By Alan S. Chartock

The first thing the new governor has to do is to get the state’s fiscal house in order. That must happen immediately because in a year, the state’s election cycle will start all over and if Andrew Cuomo waits until then, it will be too late. Cuomo is lucky because as a political genius, he has rounded up the two most powerful publishing magnates in New York: Rupert Murdoch and Mort Zuckerman, the billionaires who, by ordering up editorials in the New York Post and Daily News, can make or break a politician. These two men will back Cuomo on his rush to fiscal austerity and will punish him if he waivers on his “New Democrat” principles.

Cuomo has to submit a budget that will make everyone who depends on government weep. We are talking about, among other things, class sizes in our schools, depletion of the state’s civil service ranks, pension and Medicaid reform. Not-for-profit agencies will suffer great reductions because the Legislature and its infamous member items will not be permitted the largesse of the past. If Cuomo wants to be president of the United States, he will have to convince the rest of the country that he means to be the bluest of blue dog Democrats. He’ll have to be ruthless. As the famous political operative, college professor and lobbyist Norman A. Adler said of Andrew in the New York Times, “He didn’t ream people out. He’d cut your legs and knees off while you were sleeping.”

So what do you do if you are a union leader in New York? You spend what dollars you have screaming that Cuomo is a sell-out to the working people. You buy TV ads that show mental patients languishing in closed wards. You show crowded schoolrooms and a child with tears in her eyes because she doesn’t have books. This time, because union leaders’ survival will be at stake, the union PR campaign will be extremely tough. There is a lot of money left in the Cuomo campaign accounts. Thanks to his Republican opponent Carl Paladino, Cuomo didn’t spend what he might have spent in a tougher race. If he needs to, he’ll buy his own ads to counter those of the unions and he’ll have those powerful newspapers behind him writing supportive stories that make light of the unions. Even the New York Times, which seems deeply suspicious of Cuomo, will have to go along. It isn’t as if they haven’t had to learn the hard way themselves about fiscal austerity and cutting back. The usual groups that descend on Albany in an annual pilgrimage will be told “no.” The union leaders will make a show of it but they will know that as the ranks of their members are thinned, those who are out and who are the most furious will not get a vote. Only the ones left standing will determine the fate of the leaders.

As always, the people who are most dependent on government will be hurt the most. The truth is that these folks vote the least and will be asked to take a disproportionate share of the pain. The new Republican majority in the U.S. House of Representatives will have a huge say in the federal budget negotiations, and when blue-state New York makes its case, it will be told to drop dead. Of course, real political courage will be in short supply. Shelly Silver will fight like hell for those in his Democratic conference who understand what the political consequences of the cutbacks in their districts will be. But even Shelly will know that the cupboard is bare and the most he will be able to fight for will be table scraps.

Cuomo will say—and mean—“No new taxes.” Shelly will fight for “revenue enhancers.” The line will be held and Shelly will have to compromise. Many people, including a lot of sacred cows, will be hurt. When the smoke clears, you will see a leaner, meaner state bureaucracy, but you will also see closed parks, schools and rest stops. There is no way out.

Now Cuomo has to govern. In a strange way, he also got lucky because of the fiscal mess the state is in. Right now, things are really bad in New York State. There is a huge structural deficit. New York can’t print money like the federal government, so the deficit has to be addressed. The Democrats know it, the Republicans know it, Sheldon Silver, the powerful Assembly Speaker, knows it and certainly Andrew Cuomo knows it.
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Alan S. Chartock is president and CEO of WAMC/Northeast Public Radio and an executive publisher at The Legislative Gazette.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

I’ve had a taste of fascism. It’s called the M15 express bus, whose route goes north on First and south on Second.

Let’s begin at the beginning. I got on at 14th Street. Having just missed the local, I wandered up the block where a crowd was gathering. I figured it was a bus stop for the new limited line when I saw those machines on the sidewalk. I stood in front of one as it mocked me: “Go ahead. Try to figure out how to get a ticket.” (FYI: Customer ambassadors are no longer on hand to help.)

