IT PAYS TO PAY YOUR PROOFREADER (AND HERE’S THE PROOF)

I’m not just a reporter at the Ledger/Star/Observer/Register, I’m pretty much an entire weekly newspaper onto myself.

Not to brag, but I handle the Page 3’s, the Events Calendar, Classifieds, Legal Notices (Okay, that last part isn’t very much). Now I’m responsible for writing the new “Brevity” page each week. I don’t know if “Brevity” is exactly the soul of wit – or if there’s anything remotely witty about summarizing local press releases into bite-sized 200-word morsels – but I’m pretty sure we’re more entertaining than "Christa Cuts,” the weekly column that exists for no other reason than to give a whiny bimbo who’s related to the publisher some work.

My job also involves proofreading and copyediting on Tuesdays, which are the days we go to press. I happen to enjoy that aspect of my job quite a bit. I get to speak softly, and carry a big red pen. I read copy directly off the proof post-layout. Yes, catching the mistakes of my fellow reporters can be disheartening due to the extraordinary level of hero worship I feel for them. More often than not, however, catching mistakes is hysterically funny.

The specific incident I’m thinking about took place a few weeks ago. N. is one of the paper’s star reporters, and also happens to hold the title of “Community Editor.” He’s a cool guy, and during my first few weeks aboard gave me lots of excellent pointers on how to put a story together. I was editing one of his articles – we always edit each other’s stuff at the Ledger/Star/Observer/Register, and never our own work. It involved a prominent assemblywoman’s visit to an elementary school in Brooklyn Heights.

The politician was giving a speech to a mixed batch of second, third, and fourth graders. In her rhetoric, she focused on how few women serve as representatives in New York State’s legislative assembly. Her point, however, had to do with age and young girl’s perception of inequality based on gender. The younger your age, said the politician, the more likely you were to believe that men and women received equal opportunity in the political arena.

Now, this was a great point, and N. got some outstanding quotes from the assemblywoman. But he made a miniscule, albeit crucial mistake transcribing one of the quotes for his article. This might have been disastrous, or caused lots of guffaws among our competitors at least, had we gone to print with that error intact. Luckily, a certain eagle-eyed proofreader/copyeditor caught it during the eleventh hour and saved the day.

Here’s a transcript of what the politician was supposed to have said:

“There are over 200 people in the state assembly. How many of them do you think are women? Most girls in kindergarten say 50 percent. Most girls in high school, however, say only five-to-ten percent.”

N. accidentally used the word “women” instead of “people” in that first sentence. As a result, what the assemblywoman said sounded logical, but was nothing short of a revelation.

“There are over 200 women in the state assembly. How many of them do you think are women? Most girls in kindergarten say 50 percent. Most girls in high school, however, say only five-to-ten percent.”

I showed that to N., who realized he made a mistake, but still laughed a whole lot over what the new quote said. Then he showed it to S., the managing editor. He gave the uncorrected proof the once-over, and also burst out laughing. “We should run it the way it is,” he said. “Then, in next week’s Ledger we can do a follow-up: ‘What our children are learning in kindergarten.’”

I was in support of that idea, but I think we elected to fix the quote and attribute the assemblywoman’s actual words to her. Even though mistakes do happen in the newspaper business. For example, take last week’s “Christa Cuts,” which a certain eagle-eyed proofreader/copyeditor accidentally keyed in as “Christa Putz.” Total blunder on my part. I really do feel bad about it, too, because really – what a great column.

C.S.I. = “CRIME SCENE INTRUDER?”

So I tried sneaking into my first crime scene yesterday. I didn’t get anything scoop-worthy, which was very disappointing. But at the same time, I learned a valuable lesson. A crime scene is like a sample sale from a popular fashion designer: If you want the good stuff, you have to show up early.

