Oh, this is so perfect — the head of the MTA opposes a bill that would ban eating on the subways.  Here’s the link to the article in today’s New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/14/nyregion/mta-chief-opposes-ban-on-eating-in-the-subways.html?hp 

In case you hadn’t noticed, rats are running amok in the subways.  A Straphanger’s Report survey finds that riders have spotted rats in 1-out-of-every-10 subway stations.  Time-starved riders eat more on the subways.  Chicken-starved rats eat the leftovers. 

It’s a perfect storm of rodent renewal.  Think “Born Free,” Real New Yorkers style. 

The MTA Commish, Joe Llota, was once known as the “rat czar,” when he worked as Deputy Mayor under the “czar czar,” Rudy G.  Llota rolled up his sleeves and eradicated a severe rodent infestation problem.  But that was then and this is now.

With a bill in Albany that would ban all food eating on the subways, punishable by a $250 fine, Llota says, hey, that’s discriminatory against minorities and little kids eating their meager meals on the way to school. 

Hold the strychnine — maybe he’s onto something.  Maybe the explosion of the rat population in NYC subways is actually a defining, teachable moment.  Think of the possibilities:

• Name That Rat: Create a citywide contest to name your station’s favorite rat.  This could help promote spelling accuracy, while teaching schoolchildren how to fill out an entry form — a skill that will help them all through life;
• Stupid Rat Tricks: Straphangers waiting interminably for their train could teach their platform rats how to roll Snapple bottles, sit up and beg for BBQ chips, jump across the third rail — Letterman could send a camera down to tape the fun.  This teaches basic behavioral psychology, as it fosters a love of animals;
• Rat Math: To keep school test scores up, kids could learn to count the fast multiplying rats in their station.  No calculators allowed, children!
• Comfort Rats: Sweet-tempered rats could be specially trained to comfort the sick and poor huddled in our subway system.  Plump, cuddly ones could be petted, and nestle nicely next to the less fortunate.  Hey, they do it with dogs in hospitals, right? Who says we don’t take care of our own?
• Savory Pies: do I need to spell it out? This is Home Ec — NYC-style!

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So, yeah — right on, Joe Llota.  Why ban eating on the subways, which helps feed our rat friends?  But, we’d take his approach one step further.  Encourage the rat population to grow.  Make the last car of every train a “dining car” where people can eat their blueberry muffins, wings, chips, lo mein and more with reckless abandon.  And don’t throw out your leftovers — no, just drop it on the floor or out the window onto the tracks. 

Those little fellers gotta eat, after all.  They were born free.  They have a right to live free.

Right, Commissioner Llota?

I did it.  I returned to Park Slope, had a great meeting, and enjoyed an epiphany.  “The Old Neighborhood” was just another NYC nabe.  It did not have magical powers.  It could not hurt me.  It was there, available, for my use whenever I wanted it. 

Just like any other NYC Nabe.  Over time, it will continue to change and, as all Real New Yorkers know, this is the way of our City.  The burned out fruit store on Seventh is now a pet supply store.  The former Snooky’s space, after three or so failed restaurants, is now a big bageleria.  Aunt Suzie is kaputsky.  But, overall, meh.  It was a pretty day.  People were out walking.  Delivery trucks were double parked.  Just another day in Park Slope.

OK, it was pretty weird to see the skeleton of the Atlantic Center on Flatbush, arched like the dinosaur in the grand hall of the Museum of Natural History.  Sixth Avenue near the cop house is now a two-way street.  The entire area, though, is about the same.  Some very pretty blocks.  Lots of traffic congestion.

And lots of memories.  But those are transportable.  Those are on the mental hard drive and backed up in the Cloud.  They’re saved, stored, protected.  Park Slope will change and, in time, will have as much relevance to me as this view of Midtown East, as seen from the Queensboro Bridge.  I never would have imagined that the Tin Man would be implanted into the Lego-like big box apartments of this part of the City. 

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I once worked there in that neighborhood, in the A&D building, 150 East 58th Street.  I knew every store on every block.  It was MY neighborhood.  Now?  WTF. It is totally foreign to me.  I don’t know it anymore.

So I had my meeting, re: publication of my upcoming collection of short stories, Home Front (or, will I change it to The Real New Yorkers, as my publishing expert friends advise?) drove around Park Slope, hopped on the Brooklyn Bridge, faded right to the fun, curvy ramp leading to the FDR North — as I had done so many times in my 25 years in Brooklyn.  Only now, instead of exiting at some point in Manhattan, I kept heading North, merging onto the Harlem River Drive. 

