A Thankful Gent

Fair Reader,

I was originally going to devote this post to the topic of why it is improper to sex your lady while shopping at a Blinds to Go. Fortunately, a matter of greater importance came up.

As you may have noticed in the past, I have refrained from sharing my political preferences with you, fair reader. Although I strongly believe a Gentleman should always keep abreast of all things political, that same Gent should not turn his online journal into a facebook status message. Would you like it if I suddenly changed my name to "Ed Hussein the Gent" and demanded you follow suit?! I think not. Why, if I were not so restrained, I would be urging you to join my facebook group "Michael Portillo 2012." But because I am a man of my scruples, and because Portillo wouldn't be legally allowed to run anyway, I opt to keep my politics tight-lipped.

No si puede.

But since I was witness to the announcement of President-elect Barak Obama's election night victory in Manhattan's Times Square, and the gorgeous delirium that followed, I'd be remiss not share my experience with thee.

You see, on that fateful day, I had worked a long shift covering the election from various voting polls throughout New York City. As I was tired and cold (wearing a tweed overcoat is inadvisable for street reporting), I wanted to finish my day watching the election at the house of Countess Moff, a dear old friend with looks to kill and a wit to match. She was having a small gathering of reprehensible degenerates (read - Ivy League-educated liberals) over to enjoy the election results while drinking free booze and desecrating her meat spread. I was just about to enjoy my third glass of chablis when I got a call from my scoundrel of an employer, Bargain Binn, insisting that I run over to Times Square to get reaction from the crowd whenever the winner was to be announced.

I pleaded for him to excuse me from the assignment, but he insisted. "Do you want to be a part of history or not?" he asked.

"Yes, but I would prefer being a part of it while in a warm home," I responded.

Sadly, I was forced to follow his bidding.

I arrived to Times Square to the throng of mostly young and surprisingly European spectators on hand to witness Obama's eventual victory on ABC's gargantuan outdoor video screens.
I shot video of this and as I am a technical dunce, this is coming to you without edits. Please pardon the sloppiness.

I was taking quotes from a fiery NYU lass who wanted to witness what could be a defining moment for her generation when a great hysteria suddenly stirred through the crowd. I looked up to one the screens to see the words "President Elect Barack Obama" scrolling across it. People began shrieking curious sounds and hopping in one place. They reminded me of Daniella Westbrook in her cocaine prime.

Young women and men of every background and ethnicity were practically in tears, chanting Obama's name while clapping their hands in rhythm. Cab drivers slowly passed by the crowds - which had brimmed over the sidewalks - pumping a fist in the air and for once proving that they can go ten seconds without talking on their bluetooth ear piece. It was euphoria made gorgeous, and it was terrifying and lovely and altogether warranted.

Now did I share in the excitement? But of course. Sure, I would have torn off my Thomas Pink shirt and snogged the first rotund hag I came across if it was Mr. Portillo winning the nomination. Thankfully, I was more subdued in my celebration for Herr Obama.

I stayed around for a bit to admire the exuberance and then decided to head back to Countess Moff's for a glass of celebratory champagne. During my walk, I looked around my beloved city and marveled that, for once, the city was jubilant again.
You see, seven years ago I was living only eight blocks away from the World Trade Center when those homicidal tossers decided to ruin it for everybody. I was in my towel in my TriBeCa flat, just about to apply Kiehl's "pour homme" body lotion on my chiseled form when a plane shot past my building and into the WTC. I was gawking at the wreckage with my two female flatmates at the time (that is how Ed do, readers) when the second plane crashed into the othe other tower. I was out of my flat and running uptown with the throng of refugees after the South Tower collapsed. It was hysteria at its worse: A collection of New Yorkers fearing death as they migrated uptown. Things have not been too hot in the past seven years that followed, either. The city soldiered on, though.

But there I was that election night, walking through a revitalized city. People were awake and thrilled. The grim realities of our current economic climate seemed bearable. The city had direction and, dare I say, hope. Not Portillo-hope, but hope nevertheless.

And on this Thanksgiving Day, that moment of walking down a Manhattan street, witnessing the delirious pandemonium around me, is something that I am eternally thankful for.

Have a delicious Thanksgiving meal,

EtG

A Gent Shall Not Flash

Fair Reader,

I was sharing a bottle of fine Glenlivet with frequent commenter John Cocktosten at a dive bar in Murray Hill. For those of you not in the know, Murray Hill is a curious neighborhood in Manhattan, one where attractive Jewish girls who recently graduated big Universities prefer to live in hotel-like tenements with other recent graduates from big Universities (namely Michigan or Wisconsin). I have never lived in this area, have rarely dined or socialized in the area, but I will say this: if you are a single man who holds a decent job in the legal or the financial industries (or what remains of the latter one), I would suggest that you move to Murray Hill. Why? Because you will meet many, many attractive women in Burberry scarfs and questionable haircuts.

