Gentry or Not

Hey Mami!

2008-08-06T21:27:00.004-04:00

Any white female living in an up-and-coming area (or just passing through) has experienced the joys and terrors of minority men coming on to them. It's called "cat-calling" and it deserves its very own Dateline NBC expose. Hispanic men like to call out, "hey mami, can I get to know you?" Blacks like to say similar things but without the charm of a Latino accent. Plus, it's always more intimidating for white chicks to get hit on by black men, for obvious reasons.

I have some friends who just moved to Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn from Pennsylvania who get harassed all the live-long day in their new 'hood. It's a rite of passage though for any young woman roughing it by not living in a door-man secured high-rise in the East 70s. It's something that you simply must accept as part of urban living. Cat calls are as ubiquitous as stray cats, corner bodegas and greasy Chinese takeout joints. Like the Tao, it just is.

But why? I have never really spoken to these cat-callers, but I think I might just to find out what the motivation is for acting this way. Has yelling something vulgar to a woman of a different race ever yielded success in the history of gentrification? I'm going to go out on a limb and say no. But the men keep going as if to challenge this statistic. A few more questions I would like to ask these guys.

How do you have the time to do this all day? Do you work?
Do you just yell out to white chicks or do you pick on your own kind too?
How would you feel if someone spoke that way to your wife, sister, mother, daughter, niece, etc.?
Is it advisable for white women to stay in shape and keep the booty at a reasonable size to stave off your comments or would you say things anyway?
Have you ever gotten laid this way or even smiled at? Have your friends?
What does your wife think of your hobby?
Even though gentrification is not a positive thing for you and your family given your socioeconomic background and rapidly rising rents, do you secretly like it because it bring a whole new crop of white babes into your neighborhood?
Does the idea of mace scare you?
Does NOW scare you? (It scares me and I'm not even on your side.)
What is wrong with you?

Since I am not exactly "working" these days, I may take up a similar hobby, but instead of hooting and hollering at white girls, I'm gonna do it to black foxes and spicy Latinas. Give them a taste of their own medicine. The old switcheroo. (The fact that the women are innocent in this matter is a non issue for me; I'll just be doing it to get back at the chauvinist minority men who so blatantly antagonize our suburban-bred would-be Abercrombie models.)

Ah, but alas, I can't because you and your brothers can kick my ass and I can't kick yours. I don't even like to look at women in public. I get a sense that they are there and I look the other way. Plus these little spoiled, art school chicks from Scarsdale had it coming anyway for ruining the fabric of the neighborhood. And they do have nice asses.

When life gives you lemons...

2008-07-28T20:53:00.003-04:00

When I was about 15, my father decided I should learn a little bit about business so he proposed that I start a little lemonade stand. This would have been fine if I were a six-year-old girl and I wasn't already shaving. And smoking a half a pack a day.

I pretty much would have done anything besides start a lemonade stand at that point. Wouldn't he rather me do something a little more age appropriate, such as, say drug dealing or pimping? If people saw me with this lemonade stand in my lily white suburb (exurb really), they would have grown suspicious of what the true nature of my business was. Is he fronting some type of gambling ring or selling illegal Dutch porn? Why would this kid who looks like he belongs in college be selling lemonade for 25 cents on the corner of Old Farmstead Road?

And then there was the issue with the cops. No one is going to ask a cute little girl in a yellow sun dress if she has a permit to do this, but I think they might ask me. And while they were at it, they might have frisked me in search of something a little more stimulating than lemons and sugar. Or maybe I want to interact with little children - maybe a little too much? Not that I was a particularly menacing or suspicious looking youth, but I think any police officer worth his salt would be wary of any male between the ages of 10 and 78 selling lemonade on the side of the road.

Suffice to say, I ended up working at a driving range that summer and it was hell, but it didn't raise any eyebrows to see me driving the cart around to collect golf balls, hung over with a cigarette in my mouth.

Oh Cum All Ye Faithful

2008-06-10T15:27:00.008-04:00

It's pretty safe for me to say at this point that I have set different goals for myself than say, Thomas Edison or Warren Buffett.

My dream is to open up a strip club somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike corridor (perhaps Linden, Carteret, Colonia or Iselin) that is a normal strip club in every sense except for one key aspect: the only music the DJ will spin is Christmas music. And none of that secular, new-aged, honky tonk Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. No, the only music that will be played will be traditional, religious Christmas music, played in a traditional way. No bass and no remixing. Strictly the type of music played at midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Here is a sample playlist that the mainly black and Puerto Rican go-go dancers will grind to on any given night.

Silent Night (right after last call)
Good King Wenceslas
Oh Come All Ye Faithful (sung in Latin to avoid any sexual innuendos from the word "come")
The First Noel
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear
Oh Little Town of Bethlehem
Oh Holy Night
Away in a Manger (Perfect for a lap dance)
Little Drummer Boy (to lighten the mood)
What Child is This
We Three Kings of Orient Are
I Saw Three Ships
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing (for a particularly freaky dance)
Oh Tanenbaum

Besides the music, there will be no other references to this eponymous holiday throughout the club. The name, decor and outfits will be fitting of a traditional strip joint located on or right off of Routes 1 and 9 in Lower Union/Upper Middlesex (no pun intended) County. The dancing style would be in such a way that it would be more appropriate to that Cyclone song or a jingle by 50 cent than to Joy to the World.

How could this idea not be worth a million dollars?

A New Status Symbol

2008-06-06T11:06:00.018-04:00

When you slide a crisp 10 dollar bill across the counter in your corner New York City bodega for a pack of "premium" smokes, don't expect any change. That's the price that the small stores in Gotham are charging.

My question: With cigarette prices skyrocketing (along with everything else for that matter), will cigarettes become a luxury item? Cigarettes have always been something that transcended class and socioeconomic status. Smokers are represented in just about every demographic from the homeless to the aristocracy and everywhere in between. And while the habit becomes less and less socially acceptable and fashionable all the time, people are still going to do it because, well, it's like the most fun legal thing to do in the United States besides taunting hipsters and people who listen to Prairie Home Companion.

Maybe these prices will make smoking cool again. People will look at us in the same light as people who drive Mercedes Benzes. "Ooh, that guy has good taste and must be successful because he has a Marlboro Light dangling from his cancer-ridden mouth."

Another good thing about the astronomical cigarette prices is that I now have a very good excuse as to why I don't want to bum out cigarettes. On Monday, the first day of the increase, I was walking towards my office on Hudson Street, gleefully smoking my 50 cent cigarette when a guy heading due east on Spring Street in semi yelled out his window and asked for a cigarette. I yelled back, "Sorry, they're 10 bucks a pack now!" He understood and there were no hard feelings.

Like the price of petrol, I am not going to let the price of cigarettes bother me. I will only quit because of health reasons in due time. Even though I am more prone to cancer now. I still think smoking is cool and now it's even cooler that it costs $10 per pack.

Prestigious Addresses

2008-06-02T15:29:00.005-04:00

For a variety of different reasons, I am not happy with my current address. I like the apartment and the neighborhood for the most part, but the actual address leaves much to be desired. Below is a list of addresses (in no particular order) that I would be happy to write on my deposit slip at the bank. They just look and sound particularly prestigious and cool to me. The actual number of the street and apartment number is made up as I see fit to that particular address, but the zip codes are generally accurate.

25 Prospect Park West
Brooklyn, NY 11215

1 Pierrepont St. Apt. 7F
Brooklyn, NY 11201

29 Columbia Heights
Brooklyn, NY 11201

248 Washington Park
Brooklyn, NY 11205

15 Central Park West Apt. 22G
New York, NY 10023

380 Riverside Dr. Penthouse
New York, NY 10025

972 Harlem River Dr. Penthouse
New York, NY 10039

780 Park Ave. Apt. 35A
New York, NY 10021

98 Bonnie Briar Rd.
Larchmont, NY 10538

1179 E. Gun Hill Rd.
Bronx, NY 10469*

92 Fenimore Rd.
Scarsdale, NY 10583

2622 Hutchinson River Parkway North
Pelham Manor, NY 10803

140 Rockinghorse Trail
Rye Brook, NY 10573

291 Saw Mill Parkway South
Chappaqua, NY 10514

7 Havermeyer Lane
Greenwich, CT 06830

42 Old Short Hills Rd.
Millburn, NJ 07041

6 Baltusrol Rd.
Summit, NJ 07901

3 Parsonage Hill Rd.
Short Hills, NJ 07078

20 Glen Alpin Rd.
Harding, NJ 07976

1468 Lamington Rd.
Far Hills, NJ 07931

*I wouldn't actually want to live there, but that is one kick-ass address.

A Major Breakthrough

2008-05-19T21:34:00.006-04:00

After 15 years, several therapists and God knows how many hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of psychoanalysis, my current therapist articulated what she thinks is wrong with me.

I am passive aggressive.* Yes, passive aggressive. But apparently I have a lot of pent up hostility and anger and instead of being hostile and petulant all the time, I redirect those feelings in a congenial way to subtly irritate those around me without them really noticing. (They may notice, but I'm so goddamn pleasant, that they can't fully hold me accountable.)

Apparently, I am angry at my mother, a woman I admire and adore, who would do anything for her son. I am angry at her because she is nervous and thus made her children nervous. I turned out to be a neurotic, self-loathing, depressive, prematurely bitter, self-entitled obsessive compulsive.**

This passive aggressiveness could work out in my favor. Now that I'm pretty much finished with the whole cancer thing, I could use my passive aggressive nature as an excuse. "Sorry I was late to work today, I got caught up redirecting my pent up hostility towards innocent bystanders." "But officer, you see, I was speeding because I secretly resent my mother for being so overbearing."

When I suggested that everyone is passive aggressive to a degree, my therapist simply shook her head and said that they weren't. Who is to say that I'm wrong?

*No one really knows what that precisely is, but people use the term constantly.
**But I'm still not as damaged as my sister.

Gas Is Cheap

2008-05-13T10:21:00.009-04:00

If I hear one more person complain about the inflated price of gas, I'm gonna buy them a one-way ticket to Europe and send their Tahoe on a boat behind them. Let's face it guys, gas is cheap. Yes, you read correctly. GAS IS CHEAP. If it weren't, people would have to make actual lifestyle changes.

Ask yourself this question: Do you know one person that the price of gas is actually affecting adversely? Oh the person that bitches and complains about paying $4.29 a gallon? Yeah, everyone is complaining, but does it actually affect anyone?

It will cost a few hundred extra dollars a year. Boo hoo. Do you know one family who is not going to be driving all over creation this summer in a 15 mpg Land Cruiser or equivalent? No, they will be driving down to LBI every weekend just like they did 10 years ago when the pumps read $1.09. And they won't be spending any less on entertainment either while they're down there.

I think people are happy that gas is so expensive now. It gives us something to talk and complain about. Remember the winter of '94 with all the ice storms? It's kind of like that, except now we can blame the government instead of God. Someone has to be held accountable, right?

I asked my father the other day how much it cost to fill up his 382 horsepower, 5.5 liter V-8 Mercedes with premium fuel and he furrowed his brow and had to think about it for a minute. This morning he called me up to tell me that it cost him $70 at "one of the cheaper places" and then kind of laughed. Are gas prices affecting people like him? Apparently not. He doesn't drive that much anyway and he has a few extra dollars.

Then there are people like my sister - an elementary school teacher with a bit of a daily commute. What is her response to the increase in gas prices? Something along the line of "I haven't really noticed and whatever it is it is." Interesting how two people at very different ends of the socioeconomic spectrum have pretty similar responses to the gas prices.

Then people whine, "But what about the hard working people in Iowa that drive 200 miles each way in a pickup truck to work that have to support 12 kids, eight cats, seven dogs and four chickens?" My answer: What about them? It's still not affecting them because I don't see too many of these guys driving Civics and Corollas.

What will it take for us to actually start giving a fuck about gas prices. Scratch that. What will it take for gas prices to actually start affecting our lives? It needs to go up to $10 a gallon. Anything less and gas will continue to affect us no more than mild weather changes, as much as we like to complain about it.

Smart Casual Fridays

2008-04-25T12:02:00.005-04:00

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

2008-04-22T23:24:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-17T22:04:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-13T19:40:00.006-04:00

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

2008-04-10T20:19:00.002-04:00

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?

2008-04-06T20:42:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-03T23:55:00.013-04:00

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."

It was starting to feel like Glengarry, Glen Ross.

2008-03-31T14:14:00.003-04:00

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.)

Help Me!

2008-03-26T21:27:00.004-04:00

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!

Home for the Holidays

2008-03-24T22:46:00.003-04:00

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.

"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.

Natatorium Gangs

2008-03-19T20:37:00.002-04:00

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.

I'm Not Jewish!

2008-03-17T21:22:00.002-04:00

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.

Reality Bites

2008-03-12T20:54:00.005-04:00

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.

