I have decided to give up my Mets season tickets after ten mostly lean years. It isn’t because the team sucks, although that isn’t helping my mood. And it isn’t just because the tickets themselves are wildly expensive, costing as much as $400 to bring a friend to a ballgame, although that has allowed GG to club me about the head from time to time. I mean, there are 82 games. Do the math.

It is more a matter of principal. I have gotten tired of waiting for the Mets to reach out to people like me and say something like, “Sorry. We have had a tough year. We know you have too. But we will get through this together, as a family.” Sounds corny, I know. But when you are dropping such serious coin, and enduring unspeakable hardships, you expect that—at the very least.

I spoke with a team rep a few weeks ago, about their disastrous plan to sell their inventory of unsold tickets at half-price. It was disastrous to people like me, who couldn’t go to every game and were trying to sell them on stubhub.com. They said they would get back to me.

But apparently the Mets front office is too busy to do anything to keep people like me; too busy to turn on the auto-pen and address the envelope. Too busy sitting on their hands.

The tickets have been a source of contention in my household over the years—easily the largest one—but they have also remained untouched because I think GG was a little spooked as to the long-term effect me releasing them would have on “us.” As was I, frankly.

My identity was linked to being a “season ticket holder.” It meant that I was not fair weather fan (although anyone who knows my choice of teams to root for would laugh at that characterization anyway). I felt it meant I was part of the team, in a non-delusional way.

But last night, I was sitting at the computer and decided, “you know what? Fuck it.” I wrote a note to my best friend Dave, with whom I share them and explained the situation. And he (also suffering for the seats) agreed with me. He has been equally disgusted, maybe even moreso.

Then I went upstairs and told GG who was reading in bed. Needless to say, she was shocked, but happy. Because she didn’t try and force my hand on it and any recrimination would be of the self variety (a specialty of mine.)

We still have our brick out front proclaiming our loyalty to the team and I will still go to games next season. It’s just that now, instead of hustling to sell my seats, I can buy them on stubhub.com for a quarter of the price.

Let’s go Mets, indeed.

Life is full of surprises, and if you are lucky, it’s also very long. I was talking to a friend the other day about a mutual acquaintance of ours and how his fortunes have taken a turn for the worse.

A few years ago this guy was the real cock-of-the-walk; and he was a real dick about his success. And now he’s been more than humbled. He makes Simon and Garfunkel’s boxer look fully upright.

And I wish I could feel worse for him, but I don’t. He had burned through so much good will during his run that, I would imagine, there are more than a few former co-workers and ex-friends that feel the same way.

Conversely, I have a couple of good friends who had suffered of late and yet recently hit a streak of luck worthy of Phil Ivey. It makes me so happy, because they have always conducted themselves in a dignified manner and they are easy to root for.

Karma is a boomerang, I told my friend, and sometimes it takes a while, but invariably, people get whatever is coming to them, in the end. Sometimes that thought brings me solace, because I have a few people whose downfall I am awaiting. Other times? Who am I kidding? Other times it thrills me to no end.

Now, isn’t that special?

(PS: It’s now a week later and I feel the need to add this: I never worked with this person, so it is not who everyone apparently thinks it is….)

Last evening, I went to Morrison Hotel Gallery on the Bowery, built upon the ashes of the CBGB Gallery, for an art opening, an activity I usually find about as exciting as a show involving Kardashians. The MH Gallery is usually home to music photography, for sale, and some of the stuff is really extraordinary. (Over the years, I have purchased a few photographs there of Tom Waits, Jeff Buckley and James Taylor. You should check it out and help keep it in business.)

But anyway, last night, Ryan Adams the talented-but-irascible singer-songwriter, was unveiling his artwork—mixed media and oil painted on canvas, but also a few sketches—amid a crowd of four-eyed downtowners and Mary-Louise Parker, who sauntered in late like sex in a vest.

He had donated a half-dozen pieces for an auction, ably run by another downtown musician Jesse Malin, and I was nervous that they weren’t going to sell, mostly because the economy is still in the crapper. I had picked up an auction paddle, but every time GG saw it she laughed and said, “You’re not buying a painting. Please.” It was totally not nice, but it sure was effective.

But they sold because, you know what? Many of them were really good. Like, actual artist-good, as opposed to Tony Bennett-painting-another-fucking-clown good. I mean, I am no expert—lord knows—but I was very impressed by them. Certainly, they were filled with energy.

