Spectacles, Testicles...

...Wallet, and Watch.

Two weeks ago, I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, when I noticed some smudges on the lenses of my glasses. Now, I have been wearing glasses since the 3rd grade, I know a thing or two about wiping my glasses on my shirt. I do it many times a day, I've done it thousands of times in my life. The kindly folks at LensCrafters always tell you not to do that, but I refuse to carry around a lens wiping cloth. I mean, what am I, a nerd? Well, yeah, I am, but nevertheless, I ain't carrying no lens cloth. In any case, shirt-wiping my glasses had never been a problem. Never before had my glasses crumbled in my hands the second I touched shirt to lens. Well, never say never, because it happened this time, two weeks ago as I sat at my desk with a plan to be productive (by plan I mean a list of web videos I needed to see that day). There was no snap, there was no crack; there was only a soft rip, a sigh as my old beloved black plastic frames gave up, with one final gasp from the death throes. There was no fixing them, I knew that right off... they had split right at the corner, above the hinge. I could break out the masking tape... but, while I'm still as nerdy as I was in 3rd grade, I'm an adult now and I'd rather just break out the credit card. I had no back ups, I needed to get some glasses in a hurry. My dreams of a "productive" Saturday at my computer were dashed.

Looking into the sun

LensCrafters and their one-hour production time got my money once again (that's quite the racket they got over there, by the way... we should all have gotten into the glasses business). These are my new glasses, seen above, to the left, and below. I went bigger and more Risky-Business-by-way-of-Squints-from-The-Sandlot-by-way-of-Woody-Allen. I like them, but.... I am worried I am veering too far into hipster doofus territory. Usually, I prefer not to call attention to my self. I feel like these glasses are a little too "look at me." Of course, they are just dark brown, plastic glasses of a shape people have been wearing since the 50s... nobody cares but me. Probably nobody really thinks twice when they see me, no matter how aware I might be of my new look. But, I really do like them, they're different. Different enough from my old ones to not bore me, at least.

Actually, they mostly make me wish I was a rock star. Like an indie-band, sensitive-beard-rock-and/or-blues-revival, no-hard-drugs, maybe-a-half-sleeve-of-tasteful-tattoos, Roy-Orbison-covering, wife-and-kid-on-the-road-with-me, kind of a rock star. I could be like the bass player, or something. Bass player for the Reluctant Hipsters, recently signed to Jack White's record label. I could totally live that life.

His name was Joel in this movie. True fact.

Squints.

The middle school teacher stink eye.

Behind the blogging curtain.

These pictures make it apparent I now have full-fledged "Coke bottle" lenses. I guess the windows through which I view my world have gotten thicker over the years. Time passes and now I can't remember a time when I wasn't wearing glasses; they are intertwined with my identity and my memories. 

One of my most vivid glasses-wearing memories comes from what I remember of one afternoon in little league. I remember I was pitching, up on the mound wearing my too baggy baseball pants, and it started to rain. The rain drops collected on my big, square, '80s-computer-programmer, wire-frame glasses, which were held to my face with a Florida State Seminoles-emblazoned Croakie. Between pitches, which I am sure were expertly delivered, I was wishing I'd had some windshield wipers to clear my view. I don't remember too much else about the whole of my little league experience, except that I played only one season, my number was lucky 7, I played every position except catcher, the coach was kind of a douche, and I once hit two triples in one game. Hey, some people's athletic ability peaks at age 9, don't be jealous. Hate the game, not the player.


Only a couple years before that rainy afternoon on the mound, I was peering through my glasses at picture books... a fact I had to recall recently as part of the first assignment in my Reading Fundamentals teaching certification class. I had to do a book report on my favorite childhood book, explaining why it meant so much to me. There were many that I could remember, but only a few that I remember having an emotional connection to, and could still feel that emotional pull when I thought about them now, some 25 years later. I know I loved and owned many of The Bernstein Bears books (they were Jewish, right?), but I couldn't remember any one of them specifically. When I thought back, only one image, one picture from one of my kids' books, kept coming up in my mind. It was this picture from a Little Golden Book - purchased for .76 cents, on sale from the retail price of .89 cents - called Mr. Bell's Fixit Shop:

Take a close look at that doll. Jesus. That little girl crying over her awful, post-apocalypse doll haunted my memories. That doll is creepy, man. But, beyond the chill-inducing doll, I was affected by the rest of the book, as well. It is really about the idea of having a "broken heart" and how you can fix it. At first, Mr. Bell the fixit man says that he could "fix everything but broken hearts," but by the end, after he fixes up the little girl's doll, she corrects him. It turns out, with the tools of kindness and selfless compassion, he can "fix everything even broken hearts." I remember being knocked out by the idea of having a broken heart... The picture made it seem like a very literal idea, which was fascinating. But, I also knew what they meant, and the seeds of my romantic, emo tendencies were sown. To this day, I am far more concerned with what the heart is feeling than with what the head is thinking. Sure, I like thinking, but I am turned on by heart, by emotion, by feeling.

