After Ariel sent this to me earlier today, it got me to thinking. No, not about the first girl I fingered (which is what the link is about, check it out, it's pretty funny), but about my first kiss. From what I gather, most people remember their first kiss. Is this true?
I don't know if it has something to do with my pimpage at an incredibly young age, but I don't remember it. I think it happened at some point in kindergarten, and I think it was with a girl named Ilanna. I went to Hebrew school full-time back then. Yes, my completely irreligious parents were gearing me up for a life of certified Jewness. Did they imagine me a Rabbi? I don't know. Point is, half my day consisted of me learning Hebrew and the other half was me learning English. Coming from a household where I spoke only Russian, and equipped with a non-language-friendly mind, I had a really hard time understanding anything well.
But apparently, my communication skills were sufficient enough that young Ilanna took a liking to me. I remember we would have nap time where the teacher would turn the lights off and we'd be sleeping on the floor on those blueish gym mats. During those times, I would lie down next to Ilanna and we would "make out."
Honestly, I don't remember the contents of those sessions, and I don't remember the first time that we kissed. Honestly, I don't even remember if she really was the first one. For all I know, I might have been doing some freaky shit in pre-school, perhaps with one of the neighbor girls who, at one point, I vaguely remember playing "doctor" with. Don't ask me the specifics about that either, because it's all one adolescent blur.
As fate should have it, I actually found Ilanna on Facebook a couple of years ago. She even acknowledged our tumultuous relationship by identifying me as having dated her from 1985-1987. Ah, the old days. How easy it was back then. I didn't even have the mental wherewithal to comprehend the idea of a broken heart. And I'm actually pretty impressed with myself, because how the hell did I know to kiss girls at 3? I never went through that whole "girls have cooties" phase. Another question - do most guys go through that?
Then in 3rd grade, I finally got my second shot at love. For a good year and a half I "dated" Jen. All I remember was that she was an "older woman" (almost a year older than me), loved tennis (I got her tennis for Gameboy one year for her birthday), was obsessed with New Kids on the Block (to the point that it made me jealous), and moved to Tampa after fourth grade (*tears, pain). At some point in her post-grad. career she converted to Islam and started hating Jews, but that's neither here nor there. People change, what can I say?
This actually reminds me of a recent PostSecret postcard I saw. I'm disgusted, but I'm not really surprised. I actually think this sort of sentiment is relatively common.
Oh wait, I remember another crucial fact, that I might have revealed at some point in a previous post - Jen had really soft cheeks. The first kiss with her I remember. It was in the shitty "basketball court" we had in the back of the small private school I went to in Little Neck. This court consisted of a dirt field and a bunch of broken-down plastic tubing from some sort of once-standing playpen. Don't ask, I don't really understand it myself. Anyway, everyone knew we were gonna do it because it had been discussed earlier in the day. So we told everyone to go away, and while we were crouching down behind the red pipes, I kissed her on the cheek. I can still feel that kiss against my lips today. It felt weird, the skin just collapsing into her face. But her cheek was smooth, light peace fuzz tickled my nose.
I consider this the official beginning of my downward spiral into nit-picking psychoses. I think that day is when I started noticing minute details at the worst moments. And more often than not, those details would bother me. It was very Seinfeldian.
When she moved away, I remember being hurt. I remember wanting to stay in touch, dreaming even, of a day when we might be reunited. Maybe I just didn't know how to call long distance, because that never happened. She did come back to visit us during 5th grade, but she all but ignored me that day, and I was pretty pissed off. Maybe the conceptualization of what a broken heart means begins to emerge when we're 7/8 years old. I don't know.
I think this is where we end the discussion on "first"s. I wanted to keep this clean. Read that first link if you wanna get a little more intimate, at least with Michael Ian Black.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
You Know There's Something Wrong With You When...
you jail people for naming a teddy bear Muhammed. As if there weren't enough bad things I could say about Sudan...This just reaffirms my disgust with religious conservatives who have nothing better to do with their time other than to attack freedom of expression and cultural modernity (and to physically threaten/hurt/kill the people involved in each).
UPDATE: Now they wanna club her to death.
UPDATE: Now they wanna club her to death.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
I'm Reminded
Tonight I'm reminded of her prayer for me, the one she placed inside the cracks of the Wall when she was there this summer.
"I prayed for you when I was there," she said, her eyes widening, opening passages so deep that I couldn't understand exactly how those same eyes managed to disappear into slits when she smiled.
"I prayed for you so much." And she means it. More than anything else in the entire world, I know she means it.
"I wrote one down and buried it far within the stone."
Images flash through my head. I imagine myself there, walking around in the square, coming across a paper fluttering at my feet. I recognize the handwriting. And then I panic, because isn't this like a birthday wish? Aren't you supposed to keep it secret? If I see it now, then the whole thing disappears, and then it only means what it meant. But then I'm calm, because that would be enough.
So now, months later, I'm thinking about that prayer, and just what it said. Is it there, where her small hands placed it? Has it managed to escape thanks to a sudden wind or someone else's carelessness? Somehow, maybe this prayer is still alive, waiting to be processed and approved. Maybe something great is edging its way into my world. I wonder what it said, what she had hoped for me when she wrote it. I wish I could have been the person who knew all her prayers, and that I wouldn't have to think about the unspoken words passed on, secretly, from her directly to God.
When I was at the Wall, earlier this year, I forgot to pray.
"I prayed for you when I was there," she said, her eyes widening, opening passages so deep that I couldn't understand exactly how those same eyes managed to disappear into slits when she smiled.
"I prayed for you so much." And she means it. More than anything else in the entire world, I know she means it.
"I wrote one down and buried it far within the stone."
Images flash through my head. I imagine myself there, walking around in the square, coming across a paper fluttering at my feet. I recognize the handwriting. And then I panic, because isn't this like a birthday wish? Aren't you supposed to keep it secret? If I see it now, then the whole thing disappears, and then it only means what it meant. But then I'm calm, because that would be enough.
So now, months later, I'm thinking about that prayer, and just what it said. Is it there, where her small hands placed it? Has it managed to escape thanks to a sudden wind or someone else's carelessness? Somehow, maybe this prayer is still alive, waiting to be processed and approved. Maybe something great is edging its way into my world. I wonder what it said, what she had hoped for me when she wrote it. I wish I could have been the person who knew all her prayers, and that I wouldn't have to think about the unspoken words passed on, secretly, from her directly to God.
When I was at the Wall, earlier this year, I forgot to pray.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Soundness of the Gut
Just read this article that talks about psychology studies where Franklin-esque "moral algebra" (i.e. making a chart of pros vs. cons and making a decision based on that) goes up against making decisions based on your gut. Basically, the idea is that deciding based on how you feel or based on a hunch, often results in just as good of an answer as deciding based on complicated statistical analysis of multiple factors. Decision-making types are then broken down into two groups: "Satisficers don't feel the need to know everything, in contrast to maximizers, who do want to weigh every detail imaginable in making even minor life decisions. Interestingly, studies have found that satisficers are more optimistic about life, have higher self-esteem, and are generally happier than maximizers."
Well, needless to say, I'm a maximizer. That kind of sucks for me. Although the ultimate determination - that maximizers tend to be less happy - seems to be correct. I've often talked at length about my desire to be "simpler" when it comes to making decisions and living with those that I've made. Of the people I know, the ones who can go into something, act based on how they "feel" about the situation, and then never think about it again (because the decision has been made! It's in the past! Nothing can be changed now!), often seem to be much more at ease about practically everything in their lives. Meanwhile, there's me, and my over-analyzing, my mental computations where I try to churn all the factors into one, easy to handle nugget of truth.
Of course it never works that way. No matter how many times I go over the info, I often can't get to the point where I feel that a decision is "right." There's no such thing. And so I fret, I regret, I wonder "what could have been" and "what should have been." I keep myself awake at nights wondering "what might be." I change some variables, toss in a few more, and try to skew the information in such a way that I can come out with the answer that I want to hear even while my gut - which has been beginning to be heard all this time - refuses to go along with my analysis.
Conceptually, I love the idea that your gut is right. That no matter how much you can think about and consider a decision, the answer can be so much more easily obtained by just adhering to how you feel. It's a wonderful thing. Here we are, such complex, logical, rational creatures, and all the major choices we make in life can be ruled by something as obscure as our gut, our emotions.
But in reality, I hate the gut, simply because it's too simple, too arbitrary of a thing. Along the same train of thought, if we are such highly-developed beings, then how can we ever be satisfied with being so whimsical? Part of it seems very fake to me, in the same way that we think we've fallen in love with someone when, weeks later, all the intensity of the emotion has disappeared. In the cold reality we realize that we let ourselves be controlled by the unpredictable storm of feeling that can, in one moment, whip you into a frenzy of wide-eyed wonder at the magic the world offers behind every corner, and then the next, slam you back down to the ground, leaving you tattered and worn.
I'm supposed to trust this thing? What has my gut gotten me? What joys has it brought me? In moments when my all my humanity was focused into a core of convinced cerebral postulation, my gut has come along and damned it all.
Ah, you think this is the right thing for you to do, but I'm going to make sure that no matter how much you know it's right, it won't feel right.
That's just utterly obscene. Here I am uplifted by the certainty of my determinations, only to have them trampled upon by a psychological hang-up that just nags and nags and gives no heed to what I really want. And though it's such a small, seemingly insignificant thing, it commands such a power. You try to ignore your gut and it will stick with you and poke at you, prodding for a reaction. This is a good thing? This is somehow a defense mechanism?
I can say one thing, in hindsight, my gut has been right just as often as it has been wrong. Of course this is difficult to measure because post-decision we have no way to know how things might have turned out differently. But still, in considering where it has taken me, I can't say that it has always been a good thing. Mind you, as much as I hate the idea of it, I still always end up listening to it. There's little else I can do. I mean, as much as I want to consider myself above all of it, the whole thing about how much it nags at you, that's very true. It refuses to leave me along, even while I often try so desperately to ignore it. And then when you follow it, then you're also left with the additional need to explain your decision with statements like - "well, it was just the right thing to do;" "you can't bother understanding everything;" "some thing just can't be reasoned through;" "you have to go with your feelings."
Really? These statements are supposed to put me at ease? Relax me into believing that somehow I've made a truly enlightened decision? They just lead to more questions, more forehead rubbing. I'm putting the reigns of my life in the hands of something that responds to my concerns by telling me that "sometimes, that's just the way it is"? I find it very hard to live with answers like that, even while I often don't have any better ones to give myself.
Can it be that some things in life really don't have rational or logical conclusions? Can it be that no matter how hard we might try, our innate and uncontrollable emotions will continue to rule us, to force us into corners whether we like it or not? Matters of the heart make less sense to me than anything else. Perhaps that's why I've been so incompetent in relation to the women in my life.
Is there a way to learn? To get better? Maybe I should just stop thinking so much.
