Neurotica

Look No Further...

2009-01-14T21:39:00.003-06:00

On December 31, 2008, my life changed.

That was the night I met someone that I am truly crazy about, someone that I am now proud and elated to call my girlfriend. Her name is Mandy...and I adore her. We've been talking since the beginning of September and, yeah, she's amazing.

But I wasn't so sure I wanted to take the plunge, at first. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be in a relationship with her.

For one thing, she's all the way in Minnesota. And as many of you know, for the longest time, I had totally planned on moving there, but things have changed and I think I'm gonna be staying in Omaha indefinitely. It's so weird. All this time, I've been trying to escape O-Town, but--it's taken me a long time to realize this--this place? This is my home. I don't want to leave my friends, my family. I love them way too much. It's no longer because of fear that I'm staying...or money for that matter. I'm staying because I want to stay. I'm staying on my own terms. And that feels good. I like being in control of my own destiny.

The other reason--and, let's face it, the biggest one--is that I've been burned. I've been hurt by a few different girls; heartbroken. Devastated, really. I was scared that I'd get hurt again. And one night, we were lying together, and she just told me that she's in this 200% if I am. She also told me that she shouldn't have to convince me to want to be with her. I either do or I don't.

Turns out, I did. And I'm mad about her.

No, it's not this perfect thing where we agree on everything. I don't even know if I'd even want something like that. In fact, sometimes, we have little disagreements, debates, or what-have-you. I like that. I like that we can be completely upfront with one another about what we think about something. I appreciate the way she challenges me.

But that's not to say that there isn't romance and smiles and kisses and all of that sappy stuff. We're crazy about each other. And we tell each other that all the time. We miss each other when we're not "together" (read: on the phone or online). We make each other laugh and, yes, sometimes sing. It's wonderful and I truly feel blessed.

I won't lie, though, I still have my insecurities, my doubts, my fears. The events of the past--recent and not-so-recent--have made it so that my "Spidey sense" is always tingling. It's like I'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, constantly waiting for all of this amazing happiness and warmth I've been feeling lately to be taken away from me. Again.

But then--thank you, once again, Zoloft!! How I love thee? Let me count the ways!--I begin to breathe again. I lay my head on my pillow and I smile to myself. Yes, I rest easy knowing that, as we've both come out and admitted to one another, we're falling for each other.

That, and the best has yet to come...

Neurstalkita

2008-12-26T14:13:00.002-06:00

Lately, as my ten-year high school reunion quickly approaches in 2009 (ok...it's not 'til September, but still...it'll be there before you know it!), I find myself very nostalgic.

I find myself thinking about the Good Ol' Days. More specifically, the years of--wait for it!!--1993 to 1999. In other words, middle school through high school. I mean, I've always been a nostalgic person anyways, trying to stay in touch with old school chums from the past. But in the last month or so, it's become sort of an obsession [BLOGGER'S NOTE: Really?!?! You obsessed?! NO!!]

Thank you, Facebook.

Seriously, it's gotten really bad!! I find myself searching for old friends all. The. Time. And when I can't find them, I "friend" other people that I may have had just the slightest tangential relationship with (if only to sort of leap frog to see who they know). You know, the kind of person whose name and face you recognized in a school setting--passing by them in the hall or whatnot--but if they ever approached you on a dark and deserted street to say "hi" or try to shake your hand, you'd probably mace them first, ask questions later? Yeah, those are the people I've been friending. Fuck, even the teachers will do.

Thinking about it now, I'd be a damn good private detective. I've turned into a one-man Reunion.com.

It's gotten bad. Like, I went scavenging through my old yearbooks, the other day. I went on a quest to find those too!! I actually went through Dimension X...The Abyss of Nothingness...The Bermuda Triangle...The Eighth Circle of Hell known as--DUM!! DUM!! DUMMMM!!--My Closet. Once that was accomplished with much bloodshed, I went on a hypomanic joyride down Memory Lane.

It was fun. Wish you were there. Though, all I brought back was this lousy T-shirt.

The thing is, looking back through those yearbooks, I saw all of the crushes and the school bullies and the popular people that seemed so important to me then and the only thing that goes through my mind now is this: What the fuck was I thinking???

All of the "popular" girls I thought were hot at the time, look something akin to mountain goats or worse. The "popular," hunky guys that the girls swooned over look like pimply boobs who should have been riding on the Short Bus. As for the now decidedly gawky-looking, malnourished school bullies, well, I just have images from "Bad Santa" or "Step Brothers" playing in my head. Ya know, there's just something completely invigorating about seeing grown men beating the living shit out of their tormentors, no matter what age they are.

It's so funny how 10-16 years puts things in perspective.

* sigh *

I've grown so much.

What makes me kind of blanch, too, is how I was so completely convinced that the friends I had at the time would be my "friends forever." You think I'm joking and kidding around, but going through those yearbooks, I was in shock and horrified by how I creepily scrawled in red pen "friends forever" on the actual photos of my friends.

Yeesh!! Maybe some Zoloft might have been in order for me then as well.

But yes, those were the good ol' days. In my opinion anyway. But I can say that now. The truth is, I try to remember the person I was then and I wonder to myself, was that person me at my best? Was that person happy? Who knows? I don't think a person so incomplete as who I was then could truly answer that question. I think I had to go through more experiences. There were more obstacles that needed to be hurtled over. As the High Priestess of Soul, Nina Simone, once sang...You've Got to Learn.

We all have to get from point A to point B and, let's face it, I'm still not there yet.

Though, every step closer is something to smile about.

Running To Stand Still

2008-12-13T20:33:00.004-06:00

It's been two weeks since I wrote my last entry.

but it's felt like Forever.

It's time to come clean a little bit here. I've been seeing a shrink again. Two, in fact (because one's never enough, right?). It's been since about September, actually...something like that. I see a psychiatrist--an MD who has been in the biz for 30 years or so to prescribe medication--and a therapist to talk through whatever issues I'm having/going through. In other words, she's trying to help me figure my shit out.

I decided to go back for many reasons, a few of which I'm no longer at liberty to discuss on this blog. Mainly, I'm just not a happy camper. Sure, I have days where I'm content with The Way Things Are, but the space between Being Content and Being Happy is a wide one indeed. I have high highs and low lows. It's the way it has always been.

But then, that's just one of the many symptoms of my diagnosis: Bipolar II.

I'm not going into details about Bipolar Disorder II or what it feels to be diagnosed with it (relief, to be honest--it's something that I can put my finger on, something that can finally be dealt with!). What I am going to talk about here is the medication I'm on: Sertraline.

It's taken a while for it to kick in and on the way there, some of the side-effects have been downright nasty. They would include increased sweating (at first, anyway) sexual side-effects (adios orgasms! You are sorely missed) and, worst of all, Writers Block.

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why, every time I started writing, I'd completely draw a blank and/or get drowsy. And then I realized....it's the medication.

IT'S THE FUCKING MEDICATION!!

It has taken me two days to write this. I began on Saturday night. This is how it goes: I start and I begin writing...and then I start to get drowsy. Like, really drowsy [BLOGGER'S NOTE: God, Hal!! That's usually what happens to the people who read your shit, not the other way around, man!!!!]. And then I kind of just...blank. And then I give up. I close the window and lay down or read my book.

On the plus side, it's been a while since I've actually been able to concentrate long enough to read a whole book. I've already read one ("Watchmen") and now I'm 100 pages into a new one: "Case Histories" by Kate Atkinson. Great stuff. Pick it up, but only once because, after that, you won't be able to put it down.

Needless to say, it's been a mixed bag of emotions, conflicting feelings. I'm happy that I've been able to just...be. Ya know? I just feel really mellow, chill. I'm not quite as jittery, tense. I like not worrying about everything. It's nice. But I'm frustrated and scared, too, because what if I my ability to write wasn't a talent...but a symptom? What if it was just a more subtle, functional biproduct of a hypomanic state, an inbalance?

In other words, have I lost my mojo? Did I ever really have it? Is it worth giving up in order to be at peace...or do I give up the meds and continue doing the one thing I know I'm good at, my one "discernible talent" as I've said, regardless of the the Quality of Life that I'm living? Is it ever possible to have anything both ways? Why does everything have to be so black and white? Why does everything in this goddamned life have to be a fucking tradeoff?

It's starting again.

I can feel the drowsiness washing over me. I'll have to lie down soon. But this isn't over. I won't let it win. Being a writer--good or bad, depending on your own tastes--isn't just something I do anymore. It's who I am. And I've had many different identities over the years. I've been many different variations of Hal to get to where I am, to get to this point.

This is the one I want.

And like so much that has come before, it won't come easily. I'm going to do what I've always done whenever there's conflict, whenever there are obsticles in my way that I need to overcome, whenever I'm on the verge of losing something I love.

I fight.

Tooth and nail, I fight.

Digital Neurotica

2008-11-29T01:37:00.006-06:00

So, I finally joined the digital world a couple of weeks ago.

That's right! I now have a nifty digital camera!! And lemme tell ya, I'm going nuts with it!! I mean, seriously, if there any opportunity for a photo op, I'll take it.

In other words, I've turned into the Caucasian version of Justin. Whether that's an image anyone wants in their head is a matter of personal taste. Hey, at least I don't wear clothing rejected by Heath ("Let's put a smile on that FACE!!") Ledger on the set of "The Dark Knight."

Yeah, yeah...I'm an ass. He knows it. It's ok.

And why not, right? These are the times to be taking photos. We're young, life is exciting!! I love that I can just snap a photo and just plug it onto my computer. I mean, for the longest time, I was known for being Justin's "photo bitch." And as awesome as it was--and still is, when I haven't already beaten him to the punch--to be given his extra copies, it's really fucking cool not having to wait.

I love taking photos of all of my friends and family. If I've learned anything these last two years, it's that a.) life is short and b.) happy times can be even shorter. For better or worse, photos can make them last forever. This may have been the best purchase I've made since my iPod.

Yeah, this is kind of a short entry, but like last year, it's getting to that point where I'm running out of creative steam and I just really don't have much else to say, at this point. In other words, be expecting a mid-season finale until January. You should see my script. I'm stuck on page 130. Fuck.

On a personal note regarding the camera, better late than never, right?

Watchman

2008-11-19T19:33:00.008-06:00

A show of hands, please, from all of the people who read this blog that don't already know I'm a total geek.

Okay...so a lot of you know this already. Great!!

Yes, I have and will always embrace the geeky side of life. It's in my nature. As far back as I can remember, I've been a superhero fiend. Growing up, my dad and I collected comic books together. Friday night would be our night to head over to the Cosmic Comics and Science Fiction in Harvey Oaks Plaza and pick up the latest Marvel, Darkhorse, DC and Image books [BLOGGER'S NOTE: On a personal note regarding Image Comics: FUCK YOU, ROB LIEFELD, YOU LITTLE TWERP!! Your art sucked and your professionalism in the comic book industry was a smear in the annals of the medium!! No man should wait 9 months between comic books!! Douchebag!! That is all.]

The comic book store was like my own little retreat, my fortress of solitude. Of course, since I couldn't drive at the time, it was a fortress of solitude for two. I used to love hunting through the boxed jungles of plastic bags and boards, each containing a binded, nail-biting story of heroes, villains and vigilantes. I wanted to be a superhero. Okay, I didn't even really care if I had superpowers. I just wanted to fight crime in a costume.

Is that weird? Yeah. It kind of is.

I mean, let's think about it for a second. It's pretty ridiculous, the whole concept of putting on some goofy-as-fuck costume and saying to yourself, "Tonight, I'm gonna go out and fight the forces of evil." It is. I mean, in the real world, if someone pulled that shit, we'd probably have them committed. I mean, what a wacko, right? I mean, tights? Really? Hello?!

And yet, in the world of comic books, it's widely accepted. Truth be told, I always wanted to live in that world. I always felt safer when I read comic books. Maybe it was because--even for just a little while--I was able to believe in a world where, even though danger lurked around every corner, masked heroes could swoop in and save the day...a world where justice would always be served.

Which is why I'm actually fairly shocked and slightly embarrassed that I'm finally getting around to reading Alan Moore's groundbreaking, Hugo Award-winning 1985 masterpiece, "Watchmen." It's considered to be the Greatest Graphic Novel of All Time. I mean, this baby has it all: Costumed avengers, pirates, action, flashbacks, sex and brutal intensity. It was truly made with the comic book geek in mind.

What makes it so special is that it doesn't just portray all of the costume crusaders as earnest do-gooders. These masked avengers are all-too-human. While the main storyline (i.e. former superheros brought out of retirement to solve the murder of one of their own, even as the country is on the brink of a third World War) is brilliantly realized by Moore and artist Dave Gibbons, it's the characters that, for me, are paramount to the whole "Watchmen" enterprise.

These aren't cuddly people. Many of them are "damaged goods" with emotional and/or mental problems. Others are rotten to the core (one hero was actually a Nazi sympathizer--and you just know how I feel about that--while another shoots the pregnant Vietnamese mother of his child during the War in Vietnam).

And yet, they are compelled to do what they do. Because it's right. Not only is the story and the characters bad-ass to the gazillionth degree, it's also sexy as hell. It makes wearing a costume almost fetishistic--and not even in a "Batman and Robin," rubber nipples kind of way. There are some pretty steamy things that go on in this graphic novel--especially for a "funny book": there's nudity galore: butts, breasts and penises are all bared.

In other words, this is not your friendly neighborhood "Spiderman."

This is popular fiction at its most adult and gritty. And I love every frame of it. Each new chapter--hell, each new page--reveals a new layer to the story that you'll never predict.

I'm sure that most of you fellow geeks reading this are probably saying to yourselves, "WELL, DUHHHH!!" But you have to realize, it's been a really long time since I cracked open a comic book. In a way, I'm sort of like one of the Watchmen: coming out of retirement.

The movie comes out next March and I'm sure that Zach Snyder, the dude who directed last year's "300" (also based on a popular graphic novel), will do as much justice as can be done for such a dense, rich book. At the same time, how can it live up to the brilliance of its pulp namesake?

It won't. It's can't. It shouldn't. It will be what it is and if Snyder gets it even half as fucking fantastic as the graphic novel, we should all be thankful.

The trailers have been awesome. Like, I think I'm having a boner awesome.

Goddamn, I can't wait 'til March 9.

In fact, like Dr. Manhattan, I already am there.

Oh, and before I leave, a question for you, dear readers...

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

V-O-T-E

2008-11-03T22:26:00.004-06:00

Tomorrow, I will be heading out to vote for Barak Obama.

Yes, it will be the first time I'm voting Democrat. Yes, you can take as many swings at me as you wish after I say this: I voted for Dubya not once, but twice.

And the truth is, I still really don't know what Obama stands for besides "hope and change!" Does anyone? Really?

All I know is that Obama, to me, if elected, will be a game changer. And I think that's just what this country needs. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing but respect for McCain as a war hero. The guy is a class act in my book. But I just see this country and what Bush has done to it. I mean, really, since the Civil War, have we ever been more at odds with ourselves as a country? And for that matter, have we ever been more hated by other countries? Half the world thinks America is one giant, bloody tampon rag for Chrissakes!!

The idea that, if McCain wins the election, we could be in for four more years of the same shit, truly frightens the piss out of me.

And maybe Obama is an arrogant prick. Maybe he will turn out to be a horrible fucking president. Who knows? Maybe this and maybe that. Either way, it's gotta be better than what we've got sitting in the Oval Office, right now.

Give peace a chance? Fuck that. Let's give it up for hope and change!!

Love him or hate him, I think we all need a fresh start.

Each and every one of us.

Hal's Terrible, Horrible, Sorta Good, Very Bad Day

2008-10-27T20:39:00.006-05:00

Today was supposed to be a good day. By all accounts, it should have been a good day.

I mean, hell, I found out today that I'm a permanent writer for The Reader, not just a Joe Schmo, dude-off-the-street freelancer. Starting this week, my name will be at the front of the paper with the rest of the Editorial Contributors.

This is what I've wanted since Day 1!! And my wish was finally granted!!!

And then, at my other job, like a rug swept out from under me, my caring, understanding, nurturing, tolerant boss (there's an acronym in there somewhere, boys and girls. Go nuts!) pulled me away from my desk and told me I'm on the verge of being fired from my job, that I got a U (read: failing grade) on my latest monitoring and, in turn, would receive a second written warning for doing so.

Oh, and it gets much, much better!! On a call, last week, I asked a colleague of mine for help and they--by misunderstanding me, to be sure-- led me to the wrong answer, which I gave to the agent on my line, which she passed to her manager, who passed it on to MINE!!!!

So, basically, I received two written warnings just last week in addition to the one I already had received in February (which, in all fairness, I deserved)!! My manager--God bless her and her Grand Slam people skills--told me that she had every intention of "terming" (terminating) me, but the Powers That Be decided to combine the last two warnings into one and spare me for another day.

In other words, right now, I'm livin' on the edge, livin' on a prayer and livin' on borrowed time. Long story short: I'm just livin'.

Barely.

Look, it's not exactly a secret that I hate my job. I've always been fairly vocal about that fact on this here blog o' mine. I mean, I love my co-workers (well, most of them. Odds are, if you're reading this, you needn't lose any sleep, 'cuz I think you're swell) but I despise the endless, unnecessary duties that upper-management heap upon the shoulders of myself and my team (usually, because corporate hasn't a clue how and where else to delegate the work) and the utter bullshit, backstabbing bureaucracy that runs rampant within my department and the company.

But goddammit...I do my job. And I try to do it well.

For a long time, I won't lie, I stopped caring. I gave up and just didn't give a shit. About any of it. I gave up. I mean, let's face it, I've been at my place of employment for over eight years (fuuuuuuuck) and I was over it by year five. How the fuck people make it to the Quarter Century Club is, to me, one of life's Big Mysteries...like The Bermuda Triangle, Amelia Earhart and that powdery cheese stuff in Kraft Mac & Cheese!!

But since February, when I got that first written warning, I've tried to keep things in perspective. I may not like my job, but I do need my job. I do care about my job. Whether I hate it or not, I want to do well.

For the U I received, my boss caught me on a bad day. I won't lie and I won't make any excuses. I gave the agent the wrong answer. It was an accident. It was careless. There you have it: she got me...dead-bang. But unlike several months ago, when I couldn't have given a shit whether I gave the right answer or not, these days, I come to work with my A game on and I play to win. When I gave that answer, in my heart of hearts, I thought it was the correct one. I was wrong. And that's why I'm so utterly disgusted with myself. It makes me ask questions I no longer have an answer to and, as a result, frustrate me to high Heaven: Have I lost it? Even at my best, am I no longer fit for this job?

I will say this, in my defense, my boss hates me. It's not an excuse. It just is. I know it and most of my co-workers know it, too. She's not subtle. She plays favorites and she talks about me behind my back which, of course, gets back to me. Why? Well--spoiler alert!!--we live in the Real World and, news flash, people fucking talk!! And make no mistake, if I do get fired, I will not go down without a fight.

So, yeah, today was supposed to be a good day.

And, to a certain extent, it was. I'm proud of the direction my writing career is taking. As for my job-job, well, who knows, maybe this will be the kick in the junk that I need to start looking seriously into getting a new job. You know, one that doesn't make me want to blow serious chunks all over my undersized sweat pants-wearing, socially inept, buck-passing boss whenever I see her nod her head, go "oh, yeah! Yep! Yep!" and smile condescendingly at me.

Wait, wait, wait!! That gives me an idea...

Got Ipecac?

Hallywood

2008-10-13T03:14:00.002-05:00

Oh, what a week I'm having!!

Talking about going from the sublime to the ridiculous.

In the course of three days, I went from interviewing Tracy Morgan from "SNL" and "30 Rock" for a feature story to reviewing the man, the myth, the legend that is Pauly Shore ("OWWWWWWW...bud-dy!") as he performed live at the Funny Bone.

In regards to the latter, well, let's just say I can do reviews in my sleep. That type of writing has always been my specialty--opinionated shit. After all, you know what they say: Opinions are like assholes. Some just stink more than others.

The Tracy Morgan piece, however, I'm pretty fucking proud of. It's my first celebrity interview and, yes, it's gonna actually be published. I won't lie. I was extremely nervous as I was getting ready to talk to him. I mean, this guy is known for his crazy antics and his in-your-face brand of comedy. Hell, the few times I sat front row center at a comedy club, I nearly shit myself in fear when the comedian addressed/made fun of me.

So, actually talking to a comedian and a major Hollywood star one-on-one, to me, was as exhilarating as it was daunting. No, I take that back. I was fucking terrified!! I mean, I'm just this geeky, awkward Jewish writer with basically zero experience interviewing anyone. [BLOGGER'S NOTE: Shit, he can't even get through job interviews without breaking a sweat--and with those, his only requirement is that he blather on about the one thing he's great at talking about: Himself!!!]

How green can you get, right?!

In the end, though, despite my nervous laughter and my tendency to talk over him, I think I did a good job at drawing information. I won't lie, I'm sure I sounded like a newbie, and a couple of times, he became a little volatile regarding certain topics--nature of the beast, I guess, when it comes to interviews--but I think Tracy and I got along really well. In fact, we had a pretty hilarious back and forth regarding the many variations of how to use the word "motherfucker." I laughed my ass off (and that, my friends, is a lot of ass!!), during that point in the interview.

So, yeah, ultimately, I had a good time with Tracy. He's a fun, genial dude with a lot to say.

A little on the cranky side, but whatever.

God, I love being a writer. What a rewarding week.

The Writer's Gift

2008-10-07T01:12:00.005-05:00

I once wrote that it's not easy being a writer. I stand by that statement.

There are many of us, out there, who are just no good at saying the things we truly feel, so we write it down. We lay ourselves out on the line on paper or electronically. It's our way of drawing out the shit that's inside of us.

And sometimes, like with anyone, we tend to go a little nuts. we write things that we don't really mean. It happens.

Last night, I didn't mean what I wrote. Well, I did and I didn't.

I did in the sense that I miss the hell out of her--you. Sometimes, so much that it hurts. And I know that, at this point, maybe you're wishing I'd just shut the fuck up about it, that I'd just let it go. Maybe you hate me. I don't know. And I suppose that one day, I will be able to let it go. Maybe it will be a week, a month, a year. Who knows? I certainly don't. All I know is that one day, in time, my heart will settle down and stop beating so quickly, so hard, every time I think about what was gained and what was lost. Again.

I didn't, however, mean what I wrote when I seemed to imply that I wasn't proud of all that I've accomplished in such a short time. That's not fair to me nor is it fair to all of those who have given me such encouragement, such positive and negative feedback, during these last few months. I am so very proud to have such a wonderful group of friends that provide a never-ending supply of love and support, a family that would suffer any embarrassment or irritation and indignation that I heap upon them because of their unadulterated love for me.

I am a truly blessed man.

Last night, well, what can I say? I was feeling sorry for myself. I threw a pity party and I was the Guest o' Honor.

I am going to keep writing this script. I am not going to give up. I made a promise. And I intend to keep it. But here's the thing. When I made that promise, I think, deep down it was a promise to myself more than anyone else. This is a story, loosely-based or not, that I will hold dear to me for all time.

It's the story of my life.

Someone's gotta tell it.

Dr. Horrible

2008-10-05T16:04:00.007-05:00

So, I watched "Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog," the other day.

For those unfamiliar with it, it's a three-part online fantasy/musical/comedy (!) from Joss Whedon, the criminally brilliant mind behind the "Buffy," "Angel" and "Firefly"/"Serenity" universes. It boasts a bravura turn from Neil Patrick Harris (DOOGIE!!!! Man, that guy's got talent to spare) as an aspiring--but misunderstood--super villain. Nathan Fillian is superhero Captain Hammer, Horrible's arch nemesis. The absolutely lovely (and completely crush-worthy) Felicia Day is Penny, the object of both mens' desire.

So, yeah. long story short, the shy, awkward Dr. Horrible wants to rule the world, defeat the arrogant, air-headed "corporate tool" that is Captain Hammer and win Pennie's heart. And without getting into details about the events that unfold, Horrible gets what he wants. But in tragic Joss Whedon fashion, he loses everything, too. In the end, none of it really matters to him.

These days, I sympathize with Dr. Horrible. It's like, lately, I'm finally on the upward swing. I'm writing for a pretty big paper in Omaha, I'm going to be doing my first celebrity interview with Tracy Morgan, I'm getting my stuff out there and I'm writing a script that a lot of people seem to be digging. I'm even talking to a couple of gals that seem genuinely interested in me. I should be happy! These are high times for me!! Finally!!

I'm not going to lay down any bullshit in this one. Most of y'all who read this know what my script is about, what it means to me, why I'm so fucking passionate about it. A good friend of mine, Joel, the other day, asked me if I was okay, emotionally, with writing what I was writing. I understood what he was asking and I appreciated him asking it, but truth of the matter was, yeah...I was fine. Peachy keno. Perf!

Until Saturday night, early Sunday morning. That was rough.

I wrote a scene involving the lead character, Brody, calling up his soul mate Mia, one year later, after he'd told her to take a hike. He tells her that he'd tied up whatever loose ends that had needed to be tied and that he was wanting to try things again if she was willing to do so. But it's too late. She's married. There's a teary, gut-wrenching goodbye and it ends with her by herself crying.

Fade to black.

Now, she and I both know that that, in real life, that phone call never happened. The conversation took place online, home of inexpression and textual misunderstandings. And to be honest, I really don't know if there were any tears on her end. What I do know, however, is that, looking back, I'm glad it didn't happen on the phone, because I was a mess just writing the fucker. I can only imagine what I would have been like in Real Life. I would have had to hang up on her.

That fucking scene truly took the piss out of me.

