2019: The Bucket and F*** It Lists

As we awaken from the holiday sugar coma, waist deep in wrapping paper and plastic that will live eons in the earth, here comes New Year’s Day, lurking around next week, sneering like a punk ass gangster. And after the hangover of 1/1/19, we herald the vast nothingness that is January, February, and March. The wild bipolar ride of the holidays is about to whipsaw a bunch of us into the bloated grey winter where we’ll just hang on until some brave tulip finds its way out of the frozen mud. Pretty uplifting, eh?

Round this time of year in decades past I used to make aspirational lists that now seem shamefully new-agey because I totally bought the pop culture around “visualizing prosperity” and all the merchandizing crap sold by life coaches who drink too much. Yes, ok, I admit I actually wrote out a check in the millions of dollars – payable to myself from the Bank of the Universe – and stared (no, burned) a hole in the stupid thing hoping for a windfall.  My restless soul created New Year’s mantras around love and money because, you know, pathetic grasping and all that.  Well, none of it amounts to a hill of beans (whatever that is, but I’m sure it’s not much).  In the long cold winter, and most of the other time, doesn’t it sometimes seem that mostly we’re just hanging around, waiting for something fun to happen?

 Lately, since I just no longer give a rat’s ass about achievement for some reason (likely related to a liberating loosening of the cultural binds you start snipping after 50), I’ve simplified the New Year’s resolution problem. On December 31^st I’ll make two lists:  My Bucket List, and my Fuck It List.  The latter is way longer than the former and a lot more fun. It’s simple: what are you over, friend? I mean, what are you just gut-sick over? Ah, there you go.  Put it on the Fuck It List 2019.

 My Bucket List is short because I’ve done so much of the stuff I’ve wanted to do: raised a great family, lived and worked outside, saw the Eagles win the Super Bowl, galloped through the Rockies, hiked for 17-days in the wilderness, lived at the beach and in the mountains, and collected adventures like pine cones. So, I’m deeply grateful for the life I’ve carved out like ski tracks on an endless slope; but I’ve got this burgeoning Fuck It List that creates an exhilarating expanse of time and space for me.     

 For example, a long-time Fuck It List agenda includes all things Christmas –  I don’t bake, buy presents, send cards, decorate, overeat, go to parties, or engage in what my students would call “fuckery” around the holidays.  I do love watching other people have fun, open presents, bake cookies, overeat, and am happy to engage with little kids and happy parents on any level any time.  Rid of all holiday obligations I feel no stress, have plenty of time, and never suffer that gluttonous overload of fake mirth that can saturate a weary soul, like the woman who cooks a holiday meal for 30 people and then just sobs alone, feeling fat and tired. Maybe next year, true to her Fuck It List, she’ll light a cigarette, put her feet up and tell the whole gang to kiss her ass.

 It’s so much fun to toss stuff out of your life like rotten leftovers and old clothes. Besides Christmas obligations, lots of other stuff is on the Fuck It List year-round.  Check it out:

ü  Self-centered shallow people

ü  Narcissists

ü  “Aging,” including all the stupid stuff about “60 is the new 40.”  No, it’s not.  It’s 60.

ü  Technology

ü  Old white guys

ü  Uncomfortable clothing of any kind

ü  Seattle drivers

ü  People who claim to be non-judgmental and who judge me and everyone else who doesn't agree with them. 

ü  Opinions

ü  Politicians

ü  “Religious” people, especially fake Christians who seem to forget that Jesus hung out with the poor, the marginalized, and the criminals (literally, hung with them) and seemed to despise the wealthy, the learned, and the clueless.

ü  Lawn signs about how fabulous and inclusive and loving everyone is inside the house, which is always in an exclusive white neighborhood.

ü  CNN and other “news” outlets that profit from fear

ü  Fear

ü  Exercise:  I’m gonna cut way back on that shit.

     You get the idea, right?  I GUARANTEE YOU that if you make this list and stick to it, 2019 will be the best year ever. It doesn’t matter why.  Trust me, it works. You’ll have a bunch of free time to knock out the Bucket List, and you’ll save like $7,000 in therapy.

Would you do me the honor of making a Fuck It List and sending it to me?  At this point in my life, my Bucket List includes watching other people throw off their shackles and live big and real.  Nothing makes me happier than helping in that process, so do me a solid and make your list – check it twice. I’m rooting that you'll be more naughty than nice.

