Life: Saying Goodbye

I haven't written here in a really long time. Mostly, or rather, entirely, because of the last post I had placed on here. It just sort of worked out that way. I was writing about cooking and posted a photo of my sweet cat who was laying on my desk watching me write down ingredients in my notebook.

I didn't know then that it would be one of the last photos I'd take of her.

Four days later, she died.

A little while after that, I was about to write something silly in here about whatever, when I noticed the photo. My heart jumped. I just couldn't write anything. It was almost like I wanted to preserve something intangible - that feeling of innocence that comes with loving something so much you assume that love will be with you forever.

And just now, recalling an unplanned conversation I had yesterday with someone about what it was like to lose her, I realized I was ready to write again. But I wanted it to be about loss. And not because I wanted it to be depressing. But because very soon after she died, I immediately turned to the Internet to find something, anything, that anyone else had written about what it feels like to loose a pet. I was so unprepared for this. And it almost feels embarrassing to have to explain to non-pet people how sad you feel. You expect them to not understand. It's almost like you have to preface everything with, "I know she was just a cat, but..."

But pet-people understand. So, if you're someone who winds up here after googling a similar loss, I hope my little essay helps you through your sadness. Just like stories that people wrote about their pets once helped me.

Bella was a one of a kind. She was with me for seven years. Long enough to become a friend, brief enough to feel like we were interrupted.

She was with me through bad break-ups, big moves, scary thunderstorms, and sleepless nights. She greeted me at the door meowing like she had been desperately waiting to tell me all about her day. She tried to stop me from leaving in the morning. She smiled for the camera and ate chic-peas. She hated cats, but forgave dogs. She traveled. She had such a sweet face and I think if she were a real girl she might have been prettier than me. She was wary of any boy I brought home. As she got older, she never became a lap cat. But she had this uncanny ability to show up on my pillow anytime she heard me cry. When she was a kitten she used to crawl into the refrigerator. I once tried to teach her a lesson about that and closed the door behind her. Ten minutes later, I realized I had forgotten she was still in there! But she was OK and happy to talk about it as soon as I let her out. Sometimes she ate out of a can with her paw, like it was a spoon. She made my Dad laugh and he always used to say that he never saw a cat who loved a human as much as she loved me. She followed me from room to room. In any photo you see of me in my apartment, she's a few inches behind me. Sometimes we'd both annoy one another. Then we'd make up and she'd fall into my arms and purr.

One day I came home and something wasn't right at all. Not at all. I called my sister and said I should probably take her to the vet tomorrow. But Sis was alarmed and said I should take her to the ER right away.

So maybe it was 8 or 9 o'clock at night when I put her in the car and found an animal ER 20 minutes from my home that was open all night. She didn't meow once the whole drive. I kept calling her name to make sure she was responsive.

In the sterile, white and metal room, I waited expectantly for the doctor to tell me that she had some weird acid reflux or some really big hair ball. I waited for it and my heart started fluttering. But he knelt down on one knee and called me Mom.

"Mom," he said, "We're lucky if she makes it through the night."

Here I was, with this stranger, in a room that I didn't even know had existed an hour earlier, suddenly bawling my eyes out. Sobbing. Holding on to the examining table like a life preserver, at the cusp of a moment I hadn't been remotely prepared to face.

He showed me the x-rays, pointing out how a tumor had burst and filled her abdomen. He said they quickly put her on an IV with medicine and she would not be in pain. But she would be very, very tired. They let me see her and she looked so sad.

Into the night, I made phone calls. First to my sister. Then to my parents. Then to my co-workers, to let them know I wouldn't be in tomorrow, because (I explained, as I choked back the tears that were still flowing out of me), I now had to put my cat to sleep. I called friends and anyone I could think of who had known her. Suddenly it seemed like that was the most obvious way I could honor her short life, to have people think of her name and say a little prayer. I wrote emails to people I hadn't spoken to in years, simply because they had once met her and I wanted them to know that her life was ending.

You see, this is the moment when it starts to feel like you have to preface things. You have to say, "I know she's just a cat, but..."

But the truth is, a pet, whom you've cared for, played with, looked out for, any number of years, begins to feel like a friend. Especially in my case, as a single girl, living on my own, making my way in this world with my own two hands, having a sweet little thing to come home to at the end of the day was the greatest gift. To loose her was like going from 2 to 1. It was like a piece of home had evaporated.

The next morning we said goodbye. I wasn't alone. My family came to be with me, to stand in the room with her. My dad, as he promised, stroked her head while I cried into my mother's arms a few inches away, too sad to bear witness to the loss of love. I wanted to be brave enough to hold her until the end. I wanted to so much. But it was unbearable. It was heart-breaking. I will forever be grateful that my dad was her hero that day, and that the doctor was the kindest man you could hope to meet. These two men stood by her, stroking her soft gray fur, guiding her peacefully into another place.

--

Since then, it's been sad. But it also eventually shifts into something else. Like all losses, you find solace and smile once again. I have come up with some really creative ways to hold on to all the memories I had of our time together, and that has been the biggest help. If I could suggest anything, it would be to ignore anyone who doesn't understand the feelings of loss. But talk to the friends who do. Collect your photos and make a book telling the story of your pet's life. Expect to discover an immediate bond with anyone else who has gone through the same thing. Don't worry about when or if to get another pet. Brush off your frustrations with anyone who asks when you'll get another one. Just let time pass and allow your feelings to heal.

And yes. There will always be a loss. It will always feel like your story with your pet came to an end sooner than you expected. No matter how old they are.

But pets are much better at embracing the fullness of life than humans are. So if they were loved, cared for, played with, and adored, then their life was a good one. Better than good. Especially because they shared it with you.

Be proud of those memories and let them make you smile.

Because that is how you keep love alive forever.

News: Let's All Agree

You don't need me to tell you who to vote for.

