I can't tell if Julie Scelfo's
New York Times
piece on the oh-so-eligible John Bowe
is supposed to be a moving snapshot of modern romantic struggles, a book plug, or a 1,500-word personal ad.
Now that the world knows the marvelous fortysomething freelance journalist can cook (pork with crushed sweet peppers), clean (no dust or hair in the bathroom!), and collect art (amateur flower paintings), Mr. Bowe will surely be deluged by friend requests from lonely New Yorkers who believe they've stumbled upon their soul mate in the Style section. But the ladies may be too late. Ms. Scelfo admits that some of her interviews were conducted during "several late-night phone calls when Mr. Bowe seemed less guarded." And don't accuse me of reading too much into this. There is no need to read between the lines when the piece includes lines like, "There is little to suggest that Mr. Bowe... isn't the last great catch."
So, if you were thinking about tracking down Mr. Bowe and demanding to have his babies (you already know he'll "be the happiest person on this planet" when he has kids), forget it. He's got a lady friend who admires well-groomed, well-traveled, anti-establishment types-and she already has his number.
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