CUP OF COFFEE
ALL ACROSS TOWN
THE SUPER BOWL PARTY
THAT KIND OF GUY
A CUP OF COFFEE
Patsy Dreckenheimer opened up the Daily News and flipped
through the headlines. Iced green tea and fiber bar to the right,
list of clients, monies owed and deliverables due on a napkin to the
left. Dreckenheimer took a long, cold swig when a headline about
aspiring comedienne being carted off to the funny farm for stalking
a local politician caught Patsy’s eye.
“Oy vey- what has this fakaktah schlumperdink done now?,” the 75
year old personal manager muttered to himself. He had thought he
had seen it all by now.
The article read:
Markowitz, a former homeless woman whose comedy career peaked when
she appeared on VH2’s stand-up Comedy Slam Showcase a couple years
ago, was taken to Bellevue Hospital earlier today for observation
after security guards arrested Ms. Markowitz for allegedly stalking
Democratic Presidential Candidate Stacey Smith’s office dressed in a
Dreckenheimer had discovered Markowitz performing on the subway—but
in fairness—it was actually Markowitz who had zeroed in on “The
Dreck.” Patsy Dreckenheimer had a fail-safe shit detector or
radar—that led people who were bat-shit crazy right to him-- and his
little management/talent company. Why they sought him out instead of
the big boys, the real players in the industry was not too difficult
to figure out. They were all losers. The dregs. The deluded. The
almost- talented. They were all minor leaguers toiling in obscurity
with one and only one burning desire. The desire to not be the butt
of life’s jokes anymore. Andy Warhol called it 15 minutes of fame.
Dreckenheimer- who liked baseball—the Yankees in particular, called
it a Cup of Coffee. A call up to the major leagues and chance in the
Big Show. A chance for redemption- a golden shining moment. A dream
fulfilled. A heroin shot full of adrenaline and a dance with fame.
That is what Patsy’s Worldwide Prestige Talent Agency offered
all his clients- a cup of coffee. The golden moments are fleeting
an old high school girlfriend once wrote Patsy in a poetic love note
before she took his virginity senior year and then unceremoniously
dumped him. Luck be a lady.
“Shut up already you talentless Fuckin Assholes” Dreckenheimer
shouted to no one in particular as he pounded his fist against the
peeling paint on the wall.
Patsy’s small office had paper thin walls and he was right next to a
telemarketing company that offered terrible business advice. It was
like Chinese water torture every day. The telemarketers were all
commission-based bottom of the barrel cretins that looked and
sounded like circus freaks from the Glen Garry Glenn-Idiot factory.
Their phone pitches were loud and dumb and never-ending.
“Hello Mr. Jones, how are YOU today? It’s Charlie from Marine
Financial—how is YOUR business doing today”
“It’s all FUCKED up just like YOU Charlie- you USELESS excuse for a
human being,” screamed Dreckenheimer as loud as he could--hoping
that Charlie would finally hear one of his sarcastic responses to
the telemarketer’s oft repeated phone shtick through the old walls.
Dreckenheimer had kept a gun in his office he would have been locked
up for murder years ago. “I swear I gotta get out of this office
before I kill someone,” Patsy emoted in a guttural moan of
frustration. Frustration and disappointment were Patsy’s constant
companions along with hope and perseverance. Patsy Dreckenheimer
was a glass half full kind of guy- he was a lover of people and art
and most of all challenges. If you told Patsy he couldn’t do
something- that meant he would have to try. Some would call this
sort of behavior the definition of a real schmuck.
Patsy preferred to see himself as a Mensch. A George Bailey
in Pottersville. Unafraid of failure and capable of finding the
silver lining in any person or situation. It was what made the
detritus of society seek out Worldwide Prestige Talent Agency
and rely on Patsy to guide their careers and lives to a better
Over the years they had all paid Patsy a call—the politicians, the
showgirls, the TV/Film stars, the faded legends, the artists,
actors, the models, comics, musicians, authors—all looking for the
spotlight like a wild animal looking for a saltlick. Patsy opened
his heart every time and out of his mouth poured words that he had
heard himself speak over and over again, famous names, jokes,
venues, stories, wisdom. Before he knew it WPTA had a new client on
its roster and a new problem child to manage. Would he have
to walk to a familiar apartment to find a policeman telling him to
clear the area because they were investigating a dead body? Would
the person on the other end of the phone tell him to come down to
the courthouse because his client was just arrested? Would the
conversation be about suicide, depression, poverty, the unfairness
of life and fame?
