Monthly Archives: August 2014

I was born and raised on Long Island

I grew up on Long Island, and like everybody else that grew up on Long Island, I feel like I developed this natural chip on my shoulder. It’s nothing that any of us did on purpose, it just happens automatically. I remember one of my friends from grade school had a cousin that lived two towns over. “Man, I hate Long Island kids,” he always used to say. And I didn’t get it. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m from Queens.” And that was it, I don’t think he really knew what that meant either, but I was left to sort of figure things out for myself. And I’m not even kidding you, I remember being in like fourth or fifth grade and finally looking at a map. And it was Long Island, my town somewhere in the middle, and Brooklyn and Queens clearly a part of the same geographical landmass.

And then my grandfather explained it to me, the boroughs, how New York City is more than just Manhattan. But cut it any way you want to, Long Island isn’t New York City. It’s Nassau County, that’s where I grew up, and Suffolk County farther east. And you’d never really think it makes too much of a difference. I mean, I grew up in the suburbs, I’m not trying to make my upbringing something that it’s not.

But why am I writing this, why am I trying to justify myself anyway? It’s what I’ve been conditioned to do. When I went away to college, I found out the hard way that I couldn’t just say I was from New York the same way some guy from the suburbs of Cleveland gets to say that he’s from Cleveland. Because any time that question comes up, wherever I am in the world, it doesn’t matter, there’s always going to be at least one or two real New Yorkers ready to put me in my place, to out New York me.

If you’re from Long Island, you know exactly what I’m talking about, and it’s really annoying. “Oh, you’re from New York?” the real New Yorker will cut you off, “What part? I’m from (insert New York City neighborhood here), born and raised.” Notice how they don’t even give you a chance to give an answer before throwing their origin story in your face.

Also notice the phrase “born and raised.” You’ll hear it a lot from people who grew up in the city. They must teach it at all the public schools. “OK class, if you ever hear anybody from Long Island trying to say that they’re from New York, make sure that you let them know where you were born and raised.”

I lived in Ecuador for two years and I couldn’t escape it. I met several expats who, after hearing me drop the NY, they’d kind of just appear, get in my face. “Where? Long Island? That’s not really New York.” I swear, I’d been living in Queens for two years before I went abroad, and I still felt pressured to display my bona fides, all while this guy from Staten Island and some girl from Brooklyn shook their heads at me in disapproval. “I’ve never even been to Long Island,” some lady from Manhattan once boasted to me. And I had to just stand there and smile and try not to get into a screaming match with a random stranger. Because really? That’s something to brag about? That you’re born on a tiny island and you’ve never once made the trip to the slightly bigger tiny island that exists fifteen minutes to the east?

Over the course of many years of bullshit New York conversation, I’d try to make the argument that, outside of Manhattan anyway, a lot of the outer boroughs are pretty much identical to suburban Long Island. But whatever, I’m not trying to defend myself, or Long Island. Long Island shouldn’t have to defend itself from New York City. One, it’s not fair, because a lot of Long Island towns are bigger than actual cities across the US. And two, who cares? For real? Who gives a shit? Why don’t you pick on Westchester? Huh? What, making fun of Jersey isn’t good enough for you? You have to take a dump on Long Island? By the way, don’t bother explaining where the Hamptons are. If you’re getting bent out of shape because of a conversation with someone who grew up in New York and vacations in the Hamptons, just leave, just do yourself a favor and make sure you never talk to that person again.

And for real here, a lot of the stuff that New York is famous for is better on Long Island. I’m talking pizza and bagels. New York City staples, right? Yeah, well they’re both better on Long Island. Go ahead and deny it. Start throwing down the names of all of those world-class New York pizzerias you found on a BuzzFeed list while you should have been working. Sure, maybe there’s like one or two city pizza places or bagel shops that do a really good job, but in terms of consistent quality at basically every location, Long Island has NYC beat nine times out of ten.

That’s basically it. If you’re one of those real New Yorkers, do me a favor, and just save it, OK? I don’t care where you were born and raised, and nobody else does either. There’s no trophy. And you sound like an idiot. Also, if you ever say “Strong Island” to me like you think you’re making fun of me, or that I’m going to get upset, you’re not, and I’m not. In fact, I take it is a compliment.

This article was originally published at Thought Catalog.

The Slap Heard ‘Round the World: Fifteen years later

Does anybody remember when Shane McMahon slapped his father Vince across the face? It’s known today as the “Slap Heard ‘Round the World,” and it happened exactly fifteen years ago tonight on Monday Night Raw. The details of the Slap have been somewhat muddled by history. People still look back on the event and ask themselves, why? Why would Shane disrespect his father like that? And on live TV?

