Lunch I don’t eat. Not here, anyway. If I didn’t work through lunch I could never afford dinner - at least not in Cortina, where I intend to be eating before long. But first I have to go to New York.
No offense, but I keep a place in the city. You don’t think my wife would have married me if she only saw this place, do you? She never set foot in this place until it was too late. She just thought I had money. Some girls are like that. They don’t ask questions. You either have money or you don’t, like big feet.
Believe it or not, Philly is where my wife’s sainted grandmother was born - way out on the main line. The grandmother met the grandfather on the grand tour, back in 1901. She saw Naples and that was the end. She died a rich widow in Posillipo and Philly became a fairy tale for the girl I married. When we met, I knew I was going to get laid the minute I said Philadelphia.
New York is a good place to spend most major holidays, since you have the place to yourself. That’s when I really love New York – Labor Day, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Thanksgiving. This year it’s Christmas, which I usually spend in Naples with my in-laws. But since the kid is on ice upstate, we’ll be sticking around these parts in case he makes like Santa with the snow.
I hope to do a lot of swimming, which I do at the JCC. That’s going be the title of my autobiography - Swimming With The Jews. The Jews are the only ones who really know how to celebrate Christmas. It’s the one day of the year when they’re not feeling guilty about having a good time. For the Christians, it’s the only day they’re feeling guilty. That’s why they go to the movies, so they can get their mind off their conscience. The Jews go out for Chinese food, where they make jokes and laugh a lot. I have reservations over at Sung Lin.
I meet a lot of famous people at the JCC. Actors, mostly. They swim when I do, which is when the pool is least crowded, which is usually during the early-bird special at the diner around the corner. That’s how I met a certain very famous comedian, who I won’t mention since I only know him nude. You can’t change the channel without finding him. He’s over 85 and he’s still working, otherwise he’d be at the diner around the corner. The man is a national treasure and I told him so, naked myself. Now we’re pals, so I have to be discreet, which is the way we are in New York. But I will tell you this; the man has the strangest ass in show business.
But that’s not what I love about him. What I love is how delicate a creature he is, and I don’t mean decrepit. Here he is, all over TV, playing an angry old Jewish guy, a regular riot, and he’s just as insecure as the rest of us. First time we met, he was on the phone in his underwear, talking to somebody who was organizing some kind of interview. They were going over the questions and the poor guy was in pain over the ordeal. Like a little kid, he was, all worried that they get the story straight, make the people understand, wondering if they’ll actually like him. This is something you learn about famous people, especially actors. They’re like little kids. They just want you to like them, unless they’re having a tantrum about not getting what they want.
My wife says that all the holidays here in America are about gluttony, which is a sin. I call Christmas the feast of ruined expectations. Nobody gets what they want, and if they do, it turns out not to be what they thought it was. Even if they get a million dollars it destroys them somehow. As for you, I’m not turning on the grill, but there’s hot coffee and the rolls are fresh.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Reason Enough
Who isn’t sad? Sadness comes with living long enough. Eventually, you loose everything. That’s why it’s good to eat. It reminds you that you love life. The last thing to go is the palate. People just don’t want to live if they can’t enjoy their food.
Some men drop dead with a hard-on. Their dick refuses to go. I’ve often thought of dying just as I was looking at some girl hailing a cab. There I am, gaping at some gam while the number 4 bus grinds me to a pulp.
My friend’s uncle copped a feel off his niece. This guy was 94, slumped in a wheelchair, drooling, barely able to move. The niece is finally coming to see her favorite uncle, who she hasn’t seen for three strokes, and she’s emotional. Everybody is amazed to see Uncle Stanley light up when he sees her. He lifts his arms, all shaky, and she rushes to hug him. Once he got a hold of her ass, he wouldn’t let go. Right up her skirt, he went.
I’m more like my other friend’s father, who was Irish. He died talking. He told me on his deathbed, where he stayed for quite a while, gabbing it up, that an Irishman was like an old shoe. The tongue is the last thing to go, he said. In my case, I’m just keeping my tongue busy while it waits for dinner.
Some men drop dead with a hard-on. Their dick refuses to go. I’ve often thought of dying just as I was looking at some girl hailing a cab. There I am, gaping at some gam while the number 4 bus grinds me to a pulp.
My friend’s uncle copped a feel off his niece. This guy was 94, slumped in a wheelchair, drooling, barely able to move. The niece is finally coming to see her favorite uncle, who she hasn’t seen for three strokes, and she’s emotional. Everybody is amazed to see Uncle Stanley light up when he sees her. He lifts his arms, all shaky, and she rushes to hug him. Once he got a hold of her ass, he wouldn’t let go. Right up her skirt, he went.
I’m more like my other friend’s father, who was Irish. He died talking. He told me on his deathbed, where he stayed for quite a while, gabbing it up, that an Irishman was like an old shoe. The tongue is the last thing to go, he said. In my case, I’m just keeping my tongue busy while it waits for dinner.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Something From Nothing
My mother-in-law is a Baroness, which in Italy is more common than it is over here. It took me years to find out, since my mother-in-law would never mention it. Being a Baroness is something she takes for granted, like we’re all Barons and Baronesses. When she dies, I think my wife becomes a Baroness, which is all I need. But since she’s a lot like her mother, I doubt it will ever come up.
A lot of people don’t know it, but my grandfather was Carmine the Barber, which also gives my family a certain responsibility. That’s why they call my mother Regina, especially now that all her sisters are gone. Everybody from back then is gone. But when my grandfather died, back in ‘64, I had 40 first cousins living in this parish, and that’s not counting the ones in the northeast, or out in Jersey. We owned the ten o’clock Mass. And we all looked alike. All those aunts and uncles and extra cousins who married into my family had to surrender their genes at the altar. It’s a good thing my grandfather was so handsome.
My mother-in-law loves to hear about my grandfather, a 15-year-old boy from Marsico, alone in America. Her own father wore spats and had a factotum. He had a cook, a driver, a groom, two chambermaids, and a nurse. My grandfather became a barber, got married, and had eight children just before the Great Depression.
I often overhear my mother-in-law talking about my grandfather to her friends, who may be inquiring just where it is I come from. They look confused, like my mother-in-law should be complaining, or dismissive. But they figure that I must belong there, otherwise I wouldn’t be there. She tells the story like a fairy tale, and Carmine is the prince. He gave haircuts for free, she says, as if never charging for a haircut was a sure sign of nobility.
When my grandfather got his barber’s license, he had every intention of getting paid, since everybody needed a haircut and there was no better way he could think of for getting 15 cents from each one of them. There was an endless supply of hair. It was a no-brainer - a win, win. But suddenly, just after he screwed his chair into the floor, nobody had 15 cents. So he just cut their hair for free and left it at that. This was an act of genius, since by the time they bombed Pearl Harbor he was the richest guy in the parish. People paid a dollar for a shave, which was like putting money in the collection basket - as much for pride as anything. And they found a thousand other ways to give back. And they came to him for everything. By the time my mother had her First Communion, he owned the four corners.
Back in Naples, during the Depression, my wife’s grandfather came up with another genius idea - every Italian’s dream, which is making money out of thin air (which the Italians pronounce ‘hair’). He bought a compressor and began to make oxygen, which was the latest thing. He became a Fascist, employed mostly Jews, and befriended the Americans during the war through their proxies in Naples – refineries that were spared the bombing, as was the Baron. By the time the war was over, he was set. And everybody in the family had jobs.
Carmine likewise kept his family busy. His two sons became barbers, eventually taking over Center City, the Northeast, and most of Jersey, what with everything they were up to, which was all legal, except for the numbers, which never hurt anybody. The girls worked shifts at the candy store, dipping ice cream and eating chocolate while the rest of the world was on the breadline. My grandmother ran the tailor shop, where a lot of other people worked. She had a cook and a maid too, but in her case it was an absolute necessity, since there was always a gang of cousins and in-laws crowding the front steps of the house and filling the first floor, over for lunch or ready for dinner. It was the Depression, after all, and everybody had to eat.
After the war, my grandfather pulled out of the four corners and moved into the big house on the other side of Broad St. He put his chair in the basement, where they all came - Frankie, Dino, and all Four Seasons – to get a free haircut. Everybody who was anybody sat in that chair, including me, and I didn’t like it one bit. But the big boys got shaves, and God only knows what they paid for that.
In Naples they’re still selling oxygen. But those American friends turned out to be not so friendly. They’ve been trying to choke the life out of my in-laws for 60 years, doing every dirty trick possible to drive them out of business. But in Naples, it pays to be Neapolitan. They all want to turn air into money. But like my father-in-law says, it’s much easier to go the other way.
A lot of people don’t know it, but my grandfather was Carmine the Barber, which also gives my family a certain responsibility. That’s why they call my mother Regina, especially now that all her sisters are gone. Everybody from back then is gone. But when my grandfather died, back in ‘64, I had 40 first cousins living in this parish, and that’s not counting the ones in the northeast, or out in Jersey. We owned the ten o’clock Mass. And we all looked alike. All those aunts and uncles and extra cousins who married into my family had to surrender their genes at the altar. It’s a good thing my grandfather was so handsome.
My mother-in-law loves to hear about my grandfather, a 15-year-old boy from Marsico, alone in America. Her own father wore spats and had a factotum. He had a cook, a driver, a groom, two chambermaids, and a nurse. My grandfather became a barber, got married, and had eight children just before the Great Depression.
I often overhear my mother-in-law talking about my grandfather to her friends, who may be inquiring just where it is I come from. They look confused, like my mother-in-law should be complaining, or dismissive. But they figure that I must belong there, otherwise I wouldn’t be there. She tells the story like a fairy tale, and Carmine is the prince. He gave haircuts for free, she says, as if never charging for a haircut was a sure sign of nobility.
When my grandfather got his barber’s license, he had every intention of getting paid, since everybody needed a haircut and there was no better way he could think of for getting 15 cents from each one of them. There was an endless supply of hair. It was a no-brainer - a win, win. But suddenly, just after he screwed his chair into the floor, nobody had 15 cents. So he just cut their hair for free and left it at that. This was an act of genius, since by the time they bombed Pearl Harbor he was the richest guy in the parish. People paid a dollar for a shave, which was like putting money in the collection basket - as much for pride as anything. And they found a thousand other ways to give back. And they came to him for everything. By the time my mother had her First Communion, he owned the four corners.
Back in Naples, during the Depression, my wife’s grandfather came up with another genius idea - every Italian’s dream, which is making money out of thin air (which the Italians pronounce ‘hair’). He bought a compressor and began to make oxygen, which was the latest thing. He became a Fascist, employed mostly Jews, and befriended the Americans during the war through their proxies in Naples – refineries that were spared the bombing, as was the Baron. By the time the war was over, he was set. And everybody in the family had jobs.
