Shhh... I'm hunting Wabits

Brooklyn, for reasons beyond my understanding, remains a very romantacized borough in my head. Queens was never that mysterious, and Manahattan - though intimidating - never had that same romantic quality. Which is not to say there is no romance in Manahattan, there is plenty of romance about the isle; just not the same type of romance found to my south. Staten Island is plain and seems very suburban, while The Bronx holds no appeal to me what so ever. It's all about Brooklyn.

When I think of Brooklyn I can't help but picture every last Jewish New York story. In my mind they all occur in Brooklyn. And it's always the 1930's or 40's. This is partly due to Woody Allen and Martin Scorcese, but mostly due to listening to all my grandparents stories, and the stories of all the old men and women in my father's synogogue, hearing them regail about their youth in that particular boro. It reeks of the immigrant experience so much more so than the other boroughs, and as such, has a romanticized appeal. I can't really explain it.

Which is why I was so overwhehlmed yesterday walking on the Coney Island Boardwalk, then catching a Coney Island Cyclones game. Coney Island - the place where all our grandfathers took all our grandmothers (and potential grandmothers) out on dates; to ride the rides, see the sites, smell the ocean. The cyclone roller coster, or the wonder wheel ferris wheel, or the parachute jump whose name I don't know, and which has since closed down.

My foot still hurts, but I forced myself to walk around as much as I could, as if I was in some sort of magic wonderland rather than a mildly delapidated urban beach. The smell of the Original Nathan's hotdog stand (established 1916 - and if you've ever been to NY you know what Nathan's is) wafted through the salty air, causing me to desire to break my vegitarian habits and wolf down a hotdog with everything on it (well maybe not sourkraut).

I wish I could say that the Baseball game was exciting, but the Cyclones are a horrible, horrible team this year. They lost their first game to the the Staten Island Yankees 18-0, and last night lost again 5-2. So I guess they are at least going in the right direction. The park, however, was gorgeous, small, maybe 9000 seats, and not a single bad one in the house. We sat about seventeen rows up a little past first base but not quite yet right field. I really wish I was a better writer and could describe the experience in it's fullest and romanticized glory, but really I just had a good time.

Oh yeah, the reason for this posts title check this out.

I can't come up with good title

It's very sunny outside. It's sunny outside and I'm having a panic attack.

This morning was uneventful.

I ordered "the skeleton key" on HBO on demand. It wasn't very good.

It's sunny outside and I have to go to work in about a half hour.

I walked to the library. I need reading material for the ride down to Philadelphia this weekend. I walked because it's just that nice outside. It's really very nice.

I'm wearing new jeans that I think might be girl jeans due to the way the bottom of the legs are all frayed. They are only frayed in the front around the cuffs, not the back. It bothers me that pants now come pre-frayed, but that's not why I'm having a panic attack. It's just a little thing.

But it's sunny outside and as the pants fit pretty well, I'm not going to really worry as to whether they are girl jeans or not (I'm pretty sure not as they are maked 30 x 30 and not in some girl size). Soon I'm going to have to change my pants because I have to go to work and jeans are not allowed at Starbucks.

On the way home from the library, under the bright, bright sun, I had to sit down on the curb just to keep from hyperventilating.

I'm not an emotional guy, unless you count awkward as an emotion, then I'd be incredibly emotional. Really though I'm more dead pan. Not that I don't have emotions, I just don't really show them, doubly so when I'm uncomfortable and awkward (i.e the majority of my life).

I haven't been sleeping well all week. Lots of weird dreams. Most of them involve me running away or hurting people I love then crying about it, but that sounds lame and I'm not going to get into it.

I threw my back out on Sunday helping to clean out the garage (that's not a dream, it happened, though I wish it was only a dream). Apparently six encyclopidia judaicas are heavy and you shouldn't try to lift them all at once, especially not with your back. I learned that the hard way.

On Monday none of the other interns showed up at work and I was swamped. And my back hurt. But that really has nothing to do with the panic attack.

I opened on Tuesday, it's a pain, but not really a big deal.

Wenesday was fine.

Today it's sunny outside. It's been cloudy or rainy all week long and now it's sunny out. It's kinda cheesy really, but that has only a little to do with the panic attack.

Today, not so long ago, J_ called and asked if she could meet me outside. I brushed my teeth, changed out of my pajama's, turned off The Skeleton Key (I missed the last five minutes) put on some deoderant and walked out onto the front stoop.

J_, in my book is always adorable, and today was no exception.

Anyway, I've known for a little while that there is some guy out there with whom J_ is infatuated. She's mentioned said guy in the past but never who he was. Today I found out.

Today, under the bright sun, on my front stoop I found out it was me.

Her lips quivered and she did her best (and over all succeeded) to choke back emotion, as I sat her down.

"The thing is," I said, "I like you too. A lot. A lot a lot." I said in almost a complete deadpan. "But...." And I paused because I had no idea what to say next. Should I ask her out, should I leave it be? I'm eight years older than her. She just graduated high school last week.

"It's OK, you can say it, I'm a trooper." She said (and here is were she almost didn't succeed in choking back her emotion, but she is as she says, a trooper). And that was when my heart broke. I never before in my entire life wanted to grab onto someone and never let go like I did at that moment.

"You don't even know what I'm going to say." I said. She smiled, very encouraging. "But..." I continued still deadpan (damn I'm a jackass), "it doesn't freak you out I'm that much older than you, or that anything we might have has an experation date when you go off to college in the end of the summer?" Because those were the big concerns floating around in my head, two of the biggest reasons (the first more than the second) that I hadn't said or done anything before (also I'm a coward).

Apparently these were only my issues.

So I asked her out. And she said yes. And then I kissed her. And then she had to go because she was having lunch with freinds, and I had to go to the bank and the library, and buy a gift for my freind, all before I start work (in 12 minutes - I'm going to be late). So I'm calling her on Monday to arrange said date.

First I think I was a bit too forward with the kiss, and that's the first issue. The second, I'm eight years older than her and I feel like a skeeze. If I wasn't me I'd be making fun of me behind my back. It just seems wrong. So on my way back from the library I had to sit down because I was having a panic attack. Literally, I was hyperventilating and freaking out.

I finally got home, and called my freind Charlie, who helped talk me down. Charlie is possibly the coolest ever. "Well the fact that you feel so weird about it all is proof you aren't a skeeze." She said.

"Yeah, but what about when I stop feeling weird about it?"

And she laughed and didn't have an answer, which was cool, because I didn't call to get an answer and she knew t hat. Charlie is just cool that way, and I felt better after I hung up.

Then I wrote this post.

And now, still freaking out (but no longer in a panic attack), I have to change and run to work, and I wonder (as J_ and I work together) how much of this do my fellow co-workers know?

And I freak out all over again.

Because Rawbean asked

From August 25th until the 27th I shall be in Winnipeg, Manitoba. I have a wedding to attend (and I really should RVSP) on the 27th and I'm awfully excited.

And for any other stalkers who need to be updated as to my plans, I shall be in Phillidelphia from June 16th until the 18th for a bachelor weekend for the groom of the aforementioned wedding up in Canada.

Philly is all set, there's about five of us all crashing at a freinds place.

Canada is a entirely different sotry. I need to find cheap airfare to and then cheap accomidations while in the frozen north. I'm still waiting for the day when instant teleportation is both technologically viable and cheap enough for the public to use. That and flying cars. Man, that would be sweet.

Things to do before the wedding: find a good dry cleaners for my suit, get my shoes shined, and maybe buy a nice new shirt and tie. Also find out where they are registered (dear god please somewhere that has an outlet in Northeast USA) and buy a wedding present. But I still have plenty of time (said the hare right before he took a nap in the middle of the race).

Note To Self:

On days scheduled to open Starbucks (5:30 AM), DON'T drive out with freinds to Long Beach that same evening, especially if you don't know how to navigate through Long Island.

Addendum: Go back to Long Beach when better rested.

Also, I hate the beach, but love the ocean. Someone should develop a snow shoe but for sand to keep ones feet (and shoes) from being drenched in sand.

So Very Tired.

Not quite duck soup

It's important to have a destination. Even if the journey is where the fun is found, without a destination one won't know when to stop, or how far to go before turning around.

I am an idiot.

Case in point:

Last Thursday I went for a walk with J_ after work. We had tried to originize a group outing to the local pond for a late afternoon picnic and to feed the ducks. All our freinds were otherwise occupied, and as we had already eaten we scrapped the picnic and just went to feed the ducks ourselves.

I'm not sure exactly what a group of ducks are called (flock? gaggle? something else?) but ducks - as I understand nature (and I am an accredited naturologist) - usually travel together. That is why, upon arriving at the pond I was confused to find a lone black duck on the water. All by itself, no other duck in sight. Had I considered this more carefully perhaps I would have thought this to be an omen, a sign of things to come.

But I didn't, and things did come. Discouredged that there weren't ducks (plural) to feed, and that the lone duck had no interest in our company or our bread (definately an omen), we kept on walking past the pond through the small park.

After coming upon the other half of the park, not yet renovated, the asphalt gave way to a very narrow dirt path walled by talk stalks of something, (reeds? straw? something along those lines anyway.

