Two years ago while working as a real estate agent, I began to post an ad for some crappy new construction condo on Craigslist and this is how it turned out:
Please buy something. Please. Please use me as an agent. I'm nice and I work hard. I really need the money. And I don't want to have to move back in with my parents.
Buyers: Please be serious and pre-qualified. We do not get paid to show you various different places. We do not have time to spend an entire Saturday carting you and your significant other around and showing you everything that's available. And if you cancel an appointment, please let us know ahead of time if possible. And if you express interest in a property, we will call you back. Do not avoid our calls. Just answer the phone and say, "We are not ready to buy yet." Or "We're moving to the Congo." Make something up, tell us to fuck off. Don't leave us hanging. Just so I know to cross you off my list. If you are at the very beginning stages of purchasing, please go to open houses on your own and not bother us and get our hopes up that you might actually be serious. And, please be realistic. If the house doesn't exist, it doesn't exist. There is a such thing as a compromise. You are not going to find that brownstone in Park Slope or dream loft with panoramic views in Dumbo for $750,000, so try to get a sense of the market before calling. and say that you are not in need of brokerage services, because if you are calling us, then you obviously do. And out-of-towners, we work for the seller, but try to be as fair as we can to the buyer. This is New York, we do not us MLS and we are not buyer's brokers. Have your attorney represent you in sale and get over it.
Sellers: Please be realistic. The market is not what it used to be. If your house is worth $850,000, and you want it listed at $1.2, we will do it just to get the listing, but please be sensible. Just because a house on your block sold for $1.1 last June does not mean that your shit box is worth that especially since it is in need of a total gut-renovation and probably won't pass an inspection. We all understand that you want the most for your house, but help us out a little. If it's sitting on the market for 8 months and you won't budge on the price after a multitude of reasonable offers, then you clearly do not want to sell your house. It's as simple as that. A New York Times ad costs a lot of money; we will stop advertising it and stop bringing people over because you are a pain in the ass. And if you really do want to sell, please help us out. Make it easy. Give us a key or be a little flexible on showing times. Not everyone is available on Thursdays between 5 and 6 am. We are putting a lot of time and effort into marketing your property and making appointments and running open houses. And please clean your house and rid it of offensive odors. Get the clothes off the floor, spruce it up, paint if you have to. Fuck, I'll come in and do it myself (on Thursdays between 5 and 6 am). And DO NOT BE PRESENT DURING OPEN HOUSES. And if you get an offer close to the asking price, take it, don't say "Well, we priced it too low, let's list it at $1.3 and see what happens."
Renters: Come on guys. It's only a year of your life. It doesn't HAVE to be perfect. And no, you will not find a similar property in Manhattan for that price, so why even bring it up? And don't complain about paying the fee. Remember: You called us. We found you a place that you like. Pay the fee. You look like yuppies and have guarantors that are worth in excess of $9 million dollars. Pay the fee and shut up. "I could have found this on my own." Yes, you could have, but you didn't. "In Milwaukee, we didn't have to pay a broker fee and we got a 4,000 sq. ft. loft for $1,200." Go back.
Owners/Landlords: See above about pricing. And have you heard of Fair Housing? This is Brooklyn, "home to everyone from everywhere." Except your overpriced shit box. No black people allowed. Even well qualified professionals. And don't act like your doing us a favor by letting us list your apartment. Remember, you're not paying us. The tenant pays. So don't give us a hard time for helping you out.
Other Agents: Calm down. If we don't want to co-broke with you, let it go. We're not all members of REBNY and we're only getting 3% nowadays. If we were getting 6%, then fine, co-broke away. And if you are co-broking, but would rather not (Corcoran), don't waste our time making appointments and accepting an offer when you know you're going to keep it in-house. This is the real world so we know how it works. Why even bother entertaining the notion of co-broking when offers "mysteriously" get misplaced... And you little Mom and Pop brokers: I got news for you: You don't have the means to compete with Corcoran or Halstead or Elliman, et al, so why try? Stick with your current loyal customers and don't be offended when your friend/neighbor/yoga instructor/sister decides to list their property with Corcoran instead of you at Tony's Realty of South Brooklyn. The big boys are more capable of getting the place sold and have marketing experts and an unlimited advertising budget. It's business. Anyway, if you are looking to buy, sell or rent a property, I have the expertise and work ethic to get the job done right! Please refer me to all your friends and associates. Thank you and happy hunting. :-)
(I guess it's best that I'm no longer in that line of work.)