If you weren't swayed by one of the pep rallies that aired this month (I'm sorry, I mean "conventions"), then I sure as heck ain't gonna sway you.

I promised my sponsors that I wouldn't endorse one candidate over the other on this blog, and I'm a gal who keeps her word. However, I will say this. If you are voting for a candidate whose last name rhymes with Insane, then we are probably not sitting at the same lunch table in the cafeteria.

But that's OK. Because the one thing that we can all agree on fer shure, is that this presidential race is HISTORIC. Or, as the case may be, HERSTORIC.

Never before have we had the names of a [ed note: insert politically correct gender term] and a [ed note: insert politically correct ethnic term] in the same voting booth. How bout that? Way to go USA!

It got me thinking, which other dynamic duos is this world ready for? Who's missing from this ticket that should definitely represent at the next election?

Well, since you asked so nicely, I'll give you the list of duos who deserve their moment in the political sun:

1. A Jewish guy in a wheelchair, versus an Asian woman with a Texan accent.

2. An Hispanic lesbian, versus a gay Native American.

3. A reality star whose slogan will be, "I didn't come here to make friends", versus a Scientologist.

4. An x-child star whose rehab stint was already chronicled in a Lifetime movie in the 80's, versus Tracy Gold.

5. An actor whose credentials include, "playing a president on TV", versus the guy who invented Facebook.

6. Snoop Dog, versus Elliot Spitzer.

7. Anyone under the age of 30, versus a bald guy.

8. Chelsea Clinton, versus Ivanka Trump.

9. Judge Judy, versus Dr. Phil.

10. A moose-hunting PTA hockey mom, versus the guy who starred in Bedtime For Bonzo.

Life: Like an enzyme, I'm breaking down

I was in the supermarket today, and I got really, really upset.

I wanted to buy a green pepper. But they looked a little under the weather. Then I noticed they weren't organic. But the only place to buy organic green peppers was about a 15 minute drive away. That would mean more gas emissions. Then I started recalling some article I read about how certain colored vegetables are better than others. I couldn't remember which one. Was it white vegetables (cauliflower)? Or green ones? Or orange ones (carrots)? Or, was it not specific colors that mattered, but an array of colors, like a rainbow, that I was supposed to be ingesting?

I suddenly felt so fed up and frustrated.

Plus, I had once again forgotten my "save the trees" tote bag, and so would have to accept plastic again.

This was getting to me. All this pressure to stay healthy, keep the world safe, recycle, stay local, boycott, fight for the underdog, stock my trunk with tote bags, fill my fridge with non-soy products. I can't take it! These things are supposed to be done for our well-being and the greater good. But keeping track of all of it is a full-time job.

At first I was really excited when I made it a priority to start living more consciously. I embraced it totally. It was like the flood gates opened and I dove in head first.

Now, I feel like I'm standing in the middle of supermarket, starving, holding a wimpy green pepper, thinking about how there are so many ways I could have made better purchasing, sustainable, and economy supportive decisions in the process of making my silly little salad.

So, I guess, for purely selfish reasons, I decided to write down all the things I AM doing now, that I know are good for the environment and my own well-being.

GOOD: I changed all the light bulbs in my house. That wasn't hard. I bought a whole box of them, and as soon as they started dying, I replaced them with the kind of bulb that Al Gore told me to buy.
AND THEN SOME: Of course, I then had to remember to put the dead light bulbs in the glass recycling bin. And put the cardboard cases that the light bulb came in, in the paper recycling bin.

GOOD: I made it a goal to eat vegan for the summer. I won't call it a diet, and I won't call it a full-time commitment. But I was so moved when I learned about the exploitation of animals within the meat industry, that adapting this lifestyle was a no-brainer. I guess you could call it a political move. I don't feel the need to rescue every animal and I'll never say, "I won't eat anything with a face." But I am strongly against the unethical treatment of living things.
AND THEN SOME: It ain't easy. First you decide to go vegan. Then you have to start learning about proteins. And enzymes. And B-12. And multi-vitamins. And the downsides to too much soy. And the downsides to too much salad and not enough beans. And then you have to explain all this to people, who over and over say to you, "But you're not getting any protein," as if a carnivorous diet is the most nourishing way to eat in the world. It's not like the meat and dairy I was eating before was that good for me.

GOOD: I recycle as much as I can now.
AND THEN SOME: But then you have to find room in your small apartment for all the different bins. And you have to keep track of the garbage collection schedule on your block. I had a landlady once who was so strict about recycling, she used to take apart her ball point pens, because each part belonged in a different bin, she told me.

GOOD: I always look for opportunities to say, "No thanks, I don't need a bag."
AND THEN SOME: I have got to start remembering to put those tote bags back in the car.

Oh, want to know the ending of the story?

I bought an orange pepper, non organic.
A bag of organic carrots.
One cucumber, non organic, but peeled the skin off.

And yes, I had to put all that and more in a plastic bag.

But that's OK.

I used it to clean out the litter.

Where Were You When: Michael Phelps

I was at a dinner with some friends and strangers on the upper west side. I kept my eye on the clock, feeling no qualms about jumping up mid-sentence when the race was about to come on. My friend asked the bartenders if they would turn the volume on the TV up for us when the time came.

I knew that at 10:10 he would be on. I swear I had my eye on the TV the whole time from across the room. At what I swore was 10:09, I saw NBC had finally switched over to swimming and I yelled, "NOW!" and a group of us bolted to the other side of the room.

When we got there, it seemed like we were watching the whole thing in instant replay. Literally. It was so slow. "When are they going to start?" I asked. "Why are they showing another race?"
Then we realized, they weren't. Somewhere in the span of time it apparently takes to blink, I had missed the race! How could that be? How fast do these swimmers go??