Wait a minute, hold the emo phone, I have just seen a headline on the internet. Besides feelings and crap, there is another thing that turns me on: eating. And the big food news of the week is: In-N-Out Burger is opening in Dallas now... this is huge news, people! In-N-Out is a well known and loved, cult-status burger chain in California, Nevada, and Arizona, mostly. Their expansion into Texas signals possible future expansion to other states, maybe someday even states beginning with the letter F. They are my favorite fast-food burgers, despite their underlying Jesus-ness. Nothing like a good In-N-Out! That's what she said, etc...

Anyway, I realize while reading this article about In-N-Out how proud I am that I have experienced first-hand most of the best regional fast foods from across the nation. PROUD, as if I have accomplished something great... I am not even joking about this. I genuinely love knowing that I know what a double-double tastes like, or a Taco John's Potato Olés-stuffed burrito, or a Whataburger, or a White Castle, or a Fatburger, or a Del Taco, or a Carl's Jr (and it's affiliates The Green Burrito and Hardee's), or a Steak 'n Shake, or a Jack in the Box, or a Jollybee, or a Checker's, or a Chick-Fil-A (another expanding Jesus outfit), or a Famous Original Ray's Pizza. I have tasted the daily sustenance of many regions... the locally renowned, cult-followed fast food joints. The fast food you can't get in every town, everywhere, but has still entered into the pop-culture. Some of these chains are amazing and deserve to be everywhere; some are foul, guaranteed stomach busters that should be cast off from the earth as the abominations they are (I'm looking at you, White Castle). But, I wouldn't give up any of these experiences... some of them have been transcendent, time capsule-worthy (or at least blog-worthy), mind-blowing moments that I would love to repeat or relive over and over again.

My fast food fetishizing actually goes hand in hand with my general romantic outlook on life. Just like I'd like to relive a double-double with grilled onions every single day (my cholesterol level thanks the stars In-N-Out isn't in Florida), there are other moments of pure happiness, peace, and love that I savor in my memory and would like to go back to over and over again, too, if I could.

This reminds me of a line I recently swooned over in a book. The line comes from City of Thieves by David Benioff: She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. Her mouth was cold, her lips rough from the winter wind, and if the mystics are right and we are doomed to repeat our squalid lives ad infinitum, at least I will always return to that kiss.

Jim Carrey's name in this movie was Joel, too.
Coincidence?

Now, that's just pretty. And the distillation of the kind of romanticism of life moments I'm talking about. It reminded me right away of the ending of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, an amazing, extremely romantic (in a sci-fi, brain-teaser sort of way) movie. In the very last scene, after Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet have spent an hour and a half struggling with their break-up and struggling to literally hold on to the memories of their relationship at the same time, they agree to try again, even if it means they will end up in the same sad place. They look at each other and simply say, "OK." It is the most profound "OK" in the history of movies. They are agreeing to enjoy the journey together, even knowing the ending may be a wreck. They are agreeing to love; love and memories, because they are so much better than hate and loss.

By the way, Benioff also wrote 25th Hour, which became an underrated, under-seen, quite mesmerizing Spike Lee movie. This has nothing to do with nothing, but if you have 5 minutes, click that link and watch that scene. Amazing stuff. I HAVE to watch this movie every time I see it on TV.

I guess I'm about done here. Yep, that's it.
I like my glasses. Look out for Reluctant Hipster tour dates. And remember: There's a time for playing it safe and a time for...

Good, but Would You Mug an Old Woman For It?

This weekend Morty The Bread Starter became a rye bread, which, since he cannot grow a beard, handle money, or run the entertainment industry, is the most Jewish thing he could do. Rye bread is as much a part of the Jewish culture as guilt, neurosis, and poor eyesight. In other words, if Morty had his bar mitzvah when we made the first breads, then this weekend he graduated from medical school. Let's see, what other stereotypes can I use... I guess that's it for now.

