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Created by Studio Lindfors, these images show scenes of New York and Tokyo after massive floods caused by climate change. Never did the end of the world as we know it look so dreamy and romantic. I can only hope that Al Gore keeps flying around the world in his private jet, because I can't wait to go down Broadway in a gondola, singing in the rain. [Studio Lindfors and Flickr via Bldgblog]

Eccentricity has its charms, of course, but woman cannot survive on excitement alone! But thanks to the magical duo of Michael Bloomberg and that other guy who keeps threatening to run for political office again before recalling how much he likes to golf, NYC is now a magical wonderland where street cleaners dedicated to their craft slap giant green post-its on your car windows if you dare obstruct their work. This new NYC populated by Cornell grads where the NYPD tows its damn breakdowns is the reason Bloomberg will be Mayor forever and ever!

But what is this?

New Yorkers are fleeing this Utopia for Florida? Well, yes. Turns out all this wonderful service comes at the cost of some of the highest tax rates in the country, which... well, duh.

Things have gotten so bad, Manhattanites are moving to the Bronx and Brooklynites are moving to Staten Island. The end times are here, people!

If you're looking for someone to blame, the Wall Street Journal helpfully suggests you look under "Liberals: Just Desserts."

[Pic: AIP History Center Web Exhibit]

No, apparently, for City Health Commissioner Dr. Thomas A. Farley wants to prohibit smoking at beaches and parks. The move, he and his allies claim, will help reduce smoking rates, which have fallen since a ban on smoking in bars.

Of course, Cheryl G. Healton, who heads the anti-smoking group American Legacy Foundation supports the move:

There is no redeeming value in smoking at beaches or parks, Anyone who has sat behind someone smoking a stogie can tell you that. The health risks are real. Secondhand smoke is deadly.

Yeah, that's true: second hand smoke is deadly, but it's hardly the most annoying thing about public parks. Children, for example, are exceedingly annoying, but there's no ban on them. But, seriously, parks are outdoor, public spaces. The very idea of banning smoking there is an affront to American ideals. How can a city government even consider enacting such a ban? It's insulting. If a smoker wants to light one up while enjoying a picnic, that's their business. It's an open space and well within their right. But, we suppose the city has more power than some tar-lunged ash bag. And that's sad.

Image via Auntie P's flickr.

After two terms of not giving a shit about transit, and despite not having any control over the MTA, nor any real chance of gaining control of the MTA, and despite the fact that the MTA always and forever claims to be completely out of money and unable to reliably provide the service we are supposed to have now, Mike Bloomberg laid out a 33-point proposal for transit in his third term that amounts entirely to "a list of awesome things that will magically happen if you vote for me, for free, I promise."

Free crosstown buses! The V will run into Brooklyn! Express service on the F! Countdown clocks for every train! Reopening LIRR stations in Queens! Military technology to track buses! More ferries! New smart cards to replace MetroCards!

All of this sounds great to us! It is just too bad that the mayor is only responsible for 4 out of 17 votes on the MTA board, and so therefore he does not have the authority to implement any of these ideas that he stole from Anthony Weiner and others! (Hey, he could get Albany to give him more control, like with the schools, right? The could take care of it right after the State Senate gets around to giving him back control of the schools, which they might someday do, maybe.) So reelect Mayor Bloomberg and he promises an express train that runs directly from your apartment to work, and it will be free, and it will have a non-stop open bar!

We haven't had time to digest the hundreds of pages yet, but here are some snapshots that show the frantic attempts to deal with the "flail," as one Pentagon e-mail put it, and pass the blame up the bureaucratic chain.

The first inkling that something has gone wrong starts to circulate.

Uh oh. The blogs are on it.

And Robert Gibbs is not happy.

So let's talk about how to not get blamed for this.

One way to get blamed is to talk to reporters. SO DO NOT TALK TO REPORTERS.

Those fuckers at NORAD are going to try to blame us—don't let them!

