Comment!!!!!

Thank you all so much for the feedback on Facebook and for the insane amount of hits I've had in this first week! But if you guys don't start discussing these things on the site I'd be better off writing a journal. Make comments! You can tell me you love me or to go fuck myself, I don't care, but I want to see some action.

Love you.
-J

The Tit Painting

I've seen the power of strong women from an early age. Both of my grandmothers wielded fists of fury and had the ability to influence their men into submission. Legends about my mom's mom, Lily, include the time she once threw an onion at my grandfather so hard,it lodged into the wall. When angry she was relentless, but completely adored by many. At age 6, when most kids are killer at Candyland, Me-ma Lily taught me how to play Black Jack, cigarette in hand (her, not me), with a mason jar full of quarters. I'd use the change to buy candy when I won her. Years later I would use this skill winning money at Vegas tradeshows surrounded by colleagues and concubines. I always think of her though because she had character, and was one. A gorgeous woman, who even in the last years of her too-young life remained strong. I loved her as only her first, adoring grandson could could: even when lymphoma affected her looks and her demeanor, I'd always be there making sure she kept the wig off. I thought she looked most beautiful, just as herself.

My dad's mom, Dorothy…well, to say she was outspoken would be like saying The Shawshank Redemption was just a decent movie, or Shakespeare got a few poems down. She was as loving as she could be vicious, too-often saying things that offended people profusely, while making her loved ones the center of her universe. A unique talent. She had the ability to shock a room into silence but could also light it up with laughter. There was no wonder why my grandfather was a man of few words: Grandma Dorothy commanded the floor.

I'm not sure if this is even pertinent to the blog, but there is a story about her that needs to be told.

Late in her life, Grandma Dorothy was diagnosed with breast cancer. I believe she was in her early 80's at the time, and while she knew she wasn't well she decided the only medicine could be laughter. Yup, good humor...and medicinal marijuana.

When Grandma got stoned she liked to paint. She painted mainly cows, and to this day I am not quite sure why that was her forte. These cows would come in all shapes, sizes, and styles. There was the rustic cow, the scenic cow, the post-modern cow, and even the impressionist cow. However as time passed she widened her repertoire to include other, intriguing subjects.

She was shopping apartments with my cousin, who had just moved down to Florida to start his business. For each one of his walls she envisioned a different painting, but was especially concerned with the bedroom. Grandma Dorothy was of the opinion that for a bachelor to have a nude above his bed showed a certain level of sophistication. So she began painting a portrait of a young lady draped in nothing but a transparent shawl. The painting was done from the chest-up, so attention was immediately drawn to the large breast: everything else was slightly lop-sided. The background she turned into a blend of greens, giving a military camouflage effect and adding to the surreal effect.

When my cousin's girlfriend moved in before their marriage, this painting had to go. And naturally, it had to progress through the chain of Ross bachelors. One day I received an e-mail that described the mission: included were instructions to "keep the legend of the tit painting alive." I won the booby prize.

It is now and will forever be known as the Tit Painting, and it sits above my bed. Since the day it arrived, there has not been one woman that has seen it who hasn't asked for an explanation. It may haunt me in for the rest of its existence, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

My Date with Destiny

One event in my junior year of college defines my entire outlook on life and love.

It was an afternoon right before our summer break. I finished my exams early and was in the living room of our four-bedroom apartment on a phone call with my ex. Our apartment was collegiate-eclectic, as any apartment housing four boys and a full liquor bar would be. It was full of random items that people who would come and go would leave to be reclaimed later, or not. One of the items: a stainless steel pistol that shot BB's at a powerful pressure. At the time it was sitting on our kitchen counter between the paper towel rack and last night's egg sandwich. Its luster commanded me to grab it, providing an enticing object to a person who's nerves were on end. The "worry-bead" effect. Before I knew it I had the unloaded BB gun in my hand, unconsciously clicking away as the argument escalated.

