Scrapple from The Apple

Salesman without Scruples: My Observations as a Loan Officer -- Part I

2010-01-25T11:30:00.021-05:00

**The following is the first part of a story that was updated Sundays in January. Scroll down for the three previous pieces in the series.

Salesman without scruples selling loans to people without marbles set off the sub-prime housing collapse. I was one of them.

I sold mortgages all over America from a building on 32^nd street a block from the Empire State Building during the heady days of deal making when a mortgage company sponsored that year’s Super Bowl.

50 blocks downtown and a world away, Wall Street was betting billions on the sanctity of these salesmen without scruples and the sanity of our customers. To be sure, they made their measurements, calculated their risk, but it was all math with no meaning. They failed because they never set foot in a mortgage brokerage. Unfortunately for me, I did every morning. This is my view from the inside.

The sub-prime market operated in a realm far removed from the picture of a young couple walking into a local bank to meet with a manager. Most sub-prime mortgages originated from brokerages where guys with bad accents cold called from cubicle farms to customers all over America.

I found the first mortgage company I worked for, Global Home Loans and Finance, through The New York Times classifieds. The headline: EARN $20,000 A MONTH.

I called the number; spoke with a guy named Danny, and scheduled an interview. He did not ask to see my resume. My first of many red flags.

The next day, I interviewed with Danny, a 20-something Jewish guy from Great Neck who looked like a young Barry Manilow if he were a shyster instead of a songster.

He introduced me to the owner in passing. I noticed one thing. The face of his watch was the size of a hockey puck. Probably filled with air, just like the promises of earning $20,000 a month.

But, greed got to me. I wanted to make money, set my own hours, and have time to work on the novel I was writing. Thankfully I was 25 and young enough to recover from my stupidity.

The mortgage industry operates on commission. I received no salary or benefits and I never made much. I was renting an apartment on Avenue C next door to a squat and above a bar called the C-Note. The night before my first day, the band played until 2 a.m. on a Sunday night. I stumbled downstairs in my sweatpants and told them to get off the stage. When more people stand on stage than in the audience, there’s an unwritten rule: pack it up.

I arrived exhausted for my first day of work the next morning. Within my first hour on the job I was offering financial advice over the telephone. I had no experience in mortgages or sales.

The industry was lightly regulated, both the products sold and the people selling them. In most states, mortgage brokers needed to be licensed. However, the broker served merely as a figurehead to satisfy state regulations. The companies I worked for were licensed in over a dozen states. Most brokerages though operated as absentee landlords, they just collected the money. The footwork was done by loan officers, people like me who hit the phones an hour off the street.

I soon learned many of my co-workers had convictions, and they weren’t the religious sort.

Danny’s crew consisted of seven people. The standouts: Dave, a holdover from the old Hell’s Kitchen; a small mousy Italian guy with thin dark hair that draped over his little head. He was once involved in drugs and restaurants, running both. Angel, an ex-con that draped his cheap pea coat over his shoulders like he was an associate in some Inwood mafia. Tyron, a black guy with a coke spoon pinky nail who perused hard core porn during his down time.

I sat with my back to him, facing Tara, a party girl with a perma-rasp that sounded like she spent the previous night belting out Bon Jovi tunes at a Karaoke bar.

For her college graduation gift her father funded her DD implants, consolation for divorcing her mother and remarrying a Playmate. For her graduate school graduation, they were removed. She was back to an A-flat when I met her.

Tara was seeing a human resources director at a rival mortgage brokerage downtown that I transferred to a few weeks later. She interviewed with him and didn’t get the job; they started dating and she ended up giving him jobs instead.

I became Tara’s friend, without those kinds of benefits. But I did appreciate her feminine levity and chance to commiserate.

I did well enough on an early lead to make Tara jealous. I’m good with people and talkative, but not a salesman for stuff I don’t believe in.

I got lucky. New recruits worked with leads that were as cold as the reception we got. It’s easy to harass people when you know they’re not going to bite. I just practiced on the poor suckers.

My office found leads through a third-party that blanketed the internet with banner ads promising rates like a limbo line—look how low we can go. Those who signed-up saw their information sold to brokerages all over the country. A seasoned loan officer would call with every intention to close a loan; thereafter these numbers were cold-called in perpetuity to train new classes of recruits.

Nearly all the loans we closed were refinanced mortgages, homeowners who wanted to lower their interest rate and monthly mortgage payment on their existing mortgage. Refi’s were more abundant and less demanding than new home mortgages and thus perfect fodder for the armies of salesmen that sprung up overnight.

As an experiment I clicked on one of these banner ads and signed up posing as a prospective borrower. I received my first phone call within 15 minutes. The calls continued a year later. They finally stopped when the brokers went of out business.

NEXT WEEK: Sales 101

*All of the pieces on this blog are non-fiction, and this story is no exception. However, some names have been changed to protect the innocent (Me).

Salesman without Scruples: My Observations as a Loan Officer -- Part II

2010-01-17T14:04:00.024-05:00

PART II: Sales 101

Whatever the product, a salesman has two objectives.

1. Build trust.

2. Qualify.

The mortgage business perfectly illustrated this truth. A credit check required the borrower’s social security number to determine if they qualified for a loan.

Though it’s hard to find faith in someone over the phone, this part of the process was scripted to sound hyper-professional and short circuit common sense. Basically it boils down to this: if you want something, ask for it.

A good, honest salesman deserves respect. It’s an art that can be mastered, but like pure athleticism or artistic ability it requires innate talent.

Example: Loan officer standing with a phone clutched in his fist like he is about to punch himself with it. The buckle on his Gucci belt matches the clasps on his Gucci loafers. He is talking to an apprehensive customer of mine from Sarasota, Florida named Mike Perez.

—This is Christian, I’m a senior loan officer. Yes, that’s right. Like your religion. Mr. Perez, let me ask you a question. What do you do for a living?

— I own a landscaping business.

— Do I tell you how to clip hedges, Mr. Perez? No? Good, because I don’t know anything about it and I bet you know even less about mortgages. So let’s stick with what we know. Ok?

— Ok.

— Mr. Perez, what’s you social security number?

With the social security number secured, the loan officer always told the customer not to let anyone else check their credit because it would decrease their score and drive up their interest rate. In truth it would take a bombardment of inquiries to make a difference. Shopping around is still standard practice.

Preliminary interest rates from the bank were based on the credit score and the loan to value ratio (LTV): the amount of the loan as a percentage of the total value of the property.

With an $80,000 loan on a home worth $100,000, the LTV is 80%. The lower the better. It means the borrower owns more of the house; this is known as equity. In this case, $20,000.