I’m pretty quick on the pick-up, so I pushed the silver button on the center panel, stuck my Metrocard in the slot to the right, and grabbed my receipt, which spit out on the left. (The MTA website offers an instructional video at www.mta.info/news/stories/?story=124).

While I was training myself on how this thing works, the bus had arrived and people were getting on through the front, middle and back doors. A creature of habit, I chose the front, where a clueless woman boarded and tried to use her Metrocard. I had one of those glad-it’s-you-not-me moments.

The bus driver, who had probably had this same, “But why can’t I use my card?” conversation more times that day (week, month) than one human being is meant to endure, directed the passenger, rather loudly, to, “Go get a ticket from the machine. What do you think they’re there for?” By the time the woman figured out the press button/pop in Metrocard/receipt pops out rhythm, the doors were closed and the bus was on its way.

Next stop: 25th Street.

“Get out your receipts,” we were instructed over the loudspeaker.

Sighs and eye rolls abounded. Everyone held theirs up in that, “I dare you to give me grief over this” New York way. Checking everyone’s ticket wasted a good 10 minutes. (Weren’t these buses supposed to save time?) While we were waiting, the woman seated next to me shared that this is how the bus system works in Europe. If I wanted to do things the way they do them in Europe, I would probably move there.

The inspectors left the bus and with them took one prisoner, I mean passenger. Yes, they had caught themselves a real, live non-receipt holder. The rest of us watched as Mr. Free Ride stood in the bus shelter attempting to talk himself out of the ticket that the fare inspector, unmoved, continued writing. I found out a summons is $100. Hardly seems worth it to try and beat the fare.

Along the way, we had a couple more, “But why can’t I use my Metrocard?” episodes. Those aside, we made it to 86th Street without incident.

Even though I traveled a straight run up the avenue, I got the 411 on how to get on a connecting bus: board through the front door, show your receipt and ask the driver for a transfer. Also, if you buy your machine-generated ticket for the express, but the local comes first, you can use it to get on that bus instead.

All and all, it doesn’t seem that complicated once you get the hang of the curbside machines. After all, we managed to get used to Metrocards despite years of carrying tokens around. And really, what choice do we have? Taxi fares are going up yet again.
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Bette Dewing

I clip enough from The Daily News, The New York Times, this paper and sometimes the NY Post, to fill a 600 word bi-weekly column a dozen times over. And on every walk or ride on the bus (what else?), there’s more to report, too much that “doesn’t like me.”

The “doesn’t like me” phrase was coined by Bess, my dear and greatly missed mother-in-law on her 81st birthday. “These eighties don’t like me,” she wryly observed. Bess had the gift of speaking hard truths in a no-nonsense but very likeable way. Her chronic knee-arthritis had deprived her of being able to walk around her Chicago neighborhood. We hear what a hardship automobile country is for elders when they have to give up driving, but far worse is having to give up walking—or in truth, have walking “give up” on you.

About this “doesn’t like me” way of critiquing, lamenting and protesting—it’s something that all of us should adopt!

For example, “I hate traffic law-breaking motorists, bicyclists and heedless scooter riders, walkers and joggers!” would become, “They hate me!” Let’s put the blame where it belongs.

And again we are reminded of how the new city hybrid bus interiors surely do “hate us” with their cramped and multi-level design. We must get our laments in soon, however, because they’re ordering more. This is on the advice of Katie, a representative of the Straphanger Campaign. Let’s share our grievances with Joseph Smith, president of the MTA Bus Company, at 646-252-5872. Katie, incidentally, finds these buses that are operating on First and Second Avenues “really quite great.”

So call Smith and 311 and pressure media and elected officials who don’t see the total picture when going “green.” Most of them haven’t thought about the total bus experience but only “fast,” not “comfortable” or even “safe.”

