The Last Jew Standing

Out with it, Rebecca Black! What day is it?!?!?!?!

2011-03-25T13:06:00.014-05:00

So, I've spent the entire morning watching Rebecca Black's new music video, the internet sensation "Friday." I invite you all to watch the video (again) right now in a second window. Because that's exactly what I'm doing as I write this post. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the following live-blog of Rebecca Black's "Friday."

00:03 Wait, that is the title of the song, right? 3 seconds in, it's hard to say.

00:07 I think it would have been a fantastic creative choice, given the subject matter, to name the song something completely different. "Waves Crash Upon Eastbrouck" is the first that comes to mind. "No, Seriously, This is a Real Song" is the second.

flashback 00:00 The video opens with an animated tearing off of the calendar days, each page describing in extremely limited detail the agenda. Sunday is the first ripped off the board. Interestingly, the agenda on Sunday is "study study study study." Hmm....so riddle me this, Rebecca: If Friday is so great because everyone's "looking forward to the weekend," what about Sunday, rife with academic labor? Isn't the weekend great because there's no school? Is it just Saturday that's the party? If so, then this video really should be just half as long. I realize now that I can find lots of reasons why this video should be half as long.

"Tuesday's Gone With the Wind." Quite right, Rebecca. That is a long movie.

"Thursday: Essay Due. I am Thursday's child." "OK, what?!?" number 1. number 1 of 176 for this music video.

00:26 Rebecca wakes at 7am. After all, the sooner you wake up, the sooner it's Friday.

00:33. Our protagonista must now get to the bus stop and wait for the bus. Wait, she sees her friends? But what about the bus? Have you stopped to think for even a moment, Rebecca, about the nature of school bus schedules? Sure, it'll probably be a blast drivin' with the top down in Casey's convertible which, as a 13 year old, he is assuredly driving illegally (unless this town is located somewhere in Southern Iraq [gosh I hope so]), but when your bus actually arrives, the driver will wonder where you've run off to. He will wait for maybe 3 or 4 minutes, thus making the whole route delayed and other kids (who aren't lucky enough to have friends so eager to break state-mandated age minimums for operating motor vehicles) late to school as well. OK, Rebecca, not 40 seconds into this video and you're already as asshole.

00:35 It just occurred to me that perhaps there was some kind of typographical error, and the singer's name is just "Rebecca" and the song's name is "Black Friday." Ah, a clever piece of satire designed to show what's become of popular music! Please be true.

00:47 "Gotta make my mind up, which seat can I taaaaaaaake...." then cuts to Rebecca sitting in the middle back seat. Really, Rebecca? You had the choice of seats in a small compact convertible already filled and you chose bitch? You're a pop star, for fuck's sake. YOU ALWAYS GET SHOTGUN.

00:52 The first round of chorus. At this point, I'm kind of into this song, you know? An ode to probably the best day of the week. 13-year olds having a good time. I'm also savoring this chorus, because, there's no way I'll hear it again right?

01:06 So, when Rebecca sings "partyin-partyin-" we say "yeah!" and pump our fists in the air. We should always definitely say "yeah!" when she prompts us during this part of the chorus. I think it's totally acceptable-- UNLESS YOU'RE CASEY AND DRIVING THE FUCKING CAR! Casey! You're already driving illegally! For god's sake keep your eyes on the road, your hands at 10 and 2 and your mouth shut!

01:27 We quickly cut to Rebecca in another convertible, this time in an even more perilous situation: sitting on top of the back seat of a topless moving car on the highway with a friend on either side. I wish I could say that I hope an adult is driving, but that's saying to much about my hopes for her survival.

01:38 Confirmation that the driver of this car is not an adult, but this time a 13 year old Asian girl. Make whatever joke you want, but that sounds like a perfect storm of stereotypical poor driving.

01:49 Ah, finally, we cut to the "party," apparently what everyone's been looking forward to, although I assume is taking place on Friday night, and not on The Weekend, which Rebecca claims is what everyone is looking forward to. I'm mincing words now, I apologize. Rebecca, in another dick move, completely blows off a dude trying to say hi to her, instead turning her attention to the camera and the singing of her song. I hate those assholes at parties who spend the whole time shooting their music videos.

02:11

How many roads must a man walk down/ before you can call him a man / yes and how many seas must the white dove sail/ before she sleeps in the sand / yes and how many times must the cannon balls sail / before they're forever banned/ the answer my friend is blowin' in the wind/ the answer is blowin' in the wind

-Bob Dylan, 1963

Imagine there's no heaven/ it's easy if you try/ no hell below us/ above us only sky/ imagine all the people / livin for today, I/ imagine there's no country / it isn't hard to do / nothin to kill or die for/ and no religion too / imagine all the people / livin life in peace, you/ you may

say I'm a dreamer/ but i'm not the only one / i hope some day you'll join us / and the world will live as one

-John Lennon, 1971

Yesterday was Thursday Thursday / Today it is Friday Friday / We we we so excited/ we so excited / we gonna have a ball today / tomorrow is Saturday/ and Sunday comes afterwards/ I don't want this weekend to end!

-Rebecca Black, 2011

02:36 Ah, "requisite unnamed rapper bridge" section. Who is this asshole? What could he possibly have to rap about in regards to this song's subject matter? Did he and Rebecca share an upbringing? Did she get shot 11 times for him? Did he "go to bat for her" when the crackdown happened on "the block?" Is she one of his daughter's friends? Is she his daughter? Wait, he's driving a car. He's driving! AN ADULT IS DRIVING! And no one is in the car. Couldn't he have picked them up that morning? Plan ahead, unnamed requisite rapper!

03:15-end is the chorus played another 8 times with Rebecca singing to a crowd of 8 at the party. One wonders if this is some kind of Bar Mitzvah party? My best instincts say no, since most Jews would pay way more for entertainment than Rebecca Black and unnamed requisite rapper. Seriously, another 8 times with that chorus. Hard to believe that all the creative juice was squeezed out of this lemon after only two minutes.

So, that was fun. Fun, fun, fun fun...to be more specific. And unlike most, I don't actually want to rip my eyeballs out of their sockets and George Foreman grill them after watching this. No, I like this video. It's unintentionally hilarious, much like your best friend falling on their ass or getting a boner in class or doing both simultaneously.

And you know what else? Rebecca Black is going to be a huge star. In the post William Hung internet, being horrendously awful is a great talent. Consider that, with 55 million views and counting, Rebecca Black has more hits than all of Obama's YouTube addresses, probably combined. And I learn way more about the nature of our calendar system than his bullshit healthcare talks.

Consider that, probably within the next few weeks, Rebecca Black will appear on talk shows and morning telecasts and even more internet content. If she were talented, she'd never achieve so much fame. When was the last time you saw Andrew Bird on "Good Morning America?"

I LOVE this because the internet in America celebrates what I consider to be the best aspect of our collective sense of humor: irony.

Yes, Irony! The internet orgasms over it. When something like Rebecca Black's "Friday" goes viral, we love it not because it's great but because it's terrible! And this isn't that stupid annoying hipster irony where you wear Spam T-shirts and pretend to hate everything that you should love, like smelling good and wearing form fitting pants.

Friends, I would gladly watch Rebecca belt out this stupid shit on live television for free, just like I gladly watch it on the internet diverted from people's Facebook and Twitter pages for three minutes of stupid humor. Be honest, everyone: when you watched this video, did you really experience pain from how terrible the artistic quality is, or did you laugh your ass off? Did thoughts of her singing the national anthem, to the tune of this song, pass through your head? Or of her rockin' out not to a group of 8th graders at a party but to the Queen of England at an Presidential State Dinner? How great would that be?

OR did you simply laugh your ass off because it's absurd and ridiculous.

Thanks, Rebecca! I'll think of you every time it's Friday. Shit, how do I know when Friday happens? Oh yeah, thanks Rebecca!

Improv Team Names I Wish Existed, pt. 1

2011-02-11T19:24:00.006-06:00

About three years ago I began compiling a list of improv team names I wish existed. It started with just a few in my Penway composition book, and has since grown to fill almost six full notebook pages. Now, you're probably thinking, "Max, there's no way you're going to publish all the names you've come up with on your blog." You're thinking that because you don't know me. Unedited, in no particular order, I give you the first half of this list, as it stands as of today. Please e-mail me or comment your favs.

Chicken Leg

Hitcha Back

Glued to My Seat

The Scoops

Glockenspiel

Noodle Kugel

Banana Muffin

Zelda Reptiles

Compost Me

Left-Over Sandwich

Sugar with Boobies

Purple Nurples

Yellow Tape

Asian Food

Cooked.

Mouthwash/Gurgle

Puddin' Pants

Crotch Roach

Shane/Rodney

Happier Jim

Nice Shoes!

Ticklebutt

The Birth of It

Turkey Town

Pluck!

Fix It!

Shoe-Man-Ship

No Way Josie!

Hold Your Horses

Relish

Hotdog Stuff

Jitters

Cooked Rice

It's a Blouse

Shampoo

You're Great.

Nice Head

Reach Around

Razzle Dazzle

Bunkbeds

I Was Tired

ProofaPurchase

Kabuse

The Grasshoppers

Bluefus

Parking Tickets

Shame on Plums

In a Pickle

Courtship

WhoopsieDaisy

The Pups

Pluck!

VHS FAT MAN!

Stickies

Craptastic

The Deal

Blame Game

Just Enough

Lake Effect

Christmas

New Music

The 90's

Little Boy

Refried

Toast

The Odds

The Righties

Oddball

Quacker Factory

The Playroom

Wrong Turn

House Band

Tums.

2nd Marriage

Carnival Snafoo

The Agency

Amigo Fest

Upper Limits

Special Order

Zack Attack

Catapult Part Three

Eye Candy

Tyler's Mom

Random Play

Duck Crossing

nightlight

Control Q

OK 47

Three Piece Suit

10,000 Cakes

Cankles

Elastic

Acquired Taste

Clubber Lang

Nincumpoop

TB Dating

The Big Boys

Part-Time Model

The Bank.

Bad Mailman.

To name a few. I'll be back with the other 90% of my list next week.

BT DUBS

1. Why is there, without exception, a crazy yelling man on every single public bus? Are they giving out free monthly passes to these assholes? Are their social workers encouraging them to excercise their nutso muscles on innocent public transit riders? Also, where are they going? I never see them get off the bus. Is every bus actually the local to crazy town? Are they simply paying a daily rent with a $2.25 security deposit to live on the bus? Why are they sitting next to me every time? Hey, crazy man: do you know where the most productive place to yell and scream aimlessly would be? The shower. There you'd be killing the two birds of cleanliness and social insignificance with your stone of sheer crazy.

2. I think it's hilarious that, all of a sudden, I'm supposed to give a shit about Egypt. If you watch CNN every day, you're used to what Americans have come to enjoy the most: news about Americans. Clearly, this is the best kind of news, as American as apple pie and way more relevant to our country than news about other countries. Yet all of a sudden last week Anderson Cooper is bursting our wonderful American bubble by showing live shots of Tahrir Square protestors holding some kind of revolution against some dude named Mubarek. Given what I see on CNN the other 364 days of the year, I'm inclined to believe these people are actually gathered in a large public square in Kentucky pretending to be Egyptians actually protesting against Obama, who like Mubarek is Muslim, because we hate Muslims and our president isn't one of us and the Egyptians hate the health care reform law. Get real, CNN. Now that it's all over, I'm going back to my previous assumption that daily life in Egypt involved writing hieroglyphics, mummifying Pharoahs, and ordering Jews to build pyramids. Ahhhhhh.

3. Do yourself a favor this week: listen to the latest Chromeo album and watch Frisky Dingo.

On 25: The Crisis Party

2010-12-04T22:26:00.011-06:00

Well, we all saw this coming.

They call it the "Quarter-Life Crisis." Nice. This milestone assumes that I will live to one hundred years of age, from which I take away one negative and one positive. The former: Living a hundo years will mean at least forty years of bullshit: senility...diapers (which, hey, might actually be fun), a discernible lack of sex appeal (wait no way..maybe for the rest of you assholes), and consistent pleas for the loud noises to be turned down. The positive? I will live my dream of being alive during the 70's.

Here's a cool article about the supposed crisis which I currently inhabit. Here's another one in the New York Times, which was linked so many times on Facebook I thought it was that video of a turtle trying to fuck a shoe.

Fucking turtles.

I don't know about you, but after reading these articles purporting to describe the 20-something's mid-mid-life dilemma, I feel pretty optimistic. It seems like all of the stuff everybody's saying about our generation is pretty damn awesome.

To recap the Captain Wetblanket naysayers: 20-somethings these days feel isolated, lost, aimless, indecisive, and rootless. We don't know what to do because we can do whatever we want, because we're well-off and well-educated and comparatively well-fed. We sleep around because we have no need to get married and start a family and can buy condoms at the gas station. We don't socialize in person because Facebook and Twitter do it for us ( and thank fucking god...I mean, have you actually talked to your friends lately? yawn.) The economy sucks so we have good reason to be funemployed, sitting around perpetuating the stereotype that we have neither the work ethic nor drive to be productive during the day (also, jesus christ there's a lot of entertainment on the internet [see aforementioned turtle-fucking-shoe video]) while getting money from the government for doing just that. We're going to grad school because we've spent the first 22 years of our lives going to school, and hell, it's all we know (and a great reason to continue to party.)

Does anyone else see a complete lack of crisis here?

All of these factors lead me to believe that there has never been a better time to be 25 years old, like, in the history of the world.

To be sure, age 25 in 2010 A.D. is way better than in 2010 B.C. because you'd be dead, on average, seven years ago. To be 25 in 1010 would have been boring as shit: you try sitting around your local medieval fief listening to Beowulf by your lord over and over again (kind of like fifth grade but without indoor plumbing or eye-glasses.) Check out this dude's 25th birthday party:

25 in 1910 probably saw you trying to get shot in the chest and surviving in an attempt to be as badass as Teddy Roosevelt. 25 in 1950 meant you still couldn't get to third base with a girl because Casey Casum kept ruining the mood.

25 in 1980 would have been pretty sweet.

But 25 in 2010? Fucking Awesome. Being that my birthday coincided almost to the day with Thanksgiving, here are some things I am truly thankful for in this day and (my) age:

1. Air conditioning.

2. The internet.

3. The ubiquity of pornography. Dammit, that'd be under internet.

4. Social media. Internet.

5. A job. I am contractually obligated not to mention the name of the prominent technology company that employs me, but suffice to say that is the best company in the world, makes people happy, and provides fun and interesting work days. This is something very few people get to enjoy. Sure, I don't make much money. But investment bankers are the kings of all douchebaggery.

6. The internet.

7. Improv. Consider for a moment that this didn't really exist until Del Close in the 80's, and now it's everywhere and people are awesome at it and it's my favorite thing to do in the world, even if it sucks sometimes.

8. Corrective lenses. Oft have I considered the fact that in 450 B.C., as a Roman soldier, I would be completely blind and useless to society, and assuredly would have been designated one of the soldiers put at the front line to throw shit aimlessly at the enemy only to be immediately killed, probably by swinging an axe into my own face.

9. College. My parents paid for it, a luxury I really, really don't take for granted. I have maintained since I graduated that I had the most possible fun in the world at college: I drank enough beer to fill Lake Nicomas, lost my virginity, did some great improv, made fun of mouth-breathing nerds, got a kickass education without really applying myself, and got a useless liberal arts degree. What better way to spend the four years of 18-22?

10. The internet.

11. Cell phones. Jesus christ. Consider what your parents did before that. "Hey, text me on my landline"? "Go to a payphone and call me when you're outside?" Can you imagine answering the phone WITHOUT KNOWING WHO'S CALLING? My brain just exploded.

12. My friends. I guess they're ok.

Quarterlife crisis? CRISIS!?! I'm in the middle of the Quarter Life Party, doing it like it's 2010 bitches! To those who say this is the beginning of the end, I say go shit in the ocean! I love being right here right now. Sure, sometimes it sucks. But mostly it doesn't.

Thanks be to you, 2010. And thanks be to me, age 25. And a very special thanks to the internet.

Thanks for reading today.

P.S.

HEY FUCK YOU...

1. ...those who don't respond relatively promptly to texts! Seriously? I just sent you a text message. Unless your phone is rotary/ not in service, it's likely that a message popped up on your phone conveniently letting you know you have received a little note from me. Now, I'm not asking all of you out there to sit patiently by the phone, fingers at the ready, waiting for my text to arrive so you can respond faster than your data network can keep up (I'm telling you to do that.) However, as I often like to illustrate, let's pretend that text messages were actual conversations.

"Hey, what time should I be there?" (current time 1:30pm).

(No response. Seven hours later.)

--"Maybe around 9." (it's 8:45.)

But hey, this is probably happening because no one likes me. So hey, fuck you!

2. ...winter bikers! Now, don't get me wrong, I respect what you are doing. And believe me, we all get it. You're such a badass. "Oh, hey, look at me! It's cold as balls and the ground is a a snowice gauntlet and I'm riding on roads with drivers who are already more pissed off at other drivers than any other time of the year. Oh, hey, look at me. It's not cold at all, and yes, I am that committed to green transportation and reducing traffic and getting exercise, and oh hey, whatever, I love riding my bike.

But this does not give you license to blow off what we call the rules of the road. I usually give some lee-way to bikers not following the rules. Hell, I do just that all the time: ignoring red lights, crossing double-lines, not yielding to pedestrians. But Jesus Christ I do that shit during the summer! With the birds chirping and the temperature 70 degrees and my nuts thawed! With two feet of snow pushing what would still be tight two-way side-streets into impassable small automotive intestines, riding your bike against traffic in a one lane gives me the right to stick a cricket bat outside the driver-side window and close-line you in the nipple.

Hey, guess what? Don't ride your bike in the winter. Hey, fuck you!

