Friday, January 23, 2009

Working Out (My Writing)

I just started taking this intensive personal essay writing class (because I love to write and I love to talk about myself- it makes sense). I need to post more so I'm just gonna throw some of the stuff from class on this bad boy. Below is the VERY first exercise we did in which our instructor throws out a phrase and we run with it. Not my finest hour but what the heck. Enjoy this sucka...

On a cool day in March
of 1997, I went to see Howard Stern's Private Parts.

In the language of Spies Like Us, Chevy Chase and Dan Akroyd gave underrated performances. Was it their best work? No, but there's little better than vegging on your couch on a cold Saturday, eating a good sandwich and watching that flick.

A bowl of clues under your bed
for your parents to know you were doing something you weren't supposed to. Could I have gotten rid of them?

She threw stones across the water to make them jump, I've seen this done a million times but never as sensually. The stones kept skippin' and I kept lookin'.

A morbid fear of dancing and what do I do? A dance split. At my 10 year reunion. And I split my pants. And what was my solution for saving myself? I took my pants off.

Somewhere in the middle of the 3rd movement I fell asleep. I didn't want to, I wanted to give the impression that I cared, that my sensibilities were sophisticated enough. Really, I'd rather be at a Springsteen concert.

A magnesium flare in the distance, I don't even really know what this means. But what could it be? I guess it is bright and shiny. It would probably look pretty cool in the wilderness at least.

Green ribbons are what I received when I was a runner- I don't know where they are anymore.

What I forgot to say was really how much being here means to me. It means I am taking steps, taking control of my own destiny, not just playing it safe. Putting it out there to be judged- it's scary but okay.

So there you have it. I re-read what I wrote and if I were these strangers in my class I would gather that I am: A Baba Booey-loving, pop culture obsessed man-child who still worries about his parents knowing about the naughty things he's doing. Furthermore, I am horny, bad at problem solving, have never been outside of Jersey, am retarded and can't get past my glory days. Plus, I am embarrassingly corny and self-conscious. This is not totally true (but to an extent it is) but it just dawned on me that there's 15 people now that probably think I am a douche. Oof, it's gonna be a long semester.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Stolen Memories: Rickey Makes The Hall


They announced today that Rickey Henderson has made the Hall of Fame, on his first year of eligibility to boot. I couldn't be happier. The man only played for the Yankees for four seasons (1985-1989) but there was something very important about his first year in New York: it was also the first year I fell in love with baseball.

The summer of 1985 was monumental for me: I started to understand the great game of baseball, had my first catch with my dad (I even got to use his original glove from the 50s-and I ended this important milestone by throwing the ball right into his chest) and went to my first Yankee game. It was August and my dad and I drove up to the Bronx (1985 Bronx, not now Bronx, it had literally just stopped burning). As we got on the road and closer to the Stadium, I could see we were in a galaxy most definitely far away from the 'burbs, and I loved it. The graffiti, the squeegee guys and the beauty underneath the urban grime, I was drawn right to it. When you walk up to it for the first time, it is striking and it really is an experience. But even more so is when you step inside The House That Ruth Built. I'll never forget being blown away as my dad pointed to the field and talked about the legends he saw play there like The Mick and so many others. I was in my element and looking at my dad's face, certain he was reliving the first time he did this with his own father, I knew he was too.
Rickey didn't have the game highlight (though he did go 2-3 with a double, 2 runs and a stolen base), that honor goes to Ken Griffey, Sr. The man broke his arm while extending it over the left field wall for what otherwise definitely would have been a home run ball. Rickey wasn't even my favorite player of that era (he's 3rd behind Don Mattingly and Dave Winfield). Even so, that day no. 24 was put into the hero category. Donnie Baseball was the guy that everyone wanted to be, the All-American player and Winfield was the suave power hitter, but Rickey had something like NOBODY else- speed (that and the same name as my brother, which always drove me nuts because I'd missed Graig Nettles by like five years). It was a blast to see him steal base after base after base and fool the pitcher every single time. On the rare occasion in Little League that I did reach base (and even when I play softball now), I'm Rickey Henderson. I am the exact opposite of All-American (I don't shave enough to qualify) and suave- we'll I'd rather just move on. But I can run and I can run fast. I'd step off of 1st, crouch in the set position and take off, without a thought of what I was leaving behind. I'd even push my helmet towards the top of my head so it would be more susceptible to falling off, like I'd seen happen with Rickey (still a cool move). Rickey was cocky and a bit of a hot shot and THAT'S what I wanted to be.

