Japanese Girls in Matching Underwear

Japanese girls in matching underwear are the greatest thing ever invented (as if there was ever any doubt). That is all.

Don't Flatter Yourself...

Don't flatter yourself, don't think I'm a fool
Just because you walk talk and act so cool.
Don't flatter yourself, got too big for your britches
Little boys like you can be the biggest bitches.
Don't flatter yourself...

Flatter me.

--Author Unknown

But Ripper's Guide to Strip Clubs in the Bronx

But Ripper puts you on about where the real xxx action is going down in the Bronx.

Rochester Strip Club Review Dated Added: Sat Sep 22 2001 Submitted by: Coop

Beware of Klassy Cat in Rochester, NY. Though the girls who dance for the Klassy Cat are the prettiest strippers in Rochester, they may not be the nicest. Don't get me wrong, most of the girls are very friendly or give the impression they are. But after today, I'm not so sure. This may make me sound like a loser, but this is to warn all the less than "hunky" guys out there about the place. I went to Klassy Cat this afternoon. I had a couple of beers and watched the girls dance. I tipped a few and I was respective of them when I had contact with them. There was one dancer there today, I didn't catch her name, she has long blonde hair, apparently a whole body tan, is about 5' tall with a hard body and is very well endowed. Well, being a red blooded male I thought "wow". After she was through with her set I sat and waited patiently for her to come out so I could ask her for a table dance. She was in the dressing room for quite a while. Then she came out with three other girls wearing a very short white mini skirt and thigh red leather boots and a red thong. After the music quit playing she went back into the dancers dressing room. I waited a few minutes longer than I got up and asked the bartender if she would be available for a table dance or if she was done. The bartender told me she was sure she was available and said she would go and tell her I would like a table dance. I waited by the cigarette machine for a few minutes. She came out an chatted with one of the other dancers and played around. She also talked to a guy who must have been a regular. She went back into the dressing room and so did the dancer she was talking to. A few moments later the dancer she was talking to came out and was pulling a small luggage case behind her. She said "see you later" to me and then she left. The dancer I wanted a table dance from came back out of the dressing room and put her arms around my neck. She gave me a little hug and told me she had to go to the little girls room then she would be right back. After being ignored for about an hour I finally left. So just be careful when you go to Klassy Cat.

"But Ripper's" Guide to picking up Hookers in the Bronx

I stumbled across two of the greatest internet postings of all time, on World Sex Guide, written by a playa who calls himself "But Ripper."

"bronx, ny Street Action Dated Added: Mon Sep 2002
Submitted by: but ripper

What's good my horny people? But ripper is back to get you nasty muthafucka's up to date on my 'dick to hard to sleep' romps.... I usually hit the streets around 4:30 am right after the clubs close out and them grimy bitches get to 'poundin the pavement'... If you know the streets you know 'round the 1st and 15th of the month is prime time to catch a thick bitch fresh off a crack binge....Don't assume that all crack ho's have a gray complexion, ashy lips, and open canker sore's...Shit, some of these bitches is fresh out of jail or rehab, thick as shit, and some just started smoking and begun to realize they need to put a dick in they mouth in order to satisfy that addiction.. Yeah, I know it's a fucked up game - but you need to have a strong stomach if you want to pull some righteous shit off the street... "I'm a show ya how to do this man!"~~~~~~I been up on 1st...on the border of Mt. Vernon and the Bronx, 'right near 241 st. last stop on the 2 line...Let me tell you bout this bitch I bagged round 4:20 am the other night. After I dropped my boy home after a night at the Medallis on 38th and 8th, which by the way, is now straight wack - since my man Big Doug no longer runs it "God Bless the Dead" - anyway, I sees this nice round booty walkin up the block and I initially don't think she's a ho cause she's too well dressed and her body is a little too tight - Naturally, the dog must bark// Shit, as horny as I been lately I just needed my dick touched...The bitch approaches and asks my name...We go thru the routine.."you not police," she asks...I say, "Do I look like Police." "How you doin, my name is Joe (of course, it's not - but the bitch can't have my government). "Hi, my name is Monique." I still don't think she's a street walker cause she talkin bout how she stressed and she just needed to get out and take a walk. All along I'm thinkin: "Bitch, I picked you up on the stroll, Be real!!!!" But I play her game, cause I want to get a whiff of that booty...I take the bitch to get some stuff..."I refuse to go into detail during this period - cause it was too grimy for print..~~~~~Anyway, I gets the bitch back to my crib in Yonkers...after picking up a pack of cigs and beet. She knows I'm horny - but she acts like she want to sit there and watch the big screen DVD and shit! I soon give her the look like, "Bitch, get out them jeans and get naked..." She knows it's time and promptly gets up and washes her ass in my bathroom...She comes out all sweet smellin and shit and stands in front of me...I'm layin on the couch with a spliff in one hand and my dick in the other..."Well," she says...Her body is tight...titties all round and big with huge nipples...nice semi-wise ass with a little belly...The bitch got a cute face with a little bob hairdo that resembles Toni Braxton a bit...At first she wants to suck it standing up - but I love to see a bitch on her knees handling her bizness...~~~~So I arrange the position that has her head between my knees...She knows how to work her head and shit, makes me proud...I'm luvin this bitch right now! After I almost shoot a big fat pack of goo in her mouth she takes it out while I put on one a them jumbo rubbers on my big, pretty, black dick...I proceed to wear that bitch out all night and she wants to hold hands when we walk out my condo...I just met the bitch - she fuckes my brains out and I still don't know if she's really a ho...But I do know that I'm a muthafuckin pimp!!!!!~~~ (Review # 6067)"

Who knows what Jealousy lies in the Hearts of Men.. Pt II.

