Because I attended college in Connecticut, I might, at times, try to convince others that I am an authority on “The Constitution State.” When driving through Hartford, I might lecture about the life of Wallace Stevens. “Wallace Stevens was not only a legendary poet, but an employee of the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company,” I might say. “Remarkable!”

Still, I must admit: I know little about New London, Conn. “Melville set Moby Dick in New London,” I might insist. Yet, I recently learned that Melville set Moby Dick in New Bedford, Mass. How Melville must have turned in his grave when news of my faux pas reached him!

Performing in New London this week, I did learn that the Oasis’s stage is uniquely designed (see above). “Your stage is unusual,” I pointed out to the New London promoter. “Stage left is six inches higher than stage right.”

“Forget about the stage,” the promter said. “Just avoid the alley.”

“What alley?” I queried.

“The alley next door,” the promter responded. “This alley is now used as a toilet.”

“Oh,” I said. Not two hours later, I saw this ad-hoc public toilet in action. I was standing in the street engaged in a ribald conversation with a member of Rahim (see above), fine baroque-rockers native to Long Island. As we spoke, a gentleman strolled out of the Oasis. As the promoter predicted, this gentleman walked next door and engaged in what some mothers call “Number One.”

“Public urination!” I exclaimed. “The promoter was right!”

“Indeed,” said Rahim’s representative. He regarded the volume of the unidentified gentleman’s urine as it spilled down the sidewalk to the gutter. “That young man is a healthy young man,” he commented. “But when will we retire to Foxwoods?”

Four hours later, I sat playing $1-2 No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em at Foxwoods Casino in Ledyard, Conn. “At work, my thumb was cut off and, later, reattached,” a fellow player confided. He held up his thumb. A scar was visible. “I can’t bend my thumb anymore,” the player continued. “I’m going to sue my boss and represent myself.”

“I must recommend that you do not represent yourself in a court of law,” I said. “As you may have heard, the man who represents himself has a fool for a client.” I turned away from the man and addressed the table. “Now, who can beat my pair of tens?” I queried. No one responded. The dealer pushed the pot in my direction.

“You are a bunch of Ahabs, and my pair of tens is your white whale,” I joked. No one responded to my literary humor. I stacked my chips. I am an Ahab too, I thought, but did not say. And will face my white whale soon enough.

I do not oppose God’s mandate to “be fruitful and multiply.” However, I avoid procreation because I am unable to make conversation with small children. When I meet a child, I say “Coochie-coo.” Beyond that, I am at a loss for appropriate interlocutory openings.

My inability to engage infants was showcased after my show at Space in Portland. The day after the performance, an old friend and I accompanied his child and her grandparents on a Portland seaside stroll.

“Gabba-gabba goo!” exclaimed my friend’s two-year old. This child was wrestling with her grandmother, who was trying to shove the thrashing legs of her wriggling progeny into a pair of tights. “My tights!” the child shouted.

“Those are indeed tights,” I observed. “What of them?” The two-year old stared at me absently. “Coochie-coo,” I added. The child turned away.

The child’s grandmother sensed my conversational inadequacies. She began tickling her grandchild, much to the grandchild’s delight. “Hey, baby! Hey, little baby!” she said in a singsong tone many employ when addressing small children. “Hey, little crazy baby! Let’s go find sea glass!” she said to her grandchild.

“Gabba-gabba goo!” shouted the two-year old. “Sea glass!” I do not know what sea glass is or where it comes from. However, the prospect of a sea glass search delighted this child. I decided to voice my own enthusiasm.

“Sea glass!” I said. “A capital idea. Let us search for this glass!” I said. The two-year old stared at me absently. “Coochie-coo,” I added. The child turned away.

Trying to ameliorate my conversational failure, the child’s grandmother chimed in. “Hey, little crazy baby!” she said. Again, she employed the singsong tone many use when addressing small children. “The little baby looks for sea glass and wears her wittle tights and walks on the beach in Portland!”

“Hahahahahaha!” shouted the child. Ne’er had a two-year old been so delighted. I resolved to share in this excitement.

“Tights and sea glass!” I exclaimed. “A fine morning in Portland amongst the lobsters and longfisherman!” The child and her grandmother stared at me blankly. “Coochie-coo,” I added. The child and her grandmother turned away.

