women scorned, a fresh new face, and some nasty prostate problems

We're back from France and the eastern mountains of Tennessee. Good god, are we ever back. All hell's broken loose 'round here, and it wouldn't be right if we didn't throw our two cents in. Travel diaries coming soon, come back now. Merci, y'all.

[Did you miss the California diaries? Here they are -- 9,000 words, thoughts, ramblings, a mango smoothie or two, lots of strong coffee, some stellar views, mountain hikes, freeway traffic and a little sand in the shoes]

You go away for two weeks, and what happens? All hell breaks loose. Where to start. Three little maids, women scorned, all by one Mayor, Mayor Rudy.

More bad prostate news. Safir, the mighty, now battling the big C. Reporters flock to Hazleton for Judi dish, Donna bares her fangs at Cristyne, sources close to tourism talk trash and it’s all just so, so, delicious, so deliciously ugly.

We’re eating it up, yes we are, and more, more more – it’s rumored Rudy’s to quit, then it isn’t, some say yes, some say don’t count on it, and then, yes, he does.

Oh boy, does he ever. He’s gone. History. Toast. Dead duck.

Lame is what that duck’ll be from now on. It’s over for hizzoner, and their dancing in some streets, weeping in others. What’ll become of Our Town? Will the wicked witch of the south midwest ride in on her broomstick and make us all honorary Arkansas citizens?

Will the media camp here for another four years, rubbing their hands together, cheering for more blood, examining for more wreckage to sift through?

When will the lusty boys now men of college years tell tales of tawdry nights in Little Rock hotel rooms, when will the outrage over Hillary’s dirty laundry come to bear, when will it all be hung out? The people want to know! Only time will tell.

In coasts Lazio, up all night at Kinko’s making signs, a crowd of children cheering him on, collected in minutes. The republicans are frantic, desperate, bring us a fresh young face! Bring us a winner! Bring us fresh meat! The young man with the sculpted face from out Long Island way obliges, limo-ing up to Syracuse for some quick and easy face time with some God-fearing Republicans upstate there, western way.

It’s all madness, it’s all so bizarre, and yet so delightful! Did we dare dream for such a circus? Hillary and Rudy? That’s so yesterday’s news. If Lazio even has a prayer, which we have yet to see, it’ll be all thanks to some crafty campaign managers, and we’ll have to wonder how it all happened.

Will Hillary win? Who knows. We may not have a candidate to be proud of on either side, here and now, but who cares. It’ll be damn fun to watch, won’t it?

You go on ahead. I’m going to take some pills – wake me up for the highlights.

boardwalks, blue lights and little cuban boys (from 5.20)
Been reading a lot lately, about New York, seen through the eyes of outsiders, insiders and those hovering on the fringes. Been talking to and hearing about those who live here, those who wish they did, those who came and went with out so much as a whimper, those that left to start new lives in shiny new cities in California and find themselves longing for the Eastern shores of this great country once more.

The underlying theme, the current that joins all who have tasted and seen New York is this basic knowledge: one does not come here without a plan, without a drive, without hopes and dreams beyond whatever the legal limit for such activities in small towns and big cities all across the world.

It’s an appropriate time to be thinking about these things – recent events in the city find us faced with new realities – crime has become more visible, disturbing rashes of copy cat cabbie killings and stabbings and robberies, attacks now numbering over 20 in little more than a month, shooting deaths in Marble Hill, police skirmishes and innocent bystanders caught in between in Kingsbridge – and it’s only May 1st.

Could this be the return of the New York we knew for so many years? Yes, it’s too early to tell, but this is certainly not the direction we want to be moving as we head into summer. Mayor Rudy announces the beginning of his battle with prostate cancer, just as it’s time to step up against the opposition in the Senate race upcoming this November. And how much are we all loving John McCain right now – all of those who swore he was the nation’s saviour, he now stumping for Hizzoner in Ticonderoga and Oneonta? Who dreamed it.

It’s odd, how Giuliani’s illness almost makes him instantly more lovable – if we ever sought a sign that His Majesty was human, we sure got it now – you hate to wish anything on the man, and perhaps we should never have. Surprisingly, we are left with the kindler, gentler Rudy, the one you almost can stand to watch at press conferences.

I mean, good Lord – he’s actually smiling even, not smirking, as before.

So the flowers come into full bloom, community gardens -- what’s left of them, knock on wood – receive their spring makeovers, neighborhood residents convening in green spaces, hell, even my neighbor and I have a key now, having been made honorary members of the block garden around the corner. Alas, our street has none. Music blasts a little louder from car stereos, and shirts get a little tighter. It’s time to go gawking in SoHo.

The weather, bitch that it is, saw fit to give us one last brutal dose of April showers and early-spring chill, nights where you could see your breath and days where you saw no sun, all ending in one glorious farewell to the old and welcome to May weekend where temperatures soared, sun shone and Coney Island exploded with life.

