He wasn't the smartest guy you've ever met, or the most charismatic. If anything, he was a lot like Rocky in the first and last movie of the series- he meant well, but was goofy as hell. He wasn't particularly well liked, or admired, except in the way that you slightly admire a guy who shows up to work every day and does what he's told.
He was probably 5'8" and in terrible shape. He had a brown beard, as I remember, and a gut to match. He was one of those guys that wears beat up Hanes t-shirts all the time and keeps his cigarettes and lighter in the breast pocket, ironically situated over his heart.
He worked with my father for decades, so I'd known him since I was a kid. We never had more than a passing relationship; innocuous hello's when I stopped by the old man's shop, brief conversations when he called my house for something relating to work. He was a loner though, in every sense of the word. It certainly wasn't for lack of trying- he'd talk to you about anything for long enough to drive you nuts. However, he had no living family, no wife, no kids. He had no one in this world but a caged bird that he lived with in a small apartment in Garfield.
After years of heavy smoking and drinking, he'd been forced to have bypass surgery five years ago while he was in his late 40's. For most, this would have given them a new lease on life, a new reason to live. Not for him. He felt like he was living on borrowed time and had already lived longer than he was supposed to, so he kept at it. Every day, two packs of smokes; every weekend, two bottles of Scotch. It drove my father crazy to see him waste the time he had left on this earth doing the same thing he'd done for so many years, but my old man understands that there's only so much you can do for somebody- we all make our own choices, and it's those that we must stick by.
So when old Walt died three days before Christmas at two years past 50, there was no one there to care. There was no weeping wife, no shocked children. There was no brother or sister to steel themselves to the sight, no mother or father to receive a dreaded call. No... it was just that caged bird that looked on and chirped as Walt drank himself down for the last time. It watched as his heart finally called it quits, and decided that this was too much a burden for an empty vessel to carry on any longer.
He will probably be cremated, and I don't know that there will be a wake of any sort. He will then be gone from this earth, and little more will remain than a taken social security number and a few income tax records.
What Walt failed to realize is the one great tenet of life: there is no borrowed time. Every waking day is a chance to change, to become a force of nature, to bend the world to your will. It's a chance to love and work and own things, to become more than just the collection of numbers that is the only thing that's proven that Walt ever existed. It's a chance to show that you used your time here wisely, and influenced everyone that came into contact with you for better or worse. It's the chance to have people feel that they must pay their respects to you at your funeral, because you a man worth doing that for. And sometimes, it's the last chance to have people remember you, to look down at the ground when you're name is mentioned and nod their heads and say, "Yea, he was a good man."
It's the chance for that bird to somehow break its bars, and take a shot at making it out the window before the last crack closes.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Stunned
It's been two years since they won again. Three, if you count conference games. They've played their hearts out all year, and just don't have the size or the talent to keep up with the bigger teams, the teams loaded with future D-1 stars and running backs that run like freight trains.
Their town, which has politics like Iraq, seems to be falling apart around them in a civil war of sorts. They get berated for losing by parents hiding behind screen names, and they get angry yells from fathers who decide that they are sideline coaches.
But on this night, they are champions. I have run the field with them over and over this year as their drives succeed, as their drives fail They get stymied in the run game, and interceptions are thrown on fourth downs into the end zone.
But it doesn't get them down. They keep at it. And when a game changing interception gets run back for a touchdown, their sideline erupts and they have hope again. They put their heads down, and they win.
Their quarterback's father died this week. He was a young guy in his 40's who coached many of the players in their youth football days, stricken and taken by a vengeful God in an instance. At 17, this quarterback went to his father's funeral, and was asked, on the same day, to bring his team to victory after a two-year losing stretch.
And as those kids (that's all they are, for all the papers talk about them. Just kids)- as they stormed the field in jubilant celebration, soaking their coach in a gatorade shower and cheering and crying because they finally won, the guy doing the chains drops the first down marker and tells me with a smile, "You see? This is why they play this stupid games...for moments like this."
And when they carried that quarterback off the field on their shoulder pads, tears streaming down his lean face, I know that the only thing that this kid could think of is, "I wish my dad could see this."
It is staggeringly beautiful in that heartbreaking sort of way that only sports and wars can achieve. I can feel my eyes getting damp, and this may as well have been the Super Bowl. I try to interview the quarterback, but when I do, I can barely think of a question that doesn't sound trivial compared to what this kid has gone through in the last week.
All I can do is shake his hand, and hope that that's enough.
Congratulations Pequannock.
Their town, which has politics like Iraq, seems to be falling apart around them in a civil war of sorts. They get berated for losing by parents hiding behind screen names, and they get angry yells from fathers who decide that they are sideline coaches.
But on this night, they are champions. I have run the field with them over and over this year as their drives succeed, as their drives fail They get stymied in the run game, and interceptions are thrown on fourth downs into the end zone.
But it doesn't get them down. They keep at it. And when a game changing interception gets run back for a touchdown, their sideline erupts and they have hope again. They put their heads down, and they win.
Their quarterback's father died this week. He was a young guy in his 40's who coached many of the players in their youth football days, stricken and taken by a vengeful God in an instance. At 17, this quarterback went to his father's funeral, and was asked, on the same day, to bring his team to victory after a two-year losing stretch.
And as those kids (that's all they are, for all the papers talk about them. Just kids)- as they stormed the field in jubilant celebration, soaking their coach in a gatorade shower and cheering and crying because they finally won, the guy doing the chains drops the first down marker and tells me with a smile, "You see? This is why they play this stupid games...for moments like this."
And when they carried that quarterback off the field on their shoulder pads, tears streaming down his lean face, I know that the only thing that this kid could think of is, "I wish my dad could see this."
It is staggeringly beautiful in that heartbreaking sort of way that only sports and wars can achieve. I can feel my eyes getting damp, and this may as well have been the Super Bowl. I try to interview the quarterback, but when I do, I can barely think of a question that doesn't sound trivial compared to what this kid has gone through in the last week.
All I can do is shake his hand, and hope that that's enough.
Congratulations Pequannock.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Foreign
I figured that I knew how the world worked. In my 24 years, I at least assumed that this was the one thing I knew. And why wouldn't I? I've been through the shit, I've done some bad things. I've known all the hustlers, the drug dealers and drug addicts, the drunk brawlers, the strippers and whores. I've seen what this world can do to you if you let it.