The Civitas civic group’s rider survey on the new Select Bus System on First and Second avenues also needs feedback. Businesses in the area really “hate” the resulting parking and delivery restrictions from the new system. Although the survey can be found on the web at www.surveymonkey.com/s/Q32XJ5W; knowing that many bus riders don’t have this option, I say also call Civitas at 212-996-0745.

Well, The Times seemed to like my letter about the judge who charged a 4-year-old girl with negligence after she rode her bike with training wheels into an 87-year-old woman, knocking her to the ground. The woman suffered (the right verb!) a broken hip and died several months later, which columnist Susan Dominus said was from “unrelated causes.” Oh?

In the letter, I blamed parents and other adult caregivers for failure to train their charges to ride safely and to be concerned for others sharing our cities crowded walkways. I’m more afraid of children wheeling on walkways than adults illegally wheeling because of youngsters’ “inexperience” and their undeveloped sense of safety. I know of two serious (one ultimately fatal), accidents caused by heedless child-wheelers.

Of course, crossing-the-street danger from adult “traffic law-haters” is far worse. But for the safety of both bicyclist and other city travelers, a city bike should make a nice little sound—little jingle bells. But a very traffic-safety concerned bicyclist friend responds with “It would drive bicyclists crazy!”

But you can’t have it all, Charlie! It’s not a right, but a privilege to bring private wheels into a high-density city, one with much public transit. And prudent pedestrians, who bring only themselves into a crowded city, do have a right for safe and low-stress passage. So do public transit riders.

Cameras will now catch motorists riding in the Select bus lane. How about bicyclists? Of course, that would mean a license plate. Safety First persons would definitely love that! So would some bicyclists.
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dewingbetter@aol.com

By Jeanne Martinet

I was on deadline for a project. I was stressed out. I was also out of food and coffee. With the clock ticking, I grabbed the first hat I could find and jammed it over my unwashed head, and pulled on a pair of old walking boots (with no socks—a look which I must say did not help matters since I was also wearing a mid-calf-length mu-mu). I had gone half a block when suddenly, there he was: an ex-boyfriend, coming right at me. I tried to hide (which in pedestrian-terms means looking the other way and walking fast), but it was too late. He had spotted me. I cringed inwardly as he greeted me by kissing my unwashed, unpowdered cheek. “Of all the sidewalks in all the neighborhoods in all of Manhattan, he walks onto mine,” I thought gloomily on the way home.

But of course, this kind of unexpected encounter happens all the time. It’s a part of Murphy’s Law—or rather, Finagle’s Law, which takes Murphy’s further: “Anything that can possibly go wrong will—at the worse possible moment.” If you absolutely do not want to run into your ex-boss, you absolutely will, and not only that, it will be with mustard on your chin and your fly unzipped. Slip out in your torn sweats for a pizza or a bagel, and there they are: the agent who turned down your play, the community board member you had a big fight with at the last meeting, the man you had a date with who you never called back. It’s no good trying to protest, “Darn, this is the one day I did not put any makeup on, and I run into you!” This is just like saying, “I really look better than this.” Who cares, or even believes you? Because you still look horrible right now, and apologizing for it will not erase the current image of you with blue ink on your face.

Suburbanites and small town-ers will tell you that it is worse for them, because everyone they know goes to the same stores. A friend of mine wailed recently, “You are so lucky to live in a big place like New York City! I want to be anonymous! In my town, I have to be on my toes every minute.” I tried to explain to her that in Manhattan, there is really no such thing as anonymity—only the illusion of anonymity. When you walk out onto the crowded streets, you may feel as if you have Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility pulled over you, as you make your way through the bustle. The idea that millions of people live here tricks you into thinking you can make it there and back unscathed by any unwanted social encounters, and then—whammo! Surprise attacks in the city can occur in a store, on the bus or on the subway, but most happen on the sidewalk. (My friend John keeps running into his old barber, who likes to stand outside his shop when he is not busy. The barber will greet him, “Hey, haven’t seen you lately,” with a critical look at John’s unkempt head. This kind of thing cannot happen in a place where people drive cars everywhere.) Also, you never know who might suddenly pop up in New York. People visit or move here all the time. If you live in Memphis, and your long lost boyfriend lives in Sonoma, you do not expect to run into him on the street, but it is possible in New York.

