Breakups, Fortune Cookies and Writing a Wrong

Men and women are not so different.

If you agree with the above statement- read on. If you don’t agree with it, go watch Jack Reacher. Fast forward to the bathroom fight scene, it’s awesome.

Now, this isn’t to say there aren’t major differences going on. (The survival of the romantic comedy genre depends on it.) We’re different in that women love wine and we love beer . . they love Orange is the New Black and we love sports . . they love shoes whereas we love beer and sports . . they love Nicholas Sparks whereas we love beer and sports and Nicholas Sparks jokes . . they love Dr. Oz whereas we need to have plenty of beer in us just to discuss his show. So . . yanno, there’s plenty of difference happening in the battle of the sexes. And dammit if the dames didn’t leave us licking our wounds at the end of the last century with the Bradshaw Conflict. They had Carrie and we had Terry. Game, set, nail polish.

If you don’t agree with my painfully simple generalizations, go read Fifty Shades. Skim through to the bathroom fight scene, it’s awesome.

Arguments and breakups are where the sexes tend to join ranks- not in agreement over the particulars but in the overall assessment that romantic relationships can send our verklempt-ometer to DEFCON 1 quicker than just about anything on Gore’s green earth . Our prisms beckon differently but our trajectories are nevertheless parallel on this count, at least in the immediate aftermath.

Me and my gal pal had a tiff recently. I am not going to enlist a point for point on it since I am of the belief that personal shit should only be broadcast on video surveillance cameras (Yes, that’s a shout out to Jay-Z. Go Brooklyn!). Let’s just say it went stupid faster than Shia LeBeouf in a yoga class.

Here’s a ‘lil music mash-up that perfectly describes the temporary euphoria you experience when you walk away from a love thing whilst believing you were right to do so. Be warned, this quirky hopefulness is soon replaced with every single fucking Morrissey song. And wine. Hopefully you don’t live in a high rise when the twain meet . . .

Anyways, while I was breaking up with ‘me lady- and before I realized I wasn’t really breaking up so much as tripping the light phantasmagoria- I had a little time to spare. So I asked the cosmos to provide me some answers. If not for Chinese restaurants, I might still be waiting for a sign. And here is why the men of mars and women of venus ain’t so different after all. Because when push gets to shoving on matters of romance, we run to fortune cookies and advice columns- ignoring the fact that the former are made in Hoboken while the latter really need to be.

I take fortune cookies quite seriously because I have this idea that you should search for life’s answers with the innocence of a child. And so here’s what mine said:

You were right! I would high five you but I’m a fortune cookie wrapper. Reward yourself with a weekend of porn and more Chinese food. And remember, you are the man! 

Okay, I took a ‘lil artistic license with the fortune. If you’re curious as to what it really said? Oookay . . .

You will die alone. 

Since when did fortune cookie writers get all Sylvia Plath? Chill fortune cookie writers . . . chill.

Seriously speaking, arguments, tiffs and break ups are not a zero sum game, to be sliced and diced in neat little units of sameness. So what did I do with all that pissed off energy? Well, I cursed lots- or, even more than usual. I ate a shitload of junk food and chased it with maniacal runs, yep, so I could curse even more. I even tossed with calling up Vera Farmiga to see if she was ready to run away with me, but I decided it was better to have that conversation in person. Yanno, so I could introduce myself.

And then, right in the middle of all that pissed off energy being loosed like Charlie Sheen dollars at a strip club . . my gal pal called. And then, we turned the tiff into talk and we came to understand that there may be a thousand different ways to connect with a person in this day and age, but a voice still matters most.

And then I said something that vaporized all the pissed off energy I had been carrying for days on end. A simple proclamation to which all that mattered was the here and now, not the then and gone.

I was wrong.

It’s amazing, the alchemy that happens out of three little words; the crazy dichotomy of feeling so completely right about admitting you are wrong. Admitting such a thing may not be ergonomically designed to provide comfort to your prideful posture, but guess what? It’s free. And it’s more liberating than the Expendables in Latin America. So as far as romantic advice goes, I would stick with Fleetwood Mac and fortune cookies. Keep company with the former when things go wrong and crunch up the latter when a certain someone is smiling up the seat across from you.