Weirdly, I blamed it all on NBC. I was absolutely convinced for the rest of the night that NBC had erred, and had only begun airing the race halfway through it.

My male friend, who is as obsessed with Phelps as I am, (his "boy crush", he calls him), started getting texts from people asking if he had seen the race. I said, "Ask them if they are as pissed at NBC as I am. What kind of network are they? Don't they know the entire USA is watching now! How could they do this to us??"

I really don't know how I managed to keep this train of thought going. I don't think it was until much later that night, when I talked to my sister about the race, that I realized NBC had shown the whole thing. I was just late to the game.

I'm not a usual sports fan. I don't really understand innings, or meters, or bases loaded. Being this psyched about watching someone take a world record in the name of athleticism is new to me. The whole week I felt like walking around asking people, "Have you heard of this swimmer? Do you know how important this race is?? Are you getting this???"

I had no idea that other people in the world were as obsessed with this as I was. I had no idea who Michael Phelps was until I started googling him last week, only to find out he's already been in an Annie Liebowitz commercial (I had told someone that this would surely happen for him one day), only to find out he's already making millions in endorsements (I had told someone that he would certainly get an endorsement soon), only to find out he's already been on the covers of magazines and leads the top of many BEST ATHLETES IN THE WORLD lists.

I had no idea that the LIFE OF BEING A SPORTS FAN was this exciting!

The next day, Saturday, it felt like I had planned my whole day around this last race. I was counting down the hours. By 10PM, I was in front of that television, eyes glued forward. NO WAY was I going to miss this one.

The race started. I was alone in my apartment, in my pajamas, dusty from a day of cleaning and reorganizing my home. I didn't really know that the entire nation was also at the edge of their seat, crowds in the thousands, hundreds in the bars. I was just a girl, alone with her new found Fan status, totally and completely excited to see history making.

The moment Phelps took to the water, it was like watching magic. The glistening way he soared across the water, chopping through the liquid like a man with axes for hands. His body leaping over the T-mark like a fish hunting his prey. He pulled us back into first and that's when I jumped up.

The fourth guy jumped in, and now I was screaming, cheering for him like he was my best friend and he needed to hear my support. "GOOO! GOO!" I was shouting at the television. Anticipation tore threw me and I begged for victory!


AND HE DID IT!


The excitement from that moment buzzed through me and the energy from that accomplishment felt like it was ripping through the nation faster than our Internet connections.

The whole US of A wanted this, and we got it.

Life: The Scavengers

Bar Birthdays.

They're all the rage.

They go a little something like this: The birthday kid (meaning, anyone turning 21 - 32) sends out an evite to 200 of their closest friends, asking them to meet up at a bar in the hopes that at least 30 of those evitees (along with 2-3 guests each) show up at said bar, somewhere between the hours of midnight and 2am, on their way home from the three other bar birthdays they were also attending that night. If you're the last party on the list, everyone will show up wasted and tired. If you're the first party on the list, everyone will stay for only an hour.

I hate these things. I love my friends. But the bar-birthday thing has got to go.

I tried it one year. I made the tragic mistake of only inviting people I actually liked. As far as party statistics go, only a certain percentage of the people you invite to your bar-birthday will actually show up. I was unaware of that at the time. So, let's just say it was a small gathering.

The key to a bar-birthday's success is to invite people you don't like and hope that people who show up are people you do not know. I did not realize this.

I do think though, that the bar-birthday thing starts to come to a halt as people get older. In fact, it seems like the older some of my friends get, the more their birthdays seem like throwbacks to old-school style parties. Like the kinds our parents used to throw for us in our backyards. I swear, if I get invited to an all-girls sleepover party soon, equipped with Corey Haim movies and a weegie board, I won't be surprised.

This year a friend of mine (who was turning older than 30) decided to forgo the bar-birthday and plan something more creative. He actually constructed a scavenger hunt around the city for his friends. About 20 of us came, and it was tons of fun. It was a great challenge, and we all had such an adrenaline rush from it. It actually felt like we were on a mini-adventure together and really there to celebrate something. It was a great day.

The word "scavenger" stayed in my mind for a while afterwords. I kept thinking about how interesting it was to spend 2 hours intensely and actively looking for things. How refreshing it felt to be so clear about our goals and unabashedly determined to meet them.

It got me thinking about other things we look for in life, consciously or not. And how different the experience of finding what you're looking is when you're intentionally seeking it out, versus just falling upon it by chance.

In a scavenger hunt, such as the one we were on, it's all about being entirely conscious, pro-active, and somewhat ballsy. Our tasks involved interacting with strangers, making fools of ourselves in public, and in some cases, nearly chasing people down the street in order to get them involved in our game. Most people were pleasant and eager to participate. When we walked up to someone with a smile on our face and an excited attitude, we were almost always greeted with a smile in return and a new person happy to get involved and help us out.

But that feeling of extreme motivation for the purpose of winning, achieving, and accumulating... was really powerful. And as each goal was crossed off our list, we felt a sense of victory.

Often in life, we look for excuses not to seek things out for ourselves. We tell ourselves not to speak up too loudly. We advise people not to seem so obvious about what they are after. We seem to take pride in being able to say, "It just fell into my lap!" or, "I wasn't even looking to meet someone!"

But we are scavengers more often than we realize.

We are scavengers for our jobs, our educations, and our homes. We seek out networking opportunities and educational advancements. We go apartment hunting, and then scavenge for new towels to match the wallpaper.

And of course, we are scavengers of love, looking for that special someone who is worth opening our heart to.

What I find so interesting, as I reflect, is how often I've been told, "It will come to you when you stop looking."

But you know what? I say to hell with the shame of actively looking. If you know what you're after, and you know what you want (in love, at work, in school), then don't be afraid to put your whole self into the process of seeking it out.

Keep your eyes open. Hunt. And when you find what you're looking for, go for it.