Not just the writing of it, but just...what it meant. For me, it wasn't just a scene that I was writing. Creative liberties or not, it was a moment in my life that I was reliving, putting it down on paper. A moment that, I think, truly shaped my mentality on Love and Romance; how, well, timing truly is everything.

In other words, that scene opened a Pandora's Box of old wounds, demons and emotions. And I so should have seen this coming, too.

I'm finally getting where I want to be, I have all this good shit happening, and yeah, it's nice to be writing my goddamn heart out again. I'm working my ass off on this script, working toward a great finished product!! But what then? What the fuck do I have to show for it?! Yeah, it will be splendid to have gotten everything out of my system!! Sure, it would be amazing to (cross your fingers) see it up on the screen, but what then? A round of applause? A million "atta boys!" and/or pats on the back? Money?!

Great! Super!! Fan-fucking-tastic!!

But see, the truth is...

I still miss you.

Getting Strong Now!!!

2008-10-01T02:44:00.002-05:00

I'm on page 52 of "Five Years Apart."

To quote the late, great Steve Gates: "FUCK, YEAH!!!!!!!"

That is all. :o)

"Tuesday's Gone"

2008-09-30T03:12:00.003-05:00

The one...!!

The only...!!

Enjoy the show!!

Can You Dig It?

2008-09-29T22:38:00.012-05:00

Who would want to see this?!

That's what I thought to myself, many, many moons ago, when I was reviewing a movie for my high school newspaper, The Hoofbeat.

The film in question, which I actually loved, was Neil LaBute's 2008 squirm-inducing (in a good, uncomfortable way) "Your Friends & Neighbors." The film, starring Ben Stiller, Jason Patric, Catherine Keener, Nastassja Kinski and--Mr. Two-Face himself--Aaron Eckhart, was about a bunch of unpleasant, supremely unlikable people and their relationships with one another--sexual or otherwise. It was one of those good train wreck movies where you have to watch through your fingers because the confrontations are so intense and charged with hate and bile.

You ever hear the phrase, let the fur fly? This movie is exactly why that phrase was created.

Anyway, being the masochist that I am, I was the only one in the theater, I think, who gave the sneak preview I went to positive marks. After the film ended, people--the ones beside myself, anyway, that were brave enough to watch the film in its entirety--were practically screaming at the sweet-as-pie comment card girls, grabbing them by the lapels and spraying all kinds of mucus, spittle and bile in their faces. Thinking back now, perhaps the movie had done its job better than those audience members would have ever cared to admit at the time.

Huh. Go figure.

I never wrote the review. I thought to myself, there is no one--not a soul!!--that I could recommend this film to (especially not to those reading a high school newspaper!!). I'd be lynched!!

So, again, I asked myself Who would want to see this?! In other words, in my eyes anyway, I dropped the ball. Let's think about this for a second: For ever 30-50 people who would have read that review [BLOGGER'S NOTE: Who the fuck are you kidding, dude?! It's a goddamn high school newspaper!! Who's gonna read that shit?! I mean, half the football team couldn't even read!! For serious!! Get the fuck over yourself, STAT!!] and hated the movie with a bloody passion, there might be one person, maybe two, who might have come out of that movie feeling as invigorated as I did when I left the theater. See, there is always someone out there, waiting to be touched.

Even if it's a touch of toxic.

Anyhow, I only bring the movie up because yesterday, I had my dad read the first 37 pages of my script (Think fast!! As of right now, I'm up to page 43. My, my, my...how pages fly!!)

I believe the words he used to describe it were, to be exact, "self-indulgent psychoanalysis." He also added, "no one will want to see it."

Yeah? What's your point?

I may as well add that when I asked him if there was anything he did like, his response was "no, not really."

Here's the dealio, people. That hurt. That stung!! I mean, I'm used to receiving criticism (hello, Anonymous!), but that came from the person I admire most. He would never admit it, but I could see it in his eyes: The man hated my script.

But here's the thing. After I got to thinkin' 'bout it, and with the help of another truly gifted writer I respect and admire immensely, I was able to reach a conclusion that I've always had trouble coming to grips with.

Simply put: Not everyone's gonna dig my shit.

So, my dad doesn't like my script. Big deal. No, this is not me getting defensive about it or doing the whole bitter grapes thing. I'd like to think of it as me growing as a writer. You can't write everything for the masses. And even if you do, there are bound to be people that you will, without a doubt, disappoint. C'est la vie!

Sometimes, you just have to write for you.

And this script? This gigantic, epic thing I've been writing/obsessing over for the last month? It's very, very personal. As many of you have come to realize, whether it be from reading the script itself or by just reading between the lines of several of my latest entries, this thing is very much autobiographical. Yes, the names are changed, but it's a story of great sadness in my life, but it's also one of the dizzying, happiest times of my life.

And believe me when I say this: It's not just for me I'm writing it. You know who you are.

So, who is going to want to see this movie?

Everyone. Or no one. The truth is, I really don't care.

Later on, I asked my dad if he, in his opinion, thought I should stop writing it. You know, was it worth pushing forward and finishing it? Without hesitation, he answered "yes." When I asked him why, he responded with a very interesting answer:

"Because it's important to you."

At first I thought that was a completely condescending cop out on his part--and to a certain extent, I still do--but now I just have two things to say in response...

1.) Fair enough and 2.) Damn straight.

Break the Cycle

2008-09-22T20:06:00.003-05:00

It all started with good ol' "Law & Order."

I was sitting at the kitchen table with my folks on a Sunday afternoon, a few months ago, having brunch. I asked my dad, "what's on tonight? What are we watching?" He answered back, "Law & Order: Criminal Intent,"

Wait a second, I thought. That already happened. We just watched that. What the fuck?! But we hadn't just watched that. In fact, a week had passed by between the two episodes.

Had I somehow lost a week of my life? No, of course not. That's fuckin' stupid. No, I was very aware of myself and my actions. I just let time pass me by. It's like I let it flow through me rather than flow with it. Story of my life.

Literally.

So, what's, ah, little OCD boy to do? Break the cycle. Or, at least, try my best to.

Lately, I've been trying my damndest to stay away from "do-overs." If something feels like it's becoming routine, I switch things up. I'm determined not to live my life, Nick at Nite style. Constant reruns.

Still, to a certain extent, there are some traditions worth keeping.

Yeah, I still spend my Sundays at the folk doing laundry, but I usually leave afterward. In and out, ya know. Plus, I now have detergent and bleach at my place, too. That way, if I want to make plans or, ya know, not spend the whole day waiting for laundry, I can just do it at my place and hang out, do whatever, ya know?

I think it's healthy to spend time with my family. I love my family. I just don't know if it's healthy to spend all of my time with them. I don't want them to think that I need them, that I depend on them.

Don't think for a second that I don't know how harsh that sounds. I don't mean to be a dick when I say that. I just can't have my life stuck in a constant, never-ending loop.

Then again, there is Chinese Friday night. Can't miss that, right? That tradition is nearly 15 years old! How can I break that?!

Well, I just...do. I can do whatever I want. It's my life.

And I want to live my life...not recycle it.

Screenwriting 101

2008-09-16T02:13:00.002-05:00

It was supposed to be an epic romance, an affair to remember.

And make no mistake, it was, is, and will be that, but I think I'm going to take "Five Years Apart" in a different direction.

It's going to have everything I originally planned, content-wise, but I think there are deeper, richer themes than that of romance and--in keeping with what I wrote in my last entry--Happily Ever After that should be emphasized.

Now, I don't want to mislead people. The movie is still about love: pure unadulterated, intoxicating love. It's going to be a very romantic movie. But as we all know, sometimes, for better or worse, things just don't turn out the way you want them to turn out. That's one idea that this script is really going to explore in-depth, as well as delving into themes of family, responsibility, that grey area we all know as Right & Wrong and, ultimately, self-actualization.

I think, for this movie to truly work, I think the characters need to grow up, learn a little before they get what they want. And for one or two of the characters, just like in Real Life, what they want isn't what they're necessarily gonna get in the end, even after they make positive (or negative, depending on how one looks at the behaviors of the characters) changes in their lives.

Speaking of growing up, I'm cutting the character that's based on me pretty close to the bone and, in writing this character, not gonna lie, I'm really nervous about whether or not people are going to embrace him or not.

He's kind of a whiner. I mean, he cries...a lot. Not only that, but he's a creature of habit to the extreme. Not only that, but he's kind of, well, a depressed person. The opening scene pretty much explains him to a T. We find him getting dumped by a girl who thinks he's a really sweet guy, but he's just too much. He's always on. He's an onion of neuroses with layers upon layer of quirks.

But what kind of a story would it be if our hero didn't experience some sort of growth? It would be flat, static, and one-note.

Here's the thing: I don't want this movie to have any villains.

I don't want to necessarily judge any of my characters. They're just people doing what they think is right for them at any given moment. They are people who aren't bad, just complicated. They are people who are misunderstood. In other words, characters we thought were complete douchebags in the beginning may become more sympathetic as the story progresses, while, on the other hand, characters who we maybe were rooting for in the beginning might become less likable. And then things might just double back again. Who knows?

Well, me, actually. Only I know how this movie ends.

The truth is, there's a lot of fertile ground to explore in this script of mine. And lucky for me, a lot of it is Based On A True Story.

Well, at least 90% of it. The names and places were changed to protect the innocent and, well, the less so.

Seventeen pages down, five years to go.

All The Small Things

2008-09-09T01:57:00.004-05:00

So, my story got cut.

You know, the one with the CSI: NY guy? Yeah, they they deep-sixed it.

Basically, my people couldn't get a hold of his people. I found out about two days prior to the due date (Friday, 9/5, at noon) that the story wasn't going to happen.

And ya know? I was okay with that. And I'll tell ya why.

Last Tuesday, I knew we were getting close to the wire and the window for my editor to get a contact, much less an interview scheduled for me, was getting smaller and smaller. Plus, she had a funeral to go to that day. She asked me if I could make a few calls, do my own little investigation.

So, I did some Googling and I found a name and a number for the Director of Development for the gala and he put me in touch with the Executive Director of the organization sponsoring the gala, the top of the food chain, and I was able to conduct a half-hour phone interview with her. I learned a lot about her nonprofit organization.

Alas, they cut the story.

The reason I'm okay with it is because my editor was so impressed with all of the legwork I put in and my resourcefulness, that she asked me if I'd still be willing to write a shorter version of the story (of course!). She also informed me that, because of my hard work, she'd keep me in mind for a lot more stories in the future.

See, it all worked out in the end.

Several months ago, I wrote about how I had to believe in happy endings, that I had to believe in the idea that good things come to those who wait. Well, I still believe in happy endings.

I don't think that will ever go away.

However, I think I now lack that bit of boyish, naive optimism that embraces the notion of Happily Ever After. There are no grand, sweeping finales in this life, no neatly gift-wrapped packages.

And the more I think about it, that's probably the way it should be.

For me, happiness for me has always been about the small triumphs, the tiny victories, the random acts of kindness, tenderness, selflessness that can occur each and every day. Happiness, for me anyway, is when I can go to bed, each night, close my eyes, sigh, and think to myself, ya know what? I have an amazing group of friends and a wonderful family that loves me...or Today was a good day. I did a good job with this and/or that and I'm proud of myself.

[BLOGGER'S NOTE: WTF?!?! Watch! I guaran-fucking-tee you that, any second now, he's going to write "love means not ever having to say you're sorry." Wait for it!! It's like, hey, who's up for a quick round of "Kumbaya?!" Jesus, what a sappy-ass entry this is!! Oh, well. It's his fuckin' blog. I guess he can do whatever hell he wants with it, so whatevs. Who the hell am I, right?]

It's all about the Little Things.

I mean, really...if we all attained True Happiness in one fell swoop, whether it be in the form of another person ("wuv....TWUE WUV!!" as the late, great Peter Cook exclaimed in "The Princess Bride") or otherwise, what would be the point of living? What would give us that forward push, that drive to keep moving forward.

It brings up that age-old question of what do you give the person who has everything???

Do I have everything I want? Of course not. And I probably never will. But that's the point of life. It's not about what you don't have. It's about what you have and, for some people, it's about what you can live with. It's is not about the finish line. It's about the fight, the slow, upward climb and having the knowledge that you did everything you could to get to where you wanted to be, needed to be.

Though, there's no harm in hoping and wishing for the best.

Today, I got on the stairmaster at my local Jewish Community Center and I went nearly two minutes without having to hold the sides for support, due to my bad balance. That's two minutes more than what I've been able to do in the past.

That, right there, is a Happy Ending, a little something to cheer about.

And yeah, in this cruel, sometimes unfair world we live in, I'll take it with a smile.

Scene It, Done It

2008-09-05T00:58:00.003-05:00

For those parties interested, I have officially completed the first scene of my new script, "Five Years Apart."

Gotta say, I'm a little rusty in terms of remembering all the different formatting hot keys with my good ol' Final Draft screenwriting software, but I'm gettin' there.

I decided to give my old alcoholic screenwriting teacher the finger and forgo the 12-point plot outline. I'm just diving into this fucker and, I've gotta say...it's high time indeed. I know exactly where I'm going on this one.

Sort of like my life, these days.

As the kids, these days, like to say. Team Hal is full of WIN!!!

Shelter From The Storm

2008-09-02T00:55:00.004-05:00

No, this blog is not becoming a G-dfest.

But I just want to write that, despite what I wrote about G-d being lame when it comes to the bringing The Funny, I also believe He/She/It is a compassionate G-d, who listens to our prayers with an open heart.

For further proof of this, all you need to do is look at Gustav (lame fucking name for a storm, by the way, if you ask me. Why the hell don't they give these storms a bad ass name, Gordon, Garcia or, oooooh, Guster!!! Forget Hannah, man!! How about--and I'm just throwin' it out there--Hal?). We prayed and he most certainly listened.

This could have been so much worse.

And to whom it may concern, I'm glad everyone is safe and sound.

The Greatest Joke Ever Told

2008-08-30T22:16:00.010-05:00

Ya know, way back in the day, when I was a sad little boy trapped inside the walls of a hospital, my dream was to become a world-famous comedian.

Yeah, you heard me.

I would plunge myself into the bajillions of joke books that people would bring me as gifts, apparently trying to cheer me up (it worked, guys! A very belated thanks to all of you's!!!) and laugh myself silly. I would then proceed to annoy my parents and whoever would come and visit me by repeatedly telling the same jokes, over and over and over again.

[BLOGGER'S NOTE: Just to clarify, after a certain point, during my luxurious, 18-week stay at Immanuel Hospital, I began to regain enough mobility in my upper body that I could hold and turn the pages of a book. That, and flop about in my bed to the sounds of Billy Joel on my Walkman. Strangely enough, even with upward- and lower-body mobility, my dancing has not improved. In fact, my dance moves have curiously remained the same as when I was paralyzed. Go figure.]

In other words, I really haven't changed much since age seven, have I? I'm still saying and doing anything I can to get a laugh or a smile out of The Next Guy (or Gal), even going so far as pushing it down their throats and/or humiliating myself in the process. Anyone who has seen me rubbing lotion all over my half-naked body or wearing nothing but cut-off jean shorts in a shower--and for those who have seen it, you know that's not even the half of it!!--in Mr. Erik's now-legendary (infamous?) "Tuesday's Gone" music video needs no further proof of the above.

However, of all the jokes that I've read or told, none of them can hold a candle to the one delivered by one of the characters in Noah Baumbach's splendid-yet-little-seen 1995 film, "Kicking & Screaming." The joke goes as such:

How do you make G-d laugh? Make a plan.

At the risk of getting off the subject for a moment, the film revolves around a group of college graduates who have no clue what to do with their lives, once they finish school. As a result of this sort of paralyzing fear of the unknown (sound familiar?), they stick around campus, providing witty, sarcastic commentary on life as they know it--as that very same life simultaneously passes them by. It's a very funny movie that deals with post-college life and relationships realistically and honestly.

I love it.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand. It's not like I hadn't heard a variation of that joke before. Growing up in my parents' house, I'd always hear my mom say "we make plans and G-d laughs."

It always stuck with me. It's so true.

We always have these grand plans when we're young. We think that as soon as we graduate college (or whatever our idea or point of Look, ma! I'm all growed up is), we're just automatically gonna be spoon-fed our shimmery, shiny, gold-tinged dreams: A job (CHECK!), marriage (CHECK!), children, a house, two cars (CHECK, CHECK, CHECK!!), et cetera, et cetera. Since my own college graduation, I've come to realize that's the biggest joke of all.

And it's almost always on us.

I'm not exactly proud to say this, but I haven't been to shul (synagogue) since May. It has nothing to do with me not believing in G-d. It's not like that at all. I believe in Him/Her/It. I do. I just think G-d's sense of humor is a bit too much for me to take sometimes.

So, yes. I have surpassed the I don't believe in G-d phase of my life and have now reached the What's it all mean, G-d? phase. I guess I'm moving up in the world. I dunno.

Here's the thing: The reason I used to not believe in G-d was because of all the bad shit that happened in the world. Ya know? I use to say things like, "How could G-d let the terrorists do that?" or "If there's a G-d, how could He let The Holocaust happen?"

I would always get the same reply or, at least, a variation of it. It all came down to the fact that G-d gave us free will.

Ah, yes. Free will: The ultimate cop out.

Okay, people. Maybe I'm an idiot (and if you think I am, well, take a number!), but if G-d has a plan and it's all part of G-d's plan, then where the FUCK does the free will part come in? You can't have both an Almighty Plan AND free will?! Wouldn't the two things cancel each other out?!

What the fuck?!

Okay...here's the the deal: I believe that G-d has given us free will. However, I also believe that every once in a while, The Big Guy likes to look into our lives and say to Himself, "This shit is getting booooorrrrrring. Maybe if I just--no, I couldn't! Well, maybe...I could just pull this one...little...string and.......whoopsy daisy! Did I do that?! Oh, well. What's done is done, I guess. Man, oh man, this is gonna be GOOD!! This is gonna be so GREAT!!"

It's like a group of TV writers that trap themselves in a corner (read: "Alias" or "Prison Break"). You know what I mean? It's like the writers have this ongoing, labyrinthine plot and then, when they themselves have no idea what the hell is happening on their own show, they throw in a twist in the season finale that has nothing to do with anything, that changes everything we know about the show, rendering almost all of what's come before as superfluous and, ultimately, pointless. And then a character arches a oh-so menacing eyebrow and proclaims--wait for it!!--"HA! Just as I planned!!"

I've come to the conclusion that G-d likes to put us in sticky situations so he can watch us squirm, wriggle around and, ultimately (but not always, because variety is, after all, the spice of life, right?) claw our way out. Truth be told, G-d would be an amazing TV sitcom producer. In fact, I'm pretty much convinced, at this point, that many of the television producers of the '70s were, indeed, touched by The Hand of G-d.

I can just totally see one of the Deity-inspired pitches:

Hey, fellas! Put down your cigars!! Have I got a pitch for you!! Not sure where it came from, but here goes!! We've got a male swinger livin' with two buxom broads! But wait 'til ya get a load o' dis one!! You ready?! He's gotta pretend to be one o' them homosexuals my daughter keeps tellin' me about!! You know?! To fool their wacky, old-fashioned landlords?! Can you imagine all the hijinks?! Wouldn't that be just a real riot?!?!

Look, I believe in G-d.

I love G-d and I truly, in my heart, believe that G-d, for all of the crap he's thrown my way throughout the year, loves me. There is a Higher Authority out there, people. He's watching us. And, yes, as paranoid as I can be, sometimes--not always, but sometimes--I take great comfort knowing that G-d is watching over me. It is G-d who has helped me get to this point in my life.

And that, most certainly, is not a bad thing at all.

I just think that sometimes, He/She/It has a really shitty sense of humor and really, really bad comedic timing.

No Smoking!!!

2008-08-30T15:36:00.006-05:00

It's been two years!! AT LEAST!!

There is no rhyme and there is certainly no reason reason for this, but in the last two days, I have had these major cigarette cravings!!

No, for the record, I have NOT acted on them.

Thank G-D!! But it's getting bad.

I am not stressed. I am not unhappy. In fact, I am happier than I have been in ages, what with my writing finally taking off again and getting my mojo back. Cigarettes should be the last thing on my mind, right now, at this point in my life.

I mean, in the 2+ years since I quit smoking, I've had cravings here and there, but I have not smoked one cigarette. But these cravings--the ones that I've been having for the last few days--have been BRUTAL!!!

Why is this happening?!? Like I need this shit, ya know?

TWO FUCKING YEARS!!!

I will not smoke cigarettes. I won't. I love being able to breathe, exercise without gasping for air (most of the time) and/or coughing. I enjoy being able to taste everything that goes into my mouth (yeah, I know how that sounded. Being serious now, right now, folks).

I hate Bronchitis and Smoker's Cough is awful.

FUCK YOU, PHILIP MORRIS!!!!!!!!!!

You ain't gonna get me, this time!!!

Ne Me Quitte Pas

2008-08-26T00:28:00.006-05:00

The other night, I wrote that ultimately, I'm the only one who can make myself happy. While that is absolutely true, sometimes, I need to get a little help from my friends.

Ya know, when I think of my group of friends, I picture one of those photo mosaic collages, where all the little photos are arranged to make one larger photo or picture. Every little bit helps. If one little piece goes missing, the picture just looks a little...off.
Well, lately, a few of those photos have gone away or, soon enough, will be leaving my collage.

I'm not going to lie: It's something I've been dreading.

Don't get me wrong. I'm excited for their accomplishments and optimistic about their futures. Make no mistake, I love my friends with everything I'm made of--more than myself, sometimes--and I want nothing but the best for them when it comes to their health, happiness and successes. but still...It sucks knowing that they won't always be around, that we won't be able to hang out at a moment's notice or that the weekly traditions we had will now be considered as "special occasions." And no, never before has the phrase "only a phone call away" sounded more dreary and depressing.

What can I say? I'm a needy person. I need my friends. I've said it once and I'll never stop saying it: They are truly the lights of my life.

It's the Tinas, Kevins, Justins, Eriks, Marys (DING!! There you go, sweetie! Your first mention!!), Courtneys, Matteos, Crystals, Dereks, Sharons, Andys, Joels, Joes, Glens/Waynes/DJ Magics, Heathers, Sergios, Saras, Sarahs, Clarks, Evans, Cowboy Curtises, Kristis, Christinas, Nicholes, Stephanies, Matts, Kyles, Sams, Amandas, Russes, Tammys and Trees that help make life just a little more bearable on a day to day basis.

Yeah, like I said, ultimately, I'm the guy who has to flip the switch when it comes to getting my life started and making myself happy, but knowing that I have so many absolutely wonderful, beautiful people behind me certainly makes it that much easier.

As many of you may or may not have heard, my Master Plan is to be gone, out of Omaha, by Jan. 31, 2009, when my lease goes up. The plan is to move to one of the following three places: Minneapolis, Philly or New Orleans.

Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know what y'all are thinking: Oh, shut the fuck up, Haliboot! You've been saying you're gonna move for years!! Give it UP!!!

And it's true. I have been planning on moving--or, at least, telling myself I will--for years, but it hasn't happened. I either lack the balls and chicken out or I end up running short in The Fundage Dept. This time, though, I'm going to make it happen if it kills me!! [BLOGGER'S NOTE: Wait. That doesn't make sense. I know that was supposed to sound persuasive and dramatic, but wouldn't, like, dying kind of defeat the purpose? That's kinda stupid. Oh, well. I'll shut up now. Keep going.] I've been online, looking up jobs at each of those places, doing research, looking at cost of living expenses. I've been trying to save money. I'm really trying to go the distance here.

Anyway, I think the reason that maybe I'm kind of getting all solemn about people leaving is that I realize that, as some of my closest friends begin to move away--or even just drift apart from me--and as I get closer to my projected move date, it's really getting closer to that point, ya know? That moment before you've reached the Final Destination. The calm before the storm.

The Beginning of the End.

Hold on tight to those photos.

Tomorrow Is My Time

2008-08-23T00:55:00.009-05:00

I remember once convincing a whole group of people in a bar that I was this big-shot Hollywood screenwriter-producer-director.

The ultimate hyphenate. The Zach Braff of "The Big O."

I told them about this new film that I had just completed. It was done, completed, finíto...in the can. They believed me. I had everyone in the room fooled.

Everyone, that is, but myself.

The truth is, up until recently, I hated going to places where people would have the potential to ask me what I do, what I've been up to and where I was headed.

Hated. It.

Because the truth is, up until recently, I didn't do much of anything (other than work at Marriott) and I sure as fuck had no idea where I was headed. Let's face it: These last few years, I've been stuck, living one day at a time, talking the talk, but never, ever walking the walk.

It's over. I'm done talking. The time to act has already begun.

Ya know? It's taken me years to figure this out, and now...I finally get it. I have to stop depending on all these external things that I think are gonna make me happy: A girlfriend, DVDs, shiny new toys (preferably ones that don't involve lubricant, thank you very much!!). For so long, I've been trying to get a girlfriend, that special someone who is going to be the source of all my happiness, the one who is going to complete me. I've gone on J-Date, I've been set up by different people, I've met people in bathrooms. [BLOGGER'S NOTE: okay...that was a one-time deal. Never again!!] But the truth is, the only person who can make me happy is me, myself and I.

I need to do better at taking care of myself, working on myself. I can't expect to love someone fully if I don't love myself, if I'm not a happy person. More importantly, I shouldn't put the brunt of responsibility for my ultimate happiness on anyone else's shoulders but my own.

Ya know, last year, I received an Anonymous comment (okay...I received a lot of anonymous comments, last year. But that's an ugly chapter in my life that I don't really like talking about anymore. Water under the bridge, ya know?) from my ex Liz's old roommate Nathan. It went like this:

save you? for fuck sake man, SAVE YOURSELF. if you sit there and yearn and pine for "ms. right" to just show up and sweep you off your feet, well you better have a comfortable chair and a damn good book on hand, because IT'S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. women in this world dont want to deal with the psychosis of a man who cant get his life in order. most of them want to mold you in to their "perfect man" but that starts with you. it starts with you being a man to begin with.