But lately I've been taken aback by all of the things that I don't know. In part, this stems from the women that I've been attracting lately. That blonde who I used to write about, her family was from Germany. I took this... not for granted, I would say, but I would say that I viewed it far more as a negative thing because of how badly she infuriated me constantly. I didn't appreciate the fact that all of these people still have that uniquely American immigrant experience of coming to this land for a change, for a new life.
But now I've been seeing a girl that is straight off of the boat from Brazil, a girl who certainly looks as ethnic as she is, speaks three languages, and has a degree from some place I've never heard of.
When I thought of Brazil before, most times I thought of The Rundown, and maybe those old vale tudo fight clips you find on the internet where there's six hundred crazed little fidgets packed into some low ceilinged dojo and Royce Gracie breaks some guy's arm out his ass.
She told me she was from Londrina.
"It's not that big," she says.
OK
I'm pretty much figuring that it's a village on the Amazon where a bunch of people are wearing shirts that say Buffalo Bills 1990 Super Bowl Champs and they hide in the bushes when they hear a helicopter.
And I was kind of right, in that there appears to be a big body of water there, that might be a river. Other than that, it's a city of 500,000 with three universities and things like "poverty rates" and sports teams and Mayors and councils. And, it appears, the people actually know what helicopters are.
"That's OK," she says. "We think all Americans are tall and blond and love George Bush."
"Yea... well... at least we don't wear loin cloths..."
"What?"
"Nothin. Nevermind."
But lately I've been taken aback by all of the things that I don't know. In part, this stems from the women that I've been attracting lately. That blonde who I used to write about, her family was from Germany. I took this... not for granted, I would say, but I would say that I viewed it far more as a negative thing because of how badly she infuriated me constantly. I didn't appreciate the fact that all of these people still have that uniquely American immigrant experience of coming to this land for a change, for a new life.
But now I've been seeing a girl that is straight off of the boat from Brazil, a girl who certainly looks as ethnic as she is, speaks three languages, and has a degree from some place I've never heard of.
When I thought of Brazil before, most times I thought of The Rundown, and maybe those old vale tudo fight clips you find on the internet where there's six hundred crazed little fidgets packed into some low ceilinged dojo and Royce Gracie breaks some guy's arm out his ass.
She told me she was from Londrina.
"It's not that big," she says.
OK
I'm pretty much figuring that it's a village on the Amazon where a bunch of people are wearing shirts that say Buffalo Bills 1990 Super Bowl Champs and they hide in the bushes when they hear a helicopter.
And I was kind of right, in that there appears to be a big body of water there, that might be a river. Other than that, it's a city of 500,000 with three universities and things like "poverty rates" and sports teams and Mayors and councils. And, it appears, the people actually know what helicopters are.
"That's OK," she says. "We think all Americans are tall and blond and love George Bush."
"Yea... well... at least we don't wear loin cloths..."
"What?"
"Nothin. Nevermind."
Thursday, September 11, 2008
9/11
So I want to know: at what point do all these 9/11 "tributes" and "commemorations" stop becoming emotional and important, and start becoming just a cultish, nationalistic endeavor meant to chain us to a past that we have, on the day to day level, forgotten?
9/11 changed nothing. It didn't give us right to have the foreign policy we've had or to invade a soverign country in the search for weapons and connections that were never there. The families of the firefighters have been used as political pawns, although they themselves have purveyed that by believeing that because a family member of theirs died in the disaster, it lent any more credibility to their political opinion. It tore the fabric of the nation apart, and we have not recovered. The divide between red and blue is still huge, with great masses of people having lost all faith in the electorate that promised to protect them, but failed.
Yes, the whole thing still bothers me. It likely always will. I grew up in the shadow of those towers, and when I look out over the gleaming lights of the Hudson and see the towers that aren't there, it will always strike me as strange. It still, in my eyes, robs the NYC skyline of the mystique and power that it once had.
I hope America is bottoming out. I hope our economy is at it's lowest point, and that we have learned that the pen is mightier than the sword... and it spills much less blood. Why? Because I'm tired of commemorations. These people, New Yorkers, have moved on. The women are remarried, the children call other people "dad". Let us move on. The damage is done, and if it hasn't healed by now, it's not going to. And no fucking memorial service with flag draped balconies and eloquent speeches is going to change that.
9/11 changed nothing. It didn't give us right to have the foreign policy we've had or to invade a soverign country in the search for weapons and connections that were never there. The families of the firefighters have been used as political pawns, although they themselves have purveyed that by believeing that because a family member of theirs died in the disaster, it lent any more credibility to their political opinion. It tore the fabric of the nation apart, and we have not recovered. The divide between red and blue is still huge, with great masses of people having lost all faith in the electorate that promised to protect them, but failed.
Yes, the whole thing still bothers me. It likely always will. I grew up in the shadow of those towers, and when I look out over the gleaming lights of the Hudson and see the towers that aren't there, it will always strike me as strange. It still, in my eyes, robs the NYC skyline of the mystique and power that it once had.
I hope America is bottoming out. I hope our economy is at it's lowest point, and that we have learned that the pen is mightier than the sword... and it spills much less blood. Why? Because I'm tired of commemorations. These people, New Yorkers, have moved on. The women are remarried, the children call other people "dad". Let us move on. The damage is done, and if it hasn't healed by now, it's not going to. And no fucking memorial service with flag draped balconies and eloquent speeches is going to change that.
Monday, August 25, 2008
It Beats a Newfound Flame
"Don't work on Thursday night. We're going to a baseball game."
"Really?" Her dark eyes light up as she flashes a huge, gorgeous smile.
"Yea. I'll be able to explain it better if you actually see it."
She's Brazilian, so baseball to her is as foreign as soccer is to me.
"Hmm... what do I wear there?"
She starts defending herself almost instantly as I role my eyes.
"C'mon! I'm a girl. I have to know these things," she says.
I think for second.
"Well, in America, it's customary for women to go to baseball games topless."
She looks at me, her mouth agape in a half smile.
"I'm serious," I say. "I don't make these rules. It's just how things are here. Like how we use that American-standard measurement thing instead of the metric system. We're just born into it."
"Yes, well I guess I will be the only one that breaks that custom."
"Fine. Go ahead and do that. As long as your fine with standing out really badly and possibly being very uncomfortable."
She laughs at me, and it's her turn to roll her eyes. She already knows to never take anything I say seriously.