If you don’t agree with my romantic advice, you should have been checking out the bathroom fight scene from Jack Reacher by now. With nachos and cheese. And beer. But okay . . lazybones, here it is.

And you really didn’t think I was leaving Venus out of my end tap, did you?


The Irish Post IV: Of Curls, Commands and Cats

Irish GirlMy first Irish post came about the same way most people do, as a result of great passion and very much by accident. After which I kinda sorta knew I had a favorite place to run my writing legs, thanks to the patron Saint of those rolling green hills and the songs it birthed.

The feast of St. Patrick is about way more than drinking yourself silly. The holiday is an obligation to the cross, a pleading weep of consecrated vows handed down from the age of chieftains and nobles. It is a ceremony of songs and books and theatrical productions, the most memorable of which get played out on the smallest stages. It is a ritual whose maintenance is repaired annually and remembered fondly on the other three hundred and sixty four.

It is love. Peaceful, honest and truly that. Love.

And so this Irish post shows up a few days late, which makes it right on time seeing as how my very first Irish post showed up the same way. Coloring outside the lines is why I love this holiday so much. Well, it’s one of the reasons. Another one is curls. The red, flowing ones whose danger is implicit and whose rhyme is sweet.

Vera Irish

(Yep, I had to tuck the lovely Vera Farmiga in here, seeing as how I’ve been remiss in doing so recently. She’s the unofficial Drinks Well with Others poster girl. And okay, so maybe she doesn’t care whether I mention her or not, but my man John is okay with me doing just that. And while I’m busy with shout outs, a big thank you to the So Cal contingent of my Irish posse for thinking of me. That Wish Factor chica is good peeps.)

This year, my St. Patrick’s Day became a casualty to Monday. Tell ya what, there should be a law that prohibits the holiday from falling on a week day. Sooooo, my tradition of spending the holy day with an Irish girl was moved to Tuesday. Delayed by a day, but no less a celebration because of it.

Yesterday went green with the first toast. Me and Irish talked about the past and we laughed about the present and we drank to the future, and the 18th became the best idea since the 17th.

“Write an Irish post.” She commanded.

It doesn’t take St. Patrick for me to listen when she throws a request like this out there. She’s got hell fire inside her commands, in the loveliest of ways. We have shared the last five St. Patrick’s Days in various stages of assemblage. Not always together in the same place, but always together.

One of my favorite stories of us comes from the time after we broke up several years back. It’s a favorite story on account of the fact she’s Irish and I’m Latin, and as such we share the propensity for attaching punch lines to trying times.

I had told her I needed some time, after which she introduced me to a nuanced universe of Fuck You whenever I tried contacting her. It was a couple weeks before I could convince her to meet me for a drink; a tenuous detente, to be sure. The calamity of a pissed off Irish girl with a few drinks in her might have been something to avoid if I hadn’t experienced such a thing many times before. The curse of Yeats is my witness, but I’m addicted to that kind of romantic entanglement where a kiss or an uppercut is an even money bet. 

The conversation began sporadically as our words desperately searched for an anchor to which we could burn away the awkwardness. And then a memory found its way in, and this memory fostered a joke and before long we were regaling in the history we had accomplished. And then we were chasing away the silence with tawdry jokes and wicked glances, and we were smiling away the self imposed punishment we had created. The stubbornness of a Catholic upbringing became the common thread we could hold to and curse at. And then, as happens when the fates feel like smiling, there came an opening. 

“How’s Mr Speaker?” She asked. 

“Kicking ass and taking names, as usual. Hey, you want to see him?” I replied.

Her smile let me know what the night was going to look like.  


He won’t chase snakes and he’s a lousy mouser, but that black cat of mine proved to be the best damn wing man in the world, and the whole of Ireland.