Anyway, yes, I used Morty to make rye bread, and, yes, I was pretty happy with the results, once again. Not sure it was good enough to inspire petty thievery (a Seinfeld reference; if you have to ask, it won't be funny to you anyway. OK, OK... here's a link if you need it), but it was definitely a success. This Tartine-style bread making has been a lot of fun! This one was kind of a sour-dough rye; mild, crusty, chewy, and covered in caraway seeds. Perfect for a nice deli sandwich. By the way, if you've never had a pastrami on rye, well, shoot, I really don't know what to tell ya... you simply haven't lived. If you want to know what it tastes like to be Jewish (but not what a Jew tastes like... that's something else entirely), you find yourself some rye and some pastrami, toot sweet.

Pastrami on Rye.
This might as well be a picture of a circumcised penis, that's how Jewish this is.

Rye-ce to meet you.

Caraway seeds.

In other, less baked-goods related news... I am still substitute teaching and my teaching certification courses started up again. A couple weeks ago I worked every single day of the week. As in all 5 workdays, in a ROW. It was nuts. I just don't know how people do that! By the end of the third day I needed a good two-day nap. That's how it should be: three days on, two days sleeping, then two more days off. I could happily live with that work schedule. Come on, Obama, make THAT change happen.

Still, working does provide some decent stories to tell, from time to time. For instance, the other day I found myself locked in a wrestling match with a 4th grader as I tried to restrain him from pummeling another 4th grader. Apparently some other kid in the class had said something about his mom or his manliness or some such thing, and this kid went from 0 to pissed-the-fuck-off in a split second. His eyes rolled back like a shark on the attack. He was ready to murderlate the other kid. I quickly stepped in and sat him down in a futile attempt to talk him down. He wasn't having it, and soon bolted up and darted towards his nemesis, arms flailing like a crazed monkey. This was no ordinary 4th grader, this was a mutant shark-monkey! A sharnkey? He never made contact with the other kid, though, because I held him back until the principal came to get him. He was no more than 4 feet tall, but he put up quite the fight. The whole time he never stopped swinging wildly at the air, muttering his 4th grade threats. It must have been quite the show for all the other kids in the room. I don't know how long I was wrestling with him exactly, but I know I was winded as I explained to the principal what had happened.

I can assure you, if this situation ever happens when I am in a high school class, someone is going to get hurt and it is not going to be me. I am not about to step between two high school kids whose combined weight is probably going to be at least five times my own. No, they will be left to their own devices until bigger adults, who make more money than I do, show up. This probably applies to middle school, too... even half THOSE bastards are bigger than me.

It's not all juvenile delinquency, though. Last week, in middle school, I bonded with the weirdest girl in class, the one all the others talked shit about when she left the room. She was weird and spastic, sure, but also smart and pleasant in her oddness. We got to talking, and before she left she gave me a guitar-shaped silly band. My first gift from a student. Not as nutritious as an apple, but silly bandz are like money to these kids, so it was valuable to her, and therefore, to me, too. At least, there was no misinterpreting the gesture. She was telling me that she appreciated that I had been nice to her, and I believed her. On the other hand, most of the time I find I filter what the kids say through my own insecure, insincere, cynical adult brain and draw the wrong conclusions about what they meant and how they meant it. I need to remind myself that at least half the time they are actually not making fun of me! The other half they most certainly are. But, still... I shouldn't assume they are coming from a shitty place. They aren't fully formed humans, yet, they deserve the benefit of my doubt.

As to my own certification classes, they're going along fine. When I went to the first class of the semester it was good to see all the other students again. So good that I found myself, in spite of myself, hanging out before class, chatting it up with a bunch of different people. I was fucking working the room! As I was walking around talking to everyone, getting laughs (I think genuine), I was aware of how unlike me this whole scene was. I was weirdly "on."  I think I must have been feeling less self-conscious than normal because I was still dressed nice from working earlier that day. Funny what a tie can do to a man, when it's not busy making him want to hang himself with it. Besides the tie, I think I was also feeling good because it was like 25 to 3, girls to guys, in the room (I was the alpha male for once in my life); and, since I hadn't seen these people in a couple months, I was fairly confident they could do with another dose of Joel. Usually I am quite sure that everybody's had enough. And usually I do not refer to myself in the third person. Like Costanza, I was doing the opposite. Worked pretty well.

Of course, I'm sure I was not quite the King of the room my memory has made me out to be. It might even have been a sickening display of awkward gregariousness on my part. But, then again, maybe I was at least a Court Jester or something, if not the King. I could pull off Court Jester for one night, I know it. Come on, reality, let me hold on to Jester status.

