I'm a helpful Thursday feature about what your spare $1.3 million could buy you in San Luis Obispo, CA (a condo near the ocean), Albuquerque, NM (a renovated adobe house), or small town Delaware (a Cape Cod with a view)!
I'm a long Arts feature describing how Mandy Patinkin says he has really changed for the better, this time for sure!
I'm a Tom Friedman article where my insight in the lede is based on whatever elite gathering I find myself in: Davos, Sun Valley, golf in Bangalore. With facile, non-sequitur connections to globalization, the Mideast, and my friends and Goldman Sachs.
I'm a long investigative journalism piece into some international event...that most people chose to ignore and then whine about the decline of quality journalism.
I'm yet another article by a young Times writer -- a recent transplant to NYC -- bemoaning rent control and how the market prices of apartments would come down if only rent control and subsidies are ended.
Of course, I never do any research or else I would know that tens of thousands of formerly rent controlled housing units have been taken out of rent control, yet apartment prices continue to climb.
I'm the Sunday full page ads for Prada, Estée Lauder, Gucci and other luxury brands!
I'm the inaccurate version of ACT UP. I am spelled Act Up, because the antiquated rules of spelling prohibit all those capital letters from upstaging the others.
That's what I tell myself, and the ghost of by dead boyfriend.
I'm the window that won't let you read what you clicked because you've used up your ten free articles.
I'm the cynical bigot that writes op-ed and they'll publish it.
I'll be the ad for Gucci heels that cost $2800
I'm the "normal" 22 year-old who just bought a 3 million dollar condo in midtown with a downpayment paid by my parents.
I'm Maureen Dowd, looking for something hateful to accuse the Clintons of.
I'm a small, artisanal business in Brooklyn. What kind? Who cares! I'm small and artisanal!
I'm the Vows feature, and I thrive on your disapproval and resentment. Especially you DL single boys for your more A-Listy brethren!
I'm the Sunday Styles section that is almost enough to turn you into a Communist.
I'm the latest decadent foodie/fine dining trend, and I'm certain to make you wish you were a starving orphan in Darfur.
I'm five white mothers in Brooklyn who consitute a new trend in childrearing.
I'm the long, worshipful article on the vapid, barely educated fashion designer. The cynical will note the large number of ads featuring fashion designer's collection in the rest of the paper.
Nothing really captures the NYTimes quite so well as its famous (apocryphal) Armageddon headline:
WORLD ENDS TODAY! WOMEN AND MINORITIES TO SUFFER MOST!
I'm Cathy Horyn, R21, and I have been phoning in my bored, snotty fashion coverage for years. And yes, our coverage exists to make our sponsors look really intriguing by comparison.
I'm the third paragraph of a front-page feature that begins with "this is a story about...."
[quote]I'm the word "gay." I was thrilled when I finally appeared in the Times for the first time ever back in the late 1980s.
I'm fairly certain the word "gay" was used thousands of times before the '80s. It just had a different meaning.
We were "homosexuals" until 1989, I believe.
And I have heard that it was a shockingly homophobic, gay-unfriendly environment through the 1980s, from the Sulzbergers on down.
Lot of flyover resentment here. Sad.
R28 says so much .. and has no idea why.
I'm the tongue that is firmly lodged up the asses of Frank Rich's sons.
I'm a long-time television critic who publicly parades her disbelief in evolution and science in general.
I'm 'Rare Cancer Seen in 41 Homosexuals'
I'm Michiko Kakutani's vagina.
I'm the fictional liberal bias!
I'm Gail Collins's latest column about Mitt Romney's dog.
I'm the Sunday Magazine that think's it's a more accessible New Yorker but is actually a more pretentious Parade.
I'm the 36 Hours feature in the Sunday Travel section, which is very helpful to those with unlimited amounts of money, and have no interest at all in considering the possibility of jet lag and the need for sleep. We are writing for ***New York Times Readers*** after all!
