First off, if you haven’t read Parts I through IV, see below. (Go ahead, scroll down and read them in order. No, seriously. I’m not in a rush.)

OK… we’re back. So here’s where s&%$ really starts to get real for S%#@.

For me, losing in small claims court was the last straw in a very exhausting and frustrating series of events. So on that fateful day in the fall of 2007, I put a curse on Brent.

Not an actual, gypsy-lady, Ouija-board, “Rosemary’s Baby” kind of curse. No. (If only I had that kind of power!) I just wished him ill. You know, like one of those “God’ll get ya’, Walter!” curses that Maude used to use on her husband when he was an a-hole.


"Oh, for God's sake Walter--of course I didn't vote for Nixon!"

After that, time went on, as it does. I had a new apartment. Everything was once again fine in the world. But every once in a while, I would do a Google search for Brent’s real name, just out of curiosity. And lo and behold, I discovered recently that fortunes have changed rather dramatically for our old friend Brent S%#@.

To begin with, in 2009, he got hit in the head with an ice bucket by a former business partner during a business meeting because, evidently, Brent has perfected the art of being a douchebag, which his (former) business partner could no longer stomach. (Yes, the ice bucket incident actually happened.) Then, one of S%#@’s major lenders on another development project sued him and got a $28.5 million judgment after he defaulted on a personal loan relating to that project. And around the same time, he was also sued by the employees of my old building for not paying their benefits. (Douchebag to the extreme!)

But wait. There’s more.

Turns out, Brent is also currently going through a messy divorce from his wife. Remember her? She the one who’s billionaire father was Brent’s one-way ticket to Real Estate Successville back in Part I.  So it sounds like Brent won’t be a welcome guest at Daddy-in-Law’s private club this Christmas season! (It’s like a 21st century version of Trading Places.)


I want my festive bread pudding... NOW!

But it gets even worse.

In June of this year, the ritzy co-op that Brent and his soon-to-be-ex-wife own at 740 Park Avenue (the famous building where Jackie Kennedy grew up) is being… FORECLOSED!

Isn't karma AWESOME?!

Which got me to thinking-- maybe, just maybe my curse worked! Or maybe it was the combined force of all of the curses that must have been put on Brent by the hundreds of people whose lives he screwed over. Or maybe it was just bad luck. But whatever it was, it has restored my faith in the Universe!

Now here’s where it starts to get really, really ironic. Remember my old building? The one that I (along with several hundred other tenants) got kicked out of so that Brent could swell swanky, million-dollar condos to the Downtown crowd? Well, because of the recession that began in early 2008, not only did he fail to sell enough units in the building to break even, he is now poised to lose his entire interest in the project because his primary lender, the bankrupt Lehman Brothers, has obtained permission from a bankruptcy judge to foreclose on the property. And guess what? This past summer, under new management, the building signed (wait for it…) their first new tenants.

Yes, that’s right—tenants! You know, the people who sign pieces of paper referred to as “leases” and then rent their apartments from a person known as a “landlord”?

It’s hard to believe but it’s true: after 5 long years, and following untold disruption in the lives of hundreds of former tenants—not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on legal and other costs to force the tenants out and pursue a condo conversion that was ultimately abandoned—all those apartments, which sat empty for almost 5 years, will once again be available… for rent. Insane.

So, the moral of the story is: if you’re already rich, and want to get even richer, try not to screw over too many people in the process; because if you’re not careful, you too may end up bankrupt, divorced, and with a large ice bucket to the head.

Notwithstanding the brilliant scheme described in Part III (see below), by law, Brent S%#@ was required to offer me and all the other tenants in his building a so-called “first right of refusal”—in other words, he had to offer us the chance to buy our own apartments before he could offer them to anyone else.

So here was his offer to me: buy the apartment I lived in, as is, for the very reasonable sum of $887,000. No renovations, no upgraded appliances, not even a fresh coat of paint. And I would have to endure about 2 years of renovations on the 399 other units in my building. Awesome!


This is how it felt in my soul!  (Not.)

I lived in denial for months, convinced that somehow, I would be able to stay in my apartment. After all, wasn’t I a model tenant? Surely S%#@ would come to his senses?

Well, as it turns out, S%#@ apparently doesn’t have any senses.

All I know is that there was no convincing him or his leasing staff (who were all summarily fired, one by one, later that year) that we tenants should be entitled to stay. So when my lease was about to expire in September 2006, I panicked; I didn’t want to end up in housing court, running the risk that I would not only be evicted, but, worse yet, be blacklisted forever by every landlord in New York City.

So after just one year, I packed up all of my crap and moved from a “luxury” one-bedroom apartment to a—God help me!—“luxury” studio apartment four blocks away. The dreaded down-size.  (I know, I know—I’m a trouper.)

About 6 months later, however, I discovered that a number of tenants had sued S%#@ —including one tenant in my old building, and several dozen at another building who had pooled resources into a tenants’ association. Turns out, the members of the association had won the right to stay in their apartments uptown, and the lone tenant from my old building downtown had also been granted the same right. So now, if S%#@ wanted to get rid of them, he would have to compensate them for agreeing to leave. (I later heard that the lone cowboy tenant from my building was paid over $100,000 to move out of his apartment. Over a hundred grand, people! That’s like, rent on a summer house in the Hamptons—for an entire 2 months!)