Can you pre-arm yourself somehow? Actors wear big hats and weird glasses so they won’t be recognized. You could try this incognito trick, but with the time it takes to create a disguise, you may as well just go ahead and put on a new shirt and some lipstick. The best thing to do is keep a good lookout as you make your foray out into the world. If you see the person first, you can look the other way and try to walk by quickly, or whip your cell phone out and walk fast while you are on it, with your head down. Maybe the other person will be so engrossed in texting or talking to someone else that she won’t notice you.

Of course, if you are really lucky, she will be on deadline, too—and look even worse than you.

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Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Matchmaker, matchmaker, go back to L.A.

Bravo’s reality series Millionaire Matchmaker is filming this season in Manhattan instead of Los Angeles. The show’s star, Patti Stanger, will fit in quite nicely with those competitive New Yorkers who often don’t live up to their own hype.

We all know them: the colleague who sharpens a pencil and acts as though they’ve cured cancer; the friend who must one-up you even if it’s over one more slice of bacon on his BLT; and the mom who declares her child “gifted” even though his class rank or position on the team is no more impressive than anyone else.

Watching the program’s wacky west coasters embarrass themselves on dates has given me hours of amusement. Now that it’s in my own backyard, though, I’m not laughing.

First, let’s define “millionaire.” On both coasts, Stranger’s are not the high-society, captains-of-industry types, but more of the millionaire-next-store ilk. They aren’t exactly inaccessible; but, as are those who work paycheck-to-paycheck, often just too busy for “the hunt.”

Enter the abrasive, Jersey-born Stanger (note: the doctor cannot heal herself, and remains unmarried), who bills herself as a third-generation matchmaker with a phenomenal record of helping wealthy people find their soul mates.

Except that she doesn’t. What puzzled me from watching the L.A. franchise is her abysmal rate of failure. Why would anyone put their business on national television and week after week disprove their bragging rights that they are the best at what they do?

In the show’s first NYC episode, her challenge was to set up two owners of a very lucrative Internet businesses. The million-dollar man was 40-years-old and looking for a wife. Patti honed in on the problem: His usual choice of young, hot party-girl does not a Mrs. make.

She set up a mixer for him to meet more serious, accomplished, age-appropriate women, of which New York has a plethora. But also invited twenty-somethings. (Why? Didn’t she say they were his downfall?) Guess whom Mr. Creature-of-habit chose and whose date didn’t work out?

Stanger, like all those who screw up their assignments, looked for someone else to blame—in this case, her intern.

Her other client, the million-dollar woman, didn’t fare any better. This time though, Stanger laid the fault at the feet of the single-mother, who was deemed too picky. Then, like those GOING OUT OF BUSINESS store salespeople who can’t convince you their cheap wares are “better than Sony,” Stanger yelled at her paying customer, “There’s the door. Go.” She declared the rejected men “great,” even though they didn’t meet the client’s requirements.

Yet none of this stops Stanger from proclaiming, “New York needs me.”

Like we need another bagel store.

This is yet another NYC reality show that does us no justice. For her get-togethers, Stanger manages to find the handful of women here who don’t own a little black dress, as well as guys who don’t own suits. Giving her license, by the second episode, to snap with superiority, “This is the fashion capital of the world, yet no one knows how to dress.” Where is she looking? Not at the elegant denizens on Madison, or Boho chic-sters downtown or the tailored execs in Midtown. She also claimed that, “No one here gets mani/pedis or waxes.” How does she explain the nail salons on practically every corner?