"Really?" Her dark eyes light up as she flashes a huge, gorgeous smile.
"Yea. I'll be able to explain it better if you actually see it."
She's Brazilian, so baseball to her is as foreign as soccer is to me.
"Hmm... what do I wear there?"
She starts defending herself almost instantly as I role my eyes.
"C'mon! I'm a girl. I have to know these things," she says.
I think for second.
"Well, in America, it's customary for women to go to baseball games topless."
She looks at me, her mouth agape in a half smile.
"I'm serious," I say. "I don't make these rules. It's just how things are here. Like how we use that American-standard measurement thing instead of the metric system. We're just born into it."
"Yes, well I guess I will be the only one that breaks that custom."
"Fine. Go ahead and do that. As long as your fine with standing out really badly and possibly being very uncomfortable."
She laughs at me, and it's her turn to roll her eyes. She already knows to never take anything I say seriously.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Early Sunday Mornings
Mine has long blonde hair. Beauty evades her only because of the hardened authoritarian look in her eye; a cold anger that smart strippers have.
I never know what to say to them. Some guys talk to them like they're just another girl at the bar. I'm never quite sure how they do this.
- Yes, yes, I'm here from Belarus.
- Oh really? For school? A semester away? Parents sent you to experience a new foreign country through your young eyes before you settle into your corporate life?
- No, silly! I'm here to rub my tits in nameless American faces and give handjobs in the backroom.
- Ho, ho! Of course! What was I thinking? Apologies dear.
-But of course.
It's ridiculous really.
A blonde stripper with a huge beak and straight hair decides my thighs look like a great home for her ass. I'm not going to argue, but I always feel a bit bad when the ugly ones come by. I'll hit on an ugly girl at a bar for drunkeness and wingman-isms, but I will not PAY an ugly girl to dance for me. It goes against everything America stands for. She eventually asks me if I want a dance, and I shoot her down. They always get so damn angry when you do this.
After ten minutes, another one sidles up close to me. This is my hard-eyed girl with a body that I can't take my eyes off of. She turns her head to me, says something.
Who knows what she said. How do I reply?
"So... uh... where you... from... honey?" I ask.
I always throw "honey" in there because I'm drunk and thinking I'm smooth and it sounds good. (That's right. I'm smooth.)
She says something, mentions the Ukraine or Belarus. Immediately I think of that Russian war , and I wonder how far the countries are apart. Does she have family near there?
"Ah...they got a war goin on-" and I cut myself off.
"Vhat?" she asks.
"Nothing. Forget it. Give me a lap dance."
"You vant lap dance?"
"Yea. Let's go," I say, getting off the bar stool. 20 bucks left in my pocket on a Saturday night to blow, and it may as well be on her.
"You vant go in bak room? It's 120 vor an houver and-"
I can only roll my eyes. "No. That's not what I asked for. Let's go."
Even when you're actually paying women for their company (or their breasts), they still try to dog you out of more money.
She gives me a phenomenal lap dance, pushing her breasts in my face, then going straight down between my legs. She looks up and into my eyes, like the girls who give the best blowjobs do.
- You know, I used to feel sorry for strippers. For ones like you. I used to think you had nothing to do with what happens in these places.
- No you didn't. You said that to yourself because you were a stupid white kid from the suburbs who never felt comfortable in these places. Now you feel comfortable, so now you hate us, just like the rest of them.
-That isn't true. I felt bad. I hated coming here. I hated these places. I still do.
- Yes. But you come. And you demand lap dances. And you don't care. Because you have learned that we are vultures. We will come and take your money, and if you're one of the unfortunate souls who women disdain, we will rob you blind and leave you naked and duct taped in the gutter. You have learned to take from us, because we will take from you. The only difference is that you still think about it.
Her knee rubs against me, breasts back in my face before she goes back down and looks up again.
- It's a cruel world.
- You have no idea.
She finishes seconds after the song dies, and I stumble back to the barstool. It will be another half hour before my friend gets out of the backroom with red eyes and lighter pockets.
"She gave me her number," he says.
"Burn it."
I never know what to say to them. Some guys talk to them like they're just another girl at the bar. I'm never quite sure how they do this.
- Yes, yes, I'm here from Belarus.
- Oh really? For school? A semester away? Parents sent you to experience a new foreign country through your young eyes before you settle into your corporate life?
- No, silly! I'm here to rub my tits in nameless American faces and give handjobs in the backroom.
- Ho, ho! Of course! What was I thinking? Apologies dear.
-But of course.
It's ridiculous really.
A blonde stripper with a huge beak and straight hair decides my thighs look like a great home for her ass. I'm not going to argue, but I always feel a bit bad when the ugly ones come by. I'll hit on an ugly girl at a bar for drunkeness and wingman-isms, but I will not PAY an ugly girl to dance for me. It goes against everything America stands for. She eventually asks me if I want a dance, and I shoot her down. They always get so damn angry when you do this.
After ten minutes, another one sidles up close to me. This is my hard-eyed girl with a body that I can't take my eyes off of. She turns her head to me, says something.
Who knows what she said. How do I reply?
"So... uh... where you... from... honey?" I ask.
I always throw "honey" in there because I'm drunk and thinking I'm smooth and it sounds good. (That's right. I'm smooth.)
She says something, mentions the Ukraine or Belarus. Immediately I think of that Russian war , and I wonder how far the countries are apart. Does she have family near there?
"Ah...they got a war goin on-" and I cut myself off.
"Vhat?" she asks.
"Nothing. Forget it. Give me a lap dance."
"You vant lap dance?"
"Yea. Let's go," I say, getting off the bar stool. 20 bucks left in my pocket on a Saturday night to blow, and it may as well be on her.
"You vant go in bak room? It's 120 vor an houver and-"
I can only roll my eyes. "No. That's not what I asked for. Let's go."
Even when you're actually paying women for their company (or their breasts), they still try to dog you out of more money.
She gives me a phenomenal lap dance, pushing her breasts in my face, then going straight down between my legs. She looks up and into my eyes, like the girls who give the best blowjobs do.
- You know, I used to feel sorry for strippers. For ones like you. I used to think you had nothing to do with what happens in these places.
- No you didn't. You said that to yourself because you were a stupid white kid from the suburbs who never felt comfortable in these places. Now you feel comfortable, so now you hate us, just like the rest of them.
