The Ambiguously Gay Barber

When the mystery was solved my ego rocketed skyward, a steroidal geyser exploding with arrogance and cocksure bravado. Never had a question embedded itself in my skull for such a lengthy period, wherein its answer changed monthly. There was no algorithmic solution. No pattern in the randomness. No troop of idiot savants to rent for a calculated explanation. Only with the passing of time would the yoke of sleepless nights and unfocussed mornings lift forever.

In those cloudier days, the enigma cloaking my barber’s sexual preference spawned endless debate; dissected asininely as if the balance of the free world lay in its resolution. This was also a topic in which my wife had zero interest discussing, despite my placing it on par with the banking collapse, evolution, or the annoying ubiquity of Ryan Seacrest.

For every shearing administered in pink plaid, the next was performed in handsome khaki. During certain appointments, I mulled sadly amongst septuagenarians, believing that a once sociable barber shop had degenerated into a convalescent beauty parlor, shrinking my testicles with each visit. Other days, I listened to exhaustive analysis of Giants games peppered with masculine bluster. In other words, the man who shaved my sides and thinned out the top, no gel, easily flirted with re-coifed helmet heads and busted balls with sports enthusiasts in alternating breaths. The son of a bitch was purposely keeping me off-kilter. Until I figured him out.

He was gay. Gay as the happiest man to have ever fluttered into Manhattan’s Continental Baths to catch a Bette Midler concert and, on exceptional evenings, a venereal disease. For $15 plus tip, he was (and is) one of the most important gentlemen callers in my life. And despite the uncertain waffling between fabulous geriatric bouffants and utilitarian cut-and-shaves, I was thrilled to have solved the gender preference puzzle. No amount of gridiron banter would ever mask the Saturday morning where my hirsute hero donned, quite bizarrely, a full length silk robe; content to prance about his salon like some oily lounge lizard engaged in bad dinner theater. Yes, the mystery was solved with one egregious wardrobe malfunction. Without coffee, I might have assumed I’d mistakenly wandered into the Playboy Mansion to convene with Hef, receiving a smart trim by the randy mogul while enjoying the pleasures of silicone. Except, of course, this tiny shoebox next to an A&P supermarket is far from a tropical paradise, and the blue haired darlings who comprise over ¾ of the customer base are not the types I enjoy seeing stripped of their house coats.

Things weren’t always like this. The trappings of my first barber shop – an Italian safe house of ersatz wood paneling, splashed with fading posters of outmoded hair styles and Roman panoramas – attracted slovenly Mafioso aspirants who thumbed through The Oggi newspaper and spoke, argumentatively, in loud staccato bursts. If you could tolerate the interspersion of opera and easy listening dreck, took pleasure in receiving subpar haircuts which hearkened back to Wally and Beaver, and enjoyed a few cranial daubs of Clubman tonic, you were welcome to loiter in the cheap plastic seats from breakfast through dinner (or until you keeled over, or got shot, or just plain died of boredom). And if you grew tired of that, the crumbling racetrack – a once thriving establishment of vice and back room arm breaking – was located within walking distance. Of course, if you were wearing a silk robe in that neighborhood, you’d better have been carrying a concealed tire iron.

* * * * *

Addendum: As I learned in subsequent years, my barber was gay, but strictly in the original parlance of that term: merry, alive, exuberant. No ankles had ever been grabbed, no pillows bitten, occasional chickens choked, but certainly not in the shadows of a drag cabaret. In fact, he boasted a wife and kids, one of whom had recently married. The clues were there, and yet they weren’t. Assumptions will often backfire. Stereotypes will disappoint. If I gained anything from my rash misjudgment, it was the knowledge that one can confidently stroll a large town dressed as a pornographic tycoon, yet live a life as mundane as my own, behind closed doors. A little finesse keeps things interesting, at least in the ambiguous sense.

Either that, or his wife fell behind on the laundry.

Dullness And Birdsong

If I told you I was having difficulty finding grass seed in the local hardware store, or wondering why my instant coffee didn’t dissolve correctly in water this morning, would you care? Probably not. What if I professed to be standing on my roof while hurling truck tires into the neighboring yard, emulating the muscle-headed logistics of Lou Ferrigno from a 1970’s Strongest Man Competition. Without pants. Or cutting the adjacent lawn with a Fisher Price bubble mower, unsolicited, still no pants. Perhaps your interest might ratchet forward a notch or two. Surely, if I alleged to have carjacked an old woman in a fit of recreational boredom and crashed her Buick Roadmaster into a McDonald’s drive-thru booth, pumping my fist inspirationally upon impact, you’d be somewhat curious about my future shenanigans; forgiving me if undertaken fully clothed.

