Random

Christmas: The best gift I received this Christmas was a re-gifted bottle of Grey Goose vodka from my brother and sister-in-law. Since I can’t stand my brother and he can’t stand me, this was a painfully obvious retread offering, but I’m not complaining. I’m all about results these days, so I’m not about to quibble with a process that will culminate in inebriated pleasantness for me. In fact, I think it was quite a step for a slapdick like my brother – even with some readily apparent prodding from his irritating wife – to give me anything at all for Christmas. I certainly wasn’t expecting anything more than a perfunctory handshake and clipped “How ya doin’?” at our yearly farce of a family Christmas, so the idea that he gave me something I can actually get some use out of came as a rather pleasant surprise.

Christmas Dinner: Shockingly enough, it wasn’t half bad. The only moment of familial tension came when I yelled at my mother for “damming up the works” when she inconveniently jammed up the entire seating arrangement in the dining room by inexplicably standing in one place for way too long. This, however, was done in my inimitable half-joking manner, so it accomplished what I wanted it to accomplish – namely, making people laugh at my mother’s expense while simultaneously getting her the hell out of the way so I, and everyone else, could sit down and eat. If you understood the family dynamic at work here, you would find this as moderately funny as everyone else did.

Recent Troubles: If you’ve read the posts on this site for the past few weeks, you’ve likely noticed that I’ve been having a relatively difficult time lately. Without getting into specifics, this was due to an unfortunate confluence of factors that conspired to “nail” me within close temporal proximity to one another. Things, I’m happy to say, have improved over the past week or so – along with my ability and willingness to manage the various issues that elicited the negativity in the first place. The key to this, I’ve found, is maintaining some sense of perspective. In other words, I’m happy I’m not in Baghdad. There are people all over the world who would kill to have my set of “problems.” With this in mind, I’ve simply stopped complaining. Problem solved.

New Year’s: For the first time in several years, I won’t be bouncing on New Year’s Eve – for the same reason I didn’t work on Thanksgiving Eve. I’m not working because it’s simply not worth the hassle. Lord knows I could use the money right about now, but it’s something I really don’t want to do, so I’m not doing it. I’ll make up the cash some other way. A heavy bouncing rotation isn’t something I need to be part of my reality right now – or ever again, for that matter.

Reading: I’m currently deep into Perdido Street Station, by China Mieville. For want of a better description, this is a seriously fucked up book. I’m digging it, though. It was recommended to me several times in the past when I’ve solicited reading recommendations on this site, and I finally got around to starting it last week. I’m glad I did. Mieville can really write, and the plot of this thing is as imaginative and downright off-the-fucking-wall as anything I’ve read in quite some time. Highly recommended.

Fitness: I’m happier with my workout and diet regimen right now than I have been in years. I haven’t gone into this much lately, but I’m in the midst of something of a “transformation” that’s seen me lose nearly 50 pounds of unnecessary powerlifting bulk – read: fat – while retaining muscle and getting stronger. My goal now is to get myself down to around 7-8% body fat – “bodybuilding” levels – while continuing to build strength and athleticism. The formula for doing this is exponentially simpler than you think it is.

The secret? It’s not your training. It’s your diet. I haven’t changed a damned thing about the way I train, other than the minor modifications I typically make for the sake of variety. I still train heavy and hard. My diet, however, has changed radically. If you already have some rudimentary training knowledge, and you train hard without realizing the aesthetic results you’re looking for, your diet is approximately 98.74% of your problem. I’ll tell you this much – it’s nice to see my abs again after all this time.

Football: There are a few teams I wouldn’t want to play at this point in the season. I’m not going to pick who I think will win the Super Bowl right now because I’m a Giants fan and I’m obviously biased, but there are a handful of teams that scare me at present. These are, in no particular order, Indianapolis, Philadelphia, San Diego, Baltimore and Atlanta. Additionally, the rest of the league is lucky the Patriots didn’t make the playoffs. They’re the best team in football right now, hands down.

