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.