Well, needless to say, I'm a maximizer. That kind of sucks for me. Although the ultimate determination - that maximizers tend to be less happy - seems to be correct. I've often talked at length about my desire to be "simpler" when it comes to making decisions and living with those that I've made. Of the people I know, the ones who can go into something, act based on how they "feel" about the situation, and then never think about it again (because the decision has been made! It's in the past! Nothing can be changed now!), often seem to be much more at ease about practically everything in their lives. Meanwhile, there's me, and my over-analyzing, my mental computations where I try to churn all the factors into one, easy to handle nugget of truth.
Of course it never works that way. No matter how many times I go over the info, I often can't get to the point where I feel that a decision is "right." There's no such thing. And so I fret, I regret, I wonder "what could have been" and "what should have been." I keep myself awake at nights wondering "what might be." I change some variables, toss in a few more, and try to skew the information in such a way that I can come out with the answer that I want to hear even while my gut - which has been beginning to be heard all this time - refuses to go along with my analysis.
Conceptually, I love the idea that your gut is right. That no matter how much you can think about and consider a decision, the answer can be so much more easily obtained by just adhering to how you feel. It's a wonderful thing. Here we are, such complex, logical, rational creatures, and all the major choices we make in life can be ruled by something as obscure as our gut, our emotions.
But in reality, I hate the gut, simply because it's too simple, too arbitrary of a thing. Along the same train of thought, if we are such highly-developed beings, then how can we ever be satisfied with being so whimsical? Part of it seems very fake to me, in the same way that we think we've fallen in love with someone when, weeks later, all the intensity of the emotion has disappeared. In the cold reality we realize that we let ourselves be controlled by the unpredictable storm of feeling that can, in one moment, whip you into a frenzy of wide-eyed wonder at the magic the world offers behind every corner, and then the next, slam you back down to the ground, leaving you tattered and worn.
I'm supposed to trust this thing? What has my gut gotten me? What joys has it brought me? In moments when my all my humanity was focused into a core of convinced cerebral postulation, my gut has come along and damned it all.
Ah, you think this is the right thing for you to do, but I'm going to make sure that no matter how much you know it's right, it won't feel right.
That's just utterly obscene. Here I am uplifted by the certainty of my determinations, only to have them trampled upon by a psychological hang-up that just nags and nags and gives no heed to what I really want. And though it's such a small, seemingly insignificant thing, it commands such a power. You try to ignore your gut and it will stick with you and poke at you, prodding for a reaction. This is a good thing? This is somehow a defense mechanism?
I can say one thing, in hindsight, my gut has been right just as often as it has been wrong. Of course this is difficult to measure because post-decision we have no way to know how things might have turned out differently. But still, in considering where it has taken me, I can't say that it has always been a good thing. Mind you, as much as I hate the idea of it, I still always end up listening to it. There's little else I can do. I mean, as much as I want to consider myself above all of it, the whole thing about how much it nags at you, that's very true. It refuses to leave me along, even while I often try so desperately to ignore it. And then when you follow it, then you're also left with the additional need to explain your decision with statements like - "well, it was just the right thing to do;" "you can't bother understanding everything;" "some thing just can't be reasoned through;" "you have to go with your feelings."
Really? These statements are supposed to put me at ease? Relax me into believing that somehow I've made a truly enlightened decision? They just lead to more questions, more forehead rubbing. I'm putting the reigns of my life in the hands of something that responds to my concerns by telling me that "sometimes, that's just the way it is"? I find it very hard to live with answers like that, even while I often don't have any better ones to give myself.
Can it be that some things in life really don't have rational or logical conclusions? Can it be that no matter how hard we might try, our innate and uncontrollable emotions will continue to rule us, to force us into corners whether we like it or not? Matters of the heart make less sense to me than anything else. Perhaps that's why I've been so incompetent in relation to the women in my life.
Is there a way to learn? To get better? Maybe I should just stop thinking so much.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Into the Wild
"How do I answer that?" I asked. I looked her straight in the eyes, but I had to turn away. It was a move intended to represent contemplation, but it came off as if I just couldn't face her any more, as if I knew she would see in me what I was afraid for her to see.
"Just tell me what you're thinking." She paused. "I know you don't feel about me the same way that I feel about you."
"If you know then why are you asking me? Why are you making me say what you already know?" I was getting angry. "That's bullshit. Do you want me to say that?"
"I know that you don't, but I just need to hear it from you."
I shook my head. "I won't say it, because it's not true. I love you."
She shook her head. "Not like I love you."
And so it goes, that one love is not the right kind, another isn't enough. No one talks about the incompatibility of love. It's not just "does he/she love me;" it's also "does he/she love me how I love them?" We will always butt heads, and maybe, ultimately, you just don't understand me as much as you think I don't understand you.
Sometimes I feel that I have to pick up and leave. There's this sense that much remains unfulfilled, that there are things that I need to see and discover and understand, and that I need to do it all on my own. When that feeling hits me, it makes sense, it feels right. I see myself in the mirror, and I'm still so young, I'm still so selfish about my personal growth. I need to figure myself out before I can figure out anybody else.
And it's times like that where I need to disappear. I have this romantic notion that I need to embrace some amorphous conception of suffering, that I need to fall in order to rise. If I could have it my way, I'd pack a car with a few things and just drive off. I don't want to tell anyone I'm leaving, and I don't want to know where I'm going. And then I'm just gone, I'm off to discover myself. But because I'm too much of a coward, I won't ever actually drive away so suddenly. Instead, it all plays out within the box of the life I lead, and so I disappear in other ways - I stop communicating, I don't call, I don't have anything to say.
Yes it's strange, because it's so unlike me. I find myself sitting around and all I want to do is call, to tell stories and to hear them, to laugh at things not just because they're funny but also because everything feels so light, so sprightly. I try to be alone only to realize that I don't like it all that much, that it's not all it's cracked up to be. Being alone is so much more appealing when you're not alone, when it's a choice of removing yourself from the company of others rather than the status quo.
I really don't know where I came up with this thing, this whole escape plan. I really don't know how good of an idea this is, how valuable it will really be. I've managed to disappear, but I haven't really come across anything I think I was supposed to find. Now I just feel foolish, if I suddenly came back.
So I stay lost, and every time I think I'm finding a way back, I look to get more lost. I wander blind because it's the way I think I need to be. I want to come back one day, and I want to believe that when I do, I'll be all bearded and tired and aged, and I will have come to understand something I didn't understand before. And then maybe I'll be what I was hoping I was now, and then maybe it will also be too late.
"Just tell me what you're thinking." She paused. "I know you don't feel about me the same way that I feel about you."
"If you know then why are you asking me? Why are you making me say what you already know?" I was getting angry. "That's bullshit. Do you want me to say that?"
"I know that you don't, but I just need to hear it from you."
I shook my head. "I won't say it, because it's not true. I love you."
She shook her head. "Not like I love you."
And so it goes, that one love is not the right kind, another isn't enough. No one talks about the incompatibility of love. It's not just "does he/she love me;" it's also "does he/she love me how I love them?" We will always butt heads, and maybe, ultimately, you just don't understand me as much as you think I don't understand you.
Sometimes I feel that I have to pick up and leave. There's this sense that much remains unfulfilled, that there are things that I need to see and discover and understand, and that I need to do it all on my own. When that feeling hits me, it makes sense, it feels right. I see myself in the mirror, and I'm still so young, I'm still so selfish about my personal growth. I need to figure myself out before I can figure out anybody else.
And it's times like that where I need to disappear. I have this romantic notion that I need to embrace some amorphous conception of suffering, that I need to fall in order to rise. If I could have it my way, I'd pack a car with a few things and just drive off. I don't want to tell anyone I'm leaving, and I don't want to know where I'm going. And then I'm just gone, I'm off to discover myself. But because I'm too much of a coward, I won't ever actually drive away so suddenly. Instead, it all plays out within the box of the life I lead, and so I disappear in other ways - I stop communicating, I don't call, I don't have anything to say.
Yes it's strange, because it's so unlike me. I find myself sitting around and all I want to do is call, to tell stories and to hear them, to laugh at things not just because they're funny but also because everything feels so light, so sprightly. I try to be alone only to realize that I don't like it all that much, that it's not all it's cracked up to be. Being alone is so much more appealing when you're not alone, when it's a choice of removing yourself from the company of others rather than the status quo.
I really don't know where I came up with this thing, this whole escape plan. I really don't know how good of an idea this is, how valuable it will really be. I've managed to disappear, but I haven't really come across anything I think I was supposed to find. Now I just feel foolish, if I suddenly came back.
So I stay lost, and every time I think I'm finding a way back, I look to get more lost. I wander blind because it's the way I think I need to be. I want to come back one day, and I want to believe that when I do, I'll be all bearded and tired and aged, and I will have come to understand something I didn't understand before. And then maybe I'll be what I was hoping I was now, and then maybe it will also be too late.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
I Wish
I wish I could stop thinking of cockroaches as "silverfish."
I wish someone would tell me how much they hate feet.
I wish my heart wouldn't quicken every time I spotted red corduroys.
I wish I could take the 1 train and go down to Tribeca without suspicion.
I wish that I wouldn't keep glancing over my shoulder whenever I run through Central Park.
I wish I could remember how to sleep without having to hug a pillow.
I wish I had hung that mezzuzah up.
I wish someone would just say "eechs."
I wish I didn't feel so guilty every time those yellow stickers fall down.
I wish someone could just walk on my back, because it always hurts.
I wish that my version of Paolo Nutini's "These Streets" could be greeted with a huge smile.
I wish I would stop insisting on understanding things that, maybe, you just can't understand.
I wish I could just disappear for a little while and come back a new person.
I wish I was less of a coward and more of a dreamer.
I wish I thought more before speaking.
I wish I could enjoy the moment without always thinking about the next thing.
I wish I felt certain about something, anything.
I wish I could find a way to say everything I want to say without having to write it out in a stupid list.
I wish someone would tell me how much they hate feet.
I wish my heart wouldn't quicken every time I spotted red corduroys.
I wish I could take the 1 train and go down to Tribeca without suspicion.
I wish that I wouldn't keep glancing over my shoulder whenever I run through Central Park.
I wish I could remember how to sleep without having to hug a pillow.
I wish I had hung that mezzuzah up.
I wish someone would just say "eechs."
I wish I didn't feel so guilty every time those yellow stickers fall down.
I wish someone could just walk on my back, because it always hurts.
I wish that my version of Paolo Nutini's "These Streets" could be greeted with a huge smile.
I wish I would stop insisting on understanding things that, maybe, you just can't understand.
I wish I could just disappear for a little while and come back a new person.
I wish I was less of a coward and more of a dreamer.
I wish I thought more before speaking.
I wish I could enjoy the moment without always thinking about the next thing.
I wish I felt certain about something, anything.
I wish I could find a way to say everything I want to say without having to write it out in a stupid list.