I think my two big ones here are the Colts and the Eagles. The Giants are bound to run into the Eagles in a few weeks, and that game scares the shit out of me. I’m a big proponent of going into the playoffs with a hot hand, and the Giants aren’t hot right now. Philly is. In the AFC, so are the Colts. If you’re looking to pick playoff winners, don’t look at a team’s record. Look at how they finished the season. The Giants are still the best team in the NFL for my money, but they just lost three of their last four games – pulling the starters in the second half against the Vikings notwithstanding – and that’s something you can’t overlook. The playoffs aren’t exactly the optimal time to relearn how to win.

Monday Mailbag!

Sometimes I think the best part about having this blog is the opportunity it offers me to interact with random people from all walks of life. I receive some exceptionally thoughtful email from people who put a great deal of thought into what they’re writing. I like this aspect of things, because I’ve met some really interesting readers over the past few years, and I’ve made several good friends.

Yesterday, I received one such email, and I want to share it with you. It’s from a girl named Tiffany, and the subject line is, “I LOVE YOUR BLOG.” Her hobbies include “chillen.”:

“I NEVER REALLY READ ANY BLOGS BEFORE I READ YOURS ITS FUNNY AND YOU HAVE A GREAT SINCE OF HUMOR I REALLY DONT HAVE TO DEAL WITH THE GUIDO THING WITH ME LIVIN IN CT AND ALL BUT I HAVE RUN INTO A FEW NOW AND AGAIN AND I HAVE TO SAY FOR THE MOST PART THERE ASSSSSSSSSHOLES LOL AND WHEN EVER YOU TELL ME SOME OF THE SITUATIONS THAT U HAVE TO GO THROUGH IT MAKES ME NOT ONLY LAUGH BUT FEEL BAD FOR THE GUIDO BECAUSE THEY ACT AS IF EVERYONE LIKES THEM WHEN NO ONE REALLY DOES :) JUSS WANTED TO SAY THAT IM YOUR BIGGEST FAN.”

It’s quite a lovely sentiment when people write in like this and identify with what I “go through” as a nightclub bouncer. It’s gratifying to know I’m touching my audience in this manner, and I just want everyone to know I appreciate every piece of email JUST LIKE THIS ONE.

Thank you, dear.

Friday

Fortunately for you, dear reader, self-help week is grinding to a halt. I've had enough of that shit.

That's all. More later.

Yearning For Yurman

Things got better yesterday. Since we’re firmly entrenched in self-help week here on the ol’ bouncing blog, I guess I’ll tell you about it.

About an hour after I woke up yesterday morning, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started taking steps to solve the fucking problem. That started me off well. Then, for the next several hours, I concentrated solely on things that would make me money. That kept things rolling.

Then, I went to the gym and absolutely tore shit up. That made me really happy. Following that, I came home and did more things that will make me money. I then spent an hour helping out a group of people I help on a regular basis. That made me feel very satisfied with myself. I was satisfied because I didn’t get carried away with it like I usually do. I sealed off an hour-long block, constrained my “help” to the confines of that block, and cut if off when their hour was up.

Then I went back to the gym and ran my ass off for 45 minutes. Then I went home and drank the following, blended:

2 Scoops Whey Protein
1/3 Cup Old Wessex Irish Oatmeal (the best I’ve ever had)
1 Tablespoon Natural Peanut Butter
1 Tablespoon Ground Flax
3 Egg Whites
1 Tablespoon Plain Nonfat Yogurt
16 Ounces Water

Then I watched the episode of Law and Order I recorded while I was at the gym. Then I read about fifty pages of my book, took some notes – I do that occasionally – and went to sleep.

Also, confidential to the Bayside Bloatmaster, thanks for the text. I got it on my way to the gym and forgot to text you back. Yes, I am “more morose than usual,” but it’s okay. The shotgun is no longer anywhere near my mouth.

Additionally, you still have yet to explain to me why you exist. I believe your entire life is a nauseatingly desperate plea for attention. Even when performing a selfless, altruistic task like texting me in my time of “need,” your actions still smack of that same voyeuristic pathos from which I suspect you’ve suffered for many years now.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with conformity, JS. I know we’re all about individualism here in America, but I believe what they say in Japan holds true here as well, especially in your case:

“The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.”