Which is essentially what Herr Cocktosten has done.

As we drank our scotches, he told me a story of a recent business trip to Brussels. While working on a deal there (he is a lawyer), he met a Flemish fox who asked him out on a date. He happily agreed, and within moments she was treating him like a monkey on a tree - he was the tree and she the monkey. The following day she arrived to his hotel room wearing an overcoat. She entered his room and removed the coat to reveal that she was wearing nothing but lingerie. You could imagine what followed. (he rushed to find her a dress to cover herself up... I jest) Of course, the lucky bastard told this tale with a churlish grin on his face.

"I was wondering how I should repay her," said John.

"What do you mean," I said.

"Well, I want to do something equally as sexy, as risque, to show her my appreciation."

This is where things get iffy. Personally, I love it when women go out on a sexual limb. Nearly five years ago I flew to London to visit my girlfriend at the time, and she picked me up at Heathrow wearing - you guessed it - an overcoat and little else. She was also still slightly drunk from the night before. Alcohol aside, upon discovering her daring scheme, we passed on the Heathrow Express for a cab back to her flat, where monkey-and-a-tree-shenanigans ensued.

But should a man ever do something similar? Would a lass appreciate a man wearing an overcoat and nothing else underneath? Considering most male flashers get thirteen years in Sing Sing for such actions speaks volumes on this complicated matter: It is far more acceptable for a woman to be sexually bold in public than it is for a man.

A woman takes the subway to her lover's flat while dressed in a daring outfit and all is dangerous, funny, and somewhat acceptable. A Gent walks around on a subway wearing a rain coat and a dong pouch underneath is unacceptable and calls for an instant tazering. I trust you see the difference.

What I told Cocktosten in reply was this: start going to the gym and aim for a six pack. Buy nice clothes that you would wear just for her. Groom yourself all over. Bathe. Perfume yourself in faraway scents. Work on your pecs. Wear provocative underwear. Just don't dress like a stalking flasher. A woman can do it and do so valiantly. A Gent does it and ends up looking like a scumbag.

If you are a lass and you find men in skimpy outfits to be sexually arousing, please leave a comment in my comment box or email me at edthegent@gmail.com. A good discussion on the matter is most welcome.

A good day to you all,

EtG

When Giving a Wedding Speech

Fair Reader,

Wedding season is on the wane in these parts, but I was able to participate in two weddings in as many months. The first wedding was for our dear old friend Luke Antonio Wormgold, who was marrying his lovely lass of seven years, Laura Dellman, at her family home in Martha's Vineyard, MA. He asked me to be one of his groomsman. I damn well should have been, considering I've known that ingrate since he was growing his first moustache at the age of 5. The second one was for my friend Tassos Alexander, a Grecian with whom I've been friends with since our University days. In this instance, he asked me to be his best man for his wedding at The 21 Club. I eagerly accepted, as both he and the 21 club were dear to my heart.

Both instances required me to prepare a simple speech - one for Luke's rehearsal dinner/clambake and the other for Tassos' actual wedding. The groomsman/best man speeches I've seen in the past ranged from the conservative to the bloody awful. At a wedding in Mexico, one groomsman shared his story of being electrocuted in the genitals by the groom while they were staying at a paraplegic's home in Brazil, using the paraplegic's muscle stimulator for the deed. It was terrible, if not terribly hysterical, to witness.

To open each speech, I decided to use an embarrassing anecdote in the hopes of warming up to the crowd. Fortunately, I have yet to shock either genitals of both friends, nor hope to do so in the past, so my anecdotes were infinitely more presentable. Here is how I broke it down:

FOR LUKE: I witnessed Luke getting his back waxed by Laura one time while I was over at his family home in Southampton. He does not have a hairy back in the slightest, but I suppose he disagreed with a few faint hairs on his side. I was there to witness it, and I pledged to never bring it up again. So of course it made for the perfect intro to my wedding speech.

FOR TASSOS: One time during our Sophomore year at University, we were sharing a boozy dinner at a blues bar/grill. EtG, perhaps after one too many jack and gingers, said to Tassos, "you know old chap, you seem to have such fun as a single man, I don't think I'll ever see you getting married." Tassos took offense to this. When our waitress suddenly came to pick up our dishes, Tassos said, "so, according to the man who was convicted for beating his girlfriend seventeen times, I will never be married." The waitress shot me a horrified look, and would never look at me the same way again for the rest of the evening.
Of course I opened with this anecdote, adding, "now, ten years later, Alex is to be a married man, and I don't even have a girlfriend to beat." It took some gall to do this, I admit, but the crowd laughed.

