Credit

In addition to his lack of driving skills, Cotto has no idea what money stands for (hint: it's for goods and services).To him, every day is either the best day ever (like a whacked-out teenager at Disneyland), or his imminent death—like a kid eaten by a gator at Disneyland (http://www.cnn.com/2016/06/15/us/alligator-attacks-child-disney-florida/). And that's exactly what his serious mental disorders are about: really really REALLY!!! great things that make you stay up for days and days and you just don't understand and why aren't you more excited, Marie? Sleep?! Food?! WHY???!!! GET PUMPED UP!!! Yeah, kid. Call me when the show is over, or starts, whichever happens last. I'm going to sleep, and I'm eating breakfast. Bitch.

The same is true about his understanding of family. His dad was his drinking buddy/sexual escapades partner (aye yi yi), and his mom's new "old man" looks at him kinda funny, too. He's been staying up late to watch t.v. recently, so he could screw the people living around him from using "his" pull-out sofa as a bed, and when you question that, he blames you for his escalating drunken abuse. It's a landscape without any safe places, which makes jail seem much better in comparison, because at least you get decent food and a bed to sleep in, you know? And maybe skip the nighttime rape scene, for once.

I felt bad for him because he had it that hard coming up in "da game" of life, but he's such a selfish fucking dick, you can't help but wish for him to be as far away from you as possible. Just because someone's really sick doesn't mean they can't also be a completely selfish asshole. I'm sure the staff at his residency center wants him dead or gone on his worst days, particularly the days when he deliberately craps his bed so the big buff orderly in the tight white scrubs can change his diapers for him while he sexually harasses him with molester-type comments. You know? A punch in the face is sometimes much quicker and easier than strapping him down to the bed and cleaning out his mess. Poor fucker. I've been there with head-cases before. Many, many, many times over.

So, when I asked him about his "credit card debt" that he intentionally mischaracterized as a fun "Sex and the City" shopping spree, it was just as depressing as I thought. "Well, Marie...", he began. Oh, OK. I'm the dumb fuck sleeping on your floor in your Army/Navy sleeping bag that you can talk down to. I forgot where I was for a minute! Actually, I didn't. Yeah, Cotto. What happened? I wanted him to just take his sleeping meds and go the fuck to sleep, but he was going off of his prescriptions one-by-one, because he couldn't handle the stress of homelessness, welfare, and his broke-ass two-year school on Staten Island for people without their G.E.D.'s coping with several mental disorders, and I was supposed to pretend that wasn't true with him, so he could psychotically pretend that I was his trapped quarry, when in truth, I could crack open his shin bones to the marrow whenever I wanted. 

Not that I wanted that. He was a dumb bloated mess of a human being, and I questioned that status on most days, too. But, let's hear it. It'll come out anyway, and it's not like I have anything better to do on a Tuesday night, besides getting a good night's sleep on this here dirty tenement floor so I can out-design the crazy "creative director" at work tomorrow, who would short-change me out of a health plan and rip-off all of my cover designs out of professional envy and hateful sabotage. So, yeah. Go ahead. Well, my grandmother died, and she asked me to "look after" her mail while she was in the hospital, so I did. Uh huh. I question every part of that sentence, but yeah. And?

"I took her Sears credit card." For how much, Cotto? And he waffled on that, too. Sigh...every step of the way, eh asshole? "About 3 or 4 grand." It was probably much higher than that, between the $5-$7000 range, because he then told me his "lawyer" advised him to pay it back quickly. Riggght...while you blow off your dish-washing job (not good enough), buy dirt weed instead of meds, and jam in a stressful college-like experience at the same time, so you can justify your subsequent freak-out and imprisonment? I think I know this tune! "It came addressed to her in the mail and I was staying there." So? So what? "I needed money." He clammed up like a hardened convict who's just "lawyered up" because he already knows the drill.

