Dear Mr. Bulger

Hi, Whitey.

So, we're driving, Mike and I, down West Broadway in South Boston, which eventually turns into East Broadway in South Boston, and we're thinking we should stop and buy Jim a twelve pack of beer, which eventually turned out to be the Heinekens that are sitting in his refrigerator as we speak. Unless, of course, he's already taken them down, which is something that's always a distinct possibility for an Irishman living in Southie, albeit a gentrifier in disguise. If you're Irish, and you live in Southie, are you still the genuine article if you grew up somewhere else, and you're a college graduate with a job in the business world? Probably not, but I can still pretend that you are if I'm going for Hardcore Boston, circa 1975, can't I?

So, on the way down West Broadway, we stop at a liquor store, and I'm thinking, circa 1975, that I should be a little wary of this. I mean, we're in the heart of Southie, and it's January, and three guys are standing in front of the place smoking. Who are we dealing with here? Some of Whitey's boys? Am I gonna have to throw down? Pull out my gat and be firin'?

So, you know, my guard's up when I'm walking in there, but then I see two hot chicks checking out the wine selection. Classy ones, not pregnant visor-wearing redheads with butterfly knives sticking out the pockets of their overalls. And then there's a guy with a poodle. And three guys who give me a wide birth walking in, as if they'd never seen such thuggery. And, finally, the guy wearing the leather pants.

In South Boston. A guy wearing skintight leather pants.

And I'm thinking, "Man, you leave a town for a few years, and things sure do fuckin' change." You readin' this, Whitey? Where you been? Your town's been occupied, and now, instead of you walkin' around, stealin' people's winning lottery tickets and commandeering their businesses, Southie's now the province of guys with poodles and guys wearing leather pants. And God only knows what those two went home and did last Friday night. You been home lately? Probably not, one would assume.

I'll tell you what, though. Your neighborhood's for the birds now, Whitey. Some pretty funny lookin' people seem to have gotten in there, and it don't look like they're leavin' anytime soon. In fact, it looks like they screwed around with the real estate values pretty good, too, and pretty soon even you won't be able to get a place there, assuming you've still got a little something stashed away, which I'm assuming you might.

The way I figure it, though, you'll be a little like me when you come home. You'll ride down West Broadway, and you'll look around, and you won't even know where the fuck you are. Even the projects look more like condos now. Painted 'em all up, and rumor has it they even let some of those mi-naw-ri-tees in there. Now, how that can pass without a little buckshot in someone's door, I have no idea, but I'm writin' it off to you not bein' around anymore.

Anyways, just thought I'd let you know that I was in your old neighborhood, and things look like they've gotten a little out of hand. I mean, come on. A guy in a liquor store on West Broadway wearing leather fucking pants?

The hell's this world coming to?

Weekend Business

1. Blog Problems: Suffice it to say that I could very easily, and very effectively, respond to the recent delusional nonsense posted about me on the internet. A vivid imagination can be a wonderful thing, unless it's maliciously directed at you. Believe me, I'm sorely tempted to offer an accurate verson of events, but will simply ask people to consider the source, and leave it at that.

See, when people attack, I'd love to fire back and blow them the fuck out of the water, but I can't. They're holding the ultimate WMD: my anonymity. So I don't, much as I'd like to. It runs entirely counter to my nature to allow people to fuck with me, but I've placed myself in this position by having this blog, and opening myself up to shit like this, so I have to swallow it. A small price to pay for what this blog has given me, I suppose. For more, I refer you to this post, where I discuss these concepts in further detail.

A lesson learned, which can be imparted to anyone in my position: once your blog is "discovered," be very careful with whom you associate. Trust your instincts. If a situation looks unsavory, it's because it probably is, and there's no point in trying to put a shine on it.

2. Weekend Festivities: A big gay blog "shout out" goes out to a few good "real life" friends of mine. Mike, for his usual not-quite-gracious yet not-quite-inconsiderate hosting of my visit. Jim, for the very interesting tour of gentrified South Boston and its bars, and Rich, for accompanying us on a sort-of fun night out in Jamaica Plain.