I'm the massively disposable-incomed Manhattan couple who have renovated a house in Vermont that we will use on the weekends to "get away from it all." Because we have it so rough, you know.
I'm a trend piece in the weekend Arts section, revealing that more people are coughing in the theater.
I'm the coverage of any geopolitical issue.
I'm full of cynicism, distortion and lies. I represent the interests of the ever rightward-turning liberal establishment, who differs with the far-right establishment on some points here and there, but has a basic consensus with the entire American elite.
I underscore the extraordinary integration of the media into the operations of the state.
and yet I'm still probably more informative reading than any other mainstream newspaper.
I'm the six months Tom Friedman refers to.
R26 - I loved that Gail Collins dogged old Mitt.
I'm restaurant critic Frank Bruni taking a rent boy to NYC's finest new restaurant on the Times' dime as payment for his services.
I'm all of the real estate that you will never, ever be able to afford.
I'm Maureen Dowd's sandpaper pussy.
I'm the New York Times public editor Margaret Sullivan, who on Monday publicly challenged her paper's decision to ignore last week's revelations that the National Security Agency shares unfiltered raw data intelligence files with the Israeli government.....
I am the multiple corrections of Alessandra Stanley's reviews.
I'm another puff piece about corruption at Columbia University. We can't afford to piss them off if we want to get the prestigious journalism awards.
I'm Gina Kolata, trying to add literary flair to my science articles and making them damn near unreadable in the process.
I'm Michico Kakutani's inexplicable favorite word.
I'm Cintra Wilson. If Sulzberger had any fucking sense, he'd put me in charge of the whole damn show.
FULL-PAGE AD! for the HIT MUSICAL! that is only attended by bussed in old people from LONG ISLAND!
It's simply NOT POSSIBLE to find decent uber-hipp condos now for under three million
I'm the elderly gay men on this thread still bitching about things the Times did thirty years ago, little realize it's no longer 1982 and that Abe Rosenthal is long dead.
I'm Eric Lichtblau - nearly blown up in Syria
I'm Tom Friedman's 5000th desperate, grasping column on how to salvage the Middle East peace process that no one gives a shit about anymore.
I am Queens, the borough that the Times is attempting to understand, explain and make happen, because there is nothing left about Brooklyn that they haven't already written several times over.
I'm Manola Darghis's self-congratulating, over-determined, ecstatic review of a pretentious eurotrashy movie.
I'm Staten Island. I don't exist.
I'm the mound of coke on David Carr's desk.
I'm Tom Friedman's impoverished rickshaw driver, from Myanmar, or Laos, or wherever the hell. During our random conversation I will assure him that I actually love capitalist globalization, and american imperialism.
I will then become a prop in his articles.
I may or may not actually exist.
I'm a 'Nina'.
I'm 'Abe from Long Island.' My long-winded response to Friedman's latest column, loaded with 10 dollar words I remember from my dissertation, will be an Editors Favorite on the website. Of course I heap mounds of praise on the author, agreeing with his every statement, but in the end I really say nothing at all.
LOVE this thread. Keep'em coming-
signed, Mercedes Bass, who, post-divorce, is no longer pictured above-the-fold upper right in Sunday Styles "Evenings."
I'm the obligatory Holocaust article. Today, I am "The Holocaust Cookbook - Baking with Tears"
I'm the bias journalism, slanting stories both left and right, whichever way reflects what the writer, (not 'journalist') wants you to think.
I'm the tarnished, outdated, stale, poorly managed state of the organization. I'm nearly dead.
[quote]I'm the bias [sic] journalism
I suppose the pronunciation of "biased" in American English elides the d at the end.
I'm the 'Neediest Case' trying to make it through another day.
I'm this week's article uncovering the hidden hipster delights of Williamsburg.
I'm the exhaustive profile of a young midwestern transplant's search for the perfect rental apartment.