If you really want someone to help you snag a rich New York spouse, forget Millionaire Matchmaker and seek counsel from someone who’s already done it for herself. Anyone got an email address for Melania Trump?
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Alan S. Chartock

If there is a single thing we saw in this year’s election cycle, it is the futility of incredibly long campaigns that last, sometimes, for years. Some may argue the point, saying that you have to “stage” an election and that the millions of dollars and huge numbers of hours that are devoted to the campaigns pay dividends. To counter that idea, consider the possibility that voters are really not all that stupid and sometimes actually know what they want. In this case, they didn’t make up their minds until the very last week of the campaign. They are even able to decide which of the lesser of two evils they are willing to put up with. Andrew Cuomo was a central figure throughout the process. Carl Paladino self-destructed and lost his angry edge when he went too far. Still, despite his gaffes and considering all the tabloid attacks in the New York Post and the Daily News, he did extraordinarily well, proving that homophobia and racism still sell.

Cuomo must have had an awful lot of people thinking about him with reservations. I suspect that part of the reason why Republican Comptroller candidate Harry Wilson and Republican Attorney General hopeful Dan Donovan did so well, closing like crazy at the end of the election cycle, was that people wanted someone looking over Andrew’s shoulder. Nor was Cuomo particularly helpful to either Democratic Attorney General candidate Schneiderman or incumbent Democratic Comptroller Tom DiNapoli. At least one insider suggested to me that Andrew wants in with the millionaires club—Rupert Murdoch, Michael Bloomberg and Daily News owner Mort Zuckerman—in order to move on to the presidency.

The races for District Attorney and Comptroller told us a lot about voter attitudes. I sat on a panel of questioners for one of the debates between Dan Donovan, the Republican District Attorney from Staten Island, and Eric Schneiderman, the brilliant lawyer and State Senator. Schneiderman had an expansive view of the DA’s office; he would continue in the tradition of Andrew Cuomo, whom he called the “Sheriff of Wall Street” (that was actually Spitzer’s title). Schneiderman was endorsed by the New York Times, and Donovan by the New York Post. Harry Wilson, the Republican candidate for Comptroller, was endorsed by most of the major editorial boards. With all that going against him, it was extraordinary that Tom DiNapoli, a very nice man, did as well as he did. His opponents tried their best to tie him to the disgraced Alan Hevesi and to Speaker Sheldon Silver who appointed him to a thankless job in a time of lean when all pension funds took a major hit. The degree of momentum Wilson had going for him toward the end was fascinating because almost no one knew who he was.

One didn’t need a crystal ball to see what happened in the State Senate coming. The unhappy and frustrated voters of Long Island and Westchester threw out the Democrats in the last election cycle. The momentum continued in this election. There were enough marginal Senate Democrats to make a difference this contest. It didn’t help the Democrats that their performance has been terrible since they took control two years ago. It was as if they were taking instructions from “Loser Central.” The middle-class voters didn’t trust them and they only have themselves to blame for their problems.

As one friend put it, “They were like kids in a candy store, stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down.” I responded, “More like thugs in a candy store.”

The fact that State Inspector General Joe Fisch came out with a blockbuster report damning the way in which the big Aqueduct gambling contract was awarded didn’t help inspire any appreciation for them. Senate Republican Leader Dean Skelos had to have been kneeling by his bed, praying, “Dear God, please let these people keep behaving as badly as they are.”

People took a long time to make up their minds, but in the end, they tried to balance their bets. Unfortunately, my bet is that nobody learns anything from what we’ve just seen.
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Alan S. Chartock is president and CEO of WAMC/Northeast Public Radio and an executive publisher at The Legislative Gazette.

By Bette Dewing

West Side Spirit’s “Building Service Workers Awards” section from last week’s edition has great news to live by—for everyone, but above all, for local policymakers. So please read it online or contact the paper for a copy. Read, share, emulate.

No, my column wasn’t in this “required reading issue,” but its “voice in the wilderness” and cries to advance our “village” and caring community, were mightily exampled in the 11 page profiles of the winners.