With the snowballing relevance of Twitter as a social networking tool, comes the irrelevance of most users’ status updates, or “tweets” to use the hip vernacular. In other words, unless your friend is a snuff film director or mule for some Mexican drug cartel, most postings straddle the gray area between brainless and boring (i.e. grass seed and instant coffee). Although we may wish to believe otherwise, our inherently mundane lives don’t translate into enthralling fodder for their doting fan bases. Rich content dissemination, this is not; as people effectively subscribe to the humdrum thought bubbles of others in a palatable 140 character context. According to the company’s mission statement, the utility allows one “to communicate and stay connected through the exchange of quick, frequent answers to one simple question: What are you doing?”

So, what are you doing?

Scratching your ass? Hauling garbage to the curb? Heating a pie, four and twenty blackbirds baked inside? You’ll excuse me for yawning, although I do love a good blueberry pie with vanilla ice cream. At least e-mail allows for the filtering of minutiae. Even Facebook, flawed as it may be, doesn’t necessitate a stream of vomitous quips to maintain its networking objectives. But the pressure to continually spew banter of trifling importance (in the hopes of placating one’s “followers”) empowers an entire subset of tech savvy airheads to inflate their egos with self-serving twaddle. I don’t care where grandpa left his shoes. I don’t concern myself with the changing of your toothpaste brand. And I don’t want to know about the great discount you received on hemorrhoid cream. I’m sorry. You’re just not that interesting.

As technology continues its loving home invasion, the lowest common denominator framework of Twitter has turned an entire generation from consumers of great literature to perusers of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. The coddled idealists of Generation Y are graduating as a class of streamlined cyborgs; lacking in basic social skills because their social connections de rigueur are almost wholly accomplished via truncated text and emoticons.

Far from a Luddite, this author's LinkedIn and Facebook accounts are relatively active, used as a means to connect with old friends and network with colleagues (see “The Return of Licehead” and “Will Work For Dignity”). And my cell phone leaks battery life for more than the infrequent roadside emergency. Within the province of the internet, however: Those who can write, blog. Those who can’t, tweet. And those lacking the patience, intellect, or vocabulary to read a thoughtfully constructed article, happily masturbate to the plebeian travails of their Twitter-happy common man, or Ashton Kutcher, or some other vacuous celebrity whore with nothing to say and the grammatically incorrect means to say it.

In any case, for those who absolutely need to “stay connected,” @EssentialBastard is preparing to take an enormous dump after publishing this rant. Follow me on Twitter for more real time updates. I even promise to wash my hands. Although in our new world of wireless internet connectivity, no one shakes hands anyway. It’s so 20th century.

The City Never Sleeps When Jews Cruise The Streets

When navigating the streets of Manhattan – whether en route to the office, late for a happy ending in the back room of a nail salon, or paying a lustful visit to the moneyed geriatric in the Plaza Hotel penthouse – the fastest method of transport has always been the familiar yellow cab. Piloted by unfriendly Middle Easterners with consonant-choked names and a penchant for faking their understanding of English, the quality and comfort you relinquish is agreeably traded for speed. Said differently, while many drivers view their air conditioning as a malicious affront against gas mileage, preferring to bathe in the humid soup of car exhaust, these captains of transportation will sideswipe old women to usher their passengers in rapid succession. Yes, the irony of Arabs fouled by high energy prices is quite amusing, especially as their countrymen erect garish islands to resemble the world map. But nevertheless, haste is everyone’s friend in the bustling metropolis, as faster rides beget more passengers, more passengers equal more fares, and more fares score more falafels; to be munched from behind the wheel of a sweltering hotbox with busted shocks. There’s nothing quite like the American dream on overdrive.

During Passover, however, the rules change abruptly. Within the past week I bore witness to a caravan of RV’s barreling up Sixth Avenue, violating every traffic rule in the book with the surprising cooperation of the NYPD. Dubbed “Mitvah Tanks,” this monstrous convoy – numbering close to one hundred – tailgated at frighteningly short distances to block all cross-bound traffic, automobile or pedestrian. Once the masses realized that waiting out this procession was as futile as waiting for Detroit to build sellable cars, many began darting crazily into traffic, this writer included, scuttling pinball-like around bumpers to the consternation of police and drivers alike; a real-life Frogger game unfolding with death as the ultimate downside.

There’s a bewilderment to viewing a seemingly endless cavalcade of Hasidic Jews, heads flung through windows like friendly dogs, waving (or in one case, flipping the bird) to the jaw-slackened citizenry of Gotham. Fitted with rooftop air horns spewing MIDI-style renditions of “Hava Nagila” in pious ice cream truck style, this convoy acted as a moving billboard, with every inch of every vehicle splattered with orthodox dogma and tag-sale quality paintings of stoic rabbis. One almost senses the joy of observing a zoo on wheels; that childish excitement of watching circus trucks roar to the fairgrounds, kettle corn soon to sweeten the air. Except there are no animals in this circus. And God is the ringmaster.

For the gentiles among us, the Lubavitch Hasidim are a profoundly religious sect, prone to unkempt beards in the vein of a shipwreck victim or Al-Qaeda mastermind, and always recognizable by their dangling sideburns, often coiled as if massacred in a scuffle with a curling iron. In other words, people will resign to look like imbeciles if they believe exterior appearance trumps charitable deeds, thus shifting them into the heavenly (and always kosher) express line to the pearly gates. Some dole out the ‘Watchtower’ door-to-door. Some drive Mitzvah Tanks. I quietly wait for Armageddon and pray for both.

