I arrived in Bolivariana last night. God the altitude is awful. Some ungodly number of meters, don't ask me how many feet. I have yet to venture outside of my flat for fear of fainting. There is approximately 30% less oxygen in the air here as compared to sea level, and I am missing every molecule. The Indians and Spainards liked it because the temperature never gets above 75 degrees—though this was in the days before air conditioning—and I am beginning to wonder whether such benefits have long since outlived their usefulness. I shall write again tomorrow, perhaps when my cerebral hemmorage is complete.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Depression
Yesterday was my birthday. My wife threw me a surprise party. I was genuinely surprised, and it was a great party. But I woke up this morning I was terribly depressed. I don't know why. In fact, I was so depressed I could barely get out of bed. I can barely type this. What is wrong with me?
Dr. Scalioni looked at me through a layer of skin that barely disgusied his contempt. I was convinced, and am still convinced to this day, that Dr. Scalioni held all of his patients in contempt.
I went to see Dr. Scalioni on Tuesdays. His office was in a brownstone on a tree-lined street, and in the winter, the sky shone in a deep red behind the houses as the city of New Haven slumped into twilight.
I began to see Dr. Scalioni because I learned that the Universe would someday become inhospitable to life. This was a traumatic moment for me.
My first meeting with Scalioni went something like this:
“So, Mr. Fishman, what brings you here?”“Well, as I understand it, the Universe is getting colder, which means someday we’re all going to freeze to death.”Scalioni’s eyes brightened in a manner designed to signify “encouragement.” “Really?” he said, leaning closer to examine his subject, “tell me about that.”
It was pretty much downhill from there. Over time, Scalioni and I grew to hate each other – I hated him because he could not stop the Universe from freezing, and he hated me because I exposed him as a fraud.
The universe is expanding, and the molecules that make up the universe are stretching further and further apart. The amount of energy in the universe is winding down, like a clock that has unwound, but there is no one to wind it up again. This means that the universe is getting colder. Someday, the universe will be nothing more than a sea of dead atoms shooting further and further into the black. Life of any kind, even the most extreme kind, will no longer exist. When life is no more, no one will be lef to marvel at the universe.
Needless to say, I was disturbed by this. This is how my first meeting with Dr. Scalioni began:
“So,” said Scalioni, “what brings you here?”“I know the universe will end and I’m scared.”“I see.”“I’m really flipping out.”“Tell me about that.”
Dr. Scalioni had thick belly and a scragly white beard. He looked like Santa Clause, if Santa Clause were a sex offender, or perhaps just a dirty old man. I was sitting in Sr. Scalioni’s chair now, talking about my problems. I did this every Tuesday at 4:00.
Scalioni’s office was in a brownstone not far from campus. Inside it was full of books and a strange yellow light that filled the room and made the doctor look even creepier than he already was. Behind his head was a large clock that was there to remind you how much time you had left. This much I’ll give Scalioni: he always called time, but he never seemed comfortable with it.
The beginning of my sessions with Scalioni always begin this way: I would sit down in the leather chair in his study, and he would sit in a chair directly across from me. Before he sat down, he would grab his foot and pull it under his rear-end so that when he sat down, he was sitting on one leg and it looked like a foot was growing out of his butt. It was one of Scalioni’s many eccentricities.
On this particular day, Scalioni was looking at me reproachfully. He didn’t look reproachful often – I think they are taught not to look that was in psychology school – but it happened on occasion.
“I havn’t seen you in a while,” said Scalioni. “I know,” I said. It was true. “I went to see the Pope.”
This is true. Over spring break I’d gone to see the Pope. He lives in Kansas with his mother, Fran, in a small town called [] which is [xxy] miled away from Wichita. [
Dr. Scalioni looked at me through a layer of skin that barely disgusied his contempt. I was convinced, and am still convinced to this day, that Dr. Scalioni held all of his patients in contempt.
I went to see Dr. Scalioni on Tuesdays. His office was in a brownstone on a tree-lined street, and in the winter, the sky shone in a deep red behind the houses as the city of New Haven slumped into twilight.
I began to see Dr. Scalioni because I learned that the Universe would someday become inhospitable to life. This was a traumatic moment for me.
My first meeting with Scalioni went something like this:
“So, Mr. Fishman, what brings you here?”“Well, as I understand it, the Universe is getting colder, which means someday we’re all going to freeze to death.”Scalioni’s eyes brightened in a manner designed to signify “encouragement.” “Really?” he said, leaning closer to examine his subject, “tell me about that.”