3. Meetup: You see Dan Tobin walking down the street. How do you know it's Dan Tobin? Because his picture is all over his blog, of which I've been a fan for nearly two years, and you know it's Dan Tobin walking down the street from two blocks away. So you duck into a bar, have a few beers, and find out the guy's exactly what you'd expect from reading his blog. Cool guy. I wish I hadn't been so hyped up on Red Bulls and coffee -- to counteract my hangover -- because I probably talked too much and monopolized the conversation. Dan, however, was a nice enough guy to humor me, and for that I'm thankful. Trust me Dan, I'm usually not so yappy.

4. Meetup #2: Another big gay blog "shout out" goes out to Mike P. Good seeing you again, buddy. Thanks for the booze and the history lesson. If you're ever in NY again, make sure to let me know.

Blah...

When you write a good blog -- if I do say so myself -- and it becomes popular, chances are it's going to result in the eventual "meeting of the people." Whether you're using your site to actively solicit these encounters, or they happen during the course of some newfound literary business attention you're receiving, you're bound to start forming relationships with people. I've met some seriously cool folks because of this blog, and I'm (almost) as fortunate to have had the opportunity to do that as I am to have received a book contract. I'd be a hypocrite to claim that the people are as important as the money, but the race is likely closer than you might think.

Occasionally, however, these relationships go bad, just like they do in the "real world." You don't get along, or someone does something stupid, and things take a turn for the sour. It happens. The difference in Blog World, though, is that one or both parties are eventually going to write about it. You can't help yourself. When you write a blog for a while, it naturally becomes your outlet, and that's where you turn to get the shit off your chest. When this becomes the case, as it has on a few occasions since I've become "known," I've chosen to ignore the problem and handle it privately. If I meet you in person, and we become friends, we're no longer "blog pals," and I will deal with you, from that point on, as someone I know in the "real world."

The rest, to me, is crap. If someone wants to write about me on a blog, I take it from whence it comes. Big fucking deal. Anyone blogging about me can only claim to have known me for six months or less, so I couldn't give two shits what manner of drivel they choose to put out. Same goes for blog commenters, and I'm not referring solely to one person's comments section. Check Technorati. I get mentioned all the time, and people tend to comment in the most absurd possible ways. "I don't like Rob." "Rob is an asshole." "Rob is a dick."

As if any of these people actually know me. If you've never met me, yet call me "arrogant," or "mean," or say you "hate" me, it makes you look like a delusional jackass. Seriously. I used to engage these types of people in email flame wars, and I'd get, in reply, idiocy like, "I've been reading your blog for several months. Writing is what goes on in a person's mind, therefore I DO know you." You think so? Really? Then I'd suggest you go seek professional help, because you're living in a reality with which I'm not familiar.

So, in the long run, I don't give a shit. It's irritating, but the feeling is fleeting. I honestly don't care. My complaints make for good blog copy, though, so there's that. The one thing that DOES bother me, however, is to have the notion spread around the internet that I'm overweight or obese. Yes, this is exceptionally vain and immature on my part, and when the book comes out, you're all going to see what I look like anyway, but I wanted to clear this up for the time being. I'd like to get a few points across here, so bear with me. Fuck it, right? We all have our foibles, and this is one of mine:

1. I went to college on an athletic scholarship. I played football, but was neither an offensive nor defensive lineman, so my weight was nowhere near three-hundred pounds. (For purposes of anonymity, I'm not going to narrow things down and mention my former position.) Right now, I weigh approximately fifteen pounds more than my college playing weight, a total which leaves me well under the magic three bills. I'm lucky if I'm 250 soaking wet. I'm also 6'2", and hold it fairly well.

2. I am a competitive weightlifter -- powerlifting -- and train, seriously, in an extremely hardcore gym, 5-6 days per week. I'm also an NSCA certified personal trainer -- a certification widely recognized as the best in the industry. I'm fairly certain I know what I'm doing. I can also dunk a basketball, a feat that's hardly the province of the obese.

3. As I write this, if I glance to my right, I see a table filled with supplements, cans of protein powders, and bottle upon bottle of amino acids and vitamins. I know how to diet, am careful about what I eat, for the most part, and have never let myself go. I'm not claiming to look like Mr. Universe, but I've been an athlete since toddlerhood, and I work too hard in the gym to allow shit like this to pass without comment.

