There Seems to Be Some Confusion Here

I admit, my brother and I have similar features, but I don't really think we look all that alike. I mean the kid is taller the me, bigger than me, and just generally different-looking. And yet people always seem to get the two of us confused.

Take my parents' neighbors for example. Granted, not the ones that see us often, but the ones that kind of only see me on the rare occasion that I come home and my mom asks me to walk Cosmo or take out the trash. I'll pass and wave and they'll start speaking with me as if I'm him. I'm nice about it. I smile and correct them and shrug off the embarrassment they sometimes show. It happens.

But then a few weeks back I went to the wedding of a girl who was in my year in high school. I hung out with her basically all of freshman year of college when she followed me to NYU. Her dad and my dad have worked together over the years, they know each other. I'm at this wedding, which is near where I grew up but not actually in the town, and this kid comes up to me while I'm thinking about which sushi pieces I want to grab - "hey dude, what's up." I know that I don't know him, and he looks about 4 years younger than me. So I guess, correctly, that he thinks I'm my brother - "um, I think you think I'm someone else." I explain the situation and he's cool about it, tells me to say hi to my brother for him. Sure thing, will do.

Then a few minutes later this girl comes up to me - "hey, what's up? What're you up to?" I'm convinced that I know her, she looks familiar but not totally familiar. I don't wanna be like "I'm sorry, I don't know who you are," because I'm sure that she must be someone from high school and I don't want to be the fool that didn't recognize her and forgot her name, so I play it off like it's all good - "me? I've been great. I'm a lawyer! What about you?" She looks at me skeptically, like "lawyer?" and I realize that a mistake has been made. She won't admit it and neither will I, because I still think she looks familiar. She introduces me to her cousin which gives me a chance to say my name. I see her sort of widen her eyes a little, trying to keep it under wraps - "oh, is your brother here?"

"My brother? Nah, he's at home...So what else is new?"

Truth is, I did recognize her, but didn't realize she was closer in age to my brother than to me. I try to keep things level, engage her and some other people at my table (the "kids" table), but it's as if that initial mistake has now thrown everything off. She thought I was my brother, and as soon as she got caught off guard, she seemed weirded out by it all, uncomfortable even.

Later on I'm at my parents' table, kind of bored with the complete indifference of the people at mine, who don't even make an effort to seem interested in talking to me. The bride's father comes up and sits down next to us, asks if we're having a good time, if I think that girl my table is cute. I say, you know it's strange, she thought I was my brother. Now he's looking at me all googly-eyed. He looks at my dad, my mom, back at me, and is like "wait, you're the younger one right?"

No dude, I'm freaking 26. I'm not the younger one. That's my brother. I went to school with your daughter for like 11 years. But he's totally not convinced, so he looks to my mom for affirmation, for some sign that we're all playing a joke on him, that this is "trick the father of the bride" night because he's a little toasted. My mom is like "no, are you crazy?" He turns beet red, gets a little apologetic. Really it's alright, it's just funny, because I don't think we look all that alike.

It's fine. I can deal with a whole evening of mistaken identity bordering-on disappointment when people find out that I'm not the person they thought (wanted?) me to be. But it's sort of disconcerting how I'm kind of the "younger" one in the situation. Usually the younger brother is the one who people think is the older one, because he's grown into himself, because more people know the older one. But I find that usually it's people thinking I'm him instead of the other way around. Maybe I look more like him than he looks like me. Maybe I'm the guy who looks like the kid who's one day going to get big and look more like his older brother. Like this past weekend when I went to a party with people that were mostly my brother's age. Most knew both him and I and could tell us apart, but this one girl just knew him. I announce myself as his brother and then she asks if I'm the younger one. No, I am not. Same like when I was having dinner with him once at an NYU dining hall during his freshman year, my second year of law school, and he introduces me to a friend of his. She says in this cooing voice - "oh, are you a freshman?" Seriously? Lady, this isn't peach fuzz growing on my face.

I guess it's somewhat cool, like I'm young looking and that'll serve me well when I'm older. But combine all this with the fact that he gives me hand-me-ups (i.e. clothes he's grown out of) and I feel a little small sometimes, and not just physically.

Another Cause for Excitement (and Dread on a Monetary Level)

Earlier today I booked a plane ticket for my friend's bachelor party in Amsterdam that is supposed to span about 5 days in November. I will be arriving back right before Thanksgiving, and meanwhile I have a lease that runs out on November 30th. Of course I'm hoping that I'll have all my shit figured out long before the 30th, but there's that little bit of me that considered whether it was a good idea to be out of the country so close to move-out day. One thing seems more certain than before - I want to get a roommate and pay less money than I pay now. I'm not going to say "any takers?" because I'm way too particular to present everyone with the opportunity to live with me. Like Obama and McCain, I'm already generating a short-list of candidates in my head, and I'm not making inquiries until the time is right. I'm anti-Craig's List-random-roommate right now, but who really knows how that'll change? I know people who swear by it, as well as people who ask "what the hell was I thinking?"

So yeah, Amsterdam, bachelor party, Thanksgiving. I'm not going to start counting off the things I intend to do there, nor the things I imagine we will do there. All I'm saying is that I'm excited and I hope it'll be a good time. I'm not really a party animal, so there's a little skepticism that comes from people saying things like "dude, we're gonna be shit-faced the hole time. It'll be siiiiick man." Not that anyone has actually said that, but sometimes you just pick up a vibe that people give-off. You don't have to sound like a douchebag to actually be one. That's a life lesson right there folks.

