Me, The Jury...

Americans take great pride in our democracy and the duty that we have to preserve this democracy, until it's actually time to perform any of this duty. Even in close elections, the number of citizens who vote is usually a low percentage of eligible voters when compared to other democracies. So it is with jury duty.

Jury duty is an essential American right. The right to a trial by jury was one of the essential freedoms upon which the United States was founded. Still, like every other New Yorker who gets a jury duty notice, my thoughts turned not to our inalienable rights, but to my potential excuses.

I received a notice for jury duty late last year and sent a letter requesting another time when the court system's web site was not able to process my request online. I got no response to my written request but received another jury duty notice several months later for another date. I delayed looking over my second notice, thinking I had more time to delay my jury duty service. Once I actually looked at my form, I learned that you can't delay your jury duty service a second time unless you have some kind of written excuse from a doctor or some other accepted authority. Without any such intervention at my disposal, I informed my place of employment that I was going to have to be civically responsible at last.

When living in Queens in late 1999, I couldn't believe that I was picked to be on a jury in a criminal case. As much as I didn't want to be on a jury, I refused to debase myself the way I saw others doing. With a black defendant, several prospective white jurors said they were racist. A Spanish-speaking man, who had been living in the United States for decades, pretended not to understand English. Because I was the first juror picked, I was automatically the foreman. The judge in the case was New York State Supreme Court Justice Arthur Cooperman, who recently passed judgment on three police detectives charged in the Sean Bell shooting.

Now I was back at jury duty after almost six years. Arriving at 100 Centre Street early, I got through the metal detectors and found the Jury Room on the 15^th floor. It was a large room with a dozen or more rows of seats that faced a counter at the front of the room. On the wall behind the counter in a frame was the Flag of Honor, a special American flag inscribed with the names of September 11 victims.

A polite man in a shirt and tie behind the counter told people to have a seat, said there was a special room for eating that was connected to the large Jury Room, and pointed out where the bathrooms were.

"You remember the movie Groundhog Day?" he said. "Well, that's my life. I have to give the same introduction every day." The good news was that we had only two days to give to jury duty if we didn't get picked for a jury.

The routine of jury duty was established quickly: sit and read, wait to see if you get picked to possibly be on a jury, read some more, take a two-hour lunch, read some more, don't get picked for a jury again, go home.

And then it was over. All the second-day jurors were called into the room and dismissed in an orderly fashion by name. It was a different clerk this time, who gave us each a form letter stating that we had completed our jury duty obligation. We were to use these to placate employers and to ward off further jury duty for the next six years.

People eagerly grabbed their letters and left. "Run, before we change our minds," said the clerk.

"See you in six years," one fortunate dismissed non-juror told another outside. I bought a hot dog from a street vendor and made my way up Centre Street.

Deep down inside, I was disappointed that I never got to appear in a courtroom as a prospective juror. With two days sitting around, my ego wanted to be sated by proving my worthiness as a jurist to someone. I would have been happy to dissect the extent of my possible prejudices in relation to the case at hand, and prove my understanding of Constitutional law and proper jurisprudence. But I will have to wait six more years for this privilege.

I was free from jury duty and there were several more hours left in the workday. I was due on Rivington Street in a few hours. If I hurried, I could have gotten there and worked for a few hours. But of all the sins to commit in New York, or anywhere, returning to work when you don't need to has got to be one of the worst.

Downtown Manhattan is one of the best places to walk around and see things. In the financial district, you'll discover all kinds of interesting small streets and alleyways you've never heard of before. In Little Italy and Chinatown, you'll find real Italian and Chinese restaurants, historic buildings and a sense of what New York was like years ago.

I walked uptown, making my way through Mulberry Street in Little Italy. I passed by 247 Mulberry St. It is now a ridiculous designer shoe store called “Shoe,” but the address is more well known for being the address of the Ravenite Social Club, which John Gotti used as his headquarters after taking control of the Gambino Crime Family. When I first moved back to New York City, I lived in Ozone Park, Queens, right down the street from Gotti's original headquarters, the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club. Here was the juxtaposition of what had gone both right and wrong with New York. Whatever romantic visions you have of the Mafia, understand that John Gotti was a murderous thug and leech who profited from the misery of others. It is good that John Gotti was put out of business; the city is better for it. But these fanciful and gluttonous shops honor neither the spirit nor the architecture of the neighborhoods in which they dwell and are a blight on the city. I look forward to the day that overpriced boutiques and ugly condominiums are a sad chapter in New York's past.

