"But There's Nothing To Do..."

My Doomsday Diary.

Here's how I spent what was supposed to be our Final Day on Earth. Except for the Happy Ending, I found myself that day fervently hoping the planet would, indeed, split wide open and burn to a cinder. It started with my nephews.

I feel somewhat badly for today's children, mostly because they have been robbed of all the things that I believe should make up childhood.

I've been thinking about this notion this past week because of what happened last Saturday...

I have four nephews, aged 14, 13, 11 and 5. They're great boys, and by that, I mean that I love them very much, not that they're the best behaved. In fact, my nephews have the manners of a pack of wild boars...wild boars with toothaches and hemorrhoids, I mean. They can be a touch ornery and rambunctious, to say the least. Part of this is just The Age; two teenagers, busily exploring the boundaries, pushing every envelope. The two younger ones, naturally, mimic what they've seen the older ones get away with, which is quite a bit as my sister and brother-in-law are a bit lax in the discipline department. When I was their age, if I pulled half the stuff they did -- and got caught -- I'd be on the phone looking for organ donors, just in case I needed them in the aftermath of the truly horrendous beating I was going to get.

Worse, I grew up in a house with my grandparents and my uncle and his family. Stepping out of line -- and getting caught -- meant, potentially, three beatings. Even worse, I went to Catholic school, which meant stepping out of line included a bonus beating from the nuns, then three beatings when you got home. Considering that I was a beastly little swine as a child, I'm amazed that I was able to survive a John McCain-like experience of near-constant physical torture. Fortunately, for me anyway, I seem to have gotten away with just enough to avoid permanent brain damage.
 
My nephews have, thus far, been spared the experience of a truly epic beating at the hands of their belt-and-wooden-spoon-wielding grandparents, wooden-hanger-wielding mother, and the open-hand buttocks assault of an ex-Marine Uncle, and in today's Catholic schools you couldn't find a Shao-Lin- ruler-wielding nun if your life depended upon it. Besides, they all go to public school, except the oldest, and the Catholic school he attends is generally regarded as 'soft'. I went to grammar school with Dominican Nuns who moonlighted as hand-to-hand combat instructors with the Green Berets, and a high school with Black-belt Christian Brothers, half of whom seemed to be tough Hell's Kitchen Irishmen, and every last one of them claimed to have been a Golden Gloves boxer in his youth.

Suffice to say, short of being raised by the Spanish Inquisition, with alternate weekends at Gestapo Headquarters, very few people know physical discipline like I know physical discipline. Today they'd call this 'child abuse', but back then, it was just what parents did to straighten their kids out when that was necessary.

But, I digress...

Anyways, I had occasion to 'babysit' my nephews, despite the fact that none are babies anymore, but the oldest are certainly too irresponsible to be left to care for the younger two when their parents are away. Their father had pulled a weekend overtime shift. Their mother was dragooned by the Little League they've all played in to do her 'volunteer' service. My mother, a woman whom God certainly sent to annoy the living shit out of every other living being on Planet Earth, came along. Heaven forbid she should have to sit at home and rely upon her own wits to keep herself entertained for a day. It began, predictably enough, with constant complaints about 'the Sciatica', her back hurts, her legs, her knees, her sinuses, and even her fucking ass. It's all an act, by the way, it's all a play for attention because she's sympathy junkie and a drama queen.

This is the First Indication that I'm going to have trouble at some point. But I'll get back to that in a moment. Let's start with the Second Indication that it's going to be One of Those Days.

If there's one thing I really dislike about Modern Kids, it's the silly whining they all engage in about having 'nothing to do.'

Mind you, my nephews live in a house which has FIVE televisions, all with cable access including 150 channels and On-Demand programming up the Wazoo, two DVD players (with an extensive library), a Playstation 3, an X-Box 360, and a Nintendo Wii, each again with an extensive library of games. The garage is simply overflowing with bicycles, skateboards, kick scooters and roller blades, not to mention a bewildering array of portable ramps and rails for them. All my nephews play baseball -- Little League, High School, and Travelling Teams -- so there are enough bats, baseballs, and gloves laying around to equip a Major League Team. The only things missing are Buck and McCarver, chewing tobacco, and Yankee Stadium.

There are two computers in the house, both with internet access. I know they have internet access because guess who installed the cable modem and Wi-Fi router (that would be...Me)? There is a vast array of computer games available, as well, not to mention two or three Nintendo DS consoles. There are enough Lego bricks (the five year old is a Lego junkie who might soon require methadone treatments to wean him off of them) to build a life-size replica of the Manhattan Skyline.
 
There is a small library of age-and-theme-appropriate literature, and for good measure my sister has stocked the house with all manner of Art Supplies, colored pencils, sketch pads, crayons, markers, paints, and so forth, that would have made Van Gogh lock himself in her basement, and kept him far too busy with it all to even have time to think of cutting his own ear off.
 
Oh, and the three Big Ones have cell phones, too, and text message Lord Knows Who constantly. She just might be raising a passel of boys with the strongest thumbs on all of Staten Island.

I can understand the five year old complaining "I have nothing to do", because, well...he's five. Five year olds have attention spans measured in RPM's, although, like I said, he's a Lego junkie and when he's in his zone you don't hear a peep out of him for hours at a time.  

And the Swimming Pool hasn't even been opened for the season yet. On a good day, my nephews will protest, loudly and in a manner which reminds me of a menstrual girl, if their mother suggests they go outside to play. They've been known to cry about 'how unfair' that is. Did you ever know kids to complain they're being sent outside to play? They'd rather ride their kick scooters IN THE HOUSE, on her marble-and-ceramic-tile floors, and she lets them get away with it.
 
So, who has 'nothing to do'? Well, the 13 and 14 year old, naturally. They're the biggest pests of all that way. They decide that since there's 'nothing to do' why not engage in a bit of absolute stupidity and build a tree swing?

Now, about this swing. It's my brother-in-law's fault. He decided one day that it would be a good idea to find himself a length of rope, toss it over a high branch on the tree out front of the house -- over 30 feet in the air -- attach the broken seat from an old office chair to it, and then encourage his children to swing from it. Even the Biggest Doofus. There's just two problems with this swing; the first is that once you're on it and gain any sort of momentum, you're swinging out into the street, and since there's about 20' of rope involved, you're swinging 20' out into the street and into traffic. The second problem is because of the peculiar position of the anchor branch, once you begin your 're-entry' from the street, you're likely to crash headlong into the trunk. If you're, say, 14, and weigh about 150 pounds and gather enough momentum to make the swing worth your while, if you hit that tree you're probably doing 20-25 MPH when you make contact.

Considering that the other three launch the 5-year old with enough force to loft the Space Shuttle, he's probably going to hit it at closer to 30 mph, assuming he manages to keep his grip at all.
 
For that reason specifically -- the five year old must be kept off of this dangerous contraption -- they are forbidden to do this thing without their father being there to supervise, so that they don't get stupid and carried away, and a 911 call has to be made. This Swing-erecting event also leads to the most inhuman arguing and crying you've ever heard over 'who's turn' it is; it's like listening to sorority sisters argue about who gets to use the Big Mirror, and there's no place for me to plug in my curling iron in the common bathroom with 12 other girls already in it. The whole operation is far more trouble than it's worth, if you ask me.

But this is exactly what they want to do, and they keep insisting they have the right -- and permission -- to do it whenever they fucking want to. Except that I know they fucking don't. So, I tell them; No Swing, find something else to do. This pronouncement gets the expected grousing, and unfortunately, no surprise at all, a lot of cursing.
 
I would have swatted them good for sassing me, but I'm not allowed to touch my sister's children that way. Consequently, neither does she...not until they've reached the point of being in close-to-riot condition. No wonder they push the envelope; there's no consequence for even having the audacity to dare it. Someone should smack them around. I took things from them I wouldn't take from a grown man without insisting he step outside and defend his honor. 

The Law has been laid down. No Swing. I go back into the house. The The First Indication is now heard from, and you would think the Gates of Hell had just burst open and poured forth a vast horde of soul-stealing demons, red in tooth and claw, fire and brimstone flowing from their flared nostrils.
 
A bit about my Mother, first, so that you can get some idea of what's about to happen when I continue this story. My Mother is, without a doubt, the most disagreeable person in this Solar System. She's not a bad woman, she just has some rather strange ideas and an overly-inflated opinion of herself which is totally detached from reality. The first problem she has is that whenever she says something, no matter how stupid, how inane, how inappropriate, how non-topical, insulting, no matter how unasked for, she believes it should be treated as if Moses carried the decree down from the Mountaintop engraved in stone. As soon as the words are uttered, she either expects whatever it she wants to be done right this very second, or that it is to be regarded with the same reverence and respect that we have for the law, worthy of immediate attention and action, and we should all fall to our fucking knees and thank the shit out of her for having graced us with her words of wisdom. 