So I pose the question again, "big" guy...

Why, indeed?

(You will probably take this diatribe to mean that I miss berating you on a bi-weekly basis. You would be correct.)

Patience

Years ago, I read Golf in the Kingdom, by Michael Murphy. Murphy is the co-founder of the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, California. I’ve done a lot of reading about what goes on there, but the thing that really sticks in my mind about Esalen is the fact that Richard Feynman, one of my favorite human beings in the history of the universe, spent a good bit of time there. If it was interesting to Feynman, then it’s interesting, period, so I paid attention.

Anyway, Golf in the Kingdom is Murphy’s fictional account of a round of golf with a mythical Scottish golf pro/Zen master (of sorts) named Shivas Irons. Having played a shitload of golf in my time, I immediately identified with just about everything related to Murphy’s mental struggles with the game.

The worst thing that can happen to you when you’ve addressed a golf ball and you’re about to swing is thinking. When my game goes to shit, thinking is my biggest problem. I’ve been playing since I was a kid, and I shoot in the 70’s when I’m at it regularly – and practicing every day – so my swing is essentially pretty sound. I don’t have to learn how to hit the ball, because I’ve already spent years learning how to do that.

The problems come flying at me when I step up to the ball and my mind isn’t a blank. This starts with excessive technical analysis. Swing thoughts. I have a few that have worked for me over the years, but when a round starts going to shit, I’ll think of all of them at the same time:

Grip it lightly, anchor your back instep, lead with the butt of your bottom hand, draw the club straight back, don’t flatten out, head behind the ball, tempo, tempo, tempo...

When this happens, I know I’m lost, and when I know I’m lost, that’s when all the negativity comes creeping in. As much as I’ve played in my life, and as much time as I’ve spent practicing and trying to dig the game out of the earth, there are times where I’ll stand over the ball and know I have no fucking chance in hell to hit a decent shot – and that’s all I can think about.

Shit, sometimes I’ll make sure I have an extra mulligan ball in my pocket before I even get on the damned tee, because I know my first one’s going in the woods.

In Golf in the Kingdom, Murphy has this exact conversation with Shivas Irons, and the pro offers him the best advice I’ve ever heard for moments when negative thoughts are pummeling your ass like a meteor shower, the way mine are right now about a certain situation I’m currently in:

“Wait ‘em oot.”

I remembered this the other day when I started getting all flustered about things, and I was tempted to go out and make some hasty, ill-advised decisions. I stopped for a few minutes and waited for the shitstorm to pass and get out of my head, and then I went about things with a clear head for once. That’s what I’m doing right now – waiting it out, and not taking any action while I’m doubled over and the self-inflicted kicking and punching is going on.

I’m sorry for the melodrama, but like I’ve said before, it’s not like any of you are paying for subscriptions.

Also, thanks for the emails. Quite often, when someone has a blog and they’re going through some sort of bullshit, they’ll slant the story to make it look like they’re the hero, telling you how badly they’re getting “screwed” in whatever situation compelled them to write. Then you’ll see fifty comments from supportive readers who are naturally biased toward the side of the person who writes the blog.

This isn’t the case here. I don’t deserve your support in this instance. I acted like an asshole for a prolonged period of time, and I’m getting my just desserts. It sucks, but it is what it is, and I have to eat it for now.

Good Morning RLR

You don't have to read this today, because you're not going to find anything here. Everything I have to say, and everything I give a shit about right now, I've already said to you privately.

I'm taking today off.

A Boat With No Oars

I guess it’s pretty obvious that I’ve been trying to pull myself through, and out of, some personal shit lately. Some of this shit was caused externally, and some of it has been self-inflicted. Most of it, actually, and that’s been the maddening part of it.

When smart people tell you not to do things, but you do them anyway, you deserve what you get. When they tell you what you should do, and you don’t follow their advice even though you know they’re right, you deserve what you get then, too.

