A Better Flush

I'm by no means a handyman. I'm kind of the opposite actually. For a while though, I've felt as if I needed to be a little more "guyish." You know, go camping, fix things around the house, act more emotionally distant with the people in my life, the basic sort of things you can expect from a guy, stereotypes welcome. I mean, you take me from college and I was just this Metrosexual dude who really got into the style of the early 2000s, complete with unnecessarily tight shirts, gelled hair with a little touch of Sun-In, and yes, even H&M capri shorts "for men," which, in my defense, were totally acceptable as a European transplant for a good 3 months in the Summer of 2000. In any case, I've been working on getting a little rougher around the edges. You understand what I'm trying to say.

I don't approach this with any particular direction or even with any particular intent. Rather it's just sort of a feeling I've gotten, that I want to do more of these guy things that, for whatever reason, I wasn't really exposed to growing up. Like with the camping, honestly, I'd never slept outside before my Birthright trip in the Winter of 2004-2005, and even then it was a faux-Bedouin campsite with a relatively clean and functional outdoor facility. Then came a couple more Bedoiun camp experiences on other trips, followed by my first "real" camping experience with my own campsite and my own (rented) tent in October of last year. And of course you know about my latest camping trip which was the first time I "roughed" it for two consecutive nights and had the awesome fortune of sleeping outside in the middle of a crazy thunderstorm.

I have to be honest - I loved it, and I had no idea what I was missing.

Now comes the other part of this thing - being able to fix stuff around the house. A couple of months back, for the first time ever (laugh if you want), I changed the light switch in my kitchen. Maybe to the average do-it-yourself raised-on-Bob-Vila sort of guy, this is a joke, but for me it was kind of a big deal. We're talking turning the power off, hands shaking as I removed the light switch box, wondering if there was some latent current that was going to ignite my hair. Somehow I did everything right and, lo and behold, the freaking light in my kitchen works again, and all without needing to call the super and waiting a few weeks.

Fine, so when I had to have my massive 10,000 BTU AC installed, I did call the super, but that was only because the thing weighed like 80 lbs. and the last thing I needed was to have my nice new AC fall out the window. If I had some help, I might have even handled that on my own, but we can move past thing.

But the thing I'm most proud of now is this weekend's toilet adventure. You see, a couple of weeks back, trusty old toilet tank decided to keep the water running indefinitely. And sure, I can just close my bathroom door and I won't hear it (just like I do to ignore the dripping from my shower), but this time I said to myself, "hell no. We're going to take care of this problem." That's right people, I took action into my own hands. Off to Home Depot I went to buy the "Total Toilet Kit" which has everything you need to make your toilet tank better. That kit stood in my bathroom for over a week before a chance delay this weekend - "sorry dude, I have to take care of some chores and can't run until later. Can you give me an extra hour?" - let me break open the box and get some fixing going.

Here I was thinking that I could take care of everything within that hour I had, but oh shit, I was wrong. The freaking toilet tank in this place probably hadn't been touched since the last Iranian Revolution. Inside was all rust and oldness and I made the mistake of deciding I didn't need to wear any gloves. By some miracle, I also happened to have all the tools I needed, save for an emergency trek back to Home Depot for a handsaw because sometimes things don't want to come apart the way they're supposed to. That's right, I now own a handsaw and that little period of time when I had it in my backpack on the way back from Home Depot I admit to contemplating what it could do to someone if they tried to attack me in midtown Manhattan in broad daylight. I had the fire in the eyes. I sat there on the F train, looking down at my greasy nails and feeling the numbness in fingertips and wondered if the people around understood what was going on with me - I was busy, I was fixing something.

Back at my place, after the two hours of work that preceded the trip to Home Depot for the handsaw, I thought that maybe the remainder would fly by. But instead I was met with more resistance from the tank, now detached and sliding around in my bathtub where, I decided, it would be less messy since I could just wash all the excess rust and dirt down the drain. More ripped skin on my hands, a nearly-crushed finger, sweat, tears, yells of frustration that I apologize to my neighbors for, and then, a total of four hours after the saga began, it came to an end. Holding my breath, I pressed down on the newly-installed plastic chrome lever and was met with the sound of flushing water followed by a filling tank and topped off with my triumph - the sweet silence of no leakage. I know that sounds weird, but you get it.

