Dear Diary: To be filed under "T for That's New Yorkers for ya": Setting: The M4 Limited. Dramatis Personae: the commuting population of Manhattan, and a male writer of a certain age, wearing an insouciantly knotted ascot, who appears to have recently traveled to France. The population throws off dozens of make-your-day anecdotes, which the straphanging scribe strains to sample.
Writer [thinking out loud]: "Oh-la-la, this is great material! Certainement, I could get 3,000 words out of this, pas de problËme !"
An elegantly dressed Melodie Bryant, seated at the writer's crotch retorts: "3,000 words? Where you from, pal? Take it from me, the Times never runs anything over 150."
There was a sudden silence from the passengers, and then applause.
The sunny Hearst intern who witnessed the incident later emailed her phonecam pictures of the crestfallen writer to Gawker.