Facts Are Fungible

The Lifespan of a Fact. Daniel Radcliffe. Cherry Jones. Bobby Cannavale. Studio 54 Theater. Yes. That same old disco venue. Clever staging. The takeaway from the play. Facts are not truth. Yet truth needs some facts. Writing was the star. The ensemble inimitable. Without them. No reason to go. Radcliffe supplied the crucial electric current. Jones the cerebral publishing glue. Cannavale the stalwart artist. Called a farce. Disagree. A witty composition on the vagaries of life. Without going down trite emotional trails. Consistently true to the conceit. Great.

And. Not once did Harry Potter occur.

Leftover Libs

What to do with all those leftovers? Boomer libs, that is. NYT columnist David Brooks contemplates the dilemma of the traditional liberal, now a relic at Thanksgiving dinner. College kids embrace anarchical progressivism, tilting at socialist ideals. Trumpian types are unrecognizable to the Ivy League alums as even those country club Repubs. Nothing seems familiar anymore. The old school lefties earned their way up the academic and jounalistic ladders. They got the top jobs. Yet. Today feel weak and beleaguered in the wake of a new wave.

Neither red. Nor blue.

Enduring Edges

As we confront conversion to robots and drones taking over our everyday lives. Hearken back to another time. The clang clang of a bell out the window. Mister Softee? No. Much more resonant. Like a trolley. What could it be? Mike taps the disk with a blade. A relic from 1941 still serving the community. The Knife Sharpening truck. And a customer. Perfect after Turkey-carving day.

Or. For those scissors to cut down NO PARKING signs.

Post Stuffington Post

Balloonistas from far and wide have left the ‘hood. Bleachers still up. Banging and clanging to come for the annual return of our sidewalk. Soon. We hope. Along Central Park West. Can park on our block again. Even if the No Parking signs linger. Scissors at the ready or they’d be up until May.

A rollicking fun weekend. Delicious non-turkey feast at the Oxbow. Parades. Family visits. Post Stuffington Frittata. Respite from politics. Even if. Some wore their opinions on t-shirts for lively dinner conversations. Until next year.

Low Blow

Howling frigid wind kept this year’s balloons low. Coldest in NYC Thanksgiving history. Die-hard parade goers came with their usual ladders and snacks. Most only lasted 10 minutes before retreating. More face masks than turkey hats. Even they didn’t help. Really lucky in our cozy warm perch.

See ya next year!