I've sat through 33 Yom Kipper services and counting. I spent a year studying my haftorah. I even brought a pink Tupperware container of tuna fish to lunch during Passover of my 3rd Grade year (is it any wonder I didn't kiss a girl till high school?). But I never really got this whole Judaism thing. Sure, it's good for a joke. And the girls at college, who must have been from the Midwest or something, seemed to have a little thing for East Coast neurotics like me, at least to a point. But it never really registered for me, this whole religion thing I mean, in any meaningful sense. I was emotionally detached, to say the least.
And then last night my sister and I dined at the thankfully re-opened Second Avenue Deli (now on 3rd Avenue). I felt like Moses on the mount as I communed with my hot corned beef sandwich and matzo ball soup. I'm not sure whether the stuffed cabbage actually spoke to me ala the burning bush...but I swear I think it did. Oh, burning stuffed cabbage, how I doused your flames with my Dr. Brown's cream soda! Did we want gribenes for the table? Did we ever! What are we, a couple of goyim? I think not. (And make that chocolate babka a double.)
It amazes me that you don't have to wear a yarmulke in this place. Or a tallis. If I was ever in the mood to do a little davening, here was the time and the place. This was the first time in my life I actually wished my nose was slightly larger.
Let me explain. I live in a land without Jews. Now, I'm not saying Washington, DC, is Berlin circa 1940 or anything...but, seriously, I have never felt so disconnected to my people. I haven't seen a bagel in 5 months. Deli? What's that? Humor? Never heard of it. New York feels like a comfy blanket. It's bad enough i'm white in DC, I can only imagine what the peeps in my hood would yell at me if they knew I was a Jew (I'm pretty sure they still think Jews have horns and tails down there.)
[DC aside: I'm pretty sure I've blogged about this before, but one of my favorite DC anecdotes is the time I was in the local supermarket and some random black guy told me he thought I was Daniel Snyder, owner of the Washington Redskins. In other words: "Hey, you look like that other Jew." Next time I'm grocery shopping in Harlem, I'll be sure and tell someone they look like Magic Johnson.]
But...back to the Second Avenue Deli, and New York City, and life, and diversity, and the warm glow of experiencing something truly, legitimately good. I think that's what I miss most. I love my new house and the trees are nice...but you just don't find many moments like last night at Second Ave. Forty bucks for an unbelievable spread, the hustle and bustle of real city life swirling overhead, case upon case of delicacies....authenticity. My people. The whole 9 yards. That's what I miss the most, the sense that, you know, with very few exceptions, I probably couldn't be experiencing this anywhere else. Ben's Chili Bowl aside, you really don't encounter that in DC. Everything feels nondescript.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
Chinese Food
I actually had a decent meal in DC last night. Not only that, but it arrived via delivery! I don't think I've seen food delivered in the 5 months I've been here. Wow, delivery. I forgot about that. Anyway, I was introduced to some authentic Chinese by a friend who lived in China for two years. Now, I'm something of a Chinese food fiend, but this was a pretty new experience. I mean, there were actually like greens on the table, and they weren't deep fried or slathered in General Tso's sauce. They actually looked like vegetables. Who knew? We also had a cold cucumber dish swimming in a fiery red pepper sauce. The cold and hot combo was pretty awesome. As a fellow eater put it, the cucumber starts off all nice and cool in your mouth, then is like, "ok, I'm outta here," leaving you with a little back of the throat pepper burn. Fortunately, beer washed this away quite nicely. There was an equally hot and spicy tofu dish that I mostly avoided, an incredible sweet, sour, and hot shrimp dish, and a comforting platter of chicken and cashews for the newbies like me. Delish!
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Let The Ramblings Begin
I was on the phone last night talking about blogging, which, yes, is preposterous in the extreme. But anyway, I was speaking with someone who claims to blog once a week. As a once in a season kind of guy, I couldn't help but exclaim, "What?! But how???" The answer, as it turns out: rambling. Well, in so many words.
I've been laboring under the delusion that in order to blog I needed to have some point to make, or funny story to relate, or some review to dash off. But as it turns out, I can just write whatever the hell I want! Glory be.
OK, here goes: after years of lusting, I finally pulled the trigger on a flat screen TV. It arrived yesterday and it's glorious, it's beautiful, it's like staring into the face of God. I'm sitting next to it right now, and it's not even turned on, and I can't stop gazing at it. I'm in love. I want to take it on vacation. I want to buy it flowers. I want to take it home to meet my mom.
Wow, that was easy.
I've been laboring under the delusion that in order to blog I needed to have some point to make, or funny story to relate, or some review to dash off. But as it turns out, I can just write whatever the hell I want! Glory be.
