Lake George

Graduation day is soon upon us. The four of us, Jason, Joe, Seth and myself (Steven), were looking forward to spending a summer together before going away to our institutes of higher learning. A summer full of doing nothing, well nothing consisted of work, work and trying to find work. But after work we’d hang out blow off some steam and just be carefree. My friends are smart, I’d even go as far as saying they are brilliant. We were not your rowdy bunch of young men, more book smart than street smart, but we still knew how to have fun. We did our share of drinking and smoking, cigarettes and other smoke-able substances. It would be safe to say I was the wild one of our not so rowdy bunch.

Jason, Joe and myself had known each other since elementary school. Seth came to find us as a sophomore in high school. Three of us worked together scooping ice cream at Friendly’s, sorry if we delayed your Jim Dandy or your Fribble, we were kids and we really didn’t care. So if you ever wonder why the service sucks at Friendly’s, take a look around you. The entire staff is kids and shitty burnt out waitresses. We really wanted to do a good job but in the thick of it, we really didn’t give a shit. Well at least I didn’t. I really wasn’t looking to please our coked-up-never-to-be-found-manager. As for the customers, it’s Friendly’s for crying out loud.

Our senior year is drawing to an end, we discuss planning a trip. We don’t know where, but are tossing ideas around. The Jersey shore, the Hamptons or maybe camping. Well the Jersey shore is full of guidos, need I say more? The Hamptons is a bit out of our budget. And camping was out of the question. I do not camp nor do I rough it. I prefer indoor plumbing to a hole in the ground thank you. I’m sure one day before I leave this earth I will go rough it, but not yet and definitely not back then. Now I don’t exactly remember who mentioned Lake George (I think it was Joe), but it sounded like a great idea, a mix of both, nature and indoor plumbing. Looks like we are going upstate.

If you don’t know about Lake George it’s the “Queen of American Lakes”, located in the Adirondack Region in upstate New York. A great place for four Jewish boys to spend their final hurrah before college. There seemed to be plenty of activities to keep us busy like boat rentals and beaches to just relax. It had a village filled with touristy shops, restaurants and what we called “clubs”. It was about three hours away, a good enough distance where there would be no parental interference. Now this was the late 80’s, no cell phones, no internet and no GPS tracking devices. We were going to be free for five days and what a great way for our parental units to get used to us being away. We were excited, but now we needed a plan.

I f I remember, I was the only one with a fake I.D. It was purchased in Times Square way before the Disnefication. Back when there were hustlers, pimps, prostitutes and a peep show every 25feet. Like I said I was the wild one of the not so rowdy bunch. That fake ID worked. Not to sound conceited, but I look younger than my age and at seventeen I looked like I just hit puberty. Now I know that people knew it was fake, maybe they just thought about the balls it would take to show them this laminated form of trickery, but I got drinks at clubs, bars and bodegas. I was obviously the one in charge of acquiring the alcohol. I needed a list and I had to check it twice. I also thought it wise to buy a good mixology guide. First stop the bookstore, second stop the liquor store.

I go to the local Barnes and Nobel with Seth. We walk in and search the shelves for a book on how to mix drinks. We looked in cooking and guides, we didn’t find it. We find an employee and they bring us back to a section we walked through prior. Great there’s more than one. We peruse the titles, Mr. Boston, The Complete Bartenders Guide and the one that stuck out the most The Harvard Student Agency Bartending Course. Well holy shit, a bartending guide form Harvard, I’m sold. That would be the only way that I would ever take a Harvard course. It even had a form in the back to get a certificate, I’m going to be a Harvard grad. Who cares if it was for mixing booze and juice. We take our new Bible up to the counter and gladly hand over the six dollars and change.

I studied that book. More than I studied anything my last two years of high school. I finally learned what was in the drinks I was illegally consuming. Fuzzy Navels, Sex on the Beach, Daiquiri, Kamikaze and the famous Long Island Iced tea. I’m getting a Harvard education on how to get people drunk and I’m loving it. I’m learning the libation lingo, high ball, neat, muddle. Soon I know what was in most of our drinks and decide that I need lots and lots of booze. Vodka, Gin, Rum and Tequila. Four of us drinking for five days, I figured a mixed case would be great. I had very high expectations.