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Help Me!
Fifty minutes a week isn't doing it for me. Fifty minutes of therapy that is. What I need is a psychiatrist to hang around me 24/7 to tell me what to say and do. That's the only way I can survive in this society.
Everywhere I go, my psychiatrist would go. He would be with me at work, social gatherings, the gym, in restaurants, bars, in the car, on vacations. I wouldn't make a move without him. He could give me relaxation tips and tell me not to get upset about petty things.
He could tell me who I should talk to at parties and exactly what I should say, so I don't blather on and on about gentrification and Evangelical Christians all night to a group of people that will likely be bored and/or offended. He would tell me to talk about subjects that perhaps would interest a wider audience such as the NCAA tournament or American Idol.
On vacations, he could tell me where to spend my time and what not to get upset about. He could reassure me that no one is going to judge me if I don't purchase a souvenir for them.
It doesn't even need to be a psychiatrist - maybe a mentor of some sorts - someone with the sense that I don't have. Someone who knows right from wrong and knows that inappropriate remarks are generally frowned upon in our society and can kick me when I am about to say something controversial.
I need this person to accompany me while I am using public transit or walking down any street in the city to teach me how to properly interact with minorities and help me accept the fact that black people are louder than whites on the bus. I clearly am not fit to meander around the city unsupervised. Something catastrophic is soon to happen to me.
While I'm at it, I also need a lawyer to handle all my business and medical-related affairs. I'm already in debt; let's just keep piling on the bills!
Everywhere I go, my psychiatrist would go. He would be with me at work, social gatherings, the gym, in restaurants, bars, in the car, on vacations. I wouldn't make a move without him. He could give me relaxation tips and tell me not to get upset about petty things.
He could tell me who I should talk to at parties and exactly what I should say, so I don't blather on and on about gentrification and Evangelical Christians all night to a group of people that will likely be bored and/or offended. He would tell me to talk about subjects that perhaps would interest a wider audience such as the NCAA tournament or American Idol.
On vacations, he could tell me where to spend my time and what not to get upset about. He could reassure me that no one is going to judge me if I don't purchase a souvenir for them.
It doesn't even need to be a psychiatrist - maybe a mentor of some sorts - someone with the sense that I don't have. Someone who knows right from wrong and knows that inappropriate remarks are generally frowned upon in our society and can kick me when I am about to say something controversial.
I need this person to accompany me while I am using public transit or walking down any street in the city to teach me how to properly interact with minorities and help me accept the fact that black people are louder than whites on the bus. I clearly am not fit to meander around the city unsupervised. Something catastrophic is soon to happen to me.
While I'm at it, I also need a lawyer to handle all my business and medical-related affairs. I'm already in debt; let's just keep piling on the bills!
Monday, March 24, 2008
Home for the Holidays
Every major holiday I find myself in my hometown in New Jersey getting together with friends that I grew up with. I enjoy my time with them and I enjoy seeing certain people that I do not communicate with on a regular basis.
However, whenever I go out to bars within a 10 mile radius, I run the risk of running into people that I truly do not care about and would rather not see. Every time I see one of these people, it's the same conversation.
Me: So... What are you up to these days?
Person I Don't Care About: Oh ya know, working, you?
Me: Yeah, same.
PIDCA: Where ya living these days?
Me: I'm over in Brooklyn, you?
PIDCA: Hoboken.
Me: Cool. I go there sometimes. My girlfriend used to live there.
PIDCA: Oh where about?
Me: She was on 10th and Washington...
PIDCA: Oh wow! I'm on Bloomfield between 6th and 7th.
Me: Oh that's not far. Well, I'm gonna go out and smoke a cigarette.
PIDCA: Ooh, do you have an extra one for me?
Me: (muttering under breath) Nothing has changed since high school.
