Two years ago while working as a real estate agent, I began to post an ad for some crappy new construction condo on Craigslist and this is how it turned out:
Please buy something. Please. Please use me as an agent. I'm nice and I work hard. I really need the money. And I don't want to have to move back in with my parents.
Buyers: Please be serious and pre-qualified. We do not get paid to show you various different places. We do not have time to spend an entire Saturday carting you and your significant other around and showing you everything that's available. And if you cancel an appointment, please let us know ahead of time if possible. And if you express interest in a property, we will call you back. Do not avoid our calls. Just answer the phone and say, "We are not ready to buy yet." Or "We're moving to the Congo." Make something up, tell us to fuck off. Don't leave us hanging. Just so I know to cross you off my list. If you are at the very beginning stages of purchasing, please go to open houses on your own and not bother us and get our hopes up that you might actually be serious. And, please be realistic. If the house doesn't exist, it doesn't exist. There is a such thing as a compromise. You are not going to find that brownstone in Park Slope or dream loft with panoramic views in Dumbo for $750,000, so try to get a sense of the market before calling. and say that you are not in need of brokerage services, because if you are calling us, then you obviously do. And out-of-towners, we work for the seller, but try to be as fair as we can to the buyer. This is New York, we do not us MLS and we are not buyer's brokers. Have your attorney represent you in sale and get over it.
Sellers: Please be realistic. The market is not what it used to be. If your house is worth $850,000, and you want it listed at $1.2, we will do it just to get the listing, but please be sensible. Just because a house on your block sold for $1.1 last June does not mean that your shit box is worth that especially since it is in need of a total gut-renovation and probably won't pass an inspection. We all understand that you want the most for your house, but help us out a little. If it's sitting on the market for 8 months and you won't budge on the price after a multitude of reasonable offers, then you clearly do not want to sell your house. It's as simple as that. A New York Times ad costs a lot of money; we will stop advertising it and stop bringing people over because you are a pain in the ass. And if you really do want to sell, please help us out. Make it easy. Give us a key or be a little flexible on showing times. Not everyone is available on Thursdays between 5 and 6 am. We are putting a lot of time and effort into marketing your property and making appointments and running open houses. And please clean your house and rid it of offensive odors. Get the clothes off the floor, spruce it up, paint if you have to. Fuck, I'll come in and do it myself (on Thursdays between 5 and 6 am). And DO NOT BE PRESENT DURING OPEN HOUSES. And if you get an offer close to the asking price, take it, don't say "Well, we priced it too low, let's list it at $1.3 and see what happens."
Renters: Come on guys. It's only a year of your life. It doesn't HAVE to be perfect. And no, you will not find a similar property in Manhattan for that price, so why even bring it up? And don't complain about paying the fee. Remember: You called us. We found you a place that you like. Pay the fee. You look like yuppies and have guarantors that are worth in excess of $9 million dollars. Pay the fee and shut up. "I could have found this on my own." Yes, you could have, but you didn't. "In Milwaukee, we didn't have to pay a broker fee and we got a 4,000 sq. ft. loft for $1,200." Go back.
Owners/Landlords: See above about pricing. And have you heard of Fair Housing? This is Brooklyn, "home to everyone from everywhere." Except your overpriced shit box. No black people allowed. Even well qualified professionals. And don't act like your doing us a favor by letting us list your apartment. Remember, you're not paying us. The tenant pays. So don't give us a hard time for helping you out.
Other Agents: Calm down. If we don't want to co-broke with you, let it go. We're not all members of REBNY and we're only getting 3% nowadays. If we were getting 6%, then fine, co-broke away. And if you are co-broking, but would rather not (Corcoran), don't waste our time making appointments and accepting an offer when you know you're going to keep it in-house. This is the real world so we know how it works. Why even bother entertaining the notion of co-broking when offers "mysteriously" get misplaced... And you little Mom and Pop brokers: I got news for you: You don't have the means to compete with Corcoran or Halstead or Elliman, et al, so why try? Stick with your current loyal customers and don't be offended when your friend/neighbor/yoga instructor/sister decides to list their property with Corcoran instead of you at Tony's Realty of South Brooklyn. The big boys are more capable of getting the place sold and have marketing experts and an unlimited advertising budget. It's business. Anyway, if you are looking to buy, sell or rent a property, I have the expertise and work ethic to get the job done right! Please refer me to all your friends and associates. Thank you and happy hunting. :-)
(I guess it's best that I'm no longer in that line of work.)