GG cornered him afterward (she had a conversation with him two nights earlier at a work even of hers that featured Adams’ wife, the comely Mandy Moore blahblahblah) and we spoke for a few minutes and he seemed pretty happy. And, as someone who has seen him wrestle with demons both chemical and spiritual over the past decade, it was a pretty big sigh of relief to see him so clear-eyed. That wife of his has been a good influence, I think.

When we left him he was sitting at a table signing posters and books of his work, raising money for the Housing Works charity, he looked at us, grinning, and said, “This is awkward,” drawing out the final word for comic effect, while simultaneously basking in the good wishes of the people there.

It was nice.

I am writing this while trying not to watch a woman on Oprah whose face was shot off by her ex-husband. She had a transplant and now looks like a live surrealist rendering of a Mr. Potato Head if he were a Spanish lesbian. Really tragic story, as I am sure you can tell from my sensitive rendering of the subject material.

But she was telling her story to Oprah—who probably would look at a pork loin with a great deal more interest—I looked up and said, “nice skin” and, despite GG’s withering stare I said, “what? I meant it.”

Because I did. I mean, I do. I know that this is probably the worst kept secret in the world: but I am an eternal optimist, always looking at the bright side of situations. (Okay, the fourth worst kept secret.) I cannot help it: sometimes I try and find that tiny morsel of positivity in a wholly negative situation.

All kidding aside (okay, some kidding aside), people will probably tell you that I do try find the positive in a negative situation. Because, after all, your choices are either that or compounding a problem. On the upside, I find it pretty easy to do. Here’s an example:

The Mets are terrible and my baseball season had been ruined by the All-Star break. But the Yankees, who spent half-a-billion dollars on new players? With terrible team defense, no team speed and a cleanup hitter who chokes in postseason game every year, they’ll still topple in the playoffs like that statue of Saddam, only with half the charm and ten times the fanfare.

See how easy that was?

Watching Jay Leno flail his way through his new hour-long infomercial for mediocrity makes me sad in the way it did when the corpse of Nat King Cole was unearthed in time to sing that song with his daughter. Which is not to equate a hack like Jay Leno with a great talent like Cole. Leno is more like cole slaw. Quite pointless.

I cannot imagine how on earth NBC gave him a primetime show with a mandate to change the face of comedy. Jay Leno. Seriously. He’s about as funny as rickets on a cripple.

I assumed that the network had some comedy supercomputer stationed in Europe that was designed to ensure his success. It would create 1,000-jokes-a-minute and send only the top 1% to his lame Burbank office. Even a square-jawed doofus couldn’t mess that up.

So when he pulled the dead rabbit out of the hat last Monday (metaphorically speaking, of course) it actually shocked me. And by the time Rihanna gamely finished singing that hook to that crap Jay-Z song, I was convinced that we have begun the twilight of the days of Jaywalking and funny headlines.

From Selectism to God’s ears.

I said that I was going to write more here and I haven’t. That’s bad. I’ve been busy writing other stuff, but I make no excuses: I talk all the goddamn time, as most of you know. I can write some of it down.

This past week I enjoyed a great dinner with a restaurant critic of great renown from a magazine of even greater renown. We had never met; he was dining with a friend of mine and told my friend to invite someone. And that, luckily, was me.

So the critic guy was a great guy. A really interesting person and not at all like Anton Ego from Ratatouille—my previous restaurant critic reference. We ordered a ton of dishes and all three of switched food on a couple of occasions. And I never even mentioned my germaphobia, although he did comment on how I wasn’t —shudder— “cleaning my plate.” Uh, that’s because it is actually your plate, sir, I would’ve said if pushed.

The restaurant was named SHO Shaun Hergatt (quite possibly the worst-named restaurant since Hitler Pizza closed its last doors in Berlin in 1951) and the food was really quite spectacular, at least to my taste.

I eat out all the time and eat well when I do so. And I thought that pillar to post—from the quail chops to those salted caramels rolled in hazelnut chocolate that we shared with the cab driver on the way back uptown—the restaurateur had really executed his plan exceptionally well. Everything was delicious.

The restaurant is down at 40 Broad Street—a location that I would happen to be, like, infrequently, although it is cool in an I Am Legend kind of way. I think I could see living down there, maybe, like 80 floors up. (I’m going to make a mental note of that.) Go and check the place out. It’s expensive as were, presumably, the snazzy prostitutes emcamped in the bar area, picking through the crowd for actual moneyed men as a chicken would do through a pile of grain.

“Whiskey don’t make liars, it just makes fools. So I didn’t mean to say it, but I meant what I said.”—James McMurtry

Drunk dialing used to be the steeze for everyone reading this. Each of us has had that moment of “what the fuck am I saying into this person’s answering machine?” Yes, including you, whose face is probably reddening now, at a particular bad memory.

