Daily Office Friday
Pot Cove, at Hell Gate.
¶ Matins: Today’s Friday Front: “Exposure.” The story behind the Abu Ghraib photographs.
¶ Tierce: Something completely different: all three Times editorials are sober must-reads: “Socialized Compensation” (CEO remuneration — say no more), “Turkey’s Democracy on Trial” (perhaps the most interesting cultural argument going on in the world today), and “Saving a National Treasure,” (the countenanced vandalization of the Palisades).
¶ Vespers: Oh, dear. Ashley Dupré. Girls Gone Wild. Been there, done that. Underage, too! (Thanks, Roman.)
Oremus…
§ Matins. From our balcony, the building in the center of the image, above — an apartment building in Queens whose stepped terraces give it a very distinctive profile — appears to be landlocked, and I didn’t guess at the truth until I played around at Google Maps. Where was this building that looked at a jillion times every day? (From the Triboro Bridge — the span in the photograph — you can’t tell, not, at least, from the inside of a moving vehicle. ) Suddenly, the location made a lot of sense. At least half of the apartments in the building, looking out over the water toward Randall’s Island, must have totally boffo views.
§ Tierce. Readers may be forgiven for thinking that I’ve been a bit apolitical of late, but that’s only the appearance. In fact, I’ve been struggling to cope with the most problematic freedom that a democracy bestows — and must bestow: the right of every voter to carry sloth to the point of catatonia. George W Bush would not, I am quite sure, have ever entered the White House (much less held on to it) if more voters had been thinking. The folks who voted for Ralph Nader, for example: we know that they were feeling, not thinking.
§ Vespers. In other What Were They Thinking news, I had a peek at a GQ cover at the newstand just now, as I passed down Yorkville High Street. A lanky babe is shown decked out in a sort of two-piece outfit that I wouldn’t describe as a bikini — nor as any kind of “swimsuit,” if you know what I mean. What the model is wearing seemed more like what you’d expect see in an underwear ad in a magazine for young women. In 1968. (I can’t seem to the image online.)
At the same time, although she was “perfectly decent,” the model looked severely underdressed. Not naked or just out of the tub, but deprived. Somebody get this poor thing a wrap before hypothermia sets in! That was my impluse: here, take my coat!
Whatever happened to the fine art of peekaboo? Something to keep you guessing — “Is that her …? Or is it … ? Can I see … ? — like a dirty old twelve year-old.