Next up, acquiring the booze. This was going to be more difficult than I expected. Knowing that my ID could fool a waitress or a bartender and the guy behind the bullet proof glass at a bodega, fooling the person stationed behind the register at a liquor store may be a bit more complicated especially with a case of alcohol. And I didn’t buy the cheap stuff, no well spirits for me. Even as a novice drinker I knew the good stuff from the shit. I went with my girlfriend at the time to a liquor store nowhere near my home, forbid I was noticed by a neighbor or parent, I had to keep this very hush-hush.

We are strolling the aisles and picking out all the necessities. The Absolut, The Cuervo, The Tanqueray, and of course the Bacardi. I get to the counter, gently put down all the precious bottles and then the obvious happens. The man, who looks like he just drank a fifth himself asks the inevitable, “you got ID?”. I don’t know if I looked nervous or not, but I was shaking on the inside, this was the most illegal thing I have ever done in my life at this point, well other than procuring a fake ID in Times Square. I collect my inner composure and take out the laminated form of trickery and hand it to the man who is either going to let me slide or call the cops, well maybe not call the cops but still not a fun feeling. He looks at it and asks “what year were you born?”, fuck, fuck, fuck. I have no idea, I didn’t memorize any of my false vitals. I’m screwed, this guy is going to get me in some serious trouble or he’s going to keep the ID and that would totally fuck my shit up. I am not great at math when I’m under pressure, actually I’m not great at math when I’m not under pressure, but this just made it ten times worse, I blurt out something that made no sense, like 1953. I’m now ready to leave with my chin buried in my chest, and he says “nice try”, that’s my cue to exit. He hands me the ID back, I look up surprised and say thanks. Now I need a plan B.

I didn’t have a plan B. We couldn’t ask our parents, even though looking back I think one of them would have agreed. We really didn’t know many people who were in their twenties. But I needed to find someone quickly. I talked to my girlfriend, she knew some shady characters, surely she would know someone to purchase the alcohol. I called her up and asked her if she knew of anyone and low and behold she worked with someone that would probably help, she’ll get back to me. I’m not worried, but worse come to worse we would be stuck with wine coolers and beer. Her contact got back to her and said he’d gladly do it. OK, that’s a weight off my shoulders.

We are now deciding on our mode of transportation. I didn’t have a car, and I don’t think the others parents were too keen on them taking their car knowing that some form of debauchery would be happening. We decided on bus. I’m pretty sure it was Trailways, but I could be wrong, either way it was a bus. Not the most glamorous form of transportation but it will do. The lodging was taken care of, again by whom I don’t remember but we knew we were going to be close to the village and a car wasn’t really required. I really didn’t care, we were gonna have a case of booze and almost a week without parents. So we all hurried up and waited.

The time had finally arrived, we were all packed and ready to go. I think I had more booze than clothes in my suitcase. I was hoping that I packed it properly. The last thing I wanted was for my clothes to smell like Tequila, Vodka maybe but definitely not Tequila. We get to the bus station, find the ticket counter and buy our tickets to paradise. We get on the bus, it’s not too crowded but we learned the ride is going to take a bit more than three hours, more like four and change, so what we’re on our way. That just gave me more time to open the bible and start reading, getting quizzed and get some rest.

The bus ride went smoothly and dropped us off not too far from the motel. We go to the office, check in and go to our crash pad for the next five days. We get settled in, choose the sleeping arrangements and just relax. I go and check out the place. It’s nice from what I remember, a bit on the old side, not many amenities, but it was on the water and had a beach what more could we ask for. Well ½ naked women running around would have been nice, but we all know that wasn’t happening. So we settled for the view of the lake instead.