And, as I drove on, towards Dyckman Street, I felt good — great, in fact.  Why not?  I was almost back home.

This coming week, I am returning to my old hometown, Park Slope, to discuss the publication of my short story collection, Home Front. 

It will be my first visit to Park Slope since, let’s see, December 2010 — and that was a quick pass-through, as I returned a U-Haul truck on that snowy Christmas Day after helping move my son to his new home, in North Brooklyn.

It feels strange.  I still consider myself “untimely ripped” from the comfort zone of my 25-year life in Brooklyn — although I suppose it’s ridiculous to think that way after living in one place for a quarter century.

Yet, on the other hand, and as regular readers of The Real New Yorkers  know, the move from Brooklyn was not without trauma.  Lots of ambivalence there.  First, plainly, baldly, I no longer fit in.  The neighborhood was a fast-changing neighborhood: it went from cozy, cultural, post hippie-ish haven, to an uber-affluent, very young, transient, tourist destination in the blink of a BMW.

Second: jeez, after 25 years, enough was enough.  Time for new horizons, right?

And yet.  This was where my marriage really took root.  This is where I raised my son, and where my family developed deep affiliations at school, temple, 78th Pct. Little League.  I was the mayor of Park Slope.  We walked the streets, roamed every corner of the Park, did the stop-‘n’-chat with myriad neighbors.  The connective tissue grew stronger by the year.  It’s called “making a life.”

Then, bam, we were empty nesters. Bam, we felt out-of-place.  Bam, we visited and fell in love with a new area of New York.  We pulled the trigger, did the move, and it all worked out.

On paper.

In our hearts, we miss Brooklyn.  Actually?  Truth be told?  I guess what we really miss is “who-we-were-and-what-we-did-when-we-were-younger-and-lived-in-Brooklyn.”  Because we moved on.  We’re not those people anymore.  And Brooklyn moved on, too.  Brooklyn is not the same as it was, even as recently as 2010, when we moved that scorching summer — the hottest summer in the city’s history, as Real New Yorkers know.  The summer my son returned from a year-long, after college, stint in Montana helping the underprivileged, to plan his life and, ultimately, move out on his own, back to Brooklyn. 

And it was the summer my trusty dog of nearly 12 years died, mere weeks before our move.  No, he never made it to the new place.  He would have loved Van Cortlandt Park, and the wooded areas near the Hudson River, just as much, if not more, than the Great Meadow and the Nethermead and the little back paths that criss-crossed Prospect Park.  But the life of a dog is painfully compressed, and we are left to survive, and remember.

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And so, next week I will end my self-imposed exile, “lay my head” on Park Slope’s “pillow,” and savor whatever is left of “the good times.” 

After my meeting on Garfield, I’ll visit 826nyc, where every Thursday I was a volunteer tutor for little kids, from the very first day it opened, in 2004, and see if any of the people I knew are still there.  I bet not.

I’ll pass by the Park, for sure, and revisit the little corner of the meadow where my dog, Gengy, and I played “stick,” day after day, year after year, in summer’s heat and winter’s cold, for he was a Boxer, and Boxer’s must run every day, and hard.

I’ll pass by Berkeley Carroll and see an entirely new cast of kids wreacking havoc and acting “cool.”  We were never poor, for sure, but these kids, I bet, come from real privilege and are probably loaded with the sense of entitlement we came to abhor in our newer Park Slope neighbors.

I think I’ll pass by Beth Elohim and then visit the guys at the Middle Eastern food place on Seventh Avenue.  I’ll pick up some Turkish pistachios and dried apricots.  I remember how after 9/11, with the neighborhood still smelling like a crematorium from the smoldering ruins just across the river, I boycotted them.  Not with placards.  But I just couldn’t, wouldn’t, go there — and it lasted for two years, no three, until I crawled back the summer I crushed my shoulder in a bike accident and they helped me hold the little plastic bags as I filled them with whole wheat cous cous, lentils, and dried oregano.

Aunt Suzie’s Italian restaurant went out of business, I read.  And Tempo, the “grown-up” restaurant and a leader of the charge to revitalize the formerly hardscrabble Fifth Avenue, is long gone, replaced by what?  A kid-friendly, overpriced pizza joint, I think I heard.