I beg to differ. She was a rotten mother who offered no real guidance, and who's children suffered for her poor choices in husbands, and the bad decisions she made that ruined her life. These required her children to pick up the pieces for her, because that would require effort, and then support her for the last 25 years of her life. She's fortunate that we haven't taken her out into the woods, slathered her in animal fat, and left her there to face the grizzlies alone, or just tossed her off a convenient pier in cinderblock underwear, already.

As if this wasn't annoying enough, this distasteful personality trait is attached to a woman with an anxiety complex so monumental, and a variety of other mental issues of the Poor-Me type (the very worst), that it has kept the best therapist on Staten Island busy for 25 years...with no improvement to date, whatsoever. Which leads me to the question; just who the fuck was it who said she was the best in the first place? Because she's convinced that her every word should be an Imperial command, and because every second that passes between command and action builds up the cycle of anxiety and impatience, and because it all plays into this martyr complex of hers, nothing is ever simple. Everything is a fucking imperative, Earth-shattering emergency that is accompanied by That Sound.  

That Sound. Look up the word 'cacophony' in the dictionary. Doesn't even come close to describing it. Imagine it like this: the sound of 4,000 cats being castrated simultaneously with a rusty, unsharpened garden scythe, set against the background noise of a pack of constipated wolves baying at the moon whilst being serenaded by some great locomotive that hasn't had it's moving parts oiled in a couple of centuries moving at high speed, which then tries to come to a screeching halt upon a dime.

That's almost it. But still not quite. You also have to imagine someone pouring table salt into your eyes when you're hearing it. 

It's a terrible sound. Hearing it gives one the impression of great shards of jagged glass and ten-penny nails being pounded into your skull. The sweat breaks out on your spine. Your teeth are set on edge as if someone just slit your asshole with a razor blade and then poured lemon juice and Liquid Plumber into the open wound. You'd rather be sucked into a jet engine -- and survive -- than to hear that sound. You'd rather have someone open an umbrella up your ass repeatedly than to listen to it. You'd rather be the sex slave of some Al'Qada dude with a sandpaper and blowtorch fetish. It's a sound I've heard -- even in my sleep -- almost every day of my life for the last 44 years, and the amazing part of it all is that I haven't killed her yet.

MAAAATTTTYYYYYY! Come up here...NOW! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod....Look what that LUNATIC is DOING! STOP THEM!

The Swing is being set up. They can't even get the rope over the branch, and already, it's as if someone has just been struck by lightning, run down by a garbage truck and shot eleven times...all at once. And I absolutely HATE being called "Matty". I'm not a seven year old in short pants and knee fucking socks.
So, I tell them. No swing. Now knock it off. "But we have nothing to do." Bullshit, find something else.

Ten minutes later:

MAAAAATTTTTYYYYYY! LOOK WHAT THESE KIDS ARE DOING! Gooutthereandbreakhisass, goddammit!

Guys, I said Knock It Off. No Swing. Do us all a favor, and don't give that pain in the behind inside another reason to start wailing. I don't want to hear it, and it's pissing me off. Just shut her up and stop, or I'm taking this crap away from you.

Not two minutes later, it starts all over again:

So, I take the rope, the seat, and the garden tools they're using trying to get the damned thing over a 30' high branch. Find something else to do, fellas, because if I have to listen to that woman one more time, someone's getting killed, and it might not be just her.

At this point, the little guys want to go to the schoolyard and ride their scooters. Of course they do; it's only a mile walk, and naturally, the Big Ones don't want to go. I can only imagine what I'm coming back to when these two, naturally, resume their stupidity behind my back and Ye Old Nervous Windbag inside has several hours to witness and endure their nonsense and get progressively more aggravated, frustrated -- and even shriller -- because they ignore her repeated commands to stop it.

I take the Little Guys to the schoolyard, and we have some fun. They get to ride their scooters, they jump around on the playground, we play with a football they've found...and I get hit on by a chick. There's two scifoozas that we run into on the street nearby who talk as if they were taught to whisper in a sawmill, and use language that's...well... 'salty' is an inadequate description. It's even worse than mine.

Scifooza Number One can't stop talking about her boobs. In front of my two young nephews. She's telling Scifooza Number Two that as soon as she gets her "chemical balls" (admission: I have never heard this term before) she's going to get "my tits done", and "finally fucking get myself a fucking husband because all they want is fucking D-cups". Sciffoza One apologizes profusely for using such language in front of My Sons. There not my Sons, they're my Nephews, but it's okay. I'll just tell them to ignore you.

"Do you think my tits are alright, or should I get 'em bigger?" Sciffooza One asks. Scifooza Number Two feigns being flabbergasted. One gets the impression that Number One asks every random man she meets this question, and Number Two is obliged to pretend to be embarrassed, even though she's probably shown her tits to twice as many random men. And she might get paid to do it, too.

"Nah, nothing wrong with what you got. They're just fine."

"You boys are soooo lucky! Your father is such a nice man..."

"He's not my father, he's my uncle."

"He's soooo nice!" I'm now having my shoulders and biceps felt up and pinched as if she were looking for a ripe cantaloupe in the supermarket. She apparently likes my hair, too. I'm about to smack this bitch.

"I'm not married, you know...", She says.

"No? You? Can't imagine why not..."

"You have beautiful sons. I wish I had a son...."

"They're my nephews."

"Really? I thought they were your kids..."

"If you could shut up about your tits for three seconds you would have realized you were told otherwise three times. Maybe that's why you're not married: you can't shut up about your tits, you're pushy, and you don't listen very well."

 Number Two finds this uproariously funny. We leave. If I ever wanted the local equivalent of Trailer Trash, I now know exactly where to find it. I wouldn't marry this chick for a Green Card and a mention in her father's will. It took near an hour to reach the schoolyard, if only because the five year old has little legs that don't carry him so fast. Twenty-five minutes after we get there they want to go home. Another hour back. And...

There's the FUCKING SWING...naturally. And a crowd of neighborhood kids all waiting for their turn. Mommy Dearest is apoplectic, and on the verge of having puppies. I figure if she does manage this astounding feat, it ought to look like something out of Aliens, only with fireworks and more gunfire. It's now all my fault that this happened because I was away for three hours doing GOD-KNOWS-WHAT-STUPID-SHIT-YOUR-BROTHER-IN-LAW-IS-AN-ASSHOLE-FOR-SHOWING-THEM-THIS-SHIT-GODDAMMIT-WHERE-IS-YOUR-SISTER-THAT-INCONSIDERATE-BITCH-THEY'RE-DRIVING-ME-INSANE.

And people wonder why I am the way I am? If you had my life...

Anyways, here's what I mean by 'losing their childhood".

In my day, if we were told 'you can't do that', we simply found something else to do. And since we didn't have a billion beeping-and-bright-lights-electronic geegaws, we had to make due with whatever was at hand, and somehow manage to have fun with it. Worse, I grew up in Brooklyn, and there wasn't a front lawn, an open field for miles, or a swimming pool in the back yard. We didn't even have a back yard worth the appellation. In those days, we played a lot of wiffle ball (no one plays wiffle ball anymore), and a ton of stickball. These were games that were pretty cheap, and in which you could improvise equipment if you didn't have any, and play for hours. In winter, we played tackle football -- in the street -- and during the fall, we played tackle football...on the concrete in the schoolyard. Hockey was played year-round, either road hockey or roller hockey, ice hockey being something extremely rare: skates were super expensive (your parents might blow a week's salary on skates then), and the only ice was at Coney Island, which required a death-defying trip on the B or D train, dodging muggers and streakers. We used a roll of electrical tape worn smooth on the sidewalk for a puck. It works remarkably well on the well-worn blacktop of a city street.

Protective equipment, if you could find any, usually consisted of a mish-mash of catcher's gear, baseball gloves, football helmets and shoulder pads, and the simple expedient of stuffing magazines into your socks to serve as shin guards. A hockey stick in those days cost about $10, and that was a ton of money, so no one took slap shots -- the best and easiest way to break a stick on blacktop.

There were exactly seven television channels -- and one of them was PBS. Video games consisted of Pong, and if your family could afford it, you might get lucky and have an Intellivision, Atari -- or the Cadillac of them all -- a Commodore 64 with something like 3 really crappy games. Otherwise, you needed to scrounge quarters to go to the local candy store to play pinball, or maybe Space Invaders or Asteroids. When PacMan came around, kids seriously considered taking up a life of crime to support their habit. You dreamed of the days when you had enough quarters to just play a few games of PacMan AND get an Egg Cream. That was like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous to us.

We played a lot of common childhood games: Johnny-on-the-Pony, Red Rover, Stoopball (kind of like baseball, only with 'phantom' runners, where you tossed the rubber ball with all your might against your front steps when you were 'up'). We played handball and basketball in the schoolyard, boxball on the sidewalk (like tennis, using the square sections of the sidewalk as a court). When your rubber Spaulding ball split at the seams (they always did) from all that stick- and boxball, you simply took the two halves and played Halfball (a variant of baseball, played with the half a ball and a short length of thick rubber hose).