That day we spent going into town, eating lunch and just taking in the sights. And by sights I mean girls, which there was not much to choose from. We pick a family friendly place, now I thinking maybe we should have hit the Jersey shore. Next we had to go grocery shopping, get the essentials, limes, Coke, orange juice, pineapple juice, grapefruit juice, plastic cups and some munchies. We go into town we find a grocery store, it’s called the Price Chopper. Now it’s no Pathmark or ShopRite but it had to do. We go in, shop get what we need and then we decided to get some wine coolers. I have authentic New Your City fake ID, these people upstate wouldn’t know the difference, so I was confident that they would take it and we will be on our way.

The wine coolers were the last thing on the conveyor belt, the rest of the mixers were in the bag. The guy at check out wasn’t that much older than us, for sure he’s going to let us go, just ask for our ID, look at it and send us on our way. He mutters those famous words “ID please”. I take out my laminated piece of trickery and hand it over. He then asks “do you have anything else, a License?” I answer “no” and he says sorry but I can’t sell you the wine coolers. I say “no problem” but wouldn’t you know it a woman, probably in her mid twenties who was behind us said that she would buy it for us. You’re fucking kidding me, how lucky is this? She says that she understands, it’s happened to her and it’s no problem, it would be her pleasure. Well happy fucking day, it’s time to celebrate with our wine coolers and booze. We get back to the room and I’m mixing drinks like I know what I’m doing. Screwdrivers, Greyhounds, Madras and Tequila Sunrises, we are getting inebriated, quickly.

We wake up dry mouthed and hungry so we decide that we are in need of some breakfast. Now my memory is fuzzy about this but I remember that someone told us about a place, about a mile down the road called Grandma’s Kitchen. Now what better place to go eat morning food. In theory at least. In reality I don’t remember many great breakfasts at my grandmothers, dinners yes but breakfast not so much. But you get the idea, a nice warm country feeling restaurant, that served up a damn good breakfast. We went there had to wait a bit get a table and ordered all the food we could. Except Seth. Seth ordered a box of cereal, huh? Is that all his grandmother ever served him? Here we are the three of us eating pancakes, french toast, bacon, sausage, eggs, toast and coffee and there is Seth eating Frosted fucking Flakes. What could we do force feed him pancakes and syrup, nope, so we just let it be.

The next night we decide to hit the village and see whats what. We find a dance “club” that’s teen friendly. My ID is not going to work anywhere so we are now reduced to a teen club, no big deal. The place is thumping empty, it’s noisy but extremely empty, apparently there were no teens in Lake George on this evening. About a half hour goes by and then there they were, two or three girls that came in, dancing in a group, as girls always do. They dance, we dance, lets dance. And that’s what happened.

I think it was New Order’s Blue Monday that was pumping through the speaker, this girl, maybe 15 or 16 is dancing with Joe and I hear her talking, saying that she’s here with her parents, blah, blah, blah, do you have any alcohol? What? Did she ask if we have any alcohol? Joe says no, no we don’t have anything to drink, sorry. What the fuck did I just hear, he said no? We have enough booze to start a bar. Now I’m not sure why he said no, but he did. It was a little disappointing but what were we going to do, kidnap her and her friends? Nope. Should one of us gone up to her and say, um, our friend must have forgotten but we have plenty of alcohol in our room, care to join us? But I guess we didn’t want him to look bad and we didn’t have the balls to do that either. So we stayed a bit longer and then went back to the room, female-less. And then we drank.

Next morning we wake up and decide to go to Grandma’s Kitchen again. We make the mile or so walk to get some really good,cheap breakfast grub. It really was reasonable, not expensive at all. Again we order the menu, except Seth. You guessed it. Another Bowl of cereal. It was the cheapest thing on the menu, like less than two bucks, spend double that and you could get pancakes. I remember asking him, what the fuck gives, says that’s all he wanted to eat. Really? Who are we to argue with him? Seth watches as we devour our homemade breakfast, as he was always the first one finished eating. Over breakfast we discuss going to The Great Escape. Nothing mixes better than roller coasters and ½ digested pancakes and coffee.