I suppose I’ll have to pass by my old apartment house.  Ugh.  That will be tough. I know my stomach will flip when I get there.  Who will I see?  Is the same super there?  The same doorman?  Will I see any of the neighbors that I adored?  Despised?  And, if I do, will they have time for a stop-‘n’-chat, or will they merely nod, smile thinly and walk on, continuing with their lives?

As I must, as well.

My old boss got voted off the island and I am so happy I could burst.

There, I said it, and I’m glad.  The official company announcement was curt.  When you read “we wish her well in her future endeavors,” there’s no doubt.  This was a corporate execution, a Michael-kissing-Fredo moment.

The ice-plunge reality of today’s Darwinian economy is this: there is a conveyor belt of employees jouncing along from the beginning to the end of their careers like the chocolates in the old I Love Lucy episode.  At the end of the conveyor belt is a steep drop into the trash basket.

By the time you’ve reached your 50s, if you’ve made it that far in the world of the working, you’re in a precarious position.  You’re closer to the top of the pyramid and the jobs at your level are fewer and farther between.  And you’re — hopefully — making good money and, thus, an easy target for those managers who practice “addition by subtraction.”

Real New Yorkers see this up-close and personal every day.  We — OK, I — innoculate ourselves/myself against the pain by rejoicing in the downfall of others.    When the news of _______________’s demise was reported in Ad Age, I felt as good as if I’d have sunk the winning basket in the NBA finals at the buzzer.

My first boss there at the agency, ____________, built the agency virtually on his shoulders.  He was tough, abrasive — no social graces but super smart.  We alI loathed him, yet learned so much from him.  He was the tough drill sargeant who prepared us for the battles ahead.

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Although he rose to great heights and made the agency king of the hill, he was eaten alive and spit out by _____________, a cunning, smart go-getter who worked her way up from a smallish medical agency to the point where she outmaneuvered _________ , aided and abetted by the honchos at the agency’s holding company.  Back then, the economy was rocking and she was able to hold onto the gains made by her predecessor, but failed to build upon them.  She proved methodical, careful.  She played not-to-lose.  And she paid with her professional life.

Eight years after she knocked off __________, she, too, was voted off the island, outfoxed by one of her lieutenants.  __________ was 15 years her junior, prettier, flirtier — but not necessarily smarter — and a suit as empty as any guy, proving that, at least in PR, women had finally achieved parity with men.

She was always oh-so-polite.  She never spoke ill of anyone.  Totally politik.  But it was always the _________ show, first and foremost, and she jettisoned me and virtually everyone who ever had an opinion, voiced it, or proved to be anything more than a hand puppet.  She was big on garnering big profile interviews for herself, speaking engagements, burnishing her “mythology of me.”

And, surprise!  Over time, the agency lost its mojo, its creativity, its ability to win and keep the big accounts.  Was the economy tough?  Sure.  But did her team’s deficiencies do the agency in?  You bet.

So goodbye and farewell, Ms. ____________.   

Another dead fish in the shark tank, another chocolate that’s fallen off the Lucy line.  Say what you will about my ethics, but schadenfreude rocks.  Live by the sword, die by the sword, baby.

Gary Carter is dying.  He is 57.  Carter, number 8 in the photo, was the catcher for the New York Mets in ’86, a great year for New York sports fans.  In the center of the maelstrom of fast-living, hard-partying young Mets, with Conie and Strawberry and Doc and Nails and so many others, Carter was the goodie-goodie, uber-exuberant, giant eight-year old.  His nickname back then was Kid. 

They got Kid from the Expos and Kid delivered, big-time.  The Mets owned New York in those days, as Real New Yorkers know.  But the Mets changed and the team exploded and then the 90s came and they got Saberhagen and Vince Coleman and a bunch of big-salary, low-impact guys, and the Mets, well, they lost me.

But Kid, he was special.  And now, as his family determines whether to discontinue treatment for the cancer that has riddled his brain, Kid — as do many athletes in this time of Tebow — invoked the G word in reference to his circumstance.

Now, Kid was always religious.  And this is a city where there are approximately 33,000 Holocaust survivors, and citizens of virtually every race, color and creed.  In New York, religion — and the collateral damage caused by religion — is a part of daily life.

