Mixed Nuts

I'm a Pixar fan, as you know. (This post is not about Pixar or movies. It's about crazy New Yorkers, but bear with this preface, please.) Last night, I tried to see Up. An afternoon attempt last weekend failed, because it was sold out. I figured a late weeknight at Union Square would be pretty safe. But the 9:30, 10:30 and 11:30 shows were sold out. So I went to the Strand for a minute or two instead, and on my way out I picked up the latest Brooklyn Rail, a local alternative paper about arts and politics, for something to read on the train home.

One of the articles was a "person on the street" piece about Mayor Bloomberg seeking a third term. It opens with a monologue by Efrain Irrizarry, who was met selling anti-Bloomberg T-shirts outside Yankee Stadium. I'll let Efrain take it from here. (For the record, Bloomberg has two daughters, named Georgina and Emma.)

"Just make him stop speakin’ Spanish. That’s all I’m sayin’. We can’t go on like this son. Wit’ this guy speakin’ Spanish everyday in his press conferences man. Givin’ directions about Swine Flu in Spanish. C’mon man. That shit is dangerous. Confusin’ people son. You got kids showin’ up at school when it’s closed, stayin’ home when it’s open. . . . He can’t even read Spanish out loud from a scrip. The paper said he’s been wit’ a private tutor since he got elected. A private tutor for seven years and he can’t even read Spanish out loud. It said the tutor’s Colombian. I think Bloomberg needs to check that guy’s passport. The dude might be a Russian tryin’ to catch a fast buck. He’s teachin’ Bloomberg Russian. . . . And now the richest man in New York City can’t read. It’s gotta stop. I can’t listen to it any more. That shit is torture. Forget water-boarding. Bloomberg speakin’ Spanish. That’s torture. . . . Just spit on his name. That’s all he cares about anyway. He loves his name. He named his kids Bloomberg. . . . First name. Right. That’s what I’m sayin’. Middle name too. The kid’s name is Bloomberg Bloomberg Bloomberg. Both kids man. They all live up in a big house in Manhattan. On the top floor it’s Mike Bloomberg, then on the third floor it’s Bloomberg Bloomberg Bloomberg, on the second floor it’s the other Bloomberg Bloomberg Bloomberg, on the ground floor it’s the butlers and the maids, and then in the basement it’s Giuliani and Bush. And the Spanish tutor. The Russian Spanish tutor lives in the basement too. They all just sit around countin’ money, and watchin’ water-boarding DVDs."

I think there should be a law that requires that guy to be a source in every piece of journalism published. As the piece goes on to quote other people at length, it turns into a kind of taxonomy of New Yorkers. Here's a much more irritating type.

Later that afternoon, in Lower Manhattan, bartender Sarah Reilly, 39, expresses similar concerns regarding the upcoming four years. "The city just feels lame," she explains as she fills a pint glass. "I guess it’s just gonna get lamer. I’ve been here since I was seventeen, and I’ve never seen it so boring. Half the girls in my band left three years ago. We were called Super Chic. We rocked. We used to rehearse at the drummer’s apartment in Bushwick. Her name was Luanne. But then these yuppies bought the building next door and started calling 311 every time we rehearsed. They said we were making too much noise. What are we supposed to do, whisper?"

Yes, I'm sure the band was awesome. A profound loss for the city. Come back, Luanne -- come back! And Sarah, don’t think of not making a terrible racket as whispering. Think of it as respecting your neighbors.

Anyway, between Efrain and Sarah you get a sense of the best and worst of this place.