You may not get the response you were hoping for.

But with a smile like that, there is a really good chance you will.

Performance: UCB

Many months ago I went on a date with someone to see an improv show at Upright Citizen's Brigade. This particular gentleman had a personality that I would rate, on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being the awesomest): zero. It was a weird position to be in, to be dating someone who was so cute, and so right on paper, but in real life contained no spark of a personality at all.

However. He could tell a joke like a mo-fo. That's why I kept going out with him. He kept me laughing the whole time! He just couldn't do anything else. I would ask him a question about his life, and he could barely answer me. Then minutes later, he would find a way to use a phrase or a word that I had used in my question as a catalyst for what I would call, "a bit". It was like dating a stand-up comedian ...who was on stage the entire time.

I gave it my all. I tried my best to get something "personal" out of him. One night I had the idea that we should go to The Upright Citizen's Brigade. Not sure where I had originally heard of this place, but I vaguely knew that Amy Poehler started it, and she's one of my idols. We got tickets to a show on a weeknight. In retrospect, I think it was their most famous show called, ASSCAT, which is a purely improv performance structured in the UCB style called, Harold. I thought if we went out on a date like this, where humor was at the forefront, it would encourage him to open up a little bit.

Well, the show was freakin' hysterical. Hilarious. One improv group after another kept us entertained the whole time. We laughed and laughed. When it was over I asked him if he would ever be willing to try such a thing. He said he definitely would. I said I didn't think I could ever do it. It wasn't really for me. It would be too terrifying, I said.

I went out with him one more time before calling it quits. The show was a good idea for a date night, but alas, he never did come out of his shell. I had to let it go before he started charging me a two drink minimum and a cover charge. But the memory of that performance stuck in my head.

This summer I decided that I wanted to take a class at UCB. I'm not sure what provoked that, it just suddenly felt like the right thing to do. I signed up for one of their intensives, which meant all day, every day for a whole week. 6 hours straight of improv class.

And, yes.
It was
the scariest
thing
I have
ever done.

Except for that one time I took trapeze lessons. The only difference between that and this was I wasn't a gazillion feet off the ground while I was doing it. The downside of that? No net. Metaphorical or otherwise.

It is TERRIFYING to get up in front of a group of strangers, with a partner you don't know, and to build together an entire scene based off of one word that is given to you, AND to make it funny.

I swear I had a stomach ache for the first three days. I felt nauseous. I didn't want to go back to class. I was absolutely certain that this thing called improv was not for me. And similar to that feeling I had when I was standing 30 feet off the ground, staring down at the cement ground below me, reaching for the bar, I had the thought, "What the hell did I just sign up for??"

But, I'm a determined little lass. And I work hard for my money. So if I spent a few hundred dollars on a week-long improv class, darn it, I was going to finish that week.

Plus, I learned a mantra this summer that really struck a chord with me:

Try something once to get over your fear of it.
Try it a second time to learn how to do it.
Then try it a third time to decide if you like it.

I would just like to note here, that I DID do the trapeze three times. And no, I did not like it.

But. By the third day of improv class, something clicked. And wow, suddenly I was INTO IT. All of a sudden I got the challenge of it, and I felt like I did have it in me after all. Once that happened, I started learning so much, so quickly. It was intense.

I realized that standing against the wall and waiting to jump into a scene is WAY scarier than actually being in a scene. So I started to jump in more.

I learned that the feeling of coming up with a great line after a scene is over and you missed your chance, is way more frustrating than being in a scene and not having anything to say. So I started to speak up more.

I learned that if you are in a scene that is sucking so bad, or if you are in a scene that is totally magical, either way, once it's over, it's over. And you can reflect on it all you want, but mostly you just have to move forward and let it go.

As the week went on, more and more good stuff started coming out of me. I started picturing people I knew in my life, and playing them as characters. I took it seriously when our teacher would tell us to, "Play to the top of your intelligence," which meant USE WHAT YOU KNOW. When you internalize that, suddenly it doesn't feel like you're going into a scene with nothing to say. We've all got a lifetime of things to say!

I got what they meant when they would tell us to use, "YES, AND" in our conversations as a way of building off of one another, supporting one another, and developing the scene.

I loved the notion that we were in each scene to, FIND THE GAME. Once we knew what the game was, we would play to it, explore it, exaggerate it. That's when the magic happened.

And mostly I loved what it meant to BE TRUTHFUL in every scene. Our teacher explained, the truth will lead to comedy (as opposed to just, "going for the joke", which always falls flat).

If we were ever stuck, he'd whisper from the sidelines, "What do you really want to say to this person?" And that was such a revelation. Such a grand experience. To say what you really want to say to a scene partner, as opposed to regurgitating what you think you should say or what you think will sound good --- is an awesome, truthful experience.

I learned so much from this. So much of it can be applied to life off the stage.

Then, as a culmination of our experience, we got the opportunity to perform for an audience on the actual UCB stage. The same stage where my comedic heroes have stood. The same stage that I sat facing many months ago, asserting I could never do something like that.

Hey, guess what?
I did it.

And it was awesome.

Life: Ammah, the hugging saint

This must be the summer of the retreat. I've already had a series of seriously intense adventures this season, that have rocked my world. Each one of them. I'll write about more of them here.

I wrote about the yoga one already, right? Yeah. That stuck with me. Still is a big part of my life. I spend most of my week in downward dog now and it's been awesome. It's introduced me to a whole new community where I live, and exposed me to some great new outlooks on life, and stuff. I feel pretty good with it, at it, in it. I think it's a good fit for me. And, I love my new yoga mat which I got at Jumakti in Union Square.

By the way, after my class one afternoon at Jumakti, I took my teacher's suggestion to heart, and went to see Ammah (spelling?), the hugging saint (accurate?) who was visiting our lovely city. I was really blown away by that. Not so much by the woman herself, but by the experience.