Share it with young people especially, who recent research finds are becoming increasingly less empathetic and concerned with the welfare of others. Small wonder, given the anti-empathy, the me-first themes that rule media, entertainment and the Internet. And the performer Lady Gaga is the number one Halloween costume of choice this year. Help!

All ages should read these stories where empathy and going the second mile is part of the winners work equation. Doing good deeds is the rule, not the exception or reserved for special occasions or only for certain tenants. All faith clergies could learn how their “love one another” creeds are acted out in their own backyard and could be acted by their congregations and parishes too.

This great believer in uplifting song power (everyone singing!) says, help the cause and revive old/good-timey tunes like: “You’ll find your happiness lies right under your eyes, back in your own backyard” and, of course, everyone’s favorite, “It’s a wonderful world.”

“Love thy neighbor” is sure appropriate with noisy ones being the number one lament to 311. Building workers are the front line of dealing with all manner of, unneighborly behavior and conflict.

Gee, this column didn’t start out to be about songs—but they sure help tell a story. So here’s to songs about building workers who create the village/community we need.

Such songs raise awareness of all the works that building service requires: the mental and physical multi-tasking, and being tactful to the untactful. Their street and building smarts are too little heeded by the bosses. And many have lengthy commutes in all types of weather, in darkness of night and early morning—and subway and bus service keeps getting cut.

These “everyday people” are often more like family than family for some residents, especially, but not only, for the elder ones. But one elder says her next annual greeting card shows a photo of her doormen and super. You get the picture.

Those alone, especially elders, know if they don’t show up at the usual time, the doormen will worry and check. These building workers have an empathic ear and response for the problems that tenants may share—more severe now with lost jobs and foreclosures.

And how we need a song about Rose, a truly neighborly East Side neighbor who fell outdoors two years ago with a second surgery needed. And when she finally, fairly recovered (thankfully she had a close and nearby family), she fell in her apartment. Ensuing weeks of surgery and multiple complications sadly caused Rose’s departure from this life two weeks ago.

Rose would surely head the list of doormen’s “favorite tenants.” She was always so concerned with their welfare, and how upset she’d be about Jose, one of her building workers, when he badly fractured one of his feet when it was struck by a car!

Her empathic and neighborly ways were what so endeared her to the staff and to those neighbors who welcomed “the village” Rose helped to create.

Again, read, share and emulate the Oct. 21 “Honoring the City’s Best Building Workers Award” section stories. And remember Rose.
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dewingbetter@aol.com

By Jeanne Martinet

I have to confess something: I have a serious soft spot for the flier guy.

All my friends think I am crazy—not to mention totally un-green. “Fliers cause major litter,” one told me. “They are killing trees!” exclaimed another. Most people feel that the flier guy is just a person who is in your way when you are trying to get somewhere. All this is certainly true. But the flier guy is also, in my opinion, a vibrant part of our urban landscape.

I’m not talking about the person who stops me on the street to convince me to vote for someone or donate money to a good cause. I’m talking about the guy who stands outside the eyeglass store on 96th Street handing out offers for discount glasses, or the guy on 103rd who is promoting 2-for-1 pizza night. Unlike an encounter with a “non-profiteer,” the exchange with the flier guy is quick and painless. You are not at all obligated to respond. He doesn’t really care whether or not you like what he is handing you; he is only asking that you help him do his job by accepting a piece of paper from him. Presumably, he is doing this for a low per-hour, or per-flier fee. When I accept a flier, it feels like an easy way to help someone who is struggling get ahead. Not that flier guy isn’t aware you are probably going to immediately throw it away. The exchange with the flier guy is like a game of hot potato in slow motion.

Many pedestrians will walk right by the flier guy, ignoring him as if he were an overly aggressive pigeon. Some people become “flier-swatters” and actually bat the paper away. I myself always try to make eye contact and smile at the guy as I take a flier. I will wait until I am about a block away before discarding it. I don’t want the trash can right on his “beat” to be filled; I feel it is kinder to have him believe that he is reaching people, that I am taking the time to at least glance at the paper before I toss it.