But, like, why? I mean you have two fucking cell phones, an expensive video game console that's also your hard drive, an iPad, a laptop, and ghetto headphones. The whole nine, kid. What the fuck did you spend it on? I never got a real answer that made any sense to me. What the fuck did he buy with it? For those of you reading me outside of the U.S., "Sears, Roebuck and Company" is a really old catalog business that began when the west was still a bison-filled frontier for European sharecroppers in covered wagons hoping to escape/frame "Indians" for all of their horrible massacres, in a lustful quest for blood and oil money that has come to be known as "The Wild West." You've seen the movies, right? Like that. Or, more specifically, like this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sears.

I mean, he wasn't exactly home-owner material as a self-entitled welfare queen. People like me work hard. Not him! He's "special". Well, Cotto, sigh...don't make me phrase it like I'm taking away your lollipop, you fucking prick. I'm tired. What did you buy with it? I waited...and then waited some more. And some more. This, from an arrogant dick who liked to pretend he was exceedingly verbal and highly loquacious with his carefully chosen bon mots. Give it up! He looked down, and thought about it, but finally, he was too embarrassed to tell me. I'm sure it wasn't for garden hoes, or trimming shears for his fucking front lawn with carefully groomed hedges. And to this day, I still don't know what he bought with a housewares store credit card used by Americans for generations as their rural general store.

I know what we did. My mom asked me to circle clothes out of a huge Christmas catalog every year for toys and clothes, and if they didn't fit or we didn't like it, we went back to the store in Nanuet (still there) to return it. That's what country folk did back then, while your dad browsed the barbecue grills and dreamed of a motorized lawn mower with a comfy riding seat, like the big Italian douchebag next door to us had, riding around smiling on his ghetto "pizza money" from his 'hood storefront in the Bronx that would become a model for the summertime NYC movie classic "Do the Right Thing" that explored ethnic and racial tensions between the Italian-American immigrants who earned their plush living off the backs of impoverished, trapped African-Americans living in a hot city without air conditioning, just like we did.

We had heavy, awkward window units that sat tipsily in the small window sills of our split-level home, and if we wanted even that cool comfort in our rooms, we had to pull down a ladder in the ceiling to go into the attic, carefully stepping between the beams so we wouldn't fall through the floor, and then pushing the heavy units down the stairs at a steep angle to whoever was at the bottom. We had air conditioning in our small bedrooms only; not in the kitchen, or the living room, or the converted basement downstairs. If it was too hot to stay in our rooms for too long, we went outside, or we walked a mile and a half to the public pool up-and-down the impressive hills of this area, or we ran through a sprinkler on the lawn, spraying each other with a green garden hose. I know that he didn't do any of that, because he said would die in his early 50s, just like his father and his father's father. 

It was sad, but it was real. As he told me his life of woe, I knew his life was designed for him to fail. And so, I listened to his halting confessions that he had to work up the nerve to tell me over shared dirt weed blunts and cheap beer, because it probably included evil staples of the projects like child rape, child abandonment, and/or child endangerment. How did I know? He told me his dad was his first "party" partner. You fill in the blanks. And that's what I did. I "read" him expertly, better than anyone else did, and that's why I got out of the ghetto alive, just like my hardcore New York City family. That, and I kicked out an old abandoned bookcase piece-by-piece after work one night, so I could leave the floor of his dirty room for the room next door with a chain through the opening where the doorknob used to be, in front of him and our neighbor "Rex", his "hood rat" partner-in-crime for those days, even though it was mostly particleboard. Almost.

My mutha's naybahood: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Avenue
My fahthizz: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bedford%E2%80%93Stuyvesant,_Brooklyn
And mine, bitch: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Woodside,_Queens

Jailbreak

 

After I went bust during the last big economic recession, I was forced to undergo severe deprivation, like Americans do in times of war. I didn't have any luxuries to begin with, which meant that I almost immediately lost a lot of weight, and fast, too. I spent a few weeks light-headed and slightly dizzy, especially when my family chose to reenact their rather ritualized behavior called "kicking people who are down" by pretending that my living expenses were the result of laziness (ha!), ineptitude (how?), incompetence (oh, no) or an inability to work, which is, unfortunately for them, not backed up anywhere by any type of actual legal documentation, like, say, my complete work history through Social Security and the IRS. Hard to beat, but true.

