best sustain three titles. If he were to shut the newspaper down and take the whole business online, he could give the Chronicle at least a fighting chance to become a profitable Web-based, multimedia brand. He’d have to replace Mark Sand, the idiot who runs our online group. But after that, things would be relatively easy. With the radio and TV resources of Ghosh Media behind it, and none of the newsprint, distribution and subscriber-acquisition costs, the Daily Business Chronicle might even regain its relevance and secure its future.
“Listen up,” says Julie. She has just emerged from the bathroom holding Beryl by the hand. She waits till she is sure of our attention. She has an announcement to make.
“Guess who did number twos in the grown-up toilet?”
Fergus, Julie, Angus, Sam and I all gather round to inspect one at a time the rodent-size pellets at the bottom of the toilet bowl.
“Wow,” says Fergus, sounding genuinely impressed.
“What a big girl,” says Julie.
“Great job,” says Sam.
“Is she getting enough fiber?” I ask.
Julie lifts Beryl up to have her flush the toilet. And as we watch the water swirl and Beryl’s poo-poo disappear, Fergus yells “Hooray!” and bursts into proud applause.
Beryl seems rejuvenated, but only briefly. After a little more running and shrieking, she starts getting grumpy. Meanwhile Angus, hungry now, insists on being allowed to microwave himself some macaroni and cheese for dinner. I call a car service to take Sam and me home.
In the car, Sam leans against her window, looking out at the brownstones going by. Neighborhood families and friends are sitting out in the late afternoon sun, chatting on their stoops.
One time, years ago, when Sam and I were first living together, we were driving back home from a party in a car just like this. We were both tipsy. Sam lay down suddenly on her back with her head in my lap, took my hand and guided it inside her panties. Before my hesitant fingers even had time to react, Sam was moaning loudly, as if she were putting on a show for the driver.
Today she seems more interested in the world beyond the backseat of our car.
“They seem so happy,” she says at last. “Julie wants another one, but Fergus isn’t sure they can afford it.”
“Having kids is tough on just one salary,” I say.
On Sundays, Mondays and Wednesdays, Sam works from noon to six at Artyfacts, Park Slope’s “first-class, secondhand” store. The store’s run by her friend Shila Hawthorne. Sam makes fourteen bucks an hour, or $252 a week. That’s enough, theoretically, to allow her to cover her day-to-day expenses and even shop for some occasional groceries. In practice, though, she gets paid in merchandise. She’s unable to withstand the temptation to convert her salary into lightly used and slightly worn items from the store, taking advantage of the substantial employee discount Shila offers.
Sam’s schedule allows me to devote Sundays to researching and writing my Christopher Finchley columns. I make a pot of coffee. My home office is set up at a small desk in the corner of the living room. I get out my Leadership, Management-by-Magazine and Unicorn files. I skim some articles I’ve already read and highlighted, then lay them out in a semi-circle on the floor behind my chair. I open a new Word document. While I’m thinking of a great opening line, I log on to eMusic to select this month’s tunes. Some great independent stuff that, even as it’s downloading, I know I’ll never listen to. I take a quick look at YouTube and start clicking on all kinds of two-minute videos, each of which seems ninety seconds too long. After that, I skim the news, quickly getting entangled in the lives of the latest batch of celebutantes, tracking their drunken antics, nipple slips, anorexia denials and embarrassing emails all the way from TMZ to Defamer to Go Fug Yourself and back again. Suddenly I’m nauseous. Like a teenager drained by too
“Listen up,” says Julie. She has just emerged from the bathroom holding Beryl by the hand. She waits till she is sure of our attention. She has an announcement to make.
“Guess who did number twos in the grown-up toilet?”
Fergus, Julie, Angus, Sam and I all gather round to inspect one at a time the rodent-size pellets at the bottom of the toilet bowl.
“Wow,” says Fergus, sounding genuinely impressed.
“What a big girl,” says Julie.
“Great job,” says Sam.
“Is she getting enough fiber?” I ask.
Julie lifts Beryl up to have her flush the toilet. And as we watch the water swirl and Beryl’s poo-poo disappear, Fergus yells “Hooray!” and bursts into proud applause.
Beryl seems rejuvenated, but only briefly. After a little more running and shrieking, she starts getting grumpy. Meanwhile Angus, hungry now, insists on being allowed to microwave himself some macaroni and cheese for dinner. I call a car service to take Sam and me home.
In the car, Sam leans against her window, looking out at the brownstones going by. Neighborhood families and friends are sitting out in the late afternoon sun, chatting on their stoops.
One time, years ago, when Sam and I were first living together, we were driving back home from a party in a car just like this. We were both tipsy. Sam lay down suddenly on her back with her head in my lap, took my hand and guided it inside her panties. Before my hesitant fingers even had time to react, Sam was moaning loudly, as if she were putting on a show for the driver.
Today she seems more interested in the world beyond the backseat of our car.
“They seem so happy,” she says at last. “Julie wants another one, but Fergus isn’t sure they can afford it.”
“Having kids is tough on just one salary,” I say.
On Sundays, Mondays and Wednesdays, Sam works from noon to six at Artyfacts, Park Slope’s “first-class, secondhand” store. The store’s run by her friend Shila Hawthorne. Sam makes fourteen bucks an hour, or $252 a week. That’s enough, theoretically, to allow her to cover her day-to-day expenses and even shop for some occasional groceries. In practice, though, she gets paid in merchandise. She’s unable to withstand the temptation to convert her salary into lightly used and slightly worn items from the store, taking advantage of the substantial employee discount Shila offers.
Sam’s schedule allows me to devote Sundays to researching and writing my Christopher Finchley columns. I make a pot of coffee. My home office is set up at a small desk in the corner of the living room. I get out my Leadership, Management-by-Magazine and Unicorn files. I skim some articles I’ve already read and highlighted, then lay them out in a semi-circle on the floor behind my chair. I open a new Word document. While I’m thinking of a great opening line, I log on to eMusic to select this month’s tunes. Some great independent stuff that, even as it’s downloading, I know I’ll never listen to. I take a quick look at YouTube and start clicking on all kinds of two-minute videos, each of which seems ninety seconds too long. After that, I skim the news, quickly getting entangled in the lives of the latest batch of celebutantes, tracking their drunken antics, nipple slips, anorexia denials and embarrassing emails all the way from TMZ to Defamer to Go Fug Yourself and back again. Suddenly I’m nauseous. Like a teenager drained by too
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