Adventures In Turning 30

My hard drive was slow. The monitor flickered and spasmed as I searched my desktop endlessly for an answer. With her lips pursed forward, forming the beginnings of a wicked smile, a beautiful stranger in the coffee shop so kindly pointed out to me that when you have 103 tabs across 7 different windows open on your browser, everything slows down to an ineffectual pace.

“But I always have that many tabs open – articles to read, spreadsheets to finish, portfolios to peruse…”photo (4)

She said nothing. She smiled and squinted, as if closing her hazel eyes to millimeter slits somehow gave her the capacity to see right through me. I looked at the left column of my Gmail. 844 unfinished drafts. I looked down at my phone. 1,256 ongoing text message conversations. I closed my eyes and imagined my desk. 47 notepads of to-do lists. I imagined my bookshelf. 321 half-read books. Infinite starts, stops, and weight. Heavy weight. 2,571 gallons of sweat. 81 tons of skin. I opened my eyes.

“My birthday’s tomorrow,” I said, unprompted. “Well you should probably shave then,” she replied. “Funny. When I first moved to New York, a big director told me to grow a beard and keep it until the day I turn 30, at which point I can finally shave. He said people start to take you seriously when you’re 30.” “And…” “Are people starting to take me seriously?” “No, silly. Are you going to shave?” “I am.” “Good. Let them see you, I say. Let them see you.”

She exhaled. I inhaled. She sat back down, leaned over, dug into her backpack and took out a book. “The Things They Carried”. Funny. Again. The universe giving me real talk and all.

Look at how much I carry. Look at how much we all carry. In our metaphysical beards. In our immaterial backpacks. Across 1,256 text messages, 844 unfinished drafts, and 103 tabs. The 20’s were all about building up, weren’t they? Building up varied experience, an arsenal of thought, a formation of kinetic momentum.

Tomorrow, as I celebrate the 30th anniversary of my birth, may I begin the process of unloading my metaphysical backpack, the bright Halloween candy bowl of my youth. Great prophets like the Buddha and Princess Elsa from Disney’s Frozen advise us to let it go, but that assumes things are directly in our grasp. Sometimes they’re hovering behind us, out of sight, strapped in tight. Deadlines and to-do lists are self-imposed. Take a load off. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

Here ye, Here ye! A Declaration For My 30’s: Instead of texts, may I carry grit. Instead of drafts, may I carry resolve. Instead of tabs, may I carry a mischievous mind, a curious heart, and an unwavering generosity of spirit.

May I swagger so lightly that only the tips of my toes touch the ground. May my spirit act as your flotation device. May we tread these waters together. And if we text, if we MUST, may we text with only the wittiest of banter. We all can afford to carry that.

Smile big. Breathe deep. Put on aftershave. Here we go.

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Adventures In Physical Activity

I played sports my entire childhood.

Up until age 9, that is. Because at age 10, I became a man.

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My older brother and me. Please note that I’M the one wearing a soccer shirt, THANK YOU.

At age 10, I discovered tap dancing.

While my brothers continued to play point guard in basketball and goalie in soccer, I continued to play center with my triple winged time step and power forward with my flap ball change. They watched Gene Banks. I studied Gene Kelly. They worshiped DeJuan Blair. I bowed to Fred Astaire.

My brothers would tease me. They’d say I’d never get in shape if I didn’t take up a real sport. But I so strongly remember one time, in the 7th grade, when my friends and I sat around my bedroom drinking Smirnoff Ice, and we all went around the circle and verbally acknowledged everyone’s best feature – “Adam, you have such beautiful eyes”, “Sam, you have such gorgeous hair” – that after a mild Pinter pause, everyone agreed, “Michael…you have such great…calves. Yea, like, your calf muscles…are really defined.”

Nevermind that I never wore shorts because I was so self conscious about my thigh eczema. Clearly all the better, because my triceps surae were so impressive that they indented my baggy Pacific Sun jeans. And how do you think I got them holy calf muscles? TAP DANCING.

By the 8th grade, I got so cocky about my amazing calf muscles that I signed up for the school’s 50 yard dash competition to place in the county track meet. Nailed it. First place. Sprinting away from my Dad and his giant wooden spoon every time I put my pet rats on the sleeping babysitter’s face was really paying off.

Unfortunately our PE teacher signed me up for the wrong race in the county meet. He placed me in competition for the 600 meter. See I was only a sprinter, an unusually tall boy with a large stride and the immediate burst of energy needed to leap through 50 yards in a matter of seconds. I couldn’t do long distance! I saw Sleepless in Seattle! It almost never works out! And since my dismissal of team sports occurred a few years prior, I didn’t own a pair of athletic shoes that made it through my growth spurt.

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Trick # 1 To Not Showing Your Belly When All The Other Guys Are Shirtless: “Hey man, I’m just gonna keep this life preserver on. It’s so cozy!”

So I rolled up to the county wide track meet in my Capezio Capri’s and Stussy slip-ons and went boldly for the gold, my jock brothers finally cheering me on from the sidelines. Sure enough, for the first 20 seconds, I took the lead. Then one by one, each runner passed me by, until 40 meters from the finish line, Petey, the mentally handicapped boy from my class, skipped past me, glanced back, and shouted, “Sucka”.

I crawled my way past the finish line and fell to my knees panting, my life-long vertigo induced to skyrocketing levels. I looked over at the stands. My brothers were gone. As the rain clouds crept in, canceling the rest of the day’s competitions, I sat under the bleachers alone, the soles of my skater shoes withered to shreds, eating the biggest basket of Nachos you’ve ever seen, all the while lamenting my poor, fat existence. But please don’t feel too sorry for me. The nachos had cheese from the can. THE BEST KIND.