I've weathered many failures in my life, I'm not embarrassed to admit (most of the time). These range from professional and academic, to personal and internal. For the most part, I always strive to view my failures as harsh classrooms, there to show me what not to do the next time as I continue (and I always continue) on my way towards realizing my goals.

It's been a long road arriving to where I am today. That's not to say that I am so completely head and shoulders over my peers (although often times, in many facets of life, that seems to be the case)--rather, it's to illustrate just how far behind I was for the first third of my life thanks to laziness, low self-esteem, lack of social capital, etc.

Growing up, I had absolutely no sense of self-esteem or pride, especially with regards to my physical appearance. I made a concerted effort to get that taken care of, and I did.

I also had no clue how to effectively interact with people in general, and women in particular. I had no understanding of why people act and respond in the way they do. When it came to women, I was absolutely oblivious to how to even begin associating with them. Once again, I made a choice to get that area of my life handled, and I did.

Thanks to a combination of an absence of role models in my life and my own innate dark tendencies, I wound up early on in a lifestyle that could have only ended in addiction and despair. I decided that that wasn't the life I wanted to look back upon from my death bed, and so I made a decision to uproot my life as I knew it and join the military while I was still young enough to turn things around. Once again, I made a conscious decision to improve myself, and I followed through with it. So, I went from a street urchin to a world-traveled professional in roughly six years.

Unfortunately, as I've come to discover, there is a large contingent of humanity that has extreme difficulty effecting any sort of self-motivated change in their individual lives. Since taking control of their own existence on this planet is so completely out of their realm of imagination, when I speak about my life experiences, what they hear is something like this:


My Reality: "It took a huge amount of effort and determination, a lot of sacrifice and heartache, and a decent amount of failure, but I'm at a point now where I'm in a pretty good position professionally."

What 'they' hear: "I'm in a pretty good position professionally, and you're not, so allow me to rub it in your face (because of course the situation is totally out of your control)."

My Reality: "I made a lot of poor decisions early on, which resulted in me having to implement some serious damage-control later on in life. However, they do make for some interesting and hilarious stories, so I'm glad those bad choices were at least good for something."

What 'they' hear: "I have had such an interesting and zany life, and you haven't, so allow me to rub it in your face (because of course you never had a fair opportunity to do anything interesting with your life)."

My Reality: "Thanks to a lot of poor advice and my own natural-born clumsiness with females, I spent the first 20+ years of my life getting flat-rejected and laughed at by more girls than you or I can count. Since then however, I've made a focused effort to study up on human interaction, humbly solicit advice from those guys I know who are successful with women, and start taking pride and care with my physical appearance. As a result, I've managed to improve my lot to the point where I've been lucky enough to successfully land several very beautiful girlfriends, a scenario I could not have even imagined not so many years ago."

What 'they' hear: "I get so many beautiful girls all the time, because I've just got it like that and you don't (and once again, of course, the situation is completely out of your control).


I've found that the specific lessons to be learned from this phenomenon are (1) find and keep friends who have a similar world view to yours when it comes to decidedly setting and accomplishing goals in all (not just one or two) facets of life; and (2) when circumstances such as work, school, etc., dictate that you must interact with those passive-aggressive type individuals who do not share your world view, e.g. that, for the most part, we are all directly responsible for our own destiny, in those situations just keep your mouth shut when it comes to any topic outside of the objective one at hand.

Differences in opinion when it comes to politics, music, culture, religion, etc., are (usually) wonderful, and in that sense I relish the opportunity to be around those who think differently than I do. When it comes to how you run your own life, however, if someone isn't prepared to accept the fact that even the smallest choices they make are directly connected to the life they live day in and day out, then from this point on I have no interest in bringing someone like that into my reality. We may work together, study together, or even be related--but that's where it ends.

Like 50 Cent's grandfather used to tell him when he was a kid: "In life, you'll get as far as the muthafuckaz you talk to for no reason." From now on, I'm taking care of who I talk to.

Williamsburg

So I ended up drinking in Williamsburg, Brooklyn last night for the first time in a very long time. We stopped by the WB mainstays, Barcade and Union Pool.

It actually surprised me that Williamsburg has somehow managed to become a caricature of itself. I didn't think such a feat was possible.

Needless to say, absent some very good company, I won't be stepping foot in any more Williamsburg bars again for a very long time.

Something tells me I won't be missing out on much.

Here Comes the Bride...

Back in 1980's Brooklyn, the "in" thing to do after your wedding ceremony (read: "ghetto fabulous"), especially among the Puerto Ricans and Italians, was to barrel around the neighborhood in your tacky fleet of white 1987 Lincoln Town Car Limousines with your pals, while the limo driver would be continuously blaring the custom horn which would repeat the "Here comes the bride, all dressed in white" tune over and over and over.

I remember during one such festive occasion, when I was probably about 8 years old, I guess one classy couple's limo got stuck in traffic on my block, because I heard the horn blaring downstairs for about five solid minutes while I was trying to watch "Diff'rent Strokes."

I looked out the window to see what all the commotion was about, and I saw the limo sitting in traffic right under my window. Just as I looked, the Puerto Rican/Italian (I don't remember which) bride looked up at me through the sunroof, so I stuck my tongue out at her (her convoy was disturbing my TV-watching, after all). She responded by giving me the middle finger.

I miss the old New York.

Staying Out. It Takes a Plan.

So today, Sunday, I shirked off my law school's writing competition and instead spent the morning visiting my friend in Riker's, and the evening having heated sex and reminiscing with my ex-girlfriend who is in New York visiting from Nagoya (after I swore to myself I wouldn't). Temptation is a bitch. However, I call that a day well spent.