That night I went out and drank myself silly. I was on some crazy high from the whole experience. So I wondered - what about it made me feel so good despite the torture of the whole ordeal? More than anything- and this is going to sound cheesy but it's totally true - it was empowering. I maybe have a little bit of a problem with relying on people, with allowing myself to be helped. I guess that can be a bad thing sometimes, like when people really want to help you, where helping you allows them to show you that they care about you, and your rejection of that help is interpreted - wrongly - as a sign that you don't value them as much. But when it comes to stuff like this, it's kind of nice to know that I'm not totally useless with a wrench and a screwdriver.

There are already a couple of new items piling up on agenda: 1) fix the shower radio :-( and 2) hang those damn shelves that have been sitting on my dresser for 5 months.

The Woodsman

I was out of town this weekend, engaging in some "camping" in upstate NY. There I was going around telling everyone about my weekend plans and over 50% of the people I mentioned them to corrected me - "That's not really camping, that's, like hanging out outside." Easy for you to say, but for this kid, who grew up in the sheltered confines of a Flushing apartment complex with a crack house across the street and dear old dad carrying a steel baton whenever we went outside after dark to play around in the snow, "camping" is kind of a big deal.

Put this into further context - the first time I ever slept outside (i.e. in a tent) was during my first Israel trip back in 2004. That's right, the good 'ol Bedouin tent experience. It was then that I learned the importance of having earplugs for outdoor sleeping arrangements. Besides one or two other subsequent Bedouin tent opportunities, the first time I camped in the States was last fall when I went with "the guys" to a site up near Woodstock. Sure it was tame in the sense that the site was government regulated and we had a nice stone fire pit/grill and access to decent park bathrooms, but it was still a step outside my element to say that I actually put up a tent and used lanterns to cook outside in the dark and slept on hard ground.

This time it was a jump to a two-night stay, but still in the sort of "camp" setting that people gave me crap for. I considered this a step-up in terms of my daring. And I have to be honest, that all-night lightening storm and torrential downpour that we had was pretty sweet. I woke up at 7:30 feeling all damp. I haven't peed myself in a really long time, so I looked for other explanations. Sure enough, I was sleeping in the part of the tent that was at the bottom of the site's slope and there was a nice little pool of water directly under my bag. Now that's hardcore bitches. You trying sleeping 6 hours in a pool of water. Rawr.

And heck, I didn't shower for like 60 hours, even after that quarter-day hike we went on and I got soaked during. Attacked by mosquitoes and gnats and having to contend with one toilet for an entire camp ground filled with douchie frat-types, I think I managed pretty freaking well.

So sure, I wasn't on the Appalachian trail and I didn't knife a mountain lion or drink my own urine, but baby steps. Give a brother a break. I'm feeling like next time I might be ready to go on a more thorough sort of trip where I carry all my supplies (yet to be purchased) in my massive hiking backpack (yet to be purchased) and make my way through the forest, stopping and camping out at random points. I had a friend out there with me who just got back from several months in South America and he was telling us about one of the 8-day hikes he went on, lugging around all of his stuff during 8-10 hour daily hikes. That's bad ass, to be trekking through Patagonia with 60 lbs. on your back for that long. One day. Who knows.