Since 1974, the feast of Passover has introduced a mode of transport quicker than any subway, bus, or cab in New York. When riding shotgun with a group of focused Jews – speeding so fast you’d think they were aiming to recrucify Jesus – one is guaranteed to never miss that happy ending appointment uptown. That said, I’m hardly a fan of standing out, especially among a crowd of drably suited Goyim. Plus, it would take me 10 years to grow a ZZ Top beard of that caliber, and I can’t stand matzoh. Perhaps I’m forever doomed to sweat through my clothes in an odorous taxi, even if the driver is an irritated curmudgeon with an “I’d Rather Be Blowing Up Planes” sticker slapped crudely to the bumper. At least cabbies help you with luggage.

Red Sauce Wrecking Ball

After suspecting mafia infiltration within his company, my cousin promptly fouled his pants and scuttled out of state. Now, I haven’t had the privilege of breaking bread (or antipasti) with La Cosa Nostra, but excepting the evidence of cement shoe fittings in the boss’ office, or panicky associates racing by your cubicle holding their sliced throats, I’m not sure how one arrives at such an extreme conclusion. It’s possible that Cuz became paranoid once biscotti trays and espresso replaced the usual coffee and donut tender at staff meetings. Or perhaps the cafeteria switched to an all sauce menu, with rumors of matronly plumpers tending to tanker-sized vats brimming with marinara. And I suppose the erection of a monstrous crucifix in the building lobby – with guards upholding a shoot to kill directive toward any non-genuflecting employee – may have been the proverbial icing on the cake (or cream in the sfogliatelle, for those who like their desserts flaky).

This celebrated tale of staggering cowardice is sometimes bantered about during holiday gatherings, especially by the hand-flailing Sicilian half of the visiting famiglia. Be it known, there was no valiant whistle-blowing on the part of my cousin, no Dateline interview while enshrouded in shadow, nor was a wire ever strapped to his testicles from which to record criminally slanted discussions as a courageous informant. Rather, he claims to have been slapped Godfather-style across the cheek, and told to keep his prying eyes under wraps, presumably before a demitasse spoon could be used to remove them. In other words, his hands were in the wrong cannoli dish, and the greedy bastard didn’t know when to stand down from the sugar high. With credit to my hardnosed grandmother, God rest her soul, a subtle smirk or eyebrow lift, usually directed toward me, always revealed her true feelings about the story. In her heart she knew that everyone’s favorite mafia-fearing cousin had flipped his wig and bought a one-way ticket off the reservation, huffing the fumes of the loony bus. She was probably right.

Within months my cousin retreated from his lifelong abode in a spineless display of emasculation; filling his suitcase with bare necessities to make room for the colossal load of fright, paranoia, and extra underwear stuffed between his cheap shirts. This was the twilight escape of a mental midget, a man on the lam from an imaginary enemy. And while your blog writer was not present to wave goodbye in puzzled disbelief, it’s easy to imagine the “good riddance” hissed through my grandmother’s clenched teeth when forced to watch her escaping grandson’s testosterone leak down his pant leg. Off he went, head down, shuffling his feet into the big wide world. In later years, our runaway experimented with new age crystals, homosexuality, and jazz, before seeking the providence of Jesus Christ. This lifted the family’s tally of born again bible scholars from a paltry one to a boastful two (see “Everyone Loves That Wacky Uncle” from Jan 28), thus scoring a new record among my friends while setting the scene for dueling scripture quotation at ensuing dinners. When the Lord is calling his flock back for supper, who knew He came knocking at gay jazz clubs?

As a helpful rule of thumb, the Bastard recommends prompt remittance of “protection payments” for the man aiming to keep ten digits on both hands. For those not operating a small business or tooling around in double-breasted suits, it’s quite easy to keep one’s neck away from the trappings of organized crime, and thus one’s head out of a vise. That said, a law-abiding Italian hiding from the mob is like a fat man running from an ice cream truck. At some point you’ll either collide or find each other at a mutually appreciated venue, whether that be the park or the Ravenite Social Club on Mulberry Street. In this case, enjoy your anisette cookie, stick your cheeks out for the double kiss, and move along. Do not, under any circumstances, ask detailed questions, regardless of whether your firm’s cafeteria was refitted with brick ovens or a 24 hour pasta bar. After all, you’re going to want to keep that pinky for the ring, not to mention your wife for an excuse to wear the beater. Capiche? Good.

Bada bing.

Sponge Bob Unemployment Pants

The recession is troubling our oceanic friends.