But even I don’t always love the flier guy. If I am very late for something he can be an annoyance; moreover, not all of them follow what I think of as proper Flier Guy Protocol. If the person is blocking the subway entrance, I will refuse the flier. (Sometimes I feel like saying, “You are not going to get anywhere standing here! People are trying to catch a train!”) The other big flier guy sin, in my book, is to aggressively thrust a flier at me when my hands are obviously full. (Am I supposed to take it with my teeth?) The most efficient flier guy makes eye contact, smiles, avoids getting in people’s way and aims for empty hands. And while flier guy styles vary from the polite offer to the theatrical brandish, there are some guys who are true artists and manage to get the thing into your hand before you even know what is happening. When the guy is doing his job well I will often have a fleeting impulse to stop and chat with him (“Where are you from? Do you do this freelance or are you a store employee? Do you hate this job?”) Maybe some day I will even hand something promotional of mine back to the flier guy: “Here, I’ll trade you!”

I realize that in a perfect world all commerce would be conducted without using paper. But to me the flier hand-out is part of the marvelous mayhem of New York City street life—one of the things that makes the city rich, complex and stimulating. New York has always been roiling with people selling things, yelling things and interacting in all kinds of ways. Sidewalk hawkers are part of the deal. Engaging with the flier guy helps make us participants connected to our surroundings rather than invisible beings floating anonymously along. And whether it’s a “Jesus Came From Outer Space” pamphlet, an announcement about a new karaoke club or just a smile of gratitude from a stranger, sometimes the flier guy provides you with something that can make your day just a little more interesting.
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Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

“Step right up, folks! We’ve got arcade games and prizes, stilt-walkers and circus performers, magicians, jugglers and a 50-foot Ferris Wheel!”

On Columbus Day, I took my daughter and her friend to the Park Avenue Armory, whose 55,000-square-foot hall was transformed into a fantastical carnival.

Traditionally, these traveling circuses were meant to bring relief from the tedium of daily life with attractions like the half man/half woman, contortionists and sword swallowers.

Although we enjoyed our time there immensely, these past couple of months has proved to me that Manhattan doesn’t need an actual midway to distract us, since a carny-like atmosphere is often created by our day-to-day, nonstop sideshows.

We now live in a post-Waiting for Superman world where people are appalled to “learn” what everyone has known all along: there are subpar educators out there who can’t be fired no matter how bad they are at their jobs.

Melissa Petro, the former sex worker turned New York public school art teacher, wasn’t one of them. She did her job well, was liked by her co-workers and students and was only punished by the school district when her past came to light.

I think what bothered many people more than her stripping and hooking was the fact that she openly talked about it, choosing not to let it be a dirty little secret of which she would have to live in fear of exposure.

Petro did the work needed to go from the world’s oldest profession to the noblest one, making her the perfect example of how people who have made a poor choice can actually turn their lives around.

What is the impetus for people to improve themselves or their situations if what they did before is always going to be held against them? I argued to my friends.

Mayor Bloomberg obviously didn’t agree with me and ordered the tenured-teacher out of the classroom.

Weeks later, I watched his press conference regarding an unrelated matter, where he declared that in this city, “tolerance defines us.” It was like looking in a funhouse mirror that distorts everything.

Next, you could have knocked me over like the milk bottle pyramid at which you throw softballs to win the giant panda. Two homophobes decided to gay bash a man in the Stonewall Inn—the birthplace of the gay rights movement, as well as the establishment where I believe the phrase “bash back” originated. Apparently, the assailants had not known the place’s history. They live on Staten Island—under a rock.

Then it was time for something as light and fluffy as cotton candy. The Kardashians moved in (temporarily, I hope) to open a clothing store downtown. Because this family will not blow its collective nose without cinematic documentation, their exploits will be a new reality show titled, Kourtney & Kim Take New York!