With dollar signs in my eyes, I decided that I too would fight for my rights, just like Fox News and the Tea Party-ers. So I filed a lawsuit against S%#@ in small claims court. (It was too late to go to housing court, since I no longer had possession of my old apartment. But at the very least, I figured, I could get back the $1,000 I had wasted in moving expenses.)

I was sure that justice would finally prevail. A fair, impartial judge would finally make this right! He’d see through S%#@’s Machiavellian ploy and make me whole again. After all, I was just asking for a measly grand! (That’s, like, lunch and new pair of socks in the Hamptons.)

After weeks and weeks of preparation, and one two-month adjournment (at S%#@’s request, naturally), I finally had my day in court. (Well, evening in court. Whatever. The point is, I had my hearing.)

And I made my case. I calmly and methodically explained to the judge that the precedent set by the case involving the tenants’ association from the other building established that I had a statutory right to my apartment, which S%#@’s pressure and threats to evict me had deprived me of and, therefore, I should be compensated. After all, if S%#@ were allowed to get away with what he had done to me, he—and every other landlord in town—would have a major incentive to do the same thing to everyone!

After about 2 months of waiting on pins and needles, I finally received my judgment—a 4-page document that came in the mail. I opened it, palms sweaty, fingers trembling, mouth dry, and read the verdict—a finding in favour of the defendant.

I rubbed my eyes, and looked again. It couldn’t be true! But it was. I saw two of the ugliest words I had ever seen: “Case Dismissed.”

According to the judge, there was no evidence S%#@ had “defrauded” me. The judge felt that, if only I had defied my landlord’s threats to have me evicted and spent thousands in lawyer and court costs in connection with a protracted litigation in housing court, then maybe I too could have walked away with a six-figure settlement. But, as it turned out, because I had been cooperative in response to the landlord’s unethical pressure tactics, I was screwed. (Not the judge’s exact words, but that was the gist of it.) And somehow, the judge thought that made sense. (Yay, Small Claims Court Judge! You rock. Love your robe. By the way, did you even go to law school?)

WTF?! I was furious. I was incensed. I was out $40 in small claims court fees! But most of all, I was shocked that S%#@ had gotten away with this (for lack of a better term) s%#@. Again.


Hello, I'm Brent S%#@--the evil genius!  HA, ha, ha, ha! Ha.

Of course, this was by no means the end of the S%#@ story, thanks to a little thing called “karma.” (Which can indeed be a major bitch.)

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Known for his tough-on-crime policies and his stirring, John Wayne-esque speech on 9/11, Mayor Rudolph William Lewis (aka “Rudy”) Giuliani is probably best-remembered for single-handedly transforming West 42nd Street during the 1990’s from a trash-ridden cesspool of prostitution and drug dealing into a family-friendly smörgåsbord of Disney attractions and consumer products. (The only drugs they push on 42nd Street nowadays, friend, are Coca-Cola and joy! Now hand over your wallet.)

But what many people don’t know about Mayor Rudy is that, in 1994, he quietly signed into law a bill that changed the New York City rental landscape forever, by eliminating rent stabilization for thousands upon thousands of apartments in the City—commonly known as “rent decontrol”—once their regulated rent hit $2,000 per month.


I’ll be back—to increase your rent!

This change did not go unnoticed by Brent S%#@ and his crafty lawyers. They realized that they suddenly had a humongous loophole on their hands, a gigantic blackhole of a loophole, into which they could suck all of New York’s so-called “market rate” tenants.

This is how the plan would work: since the rental apartments that S%#@ was buying up were all “market rate” (in other words, not subject to any stabilization rules), he would have no obligation to renew any leases (let alone renew with no more than a small percentage rent increase) when they came due; so all he had to do was get the condo conversion paperwork ready, then announce to all of his tenants that he would not renew their leases, and then simply wait until all of the leases had expired before filing his condo conversion. That way, either his tenants would leave on their own or, if they didn’t, S%#@ would serve them with eviction notices; as a result, those tenants would, arguably, no longer be “in good standing” at the time of conversion and, thus (so his argument went), they would be ineligible to claim any of the protections afforded under the condo conversion laws. In short, S%#@ was gambling on the fact that his tenants would come to believe they had no choice but to get out, and he would have no obligation to compensate them for leaving.

(Aren’t Republicans geniuses?)

Now don’t get me wrong. I understand America. I lived there for 9 years, after all. Americans take pride in their freedoms——the freedom of speech, the freedom of religion, the freedom to carry a semi-automatic machine gun in a school bag—you know, the inalienable rights. So it’s no surprise that Americans also cherish the freedom of contract—the very essence of the free-market system—individuals and firms buying and selling goods and services at whatever price they have freely negotiated. It’s precisely what God wanted when he made that talking snake convince Eve to eat the apple and so she could trick Adam into having sex with her, instead of sleeping with that other slut, Steve. (OK, I might be mixing up my parables slightly, but the important thing is—freedom is awesome.)

Given all that, it’s only reasonable that a billionaire real estate developer should be “free” to buy a 400-unit rental building, kick 400 families out into the street, and then sell their empty apartments for hundreds of millions of dollars to coked-up Wall Street traders or the daughters of wealthy Korean industrialists. (I mean, if that isn’t what the Founding Fathers intended, I don’t know what is.)

