ANARCHY IN THE SNL

The party's over, time to call it a day...

 Yesterday marked a milestone in my background acting "career". For the first time in two years, I worked on a show that was "mask optional". Of the 75 or so of us (including stand-ins), roughly five wore masks when not filming. Every member of the crew was barefaced. While we were pretty close to each other on the set, it was a different story in holding, where we were spread out like mayo on a hero sandwich. 

What's the nasal version of "Say ahh"?

The mandatory covid tests are supposed to end in four weeks; while another extension is a possibility, I'm getting a vibe that these, too, will be a thing of the past by the end of the year, if not summer. I'm going to miss those easy paydays of sitting in a chair while a complete stranger swabbed my nostrils. (Although a couple of weeks ago, I had the pleasure of having a six-inch long Q-Tip shoved all the way up each nostril to behind my optic nerve. Was it worth $100? Only when the check arrived.) 

Anybody who pays attention to this guy
regarding medical advice gets what
they deserve.

This coming end of mandates on movie sets should please Woody Harrelson, who riled up the usual suspects during his Saturday Night Live monologue over the weekend. What was condemned as an "anti-vaxx rant" in angry headlines, was actually a joke regarding a screenplay he allegedly passed on. The plotline, he said, went like this:

“The biggest drug cartels in the world get together and buy up all the media and all the politicians and force all the people in the world to stay locked in their homes. And people can only come out if they take the cartel’s drugs and keep taking them over and over. I threw the script away. I mean, who was going to believe that crazy idea? Being forced to do drugs? I do that voluntarily all day.”

Politics aside, that was your typical meh SNL joke, not a rant. And because it was a joke, Harrelson was reading it off a cue card. Which it means it was written by, um, a writer. Now, there's a chance Harrelson suggested it to the writers; they, in turn, had to get the OK from producer Lorne Michaels. And since Michaels commands the good ship SNL with a hand similar to that of Capt. Hook, the joke was stamped APPROVED BY THE BOSS.

So why does Woody Harrelson alone get the blame? Well, he does have anti-vaxx history, claiming he doesn't need the shot because being a vegan makes him "internally clean". That's rich, coming from a guy who smokes dope the way most people drink water. What's richer is that he says he's against government-enforced vaccinations because he's an "anarchist."

Oh, Woody! You live in Hawaii, a state which was its own little kingdom until Queen Liliuokalani was overthrown in a coup staged by Sandford B. Dole of the you-know-what fruit company. There is no way a real anarchist would live in Hawaii unless he was planning to overthrow the current government and restore the royal family. 

Yup, Woody would be happy to give up the good
life for this.

Wait, anarchists don't like royalty, either. Seems like Woody should be living in
Portland where the real self-identified anarchists run entire swathes of the city. I'm sure that Harrelson, with a net worth of $70-million, would be welcome with open arms. 

Let's face it, Woody Harrelson's first definition of anarchist is "Rich celebrity mouthing off to divert everyone else from seeing that he's full of crap." Second definition: "Rich celebrity mouthing off to get attention to his new movie." If anarchists were this smart, they'd have taken over all of Oregon by now.

                                                                        **********

LIKE FATHER, UNLIKE SON

Third time lucky?

It took a while, but Cheryl Hines got the memo that the Kennedys aren't what they used to be. Robert Kennedy, Jr'.s first wife could have confirmed that, had she not killed herself after 12 years of wedded hell. While RFK, Jr. may not have driven her to suicide, it's likely safe to say he gave her a map and the keys to the car. 

Hines isn't a New Englander, where Kennedys were for many years considered saints. But she was still dazzled enough by their name to become Mrs. RFK, Jr. #3, even if the family's sell-by date had come and gone. Kind of like Meghan Markle glomming on to British royalty at least half a century after it mean anything other than memories of better days.

His father would have been proud... not to have
lived to see what an asshole his son is.

At least Bobby Kennedy campaigned for president on a platform of civil rights and ending the Vietnam War, a couple of causes he shared with Martin Luther King, Jr. The son who shares his name has been bellowing instead that covid vaccines are the bunk, putting him the same company with Alex Jones. I would say "How the mighty have fallen", but RFK, Jr. never had much power to begin with. 