Well, that's all I got for this very Jewish-themed TV and movie referencing post... now back to The Mentaculus. As soon as I crack that probability map of the universe, it'll be time for the two-day nap part of my week. Next up for Morty will be beignets or croissants, probably. Next up for me is a new poor-eyesight related facial accessory, to be revealed in the next post. Stay tuned.

Schnitzer's. Co-STANZA!

A Means to a Sandwich or: Bread is God

Brioche, Brioche

Morty the Bread Starter is going to Disney Land! He was just named MVP of the Brioche Bowl! Yes, on Super Bowl Sunday, while the rest of the nation prepared to participate in our one true national holiday, Morty and I played in our own special Big Game. It was an early start, there was no opposing team, and all the plays were in slow motion. At about 7am I threw a Hail Mary down the sideline. At about 1pm Morty caught that pass for the winning score, a brilliantly-brown brioche touchdown. Gooooaaaaalllll! (Wrong sports reference? Ahh, whatever. This time next year you won't even remember who played in the Super Bowl this year.) Morty was humble in victory, but I would have been penalized for excessive celebration. How could I not celebrate, though... this was the freakin' Brioche Bowl for crying out loud! Morty did great and damned if I wasn't gonna celebrate. OK, maybe I didn't have to take my pants off, but I was in the moment... no regrets.

Son, I've been slicing bread all my life, let me show you how it's done.

The bread is bigger than the chef... I'm sure this is a metaphor for something.

That's a sandwich.

After I put my pants back on, we tasted the bread and I can tell you it came out quite well. Turns out, brioche is basically an uppity, Frenchified challah. It was eggy, buttery, and delicious on its own or as a means to a sandwich. And I made a big batch this time, so there is more unbaked dough in the freezer, ready and waiting to get the call. I hear you can deep-fry it and turn it into a beignet. Mmmm... uppity, French doughnuts. Must. Try. This.

As a sidebar to the Super Bowl festivities, and as a way to transition into the rest of what's been on my mind recently, I want to say this: If 120 million people watched the Puppy Bowl instead of big dudes playing grab ass (as my dad would describe the game), I am convinced our country would be a better place. Seriously, I was hypnotized into feeling good by the overwhelming force of cuteness on display. The concept is so simple, it's genius: put a bunch of puppies in a room, put a bunch of cameras in that room so people can watch what happens. If people were forced to watch this for a whole day, non-stop, a revolution of good-will and kindness would sweep the country... either that or people would go batshit crazy. I'd be willing to take the chance. Anyway, all I'm saying is that maybe we should spend our Sundays worshiping puppies (or, maybe, you know, our fellow human beings), instead of football and/or some invisible god or gods. What have those two things ever really done for us, after all?

George Carlin said something similar in a very funny way, as he was wont to do. Carlin ultimately decided to worship the sun and pray to Joe Pesci, because he "looks like the kind of guy who can get things done." With that in mind, and as much as I like puppies, I have actually decided to worship bread and pray to Morty. Ol' Mort is a real go-getter. If Morty can't do it, maybe it can't or shouldn't be done. But seriously, I don't need to worship any "creators" besides all the other humans sharing this life and this little rock we're all floating on in the vast, uncaring void of space. We all are the creators of our own worlds - one love affair, one family, one friend, one good deed, one joke, one puppy, one Morty at a time.

At this point I'd like to quote a book I read recently. Just warning you. Here it comes. This is mostly to document for my future older, lazier self that I once read things. OK, last chance to bail. Here we go.

In The Sirens of Titan, Kurt Vonnegut creates a new religion: The Church of God the Utterly Indifferent. Its two main tenets being: "Puny man can do nothing at all to help or please God Almighty, and Luck is not the hand of God." To quote Vonnegut, quoting his fictional reverend (emphasis mine):

"Oh Lord Most High, Creator of the Cosmos, Spinner of Galaxies, Soul of Electromagnetic Waves, Inhaler and Exhaler of Inconceivable Volumes of Vacuum, Spitter of Fire and Rock, Trifler with Millennia - what could we do for Thee that Thou couldst not do for Thyself one octillion times better? Nothing. What could we do or say that could possibly interest Thee? Nothing. Oh, Mankind, rejoice in the apathy of our Creator, for it makes us free and truthful and dignified at last.... no longer can a tyrant say, 'God wants this or that to happen, and anybody who doesn't help this or that to happen is against God.' O Lord Most High, what a glorious weapon is Thy Apathy, for we have unsheathed it, have thrust and slashed mightily with it, and the claptrap that has so often enslaved us or driven us into the madhouse lies slain!" - The Reverend C. Horner Redwine

