Today we watched Alexander on Tyra give a girl the courage to tell her mother that she is a lesbian. However, by being true to himself and successful for the unique brand of fashion and flair that he brings to the table, Miss J is helping kids come out of the closet every day. He has made a career of teaching people how to walk with their head held high, and that's just what he's doing for gay people, one flouncy step at a time.

Sure, he may only be a flamboyant fixture on a reality television program, but Miss J is bringing gay black street culture to audiences all over the globe and we owe him desperately for that. When little girls in Kansas are shaking their finger and calling something "Fierce," it's not because they've been to the Christopher Street Pier lately. Alexander never had to come out of the closet (like some silver-haired news anchors) because he was never in it. It wasn't easy for a tall sissy from the South Bronx—as he says in his new book Follow the Model—but he was never afraid to be himself and always had the strength to strut his crazy self out in public even when it might not have been the easiest thing to do. Check out his own silly coming out story in the video below.

Alexander won a Teen Choice Award earlier this year, showing that the kids who watch the show think he's great no matter who he sleeps with. But he's not only spreading acceptance among the show's young viewers and serving as a success story. While he may not be the most mainstream role model for young gay men and women, he is certainly one of the best. Coming out isn't easy for anyone, but for those who fit into more stereotypical gender roles, it can be a little bit easier. Miss J is here to stand up for the sissies and the queers and the freaks, and the people who can't hide behind a butch exterior or a little bit of lipstick and just pass as heterosexuals when it's easy or convenient. He is gay with a capital G, and he lets every natural born babygay at home know they're not alone and that they're better off for the special brand of outrageousness that they've been blessed with by their fairy godmother.

Coddington is the magazine's creative director and is in charge of the majority of photo shoots. This former model—who worked at British Vogue and Calvin Klein before starting at American Vogue on the same day as Wintour—is often described as a "genius," including by Wintour herself in R.J. Cutler's documentary (out this Friday!). It appears that she is the only person willing and able to stand up to the Ice Queen of the fashion world and still escape with her life.

A consensus seems to be quickly forming that Coddington is the unlikely victor is this glossy cage match. In the New York Times, Cutler says, "[Anna] is cool, [Grace] is warm and languid," he said. "Anna is all about ‘next,' and Grace is most interested in a historical perspective on art and fashion. Every time they got together, sparks flew." The Associated Press writes, "Coddington seems to pump passion and artistic integrity into the pages while not being swept up in the celebrity frenzy that seems synonymous with fashion these days." Even Maureen Dowd calls it to attention

"There is friction in the Mick Jagger-Keith Richards relationship between the 59-year-old Anna and her closest collaborator, the 68-year-old flame-haired creative director and former model Grace Coddington, who is the only one willing to tweak "the Pope," as Anna is dubbed by a staffer. Coddington tells French Vogue, "We have a real mutual respect for each other, even though sometimes I feel like killing her."

The feisty, flame-haired visionary didn't want to be filmed and only relented at Anna's behest. But watching the documentary, you'd barely know it: she charms Cutler's (and thus, in some ways, Wintour's) film crew and soon is using them for her advantage by talking money with Anna on camera so that she can't cancel her budget. This dame knows how to play the game and isn't afraid to fight dirty, but she doesn't do it in the name of flighty Fashion (with a capital F) but she does it for art, which gives her a nobler cause. Here she is in full-on exasperation:

At one point in the film, she counsels a junior editor who just suffered one of Anna's tongue lashings, "Don't be too nice, not even to me, because you'll lose. You have to beat your way through." And that is just what Coddington does. She admits that both she and Wintour are stubborn, adding, "I know when to stop pushing her, but she doesn't know when to stop pushing me." One of the greatest scenes in the movie comes when the two share a long, awkward, silent elevator ride together on the way to visit Jean Paul Gaultier. It seems the only reason these two tolerate each other is for the good of the magazine.

Eventually, Coddington gets so palsy-walsy that she puts one of the September Issue cameramen into a last-minute photo shoot as a prop. The resulting pictures are fresh and fun and even manage to make Anna smile, although it's not clear if she likes the pics or is just enjoying telling a middle-aged cameraman that he's too fat. When Coddington hears that Wintour wants to Photoshop out his belly, she gets on the phone and threatens the art director and tells him that he has to leave it alone. "Not everything can be perfect in the world," she rails. It is the climax of the movie, where Coddington eventually triumphs over the tyrant, who has been chipping away at her artistic integrity for the entire 90 minutes.