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Help Me!
Fifty minutes a week isn't doing it for me. Fifty minutes of therapy that is. What I need is a psychiatrist to hang around me 24/7 to tell me what to say and do. That's the only way I can survive in this society.
Everywhere I go, my psychiatrist would go. He would be with me at work, social gatherings, the gym, in restaurants, bars, in the car, on vacations. I wouldn't make a move without him. He could give me relaxation tips and tell me not to get upset about petty things.
He could tell me who I should talk to at parties and exactly what I should say, so I don't blather on and on about gentrification and Evangelical Christians all night to a group of people that will likely be bored and/or offended. He would tell me to talk about subjects that perhaps would interest a wider audience such as the NCAA tournament or American Idol.
On vacations, he could tell me where to spend my time and what not to get upset about. He could reassure me that no one is going to judge me if I don't purchase a souvenir for them.
It doesn't even need to be a psychiatrist - maybe a mentor of some sorts - someone with the sense that I don't have. Someone who knows right from wrong and knows that inappropriate remarks are generally frowned upon in our society and can kick me when I am about to say something controversial.
I need this person to accompany me while I am using public transit or walking down any street in the city to teach me how to properly interact with minorities and help me accept the fact that black people are louder than whites on the bus. I clearly am not fit to meander around the city unsupervised. Something catastrophic is soon to happen to me.
While I'm at it, I also need a lawyer to handle all my business and medical-related affairs. I'm already in debt; let's just keep piling on the bills!
Everywhere I go, my psychiatrist would go. He would be with me at work, social gatherings, the gym, in restaurants, bars, in the car, on vacations. I wouldn't make a move without him. He could give me relaxation tips and tell me not to get upset about petty things.
He could tell me who I should talk to at parties and exactly what I should say, so I don't blather on and on about gentrification and Evangelical Christians all night to a group of people that will likely be bored and/or offended. He would tell me to talk about subjects that perhaps would interest a wider audience such as the NCAA tournament or American Idol.
On vacations, he could tell me where to spend my time and what not to get upset about. He could reassure me that no one is going to judge me if I don't purchase a souvenir for them.
It doesn't even need to be a psychiatrist - maybe a mentor of some sorts - someone with the sense that I don't have. Someone who knows right from wrong and knows that inappropriate remarks are generally frowned upon in our society and can kick me when I am about to say something controversial.
I need this person to accompany me while I am using public transit or walking down any street in the city to teach me how to properly interact with minorities and help me accept the fact that black people are louder than whites on the bus. I clearly am not fit to meander around the city unsupervised. Something catastrophic is soon to happen to me.
While I'm at it, I also need a lawyer to handle all my business and medical-related affairs. I'm already in debt; let's just keep piling on the bills!
Monday, March 24, 2008
Home for the Holidays
Every major holiday I find myself in my hometown in New Jersey getting together with friends that I grew up with. I enjoy my time with them and I enjoy seeing certain people that I do not communicate with on a regular basis.
However, whenever I go out to bars within a 10 mile radius, I run the risk of running into people that I truly do not care about and would rather not see. Every time I see one of these people, it's the same conversation.
Me: So... What are you up to these days?
Person I Don't Care About: Oh ya know, working, you?
Me: Yeah, same.
PIDCA: Where ya living these days?
Me: I'm over in Brooklyn, you?
PIDCA: Hoboken.
Me: Cool. I go there sometimes. My girlfriend used to live there.
PIDCA: Oh where about?
Me: She was on 10th and Washington...
PIDCA: Oh wow! I'm on Bloomfield between 6th and 7th.
Me: Oh that's not far. Well, I'm gonna go out and smoke a cigarette.
PIDCA: Ooh, do you have an extra one for me?
Me: (muttering under breath) Nothing has changed since high school.