Our Favorite Pastime

2008-03-07T18:45:00.002-05:00

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.

My Generation

2008-03-06T17:21:00.003-05:00

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.

The Sopranos: It's Over

2008-03-02T19:12:00.004-05:00

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.

YMCA

2008-02-28T22:19:00.004-05:00

I've been known to discuss religion in inappropriate places, but there is something to be said for a group of West Indian guys arguing in the locker room of the Dodge YMCA on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn screaming at each other about evolution versus creationism.

While the locker rooms at that particular Y are pleasant enough, they really aren't that conducive to theological discussion. "There ain't no way I come from no monkey," one gentleman exclaimed. Hmm, judging by your speech, I beg to differ. There's a case for evolution right there. Would God have created people like him?

I do enjoy the Y though. It bridges the gap between the gentrifiers and the non-gentrifiers. I share the basketball court with people I have nothing in common with, except for the fact that I like basketball. In any other situation, these urban youths would probably frighten me. If I saw them on the street at night, I would cross to the other side and hide my watch, but at the Y, we help each other out, retrieving errant basketballs for each other and moving out of each other's way when shooting. It doesn't matter if they live in the projects and are failing history, we are doing the exact same thing at the exact same time in the exact same place. Isn't that remarkable? Do they, too, find it remarkable?

They may have exemplary basketball-playing skills, but I have to say, for a 5'8" white dude, I'm a goddamn good shooter. I can drain it from all points of the court. Top of the key, baseline, three-point range, you name it. I think some of these guys must be pretty surprised by the fact that I can probably shoot better than they can. I can't, however, jump all that well. I can dribble and screen and box out, but when it comes to actually playing with these guys, I'm not that great. The reason being is that they don't pass whitey the fucking ball. They have no idea that I can fake left, dribble right and put the ball in the basket with a hook shot because they won't give me a goddamn chance. Maybe we're not that similar after all.

I like being a member of the Y because the money goes to a good cause and I'd rather see these kids shooting hoops than robbing yuppies on the street, but PASS ME THE FUCKING BALL ONCE IN A WHILE. After all, I'm paying for your broke ass to have access to an indoor basketball court where you're not gonna get hassled by the police or Reggie, the neighborhood crack dealer. I'll go and join New York Sports Clubs and my money will just go to some corporation.

I know I can't get above the rim and I'm not gonna try, but just give a chance to score a few points during our lousy three on three half court pick up game.

And I don't want to hear your religious beliefs whilst changing in the locker room. Save that discussion for the sauna.

In Treatment

2008-02-20T23:18:00.003-05:00

Every week I go to an office, sit down on a sofa and talk for 50 minutes. It's called therapy. I love therapy because it gives me the opportunity to say whatever the hell I want and the other person has to listen.

That's why people resort to therapy. When everyone else stops listening, you can actually pay someone to do so. I can go on and on about the Evangelical right and how irritating limousine liberals are and why I prefer Gerolsteiner to Perrier.

She has to listen. She can't hang up the phone. She can't move to the other side of the bar. She can't go talk to other people. I have her where I want her for nearly an hour and since I'm paying, she cannot leave. She has to listen.

I used to have a psychologist that would say things like, "Well, that is strange," when I said something a little off the wall. He was a great therapist and a pretty cool guy. He had the most soothing voice and pleasant demeanor. I wish he had a practice in the city. Now I am stuck finding people in my insurance network that are geographically convenient to the 11231 zip code.

The main issue I have with therapists that I have visited is that they often find me so amusing that it's difficult to keep a straight face. My current therapist actually said that "it might not work out" because she can't help herself from laughing. Good. I like making people's jobs difficult.

I started blathering on about these goddamn trust-fund hipsters and she stopped me by telling me that it was not really a good use of my time or money. Here are just a few topics that I should avoid discussing while I'm on the clock.

The fact that I am really pleased with my sneakers.
The fact that I have been thinking a lot about industry as of late, and while I recognize that industry exists, I'm not really sure how the whole thing works.
My dreams about Ted Danson.
The notion that I may never be able to afford a Wolf range and a Miele dishwasher.
My hatred for visible air conditioning units in new construction condominiums.
My need to categorize people into two distinct groups: gentry or non-gentry.
How upset I get when I don't receive a proper greeting sometimes when I run into acquaintances on the street.
How depressing places are that are considered to be the "fastest growing" anything.
What I should talk about if I ever get through to the Howard Stern Show.
My contempt for people that are not articulate.
How I sometimes use the word "quaint" to describe things that certainly not quaint.
Neil Young's arrogance and refusal to fully commit to CSN.
The fact that Chinese takeout places always put duck sauce and soy sauce in the bag, but you always have to ask for mustard.
How I wish I had some black friends.
What the hell that friend of Oprah's, Gail, is contributing to society.

These are topics that I should just keep bottled in and not waste during my precious therapy minutes.

I am leaving for Texas in the morning, so I'll see ya'll on Monday.

The Needle And The Damage Done

2008-02-18T23:06:00.002-05:00

For some reason as of late, I have become obsessed with drug culture - heroin to be specific.

I'm getting sick and tired of all these self-righteous risk takers who have "tried every drug except for crack and heroin." What the fuck kind of experimentation is that? Heroin the drug to use and abuse. You just ain't cool unless you've used it. I find these fucking deadbeat potheads and coke-fiends to be nothing more than frauds. Oh, so you tried LSD and E? Big fucking deal. I took too many Xanaxes one night once and an Ambien through my nose.

At least respect the drugs for what they are and when pressed, say, "Well I've been meaning to get around to trying that." Lou Reed would even respect that answer.

Unfortunately, since the Giuliani administration, this city has seen an enormous drop in active needle-using drug addicts. When Dinkins was in office, the crack epidemic peaked in New York City and there 250,000 active needle-using heroin junkies roaming around the city. This was before there were condos on Stanton and Orchard selling for $2.4 million. Ah those must have been the days. I was holed up in my cushy house in a lily-white New Jersey exurb missing out on all the fun. All the injecting, the nodding off, the withdrawals...I missed it. Where is it now? When was the last time you encountered a real junkie in this city? I see them very infrequently and when I do, I smile, thinking of a bygone era - a simpler time without iPods and iPhones and Blackberries.

People weren't as hung up on the latest fashions and how their stock portfolios are doing. And they weren't pretending to save the world either. They had one goal in life - to get their fix. No other worries. To see a complete list of things I personally would no longer worry about if I were to become a junkie, please refer to my August 16, 2007 entry.* http://gentryornot.blogspot.com/2007/08/methadonia.html

I would love to try it out. I get needles stuck in me constantly for medical purposes, why not recreationally? I had a few needles in me today during chemotherapy and I didn't really mind it all that much. If I could possibly keep my port in my chest that was installed for chemo to shoot dope into, it might be a wise decision so my veins will hold up. When I inquired about it to my oncology nurse, she stated that she wouldn't recommend doing that because it causes infection and irrevokable damage, but what does she know? They're giving me POISON every time I step foot in there. Heroin can't be that much different.**

Plus, I would be the coolest guy in my group of friends just for trying it. Half these guys haven't even snorted anything yet. Dorks.

*This was my second Gentry or Not post.
**Perhaps another viewing of Requiem For A Dream would change my mind.

V Day

2008-02-14T22:43:00.002-05:00

Happy Valentine's Day to all my female readers (if there are any). This year I am spending it alone with a bottle of Barolo watching HGTV's House Hunters, a riveting portrait of how people go through the home-buying process in places like the suburbs of Wichita and Cleveland. The host is this smoking hot Asian broad who would have her own cooking show if she had bigger cans. I still have very dirty thoughts about her.

But I'm not really alone - I got a woman, much like Ray Charles must have had, that's good to me. I also have the bus driver dude from this morning.

I entered the bus behind a female African-American senior citizen with a cane and the bus driver wished her a happy Valentine's Day. I inserted my Metrocard and got no such wish. Thoughts ran through my mind that he may have been acting out of racism and still feeling oppressed by the white man and did not feel the need to acknowledge me.

I turned around and said, "What about me?" He laughed and wished me a happy Valentine's Day and we all had a nice laugh. I seem to bond with certain bus drivers. Others, not so much.

Something In The Air

2008-02-13T21:43:00.002-05:00

It all started when I was walking down Hudson Street in Manhattan around 7:00 this evening after an all-day meeting and business dinner to retrieve my car when I began to feel something strange. Like something just wasn't right. It was a gloomy night, unseasonably warm, but gloomy nonetheless in the aftermath of yesterday's snow and sleet and today's earlier downpours.

It just felt bleak in an indescribable way. Then I approached the parking lot that my car had been resting in for the past 10 hours. It was closed. Locked up, no one answering the phone. Fuck me; nothing ever goes right. Since when did parking lots close? Then I realized that I left all my keys with the attendant leaving me no way to get into my apartment.

I wandered around the chain-link fence for a while irritated as hell when I saw a hole just big enough for me to climb through to see if my car was unlocked and possibly contained keys. Instead of jumping through and risking a night in New York County Jail, I crossed the street towards the entry of the Holland Tunnel and asked a police officer if it would be okay if I broke into the parking lot and tried to break into my own car. I explained my predicament and after a suspicious glare, he said, "Go for it." There I was standing near the entrance of the Holland Tunnel asking a police officer for permission to break into a closed parking lot.

So I went through but found my doors locked and no keys in sight and walked to the the Spring Street C train heading downtown. The subway ride was normal enough, but when I got out at Jay Street in Brooklyn, the ominous feeling was back. I walked toward the bus stop and waited for the B61 with an intense urge to relieve my bladder. Finally the bus arrived and I entered and sat near the most gentrified passengers I could find. A black mother, most likely a resident of the Red Hook Houses, and her two little boys sat behind me. D'Shawn* was misbehaving himself and beating up his little brother. They, too, wanted to sit near the gentry.

The bus didn't move for about 10 minutes and I realized there were ambulances, police cars and fire trucks blocking the intersection. Meanwhile my urge to urinate is increasing and my need for a Xanax is getting more intense.

Finally the bus moved along its merry way and I exited at the intersection of Columbia Street and Carroll Street and walked into the bar that my roommate works at. (D'Shawn and his brother had to be separated from each other by this point in the ride.) Yes! She was there and gave me keys. The patrons in the bar seemed very rough looking and unkempt, swilling cans of PBR and High Life from buckets and downing shots of Jameson. If rednecks existed in Brooklyn, these people would be as close as it gets.

She offered me a drink but I looked around and decided that I needed to get the fuck out of there. I used the water closet, drank a cup of water and took the keys and started walking to my apartment.

I felt an overwhelming sense of vulnerability the entire walk home (a total of about 11 blocks). Along Van Brunt Street, there was an unusual amount of police activity, but I still didn't feel safe. I seldom feel threatened even in the sketchiest locations, often feeling invincible, but tonight I felt uncomfortable in my own neighborhood. Red Hook in and of itself is a pretty ominous place to be even on sunny afternoons. Tonight, the feeling was unbearable. It got me thinking my first visit to this odd little waterfront enclave. It was a rainy night in the autumn of 2005 and I was in the comfort of my old Passat and driving through thinking to myself, "How the fuck could anyone live here?" and "How the fuck do I get back to Park Slope?"

Tonight, just like that rainy September evening nearly three years ago, I didn't feel safe until I entered my apartment. In fact, I still don't.

*Yes, I did hear her call him D'Shawn - I'm not stereotyping.

Maybe I'll tell you how I really feel.

2008-02-11T16:09:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately I had to attend a wake last night for my boss, a man I liked very much.

All wakes are pretty much the same and there are always a handful of people that defy social mores and wear inappropriate attire like jeans. How fucking disrespectful is that? If someone pulled that shit at a wake of someone very close to me, I would have them removed from the premises and told to come back with a decent pair of pants on and a shirt that (at the very least) has a collar and buttons.

And these people are not children; they're adults who should know right from wrong at this point. Who the fuck raised them? A pack of wolves? It's not only insulting to the deceased but it is also insulting to the family and everybody else involved. I painstakingly picked out the outfit I was wearing (charcoal slacks, a gray tweed blazer, a navy blue sweater vest, a blue oxford shirt and a paisley tie). Even the socks matched.

If you are going to show up at a wake, a funeral, a wedding or any other event that is to be taken seriously in jeans, stay the fuck home. You are embarrassing yourself and everyone around you.

It's tantamount to defecating on the casket in my opinion. I shutter to think of what other social norms these people are blatantly ignoring. Are they sleeping with their sisters? Are they eating their cats? How far do they take it? And no one is ever going to tell them that it was inappropriate for them to be wearing jeans. No one in mourning says to that distant cousin, "Thank you so much for coming to my father's funeral, but would it have killed you dress a little nicer than you do when you go bowling?"

