east village idiot

I’ve always been a little bothered by what I read in the New York Times’ weekly Metropolitan Diary column. In this column, published each Monday in the Metro section, New Yorkers write in to share their stories of “uniquely New York” situations. It has pretty much become irrelevant in the era of blogs and Overheard in New York. I’ve called bullshit a couple times before, and others have been perpetrators of the bullshit themselves. So now, the Metropolitan Diary will take some time to respond on this blog to those New Yorkers who have addressed it this week.

DEAR DIARY:

Overheard at the Boathouse in Central Park, as a woman and her adult son contemplate the breakfast fare:

Son: “What kind of muffin would you like, Mom?”

Mom: “Get whatever kind you like and I’ll have half of yours.”

Woman standing nearby: “Let your son have his own muffin.”

Mom: “You’re not his mother!”

Approving laughter from the others in line.

Janet Falk

DEAR JANET:

Who is that woman to tell you how to raise your kids? I’m amazed that you kept your composure. Clearly, however, you’re not a real New Yorker. Next time, The Diary would suggest slapping that bitch across the face.

Diary

DEAR DIARY:

Our first grandchild was born on Aug. 28 in New York City, at Roosevelt Hospital. My wife and I flew in from Michigan to join our daughter and her husband there. Outside the delivery room we paced; we bit our nails and waited. Then baby Anna came out wailing, perfect, with just the right number of fingers and toes: wholly welcome in this world.

When we left at last, I hailed a cab and gave the address, crosstown, of friends with whom we were staying. During the ride we were happy, elated, making telephone calls to announce the glad news, and when I leaned forward with money to settle the fare, our driver refused to be paid.

“Congratulations,” he said. “Buy something for the baby,” and switched off the meter. We protested; he said it again: “Buy something for your granddaughter. It’s such a happy day.”

Nicholas Delbanco

DEAR NICHOLAS:

Congratulations! You found the most polite cabbie in New York City. Not only were you loud and obnoxious fares, but you were making phone calls for the entire ride. I bet he was happy to just get you out of the cab.

Honestly, I’d like to believe you, but I can’t help but think you fabricated this story. In these days of cabbie strikes and high gas prices and expensive GPS systems, I can’t actually imagine a cabbie actually passing up money - even the nicest one in the world. I call bullshit.

Diary

DEAR DIARY:

It’s Halloween evening in the early 1990s at the Metropolitan Opera.

The opera is “Tosca,” with Pavarotti singing Cavaradossi and James Levine conducting.

In Act 3, Pavarotti sings the great tenor aria “E lucevan le stelle” gorgeously. The audience is enthralled. A real showstopper.

But wait — and this is the only time I have ever seen this happen at the opera — Maestro Levine looks up. Something’s afoot on this night of ghosts and goblins.

Could it be? Yes, it is! Levine begins the aria again. Pavarotti, with a glimmer in his eye and a smile on his face, nods at Levine and without missing a note, beautifully repeats the aria.

A trick for Pavarotti and a treat for us listening.

The place goes wild!

Ahhhhh — I love the opera!

John A. Buscarello

DEAR JOHN:

The Diary is too young to put up with your old-person shit. These stories should be relegated to the back page of your nursing home’s weekly newsletter.

Diary

I’ve always been a little bothered by what I read in the New York Times’ weekly Metropolitan Diary column. In this column, published each Monday in the Metro section, New Yorkers write in to share their stories of “uniquely New York” situations. It has pretty much become irrelevant in the era of blogs and Overheard in New York. I’ve called bullshit a couple times before, and others have been perpetrators of the bullshit themselves. So, starting this week, the Metropolitan Diary will take some time to respond on this blog to those New Yorkers who have addressed it. And apologies to Gabe, who does a much better job with his little mockery of a Times feature, but you know what? He gets paid for it. I don’t. You get what you pay for, so ‘eff him.

DEAR DIARY: 

I hardly ever run to catch a train; there will always be another. And accidents happen. One Friday afternoon, however, I ran down the stairs in the 14th Street station in order to catch an express train going uptown.

As I was running into the train, someone must have stepped on my foot, and next thing I knew, I was in the train, minus one flip-flop.

[This portion of the letter has been omitted, since it merely draws the story out for far too long in a desperate attempt for the author to prove that her writing is of the caliber published in the New York Times.] 

All of a sudden, a second before the doors closed, a man on the platform bent down, picked up my flip-flop and tossed it into the train with impeccable aim, not to mention perfect timing. It landed at my feet just as the doors closed!

He wasn’t going to make that train, and the train pulled away before he could even receive my gratitude. And, he touched a stranger’s shoe. Maybe true altruism does exist.

Ruthie Warshenbrot

DEAR RUTHIE:

No, no. True altruism does not exist in New York City. Clearly, the man was crazy. Either that, or he was not from around here. Real, sane New Yorkers will trip over a flip-flop into a subway car before they will give up their ride at the expense of touching the subway platform with their bare hands.

The lesson drawn from your anecdote should not be “true altruism does exist.” It should be “clumsy women shouldn’t wear flip-flops in the city.”

Diary

DEAR DIARY:

My 8-year-old daughter went to sleep-away camp for the first time this year. One of the boys from her school also attended this camp. He asked her out and escorted her to the final-night party.

At the beginning of the school year, I noticed this boy’s name in the class roster. As we sat down to dinner, I asked my daughter about her first day of school and casually inquired whether she had said hello to her summer date.

Her response, to the look of “Duh,” was: “No, Daddy! The class is gender polarized.”

Ran Kohn

Dear Ran:

You seem to think your parenting skills should be touted in the New York Times. After all, she’s speaking with a seventh-grade vocabulary! The Diary, however, thinks your parenting skills need some sharpening. You’ve raised your daughter to be a smartass. If I had even muttered the word “duh” to my father, he would have said, “don’t get smart with me,” spanked me and sent me to my room. Of course, while the Diary understands that spanking has gone out of favor, the Diary knows that the phrase “don’t get smart with me” is still accepted. Please take note of this.

Also, in case you didn’t know, girls that age should not be dating. I know puberty is coming earlier these days, but I think you need to stop letting your eight-year-old watch Sex and the City. Get your nose out of the Times and start paying a little more attention before your daughter becomes a junior-high slut.

Diary