Brooklyn Love is All About Japanese Hostess Love

This blog has quickly degraded into a running monologue of my unhealthy preoccupation with Japanese chicks.

Continuing with that theme, here is a quick video example of why Japanese hostesses and their hair rule my world.

When I lived in Osaka, one of my main girlfriends, who was a hostess, used to take a cab to my place straight after work at 3am with her hair still done up like this. It was the greatest thing ever.

"To Find Happiness, Reminisce..."

You know those 'icees' you eat when you're a kid, the frozen things in the long skinny plastic pouches? Remember how after you would eat the actual ice part, left in the bottom of the pouch would be the super-sweet, concentrated syrup stuff that oozed down out of the ice while you ate it, and drinking that was always the best part of the whole deal?

To me, that's what memories are like. As life goes on, you (hopefully) are able to discard and forget about the bland and maybe even bitter times you went through in the past. The only thing you're left with then is a super-concentrated mix of the good times, which you can turn back to on demand and drink up, like those childhood icees, a sweet syrupy bliss on a summer night.

Final Exams and a Chinese Gyaru

No time to write recently due to the lethal combination of final exam preparation and procrastination, however...

I did have the interesting experience of seeing a Chinese 'gyaru' on the train the other day (A 'gyaru,' Japanese take of the word 'gal,' is a type of trend in Japan where the girls do themselves up like scantily clad, smoking hot tropical Hawaiian Barbie dolls). This girl actually had me fooled - when I tried my usual pickup line in quick Japanese, she laughed and replied back "I'm Chinese.."

Just going by looks though, she was about as close to a real Japanese gyaru as I've seen in NY thus far - bleached blond hair, tussled ends, funky eye makeup, and wearing a tiny one-piece and sweater with a Dior necklace and low heels. Very nice.

I've heard rumors that the 'gyaru' phenomenon has spread to other Asian countries. I can only hope that it spreads to Asian-American chicks too!

P.S. - You may have realized that a large part of my social interaction these days takes place on the train... that should be an indication of just how pathetic my life has become since entering law school...

All Those Ones That Got Away...

Damn! I can't stand the feeling of regret afterwards, of not having talked to a girl when I had the chance. Like Edwin Torres said in "Carlito's Way" - "When I think of all the fine trim I let slip through my hands, God damn!!"

Today coming home from school on the train I ended up across from a Japanese chick who was so up my alley - bright-colored heels with jeans, designer bag, that hairstyle where they curl the ends that drives me nuts like in the photo above. I sat the entire time trying to formulate a way to say something - not that I'm afraid (that's never, ever my problem), but because there were no open seats next to her and I didn't feel like carrying on a conversation from across the car and making us a spectacle (J-chicks are especially sensitive to this).

On top of it all, I'm almost positive she took a picture of me! First she was playing with her cellphone. After that, she took out what looked like another cellphone with a digicam and pointed it at me when she thought I was reading my newspaper, and I saw the little rear 'photo light' go off (which Japanese cellphones have to discourage perverts, or 'chikans,' from taking photos of girls on the train without them realizing it).

Anyway, such a lame feeling, when you let one slip away that is so your type. Of course the odds of me actually getting anywhere with her even if I had talked to her are an entirely different matter. But at least I wouldn't have this feeling of regret.

Japanese Girls - Part One

In case there was ever any doubt, I would like to inform everyone in the world of the fact that Japanese girls are God's gift to mankind.

How it can be that there exists such a dichotomy? - a place like Japan, where you can flip through fashion magazines in a convenience store and gawk over the beautiful models, and then step outside into the street and see the same model-like girls dressed to the nines walking right past you. I know this to be true, because I have lived it. Not to mention, the disproportionately large number of J-girls that possess amazing personalities, hilarious senses of humor, awesome interests and hobbies, and so on.

Contrast that with the USA, where the current trend among girls my age seems to be 'who can dress the most comfortably and read the most online celebrity gossip at the same time.' The girls at my school come to class wearing pajamas and Uggs.. PAJAMAS!! In Japan the girls wear heels while riding bicycles to school. I guess they must not be as 'enlightened' as the gems we are breeding over here.

Funny, however, how all the American guys go ga-ga upon arriving in the Crooked Isle and realizing what a raw deal we have here in the States. Unfortunately for most though, the commonly held stereotype of Japanese girls - that they will go for any foreigner - is painfully untrue as of 2008, as any foreign man who has lived there recently and lamented over the unattainability of the vast majority of women will tell you (if he is not deluding himself).

As my male Japanese friends would all tell me, by and large, the only Japanese girls who go for foreign guys nowadays are typically (1) nuts; or (2) unpopular among Japanese guys. Outside of those two categories, you seldom find a high-quality J-girl who will give a foreigner a shot (although it does happen).

Finally, I leave you with a little bit of heaven. Until next time.

Hello Brooklyn, Goobye Brooklyn...

I was born and raised in Park Slope. For several years after I got out of the military though, I lived in a tiny one-room apartment in a then-ghetto building on Carlton and Flatbush Avenues, just across Flatbush Avenue from Park Slope, in what's called Prospect Heights. I rented that place for $600 a month from a Hasidic Jew landlord.

I was the only Caucasian in the building at that time. The rest of the building was black. A drug-dealing bum lived in the hallway. I used to watch him smoke crack and freak hookers through my peephole at 3am.