Freshly landed in Manhattan, our man (an assistant information specialist for a small non-profit) had the perfect apartment, but it was not to last. A few months later he found that his budget and list of must-haves were at odds. A French bulldog was a significant factor. A perfect apartment was found but when the owners absolutely would not budge in lowering the rent from $6800/month to $6750/month --his maximum-- he hastily settled instead on a $3600 large alley-facing ground floor studio on 197teenth Street, in a neighborhood previously unknown to him. After negotiating with the landlord on a $300 credit for the first two months rent, he thinks he and French bulldog Rocco will be very happy there.
R75: Ripped from the Headlines
I'm Paul Krugman's repeated call for the Fed to do even MORE quantitative easing, in profound denial that all it's doing is making billionaires richer.
I am Maureen Dowd's lipstick in her author photo. There's something odd about me that you can't quite place.
I am Charles Blow, predicting the death of the GOP for the 900th time.
I'm this season's article about an incredibly self-important, no-longer-young white couple who earnestly discuss their painful, excruciating decision to leave Williamsburg/ the Lower East Side/ Astoria for a suburb now that they have Ashley and Alex. The kicker is that the suburb THEY moved into turns out to be surprisingly not-so-dreary and very city-like!!! It even has a cupcake bakery!!
[quote]I'm the bias journalism
Is that like a bias cut?
I'm the most E-mailed story of the day. I'm about a vegan lesbian who runs an elite pre-school that is partnering with Harvard to create an haute couture dress out of sustainable materials.
I'm the glaringly obvious fact that our young Manhattan transplant, searching for his perfect Manhattan apartment with his lengthy list of must-haves, could not afford to live within three square miles of Manhattan if he wasn't being heavily subsidized by his moneybags parents, who pay his rent and 99.9% of his expenses so he can be fabulous in Manhattan, and will probably still be doing so when he is over 30. This glaringly obvious fact, apparent to anyone with half a brain, will go completely unreported in the Times article. Our Manhattan transplant will be presented as if he is paying for his fabulous Manhattan lifestyle on his entry-level assistant's salary.
Best thread in forevah.
I'm the belated attempt to ride the contrarian Freakonomics listicles trend, illustrated by cutesy infographics.
I'm the gay Manhattan couple who decided we want a weekend home to escape from the city, but we don't like to drive. So we bought a ramshackle place on City Island for $550,000 renovated it with $800,000 and we LOVE it here!
I'm the racist, shit-stirring, wolf-crying New York City Hasidic community.
I'm never reported on in a negative light; not even when I contain large elements of organized crime and refuse to call out those among me who stage fake crimes.
The Times LOVES me!
I'm a tiny group of entitled white mommies. Anything I do, start or launch is très chic and the source of the massive amounts of money for my organization or trendy startup is never mentioned.
I'm the elitism. I may report on random things in the poor people community, but it's only when it's about bad things which relate to the New York black community.
Didn't you just LOVE that SoHo bistro review yesterday? Fabulous, no?
I bow before r75!
I'm slide #7 in a tasteful home slideshow: stacked books!
i'm the blue home delivery baggie filled w/dog poop on the back porch..
I'm Verlyn Klinkenborg and possibly the most boring writer ever on the editorial page. Which is saying a lot.
I write about the wonders of rural life like, oh, mud, weather, bugs, dead woodpeckers, my old boot, tree bark; I could on and on, and I do in long, wildly overwritten paragraphs. Have to mosey off to the barn now and write a thousand word piece about hay.
I'm the trendy, aged style/fashion queen from R93's post, so very proud to show off my rows and rows of stacked books, florescent decorative accents and shelves, countertops and walls loaded down with junk store tchotchke which I insist are rare treasures. You'll see multiple shots from differing angles of my one bedroom apartment, but it's super fashionable. I insist I live this way because it's charming and the existence I've always wanted when, in fact, I can barely afford my light bill.
I'm the fawning profile of the ancient socialite you thought had died years ago.
"Anne Slater is still alive? What is she now, 110?"
