The high cost of overhead
A New York story: My apartment. I have lived in it since before Washington wet his drawers splashing into the Delaware.
My place is now under construction. Not my doing. Major buildings need to be re-roofed every 20 years or so. So rain doesn’t fall in. So loose bricks don’t drop and harm people. So creatures don’t gnaw away its foundation. And so that its residents can meanwhile bang their financially unstable heads on the concrete sidewalk below.
I am not complaining. Merely reporting. I am my usual charming complacent self, while my floor, windows, entrances, doors, glass partitions, silk walls, woodwork, handwork, sidings, collected antiques, lifetime memorabilia, photos, newspaper headlines and art are experiencing what one not as nice as myself might say: “Go and do something unmentionable to yourselves.”
An army of helmet-headed two-legged creatures are outside — on my floor — peering inside. Scaffolding enfolds what once were my windows. For reasons not explained a crappy-looking ladder (not that there’s anything like a good-looking ladder) holds strangers wearing orange jackets and stands open — open — amid what once was a living room filled with antiques — besides myself, in which types like Donald, then-Archbishop Timothy Dolan, Hillary, Sen. Schumer, Gov. Hochul, previous governors and assorted front-page faces have eaten, sipped, been photographed — and BS’d — then re-eaten, re-sipped, re-photographed and re-BS’d.
Its décor once included a jade fireplace, jade lamp, oil portrait of me, the late Anthony Quinn sculptures, Chihuly glass sculpture and Fiorello La Guardia’s original pen and ink stand.
Understand, I am not complaining. Merely reporting. I’m required to add a now additional financial assessment — which means what, which covers what — to cover the amount this building’s spending to destroy me. Ask a boss somehow who’s to be on duty until 4 o’clock but somehow mysteriously disappeared in time to catch his 3:10 train to the shore is somehow off-duty.
Sound finds
Podcasts are now like roaches. Everyone has them. A “Webby” is their Oscar. Host nominees this year include Katie Couric, Amy Poehler, Mel Robbins, Keke Palmer and — Monica Lewinsky. What pod she is casting in — on — or up I know not. I don’t even know the color of her dress. The winners of whatever this is will learn April 21, with a ceremony in NY on May 11.
For Bent wallets
Monaco. April 25. Sotheby’s auto auction. A 1996 Royal Blue Bentley Brooklands. Fashionable interior. Belonged to the coddled behind of Giorgio Armani. Expected to hem in 45,000 to 90,000 euros. Forget airbags, this needs money bags.
So Arlene Kayatt, Upper East Side weekly “Our Town” columnist, invites me to dinner. She then instructs a driver to head downtown to collect some one-of-a-kind matzos that have been blessed and considered something special or whatever.
I didn’t want it. She didn’t want it. But the gift from this rabbi friend we were stuck with.
The driver finally shows up holding for Arlene the gift box of specially blessed matzos. He’s Muslim, wearing the keffiyeh headdress.
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.
