I hear'em call my name, a voice out of my old days.
"Hey yo Irish!"
I turned around and saw him sitting at the bar with four or five of his boys. He has small features, a tiny head and a thin frame punctuated by a voice that all the cats who smoke to much pot get. He was always nice to me.
"How you been? You still over there (at the stone yard)?" he asked.
"Nah man. Been a long time. I write now."
"True, true. Good."
"Where's your boy at?" I asked. "That cat you always used to be with, fuckin... Miller?"
He smiles. "Oh him? Oh man he's doin' good. Real good."
His friends begin to laugh. I'm missing the joke.
"Where's he at?"
"He's locked up bro. Armed robbery. Two years. Some jail down the shore."
"Get the fuck out."
"Nah really bro."
"What drug?"
"Crack bro."
"Get the fuck out."
"Nah really."
"Well... at least you're not in jail man," I said. "Cheers to that, uh?"
"Yea man. Yea."
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Paint It Black
When The End of the world came, it struck God with a furious irony that it had actually was going to happen in 2012. It was not, of course, because of some ancient prediction made by some civilization that made cave drawings and howled at the moon, nor was it because the date had really been set in the first place.
No, it was simply the way it worked out. It was all a matter of numbers, really. When He had constructed heaven, he had only put so many tables and couches in the place, and he was truly worried that overcrowding would lead to a problem should a fire break out. Plus, after a certain number, it becomes damn near impossible to keep track of who’s coming or going.
He had set the number years ago, sometime after World War I, and it was to be 7,453,536,026. He had hemmed and hawed over it, and considered changing it at least a dozen times.
“What if there’s still really interesting people to be born yet? What if I end it all, but I don’t realize that 31 years later, someone would have been born that was going to write a song that I would have loved? I would miss out on a great song because…why?”
But still, the same problems arose. A fire, a computer backfire, some other unforeseen trouble, and the whole thing would be thrown off and at that point, He may as well throw everyone out and start all over again. And after this long, going back to square one would be like trading in a Hemi for a steam engine.
The final death was somewhat innocuous, and very disappointing. He had always hoped the world would go out with an intensely loud, shattering event that would be worth commemorating on a coin or the back of a dollar bill, but it was not to be. It had actually happened when an older woman from New England who was somewhere in her mid-50s slipped down her cement stairs and hurtled onto one of the large chunks of decorative granite that she had placed at the corner of her garden. Oh, it was bloody and disgusting, but not quite the bang He’d been looking for. Either way, she was it.
He sat down at His desk, lit a cigar, and looked around his office. It was littered with newspapers, books, the occasional porno magazine (He always told visitors that they weren’t his, but he knew no one believed him and so he never made a move to dispose of them.) He fingered the brown fedora that lay on his desk next to him, thought about how He had truly hoped they would come back into style before The End. They gave a man some dignity when he wore a hat, as opposed to baseball caps, which made every man seem like he was walking out of a John Fogerty song. Another thing that was not to be…He shook his head.
He gazed out the plate glass window, looked at the tremendous line at the entrance that he knew wrapped around the building. People were showing ID’s, and getting hand stamps before they walked in. He had thought about using those green bracelets to mark entries and keep count, but He knew how much he hated things rattling on his wrists, and so He had bagged the idea.
On the CCTV was Earth, floating beautifully in the blackened night of space that He’d built so long ago. He always had the cameras on the night side of Earth, for he thought it gorgeous to see the trails of golden white lights emanating from the cities and towns, stretching and winding their ways into the interior of whatever country he was looking at.
“Truly a work of art,” he thought, and even He had to admit that it dismayed him to see the lights blinking out, first in twos and threes, then it great swaths.
He turned to the computer, and began playing Solitaire again.
No, it was simply the way it worked out. It was all a matter of numbers, really. When He had constructed heaven, he had only put so many tables and couches in the place, and he was truly worried that overcrowding would lead to a problem should a fire break out. Plus, after a certain number, it becomes damn near impossible to keep track of who’s coming or going.
He had set the number years ago, sometime after World War I, and it was to be 7,453,536,026. He had hemmed and hawed over it, and considered changing it at least a dozen times.
“What if there’s still really interesting people to be born yet? What if I end it all, but I don’t realize that 31 years later, someone would have been born that was going to write a song that I would have loved? I would miss out on a great song because…why?”