Carter is who Carter is, and his was not the typical, end-of-game-interview shout-out to an athlete’s “personal savior.”  No doubt Kid’s faith provides comfort in this time of great pain and emotion.  I do believe in forces larger than those in this temporal world of ours, if not in “invisible friends” and bearded Almighties high in the sky.

And I do believe that religion is a powerful force.  It is so powerful, in fact, that is feared and loathed, by some.  Like kids in the schoolyard, taunting “my dad can beat up your dad,” religious followers of every calling have, over the centuries, gone to war over the “my God is better than your God” battle.

Which brings me to Brooklyn.  Central Brooklyn, Borough Park and Midwood in particular, is the Land of the Babka, and home to tens of thousands of Holocaust survivors.  Here, some miscreant recently sprayed painted doors, walls and homes — even the side of a religious school on Avenue L — with swastikas, even writing “Die Jew” on one garage.

To some area residents, with autumn in their hearts and memories long enough to recall their childhood in middle-Europe, this is how it was at the beginning of the Nazi occupation.  Could it happen again, here?  This continues to be a very real question to these Real New Yorkers. 

Beatings.  Blood.  Graffiti’d walls.  This is how it starts, they trembled to news reporters.  Today, they live for the kinder and repress the “thoughts of Auschwitz, the crematorium, the smell,” as one woman said to The New York Times.

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Last year, the NYPD investigated 104 cases of anti-Semitic crimes.  Two per week.

Religion has power.  To heal.  To comfort.  And, also, to incite fear aggression or, just plain aggression.

To those who terrorize others of a different faith, simply because they can, simply because they are bullies or have other psychological issues, I say this:  never again.

To Kid and his family, I wish you love and strength in this time of peril and pain.

For athletes in general, I say this: the world of sport is wonderful entertainment that provides fun and solace and inspiration for millions, young and old, around the world.  As a result, your words as sports icons hold remarkable power.  Choose these words with care and sensitivity and remember the power of restraint.  Your religious faith, if you have chosen that path, should buoy you with a deep, personal meaning that can only be demeaned and trivialized by posturing and banal post-game shout-outs to your “personal savior.” 

Your higher power, no doubt, is in the center of the maelstrom, like Carter on the ’86 Mets. Consider, though, the existance of your higher power in the context of calamities –such as our earthquakes, famines and diseases — not just your winning hit in the big game, watched far above, no doubt with bemusement, in the ultimate skybox. 

News Item: Entertainment industry superstar couple pay $1 Million + for the privilege of having their hospital of choice create a personal and private birthing experience.  As a result of poor planning and foresight, other parents are separated from their newborns by over-eager security guards and said parents are given distinctly second-class citizen status while the rich couple tweet about their blessed event, in apparent ignorance of the ill-will they created.  See the link below.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/10/nyregion/after-birth-by-beyonce-patients-protest-celebrity-security-at-lenox-hill-hospital.html?hp 

 Real New Yorkers know and respect Manhattan’s Lenox Hill Hospital, and consider New Jersey’s Beyonce Knowles and Brooklyn’s Shawn Carter (Jay-Z) one of our own.  This episode, however, is positioned at the confluence of several social  hot-buttons.  Consider:

• 1 percenters flex their muscle: A couple of very rich people fork over big bucks and get the royal treatment — at the expense of mere mortals (without the means of hijacking an entire department for a weekend);
• Lack of Transparency: Making matters worse, the hospital did not make it clear to other patients (worried parents and their newborns) what was happening;
• Lack of Consideration: Meanwhile, proud papa Carter tweets proudly about his child (as one might) but without any apparent concern for the situation that was created.

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There are many Very Important People in New York City and, from time to time, some of them have to go to the hospital.  Heads of State, Leading Minds, Entertainment Moguls, Pop-Culture Icons: they all live here and, somehow, this type of situation has not been reported, in my recent memory.

Perhaps a “gee, we’re sorry” from the Carters and from Lenox Hill management is in order. 

Perhaps a nice donation to an appropriate, related, charity is in order.

Perhaps hospitals — in this highly competitive healthcare services marketplace — should consider this episode in their future dealings with VIPs who insist on muscling consideration for other patients to the side, so that their will be done.

Yes, money talks.  But when your money comes from selling your music to the very people you disrespected, be careful.  Be very very careful.