I probably showed up about thirty minutes late. The whole thing started around 6 p.m., when my editor got a page about some poor woman in Williamsburg who had been sexually-assaulted by three African-American men. The address sounded familiar, so I ran it on Mapquest and discovered it was only a mile from where K. and I live. After grabbing my camera and press pass, I hopped the 59 bus home, getting off a few stops early to walk up Humboldt St.

The entire journey probably took about a half-hour at most. However, by the time I arrived at the seedy, rundown-looking apartment complex where the attack took place – and where the three suspects were still reportedly armed and at-large – the building had effectively been locked down. Not that I was expecting to get into an actual crime scene.

Still, my editor told me that a reporter could luck out, and arrive just after the first cop car swept in like gangbusters. If that were the case, one could still find people hanging out on the sidewalk, or peeking out through doorways. Somebody who might have seen something, heard something, known the victim, or maybe just somebody with valuable information to share about how often that kind of crime goes down in that part of town. People, after all, are supposed to be our best resource.

I found myself short of resources that night. It was 6:30 p.m., and there were more cops around than civvies. I also didn’t see an ambulance, which meant the victim was either at the hospital or on her way there. The possibility of an assault victim receiving medical attention wasn’t exactly disappointing to my journalistic sensibilities. However, it left the question: Were all these cops hanging around because they were still looking for the perps? Or did a swab of a tainted habitat require so many pairs of eyes and hands?

So there they were, New York City’s Finest. Male and female alike huddled in a circle out in front of the building. Talking and laughing. I decided to take the direct approach. Naturally, that got me nowhere. The slick-haired, suit-wearing, “detective”-looking guy glanced briefly at my press pass, then curved his brow upwards into a thoroughly-unimpressed peak before brushing me off. “Nothin’ to be worried about here,” he said, making one of those flapping motions with his hand.

Knowing I wasn’t welcome made me especially anxious to stick around. I put my press pass back in my pocket, and took a seat on a bench next to this teenage girl wearing what appeared to be a huge coat. A few minutes later, she was joined by her friend, a Latino-looking girl whose name rhymed with “Korea.” For the most part, the cops had sloughed away into the night, but I could see a few of them still hanging around in the lobby. Given how hospitable they were to me before, I opted to try gleaning information from these two adolescents instead.

“Why are all the cops hanging around?” I asked the huge coat.

She shrugged her big coat-covered shoulders. “You can go ask ‘em if you want,” she said. “’Less you got somethin’ on you.”

“That why you been hangin’ out here for the last thirty minutes, instead of goin’ in yourself?” asked the apparently observant Korea.

I tried to smile and look cool, at the same time taking the press pass back out of my pocket. After showing it to them, I did my best to adopt an attitude that was weary and dejected, something I thought might gain their confidence. “Just seems like these cops don’t want to talk to any reporters,” I said.

The huge coat lit up. “Damn right they don’t want to talk to any reporter. Some girl got raped, you know. And if I were you, I would hide that…,” she said, pointing to the ID, “…and find a way to sneak up there. And if anybody catches you, act like you live there but you got off on the wrong floor.”

“But how do I sneak in there?” I asked.

“There’s a stairwell in the back way,” Korea said. “You want to go up? Wait out back and I’ll let you in.”

And that’s how I ended up getting into the building. For a while, I wasn’t sure whether I had walked straight into an ambush. I mean, there I was standing alone behind the building, an easy mark for a roving gang of thugs. Would the cops have been able to hear my cries for help? Would they have discovered my battered body slumped beside the playground before they went home for the night? Or would children on their way to school the next day be the ones to make the grisly find?

But of course, none of that happened. Instead, Korea let me in like she promised. She told me to go up to the 15^th floor, before disappearing out another doorway, which I presumed led back to the lobby. Up fourteen flights of stairs I went, until I could hear the crackling of a police band radio, and voices talking. I set my stuff down on the landing, beside the door that led into the hallway. Peeking through the small window that was about the height of my head, I could make out three cops standing just a few feet away.

