An added horror to the storm is seeing Mayor Bloomberg on the telly nonstop. Bloomberg’s genius, apart from making moolah, is self-promotion. Noo Yawk’s quality of life has gone down dramatically since he became numero uno, with serious crime way up and shootings of cops by mostly black and immigrant thugs. Walking around the city is quite an experience. The sidewalks are covered in spittle, people push their way everywhere, and Pakistani, Bangladeshi, and Afghani drivers lean on their horns in their foul-smelling taxis. None of the above is legal, yet Bloomberg does not enforce the laws like his predecessor, Rudy Giuliani. He instead gives us daily lessons in how to live our lives. It has come down to the vulgarian Bloomberg telling me what to eat and drink.
The hurricane has given him yet another opportunity to play Napoleon. There has been mandatory evacuation of people in low-lying areas. Fire Island, the homosexual Shangri-La off Long Island, has been evacuated. Not a queen in sight. Atlantic City is deserted, the one-armed bandits motionless, with only a few strands of Donald Trump’s hair swirling around the boardwalk. Parks have closed, and Coney Island looks like Guadalcanal just before the Marines hit the beach. Con Edison is shutting down power, and people are already having seizures at the prospect of not watching TV commercials.
Just before they shut down the bridge, I went to Norman Mailer’s house in Brooklyn, which is now inhabited by his son Michael. I got completely crocked and proceeded to the Boom Boom Room, the Bagel’s best nightclub. Once there, I chatted up a beautiful girl who seemed awfully friendly and nice. She asked me what I did and I told her I was a bodyguard to a movie producer, but she laughed and said I didn’t look like a bodyguard. We got on swimmingly as they say, and the night went by quickly.
I have no idea how I got home, but the next day Michael called and congratulated me. “She was very pretty,” he said. “And she liked you a lot, wanted to see you again.”
I asked him if he got her name. He laughed. “Are you putting me on?” I had no idea what he was on about. “You mean to tell me you didn’t know you were with Lindsay Lohan? Cut the BS.”
Goes to show that one should never believe the tabloids. She was pretty as a picture and a very sweet girl, and I will see her again if Sandy doesn’t get me first.
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