I don't live in Manhattan. Hell I barely even live in Queens, but I do in fact live in Queens and Queens is part of New York City, and one wouldn't suspect any bit of nature to go on too far. When one thinks of NYC one isn't thinking nature. Given that, I thought to myself how far can this dirt path really go? (Please see statement above) and with J_ a bit reluctant in tow, walked into the reeds.

It started off as a nice walk. We talked about mostly inconsequintial things and didn't quite realize the ground slowly shifting from dirt to mud beneath our feet.

After about forty minutes, our sneakers were covered in mud. The path split into two, on direction petering off into the underbrush, the other appeared to open up further down (what would Robert Frost do?).

It was at this point, when we thought our feet couldn't get any muddier that J_ said we should probably turn around and go back the way we came. I stood opposed to that, rationalizing that we were probably more than halfway down the path (and on that account I was correct) thus there would be less mud to walk through by trecking forward than by turning back. "We've come this far." I said, "We migth as well continue to the bitter end."

I took the lead, confident in my manliness guiding us through nature. I would conquor the terrain. Mud doesn't bother man. Man revels in mud, dirt and nature are his home. Water on the other hand...

Sploosh! Two steps forward and we were both ankle deep in water. Forget the mud, the mud was pleasant in comparison. The water was cold and grimy, and all together unpleasant.

The reeds receded behind us and a marsh like area, the size of a football feild loomed in front of us. And of course, there were the ducks. Away from the larger body of water we spotted Northern Blvd. and decided to make our way back towards civilization, the ducks be damned.

Sloshing through the ankle deep water, stepping on dry and dead reeds to keep our pants as dry as possible we waded towards our salvation.

J_ lost her balance at a few points, dropping to her knees, and of course I teased her mercilessly for lacking my natural grace in the water. Fed up with wading (wet up to her knees) J_ pointed straight forward, suggesting we just cut through it all, we were already as wet as can be. I, on the other hand, wanted to continue working the circumfrance of the marsh, it just seemed safer.

I was the man, and as the man I should have stood ground. But just like many other men before, I did something stupid because a girl asked.

So we took J_'s path, which really wasn't a path, until, halfway across, we were stopped by a stream leading down into the main pond behind us. The stream was about five feet across, and I thought to myself I could easily jump this. Then I turned to J_ and said, "I can easily jump this."

The few things I didn't consider at the time: I was already standing ankle deep in water and my shoes were wet and heavy. Though I could have jumped five feet across easy in high school, I am about ten years older and very out of shape. That the stream could concievably be deeper than the water in which I then stood. (Once again see the beginning)

So I jumped.

So I landed.

But not on the other side.

And the water was far deeper in the stream than on either side of it.

And I fell waist deep into the dirty, salty, cold, disgusting water.

J_ wisely took the path I suggested.

We splashed through the rest of the marsh and finally (with a mild scare of poison ivy) made it to Northern Blvd.

The walk back home, though the company was pleasant, was the opposite of comfortable.

Stupid, stupid ducks.

In honor of a tepid final episode

I was hoping for Josh, but I'm pretty happy with my results.

I'm:



The idealistic speechwriter is well-liked by just about everyone. He's known for his excellent writing, sense of humor, and tendency to be clutzy. Although being younger than the rest of the staff, he's often treated as so, much to his dismay.

So, which one are you?

David Copperfield is pretty cool

Quite possilbly the coolest story ever!

Open mouth insert food (blogger edition)

So I take back everything I wrote in my previous blog (save the bit about my passover post, it's still coming, very late, I just gotta make it sound right).

Today at work (internship) I was given a free pass to see Akeela and the Bee at the Tribeca Film Festival tonight (it officially opens in two days). I can't go (gonna get a few drinks with some pals instead), but I'm sure I can find someone to give the ticket too.

In addition, tommorrow night I am going to see a short film program for free to cover it for my boss (as in write an analysis of the shorts and report back the filmmakers and shorts worth following up on).

I've gotta admit, that's pretty cool.

Now if only I could find a job that would pay me for this kinda stuff I'd be set.

Being too good at the mundane

At my internship there are the cool jobs I have to do, and the much less cool jobs.

The cool jobs aren't really that cool, just by comparison they are cool. For instasnce, calling up agents to see which famous actor, actress, director, or writer is available for a certian project and when they are available. Or reading a book, comic book, screenplay, or what have you and writing up some coverage for the boss. And even compiling lists of older movies with similar themes and plots as ones currently in development.

Jobs that aren't so cool involve the making of the coffee, compiling master lists of actors, writers, and directors, photocopying screenplays, and especially photocopying novels.

The problem being, I'm pretty good at the not so cool stuff. I know how to use excell pretty well, I actually make coffee professionally (well if you consider starbucks professional), and for some reason, I am the fastest photocopier - especially when it comes to novels. You see, when copying screenplays, plays, teleplays, or manuscripts, those just get fed quickly into the machine. Novels, published novels to be precise, come bound so one can't just feed it into the machine, one must go page by page, flipping through the book, to make a copy. I seem to be able to do this faster than my fellow interns. Not that much faster, but enough that I wind up the one doing it to save time.

The down side, not only do I hate the monotony of the photocopy machine, but when I'm out making copies, my fellow interns get to do the cool stuff (comparitivly anyway). Thus, I am penalized (of sorts) for being good at my job.

It's a really lame thing to complain about, especially as I like my fellow interns and wouldn't want them labouring away in the dark recess where the copy machine lies. But it's a pain and I'm in a complaining mood. So there.

My passover post (which I have been working on, put far more time and effort into a blog post than probably healthy) will drop sometime early next week, after the craziness that is passover has, er.. passed.

The wrong side of the poverty line

Not to make thousands of unemployed and homeless peoples problems seem insignifigant but there is something depressing when doing ones taxes and realizing how little money one (me) actually made last year.

I have no desire to be a pedophile

I'm not sick and twisted, it isn't that at all.

There are some strange thoughts that pass through one's head. For instance, I like cheese. It isn't so strange but it is true. I am lactose intolerant but I adore cheese. Not all cheese mind you, the gooier stinkier cheeses I tend to stay away from; and though I do like the ease of American cheese, I prefer my cheeses to be far less chemically processed and treated. Give me a really bold sharp Cheddar, or some fresh Mozzarella, or maybe some Havarti with dill, Munster, or a good smoked cheese and you'll see me happy. I can't ever eat too much of it lest I spend the rest of my day in the WC (as the British say, or at least that's what I've been led to believe); so just like everything else that's good in life I must take it in moderation.

Moderation I've been told is the best philosophy (Epicurus, what a sage you were). Unfortunately moderation is a difficult when discussing infatuation. In fact, moderation only makes things that much worse.

Once again, I am no pedophile. I do not lust after prepubescent girls. I don't in fact lust (a term I'm not so much a fan of to begin with as it makes the forgone conclusion that I am lusting after someone, and it really isn't lust, but I'll get to that in a moment) after some post-pubescent girls - the "girls" part being the operative word, not the "post-pubescent". I don't tend to imply I lust after boys only because I don't. I tend to go for females my own age, and if I think I'm too old to be called a "boy" then those my age shouldn't be called girls anymore. But as you are about to read, this is all irrelevant (quite unfortunately).

I have found myself more and more infatuated (not lusting or lustful, it really isn't a sex thing) with an 18 year old girl (see told you I'm not a pedophile, at least not technically - that is I'm not opposed to it, but the infatuation is not wholly based on aesthetics). It's getting quite bad really. Just her presence in the same room as me actually brightens my mood significantly. She is a friend, and though I am not a huggy person by nature, (I'm just not) holding her in my arms - in a hug as friends do (my New York friends are all huggy people - her included) - I realize I would follow her to the ends of the earth if she just happened to be going in that direction.

But I refuse to be that skeezy older guy who dates girls too young for him. Instead I'm going to keep on pretending I don't feel the way I do, because as I understand it, not having too much knowledge in the field of psychology, denial is a perfectly healthy way to deal with any situation.

nothing special: a recap

Why do I even bother?

Got to my brother's birthday dinner, Yay!

Started to get sick on Monday, Boo!

Really got sick on Tuesday, Boo!

Best friend Jason flew up from Atlanta to visit, Yay!

Fought cold as we walked around Greenwich village, meh.

Had Etheiopian food for dinner, Yay!

Skipped work on Wenesday to go to the MoMA with Jason, Yay!

Was really sick the entire time, Boo!

Saw Famke Janssen at the MoMA, Wow!

Went to Dinner at Mendy's with Jason and two siblings (Mendy's Jerry, Mendy's!), Meh.

Had drinks in Hell's Kitchen with Jason, sibling, sibling's girlfreind, and girlfriend's roommate, Yay!

Pretended I wasn't feeling ill, though I was horribly sick, Boo!

Opened Starbucks (5:30 AM) nearly dead to the world, Boo!

Went bowling with Jason and a Sibling, Yay!

My highest score: 83, Boo!

Still tried to hide my horrible sickness, drank too much espresso to cover my deadness, Boo!

Ate at a Bolivian Restaraunt with Jason and his freinds, Meh.

Shot pool with Sibling and Jason, Yay!

Wanted to curl up and die the entire time (sickness yuck!), Boo!

Drove Jason to the airport, Boo.

Slept for the rest of Friday and Saturday, Yay!

