Hard Boiled Men

Attention Holiday Shoppers

2011-12-31T06:37:00.001-08:00

The holiday season in New York City spells discounts galore all around. You walk into a shop and come out with two pounds of premium Ethiopian coffee beans. They came two for you. If you bought one pound they give you a second one and add another cup of regular Joe at no additional charge. You walk into a clothing store and you can pretty much buy the entire back room for the thirty cents you would have spent on the dollar during the months of July, October or March. The holiday season brings out the best from the Gods of consumerism. They were hard to resist. Unfortunately for them, I intellectually, philosophically, and Ontologically opposed every facet of the corporate world, their false Gods of corporate marketing and those loathsome clean cut spokespersons who sold America every little thing that it could not afford.

Unfortunately for them, the multinational corporations, I was not a consumer. Unfortunately for me, Emily was and she had my credit card in her pocket. I employed a variety of techniques in order to rescue it from her illogical hands but convincing Emily with logic was like shooting birds with bowling balls, it defied the laws of physics.

And so Emily was in there spending my last three hundred dollars that were supposed to pay for most of my New Years Eve drinking. I was left standing in the street watching those idiot shoppers who mistook their purchase of a five dollars shirt (made in Pakistan thirty cents) to be a great financial accomplishment. Such financial logic was likely responsible for the great financial collapse of 2007.

I was getting restless and ran out of cigarettes. I walked up to an old man who was talking on the public phone. He was wearing a blue Yankees hat and was dressed in business cloths. I was about to ask him for a smoke but then realized that he was not a businessman but was actually a fallacious homeless man who was likely talking to a ringtone on the other end of the phone, unaware that it was out of order.

I returned to the corner of the store. Scratched myself for a while and then walked over to the coffee shop that was less than a block away. Like a good dog, I waited for Emily’s text that was designated to call upon me to meet her in front of the store and carry the royal shopping bags for her royal highness.

The place was packed. All of the tourists sat around with their coffees and talked about which museum was next of the things that they would tell their friends back in Frankfurt or Blackpoll about. More than five years in the city and I have yet to step into a museum. I once made out with a busty Spanish girl on the steps of the Metropolitan museum. Do such actions qualify me for a seat on the Department of Cultural Affairs?

I sat on one of those collective tables. Was I supposed to say hello to my fellow costumers as I laid my jacket on the chair? There went my cultural appointment. I was unfamiliar with Starbucks social protocols.

I ordered a small coffee and poured four packets of brown sugar into my to go cup. I always loved sugar. I love sweet things. Did it have anything to do with the fact that my mother was a compulsive woman who banned all sweets from the house? I knew not. I was not a Freudian analyst or a behavioral neuropsychologist. I was a man who simply loved all things sweet.

I once covered a woman with sugary Halloween treats from head to toe. Hard candies on her belly. Chocolate caramel moist on her tiny breasts. Between her toes I carefully positioned those orange and black jellybeans and what went into the most private of places was designated for the archives of the Library of Congress. I was not one to tell.

I played around with my telephone, read the front pages of the New York Times that some guy left laying around and then I placed my elbows on the wooden platform and made an attempt at sleep.

Just as soon as I rolled into the world of slumber, I was rudely awaken by Emily’s interruptive voice. She was thrilled by the deals she found and was finally ready to meet. I told her that I would come just as soon as I could and placed my head back into the bowl of my fingers. Maybe it had something to do with the music but I remained awake.

Ten minutes later, I was carrying her bags. While she was talking, I was attempting to seem interested even though I could not. She went and on about her world. She was worried about how the first semester went. She did not think that the professor treated her fairly. She spoke about the classes that her friends were taking and the internship opportunities that she could have taken but in the end did not. Between every paragraph or so she inserted an idiotic, ‘and so’, ‘and like’, ‘whatever’, ‘you know what I mean’ and other transitional phrases that people resort to when they run out of important things to say.

After we went back home, she agreed to give me head but insisted that I do my business outside of her mouth. “That stuff is so disgusting, honest to God” is what she said. I was not one for religion but was quit sure that such use of the Lord’s name would be considered to be in vain in the hallways of some catholic archdiocese or small town USA.

Emily knew her work and such traits were mostly responsible for the fact that I tolerated everything else related to this empty-headed girl. Despite my young age, I preferred women in their late forties or early fifties. Sure their tits may have sagged but they were wonderful lovers and great to talk to after the battle went on.
After flossing her teeth for twenty minutes with the occasional three rounds of mouthwash, she made me sit through a fashion show staring at her and everything that she purchased with my last three hundred dollars.

‘Don't you just love it’, is what she said before and after every single outfit.
I nodded my head in agreement and went through the motions until she displayed the entirety of the holiday purchases that she made.

‘The deals were too good to pass on’ is what she said and like most other men, I realized that such was the price that we all had to pay.

‘Attention holiday female shoppers, we simply don't give a crap’ should have been the sign on the Macy’s department store walls. Better days would surely come.

I went out alone on New Year’s Eve with thirty three dollars and two ribbed condoms designated for a new more ambitious year. New York city was a beautiful place to be during the winter month of January despite the fact that the streets were empty of snow.

Ana's Eyes

2011-12-28T17:08:00.000-08:00

Despite the early morning and the silent streets of the city, I could not find my peace.
Sometimes you woke up in the morning and found that nothing out there made any sense.

I walked around the streets of the East Village and found long Christmas trees on the various corners of the local deli and the grocery stores. Christmas was on sale but there was not a millimeter of snow on the ground. Winter seemed to have forgotten all about us this year. Warning- Christmas trees in the summer may lead to a cognitive dissonance kind of a headache.

The month of December, if I was to come clear was not an easy one for me. I was really fine. There was nothing particularly wrong or worthy of complaint. I was healthy. I had money in my pocket. There was plenty of beer in the fridge. I never needed all that much to be happy in this life. But there was the issue of Ana and this was where it all got complicated.

Ana was beautiful as she was young. Not even 25 and she already had the weight of the world upon her shoulders. Ana was a Colombian girl whose long brown hair filled my imagination with blissful touches of livelihood. Ana’s eyes were brown and soft. When they lit up like the summer, my home was a happy playground of wonder. When her eyes filled with sadness, my house soon turned grey with desolation.

Every morning I woke up in anticipation of a new day. I never felt alone in the world despite the great distance that separated me from loved ones. The city was a lonely place but I always found solace in the shared condition.

The hours went by despite my lack of productivity. Unlike most people in this city, I did not contribute much to the great social contract. My occupation was pointless. The world and this city could easily do without my presence. I was just another man who spent his time by spending time.

But Ana, she needed me. One could even say that she needed me a bit too much. Codependence or simple obsession, both were both recipes for long-term suffering. Our relationship was a winter stew of codependence. It was no wonder that it left us both with constant indigestion.

Walking down the wide street towards Lexington Avenue, I am engaged in a reverse commute. Hundreds of people were purposefully making way towards their centers of vocation. Work was just another familiar space that offered little excitement and much routine. They all seem rushed on their way towards the local hospital or the university. The women were dressed in winter clothes. Blue jeans and tight boots gave the illusion that Paris was just around the corner. The women were things of beauty. Their faces seemed distraught. They could likely use a few more hours of comfortable sleep. Does anyone ever really get enough sleep?

Ana never could no matter how long she spent under my covers. Eight hours, nine hours or even ten, no amount of time would ever satisfy her appetite for respite. I was the kind who woke up early in the morning. This was just example of our definite mismatch. While she concealed herself from the world, I explored the great coffee shops of the city.

There was a good chance that I was just unappreciative of the fact that I was luckier than most. People typically needed an hour or two just so they would have a chance to open up their eyes and adjust to reality. Like a childish Labrador retriever, I was ready to go as soon as I opened up my eyes.

Yes, it could have all been a function of luck. “Luck was more important in life than brains,” my father used to tell me years before he passed away.

Looking back, I could not argue with his advice regarding life. My father was a simple man who never wanted much from life. He smoked his cigars and drank his rum. He always argued that happiness is found under the roof of your own home.

But most people were not as successful in placing their delight. According to a recent public opinion poll of adult Americans, 67% of people described their everyday existence as mundane, unsatisfactory or generally unhappy.

I would describe my general state of mind as bordering on jubilation.

But that was not entirely fair. My responses were skewed a confounding variable. My unwarranted joy may have been a function of my heavy marijuana habit. Being a professional pothead had a few advantages. For starters, I would never lose my appetite; suffer from debilitating anxiety or worry too much about how others evaluated my performance.

Ana strongly disapproved of my drug habit. Like most people who judged, she could have benefited from an occasional smoke. Ana’s constant anxiety not only ruined every aspect of her life but began to devastate my own peace.

When we first started dating, I spend our listening to her, talking about the different potential causes of her subconscious self destruction, her narcissistic mother, her neglectful father and her lonely childhood.

Nowadays, I no longer bothered. I simply realized that anxious people were much like short people or ugly people. Despite their longing or determination, they could never really change.

I had two choices when it came to Ana and her sad eyes. I could stay with her and deal with her occasional darkness or walk away and leave her devastated.

The right thing to do was to leave. It was not my job to cheer up all the sad women in the United States. Were the daily therapy sessions and constant need to comfort a part of a healthy job description for a man?

But having broken a loved one’s heart before, I could not go through it all over again. That Goddamn thing called guilty conscious could really debilitate a man. And so I stayed.

Ana woke up as I walked through my studio apartment. She was wearing my torn T-shirt that I wore the night before. She thanked me for the coffee that I brought her and kissed me on the cheek as to make sure that I would not smell her morning breath.

Ana looked as beautiful when she woke up in the morning as she did before going to bed. Her smile was kind. Her heart was pure.

But that sadness, it remained. Why would such a beautiful young thing feel so sad?

I would never understand.

Standing with Cara Brown

2011-12-09T12:08:00.001-08:00

Cara Brown woke up early in the morning. She pressed the green button on her Mr. Coffee and brushed her teeth thoroughly while thinking about what cloths to wear. There was not much time left. She had to catch the early train. Almost thirty-five years of age and still single despite her best thought out plans. She took a quick shower and quickly shaved her armpits.

Dennis never liked shaving. Despite his best efforts, he always ended up with a scrap of leftover hairs at the bottom left side of his neck or the right corner of his face right under his ear. His mother once bought him one of those fogless shower mirrors to help remedy his grooming shortcomings. He was disappointed to find out that things never really worked as advertised on television. Yet, he thanked his mother for her wonderful gift.

Dennis had to hurry up if he was going to make it to class. Almost twenty years of age and brand new to the city. One of the first lessons he learned was that the train schedule could at times be most unpredictable. He did not want to take his chances with Professor Evans who was known for his strict attendance policies and famous intolerance for tardiness. He threw on the same pair of jeans that he wore for four consecutive days and headed out the door.

Cara just stood there frozen in silence. She could not make a decision. Would the green rain boots go with her red winter dress? She did not want to look like a walking Christmas ornament. The guys at work always gave her a hard time over the smallest little things. The girls in the office were more than happy to join in and never spared judgment. Several minutes went by and she finally decided to play it safe with the traditional black. She quickly applied her makeup and ran down towards the 14th street station.

Dennis swiped his card in a hurry. The doors of the train were just about to close. He leg was soon jammed into the turnstile. His card showed insufficient funds. He swiped it a few more times just to make sure that it was not a mistake and gave up just as soon as he noticed the inpatient people who stood behind him. The card machine only took credit cards or ATM. He could not remember what he new zip code was. Was it 10001 or 10003? After a few attempts he got it right. Six minutes later, he was on the uptown train.

Cara hated to put on her makeup on the subway. The train was always crowded with perverted old men and smelly homeless people who incoherently begged for money. She always felt unsafe when those people came around. They were abrasively precarious
and often walked up a bit too close towards where she was sitting. Where the hell was the New York City police? What drove Cara completely out of her mind where the bleeding heart liberal types who pulled out dollar bills at the first sight of any homeless person with a sob tale. Did they not realize that they only encouraged those scary people to come back the next day? Why would anyone reward such bad behavior?

More than five years have passed since she moved to Manhattan. She did not have much to show for it. Maybe her mother was right after all. Maybe she should have stayed back in Oklahoma. Maybe she should have married Gerald the son of the owner of Anderson Hardware down on Jennings Boulevard. Cara always hoped for a bigger life than the one led by the majority of her high school girlfriends. By this stage, they were all married or divorced. Most of them were stay at home mothers who spent their days driving between day care and Mommy and Me. Cara was an assistant manager at a major New York City bank and yet she was considered a failure by the majority of folks back home.

Dennis loved to ride the subway no matter what hour of the day. He thought it was all really that exciting. He always saw people ride the subway on television. He took it all in with a smile. As far as he was concerned, the suited businessmen, the uptight Upper East siders, the homeless types and the people who came down from the Bronx were all members of the same New York City cast. They all served as extras in an episode of a police crime drama or one of those late night episodes of late night cable shows. He was in the center of it all.

Cara and a hundred others spilled out of the subway car and towards the Columbus Circle stairs that led to the exit. The sun was gone despite the early hour. Winter revealed its definite intentions. It was a cold early December but you would never be able to tell if you looked at the high school students who were scarcely dressed in fashionable attire. Their youthful lack of clarity preferred low temperature pain to social rebuke.

Dennis walked into the coffee shop and ordered the kind of a coffee that he imagined most New Yorkers would. The woman in the red dress stood behind him impatiently. He thought that he recognized her from the train. She seemed so sad and so beautiful. He did not imagine that she would ever be interested in a guy like him. He was much younger and likely was not sophisticated enough to pass for a New Yorker.

Carla Brown ordered her coffee in the same consistent manner that she always did, skinny with an extra shot of espresso. It was snowing outside and once again she would be alone during the Christmas holiday.

A Thirst for Knowledge

2011-11-30T19:23:00.000-08:00

“If you believe in Darwinian evaluation, then get up and get me another cup of coffee.” I held my breath for another minute and then provided her with a reassuring look. The age difference between the two of us was more than meaningful.

She was a mere 21 and I over forty years of age. At first she seemed confused by my response but did her best to keep her composure. Did she know who Darwin was or was she just letting on. This younger generation, those born in the later part of the past century don’t care much for knowledge or books. Many of them embraced anti-intellectualism as their new religion with high priests of silicon breasts and diminished IQs to look up to through the distasteful lens of reality television.

“Don’t try to over intellectualize this whole thing. I don’t want to hear about chemical processes or robust molecule formations, at the end of the day, this universe will not produce much more than what you see around you.”

By now I was getting tired of hearing my very own voice. At a certain point of life, existential questions seem like a complete waste of time. Twenty year old kids can deal with fortune cookie questions. I would rather drink a beer, read some Bukowski or even better get laid. But Erika was out of my league. She was too young and too beautiful. I was absent of hair and my stomach was too round for any old T-shirt to contain.

We spoke for a while and I pretend to give a damn. Finally she excused herself as she had another meeting to attend. While she walked out of my university office, I took a careful look at her behind and wondered what it would be like to touch that skin of hers that was devout of meaningful experience and would likely shiver at the touch of my fingers.

Next Jack made his way to the chair across from mine. He was a good dude, I tell you. If he was ten years older we would likely go drinking together. He seemed like the kind of a guy who would not be afraid to approach a strange woman in a bar. He seemed like he always knew how to use that big smile of his to light up the room. God, what I would not give to be him for just a month. I would give anything to be a university undergrad, living in the university dorms, sitting around and smoking weed with my college buddies making moves at the naïve underclass girls that you likely met in the cafeteria or the introduction to psychology class where everyone came for the social element under the disguise of intellectual curiosity.
“So Professor Stein, can you elaborate on Immanuel Kant’s concept of morality?”
I could and I should have, after all that was what they were paying me for. But I did not feel like philosophy. I felt like a beer.

How about a round down at the Salty Dog? I asked.

At first he seemed confused but was more than happy to oblige.
I bought the first pitcher and then I bought a second one. The bars on University Avenue typically did not have happy hour specials until the evening time but the Salty Dog was a different kind of a place.

I walked over to the jukebox and selected five different songs by some of my favorite artists. As each one of the songs played loudly across the empty bar, Jack proudly displayed his wealth of knowledge regarding my old time music selection.
“Yea, Guns and Roses are pretty cool,” he said “I heard that they used to be kind of big back in the day.”

I put my hands around his shoulder as I pondered whether I should hug him or beat him senseless over his head for being born into a lame ass generation that reduced the entire beauty of the world to 140 characters. Shallow motherfuckers.

“What is the purpose of the universe you ask? There is no purpose if you really want to know what I think. A chair is just a chair and a dog is just a dog. At the end of the day, we are just a bunch of walking molecules that somehow ended up living in suburban gated communities with overpriced television sets and antique wives. Did you know Jack that the average life span of an ant is 180 days? Did you know that human beings as we know them will likely disappear within three generations? Soon we will all become cyborgs. Ever hear of Singularity? Do you know what is really coming up? Ever hear about string theory? I went on and on and then went back to the bathroom for a piss.

The wall of the men’s restroom was full of handwritten graffiti.

Here I sit
In the halls
of Vapor.
Some damn fool
Done stole
my Paper

By the time I got back to the bar, Jack was engaged in some in-depth conversation with some busty blond girl that he apparently met in his bio-chemistry class.
This universe is arranged in such a manner that wisdom is wasted on the old and opportunity on the young.

A Dozen Women

2011-10-25T19:29:00.000-07:00

The first thing I did that morning was to cheer Jennie up. I did not really have any time to brush my teeth, take a proper piss or comb my hair and she was already crying upon my shoulder. I did not blame her for her mental state. She was sleep deprived. She was overworked. Any man who dated a nurse, a doctor or any other professional in the medical field has to understand that the job is not just draining, it is also emotional. Jennie was an emotional girl regardless of her occupation. The nightshift in the emergency room made her emotional vulnerabilities appear much greater than they actually were or perhaps that was her true nature. One could never tell.

I did my best to encourage her. I promised her that everything will seem much better after some much overdue sleep. I reminded her of the kind of things that she went through in her training, about the kind of things that ordinary people like you and I could never handle and yet, she in her tiny size two frame could easily overcome through perseverance.

Jennie did not buy any of it. She did not trust herself and disregarded her own accomplishments as mere fortune, something anyone else could do. But I was determined to get a smile on her face and finally after an hour or so, I managed to make her laugh. She jumped into the shower and later fell asleep.

The ironic thing about the whole episode was the fact that somewhere out there, there are dozens of women who would like nothing better in this world than to have me to take care of. There are so many women in this world who would want nothing more than to blow me for breakfast, cook an egg and make me coffee. There are dozens of women out there, gorgeous women, busty women, younger women who would love nothing more in this world than to pamper my silly whether through a topless oil massage with a nice blow job for dessert or rub my feet as I drank my Miller Light and watch the Green Bay Packers as I kill another Sunday afternoon in front of the television.

Jennie does not like football. She thinks that television is a waste of time. Her fingers are too weak to focus on my lower back or those deep knots that jam my left shoulder and prevent me from getting top score on Guitar Hero or fully emulate that Elvis dance that made me so famous back at Terrible’s Casino on that Halloween night.
I drove down to the store and later to another one. Jennie was a healthy eater who preferred organic spinach from the local farmer’s market to the kind that is mass produced by the corporate farming conglomerates.

When she woke up, I served her lunch and later promised her that tonight will be much better at work that the previous nights before. She told me that she loved me and then locked herself in the shower where she tried to wash the funk right off of her long Asian hair.

Jennie was gone by 8pm and once again, I found myself alone in my house. Sitting on the couch, I drank a bottle of light beer and thought about the irony of it all.
Somewhere out there, there are dozens of women who would like nothing more than to take good care of me and attend to my every need.

When I woke up early on that next morning, Jennie came home once again with a tear in her eye. She was beautiful.
www.hardboiledmen.com

Being a Married Man is Not Easy

2011-10-16T06:17:00.000-07:00

Kira and I first laid eyes on one another in the bar. Later she laid some other things on me.

For some women, a wedding ring is a sign to keep out. Other women prefer it. Married men come with no strings attached. There are times when a woman just wants to keep it simple. She needs to get her junk waxed off just like most men do. That of course is correct with one exception. There is one footnote that women forget to present men when the whole screwing process begins.

Sleep with a woman once or twice, no big deal, no strings attached, they will forget your name the next day as if they were a guy. However, the game changes if you visit more than let’s say six or seven times. Then they get attached. Make a woman come and she will remember your zip code long after you forgot her name.
With Kira, it was all of the above.

We first start talking about the Baltimore Ravens. She was after all a Baltimore fan. The only reason why she found herself in this God forsaken college town somewhere in the middle of Michigan was their excellent MBA program. Kira wanted to climb up the ranks of corporate America. I wanted to climb up her beautiful female curves.

And so it went until it went too far. Three months later and my life is in complete disarray. The whole matter of why married men cheat is some smarter men to deal with. Simply put, it is a meaningless act. It has to do with the need for variety, the need to feel alive. It has nothing to do with anything that women may consider relevant. We sometimes just feel like having a bacon cheeseburger even if our doctor swore to us that it will lead to complete heart rapture. The worst part of it all is that it is never your heart that gets messed up. That is the worst part of it all. That is the reason why we try to limit our behavior to a complete minimum. But still, a man has to eat regardless of a long term perspective.

Kira’s bedroom reflected her ridiculous attempt to be something much more becoming than she actually was. At the foot of her bed she had an imitation Victorian stand decorated in purple suede with ribbons to match. What was more disturbing was the matching purple cuddle couch that she bought for her short her cat that she named after her hero Donald Trump.

I was never a big fan of Mr. Trump. Every time I would go down on Kira he would come up behind me and start licking the bottom of my feet. I could only imagine what Kira would do with Mr. Trump when I was away. That cat seemed to always lick one thing if not the other. Knowing Kira and the way she was in bed, anything would not be beyond the realm of suggestion. Kira has a fat ass but her performance in bed made up for her physical shortcomings. Kira was the type of a screamer who made a man feel as if he was Genghis Khan himself. She treated your dick as if he was the ruler of the world’s largest empire.

After a month or two, Kira decided that she was in love with me. The 180 turnaround in her intentions was not completely unexpected. She was after all a woman despite the fact that she never missed a Ravens football game and could drink more Miller Light than any guy who sat beside her on the couch.

In this age of extended life spans and prenuptial agreements, monogamy is more complicated than it ever was in the days of our fathers and their fathers before them.

I turned towards my wife and kissed her softly on beautiful gentle forehead. Our regular television show was over and it was time to go to sleep. She kissed me with her lip absent of tongue and reminded me that tomorrow was Wednesday and that the garbage trucks will arrive early.

I promised her to take out the trash on time and turn around.

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The Beef Capital of Texas

2011-07-07T17:39:00.000-07:00

On the way down to San Antonio, we stopped for more than an occasional beer. From Joplin to Tulsa, from Lawton down to Fort Worth, from Waco to Austin and finally out in New Braunfels, we took the drive slow and kept our spirits up as we headed down towards our destination.

At first, I was pushing to head down to Amarillo Texas, the beef capital of Texas. A few years ago, I used to nail this woman from some small town around those parts named Pampa Texas. So I wanted to head down to Pampa and pump her full of led, but Frank would have none of it.

“There are no black chicks in western Texas,” he complained and with such a statement, I could not argue. I was never really into black chicks. I preferred the Asians. But hey, to each his own, that is what they say. I was not one for sexual or cultural stereotypes. I knew what I wanted and was solely focused on my mission.
We never made it out to those western parts of the Longhorn State. Hell, the way we were going, we barely even made it to our default destination.

San Antonio was just another town. There was nothing wrong with that town but nothing to write home about. Sure they had the River Walk, the Buckhorn Museum and that overrated Alamo. Frank’s motivation for driving down to San Antonio had nothing to do with its tourist attractions. He wanted to get together with Susan, the half black, half Indian stripper that he met online. As for me, I just needed to get away from Stephanie and her exaggerated hormones.

Jason sat in the back of our Chevy during the entire ride. He kept mostly silent.
He had his earphones on and with the exception of the occasional bathroom request, he mostly kept to himself. Jason was a married man. Frank and I were not. We all grew up together, but now that he had that ring on, he was no longer to be trusted. He crossed over to the other side.

Sure, all generalizations were faulty at their core but the proof was in the pudding. Jason, that motherfucker had lost his personality the day that Gwen came into his life. Sure, I would understand such a metamorphosis if she had a nice pair of tits on her or a half descent personality. But this woman had nothing to offer. From bottom to top, she was a fast food commercial gone wrong. Eat six cheeseburgers a day and see how life will turn out for you. Her personality would not make the dollar menu.

Jason was pussy-whipped, or rather, he was canyon whipped. How that skinny fucker ever got that woman on top of him without a forklift was beyond my wildest imagination.

But enough blasphemy, I tell you. It is too easy to judge others. It is too convenient to see all the faults in your friends and to ignore your own shortcomings. I was not one to talk about anything. I was 24 years of age without an education, a job or anything any real prospects.

Sure, I could talk the good talk and walk the hard walk but at the end of the day, I was just as scared as the rest of the people who surrounded me. Alcohol somehow made all of us more adequate. That was with the exception of Frank.

As we walked into Calvin’s Chicken House around 7pm, we found ourselves a booth adjacent to the main stage.

To the tunes of Lady Gaga, a dancer named Ebony moved around like the beautiful layer of chocolate that she was. We each deposited several dozen dollar bills in her panties and later spent another fifty or so on lap dances until we were fully released.

At a local Holiday Inn hotel bar, we each drank half a dozen Pabst Blue Ribbons with some jerkoff insurance salesman named Carl Laundry the Third. None of us could really make out what he was saying underneath that thick Texas accent that was smothered so hard like fat butter on wet toast. All I could make out from the guy was that he loved Jesus and that he found his lord and savior or something of that sort.
Jason did his best to seem interested, Frank and I drifted off into our own conversation.
Finally, we got rid of the guy and walked over to the two drunk skanks who were smiling in our direction from across the other side of the bar. Sure, they were a bit meatier that I liked them. The one I chose was around 5.1 and 145 pounds with beautiful double D’s to compliment the rest of the meat sandwich.

Frank and I took the girls back to the room. Jason remained a vegetarian.
Pornography was always a matter of geography. Or at least that is what they said around my part of the state.

In the morning, I woke up next to a strange woman who smelled like Miller Light and a pack of menthol cigarettes.

We never made it out to Amarillo Texas. We barely made it back home. Regardless of what you may think, just remember – it is better to ride the bull than to watch the rodeo from the comfort of your own television.
A year later, Frank was engaged to a woman that none of us ever met. She lived in Ponchatoula, Louisiana, the strawberry capital of the world.

1020 Bar

2011-06-30T17:41:00.000-07:00

On the corner of 96th and Broadway, stood a large Mexican food truck. These guys had everything on the menu and all for just around five to seven dollars. Cheese enchiladas, Pollo Pibil, tortas, tostadas, quesadillas, three types of tacos and more were at my immediate disposal and with tons of cash in my front pocket thanks to some luck and some badass poker skills, I was not going to put a limit on my voracious cravings. Anything Mexican, be it food, music or women was tops as far as I was concerned. I have traveled extensively and with a few exceptions not many came close to what the Mexicans had to offer.

Sure those girls from Colombia, Venezuela and of course those crazy cubanitas and those Dominican girls, they all had pure salsa flowing through their veins. But those Mexican girls, well, you get the point by now and if you don’t, you will have to just trust me on this one.

I ordered some chicken Tortas in my broken Spanish and washed them down with a generous helping of hot sauce. My fingers soaked with flavors, my shirt soaked with everything that flowed out of my cheap paper plate. I was in heaven.

Satisfied, Seth and I continued to walk up on Broadway towards our apartment near Columbia University where we studied. Morningside Heights stood out like the sore pimple of the local poverty, showing off our wealth to those who once could just live a quiet life in their own neighborhoods. That was before we all moved in.
Now they had to deal with us snooty Ivey League types, those Japanese foreign exchange students and other privileged fucks whose well to do will soon place twenty year old ingrates on the very top of the local food pyramid.

To be honest, I was perfectly content to go to sleep but around 108th, Seth insisted on another round of drinks. We just finished off a couple of twelve packs with the boys but Seth called me out. Was I becoming a lightweight? Was I really a no good pussy fuck who could not handle his alcohol as he so claimed? Or was Seth was simply taking advantage of my drunken proclamation made more than twenty blocks ago? I pledged to spend every penny of the hundred dollar bills that I just won on beers and good times. Seth was determined to see me go broke. Perhaps this was due to the fact that I won much of the cash off of his poor poker strategy.

We walked up to the Heights bar but that was never really my scene. The place was full of sorority girls. I never knew what to say to those girls. Here we were at one of the nation’s top universities and still I regularly encountered people who did not read books and did not know what the capital of their own fucking state was. And on to the 1020 we soon walked.

As we walked across to Amsterdam, we ran into an Asian girl that I once laid during the spring semester of my advanced physics section taught by Professor Beloborodov. That son of a bitch did not look a day over 25 and was already an associate professor at a major Ivey league university. Goddamn Russian. He must have easily made over six figures if not much more. The son of a bitch gave me a C+ for my final grade. When I approached him about it, he simply smiled and said, hey, you did much better than the rest of the class.

Goddamn Russians.

I could not remember the Asian girl’s name. She went by Tracy or Stacy or some other name that made her sound more American than apple pie. Then again, I could not really blame her. Most Americans had freaking clue how to pronounce such Chinese named as Chenguang, Huifang or Xiuing.

Seth stepped in and introduced himself. “I am Seth, nice to meet you.”
“My name is Allison.”

That was her name. Say what you want about my portly friend but Seth was the ultimate wing man. He was always the one to save the day, my Hero.
I promised to get in touch on Facebook despite the fact that I was not entirely sure if she was still amongst my more than 500 random friends. To be perfectly honest, I only really knew a couple of my online friends. Most of my social networks friends were just people that I ran into on occasion. Seth was the only guy that I trusted in this entire city.