My Dog Ate My Blog: Prom Prom Squad

2010-11-04T11:59:00.005-05:00

A few weeks ago I was contacted by Elizabeth of My Dog Ate My Blog, a cool blog about politics, technology, education, and pop-culture, inquiring about a potential guest post. I was highly skeptical of this request for two reasons: first, Elizabeth claimed to have read my blog; second, she claimed to have liked it. Neither of these two claims have ever been confirmed to be true by any real person, so naturally I figured it was a scam. But upon my reply, Elizabeth requested that a member of her team write a guest post. A bit befuddled, I struggled to come up with a topic that would be relevant to her excellent and topical blog. I requested a post about Prom, a topic near and dear, let's be honest, to everyone's heart. J. Henry was kind enough to offer this memory, which I think captures the wonderfully horrific essence of that evening. I thank everyone at My Dog Ate My Blog, please check out their cool site! Enjoy.

PROM PROM SQUAD

Jesus Christ, really, you want me to write about prom? What is there to say that isn’t conveyed in this haiku:

Olive Garden food
Look at the pretty girls, shit
After, Nick at Nite

What I’m trying to say is, I’m not sure if I’ve ever known anyone for whom prom didn’t completely blow. And if it their prom didn’t blow, they’re probably an asshole.

My prom started out “alright,” I suppose. I’m from rural central Florida, the kind of place where the only mall in an hour radius has a KMart in it, so there wasn't exactly a lot of great places to look for dresses. My ’83 Volkswagen Jetta wasn’t capable of making it the two hours to Tampa to find a real store, so I got a cheap, white, flapper-style dress from the nearby JC Penny. (The prom was 1920s themed.)

My boyfriend Greg and I were preparing to go to off to college on opposite coasts, and we had begun slowly tearing each other part. This was the era before social networks, where the only place to express the pain of a dying relationship was your AOL instant messaging profile. I think I probably had some whiny ass Cat Power quote in it at this point—“ I will miss your heart so tender/ And I will love/ This love forever.” This for a guy who still had a poster of a Lamborghini on his bedroom wall.

What I’m getting at is that for us, prom had become this big important thing, our last hurrah, so to say. We had endowed it with all this meaning, which is of course a recipe for ending up home at 11pm watching Cash Cab together on his parents’ couch. But I digress.

He picked me up in his dad’s vintage Aston Martin convertible, which looked badass, but whose mechanical prowess would later become suspect. We drove to dinner at a chain Italian restaurant, though I’m proud to say it wasn’t actually the Olive Garden. After I stuffed myself with lasagna, we went to the Greek Orthodox Church that was housing the dance itself. It was one of those churches with “modern” architecture, but there’s still something disconcerting about teens bumping and grinding under a giant wooden cross.

We drank punch and ate snacks, waiting for more people to arrive and fill the awkwardly bare dance floor. Being the cool motherfuckers that we were, it wasn’t even 10 yet. If only I had been smart enough to have a flask of something strapped to my thigh, it probably would’ve been a lot more enjoyable. The cheerleaders and football players filed in about 20 minutes before the prom ended, after getting dropped off by their Hummer stretch limo.

Our spirits had dropped dangerously low. It hadn’t been a magical movie montage night for us. We were tired of dancing and pretending to be enjoying ourselves, so we bailed before the thing was even over. As we got into the Aston Martin, it started pouring rain, one of those torrential Florida downpours. Greg didn’t know how to get the top up on the car, and we struggled with it, my white dress becoming see-through in the process. After he finally got the roof on, we started down the road, only to discover that it wouldn’t stay shut on its own; we had to hold it up as we drove down the highway, which it turns out, takes a lot of strength. We drove to a gas station where we heard some of our friends were meeting up before going to after parties. No one was there. We went home and were too wet and ornery to even consider getting busy in his bed, while his parents slept soundly across the house. I lied down on the couch and briefly considered checking the TV for any crappy late night shows before promptly passing out.

J. Henry is a guest blogger for Dog Ate My Blog and a writer on criminal justice degree online for Guide to Online Schools.

From Vergil's "Aeneid:" A Song for the Dumped

2010-10-17T11:29:00.015-05:00

I know it's been a while since I last posted myself, so I've been saving up a good long one. Enjoy.

What most people don't know about me is that I was a Classical Languages major at Carleton College. Why don't most people know this? Because it has nothing to do with my life now. I had anticipated this. At college, I spent most of my time doing improv stuff; in fact, I gave little attention to schoolwork, and pretty much phoned-in a Bachelor's from a top-tier liberal arts college. But everyone needs a major.

My academic strengths (if you could call it that- it would more aptly be described as the stuff I was least shitty at, or more specifically the only things I tried to do well) were the humanities, namely history, philosophy, and literature. I had always been a good writer, especially adept at English grammar. I had started taking Latin in the seventh grade, since my middle school, oddly, had a solid Latin program. When I got to high school, I was placed in a high level class, and advanced AP level classes by Junior year. Although quite skilled in Latin, being in AP classes didn't stop me from my other major strength- being a smart-ass.

So I was good at Latin, the least marketable and most irrelevant of academic studies. When Sophomore year of college rolled around, forced to select from a variety of majors that didn't officially include improv, I picked Classical Languages, and true to form totally half-assed my way through it. I figured, correctly, that a liberal arts degree was what it was (essentially worthless) regardless of major.

I enjoyed reading the Latin poets. Caesar wrote some pretty bad-ass accounts of the wars in Gaul, in which the Roman Army rolled in and cut the balls off the ancestors of the French and Germans. Catullus wrote love-poetry and was a moody fuck. Imagine The Notebook in iambic pentameter, full of sexual references and constant bitching about girls who dumped him. Ovid was the ultimate storyteller, and his signature work, Metamorphoses, told the famous tales of Icarus, Pygmalion (the dude who was sculpted by his wife), Daphne, Romulus and Remus, Perseus and Thisbe (later ripped off by an Elizabethan bullshitter and turned into a whiney love-story that nobody cares about.)

But my favorite, and by far the best work of Latin poetry was The Aeneid, an epic poem composed by Vergil late in the 1st century B.C.

Vergil was already a best-seller in stoneback when he was commissioned by Augustus (son of Julius Caesar and the first Emperor) to tell the mythological/historical account of the founding of Rome by Aeneas of Troy. Essentially, Vergil was commissioned to give Augustus a literary handjob (see photo below) to further glorify his reign and justify the complete submission of the rest of the world at the time.

Aeneas was a Trojan noble who escaped getting the shit kicked out of him by the Greeks when they sacked the city in an event completely ruined in film adaptation by Wolfgang Peterson. After dodging a few thousand flaming arrows and carrying his dying father out of town on his back (nobigdeal), he and his crew took to the high seas, destined by Fate to found a new nation on the shores of Italy.

The goddess Juno (Zeus' wife and eternal bitch) plays the role of Roman cock-block, tormenting Aeneas and his crew with torrential weather and other unfair hurdles, motivated somewhat inexplicably by a hatred for all Trojans (perhaps anticipating later failed efforts at contraception? whatever.)

Aeneas and the boys play Deadliest Catch for about ten years, stopping here and there along the road to the glorious founding of Rome. One of the last stops before Italy is Carthage, a city-state located somewhere in modern-day Tunisia, which later became famous for the complete badassery of Hannibal, who after crossing the Alps on fucking elephant-back, took his crew to Rome and didn't even have the courtesy to take any names after kicking so much ass.

Anyways, Aeneas rolls into Carthage and finds Dido, known around the Mediterranean as the "hot" Queen; or alternatively, "I'd give her a 7/10" Queen."

Still quasi-mourning the loss of her husband Synchaeus (he died, and we're not supposed to care how), she's looking for a rebound real bad, and in rolls a dashing prince and soon-to-be founder of the greatest empire the world has ever seen with the boyish good looks of Hugh Grant, packin' heat with a sword and indubitably in his pants. Dido totally pulls a girl boner.

Juno and Venus (goddess of luuuuuv) pull a little ancient Match.com to hook the two up. Their motivations are clear. Juno really just wants to fuck with Aeneas, and sees the perfect opportunity to lay Dido's considerable emotional baggage on Aeneas' proverbial and literal ship. Venus always just wants to see people fuck. They send the two out on a "hunting mission" deep into the woods, blow in a massive thunderstorm which conveniently drops them right next to a cave.

Bow-chicka-Roman-bow-bow.

Now, true to form, Aeneas The Dude mostly considers this a notch on his belt, but tells Dido how in love he is with her and how gladly he'd forget about his Fate-driven, Gods-endorsed mission to birth a nation, and instead settle down with her. Dido The Chick considers their one-night cavestand DE FACTO MARRIAGE. She runs back to Carthage gabbing to all her girlfriends and starts picking out his and hers bath towels and shingles for their palace.

Zeus gets word of the whole thing and sends his mercenary Mercury (the dude with the wings on his shoes) to knock some sense into stud-muffin Aeneas. Reminded of his mission, and no doubt goaded by the fact that his crew has been chillin on the ship, probably deprived of ass while Aeneas got a taste of Carthaginian girls-gone-wild, Aeneas decides to peace out.

The epic literary break-up ensues. I'll spare you the actual text, but the conversation went something like this.

Dido: Aeneas!

Aeneas: Hey...

D: So, the wedding's on Friday, I love you so much, our union has the Gods' favor, I love you so much, I've been thinking we should name our son Dineas, I love you more than ever, do you think this cloth makes my hips...

A: Can I just interrupt for a second? So...you. You! I just want to say, you're great.

D: I love you!

A: Right. So...this...this has been fun, but I really gotta go.

D: Oh, are you on your way to the market? I need some wheat...

A: No, I mean leave. I'm leaving Carthage right now on my ship so that I can go found the most powerful Empire the world has ever seen.

D: What!?

A: ...Yeah.

D: But...but...(weepy)

A: (pause) Well good talk.

D: You asshole! I loved you!

A: And I had a great time too. But we both know it won't work out. It's not you, it's the gods. You know how it goes. They tell me jump, I ask how great and fated of a nation and where exactly in Italy. So...

D: I got divorced for you!

A: He was dead.

D: I'm gonna kill myself!

A: Right. g2g. kthnxbi.

And off he goes. Needless to say, Dido has a hard time getting over it, and a couple of days later, she decides to build a big fire, grab a sword, and fall on it. A little overboard, sure, but let's think about her options moving forward. Nobody wants to be the rebound of a rebound who was the Prince of Troy and progenitor of Rome. Doomed to be Aeneas' eternal sloppy seconds, no way man.

The best part happens a couple of books later. Aeneas finally arrives in Italy. No sooner does he drop his bags ashore when he encounters the Sibyl, basically an all-knowing lady-oracle who, like everyone the fuck else in the epic, has been "waiting for him." She tells him that the only way to proceed and fulfill his destiny is to descend into the Underworld, down to Hades the God of Death himself, see his past and view the future that is to come. Literary metaphor aside, this trip is a crossroads for Aeneas, crossing the barrier between past and present, life and death, Troy and Rome, Homer and Vergil. I know a thing or two about this part of the Aeneid, folks.

I wrote my fucking Senior Thesis about it. Good solid waste of time and paper, but that's college.

After some sacrificial stuff, Aeneas and The Sibyl do a swan-dive down into the Underworld, cross the river Styx (while "Come Sail Away" plays in the background), throw a bone at Cerberus the badass Three-Headed dog, and enter the realm of the damned.

These are the people who decided to take matters into their own hands and kill themselves, a spurn to the Gods for taking fate into their own hands. After perusing the usual suspects, among them Ajax, the great warrior/Schwarzenegger impersonator who bit his own bullet, guess who shows up?

Eeesh, it's Dido. Super. Duper. Awkward. Here's what happens:

Aeneas: Hey...Dido! What are the odds? Didn't expect to see you. (cough) How've you been?

(Dido looks down, no response)

A: Cool. So, what's been going on. I see you're dead now, jeez. Wait a minute, you're in the realm of the damned...did you...oh shit...you killed yourself?

(no response)

A: WTF? I'm sorry, ok? I mean, look, it's not my fault! I loved you so much. Really. I was going to stay, but I had to go found Rome, like I said. Shit shit shit you killed yourself god dammit. I mean, not God Dammit, but, rascals! I'm really sorry. Can you forgive me?

(no response)

A: Really, nothing? Just give me some kind of sign. Tell you what. Blink once if you forgive me. Blink twice if you don't.

(no response)

A: OK, well, my love for you is as strong as ever. Hey...maybe after I fight another 10 year war in Latium, found Rome, and bring glory to my ancestors, and can come back and we can-

(Dido walks away)

How about that shit? I think this is one of the coolest moments in all of Ancient literature.

Not a lot of what was written back then is relevant today. An example would be the sacrificial burning of dead bodies being perfectly legal and, in fact, encouraged. Or slavery. Or man-boy love. Or paying with your weight in salt. Or magical powers. But this is different.

If you've ever been dumped, like really dumped, like in a bad way that makes you hurt and wish you had never known the person and wished they would be hit by a truck, then this part of the Aeneid should make you really happy. Because I think we'd all love to be Dido here. Not in the sense of having committed suicide and spending at least 10 years in the Realm of the Dead before applying for parole to Paradise, no.

How much have you ever wanted to be Dido here? Your ex comes back to you. Wants you back. Sure, the right thing to do would be to forgive. But you know what? Sometimes you don't. Sometimes you're filled with anger and hatred and resentment that won't go away, and it feels good to tell that person to just go fuck themselves. And the most awesome way to do that is by saying nothing at all. Stone cold.

Hey, Aeneas: what's that? You're sorry? Well fuck you. I'm not even going to look at you. Go do whatever the hell you gotta do. Oh, and fuck you.

Way to go, Dido. Such a badass move, Vergil. Get that nose fixed.

Go and read The Aeneid. You can tell your friends, and they'll think you're smarter. And if you just got dumped, be sure to catch Book 6. It's a Song for the Dumped Ben Folds would be proud of.

Thanks for reading today.

Guest Blogger Jill Bernard: On (Winter) Biking

2010-10-04T22:39:00.008-05:00

Jill Bernard is an improvisor who says "yay!" a lot. She taught me how to morph, like a Power Ranger. Go to her website, then buy her book. Or the other way around, that's fine too.

Max asked me to write a guest blog on biking a while ago, and I wasn't inspired until now. Why now? Because it's October in Minnesota, which means we're just weeks away from winter biking. Winter. Biking. It's a different beast. Summer biking is like an open mic, anyone can do it. Winter biking takes a level of seriousness.

First, you'll want to think about the tires. If you get skinny tires they have the advantage of cutting through snow like a blade. But when you slide, and you will slide, it's going to be spectacular. Suddenly you are Apolo Ohno, emphasis on the 'oh no'. Maybe you choose big fat tires with tread instead, but the treads fill with snow and the tire becomes a flat, slippery, surface – a round ski. Suddenly you're sliding again, less dramatically than before, but sliding nonetheless.

Biking down a city street one Thanksgiving eve, the buildings shielded me until I entered the intersection, and then the wind blew me into the middle of the street, sideways, directly into traffic. My direction did not change at all, I was merely suddenly five feet to the left. There is no stopping winter wind. It is bigger than you.

Your brakes. They won't work. Winter biking is about planning ahead. There's occasional Fred Flinstone braking, let's be honest. And snowbank braking, when absolutely necessary. Mainly, it's going as fast as you can to make headway while going as slow as you can so you have a chance in hell of stopping.

In terms of facewear, I skip the ski mask. It gets too hot, too itchy, and you look like a police sketch. I prefer a gaiter, even though I can't say gaiter without thinking of goiter. I wish they were called 'tube scarves' but it's just not catching on. I keep the gaiter over my face, pulling it down at stoplights to freeze my lungs with sharp breaths of air.

Your hands. They will be cold. When your knuckles are leading the way through a self-created airstream, no number of extra layers of gloves keeps you safe from peeling red knuckles you warm between your thighs at your final destination for as long as you can while no one's looking.

Once I was biking downtown and a bus driver slid open her little window to say, “I don't know if you know, but your ankle's showing.” She was right, I didn't know. My pants had slid out of my sock and an inch of flesh was exposed to the air. It was pink as a hibiscus and completely numb. As it came back to life under water in the restroom it prickled then burned. Exposure, that's the enemy of the winter biker. Exposure to cold, exposure to drivers who don't expect you and also can't really brake. Exposure to snow drifts that rust and snowplows that crush and snowstorms that temporarily blind. Exposure to brain freeze and flushed cheeks and hot sweat against cold air.

I winter-biked one year, in about 1997, just to see if I could do it. I did it, and then decided that was stupid, I would never do it again. I am considering it this year, not because I think it's any less stupid, but because I live just far enough away from the theaters to make walking and busing commutes seem too slow. Does a mile to and fro seem like a manageable amount of winter biking? Enough to wake you up but not enough to get you killed? It seems possible.

See you in the middle of the intersection.

http://www.jillbernard.com

Guest Blogger Andrew Murphy Davis: THIS JUST IN: HBO Hates Money, Loves Multiplying by 1.5!

2010-10-01T17:58:00.008-05:00

Andrew Murphy Davis is my best friend and aficionado of all forms of media.

THE ISSUE.

As I sit here watching the Sopranos on A&E (at my parents’ house), I find myself less offended by the usual suspects (a preponderance of slipshod editing, bikini tops, and “bloodsuckers”), than by the original purveyor of this deservedly acclaimed series.

Fuck HBO. Fuck them. I’ve felt this way for quite some time, but with the premieres of Boardwalk Empire, Bored to Death, and Eastbound and Down (sit down and fucking watch it, Max) all aligned along a neat little hedgerow, it’s come to a head.

HBO has always been run by a bunch of pretentious cockbreaths, but their asshole tendencies have reached a fever pitch, which is to say that they’ve refined their dickwad practices to the point of art. Just as their showrunners (Simon, Chase, Milch, and others) have consistently raised the bar of a much-maligned medium, HBO has doggedly pursued excellence in the field of corporate arrogance and (as the French put it) “les doucherie."

Let me begin by saying that I will NEVER subscribe to HBO. I don’t even have basic cable, and I miss it like an acute anterior rash. But HBO is especially verboten for the following reasons:

1. Lifestyle porn (Sex and the City, Entourage), as a genre, is abhorrent, and I tend to avoid it.

2. No one can consider himself a man that says, "Sorry guys, I gotta go home and catch 'True Blood.'"

3. I highly doubt that anyone’s going to walk out of a Bret Easton Ellis novel and into my living room, poring over the minutiae of my home entertainment system and judging/murdering me accordingly.