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Trick # 2 To Not Showing Your Belly When All The Other Guys Are Shirtless: “Hey man, I’m just gonna keep this heavy, soaking shirt on in 100 degree weather because isn’t this color just awesome?”

Despite that early bout of foolishness, I learned to know my limits and trust my gut. Well, except for that one time on my Jewish confirmation trip to Israel when the other boys convinced me that 60 seconds of hyperventilation followed by strict breath holding as they charged my chest would help me produce better abdominal muscles. Suffice to say, I came to on the floor surrounded by hyena like laughter. I was merely a pawn in the Israeli scam version of the Slendertone Vibrating Ab Belt.

I did have the last laugh one time. River kayaking was a summer staple for my family. A few years after being crowned the Great Patsy of Israel, I hiked out of the Grand Canyon following a week-long tumble down the Colorado River. I beat my father and my older brother out of the canyon by nearly two hours, in 105 degree heat with 40 pounds on my back no less. When my brother finally reached the top and spotted me sipping a Piña Colada in the gift shop, he exclaimed, “I can still kick your ass, fattie.”

He was right. By the end of high school, I had put on a few pounds. I used to blame the decade’s use of Zoloft that I was prescribed, ever since my Mom diagnosed me with childhood depression in the womb, but I knew it was really the incessant consumption of ice cream while watching Melrose Place marathons that led to my inflation.

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Trick # 3 To Not Showing Your Belly When All The Other Guys Are Shirtless: “Hey man, I’m just gonna hide behind you in the shadows because my body needs to cool off like woah.”

I started dancing more. I started dancing hard. So hard, that I broke my wrists freshman year of college at USC. When I called up my brother from the hospital, he asked if I had finally tried out for the football team. I regretfully had to inform him that I in fact broke my wrists doing leap frogs over my director while rehearsing “Kansas City” from Oklahoma. The orthopedist said he had never heard a manlier cause of fracture in the history of medicine.

Dancing did me good, though. By senior year of college, I lost 65 pounds. No conscious change of diet or activity. I simply continued to dance, because I loved it, and it made me happy. My parent’s didn’t buy it though. On numerous occasions, they sat me down to tell me to lay off the cocaine. I reassured them that I had never done drugs in my life. My father the doctor told me he did a lot of cocaine research in New York City in the 60’s. He knew the signs. I air quoted “cocaine research” right back at him. He said, “No, no, you have to believe me.” And I said, “Right. You have to believe me. I’m just dancing. And be thankful that I’m not air quoting “dancing” too.”

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Can you spot me? Better yet, CAN YOU SPOT THE CAST ON MY HAND?

I did have one misstep in college, however. Senior year, I played the alcoholic Harry in the school musical, Company, while taking all advanced level classes, choreographing for the school dance company, directing and producing the play The Shape Of Things, editing my thesis film, and assisting the Development Exec of a major Hollywood studio. Even Noah himself would have said from the ark, “Hey kid, take a break.”

So an hour before opening night, bleary eyed from final exams prep, I drank a Red Bull. Or two. Rather quickly, my vertigo reached Hitchcockian heights. I couldn’t see straight. I didn’t know which way was up. And I was just about to go on stage in front of a packed house of family, friends, teachers, and industry professionals. Now if you don’t know the show, Harry is on stage for the first 30 minutes, singing in the opening number, downing brownies and alcohol, then doing kung fu and back flips before singing an emotional ballad called, “Sorry/Grateful”.

On opening night, I was only sorry. Thankfully, I did not throw up all over the orchestra as anticipated. So I was certainly grateful for that. I made it through, tears streaming down my face be damned. One friend said to me after the show, “Were you really drunk up there tonight? God you’re SO method.” I then approached the director, my college mentor, with profuse embarrassment and shame. He told me I was fine. Barely anyone noticed. Don’t make such a big deal. Move on.

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The track suit that mocked me.

I remember feeling angry with him for a moment. Where was the consolation, the ounce of sympathy? But he was right. Despite all the physical and emotional turmoil I had that night, I made it through. I did the flips. I ate the brownies. I sang on key, for the most part. Obstacles are merely there to be overcome. That’s how we grow. That’s how we survive. I learned my lesson.

Well, until my last birthday, when I had a Vodka Red Bull with lasagna at dinner, then proceeded to spend four hours dry heaving in the corner of the handicapped women’s bathroom stall at the Maritime Hotel in New York City, while fifty friends waited awkwardly outside. Fun Fact: Women’s handicapped stalls are the biggest stalls imaginable. So spacious. I was just about ready to pay rent. So, Ok, fine. Push forward. Own your choices. Do your best.

Just don’t drink Red Bull.

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Adventures In Airplane Anxiety

Let’s just get it out of the way.

Whenever we board an airplane, we all have the same thought every time. Please Lord; don’t sit me next to a baby. Or a biggie.

Yea I said it.

Now by “biggie”, I don’t necessarily mean obese. Or even a hologram of Biggie Smalls. At 6’4”, I’ve certainly been given a look or two in my day.

“Why do your elbows get BOTH arm rests?”airplane-1and2

“Can’t your knees just stay in FRONT of your seat?”

No, ma’am. I am sitting butterfly just to piss you off.

Now throughout my childhood, I often witnessed my mother’s anxiety over flying. She would claw into my arm. She would pop “Tic Tacs”. (I never thought to ask for one because they were always white and white Tic Tacs are gross and my favorite flavor was always orange.)

If four out of five of our family members were flying, she would insist we split in half and take separate flights. Her reasoning? She didn’t want us all to die in a fiery plane crash and leave a fifth family member alive and alone. So it clearly made more sense for only two family members to die in a fiery plane crash instead. (Unless both planes crashed…then I guess it was meant to be, Ma!)

