She’s a near-perfect female role model for the legions of ambitious twentysomething women currently prowling law firm halls. Watching her deftly soothe irate CEOs and charm even the dourest firm dinosaur, I can only admire her professional skill, financial independence, grace under pressure and intelligence. If I were to continue in this career, she embodies everything I would want to emulate.

But when I actually consider the matter, I can’t think of anything more terrifying than waking up in a decade to find myself wearing her life.

An alternative take on career ambition from the excellent Opinionistas.

Today it is hot. According to weather.com it is currently 96F but with the humidity it feels like 103F. During countless British summers I used to dream of these
dizzying temperatures. Not any more. My neighbor described it as “like being inside somebody’s mouth.” I’m staying indoors. Like this fella…

Dear beautiful naked girl -

Yes, I know it is HOT now in New York and steamy, too and your landlord probably sucks so your air conditioning doesn’t work and it is hot in your studio apartment and you want to do everything you can to keep cool so you turn on that little fan by the window and try to get some fitful sleep and to keep extra cool you strip off that little white t-shirt and those loose shorts you wear and lie down gloriously naked on your cool bed which is near the window and even though you have the shade dowm some there is that 2 foot gap at the bottom that helps bring air into your apartment but also gives a glorious view to anyone who happens to live across the street from you.

(Classified posted on Craigslist, NYC, August 4.) Read on at your peril.

I have a story in the New York Times tomorrow. It’s probably one of the best stories I have ever written. It’s available online now here and in my clips archive here.

In honor of the imminent arrival of the Rev. Billy Graham in New York, I thought I would resurrect my hitherto unpublished account of an interesting subway ride last year:

Freedom to Preach

Perhaps hearts sank when the doors closed at Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, and the evangelist, a slight, black woman dressed in a black frock, which sprouted white frills, began exalting the Lord. Or perhaps spirits were raised (“thank God, for it is still too early to appreciate another guitar-playing Latino”). Either way, the preacher failed in her duty of reaching out to the one in the carriage she may have thought needed saving the most when she addressed the subject of “gay evils.”

An Asian woman, slightly rectangular in build, rose a full 5ft 1ins from her seat and beseeched the bible reader to cease her proclamations: “Why do people like you always have to do this? Can’t you just let these people travel in peace?”
But the people did not want to travel in peace and the riders rose in unison and turned on the short-haired devil: “Let her speak! Let her speak! Freedom of speech,” came the cry from a sizeable and wholly black section of the carriage, all of above average age and of a mainly female persuasion. “Let her testify.”

But the Lord worketh in mysterious ways. And the woman refuseth to back down, warning: “If you do not be quiet, I shall be forced to sing show tunes.”
And so it came to pass, that as the Number 3 train hurtled beneath the East River the preacher continued preaching, and the woman raised her eyes to the roof, waggled her hands and sang:

“It’s very clear, our love is here to stay…”

Half a dozen passengers shook their heads in disgust at the woman while an elderly black man stood in front of her intoning: “I rebuke you. I rebuke you.”

“In time the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble…”

“I rebuke you. I rebuke you.”

“They’re only made of clay. But our love is here to stay…”

Around Wall Street the preacher and the elderly man departed. One young, portly black woman stood and turned on the singer with a stinging rebuke, delivered at full volume with all the passion of a daytime television show in which guests are encouraged to physically attack each other. Her breasts heaved and her finger proved incredibly effective (though not more so than her mighty voice) as she wiggled head, shoulders and torso in the delivery of her venom: “How would you like it if somebody didn’t let you speak? You don’t like what I’m doing to you now, do you? Huh?”

But the singer stood her ground (though she did not sing) and the castigator continued to wiggle and heave before departing shortly afterwards around 14th Street. By this time the carriage had replenished itself with a more diverse mix of color and background, many of them having joined the fray during different parts of the performance. The short-haired woman settled into a quiet conversation with a female passenger sitting next to her, and a few people were heard to breathe a sigh of relief.

Around 34th Street, the doors opened and in walked preacher number two, another elderly black woman, this time wearing a floral dress and a somber black hat. Books, magazines and newspapers were lowered as the commuters who had been party to rounds one and two waited to see what would happen. A few chuckles were heard as the singer rose and said: “I just thought I should warn you that we’ve already had one preacher on here, and if you do not be quiet I shall be forced to sing show tunes.”

“I got freedom of speech, and god tells me that the gay devils are controlling New York,” came the reply. “You are ungrateful and weak.”

“Stars shining bright above you…”

“You had better start crying to the Lord.”

“Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you…”

“You had better turn to god.”

“Birds singing in the sycamore tree. Dream a little dream of me…”

But this time the carriage did not rise in Jesus’ defense. Instead the passengers turned towards the preacher and either stared, chuckled or smiled. The preacher did the only thing she could –she continued to preach. But she backed hurriedly down the carriage, forced along the aisle by the sickly sweet lyrics and the weight of two dozen smiles. Soon she had been forced through the doors to the next compartment and the singer received a round of applause, which she acknowledged with a bow.

PS A few days later I came across the showtune singing rider’s version of this encounter, which can be found here.

The New York Times devoted its City section this weekend to a place called Brooklyn. Unfortunately, I have not had time to wade through, what with all our houseguests—-and a pressing deadline. But I have it on good advice (from Anguswit) that this piece by Steven Kurutz is the pick of the bunch:

Quickly, however, and almost despite yourself, you find you are experiencing what can only be described as a budding love affair. You now live in an apartment in which the closets alone are about half the square footage of your old place in the city. That’s another thing. You begin to refer to Manhattan as “the city,” and not without a hint of disdain.

Every day you discover something about Brooklyn that you like more and something about Manhattan that you like less. Take Prospect Park. There’s a grassy patch of land you can be proud of. It’s a real park, too, not some well-landscaped singles club or a rest stop for tourists. There are families and poorly groomed dogs and sad-eyed men strolling around – it’s all very democratic.

On your block, a group of old women wearing housecoats sit and gossip in front of a paint-chipped building; you get a kick out of it every time you walk by. “This neighborhood is so real!” you say to yourself (you know you’re getting carried away, but you can’t help it). And another thing: When Manhattan is mired in cold springs and even colder winters, you’ve noticed how it’s warmer in Brooklyn. Maybe just a few degrees, but still.

At a party, someone asks where in the city you would live if money were no object, and instead of a loft in SoHo, you find yourself saying you want a brownstone on President Street. When you leave town, and someone asks where you live, you don’t say New York. You say Brooklyn. You might even throw in a “dem” or “dose,” just for laughs and to underscore the point. Never mind that you moved in just a couple of years ago. It’s Us vs. Them, and you belong squarely with the old women in the housecoats.