Carmine likewise kept his family busy. His two sons became barbers, eventually taking over Center City, the Northeast, and most of Jersey, what with everything they were up to, which was all legal, except for the numbers, which never hurt anybody. The girls worked shifts at the candy store, dipping ice cream and eating chocolate while the rest of the world was on the breadline. My grandmother ran the tailor shop, where a lot of other people worked. She had a cook and a maid too, but in her case it was an absolute necessity, since there was always a gang of cousins and in-laws crowding the front steps of the house and filling the first floor, over for lunch or ready for dinner. It was the Depression, after all, and everybody had to eat.
After the war, my grandfather pulled out of the four corners and moved into the big house on the other side of Broad St. He put his chair in the basement, where they all came - Frankie, Dino, and all Four Seasons – to get a free haircut. Everybody who was anybody sat in that chair, including me, and I didn’t like it one bit. But the big boys got shaves, and God only knows what they paid for that.
In Naples they’re still selling oxygen. But those American friends turned out to be not so friendly. They’ve been trying to choke the life out of my in-laws for 60 years, doing every dirty trick possible to drive them out of business. But in Naples, it pays to be Neapolitan. They all want to turn air into money. But like my father-in-law says, it’s much easier to go the other way.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Law of Gravity
If I knew then what I know now, everything would be different. Or maybe not. Life can be frustrating that way. For example, I just spent four days in therapy up at the rehab center in the middle of nowhere where we finally sent my stepson - me, my wife, and a bunch of other parents whose lives have been wrecked by having a kid on drugs. Sometimes we saw the kids, but mostly it was just the rest of us.
Basically, I spent four days being told I was right, but there was little joy in knowing. Sometimes, they used my exact words. To my stepson: there is a price to pay for being you. The law of gravity applies equally to everyone. And to my wife: there is no moment of change. Change is gradual and painful. But the kicker was surreal, my late mantra, word for word: at this point, the only thing you can provide is the trash bag in which to put his shit before placing it outside the front door.
My wife used to keep a list of things I wasn’t allowed to do with my stepson. No physical intimidation whatsoever. Then came words I wasn’t allowed, a list to which the kid was free to add, just in case I ever actually offended him. Shit stain, no, sleaze bag, no, skanky weasel, no. I finally settled on calling him a lizard. Mister Lizard. You’re like a reptile, I told him, complete with the cold blood. This was fine for a while, until my wife sat me down and told me that I was no longer allowed to call him a reptile, as it was hurting his feelings. What feelings, I wanted to know. So you can only imagine my surprise when we all had to sit still for two hours for a fascinating lecture about the limbic system entitled Your Lizard Brain.
Now my wife has me up on a pedestal, but it won’t last. One thing is for sure, the kid is on ice through the winter - unless he runs away, of course, which he’s already done once (he got as far as the gas station). In the first two weeks he also pilfered a cellphone, pierced his own ear (he borrowed a heroin user’s stud to keep it open), shoplifted cough syrup to get high with his new runaway best friend, and stuffed the toilets in his dorm to flood the halls. And that’s what they know about. My first question when I sat down with the councilor was: does anybody ever get kicked out of here? The short answer was: not at these prices.
He is free to leave at any time, which is a rule of thumb – and his only means of transport. And now that he’s 18, he’s downright scary. Even he doesn’t expect anybody to stop and give him a ride. I gave him money for a haircut about 3 times over the last couple of months. He swears he still has every penny, tucked away in a little box somewhere. If that were true, he could have flown to Miami. Where do you keep this box, I asked him, up your nose?
My wife says there’s no room for cynicism, which at this point is all I got. It’s the closest thing to a bright side I can find, and you know me, I’m an optimist. And if you think cynicism precludes optimism, you’re wrong. This is not a point I can expect my wife to concede. Sometimes, being correct means being lonely, which is more pitiable than it sounds, and which appears to be the price for being me.
Good luck with your party. At least you don’t have to worry about the food. There’s hot pepper in the sauce and I put fresh breadcrumbs on the artichokes, with capers I got on Lipari. And the eggplant we did on the press, so the grill marks are perfect, which I know is how you like it.
Basically, I spent four days being told I was right, but there was little joy in knowing. Sometimes, they used my exact words. To my stepson: there is a price to pay for being you. The law of gravity applies equally to everyone. And to my wife: there is no moment of change. Change is gradual and painful. But the kicker was surreal, my late mantra, word for word: at this point, the only thing you can provide is the trash bag in which to put his shit before placing it outside the front door.
My wife used to keep a list of things I wasn’t allowed to do with my stepson. No physical intimidation whatsoever. Then came words I wasn’t allowed, a list to which the kid was free to add, just in case I ever actually offended him. Shit stain, no, sleaze bag, no, skanky weasel, no. I finally settled on calling him a lizard. Mister Lizard. You’re like a reptile, I told him, complete with the cold blood. This was fine for a while, until my wife sat me down and told me that I was no longer allowed to call him a reptile, as it was hurting his feelings. What feelings, I wanted to know. So you can only imagine my surprise when we all had to sit still for two hours for a fascinating lecture about the limbic system entitled Your Lizard Brain.
Now my wife has me up on a pedestal, but it won’t last. One thing is for sure, the kid is on ice through the winter - unless he runs away, of course, which he’s already done once (he got as far as the gas station). In the first two weeks he also pilfered a cellphone, pierced his own ear (he borrowed a heroin user’s stud to keep it open), shoplifted cough syrup to get high with his new runaway best friend, and stuffed the toilets in his dorm to flood the halls. And that’s what they know about. My first question when I sat down with the councilor was: does anybody ever get kicked out of here? The short answer was: not at these prices.
He is free to leave at any time, which is a rule of thumb – and his only means of transport. And now that he’s 18, he’s downright scary. Even he doesn’t expect anybody to stop and give him a ride. I gave him money for a haircut about 3 times over the last couple of months. He swears he still has every penny, tucked away in a little box somewhere. If that were true, he could have flown to Miami. Where do you keep this box, I asked him, up your nose?
My wife says there’s no room for cynicism, which at this point is all I got. It’s the closest thing to a bright side I can find, and you know me, I’m an optimist. And if you think cynicism precludes optimism, you’re wrong. This is not a point I can expect my wife to concede. Sometimes, being correct means being lonely, which is more pitiable than it sounds, and which appears to be the price for being me.
Good luck with your party. At least you don’t have to worry about the food. There’s hot pepper in the sauce and I put fresh breadcrumbs on the artichokes, with capers I got on Lipari. And the eggplant we did on the press, so the grill marks are perfect, which I know is how you like it.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Money Follows
The first time I bought a house, the real estate agent - a sweet, motherly woman who was later indicted for fraud in an unrelated transaction, said: Don’t worry darlings, the money will come. It just does. She may have ended up in jail, but she was right.
If money is your goal, you have no goal. I asked a girl who worked here what she wanted to be. Rich, she answered. I corrected myself. What do you want to do? I don’t know, she answered, something. It was clear that she wasn’t cut out for fast food. We ran the gamut from cookery to fashion to the performing arts, but everything got dismissed as somehow beneath her status as a very rich person, which she was in no danger of becoming, consequent to her cart being before her horse.
I used to have a boss who ran all the arcades in town. He loved me and I loved him. I used to go there after school and help him count money, which I was very good at doing. His desk was in front of a wall-sized safe with double doors, constantly full of cash and usually standing open, so that he was framed in money, which was better than a window. He always said: money should be behind you, never in front - that’s when your reach exceeds your grasp. On Fridays he would place five twenties on the desk in front of me. That money is between us, he would say. Get it behind you.
Take room service. You sure aren’t thinking about money when you pick up the phone. You’re thinking about a cheeseburger, a couple of fried eggs, a piece of chocolate cake. If you were thinking about money, you’d have put the menu down before you ever decided to eat. The sandwich is the thing. The price, you complain about later.
I never complain about the price. I either pay or I don’t, but I’m no chump. I love to argue with the Chinese, dick with the Italians. We all know what’s fair. But it’s never really about the money. It’s the meat, the fish, the eggs and the cheese. After that, it’s all face. The money comes last. Money we can all afford, otherwise we wouldn’t be there, arguing, ready to walk away. Because if you aren’t ready to turn your back on the money, you’re in for the worst deal of all.
If money is your goal, you have no goal. I asked a girl who worked here what she wanted to be. Rich, she answered. I corrected myself. What do you want to do? I don’t know, she answered, something. It was clear that she wasn’t cut out for fast food. We ran the gamut from cookery to fashion to the performing arts, but everything got dismissed as somehow beneath her status as a very rich person, which she was in no danger of becoming, consequent to her cart being before her horse.
I used to have a boss who ran all the arcades in town. He loved me and I loved him. I used to go there after school and help him count money, which I was very good at doing. His desk was in front of a wall-sized safe with double doors, constantly full of cash and usually standing open, so that he was framed in money, which was better than a window. He always said: money should be behind you, never in front - that’s when your reach exceeds your grasp. On Fridays he would place five twenties on the desk in front of me. That money is between us, he would say. Get it behind you.
Take room service. You sure aren’t thinking about money when you pick up the phone. You’re thinking about a cheeseburger, a couple of fried eggs, a piece of chocolate cake. If you were thinking about money, you’d have put the menu down before you ever decided to eat. The sandwich is the thing. The price, you complain about later.
I never complain about the price. I either pay or I don’t, but I’m no chump. I love to argue with the Chinese, dick with the Italians. We all know what’s fair. But it’s never really about the money. It’s the meat, the fish, the eggs and the cheese. After that, it’s all face. The money comes last. Money we can all afford, otherwise we wouldn’t be there, arguing, ready to walk away. Because if you aren’t ready to turn your back on the money, you’re in for the worst deal of all.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Living in Paradise
My life is a story of tragedy heaped on adversity. But only if I say it is. A lot of people ask me: how do you do it? Do what? I ask right back.
First of all, getting out of this place gave me a reason to wake up in the morning. Take a look around. If coming in here for lunch is all you have to look forward to, I say: get yourself a travel agent. As for all the shit that’s hit the fan since the first time I saw Paris, there’s nothing to be done but work, which is life itself. Once you decide not to kill yourself, you have to live.
A lady friend lost her son. I learned from her. When her heart was broken, she went to the office. Like a dog, this bitch worked. She worked in his memory, she worked for the people who were left, and she worked to blind her sadness. The trick is to not turn your grief into anger, which is the hardest part. So that’s what I try to do: work like a dog and try not to be angry all the time.