Also, today is Memorial Day, and so I need to acknowledge all our soldiers because one of my pet peevs is people taking this country for granted. I'm not going to get into it here or now, but I wanted to put it out there. I'm also proud, on this Memorial Day, to be the owner of a brand new passport. Thank you State Department. Major ups to you. Only shitty part is the pic I ended up submitting which will now represent me in all foreign locals for the next 10 years. I went into the photo shop all psyched, ready to take a good pic, feeling confident that this one would be way better than the 17 year-old me with the fuzzy mustache that I've had to carry around for the last decade. I did everything they tell you to do - wear a bland colored shirt, not smile, and have a kick-ass hair day. All factors gearing me up for a great shot, except that when it came out it looked like I had a lazy eye. I went around for like 3 days asking people whether I actually did have a lazy eye until I finally realized that it's a photographic effect caused by the guy's off-centered flash reflecting off of my retina (or at least that's what I came to tell myself was the problem). In either case, I've replaced what I had with a pic that makes me look like a Russian criminal. Well done.

Last thing, regarding Memorial Day, as our group was passing through the little town around our campgrounds looking for some nice pancake house, there were a few veterans standing around collecting money for their local veteran's association. I stopped to give the guy a $3 donation and then he proceeded to give me back two of my dollars, saying that one was enough. I didn't necessarily get this but I took the money and repocketed it. Then he looks down at the shirt I'm wearing, which happens to be an Israeli Navy shirt because I own several pieces of Israeli military apparel (and yes, I know no one in Israel would be caught dead wearing one of these, and yes I realize that on some level it's played out and cheesy, but I think you'll manage just fine knowing that I still wear mine). I see him thinking about it for a second, and then he goes, "Israeli Navy!? Why not!?" Just made me smile.

Joe

"Damn, this is fucking brilliant." He's already eating the cookie as he's sitting down across from me, maneuvering himself into the steel chair across from me, on the other side of the round yellow table.

"Since when do you say 'brilliant?'"

"What? Brilliant. Who cares? They say it in commercials."

I'm watching the crumbs collecting all around, but not inside, his plate. The cookie is 3/4 of the way eaten before he offers it to me. "Dude. Try this. Vegan molasses. I can't believe it's vegan." He holds it up towards me in a way that suggests he knows I'm not going to take him up on his offer.

"I'm OK."

"Suit yourself." The cookie disappears.

"So how has it been?" I ask, absent-mindedly swirling the coffee with my straw.

"Meaning?" He plays coy on purpose.

"The job stuff."

"What about it?"

"Have you been doing OK?"

"How else would I be doing?" He uses the tip of his finger to pick up some of the crumbs on the table and brings it to his lips. "It's not the end of the world."

"I know, but, I mean, I guess it can't be easy."

"Nah, whatever. It's kind of a good thing, helps you reprioritize what's important and what's not. Trim the fat, you know?"

"I guess."

"Yeah." he looks away, towards the windows, where the first hints of summer highlight girls finally walking around in skirts and dresses after a long and dreary absence of legs.

"So is there a plan?"

"Huh?" He refocusses his attention on me. "What?"

"Is there a plan? Are you, like, approaching this in a certain way?"

"Am I approaching this in a certain way? Yeah, I cash my unemployment checks, get a whole shitload of singles, and blow it all at strip clubs. That's how I'm approaching it."

I laugh, "funny thing is you're probably telling me the truth."

"Funny thing is that I'm not." He starts looking around again, then leans in and whispers, but loud enough that I know the people in the tables next to us can hear. "Dude, there are so many hot girls here."

"What did you expect, it's the West Village."

He pushes himself back again, throwing his body against the chair so that it tilts a little and he has a moment where he shuffles to regain his balance. "Shit, these things are death traps."

"Try not to be so animated and I think you'll be OK."

"Seriously though, it's crazy. All day I walk around and I'm staring at everyone. Everyone is hot! I think I need a girl. But first, I need a job. You know, it's not easy meeting women when you don't have a job."

"I can see that. But maybe it's the new black, you know? Like it's 'in' now. All those unemployed bankers. Maybe it's a little more acceptable than it would have been a few months ago."

"Give me a fucking break."

I laugh, "Fine, maybe not."

"You're such a douchebag."

"Chill. I'm just trying to lighten the mood." And really, I am, but now I feel like I've inadvertently offended him.

"There's a time and a place for your dark humor, and this is neither the time nor the place." His gaze is fixed on me, his finger pointed right at my face. Then he dips that same finger back towards the crumbs and brings some fresh ones to his mouth. "Why is it that all our conversations go back to women?"

