Sure it sucked....

We were working with nothing today at Gawker. Nothing.

Solicitation

The deal for this week is that I'll be guest editing Gawker. All fucking week.

What I need from you are tips, tips and more tips. Send them here.

Hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas.

Stress

I’ve found another difference between us and them. Or me and them. Or the entire free motherfucking world and them.

The difference is, we’re happy when we’re out in New York on a Saturday night. I know I would’ve been if I hadn’t handcuffed myself to the door of some garlic-infused seizure-thon on the West Side of Manhattan for the past three years. I’d be overjoyed. I mean, fuck, you’re drinking for chrissakes. To be perfectly honest, the only thing that ever meant anything to me when I did go out regularly was that feeling I’d get after a few drinks. Fuck everything else – the buzz was the only thing that mattered. For my money, there’s nothing better than walking the streets of Manhattan with half a bag on. Those moments, those nights, are all about possibility. “Into Bolivia” fade your inhibitions and your debts, and out of mothballs comes your personality.

Call it alcoholism, but as long as I’m drinking, I’m fine.

As for them, they’re miserable. You see them, Guido after Guido, walking around the club, heads hung low, muttering to themselves about how they wished they hadn’t come out. They look at me and roll their eyes and shake their heads as though I’m some sympathetic fellow traveler who’s hip to the Guido plight.

And I do comprehend things to a point. I know what a pain in the ass it is to make my way into the city from the hinterlands, because that’s what I have to do. I have to do this because the money makes it worth my while. Guidos don’t have to do this. They don’t have to make a ninety minute commute into West Chelsea in order to get shitfaced. They don’t have to change trains three times to dance like retards. It’s not necessary to pile into an IROC and pay $9 in tolls to snort coke in dirty bathrooms. All this, I’m assuming, is readily available right around the corner – on Long Island or Staten Island or in Queens.

So what the fuck is the problem?

I’ve wondered about all this, so I did what any sensible bouncer would do: I asked the nearest depressed Guido. I pulled him aside the other night and asked him what the problem was.

“Why are you always in a bad mood when you come here?” I asked. “You always seem like you’re under a lot of stress.”

I’m friendly with this one. His name is Chris and he’s from Howard Beach. I helped him out in a nasty fight once. We say hello. We “hug.” Sometimes he hands me an extra twenty when his “boy” rolls in with an expired license. Sometimes it’s more.

“Yo, it’s because I am in a bad mood.”

“Why, though? Is it this place that gets you like that? Do you have problems at work? Why are you always walking around looking like the world’s about to end?”

“Yo,” he said, “you don’t understand, bro.”

“I’m trying. I mean, we’re friends, right?”

“Yeah, man. You’re my boy!”

“So?” I asked. “Do I ever ask you any questions? Tell me what the problem is.”

“The problem is that I just got engaged, and my girl don’t know I’m here, and I got like four bitches that wanna come home with me right now.”

“That’s your problem?”

“That’s always my problem.”

“Seriously?” I asked. “You always look like you wanna kill someone because you’re worried about the women you could take home?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s that easy for you in here?”

“Yo,” he said, “I can always take someone home outta this place.”

“So why get engaged?”

“Because my girl’s a fuckin’ sweetheart, bro. I could take all these girls home and fuck ‘em in the ear and it don’t mean shit, but I can’t lose my girl.”

I shrugged. “So that’s really why you always look like that? You got no other problems pissing you off?”

“Nah, man. You know me. I got two G’s in my pocket right now. It’s always bitches makes you crazy.”

“I heard that.”

Train Wreck

I'll be guest editing Gawker next week (12/26 - 12/29) from Tuesday to Friday. God only knows why. I'm assuming everyone they could possibly have asked to do it will be leaving the city for the week, leaving only an indigenous B&T unwashed like myself to mind the store for what I'm assuming will be a week of monumentally low ratings. The best part of the whole thing is that I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. None.

So, you know, if you like NASCAR and shit...