The Dreck put on his headphones and started to listen to Gershwin’s
Rhapsody in Blue. Such a beautiful song. So full of hope and
humanity. Music was better than any drug. Even fame. Dreck walked to
the diner near his small office for lunch. As he got into the
elevator he looked at the five young people surrounding him all
studying their smart phones intently. The air still had a chill and
the promise of the weekend made Patsy smile as he went over his
to-do’s in his mind as he grabbed a booth, ordered a lean pastrami
sandwich and started to scribble notes on his napkin. His BlackBerry
vibrated. It was Mushkin.
“What’s up Mush?”
“Same Schmageggies, you?”
“I’d complain, but who would listen—you read the News today, Page
“Markowitz- Yeah I told you she was a waste of your time, Dreck…sometimes
I think you just take on asshole clients sometimes because you’re
“Maybe you’re right Mush-I should have read the writing on the
subway cars on that one—but what the fuck- you only live once- at
least I helped a homeless women live out her lifelong dream of
appearing on TV as a professional comedienne.”
“That’s great Dreck, but do you think anyone else really gives a
fuck about that- did your accountant?”
“Oy vey’s meer…don’t mention that incompetent motherfucker—why do
you think I’m still dream-weaving and humping it every day with
these broken toys.”
“Just saying kid, at some point when are you gonna finally give it
“What- so you can steal all my shitty clients? Never, Mush…or how
about this… whenever they get rid of the fucking IRS…then I’ll quit”
“Alright fuckface talk back at ya”
“Yeah go fuck yourself too…see you at card night”
Dreckenheimer smiled and then bit into his Pastrami sandwich.
swallowed, washed it down with diet cream soda and then finding a
bit of courage he punched the numbers into his BlackBerry. No
answer. Won’t leave a message. He knows he owes me money. It can
hold til Monday I guess. The Dreck sighed at the impossibility of it
all. The BlackBerry was torn on top he could actually look inside it
and see the green plastic and silver metal innards—one of these days
it would be time to switch to an IPhone.
One of these days it would be time to learn how to tweet or to drive
a stick or to own a dog or to stop grieving or to shut it down and
start over on something else. Maybe publish one of those dust
covered manuscripts or become a professional horseplayer or fade
into the NYC sidewalks like gum or pigeon shit. One of these days
Patsy Dreckenheimer was gonna have to wake up and smell the coffee.
He wasn’t getting any younger as his doctors kept reminding him. He
didn’t feel alone but he was. He was alienated from his family and
his clients were too poor, ungrateful or dysfunctional to help
elevate The Dreck from his morass. He could lift them up and get
them a top gig as a headliner but it was never a two way street. He
was a giver and a magician but the rabbits he pulled out of his hat
always ended up getting slaughtered and his princesses always turned
back into pumpkins after the ball.
“Well, at least she’s getting the help she really needs now” Patsy
Dreckenheimer thought to himself as he turned the pages of the
Daily News to the section in the middle with the crossword
Upon returning to the office the receptionist Yoriku informed Dreck
“You got another one waiting for you in your office”
“Thanks, Ms. Tanaka,” replied Dreck with a wink.
“So who do we have here?”
“My name is Daphne Merola, I’m applying for the internship”
“So you are …so you are. Picking up her headshot from his desk
without making eye contact—seems you’ve done a fair bit of acting
yourself Ms. Merola, some modeling…why would you want to intern at
a talent agency like WPTA?”
“Well Mr. Dreckenmayer—it would be a sincere honor and a privilege
to learn the talent business from such a legendary name in the
business and I am currently taking night courses in business at
Dreck chuckled to himself at whether or not he was really a legend
in the business or a cautionary tale. Whatever, she was pretty
enough and that didn’t hurt- seemed smart and eager too.
“Alright, Ms. Merola—this talent agency is like a lifeboat…we only
have two rules here-- treat each other with kindness and respect.
