My grandfather is a Frank Sinatra loving old school Roman Catholic Italian Man….with a capital M.
So much of my childhood memories are centered around his dining room table, passing around bowls of pasta and meat hearing stories of how things ‘used to be’…
I learned about respect and honesty from him…and integrity and intelligence…
And pride for where I come from…
and that’s what Jersey is all about where I come from.
We are not the Italians that you see on television.
Mobsters who won’t take no for an answer who hang out at Satin Doll’s (Bada-whatever the fuck’s) showed the rest of the world that my people and were rough around the edges and string together long phrases with lots of needless vowels tossed about the place…
I’ve never said that in my life by the way.
And especially since that show came out, I absolutely refuse to let the words, “Forget about it,” come out of my mouth no matter how clean I enunciate.
Mobster tough guys who push people around for the sake of earning the almighty dollar are not my people.
Then came that other awful Jersey show…about the gold digging wives who live in the posh parts of the state…parts of the state where they look down on you if you don’t carry a purse that was made within the last 6 months…or if your car is over 2 years old.
Women who throw tables at women they only pretended to like because it was financially acceptable to…
One, so narcisistic, that she thought that it would be a splendid idea to sell the Duckface Pic equilivent of a porn video to Vivid in order to generate some buzz for herself to extend her 15 minute celebrity shelf life to…oh, lets say 17 1/2 minutes.
When I say that ‘porn’ was terrible, it was terrible.
Those bitches? They are not my people.
Now we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel.
The Hollywood television machine has dug so deep into the bowels of New Jersey that they’ve come out on the other side of the Hudson into New York and shipped a few of their orange castaways down the Shore to our part of the Atlantic Ocean.
I’m not so into the ‘scene’ down the shore…there are too many drunk attention whoring antics for me…I don’t care how good the french fries and friend oreos are (and they are quite tasty) I just can’t bring myself to brave the 4 hours worth of traffic (on a drive that should take an hour and a half) down the greedy greedy highway that takes your money 8 times round trip…to walk shoulder to shoulder down the boardwalk with orange people.
The way I look at it is…the orange people don’t come and fist pump their bass in Barnes and Noble, so I’m not going to try and relax and read a book down in Seaside Heights.
It’s just 2 completely different worlds who are forced to coexist within the same area of the country.
I stay far away from them and they stay far away from me.
The problem is that all of these shows have made other people in the country to assume that because I am from where I am from…
and because I talk (tawk) like I talk (tawk) I am first of all an idiot and second of all a tough guy (Heeeeeeeeeyy! Fogedaboudit!).
Part of my day job in the office involves me calling companies up on the phone and collecting money.
Sometimes it’s frustrating because people hear my accent and they assume that they have to take the angry defensive because my voice sounds like it does…
“Where you from?”
“Ohhhhh I should have known,” and then the conversation takes a turn for the worse.
I’m pleading to the world.
Please don’t judge me by my accent.
Please take the time to listen to what I have to say before you assume that I have a poof in my teased hair and that I fist bump the night away.
Don’t think that everyone that lives in this state has stock in hair gel and flips the fuck out and instigates fights at the drop of a hat.
Though I will admit…
I love using the phrase, “Muff Cabbage,”