From Harper’s Weekly Review:<\/p>\n
In England, an \u201cexceptionally wet summer\u201d affected the Cerne Abbas Giant<\/a>, an ancient chalk figure carved into a hill in Dorset, temporarily reducing the visibility of its famously prominent penis; one tourist complained that there was \u201cno attraction there.\u201d In Paris, a porn site offered a $250,000 deal to a French pole vaulter after his \u201cbig bulge\u201d knocked down a crossbar, costing him an Olympic medal.<\/em><\/p>\n Which reminds me: back in the old days, the 1970s to be imprecise, when New York was supposed to be a gigantic crummy crime zone, I had had dinner and probably a Broadway show with a friend from L.A., who was staying on 59th Street and Fifth Avenue at the Sherry Netherland, a preferred hotel for film business execs. Which my friend was.<\/p>\n At about 1 in the morning, I left to head home to the West Village. It was a lovely night maybe in the spring, maybe autumn and I decided to walk home down Fifth Avenue, around 50 blocks. Let me make it explicit: I wasn’t being a daredevil, courting a role as a potential victim. I was and always have been a New Yorker and I know my city. Which was not a gigantic crummy crime zone. Not then, not now.<\/p>\n There was no one on the avenue. Occasionally a yellow cab would drive by. A few slowed to raise eyebrows at me, asking if I wanted a lift. With a smile, I turned them down. Long walks were times to think about things, to imagine and fantasize a bit.<\/p>\n A few blocks south of the Flatiron Building at 23rd Street — years before it was an official District or on the border of Chelsea or NoMad — the area was still industrial, the buildings contained factories in lofts that hadn’t yet been converted into multimillion dollar apartments. Without residential lights, it was very dark and even more empty of life than upper Fifth Avenue had been. But it was not<\/em> menacing, not to me.<\/p>\n Then, ahead of me on the next cross street, I saw a person walking east very<\/em> slowly, even contemplatively, his head lowered. At our individual paces, he and I would certainly intersect at that corner. I stopped walking to consider the options.<\/p>\n His appearance, though odd, wasn’t frightening to me at all. I knew he presented no danger; his manner, far from being aggressive, was rather trancelike. The only question to me was…awkwardness.<\/p>\n Thing is, he was barefoot, wearing an unbuttoned lightweight trenchcoat under which he was otherwise utterly naked. And what he was contemplating was…his own enormous erection. An erection so straight, so unwavering it seemed as if sculpted out of stone.<\/p>\n If I continued walking, I’d bump into the erection before I’d bump into him.<\/p>\n I hailed a cab.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" From Harper’s Weekly Review: In England, an \u201cexceptionally wet summer\u201d affected the Cerne Abbas Giant, an ancient chalk figure carved into a hill in Dorset, temporarily reducing the visibility of its famously prominent penis; one tourist complained that there was … Continue reading