You are currently viewing the stories for “February 2004.”
Distinct from other great cities of the world, Manhattan is almost pathologically averse to letting you wander to the river's edge and get close enough to touch the water. It has erected a prophylactic wall of fences and other physical barriers, which over-protectively stave off potential accidents, intentional harm and, most of all, liability suits. It was not always thus. [...]
In early December, 2003, several people involved in the production of Mel Gibson's "The Passion," arrived in Rome. The mission was to get the Vatican to endorse the movie's version of the last hours of Jesus Christ's life. The film was shot in Rome, at the Cinecitta studios, and the Gibson delegation apparently had some contacts. I was in Rome [...]
"Let’s see. A sexual assault … in the third degree," Officer D. of the 114th Precinct in Queens said as he looked down at the paper in front of him, searched for, found and marked the two correct boxes. "Sorry this is taking so long," he said, glancing up at me with a friendly smile. "These damn complaint forms are [...]
First it was the remote control. Then it was a pill bottle, which jingled some before its contents spilled out, and last, a Yellow Delicious apple—boom! It is four o’clock in the morning and my cat, Alabama, has been knocking things around, dropping them to the floor from their perches, trying to jolt me out of sleep with every rattle [...]
There was a time, not long ago, when turtles enjoyed a brief vogue in New York City. Turtles whose shells weren't much bigger than a silver dollar were sold on street corners all over Manhattan, and people crowded around to buy them. In the midst of this turtle trend, my friend Kip moved back to New York, after two years [...]
The Greenpoint where I live is separated from Long Island City by a slough named the Newtown Creek. Its western boundary is the East River. East is Ridgewood and South is Williamsburg. Manhattan Avenue, Ash, and Commercial streets intersect a block away from the Brooklyn shore of the creek. In the space between the creek and the intersection there is [...]
Middlemarch was a bitch: all lace and wayside chapels and conversations hissed behind gloved hands. Eliot's prose was denser than a Dorset garden, and we were all lost. All except for Todd, the grinning mook genius in British Lit class, who would interrupt the torpor with irreverent debates. We craved the distraction. It was the Spring of 1980 at Syracuse [...]