Once the figures were finessed and the customer hard-sold on the loan officer’s services, final approval by the bank required a ream of documentation: three years of tax returns, two years’ record of mortgage payments, one year of bank statements, pay stubs, and explanation of any delinquencies. Then, an appointment to appraise the property was scheduled.

For a lot of customers these steps presented a major obstacle. If their life was in order, so would their credit score.

With documentation complete the loan was submitted for approval, and the commission calculated. In most shops the commission was the only source of a loan officer’s income. But there was a lot of money to be made.

On one loan Danny made $24,000. A good-size haul, and a textbook example.

Loan officers made commission on the front and back of a loan. The front side is generally 1% - 2% of the loan’s value and disclosed to the borrower (if they bothered to read the Good Faith Estimate). The more complicated the mortgage, the higher the percentage. Danny’s client, a gas station owner, took out a $600,000 loan to buy a second home in Boca Raton. He charged them 2%, not because the loan was particularly difficult, but because he could get away with it. Two points on the front made him $12,000.

He also charged 2 % on the back end. Here it got sneaky. Danny locked down a 6.5% interest rate on the loan. The real market rate, the truly best rate available was 6.0%. The spread between the rates was called the yield spread premium. Interest rate sheets provided by the banks listed the spreads for every loan. An extra quarter percentage point might earn a 1% commission, or one pointy

An increase from 6 to 6.5%, earned Danny two points on the back of the loan for an additional $12,000. This was never disclosed to the customer; shopping around provided their only protection.

Danny’s made $24,000 with two points on the front and two points on the back loan. He never met the customer; the entire transaction took place by phone.

But, how was this legal?

The yield spread premium was created to provide cash back for the borrower to cover all fees and closing costs. Someone could own a home with no money down, financing the entire cost of the house, plus closing costs and attorney fees. Renting an apartment with first, last month’s rent, and security deposit would require a greater cash outlay.

The folks we sold loans to weren’t that crafty. The yield spread premium lined the loan officer pockets instead of theirs. It didn’t matter to the banks since they benefited either way. An extra half a percent over the life of a loan can bring in tens of thousands of dollars in additional interest.

I learned these ins and outs at Global Home Loans, but after one month I transferred to the mortgage company where Tara’s friend with benefits worked. She was happy to get me the job so she could keep track of him.

I wasn’t the first to make the move. The month before, a female loan officer had blazed the same path to escape the sexual advances of the boss.

The mortgage industry experienced job turnover like a meat packing plant, a revolving door of recruits. It was not uncommon for people to quit after one day.

I started my second gig with a class of eight loan officers at First American Financial downtown near Battery Park. Though the place was a little more professional, their big screen TV in the conference room was stolen the weekend before I started and presumed to be an inside job.

Management told us to see the movie Boiler Room. After watching it I realized I had one up on Hollywood. I would make hundreds of calls a day working with two telephones, clenching a receiver in each fist.

The new crew consisted of Rocco, an actor short-listed for a part on the Sopranos; Ed, a Russian kid fresh out of City College; the black guy with the Jewish surname—something like Sidney Greenstein—that I thought would be better suited for a line of men’s haberdashery. He called himself a lion of Judah. Stan, the 40-something guy from Queens who lived with his mom. “No, my mom lives with me.” Norman, the former art gallery owner, who at 70 supplemented his social security in a fly-by-night free-for-all.

First American held classes for the new recruits. A know-nothing know-it-all who tended bar for ten years answered all the questions while I kept my mouth shut, smirking at the cheap black suit he wore everyday with white socks.

Our instructor was an English guy with a posh accent. Two weeks later, with classes over, they sacked him but kept his voice on the phone recording for the British air of legitimacy it offered.

During our many breaks, I smoked cigarettes with Ed in front of the building. Most everyone smoked in the mortgage business. Ed’s favorite subject was Russian mobsters and Meyer Lansky, who he regarded as a folk-hero, a Jewish representation of America’s tough-guy tradition.

Standing there smoking, I fixed on the Statue of Liberty across New York Harbor, my family’s first sight of America when they arrived at Ellis Island almost 100 years prior. Ed’s family immigrated on an Airbus via JFK—three generations for me; the first for him. Neither of us considered our jobs to be the better life our families envisioned for us, nor did we believe the mortgages we were peddling paved the way toward the dream of home ownership. We were commodities selling commodities.

NEXT WEEK: Science vs. Shoe Leather

Salesman without Scruples: My Observations as a Loan Officer -- Part III

2010-01-10T22:48:00.020-05:00

PART III -- Science vs. Shoeleather: The Case Against Quants.

Based on the prevailing financial models in 2006, sub-prime loans defaulted at a six standard deviation shock beyond expected calculations. A natural occurrence of once in 216 million years. I wouldn’t buy a one dollar lottery ticket with those odds. The banks bet billions.

The math couldn’t account for every variable. Why didn’t the big investment banks have detectives on the case? Everything was reduced to an excel spreadsheet; billions were bet on blind calculations. A little gumshoe work would have put a question mark next to the math, especially when they discovered that smooth-talking ex-cons were providing the numbers and earning the commissions.

Sometimes it was only a simple stroke of white-out that stood in the way of a loan’s approval and the commission that came with it.

At Global Home Loans, a $10,000 commission of Danny’s appeared in jeopardy. The loan required the borrower to have a bank balance showing sufficient cash reserves. But, their bank statements revealed that they had no cash flow. They spent everything they earned.

Danny knew what to do. He applied a little swab of white-out, a stroke of his pen, and bank statements showing a satisfactory balance were faxed to the lender. Loan approved.

The products themselves were as questionable as the people selling them.

The most popular product was a 2 & 28 Adjustable Rate Mortgage known as an ARM. Most traditional mortgages offered a 30-year payment plan where the interest rate and payments remained fixed for the life of the loan.

With an ARM, the interest was fixed for only the first two years, at a low teaser rate unavailable to sub-prime borrowers in a standard loan. After the first two years the interest rate jumped for the remainder of the loan. But, the 28-year piece was never intended to come into play. After two years the borrower’s credit was supposed to improve to prime territory allowing them to refinance at a better rate.

The rub? The same spending habits that created their credit issues remained. If they received cash back as part of the refinancing it compounded their problems.

Do you remember Mr. Perez? The landscaper from Sarasota? His home was worth $400,000. He owed $300,000 on the house; we gave him a loan for $340,000. The $40,000 difference was his to spend. If he was like most people he did, and stupidly.

Cash back became our calling card. It was one of the first questions we asked on cold-calls to hook in customers. A better interest rate bored them, but $40,000?

Let’s make a deal.

Instead of paying off bills with the cash back, they bought flat screens TV’s big enough to skate on, bunker-sized barbeque grills, and 8-cylinder SUV’s. Their credit never improved.

