A column that doesn’t mention his name? Yes, indeed. New York is a city of fast women, as I know from my morning walk — one after another, they say, “On your left,” and they stride past, grandes dames and leggy lasses in a hurry to get somewhere, and meanwhile I shuffle along, a slow-moving obstruction, no schedule, nobody’s waiting in a coffee shop for me to come talk shop. This is the freest I’ve felt since I was a kid. I could hop on the A train and ride out to Far Rockaway and watch the Atlantic waves roll in on the shore and observe planes landing at JFK and I wouldn’t even need to invent a reason. Instead I walk into Central Park and sit down on a bench by the dog run, an acre of grass where people let their dogs off the leash so they can tear around in a circle chasing each other (the dogs, that is), yapping and woofing happily. Apartment dogs enjoying a brief period of wildness as their owners stand in a group and converse. It’s a sociable scene, the dog run. Dogs in euphoria and people socializing who ordinarily would pass each other with eyes averted. An urban phenomenon. I am not a dog person. Several friends of mine are, including two who are in deep mourning for deceased pets, and two whose dogs served as maid of honor and best man at their wedding. I once saw a friend kiss her dog on the lips. I looked away. I’m not into anthropomorphism, but it’s her life, not mine. Discretion is the secret word here. No comment, thank you. And old age is another topic to tread lightly away from. It is endlessly fascinating to the decrepit geezer himself, atrial fibrillation is profoundly meaningful, each polyp and liver spot, but to his audience it is like the Treaty of Ghent or the Gadsden Purchase, not of immediate interest. So shut up. Read the rest of the column >>> | 