4. One word: Netflix.

“But Andrew,” I can hear you saying, “for the same low monthly rate, you get Cinemax and its genre-slumming pals.” Turns out I don’t give a shit, because I can make a similar list... to the MAX:

I’m not a particular fan of fake tits, dry humping, or synthesizer sax music, and also I know how the World Wide Web works, so Skinemax features hold little attraction for me.

Watching "Alexander: the Final Cut" for a 15th time would be a tad excessive.

“I really wanted to see Hancock at one of my five local multiplexes two summers ago, but there simply wasn’t time.”- This has never happened.

So it would behoove HBO to accept that they will never count me among their subscribers and start taking my money by other means. But they’re dicks, and being dicks matters more to them than making money. So here are the two main areas in which they have failed miserably at the deceptively simple practice of capitalism.

1. Downloads

With the Eastbound and Down premiere approaching, I casually investigated the possibility of watching it the way I currently watch the best show that television has ever had to offer ever: Mad Men. I would buy an iTunes season pass and watch every episode on the Monday following the Sunday on which it aired. But this is implausibly impossible.

HBO clearly doesn’t want my money, because they don’t offer downloads of any current shows. No, after a season has finished its run and pirated/DVD versions have dispersed, only THEN shall it be available. Because everyone loves to pay $2.99 a pop (more on that later) for something they can get for free or get from Netflix and rip (which is to say nearly free).

Speaking of the pecuniary question, comments on the iTunes pages for HBO’s shows are dominated by this and similar statements:

Putting aside the utter ridiculousness of comparison between inconvenient pricing of a television show and the securing of goods and services by threat of physical force, AND the idea that iTunes was the entity that deemed an episode of Entourage 50% more valuable than an episode of Breaking Bad, $2.99 for a 50 minute download in standard definition is fucking asinine. The only logical explanation for a web non-strategy so idiotic is branding. In following it HBO positions itself as a hip, web 2.0, (meaningless buzzword)-type company while offering nothing that competes with their omnipresent DVD box sets. Speaking of which...

2. DVD's
So I love certain seasons of HBO shows, to the point where I might consider paying to have them in my home at all times- portable and ready to play, rain or shine anytime, anywhere. What’s the answer? DVD box sets! What’s stopping me? They suck rancid donkey balls.

After running through the complete Sopranos, Deadwood, Wire, Flight of the Conchords, and (sigh) Rome by means of Netflix, I am relatively qualified in diagnosing what pieces of shit these DVD’s are. Let us begin at the beginning.

Before EVERY SINGLE EPISODE of EVERY SINGLE SHOW, HBO reminds us who brought us what we’re about to enjoy:

Out of an ocean of snow/static arrives a monolithic logo set to an angelic chorus- as if God himself is smiling upon the entertainment to follow.

What level of insecurity drives someone to this kind of figurative/not-quite-as-figurative branding? Taking a red-hot “HBO” iron to the quivering forehead of an unsuspecting episode of hard-hitting drama just to let everyone know it’s yours? Great job letting everyone know what a tiny penis you have, HBO.

Now the meat of the episode- which is green, rotten, and ugly. Artificial grain, washed out color and aliasing artifacts are de rigueur in all of these series. DVD transfer is science, not art, HBO- you get what you pay for, so stop being such insufferable skinflints.

Another area in which HBO gets its shit handed to it is in disc efficiency. Notice how other 13-episode drama seasons come as a 4-disc set? That’s because at least four 50-minute episodes can fit on a single disc with minimal compromise of quality made in the compression. But HBO seasons (at least until recently) came as 6-disk sets. Is it because their content is 50% more valuable? No- it’s because they only put two or three episodes on a disc and give extras their own disc so they can mark the set up by (you guessed it) 50%.

And though some may think this is a minor concern, the lack of a “play all” button (anywhere, ever) is evidence of a serious corporate personality disorder. So you’re blowing through the (singular) Wire season 4 and don’t want to stop for breath? Too bad, because HBO considers television a discrete, quantized medium and will make you go back to the fucking menu and see their fucking logo every fucking time.

TO CONCLUDE...

In fairness, none of this would be an issue if HBO didn’t produce some stellar content. If all it was capable of was entertaining trifles with above-average production values (Dexter, Weeds..-fuck it Showtime’s entire lineup), I could terminate our relationship with extreme prejudice. But I have decent taste, and they attract the talent. Thus, we arrive at an impasse.

HBO is aware of this, as their entire brand is based around challenging fare and creative freedom. But like all brands, at its heart lies a hypocrisy. Coca-Cola urges you to open happiness, rather than an ice cold can of sugar crashes, childhood obesity and sad Colombians. Nike has always associated itself with the purity of Primal Sport (“Africans Running,” as longtime CEO/chairman Phil Knight likes to call it), but what they sell is expensive body cargo that does nothing to improve performance or prevent injury. While HBO may sell itself as a salon extending complete freedom to creatives too edgy for networks or basic cable, and as a vendor for deeply personal, affecting material, it has what can only be called a compulsion to control every aspect of its consumption. Its end goal is for consumers to receive their content simultaneously and without intermediaries-by purchasing a monthly subscription. Nothing you want to watch this month? Fuck you, you’re getting it anyway. This archaic, purely hierarchical model of media distribution is antithetical to the progressive image they project. Absolute top-down control of the viewing experience also costs them money and is, therefore, anticapitalist, irrational, and perverse.

Plus, they passed on Mad Men. So fuck ‘em.

The Changing of the Seasons

2010-09-19T09:35:00.011-05:00

On Fall

I've been trying to construct an elaborate metaphor to describe just how much ass Fall kicks, but then I realized that to do so would inevitably fail to capture how epic it is, and so I will say to you simply that Fall is the Fall of seasons. There, now you get it.

If I were not prohibited by law due to several prior offenses, I would buy Fall a Surf-and-Turf dinner, put my leather jacket on a puddle so Fall wouldn't get its feet wet, bring Fall back to my place where I'd classily be burning Vanilla Yankee Candles with roses leading to a silk-sheeted bed, and proceed to give Fall a go-around like it's never had before.

Here's how it breaks down, in my book: Summer and Winter are stagnant seasons. Nothing productive happens- they just sit there, mostly pissing you off with extreme weather. Seriously, think about it: in Summer, shit just stays hot. Winter, cold. No changes, nothing pretty, just the same old bullshit every day.

Fall and Spring, on the other hand, are transitional seasons. During these times, we move between the lard-ass, couch-potato seasons. I prefer Fall for a few reasons: first, we're cooling off. The most rewarding moments of Summer are walking into an air-conditioned room from a sweltering, hotbox exterior space, right? Fall does that for us. It's cool, but not cold. Second, it's just beautiful. Leaves changing, sun moving further south in the sky and producing some amazing sunsets, cool breezes and crisp mornings.

Now, compare this with Spring. Indeed, there is something to be said for the re-birth, the perestroika, finding new life after the winter of death. Yet consider that if we look at Fall and Spring as aforementioned transitional seasons, Spring is the awkward puberty of the yearly lifecycle. The huge puddles of melted snow are the greasy, pimpled face of a budding teenager. Like teenage hands hesitantly probing sexual organs, Spring really doesn't know what the fuck it's doing, and so neither do we. Is it time to start biking? How about running outside? Is it even ready to be warm? Sometimes it just snows again, like a 13-year old that tonight just isn't the right time to jerk off for the first time to Skinemax, and instead pulls out a comic book, and jerks off to Wonder Woman...for the third time this week. Haven't you noticed how awkward it is to masturbate between April and June?

Fall, on the other hand, is the aging process: becoming older, wiser, less of a douche. Fall is not getting old, no; Winter is old, marching towards death, spending the last ten years of life in diapers, getting dementia and constantly asking that things that make noise be turned down.

Indeed, Summer brings with it the vigor of the mid 20's and 30's. Warm, strong, productive, re-productive. But Summer at its essence is a fucking yuppie; thinks its a real hot shot, invincible, infallible. Summer thinks way too highly of itself, and is setting itself up for a...

Fall, with it's slow and steady transition. It is a time of reflection. Life is and has been good. Don't worry, we still have time left to be great, be our solid selves; but it's time to chill out, mellow out, and enjoy the leaves. Gray hairs start to appear, we can't exercise or fuck like we used to, but whatever. We've got money and kids and a Subaru and a lake house, so let's enjoy it now before we get ready to die.

I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward both to the Fall of life and the life of Fall (please ignore the annoying pretension of that last sentence, and if you see me, punch me in the face for it.) I'm tempted to want Fall all year round, but you see, that would defeat the purpose. Fall is so great because of the failings of its surrounding seasons.

So I'll take my wintry Medicare, my Spring boners in science class, my Summer power-lunches. Then I'll sit on the porch and drink a single-malt in Fall.

Thanks for being awesome, Fall. And I promise, after dinner, I'll use protection so you won't end up getting super preggers or contracting FallAids. (ha. pronounced "fuh-LAIDS.")

Thanks for reading today!

BT DUBS

1. Seriously? Why hasn't everyone realized how ball-numbingly stupid Facebook relationships are? Do the pros of declaring your relationship on an already masturbatory social network really outweigh the cons of the incredible awkwardness of becoming "single" again and allowing your stupid friends to comment things like "watch out, ladies!", "oh, no, what happened?", "don't worry, you'll bounce back" or "there's plenty of fish" in the fucking "sea." They don't. Witnessing facebook relationship developments makes me want to stick toothpicks stained with scabies into my retinas. STOP DOING THIS. Friends, if your relationship needs validation on Facebook, break up now.

2. I think I finally appreciate capitalism. Why? Because I am starting to hate people who get pissed off at having to pay for goods or services. I'm also generally upset by people who choose to purchase things and then demand royal beejer treatment for their actions. Consumers seem to forget that their money, especially discretionary money, can be spent anywhere. Some people don't understand that extra stuff generally means paying extra, because, you know, shit really isn't free.

3. Update 9/19/10: all party buses traveling along Hennepin still have not been rigged with explosives. I remind all: the longer they live, the higher the chances we will kill them, so let's just get this over with now.

Guest Blogger Andrew Murphy Davis: Captions for My Photos of Atlanta

2010-09-02T19:45:00.014-05:00

Andrew Davis arrived at Carleton College in the fall of 2004 and soon thereafter was known as "Murphy Davis." While the reasons for this are not widely known, the general consensus is that "Andrew" is a bullshit name and the world is more likely to be pwned by a dude named "Murphy." And true to that form, Murphy generally rocks the shit out of whatever he's doing at the moment. He was my neighbor freshman year and my roomate Sophomore and Senior years. The most important thing to know about him is that, at any given time, he is really pumped about one of the following: an upcoming movie, video game, television season premiere, album, comic book or graphic novel, natural phenomenon, or video game. He was raised in a small town in South Carolina and readily acknowledges how much (insert your lame-ass thing here) blows ass.

I was fortunate to spend a week with him recently at his home in Atlanta. Over the course of this trip, I took several pictures. Murphy has been kind enough to provide the captions. Enjoy.

ATLANTA: WHERE THE MEN ARE STRONG,

THE WOMEN ARE SWEATY,

AND IT RAINS COKE-ZERO

"A woman asked us: 'Who's Tim and Eric?' I said, 'He's Tim and I'm 'Go Fuck Yourself.' Then she took our picture."

"What's that Max? You want one? Well maybe you should bring your ID next time like one of the big kids."

"I approve of any place selling anything by the slab."

"What is good in life? To see your potatoes mashed, see them made into salad before you, and hear the lamentations of the women..."

"...followed by a convivial Coke Z."

"At the time, Max said this was 'very Wes Anderson.' But now all I can see is the 'enter' arrow getting all up in his business.'"

"This is a one of the whale sharks the Georgia Aquarium has managed not to starve to death. Give them some time."

"GRAAA!!!!"

"Max has crabs. Crabs a meter wide feeding on seafloor detritus."

"AAARGH!!!!"

"These seals are basically like fuzzy underwater torpedoes that HATE YOU."

"A woman asked us (in front of this and many other nearly identical fish), in all seriousness, if we knew which ones were Piranhas. 'Certainly not, madam. These are insufficiently ferocious.'"

"Here we share a cold one with the inventor of Coca-Cola (and anticipator of Coke Zero.) Truly, a life well-spent: in pursuit of flavor."

Guest Blogger John Heydinger: "Last Note from the Last Frontier"

2010-08-19T14:07:00.010-05:00

BERRY PICKING:
"SO LONG, IT'S BEEN GOOD TO KNOW YA"

Out surveying vegetation in an area wetland last week, I was introduced to the cloudberry by a friend and co-worker.

Now, I have next to no botany experience and generally wouldn't trust myself to grab an assortment of tasty-looking foliage and include it in my diet. However I was assured that we on the Kenai Peninsula are in the midst of berry season, and the summer is drawing to a close.

So with a slightly used yogurt container in hand, I set off across the bog in search of my quarry. The cloudberry itself looks like a multi-berry explosion and goes by the latin name rubus chamaemorus meaning something along the lines of "grounded mulberry". When ripe they have a pale orange color and can only be described as just this side of tart; the sort of delicacy that takes a couple of tries before you develop a taste for it.

Searching along the spruce outcroppings surrounding our bog I was able to pluck enough cloudberries, and to my wonder and surprise, blueberries, to make up the bulk of my lunch. Returning to my work in the afternoon I inquired to my knowledgeable friend about the prospect for making my own cloud and blueberry jam. After a ten minute explanation involving implements such as cheesecloth and ingredients like pemmican, I decided that perhaps the whole process was a little more than I wanted to undertake in my last week in Alaska.

I guess I just don't have what it takes to go native up here.

It is getting colder up here (though it was never particularly warm to begin with) and nights are taking on a decidedly darkening pallor. (That is to say that night is actually becoming night-like for the first time in months.) Already there is an unmistakable aura of autumn and that is my cue to exit, stage south. The bears have retreated from the salmon streams and are gorging themselves of berries for the coming long, dark cold - the kind of place that a true Minnesotan might feel right at home in their despondent Lutheran Winter, when all anybody can do is not complain and hope that things will get better. Though unquestionably a Minnesotan, I have no patience for such Midwestern virtues, for I have seen places where the sun shines everyday and do not wish to resign myself to our particular brand of fatalism.

The bears are going away and so shall I.
We each make our retreats
to more comfortable climes;
they to there dens, and me back home.

Thanks to the Last Jew Standing for encouraging these posts over the summer.

Guest Blogger Jill Bernard: "I Was A Leaf"

2010-08-14T23:48:00.005-05:00

Jill Bernard is an improvisor and a jar of olives. She likes living in Minneapolis although she does travel around the country, mostly to places where they don't have a lot of improv. She is my friend, and not only when she's coaching me organic improv. She eats organic improv because it's raised without harsh pesticides and the improv is treated humanely.

The following occurred yesterday, Friday The 13th. Jill woke up and was a leaf hanging from a tree. After realizing what she had become, she was confident in her place in the world, as a leaf, ne'er to be shaken from her given tree.
No one was around except the other leaves and the tree, but legend has it that this is what happened.

"Autumn is for assholes.
That'll never happen to me.
Imma stay on this tree.

foeva!
Man, it's getting windy.
Wha?
AAHHHH!!!!"

www.jillbernard.com

Like Sands Through the Hourglass, this is The Epic Live-Tweet of Days of Our Lives

2010-08-05T16:19:00.006-05:00

holy shit! everything's coming together! days of our lives!
about 1 hour ago via TweetDeck

according to the internet...

Faithful viewers have been watching Days of Our Lives since it debuted on November 8, 1965. Days takes place in the fictional midwestern town of Salem, with most scenes shot at University Hospital or the Brady Pub. Today, Salem is home to the respectable Horton and Brady families, as well as the evil DiMeras. Since the show debuted more than 40 years ago, matriarch Alice Horton has been portrayed by award-winning actor Frances Reid. In the 1980s, the "Salem Stalker" and "Salem Slasher" brought romantic adventure to the forefront, while in the 1990s, Dr. Marlena Evans-Black (Deidre Hall) was possessed by the devil.

Thursday, August 5th, 2009

twitter.com/lastjewstanding

when i see commercials for Vagisil, I wonder: would the world accept the product "Penisil"? How about Penisillin?
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

comforting to see the exact same intro as when the show premiered...also wishing LBJ was still president, because maybe this show would make some fucking sense in the context of The Great Society.
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

Sierra: "mommy? why aren't you coming back?"
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

mommy: "mommy did something wrong. I am very sorry. Sorry that I didn't believe what you told me about the wallets and mommy's lipstick."
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

"I'll be back someday." -Sierra: "Mommy, is someday a long time?" -Mommy: "I think so." Obvi. These are the days...of our lives....
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

I hope the guy who wrote the score for "bum bum BUMMM" gets royalties every time DOOL uses it
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

creepy nun in a hospital, moonlighting as nurse, i can only assume
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck  

“dr.” scott: (scared woman behind curtain,) your surgeon relies on me and my input. open the curtain for me and let's take a look.
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

hair-gel addled Brady: I want to talk about this five million bucks. -Shannon: "there were lots of other men, men that I loved, but not the way I loved you."
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

Shannon: "you even forgave me for switching Mia's baby with Sammy's. give me one more chance, Brady." Yeah, Brady, give her another chance.
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

every commercial during DOOL assumes viewers have either a. asthma b. overactive bladder c. massive debt d. all of above. All caused by watching DOOL? How can it not be?
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck
dr. scott is just trying to "see" the woman behind the curtain. something's fishy here. musical score reaffirms this.
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck  

we’ve reached the half-way point, and Sierra still has been given no clear answer as to why mommy is going away
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

what is this goddamn nun doing in a hospital? What is she, some kind of nun-nurse hybrid? There's no catheter training at the Convent, last time I checked
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

dr. scott: miss, do I know you? if we've met, this will not change how I assess your condition. I get a sense you want my help. about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

alright, Sierra. mommy's gotta go. mommy, go and do your time. for serious. just do it. Let's all just move on from this.
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

Brady: "that's great that you love me, Shannon, but i want you to do something special for me. Come down to the police station with me."
about 2 hours ago via TweetDeck

Grandma: "whatever is going wrong, i know damn well it's your fault Bo!"
about 1 hour ago via TweetDeck

Brady's being a real dick about Shannon bringin' in 5mil through illicit means. Get down from your Axe Body Spray infused Ivory Tower, Brades.
about 1 hour ago via TweetDeck

Grandma really having a hard time understanding....no matter what though, it's Bo's fault. Fucking Bo.
about 1 hour ago via TweetDeck

FAVORITE LINE OF THE SHOW ALERT!

nameless detective: "he's committed some mean stuff. i'm talkin' life in prison kind of stuff." -Brady: "sounds crazy." -detective: "yeah i like it, myself."
about 1 hour ago via TweetDeck

fuck yeah! Beggin Strips commercial! That dog's on bacon-crack! BEGGIN!
about 1 hour ago via TweetDeck

Jesus f-ing Christ, Sierra. mommy's gone, get over it.
about 1 hour ago via TweetDeck

And so it ended. Wasn't expecting a cliffhanger ending to this episode. Suppose that's how the show keeps going for 55 years. 'Til next time, Brady, Shannon, Mommy, Sierra, Bo, Grandma, Detective, Dr. Scott, grossly misplaced Nun, and frightened woman behind the curtain. Continue to keep it real.