The Beauty of Flying Solo

Last spring I got that climbing-out-of-my skin restless feeling again, creeping up on me like old underwear, and just as annoying.  Why can’t I be regular - happy with the normal routine of life, shopping at Target, reading People magazine and scrapbooking or whatever other bogus hobbies people conjure up to pass the time until they die? Not me. After a spurt of regularity, I get ants in my pants and once it starts – sure as the sunrise – my head and heart are off to the races, figuring my next knuckleheaded exploit.  It used to drive my family bonkers – me quitting a job, moving, or getting a chest tattoo – but bless my sibs and children they now just roll their eyes and wait. Joey says I’m just a #badass which I think is the highest compliment a mom can get.

The little elfin voice that shepherds in the next adventure always opens the curtain with this question: What is it you need, Philly? When was the last time you felt really alive?  And it’s pretty much the same answer these days: I need to shed some shackle or other and head out into the wilderness. I am happiest when I’m wandering around outside, looking at stuff, not unlike a dog hanging out the passenger-side window, mouth wide open, joyously drinking in the whole show.  In fact, I think I’m just a black lab trapped in the body of a 60-something female and the beauty of all this is that at my age, I can do whatever the fuck I want, which dogs do with ease at any age.

This time, answering the restlessness, I conjured up a three-week solo road trip, to go to places tugging at my heart: the Oregon Coast, Glacier National Park, and the heart of the Salmon River in Idaho. Here’s the thing about voluntarily living out of your car, camping and backpacking your way around amber waves of grain, glaciers, mountains, and wide wild rivers:  You have to be prepared with the right gear, attitude and food, and no matter what, sometimes you are going to be uncomfortable, disoriented, and scared.  At some point you’ll be rained on and hungry.  You’ll get bitten, at least by mosquitoes and at most by any manner of big scary animal. Certainly, you’ll stink and go at least days without a hot shower. The wilderness is not for sissies but holy shit, the things you learn out there. 

 "And as for comfort, while I set up my tent in a campground outside Glacier National Park, I watched and listened as RVs the size of casinos roared their diesel engines up a country road, so no one had to go one blessed minute without TV, running water, fast food and a fridge. God forbid we should be uncomfortable for a hot second."

From Jesus to Luke Skywalker we have archetypal stories of brave people wandering out into the desert, or space, alone. Joseph Campbell called it the "Hero's Journey," and it’s always solitary and uncomfortable.  Yet, Americans DESPISE these two very things: solitude and discomfort.  We are the chummiest, softest folks on earth. Who ventures out by themselves, let alone with a car full of camping gear, hiking boots and some socks? Besides me, Jesus, and Luke - not that many and my guess is clean underwear wasn’t a high priority for those guys either. And as for comfort, while I set up my tent in a campground outside Glacier National Park, I watched and listened as RVs the size of casinos roared their diesel engines up a country road, so no one had to go one blessed minute without TV, running water, fast food and a fridge. God forbid we should be uncomfortable for a hot second.

While I camp on beaches and in parks by myself, I won’t do overnight backpacking trips alone.  I think it’s just stupid. Dude, these places define remote, so if I sprain an ankle or bump my head it’s curtains for me, and I’m just not ready to die as snack food for a coyote.  I’ll join a guided trip with strangers, which is always weird and fun, because if I get hurt they sort of have to help.  On part of this trip I did four nights out in the northeast corner of Glacier. There were two high school girls from Jersey (yeah!), a 36-year-old healthcare exec from Australia who was another badass broad, and Scott, a guide who had never led an all-female trip before. Pretty sure the hormone thing made him nervous, but he was a good sport.


Like all my backpacking adventures, Glacier was heaven and hell at one time: the mountains in Montana are breathtaking, pocketed with huge sparkling lakes, eagles flying overhead, and wildflowers surrounding us like a blanket of rainbows. But it rained every day and every night.  Rain, rain, rain until the sun came out and brought mosquitoes the size of my head.  Shivering in my pup tent on Night Two I thought, “What the fuck am I doing? I’m never doing this again, EVER!” We did ten miles a day with 30-pound packs.  Oh, and the grizzlies are no joke in this part of the world so, you have to pay attention to food, poop, and survival.  I struggled on the final day, hiking uphill in the rain, back to the van, cursing my stupidity, threatening and swearing that I’m DONE with this backpacking shit. 