When I went overseas for the second time, I subletted the tiny apartment to my friend. Unfortunately, during that time, the building was sold. The new landlord kicked everyone out, including my sublet (I wasn't able to come back to try to resist). He renovated the entire building, and then re-rented it out. Now the entire thing is full of white yuppies paying almost $4,000 a month rent. My old tiny room on the first floor is now an 'office,' being used by two tussled-hair, black-frame-eyeglass hipster/yups with laptops (I walked by and looked).

After Google-ing my old address, something came up - apparently the original drummer for the 'Mighty Mighty Bosstones' now lives in my old building as well. He appears to be some yup photographer who takes 'creative photos' for car ads. You can see his website here: http://www.dalsimerphoto.com/

You know, it's funny... I mean I never really considered myself a fan of the 'Mighty Mighty Bosstones.' However, in the past, I would think that meeting their original drummer would be pretty cool and interesting.
Now that I've heard that this guy is living in my old building with a dozen other yup tenants, he seems like the most uninteresting individual on the planet to me, along with all of the rest of them. Two-dimensional.

I need to know, are these people really what the rest of white America has always been like? Did I grow up in some sort of inner-city, white working-class bubble, that misled me into believing that most white people have character and heart? That most white people are real and genuine? That all those 'white stereotypes' you hear black people making about us weren't really true? You know, the nasally voice, the goofy walk, the lack of anything interesting about them.

The longer I withstand this yup/hipster invasion, the more I realize that I didn't grow up 'white' after all. I couldn't have. At least not in the sense that the rest of the country grew up white. Us and them, we are nothing alike.

Living With J.O.S.E.

You know it's funny, in our society, we never really associate the negative traits of cattiness or petty jealousy with men. Of course, we men carry with us an entire host of foul social baggage - however, I think most folks would agree that when one imagines individuals holding grudges against another member of the same sex for being 'attractive' or 'popular with the opposite sex,' we generally think of women. After thirty years of being on this planet, I have come to realize that men can and do engage in this practice at least as much as women. Let me explain...

I was a pretty ugly kid and teenager, as many of my peers (and even adults and family) had the courtesy to inform me while as I was growing up. I didn't really like eating, so as a result, I was rail-skinny, with a sunken-in face and black circles under my eyes, and a disproportionately large head. Combine that with the most stubbornly stiff hair outside of China (I had the same 'Dumb and Dumber' haircut for the first 17 years of my life), and we're talking complete rejection by females. It was pretty pathetic. Needless to say, I remained a virgin all the way through high school. Nope, not even a kiss.

Fast forward to my very early twenties - I started to eat and lift weights. I bought some clothes that fit. I shaved my useless hair off. I went to Coney Island and got a suntan. Then, one day, my friend's girlfriend at the time made a remark about me being "hot." I was flabbergasted. Up to that point, I had never imagined myself as being attractive to the opposite sex, in my wildest dreams. It was such a new concept to me. I had pretty much given up on the idea of ever attracting females through anything besides luck or whatever 'witty' conversation I could nervously manage (which was none) long ago.

Fast forward again, to almost a decade later. After enormous trial and effort, major self-reassessment, and a couple of heartbreaks (including that devastating first one that we all go through), I have had what I think anyone can call 'success' with the opposite sex. I have a solid understanding of how to attract the women I want (if I'm not in a relationship). I also have a abundant 'fantasy file': vivid memories of past girlfriends and others to keep me upbeat on those rainy days. I'm not trying to brag - rather, trying to point out that it was only once I started to see success with the opposite sex, that I began to feel the evil eyes from my own fellow males.

The 'haters' tend to fall into one of two general categories: (1) Middle-aged, (unhappily) married men with children, usually short, fat, and balding; or (2) Younger, grumpy guys who are unsuccessful with women who, ironically, are also usually short, fat, and balding.

Now of course I have no friends that fit into these categories - the few I did are now ex-friends, precisely because they proved themselves to be 'haters'. Nowadays, I tend to come into forced contact with these types mostly through work or school.

Just a few of the experiences I have had with these 'admirers':

1. When I worked construction years ago, while I was dating my first girlfriend (the "flawless" half-asian). She came to meet me for lunch one day on the Brooklyn Bridge, where we were replacing the roadway. Once my foreman (who used to catcall fat housewives in spandex powerwalking over the bridge) and coworkers (who all fit into one of the two categories I laid out above) saw my girlfriend, who was wearing an awesome sundress and heels, their attitude towards me changed immediately. "What the hell is she doing with you," my foreman muttered after lunch. It got to the point after a couple of weeks where me and the foreman almost came to blows as a result of his behavior towards me. Needless to say, I 'quit and got fired' not long afterwards.

2. In the military, I made the mistake of talking about my love life (in very normal, casual terms, e.g. "I'm going to hang out with a couple of college girls this weekend") in front of some of the, you guessed it, middle-aged, short, fat, and balding sergeants. Lo and behold, their attitude also changed, and so did our work relationship.

3. During our 'graduate school prom' recently, I ended up taking home a very fine 21yr old from the party that several - wait for it - short, fat, and balding classmates of mine were ogling over all night. Once again, attitudes towards me changed like day to night, and a couple of those balding classmates who I was on friendly terms with before, now give me sideways glances (not that I could care less).

The only other friend of mine who likes to keep the company of beautiful girls has noticed the same phenomenon. Bizarre.

Forget "evil." What I really want to know is, "what jealousy lies in the hearts of men" - and why?

A Close Call Uptown - Escort Story I

This blog may or may not be true, depending on who you are.

As I mentioned, I drove for an escort agency for a short while.
During that time, I jotted down a few stories. This is one of them.
------------------------------------------------------------------

I went to pick up "Jody" near the Staten Island Ferry, at the tip of Manhattan (drivers picked up their girls every night at an agreed location - sometimes it was a girl you knew - a regular - and sometimes it was one you'd never seen before [and of course the agency never saw them anyway]).