They used their homes like ATMs, refinancing three and four times as their property value increased. They collected cash back every time; so did the loan officer through his commissions. But, every cash back opportunity increased the loan amount. This posed no problem as long as the property held its value.

It didn’t. Mr. Perez’s $340,000 loan was issued when the property was worth $400,000. Housing values in Florida have since fallen 25%, valuing the house at less than $300,000. He owed more than the house was worth—this is called negative equity.

Like most of our customers, Mr. Perez was sold a 2 & 28 mortgage. After two years, he couldn’t refinance; banks don’t offer loans for more than a house is worth. The teaser rate ended, the monthly payments jumped, and he couldn’t cover the added burden. This happened all over the country, creating waves of foreclosures that crested into what mariners have mythologized as a rogue wave. A six standard deviation shock to scientists.

This was sub-prime as I saw it, not as an abstraction on a spreadsheet. I spoke with hundreds of these customers; I heard their stories; I saw their credit report. I doubt the rating agencies spoke to even a single loan customer.

PhD’s in physics, math, and computer science became hot commodities on Wall Street. Why accept a professor’s pay when you could quadruple your salary on Wall Street? Their models became gospel. Quantitative analysts and the spreadsheets they spawn will always have a place in business, but numbers are never so surefire to make intuition obsolete.

Clearly something went wrong with the models. The models measured what they could, but some of the most important factors were immeasurable. They couldn’t account for shadiness and stupidity on an Excel spreadsheet.

A bad business joke gets the gist:

The president of a car dealership stands in his showroom looking concerned. There’s a new dealership across the street and their American flag flies higher against the horizon. He won’t be upstaged, so he asks the janitor to measure the competitor’s flagpole.

The janitor returns the next morning and says 20 inches in circumference.

The rating agencies used statistical models to assess patterns of default. Statisticians want to know out of 1,000 mortgages, based on historical performance what percent of people will pay their loans? They assumed the past would remain relevant in a world where new products were unveiled every month.

A common product during the boom called a N.I.N.J.A. loan sums up the whole story. The acronym stands for No Income, No Job, or Assets. Though it was implied the borrowers had all these things, they weren’t documented. These loans appealed to cash businesses like landscaping where most income isn’t claimed on tax returns. People willingly paid a higher interest rate to avoid alerting the I.R.S. of their true earnings. And naturally loan officers loved them; there were few documents to deal with.

These new loans lacked both historical data and individual loan facts. Everything was based on credit scores and loan to value ratios. How can an equation be solved without knowing any of the variables?

You can’t make projections without historical precedent. The outcome itself, known as the sub-prime crisis was without precedent.

NEXT WEEK: The Closing

Salesman without Scruples: My Observations as a Loan Officer -- Part IV

2010-01-03T17:06:00.026-05:00

Part IV: The Closing

Of the eight people I started with at the second brokerage, First American Financial, none lasted more than two months, me included. I soon found a stable job that while it didn’t promise $20,000 a month, lasted longer than most of the mortgages closed during my tenure.

Both brokerages I worked for were sued by its employees in class-action suits alleging that loan officers should have been classified as “non-exempt employees” and paid overtime. I opted out of both lawsuits. I dropped out of the case against Global Home Loans when a 10-page questionnaire, an obvious stalling tactic, was issued. It worked. The time expenditure became too great for a suit with little promise of payout. The companies suffered the same fate as most of the loans it closed. They went bust.

I didn’t keep in contact with anyone from the business. I quickly lost touch with Tara, Ed left First American soon after I did; he called a few months later to let me know he had found a job as a bank assistant. I found a few people on the internet, Tara’s friend with benefits is now married with children, she has a new man now. The others, like jobs in the mortgage industry, disappeared.

The Bluetooth: Life Line or Out of Line?

2009-01-12T15:57:00.007-05:00

*The story below was submitted to the City Section of the New York Times. The pitch was accepted by my editor on a contingency basis, however she rejected the finished article because she didn't think it offered anything new. You be the judge.

A customer walked into a Brooklyn corner store to purchase a pack of gum. As he approached the register, he was twice called sweetheart by the clerk standing behind the counter. The customer froze for a moment until he realized the clerk was talking on his cell phone through a Bluetooth mobile phone headset—a five-minute phone conversation of 4,000 minutes he used that month.

The Bluetooth headset clips over the ear and functions as both an earpiece and receiver. The teardrop shaped device emits a flashing blue signal like a Christmas light. It is an ornament known to many for the awkward exchanges it inspires rather than its utility as a hands free mode of cell phone conversation.

But, for the men who work long hours in the City’s convenience stores and taxi cabs, it can be a life-line. The Bluetooth headset and other attachments like it allow them to catch up with their spouses, engage in remote parenting, and to be sure, talk about sports too.

But what then are they talking about, and to whom?

At the 5th Avenue Market in Park Slope, Brooklyn, Mohomed Ali, known to his regulars as Mojo, works seven nights a week at the 24-hour outpost and three days in receiving at a department store. Mr. Ali, half Yemeni; half Venezuelan, speaks English, Spanish, and Arabic. He carries on with his customers and callers in all three languages.

People call me when they want to talk, he said. “At three in the morning, if they can’t sleep they know I’m awake.” But, he cautioned against using two things at once. “It gets you into trouble.” You have to pay attention to customers, especially when counting out change, he said.

Taxi drivers surveyed in an informal poll estimated that at least three-quarters of their colleagues used a hands free device. Though The New York City Taxi & Limousine Commission outlawed their use, it could be considered the cabbies’ equivalent of jaywalking.

Even so, drivers remain cautious. On a recent Sunday at the Central Taxi Hold at Kennedy International Airport, among the hundreds of drivers who awaited dispatch, the right ear was the pronounced favorite for the attachment. This ear points inside the car, unseen from the driver’s side window.

Luis Almonte has driven a taxi since 1971, and been married to his wife for all of those years. For the last two have they communicated using the Bluetooth headset. Of the couples’ four children, his daughter calls him the most, his sons less so. ”I call my wife whenever I’m feeling lonely, or she is too,” he said.

Azzam Hesham said he prefers talking by speakerphone while driving his taxi. “The Bluetooth makes you look stupid,” he said. He suggested the product designers create a clip-on device that attaches to clothing like guests wear on television talk shows.

Sonu Singh, a driver for two years, said he uses the Bluetooth headset to stay alert on late night shifts, get directions, traffic reports, and avoid police activity. “It’s just another tool of the trade.”

Khasru Ahmed has driven a taxi for 21 years, and as an early adopter of the Bluetooth headset, began using it seven years ago. Mr. Ahmed said he likes the voice command feature for hands free dialing. He talks to everybody, he said. “I’m a very popular guy.”

Mr. Ali, at the 5th Avenue Market, would consider himself in good company. When asked if he had any significant others, he responded, “you can’t have just one.”