That’s pretty much where I’m at right now. I didn’t read the map for a couple of interpersonal relationships, took several wrong turns borne of stubbornness and general assholerie, and now I’m cruising blind, trying to figure out how to get back on the interstate.

Cheesy metaphors aside, that’s essentially what this is about – listening a little more, talking a little less, and following through when I say I’m going to do something.

A rough lesson, but one I needed to learn.

Open Letter

Hey.

You know who you are. I know you’re reading this, so imagine I’m writing it to you, because I am.

There’s a scene in the book where I’m called into the general manager’s office of a nightclub after I hit someone. I’m sure you know the one. I don’t really remember how much detail I went into about this in the book, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. I told you this yesterday.

The incident happened when I was first hired at this place. It may have even been my first night there. I don’t really remember anymore. I lost my temper and punched a guy in the ear. He was wearing an earring, and it ripped halfway through his earlobe. He bled everywhere, and actually ended up suing the club.

The GM, whose name I changed in the book, called me into his office and gave me a speech about “tough guys,” and how he needed people who could take a punch without throwing one back. It was one of the most important things anyone ever said to me, and it came from a very unlikely source.

I’ve been thinking about what he said recently because I’ve lost this ability over the past couple of years. You’ve watched this happen. You’ve warned me about it, but I haven’t been listening.

I’ve been called “tough” many times in my life. In any bouncing job I’ve ever had, I may not be the biggest, baddest SOB in the club, but I am the guy who shows up on time, doesn’t call in sick, stands where he’s supposed to stand, and backs up his friends – and does so without complaint for hours on end. I’m a given. You can hire me and I’ll do that for years.

The captain of fishing boat once told my father that I was “tougher than a pine knot.”

The foreman of my uncle’s moving and storage company – where I worked on and off from when I was kid until a few years ago – told my uncle that I was the “toughest motherfucker” he’d ever seen.

I have other things. Lots of them. You know some of them.

I’ve lost that somewhere along the line. I’m not tough anymore. In fact, I’m a pussy now. A big one. I do nothing but whine, mope, complain and tell everyone how things should be, instead of dealing with how they actually are. People who give a shit about me have been telling me this for a while now, but it took one of them bailing out on me, probably for good, to get me to spend a week analyzing the problem and coming up with a solution.

I run away from things. When I don’t like the way something is going, or it’s not exactly the way I need it to be, I remove myself from the situation and go home. I’ve been doing that for almost three years, and I can trace it back to a pair of specific dates when some really bad things happened.

You know what that date was. Shit, you know what both of those dates were. If I asked you, you could tell me. What you don’t know is how profoundly they shifted my life around. What you do know is how I’m always using that and everything else as excuses for my ridiculous behavior. You’ve told me this more times than I can count, and so has everyone else, but you know how I react to “everyone else.” It’s pretty much the same way I’ve been reacting to you.

Watching someone die of a terminal illness is murder. I know you know that. We knew it was going to happen, but when it did, I had to live minute-by-minute after that. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about this. I had to tell myself, “Just breathe for a minute.” Then after another minute, I did it again. And again. And again. I had to just keep telling myself to keep breathing for another minute. Then two minutes. Then five. Then an hour. Then a day.

I’m up to years now.

I’m not trotting this out for melodrama. I’m telling you this because the way I’ve dealt with things has been nothing but a series of decisions. They’ve been bad decisions, but that’s all they are – choices. I chose to take some shitty luck and use it as a crutch to make people feel guilty. I used it to turn myself into a pussy who runs away and hides under the “you wouldn’t understand” blanket every time something goes wrong. I used it to drive people away – the same people I go to for help and advice when things really get untenable and I can’t handle them by myself.

I’m going to figure out how to take that punch again. I don’t have a choice. Nobody’s going to wait for me anymore, because they’re all done doing that and they’ve told me so.

And in case you’re wondering, you are good enough. That’s the whole point. There aren’t many people for whom I’d go off the deep end like this. In fact, I think you’re the only one. Think about that, please.

