Day before yesterday I got e-mail from Jake Mooney, a reporter for the City section of the New York Times. He said he was planning to do a short piece, to run this Sunday, about people who were able to get decommissioned chunks of the Flatiron Building. He wanted to talk to me about my weblog post on that subject.
I’m not quite sure how he’d heard about it. At a guess, it was because a couple of NYCentric weblogs picked up on the story: NewYorkology, on 15 March and 18 March, and Curbed, on 16 March, 17 March, and 21 March. They did running reports on the status of the stuff in the dumpster, and the last Curbed update even had a photo of the rubble there.
Which was cool.
Anyway, Mr. Mooney wanted to photograph my big chunk of the Flatiron sitting in my garden; but as I pointed out, at this time of year my garden is a flat square patch of brown mud. We settled on showing some of the smaller chunks being used as bookends. Thus it was that yesterday a photographer for the Times, Carol Halebian, turned up to take pictures of Flatiron chunks fetchingly positioned amidst the bookshelves in Tom Doherty’s office.
She and I very briefly went up to the 21st floor, where the chunks originally came from, but had to be quick and quiet about it because that floor is now re-inhabited high-end Von Holtzbrinck corporate space. While we were up there, something happened that let me know that I’ve finally become a grownup: I told Ms. Halebian that I really couldn’t give her permission to climb out the window and take pictures from the ledge, because someone was bound to get upset.
I’m still feeling really strange about that. I’ve always been the one who wants to climb out the windows and mess around on the window ledges or roof, while other people (most often Patrick) have been the ones protesting that it’s Not A Good Idea.
One last dumpster update: it’s still there, and in spite of the tarp they’ve tied down over it, there are still some interesting bits available around the edges. What the situation will be after the story runs is anybody’s guess.