Relative Truth

In an age when the world is spiraling out of control and people are faced with the foreclosures of houses that they never really could afford, I think it's important to be honest with yourself beyond your financial station in life. Honesty is important, but understand the caveat that the world is just layers of b.s. and we are just particular to our specific layer. Usually it requires someone telling you the harsh realities of, well, you. Someone to tell you that you're a certain way regardless of the way you perceive your own sense of self. Occasionally I like to refresh this concept in my mind, but now I've taken to committing it to ink, because there is a certain element of "truth" to things that are written.

While I think I'm completely normal to the rest of the inhabitants of this mixed-up world, I'll concede that: I'm self-deprecating, self-indulgent, unnecessarily abrasive, uncomfortably confident, miserably stuck in an unfulfilled career, presumptuous to a fault; I'm a spendthrift, quick to judge, preoccupied with death and illness, often holier-than-thou, and I err on the side of pessimism (I'm sure if I really thought about it I could devote an entire blog to each and those that haven't been mentioned). Some would look at this laundry list and think: how pathetic. I assure you that wasn't my intention with this exercise. Everybody knows their farts never stink, but occasionally it's important to consider what you present for others to consume for their sake of perception, as if you were gifting yourself to the world.

So how do you view yourself?

Dog Rebuttal

There are dog people and there are cat people; those remainders often are considered heartless. I'd like to make the argument that those that don't keep pets aren't necessarily heartless. My pet history would indicate that I'm a cat person, but ask me and I'll vehemently deny it. I've always considered myself a dog lover, but I've never been able to name, walk, or play with a dog of my own. I tried, believe me, I tried. I begged relentlessly as a young S.A. for a dog. My parents would ask what I wanted for Christmas, and I would reply, "a beagle." Instead of a beagle I'd get something that required less work, like the Treasure Island Lego set. For my birthday, my parents would ask me what I wanted with the stipulation that it couldn't be Nikes, so I would suggest a dog. No way, Jose. As I got older I tried to spin it one hundred different ways, like: we could use the companionship, Dad could blame his flatulence on the canine, Mom could get all of that exercise that she had promised. My parents never bent. No dog. Instead our family pets were goldfish and Reggie the outdoor cat. In case you had not noticed I blame my parents a great deal for "the way I am" today. My mom presented two reasons why we could never have a dog: 1) no matter how much my brother and I told her we would care for the canine, it would inevitably fall on her lap (she was right), and 2) she vowed to never own another dog after Kimo, my parents German Shepherd, and the heartbreak that ensued when he was killed chasing a tennis ball into oncoming traffic.

Today, I find myself praying for occasional rain to wash the urine and dog dung from the sidewalks so that I may have an unobstructed walk to the subway. At 24 and living on the UES, having a dog is all the rage. I am definitely a dog lover, but let's call a spade a spade. Dogs are eating, pissing, and crapping machines. So when a girl asks me why I don't get a dog, I think it's only appropriate to respond, "Because I can't take care of myself, let alone another breathing mammal." Immediately her eyes betray her smile as she laughs and I get placed into the heartless category. It's really fine. I don't expect that she understand my reasoning. She couldn't possibly understand that my parents don't contribute to my rent or that I couldn't physically walk the dog more than once a day. That, my friends, is animal cruelty.

Why do recent graduates, my age, feel compelled to get a dog? Is it because they're in such a rush to take on additional responsibility and divorce themselves completely from frat parties and beer? Is it for security in the city [certainly not with that Chihuahua]? Is it for the companionship [for both owner and dog]? Whatever the answer, it probably boils down to something that isn't fair to the animal, but somehow the owner manages to convince themselves that "it's no big deal." Believe me, my heart breaks every time I see Lilly, that gorgeous bulldog, drag her ass on the leash. However, I know if I got a dog, I'd bet kibbles to bits that the dog would end up in a shelter because I couldn't care for it as much as every UES girl would like to believe I could. The fact that I don't have any pets doesn't mean I'm heartless, just responsible. It has nothing to do with my ability to care or love you, so please forget what that psychologist said it means when she was quoted in that interview in Cosmo.

