“I WAS TOLD THERE WOULD BE SLOANE!” one editor didn’t demand but might as well have. Yeah, right. Like we weren’t going to put Sloane in here. There is little left to say about the self-effacing Ms. Crosley which hasn’t already been articulated in the form of rightfully-earned hyperbole, be it the “Helen of Troy of New York Publishing” as one Observer editor once called her, or “The Most Popular Publicist in the City” as one Observer profile once called her, a title so obviously begging for scrutiny that Gawker would rip it to shreds, and tried to, except: they failed. Two solid books later and Ms. Crosley ditched the day job as a publicist at Random House—see ya, suckers!—for freelance gigs and more writing and intensely awkward-as-they-are-charming appearances on late night TV shows. Now she’s just writing these days, and oh, yeah, we’re supposed to talk about your prospects with her? Last known flings: Olympic gold-medalist speed skater Joey Cheek (whose previous paramour was Georgina Bloomberg, until he got Sloane’s number), the guy who signed Death Cab for Cutie to Atlantic, and the guy who helped set up Dave Eggers’ school in Darfur. Yeah, good luck with that, buddy. It’s Sloane’s New York, we just live in it.