And it's the same conversation with everyone. I really could care less whether Scott is selling medical devices or where Melanie is teaching or where Tom went to grad school at. I simply don't care. I only want to hear about people who are worse off than I am. I want to hear about people that got kicked out of college for plagiarism and then got charged with rape and is now a registered sex offender who couch surfs because his parents kicked him out of the house...
From now on when I go home, I am going to carry a recorded message with me that states what I am doing so I don't have to go through the whole thing again.
However, whenever I go out to bars within a 10 mile radius, I run the risk of running into people that I truly do not care about and would rather not see. Every time I see one of these people, it's the same conversation.
Me: So... What are you up to these days?
Person I Don't Care About: Oh ya know, working, you?
Me: Yeah, same.
PIDCA: Where ya living these days?
Me: I'm over in Brooklyn, you?
PIDCA: Hoboken.
Me: Cool. I go there sometimes. My girlfriend used to live there.
PIDCA: Oh where about?
Me: She was on 10th and Washington...
PIDCA: Oh wow! I'm on Bloomfield between 6th and 7th.
Me: Oh that's not far. Well, I'm gonna go out and smoke a cigarette.
PIDCA: Ooh, do you have an extra one for me?
Me: (muttering under breath) Nothing has changed since high school.
And it's the same conversation with everyone. I really could care less whether Scott is selling medical devices or where Melanie is teaching or where Tom went to grad school at. I simply don't care. I only want to hear about people who are worse off than I am. I want to hear about people that got kicked out of college for plagiarism and then got charged with rape and is now a registered sex offender who couch surfs because his parents kicked him out of the house...
From now on when I go home, I am going to carry a recorded message with me that states what I am doing so I don't have to go through the whole thing again.
"I'm living in an "up and coming area" in Brooklyn, working for a text book publishing firm that has an agenda to rid themselves of me because I have cancer and they are worried that I am a high-risk employee whose illness will cause loss of revenue for the company and that their insurance premiums will go through the roof."
Short, simple and to the point. I can't wait for the 10 year reunion.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Natatorium Gangs
While it may not feel like it, Spring is coming up and so is summer. Every summer I make the four and a half block pilgrimage to the Red Hook Pool. Well, for the past two summers anyway. Actually, last year I never made it because I was disenchanted from my first experience.
The pool is part of the Red Hook Recreational Center which is governed by the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. It is also located within spitting distances of the infamous Red Hook West Houses. Despite this fact, the pool remains clean and tame enough for yuppie/hipster moms to bring their yuppie/hipster tots (who are undoubtedly gifted) to. The reason it is so pleasant is because the rules are pretty stringent.
Many of these rules are pretty standard, such as "no urinating or defecating in the pool" and "all bathers must take a shower before entering the pool." I, like most gentrified swimmers, am happy to abide by these policies. These rules are essential to making the public swimming experience as pleasurable as possible for the gentry. However, I was almost not let into the facility in the first place due to my attire. You see, I was wearing a shirt that was deemed unacceptable by the person working at the gate. It was considered to be "gang related."
I felt pretty damn cool for those five seconds thinking that I looked like a possibly dangerous gang banger. After all, my grey t-shirt did have hunter green lettering that had an image on coniferous forestry and stated "National Forest Proposal." On the back it said, "Once they're gone, they're gone forever..." It was a shirt I got when I was working for a non-profit environmental awareness group back in college. So, whatever supposed gang I was involved in is at least environmentally conscious. I'm sure the Bloods and the Crips do their part to help save the environment, but I doubt they have the t-shirts to prove it.
I was clearly in violation of the rule that stipulates that one can only enter the swimming facility wearing a plain white t-shirt over one's swimsuit. I did not know this when I decided to go to the pool that day. There are no gangs that I know whose colors are heather grey and hunter green and if there were, I'm sure they wouldn't go around terrorizing patrons of New York City pools and recreational facilities.
I explained to the woman that I was not, in fact, in a gang but that I was thinking of joining one. She was not amused. I never did get into the natatorium that day, but I came back the next day wearing a plain white t-shirt in hopes that it was a shade of white that could not be confused with something a gang-member might wear. My shirt was fine. My towel, on the other hand, is another story.
