Don’t worry, Bostonians: I’m staying in New York

BOSTON — Declining New Yorkers’ hajj to the south and Mar-a-Lago’s roughly $1,700 (including tip) per lettuce wedge, ravioli, tenderloin or bass — with heirloom carrots yet — Champagne and baked Alaska, plus joining in unison TV’s Times Square countdown, I in my wisdom went north.

To whipping winds, subzero ice, snowbanked blizzarded Boston. Glad I’m back. Back in New York from anywhere — but especially from New England.

The Boston Globe once wrote nasty about me, saying I’m no longer welcome. Seems years ago at their Red Sox toy stadium Fenway, I’d ordered a hot dog. Like what else would any hungry human watching a baseball game snack on — frog legs? That hot dog was beige! Beige. Ever see a beige hot dog? It looked like a Pekingese dropped it. Forget Nathan’s — this was Fido’s.

So I wrote about it. I wished them a kennelful. And the Globe — upon which my dog peed — wrote an editorial against me. Its days-ago front page had an ad for “country-style pork spare ribs, $1.69 a pound.” Front page! And they diss me?

So now, a century later, since I don’t appreciate Santa in shorts, I returned to Boston. It’s historic. Tea Party, Plymouth Rock, Freedom Trail, Ye Aulde Meeting House, Samuel Adams and his beer, Bunker Hill, Lexington (which they probably swiped from the intersection where our Bloomingdale’s sits) and Paul Revere’s one-if-by-land-two-if-by-sea. Had he ridden a donkey at this time of year, he’d have frozen his ass off.

Cold? Pizzerias used winter-weight olive oil. Hens laid eggs from a standing position. Even DiCaprio would’ve OK’d a modeling-agency reject. We’re talking Arctic frost. Blinding snow. Uniformed police stopped my Escalade. The punishable offense? Its license plate, entombed in ice thicker than Tonya Harding, wasn’t legible. Really? Here, with more universities than anywhere on Earth, what did this cop who flunked all three R’s prefer cover it — suntan oil?

May be the year of the ice cube

While Gisele Bündchen and Tom Brady strolled nearby, and Maggie Gyllenhaal said, “Only indie movies celebrate authentic stories about people,” some of us visited devoted friends in their country-style Massachusetts house.

Understand, its fireplace hadn’t been lit since the Revolution so the chimney sent “up yours” smoke signals. Thick black ash backed into what’s called their “great room.” The boiler, possibly installed in the late 1700s, offered a final wheeze and…

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