Harsh, right? I remember being so angry with that comment. I was enraged!! But ya know what? There is a bibles-worth of truth to it. I am done pining and I am done whining. From now on, I am going to really start focusing on getting my life together, working toward a career, success...an actual endgame. I need to get myself back on track. The good news is that I'm well on my way. I'm done being the guy who is on the outside looking in at all the successful, happy people out there.

I'm done being stuck.

Wait. PAUSE!!!!!!

It's funny. I keep using that word, "stuck." But ya know? I don't know if it's applicable. No one is stuck. Not you. Not me. My life? Your life? It is what you make of it.

Ever since I got the job at that newspaper, The Reader, I have felt my confidence level rising each day.

Just the other day, I made a pitch to my editor to spearhead a TV page for the paper. It seems like a lot of publications have one, these days, and when it comes to TV, I am like a walking, talking TV encyclopedia. I know, live, breathe, eat and drink TV. I am knowledgeable about shows from the '50s until yesterday. Plus, with my experience heading a TV/Entertainment column at The Omaha Pulp for nearly two years, as well as that paper's entertainment page, I think I would be a great candidate to spearhead such a project.

It got shot down, but ya know what? I didn't care. I was just so pleased with myself--ecstatic really!!--for displaying such newfound hubris.

In fact, everything lately seems new and improved.

I got my first paycheck, yesterday. Do you know how fucking amazing that made me feel?! For the first time in four years, I was paid for my writing, my work! Sure, it was only $18.20, but it's a start. It's something I can work with.

That was yesterday.

Today, I was given my first major assignment! I am going to be covering a Gala hosted by one of the lead actors on CSI: NY. I'm actually going to be conducting my first celebrity interview!!! And to think that it was only three months ago that I was on my couch, crying over the big, bad choices I'd made in my past. Boo fuckin' hoo.

As Phil Collins once said, just take a look at me now.

For the first time in years, I am no longer saying to myself, great. Another day. Here we go again. On the contrary, I'm not saying a fucking thing. My mouth is shut and my eyes are wide open.

Life is beginning for me. I can feel it coursing through me.

I'm ready.

Here we go...!!

A Tale of Two Cummings

2008-08-19T01:28:00.030-05:00

So, a friend of mine, the other week, was bored at work and she wanted me to tell her a story.

Nothing specific.

Just something to help her pass the time. So, I racked my brain, trying to think of something good until, finally, it came to me: one of the funniest yarns that I have in my arsenal of Tall Tales and Legends.

And yes, it even beats The Legend of Crusty Nipple Girl, Bathroom Sally and The Fan of Death [BLOGGER'S NOTE: Trust me...ya don't wanna know 'bout the latter story. Hell, I don't even wanna know that story...and I fuckin' lived it!!]. Though, it's not quite as, um, unseemly.

So, with that, ladies and gentlemen....without further ado...tonight, I present to you...

Um, HELLO?!?! Read the fucking title head above, geniuses!! What? Do you need me to wipe your arses, too?!?!

****

Once upon a time, I had a major crush on this girl in high school named Kirsten. She was, like, the coolest girl. She wasn't super popular, but she was That Girl, the one that every guy secretly wanted. She had her nose pierced, she had long, blond hair (which is usually, ya know, not my bag. I've never really been one for blondes. I mean, who really needs that much fun, anyway?), big, saucer eyes, down to earth, easy to talk to. Loved indie films (she was the one that first introduced me to "Swingers.") She was awesome!

Anyway, after I finally grew some hair on my shmeckel, figuratively speaking, I invited her to my Halloween party. I thought for sure she'd say no, but she accepted my invitation and came at--er--to to my party. I was soooooo excited!!! I was like in a state of nerd euphoria!! I couldn't believe that The Girl of My Dreams was at my house (okay...my parents house, but still...!!). Anyway, she got along really with my friends and we all had a blast.

The End.

...But not really.

So, a couple of weeks later, on a Friday, she approached me in sixth-period English and asked me out to a movie for later that night. Let's just say this: In that moment, I think I dropped about a good 10-15 pounds. Anything that I had eaten, two hours prior to our conversation, may as well have just gone in one end and out the other.

I. Freaked. On the inside, of course. Except for the smell. Hmmm... [BLOGGER'S NOTE: He's kidding, people. He didn't really shit himself. STOP IT, JACKASS!! You're embarrassing yourself!!]

Later that night, every fiber of me was giddy and tingly and excited. I paced around my parents foyer, looking forward to her grand arrival in my parents' driveway.

I waited. And I waited. And I waited...

...

...

...Until finally, she called me up to tell me that she was still getting ready (who "gets ready" for a movie?!?! I mean, really?! It's a fucking movie, for G-d's sake!! You are in the dark!! This ain't "Project Runway," yo!!) and that two of her guy pals, Zach and James, were going to pick me up instead of her.

Leave it to my mom and dad to be like, "we've gotta meet these guys before we let you drive with them." It was so embarrassing. I mean, here are are these guys I've never really talked to in high school, from my class, who were going to escort me to see the Love of My Life....and my parents wanted to, like, talk to them?!?!

About what?! Fuckin' world peace?! The conditions of the rain forests?! UGH!!

Anyway, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum got in and out my house really quickly, but not before mom put on her usual "I'm Hal's mom and aren't I just fabulous?!?!" while my dad did his usual, cool, calm, very-Bostonian "Hi, how ya doin'?"

After I practically shoved them out the door, we began driving toward the address that one of the two dudes had written down: 144th and Cumming Cir. Or something (it's been a while, alright?). I was like "Oh, my GAWD!! I KNOW THAT AREA!!!" We all high-fived each other (that was probably the first and only time I ever high-fived anyone during my high school career). So, I led the way, navigating Zach (who I'm sure was completely wasted on some herb. Or something.) how to get to the circle.

When we finally arrived at the the house, I leaped out of the vehicle before Zack could even put it into park. Who could think about auto safety when my own Princess Buttercup was waiting for me?

The porch lights were on, beckoning me. I ran to the front porch with, arms wide open, ready to embrace my Lady Love. James lumbered up the steps, behind me, until we were both on the porch. I took a deep breath...

5

4

3

2

1

Ignition!

I rang the doorbell and knocked simultaneously, practically shattering the glass with my hairy-knuckled fists.

All of a sudden, a bald, stern-looking man came to the door. He had this who the hell are you and what are you selling?! look on his face. He opened up the door and suspiciously asked us, "How can I help you boys?" I blurt out "We're here to pick up Kirsten...your daughter!!" He gives us the ultimate, searing what the fuck?! look, followed by a tense, awkward 30-second silence. Without warning, he startles us by screaming, at the top of his lungs, "KIRSTEN!! CAN YOU COME DOWN HERE?!?!"

Dear, loyal reader. What happened, after that, I will never, ever forget.

Like, seriously. Never. Ever.

This 10-year-old, freckle-faced girl with pig-tales came bounding down the stairs and stopped next to papa bear, looked up at him and, with big, inquisitive eyes, asked "yes, daddy?"

He gestured to us and asked her, "do you know these boys, Kirsten?" She looks us up and down with those big, adorable eyes, vigorously shook her head and said, "nah ah!!" Let's just say that before that dude could even think of grabbing his shotgun, we were already in the van (yes, a van...how appropriate for the circumstances). Apparently, we were three miles away from the correct address and when we arrived, Kirsten was ecstatic to see us.

She barely, however, spoke a word to me. And the movie, "The Man Who Knew Too Little," (starring Bill Murray in decidedly one of the most grating, godawful movies ever made) sucked my post-pubescent balls. Apparently, my invite to the movie was her way of reciprocating for me inviting her to my Halloween party.

To be honest--and this should really come as no surprise--the journey itself to see Kirsten was the highlight of my night, possibly my high school years. I never, ever hung out with those two guys again. Every now and then, though, we'd bump into each other and joke about going to see "Kirsten."

* Epilogue *

I became me. Am still working on becoming me. Will let you know how it goes...

Zach and James graduated high school (on time, too--impressive!!), stoners or not. Though, I later found out that James tragically died by accidentally OD-ing on heroine. It's a shame, too. He was a really nice guy to me, all throughout high school and into college. What a fuckin' world.

Kirsten, on the other hand, moved to NY and became an actress, never to be heard from again. Sometimes, I wonder if she ever made it to The Great White Way or if maybe she fell into the abyss that all failing/struggling actors go to die.

Cats, that is.

Ooh...could it be?!

Is this happening?!

Can you feel that?!

Yep!

I feel a sing-along coming on...!!!!

Daylight
See the dew on the sunflower
And a rose that is fading
Roses wither away
Like the sunflower
I yearn to turn my face to the dawn
I am waiting for the day . . .

Midnight
Not a sound from the pavement
Has the moon lost her memory?
She is smiling alone
In the lamplight
The withered leaves collect at my feet
And the wind begins to moan

Memory
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again

Every streetlamp
Seems to beat a fatalistic warning
Someone mutters
And the streetlamp gutters
And soon it will be morning

Daylight
I must wait for the sunrise
I must think of a new life
And I musn't give in
When the dawn comes
Tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin

Burnt out ends of smoky days
The stale cold smell of morning
The streetlamp dies, another night is over
Another day is dawning

Touch me
It's so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun
If you touch me
You'll understand what happiness is

Look
A new day has begun

I bid thee all a good night.

THE END

The Power of Goodbye

2008-08-13T02:33:00.012-05:00

[Foreword: Ok...let me make this clear. Before you read the contents of this particular entry, I want to make it clear that a) I wrote this at 3:30am and, therefore, was super sentimental and overtired and b) I probably was a little hard on myself.

The truh is, I genuinely don't think I was nearly the ferocious, monstrous, manbeast I make myself out to be here. I just had a lot of issues at the time (truth be told, some of those issues still remain to this day). I didn't really have my OCD pinned down, at that point--in fact, I really wasn't sure what was wrong with me. That, and I just was really confused about my sexuality as well as all this relationship stuff, so I just really didn't know how to act and, being the boy that I was--as opposed to a Real Man--I acted like an immature fool. She happened to be in the crossfire of all these issues and my inexperience and immaturity. And, as we all know, sometimes, foolish, reckless behavior can be just as hurtful as deliberate, malicious action.

My point: While I am in no way a saint in the context of this story, I think I was more of a childish asshole than I was some evil demon. I suppose I could just delete this entry, rewrite it, but most of the sentiments ring true. Also understand that when I say she was "The One," that's what I thought at the time. After a certain point, I had no illusions that we were over. The truth is, there is someone out there that took over that mantle. They knew who they are.

Now...read on.]

I think I've reached a crossroads, people. I have finally reached that point in my life where the past has finally become The Past.

It's the End of An Era. Today, I finally lost Rachel.

Many of you don't know who Rachel is to me, but she was the first girl I was ever in a relationship with. She was the first girl I ever kissed and the first girl who loved me. And I loved her, too.

Just not enough.

I hurt her so many times. Not physically, mind you. But emotionally, I was a monster to her. And the thing is, I didn't do it to be malicious or because I wanted to hurt her. Simply put: the idea of someone loving me--the gimpy, awkward, insecure, sexually confused little boy that I was--was a notion so completely alien to me that I downright rejected it and turned it against her.

I came to Philadelphia twice and both times, I left her crying. Same scenario when she came to Omaha. Twice. She left me, tears flowing freely.

I hurt this girl in ways unimaginable. I was cruel to her and she didn't deserve it. And the thing is, I wish I had known what I wanted. I wish I had known better. She was an angel. And I was a devil toward her.

I remember driving to a party to meet some friends of mine and on the way there, I told her that I just couldn't see myself getting married. She asked me why and I told her that people annoy me too much. She looked at me and said, "What are you saying? That I annoy you?" I answered her back with, "quite frankly, yes. You do." I saw the hurt in her eyes and I felt so small just then. I kept my eyes on the road.

I was such a stupid fucking asshole.

Now, let me make this clear: I always loved her. I did. Make no mistake. I just didn't know how to love her the way she needed to be loved. It sucks. Anyway, despite my monstrous behavior, she and I still remained friends. We were good at being friends. I mean, it wasn't like this thing where we talked every day, but we would pop into each others' lives for months at a time and get what we needed out of each other.

I guarantee you that had I stayed with her, I'd be married with a bunch of kids running around. And for awhile, once I realized that she was probably The One, I pursued her. Hardcore, too.

But alas, 'twas not to be. The damage was done. She had wised up. Good for her. She deserved better.

A few years later, she met Andy. A guy that based on the first date, as she described it, was not exactly Mr. Excitement. From then on, I referred to him as "Mr. Boringsteen." But I guess he wasn't so bad. She stuck with him. And despite some growing up that he needed to do, he proved to be The Better Man.

I guess I'm writing all this because after a year of unanswered, unreturned calls, voicemails e-mails and IMs, I finally sent her a text message, telling her that I thought that we were friends and whatever I did to make her angry, I'm so, so sorry.

After a year of nothing, her reply: "I'm not angry with you at all. I've moved on."

I sent her a reply basically saying that there was nothing to move on from. We're friends. However, if that's what she really wanted, I understood. I told her that I wish her only the very best and to take care.

How else do you respond to someone who has basically told you that you're no longer a part of their life as they know it?

I'm not angry. I'm sad. I should have let her go a long time ago. I should have done a lot of things differently a long time ago. The funny thing about it, though, is that it really wasn't that long ago. It feels like it, but I mean, really, five, maybe six years ago isn't exactly ancient history.

I'm happy she's found someone to share her life with. She deserves The World. I wish I had known what I had when I had it. But that's sort of a constant theme in my life--a running joke, if you will. I never know what I have until I've lost it.

Does this story sound familiar to anyone? Hint, hint? Nudge, nudge?

The truth is, as much as losing Rachel for good hurts, I'm going to look on the bright side. This is the end of a chapter in my life. It's a chapter that taught me that sometimes, you just have to cut your losses and try and do better the next time.

I may not be able to correct the wreckage of my past, but at least I know what I want now for the future.

I want happiness for myself. I want a wife, 2.5 kids and a white picket fence. I want to be one of those happy couples I see walking around the mall, holding hands, kissing and not caring who sees them, or at the movie theater or at a restaurant. I want to smile and not be afraid that all of it will end in an instant. I want to know that all of the snapshots I have in my head of my future aren't going to blow away--POOF!--into nothing.

Am I getting a little ahead of myself, here? Yeah, maybe.

But hey...ya gotta start somewhere, right?

By George...!!!!

2008-08-06T02:50:00.004-05:00

I'VE GOT IT!!!!

Ok...a few weeks ago, I came up with an ending to my latest screenplay. Something about the hero and heroine chatting it up online, each in their own respective corners of the world. How very Tom and Meg of me!!

Um...REWRITE!!!

I wanna go bigger. When people see this movie--and they will...right, Erik?!--I want people to be like, "wow! That movie really inspired me" or "wow...I need to make a change my life."

I was thinking about things, this evening, and the ending just popped in my head. I didn't have a pen where I was and, apparently, no one else in Omaha carries one either, so I just had to make due with the notepad feature on my cell phone. Without giving too much away, it ends--of all places--on a tropical island with an amazing sunset. Our hero stands at the edge of the ocean, watching the majestic sunset. A woman's hand grasps his and she joins him in watching the sunset. They kiss, smile at each other and head back toward the mainland. We pull away to discover....

That's all you're getting. There's a little twist, but it is absolutely perfecto!! It's not exactly a reality. It's a completely happy, satisfying ending. But it's not the one that people will see coming. Not by a long shot!

This thing is gonna be big.

The truth? I've been completely intimidated by writing this motherfucker, for the last few months. And it's not for a lack of plot. This sucker has got it all!! I truly think it's a great story with many different themes: Love lost and found, missed opportunities, heartbreak, deceit, commitment, sacrifice, arrested development and, ultimately, just...growing up.

And yet, I've been too afraid to write it. Why?

Well, the story had yet to truly play out.

I think it finally has. Well, at least one aspect of it. And it has nothing to do with difficult choices or tragedy or me pissing and moaning or anything like that. I'm actually pretty secure and comfortable with how things concluded. It's just life. Sometimes, things work out and other times, they just don't.

Circumstances, man. Life's all about circumstances. And that's okay.

At the very least, out of all of this, I have gained an amazing friend, a cheerleader (among many others in my own neck of the woods. Y'all better know who you are! I'm going to really miss you when I leave.), who wants the very best out of me. And I know that things will be different now, but I'm just glad that she's still in my life. Whether she feels comfortable saying it back or not, I love her and wish her nothing but the best of everything. I truly mean that from the bottom of my heart.

There aren't any "buts" or "howevers" to that last statement either.

I think she's an amazing person and I'm glad she's finally becoming the happy(er) person that she was, is and will be. I hope I can be her cheerleader.

In the meantime, I'll be writing our story.

And yeah, it's a fucking beautiful one--no matter what the ending.

20

2008-08-03T22:45:00.004-05:00

It was a Wednesday.

On August 3, 1988, 20 years ago, I was admitted into Children's Hospital for Guillain-Barré syndrome.

I never knew what hit me. For those new to this blog, Guillain-Barré syndrome (a.k.a. French Polio) is a very rare form of Polio, not covered by the Polio vaccine, that left me paralyzed from the head down, including my eyes. Through physical therapy and having a drill sergeant of a mom, I became fully mobile again. Though, I'll never have the strength of an average guy.

It's funny. You'd think I'd remember the anniversary of the day that changed the course of my life. But the truth of the matter is, I didn't. I was at the gym, this afternoon, and my dad told me.

I was kind of like, huh...that's kinda funny.

I don't know if I should be worried (HOWWWWARRRRRRRD!!!!) by this cavalier attitude or grateful that I've gotten to that point where I can shrug off such a horrible time in my life.

I'd like to think the latter.

I used to hate walking around in public wearing shorts. It'd always be the same thing. Some little kid or, let's face it, rude, nosy adult would look up and down the length of my legs, not-so-subtly eyeing the translucent white plastic of my braces that ran up my calves. I'd catch them and then they'd look away and pretend like nothing happened. Luckily, several years ago, I had my leg braces shortened to ankle-length.

The truth is, I just don't think about it anymore, really.

It's a part of me. I wouldn't necessarily say it's who I am, but it's definitely shaped the way I see things, people. There are times where I wonder what kind of person would I have been had I not had the disease. Would I be a star (read: douchebag) football player or wrestler? Would I have be as tolerant as I am now? As socially awkward?

These are questions that will always go unanswered and, truth be known, it's probably better that way.

Because when push comes to shove, I've become so used to being this person, this version of me, I don't think I'd want or know how to be anyone else. I know I have issues--a lot of 'em. I have doubts, worries, insecurities. But at the end of the day, at least I know who I am, I know where I've been and while I don't know exactly where I'm going, I have the past--successes, failures, mistakes and all--to help me get there.

And I've come a long fucking way to get to this point.

But as long winded as this entry already has gotten, the point of this blog is not to write about me. Well, okay...it's a little bit of the point. Not gonna play pretend here.

But no, there's a story I want to tell that always makes me smile and cry at the same time.

I remember how my mom was, understandably, freaking out about everything when I was in the hospital. For a while, she was almost inconsolable. My dad was trying so hard to be the rock, as he always does.

What must have been going through their heads on a day to day basis, the emotions--worry, sadness, anger, frustration--I'll never be able to fathom.

One afternoon, my mom was visiting me and just, ya know, being there for me. I could tell this was taking a toll on her.

Apparently, so could my dad, who had to go out of town on business, that day.

When my mom left my room and walked the great distance to get to her car in the lot, she discovered a note in the windshield. Handwritten, it said the following:

"I love you. Everything is going to be okay."

It was just a simple note. Nothing fancy. But I think it was really what my mom needed to push forward. She cried for a few moments and then stuck the note in her purse. She never got rid of that note.

It's been 20 years. And ya know? My dad was right.

Everything turned out okay.

Gone for Good...

2008-08-02T15:08:00.018-05:00

Alright, ladies and germs. I'm not going to lie. I'm in a really bad way, right now. I'm at my wit's end, really. I'm dying inside. I didn't know a person could cry as much as I have, the last day or so. This is what's up: Last night, I came home to find an envelope sitting on the kitchen table. I opened it up, only to read the following, which I've transcribed for you below. Read on and keep me in your thoughts and prayers.

****

Dearest Hal,

I don't know how to say this but, as much as it breaks my heart, I'm just going to say it...

I'm leaving you.

I've really enjoyed getting to know you so well, these last 12 years or so. They've been the best years of my life. They've been a real blast, but I feel that, after the events that took place, the other night. I just can't be part of your life anymore. It's just too hard for me to deal with.

You've been despondent, lately; cold. I thought we could get through this bumpy patch, but we just don't communicate the way we used to, we don't mesh. Sure, the sex is good--as good as it's ever been!--but there's nothing behind it. I just feel...used. You can't even look me in the eye! It's like you're afraid I'll blow up, explode at you or something, that you'll go blind.

I know you have needs, but I have needs, too! And you just aren't meeting them. And the truth is, you haven't been meeting them for a while. And it sucks. Because for the longest time, I thought I was the only one that you needed. I was your world. But now, based on your actions, the other night, you no longer need me.

And so, I write this letter saying "goodbye." There was a time when I could weather such a storm. You know this. I know you know it. This has happened before. Three years ago, in fact, when it happened the first time around. And I let it go. I was willing to overlook your...indiscretion. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt.

But now? I'm too tired to even try. I can't be around you anymore. It hurts too damn much. You've dug this grave, Hal. You made your bed. And and as much as I love you, I hate you for what you've done.

Fuck you, Hal.

Fuck "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants Part 2!"

AND FUCK YOU FOR ENJOYING IT SO DAMN MUCH!!

Love Always,

Your Penis (a.k.a. Shlomo)

Anger Management

2008-07-30T02:22:00.006-05:00

Fuck! Fuck! Fuckety FUCK!!!

Yeah, obviously, this isn't going to be a happy-happy, joy-joy entry.

Today, I left work and marched to my vehicle. I was bitching and moaning to a friend about something on my cell. In order to get a grip on my lock fob, so I could unlock the door, I had to place my pride, my joy--my iPod--onto the roof of my car. I called up another friend to vent about this exchange.

Unfortunately, I forgot to take my iPod off the roof of my car. My iPod is gone. Gone. Like that. And for what? Because I didn't fucking THINK!! It was senseless!! I feel like a fucking idiot!! It would have taken two seconds. Tops. All I had to do was step out of my car and reach up and grab my iPOD. And now, my prized possession, the thing that helps me sleep at night, the object that I work out with, the item that I walk the hallways of my job with, listening to power songs, is gone for good.

GODDAMMIT!!!! SON OF A BITCH!!

I am so fucking pissed, right now!! Seriously!! I could spit! And if I could spit acid, like one of those alien creatures in the "Alien" Quadrilogy, I would.

I felt so awful. I didn't exactly take it out on my friends, Erik and Andy, but no matter how much of a happy front I tried to put up, I'm sure I wasn't easy to be around.

The whole night, I wanted to hit something--something that is so not me!! The victim of abuse, the item that saw the business end of my fist was--wait for it!!--a plastic container of macaroons. I beat the shit out of that damn thing. It was pretty ridiculous. On the plus-side, no macaroons were harmed in the making of this rage-filled temper tantrum. Erik even told me to hit him in the shoulder and, me being me, I hit him ever-so-gently in the armpit instead.

What can I say? Hand-to-hand combat ain't my bag, alright?! Besides, those macaroons are just delicious! Why waste 'em, right?

Tomorrow, I'm picking up a new iPod from some dude off of Craig's List. The price is $160, which is essentially $40 less than what I paid for my first one. I hope this guy doesn't try to fuck me over--literally or figuratively.

Anyway, I'm bitter and tired. I'm out.

But be warned: keep your macaroons away from my.

They're not safe!!!

Silent City

2008-07-29T01:23:00.004-05:00

Alright, people! It's time for another shameless plug!!

Just as I did for my boy and former Pulpster, Kyle Koliha (a.k.a. Two Chord Truth), I want to put the word out on the street (er, highway?) that there's another Pulp alumnus whose star is on the rise: Kid's name is Matt Goodlett. He's a really cool, sharp, funny guy and one helluva talented writer.

Like me, Matty started out as an intern at The Omaha Pulp (* sigh *), working on the local events calendar, before rising up to become the Art Editor, covering theatrical productions and art exhibits. Since Pulp's demise, he has written for such fine local publications as The Omaha Reader and The Omaha City Weekly.

I knew this kid would go places. Though, not necessarily before me--BRAT!!--but still...

I kid, I kid.

Anyway, getting to the point--and I do have one!!--as of somewhat recently, Matt has started a literary/art magazine here in town that called Silent City. It's still a baby, at this point, but it's an absolutely fabulous publication! There are tons of great essays (Katie Wudel's brilliant "Generation WTF" will leave those who suffer from the college version of Postpartum Depression hugging themselves, rocking back and forth and laughing, all at the same time) interviews and articles in it, not to mention some startlingly beautiful, haunting artwork.

Pick up the latest copy and spread the word!!

Love Me or Hate Me?

2008-07-24T00:35:00.009-05:00

At this point in my life, I've come to realize that there really is no happy medium when it comes to people liking or disliking me.

I'm either someone you either love or hate. You either find me endearing or annoying. I remember there being a time when I wanted everyone to love me. I would literally shudder at the thought of someone disliking--worse...hating--me!!

Now, I don't even blink if I find out that someone hates me, dislikes me. Odds are, if you think I'm an asshole, I probably hate your ugly-ass guts, too.

