As A-Rod is the only man with a “Call Waiting” on his busy zipper, a voice from On High whispered to Miss Lopez, “You’ve already arrived.”
A born slugger, he is great with his bat – Madonna, Cameron Diaz, Kate Hudson, Demi Moore, Jennifer – Google lists 20 home runs for women.
Star connections follow a pattern: Meet. Date. Hide. Deny. Then photos of hugs closer than Biden and his helmet. Then the children play together. Then he talks about meetings. Engagement discussion. Live together talk. Discussion about marriage. But with these two that became BS It was, go slow … it works … the time is not right … pandemic.
I reported that they would not to marry. We knew. I reported that they would not and Mets. We knew. Then said OK, will buy another team. I reported he would not take another team. We knew. A) He had no money. B) No other team was for sale. C) Unloading a ball club on a previous drug addict? It’s not happening. From a financial point of view, it worked for a while. They bought real estate, lived in each one temporarily, repaired it, then resold it. To buy such a celebrity lifestyle, buyers paid well.
An employee wrapped this lady as a gift as “she’s not pretty.” I experienced this myself. Lopez just wants Lopez. He just wants her picture or talks about it in a piece of paper every day. Forget retouching the dirty word. But she’s not sitting on a couch either. Puff Daddy, Ben Affleck, Drake, A-Rod, several husbands. And another Boy Scout is already ready.
Listen, the birds do it, the bees do it, even the educators do it. He made money. He made honey. But even a Swiss watch stops. Remember, once, a long, long time ago, Mrs. Adams told you all this.
Just a little Kerry’d away
Another story. Sunday’s Post quoted a writer as saying that Andrew Cuomo’s ex-wife, Kerry Kennedy, was so “ridiculed, humiliated, assaulted” by him that she “slept in a locked bathroom.”
Years ago, Governor Mario Cuomo and his wife Matilda invited me to their table to listen to their son Andrew speak at a certain function. Small table. Just the three of us behind a ballroom. Introducing his wife Kerry, Andrew took a side step to give her the microphone. She talked about herself, about her activities, about her family, about her goals, about her plans, her abilities, for over 20 years !!! minutes. It never stopped while the evening star sat – unattended, excluded, alone, never caught – for 20 years painful minutes.
Neither Mario nor Matilda met my gaze. He didn’t even speak. Their faces, stiff. Looking straight ahead. Frozen with rage. Not knowing what to do, where to look, I canceled their next dinner and left.
I ask now – was she so hurt and assaulted? Are you crammed into John? Let no one say I don’t know what I’m talking about. I still have my column reporting it.
The night full of jam
Good evening from New York: I’m leaving a restaurant. But no car. Taking my housekeeper home, it broke down on the Brooklyn Bridge. It is dark, a dubious area, it is agitated, crowded in a broken vehicle, without dinner and it is late.
I’m taking a taxi. I’m bringing food to eat. The content is hot. The wet bag crumbled. The containers are spilled. I slip my sauce off my chair, the floor, my clothes and my friend. In melee, I lose a gold earring. The soaked leftovers – wet salad, wet pasta, hot stracciatella soup – flooded the kitchen floor and me. The phone is ringing. The dog barks. To hear she’s safe, I run to answer. And I slip on wet bread.
I crawl to the phone ringing. A friend tells me where it is: “In case.” In case why? In her car, in the middle of a lie, her car had just stopped dead on the way to Southampton. Completely dead. In the middle of the busy weekend traffic. Carrying food, a dog. He’s in panic mode. Why did he call me, who knows. But police cars came. Trailers have come. It’s over OK. She’s safe. Just a nice weekend night.
Only in New York, children, only in New York.