Those acronyms are military-speak for this was not our fault.
She's got a point.



This is a chart from a media assessment of the flyover story's coverage. Those marks quantifying web coverage mean "infinity."

Why won't the bloggers shut up about this?

They seriously won't shut up about this.

Especially the conservative ones.

Oh shit. Twitter. But thank god for the swine flu.

It's cool, Boeing paid for the whole thing.

In New York today it is cold and wet and miserable and soul-draining day. The sort when your wet shoes never seem to dry. (That picture was taken this morning in the financial district.) And this is the middle of fucking June - what will likely be the coldest, wettest June ever. And, oh great, now there's a flash flood watch. Compare it to Seattle, to Noah's Ark, whatever you want. But the weather forecast says this will never ever end. Ever.

The image associated with this post is best viewed using a browser.

See one of the Bravo show's cast members, the cockle-eyed Camille, goes to Nightingale-Bamford, a tony Upper Eastern academy in the vein of those on Gossip Girl. Well the school isn't exactly thrilled about this attention, so the administration sent out a bitchy-in-a-stiff-East-Coast-way letter to parents basically saying "this girl does not represent Nightingale."

The decision to participate in the show was made by the student and her parents without consulting Nightingale's administrators. We counsel our girls to avoid such exposure, knowing that the best intentions are usually subsumed by a media machine that too often simplifies the many facets of a Nightingale education into a shallow and stereotypical view of independent schools. (As with most series of this genre, the show is "reality" in name only.) ... This is not the first time someone has presented skewed version of our world, nor will it be the last, so we approach this situation as we've handled others previously: focused on providing our girls the world-class education that has long defined Nightingale.

Plus all the cattiness and drugs and sex and handbags! They have also defined Nightingale!

Civilians who are in the know are also refuting any reality show's claim to UES verity. Like, for example, the playa kid on Prep, Sebastian, goes to a newish prep school on fucking Long Island. Girl, that does not count.

And while Peter "PC" Peterson may be the grandson of a real life tycoon, he still went on public radio on Long Island to call the Real Housewives of New York "trashy pieces of shit." (We've tried to find this interview online, but alas cannot. Anyone?) So there's lots of society infighting and name-calling and huzzabub and ugh. How silly.

As one society insider describes their experiences with New York's wealthy youngs: "What was off-putting was that the fact that we were in a mansion wasn't discussed." Which is exactly it. The wealthy don't talk about money. The rich talk about money. We guess that means the NYC Prep kids are rich. Which, as we all know, means nothing.

Oh, and, if you're curious:

Sebastian goes to the very-recently-established Ross School; Camille attends Nightingale-Bamford; Jessie and PC attend the Dwight School; Kelli (whose parents live in the Hamptons and visit their teenagers in Manhattan one night a week) attends Birch-Wathen-Lenox, and Taylor goes to Stuyvesant, which is not a prep school but a magnet public school.

[via Miss Chris Rovzar at Daily Intel]

June is supposed to be nice in New York. On average, 64% of the daylight hours in June are supposed to get sunshine. So far this month, nine out of twelve days have seen clouds, fog, and capricious rain. On average, according to historical weather data, we should have gotten about one-and-a-half total inches of rain so far this month. In grim reality, we've gotten four inches. On nine of the first 11 days of June, New Yorkers have seen below average temperatures, including four days with highs only in the 60s. This is not normal.

The image associated with this post is best viewed using a browser.Steven DiMartino, a meteorologist for the Examiner, describes our doldrums thusly:

Through this weekend, the cold front will stall right over the forecast area, which will mean that moisture will converge and focus over the region, guaranteeing a good amount of cloudy conditions over the forecast area. As weak waves of low pressure, like the one over the Hudson Valley and West Virginia this morning move along the stationary front, scattered showers will develop and move through the region. Which will produce another hit or miss type of weekend for many.... This is not a case where wide spread rain develops, but just a dreary; foggy; cool; almost fall-like weekend can be expected. Personally, this type of weather makes me feel like playing football rather than baseball.