Take 2, Success
Yesterday was performance number 2 of the birthright Monologues show, and yes, it was a smashing success. I have to say, I was a bit more nervous for this last one, all thanks to what I can call "moderate hype" that's building for this thing. I say "building," as in currently in the process of being built, because word on the street is that we're being extended. There's no definitive determination of what "extended" entails, but it will likely include a two-week run in New York and maybe some travelling. I'm really hoping for that last bit, because going on the road with this crew would be amazing. I can see it now, weekend retreats to LA, Chicago, Miami. Do a show on Saturday and hang out the rest of the time. It would be amazing. Lets do it, I'm willing to put myself out there for this.
And did I mention that Matisyahu was in attendance last night? That's right, dude shuffled in about 10 minutes after the show started and sat near the bar. I go first, so he missed my bit, but it's cool. I really had a lot of respect for his being there. I mean, here is this guy, who's probably busy, definitely has other stuff he could be doing, and he comes to our show and stays for practically the whole thing. He came late but he didn't leave early. That's pretty awesome in my book. It's funny how everyone seemed so overwhelmed that he was there - "oh my God! Matisyahu is here!" I kind of forgot that he's become something of a celebrity. I've never looked at him in that way, if only because I remember him performing his stuff at the little NYU Chabad House way back when, back in 2003, when no one knew who he was.
What 4 years will do for your career and your life. It's kind of crazy.
So keep your eyes peeled for a continuation of our little project. Coming soon to an off-off-off-Broadway locale near you.
And did I mention that Matisyahu was in attendance last night? That's right, dude shuffled in about 10 minutes after the show started and sat near the bar. I go first, so he missed my bit, but it's cool. I really had a lot of respect for his being there. I mean, here is this guy, who's probably busy, definitely has other stuff he could be doing, and he comes to our show and stays for practically the whole thing. He came late but he didn't leave early. That's pretty awesome in my book. It's funny how everyone seemed so overwhelmed that he was there - "oh my God! Matisyahu is here!" I kind of forgot that he's become something of a celebrity. I've never looked at him in that way, if only because I remember him performing his stuff at the little NYU Chabad House way back when, back in 2003, when no one knew who he was.
What 4 years will do for your career and your life. It's kind of crazy.
So keep your eyes peeled for a continuation of our little project. Coming soon to an off-off-off-Broadway locale near you.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Something is Brewing
Something is in the air. I can feel it. Something is setting itself up. I don't know what it is or where it'll go or what's gonna happen, but its palpable. I can taste it.
I sent him the pictures over e-mail.
"So, what do you think?" I write in my message.
"Cute," is the response.
I feel satisfied. Maybe this can be a set-up. I'll be a match-maker and then he will thank me. Years down the road, it'll be, "Ruvym, you see her over there? I have you to thank for that. I love you man."
Yes, yes, I love you too. All in a day's work.
Over coffee tonight, I remember the e-mail.
"So, did you really like her? I gotta be honest, I saw those pictures and I immediately thought of you, I don't know why."
"I saw her today."
"What?"
"I saw her today on the train, downtown. She's so small."
"You saw her today? I don't get it? She was on the train with you?"
"Yeah."
"How did you know it was her?"
"I just knew. I remembered the picture. I'm telling you, it was her. And the weird thing was, it's as if she looked at me and knew who I was. I mean, I knew who she was, but her eyes, they had this familiarity in them."
I think it strange that you send your friend a picture of a random girl you yourself have never met, and he manages to see her on the subway the next day. It could just be coincidence but it's no fun that way.
A tiny joint on West 4th that we've heard good things about. And my favorite thing when it comes to restaurants - European/Spanish-style tapas and wine, tight and cozy, the option to stand instead of sit. I hate to sit when I eat, so I jump at the opportunity. At home, I eat over the sink. These are the sorts of places that let me be myself, chair-less and energized. There's something about standing at a bar and having a glass of wine. It feels right, the way things should be. It might as well be a metaphor for life. Why are we sitting all the time?
Foregoing the bottle we decide to take on a few different glasses, taste the selection. That works for me tonight. I'm not really in a mood to get blasted. I want to ease into it. I want to hold the glass and look around the room. That couple that just came in, I think it's their first date. Maybe their second. There's that awkwardness to them. The girl keeps looking at me, maybe because I'm staring, maybe because she's not certain about it yet. There's a look of assessment in her eyes. She's enjoying herself, smiling, tilting her head back. But her hands, their crossed on her lap. She hesitates, looks at me, glances back to him. Wine glass raised to the lips. Hands back on her lap.
Her name isn't Spanish, the girl that read us the specials with that Spanish accent. Or so my friend tells me. Apparently he's overheard someone say it. She's supposed to be the daughter of the owner. We get seated at a table when we come in, but we inquire about the bar. Like I said, we want to stand.
"I don't want to inconvenience you. It's fine. If nothing opens up we'll sit here."
"No, no. I want you to be comfortable."
I smile. She seems to genuinely care about making sure we're enjoying ourselves. I wonder, is it wrong to ask her to say the specials again. There was something about the way she rolled her "r"s that first time. I kind of want to close my eyes next time she goes through the list.
This girl, she has a red sweater on. She's wearing jeans. She's very skinny. She's all-over the place. When she talks to you, her eyes tell you that you're the only person in the room. All that noise, all those other people? That's all in your head. It's just you and her and those few glasses of wine you've already had.
"Ask her where we can go dancing."
"What?"
"Ask her where we can go dancing."
"Why? That makes us seem like tourists. Why are you always asking people where we can go dancing? We know where we can go dancing. No one's ever told you about some place you don't already know about."
"Just do it."
I try to stop her, to see if she has any insights for us. We have no intention to go dancing but we're intrigued.
She seems annoyed. Why did I ask her about dancing? It seems so stupid. He should have asked her if he was so curious. I think that maybe she thinks I just asked her out. I could have sworn I heard her say, "I can't, I'm working." No, no, no. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not asking you out. Trust me, I'm not a moron, I would never ask a waitress out. I respect the professional space. I'm just following my moron friend's instructions.
We're not that special any more. Maybe I've stepped on some toes. Maybe we've overstayed our welcome because how long can you really stand around in a tiny restaurant when you keep sipping on the same glass of wine? Maybe I'm just overthinking this because that's what I do.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a guitar pick. It's a Dunlop, it's relatively soft. It reminds me of the type of pick I like using even though it's kind of different. No matter. A guitar pick found randomly lying on the floor, right there in front of my eyes? This too must be a sign.
Time passes, maybe the girl has forgotten about our terrible attempts at making conversation. My friend stops her.
"So you're the daughter of the owner?"
"Yes."
"How many places does he have?"
"Five."
"And you only work at this one."
She stops, her eyes widen, this elfish smile pops up on her face and you understand why you noticed her. You didn't get it before, but now you do.
"I run this place. It's my baby."
And you know that it is. She's walking away but you want her to stay a little longer, to keep looking at you like that. The way she was just now, that's how everyone should be. It makes you realize how ordinary most things are, and how out of nowhere, this spark of magic kicks up some dust and you're blinded, disoriented.
When we're outside and I realize that I definitely didn't dress for the weather, I try to be poetic.
"She was like that rioja you just had."
"What?"
"She was like that last glass of wine. You got it and it looks like any other glass of wine. It's the same color, it's in the same glass. You smell it and there's something nice about it. It's pleasant, you're looking forward to it. You can sense there's a hint of something special, but you don't really know what it is."
"Go on."
I'm kind of getting into this too.
"And then you bring it to your lips, and as it goes into your mouth it hits you. It's confusing, unexpected. You want to take it further, you want to understand what exactly is going on. Then as it sinks down your throat, it bites, it catches you off guard and maybe it's a bit more violent than you expected. But it's wrapped up in this warm smoothness that completes it. And as the taste starts to dissipate, you don't really know what happened. The moment came and went so quickly. You have to have another taste. And even though the next time you think you'll know what to expect, you'll realize you don't know a damn thing."
Yeah, it was kind of like that. And maybe, just maybe, something is ready to take us by the hand and show us that there's more to all of this.
I sent him the pictures over e-mail.
"So, what do you think?" I write in my message.
"Cute," is the response.
I feel satisfied. Maybe this can be a set-up. I'll be a match-maker and then he will thank me. Years down the road, it'll be, "Ruvym, you see her over there? I have you to thank for that. I love you man."
Yes, yes, I love you too. All in a day's work.
Over coffee tonight, I remember the e-mail.
"So, did you really like her? I gotta be honest, I saw those pictures and I immediately thought of you, I don't know why."
"I saw her today."
"What?"
"I saw her today on the train, downtown. She's so small."
"You saw her today? I don't get it? She was on the train with you?"
"Yeah."
"How did you know it was her?"
"I just knew. I remembered the picture. I'm telling you, it was her. And the weird thing was, it's as if she looked at me and knew who I was. I mean, I knew who she was, but her eyes, they had this familiarity in them."
I think it strange that you send your friend a picture of a random girl you yourself have never met, and he manages to see her on the subway the next day. It could just be coincidence but it's no fun that way.
A tiny joint on West 4th that we've heard good things about. And my favorite thing when it comes to restaurants - European/Spanish-style tapas and wine, tight and cozy, the option to stand instead of sit. I hate to sit when I eat, so I jump at the opportunity. At home, I eat over the sink. These are the sorts of places that let me be myself, chair-less and energized. There's something about standing at a bar and having a glass of wine. It feels right, the way things should be. It might as well be a metaphor for life. Why are we sitting all the time?
Foregoing the bottle we decide to take on a few different glasses, taste the selection. That works for me tonight. I'm not really in a mood to get blasted. I want to ease into it. I want to hold the glass and look around the room. That couple that just came in, I think it's their first date. Maybe their second. There's that awkwardness to them. The girl keeps looking at me, maybe because I'm staring, maybe because she's not certain about it yet. There's a look of assessment in her eyes. She's enjoying herself, smiling, tilting her head back. But her hands, their crossed on her lap. She hesitates, looks at me, glances back to him. Wine glass raised to the lips. Hands back on her lap.
Her name isn't Spanish, the girl that read us the specials with that Spanish accent. Or so my friend tells me. Apparently he's overheard someone say it. She's supposed to be the daughter of the owner. We get seated at a table when we come in, but we inquire about the bar. Like I said, we want to stand.
"I don't want to inconvenience you. It's fine. If nothing opens up we'll sit here."
"No, no. I want you to be comfortable."
I smile. She seems to genuinely care about making sure we're enjoying ourselves. I wonder, is it wrong to ask her to say the specials again. There was something about the way she rolled her "r"s that first time. I kind of want to close my eyes next time she goes through the list.
This girl, she has a red sweater on. She's wearing jeans. She's very skinny. She's all-over the place. When she talks to you, her eyes tell you that you're the only person in the room. All that noise, all those other people? That's all in your head. It's just you and her and those few glasses of wine you've already had.