"I apologize for saying what I
meant."

Sooner or later, crazies say something so reprehensible that you realize Ah, this is what they're really like! At an anti-vaccine rally, it was RFK, Jr.'s turn. After stating that Dr. Anthony Fauci's advice regarding handling covid was akin to fascism, he added, “Even in Hitler’s Germany, you could you could cross the Alps to Switzerland. You could hide in an attic like Anne Frank did." 

It's an old saw that says once you use the Nazi comparison, you've lost the argument. RFK, Jr. lost it years ago, when using the word "holocaust" when speaking about all vaccines. Perhaps he would have preferred his father dying from smallpox or polio. 

Once Kennedy's most recent babbling went viral (no pun intended), Cheryl Hines, like any intelligent, clear-minded wife, went on Twitter to have her say.

Read it again in context of RFK's quote. Hines' comment is what you write when your husband says something nice about Ted Cruz, not playing the Anne Frank card.

After a barrage of negative reactions -- the kind her husband thinks vaccines cause -- Hines switched gears the following day:

RFK, Jr. posted his own lame apology 23 minutes earlier, adding, "My intention was to use examples of past barbarism from new technologies of control. To the extent my remarks caused hurt, I am truly and deeply sorry." When you read a phrase like "to the extent my remarks caused hurt", you know it's bullshit. And, by the way Cheryl, it was an anti-vaccine rally. Big difference.

These two morons' tweets aren't to be believed because they said what they meant the first time around. This was simply Damage Control 101, and they got an F.  

As usual at times like this, their Twitter accounts have gone silent. But, like Alec Baldwin, they'll be reminding you what jackasses they are before you know it. As with vaccinations, that's a good thing.

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TESTING 1, 2, 3

This morning, I received a message from the lab handling my non-rapid COVID test on Tuesday.

Positive means good, doesn't it?

                                                                    **********

THE COVID LINE-UP

 

1. Feel like crap. 2. Headache. 3. Feel like crap.
4. Headache. 5. Feel like crap.

In the past four weeks, I've been hit with a series of viruses -- sinus, nasal, throat, G.I. -- that usually play out over the course of a year. The only week I felt well was when my wife Sue had one of her once-a-decade colds, so at least I was able to care for her without feeling like crap.

The current virus has coincided with a weird sleeping pattern. Falling asleep rather quickly, before waking again after what feels like several hours, only to discover that only 30 or so minutes have passed.

When it's sleepytime up North.

The rest of the night finds me tossing in bed (or, as with last night, the couch, just so Sue didn't have to hear me cough), with my sense of time utterly skewed. What feels like 90 minutes is actually 10, and vice versa. I yearn for sleep, only to find myself waking up and realizing I just had a weird dream. It's not an exaggeration to say I never know when I'm awake or asleep.

By Tuesday morning, I started to wonder if omicron had taken over my life, so I went to CityMD Urgent Care on East 86th to make an appointment for a COVID test. I was placed on a virtual line with an expected wait time of only 14 hours.

Caution: The blue testing tent isn't as close as it appears.

Sue texted that I try the pop-up testing tent on 3rd Avenue. I went to the end of the line, near 85th, figuring it would be better to wait in the cold for a while than have to go out again around 11:00 pm for the other test.

But was it? It depends on your stamina. I wasn't feeling well, but at least I was masked, and dressed for winter, right down to my thermal underwear. I would look behind me from time to time to see how many people were giving up, while trying to count how far behind I was from the tent.

Infinity isn't just the name of the testing site, but the
wait time.

The optimist in me, which never gets things right, was hoping for a 45-minute wait. It wasn't until the 30-minute mark when a text from Sue asked how much longer I thought it would be.

"40 minutes", I typed. You know, as if it would really happen if I said so. 

The real time was 60 minutes. Just before it was my turn, a guy walking toward us said, "There's a testing tent on 87th with no line." Thanks for the head's up 90 minutes late, but I'll wait here, thank you.

The testing folks were very professional, and ready with the swabs. But unlike the other tests I've gotten, these swabs appeared to be a foot long -- and there were four of them. 