So I went from a jolly kid who loved to fly to a panicked teenager who would spend hours imagining a horrifying demise every time he took flight. This led to my insistence on sitting in the window seat overlooking the right wing. Because, based on my genetic predisposition for sound reasoning, should the plane be going down, I could at the very least break through the window with my strong, right arm, and slide down the wing to safety.tic tac xanax

I could fit my 6’4” frame…through a 1 foot wide window…slide down a wing going 500 miles per hour…and land safely on the ground…30,00 feet below.

It’s a shame orange Tic Tacs don’t have the same effect the white ones do.

Thankfully, in recent years, flying has slowly become a joy again. I don’t get anxious. I envision my gruesome demise for only a few minutes time. I’ve made good progress! But then, the morning I was due to fly back to New York City after two peaceful and productive months in California, my years-in-the-making, super Zen mentality was annihilated by news of MISSING MALAYSIA AIRLINE FLIGHT 370. This story was everywhere. News channels, conspiracy theorists, and Lost junkies were having a field day. I frantically searched through my Mother’s medicine cabinets for those holy white Tic Tacs. yoga room photo

When I arrived at the airport, things seemed relatively normal, though the San Francisco Airport’s Public Yoga And Meditation Room was a little more crowded than usual. As I boarded the plane, thoughts of impending plane crashes and black wormholes immediately flooded my mind. Never mind that none of my previous doomed flight premonitions have ever come true. Like Devon Sawa in the classic 2000 film Final Destination, I was CERTAIN that THIS flight was a disaster waiting to happen.

IImage arrived at Aisle 17. In the center seat was a middle-aged Puerto Rican woman with an unattached oxygen tank at her feet. A-ha! Surely that tank will play a major part in some elaborate Rube Goldberg scenario that leads to our collective demise, no? I pointed to my seat at the window. The Puerto Rican woman did a little samba with her fingers, pointing to the window seat, then pointing to her own seat and smiling. She clearly wanted my window seat. She did not want to sit bitch. (Grandma – That’s the term kids use to refer to the middle seat.) I feigned confusion. I don’t sit bitch. I am a bitch free zone. She murmured something in Spanish. I said, “Lo siento. No hablo Español.”

…Pero por supuesto que yo hablo Español. Yo solo le hablo a ella en Español. Soy totalmente el tipo de hombre que cede su asiento a una anciana en el metro. Pero la única cosa que no podría, es ceder y perder mi precioso asiento en la ventana.

In spite, the Puerto Rican woman did not stand nor move when I began making my way to the window seat. So I crawled over her. It took me a good 20 seconds to make my way. A graceful samba, it was not. As we prepared to take off, I noticed a large Italian man sitting next to her in the aisle seat. He, it turned out, was not her husband. Her husband, also a large man, was sitting in the aisle seat across from us. The oxygen tank belonged to him.

We took off. The woman and her husband spoke to each other in Spanish across the aisle for extended periods of time. I slipped on my headphones and dozed off into a serene, Tic Tac induced slumber.el libro semanal 2

I awoke to the smell of raw fish. They no longer serve meals on these flights. And they certainly don’t serve fish. I glanced over. The woman was indeed nibbling on a piece of raw fish, TO GO, whilst reading a romance novella in Spanish, murmuring passionately to herself under her breath. Enrique…Enrique. The Italian man, noise cancellation headphones on his ears, large sunglasses over his eyes, snored loudly, his head slowly cranking down to the woman’s shoulder.

The Puerto Rican husband across the aisle noticed the heavily snoring Italian man on his wife’s shoulder. Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t happy about it. But instead of tapping the Italian man on the shoulder, or talking to a flight attendant about the matter, the man started huffing. Then he took out his iPad. And began playing MARIACHI MUSIC. LOUDLY. He reached across the aisle and placed the iPad next to the Italian man’s ear. Nothing. Those noise cancellation headphones really do work!

THEN he started singing along to the music. THEN he started angry dancing in his seat! Still, no luck. The strangest thing about all of this, aside from the fact that a Puerto Rican man was listening to Mexican folk music, and that the oxygen tank in fact plays NO PART IN THE STORY, was that no one else on the plane told the man to turn down his music and stop making such a commotion. Granted, I didn’t say anything either. BUT WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY ELSE SAY SOMETHING. WHERE IS LIAM NEESON WHEN YOU NEED HIM?! neeson

My window seat suddenly felt smaller. The mariachi music and the smell of fish made me feel like I was on a rush hour train in the Heights in July. But I was not. I was in the middle of West Side Story 2: Bernardo’s Revenge.

Over the final hour of the flight, as I dozed in and out of consciousness listening to my Pure Moods Volume 12, I noticed that the husband repeatedly complained to a Spanish-speaking flight attendant about the Italian man. And for some reason, the flight attendant didn’t do anything about it either. So the Italian man, head now lifted off the Puerto Rican woman’s shoulders, continued to snore. Loudly. And I continued to softly sing Enya to myself in the smallest window seat known to man.

After we landed, and the seat belt light turned off, the two men stood at the same time and removed their luggage from the overhead bins.

“You gonna drop that suitcase on my feet, bitch?” the Italian man declared.

The Puerto Rican man started huffing again in broken English. “You fucking schmuck. You ruined our entire flight with your snoring and your salami head on my wife’s shoulder.”

I took less note of the “salami head” comment and was more intrigued by the fact that even a Puerto Rican man with broken English knows his basic Yiddish insults.

