CSI: Murray Hill

I am sick and tired of criminals.  I really am.  It's one thing when a guy is Austria locks his kid into a room for 24 years and rapes her for years.  That guy should be locked in a room in prison with two big, giant men who will rape him for the next 25 years.  

Every day I turn the news on and crime is happening everywhere.  A woman drowns her baby, a man rapes a college girl, a father beats his kid using the family lap dog.  It's all disgusting.  Even in NYC, with its recent 50 bullet shoot-out at a man on his wedding day, only to have the police officers (who obviously used excessive force) get off with a slap on the hand.

But! It's another thing when its in front of my building.  I am no stranger to crime.  When I lived in Venice, California, I arrived my first day at my new apartment to find news crews and a candle light vigil in front of the gate to the building.  I found out the next morning that the previous night (one, single night before I moved in) two men in a Mercedez were shot to death while they were waiting at the stop sign in front of my building.   And here I thought the news and candles was for me from the Venice Beach Community Welcoming Committee. 

When we decided to move to New York, I told myself that safety is the most important thing to me.  I could care less if my rent ends up being 98% of my monthly paycheck, or if  I have to walk for 30 minutes in the snow (I finally get to use that line with my kids one day "When I was your age, I had to walk in snow.." ofcourse, I will add "in bare feet" just like every parent does).

SAFETY!  It's important. 

 It's important when you walk down the street at night.  It's important when you drive. It's important when "It's Business Time".    That is why we moved to Manhattan and not the Bronx or Spanish Harlem.   I wanted to know that if my wife needs to walk the dogs at night, she can without the need of carrying a .22 caliber.  

This morning I wake up and walk out the front door with my usual "I-am-still-sleeping-but-you-can't-tell-because-I-used-peanut-butter-to-glue-my-eyelids-open" look on my face.  I stroll out with my gross "Strawberry/Banana/Chocolate/Lime/AppleJuice/Yam/GoatCheese Granola Bar" in my hand when I notice the "CRIME SCENE: DO NOT CROSS" yellow tape around the corners of my street.  Police cars are spread out and police officers as well as dudes with CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION jackets walking around.  Some holding cameras, some are on cell phones.  My first thought was "Hey! They are shooting CSI:NY on my street!" but then I realized, they shoot some of that stuff in Los Angeles and also, the fact that the guys walking around in police outfits are absolutely police officers and NOT actors.   I was tempted to ask "Excuse me officer, but WTF is going?" but I saw my life flash before my eyes and all I could see is myself in a room that is well lit with multiple colors of light, and with Gary Sinise and the chick from Providence standing over me asking me questions and accusing me of being involved in whatever it is that happened!

So here I am questioning if where I moved is SAFE.  Before I moved, a buddy of mine said "This is New York man.  Everywhere but nowhere is safe.  Crime happens all over this city.  Some places more than others, but it happens.  It's not Los Angeles, so when something happens down the block, everyone knows and sees it. It's NYC! Get used to it.  It's a different world"

I came into this city expecting it.  We heard about the guy who got shot five streets up from us when he was mugged at an ATM at 1:00 in the morning.  Then again, who the heck goes to pull out cash from an ATM at 1:00 in the morning?  We also heard the occasional drunk idiots trying to start fights on Saturday nights when they fall out of the local bar.  But to see the yellow tape around the pole where my dogs leave their drug test samples on, is weird.  Makes it feel so real suddenly.  Like as if, something happened during the night and you were asleep and didn't even know it happened.  Gave me  a weird feeling.

I couldn't find out what happened, although I am sure the AM paper will have a snippet about it tomorrow.  For now, I urged my  in-laws and my wife to not take the dogs out on a walk any time after 10:00 p.m.   I know that sounds like a bit overboard, but in the words of Jay-Z: "There are a lot of problems in the world, I know! But first I have to take care of the world I know!". 

If I can't trust these streets to be safe, I have to make my family safe by staying off the streets when crime is at its peak.  After all, Gary Sinise is not going to come rescue my family for anything less than $15,000 an episode.