But at the same time that I now have a new date in the future to focus on and anticipate, I'm also wondering what'll be going on in my life then. So lets see, it's about 4 months into the future right? And if I look at my life 4 months ago, it's not all that different than what it is today. So logically, November won't be all that revolutionary a time. Yes, but you already forgot that I'm moving then, I'll have what I imagine will be a new apartment geared up and ready to go, maybe a roommate (or two). Maybe I'll be living in Brooklyn or a cool part of Manhattan (West Village yo).

Most importantly, I also wonder about the money situation. What will the Euro be like in 4 months? The dollar is a joke right now, and I can just imagine how a slimy brownie will probably cost me like $10 there. A beer? Maybe a cool $15. Who knows? That would be ridiculous. I'd live off of baguettes and river water. This will actually be my first time in Europe since the 2002 semester abroad in London, when, believe it or not, the Euro was just really becoming the single currency. Do you know what it was back then? I could get like 1.4 Euros to the dollar. I could get 0.8 pounds to the dollar. It wasn't all that bad really. And now I can't even cleanly afford all that skeezy nightlife that Montreal has to offer.

But it's an experience, right? No sense in fretting about it. I know, for instance, that some people will actually rejoice that I'm finally going on a trip to someplace other than Israel. I remind those people that I was in Asia in August 2006, so you can all shut the hell up.

When It Doesn't Rain

Yesterday's forecast called for thunderstorms starting around 10pm. I know this because, while walking around on the West Side with my friend's brand new digital video recorder, we glanced up at the clouds skeptical-like. You do not want it to rain on expensive equipment, especially not on the first day out with it. A drop comes flying down from somewhere and it's instantly "shit is it going to rain?" And then you remember that you're in NYC and the ever-present "drip" has been the cause of more premature rain expectations then I can count.

So yeah, when weather.com makes a prediction that's so seemingly solid, one that promises a 60-70% change of showers, and I'm pretty diligent about staying dry, then I'm going to listen to them. Not because I believe in meteorology as a science, or even because I trust their skills at psychic prediction, but only because I like the idea of everyone being out on a Saturday night, without umbrellas, and when the sky opens up I'm the only dude who brought one. It's not a superiority thing, like "oh I was smarter than everyone else," but just that I like to be on top of my shit when it's in my power.

The weather - such an unpredictable force.

Ruvym - prepared for the unpredictable.

You see how that works? It's like serious stuff, really deep.

So that's me, and last night I was out in full-force - Clark Kent glasses, Blogger shirt, and my umbrellas. And not just any umbrella, we're talking one of those that pops open on its own when you push the button and then collapses back when you push it again. So it responds super-fast to any hint of rain, and yes, people are impressed. They're all like "wow, he brought his umbrella...didn't even know it was gonna rain," and "shit, how'd he open that thing so quickly...that was like lightning speed."

But of course when it doesn't rain, people ask you about your umbrella, they're surprised to see one. I blame insecurity, because usually they're more concerned about themselves, nervous that it might actually rain and, oh whoops, they forget to bring an umbrella, sucks for them. But then other times they're weirded out, almost to the point of being offended, something of a "who the hell do you think you are" attitude, as if my having an umbrella will actually make it rain when it otherwise wasn't going to.

So I got my umbrella, and I'm fielding questions about the impending rain storm. I pop out my Blackberry and show people how, see, it's going to rain later, and I had the foresight to bring my umbrella. You can totally share it with me if you like, if there's room underneath and no one else complains because they all want in on the deal. Not all at once, please.

But then it's 10pm, and then 11, and midnight, and I'm carrying my umbrellas but it's just like this appendage, this useless log of a thing that I keep switching between hands to work out both forearms equally. I'm in bars all across NYC with it. I head to some insane Brooklyn house party and it is my ever-present friend.

Now I'm wondering why I brought it. Skies look clear, moon is totally visible. I glance down at it dangling from my wrist and I scrunch up my face in disappointment. I found myself wanting it to rain just so I could be right about the forecast. But then I though, how stupid is that? Having the umbrella with me was a constant reminder about what was going to happen. It was like me wanting to be ready for the inevitable, which I guess is a good thing so far as it comes to life and being ready for whatever happens. Yet by having it I was also imposing a particular mindset on myself, coloring the rest of my evening.

But the point is - so what if it was going to rain? So I would have gotten wet? OK, and? I tell myself that my Blackberry would have short-circuited or something, my money would have become soaked cotton balls in my pockets. None of that's really true. I probably would have been totally fine. Yeah, a little moist, but otherwise it wouldn't have really been a problem. And I probably would have been a lot happier not having that weight to carry around with me.

So I resolve that the next time it looks like it's going to rain when I'm heading out for the night, I will not bring an umbrella with me. Even while I might want to, even while weather.com is screaming at me to be prepared for scattered thundershowers and a chance of flash flooding, I will stand strong and deal with the repercussions of wet hair if I have to cross that bridge. That said, I don't know that I can make that sort of promise if it's already raining when I'm ready to go out. That seems a bit unnecessary.