As I freefalled expertly into poverty like I always do (because I've compensated for familial inadequacies all of my life), I met the typical lifelong poor who live in the 'hood, and who've never accurately reflected me or my reality. "Everybody's 'crazy' in the hood!", my friend Cotto explained to me, as my so-called expert on ghetto fabulosity, not expecting a "white" girl (uh, oh) like me to come from the projects in Queens (also documented), or having parents from Bed-Stuy and the Bronx. Real but true, as our native stories from around the way. He got angry and aggressive at my "street creds" (like I planned it), tensely inquiring about street names and directions to my parent's so-called neighborhoods that were immediately under suspicion, because he lies almost every time he opens his mouth.

And that's true about critically impoverished project people who are on their 7th or 8th generation of the American Experience; they don't actually solve problems. Other people do that for them! Cotto had an arrogant sense of entitlement about his welfare the same way a wealthy white man expects "his" table to always be ready for him at his favorite restaurant, as part of his price for eating at the establishment. "It's not a law, but that's the way it works in the world, Marie", typically accompanied by a pitying gesture like the sideways head tilt and a condescending tone. Right...I'm the poor muthafucka who doesn't know what time it is. I keep forgetting that!

In truth, after my family forced me into "Public Assistance" by turning their backs on me (I got some MetroCards for hours and hours of waiting and form-filling), I needed a sit-down with Cotto so I could take notes on his lifestyle. It was fascinating. There were unwritten rules about everything that you'd never find in print, which would legitimize an already-shady situation. He had to tell me what time to get there so the lines wouldn't be painful to wait on, and after I did that successfully, he told me I forgot to go to this particular window on this floor to ask for MetroCards because "they're supposed to do that for you!" Huh. Uh, homeboy, nobody told me that. It was so fucking crazy and half-ass that I immediately knew it was designed for him and his mentality.

Nothing made sense about their process. Not one single fucking thing, and I can write books on any subject matter there is. There were secret rules about special windows, lines, locations....it went on and on and on. After his bad Alfredo dinner, I finally told him the truth. "it sounds like this is a full-time job!" He agreed. "Yep. Being on welfare is like having a full-time job, because to get benefits, that's how much time you need. You have to think of it as your job." What the...? A job? But, like, I've been working since I was a minor. Where do healthy brilliant female publishers go? Of course, the answer for me was as simple as the local library (duh), but for unskilled generational poverty on a continual course, I was stumped. I still have no idea how anyone could live within a system as fucked up as that and survive, but as I found out through Cotto, it's made to foil criminals, not law-abiding citizens rocked by changes in the economy as old as the hills, like highly-skilled managers dumped for their pricey salaries.

As I fought the final battles with my disordered family on an empty stomach, I found a temporary cover design gig, then more "Unemployment Benefits" that I paid for in full (like all of my single-girl health plans), then another design gig that was deliberately cut-off to intentionally suck cover designs out of me for catalog season before my six-month kicked in that would give me full health benefits, as they cheated me out of them for the first few months that I worked longer and harder than around me, and then a final round of Unemployment Benefits that I lived off of for months, at my mom's place. Being healthy didn't pay off for me, yet again. But, how to fake being sick? If I had to bend myself into that contorted a shape, I might as well go into the movies and acting! Who can do that? It hurt me to even try to be in a sick world for too long, like one big held-breath underwater.

Into this scary mix of crazy systemic incompetence came the necessary delve into tenement housing and shady subletting situations, like the weird OCD guy with a rental listing service who made me stand behind painted lines and follow his posted instructions written out in his tensely scrawled handwriting from behind a long counter, because he'd been beaten up too many times for taking poor people's money and then giving them bad information. Huh...so, not like my Park Slope real estate agent taking pictures of available brownstones for me to peruse while I corresponded via email in Denver? Uh, no. Not at all like that, or like me. The place on 9th Street that Cotto rocked like it was his personal prison cell gave me the creeps, but I survived. The guy who sometimes lived next to us on the top floor had invented a pseudonym named "Rex", which his friend told him to do if he dared to rent a shady sublet, as another critical piece of "hood rat" info that I didn't know. Ah.