"At some point you’ll be rained on and hungry.  You’ll get bitten, at least by mosquitoes and at most by any manner of big scary animal. Certainly, you’ll stink and go at least days without a hot shower. The wilderness is not for sissies but holy shit, the things you learn out there." 

The next day, I awoke to a feeling of peace and security that was nothing short of divine.  Putting myself on the line like that, jumping into the big bad bosom of Mother Nature, always makes me feel, well, magnificent.  At least when it’s over.  My son Billy says that “the best thing about banging your head against the wall is how good it feels when you stop.”  That. And when you’re just focused on your next step, and staying alive, that’s a powerful life-affirming elixir, way better than sex, drugs, or even rock and roll.

And oh, the people you’ll meet! On one leg of this journey I went on an overnight whitewater rafting trip in Idaho – me and two crusty old dudes and our sunburnt guides, Glen and Jack. When the old guys weren’t quite pulling their weight on Day One (hanging on to the “chicken line” in the middle of the raft rather than paddling like your life depends on it, which it does) I had to have a little conversation with them over dinner that night. On a tiny island in the middle of the Salmon River, me and four guys eating steak cooked over a fire and drinking beer kept cold by the river. We’d met just six hours earlier, and here’s what I said:

“Yo, ladies, tomorrow we’re hitting some Class Four rapids and if you don’t start paddling for real we’re gonna flip,” I took a swig, “And if that happens, I won’t be happy.”

“And if you’re not happy,” a retired Colonel said smiling, “Ain’t nobody happy.”

Bingo. Friends bound tight and quick by the fear of flipping into whitewater, or getting mauled by a grizz, or dying an undignified death from eating bad food miles from nowhere.  It’s the instant intimacy of an edgy part of life, like what I often felt working in the ER, as the team shocked someone back to life or we wrestled a little kid from the grip of death. When you share these vivid patches of life, it doesn’t matter who you vote for or where you’re from.  You’re instant family, like oats that become a big meal when you just add hot water.

On my last night on the road I did pull into a motel in Boise, Idaho.  Dang, that shower felt good.  I’d spent about three weeks driving around Colorado, Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Oregon. My Honda and I stunk to high heaven, the earthy aroma of sweat and dirt. I didn’t have my computer with me, most of the time there was no cell service, and I don’t even listen to the car radio. It was a solitary and mostly silent trek, noiseless except for Nature’s perfect ruckus – wind in the pines, tender raindrops and the occasional biblical thunder.  Good stuff.  That night in Boise I crawled into bed and had this dream:

I’m with my father, who died decades ago. We’d never really connected, me and my Dad; he didn’t know how to love, and hardly knew who I was. His emotional absence burdened my adulthood and triggered lots of suffering but in my dream, we’re dancing.  It’s a joyful, wordless celebration unlike anything we shared while he was on earth.  I kiss him on the cheek and he smiles, seeing me for real while my heart mends – I could feel it – right then and there, as I slept in a hotel in Boise. 

After three-weeks of solo wilderness treks a miracle happens because I unhooked, and ventured into nowhere with no one, to do nothing. Stuff shook loose inside me; this is just what time in nature does.  Sure, I’d been wet, hungry, stinky and tired, the tender irritations required of you when you are without technology and all the soft landings we create from house to car, to work and back. Stripped of a bubble-wrapped life, and immersed in solitude, the mind unhinges in a good way and the heart heals in a long-awaited dream of being seen. And that’s the beauty of flying solo.

TWO GREAT BROADS ON LOVE AND WORK

My friend Carol was born and raised on a farm in Iowa which means she can make a battery out of potatoes and sew a coat from tablecloth, along with a bunch of other domestic and agrarian things that confuse me.  Carol can talk to anyone, so we’ll go grab a beer somewhere and I’ll come back from the bathroom to find her holding forth with a ragtag bunch of guys about some economic or scientific theory she’s basically just pulling out of her ass.  Dang, I love this gal.

            Carol’s right about most everything, and though I happily go along with her mostly-made-up rants there’s always a nugget of truth in there.  Freud said happiness lies in finding “work and love,” and on both subjects, my buddy Carol would say, “ah, that’s bullshit.”  And she’s right. Romance fades in like three weeks and almost all jobs involve walking around with pieces of paper, pretending you’re overworked and serious. Of course, this doesn’t work on a farm, but after her first corporate-type gig, she said that if you just look busy for the first six months, everyone will be impressed and you can skate for the rest of your time there.