So when will it end? And why is it happening to us? El Niño!

[L]ooking at the water vapor this morning back through the Pacific Ocean, I see no mechanism to change this pattern. In fact, with the growing strength of El Nino, this type of pattern will only be reinforced through the next several weeks.

Indeed, forecasters are predicting an "El Niño event" all summer, which will mean more storms in the west, more Atlantic hurricanes, and supposedly warmer temperatures in the Northeast. But for now it means weak, limp cold fronts stalled in out backyards, raining on our grills, driving us batty, and making us buy new umbrellas everyday because we keep losing them.

[Top pic by John Fraissinet via Flickr]

Reports the New York Post:

(Wiener) first fell ill more than a week ago, but didn't seek help at the hospital until his symptoms became severe early Wednesday morning.

Since that time, he had been in a medically induced coma and on a ventilator.

Just hours before his death, his wife, Bonnie, said there were hopeful signs.

"There's no change," she told The Post earlier today. "He's stabilized. They're just giving him supporting care and hoping the treatment will kick in."

The report goes on to mention that Wiener is the sixth American to die from swine flu so far and that city officials have decided to close five more schools in the area, bringing the total number that will be closed this week to eleven.

Our deepest condolences go out to family, friends and colleagues of Mr. Wiener, though we hope that his death doesn't incite yet another media circus over the virus.

Queens Ast Principal Dead From Swine Flu [New York Post]

Carls from HRO bailed on me. Feeling a little vulnerable. But we can still play Blogger Bingo! What accoutrements, affects, people and places did I miss? Did I totally break it down on the NY Blog-media crowd. Oh snap! Word! Fill me in, y'all!

graphic by: Jeff Meininger

Image via AP, more info on the picture is here.

Jay was gone. The sun still rose, but Jay was gone. Leaves still blew around the sidewalks in little eddies of wind, but Jay was gone. The caged bird sang, the cars honked, the muggers mugged. But Jay was gone. So the lovelorn ghost of Whitney wandered the streets, glum and bovine, searching for her purple crayon, her red balloon, something. She ended up at work, at the Diane von Furstenberg Factory for Sad Girls. There she wanly sewed some clothes and packed some boxes and filed QED reports ("Right on top of that, Rose!") and wept in the toilet stalls. Skibble skibble skibble went bones and fabric, as Diane glided down the hall outside.

So yeah, Whittz was very sad and confused and felt lost and alone. Another person who is sad and confused and lost and alone, but doesn't know it, is Olivia Palermo. Olivia is the Decepticon-headed socialite of no-fame who is paid by the producers to be a bitch. The girls were at Fashion Week and there was yet another compliment about the Elle cover they'd supposedly pulled. Once again Livs took credit, even though the outfit was Whitney's idea. Oh, previous to this, Whitney had been quietly mooing about Jay and Olivia just fired laser beams out of her eyes right into Whitney's heart and said "You're being immature bringing this to work." Whitney said the same thing right back to her and pointed at Nevan, who was sucking his thumb in the corner. (Actually, that part didn't happen. Notice how he hasn't been in any of the episodes recently? Hah. Edited out for hooker-soliciting.)

So anyway, Olivia had already chastised Whitney for something as ridiculous as being "immature" and talking about the plotline of a reality show while filming the reality show, but whatever, her work is never done. So some bald dude minced over and was like "'Let's talk fashionz! Ready, Go! Elle! Who are you??" Oliva glistened under the cold, bitchy tent lights and hissed "It was meeeeeee," and an unkindness of ravens flew out of her mouth and her eyes went dark and somewhere in a tiny corner of some outer borough, the Black Plague returned.