But this Allison was not as bad as I remembered. I considered the ideas of finding her online later on in the night after I drinks a few more at the 1020.
When we got to the bar, there was not too much going on. It was nearly closing time. We played a couple of games of pool and drank whatever it was that they had on special that night. Rolling Rock or Wild Goose beer, they all tasted the same to me at such a later hour.

Around two, we headed back to the apartment.

I closed the door behind me and pretend to fall asleep. Early on the next morning, I had a major Chemistry exam. I was not ready for the test and I knew that I was pretty much fucked beyond repair.

Three more weeks until the Fall semester ends. Six more months until my graduation day will show up. I had no job lined up. I had no real prospects. This damn recession fucked us all. Whether it was the fault of Bush or Obama did not matter. I had more than ninety grand in total student loans. Soon enough, they will be knocking on my door and asking me to make payments.
Soon enough, I would have to man up to this world and become a fully fledged adult. But graduation was not for another couple of months.
I jerked myself beneath my blue bed sheet and fell asleep with a big smile on my face.

That very night I dreamt about Allison holding an Enchilada.

The next day, I failed my chemistry exam.

I did not care. I was young and lived in the greatest city in the world.

Online Garage Sale $5

2011-06-29T16:52:00.000-07:00

$5 used book sales (free shipping for those ordering two books or more)
Email me with requested titles @hardboiledmen at Yahoo

Bridge of Sighs-Richard Russo
Iron John- Robert Bly
The Painted Bird-Jerzy Kosinski
The Invention of Solitude-Paul Auster
Little Children-Tom Parrotta
Delta of Venus-Anais Nin
Cities of Interior-Anais Nin
Lady Chatterley’s Lover-DH Lawrence
Fight Club-Chuck Palahniuk
Scar Vegas-Tom Paine
Skinny Dip-Carl Hiaasen
The American University-Jacques Barzun
From Beirut to Jerusalem-Thomas Friedman
The Brooklyn Follies- Paul Auster
Losing the Race-John McWhorter
A Perfect Peace-Amos Oz
Shadows on the Hudson-Bashevis Singer
Pyro Marketing-Greg Stielstra (hard cover)
Sanctuary-William Faulkner
Are Men Necessary? Maureen Dowd
Smart Couples Finish Rich-David Bach
Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert (hardcover collectors edition Carlton House) $10
The Chosen-Chaim Potok (hardcover, 1967)

Island of Women

2011-06-28T08:48:00.000-07:00

I look at them beyond the cover of my glasses. Each of them is more beautiful than the next. One is a brunette, the other one Hispanic. The third seems jaded by time and yet has something about her that draws my attention. They sit so close to one another and yet do not interact. Each woman is an island. Each is hoping to be rescued by some undeserving man.

When it comes to women, especially those living in New York City, it is virtually impossible to estimate their age. Most wear too much makeup. They hide behind colors and shades from magazines of fashion. We all hide from our own reflections. We all try to project a much improved version of our insecure selves. This city is rough on us all, but more so when it comes to its female residents. In this town, us men have the upper hand whether it is well deserved or not. Here in the city, it is all about demographics and we take full advantage of the fact that there are enough single women in this town to feed a herd and leave the scraps to other scavenger types.

In this city, good girls finish last. Virtuous women with good morals and values are a rare commodity around these parts. Yes, we all claim to look for them but who would wait in a two week line when you can effortlessly get the cookie on your first attempt. Back in the day, before I first moved here, I still waited for it to happen to me. I thought I would fall in love. But the very concept of love, in its television version by now seems childish to a man who tasted every dish in this putrid buffet.

I once met a girl named Lina but that is a story I would rather not discuss.
Lina was one of those sweet girls. The key emphasis should be placed on the past tense of the verb “to be”. Lina was a sweet girl. Now she is another woman broken down by New York City. Who should be blamed for the transformation? It really is no one person’s fault. Everyone in this town is a victim of its own circumstances. None are to fully take the blame.

And Guy, that guy, that son of a bitch, he broke her heart. Lina was, is and always will be pure of heart but no longer in that same manner that she was when they first met down by the Chelsea piers. To be honest, she was just minding her own business. She never had any intention of meeting a strange man, nonetheless, a no good author whose live revolved around his own narcissism, alcoholism and many other isms that all together amounted to a familiar literary cliché.

But his eyes were blue, almost overpowering. His uncomplicated smile falsely advertised that she could simply close her eyes and follow his path regardless of where it went. He was selling autographed books for $9.99 and wore a bowler hat that she saw on television shows way before she left her hometown of Lancaster, Ohio.
She had never met a writer before. Any man of played with words must have something interesting to say was what she assumed. And she was not wrong about that. But she was wrong about the rest. At first he told her everything that a woman wanted to hear. He told her that she was beautiful, that it felt like destiny, like it was all meant to be.

Women grow up on Cinderella tales of white weddings and ever- lasting love. Those who sold Valentine’s Day greeting cards and red balloons forgot to mention that in this life things do not always work out the way according to our wishes.
Nearly a year later, I still think about Lina and about everything that went wrong. I am not one for religion or other matters of superstition. But I have no doubt that a special wing of hell is reserved especially in my honor for what I did to that poor girl.

Many women came and went since Lina. They all now seem like a guilty blur.
But Lina was a good girl and good girls are hard to find around these parts.
In this island of women, in this life of a man, you cannot take back what you have done.

You can only look forward to for another opportunity.

www.hardboiledmen.com

Helen Turns 50

2011-06-22T11:36:00.001-07:00

On Tuesday Helen will turn 50. Bring out the confetti and line up the red balloons. The plans are all set and everyone is ready to go. The age of fifty, that is for a woman, is not just another milestone but rather is the one milestone that really counts. If thirty is the new twenty and forty is the new thirty, does that mean that fifty is not so bad after all?

For years, Helen did her best to fight the process of aging. Dr. Schechter down at the Beverly Hills Clinic always was a miracle maker. There was nothing that God put in place that the good doctor could not modify to some degree. Helen’s skin was as soft as a college sorority girl’s, her breasts were perky, and her lips more full than ever before.

Helen did her shopping down at the Galleria Mall. She spent most of her husband’s money on brand name shoes, designer jeans and pricey accessories. Joshua had more money than he knew what to do with. She in turn fulfilled her matrimonial obligations through the provision of his capital at those affluent shops where supercilious employees made her feel as if she was so much better than most other customers who walked through the door. Helen claimed that she was doing her best to support the local economy. Every citizen had to fulfill their civic obligation. America depended on the initiative of its citizenry in order to overcome the elongated recession. With every pair of gem earrings, $75 pair of lace underwear and exclusive European handbags, Helen fulfilled her patriot duty to the red, white and blue.

Yet, life felt as empty as it did more than thirty years ago when Joshua and her first met down at the UCLA cafeteria where undergraduate students walked around oblivious to what life had in store for them for days to come.

Joshua proposed twelve months later. Their daughter Angela was born on the month of July. Later Spencer arrived, her husband’s pride and joy that was groomed to take over the family’s law practice just as soon as he would graduate from Georgetown University.

Helen was the perfect mother and wife. Her hair was platinum and her ass was tight. Throughout the years she wore and dressed the part like the rest of her LA trophy wife girlfriends who pretty much all shared the same dreadful predicament. Sell your body to his bank account and your soul will soon follow.

As the years went by, she learned to put her needs at the end of the priority list. Everyone else was way too busy to ever listen to the wishes of her heart. While so many men approached her, she refused their propositions. Of course, no one was to know or to speak of that one weekend down at the Dominican Republic went she first met David. That was a rare exception indeed to her consistent faithfulness to the man that she married and but did not love.

A dry breeze passed through Sunset Boulevard. Helen sat around alone on the white Italian leather sofa and listened to the trees singing their melancholy song. Joshua would not return from the California Bar Association meeting until around midnight. Joshua never took Helen to his professional functions. That is, he used to before the one time when she had too much to drink. Like a child, he admonished her without a second chance. Now she was left alone at home with the television as her only companion. Helen took the time to carefully prepare his best Armani jacket for him along with his lucky pink tie. He must have not noticed it hanging on the back of the dresser. Now she was left at home with an empty suite and a high definition television. Her long-haired Persian cat did not take away from the bareness of their home. And as for children, none ever demonstrated any degree of appreciation or gratitude.

Angela promised to come over and visit only to then change her mind. Spencer had a new girlfriend who was all tits and bones. Helen knew exactly how those two would end up.

On Tuesday Helen will turn 50. She never imagined that her life would turn out this way. But it was too late to make changes.

At least that was what she thought before Fred came into her life.

www.hardboiledmen.com

Over-rated Town

2011-06-07T12:22:00.000-07:00

“New York City is totally overrated,” he complained. “If I hear one more siren ripping through Lexington Avenue, one more jackhammer plunging away on that subway line that they will never ever finish, if one more dog shits on the sidewalk, one more baby cart run across my foot, I will just go ape shit and let them all have it for once and for all.”

Edger liked to complain. He was never one for contentment. He was a 35 year old curmudgeon. You never knew if he was going to be up or down, sunshine or rain, a pain in the ass or a good buddy to kill an afternoon with. He was so hormonal, so unpredictable that at times I seriously thought about reaching across the table and pulling that vagina from out of his pants.

Edger decided that it was time to leave town, for the eightieth time this month, he exposed me to that old banal complaint. “I cant not handle it any longer. It is time to get out of this goddamn city. Maybe I will move south down to Georgia. I’ll buy me a red pickup truck and one of those red Georgia bulldog hats that all of those college students and rednecks always wear around town. I tell you, I bet I could lay a bunch of those undergrads all across Carlton Street. I always heard that southern girls were the way to go. Unlike these annoying types here in the city, those girls down south really know how to take care of a man.”

While he went on and on with that same old story, I reached into my pocket and did my best to figure out how many cigarettes were left in the pack. I could feel at least two or maybe three sitting around. If I went out for a smoke, Edger would surely bum one off of me. He always pretended that he would get me next time but next time never found its way. After I would light it up, he would argue that I really needed to spend more money, to invest in a better brand. These cigarettes you smoke always smolder my throat, he would surely say. Cheap son of a bitch, Edger was. Despite his habit he simply refused to buy an entire pack. He always complained about the high taxes, about the unreasonable prices and about the fact that the government of New York City was repressing the civil rights of their citizens by telling them where they could or could not light up a cigarette. I decided to wait a little bit longer. Hopefully, Edger would grow tired of his own voice and move on to annoy someone else.

Ever since Tracy dumped him, he has been nothing short of a nuisance. Don’t get me wrong, Edger was not a bad dude. He just demanded way too much attention. He mistook his worries to be everyone else’s. At times I was a good listener. At times, I tried to get away. I pretended to care. I pretended to give a damn. While he complained, I thought about Amber. I thought about her creamy thighs. I imagined what her breasts looked like? How they would feel if they were pressed across my chest. But leave it to Edger, he went on and on. With or without me, this conversation was going to come to fruition.

Why Tracy ever decided to spend two years of her life with this character was beyond me. She was an attractive girl who moved up to New York from the ranchlands of Western Texas. She had a cute accent that made her stand out in the best of ways. She was an assistant account executive in one of those fancy digital advertising firms down on Madison Avenue. They kept her busy enough. They worked her to the bone and largely absent of proper compensation or appreciation. But none could get to her. Tracy carried about with that old Texas style. No one could get that smile off of her face, not her over demanding bosses, uncooperative secretaries or her male coworkers who mistook her accent for a diminished IQ. She simply figured that such was the price to pay for making her dreams of working in the big city come true. No one could get that striking optimism off of her pretty face. None besides Edger of course, that son of a bitch.

So why did she stick around for so long? Why does any woman? It was always impossible to tell. Do they all subconsciously mistake failed men to be their scornful disapproving fathers? Did they all really think that eventually men do change? Or perhaps she was one of those Mother Teresa types. The type who found lost puppies in the street and nursed them back to health. How pathetic. The world was full of women who wasted their years on undeserving men. At the end of the day no one could open their eyes to their misfortune until it was typically way too late.

How the revelation manifested and what made her get up and walk away was not known to us, nor did it matter. We were all simply glad that it was finally over. Tracy deserved a better life than she chose for herself. While Amber and the rest of her friends did their best to pursued her for months, I never said a single word. It was not my fight to pick. I had an inherent conflict of interest. On the one hand, Edger was a buddy. Men have a code of loyality that was not to be broken.

On the other, Edger was no good and I knew it. He did not appreciated Tracy nor did he appreciate this great city of ours. Every time she got excited about this place, he would point out the noise, the high cost, the homeless people and the disparity.

Tracy deserved a man who knew NY for who she really was. She deserved someone who would know Tracy for who she really was. For every slum there was a natural park to explore. For every dirty road, a bed of flowers was waiting to be discovered. Who could be such a man? There was only one candidate in mind. I of course would be that man. No one else could take on this awesome role.

New York City was my friend and my confidant. She was a misunderstood woman of rare beauty. She was the type you could not in any other way. You could keep of all those southern girls down in Panama City and across the Mississippi gulf coast. They must be beautiful but none were such as the woman I knew just south of Houston Street.

Edger finally left to meet Amber. She surely provided more solace than I ever could. Amber was a fine person despite of herself. She seemed like the type of a woman who would stick around even if things went the wrong way. Amber came from California. Women in San Diego had a way about them. Their rhythm moved slower like the branches of those California redwoods that took their time to smell the ocean breeze.

Along the West street boardwalk, I lit myself a cigarette. The smoke provided temporary comfort despite the humidity. I was glad that Edger was not around to ask me for a cigarette. I preferred my own company at times. That guy never appreciated anything that life had to offer. He didn’t understand how great Tracy was nor did he appreciate all that this town had to offer. I was the man to celebrate their fortune. He was just there to piss on their sidewalks.

I walked down to Battery Park and from there took the train back to my neighborhood. New York City in June was a wonderful place to live. I lit another cigarette down on Christopher Street and watched the children dancing in the park.

The New Midlife Crisis

2011-05-31T16:37:00.000-07:00

Back in the day, when men were men and women were women, a midlife crisis was nothing to get too excited about. Back in those days, a man finished high school and that was good enough. Back in those days, a man got a job working for the local corporate giant for descent wages that made out for decent living. Men drove American cars, square and familiar and that was fine for all that anyone was concerned. Back in the day, men married their high school girlfriends. None of the women were too worldly. Most did not have any career ambitions beyond doing what was expected to keep respectable in the eyes of the community. Back in those days, a man got that good old promotion around the age of 35 or 40. He moved into a bigger office. He bought a newer car.

Suddenly he felt important. Suddenly women in the office paid attention to him. Suddenly he had opportunities like never before. Suddenly he found himself immersed in an affair with that 22 year old secretary that made him feel like he really made it, as if he was the ultimate prize.
Back in those days, everyone did it. No, not your father, of course not, he would never do such a thing. I meant everyone else besides your old man.

These days the midlife crisis is totally different. We are all 40. Some of us got married. Some of us already have a few children. Some of us are even divorced. Nowadays, women take what they used to give. They have their own apartments. They do not really need you even if you would like to pretend that they really do. These days, you are almost reaching your fifth decade and you still have no real career. You did not get that elusive promotion. For all you know, you can be out on your ass any day now with the economy and all.

The new midlife crisis is not about success but rather it is about failure. It is about the failure to live up to the expectations of your parents, of your community and of yourself. Just think about your own father when he was your age. He already had a great title. He had three grown children. He wore suits, and ties and jackets. He was a man and you are just a boy. You look in the mirror and see that belly sticking out beneath your faded T-shirt. Your jeans need to be washed and you worry about paying rent.

When your wife comes home late from work she gives you that look that makes you feel like you did not live up to your potential. Little does she know that she has nothing to worry about, no other women pose a threat. There is no young vivacious secretary unlacing her blouse in admiration. There is no ambitious intern or trainee who will reveal soft supple breasts in the hopes of making it inside.
All there is no is disappointment with yourself. The years disappeared into nowhere. Your friends are all gone or far away. You live in a house that is rented and you have no real home.

The new midlife crisis makes you think about your childhood, back in those days, when you still had dreams about large blue skies and far away oceans. Back in those days, you still believed and now you are simply getting old.

Wishing for Something Different

2011-05-19T20:54:00.001-07:00

The fact is that despite everything I cannot really recall what tonight's conversation was all about.
Different people took turns to make different points at different times and despite my best intentions I could not honestly keep up with the conversation.
What separates us all in this life, in this world, in this city of ours, is not our educational, socioeconomic or religious backgrounds nor is it even our age segmentation or any other demographic variables as much as it is the stage of life we are in.

Three men sitting around the bar table, drinking $15 pitchers of Blue Moon and watching the girls walk by. One of us is single, one is married, one has children. We are all envious of one another. We all wish we could just for a moment have a taste of each others’ existence.
If we could trade for a day, a week, a month or year, would we make the most of the opportunity?

The single man is lonely, the married man is bored, the one with kids is exhausted, he forgot what it felt like to be alive and have your own needs and wants.
They are all good friends but can not truly understand each others’ dispositions. True friendship is as much a function of mutual suffering and empathy as it is a function of good will.

We drank for a while and listened to each other’s tall male tales. All we had left in common now were previous tales of sexual conquests. As the years went by they all got much better than they actually were back when it all happened.
The red headed Irish waitress had a nice little body on her. She seemed tired. She wanted to go home. The boys had an affinity for light skinned women. I always preferred darker ones.

Three whole months went by and I had nothing new to report. These are my last few weeks in New York City. Soon I will be gone. I am heading down South. I will live a different kind of a life, away from these good friends of mine. We will all try to keep in touch but time and distance both seem to have their own agenda.
All we seem to have is our common sense of loneliness. Soon one will relocate to another latitude, another out to New Jersey and the third will likely end up with the sort of a woman who won’t deserve or appreciate such a nice guy.

Many years from now, we will all be older, we will all meet again, over a beer, over memories, over greasy chicken wings and over extended plates of nachos. . None of us will recall what we spoke about on that night, none of us will remember what we truly meant to say or how we felt.

The only thing that any of us will really care about is to feel young again and to know for a fact that thanks to these good friends, you made it out alive, even if it was only for one night.

Boys Night Out

2011-04-25T20:18:00.000-07:00

The place was small and the room smelled as sweet as popcorn. The music was cracking loud with those old hits from the 70s, back in the day when music actually meant something.
It was the three of us, Lee, Dr. P. and myself, it was boys night out.
What do men really talk about? What do men really want? What do they really need?
Offer me a hundred bucks and I will not tell you. Offer me a thousand and I will tell you to go fuck yourself two times over. Offer me a glimpse at those amazing round tits and I will spill it over, like a broken whiskey barrel during those days of prohibition. Every man has got his own weaknesses and we all know where mine lie.
For us men it is not about the drink, nor is it about the sweet smelling scent of the waitress as she walks by. Those are merely condiments. They fall way short of the main chow hall meal.

Like a pack of Hyenas, like a broken set of chairs, a sinking boat sound that does not make it to the coast, men need men. We need this for so many reasons that are beyond the very understanding of you lonely female misanthropes who are often entangled in a discontinued comfort of friendship. Yes male bonding is a real fucking deal and you would not guess if you tried a hundred times.

We sat around the bar and drank everything that she brought in our direction. Her name was Ashley and her ass required extra attention.

We spoke about nothing that any of you would expect.
Yes, there is much more pain in a man’s life than what they tell you about in those pathetic reality shows.

Three good friends are sitting around the bar, watching women walk by and talking more bullshit than a cow could ever shovel. What do we really know about this world of women? Everything seems so obvious after you have had your heart broken more than once or twice.

We all took our turns and shared in our pain. It was all the same story written in different alphabets. Same old bullshit stories about boy meeting girl, boy wanting girl, boy fucking girl, boy telling his friends all about it more then ten years after.

There was always room for exaggeration. Take the fine detail and divide it by half, you may get closer to the truth.
But the facts were always inconsequential. Tonight was boys night, a time to feel alive. To feel as if nothing else matters and most importantly, that everything will be ok after all.

Your wife is a total bitch, we can live with that, your wife won't put out, we will argue for bad behavior, your wife is everything you ever wanted and more, good for you, you lucky bastard.

Time goes by and things somehow change. We all live in the same city and yet, for some strange reason, we don't get to hang out as much as we used to back in the day.

But Wednesday night was and will always remain boys night. And thank God for that.

Texas City Woman

2011-04-13T19:43:00.000-07:00

We sat around the bar, old and tired. From their faces you could tell exactly who lived in New York City for way too long and who has just come in. The smell of the cigarette smoke that lingered on their jackets, the wrinkles of men who looked beyond their own age, those women beaten down by life, they seemed so bitter, so cynical so tired of the game.

Then I pulled out the bottle of old rum from Venezuela. I bought the bottle for $9.99 but they did not know any better. The rum made a killing. It was way too strong but we all needed to forget about our own ways.

Around ten they walked out of the bar. They had nowhere to go but it was time for all to leave.

Are you walking home or taking the train? She asked.

I planned on walking but recognized the opportunity.

There was nothing special about Stephanie. She was a blond. She was from Texas. Her ass was saggy and her face beyond its years.

She did not seem to mind that I mistakenly referred to her as Stacy more than twice during the conversation. With every correction, I appeared to be more of a bastard and that was exactly why we were on our way to her apartment down on Rivington Street.

The place was small and messy. It smelled like cats despite the ample Indian incense smoke. She offered me a drink and then it was on to small talk. I sat on the side and drank a beer while she thoroughly massaged my feet with her broad fingers. She spoke about those things that women spoke about and I pretended to give a damn.

I asked her if she had a cigarette but she had none. She offered me a joint instead.
As she rolled a professionally looking one, I thought about my life and about my strategy with women. Here was another example of a woman that I would lay only to later regret it in the morning. By now I lost count of how many came and went. That was the case for most of us who waited too long around the city.

I could only imagine that Stacey lost count as well.

After sex she took a shower and I fell fast asleep.

Her fingers across my shoulder, I pretended not to feel her touch.

In the morning I was gone without expectation or too many words.

It was night again and then came another woman. Her name was fast fading, as was the memory of the conversation.

It was time to look for something more meaningful in my life.

www.hardboiledmen.com

Men like Robby Ross

2011-03-08T19:13:00.000-08:00

Today, I am going to make a To Do List, she declared. She picked up a pen and wrote all items down on a pink sheet of paper.

Item #1 Do the dishes, Item #2 Pick up the dry cleaning from Mr. Nice. Item #3 Pick up the medicine from CVS along with two boxes of Tampax, Item #4 Call Robby Ross, Item #5 Forty five minutes boot camp class at the gym, that Jenny can be a real bitch sometimes but boy can she make you sweat.

Then she went on with several others things that had to be done. But none of them compared with item #4.

That Robby Ross, that son of a bitch. Men like him are the reason why women turn bitter.
Men like him are the reason why so many of them give up on the entire process.
Robby Ross was not a tall man. Nor was he rich, clever or distinct beyond the laws of averages. Yet and despite it all, she could not keep away.

At first she picked up the phone but she was not that brave. A text message would do the trick and then again, there was always Facebook.

She thought about it for a while and then picked up her cell phone.

Hey, what’s going on? Press DELETE
Robby, how are you? Talk to me hon. Press DELETE
Hey babe. But that was not her style. Press DELETE

She finally decided on the following “What’s Up”. She thought about it for a while and then pressed SENT.

Ten minutes went by and nothing happened. She took the phone with her to the bathroom and held it in her hand while she peed. But what if he was to call while she sat on the stall? She would likely sound like some retard talking over all that echo.

She went into the kitchen and brewed herself some vanilla hazelnut coffee. It dripped down her Teddy Bear Mug and filled the house with an intoxicating aroma. Finally she heard the phone, a text message came through.

It was a false alarm. Jenny was checking in on their plans for the afternoon.

Jenny was her best friend since their days at the University of Vermont. Jenny was blond and gorgeous. She had the perfect teeth with boobs to match. All of the boys always went gaga for Jenny. That girl never knew what it felt like to sit home alone on a Saturday night.

As for her, she was just another girl.
A couple of hours went by and the to do list was nearly complete. The lady at CVS made her wait for nearly 30 minutes while her prescriptions were refilled. She walked around the store and carefully examined the different shades of lip gloss that were on display. She always looked for something that was more orange than pink. But she could never really find that right exact color to match the color of her lips.

At four, Jenny and her met at Starbucks where they shared a chocolate chip cookie. They sat around for an hour and spoke about the things that women spoke about. Jenny did most of the talking. She always seemed that much more interesting then everyone around her. She was always so spunky, so personable, so perfect.

As for her, she could never really come up with the right thing to say.

Around 8pm, Robby Ross sent her a message that was as disappointing as it was brief.

Hey what’s up, he wrote. And that was pretty much it.

Could it be that it all meant nothing to him? Did he mean anything that he said or was he just trying to get her in bed? Men like Robby Ross were the reason that women lost just a small part of their heart.

They all knew better than to fall for a guy like Robby Ross but if given the opportunity, you would make the same mistake too.

www.hardboiledmen.com

Alone in the World

2011-03-01T20:03:00.000-08:00

I tend to over think things; I tend to take it to the next level. When time goes by and the night comes over, NYC is just another place.

People think this place is all about glamour, but they are wrong, it is all about loneliness.

Thankfully, I am a man. In this town, it beats the hell out of being a woman.

We have numbers on our side. Women don’t have it as easy.

For us it is about the hunt. For women it is about hope.

Theirs is easily shattered. Ours is a game of ecstasy.

If both things came together and both were faced with the truth, they would both wake up and realize. Nothing is as it seems.

We project all that is within us. Our parents, their disappointments, our frustrations, they all translate into an illusion. At the end of the day, we call it love.

Look at Jody; she is different than the rest of them. She is young, she is alive.
Jody doesn’t know any better. She still believes. She saw it on TV, she doesn’t know any better.

Three years ago, I was alone. Now I am together. My woman is with me and I am with her. Now, I can no longer help anyone else out. You are all alone. I am unavailable. To you I am a writer. To me, you are a thought.

Words alone, words together, they all make sense of nothing but the every day.

We are all alone despite our status. Despite the title we place in front of our names.

Around the Christmas tables, we congregate, family, friends and lovers. We are all strangers to one another. We are all the same in our loneliness. We are all different in our needs.

And yet, you must never stop believing in all that is true, in all that is in your heart.

The winter days are gone and spring is just around the corner.

No matter how alone you feel there is always hope.

A Beer to Match

2011-01-27T07:54:00.000-08:00

Not every woman could get away with it. Not every woman was able to live life with such disregards for external validation, to live life without second guessing herself. But then again, Linda was not just another woman. She was Linda J Cook. She did not care for governing female stereotype on television. She did not watch reality shows or read Cosmo magazine. She had no interest in celebrity gossip or day time soap operas.

She ordered herself a plain old bottle of Budweiser.

Linda was no dummy. She had a complete sense of the potential repercussions that her selections may have on the visual representation of her entourage. Like an ugly sore, her beer bottle took away from the magnificence of her girlfriends’ Dulce De Leche Martini and sour apple vodka drinks.

Ever since she was a little girl back in Odessa Texas, Linda never really fit in with the rest of the girls at school. She was the kind of a girl that usually found herself at the back corner of Mrs. Chester’s homeroom class.

Linda did not have blond hair and her breasts did not come out until it was just a bit too late. Her cousin Annie had nice supple ones as early as fourteen. Annie’s mom always dressed her up in those tiny summer dresses that made her look like a California movie star. Annie’s mom was born out in Los Angeles. Linda’s mom was born in Odessa, down on Melody Lane a stone throw away from Permian High School, the same school that Linda attended.

Cousin Annie was the all American kind of a girl. In high school she was a cheerleader, won second place in the Miss Rice Belt pageant, and dated Cody Ryan, the all American captain of the Panthers. Cody and Annie continued to date for a few more years after high school but later broke up when he lost his scholarship at Texas A&M.

Annie and Linda went back many years. Their mothers always said that the two of them were like natural sisters but Linda never really felt that way.

One night that stood out in her memory was that Friday night back in the day around the age of fourteen. Uncle Jim and Aunt Marilyn went out to the dance in the grand ballroom and the two girls were left all alone. Annie snuck a couple of her father’s beers from the fridge and then it all began.

“So tell me, which boy do you like the most? Who would you want to make out with?”

Linda did not know what to say. Unlike her cousin, Linda never really kissed a boy before.

“You mean, you never ever kissed a boy? Not even once?”
“Well I let Josh Owen kiss me on the lips at Matt Rice’s party.”
“Well Gosh, that doesn’t even count. A kiss, a real one at least requires some tongue if you know what I mean.”
“Annie, why do you always have to be so nasty?”

But Annie would have none of it. “Can you even imagine how embarrassing it is to be your cousin sometimes? Do you realize that you are the only girl at Bonham Middle who never made out with a boy? Why do you want to be such a loser?”

Linda did not want to be a loser. She did not really want to be anything besides plain old Linda. But Annie insisted. The girls finished a second round of beers and that was when she agreed to try.

Place your lips around the tip of the bottle and then move your tongue around.
Linda followed orders despite the fact that it all seemed kind of stupid.

“Make sure to breath through your nose”, Annie explain “otherwise you may just end up chocking on that thing.”

Linda took her time. But all of the practice in the world was of no real utility to her.

It was more than two years later when Linda met Lyndon, the only boy to ever have her heart. Lyndon was different than the rest of the boys at school.

He played the guitar. They dated for a five months. She spent the next two years getting over their breakup.

After high school he flew out to Colorado State University out in Fort Collins. Nancy ended up in North Carolina.

Holding on to her bottle of Budweiser, Nancy smiled and pretended to care about what her friends were talking about. A few guys from NC State tried to make conversation but none of them appeared all that interested in Linda. Could they really tell just how different she was than the rest of the girls in the group?

