Let Me Smack One More Asshat...

It's been a month since the last blog. Quite a bit has been transpired. For those of you not in the know, I packed up the circus tents and left the city that used to never sleep. My last week or so in the City went a little something like this...

Going down the stairs for the 3rd ave "L" train to head for Brooklyn, a young lady was blocking the stairs with herself and several bags, chatting on her cel phone. People were walking up on the other side of the stairwell, so obviously I was unable to proceed w/out a little help from her, and a log jam of several people quickly formed behind me.

Me: Excuse me, hon.

Phone Skank: (looking at me like I'd stuck something slimy on her face) Ummm, I'm on the phone!

Me: I can see that, hon, I'm just trying to get by.

PS: (finger comes up telling me to wait a second as she turns her back to me and continues with her call) I don't know, some guy. I know! He can see I'm on the phone!

Me: (tapping her on the shoulder) Your shit will be at the top of the stairs. (Two bags are picked up and tossed to the top of the stairs)

PS: OMG!!! What are you doing!?!?!

Me: Getting to the train, thanks. (proceeding down the stairs as she rushed up the half-flight to gather her crap). And on behalf of the people behind me that you were slowing down with your phone call...kiss my big sweaty ass, you phone skank.

Getting on the train, a hipster couple that had been behind me on the stairs approached me.

Him: Dude, I've always wanted to do that.

Her: I wanted to clap...what a bitch.

I know, it wasn't poetic. It was simply the culmination of a decade of douche-baggery.

I'm not really complaining, mind you. I've had a great run in the City.

I've met a lot of truly wonderful people.

I've seen the sublime and the ridiculous.
I've seen the absolute best and the worst humanity can offer.

I'd say I wouldn't have traded the times for anything, but that wouldn't be quite true. While I greatly appreciate my experiences, I'd gladly trade them all for an extra decade with Rita.

Since that kind of trade isn't going to happen, I'll gladly pack the memories into boxes and move the show back to the ATL. There are plenty of Asshats down south, after all. They're just a little more polite.

With my departure, I would like to single out a few people...

Erik: My childhood friend that made my early existence in the city possible. He took me in when I was dead broke and just off the train.

Gina: Gave me a job when I needed it and became a dear friend.

Autumn, Dieter, Marisa and Cameron: and the rest of the staff from the old Finnerty's that made it a joy to go to work every day and proved what friendship and loyalty are all about.

Garcia-ville and Mr. & Mrs. Ish: Showed me you can have fun with "grown ups". Well, sorta grown ups.

Ricky: One of my best friends in the city, I could always count on him to come with me to each new bar I took a gig at...and take coffee/smoke breaks that could make Teamsters say "Damn, you take long breaks".

Nick K: The Poet Laureate of 14th st and the Ambassador of Keeping it Real. Quite possibly possessing the dirtiest mind in the western hemisphere, Nick showed me you can be a caring father, still be filthy, and keep your kids from being asshats all at the same time. Kudos Nicky.

Frank: for keeping me on board after turbulent head-butting with his partners and giving me the opportunity to succeed, especially at Boss Tweed's.

Renee: I can't say a whole lot. Probably my best friend in the world besides my fiancee.

I'll miss you all.

Departing the city (for the last time?), I took the same car service I had used dozens of time before. The new driver tried to gouge me on the price, however. I explained to him I had been using the service for years and knew the price as I handed the correct amount over the seat. He attempted to argue. I suggested he call his dispatcher to verify the price, if he truly felt he was being underpaid, which of course he refused. I explained to him that I was leaving town for good. I told him to think about it for a moment, and that if he really wanted the extra $10 I would wait on the sidewalk to pay him in shoe leather delivered to the fleshy part of his ass. I suggested if he reconsidered his position, I would bear him no ill will and wish him a good day and a happy life.

He drove away, and I got on my plane.

I'll save the anti-Bloomberg rant for another day, as it would easily fill multiple blogs. I'll also save the rant of the softening up and dumbing down of what was formerly my island. The City long ago traded the seedy movie houses and dirty underbelly for Disney and Applebee's. I'm not saying it's better or worse (actually, it's a travesty), but it's definitely different. Similarly, the Community Boards are trying their damnedest to turn the best urban area in the world into a giant suburb. All rant-worthy, so stay tuned.

Good, bad, or indifferent, I'll miss a lot.

Goodbye, New York.