“Motherfucker I will cunt punt your ass so fast off this plane…” see something

Now I’m not quite sure when the term “cunt punt” came into the basic insult vernacular, but seeing a grown man use it against another grown man was a wildly fascinating ordeal. Again, nobody said anything to these two men spewing expletives and threatening violence at each other in the middle of a cramped plane. I mean, I didn’t say anything either, and I’m two feet away from them, trapped in my window seat. But still, WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY ELSE SAY ANYTHING. WE’RE NEW YORKERS. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING.

Thankfully, the men gave it a rest, and we all quietly exited the aircraft. Though the flight had its fair share of weirdness, we thankfully did not crash nor explode nor evaporate into thin air. We instead exited the plane like free sardines. That is, until some of us took the two-hour subway ride home in a packed, garbage infested car with the “Showtime” kids…

Welcome back to New York City, bitch!

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Going to work in California

Going to work in New York

Going to work in New York

Adventures In Making Montages

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I always did love a good montage. 

But to master the ancient art of monTAGing, a pupil must first gain practice with the montage’s half dumb little brother, the COLLAGE. 

Like any other suburban 12-year-old girl with a subscription to Teen Vogue, my collaging skills have evolved over the years. 

If you scroll down to Adventures In Making Sense Of Your Childhood, you’ll see some of my early work, a pop culture collage of everything 1998 that still hangs on the wall of my childhood bedroom. (I recently discovered 12 other collages hidden in the bowels of my closet – from history projects to 9-foot long homemade X-Men posters, the top THIRD of which is shown to the right.)

Over the years, I’ve taken to making collages more so for other people, whether it be taking photographs of my family and printing them on slabs of wood as a birthday gift, or photographing friends spelling out “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” word by word over many years of Hanukkah parties as an ongoing holiday card. We’ve got one more verse to go! (See below)

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(Even this past December, when a casting director suddenly asked me to put together an acting reel in less than 90 minutes for a part in a major studio film, I had no choice but to – you guessed it – make one giant montage of YouTube style silliness. It feels like I made a blooper reel for an idiot’s funeral. You can check out the Oscar worthyness HERE.

Our lives are already vivid tapestries, aren’t they? I just have a compulsion to translate and realize that notion in a visual, artistic way. I enjoy building things. I revel in the act of creation. I’m enthralled by the connection of color, tone, aesthetic, feel, mood, narrative, design, discord, direction, and placement.

I lived in Los Angeles from 2002 to 2007. I returned this month for a week and a half trip after a two-year absence. I was amazed to see how much the city has developed since I left, and in my humble opinion, how much more culturally expansive and compelling it has quickly become. On a more personal level, it was wonderful to reconnect with old friends as if little time had past. (Though it so clearly had when three friends revealed their pregnancies.)

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To adhere to the mission of this blog, and savor simply the extraordinariness of old friends, I chose not to embark on too many epic adventures. I almost went on two spontaneous trips – one to Mexico, the other to Joshua Tree – but I refrained. I know I can stay put for two minutes. I know it. So while I’m clearly working on my addiction to adventure, perhaps my addiction to MONTAGE is a healthy addiction. Like. My addiction to oxygen, you know? Especially when it produces this many smiles. So enjoy this love letter to the city of Angels from some of my SoCal pals, and Happy Valentine’s Day to you and yours. 

Watch it HERE.

…Adventures In Getting Back On

Previously, On The Adventure Addict…

Mike fell off a bike in Aspen last Summer.

He hurt himself pretty bad.

His friends and family helped him heal quickly.

For that, he’s incredibly grateful.

Six months later, he finally hopped on a bike again.

But what happened next proved to be AN EVEN GREATER BIKING DISASTER.

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In the months following my bike accident, I slowly graduated from physical therapy to running, weight lifting and yoga. But I had avoided getting back on a bicycle until I made it to the six-month mark, at which time, about 50% of people with titanium collar bones get their plates removed due to discomfort or complications.

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I’ve been fortunate to spend much of the Winter writing in San Francisco. It’s been 72 degrees and sunny nearly every day since I’ve been here. (Great for sunbathers and tourists and those who suffer from seasonal affective disorder. Bad for livestock, flora, fauna, produce, and romantic couples hoping to recreate rainy scenes from The Notebook.) But I’ve been in isolation a great deal, living by myself in an empty house in Pacific Heights.

So the other day, I walked around outside to get me some Vitamin D. It turns out that I’ve been staying right next door to a certain well-known cycling studio that’s good for your soul. I’ve frequented the spin classes at my New York gym over the last few years. It’s a stimulating, invigorating workout for someone like me who finds the gym boring but also enjoys ice cream nightly at 3 am. So I signed up for a class…

Upon arrival, I navigate through the throngs of PR princesses and Lululemon lovers to my seat.

Overheard conversation:

“We’re just having casual sex. Bonobos have casual sex too ya know.”

“Yea but Trish, bonobos also eat their babies.”

Unaccustomed to wearing specialty spin shoes and clipless pedals, I ask a nice dude to my left named Buck to help me out. Buck! I teyl Buck that we don’ wear special shoes at mah speen class back in New Yawk. I’m just not used to bein’ locked een. What if they’res a fahr and I need to escape?

The leggy blonde in front of me turned around and coos, “Why would you ever need to escape? Enjoy your ride.” She smiles, winks, and turns back around.

Oh this’ll be interesting.

At $30/class, spinning at Unnamed Cycling Studio That’s Good For Your Soul sure is different from all those other spin classes. They have grapefruit scented candles burning during your ride. And motivational wisdom shared through loud speakers, courtesy of instructors with glistening torsos and exciting names like Tiffany and Chad.

We start out easy enough. Dimmed lights and a midtempo groove take my mind away from the fact that I’m rubbing sweaty elbows in a walk in closet with sixty other people.