Ash Wednesday

Today marks the first day of Lent for Roman Catholics. Lent is a religious season, almost like a countdown for Jesus' resurrection on Easter. For me, Lent is a time when I try to avoid eating meat on Fridays and consider sacrificing something. In the recent past I've solely tried to observe the dietary restrictions, but this year I will try my hardest to "give up something." I figure the least I can do is attempt to curb this terrible habit of spewing curse words, considering Jesus died for man and all. I'm 99.99999% sure that I won't be able to make good on this little promise, but I figured it's worth a try, and for some unknown reason I think that if I write this down that it will stick.

One day down, and I haven't used a curse word, and I've noticed I'm much more pleasant to be around (which is a secondary objective for this season). Being sober at work is not really challenging; the real test will be when I'm at the bar teetering on my fourth beer and consider using curses as nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, etc. in an attempt to verbally chastise an UES girl. I guess we've all got our own crosses to bear, and mine just so happens to be a potty-free mouth. I've told people about my sacrifice and they can't help but laugh, "What do I get when you curse?" I guess my penalty is damnation in hell. I'd say that is a fairly dire consequence.

Primary Care

XI. Thou shall not consult the doctor, unless dead.

History tells us that this was actually a Commandment, and at the last second, as Moses was chiseling the letters into the stone tablets, God determined he liked round numbers and limited them to ten. No male, excuse me, hetero male consults the doctor. It's not due to religious beliefs, we're just genetically programmed to avoid the doctor. As men we can conquer anything if we put our minds to it, consider Al Gore's claims regarding the genesis of the intertubes. The Romans didn't seek out the doctor when faced with the flu-like symptoms, they sweat it out. A man sweats it out, and then goes to the megalopolis to participate in the early forms of democracy. A guy refuses a Z-Pac and goes straight to liquids, rest, steam therapy and countless loops of SportsCenter.

I'm 24 years old and haven't been to see the doctor since I was 18, when I saw the pediatrician for the mandatory physical before college. I don't even have a name or number of a general physician in NYC. It's always something that "I just never got around to." It was never something that I had even considered (finding a doctor), until I recently caught death making eyes at me.

I vowed that if I should defeat the virus spreading throughout my protoplasm that I would make it a priority to find one of these highly-trained lepers. Now that I'm over the rebel that tore through my body, I find that I am not really enthusiastic about finding a physician and could just fold it up and hide it in my mind again until I come down with something that brings me to inches within my life, when I'll be forced to consider it again. It's not that I think these highly educated doctors are anything more than snake-charmers, well I do, but it's not that. I've reached the point of no return. So much time has lapsed that I'm afraid of what these "experts" will say or might find. Maybe my cholesterol is too high, or my blood pressure is one that characterizes an unhealthy geriatric, or that I have testicular cancer, or that my liver can't sustain anymore beer. Thanks, but no thanks. I would rather not know. Ignorance is bliss. You know the saying.

I feel fine, but you never know what these quacks might suggest. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Part of me also is convinced that if I get a number of a doctor then I will become perpetually ill, even more than before (sans number). Yes it's idiotic. Having the number of a doctor does not increase the likelihood of me contracting diseases thus needing to call on him/her. Nobody said I wasn't superstitious. Not to mention I'm a man, and as men we extend our middle finger to western medicine (until it is absolutely necessary, and usually by this time it's too late). For now, I don't care if my leg needs to be amputated on account of the gangrene that's made itself visible, I still won't call the medic. Can you recommend a good doctor?

Roid Rage

Admittedly professional sports have had a diminishing role in my life as more personal minutiae has emerged to reign supreme. I used to be a fanatic. I used to devote endless hours to my favorite sports teams: The Yankees, Knicks, Rangers, and Giants. I can remember the spring of 1994, when the Rangers and Knicks were in the Stanley Cup Finals and NBA Finals, respectively. I had an excuse to come home everyday from school, eat dinner, and watch a game at night in lieu of completing my homework. This was supposed to be "the year" for New York sports. After 54 years the Rangers would take what was rightfully theirs on the broad shoulders of Captain Mark Messier, and with Michael Jordan retired from the NBA to "pursue baseball," Patrick Ewing and the Knicks would no longer be deprived of their birthright. The Rangers went on to bask in glory, and after that season I never really cared about being fanatical again. I remember what did it for me, the reason I no longer cared about memorizing baseball statistics from the back of Topps baseball cards. It was a scene in a movie that put everything in perspective. Sports were entertainment, and more importantly business. That point was perfectly demonstrated in a Bronx Tale, when an impressionable youth describes his infatuation with Mickey Mantle to a local mob boss. The boss ignores the fact that the kid has a sports hero that plays center field and goes on to tell him that nobody cares! A powerful statement, Mickey Mantle didn't care that the boy's father was struggling to pay rent, so why should the boy care about Mickey Mantle? It's true. It's like finding out that Santa Claus doesn't exist, but it's a lesson that every sport-loving kid needs to embrace.