I then threw in some other comical bits. For Luke, I made a nod to his current role as a criminal investigator for a government agency (name redacted). For instance:
"Luke has encountered more criminals and abused children than R. Kelly." That line actually garnered some "BOOOS", and perhaps rightly so.

For Tassos, I made mention of his affection for KangaROOS sneakers and Mets t-shirts, saying that he would make for a fashionable husband. I did not speak of his love for ecstacy-fueled rave parties or South Korean pornography.

For the concluding lines, I decided to veer away from the smug jokes and focus more on a few heartfelt truths. In Herr Wormgold's speech, I made mention of the fact that he could work such an at-times bleak job in crime enforcement and somehow be the happiest chap I know. This was so because of Laura, which is the honest truth.

For Tassos, I spoke about the time I joined him to his grandmother's memorial service one sad winter day. At the service was a photo of his grandmother and grandfather, taken at some time in the 1930s. They were standing on the beach, looking absolutely splendid. I said that Tassos and his bride, the lovely Marnie, were a carbon copy of that photo. Although were one to take that today, Tassos would most likely be flashing a ghetto pose and the couple would be on some beach in the Dominican Republic. But the eternal love for one another would still be there.

The speeches went well, and in the case of the Wormgold wedding, it certainly didn't hurt in getting me a lass at the end of the evening.

And that, I pray, is a genteel way of delivering a wedding speech:

1) open with humorous annecdote
2) steer away from smug jokes
3) end with heartfelt closer
4) Pull a nice looking bird while you both get down to the wedding band's cover of "Get Down On It"

A presto,

EtG

A Gent's Words of Comfort

Fair Reader,

My, how times have changed since we last spoke. Our economy is on the verge of collapse, my beloved Mets pathetically collapsed down the stretch, and now I - like so many of my other brothers in luxury - fear that our lifestyles will have to be paired down to the bare necessities. Duck breasts will cost forty quid, hair pomade will be priced similarly to one Gucci shoe, and I will be forced to trade in my Grey Goose vodka for Popov. My lord, we could very well be in for it.

Or could we? Does yesterday's ominous collapse in the markets mean that we're all becoming Okies? Well, considering that my beloved father, Allan the Gent, packed up all of his belongings into a pick-up truck and will soon be heading to California to look for work as a peach picker... possibly things are going a tad south.

A snapshot of AtG on his western roadtrip

Regardless if they are or not, one thing is for certain: We'll all be just fine. I remember a barber I used to see on Essex Road in London who would regale me with tales of his relatives. These relatives of his survived World War II as London was being shellacked by bombs. He would often say that his grandfather, who did not fight in the war and was in London at the time, often referred to that moment as the simplest he's ever lived. This was because no matter how dreary it got, his neighbors, friends, and even strangers were always quick to help one another out and to share whatever they had. Whale lard and crackers and tins of what have you were made available not just to one family but to all. Survival, I suppose, brings people closer together.

This is not to say we'll soon be forced to share tins of beans with forty other families and bathe in rivers. Things will right themselves out financially in a bit. It just means that buying a cashmere suit or a Fabergé egg will simply have to hold for the next few months. But I will say this, though: If I had a can of whale lard, I would happily share it with thee, friendly reader.

A presto,

EtG

Your Gent Has Returned

Fair Reader,

Sometimes a vacation requires complete absence from normal routines. In my case, it was a break from this spasmodic journal of mine, not to mention from cooking (although I did learn how to grill a lobster, see recipe below). In my brief repose, I encountered one article that I would like to share with you:

A) I saw this article on successful developers in Manhattan in a recent NY Post Page Six Magazine article on young developers. These two are currently re-doing a building on Park Avenue and own a slew of rentals throughout the city. Although one chap handles this interview with the appropriate restraint needed for such instances, the other decides to, well, come across like a rapper at a Tallahassee rap battle. Here is how he describes where his company stands at the moment:

“I have an amazing building going up, I have amazing chemistry with my girlfriend and my company is about to blow the f--k up."

A photo of the subject as he was being interviewed

Remember my old post on how you only have one chance to make a first impression? In the case of publicity, a subject who is being profiled for what is mostly a complimentary piece should choose his statements carefully. In this instance, I think the chap who said this showed rather poor form. Not many chaps - real estate chaps, especially - get recognized for their work in well-known publications while they are in their late twenties. It is an honor, in many ways. So, as one would do in an important job interview, one should carry himself as a humble and proper Gent. This bloke, sadly, decides to forgo that. This move was inadvisable and silly in every regard.