OK, here goes: after years of lusting, I finally pulled the trigger on a flat screen TV. It arrived yesterday and it's glorious, it's beautiful, it's like staring into the face of God. I'm sitting next to it right now, and it's not even turned on, and I can't stop gazing at it. I'm in love. I want to take it on vacation. I want to buy it flowers. I want to take it home to meet my mom.
Wow, that was easy.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Finally, or On The Wire and There Will Be Blood
Man, now that's how you end a TV show!
Like, most thinking people, I am totally and passionately on board with The Wire. Best show on TV? I don't watch a ton of TV, but...yes, yes, an unqualified yes. Season 3 of The Wire is, to my mind, the greatest achievement the medium has ever produced. I found the much-heralded Season 4 to be excellent but a bit overrated...still great, but not on par with Season 3. Which brings us to Season 5, the end of The Wire...
Having taken a week to process my thoughts, I'm realizing this last season is a bit tough to get my mind around. I mean, I'm finding my reaction requires all sorts of qualifications. It's not enough to say "I loved it" or "it was great" or "I was really disappointed." All of those things are true, and sifting through them, it's easy to get lost.
Confusing as my reaction to the Wire finale is, one thing that's clear is that it's the exact opposite reaction that I had to There Will Be Blood...another beloved work I find frustratingly unable to summarize in terms of my like or dislike for it. I mean, I like it, I like it a lot, BUT...
Okay, let's take one at a time:
1. Blood: 95% of this movie is probably one of the 5 best things I've ever seen in a movie theater. A stunning, mesmerizing, pitch-perfect, visionary work...that's utterly, completely, and savagely destroyed by its inane final act, which I like to subtitle: The Comedy Stylings of Daniel Plainview. This last act is so off for me, so dreadfully unlike all that precedes it, that I can't help but wonder if the movie actually isn't very good...or, how can I say the movie is so good when it turns so very bad at the end? I've never encountered anything like this in twenty years of serious film watching. It's sort of like if, in the last ten minutes of Manhattan, aliens descend, forcing Woody and Mariel to fight them off with laser guns and save the city. I mean, would Manhattan still be great if this happened, even if the rest of the film remained unchanged? I don't know.
2. The Wire Season 5: until the last 2 episodes, I couldn't believe how far the Wire had fallen. I didn't buy McNultey's serial killer plot for a second. For me, it stank of standard TV show hackdom. Not bad for a couple episodes of CSI: Miami. But for The Wire? Hell, no. The Wire feels so awesomely grounded in reality (or at least in plausibility). That's what's great about the show, and that's the very thing that elevates it so high above other works in the genre. I hated to see it go out like this. It was painful and unconvincing (and most of the stuff at The Sun I just found boring). But then...the last 2 episodes were so outlandishly over-the-top brilliant, that....well, I don't know. Did they make the season great? Do I just forget about the preceding 10 episodes? The final two episodes do rescue the season for me, I suppose. They make me feel great about how the show ends. But I'm not sure I could recommend the season as a whole. It felt like amateur hour, coming from the Wire. And I'm not sure it's any coincidence that the final season only gets good once the serial killer plot peters out. It was hackneyed, awkward and forced.
So how to regard creative works that take a serious U-Tun in the final moments, either for good or for bad? A stroll through the criticism canon might shed some light. I mean, I can't imagine a few minds way more distinguished than my own haven't already tackled this dilemma. Of course, I'm way too lazy to do any such actual reading myself. And so I remain confused.
Like, most thinking people, I am totally and passionately on board with The Wire. Best show on TV? I don't watch a ton of TV, but...yes, yes, an unqualified yes. Season 3 of The Wire is, to my mind, the greatest achievement the medium has ever produced. I found the much-heralded Season 4 to be excellent but a bit overrated...still great, but not on par with Season 3. Which brings us to Season 5, the end of The Wire...
Having taken a week to process my thoughts, I'm realizing this last season is a bit tough to get my mind around. I mean, I'm finding my reaction requires all sorts of qualifications. It's not enough to say "I loved it" or "it was great" or "I was really disappointed." All of those things are true, and sifting through them, it's easy to get lost.
Confusing as my reaction to the Wire finale is, one thing that's clear is that it's the exact opposite reaction that I had to There Will Be Blood...another beloved work I find frustratingly unable to summarize in terms of my like or dislike for it. I mean, I like it, I like it a lot, BUT...
