Live From the Scene of the Crime

The bodies cover sidewalks; skulls crushed like post-Halloween pumpkins on concrete. The carnage is complete. Brooks Brothers suits soiled, orphaned Gucci loafers lay beside splayed feet – one sock has a hole at the heel, a sight as disturbing as today’s Dow Jones ticker.

We don’t know if they are Wall Street traders or Republicans, later autopsies and DNA testing for coke and STDs will confirm that much, but the mass suicides in New York this week have made distraught souls falling forty stories commonplace.

“Look. There’s another...” I said to the bum beside me, too numb by now to raise my voice.

“That’s Al from Derivatives.” the bum replied, “Yep, I know those triple-chins...”

Informing that he’s a former Lehman Brothers accountant the bum rifled pockets, “Al loved pastrami. See the mustard stains on his shirt?” I snatched his wallet, an AMEX and teens, no pictures of any wife. “I wonder if they’ve found his kiddie-porn yet...”

The economy of New York City is failing so rapidly that novelist Candace Bushnell may have to create a new character: Impoverished Panache. A sequel to “Sex in the City” has been announced yet its creator is suddenly speaking to her servants, asking pedestrians where this “subway-thingy” may be found.

“East Coast Elite” are frantically trying to make under $250K, to spare ourselves the taxes Obama promises. It isn’t easy; if you know anyone who needs money, please send them to New York. It’s a helluva deal: Rent at least a grand per hundred square feet, and the “recession special” at Gray’s Papaya for two hotdogs and a juice drink recently raised to $4.45. A pack of smokes is $9.67 and a movie $11.50; the steep expense of this city surely ensures everyone vast riches. Get here quick!

It’s so bad that Mayor Michael Bloomberg decreed a third term essential for our shared survival. Ignoring the fact that two separate voter referendums made two terms the limit (even “America’s Mayor” Rudy G. didn’t get an extension after 9-11) billionaire Bloomberg and the City Council have ensured themselves employment throughout this recession. “Freedom of choice” was their mantra while selling what Russia’s Vladimir Putin didn’t dare attempt.

I love New York. The way tourists stop in the middle of the sidewalk and gape upward, blocking busy locals, encouraging muggings and murder. Bodega cashiers charge for cigarettes and booze based on mood. The fall foliage and smell of urine mix and make us sentimental, wondering where else we can see a B-list star then step over a corpse on the same block. Lindsay Lohan and her butch are regularly seen on the 4-train. Uma Thurman lives across from me in Greenwich Village. But don’t approach her or even look too long; she had a stalker so her entourage includes five bodyguards – Three for her and two to keep her ex Ethan Hawke away. We are all grateful.

Gun sales are up 40% in 2008 nationwide but illegal in Gotham. So we’re sharpening sticks and carrying stones in case of attack from despondent Republicans and unemployed lobbyists. Red Bull and a half-cup of extra virgin olive oil make a fine ad hoc incendiary. Understanding that "small town America" has few minorities (because they are now the minority), this is how a conversation between different races goes in New York:

“I’m African-American.”

“No you aren’t. Fool! You’re from Jersey and late for a bar mitzvah.”

“So! Obama’s African-American!”

“True. His mother was from Kansas. His daddy hit that Jayhawk yum-yum, saw he made a son, said ‘See ya! I’ll be in Kenya...’”

“Don’t talk about our president-elect like that!”

“Sorry. Have fun at the bar mitzvah...”

“Shalom.”