            “Act frazzled and serious,” she’d say, taking a long drag on a cigarette, “then don’t worry ‘bout a thing.”

            First, I should tell you she quit smoking but she always looked so cool that I’m gonna take up smoking when I’m about 75.  Secondly, I’ve tested her work theory in about a million settings and she’s right.  Maybe this is why everyone seems so frantically busy.  Have you noticed that?  Shoot, everyone’s in a frenzy of busyness all the time, breathlessly doing something and acting all exasperated about how busy they are and I guess, how important everything is.  An economist from the UK named David Graeber wrote an essay in 2013 about bullshit jobs, and now a book of the same title. The jobs with the most benefit to everyone – garbage collectors, teachers, mechanics and nurses – are often the lowest-paid while feckless folks in management, “consulting,” financial services, public relations, and private equity funds bring home big bacon.  It’s ass-backwards.

(A young person) finds some job, finally, where you might feel like a grown up and BAM, by day three you realize this is a nightmare.

            

          I feel bad for young people going into the work force because so-called adults ahead of you are boring, obsessed with security, often real asshats and generally mediocre in all things.  Oddly, these qualities seem to get them promoted, so you come all shiny out of high school or college (with the requisite crushing debt) and find some job, finally, where you might feel like a grown up and BAM, by day three you realize this is a nightmare.

            I’ve been a teacher, a litigation attorney, an EMT, hospital chaplain, writer, nonprofit director, consultant, risk manager, and ranch hand; I’ve worked with doctors, lawyers, ski patrollers, cowboys, rich people, do-gooders, corporate drones, vendors, salespeople, educators, and – scariest of all – people who think they’re “spiritual.”  Every workplace is the same.  Wherever people gather to get something done, there’s a pecking order – real or imagined – and a bunch of screwballs. There’s waste, monotony, “mission statements,” and somebody’s freaking kid selling cookies. 

            You know what I really want to be?  A bum.  Like a baby or a black lab – bums for sure -  I just want to hang around, rolling on the grass (that’s the baby part) or following my nose to some great smell that makes my heart sing.  What’s all this frantic human rushing about?  I think people work so they can buy more shit, once the basic needs are met (and remember - plenty of people can’t even get those basic needs met because the income gap is now wider than our ever-widening asses).  Let’s be real: it’s important to buy food, right? But everything else is just grist for a landfill. And everything you buy ties you tighter to the mast.

            Most of my life I’ve changed jobs like underwear.  Guess I’m a 60-something millennial because word is that young people just quit stuff they don’t like.  While it may drive their parents insane, I say good on ya.  As long as you’re not mooching off others, and meeting your obligations what difference does your job make, and why stay in something that sucks the soul right out of you? In my thirties and forties, when I routinely changed jobs, houses, and mates, I was ashamed of myself, told I was “flighty” and “couldn’t commit” and made to feel like something was wrong with me because I move around a lot.  I live in different places, wander, get married/divorced, try another profession, move to the mountains, back to the shore, camp out of my car, do exhausting work, live off the grid. But I love my freaking life, and how many people can say that? By the time I turned fifty I just didn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thought of me.  Let them waste their time judging me while I backpack in Montana, raft the Salmon, hang out in Panama, live in tiny places and owe nothing to anyone.

That mystical rascal, your human heart, is as big as the ocean and can hold everything, but unlike Black Friday crap at WalMart, supplies of love are unlimited.

            As for the love part of Freud’s happiness equation, Carol’s kind of like a guy who doesn’t do “squishy” emotions; I don’t think there was much of that on the farm. But as her friend for forty years, let me tell you the broad loves like a rock. She is solid, and there, unwavering, uncomplaining, and willing to do whatever it takes.  You know, many Eastern philosophers, along with Bob Marley, believe there is only One Love – not a whole bunch of different kinds of love (platonic, sexual, brotherly, intimate, friendship, parental… love etc.).  Just One Love, big and perfect, like my buddy Carol though she’s skinny as a rail and hilariously imperfect.  Love never leaves and neither does Carol so what she dismisses as “bullshit” is the romance crap sold by Hollywood and advertisers.  But the One Love? She’s got it and gives it, not hoarding it for her husband or her BFF but just plain giving it out like candy.  No holds barred. And if an Iowa farm girl gets it – no fuss, no muss -you can too. That mystical rascal, your human heart, is as big as the ocean and can hold everything, but unlike Black Friday crap at WalMart, supplies of love are unlimited.