Went out to get drinks with Starbucks Friends, Yay!

Came home early because was still getting over the cold, Boo!

Bonded with E and J from work on the ride home, Yay!

Woke up feeling better but still a little stuffed up, Meh.

Wrote my first post in a week, Yay!

And now you know, and knowing is half the battle.

dumb

I'm up at this ungodly hour on a Sunday because I'm the idiot who read the schedule wrong and thought I was working from five-thiry to ten forty-five in the AM when it is in fact in the PM. Tonight my brother (the second of three) is having a birthday dinner (21st birthday in fact) in the city tonight and I already said I could attend.

The only reason I'm still up is so I can call the person working the eight AM shift and switch hours. I hope he can switch (not calling him to the slightly more reasonable hour of seven fifteen) otherwise I have to bail on my brother, which is completely uncool.

Because Rawbean did it first

When I have no ideas of my own I steal from where ever I can find. But as I learned in school if you call the rip off a homage, then everything's copacetic. Thus in order for people to learn more about me (though I can't imagine why anyone would want to), this is my homage to Rawbean's rant. Judge away.

DVD's I own:
Jurassic Park
The Cat's Meow
No Man's Land
Oscar
Gun Shy
Grosse Pointe Blank
Cowboy Bebop (the series and the movie)
Dark City
LA Story
His Girl Friday
Pirates of the Carribean

It's a very sad collection but one day, when I have more money it will grow. Nothing to really brag about, and a little to be embaressed of, those are my owned DVDs (there might be one or two more that I have forgot about - I'm at work right now and I'll double check when I get home tonight).

Because I feel a little silly with such a short list, here is another short one of DVD's I plan to own.

Run Lola Run
Amelie
All of Wes Anderson's Films
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
As many Marx Brother films as I can find
Man on Fire
Harold and Kumar go to White Castle
Fight Club
The Indiana Jones Trilogy

All ideas sound stupid when written out

As if hit by an epiphany, or if nothing else, the big fat stupid-stick, the workings of a new story are bubbling in the back of my mind. It's not a particularly good story, and it is by no means a complete story. In fact, I would classify it more along the lines of an idea for a story. I don't think I particularly enjoy this idea; but like the spinach I still have stuck between my teeth from my salad last night, I can't disloge it. Hence, for your reading pleasure and in the hopes that once it's written down I can forget it, I give you the idea.

In the future, when mankind is no longer tethered to Earth, in the furthest reaches of the known galaxies - the last outposts of the human empire reside. In these outposts both Justice and Injustice are found through the barrel of a gun. A place that's short on law and long on vice. Just like the cliched old westerns, all arguements are settled through a duel. This brings us to the as of yet (because I haven't come up with one) named MAIN CHARACTER, the quickest gunman in all the outposts. He's only 32 but that's old as most gunmen die young. For years he's been challenged by younger gunslingers hoping to claim his title as their own and for years he always won. During breakfast right before his most recent duel, after taking his thrid bite of bacon, he begins to have a nervous breakdown, which only grows even greater after barely surving the duel. Throughout the as of yet undecided plot he grows more and more insane believing his now erratic inner monologue to be a seperate voice than his (it isn't) that helps him predict the future (which it doesn't).

I don't have any more than that, but now that it's out, hopefully I can put it to rest.

On a side note I'm off to some book store at Columbus circle. Sarah Vowell will be either 1) signing or 2) reading from her book, or maybe both, or perhaps 3) something else all together. I'm not entirly sure, but I was told she'd be there so that's where I shall be as well.

it's the little things

I went to the New York Comic con yesterday and I will probably write about that when I have more time (I'm at work in Manhattan at the moment).

This is just a brief admonishment to those of you out there who aren't reading Questionable Content. It's quite possibly the best web comic (save Cat and Girl - though that's a different sort of web comic) out there. The newest storyline, well specifically Friday's and Today's strips just made me very happy. It's a tiny thing, but the good warm fuzzies are hard to come by so I cherish them when they do.

To really get the full impact of the story you should go back through the archive and read from the beginning. Sure it's about three hundred something odd strips but it's totally worth it (EDIT, Tuesday 12:22pm - so I checked and it's actually 544 strips, which doesn't negate anything I've already written and I'm totally standing by this post). It's an hour of your day (depending on how fast you read and how fast your internet connection is) and I know most of you spend your days in front of your computer. Why not spend it reading something fun instead of all that porn I know you're all hooked on.

(no I'm not saying porn isn't fun, just that sometimes mental stimulation is just as fun as physical. Yes I've been single for about two years now, why do you ask?)

Momentary bliss

The bad news: The Stars concert I was planning on going too (on Rawbean's recommendation) is sold out, thus I shall not be attending.

The worse news: I am scheduled to be the opener at Starbucks tomorrow and Sunday, which means I get to wake up at the devil hour known as Five AM. The last time I was up at Five AM was due to the fact I hadn't gone to sleep yet the night before.

Changing the subject dramatically, I ride the LIRR four times a week. Twice to Manhattan and twice back. While I generally sleep during the morning ride, because even eight o'clock is too early for me, I am awake during the ride home - not because I'm not tired; rather I don't want to miss my stop, sleeping my way towards Long Island (and yes, this has happened, but I prefer not talking about it).

The ride is generally bumpy, loud, and bright. It's bumpy as most public rail systems are in some way bumpy (what the reason is I have no idea, I am not the engineer I make myself out to be). It's loud because the air conditioning units that circulate air in the cars are loud, letting you know how hard they are working to afford you "clean" air to breath. Not only is the free flowing air loud, but the motor that circulates said air grumbles something akin to a troll. And of course there are the florescent lights that keep the cars safe and full of horrid florescent light. Though the majority of all my rides home the train is filled with this, what I've deemed, "Florescent noise" (not the cleverest of names, but it suits the atmosphere nicely) every so often there are gaps; perhaps in the electric currents, perhaps in the circuitry, perhaps somewhere else entirely. All I know is during these gaps, when the lights suddenly go off, and the numbing drone of the recycled air dissipates, the train sails along near silently, the beats of our hearts pumping in rhythm with the soft palpitations of the wheels on the tracks, and we can see out into through darkness the isle of Manhattan growing distant and (what I think is, though am not sure) the Queensborough Bridge lit up off across the water.

For those few moments, before the electricity kicks back in, with Manhattan shrinking behind me, and Queens slowly expanding before my eyes, in the dark, the city actually looks peaceful and calm.

Then the lights come back and the air pumps loudly through the car, and I am reminded that New York city is by far and large a bright and noisy place.

But for those few seconds as the train treks on in quiet, I almost think that all is right with the world.

Almost.

Things that shouldn't be funny but are anyway

My list of ten in no particular order:

1. The planet Uranus

2. Syphilis of the eye

3. An elderly man being shot in the face by the Vice-President

4. William Shatner's music (save his most recent album I guess)

5. Falling out of bed

6. Unrequited love

7. Erectile Dysfunction

8. Crackwhores

9. Performance artists

10. Any injury involving a bowling ball, a waffle iron, and untied shoelaces.

Valentines day not just for Werewolves anymore

Just remember, if someone offers you a VD gift, make sure they mean Valentines Day, otherwise you're in a world of trouble.

stuck in Funke

Arrested Development is over. Done. Kaput. Finito. And so forth.

For those of you who watched what was one of the smartest and funniest show on TV, a moment of silence.

For those of you who didn't watch it, what's wrong with you people?

Since I'm basically snowed in (the weatherman predicted 10-16 inches, and as it's been coming down since yesterday, we are well on our way) I shall console myself with the previous two seasons I have on DVD and the third season I still have on the DVR. I'll probably follow that with a chaser of Scrubs Season 2 also owned on DVD. Scrubs by the way, another hilarious show that will probably be cancelled at the end of this season.

I know it's only television, and no my life doesn't revolve around it, but still... What kind of backwards country do I live in that funny shows like those are being cancelled, but Freddie Prince Junior's show keeps on going?

Don't mind me though, I was up late, and was woken up with a call letting me know work might be cancelled due to snow. That's a positive "Yay! I don't have to work today!" And a negative "Ahh! I need that money to pay off loans and to buy stuff." Still waiting for a call back with the final info.

Uhh... carry on then.

Why Europeans are Stupid

I don't know if you've been following the news but apparently, last September a Dutch Newspaper printed a series of twelve political cartoons satirizing the prophet Mohamed and the nations of Islam (by which I mean the real Muslims, not the American organization that gave Malcolm X the boot). The cartoons show Mohammed in various poses, the one that the New York Times keeps referencing is of Mohamed with a bomb shaped turban about to go off. It is against Islamic religious law to create an image of their holy prophet Mohammed. Muslims world-wide (at least Muslims in the Middle East) are up in arms, demanding, well demanding something anyway. They always are demanding something. Just once I would like to see them in ask politely in some sort of calm diplomatic context. That being said, this is not a diatribe against various Islamic countries.

Since the Newspaper doesn't follow an Islamic doctrine they shouldn't be penalized for drawing an image of the Prophet. That being said, what the fuck did they think would happen by publishing demeaning images of a important religious icon? It's like publishing an image of a bunch of crooked nose Jews counting their money while drinking christian or muslim blood, or those really bad Japanese caricatures that were so prevalent in the US around World War Two. People will get very angry. I know all that blood libel crap gets my blood boiling.