On the drive out of Portland, I lamented my inability to talk to children. “When a child is around,” I complained to my bandmates, “my stress level increases 10,000 percent!”

My bandmates contemplated my lament. Then, one spoke. “We are in Portland,” he said. “Are lobsters cheaper in Portland than elsewhere?”

I thought for a moment. “Lobsters are from Portland,” I observed.

“Yes,” said my bandmate. “But are these lobsters cheap?”

I thought for a moment. “Portland lobsters should be cheaper here than elsewhere,” I answered. “Lobsters are, after all, native to this clime.” My bandmate stared at me blankly. “Coochie-coo,” I added. My bandmate turned away.

As those who pray the Rosary are aware, God has made a world overflowing with Glorious, Sorrowful, and Joyful Mysteries. Still, much of the Lord’s handiwork remains inscrutable to the feeble minds of men. For example, one might wonder at the beauty of the Rocky Mountains, or unimaginable breadth the Sargasso Sea. Why these mountains? one might wonder. Why this sea? I pose a less mystical question: What’s the deal with Montreal?

Montreal flaunts its own obscurity. Many of its citizens remain contemptuous of warmongering Americans, and are proudly Canadian. Still, a decade ago, Quebec almost seceded from Canada! Of course, this secession movement was partly grounded in the Francophone debate—that is, Montreal’s precious “Frenchness.” Yet, the denizens of Montreal, with their bizarre accents and questionable condiment preferences, are spurned by Parisians! A speck of transplanted European culture languishing in a frozen hinterland, Montreal is left to its own peripheral devices. These include bilingual street signs and would include David Cronenberg, were he not from Toronto.

I was struck with “Montreal confusion” while watching Les Momie de Palerme, who opened my show at La Casa del Populo. In 2007, I have not seen a better avant-quartet who performs performs better electrochamber-cum-minimalist works whilst making shaving cream sculptures. I even had a chance to regard the texture and smell of their shaving cream.

“Let’s set up the bass drum here,” said my bandmate. “Wait—what is this white stuff on my bass drum?”

“That, sir,” I responded, “is the shaving cream of Les Momie de Palerme.”

“What?” My bandmate looked around. “Why is this shaving cream here?”

“I cannot evaluate the aesthetics of Les Momie de Palerme’s shaving cream sculptures,” I said. “However, I suspect they patronize the Gilette brand.” Later, I did some internet research into Les Momie de Palerme. What are these Quebecois up to? I wondered. Alas, I could not ascertain their artistic motivation. The Les Momie de Palerme Wikipedia page is in French and I, alas, am not Francophone.

Neil Young and Rick Moranis did not have trouble exporting their uniquely Canadian aesthetics to the United States of America. I, however, consistently have trouble exporting my uniquely American aesthetics to “the Great North.” After all, no mere American band can stroll into Canada. The process is sixfold:

1. Book your musical act in Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, and/or other Canadian cities of note. Remember this: there are not many Canadian cities of note.

2. Make sure the venue you are playing is “tax-exempt”—that is, does not require you to have a Canadian work visa. Remember this: these visas cost hundreds of dollars, which is more money than you will make in Canada, where the currency looks like Monopoly castoffs, and is worth about as much.

3. Make sure the Canadian promoters you engage know what “tax-exempt” means. Remember this: many Canadian promoters are too busy watching hockey to familiarize themselves with the niceties of tax-exemption.

4. Before your crossing, ditch your merchandise. Smuggling merchandise into Canada without paying import duties may give you a thrill. You may fancy yourself an indie-rock Han Solo. Remember this: if you are caught smuggling by the mustachioed Canadian border patrol, you will be taxed and fined by men with mustaches, and your car and merchandise will be impounded by men with mustaches.

5. Before your crossing, ditch your drugs. Remember this: if the mustachioed Canadian border patrol finds your precious “dime bag,” you face a Canadian Midnight Express scenario at the hands of mustachioed men.