We spent that day at the amusement park. What a great name for a place, amusement park. Think about it. Anyway we get back on a bus to go back to the motel, rest up and then start drinking. And boy did we drink. The four of us then headed out to dinner, I want to say we went to a pizza joint and then just hung out in the village. We are waling back to the room and we pass a Psychic/Tarot Card reader, which was located on the first floor of a house. This seems to amuse us to no end, we walk up, the place had a porch, and they’re not open. That bums Jason out a bit and then for what reason I don’t remember, Jason starts to do push ups on this porch of the Psychic’s place. Counting out loud how many he is achieving. We are all laughing hysterically, well except for the police officer who is standing there watching this in total amusement. We tell Jay to stop and he does, but what came next was priceless, Jay is hammered, and he tells the cop, “I’m sorry occifer, it won’t happen again”. Yes he said occifer, it was brilliant. The occifer asked us what we were doing, I don’t remember the response, but he asked us to get off the porch and keep it down and be on our way. Yes, sir. Sorry sir, Thank you sir. We clammed up and made it back to the room without another run in with the law.

We kept drinking, and I was putting on the pressure for everyone to do Tequila shots. Jason said he couldn’t do another, but I taunted him enough that he agreed, but only if he could do it in the bathtub. You know that feeling, when you’ve had too much to drink and one more is going to make you puke. That is the feeling Jason must have had. He goes into the bathroom takes another shot and you guessed it, throws up. We are all laughing beyond control. This is a night that we would never forget.

The next morning we reminisced about the night before, laughed our ass off and then decided the go to breakfast, at where else, Grandma’s Kitchen. French toast, bacon, sausage, eggs, and you guessed it cereal. It is really starting to get on our nerves, he fucking ordered cereal again. We finish up and decide to spend a day on the lake. We rent a boat, and have some fun in the water. As anyone know spending a day on the water can be quite tiresome. We met some girls on the lake and they invited us to hang out with them, we said sure. Finally! There was only two of them but no worries, every man for themselves. We deliver the boat back to the rental slip and get ready to hang with our newly found female friends.

It ends up the girls were locals and lived there right in Lake George. We meet up with them, one of them had a boat, and they ask if we wanted to go out on the lake again. Sure, a boat we didn’t have to rent, absolutely. Well little did we know, that one of their dads would be along for the ride. This is not what was supposed to happen. Meet girls, yes. Bring parents along, no. I’m a bit disappointed but didn’t have the balls to back out. So now it’s four horny guys, two girls and one of their fathers. This is not a happy equation. It’s not like we could invite them back to the room to get sloshed. I’m sure her father knew the drill, shit I now know the drill. But back then it was a little deflating. He asked us if we wanted to try water skiing or knee boarding. Sure, what the hell.

I have never been water skiing or knee boarding before, but there is a first time for everything. I decide to go first. I’ll pass on the skiing, knee boarding sound a bit more my style. I was not the most athletic and did not master sports on the first try. I put on a life vest, jump in the water and take directions from the boat captain. You need to hold onto the rope, pull yourself up and out of the water with your elbows and onto the board, then strap yourself in. Sounds easy, but it did not happen. Try after try I was either getting pulled by the boat, water gushing into my nose. Not remembering to let go of the rope. I hogged my time, I seriously wanted to just get up on the board and get pulled bu this boat. I would get up but couldn’t hold it for long. I totally sucked. The rest of the guys were getting frustrated, pissed even, but I was determined. Well it didn’t happen, I get back on the boat thinking this is another sport on the list that I will never master.