B) As mentioned earlier, I recently learned how to grill lobster during my brief vacation. Although this is a rather inhumane way of cooking lobster, the end result can be pretty delicious. Here's how you do it:

1) Heat up your grill. Take your lobster (at whatever size) and place it on its legs on a cutting board. Murder the lobsters - this is the inhumane part - by piercing a knife through the center of the back end of the eyes (careful, a lot of water may come out as a result). Immediately put the lobster and place it on its side on the hottest part of the grill. Grill for 3 minutes, then flip lobster on its other side and grill for a further three minutes. This will firm up the lobster's meat before you split it in half. Also, beware, but the lobster may still writhe as its being grilled during this stage of the recipe. I did warn you that this was inhumane.

2) Using a heavy and sharp knife, cut the lobster in half lengthwise, being careful not to lose any of the roe. Once you have finished, you can brush the lobster with olive oil, garlic butter, or anything you would prefer. Season and then place each half shell-side down on the grill. Cook for seven minutes, then flip over on to their flesh-sides and cook for one minute. Then serve.

This is a very tasty way to prepare the creature, although the ASPCA may put you on its watch list should you do it on a regular basis.

A presto and stay chivalrous,

EtG

In the Spirit of the Summer Games

Dearest Reader,

I returned from the Wormgold wedding in Martha's Vineyard a refreshed (and admittedly, hungover) man, ready to live a leisurely August on the East End as any true Gent would. This meant dusting off my tennis whites and polishing my swimming routine in preparation for future competitions. You see, EtG is a great fan of the Summer Olympics, especially the Beijing Summer Olympics, for they showcase his favorite sports of them all: swimming, running, tennis, footie, and Ana Ivonovic... erm, I meant, tennis.

A fine sport indeed

Whenever the Games are on, I find myself enraptured in the sporting mood, desiring to conquer all nationalities in games of tennis and/or discus. As my Chinese neighbors in the city are often confused by my challenge of a frisbee toss (I do not possess a proper discus), finding strong competition has been tricky. Luckily, last weekend proved to be the perfect opportunity to showcase my clay-court and aquatic skills, for my good mate Peter Lawson, the one-time Australian tennis prodigy, was staying with his lovely wife at a mate's house in nearby Amagansett. While preparing a BBQ on Friday night, we got talking about his old glory days as an emerging tennis talent and, afterwards, as a tennis pro. He said those days were long behind him as years of playing have reduced his left knee to nothing more than bone and some rubber bands. Sensing this as a fine opportunity to play - it was ruthless of me to challenge a cripple a match, I know - I asked Herr Lawson if he would like to stop by Chez Gent for a game of tennis on Saturday. Herr Lawson eagerly accepted the challenge, and we made plans to play at 3pm the following afternoon.

With my Round Hill Club tennis whites and taped wrists, I was as prepared for the match as I was dressed for it: quite ridiculously. Herr Lawson arrived to the court carrying three racquets that he rented from the neighborhood tennis shop, not to mention dressed in 3/4 pants and a stained white polo. I told him that in his capri pants (or "shpants", as they are neither shorts nor pants) he looked like he was prepared for a 4am rave in Ibiza, not for a tennis match. He laughed off the joke and suggested we begin rallying.

My strategy for this match, you see, was to move the ball as much as possible. As my foe was incapacitated by a gammy knee, he wouldn't be able to charge towards shallow shots or transition to opposite-court returns. Well, judging by that first rally we shared, the man would not have such concerns. His shots were unlike anything I have ever seen. He could stand in one place and put away any of his returns with a mere flick of the wrist. His strategy was not to engage in a hard-fought, long-drawn match. It was simply to put the ball away whenever he can. The infirmed are wise in their ways, I must admit.

We started our match and he won the first game with me returning his savage serve on one point, only to see him quickly put it away with a blistering backhand. Sadly, the rest of the match was to be like this. I ended up losing in 2 sets to the tune of 12 - 0. Not satisfied with my defeat, I suggested we join his wife at the Gent pool for a quick dip. I brought him a beer, and once he was finished with it, I said, "how about a quick swimming competition? To the end and back. Crawl stroke. What do you say?" Herr Lawson, the affable bloke that he is, laughed and accepted the challenge. With his wife serving as our referee, she called our start and we launched into the race, his 6'2 frame against my sturdy 5'9. The lanky bastard ended up beating me by a fair distance. Not pleased, I then challenged him to a backstroke race. Of course, he won that handily. I demanded we race in breast stroke. He won that handily as well.