Not even Sponge Bob can evade the swinging axe of fiscal conservatism, as his fry cook job at the Krusty Krab was apparently extinguished with a whimper, just as our nation’s unemployment rate swelled to the jaw dropping 25-year high of 8.5%. Although The Bastard remains ill acquainted with Nickelodeon’s porous mass, his presence was observed at a recent job fair, wherein the undersea pineapple habitat was abandoned in a quest for career-furthering (and acne-inducing) opportunities in restaurant service.

At first glance Bob was unrecognizable when compared against his jovial television likeness, swaggering idiotically from booth to booth with nary a briefcase or resume in tow. Perhaps he was enjoying that aerodynamic freedom without the burden of trivial baggage, intending to let his experience speak for itself. Or perhaps he didn’t own a printer, noting their inclination toward shorting out underwater. Oddly enough, his skin was much darker than its familiar jaundiced tone, and his face resembled Flavor Flav in some weird manner of genetics-gone-awry. More jarring, however, were the guttural vocal inflections in the vein of Redd Foxx; those raspy junkyard growls, used liberally when herding aimless (and seriously frightened) job seekers into single-file formation, should they accidentally drift. In fact, my new friend seemed more interested in policing the sanctity of these lines, or in excitedly grabbing the free apples out of a wicker basket, than in the improvement of financial wellbeing. Nevertheless, his flat-billed cap confirmed the attendance of basic cable’s favorite absorbent square. Emblazoning the crown of that hat lay an ecstatic Sponge Bob in all his overbite glory, staring skyward while providing a vivid target for helicopter pilots, crapping birds, and rooftop snipers.

Interestingly, this gentlemen – clad in the casual fuck-all ease of a brown hooded sweatshirt and jeans – queued up in the same lines as your blog writer and other hapless (suit wearing) professionals. True, his conversations with company reps lasted anywhere from 15-20 seconds as compared with the average 3-4 minutes, but perhaps those moments were chock full of brazen intellect; using a commanding brevity when declaring his abilities to mastermind any operation, in any field of work, whether sporting a wife beater, spandex bodysuit, or tuxedo. On the other hand, he'd already demonstrated the futilities of common sense with a presumed: “Shucks, why use this fishbone to comb my hair when I can just as easily don a train engineer’s cap.” Certainly there was a less intrusive fedora hiding in the man’s lair. Or a brain buried in that soggy sponge. Somewhere.

On a more serious note, and as a frightening testament to our hardened economic times, the line for this job fair began at Seventh Avenue & 18th Street and snaked a lengthy trail toward Sixth, before rounding the corner and twisting uptown. While slogging to its tail end, the faces of my unemployed brethren sharpened purposely into focus, eye contact met for seconds at a time. These were people from all walks of life, from all industries. People struggling with mortgage payments and rent, those with children, with non-working spouses, those forgoing health insurance because of the prohibitively high premiums. Those who looked just like me. Or just like you. Rich and poor. Old and young. This was not a line of Wall Street crooks sitting on six figure severance payouts. It was a cross-section of society, a melting pot of victims sunk deeper into humility, punished by the greed of the powerful and the power of the connected. Although photos of Great Depression soup lines depict a more staggering hopelessness – where embarrassed men in tattered clothes, desperate only for food, struggled to maintain a last shred of dignity amongst their neighbors – present day events will no doubt fill their own textbooks. Every person waiting patiently on that line has a story to tell; a hardship, an inconvenience, or a tragedy. Make no mistake. Every one.

But still, suit or no suit, the rules governing job-seeking decorum generally frown upon the display of animated characters. Put simply, leave that stuff to your boxers or thong underwear and it’s “don’t ask, don’t tell” for the remainder of your fetishistic life. Of course, months from now when savings is depleted and morale suitably trashed, the ironies of chance could smack my own ambitions on their ear with one simple conversation: “What about that imbecile in the Sponge Bob hat? He seemed to possess some genuine out-of-the-box thinking. With a few weeks of training, he could be our next rising star.” Thus endeth my career.

Let's Bomb China!

What are you doing next Saturday? No plans? Great. Let’s bomb China! Right off the map. None of this tactical nonsense. I’ll call my contacts in the shadow government and get the ball rolling immediately. Can I pencil you in from 10am to, say, noon-ish, after which we can grab some lo mein or pork-fried rice? No really, it’s my treat.

Nuclear non-proliferation be damned, I’ve had my swallow of black gold at $145 per barrel, and frankly – as a driver of two automobiles which require premium gasoline, not to mention a home in the northeast which is lovingly encumbered by the necessity of oil heat – those bothersome 2008 fuel costs may become a price floor once everyone’s been foreclosed upon and fired; thus signaling a nadir from which to retool, reinvest, and rewitness skyward-stretching commodity values.

From a geopolitical standpoint, soaring energy costs (observed before the housing and lending markets pulled an inverted headlock lungblower on capitalism) can be attributed to the emergence of once destitute third world nations. China in particular. As these countries began feeding the two-pronged beast of America’s import obsession and credit reliance, their GDP’s ballooned exponentially, translating into an increased need for energy to keep their river dumping, black lung inducing, ozone ripping, sasquatch-sized carbon footprint stomping, Industrial Revolution-era factories in full production swing. In other words, when we were buying, they were selling, and our greenbacks were sparking a Far East economic prominence to be celebrated like a year-round Chinese New Year bash, with enough fireworks to warm the heart of every noodle slurping Communist.