And it's the same conversation with everyone. I really could care less whether Scott is selling medical devices or where Melanie is teaching or where Tom went to grad school at. I simply don't care. I only want to hear about people who are worse off than I am. I want to hear about people that got kicked out of college for plagiarism and then got charged with rape and is now a registered sex offender who couch surfs because his parents kicked him out of the house...
From now on when I go home, I am going to carry a recorded message with me that states what I am doing so I don't have to go through the whole thing again.
However, whenever I go out to bars within a 10 mile radius, I run the risk of running into people that I truly do not care about and would rather not see. Every time I see one of these people, it's the same conversation.
Me: So... What are you up to these days?
Person I Don't Care About: Oh ya know, working, you?
Me: Yeah, same.
PIDCA: Where ya living these days?
Me: I'm over in Brooklyn, you?
PIDCA: Hoboken.
Me: Cool. I go there sometimes. My girlfriend used to live there.
PIDCA: Oh where about?
Me: She was on 10th and Washington...
PIDCA: Oh wow! I'm on Bloomfield between 6th and 7th.
Me: Oh that's not far. Well, I'm gonna go out and smoke a cigarette.
PIDCA: Ooh, do you have an extra one for me?
Me: (muttering under breath) Nothing has changed since high school.
And it's the same conversation with everyone. I really could care less whether Scott is selling medical devices or where Melanie is teaching or where Tom went to grad school at. I simply don't care. I only want to hear about people who are worse off than I am. I want to hear about people that got kicked out of college for plagiarism and then got charged with rape and is now a registered sex offender who couch surfs because his parents kicked him out of the house...
From now on when I go home, I am going to carry a recorded message with me that states what I am doing so I don't have to go through the whole thing again.
"I'm living in an "up and coming area" in Brooklyn, working for a text book publishing firm that has an agenda to rid themselves of me because I have cancer and they are worried that I am a high-risk employee whose illness will cause loss of revenue for the company and that their insurance premiums will go through the roof."
Short, simple and to the point. I can't wait for the 10 year reunion.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Natatorium Gangs
While it may not feel like it, Spring is coming up and so is summer. Every summer I make the four and a half block pilgrimage to the Red Hook Pool. Well, for the past two summers anyway. Actually, last year I never made it because I was disenchanted from my first experience.
The pool is part of the Red Hook Recreational Center which is governed by the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. It is also located within spitting distances of the infamous Red Hook West Houses. Despite this fact, the pool remains clean and tame enough for yuppie/hipster moms to bring their yuppie/hipster tots (who are undoubtedly gifted) to. The reason it is so pleasant is because the rules are pretty stringent.
Many of these rules are pretty standard, such as "no urinating or defecating in the pool" and "all bathers must take a shower before entering the pool." I, like most gentrified swimmers, am happy to abide by these policies. These rules are essential to making the public swimming experience as pleasurable as possible for the gentry. However, I was almost not let into the facility in the first place due to my attire. You see, I was wearing a shirt that was deemed unacceptable by the person working at the gate. It was considered to be "gang related."
I felt pretty damn cool for those five seconds thinking that I looked like a possibly dangerous gang banger. After all, my grey t-shirt did have hunter green lettering that had an image on coniferous forestry and stated "National Forest Proposal." On the back it said, "Once they're gone, they're gone forever..." It was a shirt I got when I was working for a non-profit environmental awareness group back in college. So, whatever supposed gang I was involved in is at least environmentally conscious. I'm sure the Bloods and the Crips do their part to help save the environment, but I doubt they have the t-shirts to prove it.
I was clearly in violation of the rule that stipulates that one can only enter the swimming facility wearing a plain white t-shirt over one's swimsuit. I did not know this when I decided to go to the pool that day. There are no gangs that I know whose colors are heather grey and hunter green and if there were, I'm sure they wouldn't go around terrorizing patrons of New York City pools and recreational facilities.
I explained to the woman that I was not, in fact, in a gang but that I was thinking of joining one. She was not amused. I never did get into the natatorium that day, but I came back the next day wearing a plain white t-shirt in hopes that it was a shade of white that could not be confused with something a gang-member might wear. My shirt was fine. My towel, on the other hand, is another story.