I don't know what I was expecting. It was nearly 10PM, and I knew I had a train to catch, so I didn't plan to stay that long. I figured I'd jump in, get my hug, and skip out of there. But when I arrived, the first thing I noticed was how commercialized the whole thing was! Ammah (which means, mother) was on a stage, with a long, long line of people waiting to receive their hug from her. But before you could even reach the stage, you had to pass by tables and tables of ridiculous product placements with her face on it. Buy Ammah on your dish towel! Your ashtray! Your boxers! OK, OK, maybe not that bad. But still, for a super spiritual experience, I was really surprised to see it so object-oriented.

I nearly figured out a way to skip the line and jump right on stage, but then I felt guilty. There were so many little Indian women with bowls of rose petals on their laps, waiting patiently for their hug. I watched on the jumbo-tron screen above my head as Ammah embraced person after person, their faces nuzzled into her bosom, their heads then bent in grateful prayer.

I asked one of the helpers what it would take to wait in line. She told me that most people got here very early to receive their ticket (like, 9AM early). But if I was willing to wait another 5 hours, I could get a hug too.

Wow.

For a hug?

Maybe it's the practical Jew in me, but all I could think was, "People! If you want a hug so bad, I'll give you one! For free!"

But, I get it. I get it. She's special. And super holy. And has a lifetime of miracles to back her up. Me, I've got a BFA and a Honda.

Tough call, I know.

Life: Lists

5 books that mean a lot to me:
The Time Traveler’s Wife
One Morning In Maine
Man Walks Into A Room
Diane Arbus, Untitled
Italian/English Dictionary

5 things you like doing:
Taking a good dance class that makes you forget what time it is.
Building something new.
Talking to a kid.
Eating pizza.
Reading a letter you didn't expect to receive.

3 things you would never wear again
Jellies
Blazer with shoulder pads
A t-shirt that says, STAFF on the back

4 favorite toys:
GPS
Magic markers
Tap shoes
HTML

2 Things I cannot do:
I cannot dive
I cannot decipher between East or West

2 Things I do not want to do:
I do not want to bungee jump
I do not want to be a waitress

Life: learn

I am taking an intensive improv class this summer in the city. And by intensive I mean, not unintensive.

Life: Gaming

Went to a very large education conference this week. Took in a lecture about Gaming and Education. Wrote notes really quickly in a free notebook I got from one of the zillion vendors who were there trying to sell me things I didn't need.

Here are my notes:

Kids produce today (music, videos, blogs), not because they aspire to be next great filmmaker or composer, but because media-modules are a form of CURRENCY within their social network.

My thoughts: This concept stayed with me for a long time, and I kept thinking about how interesting that is! And true. Kids want a certain # of myspace friends, a certain # of youtube appearances, a certain # of AIM buddies. None of that really has anything to do with anything resembling real friendships, or real budding acting careers. They know that. What they want is volume. In my days, our currency was stickers. We traded, hoarded, invested in the big ones, gave away the smelly ones. Until money starts to mean something to these kids, one cent is as valuable as one thousand dollars. Either way, they know they're getting fed tonight. BUT. Getting to the next level on the new Wii game, that gives them value in their social network.

Kids today, through gaming, learn on a NEED TO KNOW basis.

New term: GAMING LITERACY
This does not mean "let's play a specific game to learn our multiplication tables", but the understanding that Gaming is a MODEL FOR THINKING.

Gamers look for a visual representation of an underlying system.
They question: What do I need to know now in order to succeed later?

COLLABORATIVE GAMING: Recruit people who have certain skills, combine those skills to conquer the game. Gamers organically figure things out as they go along. Gamers know they need to communicate with one another in order to succeed. In recent studies, grad students are more likely to huddle by themselves and hide their research from others for longer periods of time. Middle school kids thrive on the collaboration, practically sitting in each other's laps sharing information in real time. That is a SHIFT in learning styles.

Gamers care little about visuals (design) and more so they look for DATA. They seek and desire DATA at all times in order to see how they are doing. When designing games, EMBED ASSESSMENT. Don't just tack it on at the end.

Gamers are now using the BODY as well as the MIND (Wii)

Instead of being the GAME PLAYERS, we should encourage kids to start being the GAME DESIGNERS. It requires them to think about content, and about something.

When designing games, don't put too much pressure on the game itself. Games are really about creating an EXPERIENCE for people. HOW are your players going to learn?

Site to check out: www.gamestarmechanic.com

In a recent study watching the way kids design games, kids produced DENSE NARRATIVES for their games, which came as a surprise to the experts. Kids with learning disabilities, who were normally hesitant about writing, were very driven and successful in this experience.

---> !!! The GIRLS were deeply invested in the physical space they would be playing in, and spend tons of time DESIGNING THE SPACE before they even began to play. The BOYS quickly filled the whole space with enemies, pressed play, and then realized they didn't have a game. So they had to go back and revise.

Look into beta: M.I.L.K.
Mobile Informal Learning Tool
Kids designing games solely for cell phones. Encourages turning any space into a gaming space.

As a game designer, kids learn to anticipate their player's moves. You have to figure out WHY someone would want to play your game.

In order to be a game designer, a kid has to:
-- have a theory
-- test it
-- get reviews
-- revise

Kids are very excited about building FOR EACH OTHER.

News: RIP = Rodent In Peace

Check it:
http://mysesame.blogspot.com/

Life: Hopes for the new year

Things I would like to see happen (to u and me) in 2008:

1. I don't want to put cashiers out of business, but I really, I mean really, love those self-checkout machines at the A&P. I also like it when there's a guy (or gal) standing at that little podium overseeing all the self-checkers, just watching over us, you know? like, angels or something. It makes me feel better. Like, if I run a box of Tam Tams over the laser beam and the bar code doesn't generate a price check, I know that all I have to do is look over my shoulder and my "angel" will run over and say something like, "step aside ma'am" and I will. And then they press some button or something, and everything works out in the end, and they say something like, "go ahead," and so I do. My wish for 2008 is that you will always have an angel behind you letting you know when it is safe to go ahead.