That night for whatever reason, tension was running a bit high between the four of us. Be it lack of women, lack of wakeboarding, lack of breakfast or maybe we were just getting on each others nerves. We started making fun of each other, playful banter back and forth, occifer got mentioned several times. Then I hit a bit below the belt. Seth said something and I just went off. I brought up the whole cheapness, the cereal for breakfast and just him being a downer. In retrospect it was not fair, I should have not talked like that to one of my best friends, that was his shit to deal with, not mine, But that opened a can of worms. Jason and Joe chimed in as well. We wanted to get to the bottom of this cereal for breakfast thing. We all brought up just about the same amount of money, we were meant to spend it all, have fun and be care free with our money. But not Seth, he said he just didn’t want to spend all of his money. Huh? All? How about some? This went on for a few minutes, it hurt his feelings, that was not our intention. I felt bad, but it did feel good to get that off of out chests. This to shall pass, he’ll get over it. From what I remember he went home with $30 or $40. If that’s what make you happy, I can’t tell you differently.

The next day we were scheduled to leave. We gather all of our things. We must have had at least ½ of the case of alcohol left over. I’m sure I can find a way to get rid of it in the near future. We are a little quiet toward each other. But we need to eat, so we had on up the road to Grandma’s Kitchen. The whole walk there I am thinking, please Seth, please do not order cereal, for the love of all that is holy, please do not order fucking cereal. We get there sit down, order our drinks, coffee and juice. The waitress comes back and takes out order. It’s Seth’s turn, we are all anticipating cereal, just to spite us. But nope, he ordered real breakfast food, we all drew a sigh of relief and laughed. We ate our final breakfast at the lake and Seth did not leave anything on his plate. I couldn’t think of a better way to end our trip.

Bridge & Tunnel 2 (Jersey, The Other Side)

Jersey…..The other side of the River

When it comes to dating in NYC, New Jersey, as opposed to The Islands is a bit of a touchy subject. It’s all about location, location, location. As in what part of Jersey do they reside. But, it also depends on what part of the city you reside in and in what proximity to the PATH train/NJ Transit you live. Like I said, location, location, location. There are so many different degrees to this equation, that when you meet someone and ask that very important question “where do you live”, you have to decipher, in almost nanosecond speed, the logistics of how do I get there. If you don’t, are not familiar with this or have never encountered this before you are in for a real ride.

Again you are in your favorite bar/club in Manhattan, it’s a Thursday evening, you’re drinking socializing and flirting. Someone catches your attention you strike up a conversation and then WHAM! You find out they’re from Jersey. Now depending on you family (almost everyone from NY has some family that migrated to New Jersey) you are a bit educated about the State of New Jersey. The cliched thing to say is “what exit” , not like you really know where that puts you on the map. I mean there’s the Garden State Parkway and The New Jersey Turnpike, so which one are they referring to? They tell you Basking Ridge and you say “is that anywhere near Parsippany?”. Trying to sound knowledgeable about the location and also, because you have a cousin that lives there you can almost figure out the proximity to where they live. They say “it’s about ½ and hour away”, now you know that Parsippany is about an hour or so away, so now you decide whether or not to continue the pursuit. Depending on the distance the same 2-3 scenarios would apply (for an explanation please see Bridge & Tunnel).

They come into the city, go to a bar/club almost on a regular basis (Thursday, Friday or Saturday), meet someone that is living in the city, then what? Do they think damn, why do they have to be living in the city. Do they realize that I live in the bowels of Jersey? I am not gonna be coming here all the time, they are gonna have to come to my place to prove themselves to me. Do I tell them that I live in Jersey? Now this last bit is tricky, I have encountered this. It’s the I’m from NY thing, that some Jersey dwellers use on unsuspecting prey. They say they’re from NY, and hope that you leave it alone. Get to kow you, good vibes are happening and then all of a sudden you ask for a number and SMACK, there’s a 201, not a 212 area code. What the fuck just happened? It might even be a 609 and now you are thoroughly confused and pissed. What do you do? (refer to the 3 scenarios once again).

Now if they live in Hoboken or Jersey City and you don’t live in BFE Queens or the nether regions of Brooklyn, this relationship may have a fighting chance. The Hoboken/Jersey City dweller is someone who is rent conscious, doesn’t mind the short commute to mid-town and can be at your place in less than an hour. Not too bad for living across the river.

