Author: Juliet Fletcher

In an Emergency, Maybe We Don’t Want Our Privacy?

Two weeks ago on a Sunday night, riding the subway home in New York, I saw a man have a seizure on the 2 train. I was in the carriage with him. I helped, a little. Others helped even more. He had slumped sideways, shaking with massive jerks, making audible thuds as his skull smacked the seat. One of the women sitting nearest him saw the moment of our terror, even disengagement. “We need to lift him.” In a rattling train, with his limbs flailing, we moved him from a seat onto the carriage floor. Then we helped to sit and comfort him for the 25 minutes it took for paramedics to reach him. He said his name was Junior, and beyond that was completely anonymous. He had bitten his tongue. * * * Ever hear the one about the man who watched people stepping over a dead guy who just lay there on the sidewalk? Or the woman who fell down a storm grate and waited for help as walkers passed by? Urban legends …

Barely Qualified: Notes From a First-Time Exotic Dance Judge

I never saw the Diamond G-String with my own eyes, and I’m not sure if it truly exists. As prizes go, among prizes for getting naked at least, this alleged jeweled garment has the draw and cachet of a netherworld tiara. Given every year by a club in Philadelphia — the kind where “gentlemen” appear in quotes alongside “dancers” — this win crowns one girl above the rest. Forget, for a second, any glass-beaded lingerie. Holding the title alone, she can up her earnings, command more. Bank on prime-time slots on stage, better placement in the floor rounds. Choose her as a winner, and you can change that stripper’s year. (An intervention that appeals to many of the kind of people who don’t actually frequent strip clubs.) I say all this only before you ask — so, what kind of connoisseur gets to award this prize? Who gets to determine what’s hot and coveted by strip-club goers for a whole 12 months? Well, one year, I did. * * * “What would you like, hun? …