Advice like that also originated from the same bodega that had attracted a drunk and high Cotto like a magnet, where he bought his "loosies" (didn't know that, either), and received such sage wisdom as "Don't let me hear that you actually paid Jose for that place!", which is so illegal, I can't even touch it from this angle. Do your thang, hood rat. What could I say? He wouldn't have listened to me anyway. Our neighbor Rex was deeply saddened and shocked by my "phoneless" state, which he telegraphed to me as this, "Oh, you should let me 'jack' your phone! I worked for a Verizon store." Uh, excuse me? "Yeah! You 'jailbreak' your phone from your carrier so you can get another plan!" Okay...I actually tried looking it up on the Park Slope library's public access computer, but it was so fucking convoluted and fraught with technical difficulties that once again I thought to myself, well, shit; if he can do that, why is he here in a tenement with us, you know?

I'd adjusted to having no phone the good old fashioned way: I used payphones on the corner, and the library's WiFi to access the Internet through my old iPhone. Still do. In time, I bought a cheap drugstore cell-phone, and my mom's broke-ass cousin had to tell us how to do that, too. I simply didn't know you could buy a phone for, like, $10 and then load it with phone minutes. I always paid for all of my expenses. Sure enough, the next time I walked down Fifth Avenue towards the Hispanic neighborhood of Sunset Park, there it was, advertised on a placard in Cotto's special bodega: WE JAILBREAK iPHONES HERE. Great. Yet another piece of criminal knowledge that I didn't want or need. I just wanted to live life for another day.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IOS_jailbreaking

"Beats, boy!"

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Headphones

Like all the other decisions I watched Cotto make on his own, each and every single one of them was the wrong one, just like the other scared kids from Brownsville before him. He was angry and arrogant about his lies, too, preferring instead to say to me that he found "creativity" similar to "lying", because that's what most 'hood heroes do: they puff themselves up beyond average human reason and typical imagination, creating the sense that everyone and everything around them is bullshit, so used to the scammers and liars most project folk also believe themselves excellently to be.

His brush-up with "the real" through me was absolutely horrifying for him. I saw him turn white in shock while I sat on his floor describing my hard-working studio days, and he was a rather dark-skinned male when I knew him. "What you're saying to me is absolutely terrifying to me", as he shook his head slowly back and forth, hamming it up to me over the drinks that I bought for us down the block at a hipster joint, now that I had money again from my design work. Any real welfare queen has great acting chops as part of his/her arsenal that are the ideals of the insane. Cotto tried in vain to convince me that waiting all day in the depressing rooms of Public Assistance was his "job" when he did it full-time, and if I wanted to work it, that's how I had to think about it, too. Uh, excuse me, what...?!

It was so utterly poor in quality and convoluted in its execution, that the few days I did interact with the staff there, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the "social workers" working there were just as crazy as the people who worked them over for a living. It felt like the blurry line that sometimes divides inmates from officers in a prison setting, as time spent together that sometimes created an artificial camaraderie not actually existing between a convict and their supervising warrior. When was the last time you met a timid Samurai?

As soon as I got a job, the "case worker" in her early twenties assigned to me immediately shut the door to all the city programs and services that were supposedly available to someone like me, even though I told her I would still need help as a single working woman living alone in the city. Ever heard of back rent that's due and unpaid bills? She blew aside my concerns, so rare an experience it must have been for her working in a dead zone of Brooklyn that's atypical for our lives there, living in one of the most beautiful boroughs of the world. Case closed! She seemed relieved to have less work to do, though I doubt she'd ever met someone like me before. For all my time spent waiting and shuffling between odd appointments, all I got out of their bloated bureaucratic structures were a few Metrocards for the mass transit trips necessary to reach the wacky appointments made for me by various city agencies, scattered around town in a way that made no sense, especially to an efficient and practical Acadian like me.

Cotto worked the rooms he visited at welfare like he was born to the life, and he was. It was, for him, the perfect fit. He described the one part-time beginner's web job he had (self-described to me as his brief work as a "designer", even though he couldn't draw his way out of a paper bag), and much like his beginner's job in the professional world of cuisine, he felt that this paltry desk job was wayyy beneath him, lacking as it was to his superior sense of self. You see, he told me his employer was "crazy", making him work out of his home as a self-starter in his own business, constantly watching over his shoulder while he did all these banal chores like scan in art every single day, over and over again. It's called being a "Production Assistant", or "Production Designer" in desktop publishing, Cotto!