Today, however, it is drunk texting. And drunk Facebook posting. And twittering. I both get them and send them, although mine are mostly, “I just ate pork stuffed with truffles slathered in cave cheese.” Not “What R U Up 2?”

Last night I was chilling with my friend Pauly and I began to get texts from an unfamiliar number. The first one said, “What happened?” Rather than replying with the standard, “Who is this?’ like a normal human being, I instead replied that I had fallen asleep. (This literally happened.) It was clearly a woman and she was evidently pissed. “Great. And I get stuck with your fat fucking friend….”

Hey, now. Still ignoring common sense and decency I reply, “That’s no way to talk about him. He’s your friend, too…” Just to see where it went, you understand. I am curious by nature. The reply was quick, “I’m talking about Renee. Wait, who is this?” I countered with, “you texted me.” Smooth.

A full minute goes by before I get a text from a person I used to work with apologizing for the confusion. She was completely embarrassed, having hit the wrong contact information. I said, “Hey, no problem.”

In an related incident ( I hope) I simultaneously got a Facebook friend request from a woman named Daisy Bong, who while very attractive, was nonetheless a complete stranger to me. Naturally, I was suspicious of her. I mean, an attractive woman named Daisy Bong? Yeah, right.

Ten minutes later I get an email from Ms. Bong apologizing. Seems she meant to friend “the other Tony.” Wha…..huh? I type in my name on Facebook and, lo and behold, there is another Tony Gervino. Unfortunately for him, he looks far less impressive than me, a difficult task not lost on many of you.

The whole information age has actually opened up lines of communication, while simultaneously muddying them. I mean, between me, my drunk, hostile former co-worker, her fat fucking not-so- friend Renee, Ms. Daisy Bong and the lesser Tony Gervino, we had a mix-up worthy of Bill Shakespeare.

And I have a feeling that it only gets crazier from here.

The anniversary of the September 11^th attacks is upon us, which, for New Yorkers such as myself is the equivalent of the moment when BC met AD—that is how much our lives were changed. Up until 2001, I had always wondered whether or not I would spend my life on this island, whether its perceived lack of humanity would drive me to some place… warmer. Within 24 hours I knew that I would never live anywhere else. Except Amsterdam. And maybe Macau.

GG and I were just discussing the issue just the other day after I saw Jay-Z on TV announcing a charity concert he is organizing— a very generous gesture. And at the press conference announcing it he began by recounting where he was when he heard the news of the terror attacks. I immediately changed the channel. Not because I thought his recollection wasn’t heartfelt, or whatever. But because I am about at my limit of hearing people’s accounts, which is much harsher in print—as I re-read it—than I mean it to be. In the years since, my catharsis-tolerance has been ground right down to a nub.

How has this happened? I’m a compassionate person, probably way more so than I should be. So how have I been driven to this place?

This is how: Because the prior administration used our pain and our fear to ruin so much, and demagogue so many, in the intervening years, that it has many of us suspicious of the motives of anyone who publically expresses grief. Yes, even Jigga.

The definition of terrorize isn’t the act itself, it is the threat of it. To “make someone fearful.” With that knowledge in hand, the Bushies spent seven years saying ‘Boo!’—while invading a sovereign nation, spying on everyone’s phone calls, torturing at will, branding dissenters as sympathizers. And basically trampling the rights and wishes of the world community. The coalition of the willing was us and a bunch of countries that used their desire to curry favor over the collective will of their own people. Or even their common sense. Our president was a dope that was all decisiveness and no prudence. And had a country filled with scared angry people.  What was their excuse, exactly?

We let all of this bad stuff happen because, whenever someone stood up and said, “what the…?” they were vilified and threatened and shamed.

For many of us—and you don’t have to agree, just nod your head —the day when we learned so much about the actual threats that face us, and also about our own incredible resiliency in the face of them, has been turned—like spoilt milk. Celebrating the one-drop of good in the pitcher of bad has been the hallmark of our country. We took an unbelievable, tough punch, but didn’t even take a knee. No glass jaw here. That should be cause for some sort of pride. I know that whenever I travel, I am proud of where I am from.

A couple of years ago, GG were en route to the Maldives, a tiny Muslim nation in the Indian Ocean. To get there, we flew through Dubai. And with a six-hour layover, we rented a car and driver and spent the evening touring the city. Really incredible place. Almost like a mirage, it has sprung from sand dunes.

