If Kim Kardashian Can Get Married, Why Can't I?

You won’t be hearing Maggie Gallagher railing on about how Hollywood socialites shouldn’t be allowed to marry.  When Kim Kardashian announced that she is divorcing her husband of less than three months, none of the usual voices promoting “traditional” marriage were front and center.  One of the most visible people in the world – so in-demand and well-known that photos of her lavish wedding fetched millions – talks of marital issues weeks into her marriage and ultimately files for divorce in just over 70 days.  Yet the silence of the marriage warriors remains deafening.

Well, why?  Why are they so quiet?  Why, when one of the most public people in the world lays to waste any conceivable notion of what marriage is supposed to be in the most public way possible, is everyone so quiet?  Where is the National Organization for Marriage?  The evangelicals?  Rick Santorum?  Why are there no grassroots uprisings about this threat to marriage.  Simple.  Kim and Kris Humphries have the correct genitals.  Crass?  Maybe.  True?  Definitely.

If one defines the bedrock of marriage as love, commitment, and honor…you know, the words virtually everyone says when actually getting married, Kim Kardashian’s marital sham should have awoken the ire and impassioned public pleas of the marriage warriors.  But that is not how those who have made their careers keeping marriage outside the grasp of the LGBT community define it.  They define it by genitals.  Anyone who’s seen Kim’s sex tape knows she’s all well and good down below and until (God willing) photo evidence arises (ahem) of Kris’, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.  

In the end, it’s not about kids (Kim and Kris don’t have any) or even the intention to have kids or even the ability to have kids.  It’s about genitals.

If anyone has eroded the foundation of marriage it’s those who insist on stripping away all that love and commitment rhetoric and reducing it to human anatomy.

There is not a single legitimate argument against same-sex marriage.  Some say well…it’s never been done that way, which of course, is moronic.  Everything was always done the same way until someone did it differently…its called progress.  Some say the divorce rate will increase.  Even if we take that at face value…what does that mean?  That closeted homosexuals will leave sham marriages?  That’s a GOOD thing…if, of course, you view love and commitment as the bedrock of a union.  But to some, it's better to have two people not in love and incapable of/disinterested in having sex with one another stay together.  To them, it’s about sex ORGANS…not about actual sex. 

Then there’s the slippery slope arguments that suggest one cannot tell the difference between a donkey and a human being.  On and on it goes. 

Kim Kardashian can have another sham wedding as soon as her absurd divorce from her never-in-love spouse is through.  By contrast, two guys who have been together for 10 years and are in love, cannot get married in California even once.  EVER.  Who's the real threat to marriage?

I’ll spend more time on this blog dissecting anti-gay marriage and people.  This is just the first installment.

Russell Armstrong, Richard Cory and Narcissus

Warning: Depressing (but possibly thoughtful) post ahead.

“You never know what happens behind closed doors.”  Of all the oft-repeated phrases in modern lexicon, this one is repeatedly proven true.  If the Pythagorean Theorem is the most proven precept in the mathematical world (I believe it is), then the notion that appearances say nothing of what’s going on beneath the surface has to be its counterpart in the social world. 

In fact, appearances are often carefully constructed deceptions designed to obfuscate the real truth beneath the surface (see Narcissus).  This week, Russell Armstrong, husband of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills’ star Taylor Armstrong took his life.  If not for the show itself, he’d appear to have it all.  He had a beautiful wife and daughter.  He drives a Bentley and lives in a Beverly Hills mansion.  He had what on its face seemed to be a successful career as an investor.  He was not gorgeous by any means but a nice-looking guy.  The show, however, and the press surrounding it, revealed a very different person than the one he appeared to be.

In truth, he came off as an extremely emotionally detached husband and father.  Zero social skills.  Mired in debt and on the brink of financial ruin.  A possibly violent temperament…a notion bolstered by the fact that Taylor – along with Russell’s ex-wife and ex-girlfriend – all reported similar tales of physical abuse (everyone but Taylor had a restraining order on him).  In short…he was NOTHING like what he would appear to be.