Several people have met me through this blog, and if you need a credible source, I suggest contacting one of them. Any of the following will verify anything I've said about my physical appearance: Trix, Melissa Lafsky, Pat Stack, Jason Mulgrew, and Shannon.

This post has been pretentious, somewhat boring, entirely self-serving, and kind of gay, but I thank you. And yeah, Guy-Who-Just-Emailed-Me, I'm "rising to the bait," but who cares? I got a day's post out of it, didn't I?

What goes around...

Wrigley.

Surreal. More modern than my preconceptions had made it out to be -- at least compared to Fenway -- but you're there, and you see the whole point of the place, and you wonder why the Cubs can't win a damned World Series. Crazy the way people care in Chicago. And it's a good kind of caring, the kind you might call support, as opposed to the sheer maliciousness of sports fandom here in New York.

People in Chicago are nice. Not stop-and-talk-to-you-on-the-street nice, but nice, nice. A lack of pretense you won't see on the East Coast is what hooks you in. Went to sleep and woke up in a place I had only imagined. Calm. I liked Chicago, and I think I could live there.

And Wrigley for the weekend at the end of June.

"What do you wanna do?"

"Drink," I replied.

"Where?"

"Let's just walk around. I don't know where the fuck I'm goin'."

Stayed in the place long past when the crowds left for the afternoon, before the night crowd took possession. Dinner hour. Empty pub. Old Style on tap, and a big Queens drunk stapled to the bar, a long way from home.

"So where you guys from?" she asks, sliding another pint glass my way.

"New York."

"Oh yeah? How do you like Chicago?"

"I like it a lot. So freakin' clean around here."

"I love it here," she says. "Lived here my entire life, but I know lots of people who've moved here and never wanna go baaaak." The flat a.

"Don't blame 'em."

"So what do you do in New York?"

"He's a writer," interjects Phil. "Big time guy."

"Oh yeah? What do you write?"

"Nothin', really," I reply. "I have a blog that got pretty popular recently."

"What's it about?"

"I'm a bouncer at a nightclub in New York. I started a blog about the shit that happens to me at work, and it just kinda took off, and now it looks like I might get a book deal out of it."

"Wow," she said. "You have to give me the link to it before you leave. I've always thought about starting a blog of my own."

"You should. You get addicted, and if you're lucky, people'll see it, and you'll start getting some attention."

"Old Style?"

"Please."

"Here," she says. "Here's a pen. Write down the link to your blog. I really want to read it."

"You gonna start takin' my money anytime soon?"

"Nope," she says. "After all the assholes I've dealt with today, you guys are a pleasure."
________________________________________________________________

Hey,

I don't know if you remember me, but you were in Chicago back over the summer, and you and your friend wandered into my bar. I've been reading your blog for a while, and just wanted to say congratulations on your book deal. That's incredible.

I finally started a blog of my own, and I wanted to know what you think. Give it a read when you get the chance, okay?

________________________________________________________________

And it's good. A well-written, solid, commendable blog, from a terrific bartender in an amazing city that I can't wait to get back to one day. Check it out here.

Since you asked...

...and since I'm busy with the book and have nothing club-related to blog about, here is a list of the last five books I've read, with a truncated review tacked onto each, in case anyone gives a crap.

1. 'Survivor,' by Chuck Palahniuk: I love Palahniuk's clipped style, his sense of concept over structure, and everything else about the whole Chuck Palahniuk image. I'm a fan, and a big one. This one was a tad inconsistent, though, and lost me in spots, but, as with any of Chuck's novels, what's on is on enough to make it worthwhile.

2. 'Pattern Recognition,' by William Gibson: Once again, Gibson makes me wonder why I'm getting paid to do something roughly similar to what he does. We're both typing words in the same language, but that's about where the aforementioned similarity ends. Every sentence, with this guy. Every damned sentence.

3. 'The Mole People,' by Jennifer Toth: Inspired by the stench coming from the entrance to the uptown #1 train out of Penn Station. Felt the need to do some research. This book is what it is: an account of something written by a young author who'd recently completed grad school. Worth a look if you're interested in a previously unexamined NY subculture.

