Smart Casual Fridays

At my office, we have "casual Fridays" which enables people to wear jeans or whatever they feel comfortable in, but I don't like it. I hate the idea of casual Friday. It gives people way to much freedom. Let's call it "smart casual Friday" so people know that it is not acceptable to dress in a way that would be more appropriate in a Midwestern bowling facility.

I don't want to come to work and see people dressed liked fucking assholes. What's next? Wacky Wednesdays and Toga Tuesdays? Are people actually getting the same amount of work done in these so-called "casual" work environments? I sure as hell am not. Let's just make it all a big fucking party every goddamn day of the week. If business is still being conducted on Fridays, appropriate attire should be worn.

And while I'm on the subject, the type of weather we have been having is ruining the outfits of the women of New York. I prefer the Fall when women start to wear shades of brown and charcoal, tweed skirts with boots, turtleneck wool sweaters and long wool coats with Burberry scarves. Call me crazy, but nothing gets me more excited than a very conservatively dressed woman.

Now, the girls are starting to wear low-cut tops and brightly colored short skirts. I don't want to see that. I want to see you in cable-knit lambswool sweaters and gray tweed slacks.

As for me, I refuse to participate in casual Friday. I think it's outrageous and yet another reason why foreigners hate Americans.

Mornings with Donald

Some of us laugh during inappropriate situations such as funerals and in church. I laugh during my cancer treatments, not as a defense mechanism, but because the guy who gives me radiation is quite an interesting lad.

He's puffy with premature gray hair and has a sarcastic disposition. He resembles the Martin Short character Jiminy Glick a little. He might be gay and he alluded to the fact that he has conservative political views. But that's not really why I'm laughing. I'm laughing because of a handicap that he has and I know I should feel guilty, but I just don't because I feel as though I deserve to have a few chuckles every morning.

I'm not sure if it's a tic or Tourette's, but this guy makes a very strange noise about every 30 seconds or so. Think Goat Boy from Saturday Night Live. At first I thought it was just an awkward way of laughing but now I'm beginning to think that he has no control over it.

I can usually stifle my laughter long enough until he leaves the room, but today was different. I'm not sure if it's the change in my medication or what, but I was particularly giddy this morning even whilst going through my cancer treatment.

As soon as I lay myself down on the table and this odd specimen of a man placed the plastic mask over, he made the noise and I lost it. I didn't know what to do; I just burst out into laughter. He asked if I was okay, but I was laughing too hard to answer. He muttered something sarcastic and made the noise again! At this point he took the mask off, lowered the table and I excused myself to the restroom where I got it out of my system and regain my composure so I could proceed with the treatment and not keep 40 people waiting in the depressing waiting area.

It's nice to have such an interesting start to each day even if the treatment is destroying what is left of my life. I'm looking forward to tomorrow morning. See you then, Donald.

It Is the Worst of times, It Is the Worst of Times

Radiation is ruining my life. I have handled everything pretty well up to this point - the tests, the biopsies, the waiting, the sleepless nights, the long dark winter of chemo, harassment from my employer. I've taken everything in stride, but now I am pissed.

It has been nearly a week since I have lost my sense of taste. Not that I can't taste anything, I can certainly taste a metallic flavor in everything I eat. In layman's terms, everything tastes like I have paired a delicate fillet of sole with a particularly aggressive Cabernet. Metallic. Metallica. Whatever.

I also can't drink. That doesn't just mean alcohol; it literally means that I can't drink. I force room temperature water down my sore throat all day and it also tastes like metal. I drank a half of a Corona on Saturday night, but it was horrible. My favorite beverage of all, mineral water, is intolerable. Apparently this side effect will linger for months after my treatment is over.

So, let's recap. Now that I can't talk, can't eat, can't drink, can't smoke, have a girlfriend that lives 3,000 miles away and live near golf courses that are too crowded to play on on the weekends, what pleasure do I have left? Not much, but the last time I checked, there wasn't nothing wrong with my nose, if you get my drift. (Wink, wink.)

No, I don't want to sniff Asian schoolgirls' soiled panties! Get your minds out of the gutter for crying out loud. I want to do copious amounts of cocaine! I haven't done coke in a while, but I think it's time to start up again. Now that I no longer have to spend money on food and beverages, my budget will be freed up to purchase some decent blow. And the coke will suppress my appetite so I will no longer think about food. And if my memory serves me correctly, coke is quite an enjoyable recreational drug. It's a win-win-win situation here.