No way was I going to get a photo of that poor girl’s apartment. Still, I could hear the cops conversing with each other, mostly mundane chit-chat mixed with long intervals of silence. I got out my notebook and jotted down anything that sounded useful. There wasn’t much. One of them mentioned the hospital the girl was in, which rhymed with “Cool.” About thirty minutes went by, and that was all I wrote down: “cool.”

I could tell this was going to be a lost cause, so I packed up my things and got ready to walk back down. As I was making my way down the first staircase, however, this strange feeling took me over. I turned around, walked back up to the 15^th floor, walked out into the hallway where the NYPD’s Finest were still standing, and looked the nearest one straight in the eye. He seemed taken aback by me.

“Any news?” I asked.

“Downstairs. In front of the building,” the cop said. He punctuated each sentence with a jab of his finger in mid-air.

“I was down there, and none of the officers said I couldn’t come upstairs,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I’m just curious if the three perps got picked up.”

“Where are you from?” asked the female officer next to him.

I brandished my press pass for all to see. “We got a call about three African-American men, possibly armed,” I said. “We heard they assaulted someone.”

I don’t know if mentioning what happened got to the first cop, or if he just figured he’d cut me a break, but his tone immediately became more civil. He told me what hospital the victim had been taken to, information I had heard, but pretended was new. “You can go down there and talk to her,” he said. “Otherwise, there should be some kind of press release going out tonight.”

“Okay,” I said. Then I asked which precinct everyone came from.

“The ninetieth,” he said. “Nine-oh.”

“Okay,” I said. Then I left.

A few minutes later, I was outside again. I called my editor and told him the cops hadn’t been very useful, except for the one who told me which hospital the victim had been moved to. I asked if he wanted me to high-tail it over there, not sure if I wanted to make the trip myself. To my relief, he said it wasn’t worth it. After all, we were a weekly newspaper. We’d be getting most of the story off the inevitable press release.

It was a long walk back to the apartment, and it gave me plenty of time to become distracted by my own random thoughts. I wondered if the evening had been a complete waste of time. I wondered about my behavior at the office earlier, when I leapt at the chance to visit the site of something lurid and terrible. I wondered if that was normal. I wondered if I would be doing this kind of thing again.

But mostly, I wondered if the cops had caught those three armed rapists. As the possibility they hadn’t crossed my mind, I pulled my jacket around tighter and walked up Humboldt St. as fast as I could, hoping K. was already home, not to mention safe and sound.

ALL MY FRIENDS ARE TURNING INTO ANIMALS!

So I’m in the office this morning taking care of the more routine part of my job – the Page 3’s and Events Calendars for all eight papers – when my editor tosses me The Daily News and says, “Hey, Phil. Check it out. There was a coyote loose in Manhattan last night.”

Considering that I saw elephants running across 34^th St. on Monday night/Tuesday morning, the revelation of a wild lupine turning Central Park into a temporary sanctuary hardly seemed surprising. Across the river, scavenging animals have run roughshod across Williamsburg for the past year, only here they’re called “real estate developers” (Ha hah, I joke).

But then I saw the actual article and found out that the coyote has a name. And that name is... That’s right, it’s the same name as someone I know, someone who also happens to stalk about Manhattan and scavenges, albeit for second-hand books.

So I’m wondering if lycanthropy is real, and if I could be one degree separated from it, ‘cause what a scoop that would be! However, then my editor mentioned that there could be free cookies at the community board meeting tonight, and I immediately forgot about changlings and imagined free cookies instead.

And yet, several hours later I was on my way to said community board meeting when I decided to drop into McDonalds, since I knew I wouldn't be eating again until about ten. Lo and behold, what promotional gimmick did I see across yon aluminum countertop than… this!

It’s the name of someone else I know! Who, apparently, has also found a way to transmogrify into an animal (Or animal-like thing, because after all it's green, plush, and a beanie baby)! Coincidence? Yeah, probably. But what if it isn't?! I can’t get over the possibility that my friends could be turning into animals all around me. All around! I’ll probably be up all night thinking about this strange turn of events and its implications regarding other people I know, not to mention humanity in general.