Before I could even prepare, each one went into my nostrils and felt like they were brushing up behind my eye. Never had I felt so violated. And yet if this is what it took to find out my COVID status, my honor would have to suffer.

Twenty minutes later, I received an email: NEGATIVE. For everything I went through -- a 90-minute wait in the cold; foggy eyeglasses; foot-long sticks up my nose -- it was almost a letdown. 

I really should shave before I take
these selfies, just so I look a little
less hideous.

Well, I needed to find out anyway, since I had an appointment that afternoon with my dermatologist. A few weeks earlier, Sue had noticed a little spot on my nostril, similar to one she'd had several years ago, which turned out to be basil cell carcinoma. 

No need to cancel the appointment now; it was time for second biopsy on the right side of my face in the last few weeks. If it turns out benign, all I'll have is a little nick on my nostril which should heal fairly soon. If not, then it's another go-round with the surgeon, where I should open up a checking account.

As for now, I've got a Band-Aid on my nostril which will be hidden by a mask when I go out. Or if I go out. Did I tell you I feel like crap?

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UNDER COVID, PT. 38: BACK BY ZERO DEMAND

I'm trying to find a way to blame this on Alec Baldwin.

While it's always nice to have something to write about, I really didn't want the topic to be COVID-19 or any of its variants. Again. And yet here New York finds itself in the middle of a spike that rivals -- and at times surpasses --what we experienced at the height of the pandemic a year and a half ago. 

Was I wrong in thinking that the worst was behind us? That we'd have some ups and downs, but that by and large we were ready to live something resembling a normal life? That maybe there'd come a day when the first thing that came to mind when hearing the "corona" was a cheap beer that the gringos treat like Champagne?

Good to see the world through steamed-up
glasses again, too.

Yes, yes, and very yes. If we're not back to where started, we're not that far from the starting line, either. Thanks to omicron -- which, a month ago, I could've sworn was an online investment site -- I'm once again wearing a mask outdoors, keeping six feet away from people on checkout lines, and tossing out any travel plans I might have had for the next six months. Ah, it's good to be back to normal!

Aw, Hades no!

After a few months of Broadway coming back to life, all the big shows have closed for several performances, while others are shutting down until after Christmas, and at least one is closing permanently. There's almost no point in reserving tickets for any play you're interested in seeing; chances are by the time you get there, there'll be a "FORGET IT, BUB" sign in the window. 

Al was there first, Patti.

But if you had tickets to see the revival of Steven Sondheim's Company last Thursday, you actually got to see the show... for the first ten minutes, anyway. Then Patti Lupone sauntered on stage (presumably as only Patti Lupone can) and informed the audience the rest of the performance was cancelled. Not due to COVID but a cast member suffering from food poisoning. Or so she claimed. Then she sang and told a few jokes before sending everybody home. 

Talk on the street, however, is that COVID was indeed the culprit, so she was likely trying to keep the audience calm. To me, it sounded like Al Jolson's stunt of stopping the play in the middle of the final act and asking the audience, Do you want to see the rest of the show, or hear me sing? Can't you just hear the Company audience yell, Sing, Patti, sing!

Tourists hoping to see some high-kicking at Radio City have been left disappointed, since the Rockettes' Christmas Spectacular is cancelled. Care to take in some local sports instead? Here's hoping you can extend your stay, since games have been delayed. But cheer up! Bill de Blasio insists the New Year's Eve Times Square ball-drop is still on, although you know our idiot mayor will be a safe distance from the celebrants. 

City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style...

Locals haven't got time to do anything fun anyway, since they're waiting hours on line for COVID tests. This would have been one of those times that New Yorkers would have been grateful for a little global warming to make things more comfortable while waiting for a stranger to get nasally intimate with them under a 4x4 pop-up tent. 

But after a brief warm spell, things are back to normal, and the locals are sipping overpriced Starbucks lattes in their overpriced Agnes B. gloves all morning so they can get a rapid test, which has a 40% chance of giving a false negative result. But for free!

I've done background work only seven or eight times since April, yet in doing so I probably got at least 15 rapid tests. That means there's a fair chance I had COVID and nobody knew. But unlike your average joe, I got paid for each test (on top of my regular salary), so it was definitely worth the risk.

What comedy looks like.