People are often quick to blame the show or the publicity around it for driving this guy to the brink and I don’t buy it for a second.  He was a tortured soul.  He was being sued for possibly bilking a company out of $1.5 million to support the fictional lifestyle he put out there.  His relationship with his family was clearly strained.  His violent past existed long before the program did.  I truly believe that he was a ticking time bomb.  If it wasn't one thing, it would have been another.  Certainly, there are people who take immense challenges in life on the chin and find an inner resolve to go on.  Russell Armstrong, unfortunately, wasn’t one of them.

His story…and  others like it…remind me of one of my favorite poems.  Simple and poignant.  It’s called Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson. 

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes, richer than a king –
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

People are rarely who you think they are.  That’s why it’s so special when you meet and get to know someone and they turn out to be someone you love for one reason or another.  All too often, you meet someone who’s great on paper but not so great in life.  It’s a lesson that many people unfortunately don’t want to learn.  I’d rather the real thing than the resume.   Show me an arrogant guy and I'll show you an insecure one.  Show me someone who brags endlessly about himself and I'll show you a guy who NEEDS to say those things to cover up massive insecurities.  Show me someone who takes his/her gifts and accomplishments in stride and doesn't care what others think and I'll show you something rare....a truly confident person.

Earlier, I mentioned Narcissus.  Years ago, my cousin had to read that story for class.  He was confused…saying his teacher talked about Narcissus being somewhat self-loathing while the story seemed to suggest he REALLY loved himself.   I explained that the story is that he loves his image…the face everyone else sees…the carefully constructed surface that belies the truth beneath.  He looks in the pool and sees his reflection.  It’s THAT he loves ….not his true self. 

Russell Armstrong.  Richard Cory.  Narcissus.  From time immemorial, the lesson that what you see is not necessarily what you get with people is as unchanging as Pythagorean theorem.  I admit it's a forced metaphor...but there you go. 

Is it a Bird? A Plane? No, it’s a door. And I Just Walked Into It.

Let me set the scene.  It’s a 93-degree day in Fire Island.  I am having a great time…annoying the crap out of everyone in the house by blabbing uncontrollably about anything I can think of.  I go in the house to get a cocktail…I am walking. I am a few steps away from the bar…and BAM!  I am entangled in the screen door…unable for a few moments to get out of it.  I can hear the laughter behind me.  I can see the drink I came for in front of me.  And for the FOURTH time in my life, I walked into a door.  Here are the other three:

Time number 1:  Camp Cedar Lake, Milford, PA.  Age:  12

Oh sleepaway camp.  Where Jewish parents store their children for Summer.  I can still see the gleeful looks on my parents faces as they dropped me off...knowing they had 8, blissful, Scott-free weeks ahead of them.  It’s also a place of wooden bunks with doors that cannot be missed.  Unless you’re laughing with your bunkmates so hard that tears obstruct your view and the door to Bunk Joseph 32 that is normally open is completely shut and you walk directly into it.  Now everyone BUT you is laughing and by dinner the entire division knows the story and all the British counselors are making fun of you and you swear you’ll never be so dumb again but then comes…

Time number 2:  My Friend’s Father’s Girlfriend’s House, Tampa, FL.  Age: 21

Wash U Senior Year Spring Break.  We all went on a cruise (see earlier post on cruises) that left out of Tampa so my friend’s father’s girlfriend (don’t ask) who lived there had us over the night before we boarded the ship.  She had a nice house that had a small sunroom leading to the backyard pool.  As anyone knows, I love pools, especially on a hot day . And this day was HOT! And Sunny!  So hot that I walked quickly to the pool!  So sunny, I didn’t see the glass door that led to the sunroom. SMACK!  I literally fell backward like out of a cartoon.  For the first 10-15 seconds, I didn’t even know what happened.    For the rest of the vacation and semester and even to this day, that is the single moment most of my close college friends remember most about me.   