The pool is part of the Red Hook Recreational Center which is governed by the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. It is also located within spitting distances of the infamous Red Hook West Houses. Despite this fact, the pool remains clean and tame enough for yuppie/hipster moms to bring their yuppie/hipster tots (who are undoubtedly gifted) to. The reason it is so pleasant is because the rules are pretty stringent.
Many of these rules are pretty standard, such as "no urinating or defecating in the pool" and "all bathers must take a shower before entering the pool." I, like most gentrified swimmers, am happy to abide by these policies. These rules are essential to making the public swimming experience as pleasurable as possible for the gentry. However, I was almost not let into the facility in the first place due to my attire. You see, I was wearing a shirt that was deemed unacceptable by the person working at the gate. It was considered to be "gang related."
I felt pretty damn cool for those five seconds thinking that I looked like a possibly dangerous gang banger. After all, my grey t-shirt did have hunter green lettering that had an image on coniferous forestry and stated "National Forest Proposal." On the back it said, "Once they're gone, they're gone forever..." It was a shirt I got when I was working for a non-profit environmental awareness group back in college. So, whatever supposed gang I was involved in is at least environmentally conscious. I'm sure the Bloods and the Crips do their part to help save the environment, but I doubt they have the t-shirts to prove it.
I was clearly in violation of the rule that stipulates that one can only enter the swimming facility wearing a plain white t-shirt over one's swimsuit. I did not know this when I decided to go to the pool that day. There are no gangs that I know whose colors are heather grey and hunter green and if there were, I'm sure they wouldn't go around terrorizing patrons of New York City pools and recreational facilities.
I explained to the woman that I was not, in fact, in a gang but that I was thinking of joining one. She was not amused. I never did get into the natatorium that day, but I came back the next day wearing a plain white t-shirt in hopes that it was a shade of white that could not be confused with something a gang-member might wear. My shirt was fine. My towel, on the other hand, is another story.
Monday, March 17, 2008
I'm Not Jewish!
Despite my Italian ancestry, I often get mistaken for being Jewish. I have accepted this and am fine with it. I have am bespectacled and have dark, wavy hair. I also am a bit on the neurotic side, which is an attribute many associate with being Jewish. This is all good and well. I like Jews and I have many Jewish friends. I'm a big fan of lox and bagels and other Jewish delicacies as well.
However, I feel that whenever Hasidic and Orthodox Jews look at me, they are disgusted. After all, Hasidic and Orthodox Jews detest Reform Jews and I look like a Reform. Just last week, I was in line at the bank and an Orthodox Jew was behind me and I could feel the hatred. I wanted to explain to him that I am, in fact, Italian, but not a practicing Catholic.
For a while in college (while attending a Jesuit university no less), I considered converting to Judaism just to avoid the constant confusion. Even when people hear my last name, they are still not convinced of my non-Semitic background. For the record, my last name is 10 letters long and ends in a vowel. There is no mistaking it for being Hebrew.
There is a fine line between Jews and Italians. They both are somewhat loud, very emotional, a little on the thrifty side and our mothers dote on us in the same manner. We even have similar physical characteristics. It is not easy to distinguish between us sometimes, but all I ask is that if you are Orthodox or Hasidic, do not judge me for not being like you. I was not born into the culture and would not be accepted no matter what.
However, I feel that whenever Hasidic and Orthodox Jews look at me, they are disgusted. After all, Hasidic and Orthodox Jews detest Reform Jews and I look like a Reform. Just last week, I was in line at the bank and an Orthodox Jew was behind me and I could feel the hatred. I wanted to explain to him that I am, in fact, Italian, but not a practicing Catholic.
For a while in college (while attending a Jesuit university no less), I considered converting to Judaism just to avoid the constant confusion. Even when people hear my last name, they are still not convinced of my non-Semitic background. For the record, my last name is 10 letters long and ends in a vowel. There is no mistaking it for being Hebrew.
There is a fine line between Jews and Italians. They both are somewhat loud, very emotional, a little on the thrifty side and our mothers dote on us in the same manner. We even have similar physical characteristics. It is not easy to distinguish between us sometimes, but all I ask is that if you are Orthodox or Hasidic, do not judge me for not being like you. I was not born into the culture and would not be accepted no matter what.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Reality Bites
There's a program on Fox right now entitled "The Moment of Truth" which is sort of like "Who wants to be a millionaire?" but the questions are about people's lives. The last question was for $100,000 and asked a man if he had ever had sex with any of his friend's wives. He answered yes and according to the lie detector or whatever they have, he was being truthful. Now he's $100,000 richer, but most of that money will go to his divorce lawyer because his wife is going to dump his sorry ass.