6. Before your crossing, make a list of all your equipment and have it stamped by a mustachioed U.S. border patrol agent. This will require wandering around a giant parking lot on the American side of the Canadian border, cursing your fate. “This is ridiculous!” you will exclaim. “Where is the U.S. border patrol? Where are the mustachioed officers who will stamp my list of equipment?” To you, I say: “Child, the mustachioed U.S. border patrol officers are there. You must find them! Once, I did not have my equipment list stamped by mustachioed U.S. border patrol officers before entering Canada. Upon my re-entry to my home country, a mustachioed U.S. border patrol officer interrogated me. ‘Where is your stamped equipment list?’ demanded this mustachioed man. ‘How do I know you didn’t buy all of your musical equipment in Canada? Shall I make you pay import duties on all of your musical equipment? Also, why are you staring at my mustache?’”

Because I followed the six steps outlined above, my border crossing from Buffalo into Ontario went smoothly—headphones-related issues aside.

“Where are you from, eh?” inquired a stern, mustachioed Canadian officer at the border. Before I could reply, this mustachioed man began shouting at my bandmate, who was wearing headphones. “Hey, eh!” the officer exclaimed. My bandmate, who could not hear the officer, ignored him. “Why is he wearing his headphones, eh?” the agent asked me.

“I’m not sure,” I said. I had not planned for problems associated with my bandmate’s proclivity to wear headphones. Quickly, I whipped up an explanation. “Perhaps he doesn’t like to play by the rules,” I concluded. “Eh,” I added.

Thirty minutes later, Canada had accepted my band and we were looking for parking at Niagara Falls. I glanced over the observation platform for a fleeting second. As I watched, 150,000 gallons of water tumbled over the falls, flitting back and forth between American and Canadian shores. I scrutinized this water. No molecule of H20 carried any merchandise. Each was armed with a signed letter reflecting its tax-exempt status.

Like many arsty, existential males, I am a fan of the film Buffalo ’66. In Buffalo ‘66, Vincent Gallo and Christina Ricci have existential adventures of the sort that only occur in American independent cinema. Gallo and Ricci, for example, have dinner with Ben Gazzara and Anjelica Huston, who play Gallo’s eccentric, dysfunctional parents. Later, the couple goes to Denny’s and runs into Rosanna Arquette. In Vincent Gallo’s Buffalo, hip, cultish celebrities lurk around every corner and induce sublime catharsis. A veritable earthly paradise, this Buffalo!

My interest in the film Buffalo ’66 (and, peripherally, my enthusiasm for William Kennedy’s Albany cycle) sparked my initial desire to play upstate New York. Regrettably, my trips upstate have not lived up to the fun-filled portrait painted by Gallo et al. Instead of a cadre of hip, cultish celebrities, my visits to Buffalo featured a small number of friendly non-celebrities at Mohawk Place who watched me play. Meanwhile, a slightly larger number of indifferent non-celebrities hung out and drank beer. There was a general existential vibe, but nothing filmic. And, whatever makers of American independent films may insist, many parts of Buffalo are not even romantic and economically depressed! In one corner of the city, I even found an organic grocery store. I ask you: what reputable American independent film features an organic grocery store?

Of course, upstate New York does have its share of colorful characters. When I played in Jamestown, N.Y.—an elegantly rusting town 90 minutes south of Buffalo—I had quite an informative discussion with a spunky innkeeper.

“So, you are a musician—a singer of songs,” said the innkeep. “On what stage do you perform this evening?”

“I believe the venue I have chosen to grace with my presence is dubbed ‘Mojo’s,’” I replied.

“Ah…Mojo’s…erg!” stammered the innkeep.

I became alarmed by the innkeep’s stammering. “What…what is the problem with Mojo’s?” I inquired.

“Oooh…I don’t know,” said the inkeep. “When I was a little girl my mother told me that they do a lot of coke in the bathroom. So I don’t go there much.”

“Ah,” I replied. “You must be referring to the illegal use of cocaine, a troublesome habit for many addicted individuals.”

“Indeed,” bemoaned the inkeep. “In fact, I must admit—I’ve never been to Mojo’s.”

“Well, who can blame you?” I asked—rhetorically, of course. “Who would want to expose oneself to such morally outrageous behavior as illicit drug use?” Later that evening, I made a thorough search of Mojo’s bathroom to investigate the innkeep’s claim. I can report with confidence—no illicit drugs were being consumed in the bathroom, at least on my watch.

After my bathroom search, I returned to the bar and faced the crowd. The crowd was small and indifferent. Perhaps some illicit drug use would actually improve Mojo’s atmosphere, I thought. Then, I scanned the back of the bar for any sign of Rosanna Arquette. Unfortunately, she did not put in an appearance.