Couldn't have said it better myself! Seriously, there is no way I could ever say it better, that's why I had to quote it. This is a religious philosophy that finally celebrates humanity and not magical outside forces that may or may not have been responsible for creating said humanity. Even if magical creation forces could be proven, so what? How does that affect me? What do I really need to know about creation other than "it happened" and "we are"? One way or another, scientifically or magically, we were created and we are here. No further thinking needs to be done about that subject, as far as I am concerned. We're here, let's do the best we can while we're around, the end.

I pledge allegiance to the bread, one nation under Morty

Is That a Baguette in Your Pocket?

The evolution of Morty. Well, evolution combined with me playing god.

Crusty, crackling, rustic French goodness.

Hey, baby, check out my baguette.

Another happy customer. Now, over 3 people served!

The further evolution of Morty.

And then there was one... We are very good at eating warm bread quickly.

I have to say, this was very good bread. This is probably the most happy I have been with the end results of a baking project... I really don't have an unkind word for how it came out. It smelled and tasted just like the best baguettes I've had at restaurants or bakeries. The crust was thin and crisp, the inside was tender and delicious. It had just the right sort of nutty aroma. Of course, I am not claiming much credit here... I simply followed a good recipe and Morty did all the hard work. In fact, the highest compliment I can give this bread is that when I was eating it I forgot totally that I was the one who made it. It was only after the first two loaves were long gone that I appreciated the craft of what I had done. It was so good that it rose above the din of self-doubt and modesty in my brain... I had to admit, I had made something of undeniable quality. I held my head a little higher that night, the way only a craftsman proud of his day's work can.


Now, this kind of pride is not easy for me to express. Normally I am not one to toot my own horn, or butter my own baguette, as it were. Usually, I like to stay firmly in the realm of humbleness and self-deprecation. The funniest jokes are the ones I have at my own expense. My nature is not to make fun of others, or to be mean. Not to say I don't dislike most people ('cause I think I probably do), but instead of meanness, I hope I usually try to relate to them with empathy and then simply move on. Oh sure, I do make fun of people sometimes. I mean, some people just have it coming and who am I to not give it to them? But, that is not where my mind goes naturally and I am not proud of myself when I do it. The best (and coincidentally, easiest) target will always be myself.


This brings me to a recent conversation I had on the phone with one of my best friends (don't worry, it's not you, because this friend says he never reads the blog.. in fact, he scoffed at the notion as if it were ridiculous.. a whole other point of contention). Have you ever talked to someone who has no room in their conversation (and apparently, their consciousness) for self-doubt? They are just so seemingly sure of themselves, and even take a mocking tone when you express confusion or doubt about your own life. They make it sound as if you are the crazy one for not knowing the answers, or even just not being 100% sure of the answers. Have you ever wanted to reach through the phone and choke the life out of one of these people, ask them if they were so sure of themselves now? Of course, they'd be dead, so I guess they couldn't answer, but the point would have been made, I think.


It comes to this: If you aren't self-aware about your own problems, I can hardly stand to talk to you. You don't have to hate yourself, but you must recognize that you, like every other human being on this planet, is flawed. And you must desire not to be so flawed. If you are perfectly unaware and/or accepting of your own defects, fuck you. First, I don't believe you. Second, if it is true that you genuinely believe you have all the answers without any second-guessing, what a self-righteous and clueless prick you must actually be. 


Is this simply my own neurosis speaking? Am I just jealous of these types that go through life so sure of themselves? I don't think so. Like I said, I believe these people are only pretending to be that confident, anyway. Deep down, they may be even more conflicted than I am. 


But, my capacity for empathy fails me when it comes to people with this attitude. If you can't engage me in a self-deprecate-off, I will lose interest in you, not to mention respect for you. Being so smugly confident is disingenuous and fucking boring. I mean, if we're good friends and we take the time to talk to each other... let's really TALK! Let's talk about real feelings, real doubts, real insecurities.. And good stuff too!


But actually, that stuff is the good stuff. It's good, real-life conversation, and that is the best things friends can do. I can get the weather from a widget, from a real friend I want to hear some of the inner-monologue. So, come on, open up, admit you don't know everything, admit you're not sure about the decisions you're making in your life. And allow me that privilege, too. It'll be OK... or maybe it won't. I don't know! But I know for sure that maybe is more honest than yes, no, always, or never.