The pool is part of the Red Hook Recreational Center which is governed by the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. It is also located within spitting distances of the infamous Red Hook West Houses. Despite this fact, the pool remains clean and tame enough for yuppie/hipster moms to bring their yuppie/hipster tots (who are undoubtedly gifted) to. The reason it is so pleasant is because the rules are pretty stringent.
Many of these rules are pretty standard, such as "no urinating or defecating in the pool" and "all bathers must take a shower before entering the pool." I, like most gentrified swimmers, am happy to abide by these policies. These rules are essential to making the public swimming experience as pleasurable as possible for the gentry. However, I was almost not let into the facility in the first place due to my attire. You see, I was wearing a shirt that was deemed unacceptable by the person working at the gate. It was considered to be "gang related."
I felt pretty damn cool for those five seconds thinking that I looked like a possibly dangerous gang banger. After all, my grey t-shirt did have hunter green lettering that had an image on coniferous forestry and stated "National Forest Proposal." On the back it said, "Once they're gone, they're gone forever..." It was a shirt I got when I was working for a non-profit environmental awareness group back in college. So, whatever supposed gang I was involved in is at least environmentally conscious. I'm sure the Bloods and the Crips do their part to help save the environment, but I doubt they have the t-shirts to prove it.
I was clearly in violation of the rule that stipulates that one can only enter the swimming facility wearing a plain white t-shirt over one's swimsuit. I did not know this when I decided to go to the pool that day. There are no gangs that I know whose colors are heather grey and hunter green and if there were, I'm sure they wouldn't go around terrorizing patrons of New York City pools and recreational facilities.
I explained to the woman that I was not, in fact, in a gang but that I was thinking of joining one. She was not amused. I never did get into the natatorium that day, but I came back the next day wearing a plain white t-shirt in hopes that it was a shade of white that could not be confused with something a gang-member might wear. My shirt was fine. My towel, on the other hand, is another story.
Monday, March 17, 2008
I'm Not Jewish!
Despite my Italian ancestry, I often get mistaken for being Jewish. I have accepted this and am fine with it. I have am bespectacled and have dark, wavy hair. I also am a bit on the neurotic side, which is an attribute many associate with being Jewish. This is all good and well. I like Jews and I have many Jewish friends. I'm a big fan of lox and bagels and other Jewish delicacies as well.
However, I feel that whenever Hasidic and Orthodox Jews look at me, they are disgusted. After all, Hasidic and Orthodox Jews detest Reform Jews and I look like a Reform. Just last week, I was in line at the bank and an Orthodox Jew was behind me and I could feel the hatred. I wanted to explain to him that I am, in fact, Italian, but not a practicing Catholic.
For a while in college (while attending a Jesuit university no less), I considered converting to Judaism just to avoid the constant confusion. Even when people hear my last name, they are still not convinced of my non-Semitic background. For the record, my last name is 10 letters long and ends in a vowel. There is no mistaking it for being Hebrew.
There is a fine line between Jews and Italians. They both are somewhat loud, very emotional, a little on the thrifty side and our mothers dote on us in the same manner. We even have similar physical characteristics. It is not easy to distinguish between us sometimes, but all I ask is that if you are Orthodox or Hasidic, do not judge me for not being like you. I was not born into the culture and would not be accepted no matter what.
However, I feel that whenever Hasidic and Orthodox Jews look at me, they are disgusted. After all, Hasidic and Orthodox Jews detest Reform Jews and I look like a Reform. Just last week, I was in line at the bank and an Orthodox Jew was behind me and I could feel the hatred. I wanted to explain to him that I am, in fact, Italian, but not a practicing Catholic.
For a while in college (while attending a Jesuit university no less), I considered converting to Judaism just to avoid the constant confusion. Even when people hear my last name, they are still not convinced of my non-Semitic background. For the record, my last name is 10 letters long and ends in a vowel. There is no mistaking it for being Hebrew.
There is a fine line between Jews and Italians. They both are somewhat loud, very emotional, a little on the thrifty side and our mothers dote on us in the same manner. We even have similar physical characteristics. It is not easy to distinguish between us sometimes, but all I ask is that if you are Orthodox or Hasidic, do not judge me for not being like you. I was not born into the culture and would not be accepted no matter what.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Reality Bites
There's a program on Fox right now entitled "The Moment of Truth" which is sort of like "Who wants to be a millionaire?" but the questions are about people's lives. The last question was for $100,000 and asked a man if he had ever had sex with any of his friend's wives. He answered yes and according to the lie detector or whatever they have, he was being truthful. Now he's $100,000 richer, but most of that money will go to his divorce lawyer because his wife is going to dump his sorry ass.