But then Chad turns off the lights. And it quickly gets hot. Like, really hot. And the scent of mass quantities of perspiration do not mix well with grapefruit. And then the music gets louder. Like, really loud. And the mid tempo soul quickly moves into a hard dubstep. (For you more seasoned readers, dubstep is the sound of robots fucking and murdering each other at the same time.)

Chad, in his v-neck tank, yells, “I need you to sweat! I need you to clear out your pores!” I’m sorry, but I’ll sweat in my own way, thanks Chad. I didn’t ask for forced pore cleansing. This is pore rape.

And then it gets worse. We move on to saddle jumps, where you alternate between seated riding and riding up “out of the saddle”. Well remember that leggy blonde in front of me? Like, two inches in front of me? As she rides up out of the saddle, she straight up bullhorns a three second anal symphony right in my face.

Now when I was a little boy, my father convinced me that girls neither shat nor farted. And that when ladies went to the bathroom, they emitted tiny pink packages wrapped with ribbon and string. So either I had a few moments of disbelief, or her frothy flatulence impaired my judgment like a stun gun.

Suddenly we move on to two count jumps. And this lady in front of me straight up Bippity Boppity Boo’s each time she lifts up! 1. 2. Fhwat. 3. 4. Hoot! 5. 6. Schwat. 7. 8. Toot! And now this studio coffin reeks of grapefruit and sweat AND intestines. People, this is not a fruit salad you would ever want to order!

Dubstep and darkness and fire and farts. If Hitler were alive today, this is surely how he would do me in. My feet are locked in place. The chamber’s quickly filling up with poisonous gas. Chad starts yelling “motivations”: Open yourself up! Release! Take a risk! Why keep it in when you can let it go! In my head, the demon bitch from spinning hell in front of me cackles, “Why would you ever need to escape?” No, like, her eyes are turning red and horns are sprouting from her temples and she’s screaming like Megadeth, “WHY WOULD YOU EVER NEED TO ESCAPE? MWAHAHA. MWAHAHA.”

The scent becomes increasingly nauseating. Then I notice my buddy Buck start to sway in circles. Then I see his eyes roll back. Then Buck falls off his bike!

MAN DOWN. WE HAVE A MAN DOWN.

With his feet still locked in, Buck’s legs twist the bike to a stop. But it’s nearly pitch black and our eardrums are being assaulted so nobody else even notices.

Thankfully Buck’s OK. Oh thank God. He swiftly gets back on his bike and continues riding as I intermittently hold my breath and tremor like a bad Kevin Bacon movie. As the ride winds down, Chad offers up a few more lines of inspiration from the likes of Buddha and Dame Taylor Swift. He admits that before class, he ate a big lunch of Mexican food. After his hearty meal, he felt scared to lead class today. But since life is all about taking risks, he pushed through.

Clearly, Chad pushed through hard.

So. Was Chad the guilty party all along? Did his lethal dose of Salagadoo Lamechickaboo merely inhibit my sense of direction? Or were both he and the lady in front of me guilty parties? OR. Did this all happen Murder On The Orient Express style, where EVERYONE was out to make me the first case in history of Death By Stench?

As we exit the Spinning Sauna of Doom, Imagine Dragons  “Radioactive” so appropriately echoes through the speakers.

The point of relaying all this nonsense is that I survived. I fell off a bike. I got back on. And though evil forces tried to bring me down again, with a little help from my friends, I kept pedaling through. What an old valuable lesson for a promising new year.

Take risks. Let go. Push through.

Unless you had Mexican food for lunch.

THEN DON’T TEACH A FUCKING SPIN CLASS.

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Now watch THIS.

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I’ve had safer experiences JUMPING OFF CLIFFS IN RIO than riding bicycles in suburbia.

Adventures In Falling Off A Bike…

I’ve loved riding bicycles my entire life.

On July 1st, 2013, I had my first biking accident in Aspen, Colorado. I was going 40 mph down a steep mountain trail in the pouring rain when a grizzly bear suddenly jumped out in front of me. I swerved to the left, which took me down a steep ravine about 200 feet, throwing me right into the Colorado River. I wasn’t wearing a helmet. What else would you expect from The Adventure Addict?

Well, hopefully not a lie.

The Colorado River doesn’t flow through Aspen, friends.

The more you know, and shooting star.

On July 1st, 2013, I did have my first biking accident in Aspen, Colorado. I was going 4 mph down a flat, empty suburban street on a clear skied, sunny day when I tried to take an Instagram photo on my cell phone, then unconsciously braked the front wheel, flipped over the handlebars, and landed on my head. I wasn’t wearing a helmet.

Social media really will be the death of us.

Adventures In Riding A Bicycle Sober And Slowly On A Sunny Summer Afternoon Along A Splay Suburban Street.

I woke up in the hospital covered in blood, with a concussion, retrograde amnesia, a broken collar bone, and a head stapled shut. I remember two things from the hospital. I remember thinking I was about to die. So I started taking deep breaths and muttering, “Here we go…Here we go…You had a great life…Here we go…” Then when my Dad showed up and said I wasn’t going to die, I remember thinking he was a big fat liar, because he’s a doctor, and he was just trying to make me feel calm before my untimely demise. So I’m pretty sure I told him to fuck off.

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“Here we go…Here we go…You had a great life…Here we go…”

But after he clenched my hand with reassurance and told me to think happy thoughts, I  started singing in my best basso profundo, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen…” Apparently, Spaceballs is my happy place.

Four days later, I had fourteen screws and a plate of titanium drilled into my collar bone. As they were putting me under, I channeled my Australian soul sister Sia and belted some Titanium: “I’m bulletproof. Nothing to lose…” Two hours later, I awoke: “Fire away! Fire away!” Oh. Wait. We’re done? Sweet.