China’s been meddling in economic impropriety for the better part of a decade. When they weren’t nudging the balance of payments fulcrum – whistling nonchalantly as they forcibly kept their currency weak and their exports inexpensive – tilting our country’s (somewhat improved yet still disastrous) trade deficit, they were ignoring their infrastructure to the detriment of a massively impoverished populace. In this sense, consider the hypothetical carpet bombing a lesson learned, a proverbial slap on the wrist from a hard-boiled enforcer who is none-too-pleased with frothy commodity bubbles. And I’ll consider it a savings in my own wallet when the demand for oil from an extinguished superpower ratchets down to nil, just like the good old days of Mao coats and bicycles, when your old man could fill up his Cadillac V8, pump his wife full of six kids, and send them all to college, financially assured. If we need to start importing our tainted pet food, lead-based toys, and counterfeit drugs from another budding IMF hellhole of unhygienic proportions, I’m sure India or Russia would rise staunchly to the challenge.

You’re looking a bit pale, so perhaps I should elaborate on my background. After all, I’m certainly not one of those conservative right-wing nutjobs with a bible belt securing my jeans and a gun rack above my fireplace, quoting scripture in your public schools and asking for God’s mercy when I hear about free condom distribution, stem cell research, or illegal immigration. I’m just an ideas guy with no political axe to grind. And please, don’t bore me with this drivel about “consequences.” What if they retaliate before we completely destroy their armaments? What if we kill thousands of innocent civilians? What if it upsets the international community, and we have to wear a dunce cap at future G10 meetings? What if the (remaining) Chinese stop financing our low lending rates by ceasing their mammoth US Treasury purchases? Honestly, do your homework before regurgitating inane criticisms like that. When has this country, ever, in its storied red white and blue history, really thought through the long-term consequences of international policing and initiatives of global force?

Well, good, so you’re on board. See you Saturday. This fortune cookie is predicting a monetary windfall within the next year.

The Bus Driver Always Honks Twice

Should you have been a fortunate passenger of Bus #1 during my 1982-83 school year, this smudge of divine intervention would’ve placed you squarely under the aura of the “Old Guy,” our occasional captain of the yellow submarine. In retrospect, he probably rated somewhere near middle age, but through the eyes of a bewildered second grader toting a Heathcliff lunchbox, he was practically Old Man Winter: eternally grateful for the geriatric luxuries of waking up each morning, enjoying a commanding control of his bladder, and breathing without an iron lung ventilator strapped crassly to his back. In those formidable years, the spectre of a strung-out Vietnam veteran assaulting traffic as if reliving the Tet Offensive was enough to send this writer to his own minefield of early education flashbacks. Cornering the market on mesh baseball caps, our senseless leader was forever clad in an interchangeable surplus of brown checkered flannels; gnarled locks cascading over his shoulders like a rock and roll Jesus. Marry that consignment wardrobe to a pair of tinted shades – the kind that darken in sunlight and remain the definitive fashion plate of child molesters and meth addicts – and you have the makings of an elementary school conquistador (or a PTA nightmare, dependent on perspective).

This cat was an easy rider with a jones for the hash pipe; still damaged from America’s then-shameful ingratitude toward servicemen, and thrust into the niggling trifecta of double-digit inflation, oil embargos, and economic stagnancy. But inner demons were surmounted and income finally secured, exploiting every trick in the bag of a freedom rocking army discharge with the grandeur of Waingro from DeNiro’s ‘Heat’ crew. In the end, his worthy triumphs on home soil outshined any battlefield misfires. He became a substitute school bus driver, rising like a phoenix from the sullied ashes of war to (occasionally) command a squadron of snot-nosed, immature rugrats.

Whether by skyward Batman signal or clandestine phone message, the calling of the Old Guy into service was a treat. On a positive note, it kept him away from the racetrack, and quashed the gloom of entire days spent shirtlessly grooving to Crosby, Stills & Nash, burnt to a crisp. Whispers of his appearance spread virally through hallways and classrooms, excitement mounting in preparation for some Second Coming-type epiphany, especially should an astute set of ears learn of the regular driver’s upcoming vacation.

When assuming the position of transportation royalty, our substitute hero blared “Eye of the Tiger” at glass shattering decibels from atop his throne. Ghetto blaster in tow, its unsteady lean was always one pothole away from torpedoing down the aisle and lodging itself in the head of the trailing car’s driver. Without compromise, the Old Guy cranked this nugget of 1980’s gold through crackling, paper cone speakers on every ride. Morning and afternoon. Rewound and replayed. Pumping his fist in time with each rousing drum crash like our very own version of The Simpsons’ Otto Mann. And so began the lunacy of careening through busy intersections while untethered to our seats in the most anarchic environment this side of a sandbox brawl; a cacophony of pre-pubescent adrenaline, screaming about the “thrill of the fight” and “rising to the challenge of our rivals” like a hyperactive (and painfully awful) glee-club tour group. This was four-wheeled pandemonium compounded by the carnival barking of “Do you wanna hear it louder!” which punctuated the enclosed chaos like an A-bomb explosion. In second grade, things would never get better than this. Other than extra recess and Santa Claus, life was all downhill.

