Shivering for Luxury.
With apologies to Mrs. Caylor for jacking her lab-report guidelines.
1.) Purpose.
A recent experiment in which a reporter visited various commercial corners of Manhattan with a high-grade thermometer found that almost without fail, the more ritzy the establishment is trying to be, the colder the air-conditioning is kept.
2.) Procedure.
For the experiment a pair of professional-grade Mannix HDT303K digital thermometers were used. The temperature was measured as close to the center of each establishment as possible, away from any vents, moving air or doors. When the thermometers' readings differed (never by more than 0.4 degrees), the two were averaged. The reporter did not announce his presence as one but entered each place of business as a normal customer would.
3.) Data & Observations.
Bergdorf Goodman, 68.3 degrees; Bloomingdale's, 70.8; Macy's 73.1; Club Monaco, 74.0; the Original Levi's Store, 76.8; Old Navy 80.3.
...
Lower-end stores tend to be more frugal. The 88-cent shoelaces at National Wholesale Liquidators on Broadway near Houston Street were curled up in 76.6-degree air, while half a block away, an $11.95 frosted soap pump at Crate & Barrel sat in a comparatively frosty climate of 70.9.
...
Restaurants were slight exceptions to the luxury-is-always-colder rule. In Greenwich Village, EJ's Luncheonette, at 68.7, was almost exactly the same temperature as Café Boulud, but both were much colder than a McDonald's in Chelsea (72.0).
...
For some, cold air is not about luxury but about what's natural and necessary. Thus the coldest place tested was the penguin observing room at the Central Park Zoo: 67.2
4.) Analysis.
This article was a total piece of shit. And to boot, author Allen Salkin tried to make people (and possibly himself) feel like it was more important than it was by finding a Henry Miller quote on air conditioning. My question: Is there now a searchable Bartlett's, or was this Googled? I shouldn't come down on Salkin too hard, the ability to stretch an article out to that length is harder than it looks. It's a tool every daily journalist needs, but doesn't particularly take pride in. From now on whenever I feel like I need to pump up one of my blog entries, I'm totally going to turn to penguins. Awk! Awk!
I suspect they're running short on ideas over at Stylin' Central, but hey, when air conditioning fronts your section, what's not a story idea?
Regardless, Bill Keller's going to have to change that "All the News That's Fit to Print" slogan before it becomes actionable.
Social Diary: Influencers Are Forever.
The Stylin' Section's embedded correspondent files a report from a lavish and exclusive party hosted by everyone's favorite diamond cartel, DeBeers. The company that has brought us all those charming ads best parodied in the Family Guy gag when the commcercial ends with the tagline "Diamonds: She'll Pretty Much Have To."
The article begins with that bizarre tic of The New York Times and freshman college-paper reporters, the quote lede:
"INTRIGUE: 9," Rufus Albemarle said on Tuesday evening, as he surveyed and rated a room full of elegant strangers who were suavely disporting themselves at nosebleed altitude 79 floors above New York.
Albemarle, a real, live British Earl is rating the party on its intrigue, decor and purpose. He's one of the Influencers, as the article terms them. Apparently, DeBeers wants to be a household name in 10 years. Well, thanks to all those commercials (I remember seeing them during football games as a kid), as well as people's generallly heightened awareness of conflict diamonds, I'm sure DeBeers is a reasonably household name as it is. But apparently, they're getting into retail or some shit. Huzzah for vertical monopolies!
Anyway, this article is supposedly about how important these Influencers are, but we never learn why or how that might be true, except by learning of all the details of this party. It's porn for Stylin' aficionados.
Social Diarist Guy Trebay recounts all the inside-baseball details that went into the party. Right down to the peas and carrots, as well as the brand name party planner, "who appeared as if out of nowhere three years back to hijack the plum social assignments on which the florist Robert Isabell used to have a lock."
Oh, him.
The next couple paragraphs are this kind of entre nous aside about this party planner, David Monn's background, including the time he brought some rats into the Met. (Not on purpose.)
Not that I really give a shit about the super-rich, but this is just another opportunity to provide actual insight derailed by drooling over brand names. Oh, Stylin' Section, you do not belong in an actual newspaper. Can someone spin this off into The New York Times Company's own version of Lucky magazine or something?
The Boy King Has Left the Table.
The story of poker wunderkind Stu Ungar. I don't think there's a single brand name in this story, there's no dubious trend being declared, and no one's getting a post-pilates, shower-gel handjob. So why is it in the Styles section? If I wanted to get all A-Kucz on things and make it all about Flop, I'd say they were throwing me a curve, but that's not it. My only guess is that there was nowhere else to put this story, and poker's sort of trendy. Also, as noted previously, they're kind of hurting for material this week.
Misery Loves Fried Chicken, Too.
A guy and another dude he knows bond over their heartbreak. An alternately laughable and slightly sad story, I didn't hate it. It's got some strange parts, though.
The author clearly has internalized him some Nick Hornby.
Food, work, correspondence, even the Three Stooges: all lose their luster. The big picture fades, as minor details assume gargantuan proportions. CD's will suddenly beckon to be rearranged, from alphabetical to reverse chronological order and back again. I simply have no choice.
The only real consolation is found in pop music: Leonard Cohen, Elvis Costello, the Smiths: a never ending cycle of misery and heartache providing grist for our mill of self-pity. Pop music has the amazing ability to make you feel depressed and hopeful at the same time: depressed that you identify with the sentiment and hopeful because someone feels more miserable than you.
Anyway, there's not much more to say. It's altogether a rather goofy tale, offputting at times, and just kind of strange. Basically, they see Cast Away together, and while Tom Hanks' character befriends a volleyball, the author turned his buddy into anthropomorphized sporting equipment. Just strange.
Also, when was Cast Away in theaters? It's been like years, right?
Where the Girls Are.
One last thing. Meow Mix, the excellently named lesbian bar on Houston Street which closed some time ago, has been reborn, if only in spirit. The new place is called "Cattyshack" which is an even better name. The article mentions a (vain) promoter connected with the bar which makes me think that I have no desire whatsoever to go to this place.
It's too bad, I was hoping I could walk in and see a lesbian version of Carl Spackler and Ty Webb playing Golden Tee. Or even a butchy Judge Smails, complete with brass buttons and jaunty cap. Instead, this place sounds more likely to feature a mischeivous, audioanimatronic beaver.
2 comments:
no one but you will ever think the penguins are funny.
Awk! Awk!
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