Even Steven. Just the way I like it.

Seriously, though. I'm an awkward, weird, dirty-minded guy who tends to lack a filter and says what he wants to say and laughs when he wants to laugh, no matter how inappropriate the circumstances may (or may not) be.

I mean, come on, what's not to like?!

I mean, I don't go out of my way to offend or hurt people, but I've learned that I'm going to be who I'm going to be and if you don't like it, well, suck it. I'm a people-pleaser, but I've come to a point in my life where I realized that I can't please everyone and I refuse to change who I am for anyone but myself.

So, yeah.

People either tend to dig that or head for the hills. And that's completely fine with me. I like it that way!!

It's something that I can work with, put my finger on, ya know?

What I cannot handle, however, is not knowing where I stand with people. It irks me to abso-fuckin'-lutely no end. I hate not knowing if people that I care about or people who claim to care about me--friends, family, lovers (no, not all in one breath to all of you filthy pervs out there!!)--drop off the face of the Earth or don't make an effort to get in touch with me or return my calls.

Another thing that makes me freak is when I talk to a friend, a certain immediate family member or--yeah...I'll go there--my See You Next Tuesday (figure it out, innocent ones) of a boss and there's the tiniest bit of an edge in their voices that I can't read.

I hate that!!

To me, there is nothing scarier than standing upon shaky ground or thin ice. After all, it's easy to fall through the cracks.

No, this is not a Howard thing, either. Today, I'm happy to report, I managed to beat the bloody crap out of Howard several times over with a rusty crowbar (in my head, anyway). It's more of a I-want-to-know-what-the-fuck-is-going-on thing.

I want to know how everyone feels about me at all times!! I don't want people to just tolerate me, put up with me.

Noooooo!

I want people to have strong, guttural reactions to my presence. I want women to either swoon, smile, recoil, blanch, or kick me in the balls at the mere sight of me!! I want men to get a fuckin' hard-on, high-five me, slap me on the back, hit me in the face or, well, okay, yeah...kicking in the balls works pretty well in both cases.
[BLOGGER'S NOTE: If you really think about it, a good kick to the crotch works well for just about any occasion, whether you're trying to inflict pain on another human being or just trying to induce gut-busting laughter and guffaws all around. Just sayin'...]

And if you do like (but preferably love) me but have a beef with me, let me know. Here's a tip: Passive-aggressive behavior--which, I'll admit, I'm guilty of partaking in a lot of the time--makes me want to bite you. In the jugular.

Look, I don't ask for much (Okay...that's a complete and utter lie. I ask for a lot!!). Just tell me where I stand and don't leave me hanging. Let me know if you be lovin' or you be hatin'.

I want to polarize the masses. I want to be famous and infamous to all people at all times!! So, don't be passive. Don't be afraid. Get it out in the open, ladies and germs! Step right up!! Step right up!! Come one! Come all!!

Seriously, though...

I promise I'll try to not get mad. Scout's honor (Yes, believe it or not--and I know that many of you won't believe it--I was a cub scout, ever so briefly, many, many, meh-heh-heh-henny moons ago!!) You have my word.

Fair warning, though: I might still kick you in the balls.

I Am Jack's Amusing E-mail Conversation

2008-07-23T15:48:00.008-05:00

Tina: I am a little scared of Howard… and Bruce :)

Me: If you think about it, I've got my own Tyler Durden, like in "Fight Club." Wait! Does this mean I have to shoot myself in the mouth in order to make him go away?! DAMMIT! LOL! ;o)

Tina: At least you know you always have an out :P

Me: You, my dear, are sick. LOLOLOLOL!! :oP

Kill Howard

2008-07-23T03:38:00.006-05:00

This may come as a surprise for many of you and none of you, but I have named my giant thatch of chest hair.

I call him--yes, him!--Bruce.

No, seriously. I'm not joking here.

Bruce has become such an ingrained part of my persona, that many of my friends ask me to let the big guy himself out to play, breathe. And I happily oblige, unbuttoning and unleashing the shear masculine charms of Le Brucey baby.

And let me tell you...he's the life of the party.

Make no mistake: He's always been there (well, at least for the last 15 years or so), but recently, my friends and I decided to initiate him as a full-time member of our little circle of friends.

So, yeah, Bruce. He's the man.

Tonight, though, with the help of one of the best friends a crazy dude like myself could ever ask for, I came up with a name for another part of me.

We put a name to my mortal enemy, the demon inside me that constantly makes me second-guess myself, worry to the point of exhaustion, incapacity and, eventually, quite possibly, if I let it have its way...death.

Its name is Howard.

Howard has been around far longer than Bruce. In fact, I would say Howard has been around since about the time I turned seven, when everything changed.

Here's the thing. Do I think it's okay to worry about things? Of course! It's only natural to wonder or even fear what the unknown has in store for us, what's going to happen. Hell, there are some things that people should be worried about (um, the price of gas anyone? Hello?!)

Howard, on the other hand, is that constant voice in my head that causes me to go fucking bat shit over the tiniest things. He's my voice of self-doubt, my fear of being forgotten, that I'll say or do the wrong thing, that I'll never find love, that I'll get sick, that I'll die a homeless man, that I'll die young, that I'll break my parents' hearts, that I'll hurt the ones that I love, that I'll hurt myself, that my cat will die because of me, that I won't be able to succeed in any way...

That is, until I wash my hands. Or something silly like that.

Yeah, it's an extreme example, but nevertheless, it is an example of the worries that I constantly struggle with, the fear that is always there. It's Howard in all of his seemingly infinite power.

Well, I am here to tell you, today, that I am done. I am alive. I am fine. The World is Not Ending.

So, no more mini heart attacks. No more sweating. No more paralysis.

No more, Howard.

I am not a violent man by nature (well, okay...maybe I'm a little violent...but only at heart and in mind), but here and now, let me make my intentions crystal clear...over the course of the rest of this year, I am going to reclaim my life.

And when I arrive at my destination...

I am gonna kill Howard.

Grr. Argh.

2008-07-22T03:08:00.004-05:00

Wow! What perfect timing!!

Who would have guessed that on the very same weekend the amazing new Batman movie, "The Dark Knight," debuted to groundbreaking records, that my very own Two-Face would emerge?!

Through the grapevine, I found out that, apparently, one of my "friends" thinks that I am a "pussy" whose problems/issues aren't valid.

Look, I am a very emotional person; sometimes, yes, to my own detriment.

This is not news.

I am not mad that you think that I'm a pussy, sir. No, what I am mad at is that I have never done anything but offer my friendship to you, listen to you when you needed an ear after your women done you wrong for the gazillionth time, and give you a hug when you looked like you needed one. What I am mad at is that before I found out that you called me that name, we bumped into each other and smiled at me, talked to me like I was your bosom buddy.

And then you turn around and degrade me, make me feel like a piece of shit because you're feeling sorry for yourself. Cry me a fucking river, dude! We've all got our problems.

I am who I am. I am one of the most emotional, high-maintenance, neurotic people people you will ever meet in your lifetime. I can be an absolute handful. No doubt about it.

But here's what I'm finally starting to realize about myself, after all these years, despite whatever mistakes I've made in the past...

Most of the time, I'm a pretty awesome person and a damn good friend.

Fuck you if you can't look past your own issues to see that.

You're the one who's missing out.

Back In Business!!

2008-07-22T02:44:00.005-05:00

I'm absolutely elated to announce that after a very lonnnnnng break (three years!!), I'm back in the newspaper biz again!! As of Saturday, I've been hired on as a freelance writer for a super awesome weekly alternative news rag called The Omaha Weekly Reader!!!!

It's a weekly gig where I will write about upcoming local events ("Eight Days") Plus, I've been told that I can pitch story ideas as they come to me, not to mention that I will also be considered for writing pieces for the paper's food page ("Dish") as well as on the music page.

So, yeah! Yay! Finally! A step in the right direction!!

I honestly couldn't be more pleased, thank you very much! I'm super happy!!

Hey, I guess it had to happen sooner or later, right?

* WOOT!!!! *

All These Things That I've Done

2008-07-22T01:10:00.007-05:00

But I can't confront the doubts I have
I can't admit that maybe the past was bad
And so, for the sake of momentum
I'm condemning the future to death
So it can match the past
--Aimee Mann, "Momentum" (1999)

"Live with no regrets."

People are always telling me that and, ya know, I wish I could subscribe to that philosophy, but the truth is...I've never been able to do anything without second-guessing myself afterward or beating myself up for my past mistakes.

I am a man who has immersed himself in his past.

After all, I have done bad things in my past, horrible things. For two years, I was a self-destructive jerk who really didn't care about anything. I was foolish with my body and I hurt a lot of people, lost a lot of friends, not to mention some opportunities that could have let me live Happily Ever After.

But those times are just memories now. Most people have forgiven and forgotten. I just wish I could be one of those people. I wish to G-d that I could let myself off the hook for the mistakes that I've made, the horrible choices.

What can I say? I've always been my harshest critic.

It's crazy. There are moments when I'll look back at a mistake that I've made and think about how much better, more fulfilling my life would have been had I not been such an idiot.

And then I just...panic. I freak!!

Not just a little shiver down my spine. I wish! No, I suddenly forget how to breathe, unable to continue what I was previously doing. It's like I'm trapped in that moment inside my head, living it over and over...and it takes fucking forever to calm myself back down, get myself back to good again.

For instance, last week, without going into detail, I was at work when I began thinking about this huge mistake I made in my past and BOOM!! I was gone. My breathing became erratic and I was useless to pretty much anyone and anything--catatonic, baby.

The same paralyzing, suffocating questions kept echoing and bouncing around in my skull: Is my fate signed, sealed and delivered? Am I going to be a failure?

Of course, to the outsider, this is ludicrous and irrational and I probably sound certifiable, an idiot to be sure. But that's the way I am. I've never been able to just let things go.

I know what y'all are thinking: So you made a gross fucking miscalculation. Shit happens!! MOVE ON!!

But it's not just that mistake. No, I can't let myself off the fucking hook--not for a second--on anything.

And people say "no regrets?" Fuck! I wish it were that easy!! I regret everything!! You know the old saying, you'll be as sorry as the day you were born? That's me!! I am always sorry!! I am HAUNTED by my past!!

But I'm trying.

I'm making every effort to push forward, full speed ahead. For the first time in my life, my eyes are focused and trained squarely on what's in front of me, rather than the rubble, the destruction left in my wake.

I am going to fight for my future. I have come too far, at this point, not to. And I am going to win, this time. I don't know exactly what I'm gonna win, but if it's anything that will make me a happier, stronger person, than I will do whatever it is I have to do.

And yes, there are times when I will fuck up, I will make horrible mistakes. It happens to the best of us.

Hell, I know that all too well.

Will I ever live without regrets? No. I don't suppose I ever will. I think anyone who doesn't have regrets is arrogant, wrong-headed and immature. But it doesn't make them bad people.

Look, we were put on this Earth to make mistakes, dust ourselves off, learn from them and teach others to not make the same mistakes we did. I have made terrible, horrible mistakes. But I've learned from them--more times than one on a few.

But I have yet to forgive and forget. I think it's due time that I try.

My life depends on it.

Save the Date!

2008-07-15T01:42:00.005-05:00

I have never been, nor will I ever be, what one might refer to as a player, a pimp or a man whore.

Truth be known, and this is complete and utter T.M.I., but I would rather stay home and watch porn in the privacy of my own bedroom, living room, kitchen, and/or hallway (okay...the closet and atop just about any hard surface, too) than go on a date, blind or otherwise. Hell, most times, I would rather take a bath with my toaster oven than endure the awkwardness and humiliation that accompanies a first date.

And yet, there I was, two weeks ago, with two different dates in two days. Yeah, I was pretty shocked, too. That has never happened to me. Seriously. Never. Eh-var. At first, I was kind of excited about it, thinking gee whiz! Someone up there must like me!

But of course, me being me, the neuroses soon began to set in. I kept asking people--friends, family, co-workers, Romans, countrymen--the same question, over and over and over again: Am I a complete and utter asshole?! I mean, think about it. What if you find that both gals/guys are awesome and they both like you equally and vice versa? What then? The last thing I want to do is hurt anyone. What if I had to choose, ya know? I don't know if I could do it.

Could you just imagine? I'd become the first Jewish polygamist!! Actually...that plan doesn't sound half bad!! Kidding. Only kidding. [BLOGGER'S NOTE: Kinda.]

Plus, on a more serious note, there's still someone out there that I care truly, madly and deeply about, someone whose sequins, as creepy and desperate and Swimfan-ish as this sounds, I would follow to the ends of the Earth. What a world.

But all that is neither here nor there. Let's get back to dating.

I've always been the type of person who would much rather go on a dating Web site--J-date, usually--and just find people, talk to them online, progressing toward the phone and, eventually, meet in person. It's how I met my exes. Which probably doesn't exactly help my case, but still...

I mean, I don't think I'm an ugly cat, but I like the idea that they're getting to know my personality first before they meet me in person. It's sort of like a defense maneuver, I guess, an insurance policy. It's not like we don't exchange pictures or anything. They know what, er, who they're getting into from the get-go.

I've always thought that dating is kind of a bullshit way of getting to know one another. I always think of this line that Jerry Seinfeld once said, that dates are like glorified job interviews with the dwindling possibility of sex at the end. It's the absolute truth. After the date's over, you're always left wondering did I get it? How'd I do?!

At 27, I still find myself exasperated and confounded by sexual politics as well as dating etiquette, especially nowadays. On the date with the second girl, she wanted to pay separately. I had no idea what to think or make of this. I mean, aren't guys supposed to pay? Was it even a date or was it two potential friends just "kickin'" it, yo? Stuff like that makes me question everything when it comes to the do's and don'ts of dating and I hate being unsure of myself.

Which is a pretty funny thing for me to say, seeing as there's no one more unsure of themselves than I.

So, to wrap this up. The first girl, who I actually thought there might be a chance with (three hours of great conversation at the restaurant on the first date?!?! Way cool!!) all but fled like the wind from me on the second date. Not sure why. Maybe I was too tall. The second one, well, the jury is most definitely out. I still get a hardcore friends vibe, though, with no clue as to where I stand. I dunno.

Eh. What can I tell you?

It's hard out there for a pimp.

Collared

2008-07-07T19:36:00.002-05:00

I'm kind of surprised that I never wrote about this, but I never ended up going to Israel.

I gave a lot of reasons, some true, some false.

But my biggest reason, one that I've never really shared with a lot of people, is this: My kitty, Lillie, was sick. And sick cats cost money.

Yes, I know, the trip was free. But incidentals and gifts and souvenirs and all kinds of other things can really add up in costs! At the time, my mom was telling me that I should bring $600 with me! And there was a time when that amount wouldn't have been a problem (read: when I didn't have, ya know, rent and bills to pay and I still lived at the parental units' humble abode), but that time was not then.

So, getting back to Lillie. She was sneezing a lot, coughing, her breathing was a little mucusy. And being the selfish person that I am, I almost considered getting rid of her. After all, I had a trip to go on!! I couldn't afford a sick cat on top of it!!

And then, one night, I looked her in the eye. She was so tiny. She looked so sad and pathetic. She gave me this look like, why aren't you taking care of me? It was then that I knew that she no longer belonged to me. It was the other way around. As gross and sappy and positively weird (yes, I've officially become one of those obnoxious pet lovers that I hate) as this sounds, as much as she's my little girl, I'm her daddy.

I withdrew from the trip a day or so later and took her to the vet.

I am so overprotective of her. To a fault, almost. I finally just started turning the lights off in my apartment when I leave. Yes, I've always known that cats are nocturnal and can see just fine in the dark, but still...it's the dark!! It's so lonely!! Another example of my Protective Papa Syndrome is that even if the toilet seat is down, I make sure the bathroom door is closed, just as one extra precaution so that she doesn't drink the bleach water from the toilet bowl.

Yeah, it gets pretty bad. My friends think I'm completely nuts. Sadly enough, they may not be (completely) wrong.

Anyway, the reason I'm writing this is because, well, my little girl is growing up.

* sigh *

When I first got her, she was so tiny (five months old, my ASS!! lol!! Love you, Court) that I actually had to get her a bunny collar to fit around her neck. Nearly a year later, this last Saturday, I finally had to go the store and pick up a cat collar because she's gotten so big!! I came home and Erik and I cut off her little bunny collar. It's going to go somewhere safe like my little jewelery box [BLOGGER'S NOTE: Alright, alright! Knock it off with the gay jokes. I don't actually keep jewelery in the jewelery box. Just mementos and keepsakes, mostly!! So, like, fuck off!!]

Not only that but, also as of Saturday, I switched her from Purina One's "Healthy Kitten Formula" to the "Adult Cat Healthy Weight Formula."

As the great Bob Dylan once said, the times they are a-changin'.

I can't believe what a prick I was with her, those first few months. I can't believe I was going to give her up. It breaks my heart. The idea that I was so close to getting rid of one of the brightest lights of my life breaks my heart.

It's so funny how, when I first got her, I hated her jumping on everything and just getting into my shit. Now, I honestly don't know what I'd do without her. The idea of coming home to an empty apartment without her greeting me at the door and trying to crawl up my leg or sitting up on the chair and giving me one of her giant Lillie yawns, after several hours of sleep...it puts shivers down my spine. In a year full of chaos (a lot of it caused by Miss Lillie herself), she's been my one true thing, the most stable thing in my life.

What a difference a year makes.

"Viva" La Coldplay

2008-07-01T01:24:00.006-05:00

There's nothing quite as exhilarating as when one of your favorite bands, after a ho-hum previous effort, not only returns to form, but bounces back with a vengeance, exceeding your expectations as well as changing everything you thought you knew the band was capable of.

This is exactly what Coldplay has done with their latest masterpiece, Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends.

Come on! Let's get it out! Go ahead and say it: You Know How I Know You're Gay? You Like Coldplay.

Yes, much to the chagrin of male fans of the aforementioned British alternative rock band, Judd Apatow's modern comic classic, "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," made it unsafe for once-secure heterosexual men everywhere to freely admit their undying love for Coldplay.

In fact, I was at IHOP (home of Mr. "I don't do stupid!"), a week or two back, when I asked Glen if he liked Coldplay. His response: "I don't admit it publicly, but I think they're alright."

What gives?! Why the backlash?!

When their debut album, "Parachutes"--their first masterpiece, in my opinion--crossed the pond over to the states in 2000, hit singles such as the soulful, rock ballad "Yellow" and the contemplative "Trouble" helped put their names on a list of Bands to Watch For. Still, some critics dubbed the band as a Radiohead wannabe.

Two years later, their second masterpiece, A Rush of Blood to the Head, was released. With songs such as the hard-charging "G-d Put a Smile Upon Your Face," the mournful love ballad, "The Scientist," the luscious piano crescendo of "Clocks," the overlooked favorite for many (well, you know who you are), "Green Eyes," and one of the most haunting love ballads of all time, "Warning Signs," the album was a recipe for success. And a success it was. It became a giant hit, making astronomical sales and garnering universal critical acclaim, making lead singer Chris Martin and company household names and catapulting the band to super stardom.

In 2005, the inevitable backlash began upon the release of their third studio album, X&Y. While I think critics were unreasonably hard on the band's newest effort, I do think the album is certainly their weakest. I think it's because the band was trying way too hard to make these U2-ish (The Greatest Band in the World) arena rock anthems The band has always fared better by keeping things intimate, with their hearts on their sleeves. Sure, there were some bright spots, such as the lovely, emotionally-stirring "Fix You," the powerful, persuasive "A Message," and "'Til Kingdom Come" (originally written by the band for Johnny Cash, who died before recording sessions occurred). Yet, the band seemed far more intent on trying to be all things to all people than it was on trying to make well-written, catchy songs. The album sold well, but received mixed reviews.

I'll admit that I was over Coldplay for a year or so following X&Y. I thought the band had gotten too big for it's britches. A band like U2 can get away with such arrogance and pompousness, because they've been around for over 32 years, releasing more than 11 albums. Coldplay, as a band, is still young. It's one thing to aspire to be like a band you admire, but to start to believe you are that band or that you can be that band is entirely another. Coldplay began its journey with intimate, quiet songs about love, loss, and redemption and the more popular they got, the more they seemed to abandon those roots. U2 made the same mistake during the latter part of the '90s with Pop (not the band's best, but it still has some great moments). It happens.

However, as a band, Coldplay needed to read the writing on the walls that people were beginning to dismiss them as a whiny, self-indulgent band, well on it's way to achieving self-parody.

It is with great joy that I can tell you for their latest album, they saw the warning signs. Viva La VIda may very well be one of the best CD's I've ever listened to. Period.

The disc begins with "Life In Technicolor," a track that will surprise most fans for its lack of lyrics. It opens up the album with a rush of energy that seems to sustain it for all its 10 tracks.

The albums third track, "Lost!" is an absolutely perfect inspirational pop rock ballad that just makes the soul soar with it's pipe organ and clapping, not to mention Chris Martin's seemingly newfound vocal confidence. The man's famous, much-chided falsetto appears only briefly on the disc. Is it better for it? I don't know. I never had a problem with his trademark vocal stylings, but I do think its nice to see an artist stretch a bit.

The absolutely rich and gorgeous "Lovers in Japan," with its building, fast-paced tempo, will strike some people as sounding a lot like U2's "Where The Streets Have No Name," and they wouldn't be incorrect in making such an assessment. The album was co-produced by longtime U2 collaborator, the brilliant Brian Eno. This track is a real treat. It has so much energy to it. I love driving to it. Don't ask why. Anything that helps me get to work on time, I guess, right?

"Yes!" is a track that just grabs you and never lets you go. It's a twisty one, too, as it starts as a melancholy break-up rock song about loneliness, occasionally incorporating Arabic music, until finally morphing it's way toward a trippy, high-speed finale.

The title track has gained quite a lot of popularity, as well as airtime on TV as it was used for iTunes latest advertising campaign. With its classical sound, it's a grand, sweeping track, very reminiscent of Annie Lennox's 1992 "Walking On Broken Glass." The song's energy is absolutely infectious!

The most lovely song on the album is its simplest one, "Strawberry Swing." It kind of begins with a twangy country/bluegrass arrangement but eventually makes great use of African drums. The song is about savoring and not wasting the precious moments with a lover, because they may not always be around. It's a philosophy I've always subscribed to: Every moment counts. It's truly one of the band's best songs ever; an instant Coldplay classic.

I have listened to "Vida" non-stop for the last two weeks and each time I listen to it, it only gets better. I can't tell you how happy I am to have the band that made me believe that it was okay to keep your heart firmly planted on your sleeve back in top form.

So, yeah, a hearty welcome back goes to my favorite boys from Manchester. Coldplay rocks!!

Yes, you heard me: I LOVE COLDPLAY!!!

If that makes me gay, well, then really...who wants to be straight anyway, right?

At It Again!!!!

2008-06-18T02:21:00.002-05:00

Well, those cantankerous, easily excitable Jefferson-ish motherfuckers downstairs are at it again!!

Ya know what?!

If I win the fucking lottery, I will make it my personal quest to send each and every one of you to a deluxe apartment in the sky.

Will that work for you?!?! Great!!

In the meantime, shhhhhhh!!!

Sigur Rózzzzzzzzzzz

2008-06-12T03:09:00.003-05:00

My, my...how things change.

Back, during my formative years, I used to hate live performances, complaining that the songs sounded "different" or "not as good" as they were on the original albums.

Tonight, er, last night, I went and saw one of my favorite bands, Sigur Rós, play live at the Orpheum. For those of you not familiar to Sigur Rós, they are an Icelandic band that infuses very powerful, electronic and classical sounds in their music. Their music is very chill and--yes, I totally cribbed this word from the boys and girls at Wikipedia--ethereal.

It's that rare band that knows how to make music that grabs your soul and shakes it all about. Just absolutely gorgeous music. I actually keep their music on to help me sleep. It's very relaxing.

So, I dunno. Maybe I shouldn't have been so surprised when I found myself falling asleep during their live performance. But shocked I was. And a little disappointed. It wasn't that their music was bad. Not at all. It was just as beautiful and crystalline as it's always been. And it was all the more impressive watching it being performed live.

So, why the snoozefest?

Well, see the reasons above. It was more of the same; identical, actually. To the last note. Look, if I'm shelling out bucco bucks, I want a little bang. Not to sound like a complete brat, but if I want to hear the songs exactly as I know them, I can just pop in the CD and listen to it. I want random guitar interludes, improvisation and audience patter.

Speaking of the latter, I went and saw the concert with my brother in arms, Erik, and I completely agree with his take on why the concert was lacking. He whispered, ever so softly in my ear (lol!!!), " ya know, for a band that's all about having a big stage production, they have absolutely no stage presence."

I concur, sir.

Say what you will about U2 (Best Band on Earth) and Coldplay (you know how I know you're gay...?), but they know how to play with the audience. I've seen both of those two bands live and there was a real give and take between band and audience, a dynamic. And there was nothing like that present, this evening. They barely even talked. They just jumped from one song to the next.

How very meh of them.

But that's not to say I didn't enjoy the music itself. It was breathtaking, no denying that. I was actually moved to tears at a few points. There music has and always will be lovely and pure. Hell, the music alone was almost worth the price of admission.

Almost.

The Mascot

2008-06-07T13:58:00.003-05:00

I've always sort of seen myself as the team mascot for all of my friends.

When I think of a mascot, I always picture sort of a goofy caricature that no one really takes seriously, but nevertheless remains the glue that keeps people coming back and rooting for their group, staying loyal.

Well, I've always thought of myself as that guy. In fact, up until very recently, I believed my status was relegated to simply being The Hairy Jewish Guy (Go BRUCE!!!!). And while the latter part is true--I am Jewish and nearly as hairy as an Ewok--I realized in the last day that I was, well, I was something more than that.