Though some of his relationships are more understanding than others, he said. “You have to take care of business. That comes first.” Others, he said, are less accepting of the arrangement.

Whatever the topic of conversation, the constant chatter may have more to do with its low cost than the need to stay connected. Most cell phone plans offer evening and weekend minutes free, and no one knows this better than night-shift workers.

Lost and Found on 42nd Street

2008-05-29T13:33:00.002-04:00

The subway stops at 42nd Street and the train clears before its final stop at 57th.

I see a flash drive sitting on a nearby seat and call out to the exiting riders. Nobody claims it.

I’ve returned a lost wallet and had someone do the same for me when mine went missing.
And the Friday before, I had a similar flash drive melt so I was particularly keen to get this one back.

Though I am no spiritual woo woo, I believe in karma. I will always endeavor to return anything of value, even the lost and found prosthetic legs I’ve read about.

I take the flash drive to my desk and pop it in the computer. It’s filled with work files for Oxford University Press publications with 2009 release dates. I find one document that sheds some light: “Files for Myra.”

I call the receptionist and am transferred to Myra’s line. I leave a message.

She calls back minutes later. (One way to get your call returned promptly.)

I read her a list of the files on the flash drive. She says they’re important and that she will track down the owner. I give her my number.

I guy named Matt calls back 20 minutes later to claim it. “That’s odd,” he says, about as appreciative as someone who gets puddle-soaked by a passing car.

Would it have been less odd had I used it as a fishing lure?

He says he’ll send over a messenger.

I don’t want a reward, I’m not looking for recognition; I’m just doing a good deed (for once) and it would be nice to feel like I’m saving someone’s day.

A messenger calls my phone an hour later; English is not his first language. I take the elevator to the lobby to meet him. He’s not there. I head back upstairs five minutes poorer.

The messenger arrives an hour later and again I make the trip downstairs, this time for the handoff.

I never meet Matt and I never get a follow-up phone call saying thanks. The whole incident leaves me feeling like a nice guy. I want to fade back into anonymous New York and pretend I don’t hear Kitty Genovese.

To the people in my office though, I’m all right.

I’m done doing detective work for a while, but if you need help crossing the street, calling me a fine young man is reward enough.

A New York Life

2008-04-20T22:12:00.010-04:00

My great aunt Helen ‘Chocha’ Kolassa was born in Manhattan in 1915. She grew up on the Lower East Side, on 2nd Street and Avenue A.

The family of six lived in a one-bedroom flat in a building filled with families new to the new world. I visited the Tenement Museum a few years ago and found the tour guide’s stories redundant. Chocha told them to me first.

She turned off the lights for the Orthodox Jewish families on the Sabbath; on sweaty summer nights they slept on the fire escape, for the breezes and the extra space it afforded.

In those days in downtown Manhattan, you made it if you made it out. When Chocha was 11 her family moved to Jamaica, Queens, where my mother was born and raised.

My grandmother and grandfather’s family lived in the upstairs half of a two family home, and my aunt and uncle lived downstairs. My Aunt Chocha and Uncle Eddie are siblings; I didn’t realize they weren’t married until my teens.

They lived in Jamaica for over 50 years. For 40 of those years, Chocha commuted to her job at Standard and Poors in lower Manhattan.

Jamaica was once a predominately Polish neighborhood. The only vestige of the old neighborhood as they knew it is the church, St. Joseph's, where Polish mass is still said every Sunday.

Crime in New York peaked in the 1980’s; Jamaica was no exception. When a bullet fired into the house lodged in the dining room wall, my grandfather played CSI with a yard stick, measuring the trajectory of the gun shot. Their trajectory was south Queens.

The family moved to a second two-family house in South Ozone Park near Kennedy Airport.

There was noise, but no crime. For all the glamour given to the mafia, there is one accepted truth: mob presence deters street crime, and brings fireworks. I remember watching John Gotti’s annual Fourth of July display through the upstairs window with my grandmother.

A few years after my family moved to South Ozone Park, a Puerto Rican family with Sandra Cepeda as the matriarch, moved next door.

As the first Latin family on the street they were met with trepidation by an overwhelmingly white neighborhood.

Chocha though, ushered them in. She was a neighborhood mentor who made them feel at home, at home. I never knew how much Chocha meant to Sandra and her family, but I knew how much she meant to my own.

I rarely saw Sandra, but I heard about her every time I saw my aunt. In later years, as a child of the Westchester suburbs, I moved to Brooklyn and would take the A train to visit Chocha, on a ride that took our family full circle back to the City.

Chocha died last week. She was 93. Four generations of my family paid our respects.

Sandra came with three generations of her family that had extended into the suburbs like my own. They did double duty at the wake, appearing for both the day and evening viewings; her family almost outnumbering ours at times.

Chocha, means aunt in Polish. Chocha didn’t have any children of her own, but she was an aunt to everyone.

She will be missed. God Bless.

The Street of Silver Lining

2008-03-19T12:56:00.006-04:00

I hear that in New York, where many people don’t drive, your coat is like your car. I figure I must have a good one, so mine is Italian.

I have the coat for a couple of seasons, and I receive enough compliments to keep wearing it when it’s cold out.

But, wear and tear is inevitable, especially with me driving. Last year I have the lining repaired. I try to do this again this year, but I cannot find the proper material to match and the tear in the lining is too severe.

I decide to change the lining.

I once read that the comedian Robin Williams checks his coat at the sort of New York establishment that has a coat check. To the coat check girl, the jacket appears ordinary; however the lining is bright orange.

She notes that this hidden flamboyance is very suitable to his character. I say he looks off his trolley just by looking at him.

I do not presume to have hidden flamboyance, nor am I a comedian. I want a color that looks both plush and presentable. I go for blue.

It is my favorite color since I am a kid, mostly on account the Mets. Blue balances the coat’s grey herringbone pattern, and a feng shui master might say it is good for wealth cultivation.

I am told by the tailor I should fetch the fabric myself. This being New York, there is a street for this sort of mission: West 39th Street.

It is just blocks from the Ruby Tuesday’s in Times Square, but you are more likely to walk into a stray hubcap than a tourist on this block.

The needle points me in the right direction.

I walk into about 10 stores before I am exhausted and settle on a shade at Super Star Fabrics.

Each store I visit without exception is owned by Bangladeshis with African stock boys. They all seem quite happy to help me with my possible $12 purchase.

I think they day dream through the work-day on a constant sugar high of eye candy. Many of their customers are young women who work in the fashion industry or who attend school to make it there.

Raz at Super Star confirms he likes his job serving streams of attractive women.

They should do a commercial for color printers in his store.

I select a roll of fabric, Raz pulls out his scissors and shears off four yards, what the tailor tells me is needed for the lining.

