Calcutta hospital." Let's see what hilarious bon mot the NYTimes has in store for us today: oh, wait! I have to pay $6.95 for access to four of their precious crosswords. Fuck you, New York Times. I did not fucking move here from New York to pay $6.95 so that I can help some pompous Ivy-educated upper west side asshole jerk off into his brandy snifter imagining how he's stumped me this week.

And Bryan is awful sweet to offer up a copy of the NYT Sunday Crossword Omnibus, but I would pay twice as much for a bound copy of the past 7 years of the Dig's crossword. Think about it, guys. You could get it out in time for Christmas.

Eby from JP
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