So we made it to Christmas. It isn’t a normal Christmas by any means: no holiday parties with sloshed colleagues, no late Manhattan nights with red and green lights flickering on chilly streets, no large gatherings or intimacy with our elder kin. As one of the proud New Yorkers who has yet to move to Florida, I can pretty much say that all I want for Christmas is a bar that stays open past 10 p.m.
Gov. Cuomo for well on 10 months has been doing his best John Lithgow impression, turning the most vibrant place in the world into the little town in “Footloose” — no dinners out, no movies, no joy. And he is convinced that Santa has a great present in store for him, even after he presented the restaurant workers of the city with a cold lump of coal, throwing them out of work days before Christmas based on unscientific, evidence-free reasoning.
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