UPDATE:   Apparently the scene around my neighborhood is making the news rounds.  To read about what happened, you may click here:http://www.nypost.com/seven/05012008/news/regionalnews/mob_stabbing_108926.htm

Props To My Cab Driver from Terminal 1

A bit after New Year's, I had to take the dogs out on a late night walk.  I usually am responsible for the late night walks because 1) I don't want wife to walk them herself or 2) walk them with me because I saw that weird movie "The Brave One" where Jodie Foster and her boyfriend get robbed and beaten in the middle of the night.  Granted, in the movie they were walking through Central Park after sundown which is like asking a Jew to walk through the bad part of Jerusalem after sundown.  It's just not good for anyone.  We, one the other hand, live in Murray Hill which is mostly compiled of two types of residents: 1) Old people who never made their way to Florida and 2) All the people who work at the corner supermarkets in Manhattan, live HERE!

So I take the dogs out on this cold evening and as I step outside our doors, I notice a wallet.  I pick up this wallet and there was a wad of $50, $20 and $5 bills in it.  I counted it and it was about $350 or so.  I looked at the ID and noticed that the man had multiple ID's.  One of them declared him a "Retired Officer of the New York State Police Department".  I looked around his business cards to find his number to call him and let him know.  Sure enough, I find his apartment number on a card, I call and leave a message with the "room mate" and about 10 minutes later, the "retired officer" calls me back.  We met outside my apartment about 10 minutes later and he thanked me and all was well.

I have been a firm believer of Karma.  Maybe not in the sense that some hippie folks think of Karma, but I do think that if you do good, good will be done to you.  This has happened a lot in my life.  When I gave an assisting hand, another hand came to assist me in time of need.  I am not sure if the help I got would have been there regardless of my previous actions, but I would like to think it was only because I did something good myself.

So lastnight the In-Laws came to visit.  My wife's parents are from Sweden and I only seen them about a handful of times.  I usually still get nervous around them because lets be honest, their daughter (the youngest) is thousands of miles away from them, living in a big city (total opposite of sweet ol' hillside Sweden) and lets face it, she lives with me.  I would be nervous if I was her parents.  

So yesterday I decided to be the good son-in-law and go meet them in JFK and ride the train back with them.   I took the E Train to JFK which may I add, was scary as hell.  It reminded me of that weird feeling I got in my pants when I was 11 years old and got on the Space Mountain ride in Disneyland.  I felt like I was going to fall out, and die.  That is how the E Train feels.  It flies at speeds that even the idiots on "World's Fastest Police Chases" won't dare.  Even worse is the fact that it takes turns like as if the Blues Brothers are driving it.  I can swear we were riding only on one side of the wheels at some of those turns.

I made a decision to bring the in-laws home safe and spare them the nightmare that is called the "E".  They would never forgive me if this was to be their first experience after a 22 hour trip.  So we get into a taxi and I sit shot gun.  I could have probably squeezed in the back with them but they have been sitting on a plane for many hours and can probably use the space.  We chat about this and that.  Airline food and in-flight movies.   Thirty minutes later we are in front of the apartment.  At a desperate attempt to still impress them (even after I already married their daughter and if they dislike me now won't make a bit a difference) I go and reach for my wallet to pay the driver.  While still trying to play golden boy, I hand the driver the money while attempting to rush out to be nice enough to open the door in the back for the mother-in-law and help her out.  I grab their bags from the trunk and insist on bringing them up the flight of stairs myself.

This morning I get a call from the Taxi and Limo Commission.  The good man (a.k.a. cab driver) apparently found the wallet of yours truly in the cab after driving back to JFK.  I was in shock because I thought I gave him a crappy tip and I was sure he would chuck the wallet once realizing that I tipped him like he was a shitty waiter at TGIFridays.

I am going to meet him later this afternoon in front of my apartment to get back my wallet.  

I am also going to go ahead and pull out some cash and give the man some bills for going out of his way to bring me back the wallet.  Lastly, I am giving him some props.

Since arriving in New York I had to deal with some shitty taxi drivers.  Rude, obnoxious, some smelly, some loud on their headsets, some were downright complaining when I tipped them less then what they wanted.  One driver, I shit you not, asked for the tip up front.  I got in the cab and he said "You pay first because I had people run out of taxi without paying!" I figured, fair enough.  I handed him my card only to have him look back at me and go "How much you want me to add for tip?"....I was like "You kidding me?  get me to my destination, and if you deserve it, I will give you something in cash!  So to have my cab driver lastnight go out of his way to bring me my wallet today and be nice enough to not throw it in the East River with all the other garbage, I give him a big "You The Mutha'ucking Man!".

Thank you Mr. Taxi Driver from Terminal 1.  You saved me the hassle of re-ordering credit cards (which usually would not be too much trouble except the fact that Wifey is having her birthday this weekend and I have yet to complete my shopping.  Without a wallet, this would have been disastrous).