Your Friend,

Robert

Surgical Strike

This morning's post is destined to be another mail-in job. This was a bad week, relatively speaking. I had two things happen over the weekend that decidedly knocked me for a big time loop, and I haven't had the time -- nor the inclination -- to write anything worthwhile.

Oddly enough, I had a great week at the gym, but I suppose one must avoid the commission of felonies somehow, right?

In any case, one of these loop-knocking things was decidedly bad, and the outcome of the other one is still in doubt, at least with regard to the effect it will have on me. Still waiting on that.

So, more shit next week when I can start getting some sleep.

Also, I still haven't bought a phone yet, and I'm about to start reading Twilight on a recommendation from a 14-year-old girl.

I've always been fascinated with North Korea and found this interesting this morning.

Prudence

I know I'm mailing it in here, but I have to be honest with you. I'm still pissed off about Sunday. Long, long story.

When I was in high school, I hated my eleventh grade social studies teacher. She was one of these old, tenured broads who should’ve been barred from teaching kids fifteen years before anyone ever made me sit through her class.

She didn’t actually teach the class. She sat in a chair and yelled at us. As I’m writing this, it makes no sense to me, but that’s how it was. She did nothing but sit and yell, all year long.

One class, she came in and told us she was being evaluated. The Vice Principal would be sitting in the room with us observing her. This was a big deal, so we spent three days rehearsing. She crafted a magnificent lesson plan, and she even scripted the questions we were supposed to ask.

I wasn’t having this.

I asked every wacked out, fucked up, off-the-wall question you could ever imagine during her observation. I was a pretty smart kid, so she couldn’t answer most of these. I did this because I knew exactly what her game was, and I thought it was bullshit.

The following week, she claimed she’d caught me cheating and turned me in to the principal. My father said he was going to kill all of us, and he meant it. This was a fun time.

When I was twenty, I ran into her at a supermarket.

“So,” she asked, “did you manage to get yourself into a college?”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

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

I’m going on vacation, sort of. At least part of the trip will be vacation-like.

I’m very happy about this because I’m leaving very soon but still found an affordable flight.

This development put me into the black today, at least on a good shit/bad shit basis. Tomorrow starts from zero, the way today didn’t, so it won’t be quite as hard to make a comeback.

Rearview

I once had a conversation with someone from New Orleans. A displaced Katrina victim. She was very smart, but she said something I disagreed with. She said New Orleans was more dangerous than New York.

I asked her why she thought this.

She said it was because our shitholes here in New York looked too “clean.” She said even the police don’t go into housing projects in New Orleans. She said the so-called dangerous neighborhoods here in New York aren’t as “scary” as the ones in New Orleans.

This is because New York is not a depressed city and our infrastructure isn't crumbling. It's a matter of aesthetics. Her perception, though borne out statistically, is not, in fact, reality. I can take you places and show you.

I once had a conversation in a bar with a guy from South Boston. He, too, was a very smart guy. He, too, said something I disagreed with. He said South Boston was more dangerous than New York.

I asked him why he thought this.

He said it was because even though there were “tough guys” in New York, they weren’t as “tough” as the “tough guys” in Southie, because all the “tough guys” he knew in Southie were serial killers with dozens of bodies on them. I said this was because the serial killers around here don’t go around bragging about it, so they don’t get caught and the beat goes on.

He didn’t say “bodies on them.” I did. That’s a New York term, from back in the days when the whole city smelled like piss and I’d never met anyone who didn’t understand the concept of keeping the front door locked.

People keep asking me what I think about the Laura Garza/Michael Mele/Marquee situation.

See, Imette St. Guillen.

Reference, Jennifer Moore.

This has nothing to do with the shitty parts of New York. I know that. This is about people moving here and trusting a place I wouldn’t trust to watch my kids if I had any. It’s about people not taking precautions, then arguing with me when I tell them to lock their doors and not wander the streets in a drunken stupor in the middle of the night.

I never root for New York to be bad. I want for it to be good, all the time. This shit happens everywhere. But when it happens here, it reminds me of how much worse this place can be than anyplace else.

Put the Shiner on ice, Clint. It’s looking promising.