Wintour tries exerting her iron will over everything in order to make it perfect (see an example in the clip below). The portrait the movie paints is not incredibly flattering, where she orders around designers, photographers, and especially editors based on her precarious edicts. The audience can appreciate the way she does business, but not the tactlessness she brings to it.

While the film begins with Anna, it ends with Coddington, her mane of red hair blowing in the wind as she looks out on the gardens of Versailles (where the magazine is doing a photo shoot). She stands still and silent, just taking in the sight. "It's beautiful," she declares simply before returning to work. Yes, Grace, it is. And so are you.

Susan Dominus writes the "Big City" column—the type of color-heavy, feature-y, slice-of-New-York-life column that has an infinite capacity for luring writers to their doom. Many, rewarded with a similar gig, have hung themselves on their own twee-ness. But not Susan Dominus! I can't explain exactly how she's avoided this trap, since writing—for example—stories about people you meet in the subway and how their adorably ignorant actions are indicative of some larger societal trend is almost guaranteed to make you, the New York Times columnist, sound like an asshole. But Susan Dominus, somehow, does not.

It was just after 5:30 p.m. Thursday, and I was catching up on the day's newspapers when someone else in my train car, a lank-haired teenager, looked up from his cellphone and called over to me. ''Excuse me,'' he said. ''Does it say anything in that newspaper about Michael Jackson dying?''

His friend had just texted him the news. I was not sure what to mourn first: the death of the King of Pop or of newsprint, a medium so unfamiliar to this 19-year-old that he seemed to think it could materialize in an instant to meet hot news. And why wouldn't he think that? All his other news sources could.

Perhaps it is the deprecation of print that pulls it off? Who knows? It's probably because Susan Dominus is not overly old and rich, and shares our own sexy taste (she used to be editor of Nerve.com). She retains the ability—common to all the best metro columnists, though usually absent at the NYT—to seek out people who repulse us for one idle reason or another, and allow them to hang themselves with quotes. She wrote the definitive takedown of New York's worst Food Nazi mom. She was admirably harsh on the bottom-dwelling Albany boys club. She talked shit about Caroline Kennedy.

No, we don't agree with Susan Dominus all the time. But we're willing to forgive her, unlike her some of her more famous mustachioed peers. Anybody who can do the "Ride along with an immigrant cabbie on his first day on the job" or "The sun is out, watch as the city springs to life" pieces without making us gag is a little bit of magic. All metro color columnists sooner or later end up writing the types of man-on-the-street stories beloved by first-year J-School students ("What wisdom a shoeshine man must possess!"), but very few can do it without sounding like first-year J-School students with 20 years of hack work in their pockets.

She also writes lots of pieces we are able to steal, for our blog here.

Susan Dominus, we salute you. If they ever promote you to the Op-Ed page, try not to start sucking.

[Pic via]

It's a pity because we should all like Megan Fox! Some people love her the way you'd love your racist Granpa. Like she says enough crazy shit for you to love her in a bemused/horrifying sort of way. But Megan Fox is legitimately awesome because she knows exactly what she is: a real life version of a slutty Halloween costume.

And she makes no bones (heh) about it! She has repeatedly stated that her job is to be attractive. Unlike, say Scarlett Johansson who peddles sex the same way Fox does but tries to gussy it up with Tom Waits cover albums and erudite interviews. Isn't that infinitely more annoying? Fox's honesty is way more refreshing. Remember when Megan brought it with some real talk about ScarJo?

I don't want to have to be like a Scarlett Johansson - who I have nothing against - but I don't want to have to go on talk shows and pull out every single SAT word I've ever learned to prove, like, ‘Take me seriously, I am intelligent, I can speak.' I don't want… to do that.

You shouldn't, Megan! Because ladies like ScarJo and Natalie Portman, who are both devastatingly beautiful and educated, make Normals like me feel awful. At least with Megs, it's like, yeah maybe my boyfriend is thinking about her when he's on top but at least I could beat her in a game of scrabble, right? And isn't that what boyfriends really want? I mean, REALLY?

Also, Megan was a L.U.G. (Lesbian Until Graduation). Well, actually, more of a B.U.G. It's adorable! Even if it's untrue, it's a delight personal yarn that makes for great quotes like:

I mean, I could see myself in a relationship with a girl - Olivia Wilde is so sexy she makes me want to strangle a mountain ox with my bare hand.