Last night, when I told my closest friends that there's a possibility I might be moving across the country, next February, I got a reaction that I never really expected to get: Sadness.

I mean, I'm not tooting my own horn. I don't think anyone is really going to be devastated or anything by my departure, but still...Wow! The reaction I got when I told some of them that I might be leaving? Well, I was really quite touched. Until last night, I never really knew that I had such an impact on my friends' lives here. I kind of always thought I was just someone who came in, made people smile and laugh and that was the end of it; and, as a result, I got the white "FRIEND" label slapped on my breast pocket.

I didn't realize I was so...loved. Maybe that says more about me as a person than it does about my friends. I've always kind of had this well, I don't really take myself very seriously, so why should anyone else? mentality. I use sarcasm and self-deprecation as a defense mechanism. It's not much of a secret. The irony of it all is that one of my biggest fears is that people will never take me seriously--as a man and as a person. What can I say? I'm my own worst enemy.

In the last few months--hell, all my life! My dad travels a lot!--I've really learned a valuable lesson about love and distance. And it's this: Just because something or someone you love isn't in front of you all the time, it doesn't mean there's any less love, it doesn't make it any less real. It just makes it all that more powerful. It makes it more concentrated, because you realize just how much the someone or something means to you and what they meant to you when they were there to begin with.

I love my friends--every single one of them. I always have. I just never really knew how much they loved me back.

Even for a neurotic cynic like myself, that's a really, really nice surprise.

Royalwood Blues

2008-06-07T03:25:00.004-05:00

Look, I'm not a racist person. I'm not.

I know, I know...people who say things like "I'm not racist, but..." usually are the most prejudice of all. But seriously, I have no bone to pick with African Americans or anyone of any race, creed, nationality or religion. Two of my best friends in the world are black.

However, the black family below me seriously needs to drink a nice, steaming cup of SHUT THE EVER LOVING FUCK UP!!!!! Seriously!! No one wants to hear your loud-ass, profanity-laced, n-bomb dropping (there are small children in this building!! HELLOOOO?!?!?!) screaming and drama!!!!

Goddamn it!!!!

Oh, and if you're gonna get into a Jerry Springer-esque fight? Try and keep it limited to one floor only, please!! None of this running upstairs and downstairs bullshit!! This ain't no Agatha Christie novel!!!

It was a peaceful apartment complex, for Chrissakes, yo!!!!

Well, except for the meth heads upstairs. But at least they know how to have a good time without causin' a ruckus!!!

Coming of Age...

2008-06-05T01:29:00.002-05:00

"It's complicated."

At least, that's what I have on my Facebook profile.

I've usually never run toward drama like this. Usually, it just kind of follows me around until I either do something drastic or just ignore it to make it go away. But this time, I'm facing it head on.

All my life, I've listened to people tell me what I should and shouldn't do. I've based all my decisions on whether or not people will like me after I do what I do. This situation, as chaotic as it is, is one of the best things to happen in my life, because it truly has made me realize that no matter what people tell you, whether they think something is wrong and immoral or great and romantic, you have to listen to your own heart, your own head and live and die by the decisions you make.

There's someone out there. Someone I've waited my whole life for. I lost her once. And then she found me again. It's a second chance. Not everyone gets one of those. But it's a big fucking mess and, yeah, there are people out there who have told me to do the "right thing" and walk away There are also people who tell me to make my own decisions and be careful.

And ya know? I think I'm finally realizing that, after all this time, I've been forgetting to listen to the one person who counts: Me. At the end of the day, no one can walk in my shoes but me. And it's hard enough to walk in these Nike's on my own without having people push me, to and fro. I guess I just need to do what I'm going to do and let the chips fall where they may. While part of being an adult is being willing to listen to advice from family and friends, there's something to be said for having a mind of your own and making your own decisions.

I've made mine. On my own. I know what I want. I know who I want. And I know what I have to do to get both.

And maybe, in the end, when the dust settles, I'll find that my decision was a mistake. I sincerely hope not, bus as I've said, time and time again, I don't have a crystal ball and I have no idea how this is all going to play out. But at least I'll know that it was my mistake to make and I'll own it. That is something that no one will be able to take away from me.

For the record, however, I don't think it's a mistake. Not by a long shot. I think she's very well worth the rocky emotional terrain I'll encounter on my journey. After all, there is no one on the planet that makes me feel as bright and alive and happy and wonderful as when I'm on the phone with her or talking to her or even just thinking about her.

It is a journey I'm on. And whatever happens, I'll have the blissful, euphoric satisfaction of knowing that I completed it on my own terms.

But I won't lie.

When I arrive at my destination, I hope she's there, waiting for me, at the end. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

Nuuuuuuuuuu.

At Last...

2008-05-20T02:03:00.004-05:00

I never thought I'd hear those three words again. You know the ones I'm talking about.

And then, it happened. And at first, for a few moments, I was scared of the implications those words had, the power. I said something like, you don't mean that. Maybe it's not a good idea to throw such strong words around.

But as the evening progressed and I looked into your eyes, I knew you meant it. I could see it--that intensity, that electricity that comes with knowing something in your bones. And it was then that I realized that I felt the same way. I just needed to not be so afraid and take the plunge.

Here's the thing, I've been there and back again in the five years since you and I first spoke to each other and eventually parted ways (by my own idiotic doing--I'll never forgive myself). I've done the drugs and partied hearty. I've met one or two girls in my life that I thought had real potential but eventually fucked me over.

But what I finally realize is this: All that time, I was just waiting for you to find me again. And you did. You scoured the Internet for me. You searched and you searched and you searched. And you did it.

You came back to me.

I wish I hadn't been such an idiot all those years ago. I must have been so out of it, I don't even remember calling you to tell you that I was no longer interested. I didn't realize how much it hurt you. I don't know what I did to deserve such a lovely woman like you re-enter my life, give me a second chance or why I stuck in your head or why you would search me out again, but I am blessed that you did, because you are my angel. And if this all works out, this thing we have, I will dedicate the rest of my life to making it up to you, making you happy.

This weekend was magical, sweetheart.

I know now that you are the girl I've been waiting for. Like you, I know it in my heart. And while I have been wrong before, this seems completely different. Besides, I have to believe that there is a reason we found each other again after so long. I don't think I've been so completely happy in a long time. You should see the dopey grin that's been on my face, the past two days. Ear to ear. I think about you and my heart rate goes up and I just get warm all over. I absolutely melt.

I had a feeling that, from the moment we stepped onto that escalator going down at the airport that we truly were the two peas in a pod that we had spoken about on the phone, online. The zoo trip confirmed my thoughts and by the time we hiked up that god-awful, gigantic hill, causing me to nearly pass out from exhaustion, if not dehydration, I knew it.

I had fallen for you. You had me under your spell. By the time we danced, I realized that this could be the beginning of Something Great. Far greater than anything I've ever been a part of. We didn't just have chemistry, we had passion! Something that I think both of us have lacked for quite a long time.

And it was spectacular!!

Knowing how both of us feels, and after all that's been said and done, the next little while, we're going to have to work harder than we've ever had to work to claw our way out of the giant holes we've been stuck in for so long, dug by ourselves. I believe we can do it because I believe in you and me. We've come this far. Now, it's all about learning to push forward a little further in order to start an amazing, exciting life with each other (and a certain peedle!!), rather than the one we're both been merely content and/or bored with.

And I know it will be worth it.

Because I have to believe and have faith that good things come to those who wait. And angel, I've been waiting for someone like you all of my life. You are beautiful, smart, sexy, funny, sincere and genuine. So, when you say those three words, how can I not respond with anything but the following...??

I love you, too.

Absolutely, positively, without a shadow of a doubt.

American Idol?

2008-05-13T02:14:00.005-05:00

Look, call me Nature Boy, but I just want to love and be loved, alright?

There's this girl out there. I'll call her Lina, who thinks I'm the absolute shit. We've known each other for years and the thing is, she's got this crazy misconception that I am like this perfect, brilliant, hot young stud.

And, ya know, while I'm not one to turn down such flattery (thank you, thank you thank you!!!!!!), I'm far from the Perfect Man she thinks I am. The truth is, as many of you have come to realize by reading this here blog, I've got a lot o' shit going on in this ol' noggin mine. I'm a pretty flawed individual with a lot of issues: self-involved, addictive personality, potty-humored, potty-mouthed, paranoid, germaphobic, low self-esteem. Throw on top of that that I'm attracted to girls and boys...you've got yourself quite a handful to deal with.

But I try.

And I've tried to change a lot about myself, over the years, but the thing I've learned most is that I am who I am and I gotta be who I wanna be...not what someone else wants me to be or who they think I should be. I recently told a buddy that, when it comes to his new special lady friend, he should just be himself and the rest will work out on its own.

I don't think a lot of people get that. They really don't.

They are constantly re-inventing themselves or putting on airs or pimping their rides or homes or whatever is popular to pimp, these days. It really makes me sad. Just a few months ago, I recall a friend being turned down by a girl--and made fun of--because she thought he was gay, despite his protests. Well, ya know what, lady? The person you fall in love with, the perfect man? He's probably going to be nothing like you pictured him as. Same goes for you, fellas.

I understand: a person what a person wants. And yeah, I do believe there's someone out there for everyone, but people are so hellbent on finding that person, that perfect sculpture that they've chiseled away at for so long in their minds, that they don't see a good thing when they have one or they find what they're looking for and they realize, wow...what was I thinking?

It makes me angry when Lina talks to me as if I'm her great white hope. I'm not. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I'm no saint and I am certainly not perfect or, at least, the American Idol she apparently thinks me to be. I do, however, think the world of her and enjoy it when we just gets down to the level, so that we can just talk and enjoy each other's company. Just two people being who they are, rather than who they should be, who they never will be.

See, the thing is...I don't want to be worshiped or idolized.

I want to be loved.

I truly think people mistake the two for each other far too easily and far too often.

Gushing Sentiments

2008-05-13T01:31:00.005-05:00

I never thought I'd say this, but lately, I feel just like Matthew McConaughy...and not just because of my bronzed, hairless, Adonis-like physique.

HA! I kid! I kid!

No, I feel like the character he played in "Dazed & Confused," Wooderson. You know, the old guy hangin' out with the young'ns. See, I have this brand new crew of friends and I'm, like, the geriatric of the group. The oldest one is 20, making them seven years younger than all of them.

Here's the thing, though, what they may not have in years, they make up for it in brains, gut-wrenching humor and, above all things, heart. I wish I had such a closely-knit group of friends back in the day, high school and such. Oh, don't get me wrong, I had a great group of friends in high school (we have since, for the most part, disbanded) and a few while in college (Kevin, Justin, Sharon). One of them is probably reading this as we speak (Yes, Crysi Dawn...that would be you, dear. We sure go back a loooooong ways, don't we?! HOLLA!!!). And yes, there will always be the three amigos (Matteo, Justin and I).

Never, though, have I have had or seen a group--a large group for that matter--of friends so fiercely loyal to one another than the crew I've been hanging out with, lately. Even when there's drama, even when they're ribbing each other, their love for one another radiates throughout the room. You can feel it. And I am a lucky guy to have been so wholeheartedly embraced by them.

So, to Erik, Andy, Steph, Joel, Jeremy and Mutton Chops (okay...Joe, too)...

I'm really grateful to have all of you in my lives. I love you guys to death. Pure and simple. You're unique in all the best ways.

Never change. Not a one of you.

Okay, my girlish, emotional moment is over.

Now, where did I put that damn penis?!

Mom # 2

2008-05-06T01:52:00.003-05:00

I never thought you would be gone so soon.

I remember talking to you, nearly a year ago. It is with great regret and embarrassment when I remind you that, at the time, I was speaking ill of your son, one of my best friends in the world. I was so angry with him for one reason or another. And I just vented to you...About your own son!! And as hard as it was for you to probably hear, you were so understanding and kind and lovely. You just...listened.

And then you told your son that I was upset with him. Your son called me up to confront me about my grievances like the man I should have been in that moment and I remember, at the time, being so angry that you had done that. I had this wrongheaded idea in my head that you had violated my confidence, my trust. And looking back now--now that you're gone--it just...I realize just how stupid, how silly it was of me to be angry with you. I wish I hadn't been so naive that I couldn't understand that what you were doing what any great mom should do: Teach their children to handle things themselves.

Because you're not gonna be here forever.

That was the last time we ever spoke, you and I. You died very suddenly on April 11, 2008, of a heart attack. And I wish I could have said "goodbye." I wish I had been able to talk to you one more time on the phone like we used to do. Remember those chats? We'd talk for an hour--sometimes two hours--at a time. We would laugh and confide in one another. And you would be such an amazing cheerleader to me. You would get so excited whenever something good happened to me. And if I got hurt by someone or if I was having a bad time, I'd call you knowing that you would do your damnedest to build me up and, even if it was just a brief moment, make me smile. You'd let me talk your ear off.

I remember how, when I turned 26, last year, you managed to perform a small miracle and persuade your husband--the infamously cranky yet lovable and wise fellow that he is--to call me up and sing Happy Birthday with you. I couldn't help but be touched. I couldn't help but grin, ear to ear, and cry at the same time. You did that. That was all you. And I can't help but feel that residual warmth rush over me, just thinking about that moment now, as I write this.

You may not have been my real mom, but you meant so much to me. You made me feel like I was a part of your family. And I will be forever grateful for what you brought to my life...and what you've left behind.

Your kindness and grace and light will be missed by all who knew you.

Eargasm

2008-05-04T00:10:00.007-05:00

Is it possible to have an orgasm in your ears?

Well, maybe not.

But I'll tell you something: tonight, when I saw Dennis DeYoung, one of the founding members, as well as writer, lead singer and keyboardist for the band Styx, perform my all-time favorite song, "Come Sail Away" (ya better get that call-tune queued up for me, by the time I call next, Crysi Dawn, my little chickadee!! Though, I will admit, it is still hard out there for a pimp and no, I haven't stopped believing. Wink, wink...nudge nudge), I think it's about as close to having a sexual climax of the auditory system as I'm ever gonna get.

I've been to several concerts in my time--some pretty big names, too. Let's see: U2, Celine Dion, Sarah McLachlan, Coldplay, Bon Jovi...Hootie and the Blowfish (hmmm...). I'll also be seeing the reunion tour of Sting and the Police, with Elvis Costello opening for them, in a couple of weeks. Though, I'm still kicking myself in my gigantic ghetto booty for missing the Rufus Wainwright concert, but what can you do? Besides, Rufe's not gonna run out of his trademark angst. Well, at least, not anytime soon. Though, he does seem to be happy with his boyfriend, Jörn (whoa, what is this? "Lives of the Rich and Famous?!) He'll be back. I've also seen some pretty darn obscure--but just as amazing, if not more--live acts (Kyle Koliha, Albert Cummings, Mingo Fishtrap).

But this single song being played, man. Backed by a robust 39-piece orchestra, live at The Holland Center in The Old Market? It was one of the most dizzying, euphoric experiences of my life.

I, quite literally, was move. To. Tears. Hell, every inch of my body was moved. My synapses were set to "extra crispy" and fried by the time it was over.

And that was just the performance.

I love, love, LOVE that fucking song. It is everything that I'm about. It encompasses all that I love and know about life. To me, the song is about our dreams, our endeavors, the choices we make, the paths we take. And sometimes, we miss the boat, but we do what we can to right the ship and work through whatever wreckage and find a way to shore.

I've made a lot of mistakes over the years; some foolish, some well-intentioned, some small, some big and some, well, catastrophic. But, like the songs says, I carry on. And I live my life. And I see all these people from my past--school, work, etc.--getting their lives in order, starting families and sometimes, I cry. Other times, I panic and I wonder what I'm doing wrong. And eventually, it hits me.

There is no right and there is no wrong. Life is about pushing forward, from one day to the next and having family and friends and not giving up and not backing down and just giving it your all, no matter how dreadful you think the next day will be. It's about fighting the fight. If you can do that...than you're golden.

I want to close this entry with a quote, a message if you will, that Mr. DeYoung ended his majestic performance with that was so simple but so honest and true and real and powerful that I just wanted to hug myself.

"In life, there are winners and there are losers. Wanna know what a winner is? It's a loser...who gives it one more try."

Retrospective and Hindsight

2008-04-29T01:39:00.004-05:00

It was brought to my attention that the words in my last blog post, which I have since removed out of respect to a certain grieving family's wishes, were cruel and deeply hurtful.

I would like to take this time to apologize for any pain and suffering I caused that family. It was certainly not my intention to do so. Despite what they--and their friend who contacted me--might believe, that is not what this blog is--or ever will be--about.

In the blog, I had mentioned the fact that a girl from my high school, who recently passed away due to cancer had not been very nice to me. The words I used, I recall, may have been overly harsh.

However, I also took the time to address the fact that I was unaware that she had been so sick during high school and, knowing from personal experience--myself having been paralyzed from the head down when I was seven and, eventually, overcoming such unbeatable odds--that illness can sometimes bring out the worst in people. My point was--and maybe I just wasn't as clear and/or as sensitive as I should have been when dealing with such raw and emotional topics--that I wish I had known that she was sick, because maybe I might have cut her some slack. I might have been more understanding and I probably would have tried to befriend her, because I know what it's like to be looked at differently, to be made fun of, to want to be and feel "normal."

But again, that's not how it came out from my end.

I received an anonymous post from the girl's mother who said she wasn't sure how she came across my blog. Well, I imagine that she Googled her daughter's name. I tried it myself and found the blog in question. But I also found tons of other stuff, wonderful stuff about their daughter and it leads me to question what I know about this girl who, from everything I've read about her over the course of the last couple of weeks, was just a lovely and absolutely beautiful soul. Obviously, from the turnout of 500 people at her memorial service, she was beloved by more people than I'll probably ever know.

I wish I had met that person in high school. That, I truly regret, because she sounded like a really, really cool young woman. In this case, I'll chalk it up to being my loss.

And as I mentioned before, perhaps the things I wrote were indeed harsh, but the truth of the matter is, there's always going to be one great, big asshole out there (in this case, myself) who will have something to bitch about a person, even if there are a million other people who have thousands of amazing things to say about the same person. To which I ask, in general, can't there be room for both positive and negative opinions? Surely, mine can't be any less valid. Just because I have something negative to say while 500 other people have positive things to say, it doesn't mean that anyone is more right or wrong than the other. After all, it's a matter of perspective.

Regardless, I took down the blog.

And I did so because I want the family of this girl to know that I am not a bad person and that I know when to raise a white flag and admit when I've done a bad thing, intentional or not. And, yeah, while it was my opinion, it was inappropriate of me to have used such a beloved individual's name--at the very least, so closely to the time of grieving for her family and loved ones. While I'm not usually one to ask for forgiveness, I hope that me taking down the post takes away a little of the pain that I caused for those who loved Megan.

I wish I had known her better.

G-d bless.

They Sure Are Friendly Around Here!!!

2008-04-07T11:50:00.002-05:00

This weekend, I survived an attack by a man with a dirty, used vibrator and lived to tell the tale!!!!!!

Am I a badass or what?!?!

AND...

In other news, guess which lucky boy gets the award for conceiving The World's Greatest Bumper Sticker!!!

Waiting For A Want

2008-04-01T02:14:00.008-05:00

Elton John said it best: I want love...just a different kind.

And it's true. I do want love. I'm just not sure I'm ready to settle for the next best thing.

In truth, I don't want to settle at all...for anything.

I always get a little exasperated when I hear my friends call their significant others "dick" or "asshole" or "dumb ass" or worse. It always boggles my mind when I see boyfriends and girlfriends constantly fight and break up and get back together again, as if their lives depended on it.

Maybe it's my inexperience, but I've always been of the belief that, while it's perfectly natural to argue from time to time and that every relationship has its ebbs and flows, partners should have a sort of mutual respect for one another and hold true to the belief that they're in this thing together.

Maybe it's just the way I was raised. My parents rarely fought or even argued. My dad is the ying to my mom's yang. He's the cool, calm, collected one and my mom is the emotional heart. It's pretty rare, these days, when you see two couples always smiling, holding hands, cuddling, wanting to be with one another, but somehow, my parents got it. I could honestly say they have the Perfect Marriage.

I never understand how people can stay in relationships if they're so unhappy. I mean, I guess I understand that when you break up, it sort of feels like you've wasted your time with nothing to show for it other than hurt feelings and tears shed, but I mean, it's such a big world out there. There's bound to be someone out there who you're going to be happier with and who is going to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. Why stick with someone you can't stand, someone who treats you like shit?

I know I don't want that.

My cousin Greer, bless her heart, once told me that she wanted someone to love her more than she loves them. And to a degree, I hear that and I see what she's saying. I mean, who doesn't want that kind of security? Who doesn't want to be showered with love and adoration.

The problem with this theory is simple: That's not a significant other...that's a pet.

Honestly, what I'm looking for is something quite simple: I want to love and be loved in equal measures. That's it. I want the two of us to co-exist in our own universe of wants and needs and desires and happiness and dreams fulfilled.

Too sappy? Fine.

Long story short: I want to be someone's everything and absolutely, positively no one's "asshole."

Dancing Queen

2008-04-01T01:40:00.003-05:00

"I'm here to dance, not pick up the ladies."
--Evan "The Aviator" Drinkall

I'm not a great dancer.

Anyone can (and will...if you ask) tell you that. However, what I lack in "da skills" department, I think most people would agree that I make up for with "da enthusiasm."

So, I always find myself fairly bemused when I'm dancing all by myself--just the way I like it, thank you very much!!--on the dance floor and these beautiful women will come up to me and start grinding their pelvises in my face (or lower, which, ya know, in that case, go ME!!) as if they think they're doing me this grand favor by dancing with me.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm flattered that they've singled me out (well, kinda-sorta) Sometimes, I just wanna say, "back away, ladies!! This boy's his own dance partner!! Now, off ya go!! Daddy's gotta dance to the beat of the the rhythm of the night!!"

Other times, I'm just completely, utterly annoyed, because there's always going to be that group of snotty bitches that look at me as I dance on a platform, look at each other and giggle and whisper. And then they have that look on their faces. You know, the why is he up there? look

To this, I have one and only one response...

Why not?

Gimme that night fever, night fever.

I know how to show it.

Sentimental Journey

2008-03-26T12:54:00.008-05:00

It took me some time, but I have come to the following conclusion: No one--not even the most chilly of heart or empty of souls--is impervious to the upbeat melody and simple lyrics contained in the song "Don't Stop Believing."

Seriously.

I go ga-ga for that freakin' song!! It just gets the best of my emotions. Hell, I even cried when they played in during the Sopranos finale!! Don't ask me why. It just makes me melt. Thank G-d, I'm not alone.

True story: I was in this dank, depressing Irish bar (okay...it was the Dubliner, but seriously, people were really quiet, that night. For the love of G-d, people!! When I go to an Irish pub, I demand stereotypes, dammit!! I'm talking leprechauns, lilts, jigs and pots o' gold...the works!!) and being the music lover that I am, I threw a couple of bucks into the juke box and entered in "Don't Stop Believing" as one of my songs.

And then, after a few minutes, it happened.

That famous detuned piano opening and then...

Just a small town girl, livin' in a lonely world
She took the midnight train goin' anywhere
Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit
He took the midnight train goin' anywhere

A singer in a smokey room
A smell of wine and cheap perfume
For a smile they can share the night
It goes on and on and on and on

Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard
Their shadows searching in the night
Streetlights, people living just to find emotion
Hiding, somewhere in the night

Working hard to get my fill,
everybody wants a thrill
Payin' anything to roll the dice,
just one more time
Some will win, some will lose
Some were born to sing the blues
Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on

(chorus)

Don't stop believin'
Hold on to the feelin'
Streetlights, people

****

So, yeah. Bat shit, man. Bat shit

Seriously, people who had had their heads previously lying on the table were alive, animated, thumping their fists on the table and singing it at the top of their lungs. I couldn't help but beam with pride because I had picked the perfect song to get everyone out of their doldrums, their fears, their worries. It was like fucking Cheers!!

People. Were. Happy.

Because of this song!! And that, right there? That's one of the gazillion reasons why I love music: One song--just one!--can bring a group of strangers together.

And that night, Steve Perry's velvety-smooth vocals were there for us, in all their glory.

Whatever sins that had been committed were instantly forgotten, any beefs that one man (or woman) had for the guy (or gal) sitting next to them instantly...disappeared.

Well, okay...I take that back.

There are some things that can never, ever be forgiven. Mr. Perry, we will never stop believing in "Don't Stop Believing," but "Oh Cherie?"

Really????

The Artist Formerly Known as Birthday Prince?

2008-03-26T01:13:00.003-05:00

Seeing as my 27th birthday took place just a day or so ago (Monday, March 24, to be exact!), here's an odd b-day tale for ya.

Many years ago, I had a fight with my parents. Yes, my parents and I have our fair share of smackdowns.

I'm not sure what the fight was about--it's not that important, to be honest. I just remember is so well because it took place the night before my birthday. I mean, there was screaming, finger-pointing, name-calling...the works. It was one of the few times my parents and I went to bed angry at one another.

Then something strange happened when I woke up. My parents were smiling at me, wishing me "Happy Birthday!!!"

It was as if the fight had never taken place. It was as if I had entered The Twilight Zone (or The Outer Limits, depending upon which sci-fi netherworld you prefer). The whole day continued on in the same manner: smiles, hugs, kisses...hell, I even got presents!! And cake!! Can't go wrong there!! Let's just say I went to bed feeling like the Birthday Prince that I was, that day.

And then I woke up, the next morning. And my parents were no longer smiling. They were yelling at me and arguing with me. It was as if they had never missed a beat. It was like a seamless transition from the day before my birthday to the day after my birthday. I'll never forget it.