I guess the point of the show is to watch people expose the proverbial skeletons from their closets and cringe as they admit to having unprotected sex with HIV+ transvestite hookers while their wives cry in the audience.
It's an interesting concept for prime time television, but it got me thinking: Do we care? I think I can speak for the rest of America by saying that I don't give a rat's ass whether some rube from Wichita has ever had sexual relations with his pet donkey. It's completely irrelevant in my life.
The same goes for "American Idol." Let's face it. Some people can sing and some can't. Does there need to be a mega-program that half of America obsesses over to reveal who can and who cannot sing well? Who fucking cares? There are enough crappy artists out there without creating room for more. Americans must have some sense of talent and competence if they voted for both Taylor Hicks and George W. Bush within a few years of each other.
Not to sound trite, but I am sick of reality television. If I want reality, I have my life. (And I'm not going to lie; it fucking sucks. I don't have a whole lot to be positive about these days.) That's why I don't watch the shit and I try not to discuss it. Although no horse is too dead to beat, it seems like it's cool to hate on reality television*, so I'm not going to. I'm sure there is a multitude of blogs devoted to this very topic, so I will not elaborate any more than necessary.
*Although hipsters that ordinarily do not watch television at all usually have one reality TV fix such as "Project Runway" or "Celebrity Rehab." However, they never watch "American Idol," even ironically.
I guess the point of the show is to watch people expose the proverbial skeletons from their closets and cringe as they admit to having unprotected sex with HIV+ transvestite hookers while their wives cry in the audience.
It's an interesting concept for prime time television, but it got me thinking: Do we care? I think I can speak for the rest of America by saying that I don't give a rat's ass whether some rube from Wichita has ever had sexual relations with his pet donkey. It's completely irrelevant in my life.
The same goes for "American Idol." Let's face it. Some people can sing and some can't. Does there need to be a mega-program that half of America obsesses over to reveal who can and who cannot sing well? Who fucking cares? There are enough crappy artists out there without creating room for more. Americans must have some sense of talent and competence if they voted for both Taylor Hicks and George W. Bush within a few years of each other.
Not to sound trite, but I am sick of reality television. If I want reality, I have my life. (And I'm not going to lie; it fucking sucks. I don't have a whole lot to be positive about these days.) That's why I don't watch the shit and I try not to discuss it. Although no horse is too dead to beat, it seems like it's cool to hate on reality television*, so I'm not going to. I'm sure there is a multitude of blogs devoted to this very topic, so I will not elaborate any more than necessary.
*Although hipsters that ordinarily do not watch television at all usually have one reality TV fix such as "Project Runway" or "Celebrity Rehab." However, they never watch "American Idol," even ironically.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Our Favorite Pastime
With baseball season upon us, it gets me thinking about what baseball is really about. I think it has been over-complicated through the years (and I'm not talking about steroids and money and all that trite crap). The game itself is too complicated.
When you think about it, baseball is nothing more than throwing and catching a ball. All the other stuff involved - hitting, running, stealing bases, scoring, fielding - gets in the way of what baseball is truly meant to be. Throwing and catching a ball is the game. Everything else is a "game within a game."
Why not eliminate all that stuff in between and just leave the game as it was intended to be? Two people throwing and catching a ball back and forth to each other. No batters, no fielders, no coaches, no stats, no score. Just two people throwing the ball back and forth. That is pure sport right there and it doesn't have to be interesting. People might watch; they might not. That's not the point. The point is that there is no point.
When you think about it, baseball is nothing more than throwing and catching a ball. All the other stuff involved - hitting, running, stealing bases, scoring, fielding - gets in the way of what baseball is truly meant to be. Throwing and catching a ball is the game. Everything else is a "game within a game."