Of course, hindsight is 20-20. At the time though, in September 2005, when I signed my lease, I didn’t understand any of this. I was completely oblivious, thinking I was just moving into a nice apartment, in which I planned to stay for a long time. In fact, I had just walked right to a major pile of horse s%#@. (Pun intended.)  As it turns out, in March 2006, just about six months after I had moved into my apartment, I received a form letter summarily notifying me that my one-year lease would not be renewed and that I would have to vacate on October 31 of that year.

No apology, no help with moving expenses, not even a coupon for the Olive Garden.

Operation “I’m a Billionaire and You’re F%$#ed!” had just begun.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

I had the great pleasure and privilege of living in New York City for 9 years, from 2001 to 2010. And over those 9 years, I lived in four different apartments in three different neighborhoods of Manhattan—Hell’s Kitchen, the Upper East Side, and, finally, the Financial District. (Manhattanites are a nomadic tribe—like Bedouin Arabs, or the cast of Jersey Shore.) But my favourite apartment of all was my third apartment, a one-bedroom in an historic building situated just south of Wall Street.


A picture of my actual apartment building. (It did have a ground floor with a door--trust me.)

I loved that apartment for so many reasons. It had an actual bedroom, with a real wall and everything. (For a single person in New York, that is HUGE!) It also had very high ceilings, which made it feel even more spacious. And best of all, it was literally across the street from my job, so my daily commute was about 30 seconds long. (Mind you, that was each way, and assuming no traffic.)

I was so happy living there. I had found my home. And I remember thinking at the time, “This apartment is almost too good to be true!”

Sadly, it was.

As it turns out, just weeks before I had found my bliss in that “FiDi” apartment during the late summer of 2005, the building had been purchased by none other than the evil corporation known as S%#@ Equities LLC.

At that time, Brent S%#@ was the darling of the New York City real estate world. He was rich, blond (he still had his hair back then), and on a real estate acquisition frenzy. He had even recently won the highest award available in the world of New York real estate--kind of like an Oscar for billionaire real estate moguls. (Donald Trump was robbed that year.) In short, Brent seemed to have it all.

Of course not being a billionaire real estate developer myself, I was perfectly unaware of Brent S%#@ and his illustrious activities. But all that would soon change because Brent S%#@ was about to become the Gordon Gekko of my very own real-life Wall Street (Part I) drama.


"Greed IS good.  It got me this office, didn't it?"

I now know that during the summer of 2005, Brent was in the process of buying up rental buildings all over Manhattan with the goal of converting them into luxury condos that he could sell for billions of dollars, thus generating hundreds of millions in profits for himself. There was only one problem: these buildings had pesky humans (known as “tenants”) living in them, and these “tenants” had signed legal documents (known as “leases”) which entitled them to live in those apartments. (I know, all this legal jargon is complex, but bear with me.)

Being mere non-billionaires, we tenants were no match for Brent S%#@, who had a whole slew of evil-genius lawyers working for him. And they were about to unleash the greatest , most diabolical real estate development plan that New York City had ever seen—one that would ensure that those pesky tenants would be banished forever!  (Eat your heart out, Joker!) 

So how did Brent and his lawyers do it? Well, in order to understand their brilliant scheme, a little landlord/tenant legal history is in order.

In the 1960’s and 70’s, New York City experienced a cooperative (a.k.a. “co-op”) conversion craze—basically, landlords realized they could make huge short-term profits by converting their rental buildings into cooperative ownership and selling off the units to the highest bidder. If that buyer happened to be the existing tenant, great; if not, then the tenant had to go.

But back then, unlike today, most New Yorkers didn’t use hundred-dollar bills as toilet tissue. As a result, many of the tenants living in those apartments couldn’t afford to buy them; so suddenly, tens of thousands of tenants were facing eviction. And this was happening at the very moment when the rental housing stock was decreasing—and rental rates were increasing—precisely because landlords were converting so many rental buildings into co-ops in the first place.

Legislators realized that the only way to stop this vicious circle and prevent a potentially crippling housing crisis was to require, as a precondition to approval of a conversion project, that the owner of the building renew the leases of any tenants in good standing who expressly requested it. This was a compromise that would ensure that every tenant who wanted to could stay in their rental apartment indefinitely, as long as they continued to pay rent and otherwise honour their lease; and, as an alternative, a tenant could instead accept a buy-out, in exchange for which they would relinquish their right to a lease renewal and vacate their apartment. In short, it was a carefully crafted, thoughtfully-calibrated legislative balancing of rights—those of the landlord-developer on the one hand, and those of their existing tenants on the other. Given the recent political circus that surrounded the raising of the U.S. debt ceiling, it’s hard to believe that, a mere four decades ago, Americans tended to elect politicians who were actually able to agree on reasonable laws that benefited a majority of people. (But then again, they also thought these outfits looked attractive. So they weren’t perfect either.)


"Howdy, partner.  You a real cowboy?  'Cuz you sure look like one."

Now despite the landlord/tenant nirvana that was 1970’s New York, there was a potential glitch: a landlord who wanted to get rid of his tenant in anticipation of a co-op or condo conversion could simply offer to renew the tenant’s lease, but subject to some exorbitant rent increase, effectively forcing the tenant to leave.