The rest we’ll make up as we go along. Our clients are like family
to us. ..And that’s a good and bad thing. We’re a small business so
my job is to focus on sales, delivery and account management. Your
job is to help me with everything and to learn the ropes as we go
along. Ask questions. Mix it up, kid. Get involved. Take the
initiative. There’s a magical quality to helping people achieve
their dreams and a tragic aspect to it as well once that dream has
been fulfilled. I know this is a lot of information for your first
day but I want you to know what you are walking into –your desk is
over there by the window. That’s an ancient computer so if you have
your own laptop you’re probably better off. Do you have an IPhone?”
“Do you know how to tweet?”
“Of course, Mr. Dreckenmayer”
It’s Heimer..actually … Drecken-heimer-- but you can call me Dreck…believe
me, I’ve been called a lot worse.”
ALL ACROSS TOWN
"Where are you looking?"
"Sweet Pines Middle School", "Riverside Country Day", "Ethical
Morality on the Upper West Side"
"All top notch--if you don't mind me asking...how can you afford
"Oh, Tom just got promoted and we've saved a little from his
"Good for you guys."
"So, Mitchie , um, likes Public School?"
"Let's just say we've been pretty lucky so far."
"You know--good teachers and we're in a pretty solid zone."
"Ah... got you. That's makes all the difference...listen,
Hon, I've got to scoot. I just realized my Pilates class starts in
30 minutes...you should really try it sometimes. Let me pick
"But you only had cantaloupe."
"That's ok, my pleasure."
"ok, but I get the next one."
love your nail polish, by the way what color is that?"
the two ladies left the Cafe they passed two other women having an
animated discussion. One was wearing a hairnet and rollers.
"Oh no she di'int..did that fat ugly ching chong lady try to show me
up with her nasty lookin' albino gorilla?"
"Oh yes she did girlfriend"
"First off, listen up you wannabe prostitute with no ass and no
self-respect--you need to stop your Uncle Tomming ways."
"Preach it, sister"
don't know how it goes down in whitey-town but being a cheap ass ho
sell-out ain't getting you respect from where I come from."
"You think that making out with Mr. skanky Albino is gonna set me
off? Puh-lease... go back to chink town or whatever massage parlor
or mail-order bride this nasty Albino fug found you at...you come to
my hood and I'll show you what we think of your trifling flat
ass and face.
"That's right bee-otch."
Meanwhile, at the bar across the street. Two men were watching the
latest news report.
blowhard is better than a lying rug-muncher...at least he's got a
pair of balls...and wants to build a wall to keep out the spics."
better than what we got now"
You ever wonder why O-Dumba won't attack Isis"
"It's either because he doesn't want to admit he removed the troops
too soon ..."
"... or because he studied Islam as a child --and we got a terrorist
loving asshole as our President... at least with W-- we knew we
It's all that slick -car salesman- asshole- who has bangin' Monica
Jew-insky's fault anyway--he totally ignored all the warnings about
"Now we got O-bama instead of Osama."
"Merry Kwaanza Syrian Refugees..."
"... Welcome to O-Bummer's America-- come on in and blow up
whatever you like"
Down that same street, inside a small, pop-up t-shirt stand.
Did you see that tattooed slut shoving her diseased womanhood into
the camera like a prostitute?"
"It's called "twerking" Auntie, and the racists who produce SNL
don't ever put Asian Americans, Indians or Latinos in the cast. They
only have blacks because of Sharpton."
always tell you...don't trust those Jew and white bastards. Your
promiscuous girlfriend from school who is dating one shames us all."
THE SUPER BOWL
"You're coming to my Super Bowl Party, right?"
"Not sure yet...got a couple invites already."
"Dude, you got to come...so many hot women...amazing food...all the
weed you can smoke... there's the indoor pool...I'll pick you up and
drive you back..."
Manfred Gogol always knew how to sell one of his parties.
Door to door service, a fully-stocked mansion on Long Island loaded
with interesting people, beautiful women, all you could smoke or
drink...an indoor pool and transportation back and forth.
had me at hot women, of course.
What was interesting to imagine, were the types of orgiastic
bacchanals that took place at Casa De Gogol--twenty years
before his family took over the sprawling compound off the
Sound from the estate of a deceased, world-famous athlete, who died
tragically inside the house under mysterious circumstances.