But still, the same problems arose. A fire, a computer backfire, some other unforeseen trouble, and the whole thing would be thrown off and at that point, He may as well throw everyone out and start all over again. And after this long, going back to square one would be like trading in a Hemi for a steam engine.
The final death was somewhat innocuous, and very disappointing. He had always hoped the world would go out with an intensely loud, shattering event that would be worth commemorating on a coin or the back of a dollar bill, but it was not to be. It had actually happened when an older woman from New England who was somewhere in her mid-50s slipped down her cement stairs and hurtled onto one of the large chunks of decorative granite that she had placed at the corner of her garden. Oh, it was bloody and disgusting, but not quite the bang He’d been looking for. Either way, she was it.
He sat down at His desk, lit a cigar, and looked around his office. It was littered with newspapers, books, the occasional porno magazine (He always told visitors that they weren’t his, but he knew no one believed him and so he never made a move to dispose of them.) He fingered the brown fedora that lay on his desk next to him, thought about how He had truly hoped they would come back into style before The End. They gave a man some dignity when he wore a hat, as opposed to baseball caps, which made every man seem like he was walking out of a John Fogerty song. Another thing that was not to be…He shook his head.
He gazed out the plate glass window, looked at the tremendous line at the entrance that he knew wrapped around the building. People were showing ID’s, and getting hand stamps before they walked in. He had thought about using those green bracelets to mark entries and keep count, but He knew how much he hated things rattling on his wrists, and so He had bagged the idea.
On the CCTV was Earth, floating beautifully in the blackened night of space that He’d built so long ago. He always had the cameras on the night side of Earth, for he thought it gorgeous to see the trails of golden white lights emanating from the cities and towns, stretching and winding their ways into the interior of whatever country he was looking at.
“Truly a work of art,” he thought, and even He had to admit that it dismayed him to see the lights blinking out, first in twos and threes, then it great swaths.
He turned to the computer, and began playing Solitaire again.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Prompted Writing
I've never tried it, but I still need practice, so here it is.
The question, from some blogger website, was, "You’ve just been given at time machine. You can only use it once, to go back to day in your past and relive it or change something. What day would you go back to, what would you change and why?"
---
We had been working on this site for about a month. It was a structure, something like a greenhouse, that had to be partially torn down, and we had been more than willing to work on it because we knew in the extreme cold, the bosses wouldn't come anywhere near us. Sure enough, they never did.
We had the same kind of green Carhartt jackets back then, with the only difference being that his had a hood on it. He was an elfish-looking guy, with a red goatee and thinning hair that he was overly sensitive about. He stood about 5'10", with 225 lbs. of solid muscle packed onto a large frame that outright intimidated most people he met. He had various tattoos; one was the standard tough-guy tribal band around the arm, the other was a huge, stony version of the word "Family" written down his spine in Viking runes. There was also a horseshoe-shaped scar on his forearm from an incident with a red hot lighter when he had been drinking a bit much.
We had been best friends, brothers, with a bond forged from working the same hideous job for hours on end. He had dragged me out of bars, held me up when I was staggering drunk and swearing. Once, during a brawl, he had thrown off the three or four guys piled on top of me, and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, dragging me to safety.
"Good fight," he had told me with a sly grin. I could tell he was impressed, having watched me charge into a group of steroid-ridden guidos to avenge an act of aggression.
"Now fucking stay here," he said. He stalked away, looking for others to drag out.
As soon as he turned away, I snuck back into the fray, only to end up running from the police through backyards and over fences later that night.
We started by banging the walls out, ripping the sheetrock off and then sawz-alling the framework out, piece by piece. Because neither of us was anywhere near qualified to do such a project, we both nearly died a few times because of falling debris or a lack of paying attention. That, however, was how we rolled.
This many years later, I couldn't tell you what we had talked about. His girlfriend, the love of his life, had recently dumped him, so we likely commiserated about that. Well... he commiserated...I wasn't too fond of her. But I listened, because that's what people, even hardasses, need once in a while.
It was one of those nameless days that winter that he had looked at me with a confused look. The weather was frigidly cold, cold enough that the blue in your jeans stood out and your workboots glared tan, as colors so often do when its just too cold to be outside.
"I feel like shit bro," he said.
