Oppressed In My Own Car

Don't get me wrong; I love my Volkswagen Passat, but sometimes I feel like I am living under a Nazi regime when operating the vehicle. It has very strict rules that I must abide by. I can picture the engineers in Wolfsburg, Germany creating the car in a very rigid manner.

For instance, the driver's seat belt must be fastened for all the functions to work. The car has a really neat feature called "auto hold" where you can take your foot off the break and the car stays put and then you can just hit the accelerator when you're ready to roll. The car will not allow me to do that without my seat belt on. I believe Hitler had similar policies.

And when you are low on fuel, the compass is replace by a big yellow low fuel indicator. "You must put in ze gas or else no compass for you!" (What if I'm looking for a gas station that is northeast of where I am and I don't know how to get there? Wouldn't the compass be helpful?)

If I unlock the car and don't open the door within 30 seconds, I hear the little "beep" indicating that the doors have locked again. If you don't move fast, you've lost your unlocked door privileges bucko. Sorry that you had five bags of groceries in your hands and your cell phone rang. VW-1, Me-0.

My father's fancy-pants Mercedes has similar rules. Before the engine even starts you have to read this long warning on the lawyer...err navigation screen and agree not to operate the navigation system while driving.* His car has even more high-tech wizardry that neither he nor I know how to use and I'm sure it's even more oppressive than my (in comparison) humble Passat. The owner's manual on that car is the size of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina.

Meanwhile in BMWs equipped with the dreaded i-Drive (which most have), one can't even adjust the climate control without going through the entire menu on the navigation screen and scrolling through thousands of options. What a pain in the ass.

People that drive Buicks don't have these complaints. They turn the key (a real key, made of metal and everything!) and start the car and go. When they want to change the radio station, they press a button on a clearly defined radio. When they want to turn the heat up, they turn the knob to the area clearly marked in red.

What happened to the German automotive industry? When did the lawyers take over? Or is it possibly still the Nazis? Since most Jews I know drive German cars**, maybe this is their way of subtly torturing them by making them insert a plastic key fob device into the dashboard, reading the warning about the navigation system, depressing the brake, fastening the seat belt...

*So sad for all those wealthy folks.
**Because, according to Sarah Silverman, it's the "opposite of Fubu."

Question of the Day

Why are there so many Latino men named Nelson?

Hell's Kitchen

One of the most inappropriate business ideas I can think of besides trafficking young women from Southeast Asia and forcing them to work in seedy massage parlors for little to no pay (which has been done to death already) is to open up a restaurant that only serves species that are classified as endangered or generally unacceptable to eat. Below is an example of what my prix fixe dinner menu would look like. I think the price would be somewhere in the $25,000-30,000 range per person not including wine. (Overhead is going to be just a bit high for this type of establishment.)

APPETIZERS

Baby Seal Ceviche
chilled with fresh tomato, coriander and cilantro

Dolphin Tartare
served with crostini on an edible Monarch Butterfly

Florida Manatee
seared rare with a sweet roasted onion puree

Arctic Peregrine Falcon Wings
smoked and sauteed with a savoury hickory sauce

Sea Turtle Soup
with porcini mushrooms and shaved brussel sprouts

Horned Puffin Salad
on a bed of radicchio, endive and arugula with aged balsamic vinegar

Smoked Orca Whale
house smoked with horseradish crust, tender red beets and locally grown organic herbs

ENTREES

Roasted Loin of Red Panda*
in a green peppercorn sauce served with broccoli rabe and pine nuts

Braised Bald Eagle
in a red wine demi glaze served with roasted rosemary infused new potatoes

Prime Aged Wild Mongolian Horse Steak
16 oz charcoal grilled with fresh asparagus and roasted turnips

Poached Humpback Whale
with marinated artichoke hearts and a Meyer lemon sauce

Filet of Polar Bear
pan seared and served "Antarctic Style"

Force Fed Hudson Valley Foie Gras
with fig jam and brioche melba toast

Spotted Owl Risotto
in a creamy chanterelle mushroom sauce with shaved Parmigiano Reggiano

Cioppino
fresh orca whale, stingray, pink river dolphin, shrimp, scallops and clams in a hearty tomato broth served with rustic bread

DESSERTS

Coming Soon

So, if anyone wants to be my business partner and/or benefactor for this venture, let me know. I think Smith Street in Carroll Gardens would be a fantastic location or perhaps DeKalb Avenue in Fort Greene. Manhattan commercial rents are too high and ultra-PC Park Slope would never go for such a thing.** If it takes off, I might even consider doing Sunday brunch too. I also will need a good sommelier - one that knows which wines would pair well with endangered species.



*I am fully aware that I am going straight to hell in a hand basket or a bucket or maybe even a wheelbarrow.
**Park Slope doesn't even have a pork store that I'm aware of.

Ordinary People

Some celebrities seem like they are just ordinary folks like you and me. Billy Joel, despite being married to a 23 year old, seems like the kind of guy that still you could talk to on the street. Howard Stern talks about his mundane life all the time and Larry David is most likely, well, Larry David. These are extremely high net worth individuals that became famous beyond their wildest imaginations and I'm not so sure they are comfortable being extremely famous or rich, but they seem like regular guys.


Here are some celebrities that are certainly not "regular guys."

• David Letterman - We all know he is a work-obsessed recluse that may or may not live in Connecticut with a woman and a child. I think he is a truly bitter and cynical man that has very little social interaction outside of his show.
• Jerry Seinfeld - Completely unapproachable. I would not feel comfortable asking him for an autograph. The problem is, he seems like he would be a nice, normal guy, but he's just not.
• Rod Stewart - This man is so in love with himself that he recorded a song titled Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? If that's not narcissism, I don't know what is. He exudes sexuality, but I think he loves himself so much, he could never truly love a woman. I can't picture him just kicking back with the guys over a few pints.
• Michael R. Bloomberg - I am a huge supporter, but does this man ever loosen up?*
  Tiger Woods - Perhaps the most driven and focused man in the world. His purpose in life is to be the greatest golfer that has ever lived. I'm surprised he's even married and has a kid - less time to perfect his lob wedge.
• Van Morrison - He can vocalize like no other white man alive, but do we know anything about his personal life at all? Do we want to?
• Michael Richards - Even before his racist rant, he was reclusive and altogether strange. Not at all like the charismatic Kramer character he so perfected.
• Marv Albert - We all thought this guy was normal before we heard about his affinity for cross-dressing and biting his mistress on the back whilst singing show tunes. I'm not sure I want to know anything more about him.
• Michael Jackson - Well, duh.

I think if I were a celebrity, I would be delightfully eccentric. I think I may be a tad eccentric now, but my bank account just isn't big enough.

*Perhaps he loosens his tie during fornication.

No means no - even at Christmas.

Many people find the song Baby, It's Cold Outside to be a light-hearted and cute holiday duet, but is it? Let's take a look at the lyrics and decide for ourselves.