Why not eliminate all that stuff in between and just leave the game as it was intended to be? Two people throwing and catching a ball back and forth to each other. No batters, no fielders, no coaches, no stats, no score. Just two people throwing the ball back and forth. That is pure sport right there and it doesn't have to be interesting. People might watch; they might not. That's not the point. The point is that there is no point.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
My Generation
We of the generations X and Y are in for a serious wake up call. We grew up with baby boomer parents who made a goddamn fortune in the '80s and continue to prosper today as they lead comfortable semi-retired or retired lifestyles. If they're not in the process of retirement, they are at a very high executive level and they love their jobs.
Our parents may not have been the best achievers in school, but most of them got college educations. Many of them did not go on to receive a post-graduate degree, but still became successful nonetheless. And post-grad degrees in Art History and Maya Angelou ain't gonna mean shit if you don't have a trust fund. Sorry. It's a requirement now to have an MBA in finance or a law degree from a prestigious institution. Otherwise, you're screwed. That includes you med students. You won't see a penny for another 10 years and when you do, you have to give three quarters of it away for malpractice insurance because some litigious asshole is gonna try to sue you for everything you've got.
We are the first generation that will not do better than our parents did. Repeat: We will not do better than our parents did. Pretty sad, right? We were given every opportunity to succeed. College funds were established as soon as we were conceived, tutors were provided, therapists for those of us who needed them were at our disposal and we lived in nice homes to boot. Where did we go wrong?
Note: I am not talking about i-bankers and defense attorneys and other extremely lucrative professions. They are few and far between and will most have nervous breakdowns due to unrealistic expectations by the age of 28. I am talking about the kids who went to above-average liberal arts institutions with high tuition that decided that they would jump straight into the workforce upon graduating. These are the people out there in the trenches everyday teaching snot-nosed little brats in our public schools, putting together Powerpoint presentations for the McCallister account, selling advertising space or whatever meaningless tasks you may be forced to carry out for $42,000 a year, not even ten 10% of an entry-level Wall Streeter's annual bonus.
Maybe in a few years, we'll make $45K, then $51K and then $60K by the time you're in your 30s. By comparison, your parents by that age had already purchased their first home and received a great deal of Lenox vases to put in it and have probably had you and your rotten older brother by the time they were your age. At 30, you are still struggling to pay rent for your crappy, cramped flat in Harlem or Brooklyn or (God forbid) Queens and most likely still in debt from that ill-fated attempt at an advanced degree in Comparative Literature, which after two years and $80,000 in loans later, you realized that you don't have a trust fund like that neighbor downstairs with the interestingly retro glasses who quotes Allen Ginsberg a lot.
No, you need to make a living because your parents are soaking up the sun in their waterfront villa in Florida, riding with the top down in their Mercedes SL 500 so they don't have to support your sorry ass. Their parents didn't support them after they graduated, why should they support you? And when their time is up, there ain't gonna be nothing left except for an aging Mercedes reliability nightmare and an outdated condo that you'll have to divvy up between your other three siblings that you don't even talk to anymore.
I just realized that I will never lead as nice a lifestyle as I had when I was six. That was 20 years ago and things were good in my family. My parents were not yet divorced and we lived in a beautiful 5,000 square foot house on a park-like 2.5 acre property that backed up to the bucolic woods of exurban Chester, New Jersey. We also had a cute Cape Cod in Long Beach Island that was right on the fucking ocean. My bedroom during the summers afforded me with an unobstructed view of the Atlantic Ocean. And guess what! I wasn't happy then either because the house next door to us was newer and bigger and had even better views. Here I was at six fucking years old complaining to my parents that the house next door had multiple decks and a garage while our house only had two decks and a driveway made of pebbles. My dad said one thing to me that I remember to this day: "Just remember, the people there are renting that house and we own this one." Fast forward 20 years and I don't own shit. I would lease my fucking shoes if I could because it would be cheaper. And I'm not exactly living the high life over here by saving money. I'm just happy to have a decent enough health plan to pay for my cancer treatments and my anti-depressants.*
As I type this, I am gazing at MS Joaquin Industries, #1 in the Sheetmetal Industry! The building has beautiful brick and very creative, albeit indecipherable, graffiti on its brown garage doors. I ate a lot more fucking oysters when I was prepubescent than I do now; that's for goddamn sure. I got to ride around in my dad's little Alfa Romeo Spider roadster which was promised to me when I was old enough to drive. I never got it.