I stopped by Old St. Patrick's Cathedral, which sits on Prince Street between Mott and Mulberry Streets. Old St. Patrick's is a beautiful church that has a walled-in cemetery around it. Inside, it looks like a smaller version of the St. Patrick's Cathedral on 5^th Avenue and 50^th Street. Unlike that more well-known St. Patrick's uptown, Old St. Patrick's is not teeming with tourists every afternoon. I decided to duck inside for a brief moment to view the inside of the church, where I had not been for some time.

Old St. Patrick's was as beautiful inside as I remember it. Even if you've never been to New York, you may be somewhat familiar with the inside of Old St. Patrick's Cathedral, as it was used as the church interior for the baptism scene in Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather (a church on Staten Island was used for the exterior shot). I sat in a pew and looked around at the amazing stained glass and statuary. It was nice to be alone in a peaceful, beautiful place.

I am fairly certain that Old St. Patrick's Cathedral will not be turned into condominiums for the wealthy. Then again, nothing is sacred in today's current theme park version of New York. But if the Catholic Church ever lowers its standards enough to give the likes of me a Catholic funeral, let them have it in Old St. Patrick's.

After a few minutes, a man came over to me and told me that the church was closing for the day. He was very friendly and spoke with what sounded to me like an Italian accent. He asked me to please return with some friends, that he would gladly give me a tour. He showed me to the door and locked the front gate behind me.

I continued down Prince Street, satisfied that if there is a God, He is still on top of things enough to keep me out of one of His churches. I savored the New York twilight, knowing that the next day I would be back behind a desk once more.

Pub Quiz For Liberty

Yesterday I participated in a special Activist Pub Quiz at Rocky Sullivan’s in Red Hook, Brooklyn.

My team, the Ron Paul Revolution, came in third place, which was a considerable achievement given that a) we were the smallest team in the entire pub quiz, with only two members and b) the pub quiz was very left-leaning. Neither of these factors was a surprise to me. I was warned by the most excellent quizmaster, Scott M.X. Turner, that the quiz would be dominated by lefty groups. His questions were appropriate and the quiz was a smashing success.

It would have been nice to have one question about Ayn Rand or Thomas Jefferson or someone else not popular among “progressives.” But we did well anyway, coming in third, and the questions involved people that Americans ought to know about anyway.

In first place was a team named ‘The Four Pillars’ representing the New York City Green Party. They had the prettiest women on their team and were jovial and fun-loving. When they won, they exclaimed, “It’s about time the Green Party won something!”

In second place was called the ‘7-Ups,’ and were a compendium of all that is wrong with leftist movements in the United States. They had one more team member than they were allowed, didn’t even know what cause they were going to donate their money to and were otherwise socially retarded. But even they still made the evening fun. When the quizmaster announced that one team (ours) had identified a photo of Sandino as “10-Gallon Pete,” one of their members wore an expression of disbelief that was amusing.

While we didn’t win, it was nice to meet my teammate, Luke, a fellow freedom-lover and Ron Paul supporter. He might bring more people to the pub quiz in the future also.

Afterwards, quizmaster Scott played guitar with Seanchai & The Unity Squad. It was late night, but a good time.

The Right To Bear (Stupid) Arms

In addition to giving his name to the multi-billion dollar company he founded, Mayor Michael Bloomberg has recently inadvertently given his name to a new line of colorful firearms decoration. A Wisconsin company that specializes in painting guns, typically camouflage for hunters, now offers a gun painting kit with our Mayor’s name on it. For less than $20, a gun owner can paint their rifle in a brick and graffiti pattern, or use a rainbow buffet of colors to paint handguns.