It's only Thursday, for the love of God

As the crowd began to thin, around 2:30 a.m., I took a seat at a booth near the door. I was checking my emails from my phone when my new friend joined me. He was a gent of Spanish origin, though I can't specify his nationality. He plopped down next to me while staring intently into his beer. His head abruptly popped up and turned to me with the old "stink eye". Evidently he was under the impression I had encroached on his space, even though I was in the booth close to the wall, while he was on the same bench at the other end, obviously there first.

Drunk Guy: Homina placenta mowli fee.

Me: I'm sorry, bro, I don't understand.

DG: Homina dooby goo placenta mowli fee!

Me: Sorry, bro, but I really can't understand you.

DG: Dooby goo coochella sibby mo quesadilla...Texas!

Me: I think I got Texas and maybe quesadilla, but I have no idea what you're talking about.

Obviously disgruntled, he turned back to his beer. He shifted his body so his back was to me and he was facing the bar. It appeared, from my vantage point, that he was contemplating his beverage. After several moments, I grew bored and restless and attempted to excuse myself. He would need to let me out of the booth, of course.

I nudged his shoulder and asked him to let me out. He grunted and nodded. After waiting a few seconds, I repeated my request and tapped more firmly. He just nodded. I leaned on the table to make sure he was conscious, and lo and behold he was in a state of perma-drool. The drunken asshat was in the early stage of full-blown dry heaves. Great.

Flagging one of the bouncers to assist, my new amigo was escorted to the door. The air seemed to do him some good, as he appeared to become more coherent and wandered off into the night. A few minutes later, however, my new friend returned. Now sitting on a chair at the door, I engaged Senor Sloppy.

Me: No more tonight, my friend. Call it a night.

DG: Mumbo dogface banana patch.

Me: (sigh) No more tonight. Go home.

DG: (in a clear and remarkably articulate voice) It's OK, I'm cool.

Me: No more tonight. Go home.

DG: Homina rondlestat moo shoo pork.

He stumbled over to the parking meter and leaned against it...or attempted to lean. He bounced off the meter, double-shuffled his feet, then executed a pirouette...before crumpling off the curb, into the street, right on his drunken ass. He remained there for several moments, looking quite confused that gravity had betrayed him. Eventually, a good Samaritan helped him up. As Mr. Helper was trying to check on the walking mess, he jumped back and exclaimed "Dude, you're pissing all over!"

Yes, gentle reader, he was dousing his dungarees...pissing in his pocket...urinating his underoos...making onesies in his big boy pants. Mr. Helper had received a liberal piss-rub as thanks for his help, and was not happy about it as he stormed away.

My new buddy pulled himself together long enough to wave goodbye as he shuffled off into the night again.

Another satisfied customer.

Self-love on the A train

After moving to the city many years ago, I found myself waiting on a crowded 14th street subway platform waiting for the uptown A train. My destination was Hell's Kitchen, and I was looking for work. I was flipping through the Daily News when the train pulled in. I was still flipping through the paper when I stepped into the subway car. When I looked up, I was confused. Everyone that had entered before me was crammed to the the front of the car, leaving the rear virtually empty...save for one guy.

Sitting in the small seat by the door, was an urban outdoorsman (translation: bum). Ordinarily, I maintain a "live and let live" philosophy. That tenet was sorely test, however, as the crusty gent had made himself comfortable...VERY comfortable. His pants were down to his knees, and he was, to put it delicately, rubbing one out (stroking the bishop, flogging the log, spanking the monkey, choking the chicken, etc). Amazingly, the other occupants of the car were trying hard to pretend not to notice. I, on the other hand, lost my friggin' mind.

"Are you people fucking kidding? " (I started handing parts of the paper out to people to shield themselves from any possible release of bum seed) "Jeez, at least protect yourselves!" No one refused this small offering of protection. In fact, it seemed to both ease their fears and stimulate their disgust at the same time. "Dude, you're a fucking animal!" said one strap hanger. "That's gross, man. Get off the train!!!" said another. A small, elderly woman, apparently of Eastern European descent (complete with babushka) stepped forward and, using the soothing tones of a grandmother offered, "I hope you die, you bastard!!!" before spitting on the floor at his feet.