I really can't stay. (Baby, it's cold outside.)
I've got to go 'way. (But baby, it's cold outside.)
This evening has been ... (Been hoping that you'd drop in.)
So very nice. (I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice.)
My mother will start to worry. (Beautiful, what's your hurry?)
And father will be pacing the floor. (Listen to that fireplace roar.)
So really I'd better scurry. (Beautiful, please don't hurry.)
Well, maybe just a half a drink more. (Put some records on while I pour.)
The neighbors might think ... (Baby, it's bad out there.)
Say, what's in this drink? (No cabs to be had out there)
I wish I knew how ... (Your eyes are like starlight now.)
To break the spell. (I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell.)
I ought to say no, no, no sir. (Mind if I move in closer?)
At least I'm gonna say that I tried. (What's the sense of hurtin' my pride?)
I really can't stay ... (Baby, don't hold out.)
Ah, but it's cold outside.
I simply must go. (But baby it's cold outside.)
The answer is no! (I say that it's cold outside.)
The welcome has been ... (How lucky that you dropped in.)
So nice and warm. (Look out the window at that storm!)
My sister will be suspicious. (Gosh, your lips look delicious ...)
My brother will be there at the door. (Like waves upon a tropical shore.)
My maiden aunt's mind is vicious. (Gosh, your lips sure are delicious.)
Well, maybe just a cigarette more.* (Never such a blizzard before.)
I've got to go home. (Baby, you'll freeze out there.)
Say, lend me your comb. (It's up to your knees out there.)
You've really been grand ... (I thrill when you touch my hand.)
But don't you see? (How can you do this thing to me?)
There's bound to be talk tomorrow. (Think of my lifelong sorrow ...)
At least there will be plenty implied. (If you caught pneumonia and died.)
I really can't stay ... (Get over that hold-out.)
Duet: Oh but it's cold ... out ... side!

In actuality, the song is about date rape. The entire song is about a girl trying to escape the bachelor pad of a seemingly charming yet testosterone-filled man who is trying to get laid. And he just won't take no for an answer. She even refers to the fact that he may have slipped something in her drink which he dismisses by mentioning the scarcity of cabs out there.

Although when the song was written in 1944, I'm sure rohypnol had yet to be invented but there had to have been an equivalent.

On the other side of the spectrum, maybe she was asking for it. She shows up on a cold night, probably wearing her most revealing wool sweater, having drinks and paying him compliments. After all she is the one who stopped by. "So lucky that you dropped in," he says. What was she looking to do exactly? She had most likely told her parents and siblings that she was going ice skating with Rose and Ethel and would be home by eight.

I believe at the end of the song, she succumbs to his advances and he proceeds with the date rape. A happy holiday for all indeed. I beg the question: Is inclement weather a good enough reason to submit to date rape?

*Contemporary versions omit the cigarette and replace it with "a half a drink more" because I suppose that having non-consensual premarital sex under the influence of alcohol is more family friendly than smoking a non mind-altering cigarette.

Lonestars vs.Gardens

Having just returned from the Republic of Texas, I would like to make a few observations. The most interesting thing about Texans to me is that they are really into Texas. There is just so much pride there.

It got me thinking about how miserable everyone in New Jersey is in comparison. In Texas, everything is in the shape of Texas. There are Christmas lights in the shape of Texas, clocks, tables in Hooters, Texas shaped branding irons and countless other things. Hell there are even Texas edition Chevy Silverados. And Texas flags? Oh there are Texas flags. Everywhere. They are as ubiquitous as American flags and more prevalent than Confederate flags.

Growing up in New Jersey, I have never seen anything in the shape of New Jersey, which is a nice curvy shape unlike, say, Pennsylvania. And regarding state flags, most New Jersey residents would hard pressed to recognize their flag, nevermind display one prominently on their home. And Jersey edition cars? No.

True Texans love where they live and don't want to leave. They have the best of everything in their minds. The best barbecue, the best Tex Mex, the best music, the best women, the best sports teams, political leaders, etc. While over in Jersey, everyone is pretty much miserable. Every Jerseyite mutters bitterly that they "have to get out of this godforsaken state" at least once a week. The complaints just never end (and rightly so).

Jersey has ridiculous property taxes, congestion, an exorbitant cost of living, blighted inner cities, the highest auto insurance in the country, pollution and other factors that make living there undesirable. Texas has its share of problems but its residents seem to overlook them.

I have now made two trips to Texas over the past few months and have spent time in Austin (which is like the Park Slope of Texas), College Station, Huntsville, Navasota and Houston and I must say that I like it but probably wouldn't want to live there - not that I would really want to live in Jersey right now either. So, Brooklyn it is for the time being. We've got pride there too.

We Salute You Mr. Wisecracking MTA Bus Operator

This evening I had the most entertaining bus ride of my life. I was coming home on the B-61 bus from Jay Street and had a refreshingly humorous bus operator. I was on the phone with my beautiful and talented girlfriend* and discussing the improv classes I would be taking on Tuesday nights when I heard the driver say into his microphone, "Tuesday nights...Tuesday nights, what time?"

I burst out into laughter and replied "probably eight." I soon ended my phone conversation because I really didn't feel like him repeating the potential side effects of radiation treatment that I was going to tell my girlfriend to the B-61 community.

He then said, "Next stop Court Street and the B-63 or whateva." I laughed aloud again and even turned off my iPod so I could enjoy the rest of his humor.

A woman was on the phone and giggled about something and the driver mimicked her. I laughed again and noticed that I was the only person on the bus that was enjoying this. He then proceeded to say something else which elicited laughter on my part and followed up with a "just keepin' it real."

Turning down Kane Street towards Columbia he admonished a woman against standing near the rear door saying that the last person that did that fell out and that he didn't want to have to stop the bus to pick her up off the ground.

On Van Brunt Street, he said, "Next stop, Verona Street - gateway to the Red Hook Housing Projects - the magic kingdom!" At that point I almost lost control and realized that had the driver been white**, he never would have gotten away with saying that. I, on the other hand, probably shouldn't have been laughing, but it was one of the funniest things I've ever heard.

If I were a bus driver or a train conductor, I would be like him. Why does everything have to be so solemn? We're all miserable and have pointless jobs. May as well have a little fun while we're at it.

As I exited the bus at Wolcott Street*** , I made it a point to exit at the front and tell him how much I enjoyed the ride. He entertained me and I provided the laugh track in the background. I should ride the 9:22 p.m. B-61 from Jay Street more often.



*She reads this blog.
**I have never seen a white bus driver employed by the MTA.
***Also home to Hope & Anchor Diner which, according to the driver, should be renamed to "Hook & Anchor" being as it is in Red Hook. I agree.

Come and knock on our door...Actually please don't.

I share an apartment with two females, and whenever I tell people that, they say "oh, just like Three's Company." However besides the fact that I share living space with two women, our situation does not resemble the 70s sitcom at all. Here are the ways that my living situation is different.

• I did not have to pretend that I was a homosexual to be granted permission to live with two women.
• My apartment is much larger than the one that Chrissy, Jack and the brunette shared so we all have much more privacy.
• I barely communicate with my roommates and when I do, it's usually via email.
• I don't have a friend who is constantly over that tries to hit on my roommates.
• I do not meddle in their lives, particularly when it comes to dating. In fact, I know very little about their personal lives and don't really care.
• I do not try to get into their pants as Jack often did.
• We don't have an eccentric landlord that constantly pops in and interferes with our lives. He usually calls 48 hours in advance if he needs to get into the apartment to do electrical work.
• We don't go on little outings together to the zoo or the beach. In fact, the three of us have never spent time together at all.
• The two girls I live with do not share a bedroom. In fact I'm not sure if they even know each other's names.
• We don't have frequent misunderstandings.
• We don't really care about one another and worry if someone didn't come home the previous night.
• I never try to sneak into one of the bathrooms whilst they are doing their ablutions.
• We don't cook for each other.
• We don't try to set each other up on dates.
• We don't hang out together at the Regal Beagle (or whatever that place was called). In our case, it would be the Hope & Anchor or the Bait & Tackle. At any rate, we never go anywhere together.