Magazines

Thank you for all the responses to yesterday’s post. I’m still sifting through all the emails I’ve received over the past twenty-four hours. They’ve been fantastic, and I appreciate it like you wouldn’t believe. The problem today is that I woke up with some sort of cold/flu combination and I haven’t really felt like organizing all the information so I can present it here, which is what I originally wanted to do. If I don’t feel like such a piece of shit tomorrow, I’ll do something along those lines.

In first place thus far, not surprisingly, is The Economist. I had suspected this would be the case, although I’ve admittedly only read it a few times. I’ll obviously have to give it a lot more attention after everything I’ve heard.

More later, after I sleep this shit off.

Interactive

I want to be a magazine reader. I want a go-to magazine for trains and planes. Here are my criteria:

1. It has to be non-sports related. I subscribe to Sports Illustrated, but it doesn’t leave the house. It stays home with me, to be read while I’m eating or in my “office.” Sports Illustrated is enough sports for me. I don’t need to buy anything else.
2. I don’t like political journals. The liberal ones advocate American capitulation to damned near everything, and I’m not into that shit. By the same token, I don’t enjoy reading hawkish conservative bullshit written by people who’ve never even been in the same room as a loaded gun.
3. I’m pretty good at getting drunk and laid on my own. I’ve also dated a few strippers, know several hundred good off-color jokes, and like my softcore porn airbrush-free.
4. I don’t want to buy something with George Clooney on the cover. I’m sure acting is difficult, and I’m sure he does it better than I ever could. I also know that I couldn’t give two shits about either his style or his opinion. The same goes for anyone else who plays make-believe for a living.
5. I don’t want to read about shit I can’t afford. This can be fun once in a while, but I don’t need two-hundred pages of truffles and condoms with embedded GPS receivers.
6. No fitness/bodybuilding/weightlifting/health/golf stuff. I already know how to “blast my triceps,” thank you.
7. Writing, please. I need articles. About interesting shit. By people who are “cool” enough to avoid trying too hard to sound “cool.”
8. I love Wired. But I’m not enough of a geek to appreciate at least seventy-five percent of most issues I’ve read.
9. There’s enough free porn online. Self-explanatory.

People who read blogs are smart. Many of you also know my tastes fairly well by now. I know this from some of the book recommendations you’ve given me in the past. I’m soliciting suggestions here because I’m legitimately baffled every time I’m at a newsstand. I don’t like anything, and I want that to change. I want something I can like enough to purchase on a consistent basis.

Tell me what I should do.

Dicked

I just love getting shorted on my shift pay. Love it to death. Nights like this are why I got into this business in the first place.

Sleeper

The thing about these massive “megaclubs” in Manhattan is that most of them weren’t always clubs. These buildings we’re grooving in down here in West Chelsea weren’t originally purposed for the accommodation of scores of dancing Guidos. No. They were designed with more utilitarian aims in mind, and many contain certain little architectural quirks that hint at their original functions. Obviously I’m just a dumb-fuck bouncer, and the people who own and operate nightclubs aren’t usually predisposed to discussing civil design-theory with some random shaven-headed moron who checks IDs at the door, so I can only speculate as to what some pre-war architect had in mind when he drafted the plans for the eyesore I stand in front of every night.

One club I’ve worked in has an absolutely beautiful bathroom on the second floor, directly above the main room. This bathroom is so beautiful, in fact, that it’s only used by employees. Nobody knows about it. The customers certainly don’t. With its palazzo-style marble enclosures, vaulted ceilings and soundproofed walls, it’s the most pleasant place on the property to while away the fifteen Guido-free minutes you’ll score after calling for a pee-break. In fact, it’s the only place “on campus” I’ll take a leak.

Sometimes, though, it’s not a leak. You’ll be standing there at your spot and you’ll feel something coming on, so you’ll pick up your radio and call for relief. Sometimes this relief takes a while to arrive, so you do what guys do and tell everyone in the area what you and your intestines are going through. People generally don’t want to hear about this sort of thing, but most men will announce it anyway.

One stall is designed for the handicapped. It’s roomier than the rest. For now, we’ll refer to this as my “office.” When I’ve placed my call for relief and I’m about to retire to my office, I roam around the parts of the club that you can’t enter, looking for reading material. Sometimes this reading material consists of some stupid nightclub trade magazine or catalog. Other times, I score with a newspaper. When this happens, it’s usually the New York Post, which makes me happy because I like their sports section.