Funeral parlors should have dress codes. In fact, there should be dress codes everywhere. I'm pretty old-fashioned and conservative when it comes to the way people dress. I like wearing jeans just as much as everyone else, but only when it's appropriate.

There is absolutely no excuse to show up to a wake in jeans and sneakers. I don't care if you don't own any pants. Go to Target and buy a pair for $14.99. You don't have to spend a fortune to look presentable. It's just common sense and common courtesy.

I'm liked, but not "well-liked."

2008-02-10T22:47:00.000-05:00

Often I wonder what people think of me when they meet me. I am a tad complex. I can be unfailingly polite and charming one day and abrasive and offensive the next.

Last night I went to friend's birthday party in Hoboken and immediately started ranting to two people I had never met before about evangelical Christians and how disturbing it is that there are between 50 and 80 million (!) evangelists living in America. I then proceeded to discuss televangelists and mega-churches that are becoming ever-so-ubiquitous in the red states. Meanwhile the two people (victims) I chose to speak to had no interest whatsoever in anything that I had to say and the two friends I arrived with went to the other side of the room. The couple I was lecturing had no idea what Christian fundamentalism was all about in the first place, yet I continued to rant about it until they eventually moved in to the living room, leaving me alone at the kitchen counter with a tray of lukewarm cocktail franks, a bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla and no one to talk to.

Apparently, religion is one of those taboo subjects that we're not supposed to discuss. However, I do not give a rat's ass whether people want to listen to my rants about how money hungry these mega-churches are and the fact that they accept credit cards, have ATM machines on premises along with Starbucks coffee establishments. A little different from the Catholic church I grew up with.

Then, today I decided to call 311 to inquire about whether muni-meters function on Sundays. I know that regular parking meters are suspended on Sundays, but was not sure about the muni-meters. It turns out that muni-meters are free on Sundays as well. I chose to tell the 311 representative that she was the most articulate 311 person I had ever spoken with. Then I started to discuss the fact that the reason that we do not have to pay for metered spaces on Sundays is for the sake of religious worship and asked if I should pay for the meter anyway due to the fact that I was not going to a place of worship. Then I asked if she thought that the Jews felt slighted on their Sabbath because parking meters certainly do appy between sundown on Friday and sundown on Saturday. Her response: "Is there anything else I can assist you with today?"

If these calls are really being recorded for quality assurance purposes, someone must have had a good chuckle over that one indeed.

Happy Ash Wednesday!

2008-02-06T21:37:00.000-05:00

What a week we are having. First, the Giants won the Superbowl in the unlikeliest manner and Eli Manning, who we all thought would be searching through Craigslist job postings by mid-season, was the Superbowl MVP and now gets to ride around in a Cadillac Escalade Hybrid that Michael Strahan would probably prefer.

Then there was Super Tuesday. Did you vote? I didn't get a chance to due to my chemo and improv, but it didn't matter because my candidate, Hillary, won New York anyway. Yesterday also marked the eve of then Lenten season. Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, whatever you want to call it. I participated in none of those festivities, because a.) I felt like shit and 2.) I'm not really an observant Catholic these days.

I gave up on the whole Catholicism thing in college, at a Jesuit institution no less, when I decided that I was tired of being a slave to the papacy. So, to fit in, I used to stick my finger in my ashtray and print a cross on my forehead with my finger. No one knew the difference and the priests approved when I ran into them that day.

Let's face it, we are all, in some way, slaves to something. Alcoholics are slaves to the drink, junkies are slaves to the drug, workaholics are slaves to the job and Catholics are slaves to the Pope.

The thing that gets me about Lent is how ridiculous the rules are. Meat is not to be eaten on Ash Wednesday or on any Friday during Lent. Why? We are supposed to sacrifice. However, fish is perfectly acceptable. The last time I checked, tuna steaks at the Fairway were $18.99 a pound and ground beef was $3.99 a pound. And I sure as hell would rather have the former. This means that according to the Pope, it is perfectly acceptable to gorge yourself on lobster and jumbo shrimp on Fridays, but consumption of a simple hot dog is grounds for eternal damnation. The Pope did, however, make an amendment allowing the Irish to eat corned beef if St. Patrick's Day happened to fall on a Friday. What the fuck kind of hypocrisy is that?

I think the rule should be: You can't eat anything that you like on Fridays during Lent. You must eat plain porridge, the kind that is served in orphanages in England. If you happen to like porridge, you must pick a different food that you are averse to such as cauliflower. No fish, no pizza, no pasta, no rice, no bread, no fruit. Nothing that you like. If I were the Pope, I would implement that rule instead of the no meat on Friday. It's terribly dated and does not apply to today's prices at butchers and fish markets. In the olden days, Catholics were prohibited from eating meat on all Fridays throughout the year, then they changed it to just Lent.

So, this Friday when choosing between a turkey sandwich and a tuna sandwich for lunch, just remember, that the bible says nothing of this! This is a man-made rule, one that will be obsolete during the next Papal administration.

Cat's In The Cradle

2008-02-01T04:33:00.000-05:00

The first time I realized that my father was a little strange was when we got our cat, Misty, and he said, "Maybe one of these days, we'll take Misty out for a ride so she can see a little bit of the countryside."

I was about five at the time and I was in his study when he proposed this idea and I remember thinking to myself that it was a strange thing to say. I was dumbfounded and just said "That's a great idea, dad," something I still do to this day when he says something off-kilter like that. Just like when he wanted to buy a little villa in Tuscany a few years ago and when he had the idea to invest in some Roy Rogers franchises. Most recently, he said that maybe he'd get a little fishing pole and learn how to fish in the artificial lake in his gated Florida community.* "Just for fun," he said. I just can't see that happening. But I said "That's a great idea, dad," just as I had 20 years prior and as I will continue to do throughout my life. No one's feelings need to be hurt.

We did, in fact, try to take our beautiful Calico out for a ride and she urinated on the seat of his brand new navy blue 1988 Audi 5000 before we even left the house and that was the end of that. I guess she didn't want to go.

Misty lived to the ripe old age of 19, but never got to see the bucolic countryside of New Jersey besides what was outside the windows she perched herself on in our home. (We had some nice views.) We did take her to our shore house during the summers, but the Garden State Parkway didn't provide for the lush scenery that she had been promised. (Maybe the Pine Barrens were enough for her.)

She had her own ocean views from the window sills upstairs in the shore house, but she hated it down there due to a lack of square footage and luxurious surroundings she had grown accustomed to in our regular house. It was a simple Cape Cod style house with modest "beachy" furnishings.

Someday when I get a cat of my own, I'll try to take her for a ride to see the more urban areas so she can get a taste of diversity. I'll just make sure that we bring someone else's car.

*This may not sound so strange to you, but if you know my father, trust me you would raise your eyebrows at the sight of him trying to fish.

If I Had $2,995,000...

2008-01-31T17:01:00.000-05:00

I would buy this.

http://www.corcoran.com/property/listing.aspx?Region=NYC&listingid=1169108

Gentry By Default

2008-01-30T10:51:00.000-05:00

Try as I may, I just can't seem to intimidate people. It's not that I'm particularly diminutive in size or look like a faggot or anything, I just look too gentrified. Even when I leave my house unshaven with my ripped jeans and ratty sweatshirt, I still have an air of gentry about me. It must be my pseudo-hipster Yves Saint Laurent glasses and my understated yet elegant mechanical Swiss watch, neither of which I ever leave my apartment without.

Or perhaps it's my overall demeanor that screams "gentry." Even if I dressed in a thugged out way and wore a do-rag and baggy convict jeans, I still don't think I could scare people on the street. I would just look downright silly and possibly mentally ill. Or it could look like I am poking fun at those of the non-gentry persuasion with my ghetto-tastic costume and get my ass beaten for that.

Black people, no matter how good looking and polished they may be during normal business hours, can intimidate wherever they go simply by changing into a hooded sweatshirt and a big puffy jacket and those big fucking jeans (or even just regular sweats or appropriately sized jeans). He could be the classiest guy at the office who wears perfectly tailored Brooks Brothers suits, shiny Bruno Magli shoes and an authentic Philippe Patek watch, but he could still intimidate Whites and Asians on the subway and in dark alleys at night on in his sweats on his way to spin class at New York Sports Clubs if he wanted to. I sure as hell would if I could.

And I don't give a rat's ass how fucking liberal you like to think you are, if you saw a black man approaching you on a deserted street that wasn't dressed in business or smart casual attire in say, Red Hook, Brooklyn, you would be a little frightened and instinctively start to walk faster or move to the other side of the street while hiding your valuables. Yes, even you, Ms. "I Love Diversity." If I, on the other hand, approached you? Eh, not so much.

I think the only black person that couldn't intimidate anyone no matter outfit he chooses to wear is Al Roker. And on this issue, there will be no debate.

Scooter

2008-01-29T23:18:00.000-05:00

An impromptu trip to Maplewood, NJ last weekend, where I spent the first three years of my life, brought back a few memories for me.

The town looks as quaint as ever, with its beautiful tree-lined streets of picture-perfect English Tudors and older colonials with perfectly manicured lawns and a lovely town center with shops (shoppes) and restaurants and a mid-town direct train station. I would gladly settle down in that town if the property taxes weren't so prohibitive. ($20,000 a year for a 2,1oo square foot house on an eighth of an acre? I don't think so.)

I don't remember much from living there in the early 80's except for some of the people in the neighborhood. Our neighborhood was primarily Jewish, but some of the nearby streets had an African-American population. There was one individual that I do remember well and his name was Scooter. (I'm not sure if that was his nickname or what, but in any event, that's what he was known as.) He was my older sister's friend's older brother.

Scooter was a prick and he tormented me. I remember him being tall, like eight feet tall, but in retrospect, he was probably a 4'6" nine year-old with self esteem issues. At any rate, the kid scared the shit out of me. I recall him saying things like, "PJ, I'm in the kitchen, I'm gonna get you..." or "PJ, I'm in the dining room, I'm gonna get you." Then there was the time that he threw dirt in my eye (in my own fucking backyard!). You don't be bringin' dat shit into my house, son. These experiences were my first with black people, so maybe that's why I still have some hostility towards them.

Apparently my father had a "little talk" with Scooter one day as Scooter was walking his dog and he ceased to bother me after that. Then we moved to an exurb about 25 miles west of Maplewood and he was no longer a presence in my life. But to this day, I still think about Scooter and often wonder if he thinks about me. (I doubt that he does.) I am curious as to how he turned out. Here are a few possibilities.

He is inmate #234725 at Rahway State Penitentiary for aggravated assault, grand larceny and conspiracy to distribute heroin.
He is no longer living due to a gang-related incident.
He is a physical-education teacher at Columbia High School in nearby South Orange.
He works as a baggage handler at Newark Airport.
He is an insurance salesman in Parsippany.
He is a homeless junkie who nods off in abandoned doorways in Newark.
He is a the chief of surgery at St. Barnabas Hospital.
He is a construction worker somewhere down south.
He is an investment banker at Deutsche Bank, but aspires to work at Goldman. He lives with his wife and two children in Mamaroneck.
He is playing semi-professional basketball in Slovakia.
He is unemployed and living in the basement of the house he grew up in and still torments three year-old white kids.

So, basically Scooter could have turned out to be part of the gentry...or not.

Note: Scooter, if you're reading this, contact me and we'll have a beer and I'll throw some dirt in your face.

Born to Bullshit

2008-01-28T21:29:00.000-05:00

I'm a salesman, albeit not a tragic figure like Willy Loman (well not yet), therefore I have the natural ability to bullshit.

I've been bullshitting since I was very young and the best example would have to be the time I was in the first grade and I forgot to bring something in for show and tell.

Instead of bowing my head in shame, I had an idea. I was going to show my shoes and tell the class about them. When my turn came, I got up there, showed off my docksiders and made up a story about how my grandfather made them. (I was glad that I decided not to wear my Reeboks that day because it would have been pretty hard to convince even a group of seven year- olds that my grandfather was a small Asian child who worked in a factory in Taiwan.) I said that he was a cobbler from Sicily* and he came to America and made shoes for coal miners and continued to make shoes as a hobby for his friends and family. (All of this was of course a lie.)

I think the class believed me but I'm not so sure if the teacher, Mrs. VanShaften (sp?), did. She wound up calling my mother to tell her that her son was quite the little story teller and while my story was interesting and well crafted, it was indeed, made up. My mother sided with her son of course and rewarded me for my creativity. (Mrs. VanShaften was a real cunt but I think her daughter turned out to be a nice piece of ass.)

I think it was then that I knew I was destined to become a professional bullshit artist, which I am today. I sold nearly a million dollars worth a textbooks this past year without knowing anything about the product. Numbers don't lie folks.

I think my show and tell story would look great in a cover letter or sound even better in a job interview. "Tell me about a time where you had to think quickly on your feet..."

*Well, he was Sicilian at least.