So, really this is nothing like Three's Company and I'm perfectly happy that way. It's not a hostile, Wuthering Heights type of environment, but we maintain comfortably separate lives, which is the way it should be in modern roommate shares.

Jesus vs. Santa

No one has ever accused me of being religious but I have a strong aversion to secular, non-traditional Christmas songs. I don't know why it is, but I prefer Good King Wenceslas over Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. We have all but lost the true meaning of Christmas with all that Santa Claus hype and Frosty the Snowman (who I am convinced isn't real). (I also do not believe that the songs should be translated from Latin to English, but I know I'm fighting an uphill battle on that one.)

What is the real meaning of Christmas anyway? We all know the basic plot: Jesus Christ was born in a manger somewhere in the middle east to the Virgin Mary and her husband. Then the three wise men came bearing gold, frankincense and myrrh. If not for the three wise men, we wouldn't be exchanging gifts for Christmas at all. It would be a hell of a lot easier that way. If those men were truly wise, they would have anticipated the insanity of commercialism and gift giving. They should have just sent a card. Son of God or not, the kid didn't really need gold, frankincense or myrrh - in fact nobody does.

And while I'm on the subject, holiday decorations have gotten obtuse. I am all for tasteful white lights on trees and candles in the window. Other than that, I think that holiday decorations should be banned in the United States. It seems that the crappier the neighborhood, the more offensive the decorations get.* Inflatable Santa Clauses and snowmen and blue lights. IT NEEDS TO STOP.

From now on when I see Christmas decorations that I find tacky or offensive, I am going to discreetly slip a note into the offender's mailbox telling them that I dislike their decorations. And if you think I'm kidding, just try me.

Let's keep Christmas tasteful and traditional. A simply trimmed douglas fir and a Christmas goose with plum pudding. Now that's what I call Christmas.


*My sister will be happy that I finally included this topic in my blog.

A Tribute to James Taylor's 'Carolina In My Mind' - Bed Stuy Edition

In my mind I'm going to Bedford Stuyvesant
Can't you see the brownstones
Can't you just feel the racism
Ain't it just like an AIDS needle
It pricked me from behind
Yes I'm going to Bedford Stuyvesant in my mind

DeShawn he's a crack dealer
You best have your money when he comes 'round
Watch him smoke his last Newport
A ring of smoke appearing now
I'm ballin' ain't I
Gone to Bedford Stuyvesant in my mind

There ain't no doubt in no one's mind
Colt 45's the finest thing around
Old men on stoops just wasting time
And hey nigga the cops are comin'
I'm runnin' ain't I
Gone to Bedford Stuyvesant in my mind

chorus

Hangin' out on Fulton last night
I think I might have heard a big gun fight
Leroy must be home from jail
Nigga better keep himself clean and watch out, watch out
I'm gone to Bedford Stuyvesant in my mind

With ugly Fedders buildings risin' around me
Still I'm in a single room occupancy
And it seems like whitey's movin' in on Putnam
You must forgive me
If I'm up and going to Bedford Stuyvesant in my mind

In my mind I'm going to Bedford Stuyvesant
Can't you see the brownstones
Can't you just feel the racism
Ain't it just like an AIDS needle
It pricked me from behind
Yes I'm gone to Bedford Stuyvesant in my mind
Gone to Bedford Stuyvesant in my mind
Gone - I'm gone - I'm gone
Say nice things about me
'Cause I'm gone
East of Classon Avenue
I'm gone

Maid in Brooklyn

The cleaning lady was here today and it got me thinking about what an odd relationship it is between the cleaning lady and her clients (customers?). Here is a complete stranger cleaning the most private parts of your home. She knows more about me than my closest friends and relatives. She knows everything about me right down to the type of moisturizer I use (Aveeno). Although we have spoken briefly and always exchange the perfunctory greetings when she arrives, I usually leave shortly after and let her go about my business. Other than what she encounters around my humble abode, she has no way of knowing anything about me.

I often wonder if she thinks I'm strange. She dusts everything, therefore she goes through my things. Do you think she wonders what a copy of the bible in Dutch is doing on my dresser? What about all those books on prison on my nightstand? And all that French Lavender soap? Who uses that much soap? And the fact that I leave notes requesting that my towels be rolled up and placed on the shelf in order of color going from lightest to darkest must raise her eyebrows. How the hell many Polo by Ralph Lauren shirts does a person need?* It's the same goddamn shirt in every color and plaid combination imaginable.

I wonder if she goes home and talks about her day with her husband and says, "Remember that guy in Red Hook that I talk about? In his recycling was like 50 bottles of this weird German mineral water! It just keeps getting weirder and weirder over there!"

Maybe others are even more bizarre than I am. For instance, I don't have a porn collection or any sex toys or fetish apparel, but I am sure she comes across that more often than a six month supply of Zoloft and Xanax in my top drawer (which I know she opens because the handle fell off).

*The lady that washes my clothes must be really thrown off.

Expunged

When the clock strikes midnight tonight, my misdemeanor will officially be expunged. Gone. Like it never happened. But the memories of my brief incarceration and community service will stay with me forever. It has been six months since that perilous night and much has happened since. For instance, I got a new slip cover and developed cancer.

Now that I am a "free man" again, I am thinking about getting myself arrested again just for the experience. Maybe I'll see how Manhattan's central booking is. This time I will be better prepared and know to wear comfortable shoes, etc.

And now that I have an Ipod (the new one is so small it can fit in my wallet), the time will fly. I just need to make sure it's charged. I also need to make sure I take ample extended release Xanax prior and hydrate myself before going down. This time around, I may wear a large soft sweater that I can use as a blanket for the cold concrete floor and double up my socks so I can have a clean pair for my arraignment. I may try to smuggle a bottle of hand sanitizer in my anus because jail is a dirty place.

Why would I want to go through this hell again you may ask? Well frankly I could use the stories. I haven't had much to tell people in the past few months. Everyone I know has heard my arrest tale.** I also need the perspective. Being cuffed and locked up, even for just 20 hours is extremely humbling and once I get out again, I will appreciate the things I have that much more. I can look around the crowded cells and know that I am most likely the most educated and sophisticated individual in the room. I will be the only person to go home that night to a pretty cushy life where my days are filled with lox and my nights with high mineral content water.

Most of all though, my lone brush with the law left me...wanting more. Ever since then, I've been reading all kinds of book about prison and watching shows with names like Locked Up: Extended Stay and HBO's fictitious Oz reruns. Maybe that's why so many criminals are repeat offenders. They're addicted to the experience.

I figure I can do this once every six months just to keep myself in check. As long as it's erased from my record, it can't harm me. Now I know what to expect and can just sit back and really enjoy the experience.




*It's a hell of a lot cheaper than a hotel in Manhattan.
**Well, not Mom, Dad and Father Kevin.

A Rather Morose Post

If things for whatever reason do not work out for me with my disease, here are a few things I do NOT want.