I need to do something fun that won't harm me during this especially dark time in my life. Trust me, I thought about heroin, but I just don't think I'm ready. Plus, I need those veins for my weekly blood tests.

If you know a reliable and pleasant dealer within five miles of the 11231 zip code, please advise.

H2O

Often I have ideas for businesses that I would like to start and more often than not, they definitely would fail. Here is my latest one:

I want to open up a specialty water emporium that carries various mineral and spring waters throughout the world. It would have a cliche name like H2O or Agua Mineral and would take up about 2,000 square feet in a gentrifying neighborhood. I'm thinking DUMBO.

Much like a wine store, the waters would be placed by country and region. Obviously Italy, France, Portugal and Spain would occupy the most shelf space. Then there would be your German selections (Gerolsteiner - my personal favorite and Apollinaris), Eastern European (Romania is a big producer), Scandinavian, UK varieties and new world types as well.

We would have weekly tastings and suggest water-food pairings and lessons on mineral content and effervescence. This would be your one stop shopping for all your specialty water needs. Here you could find very rare (Tipperary and Cape Grim) and not-so-rare waters (Perrier and San Pellegrino). Each water you purchase would come with a pamphlet to explain its source, balance, minerality (with a list of minerals it contains), pH, food pairings, orientation, proper serving temperature and a bit about its history.

You would be able to purchase by the bottle or by the case. You would not be able to purchase flavored waters at this store. Go to Costco for that. The staff at H2O will be informative, if not a bit snooty.

I would introduce the public to the art of fine water drinking. There are too many wine and beer stores out there to compete with but no water stores that I know of. Maybe this wouldn't be such a bad business idea after all. Anyone want to be my business partner? This could be the next big thing and would breed an entire population of water experts and snobs.

Chemo vs. Radiation

Since the Fall, I have been receiving treatments for Hodgkin's lymphoma, which is a treatable cancer for those of you that do not know. I got my chemo treatments at the Carol G. Simon Cancer Center at Morristown Memorial Hospital in Morristown, NJ and am currently receiving radiation at Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn. The experience is quite different.

At the place in Jersey, I drive up to the front of a nice newly built state-of-the-art medical facility where a friendly valet takes my car and puts in a secured parking lot until I am through with my treatment. I then walk through the lobby where someone is usually playing the piano and go up to the second floor where I am greeted by friendly receptionists and sit in a well-appointed and comfortable waiting area with white professionals and retirees, reading a wide variety of magazines provided by the treatment center until I am called in by the nurse.

In Brooklyn, I ride the crowded B61 bus to the front of the dated hospital or drive up eight floors in a crowded, dilapidated parking lot where there are very few available spaces. I then walk into the dreary hospital where I take a rickety, slow elevator to the sub-basement where the radiation oncology department is and am greeted by a receptionist who clearly doesn't want to be there either and am told to sign in on a wrinkled sheet of paper. I proceed to the small waiting area where most of my fellow cancer patients appear to be dying and on medicaid. The only reading materials available are yesterday's copy of AM New York, a catalog of wigs and a children's story entitled When Mama Wore A Hat.

When it came time for chemotherapy, I went into a large sunny area and sat in a comfortable leather recliner with my iPod and more magazines where attractive nurses delicately administer the treatments. Volunteers come around with books and cookies and ask the patients and visitors if they want coffee or water. I had the option to bring DVDs and a laptop if I wanted to further entertain myself during my treatment.

When I go into radiation, I am led into a dark room in the back where I lay on a hard table with my neck on an even harder piece of plastic with a plastic mask over my face so I can't move. The man that usually gives me treatments resembles Jiminy Glick and has some weird tics. The other guy is a West Indian who is extremely impatient.

When it was time to leave chemo, the nurses made sure I was okay and reminded me to validate my parking. They are also flexible and try to work with patients to schedule appointments based on their needs and are happy to provide necessary documentation to employers.

When I leave radiation, I have to beg the receptionist to look up from her magazine to validate my parking. And if I need a note, that's going to be a problem because the printer is broken and the doctor has left for the day and can't sign it.

I thought radiation would be a cake walk after my eight chemo sessions (which were in two-week intervals), but it has proven not to be. I have to go get tortured for 15 minutes every week day for six weeks straight. I have no voice left and can barely swallow solid foods and am too weak to do anything pleasurable.