Whitney screwed up her features and pooped just a little bit and finally said to Olivia "You know... I pulled that look." And Olivia said "Oh, you want some credit? OK, I'll give you a little credit next time I'm taking basically all the credit." Whitney didn't seem satisfied. Somewhere in the middle of this, I forget exactly where, Whitney sneaked off to call her old friend Lauren. Just in time to remind us that The Hills is coming back soon! Lauren was frowny-faced and concerned and told Whitney that she can't leave New York, even if she is sad about things. The funny/sad thing was that it seemed like they hadn't spoken once since she'd moved. True frienzsips forever!!

Back at fashion, Whitney was bluesy and sad and she strummed her guitar and drank whiskey from the bottle and Olivia was asked to go on a fancy fashion trip to London for "work" and Whitney just said "Ohhh fuck it, limey fucks. I never wanted to go anyway. I never wanted anything... Nothing at all for ol' Whitney Port. Just stand in the background, fill the scenery like some fucking potted plant. That's all I am. I'm stuck in dirt. I'm a fucking ficus."

Diane von Furstenberg skibbled up like a crab and offered her some astute words about flames and winds and desire and love or something and then she just started reciting copy from her American Express ads and the whole world of this show made sad, simpering sense.

Over in another greenhouse, hotdog-lipped Male Model was all mad about feelings so he went over to the factory that makes more models where Erin works and he barked at her bangs for being intrusive. "Don't yell at me," Erin said or something. And Male Model swore and said other things and Erin stood her ground so he slunk off into the modely shadows. Once firmly ensconced in said shadows, he found his beloved counterpart, Girl Model. She was in there rooting around for grubs and truffles. He loved her so, he realized.

So when she showed up at his restaurant and he just turned to his coworkers and said "Peace" and walked off to go have an important conversation, he told her that he loved her and wanted to sleep more with her and that baby baby baby please come home for Christmas. Girl Model smiled a strange smile and grabbed him. Suddenly they were traveling through space, hurtling at millions of miles per hour, and Male Model said "I knew! I fuckin' knew it! You're an alien." "Bleep bloop blorg, human boyfriend" Girlax Modelaxny said, finally in her native tongue. So they were whisked off to the faraway planet where everyone looks like Girl Model, and in some ways is Girl Model, so if Male Model cheats... well, it's not really cheating! A happy ending for them.

Back at fashion, Whitney was crying and shaking and smoking meth in the bathroom with Helmut Lang. Suddenly her phone started ringing. "How many times do I have to tell you / That I'm sorry for the things I've done..." the ringtone intoned. She answered it. It was Jay. He was outside. She went out. He was there. With his mouth. And his eyes. And his hair. "I love you," he said. "I see," she said. He smiled. She frowned. "I can't. I lost myself in us," she said. He frowned. She turned. She walked away. He stood there, like a fool. She tripped. She fell down. He laughed a little. She fell again while trying to get up. He laughed more. "It's these stupid heels," she said meekly. "They're why I keep fallink." She finally righted herself. She teetered off. "Goodbye!" they said, together. "Goodbye!"

Goodbye! The city said. She wandered off, so did he. And the camera hovered. Somewhere in the East Village a girl sat while her laundry rolled around and around and around in a washer. She thought about Oregon, about Danny, about her mom. She missed all of them. On the Lower East Side an old man stood waiting for the light to change. How the neighborhood had changed, he thought. How everything has changed. The walk signal came on, and he pressed on. In Gramercy a husband rolled over in bed and pulled his wife close to him and began falling in love with her all over again. In Hell's Kitchen a boy looked across the bar at another boy and they both felt that something dangerous was about to happen. In Times Square a tourist stood lost and bewildered and amazed. In Harlem a man waiting for the bus watched skeptically as a stream of new arrivals came spilling out of the subway. Kids. College kids. In the barrio there was a party for Danielle, who got the job. In the Boogie Down a dad saw his kid sleeping in the car seat next to him and things made sense again, for a moment. Over there in Astoria they opened a second bottle of wine. They yelled in Jackson Heights because he was gone and was never coming back. In Greenpoint they spoke Polish on the phone, they told jokes that couldn't be translated. In Red Hook they finished moving the last of the furniture out of a TV show loft. In Park Slope a writer said goodnight to an otherwise empty apartment. In Midwood, the wait was worth it. The pizza was delicious. In Brighton Beach they watched the waves. Spring was almost here. In Tottenville a mother walked the quiet house and thought about summer camps, beach vacations, the spit-spit-spit of the sprinkler she'd need to get out of the garage.