Time number 3:  Garlic Bob’s, New York:  Age 24

This may have been the most embarrassing one yet.  I don’t believe it’s there anymore, but there used to be a pizza place on the UES called Garlic Bob’s that was really good.  I went to get a slice and bring it home on an unusually sunny day.  I’m not going to get all poetic and set this one up…because it was quick and horrible.   I walked right into a glass WALL.  Okay?  Not even the door.  The sun had so screwed me up I wasn’t even at the door.  Everyone was gawking at me.  I had smashed into the pizza I was holding so it looked like I was bleeding from my chest.  Inside, panic developed.  “GET OUT NOW!!!” was the rallying cry from my internal monologue.  I didn’t turn around to tell everyone I was okay.  Or even to get a napkin to clean myself off.  I just frantically hunted for the door and shot out of there never, ever, ever to return again. 

There is something uniquely embarrassing about walking into a door.  Being the person I am, I can take a lot of humiliating experiences without batting an eye.  Some of my jokes/stories fall flat.  I can handle the awkward silence.  When a crazy person stops me on the street (crazy people LOVE me and actively seek me out) – I can handle being asked if I have a bologna sandwich on me.  When I was 8 years old, I thought a microphone was off at an auditorium and began singing embarrassing songs until I realized everyone there could hear me.  I took it in my stride…coming out a mere 20 years later.  But when you walk into a glass door…or wall…there’s just no recovering from that. 

You’re just a clumsy moron who just broke something.

Smoking (Not) Hot

So, February 9, I decided to (finally) quit smoking.  I put out a cigarette and began walking, Pavlovian style, to the bodega to buy another pack.  Since I was already on Chantix (more on that in a moment), I decided not to buy the next pack of cigarettes and instead see how long I could go without them.  Today is July 15, more than five months later.  So, it appears I can go at least that long without them.  Actually, I can tell you I will never smoke again.

I remember my first cigarette.  In the woods behind Andrew Gade's house...my best friend.  We were about 14 playing pool at the billiards place nearby his house.  We carefully planned in advance how we would buy the cigarettes from the vending machine (we split the cost...which was around $2)...I would stand around on watch, Andrew would put the money in the machine.  We'd casually leave, get back on our bikes, go to Andrew's backyard (while his parents were still gone) and smoke at least one a piece.  That marked the beginning of a horrible life choice of mine...something I was still dealing with nearly TWENTY years later.

When you're 14...nothing seems long-term because nothing has been thus far.  To us, it was rebellious and cool...not self-defeating and stupid.  I remember it took me a while to get the hang of smoking...it took nearly 2-3 years encompassing various attempts to properly take a drag and not cough it up.  There are few things in my life that make me feel more stupid and pathetic than actively trying to get my body used to smoking...even as it consistently rejected it.  Finally, I won!  I smoked!  Congrats to me!!!  Every morning and afternoon, I smoked in the car with my friend Jay, who was one year-older, cool, good looking, and drove me back and forth to school everyday. 

Soon, I was hiding cigarettes in the headboard of my bed.  I suppose on some level, my parents knew I smoked.  I probably smelled of it sometimes.  I am sure they figured out the headboard of my bed had porn and smokes in it.  On a few occassions, my Mom found a pack of cigarettes in the pockets of my clothes (correction from before:  this may have been my stupidest move), which I promptly blamed on my friends. "Andrew asked me to hold them for him!"...hoping to God my Mom would be brain-dead enough to believe that.  She wasn't.  She was smart enough to know that there was little she could do about it and that she was herself a smoker and it was hypocritical to criticize me (she quit around that time and never smoked again).

By the time I left for college, going a few waking hours without smoking was perilous for me.  My Freshman year at Boston University was not an easy one (LONG story and I'm not getting into it)...which perpetuated my smoking.  I smoked literally nonstop for nearly 15 years after that. Long after college.  Long after New York (and many other states) banned smoking from bars, clubs, restaurants, etc.  I savored them.  Made people wait for me to smoke them.  Walked into the freezing cold to have them.  Spent an increasing amount of my money on them (they were once under $2...currently almost at $14).  I loved them.