I guess the point of the show is to watch people expose the proverbial skeletons from their closets and cringe as they admit to having unprotected sex with HIV+ transvestite hookers while their wives cry in the audience.
It's an interesting concept for prime time television, but it got me thinking: Do we care? I think I can speak for the rest of America by saying that I don't give a rat's ass whether some rube from Wichita has ever had sexual relations with his pet donkey. It's completely irrelevant in my life.
The same goes for "American Idol." Let's face it. Some people can sing and some can't. Does there need to be a mega-program that half of America obsesses over to reveal who can and who cannot sing well? Who fucking cares? There are enough crappy artists out there without creating room for more. Americans must have some sense of talent and competence if they voted for both Taylor Hicks and George W. Bush within a few years of each other.
Not to sound trite, but I am sick of reality television. If I want reality, I have my life. (And I'm not going to lie; it fucking sucks. I don't have a whole lot to be positive about these days.) That's why I don't watch the shit and I try not to discuss it. Although no horse is too dead to beat, it seems like it's cool to hate on reality television*, so I'm not going to. I'm sure there is a multitude of blogs devoted to this very topic, so I will not elaborate any more than necessary.
*Although hipsters that ordinarily do not watch television at all usually have one reality TV fix such as "Project Runway" or "Celebrity Rehab." However, they never watch "American Idol," even ironically.
I guess the point of the show is to watch people expose the proverbial skeletons from their closets and cringe as they admit to having unprotected sex with HIV+ transvestite hookers while their wives cry in the audience.
It's an interesting concept for prime time television, but it got me thinking: Do we care? I think I can speak for the rest of America by saying that I don't give a rat's ass whether some rube from Wichita has ever had sexual relations with his pet donkey. It's completely irrelevant in my life.
The same goes for "American Idol." Let's face it. Some people can sing and some can't. Does there need to be a mega-program that half of America obsesses over to reveal who can and who cannot sing well? Who fucking cares? There are enough crappy artists out there without creating room for more. Americans must have some sense of talent and competence if they voted for both Taylor Hicks and George W. Bush within a few years of each other.
Not to sound trite, but I am sick of reality television. If I want reality, I have my life. (And I'm not going to lie; it fucking sucks. I don't have a whole lot to be positive about these days.) That's why I don't watch the shit and I try not to discuss it. Although no horse is too dead to beat, it seems like it's cool to hate on reality television*, so I'm not going to. I'm sure there is a multitude of blogs devoted to this very topic, so I will not elaborate any more than necessary.
*Although hipsters that ordinarily do not watch television at all usually have one reality TV fix such as "Project Runway" or "Celebrity Rehab." However, they never watch "American Idol," even ironically.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Our Favorite Pastime
With baseball season upon us, it gets me thinking about what baseball is really about. I think it has been over-complicated through the years (and I'm not talking about steroids and money and all that trite crap). The game itself is too complicated.
When you think about it, baseball is nothing more than throwing and catching a ball. All the other stuff involved - hitting, running, stealing bases, scoring, fielding - gets in the way of what baseball is truly meant to be. Throwing and catching a ball is the game. Everything else is a "game within a game."
Why not eliminate all that stuff in between and just leave the game as it was intended to be? Two people throwing and catching a ball back and forth to each other. No batters, no fielders, no coaches, no stats, no score. Just two people throwing the ball back and forth. That is pure sport right there and it doesn't have to be interesting. People might watch; they might not. That's not the point. The point is that there is no point.
When you think about it, baseball is nothing more than throwing and catching a ball. All the other stuff involved - hitting, running, stealing bases, scoring, fielding - gets in the way of what baseball is truly meant to be. Throwing and catching a ball is the game. Everything else is a "game within a game."
