Mike Bloomberg still driving out to dinner on Long Island

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Everyone’s managing in different ways. Mike Bloomberg, home on Long Island, phones friends, drives nearby for dinner, then back … Paul Anka sent a smart-mouth line about an acquaintance’s wife, like: “She’s getting used to staying in the closet and doesn’t mind the tape on her mouth” … Judge Judy walks a Florida beach 7 a.m. …

Everyone’s managing in different ways.

Mike Bloomberg, home on Long Island, phones friends, drives nearby for dinner, then back … Paul Anka sent a smart-mouth line about an acquaintance’s wife, like: “She’s getting used to staying in the closet and doesn’t mind the tape on her mouth” … Judge Judy walks a Florida beach 7 a.m. with a hat, mask, dark glasses … A counselor sent this out: “Stay inside, isolate, practice social distancing, clean yourself — OMG, I’ve become a house cat” … Bill O’Reilly’s new book “Killing Crazy Horse: The Merciless Indian Wars in America,” due now, was delayed “until Sept. 15 because of all the madness” … A fashion designer, who has no fashion to design, started moving her furniture around the living room to redecorate it. One friend sent her apartment’s blueprint: living room, master bedroom, bathroom, sauna, entryway, utility closet, etc. Above it came the printed headline: “my weekend plans” …

Me, I spent the weekend cleaning out a stuffed file drawer. In it, I found my husband’s divorce papers. We had been married 50 years. He was previously married for seven before. He passed away in 1999. Anybody really think I needed to keep his divorce papers?

Not real, but what we needed

We’re craving solace. Perhaps, like me, you were fooled by a recent letter being passed around from the great F. Scott Fitzgerald about the art of quarantine. South of France. 1920. The Spanish influenza outbreak. Joke’s on us because this parody letter was actually penned by a guy named Nick Farriella on the humor Web site McSweeney’s. It’s easy to take it as the real thing.

“A limpid dreary day, hung as in a basket from a single dull star … The streets are that empty … The bulk of the city has retreated to their quarters … seems very poignant to avoid all public spaces. Even the bars, as I told Hemingway, but to that he punched me in the stomach, to which I asked if he had washed his hands. He hadn’t … Officials have alerted us to ensure we have a month’s worth of necessities. Zelda and I have stocked up on red wine, whiskey, rum, vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it, brandy. Please pray for us … I focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe in a better morrow.”

Maybe not F. Scott Fitzgerald, but maybe Farriella has a future?

Pen’s not dry

It’s five weeks I have been barricaded at home. Column writing means disseminating information gathered at openings, events, premieres, galleries, dinners, interviews. With none happening, it now feels like the last gala I attended was Truman’s inauguration — and for sure that was not to report on Bess’ wardrobe. Or on their artifacts — such as recordings, books and Depends.

This week I look forward to maybe only a possible burp from Biden, which might be: “Hell, I’m too old to start running a 7-Eleven store.”

The New York Post’s Editor-in-Chief Stephen Lynch, stuffed with kindness, heart and caring, asked, “You OK? Under these circumstances, can you manage to continue?” Me, fearless warrior, a do-or-die loyal servant, answered: “Fear not, sire. I can continue.”

His reply: “Well, at least try to make it well-written.”

Meanwhile, in Connecticut, power went out with Tuesday’s storm. No john, no water, lights, heat, Internet, TV, no nothing. People who’d filled fridges with food because of the CV? All spoiled. They called for help, but nobody came. When a kennel rang to say their dogs were cold, the fire department rushed over.

Only in a state away from New York, kids, only in a state away from New York.