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.

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

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!

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

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...

I would buy this.

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

Gentry By Default

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.