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Holiday Jitters

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Great hairy apes! Our mayor declared Monday to be King Kong Day—named for the gorilla, not the jackpot lottery. Which is, come to think of it, a pretty magnanimous gesture, given that this monstrous simian has been scaling our landmarks and killing our biplane pilots since 1933. Still, the city welcomed the dramatically slimmed-down Peter Jackson and his digitally bulked-up gorilla as they arrived for the premiere of King Kong, ready to face off against Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal, the closeted cowpokes of Brokeback Mountain, in a tag-team Oscar death-match. Critics applauded Brokeback’s wrenching love story, even as a State Appeals Court reversed a ruling that would have allowed gays to marry in New York. Elsewhere, Nicole Richie and Adam “D.J. AM” Goldstein reversed their own pro-marriage decision and broke up, while Jeanine Pirro stood by her husband, Al, as he secretly undermined her Senate campaign. The rest of us were busy ticking off our pre-holiday to-do lists: power shopping (check); hunting bears in New Jersey (check); undoing a year’s worth of carefully finessed office social-climbing with one drunken rendition of “Baby Got Back” at the company karaoke party (check). All this while struggling to find an extra ten minutes in the morning to gulp down our coffee—or get jacked up on the new coffee-infused Coca-Cola Blak—now that we risk $100 fines for sipping on the subway. Then again, the last thing we need is more jitters, given how on edge everyone’s been. Michael Cooke, the Daily News’ editor, quit to go back to Chicago. Don Forst, the editor of the recently sold Village Voice, resigned, too. NBA commissioner David Stern fretted like a headmaster that the Knicks’ Stephon Marbury and Nate Robinson were wearing their shorts too long. And in a blow for anarchic freedom, CBGB reached a deal to remain open for another year, heartening thousands of supporters still in thrall to the idea that the East Village has a thriving punk scene but who haven’t actually visited the club in years. Still, they own the T-shirt. Rock on.


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