And then a nowhere night felt like St. Patrick’s Day, with an Irish girl behaving in accordance whilst getting plenty of help from a scoundrel whose affections were rewarded in kind. And just like the Holy Day, the world got busy making all kinds of sense inside the smallest stage.

Tradition is borne in darkness but raised in light, and so it is with St. Patrick’s Day. So, as the Gaelic blessing goes . . may the road rise up to meet you and may the wind be always at your back. Just remember that the road is yours to take.

Enjoy the walk.

Sunday Morning Coffee Love

Inner Harbor, September ’06:

“We’re not gonna work, are we?” She said.

I left the silence to answer. The emptiness curled into a heap of invisible ash as we sat on a bench and watched the sun race away from us. Our embrace was thick with the sad knowledge of a chapter’s end- the reading of a story whose happiness is lost to the death of words. Our breaths were deep and willing places and the heat of our clench was not simply a respite but a necessary store whose memory would provide some warmth for the tomorrow which had gotten lost.

I’m not sure how long we sat on the bench. Could have been five minutes, maybe an hour. It was as if we had somehow lost the value of time  inside the spiraling cosmos. Clocks were like calendars . .  were like pictures of a day left spent and useless inside a framed cage. Our million miles worth of string now broken, the flood of memories escaping from their quarters in galloping snippets of inappropriate candor. We were orphans to the promises once made, strangers to the light it once allowed us to walk on.

We moved from the bench, no longer hand in hand. Separating. We walked along this way, borrowing from the fractured moments of our shared afternoon. Lovers gone serious, as if children without training wheels to forge their make believe. It seemed as if all the conversations surrounding us were drunk on laughter and hope. As if the whole world was finding love, except for the space of our empty arms. My brain spun with the idea that I would never take the crazy chance again. What was the use of falling in love when the end leaves you screaming in silence and alone to the mornings?

The poisonous entreaties of low hanging fruit make a bloody mess of things on your innards, and I didn’t care. I ate from the bitter, the angry, the confused and the fearful. I ate until my stomach was ready to give up.

The night had lost its charm. The romance of its arms had gone cold to chance and fate and destiny as if the performance had been of smoke and mirrors. The night was no longer a place to get lost inside of, but a utility to be consumed in properly recorded minutes. I would fill its ledger with smoking, drinking, crying and then with doing it all over again.  I would kill the phone and loose the most depressing songs from their burdensome nest. I would think on how she was going somewhere else and I was going to have the left side of the bed to ponder on.

And then I grabbed her hand, despite the absurd failure of it all. And then she grabbed mine back, as if in agreement with the end but insistent on spelling it differently. And then we rearranged the final moments as if pieces of a car wreck too plentiful to jigsaw into working ever again as the moon crept in for its long and brilliant weep.

Sunday Morning Coffee Love- The Art of the Witch

I dated a witch once.

Mind you, I was never presented with an actual letter of authenticity other than her profile in which she identified herself as such. Being I was only shelling out like twenty bucks a month, I figured it was great value- to meet a witch, even a self professed one.

It was early on that I began to doubt the veracity of this witch business. She owned an impressive collection of books, yet try as I might I couldn’t find a single copy of damnable proof. No pentagram puzzles, no How To Hex Books, No Wicca for Dummies, no Jong or Rice . . not even a Rowling.

The only witchcraft I witnessed came when we would steal the moon away by holding court in never sleep coffee shops. We would immerse ourselves in these thick and varied conversations- from politics to music to the sitcom as cockroach.

She would rant on about how she wanted to emulate Salinger’s success as an author one day. Write a novel and then disappear into the ‘burbs.

I didn’t really believe her when she said these things. It felt more like a caked up postulate, a pipe dream she could accessorize to fit her mood. Pretending you don’t want to be famous is a favorite pastime of people who desperately want to be famous. It doesn’t make you a witch. Unless we’re talking Kate Gosselin.

Thing was, she engendered such an espirit jeune that I found it impossible not to believe whatever she said. She also happened to possess these sensational legs.