Much like the other jobs he tried working, he hated every single one of them. What could compete with sitting in a small room playing superhero video games stoned off your ass, day after day? Like a perpetual teenager who never really got a full kickstart in life, he just felt that wasn't made for real life. His juvenile dad (his "best friend" and favorite drinking buddy) had died at the early age of 53 from heart disease, and Cotto told me that he knew he would, too. He already had a disturbing hacking cough. What was left for him to do? He felt that his lazy rolling about the streets had given him all the "life experience" he needed. What could there possibly be for him? It was shocking in its' ineptitude for someone like him: someone who'd never really traveled anywhere or seen anything really good in life. 

He'd partied with a bunch of people who were dead, in various key spots around the city. Wasn't that what I meant? He'd then adopt a quizzical look for show. Sigh....always another tiring con job to front. He could memorize the best subway route he needed to buy weed at Washington Square Park, shocked by the commuter routine I'd adapted to early morning weekday life as it was for me then. But, but...that's too slow! What if he wanted weed quicker? He could get me there in 15 minutes! Of course, his route meant shite to me on the weekends that I had time to explore or run errands around town, because the tracks changed routes for servicing then anyway, but like any of the other real points I shared with him, he'd feign disinterest, suddenly closing his eyes and dozing at the diner table I brought him to in the middle of the day, so we could get breakfast (paid by me, of course) before hitting the laundromat, so I'd have fresh clothes for work during the upcoming week.

As soon as I finished cleaning up the room next to his that was "for rent" by the squatting former super operating in a tenuous situation I hadn't been made fully aware of (seeing as I went to another corner store than the local Nuyroricans living closer to Sunset Park than Park Slope), Cotto soon became paranoid by our change in circumstances. I figured from the cocktail of meds he showed me that he purposefully weaned himself off of them to hurt me with his burgeoning psychosis anew, but by then, I'd handily locked myself into the room I cleaned out with a thick chain through the punched-out doorknob that he'd have to borrow a heavy cutter to undo, and that was labor, man. Not worth it to him, I guess. Besides, I actually paid full market value for the rooms' legal worth, and as such, I wasn't a person of interest to the other 'hood rats in the building, or the people in the neighborhood watching us. I'd be gone soon, anyway, funded by my earnings.

As soon as Cotto got his money from the city for his cheap community college (and I doubted that story, too, but that's life in any ghetto), he cashed it and went on a spending spree, like I knew he would. He told me "they" gave him $30,000 for tuition, books, supplies, food, and rent, but have you ever heard of a two-year CUNY school on Staten Island for that kind of cash? Exactly! One of his stories surrounded this myth that he was a "media major" at school, because he got baked and watched a lot of t.v. shows and movies. Oh....times have sure changed! Must be expensive to study it at school, wink wink. The one paper he showed me was clearly written by the prof with his college study group. It was like a bad essay from a kid attending junior high school. In his make-believe role as a hardworking college kid from the 'hood looking to "make it" on his own finally (like the welfare myth about "a hand-up, and not a 'hand-out'!"), Cotto greatly justified his purchase of a fancy new digital tablet he didn't actually need for his school coursework, because he showed me the curriculum he had.

After that, he felt free to dream aloud on his small twin bed at me as I barely listened, nestled comfortably in his Army/Navy sleeping bag on the floor, ready to drop off to sleep like the hardworking girl without medication that I am, in stark contrast to his rapidly firing mania. That's why he was a coke addict, too! Did I know that? It was always something with him. As he fantasized aloud to me about a future he'd never really wanted to have, he pretended to me that he needed a fancy pair of designer headphones that every single 'hood rat from around the way sported on the trains, colored as they were to match the "kicks" (sneaks) and caps that were trendy then, like every sad pricey item that came before it, perpetrated by the same con artists who charged extra to their home crowd for the distinction of selling their shattered dreams of fame and stardom back to them, in an endlessly parasitic cycle that marks the life of hardened criminals.