Personal story of the time Megan Fox touched my life: I have done some press junkets and they a festival of terribleness. The studios essentially send celebrities down to the Four Seasons to read a press release, a couple of hacks ask "What was it like to work with robots?" and then it's over. But the couple of times Megs has shown up for these she's been chatty, off-topic, vulgar. It's a blast of fresh air.

I am pretty sure I am a doppelganger for Alan Alda. I'm a tranny. I'm a man. I'm so painfully insecure. I'm on the verge of vomiting now. I am so horrified that I am here, and embarrassed. I'm scared."

Awww, don't be Megan, we're here for you.

On Monday, in Penn Station, some dude fell on the tracks and totally knocked himself out. Chad Lindsey, proofreader and aspiring smoldering actor, jumped onto the tracks and hauled the man up, then jumped up himself before the train came. Instead of waiting around for a book deal, he just went ahead and got on the next train and left. Modest, selfless, and a sense of humor as well!

He looked back up at the people on the platform. "I yelled, ‘Contact the station agent and call the police!' which I think is hilarious because I don't think I ever said ‘station agent' before in my life. What am I, on ‘24'?"

You may be sooner than you think, my friend! Chad is 33, and sports a strong jaw and tousled hair. He's currently appearing in Kaspar Hauser off Broadway, but he's no neophyte—according to the internet, he's previously had roles on "How I Met Your Mother," MTV's "Undressed," and "Totally Sexy Loser." Among others!

Chad is also a minor sex symbol to his IMDB fans ("Plot Keywords: Gay Interest | Gay Kiss | Fear Of Commitment | Gay Sex"), and, as one asserts, "Chad Lindsey Rocks. Rocks Hard."

He certainly does! Here's his highlight reel. Give him some work, why don't you?

[Email us, Chad!]

I am a hobbyist bartender. I have a liquor cabinet. I research classic drinks from the golden age of American cocktails and I make them for me and Susan.

Then she names her favorite "obscure liquor." Rachel Maddow, rational and down-to-earth Lesbian who enjoys making alcoholic beverages, we salute you.

Image Via.
Related: Why Rachel Maddow Never Made It On Fox News [NYO]

Lucas was profiled last March in the New Republic as "gay porn's neocon kingporn" due to his over-the-top opinions on Middle Eastern politics. But he makes up for that with his insistence on condoms being used in the porns he directs.

As he explained his choices to New York mag: "‘What is my real chance to become a mainstream celebrity?’ I am an immigrant, I have an accent, I am not the most beautiful thing which crossed the world.”

It goes without saying that Lucas is ridiculous and self-promoting, but we're still glad he exists. At the very least because every apartment building needs a square peg:

"It is obvious, upon stepping out of the elevator into the hall of Lucas’s Chelsea building, which apartment is his. All the doors have traditional peepholes and push bells, save for the one that has a large lion’s head with a ring in its mouth." [New York mag]

Furthermore, I am a logical, sensible, pragmatic Republican, and my diagnosis came just weeks after Teddy Kennedy's. That he should have cancer of the brain, and I should have cancer of the ass ... well, I'll say a rosary for him and hope he has a laugh at me. After all, what would I do, ask God for a more dignified cancer? Pancreatic? Liver? Lung?…

No doubt death is one of those mysterious ways in which God famously works. Except, on consideration, death isn't mysterious. Do we really want everyone to be around forever?…Napoleon was doubtless a great man in his time — at least the French think so. But do we want even Napoleon extant in perpetuity? Do we want him always escaping from island exiles, raising fanatically loyal troops of soldiers, invading Russia and burning Moscow?

Well, at the moment, considering Putin et al, maybe we do want that. But, century after century, it would get old. And what with Genghis Khan coming from the other direction all the time and Alexander the Great clashing with a Persia that is developing nuclear weapons and Roman legions destabilizing already precarious Israeli-Palestinian relations — things would be a mess.

Then there's the matter of our debt to death for life as we know it. I believe in God. I also believe in evolution. If death weren't around to "finalize" the Darwinian process, we'd all still be amoebas. We'd eat by surrounding pizzas with our belly flab and have sex by lying on railroad tracks waiting for a train to split us into significant others.

As for that last sentence, I don't know quite what it means, and I am tempted to say if anyone would I'd be that person. But the important part is, P.J. O'Rourke thanks God for death (and to that end, whiskey.) Taxes can't be very far behind.