4. 'Ham on Rye,' by Charles Bukowski: Need I elaborate? I'm checking to see whether his father and mine are related.

5. 'American Pastoral,' by Philip Roth: I'm not Jewish, I'm not from Newark, and I'm not old enough to remember the Vietnam War. I still finished this one in three days. Enough said.

You Asked For It

Here's the link.

Random Book-Writing Thoughts

Writing books isn't the easiest thing in the world. What I'm finding, now, is that time is getting short. I'm looking at the volume of work I've been commissioned to produce for this book, and I've come to the realization that time isn't something I own any longer. It's gone. It's three in the morning right now, and I could swear I just woke up. You learn, when you're writing a book on a deadline, that there aren't enough days left in the string to make you comfortable.

This isn't because you're rushing, or because you're struggling to come up with the material. That, you've got. It's the sitting and thinking that accelerates the damned clock. It's getting together a coherent string of thoughts, and then having the real world interfere with the chain. It's the forty-five minutes it takes you to figure out how to transition between sections. To make yesterday's work segue cleanly into today's.

And what I'm also learning is that you have to trust your own editing, because eventually you get too far along in a book to go back and reread the fucking thing every single day. Eventually, the first stuff you wrote is going to be so far back there that you simply have to leave it as is, and move on with the new. It's not blogging. If you've got a blog, and it's you've been maintaining it for over a year, think about what it'd be like to go back and edit the living hell out of every post you wrote that you don't like now. Can't be done. You gotta do it right the first time.

And the adverbs. Damn my fucking adverbs to hell, for all eternity. You write and you write and you write, and you try to let it all fly, and the first thing you're doing when you go back over the whole fucking mess is taking a hatchet to all those stupid fucking adverbs that you tend to use over, and over, and over again. It's a goddamned disaster. I never realized I did that so compulsively. Why didn't any of you fuckers ever tell me?

One little tip I can give, and this is something that's come in rather handy so far, is to write down, as soon as you're finished with your day's session, exactly what to start off with tomorrow. I've been doing that, and it works. Gives me a little framework for my transition paragraphs, and winds me up to get going into whatever section I'm working through next. Everything has to be leading somewhere, and if you can make sure, before you go to sleep, to set yourself some guidelines for your work the next day, you'll find yourself well ahead of the game, and you'll save yourself a shitload of time.

Oh yeah, and when you're done for the night? Get the fuck away from the computer, and go to sleep.

Winner!

We've got a winner in the NAMBLA contest I posted back on January 3rd. "Trake Adams," which is some sort of pseudonym for some guy named "Ryan," has kindly provided me with the file I was looking for, and for this, he'll receive an autographed copy of my book, whatever the fuck it's going to be called, whenever the fuck it's coming out.

Ryan/Trake, I can see that you put quite a bit of time into searching for and editing the clip you sent, and I really appreciate it. When I passed it along to the friend for whom it was designated, it achieved the comedic effect I was after, and I'm grateful. Nothing better than a chilling NAMBLA message to brighten the day of a stressed-out friend.

Just so everyone knows, it's going to be a while before the book comes out. The publishing process moves slowly, and considering the fact that I haven't yet handed in the final manuscript, it could be some time before anyone winning one of my half-assed contests actually gets their copy. Your addresses are on file, however, and you will get your "prizes" as soon as they're available to me.

A Clarification

Click on that link I posted at the tail end of yesterday's blog entry, and follow it around the internet for a while. See where it leads. Toss a few blades of grass in the air, and check the direction of the wind. Hear what the people have to say.

After 'cruising the forums' today and gauging reaction near and far, one fact, and one fact alone, has become readily apparent: America hates Guidos. With a passion. The hair, the eyebrows, the clothes, the grease, the steroids -- the entire package has been evaluated, and found wanting. And you know what? I don't fucking blame you in the least. If nothing else, this blog -- and, to some extent, my forthcoming book -- has endeavored, for over nineteen months, to vigorously repudiate this entire 'culture.' So I know.