The autopsy of the house's former owner ruled out foul play but no
one knew for sure...as he had moved with a fast crowd and was always
making headlines on Page Six with a conga line of models du jour and
A-list celebrities. He had partied hearty and lived the very
good life--as most athletes who are known to the public by simply a
first name generally do-- and if the walls of Casa De Gogol
could tell the tale, the soundtrack behind the narrative would be
one of ecstatic moans on shag carpets and Seventies Disco and Funk
in stereo surround sound. So, it was with a sense of higher purpose
that Manfred Gogol, Art-World Bad Boy and son of a media mogul saw
it as his birthright to throw extremely cool, off-the wall parties.
The guest list would include a sprinkling of downtown chic and
old-school power-players. Wall to wall women , homeboys, hangers-on
and some mysterious characters who had back-stories way too long to
tell here. Always, danger seemed to lurk around the corner whenever
and wherever Gogol went--like a nuclear submarine breaking the
surface of the ocean, there was an awesome and horrific quality to
Gogol. He described the bizarre events that circled him throughout
his life in a theory that he self-published as a 500 page manifesto
called Paranormia. Black magic, voodoo, a spider's web of
unlikely occurrences, call it what you will, but Gogol was the
sorcerer and anyone who tagged along for fun became an unknowing
Such was the definitely case, in regards to a later incident that
was to take place at Casa De Gogol to which I am now
finally at liberty to discuss, after all these years. As for the
Super Bowl Party part of the story, that was off the hizzy. I was
glad I had gone. I was younger at the time so I was up for any sort
of action; good, bad or dangerous. Rochelle was known as The
Violator--she definitely looked like Madonna and I was eager get
some of that. We started chatting about music and other surface
stuff as the hydroponic chronic hit us both at just the right time
and then we started looking for a nearby bedroom. Of course, there
were plenty of those to choose from.
at a music label and confessed that she was into hot and heavy
“Let me see your tight little body you little bitch”, I instructed
Rochelle was dirty like Madonna is dirty with a hot body and a wild
look in her eyes. I pulled Rochelle into what looked like an
office and proceeded to take her t-shirt off…pull her shorts down
and started to ravage her over the desk like a hungry wolf... I was
going down on her when someone knocked on the door…
”what are you doing in my mom’s office? ”
“Uh, we'll be out in a sec...”, I choked out and scrambled to my
"Yeah...um... no one is supposed to go in there, Dude...move it
was Gogol and he sounded pissed and he rarely got pissed about
Rochelle and I never finished what we started but we made a plan to
hook up in the city and quickly snuck back outside to the party.
Gogol gave me a look.
"What happened to you?”
”Just finding out stuff about the music business”
”yeah, I bet you did....hey, my mom doesn't like anyone in
"Got it now...sorry bro. Won't happen again."
I walked away from Gogol I noticed a sketchy looking bald man
staring at me intently. I asked Gogol who he was. "Oh that's Boris"
He's does maintenance on my Dad's boat and other construction stuff
around the house. He took me to little Odessa for a schvitz a couple
weeks back it was crazy there. He's a super cool guy...loves
boxing... big time gambler.
"Yeah, he's got 10 G's on the game."
That's some serious cheddar."
"Ya think? ...speaking of cheese--let's go smoke some stinky cheese
and watch the second half"
"Sounds like a plan."
was a late night that moved to the indoor pool and into the early
morning the game was a blowout and so was the party. I got my ride
back the next morning and my boring life carried on.
guess you probably want to know if Rochelle and I ever ended up
violating each other. Well, a gentleman never tells and since I'm no
gentleman. Yes, we shared a couple of hot and heavy sessions way
too dirty to write about here --but I am very grateful to her for
the memories, certainly.
So, when Gogol one day invited me to a weekend pool party at the
Mansion a couple months later and told me the The Violator
was gonna be there and was hoping I was going show up too- I circled
the date. As luck would have it--and when I say luck I mean bad
luck... I ate a bagel with cream cheese that had been sitting in the
sun for hours at a brunch the day before the big pool party and I
spent the day of the pool party stuck in my apartment with an awful
case of food poisoning. If you've never had food poisoning, trust
me, it sucks.
Anyhow, not only did I miss out on Rochelle --I also missed all the
drama. The Police. The Robbery. The Jewel Heist.
The details I got the next day from Gogol were scant and fuzzy. He
was leaving town immediately for the West Coast. He would be gone
for a month unless called back for additional questioning. None of
his "friends" at the party knew anything. The police were trying to
figure out who had broken into the safe in Gogol's mom's office and
had stolen a diamond necklace, earrings and other jewelry worth half
a million dollars. Was it insured? Who was in the house? Was there
any video surveillance? Was Gogol really a suspect?