What form will the folks I know take on next? K. might argue that I myself transmogrified into a jackass as recently as the elephant march, but think about the toll on humanity for a second, honey! The toll! Toll house! Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookies! Cookies!

What was I talking about?

ENEMIES: A MISUNDERSTANDING II

Did I make DCD the focus of the following story? Maybe I should have headlined it, “DCD Speaks—A Q_____ L_____ Exclusive!”

Big Brother Watching Little Kids

By Phil X

This past week, City Councilman (hereby “CC”) announced that $250,000 in city capital funds had been earmarked to improve the security of I.S. ___, which was the victim of theft last summer.

The money will be spent on cameras, to be installed inside and outside the campus by a third party yet-to-be-determined. The Councilman expects these enhanced measures to prevent what occurred last June, when thieves made off with more than $25,000 in brand new computer equipment.

While the amount appropriated for the cameras equals ten times the value of last June's stolen computers, a representative from CC's office said that the figure was carefully arrived at by multiple city agencies.

"[We] worked with the school construction authority and the city finance department to determine the appropriate number of dollars," said DCD, the Deputy Communications Director for CC's office.

DCD also acknowledged that any money needed to replace the $25,000 in stolen computer equipment would not come from the $250,000. However, he said that alternate means of acquiring those funds had been found.

"Specific monies will be secured in this year's budget to replace the $25,000 in computer equipment," he said.

Last Tuesday, while standing next to JLM, the principal for I.S. ___, CC talked about the importance of his initiative, which not only protects public property, but students as well.

"Our children are our most precious resource, and we need to do everything we can to keep them safe and secure," CC said. "This investment does just that-it helps keep our children safe, aids in deterring crime, and helps keep future investments out of the hands of petty criminals."

JLM thanked CC for his concern regarding the school and her students. A former student at I.S. ___ himself, the Councilman pledged to secure funding for the cameras, and replace the stolen equipment, shortly after hearing about their theft.

"CC is such a good friend to the students and the I.S. ___ community," said JLM. "He's always there for us. He not only makes promises, but he keeps them."

However, it remains to be seen whether CC can bring other kinds of relief to I.S. ___, which set up the burgled trailers to offset overcrowding. According to DCD, that problem is not easily solved, so the cameras represent the best solution next to building new school buildings.

"Those trailers are now secure, and everything that was broken has now been fixed," he said. "Overcrowding is a huge issue, and one of the things the city has done is create these little annexes that look like trailers. It would be great to have unlimited space to build unlimited numbers of schools, but we live in the real world, and that's our situation now."

ENEMIES: A MISUNDERSTANDING

Today represented a big day in the life of Phil X: I made my first political enemy. Let’s hear it for me! Woooo!

I inadvertently planted the seeds for that adversarial thing last week, while making calls for a story I was working on. It had to do with an intermediate school in Queens that got burgled last year. The culprits broke into a trailer, and made off with roughly $25,000 in new computer equipment. A prominent city councilman—who, of course, will remain anonymous—responded to the crisis by raising $250,000 in funds. The money, however, wasn’t earmarked for replacing the lost computers, but to fit the school with cameras. Now the young charges of I.S. ___ will be monitored by big brother inside, outside, quite possibly up their backsides.

Anyway, I wasn’t calling the councilman’s office to write a critical piece on him—even though I couldn’t help mentioning in my article that funds to replace the computers won’t be available until next year. Like a good reporter, I just wanted some facts, like who was going to install the cameras, what kind of cameras they were going to be, etc. I ended up contacting the city councilman’s “Deputy Communications Director” (hereafter “DCD”). During our conversation, I may have said something along the lines of: “Instead of using all this taxpayer money to fit I.S. ___ with state-of-art cameras, why not put it towards replacing the trailer, which could conceivably be burgled again?”