"It's kind of a fascinating subject."

"It is." He delivers an impassioned nod.

"And we're in our 20s."

"We are."

"And male."

"Keep it coming with the worthless details. Lets do this." He closes his eyes and spreads a Cheshire Cat grin across his face.

"And you desperately need to find your better half because this half is lagging the fuck behind."

"Dude, no more unemployment jokes. It's getting old."

"You read into that one. I was talking about your weight."

"You find me an extra $60/month and I'll sign up for the damn gym." He grabs at the side of his stomach and pinches. "I don't think this used to be here."

"Honestly, you've looked the same for like the last 10 years." I feel bad that maybe he might be taking more of this personally than I thought.

"So you're saying that 10 years ago I was hotter?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Can we change the subject? Isn't there something else we can talk about?" His attention wanes again. "That waitress is cute," he says, tilting his head towards her with an intent to be all inconspicuous-like, but in short, tense movements that makes it look like he has a nervous tic. "Is she always here?"

"Pretty much."

"This place totally raises my spirits. I just need to be around hot women and I feel better. Anxious and bothered and love-lorn, but better." He sits for a moment, motionless, contemplating something. "Ah!"

"What!?"

"Let's change the subject, this is driving me nuts."

"Fine. We can always talk about Swine Flu."

"Um, don't you mean H1N1?"

"You're an asshole."

"Thank you Dr. Sanjay Gupta."

Cigarettes

"Shit." She lifted her purse up to her face and stuck her head inside.

"Hold this," she said, handing me her coffee and tossing in the liberated arm in an effort to fish something from the bottom. The deli clerk looked on curiously.

Out came her cell phone, a packet of tissues, the case for her sunglasses, a rolled up issue of US Weekly, the pages of which unfurled as she populated the plastic counter with the "if you were born after this date in 1991, we won't sell you tobacco products" sticker.

"Don't judge," she said without looking at me, still trying to see to the bottom of the purse.

I smiled, "whatever. I know you're just taking a break from 'The Economist.'"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. We can't all be as intellectual as you."

"We're so fucking old."

"What?"

I pointed to the sticker. "1991? Damn."

She didn't answer, choosing instead to focus on her task. A hand finally emerged with a fistful of change that she spread out. Among the dimes and nickles, the copper gleam of the pennies made her face glow triumphant. Her fingers began pulling apart the coins, counting up to the $1.52 that she still owed for her packet of cigarettes. The rest of the change clanged against objects as swiped it back into her purse and let it sink back down to the bottom.

"You should consider getting a little change thingy."

The clerk huffed in annoyance as he recounted everything and rang it up, passing the Marlboro Lights over to her.

"Thanks!" she said in her sprightly way, and ran out of the deli. I grabbed the other items that she left on the counter.

"Hey, you might want these."

"Yeah. Good call." She let me throw everything back inside the bag as it hung from her shoulder, using her free hands to light the cigarette that was already fixed between her lips. After a few self-congratulatory drags, she pulled her sunglasses down over the eyes still puffy from the previous night's binge drinking, and turned to look at me.

"So."

"So."

"I'd offer you a cigarette but you don't smoke. Gum?"

"No, thanks. And I do smoke, every now and then, while I'm out sometimes. But I don't think I've ever had one up in the middle of the afternoon."

"Judgy judgy." Her voice squeaked in a way that indicated she was in the process of losing it.

"I'm not being judgmental. I'm just saying."

"It was your tone."

"Hey, if you read into my tone, that's your own thing. Don't blame me for your insecurity."

"We can do this all day. Every time we meet up we end up sparing."

"I'm sorry." I threw up my hands in a highly excited manner and grabbed her shoulders playfully. "I'm so sorry!"

She pushed me away, "OK, OK. Stop. Thank you. OK."

I laughed. "Why so serious? With your monster bee glasses. Those things are like eye parasols. You're scaring me."