• I do not want my friends gathering around a camp fire or some shit like that to mourn over my death and tell amusing anecdotes about me. "Remember the time he passed out after homecoming senior year after drinking a case of Heineken while singing Piano Man? Ha ha." No. That is not acceptable.
• I do not want people to carry on with their daily activities because "that's what he would have wanted." In fact, that's not what I want. I expect solemn mourning.
• I do not want anyone putting anything in the casket like a cigarette or a bottle of my favorite beer or a golf club. Just leave it alone. This is no time to be cutesy.
• I do not want a eulogy that evokes laughter. Just because I was considered to be a humorous individual, that doesn't open up the forum for anyone to make jokes.
• I do not want anyone going out for drinks and telling stories about me after the funeral. Just don't do it. Go home and sit quietly. Again, it's not what I would have wanted.
• I do not want anyone showing up to the wake and funeral in khaki pants. This is not a fucking 8th grade band concert or a bar mitzvah. Wear a suit or don't come at all.
• I do not want people to try to make shit up about me that isn't true. "Oh he was just a great guy and always so kind to the homeless and the pigeons." I was not. In fact, I was sort of a prick. Be honest.
• I do not want a charity in my name for Hodgkins lymphoma research. Save your money and buy something nice for yourself that you could use.
• I do not want anyone to play any of my favorite music at the wake or funeral. Ave Maria is just fine thank you.

I realize that I probably will not meet my demise due to my illness, but just in case anything happens, please refer to this blog for instructions. This goes for if I die for any other reasons. These rules still apply in 60 years.

Rock Bottom

My name is Paul and I have a problem. I drink too much. Too much Gerolsteiner mineral water that is.

I got hooked on mineral water (com gas por favor) in Portugal and haven't looked back since. After sampling a few different brands, I have settled on Gerolsteiner. It has just the right balance of crispness and effervescence. The mineral content is high, but the finish is clean. I can't think of a more perfect beverage. Perrier and San Pellegrino are just status symbols. True water connoisseurs prefer Gerolsteiner. Again, leave it to the Germans.


But this stuff should come with a warning to "enjoy responsibly." Because I am clearly not consuming responsibly. (The picture above shows what I have drank this week alone. I still have three more bottles waiting to be guzzled sitting atop my refrigerator. (I prefer it at room temperature or slightly below.)

How much is too much? At $1.69-1.99 per bottle, the stuff isn't exactly cheap. Vintage Seltzer sells for 55-60 cents for the same amount of fluid ounces. Let's say I drink 1o bottles of Gerolsteiner per week at $1.69 each - that's $16.90 per week and $878.80 per year! It's safe to say that I would be paying more for water than the average American homeowner pays in property taxes annually. Assuming I live another 60 years, I will spend (not accounting for inflation) $52,728 on water if this continues.

I suppose it would be worse if I were sipping gin at a similar rate or smoking the equivalent amount of crack, but at least there are groups for those people and 12 step programs. I don't know of any for mineral water junkies. The thing is - I don't want to stop. I enjoy drinking the finest quality water in the world and I'm not about to stop. The cashiers at Fairway do look at me suspiciously when I purchase $30 worth of water on a shopping trip, but I don't care. Let them drink that Dasani shit.*

I used to love Poland Spring, but I have graduated to bigger and better things. At least it doesn't come in portable bottles because that limits my consumption to the home. If it were readily available on the go, that $52,000+ figure could easily turn into $100,000.


*I'd rather drink from the Gowanus Canal.

Make-A-Wish

Now that I officially have a terminal illness, does that mean I am entitled to participate in the Make-A-Wish Foundation? Am I too old for this? Why can't I have a wish granted? In the unlikely event that I can make a wish, here is a list of things I would like to do.

• I wish to live in the projects for a week.
• I wish to dress in authentic Colonial-era garb.
• I wish to live the lifestyle of a full blown crackhead for a few days.
• I wish to meet Gail, Oprah's sidekick.
• I wish to ensconce myself in pre-war detail.
• I wish to sit in on the Howard Stern show.
• I wish to walk around and tell people exactly what I think of them.
• I wish to throw rocks at people that don't use turn signals.
• I wish to park in front of fire hydrants without consequence.
• I wish to have an unlimited supply of Camel Lights and Gerolsteiner mineral water.
• I wish to perform community service wearing a tie dyed Crosby, Stills and Nash t-shirt and a Titleist hat.*
• I wish to travel to Kalaallit Nunaat.
• I wish to eat beluga caviar out of a giant container with a big spoon.
• I wish to participate in Islamic fundamentalism.
• I wish to learn how to shuck oysters and clams.
• I wish to join the Bloods or Crips (whichever accepts me first).
• I wish to get into a knife fight in prison.
• I wish to speak in tongues.

With all the money that the Make-A-Wish Foundation has, I'm sure they can accommodate a young G's wishes for a little while...

*Oops, I already did that.

I couldn't have written this better myself.

http://nymag.com/news/features/40648/

Sleepless in Hell

As an individual who has suffered from insomnia throughout my life, I have certainly seen my share of late-night infomercials. In the wee hours of the morning, anything they say sounds believable. So I believe that the perfect life can be had for three easy payments of $29.99.

Imagine your life if you bought all the products that are offered on paid advertisements. You would be flattening your abs, making healthy and delicious juices, making millions of dollars in real estate investment (for pennies on the dollar) at your kitchen table in your underwear, playing the best golf of your life, looking years younger, eliminating all unwanted facial hair, becoming more confident than you ever dreamed possible, listening to all your favorite hits from the 70s, getting your house cleaned by a robotic vacuum, peeling potatoes flawlessly and cooking the most delicious meat you've ever had in your rotisserie. And if you're not 100% completely satisfied? No problem. You can simply return it in 3o days for a full refund, no questions asked. You don't even have to get up off your couch. And don't worry about forgetting the 800 number to call - they're gonna tell you a few more times.

So, I think that the secret of happiness is just purchasing all the crap you see on late night paid advertisement programs.

I have yet to purchase any of these items, but I've come damn close. I've had the phone in my hand and had dialed a few digits, but I come to senses, turn off the TV and retire to my sleeping chambers with a book that contains no advertisements whatsoever.

Unfortunately some of us are never happy. Look at Citizen Kane, a man who went from rags to riches but never truly became happy. If all of these resources were available in his day, perhaps his life would have turned out differently. At least he would have had a sparkling, citrus fresh kitchen floor to show for it.

But wait there's more! If you order within the next 3o minutes, you receive a free meat thermometer AND a flavor injector!

Everybody's Talkin' at Me

Some people exist solely for the purpose of talking. They love to talk to you about anything and everything (mostly themselves) and have no interest in anything you have to say. You could sit there and tell them that you just killed your childhood priest and they will continue on about their latest business venture (which is usually bullshit) or his Prussian sword collection.

These people love to hang out at bars. They know the bartenders by name and no matter what time you get to the bar, he's already there waiting for his first victim. And they just know everything about everything. Anything you have to say is either wrong or ignored. Even if you agree about something, he will try to spin it to sound like you are disagreeing.

You will find people like this everywhere you go. Any neighborhood bar worth its salt has one. He's usually a few years past his prime and divorced, speaking bitterly of women's ways. Then he will just start telling you things about himself that you never wanted to know before you even order your first beer.

Most people ignore this person but I'm always the one that gets roped in to these lengthy discussions. Once whilst waiting at the airport, this lunatic woman started jabbering away. In the fifteen minutes that we (she) talked, I learned quite a bit about her life.