I was very tired last week and didn’t want to be at work. In truth, I don’t ever want to be at work, but on that particular night I was really feeling it. The club was dead, there was no line on the sidewalk, and all I wanted to do was go home. One Guido in a club is one too many. Two Guidos constitutes a horde. A room half-filled with Guidos should be a cell block.

So, I found a copy of the Post and went upstairs and had myself a grand old time. I took off my jacket, hung it on a hook, clipped my radio to the breast pocket and sat down to take care of business.

A half-hour later, I was still taking care of business. That’s what happens sometimes. You sit down, you get engrossed, you lose yourself in the printed page and you forget you’re a figurative million miles from home, one story above everything you hate. That’s how it goes when you’re male. You realize you’ve been in there for a half-hour, you think about the ramifications of that, and then you go back to what you were doing. And you do it for another fifteen minutes until your radio goes off:

“Dance floor! Dance floor! Dance floor! Dance floor!”

I knew I wouldn’t make it to the main event. I wouldn’t have time. My plan was to hustle back downstairs to the front door so I could get involved outside, which, as a doorman, is my main responsibility anyway. I usually don’t run inside for fights anymore unless it’s very late and there’s no line. Even then, I’ll typically stay outside and deal with fights once everyone’s been ejected and gaggles of Guidos are standing on the sidewalk threatening to “call boys” and “bust caps.” If I could simply make it to the front door, I’d still be able to lend a hand.

All of which would have been dandy if my legs hadn’t fallen asleep.

I tried to stand too quickly and stumbled into the door of the stall. I had to grab onto the coat-hook to stay on my feet. Both legs were entirely numb, and I couldn’t even bend my knees.

“Fuck!”

Shaking them out wasn’t helping. Stretching did nothing. I put my jacket on, clipped my radio to my belt and replaced my earpiece, and still had no feeling in either leg.

“Mother fucker!”

I opened the door of the stall and staggered to the sink, stiff-legged, figuring I could walk the feeling back into my lower body by pacing the floor for a while. Slowly, very slowly, the numbness began to turn into pins-and-needles. Taking an inventory of movement – toes, feet, ankles, knees – I quickly washed my hands and broke into an uncomfortable sprint toward the stairway, leaning heavily against the rail on the way down. The pins-and-needles had become that wildly uncomfortable sensation where you can barely tolerate putting any weight on your extremities.

By the time I’d made it outside, it was over.

“Where the fuck were you for the last hour?” asked JD. “You bring a girl upstairs?”

“What happened?”

“Ah, nothin’. Just two assholes on the dance floor. Your radio working?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I heard the call. I was having a little problem upstairs in the office.”

“The office? Or the office?”

I leaned the small of my back against the podium and stretched. I was as stiff as a board, but my legs felt refreshed. They’d had a pleasant nap. “Where else am I gonna disappear to for an hour?”

“It’s all that fuckin’ coffee you drink, man. Goes right fuckin’ through you.”

DVD Review

The following will appear here on Friday.

Joe DeFranco didn’t ask me to review his new Super Strength DVD. He neither threatened me nor cajoled me, nor did he make any vague references about his “crew from Bayonne” coming to my doorstep for a “sit-down.” He sent Super Strength to me as a courtesy because I’d visited his facility, said some nice things about him on the internet, and proved to him that I have some degree of knowledge about his training system and how it applies to the development of athletes. He mailed me a copy because he knows his system works, and because he knew he’d produced a DVD that would be beneficial to anyone looking to become a better athlete.

See, the training of top-flight athletes isn’t anything that could ever be described as pretty. We see these people – both men and women - in action in their shiny new stadiums and arenas, and what we don’t realize is that the science behind the results we’re witnessing is grounded in the simplicity of toil and rooted in the brutality of pure physical strength. We fail to understand, when looking to improve our own athletic performance or that of the people we’re training or coaching, that all the fancified obfuscations and doublespeak mumbo-jumbo offered by the countless “gurus” and “Yodas” of the profession are nothing more than a conspiratorial smokescreen designed to separate the athlete from his money and his potential.