Immediately, I had a sense of who it could be. I told Gogol
on the phone and he told me that I was way off base and that
we'd catch up on his return.
The consequences and memory of that robbery eventually disappeared
into the ether like all Gogol stories and legends--making one wonder
if it actually ever happened at all. You hung around Gogol long
enough you also started to wonder if you were simply a random pawn
on an other-worldly chess board or one of the many disparate strands
that he seemed to dream-weave together at whim. Strange events
would happen all the time around Gogol like killer bees swarming
around a patch of Tiger Lilies. It was just the nature of things.
wasn't until 15 years later --well after Casa De Gogol had
been sold off, during the first recession, for a ridiculous amount
of money...that I finally got Gogol to address the subject of The
Robbery at the Pool Party over an iced coffee at Starbucks.
"It was Boris all along wasn't it--he had been casing the place just
like I said, right?"
Gogol gave me an inscrutable smile and said simply in his best
Russian accent, "I don't know nothing about dat--all I know is
dat the vuckin insurance covered it --and dat some types of people
you just don't mess vit , even ven cops are involved....if you get
THAT KIND OF GUY
was one of those guys you just automatically liked.
knew how to make you laugh and laugh at himself. He was clever like
that but he had a huge heart and spread his mirth like Santa Claus.
Who else but Henri-Pierre could bang a hot waitress at Spillane's
Senior year in High School or win the dance contest at our summer
camp 5 years in a row. The kid had style and the kid had
was handsome and athletic and never had a bad word to say about
anyone unless it was a the type of inside joke that friends and
comrades share and enjoy in moments of youth that outsiders might
not understand. The type of bawdy humor that brothers and close male
friends share without second thought.
Henri-Pierre was popular alright. So it was no surprise that some
years later on a snowy New York night I would walk by a packed bar
with a French flag in the window and the letters HP in gold leaf
with fleur de lies in accompaniment. I asked the Maitre D who the
owner was and of course as it turned out it was my old friend
Henri-Pierre. I quickly ran across the street to an old curiosity
shop that was still open and I found a small silver statue of a
smiling monkey --perfect I thought. I gave the gift to the Maitre D
with a note that read "for continued good luck & success--your
old friend Craig."
Two weeks later I got an invitation plus a guest to a wine tasting
event at HP's with a little note from the marketing executive that
told me how much "HP loves his little monkey"--Clearly, Henri Pierre
was going places. After the event I convinced a wealthy artist pal
of mine to book his birthday party there and Henri ever the
convivial host made sure to speak with all the guests, charm the
ladies at the table- the old scamp! and offer complimentary
champagne. A wonderful night. Manfred Gogol, a trust funder who was
rarely impressed by anyone did not share my enthusiasm for HP.
"Small Potatoes" Gogol said echoing a line from The Godfather.
Dismissive as Gogol always was about anyone but himself getting
attention, I knew in my heart he was totally wrong about HP.
Henri-Pierre wasn't small at all-- he was as big as a mountain when
it came to making other people feel good.
There was value in that I was sure of it.
time moved on, HP grew into HP2, HP3 and finally HPX. Henri was all
over the society papers. His bars were getting great write-ups and
his smiling face would pop up in high end magazines that could be
found lining the lobbies of 5th Avenue. It was nice to know. He was
an old friend.
it was with great delight to run into Henri Pierre on the West Side
of New York not too far away from his first bar with my wife. He was
in a hurry but he asked if I would like to grab a quick drink. Of
course I could not refuse. My wife was not pleased to be left to
take a cab home in the snow but she understood, eventually.
it turned out one of my other old pals, Attorney Harlan Strundley
had just been with Henri Pierre--getting him out of a place--where
he was stuck overnight--a place I prefer not to mention
here---because of a business dispute relating to one of his bars out
During our conversation I could tell that Henri was out of sorts and
all over the place. He told me about his plans for a new bar and
asked me my thoughts on decor and location and all sorts of business
matters that I truthfully was ill-equipped to provide much valuable
feedback on. The whole time we spoke I felt like Henri was fishing
for something but I wasn't quite sure what it was.
I just said straight out, "Henry, we're old friends--are you in
trouble? Can I help you in any way?"