The one thing I'd like to make clear, however, is that this is, and has always been, a New York blog. The Guido phenomenon, much as it gives me the douche chills to sit here and claim it as my own, is centered in New York. Not New Jersey. There seems, however, to be a widespread tendency for people in other parts of the United States to refer to these characters as "Jersey Guidos," and I'm not quite sure how this misconception got started. Granted, there is, admittedly, a large segment of the Guido populace residing in the Garden State, but New Jersey isn't where the whole thing began, and New Jersey can hardly claim to be its cultural epicenter.

The people of whom I write hail primarily from the five boroughs of New York City, Long Island, and Westchester counties. The northern half of New Jersey, although from all reports saturated with Guidos, isn't sufficiently populated to register anything more than a slight blip on our radar at the front door of a Guido-infested city nightclub. One-in-ten, tops. And that's on one of their good nights.

When the "eyebrow parade" starts rolling down the sidewalk, I'm checking mostly New York licenses -- and, of course, the ubiquitous New York State Identification card indicative of a DWI arrest. Staten Island. Howard Beach, Queens. Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Yonkers. Massapequa. Very few from Jersey. We do get some, to be sure, but I wanted to make it clear -- for what little it's worth -- that the term "Jersey Guido" is something that's been coined by people who quite obviously aren't from this area.

Trust me. I'm from here. I see them every single goddamned motherfucking day. When one of these jerkoffs comes strutting down the block, I'm not thinking he's from "Jersey." This is simple, folks. Think Tony Manero in Saturday Night Fever. This, like every other tackification of Americana, is purely a New York thing.

Yelling

Sometimes this whole blogging business gets me angry. Sometimes people who blog, or comment on other people's blogs, or email people who have blogs, piss me off the point where I'd like to commit acts of physical violence. I don't, and won't, of course, because I'll never know who these people are, or where they live, and anyway, by the time I'd manage to find them, I'd likely forget what the problem was in the first place, at which point I'd be offered a drink and a puff on a joint, which I'd promptly turn down in favor of an elevated concentration on drinking. I'm a binge drinker. Not much for the weed, though.

What do I oppose? I oppose comment hostility. Email hostility. People with a 'bone to pick.' Note the absence of comments on this blog. They're gone because of the glaring distinction between "people who comment," and "people who email." Most of the commenters on this blog were okay, but a select few were douchebags. I hated them. I spent precious minutes of my life -- time I'll never get back -- chasing down their IP addresses with this magical tool, which invariably led to frustration because the narrowing-down process tantalized me. I know where you live, vaguely, but I still can't get you. All the good shit came in via email, anyway. Agents and publishers tend not to comment on blogs.

Occasionally, this great comment smoke-out was akin to playing Whack-a-Mole under the wild-eyed scrutiny of carnies. I'd ban one of the fuckers, and he'd pop back up an hour later to insult me from a new IP address. Figuring most people have one of these contraptions for home use, and another for work, totaling a maximum of two, I'd ban the second, turn off the computer, and go about my life. What the fuck do I know? I'm sure someone will read this and advise me as to how there exist a thousand-and-one different methods of logging on from a dozen different IP addresses, all originating from one's home office, but I don't particularly give a shit. All I know is that the Moles would continue to show me I couldn't win, and I don't very patiently tolerate not winning.

And so it goes when you've got a blog that people read. You write something you think is completely innocuous. A throwaway line, in a throwaway post. You never thought you'd get a book deal when you started blogging. That's what you write. You speak the truth, or whatever subjective truth is true, to you, at the moment you're writing it. What's true right now, today, could've been a lie on some other day six months ago, and if it is, God help you, because they'll surely find it. They'll go back in your archives and let you know they've been looking, and they'll quote you, verbatim. Gotcha!

What do you know? You've caught that bastard Rob in an inconsistency. Hypocritically playing the humble card, when -- wouldn't you know it? -- the prick claimed on July 12, 2004 that he hoped someone would notice his blog and turn it into a book. How typically disingenuous of one of these calculating, shamelessly self-promoting blogger bastards to revise history when they catch their break! The nerve! The goddamned motherfucking nerve of that sonovabitch! These pompous pricks need to be shown.

What all this made me realize is that I'm not the brightest guy on the planet. Well, maybe not that, so much, because I actually am pretty fucking smart, but I'm often not much for the intellectual discourse necessary to deflect the majority of this shit. Like the Guidos about whom I write, my first instinct is to lash out. To play internet-hero and explain to the offending party how I'd prefer, above all things, to render my remodeling talents about the region slightly below his left eye socket.

