Finding a few fans for spring
I’m sharing some of my mail:
Staten Island’s Marie: “When I was scared my swimming teacher allowed me to dive off the pool’s shallow end. And because of that only is exactly how I got my diploma. Ultimately I earned a master’s degree and nobody ever ever knew if not for her, I’d have even flunked out of high school.”
Handwritten, white stationery framed in red: “The time’s come that I now finally am totally and completely sick of seeing all these daily steady photos of naked women. Is there a reason why we cannot someday see some naked men? Only women? Let’s see naked men!”
Patricia from Jersey City: “After reading you steadily I already feel like we are friends from way back. What I am thinking is — really — that it would be nice if should just the two of us — together, alone — just you and me — we should have lunch at any place of your own choosing?”
Anonymous. Purple envelope. “Before the Alec Baldwin shooting, prop union members went on strike. As a longtime airline employee I have experienced union members who’d screw over their employers for not signing a new contract in timely fashion. I’ve seen cleaners delay cleaning a plane. And handlers defecate in luggage. In my mind this happened with disgruntled employees who wanted their contract signed.”
A series of handwritten letters from Chuck: “Some interesting UFO information. 1. TheyFlyBlog.com. 2. Area 51 J-Rod videos on YouTube.”
Handwritten from Peter: “Would you sign my ‘Cindy and I’ book by Joey Adams?” Then, with his phone number: “What I think is that you should write an autobiography,” then “But I usually don’t get postage mail. My mother’s roommate spies on me.”
There’s a crate of handwritten letters with inkblots — most suggesting I investigate banking error complaints. Several begin with “Dear Stupid.”
Unsigned is ink handwriting on a greeting card that says: “Lucky are kids are ones who got mad at their moms and then it’s maybe easier to let go. Love makes it impossible to ever let go.”
From a Howard Beach’s two-pager unfolding “The Battle of Long Island.” Excluding one fatmouth who thought I inched ahead of her in a deli, I didn’t know about any battle of Long Island. He wrote I should read “Murder 1776.” OK. Soon as I finish this I’ll rush out to get caught up with “why Gen. Howe took the flower of his army around the right flank.” I’ll send a copy to Hegseth.
Classical looks
I’m getting classy. “Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: Treasures from the Mozarteum Foundation of Salzburg” opens at Morgan Library on March 13.
Bringing objects from the Salzburg collection across the Atlantic for the very first time. It will include Mozart’s clavichord on which he composed “The Magic Flute.” Plus, please, have respect, there’s also his childhood violin and a walking stick.
Listen, if you can’t afford the time and freight to go — fear not. I’ll come to you and hum.
Spacing out
Reminding you again of “Project Hail Mary” with science teacher Ryan Gosling orbiting on a space mission. There’s an alien sidekick. The sun is setting. This is somehow inspiring. Ryan says, “If we don’t give up, miracles are possible.”
Yeah. OK. This big hoo-hah shines in theaters the 20th. Get your used space suit back from the cleaners.
So, listen, pay attention. I am giving you the financial advice I have just been given and so I now feel better about the market. It’s all designed with multiple complicated investment goals. Big, big plans for the next five years — like breaking even, almost.
Only in Zero Crapdammy’s New York, kids, only in Zero Crapdammy’s New York.