The Fisherman's Wharf

2010-07-28T22:09:00.007-05:00

I am Fisherman.

This is my Wharf. Take a look. Can you see that? The beams of sunlight bounce softly off the majestic cherry-oak frame. Can you hear that? The waves crashing like water-muffins dropped from a hot tray onto a cold, steel girder of Wharf exuberance. Wharfuberance.

The wharf abounds with grace and beauty. Truly, a wharf built by the hand of man, but welded by the thunderbolt of Zeus himself. I grew up on this Wharf, quite literally.

My grandfather, Fisherman, built this place. Upon its completion, he died; lost at sea, right next to the Wharf, in what was later called "The Perfect Wharf Storm," also known as "The Whaorm of 1911." At that time, no one could inherit the Wharf, since my grandfather had not lived to beget a son. Years past, and the orphan wharf, now but a Wharfan, fell into disrepair.

The year 1919 arrived and with it the culmination of the Women's Suffrage movement. It was at that moment that my grandmother, Fisherman's Woman, sad widow of my grandfather, discovered that she had had a daughter, Fisherman's Woman, living somewhere in the lowlands. My grandmother recalled neither the pregnancy nor the birth, yet received by carrier seal a confirmation letter: her spawness lived! My mother.

It was the 20's and things were different then. My mother was brought to the Wharf and raised by the Sea Lions, since her mother could not bear to look upon her, lest she be reminded of her husband, lost at sea, right there by the wharf. He was buried there, you know.

My mother, Fisherman's Woman, married Darryl, a woodsman raised in the desert. The Women's Suffrage movement gave The Women crazy ideas, and Darryl was forced by knifepoint to take the last name of his wife, and thus carried on the Fisherman name. Night fell the day they were married, and my grandmother, Fisherman's Woman, took her own life, quite happily, to the thunderous applause of both wedding attendees. A picture of this was taken. It was never found.

The next morning Fisherman and his new wife, Fisherman's Woman, my father and mother, built a small log cabin on top of the wharf. It was a simple place- a cast iron stove, three shoes, dried fish, and a pocketwatch adorned the walls. Fisherman made it his life work to care for the cabin- Mother would spend her days walking up and down the wharf, picking up small pieces of fish and bits of sand, throwing them back into the surf, saying, "That will be for another day." They lived like this for sixty years.

I don't remember the details, but I was conceived under a full moon on the evening of January 13th.

Soon after, I was born. As I exited my mother, a Sea Lion grabbed me in its Jowels and vowed then and there to take me to another Sea Land. He told me things I dare not repeat to you whose ears may hear them. I whisper these words only to myself in my private moments. I could hear the faint whimpers of Mother and Fisherman as Sea Lion began to swim away, I in its clutches.

No!

With my three-second old hand I grabbed the Starboard support column of the Wharf, made good on my grip, and let out great underwater shriek, "I shall not leave this place! This is my Wharf!"

Soaking wet and with a great cherry-oak splinter in my hand I crawled out of the water and back onto my Wharf. By this time, Mother and Fisherman had died of old age.

And so begins my story. I am Fisherman. This is my Wharf.

Guest Blogger John Heydinger: Notes from the Last Frontier, pt.3

2010-07-19T17:24:00.006-05:00

NOTE TO READERS: I KNOW I HAVEN'T POSTED MYSELF IN A LITTLE WHILE. I AM SO PROUD TO HAVE GREAT FRIENDS WHO HAVE OFFERED TO POST, BUT REST ASSURED, THE LAST JEW STANDING STANDS FOR HIS BLOG.

John Heydinger is a great friend, currently somewhere in Alaska tracking brown bears on the ground and from the air via helicopter. He enjoys macaroni and cheese and watching basketball, particularly the insight of color commentator and former star Bill Walton.

The following is part three in his series, "Notes from the Last Frontier" a journal of his Alaska experience. Enjoy.

SEXING PORCUPINES

On a rare off-day I decided to really get some exercise.

I took a hike up Johnson Pass, a fairly flat trail. The pass is known for an easy trail with the opportunity to walk along Upper Trail Lake for a few miles before heading upwards. Because I needed to work the next day I would be unable to camp-out, therefore I wanted to focus on speed and I strapped on my Vibram Five-Fingers (thanks to my friend Jason for introducing me), hoping to get in 26 miles.

One of the primary rules for hiking in brown bear country is that you don't hike alone; also, you must make a fair amount of noise as you move so that you don't surprise a bear on the trail. About twenty minutes into the hike I realized that I was barely making any noise at all, as my Five-Fingers forced me to walk largely toe-to-heel, instead of the normal heel-to-toe "clomp clomp" of booted hiking. This was fine with me as I resolved to keep myself alert.
About an hour into the hike I came around a bend in the trail and saw, not twenty feet in front of me, a big ole porcupine, lumbering down the trail in front of me. He (or she, I'm not the best at sexing porcupines) was headed away from me and he neither saw nor heard me so close to him. Because I wasn't particularly in a hurry and I found this fellow so interesting, I decided to follow him, close, but not so close that he would become aware of me and change his behavior, or take off into the woods.

It would be easy to say that the half-an-hour which followed was wholly uneventful.

My little friend continued to trundle along the trail, while I followed, slowly and quietly, within ten feet of him. Here and there he would stop to chew a piece of grass, and I would duck behind a tree. He would stop to scratch himself, much like a dog, and sniff around the base of trees. I had no particular feeling of connection nor special "belonging to the land" as all of this happened. Rather, it was thoroughly pleasant to see a rather reclusive animal, moving along, solely at his own ease; to be there to witness another simply going about the business of living and walking in the sunlight.

He never did see me. As he came to a bridge on the trail his path and mine diverged and he made his way along the creek bed, up the hill. Stalking this fellow I learned little about his ecology, or his habits as such. Rather he helped to remind me that we are all moving along together and that we are well served to remember that our community extends beyond ourselves. It was simply nice to share the space with him.

at least for while.

Guest Blogger Omar Cedeno: On Women in Boston

2010-07-16T00:33:00.006-05:00

I have to be honest: I don't really know Omar very well. I know his sister. She was my babysitter when I was ten and now she's a close family friend. I remember meeting Omar a few times when I was that age, and soon after he moved to Boston and I honestly don't think I've seen him in about fifteen years. However, we do correspond on Facebook, and he's a fan of this blog. I also know that he's a pretty cool guy, or at least a lot cooler than his lame-ass attempt at a sister. I've asked him to provide his own introduction:

An intro, eh? I'll say this: it took a lot longer to figure out how to introduce myself than writing the blog. Well, my name is obvious, though my identity is not. It's Omar, if you were just wondering. Hmm. Not sure what to say that would define me. Too many variables and too many numbers dot my life, making it that much harder to pin down what I'm about. Anarchy. A lack of respect for arbitrary traditions and borders. I'm hardly a nihilist, but it's hard to not be cynical. I suppose the only thing I really respect that people do is art. That's how I define myself: an artist. I don't mean painting or writing or anything else that would be considered 'art'. There are no rules in art, and I think that's what I love about it, and why I try to live in a wold with no rules. You know the thing about chaos? It's fair. My name is Omar Cedeno.

Thanks to Omar for his guest post, and readers, please enjoy!

ON WOMEN IN BOSTON

With his usual deadpan-snide-remarks, Max inadvertently invited me to write a guest column on his awesomely named “Last Jew Standing” (which sounds suspiciously like some underground fight club). That being said, I can see why someone would shy away from this grenade of an article. Nothing of what I say is meant in a blanket generalizations.

I used to live on Long Island. First Southampton (which is an entirely different column), and then Brentwood, which is pretty much the ghetto. While there I met all kinds of women. I lucked out because I became very good friends with some women that I still keep in contact with. In October of 2000, I moved to Winthrop, a suburb outside of Boston. Not a bad place, nice people, very safe. Now, I've lived here for almost 10 years, and the girls (and I stress girls) haven't exactly impressed me with their own morality.

There was a former friend who bragged about fucking 3 guys in a 24 hour period. I'll save you the details she shoved in my face (so to speak). I was disgusted. I don't even know why she told me those dirty details. I repeatedly told her to knock it off, but she had to say she was scared of one of the cocks. She then mentioned that her girlfriend was jealous she was in the other room fucking another guy. The orgies and group sex stuff was fucking gross. I'm no prude (my god, I have a porn collection that would put stores to shame), but that went well beyond any acceptable behavior. If you ain't a porn star, don't pull that shit.

Especially when you don't use protection.

It wasn't just that, though. She was a mother of a just-born child. That's totally wrong. This is just the tip of the iceberg of debauchery. Every girl I've met who has been in a relationship (and I mean serious ones) have cheated. And told me about it. I don't get it-- you have something good, why do you want to fuck it up? Duh, men do the same thing, but women are supposedly “the fairer sex.” Bah. I think feminism is at the point in the road where it's dark, and some feel like sleeping around is a feminist idea. I like to think of myself as feminist, but I don't see the connection. If you sleep around, you're gonna get a rep, y'know? Men, same sentiments.

But lets talk about the women I know in Boston.

Guest Blogger Jill Bernard: Being a Woman in Comedy

2010-07-11T11:44:00.004-05:00

Jill Bernard is a world-renowned improvisor and teacher based in Minneapolis. She is the coach of my Six Ring Circus improv team, Tightrope, and my friend.
More info on her can be found at www.jillbernard.com.

I've been asked to write on Being A Woman in Comedy.

Unfortunately I cannot. Here's the thing. One thing a lot of people don't know about
me is I'm actually just a jar of olives. I'm a 5.75 oz jar of Manzanilla olives stuffed with pimentos. I try to keep this information on the D.L. because I'm not sure students would feel confident taking classes from someone who is a large percentage brine and glass.

The most challenging part of it, I guess, is I don't have any arms or hands, so when I'm trying to make really impressive gestures to my students they just don't understand. Also another hard thing is I'm really scared I'll break. Sometimes I coach from a tabletop or a chair and I feel a little close to the edge. I worry if I get too worked up giving notes on a scene I will fall to my death! It's
terrible.

There's a little bit of loneliness too. I don't go out to the bar after rehearsals and stuff because of the martinis. I don't need to see that.

I feel pride in what I've been able to accomplish despite being a jar of olives. I'm the first from my shelf to get a college degree. I've also been super-lucky to work with a lot of really amazing people. A shout out to Comedy Sportz and the Brave New Institute - a lot of theater schools would not have the courage to hire a jar of olives, but they had the courage to look at my abilities and not my ingredients list.

I don't know what the future holds. My 'best if used by' date seems far away now but I know I won't last forever. I try to live for the moment, and stuff each day with joy, friendship, love, and laughter.

Live-Tweeting QVC: An Intimate Evening with the Quacker Factory

2010-07-05T23:25:00.005-05:00

Last night, at around 11pm CST, I decided to devote 30 minutes of my life to Quality, Value, and Convenience. I didn't know which channel would best suit these three immediate values. There must be one, I thought, that encompassed those three ideas. Fortunately, my lack of cable provided a lake-wave to channel surf, and what luck! I landed at QVC, the greatest and single longest infomercial in television, nay, human, history.

I also had with me a computer, TweetDeck, and my wits about me.

Lovely readers, I offer you the live-tweeting of QVC of Monday, July 5th, 2010. Enjoy.

lastjewstanding
perhaps I should live-tweet like, 20 mins of QVC
4:59 PM Jul 5th

right now: "Quacker Factory" selling zip front cardigans. named after a duck that makes cardigans?
Mon Jul 5 22:48:02 2010

selling fast! get your rhinestone zip front cardigans for a steal: $55!
Mon Jul 5 22:48:40 2010

"jean" from quacker factory wearing some kind of rhinestone bandana. going into battle? a battle for rhinestone duck prowess?
Mon Jul 5 22:49:34 2010
"jean" also has the word "dream" sitting in front of her. am I dreaming, or is there actually a "quaker factory" that exists?
Mon Jul 5 22:50:46 2010

are rhinestones actual mineral deposits? if so, they must be quite plentiful
Mon Jul 5 22:51:33 2010

"the nautical theme is always appropriate" says jean
Mon Jul 5 22:54:54 2010

growing up in a town with a lighthouse makes you feel nautical and "yahtzee"
Mon Jul 5 22:55:17 2010

jean assures us that the oil on the beaches is really not a problem. thanks jean
Mon Jul 5 22:55:44 2010

pink palm tree cardigan features trees whose bark just happens to turn yellow at the nipples. coincidence or fate?
Mon Jul 5 22:58:02 2010

the days pass so quickly on QVC! "today's special value" occurs at least four times an hour
Mon Jul 5 22:59:02 2010
hour 1 of quacker factory complete. next, time eternal!
Mon Jul 5 22:59:57 2010

V-neck rhinestone cardigan looks like you were eating lots of rhinestones and the cardigan is your bib
Mon Jul 5 23:00:42 2010

matching hoodie for stalkers who dig rhinestones
Mon Jul 5 23:02:09 2010

"angel"! you can wear it with the white pants! awesome!
Mon Jul 5 23:03:53 2010

"a quacker sweater" sounds like a sex position
Mon Jul 5 23:04:35 2010

machine wash, tumble dry comes with its own dance
Mon Jul 5 23:05:06 2010

what is the deal with jean's rhinestone headdress, seriously????
Mon Jul 5 23:05:32 2010

"a t-shirt price in quacker world" I'd love to live in quacker world
Mon Jul 5 23:07:33 2010

yeah, these outfits would fit right in at a packer game...good call jean
Mon Jul 5 23:08:30 2010

the prettiness of every woman is from the boobs up? oh, i beg to differ, jean
Mon Jul 5 23:09:47 2010

dammit, angel! who asked you anything? speak when spoken to!
Mon Jul 5 23:10:41 2010

shopping to the next level: don't just shop, Q.
Mon Jul 5 23:13:19 2010

wondering if quacker factory can retrofit my hoodies with rhinestones
Mon Jul 5 23:15:10 2010

honestly barbara, chill out about being able to put this shit in the washing machine...it's pretty standard for clothing
Mon Jul 5 23:17:21 2010

jean says she looks dorky with her hood up. but not incredibly weird with a fucking rhinestone war bandana
Mon Jul 5 23:17:57 2010

16,000 ordered already. quacker factory is making bank tonight
Mon Jul 5 23:19:08 2010

quacker factory offers a white t shirt. innovative design ideas from an innovative company. that is soooo quacker factory
Mon Jul 5 23:21:13 2010

how can you pass up a product called, "embellished scallop ham crop pants"?
Mon Jul 5 23:23:10 2010

sparser is not a word, barbara. look at the dictionary...holy shit! it is now! the omnipotence of "quacker factory!"
Mon Jul 5 23:25:09 2010

Light navy has sold out! kelly green is last call! what will the world do?!?
Mon Jul 5 23:29:09 2010

jean claims she has offered her first-born child to provide us with today's special value. I believe that child is worth 2x $16.42.
Mon Jul 5 23:30:32 2010

what's the currency exchange between a price and a QVC price?
Mon Jul 5 23:31:32 2010

jean introduces the dichotomy of "virginal quackers" and "closet quackers". as a writer, I want her brain, so so bad.
Mon Jul 5 23:32:03 2010

conversation has swerved to jean's workout regimen: "paddle from one side of the pool to the other." off-topic, for realz.
Mon Jul 5 23:33:46 2010

a quacker factory shirt provides deep cover for inert gym-goers
Mon Jul 5 23:34:55 2010

jean: don't let that kid from minnesota bother you. barb: he's serious! jean: poppycock! he talks a big game."
Mon Jul 5 23:35:54 2010

Thanks for reading today, and please enjoy http://twitter.com/lastjewstanding

Guest Blogger Ben Hahn: "The Lutheran Usurer"

2010-07-01T08:48:00.009-05:00

Ben Hahn is a native of St. Olaf, Iowa and fellow Carleton graduate. Two years my senior, we improvised together with the all-star college team Cujokra. Ben is also an extremely skilled Ultimate Frisbee player, reaching great heights of success with CUT, Carleton Ultimate Team, which ranks nationally every year. I'd throw CUT in with the '27 Yankees, '72 Dolphins, the Fat Man Atomic Bomb, and Achilles in sheer dominance. Since graduating, Ben has worked several jobs, but strives to be a free-lance writer. As you can see, he also moonlights as Jesus Christ.

One evening my Freshman year after a libatious celebration of a fine improv show, I asked Ben how many Jews lived in St. Olaf, Iowa. His Guinness-soaked reply still echoes in my personal mental chamber of mystery: "25 cents."

His post needs no introduction. I submit the following e-mail message I received from him a few days ago.

Max,

I have recently finished a novel that I am trying to sell to publishers.