"You're a fucking vagina. Stop it," I had told him.
We were stacking pallets, waiting for a forklift to come over and bring them out.
"Nah really man. I really feel like shit. My stomach is killing me."
For such a big guy, he could truly be a pussy sometimes. He was famous for "feeling shitty" and staying in on a Friday night, or skipping someone's birthday because "his stomach hurt." Again, he was pulling this, and was going to leave me to work on for another three hours alone.
My boss had come out around that time, and started breaking his balls. But my buddy, he wasn't kidding I guess, because he walked away from the two of us, and bent over with his hands on his knees. I could hear the puking sound, and the splattering of vomit on the redstone covered ground.
He stood up, looking like pale hell.
"Fuck this. I'm going home," he said, and without another word started walking towards the time clock. Who were we to argue- when a guy pukes on the job, you don't want to be around him anyway.
My boss and I smoked a cigarette, shaking our heads and calling him a pussy, but both knowing that sometimes, shit happens. Eventually, my boss went inside and I went back to work, this time, alone.
About three days later, my boy was dead.
I could tell you that I wish I hadn't broken his balls so much that day. I could say that I should have told him how much I admired him, or how influential he was on my life, or how to this day, I hope to be like him.
I could've told him that I loved him like a brother. I could've told him how much we all would miss him if he was gone.
But what the fuck...that's not how we were.
He, and everyone else, knew how close we were. The guy knew that I would have laid down in traffic for him, or taken a sucker punch at the bar for him. He knew that I would have always helped him out in whatever he wanted to do, and that until the day he died, he would have had a couch to crash on.
He knew that I loved him, in the most non-gay way possible, and he knew that I didn't really mean anything by all the ribbings I gave him.
After he died, I found out from someone that he had talked about me when reminicising about that big brawl. He had said how well I'd done, and that I had really surprised him. He said he was impressed that I was as vicious as I was. Of course, he didn't want to tell me that, because "it would give him a big head about it."
Turns out, the fucker knew me just as well... I just never realized it.
The question, from some blogger website, was, "You’ve just been given at time machine. You can only use it once, to go back to day in your past and relive it or change something. What day would you go back to, what would you change and why?"
---
We had been working on this site for about a month. It was a structure, something like a greenhouse, that had to be partially torn down, and we had been more than willing to work on it because we knew in the extreme cold, the bosses wouldn't come anywhere near us. Sure enough, they never did.
We had the same kind of green Carhartt jackets back then, with the only difference being that his had a hood on it. He was an elfish-looking guy, with a red goatee and thinning hair that he was overly sensitive about. He stood about 5'10", with 225 lbs. of solid muscle packed onto a large frame that outright intimidated most people he met. He had various tattoos; one was the standard tough-guy tribal band around the arm, the other was a huge, stony version of the word "Family" written down his spine in Viking runes. There was also a horseshoe-shaped scar on his forearm from an incident with a red hot lighter when he had been drinking a bit much.
We had been best friends, brothers, with a bond forged from working the same hideous job for hours on end. He had dragged me out of bars, held me up when I was staggering drunk and swearing. Once, during a brawl, he had thrown off the three or four guys piled on top of me, and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, dragging me to safety.
"Good fight," he had told me with a sly grin. I could tell he was impressed, having watched me charge into a group of steroid-ridden guidos to avenge an act of aggression.
"Now fucking stay here," he said. He stalked away, looking for others to drag out.
As soon as he turned away, I snuck back into the fray, only to end up running from the police through backyards and over fences later that night.
We started by banging the walls out, ripping the sheetrock off and then sawz-alling the framework out, piece by piece. Because neither of us was anywhere near qualified to do such a project, we both nearly died a few times because of falling debris or a lack of paying attention. That, however, was how we rolled.
This many years later, I couldn't tell you what we had talked about. His girlfriend, the love of his life, had recently dumped him, so we likely commiserated about that. Well... he commiserated...I wasn't too fond of her. But I listened, because that's what people, even hardasses, need once in a while.
It was one of those nameless days that winter that he had looked at me with a confused look. The weather was frigidly cold, cold enough that the blue in your jeans stood out and your workboots glared tan, as colors so often do when its just too cold to be outside.
"I feel like shit bro," he said.
"You're a fucking vagina. Stop it," I had told him.