-That isn't true. I felt bad. I hated coming here. I hated these places. I still do.
- Yes. But you come. And you demand lap dances. And you don't care. Because you have learned that we are vultures. We will come and take your money, and if you're one of the unfortunate souls who women disdain, we will rob you blind and leave you naked and duct taped in the gutter. You have learned to take from us, because we will take from you. The only difference is that you still think about it.
Her knee rubs against me, breasts back in my face before she goes back down and looks up again.
- It's a cruel world.
- You have no idea.
She finishes seconds after the song dies, and I stumble back to the barstool. It will be another half hour before my friend gets out of the backroom with red eyes and lighter pockets.
"She gave me her number," he says.
"Burn it."
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Breaks My Heart
A man should never have to go through this...
A promising professional boxer and three-time Daily News Golden Gloves champion was shot to death early Saturday after getting into a fight at a Bronx bodega, police said.
Ronney (Venezuela) Vargas, 20, a junior middleweight who turned professional last year, was pistol-whipped and then shot in the chest in his car in East Tremont.
Vargas' death comes just as the Bronx native's undefeated professional career was taking off, making him one of the city's hottest boxing prospects.
"He had a future," said his distraught father, German Vargas, 52. "They didn't just kill a boxer, they killed a champ."
Police said Vargas and five friends got into a beef with two couples at the 2001 Delicatessen on Clinton Ave. about 3:30 a.m.
A police source said the men became enraged after they noticed Vargas chatting with their girlfriends.
"It was a dispute over some females," the police source said. "He talked to the wrong girls, and the boyfriend didn't like it. It was senseless. Stupid."
The dispute so enraged the men that when Vargas and his buddies drove off in a Honda Accord, they followed close behind in a white car.
Several blocks away, on Hughes Ave., the suspects pulled up and blocked Vargas' car.
Then a man came to Vargas' driver-side window and pistol-whipped him before shooting him in the chest.
Cops said Vargas tried to drive off backward, sideswiping several cars before he got out of the vehicle and collapsed in the street.
"His friend got on his knees and held him in his arms, like a mother rocks a baby," said a woman who watched the shooting from her apartment window. "He said, 'Don't die on me.'"
Vargas was pronounced dead at St. Barnabas Hospital. Police haven't made an arrest.
A dramatic surveillance video obtained by The News shows the scene of the shooting, including Vargas' car careening backward and his friends frantically calling for help afterward.
The victim's older brother, Ronald Vargas, 24, suspects the boxer's good looks and rising profile contributed to his murder.
"He was famous in the neighborhood," the brother said. "They called him 'Venezuela.' He was good-looking. He was on his way up."
Vargas, who trained at the Webster Police Athletic League in the Bronx, made his professional debut in 2007 after earning Golden Gloves titles in 2005, 2006 and 2007. He had a stellar 8-0 record with six knockouts since turning pro.
"He was a good kid. You don't believe it's real," said Michael O'Connor, who worked with Vargas at the Webster PAL.
He lived with his father and two brothers in the South Bronx.
"I love my block," Vargas said during an interview in January. "I love the people around here. Everyone knows each other, so it's hard for me to move out and start my life somewhere else."
A promising professional boxer and three-time Daily News Golden Gloves champion was shot to death early Saturday after getting into a fight at a Bronx bodega, police said.
Ronney (Venezuela) Vargas, 20, a junior middleweight who turned professional last year, was pistol-whipped and then shot in the chest in his car in East Tremont.
Vargas' death comes just as the Bronx native's undefeated professional career was taking off, making him one of the city's hottest boxing prospects.
"He had a future," said his distraught father, German Vargas, 52. "They didn't just kill a boxer, they killed a champ."
Police said Vargas and five friends got into a beef with two couples at the 2001 Delicatessen on Clinton Ave. about 3:30 a.m.
A police source said the men became enraged after they noticed Vargas chatting with their girlfriends.
"It was a dispute over some females," the police source said. "He talked to the wrong girls, and the boyfriend didn't like it. It was senseless. Stupid."
The dispute so enraged the men that when Vargas and his buddies drove off in a Honda Accord, they followed close behind in a white car.
Several blocks away, on Hughes Ave., the suspects pulled up and blocked Vargas' car.
Then a man came to Vargas' driver-side window and pistol-whipped him before shooting him in the chest.
Cops said Vargas tried to drive off backward, sideswiping several cars before he got out of the vehicle and collapsed in the street.
"His friend got on his knees and held him in his arms, like a mother rocks a baby," said a woman who watched the shooting from her apartment window. "He said, 'Don't die on me.'"
Vargas was pronounced dead at St. Barnabas Hospital. Police haven't made an arrest.
A dramatic surveillance video obtained by The News shows the scene of the shooting, including Vargas' car careening backward and his friends frantically calling for help afterward.
The victim's older brother, Ronald Vargas, 24, suspects the boxer's good looks and rising profile contributed to his murder.
"He was famous in the neighborhood," the brother said. "They called him 'Venezuela.' He was good-looking. He was on his way up."
Vargas, who trained at the Webster Police Athletic League in the Bronx, made his professional debut in 2007 after earning Golden Gloves titles in 2005, 2006 and 2007. He had a stellar 8-0 record with six knockouts since turning pro.
"He was a good kid. You don't believe it's real," said Michael O'Connor, who worked with Vargas at the Webster PAL.
He lived with his father and two brothers in the South Bronx.
"I love my block," Vargas said during an interview in January. "I love the people around here. Everyone knows each other, so it's hard for me to move out and start my life somewhere else."
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Summer
There are people sitting on folding chairs in a half-circle around an old stone fireplace that is the last remnants of a house that stood here during the Civil War. The fire gently paints the stone with its orange light, as the fireflies do drunken dances through the cool, humid air. I sip on whiskey-laced coffee as friends throw cupfuls gasoline into the fire, enraging it but for moments before the night swallows it again. These summer nights are tearing by.
The other night I was at Giants Stadium for the Springsteen concert, another defining moment of my life to be sure. He sang with flair and fury, with the urgent beauty that only passionate men can create. When he ended, he sang to us the three songs that he knows are for New Jersey, and Jersey alone.
As the crowd howled the lyrics to "Jersey Girl" under the view of the peaks of the massive cranes that are building the next Giants Stadium and young couples made out by the cavernous lights that steal the darkness from us, all I could think of was that I wish she was here, and that oh, amigos, life is beautiful... fleetingly so, but beautiful nonetheless...