It is about my travails as an exile of the Lutheran church and my flirtation with (yet ultimate rejection of) Judaism. This novel is a finely wrought piece of art and very marketable— if not the next Harry Potter then something akin to the next Twilight— and all it needs right now is some exposure. If you are ever looking to fill space with a guest blogger, I wonder if you might not consider running the first chapter of my work, which is entitled “The Lutheran Usurer.”

I understand that your blog is geared toward Midwesterners and I must say that my writing is edgy if not bordering on raw. As such, in its uncensored format I fear that my writing may be rather offensive to Midwesterners, particularly Lutheran Iowans (I refer to them variously as “easily-confused,” “literal-minded,” “naïve,” “insular,” and “sheltered”—and that is in the first chapter alone), so I have taken liberty with the version I’m sending you and switched all references from Lutheranism to Judaism, and vice versa. I hope your Jewish readers can stomach the insinuation that they are “sheltered.” I admit that the final sentence is much stronger in the uncensored version, but I think the rest of the story remains just as engaging if not downright enthralling in its edited state.

Just so you can understand how the original manuscript reads, here’s a list of what has been transposed:

Jew/Jewish has been changed to Lutheran
Lutheran → Jew/Jewish
Chicago → Tel Aviv
minister → rabbi
Iowa/Iowan → Israeli
Des Moines → Haifa
Midwestern → Middle Eastern
white → challah

Here it is:

The Lutheran Usurer: A Novel

I am not and never have been a Lutheran, and my relations with Lutherans have been relegated to the fleetingly intimate (a beautiful Lutheraness bedded me on a business trip to Tel Aviv before I even had a chance to ponder her majestic aquiline nose) or the inherited-guilt-ridden (it was a German Jewish rabbi [which is what my paternal granddad is] who supposedly penned/lived the poem about “they came for the Lutherans and I didn’t speak up, they came for the etc and I didn’t etc, etc etc etc etc they came for me and there was no one left to speak for me!” [the insinuation, of course that this was because all the Lutherans and other undesirables were dead, which is surely a mischaracterization, as in my admittedly easily-confused and literal-minded Israeli brain, the difference between “all” and “some” is not only significant, but infinite in scope—it is the difference between there being corn dogs available “some”where in Haifa and, there being corn dogs available “no”where in Haifa; the difference between an impediment to my summer fun and a seasonal tragedy. We must assume that a mischaracterization, if not an outright denial of history, underlies the moral of the poem, as there are clearly more than zero Lutherans and other undesirables inhabiting the world today—and as the old Middle Eastern saying goes “nothing does not from nothing a corn dog beget”])

Chalk it up to pure Middle Eastern naïveté, chalk it up to the insularity of Israeli culture, but I must admit that until I went to college I had never heard of usury. For all I know, there is not a single usurer in all of Israel—there are certainly none advertising their services in the Haifa Yellow Pages. But as I have always been a rebel at heart and have ever striven to break free from the bonds of my sheltered, corn-fed challah-bread childhood, it was fate that drew me to my eventual career. I became, I am, I ever will be; the one, the only, the infamous: The Jewish Usurer.

Guest Blogger John Heydinger: Notes from the Last Frontier, pt.2

2010-06-27T22:08:00.003-05:00

John Heydinger (pictured) is a fellow '08 Carleton grad and a native of St. Paul, MN. John was my Freshman year roommate and has been one of my best friends ever since. An avid naturalist, he has trekked the world immersed in the bush (fucking giggle). He recently spent last Summer/Fall leading trips for Round River Conservation in Namibia, helping college students track Rhinos in Africa. Since late May, John has been stationed somewhere in Alaska, tagging grizzly bears on the ground and tracking via helicopter. When not being a bad-ass, John enjoys watching basketball, reading great works of philosophy, and eating/making a mean nachos. When his Dad took a look at the name-card of his roomate pre-freshman year, his reply was, "Oh, a Jew!"

This is the second in a series of notes from his Alaska journey. Enjoy.

ON POETRY

I started the night thinking about poetry as genre and the role, or lack-thereof, it plays in my life.

On the eve of President Johnson's announcement that he would not seek re-election, peace candidate and Minnesota Senator Eugene McCarthy was said to have remarked, "tonight is a night for poetry." Though he was esteemed a dangerous man for the position of president by Bobby Kennedy, McCarthy was, to say the least, one of the most liberally educated men in government and would have lent a very different tenor to the presidency than the election's eventual winner, or, really any of the men who have held the office since. (That he was at the time and remained always a long shot is not of my concern.) But this is not about the presidency, nor is it about Eugene McCarthy.

I have thought for sometime that an appreciation of poetry is really a mark of someone with a well-rounded education and exhibits an appreciation for the written word and human experience in a certain vein. And I can state unequivocally about myself that this is not an appreciation that has taken root within me. What strikes me about McCarthy's reaction from that March night is simply how I cannot imagine reacting to any event, either large or small, that would cause me to call upon the genre of poetry for response. For some reason this has especially bothered me, as though I am lacking some fundamental sympathy.

Earlier today I was in the Moose Pass library and came across the collected works of Robert Service. What I knew about Service was limited to his love of the Northlands and prolific output - this much was confirmed by the volume's scanty cover-flap biography. As I was otherwise in the dark I wanted to check out the work to, first, see what the fuss was about and second, give poetry another shot.

Yet at the second point I came up short, thinking that it would just sit on the table because I can never screw myself up to sit down and read poetry. I generally feel that I just don't "get it." With time on my hands in the admittedly sleepy town of Moose Pass I gave it a shot.

Fast-forward to that night. I was feeling a bit anxious about many things and opened my freshly borrowed collection of Service poems:

Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it,
Though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit.
Ye who take the Lone Trail, bid your love good-by;
The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow till you die.

Among other subjects Service primarily tackles man's desire to wander and be set apart from that which drives us mad. For me it is always comforting to know that others have wrestled with the same angles that I encounter. It seems that I have wanted to feel from poetry that it could speak to certain aspects of my spirit.

Tonight, a kernel was found in Robert Service.
Perhaps I have my in-road to poetry.

On Being Nice

2010-06-19T23:02:00.020-05:00

Fuck you guys!

How did that feel, friends? Did it feel like a hug in the face, or a kick the soul? My bet is whatever it is, it didn't feel good. You know why? It wasn't very nice.

Hey Max! Dat wah'nt vewy nice!

Last Wednesday evening, my friend Josh K. and I arrived at a local bar to enjoy a couple of Ice Cream Sundaes after doing an hour of fantastic two-man improvisational comedy. We were famished, and really wanted to kick back and enjoy the success we had accrued with each other, in front of each other. As we approached the bar, which I'll pseudonym-ly call, "The Red Factory," Fortune delivered us two early Channukah presents. The first was that it was a beautiful, clear evening. The second was that The Red Factory had comfortable outdoor seating.

Josh and I decided that the best way to enjoy ice cream success was outside, our feet kicked up, enjoying the summer breeze and each other's continued company. Calmly and inquisitively, we sought the simplicity of a table and two chairs. We scoured the Factory's sidewalk seating, searching for even the smallest nook where we could park ourselves. I remind you, just the two of us. Looking for one table, two chairs, and a couple of Ice Cream Sundaes.

Curses! All tables were occupied.

Up and down the street we walked, searching for a spare chair here, an unused table tucked away there. No luck. We were about to give up and accept an indoor air-conditioned fate when low and behold appeared two tables set up side-by-side horizontally. On the left-hand table sat two apparently lovely women. On the left hand table (with accompanying chairs), no one!

What luck!

Hmmm, so one might think. We had encountered a somewhat awkward situation. Social norms prevented us from simply parking it at this table, since it was technically connected to the table these two ladies occupied, and thus the whole apparatus could be considered "their table." However, given the circumstances and our strong desire for outdoor Sundae Time, we decided to throw caution to the wind and offer a compromise. Assuming the second table was unoccupied, we approached cautiously and offered this:

"Excuse us, ladies. Would you mind if we moved your table slightly over and sat there? We promise we won't bother you, we just really want to sit outside and noticed that no one is sitting at your adjacent table."

I want you all to closely read what ensued, because it was hard for me to believe as I lived it.

"We won't make it awkward," I said half-jokingly.

The girl with the purple hair, half-smoked clove cigarette, and bad attitude replied,

"You already did."

This was, proverbially, not the half of it.

What followed was, I can honestly say, the greatest, boldest, most honest move of pure dickery probably since Brutus decided to gather his buddies and fucking kill Caesar.

Looking down and with disgust in her beaty little eyes, she kicked the table towards us, reminiscent of how one would throw a quarter at a begger's feet out of pure spite. She fuck you-ed us not with any words, but with a simple and complete motion of undistilled assholocity. Kicked the table at us, folks.

Her words and actions are best illustrated by a combination of this:

and this:

Nothing more was said.

Josh and I were so astounded, we could say nothing but walk away.

NOT NICE!

(from here on out, this post will include alerts)

Almost immediately, the couple seated directly in front of these girls, with the same empty-table situation, offered us seats at their empty table.

"You can sit with us, guys!"

NICE!

Once we were situated, our server, Kathy, asked for our order. We ordered two Vanilla Sundaes with chocolate sauce and cherries.

"Sure thing guys. We don't have chocolate sauce or cherries, and we might not have ice-cream."

"Oh, really. Well, that's fine, we'll just have-"

"But I'll make you them. Don't worry, I'll find something and make you a couple of Sundaes."

NICE! NICE NICE NICE!

They were so delicious, we ordered two. And gave her a huge tip.

And so I am led to the thrust of this post:

people can, should, and must, be nice.

people should be nice.
people should be nice.
people, nice, should be.
be nice, people. Ya should.

Why did the first woman at the table treat us the way she did? What struck her, at that moment, to make the choice towards the dark side of social interaction? Was it something that we said? I can't possibly believe that, since I am neither exaggerating nor embellishing the politeness of our inquiry to them.

Was she having a particularly bad day? Perhaps. Does this excuse such behavior?

Is this how she was raised? Did she grow up in a family of dicks, and she knows no other way? I suppose, but I noticed that she had a friend with her. She has a friend! At least one, perhaps one who shares her interest in being an absolute fuckwad, but a friend nonetheless.

Antisemitic? She didn't know our last names.

simply enough, I just believe she wasn't being nice. for the sake of not being nice.

The energy she expended being not nice in that situation greatly exceeded that which was required to be nice. A simple "sure", or even a head nod, would have been a nice gesture, and we would have sat down and enjoyed our evening, separately and on good terms. Instead, she pressed the Turbo button on her bitch reserves, shifted into high gear, and kicked that fucking table perilously towards my Birkenstock-clad, and thus vulnerable, foot.

Please allow me to pause and present an historical list of individuals, in no particular order:

Ghengis Khan. Jay Leno. Hitler. Nero. The dude who came up with The Middle Passage. Richard Nixon. The dude whose idea it was for the Vietname war. Alex Rodgriguez. Sarah Palin. Judas.
Henry VIII. Carrot Top. Joseph Stalin. Andrew Dice Clay. Ashton Kutcher. Ivan Drago. Stephon Urkell. Scar. The dude who moved the Dodgers from Brooklyn to LA. P. Diddy. Celine Dion. Mother Theresa.

All huge, throbbing dicks. Assholes. Cocksuckers. Cunts. Bitches. Fuckwads. Douches.

I know what you're thinking. I know, I know. Maybe not Hitler.

Why are people assholes.

People should be nice.

I've been called an asshole a lot in my life. A lot of people think I'm not a nice person, or haven't been nice in the past. This I accept and probably would agree with sometimes.

You know what, we're all human and sometimes we just are not nice.

But we don't have to be, and should never have to be. I've been making a conscious effort in my life to be direct, clear, blunt, but nice. Polite. Considerate. Friendly. With a smile on my face as much as I can.

Oftentimes my not-nice-ness has been assumed due to my being from New York City. This is an incredibly off-base stereotype. From personal experience, I say to you that not all New Yorkers are assholes. In fact, most aren't. There is nothing inherently asshole about New York, or New Yorkers. We are as nice as the general population. Are we in a hurry a lot? Yes. Are there aspects of living in that city that make us grumpy, like traffic and chronic poverty due to overpriced everything? Yes. But I've known lots of nice New Yorkers, some mean ones too. But it's not, NOT, a New York thing to be not-nice.

And, of course, I'd be remiss in not addressing this whole "Minnesota Nice" thing. That too is an incredibly off-base stereotype. Simply doesn't exist. Minnesotans are nice, and Minnesotans are not nice. All in the same ratio as the general population. The passive aggressive thing is also a stereotype, as that trait affects the population as a whole as well.

In fact, I hate the notion of geographically associated moods or levels of friendliness. It bothers me that because I'm a NYer, it is assumed that I'm a jerk and because you're a Minnesotan, you're assumed to be nice or passive. Come on!

My friend Jill Bernard posted here a few weeks back that something she likes about living here in Minnesota is that people smile at you when you pass them in the street. I enjoy this as well. Everywhere. It's a nice thing that some people do.

I like it when people smile. I like it when people give you compliments, and offer to hold the door for you, or carry stuff for you, or understand but don't say anything when stuff goes wrong.

I like helping people out. I like putting my hand on someone's shoulder just cuz I like them. I like encouraging people, telling them honestly when I think they've done something I disagree with. I like listening and being listened to. I like when people make eye contact with me.

Big hugs are nice, and kisses are nice.

Having sex with someone is a nice thing to do; of course, under a highly restricted set of circumstances.

Being a dick is so easy and so mean.

I hate it when people ignore what you're saying. I hate it when people disregard what you say, or enter conversations with assumptions or stereotypes. I hate when people look away when you're talking with them, when they make stupid jokes at someone else's expense. I hate when people don't say thank you.

This is getting long. Let's all try and be nice, even if we're faking it. That's okay with me, actually. I'd rather you fake being nice than actually be a fucking dick.

All of this being said, these are some of my favorite asshole things that are said:

go fuck yourself.

blow it out your ass!

blow your ass!

go blow your ass!

lick my balls.

stick it in your ass.

shut the fuck up, you.

fuckin...whatever.

i'd love to. but i hate you.

you suck at that.

go shit in your hat.

(that thing you just said)...my ass!

you can blow me.

suck a nut.

The iPhone sucks and I don't have one but I still just know it sucks and AT&T sucks. I know all of this but I don't have one.

suck a bone.

We only have Pepsi, no Coke, sorry.

suck a hole.

eat a dick.

piss on your (thing).

go bake a cake with that.

what do you want me to do with this (usually a piece of paper), wipe my ass?

I'll wipe my ass with this.

Seriously, you only have Pepsi? I'll just take a water, then. Go fuck yourself.

i politely disagree with you.

you, sir/madame, have erred.

i believe you're wrong.

quit bein' a douche.

quit bein a douche rag.

you're a dick.

You're so awkward.

You're so random.

You are ridiculous.

Sketchy!

Do you know how fast your were going?

you're being a dick.

fuck yourself in the ass.

Oh, you do improv? Do some improv for me right now!

i really, really just fucking hate you.

That's about it, I think. For now.

Thank you for reading today.

P.S.
I've now seen these "party buses" driving up and down Hennepin several times over the last three weeks, and here's what I've noticed:
1. You need to have passed an MCAT-level difficulty exam of Douchebag Studies in order to ride on one of those things.
2. You must be fearless in shouting out stupid shit at people trying to drive or walk on the street while reading one of those things. Probably covered in the training course for #1.
3. You must have the worst job in the world to have to soberly be paid what must be minimum wage to drive those douche-mobiles around. Probably a pre-requisite is auditing one of the classes of #2.
4. I seethe with anger just looking at one. Even parked, with nobody in it, because I know those guys were in it at one point and will be in it again.
5. Some buses should Suddenly Explode sometimes.

P.S.S.
I love my new job. More on that later.

PS 3
At Chino Latino, they legit cook and serve Guinea Pig. Putter says, "Fuck you, Chino Latino!"

The Social Media Hierarchy

2010-06-13T12:00:00.017-05:00

Note: I will be live-tweeting the writing of this blog post.

My friend Jason told me in late April that I was "kicking ass on the internet right now." This is quite a compliment. Why? Allow me to illustrate with some analogy:

That's like He-Man saying, "your biceps are kicking ass right now."

That's like LeBron James saying, "your crossover is kicking ass right now."

That's like Walt Whitman saying, "your seminal work, Leaves of Grass, is kicking ass right now."

That's like Henry Winkler saying, "your 'eyyyyyy', is kicking ass right now."

That's like Stephen Hawking saying "your conception of the Universe is kicking ass right now.

That's like TJ and Dave saying, "your two-man improv show is kicking ass right now."

That's like Optimus Prime saying, "the way you're leading the Autobots is kicking ass right now."

That's like Hitler saying, "your unprecedented genocide yet complete and utter failure at world domination is kicking ass right now."

That's like Sir Ian McKellen and Elton John both saying, "your Gay-British artistic career is kicking ass right now."

That's like God saying, "your omnipotence is fucking kick ass right now."

I hope at least one of those illuminates my point. My friend Jason rules the internet. He knows virtually all the cool websites, is all over social media, and essentially knows how the Web will continue to dominate the world in the coming decades. I look to him as the online oracle, a streaming prophet, if you will. I sometimes ask him how to Google things just so I can hear his answer.

I believe he gave me the aforementioned extreme-to-the-max compliment because of my recent embrace of social media in the last several months. Indeed, I have been utilizing Facebook, Twitter, and this blog incessantly, updating statuses, commenting on wall posts, and bloggin' like a blogger in heat.

And I love it! Keep in mind, folks, that this is a guy (me) who was off Facebook for almost two years; I thought Twitter was completely stupid and inane; I considered a blog an online self-administered handjob.

But after returning to Facebook late last year, opening up a Twitter account in February, and starting this blog soon after, I am indeed a social media whore. AND, DID I MENTION, LOVING IT?! I just think it's great. Why the hell not connect with people in an entirely different universe? Many would debate whether the online discourse holds more or less portent, and consequences, than real-world interaction. Jesus, I'm not sure what that last sentence meant, but my point is that we all think of the online world differently. What I think we do agree on, however, is that while the internet culture is different than our real-life one, the two been integrated into society and we cannot go back. This is a terrifying and exciting concept, and so I have decided to jump in Tweet first.