I got there about an hour early, so I parked the car and took a walk down to Battery Park. I stood for awhile just taking in the sights, the Statute of Liberty in all her glory and the stars over the harbor, then stood in awe of the Twin Towers all the while trying to avoid gawking tourists (this was about 1999).

When she finally came (she was a half hour late), she looked like typical white trash - thigh-high zip-sup boots, black minidress, leather jacket, like something out of a Poison video circa 1985. It was her first night with us, so I called the agency to give them the rundown. The phone girl asked me 'the question,' "Would you do her?" I said no comment.

We cruised around for a while and as we talked she slowly started to open up, like they all did. She showed me the track marks on her hand and told me the usual stories about living all over the country and being addicted to drugs. I gave her my own sob story and from there we were cool.

After a few hours without any calls, she asked me to drive her to her 'friend's house uptown. Me still being a naive new driver, I agreed. So we pulled up on the corner of 139th and Broadway. It was no exaggeration to say that at that time we were the only two white people within a 25 block radius.

There was actually a Dominican kid with big gold Gucci sunglasses (it was nighttime) standing halfway out into the southbound side of Broadway, waving and directing traffic into the drug spot like those guys who wave traffic into parking lots outside of ballgames, etc. I was double parked on Broadway when the kid walked up to my window and said "Pull around the corned mang, you look too suspicious."

So there I was, idling at a fire hydrant at one AM, at that time a bleach-blond yuppie looking motherfucker in the middle of Harlem, and a cop cruiser rolls up next to me, nice and slow. The two cops inside looked at me with an expression that sort of said "You've got to be kidding us."

They get out, shine their lights in my face, ask for all my ID. I quickly went through my options in my head, like I always do when dealing with police. Option one was to bullshit them, although I realized it would have been pretty tough to come up with even a half-believable excuse at that point. Option number two - tell them the truth (well, sort of). I went with two. I basically told them that I was an escort agency driver and that I had a girl in a house around the corner. I pointed at all the maps I had in the back seat (we used to get a lot of calls up in Connecticut and Yonkers). "What's the address your girl's in," they ask me. Of course I didn't know.

Being the genius I was, I also had a .38 in the trunk wrapped up in a t-shirt, not to mention various other products in the car. If they had searched the vehicle suffice to say my life would be a whole lot different right about now.

So they go back to their car and run my info through, find out I'm a nice young man with a clean record (another inexplicable miracle by that point).
"I'm going to tell you in plain English," the cop with the military haircut said, "get the FUCK out of here, and if we ever see you again, you're getting arrested." "Noooo problem" I said, smiling nervously as they pulled away.

Just then Jody hops into the car. She showed me the fifty piece of crack she had just copped. I drove away, wiser.

We went on a few calls later on in the night - one to an old man in Whitestone, Queens, in a nice big old house. He wanted to be punched in the face and have his nipples pinched as hard as possible. He told Jody to sit on top of him naked and 'look into his eyes' and he came from that alone. She said he also had an entire closet full of vitamins to keep him 'virile.' To think, that guy was probably somebody's grandfather. Like I always say, when it comes to people, normal is the exception.

The next call was up in Yonkers, for two girls. I met up with another driver and his girl, and the two girls went in. The tricks were some fat white dick of a kid, and his black friend. The girls stood for two hours and then I picked up Jody and she showed me the bunch of twenty-bags she had stole from the guy. I demanded my share and we headed back to Manhattan.

"...Cause You Won't Be Smilin'... on Riker's ISLAND"

As I mentioned, one of my childhood friends recently landed himself in Riker's Island, after an incident here in BK that culminated with shots being fired and my friend now facing several felonies.

Now I knew quite a few people that ended up in Riker's before, ranging from family to friends and acquaintances. As my Criminal Law professor once remarked, apparently I grew up in an unusually crime-rich circle for a semi-gentrified (like it was at that time) neighborhood like Park Slope, since so many individuals I knew over the years were involved in pretty much every dirty dealing you can imagine. However, this is really the first time that a person who I care enough about to visit in prison has wound up there.

It's funny just how little information is out there to prepare you for what you should or shouldn't do when going to visit someone on the Island. After reviewing what I could find on the net, I took the ride a couple of Saturdays ago to 'The Island.'

The only way visitors can access Riker's is by getting yourself to the beginning of 'The Bridge,' which is where the billboard pictured above is located. The neighborhood across from Riker's (Elmhurst) is actually a nice place, quiet and full of small residential homes. Once you get to the beginning of the bridge, you must ride a city bus, the Q101, across to the visitors' center. Just luckily I had my Metrocard on me after making that drive, so I didn't have to double back to find an ATM since I never have cash on me these days.


Once you're at the visitors' center, you're informed that there's no cell phones allowed in the facility, and that you'll have to use a locker which - you guessed it - costs money. Since the lockers conveniently only take quarters, and since there's also no way of making change, the CO's just tell you to wait around for the next busload of people to come in, and ask someone to help you out. Luckily again, an old Spanish lady sympathized with me, and I didn't have to wait for the next group to come in.

After passing through a Star Trek-looking metal detector, you get frisked manually. After that, you're in the center, which looks kind of like a filthy Greyhound terminal. On the walls there are posters saying stuff like "Plan Ahead For Your Future!" and "Take Advantage of New York City Programs Designed to Help You," which seemed to be directed at inmates, although many of the people visiting looked like they could/would be inmates anyway. On the way over on the bus, two of my fellow visitors, one of whom was a LARGE black chick holding a baby, ended up in a fistfight over something I didn't catch.