Everyone we met in both there and in the Maldives were really lovely and very glad that we decided to make the trip all the way from New York. They knew the deal: we have been advised to fear Muslims, especially the brown ones. And, especially with that jackass doing his part to make sure everyone hated us, I wouldn’t blame him or her.

But we decided early on that we would not be victimized any further. We have flown to Europe on a September 11^th, spent the millennium in London, when the US news outlets were going berserkers. Have been to Prague and spent the 50^th Anniversary of the Hungarian revolution in Budapest, amidst government celebrations and violent protests against their government, which was pretty surreal (especially when GG, in our hotel’s lobby, rammed her suitcase into Spain’s King Juan Carlos—twice.)

I have a friend, who some of you know, that lost both his father and brother on that awful day. And his anguish will be raw and his anger unquenched forever. I cannot even imagine and, hopefully, you can’t either. That is whom I want to think about today. How he and his family are holding up. Better now than a year ago, I hope. And not as good as next year. He might think I’m a fool, and my views are hopelessly naïve. That’s cool; it’s a free country. Still.

Think about that today.

We have been dog-watching for the past week and while the pooch in question, Bailey, is very cute and good-natured, and I am enjoying myself to a degree, it has reinforced my feeling that, on the whole, a pet dog is more trouble than he or she is worth.

One really good thing though is that I have been spending more time in Washington Square Park, which has just undergone a major renovation and, boy oh boy, does it ever look great.

There’s a new fountain that actually works, and people are running around in it. New benches ring it and new plantings have saturated formerly barren areas with color. The arch has been spruced up, too.

Today it was packed, what with the good weather hanging on, and we walked around it and I realized that whenever someone asks me what my favorite part of New York is, I always say that it’s impossible to choose.

It’s only because there are so many parts of the city that I love—one is even in Brooklyn—that to pinpoint it would be harder than choosing my favorite member of the Palin family. (What’s that youngest daughter’s name—Piper? Trigger? Yeah, whatever. Her.)

But you know what? That decision has finally been made, thanks to the dog that is bunking with us. Because of her, I have been able to enjoy the Washington Square Park at both 7am, when the squirrels are just waking up to 11pm, when the jazz combos are starting to pack up. And it really is beautiful. And serene. And cool. To me, it is the center stone in the crown jewel that is New York City.

Still, my realization brings me back to my original point: that no matter how nice the place in New York City may be, who in their right mind wants to be walking a dog at 7am and 11pm?

Not I, said the spider. 

It’s funny how when I started this blog it was largely so my friends could keep tabs on me. I have a tendency to hermit-ize, and I hate the phone like it was Elizabeth Hasselbeck’s face.

But, as it has progressed over these past few months, I have found myself writing for the people who I don’t know very well. Some live in Europe, a few in Asia and several in NYC, even.

Toward that end, a few months ago I got an email from this crazy young guy named Cody Ross. He designs women’s clothing, but they are not traditional silhouettes, by any stretch of the imagination. Many of them blur the lines between ready-to-wear and couture, at least to my very untrained eyes.

Some of his designs are certainly for the courageous and arrogant—you don’t rock that neck jewelry without an upturned nose and if those micro-dresses were any shorter they would have to be sold with a taser. Seriously.

But they are also sophisticated and appear expertly constructed. And sexy as hell. As one would expect, Cody seems to have many good-looking female friends and so the photos on his Facebook page often resemble a fashion show, with booze and stuff. Like some crazy West Village bacchanalia.

Before we go any further, let me make something clear. What I know about women’s fashion can be encapsulated by the following comment: nice legs look great in short skirts.

Still, Cody Ross said some really complimentary things to me about my blog (and I actually believed his sincerity) and like any Leo, I responded by checking out his work, his Facebook page and, you know snooped around my limited contacts.

I asked my friend Mary if she’d heard of Priestess, which is Cody’s label. She replied that, on the cover of her brilliant now-defunct cool girls magazine, M.I.A. wore his clothing. And M.I.A. was styled by some wild London stylist, who has really avant-garde taste.

Björk, Natalie Portman and Katy Perry wear his clothing. Björk. Imagine creating something that she would think, “hey, that’s cool” about. Katy Perry would wear a used condom on her head if she thought she would get press, but Natalie Portman knows what the fuck is up. (Yeah, I can’t believe that I just wrote that sentence either.)

So anyway, in my effort to expand my worldview beyond sports, politics, my wife and candy, I thought I would return his props. Check out his site, priestessnyc.com, and you will see what I mean.

Next thing you know, I’ll be working “a return to femininity” into my everyday conversation.

No, seriously……