A Gentleman Greaser

Fair Reader,

"Greasing" - the act of slyly giving someone a tip through a handshake or other formal gesture - is a slight-of-hand trick that's part of every gent's trade. A gent can "grease" just about anyone, from the barber who gave you a suitable shave and a haircut, to the goon who forcibly removed your drunk girlfriend from the discotheque after she received a "manwich" from two Persian men on the dance floor.

"Your girlfriend like the Taio Cruz, no?"

But I was recently faced with a silly situation that even your humble Gent friend did not know how to handle. Which is why I posit this quandary to you, fair reader.

Last weekend I was in the Gent country house, writing in my journals while sitting in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace (and sipping from a glass of Chivas Regal, no less). I heard a loud knocking at the door and answered it. Standing in front of me was a splotchy-faced delivery boy, who told me that he had boxes of wine to deliver for my father, Allan the Gent.

You see my father, despite his voracious appetite for games of chance, has amassed quite a collection of French and Italian wines over the years, which he stores in a cellar at the basement of the Gent country home. I have noticed that some of the boxes in his collection are stamped with "Property of Nick & Toni's," but have never inquired as to why this is, or why that kind busboy from the Nick & Toni's restaurant always delivers wine at 3 a.m. in the company of armed guards...

But I digress. The delivery boy standing in front of me - who worked at the local wine store and was delivering this wine through "kosher means" - asked if he could bring the wine down to the cellar. I let him do his deed and returned to my journals (I was writing a bit on how I met a fiery
Sicilian lass who stole my heart - and my suitcase - during a trip to Palermo in 2003).

The delivery boy returned from the basement and said he was finished with the delivery. I told him to wait while I removed a $20 bill from my pocket. I gave it to him, he gave me an awkward "thank you" and then trundled off to his windowless van.

Moments later, I was putting a log into the fire when there was another knock at my door. The delivery boy returned to tell me that he made a mistake and delivered wine to the wrong household.

I let him go back downstairs to retrieve the wine. As I stood there by the basement door, waiting for him to leave, I was suddenly left to wonder:

Do I ask him for the $20 back? Or do I let him keep it?

Well, for one, the delivery boy was just tipped for delivering wine that was not meant for my or my father's enjoyment. He was rewarded for doing the wrong job, in other words. Then again, this delivery boy does work for a wine shop that my father regularly patronizes, so I could have tipped him in advance for when he makes the correct delivery.

Then there is the awkward bit of having to ask for the tip back. Yes, it is rude. But when is it warranted? Even I - in all my infinite wisdom - do not know the real answer.

In the end, I decided to let him keep the tip. Of course it dawned on me that perhaps I may have been the victim of a "grift," his delivery nothing more than a ruse to filch $20 from me. If that's the case, then well played, Wineboy grifter.

I turn to you, fair reader: What should I have done in this instance? Should I have asked for the money back? Was I right in letting him keep the money? Should I have locked him in my basement cellar and held him for $40 ransom, thereby doubling my profit?

You will notice a poll to the right of this post that corresponds to the issue at hand. Be a dear and leave your votes - or your comments below - on the matter.

A presto, and happy Autumn,
EtG

Ed the Gent, Gentleman Eagle

Fair Reader,

Lately I have been nothing more than a prisoner to the hourly wage, a wastrel forced to churn out copy as insipid and lifeless as a winter hat from Cabela's.

Imagine yours truly, a handsome man, confined to his desk like a raptor obediently clinging to the glove of a cruel falconer.

I am happy to say that this fancy bird is now free. I have removed the Dutch hood from my gorgeously quaffed head and have soared to the sky, on the prey for a life of affordable luxury, good shaves, and fine dining with my lady.

I will soar like a Gentleman Eagle, friends.

Dennis Parker, take it away.



Also, I checked and Robin Williams does not follow this video.

A presto,
EtG

PS - Here are some Fun Facts:
Dennis Paker Fun Fact #1: Dennis Parker's real name was "Wade Nichols."

Dennis Parker Fun Fact #2: Wade Nichols was a "gay for pay" porn star. He was also a "not gay for pay" porn star. His first feature roll was in "boynapped", according to Wikipedia. He also played Police Chief Derek Mallory in the soap opera "The Edge of Night." He was in "Marishino Cherries," presumably as a Police Chief who would possibly refer to his penis as his "gun" and his testicles as "law and order" just before engaging himself in a shag. I'm guessing at this point.