"Ask her where we can go dancing."
"What?"
"Ask her where we can go dancing."
"Why? That makes us seem like tourists. Why are you always asking people where we can go dancing? We know where we can go dancing. No one's ever told you about some place you don't already know about."
"Just do it."
I try to stop her, to see if she has any insights for us. We have no intention to go dancing but we're intrigued.
She seems annoyed. Why did I ask her about dancing? It seems so stupid. He should have asked her if he was so curious. I think that maybe she thinks I just asked her out. I could have sworn I heard her say, "I can't, I'm working." No, no, no. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not asking you out. Trust me, I'm not a moron, I would never ask a waitress out. I respect the professional space. I'm just following my moron friend's instructions.
We're not that special any more. Maybe I've stepped on some toes. Maybe we've overstayed our welcome because how long can you really stand around in a tiny restaurant when you keep sipping on the same glass of wine? Maybe I'm just overthinking this because that's what I do.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a guitar pick. It's a Dunlop, it's relatively soft. It reminds me of the type of pick I like using even though it's kind of different. No matter. A guitar pick found randomly lying on the floor, right there in front of my eyes? This too must be a sign.
Time passes, maybe the girl has forgotten about our terrible attempts at making conversation. My friend stops her.
"So you're the daughter of the owner?"
"Yes."
"How many places does he have?"
"Five."
"And you only work at this one."
She stops, her eyes widen, this elfish smile pops up on her face and you understand why you noticed her. You didn't get it before, but now you do.
"I run this place. It's my baby."
And you know that it is. She's walking away but you want her to stay a little longer, to keep looking at you like that. The way she was just now, that's how everyone should be. It makes you realize how ordinary most things are, and how out of nowhere, this spark of magic kicks up some dust and you're blinded, disoriented.
When we're outside and I realize that I definitely didn't dress for the weather, I try to be poetic.
"She was like that rioja you just had."
"What?"
"She was like that last glass of wine. You got it and it looks like any other glass of wine. It's the same color, it's in the same glass. You smell it and there's something nice about it. It's pleasant, you're looking forward to it. You can sense there's a hint of something special, but you don't really know what it is."
"Go on."
I'm kind of getting into this too.
"And then you bring it to your lips, and as it goes into your mouth it hits you. It's confusing, unexpected. You want to take it further, you want to understand what exactly is going on. Then as it sinks down your throat, it bites, it catches you off guard and maybe it's a bit more violent than you expected. But it's wrapped up in this warm smoothness that completes it. And as the taste starts to dissipate, you don't really know what happened. The moment came and went so quickly. You have to have another taste. And even though the next time you think you'll know what to expect, you'll realize you don't know a damn thing."
Yeah, it was kind of like that. And maybe, just maybe, something is ready to take us by the hand and show us that there's more to all of this.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Getting Down With the Jews
I forgot to mention that this past Sunday I went to the Chabad annual convention which consisted of me in a room with thousands of Orthodox Jews.
I'm no stranger to this environment. Please see two years ago.
I'm also in no mood to launch into an expose about what happened and what it was like, but just know that after some cigar/wine/scotch/cheese, I was good to go. There were a few moments there where I had to close my eyes and ask my head to stop spinning. And then there was that hour at the peak of my inebriation where I got hit with a little bout of thoughtfulness and had to lock myself in the stall and call home. But other than that, I got through pretty OK.
No, it was better than OK, it was great. Rabbi Korn is the man for taking me and a few other cool dudes and I think we all had a great time, particularly during the pre-gaming session where we talked life, and then after a couple hours of that, crowded into a sick stretch limo. It's all about "Pour Some Sugar On Me" blasting while cruising up 6th Avenue to a meeting of Hassidic rabbis.
So far, I have only one pic to offer, but I think it's especially cool because it's linked directly from the Chabad site. Yeah, we made it up onto the site. It reminds me of getting caught making out in a club, except not.
I'm no stranger to this environment. Please see two years ago.
I'm also in no mood to launch into an expose about what happened and what it was like, but just know that after some cigar/wine/scotch/cheese, I was good to go. There were a few moments there where I had to close my eyes and ask my head to stop spinning. And then there was that hour at the peak of my inebriation where I got hit with a little bout of thoughtfulness and had to lock myself in the stall and call home. But other than that, I got through pretty OK.
No, it was better than OK, it was great. Rabbi Korn is the man for taking me and a few other cool dudes and I think we all had a great time, particularly during the pre-gaming session where we talked life, and then after a couple hours of that, crowded into a sick stretch limo. It's all about "Pour Some Sugar On Me" blasting while cruising up 6th Avenue to a meeting of Hassidic rabbis.
So far, I have only one pic to offer, but I think it's especially cool because it's linked directly from the Chabad site. Yeah, we made it up onto the site. It reminds me of getting caught making out in a club, except not.
Monday, November 12, 2007
I Still Hear the Music
There are so many songs that'll always mean something to me. For better or for worse, I've come to associate them with very specific memories. In some ways, I consider them "tainted" because I will never be able to enjoy them again without making certain associations. But is that so bad? Yes, I've "lost" some pretty good songs through the years, songs that I'd love to have a clean slate with and come to connect with new things. But it just doesn't work that way. Some happy memories, some sad. Lets take a short trip through the years. If I could make a soundtrack of my life, here's a few of the songs it would have:
1. Damien Rice, "The Blower's Daughter" - I went to see "Closer" and loved/hated the movie at the same. After I left the theater, the girl I was with says, "isn't it crazy how everyone has a big secret?" I thought about it. "I don't have any big secrets," I said, "why, do you?" There was silence. "I can't tell you," she responds.
2. "Lady in Red" - Fall Ball at the law school, 2004. I request that this song be played for the person at the party with me. When she hears it, her face lights up. I get a dance out of it.
3. Snow Patrol, "Chasing Cars" - I wake up the day of all-University graduation in 2006. We lounge around in bed for a while and this song plays in the background. I've slept so little, I'm so exhausted, and the last thing I want to do is put on a big purple gown. But none of that seems to matter because I'm really, really happy.
4. Moby, "Spiders" - I'm obsessed with the song, I play it over and over. It's a Thursday night, I'm drunk from a night out with the Rabbi. I call her to see where she's at. She tells me to come to the bar, that she wants to see me. I start sprinting and it begins raining a little bit. All I hear is the song, the rain, and my feet pounding against the pavement. More than anything else in the world, I want to be there with her, and get there as quickly as I can.
5. Mellencamp, "Jack & Diane" - I'm on the Pacific Northwest road trip with Carlos. We're driving down into Napa Valley and the weather is flawless. The windows are rolled down, this song is playing, and great wine awaits us. Everything is right in the world.
6. Linkin' Park, "Crawling" - A few days after 9/11. I work at 200 Broadway at the Attorney General's Office and I'm going down there for the first time since the towers came down. As I approach the Financial District, I see plumes of steam, police cars everywhere. I'm angry and devastated. I want to destroy things, I want to hurt certain people.
7. "Icebox" - It's that stupid song that goes "I got this ice box where my heart used to be..." It's always on in the morning. I make fun of it, I squint my eyes and try to exude the emotion in the song. I grab at my chest to represent the existence of the icebox where my heart used to be. I know this is how to make her laugh. I love it when I can make her laugh.
8. Usher, "Yeah" - It's the song that made 2004. It's on at this lounge we go to a lot, N.V. I'm drunk, my eyes are closing, getting lulled by the loud thumping music. I'm sweating and I'm grinding. As soon as Ludacris's part comes on, I stop what I'm doing and turn to watch Ilan act out the lyrics - "bend over to the front and touch your toes..."
9. Andre 3000, "Hey Yeah" - Yes, another "Yeah" song, but this one reminds me of Cornell. I went up there for a Tae Kwon Do tournament but was more excited about getting to meet up with a girl I had liked long before but one with whom nothing ever happened. She took me to a party and this song was on. I went crazy because it was my favorite song at the time. Once again, nothing happened.
10. The Wallflowers, "One Headlight;" Meredith Brooks, "Bitch;" "Freshmen;" "Return of the Mac;" Aerosmith, "Hole in My Soul;" "Breakfast at Tiffany's" - OK, so there's a few of them here, but these were the songs that got played over and over on the radio when I was off with Ilan at CTY's nerd camp, learning physics for the summer after 10th grade. We managed to memorize all of them and we became obsessed with the jack-ass of a DJ that ran the station up near Franklin & Marshall College.
11. Ben Folds, "Bitches Ain't Shit" - Summer 2005, I went off to Chicago with Ilan and we met up with Scot. I had a lot of crap going on in my head. Drinking a lot and then having this song playing while watching Ilan destroy a guy at ping-pong made it seem as if things weren't all that bad. And it also reminded me that, at times, bitches ain't shit. I know that's probably inappropriate, but I needed to hear it.
12. Timberlake, "Sexy Back" - Summer 2006, road trip down from LA, to San Diego, to Rosarito. I can't stand this damn song when I land in LA. But then I meet up with Ariel and we can't avoid hearing it on the radio. By the end of the trip, it's our favorite song in the world, and I have the woman's part down, where some random female voice goes "yeah."
13. Gaya, "Together" - This is a Hebrew song that's definitely overplayed and reserved mostly to get kids feeling connected about Judaism and Israel. Well, it worked. I heard it for the first time when I was on my birthright trip. The band came to our "mega event" and they played it for us. I couldn't believe there were so many Jewish people from every part of the world, and they were all gathered in one place, in Jerusalem, loving that they were alive. It was unreal.
14. "Glycerin" - I'd never heard the song until an old friend, Martin, sang it acapella at a friend's apartment because we weren't able to find a karaoke place. He did an awesome job.
15. Dashboard Confessional, "Vindicated" - This is playing on the radio as I'm driving towards a wedding in Ohio. That was the only wedding I've ever been to where I didn't go alone.
16. Lost Prophets, "Last Train Home" - I leave to Cancun just as things are getting interesting back at home. All I want to do the entire time I'm there is to get back to the City to see someone. This song manages to psych me up for my days, to keep me going, and, if it's possible, miss home a little less. I'm here, with my friends, and I can't spoil the party.
17. Matisyahu, "Jerusalem" - I'm at the law school graduation in 2006, standing there by myself. Wow, I've made it this far. It's kind of unreal. I'm outside of MSG and I'm just trying to take it all in. I'm listening to this song and it's reminding me that this isn't just all for me, that I also did it for the people who came before me, in their honor.
18. Ratatat, "Seventeen Years" - I can't study for the Bar exam with music that has words, so this is my number one choice of songs. I spend my days in Starbucks, 10 hours at a time. All I consume all day is a large coffee, a sugar cookie, and a turkey sandwich with mustard on whole wheat that Alex prepared for me everyday.
