As temperatures soared into the surreal realm of the high sixties last week, some wishful thinking seemed in order. Senator Hillary Clinton confidently dusted off her “vast right-wing conspiracy” theory, then proudly previewed a new Iraq strategy based largely on optimistic dreams. State Senator Joseph Bruno believed that the best way to negotiate with Eliot Spitzer was by telling him that Assembly leaders “are so far up your ass it’s ridiculous.” Al Sharpton assured the press that Barack Obama called him, that he returned the call, and that he expected another call momentarily.
A new poll indicated that Mayor Bloomberg would trounce Rudy Giuliani if New Yorkers could choose between the two for president — but as of now, of course, we can’t. John Dunleavy, the chairman of the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade Committee, thought he could bump firefighters from their customary spot at the head of the parade without igniting an inferno of bad publicity. A smoker busted in a Brooklyn subway station tried to get out of the ticket by pulling a six-inch knife on the approaching officer. (The cop shot at him five times.) Bernie Kerik humbly placed his faith in the criminal-justice system, declining a plea deal that would have left him wearing horizontal power stripes. Naomi Campbell said that she’s expecting her new gig with the Sanitation Department to be a walk in the park because yoga had her looking on the sunny side of things.
Lindsay Lohan kept moving ever forward when a paparazzo stepped in front of her BMW on Gansevoort Street at 3 a.m. A-Rod fantasized of a day when this grateful city would say, “Hey, we won a world championship, you had a big year … we want you back.” Pollyanna-ish Knicks chairman James Dolan lavished a generous contract extension on Isiah Thomas for getting sort of close to .500, adding that he refused “to rule out” a championship in 2007. And New Yorkers’ collective dreams of security were shattered by a West Village gunman, who murdered a bartender and two auxiliary cops before the police killed him in a shootout. —Mark Adams