People Are Just Fucking Evil

Today marked the end of an era. The end began here, and today made it official. I have nothing of importance to post tonight because I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I’m finished doing something I’ve been doing for quite a while. I’m done because of the actions of some really bad people who did a really bad thing to a really good person.

This has nothing to do with bouncing, and I’m not being vague about it for effect. It’s sort of a labor issue that may one day become a legal issue – not one involving me – so I can’t go into specifics.

Suffice it to say that there are very bad people out there disguised as good ones. I hope they all fucking rot.

Life lesson: WATCH YOUR ASS AND DON'T TRUST ANYONE.

Sad.

Last Phone Post

This will be my last phone post until I maybe tell everyone which one I'm getting, but I thought this would be interesting to some people. The guy who emailed me this is a pretty serious programmer who's sent me some stuff in the past. He's legit, works for a major tech company, and knows what he's talking about:

HTC Touch

Do not buy this, or any other phone that promises a 3D user interface for now. Right now, most of these phones (except the iPhone and Nokia N95) are built around the Qualcomm MSM7200 series chipset, which includes a crappy implementation of OpenGL/ES in hardware by ATI. The performance of these phones will suck. How do I know? (He tells me here what he does for a living, which, if he's to be believed - and I believe him - makes him a major authority on the subject).

Do not buy:

HTC Touch
Sony Xperia
Samsung Omnia

I have not yet tried the HTC Touch HD, because it has just come out and is only available overseas. I could get one, but don't want to spend the $800 right now.

All of these manufacturers are trying to play "catch up" to the iPhone, and failing. The best 3D phone on the market is the iPhone. It's use of 3D is actually sparse, and the good look to its user interface comes from its clever use of OpenVG (Open Vector Graphics), a 2D technology that zooms and scales text really well, and is supported by hardware acceleration on the iPhone's chipset.

Actually, the best phone out there is still the iPhone. Sorry if that's not what you want to hear, but this is what I do for a living.

Results

Thanks for the mass response regarding my choice of a new phone. I received a shitload of emails on the subject, and I appreciate the help. Here are the results (sorry for the crappy margins):

1. BlackBerry Curve: 33
2. Motorola MOTO Q9c: 18
3. Palm Centro:14
4. BlackBerry 8830: 12
5. Palm Treo: 8
6. LG enV2: 5
7. BlackBerry 8130: 4
8. Samsung Glyde: 2
9. Samsung Alias: 2
10. BlackBerry Pearl: 1 (counting negative reviews as -)
11. Nokia E71: 1
12. Samsung Saga: 1
13. BlackBerry Storm: -12

Notes:
• I surmised the first choice of emails describing multiple phones and used that for the results. Several emails that advocated another phone mentioned the BlackBerry Curve in a positive light.

• People who liked the Palm Centro REALLY liked it. The Curve received more votes, but Centro supporters seem seriously happy with this phone. That’s something I’ll take into account.

• Neither the Curve nor the Centro received a single negative review. The MOTO Q9c has numbers in the poll, but a couple of people really killed it. An example: “Worst phone I have ever used. Battery life is horrible. Web browser is slow and hard to use. Calendar application is worthless. The user interface is a pain. It is a consumer smart phone. It works fine if you’re a stay at home mom without much going on.”

• Nobody mentioned the Samsung Omnia or the HTC Touch Pro. This surprised me.

• I will not be purchasing a BlackBerry Storm. You people murdered it.

• The Muk Report checked in with this, which is probably what I’ll end up buying.

Solicitation

I need a new phone. I've been using the same crappy Motorola Razr for three years now, and it's time for an upgrade. Here is the situation:

1. I have Verizon Wireless service, and I'm pretty happy with it, so I'm staying with them. Therefore, I need to choose from among the phones Verizon offers. You can find them here. If you can come up with a good reason for me to change providers, however, I'm willing to listen.

2. I need email access, a QWERTY keyboard, and some sort of calendar/organizer capability. Something basic, efficient and fast.

