Carnac Sees

Many, expensive process re-engineering, content-reimagineering and Black Belt Conga-line Trust-fall Quality Cheese-Moving con artists consultants in your future.

Many, many.

From the NYT via Tom Tomorrow:

Newsweek Plans Makeover to Fit a Smaller Audience
By RICHARD PÉREZ-PEÑA

...
Newsweek is about to begin a major change in its identity, with a new design, a much smaller and, it hopes, more affluent readership, and some shifts in content. The venerable newsweekly’s ingrained role of obligatory coverage of the week’s big events will be abandoned once and for all, executives say.

“There’s a phrase in the culture, ‘we need to take note of,’ ‘we need to weigh in on,’ ” said Newsweek’s editor, Jon Meacham. “That’s going away. If we don’t have something original to say, we won’t. The drill of chasing the week’s news to add a couple of hard-fought new details is not sustainable.”

...
Editorially, Newsweek’s plan calls for moving in the direction it was already headed — toward not just analysis and commentary, but an opinionated, prescriptive or offbeat take on events.

The current cover article argues that America’s involvement in Afghanistan parallels the Vietnam War, and a companion piece offers a plan for handling that country. Newsweek also plans to lean even more heavily on the appeal of big-name writers like Christopher Hitchens, Fareed Zakaria and George Will.

Starting in May, articles will be reorganized under four broad, new sections — one each for short takes, columnists and commentary, long reporting pieces like the cover articles, and culture — each with less compulsion to touch on the week’s biggest events. A new graphic feature on the last page, “The Bluffer’s Guide,” will tell readers how to sound as if they are knowledgeable on a current topic, whether they are or not.
...”

I'm sure after a massive cash infusion and a dredge bucket of Old Raj, Chris Hitchens would write you several lively sentences centering on the title of your magazine -- "Newsweek" -- that would all spiral together in a very arch and pointy way to underscore the primal hilarity of a magazine called "Newsweek" deciding that reporting on the

News

of the

Week

no longer had a place in its awesome, new business strategy.

It would be winter-leaf dry and make two separate references to semiotics.

At which time George Will would wrinkle his little, wet nose, mutter something about the "wages of gin" and dash off a very poignant counterpointy piece somehow relating the fate of "Newsweek" to the media martyrdom of Shoeless Joe Jackson.

Will would then wait until he believed all the other "Newsweek" employees had gone home to begin weeping manful and nearly-silent tears over the fate of the Black Sox.

"Poor, poor Shoeless Joe," he'd whisper, guiltily sipping a dram of Hitchens' gin from a $75 commemorative "Newsweek" mug, hundreds of crates of which still stand gathering dust on the loading dock. He would righteously smash the mug in the corner in a gesture he'd believe in that moment to be very Prussian and underscoringly dramatic.

One of “Newsweek”’s many hundreds of custom-made Roombas would react to the sound, dutifully whir across the floor, and begin cleaning up the mess.

Will would uncrate another of the delicate, blue porcelain mugs with “I became a journalist to come as close as possible to the heart of the world. -- Henry R. Luce” inlaid in gold leaf on one side, and “In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity. -- Hunter S. Thompson” on the other, pour himself another two fingers of pilfered gin, and continue his fussy, boozy slog down glory road.

With his mutant, bat-like hearing, Fareed -- who had stayed late himself to rack up some 1-900 calls free on "Newsweek"'s dime –- would be able to clearly make out Will's sobbing, muttering and glass-shattering coming from the "Newsweek" break room, the same way he can hear with teeth-grinding clarity every time Hitchens and Will make one of their private, little "Fez" jokes at his expense three offices away.

Choosing to avoid the risk of an awkward confrontation and yet another hour-long tirade about designated hitters from the maudlin old weirdo, Fareed would then opt to leave via the rear fire stairs instead of taking the elevator.

One flight down he’d discover Hitchens, passed out and wheezing like a 300-lb asthmatic tree frog on poppers, with a Treasurer Luxury White cigarette ashed almost down to the filter still smoldering in the finger-crotch between his "J'accuse" and his "Fuck you" digits.

"Hitch", he'd whisper, toeing his supine colleague. "Hiiiitchy Poo."

Nothing.

Considering the factors at hand -- one dead-drunk fop on the fire stairs, one weepy drunk wallowing in baseball nostalgia up in the "Newsweek" kitchenette and further cutbacks still hanging Sword of Damocles-like over them all -- Fareed would ask himself one, vital question: "What would Royko do?"

The answer comes like a thunderbolt.

First, off come Hitchens' $800 Ferragamo loafers to be tossed over the handrail and watched as they fall in satisfyingly straight lines down and down, story after story, until finally dwindling and disappearing into the darkness of "Newsweek"’s vast wine cellars.

Second, out comes Fareed’s Sharpie and in big, block letters he carefully writes "Shoeless Joe Was A Fucking Fag!" across Hitchens’ promontory forehead.

Third, Fareed skips down the rest of the stairs two at a time, whistling a jaunty little tune he picked up at David Fucking Brooks' kegger party over weekend and has not as yet been able to flush out of his head.

Last, on his way out the door, he hits the fire alarm.

"Fez wins, fuckers," he says to the night. "Fez wins."