According to the New York Times (Sunday, February 5, 2006 page A10) the Danish paper (Jyllands-Posten) claimed it had asked cartoonists to draw the pictures because the media was practicing self-censorship when it came to Muslim issues. Now this is a load of grade A bullshit. The difficulty to assimilate and be accepted in European culture (there was just a big write up about this about Muslims and other ethnic immigrants to Sweden and the racism they face in many aspects of Swedish culture in the most recent New York Times Magazine), or perhaps an article about the strife between the secularists and the religious Muslims in Muslim countries, or even the various political conditions that led the Palestinians to vote to power a terrorist organization; those are Muslim issues. Publishing racist cartoons of the prophet Mohammed is not a Muslim issue, it is a perception of the "Muslim issue", which is nothing other than inherent racism in occidental culture, and says much more about the publication and perhaps Denmark than it does about Islam.

Denmark, like most free countries believe in the Freedom of the Press. I believe firmly in this freedom. The Jylands-Posten should have and has the right to publish anything they desire, and I support their right to do so, even if they are publishing garbage. That being said, just because you can print something doesn't necessarily mean you have to print that thing. We pick and choose all the time what we feel is worth while to print or write about. If all the images do is create hate and animosity (and maybe reinforce ethnic stereotypes) what is their worth for publication? Freedom of the press is not a mandate to the press, you needn't publish everything that comes across your desk. Choosing such obvious inflamitory images reflects poorly on the publication itself, and as I understand it, newspapers live and die based on their reputation.

When you boil everything down, this would be a non-story; in September a single newspaper printed something stupid, it happens all the time (Fox News ring a bell to you Americans out there?). The fact that due to the controversy other Newspapers around Europe picked up the cartoons and ran them in their newspapers in some sort of feeble minded attempt at solidarity. As if having the right to publish also gives you the right not to have people get angry at what you publish. Again, just because something can be published does not mean it should be published. And if what was published was crude and racist it might be smarter not to publish it. This is a very much "What the Fuck?" moment. What the fuck where they thinking? It's February, September was five months ago. FIVE FUCKING MONTHS AGO. Only now are the riots starting. If the rest of fucking Europe wasn't so goddamn uppity and would let a really stupid decision fade into the background, there wouldn't have been a riot in Lebanon and Syria, and who knows where else, in front of the various Danish Embassies.

Freedom of the Press only means that you can publish what you will, it does not mean you can be exempt from the consequences. (And cheers to England, because I'm pretty sure they haven't run the cartoons in questions).

The Arab nations are not blameless, and I don't mean to intimate that they are. But my rant about the Arab nations is, well, it's a completely different sort of rant. I find they don't really have a leg to stand on as in Syria, Egypt, and others, they have a television adaptation of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a proven forgery many times over, and quite possibly the most anti-Semitic book ever written which has also done tremendous harm to the Jews over the course of the last century and even still today. There is a word called hypocrisy and another called over reaction and lastly an exacerbated motivation towards violence, but I'll let those lie - for this post anyway.

I'll end with my sincere plea to Europeans, stop being idiots. It's not doing anyone any good, and publishing hate and claiming freedom of the press only makes you guys look like douche bags. As far as foriegn relations go, America has been getting shit for years, and most of it deserved. It's Europe with it's hollier than thou attidute, that really gets my goat. As if they haven't made and are still making the same fucking mistakes we make over here. Publish whatever the hell you please, just don't expect your shit to come out smelling like roses. Next time if you use a little common sense and actually stop being so freaking racist (recent riots in France anyone?) this won't happen in the future, and then you can go back to blame America for all your problems.

Jackasses.

How do you spell Alma Matta?

Because you probably don't read Stellito's blog, even though you should, you probably haven't seen this post. Thus, I give you one of the funniest links I've ever seen, a video made by Chocolate Cake City - an Emerson College sketch comedy troupe.

The trailer for Brokeback to the Future.

The reason I mention Emerson College is I graduated with my B.F.A there in 2002.

Enjoy the hilarity. (and yes, I got a hair cut)

working my way down

Still not used to waking up early. What is early you ask? Around 7:30 in the AM to get to Starbucks on time. Yes I know, most people in this world actually wake up early (even earlier than me) and such, but I'm still not used to it.

So boo to you, I'm taking a nap.

playing the game

I was tagged so I continue the meme.

4 Jobs I've had
-telemarketer
-e-commerce and shipping manager
-Private tutor
-film equipment rental center employee

4 Movies I can watch over and over
-Duck Soup
-Manhattan
-My Girl Friday
-Indiana Jones and the Lost Ark

4 Places I've lived
-Springfield, MA
-Boston, MA
-Jerusalem, Israel
-Queens, NY

4 Places I've vacationed
-Eilat, Israel
-Disney World
-Montreal, Canada
-The Grand Canyon, AZ

4 of my favorite dishes
-Tofu Pad Thai
-Atakilt (etheopian)
-Just regular sauce and cheese brick oven Pizza
-Pita with Hummus

4 Non-Blogger sites I visit daily
-Questionable Content (webcomic)
-Triggerstreet
-Google
-Boston Globe.com (but only since I've moved away from boston, when I lived in Boston it was the NY times.com)

4 Places I'd like to visit
-New Zealand
-Japan
-Hawaii
-Italy

4 People I'm tagging
-Amanda
-Noodles
-Alex
-And anyone else who hasn't been tagged and wants to post this meme.

The most amazing thing I've ever seen

Hold onto your socks kiddos. You are about to be blown away with an overdose of sheer brilliance. It doesn't get any better than this. Don't cheat yourself out of this experience. Don't cop out with some lame excuse. You must press play.

You'll thank me later, trust me.

Much easier than actually writing something clever

You want funny? I give you the Axe.

You want disturbing? I give you K-Fed.

You want just weird? I give you neon pork (no that wasn't doctored, for more info go here).

And brand new because I didn't want to start a fresh post: You want something far more ingenious than I (than me? Grammatically I'm a bit befuddled here)? I give you this visual poem.

Ti Chi or Chai Tea?

I fear I have run out of interesting things to say.

Also, I'm a horrible friend. One of my best friends whom I've known forever got engaged on New Years. It is now 18 days later and I have yet to call and congragulate him. I'm doing it tommorrow, I swear, I just should have done it the very next day. Man I totally suck.

Film, Television, and my worthless opinions

I started an internship at Tribeca Productions yesterday. I am going to be the intern/slave for Tribeca ever Monday from 9:30 in the AM to 6:30 in the PM (yesterday wasn't a Monday, but it was a training day).

It'd say it's cool, but it only is conceptually. I've already been informed the likelihood of this at any point turning into a real job is basically nil. I mean I'm keeping my hopes up and all, but one must be realistic. This is just basically a stepping stone so I can put Tribeca Productions on my resume and hope that it will land me a better job. But it's a start, so I am happy. The work itself is pretty boring. I sit in a small office, run copies of script coverage to the Production heads, and mail out screenplay submissions to the professional readers so that they can write the script coverage. I also answer phones and other light clerical work. The intern who trained me said there will be a lot of down time with nothing to do. Luckily, all the scripts (submissions and current projects) are filed in the intern office thus giving me the opportunity to read all those scripts. I started reading a submission titled: The Sexiest Man Alive (no it isn't about me, but it was nice of you to think that). I'm not going to say if it's any good or not (Yes I will, it has some funny moments but over all very tepid), but it did start to make me wonder why if this guy has representation (Tribeca won't accept any unsolicited submissions) don't I? I should work on that.

Second thoughts: I watched the premier of Love Monkey last night purely because I like the name. Unfortunately that's all I really liked. There is really one big reason I didn't like this show, and that reason's name is Judy Greer. Tom Cavanagh as the lead is fine, he's basically playing Ed in the big city. He's very good at being adorable. The other actors aren't really that inspired but they aren't bad actors, just what you'd expect from a standard hour long drama/comedy. Judy Greer is the exception. And it isn't her fault. I don't like the show not because she's in it, but because she isn't used well at all. Out of all the actors they have, she is the one with the best comedic timing. She may not have been in the best movies, but she is always the funniest and most interesting character in said movies. Anyone else who doubts her keen grasp of comedic timing, I give you her performance on Arrested Development. She is a talented comedic actress and in this poor man's sex in the city (really it's a poor man's Jake in Progress which itself is a bad male rip off of Sex in the City) she is given no funny lines or actions. Her character is so vanilla it hurts to watch. Not because it's unbelievable, but because she's capable of so much more and the weak minds of the writers and directors are holding her back.

It's a stupid rant, but please, Ms. Greer, you're better than that.

I reek of coffee

The stench... Argh the stench.... she burns!

Haven't had a night like this since college

Still tired, perhaps too tired to come up with a clever way to relate the details, but if I don't write it now, I probably never will.

Last night, whilst in the midst of watching the episode of Monk I DVRed the phone rang. As I infrequently receive phone calls at this house I turned to my pops and said, "It's for you." I didn't know if it was actually for him, I just didn't want to get off the couch and answer the phone.

Sure enough, my father answered and started laughing because the call was in fact for me.