I suppose like any Olympian, an athlete must be as gracious in defeat as he is in victory. I shook Peter's hand and told him that he was the toughest tennis player and swimmer that I had ever competed against.

The following day I paid him and his wife a visit at their host's home, where he was laid out on a pool chair with a large bag of ice propped on top of each knee. A half-drunk bottle of tequilla rested by his feet.

"How is your body holding up?" I asked the Aussie.

"Mate, my body is ruined. If your goal was to see me destroy my knees and back, well then, you've succeeded," Lawson replied.

Sadly, the Olympics do not award metals to those who cripple their competition (perhaps they will whenever Latvia hosts the games). However, if I were to give anyone a gold, it would be to Herr Lawson for his exceptional athletic talents. And I would get the silver for leaving the bastard in pain.

A presto,
EtG

On EtG's Romantic Foibles

I am writing this from my EtG blackberry while the road, something I have yet to attempt until now. My apologies for the lack of photos or for any missed spelling errors that you may encounter.

As you may have noticed, I have been mum on the EtG romantic front lately. Work is partly to blame, as has been - shockingly - a slight exhaustion with courting and dating in New York City in general.

But things have hardly been stale. Normally I like to gussy up my affairs out of respect to my dates as full disclosure is rather, well, ungentlemanly. I will share with you what has been happening - with some degree of gussying - while protecting a few key facts. I was at a wedding in California a few months ago where I met a gorgeous young woman for whom I greatly enjoyed dancing and dining with. We have maintained contact since, which has been nice, save for the fact that I am in NY and she is in California. What will happen remains to be seen.

I recently met with a former liason with whom I shared a tempestuous but ultimately frustrating and heartbreaking affair last summer. I wrote little about her in the past - indirectly, at least - since it was a lady for whom I had strong feelings and, perhaps, lofty hopes for. Forgive me, reader, for preferring to keep the matter somewhat private.

I met this lass - let's refer to her as "Belinda" - just as her boyfriend at the time was stranded in Nicaragua with visa problems. I first saw her at a party and found her to be both fair and interesting. We shared a few good dates and I would soon fall for her, knowing full well that she was still tied to a narco terroist (NOTE: not his real profession).

In addition to her beauty and her sophistication, she was well accomplished in her field, something I always value, and was intellectually curious and challenging, something that I find rare to find. Despite my best efforts to prolong said-visa problems through a contact at the State Dept, her boyfriend returned to the States. This placed her in a tricky situation: Should she opt for the Gent or for her Nicaraguan? Sadly for me, she chose the latter.

I was crushed by it, and I kept my distance from her (such moves are always advisable in these moments) and started dating another lass. As months passed, I would meet with Belinda on a few occasions, and although I would maintain my composure through our suppers or drinks, I still found seeing her in person to be trying. I adored her, and yet, she somewhat refused me. It was not an easy truth to accept.
My last meeting with Belinda was in November of the previous year. Shortly afterwards, I decided to keep my distance for good. That meant I wouldn't return her phonecalls or emails. It was rude, granted, but necessary in helping me move past old feelings. Distance helps in such matters.

I ran into her at a party a few weeks ago to learn that she ended things with the Nicaraguan. We shared a nice chat - although I did have to explain my distance - and after we said our goodbyes, I left that evening feeling conflicted. I didn't know if I could put myself through the sturm and dang of the previous liason. And yet, those feelings from before still remained. What is a Gent to do? For one, a Gent must always be gentle to himself, although romance is seldom a gentle enterprise.

After wrestling with the decision, I dropped Belinda a line and asked her out for drinks. She happily agreed, and we shared a nice supper and behaved perfectly normal to one another. She looked beautiful, as always, and seemed to be living happily as a single woman with a brand new flat and job. I don't know how I came across - my line of work as of late has left me in dire need of a tickle and/or hug - but I refrained from bringing up the dodgy bits from our past, as such things are silly.

We said our goodbyes and promised to see one another soon, something I do not plan to renege on.

I suppose this brings up the next question: how does EtG feel about the lass? Well, I stand simply on this: I need a vacation. Fortunately, I have the wedding of dear old friend Luke Wormgold to attend this weekend, which couldn't come at a more necessary time. It is in Martha's Vineyard, and I am serving as one of the groomsen. I am currently en route to the island as I type.
I will be taking some time off from the blog this week and next but should return with some more good bits shortly.

Thank you for your continued patronage and please continue to have a chivalrous summer.

A presto,
EtG