Around the holidays, Linda was happy to receive a Christmas card from Odessa. A picture of Annie revealed an all American family sporting green red sweaters and green stockings to match. Annie’s husband Bob was the son of Buck Allen the owner of the Freedom Buick and GMC car dealerships. Annie’s two kids were all blond and perfect. They seemed to come out of a Texas catalogue.
Annie was as beautiful as Linda always remembered. Her new implants jumped out of her sweater like season’s greetings and her teeth were sparkling Christmas lights.

It has been more than three years since Linda last flew back home to Texas. There was not much left for her there any longer. Still home was always home and nothing could really take its place. Linda thought about her childhood in the small town of Odessa. She thought about all of those stupid boys and wondered where everyone ended up. She wondered about how quickly time went by.

Holding on to a bottle of Budweiser and a smile to match, Linda walked towards the dance floor with a boy that she just met.

His name was Alex and he appeared different than the rest of the boys. Alex was much taller than Linda. He was one of the few men in the bar who did not wear a university of this or that baseball hat.

Alex came from the town large city of Odessa out in the Republic of Ukraine. Linda did not really know where that country was on the map but pretended she did so he won’t think she was ignorant. Alex spoke with a slight foreign accent.

Alex told her about his cousin Vadim who was very successful despite his reputed connections to the Russian underworld. Alex’s cousin Vadim was married to Anna Butyrskaya, the daughter of Odessa most prominent businessman. She was a beautiful blond with a body out of a magazine.

With a beer to match and a familiar smile, they came closer and closer on the dance floor. When Alex kissed her, she licked the sweet beer off of his lips. He tasted just like that night back at Uncle Jim and Aunt Marilyn’s house.

The next day she bought a plane ticket to Odessa Texas. It was time to come home.

In the World of People

2011-01-21T07:45:00.000-08:00

Once in a while, he thought to himself, it is nice to do something a little different. It is nice to change pace, explore a new things, reject the routine, and replace the well known. Once in a while, we all feel like changing things up. This was especially true for any of us who lived in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Those small towns have their own charm. There was no doubt about that. No matter where you went, they were pretty much the same. They had a Super Wal-Mart, the same old strip malls and the nail salons that offered a manicure and a laundry list of beautifying escapes. These towns all had the usual variety of chain restaurants that tasted pretty much the same whether you are in South Texas, Western Utah or Northern Ohio. Things are familiar and familiar is good for many types of people around our great nation. Unfortunately, Jake was never that kind of a person.

So how does it work? He wondered. How does one find the odd within the even? Where was the wild within the tame? Back in the day when he was single, it was so much easier to deal with the mundane. Random acts and casual affairs, married women and unsuspecting undergrads, online one night stands and weekend love making sessions with perfect sessions who were gone as quickly as they came around. Jake found it all so lively.

The women came and went but the feeling stayed the same. The world was his oyster. It was a delicious one but at the same time it mostly lonely. This was exactly the reason why Jana came into his life. Rather, that was exactly why he would not let her leave. Ever since he met her, life tasted a little more like home cooking.

She had a great way about her. She was slim, she was beautiful and most of all she was a genuinely nice person. Jane read books, big books with long words and unexpected endings. She traveled the world. She once spent a semester down in Belize. She volunteered in Nicaragua. She was a much better person than he was.

Jake enjoyed everything about her. He cared for her in many ways that were beyond physical. In the mornings he held her for a little bit longer. She in turn reciprocated with genuine warmth. Her smile was soft and her breasts were supple. She was his joy and she was his everything.

But even everything cannot satisfy 100% of a person’s needs.

After breakfast, she left to meet a friend. They worked on a project together for their graduate seminar in neurocognitive dynamics.

Jake had nothing to do and no one to meet. It was Christmas break at the university. His colleagues were all gone. The students were away and the small town was pretty much empty. There was nothing to do besides wait.

Jake wondered within his restlessness. He went online and looked at some porn. Large breasted blonds and Ebony nurses offered a quick escape. After a while, he grew tired of those oafish images. He shot off his load into the toilet and proceeded to move on with his day.

He made himself another cup of coffee. He smoked a cigarette and read his horoscope:

“It's not your fault that something went wrong but you can be sure that those who are to blame will try to lay some of the guilt at your door.”

Jake was a Gemini. If you do not know any better by now than you really need to get a clue. Thank you Sally Brompton he whispered to the pages of the daily paper but he was way too old to worry about feelings of guilt.

Guilt was a common currency in the realm of the young. It was a crutch for people with low self-esteem. Guilt was for Catholic mothers and manipulative middle class suburbanites. In the world of people, guilt was just another strategy that people used to get by.

With nothing better to do, he headed towards the mega-supermarket. His membership card at hand and an empty cart to push, he had no idea of what it was that he came for.

“Do you want to sample some organic carrot juice?” she asked.

Jake thought about it for a moment and politely walked away. He headed towards the beer section and loaded up on a case of Natural Light. Later on, he walked by her again. She stood there all enthusiastic as if she was on a mission to change the world. As if her organic carrot juice could really make a damn difference. As if the promotion and aggrandizement of organic vegetable juice could somehow overthrow the corporate monopoly while at the same time saving the whales.

Still there was something about her. Jake always had a weakness for a woman with a sparkle in her eyes.

“You know, this stuff doesn’t taste all that bad after all.” He told her.

“And it is really good for your digestive system.” She replied in turn.

Jake always appreciated a woman with a strong sense of digest responsibility. Jake always appreciated a woman in her mid to late forties. Jake always appreciated a women of most every kind.

He ended up buying a four bottles of the organic juice and she in turn gave him her email address.

“If you ever want to learn more about organic farming, just drop me a line.”

Jana was all smiles as he walked through the door. She laid a soft kiss upon his lips and asked about how his day was. Jake had nothing to say. It was just another day. There was nothing to tell. Life was just life.

She helped him unpack the multitude of plastic grocery bags that he brought back from the store.

Jana was happy to unpack all of her favorites. She was a fan of veggie burgers and frozen burritos. She could never get enough of those green apples nor could she resist all of those fresh baked goodies that somehow managed to maintain those warm buttery fragrances within the brown wax packaging.

“You are such a sweetie,” she said, “you know exactly what I like.”

Around two o’clock they made love and took an afternoon nap. Jana fell to her sleep within his arms; her fingers were so small upon his wide chest.

While she slept, he got up and made himself a grilled cheese sandwich. He sprinkled the fresh oregano across the bread and watched the Provolone cheese melt away.

A glass of organic carrot juice did not make things any better. Jana was a good woman and he knew better than to make any excuses in his head. Guilt was the companion of all monogamous men. There was no real reason for the contradiction between genuine affection and outside exploration. Sometimes a man just needed to feel something different.

We all find different ways to feel alive.

Christmas at the Waffle House

2010-12-23T13:32:00.000-08:00

While the rest of America was sitting around the dinner table, stuffing their faces with honey glazed hams, roasted potatoes and comforting pumpkin pie that tasted very much like home, Charlie drove around this little town in his 1988 Honda Civic that was somehow still held together by superglue and the grace of God.

How lonely it all felt, the night of Christmas Eve. All of the stores were closed around this tiny college town. The students all headed home more than a week ago, just a day after their final examinations. And Charlie, he had nowhere to go. This year, his sister joined her in laws. He could not afford the plane ticket to fly up north to his family up in Indiana. How he ever ended up in this tedious Southern town is a tale for another day. He then realized that it was almost 8:36pm and he had nothing to eat since breakfast.

The past few year was mostly uneventful. Things just sucked ever since Nancy took off back in late February, just a couple of days after Valentine’s Day.

Where was she now? Charlie did not have the faintest clue. Maybe she went back to that old boyfriend of hers whom she always spoke about. The guy who could last much longer than the typical three and a half minutes that Charlie could offer on the average night.

Nancy was long gone and with her so were Charlie’s hopes for a better year to come. Now, all that he cared about was getting something to eat, something to distract him from his boring life, something to take away that lonely feeling.

Thank God for the Waffle House, Charlie thought to himself as he parked his old car next to a large yellow pickup truck. The place seemed busier than it should have been on Christmas Eve, but then again, it was the only place open and the town was full of lonely people. He parked himself on the booth right by the cash register. Christmas eve 2009 and there he was. There was not much to say after all.

So what will you have honey? She asked.

I am not really sure. I have never really eaten here before. I guess I will have some waffles. That is the house specialty I assume. Does that sound like the right thing to order?

You want them plain or do you want chocolate chip waffles or maybe some pecan ones?

I’ll take them plain and also, can I get a cup of coffee.

You got it sugar, and then she walked away.
Looking around at the crowd that surrounded him, Charlie felt more at ease than one may have suspected. You can say what you want about people who eat at the Waffle House on any given day but no one could ever label these folks as uninteresting.

There was that white old fat man who could barely fit into his booth, the two younger college students who wore black heavy metal band T-shirts and were covered in tattoos, there were the regulars who knew the names of the waitresses and that of the guy who operated the grill. Charlie looked around at the wait staff and wondered to himself why they all referred to that bustier older woman as Mama.

This old black lady sat around with her three grandchildren around the corner booth. Their table was full of holiday cheer, the kind of feeling that Charlie had waiting for him up in Indiana.
Charlie looked around just hoping to catch a single woman’s eyes. At this point, he did not care if she was on the larger side, had a bellow average face or a big old butt. He just wanted some company. He did not want to be alone.

The waffles came with a warm smile and a side of butter. Can I get you something else hon? She asked, maybe a little more coffee?

Jingle Bells were playing on the radio. The small restaurant smelled liked sugary butter. It felt like the holidays. Charlie thought about the possibilities. Was there any single woman sitting alone in her apartment, feeling as lonely as he did? He ran through his contact list. Janet was out of town and Jessica flew back to Los Angeles. Susan went back to her frat boy boyfriend and Lilly was also out of town. He thought about giving Rachel a call. He realized that that would not be such a great idea.

The holiday season was nothing like they made it seem on television. Not for us people who are alone in this world.
Thank God for the Waffle House, Charlie thought to himself. He ordered another cup of coffee and hoped that next year would be much better than the one that was about to end.

Not My Type

2010-12-13T09:38:00.000-08:00

For more go to: www.hardboiledmen.com

People always try to think straight; act straight look straight, but there was nothing straight or normal about anyone that Jonathan came across.

Every morning he would wake to the sound of the city streets. He could hear the construction crews, the ambulance sirens and the constant impatient beeping of New York drivers.

Down in the coffee shop, people moved in haste. They all seemed to be in a rush to go somewhere important. Jonathan had nowhere important to go. He was unemployed and without direction.

But unemployment is serious business all by itself. There were so many phone calls to make, so many resumes to be sent out, so many issues to deal with. Jonathan made the case for procrastination and decided to take care of them all next Monday.

Jonathan did not work on Fridays. For him, it was a matter of principle. Fridays were designated for coffee shops and books. But Jonathan did not read a book in months. He carried around a copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay but he never got past the tenth page. He could not concentrate. Ever since he lost his job, he was completely incapable of doing anything constructive. Intellectual impotence was the best way to describe his state of mind. Unemployment was serious business.

People always told him just how lucky he was to be unemployed, to be free of the corporate world and to have all of the time in the world to pursue anything that he wanted to accomplish.

If I had all the free time in the world, Jonny told him, I would learn how to play the guitar, I would fly to Spain, I would hit the massage parlors, I would write the great American novel.

But Jonny did have a job and Jonathan did not. From the outside everything always looked much better than it actually was. Jonathan was not coordinated with his fingers, he had no money for an airplane ticket to Spain nor could he afford the $100 rub and tug and was way short of having any literary talent. He was unemployed and unmotivated. He held much promise but not much in terms of direction.

The women on West Broadways seemed as beautiful as they did cold. They walked slowly in the New York winter wholly wrapped in white scarves and long brown hair. Jonathan always wanted to find a woman who had long curly hair. He wondered if he could ever fool one of those women into sleeping with him or better yet, falling in love. Despite the many years in New York, he still believed it could happen.

Are you leaving? She asked.

Jonathan indicated that he was and she in turn smiled politely.

While he put his jacket layers on, she wondered if he was a single guy. Amber lived in New York for three years and by now surrendered to the old cliché that all the men in the city were either married or gay.

The cute guy pulled his leather gloves out of his jacket and smiled in her direction as he walked out the door. He did not wear a wedding band on his left finger nor did he seem to be homosexual type.

Amber sat down in her newly claimed coffee shop domain. She hung her winter coat on the chair and went to the counter to order a cup of herbal decaffeinated tea

Amber did not like coffee. She wanted nothing to do with those fancy latte drinks or those desserts in a bottle. Even when it came to tea, she was rather picky. She did not like those peppermint teas nor did she have an affinity for any of the strange fruit flavor like Mango Forrest or Passion Fruit Fantasia. Amber was simply a green tea kind of a person. That is if there actually was such a thing as a green tea kind of a person. Amber was never really the type for typesetting.

But it was still early in the day and she did not feel like being alone again. Amber did not have any friends. She had many acquaintances. The real tragedy, she always thought was the idea that women could not really have a friend in this lonely world. The men eventually wanted to screw her and the women eventually flaked out. If you want a friend, buy a dog, her mother always told her. Amber could not get a dog; her studio apartment was way too small.

The main problem with meeting up with friends on a weekday mornings was the fact that most of the people that she knew had real jobs.

Amber was a freelance graphic designer. Her time belonged to her alone.

She went on her Facebook phone application and scrolled through her list of friends. In all honesty, she did not see the majority of these people in a face-to-face situation in more than a year.

Dave was the only person who was ever available during these times and he was always ready to meet. She thought about texting him but decided not to. Amber had a suspicion that had a secret crush on her, which would have been a good thing but for the fact that Dave was a rather corpulent fellow.

Amber never considered her standards to be too high, but the facts spoke for themselves. Already 38 and she was still alone. Her mother always pushed her to find a man, any man, as long as he had a good job. You are not getting any younger, her mother always said. But Amber would not make compromises when it came to looks. As an artist, Amber was very much into esthetics.

Sure she was no Heidi Klum but she was still way above his league. And besides, looks were the only problem with Dave or with David as he recently asked all of his friends to call him. The problem with David was the fact that he was a religious fellow, a born again type.

Amber had nothing against God, the church or those who embraced religion. She was simply not the type to really ask existential questions, she had enough trouble dealing with those everyday aspects of the world.

She ordered a bowl of split pea soup and wondered off into the world beyond the window. Outside handsome men were walking down West Broadway sporting long winter jackets and fancy scarves.

A minute later, their eyes crossed as he stopped to light a cigarette. Amber was not the type to date smokers. She was not the type to give out her phone number and was definitely not the type for one night stands. But this guy seemed to be worth the risk. He had gorgeous blue eyes that were as faithful as they were magnificent.

A week went by and he she had not heard from him.

Amber had no regrets about the situation.

For a moment, she felt alive.

At a Certain Point in Time

2010-11-16T08:29:00.000-08:00

At a certain point of the day, a man decides to walk out of the strange apartment. Beneath his hiking boots upon the harsh concrete, above he notices a long combination of staircases, at their edge appears a woman.

At a certain point of the day, the man realizes that his name is Jacob. He realizes that he just recently lost his job and that his fortieth birthday is just a few months away. Jacob takes a moment to look at the time only to realize that he forgot his watch upstairs. He weighs the worth of the watch against the possibility of another encounter and decides to purchase another watch on the street. Ten dollars can go far in the world of New York street commerce.

At a certain point of the day, Jacob closes his eyes just to escape from it all. Three months of unemployment can take their toll on a man. At a certain point of every recent day, he had nowhere to go, no one to meet, nothing to do and no reason to be.

At a certain point of time, one loses it all and it is time to start over. The question is, where?

At a certain point of time, a few minutes after he left, Amy walks into the kitchen and brews herself a cup of coffee. She scoops three tall spoons of the Breakfast Blend variety and places it carefully into the thin white paper filter. She pours the coffee into her favorite mug and lights up a cigarette.

At a certain point during the morning, Amy thinks back to the night before. She remembers how he walked up to her, how he spoke about his books, how he held her hand and later kissed her.

At a certain point, she wonders, how he managed to get her into bed on the very first night. She was not that kind of a woman. At least, she has not been that kind of a woman during the past few years, college doesn’t count.

Just last month she celebrated her twenty fifth birthday and was ready to take on the world. Her life went exactly according to her plan. Her job at the advertising agency held promise. The spinning classes at the New York Sports Club, girls night out every Wednesday and Sunday brunch. All that was missing was the perfect man.

Amy took her cloths off and examined her body through the bathroom mirror. Her ass was a bit too droopy, she thought. Why couldn’t God make her look like those women in the fashion magazines? She asked. Amy rinsed the shampoo from her blond hair, dried her body with her favorite pink towel and carefully applied the makeup to her face, just like she read in Cosmo magazine.

Amy was excited. She wondered when Jacob would call her again. Two days is the rule. Maybe he would text or IM. Amy wondered just how jealous her girlfriends would be next Wednesday when she would tell them all about it.

Amy took a minute to be concerned about her actions. Will Jacobs respect her now after she gave it on the very night they met?

At a certain point of time, Amy noticed a round metal watch hidden away between her deep white blankets and took it as a sign. Could it be that Jacob was the one? She certainly hoped so.

At a certain point of time, after a week had gone by, Amy realized that she would have to wait for another point in time.

As for Jacob, it was another story.

Left Handed People

2010-10-28T09:03:00.000-07:00

The problem with Jackie as far as Freddy could tell was not the fact that she was ordinary as much as the fact that she was somewhat extraordinary. He first began to notice her during Professor Rush’s 9am macroeconomics class. ECO 2023 was known to be the ultimate meat market. Students would attend class to socialize, catch up on the latest gossip or simply to see and be seen. This introductory core course had an enrollment of several thousand student per semester and was situated in one of those 500 plus seat mega-auditorium. Between the sea of blond sorority hair and orange and blue Gator caps, Jackie stood out like a Thursday evening piece of good news.

Every Monday and Wednesday, he woke up extra early for class. He had to make sure that his regular seat on the tenth row center would not be taken up by those obnoxious ATO fraternity types who traveled in groups of pink polo shirts and unwarranted prestige. Freddy had to consider tactics. He had to consider how to best situate the situation. Jackie always sat on the tenth row center. Her birthday was October 15th. She was a Libra.

Jackie first began to notice Freddy right around the midterm time. He always came prepared wearing his LSU Tigers cap and a matching yellow shirt to match. Freddy was a member of the opposition and wore his colors with pride. Jackie held contempt for her surrounding student body. These cookie cutter private school types were a real disappointment when she first arrived in Gainesville. By now, her sophomore year, she learned to make her way around their predetermined behavior. Freddy held himself different than others. Since the begining of the semester, he always sat a few seats away from her on the tenth row. Jackie was a big believer in coincidence. Everything happens for a reason, she always thought.

It took weeks, but he finally gathered the courage to ask her out. At first she seemed reluctant but Freddy knew better than to give up too easily.
Jackie, for all she knew, could not understand why he waited so long to make his move. Women really never understood men and vice versa.

For weeks they exchanged a quick “Hey, What’s up,” but it never went much beyond it. Luckily enough, Freddy could not for the life of him comprehend the concept of elasticity, she in turn explained that the concept referred to the ratio of the percent change in one variable to the percent change in another variable. Freddy still didn’t get it and she agreed to continue the conversation over Leonardo’s Pizza and the rest was history.

Jackie was nothing like the other college girls that Freddy met in the dorm rooms. She actually seemed to care about things that were beyond campus life. Freddy was nothing like the other guys that Jackie met on University Avenue. He read novels, traveled outside of the state and spoke softly with a southern drawl.

Jakie was a lefty. Not politically she wasn’t, college kids rarely spoke about politics. Jackie was left handed, one of those 5-12% of the general population. Those leftys who were more likely to play the piano, excel at math or in the arts.

“Did you know that left handed people draw characters that always face the right?” she asked. “Did you know that Left handed people are three times more likely than right handed people to become alcoholics?”
Freddy did not know much about left handed people. Back in the small town of Franklin, Louisiana, his buddy Jack Babineaux dated a left handed girl named Linda Prejean who used to give him left handed hand jobs. For Freddy, that small amount of information represented his entire knowledge of left handed people. Linda Prejean was also reported to give the best head in Franklin. Freddy wondered if there was any correlation.

“Harry Truman was left handed,” she continued, “so were James Garfield, Bill Clinton and the first George Bush. Jimmi Hendrix was left handed. Same goes for Bob Dylan; Leonardo Da Vinci; Michelangelo; Pablo Picasso and Julius Caesar.” The list went on and on. Freddy sat quiet on the side in admiration of her knowledge.

With everyone around you so the same, nothing spells life more than a person whose letters are fresh and different. Those people are all around us everywhere we go but most of us seem to ignore them or simply to not pay attention. Whether left handed or not, those people are the ones who make our lives worth living.

Freddy reached across the small table and kissed her gently on the mouth. Jackie smiled and combed her hair with her right hand.

The Critics Agree About

2010-10-20T08:21:00.000-07:00

“Next in line, can I help you please?”

But she did not respond.

“Next in line please”

She was too distracted by her thoughts, finally the woman behind her tapped her on the shoulder, “Oh, I am so sorry,” she apologized.

Wendy had a time these days. She had a hard time at work. Her boss was a chauvinist and her coworkers always made her feel like she was an outsider. She had a hard time with her mother who never seemed to find approval in anything that her daughter did. She had a hard with her sister who was only two years older and already had a Norman Rockwell lifestyle with two kids, a large suburban house and a Labrador retriever. Wendy had a hard time figuring out what she wanted to do with her life and how she fell so far behind everyone else that she knew. Wendy had a hard time with men, but that was nothing new.

She ordered her cup of coffee and paid the woman. The thirty-two cent change went straight into her leather purse. The quarter went into the middle pocket with the rest of the quarters. The nickel was placed in the side pocket where she kept her nickels and dimes and the pennies were meticulously placed on the opposite side pocket. Wendy had a thing for organization. Her sister’s husband once suggested that she suffered from an obsessive-compulsive condition but Wendy recognized his diagnosis as the jealous criticism of a less organized man.

The critics agree about all that was negative in this world but disagreed on the more positive aspects, she thought. As such, there were no such things as movie, restaurant or fashion supporters. People had no interest in reading heartfelt praise; they wanted criticism attached to the names of others. In the last issue of the fashion magazine there were full spreads displaying the gleaming cellulites of an Oscar nominated actress. In another magazine she saw before and after photos of a Los Angeles celebrity ass before and after her pregnancy. People are so mean, she thought.

Wendy added two Splenda to her coffee along with some non-fat milk. The much more attractive blond woman stood taller than her as she sported tall black high heels. She must have been married to someone who was important, Wendy thought. The woman added soymilk into her large latte. Wendy reached across for a napkin and quickly apologized to the taller woman for no apparent reason.

Winter came late to the city this October and Wendy could not understand why everything was so damn difficult in her life.

Heading out to California

2010-10-08T11:15:00.000-07:00

The Yankees game was almost over, a 4-2 lead at the 8th inning. The bar would clear soon, was I the only person who did not seem to care too much. There were too many people in the bar for my liking. There were too many people in this city. It was time to get away. It was time to move out to somewhere, nowhere, anywhere, Alabama, Kansas, South Dakota or West Virginia, bring it on. Anyplace where you do not hear an ambulance siren ten times an hour would make a great home. At the bottom of the 9th, the Yanks went up 5-2 off of a Rodriguez double hitter. The crowd went into ecstasy. The investment banker high fived the pizza delivery boy from next door who had absolutely no issue with just standing I the middle of the bar while the orders were piling up next door. We are after all talking about MLB playoff season.

Finally, they all cleared out. The local Thursday night regulars soon replaced the baseball fans, this group was more tolerable, they were more laid back. I liked this neighborhood bar and have been coming out here for years. They had Abita Amber for $5 and the best fish tacos in New York City.

“Another round for you Jake?”

Jenny knew me better than my mom did; she always knew just what I needed. She moved out here from some suburb in Michigan. Her father an otolaryngologists (ear nose and throat surgeon) and her mom an immigrant from the Philippine. Her mom worked as a nurse assistant in the recovery room during her father’s laborious days as a junior resident. In those hellish days that included 95-hour workweeks, she was his only source of comfort. A genuine smile was a true rarity in the realm of medical training. The result was Jenny, a beautiful hybrid of Asian and Jew that continued to spread the rare spark of joy within the hearts of New York’s local desperate and drunk. I ranked at the top of this list.
“Been waiting long for me?” he asked.
“Jesus Christ Jonny, where have you been? I asked
“Truthfully?”
“No lie to me, you motherfucker, of course truthfully, go on.”
“I got laid,” he smiled.
“No shit?”
“No shit”
“And what is his name?” I smiled
“You remember the cashier from Whole Foods? The Jamaican one with the “red hair” he used his fingered to mark the quotations.
“Jonny, you have to be shitting me, that woman was a god dam rhino. She must have weighted around 240.” I wondered.
“Hey, more cushion for the pushing.”
Jonny was a sick fucker. He hit anything he could. Height, weight, facial hair, age, education or prison records, nothing was beyond him.
“What can I get you Jonny? Jack on the rocks or are we more in the mood for a beer?” Jenny asked.
“How about an STD kit? Do you guys sell any of those?” I snickered.
“Never mind Jake here Jenny, you know what a jealous mother he can be. The dude has not gotten laid in over a year. Ever since Maria left town. I’ll have a Jack on the rocks and tell Mike to pour it generously. Tell him not to Jew me out.”
I smacked him on the head.
“Oh, sorry about that Jake, I did not mean anything by it.”
“Never mind that shit. Tell me, what did you decide?”
“What did I decide in regard to?”
“Global warming and Middle East peace, Jesus Christ Jonny, did that Jamaican squeeze any sense out of your head? I am talking about our conversation from yesterday, about going to California.”
“You were serious about that stuff?”
“Of course man, it is time to get out of this damn city.”
“When do we leave?”
“How about tonight?”

Jenny came around with another round. Jonny carefully inspected the ice drink ratio in his glass. “Jenny, tell that motherfucker to top me off extra on the next round, this son of a bitch always pours them so damn low.”
Jonny did not come along for the road trip. He was not meant for changes. Like most people he preferred the familiar to any improvement. New York City was a city of ritual. It was just like any other big city only loader and more in love with itself.
I woke up in an empty bed with the usual hangover. Like every other morning, I was alone.

It has been more than a year since Maria moved out to Santa Cruz. Last I heard she was living with a French dentist. I wonder if she too sparked that special feeling in his lonely life.

Thank God for Black Guys

2010-09-27T08:52:00.000-07:00

Glimpses of winter finally touched upon the city. The wind blew cold and the rain served as a reminder that the month of September was on its way out only to welcome the much more sensible October. The city in the summer made no sense. What purpose could there be to hot concrete and sweaty subway platforms? Summer was made for the beach and the mountain, this city and its inhabitants deserved nothing short of full fledge snowstorms.
Large senseless umbrellas blocked the flow of the street despite the fact that the rain mostly dissipated. People always chose to play it safe. I took to the comforts of the coffee shop where the city’s tourist and unemployed spent their days. I belonged to both and to neither. People in my profession had no permanent office space.
“Thank God for black guys, otherwise, I would never get laid,” she smiled at her friend who likely knew that such really was the case. She had a pretty face and offered a nice sized balcony in which I would gladly take comfort. Her disposition had to do with her enormous back yard. It was large enough to park an RV in. Thank God for black guys indeed.
Amused by their laughter and good spirits, I placed my headphones on and tuned out of the world. Here we were, in a social space, individually disconnected by social technology.

Then she came in.

Katy was almost fifty years of age. She was a married woman. She was a psychologist. She was my psychologist. Rather, she was my psychologist, now she is just a friend. The end of therapy was not a result of a major breakthrough. I was neither cured or much approved. My neurosis was still as large and meaningful as any Jewish man or woman who was born or raised in the Upper West Side. Freud referred to it as neurotic anxiety. Jung called it negative inflation. Alfred Adler spoke of Neurotic constitution. Milton Erickson offered uncommon therapy. I simply diagnosed myself with having an overbearing Jewish mother.
Katy knew all about it and did not seem to mind. I was in treatment for four years until she finally caved in to my advances. Her marriage ring placed on the wooden coffee table, her legs spread and her eyes rolled back, she knew much better but could not resist.

“How are you doing these days Jake?” she wondered and place her soft fingers upon my left thigh. The touch of her metal ring on my right quadriceps was assuring. The last thing I ever needed in my life was another complication.

www.hardboiledmen.com

What Asia Carrera do for Race Relations?