Her stories were groovy expeditions; especially the ones where she would rappel into adventurous vignettes. Such as the cross country trip she took or the time she bummed around France for a month on city benches and hostels, living on cigarettes and crusty bread and getting by on her good looks and long legs.

See, here’s the thing. Women concern themselves with stuff like finances . . children . . commitment. A guy worries about legs. Meeting legs, getting to know legs, holding on to legs- figuratively, literally, perpetually. The truth is, when it comes to perspective? Men rent the space that women own outright. So for those of you who really believe all that shit about men ruling the world? Go back to sleep.

Ask a guy about global warming and he might be able to give you eight seconds worth of opinion. Ask the same guy about legs, and then pull up a chair, bake a cake, take a nap, call your relatives in California and go visit them while you’re at it.

I remember the night when she convinced me that she was, in fact, a witch. We were sitting along this grassy bank overlooking a pond and waxing metaphysical, when she removed herself from my embrace and began undressing before plunging into the water.

In that moment, I was ashamed of myself for ever having doubted her.

Sunday Morning Coffee Love

When I re-entered the dating pool, I jumped right in without skimming the water. I was thirty eight, she was twenty six, and I would learn very early on in the relationship that you best be careful what you wish for. So I called a married friend of mine for support, and got this instead.

February 6, 2005:

“Hey lover boy! What’s up?”

“I’m gonna break it off.”

“Already? How long has it . .”

“Two weeks, give or take my sanity.”

“Ah, she’s crazy huh?.”

“No, she’s great. We have great conversations, great sex, great sleeping mojo, and for once . . I actually have a social life.”

“I’m sorry, you’re breaking up with a hot stripper because she makes you happy?”

Former stripper.”

“Dude, strippers are like doctors. They don’t have to be practicing to be of great value.”

“We went clubbing last night and we’re sitting right up against each other, so she asks me if I’m having fun. By texting me.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Shut up. I’m getting NO sleep. We got in at two thirty, she was up at 6! We’re supposed to go to an Eagles Super Bowl party later . . I’d rather have root canal.

“Here’s some advice. You drink too much, call in sick tomorrow and catch up on sleep. I do it every year.”

“I swear, I never saw a person with so many friends, and they’re all named Zach or Dallas  . . it’s like an M. Night movie. Oh, and they’re gonna be playing beer pong,”

“Fun game.”

“A ping pong tournament where the winner reports directly to AA, ain’t a fun game. It’s a cry for help. And they’ll probably be playing Call of Duty too  . . shit.”

“My nephew loves that game.”

“Right, he’s twelve years old.”

“Just tell her you work tomorrow and you want to bounce early.”

“I don’t want her to think I can’t hang.”

“So you break up, that’s much better.”

“If not for the fact I have the kids this week, do you realize the shit I was gonna be subjected to?”

“I don’t know, sex and partying?”

“She’s going skiing, on a weeknight. There’s wings and beer every Wednesday. And Thursday, a friend of hers is playing the Chameleon. I know that sounds like fun and games for you Honey Do Lister’s, but trust me, the reality is exhausting.”

“Spoken like a thirty eight year old man whose idea of a good time is pizza delivery and a Tarantino marathon.”

“Carolyn insists I don’t look a day over thirty.”

“Of course she does. Women are blind when they’re having sex with a guy. Like, Jenny insists I’m not fat.”

“Whatever, I’m gonna talk to her today.”

“Don’t do something you’re gonna regret.”

“Regret? It’s been two weeks! I’ve left my car parked longer than that.”

“Give it another week, maybe things will slow down. You’ll get bored with each other, the sex will become less frequent. And then you’ll be happy.”

One Week Later . . .

I chose Barnes and Noble and delivered the news over mocha coffees. Her response was to invite me rock climbing. It occurred to me inside that moment, that I had chosen right, even if we were all wrong for each other.

Love is a funny thing.

Sunday Morning Coffee Love

I bought my first Bon Jovi album, grudgingly. Thanks to a girl from Port Richey, Florida whose life’s ambition was to tour with the band. I moved most of my stuff into her place and we commenced with the extravagance of being young and stupid. It was in the wilderness otherwise known as the ’80s where we pledged forever after to each other. We got half a summer’s worth of that.