A Little Sprinkle of Spontaneity

Fine, so I'm not the world's most spontaneous person, but I've really been trying to change. For whatever reason, maybe because of my genes or the way I was raised, I have a natural tendency towards routine and predictability. I plan, I organize, I hang out with the same people on a regular basis, I go to the gym or workout a set number of nights. I have the cafes that I like, that I go to on certain days. I wake up, shower, eat, brush my teeth (in that order), listen to Z100 on the radio while I'm getting dressed, and head out the door. 5 days I week I go to the same place, over and over. And then 2 days a week I change it up a bit, but I'm still usually in the City doing the same sorts of things.

And that's OK. There's a lot in all of that that I really enjoy, can't live without, like the small things that just make you lean back and smile - good music on the iPod, nice weather, a great cup of coffee, an open laptop with something you've just written that you think is excellent, that's going to make people nod silently as your words pass through their heads.

But really, the older I get, the more boring that gets, the more it doesn't feel right. Maybe this is all happening backwards, like now is the time in my life when I'm supposed to be wanting more stability rather than running away from all that seeks to ground me. Why was I the stationary kid? Why have I become the bounding adult? It's no secret that I've been spreading myself thin for a while, trying to grab at as much as I can handle, all for the sake of knowing (or believing) that I haven't left anything out, that something good and unexpected might come about so long as I put myself out there as much as possible.

I don't know if I'm making sense in trying to explain what's going through my head. Maybe it has something to do with the temporary. Because as much as I like the idea of things and people that are around forever, I also crave newness, the knowing that something will come to an end and something else will begin. I need to believe in that change, the approach of the next phase.

And for whatever reason, it seems hard to find that little bit of randomness that I so desperately seek. The people I encounter, the society around me, all seem to point to the same thing - lets make this happen the way it's supposed to happen. But nothing is supposed to happen. Why can't we shake it up a little bit? Keep them guessing? It's becoming more obvious just how stiff people can be about convention. Maybe I just hang out with the wrong people. I cling to it myself when it suits me, but even in those moments I'm just waiting to drop it all and go off on a tangent.

I never did get to make that trip out to Montauk I had always talked about after seeing "Eternal Sunshine." Somehow that served as the embodiment of me stepping outside the regimentation of routine, even while the idea was so damn contrived. So I wrote a short story about it once, about me as this guy who goes off on the train to Montauk in the hopes of emulating some movie I'm obsessed with and while on the train, encounters this whole slew of people who are all doing the same thing, like a subculture of mid-week Montaukers. He assesses them and wonders about them, watches them when they get off the train and go towards the lighthouse. He sits in a cafe and eyes a girl writing in a journal, knowing that, maybe more than anything, that's the part about her that turns him on the most. He comes back to the City and then it's all just the same.

I lived that little journey through the story, and it told me exactly what it would have been about - a return to normalcy. I do all this talking about breaking out in a radical way, packing all my stuff up and disappearing in some shitty car I bought with only my laptop, guitar, and some clothes. But then even if I could muster up the courage to drive like that, to what end does it bring me? Do I come running back one day? Cheeks rosy from the embarrassment of being a 26/27/28 year-old who needed to embark on a quest of self-discovery? Is it something I just need to get out of my system or will it simply pass with a little more time?

And sometimes it all feels incredibly silly, this nagging I have going on in my head. Sometimes I sit around with some people, dressed in my button-down and slacks, fresh from the office, and I think "shit, I'm not random at all, I'm a freaking lawyer." Is it just me trying to be different because I've always been the "safe bet," or is that really who I am and just haven't had the balls to confront before? It's crazy how so much about yourself can suddenly seem so new. Like without warning, I've somehow become this guy heading into his late 20s who wonders about the sorts of things most people probably wondered about in high school or college. It's all incredibly frustrating, and yet I'm addicted to the feeling. Maybe there's a part of me that's just happy that I finally started asking the right questions.

Little Odessa

I have something of a embarrassed relationship with my "Russian" roots. Technically, that's not even an accurate statement because my parents are from the former Soviet satellite states (Lithuania and Ukraine), not Russia. But since you speak Russian you suddenly become "Russian" in everybody's eyes. And whether you like it or not, many assumptions attach to that association.

For whatever reason, my family has always made ever effort to become Americanized. This is not to say they've ignored their Russian-speaking roots, but only that there was always a distance put between us and "typical" Russian immigrants. Even my grandfather, who to this day speaks very little English despite coming over in the 70s, wears an American-flag pin on his lapel and if asked his nationality, will usually say "I'm American."

So when someone says "Brighton Beach" to me, I cringe. My "fondest" memories of the place come from weekends in the 80s when I would come there to watch my dad play soccer against other Russian, European, South American, and Israeli transplants. Afterwards we would stop off to get deep-fried perogees filled with steamed cabbage (which taste surprisingly good). Otherwise, I've always seen Brighton as the hotbed of everything that's stereotypically Russian, everything that I've tried to distance myself from.

One word that often comes to mind when I think of Brighton is "tacky." There's a reason for that. Maybe it's the stiletto heels that people wear to the beach. Maybe it's the performances they have in local restaurants where Russian-accented singers belt English-language songs while long-legged women spin around in feather boas and custom tailored tuxedo vests and you gorge on dried fish, pickled watermelon, and grey goose. Or maybe it's the money people are willing to spend to redecorate their homes in black marble with gold trim. Ever listen to Russian radio? Of course not, because you wouldn't understand it. But take my word for it - it sounds like it's coming out of a Brezhnev-era world. They address the listeners as "my dearest friends." I wait to hear the word "comrade" tossed around.