Listening To Hidden Messages (Over The Sound Of Sirens)

I am a light sleeper.  I wake up from the slightest sounds.  I know this, because I wake up from mice getting smacked into traps (see previous posts), or the sound of two drunk men arguing at 3:00 a.m. outside, or the sound of the neighbors having what sounded like an orgy with two elephants, a chimpanzee, and a flock of chinchillas.  I wake up a lot.  

One sound my mind has learned to drown out is the sound of sirens.  Fire-truck and police sirens are like baby screams at a maternity hospital.  You hear one every few minutes.  I almost wish they sounded more like violins or trombones so that way atleast I can have my very own orchestrated soundtrack to my life here in Manhattan.  But they don't.  They are loud, and annoying and on top of everything, the sound of their truck/car horns are louder than an arena filled with 14 year olds watching a Jonas Brothers concert.

I have learned how to drown out the sound of fire trucks at night, and yet, I still have my "keep-my-family-safe" feelings that make me edgy.  I don't know what it is, but whenever I feel that my family (my wife and two dogs) are in danger, I wake up.  Sometimes its a strange sound of the wind on the windows (which in my mind is a burglar cutting in through the window by the fire escape), or the sound of a drunk guy hanging outside our apartment in the middle of the night singing (in my mind he is a burglar who will later climb my fire escape and wake me up again by cutting in the window).  Call it "paranoia".  Call it "on-edge".  I live in New York damn-it, and you need "life insurance" just to get on the "E" train.

But for the last 4 days something strange has been going on.  I am a firm believer of messages.  Not text messages, or sluty MySpace messages from a girl who says she thinks I am a very cool and hot and really wants me to check out her webcam at some unknown website that ends with .xxx instead of .com.  I believe in messages in the way that certain things that happen in your day-to-day are trying to tell you something.  It's up to you to figure it out.  

Saturday was Passover. My wife and I sat and had a nice dinner and talked about the holiday, the reason why the Jews walked in the desert for so long without anyone getting suspicious that Moses may be just a bit on the crazy train.  We talked about why the Jews eat Matza and how is it possible that while they didn't have time to make bread in the desert, they did somehow have time to find a vineyard in the desert to sip wine. Magical places those deserts in Egypt.  Then we got to talk a bit about my fond memories of being a kid in Israel.  I told my wife about how my grandmother (may she rest in peace and forever be blessed with endless amount of Arabic Soap Oprahs in heaven).  One of the very few memories I have from my childhood was with my grandmother (most of my other childhood memories have been replaced with Wu-Tang lyrics in High School).  One of the memories was a red fire truck she gave me as a gift once.  I don't recall why she gave it to me.  It may have been my birthday. Maybe it was to shut me up during her Arabic Soap Oprah.  I like to think it was because I was so damn cute.  I told my wife how much I loved that truck and how I cherished it until about a month later, when I discovered girls.

So here was Saturday, and I talked about fire-trucks.  Then comes Monday, where someone asked me if I got Renters Insurance.  They even mentioned that "You never know.  You can't trust the guy living under you to not start a fire accidently".  Which is funny, because the person living under me is a girl, so I guess "No. I don't need to worry!".

So here was Monday, and I talked about fires.  Then comes this morning (Tuesday).  I wake up because I sense danger.  My "protector of the house and all that is within it" alarm went off and I jumped out of bed.  I hear sirens in the background.  These sirens were not a few blocks away or even down the street.  These were outside my apartment building.  Even more important was the sound of truck doors slamming and the sound of a man yelling to another guy "Joe! It's this one? You sure?"

I rush to the window and look outside and there is the NYFD outside of our building.  Standing in the same spot where my dog lastnight dropped his left over Passover dinner we gave him on Saturday.  I tried to look below me and above me to see smoke and I see nothing.  The fire men (all 9 of them) rush into the building next door (which is connected to our building by the way like soccer players blocking a penalty goal).   They run in with axes and masks and all I keep thinking is "What the hell are these guys doing leaving the siren on while they run inside?  Don't they know people are sleeping in here?"

I stood there and started thinking why the heck has the subject of fire come up in the past few days.  The talk about the fire truck (which I have not thought of for years until my wife asked me about it) and the talk of renters-insurance in the event of a fire, and now...fire trucks outside my window.