And I suffer every fucking month for this industrial view in this shit-ass ghetto neighborhood. I have a seemingly decent job with a salary that would be adequate anywhere else in the country, but I still won't do better than my parents. Will you?
*I'm particularly bitter today.
Our parents may not have been the best achievers in school, but most of them got college educations. Many of them did not go on to receive a post-graduate degree, but still became successful nonetheless. And post-grad degrees in Art History and Maya Angelou ain't gonna mean shit if you don't have a trust fund. Sorry. It's a requirement now to have an MBA in finance or a law degree from a prestigious institution. Otherwise, you're screwed. That includes you med students. You won't see a penny for another 10 years and when you do, you have to give three quarters of it away for malpractice insurance because some litigious asshole is gonna try to sue you for everything you've got.
We are the first generation that will not do better than our parents did. Repeat: We will not do better than our parents did. Pretty sad, right? We were given every opportunity to succeed. College funds were established as soon as we were conceived, tutors were provided, therapists for those of us who needed them were at our disposal and we lived in nice homes to boot. Where did we go wrong?
Note: I am not talking about i-bankers and defense attorneys and other extremely lucrative professions. They are few and far between and will most have nervous breakdowns due to unrealistic expectations by the age of 28. I am talking about the kids who went to above-average liberal arts institutions with high tuition that decided that they would jump straight into the workforce upon graduating. These are the people out there in the trenches everyday teaching snot-nosed little brats in our public schools, putting together Powerpoint presentations for the McCallister account, selling advertising space or whatever meaningless tasks you may be forced to carry out for $42,000 a year, not even ten 10% of an entry-level Wall Streeter's annual bonus.
Maybe in a few years, we'll make $45K, then $51K and then $60K by the time you're in your 30s. By comparison, your parents by that age had already purchased their first home and received a great deal of Lenox vases to put in it and have probably had you and your rotten older brother by the time they were your age. At 30, you are still struggling to pay rent for your crappy, cramped flat in Harlem or Brooklyn or (God forbid) Queens and most likely still in debt from that ill-fated attempt at an advanced degree in Comparative Literature, which after two years and $80,000 in loans later, you realized that you don't have a trust fund like that neighbor downstairs with the interestingly retro glasses who quotes Allen Ginsberg a lot.
No, you need to make a living because your parents are soaking up the sun in their waterfront villa in Florida, riding with the top down in their Mercedes SL 500 so they don't have to support your sorry ass. Their parents didn't support them after they graduated, why should they support you? And when their time is up, there ain't gonna be nothing left except for an aging Mercedes reliability nightmare and an outdated condo that you'll have to divvy up between your other three siblings that you don't even talk to anymore.
I just realized that I will never lead as nice a lifestyle as I had when I was six. That was 20 years ago and things were good in my family. My parents were not yet divorced and we lived in a beautiful 5,000 square foot house on a park-like 2.5 acre property that backed up to the bucolic woods of exurban Chester, New Jersey. We also had a cute Cape Cod in Long Beach Island that was right on the fucking ocean. My bedroom during the summers afforded me with an unobstructed view of the Atlantic Ocean. And guess what! I wasn't happy then either because the house next door to us was newer and bigger and had even better views. Here I was at six fucking years old complaining to my parents that the house next door had multiple decks and a garage while our house only had two decks and a driveway made of pebbles. My dad said one thing to me that I remember to this day: "Just remember, the people there are renting that house and we own this one." Fast forward 20 years and I don't own shit. I would lease my fucking shoes if I could because it would be cheaper. And I'm not exactly living the high life over here by saving money. I'm just happy to have a decent enough health plan to pay for my cancer treatments and my anti-depressants.*
As I type this, I am gazing at MS Joaquin Industries, #1 in the Sheetmetal Industry! The building has beautiful brick and very creative, albeit indecipherable, graffiti on its brown garage doors. I ate a lot more fucking oysters when I was prepubescent than I do now; that's for goddamn sure. I got to ride around in my dad's little Alfa Romeo Spider roadster which was promised to me when I was old enough to drive. I never got it.