But, yes, when someone asks, "wanna go to Brighton Beach?" I'm thinking "um, no." But it's true that a day at the beach costs upwards of $30 if you try to head out to Long Island. And it's also true that I always go to the beach on Long Island. So really, why the heck not?

Just for starters I think it's really freaking weird to take a subway to a beach. And yet it's the perfect symbol of what Brighton Beach is - this strip of sand and ocean water uncomfortably close to the wash-off that comes down from the East River. Would you swim in the East River? No, you would not. So why am I so willing to jump into the water that's probably no more than 10 miles away from it?

As expected, the beach is mad dirty, like nothing I've ever seen. Usually I'm comfortable enough to walk without staring at the ground in front of me, but not here, because I need to keep an eye out for glass and flying plastic bags that wrap around your leg and work as the beach-equivalent of toilet paper on the bottom of your shoe. Fun! Still, someone that comes with us mentions how much cleaner this place is than some of the beaches she's seen right outside of London. Really? I got the impression that the Brits were a cleanly bunch. But hey, I guess it could be worse.

I am actually surprised by one thing - the cultural diversity of the place. While, without a doubt, Russian make up the majority of the people on the beach, there's a lot of Latin people, Black people, Asians. Honestly, you don't see this sort of mix out on Long Island. All the same sorts of people live there, but I don't really remember seeing such a mix.

And at the same time I was surprised with how much I liked hearing the spatters of Russian that came from everywhere. There was something nice about hearing a language I was familiar with other than English. Whenever I travel, especially when it's to Israel, I get frustrated that I can never fit in because of the language barrier. I do the whole nodding thing, the whole "hello" and "thank you." But then I freeze if the conversation goes past that, and I'm suddenly exposed as a foreigner, a stranger. Buying a jug of water at a gas station in Jerusalem about a month ago, I got through the whole transaction without a hitch, even putting down enough money when I had no clue how much the guy said it cost. But then as I'm about to leave with the jug in my hands, he says something, and I get this wide-eyed look of terror on my face. I shrug and say "huh?" as if the real problem is that I didn't hear him. He points to my water and says it again, and at that point, I just let-up and admit "I don't speak Hebrew." He smiles, not condescendingly or ironically, but just in a sort of "awww, that's cute" way that makes me feel like a fool, and adds, in nearly perfect English - "you want a bag for that?" I really am the fool.

But here, as if by magic, I'm in the non-English-speaking majority. Russian music drifts over from the boardwalk and I can actually understand some of the lyrics even while I think they're ridiculously cheesy. I want to walk around and use this hidden skill of mine, but something keeps me from being obvious about it. I don't want to fall into the crowd even though it's there to absorb me. In the middle of all of it, I choose to keep my Russian a secret, I choose to be the guy who can stand next to a conversation, look confused, but understand ever bit of what's going on. While sitting at a boardwalk restaurant eating chicken dumplings, an old lady passes by with a younger one who is holding her up. She has on this big brimmed hat and she's wearing an enormous warm smile. She points to us and asks in Russian, "does anyone here speak Russian?" I look around dumbly, holding myself back from automatically responding to her question, and instead pointing to the Russian friend who has invited me, as if I just guessed at what she was asking because I could make out the word "Rooskee." My friend is the one that communicates with her, who translates what she says even though I get it - "you're all so beautiful, one more beautiful than the rest. I love all your faces." After that first question when she looked at me, when I directed her gaze to my friend, she doesn't focus her eyes on me again.

I know I have a complex when it comes to this whole Russian thing. But I feel as if I have good reason for it. Thing is, I don't like to be grouped with people based on who they think I am based on what I tell them about myself. That was a major issue that I had with being Jewish, since I went around the first 22 years of my life acting incognito, avoiding all things that would associate me with the Tribe. I've gotten over all that, but I know without a doubt that my adopting an allegiance to a very specific group also means that more people pin me down as "Jewish" when they meet me. Sometimes this is a good thing, since there's the sense of camaraderie that you build with other Jewish people. But just as often it's not, and I feel that ever since I started getting more vocal about being "Jewish," I have also found it difficult to make friends with non-Jews despite being as open about those sorts of friendships as I've always been.

I don't like these labels. I don't like the way people look at me when they think they know what I'm about, the same way I recognize that I've just written an entire post that lumps all Russians from Brighton Beach into the same faceless mob. But whether we like it or not, that's how it works. And I just don't think I'm in the mood to have to contend with another label just yet.

At the same time, going there sparked my interest a little bit, and I feel like I want to try it again, maybe even whip out a bit of the Russian skills the next time I go. You know, blend it, become one of the locals. I bet you that even then, they'll hear the accent in my voice and label me for what I truly am - an American boy whose parents taught him how to speak Russian.

Forgetfulness

The other day, just as I was about to toss the blanket over me and close my eyes for the night, the randomest memory popped into my head. Lying there, staring up at the ceiling, I dug back through the experience that happened a few years ago, and wondered if it was real.