I also learned from my mother, who was constantly angry, like anger was her best friend, always over for coffee. Mostly, she was angry with me. I could drop your jaw with the memory of those beatings, which might bother a lot of people, but in my case turned out to be a blessing. I wanted to escape from a very early age.
Forget details. None of it makes any sense, unless it’s a guilt trip, in which case it all makes sense, but only to you, and who cares about you? You and your shrink are the only ones that really care, and your shrink is the only one to profit from the endless search for cause and effect. You don’t get shit except self-awareness, which is good for what, I don’t know. Ego I don’t need. As for a showdown with my mother, I tried that once.
After an emotional run-in with a couple’s therapist, who was collaborating with my first wife to get to the root of my problem, I was finally induced to confront my mother, which I later did, blubbering on the phone, long distance. I remembered some oozing welts, the taste of blood in my mouth, my swollen face in the mirror. I demanded an explanation. That never happened, she said. I was speechless. Then she allowed: well, maybe it did, and maybe it didn’t, but it’s not my problem anymore. It’s yours.
Life doesn’t offer many epiphanies, so you can only imagine my gratitude. I was set free. Prior to the conversation, I had explained to the therapist that I’d forgiven my mother long ago. Who wants to spoil Christmas? I asked. I said that I never lacked love, since my mother had five sisters who all offered the same loving explanation – one I’d accepted at an early age: my mother had bad nerves. That was enough for me. I just wanted to mark the time and get the fuck out of there. As for what happened and what didn’t, I made a strong case for repression, which I felt had been unfairly characterized as a bad thing.
So perhaps the therapy was good in the end. Still, it didn’t stop me from getting a divorce, which can also be seen as a good thing, since the argument we’d been having for fifteen years was finally put to an end. But no amount of therapy can prepare you for tragedy. Adversity you might overcome, but tragedy is beyond your control. It defies understanding.
Maybe that’s why I can’t talk about it – who died and how, the when and the where. You rarely hear me mention it. But know this: it never leaves my mind. It is the definition of me. Everything I do is informed by the sure knowledge that what you determine is nothing. You can lose your heart in one beat - all that you love, alive in one person who simply disappears. From that minute on, you wait to die.
In the meantime, you better live. That’s what my other son said, just before we lost him. He said: If heaven exists, this is it. We made it; we’re here. So you better live like you’re in paradise. Otherwise, it’s hell.
First of all, getting out of this place gave me a reason to wake up in the morning. Take a look around. If coming in here for lunch is all you have to look forward to, I say: get yourself a travel agent. As for all the shit that’s hit the fan since the first time I saw Paris, there’s nothing to be done but work, which is life itself. Once you decide not to kill yourself, you have to live.
A lady friend lost her son. I learned from her. When her heart was broken, she went to the office. Like a dog, this bitch worked. She worked in his memory, she worked for the people who were left, and she worked to blind her sadness. The trick is to not turn your grief into anger, which is the hardest part. So that’s what I try to do: work like a dog and try not to be angry all the time.
I also learned from my mother, who was constantly angry, like anger was her best friend, always over for coffee. Mostly, she was angry with me. I could drop your jaw with the memory of those beatings, which might bother a lot of people, but in my case turned out to be a blessing. I wanted to escape from a very early age.
Forget details. None of it makes any sense, unless it’s a guilt trip, in which case it all makes sense, but only to you, and who cares about you? You and your shrink are the only ones that really care, and your shrink is the only one to profit from the endless search for cause and effect. You don’t get shit except self-awareness, which is good for what, I don’t know. Ego I don’t need. As for a showdown with my mother, I tried that once.
After an emotional run-in with a couple’s therapist, who was collaborating with my first wife to get to the root of my problem, I was finally induced to confront my mother, which I later did, blubbering on the phone, long distance. I remembered some oozing welts, the taste of blood in my mouth, my swollen face in the mirror. I demanded an explanation. That never happened, she said. I was speechless. Then she allowed: well, maybe it did, and maybe it didn’t, but it’s not my problem anymore. It’s yours.
Life doesn’t offer many epiphanies, so you can only imagine my gratitude. I was set free. Prior to the conversation, I had explained to the therapist that I’d forgiven my mother long ago. Who wants to spoil Christmas? I asked. I said that I never lacked love, since my mother had five sisters who all offered the same loving explanation – one I’d accepted at an early age: my mother had bad nerves. That was enough for me. I just wanted to mark the time and get the fuck out of there. As for what happened and what didn’t, I made a strong case for repression, which I felt had been unfairly characterized as a bad thing.
So perhaps the therapy was good in the end. Still, it didn’t stop me from getting a divorce, which can also be seen as a good thing, since the argument we’d been having for fifteen years was finally put to an end. But no amount of therapy can prepare you for tragedy. Adversity you might overcome, but tragedy is beyond your control. It defies understanding.
Maybe that’s why I can’t talk about it – who died and how, the when and the where. You rarely hear me mention it. But know this: it never leaves my mind. It is the definition of me. Everything I do is informed by the sure knowledge that what you determine is nothing. You can lose your heart in one beat - all that you love, alive in one person who simply disappears. From that minute on, you wait to die.
In the meantime, you better live. That’s what my other son said, just before we lost him. He said: If heaven exists, this is it. We made it; we’re here. So you better live like you’re in paradise. Otherwise, it’s hell.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Requiem
The boss of all bosses lived in a hole in the ground. I know. I met him. Forget the guys in the papers. Sure, they all live in holes in the ground - every time they catch a sociopathic drug dealer who happens to be Sicilian, the guy is usually in a bolthole with a TV and a fridge, like pre-death. But the boss lived there because he liked it. He was like a woodchuck. He looked up to everybody. But nobody was ever confused as to who was the boss.
On the way over, my driver asked me: Do you know why he’s the boss of all bosses? Because he has no enemies. Then he drives for a good ten minutes before he says: And none would deny it.
I’m on my way in for some caciocavallo, and not because I was looking for it. It came looking for me. I tasted it in Naples and put in an order. I thought that was the end of it when my guy there says that if I want the cheese, I have to go to Sicily to sign for it. Why ask questions? I love Sicily.
The boss had a cavern of cheese - huge balls, sagging by a thousand ropes, creaking in the dark. I don’t know what other people pay, but I paid next to nothing. On the other hand, I only wanted a few kilos, none stagionato. It was giving the money that was important, like an offering. But I do know that an aged cheese can run into serious money.
I mention it because the boss just died, and people are devastated. Seriously, the guy had no enemies. He was also 89, so it’s not like it came as a surprise. But now they have to find a new one, which for these people is like a Pope search, with a lot of voting followed by some smoke. One thing is for sure - he’ll be old. But they won’t be picking a German ex-Nazi who’s a stickler for the hocus-pocus. Unlike the Catholics, these guys have a memory for more than dogma. And they don’t go in for child molestation, demonic possession, or funny hats. They’re looking for a guy everybody loves, a guy who gives more than he gets, a guy who is wise in the way that only truly a satisfied person can be. Good fucking luck.
The thing is, the new boss won’t know he’s the boss until people start showing up to buy whatever it is he’s raising on some dog-patch farm in Sicily, and start to offer him money. So he’s got to be pretty good at making whatever it is he’s selling, which is invariably something to eat. Because people don’t want to pay money for something they can’t cherish, despite the advice they’re seeking or the justice they deserve. People want a good memory. I can still taste that caciocavallo.
On the way over, my driver asked me: Do you know why he’s the boss of all bosses? Because he has no enemies. Then he drives for a good ten minutes before he says: And none would deny it.
I’m on my way in for some caciocavallo, and not because I was looking for it. It came looking for me. I tasted it in Naples and put in an order. I thought that was the end of it when my guy there says that if I want the cheese, I have to go to Sicily to sign for it. Why ask questions? I love Sicily.
The boss had a cavern of cheese - huge balls, sagging by a thousand ropes, creaking in the dark. I don’t know what other people pay, but I paid next to nothing. On the other hand, I only wanted a few kilos, none stagionato. It was giving the money that was important, like an offering. But I do know that an aged cheese can run into serious money.
I mention it because the boss just died, and people are devastated. Seriously, the guy had no enemies. He was also 89, so it’s not like it came as a surprise. But now they have to find a new one, which for these people is like a Pope search, with a lot of voting followed by some smoke. One thing is for sure - he’ll be old. But they won’t be picking a German ex-Nazi who’s a stickler for the hocus-pocus. Unlike the Catholics, these guys have a memory for more than dogma. And they don’t go in for child molestation, demonic possession, or funny hats. They’re looking for a guy everybody loves, a guy who gives more than he gets, a guy who is wise in the way that only truly a satisfied person can be. Good fucking luck.
The thing is, the new boss won’t know he’s the boss until people start showing up to buy whatever it is he’s raising on some dog-patch farm in Sicily, and start to offer him money. So he’s got to be pretty good at making whatever it is he’s selling, which is invariably something to eat. Because people don’t want to pay money for something they can’t cherish, despite the advice they’re seeking or the justice they deserve. People want a good memory. I can still taste that caciocavallo.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Taking a Cure
I’ve been sick. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fine. I didn’t get this tan in a hospital. But I did spend 5 days there, back in June. I went over to Milan to see a guy about some oil and I got a fever on the plane. Air Conditioning. I was freezing. Halfway over there I was rooting through my bag looking for things to wear. By the time we landed, there was nothing left to put on.
At first they thought it was Swine flu, which in my case makes perfect sense. The hotel doctor called an ambulance and they met me in the emergency ward wearing Hazmat suits. Just so you know, Milan has one of the best exotic disease hospitals in the world. Those Italians go everywhere, and they bring back some pretty strange shit. And the doctors love it. They got the best. A bunch of kids you could die for suited up and met me every day in my hermetically sealed room while they tested me for every known anomaly. Swine flu it was not.
Turns out that my urologist in NY fucked me up with some antibiotics he prescribed over the phone after a biopsy I didn’t need in the first place. It put me in the hospital for a week. Luckily, I wasn’t here. The one thing that gave me pause was my insurance. If I get sick, I’m obliged to do so right here in the USA. If I put one foot outside, I’m on my own.
So, I get the bill for five days of the most through treatment I’m ever going to get, from the ambulance to the isolation ward, with every possible blood test, scan, and specialist review, and do you know what the whole thing cost me? - including the drugs, the lab work, the gang of doctors who are my new best friends? Fifteen hundred Euros, which is less than my co-payment, or the same money I would have spent taking those kids out to dinner, which I intend to do the next time I’m in Milan. Plus, the room was huge, the nurses were beautiful, and the food was Italian.