The other night I was at Giants Stadium for the Springsteen concert, another defining moment of my life to be sure. He sang with flair and fury, with the urgent beauty that only passionate men can create. When he ended, he sang to us the three songs that he knows are for New Jersey, and Jersey alone.
As the crowd howled the lyrics to "Jersey Girl" under the view of the peaks of the massive cranes that are building the next Giants Stadium and young couples made out by the cavernous lights that steal the darkness from us, all I could think of was that I wish she was here, and that oh, amigos, life is beautiful... fleetingly so, but beautiful nonetheless...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Go see it
Just saw "Dark Knight", the Batman movie.
It's one of the five best movies I've ever seen. The monologues on truth and justice intertwined with Heath Ledger's immortal performance makes for a beautiful piece of legendary proportions.
Wow. Just wow... and I'm not even a comic book nerd.
It's one of the five best movies I've ever seen. The monologues on truth and justice intertwined with Heath Ledger's immortal performance makes for a beautiful piece of legendary proportions.
Wow. Just wow... and I'm not even a comic book nerd.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Shockey and Estelle
I am so glad that that weeping, whiny bitch Jeremy Shockey has been sent to New Orleans where he can flood them with his tears instead of his touchdowns, just like he did in NY. Good riddance.
On another note, it upsets me that Estelle Getty died. I got so many text messages today from assorted people about this because they all know that I've watched the Golden Girls since I was a little kid (thanks Grandma).
Estelle, we will always remember you as that tough talking Sigi grandma that you were. Hope God greets you with open arms... and we know that if he doesn't, you'll smack the shit out of him.
On another note, it upsets me that Estelle Getty died. I got so many text messages today from assorted people about this because they all know that I've watched the Golden Girls since I was a little kid (thanks Grandma).
Estelle, we will always remember you as that tough talking Sigi grandma that you were. Hope God greets you with open arms... and we know that if he doesn't, you'll smack the shit out of him.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
"In the spirit of the Irish people, Osama bin Laden, you can kiss my royal Irish ass" - FDNY Firefighter Michael Moran
The Empire State building was red, white, and blue last night.
When I was a little kid, I remember walking by the World Trade Centers with my grandmother, and asking her why they had those massive cement planters in front of the lobby, taking up most of the entrance.
"That's so you can't drive a car with a bomb in it through the building."
I was not a stupid kid, even at that age; it's arguable that actually, I was smarter than. There were no naive thoughts about why someone would want to do such a thing... I knew politics. I knew war. I knew terrorism.
But also, what I knew, was that they didn't happen in America. I knew bombs went off in places like Israel, or Croatia, Chechnya. I didn't know it would happen to us.
As I looked across the river last night, again feeling that cool breeze come off the water... sometimes it's hard for me to comprehend that 9/11 really happened. It's hard to look at that skyline that I've lived next to my whole life and realize that something like that truly went on, and that I saw it, an 18-year-old kid smoking a cigarette in his pickup truck with friends, listening to the radio, wondering if we were going to war...
It still brings tears to my eyes.
The Empire State building was red, white, and blue last night.
When I was a little kid, I remember walking by the World Trade Centers with my grandmother, and asking her why they had those massive cement planters in front of the lobby, taking up most of the entrance.
"That's so you can't drive a car with a bomb in it through the building."
I was not a stupid kid, even at that age; it's arguable that actually, I was smarter than. There were no naive thoughts about why someone would want to do such a thing... I knew politics. I knew war. I knew terrorism.
But also, what I knew, was that they didn't happen in America. I knew bombs went off in places like Israel, or Croatia, Chechnya. I didn't know it would happen to us.
As I looked across the river last night, again feeling that cool breeze come off the water... sometimes it's hard for me to comprehend that 9/11 really happened. It's hard to look at that skyline that I've lived next to my whole life and realize that something like that truly went on, and that I saw it, an 18-year-old kid smoking a cigarette in his pickup truck with friends, listening to the radio, wondering if we were going to war...
It still brings tears to my eyes.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Hoboken is Decadent and Depraved (Version 2.0)
The night is oppressively hot, and the only thing that keeps it tolerable is the winds coming in off of New York Harbour. The heavy bass of the drums land in time as Santana's guitar notes drift out of the bar and ride the currents; whoever sings "Maria, Maria" is serenading the streets of this town that is so often packed with wandering masses of overdressed men and women but is tonight a ghost town; empty, echoing, hazy, a reminder that the state forgets everything but the Shore during the Glorious Fourth.
View of NY from across the river...
"She don't believe in shootin stars, but she believe in shoes and cars...."
She is about my height in her heels, wearing a black dress with her long blond hair strewn about. She is cute, but my friend's girlfriend tells me that she would be ugly with short hair; evidently this is a measuring stick for good looking women.
All I really want to do in this town is go to a damn rooftop bar, because I'd imagine that drinking on a rooftop would be entertaining (at least as long as I stayed away from the edge). Of course, that doesn't seem to be happening on this night.
It's been about a month and a half since I've been drunk and my tolerance is lower than ever. The beers hit me quick and furious as shots of Jameson come over the top, doing damage like check hooks from an infighter. One great curved, wall is tiled in gold and looks like it should be covered by a waterfall; cone-shaped lights with an oriental feel hang lazily over the bar, bathing the bartenders in red lights.
She walked up to my buddy immediately after we got there, and started her game. It's a street hustle on a higher class; she flips her hair, twirling it around her neck, bats her eyelashes. She talks to him for a while, and I'm momentarily jealous. Ten minutes later he wanders back over.
"Fuckin girl came out and asked me, 'You gonna' buy me a drink?'"
"You did I guess?" I ask.
"Yea. What the hell am I gonna' say? That's like ten bucks for one of them, but I had to."
Later on it looks like his ten bucks might get him somewhere, as he's sitting on a couch talking to her, trying to work his way in.
Again, he appears after twenty minutes this time.
"Said she had to go home," he says. "Says she was a model. Had a photoshoot early tomorrow."
"On a Sunday huh?"
"Yea... she was full of shit. That's OK though, cause I was an accountant tonight."
---- --- -- ---- --- - -- - - - -
This town is remarkable; I bitch about it but I love it, and in all my hypocritical glory I will end up living here at some point. A writer for the New York Sun once wrote a series of articles on the Mafia violence that owned the Hoboken waterfront, leading to the movie that changed the way people perceived "corruption".