 Good news for all Real New Yorkers.  The sharp minds at the MTA, in their infinite wisdom and relentless pursuit of efficiency and superior service, have determined that your tax dollars can go farther if they reduce subway service during those times when ridership is less-than-peak.  Like last week, for example, when many people were not working.  Ok, sure the city was overrun by tourists and the platforms were about to burst with bodies.  But still.  What a great idea!

See the link to the story in The New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/02/nyregion/mta-reduces-subway-service-on-a-few-minor-holidays.html?ref=nyregion 

I think the MTA is onto something here.  Reduce service to better match actual user demand.  By extension, we can easily adapt this out-of-the-box strategy to a number of other services.  Saving money and extending the value of tax dollars, that’s what it is all about, right?

Allow me, now, to advance several bold new directions for city planners — in the spirit of innovation and enhanced efficiency that are nothing if not the hallmarks of the Bloomberg administration:

• Police: with so many New Yorkers headed to their Hamptons and Columbia County summer retreats from May to September on Thursdays and Fridays, why not simply reduce patrols on those days?  Hey, what could go wrong, n’est-ce pas, Muffy?
• Fire: The less affluent have fewer possessions so why not cut services in the Bronx, Queens and Staten Island?  Run the numbers and see if the rise in lawsuits will outweigh the cost savings.  Hey, that’s what the car companies do, and look how good they’re doing, right?  Leave northern Brooklyn alone.  Those brownstone nabes are darling.
• Education: Reduce public school hours during the warmer months of spring and fall.  Kids pay less attention when it’s nice out, anyway, so why beat a dead horse? 
• Sanitation: Cut pick-ups when the temperatures drop to 35 degrees.  The rats are in hibernation and the cold will keep garbage fresh as a daisy and limit the stench. 
• Roads and highways: increase bike lanes to 50 percent of available road space.  So what if they’re empty even now?  This scheme will further increase congestion and induce implementation of congestion pricing, a money-maker if ever there was one.
• Libraries: close them all.  Who needs books?  Doesn’t everyone have a smart phone or Kindle by now?
• Hospitals: Let nurses and PA’s run the whole show — get rid of those pesky, high-priced on-staff physicians.  All they do is order money-wasting, life-saving tests and perform fancy-shmancy operations. Everyone knows nurses really do most of the work.  Next, eliminate the chairs in ER waiting rooms.  This will limit the number of people who use local ER’s as their primary care facility.  If they can’t sit, they won’t come.  Overcrowding problem solved; that was easy.
• Parks: Charge a nominal admission to all city parks.  Say, $10 for adults and $6.50 for children under 12.  Charge seniors $15 — they use the benches most, so this is only fair. 

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This is just a start.  But, as you can see, with a little clever thinking and strategic analysis, city services can be modified to better meet the needs of key constituents and extend the value of precious financial resources. 

Any questions, contact Mayor Michael Bloomberg 1.441.555.1212.  If Diana answers, give her our best.

On behalf of all Real New Yorkers, I have a number of wishes for 2012, now, at this point, as we slide to the conclusion of another difficult year.  Here they are:

• May our political leaders cut the crap, shake hands, agree to disagree on some points, and work to solve our myriad economic, social and medical problems, with compromise, integrity and earnest effort
• May these same leaders see the light and work towards policies that promote energy independence, which is the sure way to deflate the power of the world’s bad actors and simultaneously grow jobs and, thus, our economy
• May the metaphorical light bulb go on in homes and in state rooms, and illuminate the fact that a bleeding-edge education is the way for our nation to stay strong enough to help save the great idea that is “democracy” — and to drive the success of the world economy.  Shut the g-d X-boxes off and study, fer crissakes!
• May U.S. leaders pause their posturing long enough to admit that science has validity and that facts trump fiction
• May our more religious citizens finally equate the teachings of their religions with actions in daily life and take this knowledge into their interpersonal relationships — and into voting booth come November, to vote for some semblance of compassion for those less fortunate.  I have never read scripture that states: “every man for himself.”
• May the world’s journalists track News Corp evil all the way up to Rupert, and take Faux News and the entire garbage spewing empire down, once and for all
• May we all just take it down a notch and be friends — please?  

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HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE!!!

I felt blessed this morning at the farmer’s market on Isham Street in Inwood. 

The air was sweet and fresh and the folks were in good spirits, up here in the northern tip of Manhattan.