            Janis Joplin, our gritty sister from the sixties, said “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”  Carol would knock back a beer, and remind you “it’s all bullshit, honey.” Work is just a four- letter word; don’t let it kill ya. And love? Not that complicated either – One Love. Two great broads, with some fabulous advice.        

BE NICE!

I watched it unfold with horror. The little girl – maybe five years old – wanted to climb up the slide like the bigger kids were doing, when a boy pushed her out of the way and she shoved him back.

“Be nice!” her mother scolded, pulling her out of the pack of kids, “You can’t do that. You can’t go up the slide. You have a dress on” – as if this little girl should learn early and often that the clothes she wears will limit her freedom – “Don’t shove people!”

The grown up was embarrassed that her little girl had asserted her place in the playground queue and didn’t understand the decorum involved in climbing up a slide. Mom didn’t address the boy bully behavior, of course, but panicked and went into girl default mode: Be nice – dear God, what is that? We continue to teach our little girls to be “nice” when we should be teaching them to be fierce.

All this hullaballoo about sexual harassment. I’m 61, and from the time I was an 18-year-old waitress I’ve had some guy in just about every environment try to push me around using sex. When I rebuffed the “advances” of the chef at the Jersey shore restaurant where I worked he ruined every order I put in, throwing the plates at me with burnt meat or watery vegetables. The customers yelled at me, my tips diminished and I quit. The pattern continued when I practiced law, from the time a male attorney grabbed my ass at the copier to the time a “rainmaker” state senator (who was a partner) asked me if he made me “wet.” The guy was notorious for talking dirty trash to every woman in the office but the big boys thought it was funny. I didn’t think it was funny. Who was I going to complain to? The male partners who loved the political power that brought them more money? Seriously?

I have a very deep advantage over that little girl on the playground. I grew up with three brothers in an Italian household. They taught me how to fight and Italians are not shy; the culture supports guts and moxie, so when this slimy politician cornered me in the library and asked that horrible question I turned to him, slowly, and said:

“You ever talk to me like that again, and I will be your Anita Hill. I will take you down.”

He stood there, frozen, and his face went pale. Anita Hill was testifying on television daily about Clarence Thomas, and his career was in shambles. That’s all this dude cared about – his political currency – and he never spoke to me again. Fortunately, the older I got the less aggressive men became about sexual bullying and one fabulous side effect of aging is that you become invisible and men leave you blissfully alone. No doubt, sexual harassment is geared toward younger women and no one would want to (or dare) mess with me now. Now all that happens when I sit in a meeting with men is they stare intently at each other, marginalize me completely, and talk about Important Things.

As an attorney, I litigated sexual harassment cases and they were brutal. Defendant/employers had several tactics for discrediting female complainants – everything from casting her as a crazy liar to subpoenaing gynecology records to look for other causes of “emotional distress.” The legal system is the worst place to address these behaviors. I love that social media is outing a lot of creeps and women and men now know there is safety in numbers when coming forward to expose gross and unconscionable actions. Public shaming is a fabulous and effective means for taking people down. And I’m happy that Kevin Spacey’s career is over, as is Louis C.K.’s, Weinstein’s, and the other salacious man-boys who think they can do whatever they want, wherever they want. Go down in flames, all of you.

But what about the secretary in the tiny office who may not have a band of sisters she can rely on? What about the nurse who needs her job badly and is too scared to go to HR? When a woman feels isolated and is trapped financially, what should she do? Be nice? Parents are not preparing their little girls at all for what they will face when they tamp down assertiveness, put them in dolly clothing that limits their options, and urge them to quietly conform. We should be teaching our girls to roar. To be fierce. To stand their ground and look bullies in the eyes and say, with confidence, “Do that again, and I will take you down.” Niceness gets you nowhere. We should be compassionate, collaborative and civil in our dialogue. But fuck “nice.”

In addition to ballet and cheerleading, how about we supplement our girl activities with jiu-jitsu classes where they can learn about using mental strength to support physical safety? Maybe we stop scolding girls who are “bossy” by nature – like I was – and cultivate the tendencies that would be considered “leadership” in boys: directness, assertiveness, strategic thinking, a desire to reach goals and get things done. I’d rather my granddaughters sit in meetings where their voices are heard and this doesn’t much happen if they are getting the smack-down to be “nice.” Although many people are not assertive by nature, these skills can certainly be taught.