When you didn't even have a ball, you played Skelly. In this game, you shoot bottlecaps that have been filled with melted wax around a square 'board' drawn on the sidewalk or street in chalk. If you were really serious about your Skelly, you carved your Skelly Board into the hot asphalt of the street in summer with a screwdriver. Kids got very creative with their carved Skelly boards. Some were really intricate and quite challenging.

We didn't have trees to climb, so we climbed fire escapes and 'laundry ladders'. These were skinny, metal ladders, often 30' or more in height -- and not always anchored very well -- that one found behind most houses or apartment buildings, and to which tenants attached clotheslines from their back windows. Climbing a laundry ladder was usually something you did when playing 'War', in which we ran around the streets and the back-alleys in mock combat with toy guns. Try that today, and the local authorities will drag your kids off to a mental institution, just in case they want to grow up to shoot a Democrat. Any fence was like an open invitation to 'come climb me', and it didn't matter if there was barbed wire or razor wire, or even if it was rusty; we climbed them, especially if there was something 'cool' on the other side...like access to Tar Beach (the roof of an apartment building from where one could launch water balloons, or watch the local girls sunbathe).

Bikes and skateboards were rarities. In the Brooklyn of that time these things were likely to get stolen. At knifepoint. I was mugged at knifepoint, twice, before my thirteenth birthday. Nowadays in Brooklyn, they definitely would be stolen, only you'll receive multiple gunshot wounds and might get your house burnt down just so there's no witnesses to the crime for good measure.

Everyone played with matches. Everyone played with magnifying glasses and anthills. Everyone played with magnifying glasses, anthills, model glue and a can of hairspray. You circled the anthill with the glue, set fire to it with paper and magnifying glass, and when the ants came up to escape, you used the hairspray can like a flamethrower. We knew how to make slingshots, and makeshift crossbows with a piece of two-by-four, a thick rubber band, wood staple and a clothespin.

Disputes between kids were always settled with fisticuffs, or a wrestling match, and three minutes after someone got his ass kicked everyone was friends again. We collected comic books, baseball cards, bottlecaps and Matchbox Cars. We 'flipped' baseball cards, we pitched pennies, we played a lot of catch, Tag, Dodgeball (or a rougher variant, Kill the Man With the Ball), Red Light-Green Light, Ringolerio and Bulldog. We built model airplanes and ships. We knew how to build and repair our own toys, or adapt them to other uses. We did it in the CITY, too, with a lack of open spaces and grass, and with what nowadays would be considered Third-World-level disposable incomes.

In short, we knew how to be BOYS. We never had 'NOTHING TO DO'.
My nephews, for all the love I have for them, would have been lost in that world. They would have been constantly bored because no one would be giving them anything. As it is, they get so bored despite all they have, that they become single-minded of purpose when it comes to a tree swing that even in my day would have given Evel Knievel second thoughts. Now, granted, there's some creativity and a sense of danger involved in that swing, but the point is if we were told 'don't do that', we found something else to do, and we had enough of a store of made-up/improvised games/activities at our disposal that it wasn't difficult.

Nowadays, kids seem incapable of doing this. Try to teach these things to them, and they look at you as if you've just emerged from a spacecraft with three heads, green skin, and antennae. They aren't interested unless there's a flashing light, a large price tag, a beeping sound, or a degree of extraordinary, bound-to-end-in-the-emergency-room danger -- they call these things Extreme Sports nowadays, but in my day, they were simply the things The Stupid Kid Who Always Had a Broken Bone did.

There was a degree of danger in what we did, too, but it was always a calculated danger (kids were smarter then, I think). We knew the limits. An equivalent to this swinging between traffic and a great fucking tree trunk in my day was called 'Skitching'. In Skitching, one either wore roller skates, or did it in winter when the streets would be full of packed snow that you could slide on. You simply grabbed onto the back of a stopped bus or truck, and got low where the driver might not be able to see you easily, and got yourself pulled along as if water skiing. At least until the vehicle stopped, and you didn't...you usually only stopped when you got a face full of back bumper. The worst cases saw the Skitcher eat the bumper and then slide under the now-stopped vehicle, and being too stunned to move, get trapped under a wheel to get themselves run the fuck over. Never did it myself, never wanted to. It was just too stupid and dangerous.

But such was the life -- and the joys -- of a city boy in the 1970's, and amazingly, we did these things with no adult supervision, whatsoever. Makes you wonder just what the hell happened to the world and what happened to the Spirit of Boyhood. These kids today are such pampered, spoiled, over-supervised, whining little pansies who don't get beaten on a regular basis for their misbehavior, and who don't know how -- and who can't be trusted -- to play on their own. And who suffered for it all this fine day? Why... I did.

I'm not even their parent, either.

I had to listen to a Screaming Banshee who turns my insides into a knotted mass, and who could curdle used motor oil with her voice alone. I had to hike two hours to and from a schoolyard I didn't want to go to, and we barely stayed. I was nearly sexually assaulted on the street by a bimbo I wouldn't screw with a stolen penis, and who didn't even have the courtesy to offer me a drink before putting her hands on me. I had my nephews actually tell me to do something anatomically impossible -- twice -- and I'm not allowed to feed them their teeth. When my sister finally gets home, she wants to know why I 'didn't do anything to stop those kids from putting up the swing' and has the nerve to ask me if I'll watch them again the following day.

It's a good thing it was supposed to be Doomsday, and there was a 'We Didn't Die' party later that evening. I managed to play a few other games that night that also don't require flashing lights and electronics, or adult supervision...only adult participation.

That was something else we learned to do in the schoolyard, too. 

Fell Off the Wagon This Weekend...

You know, I once had a serious problem with booze. We're not talking about the kind of drinking one might call "social", but with the kind one typically associates with "Jesus Christ, this guy has a Death Wish" drinking. I pretty much spent my 20's in an alcoholic swirl, and looking back on it all, I'm surprised I even lived through it. Back in those days, it was nothing to put away a fifth of Canadian Club, or spend a day with my Best Friends -- Jack, Jim, and Old Grandad. Once I had discovered the Joys of the Margarita (the straight-up kind, with a salted glass, and not that girly, frozen shit), I can promise you that I had nights where how I managed to get home safely was a complete mystery -- it's almost as if I just pointed the car in the right direction and it found it's own way home. I once actually set a Tavern record and downed 18 whiskey highballs in one sitting...and still drove home that night.

Yes, there was plenty of drunk driving in those days, too (no accidents, though). In fact, I can tell you that I was given Field Sobriety Tests on at least four occasions -- and passed every one of them with flying colors, garnering little more than a warning to be careful, and I can't tell you how in the world I managed that. Every time I was under the impression that THIS time was the one where they finally would nail me, because even I had to admit I was fucking soused. A night on the town routinely came with a minimum $300 bar tab, and I was on a first-name basis with about 50% of the bartenders in New York City. Drinking all night and then pulling a 12-hour workday tomorrow, with little more than 20 minutes of sleep and a shower, was not uncommon.

Of course, back then I didn't know about depression and obsessive compulsive disorders and their connection to/with alcoholism, and whatnot. I just felt jollier and more confident when I was plastered -- not to mention that I had suddenly became incredibly charming to the ladies -- and I was able to pull it all off. They call that being a "functioning alcoholic", and my level of "function" must have been off the charts. Until that one evening when I was about 27. That night is still a blur. All I remember is that I awoke, in the driver's seat, in my driveway, with the engine running, my foot on the brake, and the car in gear. I have no idea how long I had been sleeping in that precarious position. That and the intense pain in the middle of my forehead, like someone had driven a nail between my eyes, was enough to convince me that this was probably a good time to stop drinking.

And I did. Mostly. I never got totally smashed again, and I (almost) never went past four drinks a night ever again...except that week where I managed to keep an English country inn in business practically all by myself. But there was a wedding involved in that one, so...I pretty much kept booze, except for the occasional beer, or (more rarely) two or three drinks here-and-there, out of my life. That was before 9/11, of course, when the boozing started all over again, but was quickly reigned in once more because Vodka and Tonics don't play nicely with Xanax.

I hadn't had a serious bout of drinking for perhaps six, maybe seven years...until Saturday.

I was invited to backyard barbecue by one of my sister's neighbors. It turns out that I had been invited because I make the best fucking sangria you've ever tasted in your entire life. And it's true: I can make a sangria that would make a Spaniard cry and curse his Mother. The ladies at this party had a taste for Sangria, and one of my sister's friends remarked that "no one does it like Matt...call him!", and off I went to mix up five gallons of the stuff for them.