So I caught a plane back home with as much of my crap as I could stuff into a single piece of luggage. This summer marked the 25th anniversary of her promise to ship the rest of my stuff back, and as many issues as the post office seems to have . . I know better than to blame this one on them.

Out of that heave back North came an album, the one I bought for her. I remember being a bleary eyed, heartbroken mess when I scavenged through my things . . . coming upon the LP Slippery When Wet-hers. I cursed at the unfairness of it all, to be kicked to the curb and then to be gifted an album from this fluke of a hair band that was never gonna last.

Proof that two wrongs can make a right.



A Kilarny Kiss and Make Up: Irish Eyes Post, The Sequel

I should have known it was too easy.

St. Patrick’s Day on a Saturday is a slam dunk. The Holiest of hops and barley days inside the cushy bookend of a Friday get together with friends and a big breakfasted Sunday? Hell, the only thing more certain than the 17th was Duke breezing through the weekend unscathed.

Uh . . . yeah . . . Lehigh 75- Duke 70.

Best laid plans, yanno? Not that I had any plan at all for Saturday, cause I didn’t. My girlfriend was spending the day pub crawling with her daughter, so my Irish girl streak was ending at four.

That knowledge is what turned my Friday night into an extra inning affair. I gallivanted the roaming march of prelude into more rounds than an old school prize fight and finished it with that penultimate objective to a bar flight gone much too long: Shots.

Needless to say, Saturday morning got to stepping a tad bit earlier than I was comfortable with.

When you wake up to St. Patrick’s Day with no desire to hold it in your arms and seal it with an 80 proof kiss, not good. The reason I didn’t have a cranky souvenir come morning is simple. I stick to the clear stuff, I drink beer on the back side, I chase all of it with ice water and I take an Alka-Seltzer before bed, regardless. It’s the Mt. Vesuvius Solution, free of charge, and you’re welcome.

I took my lessons learned and started tugging keyboard at seven thirty, full of more piss than vinegar and subsisting on Cuban coffee, YouTube playlists, more ice water and pecan waffles.

Fast forward six hours (writing time moves like rain) and the purge was hammering out a disrespectful bit ‘o payoff. I was three heavily edited pages thick and munching on a PB&J sandwich, God help me. No bar hops on my radar, no plush to lush it up inside of. Nada and colada, in perfectly unconsummated dry dock.

What’s worse, I had fielded several calls in the time in between. Cutting each one short at the knees, in keeping with my tee-totaling totalitarianism. How was it possible that this boyfriend of an Irish girl many times over had abandoned all will to bend an elbow inside the liturgy of broguish commandments?

By five thirty in the afternoon, (Post Happy Hour on a day with twenty four of the sons ‘o bitches) my obscenity knew no equal. I had wasted another hour and change in re-writing a story whose main character was Protestant enough and then followed that up by watching Elizabeth with Cate Blanchett. Granted, timing has never been a strong point of mine. But really?

Snakes alive.

Who saves me but my daughter. She asks me what I’m doing and I tell her I’m writing. She asks (wisely) whether I am dressed yet and makes certain that I have tended to her cat. And then she tells me to pick her up from Grandma’s house cause she wants to go out to eat.

So an hour later I’m tossing back a Guinness toast. Salvaging what’s left of my misbegotten soul in the weeping hours of a day gone short. Spending my time with a girl who may not be Irish, but who knows plenty well how to handle a stubborn man. I’ve been in love with her from the time her little eyes opened into a Stevie Wonder blossom song.

There has to be a Saint’s blessing hanging over me when the good women keep showing up this way.

Things always happen in a way outside of normal

No one hates a know it all more than I do.

Especially when the know it all happens to be moi. And by Guildenstern if I did not set myself up for this one. I mean, if Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason would’ve been pickpocketing the sweet velvety rolls to a Friday night’s ransom, they could not have come up with a meaner, bigger or fatter bit of happenstance with which to shut my yap.