About two years ago, I had a case of "walking Pneumonia"...a milder form of the full-on illness.  Had I waited one day longer to get checked out, my Doctor informed me that I would have been in the hospital.  When he took x-rays of my lungs, I remember panicking in the office.  What if it wasn't fluid (pneumonia) he saw in my lungs?  What if it was a tumor (lung cancer)?  That fear stuck with me...but wasn't strong enough.  I was still smoking...for a year and a half more until I finally had enough and a doctor friend of mine prescribed me Chantix.

You are supposed to smoke the first two weeks on Chantix, which works by blocking your brain from receiving pleasure from the cigarettes.  Once the pleasure is gone, you are supposed to kick the habit altogether.  Not for me.   Six weeks later, I was still on Chantix, still smoking.  I would walk to the back of Duane Reade and get my prescription for Chantix ($200) and then walk to the front to get my Marlboro Ultra Lights ($12.75).  $212.75 for medication to quit something I was purposefully perpetuating (correction from before:  THIS might be my dumbest move).   On February 9, I decided not to go to the front of the store again. 

Eventually, I dropped the Chantix, which made me nauseous, irritable  and provided some of the most lively, and realistic nightmares I have ever had.  "Warning!" it should say on the box, "Freddy Krueger is, now, real."

In the beginning, I was simply amazed I was actually doing it (I still am).  "Oh my God!!" I would think..."Two days...NO CIGARETTES!"  Sad to say, that was the longest I had gone without them, even in prior attempts to quit where I wouldn't buy them at a bodega but instead would pay someone $2 for one and convince myself I was weaning myself off of them.  But this time, I didn't do that.  And as time passed...1 week, 2 weeks, 1 month, 2 month....5 MONTHS...it became abundantly clear that I meant business. 

That's the hardest part of quitting I found...convincing yourself you really mean it this time.  When you make so many promises to yourself and others that you're qutting - only to either break them or never really mean them in the first place - it's hard to believe yourself.  You become the boy who cried wolf...and you're crying wolf to yourself.

Weird stuff began happening.  Bad one...chewing plastic knives at my desk at work so frequently there are people who still are afraid of me.  Good one....a strange yet thrilling tingling sensation in my legs that apparently is the result of increased circulation from not smoking.  Not smelling like smoke.  Knowing I've cut out thousands and thousands of cigarettes that I would have smoked.  Saving over $2,000 so far.  The mental benefits that come from overcoming a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.  I am not a slave to it.  All this is good...but I still think about my old friends.

At the Fire Island Pines (where I always have an amazing time) I often savor time alone, which is rare in my life.  Without getting too cheesy or poetic, somtimes I leave low tea a little bit early and go back to the house.  I swim.  I listen to my iPod.  I sit out on the deck chairs and look out into the bay (I don't blame you for feeling nauseous but I am about to make a point).  Last year, I would have had about 1/2 pack of cigarettes in this time.  It was difficult to be without them...especially when a cigarette at sunset by the water, alone with my thoughts, was always one of life's simple pleasures. 

A simple pleasure of life that can end it.  A simple pleasure that puts my life at risk.  A simple pleasure that makes me smell of smoke, cough and spend thousands of dollars.  It's all true.  And it sucks that I have to keep reminding myself of it...even after nearly 1/2 year without them. 

My partner-in-crime, Andrew Gade, suffered a minor stroke last year due to a genetic heart defect he knew nothing about until it caused the stroke itself.   THANKFULLY he is fine.  He quit smoking from that day on, just a few months before I did.  20 years...for both of us.  It goes by in a blink.

I'm almost done with this post...but want to add one more thing.

That same weekend in Fire Island...about six weeks ago...I was out late at the bars and most of my friends had gone back to their respective houses to hang out, hook up, swim, sit in the hot tub, etc.  I was about to join them and met a cute guy named Nick so I stayed a while longer. At one point, Nick went out for a smoke and, realizing that it was pretty empty at that point and nobody I knew was around for the moment, I asked if I could take a drag.  I was literally and figuratively playing with fire.  For the first time in months, a cigarette was between my fingers.  I took one long drag and coughed it up.  Nick said, "Oh, have you never had a cigarette before?"  LOL.  If only that were my story.