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The Very Hungry Caterpillar

While I’ve long had a dependant/hate relationship with social media, I’ve often used it as a springboard for public discussion. While it played a significant role in my accident, it surprisingly played an even greater role in my recovery.

My last Facebook status prior to the accident was written on the plane en route to Aspen:

Guys. Spike Lee is sitting next to me on my flight. What do I do? Do I do the right thing? WHAT’S THE RIGHT THING?!

83 likes. (Not bad, not bad.) 30 comments…with hilarious suggestions for what the right thing would be. Communal comedy. Everyone gets a rim shot. So fun.

But the day after being discharged from the hospital, I posted a message on Facebook explaining my accident. I admitted to not wearing a helmet, and in the wake of CitiBike’s helmetless launch in New York last summer, I demanded that all my friends wear helmets in the future.

“…I never imagined I’d have a biking accident like this. So. Friends. Please. Wear a helmet. Long rides. Short rides. Mountains and streets. Wear a helmet. And if you start seeing me wearing a helmet out to dinner on a Saturday night too, don’t judge. We can all sing Titanium together as a good reminder.”

237 likes, 184 comments.

Social media allowed me to publicly make a lesson of my idiocy, and many friends who admitted to not wearing helmets when they bike or board or ski quickly confessed to changing their minds. Wonderful.

The degree of reciprocal support and discourse reached peak levels when, after years of making silly online videos for various friends, a bunch of them banded together, through social media no less, to make one for me. And I will forever be grateful for the cheek bursting, knee shaking, fist pumping burst of comfort and glee that I had when I started dancing around, by myself, at 5 am, with great friends around the country.

Watch it HERE.

I get by with a little help from my friends.

It would be 6 months before I hopped on a bike again. But what happened on my first ride back, ended up being far worse than the accident that preceded it.

To Be Continued…

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A Portrait Of The Idiot As A Young Man

Adventures In Mixing Alcohol With Disgruntled Workers And Wax Figured Celebrities

I guess some small part of me always did want to witness first hand what it would be like if a crazy woman at Madame Taussad’s pushed over J. Lo at a party, swung her around until her arm broke off, slammed her to the ground and shattered her ass, thus causing a ripple effect throughout her body that resulted in a giant pile of multi-colored wax and one busted weave. Rest In Peace, Wax J Lo. Your love don’t cost a thing. But hopefully your insurance plan does. 

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“Dance the night away, live your life and stay young on the floor. Tonight we gon’ be it on the floor.”
J. LO CAN SING THE FUTURE Y’ALL.

Adventures In Handing Out Pasta Sauce Packets At The Children’s Leukemia Jazz Street Festival

When I first moved to New York, I enjoyed, and did not enjoy, a multitude of side jobs. A side job is a gig that supports your primary job. It should remain on the side, as noted by it’s straightforward title. Catering, Bartending, Promo Modeling, Filing, Mannying – You name it. I’ve done it. All in support of my primary career, as a theatre maker and filmmaker.

The promo jobs are usually the most eccentric. I say, you haven’t lived life fully until you’ve stood on a hot, muggy corner in Herald Square for 9 hours next to the hysterically screaming Black Israelites, handing out little toy dogs with oversized anuses that poop out chocolate flavored jelly beans. Or dressed up as a Viking at 4 am and posed for photos with celebrities that end up in the Second Look section of People Magazine.

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No, I wasn’t kidding.

Now I am a relatively mild mannered guy. But sometimes, a side job comes along that is so strange, and so eccentric, that it leaves the periphery of your life and instead consumes any and all sides, cracks and corners it can get it’s greasy little hands on. Then manners get spicy fast. Most of these jobs involve A) The Hamptons, or B) The Upper East Side, two magical lands where money has no price, and apparently, neither dignity nor good taste. Easy targets, I know. But this particular adventure was written 5 years ago, during much snarkier (and long-winded) times. It is set in Times Square, around a U-HAUL truck filled with one very special product…

I think I found Unnamed Marketing Company on Craigslist when I first moved to New York. I had good experience as a brand ambassador and promotional model, or “live model” as I like to say, because it can only infer that all other types of modeling involve dead people. I heard from Unnamed Marketing Company a couple times, but no opportunities arose. Then one day, I was suddenly asked to participate in an Unnamed Pasta Sauce Promotion. We were to give away free plastic bags of pasta sauce on 53rd Street in Midtown at the Children’s Leukemia Jazz Street Festival. (Because the thing jazz loving kids with Leukemia crave the most is a plastic bag of Vodka Sauce.) I was only available for one of the two dates, so I thought no dice. Then, a few days prior to the second date, I got an e-mail from the marketing company simply stating, “Call Me”. (Simply placing a call to me directly would clearly have been too difficult.)

They still needed someone for the second date of the promotion, Sunday, July 26th. The dead of Summer. In fact, they needed a manager. And I needed money. So I said yes, without hesitation. I learned that my managerial duties would include picking up the product and bringing it to site, and then supervising my very own “live models”. Sounded great for the resume. I was so game.

I had a catering gig scheduled the night before the promotion, so I told the Unnamed Marketing Company that I would pick up the vehicle and the product on Friday. I had never driven a U-HAUL in New York City before. Oh yea, that’s right, I had never DRIVEN in New York City before. That’s OK. I’m a good driver, and we should all do one thing every day that scares us, right? So I picked up the vehicle in Chelsea, 45 minutes after convincing U-HAUL that I wouldn’t offer my personal credit card information, and that they could charge the company’s corporate account instead, and then went on my merry way.