Back in college, when I was on the TKD team, I found out that my coach's infant son had passed away. That weekend, torn between whether I should go because, "did I really know this guy well enough to attend this thing?" and "do I want to go all the way out to New Jersey, I mean, will me being there really matter all that much?", I eventually grabbed a ride with a friend. Being there in that little funeral home was surreal. We got in a little late and congregated in the front. After a while we went over to the cemetery and I watched a tiny coffin, no bigger than 2 feet long, being lowered into the ground. My coach, just a normal, cool, usually powerful-looking dude, was crying, hugging his wife.

I have absolutely no idea why this was what came into my head. One thought is that I was dwelling on the whole Israel/Lebanon prisoner swap, and how the murderer that Israel gave back is well known to have bludgeoned a 4 year-old who had just seen her father killed. Either way, it got me thinking - how many thing from our lives do we completely forget about? What makes something important or unimportant enough to remember?

I'm 26, and I have to be honest, I don't really remember much from the first 10 years of my life. Yeah there are random things that I can recall if asked to, if initiated by someone else, but for the most part that area of my life is off-limits. And even if I did remember something from then, how accurate would it be? How much can I trust the, alleged, 16+ year-old memories that I'd pill from then?

Then like all of middle school and high school, yeah I remember it better, but it's the same thing overall. 7 years of my life and I have held onto bits and pieces? It seems unfair, depressing even, the way we only hold onto little vignettes of time in this really arbitrary way.

Like, yes, fine, I remember some really dramatic points from my life, like when I got hammered for my first time ever and proceeded to spew chunks all the way from 19th St. btwn. Irving and Park to right outside of Weinstein Hall on University, or, perhaps as equally as important, the first time I fell in love. But most of the stuff I do remember is often less "important" than stuff I've forgotten. Like, ask me about what happened at my bar mitzvah, and I really don't have the foggiest. Some people probably danced, there was some food that got eaten, and then a bunch of the rest of the day, or most of it, I only recall because I have a photo album and video to go along with it (if only I could have taped the rest of my life). But then, ask me about the last day of classes of 7th grade, and I can tell you how I managed to find myself at Josh's house with a bunch of my friends, and how we had an enormous Super-Soaker fight that caused some water damage and ended up getting his brother in a lot of trouble even though he played no part in any of it. Maybe you can chock all of that up to the idea that I've probably been to a few more bar mitzvahs than I've been to indoor water-fights. Perhaps. Perhaps it's the unique experiences that we walk away with, the ones that couldn't have been replicated a million times by the TV shows we watch and the things we do on repeat.

But it makes me angry to think about those certain things I've chosen to remember and those that I've chosen to forget. It makes me angry to think that I remember all the funerals I've been to so well, but then ask me about the people's lives, and it's just disjointed bits and pieces and don't amount to anything other than a hazy portrait - my grandfather, my grandmother, my great-grandmother. They all lived with me through over a decade of my life, the later two through two decades of my life, and yet I remember the general smiles, the cooking, the ordinary conversations, but that's about it. The points of detail, of sharply ingrained visualization, all stem from the times when they were already gone.

The same goes for the living. I want the mundane to dwell in my head. I want to remember looks and touches and sighs that I might have seen on a daily basis, that mattered so much more than the celebrations and the fights. But those are also the things that I have forgotten, that I'm still forgetting. It's unfair the way that my past is becoming a comic strip of moments with greater entertainment value for a wider audience, because then it seems to lack an essence that makes it personal, that lets me know it was me who lived it all and not someone else.

A Day of Mourning

Today Israel exchanges, amongs other things, a convicted murderer for the bodies of the two Israeli soldiers whose kidnapping helped spark the "Second Lebanon War." There's a debate that rages in Israel and amongst American Jews as to whether it makes any sense to give live prisoners for bodies. Obviously the Israeli government believes this sort of bargain has great value. Others aren't so sure.

I'm remiss to express an opinion about this. Clearly the title of this post - A Day of Mourning - implies that there is something incredibly sad about all of this. Ultimately, there is no positive that can be gleaned.

On the one hand, Israel gets back two of its lost boys, men who were stolen away during an ambush on the border fence, pulled behind enemy lines where medical assistance likely wasn't sufficient to save them (if it was administered in the first place, in an effort to keep them alive and, thus, up their value). Standing up by the border only a few weeks ago, the Hezbollah flag of yellow and green, proud Kalishnikovs fluttering atop the green hill within eye-shot, we were told exactly where they struck back in 2006, how they knew of the exact place in the fence where there was radio silence, where Goldwasser and Regev couldn't even call-in for assistance. I found myself angry about how routine it had all been, the way everyone knew about this radio-silence zone and still, if there was any indication of contact on the "electrified" fence, a group of soldiers would go to check it out. The "war" that ensued brought nothing. Many died, Hizbollah is stronger than it was, and now Israel gets bodies back, a present for the return of the bastard that is Samir Kantar. A bastard whose return, by the way, is also being celebrated by representatives of the Palestinian people, including the moderate we all love, Abu Mazin. As you can tell, I'm being careful here, careful not to say that his release is celebrated by the Palestinian people. I want, so much, to give them the benefit of the doubt, even as their leaders lack in the respectability department.