"Hello?"
"Hi, Ami?"
"Yes?"
"How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"Do you know who this is?" I had absolutely no clue who "this" was. I thought maybe my freind Charlie in Boston, but Charlie wouldn't ask me if I know that it was her, also, I know Charlie's voice, she's one of my best pals. Thus:
"Er... No. I don't."
"It's J---." She answered. (I don't know why but I am keeping it anonymous).
"How did you get this number?" I asked. J--- is one of my co-workers at Starbucks. We get along really well. We aren't best buds or anything, but we almost always have fun when working with each other (there is a lot of good busting of chops involved).
"It's on the partner list. How would you like to lose your money playing poker?"

Yes, it is true, I am a very poor poker player. It isn't that I don't know how to play. I just have an incredibly readable face (I can't bluff to save my life) and I tend to fold too quickly. There was a previous poker night at Starbucks and a few employees thought it would be fun to do it again. Not doing anything else that evening I went down to Starbucks to meet up with four other fellow off duty employees, to play. First we drove to J---'s house but couldn't play there because there was an electrical short, basically a power outage.

Not having anywhere else to play, we drove back to Starbucks, stole a table from the customers and put it in the surveillance camera blind spot in the back room and played poker until closing time. It was very simple. We each put in six bucks (yes we are young and poor), and played until those six bucks were spent. The person who has all the money in the end wins. Blinds were doubled after each round. I of course was the first person knocked out.

At 10:45 we finished up. Since the night was still young we decided to go bowling. We were only able to bowl one string since J--- had to be home by 12:30. I expected to lose as my bowling skills are sub par. I guess it all really depends on with whom you bowl as I won with only a 99 (I couldn't even break 100).

J--- and E--- left leaving the five that we were down to three. Still feeling like it was early, the three of us decide to find a place to play pool.

The first place we went was a very nice bar. By which I mean nicer than any other bar I've yet been too. The kind you always see in the movies in cool blue with hip music playing and weird screens and images projected, where everyone is somewhere between 23-35 dressed well (well as in clubbing attire, not suits or such) with far too much disposable income (comparatively anyway).

Their was a 40 minute wait for a table so instead we drove down to a place I was much more comfortable in. Large, a bit creaky, poorly maintained billiard tables and some sort of watered down $2.00 beer on tap (only two different brands). We got ourselves a table, played nine ball for about an hour, realizing that we weren't very good, and that the thrill had ended, we decided to stop.

It was a little after two in the morning by that point. Both people I was with had to open the store at 5:30 AM about three and a half hours away. They decided that since they were up so late, why not just stay up until they have to open. And on that thoroughly irrational decision we drove to the Georgia Peach diner. I was pushing for a real greasy spoon diner, something where you can get a bottomless cup of coffee and pie for two bucks. The Georgia peach is a bit more high class, and the food was more expensive than a diner ought to be.

Regardless, we all ordered grilled cheese sandwiches and coffee (tea for me) and bickered over the poor music choices offered by the table jukebox, and just hung out until around 5 when we realized we needed to get back to the Starbucks.

The night had turned cold and the rain into snow. Queens was relatively quiet and blanketed in snow, I'd have to say almost peaceful, as we drove down the LIE.

It was the snow that made my night though. I've been waiting far too long for real snow here in New York. I didn't quite realize it before, but the New England blood coursing through my veins yearned for real winter snow, and real winter cold. It was more satisfying that it probably should have been, and I was the only person not complaining about the weather.

I haven't slept since then, as I didn't want to ruin my sleep schedule. I shall probably crash in about an hour or two and sleep until morning, when it is then time for me to go to work. So, on this note I wish you good night.

More of my pointless obsessions

I love Cat and Girl and really wish I had more courage to do something about it.

That is all.

The good and the bad (the ugly is on a much needed vacation)

I have caught a cold. It's one of those really annoying completely bearable colds. It's just enough to make you feel lousy, but not lousy enough to skip work, or any other aspect of life to rot in front of the TV with a box of tissues and hot soup. This is me drinking tons of OJ, sucking down halls vitamin C drops (strawberry flavored) and drinking cup after cup of chamomile tea. For dinner on Friday I made an egg drop soup (super easy) and a rice and spinach casserole. The egg drop soup was good - though kinda a cheat. It's just about a quart of chicken stock (fake chicken stock for us vegetarians) a tablespoon of soy sauce, and a tablespoon of tomato sauce. When it's all boiling you drop two eggs (already scrambled) into the soup and whisk vigorously for thirty seconds. Serve immediately with some chopped scallions to garnish. It's not filling but it is definitely soothing.

My brother made the astute and oddly accurate remark that the casserole was both bland and spicy at the same time. Yes I know that sounds impossible, yet with my culinary skills (or lack thereof) I have achieved this dichotomous feat. Needless to say we have a lot left over in the fridge.

I have a new script up on Triggerstreet available for anyone to read. The bad news, you have to become a member of Triggerstreet to actually read any of the scripts posted there. The good news, membership is free, and they really don't give out any personal information. I've been a member for nearly a year and all my info has been kept completely and utterly confidential. The script is called Nothing into Something (working title only) and has gotten three reviews starting it off at number 96 on the site. For those of you unfamiliar (have yet to read my rants about triggerstreet here, here, here, here, here, here, and here) Triggerstreet is a forum and to a lesser extent competition for amateur screenwriters and film makers to post their work and get feedback from other members (technically it's also Kevin Spacey's production company). The feedback one receives comes in the form of reviews thus giving one's script a ranking. New rankings are compiled nightly based on any new reviews. As I see it 96 is a very respectable starting point as there are 2317 ranked scripts on the site. Being in the top 100 is great, though I wouldn't mind this one hitting the top ten. I just have to wait for more reviews to pour in.

If you are curious as to what my screenplays might be like feel free to join Triggerstreet and check for yourself. I would make them downloadable from my blog if only I knew how.

oh the indignity

I shaved my beard off this morning. All gone. I'm clean shaven like and fresh faced just like my avatar. I dislike shaving as I have incredibly sensitive skin. So sensitive I'm the only person I know bleeds after using an electric razor (and no it isn't the razor's fault). Though my cheeks and chin are fresh and smooth (or as smooth as they ever get) I decided to leave my sideburns long. Kinda seventies styled long. Not too wide, just long (they reach my jawbone). It's not a bad look, but it isn't a good look either. I did it for fun, just to do something different.

Then at work, there I was standing next to a female co-worker when a patron (an older lady carrying her dog in a bag - I hate those people!) came in and said "Excuse me ladies, can I have a Caramel Macchiato (sp?)." Ladies!

My co-worker (who shall remain anonymous) cracked up. She laughed like I've never seen her laugh prior and for a good two minutes with barely taking a breath.

Ladies indeed.


***LATE NIGHT ADDITION***
Because cleverness should be shared by as many people as possible I direct you to this post by the girl who rides the vespa

A retrospective, my fifteen favorite posts (narcissim anyone?)

It's been exactly a year since my first post on Blogspot. I have been blogging (as I hear the kids call it) for a year, and it's probably the only thing in my life the past year that has been consistent (and you all know how consistent my posting is, so what does that tell you about my life?). Anyway, in honor of my psuedo acheivment I give you my fifteen favorite posts that I wrote of this past year. I was going to do twenty, but thought that'd be too many, and ten didn't seem like enough for me to revel in my own narcisism. Some you might have read, some you might have not. Feel free to read the old ones you missed, or re-read my newer favorites. Yes, it's egotism at its best, but it's also far easier to put up a retrospective like this than actually write something about the past year. Laziness how I adore thee. My top five are astrixed since I don't know how to make a star. These favorites were chosen as the ones that distill my nature and essense better to the bare essentials. If you didn't know what kind of person I was before, these are the posts to get you up to speed.

Wednesday, Janurary 5, 2005: First thoughts

Sunday, March 6, 2005: You're on my list***

Monday, April 11, 2005: I hate writing cover letters

Tuesday, April 12, 2005: Poetry in motion

Wednesday, April 20, 2005: I'd like to buy a Vowell

Thursday, April 21, 2005: Almost, but not at all, famous***

Monday, May 2, 2005: Passover outside of Neverland***

Wendesday, May 11, 2005: This is not a test (or a joke)

Friday, June 24, 2005: Yesterday around 5PM

Thursday, August 18, 2005: I'm a stinker

Monday, October 10, 2005: Octopussy

Sunday, October 30, 2005: Secrets: Lies and Truths

Thursday, November 3, 2005: The secret true history of Amichai***

Saturday, December 3, 2005: People whom I admire

Tuesday, December 6, 2005: Why I am a Huge Dork***


Apparently I wasn't very clever in Feburary, July, or September. And I'm more clever on Mondays, Wendesdays, and Thursdays than I am on other days. Good to know for the future I guess. Now you know the days and months to actually read this stuff.

A whole new year, the same old me

I had tremendous fun this New Year’s Eve, probably the first really fun new years I've had since I was in high school.

That being said, my fun doesn't translate well to an interesting story. Nothing unusual happened; I didn't do anything crazy, I didn't meet anyone and fall in love, or even any sort of drunken one night stand. I didn't go to Times Square (though I did wind up at 56th street and 7th avenue 14 blocks away from times square). I didn't even get that drunk (again, it's been a while since I really drank and I'm pretty much a lightweight).