The center is divided up into sections where you wait to ride a bus to take you to the respective 'house' where your inmate is being held. Once you check in with the CO at the 'ticket counter,' you're on your way in a Corrections Department school bus over the prison grounds to see your inmate.

On the bus ride, I was actually surprised to see there were quite a few other white people riding besides myself - a tubby old Russian-looking guy, two Irish-Italian Staten Island type ladies (looked like a mother-daughter or mother-in-law and wife pair), and also a white lady in her 50s wearing corduroys and galoshes who looked like the last person I would expect would have family in prison.

I was also surprised at the large Hispanic showing - lots of very cute young Dominican girls there to visit their boyfriends, as well as mothers and wives. I assume that most all of the guys were in there for drugs.

Once we arrived at the center, we piled off the bus, got sniffed twice by a drug dog, and then waited in another bus terminal-like building full of lockers, where a big bold sign informs you that if you are found past the cell doors during your second pat down with any cash money or cigarettes in your pocket, you will be arrested IMMEDIATELY. Underneath was a few photos of guys who had been slashed with razors, with their faces blurred out, saying "This is what could happen to your loved one if you bring in contraband to them."

When all was said and done, before they would even let me through the cell doors, I ended up having to throw my hoodie sweatshirt, diamond studs, wallet, and gum, into a locker.

Of course that wasn't before we were kept waiting for an hour in the terminal area. After awhile it became obvious to me that every non-white visitor that rode on our bus to the center was sent in before I and the few other white people were. A short while later, the older white lady with galoshes came up to me and said "You were on the bus with me, weren't you?" "Yeah," I replied. "We're the only ones still waiting out here," then she lowered her voice to a whisper, "...and we're the only white people here." I told her that I noticed the same coincidence.

All the CO's working at the center were black, with one Spanish girl. I guess that's their way of evening things out a little in their mind.

When the next busload came in, I got a glimpse of a real 'jailhouse tranny' who I guess was there to visit her man. He/she was a dark skin Spanish individual dressed like a teenager with tights and a tube top, bleached blond hair, and was prancing around giggling while the CO's teased it. I overheard him/her telling one of the CO's "Your hair looks fly" and "I think Imma get another tattoo when I go home today."

When I finally did get into the lockup and past the second pat down, I entered a big room which looked a lot like a high school gymnasium, filled with a bunch of brightly colored Little Tykes kiddie furniture. Sitting all around were a large number of pretty rough looking individuals talking with their visitors. Again, lots of Spanish, a few whites, and very few blacks. When I asked my friend later about the demographics, he said that actually blacks were the majority inside - however, for some reason they usually didn't get visitors.

After a few minutes of waiting my friend came out in his green jumpsuit, white socks, and sandals. He shaved his head and put on at least 10-15lbs of muscle weight since the last time I had seen him months before, he said he had been working out a lot and of course he hadn't had access to drugs in the pen (not that they weren't available [since the CO's do a pretty good job of getting them in, as I learned from another friend who was a CO], just that they were too expensive for him to afford). He said what he really wanted was some moonshine, which I thought was pretty funny.

Now, even with the added weight my friend is not a big guy by any means - half-Irish half-Puerto Rican, about 5'9, probably around 150-60lbs. Despite that though he said he hadn't had any significant problems inside, aside from having to threaten a couple guys who tried to test him. My friend confirmed, just like I always assumed, that handling yourself in jail has almost nothing to do with size, and everything to do with jailhouse mindgames.

It kind of reminds me of a pack of dogs or wolves - when put together, they quickly work out a 'pecking order,' and no one is immune from it. The only way to stay 'out of it' is to stand up for yourself, which means you're never really out of it because people are going to constantly test you. Doing something violent that will add more time to your sentence, in the long run, may be a very smart move. Of course my friend knew this going into the situation and was prepared to deal with any situation.

Across the aisle from me and my friend was the tubby Russian-looking man who I had rode in with, with what looked to me to be his son, a small kid of around 22. My friend told me that the kid had been robbed inside a few days before. I then realized that's probably why the father had brought in a bag full of clothes and sneakers for him. Down the aisle, the tranny I had been waiting with started to make out with her Latin Lover inmate boyfriend. My friend and I started cracking up, and then our time was up.

My friend's court date was today, March 12, not even a half block away from my school in downtown Brooklyn. While I was in class learning how to practice law, he was before the judge learning what happens when you break the law. It's no secret, like Kool G Rap said,

"You might be coolin, you might be stylin
But you won't be smilin'... on Riker's ISLAND"

Prostitution: When Good Men Succumb to their Vices

Eliot, Eliot, Eliot... you just couldn't control your urges, could you?

I can kind of see why Eliot Spitzer would be the guy to end up in this predicament - ridiculously hard-working, kind of a hothead, passionate about everything he does, and probably stressed out all of the time. Still, I am very sorry to see a man who I did and still do hold a lot of respect for facing the end of his political career.

When hypocritical, closet-gay, Republican freaks get caught with their hand in the cookie jar, I celebrate. When a good guy like Eliot gets caught doing something he shouldn't have, well, it doesn't benefit anyone (outside of the closet-gay Republican freaks).

I can understand wanting to blow off a little steam, have a little fun, etc. - believe me, I've been there before (and probably will again). Still, I mean if you knew it might possibly destroy your career, wouldn't you use a little self-restraint? Internet porn, perhaps?

On a side note, this is just another reminder to me of how ridiculous this country's 'holier-than-thou' view of prostitution really is. Now people are going to view Spitzer as some sort of two-bit criminal, when what he was doing wasn't even so immoral.