Why not eliminate all that stuff in between and just leave the game as it was intended to be? Two people throwing and catching a ball back and forth to each other. No batters, no fielders, no coaches, no stats, no score. Just two people throwing the ball back and forth. That is pure sport right there and it doesn't have to be interesting. People might watch; they might not. That's not the point. The point is that there is no point.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
My Generation
We of the generations X and Y are in for a serious wake up call. We grew up with baby boomer parents who made a goddamn fortune in the '80s and continue to prosper today as they lead comfortable semi-retired or retired lifestyles. If they're not in the process of retirement, they are at a very high executive level and they love their jobs.
Our parents may not have been the best achievers in school, but most of them got college educations. Many of them did not go on to receive a post-graduate degree, but still became successful nonetheless. And post-grad degrees in Art History and Maya Angelou ain't gonna mean shit if you don't have a trust fund. Sorry. It's a requirement now to have an MBA in finance or a law degree from a prestigious institution. Otherwise, you're screwed. That includes you med students. You won't see a penny for another 10 years and when you do, you have to give three quarters of it away for malpractice insurance because some litigious asshole is gonna try to sue you for everything you've got.
We are the first generation that will not do better than our parents did. Repeat: We will not do better than our parents did. Pretty sad, right? We were given every opportunity to succeed. College funds were established as soon as we were conceived, tutors were provided, therapists for those of us who needed them were at our disposal and we lived in nice homes to boot. Where did we go wrong?
Note: I am not talking about i-bankers and defense attorneys and other extremely lucrative professions. They are few and far between and will most have nervous breakdowns due to unrealistic expectations by the age of 28. I am talking about the kids who went to above-average liberal arts institutions with high tuition that decided that they would jump straight into the workforce upon graduating. These are the people out there in the trenches everyday teaching snot-nosed little brats in our public schools, putting together Powerpoint presentations for the McCallister account, selling advertising space or whatever meaningless tasks you may be forced to carry out for $42,000 a year, not even ten 10% of an entry-level Wall Streeter's annual bonus.
Maybe in a few years, we'll make $45K, then $51K and then $60K by the time you're in your 30s. By comparison, your parents by that age had already purchased their first home and received a great deal of Lenox vases to put in it and have probably had you and your rotten older brother by the time they were your age. At 30, you are still struggling to pay rent for your crappy, cramped flat in Harlem or Brooklyn or (God forbid) Queens and most likely still in debt from that ill-fated attempt at an advanced degree in Comparative Literature, which after two years and $80,000 in loans later, you realized that you don't have a trust fund like that neighbor downstairs with the interestingly retro glasses who quotes Allen Ginsberg a lot.
No, you need to make a living because your parents are soaking up the sun in their waterfront villa in Florida, riding with the top down in their Mercedes SL 500 so they don't have to support your sorry ass. Their parents didn't support them after they graduated, why should they support you? And when their time is up, there ain't gonna be nothing left except for an aging Mercedes reliability nightmare and an outdated condo that you'll have to divvy up between your other three siblings that you don't even talk to anymore.
I just realized that I will never lead as nice a lifestyle as I had when I was six. That was 20 years ago and things were good in my family. My parents were not yet divorced and we lived in a beautiful 5,000 square foot house on a park-like 2.5 acre property that backed up to the bucolic woods of exurban Chester, New Jersey. We also had a cute Cape Cod in Long Beach Island that was right on the fucking ocean. My bedroom during the summers afforded me with an unobstructed view of the Atlantic Ocean. And guess what! I wasn't happy then either because the house next door to us was newer and bigger and had even better views. Here I was at six fucking years old complaining to my parents that the house next door had multiple decks and a garage while our house only had two decks and a driveway made of pebbles. My dad said one thing to me that I remember to this day: "Just remember, the people there are renting that house and we own this one." Fast forward 20 years and I don't own shit. I would lease my fucking shoes if I could because it would be cheaper. And I'm not exactly living the high life over here by saving money. I'm just happy to have a decent enough health plan to pay for my cancer treatments and my anti-depressants.*
As I type this, I am gazing at MS Joaquin Industries, #1 in the Sheetmetal Industry! The building has beautiful brick and very creative, albeit indecipherable, graffiti on its brown garage doors. I ate a lot more fucking oysters when I was prepubescent than I do now; that's for goddamn sure. I got to ride around in my dad's little Alfa Romeo Spider roadster which was promised to me when I was old enough to drive. I never got it.