Now, this is in no way me writing about what a poor soul I am or that I had a terrible, horrible, broken childhood. Fuck that!! I had a wonderful childhood and I adore my parents and we have a very healthy relationship. I consider them to be two of my best friends.

On the contrary, my point in telling that yarn is to illustrate how sacred birthdays have come to be for me and my family.

Recently, a friend of mine (COUGH! Kevin! COUGH!!) brought it to my attention that I make too big of a deal about them, that they're just another day and to get over myself. And said friend has made a very similar points regarding how I seem to make more of a hoopla on certain days than they actually merit--in particular, The Liz Factor.

In this case, I think we'll have to agree to disagree.

I'm sorry, but to me, birthdays are--and always will be--extremely important! As I've mentioned in past entries, so often we walk through our daily lives like zombies. So what if there's a day that we can actually say, "guess what, motherfuckers, er, friends and family!! Today is my day!! Sing your praises for me as I am fabulous and wonderful!!! Celebrate that I am in your life and that you love me for it!! Long story short, PAMPER ME, GODDAMMIT!!!!"

I mean, at the very least, a card and a balloon--maybe a Best Buy gift certificate...just throwin' it out there, people!!--would be nice. I mean, really...is that asking for too much?

The way I see it is we are the product of some pretty freaky shit: Chemicals, hormones, bodily fluids...blood, sweat and tears (okay...maybe not the last three, but they seemed to just go with the rest, so I went for it). How the fuck we didn't turn out to be weird amoeba-like creatures, I'll never be able to understand!! But here we are!! And that is really something. And we each took about nine months to get here. And let's face it: not all of us survive that journey, whether it be as a result of a miscarriage, an abortion or some tragedy that I can't think of at the moment.

And even then, once we're born, there are no promises that we'll be around to see a full year, much less the ripe ol' age of 27. If there's anything I've learned during this life it's this: When your number's up, your numbers up.

That, and you need to celebrate each of those numbers as if they'd be your last.

That's what I plan on doing every year. If that makes me a horrible, self-indulgent, arrogant little shit of a Birthday Prince, than so be it.

You may think me that, by all means. Please do.

Just know this, though: While you're wearing a frowny face and being a bitterman...I get to wear a crown.

Even if it's just for a day.

Why?

2008-03-26T00:08:00.002-05:00

Sometimes--not always--but sometimes, my daughter (yes, I have gotten to the point where I am calling her that) will start to wander out of my apartment as I enter it, curious to see what's on the outside world.

If she only knew.

I'm a pretty cynical person, but sometimes, the hate and the bitterness people have toward one another--whether it be between friends, family or colleagues--is too much to take.

Just last week, I was in a bar and I needed to hit the men's room and some lovely young lass grabs me by my gold Star of David and yanks me over to her, charmingly exclaiming to her chums, "Hey, fellas!! Looks like we got ourselves a Jewbag over here!!"

Hark! Fair Juliet speaks!!

She let me go after a moment of choking me with my own chain and I headed to the head and practiced my best comebacks ("I KNOW KA-RA-TAY, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!" or "YOU WANNA PIECE OF ME!! HERE'S SOME JEWISH RAGE FOR YA!!! TAKE IT!! TAKE IT!!" or, very calmly, "bitch, you touch my fuckin' shit again and I'll take your fuckin' number." All of the above would be followed by a punishing head-butt"). When I exited the little boys' room, however, she was gone. So, I waited on the other side of the bar with my friends, telling them what had transpired. She never appeared the again. The broad was seriously like the Moby Dick of anti-Semites. Emphasis on "Dick."

Okay. All of the above is true. I really wanted to let that girl have it. I wanted to hurt her. I did. I wanted to inflict bodily harm on her and humiliate her and make her regret the day she was ever born. This is all true. But I'm really not a violent man. I mean, yeah, I'm pretty volatile and am easily angered--lately, I've been referred to as The Jewish Joe Pesci--and, sure, if forced to use violence, I guess I'd do what I'd have to do. But I guess the biggest part of me just wanted to confront her and ask her one simple question: Why?

Why?

She didn't know me. She doesn't know who I am, where I come from, what my likes and dislikes are. And yet, she saw my Jewish star and that's all she needed? It's maddening!!

Me? I try and take everyone on their own individual merits. I don't think there's anyone person I truly hate. I really do try and be respectful toward everyone. In my eyes, everyone starts with a clean slate. Everyone should be allowed the the benefit of the doubt at least once.

Sometimes, I look at certain people that I know and wonder why some of them act so negative and bitter and hateful about/toward everything. I mean, as shitty as life can be sometimes, why go out of your way and try to make things seem worse than they already are.

I don't get it. How can people can be so hurtful toward one another? I'd like to end this entry with one of my favorite prayers that we read responsively in Synagogue. It's called "A Prayer for Peace."

May we see the day when war and bloodshed cease,
when a great peace will embrace the whole world.

Then nation will not threaten nation,
and mankind will not again know war.

For all who live on earth shall realize
we have not come into being to hate or destroy.

We have come into being
to praise, to and to love.

Compassionate G-d, bless the leaders of all nations
with the power of compassion.

Fulfill the promise conveyed in Scripture:

I will bring peace to the land,
and you shall lie down and no one shall terrify you.

I will rid the land of vicious beasts
and it shall not be ravaged by war.

Let love and justice flow like a mighty stream.

Let peace fill the earth as the waters fill the sea.

And let us say: Amen.

Something (More Than) Nice

2008-03-18T01:22:00.003-05:00

Kyle Koliha.

Remember that name.

He used to write under me in the Entertainment section of my defunct weekly alternative newspaper, The Omaha Pulp. He was the music critic and a very bright and talented one at that.

It wasn't until the paper closed down that I realized what a terrific singer/songwriter he was. About a year after the paper closed, he met up with me when I was staying at my buddy Matteo's place in Minneapolis. It was then and there that he handed me a copy of his first demo track on CD and told me to give it a listen and offer some feedback later on.

I'll admit it: I was skeptical. You have to remember that, like, a gazillion CDs worth of crap passed through our offices during the time the Pulp was around. Music hopefuls would ask us to listen to their CDs and ask us to review their stuff. It wasn't always pretty. In fact, a lot of it was pure noise, shit.

And I would feel soooooo guilty.

I do not exaggerate when I tell you that Kyle's demo track was better than most professional musician's slickly-produced and polished LPs.

The tune was titled, "Our Song." He wrote it, sang it and, save the percussion, performed all the instrumentals, including piano and guitar.

I played it once and it made me cry. It was lovely, absolutely gorgeous. I played it again. Same reaction. And then again and again again. If there was one criticism I had, it was the title. It sounded too close to Elton John's "Your Song." I sent him a quick text message telling him how much I enjoyed the song as well as a gentle suggestion about a possible title change.

Needless to say, I wanted more. It took about two and a half years and probably pounds of weed smoked later (on my part--we'll get to that later) for my wish to be granted.

In the interim, I've played that one song countless times, I've made out to the song while it played on my stereo as well as put it on a mix tape for my ex.

But never was it ever so exquisite as when I saw him perform it in front of a live audience, this last Saturday, at the Saddle Creek Bar & Grill. It was there that, in addition to his original demo song--now titled "Something Nice"--he played five songs that were like orgasms in my ear. They hit me hard. Maybe it was a surge of pride for him that I was experiencing or just a recognition of the universal themes of his songs--love, the desire to be a better man, faith and spirituality--but I began to break down. I've never cried at a concert like that, but man, oh man...I just lost it.

You got me, Kyle. You got me good.

The highlight of the concert for me, though, was when he pulled me up on stage and we did a duet to a sort of improv, electric guitar version of "You Are My Sunshine."

It was magical.

Now, there's a little epilogue to this story of what I hope is rising fame.

It's been two and a half years since I sent him that text message which, really, was little more than an afterthought for me. I was pretty much stoned that whole weekend when we met in MN. And I wanted to give him something in the way of constructive criticism.

On Saturday, after the show, I approached him, hugged him tight, and told him how amazing and talented I thought he was. He, of course, thanked me. I went on to say, "Man, it's been a long time! I remember when that one song you gave me used to be called "Our Song."

He looked at me strangely and said, "are you kidding me?!" I just stared at him, not knowing what he was talking about. He went, "Do you know why I changed it?" I told him I had no idea.

"Let me show you," he said.

Nothing could prepare me emotionally for what happened next: He ripped into his bag, pulled out his cell phone and went down to the bottom of his text messages and retrieved a single text from two and a half years ago that read something to the effect of: "Loved the song. Made me cry, One suggestion: The title sounds a little close to the Elton John song. Maybe change it to "Something Nice."

My jaw dropped to the floor. I had completely forgotten that I had sent him that text. Like I said, I smoked a lot of pot since then.

I looked at him, flabbergasted, on the verge of tears, I gently touched my chest with my hand and said, "I wrote that?" He nodded his head with this look of bemusement on his face. And I repeated, this time without the question mark at the end. "Wow. I wrote that." He nodded his head again and enthusiastically went on to say, "I changed the title of the song because of you, your suggestion...because of the text you sent me. It was a huge to-do for me."

You know, sometimes, I'm afraid that I'm passing through this life like a ghost. This last Saturday, I was proven wrong by Kyle Koliha.

Remember that name.

****

If you want to give his tunes a listen, check out Kyle's MySpace profile.

"Enchanted," Indeed!!

2008-03-18T01:10:00.004-05:00

So, I finally just got around to checking out Disney's "Enchanted" at the cheap theater next to the Taj Ma-Hal.

And while I now have a vagina in place of where my penis use to be as a result of watching it, "Enchanted" is a magical, adorable and just absolutely, positively delightful comic/fantasy romp!!

Thanks for the recommendation, mom and dad!!! I've never felt gayer in my life!!

In all seriousness, peeps, check it out. While I will admit that you'll either love it or hate it, I defy you to try and even attempt to boo and hiss at its star, The Great Amy Adams.

Fuck Julia Roberts! Adams and her film are the real deal.

Wow! How very un-Disney of me!!

Seed of Memory

2008-03-11T00:50:00.004-05:00

While the world keeps getting smaller with the more people that we meet, I'm fairly convinced that our memories shrink even faster the older we get.

I mean, we meet people, we lose touch and then forget them. And every once in a while, we meet those people again, through chance, luck, fate--whatever you wanna call it. Sometimes, when we encounter these people again, we tend to crystallize who they were in our memories and we make the unfortunate mistake of forgetting that, in their minds, they've never been a past tense. Life has never stopped for them. In their minds, they've always been an are...not a were.

Then there's the sad case of bumping into someone you used to know and one of you has no clue who the hell the other person is. Luckily for me, I've never had that problem. Sure, sometimes, I don't always get the details (I have problems remembering names) right, but I'm good at knowing the essentials: Who they were, what they meant to me--good or bad.

It's always been one of my greatest fears that people forget about me. I mean, we're given this life, this miracle, and it is our jobs to make a mark; not necessarily even career-wise or being newsworthy, but just making an impression, giving people a memory of us to pass on. The last thing I'd want in this world would be for someone to just shrug me off, as if what I said or did had no bearing on their live. When I die, I want it to matter.

People forget, ya know? People forget. And it's sad. Because I'd like to think that we were put on this earth to make every day, hour, minute and second count.

I remember, back in London, the person I was rooming with, Jason, became a good friend of mine on the trip. We were pretty much inseparable over the course of the trip, which lasted two weeks. I came home naïvely believing that we would continue our friendship--BFF's forever, ya know?

The operative word, in this case, is "naïve." Except for a few shout-outs from my end via phone and one or two London Tripper reunions at Old Chicago or run-ins on campus, I never heard from him or saw him again.

Until a couple of days ago, Sunday.

I was driving to my parents house and, while stopped at a red light, I saw him through my driver-side window. I looked right at him, staring, letting his face trigger an instant flashback in my head, reminding me of the good times I had, times--whether it was with him or just by myself...the whole London trip, to be honest, is one of the high points in my fairly short life--that I'll never forget.

In that moment, he caught me staring at him.

Now, I don't know whether he thought I was just some weird dude staring at him or maybe--just maybe--he remembered me and what I meant to him during a very specific time and a very specific place in the small universe of his life. All I know is that he stared back at me, ever so briefly, and offered me a reluctant head nod, as if he was trying to figure something out, piece something together.

And I knew--I knew!!--I was still there.

Somewhere.

And really...that was all I needed.

"I Don't Do Stupid"

2008-03-08T02:53:00.010-06:00

I couldn't let this rest.

Look, I'm a pretty easygoing person.

Okay. That's a complete lie. I'm like Mr. Anti-Easygoing Person. But for the most part, when it comes to people, I'm pretty tolerant and I open-minded.

I don't mind it when people disagree with me or my beliefs, the way I think. I don't. Who am I to judge, right? One who is pretty fucked up should not point fingers and stare at those who are equally as fucked up, if not more. That whole glass houses thing, ya know?

But tonight? Tonight, I'm gonna let it rip.

Okay, I'll set the scene.

Me, Kevin, Sergio and Amy, having left Club Nico, arrive at IHOP to meet Glen and his lovely, gorgeous girlfriend Heather (hey, Heather!!!! Hollaback, girl!!!!), for some late-night, drunken munchies.

Okay, let's take it back even a little further.

I had eaten a shit load of Chinese food with the parentals, so all the alcohol I consumed was pretty much absorbed by the mass quantities of Moo shu Pork, BBQ pork Egg Fu Young and BBQ pork fried rice (hey, just because a dude goes to synagogue, it doesn't mean he doesn't have some vices, yo! Don't be hatin'!!) I had managed to shove down my maw. So, for the most part, the following events, for the most part, took place when I was sober...ish.

This red-faced old dude sits down next to me and starts talking to us about what a diverse group we had: Sergio's Hispanic, Amy and Heather are white, Glenn is black, Kevin suffers from B.G.F. (Big Gay Fag syndrome....hey...he coined it himself, not me, ok?!?!) and then...there's me. So, the guy starts kind of harassing Glen about random shit and, what I kinda got out of it, really subtle digs at all of us, then he sees Kevin being all touchy-feely with me and being "funny" with each other and he just starts talking about how he just "doesn't get it, how he "just doesn't understand." He's like, "I've tried, but I can't." Then he goes on to tell Glen how he doesn't see why "they" should get to vote or some ignorant, homophobic shite. He keeps going on and on, until finally...I blew a fuse.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, YOU CRAZY OLD MAN?!?!"

Everyone at our table heard me. At first, Kevin was shocked and like, "Oh, my G-d! Hal?!" And I look at him and say, "he is talking about you!!!! Have you not been listening?!?!"

So, I try to calm down and let things go and ignore the guy who couldn't be more than a few inches away from me. Close enough where he could hurt me or my friends, if he felt so inclined to.

So, Kevin and I are doing our thing--that is, talking and just joshing each other--and the guy just keeps insinuating himself. He keeps looking at us in disgust and saying, "Oh, lord!" or "My G-d!" And I was like, "what is your problem, dude?!

Finally, apparently not being able to take such diversity, he gets up and looks at all of us and says, "this?" and he motions at our table--more specifically, me and Kevin--"This is stupid. Y'all are stupid."

I. Flipped.

"Ya know what, then?! Good! Leave!! Go with G-d, man! Go with Jesus!!"

He walks backwards, pointing at our table, for everyone on our side of the restaurant to see.

"You guys are stupid!!! I don't do stupid!!!"

Amy pipes up and says, "Yeah? Well, at least we're not stupid, ignorant bigots like you!!"

Kevin--no joke--shouts, loud enough for everyone on our side of the restaurant--IHOP, a family establishment, thank you very much!!--to hear: "THEN LEAVE US ALONE, YOU STUPID BITCH!!!!!"

The man did. He walked away and sat down with another group of 20-somethings.

Okay...I want to address this whole "I don't do stupid" thing. Here comes a rant and you're just gonna have to take it.

If you "don't do stupid," then why the FUCK are you coming to IHOP at 1am?!?! What the hell did you expect?!?! That Stephen Hawking would suddenly fucking wheel his limp-dick, ALS-deformed shape into IHOP at 2am and start "talking" about The Big Fucking BANG Theory?!?! Are you fucking kidding me?!?! Here's a hint: People come to IHOP because they are drunk and stupid and need comfort food!! I mean, really, who the fuck is going to visit IHOP sober?!?! It's fucking IHOP, man!!!! Christ almighty!!!

Okay...I'm done now.

Call me immature, but when Glen drove me out of the parking lot and, through the window, I saw the guy preaching what I imagine was The Good Word to a new set of younglings, I couldn't help but give the guy the finger.

Look, I believe in G-d alright? I'm a devout Jew (except for the pork thing...and masturbating. But don't hold it against me) and as I've said, I know there's a plan and there is a higher power watching over us, but seriously, if you feel you have G-d in your heart and/or a message from Jesus, or you just wanna be a dumb, ignorant prick and hassle my fat, pasty white ass...

Back.

The.

Fuck.

Off.

Especially past 1am. I get cranky.

Really cranky.

Blind

2008-03-04T01:55:00.003-06:00

You'd think I'd learn.

Let me set the scene in the movie: There's a guy, really paranoid, cautiously walking down the street or in a public area. He looks over his shoulder. Someone is following him, a mysterious figure. Mr. Paranoid starts to quicken his pace, so does the Mystery Man following him. Paranoid starts walking faster and faster, all the while, so does the Mystery Man. Eventually, the Paranoid guy is at a full-fledged sprint while Mysterio follows en suit until, finally, the former trips over his shoelace and falls. He scrambles to get up, but is winded and can only put up his hands as a defensive measure, shouting at and begging the Mystery Man looming over him to not hurt him. The man gets a quizzical look on his face and says something to the measure of "Sir, you forgot your wallet" And THEN....BAM!!!!...some fat, balding, unshaven dude eating a bratwurst appears out of nowhere and drops an envelope on Mr. Paranoid and says the dreaded words, "YOU'VE BEEN SERVED!!"

****

Now, I've never had the immense pleasure of being approached by and handed papers from a process server...BUT I'm of the mind that agreeing to be set up on a blind date by mom and her friend is essentially the same type of experience. I mean, it was really only a matter of time before they found you. And now--D'OH!!--you're stuck having to appear before the court (the blind date) and offer your case to people (again, the date) who have no idea what kind of rambling, neurotic chucklehead you are (that would be me).

And what's worse is that, at the end of the night, you're not just trying to make a good impression (read: case) on your date. Nooooooo!! At the end of the date, you get the awkward, fucked-up Q&A from mom and said friend, asking how it went.

Oh, and G-d help you if you fuck up during the date and say something incredibly stupid (which, let's face it, is pretty much a sure thing when it comes to Yours Truly) or make a bad impression. You'd think that you murdered someone ("WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HER?!?!" or "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GUYS HAVE NOTHING IN COMMON?!?! YOU'RE PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER!!" And, of course..."WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE?!?! I WANT MY GRANDCHILDREN!!" Actually, that last one has never been spoken by my mom. Strange. Think it means anything?).

Well, if you haven't haven't guessed it by now, I'm being set up. I agreed. I could have said "no." But what can I say? I'm a man of adventure (heh).

And, oh yeah, I guess this girl is "painfully shy."

Should be great. (?!)

Oh, "Baby!!"

2008-03-04T01:40:00.003-06:00

This is just gonna be a quick one.

If you haven't seen it yet, you need to check out Ben Affleck's confident, sterling directorial debut, "Gone Baby Gone." Watch it once, twice and three times and I guarantee that you still won't have an easy answer in terms of what you would do if presented with the pickle of a scenario the main protagonist, Patrick Kenzie (played by the terrific, if only slightly miscast, Casey Affleck--Ben's younger, very talented sibling) is given.

It's a wonderful, dark, gritty and ultimately devastating film about lost children, dead ends and the horrific choices even the best-intentioned people have to make along the way.

So, do me a favor: Rent it and post a comment. I mean it. Whoever sees it, I want to know what you would have done in the end. I already know my answer, but let's hear yours....

A Year of Life (Or Lack Thereof)

2008-03-02T02:23:00.004-06:00

Putting aside the whole let's not think about anniversaries thing for a minute, I just want to put it out there that yesterday marked a year since I started this blog.

On March 1, 2007, it was freezing cold outside and we received at least a foot of snow. Sorta fit my mood and emotional state at the time.

I find it fitting that today, one year since the storm, the temperature rose up into the high 50's.

I want to say thank you to everyone who has stuck it out with my ramblings and rants and ups and downs. I'm really hoping there will be more of the former, this year, than the latter or, at the very least, a more even balance of both.

I know I haven't been writing quite as frequently as I used to (one to two entries a week versus four to five), but I guess if it's any consolation, I'm trying to be a little more honest about who I am and what I'm about than I previously had been.

This here blog is my baby. And as its proud, protective papa, I only have one thing to say...

Happy First Birthday Neurotica!!

My Top 10 List of 2007--Accept No Substitutes

2008-02-27T01:41:00.007-06:00

1.) Zodiac

2.) Juno

3.) Atonement

4.) There Will Be Blood

5.) Superbad

6.) No Country for Old Men

7.) The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

8.) The Savages

9.) Gone Baby Gone

10.) Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

****

There's the old saying, "they sure don't make 'em like they used to!" I'd say the above list puts that saying to the test. Guess which one fails said test.

Go. See. Watch. Enjoy.

Thank me later.

Past Dated

2008-02-26T02:35:00.003-06:00

So, I was bummed out and depressed, this last Friday, because it marked the one-year anniversary of Liz, The Girl, breaking up with me in that "pansy-ass" (her words, not mine) e-mail she sent me on Feb. 22 of 2007.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I am over it, totally and completely.

But still, I was just really having a hard time wrapping my brain around that fact and I just felt like total shit.

And then someone gave me something really profound to chew on.

See, I was bitching and moaning to my friend Kevin about it. I was saying stuff to the tune of, "Oh, this day is so hard for me and I really don't think I should be alone and blah, blah, blah."

To which he replied, "Jesus, Hal! Get the fuck over it! You're actually doing really great, right now!! You're so handsome and perfect in every way (actually, that last sentence he never said, but I'm pretty sure he was totally thinking it--like, tip-of-the-tongue thinking it)!! Are you bummed out because you're genuinely upset that it's been a year since she broke up with you or are you sad and upset because you feel like you should be upset about it?"

And ya know? He was so fucking correct in this assessment. I am doing great. I've been doing just fine. I have a great family and wonderful, amazing friends and a lovely pussy (sorry...I never can resist. Don't even try to stop me.) The truth is, it was just another day. I looked at the calendar and thought to myself, "wow...it's been a year. I guess I should mourn or sit Shiva (the Jewish process of mourning the dead for all you gentiles reading this) or something."

A perfect example of this is being single on Valentine's Day. It's a regular day, but you look at the calendar and think to yourself, "Shit. It's V-day and I'm single!" I mean, let's face it: You were single the day before Valentine's Day and you were just fine and, unless you have a Meet Cute with the Boy and/or Girl of Your Dreams on the actual day of St. Valentine's, you're probably going to be single mañana, too. So, why such a hoopla over one day?

I mean, really--why do we do this to ourselves??? Why do we constantly have to pick days and put them aside to make ourselves miserable? I mean, life is so fucking short and it's tough enough as it is making it from one day to the next without giving ourselves one more thing to be borderline suicidal about.

I'm learning that the best way to live is taking things day by day and try not to think about the past or the future.

It's not easy.

Much easier is letting the past trip you up, rip you apart and dictate where your future is headed. But the thing I'm continuing to learn is that the past--a good jumping-off point and a fabulous learning tool though it may be--is simply a state of mind and it should never, ever be a state of being.

In other words, ya gotta either take it or leave it.

I recommend the latter.

Alone In the Dark

2008-02-26T01:52:00.002-06:00

Lately, I find myself, more often than not, going to movies by myself.

And ya know, I dig it. I really do.

I mean, to a lot of people, that's like the epitome of lameness. For many , the idea of shuttling oneself to the local cinema and hunkering down alone in a dark movie theater auditorium is not just depressing beyond words, but the ultimate white flag when it comes to being single.

But then, when have I ever given the impression that I would ever (want to) be included in the groups known as "A Lot of People" or "For many..."

The truth is, movies have always been my way of escaping the cold, harsh brutalities of Real Life. They are my raison d'être. They're sort of like my Cheers--minus the fat, no-it-all, middle-aged mailmen getting in my face.

Lately, on late Monday nights, I head over to AMC or the cheap theater next to my apartment and watch a movie. The key to making the experience enjoyable (at least at the former theater, since all they play are first-run movies anyway) is to pick a movie that's been around for a while, therefore, allowing you to have, for the most part, an empty theater. I tend to like sitting in the back; that way, the auditorium can act as your own fortress of solitude. I mean, sure, there may be a few other moviegoers in the audience, but at least you know they're not going to bother you, especially when you're that far back.

Truth be known, as I am the main film geek in my group of friends, I'm usually the one who picks what movies we to see. So often, I see movies with my peers and the whole I time I think to myself, I wonder what they think of the movie. When I go to see movies by myself, I don't having to worry about what my neighbor thinks. The whole solo film experience allows me to enjoy the movie on my own terms.

Besides, I love being able to get as emotional (read: cry like the tubby little bitch that I am) as I want during a movie without being the recipient of Jack Therapy (ACHEM!!) or gleefully laugh out loud during a part that may or may not call for laughter and not worry about people thinking I'm a weirdo (which, let's face it, isn't exactly miles away from the truth, now is it?)

So, with that, I implore you, give it a shot sometime. I know it sounds like this totally depressing thing, but it's really relaxing.

Tonight, I went and saw "Atonement." It was the perfect romantic epic, certainly one of the *best movies of 2007. I highly recommend watching it with someone you love.

I sure did.

Yeah, I said it!!