This Old Shirt

2008-01-28T13:18:00.000-05:00

Ten years have gone by, nearly to the day, since I have had this deep hunter green Polo by Ralph Lauren long sleeve pullover collared shirt with a red pony, size L (made in Bolivia), the very shirt I am wearing as I type.

I remember the day when it was purchased like it was yesterday. It was a brisk, clear Sunday afternoon in January of '98 and my father and I were shopping at the Short Hills Mall in New Jersey. We arrived at the mall in his '95 Audi, which was a similar color to the shirt that would later be purchased.

My father went shopping for sport jackets and trousers (as if he needed any more clothes) while I immediately ran to the Polo section and decided on the shirt. It was (and still is) a beautiful, comfortable shirt indeed. 100% machine washable cotton (non-chlorine bleach only), tumble dry low, $59. I paid $50 with my gift certificate and $9 in cash. I actually couldn't wait for school the next day so I could premier my newest acquisition.

While I have shirts older than this that are still part of my extensive wardrobe, this shirt remains a key player unlike a few of them purchased in '96 that I wear under sweaters or only to do yard work.* This shirt I wear around the house, in public and everywhere in between. It's been to Italy with me. Twice, and more recently, Portugal where I even walked on the beach with it on when the winds picked up. I'll admit that it has faded a bit over the years, but it still serves its purpose as a casual shirt that goes well with jeans, khakis and corduroys. Whether I'm lounging around the house watching HGTV, going to therapy, shopping at Fairway, downing a few pints at the pub or playing golf on a cool spring or autumn day, this very versatile shirt fulfills its duty with aplomb and style. I've worn it under wool coats on cold winter days and with shorts on cool summer nights.

A lot has happened in my life since this shirt was purchased during my freshman year in high school.

It took me through my formative high school years where I would learn how to get rejected by women and develop a voracious smoking habit.

My shirt took me through college, where I would continuously be rejected by women and continue to smoke and drink very heavily.

I lost my virginity with this shirt in my dorm room closet.

I graduated college and moved out on my own to Brooklyn, taking the shirt with me, where I have moved from Midwood (for a week) to Gowanus (for two months) to Clinton Hill (six months) to Red Hook (present), worked in various jobs, lost many real estate deals and got rejected by more women.

With the shirt hanging comfortably in my overcrowded closet (among a plethora of similar Polo shirts that never wear out) in Red Hook, I met the woman of my dreams who I am still dating. The shirt probably had nothing to do with it because it's not really a lucky shirt; it's just a shirt that I like.

While in possession of my shirt I have gone through five cars: A forest green '97 Jeep Wrangler, a fire engine red '94 Saab 9000 Aero**, a black '99 Volkswagen Passat GLX, a slate blue '06 Volkswagen Passat 2.0T (which I still have) and a tan '06 Ford Explorer that my company provides for me. The sixth car, another company Explorer (a black '08) is on the way and my shirt will still be with me.

This shirt remains with me through my cancerous period of life which is the present. I don't wear it for luck. I wear it because of its comfort and durability.

It's been worn probably 1,000 times and washed almost as many and I'll probably still have it in another 10 years where it will remain an integral part of my wardrobe. If you have known me in the past 10 years, you've probably seen me in this shirt and you will see it again.

*Which is to say, never.

**Which was a really cool car, but caused me nothing my heartache and cost my parents a fortune to maintain so that their favorite son could drive his dream car.

I Heart NY

2008-01-24T22:52:00.000-05:00

When I was visiting my dad and his wife in Naples, Florida a few weeks back, his wife asked me if I could ever live down there. I thought about it for, oh, about .57 seconds and responded with a negative.

"Why not?" she asked. "Naples is beautiful, the weather is great, the beach is here, there are fantastic golf courses, restaurants, nightlife and culture."

She made some valid points. It is very nice for the 60+ leisure set with money to burn and it's clean and virtually crime free. I had some excellent dinners there and enjoyed the sunshine immensely, but it's just not New York. I had a hard time explaining why I couldn't live down there. I just kept saying that it's nice to visit, but not to live there. "What does Brooklyn have that Naples lacks?" she asked.

I didn't even know where to begin. I certainly wasn't going to tell her about my affinity for ghettos and interactions with crack addicts and whores. But there's so much more than that. First of all, she didn't take into account the fact that I live in Brooklyn, which is part of New York City, which includes Manhattan, the epicenter of the universe. Naples is close to, uh, Bonita Springs and Ft. Myers. At least Ft. Myers has some ghetto areas and an airport, but I'm not sure if it's international.

I don't need to get into all the wonderful aspects of New York City as you are all very aware like all the history, the architecture, the diversity and the fact that you can get a decent falafel at 3 a.m.

Something happened to me the other day standing outside of the Brooklyn Museum on Eastern Parkway that really summed up why I don't want to leave this city. As trivial as this sounds, an orthodox Jew approached me and asked me if I was Jewish. I responded, "No, but most people think I am." He then left. I have no idea why he asked me this question and I don't really care but it got me thinking that this would not happen in Southwest Florida.

And that's why I love New York and have no immediate plans to move any time soon.

I too have a dream.

2008-01-23T21:54:00.000-05:00

On Monday we Americans celebrated a holiday to honor the great Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Blacks and whites alike took this day off to return unwanted Christmas presents, clean their attics, get there cars washed, etc.

Few people could argue that Martin Luther King Jr. was anything less than a heroic figure in American history, so why are all the most dangerous streets in America named after him?* White people, no matter how liberal they may be, instinctively avoid going down streets bearing his name.** Let's face it; they can be pretty goddamn scary. The same goes for other positive black role models such as Frederick Douglass. Malcolm X, in my humble opinion is a toss up.

Martin Luther King Jr. deserves to have streets that are actually nice and safe named after him while the bad streets should be named after less favorable African American figures. Here's a list of street names that should be in some of the worst ghettos in the country.

OJ Simpson Terrace
Rodney King Lane
Latrell Sprewell Street
Mike Tyson Avenue
Old Dirty Bastard Parkway
Bryant Gumbel Road***
Bobby Brown Boulevard
The Ike Turner Turnpike
Clarence Thomas Drive
Allen Iverson Way
The Marion Barry Esplanade

Let me know if I forget any. Sammy Davis Jr. never hurt anyone right?

*Strangely enough, in Austin, TX, the Martin Luther King Boulevard is pretty genteel.
**Except for me because I have a sick compulsion to seek out dangerous areas.
***Not that he did anything bad in particular, but just because he is an asshole in general.

The Winter of My Discontent

2008-01-22T16:15:00.000-05:00

Not to sound like a whining pussy, but I must really say that I am not enjoying my winter. Oh sure, I've had some fun in Florida and when my girlfriend came to visit this past weekend where we had some delicious gourmet dinners, went to the Brooklyn Museum and took in an African-American comedy show in the Lower East Side,* but every other week I have to deal with that pesky chemotherapy.

The chemo itself isn't that bad. I sit in a comfortable recliner with a book and my iPod for four hours and get attended to by semi-attractive nurses. It's the after effects that bother me. I spend three to four days every other week feeling like shit with nausea, dizziness, fatigue and overall malaise. I'm also very forgetful; Where's my phone? Where are my keys? Where did I park my car?

And WHY THE FUCK ARE THEY GIVING ME POISON FOR A DISEASE THAT DIDN'T CAUSE ME ANY SYMPTOMS IN THE FIRST PLACE?

The whole scene in the cancer treatment center is depressing, but not as depressing as some places such as the DMV, shoddy new construction condos in "up and coming" neighborhoods with visible Fedders air conditioning units or rest stops outside of Carbondale, PA, but depressing nonetheless. Many of the people there are really at death's door while I am not. I still have a future ahead of me which may or may not involve a Wolf range, a Sub Zero fridge, soapstone countertops, Brooks Brothers sport jackets and an Audi A-6, but at least an 80% chance that I'm going to beat this little cancer that I have.

The thing that bothers me most about having Hodgkin's lymphoma is that everyone's response is, "Oh that's a good cancer to have." Well thanks a fucking lot for your support. I do not wish this on you, but once you've gone through four CT scan, two PET scans, a biopsy procedure that removes lymph glands from your neck, a bone marrow biopsy where they stick a big thick fucking needle in your lower back that causes a feeling that cannot be described in words, another operation to install a power port so chemo is more easily administered (and that motherfucking port is uncomfortable and I live with it everyday) into my chest and then horrendous chemotherapy sessions which I have described above. After that, more scans and the removal of my port from my chest which involves another surgical procedure. Oh did you ask about blood work? No? Well there's blood work and a fuck load of it and yes, it's uncomfortable.

Eight sessions of chemo and if that's not enough, the fun begins again when I get to go to radiation for 30 days STRAIGHT. Radiation is no picnic either between the rashes, the inability to swallow, the sore throats, the nausea, fatigue and many other unfavorable symptoms.

Oh yeah and my hair is starting to fall out now.

Yep, Hodgkin's is no big deal. "Oh it's just Hodgkin's; you'll get through it." "Oh that's the BEST kind of cancer to have; very treatable." Thank/ fuck you. God forbid it should happen to you and if it does I'll tell you that it's nothing worse than getting a cold.

I think I'll go throw up now. Enjoy your cancer-free day everyone.

*Where one of the comments included us in a bit by recognizing that we both had glasses and asking us if we met at Pearl Vision. Funny.

A Modern Day Rosa Parks

2008-01-16T19:49:00.000-05:00

So, I decided to give the car a rest after all my recent parking troubles and hopped on the B61 bus last evening on the way to improv class. By the time we hit Columbia Street, the bus was filled with its usual cast of characters: overweight black women with canes, toothless project dwellers, a few hipster types donning Chuck Taylors and of course ghetto youths.

I was sitting towards the back of the crowded bus next to a gentrified woman on my right and an older black man on my left. Standing before me was a semi-gentrified white male and next to him near the rear exit an urban youth.

Everyone was doing their own thing. I listened to my iPod while the gentrifier next to me read her New York Times. The white dude was reading some book and the older black man was minding his business quietly. The only person making noise was the urban youth, in all his baggy-panted, puffy-coated glory, playing his rap music as loud as he could on what appeared to be a mobile phone (sans headphones).

The music itself was irritating enough, but then the youth decided to start rapping along with it. So I did the unimaginable. I spoke to him! I told him that he should consider headphones. (The white man standing up nodded his head in agreement and white girl next to me squirmed nervously in her seat.) He ignored this and continued his rapping.

As the bus stopped at Court Street, I suggested it again and told him that his music was "extremely irritating." He quipped, "Then give me your headphones." I told him that I wasn't giving him anything. And then there was awkward silence until the bus was waiting to make the left turn onto Smith at which point I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine.

I carefully chose a song on my iPod and stood up and starting singing at a similar decibel that he was rapping. Here I was in the middle of a crowded bus right across from a potentially dangerous thug (and possible gang member) singing Led Zeppelin's Going to California. No one quite knew what to do. The two white people moved to my left where there were some empty seats and I noticed the hipster/yuppie female vigorously texting someone (most likely about this most unusual occurrence on the bus).

Finally the bus came to a stop and I along with most of the other passengers exited. I scurried away quickly and ran down the stairs to the Manhattan-bound A/C platform feeling like Bernie Goetz or Rosa Parks. I may not have done something as extreme or brave as the aforementioned historical figures, but I am a hero to anyone who has ever been irritated by the noise of young thugs.

I'm just surprised there were no headlines today touting me as the "SERENADING BUS VIGILANTE."

Parking...Again

2008-01-15T17:06:00.001-05:00

You're probably saying to yourself, "This fucktard should really get rid of his car with all these parking problems he has." And you would be right, but my occupation requires a vehicle and my company provides one for me, so I don't really have much of a choice. Plus I live in fucking Red Hook.

I got a ticket today for an expired inspection sticker. So, again, I decided to write a letter. (See my entry for September 9th called "Forgive me Mayor for I have sinned" for my previous letter to the folks at the New York City Department of Finance.) http://gentryornot.blogspot.com/2007/09/forgive-me-mayor-for-i-have-sinned.html

Here is the letter I am about to mail out today.

To Whom It May Concern:

First of all I would like to wish everyone at the New York City Department of Finance a happy New Year.

I also wish to plead not guilty for this parking violation issued on January 15, 2008 at 1:32 p.m. for my company vehicle in the amount of $65 for an expired inspection sticker opposite 131 Joralemon St. in Brooklyn, NY 11201.

Extenuating circumstances have prevented me from getting my vehicle inspected in a timelier manner. It completely slipped my mind between the holidays, chemotherapy and a trip to Florida to visit my ailing father.* I can provide documentation from my oncologist if necessary.

In addition, I would like you to take into consideration the fact that my vehicle was, indeed, parked legally at the time and I should be rewarded for finding a legal, available space in the lovely neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights, which we all know can be a Herculean task during the bustling work week.