"My eyes are very sensitive to the sun. And they were only closed for 4 hours last night. I showed, didn't I? Even though I went out last night."

"Well sure, you'd be lame if you flaked out on our once-every-6-months coffee because you decided to go out. I don't see how this is you doing me a favor..."

"God, you don't stop do you?" She finally began walking towards the subway.

"Whatever, you like it." I followed alongside.

"Clearly enough that we only hang out twice a year."

"Yeah, why is that?"

"Busy. Life. Responsibilities. You being annoying."

"It would probably just be weird if we actually saw each other more than that. Like what would we talk about? I feel like we have the sort of relationship where stuff needs to build up for a few months in order for us to be able to have anything to say."

"That's sort of sad, isn't it?" She took another puff and blew out a cloud of smoke that misted transparent as we walked through it.

"I don't know. I don't think so." I looked ahead, down the street, squinting from the light.

"Well," she tilted her head towards me and took my arm, "then I will cherish these next few moments that we have."

I glanced down at her. "You're always looking for an excuse to have physical contact with me."

"I guess I can't help myself," she said sarcastically. "It's just that you have such shapely arms." She pulled herself away abruptly and threw the finish cigarette to the ground without stepping on it. "It was good seeing you though."

"Yeah. Definitely. I'd say we should do this more often but, well, you know."

"Probably wouldn't work out anyway."

"Probably not."

"You taking the F?" She asked, pointing to the station we had arrived at.

"Brooklyn."

"You and Brooklyn. I never would have guessed. It seems like its becoming serious."

"What can I say? She's after my own heart."

"And we know how picky you are."

There was that accenting moment of silence that always crawled into the conclusion of our conversations, reminding that we wouldn't see each other again for a long while. It was always those pauses that I recalled whenever I thought back to our previous meet-ups.

"And so," I finally started, "you're doing well? You're happy?" I wanted to leave with a highly simplified image of her in my mind, ignore the complexities that had dominated the last three hours of our time.

"I am," she said, smiling at me from behind the glasses that made it impossible to tell where she was looking. "Everything is really good."

I pulled her towards me to give her a hug, the stubble from my cheek grabbing at her hair as it brushed past. Her arms wrapped around me mechanically, politely. In the middle of the hold, she suddenly squeezed me tight for a second, relaxed, and then squeezed tight again for a moment longer.

"Well," her voice was squeaky again as she released me and moved away backwards on her heels, her flip-flops smacking against the pavement, "enjoy your ridiculously long commute."

I waved to her. "You don't have to worry about me."

She smiled as she turned to continue down the street, "I never do."

Bangin'

I can't stand how every time I come out of the Union Sq. subway station after work there are these dudes there with their upside-down buckets and pots bangin' away. I'm like, "bitch, it's not 1999 anymore. 'Stomp' was new and different - but not ever good - over a decade ago." Maybe it's a tourist thing, or maybe it's a matter of taste, but they still draw crazy crowds of people who, by standing around these douchebags, make it impossible for me to get out of the damn place. And really, like after a day in the office working behind a computer screen, I need to hear this crap? Bang bang bang. Gives me a damn migraine. And it's not even good! I'd take some dude on a darbuka any day. Maybe a drum circle with real f'in drums! Even that crazy guy who come onto the subway and mounts an entire keyboard on a stand in the center of the train is at least talented. And that other guy in the leather jacket that I sometimes see with an electric guitar, a small amp, and a slurred voice actually has some style to him. The mariachi band guys are decent too. And yet with these drumming guys, there's nothing cool or hip about the fact that they found their instruments in the dumpster. They sound like that's where they came from. A paint can was good for holding paint, but it's not all that good as a percussion instrument. And would a little inventiveness hurt? I mean if I'm going to come to terms with the fact that their gimmick is that they play "music" with trash, can't we at least pick some trash that makes OK music? What about like making a string instrument out of a cardboard box and old cables? Then maybe I'd impressed. Earplugs next time. For sure.