Maybe I will make a brioche with Morty this weekend, maybe I won't. Maybe I will get out of bed, maybe I won't. Maybe next time I see my friend I'll strangle him with a piano wire, maybe I won't. Maybe, just maybe.

Ready for His Close-Up

Saturday was the big day. It was Morty's bar mitzvah... today, he would become a man (er... loaf of bread). It was a long day for both of us. We woke up bright and early, at about 5:30am, and were completely wiped and napping by 7pm. It was exciting, nerve racking, and ultimately very rewarding. Whew! Whatta day! Whatta bread! So, come on down to Del Boca Vista and gather 'round the slide projector. Sit back, relax, enjoy the show. Hit the lights, cue the music... (seriously, hit play on the video below and listen to the song as you scroll through the pictures. Do it!)

5:30am - Morty and Morty Jr., warming up for the big day.
Morty was bar mitzvahed and had a son on the same day. Morty is more of a man than I am!

6:30am - The tools of the trade. Morty now incorporated into a dough.

10:00am - After 3 hrs of rising in a bowl, the dough rests after being cut in twain.

11:00am - Shaped loaves rising, waiting for their turn in the oven.

3:00pm - The baker at work. Gotta score the top of the dough without
burning myself on the scalding hot cast iron dutch oven. Came away remarkably unscathed.

3:30pm - Loaf #1 nearly complete. Nervous baker looks on nervously.

3:50pm - Oh, Morty, you crusty sonofabitch! I knew you could do it! I'm so proud!

3:51pm - Thanks, Dad! I'm happy, too! I can't sop smiling!

3:52pm - "The song of bread." As the crust contracts, you can hear a delightful crackling sound...
 Morty's grandmother listens to her grandson's singing voice.
"That's nice, but maybe one day I'll have a real grandson?" Sigh.

4:05pm - The holes mean it worked! Seriously, I was thrilled it came out looking so well.
It really rose! I didn't even care much about the taste after this.

4:06pm - It tasted awesome!

5:00pm - Loaf #2. This picture makes me daydream about cracking that crust,
crawling in head first, and just camping out in there for a while.

6:30pm - Right there, in that hole, is where my living room would be.

6:00pm - Loaf #2 poses in front of his role model.

That's what I'm talking about.
Morty was delicious and will be coming back real soon, maybe in pizza form next time...
or a baguette... or a croissant... or all of the above!
Show's over, hit the lights.

On Laziness, Love, and Their Mutual Exclusion

Recently it occurred to me (he says as if he thought he was the first to think of this... he knows he is not) that we all live life according to our own unique narratives; personal fairy tales only we can hear. Stories to get us through the day. It's all just a matter of which fairy tales we chose to believe. God? Money? Fame? Whatever gives us a semblance of purpose in this far too often bleak world.

Me, I watched too many romantic comedies growing up. My brain is constantly occupied in the writing of an epic fairy tale of love, one that ends when I get my Princess Bride; or Winnie Cooper; or Meg Ryan (not so much a current fantasy, but still); or Annie Hall; or girl from Ferris Bueller's Day Off; or Maria (from West Side Story, only, you know, without the gang war and getting stabbed part); or etc... And on and on. You can have your God, and your fame, and your fortune, I'll take love. In my mind, love is the only fairy tale that even has an outside chance at ever coming true. Love gives me purpose.

Now, how, exactly, I am ever going to find and slay the mythical love beast of my fairy tale is another matter altogether. Up to this point, I am forced to admit I have been far too prone to follow that good old path of least resistance right where it inevitably leads - the land of loneliness and masturbation. Path of least resistance, hell, let's just call it what it is: Laziness. For, as much as I want love and dream about the fairy tale ending, I have been consistently lazy about trying to find it. Laziness does not breed love, my soul mate will not fall in my lap while I am not looking. I can attest. Further, even if I did get a magical lap dance of true love, I'd still need to work hard to nourish that love and keep it around. No, laziness and love simply do not mix. In fact, it is such a fragile, fleeting phenomenon, that even with the most dedicated care and devotion it sometimes withers and dies. Can you imagine if you are totally lazy about it? Loneliness and masturbation.

Morty, age 48 hrs.