That's where it started. One of the problems with making a really good Sangria is all the tasting you invariably need to do to get it just right. Particularly when you use my recipe, which calls for a generous dose of brandy. Anyways, as soon as I showed up, I was handed a beer, which somehow became six or seven. Then it was Sangria, again, another six or seven large cups. I should have stopped right there, but they broke out the schnapps and assorted liqueurs, and I was pretty much wasted and not even thinking about it. I must have done another four or five shots of Who-The-Fuck-Knows after that. The walk --more like a zig-zag stagger home -- thankfully short, must have looked like an old-time game of Frogger to an outside observer.

And for the first time in perhaps 20 years -- I was sicker than hell. Puking like a dog. Heaving so heavily that my abs still hurt two days later. Totally useless the next day, too, and unable to even look at food. I spent my 4th of July on my living room couch, gulping water and thinking "right now would be a good time for the Douchebag Police to come and shoot you, and put you out of your misery, Dumbass." I was ashamed of myself, and mightily pissed...I should know better. My nephews saw the whole thing, and they thought their drunken Uncle was something funny. Some example I set, huh? The oldest decided to be a wiseass and ask me how my old behind handled my hangover. That made me even more embarrassed and pissed off. They look up to me, and I love the shit out of them; they should not have seen any of that. I let them down.

The next time someone asks me to make them some Sangria, I'm telling them to take a long walk on a short pier (I'll just give them the fucking recipe and wish them luck). I was offered a beer today -- temps hit high 90's, and, boy, would that have been good! -- and politely refused. I'm thinking I'm going to need a month to recover from Saturday, and I'm not taking anything harder than a Coke, if I can help it, from now on.

I'm getting too old for this shit.

There's Money in That Thar' Shyte!

So, here I am, looking for a new start and wondering just what the hell I'm going to do with whatever time I have left before cancer, or some Islamic Nutjob with an Explosives Fetish, finally finishes me off for good.

Prospects have been, for a very long time, bleak. I mean, I spent my early working years doing "Brain Work" -- I was Computer Operator for a decade, and then a Data Center Manager for five years, and then a System's Automation programmer for five years after that. I'm not exactly the kind of guy who knows one end of a hammer from another, and when someone asks me to pass a screwdriver, I start looking for the Absolut bottle. In fact, asking me to work with my hands (unless you're a Lady, wink-wink) is a dangerous thing; I haven't fixed anything of value since I did that nasty thing to my dog with a fork (just kidding). There's not much Brain Work to be done, nowadays,and when there is it usually requires ridiculous qualifications (this is done purposely to discourage "Cattle Call" interviews of potential candidates....and discrimination lawsuits).

I've tried finding more "White Collar" work since my illness, and the subsequent destruction of my chosen profession in recent years; I have done some "Contract" work (only to find I'm not Asian, or cheap, enough to get steady work, even when I drop my price).There have been a few technology "side jobs" here and there, and once, I even tried to sell Green Energy (door-to-door) to sanctimonious assholes who simply loved the idea of the Green Economy...until they find out what it costs.

I've tried to apply for government jobs, only to find that I'm a) Too White, b) Too Male, and c) Too Smart, which puts me at the bottom of any hiring list for those plum Municipal and Federal jobs that require little thought, no sense of responsibility, and the ability to simply occupy a desk for 20 years until the prospect of "Early Retirement" with a generous pension kicks in. At this point, my only viable career options were beginning to look like "Pimp" or "Mafioso".

Ah, but then came all those internet thingies that say "Qualify for Job Training Funds in Your Area!", that I usually delete as spam before they even get comfortable in the inbox. But then one day, I figured "Why the fuck not?" and clicked away, and was actually surprised when one of them actually turned out to be legitimate. Wouldn't you know it; there really are a few (very few) "programs" that Straight White Guys might (key word) actually qualify for!

Serendipity having called, I responded, and found that there were a wide array of careers open to me, but that they don't fall under the categories that one might consider "careers", as much as they are "trades". Certainly, there must be a trade for me, right? Well, I considered culinary arts at first, specifically, baker or pastry chef. I could get the money for that, and even if the hours suck and the job can be messy, it's at least better than digging trenches or pumping gas, right?

But the pay sucks, and the one thing I'm not willing to do is take low pay -- I once had a six-figure income, and dammit, I'm going to have one again. So, I did some thinking (a dangerous thing), and my train of thought led me here:

We live in a world of shit. It's full of people who are full of shit, obsessed with their own shit, and enamoured of the smell of their own shit. I'm surrounded by assholes who pour forth the most inane an uninteresting --and often, frightening -- shit you can imagine, and just when you thought things couldn't get worse, scatalogically-speaking, the whole thing is run by politicians and businessmen who are experts at flinging bullshit with both hands. And when they're not trying to sell you a load of crap, they're all in the commode grunting and pinching some off. There's money to be made in Shit, if you're willing to be an unabashed opportunist (just ask lawyers, psychotherapists, political consultants, and Used Car Salesmen).

So, I've decided that I'm gonna take that grant money -- and go to plumbing school -- where, hopefully, they finally teach me that a wrench is not something you monkey with, or throw into the works, and that when you screw or nail something, it had better not have breasts and a heartbeat, or an irate boyfriend.

When Life hands you Shit...Learn to become a Horsefly. The Path to Being Waist-Deep in Cash is to be Knee-Deep in Shit, First.

In addition to the plumbing training I'll be receiving, this school will also teach me the finer points of tile work, a bonus when you stop to consider that there's more to the Plumber's Life than clogged toilets and leaky faucets -- there's also kitchen and bathroom renovations to be had (as well as heating systems, septic, pool and solar-heating systems). I expect to be "apprenticing" after training for a couple of years, but at least I'll have a license that says "This Guy Knows His Shit". I expect that the average workday will leave me...ahem...pooped (groan!)... but let's face it -- if there's any sort of work that people will pay top dollar for, in any economy, it'll be of the "Keep that Shit Away from Me!" sort.

Wish me Luck with this Shit.

P.S. - Imagine my surprise when I went to the "Retraining Center" and ran into not one, but THREE guys that I used to work with back "In the Day" -- a "real" programmer (master's degree, and former teacher!), an Electronics Engineer (former IBM Field Engineer), and another man with both a CNE and MCSE -- a veritable Networking Guru of Newtonian ability -- all with more than 20 years of experience "in the field".

The sad truth is that unless you're willing to relocate to some godawful place like North Dakota, or worse, Punjab, Magnitogorsk or Jakarta, and work for less money than the typical Dental Hygienist makes, you ain't finding high-tech work. Even the sort they advertise for in North Carolina and Texas are less "Tech" and more "after-sale-support". Unless you want to work 93 hours a week on contract for a major software developer who can break the contract just because it's partly-cloudy-with-a-chance-of-showers, you're not going to work in the sharp-end of the technology field at all... especially if you're 40+ and don't have a degree.

The scuttlebutt amongst my three former colleagues is that many people they've known "in the business" , have either picked up a trade (carpentry, painting, electrical work, roofing), or taken jobs driving buses, joining Law Enforcement, or had become the subject of a "Deadliest Catch" or "Dirty Jobs" episode or two. A few were lucky -- relatively speaking -- and died young (all seem to have died from problems usually associated with overwork and stress, like sudden heart attacks and strokes), with not a few suicides. The time was when the field was an "interior" one, restricted to those who did it, and those who knew about it, and the "community" here in New York was rather small. It was not unusual to work with someone for a couple of years, part ways and not see or speak to each other again, only to wind up working in the same joint a decade later -- where everyone knew the same people and told the same stories.

It seems the "community" is getting smaller, and less-personal, and the "Old Breed" is rapidly disappearing.

Had A Great Father's Day...

...even though I'm not a father.

I took my nephew to see 'Toy Story 3' yesterday (seventeen thumbs up! A must see! If you don't see this movie, you're a commie douchebag who says things like"bourgeoisie sentimentality" and expects to be taken seriously!). He's the last of the Piccolino Boys (for now, we think -- my sister has four boys, and I think she's like to go for the girl, it's just that her uterus needs a long vacation), and he's just turned 5, which makes him just capable of sitting still for 90 minutes, so movies are a pretty safe entertainment bet with him, nowadays.

Three weeks ago, we went to see "Shrek 3", and had a blast there, too (you had better see that, too, or you're no better than a Pro-Obamacare democrat -- small "d' intentional).

It's always the same: slice of pizza, over to the Dollar store to get movie candy (I'm already paying $8.50 for a kid's matinee ticket, and $10.50 for my own ticket -- New York is an expensive place to live, you know -- I'll be damned if I'm going to pay $4.50 for a box of fucking Raisinettes. Same for soda and popcorn (broke down yesterday because the kid actually wanted it -- $7.00 for a small popcorn!). And when the movie is over, assuming I don't have to rush him right home -- there's always the ice cream cone. By the time you're done, it's easily a $50 afternoon.