2010-08-31T08:39:00.000-07:00

‘Today I am Jason Johnsen’, he proclaimed but no one really seemed to mind. An adorable biracial baby who ran around the tables and yelled out incoherent baby talk stole his thunder. No woman could ever resist a baby, especially not one as cute as this one. As for authors, that was an entirely different story. The mother was white with an indistinct British accent. It could have been elsewhere for all they knew. The child entertained the people. Kids at this age group were better than television sets. The people were curious about the mother’s tale. How did she end up with the father? Was she a single mother or were they still together? How did her parents feel about this entire affair? They all considered themselves enlightened and did their best to hide their slight judgment, hypocrites galore.
It was afternoon in New York City. Outside the sun was beating on the tired concrete. Locally owned coffee shops and bars were making their way for much shinier megabrand stores. People felt safe in chain restaurants especially those people who were not from around these parts.
Jason was in his early 20s. He was a student at Hunter College up on the Upper East Side. He has lived in the city for less than two months but for him it seemed like a lifetime away from his small hometown of St. George all the way at the southwestern tip of Utah. How he ended up in this strange place, he did not really understand.
Life is St. George was very different than his neighborhood of Nolita. The people seemed so much more supplicated than he was. The men were better read and better traveled. The women he met were above his league in every way shape and form. Just last week he met Jessica who worked as an intern for Def Jam records. She got to hang around the studio with the likes of Method Man, LL Cool J and Lil Ru. Jason did not have much exposure to celebrities during his life, although he heard that such famous people such as Julius Erving, author Tracy Hickman and former BYU football coach Lavell Edwards, all lived in his town. More importantly, his older brother discovered while conducting some ‘internet research’ that Asian porn star Asia Carrera also lived in St. George.
The brothers spent hours examining her film work and credits. It appeared that porn stars were more tolerant of other races and ethnicities than even the most hardened San Francisco liberal. There was a big difference between supporting affirmative action and taking two on each side. Could the future of race relations be resolved by the example set by St. George’s favorite resident?
Jason had nowhere to go until his evening seminar. Race, Media and Class was the course taught by Professor Hilda Goldberg. Jason had much to learn about race relations He had much to learn about the world of women and that was physical. He had much to learn about New York City. He had much to tell his friends who ended up at Brigham Young University like every generation before them.
Jason did not need to read a book or even attend any class. The city was his campus. In life we learn by living and nothing else. Those who are afraid to live with the heart will remain ignorant. Those who are motivated by their fears will pay the price.

www.hardboiledmen.com

My Bathroom Rant

2010-08-19T10:26:00.000-07:00

On the back wall of the coffee shop bathroom, to the right of the large sized mirror, right above the pee stain toilet seat there is a sign “Employees must wash hands”. People simply don’t trust people these days, let alone personal hygiene. The level of distrust does not end there. On that same sign are clear illustrated instructions of how to go about:

Step #1 Wet
Step #2 Soap
Step #3 Wash for 20 seconds
Step #4 Rinse
Step #5 Dry

Apparently, this place does not have much faith in its employees. Who was the genius that came up with these needless instructions? Was it a forty-year-old middle management man with a thinning hairline? A up and coming Brandies educated girl from Boca Raton who failed to live up to her mother’s expectations? My money is on the lawyers. They are pretty much responsible for more than a fair share of the stupidity in our society.

I got to thinking about it only to realize that I got it all wrong. The employees are smart enough to memorize the wide variety of Frappuccino drinks; there is no reason to doubt their hand washing expertise.

The sign was aimed at the general public. The same public that is addicted to double cheeseburgers, who drink flavorless Budweiser beers, who never miss out on the latest episode of Big Brother, The Real Housewives of New York or the Jersey Shore. Mindless times.
Jim Morrison would roll over in his grave. If he ever resurrected they would make him a judge on American Ideal. Art is now packaged like chicken nuggets.

The level of distrust is well warranted. This takes us back to the Dewey-Lippmann debates. Score one for Walter Lippmann.
Sometimes I just lose faith in it all. Many of my university colleagues are just as corporately content as our proudly ignorant students. Reading books is for old people, they argue. Most of them get their news from nighttime comedy shows or quick Twitter updates on their mobile phones. Can you really blame them?

Let us throw away the illusion of democracy. The right to vote should be contingent on a civics examination.

Name the Secretary of State?
Name the three branches of government?
What is the name of your congressman or woman?
Who is the governor of your state?

No more Sarah Palin sound bites. No more “Yes We Can” and “Four more years”. It is time to turn off our television sets. What would you all do if they turned off your electricity tomorrow? Could you handle spending time with your husbands and children?

I went back into the bathroom to pee. I missed the target and landed some on the floor. A second look at the sign made me more depressed than before. I zipped up my jeans and walked out the door without following their idiotic instructions.

www.hardboiledmen.com

Kelly's Reality Show

2010-08-01T08:46:00.000-07:00

Kelly had no patience for the local news. She had no interest in the crumbling stock market. She had no interest in the double-digit unemployment rates that turned my life upside down. She wanted to surround herself with greatness. Kelly turned the television to Channel 13. She enjoyed watching the lives of others much more than she enjoyed cable news shows or television sitcoms. She enjoyed watching reality programming; it all seemed so much bigger than her own life.
“If I could only get on one of those shows, I would show America just how much I have to offer this world. If I ended up on one of those shows, I would bring my A game every night. I have so much more to say about things than the rest of these girls on TV. My tits are just as great as that kardashian girl, don’t you think? You will see, one day it will happen for me, and when it will, everyone will see how Kelly can bring it on.”
Kelly was twenty years of youth. Her thin body amplified by the hollowness of her existence. I had no idea what Kelly would show America. I had no interest in how she would bring it on. The very idea of her spending the night in my apartment was as pointless as anything that she had to say.
I walked over to the kitchen and ate some of the leftover French fries that we brought from the bar. I did not bother to heat the take away plate. I had no patience for Styrofoam. My fridge offered a rather limited selection, two Bud lights and a can of PBR. I used my keychain to open the lid and drank one down.
“Jake, what are you doing?” she asked.
“I’ll be right there.”
“What are you doing?”
“I said, I will be right there.” And then I was right there again. She laid in her nakedness. Her skin was olive and smooth. Forget tits and ass men, I was a skin man. A woman with good skin was a masterpiece of nature. Asian women were blessed with the least amount of work. Most women had to feel some pain just to appease the shallowness of men.
“ Hey baby,” she turned my way, “how about another round? Are you up to it?”
“I don’t think I can do it. I am an old man.”
“Oh, I am sure I can turn it back on.” She lit with confidence.
I gave her a quick two minutes of disappointment and then turn left to sleep. She got up and got dressed. She used her long fingernails to text a friend at midnight. Twelve O’clock was nighttime for men like me. It was a mere afternoon for a young woman her age. Ten minutes later she walked out of the door. The scent of her expensive shampoo lingered on the other pillowcase.
When Dana returned from her vacation, she wondered how my week was and just how much I missed her while she was gone. She showed me the funny T-shirt that she bought for me and wondered just how perfect I thought it was. She thanked me for keeping the place relatively clean for a change and was especially thankful for the fact that I did the laundry and changed the sheets on the bed. “You are way too sweet.”
If they only let me on to one of those reality shows, I considered the scenario. I would show America what an absolute bastard Jacob can be when dealing with his loneliness.
www.hardboiledmen.com

Women With Tattoos

2010-07-23T08:04:00.000-07:00

After more than an hour, she finally walked into my apartment. By now, I almost fell asleep and she did not bother to provide an explanation.
Two years have gone by since we first met. She was a stranger in every way imaginable and yet, nothing felt more familiar than the touch of her fingers.
There are many signs that one should adhere to when getting involved with a new person. If your family or friends disapprove, if the person tells you that they do not want any children, if they drink the last beer left in the fridge- Run for your life.
But then again, no one can withstand chemistry.
With Gina, things felt right from the first time we met at that bar down in Philadelphia.
The many signs were written on the wall like a stern warning waiting to be ignored. Unfortunately, I could never resist a woman with a supple pair of breasts.
Rule number two has to do with tattoos. If the woman has a small one strategically located on a gentle part of the body, it means that she is sensual.
If the woman has more than one, it may mean that she is sexual.
If the woman has a tattoo that made you wonder what exactly she was thinking, it can only mean that you are about to receive the best head that you ever gotten in your life.
Gina’s tattoos splashed upon her back like a toppled box of paint splattered across a messy garage.
Needless to say, her skills were the stuff of legends. Her oral capabilities would easily leave potential voters standing in line for hours on a rainy election day.
She took a quick shower and slipped under my sweaty covers. I could feel her smooth skin upon my body. Her long fingernails spelled a silent apology across my back. Her vanilla scent was laced with my suspicion.
As the years went by, I came to realize that jealousy was a mere expression of subjection. In every relationship one person has more information than the other. That person has no need to be jealous; they know what is about to happen.
Gina was young and very good looking. At any point in time ten men richer than I, taller than I, thinner than I could quickly take her away from me.
All I had to offer Gina were my famous blue eyes and a pile of first edition books in the corner of the room. Add to that, a steady supply of expensive northern California weed that she helped herself to several times every day.
But the sex, it was beyond anything.
Are you awake? She asked but I had none of it.
I pretended that I was fast asleep, dreaming of a more honorable woman.
She reached down and touched my weakness. A minute later it was in her mouth.
After I was done, I turned around without any offer of reciprocity.
When I woke up in the morning, she was already gone.
Women with tattoos were freer than I was. I could never commit to anything that could not be replaced by another.
A month later I ran into Gina down on Houston Street. She held on to a man who walked out of a magazine just in time for lunch. He was a much taller man; he was a much thinner man. I had no doubt that he was a much richer man than I.
I smiled in her direction as I walked past her, but she pretended to be interested in something else.
Heading downtown towards Brooklyn, I met an Asian girl who was reading a book by Frederick Exley. We talked about a Fan’s Notes and she gave me her email address.
She had a small sunflower tattoo scribbled on her bad shoulder. I thought about it for a while and went back to sleep.

Unemployed like Kierkegaard

2010-05-19T08:38:00.000-07:00

“Next on line,” she said, but I did not follow. For more than three minutes I have been standing here, waiting for my turn to come but now that it was here, I simply lost interest. I paid no attention to the girl at the counter or to the young woman who stood behind me. Their disbelief was of no consequence to me.

The month was May but the weather was of January. The rainy day in New York was much more grim than down south. Way down in South Carolina they had lakes and rivers. They had old tree with thick trunks that stood there for years. They had that beautiful thick Spanish moss that dripped down like caramel painted in green. Here in NYC we had versatile shades of gray. Gray were the city streets clogged with dirt and traffic, taxi drivers polluting the air with the sound of their horns and pungent scents of unappreciated labor. Gray were the color of disillusioned loneliness, of senior citizens standing on the street corner smoking a cigarette and talking to themselves or to those dear old friends who were no longer with them.

In any case, I was looking for something more meaningful than the attractive woman at the counter had to offer. Another cup of coffee would do little to cure my sense of depression.
This feeling of insignificance, that old existential crisis was not new one. Soren Kierkegaard, Gabriel Marcel, Friedrich Nietzsche, they all wrote books about the absence of meaning. All great works of philosophy, I always assumed was inspired by failed relationships. Maybe this was the reason why I had nothing interesting to add to the conversation. My marriage was as fine as a two-dollar apple.

I headed south to Rivington Street where Charlie was waiting. Unemployment was the new profession around our parts. There was nothing really wrong with being unemployed. The government paid our way for several months. Really, it was long a paid vacation. But now what? Our desks were clear and our inboxes were empty. No one cared where we were, there were no meetings to attend.

The strangest part of being unemployed had to do with the simple question that everyone always tended to ask upon an initial introduction. What is your name and what do you do?
Well my name is (insert upon your individual ethnicity or preferred cultural background) and I used to (insert upon your own personal experience or something better, something you always wanted to pursue but never had to balls to follow). Was the truth to be revealed? I used to be a university professor but now I just sit around the coffee shops with my good old friend Charlie. What a disappointing life.

Charlie had it bad. His parents took away his ability to laugh at life when he was just a young boy. They were tragic types. Tragic types produce tragic children who in turn produce tragic lives. Two weeks after he lost his job at the bank, Charlie lost his girlfriend, he lost his circle of friends (who also worked at the bank), and he was slowly losing his mind.
We sat around the coffee shop for another hour. Neither of us had anything interesting to say. Thankfully, New York was always filled with gorgeous women whose eloquent asses, ambitious tits and flowing legs made it all worthwhile (for the time being).

Then we headed over to the bar. A Three dollar beer was a great way to make time go by. We each drank and couple. Charlie was a midwestern type. He liked those generic light beers.
On the wall of the bathroom, someone scribbled, “How long a minute is depends on what side of the bathroom door you're on”.

I thought about it for a while and then I realized that it did not really make a difference.
It all came down to finding a good distraction. If you are lucky enough to think otherwise than consider yourself a fool, a lucky fool that is. For time moves on without a purpose no matter how busy your schedule may become on a Wednesday afternoon.

The History of Sullivan Street

2010-04-29T07:59:00.000-07:00

By Guy Jacobs: www.hardboiledmen.com
The rain that washed over our neighborhood had no authority for visitation during this early May. The rain washed over the scheduled street fair and left most vendors frustrated in their economic loss. While the Israeli T-shirt vendor cursed the Gods for taking away his economic livelihood, the used book vendor took more of a philosophical approach to life, “everything,” he said “happens for a reason.”
New York City is a strange place. Most people figure it to be an exciting place, a glamorous place, a wealthy place. But it all depends on the neighborhood and time of day.
The only thing that is consistent around these parts is the loneliness. Add to that the noise of the ambulance sirens pushing down the streets like an overzealous teenager. Add to that the common sense of frustration that makes us all feel as if we are not living up to our real potential.
I headed down to the coffee shop around Sullivan Street. A key vein in Greenwich Village, the street is a key road in the beating heart of the city. The five Sullivan brothers fought in World War II. I do not know if they all made it out alive or if some of them died in the war. But such is an inaccurate and somewhat misinformed view of history. Sullivan Street was actually named after Brigadier General John Sullivan who fired off the first shot in the Revolutionary War. Two centuries later and nothing much remains of poor old John Sullivan. He has a street named after him in New York City, a couple of counties named after him all across America and a couple of bridges in Tennessee and New Hampshire. But what good does that do for a dead man? Finding fame and fortune after death is as productive as a stain on the carpet.
The people in the coffee shop cared not about the history of Sullivan Street. They had other thoughts on their mind. They carried too much weight on their shoulders as it was. What did the history of the revolutionary war have to do with their daily concerns? Most people in this city were simply trying to get by. Most of people were too concerned with balancing our dreams and disappointments. History lessons were good for over-sexed graduate students from the University of Wisconsin. Down here in the trenches of disappointment and city life, we aspired for more simple of things.
I ordered the same and said hello to the same who casually responded in the same exact manner as always. “Same day, same things” he thought.
An hour later and I was ready to leave this place. How much time can a person spend on newspapers and magazines. Everything that they wrote was a lie. They either worked for the corporations or the political establishment. I wanted nothing of their world and they cared not about mine.
As I placed my gear into my the exhausted backpack, she walked into the door. She was a short woman with red hair and I was a breast man.
I decided to stay for another cup of coffee. The fourth cup before the hour of noon could not be good for one’s overall vascular health. But she appeared to be different than most.
While she ordered her coffee, I removed my wedding ring and placed it in the front pocket of my jeans. I was never one for symbolic expression. My finger could once again breath and I enjoyed the illusion of an alternative existence.
Thinking of the perfect comment to make, I considered a witty remark about her Smith College sweatshirt or alternatively an impressive remark about the book that she was holding on to in her left hand.
Before I came up with the right one, she already walked out of the door. This life belonged to the kind of people who had a sense of timing. It belonged to people who did not hesitate and were not afraid of taking chances.
Twenty minutes later, I found myself on the G train, heading down to Brooklyn.
Tavern on Dean was appropriately located down on Dean Street. It was better known for its food than it was for the drink selection at the bar.
The bartender came around and took my drink order. She was attractive by all objective criteria but had nothing interesting to say or offer.
I placed my wedding ring back on my left index finger and thought about the history of Dean Street. I wondered what that poor dead man had to do to have a street in Brooklyn named after him.
Lori came home from work at the same time as always, around 6:30pm. We had dinner at the same place and then made love (in the same position as always).
Then we met the Arnolds for drinks down at Park Slope. Lori liked to drink martinis on Friday nights. I ordered a vodka on the rocks.
Life was the same as it was and likely as it will continue to be.
The Arnolds celebrated their third year anniversary. I asked them if they knew anything about the history of Sullivan Street but no one really cares about history these days, do they?

Airport Makeovers

2010-03-04T11:14:00.000-08:00

He was stuck in the airport terminal, the flight delayed for more than an hour. The woman on the other side of the microphone claimed that it was all due to the unpredictable New York weather, but he knew better than to believe anything he heard on the public sound system. What they tell the people and what was really going on was kind of similar to the difference between an onion and a sweet potato. It was all a function of clever marketing.
“God damn, sons of a bitches” yea grunted. Obviously, he was unaware that such behavior was not socially acceptable around these parts of the south. The folks down in Asheville North Carolina were a polite bunch. They were nothing like those uncouth characters from up in the Jersey Shore.
These southern folks were serious Protestant types. Kick them in the nuts and they will greet you with a smile. Stick your hands in the cookie jar and they will wish you a blessed day.
Charlie wanted nothing to do with these kinds of people. A New Yorker may cut you in traffic, flip you the bird and curse our your mother but at least you really know where things stand.
While the other passengers were anticipating an announcement about boarding time, Charlie was reading through the limited selection of beers on the laminated menu. This was a typical beer selection for a southern airport. Bud Light, Miller Light, Coors Light. Six fifty wasn’t that bad of a price considering the location. He ordered one and then another. Twenty minutes later and he still could not catch a buzz.
When she first sat down, he did not pay her any attention. He was too busy scanning through the local sports section of the newspaper. The three-page leaflet was nothing to write home about. It was mostly filled with news regarding high school basketball. Coach Anderson stated his concerns about the upcoming game against Jefferson High. Apparently, their sophomore shooting guard could sink them threes from the other side of Atlantis.
She was a flight attendant, which meant absolutely nothing in terms of her looks. Many years ago they were all worth a roll in the sack. But feminism killed the profession. These days, any woman could carry the flight attendant badge no matter what the size of her ass was.
She was talking on her cell phone. Her voice was unpleasant. Her tone was resentful.
He walked over to the bar and ordered himself another round. This was turning out to be a longer day than he had hoped. The television monitors had his flight highlight in red with the word DELAYED in all capitals.
Charlie wanted a cigarette but thanks to those damn Washington politicians, a man could not longer have himself a smoke. He wanted a real drink but had to settle for the reduce calorie option. He settled for a large bag of bar-b-q potato chips.
He sat back down again. By now she was putting her face on.
“So, what’s the word on the status of the flight to the Newark airport?”
It took her a moment or two until she realized that he was talking to her. She reluctantly placed her lipstick on the table and turned his way.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yea, who else would I be talking to?” he smiled.
“I am sorry, what did you ask?”
“I was wondering what’s the latest news about the flight to Newark.”
“Which airlines?” She inquired.
“Continental”
“Sorry hon., I worked for United.” She held on to her nametag as to point to his error.
He thought about something clever to say but instead he resorted to “Thanks, never mind.”
He walked away from the bar and stepped towards the gate area where the rest of the waiting patience congregated.
A couple of college students were sitting around on the floor holding on to their electronics and communicating with one another via the social web.
“So any news about our flight?” he turned to the thirty some guy who stood next to him.
“No news so far.” The guy smiled for no apparent reason.
“Why are you smiling?” Charlie asked.
“I don’t know, I guess that I always smile. There is nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Well, there is no news? Right?” asked Charlie.
“You know what they say, no news is good news.” He smiled once again.
“God damn it, what’s wrong with all of your people?” asked Charlie as he made his way towards the bar. If this fifth beer would not work the trick, he did not know what he would have done.
The double stuffed flight attendant was still working on her face. This face will take a lot more working on thought Charlie to himself. This woman was nothing much to look at.
It was getting late and the silence of the microphone was finally broken.
“Ladies and gentleman, we finally have word on flight 453 to the Newark airport. Due to winter conditions up in New Jersey, we were just informed that our flight would be delayed for at least two and a half more hours. We at Continental Airlines will do our best to accommodate your stay while here at the airport. You are all eligible for a seven-dollar coupon that can be used at either the coffee shop or the bar.
Charlie waited in line behind Mr. Happy and was seriously contemplating punching that smile off of his face. What would anyone in his right mind be so freaking happy about while stuck at the Ashville airport?
Charlie cashed in his voucher for a Miller Light. By now his head turned into a washing machine of cheap beer and pure discouragement.
The flight attendant was still working on her face.
Around midnight, he walked into his apartment where he found a note from the landlord notifying him that rent was more than four days overdue.

2009-08-13T16:20:00.000-07:00

“Hey, wait,” I told her, “before you go, just tell me what kind of a beer do you want?”
Angie was not one for particulars, anything with alcohol would do just fine. She never was one of those expert types when it came to beer or pretty much anything else. Angie kept her life simple by letting others make most decisions for her.
While she stood in line to the female restrooms, I eyed the waitress in an attempt to get her attention. Her arm was full of colored tattoos and her hair was as orange as a neon light.
“What can I get you?” she smiled.
“Any beer specials tonight?” I inquired.
“All of our beers are specials but there is no happy hour if that ‘s you trying to find out.”
“How much is a Stella?”
“Six fifty.”
“And a Sam Adams?”
“Six fifty.”
“Do all of your beers cost fifty?”
“Na, some of them go up as high as $12.00, some of our beers have more than 8% alcohol in them, but it looks like you are more of the thrifty type.”
I took no offense, instead I continued “You god damn right I am thrifty and if by thrifty you mean cheap than I am guilty as charged. Do you have anything in this place that costs less than $6.50?”
“Well,” she sighed “there is always the PBR.”
“And how much is that?
“PBRs are $3.50, can I get you one?”
“Get me two.” And then she walked away.
I felt no shame about my stingy attitude. Where I come from beers cost no more than a handful of bucks. Sure, Boston is a town full of rich college students and ultra liberal rich types.
These people would pay a premium for piss in a cup and thank the bartender for serving it them with such style. I guess that money is a little bit more tight for some than for others. I fell into the former group. With a $20 bill in my pocket and two mouths to feed, I had to focus on getting drunk and not on the drink’s quality. A man had to make sacrifices at times and PBR would do just fine.
Angie came to the table and placed a warm kiss on the back of my neck as she sat down next to me. Her hair was no longer collected in a bun, She let it loose upon her shoulders.
“So what are we drinking tonight?” she asked.
“Beers, cheap beer, PBRs. Have you ever had a PBR before Angie?”
“No Sir, I can not say that I have ever had myself one. Are they any good?”
“Actually, they are pretty bad..” I smiled.
“So why did you order them?” she asked.
“They were the cheapest thing on the menu.”
“Are things that bad?” She asked.
“Things are only as bad as we will let them be, “ I smiled “don’t concern yourself with how much the beers cost Angie, the main question is will they get you drunk and the answer should be a clear yes..”
She brought her body closer to mine and her tits across my chest. “Tell me you love me, will you Jake?”
I turned my eyes towards the waitress, it has been more than five minutes since I placed my order. “Cheap beers or not, I pretty much think that I deserve some God dman service, don’t you think?”
“Why do you always change the subject when it comes to the way you feel? Why is it that all of you men have such trouble with expressing your emotions.” Angie nodded her head with disapproval. Her eyes were lonely and her face painted with age.
Finally, the waitress came around. “Here you go Sir, two our establishments’ best cans of PBRs.”
“Well, it sure took you long enough,” I sighed, “you always that slow on bringing them beers around?”
“Take it easy cowboy,” she smiled “and besides, you don’t seem like the heavy tipper kind of a clientele so what do you expect?”
Angie seemed apprehensive throughout the exchange. She was not one for any sorts of conflict no matter how small the scale. While we were trading literal punches, she buried her eyes within the piles of junk that occupied her purse. She pretended to be looking for something, anything to keep her out of the conversation.
But I rather enjoyed it all, “Tell me, what gives anyways, this bar is called Bukowski’s but Hank Bukowski couldn’t afford to drink anything in here besides a Diet Coke or a glass of water, what the hell is up with these prices anyways?”
“I don’t make price decisions in this place honey,” she smiled. “I only serve beers to loud mouth know it alls and tonight seems like real exception, know what I mean?”
I sure did. This girl was already and I was just busting balls. I took a five bill out of my pocket and gave her a smile, “well, better a smartass than a dumbass, don’t you agreed.”
She turned back with a smile as she walked away.
That night when Angie was taking it from the back, I closed my eyes and fantasized about giving it straight to that waitress in lue of a tip.
Bukowski’s in Boston is an ok bar, a bit overpriced and just as overhyped as any other.
Angie asked me to hold her after I wiped away the sweat from my shoulder. She whispered something in my ear about just how much she loved me and then fell into the night.

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Say What?

2009-07-31T15:04:00.000-07:00

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Too much traveling, not enough blogging is what she said to me after I disappeared for a while.
You can not really blame this disappearance on this hot summer weather, the crowded sidewalks on the streets of the city or the many changes that I have gone through.
As a man who lives in New York City, life is never the same dispite the general monotony.
Here we all wonder together, pretending to be busy and at the same time fighting this terrible loneliness that we all share, collectively and alone.
Yesterday, when I woke up in the morning I could still feel that hard feeling that resulted from my dream.
Sometimes, a dream can carry over to the next day. Psychologists teach us to look for themes in our dreams such as falling teeth or the illusion of flying.
In my case, it had more to do with missing an old friend and then feeling guilty about it.
Guilt, the Buddihist teach us, is a load of crap. They say it is a mere form of self punishment that serves no one and only causes pain.
Somehow, I can not adopt their conscious ways.
Two women appeared in the dream, both loved ones, one sweat and flesh, the other a memory. They both melt into one another in form and shape and general warmth and disregard.
Women often mistake their own as romantic. True men live by the heart. Most, do not know how to show it, but it does not mean that it is not there.
I smoked a wonderful cigarette after I brushed my teeth. The fresh scent of spearment and tooth whitening substances were quickly replaced by the sweet taste of the good green herb.
When I woke up in the morning I felt a bit of everything and nothing much in between.
This summer rain makes it hard to tell if it is winter or just really late in the afternoon. Luckily the air-conditioner makes it all that much more sustainable, at least for now.
The coffee shop around the corner, I mean the one down on 97th street was closed down for renovations. On the door I saw a sign that read
“W.E. Bois Construction, bringing the spunk into the funk”
I threw the damp t-shirt on the floor when I walked back into my apartment.
This summer is way too hot.

Female Sexuality in late 40s and early 50s

2009-07-01T09:17:00.000-07:00

Dear friends and readers,
I am currently working on my next book project. In this new novel, my main character who is a man in his mid thirties has an affair with a woman in her later forties. Much has been said and been spoken about women in their late thirties and early forties but I have the suspicion that female sexuality does not end around that age.
Seeking advice from my female friends and readers, I am offering this story competition in which YOU will write up about the issue of sexuality in the later 40s and early fifties. I realize that many of you are under that age and many who will receive this email are men. But anyone is welcomed to enter the competition.
The top entries will receive an autographed copy of Hard-Boiled Men as a gift along with my gratitude.
Please email me your 1-5 page story, essay or confession to hardboiledmen@yahoo.com with the subject heading of Story Competition.
Hopefully, your collective thoughts will educate this somewhat ignorant man about the world of women in the hopes that it will translate into great literature.
Email me for thoughts or questions, I look forward to reading your tales, Guy
Guy Jacobs
www.hardboiledmen.com

Father's Day

2009-06-17T11:10:00.000-07:00

Father’s Day is coming and you are not exactly sure what gift to give to that great man in your life. You thought about a tie, new underwear or a shirt, but hey, those gifts mean nothing.

This year, I suggest something much more risqué. Something that will make him smile for days and look at you just a little differently than before (in a good way of course).

Right now, you can get a brand new AUTOGRAPHED copy of the award winning novel Hard-Boiled Men for only $9.99 including FREE SHIPPING.