• Her father is a potato farmer in Maine.
• She lives with her mother in Ft. Meyers, Florida.
• She is an alcoholic.
• Most of her friends are junkies.
• She is on disability due to a herniated disc.
• The Mexicans in her neighborhood often flirt with her.
• She lost her virginity when she was 14.
• She got drunk the previous night at the hotel bar with some airline pilots. One of the bartenders tried to get her to invite him to her room but she declined.
• Her parents divorced when she was 2 and she speaks to her brother, but not her sister.

A few weeks later in Portugal, I was sitting at an outdoor cafe drinking a cerveja and a man who appeared to be homeless and insane started in. He kept going on and on (in English) about the how much he and his people have suffered. He kept repeating that he "walked for 40 miles and there was no water!" And he kept screaming about how "they raped all the women" and that they keep raping them. He then went on and on about the lack of water during his journey. I sat and nodded and the waiter finally asked him to leave.

You have to feel bad for these people, but they seem completely lack self awareness. They simply do not care if they are bothering you or you just came to the bar to have a quiet drink because your roommate is letting a bunch of gutter punk anarchists take over your living room.

They are also great martyrs and will make you feel guilty for looking at your watch or excusing yourself to go out for a smoke. So the next time you encounter one of these people, no matter how sane and friendly they seem at first, run like hell. They are nothing more than conversation predators using you for your ability to hear. Dateline NBC should run an expose on this. Chris Hansen could walk into a bar, park himself near a person like this and then bring in his film crew.

"Hi, I'm Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC..."

Jesus H. Christ

It must have been awful to be a neighbor of the Virgin Mary. She must have been bragging about her son incessantly. They must have run away at the sight of her and not believed a word of what she said.

"What is your son doing now? Well my son just turned water into wine!"

"Did you hear about what my son just did? He multiplied loaves and fish! He fed thousands!"

"My son was born without me even having to have sex with Joseph!"

"Your son may be a doctor, but does he have disciples? Didn't think so."

"My son is the son of God for crying out loud! Your husband doesn't even work!"

"Look at how long and lustrous my son's hair is now! Your son looks like a terrorist and mine looks so...Western European!"

"I never trusted that Ponchas Pilate as a kid. He was always so vindictive. Now he's just jealous that my son can walk on water and he can't! I should call his mother and tell her that her son is crucifying my poor son."

"Did you hear what my son just did? He died for our fucking sins and then rose from the dead! And your daughter wouldn't date him! Now it's too late."

I feel as though it must be similar for the neighbors of my mother. She must be constantly talking about me.

"My son is so wonderful. He has a blog about gentrification!"

"My son is now working in the publishing industry and he's almost completely financially independent, but I help him out with his electricity bill in the summer."

"My son is so clever - he figured out a way to mix recycles with regular garbage and get away with it!"

"My son has accumulated more parking tickets over the years than your son could ever dream of!"

"My poor son got arrested and they didn't even let him bring his books and his cell phone with him! I'm gonna call that police station and complain."

So, I guess I'm pretty special and similar to Jesus in many ways.

At least I'm not in an HMO...

They say you will never forget where you were when you heard about a big event (9/11, Lincoln's assassination, the Bay of Pigs Invasion, that your child is a boy...).

Today when I found out that my diagnosis of Lymphoma, (Is that a proper noun that should be capitalized?) I was driving down Ditmas Avenue between Ocean Avenue and Coney Island Avenue in Victorian Flatbush, listening to Howard Stern on Sirius 100. It happened that I was driving through one of my favorite stretches of landmarked Victorian Flatbush amid the well-preserved wood-framed Victorians. I was also listening to my favorite radio personality (and a hero of mine) Howard Stern talking about Artie being out sick today.

The news came as no surprise to me as this is what the doctors had ascertained. I couldn't help but feel sorry for the receptionist who has to call people and tell them that they have cancer. Her tone was similar to the tone that a bank representative would to tell me that I have been approved for a credit card at 8.3% interest. My reaction was pretty much the same as if she had given me a credit card approval. I just thanked her and told her to have a lovely day.

After four CT scans, lots of blood work, a biopsy and several doctor visits (more to come), I'm relieved that I know what it is for sure. However, I can't help but wonder if this is some sort of bad karma for things I have done wrong in the past. Here is a list of things that may have made God give me this disease.

• Throwing my trash in the area where the section 8 housing is.
• Making realtors show me properties that I can't afford to buy.
• Yelling at people from my window for making noise in the street.
• Correcting the grammar of said people making noise in the street.
• "Forgetting" to sign the rent check when I'm a little short.
• Sitting in the seats reserved for those with disabilities on the bus.
• Throwing away my roommate's plastic containers when I deem them unnecessary.
• Driving through "deaf child" areas and honking my horn.
• Going into the Pentecostal church and calling my girlfriend on speaker phone so she could hear the singing.
• Purposely pulling my car up to take up an extra parking space.
• Talking about religion in a fashion that may make others uncomfortable.
• Taking days off to play golf or to listen to Howard Stern.
• Driving around impoverished neighborhoods to make myself feel better about my life.
• Drinking a bottle of water at Fairway and throwing it away before I check out.
• Flashing my brights at drivers even when there is no cop in sight (just see them slow down).
• Taking very long showers because I don't pay for water.
• Telling egregious lies. ("I grew up in a small fishing village in Norway.")
• Asking stupid questions at the CVS. ("What's the largest amount you have ever seen anyone spend at this store?")
• Talking all ghetto up in dis bitch and shit sometimes, son.
• Generally being a prick.

Maybe this is God's way of telling me to tone it down a bit.

I like the ghetto.

I really and truly enjoy the ghetto. (I'm sure I'm not the only one.) I truly find it interesting and always go out of my way to venture into less gentrified neighborhoods.

Living only a few blocks from one of New York City's largest and most feared housing projects, one might think I could have my fill of the ghetto without ever leaving my own backyard, but that is not the case. It's like never wanting to play golf somewhere else because you live near a golf course and it's convenient.

Sure, it's nice to know that my ghetto (or golf course) is there, but we all like variety now and again, right? It's the adventure of finding new ghettos and golf courses and learning how to navigate them that excites me. There are inherent risks in every new situation.

The ghetto in East New York may have more violent crime than the ghetto in Newark, NJ, which may specialize in vehicle theft. It's the same with golf courses. Augusta National has lightning fast undulating greens and rough that is nasty enough to intimidate Tiger Woods. Over at Pebble Beach, the winds from the Pacific whip through the narrow fairways, making a low score very difficult. There are risks everywhere you go. As long as you can go home at the end of the day and tell yourself that you survived, everything is okay.

This past weekend I had the fortune of visiting two cities known for their decay - Baltimore and Washington, D.C. The ghettos down there still look like ghettos, the way they were meant to look. I'm sure Detroit has similar vibes. Baltimore's ghettos sprawl around the city and outside the city. Johns Hopkins University is buying up the ghetto near the college and pushing people into quiet suburbs North and West of town.

Anacostia, D.C.'s "bad" neighborhood, is a ramshackle mix of squat brick rowhouses with dilapidated front porches and three story housing projects adorned in orange brick. Scattered about are the usual mix of Baptist churches, liquor stores and restaurants that serve fried chicken through bulletproof glass. This is only a few blocks from the grandeur and lush greenery of the White House and Capitol Hill.

Since I started driving eight years ago, my car has always pointed itself into the direction of Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevards and Marcus Garvey Avenues. This is how I get my thrills. I'm not gonna jump out of a plane or go deep sea diving. I want to see how far I can push my luck driving through questionable neighborhoods in a European car with the windows and sunroof open, blasting Simon and Garfunkel without an incident.