I'm the CIA analyst in Maryland who actually wrote the "investigative journalism" referred to by R3. I made it up out of my head after reading a few confidential reports. If the reporter with the byline ever gets to be an embarrassment, we'll simply leak that her educational credentials were fabricated so all the onus for the made up story falls on her rather than us. It's okay, she got her job by sleeping with GS-18's anyway.
I'm the Harvard professor hired to pontificate on a subject outside my area of expertise and so gradually damage the school's reputation. I appear every week in the NY Times.
I'm the cross-town bus in the Metropolitan Diary.
I'm the travel section which does not cover anyplace my readers actually go because after all, we are selling a fantasy of travel to people who will go to Atlantic City once a year if that.
I'm the business articles trying to make these drooling criminals and psychopaths on Wall Street sound like thinkers with actual "strategies" and concepts.
I'm three books about the holocaust that are in the Book Review section every Sunday.
I'm the token biography about a woman that is in the same Book Review section every Sunday.
I'm the Real Estate section. You tear out the Apts For Rent section and send it to your niece in Louisiana who just graduated from a state school with a BA and told you she intends to move to NYC, get a loft and live like a real artist.
I'm Frank Bruni's gout, screaming in agony about his incorrigible alcoholism.
I am the real estate listings, always making you wonder out loud how there can possibly be that many people out there who can actually afford all of this.
I'm the Thursday Styles section, wondering why I inevitably end up in birdcages by noon each week.
I'm the Travel Section editor who, for 36-odd years now, has dictated that all travel articles be of the "36-Hours in [insert city name here]" formula.
36 Hours in Uttar Pradesh
36 Hours in Kampong Chhnang
36 Hours in a Mongolian Yurt
36 Hours in Natchitoches Parish
36 Hours in Ndola
36 Hours in Paris
I'm the Sunday Routine column, in absolute disbelief that I'm still alive despite drastic across-the-board editorial cuts.
I'm Bess Myerson's dementia, which we, unlike the Daily News and the Post, are far too classy to mention.
File Under "Duh!":
I'm the Annie Lowrey article that's published by the Times 2 weeks after the topic has been exhausted by other news outlets.
I'm the real estate section in April. I tell you that Hamptons rentals are going like hot cakes, so you'd better get out here ASAP and rent or you'll be left out in the cold.
I'm the real estate section in early July with good news! There are still some leftover rentals in the Hamptons, but you'd better get out here ASAP because they're going like hot cakes!
I'm the real estate section in August. Great news! You can still pick up a place in the Hamptons for Labor Day AND the best time to be out here is in September and October, when the weather is beautiful, the traffic is manageable, the crowds have gone home, the film festival starts and it's pumpkin picking and apple pie time! But hurry! It won't be a secret for long!
I'm the average of 3-4 mistakes or wrong answers in the "official" results to the weekly crossword puzzle.
I'm the ink that used to come off on your fingers before you went digital.
I'm one of Maureen Dowd's awful puns.
I am the pretentious use of Mr. and Mrs. before a last name.
I'm Jersey City. I don't exist.
I'm Alistair Macaulay and my pot belly and big ugly nose and bald spot and cheap shoes taking another nasty pot shot at Peter Martin's choreography.
I'm the superfluous periods in acronyms.
I'm this week's story about a young person trying to find an affordable apartment. My young person is a celllo player and app developer. Well, I can't be about a financial analyst who graduated from Wharton every. Freaking. Week. can I?
I'm the recently "ordained" Universal Life minister, and friend of the couple, who performed the wedding ceremony at Oheka Castle on Long Island.
I'm Jayson Blair and I worked there because it's more important to the NY Times to have a "reporter of color" than a reporter of facts.
I'm Anthony Tommasini's eviscerating review of the Met's latest Puccini production.
"Traditional and tired, trite and unimaginative. One has to question Mr. Gelb's artistic vision -- again. The Met orchestra, however, played flawlessly, and James Levine led it masterfully from the morgue."