Consternation is the best way of putting it. Cause I was dismayed on a scale to fit Dante’s furnace beyond capacity. That frilly, silly little circle of hell and all its accoutrements wasn’t figuring on parental advice gone awry when they went doing all that poetic anger on the lonesome range of things way back in the day.

My dismay coming from the sound parental advice I always muster up to my brood. Which goes something like “Watch your shit, because if it gets lost you pay for it. I can pay for it, but if I do, you have to listen to my shit and what’s worse, you have to agree with it.”

I call that What to Expect After You’ve Been Born to Parents Who Know Better.

I’m not a Virgil. Hell, as far as I’m concerned? The Romans created Coliseums, Sbarro, and Martin Scorsese’s disturbing allegorical misfits. I’m not about to bother myself with all the rest of it.

Until tonight, that is. When I lost my wallet.

For men, losing a wallet is akin to God’s change up. And lemme tell you, that white bearded old SOB has a good one at the ready . . .

There IS a defense to this story, and it comes with no additional fee. I had just come from an early evening dalliance with my girl at the crib. Which, in Dante parlance means, a quickie. And from there I had to grab a dinner for my son, who was staying after school, and whose mother (my ex wife)  was going to pick him up later and take him to her place.

That’s a lot of math for a guy to figure out by himself. Sorry on the whiny interval.

So I called him up for his dinner choice and he went with Subway. He is so smart, so young and so very dumb on food. But I moved forward on that order. I picked it up. Delivered it up. Turned around and picked up my little girl from my mother’s house. And we were off . . .

Excepting for one little thing. My wallet.

One little thing equals jest. Because truth be told, a man’s wallet . .  ain’t jest. Us men can joke around all day and night on purses, but the truth of the matter is that our wallets matter, in a very apocalyptic way. Sidle up to a man who just lost his wallet and tell me otherwise. Just try . .

A man who loses his wallet is like Grant sleeping over in Richmond. It’s like Hiroshima, on crack. Okay, you want me to go really hardcore on your ass? It’s like the Super Bowl being blacked out to everyone other than Joe Biden. How’s about that for some not pretty stuff?

So, we’re getting back in the car when the girl spots something and yells “Hey Dad, what’s that?” And that, is when lo meets behold. There. Stuck in the side pocket . . of my car door. My wallet.With no thanks to Newman or Gleason. Nah. Just my little girl. Who always seems to catch her Dad on every important thing.

And I was caught. So I did what any responsible father would do in that instance. “Hey baby, let’s go shopping. Anything you want. On me.”And God bless her pretty little soul, she kept it on the cheap. With baking arrangements. You have no blessed idea how much I love this child, but there’s that.

So we’re baking tonight. The boy is away, so it’s just me and her and the cat and some really bad movie picks. Loading up on Chinese takeout and a batch of chocolate croissants. Which sounds and tastes much better than a lost wallet and hours of time on the phone with voices from another continent.


They really do rock.

Chances are the only things worth their price

I remember the first time we met.

You extended your hand and introduced yourself after a deep conversation as to the pacifistic qualities of a solo cup and the timelessness of a good salsa mix-tape. I remember you were dressed all in patience and wherewithal- Your bright hippie sundress with Cleopatra sandals making time with the eyes of every stranger in the room.

We didn’t bother ourselves with the predictable manifestations of a cocktail mixer exchange. In other words, we didn’t bother flirting, thanks mostly to the fact I was with her and you were with a different her. And that was good, because it would have been a shame to break that peaceful flow and that smile of words we had going. I’ve always liked to think that the small places feel better because they mean better, and we really had one going on that night.

Your crazy Irish hair wouldn’t become a melody blanket thing for me until some time later, starting with that night when you called me up and asked if I was free for a drink. You were all a mess and needing that friendly voice for the less complicated moments it might afford.

So it was that we spent the better part of a couple hours, getting drunk on vodka martinis as we tried to deconstruct the logic to such an illogical thing as love. You’d broken it off with her, and I was bitching about my last try, so we were vagabonding it with solutions that didn’t have to make as much sense as the company did.

