resurfacing

Sorry for disappearing, kids. But after months and months of salary-lessness (due, in short, to rather severe naivetÈ on my part; we initially pushed Cyan’s projects one by one, rather than multiple projects all at the same time – something we eventually learned was the requisite approach in an industry where the schedule on any given film is likely to slip and slip and then slip some more), bling-bling beckoned me out to fair San Francisco to kick off the more tightly re-focused Paradigm Blue with a pair of techno-wunderkind consulting gigs.

And, apparently, if I’m getting paid to crank out overly verbose, snarkily cynical critiques of a company or nonprofit’s products, services and strategies, it’s tough for me to muster that same snarky verbosity on the home front. (I imagine this same effect must be murderous on the sex lives of gynecologists: “honey, please, put that away”.

Lucky for you, though, I’m now back in NYC, back to balancing tech dorkery with movie ‘glamour’, leaving me plenty of time to write the rambling, inane content you’ve come to love. (Or, at least, to mildly tolerate).

Before I get on with my life, however, a few highlights from the trip:

1. Brunch with the lovely, smart, funny, articulate, and – sadly – just married Nara Nayar, an online friend I’d been corresponding with since my short Blind Date Blog stint a few years back (if you missed that – consider yourself lucky) but had not previously had the pleasure of meeting in real life.
2. Playing Alternative Lifestyle Life with Helen Jane and Hilary and James and James’ friend Cary; laughing, more or less nonstop, for eight or nine hours, to the point where my cheeks were literally sore from the muscular exertion of it by the next day.

3. In celebration of my father’s 54th birthday (yesterday) and my 25th (tomorrow), heading to Raging Waters, a water park about a half hour south of my parents home, for an afternoon of riding water slide after water slide. Take that, maturity!

4. A very, very excellent date that I’m not going to talk about because it appeared to have actual potential – something that totally freaks out my inner commitment-phobe if I actually think about it too much.

Still, despite all the excitement: NYC, it’s good to be home.

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July 15, 2004

familial congratulations

To my father: For being upgraded to full professor at Stanford, despite not actually (at least as far as I can tell) doing any teaching or research.

To my mother: For, this past weekend, attaining her PhD, despite already having amassed so much experience in the area that other students in the same program were citing her papers as seminal work in the field.

To my brother: For, unexpectedly, getting a job here in New York for the summer (having gone in to speak with a prominent real estate developer in the city, just to pick his brain about the industry, and being told, “you’re a cocky little bastard. Want to work here?”), and for very quickly putting a life (apartment, etc.) in place here in New York, even if, in the process, he lost his cell phone, and also got really drunk at Otis, the bar around my corner, culminating in him baring his ass cheeks on request of a bachelorette party also drinking heavily at the same bar.

To my self: For finally being able to climb the Elias route on Rat Rock in Central Park, even if I did get stuck partway up, and while pausing to regroup and chalk my hands, have a six year old wearing Spiderman face paint run up behind me yelling, “hey, mister, do you need help? I can save you, I’m Spiderman!”

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June 21, 2004

playing hotel

My brother, who seems to do very little these days except come to visit me in New York, is, once again, here visiting me in New York. Though he’s on his way to a summer real estate development job in Chicago (which starts next Monday), he’s taking advantage of the week of vacation before he starts mainly by sleeping exceedingly late on our couch, watching more TV than have my roommates and I, combined, since the start of the year, and generally causing drunken trouble.

Normally, I’d be happy to let him do his own thing while I do mine, but, unfortunately, we don’t have a spare set of keys for our apartment. And though we’ve tried to get them duplicated, apparently our front door key is some super-high-tech deal that can only be etched by computer lathe, controlled by a credit card key carrying the right shaping information. Sadly, I’m not making that up.

As a result, my brother’s and my schedules are hopelessly intertwined, pulled together by a series of elaborately choreographed key handoffs. They seem to be working well, in terms of actually allowing us both to get in and out and back in when we need, but they’ve also brought me a bit deeper into my brother’s life then I suspect he or I would prefer. Last night, for example, heading to pick up the keys from him at a local bar in our neighborhood, I found him, not drinking, but standing outside the bar, making out with some girl he had apparently just met.

And, certainly, at some abstract, ‘I taught him everything he knows’ sort of level, I was exceedingly proud. But at a more practical ‘listen, bitch, get your hands off my brothers ass, because I have a morning meeting and need to get home and go to sleep’ level, it may be a touch more brotherly bonding that we really need.

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June 16, 2004

cue the music

As a prelude to the general troublemaking planned for this evening, friend and colleauge Yoav Fisher (with a bit of assistance from me) crafted this delightful and thoroughly offensive little ditty to perform for Bobby’s bachelor benefit:

The Ballad of Bobby Den

At his bris, his mother said
“marry a Jew or I’ll chop off your head.

Be a doctor or a lawya,
but make sure she’s Jewish and not a goya.

You can play or dance or laugh or read,
just don’t waste any of your Jewish seed.”

[Chorus:]

Oy what a mensch that boy became,
and all the ladies knew his name.

But mainly he learned, the one real fact is,
shiksa girls are just for practice.

[Verse 2:]

At his bar mitva the Rabbi said,
“puberty is just ahead.

You can talk to girlies, but please be wary
of those with names like Christina or Mary.

And this one thing you can’t ignore:
blond hair girls are all just whores”

[Chorus]

[Verse 3:]

At the college, his friends were stating,
“we think it’s time you started dating.”