The company, Lauer Custom Weaponry, said through a press release that the bright colors are meant to help rescue workers and firing range operators locate guns more easily at nighttime or during bad weather etc. However, this doesn’t seem to apply to “Brooklyn Blue.” It rightfully took the mayor’s inflated rhetoric to task and made no apologies for its product line, though it couldn’t resist a shameful plug of its own merchandise in saying that if Bloomberg cared about the safety of police officers, he would mandate that their weapons be coated with products from their company.

No doubt the company is using its product name to criticize our mayor, who is notorious among firearms enthusiasts. Bloomberg’s contempt of the Second Amendment is legendary (his record on the First Amendment is not so hot, either). Bloomberg has railed for even tougher gun control measures, and even staged phony sting operations of lawful, out-of-state gun dealers.

While I count myself among the freedom-loving gun enthusiasts who find Bloomberg’s cockamamie anti-gun crusade disreputable, the company’s product line is a bad idea. Whatever serious uses there are for having guns colored in such a way is lost in the controversy of needling Bloomberg. Such loud colors are too easy a target, whether on the firing range or the more reckless shooting gallery of New York politics.

What’s Good About Good Friday

Today is Good Friday, the time of year when Christians commemorate the execution of Jesus Christ. Most New Yorkers look forward to Good Friday because it often means a day off from work or school. The city’s financial markets are mercifully closed today (and will not likely see a miraculous resurrection come Monday), which means I have the day off.

Recently, Muslim groups have asked for the New York City school calendar to be amended to allow days off for Muslim students on holy days. I agree with Mayor Bloomberg in opposing this. Adding more religious holidays to a school schedule that already has days off for Christian and Jewish holidays would send us on a slippery slope to infinite sectarian squabbling. New York taxpayers already make enough allowances to religious holidays and exemptions, probably more than we should. If you want to keep your children out of school for a religious observance, fine. Don’t expect the rest of the city to put everything on hold for you. That goes for Orthodox Christians and Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and any and all other superstitious kvetchers.

Infidel and heretic that I am, I spent today at home, avoiding work. Did I inadvertently participate in a religious observance? I don’t know, but it won’t keep me out of hell.

St. Patrick's Day Is For Amateur Drunks And Politicians

Another St. Patrick’s Day is upon us, and New York will be filled with amateur drunks drinking overpriced beer in crappy bars. I used to love St. Patrick’s Day, but I have yet to find something worthwhile and Irish to do on St. Patrick’s Day that you can’t do the rest of the year, other than watch or march in the St. Patrick’s Day parade.

Maybe this year, those people who come to the city to get drunk and wear tacky green gewgaws will instead visit the Irish Hunger Memorial or the Irish Arts Center, but I wouldn’t bet a pint of Guinness on it.

This St. Patrick’s Day in New York will be different in one way: there will be fewer politicians at this year’s parade. The reason: New York’s new Governor David Paterson is being sworn in. He’s sensible enough not to flush his career down the toilet on high-priced hookers, and that’s progress here in the Empire State.

Geraldine Ferraro: (Politically In)Correct New Yorker

The latest casualty in the Clinton vs. Obama war through campaign surrogates is former New York Congresswoman and Vice Presidential candidate Geraldine Ferraro. She resigned from her position on the Clinton campaign after coming under fire for an assertion that Barack Obama has been helped in his primary fight, in party, by his race.

The controversy stems from an interview Ferraro gave to The Daily Breeze, a small California newspaper. It is a fairly innocuous comment, not without its own bias in favor of Hillary Clinton, but certainly not controversial to the point of deserving attack or earning apology. Ferraro last ran for office in 1998 when she ran for the Democratic nomination for U.S. Senate but found herself losing to a younger, more ambitious and less experienced rival. She has been out of office long enough to speak her mind freely, and the controversy says more about the sorry state of today’s racial politics than it does about Ferraro.

Had Ferraro been an Obama supporter and not a Clinton supporter, we likely never would have heard of these remarks unless we perchance came across the interview and read it. But Ferraro is a Clinton supporter and was a member of her financing committee, and the Obama campaign trounced on her words. To believe the Obama devotees, a liberal Democrat who has supported every racial polemic of the American liberal left is a mean-spirited old coot trying to demean a fellow Democrat because of his race. It’s a preposterous proposal.

