This past weekend in particular? Off the charts. Can you
remember the last time the Ku Klux of Klan was ever
caught marching on Apple streets – well, tie me up and
call me Jeffrey Berry – this truly is a sign of the
apocalypse. Batten down the hatches, folks – Our
Lord and Savior must be on his way. For cryeye – the
motherfunkin’ KKK! Can you
believe? Me no.
And, in true Gotham fashion, everyone was outraged.
Outraged, I tell you – even dear old Cindy Adams stopped
eavesdropping on the latest antics of Barbaralee Whatever-
Hyphen-Diamonstein and other societals, long enough
to administer a little OTK discipline to the likes of James Sheeley,
and all-knowingly informing her readers (kiddies, listen
to Mother) that Hizzoner, Mayor Rudy, is the Greatest
Thing That Ever Were, for his "courageous" fuck-yous
to everyone from the Kluxers to elephant dung, crime,
and other menaces to Park Avenue nice-ness.
Whatever could that loud sucking sound be?
It wouldn’t have been New York if there hadn't been
some
sort of tension betwixt factions, namely between the
black and Jewish protesters, who seem to have a few
issues of their own. Of course, who could blame Jewish
folks for not taking issue with one Khallid Muhammad,
past rants of Al Sharpton, and the unforgivable Jesse
Jackson, who made up his own special name for
New York, once upon a time.
Folks weren’t playing nicely at the demonstration --
The
Voice’s Peter Noel relates a particularly ugly scene in
which a Jewish listener and one of the attention-seeking Black
Israelites got into somewhat of a verbal scuffle over the
actual existence of the holocaust – "Y’all didn’t go through
no Holocaust."
I see. So where did those six million people of Jewish
descent
disappear to, pray tell?
The whole thing is sickening, and I can’t help but
wonder,
if it wouldn’t have been better if all and sundry had stayed
home, and let those 15-odd idiots to themselves.
Give up the chance to further your own little agenda? Nah.
-----
Let no one call Howard Stern un-smart. He picked the
best possible weekend to go public with his breakup –
KKK in NYC, a World Series – Lord knows not too many
people were paying attention to much of anything else.
The media had been buzzing, thanks to tips from
anonymous sources, that a major league breakup was in
the cards, a week prior to the actual announcement. And
then, there it was, buried inside the special editions of the
Saturday Post and News, as unassuming as could be.
Howard, Howard, Howard! I knew something was wrong.
(Confession: Love the show.) I mean, for goodness sake,
even you, your crotchety old self, you were uncharacteristically
bitter and nasty the last couple weeks, leaving listeners
like myself to wonder what the hell was happening to you.
Celebs may be jerks, but for goodness sakes, you’re
one too! A little humility would have been in order.
Something was nagging at me – something wasn’t quite
right.
Bingo! Issues! Let me be the first to say I’m sorry,
but let
me also go on to state how relieved I am, to hear you
these last couple days – it’s the old you, Howard – and it’s
a you we love. It’s a you that built a fan base years ago.
You’re back. You sound like a normal, everyday guy – just
like the old days. So cheer up. By all means, do what’s
best for all of you, stay honest with yourself, and for criminy's
sake, don’t do anything that would embarrass your daughters.
---
All hogwash aside, this weekend was lovely – a fellow
Lynchianado and I attended my second viewing of "The Straight
Story," then walked up Broadway on a wonderfully fallish Saturday
afternoon, shopped at a farmers market on 72nd Street, downed
coffee milk from the Ronnybrook vendor, ate a dog at Gray's
Papaya, chucked back a few cocktails at Xando, and mused
about David Lynch and his spectacular story-telling in the
not-so-little Disney pic about a man who rode a lawn-tractor
from Iowa to Wisconsin.
Nay-sayers be damned – this was far and away, the best
picture of the year, and if there is any justice in this world,
there will be an Oscar nom in it somewhere.
Sunday held equally lovely fall weather, it was a day for
crisp
air, for grey wool sweaters, for black espresso and orange and
yellow and red and brown leaves, the few we can find within
the unfriendly environment of the city.
The parental units drove to town for the day, us barrelling
down the BQE at high noon, Moms aahing and oohing at the
stellar skyline views from the Kosciusko Bridge, as we headed
for a near-desolate Coney Island, which never loses it charm.
We ate dogs at Nathans, walked the boardwalk, watched
dirty old men hit on women in bathing suits, drove down
Brighton Beach way, and doubled back over the Verrazano
($7 toll? Where is the outrage, drivers?) and headed up-Hudson.
We visited the quite-lovely water towns of New Jersey, heading
towards Rockland, where a wonderful journey was consummated
with a pleasant walk along the water, at Nyack Beach State Park,
a lovely, untrodden, out of the way preserve just north of the
actual village, and the erstwhile home of Rosie O’Donnell,
who really needs a reality check when it comes to stepping
into political messes. Shilling for Hill – give me a break,
sweetheart, although she may have a point when she pokes
at Our Rudy and his penchant for the petty.
Having been accosted by cops for smoking Parliament
Lights
on an open-air elevated platform just the other day, I can’t help
but agree with her to an extent.
But tread lightly around Rudy, Rosie – else No. 1 fan
Cindy Adams
may just have to kick your ass back to Commack.