At our local theatre, they'll try to stop you from entering the premises with"outside candy" (there's a sign posted saying that this is prohibited), but I just dare them to try and take it from me. The one time I was actually stopped for this apparently grievous violation, I told the skinny bastard that I would kick his ass and then bang his sister afterwards if he didn't stop playing Theatre Cop right then and there. I think he works for the Border Patrol, nowadays. No one has made an attempt to halt me with contraband candy ever since. These kids today have no balls.

Anyways, taking the Boys to the movies is sort of a privilege I have always reserved for myself. As soon as all of my nephews were all old enough to sit still for a movie. It's been a decade now, and I get a kick out of it. We get to hang out, they get to gorge on junk food, we have a blast.

Four nephews, and perhaps 100 movies, amusement parks, mini golf courses, and goddamned Chuck E. Cheese visits later (if I ever have to walk into a Chuck E. Cheese's again, I'm bringing a gun and a stocking mask, and maybe taking hostages), it's still more fun hanging out with those kids than it is with 90% of the adults I know.

And I keep all the ticket stubs. I don't know why, but it just doesn't seem right to throw 'em away. I'm not going to tell you that whenever I see those stubs, I get a rush of "Oh, I remember when we saw "A Sharks Tale" or"Teacher's Pet" at the Such-and-such Theatre"nostalgia. I just remember the boys when they were small, and when going to the movies was an exciting adventure for them.

One day, they're all going to grow up to become great, hulking manly-men, but I'm going to remember them all as four-and-five year-olds sitting in a semi-darkened theatre, staring up at a screen, amazed, laughing, or just with a face full of melted chocolate. You see, the oldest (he'll be14 in October) already doesn't want to hang out with me anymore (he's got friends, and has discovered girls, you know), and soon his brothers will follow his lead -- the kids who were attached to my hip, and called every time they knew I was home to come and play with them, will eventually drift away from their Uncle. And that, I guess, is just Life.

Best to enjoy what you can while you can. Right?

I seriously hope that when Alzheimer's comes for me (with my luck, I'll not only be stricken with Alzheimer's, but with the rarest and cruelest variety that will allow me to remember the entire Disco Era with crystal clarity. Best to just shoot me now) and I can't tell the difference between delusion and reality, that I still -- somehow -- manage to see four little boys at the Movies, stuffing their faces with popcorn and candy, and asking me to read the subtitles on the screen for them when Buzz Lightyear starts speaking in Spanish, or laughing at the antics of CG-generated characters.

The End of Civilization...

...arrives not with a bang, but with a menopausal whine. For we are now officially living in the Age of Cougarlife. It was advertised on television today, and I nearly choked when I saw it (and not only because it was somewhat funny).

What is Cougarlife? It's a dating website for Cougars. What's a Cougar? Urban Dictionary has six definitions, which I will combine into one, easy-to-comprehend super-definition:

An older woman (35+ years old), often divorced and surgically-enhanced/preserved, but still attractive (if she's unattractive, she known as a mountain lion) found in all the usual haunts (bars, nightclubs, the beach, etc.), in search of younger, energetic, sexually-adventurous men.

The Cougar has an upside for the younger man; unlike many younger women, the Cougar is not likely to play games, or to be coy or confused about what she wants. She is seeking sex, usually consequence-free. There is a special sub-category of Cougar, known as the Bobcat, whose ultimate goal is to simply experience some form of intimacy -- any sort of intimacy -- without actually going all the way. Then there's the Cheetah, who is, I'm told, simply a Cougar-in-training (not quite old enough to qualify for full Cougar-hood, just yet).

This phenomena has spawned a new generation of opportunistic cad, known as the Cougar Hawk: young men on the prowl specifically for Cougars.

Damn, I gotta get out more, because I had not realized that human associations were being categorized in this manner. Then again, perhaps I'm better off staying home, because the more I read about this stuff, the sicker I get, as it seems yet one more sign of the ultimate degeneration of society as we know it.

In another day-and-age, the Cougar would be called various other names, beginning with "Skank", perhaps progressing to "Barfly", but finally arriving at the old formulation of "whore".

There are much cruder terms that I remember from my youth, which are far more descriptive and accurate, but which I will refrain from using. There was a time when women like this would be expected to feel some sense of shame, unless they were completely clueless. Now, apparently, promiscuity is a badge of courage.

Don't get me wrong, Men have been dogs since the model first slithered out of the Primordial Slime, and I do realize that times, fashions and mores change with "progress", but damn...Some of us can still respect a woman just because we're supposed to, you know.

I wonder how many of the padded-bra-and-girdle set who will undoubtedly sign up with Cougarlife (because once it's online, it somehow becomes hip) were probably the same women who spent most of their lives demanding respect from the Patriarchy, putting up with ex-husbands who only regarded them as good for one thing, and complained constantly about what absolute shitheels men, in general, are. They are now more-or-less advertising that they're willing to forego respect, and actively seek out shitheels, because...well, they're only good for one thing, and only to someone who probably won't appreciate them for it afterwards.

I'm not judging any woman who actually joins this site -- I know it sounds as if I am -- but I will tell say this about you;

If you thought you were treated like a piece of meat by every swinging dick on planet Earth before, just wait until the Internet makes this a 24-7-365 proposition. Despite the"Cougar" lifestyle and rules -- in which you're supposed to not form emotional attachments, and not expect him to call you the next day -- you know you ultimately will form bonds, and expect an acknowledgement of your existence because, well...you're female... and just that's how you're wired. This may seem like the greatest idea on Earth right now, but I can promise you that it'll eventually leave you feeling emptier than when you started.

Because, in the end, this isn't about you "empowering" yourself; it's all about Men once again finding yet another way (this time by using the power of Social Networking and Marketing!) to manipulate you into consequence-free sex, and making it seem like it was all your idea.

It's the Strangest Thing...

...but recently, people from my past, many I have thought long gone, have been steadily creeping back into my life. Some have been welcome, and genuinely missed. A greater number insist on skulking on the electronic perimiter, making repeated requests to find my e-mail addresses, phone numbers and other personal information, and then...do nothing with them.

A couple of you came here a time or two, as well.

A bevy of ex-girlfriends have been looking me up online. One even went so far as to hire a private service to conduct the search. Having once been an expert on computer systems and data collection and processing, I'm well aware of when someone starts making electronic enquiries into my life. Why this is happening now is quite puzzling, and since I'm not making much of an effort to respond to their efforts, I'm not very likely to ever find out. There's a reason you and I are not together anymore, Sunshine, and I can promise you that the majority of the times when You and I parted, it wasn't my idea. Now, in one case over 20-years after the fact, you're all looking for me?

Is it just idle curiosity? Is it regret? Is it just that you have too much free time on your hands? Are you dying and think you'll find some sympathy here? Do you want to gloat? Whatever it is, you'll not have whatever itches scratched by making half-hearted efforts; I know you're out there, and looking, so have some guts and finally say whatever it is you want to say. Otherwise, you're just doing the internet-equivalent of ringing my doorbell and then running away, which I find aggravating and rude.

Gee, I hope I'm not about to be presented with 17 paternity suits! I might have to pull an Edwards and start stealing dirty diapers.

So, to all the the Terries and the Beths, the Janettes, Joys, Jessicas and Jackies, from the Elizabeths to the Annies and Ailenes -- I see you! What is it that you want?

And no, that's not an exaggeration; that's just in the last two months. It's like as soon as they hit their 40's, all of them are suddenly wondering what became of me.

If you went this far, you might as well go all the way and finally write that e-mail you know you're really dying to send-- because I don't do "hints".

Also, because it's really rude to try to pry into someone's life and yet remain anonymous.

P.S. to all my female readers: Can someone please explain this phenomenon in a way that makes sense to a guy?

This is Why Rome Fell, You Know...

I saw perhaps the stupidest television ad last night for a Dating Club. I shan't identify the Club in question, because I have no desire to actually encourage anyone to join it. Suffice to say, this Club operates on the Internet, and caters to men. Personally, when I associate the words "Internet" and "Caters to Men", I usually think "porn".

So, naturally, I checked it out. I AM male, you know. I went to the homepage and looked around a bit.

What happens is that singles are, indeed, invited to join this exclusive club for very-important and exclusive people, and just so you guys have a chance, the membership is -- so they claim --80% female, making a for a 4-to-1 ratio of women (who probably don't look anything like the surgically-enhanced-airbrushed-sperm-burpers on both the commercial and the website). And of course, the 20% of male members, should you become a member -- the creme de la creme of masculinity -- belong to a carefully-selected, privileged caste, entitled to hunt in an exclusive domain, in a target-rich environment.

Think of it as being given permission to hunt in the King's forest.

I fucking laughed my ass off. It's great marketing, though, I'll give 'em that much.