Being a seasoned veteran of two of the internet's prime repositories for cyber-threats -- online poker rooms and weightlifting/martial arts sites -- I know better than to proceed down that road. It leads nowhere. Once, after inducing one fellow PokerStars degenerate to donate more than $50 of his money to the communal pot, I proceeded to make my flush on the river, and was promptly threatened, but this gentleman, with a brutal "beating," administered at the hands of his "crew." I was obviously quite frightened -- who wouldn't be? -- but somehow managed to regain my composure and continue my session at the table. The damage, however, was done, and I've played the game looking over my shoulder ever since, lest 'CockDiesel1985' and his "crew" eventually decide to seek their final vengeance for my thoughtless slight.

I do want to threaten people, though. It's my first instinct, and it's one for which I'll offer no apology. Would that I could, through an unfaltering fusillade of barbed witticisms, banish the jealous, the bored and the malicious, but I can't. Who can?

"Your blog sucks, you're stupid, you can't write, you use too many adverbs, your stories are repetitive, you're lying, you're amoral, and now, for the next five paragraphs, I will proceed to tell you of what the content of your blog should consist."

"Fuck you."

"I see. I was right about you. You're too stupid to respond with anything other than profane personal attacks."

"Go eat a dick."

"Ah, yes. The last resort of the stupid: to impugn the sexuality of one's nemesis. Are you a homophobe, Rob (if that's your real name)? Do you live in perpetual fear of those unlike yourself? You're likely a racist, and a misogynist, as well. I'm certain you harbor a distinct hatred for the world's indigenous peoples, because your limited understanding of other cultures has formed, for you, a boilerplate impression of those of us who aren't like you. I pity you, Rob the Bouncer. I've nothing but pity for you and your kind."

"I should kick your ass."

"Yes, Rob. Let it out. The next step in the progression of hostilities from the Great Unwashed. You cannot match my literary repartee, so you resort to things physical. How predictable. You are a tiresome, tedious, pitiable soul, Rob the Bouncer, and I mourn my existence in a world where oxygen must be shared, by me, with the likes of you."

There's always a moral high ground that the physically defenseless are able to attain -- an act that I'm not capable, mentally or emotionally, of carrying off. Goad someone into getting angry enough to threaten you, or grab you, or even vigorously kick your ass, and then point out, afterward, what a Neanderthal they are for resorting to the visceral. You'll always win that way. The man who swings first will always assume the mantle of culprit. Retreat! Retreat! Retreat to your refuge, a harborage readily available only to those who can't pass muster in the physical sense.

Prod. Prod. Prod. Prod. Prod. Prod. Prod. Prod. Prod. Prod. Prod. Prod. Prod.

Fuck off.

How typical of your sort!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

If this was online back in 2004, perhaps I wouldn't have had to blog about this shit for the past nineteen months. Thank God for Myspace.

Update

Sorry for the lack of posting this week. I had a few situations to take care of over the past several days, and I've been spending most of my free time working on the book. I suppose I really shouldn't refer to it as "free time," in this case -- I am getting paid for this now -- but you catch my drift. Something always has to give, and in most cases, it's gonna be the blog -- the hand that first fed me, of course. Loyal to the end, that's me.

I've wanted to properly thank everyone for the incredibly generous amounts of time and effort you all put into advising me on making a proper notebook choice. I still haven't pulled the trigger on anything yet, but I'm leaning toward the purchase of what one emailer referred to as "The Toyota of Laptops" -- the Dell Latitude D610. The price is well within my range, it's likely more computer than I'm ever going to need, and it's a Dell, which, from everything you've suggested, is more good than bad.

I'm still bouncing, still working the door, and it still blows cock -- most of the time. New Year's Eve was a major financial disaster. Since the entire place was reserved for the evening, I figured, in my infinite wisdom, that I'd be all set up to make a fortune at the front door from all the unfortunate shut-outs who'd be trampling each other for the privilege of bribing me with Franklins.