19. Green Day, "Time of Your Life" - It's the last song that plays at my senior prom. I've come to it with a few friends, but no date. I look around the room, wondering if there are any girls that might want to dance. Then I decide that I don't want to dance with anyone. I spin around the dance floor by myself, watching the rest of the couples falling over each other. In the bathroom, Ilan is still throwing up.
20. Biggy, "Big Poppa" - Song that played throughout my post-sophomore year road trip to Miami with Alex, Ilan, and Allen. Every time the line "throw your hands in the air" came on, Alex, if he was driving, would "jokingly" release the steering wheel and pump his hands in the air. It would scare me, because lets be honest, Alex with his hands on the wheel scares me.
1. Damien Rice, "The Blower's Daughter" - I went to see "Closer" and loved/hated the movie at the same. After I left the theater, the girl I was with says, "isn't it crazy how everyone has a big secret?" I thought about it. "I don't have any big secrets," I said, "why, do you?" There was silence. "I can't tell you," she responds.
2. "Lady in Red" - Fall Ball at the law school, 2004. I request that this song be played for the person at the party with me. When she hears it, her face lights up. I get a dance out of it.
3. Snow Patrol, "Chasing Cars" - I wake up the day of all-University graduation in 2006. We lounge around in bed for a while and this song plays in the background. I've slept so little, I'm so exhausted, and the last thing I want to do is put on a big purple gown. But none of that seems to matter because I'm really, really happy.
4. Moby, "Spiders" - I'm obsessed with the song, I play it over and over. It's a Thursday night, I'm drunk from a night out with the Rabbi. I call her to see where she's at. She tells me to come to the bar, that she wants to see me. I start sprinting and it begins raining a little bit. All I hear is the song, the rain, and my feet pounding against the pavement. More than anything else in the world, I want to be there with her, and get there as quickly as I can.
5. Mellencamp, "Jack & Diane" - I'm on the Pacific Northwest road trip with Carlos. We're driving down into Napa Valley and the weather is flawless. The windows are rolled down, this song is playing, and great wine awaits us. Everything is right in the world.
6. Linkin' Park, "Crawling" - A few days after 9/11. I work at 200 Broadway at the Attorney General's Office and I'm going down there for the first time since the towers came down. As I approach the Financial District, I see plumes of steam, police cars everywhere. I'm angry and devastated. I want to destroy things, I want to hurt certain people.
7. "Icebox" - It's that stupid song that goes "I got this ice box where my heart used to be..." It's always on in the morning. I make fun of it, I squint my eyes and try to exude the emotion in the song. I grab at my chest to represent the existence of the icebox where my heart used to be. I know this is how to make her laugh. I love it when I can make her laugh.
8. Usher, "Yeah" - It's the song that made 2004. It's on at this lounge we go to a lot, N.V. I'm drunk, my eyes are closing, getting lulled by the loud thumping music. I'm sweating and I'm grinding. As soon as Ludacris's part comes on, I stop what I'm doing and turn to watch Ilan act out the lyrics - "bend over to the front and touch your toes..."
9. Andre 3000, "Hey Yeah" - Yes, another "Yeah" song, but this one reminds me of Cornell. I went up there for a Tae Kwon Do tournament but was more excited about getting to meet up with a girl I had liked long before but one with whom nothing ever happened. She took me to a party and this song was on. I went crazy because it was my favorite song at the time. Once again, nothing happened.
10. The Wallflowers, "One Headlight;" Meredith Brooks, "Bitch;" "Freshmen;" "Return of the Mac;" Aerosmith, "Hole in My Soul;" "Breakfast at Tiffany's" - OK, so there's a few of them here, but these were the songs that got played over and over on the radio when I was off with Ilan at CTY's nerd camp, learning physics for the summer after 10th grade. We managed to memorize all of them and we became obsessed with the jack-ass of a DJ that ran the station up near Franklin & Marshall College.
11. Ben Folds, "Bitches Ain't Shit" - Summer 2005, I went off to Chicago with Ilan and we met up with Scot. I had a lot of crap going on in my head. Drinking a lot and then having this song playing while watching Ilan destroy a guy at ping-pong made it seem as if things weren't all that bad. And it also reminded me that, at times, bitches ain't shit. I know that's probably inappropriate, but I needed to hear it.
12. Timberlake, "Sexy Back" - Summer 2006, road trip down from LA, to San Diego, to Rosarito. I can't stand this damn song when I land in LA. But then I meet up with Ariel and we can't avoid hearing it on the radio. By the end of the trip, it's our favorite song in the world, and I have the woman's part down, where some random female voice goes "yeah."
13. Gaya, "Together" - This is a Hebrew song that's definitely overplayed and reserved mostly to get kids feeling connected about Judaism and Israel. Well, it worked. I heard it for the first time when I was on my birthright trip. The band came to our "mega event" and they played it for us. I couldn't believe there were so many Jewish people from every part of the world, and they were all gathered in one place, in Jerusalem, loving that they were alive. It was unreal.
14. "Glycerin" - I'd never heard the song until an old friend, Martin, sang it acapella at a friend's apartment because we weren't able to find a karaoke place. He did an awesome job.
15. Dashboard Confessional, "Vindicated" - This is playing on the radio as I'm driving towards a wedding in Ohio. That was the only wedding I've ever been to where I didn't go alone.
16. Lost Prophets, "Last Train Home" - I leave to Cancun just as things are getting interesting back at home. All I want to do the entire time I'm there is to get back to the City to see someone. This song manages to psych me up for my days, to keep me going, and, if it's possible, miss home a little less. I'm here, with my friends, and I can't spoil the party.
17. Matisyahu, "Jerusalem" - I'm at the law school graduation in 2006, standing there by myself. Wow, I've made it this far. It's kind of unreal. I'm outside of MSG and I'm just trying to take it all in. I'm listening to this song and it's reminding me that this isn't just all for me, that I also did it for the people who came before me, in their honor.
18. Ratatat, "Seventeen Years" - I can't study for the Bar exam with music that has words, so this is my number one choice of songs. I spend my days in Starbucks, 10 hours at a time. All I consume all day is a large coffee, a sugar cookie, and a turkey sandwich with mustard on whole wheat that Alex prepared for me everyday.
19. Green Day, "Time of Your Life" - It's the last song that plays at my senior prom. I've come to it with a few friends, but no date. I look around the room, wondering if there are any girls that might want to dance. Then I decide that I don't want to dance with anyone. I spin around the dance floor by myself, watching the rest of the couples falling over each other. In the bathroom, Ilan is still throwing up.
20. Biggy, "Big Poppa" - Song that played throughout my post-sophomore year road trip to Miami with Alex, Ilan, and Allen. Every time the line "throw your hands in the air" came on, Alex, if he was driving, would "jokingly" release the steering wheel and pump his hands in the air. It would scare me, because lets be honest, Alex with his hands on the wheel scares me.
Pokemon is Part of the Zionist Conspiracy
Saturday, November 10, 2007
My First
A few minutes ago, at about 4:30, I finished writing my first novel. It's a first draft, and knowing my pace with these sorts of things, at best it will be months before I'm even mildly satisfied with it (if that ever even happens), but it's all down, it's all there.
Part of me feels numb, because this project has been such a big part of my life over the last few months that I'm almost at a loss to understand what I do now. Yes, I go over it a million times and fix things and edit it, but it's done.
And now I know I'm capable of writing a novel. A big part of this whole thing was writing something larger and more intricate than I'd ever written before. I have written short stories, and poems, and one-act plays. I've started and scrapped about 5 screenplays at the 50-60 page mark. This was a challenge to show myself that I was capable of investing the time and thought necessary to finish something on this scale. And I did it.
I'm smiling.
Does it get easier now? Do the next novels simply spill out of me? It doesn't seem that way, but I still needed to do this, to know that it wasn't just me talking in my sleep.
Tonight I drink.
Part of me feels numb, because this project has been such a big part of my life over the last few months that I'm almost at a loss to understand what I do now. Yes, I go over it a million times and fix things and edit it, but it's done.
And now I know I'm capable of writing a novel. A big part of this whole thing was writing something larger and more intricate than I'd ever written before. I have written short stories, and poems, and one-act plays. I've started and scrapped about 5 screenplays at the 50-60 page mark. This was a challenge to show myself that I was capable of investing the time and thought necessary to finish something on this scale. And I did it.
I'm smiling.
Does it get easier now? Do the next novels simply spill out of me? It doesn't seem that way, but I still needed to do this, to know that it wasn't just me talking in my sleep.
Tonight I drink.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Brooklyn
In the last few weeks I've gone on something of a Brooklyn kick. When I say "kick" I mean that I've gone there once, but I've talked about it a whole bunch of times.
It all started during a conversation with a friend about how Manhattan is losing its "edge."
"Why do you say that?"
"It's just not like how it used to be."
"So it sucks that there aren't as many drug addicts and murderers? Yeah, how terrible."
"No, I mean the people in general, they're all the same. It's getting boring. Where are all the artists and intellectuals? What's happened to the salon scene? To the writer scene? Everyone's leaving. It's too expensive for them. So now you just get a bunch of people-"
"-Like me."
"Well..."
Fine, so maybe, in some weird twisted way, I'm becoming part of the problem. Manhattan is getting too expensive (if it isn't already) for the artists, and so you're finding copies of copies of copies. Young professionals taking over these neighborhoods where you used to find interesting people. I'm not saying that young professionals aren't interesting. I am saying that most young professionals aren't interesting. No offense Ruvym.
So Brooklyn is where they've gone to? I kind of knew it but it didn't seem to matter. Back in August 2006, Ariel propositioned me to move to Brooklyn with him. He was giving up his LES apartment and wanted a change of scenery (you will foregive me for, potentially, misrepresenting what he thinks/how he speaks).
"Manhattan sucks man. I can't relax here."
"What does that mean?"
"I just can't rest here. I don't like staying here after work. I want to live somewhere that feels like it's away from all this craziness."
I didn't. The thought of sitting on a train, waiting for the train, having to rely on it late at night, and paying for taxis ($15-$25 usually) to get back home on a weekend, didn't seem like a good thing. Plus I saw Brooklyn as too slow, boring. Manhattan has all the life, all the movement. It's the 24-hour mecca. No one sleeps.
And yes, despite prophetic statements like "Manhattan is where America works, Brooklyn is where America lives" at rooftop parties in Williamsburg, I still didn't get the appeal. So, yes, people work in Manhattan, but why can't they live here too? Seems convenient, and indeed it has been. I'm a Manhattanite for 8+ years now. I've lived here longer than I've lived on LI where I, technically, "grew up."
But I couldn't get that convo about "edge" out of my mind. If I thought about it, my friend was right. Yes, I could still find "my people" in small West Village coffee shops, but the West Village has become an outside destination that I trek to whenever I have a chance. I don't live there, I don't live next to all those small restaurants and amidst those stoop-lined houses. I'm a stranger who intrudes, who comes by on the weekends and hopes that, maybe, they remember me, and, maybe, they'll think I'm part of this world.