On the other hand, what sort of precedent does this set? Prisoner swaps happen all the time, but the greater your willingness to return live people for bodies, the more, the argument goes, your enemies will take advantage of your generosity. It goes without saying that a live prisoner is a bigger bargaining chip, but why only bargain with your gold coins when your client seems willing to take copper ones too?

I feel terrible for Goldwasser's and Regev's families. They have lived up to this day with the small hope that the two were still alive, but this morning we learned that there were just remains returned in boxes. How do you tell these families that their boys are not worth it? That because they are dead that it doesn't make sense to give back a mass murderer who is still alive and whose return can be elevated as a "victory" for Hizbollah? How do you quantify worth in a situation like that?

As I said, it's just a sad day on all parts of the spectrum. There are no positives that can be gleaned from this latest deal, at least not for Israel. I wish there was better news to report.

iPhone Inadequacy

After hearing that the new Apple iPhone 3G sold like a million units in the first millisecond it was on sale, I popped some anti-anxiety pills, thinking "yes...it's happening again."

I recall how, years ago, the iPod came out. It seems like a hazy memory at this point, something that's almost surreal. A world without iPods? This simply cannot be. But children, oh it was. People used to walk around with Discmen, playing "CDs." Then the first MP3 players came out, and everyone though how amazing it was that you could listen to 12 songs without carrying the CD with you. No one really bought those. I take it back, only losers bought those. I have a secret to tell - I know someone who got one of those for his cousin on her birthday. Dear reader, you know who you are.

But this was not good enough for Apple, because nothing is every good enough for Apple. So Apple releases the first iPods, those bricks that, back then, were as sexy as Deloreans were in the 80s. Yeah, that's smooth. That's so smooth people think I have lotion on.

Everyone suddenly had them. Within months the streets of New York were inundated with people rocking out to their own private soundtracks. White wires hung loosely against supple breasts, and soon my head was spinning. In the gym, douchebags walked around from machine to machine with these things strapped to their arms or clipped to the waist band of their shorts.

"Um, excuse me, how many more sets do you have?"

But it was no good. Whereas before they could behave as if they didn't hear me, now they really didn't hear me. And so my body began to wither once it became impossible to go to the gym.

I blamed the iPod for a lot of things back then. Maybe I was just angry. Maybe I just wanted to belong. But at the same time, I can be a stubborn SOB, so despite the rage, I purposely avoided all things iPod.

This hearkens back to my childhood when, moving to public school in the burbs from the small private school I went to in Queens (where I was, mind you, the shit), I refused to give into peer pressure as it applied to my socks. I simply refused to wear the boring white ones that everyone had on, opting instead for the fancily decorated dress socks my mom kept buying me.

In much the same way, when it became clearly uncool to carry around CD cases and I found myself fed up with all the damn skipping, I decided to invest in a non-iPod MP3 player. I wanted to be the guy who "did his research" and found something that was good, better, than the stinking iPod. When people would complain about all the glitches, I'd just shake my head and shrug - "sorry, can't hear you, I'm listening to my MP3s."

So after weeks of consideration, I settled on a Samsung-Napster MP3 player that also had a radio tuner. I was stoked. Only problem is that the damn thing sucked, and never worked right, and basically ended up being a bust. For the first few weeks everything was cool, and I felt better than everybody else because I hadn't given into the hype. But then when things started going south, I regretted it all. What a freaking waste of time and money.

So, feeling dejected, I gave in. Sort of. I never actually bought an iPod, but my girlfriend at the time ended up getting me a Shuffle for my birthday. At first I was annoyed, skeptical, uncomfortable with the idea of having this tool of the devil imposed on me in the form of a gift. I couldn't give it back, I couldn't say no. I had to be happy, grateful, ecstatic. So I was.

Despite all my inclinations to find something wrong with it, to feel justified in my disgust at the world, I actually started loving the thing. I still have it today. It works great, never had a problem (watch it implode later), probably one of the best things I own.

But this struggle, this sense of inadequacy that came with not having an iPod for so long, it has all returned. Now it's with this iPhone thing. I mean, hands down, it is the best mobile device out there. It's been out a year and it's like everyone has it. On the subway people are all watching movies and listening to music, interspersing all that with writing emails and checking the web. I pull out my rinky-dinky Blackberry and I feel like a moron, because Blackberrys are really one of the worst pieces of electronics that exist.

Fitting in has become harder than ever. It's not that the iPhone is so expensive that I can't afford it, but I simply refuse to get AT&T just to have one. That's like Ferrari telling you that to own one of their cars you can only get it serviced by the creepy guy with the oil-stains on his ass (we hope they're oil stains) who works the garage at your local Mobil.

So I'm stuck again, trapped in 2006 while the rest of the world is living in the future. I think Apple aims to have 10 million iPhones out there by the end of 2008. Living in NY, I think the presence of iPhones is that much more obvious. All the cheesy freshmen have them. Old ladies have them. Rabbis have them. But I, however, do not. At least not yet.

Want vs. Want

I think that over the years I've gotten to know myself pretty well. So when someone asks me "what are you looking for" or "what do you want," I feel like I can answer relatively accurately. But then that's just me thinking about it, giving expression to whatever swirls around in my head. When you get down to it, are your conceptions of "want" actually reflective of what you really want?

I kind of think they aren't. I mean, generally, yes, they're probably close. But there's no control group in any of this, because stuff just happens and you react to it, whether you want to or not. I can come up with a 100-point list outlining multiple aspects of my life, what I want out of those areas, what I'm hoping to find. And then it all goes out the window.

