Black Friday

It's a sad day at the WP. Mr. B has left the building.

Actually, he has two more weeks, officially. But the end of an era is upon us.

I remember way back in 1993 when Mr. B was just a young pup, an intern with me in the halcyon days of Post journalism. That was back when circulation was over 800,000 on weekdays and 1.2 million on Sunday. Before pagers, before cellphones, before the internet, before blogs, before wikis. Before our increasing circulation decline and that unsettled feeling that bubbles beneath the surface of all newsrooms, in the face of a dying industry. It was back when anything seemed possible and our careers stretched endlessly before us.

Maybe Mr. B's departure is a metaphor for the time and place we're in now. Whatever the case, I pour beer for my homey who, come two weeks from yesterday, will not longer be here. RIP Mr. B.

Dead Horse

Mr. Bloomberg is never one to give up an argument. In fact, he's quite resilient. No matter how wrong he is about something, he won't give up trying to prove that he's right. Take this blog, for example. Since it is about him, he doesn't think it is funny, even though everyone agrees that it is! So, Mr. B goes about spending his time trying to think of ways to discredit me.

Today he asked AJ a question on her online advice column, saying he works with a guy who has lost his mind and started a blog about his colleagues. Mr. B thought it was hilarious! Of course, it wasn't. Then he sent me a link to an article about a reporter in Delaware who lost his job because he had a blog. Mr. B did not bother mentioning that the guy's blog was sexist, racist and included a "death list." This blog, of course, is slightly different!

But that's Mr. B. We call him Dead Horse, because he'll beat a dead horse over and over and over. (It's a play on the nickname we gave Mr. JJ, whom we refer to as High Horse when he has an A1 story and is too busy and self-important to talk to us. You know, he gives us either the JJ Stiff Arm or the JJ Fly Swat.)

Anyhow, I think any reasonable reader would agree: Mr. B should not be alarmed, annoyed or offended by this blog. He should be flattered. This blog is a song, a poem, an ode to the greatness that is Mr. B!

The JJ Lunch Bell

Everybody knows the drill.

Every day around 11:30, the JJ Lunch Bell rings and Mr. JJ starts looking to round up a lunchtime posse that usually includes Mr. Bloomberg, Sluggo and Yours Truly. Usually we try to hold off Mr. JJ until 12:30, which is a more reasonable lunch hour, but we're not often successful. If you wonder why, you don't particularly understand the true power of JJ's stomach.

In any case, more often than not, the Post cafeteria is the eatery of choice. And, more often than not, Mr. JJ gets the ultra, 32-ounce soup of the day, a size that I didn't even know existed, but Mr. Bloomberg swears was made expecially for Mr. JJ.

As Mr. JJ polishes that sucker off, arguing throughout the entire meal that if you remove the water from the soup, his portion of food is no bigger than what the rest of us are eating, Mr. Bloomberg and I usually make glib observations about our working conditions and our fellow employees. It's no different, really, than your typical Dilbert comic -- typical office drones commenting on conditions beyond their control.

Well, Mr. JJ won't stand for that one bit. On a good day, he tries to argue back, employing a position we call "management's eye view." On a bad day, Mr. JJ just up and walks away. His blood pressure is definitely UP!

I feel sad that Mr. JJ gets so frustrated with us. It's a matchup of the Unfailingly Sincere vs. the Neverendingly Ironic. It's a lopsided contest. Irony carries the day every time.

I Know You Are But What Am I?

One of Mr. Bloomberg's unfortunate habits is to try to match wits with me by simply coming back at me with the same dig that I first use on him. For example, when I started calling him "Freebie B", because he always takes free chocolates from the Metro desk even though he is now in Financial, he turned around and called me "Save a Buck." Well, the latest is that after Mr. B misbehaved and annoyed me, I put him on Nak Probation. What did he do in response? You guessed it, I'm now on "house arrest."

Pretty clever, hunh. No, I didn't think so either.