2. I would like to receive more self-address stickers in the mail from animal rescue league conservation forest children in peril organization companies. how do they know that exact moment when I run out of last year's cute kitten collection?

3. I would like to see youtube take off.

4. I would like to see certain people come back together: Brad and Jen. Donald and Carolyn. Heidi and Lauren. Angela and Jordan. Brit and Lynn.

5. I would like to learn how to play an F.

6. And sixthly, my wish for you is that you finally learn how to take your photos off your cell phone. Or even better, learn how to use the real camera you own. Yes. You. YOU.

7. I'm done. No, wait, wait! There's more!

8. I want to invent a hugely monumental e-business that makes me e-millions in a matter of e-months. And the only office supplies I want to have are a pile of purple post-its, 2 Ziploc bags, 1 change of clothes, a sharpie, 3 expo markers, and a dream.

9. Front row tickets to A CHORUS LINE. [check]

10. I can feel it. This is going to be our year. OUR YEAR, BABY! [for Prozac].

Life: The Best Of 2007...

The New York Times and Radar Magazine both asked me to compile a list of 2007 Best Of's for the new year (yeah, both! it was so weird. I was like, I've got my own blog I don't need you, thanks so much).

So here's what I wrote anyway, for free, because I believe that your job should be what you would do anyway if you weren't getting paid. And I'm not getting paid to do this, and it's not my job, so it all works out for everyone in the end.


Best Movie(s):
The Savages
Flannel Pajamas

Best Book:
Man Walks Into A Room, Nicole Krauss

Best Song:
Kill To Know, Amy Miles

Best Pet:
Sesame (RIP)
& the ball will roll no longer

Best City:
Florence

Best Bubby:
Bubby

Best Restaurant:
Aqua Due

Best Website:
Blurb.com

Best Magic Marker:
Sharpie, ultra fine point

Best Artist:
Alex Webb

Best Way To Locate Your Birth Mother:
Maury Povitch

Best Catch Phrase:
"Move it to the top"
(aka: "Put it on your queue")

Best Use Of My Time:
Not this

Best Answer I gave someone who asked me how it's possible for me to meet people if I don't do online dating:
"Serendipitously"

Best Use Of Mother Nature:
Full moons

Best Line:
"I'm really busy and I don't know what I'm doing with my life."

Best Name for a Restaurant:
The Bourgeois Pig

Best Airline:
British Airways


Add your own in the comments below.

Events: Art Openings

You know that scene in Strangers With Candy when Jerry tells her friend that he reminds her of a monkey. And he gets insulted. And she says, "But why? Monkeys are hilarious!"

That's what ran through my mind last night when I was at the opening of The New Museum (of Contemporary Art -- but if you have to ask, you don't deserve to know) at 235 Bowery Street.

To make the directions simple, just take the N/R/W to Prince Street, and walk all the way away from Broadway up Prince Street, until you get to the end of options. And there in front of you, will be a big metallic building, like square blocks piled precariously on top of one another, with a big neon rainbow sign that says, "HELL, YES!" on the front. It brings the phrase, "don't worry, you can't miss it" into a whole new light. Plus, the only reason I'm telling you how to get there is because you don't even want to know how lost I got getting there. But that's the story of my life now, isn't it? Hell, yes.

By the time I reached the 7th floor of this museum, I was leaving a voice mail for my sister, saying, "This is the raddest museum I have ever been to."

Well, first I should tell you what happened before I reached the museum. A friend was having a show in the Garden State, and I stopped by her opening first. She does ceramics, and she was showing with a pastel artist and a photographer. Can pastel ever catch a break? I don't think so. It's the bedazzle of the art world. No matter how hard you shine it, it's still a rhinestone. Once I was in someone's house in Ohio, and she had framed pastels on her walls. They matched her couches. Intentionally.

The ceramics were wonderful. I love her work. Brilliant, sensitive, delicate, mysterious. Different. Definitely different.

The photography was OK, and the subject matter reminded me of quaint little thrift stores I used to frequent in my upstate NY days. But I felt like the artist never stopped saying, "This is sooo quaint" with her photographs, and so it didn't really impress me. Like, she was photographing for the sake of capturing someone else's things, but not really as a way of making her own statement. It was like her photographs were saying, "Look how the snow falls on the edges of this wooden wheel that is propped against the farmhouse." Instead of, I don't know, something else. There was little room for, interpretation, I guess you could say.

OK, moving onward. I eventually made it downtown and found myself at this little opening (all the mirrors outside caught my eye) at this big name gallery which is actually a very little space. The show was called, and let me see if I can spell this right, Nude Anthropometries Descending A Staircase. On Crosby Street.

Every inch of every wall was filled up with big paper, little canvases, note cards, and whatever. The art seemed like commentary, reactions to something, impressions of something. I don't know. I don't know what was going on there. They served a great vodka pomegranate drink upstairs though, and that put a smile on my face.

Some conversations I overheard (inspired by the art, I presume. I hope):

• "I wish you had a hoof instead of an arm."
• "This work is reminiscent of..."
• "Eva Mendes once called me drunk."

No, really, I enjoyed it. Total fun. Total energy. Lots of happy people, most as colorful as the art, staring at the art, trying to look like they got it. Or not even trying. Just enjoying it. It was full bodied, reminded me of art school days, vibrant. If I were a cynic, I would write something harsh and judgmental with big words to show you how smart I am, but I'm not. So I won't. I think art is hilarious, especially on nights like this. Who knows what we're creating, why we're creating it, why we're celebrating it. But I tip my hat to those who make it happen, and keep trying. It's hard to be original these days. It's hard to impress and make a dent in this world, beat up already as it is. But yay! for those who give it a go.