I'm that dumbass list of "ten best classical composers" which Tommasini left Mahler off of.
r125: except that Gelb doesn't like "traditional" - he specializes in lumbering expensive new "edgy" productions of unprecedented ugliness.
I am the official endorsement of Christine Quinn for Mayor. I am completely worthless.
I'm The Metropolitan Diary filled with quirky faux-small town events that supposedly happened in Manhattan... but were just made up by an intern.
Especially after the article exposing Ms Quinn as a total beeyotch.
No one has mentioned me, the pointless middle initial in every politician's name?
[quote]I'm the inaccurate version of ACT UP. I am spelled Act Up.
I'm Jared, the angry closeted gay cousin of AOS, Jr. who has summoned me to write a sharp satire about a fictional organization called THROW UP, or "Thinking Homos Revolted & Outraged With Unleashed Power." It's brilliant. But I'll never be heard from again.
I am the political kiss of death, with one article exposing Christine Quinn as an unhinged beeyotch followed by the editorial board's offhand, lukewarm endorsement of her several months later.
We're the months worth of Sunday magazine sections gathering dust in a wicker basket in the hallway. You will never read us.
Oops, mentioned Quinn again. Sorry. I'm the gasping, incredulous seven articles about Bill deBlasio's emerging as the unforeseen mayoral front runner.
I'm the latest recipe. Four of my five ingredients are available only from a market in Banglapore. The fifth is, as always, fennel.
I'm the plaintive article from a poor person sharing what it's like to be poor, sticking out like a sore butt blister through all the gloating affluence. Actually this paper is one of the few that airs any viewpoints from the poor, oddly enough.
Yes, R127 -- but in that case Tommasini would *like* the production.
I am the next puff piece about the home life of Anthony Weiner and Huma Abedin. Quite a different picture will emerge this time.
I'm the illness du jour for rich white people to worry about featured in the Sunday magazine.
I'm Patsy Kelly and if we don't get this scene in the can before they call lunch that bottle of bourbon in my dressing room is gonna have to wait till after five for me to crack it. If that kid muffs his line one more time, I swear I'm gonna knock him upside the head with this rolling pin.
I'm Cathy Horyn mentioning I had dinner with Alexander McQueen at J. Sheekey and then.....................
I'm Bill Cunningham having to take yet another boring picture of Anna Wintour.
I'm Bill Cunningham having to take yet another boring picture of the horse-faced Agnes Gund.
I'm the cleaning staffs of the Booth and Barrymore Theatres, cleaning up the glittery mess from all the rainbows and unicorns that came shooting out of Ben Brantley's asshole on the night he saw The Glass Menagerie and Betrayal. The seat remains damp through the following Sunday matinee.
I'm the sports section article with an emotional/psychological/political bent, because no one who actually follows sports reads this section.
I'm the fact that every last name has to be preceded by Mr. or Ms., which gets awfully fucking confusing in an article about a family.
I'm the recipe that calls for "good bread" as an ingredient.
Because American sports are vulgar, R145. Not like in Europe.
I am the baguette jutting out of the heroine's shopping bag on the way home from the market.
I'm the "24 Hours In..." section in Travel highlighting no longer "trendy" and "hip" places in second tier cities such as Barcelona, Melbourne or Montevideo.
I'm yet another scaremongering article about that frightful, awful socialist Bill de Blasio.
I'm the two page ad in the magazine section EVERY week for a condo in the The Metropolitan House. A 2BR apartment cost $3million to help cover our staggering advertising budget.
I'm the hard-sell, PBS-pledge-drive-like ad campaign targeted to the striving middle class that tells you you'll be smarter and more successful, and you'll fight with your partner over your favorite sections. This, like much of our reporting, is fiction.
oh, this thread.... so much REPITITIVE posts. so much QUASI-INFORMATION!
Well, it is about The New York Times,
I'm the much slimmer Sunday Arts and Leisure section, which now has fewer movie ads than ever!
I'm the "On a windy road in Afghanistan..." article Fran Lebowitz hilariously complained about discussing today's novelization of journalism.