For the life of me, I cannot remember what this particular argument was about. We had so many of them that to recall one specific altercation would cause an aneurysm. What I do remember is my roommates had upcoming exams. If the distraction of this argument continued the next fight would be with them, so I decided to take the phone call outside as not to bother them. My anger and the BB gun came along.

Our apartment complex was a collection of small buildings set to view each other. Each building was 3 floors tall with 4 units per floor, and each had a balcony. We were on the ground floor at the center of the pavilion, in plain view of all common areas. This was a great set-up for the socially engaging group that we housed at 1753 Exchange. But on this particular day this location would help cause a rupture in an otherwise normal sunny Florida afternoon. There wasn't a whole lot Stephanie was able to say to me without arousing my anger, and my voice escalated as I badgered her on the cell phone, all the while clicking the trigger of my rubber-gripped companion.

I never saw it coming.

Within 20 minutes of stepping outside my front door, I was surrounded on perimeter by three police officers, guns drawn, ready to unload the chambers of their war machines on my trembling 20 year-old body. Nervously laughing, I set down the phone and the BB gun and was face to face with my destiny...and all I could think of while staring down the barrel of this officer's pistol was one thing:

Women are going to get me fucking killed.

The Reason...

...because I'm 24 years old, and my generation is doomed.

Romance is dead, and the roles have changed to where we do not really know who is who anymore. Processed foods have packed on estrogen to make men as emotional as we've ever been: women know, beyond any shadow of doubt, that they do rule the world. The divorce rate is over 50%. Spontaneous sex has lost its luster and has become an empty experience, comparable only to a short-lived drug high or a $600 government reimbursement; a temporary fix to a more permanent problem.

More victims of heartbreak appear every day, if you listen to the lyrics,or take a good, close look at our fashion and our lifestyle. And I'll be damned if I can at least vent about all of it since I can't change a thing about any of it. At least not now.

You may disagree or may think I am dead-on. I guess it depends upon which side of the fence you're standing on, today. I'm not saying happy and successful relationships don't exist. I'm just saying that the majority of the people in my generation are constantly bitching. Complacency is usually found in having options, and that's simply because people do not know how to collaborate in a relationship.

So what makes me the expert?

Years of working in both nightlife and fashion has given me a front row seat to the self-indulgent narcissists of my generation. Plus, I'm a cynic. It's hard not to be. Gas is $4 a gallon, our economy is shit, the music is bad, and New York singles are crazy.

I also feel like I have seen a lot. I am a product of a so-called broken marriage, but that's not what broke me. Both of my parents have found love and family with great success. My father is where I get my pessimism. After his divorce he swore he would never re-marry. He found lasting love while waiting on an elevator. My mother rekindled a relationship she had prior to meeting my father. They both couldn't be happier.

By no means am I perfect. I am stubborn and insecure. I drink too much,overcompensate, and never give the benefit of the doubt. I am the kind of guy who often requires a disclaimer from someone prior to an introduction. Furthermore, every time I think I find what I want, I apply too much pressure. That's just me. I have a laundry list of red flags. Why can I be judgmental on my generation when it comes to meeting the opposite sex? Most likely because I have spent a lot of time on each side of the fence: experiencing serious relationships and being single...each in the fullest sense of the word. And let me tell you, it's a jungle out there. New York City is filled with cougars, snakes, gorillas, and other vicious creatures, some of whom are hell-bent on killing each other through Darwinism and dinner dates. It's survival of the fittest....but who pays the checks?

The purpose of this blog is to comment on some of the experiences I, or some I've met, have gone through. Most of the names will be changed to protect the not-so-innocent. You may be fascinated, disgusted, amused or appalled, but at least you'll be something. Maybe this will illicit some sympathy for the guy you've loved to hate, or the girl you've never understood. Maybe this will just serve as entertainment. Maybe you'll tell me your story. Either way you've made it this far, and I'm sure we will be seeing a lot of each other.

-J