Years ago I was a driver for an escort agency based out of NYC (which later got busted, some time after I left). I was basically a sub-pimp/bodyguard for the girls I drove - I took fees, roughed up customers, threatened girls and customers, bought/sold drugs for myself and the girls, etc.

After dealing with that atmosphere, I swore that prostitution was illegal for good reason. The girls were all on drugs, the customers were, for the most part, a bunch of weirdos (had a few ask my girls if they could pay extra to have me AND her), and there was just too much sleaziness to handle. I felt like there was no way that a female could get caught up in that environment without incurring serious damage to her state of mind (that's if she wasn't already fucked-up to begin with).


Now, fast forward a few years after that, when I found myself in Japan after joining the military. After one of my Japanese friends took me to what was basically a NEIGHBORHOOD full of whorehouses in a big Japanese city which will remain nameless, I was shocked to see how smoothly the industry can be run when it's not illegal (or rather, just semi-legal like it is in Japan).

The girls were drop-dead gorgeous, normal, the prices were fixed, and the whole operation was just effortless. Naturally, of course the girls were always wary to take in a foreigner since they said, not surprisingly, foreigners by far cause the most problems - haggling prices, being stinking dirty, wanting to do weird sexual shit, etc.

I think we here in the U.S. need to entertain the possibility that perhaps the reason we can't pull something like that off here is not because of our 'superior morals' or our 'Christian character,' but rather because half the country is on DRUGS and/or dysfunctional, and thus can't handle such an service industry which requires us to no t be nuts.

And so what the Japanese girls I knew were selling their bodies for Louis Vuitton purses and Chanel shoes - sounds a whole lot better to me than selling your ass for crack or heroin, like most of my girls here in New York were doing (and would still be doing even if prostitution were legalized).

I just can't help but laugh at this country and its warped sense of morality sometimes. What else can you do?

Paper Chasin'

So being though I happen to have been born and raised in the middle of what now has mutated into one of the most status-obsessed neighborhoods in New York City (and probably the country), Park Slope, Brooklyn, where two-dimensional yuppie slimeballs and suburban hipster privileged kids are streaming in in larger numbers as each day passes, one of the topics I often find myself thinking (obsessing?) about is wealth, class, and how it all breaks down in the long run.

Being rich. Who doesn't want to be rich? Seriously, even those among us who prefer to live a minimalist lifestyle, we all must agree that having more than enough money to get what you want/need is always a good feeling.

With regards to the bigger picture though, I've been thinking a lot lately about the greater benefits that come along with being rich - the trans-generational benefits. Obviously one can only 'enjoy' wealth for a limited time, since we all leave this planet eventually. That's why one thing we talk a lot about in property class is wills, trusts, and estates - really, really, rich people trying as hard as they can to pass their wealth down to their family for as many generations as they can, and the law, predictably (until recently) trying hard to counter those efforts.

Now, many people's first reaction is "what's wrong with that?" Why shouldn't a man want his children, and their children, to be the ones to benefit from his hard work? Partly, I would have to agree.

It seems like one of the basic motivations a man has to strive to be successful in life, is to provide for his family. If that means he ends up accumulating enough wealth to be passed down for generations, well then all the better. I can understand that.

Now, what I'm wondering is, why will 'having more wealth' automatically make those later generations better off than anyone else? What I'm trying to say is, is there really that much of a difference, happiness-wise, between a child who's born to parents who are worth $60,000, and a child born to parents who are worth $16 million?

Really think about it - what is so much better about growing up/reaching adulthood with money to throw around, than without?

When I look around now at those who grew up the way I grew up (lower working class, no savings), and those who grew up on the Upper East Side or wherever to rich parents, outside of 'status' (which is bullshit anyway), I just can't figure out what the huge upside is to being raised rich.

So these rich kids got to ride horses in Connecticut or wherever while I was running over used condoms and crack vials in alleyways with my friends. They got to go sailing on some lake somewhere while I was swimming at Coney Island or Breezy Point or Fort Tilden with my parents. They went to obscenely expensive boarding schools and go-away colleges, while I was put through 'inferior' public and Catholic schools, and graduated from CUNY.

So these kids now know how to arrange formal silverware, how to play polo, and how to conduct themselves at 'formal gatherings.' So what?

Does that mean that these kids grew up happier than I did? I don't think so, I had a blast as a kid.
Does it mean that they grew up to be 'better adults'? Hardly - I have yet to meet one of these type individuals whose insights/personality made much of an impression on me.
Sure, they grew up with more social capital, and thus more of a likelihood that they would go on to 'make money,' but that's just circling back around to the same question.

So does it mean they're having more fun than me now? Well...

When I drove a yellow cab in Manhattan for a short while (another story) I got a pretty good glimpse into 'their world.' After picking up and dropping off numerous Manhattan rich-kids-turned-rich-adults, I must say, I wasn't exactly wrought with jealousy. These guys weren't exactly bringing supermodels home with them (although they seemed to think they were).

Same thing when I bounced at a nightclub (another story). I watched these rich guys night after night throwing around thousands of dollars in the VIP section, flirting with the staff and customers, trying to prove how fly they were. After they would go home alone, thinking they were a hot shot after wasting a ton of money buying bottles for girls, I would go home with the shot promotion girl that they were drooling over all night.

Now don't get me wrong - of course I would love to pop into a Lambo dealer and roll out with something like this:


And, of course, I would love to be able to wake up with my girl with a view like this:


Outside of that though? They can keep their restaurants, their country clubs, their golf courses and their "debutante" parties, and all the other benefits of growing up wealthy. I have no interest in it.