I do three things:

1. Blog 2. Facebook 3. Twitter

I am so glad I listed them in that order. This is because that enumeration leads me into the main focus of this post: hierarchy. Now, hierarchy could denote several things, but I am going to focus mainly on the vague concept of "importance."

If we define online communication "importance" as the stuff we and our peers care about, then I believe the order of Blog, then Facebook, and then Twitter is a fitting hierarchy. Allow me to explain the merits of these in reverse order of importance.

3.
What a concept! Here's a social forum that is the online equivalent of millions of people standing under one roof, each with a megaphone, shouting phrases of less than 140 characters, to anyone who will listen! And if you'd like, you can put on special headphones that will only listen to those you want to listen to, and use a special microphone to only talk to the people you want. Brilliant. I say this in complete earnest.

A lot of people tell me that Twitter is worthless. Just blah, blah, blah, who cares, right? That's right! Who cares? Who cares is the point of Twitter. Honestly, I do not read most of the Tweets that are delivered to me. Most of the ones I read, I don't care about. But herein lies the beauty: every once in a while, I'll see a Tweet, and love it. I'll be interested. I'll laugh. Some examples of this:

I follow Snoop Dogg, and I recommend you all do too. The other morning I woke up and Snoop rolled out, "What it do my Twizzles?" I mean...that's just amazing.

I follow Levar Burton. The guy is really endearing. I don't really read most of his stuff, but he often will say shit like, "Helped an old lady cross the street, reaffirms the beauty of life and everybody pitching in." Wonderful, Lavar! I'm happy for him and his career, wherever that is.

Also, I believe the above picture of Levar was taken as he was actually composing and sending a Tweet, using that eyepiece apparatus.

LL Cool J inspires me on Twitter. He motivates me to be a better man and Emcee. The other day: "Follow your heart, but be quiet for a while first. Ask questions, then feel the answer. Learn to trust your heart." I re-tweet him often, and copy-paste his messages into my own personal diary where they'll stay forever. Mama said knock you out, with inspiration.

See what I mean? The beauty of Twitter is there are literally, no stakes. Sure, a lot of people will Tweet, "eating delicious sandwich. mmm" But honestly, if someone said that in real life, would you care, or would it even bother you that much? Not really. So you set that aside, and just live your life, waiting for the occasional diamond in the rough. Twitter is no pressure. No one cares unless they want to.

2.

Everybody does it, and for good reason. It's a great way to just fucking connect with your friends. And it's a damn good thing it exists, because otherwise we'd have to see people so much more than we do now. I wasn't a big fan of the News Feed when it came out, but now, like Twitter, I've learned to ignore what I don't care for.

If you think about it, social media is like doing pushups for your ignoring muscles.

The thing about Facebook is that the stakes are higher. You are seen and heard only by people you care about, or at least know even in the most passing sense. A Facebook account has more class, is more personal, is more reflective of your actual personality. Status updates are, hopefully, far less frequent than Tweets. People seem to take Facebook communication more seriously, and that's why I'd rank it higher in "importance" than Twitter.

1. Blog

Your journal! Your diary! But public. Unless your blog is about stupid shit, it's really important, and the readers of your blog know that. You don't blog that you have an itch on your balls. If you did, no one would read your blog, and that means no one cares what you think. Notice how, in the case of Twitter, the point is that no one cares what you think. But when you're bloggin', you want the respect, you want the love. I feel like I blog stuff that I like and want you to like, and so I rate it highest in importance.

So. Isn't this all pretty interesting? Three different kinds of social media, each with totally different conventions, yet each with the same goal: connection. As I continue to be medially social, I am aware of this trichotomy and observe it as we move closer and closer towards a world where we exist only to type to each other and too see another human being in the flesh is far less common than seeing the Albino squirrel.

Thanks for reading today.

P.S.
Foursquare is complete bullshit. But don't take my word for it, try it yourself. I did it for all of one day and quit immediately. I don't need to "check in" anywhere, and neither do you. It's creepy. And if I want to Tweet or Fbook, I'll just do that. Let's leave FourSquare to our memories of recess in 4th grade. (Which by the way I dominated, and forgot to include in my list of athletic accomplishments.

P.S.S.
For the fourth time in about two weeks, somebody told me that my speaking voice is almost identical to John Mayer's. I've checked on it, and I think it might be true. Decide for yourself. Tomorrow I am calling up Jen Aniston for a late-night booty call, and we'll really find out what's what. I like my chances, considering I plan on mentioning that her body is, in fact, a wonderland.

Guest Blogger John Heydinger: Notes from the Last Frontier, pt.1

2010-06-08T00:04:00.007-05:00

John Heydinger is a fellow '08 Carleton grad and a native of St. Paul, MN. John was my Freshman year roommate and has been one of my best friends ever since. An avid naturalist, he has trekked the world immersed in the bush (fucking giggle). He recently spent last Summer/Fall leading trips for Round River Conservation in Namibia, helping college students track Rhinos in Africa. Since late May, John has been stationed somewhere in Alaska, tagging grizzly bears on the ground and tracking via helicopter. When not being a bad-ass, John enjoys watching basketball, reading great works of philosophy, and eating/making a mean nachos. When his Dad took a look at the name-card of his roomate pre-freshman year, his reply was, "Oh, a Jew!"

This is the first in a series of notes from his Alaska journey. Enjoy.

Very recently I've gotten into distance running.

I thought remote Alaska would be the perfect place to get some good running in. Trails abound near our base and because the sun essentially never completely sets there is ample time after work to fit in a two hour run. Now, I am up here specifically to look for Grizzly Bears, therefore I am well aware of their presence and potential danger. I also know that locals up here do not recommend hiking alone, running in the woods (as it stimulates the bears' prey response) or being quiet while you are hiking. Trail running by myself would be doing all of these things - and its a pain in the ass to carry bear spray.

So I'm out for probably my third or fourth run since I arrived and feeling pretty good having passed the two hour mark. I'm barreling down a hill of reasonable steepness and really focusing on finishing the run strong. As I come around a corner I am about twenty-five feet from a 500-600 lb. male Grizzly sniffing after me up the trail. I've thought about situations like this before and how I would handle it, and now I can give a definitive answer. The best description I can give for the noise I made is something like one of the sand people from Star Wars being strangled. Something kind of like a guttural, "HUAH!" Luckily, I saw Yogi at the same time as he saw me and was surprised to see something running towards him and making sand people noises. The big fella took one look at me and booked it down the trail the other way.

After collecting my heart from my feet and checking my shorts I tracked the bear, slowly, down the trail until I was sure that he had veered off in another direction and away from me. I was lucky in a number of ways, not least of all that we saw each other at the same time. Now, I want to keep trail running, yet every time I go out hiking I seem to come across another bear. Maybe I'll run on the road for a while.

And I'm getting a handgun.

Till next time. Its easy to keep on the sunny side when it never sets.

Athletics, Pt.2: Famous Jewish Sports Stars, Me Included

2010-06-06T12:08:00.015-05:00

OK, so back to sports. Sports, sports sports.

I was born in the year 1985, to two Jewish parents, who were the children of more Jewish parents, and back and back along the way to the ultimate First Jew, who I guess was Jesus' dad, God. I digress, but what I am trying to illustrate is that I come from Jewish blood. Hence the title of this blog. My Jewish identity comes with many cultural norms. Those do not include physical strength, agility, or athletic prowess. Not at all.

One of my favorite lines in the movie "Airplane" comes when an elderly woman, sitting in one of the aisles of the plane, asks for some reading material for the flight. The stewardess replies, "Here, we have this pamphlet: "Famous Jewish Sports Stars." The pamphlet is literally as thick as two loose leaf sheets. I think that's about right.

I'd like to name some of these aforementioned Jewish Sports stars. Let's start with basketball. Interestingly, the NBA began with a league comprised of mostly Jewish players. This is because at the time the NBA was founded, the mid 1940's, the players of the sport were mostly composed of the lower economic classes of society. The street people. At that time, Jews were just in the warm-up stage of taking over the world, and controlling all the money, and were in fact pretty poor, particularly in New York City, where basketball was mostly played. And so the first New York Knicks basketball team was composed almost entirely of Jewish players. The most famous Jewish athlete I can think of from that era was Red Holtzman, who played for the Knicks and won the Rookie of the Year in 1948, going on to become a legendary head coach for the franchise. Going down the historical line we have Dolph Shayes, an unreasonably tall Jew who played center, and whose son, Dan, also played in the 90's. All the rest of the Jews have since become general managers.

Football? Yeesh. Sid Luckman is probably the most famous, a quarterback for the Chicago Bears in the 40's, considered by most to be the best Jewish player in NFL history. The picture to the right is of Sid at his Bar Mitzvah. He came ready to play. More recently, Mike Rosenthal played for the Giants for several seasons as an offensive lineman. And of course, who could forget:

There has never been a Jewish hockey player ever.

And of course, baseball. I could not in good conscience start anywhere but Sandy Koufax, our hero. Sandy Koufax (born Sanford Braun) was a Hall of Fame pitcher for the LA Dodgers in the 60's. His most famous moment was sitting out Game 1 of the 1965 World Series against the Minnesota Twins, in observance of Yom Kippur, during which Jews don't work or eat all day. I assume he also sat out the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating contest held that day. This was a seminal moment in Jewish Sports History; an athlete sitting out perhaps the most important game of his career in religious observance. He made Jews happier than if they were to suddenly come upon a mountain of toasted poppyseed bagels in the middle of the desert. After sitting out Game 1, Koufax pitched 7 solid innings in Game 2, which the Dodgers lost. Notably, the Dodgers ended up beating the Twins in seven games, with Koufax winning Game 7 on two days rest. This began a long history of Minnesotans getting totally pwned by Jews.

Other notable Jew baseball players included Hank Greenberg, and more recently, Shawn Green, Gabe Kapler, and Alex Rodriguez.

Oh! Almost forgot! Mark Spitz, legendary swimmer, whose record of 7 gold medals was recently eclipsed by some fucking stoner.

This leads me to the most famous Jewish Sports star of all:

Me.

As mentioned, I grew up playing sports a lot. Even in the big city, I found fields to play baseball, soccer, even flag football. Of course, there were plenty of basketball courts around. I would play tennis in the Central Park courts, and biked a lot. I roller-bladed and even dabbled in roller hockey.

My athletic career began in earnest at the Upper West Side Children's Athletic Training Society, abbreviated CATS. Yeah, I didn't realize how gay that abbreviation was at the time. At age 7, I was thrilled to arrive at an old building on West 73rd street, the basement of which had been turned into an all-purpose indoor fieldhouse, where we played b-ball, soccer, and baseball. It was awesome. Wait, actually, before that I attended the Columbus Gym on 89th and Columbus, a few blocks from my apartment, where as a pre-schooler I dabbled in gymnastics. I was the semitic Nastia Liukin, alright.

I went to a summer camp, Camp Mah-Kee-Nac (pronounced mackinack) in the Berkshires. While activities at this camp were mostly sports, I was relieved to discover that almost the entire camper population was made up of other Jewish kids from the Tri-State area (NY, NJ, CT). I will get into how much I hated kids from NJ and Long Island in another post, but I fucking still hate those kids.

So by age 13, I was pretty good at most sports! Despite the fact that I went through a pubescent phase of fat-kid-itis, I could run pretty well, had good agility, some quickness, and a bit of strength. Sure, I wouldn't have survived a day among athletes made up of people of color (not racist, let's be real here folks). But at MahKeeNac, I was pretty darn good. In basketball, I made the "tournament team," which played against other camps in tournaments. I played in a number of soccer leagues, excelled as a defenseman in roller hockey, and was ranked about 10 (of about 50) in the tennis ladder rankings. At the time, theater held no appeal for me, although I did it at camp, and quite well, being the star in the plays and musicals we produced with our sister camp, Camp Danbee. I obviously don't need to describe how awkward we all were with our Camp "Sisters", but suffice to say I didn't really talk to the girls much.

In middle school, I played on the Cathedral School of St. John the Divine (my middle school, not entirely composed of Jews) basketball team. Our team was pretty good from 5th-8th grade. I played the 3-spot, which was a lot of running for a fat kid. A lefty, I had a good mid-range jumpshot and my large body was effective at driving to the hoop. Basketball was cool.

My baseball career started at the Jewish Community Center league, where I began my career as a First Baseman, the only position I have played ever since. I was a lefty and a very talented fielder, handling grounders with ease and even scooping throws from across the diamond in the dirt. My dad was also a first baseman, and taught me all the fundamentals.

I continued but my career withered and died in West Side Little League. The above picture is not of my team. For those who don't know, this was the premier little league in Manhattan. Pretty competitive, they sent a team to the Little League World Series every year. I started out doing pretty well in this league, but ultimately my career ended due to extremely poor hitting. Indeed, in my entire career, I believe I got one legit hit. This I refer to as "The Hit," literally because there was only one. Playing on the Dragons, I clobbered a slow fastball into left center for a sluggishly ran double, much to the joy of my frustrated father. Mostly though, I was afraid of the fast pitches, struck out a lot, and retired soon after. I now relive those days on the Brave New Workshop Softball Team, the Skirt Turtles, where I excel among the other Theater fags.

The only notable moment in my soccer career occurred in 7th grade when I broke my rib running into the opposing team's goalie. That was pretty fucking funny to watch, I'll bet.

To close, my athletic career ended with a thud during the first week of high school. At age 14, I had had seven good years of sports, and decided to take it to the next level. In one of the worst decisions I've ever made, I tried out for the Riverdale Football Team. I lasted a whole one day. I realized three things about football that day: 1), you need to run a lot, 2) the other guys hit you, really hard, and 3) football players and coaches are complete and total assholes. I returned my virtually unused pads to Coach Kreso before Day 2, explaining that I wanted to focus on my studies in my totally meaningless freshman year. He laughed at me, then proceeded to make fun of me for the rest of the year as my gym teacher. An example of this happened when we would go for jogs around Van Courtland Park. Riding alongside us in his douchemobile of a golf cart, he would see me panting for breath and yell, "Hey Leibowitz, you gonna quit? You gonna run home to Mommy like you did with football?" I hope that guy has since drowned in his own diarrhea.

Soon after football, I performed in a play and, most importantly, tried out for the improv group. I made it on my first try, and the rest is history.

So sports will always have an important place in my heart. I like knowing more about sports than most Thesbians. It makes me appear to be much less gay, and I like watching sports a lot. I can also do some pretty damn good Sports-related improv scenes!

Thanks for reading today. You've taken one for the team.

P.S. I also did fucking Karate, I almost forgot. For two years, my Dad would take me down to World Seido Karate HomBU on 23rd street and 6th avenue. I started as a lowly white belt, advanced to blue, then yellow, then green then advanced green, which is one below brown, which is one below BLACKBELT! There was a really hot sensai named Sensai Stephanie who I really wanted to roundhouse kick in the face. And by roundhouse kick, I mean bang. So add that, too.

PSS My Dad has included a list of Jewish sports athletes I have missed:

Track
Marty Glickman- Hitler objected to him competing in the 1938 Olympics so the U.S. pulled him out.

Football
Bernie Kosar (QB)
Allie Sherman(QB)
Bennie Friedman (QB)
Jack Kiviat

Tennis
Ken Soloman
Aaron Krickstein

Boxing
Max Baer
Bennie Leonard
"Slapsie"Maxie Rosenbloom
Barney Ross

Basketball
Nat Holman
Howie Komives
Neil Walk

Baseball
Moe Berg- was also a spy for the United States while playing in the majors.
Butch Wynegar
Art Shamsky
Ron Blomberg- first designated hitter in baseball

Thanks to Lenny Leibowitz for the updated list!

Guest Blogger Jill Bernard: Why I Live in Minnesota

2010-05-31T09:47:00.008-05:00

Jill Bernard is a world-renowned improvisor and teacher based in Minneapolis. She is a featured player and Director of Education at Comedy Sportz Twin Cities and a co-founder of HUGE Theater, a company dedicated to furthering the art of long-form improvisation in the Twin Cities. She is also a co-producer of the Twin Cities Improv Festival, held June 24-27 at the Brave New Workshop. If you're in the area, check her out at Comedy Sportz; I'd also highly recommend seeing her solo show, "Drum Machine," as well as her occasional collaboration with iO Chicago's Joe Bill in a two-man Harold show, "Scram." She is also the coach of my Six Ring Circus improv team, Tightrope, and my friend.
More info on her can be found at www.jillbernard.com.

First I would like to thank Max for inviting me to write this guest post. It is always nice to be a guest, especially an invited guest.

I was inspired by a one-question interview of Andy Sturdevant where he answers why he lives here, in Minneapolis. I've been asked this question a lot. Since Max just moved back here, it seems appropriate to ask, and answer.

Like Max and Andy, I am not from Minnesota. I was born in Richmond, VA where I spent two and a half blurry and colorful weeks before moving to Illinois with my brothers and mom and dad. I grew up first in Evanston, IL and then Downers Grove, IL, both Chicago suburbs, Downers Grove decidedly more suburban. Even though we were about an hour train ride from Chicago, I didn't spend much time there as a kid. It was a place for field trips and Christmas. My brother ventured there a lot. I just didn't think of it, I guess. After high school I went to Coe College in Cedar Rapids, IA. I chose it because it was small and near home and offered financial aid and liberal arts. I was there for two years and it started to feel too small. People knew your business before you knew it yourself. I stayed in the Midwest because it would've upset my mother too much if I left, but I chose the biggest school I could find, the University of Minnesota. At the time, my friend Pat Tischler was moving here, and I thought, well that will be nice. (Side note: Pat and I saw each other about twice after we got here, in the whole seventeen years. I've no idea how to find him.) I came up for one investigatory weekend, stayed with a friend's parents in Roseville, decided it would be okay, found an apartment through the campus office, and that was that. That was 1992.

I was still a theater major even though I'd already sort've lost interest in scripted theater. I didn't find about improv until a classmate at the U of M, Mikey Heinrich, told me about ComedySportz. I knew right away that improv was to be my life's work. It just felt like I'd been built for it. Sometimes it's like that. I wanted to know everything and study everything and do everything improv.