I promise you that this is the PERFECT GIFT for any man, trust me, I am one ☺

To get your copy simply click on the following link and please tell me whom you would like to dedicate the book to.

http://www.hardboiledmen.com/purchase.htm

Your Friend, Guy

The Anger of the Monogamous Male

2009-06-03T14:28:00.000-07:00

An older woman wore a pink shirt at the entrance to the place. She held on to a very small dog. It was the type of a dog that was typically owned by women half her age. It was the kind of a dog that young women enjoyed decorating with absurd flowery bowties and preposterous sweaters. But not this one, this tiny dog came as it was.
The woman was waiting for her gentleman friend who ordered up a morning’s coffee. She appeared peaceful. Maybe it had something to do with the dog. Perhaps she was simply a mellow type. With age came perspective and nothing in life was really worth worrying about.
She did not even seem too anxious when the confused heroine addict bumped into her leash as he stumble out to the street with a half used cigarette in his hand. She remained at ease throughout the passing minutes and was more than gracious when the young junky asked her for a light.
“I am sorry but I do not smoke, smoking is bad for your skin tone” she affably replied.
The young man was neither appreciative nor disappointed. He was more concerned with sustaining gravity.
Despite the collective displays of serenity, I felt uneasy. Natalia was more than twenty five minutes late. I was never one for tardy characters. Thankfully, the irritating ambulance sirens rang through Powell Street and validated my status as the only non-enlightened individual in the coffee shop. This New Yorker never truly molded into that granola flavored San Francisco consciousness.
I walked up to the large counter and ordered myself another medium cup of flavored coffee. The radio played a song by the Beatles. I believe it was I ‘m Looking Through You off of the Rubber Soul album.
“Guy? Hey, what’s going on dude?”
Vivek smiled from behind his small table. In between us stood a homeless woman that leaned on her rusty blue cart. In it, she housed all of her worldly belongings. She stood there like an out garden figurine. Off the tip of her outer lip dripped discontent.
“Come join me,” he cordially invited me.
I did.
“What’s new in the life and times of Mr. university professor?” he wanted to know.
“Nothing too important,” I admitted, “life is life.”
“Working on any interesting research projects?”
“Nothing at the moment.”
“Oh really? Nothing? Any exciting academic projects?”
“Nothing to report, but forget about me, my life is boring, what about you? What are you reading these days?”
He did not mind the change in focus.
“I just finished a six hundred page book about North Korea called Under the Loving Care of the Fatherly Leader by Bradley Martin. It was an amazing book about the inner working of the North Korean regime. What are you reading these days?”
“I started reading three different books,” I said “two of them are novels, one Auster and one Russo but I abandoned both around page sixty. I can never keep focus these days. The third book is my own academic manuscript that is almost too boring for anyone to stay awake. I put a copy of it in my bathroom and catch a quick page read every time I take a shit.”
“Well, I guess that can be a productive place to work.”
“Not me, I am blessed with super quick bowl movements.”
Vivek, as always, was all smiles. The guy did not have a bad bone in his entire Indian body. Maybe it had to do with that Asian karma business. Maybe it had to do with good family DNA. The most impressive thing about this guy was the fact that he was the best read person that I have ever run into. Try to catch him unprepared and he was ten steps ahead of you.
“Every read Crazy Cock by Henry Miller?”
“Of course, it is a classic.”
“How about Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky?”
“A Cloud in Trousers is one of my all time favorites.”
“Goethe?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“Me you son of a bitch.”
He must have noticed just how irritated I grew as I continuously looked at my watch. Natalia, you fucking bitch, how do you keep a man waiting for so long? What ever happened to mutual respect? If there is no respect, there is no love.
“You seem angry.”
“I am not angry, I am mad.”
“What a fine distinction.” he smiled. “But do not feel too bad, all monogamous men are angry by default, it is not entirely your fault, it is a genetic condition. It is a pain inflicted upon all men by the very construct of the modern times and the very institution of monogamous relationships.”
Vivek was about to present another one of his world famous theses, I was not about to get in his way.
“The male specie is biologically programmed for polygamy. Evolutionary forces require the male to spread his seed to as many female vaginas as possible. It is an evolutionary must. It is a basic biological premise that ensures the survival of the human specie across time.”
I have heard these types of theories before. Vivek was stating the obvious in the world of men but such logic failed in the world of women. I presented my counterargument.
“You are correct in stating the obvious. There are mixed evidence in regards to females and monogamy. On the one hand, female promiscuity does improve the genetic pool. On the other hand, female monogamy does present certain advantages in the wild in regards to the survival of its offspring. In other words, females are programmed for monogamy while the male for polygamy.”
“So what are you saying?” I scratched my nose across its surface.
“I am arguing that all monogamous males are intrinsically frustrated at their core level by the institution of monogamy. We could have all been swinging our dicks freely if it wasn’t for women and the bloody sword of organized religion.”
Vivek excused himself for a moment. His enthusiastic talk along with the large herbal tea led to a abrupt urge to take a piss. While he was gone, I inspected Powell Street through the window with the hope of finding my Natalia. She was nowhere to be seen.
Near the window, I saw a couple holding hands. I could only see the man’s back. I had no idea why he was scratching his leg in a repeated motion. The woman reminded me of my ex-girlfriend Maria. She had dark Mexican hair and had a tear in her eye.
Vivek may have been correct about the inert anger of the monogamous male but her knew very little about the pain of being a woman.
We sat around the coffee shop for thirty more minutes. Vivek introduced chemical composition into his former argument.
I ordered a large chocolate brownie that was full of nuts. Natalia always argued that I need to drastically cut down my intake of junk food if I ever planned on loosing that gut. But she was not there to give me that famous worried look. I devoured the chocolaty pile of sugar within a quick minute.
An hour later, Vivek and I decided to head out Chinatown where we hoped to find some cheap imitation watches. I lost my old silver watch down on Royal Street last month on a trip to New Orleans.
Natalia did not show up on that morning. She later explained that she woke up angry for no apparent reason.
www.hardboiledmen.com

LA No Longer

2009-04-21T15:50:00.001-07:00

L.A. No Longer

Jack felt the shiver running throughout his body as he walked past those familiar doors that seemed to know more about him than most of his friends did. More than three years have gone by and yet, the place still felt like fresh made bread. Excitement was not the right adjective to describe what he felt at the moment, neither was exhilaration. To Jack it seemed like a strange breed between an old high school reunion and compulsion.

Despite his past success, Jack once again found himself dead broke and amongst the unemployed. Now that he was down on his luck, there was no room for foolish male pride. Now a day, it was all about simply getting by. After he lost his high paying income, foreclosed on his ocean front condo and crashed his once impressive silver automobile, Jack was back to square one.

South Florida was no place for a man to live life. It was all fluff within and throughout. Between the long impressive blue canals and the sweet summer breeze, all that was now left for the locals was disappointment.

What was once supposed to be the Rodeo Drive of the east coast soon turned back to water down beer and grouper sandwiches. But even after losing his cash, his car and his unbelievable high-rise apartment (known to most women as the panty dropper, no explanation needed), Jack still felt like he had a fighting chance in this world.

The old wooden bar still smelled the same way it did before the good real estate days, before any jerk with twenty grand could become an over night millioner, before Jack hit it big and told the owner of this fantastic old bar to take this job and shove it up his ass.

Jack felt strange for a moment as he sat on the wrong side of the bar. Once a bartender, always a bartender, he thought or at least that is how he felt at the moment.

Three years and nothing much had changed. Billy still had those same ridiculous pictures up on the wall, sporting him and Dan Marino smiling like two morons over a pitcher of amber stout. Billy could never get over the fact that he almost made it, that he was offered a football scholarship down at the University of Miami. Billy was well on his way to made it into the big times until that career ending torn ACL injury. Sidelined by misfortune, he decided to give up on football all together.

Instead he opened up this friendly little bar down on A1A. One man’s watering hole may once again give Jack a reason to wake up in the morning. At least, that was what Jack was hoping for.

“What are you having sweetie?” she asked.

The jaded blond behind the bar knew nothing of Jack or of his connection to the place. Back in the day he used to lay them left and right. The blonder the faster, the redder the better, the browner the funner. Jack liked the taste of it all. To him, regardless of color or shape, women tasted like freedom.

“Ill take a Sam Adams.”
“Sorry sweetie, we only carry domestics.”
“Sam Adams is a domestic,” he lackadaisically smiled.
“Whatever you say hon, but we only have the basics, Bud, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Light, Coors and Coors Lights, you know, American beers.”
He smiled. “I see that Billy is still just as cheap and as patriotic as he has always been. I’ll have a Miller Light. “
“Are you a friend of Billy’s?” she asked.
He hesitated, “Well, let’s just say that we go way back. Where is the old bastard anyways? Is he around? Most likely he is not. He is probably down at the gym flexing his muscles across some stretched out mirror, am I right?”
“No hon. He ain’t at the gym and he never gets in here before eight O’clock these days. He went down to Dolphins training camp out in Plantation, preseason football, you know what Billy’s like.”

Unfortunately he did.

“Two seventy five please, do you want to close you out or open a tab?”
He threw a five on the bar and told her to keep the change. Billy’s was still one of the cheapest places for beers around the area. Billy never bought into that whole William and Sonoma bullshit like the rest of them did. Billy detested the Aventura Mall and those luxury foreign cars that everyone bought during the recent real estate boom. If it was up to Billy he would kick all of those New Yorkers back to where they came from and turn Fort Lauderdale back into Jimmy Buffett land. He never liked the corporate facelift that everyone else fell for. Billy was a good ole boy and wanted his life to be as simple as the beers he served, nothing too complicated.

Jack only wished that he could take Billy’s worldview but he was not made of the same basic elements. He fell in love with the money, the monetary excess, the large homes and those grade A titties that seemed to literary pop everywhere with every plastic surgery center that mushroomed across Yamato Road up in Boca Raton.

While Cheri handled some of the other customers that were lining up at the other end of the room, Jake took his time to reflect about those old bartender days. Despite the mediocre pay and occasional degradation, the bartender gig at times made one feel like a celebrity. When you worked the bar, everyone wanted to your attention. When standing tall behind that bar, every man wanted your advice and way too many women offer a lick of their cupcakes. Why he ever left? He thought about it for a while.

Cheri returned for a moment only to leave again. The banker at the other end did not like way her Appltini tasted. Cheri did not make a fuss, instead she just smiled and made her a new one with an extra shot. Such was the vibe of the place. Billy always preached his philosophy about keeping his costumers satisfied. “A happy costumer,” he would say “is a returning costumer.”

Jack took a careful look at that group of bankers on the other side. They were dressed in the cloths of success and were drinking like young fraternity boys. Hard days for the banking world, hard days for the real estate industry, hard days all around. When times were bad out in the world, business was good at Billy’s old bar. The recently disenfranchised, unemployed and bankrupt were more than happy to drown their sorrows in Billy’s cheap drinks and fried finger foods.

“So Cheri, how long have you been working here?”
“I don’t know, close to a year now.”
“Do you like it?”
“You know, it pays the bills. I have had better jobs as well as worst ones. You know what it is like.”
“Oh yea? What was the best job you ever had?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Actually, I do, I really do.”
She hesitated for a while, “Back when I was younger, I worked as a cocktail waitress down at the Crazy Horse.”
Jack knew that place all too well, “you mean that tity bar in north Lauderdale? I use to love that place. Billy and I used to go drinking there after work back when things were good between us. But I don’t think that I ever seen you over there.”
“Yea, like you would notice anyone with all of those naked women running around.”
“Well, a pretty face like yours I would never forget.”
“Get over yourself Jack; working at the tity bar, I must have heard that line more than a hundred times. But thanks for the compliment,” she smiled.

Thinking back to those days at the Crazy Horse brought a smile to Jack’s tired face. A couple of the waitresses who worked at Billy’s were either strippers or former strippers. After work, they would all hang out at the joint, get free lap dances, buy shots all around and often bring back a couple of girls back to Jack’s place where they all snorted cocaine and fucked like a bunch of Cajun horndogs.

There was one particular stripper who caught Jack’s eye. She went by the name of Coco but her real name was Stacia Martinez. She was a half black, half Dominican dancer with natural 36C and a pear shaped ass. Coco loved money as much as she liked the attention. Jack was more than happy to deposit his weekly tips into Stacia’s carefully comforting Caribbean clitoris.

Year, those were the days, back before everything turned around, before Jack gave it all up in favor of the rich real estate life, before he climbs up the mount of high society only to crash all the way down to its underside. Now he had nothing.
While Cheri dealt with the crowd of secretaries who came in for happy hour, Jack went outside for a cigarette. The ocean breeze sailed lightly across his unshaved face. He did not mind the solitude of the parking lot.

Ten minutes later, Billy pulled up in his red Mustang. “If it aint American, it aint something I drive,” was the way Billy looked at things. There were not too many locals who so proudly displayed their patriotism, most were more interested in displaying their consumerism.

But not Billy, he rejected the Prada, Lexus and Armani logos in favor of the old red white and blue that was proudly displayed on every corner of his bar, his car and even tattooed on his left shoulder.

“Well shit if my eyes don’t fool me. Is that old son of a bitch Jack Douglas I see?”
“Yea Billy, it sure is, been a long time, how are you partner?” they hesitantly shake hands.
Billy took a long careful look. Years have gone by and Jack seemed like a different man.
“So what’s the deal Mr. big shot millionaire, you looking to tear me down and build another one of those monstrous high rise condos on my remains? You sure as shit aint coming in for a drink, I best assume.”
Jack took a deep modest breath, “You sure as shit are wrong there Billy, I am no longer in the world of real estate development, it is all gone I tell you, every single dime I ever made in real estate went down the shits and under the water. I am just as flat broke as you first met me. Down and down by the rain.”

Billy digested Jack’s words as if they were some strange concoction of eel soup or some exotic appetizer they served down at those fancy sushi restaurants. “And you came here for what reason?”

“Are you going to made me beg for it Billy? I want my old job back.”
“Well hell shit if that don’t beat nothing, are you telling me that Mr. high-rise wants to go back to service Miller Lights to a bunch of redneck fisherman and local alcoholics, are you really that desperate Jack? Whatever happened to all of those socialite friends you recently been hanging around with?”

“I told you Billy, it is all gone, the money, the women, the cars and all of those highbrow types, all went missing. I am no long Jack T. Douglas the second, I am just plain old broke ass Jack the bartender.”

Billy needed some time to think about it. Like most people out there, he enjoyed watching his friends thrash about with the many discomfort offered by life. Other peoples' misery make our worries taste like key lime pie.

Jack returned a week later to take over the early shift. Cheri was schedule to join him around 7pm. Her body used and her eyes tender, Jack took a careful look at Cheri and wondered why he never noticed her back in those days when life made much sense down at the Crazy Horse Saloon.

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Apathy is my new religion

2009-02-08T16:18:00.000-08:00

“Are you ready to go Rocco?” she asked while tossing an uncomfortable plastic bag into the garbage bin. It was difficult for a woman of her social standing to bend down and clean up after him. Yet, public humiliation was more tolerable to her than paying the $150 fine. The dog did not answer her question; instead, he repositioned his legs and wiggled his tail in delight. The northeast corner of 33rd Street and 8th Avenue was a sight for sore canine eyes. Of particular interest was that old Jewish woman dressed in flowery fabrics was of particular interest to him. She inspected the flashy outdoors menu of the Stage Deli and wondered out loud why the place charged “$3.45 for a bowl of Matsaball soup, were these goyim crazy or something?” Rocco was drawn to the grandmotherly scent that came from her direction. The smell of mothballs and old body odor inspired him to urinate beneath the woman’s legs. “Oh my God,” screamed out the old woman in panic. “Lady, your dog almost peed all over my shoes.” The younger woman seemed unimpressed, she jerked the dog towards the opposite corner of Eighth Avenue.
“Mommy is just going to make a short phone call, don’t worry, it won’t take too long.”
Rocco did mind. He had nothing scheduled for the day. As she exercised her dialing fingers upon the slick panel of her cell phone, Rocco urinated all over the walls of Madison Square Garden.
Nestled between the majestic Empire State Building and the Corinthian-decorated United States Post Office across the street, Madison Square Garden would barely win the “Best in Show” award in the Mississippi county fair. The Empire State Building peaked to the sky while the historical post office building told ancient tales of Roman glory. By contrast, Madison Square Garden was nothing to look at. It was a simple round block of concrete decorated with cheap advertisements and that old blue and white sign that read “Pennsylvania Station.”
With his territory clearly marked for all to see, Rocco felt an unusual sense of ownership over Manhattan real estate. Now all that was left was to piss all over City Hall, the Whitney Museum and the Trump Tower International. Soon the entire city would belong to him. Intoxicated by his own delusions of grandeur, this canine real estate entrepreneur refocused his attention towards his master. While she dialed the different number combinations, he stared at her deep brown eyes and tried to gage her sense of loneliness.
“I can’t get a hold of Gina. Let’s give her a few more minutes. Hopefully, she will show up
He wiggled his tail served in affirmation. She adjusted her wide underwear strap and led her obedient friend towards the busy sidewalk. A filthy homeless woman approached the two.
“Can you spare some change?”
Rocco watched his master reach into her pocket and hand the old woman a small shiny dime. The woman murmured a few irate words in her direction and walked away.
“This city is full of crazy people,” said the woman to her dog. “I swear to God, people here are just crazy.”
Fully aware of the irony, he crossed the street and once again found himself standing in front of the deli. Spotting a medium-sized piece of sesame bagel on the outer rim of a green garbage bin, Rocco indulged the tasty snack. The woman waited impatiently for her friend to arrive. But Gina never showed up.
Around 11:30am I walked out of the C train stairways and walked out to the filthy concrete of 8th Avenue. At the entrance to the Stage Deli, I spotted a semi-attractive Indian woman who held on to an awkward dog.
“How are you today?” I asked, but she ignored me.
“O.K Rocco, it is time to go home, Mommy had enough.” she disappeared into the crowded streets.
Frank showed up a few minutes later. He was recently laid off from the bank but did not seem too concerned about his new situations.
“What can I tell you Guy, sometimes things just happen. You have to go with the flow, take life’s punches and keep a smile on your face.”
We both ordered the ham and cheese omelets. For a moment, I was pissed at the size of the so-called small orange juice but Frank reassured me that life was too short for such concern.
“Think about what stress can do to people. heart attacks, strokes, cancer, high blood pressure, those are the main causes of death. You have to ask yourself, is it really worth it? I tell you Guy, ever since I lost my job, I decided not to give a shit. Apathy is my new religion.”
We talked about it for a while and then I headed home for an early noon nap. When I woke up around three, I found Jenny lying there naked right besides me. She must have skipped her one o’clock philosophy seminar on account of her nasty hangover.
Jenny and I hung out with the wrong type of people. They were much younger than we were in terms of state of mind despite our reversed chronology. Why we ever agreed to head all the way down to the Bowery just to see Nick showcase his lame-ass poetry had something to do with Jenny and the fact that Nick was her best male friend ever since high school. Nick was a nobody. just another of the many sheep that herded around this urban campus. Poetry night was Jenny’s fault but the hangover was mine. While we waited for the poets to do their thing, I took full advantage of the $3 shots of cheap tequila that were on special. The busty waitress was more than glad to bring more shots around and I was more than happy to see her smile. The golden drink eased my boredom at times. Yet, it only made things only that much more tolerable. To start with, I never could stand Nick. He just waited for me to stumble. He wanted Jenny all to himself despite the fact that he was a flaming homo. True, I could have been a better boyfriend to Jenny. I was a complete bastard at times. But outside interference in a relationship, that went against the basic protocols of the Geneva Convention.
“I am leaving you Guy.” That was the first thing she said after she woke up from her nap. I still nursed a hangover; Jenny added another layer to it.
“You want some coffee?” I asked but she seemed rather disinterested.
“Did you hear what I said?” she asked, “I am leaving your ass and this time it is really over.”
Just most other people around our age group, we kept on breaking up only to hook up a few weeks later. By now I was used to this predictable exercise.
“I don’t really care Jenny, you can go ahead and walked out the door.”
“You don’t care? What the fuck do you mean, you don’t care?” She threw her jacket on and slammed the door as she walked away.
But I really did not care. Life was too short for drama and apathy after all was my new religion.
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Feeling alive, Even if for just one minute

2009-01-30T10:57:00.001-08:00

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Larisa sat alone at the Vbar coffee shop down on Sullivan Street. She drank her skinny latte and chewed on the pumpkin flavored granola that she packed away in a small Ziploc bag before she left her apartment.

The place was sort of empty for a Thursday morning. Typically, just finding a chair was a challenge. But on that day, there were enough empty seats to make one wonder.

Maybe it had something to do with the relatively warm weather. Forty degrees may have seemed like arctic temperatures in places like Boca Raton or Palm Springs but when it came to the city in January, it seemed rather temperate.
Larisa wore her lucky turtleneck shirt. The fabric pressed hard against her small love handles but she liked the way that her large breasts burst through the thin lilac cotton.

Across her left finger she wore the antique brass ring that she received from her aunt Rebecca only a few months before she passed away from stage three Leukemia. The two of them were never that close but for some strange manner, Larisa felt safe when wearing that ring. It almost felt like someone was watching over her from above.
The radio was playing soft classical music. She always preferred the piano to the violin.
Around 11:30am, Jake walked into the place.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He asked in his typical Jake shyness.
She pretended as if she did not notice, but she did notice, she noticed just as soon as the door opened, just as soon as he walked in. Her heart beat like an African drum to the sound of her enthusiasm. She did her best to seem aloof.
“Not to much, what are you doing here?” What a stupid reply, she thought. She only wished she could take it back and start off with something more meaningful.

“Oh, you know, just getting some coffee. Hanging out. Trying to avoid work, the usual, you know.” Hey smiled and then turned towards the book that Larisa was reading. He could not make it out. “What are you reading there? Is this fun reading or something for school?”

“Oh trust me, this is definitely not for fun, this is for Schiller’s class. The book is called Journey to the End of the Night. Louis-Ferdinand Celine wrote it. He was a French writer from back in the day. Schiller is making us read it for his seminar. The book is kind of heavy reading if you ask me. I am only on page 58 and I have to write a paper on this stupid book by Monday afternoon.”

“Oh I love that book,” he smiled, “I read it over the summer. It’s a classic. I am sure that you will eventually change your mind. Celine was a freaking genius. He is definitely one of my favorite authors along with Bukowski and Philip Roth.
Once again, she felt inadequate. Jack was a deep guy. He must have thought that she was boring. There were not many people like him around campus. While all the other boys were always busy with getting drunk and trying to fuck anything and anyone that walked, Jake read books, played the guitar and always had something smart to say.

Larisa and Jake were not good friends. They weren’t really friends at all. They sort of knew each other from some of the classes that everyone took during freshman and sophomore years at New York University. The two of them never really hung out. Yea, there was that one time when Professor Falica took them all out for beers to celebrate the end of the semester but they sat on the opposite corners of the long rectangular table. Jake sat next to the professor and argued with him about something that seemed rather intellectual. She on the other end and on the other side of the table sat with Jenny Crugerman and Stephanie Sigel and engaged in the same old discussion about where to go out that weekend and how cute this boy was over the next. She recalled just how much she hated life on that particular night. Everyone around her seemed so similar to one another. No one ever had anything interesting or original to say and neither did she.

But on that rather warm Thursdays like that Thursday, things would be different. Sometimes life intervened in one’s favor. At least that was the way she felt as Jake slid his tall chair along her outer thigh.

The sat around for a while and talked about the kind of things that people around their age spoke about. While Jake had much to say about everything, she focused on her smile. A guy like Jake was full of theories about life. He had read important books. He had already managed to backpack all across Europe and the Yucatan Peninsula. Larisa has never been anywhere. She did not read any important books nor did she have anything smart to add to Jake’s many worldly observations.
She smiled and nodded her head. She pretended to keep up with the conversation but what she was actually attempting to do more than anything else was to seem much smarter than she actually felt.

Jake was a nice guy. He lit with enthusiasm. He treated her to a cup of herbal tea and later they split a double chocolate brownie that made her feel that much better.
When they walked into his apartment, she was overly impressed by the paintings that were displayed all across the studio apartment’s walls. Jake had painted these during the summer he spent out in Florence Italy. She could only hope for such adventures or such talent.

Jake took out a painted glass pipe from the drawer of his desk. Thick green marijuana spilled out of a round plastic container into a pure piece of notebook paper. Jake broke the plant into small pieces and placed them into the pipe as he lit it up.
Larisa observed the slow moving dials of the living room clock that indicated that noon was just around the corner. A bit early in the day for pot smoking she suspected. She has only smoked pot a few times before and could never really get high. But Jake offered and so she accepted. For him, she would climb a tall white mountain only if to see him at the top.
As the smoke made its way through her system, Jake inserted his intellectual tongue into her ordinary mouth. It tasted like knowledge. It carried an older texture along its cress. His kiss was more mature than that of most boys who had kissed her before.

As he slowly massaged her breasts and licked the tips of her nipples, Larisa could feel her back twist and twirl like a drunken ally cat. Panic settled in all across her inner thighs. Things were moving way too quickly. But she knew that she would never get a second chance. She knew that Jake was different than most of the other boys she came across. And besides, she was in New York City. Her parents lived more than two hours away. No one would ever find out, she suspected.
Despite several attempts to keep her underwear on, Larisa had no real chance. Jake’s persistence that he attributed to them Marijuana and to the fact that he absolutely loved her body and must have had a taste of her inner salty flesh, that was all way too much. Despite the mastery of his tongue, she could not help but to worry about just how bad it must have tasted. She did not want to loose Jake as a result of his body’s saltiness.

Jake asked her if she preferred for him to be on top or at the bottom. She did not know what was the right answer and so she told him to simply have his way. He took a condom out of his bedroom drawer and asked Larisa to place it across her larger than usual cock.

While he moaned in pleasure, she just closed her eyes and thought about what life would be like if Jake decided to make her his girlfriend and the two of them would be known amongst her girlfriends as a leading couple of the overall popularity scale.
While Jake took his time, soaping up in the shower, Larisa fixed her makeup and dried her long brown hair.
Low cumulous clouds came down on the streets of New York City; the sun was slowly disappearing despite the early hour of the day. As the temperatures plummeted down back to the ordinary low thirties, Larisa walked towards her university dorm room and wondered if Jake would ever call her up again for a second date.

Regardless of anything that he may do or would have done, nothing really mattered for during that brief moment that for the first time in her life, Larisa felt like she was alive.

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Here I Am by Charles Bukowski

2009-01-26T18:56:00.000-08:00

drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
dwindling twilight
liver gone
kidneys going
pancrea pooped
top-floor blood pressure
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head
the radio playing classical music ...
I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I've long gone past using myself and there's
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
the typer
pour another glass and
insert
make love to the fresh new whiteness
maybe get lucky
again
first for
me
later
for you.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985

Book Club Special

2009-01-25T15:41:00.001-08:00

Save 50% off of Hard Boiled Men when you order six or more books.
This is the perfect novel for any group club made up of women between the ages of 30-50 who want to explore the mind of a single man as a group and have lots of laughs in the process.

Email the author directly to place your orders: hardboiledmen@yahoo.com with the subject heading Book Club.

• 2007 New York Book Festival Award
• 2007 Hollywood Book Festival Award
• 2006 DIY Book Festival Award

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Grey Dog Coffee Shop

2009-01-03T01:41:00.000-08:00

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I was not all that excited about the idea of becoming the newest employee of the Grey Dog Coffee Company. Sure, I would get all the coffee that I wanted for free and I would mostly be working along with good looking hippie college students who could surely teach me a few tricks in the sack. But still, I was a graduate of the prestigious MFA program in creative writing of the University of Michigan. It simply seemed illogical that I would find myself sitting here in this small village coffee shop awaiting an interview.
But what is a brother to do? These are hard days and somehow I had to pay rent. Susan and Irena, my two lesbian roommates would not likely grant me an extension. Somehow I knew deep down in my bones, that if given the chance, Irena would be more than happy to jump my bones. She went both ways. But Susan was strictly butch. She never experienced the joy of a man and would likely argue that there were no such joys. Clearly, I could not fuck my way out of this one. There were less than seven hundred dollars left in my checking account and time was running out.

Her name was Ski and she was the assistant manager of the coffee shop and an undergraduate student at New York University. Before we sat down beneath those yellow chandelier lights all the way in the back of the coffee shop, she wanted to know if I would like anything to drink and of course, it would be on the house.
"Sure, I will take a cup of coffee, black, two sugars."
"Give me a moment," and then she returned with two cups of coffee and a friendly smile. She took out my application from a tall stack of papers and quickly glanced over my credentials.

"So tell me Greg, I see that you worked in a bunch of coffee shops back in Ann Harbor, Common Cup, Caribou Coffee and Foggy Bottom Coffee House. I also see that you have an undergraduate degree in American literature and an MA in creative writing. So I take it that you are a writer."

"Well, that all depends on who you ask. I published a few short stories in The Believer and the Chelsea Literary Journal but I doubt that you ever ran across my works."
"That sounds really cool, I would love to read one of your stories."
"Why, are you the reading type Ski?"

"Are you kidding me, I love books. You will always find a good book at my bedside. Without books, what is the point, right?"
"Hell yea. But you and I are in the minority on this one, most people prefer reality television."
"'Hey, forget most people," she smiled "most people suck."
"I could not agree more Ski. Tell me, who is your favorite author?"
"Oh, that's a good one, I could not say, I am torn between Hemingway and Truman Capote, how about you?"
"Hard one, I would be torn between Henry Miller and Philip Roth." We went back and forth for a while. Suddenly, one of the employees yelled Ski's name out. She excused herself for a moment and left me with a sweet taste in my mouth.

I looked around at the people who were quickly filling up the place. It was eleven O'clock in the morning on Tuesday in December and none of these people were at work. Were these people independently wealthy? Were they tourists? Students? Or were they as unemployed as I? It did not really matter, the place had a good vibe to it and no one seemed to differentiate between a Sunday and a Tuesday. Everyone just seemed more than content to be here in New York City and away from the cold winds that were running around the tall city buildings.

"Sorry about that," she apologized when she returned "there was a bit of a mix up with a customer but now it is all taken care of. So where were we?" She smiled.
"You were about to tell me whether you were single or had a boyfriend."
"I don't recall that conversation." She laughed. "I recall something about Hemingway."
"So what is the answer?" I insisted.
"Do you always ask such questions during a job interview?"
"Only when the person who interviews me is a good looking woman who likes books."
"You realize of course that now things are too awkward for me to offer you the position." She apologized.
"Yes, I know, I fully realize that. But I will take your phone number any day over a job. There are many places were I can earn a buck but not too many women in New York City who can put a smile on my face."
"So I put a smile on your face?" She bashfully laughed.
"You did and you do. So what do you say Ski, do you have a man in your life?"
"Not at the moment. But I am not sure that I am taking applications at the moment."
"I think you should reconsider, just look at my resume, I am more than qualified."
"Oh yea? And what exactly do you think qualifies you for the position?"
"Well Ski, I am a very hard worker, I take my job seriously and promise to show up for work on time, every time and to stay late at work when ever is required. I tell you Ski, a man with strong work ethics is hard to find around these parts."
"Trust me Greg, I already know that by now." She smiled.

She would not acquiesce and instead of her telephone number she instructed me to add her on Facebook which I did just an hour after I came back home.
Irena walked in on me just as began to jerk off under my sheets. She did not seem embarrassed at all, rather, she seemed aroused. The idea went through her head for a quick moment but instead of jumping into my bed with that tiny Russian body of hers', she demanded the long overdue rent. I told her that I needed another few days before
I would have the money.

"Yea, well, I heard that one before. Maybe you should consider getting yourself a job instead of sitting around here and jerking off all day like some damn teenager."
A few days later I emailed Ski a PDF copy of "Red Wine Wonders", a story that I published in Literal Latte, a local publication off of 10th street down around the corner. From her reply, I could tell that she really liked it.

We agreed to meet up for a drink a few days later in the Vig Bar, a trendy little join off of Elizabeth Street. When thinking about it, I was not in any position to pay for all of the martinis that she ordered that night. Ski had enough dirty martinis in her to piss out olive oil and I was the one who laid out more than a hundred bucks at the end of the night.

A single man of limited means living here in New York City was an exercise in idiocy. I could have opened the gym.

Maybe it was time for me to listen to my brother's advice and to move back home to Nebraska where the beer was cheap and the spare bedroom available. But let's be honest now. Great writers don't come from the wheat fields of the Midwest; they did not thrive in silence.