So, what am I doing about it? Well, I am going to put the cart before the horse, that's what. I am writing the sequel to the story before the original is complete (or even begun, really). I have skipped the pesky falling in love part and gone straight to procreation. That's right everyone, I have an announcement to make. I've had a baby! It's a boy! He's 288 grams, brown, bubbly, and kept at room temperature. He rises and falls daily and smells like moldy cheese farts. A real chip off the ol' block! He is a wild-yeast sourdough bread starter and I love him very much. His name is Morty, and I know some day he will make some lucky loaf of bread very happy. Look at him, isn't he so cute and crusty! He's only two days old in this picture, but already you can tell he's going be a strong young lad (and a cranky old retired Jew).

Morty, age 96 hrs.

Here is another picture of young Morty at four days old... atta boy! Looking very gaseous! Anyway, the inspiration to make my own starter was born from this video, which begat the purchase (thanks, Dad) of this book: Tartine Bread - which was written by the dude in the video, who owns this restaurant in San Francisco. If you are anything like me, you will watch the video and fall in love with bread all over again. You will want nothing more than to sit on a city curb, tear off a hunk of fresh bread, inhale the deep, old-world aromas, and savor. Tartine's bread is famous in the foodie world as the best example in America of true rustic-French style, slow-rise crustiness. This weekend I will have my first baking cycle, in which a chunk of Morty gets incorporated first into a "leaven" mix, which is then incorporated into the larger bread dough and set out to rest and rise, alternately, nearly all day. Finally, at about 4pm, it will be time to bake, and by 5pm it will be time to find a street curb and stuff my face.

The Tartine method is not for the lazy home baker, it is a commitment (Oy!). I can't be lazy with him or he will die. I have to feed him, change him, and talk to him daily. OK, maybe I don't have to talk to him, but he appreciates the extra encouragement. Taking care of this thing is work... but all love is work, isn't it. The only kind of work I really have any honest ambition to do, in fact. If I can keep little Morty alive, maybe there is hope for me. Maybe I'll not be forever too lazy to find love in the form of an actual, living, human woman. I hope so. I hope Morty is the harbinger of a real change in my work ethic. A change that will bring me closer to my fairy tale ending. In the meantime, I have the love of a bread starter named after an old man. And that ain't bad.

Finally, let me take a moment to be serious. While I celebrated a birth, others were mourning a death. Recently, a young teacher I had subbed for many times slipped into a coma and died for no apparent reason. She was only 43, had three daughters, and was, by all accounts, a person who made the world a better place. I didn't know her, but we had emailed. I have emails from a dead woman on my computer screen right now... Jesus. Seize the fucking day, people. Seize the fucking day.

Festivus Fever Dreams

Here's the thing: I have just turned 29. This means I am now in my 30th year of life. Jesus H. Christ. I wasn't prepared to see it in print. I guess it's real now, the truth, no denying it. What am I supposed to do with that truth? Hell if I know. I don't know that there is anything to do. It's just a number and as a rule I don't subscribe to timelines and deadlines on life events or goals. At least, that's what I tell myself and that's what I'd like you to believe about me. But I am nothing if not an unreliable narrator of my own life. 

The sun rises over ATL

With 1/3rd-life crisis (is that a thing?) thoughts like these swirling in my head, I set off once again for a pre-birthday trip to Vegas for Kash and Dan's 3rd annual, and first to be graced with my presence, Festivus party. More on the Festivus merriment in a moment, but first the retelling of a dream. 


On the eve of my departure I had a vision in my sleep that gnawed at my unconscious until it broke through while I was sitting in the plane, high above Florida, somewhere between Del Boca Vista and Atlanta. I had not remembered the dream until then but had felt a nagging neurotic sensation radiating from the back of my brain all morning. When the sensation manifested in conscious thought I recognized immediately where it came from and I didn't want to forget it... I needed a pen and paper, stat! No such luck. I needed to use my phone to take notes! Phones had been strictly forboden by the flight attendants. Out of options and my feeble mind losing grip on the memory of the dream by the second, I had to do it: I reached for my phone, studied it for a second not wanting to break the rules and somehow doom us to a fiery death in a crash caused improbably by Blackberry interference, put my finger on the power button, and finally said my prayers (to what god, I do not know) and hit the button. I had to write down what was going through my head. This is what I wrote:


Last night I awoke in a sweat with my heart pounding and a deep, lingering sense of an insane longing gone unfulfilled, just beyond my grasp. I realize now what I wanted so desperately in my dream. Studying child psychology and seeing kids first hand as a substitute has stirred up a powerful, morbidly curious, narcissistic impulse/need/craving in me to go back in time and view myself as a kid in school. I don't want to just see pictures, I want to literally travel back in time and BE there. I want to see first hand, with my own adult eyes what kind of kid I was. 