It was pretty much downhill from there. Over time, Scalioni and I grew to hate each other – I hated him because he could not stop the Universe from freezing, and he hated me because I exposed him as a fraud.
The universe is expanding, and the molecules that make up the universe are stretching further and further apart. The amount of energy in the universe is winding down, like a clock that has unwound, but there is no one to wind it up again. This means that the universe is getting colder. Someday, the universe will be nothing more than a sea of dead atoms shooting further and further into the black. Life of any kind, even the most extreme kind, will no longer exist. When life is no more, no one will be lef to marvel at the universe.
Needless to say, I was disturbed by this. This is how my first meeting with Dr. Scalioni began:
“So,” said Scalioni, “what brings you here?”“I know the universe will end and I’m scared.”“I see.”“I’m really flipping out.”“Tell me about that.”
Dr. Scalioni had thick belly and a scragly white beard. He looked like Santa Clause, if Santa Clause were a sex offender, or perhaps just a dirty old man. I was sitting in Sr. Scalioni’s chair now, talking about my problems. I did this every Tuesday at 4:00.
Scalioni’s office was in a brownstone not far from campus. Inside it was full of books and a strange yellow light that filled the room and made the doctor look even creepier than he already was. Behind his head was a large clock that was there to remind you how much time you had left. This much I’ll give Scalioni: he always called time, but he never seemed comfortable with it.
The beginning of my sessions with Scalioni always begin this way: I would sit down in the leather chair in his study, and he would sit in a chair directly across from me. Before he sat down, he would grab his foot and pull it under his rear-end so that when he sat down, he was sitting on one leg and it looked like a foot was growing out of his butt. It was one of Scalioni’s many eccentricities.
On this particular day, Scalioni was looking at me reproachfully. He didn’t look reproachful often – I think they are taught not to look that was in psychology school – but it happened on occasion.
“I havn’t seen you in a while,” said Scalioni. “I know,” I said. It was true. “I went to see the Pope.”
This is true. Over spring break I’d gone to see the Pope. He lives in Kansas with his mother, Fran, in a small town called [] which is [xxy] miled away from Wichita. [
Friday, May 6, 2011
On humiliation
I will not lie this is a difficult moment for me. I have a rather hazy memory of getting my ass kicked last night by two little prick lacrosse players who think they're that cat's fucking pajamas because they can suck an olive out of a tender asshole faster than a goddamn Hoover vacuum cleaner (join a fraternity, you'll understand).
Most of the night is a total blank. I recall leaving the bar and cracking my knuckles, and I remember bar patrons gathering around a picture window that offered a ringside seat to the fight that was about to happen outside. I remember strutting back and forth in the street and shouting something about the "mother of all goat fucks." And then I remember finding, at that very moment, my power animal. I chose the ibex, the fiersome-horned and yet flight of foot rodent whose temperment I believed epitomized my ferocity and my gift of flight. .
"I am an ibex!" I said to anyone who would listen. "I'm a fucking ibex!"
Not that I would have expected the patrons to make the connection, inasmuch as I didn't really make it myself until later on, but an ibex and a goat are pretty much the same thing, and so by repeatedly promising a "goat fuck" I was, at best, predicting that I would, at some point, fuck my self.
At some point I had to reflect dimly upon what started this whole thing, but the more I reflected the more the crowd grew -- and the more it grew I began to wonder whether the fight itself was the product of their aspirations, rather than my own -- at the very least I could not identify a single reason why I would want to fight these two douche bags; but then again, it seemed that by the time the first blow was struck, we were not fighting for our own reasons anymore.
It was, for a moment, exhilirating to be fighting for blood and nothing else. The lacrosse kids came out of the bar looking happy and reasonably confident that this fight would confirm all of the lodestars around which we had built our lives -- I was a man of average height and weight, a bald spot forming somewhere in the back of my head where I couldn't see it. If I wanted to see youthfull me, I needed look only in the mirror at the proper angle...there he is. Me at 21, breaking a bottle of bear across a fat irishman's head.
The difference between the lacrosse kids and me is that they are too young to be possessed of self doubt. They have fear because they don't want to get hit, but once they realize getting hit isn't that bad, they're going to bring the wrath of all their douchery to bear upon me.
The inherent unfairness of two people beating up one seems lost in street fighting -- there is not much of a code among hyenas. And so as the fight began it largely involved one of the scroutes trying to awkwardly hold me down while the other wound up to hit me. This did not work with quite the same effect they'd imagined, as I'd developed a "slippery fish" technique in my second semester of middle school.