"Do you remember what I got last time? I mean, I was here last Saturday."
For whatever reason, the West Village makes sense to me, in a way that most of the rest of Manhattan doesn't. I don't get my area, Murray Hill. It's just awkward. I don't get midtown, I don't get Chelsea. And as "edgy" as the East Village and the LES seems to some people, I don't get it either. It just doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like home the way Manhattan used to.
Maybe it's just me outgrowing it, being a couple of years behind many of my other peers who have moved to the surrounding burroughs. Maybe I just still hold out hope that something will change or that I'll magically find a West Village apartment and go to sleep with a smile on my face every night. And even the West Village, how much time does it really have before its swallowed up along with everything else? How long before Starbucks moves in because most of the residents can't appreciate, don't have enough time to appreciate, the small, personal places that I obsess about? Not to knock Starbucks, which you know I have respect for, but it's definitely a symbol of the change, maybe the best one I can think of.
And as luck would have it, I got a chance to head off to see Ariel in Park Slope a week or so later. He's lived in Brooklyn for over a year now, but only moved to Park Slope (or "South Park" as he likes to call it, thanks to the fact that, to be very specific, it's located at the South end of what constitutes Park Slope) a few weeks ago. In total, this past time excluded, I went to Brooklyn probably a total of 6 times when he lived at his last place. Perhaps because of where in Brooklyn he was, there wasn't really anything about the area that inspired me to consider it.
But Park Slope was a whole different story. I think it was actually the first time I was ever there, at least in recent memory. There wasn't anything special about how it looked, but there was definitely something about it. On the way over from Manhattan the train was filled with, mostly, people my age who definitely didn't have the corporate look to them. I could appreciate that, even while I know I'm technically part of the crowd that I try to avoid. There's a lot to be said about how you dress. While it is somewhat superficial to look at things like that, still, I have to say, I don't feel like myself when I'm dressed in "work" clothes. It's just not me. I feel stiff, and I think that I somehow up the stiffness because I imagine that this is what people expect, that because I have a button-down and slacks that I'm going to be a certain way. You'd think I'd try to overcompensate the other way, that's what I think I would do, but I don't.
Anyway, so seeing these people on the train, and on the street, and the people at the party and at the few bars I stopped into, I kind of saw what it is that I get in the West Village and that I seem to miss everywhere else. Brooklyn definitely has a charm that's disappearing from New York, and it definitely has more of a mature cool vibe to it. You don't get as many of the teenie-boppers from NYU, and when I say "mature," I mean 22-35. These are good ages. My people are these ages.
You know, living in Manhattan, I thought I'd be close to "everything." And while many things are definitely more accessible to me, in the past year I have had a total of FOUR close friends living in Manhattan, and two of them I only met at the end of August. Those are pretty bad stats. Overall, I've been pretty much on my own in this City, often relying on weekend redezvous to see people. This is not to say that moving to Brooklyn will suddenly open up the social doors for me, but it just seems like it might be a good idea, that I might find something of a community that I'm lacking in the large-buildingness of most of Manhattan. I like to think of myself living in an area where people recognize me and I recognize them. No, I'm not ready for the burbs, for connected townhouses. But I just might be ready for Brooklyn. And one more thing, living alone, while great sometimes, can also get pretty boring. So I'm thinking, if I have a chance, I might actually go back to living with someone. I haven't actually had a suitemate since London 2002, and I haven't had a roommate since NYU 2001. I wonder if living by myself all of this time has made me into more or less of a loner. It's kind of hard to tell.
It all started during a conversation with a friend about how Manhattan is losing its "edge."
"Why do you say that?"
"It's just not like how it used to be."
"So it sucks that there aren't as many drug addicts and murderers? Yeah, how terrible."
"No, I mean the people in general, they're all the same. It's getting boring. Where are all the artists and intellectuals? What's happened to the salon scene? To the writer scene? Everyone's leaving. It's too expensive for them. So now you just get a bunch of people-"
"-Like me."
"Well..."
Fine, so maybe, in some weird twisted way, I'm becoming part of the problem. Manhattan is getting too expensive (if it isn't already) for the artists, and so you're finding copies of copies of copies. Young professionals taking over these neighborhoods where you used to find interesting people. I'm not saying that young professionals aren't interesting. I am saying that most young professionals aren't interesting. No offense Ruvym.
So Brooklyn is where they've gone to? I kind of knew it but it didn't seem to matter. Back in August 2006, Ariel propositioned me to move to Brooklyn with him. He was giving up his LES apartment and wanted a change of scenery (you will foregive me for, potentially, misrepresenting what he thinks/how he speaks).
"Manhattan sucks man. I can't relax here."
"What does that mean?"
"I just can't rest here. I don't like staying here after work. I want to live somewhere that feels like it's away from all this craziness."
I didn't. The thought of sitting on a train, waiting for the train, having to rely on it late at night, and paying for taxis ($15-$25 usually) to get back home on a weekend, didn't seem like a good thing. Plus I saw Brooklyn as too slow, boring. Manhattan has all the life, all the movement. It's the 24-hour mecca. No one sleeps.
And yes, despite prophetic statements like "Manhattan is where America works, Brooklyn is where America lives" at rooftop parties in Williamsburg, I still didn't get the appeal. So, yes, people work in Manhattan, but why can't they live here too? Seems convenient, and indeed it has been. I'm a Manhattanite for 8+ years now. I've lived here longer than I've lived on LI where I, technically, "grew up."
But I couldn't get that convo about "edge" out of my mind. If I thought about it, my friend was right. Yes, I could still find "my people" in small West Village coffee shops, but the West Village has become an outside destination that I trek to whenever I have a chance. I don't live there, I don't live next to all those small restaurants and amidst those stoop-lined houses. I'm a stranger who intrudes, who comes by on the weekends and hopes that, maybe, they remember me, and, maybe, they'll think I'm part of this world.
"Do you remember what I got last time? I mean, I was here last Saturday."
For whatever reason, the West Village makes sense to me, in a way that most of the rest of Manhattan doesn't. I don't get my area, Murray Hill. It's just awkward. I don't get midtown, I don't get Chelsea. And as "edgy" as the East Village and the LES seems to some people, I don't get it either. It just doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like home the way Manhattan used to.
Maybe it's just me outgrowing it, being a couple of years behind many of my other peers who have moved to the surrounding burroughs. Maybe I just still hold out hope that something will change or that I'll magically find a West Village apartment and go to sleep with a smile on my face every night. And even the West Village, how much time does it really have before its swallowed up along with everything else? How long before Starbucks moves in because most of the residents can't appreciate, don't have enough time to appreciate, the small, personal places that I obsess about? Not to knock Starbucks, which you know I have respect for, but it's definitely a symbol of the change, maybe the best one I can think of.
And as luck would have it, I got a chance to head off to see Ariel in Park Slope a week or so later. He's lived in Brooklyn for over a year now, but only moved to Park Slope (or "South Park" as he likes to call it, thanks to the fact that, to be very specific, it's located at the South end of what constitutes Park Slope) a few weeks ago. In total, this past time excluded, I went to Brooklyn probably a total of 6 times when he lived at his last place. Perhaps because of where in Brooklyn he was, there wasn't really anything about the area that inspired me to consider it.
But Park Slope was a whole different story. I think it was actually the first time I was ever there, at least in recent memory. There wasn't anything special about how it looked, but there was definitely something about it. On the way over from Manhattan the train was filled with, mostly, people my age who definitely didn't have the corporate look to them. I could appreciate that, even while I know I'm technically part of the crowd that I try to avoid. There's a lot to be said about how you dress. While it is somewhat superficial to look at things like that, still, I have to say, I don't feel like myself when I'm dressed in "work" clothes. It's just not me. I feel stiff, and I think that I somehow up the stiffness because I imagine that this is what people expect, that because I have a button-down and slacks that I'm going to be a certain way. You'd think I'd try to overcompensate the other way, that's what I think I would do, but I don't.
Anyway, so seeing these people on the train, and on the street, and the people at the party and at the few bars I stopped into, I kind of saw what it is that I get in the West Village and that I seem to miss everywhere else. Brooklyn definitely has a charm that's disappearing from New York, and it definitely has more of a mature cool vibe to it. You don't get as many of the teenie-boppers from NYU, and when I say "mature," I mean 22-35. These are good ages. My people are these ages.
You know, living in Manhattan, I thought I'd be close to "everything." And while many things are definitely more accessible to me, in the past year I have had a total of FOUR close friends living in Manhattan, and two of them I only met at the end of August. Those are pretty bad stats. Overall, I've been pretty much on my own in this City, often relying on weekend redezvous to see people. This is not to say that moving to Brooklyn will suddenly open up the social doors for me, but it just seems like it might be a good idea, that I might find something of a community that I'm lacking in the large-buildingness of most of Manhattan. I like to think of myself living in an area where people recognize me and I recognize them. No, I'm not ready for the burbs, for connected townhouses. But I just might be ready for Brooklyn. And one more thing, living alone, while great sometimes, can also get pretty boring. So I'm thinking, if I have a chance, I might actually go back to living with someone. I haven't actually had a suitemate since London 2002, and I haven't had a roommate since NYU 2001. I wonder if living by myself all of this time has made me into more or less of a loner. It's kind of hard to tell.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
The Beach is THAT Way
Luckily, I sport the type of ridiculously, ridiculously good-looking physique that will never require that I consider this procedure. Although now I'm remembering that MTV "True Life" episode where the guy got a very important set of implants. Maybe I should consider those. And while I'm on the topic of body alteration, what's up with Vishnu babies? They sort of freak me out, although I can see how those extra limbs can come in handy. And remember that woman whose face got eaten by a dog a few years back? Wow. It reminds me of one of my favorite books, "Invisible Monsters." As you can see, I don't really have anything of value floating around in my head right now.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
I Don't Have Cable
That's right. I don't have cable. Go ahead, let your jaw drop. Do it. Just relax your muscles and allow the hinge to unlatch itself. It's OK, I understand how amazing this is. Me, the pioneer of a cable-less world. Me, in this society, surviving without the latest and greatest that American media has to offer. Things like "Two and a Half Men," "House," "Monday Night Football," and yes, even "The Hills."
You come into my room and you look to your left. Ah, a nice wooden TV stand. Yes, there's a TV, albeit a small one, a vestige of my undergrad days. And yes, it works. I know because I often watch DVDs. But go ahead, try changing the channel. What's that you say? Every channel just has static and snow? What the heck? Might it have something to do with the lack of cable perhaps?
I don't mean to brag but, did I mention I don't have cable. I'm what you might call a "cableist." I have nothing against TV. It's good, hard-working people. As a concept it's great, it's entertaining, and at times it's educational. But I can't bring myself to invest in it.