Fashion and football do have one thing in common: yards.

I bring my jacket to the tailor on a Saturday afternoon and retrieve it later that day. I request an extra pocket. I am one for symmetry, therefore I will need two pockets.

The new coat fits perfect. I am happy, though my wallet goes on a diet.

The only problem, I’m like a guy who gets a new tattoo. I have to find a way to show it off. Any suggestions?

Carnegie Hall Underground

2008-03-10T18:21:00.012-04:00

Everyone in New York knows you get to Carnegie Hall by practicing. At the 57th street subway station on Saturday afternoon, four men are doing just that.

There’s another way to get to Carnegie Hall: climb the steps.

At this subway stop, just below Carnegie Hall, there’s an alcove waiting area. It is sandwiched between the men’s and women’s bathrooms which are open at the whim of the attendant. These whims are generally not favorable.

The acoustics, however, are. It’s where the Doo-Wop groups from all over New York City convene to practice and perform, singing tunes of the 50’s and 60’s, from groups like the Platters, Coasters, and Drifters, some Sam Cooke, and a few gospel standards.

Purists call this music group harmony and it best describes what you hear.

The long-running WFUV radio program Group Harmony Review is hosted every Saturday night by Dan Romanello since the days when this music regularly tops the charts. It is where I first discover the music.

It is the sound of old school New York. And it reminds me of my Uncle Vinnie.

Doo-Wop is born and raised, and flourishes in post-war New York City. Its pop-chart prominence fades away about the time the Beatles play Shea Stadium in 1964.

It is one of the first music styles to break the color barrier. Salt and pepper groups form well before the Civil Rights movement takes off.

This group though consists of middle-aged black men from the 718 boroughs.

I run into Tomorraw on Saturday afternoon. They are singing in the waiting area, honing in on the harmonies, under the direction of Scout, the lead for the day.

I often see the groups after work on weekdays,

with no instruments necessary, acappella invites

spontaneity; the closest you’ll come to an instrument is a hand clap.

And a strong voice can trumpet louder than the instrument itself.

Acappella also allows for some unusual arrangements. Subway entry requires a precious metro card swipe, those who can't afford one, croon through the gates, harmonizing with the rest of the group that stands on the other side of the iron bars.

Last week I’m taking the N downtown from 57th Street. The train arrives, I sit down, and four of The Five Boroughs enter behind me.

One of group members interrupts the subway silence with an announcement aimed at his associate: "My man is having a very bad day," he says. "His girlfriend just dumps him."

And off they launch into a song about the wrongs of a relationship gone bad.

I’m not sure if it cheers up the besotted boyfriend, but it does plant smiles on our subway poker faces, and later the quartet I’m sure when they count their loot.

Almost Famous

2008-03-04T09:23:00.007-05:00

On Saturday I visit a casting agency in Times Square. The offices are on Broadway, right above the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co.

I am answering an ad on Craigslist for paid extras.

The agency is called Actor’s Rep. It’s one of these charm schools that charges 10% commission only after you get work.

It sounds straightforward and unfortunately legit.

I’m in for the interview. I sign my name and telephone number into the register and sit to watch a video about the agency.

The boss appears on screen, then a few folks gush about the gigs they land. The whole production has the whiff of an infomercial. (They provide bodies for that too.)

The assistant, Deanna, cuts the show short and invites me into her office overlooking Times Square.

I talk more than she does. This is always the case.

She tells me I will be good for Law & Order. I tell her my brother once has a speaking role on that very show. She tells me she is from Kansas. I resist the urge to quote a line from The Wizard of Oz. I am done making amusements so I proceed to read the monologue in front of me.

Beau:

Hadda take a break, my back, it’s startin’ to go. You too, huh? Yeah, it’s somethin’ all right. Really is. Hard to believe, huh? I mean who’d ever imagine. Couple a weeks ago, everything…so normal, right? Unbelievable! Couple a Sundays ago we had a barbeque. Kids playing Frisbee, dogs barkin’, franks on the fire. Some friends came over, couple of beers, nice. Just a couple of Sundays ago. Now………who knows?

I read the script with character, pausing for affect in all the right places I guess, because she tells me I make the cut. She is the filter for Richard, the owner. I am given his business card and told to call back at 11 a.m. the next day.

I am going to be famous.

I call back Monday morning and get Richard on the phone. He is waiting for my call. He tells me he’s going to send me on auditions. But, first I need headshots. He gives me a number of a photo agency and his direct line.

I ask another question and realize the line dies two sentences ago.

I call the photographer, get quoted $270 for a round of headshots, and call Richard back.

He says he’ll take off $50 from my first job for the photos.

I say let’s make a deal Richard. I’m in a bad place right now and you’re my ticket out. I’ll cash in my 401k and give you a cut of the pre-tax proceeds for your retainer.

I’ll sell my cd collection on ebay and use that to get acting and voice lessons.

That’s how serious I am Richard. But you gotta be with me here. We gotta make this happen together. We’re going all the way baby. You in?

He doesn’t hear any of this because he hangs up two minutes ago.

The man perfects the art of the swift and silent hang up.

Too bad, I coulda been a star.

The place is like show business; there’s no business, for me.

The Apple In Winter

2008-02-20T23:12:00.023-05:00

The Apple In Winter: Irish Music in New York.

One of the great lost albums of New York's musical heritage, is recorded 25 years ago on Green Linnet Records.

The man in the middle is Tony DeMarco in 1981.

11th Street Bar, January 2008.

Tony Demarco looks like he could be an associate of the Gambino family, though his line of work is legitimately more lucrative; he is a commodities trader on the New York Board of Trade.

Tony DeMarco is New York Irish though his last name belies his heritage. He grows up in Brooklyn with an Italian father and Irish mother.

Italians and Irish intermarry for generations. Their shared Catholic religion lubricates the relations.

And the Italian women are eager to sign-off their multi-syllable surnames for names like Flynn, as my cousin Diane exchanges for Vigliotti.

I run into Tony a few times around town, always below 14th Street. Last I see him is at NYU’s Glucksman Ireland House for a Brendan Mulvihill concert.

Brendan Mulvihill's father teaches Irish fiddle in the Bronx for many years, one of his students is Brian Conway, the man on the right on The Apple in Winter album cover.

Brian Conway is now an assistant D.A. in White Plains. He plays a concert at The Mount Kisco Public Library a few years ago which I attend.

I buy the album from him and eventually find the weekly sessions at the 11th Street Bar. It takes a conversation with Tony to trace all this back.

I am a loyal reader of Peter Applebome who writes the Our Town column that appears weekly in The New York Times.

The articles often assume an elegiac tone, the closing of this, the departing of that, another end of an era in some hamlet, village, or burg. I guess that makes it newsworthy. Something is opening, something is closing.