So, what to do? When sifting through programs, how and where does one begin separating the wheat from the chaff?

DeFranco stakes his claim eloquently and effectively with the long-awaited release of Super Strength. This DVD is an absolute masterwork, and should serve as the benchmark for all future athletic strength training videos. In it, he outlines the principles of his training methodology: the Russian Conjugate Method or, as it’s more commonly referred to in the fitness industry, Conjugated Periodization. Conjugated Periodization involves working several different “training abilities” – i.e., speed, hypertrophy, or endurance – simultaneously throughout the year, as opposed to the more conventional Western Periodization method, which segments these abilities into training “blocks.” The Western method, according to DeFranco, forces the athlete to work against himself during the course of a training cycle, improving one specific ability at a time while others are neglected.

This is all very clearly explained in the introductory section, as DeFranco walks the viewer through an overview of his training philosophy and discusses why he and so many others have become “Darkside” converts over the past few years. He then proceeds to explain the purpose and progression of a proper warm-up, then illustrates, with each individual movement demonstrated by one of his athletes, every step of both the lower and upper body routines used by his clients in preparing for their sessions.

The body of the DVD contains the nuts-and-bolts of Conjugated Periodization: the Maximal-Effort, Dynamic-Effort and Repeated-Effort methods. In these sections, each training ability is explained in detail and actual filmed workout sessions with DeFranco’s athletes are used to show how and where the various segments fit into the program. DeFranco leaves no stone unturned here, demonstrating every possible exercise permutation for each training ability, complete with set and rep guidelines and thorough explanations of proper technique.

Of particular interest to me was DeFranco’s coverage of plyometrics. Search the internet for explanations of “box jumps” and “depth jumps,” and you’ll come across more material on how to do the exercises than you could ever possibly use. Try to find any information on where and when to integrate these exercises into the framework of an athlete’s training week, however, and you’ll realize, after a fruitless hour of mouse-clicking and reading, that it simply isn’t out there. In the Dynamic-Effort method section of Super Strength, DeFranco finally puts “plyos” in their proper place once and for all. For athletes, this section alone is worth the price of the disc.

The balance of the video covers the various unilateral, posterior chain and unconventional exercise movements that have become hallmarks of DeFranco’s system. I’ve been studying Conjugated Periodization and applying it to my own training for several years, and I still learned nearly a dozen new exercises from these sections alone. In fact, for the past two weeks, I’ve referred to the “unconventional exercises” section almost daily in order to find something new to add to my workouts.

A few things stood out as I watched this video for the first time:

1. The presence of female athletes. This system isn’t just for meatheads. The exercise demonstrations are split almost evenly between male and female athletes, and DeFranco’s female athletes can do some very impressive things – so impressive, in fact, that it’s obvious they’ve been engaged in this sort of training for extended periods of time. The thing that jumps off the screen at you, however, is that they’re all very attractive and very feminine, and they’re decidedly not afraid to lift weights. Let’s face it: we all love to watch “hot chicks.” But a “hot chick” who can do 36” box jumps? Sign me up for that…immediately.
2. Demonstrations of exercises by Joe DeFranco himself. DeFranco is not one of the aforementioned “Yodas.” He’s a guy who’s in terrific shape, does these exercises alongside his athletes, and has gained his knowledge “under the bar.” There’s something to be said for that, and it’s rather impressive.
3. Clarity. Most fitness training DVDs function solely as catalogs of exercises. They show you a crapload of movements, then leave it up to you to choose where and when you’re going to use them. DeFranco, by contrast, offers a system. He shows you what to place where, and when. He explains what needs to be in place at certain times, and where the athlete has the flexibility to tailor the program to his or her individual needs. For trainers, this video is akin to a master class in program design.
4. Cross-section of athletes. DeFranco’s client list is impressive, and they’re all represented here. From high school sophomores to current NFL stars, you’ll see workouts being performed by athletes of all different skill and strength levels, demonstrating that DeFranco’s system can be adapted to suit the needs of the individual no matter what his or her particular sport or training age happens to be.
5. It absolutely does apply to the “average guy.” People don’t stick to workout programs because the vast majority of these programs don’t work. They quit going to the gym because they don’t know how to train properly, because the wool is being pulled over their eyes by “expert” trainers who don’t know their asses from their elbows, and because they’re tired of doing the same things every week without seeing any noticeable improvements. DeFranco’s program isn’t just for athletes. It’s for anyone who wants real results from their gym membership. Who wouldn’t want to be a better athlete?