I thought long and hard about how it was possible. I saw that they wasted no money. The nurse didn’t wheel a big electronic unit into my room when she wanted my vitals. She used a thermometer under my arm, which she kept in my night table and was mine to take home. She used a manual blood pressure cuff. The IV had a little wheel instead of a computer. So there was no useless goofy shit. But I still couldn’t figure it out, until it hit me. No profit. Nobody is making any money. And once you subtract profit, once you stop looking for ways to make money from sickness, you get down to the price of health.
Take my Flomax. I just got a box of thirty on Capri, along with the same of Ambien. Here, my co-pay is $50 for Flomax and $25 for Ambien (which I only take on the plane). In Capri the Flomax cost 7 Euro straight up over the counter and believe me, Capri isn’t cheap. The Ambien was 5. But they weren’t called Flomax and Ambien. They don’t advertise drugs on TV over there, so the names aren’t as good.
At first they thought it was Swine flu, which in my case makes perfect sense. The hotel doctor called an ambulance and they met me in the emergency ward wearing Hazmat suits. Just so you know, Milan has one of the best exotic disease hospitals in the world. Those Italians go everywhere, and they bring back some pretty strange shit. And the doctors love it. They got the best. A bunch of kids you could die for suited up and met me every day in my hermetically sealed room while they tested me for every known anomaly. Swine flu it was not.
Turns out that my urologist in NY fucked me up with some antibiotics he prescribed over the phone after a biopsy I didn’t need in the first place. It put me in the hospital for a week. Luckily, I wasn’t here. The one thing that gave me pause was my insurance. If I get sick, I’m obliged to do so right here in the USA. If I put one foot outside, I’m on my own.
So, I get the bill for five days of the most through treatment I’m ever going to get, from the ambulance to the isolation ward, with every possible blood test, scan, and specialist review, and do you know what the whole thing cost me? - including the drugs, the lab work, the gang of doctors who are my new best friends? Fifteen hundred Euros, which is less than my co-payment, or the same money I would have spent taking those kids out to dinner, which I intend to do the next time I’m in Milan. Plus, the room was huge, the nurses were beautiful, and the food was Italian.
I thought long and hard about how it was possible. I saw that they wasted no money. The nurse didn’t wheel a big electronic unit into my room when she wanted my vitals. She used a thermometer under my arm, which she kept in my night table and was mine to take home. She used a manual blood pressure cuff. The IV had a little wheel instead of a computer. So there was no useless goofy shit. But I still couldn’t figure it out, until it hit me. No profit. Nobody is making any money. And once you subtract profit, once you stop looking for ways to make money from sickness, you get down to the price of health.
Take my Flomax. I just got a box of thirty on Capri, along with the same of Ambien. Here, my co-pay is $50 for Flomax and $25 for Ambien (which I only take on the plane). In Capri the Flomax cost 7 Euro straight up over the counter and believe me, Capri isn’t cheap. The Ambien was 5. But they weren’t called Flomax and Ambien. They don’t advertise drugs on TV over there, so the names aren’t as good.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Mr. Cheesesteak
I always made a good sandwich. I’m stuck with it. Some people get to play the piano, others explore the universe. I know somebody who has been studying synapses in monkey brains for 40 years, so I shouldn’t complain.
The first time I stood behind a grill for serious money, I was 14. And by serious I mean turning over 20 cheese steaks a minute. Because those people weren’t fucking around. They came to eat.
Don’t get me wrong. I dreamed a lot. I had myself all over the world, like James Bond without the danger. Just the girls. I was also making contributions to science, upending canons, and selling out Carnegie Hall. Who wasn’t? But I always stayed behind the grill, right through college and out into the world. I guess in some respects, I managed the James Bond thing, but with a spatula.
When you have a talent for something it’s like a trap, a disease. You just can’t help it. It’s a curse as much as a blessing. I could always walk into any town and get a job just like that. I could double business in a week, but I never stayed long. I used to break the owner’s heart. I got offered more partnerships than I can remember, but I always said no. I had bigger things in mind. What they were, I just couldn’t say. I was really offended once, when some guy referred to me as Mr. Cheesesteak. And I was making him a cheese steak.
If I had to tell you what makes a good sandwich, I would assume you don’t have taste buds. The first bite is the place where hypothesis gives way to formula. And everybody has a formula when it comes to sandwiches. My problem is that I have too many. I think it has something to do with the fact that I can also remember phone numbers. I must have a thousand in my head. I remember the phone numbers of dead people - lots of dead people, people I’d like to feed if I could, although I still make their favorite sandwiches. Call it a living memorial.
Unity, complexity, and intensity - I learned that in college, only it had to do with critical theory. Still, it goes for sandwiches. Depth, character, and economy make a masterpiece. You have to confront ideals, consider the opposite, entertain whimsy, and above all, experiment. But within limits. No sandwich should exceed the bread. Everything has a crust in Germany, where they like their sandwiches to bite back. It’s all happening on the outside. You have to chew one for quite a while before you find out what else you’re eating, unless it’s a hot dog, in which case there’s no bread at all, just the wiener.
Take a cheese steak hoagie with mayo. Where’s the unity in that? Or a grilled cheese, which is simplicity itself. Sometimes, chaos is simply complexity and simplicity, intensity. But in the end, like all great art, who gives a shit? If it’s good, it’s good. It’s only something to consider if you have to make the sandwich. Otherwise, just choose something from the menu and let me take care of it.
The first time I stood behind a grill for serious money, I was 14. And by serious I mean turning over 20 cheese steaks a minute. Because those people weren’t fucking around. They came to eat.
Don’t get me wrong. I dreamed a lot. I had myself all over the world, like James Bond without the danger. Just the girls. I was also making contributions to science, upending canons, and selling out Carnegie Hall. Who wasn’t? But I always stayed behind the grill, right through college and out into the world. I guess in some respects, I managed the James Bond thing, but with a spatula.
When you have a talent for something it’s like a trap, a disease. You just can’t help it. It’s a curse as much as a blessing. I could always walk into any town and get a job just like that. I could double business in a week, but I never stayed long. I used to break the owner’s heart. I got offered more partnerships than I can remember, but I always said no. I had bigger things in mind. What they were, I just couldn’t say. I was really offended once, when some guy referred to me as Mr. Cheesesteak. And I was making him a cheese steak.
If I had to tell you what makes a good sandwich, I would assume you don’t have taste buds. The first bite is the place where hypothesis gives way to formula. And everybody has a formula when it comes to sandwiches. My problem is that I have too many. I think it has something to do with the fact that I can also remember phone numbers. I must have a thousand in my head. I remember the phone numbers of dead people - lots of dead people, people I’d like to feed if I could, although I still make their favorite sandwiches. Call it a living memorial.
Unity, complexity, and intensity - I learned that in college, only it had to do with critical theory. Still, it goes for sandwiches. Depth, character, and economy make a masterpiece. You have to confront ideals, consider the opposite, entertain whimsy, and above all, experiment. But within limits. No sandwich should exceed the bread. Everything has a crust in Germany, where they like their sandwiches to bite back. It’s all happening on the outside. You have to chew one for quite a while before you find out what else you’re eating, unless it’s a hot dog, in which case there’s no bread at all, just the wiener.
Take a cheese steak hoagie with mayo. Where’s the unity in that? Or a grilled cheese, which is simplicity itself. Sometimes, chaos is simply complexity and simplicity, intensity. But in the end, like all great art, who gives a shit? If it’s good, it’s good. It’s only something to consider if you have to make the sandwich. Otherwise, just choose something from the menu and let me take care of it.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Charitable Deductions
I went to a gala last night, got out the old tux. Actually, I’ve only worn it about three times. I wasn’t happy. I sure didn’t need the suspenders. I needed a tailor. I feel like there’s a clock ticking on that thing, like an annual exam. It’s worse than a finger up your butt. It’s a Donna Karin.
My wife looked great. She’s much too thin lately, a nervous wreck over her son. But in a little black dress, you sure couldn’t tell there was anything wrong. Still, we were fighting. She was pissed that I was pissed over what happened at dinner the night before. Even though we were fuming, she kept asking me: How does this look? And what could I say? You know how she looks.
Normally, I would have gotten jealous once we arrived. There were guys on her like flies. But those are not the guys I’m worried about. I’m worried about the guys who stare at her and don’t make a move. Those are the guys that get me upset. Consequently, those are the guys that interest my wife, since she likes to make me jealous.
But last night I couldn’t give a shit, which is best. The guy on her left was an Italian pop star wannabe who got up to sing during the antipasto. This joker actually thought he had a chance. I felt sorry for him. You only have to hear my wife call someone pathetic once and it will put you on guard for life.
There were more speeches than I could handle from founders, chairmen, and Grand Knights. I even missed the main course because I couldn’t sit still. I was wandering around looking at the blind auction, though I couldn’t see what was blind about it. You had to write your name and phone number next to the last price you were willing to pay.
This year it looked like a yard sale for Italian swells, competing to pay more, not less. But that isn’t too bad when you have Frette and Portolano clearing out prime inventory. It was a benefit for my stepson’s school, which is where all the spoiled Italian kids go. And if my wife is serious about anything, it’s spoiling her kid and being Italian.
It was at Cipriani, which is quite a racket when it comes to dishing out food. They draw Bellini’s from a well, make cannelloni by the mile, and they can deep-fry a mule. And they have the same set-up all over the world. McDonald’s Platinum, baking cheese and frying bread for people who think they have an excuse. Last night they fried a school of branzino, which would be seven hundred fish delivered hot simultaneously at $1000 a plate. That’s franchising.
Our fight started a day earlier, when my wife’s cousin came over for dinner. I went out of my way to make something good, which was pasta con zucchini al minestre and rollatini di vitello with broiled asparagus. My wife’s cousin is a Professor of Philosophy and a very important guy who looks down his nose at my wife because he doesn’t approve of all her choices, including me. So we’re always a little on edge whenever he comes over. I work it out by cooking, since the guy is a big eater. My wife spends the whole time acting like we’re the perfect little family, and that her son is not picking his nose or pouring salt onto the tablecloth just to see how fast it comes out. I might be inclined to ignore it myself if the kid wasn’t staring at me the whole time, daring me to say something, which I’d rather not do, since my wife would immediately respond by telling her cousin that I had no patience, was very intolerant, and otherwise limited in my understanding of teenagers.
Knowing this, I managed to hold off until the moment when my stepson told us he was going out for cigarettes and demanded ten dollars. My wife said no, very embarrassed. My stepson started a 'you promised' argument, which my wife dismissed as absurd, as if to say to her cousin that she would never promise such a thing as cigarettes. She drew me in with a 'help me' look. So, I told my stepson to get lost and let us adults finish our dinner, at which point he started shouting at his mother in Italian, which is his way of telling me to mind my own business.