*I have a new list and I am working on posting an update version of it for y'all!!

Most. Disturbing. Entry. Ever.

2008-02-12T01:32:00.000-06:00

Never in a gazillion years did I never think I'd say this, but I speak the truth when I say the following:

I have The World's Horniest Pussy.

Then again, some of you may have already seen it coming. Who knows?

That being said, I think it's finally about time I get Miss Lillie's tubes tied. Poor girl's been rubbing up against corners and hard surfaces more than her old man!!

And that's realllllllllllllllllly saying something!!

My Top 10 in 2007 Cinema

2008-01-15T03:10:00.001-06:00

For those curious, here is a special added bonus. That's right! My Top Ten Favorite Movies of 2007.

Drumroll, please...

Zodiac
Juno
No Country for Old Men
Superbad
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Knocked Up
Stardust
Once
Across the Universe
Michael Clayton

****

So, okay. I still haven't seen "There Will Be Blood" from Paul Thomas Anderson, one of my all-time favorite directors (um, "Magnolia," anyone?!?!), or Sean Penn's "Into the Wild," so I may have to make some adjustments to The List in the coming weeks, but for now, it's pretty damn solid.

This was a fine year for cinema, if I must say.

Ooh Child

2008-01-09T00:53:00.000-06:00

Jessie paint your pictures 'bout how it's gonna be.
By now I should know better, your dreams are never free.
"Jesse" by Joshua Kadison (1993)

The other night, I didn't include a someone in my list of friends. I'm here now to turn the spotlight on her.

Jess, I know that this is going to be a very, very difficult year for you, but you have so many people out there who love you, so many people out there who want you to be happy--truly happy, not just content. Sometimes, before you can achieve true happiness, you have to make difficult, shitty life-changing choices. And I know it would be so much easier to stick with the status quo and go with the flow. But you deserve more than just "the flow."

You deserve the world.

I remember this movie I watched, "The Weather Man" with Nicolas Cage and The Great Michael Caine (rent it--it's amazing!), had this wonderful bit of dialogue: "Do you know that the harder thing to do and the right thing to do are usually the same thing? Nothing that has meaning is easy. 'Easy' doesn't enter into grown-up life."

You can do this. I know it. Everyone knows it. And we are all here for you and we love you--especially me. And we're here to catch you when you fall.

You will weather this storm, babe.

You're Jess. You can do anything.

I know it and I know you know it, too.

A Long December

2008-01-08T01:43:00.000-06:00

It was the best of times and the worst of times.

Indeed, 2007 started off with a bang.

When the clock struck midnight and the new year began, there was this...potential. I couldn't help smiling and crying tears of joy to myself because I was so happy. I was overwhelmed. I finally had someone to share a year with.

And then, after two months, it was ripped away. You know what it felt like? It's like that time in the morning when you're in bed, wrapped up in your warm blanket(s), so content--nothing could possibly be wrong or sad or depressing in that moment. The clock is out of view and you have no concept of time. You just hope that whatever you're feeling--the warmth, the serenity--lasts forever.

And then it happens....

BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!!

And then you're back to square one again--naked, cold, vulnerable and disoriented. And you have to wait what will feel like an eon until you get to experience that bliss again.

And I don't want people to get the wrong idea. No matter how things went down, I'll forever be grateful for the time I got with The Girl, Liz. And I hope one day, when I finally get all my shit together, I'll get another opportunity to be with someone special again. And maybe--just maybe--this one will stick.

Oh, and did I mention one of my best friends died, as well as my "grandpa?"

Alright, alright, alright. Enough is enough. This shit is depressing me and the only reason I'm bitching and moaning about it, after all this time, is because New Years Eve was last week and what used to be my favorite "holiday" has officially become my most dreaded and hated of all.

But let's move on to the good stuff, the best stuff. Because there's plenty of it, rather, them. Just to make things fair, I'll go with order of appearance.

Tina
Ya know, babe, technically, if I'm writing this blog about 2007, it really should be Courtney first on this list, since I became friends with her before you and I became best friends and eventual Co-Chairs of S.U.L.A.P. But <sigh> you insisted on being first. Who am I to deny you that? Especially when it's the truth. You. Are. First. I don't know what I'd do without you. We are so much alike and yet, we really are different. We are our own people with our own personalities. And the thing is, I think that's what leaves me so breathless and excited about our friendship. I love that each new day that goes by, I learn more and more about you. You have such a wonderful spirit. And you are just...good. I love you with all my heart. I couldn't have made it this year without you. And I want--I need--you to know that I will always, always, always be there for you. Through the good--because there is good in this world, no matter how cynical we can be--and the bad--because there will always be hurt and pain and sorrow. And as long as you're around, I know that nothing so horrible can ever beat the bright, shining faith and belief I have in you and me. I fucking hate you, douchette. ;o)~ (Inside joke, people...and yes, that is the one and only time I'll ever use an emoticon--pinky swear...with a kiss).

Courtney
You are special. I mean that in only one way--the best way. I know we don't talk all that much, but you are one of the best people I know. You're true to yourself and there's not one insincere, dishonest bone in your body. I know I can be a little strange and dorky at times--special, in the other sense of the word--but there's not a day that goes by that I don't thank G-d that you're in my life and for giving me such a fiercely loving and protective friend like yourself. And you're one helluva terrific, genuinely talented scribe. Thanks again for Lillie. It took a little time, but she's the light of my life. I love you.

Clark
I lucked into you, brother. I really did. You're such an amazing guy and a great friend. I just wish you knew that in your bones as much as I. I love reading your songs/poetry, your blog. You're so much better than you give yourself credit for. It's like you have this psychic link into what I'm thinking and/or feeling with those darn things. You have a giant heart and are amazing at bringing the funny wherever you go and cheering me up. In other words, you're my favorite half-Jew. As far as I'm concerned, you're Jewish as fuckin' Tevye!! Period.

Glen
It was such a Spur of the Moment thing, man. Justin and I needed to get a drink to drown our sorrows, way back in March, just a couple of days before my birthday. We were going to go to The Red Eye Tavern for a quick drink, possibly the Mai Tai. But on a whim, I said, "hey, let's go to this little bar I used to go to called The Eclipse. Little did I know, but I was about to run into my weakness. And you were the magic man to provide me with it. That's right: I've become a karaoke addict. I go where the music takes me. And it's all because of you, good sir. No, dude. I am forever grateful that I came by because I found a great friend in you. You're one of the smartest, sweetest guys I know. The fact that we can go head-to-head when it comes to vague pop culture references ("YOU'RE SO COOL, BREWSTER, AHAHAHAHA!!!!!") truly makes you the Burton "Gus" Guster to my Shawn Spencer. PSYCH!

Yes, I have more friends than the ones listed. These are just new faces that helped brighten my year.

Justin and Matteo, you guys are always on this list because there's not a day that goes by where my love for you as friends and as brothers never wanes.

Crystal, like my Partners in Crime mentioned directly above, you, too, are sort of grandfathered onto my list of friends, my little chickadee. it's been an adventure, this year, hasn't it? I know we went through a lot of shit, this year. I know that I may not always treat you as well as I should, but know that I always, always, always love you.

****

Where I go from here is anybody's guess--including mine. Truth is, at this point, I feel a little bit like Edward Norton's no-name character (or, "Jack," for those who feel a debate on the topic is necessary) at the end of "Fight Club," where he stands in shocked silence, watching the world outside his fortress of glass and concrete explode into chaos before his very eyes, not knowing what the future holds. Except, instead of a haggard, skanky misanthrope (in the form of the deliciously haggard, skanky Helena Bonham-Carter) at my side, I get a group of the best friends a guy like me could ever be blessed with. And the truth remains: You met me at a very strange time in my life.

Well, that and sometimes, I just need a little help from my friends.

Happy 2008. May it bring all of you happiness, love, laughter and the power to forgive and forget.

And, oh yeah...raincoats.

Because when it rains, it pours.

This Just In...!!!

2007-11-13T02:12:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, it just pays to put up a fight. For proof of this, you need not look any further than the following e-mail I received this evening at 11:46 PM...

Dear Hal,

Congratulations! You’ve been accepted to the December 27- January 7th Israel Experience – “Hands-On” Israel/Koach Taglit-birthright israel trip (the official group name is IE-17-407. The gift of the Taglit-birthright israel trip includes roundtrip airfare from Logan Airport in Boston to Israel. You are responsible for the cost of transportation to and from that gateway. The Taglit-birthright israel gift also covers hotel, transportation, most meals and other associated land costs in Israel. Gratuities, personal purchases and supplementary travel medical insurance are not included. You are covered by an HMO-type medical insurance in Isra! el but it will not cover pre-existing conditions. We will request that you bring $60 in cash to cover gratuities to the guide and driver (we can’t mandate that you do so but it is highly suggested).

YOUR TRIP:

OUTBOUND TO ISRAEL
1. Arkia flight # IZ636
2. Departs December 27th from Logan Airport in Boston (this is a charter flight)
3. Departure time is 11:00 AM

i. You are required to be at Logan Airport at 7:00 AM (If you are flying in from another city, please read the note below)

ii. IF YOU ARE CONNECTING TO LOGAN AIRPORT FROM ANOTHER AIRPORT

1. scheduled arrival time for your connecting flight can be no later than 4:00 AM

iii. Because this is a morning flight, you may need to arrange to be in Boston overnight to avoid missing the international flight.

INBOUND TO Boston
1. Arkia flight # IZ635
2. Arrives January 7th to Logan Airport in Boston
3. Arrival time is 9:00 AM

i. IF YOU ARE CONNECTING TO ANOTHER CITY FROM LOGAN AIRPORT TO RETURN HOME

1. Allow yourself sufficient time to go through customs and immigration for your connecting flight

**PLEASE NOTE: THIS TRIP IS TRAVELLING ON A CHARTERED FLIGHT. Therefore, you do not have the option to extend your return ticket home.

Please check the My Trip page on a regular basis for updates of important information (suggested packing list, etc.). In the meantime, please let me know if any of you are on Facebook so we can set up a Facebook group to create the ‘group’ before you go!

IF YOU DO NOT YET HAVE YOUR PASSPORT IN HAND, MAKE SURE YOU FOLLOW UP ASAP – TIME IS RUNNING SHORT! YOU WILL FORFEIT YOUR DEPOSIT IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO GO BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE A VALID PASSPORT NUMBER IN THE SYSTEM AT LEAST WEEK BEFORE THE FLIGHT.

If you have any questions in the meantime, please feel free to contact me!

Rachel

****

I'll write more about this later, but I want to give a shout-out to those of you who told me not to back down and fight for this trip. Without your support, I most certainly would have just caved.

Anyway, so I guess that's that.

Long story short....

I'M GOING TO ISRAEL!!!!

A Reply to a Reply

2007-11-08T17:29:00.000-06:00

I've decided to not go down without a fight with the Israel Idiots.

This was my response to my rejection letter. I honestly don't know if it will do any good, but the way I figure, at least I didn't just slink off into the shadows with my tail between my legs like an impotent dog. So, without further ado....

Rachel,

Thanks for your response. However, I would really like to know what criteria you based your decision on. After all, I did apply within the first week of registration opening.

I'm usually one to pick my battles, but I have to admit that I was troubled with Rabbi Cantor's line of questioning regarding the prescription drugs I take and the reasoning behind why I take them. I suffer from a minor case of OCD and as far as physical “disabilities” go, I walk slightly slower due to an illness I had as a child.

At one point, he asked me "so, are you going to see a psychologist for that?" A few moments later, he asked "how are you when it comes to hiking?” Despite my uneasiness answering such personal questions, I answered both of them honestly and politely. I do not see a psychologist for my OCD as it is a non-issue and I would be fine on hikes.

Not to mention the fact that he called me an hour earlier than when our appointment was scheduled, which left me feeling very uncomfortable as I had to walk away from my job to answer his questions. Apparently, there was a miscommunication regarding the time in that he was calling at 1:15 his time rather than my time; the latter time being one in which I had a half-hour break where I could talk.

Now, this is the last time I can participate in one of these trips as I turn 27 in March and I would hate to be excluded based on the fact that Rabbi Cantor thinks that I'm some sort of liability. I've worked very hard in overcoming the obstacles that have been placed in front of me over the course of my life.

Please get back to me regarding the reasons for this decision.

Thank you.

Regards,

Hal

****

*Sigh*

We shall see....

Oy Vey

2007-11-07T01:15:00.001-06:00

I guess I should be surprised, but these days, nothing really surprises me.

I am 26 years old and as many of you readers already know, I was afflicted with French Polio when I was seven, rendering me paralyzed from the head down. I also suffer from Obsessive-Compulsive disorder.

Over the course of nearly 20 years, I have undergone overwhelming pain, emotional and physical, numerous surgeries and have won many battles, including the one for my mobility and strength. With that illness, came my fear of germs, getting sick as well as anxiety issues--my Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

The latter, too, I have been fighting--and always will be fighting, I suppose--in order to function normally in my daily life; most recently, in the form of a medication called Effexor,

I strive, every day, to live a Normal Life and be healthy and happy and while I haven't exactly gotten that down to a science, I think I'm making leaps and bounds. In the course of 20 years, I am happy to say that I have never been discriminated against for my physical disability or my mental health.

That is, until today, when I was rejected by the geniuses behind the Taglit Israel Birthright program. Yes, that's right. I will not be going to Israel after all.

A recap: I applied for one of the Winter trips and, as I have mentioned, I did it about a week after registration opened. Like clockwork and as requested, I filled out the forms and surveys completely and efficiently. I was determined to go on my free trip to Israel. After all, it's the last time I'm eligible to participate in the program since I turn 27 in March and the age restriction is 18-26. I was ready to rock.

Which takes me to the interview with Rabbi Shalom Cantor (for all those Jews out there, there is definitely an inside joke with that last name, is there not?). He called me on Friday, October 26, when I was at work and could not answer the phone. He left a message, advising me that we needed to talk about "getting ready for the trip" and to call him back when I could. I called him back that afternoon and reached his voicemail. As expected, with it being the Sabbath and all, from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, he was unable to call me back. He didn't call me back until Monday evening at around 7:15 p.m. Again, I was at work. In his voicemail, this time, he said he had to get a hold of me by the next day around five. Again, I tried calling him on my 15-minute break but to no avail--I got his voicemail and told him I had a break at 1pm and got off work at 5pm.

The next morning, he texted me, telling me that he would call me at 1:15. And true to his word, he did. He called me at 1:15 to the P to the M. Except there was just one problem: He called me at 1:15 p.m. his time. Pacific time. Nice.

I had to get off the phones at work and haul my ass down to the breakroom, screwing my time up for the day, which really wasn't a problem, mind you, but it was just kind of inconvenient, but I wasn't about to bitch about it.

Turns out the Rabbi was a bit of an insincere, shady prick. Can I say that? Well, I guess I just did. A person--what some might like to call a "useful idiot"--once made the comment to me that even G-d makes mistakes. And while I would tend to think otherwise, this schmuck was really giving that statement some credence.

For starters, the man asked me if I took any prescription drugs. Not that it was really any of his business, I answered "yes." He went on to ask me what I took. Again, I answered honestly: Effexor and nasal spray for allergies. He then asked me why I took Effexor!!!!! I was taken aback by this line of questioning but I answered honestly. I told him that I suffer from Obsessive-Compulsive disorder and that I'm a bit of a germaphobe but its not really a huge deal and it would have no bearing on how I fair on the trip should I be accepted. There was a looooooonnnnnnng, tense, 30-second pause. He returned with, "so, uh, are you going to see a psychologist for that?" I told him that I had in the past but I don't see one any longer. I could hear him inhale sharply on his end.

WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?!?! I thought to myself, what would you like to know next?!?! My sign (for the curious, I'm a proud Aries)?! My underwear size?!?! You prying asshole!!!

No, the questions he asked next were about my physical limitations. I told him that I move a little slower than the average person but I get around just fine. He then asked me how I was when it came to hikes ("Well, gosh...it's been a while since I climbed that tricky Mount Everest, but..."). I told him that I did a little hiking in Colorado several years ago and with the help of a walking stick, I had no problem. In fact, I really didn't even need a walking stick (truth be known, and I obviously would never admit this to the good Rabbi, but I just thought the stick looked fucking cool--like Splinter in the Ninja Turtles series. Ha ha ha!!! I made funny!!!). Again, there was another tense pause.

Look, I know that there are liabilities that these people have to think about, but I find those types of questions despicable. First off, the doctor prescribed pharmaceuticals I take are none of your fucking business, alright?! And according to Federal ADA guidelines, you really can't ask me questions about my disability and you certainly can't reject me from a trip such as this one because of said disability. So, why ask them at all, you ass!! Look, if I didn't think I could make it on this trip--physically and/or mentally--I wouldn't have applied. Needless to say, he had me verbally sign a waiver by telling him that yes, all of the questions I had answered were true and if I was dishonest about any of them, I would be sent home on my own dime.

He told me that he would take all the information I'd provided him with to the Rabbis and I would be contacted within the next three business days--Monday, at the very latest--with "everything I needed to know about the trip." I asked him if I was accepted already. He said very tersely, "Like I said, you will be contacted with everything you need to know." I thanked him and got off the phone with him.

Shalom, my ass.

Wednesday passes by...Thursday...nothing. It wasn't until until Friday night that I got an e-mail from the trip coordinator, Rachel, advising me that they had not made a decision regarding my trip status and that she would contact me no later than Monday regarding my status.

Curiouser and curiouser, I thought. What was the hold-up?

Monday comes and still, no word. I e-mail the gal and tell her that I never received an e-mail from her and asked her to get back to me regarding my status. I waited all day today (or, at this point, yesterday) at work, constantly checking my e-mail, until finally, I decided to jot down her cell number and call her after work. She was at a concert when I reached her. I told her that I never heard back from her and she claimed she sent me a reply that same night (*cough!* bullshit! *cough*). I told her that I never received it. She then proceeds to tell me that I'm--wait for it!!--really high up on the wait list.

The motherfucking WAIT LIST?!?!

I told her to re-send the e-mail because I wanted a hard copy and not just phone call. This is the e-mail I received later in the evening.

Dear Hal,

I'm sorry to tell you that due to high demand for our Taglit-birthright israel trips, you've been put on the waitlist for our winter trips. I have no way to know if any spaces will open up but based on historical data, there is a significant chance that spaces MAY open up.

You have 3 options at this point:

If you wish to remain on the waitlist, please let me know. I will retain your deposit and keep you as an active candidate. At this time, I have spaces available on our trips that leave on January 9^th, January 13^th and February 11^th.
If you wish to try to find another organizer that may have room for you, you can contact--

Blah, blah, fuckin' blah. What complete and utter bullshit. I am going to pull myself off the wait list for two reasons. For one, I need to know if I can get the time off from work. I can't just drop everything and get whisked away to Israel.

The second reason, however, is a little more complex. Look, I'm not stupid. They were covering their asses. Like I said, I registered a week--maybe less--after registration opened. There is no way that I should have been rejected for the cock-and-bull reason I was given.

And the thing is, I'm not sad. I mean, I'm disappointed. I really wanted to go on this trip. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hurt. These people don't even know me and they just slapped some CRAZY CRIPPLE label on my forehead. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it because these people can make up any damn story they want as to why they're rejecting me.

If it had been four or five weeks ago, I might have been crying in my Life cereal about it, but I think the meds are helping. I'm not as emotionally unhinged as I previously had been. I mean, yeah, the whole situation sucks, but I'm not going to cry about it. If anything, I'm pissed. I'm pissed as hell.

But this is how I see it:

I will never apologize for who I am or the way I am. As I said, G-d has a plan and He made me the way I am for a reason. If these people already have a problem with me without even taking the opportunity to get to know me--aside from the shallowest of 15-minute interviews--as a person, if all they see is a big, fat walking (or, I guess, in their eyes, a hobbling), talking Liability and not a young Jewish individual who wants to explore his roots and spirituality, than they can keep their free trip, because, as I have learned time and time again, this year, I am worth so much more than that.

And they can kush mir in tuchus!!

Look it up.

Good Enough

2007-10-17T21:54:00.001-05:00

When logic and proportion Have fallen sloppy dead
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen's "off with her head!"
Remember what the dormouse said: "FEED YOUR HEAD!!"
--Jefferson Airplane, "White Rabbit" (1967)

I talk a pretty good game when it comes to what I write in this blog.

Occasionally, my entries are more a call to arms for myself, my own pep talk. I've learned, though, that sometimes, making positive changes in one's life isn't as simple as saying "Yes, I will do this and yes, I will change that."

***

On Tuesday, I had a doctor's appointment to get a lesion on my leg tested to see if it was another ringworm. The outbreak I had before had finally healed and, up until a week ago last Thursday, I was sitting pretty, confident that it had blown over and the Ringworm Situation was over.

Then I took a walk, a long walk around my neighborhood, just to get a little cardio in, blow off some steam. Well, I got what looked to be a mosquito bite on my leg, right above the knee. It itched like crazy and yeah, I'm not gonna lie, I am all about scratching mosquito bites, the little fuckers! Eventually, the head of the bite got kind of dry and scabby and, like the idiot that I am, I pulled what looked to be the head of the bite off. Low and behold, it began to look more and more like a ringworm lesion. At the same time, though, I was pretty convinced that it was a bite. It started off looking nothing like the lesions from before, so I tried to remain calm--no easy task for me, as I'm sure many of you reading this can attest to.

Eventually, even my parents--bless their hearts!--were pretty convinced that it looked like a ringworm lesion. But we couldn't be sure, so I decided to finally take it to my doctor, Becky (love her to death!).

She looked at it and said it looked like a ringworm but because it started off as being more like a mosquito bite, the only way she'd know for sure is if she did a skin biopsy, an idea she quickly nixed ("Trust me...Ya don't want that."). Instead, she prescribed a lotrisone cream that contained a steroid to knock whatever it was out quickly. The End.

Not.

Believe it or not, all of the above is pretty much beside the point of what I want to talk about. During that appointment, I told her how I'd been pretty much freaking out for the last two months, how I've been constantly paranoid about the ringworm. She knows I suffer from OCD and has believed for a long time that I should be put on medication. And the truth is, she's right. Oh sure, in the past, I've been on different meds like Effexor, Lexapro, and Prozac, but they all had one side-effect that I couldn't live with.

I couldn't have an orgasm.

Now, don't go thinking I'm like this pervy sex addict who needs to have an orgasm 24/7, but come on, let's be honest, not being able to have an orgasm in the throes of passion or, while we're speaking frankly, by oneself is one of the most depressing and horrible things a person can ever experience (next to hair loss, but that's a blog entry all by itself, thank you very much). I mean, yeah, in the grand scheme of things, not being able to experience The Big "O" doesn't exactly rank up their with tragedies such as the 9/11 or the Titanic sinking, but it sucks major ass (no pun intended. Obviously. Ew!)

Anyway, my doc just looked at me and said, "Hal, you don't have to feel this way. This is your life. You don't have to live your life this way."

She's right. Dammit, she's right. So, I told her of all the meds I'd been on, the Effexor was, well, the most effective. The only drawback, besides what I've already mentioned, is that it increases my appetite and slows my metabolism; something I'll have to keep my eye on and be mindful of. I can't be eating every piece of chocolate that's shot in my direction (wait! What am I talking about?! I do that already!)

So, she gave me seven weeks worth of pills and told me to call her as soon as I start to run out. Since I have a history of just quitting the meds cold turkey without telling her, she made me promise her that I would call.

***

How do I feel about all of this? Well, it's a mixed bag.

I mean, I'm optimistic, intrigued and excited about it because it might help me be happy (with the right amount of counseling) and less paranoid about every little cough or mark on my skin. At the same time though, I'm a little sad, ya know? For the last couple of years, I've tried to fight my OCD on my own and, for a little while, it seemed to work. But what I have to remember is that it's not something I can turn on and off. It is a chemical imbalance, a mental disorder. I didn't do this to myself, no one caused it. It's no one's fault.

I know all of this. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't feeling just a little defeated, weak. And yeah, I'll say it: I going to miss having orgasms. I guess I'll just have to get over those feelings. What can I say? Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made.

And I know that I could just go on with my life and do as I've done for the last two years and try to push down the fears and the paranoia the best I can (which, at the end of the day, I'm not all that successful at doing really). I could just toss the pills into the trash (hey, they were free! Samples rule!) and live my life the way I've been living it. You know, leave well-enough alone.

But there's something I'm finally starting to realize. To be sure, it's a realization that anyone who wants to improve their quality of life probably has, sooner or later, whether it be a homosexual coming out of the closet, a spouse unhappy with their marriage or, like me, someone who has a disorder that is preventing them from functioning normally in their daily life.

Sometimes, "well-enough" just isn't good enough.

Secrets & Lies

2007-10-11T02:02:00.000-05:00

For the most part, I've never been good at keeping secrets.

There. I said it.

If you ask me to keep it between us, yeah, I'll probably keep it to myself. But usually, one has to say something to the effect of "this stays between us..." or "Don't tell anyone this or I will gouge your eye out with my finger" for me to keep it truly private. My dad's the same way. Unless I preface something with "Do NOT tell this to mom," it's usually fair game for parental discussion and I will, in fact, hear about it later from my mother. When I have called my dad out on this (on more than one occasion), I have been met with a sheepish look and "Oh, was I not supposed to tell her that?"

Eh. Maybe it's a hereditary thing. Who knows?

Perhaps it's because I'm so open about myself, whether it be my experiences and emotions. Truth be known, I really don't censor myself and that does get me into a lot of trouble sometimes. I suffer from a chronic case of TMI-tis. And it might also be fair to say that I really have no shame.