I'll be honest, it's not the money. The cold hard fact is that cable makes me feel guilty. Whenever I go home to LI, I see the red letters of the box staring out at me, whispering, mouthing my name. I hug my parents, but I don't notice them.
"How was your wee..."
Their words drift off into the hum of the heating system.
I'm light on my feet. They carry me into the living room to the massive silver controller. It's so shiny. All those buttons.
The fluffy couch cushions are inviting, a grandmother's chubby arms stretching out, beckoning me for a hug. I throw myself into them. I sink.
The TV flips on. First the electronic whine, a subliminal undercurrent. And then the click, the flicker, the images.
Hours pass and don't moved. Dinner will have been served and eaten, plates will have been washed somewhere in the house, in a room I think is the kitchen. It's so far from where I am that it would have been impossible to actually go there myself. I go by the smells that occasionally drift by. It might be getting late. I hear creaking stair and the occasional exchange of words. Off to my side lights go on and off and then they stay off and I can almost see the shadows that the screen throws across my face. Is there anyone else in this house with me?
Weekend can pass like that, and then I'll come back into the City, I'll be on the train, and it's like I've blacked everything out. I don't remember what I did or even what I saw, and somehow it's a Sunday night and nothing got done.
TV and I have this sort of love-hate relationship. It's a violent, abusive love. There's just too much passion, I'm just too much of a sucker, so it's best if I stay away. When it's around it can become my entire world, and then I feel bad about it, and I need to purge myself of the warm glow. I can still feel it on my skin.
Truth is, I don't trust myself with cable. I'm just too weak, and there's too much that needs to get done. Having the Internet is bad enough. I'm completely addicted to AIM because there's just so much that needs to be said, that's said so much more effectively if its written rather than if it's me speaking on the phone, with my ear getting warm. I've been without cable for almost a year now, total cold turkey. Fine, so there are those instances when I'm home or at the gym, but otherwise I'm totally outside of that world. And really, I don't miss it all that much.
You come into my room and you look to your left. Ah, a nice wooden TV stand. Yes, there's a TV, albeit a small one, a vestige of my undergrad days. And yes, it works. I know because I often watch DVDs. But go ahead, try changing the channel. What's that you say? Every channel just has static and snow? What the heck? Might it have something to do with the lack of cable perhaps?
I don't mean to brag but, did I mention I don't have cable. I'm what you might call a "cableist." I have nothing against TV. It's good, hard-working people. As a concept it's great, it's entertaining, and at times it's educational. But I can't bring myself to invest in it.
I'll be honest, it's not the money. The cold hard fact is that cable makes me feel guilty. Whenever I go home to LI, I see the red letters of the box staring out at me, whispering, mouthing my name. I hug my parents, but I don't notice them.
"How was your wee..."
Their words drift off into the hum of the heating system.
I'm light on my feet. They carry me into the living room to the massive silver controller. It's so shiny. All those buttons.
The fluffy couch cushions are inviting, a grandmother's chubby arms stretching out, beckoning me for a hug. I throw myself into them. I sink.
The TV flips on. First the electronic whine, a subliminal undercurrent. And then the click, the flicker, the images.
Hours pass and don't moved. Dinner will have been served and eaten, plates will have been washed somewhere in the house, in a room I think is the kitchen. It's so far from where I am that it would have been impossible to actually go there myself. I go by the smells that occasionally drift by. It might be getting late. I hear creaking stair and the occasional exchange of words. Off to my side lights go on and off and then they stay off and I can almost see the shadows that the screen throws across my face. Is there anyone else in this house with me?
Weekend can pass like that, and then I'll come back into the City, I'll be on the train, and it's like I've blacked everything out. I don't remember what I did or even what I saw, and somehow it's a Sunday night and nothing got done.
TV and I have this sort of love-hate relationship. It's a violent, abusive love. There's just too much passion, I'm just too much of a sucker, so it's best if I stay away. When it's around it can become my entire world, and then I feel bad about it, and I need to purge myself of the warm glow. I can still feel it on my skin.
Truth is, I don't trust myself with cable. I'm just too weak, and there's too much that needs to get done. Having the Internet is bad enough. I'm completely addicted to AIM because there's just so much that needs to be said, that's said so much more effectively if its written rather than if it's me speaking on the phone, with my ear getting warm. I've been without cable for almost a year now, total cold turkey. Fine, so there are those instances when I'm home or at the gym, but otherwise I'm totally outside of that world. And really, I don't miss it all that much.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Speaking in Tongues
I used to say that I thought it was rude, to speak a foreign language in front of me. All I heard were those gutteral inflections, a rise here, a dip there, and I had to make out the content of the conversations based on smiles and squints. I was a stranger in those moments, left outside to peek in through the windows, hoping to catch a shadow sliding across the backlit wall. The black figures all blend into one long form and I don't know if it's you or someone else. And no matter how much of a fuss I make, it's always the same, the off-handed jabbering coupled with the flighty dismissiveness, a roll of the eyes and a deep sigh of apologetic annoyance.
Is it really so much to ask? I just feel uncomfortable when I don't know what you're talking about.
I admit, I tried to learn, although maybe I didn't make much of an effort. It's supposed to be the "language of my people." It's something I should probably know. Right? Yes, part of that is selfish, because I like it, I like how it sounds, so strong and rich and deep, and the more I hear it, the more I want to know it, the more I want to be linked with those thousands of years of history. But then it's also about you, because this is your language and when you're on the phone or at home and you forget that I'm there, I want to stay part of your world.
Maybe I know you, but sometimes I feel like I don't. This language, this tongue, is so much a part of who you are that I can't understand how you stand my complaints. It's me fighting to keep you all my own, because I hate when there's so much you have to say and none of it is to me.
I probably could learn it. I'd have to work hard but I'm willing to do it. Just push me a little. Show me that this is for you as much as it is for me. I act the indifferent student, the aloof kid. But I'm not. I think it's so important, and I'm excited about it, and all I want if for you to care that I care. Sometimes I think you do, but then you let me walk away, and then that walk turns into a sprint, and then it doesn't seem to matter any more.
And now I just have this silly book with some of my scribbles on the first few pages, my attempts to redraw the letters exactly as they're shown. Those little word stickers still dot the room, curling on the edges, begging to be removed. Sometimes they fall off, everyday they fall off, and I just put them back up. I threw a few out and regretted it afterwards, because sometimes I still want to know what they say. Maybe one day I will.
That language, it's all that I hear. In crowded rooms and busy trains and passing strollers, my ears seek out the familiarly foreign sounds and I can't breath. It's strange how it always used to seem beautiful, how it would make me smile and shake my head with amused frustration. Now I just walk away, I don't want to listen to it. And it's not that it's suddenly ugly or that it disgusts me, but it does remind me of things, it reminds me of the things I never got to learn.
Sometimes it kills me to think I could have been so much more.
Is it really so much to ask? I just feel uncomfortable when I don't know what you're talking about.
I admit, I tried to learn, although maybe I didn't make much of an effort. It's supposed to be the "language of my people." It's something I should probably know. Right? Yes, part of that is selfish, because I like it, I like how it sounds, so strong and rich and deep, and the more I hear it, the more I want to know it, the more I want to be linked with those thousands of years of history. But then it's also about you, because this is your language and when you're on the phone or at home and you forget that I'm there, I want to stay part of your world.
Maybe I know you, but sometimes I feel like I don't. This language, this tongue, is so much a part of who you are that I can't understand how you stand my complaints. It's me fighting to keep you all my own, because I hate when there's so much you have to say and none of it is to me.
I probably could learn it. I'd have to work hard but I'm willing to do it. Just push me a little. Show me that this is for you as much as it is for me. I act the indifferent student, the aloof kid. But I'm not. I think it's so important, and I'm excited about it, and all I want if for you to care that I care. Sometimes I think you do, but then you let me walk away, and then that walk turns into a sprint, and then it doesn't seem to matter any more.
And now I just have this silly book with some of my scribbles on the first few pages, my attempts to redraw the letters exactly as they're shown. Those little word stickers still dot the room, curling on the edges, begging to be removed. Sometimes they fall off, everyday they fall off, and I just put them back up. I threw a few out and regretted it afterwards, because sometimes I still want to know what they say. Maybe one day I will.
That language, it's all that I hear. In crowded rooms and busy trains and passing strollers, my ears seek out the familiarly foreign sounds and I can't breath. It's strange how it always used to seem beautiful, how it would make me smile and shake my head with amused frustration. Now I just walk away, I don't want to listen to it. And it's not that it's suddenly ugly or that it disgusts me, but it does remind me of things, it reminds me of the things I never got to learn.
Sometimes it kills me to think I could have been so much more.
We Rocked the House
I just got back home from being out after the show, and I gotta say, it was an amazing experience. I've never been up on a stage like that before, just me and the audience, doing my own stuff. I didn't really know exactly what to expect, how nervous I'd be or what I'd forget in the moment. I spent all day shaking, getting chills, feeling lightheaded. It was really crazy. I would never imagine that my body would have such a reaction to the fear of performing in front of people, particularly when I know I know my stuff well. But then when I started heading down there, and put on some good music, I started to just feel that adrenaline pumping and the fear turned into a psyched-up energy.
It's strange, you know I've recited my piece so many times and I know what to say when and I thought I knew what would be funny and where people would laugh, but in the moment it all changes. Sometimes I didn't get laughs when I expected them and sometimes I had to let the laughter die down before I could continue. I loved how organic it all was, how I had to mold myself to the crowd. And I tried working off of them too, tempering myself based on their reactions rather than just gunning through it all.
Awesome, awesome, awesome. Speaking of art-induced highs, I'm still riding the one from tonight. Everyone was freaking great and it all went surprisingly smoothly. Now we go on a two-week hiatus before the second show on the 19th. If you can make that one, be there, because it's going to be amazing. And who knows where this will all go, because we might actually take off (at least in the Jewish world). So come see it before we're doing sold-out shows, although I have to say, ye' olde Slipper Room was pretty damn packed tonight. Estimates had it at 150+. Now that's something to l'chaim about. You feel me?
PS A communal shout-out to my dad and my friends (and their friends) who made it out to see me tonight. Thank you so much.
It's strange, you know I've recited my piece so many times and I know what to say when and I thought I knew what would be funny and where people would laugh, but in the moment it all changes. Sometimes I didn't get laughs when I expected them and sometimes I had to let the laughter die down before I could continue. I loved how organic it all was, how I had to mold myself to the crowd. And I tried working off of them too, tempering myself based on their reactions rather than just gunning through it all.
Awesome, awesome, awesome. Speaking of art-induced highs, I'm still riding the one from tonight. Everyone was freaking great and it all went surprisingly smoothly. Now we go on a two-week hiatus before the second show on the 19th. If you can make that one, be there, because it's going to be amazing. And who knows where this will all go, because we might actually take off (at least in the Jewish world). So come see it before we're doing sold-out shows, although I have to say, ye' olde Slipper Room was pretty damn packed tonight. Estimates had it at 150+. Now that's something to l'chaim about. You feel me?