Line after line of old factories still sit here, strewn amongst the row houses that have become some of the most expensive property in the state. Bars, restaurants, and expensive stores line the streets during the day, and the lights go dim for the drinking crowds that rule the nights. All of this, while the heavy multicolored lights of New York City loom across the river, the eyes of the great bustling metropolis with blinking bulbs that brawl with the darkness.
People come out to this town to see each other, to be seen, like celebrities do at a Laker's game. Not that anyone knows anyone, mind you- it's certainly not the kind of place where you see old high school friends... Bruce Springsteen does not sing about Hoboken bars, Kanye West does. Things like that used to grate on me, but that anger isn't there anymore. I have much to lose, and by getting blind drunk at town bars, I'm only setting myself up for the inevitable arrest on a multitude of charges.
It doesn't mean who I am has changed at all, mind you. I'll always laugh at girls like that one who conned my buddy out of a drink, and any man that wears capris is going to get a "Where's the flood, asshole?" comment from me; it's my nature.
Regardless of that, the thing I really like, and cannot find anywhere else except for NYC, is the feeling I get when I'm there. It's one of the few times that my overactive mind never feels like it's missing something. I'm across the river from perhaps the greatest city in the world, and likely with some very interesting people. I'm in good bars with beautiful women, and the world is, for however fleeting, at my feet.
This has been important to me in the last few months, because there has been a nagging emptiness that was there in heavy formality last night. I've dealt with it by sobering up, which is a hell of a change for me... but feeling decent physically has still left me hurting. It's not a straight depression- no, I'm too lively for that.
What it is is a strange existential feeling that simply says, "Is this it?"
I don't have a job so much as a career now, and all my sights are set on that burning city across the river. I've got a car that's far nicer than anything I should own, I get a decent amount of women, and I have no true worries of any sort... but it's missing. The only time I feel good is when I'm lifting or boxing (my only respites in this troubling world) and even those have had to take the backseat since I separated my shoulder.
Other than that, I'm just sitting and wondering, constantly, what I'm doing, where I'm going, how my life is going to be. I hear US Census projections for 2040, and realize that I'll be 56 then. A year older than my grandfather when he died, 34 years older than Ryer when he died. Throw 20 more years on that, and I probably won't be around anymore. Someone will then likely be bitching and moaning about how badly I fucked'em up by dying.
For months, there have been no answers. Drunk, sober, from every height to every depth, there have been no answers. Not in the grimiest strip clubs of the Newark ghetto to the swankiest Hoboken bar, not from the hilly highlands of West Milford to the sand at the Shore. Nothing.
I blew the cigarette smoke out through my mouth in the shape of an "O" when I was on the streets... big holes in the center of the smoke..
I'm assuming this feeling is the reason that women by three thousand dollar purses and guys buy Maserati's.
View of NY from across the river...
"She don't believe in shootin stars, but she believe in shoes and cars...."
She is about my height in her heels, wearing a black dress with her long blond hair strewn about. She is cute, but my friend's girlfriend tells me that she would be ugly with short hair; evidently this is a measuring stick for good looking women.
All I really want to do in this town is go to a damn rooftop bar, because I'd imagine that drinking on a rooftop would be entertaining (at least as long as I stayed away from the edge). Of course, that doesn't seem to be happening on this night.
It's been about a month and a half since I've been drunk and my tolerance is lower than ever. The beers hit me quick and furious as shots of Jameson come over the top, doing damage like check hooks from an infighter. One great curved, wall is tiled in gold and looks like it should be covered by a waterfall; cone-shaped lights with an oriental feel hang lazily over the bar, bathing the bartenders in red lights.
She walked up to my buddy immediately after we got there, and started her game. It's a street hustle on a higher class; she flips her hair, twirling it around her neck, bats her eyelashes. She talks to him for a while, and I'm momentarily jealous. Ten minutes later he wanders back over.
"Fuckin girl came out and asked me, 'You gonna' buy me a drink?'"
"You did I guess?" I ask.
"Yea. What the hell am I gonna' say? That's like ten bucks for one of them, but I had to."
Later on it looks like his ten bucks might get him somewhere, as he's sitting on a couch talking to her, trying to work his way in.
Again, he appears after twenty minutes this time.
"Said she had to go home," he says. "Says she was a model. Had a photoshoot early tomorrow."
"On a Sunday huh?"
"Yea... she was full of shit. That's OK though, cause I was an accountant tonight."
---- --- -- ---- --- - -- - - - -
This town is remarkable; I bitch about it but I love it, and in all my hypocritical glory I will end up living here at some point. A writer for the New York Sun once wrote a series of articles on the Mafia violence that owned the Hoboken waterfront, leading to the movie that changed the way people perceived "corruption".
Line after line of old factories still sit here, strewn amongst the row houses that have become some of the most expensive property in the state. Bars, restaurants, and expensive stores line the streets during the day, and the lights go dim for the drinking crowds that rule the nights. All of this, while the heavy multicolored lights of New York City loom across the river, the eyes of the great bustling metropolis with blinking bulbs that brawl with the darkness.
People come out to this town to see each other, to be seen, like celebrities do at a Laker's game. Not that anyone knows anyone, mind you- it's certainly not the kind of place where you see old high school friends... Bruce Springsteen does not sing about Hoboken bars, Kanye West does. Things like that used to grate on me, but that anger isn't there anymore. I have much to lose, and by getting blind drunk at town bars, I'm only setting myself up for the inevitable arrest on a multitude of charges.
It doesn't mean who I am has changed at all, mind you. I'll always laugh at girls like that one who conned my buddy out of a drink, and any man that wears capris is going to get a "Where's the flood, asshole?" comment from me; it's my nature.
Regardless of that, the thing I really like, and cannot find anywhere else except for NYC, is the feeling I get when I'm there. It's one of the few times that my overactive mind never feels like it's missing something. I'm across the river from perhaps the greatest city in the world, and likely with some very interesting people. I'm in good bars with beautiful women, and the world is, for however fleeting, at my feet.
This has been important to me in the last few months, because there has been a nagging emptiness that was there in heavy formality last night. I've dealt with it by sobering up, which is a hell of a change for me... but feeling decent physically has still left me hurting. It's not a straight depression- no, I'm too lively for that.