Sometimes I feel like if I had more money, I would be able to attract more/better females (my vice). Then I remind myself, I already pull the type of girls that these guys want, and then some. I rarely see some yuppie douchebag or hipster brat walking around with the quality of girl that I want. As for my girls? Well, let's just say they usually turn heads wherever we go.

So when it all comes down to it, although I cried about growing up "disadvantaged" in my law school application, and although it may have been true, am I really that much worse off than those who grew up 'advantaged'? For the most part, I don't see how.

This is a Man's World...

... just like James Brown said.

In my observations, I have to say, in the long run, when it comes down to a standoff between a man and a woman, the man almost always comes out on top.

Every once in a while I think back to my first (and I guess only) 'big' breakup and heartbreak. It took place in my early twenties, probably the time when it ends up happening to most people I would guess.

She was a buxom, half-asian stripper (hold up, I know what you're thinking, but the truth is she didn't start stripping until after we started dating - when I induced her to do it, but that's another story), who one of my friends described as physically 'flawless.' Once the money and attention from stripping went to her head, predictably, she lost patience with my Kevin Federline act and told me to hit the road.

At the time of course, I thought the world was falling down around me. Really, I was devastated - in fact, it took almost a year to really pull myself back together again. However, looking back at that time, now almost a decade later, I did learn several things.

First, time heals all wounds. Now I know that is never any consolation at the time, when you're suffering, but it's true.

Second, and more importantly however, is that life and the world is tilted in a man's favor. Take a look at most high-profile breakups: Kevin Federline and Britney, Justin Timberlake and whoever, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston, etc., and nine times out of ten, what you will see is the woman ends up the loser in the long run, granted that the guy recovers his game and regains his stride.

Yes, in the long run, after you're dumped, you may feel like you're at rock bottom, you may view yourself as a laughing stock, and for that short time you might even be right - I know I was. Hell, look at Kevin Federline, who was considered a bigger joke than him? Now who do you think is laughing? Not Britney, that's for sure.

What guys need to realize, is that if you had enough game to get your 'lost' girl in the first place, then you are good enough to get the equivalent or even better in the future. Remember - success is the best revenge.

As of today, just like the guys in those high profile couples, after recouping and concentrating on my game, I have been with and turned down large numbers of women equal to and better than my ex, in every way. I'm now with a girl who is at least as attractive as my ex, with a personality that's about ten times better. In the last six years or so up until now, I feel like I've lived a love life that the vast majority of men can only fantasize about, and yet I still feel like my value to females increases daily as I get older, more experienced, more financially secure, and more confident.

As for my ex? The 'flawless' one? She's now a single mother, rapidly approaching thirty. How valuable do you think she is on the dating market?

So if you find yourself in a position where you are feeling like you have lost everything because your girl has left you, if you feel like there's nothing left and that you can't go on, I can tell you from my own personal experience - you're wrong. Feel the pain, acknowledge it, and realize that it is only temporary. It will only be a matter of time before you are able to start planning your next big move.


"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then--to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the thing for you."

Merlyn, advising the young King Arthur in T. H. White's The Once and Future King.

"Shhhh... Nobody knows."

Alright, here we go again - so these are what all the fuss is about? These??

The new "Jordan XXIII's".. whatever. I just bought a pair of patent leather FILA's for 60 bucks, probably less than a third of what these Jordans are going for. I feel like they are head and shoulders more of a head turner than those argyle joints above. Peep for yourself.


To think, the Jordan designer (I forgot his name) just made multi-millions and re-achieved legendary status by putting out a pair of argyle-patterned sneaks that look like they could just as easily be sold under "And 1" or some other cheap basketball brand at Modell's for 40 bucks.

What can I say? Motherfuckers know how to market, and it goes for everything, whether it's movies, music, fashion, you name it. Nowadays it's not what LOOKS or IS dope, but rather what is marketed that way.

I still remember probably about 10 years ago, at Foot Locker in Kings Plaza with my friend buying socks or something, when the Russian manager of the place pulled out a pair of (at that time) the new Jordans, that weren't supposed to be on sale yet, and told us "Shhhh... Nobody knows." I didn't get it then, and I don't get it now.

Love is a Losing Game...

I know this is just recycled '60s stuff a la Dusty Springfield, but I'll let that slide since it's such a nice song to sway to. Not to mention, Amy Winehouse looks a lot like a Japanese hostess, which makes everything alright.

Where we stand...

Does any young person ever really picture themselves as a future adult with "no one to talk to"?

For the last three decades of my life, I found it so easy to scoff at my parents who, now into their fifties and sixties, basically haven't had friends for as long as I can remember. I would always think to myself, "what degree of social reject doesn't have one single friend they can call on?" Well, now I think I understand how that result happens.

With me now facing my thirties, my two closest friends from childhood, who were pretty much always around, have both faded off into the distance. One is being held at Riker's Island for weapons possession and reckless endangerment. The other, having moved out of state some years back, has fallen so solidly into the cycle of drug addiction that the only thing that can really save him now is becoming a born-again Christian (although I think he's already used that out once before).

As for my parents, "socializing" with them brings me more aggravation than laughs, although I know I'm not alone there.

Same goes for most of my law school classmates, who are generally a bit younger than me and a whole lot less schooled to the world.

Females are always an option, but I just don't have the time right now to be running game like I used to. Maintaining the ones I have now is enough work.

Yes, my days and nights as of late have been pretty dismal. However, I can't say I haven't been here and worse before. It seems like for every good year I have, it gets followed by three or so bad ones. That would make life somewhere around 75% down, 25% up.

Still, that's a pretty good ratio considering.