The storage unit with the pasta sauce was located at the beginning of Spring Street, that small one-way street right next to the Holland Tunnel. It was 4 pm on a Friday, and New Jersey was apparently the hottest destination in town. I was not offered specific driving instructions from the company. So I used Map Quest instead, that website that doesn’t care what city you’re in or what traffic conditions are like, you’ll still make it down a few blocks in 8 minutes or less. So I headed down the West Side Highway – my first time driving in New York City. And. Skip to 90 minutes later, after 6 near death experiences and one scraped Lexus convertible on MacDougal. (I am SO sorry, sir.)

I met up with my manager, Sam, and loaded about 550 boxes of pasta sauce into the van. Each box contained 6 packets, which equaled about 3,300 packets of sauce. For once in my life, I could be underestimating a figure. I headed home to the Upper West Side, where I could park the vehicle for the next two nights. After leaving a plum parking spot on the street directly in front of my apartment (because Sam feared someone might steal all of the product – HE FEARED SOMEONE MIGHT STEAL 3,300 PACKETS OF PASTA SAUCE), I convinced a parking garage nearby to take the van. They were hesitant, but as I soon learned, you can always barter any non-Italians with pre-made pasta sauce.

Sunday morning: The day of the promotion. A lovely morning – birds chirping, sun glistening. I pay the garage $160 total for parking. (The marketing company didn’t offer me any petty cash, but promised they would later reimburse me. Never heard that one before…) I head downtown, but wait. Broadway is closed off. (Thanks for letting us know about the Triathlon, NYPD!) I head two avenues East, and Columbus is closed off as well. Some busses collided. Or something. So I head four avenues West to Riverside Drive, which is also closed. Streets are marked off with yellow tape and police officers can be seen running in and out of a brownstone. So I stop and ask a police officer how I can possibly get downtown.

“Well, the West Side Highway is closed off for the Triathlon, ya know?”

“Yes, I learned this just two minutes ago. Thanks for assuming I knew, go on.”

“Your best bet is to cross over to the East Side at 86th Street and head down.”

“10-4.”

Sure enough. 86th Street was also closed. The next police officer I stop tells me 96th Street will work. You guessed it. Closed. The final police officer I stop simply looks at me and says, “I have no idea.” While I appreciate his honesty, I must offer apologies to my dearly departed grandfather, a noble New York City Police Officer himself, when I say, Why don’t these guys know what the fuck is going on?!

So I drive all the way up to Harlem, above the park, cross over to the East Side, and head down to midtown. Sam assures me that I will find street parking. Aw Sam, ever the optimist. 30 minutes go by, and no such luck. I text my two female live model assistants to be on the look out, but they say they’re going to stay put in the air conditioned Hilton Hotel lobby, so as to avoid any mix-ups. I pull over outside the hotel, rendezvous with the two ladies (one a last minute replacement, both of whom turn out to be great sports), and load up a few bags of pasta sauce so that they can start the promotion as I continue to look for parking. (Random Side Note: One of the girls finishes EVERY sentence with “Cool Beans”. Every Sentence. EVERY SENTENCE.)

Another 40 minutes pass, and I soon realize, how can I possibly parallel park a U-HAUL by myself in the Times Square area, especially on a day when half of the city seems blocked off? I start looking for parking garages, and of course, none of them accept trucks or commercial vehicles. I return to the Hilton Hotel, and remembering my incredible pasta sauce bartering skills, convince the guys to keep the U-HAUL near the entrance for a few hours while I engage in Operation: Get All The Fucking Pasta Sauce Out Of The Fucking Truck As Quickly As Possible.

Now this is when the fun starts. Unloading the pasta sauce takes a lot of work. You have to open every cardboard box with scissors, and then remove the pasta sauce packets from another smaller box within each box. Both boxes then need to be compacted and put in to a trash bag. I was given two trash bags, which were able to hold about 2% of the total cardboard. (In exchange for 6 more sauce packets, the garage attendants give me a few more garbage bags. God Bless the Polish. Every one.) Next, the sauce packets have to go into the trash bags, which are to be carried to the site. Pasta sauce is not light, and the trash bags all tear open en route.

Giving away the pasta sauce itself is a tricky endeavor as well. Street Fair in Midtown = Tourists. Tourists have very little use for a plastic bag of pasta sauce that can easily puncture and can’t travel home with them. I call Sam up and express my concern having only two promo models getting rid of all the pasta sauce, as I continue to stay with the U-HAUL, opening and compacting the boxes.

Sam tells me, “I only care that you get a few good pictures of families with the product to show the client. Just figure out a way to get rid of all the sauce.”

“Get rid of all the sauce?” I say. “I have an already extended 4 pm deadline to return the U-HAUL, and only 2 hours left to get rid of a truck load of pasta sauce. I just don’t think this is possible. With eight assistants spread out around town, maybe, but with two, and with THIS much product?”

“Why don’t you just drive down to Union Square and give it all away? There’s always big crowds in Union Square.”

Never mind that there is no parking in Union Square. Never mind the time constraints. Never mind that it would be impossible to unload all the product there, another tourist dense locale.

“As long as you get a few good pictures, I don’t care how you get rid of the sauce. Just get rid. of. The Sauce.”

Click.

I now have 90 minutes left before the U-HAUL is due. I try calling them to extend our deadline once again, but U-HAUL seems to only let you talk to their out of state headquarters, and the operator I got was NOT in a good mood.

Only about 20% of the product has been given away at this point. It’s hot and it’s humid and I’m dressed in all black. I haven’t eaten, and my bladder feels fuller than a bag of fucking pasta sauce.

The cops won’t take the sauce.

“We can’t take anything with vodka in it.”

Again, REALLY NYPD?!

WACA. WACA. WACA.

The cab drivers won’t take the sauce.