Nothing awful has happened yet. Time will tell.

Birthday Blog

Today is my birthday. Yes, Halloween. It marks a quarter century of life in this United States. This birthday went by as most of them do for me without the usual fanfare associated with birthdays.

I woke up this morning around 6:30, took a shower and headed to an outpatient surgical center to have a swollen lymph node removed (a biopsy). This was not the first time I have been operated on (and not the first time I've been operated on on my birthday). Twelve years ago I had arthroscopic knee surgery on this day.

Potentially having cancer notwithstanding, any day with general anesthesia and codeine is a good one. I even got to have a few Amstel Lights this evening with my sister and her new fiance. (Shhh, I told my mom I only had one.)

I did make the nurse laugh by spewing out some bullshit right after I came out of the anesthesia by mentioning that I was a card-carrying member of the infamous gang - The Bloods. When she inquired about my work, I said that I was a clam shucker in Nova Scotia (which is something I tell people quite a bit these days). She did not believe any of this tomfoolery.

Then I went home and took a long nap.

Tomorrow I am off to the Baltimore/D.C. area for the weekend so you will not hear from me until next week. I-95 is calling my name. And I get to see my beautiful and talented girlfriend, so I am excited. See you next week and be safe out there on All Saint's Day.

Less is more when responding to Craigslist apartment ads.

Based on the bizarre nature of the Craigslist ad I put up regarding an available room in my Red Hook, Brooklyn apartment, I have gotten a few unusual responses. I had a little open house on Sunday to show the space. Out of the five people that showed up, two seemed quite interested.

One gentleman really wants the room. Although he is very nice and somewhat interesting, his initial email was a bit too much to take. Here are a few excerpts (in italics) that I found to be potential red flags. My responses are below in parenthetical phrases.

Summer of ‘06 I was working on an off-grid chocolate farm in the Corcovado rainforest of Costa Rica. This was before I interned for a local-scale biodiesel plant in Asheville, NC

(Oh really?)

25 year-old male of mixed Caucasian heritage

(Could you break that down for me into percentages? Like 25% German, 25% Lithuanian...I'm sure you have some Native American in you too, right?)

I grew up in a geodesic dome on the side of a mountain in rural North Carolina. My parents are still in love with one another and along with my sister and her husband we form a fairly functional post-nuclear family that seems all-the-more rare these days.

(How is this relevant? I am glad though that everything is so honky dory down there with the family. They sound like delightful people; give them my best the next time you talk to them.)

I have curly hair and my eyes tend to change color.

(I don't give a flying fuck what your hair looks like - tell me what your credit score is. That's all I care about at this point. But maybe I could spend my idle hours gazing at your ever-changing eyes.)

I get along well with both multi-billion dollar asset managers and gutter-punk anarchist freegan kids.

(You seem very well adjusted, but what in God's name is a "freegan?")

I am not profoundly religious or politically-affiliated, but I am thankful for the many culinary, artistic and cultural provisions that spiritual and ideological devotion have given us as a united people since time immemorial.

(Dude, I'm looking for someone to rent a 10x12 space in my apartment for a few months, not a life-partner.)

This last weekend I went upstate to a sweat lodge and took unexpected trapeze lessons in New Paltz, NY to get some fresh air.

(Well, who DIDN'T do that last weekend?)

I periodically fast and cleanse only to turn around sooner or later and cater to my vices and guilty pleasures. It's a fun little dance I do.

(I don't want to share a bathroom with someone who fasts and cleanses, no matter how much fun the little dance may be.)

Music is good.

(It is indeed.)

I once had a MySpace profile, but I am in the process of dissolving my ties to online social networking sites in an effort to reconnect with real communities, rather than experimental, existential ones.

(Okay.)

I was once the captain of my high school wrestling team, could party my friends under the table and was one step away from attending the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis. Now I practice yoga, as well as moderation in most things...

(Objection! Relevance?)

Okay, I feel like I’ve written a lot and I don't want to come off as being self-indulgent or lose your attention, so I’m going to stop.*

(No, please don't stop! You haven't told me about yourself yet!)


*He proceeds to write five more detailed paragraphs following this sentence.

Queens: A Great Place to Retire

One of my favorite pastimes is getting people all riled up and annoyed. I actually enjoy it.

As an individual who works in the publishing industry, I get to attend many a trade show and have the opportunity to meet and talk with all different types of people. This past Saturday at an exhibit in Lower Manhattan, I spoke with an educator who mentioned she lived in Queens, one of the outer boroughs of New York City.

I decided to have a little fun with the middle-aged woman and tell her that Queens was a place I had never heard of. The conversation went like this:

Me: Queens? Where is that?
Her: What?! You don't know where Queens is? Where do you live?
Me: Brooklyn.
Her: For how long?
Me: A few years.
Her: And you've never been to Queens? Where did you grow up?
Me: Jersey.
Her: And you've never heard of Queens...
Me: No. Is there an airport or something there?
Her: (Angrily) Yes, there are two!
Me: Oh, I think I know where it is. What is Queens like? Is it little?
Her: No! It's huge!
Me: Is it quaint?
Her: Some parts.
Me: Is it dangerous?
Her: There are all different parts - some nice, some not!
Me: How do you get there? Are there roads and trains?
Her: YES!
Me: What kind of people live there?
Her: All kinds! It's a melting pot.
Me: Is it mostly retirees?
Her: What the hell are you talking about? There's all kinds of people of all ages.
Me: Is it very rural?
Her: NO - it's part of the city!
Me: Are there like a lot of farms and stuff?
Her: THERE ARE NO FARMS IN QUEENS!
Me: Do they observe daylight savings time there?
Her: I'm finished with this discussion. Get in your damn car and take a ride through if you're so interested!

That was the highlight of my day. She walked out of there agitated and convinced that I, an individual that lives in Brooklyn and grew up in the greater New York City metropolitan area had no idea where Queens was and knew nothing about it. At least she had a story to tell her friends last night over dinner at a Greek restaurant in Astoria. I can picture her now talking to her friends. "There was this IDIOT representative at this exhibit this morning who lives in Brooklyn and has never heard of Queens! He was asking the most asinine questions..."

I don't know why I decided to do that to her, but these shows can be boring and I get my kicks by being sarcastic. For the record, I know Queens fairly well and visit quite a bit.

The Gentrifier of Oz

I've been watching reruns of the HBO original series Oz and I must say that I think I would adapt well to prison life (maximum security). Everything about it seems okay besides the sodomy and lack of decent meals.

Obviously I would be upset about not seeing my parents and my girlfriend and everyone else, but I think I could get into it. I would definitely join one of the cliques such as the black Muslims (I like the hats) or the Aryan Brotherhood. Or perhaps I could start my own - the Gentrifiers. There seems to be a lot of pride in these gangs, a lot of camaraderie.

Most of all, I would have a wide audience in which to share my humor. I could be the prison jester. I would dazzle the inmates and guards with witticism after witticism and they would love me. Everyone would want to be my cellmate and everyone would want me in their clique. I would bring everyone together with my pleasant disposition and my versatile sense of humor. I could make jokes about "the hole" and tell stories and discuss all my views and opinions. No one can leave - they would have to listen. After the first few beatings, I would start to grow on people (much like I do in the outside world) and I would be one of the most loved and respected inmates to ever grace the hallowed halls of a federal penitentiary.