And Obama’s campaign doesn’t need these kinds of tactics. Obama has a broad base of support among Democratic voters anyway. Trying to depict a lifelong liberal like Geraldine Ferraro as a racist will only hurt them among the white, working-class voters that they theoretically want to win over from Clinton’s camp. Which makes me think that perhaps this was a Clinton tactic all along: was Ferraro sent to make those comments on purpose with the idea to get the Obama camp to pull another race card? I wouldn’t put anything past New York’s junior Senator.

It’s a sad day when Pat Buchanan is offering Democrats more sage analysis of their primary season then their own leaders, but everyone wanting to deny that the vote has and will likely continue to break along racial lines in diverse states is blind to the facts.

I Have Wet My Pants

The pants I wore when I met my mother and stepfather for lunch today are thoroughly soaked through. No, I did not forget myself and wet my pants in a pathetic display of infantile relief; I am simply a victim of today’s weather.

New York City was pounded by rain last night and today. In addition to the regular troubles of precipitation, the urban dweller contends with having to walk more frequently in a downpour than their suburban or rural counterparts, who more frequently bear the brunt of having to drive in the rain.

City pedestrians must be on the lookout for giant puddles, the umbrellas of fellow pedestrians, rain that is blown sideways by the wind, and, the dreaded puddle splashes by passing automobiles. I am glad to say I artfully dodged most of these obstacles, but have little to show for it in the way of dry articles of clothing. Wind-blown rain is the culprit of most of my unwanted moistness; and there is little that even the most astute New Yorker can do to avoid that.

It was perfect weather for staying indoors, watching DVDs, and catching up on work that’s been piling up. I’m sorry to say my progress in rainy day activities has been lacking.

But I did manage to walk into the Bronx and back in order to take Metro North trains to Yonkers for lunch with my mother et al. and back. That is the extent of my adventures today. I wouldn’t count on much more going out of doors tomorrow either.

In The Midst Of A Dry Month

This is not a dry month in terms of precipitation. In fact, March in New York started with a wet snow storm that had the face-wincing annoyance of rain with all the sidewalk slippery benefits of snow.

This is a dry month, or dry month and a half, for me. I decided in early February to not drink until St. Patrick’s Day. So far I’ve been doing well. I had a beer with friends on February 1 but since then I haven’t had any alcoholic beverages.

To be honest, as much as I enjoy drinking, I don’t really miss it. I still hang out with friends and go to and play punk rock shows, I’m saving a lot of money and I feel better the next day. I was able to drive people home from a show a few weeks ago because I wasn’t drinking and no one else had to worry about who was going to drive. The problem was solved.

I only hope I can continue to cut back. I tend to drink too much at times to the point of blacking out big portions of an evening. If this can teach me moderation, I’ll be happy, and hopefully have more money.

Please don’t think I’m going to become some kind of Alcoholics Anonymous member or Straight Edge devotee. No way. Alcoholics Anonymous is a cult for people who want to replace their dependency on alcohol with a dependency on other people. There’s nothing dignified about being ensnared in a religious organization that doesn’t have the balls to call itself a religious organization. And as for the Straight Edge scene: I’m not cutting out all alcohol, and if I was, I don’t see adopting an identity over not drinking alcohol any more sensible than adopting an identity over not eating anchovies.

Either way, I’ll still see you at the bar, but I may be sober for the evening.

Ron Paul For President

It has been a long time since I really liked a Presidential candidate and wanted them to win instead of wanting someone else to lose. I’m angered and horrified not only by both mainstream political parties’ march to war in Iraq but by their embrace of amnesty for illegal aliens (though none of them have the guts to call it that).

Enter Ron Paul. The New York Times calls the Texas Republican “the most radical member of Congress.” He’s drawn support from disaffected Democrats and Republicans alike. He’s against the war, in favor of restoring civil liberties, in favor of enforcing immigration laws and against amnesty. He’d also like to abolish the income tax and the I.R.S. He’s actually read the U.S. Constitution and wants to apply it to the federal government.