Shane slaps his own Father! by sir-roddick

Basically, Vince was the leader of a mostly evil group of pro wrestlers known as The Corporation. There was Vince, The Rock, Triple H, the Big Bossman, some other people too, I can’t really remember now. I’m also not sure if I have my timeline right. Like, I’m not sure if the Rock was still a bad guy, or heel, at the time.

But there was a power struggle. Vince was clearly the alpha of the group, and Shane felt overshadowed, as a lot of sons tend to do as they come of age. He resented the fact that he had to do a lot of his dad’s dirty work. For example, he had to get in this really lame feud with X-Pac, culminating in a Pay-Per-View match, where not only did Shane lose, but he was humiliated, forced to suffer X-Pac’s signature move, the Bronco Buster. Just imagine, you’re Shane McMahon, your dad made you wrestle against this puny scrub with a greasy beard and long hair, and the next thing you know, you’re beaten to the point that you’re barely conscious, X-Pac rests your limp body against a turnbuckle, and then, from the other side of the ring, he lunges at you, awkwardly straddling your body while everybody in the audience points and laughs.

If I were Shane, I’d probably be more than a little angry. Which was why the son had a bone to pick. It was just a regular night, and Vince had the mic with his posse of Corporate wrestlers at his back. Again, I forget the circumstances that led up to the Slap, but I’ll never forget exactly how it went down.

Vince: “Power is not something you can just take. You have to earn it. With respect.”

Then there was a really long pause as Shane, with a big scowl on his face, inched closer to Vince. He grabbed the mic and said:

Shane: “Respect this!”

And then it happened. Slap. The Slap Heard ‘Round the World.

JR: “Oh! My! God! Shane McMahon slapped his father in the face!”

I’m glad that they’ve made up. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for either of them to get over the Slap. Part of me will never be over it. I’ll be going about my day, everything in life will be great, and then it’ll hit me, or, it’ll slap me, right in the face, it’ll be like I’m there again, shocked, unable to believe that Shane would do that to his old man.

Anyway, I almost hate to bring it up. I know that I’m not the only one that’s disturbed by the events that went down fifteen years ago tonight. But it’s a part of our history. And we should never forget.

I’m just saying

The whole floor got called in for a meeting after lunch. There’s way too many of us working on six to fit in the conference room at the same time, but our manager Jackie didn’t care at all. “Where am I supposed to sit?” I asked her, standing in the entranceway of Conference Room C, pointing inside, shrugging my shoulders like, for real? Really, we all have to shove in there? “Isn’t that against the fire code?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “Do you have a copy of the fire code on you?” Of course I don’t have a copy of the fire code, but I didn’t know what else to say, so I just kind of exaggerated my shrug for thirty seconds or so before saying, “Do you?”

“Just get inside, stand against the wall. Please.”

Which, yeah, when I write it out like this and read it back to myself, it doesn’t seem like she’s in the wrong here, or, what I mean to say is, you can’t really get the sense of the attitude she was passing along to me, like shut up and get inside. But she didn’t say shut up. She said please. Whatever, trust me, it was your classic case of I’m-the-boss-stop-asking-me-questions.

I went inside. Did I mention how crowded it was? And Jackie was standing by the door. Part of me wished that there was a big fire right there, and the only one who’d make it out alive would be Jackie, and she’d have to go before a big investigatory panel, “Why’d you make them all squeeze into Conference Room C?” the fire marshals would grill her, “You’re a manager, aren’t you at all familiar with the fire code?”

I didn’t really want that to happen. I wanted all of the consequences of that to happen, but without any of the actual fire, nobody dying or anything like that. I certainly don’t want to die in a fire in Conference Room C.

But it was getting really hot. Someone said, “Someone open a window,” and I couldn’t even tell who said it, because I don’t know everyone on six, not on a first name basis, and it was so crowded I couldn’t really see where the voice came from. Someone else answered, “Why don’t you open a window?” And then Jackie closed the door behind her and said, “The windows don’t open, we’re on the sixth floor.” Someone else shouted out, “Isn’t that a fire hazard?”

“Yeah!” I said, and looked right at Jackie, hoping she’d look at me, realize that I’m not the only one concerned about the potential that we’d all be trapped in here. But Jackie didn’t look at me, she just pretended not to hear what I said, which, that was probably a smart thing to do, because I would have started asking questions like, “Did anybody bother to make sure the coffee machine is off?” All sorts of crazy fire related questions.

“Everybody,” Jackie spoke up over everybody else talking, “The faster everybody quiets down, the faster we can get through this and get back to work.” And when she said it like that, “get back to work,” I just couldn’t get it out of my head. Get back to work. What is this, communist China? Get back to work? Why don’t you get back to work, Jackie? I didn’t say that out loud, but I could have. It’s like, every time anyone walks in her office, you can always see a game of Scrabble reflected from her computer screen onto her glasses. And whatever, I play Scrabble, everybody plays Scrabble, I’m not trying to judge. But you’re a manager. Don’t tell me to get back to work.