As it turned out, management decided they needed one less bouncer at the door that night, and yours truly just happened to be the odd man out. So, as you people counted the shit down, made your toasts, and did your thing, I, your celebrity blogmaster/author/bon vivant, was pinned in a corner with some Guido's ass grinding against my thigh. I believe my first words of 2006 were something to the effect of, "Yo, gimme some fuckin' room, please." Lovely to be an "inside guy" again for a night. Remind me to quit the next time they pull the rug out from under me like that.

Circumstances conspired to keep me from having my "big night out" last Friday, and so I remain sober. Sober as a judge. That could change this weekend, however. Stay tuned.

And does anyone know what the fuck that smell is? Go from the main Long Island Railroad terminal in Penn Station to the base of the stairs to the Uptown #1 train platform and tell me what the fuck that stench is, and why it won't go away. Are the Mole People still around?

Rocco

"We waitin' for cabs or cars here, guys?" I asked, standing in a driving rain, trying for all I was worth to get them all to go away. Hours of my life I'll never, ever get back.

"I gotta limo comin'," replied an older, bejeweled, charcoal-suited gentleman. "I'm a friend a' Christian's."

"So are half the people in here, dude," I said, cynically, uncertain of the purpose of this 4:30 AM declaration of friendship, typically incapable of resisting comment.

"Hey, can you do me a favor?"

"Come on, man. We been closed for half an hour. I'm not doin' any favors anymore."

"Listen," he said. "I'm a good friend of Christian's. We do a lotta business together, an' I was on 'iz list tonight. You could check."

"Whattaya want?"

"I just want me an' my wife and the other people in our group to stand in the lobby waitin', instead of out here gettin' soaked. My limo guy's gonna be here in a couple minutes."

"You realize," I said, angling for the payoff, "that we're trying to get everyone out of the club at this point, right?"

"Don' worry about it. You ain't gonna get in no trouble wit' Christian. We'll be outta here in five minutes, tops. I just don' wanna get wet."

"Fine. Stand over there by the coatcheck so you can see through the door." Nothing. Why the fuck do I ever bother?

Thirty seconds later:

"Yo, Rob!"

"What's up, Kevin?"

"Did you let that old guy back in? The guy over in the corner?"

"Yeah, why?"

"He just lit up a fuckin' cigar." In a strictly non-smoking area plastered with signs denoting it as such.

"Hey!" I shouted, quickly making my way over. "Guy! What the fuck are you lightin' a cigar in here? You tryin' t' get us all fired?"

"What's a' matter?"

"Dude, either put the fuckin' cigar out, or wait outside. You gotta be kiddin' me. You can't read the fuckin' signs?"

"This," he said, horizontally displaying the freshly lit cigar, "is a high quality Dominican. Best in the world. I can't put it out. You're killin' me!"

"Dude..."

"Hey Rob," interjected Boy-O, the club's primary Saturday night promoter, steering me aside by the shoulder. "You know who that guy is?"

"Should I?"

"Hell yeah. That's fuckin' Rocco, man. He'll hook you up wit' anything. You ever go to Miami?"

"No."

"He runs like five clubs down in South Beach. You go down there, he'll totally fuckin' hook you up."

"Hook me up with what?" I asked.

"Y'know, like comps an' VIP an' shit. Yo, dat guy like owns the strip down there."

"Dude, I've never even been there, and even if I did go, you think I'd go to this guy's fuckin' club?"

"I'm just sayin'," said Boy-O, the reality of conversing with yours truly slowly and uncomfortably settling in.

"Get the fuck away from me, Boy-O. I wanna go home."

"Ayyy, our limo's here!" shouted Rocco. "You believe dis fuckin' guy, askin' me to put out the best cigar in da fuckin' world?"

"I thought Cubans were the best," I offered, thinking the better of escalating the situation to levels of open hostility. Boy-O's not the worst bullshitter I know, so the guy was likely connected somehow -- my signature last word better left unsaid.

"Bullshit! Garbage. Cubans are garbage. It's a myt'. Nothin' but a fuckin myt'."

"I had a Cuban once. Montechristo, I think. Smoked it in Ireland. Pretty fuckin' good if you ask me."

"You ever tried a Dominican?" asked Rocco. "Much higher quality. You wanna try one?"

"Well..."

"Fuck dat. Come out to my limo."