The next morning I got up and got myself a glass of water.  As if God him/herself left it there to test me...there was a cigarette with a pack of matches next to it on the coffee table (more likely left from the late  partying the night before).  All were asleep.  I could have gone outside, sat on a deck chair, looked out on the bay and....smoked the hell out of that cigarette.  Nobody would have been the wiser.  But I didn't.

That's when I knew I quit.

RHONJ Season 3, Episode 2 Review: Kim G. + Kim D. + Super "T" + Kathy = Trouble in Jersey

Kim D and Kim G have returned...and not a moment too soon.  Last year, it was Danielle's "square and fake tits" that pissed off Ms. Granatell.  Now it's Theresa's "fat, crooked ass."  Eat your heart out Jim Bellino.  In just a few minutes of airtime, Kim G. has done more to reduce women to their anatomy than any misogynistic, self-important OC douche ever could.

Now, I am not a fan of Theresa's.  Never was.  I find her pretentious, antagonistic, completely un self-aware. I resent that she's still in that mansion driving fancy cars when she owes so many people so many millions of dollars, etc...let's not go down this road because we may never leave it.  But despite all this, I have to be objective and say:  what happened at the Christening was not her fault.  She congratulated her brother and he flipped out and called her garbage.  Melissa's sister joined in to tell Theresa off too.  Now, I am sure there's backstory there, but to the extent of what happened at the Christening, you can't fault someone for coming over to say some kind words.  If Bro-Joe was that pissed off, he could have said, "thanks, and we need to talk but let's do it at another time and place."  I would bet Kathy, Melissa and their respective families have legitimate issues with Theresa, who seems to have numerous and deep rifts with nearly everyone who crosses her path, but it was Joe - not Theresa - who played them out at his kid's Christening.

So Kim D., fashion powerhouse, is putting on another fashion show, AKA:  Bravo-funded drama platform.  Funny, this closet-sized store has so much pull, reach and capital to pull-off a massive event like this.  Anyway, in comes Kim G., who I want to root for, but cannot.  She starts mouthing off to Theresa's sister-in-law and cousin about....Theresa!! (both of whom admirably didn't take the bait). Then she stirs shit at the fashion show. Then she asks if they should boo Theresa.  See, Kim G. has legitimate beef with the mouthy Ms. Giudice but she seems intent on surrendering the moral high ground anyway.  Another aside:  did you see Jacqueline's face when Kim G. was brought up?  What happened there?

Okay, Kathy was a little antagonistic to Theresa, but it was Theresa, not Kathy, who spilled their argument away from the private room into the main room where everyone can see them.  She could have said, "Let's have this discussion elsewhere..." but she didn't.   The Giudice/Gorga crew seem to be incapable of handling things in a remotely adult manner.  True to form, Theresa starts yelling and screaming and acting like a petulant third-grader and can not be calmed down.  Kathy wasn't blameless but Theresa never misses an opportunity to blow it up way beyond what it warrants and then blame it on others (or pretend it never happened)...a trait I would bet plays a role in her brother's uncontrolled anger towards her. 

Anyone else notice Kim G's mug looming behind the melee?  I hope we see more of it.  For the record, as shit-stirring as she is, she was nice to Theresa last season, who made fun of Kim's age and generally ripped on her.  Which is why I root for Kim G., who I think would do more good in getting airtime and friendships if she tried to quell the fire instead of constantly lighting the match and pouring gas on the fllames.  Ms. Giudice may have met her match...we'll see...

Bad Cab Tipping

Saturday night was an unusally expensive cab night for me.  I took a cab to the West Village for a birthday party.  Then went to Bartini in Hells Kitchen with two friends. From there, we went to the eagle in Chelsea-ish.  Then to Eastern Bloc in the East Village.  And then, finally home in Gramercy.   Add in drinks to the equation and you can only imagine the amount of cash I disepensed with on that night alone.  New York, rightfully, has a very well-deserved reputation for being an exorbitantly expensive place to live...to a degree most people who have never lived here will never understand.