Did I mention that this was the Alvin & The Chipmunks version of the ‘Rocky III’ classic? Because I think that bears noting. Did I also mention that no student ever heard the rest of the tape, since at the song’s conclusion, Waingro would slam his fungal ridden thumb defiantly against the stop button? It’s possible that the remaining 25 minutes was intentionally left blank to encourage repeated listening – the type admired by air guitar shredding catatonics – because our faithful chauffeur enjoyed the high speed squeal of three rodents covering a glam rock anthem, envisioning their buck-toothed likenesses scampering up the stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It’s also possible that the ensuing space contained our driver’s own symphony with an escort, recorded in the shadows of a VFW sock hop or, dare I say, in that very bus while parked inconspicuously along a shaded lane. Perhaps across the street from your house while mom lovingly tended her garden some few yards away. As the old saying goes, when the bus is a-rockin’, etc. etc.

Old Guy, it’s been over 25 years since I’ve enjoyed your vibes. Assuming you’re still out there, rotting to the core in some understaffed VA hospital while bribing nurses to increase the morphine dosage, be aware that no one steered that bus with more cocksure swagger. No one jerked that door crank with more assured machismo. No one clutched that boombox with more calculated ruggedness, delivering well beyond the expectations of a grade schooler’s world which stretched, pitifully, from home to Main Street. But within that small window of early adolescence, between diapers and braces, when running with scissors was the most dangerous thing in our sheltered suburban lives and breaking the speed of sound lay miles past our infantile aspirations, you rocked harder than anything else.

Dude, you were a fucking flamethrower.

White Men Can't Rake

“There is no doubt that Mexicans, filled with dignity, willingness and ability to work are doing jobs that not even blacks want to do there in the United States”
–Vicente Fox (former President of Mexico 2000-2006)

Perhaps by virtue of my zip code or the silver spoons lodged firmly in certain residents’ throats, the number of home owners observed in gardening attire, bent ass-backwards to prune overgrown shrubs, pull weeds, or simply maneuver lawnmowers and spreaders across postage stamp acreage is negligible. In other words, white people in my neighborhood don’t stand in their grass. Presumably, they spend weekends listening to atonal jazz, reading English-translations of foreign novels, or maniacally shuttling children from practice to practice in the hopes of padding the family ego through competitive sports. So when autumn leaves fall or spring growth blossoms, I assume my token position amongst the affable Mexican day laborers.

Strangely, it feels disrespectful to strap on the leaf blower, as if I’m blatantly thumbing the eyes of these industrious landscapers, selfishly impeding their revenue stream with my amateur arsenal of tools. Just as a serial masturbator would anger the bible thumping right-to-life crowd with his wasted discharge of potential children, so must my presence in work gloves annoy the illegal squadron of lawn doctors. Either that, or I’m simply confusing them; effecting bewildered glances not only due to my melanin-challenged skin tone, but because these amigos can reshape multiple yards and grill a burrito in the time it takes me to blow leaves out of a small pachysandra patch.

Last Saturday marked a seismic event on the block, as two (count ‘em two) white men armed with dueling leaf blowers eradicated the last of the autumn debris in preparation for a new season of greenery. Me, and the realtor next door. Yes, the realtor, assiduously toiling to improve the curb appeal of his listing, yet taken aback at the way nature had reclaimed the property. Two white men slogging in adjacent yards seemed apocalyptic, almost dangerous, like we’d passed into some kind of dream nexus or Bizarro World worm hole; an affair nearly as foreboding as the crossing of proton pack streams in ‘Ghostbusters.’ Thankfully, witnesses were few and panic was averted.

But white men can’t rake. Not well, at least (see “No Money, No Problems” from Jan 14). Try as we might, I’m probably more suited to analyze the complexities of jazz, or trash my last semblance of dignity by shuttling random kids to track meets in a mini van: the end of the line for all Caucasians. That said, if faced with the reality of modeling seersucker pants on an afternoon yachting trip with uptight, gin drinking Protestants, I’d much rather hang with the Mexicans. They seem like a fun bunch, and the prospect of copious tequila while whistling at passing butt cheeks is a lot more enticing than croquet swing dissection. In between nacho refills, I can educate my compadres in the realm of financial discipline, and they can regale me with swashbuckling tales of navigating the Rio Grande in bathtubs.