“Good morning, Mrs. Weinstein—how’s the arthritis? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Well, hopefully, it’ll get better once the weather warms up. Oh, and the by way, starting in June, the rent on your 500 square foot one-bedroom is increasing to $736,000 a month. But don’t worry, heat and hot water are still included.”

Obviously, such a glaring loophole would defeat the whole purpose of the co-op and condo conversion laws. But this loophole wasn’t a problem because of what was known as “rent stabilization”—regulations that limited rent increases to some small percentage closely matching the overall rate of inflation. When combined with the co-op and condo conversion laws, rent stabilization meant that any tenant who wanted to stay in her apartment could do so, and do so indefinitely, at a rent that could only increase a few percent a year. (Which is why, to this day, every so often you’ll come across one of those eccentric 90-year-old ladies living in a $600-a-month rent-stabilized s%#@hole in what is otherwise a very posh Manhattan co-op—a human reminder that, even in glamourous New York City, once you turn 80, you become Sophia from the Golden Girls and begin to hoard newspapers and empty cans.) 


"Now, where DID I put those empty cans?..."

But just as a precaution, the Legislature threw in an extra rule--it said that if an apartment was "market rate" (in other words, not subject to rent stablization), then during a coop or condo conversion, the landlord was prohibited from imposing an "unconsicionable" rent increase.  (Whatever that means.)  The bottom line is, tenants were not going to be forced out of their apartments just because the owner of their building wanted to make a quick profit by selling the apartments as coop units or condos.

Thanks to New York’s condo conversion and rent stabilization laws, things continued along relatively smoothly for billionaire landlords and non-billionaire tenants, who lived in relative harmony and peace all through the 1980’s and early 90’s.  Like wizards and muggles. But then, along came Rudy Giuliani.  (Who looks like a muggle, but is actually a wizard.)

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Although you may never have heard of him, there is this particular New York City billionaire real estate developer--let's call him Brent S%#@ (just so he doesn't sue me for defamation)--who you might call one of the banes of my existence. (Although I’m not even quite sure what a bane is. But whatever it is, Brent is one. A big one.)

(Normally, I would place a picture of Brent here, with a witty caption under it, but again, there's that little issue of a defamation lawsuit that keeps coming up!)

The reason I have such a powerful dislike for the man is that he personally managed to make my life a living hell back in 2006. 

Now you'd think that a billionaire would be too busy or important to spend any time ruining a regular person's life.  But not, Brent; no, he is so generous with his time that way.  He's the kind of guy who always has an extra hour or two if it means he'll able to ruin even just one extra life.

Now, normally, I don’t consort with billionaire-real-estate-mogul types, as you can imagibe, so it may seem a bit odd that I would end up being personally screwed over by one. But I can assure you that the story I am about to tell you is true—it’s a shocking, sordid tale of drama, intrigue, and landlord-tenant regulations. And I promise all will be revealed in due course. (Just like a Jackie Collins novel.)



But first, a little background is in order.

Brent was born in the early 1960’s into a life of wealth and privilege on the West Coast of the United States. He’s the grandson of a man who founded a privately-owned real estate firm that is still controlled by his descendants to this day. In fact, Brent's grandfather started the company during the Great Depression. (Now that took balls, wouldn’t you say?) And amongst other claims to fame, he was responsible for creating a very well-known hotel chain as well. (Though I couldn’t find any documentary evidence to confirm it, I assume he wore a top hat and monocle and took baths in gold coins.)



Brent would follow in his illustrious grandfather’s footsteps as a real estate mogul, except he would do it his way—on the East Coast.  (Such a rebel, that Brent.)  After earning a B.A. out east, he temporarily returned to the West Coast to begin his law degree. But he quickly realized that finishing law school was for quitters! So he cut his losses and dropped out, choosing instead to move to New York and get a “real job.” (And by “real job,” I mean a lucrative position working for another billionaire real estate mogul, who, incidentally, would later become his father-in-law.  But I digress.) Eventually, Brent rose to the position of partner at one of New York’s most esteemed real estate brokerage firms—which, I’m sure, had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with his family connections.

But raking in millions a year by selling rich people expensive apartments wasn’t enough for our hero Brent. Oh no, he was destined for the pantheon of real estate gods. And he was determined to do it on his own terms. That’s why, in 2001, he started his own real estate company, S%#@ Equities LLC.

So what does all this have to with me you ask?

Well, unbeknownst to me, Brent had a brilliant plan to turn Manhattan rentals into condominium gold, and I would soon become an expendable peon in that brilliant plan.

However, unbeknownst to Brent, his brilliant plan wasn’t so brilliant after all, and fate had more than a few unpleasant surprises in store for him too.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

I know I am way behind the curve on this one, but I just finished watching Episode 2 of Season 1 of the CBC smash-hit series Being Erica, which is available for streaming on the CBC website here.  (The concept for the series was recently sold to ABC and is expected to be remade for the American market.)



This particular episode ends with Erica saying (in voice-over): "Every new day brings with it new choices and a whole new world of possibilities." And then, as if to illustrate the point, the credits roll, revealing that the character of Ken (known in the parlance of TV casting as an "Under 5" part because he had fewer than 5 lines in the episode) was played by an actor named "Aubrey Graham."

