East Side, West Side, all around the mayor, New York has opened up. I’m a New Yorker. I love New York. Even if the taxes are as high as an elephant’s eye. Even if the song title becomes “It’s a New York State of Crime.”
Where else can you live? Scratch-Your-Butt, Ark? One room in East Dakota someplace? It has the highest hill and lowest town.
No Yankee Stadium, no Lincoln Center, but they got room there. The officials will just move out a buffalo. So everybody, anybody, let nobody knock New York.
Quarantined here for months with no company but peanut butter, I did the only intelligent thing. I checked out New York. And discovered we are No. 1 in most things. We made the top 10 for most-ozone-polluted. Even listed as having had the most indicted legislators. No place has had more. I puffed with pride.
The gold standard began with our 1800s Tammany Hall leader George Washington Plunkitt. He bought land our city needed then sold it to NYC at a profit. He said: “They couldn’t develop the place without my swamp area, and they had to pay for it.”
Nice George even published a book on the how-tos of screwing officialdom.
Forgetting Sheldon Silver and the Skelos family. Forgetting even lawyer Michael Cohen, who preferred flounder to freedom, statistics claim 65 percent of state legislators do what’s best for just them, 41 percent get accused, and 29 percent found guilty. Our beloved New York is tops in everything. I bow to Miss Liberty, who will probably eventually be played by Meryl Streep, who stars in everything.
Like many people, I’ve been quarantined here since March. An open refrigerator has become the largest room in my home. My only outlet being TV news, I now ask: Is it a network requirement that most female anchors flash yellow hair? Are they furloughed if they don’t hang one long stringy side down one shoulder?
Listen, happy they have no dandruff. Pleased they test negative for scalp psoriasis. But can they not be told viewers are interested in their facts not their follicles?
Male newscasters at least earn enough to hire the crappiest colorist. They think viewers can’t notice a lined worn aging face doesn’t match a wizard’s new purple-black few colored hairs combed sidewise. Even daguerreotypes of Joe Biden in the Ukraine look better.
Only skeletons left in closets now
After cleaning out closets, the main activity for all of us is fighting with whomever’s close to us.
Like the now unemployed husband whose wife’s cellphone is plugged into a divorce lawyer. Like the two junior high kids who seem to have been living in Mommy and Daddy’s living room since third grade.
And you might as well clean out your closet because tarting up has gone with the wind. Pajamas became the equivalent of black tie. Any wardrobe you had went out of style. The oversize T-shirt I put on four months ago barely fits now and has to be removed via surgery.
Sending anybody flowers these days? Forget it. A huge gift is Lysol. Toilet paper beats an orchid. And reaching anyone? Can’t call business people because you only have their office phone and they’re now surviving inside some Appalachian tree stump.
I now can’t find phone numbers. The dentist — did my absent assistant list him under his last name, first name, D for dentist, T for teeth, C for cleaning or under the name of the friend who recommended him? My missing brain trust misspelled the name altogether, so soon I’ll wear dentures.
Also: In an apartment building, pay attention if you have doormen, elevator guys. Hint, hint. They know everything.
When I break out, I’ll explore Madison Avenue. They’re all showing masks. Pink masks. With matching plastic visors. And same color pink gloves. Forget wearing YSL. The new look is CV-19.
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.