“Can we not conclude that we, as humans, can relate more to the experience of a dog than we can to the experience of an ant?”

“No, my good man. I regret that I cannot conclude that.”

“Come, sir! Epistemologically, the conclusion is self-evident!”

“I’m sorry sir. I cannot conlude that this conclusion is self-evident. You may subscribe to the bankrupt logic of ‘I think therefore I am.’ However, in our postmodern age, this conclusion is far from conclusive.”

‘But, sir, I implore you—think now of a dog. Now, think of an ant. Can you not see that we, as homo sapiens, can relate more to the mammalian experience than to the ant-lerian experience? This is just common sense!”

“Common sense? Ha! Common sense to a ribald heretic such as you, perhaps. But, sir, I must inform you here and now before all these witnesses—I do not believe in common sense.”

So ran an explosive Socratic dialogue I overheard whilst trying to purchase potato chips in a convenience store on the campus of Oberlin College in Oberlin, Ohio. Make no mistake—I am in full support of the college experience and the pseudo-philosophical explorations that experience cultivates. In addition, the college experience provides a unique opportunity to play obnoxious free jazz, read semiotic texts, consume large quantities of illicit drugs, eat at diners in the wee hours of the morning, and engage in spontaneous sexual encounters with individuals one may or may not know. However, before a show, I like to eat potato chips. If your explosive Socratic dialogue is holding up the line at your liberal arts college’s convenience store, please continue that explosive dialogue outside so I that can buy my Ruffles.

Of course, not everyone at Oberlin is hunched over discussing Cartesian logic and Nietzche’s Superman. For example, consider the gentleman pictured above. I cladestinely photographed this gentleman and his ladyfriend at Oberlin right before my performance. Though this man is seated directly in front of a loud band that is prepared to crush him with its superior aesthetics, he does not give a solitary f*ck! Rather than scrutinize the glorious art that is about to unfold before his eyes, he would rather spend his time “chilling”—that is, exchanging pleasantries with a lovely lady and, should the mood strike, checking his email on his laptop. Don’t worry, this laptop will not run out of power—this laptop was plugged into the same outlet as my guitar amp.

Now, some might be reluctant to sit directly in front of a band, open laptop in hand. Some might worry that a open laptop could prove distracting to the band and its audience. Some might fret over a breach of etiquette. Absurd! Haven’t we the right to check our email and talk to our ladies whenever and wherever we please? This man is a model of human freedom! This man has no concerns, epistemoligcal or otherwise. No better situation is imaginable for this man. He’s got 1) his lady and 2) his laptop. Perfect!

When I applied to liberal arts colleges in the Fall of 1993, Oberlin appeared on my radar screen. I did not apply, as I found the alliterative “o’s”—that is, one “o” in “Oberlin,” and the other in “o” in “Ohio”—off-putting. My “o-phobia” was as good a reason as any not to fill out another college application at the time. In retrospect, I regret not exploring Oberlin further. Had I been accepted, I would undoubtedly have been able to relax with my laptop and my lady at numerous campus events. At age 32, I would have organized a 10-year lady/laptop reunion. The invitations to this reunion would be simple and to the point. “Oberlin Reunion Planned!” they would read. “Bring your laptops and your ladies! No jacket required!”

“I see you are a local Michigan native interested in punk music,” I said to a young punk fellow at my show at Kraftbrau in Kalamazoo, Mich. This young punk was enthusiastic about my band’s tunes. “Tell me,” I said. “How does one occupy oneself in the Great North?”