The logical places to go if improv is your passion are Chicago and New York. Someone said to me recently, "Everyone wants to be famous" and the truth is, I don't. Being famous seems really irritating. I want to be just famous enough to not be homeless or hungry, that is the level of fame I seek. If I had wanted to be famous I would've had to move to New York or Chicago or LA, these are requirements. There are exceptions but you're more likely to get pregnant using a condom than get famous staying in Minnesota. I am not like everyone else. I do not enjoy struggle. I do not enjoy clawing my way to the top. It is not how I best succeed. To be frank, I do my best if everyone just leaves me the fuck alone and lets me do whatever I want. Minneapolis is the perfect place for that. If I want to do an improv show, no one asks my pedigree, no one gives me attitude. I just ask the people I find talented, or maybe hold an audition, and we do a show.

I have a policy. If I walk into a store and no one's at the counter and no one offers to help me, I just leave. If you don't want my business, I won't bother you. I feel similarly about New York and Chicago and LA. There are plenty of improvisors there, they have it covered. I will stay here. People often tell me I'd be very successful one place or another, and I don't think they're lying. I would just rather stay here.

How is it working? Terribly. This is a terrible idea that I would not recommend to anyone. There is not a way to make a living as a professional improvisor in Minneapolis. That is not a thing that exists. You have to be a theater owner or a writer too, or something. I am doing a thing that is not possible. In Chicago you can get into the Second City or iO system and actually do pretty well. I stayed at Andy Eninger's beautiful apartment while he was out of town and thought, "Oh. I may have made a mistake." So what keeps me?

Minneapolis itself is part of what keeps me. I love it here, it's beautiful. I am the only person I know who is giddy from first snowflake to last. I can never have enough. Part of that is because I don't have a car - most of what people hate about snow involves the roads and the cars and the getting places. Mostly I just love the cold, and the pretty pretty snow. I don't know about North Minneapolis, people say there are violent unsafe parts, but in South Minneapolis the parts that people call "ghetto" are the furthest from Warsaw 1940 that you can imagine - they're called "ghetto" because poor people live there, but I'm poor so I don't care. Minneapolis strikes me as a safe, clean city, and it passes the smile test. I never want to live anywhere where strangers won't return your smile. That leaves Chicago right out, and excludes much of New York, maybe Queens or Brooklyn would be okay. People talk about "Minnesota Nice" like it's a bad thing. Look, I don't care if the civility is fake or not, I like politeness. Please and thank you and holding the door are a drug to me. I like kindness, a lot. Kindness takes space. My theory is the only reason New Yorkers are rude is because they're on top of each other, you have to shove somebody or you'll miss your subway stop. Minneapolis has space, space to be polite, space to do whatever I want to do artistically.

I feel like I'm supposed to say "the people" is what keeps me here, but that does a disservice to all the people I know and love in New York and LA and Chicago. I genuinely love and adore my Minneapolis friends, and I'm thrilled by the people I get to collaborate with at ComedySportz and HUGE and Six Ring, they're absolutely top drawer. But it's uninformed to think that everyone in New York is cynical or everyone in LA is plastic. You can never say "everyone" is anything. The minute you get to know more than two people that myth is dispelled. I enjoy Minneapolis improvisors because they are open-hearted and unpretentious and game for anything. There's a lot less bullshit among Minneapolis improvisors. There's no steamrolling blowhards, which is to say the Minnesota version of a steamrolling blowhard is the same as the Minnesota version of "spicy." No one's trying to use you to climb the ladder because there is no ladder. That saves a lot of time, but it's not insurmountable in other cities. I've worked on Chicago productions, most notably WNEP's "Defending Your Life," that had no bullshit. It can be done, the people are out there.

The reason why I'm here, then is a combo package - it's the people AND the weather AND the something else. The something else. The something else is it just feels right.

Athletics, Part 1

2010-05-28T08:45:00.008-05:00

Many of my friends do not believe that there was a time in this humble blogger's life when, in fact, he was really into sports.

There was.

I would estimate that between the ages of 8 and 13 (that's right, a whole 5 years, almost 20% of my young life), I played sports pretty regularly. I didn't just play, I followed sports, almost religiously.

I grew up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and so by way of childhood rearing, I was a fan of New York sports teams. Basketball was the Knicks. Baseball was the Yankees (sorry and fuck you.) Football was the Giants. Hockey, I guess, was the Rangers.

I didn't follow hockey at all, but I remember that the Rangers had a pretty sweet team in 1994 which featured, among others, Mark Messier, Brian Leech, Wayne Gretsky (wayyy past his prime), and goalie Mike Richter, whose dominant performances earned him the nickname "The Richter Scale."

The Giants were and are my football team. Of the New York Sports teams, I am probably most attached to the New York Football Giants, because it is easy to watch every game of a football season, and the team was always filled with likeable players. They are still affectionately known in the area as the Football Giants because they were to be distinguished in the 50's from the New York Baseball Giants of Willie Mays lore. In the late 1990's/early 2000's, some of my favorite players included running back Rodney Hampton, wide receiver Amani Toomer, linebacker Jesse Armstead, offensive lineman Mike Rosenthal (a Jew!), running back Tiki Barber, tight end-turned total douche Jeremy Shockey and, most recently, quarterback Eli Manning.

Before the recent successes of the last few years, a Giants fan was quite accustomed to heartbreak, since (as I've found is the case with many teams), they would come so close to winning that you could take out the proverbial champagne, uncork it, smell the bubbly refreshment...and then they would blow it and literally smash your heart into a thousand bits. I can recall one game in particular, perhaps the 2003 semi-final playoff game against the San Francisco 49ers, in which the Giants entered the 4th quarter up by 25 points (that's 3 touchdowns and a field goal, folks), and ended up losing due to a comeback led by dickhead Jeff Garcia, as well as a botched field goal which turned into a total clusterfuck led by, I believe, Brad Maynard.

The Giants started getting awesome after drafting Eli Manning in 2004, culminating in victory in the 2007 Super Bowl. This was one of the most memorable moments in my life. I capped off an entire day of drinking by watching the Giants win in 4th quarter comeback fashion, defeating the then-undefeated New England Patriots, led by cockwads Tom Brady and Randy Moss. The game featured what's come to be known as "The Play", generally considered the greatest play in Super Bowl history, in which Manning escaped certain sack and death and hurled a bomb to WR David Tyree, who preceded to catch the ball on his fucking helmet. Just watch it. Manning then threw the game winning catch to Plaxico Burress, who celebrated by pretending to shoot himself in the leg, in a bitterly ironic foreshadowing moment. J/K. At that moment I creamed the pants of my Giants fandom.

The New York Knicks are and always have been an exercise in failure. They had a pretty good team in the early 90's, featuring center Patrick Ewing, forwards Charles Oakley and Anthony Mason, guards John Starks and Derek Harper, and coach Pat Riley, whose coaching prowess was often drowned in a waterfall of hair gel. Patrick Ewing was my favorite player- a dominating 7-footer with a deathly accurate fadeaway jumper and shotblocking abilities.

The problem with the Knicks, however, was Ewing himself. Although honored as one of the 50 Greatest NBA Players of all-time, he never won a championship despite being hailed as savior when drafted in 1985, the year of my birth. He took the Knicks all the way to the Finals in '94, losing to Hakeem Olajuwon's Houston Rockets in 6 games. The Knicks also had the misfortune of sharing the Eastern Conference with the Chicago Bulls of the 1990's, whose best player also happened to be the greatest basketball player of all-time. But Ewing always choked in crunch time, missing the game-winning shot. The Knicks' offense during the Ewing years was also stalled by his presence, as they seemed to do nothing else besides dump the ball in to Patrick and have him do whatever he wanted. Now, the Knicks blow so much ass that Madison Square Garden has replaced its former moniker of "World's Greatest Arena" with "Surprisingly Effective Bidet." Isiah Thomas pretty much ruined the team by signing highly overpaid underachieving players, most notably MVDouche Stephon Marbury. They're painful to watch, and I do not believe they'll sign LeBron James this summer.

Finally, the New York Yankees. The team everybody loves to hate. The Evil Empire, so say the jealous ones. I have a few thoughts about being a Yankee fan. First and foremost, I am proud to be a Yankee fan. I could give two shits that people cringe and first dates are often ruined by my admission to loving the Bronx Bombers. This is because, and I can't stress this enough to people, THEY'RE MY FUCKING HOMETOWN TEAM. No matter how evil, how steroid-induced, how wealthy or unfairly successful a team is, it is fully acceptable and legitimate to root for a team that plays in the city you grew up in.

"But you could be a Mets fan!" retorts the asshole. Yes, I could. But I'm not. The simple fact is, you often don't choose the team you support. You just don't. It's an odd element of your upbringing that you end up just liking the team you like. For me, I liked the teams my Dad liked, and he was a Yankees fan despite growing up in Brooklyn and rooting for the Dodgers, who always lost to the Yanks in the World Series. The Dodgers moved to LA, my Dad moved to Manhattan, and we now root for the bad guys. Lick my balls, rest of the country.

The Yankees have won 27 World Series titles, the most successful franchise of any sport. This is awesome. This is not a reason for me to stop liking them, just because they're successful.

I'll admit that I don't like the fact that starting in the late 2000's, the Yanks started spending more money than all the other teams and were able to sign all the top free agents, thus "buying" their success. But this problem is a function of the MLB, not the Yankees. Unlike the other three major professional sports leagues, baseball does not have a salary cap. That means that teams are not limited in how much they spend on paying their players.

Thus, the teams in the bigger markets, which generate the most revenue, have an inherent advantage over teams in smaller markets. Note that the Yankees, Mets, Red Sox, White Sox, Cardinals, and Giants all have perennial good teams. Unfortunately, the Kansas City Royals, Pittsburgh Pirates, Seattle Mariners, and Cincinatti Reds, perennially suck. There are exceptions, however, like the Twins. They have among others, Joe Mauer, who was cool enough to stay in his home state in the face of a 20 million dollar offer from the Yankees, settling for a meager, paycheck-to-paycheck rate of $18 million a year. What a hero.

So yes, I am and will probably always be a sports fan.

METAPHOR BREAK!

Sports are great. They are naturally dramatic and, what I love, totally improvised. Basketball, I think provides the best metaphor for improvisation. The point guard brings up the ball and declares by passing to another player. The offense starts, the scene begins. Players move and pass, yes and-ing eachother, trying to score two points of laughs. Some players are power-forwards, posting up and slamming home a dunk to thunderous applause. Others are point guards, specializing in passing to others, assisting them, setting them up for points. Still more are sharp-shooting three point shooters, who can score from anywhere on the court, somewhat unexpectedly. A great basketball team is in sync, group-minded. The metaphor is perfect.

I realize this has become a lengthy post. I will thus save my experiences as an athlete myself for a future entry.

Thanks for reading today!

The Minnesota DMV: Let's Learn Passive Aggressive Road Rage!

2010-05-19T08:56:00.016-05:00

Many of my friends have already heard this story, but it must be recorded on this blog.

With my recent scooter purchase and now committed stay in Minnesota, I decided to head over to the DMV with several goals in mind:

1. Attain a Minnesota Drivers License.
2. Attain a Minnesota Motorcycle Permit. (For reasons I will explain in a minute.)
3. Register and get plates for my car.

One of these goals were accomplished. I'll give you a hint: It wasn't the first two.

Minnesota is, to my knowledge, the only state in the Union that requires a separate written test in order to transfer a license from another state. That's right: Even if you've been cleared to drive by, say, New York State, you must first complete Minnesota's written test to get 10,000 lakes of driving approval. While this seems ridiculous and actually, according to my lawyer mother, unconstitutional, I figured I'd breeze through the exam since, you know, I've been driving for a good seven years now and feel I've gotten the hang of things. Oh. Ohhh, how wrong I was.

So this computerized, multiple choice written test was 30 questions long, and I was required to achieve a score of 80% correct in order to pass. First of all, 80%? Where I come from, that's a B-, not an F. But that's neither here nor there.

What is here and there, friends, is how stupid most of these questions were. When I say stupid, I mean filled with dumb specifics that were designed to make you fail if you hadn't studied the MN Driver's Manual which is filled with said specific information. Some of these questions included the following:

1. When approaching a school bus with its stop sign extended, how many feet behind the bus must you stop?
a. 20 feet b. 30 feet c. 50 feet d. 70 feet

Anybody got the answer to this off the top of their head? Didn't think so. Honestly, who even cares? Everyone knows what to do in this situation. You stop, and wait for the children to exit the bus and receive their Juicy Juice on the safety of the curb. So I know how to handle that situation. A better question would have been

When approaching a school bus with its stop sign extended, do you
a. Hit the children crossing the street
b. Stop and wait for the children to cross the street until the stop sign is retracted and the bus moves again.

I know the answer to that one.

Another question that almost made my brain explode with anger involved slow-moving vehicles carrying this sign:

The question, however, had nothing to do with my driving, at all:

Vehicles carrying this sign must be traveling
a. 10 MPH or less b. 20MPH or less c 40 MPH or less d. 50MPH or less

Bluhbluhbluh, what!? Seriously? Why do I need to know the speed of THAT VEHICLE? I should be concerned with my speed. I'm not taking the written test to drive THAT VEHICLE! So I got that one wrong too, you know, because I've been driving my car for the last seven years.

Finally, I'll share this one with you. I've now run this one by a number of my friends, and everyone seems to know the answer, except I didn't.

What does this sign mean?
a. Curves ahead b. Slippery conditions c. Slow for animals d. Fuck you, New Yorker!

OK, so I didn't choose b., the right answer, because I believed the sign to be quite similar to this one,

which, if you think about it, could mean this same thing. Think about it. The arrow moving in a curvy direction denotes a curvy road. But he car moving in a curvy direction could also mean that. And let's be real here: If conditions are slippery or icy, don't you think I know that already? Is that sign going to turn what otherwise would have been, in my mind, a dry sunny day, into an icy, slippery rainy day?

Alright. So I failed that test, because there were several other questions like that.

But, I mean, come on! Constitutional issues aside, a written test to ascertain whether or not you know how to drive already should not be difficult. It's not like I'm taking the test to get into the grad school of driving. Driving is pretty fucking common sense oriented. It's mostly a matter of, don't hit shit. That school bus over there? Don't hit it. Pedestrians? Other cars? Don't hit them. Go when the light is green and stop when it's red. Look at the speed limit and stay below 10 mph above it. Turn off the car after you park it. Shit like that. Minnesota doesn't believe I can do all of this.

I told the gentlemen at the DMV, who by the way, were really nice and sympathetic, that this test was bullshit. I explained to them that I spent my formative driving years maneuvering the streets of Manhattan. Do you have any idea how difficult is for a 17 year old with his permit to drive around New York City? Crazy Taxis going 90 on tight two way streets, fucking delivery bikers everywhere, no right on reds, changing lanes can always mean disaster, constant construction, etc. etc. After that, I think I can take on LaSalle at 4 in the afternoon and parallel park by a lake. Minnesota doesn't believe I can do all of this.

We now move to the motorcycle permit test.

As above noted, I do not own a motorcycle, I own a scooter. But my scooter is just powerful enough, engine-wise, to be technically classified as a motorcycle.

(50 cc's and below is considered moped, above that is considered motorcycle, for which you need a motorcycle license. I do not even know what "cc's" mean, but whatever. My scooter is 80 cc's.)

So I took this written test right after failing the drivers test. To be fair, I should have studied for this one. But I figured that since I'd ridden a scooter before, had been driving for a long time, and all of it is basically common sense, I'd be fine. Ah. Ha. Ha. Nope.

This test, as well, was riddled with specifics. Measurements of safety in feet, when to use front versus back breaks, and others.

But the more frustrating element of the motorcycle permit test was that HALF THE QUESTIONS pertained to MOTORCYCLE GANGS. Motorcycle gangs, folks.

How do you stagger riders in the gang?

Do you put more experienced riders in the front or the back of the pack?

How do you make turns?

When do you go into single file configuration?

I wanted to stop the test in the middle, stand up, and yell at the administrators, "What is this, an audition for "Easy Rider?" I don't have a motorcycle! I have a fucking scooter! I plan on using said scooter to go to the grocery store and back. I have no immediate plans to join a motorcycle gang, or even a scooter gang for that matter! If I do do that, I will continue to take this bullshit exam, but otherwise, first blow me then give me a fucking permit to drive my little scooter down your little fucking Minnesota streets!"

I didn't say this. I just failed the test. So now I have neither a MN Drivers' license nor can legally ride my scooter in Minnesota. Great. The good news is I can return and take the test once per day, if necessary. I guess I'll fucking study in a way that doesn't include, you know, actually driving, which I'll note again, I already have a license to do.

The final goal stated at the top I was able to accomplish quite easily and quickly, so thanks, DMV. Thanks for a whole lot of nothing that took a whole lot of energy and frustration.

The great, proud state of Minnesota.

Thanks for reading today.

Humor, lost: Chattin' you up

2010-05-17T20:04:00.008-05:00

I've been in the mood lately of talking. To everyone I meet. Whenever I can. Sometimes this can get annoying, mostly to people who spend a few hours with me at a time. I am just in one of those phases where I want to chat with anyone and everyone I encounter, I feel curious, suspicious, gregarious.

It's a blast! Sure, some people just don't want to talk to me, or feel weird about a little redheaded Jew approaching them with kind words/ witty banter. An example of this is the four TSA officers I chatted up the other day while waiting in Arrivals at Humphrey Terminal. As per their way, the TSA guys were standing around, clutching their weapons, discussing what must have been the best ways to prevent the imminent terrorist attack on Bloomington. As I approached, I believe their first instinct was to reach for their holsters, but my backwards BNW cap, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt, black Chucks, I think, calmed their patriotic mama-bear instincts.

"What's up guys?" I beckoned.

"Huh?" They were puzzled.

"Just wanted to say hello," I replied.

They looked at me with a collective expression that spelled out sarcastically, "Well, this isn't weird at all!"

"Nice weather we're having, huh?" They seemed to budge just a half an inch.

"Sure kid."