And finally, when I leave Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn, I am usually asked for spare change from a black man with a cane. In Morristown, someone brought me my car and told me to have a nice day.

What you talkin' about, Willis?

This afternoon, I happened to catch a few episodes of Different Strokes on the BET network.* This used to be one of my favorite programs and I'm glad that all the cast members turned out so well. So far, Willis has been in prison, Arnold is a complete wack job and Kimberly died of a drug overdose. What became of Mr. Drummond I do not know. Did he possibly become a strung out coke addict?

Here is a brief character analysis.

Arnold: A creepy little kid who uses humor as a defense mechanism for his lack of height. He knows that he is most likely not going to get laid, so he acts sweet and cute, but doesn't always know where to draw the line.

Willis: A bit full of himself and not completely adjusted to his new Park Avenue lifestyle. He likes the ladies and the ladies like him. He would try to get into Kimberly's pants, but knows that if he gets caught, Mr. Drummond would be none-too-pleased. He loves his brother and does not see him a threat. His brother's shortcomings are a source of Willis' high self esteem.

Kimberly: Classic spoiled rich white girl syndrome. She does not like the idea of having her precious life disrupted by her father taking in two African-American children from the wrong side of 96th Street, but has learned to deal with it nonetheless and is even a little fond of the new additions to the family. She finds Arnold's antics amusing and sees Willis as a friend and secretly wants to see what it's like to be with a black person, but knows that it would be inappropriate.

Mr. Drummond: He is a kind-hearted if somewhat lonely older gentleman. To fill a void in his life, he decided to take in two boys from a downtrodden background. He is also a workaholic but seems to work out of his penthouse quite a bit to enable him to spend more time with his family. He lacks a woman in his life and his housekeeper is the closest thing he has to a wife. He does date on occasion, but generally leads a life of solitude. He instills values into his children and teaches them valuable life lessons.

My favorite episode where Arnold and his friend are lured into some guy's apartment who turned out to be a pedophile. I distinctly remember him offering the kids wine and playing Strangers In The Night** on his stereo. It would have made a great episode of Law & Order: SVU.





*I am not in their target demographic and their advertisements reflect that.
**I cannot listen to that song without being reminded of that guy,

The Road to Bellevue is Paved with Fabulous Architecture

vs.

When you're in a long distance relationship on a heavy dose of Zoloft, sex is the last thing you think about. So, what do I think about in lieu of sex?

Houses.

I think about bricks and stone and slate and clapboard. Hardwood, cast iron, leaded glass, ornate moldings, wainscoting and granite. Chair rails, faucets, backsplashes and appliances. Porches, patios, solariums and drawing rooms. Kitchens, bathrooms, closets and attics. Shutters, cornices, gables and chimneys. Vikings, Sub-Zeros, Mieles and Thermadors.

It's a bit sick, but I know I'm not the only person that views real estate in a pornographic light. Hell, on one of my favorite real estate blogs (Curbed.com), they often feature a segment called "Floorplan Porn" where they show a particularly spectacular floorplan for a $7.95 million classic six on 77th and Lex.

Have you looked at real estate marketing materials lately? The Brown Harris Stevens catalogue of fine New York City townhomes and apartments should be contain a warning of explicit content and come in a plastic wrapper to hide its contents like High Society or Barely Legal.

As a male in my mid-20s, I should be interested in going to strip clubs and looking at smutty magazines and web sites, but to be honest with you, I get just as excited strolling through Brooklyn Heights or Fort Greene. Taking a drive through towns like Larchmont, NY or Maplewood, NJ with their gorgeous 1920s Tudors and Colonials on properties that boast mature oaks and sycamores is enough to make me...well you get the point. I'm a freak and should be institutionalized ASAP.

Am I wrong? Is it any different than looking at porn online? People are always fantasizing about what they can't have. There's a reason that Asian porn is so popular among white men. Or any porn for that matter.

People are constantly fantasizing about something, be it sports, cars, women, men, music, art, finance or real estate. We should all come out of our proverbial closets and admit that we have problems. We're all pretty miserable so we need distraction from the ennui that our lives consist of.

I'm going to bed now to dream about that perfect mint condition pitched-roof Tudor colonial built in 1922 on a half acre of park-like greenery with all the details and charm of yesteryear and the amenities of today...

As Woody Allen so eloquently said when he decided to marry his 17-year-old Asian step-daughter, "The heart wants what it wants."