I would like you to know that I got my vehicle inspected immediately after the ticket was issued and it passed with flying colors.**

I have not included payment because I feel as though the ticket was not just.

Thank you very much for understanding my situation and please take my adverse circumstances into consideration when ruling my case.

Respectfully,
(my name)

I hope it works this time because it sure as shit didn't the last time.

I went to get my vehicle inspected shortly after and it passed despite the cracked rear taillight and dangerously worn rear brake pads*** because I'm a good customer. I go there even though the gas is 20 cents more expensive than anyone else, but, not to sound like a hipster, it pays to support local independently owned businesses.

The fact that they "took care of me" at the gas station/inspection station made me feel like a part of the community. It's a good feeling.

*My father is not ailing but I did visit him down there for a week of fun in the sun and margaritas. However, in the interest of full disclosure, he does experience uric acid buildup from time to time which is one of the leading causes of the gout.
**Well, not exactly "flying colors."
***I treat the thing like crap.

UPDATE: The fine has since dropped from $65 to $43 as a result of my letter. I can either accept this or let the judge make a ruling on the case which could risk the fine going back up to $65. I think I'll take the plea and just pay it, although as my late boss used to say, "No horse is too dead to beat."

The Food Network - Parental Discretion Advised

2008-01-13T22:09:00.000-05:00

Have you seen the chicks on the Food Network lately? Is this a channel devoted to cuisine or tits? Each of these chicks has bigger tits than the next.

First of all, we have Giada DeLaurentis. She makes easily prepared Italian meals and I even use some of her recipes, but it's a little hard to concentrate with her DDs hanging out over her low cut blouses. Can't she just wear a fucking turtleneck sweater or something? I wonder if she got a boob job because for her body type, it ain't natural. Or perhaps all that pasta she makes goes straight to her jugs, which would be a dream come true for every woman.

Then there's that British chick Nigella. Boy does she have a set of cans. I don't even know what the hell she cooks and I'm not sure that I care. Maybe she specializes in authentic British cuisine like blood pudding and sheep's intestines. It just doesn't matter - between her accent and her knockers, who's paying attention.

The next person I am going to discuss is particularly controversial. Sandra Lee. She's the frosted blond MILF with the huge, potentially sagging tatas that makes really disgusting, expensive and fattening recipes out of mostly store bought packaged items. She also is obsessed with something called "tablescapes," which is a term she coined for her themed table decorations. Basically, people watch the show and possibly masturbate while she opens up packages and cans and puts together an inedible concoction that would make most real chefs want to slit their wrists with their Henckel pairing knife.*

Apparently she was married to some billionaire who most likely got her this gig to get her out of the house. If she didn't have that rack, she'd be waiting tables at a Denny's outside of Wichita. I hope she has a sweet alimony deal because she will be worthless when her looks are gone, which should be in about five years.

Then we have Rachael Ray. Love her or hate her, the girl simply has no tits. This is unfortunate because her personality is nothing short of obnoxious and her recipes are nothing but common sense. Come on sweetie, we all know how to make a fucking hamburger. And that $40 a Day show where she visits renowned travel destinations and eats breakfast, lunch and dinner at great non-touristy mom 'n pop restaurants that the "locals swear by" for $40 or less in the day, which is a great concept but CANNOT be done unless you are a teetotaler and tip 8.34% on every bill.

There's another hot chick on the Food Network that I just noticed today named Ellie who promotes healthy eating. She's also a nice piece of ass too and I'm sure at least a C cup.

I'd love to see them all wrestle in the nude together in EVOO. The ratings would go through the roof. Perhaps even a "Babes of the Food Network" calendar or something. Giada could hold a pair of tongs between her mounds for January, Sandra Lee could sprawl over one of her tablescapes in February and...you get the gist.

*Mario Batali must hate this chick but secretly want to fuck her.

Playing the Cancer Card with Parking

2008-01-10T17:30:00.001-05:00

Sometimes in life, no matter how strong you are, you have to take advantage of adverse situations.

Two weeks ago, right before Christmas I decided when parked five feet into an illegal zone to put a note on my windshield that stated, "Please do not ticket this car: It's Christmas and I have cancer." How could a police officer be so cruel as to ticket that car? Well, for once, I wasn't ticketed. Maybe no officers came by my street that day or perhaps the cop was touched by my note and decided to be nice for once in his life. Or maybe the cop didn't believe the note but found it to be one of the more creative ways someone has tried to get away with parking illegally. Whatever happened, it worked.

And then a few days ago as I was exiting the short term parking lot of Terminal 1 at John F. Kennedy International Airport, I could not find my ticket. Bear in mind that new technology at the airports makes it possible for them to tell exactly how long I have been parked and what I owe exactly (it was $6 that day for me) based on my license plate alone. However, because I wasn't in possession of the little ticket, they made me pay $30, the price it would have been for me to park for eight hours instead of the one and a half I was actually there.

I tried reasoning with the curmudgeonly parking lot attendant and then I requested her supervisor who came right over. They would not budge. I even offered a 10 dollar bill and told them to "keep the change." Then as a last ditch effort I added, "but I have cancer." It didn't work that time. She said, "I'm sorry to hear that but you owe $30, cash or credit card?"

I slipped my Visa into the card reader and took my receipt, opened my sunroof and all the windows, lit a smoke, reclined my seat, put on Peace Frog by the Doors and turned my engine off. I was going to sit there until I got my $30 worth. Then of course after a minute, they forced me out and told me to just go and try to enjoy my day.

I did as I was told and thought to myself that it all evens out in the end when you have cancer and troubles with parking.

The next day I had chemo and I didn't have any small bills for the valet and...ahh nevermind.

Back From Vacation

2008-01-04T20:06:00.001-05:00

Having spent the last week relaxing in my father's gated community in Naples, Florida, I got used to the lifestyle and came up with an exciting plan for Red Hook, Brooklyn.

Let's tear it all down - the projects, the houses, the industrial sites, everything - and in its place, create a gated golf course community complete with a club house overlooking the water where the Fairway supermarket sits.

Let's face it; Red Hook is failing. A year and a half ago, Time Out New York declared that Red Hook had "arrived." Now it looks like it came and went. Bars and restaurants have closed, condos didn't sell, people have left, crime has gone up. Let's start from scratch. We could call it Del Gancho Rojo Village or Red Hook Lakes.*

What we do have is seclusion and a waterfront location and enough acreage (especially when the projects are razed) to build a championship golf course and an artificial lake.

As for housing, I envision 1,000 Mediterranean-style units comprised of detached villas, coach homes and condominiums. Some will have private pools and most will come with lanais. A limited number of home buyers can purchase their own boat slips. Golf membership would be extra of course.

The club house would feature a bar and restaurant with a panoramic view of the water and the New York City skyline, a fully equipped state-of-the-art fitness center and a business center. There would also be tennis courts, community pools and bike lanes. Golf carts would not be permitted except for on designated cart paths on the golf course. That would just be depressing.

Let's not make this a 55+ "active adult community."** Anyone can purchase here if they have the means. Home prices would start at a very affordable $550,000 for a condo to $8,000,000+ for a waterfront villa.

All homes would feature modern and luxurious appointments and amenities such as gourmet kitchens, ensuite master bedrooms with lavish, spa-like baths, hardwood flooring, central air and heat, high ceilings and private outdoor space.

The community would be secured by a 24 hour gate attendant and accessed only by residents and their guests. I'm thinking the gate would be on Van Brunt and Hamilton, where the cruise ship terminal is.

I think this could all be completed by the Spring of 2016. Let's turn this blighted neighborhood into the exclusive waterfront luxury enclave that it deserves to be. Palm trees and ficus trees will be present.

I'll be waving to you from my lanai with a gin cocktail in my hand.

*I'm open to suggestions.
**Let's not turn this into Del Boca Vista.

Oppressed In My Own Car

2007-12-18T23:16:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-18T02:52:00.000-05:00

Why are there so many Latino men named Nelson?

Hell's Kitchen

2007-12-18T00:44:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-17T01:12:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-12-14T14:58:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-10T23:53:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-05T00:39:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-12-03T15:04:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-02T17:21:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-28T13:11:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-27T15:20:00.001-05:00

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

2007-11-26T23:38:00.001-05:00

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

2007-11-19T23:34:00.001-05:00

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

2007-11-14T22:15:00.002-05:00

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

2007-11-13T21:59:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-11-13T16:18:00.000-05:00

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

Sleepless in Hell

2007-11-11T15:56:00.001-05:00

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

2007-11-08T21:24:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-07T09:46:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-11-06T16:43:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-11-05T20:58:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-31T23:26:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-30T12:19:00.001-04:00

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

2007-10-29T01:36:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-27T23:41:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-10-24T21:27:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-23T21:37:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-22T17:58:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-21T22:54:00.001-04:00

Does anyone actually like the taste of candy corn?

You might not be a gentrifier if...

2007-10-21T21:31:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-17T16:48:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-16T21:49:00.000-04:00

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

In case you were wondering about Syrian Jews...

2007-10-15T22:36:00.000-04:00

This is a great article that truly gives insight into the little known world of Syrian Jewish culture along Brooklyn's Ocean Parkway.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/14/magazine/14syrians-t.html

Enjoy.

Welcome To Brooklyn: We Don't Have Everything

2007-10-14T21:25:00.000-04:00

If you ever drive in to or out of Brooklyn, you'll find some interesting welcome signs. We have the following signs welcoming you to (or telling you you're leaving) this most illustrious borough. Borough President Marty Markowitz has a sense of humor and it shows.

Welcome to Brooklyn: Home To Everyone From Everywhere!
Welcome to Brooklyn: Believe The Hype!
Welcome to Brooklyn: Like No Other Place In The World!
Welcome to Brooklyn: Not Just A Borough, An Experience
Leaving Brooklyn: Oy Vey!
Welcome: Brooklyn’s in the House!
Leaving Brooklyn: Fugheddaboudit
Welcome to Brooklyn: How Sweet It Is!
Welcome to Brooklyn: Name It…We Got It

I pretty much enjoy all the signs and they are pretty true, but the last one (Name it...We Got It) got me thinking that, while we do have quite a bit in our borough, I can name some things that we do not have. Prepare yourself for another list. And I don't mean to sound pedantic.

What we don't have in Brooklyn...

Fjords
A restaurant that specializes in Danish cuisine.
Pelicans
Ample parking
Great public schools
A "Little Lichtenstein"
Breakfast tacos
Nascar fans
Wal-Mart
Legal brothels
Fado (Portuguese folk singing)
A championship golf course
Bush supporters
Palm trees
Vineyards

Everything else we pretty much have.

Don't Murder Me

2007-10-12T12:32:00.000-04:00

The murder rate is up in certain precincts in New York City and I don't give a fuck. Why should I? Most murders in our large cities are gang-related. I'm not in a gang and I generally don't hang out in those circles, so why should I care?

I know I'm gonna sound like the bad guy on this one, but when some thug kills another thug in the Mott Haven section of the Bronx, is it really a loss to society? Should we really care? No! That person was doing more harm than good to society and now he is in hell while his murderer is behind bars. Just like that, we've taken care of two miscreants.

New York City is a relatively safe place to live. If you're looking for trouble though, it will find you. My advice is: Don't look for trouble. We're all going to get mugged at some point while we live here, but we have a better chance of getting run over by the M42 bus than getting caught in a drive-by shooting. It just ain't gonna happen folks.

I'm a generally nice individual who cares about others, but when it comes to gang members, I really don't give a flying fuck whether they live or die or rot in prison for the rest of their lives. It's not just because they are criminals who cheat the system and live a crime-ridden life - it also has to do with the fact that they wouldn't care if I lived or died or rotted in prison. And in all likelihood, they are not sitting around on a crisp autumn Friday morning blogging about the fact that they don't care about me and my ilk.

Life is too short to care about the bad guys. They don't care about us, so we shouldn't care about them. Let them riot and smoke crack and shoot each other till kingdom come. As long as we don't have to hear it in the wee hours of the morning, it's fine with me. Murder rates are just statistics. We the gentry needn't worry.

Have a great weekend.

Baba Booey to y'all.

2007-10-10T17:29:00.000-04:00

I'm a sick person. It's not just because I listen to Howard Stern on a daily basis, but I actually participate in the show. I sit in my car and actually make humorous comments as if I were actually on the show. I pretend that I'm part of the gang and interject when I feel it is appropriate. Sometimes I'll throw in a "hey now" or "Baba Booey" randomly.

When the show is not on, I often practice my greeting if I were ever to call the show. Here is what I have come up with so far.

"Hey Howard, I'm a big fan of the show."
"Long time listener, first time caller."
"Hi Howard, hi Robin."
"Howard, I was watching ___ last night and he mentioned ___."
"Yeah Howard, could you play that clip from ___ for me?"
"Howard, how are you?"
"What's going on Howard? I just wanted to say..."
"Howard, what's happening?"
"Howard, I was reading about the Sirius-XM merger and..."