We were stacking pallets, waiting for a forklift to come over and bring them out.
"Nah really man. I really feel like shit. My stomach is killing me."
For such a big guy, he could truly be a pussy sometimes. He was famous for "feeling shitty" and staying in on a Friday night, or skipping someone's birthday because "his stomach hurt." Again, he was pulling this, and was going to leave me to work on for another three hours alone.
My boss had come out around that time, and started breaking his balls. But my buddy, he wasn't kidding I guess, because he walked away from the two of us, and bent over with his hands on his knees. I could hear the puking sound, and the splattering of vomit on the redstone covered ground.
He stood up, looking like pale hell.
"Fuck this. I'm going home," he said, and without another word started walking towards the time clock. Who were we to argue- when a guy pukes on the job, you don't want to be around him anyway.
My boss and I smoked a cigarette, shaking our heads and calling him a pussy, but both knowing that sometimes, shit happens. Eventually, my boss went inside and I went back to work, this time, alone.
About three days later, my boy was dead.
I could tell you that I wish I hadn't broken his balls so much that day. I could say that I should have told him how much I admired him, or how influential he was on my life, or how to this day, I hope to be like him.
I could've told him that I loved him like a brother. I could've told him how much we all would miss him if he was gone.
But what the fuck...that's not how we were.
He, and everyone else, knew how close we were. The guy knew that I would have laid down in traffic for him, or taken a sucker punch at the bar for him. He knew that I would have always helped him out in whatever he wanted to do, and that until the day he died, he would have had a couch to crash on.
He knew that I loved him, in the most non-gay way possible, and he knew that I didn't really mean anything by all the ribbings I gave him.
After he died, I found out from someone that he had talked about me when reminicising about that big brawl. He had said how well I'd done, and that I had really surprised him. He said he was impressed that I was as vicious as I was. Of course, he didn't want to tell me that, because "it would give him a big head about it."
Turns out, the fucker knew me just as well... I just never realized it.
Long Nights
"Trouble is like the tide, child; it come in, stay for a while, then go away. But it never gone forever, it always come back and it always go away again."
- A grizzled old streetfighter
- A grizzled old streetfighter
Saturday, April 04, 2009
No Matta Where You Go, You Are What You Are Playa
You know, you've got this.. fantasy in your head about
getting outta the life and, setting the corporate world on its ear
What the FUCK you gonna do except hustle?
getting outta the life and, setting the corporate world on its ear
What the FUCK you gonna do except hustle?
- Jay Z
A girl I used to know once compared me to Leonardo Di Caprio's character in The Departed. Not in the looks department, I mean (because I beat his ass in that), but in my personality. I forget the exact explanation, but I was initially taken aback.
"I'm not that violent," I had told her, kind of insulted.
As I reach the middle of my 20s, I look back and realize that for all intensive purposes, that's exactly what the fuck I was. I'm not going to tell hero stories because no one cares about them, but I've been in more violent confrontations than most. I never backed down and took my licks.
When you add to that the drinking, the questionable morals, and the severely impressionable personality that I seem to have, I realized that thank God I have good parents, because had I lived in the ghetto and no one was paying attention to me, I guarantee that I'd be selling drugs and would probably have killed someone by now.
I'm not saying that to sound tough. But I know that aside from a great few things (like rape, child abuse, or dealing in any way with prostitution), my morals are flexible. I was prone to violence because it was accepted in school and necessary for the crowd that I run with. I am prone to drinking because its accepted. Getting arrested? Oh it's happened. Everyone I know has been.
Selling drugs? That's just on the other end of my line. Murder? Very far over. However, if I was around people for whom this was acceptable for long enough, I would very likely be engaged in it. Why? That's how I am. The farther you sink and the worse shit you do, the easier it is to do it again. That sounds cliched, but when most of your good friends are drug dealers, streetfighters, drug addicts, and drunks, you realize how quick that slide is.
The better part of my life has been about trying to find out exactly who I am, and where I'm comfortable. I've gone through phases in this; when I was young, it was the country. I've always loved Lynyrd Skynyrd, had a thing for hating the government, and dug history, so it fit for a while. I was a young, blue-collar type that had somehow sunk to a lower class than his parents.