That's why there's a problem with what we want and what we want. Or maybe what we want and what we want. I toss in the italics to add a little "bam" to one understanding of "want" - "want" as an automatic reaction to our world that's motivated, mostly, by our emotional response to circumstance. The other "want," the one that's just in plain old font, is the "want" that comes from thinking about things, the analytical side of the equation.

This is not new by any means. Most things in life seems to have that split. We are still, at our core, animals. Often we respond based on what we feel. We also have the ability to process experience and come up with a different set of rules. I don't know that this ability to process helps us all that much. Maybe for some people, for those of us who are too impulsive and never consider consequence, that processing is a good thing. But then you get people (i.e. me) who often over-process, and then the whole decision-making thing can become paralyzing.

Whoever said you should write up a pro/con list to help you figure stuff out was on crack. I wouldn't get anything done if I acted so formulaically. More than anything, I want to be the guy who feels comfortable with following his gut, just being the way I want to be rather than the way I want to be. It's crazy how difficult it all ends up being.

There was an article I read a little while back. Maybe I linked to it in a previous post. I forget and I'm too lazy to go looking to see. It was about how, often, decisions made after more careful thought and consideration end up being the ones that we don't agree with after the fact. There's that whole "regret" thing looming overhead, because our emotions are damn greedy for our attention. You do something that doesn't correspond with what you want and then you start getting that nagging in your head, that feeling that something just isn't right, things are off.

Like everything else it's about the equilibirum. You can't do things without trying to understand them a little better. At the same time, always looking for that balance can get freaking boring. Maybe the problem with most people who are unhappy or dissatisfied about certain things is that they spend too much time dwelling instead of just doing. Nothing really prepares you for what comes your way, so how much do you really get out of making those lists, even if they are just in your head. I'm still trying to figure it out a little better myself.

Scribed

Something I scribed in Israel the day we visited Efrat, sitting right along the separation barrier (which takes the form of a wall, rather than a fence, at this particular spot). It's crude, stream-of-consciousness stuff, but I think it captures what I was feeling in the moment:

I just finished that book by Molina, "Sepharad," and at one point he talks about how (I'm paraphrasing) "all of human dignity returns to a very simple desire - the right to sit alone, in a room, undisturbed." I guess everyone kind of wants that and everyone kind of needs it, but it proves sort of impossible when you have all these people wanting to sit in the same room. It's not a small room, per se, but it has all these peaks and valleys and ridges which makes it almost impossible to be anywhere and be completely out of sight. We put up these walls and these barriers to cordone off our areas, to be hidden from out neighbors and to hide ourselves from having to look at them. But at what cost? I don't really know. Israel is becoming a converted one bedroom with every stone slab that goes up and while we've been rold time and again that most of this barrier is a simple chain-link/barbed-wire fence, that doesn't make it any less dramatic. Like a scar running through the room, all we need to do is peak over to find a different sort of reality. And yet it's so much easier just to stare directly at it and imagine that there was never anything else in front of us, just this grey, hulking wall or these sharp barbs that look unusually welcoming from a distance, the way they glimmer in the constant sun.

But even when I read those words in "Sepharad," before this trip, the idea of the man alone in the room bothered me. I, as much as anyone else who is even mildly introspective, craves that time of escape when there's no one else around and the silence lets you think. In many ways, that is the natural state of man. But just as easily, that separation becomes oppressive and you start wanting contact and connection. You get distracted by the noises outside, and just as easily as you had accepted that you were really alone, you suddenly realize that it was all an illusion, and that there's a whole other world living outside that white-washed sheet-rock box you've placed yourself in.

I see the separation barrier from a distance, the security wall from over head, and it looks like nothing more than a thin, dark line. But then you think how a few hundred feet can mean so much, can be the difference between "us" and "them." When I moved away from home, I returned a few weeks later for a visit to find that my brother had requisitioned parts of my room for his own purposes. At first it made me angry, but then I laughed about it because, I mean, he's my brother, and ultimately it didn't really matter all that much. I kind of wish it as like that here, because it would make things a whole lot easier.

Skivvies

A great Craig's List ad I just came across:

Reply to: job-749179085@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-07-10, 12:24AM EDT

Pop Your Panties Olympic Sport needs talent.
The international video Pop Your Panties with Paris, Nicole and Lindsay.
www.popyourpanties.com is casting for a new video. The Girls have gone to Beijing to take on other woman for the Gold in dropping your panties. We need woman from every all countries who are willing to partake in this humorous parody. Requirements as follows:
Bring your own costume that will identify your Country wearing a nude thong.
Be over 18, in good physical condition and willing to be in a combat with another woman.
You will be asked to “wrestle” details will be discussed upon callback and your panties supplied by the producers will be removed during the contest.
You will not have any frontal explicit nudity, but your bare buttocks will be exposed.
You will be asked to sign a release and interview for public viewing.
The “games” will be in a gym with protected and soft flooring. All interested talent should send a resume and photo, languages spoken with description of your country of origin

Really? I mean how can you resist? Guess what the compensation is? I mean, here we're asking women to wrestle nude with the promise that only their derrières will be shown (no frontal nudity, we promise). How much do you think that's worth? $50 lousy bucks people. 50 dollars. Do you know what a dollar is worth these days? I'd rather be getting paid in shekels.