That said, I see many people try to cut corners in the worst imaginable ways, and one that gets me is the crappy tips given to cab drivers.  Cab drivers work absurdly long shifts.  They get taxed like crazy.  Gas prices are an all-time high.  If they want to invest in the medallion, even more money is taken away from them than the standard fees they have to pay to the cab company.  And then they have to live on whatever is left over...often trying to support a family on what must be a very meager income they have to work many hours to achieve.  Is giving them 2-3 bucks instead of 1 gonna change your night?  No.  But it will change their income in the aggregate.

Just a thought.

Mob Wives Redux: Sad, Sad, Sad

When I first heard that this show was coming out, I was dumbfounded.  I still am.  This is not just some contrived reality show.  These are daughters and wives of very well-known gangsters...part of a lifestyle that honors silence and staying below the radar.  Now, here they are in a much-hyped, well-publized national television program that puts an underworld front and center that can only operate effectively when out of the public eye.  Doesn't that put these women at severe risk? 

At its core, Mob Wives is kind of sad.  Here are four women, all seemingly capable to some degree and street-wise, who source most of their problems to the very mafia lifestyle they are currently capitalizing on and from which they draw their core identity.

In one episode, Renee, fresh from her confrontation with Karen, admits that Karen made some sense when she said nobody had any problem with her when her father (Sammy "The Bull" Gravano) was killing people...only when he cooperated with the authorities.  Essentially, she said their social circle was far more accepting of cold-blooded murder than perceived disloyalty.  I can see where this would give Renee pause.  What I can't see is how this never occurred to her before, and why up until that point she had been wearing "Mafia Princess" like a badge of honor gleefully devoid of any acknoweldgement of how all that luxury was finding its way to her lap. 

What Mob Wives ends up being is a real version of Goodfellas, one of the best movies ever made.  The women don't socialize much with people outside of "the life."  Their lives are broken out by incarceration intervals - never seemingly all that happy when their loved ones are in the clink, nor when they are home.  They attempt to hide their children from the truth about their fathers.  They struggle financially   They wonder aloud who they are when their identity is so pegged to a lifestyle they really are only tangentially involved with (its their fathers and brothers who are mobsters, not them).  In their best times, they try to block their own thoughts of the murders and crimes that got them the Audi and the big house in Staten Island.  In their worst times, they are forced to acknowledge that they love and adore men who destroy - and end - other people's lives. 

Even so, I can't help but like them sometimes.   Karen probably has the best perspective...having re-examined everything she thought she understood when it was revealed her father had killed at least 19 people.  Renee, in a fit of honesty, admits she has given up everything - even her own identity - in being loyal to a group of people who are so frequently disloyal to one another.  Carla seems completely nonplussed with the lifestyle and almost comes across as someone who could easily do without it.  Drita is fun, tough, loves her kids and openly contemplates what kind of life she'll have if she spends it waiting for a man who doesn't know when he's getting out of prison.  They are all smart.  They all care very much for their kids.  They can be funny and interesting and almost warm in a way.  But they are also all suffering from the great delusion that allows them to wake up everyday and face the world knowing that everything they do is financed by something unimaginably terrible.

I have a very hard time with this show, because it embodies the deepest criticisms of reality tv by literally glamorizing the worst of human behavior.  I am reminded by one of the best scenes of The Sopranos, when Carmella goes to see a Jewish therapist who tells her to take what's left of her kids and leave Tony.  He wouldn't even accept payment for the session because it's blood money. It's tainted her whole life and it's up to her to save herself and her kids.  He could have been talking to any of the women on Mob Wives.  And they'd probably respond just like Carmella, in tears knowing he's right, but unable to give up their material possessions  - and self identity - to start anew.

VH-1 really took reality tv from something lighthearted and turned it into something terribly dark and tragic.  Glamorizing a lifestyle built on blood is not entertainment.  Its exploitation of people put underground by a world that should have remained under as well.