Okay, let's take one at a time:
1. Blood: 95% of this movie is probably one of the 5 best things I've ever seen in a movie theater. A stunning, mesmerizing, pitch-perfect, visionary work...that's utterly, completely, and savagely destroyed by its inane final act, which I like to subtitle: The Comedy Stylings of Daniel Plainview. This last act is so off for me, so dreadfully unlike all that precedes it, that I can't help but wonder if the movie actually isn't very good...or, how can I say the movie is so good when it turns so very bad at the end? I've never encountered anything like this in twenty years of serious film watching. It's sort of like if, in the last ten minutes of Manhattan, aliens descend, forcing Woody and Mariel to fight them off with laser guns and save the city. I mean, would Manhattan still be great if this happened, even if the rest of the film remained unchanged? I don't know.
2. The Wire Season 5: until the last 2 episodes, I couldn't believe how far the Wire had fallen. I didn't buy McNultey's serial killer plot for a second. For me, it stank of standard TV show hackdom. Not bad for a couple episodes of CSI: Miami. But for The Wire? Hell, no. The Wire feels so awesomely grounded in reality (or at least in plausibility). That's what's great about the show, and that's the very thing that elevates it so high above other works in the genre. I hated to see it go out like this. It was painful and unconvincing (and most of the stuff at The Sun I just found boring). But then...the last 2 episodes were so outlandishly over-the-top brilliant, that....well, I don't know. Did they make the season great? Do I just forget about the preceding 10 episodes? The final two episodes do rescue the season for me, I suppose. They make me feel great about how the show ends. But I'm not sure I could recommend the season as a whole. It felt like amateur hour, coming from the Wire. And I'm not sure it's any coincidence that the final season only gets good once the serial killer plot peters out. It was hackneyed, awkward and forced.
So how to regard creative works that take a serious U-Tun in the final moments, either for good or for bad? A stroll through the criticism canon might shed some light. I mean, I can't imagine a few minds way more distinguished than my own haven't already tackled this dilemma. Of course, I'm way too lazy to do any such actual reading myself. And so I remain confused.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Bettering Myself
It occurred to me recently that I could really stand some bettering. I don't think I've picked up a new skill in about a decade or so. Is there a term for someone who's the opposite of a Renaissance Man? South Jersey 1980s Man, perhaps? Well, whatever it's called, that's me. I'm the kind of guy who talks about taking classes and things of this nature as if they will occur one day in some fantastical future, where the stars have aligned and suddenly the inclination to turn conversation into action rains down as if a gift from the universe. But now I've discovered that heavenly kingdom right here on Earth. It's called moving to a strange (and let's be honest, somewhat boring) new city, having no friends, a ton of time on your hands and a relatively unusual spike in disposable income (owing, mostly, to having no friends). Oh, plus I work at home, alone, which makes any occasion at which human interaction might occur seem somewhat fantastically appealing.
OK, point being: I am a goddamn good swing dancer, at least by beginner swing class standards. Who knew? Yeah, the bar is low, as most of the dudes in my class are about as light of foot as Frankenstein. But still, I'm taking an unbelievable amount of pleasure in not only getting out there and appreciating something new, but actually not being bad at it.
[Note to single guys: If you're having trouble meeting girls and possess even an iota of rhythm, I highly recommend a swing class. You can practically hear the wedding bands clanging to the floor as you twirl the ladies around with even the slightest hint of competence.]
As if swing dancing weren't enough, last night I ventured to Chevy Chase, MD, for my first drum lesson. I have always wanted to play the drums, yet never managed to pull the trigger. Now, at 33, it just feels like the time to start doing this stuff. I'm not getting any younger or cooler. So there I was, sitting at a drum set with absolutely no idea what was what. My instructor kept saying things like "snare" and "eighth note" and I just stared at him like a buffoon, or at least like a buffoon who doesn't know how to play drums. The bulk of my appointment was spent trying to determine whether or not I should play left- or right-handed (I finally chose right, though I'm left), which decision, by the way, constitutes something of a recurring and annoying theme for those of us in the minority. Practically every time I've taken lessons of any physical sort (golf, tennis, piano, drums, dancing) I've felt behind the curve and thoroughly befuddled (you can't imagine how often my dance instructor refers to the male's "strong right arm." uh, I don't have one of those). Fortunately, sitting at a drums set felt so dramatically foreign that neither way felt good. Might as well go with the majority. And since my instructor plays right-handed, it's gotta be easier to learn.
Anyway...the drums. Sheesh. Judging by the idiots I went to high school with who could play the drums, I was expecting it to be a bit easier. Then again, after about 25 minutes I was able to sort of jam along w/ my teacher and a pre-recorded bass track. I can't imagine such a thing is possible on, say, guitar. I told him my goal is to be able to play with friends one year from now. He said I'd be there in 4 months. We'll see about that, but either way this has already been a vastly rewarding experience. Now I'm losing sleep over 16th notes and the Charleston, as opposed to my stagnated writing career. Progress!