Of course, this all begs the question: what can white people do? For one thing, we can swindle your money, hawking a complex alphabet soup of financial products like ABS, CDO’s, and CDS; analyzed, ironically, by a bunch of industrious back room Indians and/or Asians who see not in color, but in mathematical formulae and greek letters. Beware of people who have difficulty matching their socks, yet express flippant ease at destroying the financial landscape with instruments of byzantine complexity. And white people can sell this stuff, quite well I might add, due to our conversational breeziness and ability to look important in suits. Not only do we take pride in our wardrobes, but we conveniently jam toxic assets down the mouths of other white people who lack investment acumen or pecuniary sophistication. Then we get greedy, fuck it all up, and wait for cunning, stodgy white men (and one youthful half-white man) in the upper flanks of government to whitewash the scandal (excuse the pun) and bail us all out.

Now if you could pass the rest of those cervezas, it’d be appreciated. Just get that rake out of my sight. It’s really breaking my stride.

Of Fish Sandwiches And Reverence

Wife: (while staring at a pan filled with three uncooked sausages) I hate to say this, but they look like little embryos or something.
Me: Didn’t I recommend you start a blog?
Wife: I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.

Presumably owing to a strange shift in the cosmos, McDonald’s is again promoting the oft-lambasted Filet-o-Fish sandwich. Were my blog audience comprised primarily of gasoline huffing truckers or college burnouts, said ad campaign (2 for $3.33) would already have translated into ichthyo-orgasm followed by repeated trips to a (choose one) truck-stop restroom infiltrated with prostitutes or dormitory toilet stall littered ankle-deep with beer cans. For the rest of our readers – whether completely opposed to the cardiac arresting attributes of simulated food, or simply confused by the notion of orange cheese melted atop a perfectly processed block of the cheapest fish nabbed from the least desirable section of the ocean – your healthy intentions are saluted, but your risk aversions are bewailed.

My father, rest his soul, was never afraid to sink his chompers into the minced fish value meal prepared by the always irritable crew of the Golden Arches. While most patrons ease into their bolted seats with the known quantity of a Quarter Pounder, Big Mac, or McNugget banquet, he rolled the dice and consumed an objectionable sea creature – possibly spawned in the manager’s fish tank – like some fast food revolutionary; bent on shifting convention amidst the fluorescent-bathed kings and drive-through queens of our modern dining age. Although my father’s rebellious acts were nary more than occasional subtleties against principle (like ordering rum raisin ice cream purely because it was a menu rarity, without regard to his indifference toward rum or raisins), these screwball antics piled high throughout the years. In other words, the man didn’t get a nose ring or back breaking Ace of Spades tattoo to exhibit his individuality. He ordered the Filet-o-Fish. Repeatedly. Because he knew you didn’t have the balls to travel that road, even though his pants were busting.

Notwithstanding this curious pseudo-renegade trait, plenty of my father’s genetic morsels were passed along and reflected upon as I aged out of adolescence. Certainly not my right-brained artistic persuasions (dad couldn’t print legibly, much less draw a stick figure), quick witted sarcasm (primarily drawn from my mother’s Brooklyn-bred sensibilities) or detached earlobes (thank God), but there exist attributes in this head which mirror subsets of his personality. He never worried. About anything. His mindset was eternally optimistic. If you promised to be home by ten, then waltzed in reeking like a distillery four hours later, he’d simply have assumed you missed your train, or ran into some old buddies en route. Never mind the fact that my frazzled mother, by now insane, would attempt to throw me off a ledge after decontaminating my clothes. In more serious circumstances, police would never enforce a 24 hour missing persons rule because my father would wait 48 before even considering the call (and might delay further for inexpensive nighttime rates), remaining in a holding pattern of extreme normality; slugging down coffee like a caffeinated maniac, thumbing through the Times, and managing the eccentric underlings of his accounting department. By then, you might be chopped up in a suitcase, internal organs auctioned in the black market and transported to a third world hellhole for repurposing by unhygienic hacks. But then again, probably not. And life would go on. And so it did, comprised with other Y chromosomal nuggets like my anally intact organizational habits, excruciating attention to mundane detail, and faint OCD flare-ups (see "Christmas In January" from Jan 15).

Vividly I recall my father clad in a shit-brown robe flipping pancakes on Saturday mornings, singing along to the oldies on New York’s CBS-FM like it was his second job to destroy pitch and annoy neighborhood dogs. And there we were, our traditional nuclear family, passing the syrup while held captive in a radio reverb chamber double-timing as our kitchen, listening to dad mangle the words of the entire doo-wop canon. And though music was our shared passion, his forklift’s worth of showtune records warranted a masculinity citation of the highest caliber. But then again, he played that Judy Garland album loud and proud, windows flung open against a street full of pre-teens, because he had brassier balls than to which you could ever aspire. You didn’t like this dandy schlock polluting the air and ripping apart the ozone? Go home and play your own tapes, kid.