After getting the new job that yanked me buy the neck from the rough and tumble world, I became a little classier, trying to go to nicer bars, meet better looking women, wear nicer shoes. But that's faded off too after an incident on a Hoboken balcony where I realized that I'm just not comfortable around civilized people, and I doubt they're all that comfortable around me.
I still have the classier job, but my old game has come back heavily. I don't care where I drink, what I say, or how much I swear. As it always has been, physical violence is always a possibility because I'm not the, "I'm calling HR" kind of guy. Some people are taken aback by my gruffness, but I just don't know what else I can do.
There were, and still are, a lot of similarities between me and old Leo's character. A penchant for fighting, a penchant for being judgemental, a penchant for substance abuse, and a low level anger that I just can't shake. I thought I left it at my best friend's grave, and I thought I left it at my old job. But every time I think it's gone, it rears back up again. And like Leo, sometimes you try so fucking hard to not be something, and you fight against it so hard for so long, and you still end up back where you started because you realize what you thought was a line was really a circle.
I am always toeing that fine line between being an extraordinarily good, fair person and being a very stupid, very dangerous lowlife. So far, luck, a decent brain and a struggling-but-alive half a conscience has saved me.
Sometimes though, I wonder how much I got left in the tank.
Friday, March 13, 2009
It's here
Oh is it ever. I know this, because after the Hoboken parade I found myself waking up at 9 in the morning on a Sunday next to a girl that I wasn't supposed to, with my heart pounding harder than the headache in my brain.
But oh my, do I love it.
The bagpipes, the music, and the church services should not be drowned with copius amounts of Irish whiskey, but more with the memories of all of those who have come before us.
It's for of all the sons of Erin who came over to this strange new place, covered in fleas and dying of starvation, and built this country up by the labour of their hands and the force of their will. It's for all those who stepped up and carved out their little corner of the American Experiment.
For all of them who stepped straight into the Civil War, and fought to end a form of slavery that mirrored their own oppression in the Old Country. For those who owned liquor stores and bars in Jersey City, for those who became the first Catholics elected to positions it was thought only a born American could have. For those who got on the big boats and sailed to France, and slept in sodden trenches while working the artillery in the Great War (slainte', James Lynch). For those who loaded up again 20 years later, and fought in every theater of the war that nearly ended the world.
It's for Jack Dempsey and JFK and Mickey Featherstone, the Molly Maguires and Micky Ward and every O' or Mc who ever wore a policeman's badge in any city. It's for every union leader that ever fought for his workers, and for the Paddy Murphy and the Dead Rabbits and the 69th New York. It's for every firefighter from 9/11 whose only remains were in the form of the countless claddagh rings found in the rubble.
It's for all of us who share that common ancestry, who came here long ago or just yesterday, but share the blood of that small, green island that defeated one empire and helped to build another.
To all you motherfuckers- slainte'.
And of course... some whiskey don't hurt.
But oh my, do I love it.
The bagpipes, the music, and the church services should not be drowned with copius amounts of Irish whiskey, but more with the memories of all of those who have come before us.
It's for of all the sons of Erin who came over to this strange new place, covered in fleas and dying of starvation, and built this country up by the labour of their hands and the force of their will. It's for all those who stepped up and carved out their little corner of the American Experiment.
For all of them who stepped straight into the Civil War, and fought to end a form of slavery that mirrored their own oppression in the Old Country. For those who owned liquor stores and bars in Jersey City, for those who became the first Catholics elected to positions it was thought only a born American could have. For those who got on the big boats and sailed to France, and slept in sodden trenches while working the artillery in the Great War (slainte', James Lynch). For those who loaded up again 20 years later, and fought in every theater of the war that nearly ended the world.
It's for Jack Dempsey and JFK and Mickey Featherstone, the Molly Maguires and Micky Ward and every O' or Mc who ever wore a policeman's badge in any city. It's for every union leader that ever fought for his workers, and for the Paddy Murphy and the Dead Rabbits and the 69th New York. It's for every firefighter from 9/11 whose only remains were in the form of the countless claddagh rings found in the rubble.
It's for all of us who share that common ancestry, who came here long ago or just yesterday, but share the blood of that small, green island that defeated one empire and helped to build another.
To all you motherfuckers- slainte'.
