Hey Mami!

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mornings with Donald

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

H2O

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chemo vs. Radiation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What you talkin' about, Willis?

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

Here is a brief character analysis.

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

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

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

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

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





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

The Road to Bellevue is Paved with Fabulous Architecture

vs.

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

Houses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was starting to feel like Glengarry, Glen Ross.

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!

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.