So beware of the Bridge and Tunnel crowd. They look the same and in some cases act the same, but by no means are they the same. They creep into the city, use a parking garage, or worse yet take up valuable street parking. You have been warned!

Bridge & Tunnel

Bridge & Tunnel

For those of us who grew up in and around NYC (and by around I mean Westchester County), there was a silent rule, a code if you will, avoid dating someone from The Islands. Long and Staten to be more precise. It is such a headache, a pain in the ass to see them. The traffic, the accents and yes people from The Islands have different NY accents and totally different mentalities. The everything is better here mentality, you wouldn’t know ’cause you’re not from here mentality, the once a week you go there, they come to you mentality. Who wants that type of fucking relationship. Well if it’s just fucking, that’s another story.

You meet someone in a bar or a club, you start to talk to them asking the obligatory questions, blah blah blah, what do you do, where do you live, OK stop right there. If you did not ask that within the first 5 minutes of meeting someone you have opened a can of Bridge and Tunnel. You would know whether or not this conversation would cease or proceed. If they said they live on The Island, that is your cue to exit, stage left. Pick an excuse or pick a multitude of excuses but just run the other way. The only thing to come out of The Islands are Guido/etts Maximus and Uber Yentas. Please see any Gotti Boys episode and you will know what I’m talking about. As far as the Uber Yenta thing goes, I went to college with a girl who had a name plate and it said, I shit you not :Jewish Princess. Yes these are all tell tale signs that it’s time to get ill, literally.

Now if you did not ask that question in a timely manner, got to know them, did a little bump and grind, and you now see it’s 3:30am. You ask her if you can take her home and she says “I live on the Island” or “I’m here with my friends, we live on Staten Island”. There is nothing that can bring you down at 4am faster than those boner deflating phrases. You have now wasted valuable time and money.

There are now two scenarios(well maybe three, but if you did three you needed your head examined):

1.She says it’s OK, we can go to your place. Which is still a dilemma, she is now going to know where you live. And you know that some chicks from the Islands can be a bit psycho, look at Amy Fisher for crying out loud.

2. Tell her you had a great time ask for her number and give her yours. Hoping that she calls you because it’s long fucking distance. Now with this scenario it’s easy to get out of, losing the number, not answering the phone, funeral, swine flu, etc. But if you go back to the same bar/club the in the upcoming weeks, you now have to do the avoi-dance. But only for a short amount of time, or you just never go back there again because they allow Bridge & Tunnel people inside.

3.You agree in your drunken-horned up-state of mind to go to The Island, either one, you don’t care you are drunk and horny. You get there you get your thing on, pass out and then wake up and realize you are not in your place. You are hungover, your mouth is fuzzy and realize you now have to get back to reality and you have no idea how to get there. Do you call a cab, ask her for a ride, or just leave and figure it out on your own. Either way you’re fucked and hopefully a lesson has been learned.

Jersey is next…………….

Guidos & Yentas

Guidos & Yentas

Now some might find this derogatory, offensive, and ever a bit bigoted, but I assure you it’s not. Growing up in in the suburbs of New York City, Westchester to be exact, we had a very good dichotomy of people around us. But the ones that stick out the most, the ones that had the most character, the ones that were absolutely stereotypical, were the Guidos and the Yentas (or J.A.P. as we called them back in the day). I come from such a union. A Guido and a Yenta. So no hate is being flung at anyone here, just a humorous look at the differences, similarities and stereotypes that make them who they are.

Growing up in a ½ & ½ house was very entertaining. I had the chance to experience 2 different cultures, but oddly enough they were almost the same.

The Italian side: White tank-tops also know as guinea T’s or wife beaters. Big huge bulky cars, the Cadillac & the Olds. Sunday dinners that started around 2pm. Gold rope chains with a cross, an Italian horn or both. The women with big hair, big nails and really strong NYC accents. Everyone had a “y” at the end of their name, even if it wasn’t supposed to have one. The only time my dad was called Joey was buy his extended family, and we had several Joeys, Tonys, Charlies, Mikeys and so on. I was called Stevie, to this day I hate being called Stevie, but some people still do, and it aggravates the shit out of me.