After all, the rapper who sold them was from the "mean streets", too, yo! He makes some fresh gear that I just gots to have! It was always this craving for stuff that was barely hidden hidden behind false ideas about an American Dream that most of the cons never genuinely wanted, anyway. They'd be us, if they really wanted our lives to share. I'd known that as well, but like his other reveries, he didn't bear up under the close scrutiny of another native New York kid like him. He just wanted to sell you some "beats" that you missed out on, man! Hey, where were you for that? Huh. He wasn't there for it with you, you know. He just disappeared at the exact right time by lurking creepily in the background, to the murky depths lingering on the edges of any true society where he feels he belongs, happy to catch our petty little crumbs and call them "bad", because that's the way he liked it. Badly.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beats_Electronics

A "How-to" Guide for New York

I've joked about creating a pamphlet for new New Yorkers for years, witness as I've been over the years to a certain amount of crimes that are wholly unnecessary, but I've been told by more than one person that "common sense isn't so common" and I've certainly found that to be true. You'd be amazed how many horribly performing people there truly are in the world, major businesses included. Once I quickly got my bearings in business (because I had to), I spent a lot of time observing the human condition as I went about my day.

You see, unlike the "diva" designer who is only qualified to set type in a layout, I was trained to do just about anything, which naturally opened me up to ridicule among less talented workers, after I graduated to begin my apprenticeship. I was prepped for it at art boot camp, where the first salvo of the day was often delivered by that famous author you read at the library, in front of some extremely wealthy diplomat's kid, so shame and embarrassment over something like hard work became impossible for me to feel in any workflow.

Unlike putting on typical "airs" about being a native New Yorker (another way of "separating the wheat from the chaff" among so many avidly striving out-of-towners seeking fame and fortune in our fair city), I just did the work, like my forefathers who built this city. I didn't talk endlessly about it, because I worked with people who wouldn't have been able to understand or tolerate any of our real history (in lieu of so much posing and phony posturing), so most of the time I listened and spoke only when necessary, which is a great survival strategy for anyone working in a town full of strangers that you already own, they just didn't know it....yet. Today you do!

After so much time spent listening to other people's fantasies about who they want you to think they are, I would slowly drink my pint (that was put to scrutiny too, for not "being fast enough" around certain desperate yenta's from Long Island who needed that second round badly to try and keep pace, or conversely for being "too fast" to a certain type of reticent, slow-witted people out west) and take it in, as part of my ongoing studies about the human condition. I became a sort of covert cultural anthropologist without really knowing it, and in your repetition I became a master of the human arts.

And so, without much further ado, I present to you my fairly glib but actually totally valid list about rules to New York City living, for the slow and the stupid, as well as the rich and insane. You thirsty natives already know what to do, so do it.

#1 - Do not spit on the subway tracks. Chinatown, this means you. We will fine and ticket you for it, plus it's totally disgusting, which is part of the point, I'm sure. Next time we're on Mainland China, I'll be sure to spray Lysol around while ripping off your dumb face masks. Getting a fucking grip! If you don't like us "Gweilo", then go home. Good luck not starving to death in a labor camp. NO SPITTING.

#2 - Do not ride the subway after midnight, especially if you are a woman. If you can't afford the cab fare home, don't go out with your co-workers who may want you drunk and vulnerable on a train ride by yourself. Pickpockets like drunks asleep on the subway, too. 

#3 - Look both ways before crossing our city streets. This is mandatory. You can be run over by a passing car, cab, truck, or biker in a second, and not even know what hit you. Dumb-ass. Stay home!

#4 - Stand against a pile-on while waiting for a train to come into the station to avoid the crazies, like rouge slashers (yes, I follow the local news) and phantom pushers of people onto train tracks. Plus, you'll line up with the car doors, because conductors use them to align the trains. You're welcome. Assholes.

#5 - Yes, there are maps and schedules for subways, but things happen quickly to underground trains that are hundreds and hundreds of years old immediately after leaving Brooklyn Yard. Adjust for it, muthfucka, or just fucking leave. People get sick, trains derail, rains flood low-lying areas (duh, you dick) and shit just simply breaks from all the use. Get a fucking grip, and always leave ahead of time to reach your destination. Dick!