Overall, this video is an absolute must-have for any coach, trainer or athlete. For my money, it’s as comprehensive a guide to the improvement of athletic performance as anything available today. As DeFranco states at the very beginning, “The goal of this DVD is to improve your strength and explosive power.” With this masterpiece, Joe DeFranco has provided us with a video that will serve as the definitive reference on the subject for years to come.

Click here for more information.

Rules

Every job comes with a set of rules. Your job, which is probably a much better job than my job -- at least my part-time job -- has rules. When we go to work, we follow these rules because we don't want to get fired. We abide by them because they're usually not that hard to follow, and because we're on somebody else's payroll. This means that someone else is setting up the framework by which our behavior is to be judged. They judge our behavior because they need to decide whether to continue paying us. In my house, you play by my rules. In your house I'll gladly play by your rules, provided they don't involve any homosexuality, latent or otherwise, because I simply don't swing that way.

In any event, the club has rules. Bouncers are hired to enforce these rules. Most of the rules governing the nightclub business pertain to the protection of someone's investment. They're designed to prevent physical damage to the club and to protect the ownership from running afoul of the law. This makes perfect sense to me. If I owned a club, I wouldn't want people damaging anything, I wouldn't want to get arrested and I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of a lawsuit. I would therefore hire bouncers and explain to them, very clearly, what I'd need them to do.

What I'm trying to say here is that I understand my job. I understand it very well. I know why I'm there, and I unfortunately still have this nasty little integrity streak going that compels me to actually try. Some bouncers don't have this in them, but most do. Most understand the concept of a "day's work for a day's pay," and they'll try to give a club owner his money's worth. I do this. When I involve myself in bouncing situations, I'm always mindful of why I'm doing whatever it is I'm doing. There's a certain amount of peer pressure involved in responding to any radio call, but as I've gained experience I've developed the ability to discern the bigger picture -- the protection of the investment -- and I've learned to measure potential courses of action accordingly on the fly. This is an important skill.

There's no ego involved anymore for me. There are no power trips. It's just bouncing -- pure, unadulterated bouncing. If I think someone's doing something that places the club -- or the health of my fellow bouncers -- at risk, I'll take it seriously enough to step in. If something doesn't meet this criteria, I'm capable of looking the other way. This doesn't necessarily mean I condone what's going on, but some things simply aren't worth getting involved if the stakes aren't high enough to matter.

Guidos are not known for their ability to hold their liquor. They don't understand the concept of bringing a night to its graceful conclusion. They consume and consume and consume, then throw themselves out there for the world to nurse. They drink to a state of absolute helplessness. This is why things happen to them. This is why virtually every story on this site involves drunken Guido stupidity, and why, in virtually all of the stories you'll read, some silly Guido ends up getting injured or humiliated. It's because Guidos have no bloody idea how to drink. It's because they think their well-being is everyone else's responsibility but their own. It's because being a Guido is simply wrong.

A large part of being a Guido -- and of being confused and wrong in New York City -- is vomiting. Guidos and their women love to vomit all over town. Walk down West 28th Street any night of the week and you'll see Guidos, or their women, or both, bent over and retching. Guidos aggressively promote the frequent release of bodily fluids, whether through sweating on dance floors, ejaculating in bathroom stalls, bleeding on sidewalks, or vomiting wherever and whenever they see fit. This is one of the many reasons nobody likes them.