Sometime within the past eight years, my father got sick. He was a fighter, which bought him considerable time and confounded a revolving door of medical professionals, but all wearied victims consent eventually to their predator. At the end of a very trying week helping my mother plan funeral arrangements, shore up finances, and keep sanity amongst relatives, I broke down. He was gone. An emptiness had finally presented itself as the rest of the world was moving on and the realities of the situation were settling comfortably into focus. We never spoke deeply, he and I. His proud independent streak, mistaken as aloofness by certain types, was something I understood well and respected always, something hereditary which also burns in this writer’s own heart. That said, he approached fatherhood with brilliance. Never overbearing, compassionate when warranted, stern with matters of importance, and exceptionally lenient with the rest of life’s trivialities. The old man did things his way. He couldn’t give a rat’s ass what you thought.

But still, what kind of a person orders the Filet-o-Fish from McDonald’s? And then orders it again?

Apocalypse Now (With Love And Squalor)

Ain’t the recession grand?

A perpetual sucker for nostalgia, The Bastard recalls an equally frenetic time during 1981-82; one soiled by double-digit inflation, soaring unemployment, and record shattering bank failures. Although I was newly out of diapers and mastering sentence construction, our nation’s elder statesmen (most likely back in diapers at the time of this writing) had just maneuvered through an oil shock several years prior before wading through the dung of the most serious contraction since the Great Depression itself. But just as the summer of 1981 spawned adversity for key American industries, it also ushered in the golden era for Menudo and the mainstream explosion of synth-pop and resulting Flock of Seagulls haircuts. Said differently, there’s a pearl in every oyster. And that, my friends, is why I sit here like a grinning simpleton day after day, holed up indoors like some reclusive hobbit with minimal income, yet still whistling myself to sleep each night. Recessions have their bright spots.

Now, I could bore you to tears with arguments concerning global balance of payments, speculative bubbles, and savings rate disparity, but let’s just agree that the current market correction is a nice way to flush some fat down the bowl. And let’s also agree that financial hardship makes it easier to order a round of Milwaukee’s Best for destitute friends without eliciting the sideways glances usually reserved for wearers of foam trucker hats. Not only is retirement plan implosion a conversational ice breaker, but it’s a sympathy play and a hilarious excuse to bump chests. Moreover, job loss stories make for interesting coffee house fodder. In fact, there’s a quirky political drama behind mine which is certainly worth a latté or two. But above all else, this nasty contraction is forcing people to do their homework. Suddenly, headlines regarding AIG or Citigroup can be discussed, in relative degrees of sophistication, with barbers, policemen, gigolos, and just about anyone with a dime in the local bank and a desire to hang up the hat by 65. We’re poorer, but we’re also smarter.

Yes, I’m newly minted collateral damage in this equation. It was barely four months ago that I last hunkered down in the trenches of financial warfare amidst squabbling pundits; where every slip in the Dow hastened lively debate concerning the endgame for my weakened (yet still existent) firm. We were a sinking battleship, holes plugged with cork and bubble-gum, deck awash with raging sea water as crew mates pondered the drowning value of vested equity. Then I got fired. And the investment community took a collective breath. And the firm’s stock value slowly rose from its November bottom.

It wasn’t the most dignified of moments, speaking to my bible studying, power grabbing, allegedly alcoholic, pseudo-manager in what will go on record as our longest conversation ever. Certainly, my clumsy victory lap around the perimeter of the trading floor was an awkward means to close an interesting career step, but frankly, I couldn’t find the damn conference room in which he was roosting. Metaphorically speaking, I was shooting baskets at the wrong net, scoring touchdowns in the opposite end zone, completely disoriented with the building floor plan and forced to ask my executioner for directions to his own guillotine. Explicit directions, mind you, which made that second phone call all the more unsettling. Seriously, who does that? “I’m sorry, where did you say you wanted to shove that five iron up my ass, because I’ve already pulled down my pants but the numbering sequence for these rooms is rather confusing. Also, I think the sight of my bum is upsetting some females.” At that point, an HR lackey should have just lobbed a grenade at my workstation and blown me up in an extraordinary blaze of mediocrity. If anything, the blast could’ve made for an exciting “Power Lunch” segment on CNBC, targeting its economically fatigued viewership.

The rest of that day is inconsequential, although I remember taking shelter from the bitter cold in a subway station, making frantic calls on my dated Motorola RAZR V3, shaking my colleague’s hand in a Starbucks, and bemoaning the surrender of a Blackberry and its engaging diversions (BrickBreaker, anyone?). Removing that device from my pocket was like unhooking a brain, forcing its hollowed victim to amble zombie-like against the rushing flow of commuters who relentlessly bumped at my sides; a surging army of black overcoats en route to purpose and income.

As for my future, maybe I’ll join one of Barry O’s work project crews, assuming that his New Deal II ever shifts out of ideological gear. Hell, if I can calculate bond interest, I can learn to operate a jackhammer or swing a wrecking ball, all while smacking the cheeks of passing cougars. After all, someone needs to rebuild our country’s infrastructure and satisfy its aging female populace. I’m in decent physical shape and probably look alright in a reflector vest. If I could just wrench this five iron out of my ass, I’d be your model citizen for a new tomorrow.