I wish I could make metaphors

Today I left earlier than usual, and decided to walk around midtown. I took the subway to 50th street, and walked back to the Penn Station. I am something of an ambler when I walk. I have a start point and an end point, but no real plan for that interim time. I duck into avenues, walk in all the cardinal directions and have no real regard for time. It was in this aimless fashion that I stumbled upon the New York Times Building on 43rd Street. I should mention here that I am a regular reader of the New York Times, and I read almost all of the sections: international, national, business, op/ed, arts, and in moments of desperation, fashion and style. Most people swear by the crossword puzzle, but I don't because I am terrible at crosswords and am easily frustrated by clues that seem like the cryptic musings of a heavy LSD user. Of course, I am not as brand loyal as I imagine the Times would like, but I find their reporting to be solid. In short, I am a New York Times fan. All that being said, it did not fail to escape me that right across from the hallowed halls of America's paper of record, was the largest pile of urban detritus I've ever seen on a Manhattan street. It was enormous and had exactly the aroma you'd imagine a stack of garbage the size of Boise would have. To say I was surprised would be understating the case. This was the view--that window view--reporters were clamoring for; a pile of filth. The incongruity struck me as hilarious. The New York Times is America's signature newspaper, and right outside an office staffed with some of the country's best journalists, a building with more Ivy League degrees per square inch than perhaps anywhere in Manhattan, is the premier rubbish hill of the most disgusting crap in New York.

I'm not sure if there is some parallel I can draw between The New York Times, and a huge pile of trash, but I'm sure some Weekly Standard reader will tell me. That's what I pay them for, to make my literary allusions for me.