Now the question is: what's next? The obvious choices are learning a foreign language or how to cook. But I'm also thinking of doing something outlandishly DC-appropriate like prepping for the Foreign Service Exam. Now THAT would be a good story. And obviously I can't stop thinking that it will be like the test from Spies Like Us. Better start working on my 3rd arm! (Oh man, that shit still kills.).
More to come. Perhaps in Italian...
OK, point being: I am a goddamn good swing dancer, at least by beginner swing class standards. Who knew? Yeah, the bar is low, as most of the dudes in my class are about as light of foot as Frankenstein. But still, I'm taking an unbelievable amount of pleasure in not only getting out there and appreciating something new, but actually not being bad at it.
[Note to single guys: If you're having trouble meeting girls and possess even an iota of rhythm, I highly recommend a swing class. You can practically hear the wedding bands clanging to the floor as you twirl the ladies around with even the slightest hint of competence.]
As if swing dancing weren't enough, last night I ventured to Chevy Chase, MD, for my first drum lesson. I have always wanted to play the drums, yet never managed to pull the trigger. Now, at 33, it just feels like the time to start doing this stuff. I'm not getting any younger or cooler. So there I was, sitting at a drum set with absolutely no idea what was what. My instructor kept saying things like "snare" and "eighth note" and I just stared at him like a buffoon, or at least like a buffoon who doesn't know how to play drums. The bulk of my appointment was spent trying to determine whether or not I should play left- or right-handed (I finally chose right, though I'm left), which decision, by the way, constitutes something of a recurring and annoying theme for those of us in the minority. Practically every time I've taken lessons of any physical sort (golf, tennis, piano, drums, dancing) I've felt behind the curve and thoroughly befuddled (you can't imagine how often my dance instructor refers to the male's "strong right arm." uh, I don't have one of those). Fortunately, sitting at a drums set felt so dramatically foreign that neither way felt good. Might as well go with the majority. And since my instructor plays right-handed, it's gotta be easier to learn.
Anyway...the drums. Sheesh. Judging by the idiots I went to high school with who could play the drums, I was expecting it to be a bit easier. Then again, after about 25 minutes I was able to sort of jam along w/ my teacher and a pre-recorded bass track. I can't imagine such a thing is possible on, say, guitar. I told him my goal is to be able to play with friends one year from now. He said I'd be there in 4 months. We'll see about that, but either way this has already been a vastly rewarding experience. Now I'm losing sleep over 16th notes and the Charleston, as opposed to my stagnated writing career. Progress!
Now the question is: what's next? The obvious choices are learning a foreign language or how to cook. But I'm also thinking of doing something outlandishly DC-appropriate like prepping for the Foreign Service Exam. Now THAT would be a good story. And obviously I can't stop thinking that it will be like the test from Spies Like Us. Better start working on my 3rd arm! (Oh man, that shit still kills.).
More to come. Perhaps in Italian...
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Writing
Well, I have not written anything in quite some time, and it isn't that nothing has been going on, or that I haven't had any ideas on what to write, but that I'm just not in the mood to write anything at all lately. In fact, I've shelved all my writing projects for the time being, and have instead been trying to focus more on filmmaking endeavors: sloooowly getting ready to pursue funding for my documentary, teaching myself Final Cut Pro, and taking way too long launching a Super 8 production company. All good things to do with my time, I think, and yet the writing itch sort of beckons (itches?)....or maybe it doesn't. I don't know. I feel guilty not writing, yet I don't think I actually feel like writing anything.
Oh well, back to Guitar Hero....
Oh well, back to Guitar Hero....
Friday, December 28, 2007
The DMV took my baby away
It's been a pretty eventful week or two, what with the holidays, working on my documentary, getting a super surprising late holiday bonus, having someone steal my identity and purchase an $1100 plane ticket and all...but nothing compared to the sight, one hour ago, of my NYC driver's license being unceremoniously plunged into a shredder at the local DC DMV. Before my very eyes! Jesus, can't they build a private room for that, or give me a warning at the very least, so I could take a moment to shield my eyes? And how about one last visit with my NYC license? Oh, the humanity. I'll never impress an overzealous DC doorman again.
Why would I do something as outlandish as trade in my NYC license for its desultory DC cousin? Because DC is the kind of over-bureaucratic pseudo city that makes you jump through about 5 gazillion hoops to park a car on the street while meanwhile the murder rate skyrockets and half the city burns. Why can't I just park my car in front of my house with NJ plates and a NY license? Who the hell knows. Probably for the same reason you can't find anything to eat after 10pm. Ugh. Don't get me started.