In this recent article an Irish Jam session at a bar up the River has its last hoorah.

Let us all remember things past.

I live in New York City where the lights still shine bright.

The story I'm telling does not qualify as hard news. I write like the features section of a rural paper that every four years recycles local stories, like that of the farm that perennially produces prize-winning pumpkins.

Here’s the nugget of news for the newsies:

One of the best Irish fiddlers in America plays every Sunday night at the 11th Street Bar in the East Village for free.

Here’s what isn’t news: he's been playing there over a decade and has no plans of leaving.

The 11th Street bar is a classic pub. It has a long bar, big round tables in the back, and seats in the window, where the precious might compose a poem.

On Friday nights the tables in back are packed with gaggles of girls.

On this Sunday night though, at 9 p.m. the bar is dead.

The long standing surly bartender makes drinks for two middle aged men whose conversation consists of variations on the word fuck.

Rock and Roll never starts on time; neither do Irish fiddlers. But by 10 p.m. the bar is hopping.

A young lady arrives alone, sits down next to me and buys me a drink before I realize she is either crazy or drunk, and possibly both.

She's not stupid, she says. She is a graduate of Southern Methodist (the alma mater of Laura Bush). "One of the best Ivy League schools in the country."

But you don't need an Ivy League degree to appreciate the music.

I wear a look of -I'm not with her- as she repeatedly shouts bravissimo! bravissimo! into the silence a minute after the first song concludes.

I escape to the bathroom, return to the music and take my pint to the window seat. By now it is 11 p.m. with a capacity crowd.

I ask Tony to play my favorite Irish fiddle tune. He obliges.

Tell Her I Am (track #10)

Just another Sunday night in New York. No news is good news.

Whack Pack at the Wing Shack

2008-02-18T15:40:00.008-05:00

I go to Hooters for the first time last week. I’ve worked in the building next door for two years, but never visit.

The Hooters founder, Robert Brooks dies last year from natural causes. His obituary tells how he invites the ministers of his church to visit his wholesome restaurants.

Sure enough, there are a bunch of kids running around and their mothers chasing them crawling up the steps.

Is there anything more motherly than mammaries?

I can’t fault Hooters. In fact I like it. The chain is born 25 years ago in Clearwater, Florida, and on Broadway the bright airy restaurant has a sun-kissed Florida feel that doesn’t scream corporate. It's one of the few places in the City where you don't notice you're in New York.

Might as well be Macon, Georgia.

The waitresses wear bright orange briefs; they look like roller derby rejects. I vote for mini-skirts. They might look better with the Miami tan colored leggings that cover their goose bumps. The problem is old as fire itself. From caveman to cubicle, the workaday lumps have far more natural insulation than the Hooters girls.

The three guys next to me are wearing jackets and sweatshirts.

Turns out they are regulars guests on the Howard Stern show. Imagine that I tell Irish John: Howard Stern guys at Hooters.

So I meet the rest of Irish John’s crew, High Pitch Eric and Double A. Collectively they are known as Howard Stern's Whack Pack.

Irish John drinks a lot. That’s how he gets his name, though I don’t know how this translates to radio. He works in the Bronx for a construction equipment rental company; he finds his fame on Sirius Satellite radio.

High pitch Eric has a pencil mustache and a Santa belly. He wears white Champion sneakers and black sweat pants over his 300 pounds.

His voice sounds like he is kicked in the cajones while inhaling a helium balloon.

His talent is obvious. Though as a kid, I’m sure it isn’t exactly an attribute. Though on his web page, he thanks God (Howard?) for giving him his voice.

Double A, I have to look this up, stands for Awesome Anthony. I can’t figure out what his talents are either, but he does have a big tattoo of Howard Stern on his forearm.

If his is so awesome, he should have a tattoo of himself on his forearm.

I’m only in for one drink, but I stay for three rounds. $2.50 Bud drafts during happy hour. Though I don’t find this out until I’m done drinking my overpriced imports. I’ll just have to come back.

Anecdotal Interlude #2 — Skunk on the Subway

2008-01-26T15:07:00.002-05:00

I am up north in Mount Kisco last weekend. Shortly before I leave, the skunks under the deck start fighting, possibly with the raccoons that also have an encampment under the deck.

I hear the scuffle, and a minute later comes the smell, which is not so bad in small doses. This burst is big enough to enter into the living room, and later I discover, my stuff.

An hour later, I take a Metro North train to Grand Central and catch the subway downtown. I get off the train at Union Square to transfer to the Q.

On my way up the steps, a young black guy points to the computer case in my left hand and asks: “You got weed in there?”

I tell him it’s the bottle of whiskey I just buy, and walk on.

I guess people really do like the smell of skunk.

Sadie Hawkins on the Subway

2008-01-14T13:38:00.003-05:00

Friday morning I’m riding the Q train to work, standing at the doors in my usual spot.

During the ride, I’m consumed with my usual morning miscellany: wiping my nose, my watery eyes, adjusting my headphones, reading the paper.

At Union Square a girl exists at my door. She smiles at me. I smile back.

I look back waiting for the doors to close and I see her hesitating on the platform.

I turn my gaze back into the car.

Through my headphones I hear a faint voice and turn around.

She hands me her card.

I say thank you; the doors close.

I look at the card when I get to work. It’s a card from the School of Visual Arts Career Placement Office. No name.

I can’t tell if she’s the patron or the professional.

On the back her cell number is scribbled, a 212 rarity.

It says: let’s grab a coffee sometime.

A premeditated encounter. I admire her approach. Though, she is shaking when she hands me the card.

And I am flattered.

Maybe…

Anecdotal Interlude #1 — Cellphone Scolding

2008-01-14T13:35:00.004-05:00

I am sitting in Gorilla Coffee, 5th Avenue, Park Slope, Brooklyn. It’s Saturday; I’m reading the papers, the usual punk-rock soundtrack plays in the background.

There’s a guy sitting behind me talking on his cell phone to his kid. He’s attempting to level authority through a cell tower transmission.

My mother once calls my dad an armchair disciplinarian. What do you call this guy?

As final ultimatum he brings out the count down.

“On a count of three,” he says into his cell phone, “I want you to be quiet.”

one. Two. THREE.

I’m not sure if this quiets the kid down, but it stops conversation at the coffee shop.

Nobody wants to hear a count down unless it’s a rocket launch, or a rock band.

His pleading continues, now louder.

I turn to him and say: “On a count of three, I want you to be quiet.”

one. Two. THREE.

The whole place, including the staff, starts laughing.

The Denizens of Daytime (Part 1)

2007-12-26T13:36:00.004-05:00

Who exactly is out in the middle of the day? Students? The jobless? The aimless? Service staff? Hospital staff? Midnight tollbooth workers?