#6 - Expect serious delays and re-routing on the weekends, because that's when we service those trains you take for granted, shit-head. Expect to tack on additional travel time, because you will have to run an obstacle course so severe, people get panic attacks over it. Really. We can't do a lot of rail work during commuting hours, because millions of jobs and lives depend on our labors, so again, just fucking deal. Ass. Stay home!

#7 - Watch your bag and wallet AT ALL TIMES, no matter where you are in the city. Urban areas are rife with crime, just like Rome, London, or Tokyo, you ignorant fucking hick. Keep an eye on your purse!

#8 - This goes without saying, but there is NO SLEEPING ON MASS TRANSIT. Shit pops off quickly in the fastest town on the planet, and I know your khaki-wearing, office-working ass cannot handle it. Just stay out of the way while warriors do their jobs.

#9 - Last, and not least, summertime in the city smells bad. Really fucking bad. Get out of there. We're like Europeans: the city shuts down most operations during the summer, so get out of town and enjoy it. Take a bus or train to the beach or the mountains, but just go. What do you think that bum who reeks of piss and crap smells like, simmering to a near-boil in the heat of summer? Yep, that's what it is like underground. Best to avoid it, if you can.

There you go. Now, get out there and succeed! Just think about my rules as you're crossing over the GWB, looking at the massive skyline, and remember this: we conquered all that first. We built this city.



***UPDATE*** In lieu of this morning's snow (combined with your general lack of ability to STAY HOME and have a nice three-day weekend), I'd like to add to my list of rules regarding weather and other typically human conditions:

1A - If you are not an emergency worker or crisis manager for the City of New York, nor part of our government, or the crux upon which an entire business stands, stay the fuck home. I thought that would be obvious with a Friday morning snowfall, but New Jersey, I saw you dumb fucks clogging the tolls to get onto the GWB this morning and by the looks of your vehicles, you are definitely NOT in the leading minority that runs shit, you broke-ass mutha-sumptins. Next time, stay home or the Governor will seal-off town again. Do you really want that?! No?! THEN STAY HOME. Enjoy a freakin' snow day for once...jeez...

2A - ALWAYS PUT TRASH INTO THE PROPER RECEPTACLES. Believe it or not, New Yorkers are not dirty animals who love your filth, you tourist fuck. I know you think this town is here for you to piss away your money on dumb sidewalk crap, but unlike Las Vegas, we do not like seeing topless hookers in Times Square on a weekday afternoon with children rolled around in their prams by their well-meaning parents. That is not our culture. Keep your coked-up hooker shit in Nevada where it belongs! It's legal to die there from an overdose of cocaine and several highly toxic human diseases. Here, we take the time to throw away our garbage into the many, many obvious trash cans that are all around town, along with those pretty flowerpots you see in Spring that are maintained by city workers. We care about our home. We care a lot.

3A - RECYCLE. RECYCLE. RECYCLE. It's the law, and it is mandatory. It's the way to keep our towns relatively vermin-free and our immediate environment clean, with long-term health benefits to every single living thing on this planet. You do not have a choice because (and this is key), recycling is mandatory in New York. Violate our "green-clean" ethos and we will fine the fuck out of you, chasing you all the way back to your much cheaper po-dunk town, because here we don't have time to work through your mental static when a good hard hit to the wallet is much more effective. Get it? Good!

Camouflage

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camouflage

We've all seen the reports about "Problem America" and our supposedly rabid bloodlust for gun violence, but that only tells part of the story. For every raging "gun nut" with a pseudo-militaristic bent who's overdosed on too many boyhood war flicks, there exists an actual veteran with a licensed weapon who belongs to a legitimate gun club, carrying an updated permit tied to a rigid background check with a psych screening (perhaps a blood test with a urine sample or two thrown in, for good measure) that's current. Why would owning and driving a car require more testing than carrying a deadly weapon? It shouldn't be like that, and that's not our intention here*.