What it is is a strange existential feeling that simply says, "Is this it?"
I don't have a job so much as a career now, and all my sights are set on that burning city across the river. I've got a car that's far nicer than anything I should own, I get a decent amount of women, and I have no true worries of any sort... but it's missing. The only time I feel good is when I'm lifting or boxing (my only respites in this troubling world) and even those have had to take the backseat since I separated my shoulder.
Other than that, I'm just sitting and wondering, constantly, what I'm doing, where I'm going, how my life is going to be. I hear US Census projections for 2040, and realize that I'll be 56 then. A year older than my grandfather when he died, 34 years older than Ryer when he died. Throw 20 more years on that, and I probably won't be around anymore. Someone will then likely be bitching and moaning about how badly I fucked'em up by dying.
For months, there have been no answers. Drunk, sober, from every height to every depth, there have been no answers. Not in the grimiest strip clubs of the Newark ghetto to the swankiest Hoboken bar, not from the hilly highlands of West Milford to the sand at the Shore. Nothing.
I blew the cigarette smoke out through my mouth in the shape of an "O" when I was on the streets... big holes in the center of the smoke..
I'm assuming this feeling is the reason that women by three thousand dollar purses and guys buy Maserati's.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Red, White, And Bruce- The Campaign to Get the Boss Elected to Governor
BELMAR, N.J.— What started off as typical day at the beach nearly ended in horror for a Bayonne couple and their young daughter, if not for the heroics of one man who put his life on the line to make sure the young girl was safe.
27-year-old Andrea Calamazarotti came to Belmar on Monday with her daughter, Nikki, and her boyfriend of three-and-a-half weeks, Tony, to celebrate, amongst other things, the Fourth of July holiday.
“Well, you know, me and Anthony have been dating for almost a month, and I thought that maybe we should do something special to celebrate…this is my longest relationship in a long time and I wanted to go out, you know? It’s been tough, because he got laid off from the lumber yard a couple of months ago, and my job at the tanning salon has barely been getting me enough money to get a babysitter and go get drunk on a Thursday! Can you imagine?” the blonde Andrea said, snapping her gum incessantly as she talked to the Belmar Sun.
Sure enough, where do all hardworking or laid-off New Jerseyans go when they’re down on their luck? The Jersey shore. And so Andrea and Tony loaded up Tony’s mid-80’s Lexus and drove down to Belmar to enjoy a few days of sun and fun on the beach.
However, the fun almost ended abruptly when the ocean’s dangerous currents reminded beachgoers that while the Shore may be fun, attention must always be paid, especially to little children.
Tony, who is a solid 230 lbs. at nearly 5‘4” and for some reason shows heavy acne scarring on his shoulder and back area, was incredulous at the events, even taking off his sunglasses to look at reporters at one point.
“So, uh, Michelle went to go get me a beer and left me with the kid. I mean, I mean Andrea. Andrea went to get me a beer… ahh, you’re not gonna’ print that right?”
“Anyway, I mean, can you believe they don’t serve beer on the beach? You gotta’ walk all the way the fuck down to Point Pleasant to that place… that, uh… Tiki Bar! Yea, that’s it, to get a beer on the beach. Anyways, I’m smoking a cigarette, watchin’ the kid play in the water and shit, and I go to bury the butt in the sand cause you know they can give you a ticket for that shit, when all of a sudden I hear screaming. So I figure some bitch may in trouble, so I take my shirt off and run down the beach looking for who’s screaming.”
Although no one is quite sure where Tony actually ran too, Andrea came back to her towel and Glamour magazine only to find the lifeguard lamenting at water’s edge as Nikki was getting swept into the ocean.
“I asked her, ‘What the fuck? Why aren’t you going in to save her? And the lifeguard, she just said she forgot her orange floating thing and that without that she couldn’t do anything because she didn’t actually know how to swim.”
The lifeguard, when questioned later, declined to comment, saying only, “They only teach us how to blow whistles- what the fuck do you people want from me?”
“But that’s when HE came,” says Andrea, a bright light appearing in her dull eyes. “It was Bruce Springsteen. He pulled right onto the beach in a red Ford Roadster, and asked me, really calmly, if there was a problem.”
“I told him, ‘Oh my gawd, my daughter’s caught in a riptide’. I pointed out to her, but by the time I did he was already in the water.”
Witnesses allege that the Mr. Springsteen swam in boots and jeans approximately two-and-a-half miles out to sea in order to save the poor wailing girl and swam with her back to shore. Some also say that he managed to grab a wounded seagull that was later found to have the popular candy pop-rox in its stomach, and at least one observer has said that he pushed a stuck party boat off a sandbar.
“I don’t care about any of that. He brought her back to me,” says the thankful Andrea, who now holds her daughter close at all times, having bought one of those retractable children’s leashes that West Virginians are prone to use.
“I’ll never let her go again. Bruce, you’ve got my vote.”
Tony has not yet been found, but it has been alleged that a fight at the nearby bar “Bar B” later that night was started by a short, shirtless, Italian looking man with bad tribal tattoos who was wearing sunglasses.
Although the local Irish cops say that this description has them looking for a “needle in a haystack of needles” in the words of Sgt. Cahill, it is possible that there is a connection between the two events.
Local Republicans have said that it is likely that this was simply a publicity stunt, and have even questioned if Ms. Calamazarotti was paid to let her daughter out of her sight. They have also questioned the existence of “Tony” at all.
Local Democrats were quoted as calling them “assholes.”
27-year-old Andrea Calamazarotti came to Belmar on Monday with her daughter, Nikki, and her boyfriend of three-and-a-half weeks, Tony, to celebrate, amongst other things, the Fourth of July holiday.
“Well, you know, me and Anthony have been dating for almost a month, and I thought that maybe we should do something special to celebrate…this is my longest relationship in a long time and I wanted to go out, you know? It’s been tough, because he got laid off from the lumber yard a couple of months ago, and my job at the tanning salon has barely been getting me enough money to get a babysitter and go get drunk on a Thursday! Can you imagine?” the blonde Andrea said, snapping her gum incessantly as she talked to the Belmar Sun.
Sure enough, where do all hardworking or laid-off New Jerseyans go when they’re down on their luck? The Jersey shore. And so Andrea and Tony loaded up Tony’s mid-80’s Lexus and drove down to Belmar to enjoy a few days of sun and fun on the beach.
