Me and Chadi went to see the New York Times documentary "Page One." Chadi is another one of my unlimited supply of cousins - although, technically, I suppose, he is my second cousin. His mother Pauline is my cousin. Perhaps he is my nephew? I don't know. :(
I adore the New York Times, and, in homage to that paper, I wore an all-grey outfit - a grey tee, grey Levi's, and blue-grey loafers - so that I could say that I was "The Grey Lady." Ha ha, am I the only one old enough to get that joke? Perhaps...
The documentary was great, but I'm already on the New York Times' side, so maybe I'm not impartial here. I have the "Weekender" subscription. (Don't you hate those "Weekender" commercials? Whenever that guy says, "I go straight for the sports section," I can't help but think, "I go straight for his cock." But that's me. Dirty and bitter and perverted, I am truly the target audience for the NYT, though the stories reflecting my private thoughts and personal journeys are usually banished to "Styles.")
Most weekends, I read the NYT while walking on the treadmill at the gym, where I walk on an 8% incline and go 3 m.p.h. I'm old! Once, when I was buying an NYT at Starbucks, the cashier asked me, "Don't you have an iPhone?" When I replied that yes I did have one, although what business is that of yours? he said, "But you know all this is online, right?" But I get sweaty, Starbucks friend!
As part of my job, I find myself emailing people from the NYT almost on a daily basis. Sometimes this has mixed results. I'll never forget my anger when JM, a reporter from the NYT, stole my author's book's premise for an article with neither attribution nor interview. And I recently got a bizarre phone call from another reporter, JH, who apparently wished to spend a half-hour on the phone with me making fun of my knowledge of fairies (!!), insulting a couple of our authors, and making a bizarre allegation about my manliness. But for some reason I can't quit you, NYT. I wouldn't even know there was a country called Burkina Faso without having read its name in the dateline of one of your articles. Gail Collins, one of your columnists, routinely makes me laugh out loud on the treadmill at the gym. And sweet, saintly Charles M. Blow makes me remember sometimes what it means to be a liberal, to have compassion, to feel.
After the movie, Chadi and I met up with Mary (who took this picture) for some tapas.
