Five years ago I was siting in a felafel joint on the upper west side when I picked up a local free newspaper expecting to waste some time. A review of Tom Friedman’s “The World is Flat” caught my eye and gave me a jolt of sheer delight. I’d never heard of the author, but that reading experience in a by-the-way throwaway left an indelible engram…(and confirmed once more that NYC is just way cool)
An excerpt from the review:
I’ll give you an example, drawn at random from The World Is Flat. On page 174, Friedman is describing a flight he took on Southwest Airlines from Baltimore to Hartford, Connecticut. (Friedman never forgets to name the company or the brand name; if he had written The Metamorphosis, Gregor Samsa would have awoken from uneasy dreams in a Sealy Posturepedic.) Here’s what he says:
I stomped off, went through security, bought a Cinnabon, and glumly sat at the back of the B line, waiting to be herded on board so that I could hunt for space in the overhead bins.
Forget the Cinnabon. Name me a herd animal that hunts. Name me one.
Now I get the pleasure of reading a relatively recent one, a review of the environmentalist Tom.