PS A communal shout-out to my dad and my friends (and their friends) who made it out to see me tonight. Thank you so much.
Monday, November 05, 2007
The Art Fix
We're always looking for things that make us feel good, and of course everything effects us in a different way. Sometimes it's really simple, you'll eat something you'll love, you'll grab a drink, a smoke, and you'll get a smile on your face. But it's all a temporary sort of thing. You're out partying and throwing back some vodka-tonics, and then by the end of the night you're tired and by the next morning maybe you feel so shitty that you regret that you had too good a time.
For me, doing something creative, like writing or being in this show that I've been working on, makes me feel more incredible than most other things. I don't know how to describe it exactly, and the feeling isn't always the same, but when I get the real "art high," it's like being in love. Of course it's not exactly like that, but it's something like that. I just feel like everything is right in my world and it all makes sense and everything that I'm not feeling great about will work out just fine.
But then there's a problem with all of that. Well, not really a problem, but an issue. Because as great as I feel in those moments, at best, they're temporary, small "fixes" that stick around for a few hours and then they're gone. The drop off from the high is like the drop off after any sort of chemical or natural substance, and I'm left slightly disappointed, confused, curious as to how I could have felt so awesome one second only to feel ordinary the next. And it is like a drug, something I run to and immerse myself in because I know it will make me feel good. But then I also know that as soon as I'm away from it, as soon as it's back in the background, I get pissed that feeling is gone and I just want to know how to get it back. Maybe I'm an addict.
Still, no matter how much I do it, no matter how much I hunt out that next fix, the next thing to inspire me or to get myself involved in, it's not like being in love. Sometimes I think I want all these random experiences to infuse my life and if I get enough of them around me, if I'm enveloped in their richness and story-worthy narratives, then I'll be constantly happy and excited with life. But I don't know that it works that way, because it's all just stuff. Don't get me wrong, it's great stuff, it's the sort of stuff that transforms you as a person, that maybe transforms the world around you. It's powerful and meaningful and it's important. But the connection, as strong as it can be, is still just a link to some "thing." It's an inanimate object, an idea even, that is completely egocentric. It's you creating your own world the way you want it to be, and there's some sort of perfection in that. Maybe it's the perfection that actually gives you that high, that fix. And maybe it's because perfection is a lie that the high is bound to dissipate.
Something that's lasting and that can make you feel great all the time, even when it might be crappy in the moment or it's not the most exciting thing in the world, must rest in the real world. It must be linked with the imperfection of the real world, the imperfection that's unavoidable and amazing because it exists outside of yourself. It must be linked with real people.
That's why earlier I hesitated to say that it makes me feel like I'm in love, because I know what that feels like too, and it doesn't depend on having a good writing session or being in a show that you're proud of. Rather it's a feeling that's a lot more honest, that sticks around even when nothing else seems to make sense. All this time I feel like maybe I've been looking to fall in love with the things I do, at the expense of the people around me. They don't have to be mutually exclusive, do they? And if they don't, then why can't I figure out how to bring them together? Maybe it just isn't my time yet. Maybe I'm scared of something. Maybe, the fact that there are all these "maybes" shows that I don't really know what I want yet. Maybe one day I'll get it.
For me, doing something creative, like writing or being in this show that I've been working on, makes me feel more incredible than most other things. I don't know how to describe it exactly, and the feeling isn't always the same, but when I get the real "art high," it's like being in love. Of course it's not exactly like that, but it's something like that. I just feel like everything is right in my world and it all makes sense and everything that I'm not feeling great about will work out just fine.
But then there's a problem with all of that. Well, not really a problem, but an issue. Because as great as I feel in those moments, at best, they're temporary, small "fixes" that stick around for a few hours and then they're gone. The drop off from the high is like the drop off after any sort of chemical or natural substance, and I'm left slightly disappointed, confused, curious as to how I could have felt so awesome one second only to feel ordinary the next. And it is like a drug, something I run to and immerse myself in because I know it will make me feel good. But then I also know that as soon as I'm away from it, as soon as it's back in the background, I get pissed that feeling is gone and I just want to know how to get it back. Maybe I'm an addict.
Still, no matter how much I do it, no matter how much I hunt out that next fix, the next thing to inspire me or to get myself involved in, it's not like being in love. Sometimes I think I want all these random experiences to infuse my life and if I get enough of them around me, if I'm enveloped in their richness and story-worthy narratives, then I'll be constantly happy and excited with life. But I don't know that it works that way, because it's all just stuff. Don't get me wrong, it's great stuff, it's the sort of stuff that transforms you as a person, that maybe transforms the world around you. It's powerful and meaningful and it's important. But the connection, as strong as it can be, is still just a link to some "thing." It's an inanimate object, an idea even, that is completely egocentric. It's you creating your own world the way you want it to be, and there's some sort of perfection in that. Maybe it's the perfection that actually gives you that high, that fix. And maybe it's because perfection is a lie that the high is bound to dissipate.
Something that's lasting and that can make you feel great all the time, even when it might be crappy in the moment or it's not the most exciting thing in the world, must rest in the real world. It must be linked with the imperfection of the real world, the imperfection that's unavoidable and amazing because it exists outside of yourself. It must be linked with real people.
That's why earlier I hesitated to say that it makes me feel like I'm in love, because I know what that feels like too, and it doesn't depend on having a good writing session or being in a show that you're proud of. Rather it's a feeling that's a lot more honest, that sticks around even when nothing else seems to make sense. All this time I feel like maybe I've been looking to fall in love with the things I do, at the expense of the people around me. They don't have to be mutually exclusive, do they? And if they don't, then why can't I figure out how to bring them together? Maybe it just isn't my time yet. Maybe I'm scared of something. Maybe, the fact that there are all these "maybes" shows that I don't really know what I want yet. Maybe one day I'll get it.
Friday, November 02, 2007
birthright Monologues
Don't worry, that "b" is supposed to be lower-cased. That's a stylistic decision that the people at birthright israel made. It's like when I sign my name at the end of an e-mail - "ruvym" - it just looks cleaner that way.
So for those of you who don't know, and most of you probably don't, I'm part of this show called "birthright Monologues." It's this spoken-word sort of deal where 14 of us will present various poems, prose, raps, etc. in an evening filled with explorations of self-identity, love, travel, and Israel. There're more topics that will be explored, but those are the ones that come to mind.
If you're free, check it out. So far we have only two performances planned - Monday November 5th and Monday November 19th. But with some luck we'll expand that schedule and do it at least a few more times. I highly recommend you go see this, and not just because I'm awesome and you love me and want to have my babies (if you're a female), but also because the entire cast is great. Honestly, what an awesome group of people, all with really quality stuff. And the best part is, the show isn't really "Jewy." Know what I mean? Like, yes, we talk about being Jewish and about Israel. But it has this style where that's not really the main point. It's about us, about our lives, our stories, who we are.
It'll be awesome, trust me. And if not, then no, I won't give you back your $10 cover charge. But I will write you an e-mail, the contents of which will say, "I am sorry. I am sorry and ashamed. Please forgive me. Yours, ruvym." If you want I'll even capitalize the "R," if you're annoyed by the lower-cased thing. I'll do that for you.
UPDATE: Seth, a fellow "birthright Monologian" blogs too. Check it out.
So for those of you who don't know, and most of you probably don't, I'm part of this show called "birthright Monologues." It's this spoken-word sort of deal where 14 of us will present various poems, prose, raps, etc. in an evening filled with explorations of self-identity, love, travel, and Israel. There're more topics that will be explored, but those are the ones that come to mind.
If you're free, check it out. So far we have only two performances planned - Monday November 5th and Monday November 19th. But with some luck we'll expand that schedule and do it at least a few more times. I highly recommend you go see this, and not just because I'm awesome and you love me and want to have my babies (if you're a female), but also because the entire cast is great. Honestly, what an awesome group of people, all with really quality stuff. And the best part is, the show isn't really "Jewy." Know what I mean? Like, yes, we talk about being Jewish and about Israel. But it has this style where that's not really the main point. It's about us, about our lives, our stories, who we are.
It'll be awesome, trust me. And if not, then no, I won't give you back your $10 cover charge. But I will write you an e-mail, the contents of which will say, "I am sorry. I am sorry and ashamed. Please forgive me. Yours, ruvym." If you want I'll even capitalize the "R," if you're annoyed by the lower-cased thing. I'll do that for you.
UPDATE: Seth, a fellow "birthright Monologian" blogs too. Check it out.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
There is a God, and His Name is Chris Carter
Today I learned that my second-favorite show of all time ("X-Files") is coming back with a new movie, the plot of which is "top secret." I can't wait to see Mulder and Scully get it on.
Go To Union Square, Get Shot
Never in my 8 years of living in NY would I imagine that people would get shot in Union Square. Guess those bridge and tunnel "gangstahs" proved me wrong. Thanks for messing up my City.
Halloween - NEW PICS
Wanna know what I was for Halloween? Check it out:
Can you guess who we are?
Disregard that CVS sign in the back.
For those of you who said that Carlos is Jesse James and I'm the Coward Robert Ford, you're right. This is our rendition of the poster for the movie. I know the costume aspects are a little reversed, but in all honesty, I was originally supposed to be Jesse James, but Carlos bought that cowboy hat and I bought the top hat, so at some point that determined the roles. Looking at that poster again now, tonight, I'm sort of annoyed that we didn't just switch hats and take another picture, because he's got the coat and everything, while I'm dressed exactly like Jesse James. Damnit. Oh well, I guess there's always next Halloween (or a private photo session at my place).
Some more select pics (please note, as I am in character, I rarely smile):
Conversation Between the Outlaws
The Money Shot
Old School
Robert Ford Gets it On With Granny
Look at Me Boy
Yonder
Gun Fight
Don't Touch the Vest
Now We're Friends
Poser
Can you guess who we are?Disregard that CVS sign in the back.
For those of you who said that Carlos is Jesse James and I'm the Coward Robert Ford, you're right. This is our rendition of the poster for the movie. I know the costume aspects are a little reversed, but in all honesty, I was originally supposed to be Jesse James, but Carlos bought that cowboy hat and I bought the top hat, so at some point that determined the roles. Looking at that poster again now, tonight, I'm sort of annoyed that we didn't just switch hats and take another picture, because he's got the coat and everything, while I'm dressed exactly like Jesse James. Damnit. Oh well, I guess there's always next Halloween (or a private photo session at my place).
Some more select pics (please note, as I am in character, I rarely smile):
Conversation Between the Outlaws
The Money Shot
Old School
Robert Ford Gets it On With Granny
Look at Me Boy
Yonder
Gun Fight
Don't Touch the Vest
Now We're Friends
Poser
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