Living in New York, as I have my whole life, has many drawbacks. The city is dirty, noisy and crowded. A small apartment here costs the same as a couple of dozen acres in, say, Dallas. There are the taxes, the threat of crime, the Puerto Rican Day parade--an annual Boricuan Bacchanal that leads even the most heavily armed to barricade themselves behind steel doors and police locks. 

Nevertheless, it is the greatest city in the world, I xenophobically believe. Home to more galleries, more museums, more cultural diversity than probably anywhere else.

It's also home to "The New York Times," a paper of such surpassing excellence that I can't imagine life without it.

Yesterday up in Boston there was an epic basketball game--a Hemingway-esq game pitting the ancient Celtics of Boston against the vaunted and upstart Heat of Miami. Last night was game three in a best-of-seven series, and the Celtics trailed the Heat two games to none.

I believe myself a writer. I love words. Below are some I enjoyed.

Here's how Howard Beck of the "Times" began his recap of last night's game on the Sports page.

"The foul was hard and sudden, and it left Kevin Garnett flat on his back, his lanky frame spread across a broad expanse of green-toned hardwood. He flipped over, put his knuckles to the floor and pressed hard for eight push-ups, the din at the TD Garden growing louder with each one."

You can watch a clip of the scene above.

I've read everything McCabe ever wrote. Books by Abbott, Hegarty, Ogilvy and every great Volkswagen ad.

I still learn every time I read the Times.