I tried to think what all the messages are trying to tell me,  but I couldn't figure it out.  So this afternoon, I bought some ear plugs.   

Elevator Way To Heaven

My Barmitzva sucked. Seriously. I was 13 and I was about to become a man, and yet, I was lacking all the things that in my mind at the time made someone a man. 

For one thing, I had like a total of 4 friends show up to my party. These days I turn on MTV and see some “My Sweet Bat-Mitzva” reality show where some rich, spoiled brat of a girl gets to invite 800 friends to the Beverly Hills Hotel and giving out Porches as table gifts. I had 4.

Don’t get me wrong, my party was packed and off the hook. I had my family, grandparents, my cousins and my sister even went on to invite her friends…all 50 of them. That’s right! My sister had more friends at MY party than I did. I was 13, they were all 18. There was a brief moment where I felt very cool. Only now I realize, I was a charity case for the local high schoolers who needed a place to drink their Pabst Blue and Saint Idez on a Saturday afternoon.

My Barmitva sucked for a lot of reasons. The party was one thing. Then there was the whole money thing. For those not familiar with Barmitzvas, it is customery in Jewish tradition to give the kid who is becoming a man, some money! First of all, may I add that this sounds like the most un-jewish thing to do? Since when are we givers of money? By tradition, you give a check for 18 dollars. "18" represents “Life” or “Lechaeem”. So a check for 18 dollars is customery. That is some of the cheapest tradition I ever heard of. First of all, a check for 18? Could they not round it up to a 20? Secondly, I ended up with like 100 checks all made out to 18 dollars. You know how much math goes into that at age 13?

The worst part of my Barmitzva, was the studying. You see, the only people who take the reading portion of the Barmitzva is the Rabbi. In a Barmitzva, the 13 year old who is stepping up to be a man, must wake up early to attend Temple (if I am supposed to become a man, can’t I be man enough to choose to sleep in?).  Basically, you study months in advance for this event with a Rabbi. I don’t think the guy who was teaching me was a full-on, hardcore Rabbi. He was the “I only do this cause chicks dig guys with beards” kind of Rabbi.

I say that the studying was the worst because it involved me learning how to sing with a post-puberty voice that has just learned how to crack. I sounded like Barry White on helium. Learning how to read the “Torah” with that voice was like asking me to sing a Mariah Carey song underwater. It was exhausting, it was frustrating and at the end of the day, I knew I sounded like crap and was too embarrassed to even attempt to do it correctly. But the Rabbi insisted that I learn it because “God” wants to hear me sing it correctly. It would please him. That stuck with me. Pleasing God really comes down to singing in tune?

Tomorrow is Passover dinner. I will not be attending temple or even attempt to read the book during dinner. Over the years, I have disconnected from tradition and began to form my own. I am not sure why. Perhaps it is the lack of attendance at my party (I sang that song the best I could and God still didn’t have 800 people at my party). Regardless of the reasons, I will not be going all out this year with celebration of the Passover.

Yesterday I started talking to a co-worker about Rabbis in New York and the U.S. and I learned that parts of New York have “Shabas Elevators”. I am not sure if these exist in the rest of the country but the concept made me curious. For those not familiar, Shabas is the day of rest (Saturday) and for the real hardcore people (Rabbi and his family of minions) means no use of electricity, no watching TV, no playing xbox360, and no driving…..except... apperently a Rabbi can be in an elevator as long as someone else pushes the button.

I was thinking about this for a bit. The Rabbi can NOT sit in the passanger side of a car as long as someone else is driving (heck, most of them refuse to take a Taxi here in NYC to temple on Saturday) but yet, if after temple he feels like he needs to make a quick stop at Macy’s Men’s Department on the 4th floor, he can get into the elevator as long as someone else pushes the button.

I even learned that some apartment buildings have this “Shabas Elevators” which actually get programmed to just stop on every floor, so a Rabbi can come in and wait until he is delivered to his floor. Just like Take-Out delivery!

This whole concept sounds suspicious to me. Is God forgiving if you ride an elevator but not a car? Is it because it is moving vertically? Was there something in the Bible that said “You will not gain entrance to God’s party if you move horizontally on Shabas!” and some Rabbi said “They didn’t say anything about vertically!”

Seriously people! This is why I hated my Barmitzva. Silly rules that can be bended. What’s the point? You either follow or you don’t. No reason to swim in the center.

