Huffington Post has picked up my Russell Johnson cogitation.
My assistant, Jim, woke me on Thursday. I like being able to say, “My assistant, Jim.” Makes me feel like Marlin Perkins.
I’d been sleeping – leaning back in my big, swivel chair with my feet on the desk – in the office again. No, I haven’t fired Bridgett already (that’s the girl I hired in New York). Jim is my Washington assistant. Bridgett hired him. She’s hired all my staff.
Jim pointed out that at the end of the day I would no longer be the newest member of Congress, the woman replacing Ed Markey would have that honor. And I had yet to make even the most banal of general speeches to the empty chamber (and a C-Span camera). This, he said, was why people didn’t know me.
He further announced that it was likely our last day in session for the year, that we would pass the…
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Good question. I should have gone to that party. I passed it at the beginning of the night and it called out to me. Fun people, not like those uptight Slopers. It’s true what they say, racists never prosper. History doesn’t support that, I know, but wouldn’t I have had fun if I’d not been such a bigot? Clearly, my experience, and not the experience of the world, should make the rule.
Fuck. Why don’t they have bumper stickers anymore? I might have passed one that said “Racists Never Prosper” and my whole night would have been different. Or a t-shirt. Why don’t all t-shirts glow in the dark? True, I’ve never seen one that said “Racists Never Prosper” but I might have tonight. Maybe.
Don’t wanna drop my keys and wake somebody up. A lot of people seem out early, though. Holy shit, it’s 10AM, where are all the…
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“On top of that, de Blasio didn’t even have an OPEN BAR!!”
I ended up on the sidewalk at dawn, talking to those big, black guys outside Tish James’ party.
“Damn, Andrew, what a drag. But I want my mayor to look after money. Open bar here, though. Tish is gonna be public advocate, so she advocated for her guests to get drunk.”
“Open bar at the Lhota party too.”
“In Manhattan. All businessmen and pols, no women. Was like hanging out with elderly misogynists in a world without gender. They had good scotch.”
“Man, I love Scotch.”
“Here, I stole a bottle.”
Reached inside my coat. The guys got excited.”
“I lost it.”
They got sad. Sun was gettin’ bright. Tish came out. (I find her kind of attractive.)
“Andrew! Were you here?”
Wow. She knew who I was.
“Yeah, dude. How come you didn’t come here?”
Oh yeah, the Park Slope crowd is more my speed than Tish James’ assemblage could ever have been. For me, attending a de Blasio party is like a springy walk down the gentrified street, augmented with speeches, banners and drinks. Even my goo-coated sense of insufficiency is the same as in my day-to-day realm, though this time informed by my uncomfortable encounter with the man himself. Yes, the de Blasio woman is my kind of woman, the kind I would settle down with if she’d let me. The only impediment is the goo. But that goo comes from the mind, so a quick trip to the bar is apt to dam its flow.
Too late. I turn, sober au goo.
“It’s nice to see you.” (Can’t remember her name.)
“I’m surprised. You didn’t look too happy last time.”
“Yeah, I did consider deeming you dead to me, but…
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“I’ll go get someone.”
The guard disappeared and I realized I had a moment of opportunity. I could give in to the voice in my head that says, “Run awaaaaaaaaaaay.”
I didn’t want to be conspicuous. Conspicuousness in this context could only be embarrassing. I was the guy who says, “I’m on the list.” Desperation defined me.
Herr Gatemeister returned.
“Look, you don’t have to get anybody. If I’m not on the list and you don’t feel you can let me in, I’m happy to…”
De Blasio strolled out, all tall and handsome. Oh, why did it have to be him?
“Somebody said they’re a friend of mine??”
“I didn’t say that, I…”
De Blasio squinted.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Andrew Lederer, I…”
“Oh, yeah. The guy with the video.”
“Yes, but I’m now a…”
“You can come in.”
Hah! It hadn’t been too embarrassing. I followed the mayor-elect as…
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I want to bask. And I want to weep. The sun that drenches the world around me lifts me beyond the ken of mere optimism.
Yet I have a hard time getting dressed, for pants and shirts mean the larger world, a girding to meet it. A deceptively sun-drenched world that is always dressed, always girded to meet me. And the moments of additional preparation this provides The Way Things Are unevens the battlefield, makes my fly-zipping and shoe-tying mere draping for futility.
I may be a David but the world is not Goliath, as both combatants needed equally to put on their sandals, thus were psychologically prepared for each other in equal measure. I would expand on this analogy if I knew anything about the bible, so maybe I’m wrong. About the bible story, I mean.
But I’m not wrong about me. And the world.
I did get into…
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