I'll occasionally consult Espn.com or watch SportsCenter to stay current, but I'm barely conversational with regards to sporting events. That being said, Spring Training is the talk of the sporting world and there has been no bigger scandal than A. Rod admitting to ingesting a banned substance. SURPRISE! I could personally care less about this, and hardly consider it a news story. Cheating has been a part of sport since, well, forever. Rodriguez cheated. Ok. So what? The entire MLB roster cheated. In fact, Bud Selig might as well have been handing out syringes to save the dying sport of baseball.

The outrage doesn't lie in the fact that this supreme athlete cheated and enhanced his god-given ability into the richest contract in sports. The outrage lies in the fact that he broke the law. A. Rod will unlikely see the inside of a prison cell, but he should because he broke the law. If you or I get caught on "the pot," we would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Granted we don't make nearly the amount of money or posses the same celebrity as the third baseman, but we'd still be faced with the probability of prison. Blah blah blah - integrity of the game, etc. It disgusts me that a man can hit a baseball and is immune to the consequences that are associated with breaking the law in this country. Baseball and the perception of sport is broken, and has been for decades, going back as far as the Black Sox scandal of 1919 with "Shoeless Joe." It's no different than drinking and driving (over the limit). So the next time you get caught doing something illegal do not worry about going to jail because athletes like Michael Phelps, A. Rod, Roger Clemens, et. al. prove that jail isn't a viable option for those who break the law, or at least not for deities.

Democracy Prevails

The time to vote in my little poll has expired, and the masses have spoken. You nosy little perverts request that I post a photo. I will oblige within due time, seeing as this is the farthest thing from Communist Russia, and here in these United States the voice of the people is heard. There is one tiny problem. I don't own a digital camera or any passable substitute that may generate digital pixels of my likeness. I'll work on it. Hold on to your horses and be patient. I'll put it together. Thank yous, to all of those who participated and legitimately want to see this blog evolve.

Mad Libs

"Men in New York City suck!" Drink a different beer at a different bar - rinse & repeat ad nauseam. I have empathy for your plight. I really do, because people fundamentally want to find a mate (it's instinctual). Unfortunately for you every guy plays some variation of the following Mad Libs game when you expose the reason you aren't worthy of his affection: You're good, but you're not (blank) enough. You're not smart enough, attractive enough, fit enough, wealthy enough, creative enough, active enough, sane enough, holy enough, liberal enough, etc.

It's terrible, but it's true. You're aware of the immense competition that Gotham breeds because you subscribe to Timeout New York and Cosmopolitan, convinced that the answers are scattered within those pages. Think of it as an admissions process to get into Harvard, where the institution has all of the leverage in the situation, because after all it's Harvard. Multiple candidates got 1600 on their SATs, graduated in the top of their high school class with a 4.0, were in student government, and played sports. So how do you set yourself apart? Aside from being a published author at the tender age of 13, it's extremely difficult to distinguish yourself. You are faced with two choices: 1) don't apply to Harvard, or 2) differentiate yourself. Same holds true with men in Manhattan.

Is it really that hard to comprehend that you don't physically match up to the girl next to you at the bar, who gets paid to look the way she does (and often times is half naked in those magazines that you worship)? We call that a model, and they are abound in this city. I take back my previous statement: It's not difficult. It's damn near impossible. It's sickening that you'll never be enough. Perhaps you can individuate yourself by having a positive attitude for a change and refrain from using the opening quote (even if everyone knows it couldn't be more fitting). Then again, there's always Match.com.