“How do I occupy myself?” said the punk. “What am I doing? Well, I’m doing my own thing. I mean, just me. I do my own thing. That is, I’m doing my own thing, now. I mean, it’s like this solo one-man band thing. I play guitar and some electronic stuff. I also play drums. All at the same time. It’s that kind of thing. I’ve done a few shows now. It’s just me. It’s a liberating thing. One show was okay. The other show was with these drunk punk kinda dudes. Really, it was not a great scene. So I was doing my thing and the crowd wasn’t into it too much, obviously. So I have been in this real Neil Young mode. Doing this real Neil Young stuff, you know? So I had a CD of Heart of Gold. So I brought the boom box onstage, right? So I have the boombox onstage with Heart of Gold in it, and I’m playing to all these drunk punks. So I couldn’t deal with them anymore so I just kinda played Heart of Gold, you know? I played it right there on my boombox and I held the mic up to the boombox, and there was Heart of Gold playing into the room, right at all these drunk punks. So the mic starts feeding back, right? So I’m onstage holding this mic up to my boombox and blasting this Heart of Gold feedback at all these drunk punks. So all these drunk punks get really fucking pissed. So they’re like, ‘Stop! Just stop!’ But I won’t stop, right? I just keep on blasting them with all this Heart of Gold feedback. The feedback is really wild, really alive in this really cool way. So the drunk punks jump on the stage and get me down on the ground, and start like kicking me. Really fucking like kicking me, being like ‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’ But I just kept blasting them with this feedback. Fucking Heart of Gold feedback. Let me tell you man, it was painful, but it was punk as fuck.”

“Wow,” I said. Goddammit, I thought. Michigan always has to be so rough. That’s like Michigan’s thing—raw, rough, and real. Bluejeans and no underwear. There can’t be some fine Michigan afternoon where someone enjoys a milkshake or reads a contemporary novel or hears a chamber quartet. In Michigan, there always has to be some violence or drugs about. That’s Michigan’s schtick, ever since the MC5 had their revolutionary commune in Ann Arbor and the Stooges drove that truck into that overpass in Ann Arbor during a drug binge. Doesn’t anyone in Michigan ever go to the ballet or have tea and krumpets, or visit their grandmothers? Instead of a sunny, pleasant vibe, there’s always some speed or coke and something going wrong in a really legendary way. For example—what did I do today in Michigan? I went to an organic market. None too legendary.

“Yeah,” said the punk. “I laid on the ground and got kicked. It was fucking punk.”

“Wow,” I said again.

“Dude, we miss you out here. There is a cornstalk with your name on it.”

So ran the mediocre joke that I emailed to my former booking agent on the occasion of my second show in DeKalb, Ill. DeKalb is home to Northern Illinois University, the venue Otto’s, and not much else. I hear there is a highway tollbooth in DeKalb as well. There may also be an adult novelty shop, but rumors of this shop go unconfirmed.

At Otto’s, I played with the YoungBlood Brass Band, a brass ensemble armed with funky beats and, often, an M.C. I’m not sure why my precious art-rock trio was booked with YoungBlood, but I enjoyed their funky tunes and live hip-hop stylings. Also, if ever a man was built to play the tuba—the largest instrument in the brass family—it is the large member of YoungBlood pictured above. During its set, members of YoungBlood complained about the post-Katrina Disneyification of New Orleans. I support these observations, but, as we were playing in DeKalb, Ill., I wondered aloud about the YoungBlood Brass Band to the stage manager.

“What’s with this brass band?” I asked the stage manager. “Are they from New Orleans?”

“No,” said the stage manager. “They are from Wisconsin.”

“Oh,” I said. Why are these Wisconsinites bringing a New Orleans vibe? I thought to ask the promoter. Indeed, I opened my mouth to inquire. Instead, I asked myself: “Why should it matter what genre the musicians of Wisconsin celebrate?” I promptly closed my mouth.

As the YoungBlood Brass Band burrowed into the funky guts of their set, I performed a bit of algebra. Before the show, I thought, I expected an audience of cornstalks and tumbleweeds. However, a crew of 10-20 interested persons showed up instead. The population of DeKalb is approximately 40,000. This is .005% of New York City’s 8,000,000 people. That means, if I played in New York City, this 20 person audience would expland to 4,000 people. As there was a show booked for New York City on the last day of my tour, I smiled and looked forward to meeting these 4,000 people.

As a youth, I marveled at my mother’s battered vinyl collection. “Mother,” I said, “Regard these culturally significant sounds that you have collected in vinyl format! Here—the music of Black Sabbath! And this one—Led Zeppelin IV! How can you leave these precious commodities to mold in our basement?”

“You will not always fetishize these commodities so,” my mother predicted.

“And why not?” I responded.

“You will move on from this trite commodity fetishization and enter an ‘anti-document’ phase,” my mother warned. “Do not doubt that your aesthetics will evolve!”

Though the age of digital downloading offers a commodity-free alternative to Edison’s wax cylinder, I do not necessarily endorse digital downloading. However, music-related commodities take up too much room in my house and mind. My mother was right—I have entered an “anti-document” phase.