“It’s about that new box of staplers we had shipped in a couple of days ago. They’re gone. I need them back. I don’t want to make this a big thing, OK? If you took them, put them back, it cost like two hundred bucks to get everybody new staplers, OK? Can we do that? Any questions?”

Monica raised her hand, “Look, I think it was Terrance. I mean, he’s the only one who ever complained about the old staplers. That’s all he ever talked about, staplers. And he’s always getting pissed off if you take a pen. Always accusing people of taking his pens. Hey Terrance, they’re not your pens, OK? They’re from the supply room. Just because you put them in that mug on your desk doesn’t make them yours, OK? I’m just saying.”

And Terrance looked pissed, like he was about to say something, but he couldn’t figure out what to say. So I jumped in, “Well, Monica, thanks a lot for that. I’m just saying. I’m just saying that it’s not very professional to start calling out your coworkers in front of everybody else. Just saying.”

Monica looked at me like, what the fuck? Who asked you? But she didn’t have time to say anything, because Jackie interrupted, “All right! That’s it! No further discussion!” which, can you really stop us from talking? That’s like power going straight to her head right there. “Everybody back to work!” Back to work. She’s fucking crazy.

But yeah, why would I get involved, right? I mean, even I know that’s not my place to get involved. But I thought, what if they find out that Terrance didn’t steal those staplers? Look, just between us, I think he totally stole them. Seriously, that guy’s like a total office supplies wacko. But just say that they prove it’s not him. Who are they going to come after? They have to go after somebody. Maybe me? I don’t know, maybe Monica will say it was me, because she’s still pissed off at me for telling her not to accuse Terrance. I feel like by throwing my voice into group, you know, sticking up for Terrance, maybe people will think about that, maybe it won’t make sense to point any fingers my way.

I felt like I was suffocating in there, so when Jackie wrapped things up, I was a little aggressive in getting out of Conference Room C. And on my way out, Jackie said to me, really sarcastically, “Thanks for your help in there.” And I just shot back, “You got it boss, any time.”

I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse

I’m going to make you offer you can’t refuse. How about, unlimited Internet and cable, and I’m talking all of the good channels – all of them – for only ten bucks a month. How’s that sound, pretty good right? Try to refuse it. Seriously, just try. There you go, I just made you an offer you can’t refuse.

Not enough? I’m going to make you another offer you can’t refuse. Here it is: A brand new car, for only two hundred dollars cash. It doesn’t matter what make of model it is. It’s a brand new car. And I’m not even done yet. You get free gas for as long as you own the vehicle, and I’ll cover the first month’s insurance. That’s a good deal right? Almost too good to refuse? No, exactly too good to refuse. You can’t refuse it.

I can make offers you can’t refuse all day long. I’ll come over and clean your whole house for free. Done. You can’t refuse it. Or how about, I’ll wait outside your house all day and make sure that nobody parks too close to your driveway. You know, like every once in a while you’ll get home and some knucklehead will be just a little too close? And so you have to back in all extra slow, making sure not to smack this dummy’s bumper on the way in? I’ll stand outside all day and just keep an eye on things.

Or, how about I’ll buy you some free ice cream. I’ll buy free ice cream for all of your family and friends. Whenever you want. I’ll be like your personal on-call free ice cream delivery man, from wherever you want. Just text me, you don’t even have to call me. And if it’s really late, I’ll just buy a whole bunch of stuff at a twenty-four hour grocery store and I’ll make you like a really cool looking sundae, hot fudge from scratch, hand-whipped cream, whatever. And if you’re lactose intolerant, don’t worry, sorbet is fine, I’m not going to be a stickler here.

You can’t refuse that offer. You can’t refuse any of my offers. I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse. When your relatives come in from out of town, I’ll put on a tux and pretend to be your live-in butler. I’ll do everything a real live-in butler would do. No, I’ll do even more, whatever they say. And whoever’s visiting you is going to be like, wow, you can afford a live-in butler? You must be doing pretty well for yourself. And I’ll be like fanning them as they watch TV, making them snacks in the middle of the night, fluffing their pillows, everything. And I’m going to make them offers that they can’t refuse.

I’ll insist on taking your houseguests around town while you’re at work. They want to go to all the cheesy tourist spots that you’d prefer to avoid? I’m your guy. Statue of Liberty, right this way folks. And of course, I won’t accept any tips. “It’s all part of the job,” I’ll say with my hands behind my back. Of course, you don’t have to pay me anything, that’s the whole point, me making you an offer that you cannot refuse.