In the middle of all that, my wife suddenly told him to take ten dollars from her purse, leaving me twisted with a message so mixed we were all stymied. The little shit was smug, I was steamed, and her cousin was speechless. My wife acted like she asked for the time of day and was waiting for someone to look at their watch. I did promise him, she said.
For me, everything up until that point was just garden-variety, but her cousin raised the stakes. I want to appeal to this man, I said. The most basic precept of behavioral psychology has just been violated. Rewarding certain behavior encourages that behavior - or didn’t they teach you that in your school?
Here I went beyond the pale. My wife is very sensitive about the limits of her formal education, especially as regards her cousin, who has more formal education than anyone I ever met. In fact, whenever he comes to dinner, my wife directs the conversation into the upper reaches of refined thought.
In an attempt to regain ground, I referred to her cousin’s son, a fine young man my wife admires for his intelligence and temperament and to whom she would never compare her own son, as if that would be wishing for too much. At 24, he is already at work on his second masters degree – the first being philosophy, to please his father, and the second in economics, to please himself. His father, sitting with some veal on his fork, looked contemplative. I beat my son, he said. I beat the shit out of him for years.
Italians, especially Italians like my wife, have excellent table manners. She offered her cousin more asparagus. Maybe I was wrong, he said, but I did it anyway. So my wife offers him dessert and coffee.
I was sure that her cousin’s confession would somehow end up reflecting badly on me, and it wasn’t ten minutes after he left the house that she made an attempt. You think that it makes you right; it makes you want to beat my son, she said. I wouldn’t dare, I said, as it might involve the authorities, who would certainly be called for when I was finished.
Her son came back from buying cigarettes like he went down to Delaware, but I was asleep by then. The next time I saw him was at the gala. The whole senior class was there, in evening wear as they imagined it. Massimo the blackguard was glued to my stepson except when he came to say hello, bowing before me as bold as brass. As for my stepson, he was the one holding the pot, and he smelled like it from three feet away. I chastised him for this in the hallway and he promised to stash it, which he didn’t, since he stank of it all night, which was more or less why I didn’t hang around the seats for which I paid two grand. He was busy crashing our table and wolfing down his mother’s dinner like a dog reeking of skunk. Not only was I embarrassed, but I wanted the guys who had been eyeing my wife to get a good look before they did any bidding.
My wife looked great. She’s much too thin lately, a nervous wreck over her son. But in a little black dress, you sure couldn’t tell there was anything wrong. Still, we were fighting. She was pissed that I was pissed over what happened at dinner the night before. Even though we were fuming, she kept asking me: How does this look? And what could I say? You know how she looks.
Normally, I would have gotten jealous once we arrived. There were guys on her like flies. But those are not the guys I’m worried about. I’m worried about the guys who stare at her and don’t make a move. Those are the guys that get me upset. Consequently, those are the guys that interest my wife, since she likes to make me jealous.
But last night I couldn’t give a shit, which is best. The guy on her left was an Italian pop star wannabe who got up to sing during the antipasto. This joker actually thought he had a chance. I felt sorry for him. You only have to hear my wife call someone pathetic once and it will put you on guard for life.
There were more speeches than I could handle from founders, chairmen, and Grand Knights. I even missed the main course because I couldn’t sit still. I was wandering around looking at the blind auction, though I couldn’t see what was blind about it. You had to write your name and phone number next to the last price you were willing to pay.
This year it looked like a yard sale for Italian swells, competing to pay more, not less. But that isn’t too bad when you have Frette and Portolano clearing out prime inventory. It was a benefit for my stepson’s school, which is where all the spoiled Italian kids go. And if my wife is serious about anything, it’s spoiling her kid and being Italian.
It was at Cipriani, which is quite a racket when it comes to dishing out food. They draw Bellini’s from a well, make cannelloni by the mile, and they can deep-fry a mule. And they have the same set-up all over the world. McDonald’s Platinum, baking cheese and frying bread for people who think they have an excuse. Last night they fried a school of branzino, which would be seven hundred fish delivered hot simultaneously at $1000 a plate. That’s franchising.
Our fight started a day earlier, when my wife’s cousin came over for dinner. I went out of my way to make something good, which was pasta con zucchini al minestre and rollatini di vitello with broiled asparagus. My wife’s cousin is a Professor of Philosophy and a very important guy who looks down his nose at my wife because he doesn’t approve of all her choices, including me. So we’re always a little on edge whenever he comes over. I work it out by cooking, since the guy is a big eater. My wife spends the whole time acting like we’re the perfect little family, and that her son is not picking his nose or pouring salt onto the tablecloth just to see how fast it comes out. I might be inclined to ignore it myself if the kid wasn’t staring at me the whole time, daring me to say something, which I’d rather not do, since my wife would immediately respond by telling her cousin that I had no patience, was very intolerant, and otherwise limited in my understanding of teenagers.
Knowing this, I managed to hold off until the moment when my stepson told us he was going out for cigarettes and demanded ten dollars. My wife said no, very embarrassed. My stepson started a 'you promised' argument, which my wife dismissed as absurd, as if to say to her cousin that she would never promise such a thing as cigarettes. She drew me in with a 'help me' look. So, I told my stepson to get lost and let us adults finish our dinner, at which point he started shouting at his mother in Italian, which is his way of telling me to mind my own business.
In the middle of all that, my wife suddenly told him to take ten dollars from her purse, leaving me twisted with a message so mixed we were all stymied. The little shit was smug, I was steamed, and her cousin was speechless. My wife acted like she asked for the time of day and was waiting for someone to look at their watch. I did promise him, she said.
For me, everything up until that point was just garden-variety, but her cousin raised the stakes. I want to appeal to this man, I said. The most basic precept of behavioral psychology has just been violated. Rewarding certain behavior encourages that behavior - or didn’t they teach you that in your school?
Here I went beyond the pale. My wife is very sensitive about the limits of her formal education, especially as regards her cousin, who has more formal education than anyone I ever met. In fact, whenever he comes to dinner, my wife directs the conversation into the upper reaches of refined thought.
In an attempt to regain ground, I referred to her cousin’s son, a fine young man my wife admires for his intelligence and temperament and to whom she would never compare her own son, as if that would be wishing for too much. At 24, he is already at work on his second masters degree – the first being philosophy, to please his father, and the second in economics, to please himself. His father, sitting with some veal on his fork, looked contemplative. I beat my son, he said. I beat the shit out of him for years.
Italians, especially Italians like my wife, have excellent table manners. She offered her cousin more asparagus. Maybe I was wrong, he said, but I did it anyway. So my wife offers him dessert and coffee.
I was sure that her cousin’s confession would somehow end up reflecting badly on me, and it wasn’t ten minutes after he left the house that she made an attempt. You think that it makes you right; it makes you want to beat my son, she said. I wouldn’t dare, I said, as it might involve the authorities, who would certainly be called for when I was finished.
Her son came back from buying cigarettes like he went down to Delaware, but I was asleep by then. The next time I saw him was at the gala. The whole senior class was there, in evening wear as they imagined it. Massimo the blackguard was glued to my stepson except when he came to say hello, bowing before me as bold as brass. As for my stepson, he was the one holding the pot, and he smelled like it from three feet away. I chastised him for this in the hallway and he promised to stash it, which he didn’t, since he stank of it all night, which was more or less why I didn’t hang around the seats for which I paid two grand. He was busy crashing our table and wolfing down his mother’s dinner like a dog reeking of skunk. Not only was I embarrassed, but I wanted the guys who had been eyeing my wife to get a good look before they did any bidding.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Enmity
I know a guy who won’t eat my food. It hurts me, because I like this guy. I see myself in this guy, except this guy was an orphan. He grew up on pastina, with some polenta thrown in. While I was sporting 12 inch hoagies, he had potato sandwiches. But I didn’t know him then, so I never did anything to make it worse. But he acts like it’s somehow my fault. He always seems pissed at me, like I was Lord Fauntleroy and a wiseguy to boot.
When he first moved in, I said hello to him in the street, stopped him cold and shook his hand, walked with him. I made him laugh. Better, he made me laugh. We went past the church and neither one of us made the sign of the cross. I asked where he went to school and he told me about being an orphan. He studied hard and became a pharmacist, worked like a dog. Now he was set up.
I sent over a couple of stromboli, like you do when somebody moves in. He sent them back. Said he was a vegetarian. I was shocked. At least he could have passed them on. But I always gave him my prescriptions, what few I had, and I always said hello when I saw him on the street. Until he started acting like he didn’t see me, which wasn’t very nice. Still, I sent over my prescriptions, which started to feel like I was sending insults, which I admit, I enjoyed. But never once did he order anything from me. I even saw him get through an entire community board meeting without touching the food I sent. And everybody was crazy for the food.
I thought it was something I did, but my wife said it wasn’t my problem; it was his problem, poor thing, which didn’t make me feel much better. I don’t like problems, especially if it’s a problem that involves me. And if it’s something I did, I’d like to undo it. I reminded my wife that you don’t want to be on the wrong side of your pharmacist. Her response was to see that my prescriptions were sent elsewhere.
I saw him once at The Bellevue, in the bar. I said hello, and I was all set to ask him what was the problem, when he completely shut me up by being the nicest guy in the world. He asked me about my family, told me how good I looked, mentioned my mother, and thought that the Bellevue never looked better. He ran down the mayor, made another joke about the dentist on Chadwick St, and then blew me off when he saw his appointment, another hail-fellow well met. I never got a word in, even though my mouth was open the whole time.
I understood that he was having none of me, and I understood why everybody was sending over their prescriptions. They loved the guy. I just couldn’t figure why he was cutting me out. I was never anything but nice. But some guys are like that. They refuse to give you any satisfaction, and it’s a point of pride. They need an enemy and they pick you. Just like that. You’re like a voodoo doll, an empty well, a can to kick. And they hate everything about you, once they get going.
My wife says he feels threatened by me. I say I’m the one who feels threatened. I feel like a prisoner falsely accused. I’m being forced to hate a guy I’d like to like, and I can’t figure out how to get on his right side. I can’t re-write the script because I’m trapped inside the play. My son says it’s because the guy is short, not so handsome, and is in love with my wife. Maybe so, but I wish the asshole would just taste my eggplant.
When he first moved in, I said hello to him in the street, stopped him cold and shook his hand, walked with him. I made him laugh. Better, he made me laugh. We went past the church and neither one of us made the sign of the cross. I asked where he went to school and he told me about being an orphan. He studied hard and became a pharmacist, worked like a dog. Now he was set up.