In order to be a good caller to the show, one must get to the point immediately and say something relevant. My ultimate goal is to call in with a topic that starts a lengthy discussion (that keeps me on the air for several minutes). Then I will feel as though I have contributed to the show.

See, I don't really listen to Howard for the sex and the stripper interviews; I listen because I value his opinions. The show is at its best when it's just Howard and his crew bullshitting about mundane topics. (The news segment is awesome too.) The show has lost a bit of its spontaneity since it left regular radio, but the vibe is still the same. When he was on K-Rock, it was fun to listen to him complain constantly about the FCC and management and to see just how far he could push the envelope. At Sirius, he's pretty happy with everything and he can push the envelope as far as he wants.

Unfortunately, Howard isn't as miserable as he once was and that has made the show suffer. The show was truly at its peak when Howard was married and spending most of his time in his basement being miserable. Now he has a fiance that he loves deeply and actually leaves his house once in a while. Hopefully, when he gets married, he will revert back to his old ways. He still claims to be miserable, but it's just not the same. I really don't want Howard Stern to be miserable, but it did make for excellent radio.

The show also lost some of its magic upon the departure of Jackie "The Joke Man" Martling. It wasn't necessarily great then because Jackie was funny (he often wasn't), but the amount of harassment directed toward Jackie was hysterical, particularly the falsetto imitations of his voice. On more than one occasion I had to pull the car over because I was laughing so hard. I still long for those days.*

It's just not the same with Jackie's replacement, Artie Lang. Artie has some funny observations, but he never shuts the fuck up. He also agrees with everything Howard has to say, unlike Jackie. So I say, F Artie, bring back Jackie!

No matter what, I will remain loyal to the show and maybe one day I'll be a guest (or at least a caller).

*I still do on occasion, especially when Gilbert Gottfried is a guest.

Oyster Wars

2007-10-09T19:12:00.000-04:00

Apparently they are making a movie about the Notorious B.I.G. (I heard this from my number one news source - The News with Robin on Howard Stern.) Why did this young man die at such a tender age? Was it his cholesterol? No, he was killed in a drive-by shooting, which seems to be the number one killer of rap stars today. Evidently they didn't like him because he was an east coast rapper. This was only a few months following the death of west coaster Tupac.

Much like the situation in the Middle East, I'm not so sure if I really understand what this hip hop rivalry was about. I mean, rap is rap, right? Apparently it goes a lot deeper than that and feelings get hurt and people die.

I wonder what it would be like if people were so militant about their choice of oysters. Oysters, like rap, are an east coast, west coast thing. I wonder if there have been any documented cases of violence over the difference between Blue Points and Baron Points. Some may like the brininess of Malpeques (PEI) versus the sweetness of Kumamotos.

I'm sure there are people out there that would get all riled up about oysters and what conditions make them taste different in different types of waters. Some say that Pacific oysters are better than Atlantic oysters because they have a higher mineral content and are creamier. But Atlantic oyster fans might say that their oysters are better because of the texture and saltiness.

As the gentry seem to have more and more time on their hands, it only makes sense that a war on oysters be started. So the next time you are dining alfresco and eating your Wellfleets, some maniac from Tillamook, Oregon in a Saab could pull up to your table and shoot you with a 9mm. So be careful and discreet with your choice of oyster. In fact, it might just be safer to eat shrimp.

You might be a gentrifier...

2007-10-08T19:01:00.001-04:00

In the tradition of Jeff Foxworthy's "You might be a redneck if..." skits, I have compiled my own list for gentrifiers.

You might be a gentrifier if...

You spend a lot of time at the the food co-op.
You feel as if your child is highly gifted even if she's average or just plain dumb.
You feel that NPR is a pillar of objective journalism.
Your parents helped you with your down payment for your brownstone in Park Slope.
You lived in Williamsburg at some point after college.
You recycle.
You are vehemently against anything corporate but still go to Starbucks if it's convenient.
You carry around a New York Times and quote articles verbatim.
You call yourself an artist.
You spend more money at the farmer's market on Sunday than your cleaning lady makes in a week.
You refuse to eat at McDonald's or any other fast food establishment.
You spend your weekends visiting art galleries.
You have a car, but only because you "need it for the kids" or to "transport your art around in."
Said car is a Prius, a Volvo, a Saab, a VW or a Mini.
You have claimed to be "bohemian" at one point in your life.
You wish you could pursue a career that is creative.
You respect the hell out of minorities but get irritated when they make a lot of noise past 9 p.m.
You attended a small liberal arts college.
You've been to that new wine bar down the street and you liked it, but wish they had a better selection of Syrah.
You feel as though the lottery is a regressive tax on the poor.
You donate to various charities as long as they are secular.
You love the fact that the neighborhood you currently live in used to be a haven for drugs and prostitution.
You found your apartment on Craigslist.
You go abroad at least once a year.
You have at least a few homosexual friends.
You listen to indie rock.
Your girlfriend has tattoos that she covers up when she visits your parents in Connecticut.
You take your dog to the local bar, which is dog-friendly.
You eat out at the trendiest restaurants and find flaws with all of them.
You dedicate at least 45 minutes a day to reading blogs.
You like to tell people that you don't own a television.
You know a lot about the situation in Darfur because of what you read in the Times last week.
You breastfeed in public and encourage others to do so too.
You spend rainy Sunday afternoons reading at the Tea Lounge.
Your friend is in a band that plays in Williamsburg.
You named your baby Miles.
You purchase soy milk.
You've been to a loft party in Bushwick - you took the L there but a car service home.
You got rid of all your CDs when you got an iPod.
You spent the night in jail for something silly and then blogged about it.*

More to come later I'm sure.

*I did this, along with a lot of other things mentioned above because, well, I'm a gentrifier.

Hey, it's ok...

2007-10-04T18:29:00.000-04:00

I'll admit it: I read Glamour sometimes. But my rules on reading Glamour are similar to my rules for smoking weed - I only do it when I have nothing better to do and I never pay for it.

My sister has a subscription and my girlfriend's former roommate had one too so I was able to get my fixes in those two places. I also will read it in airport newststands.

I do enjoy Glamour, particularly its "Dos and Don'ts" and the hilarious monthly segment entitled "Would you dare?" which features a pictorial of a young woman performing daily tasks in public with cum on her face or something to see if anyone notices. But my favorite is the "100% Guilt-Free Page!" On this page, Glamour editors tell the women of the world that it's ok to have whole milk once in a while or to call in sick when you have your period. I have written by own little guilt-free page for you gals out there.

Hey, it's ok...

To fuck the entire defensive line of the New York Giants...it is football season after all!
To have another baby just so you can stay on welfare another year.
To blow a few lines of coke now and then...you do need your energy!
To evade your taxes and pretend that you didn't know that you had to pay them...if you're cute, the IRS will understand.
To leave your 3-month old in the car with the windows closed when you shop like a diva for four hours...the kid wouldn't have any fun in Barney's anyway!
If you love your cat so much that you touch him in ways that may not be considered "appropriate"...he is your best friend after all.
To have sex with your 12-year old student...all those other women are doing it!
To knowingly infect others with herpes...a girl's gotta have fun!
To have that sixth cosmo and drive home and pretend to the cop that you thought it was a Shirley Temple.

Maybe Glamour will hire me to write next month's column. I think I already wrote it.

Are you willing to settle for mediocrity in your life?

2007-10-02T22:38:00.000-04:00

Everybody knows someone who does that knife selling scam. Cutco. It's always the annoying kid next door or your annoying little cousin who thinks he's doing something entrepreneurial.

In my family, there's a cousin - who is really not a cousin, just the son of a woman one of our cousins married - who is involved with this knife selling shit and let me tell you something: It's irritating. The kid brings these knives everywhere he goes trying to con people into making appointments with him. And it's hard for people to say no. He brought the knives to my dad's 60th birthday party and to our cousin's 25th anniversary. I'm just waiting for him to show up at the next funeral demonstrating how the Cutco 975Z can slice through a mahogany casket.

It's just inappropriate and very tacky to show up to family events with potentially dangerous objects. I won't dispute the quality of the product - it's a fine product, but you can buy knives just as good or better in the same price range without giving some idiot high school senior the satisfaction (and commission). But who is to blame? Is it the kid, the parents or the company?

I think it's a combination of the three and I truly believe that Cutco brainwashes their employees. My non-cousin uses a lot of phrases that indicate that he may have been brainwashed, such as "are you willing to settle for mediocrity in your life?" The answer to that question is YES! I would rather settle for mediocrity than to buy these knives from you. Henckel makes an excellent product without the annoying marketing tactics. (I'm not sure if their scissors can produce a corkscrew out of a penny and I frankly don't care because I already have a small corkscrew that I keep in my glovebox.)

I also hate the way Cutco recruits employees (which I am sure are referred to as "associates" or "team members"). They put up extremely vague ads all over the internet, newspapers and on fliers on college campuses. The same ad will appear over and over in classified sections (in all different categories). All the ads sound pretty much the same:

Jumptstart your Career! $18/hour base pay. Perfect for college students! Make a fortune and have a blast doing it! Take charge of your life - call 212-555-4908.

It sounds like the perfect gig, right? So you call the number and you are immediately invited for an interview (or a demonstration workshop) as long as you are at least 17. (I called after my senior year of high school.) But wait, what does the job entail? They will tell you that it is a marketing position that involves sales of different types of products for different types of purposes. Wait a minute, is this the knife thing? No answer. "You will be marketing housewares and sporting goods to a wide variety of different people. It will be better explained in the interview."

So finally I blurt out, "IS THIS OR IS THIS NOT KNIFE SALES?"

"Well technically, we market products that may or may not include devices that are used to assist in cutting items..."

After a few more minutes they finally admitted that they were indeed Cutco and I hung up without saying my perfunctory goodbye.

So the moral of the story is: Don't work for Cutco (or Vector Marketing), don't buy Cutco products even if the lady you play Mahjong with has a grandson who is embarking on an exciting new career and don't associate with those who sell or use said knives, even if it means settling for mediocrity and not being able to make corkscrews out of pennies.

Eye of the Tiger

2007-10-01T19:46:00.000-04:00

Tiger Woods is not normal. He may not even be human. I just can't picture him performing mundane daily tasks and interacting with people like the dry cleaner.

Watching him play is enough to make one cringe. The guy is uncomfortable to watch, but you still root for him. You route for him because he does not lose with grace. He always seems to be disappointed (even when he is playing well and does win). I don't think Tiger will ever be satisfied because there is no such thing as perfection and no one, but no one has ever or will ever truly master the game of golf. It can't be done.

Someone once asked Arnold Palmer if he ever though he had mastered the game. His response was, "Once, for about nine holes." It's not enough for Tiger to be the number one golfer in the world. He also has to beat his own personal bests.

Most PGA golfers relax after a long tournament. Tiger goes back to the practice tee to work on his mid-irons if he felt they were lacking that day. (I bet he even practices the night after a win.) I just can't picture him kicking back in the clubhouse with the guys drinking a few Sam Adams.

Why do we all root for Tiger? Is it because he's ethnic? I think that novelty wore off about 10 years ago. He doesn't seem to be a particularly pleasant or humorous individual. Not that he seems like an asshole - he just does not seem very likable. Other modern golfers such as Phil Mickelson think they are likable while others just go with the fact that they are assholes, like Vijay Singh and Jim Furyk. Tiger fits neither of these categories. He's way too politically correct to outwardly be a prick. (Although you can see him mouth the word "fuck" from time to time.) Nike and Buick have forced him to smile, but it's pretty safe to say that Tiger wouldn't crack a smile on the golf course after a 50-foot eagle putt on the final day of the Masters to take the lead.

The best players in the world that precede Tiger had a similar way about them, except for Arnold Palmer. Bobby Jones, Ben Hogan and Jack Nicklaus were all selfish perfectionists who viewed this game as the single most important thing in the world. They did not get along with the other guys on the tour either. (Tiger pretends to be buddies with them, but I can't envision him and Stuart Appleby going bowling on Tuesday nights together.)

I just feel bad for his child. I think it's a girl. I am sure the child, who is only a few months old, is already a huge disappointment. She has not advanced in the way he would like her to at this point. I envision bad things for this child - a life of constant pressure from her father to succeed. I'm sure it would be alright with him if she isn't interested in golf, but she goddamn better be interested in something and she better be the best in the world at whatever that may be. If she wants to play the clarinet, she better be the best clarinet player to ever live. This child be be on a lot of medication before she hits puberty.

The other thing about Tiger is that the guy is squeaky clean. When are we going to hear about the time he snorted coke out of a stripper's twat or got drunk and crashed his Buick LeSabre into a kindergarten classroom? Most other supposed role model superstars have had some scandal in the past.* Michael Jordan with his gambling, Bill Cosby with his illegitimate children, Jerry Seinfeld dating a 17-year old, Martha Stewart with her little problem. And figures throughout American history starting with George Washington chopping down the cherry tree and Thomas Jefferson boinking his slaves. What about Tiger? When are we gonna hear anything bad about the guy?