Now, I know it costs more than $250,000 to build a new school annex. I wasn’t trying to be a smartass. Actually, I wanted to know if the replacement computers, when they finally arrived, would still be stored in an evidently-vulnerable trailer. Conceivably, some administrator of I.S. ___ could decide to move them into the school building, which would theoretically be more secure (I mean, how many heist movies have you seen that involved breaking into a public school—don’t they have guards and shit? And how would you find anything, unless you had an inside man…?). But if the school had room for computers, wouldn’t the stolen ones have been there in the first place, instead of in the trailer…?

So DCD probably thought I was being a prick. And yet, that isn’t where our relationship hit its definitive snag. What happened was that the man prefaced our entire conversation with: “This is just background…” By “background,” I thought he meant facts and figures, such as how far back in time the city councilman had been involved with the school, etc. Why did I believe this? Because our conversation consisted of facts and figures, such as how far back in time the city councilman had been involved with the school, etc.

But noooooooooooo. According to the peeved-sounding phone call I got today from DCD, “background” is his special code with reporters, meaning “off the record.” At least, that’s what the punk alleges. Naturally, I was cordial as hell, downright apologetic (Let’s face it, it’s probably not in my best interest to actively piss off the media dude of a prominent city politico). However, before getting off the horn with him, I made what I felt was a compelling argument that my quoting him in print and by name was a misunderstanding, and not a self-serving action on my part.

“If you had said, ‘This is off the record,’ I wouldn’t have used your name,” I said.

In hindsight, I suppose that was my smart-ass way of saying, “Why don’t you just say ‘off the record’ if you want something to be ‘off the record?’”

DCD didn’t give me any verbal reprisal for what I said. But I just had to tell my editor what happened, and while he assured me that the episode probably won’t affect my ability to get a quote from the city councilman’s office, he said I should nevertheless “be careful.”

“DCD’s kind of a jerk about that kind of stuff,” he added.

Incidentally, I mentioned to my editor one of DCD’s particularly whiny complaints, that the story I wrote, thanks to my attributing quotes to him by name, had become “all about him.” Bullsh*t. It continues to be apparent from the article that the plan to replace the cameras is the subject, not the evasions of a borough politician’s lapdog.

“Yeah, that’s a bit of a stretch,” my editor said about DCD’s comment.

In hindsight, I suppose that was his smart-ass way of saying, “What a f*cking asshole that guy is!”

A KILLER OF A DREAM

Okay, so I want to write about the dream I had last night, because I’ve been awake for several hours now, and I’ve already forgotten parts of it.

It starts with me busting into a public library in Miami, which may strike some of you as a reprehensible act, but I distinctly recall having justifiable cause: I had a book that was overdue, and the library was closed. Also, I want to remind you readers that this was a public library in the city of Miami. I grew up there. Believe me, most of them could only be improved by having their entranceways smashed in by a four door sedan going at about seventy miles-per-hour.

Strangely enough, however, what I’ve just described doesn’t constitute the best part of the dream. Moments later, I find myself back in Brooklyn, at JFK Airport specifically. I am waiting for the air train, which will carry me to the subway. Suddenly, the cell phone in my jacket pocket starts to ring.

I answer it, and find it to be a voice that I instantly recognize. It’s the cheerful-sounding woman from the temp agency I worked at several months ago. She mentions the assignment she told me about the other day (In my dream-memory, I remember our conversation, and telling her that I would think about it, and give her a call back, which I never did). Now she wants to know if I’m going to take it. I politely apologize for not calling her back sooner, but I regret to inform her that I have another job now as a reporter. So I’m going to have to pass. Once more, I apologize.

My answer does not please her. I feel her straining to be polite as she reiterates that the work is right up my alley, administrative blah-blah-blah in the creative department somewhere. Again, I tell her no. This time, she gets unnecessarily pushy.

“Phil,” she says. “You are going to take this assignment.”

But there’s a funny thing about the dream Phil X, besides the fact that he’s a Steve McQueen wannabe who’s never heard of either subtlety or a book drop: He’s got backbone.