The guy was now trying diligently to ignore the crowd as we travelled through the underbelly of the city. He had kicked it into overdrive and was pumping his fist like a man possessed, but to no avail. The car was on the verge of riot. Something metallic flew over the crowd and hit the wall by his head. It was quickly followed by coins, keys, pens, batteries and what I believe was a half-eaten slice of cheese pizza. It was like "bat day" at Yankee stadium in the 70's.

This broke the mood of self-gratification as the train rumbled into the station, apparently. When we came to a stop, he stood up and shuffled off onto the platform, shocking the riders waiting there. And no, he didn't even bother to pull his pants up. He merely held the waist band and went off in search of a quieter place...with his junk still dangling. "This city sucks" said the unsatisfied gent, "ya can't get any privacy."

True dat, my friend, you can never find a quiet subway train on which to beat your meat anymore. The city ain't what it used to be...WTF???

epilogue: I didn't realize it til I got off the train at the next stop, but I never got any of my newspaper back from the people on the train. I learned a lesson that day. From now on, I'll save the 50 cents and let the rest of the train get Hep C...bunch of ungrateful ass-clowns.

The Dangers of Laundry & Self-Medication

It happens to us all, eventually. That momentary, but nonetheless monumental act of stupidity that haunts us for years. This is one of those acts...

Suffering through a bout of the flu that I equated to a mild form of SARS, I soldiered on to work. The misery of the next several hours was astounding. The coughing, the watery eyes, the aching muscles, the production of absurd amounts of snot would have brought a lesser man to his knees...I was well on my way to that position.

I finally drew my remaining energy forth, and trudged the normally short block to the drug store for relief. It was during this hazy shopping spree that I concocted the ultimate flu remedy/horse tranquilizer. After purchasing my goods, I returned to the bar.

Spilling the contests of my bag onto the bar, the bartender looked on with great confusion and fear for what was about to happen. She was kind enough to heat three fingers of Jameson, which was used to dissolve a packet of Thera-flu. A double-shot of Nyquil was introduced to the cocktail. After the mixture was complete, it chased down a dosage of Tylenol PM. Whoooo-ooaaaaa, that's good squishy!!!

With an hour til closing, I was almost instantly feeling the embrace of sweet slumber. Little did I know that the Sandman was about to lure me into a dark alley and make me his prison bitch.

At closing, I shouldered my laundry bag (which I had picked up on the way to work that afternoon) and began the journey home. That single avenue was the longest 750 feet of my life. By the time I arrived at my building, I was swimming in my own sweat. Unlocking the front door was the closest thing to a Rubik's Cube I had encountered in two decades. Resting at the bottom of the stairs, I came to the king of rationalizations. "Just leave the laundry here and get it in the morning". It made perfect sense.

Now, obviously, there are many flaws in the thought processes I used that evening. Not the least of which was that I would be functional "in the morning". I virtually crawled up the four flights, leaving my bag by the foot of the stairs. Upon entering the apartment I began a slumber that legends are built around. 12 hours of uninterrupted "sweat out". I emerged from my hibernation feeling almost, though not quite, my normal self (I had no idea you could get a hangover from cold meds, but believe me when I say it...oh yeah, you can).

I traipsed downstairs to retrieve my bag before work, and lo and behold, the bag was not to be found. Only mildly concerned, I assumed the super had found it and stashed it in a closet. With nothing else to do about it that night, I headed to work.

Upon arrival, one of the regulars checked to make sure I was OK, as she was sure I was on death's door the previous evening (that walking SARS is tough). I assured her that I was fine, and the only problem was not being able to find my laundry. At this point, my friend Lew (Jewish Lew, not Dominican Lou) smirked and chuckled.
Me - (closing my eyes) "What?"
Lew - I'm pretty sure I saw a bum wearing your Motorhead t-shirt. It was way too big for him. So now that I think about it, it was probably yours."
Me - (sigh) "Maybe not, there's gotta be plenty of Motorhead shirts in the city, right?"
Lew - "Absolutely. They hand out 4xl Motorhead shirts at the DMV with your new license." (laughing out loud)
Me - (ugh)

One of the regulars approached at this point. "Are you guys talking about the bum fight?" (what?) "I saw two bums fighting over the biggest pair of jeans I ever saw. It was hilarious!!!!"

Lew clued him in that they were, in fact, mine. It took earnest threats of neck punches for both of them to stop the laughter and get the pertinent information I needed to try to find any remnants of my clothes. Checking the streets around my apartment, and the block of the bum fight proved fruitless.