Dennis Parker Fun Fact #3: As "Like an Eagle" will attest to, porn stars really know how to disco.

Where a Gent's Allegiance Lies In Regards to Footie

Fair Reader,

I am man of two countries and two passports. I was born in London, but raised primarily in America. I have the perfect manners of an English duke while possessing the voracious appetite and boorish tastes of an overweight competitive eater/7-train conductor.

My American self, figuratively speaking.

Now you may ask where my allegiance lies during Saturday's "historic" World Cup match between the Yanks and the Blokes. Do I like-a da Bocanegra? Or am I looney for Rooney?

You like-a dis...

...or a dis?

I have been in the old country for World Cups past. England's love for their footie squad is always admirable, but seldom within the realm of feasibility. My fellow Brits, bless, think their team can go all the way, when seldom they surpass the final 8. The teams always had talent. Shearer was a venerable warrior, Beckham was a hyper-talented fop, Seaman was Seaman and John Terry was a scumbag - pardon the expression.

They finished in the quarterfinals in the Korea/Japan and German World Cups, leaving a nation eternally disappointed and Seaman a broken, ponytailed shell of his formal self.

Bless.

The Yanks, meanwhile, can't seem to get themselves past the sweet 16.

But let's not look at footie results. Let's look at the EtG facts:

My wondrous thighs were born in London, but they were toned, shaped, and oiled on American soil. I had my first snog on the streets of Belgravia, but I had my first of a lot of things on too many streets to name throughout our fair NYC.

My trousers may belong to the Queen, but my heart stays in America. That is why I will be wearing my DaMarcus Beasley jersey instead of painting the St. George flag on me face while celebrating a potential UK victory by drunkenly punching foreigners.

God save the Queen, and God bless the Yanks.

Happy World Cup,

EtG

The Largest Watch in the Free World

Greetings, Fair Reader,

It's been ages, hasn't it? I have learned that working something called "a full-time job" has made keeping a "full-time online journal" a rather pear-shaped experience.
But enough about my negligence, and on to my new swag.

Wake up, girl. EtG has returned.

If you're a fop like me who has a nose for good online deals, then you probably belong to The Gilt Groupe, a place where bargain-savvy blokes and sharp-elbowed pooftahs battle one another for heavily discounted Varvatos v-necks and, in rare instances, Moschoni mink thongs.
I have been in the market for a new wristwatch after losing my beloved Rolex to some pikey roustabout.
The Gilt Groupe recently held a sale for Swiss Legend watches, a company that I knew little about, save for its tagline: "Watches tick. Legends inspire."
As I do possess a set of legendary thighs that make many-a-lass's ticker go off like a certain coked-up Argentine head coach's, I thought that this would be the watch for me.

Of course, in the world of Gilt Groupe, you barely have a second to think about your thighs.
With the Swiss Legend sale, Gilt Groupe featured a black Neptune watch that grabbed my slightly lazy eye. I say "lazy" as I failed to look at the actual dimensions of the watch, listening instead to it's greatly reduced price (down by nearly $300 from its original price) and my bare wrist.
The watch arrived last week, wrapped in an impressive red leather case and feeling a good five pounds heavier than I anticipated. I also learned after removing the watch from its packaging that it was huge, much larger than a Panerai watch.
I put the watch on my wrist and immediately felt its weight. I then recalled my last fitting at my tailors, who discovered that my right arm sagged lower than my left due to years of wearing messenger bags (not "murses," mind you). Perhaps this five-pound watch would level my arms? Or maybe it will result in me looking like the spokesman for a certain future television network...

For the record, I like large-faced watches and think they can work in certain situations. Obviously their formidable size often makes it a mismatch with formal wear like suits and jackets. But if you have the pythons to don a Panerai, then throw down the change for a good one like this vintage:

Otherwise, use them as neckwear.

Personally, I have never been one for large watches. EtG's watch style is - like his romancing - understated, classy and slightly naughty. After putting on the Swiss Legend, I suddenly found myself wanting to put on a shark-tooth necklace, wear shirts that were buttoned up to my navel, change my name to "Omri" and invite naive Estonian girls to my "studio" in Amagansett where I can photograph them. And by "studio," I mean the men's loo at The Talkhouse.

I told her over the din of flushing that I could make her the next Toccara.