And I suffer every fucking month for this industrial view in this shit-ass ghetto neighborhood. I have a seemingly decent job with a salary that would be adequate anywhere else in the country, but I still won't do better than my parents. Will you?
*I'm particularly bitter today.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
The Sopranos: It's Over
This afternoon while driving to Madison, New Jersey for a family gathering, I was stuck in traffic approaching the Pulaski Skyway when I glanced to my left and saw this big idiot in a white 1996 Ford Taurus station wagon smoking a big fucking cigar.
Allow me to let you in on a little secret: You ain't Tony Soprano. This goes for ALL guys that think it's cool to smoke cigars in your car. Just because Tony Soprano, a fictitious character on a fictitious, defunct television program, smokes a cigar in his car during the opening credits, it doesn't make it cool to do it yourself.
Even if Tony were a real character, he was uncouth and unsophisticated and was prone to panic attacks. But he probably smoked some decent Cohibas. Stop smoking cigars in the car and while I'm on the subject, stop wearing those ridiculous bowling shirts to look like him. Maybe morbid obesity will catch on too. If you smoke cigars in the car, who is to say that you don't do other despicable things like cheating on your wife, having people whacked and shoving sushi into your mouths with your hands like a cavone? Tony Soprano is not a character to emulate.
Like a lot of people, I enjoy a good cigar now and then too, but there is no reason to smoke one while driving. I smoke cigarettes in my car, but I'm addicted to them. No one that I know of is addicted to cigars. The smell ruins the car, especially the cheapies these fools probably smoke.
The Sopranos, as good as it was, opened to the door for all these guido, low-level gangster wannabes to go around dressing and acting like idiots. The cigars are just the tip of this dangerous iceberg. You shouldn't talk about "the old neighborhood" when you grew up in Parsippany in the 70s and you shouldn't talk about hanging out at strip clubs and eating soppresata all the time. It's enough already. That affected accent ain't fooling no one eitha. Get rid of it and go back to the way you spoke in 1997, before the Sopranos first aired.
As a 100% Italian-American, I take offense to all of you guidos out there trying to act like Tony Soprano and Paulie Walnuts. You people give us a bad name. There are a lot of Italians that are educated, worldly, well-dressed and make an honest living for themselves. Some of those people enjoy cigars too...when it's appropriate.
The show is over. Put the fucking cigar down.
Allow me to let you in on a little secret: You ain't Tony Soprano. This goes for ALL guys that think it's cool to smoke cigars in your car. Just because Tony Soprano, a fictitious character on a fictitious, defunct television program, smokes a cigar in his car during the opening credits, it doesn't make it cool to do it yourself.
Even if Tony were a real character, he was uncouth and unsophisticated and was prone to panic attacks. But he probably smoked some decent Cohibas. Stop smoking cigars in the car and while I'm on the subject, stop wearing those ridiculous bowling shirts to look like him. Maybe morbid obesity will catch on too. If you smoke cigars in the car, who is to say that you don't do other despicable things like cheating on your wife, having people whacked and shoving sushi into your mouths with your hands like a cavone? Tony Soprano is not a character to emulate.
Like a lot of people, I enjoy a good cigar now and then too, but there is no reason to smoke one while driving. I smoke cigarettes in my car, but I'm addicted to them. No one that I know of is addicted to cigars. The smell ruins the car, especially the cheapies these fools probably smoke.
The Sopranos, as good as it was, opened to the door for all these guido, low-level gangster wannabes to go around dressing and acting like idiots. The cigars are just the tip of this dangerous iceberg. You shouldn't talk about "the old neighborhood" when you grew up in Parsippany in the 70s and you shouldn't talk about hanging out at strip clubs and eating soppresata all the time. It's enough already. That affected accent ain't fooling no one eitha. Get rid of it and go back to the way you spoke in 1997, before the Sopranos first aired.
As a 100% Italian-American, I take offense to all of you guidos out there trying to act like Tony Soprano and Paulie Walnuts. You people give us a bad name. There are a lot of Italians that are educated, worldly, well-dressed and make an honest living for themselves. Some of those people enjoy cigars too...when it's appropriate.
The show is over. Put the fucking cigar down.
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