This Passover, I will be celebrating with my wife over a nice dinner and some heavy cleaning. The best part, I can sit in comfort and know that God will not be mad at me this Saturday, because I, live in a "walkup"!

39th Manhole Explosion (Worst Gay Porn Movie Name Ever!)

New York is filled with Manholes.   NY is filled with assholes too, but this post is about manholes.

I am not talking about the Manholes you can find at the Meatpacking district.  I am talking about the manholes on the roads throughout the city.

Last night, at approximately 4:30 a.m. at 117 East 39th street (I live at the 200 block on E39th), a manhole explosion occurred.  They evacuated people in the area and power was lost for a short time.   Six buildings in the area were evacuated due to raised carbon monoxide.

For those wanting some more information about manholes:

New York City gets the manholes made in West Bengal in New Delhi.    That's right.  These days, your cell phone and internet customer service reps are not the only ones working for you outside of the U.S.  

The reason for these manholes being made outside the U.S. is because they cost 20 to 60 percent cheaper.  U.S. manhole makers make $25/hour.  In India, only a few dollars for a whole days work.

The employees there work with bare feet and long hours around 1,400 to 2,500 degree Fahrenheit of molten metal temperature.

So next time you walk on a manhole, or see one exploding into 150 feet in the air, stop and look and realize all the people and effort that went into it.  After all, protecting you from falling into the sewer of New York City is not easy.  

Keeping the city away from smelling like sewer in the summer....well, not much anyone can do about that.  Not even in India.  

Slaps on a Motha' ucking Plane!

I don't enjoy flying. Not because of layovers, or because of crappy (and outrageously expensive) airport and airline food.  Not because long lines at security to make sure I am not carrying an AK-47 in my 10.5 size shoes or even because of the impatient flight attendants (or stewardess, or whatever they call themselves now.  "Just bring me my drink bitch!").

I don't enjoy flying because it is not entertaining.  Flights are the most boring hours of my life. Some airlines have tried to step-up to the entertainment void in my life.  Virgin Airlines for example.   Bright colors, rave music, and people bringing you cookies on demand by the touch of a button.  If you replaced cookies with LCD, it feels like a flashback to a 1985 party at Studio 54.  If only every night was as trippy as that.

But they still didn't hit the entertainment factor for me.  Flights are boring.  I recall flying to my wife's home land (it is in Scandinavia and rhymes with "Shweden").  I had to fly on Air India.  Don't ask me why I flew on Air India to Scandinavia.  That is worse than taking Hawaiian Airlines to Yemen.   That Air India flight was the worst.   Nevermind the fact that I stood through 2 hours of security (where the removed lighters, creams, shampoos, and pocket knives) only to let me board on this flight and then serve me my food with actual REAL SILVERWEAR!  It's like "Oh don't bother bringing knives to the airport.  We will give you one on our flight."  These were not the plastic ones, these were actual dinner knives made from silver.  But yet, still less dangerous than my Johnson & Johnson Baby Bottom Smooth Hair Silk Shampoo.  But I digress....

The flight was less entertaining then most because Air India apparently had 11 channels on their built-into your small chair TV but all aired Indian speaking movies.  Indian News, Indian movies, Indian MTV, Indian Martha Stewart, Indian Best Police Chases Caught On Tape (man those elephants are fast).  To someone who does not speak an ounce of Indian, this was a really boring flight.

Then comes my flight back to JFK from LAX on Sunday night.  I have been in Los Angeles for business and with a quick stop to my parents house.  My mother would never forgive me if I didn't stop by (especially since I will miss Passover this next weekend for the first time in my life).   I will skip through the boring parts and fast forward to 10 minutes before we land.  Around 1:40 a.m.

I am sitting on a flight by a really crappy airline.  I won't say their name, but lets just say its an airline that just happened to be "American" (wink wink).

The pilot comes on and says "Flight Attendents, prepare for landing." the seatbelt lights turn on and the lights turn on around the cabin.  I am sitting in seat A.  This seat is in the aisle. Suddenly I hear someone arguing across the other side from where I am sitting, but a few rows back.  I turn my head just a bit out of curiosity and notice two grown women arguing.   From what I gather, the lady behind, has been putting her legs against the chair in front of her and kicking it accidently one too many times throughout the flight.  The lady in front, who has been bothered by the seat kicking turns and says "Can you please stop? I asked you already like 10 times".   The lady behind her responded with "Turn yourself around and shut the f**k up!".

