When I'm at home (in North NJ, home of the mob), I feel like Agent Smith in the first Matrix. Their presence (The Italians) permeates everything and I feel filthy and out of place, being wholly un-italian and unable to claim I am related to anyone within 10 square miles of my house, unlike kids I know who live next to their cousins and down the street from their mother's brother who owns the gas station. If I hear one more greased-back hair-do sportin', BMW-drivin', shell-stuffin', razor thin garlic cuttin', Italian pride paradin', pinstripe suit wearin', Scarface-lovin' 18-year old whose been into the city twice to go to little Italy with his parents say "Fuhgetabotit" to bumping into me with his arms that he is spreading 6 inches away from his chest, regardless about his lack of overal muscle mass, I'm gonna snap and start cracking skulls.