Walk. Walk. Walk. Walk. Walk.

"Here," said Rocco. "Here's three of 'em. AF Churchills. My favorite Dominican cigars. How you gonna carry 'em?"

"I dunno. You gotta bag or somethin'?"

"You got a humidor at home? You can't leave these fuckin' babies out long."

"No," I replied. "No humidor."

"Here. Take dis one. Dis is my travel humidor, but I'm givin' it t' you for not lettin' my wife get wet. Merry Christmas, kid."

"Aw, c'mon. I can't..."

"Ayy, y'know what happens to bouncers who turn down Christmas gifts, right?"

"I s'pose," I replied, "you're not gonna let me be rude enough to find out."

"You got it. Enjoy 'em in good healt'."

"Thanks, man. Happy New Year!"

"Same t'you kid."

Weakends

"Hey," says Clint, whitely, admiring his painstakingly groomed reflection in AM1462.8's shiny new Christmas belt buckle, "you gotta get yourself a Treo. I just got the six-fifty. It's in-dis-pen-sible."

"What the fuck am I gonna do with that kinda abortion on my hip," I ask, incredulously, envisioning this fucking codpiece with keys saddled upon my waist.

"Dude, you're gonna need one. Trust me. I can't live without it."

"Live without what? My phone rings like twice a day, and both calls are me, checking to see if I have any hidden messages."

"Well," he says, "you're gonna have to do some business on the phone because of the book, aren't you?"

"For what?" I ask. "So I can get that one call from my editor where he says, 'Thanks for signing the contract. See ya in four months'? And the other one where he says, 'We haven't received your manuscript yet. Go get yourself a good lawyer'?"

"What about work?"

"What about work? Why the fuck would they ever call me? I've been showing up at the same time and place for two years. Matter of fact, I think they still have my old cell number. They prob'ly already fired me three times over and never noticed me still showin' up."

Fact is, folks, I got nothin'. No reason for wasting my scratch on any of it. I don't need a Treo, don't need no fuckin' Blackberry, and I'm not entirely sure I even need my trusty Motorola V-220 when you consider the number of times it rings on a typical day. What the hell's the point? I go to work, come home. Go to the gym, come home. Write, stay home. Boom. Done. The magnificent life of a so-called blog celebrity -- it's all a big fucking joke, only there's no real punchline at the end of the week to make it all worthwhile.

For all his well-publicized faults, I rather envy this guy. At least he's out doing shit on a regular basis -- a place in the city, living his life, getting it done. Always busy. Me? Not so much. Not that I'd especially want to go back to watching pornos and beating off a half dozen times a night, but still. Friday night -- my night off -- kicks off with a can of tuna, a protein shake, and an internet perusal of apartment possibilities elsewhere. And it always ends in a big way: reading, always on my stomach, until I'm out. Maybe a blog post or some book work in between, should I be feeling particularly froggish that night.

I wonder about things. Wish I had a more active social calendar. Wish all the people with whom I'd be hanging out on Friday nights weren't either married or living out-of-state. Should I make more of an effort? Lord knows I need the practice. Have I turned people down so habitually that they no longer consider calling me? Should I move? How the fuck did I become so housebound? And why do I even care?

So, starting this Friday, I wanna do some shit. I'm goin' out, motherfuckers, and I'm gonna get shitfaced. Matter of fact, I'm gonna get off the train loaded, proceed downtown, and assume my position as the life of the goddamned party somewhere. Anywhere. Maybe I'll piss on a building. Might even get into a fight or two, but I gotta break out of this slump somehow.

Anyone wanna join us?

New Contest!

I need a favor...

If anyone can either send me a link to, or a file containing the old NAMBLA answering machine message that's played frequently on the Howard Stern show, I would greatly appreciate it. You know the one -- the creepy pedophile with the Dracula voice who says, "Be brave...be proud..."

I have a friend whose life will not be complete until this bit is heard in its entirety.

Find this for me, and a free autographed copy of my book -- upon publication, of course -- is yours.

Thanks!

Disclaimer: Obviously, I want to castrate and/or decapitate everyone involved with NAMBLA, past and present. The purpose of this is to make a sick friend laugh at a particularly disgusting bit of audio.