He met a girl, her name was Tova
She ate some ham and it was ova.

He kept on trying with other girls,
But none appreciated his pais curls.

[Chorus]

[Verse 4:]

Then one day, he met a lady,
and he knew at once that he was ready.

She was the best looking girl on the Upper West Side,
and he asked her to be his Kosher bride.

Soon he’s a doctor, oy grandma’s proud,
and in just three days he’s wedding vowed.

[Chorus x2]

So long as we can get everyone singing along with choruses, it should kick things off nicely.

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March 11, 2004

boston bound

While the next part of the ‘shape up’ series will be shortly forthcoming, I’m a bit harried today, as I leave early tomorrow morning to Boston. One of my closest friends, Bobby Den, gets married a week from Sunday, and I’ll be serving as his best man (leaving him in the very dangerous position of handing me a microphone in front of his family and our mutual friends). Bobby has, over the past few years, become increasingly religious, and so this weekend I’m attending his aufruf, a Jewish tradition of having the groom come up to the Torah the Shabbat before his wedding.

The aufruf stems from a story about King Solomon, who supposedly had two special rooms added to the great Temple, one for mourners and the other for grooms, so the mourners could be consoled and the bridegrooms blessed. In the centuries since the Temple was destroyed, however, a custom evolved to instead have the groom come to synagogue before the wedding so people could bless him there. So I’m whipping out a yarmulke, dusting off my Hebrew, and heading up the coast to catch the action. A joyous occasion, an aufruf is celebrated with food and drink and more drink, so it could be a long night.

Further, as I’ll be staying the weekend, I’ll also likely be joining Bobby at synagogue to celebrate Purim, a Jewish holiday based on the book of Esther. The holiday lauds Esther, the queen of Persia, for owning up to her Judaism and standing up to her husband, King Ahashueras, to save her people from massacre at the hands of Haman, Ahashueras’ right-hand man. The celebration involves not only a reading of the book of Esther, but a Talmudic command to drink “ad d’lo yada”, or “until one can’t tell the difference” between the names of Haman and Esther’s uncle Mordechai. (Side note: Exactly how undercover could Esther’s Judaism have been considering she had an Uncle Mordechai?) In other words, the Talmud says I have to get blitzed. And who am I to forsake centuries of Jewish wisdom?

Steady, liver, this could be a long couple of days.

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March 4, 2004

valentine wishes

I sat down to write a light, funny piece about Valentine’s Day and love and whatever else. And as I was just piecing it together in my head, an email appeared in my inbox from one of my very closest friends, who’s living abroad, saying that she had this morning been sexually assaulted.

While I immediately wrote her back, I didn’t really know what to say, or do. At Yale, on separate occasions, I was the first person two other close female friends told after they were date-raped. And I didn’t really know what to say or do then either, except to listen, and hug, and listen more.

But I can’t hug someone thousands of miles away. Without a telephone where she’s living, and only sporadic access to an internet cafe, I can’t even listen, and I can only occasionally read. I cannot possibly imagine how she feels right now, but I know I’m both terrified and enraged on her behalf.

It was because of my other two friends that I started teaching women’s self defense; because of this friend, I’ll be returning to doing so. There are far too many terrible things in this world for me to even begin to comprehend. And, at the same time, there is far too little love.

So remember that this Valentine’s Day: while we should never stop trying to rid the world of those terrible things, we should also never stop trying to fill it with more love.

Here’s wishing a safe, happy, love-filled Valentine’s Day to all of you out there in the ether,

josh

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February 14, 2004

gloating

My parents are better than yours, because not only did they send a care package assortment of Valentines’ Day candies, they included a card with a pickle on the front that inside reads “You mean a great dill to us.”

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February 13, 2004

david newman: the interview

It is Thanksgiving day, 3:42 pm. At 5:00, twenty-some guests will be arriving for dinner. My brother David, unshowered, in sweats and a pit-stained undershit, lies on the couch watching football, Green Bay versus Detroit. Detroit is winning, 13 to 7. In the other room, my mother is yelling for us both to come in and help set the table.

Me: Dave, mom’s yelling for you.

David: [silence]

Me: Okay. In that case, let me interview you for my website.

David: Nope.

Me: You realize I’m going to write about this either way.

David: [silence]

Me: So, basically, I should just say that you spend all day lying here, watching TV with your hand in your pants?

David: [turns to look towards me for the first time since I’ve come in. Winks. Goes back to watching TV.]

Fin.

Figure 1. Subject in Natural Habitat

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November 26, 2003

a confluence of events

Scouring the web for suitable links for the Salmagundi sidebar last night, I stumbled across this bit of Peeps research. Unlike the Peeps experimentation linked previously, which largely focused on research performed on Peeps, the newly discovered work instead explores the ability of Peeps to actually perform research themselves.

Needless to say, I was thrilled by the site. And, apparently, I’m not the only one inexplicably fascinated by the little marshmallowy suckers. Yet, as a Jew (and, therefore, growing up having never received an Easter basket), I’d never had occasion to actually taste a Peep.

Until, that is, yesterday morning. My parents, in a standard display of insanity, FedExed out from California an assortment of trick-or-treat candy; coincidentally enough, the box included Halloween-friendly Ghost Peeps and Pumpkin Peeps.

After chewing my way through both boxes, I can officially conclude: they’re damned tasty. Perhaps tasty in a “so bad they’re good” kind of way, but damned tasty none the less.

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October 31, 2003