Never heard of him? Well perhaps you know him as his Hip-Hop alter ago--Drake.


Hi, I'm Aubrey Graham.  My album went to Number 1 on the Billboard charts last year. Also, I had an "Under 5" on "Being Erica" the year before that, which I got paid about $400 for. 

I'm not... even... KIDDING!

Click here and fast forward to 23:22; then, when you're done with that, go to 24:38.

CRAZY-town!

P.S. I am now officially obsessed with this show. 

My name is Robert. Not Rob. Or Bob. Or Bobby. Or Phil, for that matter. But for some reason, some people seem to have trouble with this rather simple concept. When I introduce myself, I'll say something like "Hi, I'm Robert," to which they respond, "Oh, hi Rob, I'm So-and-So."

Sometimes, they'll have the apparent courtesy to ask before actually going ahead and chopping my name down to their preferred size. They'll say, "Oh, do you go by Rob or Bob?" "No," I say, "Robert is good, thanks," doing my best to avoid sounding uncivil, but at the same time, holding my ground.

The problem with what these people are doing is that it isn't really courteous at all. It’s motivated not by a concern for me and whether I feel at ease, but rather, by a desire to establish an immediate, but unwarranted, connection with me in order to put themselves at ease by calling me a name that seems (and admittedly is) more informal. The issue I have with this is that it makes me feel awkward, and, from my perspective at least, it's presumptuous and even a little insulting because it tells me you are not listening to what I am saying, or you are dismissing it as unimportant. If I wanted to be called Rob--or anything else for that matter--I would say so. For example, I might say, "Hi, my name is Rob." Or "Hi, my name is 'My Little Pony." Or, "Hi, my name is Robert, but everyone calls me ‘Sir Anthony Hopkins.’" On the other hand, if I say, "Hi, my name is Robert." and simply stop there, what makes you think that I'd prefer to be called something else? And isn't it a little rude to disregard what I just said in order to impose your own view on what my name is--or should be--however well-intentioned?

I don't think it's strange or unreasonable to have a preference about one's own name. For example, I have a friend named Lara. That's LA-ra. Not Laura, not Laurie, but Lara. (Say it with me: “LA-ra.” Easy right?) Yet somehow people always want to call her Laura. And I understand why they do that. It's easy to confuse the two names since they are indeed very similar; they actually share an etymological origin. (I looked it up.). Moreover, Laura is a much more common name than Lara (which is actually borrowed from the Russian for "Laura"). However, they are not the same name, and I think it's perfectly fair for Lara to correct people--politely, of course--if they mispronounce her name as Laura.

Just as is true for Lara--and for most people, I would think--my name is important to me. It forms a part of who I am as an individual--just like my political views, my Zodiac sign, my birthplace, my religion, my Shampoo brand (Fructis), and so on. Is my first name the most important element of my identity? Perhaps not. But it certainly ranks in the top ten. (I would say right below my choice in underwear--briefs by Ralph Lauren, not boxers.)

So last night, I'm introducing myself to a friend of a friend, and the usual scenario plays out: this person--let's call him “Phil” (since that is his actual name and all)--immediately beings referring to me as Rob. I don't even bother to correct him because, we're all having a good time, it’s the holidays, and, really, it's not the end of the world. (Plus I had 3 glasses of wine, which helps everything seem better in general.) Also, I’ll admit it--Rob is pretty close to Robert, and some people in my life, namely, my closest friends and family, do call me Rob. So it’s not completely foreign to me. But at one point, for some reason or another, Phil himself brings it up and asks whether I prefer Rob or Bob. So, at this point, I feel it's fair to explain my point view; I tell Phil that I prefer neither Rob, nor Bob and, in fact, that my preference is to be called "Robert," which is, after all, how I introduced myself.

In retrospect, I should have left it at that and quickly changed the subject. Instead, thinking I was just making light conversation, I added that some of my closest friends (such as my best friend Kim--not Kimmy--and Dave--not David) call me "Rob," as does my mom. In fact, she often calls me "Robbie," a vestige of my long-lost childhood, when getting up at 6 am on Saturday morning was no sweat (since that's when the best cartoons were on!) and when going to a birthday party at McDonald's was, like, the best thing EVER!   (Let's just say my tastes and lifestyle choices have changed slightly since then.)

Now, to be clear, I don't mind it at all when those close friends and family members call me by one of my nicknames because my relationship with them is very close and intimate. I have a special bond with them that I don't share with strangers.

So, as I explain to Phil, when a stranger--or someone who is practically a stranger (such as Phil)--takes the liberty of calling me by a diminutive of Robert, it makes me a little uncomfortable. In a nutshell, it just isn't my preference.

"Well," he says, "just because you're insecure, doesn't mean the whole world should stop doing something that's completely rational--i.e., calling you by a shortened version of your actual name."

That was my first sign that I was dealing with a first-class douchebag.

But it gets worse. Phil then has the audacity to follow up his razor-sharp assessment of my psychological fragility by giving me some unsolicited life coaching. "Look," he says, "if the majority of the people you meet call you Rob, doesn't that tell you something?" "Yes," I say, “it tells me that they weren’t listening to me when I introduced myself.” "No," he forcefully corrects me. "You don't get it. If almost everyone you meet calls you Rob, that's what your name is, and you need to learn to embrace it."