I sent over a couple of stromboli, like you do when somebody moves in. He sent them back. Said he was a vegetarian. I was shocked. At least he could have passed them on. But I always gave him my prescriptions, what few I had, and I always said hello when I saw him on the street. Until he started acting like he didn’t see me, which wasn’t very nice. Still, I sent over my prescriptions, which started to feel like I was sending insults, which I admit, I enjoyed. But never once did he order anything from me. I even saw him get through an entire community board meeting without touching the food I sent. And everybody was crazy for the food.
I thought it was something I did, but my wife said it wasn’t my problem; it was his problem, poor thing, which didn’t make me feel much better. I don’t like problems, especially if it’s a problem that involves me. And if it’s something I did, I’d like to undo it. I reminded my wife that you don’t want to be on the wrong side of your pharmacist. Her response was to see that my prescriptions were sent elsewhere.
I saw him once at The Bellevue, in the bar. I said hello, and I was all set to ask him what was the problem, when he completely shut me up by being the nicest guy in the world. He asked me about my family, told me how good I looked, mentioned my mother, and thought that the Bellevue never looked better. He ran down the mayor, made another joke about the dentist on Chadwick St, and then blew me off when he saw his appointment, another hail-fellow well met. I never got a word in, even though my mouth was open the whole time.
I understood that he was having none of me, and I understood why everybody was sending over their prescriptions. They loved the guy. I just couldn’t figure why he was cutting me out. I was never anything but nice. But some guys are like that. They refuse to give you any satisfaction, and it’s a point of pride. They need an enemy and they pick you. Just like that. You’re like a voodoo doll, an empty well, a can to kick. And they hate everything about you, once they get going.
My wife says he feels threatened by me. I say I’m the one who feels threatened. I feel like a prisoner falsely accused. I’m being forced to hate a guy I’d like to like, and I can’t figure out how to get on his right side. I can’t re-write the script because I’m trapped inside the play. My son says it’s because the guy is short, not so handsome, and is in love with my wife. Maybe so, but I wish the asshole would just taste my eggplant.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Looking Forward
I just booked two sets of tickets. I’ll be spending Palm Sunday in Italy and Easter in Miami. A few days in Rome will do me good, then it’s down to Naples with the in-laws. The thing with Rome is, I love it. But my stepson will be there on a class trip. I can imagine him wandering the Spanish Steps whispering: dove si compra fumo?
Hopefully, two things will happen. He won’t whisper it to a policeman and I won’t run into him on the street. It’s not much, but Rome is a small city and I love to walk around. If you walk around Rome enough, you’ll run into everybody you ever knew. There’s a conference on air-dried dried meat with venues all over town. I won’t shit for a week, but I’ll get some exercise.
The fact that we’ll all be in Rome together is pure coincidence. The fact that my wife agreed to come along with me is another story. She sees it as a good chance to keep close watch on the kid, which means she’ll be on the phone with him all day, breaking balls until we all meet up in Naples, where the ball breaking gets more operatic.
Miami is something else. I think Easter is best spent among the Jews. My wife thinks it’s a good chance to spend time together as a family, recapture the past. She talked my son into the idea that he and my stepson share a room, and we’ll all enjoy a little fun in the sun, like the old days. That would be two men, 21 and 17, with differing tastes in women (my son has a girlfriend to whom he is completely faithful while my stepson cannot be trusted alone in a room with a pound of boiled ham), drugs, and what’s good on TV, adjoining a room with me my wife. My mother called it a crucifixion.
I call it cheap. I got a deal in South Beach at a very nice hotel for no money, which is not to say free. Call it barter. I know the owner, and he’s happy to have me in his debt to the tune of several thousand. Knowing him, he may take it out in catering, but I doubt it. More than likely I’ll have to make a phone call, which I’m happy to do. Between my cousin and me we know a lot of people, who know a lot of other people. Call it people power. And all those people love the idea of having all the other people in their debt, because maybe it’s the only credit they’re likely to get. And everybody owes somebody, which is how it should be.
Hopefully, two things will happen. He won’t whisper it to a policeman and I won’t run into him on the street. It’s not much, but Rome is a small city and I love to walk around. If you walk around Rome enough, you’ll run into everybody you ever knew. There’s a conference on air-dried dried meat with venues all over town. I won’t shit for a week, but I’ll get some exercise.
The fact that we’ll all be in Rome together is pure coincidence. The fact that my wife agreed to come along with me is another story. She sees it as a good chance to keep close watch on the kid, which means she’ll be on the phone with him all day, breaking balls until we all meet up in Naples, where the ball breaking gets more operatic.
Miami is something else. I think Easter is best spent among the Jews. My wife thinks it’s a good chance to spend time together as a family, recapture the past. She talked my son into the idea that he and my stepson share a room, and we’ll all enjoy a little fun in the sun, like the old days. That would be two men, 21 and 17, with differing tastes in women (my son has a girlfriend to whom he is completely faithful while my stepson cannot be trusted alone in a room with a pound of boiled ham), drugs, and what’s good on TV, adjoining a room with me my wife. My mother called it a crucifixion.
I call it cheap. I got a deal in South Beach at a very nice hotel for no money, which is not to say free. Call it barter. I know the owner, and he’s happy to have me in his debt to the tune of several thousand. Knowing him, he may take it out in catering, but I doubt it. More than likely I’ll have to make a phone call, which I’m happy to do. Between my cousin and me we know a lot of people, who know a lot of other people. Call it people power. And all those people love the idea of having all the other people in their debt, because maybe it’s the only credit they’re likely to get. And everybody owes somebody, which is how it should be.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Wholesale vs. Retail
One of the hardest things to do in life is to shut the fuck up. Everybody wants the last word. People think that having the last word makes them right. After that, they're very proud of themselves.
I don't know about you, but that's because you can't get a word in edgewise. I'm big on having most of the words. I pass on the last in favor of brute force. I want you to know that I have a lot of words, and more where that came from. Of the people who hate me, they hate me for that. But I can't be all bad, because most of them keep coming back. In fact, the ones who hate me most are among my best customers. And I love them. That's the sentiment that prevails. Like my wife says: the only people I really love are my customers, and they know it.
But I am a bully. I don't deny it. I'm like the Jews. I think I'm right all the time, though I claim to be fallible. And if you don't believe me, l will kick your ass from here until Saturday, and we'll see who has the last word. Because the last word won't be written until the last man dies. In the meantime, it's better to deal in volume.
I don't know about you, but that's because you can't get a word in edgewise. I'm big on having most of the words. I pass on the last in favor of brute force. I want you to know that I have a lot of words, and more where that came from. Of the people who hate me, they hate me for that. But I can't be all bad, because most of them keep coming back. In fact, the ones who hate me most are among my best customers. And I love them. That's the sentiment that prevails. Like my wife says: the only people I really love are my customers, and they know it.
But I am a bully. I don't deny it. I'm like the Jews. I think I'm right all the time, though I claim to be fallible. And if you don't believe me, l will kick your ass from here until Saturday, and we'll see who has the last word. Because the last word won't be written until the last man dies. In the meantime, it's better to deal in volume.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
It’s a Wonderful Life
If you asked me to say three things about my stepson I would say he’s a liar, a thief, and a drug addict. So I’d rather not answer the question. Six months ago I would have said he’s an arrogant little shit, a lazy motherfucker, and too smart for his own good – and I wouldn’t have said that any of it was bad. Those are things you can work with. He even won a scholarship. Of course, we dragged him kicking and screaming. Who do you think wrote his essay? When he got in, I felt like I won a scholarship - me and my wife. I didn’t know how smart was my wife until I saw her do trigonometry. But he did ace the SAT, which means we didn’t waste the enormous amount of money we paid for tutoring. The SAT you take alone.
I try to call him my son. It’s easier. But neither he nor his mother ever loses an opportunity to remind me otherwise. Sometimes, but not often, it’s a form of consolation. Usually, they’re out to hurt me. What’s worse, everything seems to be my fault. Where’s his real father? Who the fuck knows? His real father calls on his own birthday. He’s an artist. An artist from Naples, no less. He was very big in the 80’s, which is about the worst thing you can say about an artist. And like the rest of them, he disappeared.
I got my stepson when he was five, which I always considered a boy’s most sensitive age. He treated me like shit from the beginning, just when I thought I had boys all figured out. I carried him on my shoulders, read to him at night. I taught him how to ride a bike, throw a ball, what makes a good movie, and who writes a good book. And I gave him brothers, a pair of guys anybody would call a good deal, two of my own, that much older. Sure, they tortured him. But they tortured him like a brother.
Still, he hates my guts. I’m crazy. I know that. You make sandwiches all day and see what you get. Everybody knows: fuck with me at your peril. I never run from a fight. If I can’t break it up, something else gets broken. So don’t get me started. I’m just looking for a little respect. And I don’t ask for much. Start with flushing the toilet after you take a shit, behaving like a human being at the table, not telling your mother to go fuck herself. Because it’s not respect for me so much as society in general, starting with your mother.
When he was 15 he got busted for drinking in the subway. He told the arresting officer that it wasn’t his fault. He said that both his parents were alcoholics, his home life was tragic and that his parents were too drunk to care. The cop called us on one of those rare occasions when we were home alone contemplating sex, but stone sober as usual. My wife was horrified, exclaiming the indisputable fact that we were Italian, which meaning the officer seemed to apprehend. On the one hand, you don’t see many Italians with a drinking problem. And as far as my stepson was concerned, they’re bold-faced liars when you catch them up to no good.
My stepson likes to say I ruptured his eardrum. He’ll tell anybody. Whenever we send him to therapy, it’s the first thing out of his mouth. This is because I slapped him in the face. I was reading in my room when I heard his mother screaming in pain. You hurt me, she screams. And then she did something she never does, which was to shout for my help, and to my amazement, plead with me to beat him right back. I held off long enough to ask what was going on, which query my stepson answered by telling me to go fuck myself. One slap later I was marked for life. As for my stepsons hearing, it’s perfect. Like the doctor said, it happens all the time.
I’m not the only guy who ever slapped him. His grandfather’s sailor smacked him good after my stepson invited a boatload of goons onboard in the middle of the night with no adult supervision for a party, which erupted into a brawl in the world’s quietest marina. When the poor sailor appeared, my stepson told him that he was an employee and to mind his own business. You work for me, he said. My father-in-law’s boat is, in fact, the sailor’s business. So my stepson got a slap in the face before his friends were manhandled off the pier.