And I suffer every fucking month for this industrial view in this shit-ass ghetto neighborhood. I have a seemingly decent job with a salary that would be adequate anywhere else in the country, but I still won't do better than my parents. Will you?
*I'm particularly bitter today.
Our parents may not have been the best achievers in school, but most of them got college educations. Many of them did not go on to receive a post-graduate degree, but still became successful nonetheless. And post-grad degrees in Art History and Maya Angelou ain't gonna mean shit if you don't have a trust fund. Sorry. It's a requirement now to have an MBA in finance or a law degree from a prestigious institution. Otherwise, you're screwed. That includes you med students. You won't see a penny for another 10 years and when you do, you have to give three quarters of it away for malpractice insurance because some litigious asshole is gonna try to sue you for everything you've got.
We are the first generation that will not do better than our parents did. Repeat: We will not do better than our parents did. Pretty sad, right? We were given every opportunity to succeed. College funds were established as soon as we were conceived, tutors were provided, therapists for those of us who needed them were at our disposal and we lived in nice homes to boot. Where did we go wrong?
Note: I am not talking about i-bankers and defense attorneys and other extremely lucrative professions. They are few and far between and will most have nervous breakdowns due to unrealistic expectations by the age of 28. I am talking about the kids who went to above-average liberal arts institutions with high tuition that decided that they would jump straight into the workforce upon graduating. These are the people out there in the trenches everyday teaching snot-nosed little brats in our public schools, putting together Powerpoint presentations for the McCallister account, selling advertising space or whatever meaningless tasks you may be forced to carry out for $42,000 a year, not even ten 10% of an entry-level Wall Streeter's annual bonus.
Maybe in a few years, we'll make $45K, then $51K and then $60K by the time you're in your 30s. By comparison, your parents by that age had already purchased their first home and received a great deal of Lenox vases to put in it and have probably had you and your rotten older brother by the time they were your age. At 30, you are still struggling to pay rent for your crappy, cramped flat in Harlem or Brooklyn or (God forbid) Queens and most likely still in debt from that ill-fated attempt at an advanced degree in Comparative Literature, which after two years and $80,000 in loans later, you realized that you don't have a trust fund like that neighbor downstairs with the interestingly retro glasses who quotes Allen Ginsberg a lot.
No, you need to make a living because your parents are soaking up the sun in their waterfront villa in Florida, riding with the top down in their Mercedes SL 500 so they don't have to support your sorry ass. Their parents didn't support them after they graduated, why should they support you? And when their time is up, there ain't gonna be nothing left except for an aging Mercedes reliability nightmare and an outdated condo that you'll have to divvy up between your other three siblings that you don't even talk to anymore.
I just realized that I will never lead as nice a lifestyle as I had when I was six. That was 20 years ago and things were good in my family. My parents were not yet divorced and we lived in a beautiful 5,000 square foot house on a park-like 2.5 acre property that backed up to the bucolic woods of exurban Chester, New Jersey. We also had a cute Cape Cod in Long Beach Island that was right on the fucking ocean. My bedroom during the summers afforded me with an unobstructed view of the Atlantic Ocean. And guess what! I wasn't happy then either because the house next door to us was newer and bigger and had even better views. Here I was at six fucking years old complaining to my parents that the house next door had multiple decks and a garage while our house only had two decks and a driveway made of pebbles. My dad said one thing to me that I remember to this day: "Just remember, the people there are renting that house and we own this one." Fast forward 20 years and I don't own shit. I would lease my fucking shoes if I could because it would be cheaper. And I'm not exactly living the high life over here by saving money. I'm just happy to have a decent enough health plan to pay for my cancer treatments and my anti-depressants.*
As I type this, I am gazing at MS Joaquin Industries, #1 in the Sheetmetal Industry! The building has beautiful brick and very creative, albeit indecipherable, graffiti on its brown garage doors. I ate a lot more fucking oysters when I was prepubescent than I do now; that's for goddamn sure. I got to ride around in my dad's little Alfa Romeo Spider roadster which was promised to me when I was old enough to drive. I never got it.