I see. Identity by consensus of the majority. It doesn't matter what I prefer for my own life; who cares about that?  When it comes to defining my identity, what matters most is what the majority of the people think.

Gosh, why didn't I see this before?

Maybe because... that point of view is... how shall I put this?  Ridiculous!

So, being the patient, considerate, and relatively easy-going person that I am, I tried to explain, as politely as I could, why I disagreed and even felt a little offended by Phil's point of view. "It's not an insecurity, actually," I offered, "it's just a preference. Just like I'm sure you would prefer that I call you Phil, rather than, say, Tim." He laughed, countering "That's completely different." "Not really," I argued, "it's the same thing, in that I would be disregarding your preference regarding your self-identity in order to impose my own view on who you are or should be." He shook his head in utter disbelief. "No, no, no, you see," he explained condescendingly, as if he were trying to make a slightly dimwitted thirteen-year-old understand that Santa Claus doesn‘t exist, "Rob is basically the same name as Robert--it's just a shorter version--whereas Tim has nothing to do with Phil. So your analogy doesn't work." "Fine," I said, "let me take a different approach. Let's say I just met you, and suddenly I start calling you 'Sweetheart.'  And for the sake of argument, let's assume that it just so happens that that is the particular term of endearment that the people closest to you use in referring to you.” I went on to explain that that’s what “Rob” feels like to me: a term of endearment that represents a close, personal connection between me and the person using it, except that when that person is a stranger, there is no close, personal connection, and as a result, it all feels very false and awkward to me. As if the person is trying to force an intimacy that isn't there yet. Kind of like that lady in HR whom you barely know, yet who, every time she sees you, is like, “Oh, you look tense! Let me give you a massage!,” as she steps behind you and proceeds to begin kneading your shoulders in the middle of the hallway. "Now do you see how that could make someone uncomfortable?" I asked.

"Absolutely not," he said flatly. "You're just insecure,” he reiterated, "and you should get over it because most of the world is just going to call you Rob no matter what you say."

At this point, I realized I was wasting my breath, so in an attempt to bring this increasingly unpleasant conversation to an end, I said, "I think maybe we'll have to agree to disagree on this one!" HA! Ha! Ha. (Throat-clearing noise. Awkward silence.)

Unfortunately, Phil couldn't leave it at that because Phil, I realized in that moment, is one of those people who always has to be right--and, thus, ensure and establish for everyone to see, that the other person is wrong. Moreover, if your view is at odds with his, then you are stupid and he needs to help you see that. It's his calling in life. And you should be grateful that he is helping you in this way.

It didn’t occur to me until later on that that was precisely the problem. It wasn't that my arguments were unsound, but rather, it was that they were falling on deaf ears because it was fundamentally impossible for someone as supremely egocentric and self-absorbed as Phil to even fathom that another person might have subjective feelings and views that were both different than his and valid, such as a preference about their first name. In Phil's worldview, I have no right to impose my preference for my own identity on anyone else. It isn’t for me to decide who I am; instead, I should just conform to what most people say I am or expect me to be. It's for my own good and the good of those around me. Kind of like how the just-repealed "Don't Ask Don't Tell" policy in the U.S. forced gay and lesbian members of the armed services in that country to conform to most people's expectation--and, dare I say it--preference that they be heterosexual. After all, they could still be gay in their hearts--as long as they never told anyone or did anything that even remotely suggested that they were gay. Like, say, listening to Madonna or matching their belts with their shoes.

Nice try, Phil. But I still disagree. You see, I still prefer that you call me Robert when you first meet me, and if, over time, we become very, very close, personal friends (not likely!), then maybe you could switch to Rob, and I'll be cool with that. In the meantime, though, please call me Robert. And if you're a douchebag, don't call me at all. And if you think I'm a douchebag for saying this, then call me "Phil"--which is, from what I gather, just another, shorter way of saying "Douchebag."

In case you never knew who Greg Giraldo was, let me sum him up in a few words (which really don't do him justice): he was a supremely talented and brilliant stand-up comedian, best known for his appearances on the Comedy Central celebrity roasts, and he recently passed away as a result of a drug overdose, leaving behind three children and thousands of bereaved fans, including me. This was his New York Times obituary: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/30/arts/30giraldo.html.



He was probably my favorite New York comedian of his generation: articulate, razor-quick, and with strong opinions, but never a bully, and above all, always hilarious. I remember seeing him perform live at clubs around the City when I first moved there in 2001, and I would always get so excited to hear that he was making an appearance, because you could always count on seeing something original, intelligent, and unforgettable when Greg took the stage.

I even got the chance to meet him once; it was after a show he did at the Comedy Cellar in New York City in September 2003, about a week before I would be performing stand-up comedy for the first time in my life (if you don't count the time I made that humorous speech at my sixth grade graduation ceremony). He was grace and charm personified; when I asked him if he had any advice for a first-time comedian, he said two things that I still remember and that still ring true to this day: (1) always keep your connection with the audience and focus on what you want them to experience or take from your performance--in other words, keep your consciousness (or as I have learned in my acting training--your intention) on your audience, rather than on yourself; and (2) remember that even if you suck--and, as Greg put it, "you most likely will your first time--no offense!"--you need to keep going, because you will get better.