Women like Ski, long literary streets and a constant headache are the hallmarks of New York City, a city that will always offer a man a good kick in the ass.
Ski could not come despite my many attempts. More than thirty-five minutes down between her thighs and my tongue was growing numb. Maybe it had to do with a lack of technique, maybe it was the vodka. I never got a second chance.

Standing out on that cold empty road that connected Sioux City and Omaha, I held on to my backpack and a copy of Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums and wondered just how long he would have stuck around the streets of New York before he would give up on his literary dreams.

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Don't Forget to Feed the Cat

2008-12-25T11:37:00.000-08:00

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On cold days like today, I try to avoid the world. It is simply too damn cold for me. A southern boy living in NYC is like a bullfrog in a Chinese market. Nothing good can ever come out of it.

When Jennifer will return from her late shift around six in the morning, I will let her have it. This time, I will hold nothing back. We have been dating for nearly three months now and we both knew it would end from the first day it all began. In New York City, there was no real reason to stick around with anyone. You were almost guaranteed to meet someone better on the following week. The only thing that held Jenn and myself for this long was the sex, but after a while they all taste like taffy anyways

It was time for this boy to move on to greener pastures, to find a better woman. In my bones, I knew that I deserved much better than this Jennifer character. She was no good from her core. Hopefully, the next one would not mistake my generosity for foolhardiness or my wallet for a bathtub. I always preferred the sweet ones but never really ended up with any of them.

Ever since Jennifer and I got together, it has been shopping hell. What she could not achieve at home with my cock (or her vibrator), she could easily get when she tried on a $300 pair of designer jeans. Like Siamese lace they dripped around her thighs in anticipation of ownership. I should have refused her outrageous requests but Jennifer had a body on her and I was a man.

Worse than Jennifer’s bad habits was her cat “Mr. Jingles”. This one seemed to be just as spoiled as its female owner, they both deserved a quick in the ass. I was somehow in charge of feeding the cat in the evenings while she was working. I could not stand that little feline bastard; he had it in for me from the very first day. Once during sex, he jumped me from the back and left claw marks across my body. Jenn explained that he can get possessive at times but that did not do much in terms of reassurance.
I could not decide whether I should poison the little son of a bitch or simply dump his at some back alley of a Thai restaurant. To the people of Thailand, cat was like chicken or a descent steak. I sounds cruel, I know, but how is killing sheep or cows any different when you think about it?

If I could only drop Jennifer off on some back alley of any Thai restaurant and be done with this entire relationship, life would have been that much simpler. But they don’t serve high maintenance women on the Thai menus and therefore I was stuck.
I went down to Joe’s Pub for a drink. They were serving pints of Yuengling for three dollars. I sat on the long wooden bar and looked around at the regular faces. Joes was our neighborhood bar. They never tried to be anything else besides a regular place for regular people.

Hank Grande was a forty two year old retiree. What he retired from? Now one really knew. Hank never drank beer. He was a Jamieson man. I once asked him about that whole Jamieson business but he was not one for too many words.
“Irish whiskey helps me keep my erection going.” He explained and that was pretty much all I ever found out.

A few pints later, I went out for a cigarette. I don’t really smoke nor do I like smoking. But the alcohol made a difference and I was jonesing for some tobacco in my lungs. Now all I needed was a cigarette and a light, I had neither.
I stood around for a few minutes until she showed up.

“Hey” I poetically remarked.
“Hey.” She replied.
“Got a cigarette?”
“Yea. I do.”
“Can I borrow one?”
“Borrow? Do you promise to give it back once you are done with it?” she smiled.
She handed me a menthol cigarette.
“Is it true that menthol cigarettes actually make your breath smell more fresh?” I replied.
She just smiled as she exhaled.
“My name is Jake.”
“Hey Jake.” She grinned.
“And you are?”
“I am what?”
“What is your name?”
“Stephanie”
“Nice to meet you Stephanie.”
“Nice to meet you Jake.”
We stood there in silence for a few minutes. Stephanie was smoking and I was trying to avoid chocking on the tobacco smoke.
“You are not much of a smoker are you Jake?”
“Who me? What are you talking about? I am a professional.”
“A professional what? You don’t seem to professional at either smoking or lying.” She smiled.
“Are you here with anyone special?” I asked her in an attempt to figure out whether she was single or not.
“I am here with friends. How about you?”
“I am here alone.”
“Do you always drink alone Jake?”
“Only when none of my friends want to drink with me. So what do you say Steph, can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t know Jake, can you?”
“Well I can certainly afford to.”
“Then you might as well.”

We sat back on the long wooden bar where Stephanie introduced me to her two portly friends. They were both beautiful. I ended up buying them all a round of martinis, one dirty, one peach and one Cosmo. Stephanie instructed the bartender to make hers extra dirty.

I do not know why, but somehow I found solace amongst these three women. Stephanie was my favorite by far but the other two also seemed great despite the extra weight that they carried around.

Once again, Stephanie and I went outside for a cigarette. She seemed fairly normal for a New York City woman. She was the kind that read books and avoided television. Such were hard to find these days.

“So tell me there Mr. Jake, are you a single guy?”
“Yes, yes I am. Well, mostly, you know, it is complicated. And how about you?”
“Well, you know Jake, in my life those things are always complicated.”
“Aren’t they always in NYC?”
“Yea, I guess that is always the case around these parts.”
“The key question now Stephanie is do you have any cats back in your place?”
“No I don’t, I only have Rambo.”
“Rambo?”
“My Labrador. He is the biggest sweetheart in the world. How about you Jake, do you have any pets?”
“None that I can recall.”

Unlike Mr. Jingles, Rambo was the kind of an animal that I could relate to. Labradors had better personalities than most people that I have encountered.
While Stephanie and I were screwing on the carpet, he simply sat on the side and watched in wonder, occasionally scratching one part of his body or another. Somehow I felt as if Rambo was pulling for me, as if he was one of my old buddies from back in the day when I was an Undergraduate student at the University of Tennessee.
After a few brief moments of pleasure, we were both done. One more satisfied than the other. But hey, what could I do, it takes time for a woman to find all of the right buttons on a woman. They all had them in different places and none came with a manual.

Stephanie went into the kitchen where she poured some vodka into a tall glass mixer filled with a substantial amount of ice and some cranberry juice. It was getting late and I had to hurry back home before Jennifer would return home.
Before I left, she wrote her telephone number down on a pink piece of scrap paper and placed a smiley face next to her name. We both knew that it would not take too long before I would phone her up. We had magic in our air.

When Jennifer returned from the late night shift she found a simple note on the refrigerator that was written on a white piece of scrap paper:

Sorry Jenn,
But I do not think it is going to work between the two of us.
It is time for this southern boy to move on.
What was missing from the beginning cannot be found.
What was lacking from the start cannot be substituted.
A good-looking girl like you will have no trouble forgetting about
a guy like me, go on and find yourself someone better (it wont take too long)
Thanks for all the good times, I do not regret anything.
PS. Please feed Mr. Jingles, I much prefer dogs to cats.

And then, relieved, I walked home smiling in the early morning cold

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Instant Coffee

2008-11-07T13:11:00.001-08:00

Instant Coffee By: Guy Jacobs www.hardboiledmen.com

After we made love early on that cold Saturday morning, I went into the well decorated kitchen and made her a cup of instant coffee. Juliet did not own a regular drip coffee percolator. It was not about her inability to afford a fifteen dollar Mr. Coffee machine. It had something to do with those two semesters that she spent out on the western coast of Portugal. There, she came to view American coffee as dull and absent of flavor and where she came to appreciate the elation of instant coffee.

Such was Juliet. From head to toe, her skin shined of irony. It took me a while to find the sugar. Juliet took her coffee with two tall teaspoons of unprocessed organic brown sugar. Juliet took her coffee without milk. She was trying to avoid those unnecessary calories.

Finally, I found it hidden behind the tall bottle of Kosher salt. Juliet’s cabinet was full of food and yet, I could find nothing to eat for breakfast. I made myself a cup of instant as well and came back to bedroom holding on to two green ceramic mugs that displayed foreign letters on their sides.

“You are such a sweetheart,” She said, “You really did not have to bother. I would have eventually gotten out of bed and made you some coffee.”

But she did not and therefore I did.

“Did you put two sugars in my coffee?” she asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you find the organic brown sugar?”

“Yes, I did.”

“David, you are such a sweetie, I can just eat you up alive.” She smiled. The magnificence of her olive oiled skinned unfolded from within her sheets as she warmly readjusted her body in my direction.

How I ever finagled my way into the heaven of her thighs must have somehow involved some sort of divine intervention since I was in no way worthy of such fortune.

“Tell me David, do you agree with David Hume’s assessment that the very supposition that the future resembles the past, is not founded on arguments of any kind, but rather, is derived entirely from habit?” Juliet was the worst kind of a woman for someone like me. She was truly gorgeous and at the same time genuinely intellectual. What she found in a philistine such as myself was beyond me.

I tried to hide my ignorant shame and resorted to a long mindless sip from her green mug. The sweetness of the brown sugar provided me with childish reassurance. I took to adolescent strategies. “I don’t know, what do you think?” I replied.

While she presented her well developed analysis of the multidimensional correlation between reality and one’s own assertion of what reality is, I thought about the last thing that Juliet whispered in my ears seconds before she shivered in climax.

While I was not familiar with David Hume, Emmanuelle Kant and many other of the names that Juliet liked to discuss, I was quit familiar with the female cliterous and with Juliet’s in particular. A man had to choose his area of expertise. I chose the physical over the cerebral.

I picked myself up from the bed and headed towards the balcony where I lit a morning’s cigarette. A cold winter air roamed threw the side streets of my city and warmed me up with its sense of familiarity. From the other room, I could hear Juliet as she was singing along with the radio.

Minutes later she announced that she wanted me to take her out for brunch. She was in the mood for poached eggs and bacon. I had thirteen dollars and sixty eight cents in my pocket and thus argued that I was not particularly in the mood for eggs. We ended up at that same bagel place where one could get a full ledged breakfast for under five dollars.

When we walked into the place, Juliet was thrilled to run into her friend Denis from her interpretive acting seminar. While the two of them engaged in thespian dialogue, I excused myself towards the city street where I would purchase another pack of smokes.

Surveying those fashion magazine covers, I noticed dozens of beautiful women who were smiling at me in synchronization.

All of the women looked way too perfect to be walking amongst us all.

They all carried that cold persona of careful consideration and financial ambition.

And no man of my low status was worthy of their company and no man of my low status was worthy of their flesh.

And yet, earlier on that Saturday morning, she wrapped her teeth around the tender lobe of my ear and in pure ecstasy she whispered, “promise me that you will not finish until I am completely done.”

And so, I did not.

In every large ocean, one small wave rides my name.

In every sky there is a star that shines in my direction.

In every forest there is a single tree that knows my story.

In this small and lonely world, I found my Juliet. David Hume may have been right about the past and he may have been wrong when it came to the future. But such matters were of no consequence to me. The present was all I knew and it essence was captured in her smile.

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Evil Female Boss, Part 1

2008-10-29T18:17:00.001-07:00

When I opened the newspaper on Tuesday, I turned to page A13. There was no particular reason for the selection of that page. I never considered the number 13 to be either lucky or unlucky. I never got that whole 13 thing. How again was it supposed to be a sign of bad luck? Why did most elevators omit the thirteen button? Did it have anything to do with Friday the 13th? Was it a Christian thing? From what I recall Jews considered 13 to be a lucky number than an unlucky one. But Jews were luckier than most, Jewish men that was. At the age of 13 all Jewish boys turned into a men. That was when they celebrated their Bar Mitzvah and got a shitload of gifts, if I correctly recall.

My Jewish friend Jason Gad told me that back in the days fathers would take their thirteen year old boys to the local brothel where they made sure they became men. My father was never as generous. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I grew up in an Atheist family. My atheism never got me anywhere. If I were Jewish and lived back in the day I, then maybe, just maybe, I would not have to wait until the age of nineteen to pop my cherry, but hey, what can I say? One cannot change his past. One cannot turn back the clock and improve his record. And so, when it came to women, I just accepted the way things turned out and never bothered to think about the past too much.

On page A13, the newspaper ran a story about interoffice dynamics and the modern work environment. According to a recent poll conducted by the University of Pennsylvania’s Center for Public Opinion Research, the majority of people preferred to have a male as their boss then they did a female. The numbers got even more interesting when one considered the actual breakdown.

According to the survey, 34% of males preferred to have a male boss, 10% of them preferred a female boss, while the rest of them (56%) did not care either way. As for the women, they were much more adamant about the subject at hand. According to the survey 40% of female survey participants preferred a male boss, 26% of them preferred a female boss, while 32% of them did not care. Clearly women “did not care” less than did males which to me signified that they clearly did care and it was not in the favor of their fellow females.

This of course brought me to the obvious conclusion, one that I have intrinsically known for many years and did not need any newspaper or academic public opinion survey to confirm – Women were never big fans of other women, they never really trusted one another, they never really liked each other.

Yea, yea, I know what women will say, “most of my best friends are female, I have had the same female friends ever since I grew up and they would stand with me through thick and thin.”
That is what they would tell you, but I never believed this propaganda, I know better than that. I have seen enough in my short life and have tasted enough cheeseburgers to know better than to believe anything that they printed in the newspapers, especially when it comes to the New York Times.

Women to women were and always would be snakes; they were the thorn at the side of one another. But forget the analogies and all of those fancy metaphors, that junk is for writers. I am no writer nor am I a scholar of any sorts. I am a waiter. I work at a local TGI Friday’s restaurant. I wear the red and white stripes with much pride. I serve overpriced prepackaged junk food to a bunch of drunk customers who very much like me frequent the place just to catch a quick glance at our overzealous blond waitress whose fake smiles perfectly compliment their tightly packed anatomies.

This brings me to the whole point of the conversation and to that whole page A13 issue. It brings me to the unlikely topic of Jennifer Martin, my 6pm shift manager who recently altered the course of my once peaceful life.
Jennifer was a complete bitch on wheels. Jennifer was the kind of a boss that would make 99 out of a hundred males and females vote in opposition to any female boss regardless of their income level, age or education. Jennifer was the worst woman of all. She was menstruated 31 days out of the month. She housed the devil between her ears. She houses everyone else between her legs (with the exception of yours truly).

Jennifer was not a misunderstood person. She is clearly understood and the understanding pointed to her malevolence. There were not many good things that one could say about Jennifer even if they tried really hard. That of course was with the exception of her lovely tits. They were huge and they are real. They were the kind that would make any heterosexual male and every bicurious woman take a careful look and painfully yearn for nothing but a quick taste of God’s great creation.
Did I mention that I preferred the fake ones? I never understood why anyone preferred naturals. Fake tits never dropped. Real ones eventually did. Of course there were exceptions. But with fake ones, you never had to deal with physics. They always stood up right no matter if the woman was twenty five or fifty two years of age. I was always a big fan of huge tits. There was no particular reason for that. Like most men, I had no real utility for them, I sometimes just felt like sticking my face in between that cushioned valley and tossing my nose from side to side. Talk about exercise. Look at all of those things that men would do to burn off calories. So ladies, any volunteers out there? Leave a message on my answering machine. I usually checked my voicemail late on Wednesdays; sometimes I checked them early on Thursday mornings. Ladies, do you want to show off your true nature? Send a few photos to my PO Box and wait for a reply.

But Jennifer, she never called, she never left a message nor did she ever send any revealing photos in the mail. She must have been too busy fucking our restaurant manager, Mark Epstein (The Second). That guy was falsely assembled at the factory. Someone accidently misplaced his ass in the same location where his face should have been positioned. After all, what else would account for the large amounts of bullshit that came out of his mouth on the daily?
To someone who did not know any better, it may seem that I was simply jealous of Mark, jealous of another man’s ability to go to places where I have never ventured before. But such was not the case. Such would simply be a misinterpretation of my true nature. I was not the jealous type. However, I could be described as the covetous type.
But this whole Jennifer story had nothing to do with Mark Epstein (The Second); it had nothing to do with Jennifer’s perfect pair of tits or with the fact that I had not had sexual relations with any woman in twelve days, three hours and seventeen long minutes.

Everything that had to do with Page A13 only reminded me of Jennifer Martin. But I tend to misrepresent. Jennifer was never anything but nice to me in the year and a half that she served as my boss. She was a fair boss, she never busted my balls and she was always good for a late night drink. Everything between the two of us was always good until that day that she introduced me to Lisa Nguyen, her best friend and old college roommate from Colorado State University.
At closing time, a few days ago, we all gathered around the bar, counted tips and told stories about the idiotic customers that we encountered on that night. Everything was pretty much as ordinary, good times and free drinks. Jody was working the bar that night. After all the customers left, she let the drinks flow like butter on a ham. Free drinks always tasted better than those you had to pay for. It was one of the key perks of wearing the old red and white suspenders.

Jody and Jennifer were laughing with Bruce, our assistant manager. I just smiled and enjoyed the moment, thinking what it would be like to see naked at my side. Around 1am, Jennifer’s cell phone rang. I suspected that we would soon encounter Mr. Mark Epstein (The Second) but was soon happy to head Jenn announce that Lisa visiting from out of town.
Lisa and I met a few times before. She recently moved out to Delaware where she worked as an admission’s counselor at some small private university. Apparently, there was not much to do around Newark, DE (pronounced Ne-Wark as opposed to Ne-Work, NJ) and so she would hop in her car on weekends and find her way to our TGIF.

The last time we all met was a few weeks ago. Jenn and Lisa got all drunk and dragged me back to Jenn’s apartment were we all played Karaoke on her Sony Playstation. They must have gone through an entire rendition of songs from the 80s and 90s that almost drove me nuts. Jennifer loved Brittney Spears and I had no choice but to play along. The worst was when they made me join them in a drunk version of the Spice Girls song, If You Want To Be My Lover.
One that night, after all the singing and boozing, Lisa and I made out while Jenn passed out on the couch. I tried my best to stick my busy fingers under Lisa’s tiny Asian bra but she would have none of it.
And now, here she was, once again, she was all smiles.

Jody made Lisa her favorite cocktail, a Gray Goose dirty martini with an extra shot of olive juice and two extra shots of vodka. Soon enough, Lisa was ready to go. But it was getting late and Jennifer was too tired to party on that night. And besides, Mark was waiting for her to show up at his place. They planned a big trip to Upstate on the following morning and she really needed to catch some sleep.

To my surprise, Jennifer suggested that I would be the one to take Lisa out and show her a good time. This brings me back to page A13 of the New York Times. When the survey participants had to answer whether they preferred a male to a female boss, no one ever mentioned to them just how gorgeous their female boss would be, how amazingly hot their old college roommates would be and how the rest of the night turned out.

www.hardboiledmen.com

Books and Bukowski

2008-10-19T08:01:00.000-07:00

Question: Who is your favorite author?

Answer: Hold on, don’t answer just yet; think about it for a moment.

According to a recent survey, more than 89 million Americans DID NOT read a book in 2007 (US National Endowment for the Arts). Meantime, those who do read tend to focus on non fiction and how to books:

How to lose 50 pounds in 50 days?
How to become a millionaire in three months?
How to make a man commit?
How to make a woman orgasm?
How to win friends and influence people?
How to tell if a man is marriage material?
How to know who is going to win an election simply by looking at candidates’ height and age?

And then there is fiction. You know, those books that are not written in bullets. Then can not be summarized by Top 10 lists. When it comes to fiction, most Americans seek advice from the grand marshal herself Mrs. Oprah Winfrey, if you make it to her list, you are pretty much guaranteed a spot on the best seller list and there is nothing wrong with that. One occasion, she gets it absolutely right (and at times she did not).

So what do most Americans read? Well, there are those author giants such as J. K. Rowling, James Patterson, John Grisham, Danielle Steel, Dean Koontz and Josephine Cox. Much like any local Wal-Mart store, these authors each dominate sales in their own genre. There is nothing particularly wrong with any of these authors. Most of them found the formula to America’s taste in literature (and pocketbooks) and have thus dominated top seller lists for years.

What scares me more than anything, however, are the millions of readers who never heard of the classics and by classics, I am not referring to Charles Dickens, Edgar Allan Poe or Jules Verne.

I am referring to more contemporary authors; those authors who dared to piss off the corporate establishment and thus ended, at times, with the short end of the literary stick.

Take Charles Bukowski as an example. Charles Whom? You ask?

Henry Charles Bukowski was a German-American poet slash author who managed to publish dozens of books of poetry, short stories and fiction in his short seventy four years on this earth (mostly spent in LA bars). Thanks to the vision of John Martin and his Black Sparrow publication, Hank dedicated himself to sitting down and writing books (in addition to his love for the poem as he described it). The marriage between Black Sparrow and Bukowski proved magical and resulted in such great works of literature as Ham on Rye, Post Office, Women and Factotum. Bukowski whose work was largely inspired by such authors as John Fante, Louis-Ferdinand Céline and Anton Chekhov has inspired a new generation of contemporary authors such as Guy Jacobs, Dan Fante and Tom Paine.

You would think that an author like Bukowski who wrote about getting laid, drinking heavily and under-advantaged fist fighting would attract the attention of those younger male readers who themselves are trying to accomplish much of what Hank Bukowski worked towards and yet, that is not the case.

I recently searched through Charles Bukowski groups on both Facebook and Myspace. There, I discovered that the majority of Bukowski fans came from such corners of the world as Turkey, Slovenia, France and Belgium. Most of them were women as well. This is not a big surprise. Women tend to read more than males, especially those under the age of twenty five (the guys are too busy with looking at online pornography, playing video games and jerking off).

There is much more to be written about the topic of literature and books. Although, most of us authors do somewhere, somehow acknowledge that writing and reading is a dying art (thank you media convergence). Still we do it because this is who we are and this is what we do.

For those of you who are wondering which books you should pick up next, here is a list of recommendations:

1. Sexus by Henry Miller
2. The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski
3. Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski
4. Ask the Dust by John Fante
5. Hard Boiled Men by Guy Jacobs
6. Straight Man by Richard Russo
7. Portnoy’s complaint by Philip Roth
8. Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut
9. For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
10. A Fan's Notes by Frederick Exley

That is all for today, get off of your computer and go read a book

52% of Female Orgasms

2008-10-09T20:27:00.001-07:00

www.hardboiledmen.com

John May woke up early that morning for no apparent reason. He brewed up a pot of coffee on that old Mr. Coffee machine that he held on to ever since his graduate school days. If it ain’t broke, why bother to buy a new one, he thought. The cold wind that ran through the streets of Pittsburg did not provide enough incentive for John to put a pair of sweatpants on. In his underwear, he greeted the morning.

John May was the kind of a guy who enjoyed his morning routine and nothing was more central to that routine than the old cup of cup and reading the morning newspaper. John did not have much interest in the news sections, the financials or even the sports. He was the kind of a man who read between the lines searching for a clue. Of course, one could theoretically argue that John was a bit of a conspiracy theory but that was not the case at all (or maybe it was). John knew the ways of the media. He had an undergraduate degree in journalism and knew all about newsroom routines, gatekeeping and media framing. In between the lines was the way that those in charge communicated with one another. In between the advertorials, editorials and daily columns, in the fine print, that was where the truth was hidden from the reading masses.

On page A5 John came across a clue. The headline could not be more convincing.

52% OF WOMEN NEVER EXPERIENCED AN ORGASM, the headline read.

This was exactly the kind of a thing that made you wonder. And if it did not make you wonder, thought John, well at least it should.

Back in the old days, he ran across old Herb Schiller his journalism professor back at the University of California at San Diego. Schiller told the class that they should never believe anything they read in the newspaper.

“Everything that you read in the newspaper, hear on the radio or watch on television is nothing short of a corporate conspiracy to turn you into a better consumer. Those people want you to equate your happiness with the art of shopping. Had a bad day at work, buy some shoes. Your boyfriend cheated on you, take his credit card and get some shopping therapy. Don’t believe anything that they say.” That was the kind of a lecture that would often be heard in Schiller’s seminars. John May loved every part of it. It made sense when you really thought about it.

The coffee tasted a bit rusty that morning. Maybe Pam was right after all. Maybe it was time to buy a new coffee maker and throw away the old dusty machine that he bought at Target for ten dollars more than three years ago.

But what about the headline, he thought could this really be true? Fifty two percent seemed a bit excessive to John. And what those other forty eight percent, he thought. Was it a function of psychology or was it all the guy’s fault as he heard many of his female friends argue. Thinking back to those five women that he somehow managed to lay so far in his short twenty five year career, he could not remember if 2.6 of those women actually did or did not reach sexual climax.

The first time he did it was sometime back in high school. He was a frightened pimple faced junior and she, an overweight twenty four year old woman who seemed more bored than anything on her overextended semester break. Thinking back of that night, he felt nothing but shame when he recalled just how quickly he came just as soon as he felt that incredible touch of the female flesh for the very first time in his life.

Her name was Lucy and she did not protest. She was more of a resourceful type than a complainer. She simply walked into the shower, cleaned herself up and then forced him to eat her out until should reached satisfaction.

Then there was that girl that he met during freshman orientation back at UCSD . She was a stacked woman with enough meat on her to feed a small village in Bangladesh. John did not remember her name. When he thought about it, he never did know it in the first place. They somehow stumbled into bed after a freshman party back in the dorms. John did not have any condoms on him but she insisted on penetration. Twenty seconds later, her sizeable stomach was painted in the colors of white apprehension. She gave him a dirty look and then proceeded to transfer into the bed of his roommate who pretended to be sleeping. John stared at the dorm ceiling as he listened to his roommate Dave give the girl a proper fuck. Ten minutes passed and then he heard a woman come for the first time. Was she faking it out of spite for his non-proficient performance or did Dave really supply the goods. 48% says that it was spite over Dave.

Then there was Patty, the girl he briefly dated during senior year. Patty came from a small town in Alabama. He could not remember if it was Tuscaloosa or someplace right in the area. Patty was a nice girl. She was always kind to John and was the one who taught him how to manage his erections and hold on to them for just a bit longer. She showed him how at a simple push of the external vein, right at the base of the cock, he could buy himself a few more seconds inside.

When it came to Patty Valentine, John had no doubts. If anyone had an orgasm it was her. How did he know? Well she always made a point to announce. Clinching on to his skin, grinding her teeth and pulling his hair she rotated her hips all around, closed her eyes, scratch her nails until she finally shout out that old slogan of the Alabama football team: GOOOOOOOO TIIIIIEEEEDDDD.

Patty loved the University of Alabama football team. This she made clear every Saturday when she watched SEC football. This she made clear on those rare occasions when he managed to hold on long enough to validate the newspaper’s statistics.

John managed to fall in love with Patty Valentine and things were going pretty well until graduation. They talked about moving in together. They talked about graduate school out in Iowa State were John was admitted into a Master’s degree with a guaranteed research stipend for his first three semesters. Things were moving along on track until Patty flew down to Alabama to visit her family a few weeks after graduation. There she met up with her old high school sweetheart Dale Gary who not only played high school football for the champion Cougars but was also a walk on defensive end for the University of Louisiana Raging Cajun football team.

John was crushed when he heard the news. Patty never bothered to fly back to deliver the news face to face. It all happened so quickly over the phone. John tried to reason with her, to win her sympathy, to appeal to her love, but none was left for him. He had no choice but to move on.

After Patty, John took a break from women. They were creatures of betrayal, he thought. Their only loyalty was to their own interests. They knew nothing of a man’s heart.

It was two years later that Pamela came into his world. Pam was not an attractive woman but at least she was nice. At first she refused anything beyond friendship. Why ruin a good thing with all of those complications? She often told him when he tried to come close and kiss her.

Pam introduced John to her girlfriends as her heterosexual gay friend. John never really connected with any of those types. But on one particular Friday night they were playing drinking games and John had way too much to drink. The only thing that he recalled was waking up naked next to Pam’s most horrendous looking friend, Michelle. Nothing was to ever be spoken of that night, he pledged. The shame was beyond him. Number four would be kept secret for as long as possible. He only hoped that Pam would never find out about the events that took place on that night. Despite his best hopes, Michelle told her all but Pam did not seem to mind.

About a year later, to his surprise, Pam turned into number five. He could not be any happier.

John stared at the newspaper headline and scratched his head. There was so much that he did not know about women. Unfortunately, he did not too many male friends to give him any advice.

Later one, when Pam woke up, she poured herself some Hazelnut creamer into her rusty cup of coffee.

“Don’t believe everything that you read in the newspaper John. That statistic could only be written by a man and obviously, a relatively ignorant one. The real numbers are much lower than you would think. I even doubt that 33% of women ever experienced a multiple orgasm and numbers may actually be lower.

John was never that good when it came down to statistics. Back when he was an undergraduate student, he barely passed the Introduction to Business Statistics course with a below average grade of C-. As for women, newspaper headlines and the rest of the world, John all but understood that he will never truly understand.

“Did you ever have a real orgasm with me?” he asked of Pam.

She in turn simply smiled and said, “Well of course I did sweaty, you gave me many.”

John felt better for a moment until he recalled that university lecture back in his undergraduate days at UCSD where he learned not to trust anything that was printed in the newspaper, heard on the radio or seen on TV but more than anything else he learned never to trust the smile of a more experienced woman.

For more go to www.hardboiledmen.com

Cheating Men, or are they?

2008-09-24T14:57:00.001-07:00

What She Knows, She Knows
www.hardboiledmen.com

It was not such a big surprise to hear her complain so bluntly about how she thought that New York City was totally overrated and that she did not see what the big deal was all about. Anyone who follows the typical tourist routine, sleeps at a Theater District hotel, eats a $14 pastrami sandwich down at the Carnegie Deli and goes shopping in those mega stores that stole the city's very soul away might very likely confuse New York for something it is not, tourist hell on crack.