Then there were the guido and guidette cousins, I mean total Bronx Italian Stereotypes. The boys trying to grow mustaches at the age of 10. All having mullets, gold chains and wearing weightlifting pants with Gold’s Gym sweatshirts and Hi-top Reebok’s. The older ones driving a Monte Carlo, a Trans Am or an IROC, more specifically with dark tinted windows & T-tops. Driving around showing off their cars, with 80’s club music blaring from trunk filling speakers (songs like Boom, Boom, Boom Let’s Go Back to My Room, you know you know the song) to the opposite sex. Think of it as a National Geographic Special on how to attract the opposite sex, with British commentary and all. The smell of Drakkar at the multi-plex far outlasted the smell of popcorn. The there was the Z-Cavaricci’s, the Capezio shoes, the unbuttoned shirts. I could go on, but I think you get the point.

My guidette cousins had an excessive amount of everything. Nails, Hairspray, Make-up, Earrings, Acid-wash jeans. And gold all over, gold rings, gold nameplates, gold chains, gold anklets, gold hoop earrings and gold bracelets. Everything and I mean everything had a name on it, their name, their boyfriends name both of their names. It’s like they were marked property. I still feel to this day the the ’80’s guidette is responsible for a hole in the ozone. There was enough Aqua-Net being used in the Tri-State area it’s amazing we could breathe back then. I mean you go to give them a hug hello and their hair would literally scrape your face . And they always “ran” in packs, you never ever ever saw a guidette alone, anywhere, there was at least 2 of them at all times. Cropped jackets with big shoulder pads, hair out to there and jeans so tight they left nothing to the imagination.

Enter The Yenta, AKA The J.A.P.

My Pelham Parkway Jewish side of the family was not large at all, you could even say it was tiny. It consisted of my Papa (George), Nana (Betty) and Aunt (Ellen), and of course my mother (please read Mommy Dearest for a bit more background). So the Yenta-dom was learned from three females who were all the same but totally different. They had an art of talking behind other peoples back. But they also did not take shit from anyone, if it was dished out they would whine you to death. And believe me you don’t want to be whined to death. The sound is much like a 2 year old asking why, why, why, why. The Yenta is relentless, cunning and manipulative.

Unlike the Italian side the Jewish side of the family was extremely modest, almost stereotypical to a fault. Cheap, generic and bland. Oy!

So fast forward to the 80’s where everyone had big hair and the like. The young Yentas have evolved into the J.A.P. (Jewish American Princess).Yes, I know, I don’t want to hear it from anyone. Young Jewish women called themselves that, thanks to their Yenta moms. The J.A.P. shopped at the Gap, Benetton, and any other retailer that catered to the “preppy” look. They still had high hair, the jeans weren’t always tight, the lipstick was pale pink and the gold chains were modest. College sweatshirts, L.L. Bean Bleuchers and Polo shirts with the collar up were the dominant outfits. They also roamed in packs, typically at the mall, chomped gum and had a bit of an I’m better than you attitude. Now as with any social group some were more severe and steeped in the life than others. Personally, the ones from Long Island were at the top of that food chain. That is why I avoided the Bridge and Tunnel crowd later on in life. But that’s another story.

So all in all there are little nuances between the two stereotypes. This was the majority types of women that I was surrounded with. And I never considered myself a Guido, even though I had my moments. Yes, I occasionally shopped at Chess King, I admit it. But that phase lasted about a year, OK well maybe more. But I eventually turned Preppy and never looked back.

So whether you’re a guido or guidette, a prep or a J.A.P., be proud of you you are and don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks of you. We all have a Chess King moment in our past. Who gives a shit, it’s the past, just don’t drag it into the present or end up on “Jersey Shore”.