Anyone who uses power to intimidate others deserves the kind of humiliation and fear Twitter and Facebook can offer so let’s keep on outing these asshats. But at the same time let’s change our language with girls and young women and stop asking for cuteness and conformity. Teach girls to find and use their voices so when that inevitable creep suggests that she’ll get what she wants if she complies with some sexual act or listens quietly to the disgusting and foul language of men without boundaries, she will not be “nice.” She will be clear and she will be fierce. Teach her to stand her ground, without violence or hate. Teach her she doesn’t have to have or use physical strength to take down a bully. It’s no wonder so many women who are taught to be nice are totally paralyzed when the boss rubs himself in front of her. We don’t need to be paralyzed; we can speak up.

There is always something that predatory man cares about more than using his power to bully you with sex. Threaten to call his wife, call the police, call a lawyer; find what he loves – power, status, fame, his fake marriage whatever – and threaten to blow it up. Silence that parental voice that taught you that “niceness” is important to survival in this world, because it’s not. Don’t cripple your daughter so that you feel comfy knowing she’s “socially appropriate.” Arm her with the self-esteem and certainty she will need when the bully moves toward the prey. Teach her that pushing back is often absolutely necessary, it’s good to draw clear lines, and she can stand her ground. Find a script that works and use it.

Here’s what I found that works, because people in power will always listen to this: Do that again, and I will take you down.

Yo Scaramucci. How Bout You Shut Up?

Hey Tony.  If I was sitting next to you at Sunday dinner I’d smack you so hard on the back of the head it would make your kids dizzy.  What a dumb ass you are.  You get a seat at the big boy table and what do you do? Put your Guido aviator shades on and act like you’re in waste management in the Bronx rather than the goddamn White House.  You better hope my Aunt Rita doesn’t run into you cause I’ll tell you what brother: we Italians are not happy with you and you know what happens when the family’s not happy.

            So, your narcissistic bully boss – from another ethnic background of some kind – pulls you in, you know,  close to the vest and Tony-Soprano-like “hey ho yo”, grabbing at your balls and being all tough guy. And Trump says Yo Tony kill the leaks, man! Make ‘em all shut the f—up”! and you swear some inane mafia-type oath about being loyal to him and firing people and you bring your stupid New York WOP act to DC.  Thanks a lot jack ass.

            Sit down and shut up and listen to me and I don’t give a rat’s ass if you don’t want to hear about my grandparents from Avellino in Italy who came to Philly and worked as bricklayers, tailors, and shop owners so that their kids – my parents – could go to college, and become, doctors (like my Dad and uncle) and nurses (my Mom) and make each generation better.  And yes, Italians were seen as louds, stupid, greasy, dirty people - the image you so readily portray, thanks very much.  Just when Italians could go quietly back to our raucous and happy family-centric lives, you show up and it’s right back to the stereotypical bombastic idiot Italian, a White House press secretary who doesn’t even know what “on the record” means.  Madonna Mia.  Italians have about fifty different words for stupid and you measure up to every one of them.

            I can appreciate the notion that you “want to be yourself” but don’t.  Your self sucks.  Your knucklehead boss is of the same ilk – oh, I’m just gonna be me.  Both your personalities are just terrible, dude.  Hide it.  Don’t be the strutting street corner thug you think you are.  Class it up, asshole.  Lots of immigrants have learned this:  dial it down when you’re around white people.  And the White House is full of those, so act like a grown up – you mameluke – and try to find a measure of dignity and smarts.  Not sure you have either, but on behalf of Italians everywhere, I’m telling you – not asking – to knock off the “made guy” routine.

            Somebody had to write about this.  The minute I saw your name and heard you open my mouth I was like “oh f--- me.  Here it goes. A Scarammuchi in the White House who thinks he’s all that.”  You’re not all that, Tony.  You know what you are?  A disgrace to every hard- working Italian-American who honors the hard-working ancestors that got us here.  You think surgeons, lawyers, teachers, business owners of Italian descent just act any way they want?  You think anybody does?  There are freaking rules of civility you stupidone.  Put the hair gel away and learn them. You want to be all mouthy schmooz boy?  Save that for your friends, you feckless braggart.  And don’t even think about Sunday dinner.  My little Aunt Rita would kick your ass.