I have been intending to write this for a while. But right now, it has never been more apparent.
The New York Times decides my day.
Let’s scan through my last two days in the city. I saw Take Out , what Nathan Lee in the Times called the most “freshest, most sympathetic movie about making your way in Manhattan.”
I got back home, read David Brooke’s latest column The Great Seduction. I made a vow to be more prudent with money.
Then I thought my financial behavior was a plague of my generation, as my minds traced back to a New York Times take on Young New Yorkers Make a Brand New Start of it, on the cheap.
Then came Friedman’s latest column, and it made me feel good about Obama, about America. I was put too bed.
The New York Times put me too bed.
I got up this morning, missed class and as I clumsily sat on my bed, scratching my eyes and balls, I got back to where I left of.
I decided I really could not afford to see The Grocer’s Son, a surprise hit in France. I had a crew call for a shoot at two. And anyways, The Times introduction of me and French cinema has ended up putting me in the uncomfortable position of Film School at Tisch.
But I needed culture. I took the subway to the Gagosian Gallery for Roy Lichtenstein’s exhibition of pop art depicting women.
I finished my shoot. And then I passed the Wine Store on Broadway. Armed with a bookmark of Wine of the Times on my iPhone by Eric Asimov in the Times, I brought a bottle of Graffigna San Juan 2004.
Back at my Financial District apartment, I uncorked the bottle and got back to my computer. I opened the T magazine that had a profile of Kerala, my plantation home back in India. I don't care if the Financial District has had a resurgence and my summer address is the iconic 200 Water Street, I needed the Subcontinent.
I think I screwed up though with the New York Times. Not just because Morgan Stanley thinks so.
I listened too much to Jeffrey Marcus, editor of Goal!, the soccer blog in the sports section of the Times, almost believing that Euro 2008 in the city could substitute Oysters by the seaport. I asked a girl for a soccer game in the city (Germany Vs Croatia) at Nevada Smith's. Next thing I know she was busy with work.
I realized the New York Times will print everything that is fit to print. And if you interpret a soccer game with you feeling good with the Hoegaarten's as a place to take a girl out, you are stupid. Not the Times.
Missing home, I called Kenny, editor of The Dumb Jock and in Los Angeles for the summer, and we talked The Times some more.
Then I thought why just talk the Times.
Write the Times. And hence, this blog