I learned many valuable lessons from this. Don't over medicate. When they say don't mix things, they fucking mean it. And when they say don't operate heavy machinery, that includes washing machines.

And I never got any of my clothes back. To this day, I have to suppress the urge to attack any fat kid in a Motorhead shirt and take the shirt. sigh

That's no leprechaun...

Upon arrival in the city, I took a job working the door/bouncing at a little neighborhood spot call "The Looking Glass". Dark and divey, it was the kind of place you really shouldn't let any exposed skin touch anything. Unless, of course you had already received your Hep C shot.

8:15 p.m., Thursday night:
The asshats hadn't started flowing into the streets, yet. That wouldn't happen for a few hours still. Only about a dozen people were in the bar. There were a few aging tipplers left over from happy hour, a couple of 30 somethings that had stopped in on their way to dinner, and a few bro-dogs from NYU pre-gaming for their evening festivities on $2 pints of Bud.

Even though St. Patrick's Day had come and gone over a month earlier, I didn't think twice when I saw a gent down the block sporting one of those green plastic derby's that are common on that holiday. I simply assigned the guy as a "colorful NYC outdoorsman" (translation - half-crazy bum). Realizing I was out of smokes, I ducked into the bodega next door to grab a pack, nodding to the guy as I passed.

Having purchased my smoky treats and chatted w/ the deli guy for a few minutes, I was back on the sidewalk lighting up. I looked up and saw the aforementioned gent exiting the bar, counting his change.

"Hmm. Maybe I was wrong" I thought to myself. "Maybe he's just one of those eccentric New Yorkers you hear about stopping in for a quick shot".

I looked into the bar and saw a confused look on the face of the bartender (and childhood friend), and agitation on the faces of a few of the customers. I went in to investigate.

Erik the bartender - "Did you see these guys put any money on the bar?"
Me - "Well, yeah. About 5 minutes ago before I went for smokes."
Customer - "I had about 15 bucks on the bar."
2nd Customer - "I had 10 bucks or so."
(light bulb going off over my head)

Realizing the bum had entered the establishment and raked the bar of all unattended cash, I was out the door like I was shot out of a cannon and down to the corner. Looking down the street, I could see the wayward leprechaun crossing the street, looking over his shoulder (presumably for pursuers). My days of foot pursuit being long behind me, I turned with disgust to head back to the bar. At that point, in what can only be described as serendipity, the light changed letting a cab cross the avenue to me.

I flagged the cab and hopped in. "Next corner, please." The cabbie looked at me like I was nuts, but drove to the next corner. Having slid down in the seat, my quarry didn't respond when we passed him. At the corner, I told the cabbie to leave the meter running...I'd only be a second. I left the door open as I stepped out. The thief was still stealing looks over his shoulder looking for pursuit when I grabbed him by his shirt.

Now, bearing in mind, I do not now, nor have I ever claimed to be a tough guy. That being said, I hit that douche so hard that, quite literally, snot shot out of his nose. I threw him into the corner formed by a building and a dumpster and began unfolding a good old-fashioned south Alabama beat down.

The light having changed, the cabbie began honking his horn (didn't care about the beating, evidently, but he definitely wanted his $2.40). I grabbed the miscreant by his shirt and shook him like a rag doll. "Where's the money, motherfucker?" (bitch slaps to the head) "I want the cash from the bar, you fuck!" At this point, bills started flying out of every pocket.

"Fuck you, scumbag! I know there's more!!!" (obviously, I had absolutely no idea how much was taken, but I assumed he'd hold out). Sure enough, more cash came out. I released him, kicked him in the ass, and let him escape to whatever hole he crawled out of. Gathering the surprisingly large amount of cash on the sidewalk, I hopped back into the cab, telling the driver to drop me off at the same corner. The fare was $4.80. I threw him a $10 and tipped the change for the trouble.

Walking back into the bar...
Erik - "Where'd you go, bro?"
Me - "To get the money back."
The 4 guys claiming to have lost money walked up. The two that had already made their claims were given their money. The other two claimed $14 and $20 respectively, and were given that amount.

Then, confusion, followed by realization set in. I still had A LOT of money left. Going to the end of the bar, I counted it out. I still had nearly $400 dollars in my hand. I had, technically, rolled a bum and taken a cab to and from the scene of the crime. And no, it didn't bother me one bit.

He may not have been a real leprechaun, but I most assuredly followed him to steal his pot o' gold/Lucky Charms.