The last guy to slap him was some girl’s father. Not only did he slap him, but he knocked him down and gave him a couple of swift kicks. Then he grabbed him by his collar and hauled him up to say that if he ever saw him around his daughter again, he was a dead person. Now this is something I can’t abide, even though I’d like to do the same. But it’s hard to blame the guy, since my stepson has no interest in the daughter other than drugs. The girl may be plain, but she’s rich. And she’s always ready to spend money. Her poor father is a parent like any other. He thinks his daughter is an angel. I try and explain to my stepson that this guy doesn’t see a young man struggling with his identity, looking for his path. He sees a dangerous character – an arrogant, smart-mouthed punk who needs a kick in the ass, not to mention a slap in the face.
Lately, it’s my fault more than ever. This is a tactic that my stepson has latched onto which seems to be OK with his mother. They’re both looking for somebody to blame. I have a lot of experience with blame but this is something else. First of all, she spoiled the kid rotten and we all know it. And as far as he’s concerned, the more attention we pay to me, the less we pay to him.
One therapist, the first time I met him, which was after my stepson saw him alone, informed me right off that he was obliged to report me to the police if I ever touched the boy again, having ruptured his eardrum. I was speechless. It was all I could do not to slap the therapist. Now the kid is in another program, an out patient drug rehab clinic, which in this city is like a jaywalking workshop. I couldn’t go to the first meeting. I had the flu. But I did find out from my wife the root cause of his behavior: a dysfunctional family, which is a perfect redundancy. I’m not sure if this is spreading the blame between us, but one thing is certain. It isn’t the kid’s fault.
Everybody advises the same thing: send him back to his father. That would be like sending a letter to Santa Claus. The last time we tried that was for two weeks last summer. My wife relented when her son begged: I want to spend time with my real father. So we sent him to Italy alone. The real father doesn’t have a phone, just a mobile which never works but for the courtesy message which explains that it doesn’t take messages. My wife puts it on speed dial. The father picks up after a week and tells us that he hasn’t seen his son at all. I asked him out for a pizza, he tells her, but he didn’t show up. So my wife goes nuts.
She finally reaches her son who calmly explains that all is well. I met someone I know on the plane, he tells her, who is a really good boy. His name is Pietro. He goes to Friends. He knows Pietro from Maria, who was just accepted to Harvard as a sophomore. Where with Maria? At Giulio’s, who is a boy as good as Maria, a boy who was friends with my stepson when they were in grade school and whose friendship my wife remembers like the Golden Fleece - Giulio instead of Massimo, who is the other side of friendship, the cloak of darkness.
Massimo thinks he’s connected, which you can tell when he gets spruced up. But the only person he’s connected to is the guy who sells him pot. He’s also connected to my stepson - at the hip. My wife forbids him to hang out with Massimo, which is like taking out insurance – they win, you lose.
It turns out that this guy Pietro doesn’t really exist, which is amazing when you consider that my stepson introduced Pietro to my in-laws. He stayed on their boat and took their money, which my father-in-law doled out evenly in large amounts. They wrecked an outboard motor, which cost two thousand Euros, by turning over the boat’s tender, which is pretty hard to do without killing yourself. Pietro and my stepson claimed to have been mugged, a bonus lie which came with a big payday when my father-in-law covered their losses, which included all the money Pietro brought for his trip, an amount that made his parents seem very generous indeed. All in all, everyone in the family couldn’t help but notice Pietro, who turned out to be Massimo with an alias.
By the time we found out it was too late. Pietro was already gone, the deed well done. It was a lie so baroque that it inspired my stepson to seek my approval for its exquisite execution, much the same way he wanted congratulations for his quick thinking when he was arrested in the subway. And what could I do? By the time I got there, everybody was settled down. All I could do was talk, and there wasn’t much of that going around, other than my father-in-law counseling patience. I was wondering how patience fit in with Leopold and Loeb.
Besides, last summer was a vacation I mostly spent in the hospital and at the surgeon’s, tending to my wife’s finger, which got the tip chopped off when her son slammed a door on it. Chopping off his mother’s finger to end what must surely be his most memorable summer to date is something that he never mentions to the therapist. When it comes up, I point out that he asked me for money to go out with his friends while we were rushing her to the hospital. He defends himself by saying that he couldn’t think of anything else to talk about.
I’m trying to look on the bright side, which is hard since he just stole a few hundred dollars out of my wallet, something he denies, like I must be an idiot for not knowing that money disappears. He denies everything, all the time. His relationship to the truth is so perverted that he will lie when only the truth can save him. I explained to my wife that where I come from, stealing is a death sentence. The only hope is a full confession, followed by restitution, with interest. She answers me that she doesn’t come from the same place.
She tells me that I have to love him, to put my arms around him and tell him so, which is pretty hard to imagine. First of all, he’s not big on cleanliness. Getting him to bathe is as hard as it ever was. Secondly, I can’t imagine getting that close without putting my hands around his neck instead.
We all hope everything turns out. So far, it isn’t a tragedy. It doesn’t feel like we’re in danger of making the front page, but it’s sure no picnic. Speaking of which, let me give you a cold case of Pepsi, on the house. We aren’t getting many orders this big, lately, and you should know that I’m grateful.
I try to call him my son. It’s easier. But neither he nor his mother ever loses an opportunity to remind me otherwise. Sometimes, but not often, it’s a form of consolation. Usually, they’re out to hurt me. What’s worse, everything seems to be my fault. Where’s his real father? Who the fuck knows? His real father calls on his own birthday. He’s an artist. An artist from Naples, no less. He was very big in the 80’s, which is about the worst thing you can say about an artist. And like the rest of them, he disappeared.
I got my stepson when he was five, which I always considered a boy’s most sensitive age. He treated me like shit from the beginning, just when I thought I had boys all figured out. I carried him on my shoulders, read to him at night. I taught him how to ride a bike, throw a ball, what makes a good movie, and who writes a good book. And I gave him brothers, a pair of guys anybody would call a good deal, two of my own, that much older. Sure, they tortured him. But they tortured him like a brother.
Still, he hates my guts. I’m crazy. I know that. You make sandwiches all day and see what you get. Everybody knows: fuck with me at your peril. I never run from a fight. If I can’t break it up, something else gets broken. So don’t get me started. I’m just looking for a little respect. And I don’t ask for much. Start with flushing the toilet after you take a shit, behaving like a human being at the table, not telling your mother to go fuck herself. Because it’s not respect for me so much as society in general, starting with your mother.
When he was 15 he got busted for drinking in the subway. He told the arresting officer that it wasn’t his fault. He said that both his parents were alcoholics, his home life was tragic and that his parents were too drunk to care. The cop called us on one of those rare occasions when we were home alone contemplating sex, but stone sober as usual. My wife was horrified, exclaiming the indisputable fact that we were Italian, which meaning the officer seemed to apprehend. On the one hand, you don’t see many Italians with a drinking problem. And as far as my stepson was concerned, they’re bold-faced liars when you catch them up to no good.
My stepson likes to say I ruptured his eardrum. He’ll tell anybody. Whenever we send him to therapy, it’s the first thing out of his mouth. This is because I slapped him in the face. I was reading in my room when I heard his mother screaming in pain. You hurt me, she screams. And then she did something she never does, which was to shout for my help, and to my amazement, plead with me to beat him right back. I held off long enough to ask what was going on, which query my stepson answered by telling me to go fuck myself. One slap later I was marked for life. As for my stepsons hearing, it’s perfect. Like the doctor said, it happens all the time.
I’m not the only guy who ever slapped him. His grandfather’s sailor smacked him good after my stepson invited a boatload of goons onboard in the middle of the night with no adult supervision for a party, which erupted into a brawl in the world’s quietest marina. When the poor sailor appeared, my stepson told him that he was an employee and to mind his own business. You work for me, he said. My father-in-law’s boat is, in fact, the sailor’s business. So my stepson got a slap in the face before his friends were manhandled off the pier.
The last guy to slap him was some girl’s father. Not only did he slap him, but he knocked him down and gave him a couple of swift kicks. Then he grabbed him by his collar and hauled him up to say that if he ever saw him around his daughter again, he was a dead person. Now this is something I can’t abide, even though I’d like to do the same. But it’s hard to blame the guy, since my stepson has no interest in the daughter other than drugs. The girl may be plain, but she’s rich. And she’s always ready to spend money. Her poor father is a parent like any other. He thinks his daughter is an angel. I try and explain to my stepson that this guy doesn’t see a young man struggling with his identity, looking for his path. He sees a dangerous character – an arrogant, smart-mouthed punk who needs a kick in the ass, not to mention a slap in the face.
Lately, it’s my fault more than ever. This is a tactic that my stepson has latched onto which seems to be OK with his mother. They’re both looking for somebody to blame. I have a lot of experience with blame but this is something else. First of all, she spoiled the kid rotten and we all know it. And as far as he’s concerned, the more attention we pay to me, the less we pay to him.
One therapist, the first time I met him, which was after my stepson saw him alone, informed me right off that he was obliged to report me to the police if I ever touched the boy again, having ruptured his eardrum. I was speechless. It was all I could do not to slap the therapist. Now the kid is in another program, an out patient drug rehab clinic, which in this city is like a jaywalking workshop. I couldn’t go to the first meeting. I had the flu. But I did find out from my wife the root cause of his behavior: a dysfunctional family, which is a perfect redundancy. I’m not sure if this is spreading the blame between us, but one thing is certain. It isn’t the kid’s fault.
Everybody advises the same thing: send him back to his father. That would be like sending a letter to Santa Claus. The last time we tried that was for two weeks last summer. My wife relented when her son begged: I want to spend time with my real father. So we sent him to Italy alone. The real father doesn’t have a phone, just a mobile which never works but for the courtesy message which explains that it doesn’t take messages. My wife puts it on speed dial. The father picks up after a week and tells us that he hasn’t seen his son at all. I asked him out for a pizza, he tells her, but he didn’t show up. So my wife goes nuts.
She finally reaches her son who calmly explains that all is well. I met someone I know on the plane, he tells her, who is a really good boy. His name is Pietro. He goes to Friends. He knows Pietro from Maria, who was just accepted to Harvard as a sophomore. Where with Maria? At Giulio’s, who is a boy as good as Maria, a boy who was friends with my stepson when they were in grade school and whose friendship my wife remembers like the Golden Fleece - Giulio instead of Massimo, who is the other side of friendship, the cloak of darkness.
Massimo thinks he’s connected, which you can tell when he gets spruced up. But the only person he’s connected to is the guy who sells him pot. He’s also connected to my stepson - at the hip. My wife forbids him to hang out with Massimo, which is like taking out insurance – they win, you lose.