Anyway, I've had quite a few problems, this year. As of late, my biggest problem has been my mouth. That is, it just doesn't know when to shut the fuck up. A secret that I told to, well, a lot of people came back to haunt me while driving home from some bars this last Saturday night. Basically, a friend--we'll call her "Sally" (who had no idea that it was supposed to be a secret)--blurted something out that made it pretty obvious that I had spilled the beans to her. See, it was a secret shared between me and another friend--we'll call them X. I had previously told X that I mentioned the secret to only "a few people," when it fact, I had told pretty much, well, let's just say it was a little more than "a few." So, when Sally made the comment in the car, it opened up a whole can of worms in the sense that X wanted to know just who and how many people I'd told.

I told X, well, "a lot of people, actually." But what I didn't tell X was that I told the One Person I Really Wasn't Supposed to Tell. In fact, I can pretty much tell you that, in the History of Not Keeping Secrets, it was one of the worst disclosures of information ever.

Ever ever!

The One Person I Really Wasn't Supposed to Tell should never have known and it was really a true Hal Moment (what else, right?) how it came to pass that they did find out. At the same time, though, X would never know that I told the person (partly because said person uses a lot more discretion than myself). So, why tell?

And that is where my guilty conscience kicked in. Dammit.

I really had a true case of the devil and the angel on my shoulder. I could hear the angel saying, "you have a window of opportunity to do the right thing and tell them the horrible thing you did!" On the other side of my noggin, I could hear the devil shouting, "ARE YOU FUCKING NUTS?! WHAT THE FUCK, DUDE?! ARE YOU RETARDED?!?! WHAT IS THE POINT, OTHER THAN TO UPSET A FRIEND?!"

Man, that devil had a pretty good fucking point. Other than to clear my conscience and make myself feel better, what would be the point of hurting this friend who, up until this point, had been none the wiser? The devil was smart. The devil was right.

Too bad the angel, like the house, always wins.

I told my friend that I told the One Person I Really Wasn't Supposed to Tell. It wasn't pretty. Yeah, we're still friends and I think we're good at this point, but it's going to be a long time before they can fully trust me again. Still, I'm not sure that telling them was the right move. As soon as I confessed, a string of thoughts crossed my mind: 20 seconds ago, we were sitting here, enjoying each others' company, not a care in the world, everything was just fine. And now? In the course of 20 second, everything has changed. Was it worth it?

Ignorance, as they say, can truly be blissful.

Which leads me to the following question: When is honesty not, in fact, the best policy, but the absolute worst?

I think if I've learned anything this week, it's that if friendships are to survive and trust is to exist, some secrets need to be had. And, in my case, kept.

Education truly is expensive sometimes.

Mr. Brightside

2007-10-04T02:29:00.000-05:00

It just occurred to me today that I'm happy.

Hey, I guess there's a first for everything, right?

It's kind of funny. People keep nudging me to write a blog.

"You haven't written one for a while, man! What's goin' on? When are you going to post something new."

And the truth is, for a while, I was under the impression that I just had a really bad case of writer's block, ya know? It's like I've really been reeeeeeaching for things to write about. For the last few months, it's been really, really tough-going in Neurotica Land. And for the life of me, I couldn't think of a reason why. I mean, I was really on a roll for a while there.

And then it occurred to me.

Aside from the Justin/Underground thing, I don't have anything to bitch about. I mean, not really. And without anything in my life to write long diatribes--bitchfests, if you will--about, I just don't have that much stuff to write about.

Sad, but true.

The funny thing is, my financial situation isn't all that great, right now; I'm single (which is pretty much old hat for me, at this point, anyway) and still working at a job (close friends aside--and there are many relationships there that I truly do treasure) that pretty much makes me throw up in my mouth every time I think about it, much less enter the building. And, oh yeah, I tripped over a stick (It was DARK, alright?!?!), wiped out, and skinned the shit out of my knee. Again!!

And still, I'm happy. Not ecstatic (heaven forbid, right?), but I'm content. I'm finally trying to look on the Bright Side, which is no easy task for me. But I've been really thinking about it and the truth of the matter is, I'm not doing too shabby in the grand scheme of things.

I've got a wonderful family; a handful of some of the best friends that a hairy, portly schmuck like myself could ask for; a loving and very much beloved daughter (okay, so she's not, like, a real person...but hey, ya gotta start somewhere, right? A cat's as good a start as any.); a G-d that loves me and is watching over me, listening to my prayers (I believe, anyway) and, finally, a newfound sense of motivation, hope.

I feel good about myself, right now. For once, I feel like life is worth grabbing by the balls.

Well, maybe there is something in there worth writing about. I guess we'll have to see.

And in your case, read.

In the meatime, there is something I want to say.

I know I can be pretty self-involved and fairly narcissistic, but I really do try to be there for the ones that I love--and sometimes, even the one's that aren't even on the top of my list (if ya know what I mean). With that being said, as of late, there are a few people out there-said family and/or friends of mine, not to mention people that aren't really in my life anymore, but I catch up with or keep an ear/eye out for --that are hitting some hard times or feeling low and I really want to say that I will pray for all of you.

Each and every one of you.

I know, to many of you that's lame or stupid, but it has really helped me out a great deal this year: prayer, belief in a Higher Power. Hey, if it works, why question it and, instead, just go with it?

On the other hand, if the thought of me praying for you gives you acid reflux, then I will simply say this: You are in my thoughts.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking: What an ego on this guy. Like I could give two happy horse shits if this guy prays or thinks happy thoughts for me.

And, ya know what? Perhaps you're right. I'm just a guy. What do I know? Who cares if I'm out there, wishin' and hopin' (and prayin')? But then again, tell me this: Is it so bad to have one more person thinking the Good Thought?

I mean, it can't hurt, right?

Hey, if a guy like me--of all people--can look on the bright side, then there must be something to it.

Now, I'll be honest, if you were to ask me if this miraculous transformation is a permanent thing, I could really only offer you one very simple response...

G-d willing and here's hoping...

Looking for the Heart of Saturday Night

2007-09-25T01:24:00.001-05:00

So, there's something on my mind and I want to talk about it.

Who, me?

So, let me give you the set-up.

It's Saturday night. Three of my friends--Justin, Sergio and his girlfriend Amy (love her to death!! Such a sweetheart!! Way better than his bitchy ex-wife!! Sorry Kristin!! You know it's true!! Tee-hee!!)--are downtown, having some drinks at this bar called The Underground ($2 Long Islands--can't beat that!!).

At one point, Justin, a extremely well-dressed black man (there is a reason that I'm mentioning that and you'll understand why in a bit) who is puffing away on a stogie, is told to put it out by one of the waiters because the smell is "irritating other customers." We don't think anything of it and we continue on with our night.

For about five more minutes.

We're all having a great time, enjoying the scene--I'm singin' and dancing like a giddy schoolgirl to Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'...and really, can you blame me? Helluva song!--when two giant-sized bouncers approach Justin. The medium-sized one with all the tattoos says, "bro, you've gotta go. You touched one o' my girls. Ya gotta go!!" Justin tries to protest, but the douche bag continues talking over him saying, "Look, dude! I ain't gonna argue with you. You need to get out now!! The other, even bigger bouncer (however the fuck that's possible!) with the long goat-like beard and slightly less-friendly demeanor moves in a little closer to Justin and pretty much grabs him and--how should I say this politely?--escorts him up the stairs and out of the bar. Sergio and Amy hand me their drinks for quick consumption (they know me all too well, apparently! lol!!) and follow him up the stairs. I guess, when he tried to call me outside, the bouncers shooed him away from the bar even further. Because, of course, he touched their girl.

Fuck. That. Shit.

I am sorry. My boy Justin may be one of the horniest horn dogs on the planet (second only to myself, thank you very much!!) and sometimes his decisions aren't always sound and he can be a bit of a klutz and he overdresses for everything (are you getting all of this down?), but he is a gentleman. And he's a sweetheart and just a Good Person.

A lot nicer than me...that's for certain.

What follows now is Justin's side of the story and ya know what? Something tells me that his is a far more accurate description of the events that took place.

Justin, who (he'd be the first to admit) was pretty drunk from the three drinks he'd had at the previous bar, saw a waitress drop her little back folder (the one that you put a customer's check in--sorry...can't think of the word for it, at this particular moment) on the ground and he picked it up, made a harmless little joke ("free drinks for everyone, I guess!"), looked for her and handed it to her. Instead of being a lady and saying fuckin' "thank you," she gave him a sour look, snapped it out of his hand and sauntered off.

Five minutes later, Thor and Mr. Clean approach him.

Okay, yeah. It makes me sick to my stomach that my best friend had to go through that kind of humiliation. It does. I was mortified for him. And I know it's probably not that big of a deal to him at this point, but it's been on my mind. I honestly think that this was a Race Thing. Or maybe they thought he was gay, which would be pretty fuckin' funny because, while he may sometimes wear clothes that the Joker might envy and has a voice as high as Betty fuckin' Boop (we play the shitty hands we're dealt, right? We've all had our fair share!), Justin is straight!! Period.

Even the cigar thing!! What the FUCK?! I've been there a million times and I always see people smoking their Black and Milds, their stogies and no one has ever said a goddamn thing!!! And what about cigarettes, eh?! "Oh, the sickening stench of cigarette smoke is okay...but heaven help us if someone actually lights up a classy, expensive, well-made cigar!!!"

I'm sorry I'm going on such a rant. But it just pisses me off the more I think about it. These guys--fuckheads that they are--threw out one of the nicest, sweetest, most polite people that I know. And they don't even know him. I mean, he was wearing a suit, for Chrissakes!! He was the best-dressed man in the whole place. My guess? I think someone else probably bumped into that ho while Justin was handing her the bill thingy and Justin was just the easiest, closest person to point the finger at.

Sorry, Thor! Sorry, Mr. Clean! Y'all threw out the wrong dude!!

When we were outside, I tried to make light of the situation by making jokes ("Dude!! You popped your 'I-Got-Kicked-Out-Of-A-Bar' cherry!!! Welcome to the club!! High-five, bro!!" or "Man, you better not touch any waitresses at the next wine-tasting, because I ain't leavin, foo!!"). He wasn't particularly receptive to, um, humor at that moment, but it was really me trying to make him feel more comfortable. I've been thrown out of bars before (it was some basement peanut bar in downtown Minneapolis--I forget the name. I will say this, though. I tried to cleverly outwit the bouncer that time by getting back in, only to realize that I had sneaked into the bar next door instead!! Paid the cover as well. Hmmmm...)! It's really embarrassing. It's not fun. At all. Especially when you have no idea what you're getting kicked out for ("We have a stocky, curly-haired white mail coming up the steps and exiting the building. Possibly Jewish. Keep your eye out. Over!" Wow!! I think I was profiled!! Suh-WEET!! Mom and dad would be ever so proud!! Hmmmm...).

Needless to say, Justin--nor I--will never set foot in that establishment again.

Shame on them. That's all I can say. Shame on them.

Justin, you deserved better, sir. You deserved respect. For all your quirks, you're one of the best men I know. Period.

Don't let the bastards drive ya down, buddy.

The (Still) Undiscovered Country

2007-09-18T01:23:00.000-05:00

I did it!!!

I didn't think I'd have the balls to really do it, but I did it!! I am so EXCITED!!!!

I signed up for the Birthright Israel program that I had written about several months ago in a March entry entitled "Shul Ties."

Ya know, I was reading that particular entry and I have to say--I'm really annoyed by just how naïve I was. I mean, yeah, it's only been six months or so, but just read the following paragraph...

"So, with that, comes my big announcement (well, alright...maybe it's not big to you, but whatever): I have decided to register for the Birthright trip so I can go this Summer. It's not a lot of time and I'll need to work fast, but thinking about it now, this could be the trip--THE SPIRITUAL AWAKENING!!--I've been waiting for."

BARF!!

I can't believe how earnest I was. I really thought that by just hoppin' over to Israel, I'd suddenly be this amazing Super Jew.

BZZZZ!! WRONG (again!)!!

I have been going to shul every Saturday--I haven't missed one Shabbat service!!--since April 14. And I have come to love my congregation and I think--I hope--that they've come to respect my level of commitment toward my religion.

Truth is, I take my Judaism seriously, these days. Granted, Rabi Hillel may not be rising from the grave anytime soon to hand me a commemorative "World's Greatest Jew" T-Shirt (talk about fashionable!! Beats my "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?! HAVEN'T YOU EVER SEEN A SLACKER BEFORE?!" tee right out of the water), but I've been sincerely laying the groundwork, a foundation for myself to grow on and become as good of a Jew as I can be.

I don't think I've felt as much Jewish pride (okay...perhaps a little arrogance, too) as when I came for Rosh Hashanah services with my parents [BLOGGER'S NOTE: Who really never come to services, for the most part, except for the high holidays, the occasional Bar/Bat Mitzvah and in honor of the anniversary of my grandma's passing--also known as a yartzeit] and the greeter, Michael, looks at me and says "So, I see you brought the whole family with you, this time."

I was just like, wow!! I can't believe he said that to me--of all people!!--the kid who used to beg--BEG!!!--his parents to let him stay home from services, even when it was the high holy days. And now, it's like everything has sort of come full circle, ya know? When the dude said that to me, it's like I realized that I was finally part of the inner circle. No, I don't mean the Beth El Synagogue inner social circle. I mean, I felt like I was finally accepted as a member of the congregation, not just some impostor who shows up and fills a seat. I was finally being taken seriously!

I can't tell you how wide the smile on my face was.

And I'm still learning each day.

My goal in the next few weeks, months is to really start studying the prayers that I read every Saturday, to better understand their meaning. Reading and chanting prayers is all well and good, but understanding all of them is truly what it's all about. Otherwise, you're just marking time during the service and that is the last thing I want to do or feel that I'm doing. I'm there for a reason and that is to be part of something bigger than you and me.

As for Israel, yeah, I can't wait. I hope I get accepted. It's not a Done Deal yet. Nothing is signed in ink yet, no dotted i's or t's crossed. I have a mandatory interview with someone to see how Serious I am about going.

But I hope to witness the beauty, the glory of seeing Jerusalem in the Winter.

Will me going to Israel be the "Spiritual Awakening" I so naïvely spoke about in that March blog of mine? Probably not. I do, however, definitely think it will be a way of me cementing my faith in Judaism, a way of re-establishing and rediscovering my Jewish roots.

But a Spiritual Awakening? Hardly.

My spiritual awakening began on April 14th, 2007.

And it is still happening...

Every.

Single.

Day.

My Special Present...

2007-09-18T00:53:00.000-05:00

I bit my lower lip, curious when I saw the note sticking out of my apartment door. I read it quickly with a gleam in my eye, crumpled it up, and tossed it aside. The note beckoned me to enter.

I opened my apartment door, headed into the humble, dimly-lit abode...hungrily looking for the gift that was waiting for me within.

I found it tucked away in the in the bathroom, gleaming and, in a way, smiling at me.

I let out a squeal of excitement (Ooh, baby!) and lowered myself atop my new present. It was cold, causing me to shudder with delight. It was so smooth and supple, clean--this was so new to me. This was truly what I'd been needing for the past two years.

And it was finally here.

So, how about a big Thank You to the Royalwood Apartments staff and maintenance crew for the brand new toilet placed in my bathroom, this afternoon, in my absence.

I shall use it in good health.

Oh, and a big giant-sized Sorry to the folks below me. Who knew a toilet could leak below me, right?! I hope y'all caught me on one of my, um, better days. Honor thy neighbor as I always say!!

Wait! What did you think I was talking about?!?!

Tee-hee!!

Yeah, thank G-d Yom Kippur (Jewish Day of Atonement) is coming up on Friday.

I am so going to hell for this one...

In the Land of Overcompensation

2007-09-08T14:47:00.000-05:00

I know this really doesn't have anything to do with anything, but I just thought it was funny. As a friend of mine might say, suffer.

Some dude, on the way home from synagogue, was driving a beautiful, fire-engine red convertible with the following license plate:

"I Do OK."

Jesus H!!! And I thought that I was insecure!!! The guy may as well have a suction cup sign on his window that reads "Small Penis On Board."

Now, I don't know about you, dear readers, but if I were him, I would keep the top on at all fucking times.

Just sayin'...

What If...

2007-09-06T01:09:00.000-05:00

So, I got Ringworm.

It's a fungal/bacterial skin infection that causes little circular lesions on the skin. It's contagious through direct skin contact (basically, I'd have to touch the thing on my arm and then touch your skin. Luckily, the two that I have are in places that most people wouldn't touch. That is, my upper arm and under my left nipple.) Essentially, it's Athlete's Foot writ large on the hairy canvas that is my body. The Good News is that it's treatable with anti-fungal cream.

Yeah, I'm not happy about it. I have no idea how I got it, really, but what are ya gonna do? Okay, before I get a bunch of you's shouting the same thing at me ("IT'S YOUR CAT, JACKASS!!!"), I will just say that I spoke with the vet and she pretty much said, "Honestly, Hal. You've had her for over a month. If you were gonna get it from her, you would have gotten it a lot sooner."

The truth is, you can get it from anyone or anything. And it is that fact and that fact alone that is proving to be both scary and liberating.

For those of you reading this who aren't familiar with who I am and what I'm about, I suffer from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and I am terribly germaphobic. Normally, if I have any suspicions whatsoever that you are sick, I will basically steer clear of you until I know you are cured (I'm talking colds, the flu, the plague...anything that Yours Truly can catch). Nothing personal.

But what most people don't know is that my OCD stems not so much from the fear of myself getting sick, but rather, it's the fear of getting sick and getting other people sick. The thought of getting someone like my mom or my dad or any of my closest friends sick is a thought that is more than I can bear sometimes.

And I know all about sickness.

I was sick for a good portion of my life. See, I was afflicted with Guillain-Barré syndrome when I was seven, which paralyzed me from the head down. No, it wasn't covered by the Polio vaccine. It's that rare. I lived in the hospital for over 18 weeks and had to undergo daily, excruciatingly painful physical therapy routines. And while I am pretty much able to do what everyone else can do (walk, run, play video games, etc.), I will never have the strength of a normal man and I will always have a slight limp when I walk. I have multiple scars on my feet and lower legs from all of the surgeries performed on me to keep my feet straight and prevent them from drooping down, due to the fact that all of the muscles in my feet had atrophied.

And how did I get it? Well, I got a cold. That's right! I stood next to some kid at Jewish day camp and caught his cold and it snowballed into something much, much bigger.

And yeah, I won't lie. I wonder what would have happened if I had just stood back a little farther away from this kid--even just a few inches, ya know? Would my life have been different? Would it have been easier? Harder? Would I have been a better person or a mean sonofabitch? Would I have played sports? Would I have had lots more luck with the ladies? Who knows, right? Yeah, I think about shit like that from time to time. But only occasionally. Thinking about it tends to put me in a melancholy moods. I think if I dwelled on it too often, I'd be a complete nutter.

What's even more frustrating is that every once in a while, I bump into that kid that I stood next to, that day at camp. I see him living his normal life and dancing at the clubs and I think to myself...he'll never know. And ya know what? That's okay. I think it's better that way. Yeah, my life might have been significantly different had I not stood next to him that day, but it's not his fault. And it would be despicable of me to place that kind of blame on one person's shoulders like that. It was my immune system changed the course of my life...not him.

It has taken me a long time to come to terms with that notion. After all, it's only human nature to want a black and white, concrete, This Is How It Happened explanation. We want a body to blame. After all, gray area can be one of the most maddening places of all. Alas, though, as the old saying goes...

Shit happens.

Which leads me back to the topic of my Ringworm. I could have gotten it from anyone or anything. And depending on what effect you let that thought have on you, that can either be downright frightening or entirely liberating. For the last 20 years, I have lived in fear of getting sick.

And I gotta tell ya, I am so very fucking tired of being afraid. I am so fucking tired of not being able to function, to live my life to its fullest because I'm afraid of getting sick. And while I'm not exactly ecstatic about getting Ringworm, it's not the End of the World. I'm still alive. I'm not dying.

I think it's time to start living--really Living--with my eyes wide open; take risks and not worry about hypotheticals, Worst Case Scenarios so much. I've based nearly my entire life on What If. Fuck that!! It's time to start working on the What Is. The here. The now.

And it is not going to be an overnight fix. Twenty years of fear and paranoia is a lot to overcome. But I have to try.

It's like what Morgan Freeman said in "The Shawshank Redemption..."

Get busy livin'...or get busy dyin'.

Bar Mitzvah Boy

2007-08-28T02:37:00.000-05:00

I hate going to Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. They depress me to no end.

For all the ignorant, uneducated pricks out there, A Bar or Bat Mitzvah is a rite of passage for a young Jewish boy or girl, respectively--usually at the age of 13--where they must, among other things, read a portion of the Torah (if I have to explain to you what the latter is, then I beg of you to discontinue reading my blog because, well, I don't know any other way to tell you this, but you're fuckin' stupid) in front of the congregation. Once a boy or girl has their Bar or Bat Mitzvah, they are considered adults in the eyes of Judaism. It is usually followed by a party--dinner, dancing and LIMBO!!--in the evening.

I remember my Bar Mitzvah all to well. After all, it was one of the best days of my life. It was like a roller coaster ride of kudos, smiles, pats on the back, handshakes, singing and dancing (and LIMBO!!). It was one whole day--nay, weekend--of family, friends, teachers...all there for me!! It didn't hurt that I flat-out nailed my Torah portion and just knocked the socks off the congregation with my angelic (read: still very prebubescent and high-pitched. Ya know what they say: The more things change...) singing voice.

It was truly a triumphant and happy weekend for me, the weekend of my Bar Mitzvah. It was like I was this golden child. I, as well as everyone around me, was so full of hope for me; that I would be this successful, responsible Jew, let alone a responsible adult. And then the weekend ended. And then life happened.

As the saying goes, I never knew what hit me.

Let's see: There were the the sexuality issues, the drinking, the drugs, the smoking and, yes, the meaningless sex (okay, so the last one wasn't nearly as frequent as the others, but still...!!!). I have done bad things to myself...no doubt about it. Things I know that my 13-year-old self would have never imagined doing. Things beyond his comprehension.

And I am embarrassed!!!

I wish I could go back in time and just talk to him, look at him and say..."I know things seem really cool, right now. And you're on the highest of highs, at this moment in time. People are just loving you, right now. But things can get dark in a second. You are going to have many, many fork-in-the road moments within the next 13 years. No matter how hard the choice is, no matter how much fun you think you're going to have, no matter how square and dorky you think you're going to be, just please....do the right thing. Don't be an idiot and just do the right fucking thing. We can be great. We can be so great. Just try your best. And oh, yeah...even if you think your parents are wrong about 99% of everything, just listen to them. They know what they're talking about and they know what they're doing. For the most part. I think."

But that's not a reality. It's a fantasy, a beautiful dream. We play the hands we are dealt. Sometimes, we have a bad hand and bluff and make our own luck. Sometimes, we have a good hand and we still lose. But my life has constantly been one long case of having these great, amazing hands...and then folding; sometimes, out of fear, cowardice and on other occasions, just out of shear stupidity.

But hey, I'm still in the game.

And I know that while my day of innocence as a Bar Mitzvah boy has long since passed, I will never, ever stop trying to do right by that young man standing on the bimah (pulpit) on April 23, 1994, smiling, taking that deep breath and ready to take that plunge into adulthood.

...And yet, as I mentioned, I still hate going to Bar and Bat Mitzvahs because, despite the good eats at the end (hey, what's not to like about bagels, cream cheese and lox after a hearty helping of Saturday morning prayers, right?!?!), they depress me.

I just look at those innocent, hopeful faces up there, standing where I stood, many moons ago, and I see so much of myself in them; when the glass was never a drop below the half-full mark. And each time, a single thought crosses my mind: when times of darkness and temptation fall upon them, which road will they go down?

And it's then, in that moment, that I pray to G-d.

Daddy's Little Girl

2007-08-19T03:17:00.000-05:00

As crude and vulgar and crass as this is going to sound (and I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty much All Of the Above at times), I was going to write a whiny blog about how I was sexually frustrated that I pretty much can't masturbate anymore, now that I have a kitten at my place.

I was going to.

That is, until I started watching her play as I was getting onto Blogger.

Oh, well. Maybe I'll write that one another time.

Right now, I just want to write about how I love my little girl. After all, it's not everyday that I'm able to write about something so utterly lacking in the way of cynicism and sarcasm. And that something would be my love for Miss Lillie.

I know that in my last entry, Hurricane Lillie, I came across as being a bit of an anal-retentive curmudgeon--think Jack Nicholson's Melvin Udall in "As Good As It Gets"--but in the course of three weeks, I have grown to love her as fiercely as I can love anyone or anything. Truth be known, she has become, in no uncertain terms, my daughter.

I love coming home after work and seeing her little head pop up from my easy chair, where she'd been previously sleeping. It makes me absolutely melt when she jumps from the chair and starts "meowing" at me and following me around. I laugh my ass off when she starts chasing the little carrying strap on my leather cell phone case or starts jumping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. And yes, I am grateful for every single moment that she sleeps in my lap or curls up on my (chiseled washboard) belly while I sleep.

It's an amazing thing to have something so little offer something so great as unconditional love.

Yes, I may have moments where I freak out and I don't know to do. And yeah, I'd be lying if I said that I know everything I need to know about being the owner of a baby kitten. I don't. G-d only knows, my vet must love me. I called her at least five times, last week. Hey, she knows what family I come from!!

No, the truth is, much like so many other facets of my life, I tend to be pretty clueless when it comes to taking care of Lillie. But two things I do know: For better or for worse, she's the best thing to happen to me in quite some time. That, and she's stuck with me. Because I wouldn't give her up for the world.

You know, it's funny...for a while, I thought of her as a storm, throwing my whole world into total upheaval. And while having a cat has certainly been an adjustment, she's quite the opposite of a storm.

She may very well be my shelter.