I don't think we will ever hear about such things about him because he's too busy being perfect. It's just not normal. But I hope he continues to win and break Nicklaus' record of 18 Major wins. It's too uncomfortable to watch otherwise.

*Except for Will Smith.

Travels with Father

2007-09-30T23:42:00.000-04:00

Over the weekend, while staying at my mother's house, I came across a little burgundy pocket notepad in my old bedroom. I immediately remembered what was written in there. It's a list of irritating quotes from my father from two separate vacations we took together back while I was in high school. The first trip we went to Italy (I was 17) and the second a year later to a golf school near Orlando, Florida.

First the Italy quotes:

"PJ, don't touch that."
"PJ, are you alright?"
"You don't need more film. I have film; you can just use my damn camera."
"PJ, don't buy that."
"PJ just put the goddamn things on the table and come back - I can't carry all this shit and you're gonna drop it."
"PJ, you gotta start learning how to do things."
"Don't buy things from there. What are you gonna do with that?"
"PJ, you better get to the gym this week, right when you get home!"
"And don't get into the habit of drinking wine every night."
"PJ, would you have been able to figure out how to get here by yourself?"
"PJ, you gotta push the thing back when you flush the goddamn toilet!"
"I bet you've never seen a bidet before - pretty neat, heh?"
"You don't need to bother with postcards - it's too much of a hassle, ya know with stamps and mailing it."
"PJ, you better get your things neat - you're making a mess."
"What are you gonna do with 40 bucks worth of lira? You better take that to the bank and have it changed."
"PJ, you gotta be more careful when crossing the street."
"Don't wear dungarees, we're going to the Vatican."
"PJ, I already told you - you are NOT BUYING ANOTHER CAMERA! It's 25 bucks, 25 lira and I have 40 pictures left on mine!"
"And did your mother give you any spending money?"
"You mean to tell me you don't have any small lira?!"
"PJ, take this 10 dollar bill to the bank and change it into lira. I don't know why you need to buy anything, but okay."
"PJ, here's your passport. You show them your passport and then GIVE IT BACK TO ME."
"PJ, why don't you wear jacket; it might get a little chilly later."
"PJ, don't leave the key in the room. PJ, did you hear me? DON'T LEAVE THE KEY IN THE ROOM!"
"PJ, face the other way, you're snoring."
"PJ, be down by 7:15 - I'll be down there. Do you need me to come up and get you or will you be okay? 7:15, okay?"
"What does your mother do all day?"
"You better get some hitting in this week. You can't go two weeks without it, you understand? Two weeks is a long time."
"PJ, you better get the oil changed on that car. Have your mother set up an appointment - she knows what to do."
"PJ, ya know you don't have to stay up till 11 or 12 tonight - get a good night's sleep."
"PJ, do you want me to take your passport now? Where are you gonna put it? Do you have a bag or something? Don't lose it."
"Don't sleep all day tomorrow when you get home - get up and go to the gym or something. I don't want you sleeping the whole day."
"PJ, I hope your mother knows she's paying for this call. It's expensive ya know. I hope she knows she paying. Don't talk to long, you understand?"
"And what do you plan on doing with that scarf thing you bought?"
"PJ, you can bargain with these people ya know."
"Don't get Heineken here; it'll cost 18,000 lira!"
"PJ, where the hell have been? What time did you plan on getting to the gate? You had me a little worried. What the hell were you doing? Did you have some trouble? I should have told you to get here a half hour before we board, not 10 minutes! Jesus Christ."
"PJ, what do you mean the seat goes back without you pushing the button? Let me see what you mean - PJ, you're leaning on it!"
"Don't go to the bathroom now. This is not a good time to go. Wait, just wait."
"You can rest but DON'T FALL ASLEEP, you understand?
"PJ, don't get a beer NOW! I don't necessarily feel like paying for a beer right now."

Fast forward a year later to our father-son golf school trip.

"Stay here and watch these bags. I'll be back - watch them, okay?"
"PJ, you're gaining weight. Can you feel that? You better watch that."
"I've never seen so many hotels and restaurants in my life!"*
"I don't mind you smoking, as long as it doesn't become a habit."
"PJ, take a break! You're hitting too many. Sit down, walk around - you're gonna wear yourself out."
"What's the problem here? Did you try to put the key in the other way? Jesus Christ!"
"This navigation system is amazing! How do they do that? How do they know where you are? This is NEAT!"**
"I'd really like to have a beer, but I DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE. That's my policy ya know."***
"I don't drink light beers, only Amstel occasionally. In fact, I don't drink cheap domestic beers like Coors Light. Ahh, it's terrible!"
"What do you need to get gifts for?"
"You really have to learn how to putt."
"PJ, are you up? You're not up!"
"PJ, are you okay?"
"If you didn't hit so many balls, you wouldn't need bandaids."
"Do you think you could drive down here? I don't think so."
"PJ, do you have everything?"
"PJ, you can't be leaving clubs on the green."
"So this Chase person isn't going to school next year?"****
"And does that Leo character still bother you?"
"Maybe in the spring you can have a couple beers - a COUPLE!"
"If I had a cigarette right now, I would get dizzy. I remember one time in college a few of us were screwing around with that tobacco stuff that you put in your cheek...I was on the ground."
"This Sopranos is some funny stuff!"
"This is a real redneck place down here - lots of rednecks."
"How could a guy walk into a restaurant dressed like that? I don't understand these people."
"You don't have to swing so hard. Just SLOW DOWN!"
"What did you learn from this week? I spent a few bucks, so I hope you learned something."
"I want you practicing EVERYDAY when you get home. If it's a little cold, practice putting in the house. But you need carpet to do that, okay? Ya can't do it on the wood."
"PJ, make sure the shower curtain is on the INSIDE. I found goddamn puddles all over the bathroom. What the hell are you thinking about in there?"
"I like this Epcot; it's really neat! I like it because it's so well organized. I don't know how they do that."
"Maybe I'll get a little place in Florida next year, but on the west coast, not Boca...too many Jews."
"Are you taking your pills?"*****
"You just called 911! You're supposed to dial 91 plus the area code. Now the police are coming to the room! Leave the fucking door open. Next time, use the cell phone - I don't need this aggravation!"
"I haven't seen one European car yet - that's because there are a lot of rednecks. Once you leave the New York metropolitan area, you don't see too many decent cars."
"PJ, stay right here. Don't move!"
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO LEAVE THE CLUBS UNATTENDED! JESUS CHRIST!"
"There's gotta be some upscale restaurants somewhere around here."
"Put your shit in the drawers. Let's get a little organized here."
"Aren't you gonna get hot with pants on today? Don't you want to put on shorts?"
"Get up a little early tomorrow. Pack your stuff in the morning. You're gonna be tired at night, you understand?"
"You should be watching your video before AND after you practice."
"Get this station off - I can't concentrate."
"And it wouldn't kill you to learn a little about the catering industry this summer."
"Well, I'm not retired yet, but I'm winding down. We'll see. I have a few ideas."
"What is this Medieval Times business? I don't get it."
"Norway sounds like an interesting country - dominated by the fishing industry. They must eat a lot of fish there."
"O'Doul's is terrible. I can't drink that shit and neither should you."
"That monorail must go from one Disney park to the other, right?"
"This is different from Italy."
"We wouldn't have gotten lost if you had a better sense of direction, PJ. That's something you have to work on."
"Where is Morocco? It's in Africa, but it's sophisticated, right?"
"I don't see how that would help you, but okay."
"What is Friends? Like a TV show or something?"
"Those race fans must be upset because that Dale Earnhardt guy died. That would be like if Tiger Woods got hit by a golf ball and died...we'd be pretty upset too."
"This guy was a state senator! Pretty NEAT, heh?! We're playing golf with a senator!"
"This guy seems pretty low key for a politician. I like him even though he's a Democrat."
"If I sucked that bad, I would take up a new hobby."
"Laptops are pretty neat, heh? I can go online even in Florida!"
"A lot of things changed while I was in college. When I was a freshman, you'd get expelled for having a beer in the room, but later my buddies started smoking pot and I was like appalled, but I joined in after a while."
"Maybe when you get out of college, you could live in my place and I'll go somewhere else. We'll get new cabinets and change the floor. You'd keep the place neat, right?"
"I like this tape. Who is it? Van Morrison - he's black, right?"
"PJ, I don't necessarily want you beating me when we play, okay? I didn't intend for this when i planned this trip."
"How are your hands? Give them a day to heal."
"You don't need sunscreen."
"What's better, SPF 15 or 30?"
"PJ, that's too much club. Hit the 7."
"PJ, you don't have to hit the driver every time. Use the 3-wood. I spent $300 on that thing."
"I think you ought to iron those pants - they've been in the suitcase all day. I brought an iron with me."
"You're mother isn't gonna be able to drive to any of these schools you're looking at ya know."
"How are you getting along with Mr. Stewart? Does he ever say anything to you about quitting baseball?"
"I don't care what you're doing - I want you to practice!"
"PJ, did you happen to comb your hair?"
"And Rich Salamone allows this drinking every weekend? I'm surprised."
"That Joel - he was born with a bottle in his hand."
"And what does your sister plan on doing next year?"
"I don't know why these teachers are making such a big deal out of this contract shit. Teachers make a lot of money for doing very little - and they get a HEFTY PENSION!"
"Next year, we'll take a big trip to Italy - a trip like that requires planning ya know. You can't just hop on a plane."
"Pittsburgh is a NEAT city."
"Put that tray up! You can't have that down now, ya understand?"
"PJ, are you writing down everything I say?"

Wow, just typing that all out exhausted me and made me relive those two weeks with him. This is why I don't travel with him anymore. I love my father, but looking back at this in retrospect has left me with some mixed feelings. I did laugh aloud in some parts, but others left me feeling a little angry. His voice is now embedded into my brain and I will have nightmares. I sacrifice a lot for the sake of this blog.

*This was said at least 14 times during the trip.

**Said about 20 times. (Bear in mind, this was 1999.)

***This is following a recent DUI - his 2nd in a few years.

****Referring to a hipster friend of mine.

*****Asked 8 times a day.

Question of the Day

2007-09-28T21:38:00.001-04:00

Do you think that Rod Stewart has a constant sore throat or is just he naturally raspy?

(Please don't) Pimp my ride.

2007-09-28T16:12:00.000-04:00

Every time I see a vehicle that has a lot of chrome and blacked out windows and other accouterments that indicate that it has been "pimped," I cringe. I feel as though there should be an immediate arrest for anyone who possesses that type of car. The cars should be seized and either destroyed or restored back to the manufacturer's specifications.

What motivates people to take an ordinary nondescript automobile such as a Honda Accord and lower it three inches, take the muffler out to make it extra irritating to other drivers and pedestrians and install a sound system that costs more than than their annual income?

It really bothers me when people take luxury sedans* - sedans once reserved for the wealthy - and put 22" spinners on it and get those really obnoxious tail lights (and of course black out the windows because the driver and his idiot passengers are obviously important people). Mercedes-Benzes no longer have cache anymore because too many classless buyers (lessees) take possession of these cars and absolutely destroy them. Do you think the engineers in Stuttgart, Germany envision a bunch of drug dealers and welfare cheats buying their meticulously engineered cars and ruining any grace and elegance it had? That's enough to make an entire company sick.

And are the dedicated folks at Bentley (which is owned by Volkswagen) and Rolls Royce (a BMW brand) painstakingly picking out the finest leathers and woods in the world and handcrafting each and every vehicle that rolls out of the assembly plant for the likes of...50 Cent?? Come on. Forty years ago, the idea of someone that uncouth owning (or even seeing) a Bentley or a Rolls was a blasphemy.

How do we stop this? The only way is with laws. Let's make this a top priority and rid America's highways and byways of these heinous rolling pieces of steel and aluminum. It must stop.

Cars you generally don't see all pimped out are Volkswagens (except for those idiot boy racer types with customized GTIs), Audis, Volvos and Saabs. All others are vulnerable.

So next time you plunk down sixty thousand of your hard-earned dollars on that BMW 550i, remember that there's a 19-year old high school dropout that has the same one, except his has bigger rims and a state-of-the-art sound system that will frighten elderly people and small children when the bass is turned up.

*Cadillacs are a lost cause at this point. The entire concept of the Escalade revolves around ghetto-tastic wannabe pimps.

Another blogger goes to jail.