I think the fact that I can shut my eyes and remember my kindergarten classroom - where the letter people hung on the wall over the windows, where the gold stars for being good were taped to the cabinet, where I daily rolled out my nap mat and mostly refused to nap - the fact that I can remember these things indicates the near grotesque importance of these years in my life. I mean, that was practically 25 years ago for fuck's sake! Sometimes I think I can't remember much, but it's actually kind of insane that we can remember these times at all, when you think about it.  


And it's not like I was traumatized, it's just I'm so sure that my personality today can be traced back in so many ways to that kid in grade school who now seems like a stranger, or at least an alternate self. So alike and so different from that kid have I become in adulthood... Would I rather be more alike or more different today? I don't know. That's why I want to go back and see scenes from my life, A Christmas Carol style. A Festivus fever dream style.


After I got it out I turned off my phone as quickly as possible (we had not crashed... whew) and quietly slipped into a peaceful ipod induced stupor, disturbed only by the offering and accepting of coffee (blech) and cookies (surprisingly, the best part of flying Delta). Later, I thought more about this craving to see myself as a kid in grade school: was I really formed by my experiences there? Is that when I developed my shy/asshole tendencies? Is it too late to overcome the personality defects imprinted in me at that age? Is trying to come up with material for this blog causing me to think entirely too much about myself? Questions, lots of questions.

One question I have thought about before. Shy/asshole confusion is a big motif in my life, I think. Let's just get this out of the way now: If I don't call or don't talk to you it's either because I couldn't care less about you and I am enough of an asshole to not pretend to care, or I care very deeply about you, but I am too shy to call for fear that I do not mean as much to you as you mean to me. See, I'm either shy or I'm an asshole... you decide. Hint: if you are reading this you can be sure that I care about you... I'll overcome my embarrassment and call you one of these days, I promise. You're all waiting with baited breath, I'm sure.

Festivus Now!

Anyway, enough! Festivus was rad! Kash and Dan throw a helluva party... There we all are in our ugly sweaters (a Festivus tradition). While it may look in the photo that the party had all the trappings of a traditional Christmas event, in reality it was ever so much more. Not too long after this photo we were airing grievances, displaying feats of strength, and winning raffle prizes. I won a very nice tub of popcorn! Three flavors! Also, I believe I was nominated in both the "disgruntled elf" and "Festivus cheerleader" categories. I did not win either of those competitions, but I consider my paradoxical nominations in both categories to be a moral (amoral?) victory. The party unfolded in two parts, the first at a Gordon Biersch restaurant, the second at a suite at the Golden Nugget... the "Vegas Baby Suite"! We were partying in high style, a jug of Costco rum in one hand, a tall cup of "purple drink" in the other. Both halves of the party were a lot of fun and it was great to be back running with the Vegas crew. See you next Festivus!

Bingo! I've got Bingo here!
And Donuts!

While in Vegas I also partook in some poker playing (lost); early morning bingo playing with Dan (lost, but with free donuts to ease the pain); blackjack, because Dan is addicted and attracted me to the game with the force of his addiction (lost... fuck blackjack); pai gow poker (won 6 bucks!); and roulette (won 36 greasy downtown Vegas dollars!). I had been hoping to parlay my rather small gambling budget into a rather small but perfectly adequate fortune, which I would have then shared with all of you. Oh well... maybe sometime in my 31st year of life.

Besides not making a fortune, the only thing wrong with my trip to Vegas was that it rained for one whole week straight, only stopping on one occasion I can remember. The sun came out for about two hours one afternoon when Dan and I were at the Neon Boneyard, which is pretty much what it sounds like, an old-neon-sign junkyard. Turns out they don't let you dance on the signs like they do in Vegas Vacation, but it was pretty cool to see all the old-Vegas signs up close. Look, there's a demented neon duck! Don't see that everyday.

When all was said and done in Vegas I got back on a plane and reconsidered my crazy making desire to be a witness to my own formation. I hope I don't get that particular craving again. Why do that to myself? It's all in the past. I am that I am.

Always double down on 11! or
We're so money!

Seeing my past will not really make a difference to my future. I can be who I am or who I want to be starting now, no looking back. The moral of the movie Greenberg, which no one saw, but which I loved, was: Embrace the life you never planned on. There's a truth I know what to do with.