Because think of it this way; if you truly were that sort of rare breed of man, why a) do you need help getting dates, b) why the hell are you looking for them on the Internet, of all places, and c) why are you hitting what is, for all intents and purposes, the dating Bunny Hill, where the level of difficulty is low and your odds of success have been artificially skewed in your favor?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know someone will say "But some men just don't have any time to find a good date...". Yeah, right. There's not a man on earth that can't find the time to hunt vagina --particularly if he's one of the exclusive, very-important and select few this site makes their members out to be. If you really are that great; good-looking, sophisticated, smart, well-off, then you should have women tossing their knickers at you. The way most women regard casual sex these days (it practically grows on trees), this should be a no-sweat exercise for that exclusive-sort-of-man.

If I had to guess, there's probably four average-looking-but-seriously-mental chicks for every pork-rind-eating-lives-in-his-mother's-basement-loser online -- but they all have credit cards and self-esteem issues. So, why shouldn't someone make a buck off of it?

If you want a date, Gentlemen, go out and get one. It's almost becoming a lost art amongst men these days. You only have to talk to her. Start with "Hello...", and go from there. So long as you act like a gentlemen and give no indication that you're a serial killer or child molester, you're probably on your way. Mind your manners, be polite, and remember that "No" usually means "Not right now, but maybe after my girlfriend leaves....". Unless it's followed by a knee to the groin.

The worst that can happen is that she'll tell you to get lost. Suck it up and fix bayonet again, Lad!

I swear, every day that passes it seems that technology puts more and more space and obstacles between people.

Sorry, I've Been Busy!

I haven't been writing much of late! And what I have written looks, in retrospect, like poop because I haven't devoted enough time to detail. But, I have an excuse, you see; I've been sorta-kinda busy trying to find work...again.

It gets increasingly difficult every time the search begins/renews. I'm getting old; I have bad knees and a bad back, so physical labor is out of the question. The skills I do possess are totally out-of-date because I haven't been able to put the to productive use for quite a while. I've been reading an awful lot about older men like me taking advantage of all sorts of grants for "re-training" but I never seem able to find any of this stuff. It leads me to believe that most of it is bullshit -- propaganda of the sort that's common these day, like "the Stimulus is Working!", or "Another job saved or created!".

What few leads I have followed in this "re-training" scheme seem to end as soon as I get to the part of the application that says "Check race"...and there's no "White" box. Or "Check Primary Language" and "English" is like seventh of eighth down the list. The sea of minority faces in the room is usually the giveaway, and all the people speaking Spanish are usually a dead giveaway.

I'm certain if I was Black, Hispanic -- or had tits -- the government would be more than happy to "help" me by making me a ward of the state. However, last time I looked, white men get to pick up the tab for that sort of thing; not take advantage of it. Besides, I really want to work, and to work at something that really counts or matters.

I'm thinking of starting some sort of volunteer work, just to get out of my own head and have something to do, and from what I hear, many people are somehow spinning that sort of thing into "careers" (by which I guess they mean "non-profit" jobs, which ultimately depend either upon charity or government funding. Screw that; I just need to be occupied).

Anyways, I'll keep plugging away, if only because I still have some shreds of self-respect, and I've always been too dumb to walk away from fights. Hey, I hear there's a Congressional set available in New York...you just have to keep your hands off you male co-workers. I think I can hack that.

This is Why There Are "No Good Men"...

Disgusting. A woman basically posts a How-To Guide for breaking up her marriage to a soldier...while he's deployed...and congratulates herself for it. People like that ought to be shot for treason. But then again, that's almost par for the course, nowadays, human beings being the short-sighted, self-interested assholes that they are.

While I was reading that, though, I was struck by the thought that, hey, this is the way to ruin any guy's life -- not just the ones in uniform.

As a single man, I can tell you that one of the reasons I haven't been to the altar yet (despite wanting to go there few times) is that most women of my acquaintance are very much like the woman who dumped her soldier-husband by U.S. Mail; many women nowadays are selfish pigs, who can't find their own asses with both hands and a flashlight -- on a good day --mostly because they are possessed of the most infantile notions of what life is about, and how it's supposed to be lived. Even the ones who you would think are independent, intelligent, have it together, suffer from the "I'm supposed to have it all" disease.

Your job as a man is simply to provide for her every whim and peccadillo, even when she says it isn't. You are expected to interpret her moods, gestures, grunts, groans and itches in a way that isn't even made clear by verbal communication, and if you don;t, you' re some sort of cad. She is not expected to make any sort of meaningful effort on your behalf because having the gall to actually ask for something you should be entitled to as a matter of mutual respect is somehow demeaning to her (the Feminists said so), perhaps even abusive. She's allowed to be a complete bitch, and it's your job to just suck it up and deal (she's come a long way, Baby!). She's to be kept in a fantasy bubble where real life is not supposed to invade -- especially not if it means a genuine hardship, or even minor inconvenience) to them. "I don't need no man..." is a common refrain....until they need DO a man; To pay their bills. To keep them in bonbons, pedicures and breast implants. To do something about her kids because their Real Father won't (and what a winner he was! His kids are usually so ill-behaved, spoiled or retarded that their birth certificate probably reads "Random Sperm Donor" under "Father's Name") To buy them the biggest dream house with the biggest, most-modern kitchen that will never get used, or just to buy them shit that they can stick in their girlfriend's faces.

You're supposed to be Deepockets-Supportive-Sugar-Daddy-Ken to her Entitled-to-Everything-But-Free-of-Responsibility-Barbie.

The worst aspect of the modern relationship is the strange need some women have for drama. Constant and of any sort. The more ridiculous and avoidable, the better. Even if they have to create it for themselves. It's like a drug. Where do they get this idea that life is their own personal Reality TV Series, with them in the starring role, and that everything within it should be subordinated to that premise?

When you have women spending literally hours a day watching Lifetime television, Oprah, Reality Television, reading Cosmo, People, Us -- some women are literally patterning their lives by what they see and read, not realizing that what they are witnessing are the exceptions and not the rules -- not to mention the constantly-available, instant self-indulgence and gratification of New Media like Twitter and Facebook -- you can now scream every intimate detail of your life to millions, laboring under the presumptuous idea that any of them care; they're too busy screaming about their own bullshit to actually care about yours. It's no wonder that regular guys never get a decent chance anymore; we're either chased away by the manufactured drama, we're turned off by a totally self-absorbed bitch, or we can't provide enough to brag publicly about.

And no, it's not just the young girls who are like this. I can't tell you how many women in my own age bracket I've met (late 30's-mid 40's) who are precisely like this.

It's already bad enough that if you're a bachelor at my age (42) that your prospects are already limited to the thrice-divorced, the surgically-preserved-and-Botoxed, the battle-scarred, the Clingy-and-Needy, the Desperate, and the Freeloader. It gets infinitely worse when the only role you have in a relationship is to be just someone to talk to...about herself...all goddamned day. That sort of conversation is always boring, absurd, and takes place on the junior-high school level.

But if we can evoke an even more horrible vision; if there is nothing more annoying than the selfish woman who merely expects to be protected from real life, it is the truly-frightening spectre of one who enters a relationship fully expecting to be treated like shit, only to find that she can't handle it when she's treated even halfway decently. This breed of complete lunatic is notable for shitting on you for no for reason she can explain without the Academy Award-winning Pyscho-performance. It's as if all the crying somehow makes it all logical, even though it isn't. You are held responsible for everything any man, anywhere, has ever done to her, and you get to pay for all their sins. This sort has a psychodrama that goes on inside her head. Her own thoughts prey upon her and she enters a state somewhere between half-bewilderment and half-panic which puts them in a state of total mental and emotional constipation. In the meantime, you (the Man) think everything is just dandy...until her Mental Ex-Lax begins to kick in. Here's the process:

1. You've just met:
He hasn't treated me badly....yet. In fact, he's been a perfect gentlemen. He shows me some respect, he treats me as if I'm actually a human being. Perhaps he's just hiding his flaws? Well, eventually, those will become apparent, and then we'll see if he's really this good or is just on his best behavior...

2. A Few Weeks Later:
I haven't seen much in the way of flaws. Okay, his sense of humor can be childish, sometimes, and he's enthralled by hockey, which means he can actually forget I'm here for a whole three minutes at a time...I don't know about that. Still, He's been very understanding. He's actually listened to me, and given me advice or opinions whenever I've asked for them. He hasn't criticized me, even though I have practically begged him to. There's something wrong; He must be hiding something, some tremendous secret that will make this all too good to be true. It must be something terrible, indeed, if he's going through this much trouble to hide it! I can't even piss him off and evoke the truly vile emotional response that I really crave -- no matter how hard I try!

3. A Few More Weeks Pass:
He's been Prince Charming. This is really getting too good to be true. I'm starting to get scared, because I haven't found anything terrible about him or his behavior. There must be something wrong with him. He must want to treat me like a dog. The longer this goes on, the more terrible I'm convinced The Secret must be. The longer I wait for this other shoe to drop, the more frightened I become. He might be a ticking time bomb. I know; I'll start breaking his balls and changing on him, just to see if he'll notice and to evoke some sort of response. Let's see what turns up...