Plus I would have a lot of time to catch up on my reading and work on my blog. (I wonder if they have wireless.) And I could finally establish what religion I actually want to participate. As mentioned before, Islamic fundamentalism is a strong possibility, but I would consider others.

I could teach my fellow inmates things they never learned on the street such as how to enunciate, while they teach me how to protect myself and how to make weapons out of ordinarily harmless materials. It would be a positive situation for all involved. The bonds formed in prison must be stronger than any bonds one can form on the golf course or at the wine bar. These would be friendships I would cherish for life. And the stories? Oh there'd be stories to tell forever. I would never run out of things to talk about at parties or on line at the DMV. I could start sentences with, "When I was in the joint..." or "Yeah I spent some time inside." I'd be the coolest guy anyone ever met (and probably the most pleasant ex con around)!

Unfortunately, as a non-violent, non-drug abusing/dealing individual, I will most likely never see the inside of a maximum security prison. I got a small taste of the criminal life when I spent my Memorial Day at Brooklyn Central Booking, but I was not there long enough to really get anything from the experience. But even in that short period of time, I could sense that people were starting to enjoy me by the end of the day. A long term sentence could only make me more likable. (I bet they would deny me parole just because they were so charmed by me.)

If parking tickets and generally being an asshole were more serious crimes, I would definitely have a realistic shot at my dreams of long-term incarceration.

Who wants to live with me?

My roommate announced today that she will be leaving for greener pastures (Williamsburg) next month, so I am in the unfortunate position of looking for a roommate. Here is the ad that I put on Craigslist. Please forward it to anyone you think might be interested in moving into my apartment. Thanks.


I have a room available in my 3 bedroom 2 bath duplex in Red Hook. If you have never heard of Red Hook and have no idea how to go about getting here, the neighborhood is probably not for you. It's a great neighborhood with restaurants, bars, cafes, galleries, parks, piers and the Fairway supermarket... BUT there is no direct subway access here.

However, the bus will take you to the subways (and you get a free transfer).

About the room: About 10x12,very sunny, decent closet, hardwood floor, leads to a huge terrace with a beautiful view of the Statue of Liberty. The sunsets are amazing. (My room is all the way down the hall so you will not hear my religious chants at 4 am on Tuesdays.) The room has a pullout sofa in it but can be moved to make way for more traditional bedroom furnishings. The closest subway is a 25 minute jaunt through the Red Hook projects (you can find hookers and drugs there). The bathroom is right next door and is shared with a somewhat persnickety individual who enjoys French lavender hand soap. The bathroom is nice and has a large tub.

You need to take the bus or walk a long way to get to the subway.

Downstairs is another bedroom, bathroom and a nice kitchen with a dishwasher and a fully furnished living area. The place is pretty new and the decor is neutral. There are hardwood floors throughout, high ceilings and plenty of sunlight. The roof deck just one flight up is awesome. The views are inspiring. We also have central air and heat.

There are no plans in the near or distant future to extend a subway line into Red Hook.

About the roommates: Me, 25, male, quiet, clean, respectful, laid back, yada yada yada. I'm very pleasant to deal with and can get along with all sorts of people. I am sarcastic and somewhat wry, but not in an obnoxious Charles Dickens character way. No subway lines serve this neighborhood. The person that is not me - 30ish, female, quiet, clean, respectful, laid back, yada yada yada. She has a cat who is...what's the word...supercilious.

The subway is not convenient.

I smoke outdoors and expect you do to the same. Crack may only be smoked on the premises as part of a religious ritual (documentation is needed).

You will have to take the bus more than you are used to. I'm looking for someone for December 1st.

I've been burned before (not with gonorrhea) and don't want to wind up on Judge Judy so I am asking for 1st month, last month and 1 month security. Let me know when you'd like to see the space and we can arrange something. You will not be taking a subway all the way to my address; you will need to transfer to either the B-61 or B-77 bus. It's not that painful. You will not be able to reach Red Hook via subway.

P.S. Religious fundamentalists are encouraged to apply!

If you know anyone let me know.

My Bed & Breakfast

Life is about compromise, especially when you're in your twenties like I am. A major compromise that non-Wall Streeters and non-trustfunders have to deal with is sharing living quarters.

I am pretty lucky to have a 1400 square foot duplex with two full baths and two roommates that are barely around but...

I've had it with my one roommate's hippie guests. For about a week last month, she had a group of about six or seven of them inhabiting my usually immaculate living room. These people (who are in some band) were really not house-trained. They were used to living in a van and didn't know that it's just not acceptable to leave food on the counter and toothbrushes on the coffee table. They were very pleasant and respectful, but maybe they could have asked if they could use my computer before taking it over for a three days straight. And perhaps they could have locked the door behind them (or even closed it for that matter - a stray cat made his way into the apartment*). I know they weren't used to the opulent luxuries my apartment had to offer such as running water and lamps and unlimited pens, so I cut them some slack for the first few days.

But I'm sure even Forrest Gump knew enough to HANG UP HIS WET FUCKING TOWELS in the bathroom. They will never dry in a pile on the floor. And if you're gonna smoke pot in my home: a.) ask permission (it's my name on the lease) and b.) offer me some.

I realize that I, with my five figure salary and my health insurance and fancy indoor plumbing, probably have more money than they do, but they could have at least offered to replace the Gerolsteiner mineral water they consumed after smoking too much of the aforementioned illegal herbs. (It's $1.69 a bottle and they're in limited supply at Fairway).

I was sure that they would clean up after themselves at least, but they did not do so to my satisfaction so I spent an entire beautiful Saturday afternoon scrubbing and sanitizing.

Fast forward a few weeks and two more people arrived to stay over at my humble abode, this time for only a night. But see, they opened up the pullout sofa THE VERY DAY AFTER I JUST PUT A NEW SLIPCOVER ON IT! I am not very handy. It took me a long time to put that fucking slipcover on the sofa and in one fell swoop, they removed it and placed it on the floor! The next morning I was kind of queasy when I saw what they had done, but I dealt with it like a man and quietly put it back on.

As I type, a young man is sitting in my green recliner about 15 feet away from me. Like the other guests, he is hippie/hipster-ish and polite. But this guy is a little invasive. He has felt the need to make small talk each and every time I have passed by. When I asked him how long he was here for, his response was, "Till around the 30th or so." Oy vey.

Here is a list of rules for guests staying in my home.

• You must be accompanied by the person with whom invited you at all times.
• You may not utilize the kitchen for cooking purposes if you do not LEAVE IT EXACTLY THE WAY YOU FOUND IT when you are finished.
• If you plan on bathing, make sure the shower curtain rod doesn't fall. If it does, try to put it back.
• Please pick up towels off the floor and hang them up.
• Clothing belongs in your suitcase (or trash bag), not on the floor.
• No food or beverage (perishable or non-perishable) is to be left on the kitchen counter for more than a few minutes.
• Smoking is permitted on one of the three outdoor terraces the apartment offers. Please use an ashtray.
• Lights are to be turned off when not in use.
• I paid for the toilet paper with my own money. It may not be recycled earth-friendly paper. Get over it. And for the love of God, put it on the with the flap in the front!
• Please ask permission to use my computer.
• If it is a week night, please keep the television down and the conversation to a minimum.
• If it is a weekend, please keep the television down and the conversation to a minimum.
• Please keep toiletries out of sight and off the coffee table or any surface I may touch.
• Don't touch my shit.
• Don't eat my food or drink my Gerolsteiner.
• Don't be invasive.
• Don't ask personal questions.
• Don't sleep with the pillows on the sofa. It's not sanitary.
• Do not speak unless spoken to.
• Don't look at me like I'm Hitler if I eat meat or use mass-produced shampoo.
• Those who maketh garbage should taketh garbarge out.
• DON'T TAMPER WITH THE GODDAMN SLIPCOVER!

