That was my reply to Mike Doran on the occasion of my first broken nose back in 1969. Doran was a lot tougher than me and he had been bullying me around the neighborhood for years. We always thought of him as an outsider because he didn’t attend Our Lady of Pompeii School like the rest of us. I think he used to beat up on poor little guys like me just so he would fit in. It got to the point where I would cross the street when I saw him coming.

            Not this time! Not in front of virtually everybody in the neighborhood! Not here on my home turf, across the street from Pompeii Church! I was almost age 16, invincible, and I had a chip on each of my shoulders. It was time to take a stand and to stand up to Mikie Doran.  

            Now don’t get the wrong idea. I wasn’t looking for trouble and I didn’t feel I had to prove my masculinity. To the contrary, I was a devout follower of John Lennon and I had an idealistic view that peace and love should be given a chance. Growing up in Greenwich Village tends to cure one of any trace of homophobia. Besides, my best friend at the time was gay (may John Vicari rest in peace). This was much more than an attack on my masculinity. This was a test of my manhood. Would I defend my right to freely roam in my own neighborhood or would I forever succumb to the likes of Mikie Doran?

             It started with a push; followed by the mandatory return shove. Then there were a couple of wild punches that caught nothing but air. Neither of us inflicted any damage in round 1. We rolled and we tumbled and somehow ended up deadlocked, in each other’s grasp.

            I thought that was pretty good, considering the butt whipping I had anticipated. I guess Anthony Ianello taught me well in Street Fighting 101. Ianello was from the old school (of Hard Knox). He taught me to fight with honor, but only as the last alternative. But those were the good old days of the “fair fight,” when the mere thought of using a weapon against someone from your own neighborhood was unheard of. Thus, I was totally unprepared for what happened next.  

            To my horror, Doran was attempting to poke my eye out with his thumb. I had no choice – I almost bit his hand off! And that retaliation momentarily gave me the upper hand. “What a fake,” I thought to myself. “All it takes is a little pain and this big bully is crying like a baby. “

            In that instant I also contemplated dispensing the final blow. I knew if I took one more bite out of his hand this bout would be mine. Biting someone in self-defense is one thing. But biting someone as an offensive technique would probably violate the Rules of Street Fighting Etiquette. Would such a dirty trick be justified under the circumstances? What would Anthony Ianello have done?

  Perhaps I contemplated a bit too long. Or perhaps what transpired next was inevitable.  Mike Doran, sensing my victory, called out to Horse and Cooka for reinforcements. Previously, I regarded these two guys as friends. We all went to Pompeii school and they were just one grade older than me. They once even helped me paint my mother’s country home. Nonetheless, it was now one against three. It is astonishing how power can corrupt the weak. And even with these increased odds they saw fit to improvise weapons by whipping me with car antennas and bludgeoning me with bottles.

Then came the worst part. I noticed “Big Red” watching all the action from the sideline. I demanded, “Red, help me!” Now the reason they called him “Big Red” was obvious. He was a close friend of my older brother and I had always looked up to him. I thought of him as a protector of sorts and I felt I could count on him if I ever got into trouble. But Red did nothing that night. I can still hear the apathy in his voice as his only reply to my plea was, “What do you want me to do?” That hurt more than the two black eyes, broken nose, and assortment of other bruises and injuries inflicted on me by Mikie Doran.

I can’t remember how this brawl was finally broken up. But I do remember walking home with my head held high. Although I lost this fight, I conquered my fear and won my own self respect. From that point onward, I walked with confidence, and I never had to cross the street for anyone.

            I gave up the sport of street fighting after that last bout with Mikie Doran. I lost my taste for it after they threw away all the rules. And I almost forgot the night Mikie called me a faggot until now. Here I am, peaceably and honorably minding my own business, and this outsider comes to New York and calls me a “Girlieman” simply because I disagree with his perverse economic viewpoints.

            Someone’s got to stand up to Governor Schwarzenegger and let him know this type of behavior will not be tolerated in New York. I’ve got as hard a head as anyone, so it may as well be me. So first, I reiterate the same words and the same disdain that I had for Mike Doran back in 1969. Next, I’d like to ask another question, “So what if I am a Girlieman?”

            I can’t help it – I was born a Girlieman. Whereas my mother and father bore four sons, the chromosomes that I passed were all of the female persuasion. Thus, I am the ebullient father of four daughters. Raising four girls was the greatest accomplishment of my life, so in that respect, I am proud to be a Girlieman. And there are many, especially here in Greenwich Village , who are proud to be Girliemen for other reasons.

            I will not retaliate by attacking Arnold ’s masculinity or by criticizing his acting. To his credit, albeit sadly for our nation, action heroes seem to make better political leaders than lawyers and career politicians. But I will attack the Governor’s integrity. Anyone trying to sell Republican economic policy is trying to sell us a bill of goods. Arnold tells us the economy is prospering in an attempt to whitewash the real picture. We are all aware of the serious problems our nation faces because of the outsourcing of American jobs by large corporations. Some Republicans will even have you believe this is a good thing. The point is, you can do nothing to address the problem when you fail to acknowledge the problem exists. Wake up Arnold! We have serious budgetary and trade deficits. Our Social Security system is no longer economically sound. What will happen to our country when the current housing boom ends? Greenspan has already started to raise interest rates! My daughter can’t find a job and she tells me there are hundreds of applicants applying for each and every listing in the NY Times Classifieds. You may call me a “Girlieman,” but I firmly believe my fears and concerns about our economy make me more of a “Realist.”

            And what’s with John McCain? While I still admire him and regard him as a hero, I can’t figure out why he would defend the administration’s policy on Iraq. You would think he would be a bit more of a “Girlieman” when it comes to the needless sacrifice of the lives of our own children, and the lives of countless other innocents, in the “Quagmire” Bush has created in Iraq. It just goes to show you that in politics, just like in street fighting, you never know who your friends are.

            There is one more parallel in our current political situation to my street fighting days of yesteryear. Here again, the dirtiest part of the scene is comprised of the biggest and most powerful. The big guys at the top of the multinational corporations are perfectly content to sit idly on the sidelines and watch as the American economy gets bludgeoned. They don’t care who wins or loses, or who loses their jobs. I say they are a bunch of useless, ruthless, greedy, fat cats. We ought not pay them the exorbitant salaries they command for such shortsighted decision making.

            And the weak are still influenced by these powerful fat cats. How else do you explain the appearance of Ed Koch on the floor of the Republican National Convention? Even my politically active Republican mother couldn’t explain why Koch would turn on his fellow Democrats in this way.

            I have lost my taste for politics and politicians just as I have lost my taste for street fighting. There just ain’t no more honor and integrity. But if Arnold ever comes walking down on Bleecker, he’d better cross the street when he sees me coming.

Addendum: Ironically, I opened my first accounting office at 22 Carmine Street a few years after the incident with Mike Doran. So I got to prove my professional ability on virtually the same spot that I proved my manhood. I still practice accounting near the corner of Bleecker and Carmine Streets, and I still have a chip on each of my shoulders, but I now have a lot less to prove.

Peter Masullo
October 2004