The last time Antonia and I met, things were very different. She was a young college student at the University of Sienna, and I, a traveling journalist who was working on a new book that dealt with the historical sexual curiosities of the Tuscan people. The city of Sienna is nothing like New York City. The city of Sienna is like no other city in the world. With its small roads, car free street, Renaissance architecture and old stone buildings, it was hardly similar to where we found ourselves so many years later.

By now, Antonia was a relatively successful art saleswoman who worked in a fashionable gallery situated along Porta Volta Avenue in Milan. By now, I have published one more book, this one, an academic account of the basic conflict within the American psyche in regards to sexuality and Puritanism.

Antonia was a bit heavier than I remembered her to be. She of course must have thought the same.

But that was not the main area of contention on this unexpected reunion. The main issue was Jenny, my girlfriend of two years.

When I first heard her voice on the phone, I froze if only for a moment. Nothing that I could Jenny could reassure her in regards to my old Italian flame. Antonia was the stuff of legend. Her sexuality well documented as well as inspiration to my works and writings (using pseudo-names of course).

Things would not be nearly as bad if it wasn't for all the difficulties Jenny and I are having these days. To be perfectly honest, things are not going that well between the two of us these days. In the sack we are strangers, in the living room just as bad.

And now Antonia came back into my life even if only for a short visit. She is no longer a woman in my eyes. She has no faults nor bad memories attached. She was and will always be the highlight, the one I left behind, the one that got away and now she came back into my sphere and things are about to get messy in my life.

I agreed to meet her down by Pennsylvania Station. She took the train from Philadelphia and would arrive on time. We checked her carry on into the Pennsylvania Hotel across the street. Her room would not be ready until around 3pm.

Jenny would not be back from work until 6pm. I had some time to steal.

We walked around and looked around the buildings. Antonia immediately disliked the city. She did not like the large quantity of people, the bums who asked for change, the noise of traffic and ambulance sirens that rang across the ears.

In Sienna, I remembered, we used to walk around the tiny streets every evening around 7:30pm. We were not the only ones. Everyone took a walk around this magical town when the sun began to yield. The great square beneath the church was filled with friends and neighbors who strolled along the Old Italian tradition.

This sucks she said, NYC is nothing but a huge shopping mall for fat American tourists. I held her by the hand and walked her down the subway station. Heading down towards the lower east side, I would show her the real New York, the Old New York, my New York.

Like the monthly cycles of a woman, this city had many faces and not all were easy for us men to digest.

A bottle of red wine down on Grand Street was not the true catalyst for the tension that was about us.

Antonia knew that I was no longer her man. She herself was not entirely available as Marco was waiting for her back in Milano.

But time cannot fix what time cannot mend. Once there, it is never gone. Once felt, it is always there.

Two people who were once in love sat across the table. One glows with wonder and youth, the other beaten by the years. Neither one is the cheating type, not the man nor the woman.

They talk about it out load, think of it internally.

When I saw Jenny that night, I held her hand and kissed her fingers. What she knows is what she knows and what I know is mine.

www.hardboiledmen.com

Life is Life

2008-09-12T09:47:00.000-07:00

It has been more than four months since I last smoked a joint. Four months but who is counting? I am.

Marijuana is not addictive, at least, physically it is not.

But life, life always gets in the way of sanity. With nothing to smoke and a general lack of tolerance for alcohol, there is not much to do besides go insane.

The worst part of it all is that the majority of people that I hang out with in this city do not smoke. How they manage life is beyond me. Most of them live on a supplementary diet of Lexapro, Effexor, Cymbalta, Zoloft or Prozac. Most of them mix a bunch. But not me, I was never one for pharmaceuticals.

The most annoying thing is that these people see no irony in their condescending ways.

Take Josh for instance, he may just be the perfect example.

We met up in the coffee shop like we always do. He and his bullshit stories about the movie business, his auditions and all of the women he is screwing on a regular. I could easily sniff through people’s lies, and this guy was not exception. Josh was more likely to take one up the ass than he is to eat a piece of pussy pie.

“So what’s new Mr. Hollywood?” I asked.
“Oh my God, you would never believe the week I had. I am so close to getting an agent I tell you. I can just feel it. Last Tuesday, I had a second call for an audition. It is for an off Broadway but this is something big I tell you. This could be the break I was looking for.”

He went on and on but I was not really listening. By now, I just learned how to shut people off. I was too old for their bullshit. So why did I keep people around? Well, it beat the hell out of staring at the walls of my apartment.

After he told me about the blond with the huge tits that begged him for more. After he further went into details about the casting agent and the producers that he met at the grand opening of the Itch Gallery down in Soho. After he went on and on. I could stand it no more.

“You know Josh, if I don’t score some Marijuana soon, I may just go insane. Can’t you score me a dime bag from one of your homo friends down in Chelsea? Can’t you hook a brother up?”

“Oh grow up already, will you? What kind of a forty year old still smokes pot anyways? Gosh, don’t you think it is kind of pathetic to smoke weed at your age? And you, a university professor and all, what will become of you? What if somebody found out?”

What will become of me? What will become of any of us? I do not know.

Life is life and life is hard enough. Somehow, someway, we all find a way to get by.

Read More From Guy Jacobs

Hollywood by Charles Bukowski

2008-09-01T13:18:00.000-07:00

I am not quit sure why it took me so long to pick up Hollywood by Charles Bukowski. The book was just sitting around the shelf for years. Like most others, I read Ham on Rye, Women and Post Office on several occasions. Any of us Bukowski fans recognize Hank for the genius that he was.

No, this old drunk is nothing like the great authors of the 20th Century. His writing style is flat compared to the great ones that they make you read in your Introduction to the American Classic course at collgate university, Dartmouth or Amherst College. But New England universities never hired the kind of professors who had the balls (or tenure) to teach old Hank Bukowski to their students.

By I digress.

So let’s go back to Hollywood. The novel not the city.

As always Hank provides us readers with thoughts about the breakdown of society, the colorful characters that he encountered and just how lame he thinks the world can be.

And he may be correct at times.

As always he is drinking. Beer, wine, vodka. As long as it is cheap. As long as it is free. As long as it is there. Henry Chinaski never asked twice.

Hank never tries to be anything that he is not. And that is exactly why his fiction works. Honesty above style.

The entire book tells the tale of the screenplay that he had to write for Hollywood producers. For what may have been the movie Barfly staring Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway.

Of course, he did not use their names.

Hollywood works. Bukowski’s work usually did ever when he did not.

For the early Bukowski readers, do not start here.

Women or Post Office is the place to begin.

For those of you who read all that Hank could write (which I doubt), pick up Ask The Dust or Wait Until Spring, Bandini. Arturo Bandini was Hank’s influnence. That is, John Fante.

I am too tired to run spell check. If I messed up, please don’t call the cops.

As long as you are reading you are living. What you read does not matter just as much.

Guy

*Guy Jacobs is the Author of Hard Boiled Men

NYU TALES

2008-08-28T13:25:00.000-07:00

Calling Ms. Jamaica, Part 1

2008-08-26T13:33:00.001-07:00

For More From Guy Jacobs

I looked at my watch. It was 5:16pm. There was no need to rush. There were still ten minutes or so until the train was scheduled to arrive. I walked up the station’s platform careful not to spill any of the coffee on my shoes. There were only a dozen or so people waiting there. Most undergraduates tended to wait until the last minute before they showed up for the train or did anything else. I parked myself on a wooden bench where a blind woman sat. She held on to a painted stick and hummed a familiar song.

“How are you today?” I politely asked.

“I am doing just fine, thank you very much. Now, tell me Mr. do you happen to know when the next train into the city will be arriving?”

“It should be arriving here in about ten minutes or so, but you know how late these trains tend to run. The train schedule is not all that dependable.”

“Nothing in this world ever is.” She said and kept on humming that same familiar tune. Somehow it put me at ease.

I turned to Chapter five of the book that I was reading and lost myself with in its pages. Wrapped in stillness and a fluid breeze that flowed through the rain station’s corridor, I somehow managed to forget all about everything that bothered me, if only for a comfortable moment.

This peaceful moment was crushed just as soon as she arrived

“Hey, do any of you happen to have a bottle opener?” she asked.

I studied her with a slide of the head. Holding on to the bottle and a mischievous smile uncommon to a woman her age, she was the ruin of all men.

I pretended not to be interested but she knew better. She was a seasoned warrior. It would take much more than my pretty blue eyes to withstand her resolve. Before I said a single word, she was fully cognisant of just how lonely I have become.

I reached back into my deep pocket and pulled out my keychain. On its outer edge was a cheap plastic beer bottle opener.

“Here you go,” I offered, “but first, you must tell me where that gorgeous accent is from.”

“Well, why don’t you try and take a guess.” She offered.

“Well, I am no expert, but I would guess that you are from United Kingdom, England, I would say. Somewhere in London, but then again, it could be anywhere.”

She repositioned her body as she leaned in my direction, “Well, you are not entirely wrong. I do live in London at the moment but I was actually born and raised in the beautiful island of Jamaica.”
“Jamaica, no shit?”

“No shit,”

Her pale white skin seemed as Jamaican as a piece of Gefilte fish. But then again, I did once hear about the fact that Jamaica was home to many ethnicities such as Indians, Chinese, Arabs and whites.

“And where in London do you live?” I asked as if I knew anything about London. True, I did visit the place on many occasions but that was mostly for academic conferences and such. I was not that familiar with the place.

“I live in Shepherd's Bush, do you know where that is?” she asked.
“No, not really.” I smiled. In an attempt to disguise my overall ignorance of London’s geography, I tried to impress using an alternative approach.
“And so, what is your soccer team?”
“My soccer team? I can only assume that you are referring to football?”
“English football. Here we call it soccer.”
“Sorry, but it was football in the rest of the world way before you guys came around.”
“Whatever you say,” I smiled, “so what is your team? Arsenal? Manchester United? Liverpool?”
“None of the above. I am not all that into sports but if I had to choose, I would say Tottenham Hotspur, have you ever heard of that team?”
I did not. Strike Two.
“So what brings you to this little Podunk town?”
“Podunk?” she asked.
“You know, small, tiny, insignificant little town.
“Oh yea? It did not look all that bad.”
“It is not that bad, it is just small, really small. Don’t get me wrong, I like this place. It must pale in comparison to London. Am I right?”
She nodded her head in agreement. “I actually came out here for a fashion shoot.”
“A fashion shoot? You must be shitting me. Where would you possibly go for a fashion shoot around these parts?”
“We shot out by the creek early this morning and then again in the afternoon. God, I almost froze my tits out there.” She smiled.

Once again, I carefully surveyed her body, trying not to look too obvious. She was pretty enough all right but did not seem like the model type. She had a bit more meat on her than the average model that one may see in a magazine. Nevertheless, there was something about the way in which she carried herself. She seemed comfortable within her skin. She exploded with the milk of life.

I tried to make her out but my attempts at physical assessment were hindered by the overcoat that she wore. I could not tell what kind of a body she was hiding under it.

“So tell me more about this fashion shoot that you were involved in. What are you, the photographer?”
“No, I am a model. Why? Do I look like a photographer?” she asked.
“Well, I am not sure, what does a photographer look like anyways?”
“Well, they don’t look like anything but they don’t look like models now do they?”
“I don’t know, I can only guess that some do.” I tried to dig myself out of the hole that I dug.

But this one did not care, she was just busting my balls. She had a good sense to her this woman. She almost seemed as casual as an old friend.
“So what do you do around these parts?” She asked.
“Me? I teach at the university. I am an American literature professor.”
“Not bad,” she smiled, “I love to read. Not necessary American literature, I most prefer the Europeans, but you guys had some descent writers.”
“Oh yea, which American readers do you like?”
“You know, all of the basics, Mark Twain, Hemingway, Thoreau, Henry James, Jack London.”
Stunned, I turned in her direction. This woman must have been just as young as any of my students and seemed to have a better grasp of any of them combined.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked, “are you a model or are you a student of literature. How the hell do you know about all of these writers?”
“Why are you so surprised? I mean doesn’t everyone know these writers here in America?”
“No one under the age of thirty is any. Not anyone who was born after 1981.”
Her sarcastic smile soon appeared, “Well, I was actually born in 1984, if you must know.”
“Well dear girl, I am impressed. Most of my undergraduate students are about your age and most of them never ever heard of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Most of them think that This Side of Paradise is a daytime soap opera.”
“Well, I never read that one.” She slid her tongue across her healthy lip. “And how about you professor, who do you like to read?”
“That all depends,” I smiled, “Are we talking American, European, world authors? What?”
“Let’s start with Americans.”
“Well, I wrote my dissertation about Henry Miller. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Of course I have,” she protested.
“Not Arthur Miller,” I clarified, “We are not talking about the guy who wrote The Death of A Salesman.”
“Yea, I know, Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer Henry Miller, Henry and June Henry Miller.”
“Well, you know. Henry and June is actually based on the writings of Anais Nin, Henry’s lover.”
“Yea, I know. I love Anais Nin, you know A Spy in the House of Love is one of my favorites.”
Where has this woman come from and how could it be? I wondered. So many years have gone by. So many students have come and gone fro my writing workshops and seminars and none seemed as bright as this white skinned, Aryan Jamaican girl who claimed to have lived in London and be a fashion model. Life was always so much stranger than fiction. I tried to hide my enthusiasm. By now the very thought of a quick one night stand with her was replaced with thoughts about three children, a large house in the Hamptons and a dog. But I had to be careful. This one was as clever as she was young. She was as sophisticated as she was tender. I pondered my next move as the train slowly made its way into the station. We both knew that this conversation is to be continued on the train although there was no reason for such assumptions other than the fact that we were both still smiling at one another.

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Those Blond Girls

2008-08-05T08:11:00.001-07:00

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After seminar, I headed over to Human Resources. Those fuckers called me down to their office for the God knows how many time. Apparently, I once again failed to properly fill out the direct deposit application. If I knew just how much trouble it would cause, I would have never have switched banks. The service at my old bank was more than satisfactory and they never overcharged for any transaction. Really, there was no reason to switch banks.. Well, that is, there was a reason, but it was no a good one.

Her name was Julie and we met at a happy hour down at Jimmy’s Tavern down on Thompson Street. She was just sitting there looking all blond and official with the smell of corporate America lingering around her stuffy black business suite. She looked good. These kind of women don’t find their way to these kind of joints. We usually recruit from the bottom of the barrel.

“So excuse the cliché, but what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Why, what is wrong with this place?” she asked.
“What’s wrong? What can I tell you? Nothing and everything. It is just that we usually don’t get such pretty girls around here.”
“A friend of mine from the bank told me about this place. He said they have good cheap drinks, a good atmosphere and old time rock and roll. He did however warn me about the kind of characters that hang out around this place. Would you happen to be one of those characters”
“Well, I am not sure if I am one of those characters. But like most people, I am a character. Know what I mean?”
“Not really, but whatever.” She smiled.
She was a descent type for such an attractive woman. I never really had the chance to associate with one of these types. That of course was with the exception of those busty blond sorority girls that I always encountered in my introduction to American literature class. After I bought her a couple of drinks I tried to hit her up for her home telephone number or her cellular but she played hard to get.
“Sorry John, but I don’t give my number away to men that I meet in bars, especially not a bar like this one.”
“Hey, what’s wrong with this bar?” I asked.
“Nothing and everything, you know.” She laughed.
Eventually, she gave me her business card and walked out of the place. I watched her ass wiggle across that tight business skirt along that arousing foxtrot that took place at the edge of those shiny long legs. I was not the only one.

I slowly read the fine print that read:

Julie A. Smith
Senior Loan Officer
Downtown Branch

The next day, I opened a bank account at the downtown branch. Julie was no where in sight. I found several excuses to return to the bank. I came in for a debit card. I made a few deposits. I made a few withdrawals. Julie was nowhere in sight.
A few days later, I discovered that Julie had a boyfriend named Steve. He was the assistant bank manager.

By this point it was too late to go back to my old bank and that dusty old lady that served as my personal account representative.

So there I stood in the Human Resources office, reapplying once again for a direct deposit of my university salary. This time, I asked the lady at the counter to guide me through the process.

This whole bank account story was just another example of bad judgment. But what could a man do? None of us could resist. As I said before, I never really had the chance to associate with this kind of a woman.

That of course, with the exception of those busy blond sorority girls that always managed to get a B+ better in my Introduction to American Literature courses.

Free Cheddar Nation

2008-06-30T15:52:00.000-07:00

The thing I hate most about supermarkets are those free sample displays that are scattered all over those random corners of the store. They usually throw the samples into plastic containers where tiny bits of cheddar cheese are divided into dozens of even tinnier pieces of crud. Don’t get me wrong, those things taste pretty good and they are free, but what about that very fundamental issue of personal hygiene?

When you charge people for things, they show no shame in displaying just how truly anal they are. Did any of you pay any sort of attention to how people order their coffee drinks in any of those chain coffee shops? Maybe it is just a New York City thing. Maybe it just has to do with those characters who live on the upper east side. But I mean, come on, where do these people come from? Only this morning I saw one of those socialites order a cup of coffee. Actually it was not coffee the way she ordered it. It was more like a advanced placement science project.

I’ll have a skinny latte macchiato, half caf, half decaf with soy foam and please, make sure it is at 125 degrees, I don’t like it when my coffee is lukewarm, she explained.

That’s how she drinks her coffee this woman does. How the poor Puerto Rican kid behind the counter even figured that one out? God bless his soul.

So apparently, when we pay for things, we all allow ourselves to become complete pains in the ass, but when it comes to the free stuff, the rules adjust.

Just before I reached over for some of that old yellow fermented stuff, I noticed a corpulent woman who stuffed her overburdening fingers into the plastic container and took not one nor two but about six tiny squares and just scooped them out of the sample tray and straight into her hungry blowhole.

She was a foul one that woman was but not nearly as disgusting as that skinny awkward Minnesota type who stood over six feat tall and was wearing his torn Twins T-Shirts that he likely bought during their last playoff run more than two decades ago.

To say that this guy abused the very concept of a sampling display would be the understatement of the year. This guy was out for the kill. He seemed to believe with all of his Midwestern heart that there was such a thing as a free lunch and it took place right here on aisle 12 of the Megamart.

The guy had a system. He pretended to be sampling, not eating. Or at least, that was his apparent rational. But his system was as foolish as that red and yellow Gophers cap that he sported on his head. He took three pieces every time and then he would take a break and let the next person in line sample a piece for himself.

Pretty good cheese, he would say and then reach over for another sample. The way he saw it I suppose was not that he was a free cheese hog but rather a good neighbor and ambassador for the Cheddar cheese nation.

The sizeable woman and the tall Norwegian held conversation for several minutes while stuffing themselves on free yellow cheddar.

You realize of course, he told her, that not all cheese is actually made from cow’s milk. You have such varieties as Acapella and Humboldt Fog that are made out of goat milk. There is buffalo cheese, cheese made from the milk of camels, mare, yak and even lamas.

I never really knew that, she seemed to be embarrassed. To be perfectly honest, she confessed that she was somewhat lactose intolerant and was not a huge fan of the yellow stuff.

So why are you eating from this display of Cheddar? He was curious to know.

Well, you know, it is free so I just figured what the heck.

They continued to talk about cheese and milk and cows and camels and then walked over together to the meat department where they served free sampled of Bavarian sausages.

If those only knew, those people, I thought to myself that right before they came around, I stuck my hands into those piles of cheddar.

If they only realized how I stood there so compact and sweaty inside that downtown Nine train holding on to those very hand rails that so many thousands of other perspiring New Yorkers held on to every day in search of balance.

Ten minutes earlier I walked into the super store where I noticed free sample trays of Cheddar cheese. After throwing my hands all around the piles of food, I realized that I was likely carrying thousands of miniature colonies of Staphylococcus who were forming their troops in preparation of an imminent invasion of some poor man or woman’s large intestine.

So filthy were my hands that I decided to wash them both before and after urination. As I returned to the sample tray I noticed a large woman who stood besides a tall man. The two were devouring the free samples of cheese that were by now as polluted as the toxic waters of the Hudson river.

This is the main problem with people, I thought to myself, they could never resist anything if it was given to them for free.

Next time you walk into the whole food store, think about personal hygiene, think about tall Norwegian men and fat woman who chew away the free fat of life without knowledge of what came before.

The young woman who stood at the cash register had long streams of brunette hairs that were flowing down the path of her shoulder.

It has been more than a month since Sylvia and I last spoke on the phone.

God I miss that woman.

Hard Boiled Men

NYU Tales

2008-06-14T08:06:00.000-07:00

Check out my latest Podcast. This is a reading of Chapter 3 from Hard-Boiled Men read by LA actress and comedian Anna Becker. Please feel free to share this Podcast with your friends or to upload it to your websites and blogs,

NYU TALES

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God Just Laughs

2008-06-06T15:55:00.001-07:00

There are people around this town who walk around wearing three-piece business suites. If we lived in New York City, it would all make sense. Maybe it would make some sense in Chicago or the nicer parts of Hollywood. But around this tiny town? I mean, come on man.

The August sun feels no remorse towards people who walk around in pinstripe Giorgio Armani suites. No business deal can be worth withstanding this crazy heat.

But some people around these parts do not mind and I am always one to say, “Live and let live”.

The August sun feels no remorse towards my shaved head. I had lost the majority of my hair back when I was in my mid thirties. Those were some rough days back then for this cowboy.

As my old kindergarten teacher always told us studs : “You can not take back stupid.”

Her name was Shelly and she was the woman that I loved.

Her name is still Shelly but now she is loved by another man.

Shelly and I met back in those days when my hair was full and I was still the smiling kind of a man. I was the kind of a man that was going places. I was the kind of a man who inspired other men to be the kind of men that they hoped to one day become.

But the years have gone by and nothing is the same any longer.

The last I heard, she was living with some rich Baptist banker in some stylish new-money suburb right on the outskirt of Austin, Texas.

Shelly had a clear agenda since she was a teenage girl. She wanted nothing to do with our parts. I could not really ever blame her for it.

Her Daddy was a drunk and her mother was not one to say no to any man who paid her any fraction of attention.

Shelly always knew that she would get out of town just as soon as she would meet the right man. She wanted to live the kind of life she always read about in those shiny magazines.

Shelly once thought that I was that kind of a right man. She hoped that I would be the one to get her out of this life that she was living. She did not enjoy working as a waitress down at Bill’s diner down on Irwin Street. A lady’s hands, she always said, should be gentle and soft.

Back in those days, I worked as the senior consultant to our district’s congressman. When I woke up in the mornings, I would put on my pressed kaki slacks and that old crimson tie. While I brewed up that fresh pot of coffee, she would carefully iron my white button down shirt with that old Suzy Home Maker smile.

Back in those days, people mistook me for an honorable man, the kind of a man that was going places. My hair was thick and well brushed to the side. I never missed Sunday service at the local Methodist church.

Walking out hand in hand, looking as clean cut as American bacon, we looked the part and for a while even fell for it ourselves.

Shelly had big plans for our future. For my future is what she really had in mind. I was to work hard and climb up the ladder. I was to keep a smile on my face and my mouth shut.

Just as soon as old man Johnson would finish out his fourth consecutive term, would serve as the perfect timing for us to take that next step, where she would be the perfect little wife for the honorable congressman from Odessa, Texas.

God Bless that woman’s heart.

But Shelly soon found out the hard way that that old eastern saying holds truth regardless of geography:

“God laughs while man makes plans”

Or at least that’s what Father Swanson told me on that Sunday afternoon after that whole fiasco blew up in my face.

The first thing that Shelly did when she found out was slap me across the face.

The second thing that Shelly did when she found out was to once again slap me across the face but only this time, in the opposite direction.

I did not even try to explain. The only thing she ever cared about was that long term agenda. She never really bothered to ask about my dreams. To her they served no utility. And were not, as she said “Something an adult should ever think about…”

The last I heard, Shelly was living in a large estate that was fully paid for in cash. She has two ladies from Honduras who chased after her rotten children whole she would waste her hours down at the old hair salon.

But was I really someone who could judge another?

When Congressman Johnson first found out about his eighteen year old daughter and I, he kicked me right in the ass with the promise that I would never find work around these parts just as long as he had a single breath in his lungs.

My political career over and my hair mostly gone, I found my happiness within the comforts of this small bar.

Serving bottles of Shiner beer to the locals and fancy Scotch over ice to men in three piece suites, I came to accept the way things turned out without wondering what could have been.

Once in a while, someone may recognize me and say “Hey, aren’t you that guy who I used to know back in the day….”

When that happens, I just smile and nod my head. After all, you know what they say:

“Man makes plans and God just laughs” Aint that always the way that things turn out in life?

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God Just Laughs

2008-06-06T15:55:00.000-07:00

The trouble with Gemini men

2008-05-30T09:02:00.000-07:00

Every year, regardless of what city I may find myself in or the guy who lays next to me, it always appears to be the same story. Men are at their worst when it comes to their birthdays.

How often do they misconstrue this insignificant date to make it appear as if it was their crowing moment? For that one special date, they feel as if they ought to take their place amongst the ancient Greek gods, while their women at their feet.

As a general rule, men are mere children. They do not know what they want and more than often they simply change their minds depending on the time of the day. Most men do not know how to communicate how they feel. They do not understand what it is that can drive a woman insane. Men are the exact reason why women develop wrinkles and have to inject themselves with poisonous Botox.

Men are generally bad, but none are worst than a Gemini.

I am not one to believe in Astrology, zodiac charts, moon and sun signs. I was never one to believe in any of this bullshit. That is, until I met my Gemini man.

If you do not believe me, you can simply open up any book in the store. You do not even have to buy it. Just pick yourself a corner, somewhere comfortable in the store and read all about this complicated air sign.

“Beware of the charming Gemini man,” It will read “He will bring wind into the desert and life into the grave yard. And then, just as soon as the party has begun and you once again find your long lost enthusiasm and hope for a better day, he will walk out of your life in search of the next best thing.”

“The Gemini man,” It will read “loves nothing more than his freedom. As the great communicator he will trap you within his web of charm only to thief your heart and ransack your body.” Ain’t that the truth?

“The Gemini man is not as interested in sex as in conquest. His friendly mannerism and childish smile may fool you into giving up your defenses, but do not be so quick to do so. For beneath his allure hides a cold hearted conquest to control earth’s winds regardless of their direction.”

“The Gemini man,” It will read “Says not what he means and does not mean what he says. He simply says for the sake of his own entertainment. In his world all is temporary and on to the next conquest”

At the bottom of the page, you may just find, compatibility chats. The Gemini man goes well with the Aquarius woman, the balanced Libra may balance him, the Gemini woman can run with him and without him just as well.

And if you are a Virgo woman, he will break your heart. He never was deep enough to understand the secret of your heart.

Today is the birthday of my Gemini man. There he sleeps in the warm bed smiling peacefully in anticipation of another day. Just as soon as he will wake up, his birthday will begin and I will do my best to make it a memorable one.

But the problem with these God damn Geminis is that they will not let you out due them regardless of the feat. Give him head and he will out due you by staying down there until you get the most amazing multiple orgasm that you ever experienced. Cook his a five-course meal and he will surprise you with a chocolate fudge brownie that he bought all the way from that specialty store in the upper east side.

Last year after I did my best to make it the most special night of his life he simply smiled and then gently whispered “I love you” into my ear.

God Damn those Gemini men.

A week has gone by and with it so did my Gemini man.

“It has nothing to do with you” that’s what they would likely write in that book of Zodiac “He simply is not designed for a long term relationship,. For the Gemini man freedom is the ultimate goal. He mistakes commitment for a spiritual prison cell.”

Every year, regardless of what city I may find myself in or the guy who lays next to me, it always appears to be the same story. The early days of September are the most lonely days of them all. As the years go by, I try and forget about them at all.

When my birthday will come around in September, I will not open up my email account. I will not check the post office box or answer my telephone.

“Somebody has a birthday this morning” He would likely say and I would slowly wake out of my tired bed with a frown.

“I made you something special for your special day.” He would say and I would pretend that I am love with him despite the truth in my heart.

God damn these Aries man. They never take no for an answer.

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Barbara The Bar Keeper: a Milf’s diet for happy living

2008-05-26T17:43:00.000-07:00

Barbara stuck around the bar area later than usual. She had no intentions other than to help Lou close up after a long day. There was nothing special about that night. Just another simple night in another simple town in the middle of a boring state whose corn fields stretched for miles around. Barbara was born in the same delivery room where both her daughter and newest grandchild came into the world. Around these parts, people knew one another not only by their first names but also by their heartbreaks.

Big Louis’ has become a staple of the town over the years. Generation after generation of local drunks and bitter divorcees would often congregate around the oak wood counter that had more stories to tell than any modern day dramatist.

Time was getting late as the night matured. The cold wind of darkness signaled that winter was approaching sooner than expected. By now, her only daughter must have fallen asleep across from the old television set where she and her accidental son would spend their nights watching old cartoon shows to pass the time.

While Lou went into the back office to finish up the paperwork from another plentiful night, Barbara was doing her best to serve the last remaining drinkers while cleaning up for the night. There were a few customers hanging around the place despite the late hour. Those same old faces that Barbara has seen for so many years. By now they all appeared exactly the same to her, beaten in their loneliness.

Jack sat all by himself at the edge of the bar. Neither the cowboy hat nor the cigarette smoke that surrounded him could disguise his tender age. While most regulars sat around and engaged in the typical conversation about college football, getting laid or whatever it was that men chose to speak about, Jack would typically keep to himself. He seemed like the quiet type.

Twenty minutes after last call and Lou was getting ready to leave. By now most customers have gone home, all with the exception of an elderly couple, a businessman who was driving through town and Jack who was writing down notes in his journal as he often did. Doing his best to avoid his empty hotel room, the stranger kept the conversation going.

“So what does a man do around this town at such a late hour? You’ll have any other bars that stay up later? God darn it darling, do you mind getting me one last drink?”