“I don’t have a microwave in the car, sorry.”

Really Cab Driver? REALLY?! I’m sure your dashboard in this heat would do mighty fine just about now. I can find you a fucking straw!

The Soup Kitchens are closed, and it’s illegal to dump all this product on the side of the road. As I text my two assistants to quickly reconvene at the van to come up with Plan B, I notice them fast approaching.

“We were kicked off the street. We don’t have a permit. The other vendors are complaining and we’re not allowed to give away the pasta sauce anymore.”

With ginormous sweat beads dripping off my face, I let out a maniacal laugh and start punching babies in Times Square.

I breathe. I smile. I fill them in. Cool Beans Girl proposes, “I think if we just drive up to Harlem and open up the back doors, all the black people will come and take all the pasta sauce.”

As tempting as her ridiculously racist idea is, there isn’t enough time. So she calls one of the head supervisors at the Unnamed Marketing Company, the one who got me the job in the first place, and explains our predicament.

New Plan. We are to drive a little uptown, pick up the storage unit keys from employees working a different promotion, head to Union Square and get rid of as much product as we can, and then head back downtown to return all the remaining product to the storage unit. Fine. FIIIIIIIINE.

We grab a quick bite, take some pictures with the Parking Garage Attendants (How about THEM Family Pictures, Sam), pay for parking (which is discounted by half because the guys initially give me the keys, and the ticket, of a more recently arrived U-HAUL), head up town, pick up the storage unit keys, completely BYPASS Union Square because I have 45 minutes left and no time for such a preposterous idea, fill up the gas tank so the van is ready to return, and then head straight for the storage unit on Spring Street, the safest little nook in all of New York City barring any appearances from U-HAUL driving neophytes.

The three of us form a line and unload hundreds of boxes of pasta sauce onto 3 dollies. We head to the elevator, and the towering boxes all fall off the carts. We reassemble, head down to the basement, and again, the boxes all fall off the carts. We unload 2 carts worth into the unit. I head upstairs, and leave the last cart to them. Make way, ladies! I’ve got a sauce-free U-HAUL to return! The storage unit attendant tells me he’ll charge me $35 to leave my four trash bags with him. I tell him to go fuck himself. Which I don’t really say. I really just smile and tell him, “Thank-you so much kind, sweet sir.” I load the trash bags back on to the truck and head back to the U-HAUL Center in Chelsea.

The rental return entrance makes no sense, so I mistakenly get back on my favorite street, the West Side Highway, make a quick U-turn, because returning a vehicle has never sounded so much like nirvana and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get rid of it, and head back to the rental return. I leave the trash bags on the corner like lonely hookers in the night and head inside. I ignore the long line and head straight to the manager and ask what else I need to do to get this God forsaken truck off my hands.

“I’m just going to need the e-mail on the account, sir, for verification and receipt.”

What E-mail. What. E-mail. I call Sam. No answer. I call Sam. No. Answer. I call Sam. He picks up. I get the e-mail.

He asks, “Cool. So I heard you put the rest of the product back in storage. Great. Ya know, I thought you might run into a couple problems today. But it seems like you guys got everything taken care of. How did you feel the day went?”

“Great, Sam. Just great…I’m tired…I’m hungry…I’m going to go home and take a nap…Thank-you so much for this opportunity…I’ll be sure to write up a little report and send it to you tonight.”

“Oh, no worries. Take the night off. You can send it to me tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you…Thanks…Talk soon.”

I’d love to tell you that I walked off into the sunset. I’d love to say that I got the money, Cool Bean Girl and I settled down and started a family, and everything worked out great in the end. Truth is, the day was only half over, and I looked like such a hot, sweaty mess in my all black uniform that the Orthodox Jews spoke Hebrew to me my entire subway ride home.

Life will always provide you with great challenges. My idiotic and vivacious tapestry of experiences can only muster so much wisdom. In the end, only you will be able to figure out how to navigate the ebbs and flows of your own life’s hardships. There is one thing, however, that I can so sagely impart: If you can, lay off the sauce.

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Adventures In Romanticizing Europe

In retrospect, it was the most formative month of my life. Eight Aprils ago, I performed Shakespeare in London. I got lost in Venice, Florence, Chianti, Cortona, and Rome. I drove the perimeter of Ireland, from Dublin to Cork to Kinsale to the Cliffs of Mohr to Galway and back to Dublin again. In Paris I had tea with Sartre and Seurat, and read the entirety of Alan Watts’ “The Wisdom Of Insecurity” in one sitting in the middle of the train station. I got off in Marseille, thinking I was in Nice, so I stole a pizza and placed a $90 collect call home crying, “Je ne parle pas français! Je ne parle pas français!” When I finally arrived in Nice at 3 am, I was greeted by the howling call of my Rosalind, all wild hair and wicked smile, through second story windows overlooking the water. We woke up the next day, purchased a bottle of red and a bundle of warm chocolate croissants, and we danced on the beach to Morrison and Joplin until the sun went down. The next day, we hopped a train to Barcelona, and when we arrived, we met with Gaudi and Picasso. We purchased local grains and produce, and cooked a meal in our hostel before attending a flamenco performance in one of the local “tablaos”. The next day, my Rosalind left me, and I continued on by myself to Madrid and Toledo. Those days were lore in my history books, full of endless magic and possibility. But I’d like to think that any day can be full of great wonder, if I let it. “We had our whole lives ahead of us” is such an inaccurate cliché, because we ALWAYS have our whole lives ahead of us. So if I ever need a reminder, I can just look at a picture, open a journal, or simply close my eyes, and dance with a beautiful girl on the beach in the South of France.

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Rosalind and I, atop Park Guell, Barcelona