Reader Feedback

Well, it didn't take long for the buzz to start about "Mr. Bloomberg's World" and we wanted to share the feedback with you:

Skippy Chan: "Hey, guys, this is a groovy blog! But don't forget: I have filed 33 more FOIA requests than Mr. B!"
The Peanuts: "We love it! More stuff for us to gossip about instead of actual work! Rock on!!"
Hip Hop Intern: "Shut up! Sit down! You wack! ... Do it, do it, give ya a dolla!"
G.S.: "Good, good."
Mr. JJ: "So many chuckles that my blood pressure is DOWN!"
Sluggo Weiss: "Is this blog going to compete with DC Dish?"

Mr. Bloomberg's Secret Life

I have debated in my own head whether I should even post this entry. After all, Mr. B loves his privacy. But I've decided that this story must be told. In the name of truth, justice and the Nakman way.

Mr. B has many friends who love to invite him to parties and dinners and outings on the town. Mr. B always is first to show up and last to leave. That's another reason we love him, because we can depend on him to attend our events. He often comes to my house, for example, for parties or dinners or to watch football, which he hates! Once he came to my beach house in Rehoboth. He even comes with me to Asian American Journalists Assoc. events even though he isn't a member and has never once paid any dues!

Mysteriously, however, Mr. B has never had a party himself, even though he has a super, duper deluxe luxury condo next to Mr. Wash in fast-gentrifying Logan Circle. Mr. B is very private and secretive. Before he had a cell phone, Mr. B's phone line was often busy for up to 5 or 6 hours each night. I know because one night I called him every 20 minutes, as a sort-of experiment. I started to wonder what he was up to. But Mr. B never did say what it was. He'd hem and haw and say, "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeelllllll" but never did he reveal his secret life.

It remains one of the true regrets in my life that I have never been able to strip past the hardened veneer and get to know the real Mr. B.

Quote of the Year

Of all the great quotes, my favorite is when Mr. Bloomberg says: "I don't understand!"

He says it a lot. Like when he's talking to a source and the source says he attended a meeting at 3:01 p.m., but Mr. B has a document that says the source went to that meeting at 3:03 p.m. Mr. B will say, plaintively, "I don't understand. ... Let's go over this again."

Why "The Peacock"?

One of the questions I get on a daily basis is, Why, pray tell, is Mr. Bloomberg known as "The Peacock"? Well, glad you asked. It all began a few years ago when Mr. B would tag along with me and my friends Y and A and we'd go dancing at some D.C. nightspots, like Dream on New York Avenue. Well, Mr. B LOVES to dance, even though it is clear he's the whitest white man alive, if you catch my drift. For example, he once bought a Nelly CD and was so proud, but the only song he listened to was "Hot in Heere." So when, say, "Air Force Ones" was playing in my car, Mr. B would be like: "Who's that?" And I would be like: "Uh, that's Nelly, featuring Murphy Lee ... Uh, don't you own this CD, Mr. B?"

Anyhow, Mr. B always rushed to the dance floor to do his dance, but my friend Y noticed, to her chagrin, that no matter what song was bumping, Mr. B would do the same dance. Mr. B would raise his arms in the air at his sides, then bob his torso side-to-side like a metronome, except with less regular rhythm. And his head would go the opposite direction, front to back, completely contradicting his body. Well, Y took one look at that and said: "Ewwwwwwww, he's doing The Peacock!" The name caught on, even if the dance did not. The nickname was particularly astute because it also described WHY Mr. B likes dancing so much: Like a real peacock, Mr. B likes to spread his wings to attract the ladies.

The good thing about the Peacock is that he kept doing it and doing it and doing it. He wasn't bashful! That's why we love the Peacock!

Welcome

Hello, party people. Here's the site you've been waiting for where you can read all the daily wisdom and insight from and about your boy, Mr. Bloomberg, aka The Peacock, aka Mr. Secret Life, aka Pedantic B, aka Freebie B, aka Green Thumb B, aka FOIA B, aka Boogie Board B, aka Probation B.

Mr. Bloomberg says: "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllllllll!"