Then, onward, buzzed from the pomegranate, into the night air once more. I reached the aforementioned neon HELL, YES! and was happy to step in from the freezing night air. To celebrate their opening, the New Museum was opening their doors for free, for 30 hours, this weekend. The space is pretty fun and original as far as museums go. It's open, vast, and electric. I won't bore with you a play-by-play of everything I saw (gotta see it to believe it, as they say) but it involved the following:

• Candy
• Cardboard
• Flash animation
• Tim Allen's Disney movie, The Shaggy Dog

Overheard:

• "I think that's real mattress!"
  
• "102 dollars, please."
  
• "I'm sorry, there's no eating allowed on this floor, even though I know they gave you food on the other floor."
  
• "That was really funny. You have to watch it from the beginning."
  
• "How do you get out of here?"

I really do think this is a great museum, and I'm psyched I got to see it as a newborn. Some crazy stuff is going to go down there, I'm sure.

On the subway back up town, I came across an Asian man sitting in a corner, constructing complicated portraits of people with nothing but an origami-sized piece of paper and a scissor. It was unbelievable, and he drew a large crowd as people gathered round to watch him cut and snip his way through a piece of black paper ("in only 2 minutes!"). For a mere $8, he would cut your self-portrait, snowflake style, magically forming a total likeness of your face ("Smile! You must smile!"), which he then signed and placed inside a pre-cut beautiful matte. I mean, it was astonishing, and beautiful. The young guy standing next to me was getting his portrait done, and the result was complete before the L pulled into the station. It was more than a keepsake. It was just as valuable as any of that "art" I saw earlier in those fancy shmancy name dropping gallery spaces.

I can't complain. I can't really criticize any of this. It's all a form of eyeball exercise, taking the time to see what other people are creating and birthing. Who are we to judge so quickly and mock their mysterious reasons for fame. Who are we to say, "I paid $20 for what??" when we exit these big museums and small galleries and drink their vodka. Especially when it was all free.

LINKS:

• Jonathan Shorr Gallery
• The New Museum
• I googled everywhere for the origami subway man, but found nothing.

People: Jay Z

I saw Jay Z walking around the LES, talking on his cell phone. I almost didn't think it was him because he seemed so un-bling. Just a guy, wearing a black track suit, walking down the street. But I'd know that face anywhere.

Cruisin down the westside (high, way)
Doing what we like to do (our, way)
Eyes behind shades, this necklace the reason
all of my dates been blind dates
But today, I got my thoroughest girl wit me
I'm mashin the gas, she's grabbin the wheel, it's true to the heart
She rides with me - the new Bobby and Whitney
Only time we don't speak is during "Sex and the City"
She gets Carrie fever, but soon as the show is over
She's right back to being my soldier

Authors: Jonathan Safran Foer

I was supposed to go to a literary event in my town tonight. But plans changed, and at the last minute I found myself back in the car, heading over the GW for a different literary event at BN on 66.

Tonight, Jonathan Safran Foer (my favorite writer as you know, second to my other favorite writer, Nicole Kraus) was introducing/interviewing/supporting another writer named Howard Jacobson. Foer is a 30-something, Brooklyn-dwelling, shaggy haired, bespeckled writer with an incredible talent and a very rich agent. His books are personal, Jewish, pondering, painful, and hysterical. Jacobson is a much older, just as funny, just as Jewish, introspective, intelligent writer from England.

I escalated all the way up to the top floor of the bookstore to grab a hot chocolate before the talk began. I had Foer's book in my bag -- the final novel I bought in Italy during my last lonely but powerful days in Florence. I devoured this book while traveling, and embraced it like a companion.

Standing in line, waiting for my drink to arrive, I suddenly noticed Foer amongst the group of patrons, talking with a friend. I knew it was him immediately. At first my mouth broke into a huge grin, and then I quickly looked away. It was almost odd. I think the gleam of seeing one of your "favorites" becomes tarnished when you see them standing in the same consumer line you are in, simply a pedestrian waiting for coffee.

I wanted to hand him my book. I want to say something. I wanted to ignore him, or call his name, or pretend I didn't notice, or smile in his direction. But, I did nothing. The line passed by me. Because of some confusion behind the counter, people's drinks were coming out before mine and I was left standing to the side watching confused cashiers try to untangle the mess of lattes and skim milks. I was in no rush. With each drink that was handed out, Foer and his friend stepped closer to the front.

And, as fate would have it (can you call it fate?), eventually he was standing next to me, and we were reaching for our hot beverages at the same time. I seized the moment.

"Forgive me for becoming a dork," I said, with a smile, "but I am a huge fan of your work." I didn't introduce myself. I didn't acknowledge him by name. I just, spoke, before I could loose the nerve, here, in the line for coffee.

He smiled, and thanked me kindly. He looked like such a modest man. Somewhat reserved, not as rambunctious as the characters he writes about. "I just loved your book so much, it meant so much to me," I said, words bumping against one another. He told me quickly that I should come to the talk downstairs so I would meet a different writer who was really great. "I know!" I said, "That's why I'm here." And then I added, "And please, tell your wife, if you don't mind, that her book, Man Walks Into A Room, just moved me so much. I mean, I just loved it so much." He said, "I'll tell her." That was it, and I turned away.

I headed down the stairs, boasting with excitement. I took a seat with the 50 or so people who had filled the room for the talk. When it began, Foer started with an introduction of Jacobson and his new book, Kalooki Nights, which couldn't have been a more effusive, hilarious and gushing pronouncement. It was honorable praise, one I imagine an author could wait a lifetime hoping to hear. Genuine reverence is hard to come by these days.