I really don't think these are unreasonable demands.

*This is how people get rabies.

Cocktail

For a short stint, I was bartending (sans license) at an establishment in the less gentrified part of Carroll Gardens. Somehow the owner took a liking to me and she put me on some Wednesday and Thursday nights last winter. I would receive no base pay but could imbibe in as many beverages as I wished and collect tips.

Well, aside from a few patrons that were respectful and normal, tips were not something to expect in large quantities. Not to stereotype or anything, but certain types of people simply do not believe in the concept of tipping.* Even after I made a triple Long Island Iced Tea with Grey Goose, Patron, Bacardi and Sapphire and only charged $5. No tip. In fact, the person ordering kept telling me I was being stingy with the Grey Goose. If you can't afford a premium drink, don't order one. And if you can't afford to tip your bartender, stay the fuck home.

What about the guy sipping Hennessy all night and telling me how much to pour in his snifter each time? Apparently I was being "cheap" again. Did he leave an extra nickel for my efforts? Nope.

And the guys playing pool that I provided quarters for all night long ordering six Heinekens at a time, which were delivered immediately and with a smile. All night long, at least five rounds. Surely they would leave a dollar at the end of the night, right? Absolutely not.

Then there was Puerto Rican Beavis and Butthead. These two talked all night, but no human could understand what they were saying except for "Budweiser." They were the most annoying men I've ever dealt with in any situation in life.

It's not just the fact that they didn't tip, it was their overall demeanor and lack of politeness that drove me to quit. For people who had no money and were negotiating drink prices, they sure were demanding. "I said I wanted a lemon, not a lime! Make me a new one!" "Yo, bartender, get me another Couvessier and fill it up to da top this time!" "Yo, you ain't give me nothin' on the house yet tonight? I been drinkin' all night."

Now I've never had any formal bartending training nor have I ever even worked in a restaurant or in any service capacity, but I do not think that it is customary for a server to give you a free drink if you haven't tipped once (or even paid full price for a drink for that matter). And it's ridiculous to think that I'm going to wash your glass every time you need a refill of Hennessy if you do not tip.

And I don't care how well you know the owner - if she's not here, I'm in charge and you're not drinking for free all night. And stop smoking in the bar. I know she allows it, but Mayor Bloomberg would be disappointed if he knew what was going on in here.

I put up with a lot at that place and on my best night (working from 7 p.m. to 4 a.m.), I made $17. What is that per hour if you deduct the three Stellas I drank? I don't really want to know.


*And these people, as far as I know, ain't from Europe.

Question of the Day

Does anyone actually like the taste of candy corn?

You might not be a gentrifier if...

A few weeks back I did a list of "You might be a gentrifier if..." Now I am going to do the opposite. So here goes.

You might not be a gentrifier if...

• You make lots of noise in public (i.e. subways, movie theaters and restaurants).
• People can hear the bass thumping from your car from four miles away.
• You live in squalor but have still drive a $70,000 car.
• You smoke menthols.
• "Shorty" is a predominant part of your vocabulary.
• You're excited that a Dunkin' Donuts is taking over that cutesy little coffee shop on the corner.
• You have a very thick accent.*
• You really like bling.
• You could care less about organic produce.
• You consume more orange soda than water.
• You don't have health insurance but you have all the cable stations.
• Your subjects and verbs often do not agree.
• You wear a do-rag.

*Excluding most European accents

These Dreams

Due to the myriad of different medications I'm on (Zoloft, Xanax, Ambien...), I have some pretty uncomfortable dreams at night. While they are not quite nightmares, they are just plain awkward. They feel real but not real in typical dream fashion. No monsters ever chase me and I never feel like I'm falling down 50 stories, I just wake up every morning with a feeling of discomfort.

For the past few years I've been having a recurring dream about missing classes or important tests and not being able to graduate. This dream occurs nearly every night and I'm frankly getting tired of them because I did complete my studies. I won't bore you with the rest of my dreams, partly because I barely remember them, but also no one wants to hear about the dreams of other people. They're just not interesting.

I'm not sure if my dreams are in color or in black and white and I don't know how long they last. What I can tell is that the characters that live in my dream world are pretty unsavoury. These are people that I know and love - friends and family (some that have even passed on). But in dream land, they are on the evil-hearted side. Everyone is just a little worse in my dreams than in real life. I guess it's a good thing that I'm not surrounded by people that are so malevolent, but it is disconcerting that my subconscious mind looks at them in that light. I just can't seem to get anyone to compromise in my dreams. In other words, my charm just doesn't work. Maybe I'm even more of a prick in my dreams than I actually am in real life and people are treating me accordingly.*

Considering that we sleep between six and hours per night and probably dream half that time, I am spending more time with these people than I actually do in real life. I don't see my friends every week and I don't even see my family. I see my dry cleaner and the UPS delivery guy more in real life and I don't recall any dreams about them.

Just for the record, I love my family and friends but would appreciate if they were a little more understanding, a little more compassionate and less evil-hearted in my subconscious mind. I really need to get back to therapy I think.


*I highly doubt this.

The Rape of Prime Time Television

Law & Order SVU is one of the most popular shows in America. I guess the American public has spoken and they really like rape. Dateline NBC also ran a recurring special called "To Catch a Predator" featuring real sex offenders on the Internet getting caught in a sting where, instead of meeting the 11-year old girl of their dreams, they meet Chris Hansen (who is attractive and charming in his own way) and a team of armed law enforcers.

We are fascinated by these deranged rapists, child molesters and their ilk. Why? Why do I not tune in to other Dateline exposes with the same vigor that I do with the Predator one? Why is Law & Order Criminal Intent just not as good as SVU? I guess we want to see rape and lots of rape. My girlfriend and I even enjoy watching while we have dinner and we're not particularly perverted people.

The thing about rape is: You can't really joke about it.* All other crimes are joked about. People will tell you they will kill you in jest constantly. "I'll kill you if you wear that sweater again." "I'm gonna kill A-Rod if he strikes out again." But no one talks about rape in the same manner.

Imagine if people went around saying things like, "My dad is gonna sodomize me if I don't get at least a B on this geometry test." "I was ready to rape that man after he said that to me." "Be careful kids, you're gonna get molested if you play in the street." The world would be a pretty interesting yet disturbing place.

Movies and television programs about murder and violence have been around forever. But rape on prime time network television? This has to have started recently.

Law & Order SVU is a great show but Christopher Meloni's character is humorless and Mariska Hargitay (or whatever her last name is) plays a very insipid and somewhat cold detective. Richard Belzer is bitter and sarcastic in a Charles Dickens character way and Ice(d?) T is speaks a little too harshly for my taste. So we are obviously not watching the show for its compelling and likable characters. This is not exactly the cast of Friends we're dealing with here.

In fact, you can watch reruns of the rape show about nine times a day on USA, not including the new episodes on NBC. I'm not sure if that's a good thing for America. And it might be giving would-be perverts ideas.


*Unless you are Sacha Baron Cohen