Dodd was much-maligned for ignoring his duties as Senate Banking Committee Chair to pursue a quixotic (insane?) bid for the Democratic presidential nomination as the American financial system first began foreshadowing its collapse. But if Dodd learned anything from his strange decision to relocate his entire family to Iowa the year before a caucus in which he managed to win a whole zero percent of the vote, perhaps it was that the rest of America does not, in economic terms anyway, look very much like his flush little state or the gargantuan financial services industry that nurtured within it some of America's most preposterously wealthy zip codes.

Yesterday Dodd delivered a lengthy proposal to defend taxpayers from some of the more egregious ripoffs and scams that could result from the approval of Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson's awe-inspiring $700 billion Wall Street bailout. It turns out that amid all the cheap mortgage receiving and tabloid living Chris Dodd has actually been paying attention to the industry that has been feeding his coffers all these years! Dodd's plan demands, among other things, that the government receive warrants that might convert into equity stakes in all those banks whose loans it is now proposing to buy at those possibly grossly-inflated prices. It seems like a damn good idea! Not that I would know. But Democrats and Republicans seem to agree. Could Dodd be the Giuliani of the Market Meltdown? I bet the Dems would throw in another abortive run at the presidency if he does!

A telling quote from today's hearing came when Dodd asked Fed Chairman Ben Bernanke how he'd explain it to Main Street. "I was a college professor. I've never worked on Wall Street," he said. Indeed, Bernanke is a college professor who has published dozens of hugely influential papers on the critical role of decisive monetary policy in fending off the runaway deflation that begets Depressions. But he's a professor; does he fully understand how disconnected the types of immense wealth accumulated by the high-fee, ultraleveraged sectors of the financial services industry are from the types of wealth generated by businesses that run on plain-old lines of credit and investor equity? I understand a "run" on the money market of the type we saw Friday necessitated a massive intervention of some sort; I also understand taxpayers could very well turn a profit on its Bear Stearns intervention; I further understand the economic malaise that accompanies a deflationary spiral. It's hard to pass off Paulson as some Goldman shill when, seriously, no one actually capable of comprehending even a tenth of this crisis doesn't sport an attachment to one of the financial institutions whose livelihoods will be affected here.

But it's hard to think Paulson and Bernanke, with their insistence that Everything Get Done Right Now, aren't overpanicking to soothe an overpanicky stock market. And it's like: well, look, there is no way this is going to be smooth for the benchmark stock indices. But the stock market has never been — it has only grown further and further away from reflecting — the actual economy. That is why 10,000 households in this country are worth more than $100 million apiece while nearly four-fifths of the nation's households get by on less than ninety grand a year (and about twenty survive on less than twenty.)

This morning on CNBC I watched anchor Mark Haines tell his younger colleague Erin Burnett his own amendments for the bailout: something about wanting the Treasury to buy exclusively banks' better loans, allow the financial firms to work out the superbad ones, install some provisions to help homeowners renegotiate their mortgates and then pump the surplus generated into Medicare and Social Security. Burnett basically told him he was a communist and it was cute because as anyone who has watched Haines prior to this month he is so totally not. But it called to mind another scene between the two of them a few days ago when Burnett tried to get some money manager to offer viewers a more "glass half full" view on the stock market. "If you don't think this is that serious, you don't understand it," he said. He was right; it is serious; and the truly serious people watching it play out are abandoning their friends, their fundraisers, their inclinations and their ideologies in hopes of merely understanding it and conveying it to all those it will effect. We can only hope our elected officials — I have two in mind — can add "pollsters" to that list and prove capable of figuring out what's truly best for the country.

The thirty-something "Bea rat"—a real-estate investor who claims an interest in screenwriting —goes in, usually alone, almost every single night. He approaches a woman and says, "I'm going to find you later because you look like the kind of girl who wants to do very bad things." If you're French, he calls you "Frenchy." If a girl's Italian, he calls her "Siciliana."

Not convinced? Well, the lines do sound better in a Greek accent. More importantly, the seduction is accompanied by the promise of cocaine, back at our Casanova's apartment a few blocks away. Simple, but mind-jarringly effective. As studies have shown, the content of a pickup line has very little to do with a woman's response; and other primates have been found to choose cocaine over pretty much anything else, even food.

Most cunning of all: the cap-wearing Euro doesn't actually share the cocaine: that way the calculating seducer remains sober and ready to take advantage of any opportunity. Too creepy? "Well, do you do coke?" a Beatrice bartender asked. "If you do coke, he's a cool guy."