Noon. The Tea Lounge. Off work; personal day.

I sit at the bar. At this hour I have to summon someone to play bartender.

Good. I need to be alone, away from inquisitive eyes branding my actions bizarre.

Which they are, but my motives are legitimate. Sometimes though, the explanation is more of an endeavor than the operation.

I am doing a photo shoot for Fisherman’s Friend lozenges for my advertising portfolio. Fisherman’s Friend are cough drops from North England. They are popular in Scandinavia and Asia, but no so much in the States.

They should be. Fisherman’s Friend are the strongest on the shelf.

My target audience is smokers. I feel a campaign cast with booze will be a good way to reach them.

The line for the first ad: “Other cough drops make good chasers.”

Fisherman’s Friend tastes like it works. I line up a salt shaker, Fisherman’s Friend in the middle and a Ricola cough drop on the side to simulate the tequila and chaser trifecta.

On the package, this variety of Ricola is pictured green, like a lime, but unwrapped it appears yellow, forcing me to paint a prop cough drop green with a sharpie.

I see a tall blonde woman standing in the coffee line and I think she is a nanny. In Brooklyn, they seem to be either German or Jamaican. (She looks German.)

I explain what I’m doing and why I’m ordering a glass of whiskey when it’s barely noon.

She buys my story like painting cough drops is commonplace.

Why wouldn’t she? It’s snowing outside, I have the day off and it’s truly for education purposes.

So what’s her story? Have I met an elusive tollbooth worker?

Cody is a Berklee School of Music grad who plays violin since the age of three and is still playing, now for a living.

I take up the violin twice in my life.

First, in elementary school, our lessons begin without an instrument. I remember practicing at home with an umbrella. It is not until 10 years later that I first hold the instrument.

As a visiting student at Appalachian State I learn to play the fiddle, and though I remain a big fan of old time mountain music, I can only play one tune.

Every musician has a cheesy music joke in their repertoire. My ratio of songs to jokes is 1 to 1.

What’s the difference between a violin and a fiddle?

Nobody cares if you spill beer on a fiddle.

Har. Har.

I get a laugh.

I speak with her for an hour before we part ways. I have important work to do.

So does she. Cody is a working musician who makes a living pulling a horsehair bow. It is a life that consists of giving lessons, playing bar mitzvahs, and the occasional big time gig with the likes of Kanye West.

It is a life that travels the world. She recently toured with a bluegrass band in China and has a pleasure trip to Europe planned.

And besides getting paid doing what you love, you are also your own boss, fulfilling no matter what you’re line of work.

She laments the success of some of her classmates, one in particular who is the leader of an indie band called St. Vincent.

Cody may not yet be a diva worthy of every demand; but she’s not doing data entry as a temp somewhere.

I always say that when I retire, I’ll get back into playing music. It’s hard to get good though, especially on the fiddle. When played right, the bow pulls some beautiful tones, but in the hands of the unpracticed, it is second only to the bagpipes in the torturous cacophony the instrument is capable of creating.

She hands me her card. I take a wild guess figuring she will have many pictures on her website.

She's pretty; the music is beautiful.

Stitch 'N Bitch

2007-12-12T16:33:00.003-05:00

My mother is a knitter. The closest I’ve come is hand spooling the yarn for my scarf at the yarn shop. It burns more calories than one would think.

Lunch time at the Starbucks on 57th Street. I sit next to two women who are surveying their yarn purchases from the yarn show at the Holiday Inn two blocks away.

We start talking. Soon enough two other women walk in, obviously from out of town, encumbered with garbage bags.

I’m thinking, couldn’t they afford suitcases? Or, if you’re going that route at least use Hefty garbage bags.

The two women I’m talking to recognize the cheap garbage bags and call out to the women whose sacks I learn are holding their yarn purchases. Now there are five of us, occupying three tables talking about knitting.

As far as knitting goes, I have two topics I can riff from:

My mother knits me a handsome cobalt blue scarf with the yarn I spooled. She knits one for my father too and presents it to him last Christmas in a nice box, where it remains. This ensures he will never lose it.

I then ask if the Stitch ‘n Bitch woman makes an appearance. Sadly she does not. Debbie Stoller, author of the Stich ‘n Bitch empire, is a stitching legend. She’s like the Jacques Cousteau of knitting. (Go ahead, try naming another deep sea explorer.)

And the title is fun to announce; it’s the only way a some women can openly say bitch without having to work at a kennel.

The more matronly of the four makes the round of the Northeast yarn circuit. She talks of a legendary show in New Hampshire where the women drink all the beer at the hotel and just tear up the place. Somehow in talking to these women, and then receding into the background, their chatter made the most matronly of pursuits seem empowering.

If you are woman enough, and strong enough, knitting won’t knock you.

After encountering the knitting crew, I am tempted to begin my Christmas shopping at the yarn show. Though I decide it won't be the best thing to get my Mom. It’s almost like buying a present for yourself, and then asking the person to make it for you.

I don’t often reference TV shows, but the Simpsons, Sesame Street and Seinfeld have earned honorary inclusion in the literary canon.

One Christmas, Homer buys Marge a bowling ball, monogrammed with his initials.

I’m good with gifts and I don’t want to be Homer, but I still want to attend.

Unfortunately, I never make it to the Yarn show. I even ride the subway into town on Saturday with good intentions, my mom’s scarf draped around my neck to give me an air of legitimacy.

My mom’s scarf.

And maybe that’s the draw of knitting for others. I own the scarf. It sits in storage in my closet during the warm months, and it wraps around my neck when it’s cold, but it is still my mother’s scarf.

Maybe I will buy her some yarn after all.

A Texan Walks into an Irish Bar

2007-11-26T22:26:00.001-05:00

Tough Tuesday at work. How often I forget that cheer is just around the corner. I’m of legal age and am not enrolled in a court ordered 12-step program, so why not.

Kennedy’s is on 57th Street. I sit down at the bar and order a pint of Stella. Bartender has an Irish accent, so does the décor; red tablecloths and mahogany.

The crowd is older. In my first 15 minutes there I see a young guy about my age do the survey walk in and out.

I walk in with purpose.

The guy next to me is reading the Wall Street Journal. He wears navy blue Dockers with pleats, and a button down shirt of a different shade of navy. Short balding hair, he’s in the process of putting on pounds. Obviously out of town; in for business.

I’m writing in my scratch pad; I’m not getting anywhere. MSNBC is plying Wall Street. Gas is down; the market is up 300 points. The Friday before is the exact opposite.

I turn to him and ask what he thinks of the possibility of a recession given the market ups and downs.

He says he ignores it. I mention how Wal-Mart buoys the market for the day by posting solid third quarter earnings.