“Are you threatening me?” I reply (Somewhere, back in the realm of fluffy green pillows and bed sheets, hairs are standing up on the sleeping Phil X’s neck). The cell phone line goes dead.

Now the scene changes to somewhere in Brooklyn. I’m walking with someone I actually know in New York, and as she explains to me how something terrible almost happened to her in that very neighborhood, I know why I’m there: I’m supposed to apartment-sit for her while she and her boyfriend go on a trip. Everything is good, except that we’re sitting next to the window of her second floor apartment, and I can see a car pulling up out front. A man with broad shoulders and a black suit gets out. Dust blows up around his ankles. I interpret this as a sign of impending trouble.

I duck out the back way and start walking down the street. But out of the corner of my eye, I can see the man following. And I know who he is: Some thug the temp agency sent to make me do their mercenary bidding. But I’m a free man, not a mercenary (Or maybe I’m wrong; more about that later).

There is a supermarket just ahead. Once inside, I make a beeline for the small bottles of soda. This is what I need. The important thing is the glass bottle. I grab one and keep walking, cocking my head at every turn to make sure the goon is still behind me. He is. I wait until we are alone together in the meat aisle to abruptly turn around, which takes him by surprise.

“I’m not going back,” I say.

He whips out his pistol and fires off a round.

I raise the bottle to about chest level. It catches the bullet, but doesn’t stop it from passing through, and into my left shoulder. Blood spurts out, and mingles in mid-air with rivulets of brown sugar water and shards of broken glass. It’s a slow motion ballet of tiny reflective surfaces. The momentum of the bullet, meanwhile, whips me around. But I manage to perform an impressive 360-degree turn, and chuck the handle of the broken bottle like it’s a kung fu star. The broken neck of the bottle, laden with jagged edges, catches the would-be assassin in the throat. He gasps, grabs at the severed artery in his neck with ever-decreasing strength, then falls into a twitching heap, blood pooling around his head.

But that still isn’t the best part. That happens after I turn him over, rifle through his suit jacket, and find his cell phone. Once I’m outside again, I call back the last person to use his number. It’s hardly surprising when the person to pick up is Miss Cheerful-Sounding from the agency.

“Hello,” she says.

I stand there in silence, my anger welling up like hot coffee at the bottom of a pot.

“Hello,” she says again.

“It’s me,” I say.

There’s a pause. At length, she starts talking again, trying to sound as cool and nonchalant as she possibly can. But she knows where things sit; we even start reciting some really good dialogue from “Heat”—and that’s the best part.

“I, uh, sent someone over to talk to you,” she says. “I haven’t heard back from him. Is... everything okay?”

“There’s nobody at the end of this phone line,” I say.

“What?” she says, her level-headedness starting to waver.

“I said there’s no one at the end of this phone line,” I say. “You know why? Because I’m talking to a dead person.” Then I hang up and toss the phone away.

The next thing I know, I’m back in Miami. Specifically, at my parents’ house, but no one is at home. It doesn’t really matter, since what I want is in the backyard. I go out the back door, around the side of the house, to the tool shed, where I dig around until I find the cache of small arms that’s there for no good reason, except possibly revenge.

Unfortunately, just when the dream was getting good, I woke up.

WHAT A SCOOP!

"Look! Up in the sky!"

"It's a bird!"

"It's a plane!"

"It's – PHIL X!"

"Yes, it's Phil X - strange visitor from another planet who came to Earth with powers and abilities fairly equal to those of mortal men. Phil X! Who can track the course of mighty drivel, bend truth with his bare lies, and who, disguised as Phil, mild-mannered reporter for a small metropolitan newspaper, fights a never-ending battle for Truth, Justice, and the American Way!"

…

I think it highly appropriate for that to be the new “Live Nude Blog!” opening theme. After all, it’s been almost a month at the new job, and I’m actually starting to think of myself as a professional writer/reporter/journalist. Scary.