My sense was that, despite the thrum of frustrating news pumped at us from all sides in this 24/7 media vortex — and that is certainly part of being a Real New Yorker — the blessing of the day took precedence. 

The crowd here was reminiscent of Park Slope’s farmer’s market, circa 1988.  I got the sense that these people weren’t particularly rich, but that they lead rich lives.  They are considerate.  They read books.  They love their children, their neighbors, their pets.  Themselves.  They know right from wrong.
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No, this was not a sharp-elbows crowd of the self-entitled.  This was a sweet crowd, quietly considering the attributes of one unwaxed apple over another, selecting fresh breads from upstate New York, and fish from the deep green seas off the East End of Long Island.

At every turn, I saw beatific smiles on the faces of these Real New Yorkers.  And why not?  The skies were blue.  The wind was calm.  The air was fresh.  It was chilly but, hey, it’s December.

Maybe times are harder, but here we all were, finding our way, picking healthy vegetables, poultry, honey — nature’s bounty — to make a hearty, nourishing meal for family and friends.

It’s the holidays.  For goodness sakes.  It’s the holidays.  We’re alive.  And that’s more than enough for a small celebration, in my book.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/04/nyregion/ex-boxer-edwin-viruet-says-he-was-robbed.html?scp=1&sq=roberto+duran&st=nyt 

I urge you to read Corey Kilgannon’s excellent New York Times profile of prize fighter Edwin Viruet, which had an unexpectedly powerful resonance.  Here is a guy who was a top contender, rising to championship bouts against the great Roberto Duran.  He was, in fact, the only fighter to ever cut Duran.  And Duran was, pound-for-pound, one of the best fighters ever.

And here he is now, Edwin Viruet, on public assistance and hustling training gigs at John’s Boxing Club in the South Bronx, the big paydays long gone after a heartbreaking slide to the bottom in the great life game of Chutes and Ladders.

These days, Viruet’s is the situation of all too many Real New Yorkers — no matter if they are white or blue collar workers.  No, fired book editors are not necessarily taping their hands and pounding the heavy bag in a hot, sweaty gym.  But there is an entire generation of careers being bulldozed into oblivion, an entire city of strivers who studied hard, worked long hours, played the game, took a dive when they had to in terms of office politics, and ka-boom.  They’ve been downsized.  TKO.

Some hang on to dead-end, palooka jobs, just for the health care benefits.  And every day, it seems, they are on the bubble.  They hope, they pray, that the boss, sometimes 20 years their junior, doesn’t come in some sunny Friday, to give “the talk.”  As the old-time boxing announcers would scream at ring side, as one fighter would stand, motionless, eyes swollen shut, face bloodied, taking a hurricane of punches on the way to being TKO’d: “Oh, such punishment.  I can’t believe he’s still on his feet.  Won’t they stop this fight?  For God’s sake, stop the fight.”
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Who do you know that has an old-time, straight-up job at a company?  It sometimes seems as if everyone is cobbling together a life, holding onto tattered shreds of a career.  Some are part-timers.  Others freelance and do project work.  Still others linger on the periphery of their former professions, holding on by their fingernails, showing up, ghost-like, at association awards dinners, company ex-pat reunions, or lunches with other denizens of the downsized demi-monde.

With wan faces, they relive their glory days, recall the details of old accounts won and lost, revisit the scandalous behavior of trade shows past, and always, it seems, end with “are you still in touch with…?” or “have you heard from…?”

Gone is the experience and the institutional knowledge of an entire generation.  Gone is the glue that holds the workplace fabric together.  The young managers that remain perform yeoman’s work, and strain valiantly to keep the pipes filled with orders and the young’uns trained and motivated, moving forward, ever forward, slogging towards company profitability.

But when the youth sees what happens to those who play by the rules, and gasps at the pittance of a raise they get after their long hours at the salt mines, their future is clear — the only way out is to invent their own jobs, not hustle for someone else.  (Note to management: Free pizza for those who stay after 8 p.m. ceases to cut it, after awhile.)

There is no way that anyone with their lights on will continue to sweat blood for the names on the office door.  The contract of loyalty has been punched to the canvas.

A great army of professional pugs is being hammered to the point where they are unable to even show up at the John’s Boxing Clubs of life, to hustle a gig here, a gig there, like Edwin Viruet.  They simply say, in the immortal words of Roberto Duran, who was himself destined for professional destruction, “No mas.”