After wearing the watch on a few occasions, I admit that it has grown on me. The urge to ply Eastern European women with cocaine and empty promises to launch their modelling careers in exchange for h*nd jobs in a lavatory was only a momentary one. Besides, I think it looks quite nice, no?

A presto,

EtG

On Why A Gent Should Always Carry a Handkerchief

Fair Reader,

I have written before about the importance of carrying a handkerchief for both stylistic and practical purposes. Leave a handkerchief partially poking out of your breast pocket and women will notice a seriously trill-ass Gent. Take out your handkerchief to wipe your gold teeth and women will notice you're a seriously grill-ass herb.

not trill

It has been my custom to carry a handkerchief wherever my personal or professional travels may take me. Yes, I use it to wipe my hands after opening up a dodgy doorknob, and yes, I use it to dab my brow after performing a sexually-charged version of Liszt's "Don Juan Fantasy" on my Gentleman harpsichord to my lass.

Last week I was walking the - literally - rough-and-tumble streets of Astoria to meet with a source on a story I was doing for my new boss, Bort Savemearse-Tuckerman. At some point during my handsome stroll, the toe of my new Red Wing Iron Ranger boot caught a jagged piece of the sidewalk.

Immediately I lunged forward but was able to keep my balance as my feet did a cartoonish jig. I dropped my Diet Pepsi (not trill), thought I was going to regain my balance, only to let my clumsy momentum propel me to the concrete, landing on both hands at full force.

An old man was walking towards me during my tumble, and did he stop to help EtG to his feet? F**k no. The wanker just walked past, not even giving yours truly a "how was the trip?" old man joke, which old men are wont to do (the unfunny tossers).

Gentleman FAIL

I sustained two large gashes on the index finger of my left hand and the palm of my right. As I had an interview to conduct that would require me to transcribe on a notepad - without using blood as ink - I was in a slight bind.

Luckily I had my handkerchief on me. I was able to fashion a bandaid around index finger with the handkerchief to stem the bleeding.

And my interview subject in Astoria - a young Greek woman, natch- was all too eager to bandage your loyal Gent up. And yes, she remarked on the handkerchief (she said it now looked like a feminine hygiene project (nasty)), but that's besides the point.

So the lesson today is: Get them gold out yo' mouth and them hankies in your jackets, Gentayahs!

A presto,

EtG

PS - "Gentayahs" is a cross between a "Gentleman" and a "Playah."

A white Gent should never showcase his thighs.

For shame, Busfield. For shame.

Two arbitrary thoughts from an arbitrary Gent

Fair Reader,

1) Last night I was at an impromptu reunion with classmates from a Manhattan prep school I briefly attended. My old classmates - all moderately successful in their own rights, mostly finance types - plowed through tons of voddy and scotch and the whatnot. Some of them seemed awfully fond of this Bolivian schnapps that they could only drink in pairs while in the loo. Did I say "Bolivian schnapps"? I meant "high-powered cocaine." Although this Gent did not partake, I marveled at the fact at these finance types' unoriginality. I thought we were all in a recession?

The spot where this event took place was at a bar that markets itself as a "Dorian's downtown." Dorian's, as you may or may not know, is a place enjoyed by attractive prepsters who may be soulless and who may enjoy Bolivian schnapps. Its downtown version lures in a similar clientele - for better and for worse - and I left both drunk and feeling mildly dispirited by the whole event. It's like visiting Boston.

What's worse, some wretched cokehead made off with my umbrella.

The perp.

2) Be it nerves, restless jaw syndrome or a secret desire to be as jittery as my former classmates, I have a curious addiction to gum. I can go through three packs of orbit - 42 pieces in all - in just one work day (now with my new publisher, Bort Savemearse-zuckerman). Some would call it a quirky habit, others "disgusting" or "minty." And if I keep abusing gum at a furious pace, it will soon ravage my youthful looks. From MSNBC.com:

Experts attribute the gum-wrinkle connection to two things. First, there’s the repetitive motion of chewing, which causes lines and folds around the mouth due to muscle overuse, says Dr. Hema Sundaram, a Washington, D.C.-area cosmetic surgeon and laser expert.

“I believe chewing gum promotes muscle over-activity and potentially breaks down support tissue within the skin, contributing to volume loss and perhaps loss of skin elasticity,” she says.

What's more, chewing gum can dislodge dermal fillers that people have injected into their faces to plump up their wrinkles.

By next year, I may look ten years older than my actual age (meaning - I will look 32).

EtG