Sal Albanese. Looking to be mayor of New York City. So who is he?
“Italian. My father came from Calabria in the ’50s. I went to John Jay, got a CUNY bachelor’s, a master’s in health and science and an NYU law degree.
“I taught school, math and science 11 years and law at John Jay. And became a state-trained drug-prevention specialist. The environment was tough, so I got involved in the school board. I repped my district 15 years. Civic activities started when I was not impressed with the authorities.
“My wife and I, married 40 years, met in college when she was 17 and I 19. She now works in a brokerage house. Both our daughters are teachers. We love Brooklyn. Best spaghetti and broccoli with red sauce in the world. I go to bed 11, up 6:15 a.m. Coffee’s already made. English muffin, orange juice, sometimes Danish. I can’t cook, but I can eat. Then, because of my phys-ed days, a half-hour of weights. I must lose 10 pounds.
“I was no great student. Our district had gangs. Academics wasn’t big. I loved baseball. A hundred of us tried out at Yankee Stadium. We got dressed in the locker room. I loved it.
“I believe in public service. I’m patient. Have self-control. Enjoy people. New York’s a tough town, 40 percent is foreign. But it’s been great to me, and you expect that going into the arena. The campaign prepares you. It’s boot camp . . . or marriage. Look, I’m an immigrant, independent, business, law, education, financial services. I have the best record.
“I lost running for office in ’97. In ’99, when Bloomberg contemplated running, I told him the press will attack. Careful what you say. Reporters travel with you. They throw stupid issues . . . ever smoke marijuana . . . opinion of Farrakhan . . . I mean, what’s Farrakhan got to do with running the city?
“I think low traffic bridges should have low tolls. And be cheaper at 2 a.m. Trucks stuck in traffic, congestion on the free 59th Street Bridge? Toll it. It’ll get less pollution.”
And if he blows Gracie Mansion?
“I’ll practice law. But you’ll miss the world’s best Italian food.”
TONIGHT, Cafe Carlyle debuts Pat Boone’s singer kid Debby with a nine-piece band . . . April 3 Lee Roy Reams at 54 Below . . . Jessica Simpson’s kid sister, Ashlee: “Jessica burps the alphabet better than me. She has better wind. She’s a much louder belcher.” . . . With TV’s “Bible” series, anyone know that in 1782 the Aitken Bible is the only version our Congress ever authorized? Anyone but me also know an Eliot Indian Bible exists? Only in Algonquin language? See? Pays to pay attention to me.
CANNOT confirm this, but I’m hearing that, asked when Michelle realized the best thing in the world for you is vegetables, Obama replied: “On our honeymoon.”
BRANSON, Mo., the longtime entertainers’ elephant graveyard, has gone the way of longtime entertainment. Vegas, sputtering. Cabarets with aged cigar-smoking emcees’ “A funny thing happened to me on the way to the proctologist,” finished. Vaudeville’s expiring faster than Biden’s future. That plus Obama’s plan to have the whole nation unemployed, nobody has money.
The Debbie Reynoldses, Wayne Newtons — no longer work Branson. Nothing’s headlining there but cheapo entertainment. It’s gone.
MATT Lauer. We began forever ago. He, anchoring Ch. 4 news. Me, skewering celebrities. Both discovered, appreciated and polished by WNBC-TV’s then-president Bill Bolster. Can’t spend years, day after pressured day in the same makeup room, same mirror, same greasepaint slapped on without an opinion.
He’s a good guy. A professional. On time. Does his job. Easy. Sense of humor. Hey, everyone’s got quirks or attitude except, of course, my own wonderful self. Comes with the territory.
Instantly a longtime show goes wonky, two things happen. Change the set. Change the star. Forgetting co-host clashes, maybe the format needs tweaking. Public’s fickle. Enough crappy cooking or cheapo fashion segments. He’s had a great gig, but possibly the rundown’s wearier than Matt.
NBC paid big because he’s the best. Now they want someone different? Fine. Book Andrew Dice Clay, and stop your spasms.
ZOOMING toward us is Pedro Almodóvar’s “I’m So Excited.” Sweet airplane movie about bombed working pilots, itchy gay stewards, passengers with seat belts on, off or up doing tricks even magicians shouldn’t try 35,000 feet over the Atlantic. Sony releases this airborne filth in the honeymoon month of June.
A GEORGE Stephanopoulos memory: “My first week in this city I got into Studio 54 and danced for 10 hours. At dawn, dragging back to Columbia’s freshman dorm, I thought, ‘Nothing like this in Cleveland. This is really living. It’s why I moved to New York.’ The next time I returned, Studio 54 refused me. I never got in again.”
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.