It has been about 14 years since I have worked for a Republican candidate. I became disillusioned with the mainstream Republican and Democratic parties over the course of the last few years and have become much more libertarian.

Ron Paul has been the thorn in the side of the Republican Party this year, calling the bluff of frauds like Giuliani and Mitt Romney and standing up to the smooth lies of John McCain.

I decided to help do my part to support the Ron Paul campaign, even though he is a long shot. I joined an online “meet-up” group in the city and spent a few hours this past Friday and Monday handing out campaign literature in Grand Central Terminal.

Because he has been outspoken against the Iraq war, there are a lot of Democrats who like and respect Ron Paul. As I was walking through Grand Central’s main concourse, an Obama supporter who was holding up a big campaign sign said he hoped Ron Paul got the nomination. One Clinton supporter whispered, “Hillary, Hillary!” at me as she walked by, but in good-natured fun.

There weren’t too many negative people. One man sneered at me and said, “I believe in the Federal Reserve system.” Another woman went to take a flyer and then drew her hand away as if she had touched a hot stove. A few people asked legitimate questions about the candidate, such as if he was pro-choice or pro-life (he’s considered pro-life but takes the strict Constitutionalist view that abortion should be decided by the states) and the smear that he is a racist.

Dr. Paul isn’t perfect, no candidate is, but without a doubt he’s the only candidate standing for the Constitution and for common sense. I hope that he runs as an independent in the general election. Either way, he’s got my support and if you have the chance, please vote for him.

My Mother Owes Me Brunch

Every year, I make a bet with my mother on the Super Bowl. Even though the New England Patriots were favored to win the Superbowl this year, I bet on the New York Giants to win. I had no other choice: my mother wouldn’t let me bet on whether or not the Patriots would beat the spread. Neither of us knew the spread. So I reluctantly bet on the Giants to win the game.

I wanted the Giants to win. I’m actually a New York Jets fan, which means that just about every year is miserable for me, professional football wise. But the Giants represent New York City, or at least the New York City area (they play in New Jersey). And the New England Patriots have earned by spite by being the mainstream media’s treasured darlings, from Boston and by their screwing over the state of Connecticut. I don’t hate the Patriots like I hate the Dallas Cowboys, but I rarely root for them

I actually pay very little attention to professional sports, though I do make a habit of watching the Super Bowl, because it’s an excuse to sit on the couch, eat food and maybe see some funny commercials.

So when my mother called a few hours before kickoff, I agreed to a bet out of deference to our family tradition. My mother has wanted to meet me in Yonkers for brunch at a nice restaurant by the Hudson River. If the Patriots win, I would have to pay. Should the Giants win, my mother would pay. The Giants upset the New England Patriots 17-14.

Congratulations to the Giants for their win, and to me for my fortuitous gambling.

Same Shit, Different Year

Last night’s State of the Union Address by George W. Bush was a typically meaningless exercise in boredom and banality. Perhaps because I’m looking forward to not seeing another George W. Bush State of the Union Address I was not angered to the point I usually am.

What angers me more than Bush’s predictable litany of applause lines is the response to him by the Congress.

I understand that it is customary to stand and applaud the President of the United States when he enters a room, but the audience at the State of the Union last night, like in previous years, stood and gave Mr. Bush a rousing ovation, then did it again after he was formally introduced by House Speaker Nancy Pelosi.

Honestly, I cannot think of anyone in that chamber less deserving of a standing ovation than George W. Bush. Yet, without fail, our elected leaders stand and clap like a bunch of trained seals.

I would prefer a parliamentary system, where a prime minister has to take hostile questions every week and report to the elected body every day. I would even prefer the chaos of the Taiwanese parliament to the disingenuous pageant we fake our way through every year.

One would also think that George W. Bush would want to make his last State of the Union Address one where he attempts to salvage something from his time in office with a graceful exit, perhaps striking a conciliatory tone, if not dropping to his knees and begging our forgiveness. Instead, Bush displayed his usual smirk and threatened vetoes like a smug and arrogant man heedless of his own disreputable presidency.

