At the risk of sounding immodest, that's all it is. Like I'm fucking proud that I grew up in a mob infested neighborhood in a coldwater walk up. And this is back in the '60s and '70s when they were strong. Not like today when you can testify and move back to your old fucking neighborhood two years later.

Don't believe the hype. They ain't shit compared to what they were when I was a kid. They'll always be around, in some way, shape or form, because there will always be lazy, criminal minded people in this world. But it will never be close to how it was depicted in movies like "Mean Streets" and "GoodFellas," which came as close to depicting the life as I can recall (although "Donnie Brasco" had its moments). So you young guys should put that dream away sooner rather than later (And that's not a dig. That's honest, fatherly advice from the heart.)

Then you take Jack. Born and reared in the Philly suburbs by well-to-do Hindu parents. By all accounts, nice people and self-made. But sometimes you do all you can for your children and they end up human garbage anyway. And doing TOO MUCH for your children can have just as a disastrous effect.

Take it from the Father of three adult children. Two girls and a boy. My son is the youngest at twenty. You bail them out ONCE, maybe twice, then you have to cut the cord. Or you'll end up with a Jack on your hands.

Thirty years old, living at home, and waiting for Mommy and Daddy to pay your legal fees for your upcoming trial for tying up a seventy-year-old woman at gunpoint while his partner looted the house.

Scumbag.