The Reflective Rudy

His Honor Relishes Resurrection, Plots Future Stardom

And how about Bloomberg? My deputy Joe Lhota might have been prancing around the stage at B.B. King's as a victory-party master of ceremonies, but just a month before the election he was trying to put the votes together in the City Council to overturn term limits for me. Does anybody even remember that just a few weeks ago I met twice with Mike Long and once with his flunky candidate to get the Conservative line? I get to look like kingmaker when I was trying like mad to stay king. It was me they were going to have to pry off the chandelier. No one noticed that after I encouraged Mike to run and spend his multi-millions, I tried to pull the rug out from under him, pressuring my tabloid toasters, Albany, and everyone else at the council for four more years.

With that daunting prospect on the table, I shook down Bloomy for a three-month-or-more extension. I delayed and deadpanned the endorsement. I disappeared. But Garth had me on tape and everyone said that was all Bloomberg needed. Can you believe that my worst enemies from Reverend Ton to Two-Cities Ferrer to Che Ramirez to Swahili Radio actually wound up helping me name my own successor? Who's Bozo now? When will anyone notice that Minister Mouth is always on our team when the chips are down? Ask Cuomo. Ask Gore. Ask Abrams. Ask Green, now or in '86.

And now, Harvey Weinstein, the same guy who's bankrolling my Talk/Miramax books to the tune of millions, wants to do a remake of his 2000 Academy Award nominated Chocolat with Sharpton as the star and the Four Seasons as the set. Was the Rev's election-eve game—with Clinton coming to the rescue in an SUV only to be scared off by Sharpton-summoned press—a comic situation or a situation comedy? If the Rev is so nuts about the re-circulation of a Post cartoon, I guess that means he's boycotting his best friends in the war against Jesse, the Rupert gang, right? Hell, you could do a cartoon of Ton kissing their butt!

Look, it's been a tough year, but I still have so much to be thankful for, moving from dustbin to darling overnight. Judi can go anywhere with me now—she did the live, election-eve NY1 interview, standing for 15 minutes between Bloomberg and myself in super-Catholic Bay Ridge, and no one even blinked. After dinner with Judi, I come home late at night to Howard Koeppel's pad and see him and his young gay lover itching for bed. I call them the twin towers.

What did I do for all this revisionism? I held a few resolute press conferences. People were stunned that with thousands dead, I sounded caring. I nearly got killed in the Barclay Street building because my handpicked bunker was the first to blow up. It turned out that all the missing numbers I gave out were junk. I politicized the performances from the get-go by permitting the only Democrat I liked, Peter Vallone, to stand at my side. Then I tried to use the chaos to get me another term. Nothing mattered; the myth had taken on a steamrolling life of its own. This turkey will go on clucking long after Thanksgiving!

Research assistance: Sam Dolnick, Jeff Herman, Ari Holtzblatt, Rivka Gewertz, Whitney Kassel, Jill Nawrocki, Lisa Marie Williams, Katie Worth

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