I hadn’t bothered to submit any columns lately because I was hiding in a Fort Tilden bunker since early May thinking the world might end. The possibility didn’t seem crazy compared to other ideas. I mean, the end of the world seemed a helluva lot more certain than decent ferry service to Rockaway.
No one bothered to tell me that the end was postponed until October. I was like that Japanese soldier still fighting World War II in a remote jungle 30 years after the war ended. I had painted myself in graffiti instead of camouflage and blended perfectly in the Harris Battery.
And indeed, I thought the world had ended when my twitter account suddenly flashed an apocalyptic photo. Fruit of the doom, you might say. A profile in coarseness. A boxer rebellion. Why was someone sending me a Calvin Klein underwear shot? It seemed so 1990. Or was it code for another special election is coming?
I stumbled out of the Fort Tilden bunker thinking I’d find a barren landscape of dilapidated buildings and broken roads – and I did – but a sprinkling of hipsters and Russians indicated things were the same old same old. Still, something was off. The hipsters and Russians were making all sorts of hot dog jokes and puns. They couldn’t stop themselves.
When I got to 116th Street there were a couple of petitioning panhandlers talking about commuting to Washington instead of Albany. Someone else was going through a recycling can and came out with a Turner for Congress sign. And then someone asked me about running for Congress because I had done so well as a write-in candidate. Wait, wait, wait, I said, what’s this about? A couple of crotch grabs and hot dog puns later I got the picture, so to tweet, er, speak.
Bummer. If I were going to win a seat in Congress it wasn’t going to be over a sex scandal, if that’s what this is. The juvenile media eats this stuff up – and let’s face it, it can be fun. (My challenge – and it ain’t easy — is to be the first to write something without a single below the belt pun. Oh boy, it ain’t easy.) Anyway, sex is the reason there are seven billion people on the planet. It’s usually not a very big deal, no matter how funny the headlines. And as a media expert once told me, naughtiness is next to godliness. As long as they spell your name right.
Point is, most voters eventually shrug and vote for the guy they think will do the best job. Now I don’t know how deep this rabbit hole could go – new cringeworthy hilarity is coming out as we go to press – but my foggy, amoral eyes tell me Anthony Weiner’s seat is safe and City Hall is still within camera shot. He might have to cry it out on Dr. Phil or Dr. Drew, hide in a Fort Tilden bunker and change his name to Wayner (to rhyme with Speaker of the House Boehner) but I don’t think he’s done. There will be another round of haha headlines and then that’ll be that.
History is our guide. You know Bill Clinton could be elected mayor if he wanted it. Cigar questions couldn’t stop him.
Bill Clinton. Elliot Spitzer. Marv Albert. Newt Gingrich. Rudy Giuliani. Half of ESPN. These guys all come back. Golf is hoping Tiger still has something in the tank. C’mon on. By the time Weiner runs again, there will have been twenty more sex “scandals” and a half dozen shark attacks to divert the media. But one thing’s for sure. It won’t be a headline if I’m wrong. I usually am.
Anyway, I’m a fair weather foe. I only kick ’em when they’re up. And pretty soon Anthony’s gonna learn what I did: The world didn’t end.