From there, we went on to discuss, among other things, where I could buy one of their snazzy bright blue TSA uniforms second-hand (nowhere but Officer Bill's basement, so nowhere,) the kegstands I would be doing down at Carleton that weekend, and how many kegstands Officer Bill would be doing that night. These guys loved college.

Most people enjoy passing the time somehow. I think it's just a function of my feeling in a pretty good place right now, but this is a practice I'd really like to continue. Talking to people is fun. Keep in mind, folks, I come from a place (Manhattan), where this is not commonplace. Most New Yorkers walking on the street have one goal in mind: getting to where they're going. There's not a lot of, just, chillin' on the curb. Because if you stand around too long, who knows...you could get shot or mugged or pooped on by a dog or homeless man. In Minnesota, things move a little slower and I think people want to enjoy the moment a little more. Again, I'm glad I'm here.

Because why not just talk to people? What's the worst that could happen? I'll tell you: nothing. Someone will just walk away. Cool! I'll be okay, and so will they.

However, this whole chatting thing sometimes does lead to awkward encounters. This is not so much because I am an awkward person, because I really don't think I am. It's because I try to be a funny person, maybe a little too often. I figure if I'm offering my conversation, I may as well serve up a little funny as icing on that cake. For those not humor-inclined (a larger section of the population than I think anyone believes), this sometimes yields slightly uncomfortable, but for me, even funnier situations.

Take today. I had two of these. I was riding my awesome new Scooter from Loring Park to Ridgedale Center for Apple paperwork stuff, and of course got lost along the way because I take smaller, slower roads. I was somewhere near Plymouth, and stopped outside an Arby's to ask for directions. I approached a woman carrying a year-old child.

"Hi! Hello! Can you please tell me how I get to Ridgedale Center from here?"

"Hmmm," she thought aloud while the baby, let's call him Bob, cooed. "I, uh, well, if you go to 55, cut across to 394, you should get there. I think."

"Well, you see, ma'am," I politely retorted, "I'm trying to stay off the highways on this scooter here. Any ideas for smaller roads?"

"Aw geez," she Minnesota-ed. "I don't really know. I guess if you keep going along that road over there, you should hit it at some point." Good call. In essence, she was right. If I did keep going along that road, provided I didn't hit any oceans or volcanos, I probably could have kept going around the entire world, moving lightly south until I reached Ridgedale Center. I concluded this woman couldn't help me, but decided to throw her a little treat before I left. Keep in mind, folks, I was sitting on my scooter this entire time.

"You know, if you want, I could just let your kid hop on this thing and you could just give me a ride." There. Tossed that out there.

Silence.

"No, no. I don't think so." She was right. That would certainly be unsafe. I thanked her and sped away.

After the Apple meeting I stopped at a Super Duper Target in Ridgedale to pick up a new softball glove, a tennis racket to give to my friend Gunther for our pending match, and some tennis balls. Quick side note: in the last month I have purchased a softball glove twice- once at K-Mart, once at Target. BOTH times have gone down the same way: I search the entire glove section for a lefty, cannot find it, seek help from a customer sales assistant, who proceeds to magically find one amidst the sea of righties. I kind of like the way that plays out, but next time I'll just go right to Joe in the red shirt.

Anyways, I arrived at the checkout counter with said three items: glove, racket, case of tennis balls. A DIFFERENT woman with a baby was ahead of me, just finishing paying for her large carload of baby food. I'm assuming there were several smaller babies inside her baby, since there's no way that kid could have possibly eaten all the baby food she was buying before he was, like 27. As she packed her baby food into her cart, I checked out. I looked at Ali, the quiet cashier, as he looked at my items. He didn't look puzzled, but I made sure he wasn't:

"Hey man, I know you're probably wondering, 'What sport are you gonna play today?' right? Well, first I'm gonna play tennis, then I have a softball game, Ok?"

Ali half smiled. I know he spoke English, because he asked what my preferred method of payment was, in those words. But I got nothing on the comment.

Except that the woman with the baby laughed her ass off. Where was she when I needed directions?

Ah, such is life. Minneapolitans not doing anything: watch out! I'm comin' to get ya with hands full of chat.

Thanks for reading today!

Found Histories: "Editorials" from Sophomore Year, Carleton College, Fall 2005

2010-05-12T09:56:00.006-05:00

Hello!

So I found two written pieces of note this week, while perusing a notebook from my sophomore year of college at Carleton. The first, which I will post facto title "On Small Groups," is an attack against the practice, popular amongst Carleton professors, of splitting students, mid-class, into groups of five or six to discuss the lesson being presented. I really, really hated this, for reasons I have included in the piece. I think that's all the intro I need, so enjoy (comments in parenthesis I have added later for some clarification):

To all Carleton Professors-
Please stop splitting us into small groups during class time. I suppose this practice is beneficial to you if you want to a) interrupt your lesson, b)lose the interest/drive of your students, c) turn groups of three to four students against each other, and d) completely waste 15 minutes of class time. Here's the deal: I (sic) pay $40,000/year to go to school here. I think that amount of money earns me the right to choose whom I learn from. So if my choice is between you, a PhD level academic and tenured professor, and Kenny from Duluth whom I saw last night drunkenly grinding all up on a Carleton Singing Knightengale (a capella singer) in the basement of Love House, I'm going to go with the one who didn't do five Irish carbombs in five minutes the evening prior, assuming that was the Prof. Don't get me wrong: I like Kenny. I enjoyed him in the famed "Man Dance" of Ebony (Carleton dancing event, highly gay) lore. He scored five runs at Rotblatt (Carleton's annual all-day drinking-softball game/tradition). He's got great pot. What I don't care about is Kenny's take on Thomas Moore's concept of social hierarchy in the Utopia- for that, I'm going to turn to your perspective, my dear professors.
Respectfully,
Max Leibowitz,'08

This piece was not chosen for publication in the student newspaper. I'm not sure why. I know many students who shared my view on this issue.

My next piece was I will title "On Emoticons," and needs no introduction:

To Whom it May Concern-
Everyone using AOL or AIM needs to stop using Emoticons, immediately. I don't know who conceived of the notion of typographical facial expressions. But that person has a masters in Stupid Studies. Question: In real life social interaction, do you punctuate the end of a sentence by simultaneously sticking out your tongue and winking? If you do, go back and live on your Douche commune. Chances are, if you did do that, you'd look like an idiot. But guess what: the same is true of your online personality. I have a confession to make: I'm slightly more moved by the words "I'm sad" than a colon and an open parenthesis; in fact, your use of an emoticon in lieu of the written word serves to disqualify you from the benefits of my sympathy to your situation by a factor of 10. Thank you
:)()((::P.,
Max Leibowitz, '08

This too, was not chosen for publication in The Carletonian. Again, I don't see why, since all of my points are completely legitimate and justified.

Thank you for reading today, and keep these sentiments in mind as you go through your day. I know, I know, I'm a dick.

Fear

2010-05-04T17:14:00.016-05:00

What are you afraid of?

From the dictionary:

fear
–noun
1. a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid.

2. a specific instance of or propensity for such a feeling: an abnormal fear of heights.

3. concern or anxiety; solicitude: a fear for someone's safety.

4. reverential awe, esp. toward god.

5. that which causes a feeling of being afraid; that of which a person is afraid: Cancer is a common fear.

What is it about fear? It's safe to say we all experience it, if not every day, then quite often as we walk through life. Fear is a really, really scary thing. It makes us hesitate, isolate, capitulate. Along with Anger, Love, Suffering, Joy, and Hummus, it’s one of our seminal emotions. It’s written into our DNA. I mean, from a biological perspective, fear makes a lot of sense.

When we were Neanderthal people, we HAD to be afraid. Fear literally saved our lives. We see the remnants of it today- we still fear spiders, snakes, bears, sharks, and Phil Spector. As primitive beings, in order not to be eaten alive or stung or maimed, we were afraid of those things capable of hurting us, we ran away. I mean, check out Lucy's husband up there, he's packin' serious cro-magnon heat. We're all scared of death, but I think that idea is something I'd rather discuss later. Anyways, since early times, the fear thing has kind of stuck, since we still instinctually fear ugly, nasty, fanged creatures today.

But most of the things we also fear today have nothing to do with scary animals. Indeed, we’re scared of scary people, like creepers in the back alley or people that yell really loud. It goes much further than that though. We fear concepts, like uncertainty and failure. We fear relationships, like break-ups or the threat of punishment from superiors. Some of our fears are totally illogical, like clowns or movie posters or the color yellow. And sometimes our greatest fears are within us- we’re scared of our own power, our ability, our potential.

What’s this all about? How have we come to this place in our anthropological history where we’ve taken a biological, emotional need and applied it to more complex psychological constructs? Part of it is that we have evolved as a species; our brains have gotten bigger, and we’ve created more rich and vivid elements of life. Yet the core genesis of fear, the need to avoid physically threatening situations, has been mostly eliminated by technology. We know how to kill or tame scary bugs and beasts. Some people carry weapons to make them feel safer. We have medicines that will even cure physical ailments from the natural world, like penicillin for disease and antidotes for venoms. In the physical world, there’s really nothing to be afraid of anymore. Yet fear is thriving- a much more powerful force probably than it was thousands of years ago.

As I like to do on this blog, I will tie this concept into improv. Improvisational theatre is a really, really scary thing. Even setting aside the notion of performing on stage under bright lights in front of people, getting up there without a script to guide us is something to be afraid of. Because, let’s face it, there’s a good chance what an improvisor will come up with will suck. Experienced improvisers have come to accept this. You can, and absolutely positively will, do a lot of terrible improv. You’ll do bad scenes, lots of them. Sure, you’ll do great ones, too. But no matter how much experience you have, how great your scene partner or team is, you’re going to do bad improv sometimes. That is a scary thought, I guess.

Is it though? Here’s the deal. Improv is risky. Like walking really close to a snake. But rather unlike with the snake, the risk of improv may also bring the reaping of a great reward. An experienced improvisor knows that the very thing that makes improv scary is also what makes it great, brilliant even. We don’t know what’s going to happen, so ANYTHING could happen. There’s a scary rabbit hole in every scene, and we’re taught to jump in it, and we don’t know where it’s going, but we don’t care, because it may very well lead to an awesome place. And we love that so, so much. So the improvisor has learned not to fear improv so much, just to accept its risks and cash in on the big payoff whenever it may come.

Can we take a page from this idea in life? I don’t know. I’ve done a lot of improv, and I think about this stuff a lot, and there are still things I’m really fucking scared of. It sucks, because I KNOW that fears are to be faced, then laughed at. But that stupid feeling is still there.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt said, "We have nothing to fear but fear itself." He couldn't use his legs, so I'd imagine he'd know something about fear, since he couldn't run away from stuff and had to face his fears by default. Then again, maybe he's still full of shit. He did do the whole New Deal thing. Bazam! Topical.

I’d be interested to know what the five readers of this blog think about this. I believe we need fear, in some way, still. We need it to stay alive as we did at the dawn of our history. We may even want to fear.

Tell me what you think about fear. I’m actually afraid to ask.

Found History: Disciplinary Note from Latin Class

2010-04-27T11:22:00.006-05:00

I was home in NYC for the weekend and found some old artifacts, pictures, etc. These are all gems but the following I share with you I am particularly proud of. I think it truly encompasses everything about my personality circa 1999-2003. This is a disciplinary note I received (basically a slap in the wrist) that was sent to my dean and my parents. I received it for poor behavior in my AP Latin V class in 11th grade. I don't really have the means to scan it so I re-produce it here. I should note that "Maximus" is not my real name but my Latin class name. Enjoy:

RIVERDALE COUNTRY SCHOOL
DISCIPLINARY NOTE

Name: Max ("Maximus") Leibowitz
Class: 11
Date: 4/25/03
Teacher: Mr. Ettinger

The level of civility in our Latin V (AP) classroom has dropped, and Maximus is one of the responsible parties. I have said that students need to treat each other respectfully or keep silent, and I mean it. Maximus was neither respectful nor silent on Tuesday April 22, neither during nor--especially--after class, when he read off an insulting Latin poem about a classmate which he composed on classical models. I have spoken with Maximus and made my displeasure known. With just a few weeks left in our course (and fewer before the AP exam!), he has got to return to behavior appropriate to our school and my Latin classroom.

Signed,
S.E. Ettinger

Friends, I wish...wish to high heavens...that I still had a copy of that poem I wrote (quasi-improvised) that made fun of a girl I had a crush on for being a whore, in Latin, in proper verse and meter. I remember seething with anger as the girl made googly eyes at my best friend, and as we read Catullus' love poetry, deciding to compose my own just for her. I read it aloud in front of everyone at the end of class. Everyone was laughing INCLUDING Mr. Ettinger, but the girl was upset and morals forced him to write me up.

A great moment in my life, folks. Thanks for reading today.

Choices

2010-04-17T05:27:00.010-05:00

Alright, so it's time for my first real post to this sucker. The Black Eyed Peas have told me repeatedly to get it started, so let's do that. In this post, I'd like to discuss "choices."

There's a point in one of the Matrix movies where The Oracle says to Neo: "There is no need to ask me which choice to make. You've already made it. Now you have to understand it."

We make a great many choices as we pass through life, and I myself have spent the last few months contemplating what they are and what they mean and how and why we make them. I want to start by offering a excerpt from Deepak Chopra, whose work I must admit I have not exhaustively read. The picture up there is of him, contemplating like a dog in heat. These are his thoughts on "Right and Wrong Choices," an excerpt from his "Book of Secrets:"

Right and wrong decisions: If you obsess over whether you are making
the right decision, you are basically assuming that the universe will
reward you for one thing and punish you for another. This isn't a
correct assumption because the universe is flexible - it adapts to
every decision you make. Right and wrong are only mental constructs.
Immediately I can hear strong emotional objections to this. What about
Mr. Right? What about the perfect job? What about buying the best car?
We are all in the habit of looking like consumers at people, jobs, and
cars, wanting the best value for the money. But in reality the
decisions we label as right and wrong are arbitrary. Mister Right is
one of a hundred or a thousand people you could spend a satisfying
life with. The best job is impossible to define, given that jobs turn
out to be good or bad based on a dozen factors that come in to play
only after you start the job. (Who knows in advance what your
co-workers will be like, what the corporate climate is, whether you
will have the right idea at the right moment?) And the best car may
get driven into an accident two days after you buy it.

The universe has no fixed agenda. Once you make any decision, it works
around that decision. There is no right or wrong, only a series of
possibilities that shift with each thought, feeling, and action that
you experience. If this sounds too mystical, refer again to your body.
Every significant vital sign - body temperature, heart rate, oxygen
consumption, hormone level, brain activity and so on - alters the
moment you decide to do anything. A runner's metabolism can't afford
to be as low as the metabolism of someone reading a book because,
without increased air intake and faster heart rate, the runner would
suffocate and collapse with muscle spasms.

Decisions are signals telling your body, mind and environment to move
in a certain direction. It may turn out afterward that you feel
dissatisfied with the direction you've taken, but to obsess over right
and wrong decisions is the same as taking no direction at all. Keep in
mind that you are the choice-maker, which means that who you are is
far more than any single choice you have ever made or ever will make.

The final paragraph is particularly intriguing to me. The idea that decisions "tell your body" something seems somewhat counterintuitive. One would usually consider a decision an active move, something one would use to tell rather than be told. Yet if taken in the context of the entire passage, it seems that a decision in and of itself is not all that powerful. Chopra is saying that there are no "right" or "wrong" decisions because our world bends and shape-shifts around the choice. If it is a nice day outside, you may decide to walk to work rather than drive. On that walk, you may run into your soulmate. Who may then cheat on you and steal all your money. Or you might step in a pile of dog poop. Under which is a plastic bag filled with a hundred dollars. The decision to walk to work didn't really matter all that much- it's what became of the choice that is important.

I was presented with this quote by my improv teacher and coach, Jill Bernard. I had asked about choices in the life context, but she has also referenced the passage in improv classes I have taken with her. As will probably be a common theme in this blog, this is one of the countless ways in which improv mirrors life. When we improvise, we have to make choices. We decide what to say, what to do, where to be, etc. Every improv scene starts with a single choice made by each improvisor, usually with a "declaration," a choice usually in the form of a sentence, sound, or movement. Another improvisor will then make a choice, hopefully in support of the first improvisor's choice. From there, choices are being continually made to move the scene along, develop the characters, make discoveries. What's funny about watching improv scenes is that it's often hard to remember what that first "declaration" was, particularly if the scene was vivid and rich, since the improvisors bended and shape-shifted the universe around that choice, and they were off from there. There are no "bad" declarations, because the improvisors literally can use anything to jump off with. Unless, of course, no declaration was made at all. Then no choices could be made, and no scene could happen. Boo.

That being said, the choice MUST be made. No choice is thus the worst choice of all, whether it brings pain or joy. The act of making the choice is indeed wonderful no matter what.

If a decision cannot be right or wrong, it has no power or meaning in and of itself. It is simply one path to take, and, like Chopra says, tells your body to move in a certain direction. You are the same person before and after you make the choice, but not necessarily before and after you take the direction the choice takes you.

I believe I have made lots of right and wrong decisions in my life. I don't think it's unfair to believe in "mistakes." Chopra's thesis does not preclude human beings from making errors; rather, that the error is not inherent in the decision itself. What I hope to take from this is to focus on the right path, not the right choice. It is not the destination, but the journey that matters. Now, the idea that choice is irrelevant may be somewhat fatalistic, but I really don't want to delve into that right now. Why?

Because I need to decide what I'm going to wear today.

A Blog New World!

2010-04-15T11:42:00.005-05:00

Hello. My name is Max Leibowitz, and this is my blog. I have never had a blog before, so this is an exciting new experience. I have and continue to read many blogs, and most of them are uninteresting and somewhat masturbatory. Although I could be characterized by both of those things, I will try to make this blog neither. These last few months have been a little crazy for me, and I will explain my situation in the coming posts. Suffice to say, I love being here in Minneapolis with the wonderful people I call friends.
The above picture is of me and my new Guinea Pig, Putter. He is a shining beacon in my life. Some of you may get to know him. So anyways, this is the blog. I hope many of you read it and make pithy comments. Enjoy!