And of course... some whiskey don't hurt.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
My 20's suck
I go to the same bar nearly every weekend. Every single one. Why? Who knows. It's Irish, for one thing. The name is Irish, the signs are Irish, and they do everything except hand out IRA membership cards at the door. Another reason could be the amount of good looking women that frequent the place; it's still the only bar in my town where hotties are around every night of the week.
What I don't like about the place, however, is the propensity to run into people that I used to go to high school with. Now, I had a great time in high school running with my specific brand of degenerate that I have long described here, so don't go thinking that I got put in lockers as a kid. But the people that I like, I still see. The people that I didn't, or was just "ok" with, I don't, and truly have no desire to see again.
Of course, over the course of life I get stuck dealing with these things, and such was the case Saturday night when, as I stood trying to flag down my tall Celtic brethern behind the bar, I began to feel gentle tugs on the five dollar bill in my hand as if someone was trying to steal it. I turned to the side with fire in my eyes, and was about to launch into a stream of expletives before I realized that it was a cat that I'd gone to high school with.
He was kind of a loser back then, one of those guys stuck in the middle management level in a rich suburban school where your social standing was everything and your character didn't count for much more than a dead cat counts to a dog. I always liked him.
He was about my height, with reddish hair kept short, wearing a white collared shirt and red tie that made it look like he'd just been sprung from a board meeting with accounting.
I smiled at him, shook his hand.
"How you been bro? It's been a long time," I said.
"Eh. OK. What are you doing now?" he asked.
Such a funny question. I absolutely don't believe that this is a question in any way has anything to do with people being interested in what the fuck I really do for a living. It always seem like they're actually asking themselves, "How far did this waste, who was drunk and high all the time in high school and was famous for ditching classes, having the cops called on him, and getting banned from auto shop (forever), make it in this life? Am I better or worse?"
And I don't think that this specific guy was asking it like that, either, but a lot of others do. Maybe I'm cynical, but I doubt it.
"I'm a journalist now. I work for (insert paper's name here) as a writer," I said.
His eyes lit up. "Really? Wow, that's pretty cool man," he said, and it's clear that he means it.
"What are you up to?" I asked.
Now, let's be clear that exactly after I said this to him, I stopped listening, because I'm a jerk and that's what I do. So I'll recount the following as close as I can.
"Ahh, I'm in finance," he said. I'm not really sure if that's what he said or not, but you get the idea.
"Oh nice," I said.
"Well...not really. It sucks."
"Oh... ok. Well, at least you get paid alright for it."
Rare is the time that I'm trying to find a bright side, but this kid wouldn't recognize and appreciate it.
"No, not really. I mean, it's alright I guess, but I really fucking hate it," he said, with a half smile.
A good looking blond came over and sat down next to him, ignoring me completely, and started talking. I turned back to the bar. I didn't realize that it was his girlfriend until I heard him say, "Nah, this will be my last beer, I swear."
I cringed. Hates his job, and will probably eventually hate his wife. At one point, I think he even tells me that the only things he's got left are getting married and then dying.
See, this is probably the reason why I never talk to people from high school, and, as I said, stop listening nearly immediately after they start speaking. I wanted to smack him, tell him he needs a career change, make his own breaks, and get off the fuckin ritalin, but really, I don't care.
Unfortunately though, I think that one is lost, gone in the swirling maelestrom of mediocrity that swallows the souls of so many. You can watch them drop off, one by one, into dead end jobs, into parenthood, into alcoholism. Watching my mid-20s go by after the neverending wildness of my late teens and early 20s is like watching the rebellious, hopeful 1960's give way to the bombed out 70's.
Everything seems bleak. Earlier that same night, I had seen a girl who I'd gone to school with who was now very pregnant and very alone. She was a cunt back then, but I still don't like seeing the look on the faces of those who know that rough waters are coming. She had that look in spades the entire night, sad eyes knowing that soon enough this kind of fun was done. I've seen quite a few others lately that hang around the local bars like flocks of Al Bundy's, slowly losing their hair while talking about how many yards they ran for in their last high school football game.
It makes me wonder if I'm rising or everyone else is falling away and I'm just standing on a lonely island that no one else can seem to find. Other people are starting their lives, their real lives with families and responsibilities and bullshit, while I'm one job application away from hopefully being catapulted out of NJ and into the world of politics that I've grown to love so much.