Over the weekend, Saturday Night Live was thrown into a tizzy when four of the cast members tested positive, while three others had been exposed to the virus.

By airtime, the musical guest was cut, along with almost the entire cast, in-house band, crew, and the entire audience. The three new sketches were filmed earlier in the week, while the rest of the bits were from SNL episodes of Christmas past. And get this -- the entire show was taped that afternoon.

Why must the show go on when there's no show to begin with? Just have Patti Lupone warble "Ladies Who Lunch" and call it a day. There are plenty of New Yorkers who would find that worth getting sick for.

Not me. But during the 1918 flu pandemic, I'd have been one of the fanatics yelling Sing, Al, sing! from the balcony of the Winter Garden. Some things are worth facing death for.

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SPINNING PLATELETS

I said platelets. Platelets!

Three weeks after the COVID vaccination, I had my annual physical. While my usual concern is cholesterol, this year the numbers for blood platelets -- the little things that help clotting -- were lower than the normal range. 

Seeing that everything else was fine, the doctor wasn't overly-concerned, and suggested I return a month later for more blood-work.  The platelets, he opined, might have just been jammed up -- kind of like the FDR Drive at rush hour, I suppose.

The second time around, the numbers were a little higher, but still outside the range of what is considered acceptable. This was no traffic jam. The official name for what I had, I learned, was thrombocytopenia. 

Now you know Carrie's problem.

That the rest of the physical turned up aces mattered not. Any medical condition I can neither pronounce nor spell concerns me, particularly one that could cause, among other things, bruising for no reason and easy bleeding. 

Well, my ego bruises easily enough, so that's no surprise. But by easy bleeding, he meant spontaneously from my eyes, nose and skin pores.

Oh, and internal bleeding. Can't forget that.

My doctor referred me to a hematologist. That's another thing that concerns me -- when doctors send you to someone else, you know that whatever you have exceeds their pay grade (or bill).

It's pretty cool that a blue thing reading
THROMBIN is floating around my veins.

About a week before my visit with the hematologist, I read about Israeli doctors reporting that many vaxxed patients were showing signs of too much blood clotting. 

Well. If that was one side effect, could the opposite be another? I found out just moments later, when reading a piece in the Wall Street Journal. Doctors in the US were suddenly seeing vaccinated patients with -- drum roll -- low platelets.

Until now, the only side-effects I knew I had following the COVID shots were the initial 48 hours of  chills, aches and overall blah feeling. Not really bad; just enough so that my wife took over the cooking. And when that didn't happen, we ordered in dinner. I like these side-effects!

Thrombocytopenia, however, I could do without. After a round of blood work at the hematologist, I was given a little plastic cup and told return the following day with a stool sample.

Not that kind of stool!

A stool sample?! This was the most disgusting medical order I had ever received. At least there were still plenty of latex gloves we stocked up on during the early days of the pandemic.

Knowing my internal combustion as I do, the discommoding would have to wait until the following morning. Which is when I found myself in the bathroom with cup in hand and chagrined all over. 

Reaching around, I took aim, fired... and hit the bullseye first time! And I wasn't even looking! My pride was matched only by the repulsion I felt screwing on the cap.

When I dropped it off later that morning, I felt a little sorry for the folks whose job it was to examine this thing. But this is what they signed up for, right?

Soon to be a Netflix movie.

For the next three or four days, my hospital's app gave me regular test results. The names of some of the tests -- immunofixation electrophoresis, helicobacter pylori antigen -- made my eyes cross. Others -- nuclear antibody, immunoglobulins -- sounded like something from a horror movie. The kappa/lambda free light chains with ratio simply sounded like it had to do with a fraternity. 

But whatever they were, all came back negative. It took a phone chat with the hematologist a week later to find out what to do next.

To begin with, the name of what I had was now upgraded of a possible case of idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura. So now I was an idiot?

Well, I didn't have to take the blame. It seemed that my immune condition had gotten confused, believing that the platelets were the enemy. Idiot! This could indeed have been caused by the vaccination, although the doc said he's had plenty of patients with ITP without shots. 

The platelet count, he explained, could wax and wane. There are cases that resolve themselves in six months. Sometimes treatment is needed, either with (gulp) a bone marrow biopsy, or a round of steroids.

