Maggie Shnayerson

1. Shit Still Falling From Sky: No longer content to shed construction willy-nilly from its own office building, the New York Times recruited a neighboring skyscraper in its cunning plan to terrorize people in and around Times Square.
2. Shit Now Also Falling From El Trains: “A freak accident in Queens has left a woman in critical condition after a tree branch fell and struck her in the head.”
3. Not Falling From Heaven? Cash. “The number of New Yorkers who declared bankruptcy was up 31% over the first seven months of 2008, according to a new report.” [NYDN]
4. Deadly Mosquitos. Let the West Nile virus games begin! So long as they stay in the Bronx and Queens, clearly. [WNBC]
5. Assaulting Taxicabs. Sunday’s taxi (two) vs. pedestrian (six) accident will teach you not to hail so hard next time. (Honestly though, does a week go by where there isn’t a taxi vs. pedestrian accident in New York? If only Cash Cab’s Ben Bailey would run me over. Swoon.)
6. Torah-Stealing Positively Rampant. A synagogue in Queens was robbed of seven torahs over the weekend. Sounds like a lame pile of plunder, until you find out they’re worth over half a million bucks. [WNBC]
7. Purple Pigeon Painters Among Us. Someone found a poor pigeon covered in purple paint in Queens on Friday.  Now, normally, I am of the “pigeons are flying rats kill them all” school, but that’s just not very nice.

“A guy I am friendly with who used to work for Gawker, Jon, came up behind me, ‘Do you want to meet Emily Gould?’”   [NYMag]

Dear God.

Also? I will need a utility bill from Bumblefuck, NH, with Jessica Roy’s name and address on it to prove that the disillusioned-before-her-time writerish person has indeed left New York City. Like she’s going anywhere now. Pshht.

“A woman was found stabbed to death in her Chelsea apartment late Sunday, police said…Investigators are combing the area and also trying to determine how her assailant got into her building, which is staffed by a doorman.” [WCBS]

I had no idea that doormen were armed with special powers with which to ward off the crazy neighbors already inside! Not to mention those regular visitors whom they regularly motion right upstairs! Perhaps New Yorkers would be safer if all doormen were required to dress like the Harrod’s doormen in London. Even crazy stab-happyists wouldn’t go near a dude dressed like a leprechaun.

Is there anything more abrasive than having to listen to an uncomfortably close drunk white forty-something with blond iced tips and a marginal fake bake dressed head to toe in Thomas Pink slurring to his male friend about how “Ssssan Francisscoo gay” their third friend is and how “totally annoying, oh my God,” it is? I tell you that at this very moment in time, there is not. I always have the urge to tell guys of this particular breed that their women think they’re weak and they look like they’re about to vomit. Generally one of both these things is true and stopping myself from doing it is like being back in church, digging my nails into my palms to stop from screaming “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” at the top of my eight-year-old lungs. Which I’m sure would have proved immensely disconcerting to the Holy Trinity, among other persons.

Also? Please shoot me and really anyone, straight in the head if you hear them discussing right next to you, thank you very much, outside of the inside of their heads the immense woes associated with managing their current losses on their “$8 million home, a $2 million home in the country, and $10 million in the bank with a yearly lifestyle of seven to a million bucks a year.” It’s probably a really good thing I’m not carrying my .22 right now. For this woman’s sake, I hope the guys hung, because he’s a mind-suck.

You may be lucky enough to have avoided the suburbs for the duration of your life. Hey, me too! Until I up and voluntarily moved here last year, that is. Don’t ask. The ‘burbs do have their benefits, though. Like, for instance, the Westchester edition of the Sunday New York Times personals! Also our fantastically freakish neighbors, but never mind. For your browsing pleasure—a “busy MD/writter” (not that busy, is my suspicion), a “typical” Upper West Side retired editor (Dad? Not cool) and easily one of the best squirmy non sequiturs I’ve seen in quite some time.

Honestly? There really are no appropriate circumstances under which it is acceptable to use the word “interface” as a verb. None. I don’t want to hear it, IT folks. None.