2007-09-27T19:48:00.000-04:00

Someone sent me a link of a blog that tells a similar tale of my previous posting about being detained at 120 Schermerhorn St., Brooklyn, NY 11201 - Brooklyn Central Booking. This guy also has a blog, albeit a little different from mine. His is called "Diaper Bandit" and it's about child rearing. Apparently this yuppie/hipster dad from Williamsburg had his dog off the leash and had an outstanding arrest for another canine-related incident.* Here is his story.

http://www.babble.com/CS/blogs/diaperbandit/archive/tags/brooklyn+central+booking/default.aspx

Apparently this guy is not nearly as much of an asshole as I am. The guy was detained for 42 hours (more than twice as long as my 20 or so hours) and he barely had a negative or sarcastic comment about his fellow inmates. He also had his wife and friends ready to take the case to the Supreme Court for his release, while I just waited it out and observed and snickered at those around me.

He even went as far as contemplating whether he should "keep in touch" with the miscreants he called roommates for three nights. I, on the other hand, made quips about Rikers Island probably being pretty pleasant due to its waterfront location in front of dudes who were going up there. His wife gave a heroin addict a quarter while I told a junkie that I couldn't wait to go sit in my centrally air conditioned apartment.

This guy is supposed to be a writer and 42 hours in the hands of Brooklyn's finest should make for a pretty provocative story, but his was, well, bland and predictable. (It was an interesting choice for him to include pictures of his gifted child and special dog between paragraphs to show a stark contrast between his cushy gentrified reality and the hell he was in at the time.)

Hell, the guy didn't even ask for soap.

What did you think? Read his story and then read my entry from Tuesday, September 4th.

http://gentryornot.blogspot.com/2007/09/people-of-state-of-new-york-versus-me.html

Which blog was more interesting? The comment board is open.

*Maybe this guy should considering getting a cat.

Degentrification

2007-09-26T19:55:00.000-04:00

As much of an advocate for gentrification I am, I can't help but think that it must have been mighty interesting to live in New York City (and other cities across America) during the Sixties and Seventies just to watch the decline. Frankly, I get tired of hearing about places that are "up and coming" and improving. I'm tired of cutesy little shops (shoppes) and coffee places with fair trade coffee and organic muffins taking over our sleazy bodegas and fried chicken joints.

Will all of New York City look like 68th and Lex in 20 years? That's the direction we are headed in this city. I think blight (in moderation) adds character and urban character to a city. If it's all too quaint, what do we have? A large version of New Hope, PA or Woodstock, NY (both only a two hour drive away from Manhattan).

It is nice not to look at graffiti on every subway car and to not have to step over urinating crackheads in every station, but sometimes our subway stations look just a little too sterile and family friendly. Everything is family (and Midwestern tourist) friendly in New York City these days. Times Square, formerly a haven for drugs, prostitution and X-rated book stores, now resembles a suburban strip mall complete with a McDonald's, a Chevy's, an Applebee's, a Foot Locker and a Disney Store. This can all be found on route 46 in Parsippany, New Jersey and on route 591 in Addison, Wisconsin. (At least there's parking there.) Perhaps they can tear it all down and put a Wal-Mart in its place.

Three decades ago, people were scared of this city. It must have been pretty fucking scary here. Neighborhoods were burning, the city was bankrupt, crime was at an all-time high and crack was hitting the streets. Everything was dirty and dingy. Here are a few ways things have changed.

Neighborhoods such as the South Bronx and Bushwick were not thought of as the next haven for artists and hipsters; they were war zones.
Fifth Avenue in Park Slope and Smith Street in Carroll Gardens were not lined with expensive boutiques and restaurants.
DUMBO was not invented yet.
No one was trying to turn Coney Island into Vegas-by-the-Sea.
Whites were moving to Long Island and Jersey en masse.
There wasn't nothin' cool about Red Hook, Brooklyn or Long Island City, Queens.
Times Square was a vibrant, interesting and often dangerous place.
No one had ever heard of Bernie Goetz.
Some neighborhoods didn't have wine shops yet.
Cops had more important things to do than write me tickets for not wearing a seat belt as I move my car from one side of the street to the other (to avoid a parking ticket).

So, can't we leave a few neighborhoods alone and make the gentry stop? Let everyone out of Rikers at once and drop them off in Park Slope, shut down the force in the 72nd Precinct and let 'em run wild. See what happens. I would pay to see that. It would be like the Fifties through the Eighties all at once. One big degentrification project starting in November. We'll see what happens. It would be neat if the current residents of the Slope were not warned ahead of time. I am giddy just thinking about it. Maybe I'll write a letter...

The Golden Child

2007-09-25T19:12:00.000-04:00

Every family has a child who is favored by his or her parents, whether they admit it or not. This theory almost never ceases to be true. Think of any family that you know and pick out who the "golden child" is. It should take no longer than .0006 seconds for you to figure this out.

About the golden child: It's usually a boy, but there are exceptions to this rule. The child is either the smart, attractive, athletic one who is the CEO of a hedgefund or the one with the tattoos who smokes a lot of pot who does those weird clay sculptures. For whatever reason, the parents just love that child more.

No parent ever would admit this (and they may never realize it), but the children always know who it is and outsiders can always tell. Who can do no wrong? Who gets away with the most? Who is talked about with praise incessantly? Who needs the most attention and support? That is often the golden child.

The the best example of a golden child in American literature has to be Willy Loman's oldest son in Death of a Salesman, Biff. Biff Loman had it all growing up. He was handsome, athletic, charming and most importantly, well-liked. Willy was constantly encouraging Biff and defending Biff for his wrongdoings. When Biff stole a football from his school, Willy thought it was fine because his son was the quarterback who needed to practice his passing. When Biff flunked math, Willy was the first to blame the teacher.

Meanwhile Biff's younger brother Happy was constantly trying to get his father's attention. During flashback scenes in the play, Willy was talking and laughing with Biff as Happy tried to gain the attention of his father."I'm losing weight, Pop, you notice?" he asked more than once. His father did not. He was too consumed with Biff's athletic endeavors and his popularity at school.

As you know, Biff turned out to be a drifter who would never figure out what he wanted to do with his life. He failed math and never graduated high school because Willy let him down. He then went out west and came home intermittently. Happy, despite his philandering ways, had a decent career and somewhat of a future. Who was still the favorite? Yep. Biff. Once the golden child, always the golden child. He can do no wrong.

I often wonder who was the golden child in the Menendez family. I no little about the case besides what I heard on the CBS evening news 15 years ago. Was it Lyle or Erik?* Maybe they were the exception. Maybe both children were hated equally. They did, after all, kill their parents. But I wonder if one of them was more hesitant about it than the other?

I am sure O.J. Simpson was the golden child of his family and despite what he has done, he still is. Again, once the golden child, always the golden child. I'm sure his mother wouldn't believe that he committed those two murders even if she saw it happen in front of her eyes.

In my family, I am clearly the golden child and I certainly enjoy it. My mother speaks of me often and fondly, even though I have not really accomplished anything that impressive. My poor sister has to live with this for the rest of her life. (I think our father is equally disappointed in both of us, but at the end of the day, I think I win.)

I believe that it is decided the day that child is born whether or not he or she will be the favorite. I think parents just know.

It feels good to be golden. I hope I turn out a little better than Biff Loman.

*Probably Erik because no parents would name a child they are supposed to love "Lyle," except for maybe Lyle Lovett who would be the golden child no matter what.

Another promising sign of gentrification.

2007-09-24T16:51:00.001-04:00

http://www.brownstoner.com/brownstoner/archives/2007/09/streetlevel_oli.php

Here is a liquor store in Bed-Stuy where you don't have to pick your selections through bulletproof glass! Another one for our side!

Who needs a townhouse out in Park Slope? Is that all you get for your money?

2007-09-24T16:12:00.000-04:00

Every Sunday there are thousands of open houses. I would go to all of them if I could. I am the first to admit that I am a real estate junkie. I love going into the homes of strangers and pretending that I'm interested. I often will put a fake name and address on the sign-in sheet so the broker doesn't bother me again.

I used to sell this overpriced crap so I feel as though it's okay for me to waste the time of others because that's precisely what everyone did to me when I was a realtor. So I go in, dressed in my Sunday smart-casual househunting attire. I pretend I have more than two dimes to rub together (which is easily achieved by putting on a decent pair of slacks and a Polo shirt) and go through these apartments and houses asking questions like, "What's the square footage?" "Is the plumbing updated?" "How long has it been on the market?" All bullshit questions that could be answered by punching in the address on propertyshark.com.

Yesterday I found myself strolling around in Park Slope. I saw an open house sign and I was pulled into that direction by the real estate gods. I have no control. I must go. It doesn't matter what the place is and how much it costs. I must attend.*

So here I was on a decent block, not quite in prime Park Slope in a $1.9M townhouse that has recently been renovated. Sounds impressive, huh? For nearly two million big ones, you can get a 16 foot wide two bedroom one bath with a small rental on the garden floor.

Now there was nothing wrong with this house really. It was in move-in condition and the renovation was not objectionable. But the living room was so small, a sofa and a coffee table could not both exist comfortably and the kitchen had tiny appliances usually reserved for tiny rentals and European apartments. (The granite countertop did not make up for this.) A small deck is located off the kitchen.

Upstairs one will find two bedrooms - really one decent sized room that could maybe fit a queen bed and a dresser and one that could barely be a nursery or office. And one bathroom that is nothing special. I didn't bother looking at the closets.

The garden level rental had a bedroom so small, a full bed would fit and not much else. The finishes were nice though for a rental. The broker tried to tell me that this unit would fetch "$2,500 easy." I smell bullshit, but if that helps him get through the day, fine.

So let's say you put down 10% ($190K) and that taxes are $300 a month. This leaves you paying more than $11K (based on a 30 year fixed at 6.5%) a month for a two bedroom house a half block from industrial 4th Avenue with small appliances with no special features whatsoever.** Even if you get $2,000 a month for the rental, you're still at $9,000 for your mortgage payment and taxes, not to mention the headaches of homeownership and the utilities and dealing with an asshole yuppie tenant.

The numbers just don't add up. For that kind of money I want that "wow" factor, not just "Okay, I can live with this if I get smaller furniture and vow never to entertain more than two guests at a time."

Maybe next weekend I'll check out Bed-Stuy.

*My girlfriend used to love this.
**Everyone has granite countertops and hardwood floors these days.

Question of the Day

2007-09-22T16:27:00.000-04:00

Why are overweight black women so curmudgeonly?

Have the terrorists won?

2007-09-21T22:08:00.000-04:00

Six years ago this week, New York City was in the immediate aftermath of what might have been the biggest tragedy of all time. Buildings were destroyed, lives were ruined, etc.

This year, another tragedy has occurred, albeit on a slightly smaller scale. The famed Peter Luger's Steakhouse lost a star in the New York Times.* Is this a sign that the terrorists have won? Is New York City going to be doomed every sixth September?

The thing is, if you read reviews about Luger's on blogs such as Chowhound, Curbed (which has nothing to do with food really, but people have opinions on everything) and Zagat, the ratings are less than stellar. All of a sudden everyone is a food critic. The internet has given all of us an open forum to become as discriminating as Frasier and Niles Crane. People complain that the steak is too charred, not charred enough, overcooked, undercooked, not tender enough, too fatty,the tomatoes aren't what they used to be, the shrimp cocktail is flavorless, the ice cream is too cold and the waitstaff is surly (which everyone knows). Oh yeah - and the damn place is in Brooklyn.

If you read what the public has to say about Luger's, it shouldn't deserve any stars at all. Everybody knows where they can get a better steak with better service with better prices (that takes credit cards). But why is there still a six week wait to get into Luger's? It can't be all tourists and people that think Sizzler makes an excellent Porterhouse. I have yet to try Luger's, but I'm sure if I did, I would quite enjoy my steak and find a few little things to gripe about. And maybe I've had better steak. (Sammy's in Mendham, NJ is pretty goddamn good.)

Luger's isn't the only famed restaurant people love to criticize. People criticize everything from Per Se to Craft to Le Cirque to the River Cafe. I often wonder if these people have even visited these restaurants or perhaps they're just resentful that they can't get a reservation so they bash it. The average diner at Per Se is not necessarily going home after dinner to log into some internet forum to complain about the wine list. I think most of these people are full of shit and don't know the first thing about food or wine or restaurants.

Peter Luger's may have lost a star, but here is an excerpt from the review (from a critic with a little more credibility than DaisyDuke121) that might make you want to hit the ATM and get into a taxi to the bowels of Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

"What a steak it was. Even before I saw it I could smell it — the acrid top note of its char, the funky bottom note of properly aged beef. I could even hear it, still sizzling from its time in one of the high-temperature broilers.

It was already sliced, and the waiter buckled down to the familiar Luger ritual, putting some filet and some sirloin on each plate, then spooning the pooled juices over it. The beef had a subtle tang, an intense mineral quality, a crazy richness and a spectrum of textures: crunchy at the edges, tender at the bone. I had to keep reminding myself to take it easy, to slow down."

Maybe the terrorists haven't won after all.

*I think Nostradamus predicted this one too.