“Sorry hon., I am way past last call. Time for this little ole lady to call it a night, it is time for me to go home to my baby girl.”

“Well, than, can this southern gent offer the little ole lady a ride home?” He offered.

“No need sweaty, I got my own set of wheels.”

“Well in that case, there ain’t no good reason for this good ole boy to stick around this dump. Why don’t I just leave you here to be with little author boy sitting there all pretty in the corner taking notes down in his faggy journal and thinking he is better than the rest of us drunks.”

Jack let out a careful smile and in his silent way used his fingers to let Billy Bob know that he best take a flying fuck before getting his redneck ass beaten by youth.

But Barbie had it all under control. “You take it easy now Mister, aint no need to get to fighting”.

Now it was just the two of them. How many times did she imagine this scenario during those bracing winter nights when she would lay in bed all by herself with her fingers so soft upon her skin?

“You want a drink Jack?”

“No thank Barbara, I am good.”

“You can call me Barbie sweaty, that is what all of my friends call me.” She smiled.

Jack slowly and unapologetically surveyed her body from the other side of the bar. Her, in her early fifties and him a mere pup. His body chiseled and foolish, hers saggy and experienced. That of course with the exception of those two large sized cups that no men regardless of age could ever keep his eyes from. True, she had to go to the doctors several times for maintenance. Most men simply have clue of how much work these babies demand from a lady, but hey, they were totally worth it, best $2,000 her ex-husband ever spent on her.

After they made love on the bar counter, Jack went out for a cigarette while she laid there blissful in her state of undress. Gosh, she thought to herself, no one screwed me like that in years.

As she invasively read through the secret pages of his journal, she came upon short passages of ordinary tales, lines of poetry and random thoughts.

How surprised was she as she came across that poem that was dated with today’s date and entitled Barbara The Bar Keeper: a Milf’s diet for happy living.

How curious it was, she thought to herself that one moment of living can even for a moment erase the heavy burden of past years.

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Charles Bukowski Tattoo

2008-05-13T11:04:00.001-07:00

The thing that I like most about the bar is the fact that it is my bar. I am in no way an owner, a proprietor or a manager of any sorts. Rather, I just feel a sense of belonging on account of the amount of weekly dollars that I spend in the joint. I have been drinking in this place for way too long but hard habits are hard to break.

There is nothing special about this bar, I must acknowledge. Its floors are sticky, its chairs are not comfortable and its bathrooms are beneath all imaginable standards as aged urine serves as a never changing highly uninspired potpourri that would drive any Virgo woman to absolute psychosis.

I first came across this bar when I was a bit younger. It must have been back in my twenties. Back then my hair was longer, my mind still optimistic. Those days are long gone and so is the majority of my hair. This may have something to do with Maria and the years that followed but guilt is the subject of another day.

But this bar, it is still here and I am still in it. Drinking from those same old glasses that are scarcely washed in that unsanitary pool of rusty waters and inexpensive liquid soap. I have grown accustomed to sitting around with those same old people whose familiar bitter faces have grown into familiar furniture. I pass the time by listening to those same old stories that they often tell. I could not ask for anything more.

The women who come in to this place are perfectly loose and their morals largely absent. Any of them will roll around with any stranger who paid modest attentions to their exhausted tales or opened up his wallet for watered-down vodka disguised as something that healthier women would drink in a better place

Chicago Charlie always works the afternoon shift on Wednesdays. He is a descent bar tender who usually throws in an extra shot for us old timers who have been coming around this place for way too many years. Unlike Pam who typically works during the weekend, Charlie substitutes words with non-verbal communication. Great bar keeps realize that most of us all timers are not there to listen to their troubles but rather forget our own.

Since it was Wednesday and since Lizzy was not around, I ordered myself a double down bourbon on the rocks. I am not the kind of a guy who has a favorite drink. For me, it is all about a schedule.

On the odd days, I drink beers. On the even days I liquor it up. On the weekends it is purely random. I usually order whatever they have on special. I order a double bourbon on the rocks.

Then she approached me as if she did not remember who I was.

“Heya guy, want to buy a lady a drink?”

I offered her some water.

She told me to go fuck myself and walked on over to the other side of the bar where she found a properly dressed college kid with an open tab who was more than happy to oblige.

Jamie is a regular just like the rest of us. She has a gorgeous set of tits and a face that was clearly devastate by her extreme alcoholism and the heartbreak of a plan that did not pan out like it was suppose to.

Just like the rest of us, she could have been something completely different if she only made better decisions, if she surrounded herself with better company, if she only stayed away from the bar.

But like the rest of us, she didn’t and that was exactly why she is here with all of us old- timers.

The dilapidated jukebox is playing those familiar songs of Robert Johnson as it helps pass the time. Kind Hearted Woman Blues reminds me of the time I once spent out in Mississippi.

And now comes a man and sits right next to me. He is much younger than I. He has long hair and a Charles Bukowski tattoo on his left arm. The guy orders a double bourbon on the rocks.

“Great minds….” I tell him.

“Great mind what?” He asks.

“Great minds drink a double bourbon on the rocks. Great minds read books by Charles Bukowski minus his poetry.”

He smiles and waves his dismissing hand in my direction. “Hank Bukowski is the greatest motherfucking poet of all times. What do you know about it?”

I know nothing about it nor do I care. I once read Ham on Rye. It was not half bad. A woman bought me the book many years and told me that I just had to read it. And so I did.

“So what makes a man tattoo the name of another man on his hand?” I inquire.

“Call it appreciation of a far more talented individual than you can ever hope to become.”

I order another round and just smile while I am enjoying my time. From 4 Until Late is playing in the background and it all makes perfect sense to me, to the people have been coming here for years and to the old walls of this small bar that we all love so much.

It likely makes none to any of my readers but that was never the point of the story. I just want them all take a look around this place.

The guy next to me asks me to watch his drink while he takes a piss. For a moment I think about sipping it all down but he is all right despite it all.

Still, I would never consider tattooing a man’s name or image on any part of my body.
It is hard enough to commit to a woman so why bother with a man.

Jamie is all liquored up on the other side of the bar and it looks like she is ready to go. I know that I can do much better if I only made an effort but she is the best that is around.

She smiles in my direction and we head out towards Vernon’s Bar. I grab the drink of the guy while he takes a piss and walk out to the cold wind of the familiar parking lot.

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Books For The Beach

2008-05-04T06:08:00.001-07:00

ATLANTIC CITY (May 3, 2008) 2008 BEACH BOOK FESTIVAL WINNERS announced. Hard-Boiled Men by Guy Jacobs wins the second place prize in the general fiction category. Jacobs’ hilarious account of single life in New York City won praise from readers and critics alike.

Smart, raw and tight"
-Page One Reviews

Hard-Boiled Men is fun and thought-provoking, It reminded me of a modern day Portnoy’s Complaint"
- The Compulsive Reader

'Powerful, inspiring and heartfelt. Hard-Boiled Men is The Catcher in the Rye all grown up"
-Dr. Paul S. Lieber, Emerson College

"This novel will leave you completely entertained and satisfied"
-Sherri A. Marchese

Other recent awards won by Guy Jacobs include:
2007 New York Book Festival Award
2007 Hollywood Book Festival Award

So what are you waiting for? Get your copy of Guy Jacobs’ novel Hard-Boiled Men on Amazon, BN.com or get an autographed copy at:

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Clean Up on Aisle 10

2008-04-28T19:42:00.001-07:00

For Herald, things seemed rather ordinary for a Wednesday afternoon. Walking through the supermarket aisles, he noticed the perfectly stacked containers of breakfast treats and one hundred calorie snack packs.

But these were not simple rows of consumerism and daily specials highlighted in large print. The super market was his gateway to discovery. It was his suburban version of the kind of life that he always read about in those adventure magazines. It was the kind of life that he never dared to pursue in the name of being pragmatic and those Gods of socially acceptable norms.

His worthy vehicle was no four by four jeep that could break through rough terrains and climb over steep topography, rather, it was a shiny super market cart whose front left wheel was tilted in the wrong direction.

Herald did not mind the daily task of grocery shopping. There was so much to be discovered as he passed through the familiar rows. On aisle Nine there was a special on frozen hamburger meat, only $4.99 per lbs. The old lady in aisle four offered free samples of micro waved pizza that tasted like ketchup dough topped off by gummy imitation Mozzarella cheese. Herald waited in line with the rest of them and when the pizza was finally ready he received a perfectly squared piece that fitted well into the tiny plastic cup.

Herald swallowed the pizza bite without chewing, one could say that he drank the pizza or rather inhaled it. When he asked the old lady for another piece she declined on account of the store policy that every costumer only gets one sample.

Herald was not the kind of a man who knew how to handle adversity. Like so many others, he chose to walk away in silence with that lingering feeling of being mistreated by the world. Life is not always fair, he reminded himself as he walked towards the fruit section where he noticed her standing there in between the ripe cherry tomatoes and those mountains of yellow and green bananas that were on store special, only two dollars per pound.

Her name was Dee. Doris if you wanted to get technical. Doris M. Pupnik if you wanted to be precise. Doris worked at the local video rental store. She had long brown hair that curled at its bottoms. Her skin was fair and her smile was reassuring.

Herald frequented the shop where she worked. He loved the old classic movies from the 1950’s, that time in America when things were more simple and people could be trusted.

In the 1950’s he always told her, people could depend on their friends and neighbors. Back in those days, people left their doors unlocked at night and allowed their children to run free through the neighborhood streets. Doris was not the kind of a woman to engage in those kinds of philosophical discussions. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she was born in September, Damn Virgos are always so practical, he thought to himself.

Dee was a southerner who held on to that southern charm. She always listened in an attentive manner and wished Herald a great day as he walked out of store.

Herald grew hesitant as he approached her. This was the very first time that they ran into each other on neutral grounds. This was the first time that he saw he legs. Come to think about it, he never even knew she had legs before. She always stood behind that rental store counter.

But there she was, in all of her flesh and glory. Herald smiled, approached and then ran scared. He simply freaked, he changed his mind, he could not handle the opportunity, he knew not what to say.

But it was too late. she already spotted him as he turned around.

“Herald, is that you?” she smiled.
“Yea, it is me, how are you Dee?”
“I am ok, how are you?”
“Pretty much the same”

Following some meaningless small talk about the rising price of vegetables, the merits of organic foods and some exotic recipes that she offered him for cooking tofu, Herald and Dee walked slowly together towards aisle ten. That was the place where the supermarket proudly displayed their DVD collection. From oldies to new releases, from such classics as Gone With the Wind to the latest Disney animation flick, this place had it all.

Herald felt the need to prove his sense of loyalty to Dee. He positively reassured her that he would never switch over to the supermarket rentals despite the attractive prices that they offered and their flexible return schedule.

“What about you Dee?” He wanted to know. “What kind of movies do you like to watch?”

“I actually don’t watch too much television or waste my time with movies” she confessed. “I find most of it to be beneath me. If you really want to know what I think, then I can tell you that most people who spend their lives in front of the television ultimately become mindless bores who have no true concept of the world. I would much rather read a novel, go hiking or have an occasional roll in the sack with a good looking man.”

Herald was the kind of a man who wore his feelings on his sleeve. In the case of Dee, he wore disappointment. How he ever mistook her for someone who could understood his heart, he would never know. Running away like a frightened child, he knocked over a couple of Coca-Cola bottles that went on special, only $3.99 for a six pack.

Leaving her, his groceries and his shiny metal cart behind, Herald stormed out of the supermarket and into that same blue Chevrolet that he has been driving for the past seven years.

She just stood there in silence. What the hell was the problem with these men? she thought. This of course was not the first time she tackled this ageless question to no avail.

The voice of a young Hispanic female rang “Cleanup on aisle ten” across the loud sound system.

Dee saw a woman around her age waking hand and hand with her three year old son. The boy smiled at the woman and simply said "I love you Mama"

It was getting late already. Dee would turn 36 in just a few months and had nothing to show for it.

A teenage boy holding on to a mop cornered off the area with those bright yellow cones that simply read “Caution slippery when wet.”

Dee had no place to go. She did not feel like eating another one of those frozen single serving meals.

After a supersized hamburger, French fries and a diet coke, she walked over to her new Toyota that she got on lease. The scent of new leather was still in the air but that did not make things any better for her.

It was getting late already, she thought, time for her to go home.

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A special place in hell for women

2008-04-20T08:11:00.000-07:00

That morning, like most others, was just another ordinary day that offered limited consequence laced with the morning fragrance of routine. She watched the dials of the old wooden clock shift slowly towards west with the partial enthusiasm of another day to come
.
Her hair was long and brown. It required a level of attention that she could not commit to.

Thank God, she thought to herself, that she never adopted that cat that Marcie offered her. Mr. buttercup may have helped cope with loneliness but he would more likely drive her insane. She did not want to turn into one of those single women who lived with cats. She always thought that letting a cat move in was the last step before accepting life’s lonely trail. But at least, cats did not demand as much work as did people.

Men were the most difficult to deal with, she always thought.

Thank God she never agreed to let John move in with her. He would have likely required even more work than would Mr. Buttercup. John was a stale male. As soon as she had her taste of his limited companionship and that five-inched tickle, she felt just as lonely as she did before he came into her life.

She thought about her birthday. June was only two months away. She will turn 38. She felt like 27. Time was always missing. It was a rare commodity in her life. She decided not to think about it. Repression proved to be a useful technique as the years went by.

The long line of people who were standing in line for a morning cup of coffee did not make things any better for her. She stood behind a homeless man who smelled of misery and collective apathy. His kaki jacket was torn at the shoulder. His hair seemed as confused as the rest of it all.

He walked up to the young lady at the counter and asked her for a cup of coffee and for a cup filled with iced water. When she refused to accept his money on account of her being a born again Christian and all, he dropped two single dollar bills into her tip jar.

God bless you and the rest of America, he whispered as he walked away with his distinct pride.

Now it was her turn. Sabrina stood in front of the young Christian girl where she found herself empty of speech.

What can I get you today? She asked.

Sabrina stayed silent.

The Christian girl tried once again, Good morning, Mam, what can I get for you today?

Sabrina remained silent.

Two Wall Street secretaries were standing impatient in the back of the line. They both wore similar cloths, similar shoes and similar hairstyles. Beneath their socially acceptable appearances, they both held on to those same fears that drove so many people into the world of banking-.the fear of being alone in the world.

Hey lady, one of them bolstered, some of us have jobs to get to this morning, can you please hurry it up already?

Sabrina said nothing. She ignored their rudeness as she placed her eyes on the shiny crucifix that hung from the coffee shop employee’s necklace.

Following a third attempt, the young Christian girl just smiled and turned towards the large coffee percolator. She returned with a warm cup of coffee and a reassuring smile.

Here you go honey, no charge.

Sabrina dropped a twenty-dollar bill into the tip jar and walked away feeling better about the world.

There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women, said the homeless man who was standing outside. I could be wrong, but I think that the quote came from former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright.

Sabrina smiled and nodded her head in agreement. She took the old black book out of her crowded purse and disappeared into the hopeful streets of the East Village.

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Hard-Boiled Men

The Truth About Jeremy Klein

2008-04-15T17:32:00.000-07:00

“Yesterday, some guy came in here and told me that he loved me”
“He did what?”
“Yea, I am totally serious. At first, I just thought that he was joking. But he wasn’t. Even after I told him to get lost, he stuck around. He must have lingered around that table for at least another hour if not longer.” She pointed towards the corner.
“That’s kind of creepy.”
“But that is not the half of it. Just as he was about to leave, he once again turned my way and told me that he was a friend of Jason’s.”
“Your Jason? The Jason?”
“The one and only?”
“Ok, this is really strange. How does he know him? Did he say?”
“He did not say much. He just stood there smiling. As he was walking out, he gave me his business card and said that he would be back later on today. What time do you have?”
“It is almost 8pm. This guy better hurry up and get here before Louis closes down.”
The two of them sat around the bar area and waited. Smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee always helped time go by that much quicker. Richmond Virginia was the last place that smokers were considered human beings. Maybe it had something to do with that giant conglomerate that was situated downtown.
Sam thought about Jason. Four years have gone by since they last met. There was not a day that went by when she did not think about him, about them, about the way he used to make her feel alive. Some things in life could not be repaired by time. A broken heart was one of them.
A few more customers walked into the joint while others left. Every doorbell ring made her lift her eyes up in anticipation. A large plate of French fries and a grilled cheese sandwich did not make her feel any better. When 10 pm came around, she greeted Louis goodbye and asked Remy if she would not mind sticking around for just a while.
The two of them, like a tall pine standing beneath the horizon made little sense in the settings of the old neighborhood. So many years have gone by and nothing has changed for either one of them.
They both still worked at that same restaurant where they first became waitresses more than a decade ago. They hung out with those same people who held the same conversations, watched the same television shows and smoked the same menthol smokes that chiseled away at the larynxes of everyone around their side of the street.
Remy did not mind the daily routine. Some people just preferred to live their lives in that fashion. But Mel wanted more, much more.
Jason was the one who opened her eyes. He was the one told her about the word outside of Hull Street. He told her about far away nations, about Laos, Azerbaijan and Bolivia. He told her about those strange kinds of food that people ate, cobra snake stews, lizard pies and hog fat soup. He has traveled the world and has seen it all. His two years down in Highland Springs was always meant to be temporary. Guys like Jason never put down their roots in suburban America. He always viewed corporate malls and gated communities as agents of spiritual devastation.
It was getting late now, nearly 10:45pm. Remy said that it was time to go.
Mel dipped her extended fingernails deep into her warm suede pocket. On the expensive business card, his name was spelled Jeremy A. Klein, Attorney at Law. She did not recognize his name nor could she remember Jason ever mentioning this guy’s name.
Jeremy A. Klein did not show up that night nor did he show up any other time in subsequent days.
Two weeks later, she broke down and called him up. The fine print beneath his name identified his place of employment as the Weinstein and Gad Law Firm (In Manhattan’s financial district is what she gathered). The vigorous secretary transferred her call after a few moments.
“Hello”
“Yes, this is Jeremy Klein, how can I help you?”
“Hello. Yes, hi, this is Mel from the restaurant. You know, you gave me your card.”
“Is that what you best remember me by Mel? Or was there something else?”
“Well,” she laughed “You did tell me that you loved me”
“And?”
“And that you will come back.”
“Yes, I did, I did say that and I meant every word of it too.”
“Which did you mean, the part about coming back or the part about you loving me?”
“I meant both”
“Well, it does not appear like you meant either. You never showed up.”
“So you were waiting?”
“Well, yes, I guess I was, but only out of curiosity.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, did anyone ever tell you that one?”
“Hey Jeremy, you have to admit that this is all so strange. Do you always just show up at places and tell strange women that you love them? That you know their ex-boyfriends? Is that what you always do?”
“Actually, it is not.”
“So what gives?” she demanded to know.
“I will tell you, but not over the phone.”
Six months went by and Mel moved her things into his apartment. When faced with boredom, with a lack of hope and with the feeling that there is no way out, any woman can fall in love with any guy as long as he pays her the right kind of attention. Strange was the nature of human beings.
One the other side of the continent, Jason was working around his garden when the phone rang. The rain around Seattle seemed to be like the wind that came in for a visit every day or so. Sometimes it just said hello, other times it stayed around for coffee. The mention of her name made him pause. He did not hear the name Mel in several years.
Despite numerous girlfriends, he never really did stop loving her even after all of those years and all of the pain involved.
So just imagine how he reacted when he found out that some random guy that he once met on an airplane ride asked his former love to marry him. He almost went insane.
Weeks and weeks of heavy drinking could not take away the pain and compunction.
If he only closed his eyes and went to sleep like he always did on long flights. If he had only watched that movie that they were showing for the twentieth time . If he had only not had the urge to tell everyone that he ever met about that one woman that he left behind, to show them the many pictures of Mel with her gorgeous eyes and perfect figure. If he had only kept the long conversation to small talk like most people did instead of telling that shady lawyer about the small town where he met her and that great restaurant where she worked.
If only life was that much different, he would not have to face the fact that Mel will soon be known as Mrs. Melissa A. Klein. To face the fact that a random stranger had the guts to take Mel to that place where he was always afraid to go.

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A Beer To Match

2008-04-07T10:31:00.001-07:00

Not every kind of a woman could get a way with it. But then again, Nancy was not just another woman. She was Nancy. She ignored the television dictated hegemony of socially acceptable bar behavior and ordered herself an ordinary brown bottle of Budweiser beer.

Nancy was no dummy. She had a complete sense of the potential reprocautions that her selections may have on visual representation of her entourage. Like an ugly sore, her beer bottle took away from the magnificence of her girlfriends’ Cosmo martinis and sour apple vodka drinks.

Ever since she was a little girl back in Odessa Texas, Nancy did not quit fit in with the rest of the group. She was the kind of a girl that always sat alone in that back corner of the classroom.

Nancy did not have blond hair and her breasts did not come out until it was just a bit too late. Her cousin Annie had nice supple ones as early as fourteen. Annie’s mom always dressed her up in those tiny summer dresses that made her look like a California princess. Annie’s mom was born out in LA.

Annie was great. That was what everyone in Odessa always said. As for Nancy, of her no one spoke that often. The one was blond and the other brunette. The one a woman, the other was a girl.

It was cold Friday night back when they were younger when Uncle Jim and Aunt Marilyn went out to the dance in the grand ballroom that the two girls stayed back at home.

Nancy never kissed a boy but Annie did much more. Out of the fridge, they snuck a bottle of Budweiser. Nancy was amazed at what Annie showed her. She never even thought that anyone would ever think of doing such a thing to a boy. When Annie told her that everyone already did, she felt inadequate just like she always did with everything else.

At first she placed her lips on the bottle’s tip and then slowly worked her way down.

“Make sure to breath through your nose”, Annie explain “otherwise you may just end up chocking on that thing, and that would be so embarrassing, don’t you think?”

Nancy took her time. It was more than two years later when she met Lyndon Andrews, the only boy to ever have her heart. Lyndon was an unusual boy. He played the guitar.

Nancy thought that he was much bigger than that bottle of Budweiser that Annie used to teach her about those fact of life. She breathed slowly through her nose but that did not always help.

Lyndon was a sweet boy. That was what she always thought when thinking back. She has not seen him ever since he flew out west to play football in Colorado State.

How she ended up in North Carolina, Nancy never figured. She just assumed that life had its own way of working things out.

Holding on to her bottle of Budweiser, Nancy smiled and pretended to care about what her friends were saying and what the others were talking about. The bar was crowded but hundreds of men but none of them appeared to have a good heart.

When she opened up her mailbox that very morning, there she found that Christmas card from Odessa Texas. Bob, Annie, daughter Melissa and their six year old son wished her a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Annie’s breasts seemed larger than ever. Her ass grew double in size.

It has been more than three years since Nancy flew back to Texas. There was not much left there for her these days. Nothing left besides those cold brown bottles of cold Budweiser and a smile to match.

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Get Yours

2008-04-02T19:08:00.000-07:00

For all of those of you who just waited but could not make a decision. Now is the time to GET YOURS.

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Never Judge a Book

2008-04-01T08:22:00.001-07:00

“You know Jim, there are two types of Cambodian girls” that’s what he said as we stepped off from the platform of the long wooden boat. It has been a long trip from the island of Koh Phangan. The sun was out in full force and the Singha Beers did not help any. My dehydration did not discourage Martin’s enthusiasm as we walked into the territorial grounds of Cambodia.
“As I said,” he picked up his backpack from the floor, readjusted its straps and walked on “there are two types of Cambodian girls, there are those who charge twenty five per night and then there is the other type.” Then he paused as if he was waiting for me to play straight man.

“Ok, I give in, what is the other type?”

“Those who charge more.” You should have seen the smile on his face, he stood there like some kind of a perverted peacock who mistook his record of Asian whore mongering to be a worthy accomplishment for all loyal subjects of the great British Commonwealth.
Martin and I met on a scuba diving trip out in Koh Pi Pi. For any and all of us who scuba as a way of life, there are no better waters that those of the Thai islands.
Martin stood over six feet tall. He was the perfect antithesis to the two American travelers who joined us back in Bangkok. They were young and foul, while he was the quintessential English gentleman.

Martin always said “Thank You” and “No need”. Every sentence that came out of his mouth was preceded or followed by an “ I beg your pardon”. Martin used the right fork with the right hand, he never spilled his beer nor did he ever interrupt a conversation. Even after a long day of diving, he showed up properly for dinner. His pressed white button down shirt was something out of the ordinary around their T-shirt circles.

Martin seemed like the kind of a man that was so proper and straight that he could himself poor the purest Earl Gray tea into Queen Elizabeth’s own tea cup.

But you should never judge a book by his cover that is what they always told me.

Later on, in that small village, right outside of Sihanoukville, we walked into the Smoking Bandit brothel. At least, that was the sign that they posted for the tourists. This was my first time in an official brothel. The prostitutes along the small outside bars on the main drag of the island of phuket do not count.

A short woman around the age of forty welcomed us into a well decorated room that was furnished with bamboo and red cloth.

Her name was Jorani and she explained in broken English that it meant beautiful jewel. Lady Jewel did not speak much. The only words she knew referred to drinks, women and money to be collected.

A couple of Angkor beers did the trick and we were ready to go.

Jorani walked us into the other room were we had to choose. Each girl went for about Cambodian Riel, the equivalent of ten American dollars.

Miki and John took their time and then selected their woman. Miki liked them taller. John was looking for a bustier woman, which as we all know, is a rare commodity around these parts.

Then it was Martin’s turn. We all waited to see who the great English gentleman was going to select. I suspected that he would take that one girl from the left who seemed to be just a little more classy than did the rest of the prostitutes.

But Martin was full of surprises just like the many other characters that I met along my travels.
First he chose Lin and then Min and then Ling. But he could not stop. Six women walked into the bedroom with the great English gentleman, Queen Elizabeth’s tea steward, the great emblem, satisfaction and delight of the United Kingdom of St. George and the rose.

There were three women left but I selected none. I went outside and smoked another cigarette as I waited for the boys to complete their task.

Twenty minutes later, I grew bored and paid Jorani fifteen American dollars for a massage. Her hands were experienced and worth every penny I spent. At the end, she gave me a short hand job, just to make things right.

Two cigarettes later and Miki reemerged.

“So what do you say about his Martin character?” He laughed as he inquired.

“What do I think about this Martin character? What do I think about all of us? Well Miki”, I inhaled another breath of cigarette smoke and then smiled “I guess that you can never judge a book buy its cover.”

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Kappa Kappa Gamma

2008-03-22T07:26:00.000-07:00

Most people, I imagine, do not have too much to say about Postmodern architecture before 8:30 in the morning. Nothing could be of less interest to most people than I came across than to discuss Classical Antiquity before they even had a chance to unpeel that thin yellow layers from the external films of their outer eyelids. What kind of a man would engage thirty some semi-strangers with his critical analysis of the Materialist philosophers and of Pythagoras of Samos whose perception of numbers and early math somehow helped explain the underlying structure of the universe? Such thoughtless engagement could only be perceived as cruel and unusual punishment for these poor university undergrads who were doing their best to keep awake after last night’s floor of cheap alcohol and menthol cigarettes.

But what was I suppose to do. I was not the one who scheduled this 8am seminar. Just like my students, I had to go through the motions. I had to pretend that I had no better place to be at such an hour.

While I was talking away and drawing logical diagrams on the blackboard, the majority of them were sipping away at their Starbucks lattes and their caramel frappuccinos. Most of them looked alike to me. They were mostly female, mostly blond, mostly young and mostly southern. I know for a fact that non of these girls have ever backpacked through the jungles of Brazil, non of them ever climbed mount Kilimanjaro nor did any of them ever experience the city of Barcelona.

These small towns outside of Norman did not offer people too much in terms of worldly imagination. People around these parts just lived their lives in the most descent ways that they could. There was no need for far away mountaintops, there was no need for all of those false adjectives and nouns that were offered by New York based television stations.

In the third seat behind that fairly large student sat Jenna Parker. Just like the rest of them, she had hair of gold. Just like the rest of them, she came some small town right outside of Wichita Falls or Oklahoma City. She was always surrounded Stacey and Madison. Neither of them could I stand for more than a minute. But Jenna was ok. The three of them were best friends for ever (or at least so they thought). They always played with one another’s hair. They wore pink shirts and sweaters that Kappa Kappa Gamma.

Last week, after we made love for the second time that night, Jenna explained to me that Kappa Kappa Gamma was amongst the oldest sororities in America. Founded on some university campus right around Illinois sometime around 1870, the Kappa sorority was amongst the oldest and largest sororities in the world.

I did not care much for her history lesson. I simply flipped her around.

She rolled me a joint and I promised to give them all an A for the semester. That is, I agreed to give Jenna and Stacey an A. Madison would have to settled for a B-, I could not stand anything and everything that she stood for.

After the semester was over, Jenna went back to Justin, her old high school sweetheart. Justin was an All American and I was not. Justin was one of them and I was foreign.

Jenna did not care about mount Kilimanjaro nor did she care about Pythagoras of Samos. Jenna was young and her breasts stood firm and substantial.

As the summer session came around, she and Justin went back to Wichita Falls. I flew back to New York City to meet up with the guys.

It was there on the bar down at Harry’s on Sullivan Street that Katie came around.

Can I buy you a drink?

But she did not need one. She was keeping away from the yellow stuff for a few weeks just to clean out her system, at least that was what the doctor told her to do.

I bought myself another round.

Katie did not like for me to be on top, she wanted to be in charge. As she climbed up and down , from side to side and all around, I ignored her grunts and closed my eyes. As she pulled her nails across my flesh, I thought about that first time that we met, down at the Blue Bonnet Bar on Norman’s Main Street. It was a cold Saturday night in Oklahoma and Jenna was wearing a pink jacket that wore ΚΚΓ across it side.

So what do you do Mr? She asked.

A few weeks later, Jenna and her friends registered for my class.

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