As a nation of expats, exiles, and immigrants from war-torn countries around the world that have in power a wealthy ruling elite funded by corruption, Americans tend to be a little sensitive about oil barons in fancy trucks who have all the guns, and we don't. Our Constitution actually preserves our rights as citizens to form an opposing militia, in the event that it all goes wrong somehow with our government sometime in the future, like, maybe during a zombie apocalypse coupled with the latest impending nuclear attack. It's extreme, really. Or perhaps, like my gentlemen friend from the post office who sported flannel along with his ole fishing hat with NRA and scouting badges: you grew up in rural upstate New York where the wild things live, because hunting and fishing is a big part of your life.

I'm not talking about those faux hicks who sell it in modern "cuntree" songs about some pretend lifestyle that preserves inbred rednecks getting drunk and shooting off guns in the middle of woods, because we certainly have those type of kooks 'round the way, too. My former handyman from the 'hood is just such a type of Nuyorcian. One afternoon while he and his skeleton crew worked (including a one-eyed Mexicano who didn't have his own paintbrush, even though they were there to paint my apartment, and he's probably an illegal alien, too), my friend came up to me while I was writing a novelization of yet another office situation gone mad in the city, he though it was more than acceptable to interrupt my work at the keyboard so as to settle some crazy-ass nonsense he and his brother had about Bruce Lee. 

You read that right, amigos. My handyman though it was totally fine to ask me in the middle of my work day to "squash a beef" for him about Bruce Lee, by asking me to look up a YouTube video for him, so as to ascertain whether or not the video was real or faked, like, some far out Sasquatch or Loch Ness type of shit that would link up to Lee's faked death, a la President Kennedy and the grassy knoll type of situation, ya feel me, peeps? We all have that kind of paranoid, conspiracy-theory friend. I told him that it was definitely possible for a real martial artist like Bruce Lee to bust that kind of move on film with nunchucks**, hard as it was, because in addition to his professional acting chops, he really was master martial artist.

After his grunting concession to that blatantly obvious and very well-known fact from martial arts movie history (I know, "hood rats", I know. I'm rollin' my eyes, too), I couldn't help but notice that my friend had decided that today was the day to sport (from his colorful bevy of them) a charming camouflage print do-rag*** decorated jauntily with silhouettes of very large guns because, of course, he and his wacky friends have indeed gone upstate to a remote location (or so they thought) to get drunk, get loud, and mow down trees... or not, as the case may be.

You see, another one of my handyman's wacky theories was finding out if you can indeed get 1) crazy drunk, 2) whacked out of your mind on blow, and then 3) shoot down a tree, if you only have enough ammo and the right AK-47. It's just one of those things that freakin' Ricans do. You see, back in the day, some o' my peeps were so desperate for cool green spaces in the 'hood that they decided city parks sucked (too much crime), and that parking by the side of a busy highway upon first seeing any type of grass at all was perfectly fine, car exhaust be damned. It was so widespread a thing that as we drove back from the city, my family called them "Puerto Rican picnics" because you are not supposed to park by the side of a busy highway just to eat with your little children. It is, in fact, highly illegal, as is almost every recreation that my friend attempts in his leisure time.

He proceeded to tell me about how they pissed off the farmer next door (because, you know, that early rising scumbag with all the kids and animals to take care of is racist, man), and then the cops were called, with tickets, fines, and summons issued, all because my dumb-ass friend and his stoopid crew of wackadoos from the 'hood thought it was funny to shoot at shit in the dark of night, with the lights of a distant farmhouse next door suddenly signalling to them that is, indeed, not okay to do that to your neighbor, you dumb fuck.

And no, he didn't chop down a tree in his friend's backyard at three a.m. with his big gun (nor did any of his friends), because there ain't enough ammo in the world to do that job well, and also because (this is key, kids) that IS NOT what our Constitution guarantees (nor do any of the Amendments), but he decided with more than a few beers in him to take what we fight for everyday and wipe his butt with it, because despite charming t.v. sitcoms about "making it", a locale change for him and his motley crew can't make up for what education and life skills can really do for them. He needs that. Not more ammo. Certainly not more guns.


*     https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Right_to_keep_and_bear_arms 
**    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nunchaku  
***  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Do-rag