So what have I been covering these past few weeks? For the most part, it’s been the community board meetings either in Brooklyn or Queens – once a month affairs involving the renewal of liquor licenses and other mundane topics. What’s exciting about these meetings, however, is the way an interesting story can appear out of nowhere. Let me give you a recent example:

Last Tuesday, I happened to be in Ft. Greene, Brooklyn, covering a town hall meeting featuring Finance Commissioner M. Stark, who was trying to explain our state’s very complicated property assessment and tax system. Personally, I still needed help sorting that stuff out afterward; luckily, the staff was handing out pamphlets that repeated a lot of the same info, which I took home and used for my article. That goodness for those! I gotta tell you, regurgitating pre-published facts makes up approximately 85% of my job, if not more…

But I digress. During the meeting, our very own Borough Council Member, whose face had appeared on every flyer personally “inviting” the public to spend their evening at the Brooklyn Technical High School auditorium instead of at home watching the Olympics, gave a quick shout out to an audience member named F. Anderson. She said that “Mr. Anderson crystalized the issue of property taxes,” which made him sound like a very important person, well worth getting a quote from for the subsequent article.

However, when the town meeting ended, Mr. Anderson was nowhere to be found. The next morning, I called up the respective offices of both Council Member James and Finance Commissioner M. Stark, and asked, among other routine questions, if there was any way I could get in touch with F. Anderson, the man who seemingly played a vital role in last night’s info-swap. I was expecting them to either give me his phone number, or offer to pass mine on. What I didn’t expect was for a high-ranking source in one of the aforementioned offices to say that Mr. Anderson “wasn’t necessary to speak to regarding the meeting.” Now that just seemed sort of strange.

If I didn’t know any better, I would have suspected they didn’t wanted me to talk to this F. Anderson. That only made me more committed to talking to him, so I went to the internet white pages and looked up every F. Anderson with a zip code near Brooklyn Technical High School. After half an hour of typing, question-asking, and pardon-begging, I was having a conversation with the guy. As it turns out, my instincts were correct. There was a reason the local politicians didn’t want someone from the press talking to him…

As it turned out, the Borough Council Member had promised F. Anderson, a freelance airline consultant, the chance to give a 5-10 minute Powerpoint presentation during last week’s town hall meeting. I’ve seen the presentation; it argues that the current New York property tax system discriminates against long-term homeowners. But the Council Member approved the material, so obviously she wasn’t the one afraid of a little open debate.

Then who was? As far as I can tell, it was Finance Commissioner Stark. She forced Anderson to be taken off the agenda, on the shaky explanation that their two stances on the matter were “similar.” I say the explanation is “shaky” because Anderson clearly would have talked about ways to reform the property tax system, while Stark’s entire schpiel Tuesday night involved explaining the existing system, and introducing new programs that enhance the existing system. I was there, folks. She did nothing except briefly pay lip service to the notion of reform.

The good news is, thanks to a front page article in this week’s paper eschewing the “City Politico Reaches Out to Homeowners” headline in favor of “The Tax Presentation You Weren’t Allowed to See!” the Commissioner’s strong-arm tactics will not go unjudged by the court of public opinion. Too bad the members of the court are limited to those willing to pick up a local newspaper. But maybe the Times, the Daily News, or one of the other larger outlets will pick up on it, too. Our rival locals haven’t; at least, not the Park Slope Observer, who we royally SCOOPED!

That’s right! My editor actually congratulated me on that feat yesterday. “Good job following up on that Anderson fella,” he said. “The Park Slope Observer totally ignored it. We scooped ‘em!”

“Thanks, Chief,” I said.

“Now we’ve got another town hall meeting coming up in Greenpoint next week,” he continued. “There’s supposed to be discussion about that upcoming park, but take notes on whatever interesting angles you happen to notice.”

“I’ll try, Chief,” I said. “But you know... I’m not exactly Superman.”