Oh Craig, you have no idea how much I appreciate having a friend
like you--the bar business is full of snakes and scorpions and all
sorts of individuals with colorful nicknames that want a piece of my
businesses--if you know what I mean. This is no affair for you to be
involved with. Harlan is a killer in the courtroom but these people
who want my businesses they do their killing elsewhere."
"Are you going to be ok?"
"Henri Pierre is always ok my friend," he said smiling,
"beautiful bartender!! two shots of Los Arango Tequila
Blanco--and please-- hold the worm!...just like my old friend
here. " We hugged and laughed and drank our shots and the years
quickly fell away...and just as quickly he was gone again-- back out
onto the snowy streets of New York City-- going who knows where.
know what the newspapers all wrote about Henri Pierre after all the
legal battles and scandals that followed the shuttering of all
his bars--I know how he was painted as a bad businessman who
wrote bad checks--but I also know he probably trusted the wrong
people. Bad people. I know that because the same thing--trusting the
wrong people-- once happened to my dad. That's business. It sucks,
but the more successful you become, the greater risks become for
something to screw up. Also, the economy completely tanked so there
was really nothing Henri Pierre could do--people just weren't going
to go out and celebrate and buy wine and champagne.
maybe that little silver monkey was only good luck for 10 years I
guess. If you believe in that sort of stuff. Who knows?
tried to reach out to Henri Pierre to see if I could do anything
to help him in some minor way. He accepted gratefully. If I could
have done more I certainly would have. I think we all would have He
was that kind of guy.
The kind of guy you just automatically liked.
"Pam, I can't believe you were able to get me an appointment so
"This time of year..."
personal reference goes a long way."
"It is actually a great time to do it with all the publicity
surrounding similar types of surgeries--the price went down
can't wait...I'm been wanting to pull the trigger for years."
"What was the final straw?"
"Oh you know better than anyone...it was just an ever-growing
gentle knock was barely perceptible on the kitchen door.
"Would you and your guest be more comfortable in the living room
while I start preparations for dinner?'
"No! Actually, we're still finishing our wine...but do come in I
wanted to talk to you...I'm very unhappy."
The middle-aged man timidly inched his way into the kitchen nodding
to his wife and her guest.
"Don't sweet talk me--look at these counters...I see cookie crumbs
all over. I certainly didn't put them there."
"Don't you but me..and don't backtalk me in front of my
Suddenly, Marvin's wife filled her wine glass with cold water from
the sink and then threw the cold water violently into her husband's
"There! Maybe that will wake you up to what I expect
from now on.... you did not stack the plates in the
dishwasher the way I like it. When I tell you to do something a
certain way in the kitchen I expect you to follow
instructions. Or are you trying to get me angry."
"Yes dear, I mean NO dear, Marvin replied with water dripping off
his emotionless face."
"And remember...the refrigerator is organized a specific way. Don't
start putting food on the second shelf. That's only for water. How
many times do I have to tell you that."
"I'm sorry, honey."
"And don't think I didn't see that one of my yogurts was missing.
Those are mine. You have your own food. Leave my food alone.
You're fat enough as is. You don't need to be eating yogurt. You
should be working out more anyway."
know I'm right...I'm like a broken record player. Why don't you go
clean up my shoe closet for the next hour until we're done here.
That ought to help you break a sweat."
"Yep, I'm on it."
"This dish rag is all wet....were you planning on leaving it
here in the kitchen? Yeah, I'm sure you were. It's goes in the
clothes hamper with the other dirty laundry you should be
washing...right NOW....you can get to the closet after"
Marvin quickly left the kitchen, Pam's friend was pantomiming an
enthusiastic applause with her hands. On her face was a huge smile
you've got that one almost totally housebroken."
can't take all the credit, they do offer tremendous
after-treatment consultations at the clinic if you ever need them."
"Seems like you have everything well in hand here...can't wait to
get Fred in the operating room."
"Timing's great, Nan...I'm here too if you ever have any questions."
"I've got one question actually...It's kind of personal."
"Go ahead, shoot."
"What do they do with them--you know, after the operation I
"Oh those useless things...I keep Marvin's in a jar in the cabinet
above the fridge."
"You do NOT!"
"You BET I do... that lazy prick sometimes needs a good reminder of
who's the boss now."
"Great wine by the way"
"Isn't it? Sheila recommended it. I really love a good Chardonnay."