Me, before and after treatment.

 

Wait, steroids? Cool! I could transform from a 145-pound weakling to a beastly, bellowing, oiled maniac, smacking down opponents with hand slaps, headbutts, and metal chairs. This ITP thing might be paying off!

 These treatments, he emphasized, were unnecessary now. All we had to do was monitor the situation. 

Come back in four months. If things are holding steady, return in another four months. If it's still looking good, give it six months. "We don't have to treat it unless it becomes a problem."

Actually, I thought it was a problem now, but I guess he meant a real problem. I've made my next appointment for November 29 -- the Monday after Thanksgiving. I'm hoping for a test result to be thankful for. 

Oh, I forgot to mention: those latex gloves? Turns out I didn't need them! Perfect aim! If giving a stool sample becomes an Olympic sport, I've the gold medal locked up!

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UNDER COVID, PT. 37: THE 70% SOLUTION

"Now will you forget I'm still under investigation for
for sexual harassment?"

As the song says, here's where the story ends.

Gov. Andrew Cuomo promised to reopen New York state when 70% of its population got the COVID vaccination. We reached that milestone two weeks ago. Fifteen months after the City That Never Sleeps went into a coma, it suddenly regained consciousness.

The masks were the first things to go. Oh, it still feels mandatory to wear one inside grocery stores and the like. But by and large, New Yorkers are walking the streets with their faces naked to the world. It must be terrifying for babies, who heretofore never knew what other people looked like, to see strangers smiling and speaking nonsense at them for no good reason. For me, it seems like people made more eye contact during the pandemic, likely because, as with the Lone Ranger, they were asking themselves Who is that masked man?

My dining room should be so nice.

Restaurants, for a while at least, still have their outdoor seating areas -- rent free! -- which will perhaps help to make up for all the extra supplies they bought for to-go booze orders which are once again illegal. I, for one, will not miss the site of Upper East Siders getting blotto while hanging around public areas on Third Avenue. (My wife and I keep it on the down-low when we picnic in the park.) 

I'm glad they think this delay is funny.

Broadway officially re-opens in September. Just yesterday, we received an email from the Hudson Theatre promising that, after two postponements since March 2020, our ticket order for Plaza Suite  remains secure. As they gush, Please keep an eye out in the coming days for an exciting announcement - we can't share the news right now, but we wanted you to be the first to know that something is coming! 

That statement gave me pause. Nothing in the email says the show is finally opening. Just... something is coming! I was hoping it meant Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker would give a performance in one lucky ticket holder's living room, but my wife shot down that theory. As usual.

Folks have been speculating that the end of the pandemic would signal a something similar to the Roaring '20s following the Spanish Flu. Instead, New York has seen a 22% jump in overall crime (robbery is up 46% and grand larceny 35%). Stick-ups, once a night job, are now happening during the day. Shootings, too. Never has the word "brazen" been tossed around in the news so frequently.

I don't know what's going on here, nor do I want to. And
if I did , I wouldn't tell you.

The city's beloved Washington Square Park is now the nightly scene of raves, drug use, fight clubs, and general out of control mayhem. Forget about the Roaring '20s. We seem to be returning to the Unnerving '80s, when it was common to walk around with "mug money" -- an amount you could afford to lose -- because muggers really didn't like when you left them empty handed.

As usual, Bill de Basio -- Our Idiot Mayor -- apparently doesn't see the crime for the criminals: “We’ve had a number of nights where things went pretty smoothly. We had a few nights where they didn’t, but it’s going to, I think, lead to a natural outcome here.” I vaguely remember him condemning then-President Trump for saying the same thing about COVID. Weak minds think alike.

Once again, Bill de Blasio proves himself to be
New York's most perfect fool since Ed Wynn.
(Explanation available on request.)

Just to make sure we're aware how utterly out of touch he is, O.I.M. arranged for a  photo-op at a public swimming pool over the weekend. "The future of New York City is so bright I gotta wear shades!" he stupidly if predictably Tweeted, once again leaving himself open to verbal brickbats on all sides. 