What could be finer than a Sunday afternoon on the boardwalk? Teeming with all manner and color of peoples -- neighborhood residents and Williamsburg-esque hipsters, young girls spilling out of tight pants and young men lounging shirtless on the benches, all making the scene, darting in and out of the Museum on Surf Avenue, visitors of all ages and sizes from all countries and continents packing the sidewalk in front of Nathan’s for that ever elusive Old New York experience, found here in such abundance at the end of the elevated N, B, D and F lines.

The Boardwalk leads to Brighton Beach, where Russians in Speedos frolic in the calm waters of the Atlantic’s inner shores, forty-something men are passing the electric hooked up to a crackling amp, strumming old jazz tunes and children are tossing water balloons.

Downtown is packed out with cops in riot gear in anticipation of massive May Day action, I stroll through Times Square at the end of a hectic day -- yet another brightly lit theme establishment, a bar this time, has opened right in the Square’s heart, it’s frontage casting a bizarre blue on commuter and out-of-towner alike.

All so wonderful, all of it, so strange, so beautiful. Any more excitement, any more color, any more twisted beauty, and wouldn’t your head just explode?

Welcome to another summer in New York.

______

Elian, Elian, little Elian. It’s all about Elian. All these tears – Janet Reno weeping on the shoulder of her advisors as her henchmen carry out the dirty deed in the wee hours of that pre-Easter Saturday, the day when as children, we sat around and were forced to be quiet, out of reverence for the death of our Lord and Savior, and in expectation of his rising from the dead the next morning, and hopefully a jelly bean or two.

Marisleysis shedding tears on eight news-channels, hell, even the fisherman was in on the action. Columnists long for the good old days, when ol’ Ronald Reagan well, heck – he’d never have even let those lawless Cubans in the damn country, they said.

Will anyone join me in a primal scream?

Because it’s not about the boy, it’s not about the family, it’s about America stumbling around an issue which it hasn’t really faced properly, one which it isn’t really dealing well with now, as we can see – national sentiment wavers -- is Cuba really that bad? Some folks seem to like it – what’s so great about capitalism? There’s even a few people left in Havana, at least from what we saw in the pictures. Damn the commies, others yell – free Elian! Screw the father.

Were those pictures real? Where was the gun pointing? Was Elian smiling as he held his father? Was that really the haircut he had when he left Miami? Did they stop in at Supercuts in Bethesda on the way from the airport?

It’s the biggest fiasco since Waco, the biggest media circus since O.J., Columbine and Jon Benet. It’s a little of the three all rolled into one – whose guilty? What really happened? Is the uncle a drunk pervert? Is the cousin crazy? How many traffic arrests was that, you say?

Little Havana, that little political dynamo down there in Southern Florida, Dade County – shut down. Everyone’s wearing black. Why? Weep for Elian. Weep for America. Weep for Cuba. Down with Castro. Up with liberty.

Insanity, to say the least. Will we read these headlines in ten years, and look back, and see with such clarity, what it is we should have done? Will it seem as absurd then as it does now? Remember when you read the stories of the Civil Rights movement and shook your head, thinking – why didn’t they do something about all that?

Granted, we’re not on the same scale, but where is the clear-headedness? What is the sense in all this? Why wasn’t the boy returned to his father as soon as he arrived? There has been much mention of the fact that it all has to do with the boy’s country of origin. That we should take the sign of the dolphins holding the inner tube up as a sign from God. Elian was meant for America. America was meant for Elian. Freedom, liberty, at age 6. Do six year-olds know the difference, other than flashier toys, greener backyards, and McDonalds?

What does this mean for the United States and Cuba? Who is being played, and who is playing who. The questions go on, and on, and on – there is no limit to the possibilities of the angles to this giant charade, which has us all fooled.

Who knows what the answer is? Anyone who says he does, is a damn fool. It’s now up to those in charge, the courts, the Justice Department and its band of merry men, the President in his ivory tower, and maybe even a little phone chat with Castro. Or maybe even a visit? You can fly direct to Havana, now, you know.

Whatever happens, happens – the peanut gallery pundits and passers-by may have their own solutions in mind, but it’s too late for sense, for sensibility, for law and order – we’ve failed as a country, miserably. Pandering to electorates, fear of the SoFla political machine comprised of almost 1 million Cubans, that bastion of anarchy, where those who have lived in oppression for so long and revel in the freedom of America, America, America.

Finally, they come up for air, in Washington, blinking, startled – yes, Americans actually do find themselves brushing up against the long arm of big brother, now and then.

We are a democracy, but even that has it’s limits. The government may bungle the matters that really count to its people, but hey – they’re in charge. Someone elected them.

What to do? Damned if I know. I just threw my television out the window.

Email: davidr@lifeingotham.com