And that’s when the looks we gave each other changed for the first time, from friendly passing glances into a curiosity.

You asked me back to your place, and in doing so you changed the hours and the meaning of each one of them. We ended up laying on your living room floor, emptying the last of your Bombay and listening to Bowie play out against the walls. Releasing the chances, until the only thing left to worry about was breakfast.

And since you first began remedying my swim, I’ve filled up the negative space with the need to learn again and some more, and differently.  You have helped to guide my hesitant chops into more confident strides. Back to a place I sometimes thought I wouldn’t try reaching again, not on the meanest sort of dare.

Maybe you’re right. Maybe some day we’ll just have to rob banks together. And we’ll jam to Bowie in our getaway ride to some place sandy, and we’ll argue over my inability to get along with your GPS to save my life. And you’ll teach me how to curse in French and I’ll explain to you why the greatest player in the history of baseball was Willie Mays. Less complicated and more available to the crazy chances. Like that.

Anything’s possible.

And yeah, I remember this song . . .

Gisele-Gate goes to show how far men have fallen

Here’s the thing . . . when asked to pick a side in this Giselle imbroglio, I’m siding with the Brazilian bombshell by way of knockout.  Because I believe she was singled out by a ball-less miscreant whose disembodied punk session is testament to just how far man has fallen since John Wayne started paying a heavenly mortgage.

When did men lose the co to their jones? When did machismo jump the shark? And did the term bromance have anything to do with it?

This is not directed at all men, of course. Just those fools who get their kicks by taking pot shots at celebrity wives for no other reason than it grants them seven and a half minutes of Youtube notoriety and a morning segment on the Opie and Anthony Show. These guys are part of what I like to call the NO FEAR tribe. You know the type. They ‘pound’ sandwiches but drink light beer? Them.

Another tribesman made the scene this week, calling out a woman whose husband just lost a Super Bowl whilst hiding behind several offensive line’s worth of cameras and microphones. His “Eli owns your husband!” taunt was cowardly even by today’s far more forgiving standards.

Gisele’s reaction was in direct opposition to the supermodel rep she has to tote around. She showed herself to be human. Here’s a girl who loves her man, who roots him on and who feels downright shitty when he falls short.

There was no indifference shown in that video, no obligatory look-away; her riches haven’t rendered her an impassive zombie who just shows up to sporting events to gorge on media brioche. The girl is worth upwards of 150 mil, after all. She could have bought five minutes of air time on Sunday night and taken a nap inside it.

Knowing she’s THAT invested in his career is some cool shit.

The fact that she threw Tom’s boys under the bus doesn’t make her a sore loser, as some have claimed. It makes her a celebrity wife. This kind of dialogue is an every day excursion for celeb wives. Their friendships are tenuous at best, murderously venomous at worst- and sometimes all within the span of three hours time. Should Giselle have singled out those Patriots who played dropsy with the ball? Of course not. But she was absolutely right to think it. Hell, you need look no further than the fourth quarter to see where she was coming from.

Her response was unfortunate, sure. But it was real time stuff. It wasn’t blanched through a half dozen publicists before it caught the news feed. How many of us can boast of being crystal clearheaded in split second samples? If you raised your hand, you’re either running for office or Sainthood- which makes you a straight up liar in either instance.

Personally, I wish she would have index fingered this joker into a corner with a Vader-like grip and then followed it up with a little verbal judo the minutes of which would have read: “Listen scrimp dick. Just because you’re jealous as all get out over the fact that Tom and I are sexier than you could ever imagine yourself into being, and just because we’re going to have Super Bowl losing sex tonight- which happens to trump any sex you will EVER have- stop your hating, you filthy, bitter, jealous pig!” 

Sorry, that was editorial (ahem) consent.

Okay, with a few moments to game plan, she might have devised a non-verbal rejoinder instead. Something like, oh say . . .  punching this lightweight in the mouth. And as she walked away, she could have issued a clarion call to NO FEAR tribesmen everywhere.

“Man up.”