No amount of cliches and cheap tropical shirts are going to help shootings go away.  Eric Adams, a former cop and our likely next Mayor, has his work cut out for him come Inauguration Day next January. I'm ready to bet anyone 50 smackers that, within a year, if crime continues to rise along with the general unease we're currently feeling, a columnist at the Times or New York magazine will write a piece that yearns for the clean, quiet, peaceful days we experienced during the pandemic. With a title something along the lines of I Admit It: I Miss the Days of COVID.   

And with all those wacky variants spreading around the world, that writer just might get their wish. As the closing credits of 1950s sci-films used to ask:

                                                THE END?

                      

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If you want to read a piece someone actually paid good money for, you can check out my latest contribution to Next Avenue here.

UNDER COVID, PT. 36: MASKS, VAX, AND HACKS

The face missed by millions returns in all its
glory.

Almost a year ago, I noted that life in New York seemed to be getting back to
normal. 

Boy, did I speak too soon! For it's only now that the city is starting to feel like its old self. Once Dr. Fauci gave the OK for vaccinated folks to remove the masks, faces became visible on a scale unseen since March of last year. 

A trip last week to Lincoln Center's latest outdoor installation -- AstroTurf covering its entire plaza, including the chairs -- showed dozens of New Yorkers' faces full-frontal nude. Whether you liked what you saw was another story.

Thank God -- traffic jams on the FDR
once more!

For a guy who was concerned that going barefaced would be a difficult challenge, I was delighted that it felt good to walk around the city more or less as I did for 40 years until COVID reared its bat-infected head. As easy it was to adjust to masks and quarantining, it was equally easy to revert to pre-pandemic ways.

And I'm not the only one. Take a stroll around the Upper East Side on a warm spring day and you'll see restaurants with their outdoor seating completely full, with lines waiting for (75% capacity) indoor tables. Uncomfortable dining experiences: success!

So there's some irony that the nightly BLM marches around our block on East End Avenue have ended. There was a time that you could set your watch by it: every evening at 7:25, you'd hear the rhythmic cries of the protesters, interrupting our Jeopardy! viewing. Darn kids!

The 2021 version of the Sharks vs the Jets.

But once Derek Chauvin was found guilty of the murder of George Floyd, the marchers apparently thought that their job was done. Fortunately, the current state of the Mideast has given them new demonstration opportunities. I hope they found time to get vaccinated between causes.

 

What have we done to deserve this?

Just to make those shots more enticing, the city of New York has been offering free beer, cheesecake, donuts, french fries and hot dogs -- all the stuff that can kill you -- by showing proof of vaccination. 

Our Idiot Mayor, Bill de Blasio, has been promoting these giveaways during his daily press conferences. Last week, he chowed down on a Shake Shack burger and fries for breakfast on live television. With any other mayor, this would have been amusing. But for de Blasio, it was just another example of misreading the room.

Yo! It's DJ Blazzy Blas goin' mad cowing, flying bananas,
and just plain wackydoodle.

It took only a week to for de Blasio to make a bigger fool of himself by hawking free tickets to local pro basketball games while wearing a Brooklyn Nets shirt and hat. 

Again, it could have been funny in the way your junior high science teacher doing something similar if the class passed final exams with at least a B+ average. But Our Idiot Mayor gets a D- in not only wit, but running the city. 

The way we were... and might be
again.

Or maybe it's just his way of diverting our attention from the fact that the rise of violent crime is making the city look like the 1980s again. Just now I received a notice on Citizen App that someone in Greenwich Village was stabbed. That would have been unthinkable even a year ago. 

But so are all the other stabbings, shootings, and general mayhem that's become part of New York life recently. If the Republicans had someone like Mike Bloomberg, or even the pre-Trump Rudy Giuliani, he'd likely be a shoo-in.

Instead, we're likely to elect one of the nearly dozen Democrats who are running ahead of the June primary. You can't turn on your TV or open your mailbox without seeing ads for all of them. 

One of them, professional political hack Scott "Why Won't You Fuck Me" Stringer, has made a career of running unsuccessfully for Mayor while running the Office of Comptroller, a job that nobody can successfully describe. Others, like Maya Wiley and Dianne Morales, believe that defunding the police will lower crime. So they've got the teenage-to-22 year-old pothead vote tied up.