Now I don't hate them any more—not these particular guys. I hate and detest the leaders. Some guards would just come in and do their job. When they were told to beat you they would come in and do it. Some seemed to get a big bang out of it. A lot of them were homosexual, although never toward us. Some, who were pretty damned sadistic, seemed to get a big thrill out of the beatings.

Yes, ok. What?? How did POW McCain know they were gay if they weren't gay "toward him"? Were the homosexuals the ones who enjoyed the beatings or were the sadists a separate category? We have lots of unanswered questions here. Like—how come he mentions how gay the North Vietnamese were but leaves out that inspiring tale of the cross on the floor he mentioned last weekend?

John McCain, Prisoner of War [USNews via Queerty]

I mean, he's not Pauline Kael, but he did manage to bring a gimlet eye to the week's films for a broad and diverse audience, one that wouldn't necessarily take advice from two slumps from Chicago (the other being the late great Gene Siskel)—or maybe even think about films so qualitatively—had it not been for the pair's warmth, wit, and ever-wagging thumbs. Ebert has done it tirelessly for years, even during a painful illness. He's cranky, sure, but also oddly pleasant and appealing. He's your beery uncle who talks your ear off at family parties, but is interesting when he does it. We may not always agree with Ebert or find his opinions "highbrow" enough, but he's been an enduring and affecting presence in popular culture and we hope that, though the balcony is forever closed, he will continue to be for a good long while.

[NYO]

[Pic via Gothamist]

• Cutrone lives in a "spacious loft" in SoHo with her daughter, Ava, and a male model named Demian. Though, she's not necessarily involved with him. (In fact, she's trying to set Demian up with Whitney). She's dating a music producer in LA and was once married to "Warhol affiliate" Ronnie Cutrone. Ava's father? "An Italian she met in Paris and left three months into her pregnancy, shortly after leaving her second husband, an actor."
• She's also a pal of Factory member and filmmaker Paul Morrissey, whom she's trying to persuade to film an episode of The Hills.
• She was a Syracuse born-and-raised 21-year-old who moved to Avenue C in the East Village and became a party girl. A delightful anecdote from the article: "'She was an accident waiting to happen,' recalled Mr. Cutrone. The couple first met at a club called Carmelita, in a former whorehouse. 'She was wild, ambitious, volatile, sexual. Sex and the City looks like a ridiculous joke compared to what Kelly was! Plfffffft!' Early in their courtship, Mr. Cutrone found a gram of coke in a jacket Ms. Cutrone had borrowed. He himself was clean at the time, he said. 'I'm like, what the hell! Kelly tracked me down at my building and woke up two gay guys, looking for the coke or me, and then eventually she did find us, but there it was—sex and drugs in one pretty picture.' ('I was out that night,' admitted Ms. Cutrone.) They soon moved in together, and got married. She was 22.
• She once represented Eartha Kitt.
• At one point she quit her job in PR and became a tarot card reader on Venice Beach.
• "'I would never rep Versace, I can't stand her, I think she makes disgusting clothes. Calvin [Klein] is like, snore! Who wears Calvin Klein? I'm not dissing him. I think he's built an amazing, respectable business, but I would never want to work for Calvin Klein, ever.' Her own stable of clients is heavy on up-and-comers and not the most high-end in the business, but she said it was consciously curated based on whom she thought deserved 'a voice.'"
• "Ms. Cutrone suddenly blared "Rapper's Delight" from her laptop and lit a cigarette at her desk."
• "'You're so pretty,' said Ms. Cutrone softly to a 19-year old intern who walked in with a phone message. 'What's your major?'"
• So why don't I go marry her already, right? I mean, she's probably a total monster in real life, but whatever. I'm excited for her increased presence on the next season of The Hills (I'm excited about The Hills! Amazing!) And, of course, any appearances she'll make on Whitney Port's upcoming spin-off series.
  

First of all, the rumors actually have some foundation. The duo were photographed cuddling at a party on P. Diddy's yacht in Cannes, a high-profile affair at which Lohan and Ronson kissed very publicly. They've also been spotted together in New York, L.A., and Chicago. Lohan's Dad is all duh, saying that the nature of their relationship is "evident to anyone with half a brain."

That means nothing. Photos can be misinterpreted or staged. Paris Hilton has made out with other girls, and nobody thinks she did so for any reason other than a need for attention. Even if the two were actually dating, Lohan's crush could be put down to the bisexual experimentation of an emotionally needy 21-year-old. And the Mean Girls star's creepy father Michael is so desperate to reinsert himself into his daughter's life that he'd say anything.