4. A Year Later:
I've tried to start arguments. I've tried to disappoint him. I've pushed all the buttons I can think of. Yes, he got angry when I expected him to, and expressed interest when I thought He might, and perhaps even a bit perturbed when you could expect that, too. But he seems really patient. Even when He's rebuking me, he does so respectfully and patiently...Patient? Oh my god; He's a mental patient! He must be; no man could be this good without being crazy! Have I been dating an axe murderer? I have to find out! Maybe there's another button to push? If I push it, maybe I'll get him to show me the stark-raving lunatic woman-batterer and serial adulterer that I know he really is...

5. Some Years later:
Oh my god! He asked me to marry him! This is too good to be true. I'd better break up with Mr. Wonderful before he rapes and kills me, like that woman on the Movie of the Week. I'll make up some bullshit excuse. I know...I'll tell him that "I Need space" or that "I just don't feel it anymore..." If I cry and babble enough, maybe He'll just get frustrated, stop seeking honest answers, and just go away...

6. Epilogue:
She did it. She broke up with him, even put on the Performance of Her Life. The Self-fulfilling Prophecy that there is no Good Man out there, has now been completed. She has made it so; she chased him off, she tried his patience, she deceived him about the true state of her feelings. She drove him crazy while driving herself crazy. She can now complain to her girlfriends: "there's no good men out there...", and they can sit around getting fat, drinking margaritas and giving each other sympathy they don't even really feel, petty, jealous bitches that they are. A few years later, she'll call Him, and beg for forgiveness -- he'll do it, because he really was in love with Her --- and then she'll dump him all over again for an even dumber reason.

And then a year after that, the process repeats itself again...she expects to be forgiven. It's not as if He could have found a better vagina someplace else, is it? This is what Feminism and the Media have created truly Clueless and Seriously Messed-Up Chicks that are hardly capable of any human feeling whatsoever....except self-pity and conceit.

Writing "Dear John" letters or dumping a man for no other reason than that he didn't meet your very worst expectations, or conform to your never-ending-self-destructive internal monologue of tour-de-force bullshit, takes exactly the same sort of stupid and selfish woman.

I have some sympathy for the men in uniform who get treated this way, I really do, but you know what? This happens every day; the only reason is seems worse is because this particular woman took an extremely weaselly, and unusual, way out; she got her divorce, in effect, courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service. Gutless little bitch. But guess what? This phenomenon --Crazy-Ass Females -- that ain't exactly new, or shocking.

Update: If you think I was kidding, or perhaps too harsh, try this: Dating Women Makes Me Sympathize With Men, by....another woman.

The Eternal Guy Debate...

Over the Christmas holiday, my cousin and I got into one of those quintessential rites of manhood which involves great quantities of beer, a few shots of Jamieson's, and naturally, sex.

Not with each other, of course.

No, we got into the Great Debate. The Discussion to End all Discussions. The one thing men can argue about passionately that doesn't involve batting averages, steroids, or the finer points of tuning up a Pontiac GTO.

The whole, sordid question of "The Top Ten Hottest Chicks...Ever."

Now, for you ladies, I must explain a few things. First, we're simply obsessed with sex, even when we say we aren't. We can't help it; our brains are hardwired to automatically evaluate every piece of womenfolk that passes for a mating opportunity. It's why we stare at women who pass us on the street while we're walking arm-and-arm with you. We can't help it. It's a biological response very often beyond our control.

Second, we like arguing, and we'll argue about anything.

Third, you have to understand that the Category "Top Ten Hottest Chicks" is rather too broad a category for us, because we'll invariably include the slut from High School who did the things the other girl's wouldn't, or the bartender with no gag reflex that we know, but no one else knows her, so they can't evaluate your choices. So, we have to refine the category, and so we pared it down to the Top Ten Hottest Chicks from Movies and TV, but one proviso; neither Ginger nor Maryann from Gilligan's Island could be on the list.

Those two are another debate entirely, and one which often leads to fistfights.

So, here's my list (in descending order, and it probably shows my age, too);

10. Sean Young (the ultimate bad girl)
9. Cybil Shepperd
8. Terri Garr
7. Jill St. John
6. Jaclyn Smith
5. Goldie Hawn
4. Kate Hudson (have to get that Mother-Daughter thing in there someplace).
3. Racquel Welch
2. Barbara Eden

and the All-Time Hottest Babe,

1. Selma Hayek

Honorable Mention: Farrah Fawcett-Majors, Phoebe Cates, and Drew Barrymore.

Ladies, discuss my sickness. Gentlemen, chime in with your additions/comments. I'll keep a six pack chillin'.

Makes You Ashamed to Be Italian...

On the Jay Leno Show, the cast of "The Jersey Shore". The sad part is that I have known people like this my entire life, and they are, indeed, proof that stereotypes continue to exist because they are essentially true. That goes for everyone.

The two young men are what we refer to as "Guidos" or "Goombahs", the original metrosexuals made popular by Saturday Night Fever (see here), and the girl, Snooki (and what sort of Italian girl goes by a nickname like that, and you wonder exactly how she got it?) is what's known as a "Squaldrina" (harlot, trollop, strumpet or tart), but more commonly referred to as a "Scifooza" (Ski-foo-ZA); colloquial Italian for "whore".

It makes you sick to think that not only are these idiots the public face of Italians for the younger generation -- they're also the morons who will run the country in my old age.

(Note: I tried to upload the video, but it may be too big for Blogger. You can see it HERE).

We were once a proud race of people, possessed of an amazing cultural inheritance, but we've apparently given birth to an entire generation of mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging idiots who are too dumb or shameless to avoid putting their stupidity on public display.

The Huns are Here...

Okay, something I saw this morning while going out for cigarettes:

Five teenagers, three girls, two boys, hanging at the local train station before school. The language is, predictably, foul, and the girls seem to have the biggest potty mouths of the bunch. The boys are typical; dopey, clumsy and have few redeeming social graces, as is normal for a walking zit of 14-17 years. They are barely more civilized than chimpanzees. All are smoking like chimneys, at least four of them are spitting on the ground.

And then, it happens.

One of the walking zits does something. Don't know what (if I had to guess, he had wandering hands), but there's a girl in his face, yelling, screaming about how she was going to fuckin' kill him, ya fuckin' scumbaaaaag. She's relentless. She's breathing fire in full-out menstrual fury. And then the walking zit does something that I never thought to see in a million years.

He smacks the girl flush in the face. There didn't seem to be any thought in the action at all; he simply raised his hand, and slapped her. He stood there, defiant, even.

I'm starting to walk across the street now, to defend the girl. No matter that this is not my business -- you never, ever put your hands on a girl, and this kid needs a lesson in manners. I'm not intending to hurt him, just let him know that his behavior is unacceptable. But before I can get there....

The Girl hauls off and punches the poor bastard right in the mouth. And not just once, but twice; one right, one left. He fell to the ground, holding his mouth, and came up with a very bloody lip.

Now, normally, I might say "Good for her! The little creep had it coming!", but then I thought
"Holy Shit! What the hell did I just see?".

Apparently, in the new world of the modern teenager, it's not only perfectly okay for young ladies to curse like sailors, smoke and spit, they are now more or less expected to have to defend themselves against all sorts of cads, like the one who thought it was perfectly fine to slap a young woman in the face after playing an unwelcome round of grabass. And the thing of it is, this girl was not just lucky; she was prepared. She could throw a punch that would make Mike Tyson cower in fear. It would not surprise me to discover that she takes karate or kickboxing classes -- when she's not acting like a total skank and hanging out on street corners, cursing and spitting.

I guess that is one of the logical consequences of feminism; at a time when it is widely believed (actually, it's more like feminists continue to insist) that a woman is the same as a man -- except for that peeing standing up thing -- we should not be surprised when a) younger men treat women the same way they would boys their own age, and b) that a younger girl would not only be expected to take a punch --- but to deliver a better one, as well.

I am soooo glad that I don't have any daughters...there'd be a trail of dead teenage boys in their wake.

Such Are The Joys...

This past weekend, I performed a solemn, time-honored duty which has fallen upon uncles since the Beginning of Time.

I was Santa Claus at the annual Christmas Party at my cousin's house.

This is the second year running that I've done it, and I'm actually quite upset that I hadn't been asked to do it earlier. I wanted to do it for many years. I have four nephews -- only one of them is still small enough to believe, now -- and my sister would never take me up on it whenever I offered to wear the Red Suit. So, I missed a great thing, an almost rite-of-passage, with my three, older nephews.

On the other hand, my cousins have several small children of their own, and so do their friends, so there's plenty of kids around for me to indulge (or am I really just indulging myself, I wonder?).

Being Santa is one of those bittersweet sort of activities. The suit is hotter than anything you can imagine. Between the flannel and the fake fur, not to mention the wig, beard and hat, and you're sweating before you really get started. Let's not even get into the make-up, because, well, you need those rosy cheeks and powdered eyebrows otherwise the smarter kids recognize you -- and I had to sacrifice my mustache, too! But, I'd do anything for the kids.