The short answer to all this for you people I went to school with is Yes, I'm Doing Better Than You.
Now Kindly Fuck Off.
What I don't like about the place, however, is the propensity to run into people that I used to go to high school with. Now, I had a great time in high school running with my specific brand of degenerate that I have long described here, so don't go thinking that I got put in lockers as a kid. But the people that I like, I still see. The people that I didn't, or was just "ok" with, I don't, and truly have no desire to see again.
Of course, over the course of life I get stuck dealing with these things, and such was the case Saturday night when, as I stood trying to flag down my tall Celtic brethern behind the bar, I began to feel gentle tugs on the five dollar bill in my hand as if someone was trying to steal it. I turned to the side with fire in my eyes, and was about to launch into a stream of expletives before I realized that it was a cat that I'd gone to high school with.
He was kind of a loser back then, one of those guys stuck in the middle management level in a rich suburban school where your social standing was everything and your character didn't count for much more than a dead cat counts to a dog. I always liked him.
He was about my height, with reddish hair kept short, wearing a white collared shirt and red tie that made it look like he'd just been sprung from a board meeting with accounting.
I smiled at him, shook his hand.
"How you been bro? It's been a long time," I said.
"Eh. OK. What are you doing now?" he asked.
Such a funny question. I absolutely don't believe that this is a question in any way has anything to do with people being interested in what the fuck I really do for a living. It always seem like they're actually asking themselves, "How far did this waste, who was drunk and high all the time in high school and was famous for ditching classes, having the cops called on him, and getting banned from auto shop (forever), make it in this life? Am I better or worse?"
And I don't think that this specific guy was asking it like that, either, but a lot of others do. Maybe I'm cynical, but I doubt it.
"I'm a journalist now. I work for (insert paper's name here) as a writer," I said.
His eyes lit up. "Really? Wow, that's pretty cool man," he said, and it's clear that he means it.
"What are you up to?" I asked.
Now, let's be clear that exactly after I said this to him, I stopped listening, because I'm a jerk and that's what I do. So I'll recount the following as close as I can.
"Ahh, I'm in finance," he said. I'm not really sure if that's what he said or not, but you get the idea.
"Oh nice," I said.
"Well...not really. It sucks."
"Oh... ok. Well, at least you get paid alright for it."
Rare is the time that I'm trying to find a bright side, but this kid wouldn't recognize and appreciate it.
"No, not really. I mean, it's alright I guess, but I really fucking hate it," he said, with a half smile.
A good looking blond came over and sat down next to him, ignoring me completely, and started talking. I turned back to the bar. I didn't realize that it was his girlfriend until I heard him say, "Nah, this will be my last beer, I swear."
I cringed. Hates his job, and will probably eventually hate his wife. At one point, I think he even tells me that the only things he's got left are getting married and then dying.
See, this is probably the reason why I never talk to people from high school, and, as I said, stop listening nearly immediately after they start speaking. I wanted to smack him, tell him he needs a career change, make his own breaks, and get off the fuckin ritalin, but really, I don't care.
Unfortunately though, I think that one is lost, gone in the swirling maelestrom of mediocrity that swallows the souls of so many. You can watch them drop off, one by one, into dead end jobs, into parenthood, into alcoholism. Watching my mid-20s go by after the neverending wildness of my late teens and early 20s is like watching the rebellious, hopeful 1960's give way to the bombed out 70's.
Everything seems bleak. Earlier that same night, I had seen a girl who I'd gone to school with who was now very pregnant and very alone. She was a cunt back then, but I still don't like seeing the look on the faces of those who know that rough waters are coming. She had that look in spades the entire night, sad eyes knowing that soon enough this kind of fun was done. I've seen quite a few others lately that hang around the local bars like flocks of Al Bundy's, slowly losing their hair while talking about how many yards they ran for in their last high school football game.
It makes me wonder if I'm rising or everyone else is falling away and I'm just standing on a lonely island that no one else can seem to find. Other people are starting their lives, their real lives with families and responsibilities and bullshit, while I'm one job application away from hopefully being catapulted out of NJ and into the world of politics that I've grown to love so much.
The short answer to all this for you people I went to school with is Yes, I'm Doing Better Than You.
Now Kindly Fuck Off.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Borrowed Time
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.
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.
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...
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