And there was Whitney still, wandering lost and utterly unaware through this place. This wonderful place. These blocks like bones, these buildings like skin, these trees like hair. This mystery. This love. This sad stony expanse. This bright gleaming embrace. This hope, this fear. This silly, marvelous home. This City.

The End.

(I hope forever.)

It has been a peaceful and mostly prosperous couple years for New York, yes. It was, overall, a nice change of pace from the Giuliani years, for everyone. We all got along, there was "consensus." But you know his NYPD are just as miserable and free from accountability as Giuliani's! He recently (admirably) changed the way New York measures poverty, revealing that he has not done very much until now to, like, alleviate any of this poverty. The race and class divisions are basically as bad as they have ever been in New York, right now, after two full terms of Bloomberg. And he wanted the Olympics! Remember that bullshit?

So, like, maybe this third term is his desperate last shot at becoming some sort of crusader for the little people? Except he's never seemed vaguely interested in that, until now, sort of. So maybe he just wants to run again to finally ban salt. (Because, hah, that is his real legacy: New York is not allowed to be gross anymore!)

All of his advisors advise against a campaign to overturn term limits, because even tho Mayor Mike is quite popular, term limits are even more popular, and seeking to get out them after years of supporting them rubs voters the wrong way. So then who is advising Mike to try this stunt? You will never guess!

“He has the confidence of the business community and the executive ability to run the city,” said Stephen M. Ross, the chief executive of the Related Companies, a major developer. “This is a good time for him to do this. People are scared.”

Yes, the developers, they've had a good couple years, right?

Mike probably did just look at the motley crew of successors lining up to replace him and think to himself that only he is smart enough to guide the city through the coming crisis. Which is a very good reason to let him know that we've had enough, thanks, good work Mike. Have fun back in the private sector or maybe running against David Paterson.

There will be ruminative documentaries about the lost New York City of the 1970's, through the lenses of the Broadway show A Chorus Line and the old Upper West Side sex club Plato's Retreat. And another film called Lymelife about disgruntled ennui on Long Island (starring the disgruntled Alec Baldwin!) The TImes writes indulgently about the films:

Those voices, and others from a handful of movies at this sprawling, 10-day film festival opening on Thursday, are also likely to rouse some serious nostalgia for a New York that somehow got away.

At least three pictures at this year’s festival take an unusually deep look at the city as it roiled its way through the messy, magnificent, slightly mad 1970s.

In Toronto. The New York of the North. Maybe next year we can see a movie about disaffected, slurry, and strangely interconnected people moping around sun-soaked Los Angeles. At a film festival in Vancouver or something.

Competitive people are assholes, and there are too goddamn many of them here!

Never one miss out on a trend, Rumer Willis became the latest celebrity to don an amorphous potato sack dress while out shopping in New York City. The House Bunny star felt the shapeless outfit leaves a lot to imagination while still being fashionable and wearable. Willis said, "So many guys are just dying to look down your shirt and this outfit prevents them. You can't get this milk for free. Oh no. Dinner at Dan Tana's, then it'll become a maybe."

[Photo Credit: Splash Pic]

*A Call To The Bullpen is a work of fiction. Although the pictures we use are most certainly real, Defamer does not purport that any of the incidents or quotations you see in this piece actually happened. Lighten up, people ... it's a joke.