But the payoff is worth it. The kids get excited. They jump up and down and sing songs, and give you great big hugs, and if you're lucky, when they sit in your lap for the photograph, they're smiling from ear-to-ear. And you get to hand out presents, no less! Who doesn't want to hand out presents to children? It's fun to watch the whirlwind of flying griftwrap, the raucous dogfight-like crush of little kids elbowing each other to get to the front of the line, the little kids who look at you like you have three heads -- and then cry their eyes out when they get left in your lap for a picture. The screaming, the yelling, the laughing, the out-and-out joyous chaos.

It's better than booze!

And Now For Something Completely Different...

Something positive! Can't have you thinking I'm all a rainy day, can I?

I have four nephews, all my only sister's sons (They are 13, 11, 8 and 4). I have always taken all the time I could to be 'there' for them. Teaching them all the things that somehow it falls upon an uncle to teach them by some unwritten law -- mostly the things that makes their mother cringe. But, I figure, screw her; someone has to teach young boys the joys of kitchen-cabinet chemistry, belching, slingshots, the really neat things you can do to an anthill with a magnifying glass and model glue, and of course, dirty jokes. It's their parent's job to make sure they learn to brush their teeth, watch their language and do their homework, and all that boring stuff, right? Someone has to show them how to be Boys before they become Men and have the weight of the world settle upon their shoulders with...ewww...responsibility.

And there I have been, all these years, in a position of both Authority (defined as "Now, guys, don't do this without me around, okay? Your father needs the garage to remain standing, and I'm a Professional.") and awe. Yes, awe. You never forget the look of incredulous wonder that crosses a young boy's face when he's first discovered that, yes indeed, farts can be set alight by a experienced man with a barbecue lighter, nerves of steel, and the proper technique.

Okay, so I've never really grown up. I like to sometimes pretend that I have, but let's face it, Men -- we never really do. I'm just a 10-year old with a 38 waist and a mustache. Most men are. We just pretend otherwise so that girls will like us, and stuff.

But, the youngest nephew, all of 4-years old, has really knocked me for a loop. He's my shadow (in much the same way that the eldest was when he was little), and several times a week, I get that afternoon phone call:

"Uncle...will come over and play with me?" It's delivered in a small, pitiful voice that screams loneliness, or maybe he's already learned that I'm a sucker and just won't say no, but pours it on thick, just in case. It's an ego stroke, I'll admit. Besides, I figure it's my duty, and more often than not, it's fun.

Usually, I get invited over to play Geotrax or Thomas the Tank Engine (he loves trains), and the routine involves me building the tracks, and then we act out the script of the DVD's of those programs that's he's just watched (he has an absolutely amazing memory for the details). He directs me and tells me what's happened in the little scenario, and I do what he tells me, and eventually, we have re-enacted the entire episode, every word, action and detail, and then it's time to go on to whatever other activity his short little attention span demands.

But recently he's been big on games. He'll sit still for a long session of games. Board games, card games, dice games. We run the gamut from Monopoly (suitably modified for a 4-yr old attention span; we just go around the board and whoever goes to jail three times wins all the money), to the classics of Chutes and Ladders, Old Maid, Go Fish, Yahtzee and even our special version of Poker. We laugh, we joke, he cheats. Oh, how he cheats! Like a democrat! He's sharp about it, even sly, too. And there's always an explanation of why he should be allowed to cheat whenever I call him out on it (gently and always with a smile) which is curiously lucid, and you just have to allow it because, well, that was a pretty great mental formulation for a four year old to make!

And it struck me just today, during a game of Poker-Keno, that I am watching the development of a little brain. A tiny person is taking shape, just across the table from me. Up close and personal. I was dumbstruck just as soon as I realized it, and by just how subtle the process is unless you pay very close attention to it. A month ago, he couldn't be bothered to count (although he could do so, at least to 25, always skipping 16, for some reason), and now he does so with eagerness. He couldn't discern the difference between a heart and a diamond, and now he corrects me when I mistake a club for a spade. I've watched him count pips on dice and then carefully and deliberately count out the corresponding spaces on the board with a serious precision. He comments on my strategy, and then even explains his own. He laughs when he climbs ladders, and giggles when I slide down, down, down the chutes. He boasts when he wins, and then explains how he came up with the masterstroke that finally sent me into a deadly tailspin ending in humiliating defeat (wink, wink). He announces grandly, "the winner of this game is the Champion of the World!", and does the inevitable Victory Dance before exclaiming "Let's play again!".

And then I laugh. Something I all too rarely do, nowadays. It's at times like this that I'm reminded that there are still things to wonder about in this world, and to laugh at, and they don't all have to involve bodily functions, table-top explosions or the death of a Kennedy, and that perhaps, I spend too much time spewing venom at the world instead of being appreciative for the little things. So, I want to thank my little nephew, although he may never ever read this, for giving me, I think, far more joy, and certainly more to think about, than I think I can ever repay.

They're Complaining?

Here's an article from the New York Observer, in which a bunch of whiny, metrosexual guys are complaining that they are being, wait for it....date raped.

Now, I don't know about you, but when I was a younger man on the New York Social Scene (such as it was in the days of rampant AIDS -- thanks Baby Boomers!), this was something we dreamed about. We'd have given a lung for it. If it ever happened to us, we'd take out full-page ads in the NY Times and brag about over and over and over until your ears bled...hell, we'd remember it for the rest of our lives. Ask any straight man my age (early 40's, and yes, it has happened to me, too) if he would turn down sex if it fell into his lap this way, and the answer you get would be something along the lines of:

a) No! and,

b) Hell No!

But, it seems today's pussy yuppie-wannabe Metrosexual lives in a state of constant fear of just this very phenomenon. Worse, they are creeped out by the thought of a sexually-aggressive woman who does what many men have done for centuries (taken advantage of a drunk) because ... ewww...she may have done the same thing with his friends. Yeah, like that ever really stopped a guy before?

The Cheetah, we're told, preys on a small circle of associates, treating her friends as sexual objects to be taken advantage of, and this causes great consternation and alarm to them (so much that the guys interviewed in the article -- when they aren't really bragging about being pursued by a woman who really, really wants lusty, consequence-free sex, remember to inject a smidgen of manufactured indignation into their tales). Poor bastards; they have chicks jumping their defenseless bones while they happen to be in an inebriated state. Why, I'm simply outraged (not!) at this abuse of an entire generation of young men!

Actually, I'm surprised to find out this many of them might be straight.

But of course, they (the metrosexual pansies) lie. Through their teeth. They love it. The purpose of the article was to not complain about a 'new' social phenomenon -- when I was younger, we had Cheetahs, too. Only we called them 'Sluts', 'Hosemonsters' or 'Slambags' (and far worse) and we didn't have to come up with a name full of groovy-super-clever-slickly-marketable cat connotations that make the allusion to the word 'pussy'. I'm certain that if we were to run unimpeded backwards through history, we'd find the Cheetah in Egypt, Ancient Rome and Angkor Wat, and she'd be pulling the train at Stonehenge, only she'd be called something else.

Usually, that would be...Desperate.

In my own time, my circle of male friends (on the rare occasion we're all assembled) can still make this particular boast; in any gathering, you are assured that at least 25% of the men in the room screwed 'Stephanie' at one time or another (name changed to protect the not-so-innocent). Stephanie was such a hyper-sexually-aggressive girl that the only otherwise-amazing thing about her is that she didn't do all those guys at once, just to save time. It was once said that Stephanie's highest ambition in life was to fuck her way through the telephone book. We'd laugh at that joke...and then secretly wonder what Stephanie was doing right now. You think this sort of thing hasn't happened before?

Far from being traumatized and embarrassed and put-upon by your Cheetah stalker, you guys know you love it, and the purpose of the article is really not to complain about a growing social problem, but to encourage other women to take up the Cheetah lifestyle. Because if there's one thing we know about women, it's this; they'll often believe and take to heart (almost) any shit they read. It's why Cosmopolitan has stayed in business for so long running articles entitled "What He Really Wants in Bed", always written by some chick you wouldn't screw with a stolen dick, and never once are the words "Corned Beef Sandwich and a Cold Beer" mentioned in the same sentence as Oral Sex. Some experts! But I digress...

I'm certain the 'feminists' will be out in force, defending their sisters from this gross portrayal of young 'womyn' as devious, potentially-dangerous, sexual predators...just pay no attention to the 40 years of 'feminist' nonsense that encouraged them to behave that way. In the end, this idea of women behaving rather badly will still be The Man's fault...somehow, someway. Always is. However, the idea that there are men being 'victimized' by these broads is laughable; the article simply yet another expression of a common male fantasy (and a much more common occurrence) which used to be a staple of Penthouse Letters.