Given the grounded, honest wisdom that he shared with me that night, this interview of his from Psychology Today that I found online while researching his life seems all the more ironic and tragic: http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/brainstorm/200905/greg-giraldo-failure. In it, he discusses his views on failure and the demons of self-doubt and self-hatred that he wrestled with his entire life.  Perhaps most poignantly, he says in the interview:
Greg Giraldo gave me some amazing advice the night I met him in 2003; but his passing has taught me an even greater lesson: success is fantastic and all, but life is made up of so many other things, things that make it rich and fulfilling--things that we must never lose sight of, including taking good care of ourselves and appreciating the love of our family and friends.

So keep reaching for the stars--God knows, I will!--but don't forget about all of the precious, magical little things that make life so sweet down here on Earth.


Greg Giraldo (Dec. 10, 1965 – Sept. 29, 2010)

As some of you may know, this past May, I graduated from the two-year conservatory of the Atlantic Acting School in New York, which is the theatre school affiliated with the Atlantic Theater Company, an acclaimed non-profit Off-Broadway company co-founded by Pulitzer Prize winner David Mamet.

Now here’s where it gets interesting.

I just found out that there is a new production of A Life in the Theatre opening on Broadway, which was directed by Neil Pepe, the Artistic Director of the Atlantic Theatre Company, and starring Sir Patrick Stewart, famous for his role as Captain Picard in the Star Trek TV and movie franchise, and T.R. Knight, who made a big splash a couple of years ago when he came out of the closet after an unfortunate incident with a co-star on ABC's Grey's Anatomy; as you may recall, T.R. then quit the show shortly thereafter in 2009, to much media hoopla.


I'm gay!


I'm not gay!  At least you can't prove I am.
(And pay no attention to my glistening arms. They prove nothing.)

Now some critics may have predicted that T.R.'s unexpected exit from a hit show--which is still on the air and is still garnering huge ratings--would spell the end of his career--because prevailing wisdom suggests that an out gay actor can't play a straight character, since the audience supposedly won't buy it. I am happy to say, however, that this new production of A Life in the Theatre proves them wrong.  It also serves as a welcome return of Patrick Stewart to the Broadway stage.  The stars and the director of the play recently explained to theatermania.com how this particular production came about.  (To watch those interviews, click here.)

Now the reason I think this is all very interesting is that I saw the original London production of A Life in the Theatre five and a half years ago when I was visiting London in the spring of 2005--years before I had ever thought about quitting my day job to become a full-time, working actor (which is my new daily reality). The play made a huge impression on me because I related to both of its two main characters so viscerally.  The story deals with the difficult relationship that develops between an older actor and a younger one when it starts to become obvious to them, and to the world at large, that the older actor’s career is ebbing, while the younger actor’s is just beginning to take off. I think this resonated with me so much because I saw facets of both characters in myself: the sometimes naïve, but always intoxicating optimism of the young actor, who has his whole life and career ahead of him, but also the vulnerability and bitterness of the older actor, who over the years has experienced his fair share of rejection and disappointment. (And these days, now that I am truly "living the dream" full time--i.e., auditioning and then waiting for the phone to ring--my mood seems to swing back and forth wildly between the two extremes.)  That said, I do believe that the play, at its heart, has a hopeful message--quite simply, carpe diem, a principle by which I strive to live my life always.

(On a side note: in the 2005 London production, the younger actor was played by the erstwhile clean-cut, but now rather scruffy Vancouver-born star of Dawson’s Creek and Fringe, Joshua Jackson. So there’s a Canadian connection there.  Coincidence number one.)


I have a lot of body hair.

A couple of years later, when I was in London again in 2007, I went to see another play. This time, it was the 2007 London revival of Equus, starring Daniel Radcliffe, aka Harry Potter.  And, believe me, you haven't lived until you've seen Harry Potter in full-frontal-nudity mode.


Attention: this picture had been censored by the British Office for Moral Decency.  God bless the Queen.

(On an another, rather serendipitous, side note--I recently auditioned for a new production of Equus being done in Toronto at the Hart House Theatre; that play also happens to be the last piece of theatre I ever worked on as a teenager, after which I gave up acting for almost 15 years. Coincidence number two. But don't worry, if cast in this new Toronto production, I won't have to go full frontal.  In fact, I offered to, but they politely declined.)

So back to London, 2007. Right before the performance began, I started thinking about the last time I had seen a play in London, and my mind traveled back to that evening in 2005 when I had seen the play with Patrick Stewart. And just as I was picturing his face in my mind, and just as the lights in the theatre were slowly going down, and just as as the gorgeous red-velvet curtain was rising, my gaze drifted over to the left for some reason. And whom should I notice sitting in one of the balcony seats, high above this opulent and cavernous, old-world London theatre house? None other than Sir Patrick Stewart himself.

So I couldn't help myself: during intermission, I approached him to tell him how excited I was to see him and to let him know just how much I had enjoyed his performance in A Life in the Theatre in 2005, which was the very last time I had been to the theatre in London, and what marvelous synchronicity I thought it all was. Unfortunately, I guess my enthusiasm came across as mental instability; as a result, in a valiant effort to protect her friend from potential physical harm (or so she thought), the older, slightly frumpy woman (aka “beard”) with whom Sir Patrick was attending the theatre that evening (think Susan Boyle, except less attractive) leapt to the conclusion that I was one of those crazy-stalker people and therefore proceeded to literally elbow me out of the way and do just about everything she could to get rid of me, short of actually calling for security. Super awkward.