Lastly, there was the day I awoke to Carl Paladino on TV claiming to embrace the gay community, on the heels of saying that homosexuality was not “an equally valid and successful option.” He argued that someone else had written his remark and he hadn’t wanted to say it. But he did say it, as well as some cracks about the Gay Pride Parade. He apologized to the gay community, but lost the support of those who agreed with the original statement that he didn’t want to make in the first place. My head started spinning as though I’d just gotten off the Tilt-A-Whirl.

Well, no one ever said living here was dull. That’s part of the beauty of NYC; you can’t guess what’s going to happen next. Or in carnival parlance: Round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows.
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Jeanne Martinet

The cocktail party was crowded, as every self-respecting cocktail party should be. I was therefore making depressingly slow progress in my foray to the bar, during which I overheard the following conversation:

“So how are you doing these days?” asked one man, sipping his drink.

“It’s been pretty tough. And you guys?” said another man. He was wearing a wine-colored bow tie. (It’s a fact that parties on Park Avenue contain more bow ties per capita than parties in any other neighborhood.)

“Horrible,” replied the first. “We haven’t had any profits in two months and now our health insurance went up again.”

“You think that’s bad,” said Mr. Bow Tie. “I lost my job nine months ago; I’m losing my insurance altogether.”

“Jesus, sorry to hear that. Well, at least you don’t have that terrible commute to New Jersey anymore. I’ve been having to go there to visit my sick aunt and it takes forever.”

Mr. Bow Tie nodded eagerly. “I wish my relatives were in New Jersey. I’ve been traveling to Philadelphia every weekend to take care of my mother-in-law. Try that for a couple of months.”

Hello? I thought. What is wrong with this picture? Exactly when did complaining become a competitive sport? What happened to bragging about fabulous Caribbean vacations, or the perfect tennis game? When did one-upmanship become one-downmanship?

New York City has always engendered a competitive spirit. It’s almost as if in order to compensate for how expensive and hard it is to live here, we have to believe everything—including people who move here—is the best, the biggest, the most, the ultimate. Moreover, to survive, you needed to present a positive image; you were always supposed to project confidence. Now it seems we are taking the opposite tack. Ten years ago, when you heard people talking about real estate, it was usually about a killing they made. Now you are more likely to hear them say, “We bought our apartment at the height of the market; man, I really took a bath.” Instead of smug talk about the success of financial investments, now it’s a conversation about who has more credit card debt. And it’s not just conversations about financial matters. I hear people complaining about relationships, health, the weather—even their kids. Rather than “My Johnny aced the SATs, we are so proud,” parents these days are more likely to complain, “For a kid who aced the SATs, my Johnny is certainly having trouble getting into the college of his choice. It’s a nightmare.”

Although more and more people seem to be in competition about how bad their lives are—instead of how good—it’s still about winning. You may be winning the Booby Prize, but it’s still a prize. As long as your case is the most extreme, you still get to feel superior. If you are the most miserable, the poorest, the unluckiest, that makes you the most important, most impressive person in the conversation.

It’s not surprising that people should complain during a Recession. If one-downmanship is a bellwether of the economy, perhaps we will know we are in economic recovery when we once again start bragging about our golf scores and country weekends.

But is one-downmanship a symptom of the state of our economy, or is it a symptom of the state of the economy experienced by a heretofore spoiled population? Have we all become whiners and crybabies? Maybe we’ve discovered that it feels better to be pitied than envied, and that vying for the bottom spot seems less egotistical than seeking praise. I can’t help wondering if social gatherings underwent this kind of conversational transformation during the Depression. I’m certain people talked about their troubles, but did they compete about them quite as much as we do now?

Right before I left the Park Avenue party, I happened to overhear the same two men, still tête-à-tête:

“Well, I’ve got to head out—I really should have left 10 minutes ago,” said Mr. Bow Tie.

The other man scoffed. “Ten minutes?! I was expected home two hours ago!”
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Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.