3. I don't need a bunch of other crap on my phone. I don't need it to play music, I don't need to watch videos on it, and I'm not a "toy" guy, so I really don't give a shit what other people think of the phone I'm using.

clublifeblog (at) gmail (dot) com

Your assistance, as always, is appreciated.

Plax

Here’s how things work in clubs, at least how I understand it:

A celebrity calls someone who has a connection at a club. I don’t know exactly whom they call, but they have someone at their disposal who has the phone number of a club’s VIP host, bottle host, manager or owner. It could be any of these. It could be someone else. I have no idea, really. People would drop so many names when they came up to us that I lost track of which connections were important and which weren’t. I stopped giving a shit after a while.

Anyway, a call is placed, and the celebrity is told the sequence of events that will allow him or her to proceed safely from the sidewalk to the VIP sofa as quickly and efficiently as possible. This means they’re not going through the same door you’re going through, at least in the places where I’ve worked. It means someone’s coming out to the sidewalk to “get them” and escort them in. It also means they’re not being checked for weapons.

Who’s going to check a guy who plays for the New York Giants for a weapon?

What, then, does the VIP host, bottle host or VIP bouncer do when he knows a celebrity customer is carrying a gun? Do you tell him he can’t come in with it? Do you make him “check” it? Or do you just let the guy through and leave him alone, figuring nothing’s likely to happen?

Tough call. From the comfort of my living room, it’s easy to sit back and say, “Nobody carrying a gun should be allowed into a nightclub,” but that’s too easy.

If the security staff at Latin Quarter – where I’ve admittedly never been and know little about – knew he was carrying but let him in anyway, I can’t really blame them. I mean, you’re not expecting a professional athlete to shoot anyone, much less himself, even if the guy is someone with a reputation like the one Plaxico Burress seems to have cultivated. Most places would let him through and hope for the best, figuring there’s about a 99.9% chance everything will be fine.

The “dildo” and metal detector at the door, however, are not the problem here.

It’s a ridiculous situation for everyone involved. When wealthy people – especially athletes, who often don’t know any better – flaunt their wealth publicly, they become targets for people who want to take some of their wealth away from them. Once they realize they’re targets, they start carrying guns because they think they need to protect themselves. It’s what happens when an entire society has started to turn to shit.

Plaxico Burress is going to jail – he will do time for this, mark my words – because he’s a dumbass who’s both exploited this bit of absurdity and been victimized by it. At 31, however, he should've known better.

Curls

Jeans? Check.

Mustache? Check.

Wife beater? Check.

Workboots? Check.

Cheesy, useless Valeo weightlifting belt? Check.

Cheesy black padded fingerless gloves? Check.

Mullet? Nope. Shaved it bald and tattooed it.

Thirty seconds of pointless arm-swinging? Check.

An hour of dumbbell and preacher curls with five minutes between sets? Check.

Workout!

Question: Are all these 40-year-old gym dudes the same guy?

It sure as hell seems like it.

Shady Acres

I have a Green Acres story.

Green Acres is located on the border of Valley Stream, Long Island and...I guess you’d call it Laurelton, Queens. This is less than five miles from where I used to live in Queens. Growing up, everyone called it “Black Acres,” even black people. Especially black people. Go ahead and tell me this is racist. I don’t give a shit, because the first guy I ever heard call it that was a Jamaican kid who lived on Springfield Boulevard.

I’m not being racist, and I’m not making any demographic claims. I’m just pointing out a fact.

When I was 17, I was held up in the parking lot outside Sears. I was wearing a leather coat and a gold chain – remember where I grew up, please – and a guy walked up, showed us a gun, and took our coats and jewelry.

I once went to the movies at the old Sunrise Multiplex at Green Acres, and saw a guy sitting in my row stand up, walk to the wall, take a leak and sit back down. I guess he didn’t want to miss anything. This explained why the old Sunrise Multiplex always reeked of urine. It also explained why people used to get shot there frequently.

You people don’t remember this shit because it hasn’t happened in a while, but watch what’ll happen around here if and when the economy stays shitty.

Ladies and gentlemen, Southeast Queens.