Here's what happened and I'll try (though probably fail) to be brief. My brother Hillel and I took the 5:50 LIRR to Manhattan Saturday night. We then hopped on the 1 to 14th street transferred to the L train and got off at North 7th in Brooklyn. We walked a block down to North 6th and into a bar aptly named North Six. Coats checked (seven bucks for two coats and one backpack, plus the one dollar tip - much less than I though we'd have to pay), we waited on line for about a half hour, picked up the tickets we bought online, then entered upstairs where we waited another hour. At about 8 PM a man named Jedidiah Parish took the stage with his guitar. He sang one thoroughly entertaining song, then played about eight very bad ones. It wasn't until a little after nine that They Might Be Giants (my all time favorite band ever) took the stage. The concert was freaking amazing. Probably one of the best I've seen in the smallest venue I've ever seen them (I have seen them at least once a year since I moved off to college a little over 8 years ago). The show was sold out, maximum capacity of 300 people. They rocked. Also hilarious. Great entertainers through and through.

It was the early show (ended at 10:30) and for the final song they passed out flyers to the audience and led us all in the complete (five whole verses, and pardon my spelling) Auld Lang Syne (did I get it right?).

We got out of the bar (collecting our coats took about ten minutes) at about 10:50. We hopped back on the L rode it up to seventh (or was it eighth? I can't remember) and took the A train uptown to 59th st. We backtracked three blocks to 56th and got to Lily's (Hillel's girlfriend) apartment at around 11:30 PM.

At Lily's in addition to myself and Hillel: Lily of course, Amanda (Lily's roommate), Asaf (my youngest brother who was lazy and didn't buy a ticket to the show – he blames the subway strike but I know the truth), and two of Amanda's friends whom I didn't know (and have also by now forgotten their names - though they were really cool people). We drank some beer (blue moon) and some wine (I don't remember the name but Amanda works for the company who makes it) and ate some cheese and crackers and some sort of chopped mushroom spread - which I enjoyed immensely, though that may just be because I didn't really eat dinner. I really only hung out with Amanda once prior for about an hour or so, and apparently made an excellent impression on her. Luckily Asaf wanted to sleep in his own bed back in Queens instead of at his dorm so Asaf and I left at 12:30 (after watching the Ball Drop on the TV, all of us marveling we were watching something taking place barely 10 blocks away). I say luckily as I managed to leave when I was still entertaining thus maintaining Amanda's good impression. There will probably be a day she realizes how big of a dork I really am, but I'm safe on that front; for now.

Asaf and I caught the 1:20 AM train and took the LIRR back home. We got home a little after two and I fell asleep at 2:30 AM.

I woke up at noon, ate breakfast and spent a very lazy Sunday with my brother playing the original Zelda (you know the old one for the first Nintendo system) on his Gamecube. He purchased off of Ebay a Gamecube disk with the two original Zelda games along with the two for N64, hence our ability to play a very old game on a very new (well not that new really) gaming system.

The End.

Oh and my new favorite quote for the new year (yes I stole it from Noodles and changed the spelling) New Year is like taking off in an airplane for the umpteenth time and being sure that, this time, it will certainly finally crash.. -Eliza BeLittle

Couldn't have said it better myself, and really wish I came up with it first.

A day and a bad excuse in a few paragraphs (with far too many parentheses)

I kinda promised a post yesterday but I spent most of the day cuddled up in my room with the electric heater on. The heat in the house broke down. That is to say the heat worked, but the circulating pump (the pump that circulates the heat to the rest of the house - for those like me who aren't so mechanically inclined) decided to make the annoyingly loud sound as if a jackhammer was going off in the walls instead of circulating the heat as it is supposed to do (see previous parenthesis). To my good fortune the pump decided to start with the loud jackhammer-ish noise at approximately three o'clock in the AM. Waking up in a house sans heat (read: very cold) by the jackhammer of the circulating pump coming out of the heating vent instead of the heat I expected is quite possibly the worst way to wake up; ever (save some sort of horrific torturous experience involving toothpicks, super glue, hot sauce, and a digital camera).

I was so cold, and so very tired (I had to wake up early to drive a sibling to the train and then stay up in a stupor waiting for the heating repair man to arrive) I quickly curled back up into bed around 11:30 AM and fell promptly back to sleep until 2:30PM. I woke up cold and sniffling, head aching due to sinuses. The rest of my day was spent first in bed reading, a quick run to drive brother number two to the LIRR so he could get into Manhattan to pick up cookie dough he left in his dorm room fridge (also hang out with his friends); then back in bed where it was warm until my folks came home from an extended weekend away. Along with my folks came an unassembled entertainment center from Ikea I then assembled with the help of the first sibling who had since come home from work. By then it was warm in the house, but I was too tired to go online and fell asleep early to get to work on time to open the Starbucks this morning.

It wasn't a very busy day yesterday, but it was one that was the quite the opposite of being conducive to writing.

Chanukah (or Hanukah, or whatever - I never know how to spell it in English, so Amber, you're one up on me) is going fine I guess. Received no presents so far, but did not expect any. We aren't a big present giving family. The only reason presents are exchanged on Chanukah is due to its proximity with Christmas Jews wanted to get gifts too. Ever since Rebecca (Roni's Girlfriend - Roni being a brother of course) mentioned to my mom that she buys her folks a gift, my mom has been dropping a few hints. Thus, the four of us (from oldest to youngest: Me, Hillel, Roni, and Asaf) all chipped in and purchased them (the parental units) an ice cream maker. We figured it's a gift that they would enjoy (they do) and something we could partake from as well. They way I figure it's far better than a bowling ball with "Homer" inscribed on it (anyone who gets that is just as big as a dork as I am - so there).

The sweet spicy smell of hot sweet potato Latkes (for those of you who speak Yiddish), Levivot (for those of you who speak Hebrew) potato pancakes (for those of you who speak neither Yiddish nor Hebrew) that my father has made is slowly wafting its way to my desk. Hence I shall sign off here, sweet potato latkes and home made ice cream are both in my immediate future. Take care kiddies.

Post script: I saw The Chronicles of Narnia and my review will be posted on TheNoyse.com as soon as I write it. I'm just a lazy bastard.

so tired, so very tired.

First off, I have come to realize, though I'm not happy about Johnny's move (and as James pointed out it wasn't a trade, which I knew, only I wrote it wrong, whoops) I can't really blame him. It's the Red Sox fault for not doing a better job of holding on to him. He wanted seven years, they gave him four, and when the Yankees called and started courting him the Red Sox didn't really do much to try and keep him. Though I would never play for the Yankees (well I would but only because I suck at baseball, but if I was good I wouldn't) I understand why he left. I mean, if there are two companies trying to get your business, which one do you go to, the one who is activly courting you, going out of they're way to win you over; or the one that just seems lukewarm to you, not seemingly caring either way? Simple.

Just needed to get that off my chest. Not the most intersting of posts, but I'm wicked tired and I reek of coffee and espresso. Luckily I don't have to go in to work tommorrow. Expect a new post 'cause I'll have nothing else to do.

Mildly depressed

Johnny Damon has been traded to the Yankees. I'm not angry about it yet. I probably will be in a few days, but now it's like a shot to the gut. I can't stop the bleeding.

For any Yankee fans out there, nuts to you guys.

And for people who don't care either way, I give you the best advice I've ever received.

Kong is Long

There are three things I know to be true. Adrian Brody can't help but be adorable, Naomi Watts can't help but be gorgeous, and Peter Jackson can't help but make the most outrageous and breathtaking action sequences.

Thus, if all you care about is Naomi Watts's sexiness (even when caked with mud, sweaty, running from dinasours), Adrian Brody's adorableness (even when he's caked with mud running to dinasours trying to save Naomi Watts) and jaw dropping mindless action, all tied together with a thin plot involving monkey love, then you should go out right now - before you even finish this ridiculously long sentence - and see this movie.

Just like the original Kong, this one is filled with the most technologically advanced available special effects of the time. What the new one has that the older one doesn't: about 84 more minutes. Which is not to say I didn't like those extra 84 minutes. I have seen the Lord of the Rings theatrical releases, and I've also scene the extended versions. Watching King Kong felt like I was watching an extended version (albeit an extended version I liked) rather than the regular theatrical release. There are a few too many sub plots that don't add much to the rest of the story, and some character bits that are entertaining but slow down the plot.

And the action is gruesome. Not gory, there is no blood, but it's all violent none the less. One particular scene where I couldn't help but cringe was King Kong killing a T-rex in a very cruel fashion, basically ripping its head open and jamming it into the ground. It was harsh, but maybe I'm a bit too sensitive as all the kids at the ten year old birthday party seated a few seats behind me all broke out in laughter.

Jack Black, as Director Carl Denham sentimentalizes all the death and destruction for a brief moment, then glazes over larger considerations in his quest to make the prefect movie. Peter Jackson pretty much does the same - and I think this is the only real flaw in the film. Perhaps there should have been a disclaimer in the beginning of the picture: "No digital people were actually harmed in the making of this film." In Jackson's previous films the action was either for humor (yes black humor and kitsch value count), or had some sort of emotional connection to the audience. In this film, there isn't enough of either; mindless action for its own sake surprisingly does grate on you, especially after nearly three hours of it.