I'm Bill Keller writing an Op Ed piece about how much I love jury duty and how the movie they show in court made me feel patriotic.
I'm the belief that Long Island City and Brooklyn Heights are really more like parts of Manhattan.
I'm Annie Lowrey. I get to fuck Ezra Klein and you bitches hate me for it.
I'm the assistant English professor at a famous tenure-track university, explaining how some recent event in the news is actually tied completely into my forthcoming monograph from a university press on some obscure 19th-century subject. I'm hoping this will help get me tenure and send sales of my monograph through the roof!
I'm Ben Brantley's lengthy explanation that "Buyer and Cellar" is actually quite deep because it makes us really, really think about what it means to be Barbra Streisand.
I'm the jobs section. I'm 20x thinner than I was in 1999.
I'm Bill Cunningham, just one bicycle accident away from death.
Good one r151!
Surely there must be more!
LOVE THIS THREAD!
I'm the vain, highfalutin and entitled 23 year old intern-from-money, who, whenever he or she is introduced to somebody new, starts cross-examining said person as to what school of higher learning they attended, who their parents are and where they live.
Even though I like to be thought of as a politically correct, socially conscious gutmensch, I secretly think that people who aren't Ivy League grads are pitiful imbeciles, whom I tend to ignore as much as is humanly possible.
I'm the cooking section of the New York Times magazine, breathing a sigh of relief that I never have to see "Cooking with Dexter" again. It was years ago, but the memory is still painful
I'm the ink that still gets on your clothes and furniture.
I'm the extraordinarily idiotic book review by Janet Maslin that poorly summarizes the plot, wanders around various themes that exist only in Maslin's head, and then ends with some kind of self-referential note about my intellligence being greater than the author's.
I'm the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Post, and the LA Times, shaking our heads at how the NYT not only got to be labeled "America's greatest newspaper", but how that accolade continues to be placed on them all these years later.
WADR, R169, while there was a time when The Journal was a respectable paper, now it is merely Rupert Murdoch's cum rag.
R169 - The Washington Post has always identified as a regional newspaper that provides national coverage.
I'm the Lives page in the Sunday magazine. Reading about the lives on my page is like a lethal combination of being trapped in a Creative Writing 101 class and stuck next to a jerk seat mate who won't shut up during a long flight.
Many of the lives involve finding grace and peace of mind in unhappy situations. A brother's violent autism, Nana's Alzheimer's, a father leaping off the Brooklyn Bridge (maybe he OD'd on the Lives page), and all sorts of dread diseases are fodder for the writer's epiphany.
Another favorite is the stranger who was always on the periphery of the writer's life and finally does a star turn during a crisis. Luckily for writer, the stranger is never a serial killer, although that might perk up the story.
I'm also responsible for thousands of shoulder separations after fed-up readers throw the magazine across the room.
San Luis Obispo is not near the ocean. For 1.3 million I'd want to at least see water!
I'm another story about Christine Quinn. The editorial board can't accept that they backed a losing horse.
R 163: I saw Bill Cunningham the other day almost getting knocked over by a bus on Broadway.
I'm the recipe in the cooking section. I include an exotic, expensive ingredient from Zabars or only-available-online and/or require the use of an overpriced appliance/utensil from Williams-Sonoma.
I will be unsatisfying. You will never use either of these things again.
For those of you wondering why we gleefully malign the NY Times, please see today's NY Times "ThursdayStyles" section for the full-picture above-the-fold story about Jonathan Levy's dinner parties with "influential New Yorkers."
It accurately captures almost EVERY post in this thread.
I just read that article, R177, and wanted to slip cyanide into the wine.
I'll be the rubber band that in put around the paper for delivery.
I'm that poor little 5 year old girl in the red wagon, with my beautiful pale skin and glazed-over blue eyes. I'm dead.
The bride was not charged.
I'm the incessant emails saying "Subscribe for four weeks free!" and then there's fine print about how after four weeks you get charged a ridiculous sum per month.