I’ll give you my dead Italian grandma’s secret meatball recipe. And trust me, this is something you do not want to refuse. Actually, you don’t really have a choice. I mean, you do, technically, but you can’t refuse it, not this, not my grandma’s meatballs. And it really is a secret recipe. Right before she died, we all thought that she was going to make the recipe public, but she did the opposite. She called all of us into the room, the few trusted grandkids that she’d passed the recipe along to, and she was like, “Keep it secret. Keep it secret for me. It’s gotta stay in the family. You have to swear!” And we all swore, all of us, even me. And then she died.

But I’ll tell you right now. How can you refuse an offer like that? And I’m not exaggerating, these are the best meatballs you’ll ever have in your life. Here’s the recipe: a pound of ground beef, one egg, breadcrumbs, olive oil, reggiano cheese, chopped basil, chopped parsley, chopped garlic, and one chopped onion. Salt and pepper to taste. Put all the ingredients in a bowl, mix it all together with your hands, and then make the meatballs. Put them on a foil-lined tray and cook for twenty minutes at three-fifty. Finish them up in a pot of simmering tomato sauce. Dee lishous. You cannot refuse these meatballs. You cannot refuse this offer.

Sheena is a punk rocker

Sheena is a punk rocker. Sheena didn’t want to go to college because she wanted to move out to Chicago with her punk rock boyfriend. His name was Steel and he was in a punk rock band called Glamalglamate. She was in her own punk rock band here in New York called the She-He-Hulks, but they’d only had like two shows together, really basic sort of opening acts, and when she was really honest with herself, she knew it wasn’t going anywhere, the guitarist hadn’t returned anybody’s calls in over a month.

Sheena wanted to start a new punk rock band in Chicago, she had this idea that they’d call themselves the Punk-15, inspired by an obscure lyric from a random Bad Religion song. When she came up with the name, she almost got a little dizzy from the rush of creative potential, but when she told Steel about it, it wasn’t like he was discouraging or anything, but she could tell that he didn’t get it, and he was one of the most punk rock guys she knew, so if he didn’t get it, would the greater Chicago punk community get it? Because even though you’re not supposed to get it right away, you’re supposed to get it eventually, right?

Sheena got upset with Steel when he flatly said, “No way,” when she asked if she could maybe join Glamalgamate. They already had a somewhat impressive following, somewhat impressive for an underground Chicago post-punk band.

“We’re a post-punk band now,” Steel cut her off one time when they were out at the bowling alley and she was trying to tell some punk rockers four lanes down about Glamalgamate. “What does that even mean?” she wanted to ask, but she was glad that she didn’t, because everybody on lane sixteen just kind of nodded along knowingly.

Sheena is a post-punk rocker. “But seriously, why can’t I at least fill in for you guys once in a while?” That was Sheena and Steel fighting about the band again. Glamalgamate’s lead singer Larry had gotten really annoyed at their last show when Sheena showed up with a tambourine. Everybody was a little annoyed, but only Larry really made it obvious, which was, whatever, it’s not like she tried to get on stage or anything.

But yeah, Steel and Sheena had a post-post-punk rock breakup. That is, he gave her like five days to call somebody back in New York, neither of them had enough money to send her back, and she refused to make the call, she was just crying and not leaving the apartment. So finally Steel got on the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Pangrowski?” she thought he was faking it, that no way would he have the balls to call her dad. But two minutes later it was like, “Yep. OK. Thanks. Bye.” Click. For just a second her heart stopped, like it was beating, beating, beating, and then click, and she swore she felt it stop. And that moment kind of lingered for a while, suspended, she actually felt a little relieved, like this wasn’t such a bad way to go, she wouldn’t have to get angry or cry or face her dad when he got to Chicago.

But then it started beating again right away and all of that blood skipped her cheeks and her ears and went straight to her tear ducts, which were already pumping out tears in overdrive, and so this only had the added effect of adding a weird level of physical pain to her incessant crying.

“Steel, come on,” she managed to get out in between sobs, all while he kind of just ignored her and started collecting all of her stuff, laundry mostly, laundry and various punk-rock memorabilia that she had schlepped over in her punk-rock backpack.

And on the drive back to New York she couldn’t even say anything, she just sat in the backseat, crying, now not even wanting cry. Before she wanted to cry because she wanted Steel to know that she was hurting. Even when her dad just kind grabbed her duffel bag and threw it in the back, those tears were helpful in communicating a non-verbal level of despair. But now, enough was enough, these tears just felt pathetic, really.

And it was a long drive back to New York, she hadn’t thought to maybe tweak her playlist a little bit, when that Ramones song came on, it was like a big joke, like the universe just pointing and laughing and spitting and kicking dust into the spit and spitting again and then punching and kicking and stomping and laughing.

“Sheena is. A punk rocker Shee – ee – na – ah is. A punk rocker yeah – ee – yeah – ee – yeah.

Cause she’s a – a punk punk. A punk rocker. A punk punk …”