And I suffer every fucking month for this industrial view in this shit-ass ghetto neighborhood. I have a seemingly decent job with a salary that would be adequate anywhere else in the country, but I still won't do better than my parents. Will you?
*I'm particularly bitter today.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
The Sopranos: It's Over
This afternoon while driving to Madison, New Jersey for a family gathering, I was stuck in traffic approaching the Pulaski Skyway when I glanced to my left and saw this big idiot in a white 1996 Ford Taurus station wagon smoking a big fucking cigar.
Allow me to let you in on a little secret: You ain't Tony Soprano. This goes for ALL guys that think it's cool to smoke cigars in your car. Just because Tony Soprano, a fictitious character on a fictitious, defunct television program, smokes a cigar in his car during the opening credits, it doesn't make it cool to do it yourself.
Even if Tony were a real character, he was uncouth and unsophisticated and was prone to panic attacks. But he probably smoked some decent Cohibas. Stop smoking cigars in the car and while I'm on the subject, stop wearing those ridiculous bowling shirts to look like him. Maybe morbid obesity will catch on too. If you smoke cigars in the car, who is to say that you don't do other despicable things like cheating on your wife, having people whacked and shoving sushi into your mouths with your hands like a cavone? Tony Soprano is not a character to emulate.
Like a lot of people, I enjoy a good cigar now and then too, but there is no reason to smoke one while driving. I smoke cigarettes in my car, but I'm addicted to them. No one that I know of is addicted to cigars. The smell ruins the car, especially the cheapies these fools probably smoke.
The Sopranos, as good as it was, opened to the door for all these guido, low-level gangster wannabes to go around dressing and acting like idiots. The cigars are just the tip of this dangerous iceberg. You shouldn't talk about "the old neighborhood" when you grew up in Parsippany in the 70s and you shouldn't talk about hanging out at strip clubs and eating soppresata all the time. It's enough already. That affected accent ain't fooling no one eitha. Get rid of it and go back to the way you spoke in 1997, before the Sopranos first aired.
As a 100% Italian-American, I take offense to all of you guidos out there trying to act like Tony Soprano and Paulie Walnuts. You people give us a bad name. There are a lot of Italians that are educated, worldly, well-dressed and make an honest living for themselves. Some of those people enjoy cigars too...when it's appropriate.
The show is over. Put the fucking cigar down.
Allow me to let you in on a little secret: You ain't Tony Soprano. This goes for ALL guys that think it's cool to smoke cigars in your car. Just because Tony Soprano, a fictitious character on a fictitious, defunct television program, smokes a cigar in his car during the opening credits, it doesn't make it cool to do it yourself.
Even if Tony were a real character, he was uncouth and unsophisticated and was prone to panic attacks. But he probably smoked some decent Cohibas. Stop smoking cigars in the car and while I'm on the subject, stop wearing those ridiculous bowling shirts to look like him. Maybe morbid obesity will catch on too. If you smoke cigars in the car, who is to say that you don't do other despicable things like cheating on your wife, having people whacked and shoving sushi into your mouths with your hands like a cavone? Tony Soprano is not a character to emulate.
Like a lot of people, I enjoy a good cigar now and then too, but there is no reason to smoke one while driving. I smoke cigarettes in my car, but I'm addicted to them. No one that I know of is addicted to cigars. The smell ruins the car, especially the cheapies these fools probably smoke.
The Sopranos, as good as it was, opened to the door for all these guido, low-level gangster wannabes to go around dressing and acting like idiots. The cigars are just the tip of this dangerous iceberg. You shouldn't talk about "the old neighborhood" when you grew up in Parsippany in the 70s and you shouldn't talk about hanging out at strip clubs and eating soppresata all the time. It's enough already. That affected accent ain't fooling no one eitha. Get rid of it and go back to the way you spoke in 1997, before the Sopranos first aired.
As a 100% Italian-American, I take offense to all of you guidos out there trying to act like Tony Soprano and Paulie Walnuts. You people give us a bad name. There are a lot of Italians that are educated, worldly, well-dressed and make an honest living for themselves. Some of those people enjoy cigars too...when it's appropriate.
The show is over. Put the fucking cigar down.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, February 18, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, February 11, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, February 1, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
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.
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.
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