Here's what it really boils down to (to use a tool taken from the Donald Rumsfeld playbook), did I like this movie? Yes I did. Did I think it was too long? Very much so. Should you see this film in a theater? With out a doubt. Is this a must see movie? No, unfortunately it isn't.

So there you have it. I hoped that helped, and if not, I hope it at least entertained.

To infinity and beyond

Off to see King Kong today. Don't know when I shall return. Skull Island is a very dangerous place.

Wish me luck.

Tom Arnold Scares Me - but that's really neither here nor there

I hate washing my hair. Contrawise, I hate lice and dandruff. These two opposing thoughts haunt me each morning as I take my daily shower. My aversion to shampoo has nothing to do with a fear of cleanliness. It has nothing to do with any sort of fruity or chemical smell associated with hair care products. This hate (and I'm a little embaressed to admit) stems entirely from aesthetic considerations.

It's time I just came out and admited it. I tried to hide it my entire life, especially in high school, I could barely admit it to myself let alone my freinds, and I know my family knew. I have curly hair. There I said it (wrote it). It's like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest. I have curly hair. In my youth I used to look at all the kids with longs thin straight hair and wish my hair would look like theirs. I cut my hair short, I buzzed it each summer so no one would know. Then as I got older I grew my hair out and tried all sorts of cuts to hide the curls dying to be free.

I wore hats. Dear lord did I wear hats. All sorts of hats. Big hats, little hats, vitnage and retro hats, strange and multicolor hats. Anything so my frizzy curly (I used to say wavy but that was a lie) hair wouldn't be noticed.

It has been a long journey for me to admit what was so glaringly obvious to the rest of the world. My hair just isn't straight. Those of you out there with perfect straight hair will not understand this next bit. As a person with curly hair, shampoo kills me. It drains my head, my brown locks of all their essential oils and such. Thus upon exiting the shower, and drying my head, my hair is nothing more than a giant puff of frizz. Sure I use special anti-frizz shampoo and conditioner, but even the strongest dose just isn't strong enough.

I used to dream of having prefectly managable straight hair. The kind of thin strands than just fall across the head and sit perfectly regardless how often you do or do not comb them.

There is about one day in seven when my hair actaully works. The day when it's just oily enough not to be gross, but oily enough to keep my loose curls in check. Before that day there isn't enough natural oils and it's frizz city, and after that day there is too much oil and my that's just kinda gross.

One of the first things I'm going to do after I get my first paycheck (whenever that is,I should probably enquire the bosses of Starbucks as to when I get paid) I'm going to go out and get a hair cut. I don't know what it's going to look like, but I'm going to take the risk with a new barber. All I really need is to find one good cut and stick with it. So far, my rebllious hair does not like being told what to do. I hope that in time I can train it before it invariably falls out (I have a full head of hair, but as baldness has afflicted every generation of men on both sides of my family before me, I assume it's only a matter of time until I join them).

But it never listened to me before, so why should it start now?

I totally miss boston

Million Dollar Rabbi (having quicktime will definitely help)

These are the type of shananagins I've missed by moving to Queens. Both fellows in the video are my former roommates. I didn't think I missed my freinds so much, but apparently I do.

As the song goes "Boston you're my home."

Also, my thoughts on the holiday season, summed up by someone else. I don't know who wrote it, but I really wish it was me. If you get gooey over christmas, this might not be the read for you. (I should thank Jeremy for posting this on his blog first, otherwise I would never have found it.)

Just another reason...

That cats are much cooler than dogs. I'm sure there are plenty of dog lovers out there, but honestly, how many of your dogs actually keep your bones healthy?

Scientists have demonstrated that cats produce the purr through intermittent signaling of the laryngeal and diaphragmatic muscles. Cats purr during both inhalation and exhalation with a consistent pattern and frequency between 25 and 150 Hertz. Various investigators have shown that sound frequencies in this range can improve bone density and promote healing.

This association between the frequencies of cats' purrs and improved healing of bones and muscles may provide help for some humans.
quote taken from the Scientific American website, article entitled: Why do cats purr?

Also, you'll never see a cat use a lame set of stairs to get on and off the couch.

I have nothing against dogs, or those who love them. It's just that unless you are looking for drugs, or skiers lost in a mountain, or are a hunter, cats just make more sense (and are more usefull - and in my opinion more enjoyable - to have around).

So take that dog lovers! Cats are just cooler.

More Quickies (thank you ananova)

Woman sent to wrong prison - Either someone needs to explain the birds and the bees to Peru, or that is one messed up woman.

Noise pollution - I know this would certianly keep me away.

Capitalism at it's best and most fun - makes me kinda wish I was still unemployed (Also one of the few times I've wanted to be german).

Have fun kiddies.

file under: Couldn't have said it myself

Mary Kate - college dropout.

Which I suppose is better than being a Beauty School Drop out.

(Did that Grease reference make me look gay? And do these pants make me look fat?)

And I thought I was going through a dry spell....

I realized that I used to write about current events with a lot more frequency than I do now. The reason suddenly occured to me. I used to read the New York Times online then, as I was already sitting in front of my computer, type out my response. Since moving to Queens I have had the New York Times delivered to the house, thus when I read it I'm probably on the couch, at the living room table, or even on the toilet (quite possibly the best place to read the newspaper), none of which is anywhere near the computer.

This morning when I went downstairs to eat breakfast I found the paper open to the style section. I'm not one for the style section. I tend to be a front page, metro, arts and leisure (and occasionally, sports) section kind of guy. Once in a blue moon I'll read the magazine, but rarely do I read any of the other sections. As Fashion was right in front of me I glanced over it and came across an article I felt a strong desire to discuss.

Chastity Rings. Small silver bands one wears on their ring finger in lue of a wedding band. The chastity ring signifies that the wearer will abstain from sex until it is replaced with a wedding ring.

Whether people have sex before marriage or if they decide to wait, I really don't care. What I do have an issue with is this: when speaking about the ring Jonathan Wagner, 16, of Wexford, PA. said this (quote is taken directly from the NY Times article), "It's a good tool to help you explain your decision and a reminder to you to remain pure."

It's the purity bit that gets me. I dislike the idea that sex is an impure action. The person back in the day who declared sex to be impure clearly wasn't doing it right. Though, as one who once was a dorky teenager with a veritable sexless high school career, I can see the desire to have an excuse why you're not having sex. It wasn't because I was a scrawny, acne riddled, comic book dork, and few girls found me desirable. It's a lot better for my self-esteem to think I choose to be celibate, instead of celibacy choosing me.

If people want to wait until they are married, to have sex, make love with someone they love and who loves them more power to them. I respect that. But if you are choosing celibacy due to some notion at "purity" or "remaining pure" I think you should get off your high horse and join the rest of us in the human race. Sex is natural, almost every living thing does it (well some reproduce asexually, but where's the fun in that?). In my experience, the repression of natural desires is more harmful than not.

I'm not advocating a balls out, hedonistic orgy of sex and other pleasures of the flesh. It's just when I read quotes like (again from the same article)

A statement on the website of True Love Waits, and abstinence group that encourages the wearing of purity rings, says purity also means saying no to "sexual touching," "to a physical relationship that causes you to be 'turned on' sexually," and to "pornography or pictures that feed sexual thoughts."

Maybe it's just me, but if I abstained from any physical relationship causing me to be turned on I'd be so stifled I'd become aroused at any image, possibly even:



or worse:



So, if you are waiting until marriage because you want the sex to be meaningful, to be with someone you truly love, then I say more power to you. If it's because you think sex is impure and wrong, and anything remotely sexual is wrong, then what kind of relationships do you have, and how do you date?


All quotes taken from The New York Times; Thursday, December, 8 2005 - Fashion section, pages G1 and G2. Article titled: A Ring That Says No, Not Yet.

Why I am a huge dork (or strike one off the list - sorta)

I am no longer intimidated by Manhattan. I was for the majority of my life, thinking it was just too big and crowded and scary. Since moving to Queens I've been operating on the basic (and Noodles please forgive the cliche) "fake it 'till you make it" principle. The surprising thing: it worked. I haven't made it in Manhattan (in any sense of the phrase "made it") but I am comfortable figuring out how to get around and even confident that if I get lost I can still find my way home. Granted this is only for walking and taking the subway. Driving on the Isle of Manhattan is an altogether different issue.

This sudden growth of character occurred yesterday as I made my way from the butt end of Queens to the Starbucks at 31st and 7th for a Starbucks training class. First I awoke to the horrid sound of the telephone, my manager called to remind me that I did in fact have a class in Manhattan that day (a fact I knew and was hoping to sleep in a bit as I worked 'till closing the night previous). I was supposed to be dressed up to Starbucks standards (black or light khaki pants, white or black shirt, black shoes). As I wasn't going to be working behind a bar or waiting on customers, I decided they don't get to tell me what to wear, thus I wore my new semi-hipster looking brown checked pants (only six bucks on sale and the first article of clothing I've ever purchased from the Gap) and my blue sneakers (I was gonna wear my red converse high tops to really flesh out the hipster look, but it had snowed and canvas converse sneakers are the exact opposite thing one should wear in the snow). As a compromise I wore a black turtle neck, because it was in fact cold and a turtleneck was a good idea.