This is where the aforementioned rules come into play. When Guidos vomit in the club, bouncers are there to help them. We escort the ailing Guido to the nearest exit. We clear a path for him so he can make it outside for the fresh air vomiting Guidos desperately need. We can identify with the Guido in question because we've all been in his position at one time or another in our lives, and we try to make it as easy as possible for him to make it outside, since outside is where people should be when they're vomiting. I don't know about you, but I'd rather go outside and puke on the sidewalk than be stuck in some nasty mens room stall in a nightclub, especially when it's three in the morning and the best move I could possibly make would be to start heading home.

What happened was, a Guido started throwing up while waiting in line for the bathroom. I was inside the club at the time, trying to be a cool guy. I often come inside late at night and make my rounds, working the room. I move from bouncer to bouncer, dropping non sequiturs and pointing out stupid-looking people that I know will make that particular bouncer laugh. When you're a bouncer and you've been standing on a box for the better part of six hours, it's a nice thing when another bouncer comes over and makes you laugh for a little while. That's what I try to do because I'm the most magnanimous of bouncers, being the "Rob the Bouncer" character and all. They don't know it yet, but I'm trying to sell them books.

So, we take this Guido and walk him to the back door. His girlfriend sees us doing this and runs over to intervene. I explain what's happening, and she understands, but finds fault with our methods. This happens all the time in every line of work. Even yours. The customers think they make the rules. They'll walk up to you and explain how things are going to be. The way they tell you things should be is never the way things actually are, but that doesn't stop them from becoming irrational and engaging in histrionics. As most people know, I am not a big fan of the histrionics.

"So where are you taking him?"

"I'm taking him out the back door," I said, "so we can walk around to the front and get his coat."

"Why can't you just walk through the club?"

"Because he's throwing up all over the place, and I can't have him doing that on the floor or on the other customers."

"But it's fucking cold outside!"

"I know," I said. "I've been standing outside all night."

"But you have a coat on and he doesn't!"

"Yes, and we're going to get his coat right now. Does he have a coat check ticket?"

"He's sick!" she shouted in a thick Long Island drawl that matched my own. "He's sick and you're putting him out in the cold?"

"I'm going with him."

"This is how you treat someone who's sick? You throw him out in the cold? I should spit on you!"

"I wouldn't," I said.

"Oh, what? You're gonna hit me?"

"You're damned fucking right I will. You spit at me and I'll break every bone in your fucking face. I don't give a fuck who you are."

"Fuck you!" she screamed. Kevin grabbed her and held her back. I left the sick Guido at the back door and took two steps toward her with my index finger extended.

"Let me tell you something, honey. There's nobody back here except us, so I'd watch my fucking mouth if I were you."

This is what people are like.

I'll get up

So, I'm kind of a "street guy" and I'm kind of not. I'm kind of not because I'm very, very white. I act like a white guy, I speak like a white guy, and I'm interested in stuff that's traditionally the province of white guys -- like golf, classic rock and the exploitation of the indigenous. I kind of am because I grew up in a part of New York where not everyone had money, where "minorities" lived in real-time, and because I've seen crimes happen up close and personal-like. Not that "minorities" and "crime" and "the streets" go hand-in-hand or anything, but I think you can gather my meaning. I wasn't raised in New Canaan, in other words.

I take pride in certain things because of my status as a sort-of street guy. First off, I understand the language. When the slightly less polished break into their various raps and soliloquies on the streets of West Chelsea, I don't need an interpreter because I grew up with this shit. I speak "jive." I choose not to use it in everyday conversation, but I've been stuck in the middle of the real thing for my entire life, and I've never needed to consult MTV in order to learn a dozen new ways to say "jewelry" or "car." I don't find it necessary to throw such terms around simply to show everyone I know them.

Besides, I've spent the last thirty years or so trying to distance myself from my upbringing. There's enough fucking "contrivity" in the world. The last thing society needs is for me to start adding my share to the linguistic shitpile.

The best part about knowing what I know is that nobody I know thinks I know what I know. This is because I don't come off as though I know the things that I know. Truth be told, I've lost more "street cred" than most people will ever have -- or something to that effect -- but you'd never know this from listening to me speak. I despise the term, but I've accrued enough "street cred," in point of fact, to feel secure in making the world believe I have none. People get this perception because I choose to speak English "properly," a practice I've maintained consistently throughout my life. This, of course, renders me decidedly vanilla, but I couldn't give two shits because I'll just show you some scars if you don't think I've learned a few things about being poor and angry and taking abuse from the people in the captain's chair.