And while I'm on the subject of noise, the other day while I was enjoying a nice day outside, on the bench of a local coffeeshop, this guy drives by in his f'in Audi, windows rolled down, pumping some junk rap music with a crazy subwoofer that's, of course, making my iced coffee shake like some apporaching t-rex. Fine, so this guy is trying to compensate for something, he wants some attention, I get it. I've seen it before and I'm over it. But like, it's not enough that he's just going to drive by being dick, instead, he decides to park his car on the corner of the street along which I'm sitting and, get this, he gets out of the car and walks away. We're talking his car is just sitting there, windows still rolled down, keys still in the ignition, blasting this music while he just takes off. I think, OK, he stepped out and he's going to jump back in, but schmuck is gone for a good 10 minutes, forcing the rest of us to listen to his awful, awful track selection. What's wrong with people?

The Spark of Entry

This girl I know did a little project where she collected people's stories about how they got more into their Jewish identity. I wrote a little background story about my experiences which you can find here. It's kind of the more developed situation that existed behind the monologue I do for the "Monologues" show. Check out the rest of the site too. It's kind of small right now but I definitely think it has potential to become a blog of sorts or a larger collection of people's individual stories.

How Many Socks is Too Many Socks?

Its only in the last few months that I've allowed myself a luxury I never had before - giving all my laundry to the dry cleaners to do. I estimate that I end up paying a premium of about $30 extra per month in order to not have to do it myself. Is that worth it? Depends on how you look at it. Do I want to sit for a few hours at some random steamy laundromat (especially with the summer coming up), making sure that no one reaches into the machine to touch my unmentionables? Not really. Do I like spending more money? No. So it's kind of a little bit of a dilemma, especially when you consider that you probably care more about your own clothes than some random person.

So fine, I guess at some point the whole time thing really got to me - faced with the prospect of having to do laundry that week, I'd keep putting it off indefinitely because I just couldn't/didn't want to find the time needed to do it. That's like with me and cleaning. Sometimes it all just seems so exhausting and time consuming that I'd rather not do it at all. Now it's the little dry cleaning place around the corner that is the lucky recipient of my business. As a cash-only establishment, I get a little bit of a headache everytime I need to dig into my pocket for $25, but whatever, in healthy relationships everyone has their quirks.

Except that recently, I've found that my dry cleaner's quirks have extended to losing my socks. When I used to do my own laundry, this was a rare occurrence. I know everyone always seems to have issues with the aliens that come down while you're not looking and whisk away single socks, leaving you with sad, unpaired and useless slivers of fabric, but this didn't really happen to me. Maybe I was lucky, maybe I have a knack for spotting loose clothing and reuniting it with its other half. Whatever it was, I didn't have to go to Costco to purchase the sox six-pack to compensate for the lost footwear.

Now, in the last 2-3 months, I've found myself with SEVEN unpaired socks. Luckily they tend to be the cheaper, plain black or white socks, but still. SEVEN. How do you lose so many socks? And is this too much? I feel like it is. I get that, maybe, every month or so, they lose a sock. But this is at the point where they've now lost multiple socks in single loads. Yesterday I come in to get my laundry again, and the woman who runs the place - who at this point is holding onto my loose socks in the event that, miraculously, she should somehow find a matching sock somewhere - tells me "oh, so we were able to match a pair because we found a loose sock in the load you dropped off."

And I was like, "um, no. There weren't any loose pairs in that load. I don't randomly throw in a single sock for you to wash."

She didn't really understand what I was saying I don't think, because she kept repeating herself, as if expecting me to be really appreciative when, really, what it came down to was that they managed to lose another sock that matched with a sock they had already lost. Perfect.

Ugh, it could be as simple as going somewhere else, but I feel like maybe this is a problem with all dry cleaning places that wash your clothes for you? Really, they otherwise do a fine job and they're by far the cheapest and closest option, so maybe I don't have such a bad thing going? I don't know, I'm torn. And there's also a part of me that has a sneaking suspicion that they don't really add bleach when I ask them to. Maybe I'm just being paranoid about that.