Those eight words made the lady in the front unbuckle her seatbelt, stand up, turn herself around while with her knees on her seat, raise her hand up and bitch slap the skin off the other lady's face.  

This was not a normal slap by any means.  This was a "Bitch, where is my money?  You better get back on that corner and keep hustling" type of slap.  This slap echoed through the cabin like a yell in the Grand Canyon.  Within an instant, the lady being slapped stood up, grabbed the other lady (slappy) and pulled her by the hair down to the aisle floor.  Next thing you know, they are yelling and throwing slaps around like two homeless people on a cheeseburger.

People sitting around them stand up and get out of the way.  Immediately, the flight attendants run down and separate them.  I look at the person sitting next to me and thinking "This is better then Pay-Per View".  

They put one lady in the kitchen in the center of the plane and have her talk to one attendant.  The other, is taken to the back of the plane where she is speaking with two other attendants.  The fourth attendant is walking around asking people to sit down.  I assume its all over and cancel my attempt to reach for my digital camera in my bag.  Then, the attendant in the kitchen turns her back to grab a glass of water for "Slappy" and "Slappy the slap happy fighter" makes a bolt to the back of the plane to tackle the lady again.  They go at it for another few seconds before the attendants realize the ring bell rung and the fight is back in for round 2!

The separate them again.  This time they take no chances and put one in the back of the plane by the restrooms and the other one in the front of the plane (note to self: easy way to get seated in First Class is to start a fight.  May backfire by having the guy you are fighting go to first class, and you being placed in the back by the bathrooms).

We land and of course, police stand ready at the gate as I get off the plane to board on.  

This was very entertaining I must say.  I wish it went on a little longer, I might have bought a sandwich.  Seriously.  If airlines took out a few seats in the middle, and built a ring.  Let people on the plane duke it out while the rest order sandwiches and alcohol, it would be a very entertaining flight.  Like boxing night in Vegas, but at 30,000 feet.

There is a moral to this story.  It's not that you shouldn't kick peoples seat, or slap people.  The moral is that if you want to take a second shot at someone, look at the flight attendant that is breaking it up and say "Get me a drink, bitch!" and make a break for it. 

Roach Vs. Mouse

Before I moved to New York, I told myself that there are few things that I will need to accept.

1) The weather.  Coming from California I knew I would whine and bitch about it for atleast 6 months.  I still am.

2) Expensive life style.  I knew rent would be more for less.  I paid $600 less in Los Angeles for a place that feels like it was twice my current place.  While I did assume I would be saving money on not having a car, I failed to realize that when you are dealing with #1 (crappy weather) you tend to take the subway more, and hence spending money on transportation anyway.

Lastly, I knew I would have to accept Cockroaches.   I used to watch Joe's Apartment back in the day.   The single guy living with hundred of roaches who hung out with him and helped him score dates only to destroy any chance of him getting action by revealing themselves to his date.

I knew New York had roaches.  The same way my parents had accepted that I was not going to grow up to be a Jewish Lawyer, or the same way my wife has to accept that I tend to break things around the house on accident, only to break something else while cleaning up the first thing I broke.  I, had to accept to see roaches.

I don't mind roaches.  A lot of people don't seem to like them.  They have skinny legs, little tiny lips, they walk really fast.  It's like watching models on a runway.   What's not to like?

As I mentioned in previous posts, I have been dealing with a rodent problem.  At first it was frustrating.  Then it became cute (when you see the little 2 inch mouse and his big black eyes you just want to name him and keep him as a pet).  But now it reached a new level.  

My house is to rodents, what California is to illegal aliens.  A month ago, I was lucky if I saw one rodent.  Lastnight, I saw five (possibly seven) all within couple of hours of eachother.  They have skipped the border, and have made my house the new San Diego.  

A few nights ago, I saw a cockroach.  He was walking really slow and almost injured like.  I squashed him with my shoe and threw him to the curb faster than Whitney did to Bobby.

Lastnight, as we are looking behind the fridge for the little mouse who ran across the aparment floor, my wife and I got into a discussion.  

Which is worst having around?  The Mouse? Or the Roach?

Her answer was roach.  That was not surprising to me.  They are tiny little devils who crawl up on walls and travel in packs.  Except that, this is the exact same reason I said that the mouse is the worst thing to have.

Women love a mouse because its furry and cute.  But why hate on the roach just on looks?  Mice by far carry more diseases.  Heck, you can actually get mice mites.  Have a rash from them or even have them eat your food to the point where its not healthy.  