Anyway, without further ado, a few observations from my attempts to score a DC driver's license:
1. I'm honestly not sure what's worse: the seriously misplaced over-popularity/snarling traffic en route to the Georgetown DMV branch (honestly, what the hell is so desirable about Georgetown? The Banana Republic?) or the what-country-am-I-in/better lock the doors/snarling traffic en route to the Brentwood DMV. A friend once remarked that DC is either white and boring or black and scary, and I think he makes a fine point - though, truth be told, the Brentwood DMV isn't at all scary.
2. The Brentwood DMV is, however, located in a strip mall.
3. I had to pay $6 to park at the Georgetown DMV, which proved way too busy to actually enter. Thus, I paid six bucks to duck my head into the DMV and take a quick look around. Unreal.
4. Several people were actually sleeping on the floor of the Georgetown DMV.
5. While in line (outside) at Brentwood, I was privy to a fascinating debate regarding whether teens are crueler to their elders in Mississippi or North Carolina. It seems Mississippi takes the cake. In fact, NC was met with derisive chuckles, as "that ain't even the South."
6. The supremely hefty security guard in Brentwood invited the line to try and get past him, claiming he could take us all on at once (no doubt).
7. The license itself is so garish, I first thought they'd actually handed me a glow stick. I haven't seen anything this over-wrought since the last time I strolled through the "new" Columbia Heights. Wait, I think I see a cranny where they could still fit another piece of calligraphy.
8. If I knew checking "donor" would result in an outlandish red heart straight out of 1980s-era Clip Art appearing on my drivers license, I wouldn't have bothered.
9. I swear to God, one of life's great pleasures is sitting next to an elderly black gentleman, trading shitty stories about the DMV, then getting to shake my head and utter the phrase, "It's always something." I haven't connected with the black community like that since the last time I pretended not to be Jewish.
10. While in line, the woman behind me remarked that she "liked this place a hell of a lot better when it sold ribs." Yes, in DC the DMV was once a bbq rib takeout joint.
Why would I do something as outlandish as trade in my NYC license for its desultory DC cousin? Because DC is the kind of over-bureaucratic pseudo city that makes you jump through about 5 gazillion hoops to park a car on the street while meanwhile the murder rate skyrockets and half the city burns. Why can't I just park my car in front of my house with NJ plates and a NY license? Who the hell knows. Probably for the same reason you can't find anything to eat after 10pm. Ugh. Don't get me started.
Anyway, without further ado, a few observations from my attempts to score a DC driver's license:
1. I'm honestly not sure what's worse: the seriously misplaced over-popularity/snarling traffic en route to the Georgetown DMV branch (honestly, what the hell is so desirable about Georgetown? The Banana Republic?) or the what-country-am-I-in/better lock the doors/snarling traffic en route to the Brentwood DMV. A friend once remarked that DC is either white and boring or black and scary, and I think he makes a fine point - though, truth be told, the Brentwood DMV isn't at all scary.
2. The Brentwood DMV is, however, located in a strip mall.
3. I had to pay $6 to park at the Georgetown DMV, which proved way too busy to actually enter. Thus, I paid six bucks to duck my head into the DMV and take a quick look around. Unreal.
4. Several people were actually sleeping on the floor of the Georgetown DMV.
5. While in line (outside) at Brentwood, I was privy to a fascinating debate regarding whether teens are crueler to their elders in Mississippi or North Carolina. It seems Mississippi takes the cake. In fact, NC was met with derisive chuckles, as "that ain't even the South."
6. The supremely hefty security guard in Brentwood invited the line to try and get past him, claiming he could take us all on at once (no doubt).
7. The license itself is so garish, I first thought they'd actually handed me a glow stick. I haven't seen anything this over-wrought since the last time I strolled through the "new" Columbia Heights. Wait, I think I see a cranny where they could still fit another piece of calligraphy.
8. If I knew checking "donor" would result in an outlandish red heart straight out of 1980s-era Clip Art appearing on my drivers license, I wouldn't have bothered.
9. I swear to God, one of life's great pleasures is sitting next to an elderly black gentleman, trading shitty stories about the DMV, then getting to shake my head and utter the phrase, "It's always something." I haven't connected with the black community like that since the last time I pretended not to be Jewish.
10. While in line, the woman behind me remarked that she "liked this place a hell of a lot better when it sold ribs." Yes, in DC the DMV was once a bbq rib takeout joint.
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