Even though I'm getting a bit long in the tooth for this sort of thing, however, I try my best to keep on top of the language so I'm not bamboozled at the door. When people start shouting things at me, I want to be able to understand what they're saying, particularly because it's nice to know when punches are about to be thrown or weapons are about to be drawn. If I'm on the sidewalk and someone starts shouting at me and all I hear is gibberish, I'm at somewhat of a disadvantage because I can't be sure whether he's about to mount a Guido Offensive.

Guido Offensives happen often in the bouncing business. The Guido, infuriated at some slight -- perceived or otherwise -- rips his shirt off and begins his journey. His journey will take him to some very fascinating places. Sometimes he'll be going to the emergency room. Other times, he'll end up spending a few nights on Rikers Island. Sometimes bouncers don't take this into account when we're safe at home, in bed, at five in the morning. We won't "spill some liquor" for the Guido whose weekend at the club won't be ending until he sees the judge and the bail bondsman. We forget, ofttimes, that there are some for whom the party simply refuses to end.

In fact, if you're reading this on Monday morning or afternoon, there are Guidos making bail right now. As we speak. Implore the judges, I say. They're Guidos, Your Honor. Just Guidos. They don't know any better, and they do these things because these things are the things that Guidos do, so don't set their bail too high because nobody likes jail. It's no fun. It's no fun sitting around in there for a week because Moms can't come up with a trifling fiteen-hunnert. That's bullshit, and every Guido in Staten Island knows it.

"I told him," said Ray, "he's gotta keep me up to date on this shit."

"I know."

"I said he's gotta fill me in on any of this new n----r shit as soon as it comes out, because I don't wanna be in the dark when I'm talkin' to these people."

"I'm saying it how he says it from now on," I said.

Who he is, is a legit street guy. It doesn't get any more street than this legit street guy I know. I don't give a fuck who you are, this guy is more street than you. What I'm talking about here is all the fake-ass motherfuckers on cable TV going to this guy to find out what they're supposed to say next. That's exactly what I'm talking about. Straight from the source. The shit this guy says takes six months to get airtime on 106 & Park. That's how real "kid" is.

"Yo, man."

Have you ever seen an IQ point? I have. I saw one fly out my eye and into my phone. Next time, I'll take a picture of one and post it here on the site.

"What's up, man?"

"Yo, ah...what time we got to be at work tonight?"

"Nine," I replied. "I don't think there's anything going on tonight."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm goin' in at nine, so if it's a problem, just tell 'em I told you to be there at nine. Nobody's gonna say shit to you if they know you talked to me."

"How you feelin'?" he asked. "You work all week?"

"I'm okay. Just takin' it easy and goin' to the gym and shit. How you been?"

"Aight. Jus' chillin' an' shit. Takin' some time off before I got to start up again."

"Cool, cool, " I said in the vernacular.

"Aight, man. I'll see you tonight."

"You got it, kid. Later."

"Aight," he said. "I'll get up." Click.

I had to call the guy back after that. Had to.

"Yo."

"What the fuck was that?" I asked.

"What the fuck was what?"

"What the fuck did you just say before you hung up?"

"I said goodbye," he replied.

"No you didn't. You said you'd 'get up.' What the fuck does that mean?"

"Yo, it means I'll get up. You know, like, I'll 'get up' wit'chu later, an' shit."

"So that's how you people say goodbye on the phone now?" I asked. "You say, 'I'll get up'?"

"Yo, what the fuck's this 'you people' shit, man?"

"You know, like ghetto minorities. I always like to keep track of what you're saying."

"Eat a dick, motherfucker," he said.

"Aight, man. I'll get up." Click.

The book...

Is written. Done. Finito.

It's over.

Update

Thanks for your patience. I'm down to the wire with the book -- I mean, seriously, the wire -- so there'll be some new shit on this site within a day or so.

Almost there

Still busy, still working. More later.