Seven Days . . . SEVEN DAYS OF RAIN!

The Times finally runs a human interest piece about this crazy rain (after all, Times readers are interested in the weather, too!), and somehow manages not to Tom Wolfe it up too much. Or perhaps not — let’s run the special New York Times Tom Wolfinating Check:

• Tourists from California? Check.
• Stockbroker? Check.
• Woman in Queens hair salon? Check.
• The guard at Downtown Brooklyn’s Fulton Mall? Check.
• Administrative Assistant living in Bed-Stuy? Check.
• Woman in calf-high suede boots (idiot!)? Check.
• Mother? Check. (Does she live in Brownsville? Yes!)
• Poodle? Check, check, check!

The Tom Wolfinator Machine gives this Times story high marks for vapid “cross-section” of the city (“high marks” but not “highest marks” — need more homeless).

Worst. Op-Ed. Ever.

I basically fell out of my seat on the subway this morning reading the worst op-ed ever:

I try to go to the gym just about every morning. Because I work out with my scarf on, people stare – just as they do on the streets of Cambridge.

The other day, though, I felt more self-conscious than usual. Every television in the gym highlighted some aspect of America’s conflict with the Muslim world: the war in Iraq, allegations that American soldiers had desecrated the Koran, prisoner abuse at Guantánamo Bay, President Bush urging support of the Patriot Act. The stares just intensified my alienation as an Arab Muslim in what is supposed to be my country. I was not sure if the blood rushing to my head was caused by the elliptical trainer or by the news coverage.

Frustrated and angry, I moved to another part of the gym. I got on a treadmill and started running as hard as I could. As sweat dripped down my face, I reached for my towel, accidentally dropping my keys in the process. It was a small thing, I know, but as they slid down the rolling belt and fell to the carpet, my faith in the United States seemed to fall with them. I did not care to pick them up. I wanted to keep running.

Suddenly a man, out of breath, but still smiling and friendly, tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Ma’am, here are your keys.” It was Al Gore, former vice president of the United States. Mr. Gore had gotten off his machine behind me, picked up my keys, handed them to me and then resumed his workout.

It was nothing more than a kind gesture, but at that moment Mr. Gore’s act represented all that I yearned for – acceptance and acknowledgment.

She’s kidding, right? Actually, scratch that — the Times is kidding. They have to be!

Did I ever tell you about the time I left behind my umbrella at Fairway? Along with that umbrella slipped away my faith and enthusiasm for the Upper West Side. As I lugged my many bags thoughtlessly stuffed with olives and sumptuous cheeses down Broadway, the rain came down steadily. Drenched, I cursed the gods, only to have Regis Philbin — no shit! — tap me on the shoulder. Just before ducking into his hired car, he handed me a black umbrella — the ubiquitous five-dollar black umbrella — a lumpy, overwrought symbol of my restored sense of good will towards men.

It was nothing more than a kind gesture, but at that moment Mr. Philbin’s act represented all that I yearned for — acceptance and acknowledgment.

Places, Places!

For the Times, the story behind the Billy Graham Crusade is not the man’s message, the devotion of the flock or even namby-pamby generalized anthropological discourse on the role of religion in culture but rather the logistics, “where even the ineffable must be quantified”, which is actually probably how the Times views religion when you think about it. At least they didn’t use their special red state correspondent:

Since Labor Day, the crusade’s 30 paid staff members have run their campaign from a 12th-floor office in the Fashion District overlooking a nine-story billboard of an underwear model pulling down his briefs to reveal a tattoo of a panther. ([New York Crusade Director Art] Bailey said he found the image inspiring. “This picture is an illustration of what the world sees,” he said. “The world focuses on the outward body. Our job is to put the focus on the inner man, the part that is eternal.”)

It was here that organizers booked the Christian pop bands that will play before Mr. Graham preaches and where they secured the services of Bibleman, a caped crusader in Spandex and silver body armor who will lead the children’s rally on Saturday morning at Flushing Meadows.

Bibleman . . . intriguing . . .

P.S. A little birdie points me to the Bibleman website and an apparent connection to Eight is Enough/Charles in Charge Hunk Willie Aames.

But What A Charming Facade!

The biggest tragedy of this Times article about unairconditioned city schools is that this glorious bit of Times-ese appears in the 13th paragraph. It’s as if the reporter was scared to bring it up front! Is that dripping sweat or condescension? You make the call:

But in New York, with its sometimes majestic but aging schools, the heat’s effect seemed especially pronounced. Classrooms were like ovens by the end of the day, the students inside feeling like they were being slowly sautéed in their own perspiration. There were no reports of serious injuries, but there was misery aplenty.

See, I have qualms aplenty with the mixed metaphor here — shouldn’t it be “Classrooms were like ovens by the end of the day, the students inside feeling like they were being slowly basted in their own perspiration”? Or “Classrooms were like sauté pans by the end of the day, the students inside feeling like they were being slowly braised in their own perspiration”? Get Frank Bruni on the case — he can advise!

The Way Things Ought to Be

We need more old-school-frumpy condescending arts reviewers like Gia Kourlas:

When the Barnard College department of dance puts on a show, the results aren’t always pretty because the dancers aren’t always, to put it kindly, in the best shape. Aspiring performers need only audition, and when the pickings are slim, everybody seems to get in. But at Barnard Dances at Miller, seen Friday night, the standard deer-in-the-headlights incidents were blessedly few.

That’s what I’m talking about!