The class: boring, boring, boring. Five hours that could have been one, tops. Most of it was learning all about Starbucks corporate (who cares) and proper customer service. The meaningless phrases "enthusiastically satisfied customers" and "legendary customer care" were tossed at us as frequent as McCarthy would discuss supposed members of the red menace. I don't know how legendary I can be without removing a sword from a stone and then being crowned king of England (though I would make a good king). And how enthusiastic can a caffeine addict be before taking that first sip of coffee in the morning, and is the enthusiasm really because of my service or because they are addicted to caffeine? Though I think I finally got the hang of the coffee tasting thing.

After five and a half hours I left the Starbucks and made my way up to Midtown Comics to meet my brother Hillel who just got out of work. We decided (rather I decided and he was gracious to accompany me) to go to the Cake Shop in the lower east side to see the punk band The Vandervoorts. They were up with two other bands, the Ottomen and Paper Fleet. We had little interest in the other two and were hoping the Vandervoots would be up first so we can leave early. But the show wasn't until nine and it was barely six o'clock. We called our youngest brother Asaf (a freshman at NYU) and headed downtown to Chickpea - a falafel and Shwarma joint, to meet him for dinner. We ate, hung out, got a call from Lily - Hillel's girlfriend - to let us know she'd meet us at the Cake Shop, retired briefly to Asaf's dorm, then leaving Asaf behind (the show as 21+ and he’s only 18) hopped on the F train to Delancy Street to make it to the show on time.

We got there exactly at nine. No one started playing until around ten. Cake Shop itself is quite possibly my new favorite place in Manhattan. Upstairs (ground level) it's like a bakery/coffee shop in the front - selling pastries, coffee and such. In the back they sell cd's - lots of independent music I've never heard of, some of it really cheap. Downstairs in the basement is a bar and small area for the musicians to perform. It isn't very big, maybe 60-70 feet long and only about 15-20 feet wide. It's dark, lit solely by a few recessed bulbs in the back and over the bar, and Christmas lights over the "stage". It's small, cozy, and so eclectic you could plotz (hooray Yiddish! the ultimate dorkifier). Apparently they have a good beer I've never heard of but my brother likes for only three bucks a bottle - which is a really good price for a beer I've never heard of and have already forgotten, or so he says.

Why, you may ask, did I venture all the way to the lower east side, to this small underground (by which I mean literally beneath street level) bar for three bands no one (two of them, even I) has ever heard of? The answer is simple. If you check out my previous post, the first name on the list is Doroth Gambrell. Dorothy, author/aritst of my favorite web comic Cat and Girl is also the guitarist of the band (you guessed it) the Vandervoorts.

The place was anything but packed. I think Hillel, Lily, and I were the only people there who weren't friends with any of the bands. If I were to say there were 25 people there total (including the bands themselves) that would be me being generous.

So we sat, talking, Hillel, Lily, and I, waiting for an hour before the Ottomans got on (the Vandervoots were to play second). I was hoping it'd be a quick set because I didn't want to stay in the city so late, I still had to take the LIRR back to my place in Queens. What I thought would be a cheesy indie rock trio turned out to be very enjoyable. The Ottomen in my opinion sound a bit like early Weezer, but much more light hearted, happy. All their songs, save "lonely surfer girl" were fun, upbeat, some funny, and most tongue in cheek. Their songs ranged from a short bit about Dandelions, a bizarre slapstick song about bloody red socks and how they got that way, and a song about King Kong sung from his perspective on the whole affair. The acoustics weren't the best, and they sounded a bit like a garage band, with the playfulness of people still playing in their garage for their friends. I wouldn't call it amateur, just kids my age having fun playing rock star but not taking it seriously.

Next, the Vandervoorts. A punk rock quartet. All their songs were short, probably no more than a minute, and each ended very abruptly. It was very punk, in the more old school idea of punk. Not in the poppy perfectly mixed and harmonized young punks (Sum 41 I'm looking at you) you see on MTV who wear spiky green hair and some chains "punk." This was very much the unmixed, raw punk sound, played by people into the music, who dressed just the way they liked, not to make a "statement". But just like the band before them they played a bit tongue in cheek, never taking themselves too seriously. The bassist in particular made the most adorable faces when she played. Maybe not something one looks for in a punk rock band, but for these guys in this setting, it just worked.

They finished their set a little after eleven. We were itching to go (both Hillel and Lily needed to wake up early today, and I wanted to get home at a reasonable hour). Now here is the big news. After the set, after they cleaned up but before Paper Fleet went on, I walked over to the band. I shall repeat. I walked over to the band. Granted there was barely anyone else there but this was a big step for me. I am generally the shy and awkward guy who hides in corners during social gatherings. But I walked over to the band - well really just the bassist and guitarist as the other two members disappeared into a back room.

This is how it went down.

"Hi, I don't want to bother you, but I'm going to be a bit of a geek for a second, as I generally am a geek, which is neither here nor there really," I ramble when I'm nervous, obviously, "and I wanted to say I really liked your set tonight."

"Thanks." They both said and smiled, real friendly like.

"It was really good. Er... one of you makes Cat and Girl?"

The bassist pointed to the guitarist, smiled, then walked to the back room.

"I just wanted to say I'm a big fan of the comic. It's my favorite web comic. I like it a lot."

"Thanks." Dorothy said as if trying to hide in her beer. She was very quiet, and seemingly very shy (or she just wanted to get the hell away from me). "What's your name?" And she put out her hand.

Again, I ramble when I'm nervous. "Ami, Amichai, really but no one can really pronounce Amichai. Ami. I'm Ami. Dorothy, right?" She nodded and we shook hands. "It’s how I learned about your band and this show. I can’t stay to hear the next band, I gotta get back to Queens." I’m master of the more information than necessary school of conversation. "But I'm glad I came, and just wanted to say I really like your comic, and the band was really good."

I don't generally get star struck. Big names most often don't phase me. If, say I bumped into John Malkovitch on the street - and I have, literally on the crowded streets of Harvard Square in Cambridge, a bit embarrassing really - I wouldn't get all tongue tied (I wasn't in fact; I apologized and we both went on our merry ways). For some reason however, when I meet minor celebrities (or those who are only famous in my head) I am a loss for words. When I met Scott Mccloud at his book signing I couldn't come up with a thing to say. And now, shaking hands with a girl who lives in Brooklyn, draws a web comic, and is in punk band no one has heard of, I giggle with nervousness. The best part, was that she seemed so shy and embarrassed, demurely shaking my hand, quietly thanking me while seemingly wishing she could hide inside her beer bottle. Had I more money and more guts I would have offered to buy her a drink. Not due to any romantic inclination, just because I really admire her work. But I did not have more money, and I certainly am a coward so I excused myself saying I had to get back to Queens.

"Thanks for coming." Was the last thing she said as I smiled equally shy, and walked back to Hillel and Lily and the three of us walked back to the subway, not bothering to wait around to hear Paper Fleet play.

I took the F train to 32cnd and 6th, then walked up to Penn station, took the 12:21 train back to Queens, and walked from the station, about a mile home in the snow. Over all I'd say it was a very good day.

People whom I admire

A list of famous (at least famous in my mind) people whom I either aspire to be, to be with, or just am inspired by (an abbreviated list). In no particular order.

Dorothy Gambrell

Haruki Murakami

John Flansburgh and John Linell (They Might Be Giants)

Russel Edson

Douglas Adams

Sarah Vowell (More of my thoughts on Ms. Vowel, also here.)

Alton Brown

Wes Anderson

Aaron Sorkin

Grant Morrison

Alan Moore

Tony Harris

Rob G (sorry I couldn't find a better link for this particular artist)

Jason Lutes

Scott Mccloud

Batman

Superman

Flash

Warren Ellis

Peter David

Andi Watson

Scarlett Johansson (really just want to be with, this might make me a bit shallow but she's so freaking sexy)

Jeph Jacques

The Dresden Dolls

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson

Lee Krasner

John Stewart

Steve Martin

Caroline Dhavernas (I have a big crush on her, and she's more realistically my type - as opposed to Scarlett - but neither hold a candle to Sarah)

Richard Russo

There are many more, but I'll stop there.

Battle of the Titans: Apple Juice Vs. Apple Cider

I've only been working at Starbucks for a week, so far I've only filled one order of Tea. That being said, I really wish I could say stuff like this the next time some poor soul orders tea.

Also: don't order hot apple cider from Starbucks, because they won't give it to you. Anytime you order hot apple cider you are actually getting hot apple juice with a few pumps of cinnamon syrup. The Starbucks recipe book claims there is no official difference between apple juice and apple cider. Cider in other countries equals fermentation, what we in America and Canada call hard cider, is just called cider most everywhere else. So if both are the liquid from the apple, and neither is fermented, what really is the difference? The great state of Massachusetts defines the differences here. So take that Starbucks, trying to cheat your customers of the true hot cider experience.

And as Ned Flanders once said, "If it's sweet and yellah, you got juice there fella'. If it's tangy and brown, you're in cider town."

On Monday I plan on going to the Cake Shop in Manhattan to see the Vandervoots. It's only six bucks and starts at 9pm. So if any of you fun loving readers out there happen to be in New York on Monday, and you like upbeat "punkity rock" you should join me. I'll be there with my brother Hillel, and we always enjoy company when we go to concerts.