We should have seen a man humbled by his failures. Instead we saw a performance worthy of Bush’s infamy, and why so many are looking forward to his long overdue departure.

Happy New Year New York, From Connecticut...

This year will mark the 100^th anniversary of the large ball dropping in Times Square, a revered and joyous New York tradition. However, like many other New York traditions, the Times Square festivities are a shadow of what they once were. Visiting midtown has become an over-regulated morass of police power and inconvenience. Preparations have been going on for months.

While there will still be large crowds in midtown Manhattan to ring in the New Year, the very circumstances of being in Times Square this New Year’s Eve undercut the whole point of celebrating New Year’s Eve. Revelers will face a fascistic litany of regulations that will hamper any good times. People who turn up in Times Square for New Year’s Eve will not be allowed to bring bags or backpacks with them, nor will they be allowed to bring alcohol. Also, they will stand in the cold for hours without access to a public restroom.

It was once my goal to be in Times Square when the year 2000 came into being. I wisely abandoned that enterprise and instead celebrated nearby at Connolly’s at a Black 47 show. It was a good time. It was crowded and overpriced to the point that I refuse to see a show at Connolly’s again, but it was still a good time and a good show.

This year, like last year, I will be with friends in Connecticut. The beer will be cheaper, there will be a place to sit and go to the bathroom, and I’ll get to see some good friends; that’s the best way to ring in 2008, or any year.

Happy New Year!!

Ho, Ho, Ho...

A New York City police officer recently admitted to helping protect a brothel in Queens. While I’m against police corruption, I think this again calls for us to legalize prostitution.

Think about it: why should a woman not be allowed to sell her body for sexual favors? I agree that it’s unseemly, but how are porn stars, models or politicians on a higher moral plane? In fact, I would argue that a prostitute does less damage to society than an anorexic model or a politician. A politician who sells his or her vote (which is pretty much legal) is hurting all who are governed. An anorexic model helps destroy the self esteem of a generation of young girls.

A friend of mine was arrested a few years ago in a sting operation when he picked up what he thought was a prostitute on the street. “I knew she was too hot to be a real prostitute,” my friend told me, “but I couldn’t pass up the chance if she was for real.” He was arrested and was allowed to call his father to retrieve his car so it would not be impounded.

Like our “war on drugs,” keeping prostitution illegal helps pimps and other assorted scumbags. I’m well aware that legalizing prostitution will not eliminate the seedy element from an essentially seedy business, but not having to dodge the law would allow prostitutes the leverage to organize themselves and create a better environment for everyone.

An Irish Wake For Rocky Sullivan’s

Rocky Sullivan’s is the finest Irish Pub in New York City. But New York City is a different place than it was when Rocky’s opened in 1996. The outstanding pub recently had to relocate to the Red Hook area of Brooklyn. That testifies to not only the excellent staying power of Rocky Sullivan’s, but to the pathetic state of culture in Manhattan.

I managed to visit Rocky Sullivan’s on its last weekend in Manhattan. The “Irish Wake” that was held for it featured music and comedians and a lot of interesting characters at the bar that I had become accustomed to drinking with over the years.

Please make it a point to visit this most excellent establishment at its new home in Brooklyn. It will be well worth the trip.

(Another) Subway Disgrace

The latest column recounts one of the most miserable subway commutes ever. This was worse than being stuck on the train for three hours one afternoon when a moron on a C train ahead of us tried to surf on top of the train. He hit his head on the ceiling of the subway tunnel and was hit by a following E train. That was not the fault of the MTA, though I don’t doubt the loused up re-routing the trains that day because I saw numerous trains passing us by on other tracks.

This latest transit shame was brought to you by our failing infrastructure, the usual MTA incompetence, and less than two inches of rain.

I love New York City and always will, but we’re in a darker part if its history right now, and I don’t foresee things getting better anytime soon.

The Countess: One Bad Ass Cat

I take pride in the fact that my cat, The Countess, is a difficult cat to love. A friend found her underneath a car on 135th Street and took her home to his apartment. I had been considering getting a cat, and since my friend was unable to keep his newfound feline companion, she came to live with me. That was more than five years ago.