But tellingly, there's been no denial of the speculation from Lindsay's camp. Her PR rep Leslie Sloane said simply that the two are "close friends." Dina Lohan was quoted in US Weekly saying that Samantha was a "a sweetheart" and "the best spinner around," praising her DJ skills. Celebrity weekly insiders are convinced the romance is real—and serious.

Here's what's cool: Lohan has been entirely matter-of-fact about the whole affair. She's continued to appear in public with her rumored lover. There has been no moaning from her about private-life intrusion from the media, and no cries from her cougar mom to "Leave Lindsey ALONE!"

Of course same-sex relationships aren't as scandalous in Hollywood as they once were. There are plenty of openly gay actors and TV personalities, from Ellen De Degeneres to Jodie Foster. But they tend to be much much older when they come out—actors, for instance, when they're no longer up for parts as the heterosexual romantic lead and have less to lose professionally. In the case of leading man Cary Grant, for instance, it was only decades later that his "roommate" Randolph Scott was revealed to have been his lover.

So Lohan's openness is a big deal, and it's awesome! Despite her bouts of rehab and some unfortunate recent roles, she's young and still has most of her career ahead of her, so the stakes are high. Lohan acts as if she's in love with another woman—and she's put her personal happiness over any standard Hollywood career logic. Lohan's love has conquered all! She may be a mess; but someone give her one of those GLAAD awards for surprising us all as a modern gay hero.

[Photo: Celebrity Vibe via People.com]

Clifford, who retired as a police sergeant after 10 years on the job, said Tuesday he had been arrested eight times after being accused of throwing coffee, spewing expletives and getting in the faces of people whom he considered loud and rude on the commuter line. This was the only case that wasn't dismissed.

"It took a lawyer and an old ex-police sergeant to stand up to it (public rudeness)," Clifford, of Long Beach, said as he left court. He said that unless lawmakers and the Metropolitan Transportation Authority do something, the lack of public civility will persist.

Asked what he regretted about his behavior, Clifford replied, "Nothing."

If only there were a John Clifford on every train car. He even has that superhero type of name. It's hard to tell from the descriptions whether Clifford is a brave hero who stands up to jerks who bully others with their loud, grating conversations, or if he himself is an angry crank with a hair trigger who is truly a public menace. Since he prowls the LIRR, we're going to go with "Hero."

Oh, Ryan—actually, his Tumblr claims that his computer took over blogging for him:

"The man who types on me has system compatibility problems. He has trouble connecting to other systems/ humans. He overloaded his software or runs his system to long. If I were in control of the situation I would require less software and an extra fan for the motor. But what do know?"

This lovely woman who works at our corner shop, she is chinese, she gave me some stuff for my arthritis. My right wrist has hurt something awful the last week. I love her though. She gives me root ginseng andf stuff. Her husband sings or mumble sings to me at night. He can tell when I am sad. He won't let me buy red-bull. HA.

When I started going in there alone after a few years of flowers and juice and laughter, they got protective. In fact, so protective that if I so much as think of putting on patchouli I know I am screwed for smokes and the lovely corner shop mom will "cough- COUGH!!!) dramatically and suggest I go back and shower.

I love this city.

For those who don't know (like me), Lenny Dykstra is a former baseball all-star who is launching a magazine for ex-athletes. But like all great profiles, who Dykstra is and what he is doing is irrelevant. He's a great character. McGrath starts with an anecdotal lede about Dykstra nearly standing him up for their first meeting and lets Dykstra take the story from there. McGrath quotes his subject frequently, though not at length — McGrath also has the gift of economy — letting his subject, not his writing, be the star of the piece.

Usually, McGrath contributes to Talk of The Town, which could dubbed Talk of Rich New Yorkers, or Talk of Hendrik Hertzberg Still Being Upset Over The 2000 Election. But McGrath's pieces are worth reading. Whenever I see corduroy, I think of his piece on the Corduroy Appreciation Club, which holds meetings on 11/11, the date that most resembles corduroy. And on strange streets in Manhattan, I remember McGrath's Talk about Caleb Smith, the Columbia librarian who walked every block in Manhattan. His story two weeks ago on IdreamofHillaryIdreamofBarack.com was so well-crafted I read it three times.

I'd love to pretend that McGrath's skills come from his connections, but that's just not the case. The guy knows his way around nouns and verbs.

My only complaint is that his Google image sucks. The image above is his head shot from the Yale Herald circa 1998.