Owing perhaps to the scent of blossoms in the air, it was a week that found the city in an unusually revealing mood. Tina Brown disclosed her intention to follow the example of her husband, Harry Evans, and become an American citizen, adding that 9/11 had cemented her identity as a New Yorker. Juliette Lewis and her new boyfriend, musician Joseph Arthur, freely displayed their affection for each other while taking the F train from Brooklyn to Manhattan, confirming that subway line’s reputation as the “love train.” Meanwhile, flashers continued to reveal too much of themselves throughout the MTA system. “It’s more of a transit thing,” commented one cop on the uptick in complaints of public lewdness. “It doesn’t happen on the street that much.” In a related item, visiting intellectual superstar Bernard Henri-Levy divulged at a PEN gala that he writes “naked.” Fortunately, he is an extremely beautiful Frenchman, so the image is not dégueulasse. Thirteen years after the “Long Island Lolita” case, Mary Jo Buttafuoco admitted that she still bears a grudge against Amy Fisher for shooting her. (It is untrue, incidentally, that Mrs. Buttafuoco told former husband Joey, “You need a 16-year-old mistress like I need a hole in the head!”) The exposed toes of New York women wearing their brand-new designer sandals for spring revealed blood, welts, calluses, and other signs of the agony that stylishness sometimes entails. Aged Warhol superstar Taylor Mead, the subject of a touching documentary shown at the Tribeca Film Festival, more or less conceded that his Lower East Side apartment was the filthiest in all of New York. And a few irreverent New Yorkers said they thought that Pope Benedict XVI, when he’s wearing his miter, looks a little like Hannibal Lecter. Some thoughts are better left unexpressed.