Seeing as she left the litter very young, she has become acclimated to being around people and refuses to take a subservient position as a pet. She is very territorial and anyone who enters my home unaccompanied by me will have a very unpleasant time. I have run out of neighbors who are willing to come to my apartment and feed her.

The more people that are offended by my pet, the more she is exclusively mine. She isn’t here to make you happy, and she knows it. Her mission in life is to eat food, relieve herself in her exclusive litter box, and otherwise make herself comfortable in my apartment. Have a problem with that? Too bad.

Thugs Against Violence

Carolyn Baxter is trying to talk some sense into young people who are involved with gangs. Unlike a lot of rappers, she’s actually done real time in prison. Also, unlike a lot of rappers, she writes poetry, essays and books.

The story of New York, and of America, is the story of people saying “fuck it,” and doing things themselves. You can talk and protest until you’re blue in the face, the government isn’t going to do anything for you. Politicians and activists are in it for themselves, and the media is in the entertainment business.

So Baxter is taking it upon herself to reclaim rap music and hip hop culture for those who know the streets and honestly care about saving young people from going to prison. Thugs Against Violence is her effort to bring some reality in the lives of kids living a rap-fueled fantasy of thuggish violence. Think your favorite rapper is “real” because they were arrested? Listen to someone who did six years in prison.

An Atheist’s Prayer on the A train

My latest column on GetUnderground has received responses from the faithful and fellow atheist. Most amusing so far have been the semi-literate ramblings of a Muslim, or an Internet troll posing as one. I also suspect that one of the comments from my column, the comment that is the most well-written and interesting, has come from a relative.

Religious zealots are actually one of the less offensive aspects of riding the A train. The worst thing about the A train is that its part of a horribly run subway system. The real villain of my column is the MTA (Metropolitan Transportation Authority) of New York, which is managed by overpaid, ignorant bureaucrats and operated by shiftless layabouts.

The A train has been my main subway line since I moved back to New York City almost 10 years ago. At first I lived near the Rockaway Blvd. stop on the A train in Ozone Park, Queens. About six years ago I moved to Inwood, in uptown Manhattan, also on the A line. The Straphangers organization don’t give the A train the worst ratings, which speaks volumes about the state of transportation in the city.

Delivery Services Suck

The latest ‘Notes From A Polite New Yorker’ column is online, and it’s already generated some comments from apologists for DHL, which I have found to be the worst of the major delivery services.

I eventually got my package from DHL, only because my girlfriend happened to be home sick one day. Yes, it’s my fault for not having it delivered to where I work, but I called the company and they told me, repeatedly, that they would deliver it at specific times. They lied all the time.

What I also should do is form alliances with my neighbors, who might be able to collect packages for me.

Sick, as in Diseased, New York

The weather in New York this winter can best be described as schizophrenic. In early January, I attended a wedding and didn’t even bring any kind of coat, other than a suit jacket. Even a few weeks ago, when the winter is usually biting, February saw temperatures in the 70s.

That changed over the past two weeks, as New York faced temperatures in the low teems that turned sub-zero with the wind chill. One of the nifty results: everyone is sick.

New York 1 News reported that the current class of the New York City Police Academy is suffering from widespread flu. Just about everyone I know is sick or getting over being sick. I got a nasty cold a few weeks ago and was all better this past Monday. Then I started feeling tired, and like I was getting a sore throat. By Wednesday, people at work were telling me that I sounded horrible. My boss even told me to skip work on Friday (I went in anyway but left early – I would have felt worse this weekend if I didn’t get a few things done, that’s how paranoid I am)

The only pleasure that being sick brings is the self competition to cough up bigger and better pieces of lung cheese. Perhaps we can start a competition every winter among the sick as to who can produce the largest green lung goblin. Perhaps we can get the pharmaceutical companies to sponsor it – but then again, wouldn’t taking an expectorant be cheating?

Hopefully I’ll be well enough by Monday to go back to work without sounding like a Manatee dying in a sea of snot.