However, the fun almost ended abruptly when the ocean’s dangerous currents reminded beachgoers that while the Shore may be fun, attention must always be paid, especially to little children.
Tony, who is a solid 230 lbs. at nearly 5‘4” and for some reason shows heavy acne scarring on his shoulder and back area, was incredulous at the events, even taking off his sunglasses to look at reporters at one point.
“So, uh, Michelle went to go get me a beer and left me with the kid. I mean, I mean Andrea. Andrea went to get me a beer… ahh, you’re not gonna’ print that right?”
“Anyway, I mean, can you believe they don’t serve beer on the beach? You gotta’ walk all the way the fuck down to Point Pleasant to that place… that, uh… Tiki Bar! Yea, that’s it, to get a beer on the beach. Anyways, I’m smoking a cigarette, watchin’ the kid play in the water and shit, and I go to bury the butt in the sand cause you know they can give you a ticket for that shit, when all of a sudden I hear screaming. So I figure some bitch may in trouble, so I take my shirt off and run down the beach looking for who’s screaming.”
Although no one is quite sure where Tony actually ran too, Andrea came back to her towel and Glamour magazine only to find the lifeguard lamenting at water’s edge as Nikki was getting swept into the ocean.
“I asked her, ‘What the fuck? Why aren’t you going in to save her? And the lifeguard, she just said she forgot her orange floating thing and that without that she couldn’t do anything because she didn’t actually know how to swim.”
The lifeguard, when questioned later, declined to comment, saying only, “They only teach us how to blow whistles- what the fuck do you people want from me?”
“But that’s when HE came,” says Andrea, a bright light appearing in her dull eyes. “It was Bruce Springsteen. He pulled right onto the beach in a red Ford Roadster, and asked me, really calmly, if there was a problem.”
“I told him, ‘Oh my gawd, my daughter’s caught in a riptide’. I pointed out to her, but by the time I did he was already in the water.”
Witnesses allege that the Mr. Springsteen swam in boots and jeans approximately two-and-a-half miles out to sea in order to save the poor wailing girl and swam with her back to shore. Some also say that he managed to grab a wounded seagull that was later found to have the popular candy pop-rox in its stomach, and at least one observer has said that he pushed a stuck party boat off a sandbar.
“I don’t care about any of that. He brought her back to me,” says the thankful Andrea, who now holds her daughter close at all times, having bought one of those retractable children’s leashes that West Virginians are prone to use.
“I’ll never let her go again. Bruce, you’ve got my vote.”
Tony has not yet been found, but it has been alleged that a fight at the nearby bar “Bar B” later that night was started by a short, shirtless, Italian looking man with bad tribal tattoos who was wearing sunglasses.
Although the local Irish cops say that this description has them looking for a “needle in a haystack of needles” in the words of Sgt. Cahill, it is possible that there is a connection between the two events.
Local Republicans have said that it is likely that this was simply a publicity stunt, and have even questioned if Ms. Calamazarotti was paid to let her daughter out of her sight. They have also questioned the existence of “Tony” at all.
Local Democrats were quoted as calling them “assholes.”
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Shallow End of the Gene Pool
So how come the girls who are smart are either cunts or they're ugly, and the girls that are hot can barely concentrate on one thing for more than three fuckin seconds? Is this a genetic thing?
I mean, damnit, I got the total package here! I may have a boozing problem and be prone to throwing my life to the gutter once in a while, but I'm a dangerously good lookin fella who is smarter than shit and has the body of damn welterweight fighter. Not to mention, women don't know how misguided I am until after it's too late.
Of course, I've only met a handful of girls that can keep up (and are good looking at the same time) in the quarter century that I've been punched into this place.
Maybe it's time to do what colleges do when they want a better football team and lower the admission standards?
I've already given up looking for brains- I'm going purely for looks nowadays; I've come to the conclusion that as soon as any woman looks at me and opens her mouth to speak, my life becomes miserable.
As a result, my strong deductive reason has lead me to believe that if a woman never says anything of consequence, then my life will never be miserable. They keep talking about shiny things or what song is on the radio, and I'm fine. And like most men, I'd rather have a good looking dumb girl than an ugly smart one... although it is getting to the point now where I really wonder how ridiculously idiotic someone can be and still function day-to-day in life successfully (and I think by "successfully" I just mean feed and clothe themselves and end up in the same place they woke up).
Do I sound bitter? I'm not. It's more incredulous, I guess. People are strange fuckin creatures.
On the bright side, I found out that not only can I change the colors on the display of my Mustang, but I can make my own colors by combining the three primaries on the display.
Between that and the marvelous creation called "interior ambient lighting", I swear this car is like a damn fireworks display. I don't so much want to drive it as just sit in it with my sunglasses on and sling people the six shooter all day as they drive by. Maybe I should be a cop. That's what they do, ain't it?
I mean, damnit, I got the total package here! I may have a boozing problem and be prone to throwing my life to the gutter once in a while, but I'm a dangerously good lookin fella who is smarter than shit and has the body of damn welterweight fighter. Not to mention, women don't know how misguided I am until after it's too late.
Of course, I've only met a handful of girls that can keep up (and are good looking at the same time) in the quarter century that I've been punched into this place.
Maybe it's time to do what colleges do when they want a better football team and lower the admission standards?
I've already given up looking for brains- I'm going purely for looks nowadays; I've come to the conclusion that as soon as any woman looks at me and opens her mouth to speak, my life becomes miserable.
As a result, my strong deductive reason has lead me to believe that if a woman never says anything of consequence, then my life will never be miserable. They keep talking about shiny things or what song is on the radio, and I'm fine. And like most men, I'd rather have a good looking dumb girl than an ugly smart one... although it is getting to the point now where I really wonder how ridiculously idiotic someone can be and still function day-to-day in life successfully (and I think by "successfully" I just mean feed and clothe themselves and end up in the same place they woke up).
Do I sound bitter? I'm not. It's more incredulous, I guess. People are strange fuckin creatures.
On the bright side, I found out that not only can I change the colors on the display of my Mustang, but I can make my own colors by combining the three primaries on the display.
Between that and the marvelous creation called "interior ambient lighting", I swear this car is like a damn fireworks display. I don't so much want to drive it as just sit in it with my sunglasses on and sling people the six shooter all day as they drive by. Maybe I should be a cop. That's what they do, ain't it?
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