Fucking hates the place, he does. His name is Patrick. Works in software sales. He’s from West Texas, now lives in Dallas with his wife and two daughters.

Patrick swears like a sailor who just stubbs his toe. I have to throw in a few of my own gratuitous curses to keep pace.

He is in his late thirties and still has that post-collegiate vibe about him. Definitely a Hooter’s guy.

You don’t get to meet too many folks from Texas in New York. I meet two others.

If you want to meet a Texan, go to Texas. Patrick is plucked right out of Lone Star state.

I get him talking.

His house is 4,000 square feet, though he asserts that he doesn't need a house that big.

It is the insistence of his wife, he says. I haven’t even fucked in all of the rooms yet.

His house is a classic (in Texas maybe) 4 – 4 ½. Four bedrooms, four and a half baths.

He hasn’t taken a shit in all of the bathrooms either.

In the middle of our conversation he gets a phone call from his boss.

He answers the phone: “What are you wearing?”

I am last in Texas in 2000. I drove through the panhandle. I don’t remember much except it is a dry county.

Much of Texas, Patrick said, is dry, even some suburban communities of Dallas. He once goes to college near the Oklahoma border where alcohol is sold 24/7. I asked if this had anything to do with the large Native American population in Oklahoma.

You think?

I am never in Dallas. He described the woman as having big hair and big tits.

I asked him if they were real.

If you have to ask that question, you don’t belong in Dallas, he tells me.

Though if I do visit, I’m supposed to see a Dallas Stars hockey game. Apparently it’s where the women go to be seen.

I keep thinking to myself, this is the most unmarried married man I've ever met.

We go back to talking about Wal-Mart. I am working on creating a spec advertising campaign for them and have read four books about the subject in the last few weeks.

Wal-Mart is relentless about saving money. Patrick is a software salesman. No software ever sells for retail, especially not to Wal-Mart.

You’re paying for intellectual property; the discs are only plastic.

Most companies pay 50% off retail, some whittle it to 60, some companies can wrangle for 70. 90% he said is as rare as a 17-year-old virgin. (Doesn’t this guy have daughters?)

Wal-Mart pays 98% off retail: $1 billion worth of software for $5 million.

Wal-Mart once tries to reposition itself to appeal to more well-healed customers. It doesn't work.

Patrick responds:

There’s a Wal-Mart next door to a Target in Dallas. They share the same parking lot. Target is for the Milfs. Wal-Mart is for white trash rednecks.

He can tell what store they are going to just by the car they drive.

Funny though, he won't tell me what company he works for. Said he doesn’t divulge company details at the bar. I’m sure he learns from past experience.

And now I remember why I avoid after work drinks. I hate having headaches before dinner.

Lion of Judah

2007-11-05T17:08:00.002-05:00

Two sights I have never seen in New York grace my observations this weekend.

The first: A van carrying retarded Hasidic Jews, loads up on Flatbush Avenue.

I don't like political correctness, but I do like retards.

I am at my friend's wedding in June with my girlfriend-at-the-time, Nora. The wedding is a reunion of friends from my hometown who have known each other forever. Mike is there with his whole family, including his retarded brother Markey. We always have a bond, namely because both of our names are Marc.

Markey has gained a few pounds since I last see him. He's now about 25. "Hey Markey, I say teasing him, "you got to take care of that." I point to his double chin.

Markey looks at Nora. "Is that your girlfriend?"

I nod, yes.

"I'll take care of her," he says.

Two.

I’m shopping at the Park Slope Food Co-op on a Sunday afternoon. Most people seem normal, indistinguishable from the clientele at any other supermarket, save a few distinct souls, none more distinctive than the Lions of Judah I encounter yesterday.

Three Rastas. A mother and her two dreadlocked children. Their dreads are tricked out, medusa style. The daughter is a teenager. The little boy, no older than 10. They are all wearing camouflage. The mother’s purse, is in camo. The kids are dressed, in camo. The mother has a big patch on the back of her, camo, jacket. It says Lion of Judah.

There is a personal precedent. I once work with a black guy who is a self-described “Lion of Judah.” But considering his last name is Rothman and his first name Henry, it’s a safe bet that he fits the description in the traditional sense. Given his name, Henry Rothman, I tell him he should get into the field of men’s haberdashery.

He does not wear camouflage.

This collective refer to the Lion of Judah in the Rastafari sense: former Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia is considered to be a direct descendant of King David, and known as the Lion of Judah, or Jah Rastafari. I look at their cart filled with soy products and forgot about them. Beyond their appearance, they are normal.

Minutes later, I stand across from the coterie at the check-out counter. The little boy goes missing, as little boys are apt to do. The mother calls out for him repeating his name over and over. But, he was no mere little boy, for this little boy’s name was “His Majesty.”

If I am a 10-year-old boy and my name is His Majesty, I'm not listening either.

On Being Grateful and Jackson, Mississippi

2006-07-16T14:47:00.002-04:00

I step off the century old ride feeling like I've just been in a car wreck. My friend Sebastian loses his cell phone during the ride.

We make an attempt to recover it.

We cut back through the line of thrill seekers waiting to defy death on the rickety wooden rollercoaster and inspect the carriages as they unload their passengers.

Nothing.

Sebastian fills out his name in a notebook that contains the day's entries of lost items. He takes it with good humor as he notes the names that fill four pages, detailing lost wallets, keys, cell phones, and sunglasses.

I buy him a beer. (I feel bad over the whole incident because I am the last fateful caller. Somehow things may have been different if I do not make that call.)

But, it is just a phone. As we walk to the Coney Island subway stop, we hike up the stairs and have a brief conversation before parting ways, he to the F train and I to the Q. We both agree on one thing; it’s just a thing.

I mention religion. I don't know what I believe, but I believe in religion, it's good for you.

I've read a few articles related to happiness recently. Religion is a key conduit to happiness. It brings people together, enables a sense of community, and most importantly in my mind, teaches people to be grateful for what they have.

One of my favorite gospel groups is The Jackson Southernaires of Jackson, Mississippi. In their 1970's heyday, their afros sweat with electrified soul. I reserve a gospel compilation from the Mount Vernon library called Malaco's Greatest Hits, Malaco is a gospel record label from Jackson.

One line in particular eclipses the rest of the material. "I complained that I had no shoes, but then I met a man that had no feet to use. Lord, I'm blessed. I'm so blessed."

Though it’s not a line worthy of Wallace Stevens, it does speak of a human truth we can all understand.

Be grateful for what you've got.

Year after year, a 500-pound man presides over the lever that sent the Cyclone careening on its way. His heft spills over his stool like an elephant on a postage stamp.

He pulls the lever like he would be there forever.

He is missing yesterday. The reason is probably much more serious than a lost cell phone.