Then there's Andrew Yang. Five years ago, he was running for president on the give-everybody-a-thousand-bucks platform. Running for mayor of New York might be seen as a comedown, but not if you're aiming for the White House some time in the future.

He likes me! He really likes me!

While his ads, filmed in the winter, show Yang walking around the city masked-up, he's now pounding the pavement with his face au naturel. Last weekend, he was in my neighborhood pressing the flesh and posing for selfies with potential voters. Like me.

I've seen many politicos in person in my lifetime, going back to JFK. Shook the hands of New York mayors Ed Koch, David Dinkins, and Mike Bloomberg. And now I can add Andrew Yang, future Mayor of New York (if he gets the nomination) to the latter list.  

Well, actually I did a fist-bump, although he offered his hand. Old habits -- or at least those of the past year -- are hard to break. 

PS: As I look at that selfie, it's becoming shockingly clear how my lips are thinning as the years go by. Maybe I should rethink that no-mask thing -- permanently.

                                                         ********************

UNDER COVID, PT. 35: THE RACE TO THE FINISH

My neighborhood knows how to follow orders!

 New York is back, baby! Well, almost. Two more weeks before we're 100% open for business. Have a desire to ride the subway at 3:27 in the morning? Get out your MetroCard, brother -- 24-hour service is returning! I don't know if that means the nightly scrubdown will still be in effect, but what does that matter? The smell of disinfectant with subway cars just doesn't mix.

Even Broadway theaters will be allowed to re-open... as long as they follow Gov. Cuomo's orders to maintain six-foot social distancing, which producers can't afford. Well, hey, you've still got Netflix! Have you seen how much programming they've got? And how little you have interest in watching it? Better change your mind!

My spirit animal.

I cop to being one of those people who wasn't necessarily looking forward to a major re-opening. Unlike many of my fellow citizens, I adapted to the lockdown quickly. As a fairly non-sociable person, I was perfectly happy to shelter in place. And as I noted in earlier posts, the initial blast of silence and burst of clean air was something to behold. I do not lie when I say the early weeks of the lockdown were kind of fun (for me). 

 

I know, I'd have looked better if I shaved.

If I missed anything, it was background work, something I still haven't been able to resume despite the industry re-opening, on a somewhat limited basis, last September. This was a disappointment, because, having been sewn and stapled following the removal of a cancerous growth on the side of my head in December, I was ready to star in a remake of Frankenstein.  

Is nobody spared the indignity?

Over time, though, I came to miss getting together with friends. Dinners, parties, trying new restaurants -- all of it was missing. We'd get together for picnics in Central Park over the summer, but those seemed like stopgap measures, particularly when sitting six feet apart. And forget about those outdoor bars on Second Avenue. I don't need to go through my 20s again. But if I did, boy, would I settle some old scores.

 

Why do we do this only once a year?

 So it was with great excitement that we were able to resume, for the first time in two years, our annual Kentucky Derby wingding. For at least 25 years, our friends Bill and Lee have come over on the first Saturday of May to watch the race over a couple of rounds mint juleps that mange to be both refreshing and devastating. Until last year, that is, when it was pushed back to September -- and, due to the old "abundance of caution", Sue and I celebrated alone. Oh well -- more mint juleps for me!

 But now we were all vaccinated. As usual, my wife spared no effort in the drink department, preparing the mint syrup the night before, and measuring the Maker's Mark to the milliliter. The juleps were then served in official glasses from past Kentucky Derbies, courtesy of one of our money managers.  She also made the appetizers (crostini with ricotta cheese, fig jam and slivered almonds), while I handled the dinner. Derby Day is back, baby!

 

I should've stuck to this.

We studied the horses to place our imaginary bets. And by "studied", I mean the women chose by color (horse or uniform), while the guys went with the names. My pick, Soup and Sandwich, came out strong in second place before gradually slipping back to dead last. Picking the wrong nag again is back, baby!

 

But you know what was really exciting? Company! Shaking hands with Bill, kissing Lee on the cheek! Talking to people other than each other! Oh, the humanity! Maybe there's something to sociability after all.  

There better be. Looks like we're just about out from under COVID, ready or not. It was fun while it lasted. Wasn't it?

 

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