Not Patrick Stewart’s girlfriend.

Anyway, as it turns out, I now know that the play in which Sir Patrick had appeared two years earlier was written by David Mamet, the founder of my school’s theatre company, and the creator, along with William H. Macy, of Practical Aesthetics, the acting technique that is taught at my school and which emerged from workshops that Mamet and Macy held at NYU back in the early 80's, when they were adjunct professors there.

(One last side note: Mamet and Macy met while attending university at Goddard College in Plainfield, Vermont, but folklore has it that they also both studied under Sanford Meisner at New York’s Neighborhood Playhouse, which still exists today.  According to the tales I have heard, while Macy successfully graduated from the Playhouse's highly selective two-year program, Mamet was not asked back for his second year and, probably as a result of that, turned his back on acting forever, to focus exclusively on writing.  However, I couldn't verify any of those last few facts, despite extensive research--and by extensive research, I mean I just checked the Wikipedia entries for "David Mamet" and "William H. Macy"--so, basically, don't quote me on the Neighborhood Playhouse stuff.  But what is undeniable is that the basic tenets of Practical Aesthetics clearly rely on principles of Meisner’s acting technique, although they deviate from them in certain important respects. For more on that, see this interesting article about Mamet from an April 1984 edition of New York Magazine.)

So back to the present. Even though I had seen A Life in the Theatre in 2005, I simply didn't know as much about theatre back then, and thus it never dawned on me that David Mamet was the author of that play; or, if I did know that at the time, it just wouldn’t have meant that much to me because I didn’t know anything about David Mamet, so I didn't remember it. But here we are in 2010, and I am now a graduate of a theatre school in which Mr. Mamet is still involved today: he came to speak to the students twice during my two years at the Atlantic, and in the fall of 2009, he was often seen walking the halls during the several weeks of rehearsals for his latest play Race, which he also directed, and which he and his cast, including James Spader, David Alan Grier, and Kerry Washington, rehearsed right inside our school, in what we knew as Studio 4--the largest studio-slash-classroom in the Atlantic’s space. (In fact, that’s how I got to meet Mr. Mamet briefly last year--I cornered him in the hallway one afternoon and peppered him with questions about Race, which opened on Broadway shortly thereafter to great acclaim--and deservedly so, in my opinion. And for the record, he was way nicer than his public persona would suggest.) 


I am not an a%&hole!

(For an example of a classic Mamet-style intellectual throw-down, check out this fascniating, but cringe-inducing interview he did with Charlie Rose back in July.)

Needless to say, I now know a lot more about David Mamet and his work, but I never realized until today that the play I had seen with Patrick Stewart in 2005 in London was one that Mr. Mamet had written.  And knowing what I know now, that fact suddenly takes on a great deal of significance for me. 

But, in addition, it also turns out that the new Broadway production of this play is being directed by Neil Pepe, Artistic Director of the Atlantic Theater Company. (Remember him?)  And guess where they rehearsed it?  That's right, good ol' Studio 4, right inside the Atlantic.  (I know this because I recognized the space from those theatermania.com interviews. Coincidence number 3.)

Perhaps these coincidences don’t seem all that coincidental to someone objective looking at this from the outside. But to me, it all just feels vaguely synchronicitous. The best way I can explain it is like this: when I think back on all of these experiences that I have had in and around the theatre, it almost feels like I have been groping my way through the dark towards this amazing destination, all the while getting closer and closer; and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get there some day soon, if I just keep groping. (Of course, I need to make sure I don’t grope Patrick Stewart in the process, ‘cause his “girlfriend” is one mean, aggressive b%$#@.)


Grrrrrr.

So it's official: Prince Albert--"His Serene Highness" of the Principality of Monaco--is finally giving up his long, LONG cherished bachelorhood and tying the knot with a tall, blond, South African swimmer named Charlene Wittstock.  (And, yes--Charlene is a girl.)


"Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

The two will marry some time in 2011, according to reports.

Now, it may just be me, but if I were a healthy, relatively attractive, multi-gazillionaire and--most importantly--HETEROSEXUAL prince, I don't think I would have had that much difficulty selecting a bride.  I mean, I would have assumed that there were plenty of attractive women chomping at the bit to become the new Grace Kelly, and that a Monagasque prince, such as His Serene Highness Albert, would have been able to pick practically any woman who struck his fancy.

And yet, here he is, a 52-year-old first-time fiancé.  Puzzling, n'est-ce pas?

Now granted, Charlene is a very pretty, very slender, very blond young woman, with good breeding and athletic arms.  Exactly the kind of girl I would have wanted to date when I was in high school.

I'm just saying.

All the same, I wish Crown-Prince Albert and his soon-to-be Crown-Princess Charlene all the best and many happy returns.

But if Albert starts making excuses like he "needs to study for his big exam in the morning" or he "can't have sex tonight because he already has plans to watch the Golden Girls," well, the good people of Monaco may just need to move on to Plan B--crowning Andrea Casiraghi, Princess Caroline's eldest son, as supreme ruler of Monaco.


"The name's Casiraghi--Andrea Casiraghi."

A very hot idea, if you ask me.