Jacobson was a delight to listen to, and I got the sense that if I were up to date on the English Jewish writer's scene, I would be falling over myself to make his acquaintance. He read a few excerpts from his book, talked excessively and poignantly about the Jewish persona and the valour of comedy (his true religion, he said). He was even bold enough to take a question from someone who asked, "When did anti-semitism against Jews begin?" Jacobson fell back into his chair and inhaled his gasp. "Could you ask me a heavier question please?" he asked. The audience laughed with empathy. It was an interesting moment because so much of their discourse seemed structured around the assumption that everyone in the audience was a bonafied kvetcher, a Hebrew school drop out, a shayna punim. After all, it was the upper west side. But apparently that wasn't the case, and the man who asked the question seemed bewildered by everything that was so nonchalantly being said about Jewish existence that evening. The room was filled with subtle references and innuendos that only a card-carrying member of the tribe had the luxury of taking for granted. But Jacobson answered the question slowly, thoughtfully, and at times, perversely. There were more sex jokes thrown around than kugel references.

After the talk, the lined formed for autographs. I picked up Jacobson's book, and once I saw others do the same, pulled out my copy of Foer's book that had been touched by the Tuscan sun.
When I reached the table, I said hello again to Foer, and handed him my book. He commented on the origin of my name, and then signed the inside cover, personalizing his signature and writing the letters of my name with a curvaceous flair. I told him to look at the back so he could see the Italia sticker marking the geographic source of its purchase. "It even has the European cover," I pointed out. I couldn't have been more excited, more filled with gratitude for this moment. It felt like it all had come full circle.

July. I remember holding the book tightly, reading it under the pink shadows of the Duomo and under the stern glares of Medusa's head in Piazza Signoria. I remember clutching it on the plane as we took off, heading back to the States, the threatening rumble of jet engines below my feet. Who would have known that 4 months later the book would be in the hands of the person who had written it, inscribing his name below the title? And then, with a twist of the pen, my own name would appear, like a final stamp of declaration that this story, my story, had really occurred.

Life: Best Of...

Who I Am (straight from the personals)

I play musical instruments and have a slight desire to raise bees for honey (perhaps related?).

I don't have a unique or original thought in my head, and make dull conformity the guiding principle of my life.

I consider myself unique and special, like a snowflake, and have an important destiny predestined for me, which entitles me to act in a selfish and occasionally petty manner but it's all for the greater good, you know, because of that snowflake/destiny I have.

I can ask monks for directions. This trait seems to be rare among men so i think this is good product differentiation.

Picture a young, half-asian Larry David with an absurd affinity for Tequila that works for a mega corporate conglomerate...jesus ...putting that in words was unbelievably therapeutic.

I've been in New York for a few years now, but I spent the majority of my life in the South. I point that out because I do miss the ability to call up a friend and just hang out without making an appointment a week in advance.

I have a to-read stack that includes Chekhov, Rushdie, and Saul Bellow -- yet I have a mysterious addiction to Us Weekly.

I'm so ugly that they push my face into dough to make animal cookies. I'm so ugly I make onions cry. I'm so ugly that my mom used to take me to work with her so that she didn't have to kiss me goodbye.

Those who don't know me very well would say I'm underspoken, but those who do know me, would probably say I border on obnoxious.

I was really really funny in grade six, I might have peaked there.

I am easily manipulated, will work for food, and for five minutes once a year I can be the life of the party.

I might be incapable of a long term emotional commitment. Or is this the wrong place to mention that?

I'm not sure I have any conception of what honest communication would be like with another human being, although I can imagine it being frightening, so we'll want to do it with a Plexiglas partition in between us.

Punk rocker turned science teacher.

Life: Annoying

I have an influx of fruit flies in my apartment.
If anyone can tell me how to get rid of them, I will pay you a million dollars.

Thank you.

Life: Best Of...

Who I'm Looking For:

if you said I should know you because you're unique, love to meet new people, and are up for everything, you're probably not and I probably shouldn't.

Someone tall and slender. I have a cardboard outline/silhouette you should measure up to.

Now i know this may be hard to find on this site. But someone that is equally as comfortable in heels as they are in jeans a shirt. (because that is really the glue that keeps any good relationship together)

Someone who understands that "chick" is not me being crass, its a term of endearment.

I would like to find a woman that makes me shut up every once in a while just by looking at me.

She ain't no Challah back girl.

If I met a girl with even half a sense of humor I'd follow her around like a puppy, a mostly house-broken puppy.

I'd really like to meet a woman that loves watch football (Jets fans preferred!) while wearing cute outfits.

In short, I'm looking for someone who encompasses the contradictions implicit in life, or at least someone who likes going to the movies.

I'm not looking to jump into bed with the first girl I meet, however I'm not looking to jump into a wedding tux either.

I want her to be blond, I want her to have no history of retardation in her family. If possible, she must have plow experience. Not much. Maybe a year. A girl who will remind me of my wife.

My ideal relationship would be very physical, both in the outdoors and sexual sense.

Not into high maintenance women and their matching umbrellas/purses.

Girls in therapy are so sexy.

Life: Best Of...

I am that guy you're looking for (unless you're really religious in which case I'm just the guy you wish was religious).

5'10" Jew. Keep reading.

I should mention that I'm only about 55% Jewish, most of it coming from my dad's side.

I am looking for a dream hybrid of Kate Winslet (or Natalie Portman, as long as we're talking Jewish girls) and Eleanor Roosevelt.

Let's hop on my Harley for a wild ride to the synagogue.

My culture and identity have become evermore important, and I want to celebrate it, in all it's glory and neuroses, with the right woman.

I have surpassed my Shiksa quota, and I need to register before my mother does it for me.

a jewish girl would be nice, but at the rate its going with u nyc birds, in the future there's gonna be more rigatoni focaccia on my plate instead of chopped liver.