So, I decided to leave it up to you.  Below is a poll.  Who is worse at having as a roommate?  The Roach or the Mouse?

Who is worse as a roomate?
	Cockroach
	Mouse
	Me
Free polls from Pollhost.com

  

Something Stinks and it may be your Bush!

I know I typically write about New York news here, but I came across this article and had to give it props:

"SFist broke news about the Presidential Memorial Commission of San Francisco's plan to rename the city's wastewater treatment facility to the George W. Bush Sewage Plant. 

Looking to honor the forty-third President of the United States of America, George W. Bush, the recently formed Presidential Memorial Commission of San Francisco is looking to change the name of the Oceanside Wastewater Treatment Facility. It seems the group would like to rename the SF Zoo adjacent facility to the "George W Bush Sewage Plant."

Right On San Fran.  The only thing worse than having a job cleaning up sewage, is cleaning up after a messy Bush.

Sexless and the City

Single Man at Bar: "Hi, how you doing?"

Single Woman at Bar: "Good."

Single Man at Bar:  "Can I buy you a drink?"

Single Woman at Bar: "Sure"

Single Man at Bar: "You here by yourself?"

Single Woman at Bar: "No.  I am here with my girlfriends."

Single Man at Bar: "You are? Where are they?"

Single Woman at Bar: "They are outside waiting in line.  This place is over capacity.  They couldn't let all my single girlfriends in."

Single Man at Bar: "Really? Well, I would love to buy you and your girlfriend a drink or two. How many single girlfriends are here with you? Two? Three?"

Single Woman at Bar: "hmm....about 67 maybe."

Single Man at Bar: "Bartender! Check Please!"

New York Police Department Robbed!

Apparently Seattle is committing theft.  They are stealing NYPD officers to move to Seattle and work for the Seattle Police Department. It's working.

First, let's take a look at why it is working.  For starters, Seattle has a population of 582,000 while NYC has 8 million!!!  In those cities, Seattle has only 1,200 cops.  That is one cop for every 485 people.  

In comparison, NYC has 35,000 cops.  Which works out to be only 228 people per a cop.  That is cake walk.  I had 228 friends on myspace at one point in my life (sure, they were all bands) but keeping track of less than 250 people is easy.  People have Barmitzvas that are twice that size.

So why are NYPD officers moving to home of Nirvana?  well, the starting pay for one in NYC for a police officer is $25,100.  Seattle is $47,334 (nearly double just to become an officer).

If you reach the top base salary within x amount of years?  as an NYPD, you can get a max of $59,000.  Seattle is $67,000.

Take into account the fact that the median cost of household incomes in NYC is $45,000.  That the cost of single family home in NYC is $469,000 and that this economy is going down faster than a hooker in a New York Governors office, I can see why police officers are going west.

Just for the sake of crime talk, Seattle had 24 murders in 2007.  NYC  had 496.  496 in one year!  That may not look like much when you have 8 million people walking around, but since I moved here, we had 2 murders within a 4 block radius.  24 murders in Seattle for 2007....their suicide rate is 13.1 per 100,000.  NYC has a 6.2 suicide rate.  Who needs to kill themselves when you will probably get murdered tomorrow anyway?

It costs 20% more to live here in NYC as in Seattle.  Some cops here in NYC have to work a second job just to maintain a standard of living.  

It got me thinking about what safety costs.  Sure, the NYC cops only need to police an average of 200 people per an officer in this giant city, but our murder rate is higher.  I am sure this all balances out, but when someone offers you double your salary just to move to Seattle (not to mention that they will give you an additional $5,000 moving expenses), a lot of cops must be re-thinking their commitment to this city.

You would think that the NYPD Police Commissioner would do something about it.  Perhapse raise the salary or I don't know, do something good to keep them.  But, instead, he plans on cutting the police force by 1000 cops due to shortfalls in the budget.  

So next time you get mugged at knife point while waiting on the L Train, you may not want to run to a police officer immediately after.  He will either not care because he got his pink slip that morning, or he knows that the $25,000 he makes is not worth chasing a guy down the tunnel.

I love the NYPD.  They are brave and as they say, they are New Yorks Finest.   So I think they should be treated a bit better.  Can someone give these guys a raise?  I know I prefer to pay more in taxes so they can get $40,000 a year instead of ending up as number 497 on the murdered list for 2008.