Speaking of panties (a word I hate; makes my skin crawl, like carnies) I was in the gym locker room today and some dude was wearing low-rise briefs. Ugh. At this point, given the fact that the shower space is just one large room with a bunch of shower heads facing inwards, and all you see in the locker room are guys walking around naked, I'd rather see some dude nude than see him wearing low-rise underwear. How do you get away with something like that? That's like me wearing tighty whiteys until I was 18. It took complaints from my roommates and visiting strangers to smack some sense into me - "dude, dude, seriously, do I really need to see your package outlined like that?" You don't really fare much better with boxer briefs, but at least you eliminate the hairy inner thigh component of the equation, at least that's something your gaining.

Let's review:

Girls in low-rise underwear = good so long as their asses aren't hanging out of their pants
Guys in low-rise underwear = Kafkaesque

Which reminds me, it could just be that this guy was European. That, although an excuse for a lot of things, is no excuse for the heinousness of the image I have charred into my consciousness.

Taking a Turn

I have to admit, I have found it hard to find motivation to blog in the last few weeks. It's not that I don't have things to say, it's just that I feel like I need a bigger audience than this blog offers me. That's my own fault, I mean I've chosen to make my subject-matter erratic. A branding person would tell you that I haven't branded myself well - what do I represent? What can people expect to find when they read what I have to say? At one point I was all about the complaints - i.e. Ruvym's Rant. But then somewhere along the lines that got old and boring and I needed to break out from the box. And while that is definitely more enjoyable than sticking to one prescribed theme, it also means that I'm not getting out there as much as I would like.

Look, it's never been about exposure, and it's not about that now either. I've been doing this for going on four years and obviously if it was about fame and fortune and name recognition, than I would have stopped long ago, because I've gotten none of that. But at the same time, I'd be lying if I said I didn't care about effect. Over the course of ~4 years, I've gotten a handful, maybe like 15-20, explicit comments/feedback where people were like "yes, I get you!" or actually noted that I'd helped them understand themselves better. Those few instances make everything worthwhile, and I get such a rush when it happens because it means: a)I'm not a complete moron, and b)I've actually done something that, even on a really small scale, matters.

So, in all honesty, I've been spending more time on things and in areas where I feel I will have more of an effect. Since getting back from my trip I've been working on an article I hope will be published in "Guilt & Pleasure," a Jewish magazine I really love. When I say "Jewish" I mean that Jews write the articles (I believe most, if not all of them) and articles often have some sort of "Jewish element" which is often nondescript. Overall it's a good read, no matter who you are in this world, but obviously I'd imagine that it has more appeal to a Jewish audience. In any case, each issue is themed, and the last one was about "Death." This next one, the one I'm writing for, is about "God." How fitting right? I have this topic to contend with right as I'm off to Israel. We'll see what happens. I'll definitely tell you guys if it makes it in. But just as an example, that thing is like 5 pages long, and so obviously I'm gonna spend time on that before I decide to sit down and work towards instant gratification with a quick and easy blog post.

Separately I have a few more things going on, but they're not concrete enough to mention just yet. Just know that if I'm not blogging as regularly as I would like, it's because I'm off making the world a better place.

Missin' 4

I have to admit that I haven't really been in the mood to write since I got back, now over a week and a half ago. I think the "normal" me would have busted out a bunch of stories by now, painted you a nice little picture of what it was like. But instead I've retreated to reading, sleeping, hanging out with friends, some of whom might be annoyed that I seem so aloof, subdued about things. They aren't necessarily wrong. I don't know if it's just me tired or relaxed or having difficulty reconnecting with life back at home. I can't say that this has ever happened before.

This was the first 4th in 4-5 years that I missed the fireworks. I kind of hate that. A couple of times I was camped out on rooftops. Another couple of times I stood amongst the crowds along the East River, breathing in the chemical smoke left over from the glittering debris. It's just not the same without it. Besides for the few flags I saw fluttering out on porches and the occasional "pop pop" going off in the near distance, there was nothing that told me it was Independence Day. I've criticized people before for not giving a damn about any of it, and then I go ahead and bury my head in a TV in a living room in the middle of Eastern Long Island. Who's the hypocrite? Even a slice of that American Flag cake they sell in supermarkets would make all the difference to me. And yet I think it's already too late to get one.

Speaking of TV, I forgot how amazingly terrible it can be. During the trip, I only turned the TV on for short bursts at a time, usually in the morning while I was getting ready for the day. The most fascinating thing I saw were the Indian soap operas which, without fail, involved characters saying dramatic lines, followed by slow-mo shots that panned to their shocked expressions, all accented by light symbol clashes. For some reason I was completely mesmerized by it, especially when I realized it was actually supposed to be serious programming. But now, back at home, with so many English-language channels to choose from, I've spent about 1/3 of this weekend's waking hours staring at the thing. I just sat through three hours of the History Channel's Monster Hunt show, or whatever it's called. Yeah fine, so at first it was about the search for Bigfoot, which is kind of legitimate. But then that was followed up by the search for werewolves, and then it was about the search for giganto-rats, with New York serving as the innocent backdrop. I want be believe there are better uses for my time, but apparently I haven't been able to find them.