“Here is the documentation of our music on CD or vinyl,” a friendly representative of a band I have performed with might say after a show.

“Thanks,” I will say, and accept the document. My true reaction is harder to articulate in a loud nightclub environment. “I like your band,” I want to say. “However, you must not hold it against me if I leave this document of your music in a gas station. I support and respect your music, but don’t need any more music-related commodities in my house and mind. I encourage you to visit Washington, D.C. and perform live. I would attend your performance and house you and feed you. However, I am in an ‘anti-document’ phase, as my mother predicted. As a result, I spurn your document.”

I write about music-related commodities because I played the WLUW Record Fair in Chicago this week. This fair benefits the community-minded Chicago station WLUW 88.7 FM, a noble broadcast endeavor. The show was a fine one, held in a beautiful fieldhouse on a sunny Sunday afternoon. My other Chicago show at the Empty Bottle was 21+, and I was happy to play an alcohol-free, all-ages alternative for any youth who might have heard about my band on MySpace or YouTube. I hear that youth often visit these URLs.

However, as I performed, I noticed that some shoppers were paying more attention to music-related commodities offered for sale than to my band. Their indifference did not offend me. Perhaps these shoppers are jazz enthusiasts, I thought. I do not play jazz. Then, I identified the cause of the shoppers’ distracton: they were fawning over music-related commodities!

The hypnotizing power of these commodities is incredible, I thought. Yet, these commodities are only simulacra—they are not the music itself. Still, these shoppers prefer their precious simulacra to the real thing! I finished the show in a state of wonder. Then, afterwards, I sold a few of my own commodities to waiting customers.

“This EP has six songs,” I said to one. “This 10-inch record is very old, but very good,” I said to another. Before loading out of the fieldhouse, I calculated my profits, grinning madly like Scrooge McDuck swimming in a pool of golden coins.

Down to the subpar Chinese restaurant and defunct Fashion Bug (see above), St. Paul showcases the same gritty, concrete aesthetics as Northeast Philadelphia. I am familiar with these aesthetics because much of my youth was spent on Cottman Avenue, a world apart from what most associate with the City of Brotherly Love—that is, Benjamin Franklin, the Liberty Bell, and the Dead Milkmen. In place of these fine colonial institutions, Cottman Avenue boasts strip malls, strip malls, and, for variety, more strip malls.

Cottman Avenue’s marginal retail enterprises offered untold delights to the suburban Philadelphian armed with a driver’s license. Besides Black Sabbath bootlegs at used record shops and drug paraphernalia, Cottman Avenue offered Putt-Putt minigolf. As a minigolf enthusiast, I found the course adequate, if unimaginative and unchallenging. However, this Putt-Putt set the scene of an early economic lesson when, one sunny day, my mother and I saw Father DiMato, our local parish priest, playing minigolf in civilian clothes.

“Is that Father DiMato playing Putt-Putt?” I asked my mother.

“Yes,” said my mother. She prepared to putt.

“But,” I protested, “Father DiMato is a priest. Also, he has a reputation as an inveterate bastard. How can he play Putt-Putt with the rest of us?”

“Putt-Putt does not discriminate on the basis of sex, race, or, in this case, creed,” my mother explained. “As long as you have three dollars, you can play. Father DiMato does not have much in this world. He has taken a vow of poverty. All he has belongs to Christ. However, he undoubtedly has three dollars to splurge on minigolf.” My mother putted. “And, if Christ is indeed on Father DiMato’s side, expect him to score well under par.”

The only advantage (or disadvantage, depending on your perspective) Northeast Philadelphia has over St. Paul is its indigenous “Guidos.” A “Guido” is working-class Italian-American from Philadelphia who displays gold chains and a mullet hair-cut (a.k.a. “business up front, party in the rear”). I do not endorse popular use of this “Guido” racist anti-Italian slur, but remember that “Guidos” were known for their taste in fast cars and loose women. These women were sometimes called “Guidettes” by sarcastic suburban youth. Many of these “Guidettes” were attractive, sexually-frank persons. However, when in Northeast Philadelphia, remember this: if you believe a Guidette is flirting with you, do not flirt back. Guidos do not like when non-Italians from the suburbs take an interest in their women, and will express their disapproval with switchblades.