But what I did do was miraculous. Whilst one of the lacrosse players was trying to drag me down by my arm, I looped around with my right fist and clocked the other twin clean in the jaw. I then watched his head snap backwards like a pez dispenser so that it crashed into the picture window with a thundrous clap. The clap, followed by a collective "oooohhh," of the people inside, was music to my ears, which went nicely with the stars in my eyes after the lacrosse players began attacking me in earnest. It was all over in about two minutes. Their complete victory was, in the end, sullied somewhat by that one, ruthless shot that might have knocked him out had the window been made of brick instead of glass.
 |
| I am an ibex |
"I am an ibex!" I said to anyone who would listen. "I'm a fucking ibex!"
Not that I would have expected the patrons to make the connection, inasmuch as I didn't really make it myself until later on, but an ibex and a goat are pretty much the same thing, and so by repeatedly promising a "goat fuck" I was, at best, predicting that I would, at some point, fuck my self.
At some point I had to reflect dimly upon what started this whole thing, but the more I reflected the more the crowd grew -- and the more it grew I began to wonder whether the fight itself was the product of their aspirations, rather than my own -- at the very least I could not identify a single reason why I would want to fight these two douche bags; but then again, it seemed that by the time the first blow was struck, we were not fighting for our own reasons anymore.
It was, for a moment, exhilirating to be fighting for blood and nothing else. The lacrosse kids came out of the bar looking happy and reasonably confident that this fight would confirm all of the lodestars around which we had built our lives -- I was a man of average height and weight, a bald spot forming somewhere in the back of my head where I couldn't see it. If I wanted to see youthfull me, I needed look only in the mirror at the proper angle...there he is. Me at 21, breaking a bottle of bear across a fat irishman's head.
The difference between the lacrosse kids and me is that they are too young to be possessed of self doubt. They have fear because they don't want to get hit, but once they realize getting hit isn't that bad, they're going to bring the wrath of all their douchery to bear upon me.
The inherent unfairness of two people beating up one seems lost in street fighting -- there is not much of a code among hyenas. And so as the fight began it largely involved one of the scroutes trying to awkwardly hold me down while the other wound up to hit me. This did not work with quite the same effect they'd imagined, as I'd developed a "slippery fish" technique in my second semester of middle school.
But what I did do was miraculous. Whilst one of the lacrosse players was trying to drag me down by my arm, I looped around with my right fist and clocked the other twin clean in the jaw. I then watched his head snap backwards like a pez dispenser so that it crashed into the picture window with a thundrous clap. The clap, followed by a collective "oooohhh," of the people inside, was music to my ears, which went nicely with the stars in my eyes after the lacrosse players began attacking me in earnest. It was all over in about two minutes. Their complete victory was, in the end, sullied somewhat by that one, ruthless shot that might have knocked him out had the window been made of brick instead of glass.
Monday, May 2, 2011
The job
 |
| The mafia has moved on |
The mafia has gone international so I spend a lot of time overseas, particularly in one country in Latin America where we have some "business interests." For my own safety I can't really say which country it is, so let's call it "Bolivaria."
About our business interests. The rule of thumb is: if its profitable, we're involved. Obviously the mafia made a killing in booze and extortion back in the day, but that stuff has gone the way of legitimate businessmen. We used to make money off of really boring things like, believe it or not, olive oil – but these things don't generate the kind of revenue that support the Don's lifestyle. No, we're into much bigger things now, like oil oil, as in petroleum, as well as smaller-ticket items like weapons trafficking auto parts. Add to this a touch of bond trading, real estate construction and loansharking and you got yourself a pretty decent business. You also got a mafia business that is often pretty hard to distinguish from real business, which is just the way we like it.
But the guys who run the show don't let us little guys touch that stuff. I'm a soldier, which means I'm the guy who handles the petty disputes and day-to-day stuff that our associates dream up to make my life miserable. I'm not the guy who whacks people, I'm the guy who gets to tell an associate that his kid just got whacked, and that I'm really sorry.
So that's the job, more or less. Like I said, its not pretty.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Diary of a Mafia Soldier
Before we begin, let us be clear that I do not lead a glamourous life. I do not do glamorous things. I am the guy who tells other mafiosos about how best to clean the blood stains off of a pair of wool pants. Not that there's a lot of blood to clean. These days the mafia have moved on to different schemes: stocks, bonds, IPOs, construction projects, currency manipulation. You almost might mistake us for legitimate businessmen, which of course we are not.
But the truth is, I'm just a fix-it man. I'm not a Don or even one of the Don's friends. I'm just a regular guy with a stressful job. So welcome to the diary of a mafia soldier.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)