It turns out that this guy Pietro doesn’t really exist, which is amazing when you consider that my stepson introduced Pietro to my in-laws. He stayed on their boat and took their money, which my father-in-law doled out evenly in large amounts. They wrecked an outboard motor, which cost two thousand Euros, by turning over the boat’s tender, which is pretty hard to do without killing yourself. Pietro and my stepson claimed to have been mugged, a bonus lie which came with a big payday when my father-in-law covered their losses, which included all the money Pietro brought for his trip, an amount that made his parents seem very generous indeed. All in all, everyone in the family couldn’t help but notice Pietro, who turned out to be Massimo with an alias.
By the time we found out it was too late. Pietro was already gone, the deed well done. It was a lie so baroque that it inspired my stepson to seek my approval for its exquisite execution, much the same way he wanted congratulations for his quick thinking when he was arrested in the subway. And what could I do? By the time I got there, everybody was settled down. All I could do was talk, and there wasn’t much of that going around, other than my father-in-law counseling patience. I was wondering how patience fit in with Leopold and Loeb.
Besides, last summer was a vacation I mostly spent in the hospital and at the surgeon’s, tending to my wife’s finger, which got the tip chopped off when her son slammed a door on it. Chopping off his mother’s finger to end what must surely be his most memorable summer to date is something that he never mentions to the therapist. When it comes up, I point out that he asked me for money to go out with his friends while we were rushing her to the hospital. He defends himself by saying that he couldn’t think of anything else to talk about.
I’m trying to look on the bright side, which is hard since he just stole a few hundred dollars out of my wallet, something he denies, like I must be an idiot for not knowing that money disappears. He denies everything, all the time. His relationship to the truth is so perverted that he will lie when only the truth can save him. I explained to my wife that where I come from, stealing is a death sentence. The only hope is a full confession, followed by restitution, with interest. She answers me that she doesn’t come from the same place.
She tells me that I have to love him, to put my arms around him and tell him so, which is pretty hard to imagine. First of all, he’s not big on cleanliness. Getting him to bathe is as hard as it ever was. Secondly, I can’t imagine getting that close without putting my hands around his neck instead.
We all hope everything turns out. So far, it isn’t a tragedy. It doesn’t feel like we’re in danger of making the front page, but it’s sure no picnic. Speaking of which, let me give you a cold case of Pepsi, on the house. We aren’t getting many orders this big, lately, and you should know that I’m grateful.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Look This Way
Truth is like the eye of a fly - a thousand facets, each with an image entire. And we’re completely blind to what the fly bears witness. Every time my mother calls me a liar, which is every time I see her, I am deprived of my memories. Her truth is different than mine. And she thinks she knows everything.
I used to have a partner. No matter what we did, he wanted the credit. And whenever we fucked up, he wanted me to take the blame. I didn't mind. I had 50% and I could handle the blame. And I always had the upper hand, since everybody wants the credit, but nobody wants the blame. The only time I got pissed off was when he reached for the credit when the two of us were alone. Your partner should know better. The truth may be relative, but not when you’re closing out the month.
I just ran over to Italy for a wedding. It’s good to show up. I sat next to somebody I’ve known for a long time. We’re not in touch these days, because a mutual friend committed a crime of passion, a brutal murder. This crime completely destroyed an entire circle of friends. We were all left feeling that if this guy could kill the love of his life, anybody could. It also left us with nothing else to talk about, which is not to say we couldn’t talk around it. But it always hung in the air like a bad smell. It was all so sad. The poor girl. Her parents. Imagine.
And he was left, the living dead. His mother refers to it as ‘the accident’, which really bothers me. She wants to know why we don’t answer his letters. She doesn’t understand why people don’t understand. She loves her son, and that’s the only thing she knows. But her son is in jail and I hope he stays there. A guy like that can’t be trusted, and he makes it so that you can’t trust yourself.
I used to have a partner. No matter what we did, he wanted the credit. And whenever we fucked up, he wanted me to take the blame. I didn't mind. I had 50% and I could handle the blame. And I always had the upper hand, since everybody wants the credit, but nobody wants the blame. The only time I got pissed off was when he reached for the credit when the two of us were alone. Your partner should know better. The truth may be relative, but not when you’re closing out the month.
I just ran over to Italy for a wedding. It’s good to show up. I sat next to somebody I’ve known for a long time. We’re not in touch these days, because a mutual friend committed a crime of passion, a brutal murder. This crime completely destroyed an entire circle of friends. We were all left feeling that if this guy could kill the love of his life, anybody could. It also left us with nothing else to talk about, which is not to say we couldn’t talk around it. But it always hung in the air like a bad smell. It was all so sad. The poor girl. Her parents. Imagine.
And he was left, the living dead. His mother refers to it as ‘the accident’, which really bothers me. She wants to know why we don’t answer his letters. She doesn’t understand why people don’t understand. She loves her son, and that’s the only thing she knows. But her son is in jail and I hope he stays there. A guy like that can’t be trusted, and he makes it so that you can’t trust yourself.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Tax Time
If you’re a true blue American with a red heart, then you understand how happy I feel to say ‘The President’ again. Even those cat scat Republicans who just want to line their pockets are trying on a new blue suit. It’s like government cheese, which you can expect to see again real soon. They’ll be the first in line. In fact, they already got it. They got green cheese.
The Democrats? Put the accent on 'rat' and keep an eye on the woodwork. Illinois is the land of Lincoln all right, and Ben Franklin too. I come from the City of Brotherly Love and believe me, we know Franklin. We got all the founding fathers down here.
We know that Tim Geithner cheated on his taxes. I never met the American who didn’t know when he was cheating on his taxes. That’s why we hire accountants, so we can figure out the limits of the law and save every penny. We also have accountants to tell us when we’re likely to get caught if we test those limits by cheating. When we file, we take a personal risk.
Geithner would never have gotten caught if he wasn’t nominated for Treasury Secretary. And if cheating isn't just cause for disqualification, what about stupidity? Ignorance of the law is no defense unless it works in our favor when it comes to cheating on our taxes? And who wants a Treasury Secretary that pleads stupidity when it comes to money? This guy is a cheat, a liar, and claiming to be a dunce. Worse, he thinks we're the ones who are stupid.
He understands a lot about arcane finance, but he looks to me like a typical Wall Street snake, made worse by the fact that he’s a nickel and dimer when it comes to cheating. They ought to consider Bernie Madoff if they really want an expert. But maybe that’s what we need, a nickel and dime Wall Street snake over at Treasury, a guy who is out to save himself $1200 wherever he can. But in my experience, a guy like that can’t be trusted with an expense account, let alone the Treasury.
The Democrats? Put the accent on 'rat' and keep an eye on the woodwork. Illinois is the land of Lincoln all right, and Ben Franklin too. I come from the City of Brotherly Love and believe me, we know Franklin. We got all the founding fathers down here.
We know that Tim Geithner cheated on his taxes. I never met the American who didn’t know when he was cheating on his taxes. That’s why we hire accountants, so we can figure out the limits of the law and save every penny. We also have accountants to tell us when we’re likely to get caught if we test those limits by cheating. When we file, we take a personal risk.
Geithner would never have gotten caught if he wasn’t nominated for Treasury Secretary. And if cheating isn't just cause for disqualification, what about stupidity? Ignorance of the law is no defense unless it works in our favor when it comes to cheating on our taxes? And who wants a Treasury Secretary that pleads stupidity when it comes to money? This guy is a cheat, a liar, and claiming to be a dunce. Worse, he thinks we're the ones who are stupid.
He understands a lot about arcane finance, but he looks to me like a typical Wall Street snake, made worse by the fact that he’s a nickel and dimer when it comes to cheating. They ought to consider Bernie Madoff if they really want an expert. But maybe that’s what we need, a nickel and dime Wall Street snake over at Treasury, a guy who is out to save himself $1200 wherever he can. But in my experience, a guy like that can’t be trusted with an expense account, let alone the Treasury.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Regime Change
If I told you about a country where the head of its spy agency became Vice President during the reign of a right-wing movie star who was succeeded by said Vice President who, though deposed after a left-wing revolution, arranged for his idiot son to become President in a rigged election which was decided in a state where the idiot son’s brother was Governor, and which disputed election was decided by judges appointed by the father, you’d have to assume this country was very close to the equator.
I go on to tell you that the idiot son was completely in the sway of a nefarious military contractor who, as head of a vice-presidential search committee, nominated himself, and then went on to wage a war largely sub-contracted to the last organization on his resume, a war in which intelligence was falsified, coverage suppressed, and diplomacy ignored. During this war, kidnapping, torture, and mass murder took place, all of which was denied by the President and the Vice President despite all evidence to the contrary.
When I tell you that this President left office with his country in ruins, you’re not surprised. Its military is wasted, civil defense non-existent, roadways a wreck, public transport in crisis, energy supplies endangered. There is no public health insurance, poor education, and corruption is rampant. So you’re not shocked to hear that the economy of this country is in a complete state of collapse.
But this is my country, brother. So if you want to know why I’m not giving any discounts, you better ask yourself why I’m not raising my prices, because this shit costs. Deflation? Give me a break. I'd rather give you a free sandwich once in awhile and think of it as an investment. What makes you think we’re immune to inflation, like any other monkey-shit republic? As people hoard cash, it has less and less value. After all, money unspent is worthless. Consider the prime-lending rate. And consider what usually happens down in those equatorial economies, once a place is stripped of its resources and its treasury, pillaged. People don't think much of its money.
I go on to tell you that the idiot son was completely in the sway of a nefarious military contractor who, as head of a vice-presidential search committee, nominated himself, and then went on to wage a war largely sub-contracted to the last organization on his resume, a war in which intelligence was falsified, coverage suppressed, and diplomacy ignored. During this war, kidnapping, torture, and mass murder took place, all of which was denied by the President and the Vice President despite all evidence to the contrary.
When I tell you that this President left office with his country in ruins, you’re not surprised. Its military is wasted, civil defense non-existent, roadways a wreck, public transport in crisis, energy supplies endangered. There is no public health insurance, poor education, and corruption is rampant. So you’re not shocked to hear that the economy of this country is in a complete state of collapse.
But this is my country, brother. So if you want to know why I’m not giving any discounts, you better ask yourself why I’m not raising my prices, because this shit costs. Deflation? Give me a break. I'd rather give you a free sandwich once in awhile and think of it as an investment. What makes you think we’re immune to inflation, like any other monkey-shit republic? As people hoard cash, it has less and less value. After all, money unspent is worthless. Consider the prime-lending rate. And consider what usually happens down in those equatorial economies, once a place is stripped of its resources and its treasury, pillaged. People don't think much of its money.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)