Henderson's going into the Hall but it was only a couple of years ago that he was playing in the Independent League for the Newark Bears, ready to get back to the league that he took by storm with his ability and speed. When all is said and done, I think that's what all of us aspire to be- no matter how much we've accomplished, we don't give up on ourselves and strive for more, and we do so going at full speed. Congrats, Rickey.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Thoughts On The Wrestler


I'm a guy from New Jersey who loves comedy and was a teenager in the 1990s so it's obvious I am a Kevin Smith fanatic. To me, specifically the Jersey Trilogy (Clerks, Mall Rats, Chasing Amy) perfectly captured what it was like to be a young person person of my hood just trying to figure it all out ( and to sprinkle that message with dick and fart jokes certainly got my attention). Though his later films don't always hit me on the same level as the others, I'll still catch anything Smith does. Still, it has been a long while since I've connected to a story out of the Garden State. That is, until I saw The Wrestler.

In every review I've read or heard, every critic talks about Mickey Rourke's brilliant performance and the resurrection of Mickey Rourke. This is absolutely 100% true (though I thought the guy came back almost 4 years ago in Sin City and Hollywood comebacks confuse me in general anyway). What nobody seemed to mention though is the fact that NO MOVIE EVER has captured my beloved state the way The Wrestler has. Not only does Bruce contribute a brilliant track to it, but this movie really is the cinematic version of a Springsteen song (I guess making Kevin Smith Jon Bon Jovi, which is not a bad thing at all). Oddly enough, director Darren Aronofsky grew up in Brooklyn and although many of us Jersey-ites come from or have family from Brooklyn, we would never expect someone from there to perfectly capture our little universe. The ONE thing in the movie that bothered me is that Marisa Tomei's character wanted to move from Elizabeth to Trenton, simply because the schools are better. If you're from a hundred miles outside of Trenton you know this is ridiculous because I am sorry, but the once shining city and current state capital is, with a few exceptions (like the burger joint Rossi's), is a total dump. A lot of Trenton kids are bussed to Hamilton schools (where my mom lives). Trenton is so bad that during gang initiation week, Hamilton residents are urged to stay inside as aspiring members are ordered to murder people. If this lady is trying to escape Elizabeth for some sort of paradise in Trenton, she's a mental patient and unfit to be a mother.

Everything else in The Wrestler is 100% spot on. It showed a New Jersey that was rarely if ever shown on The Sopranos. It showed the trailer parks, just out of reach from the McMansions. It showed the VFW halls and 'roid gyms where the non-WWE wrestlers can be found. Like the Sopranos, it showed Asbury Park, but it showed it in a truer light: as a beauty that once was that might be once again.

The Wrestler
also had characters that I know. For example, I know guys eerily similar to Mickey Rourke's character, Randy "The Ram" Robinson. One guy is in a profession quite similar to The Ram's. When I knew him, his day job was doing random moving gigs and he had simple living conditions and a girlfriend that I was certain was only around to take advantage of him. He also might have been "special." Regardless, he was a gentle giant who it seemed only really fit in when he was in his world, on the stage. Aside from him, when I was a bartender (and at a real bar, not one of these fancy Manhattan places), I came across many men who were well past their glory days but somehow were able to relive them night after night on that bar stool. It was sad because you could see that they had been beat around by life- but when they told their war stories you still saw something in them.

I also knew Tomei's character, Cassidey the stripper. This woman was beautiful, sexy, smart and just amazing. I fell in love with her every time I saw her. But she was 40 and I somehow sensed that she felt like she was stuck and her days using her body were coming to an end. Her heyday was the 1980s and the 80s were long gone. Much like Asbury Park yes, she had seen better days, but there was still beauty to be seen. On top of that, she had a child to worry about at home and I could see balancing her two worlds was tiring, to say the least. I think a lot about her and hope that she hasn't given up the good fight.

At the end of the film, Springsteen's The Wrestler plays over the credits. It's lyrics are beautiful but realistic and, combined with the content of the movie, it hits hard. When Bruce sings, "These things that have comforted me, I drive away/This place that is my home I cannot stay/My only faith's in the broken bones and bruises I display," he's not describing a happy ending. All of the characters I've met over the years, I am not sure what there ending will be, but here's to hoping that, like The Ram, they find their glory again, even if it's just one more time.

Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Grandma Is Not A Pet: A Note On The Grandparent/Grandchild Relationship


When you are a child, before you hit puberty, more often than not your parents are almost untouchable when it comes to being the king/queen of your universe. They're big, strong and know everything about anything. The only ones better than them are their parents because they're even wiser and don't yell at you, they just give you candy and presents and tell you how great you are. As a kid, the ideal weekend is spent at grandma's. The dynamic changes unfortunately, usually beginning around high school or for me, college. You get a license, you have classes, the excuses start to build up until one day, you find yourself in the workforce and barely initiating contact with these people. It gets so bad that your parents call to remind you to call them. This is when things are really bad because now poor grandma is reduced to pet-like conditions and she's now on what's equivalent of a walking/feeding schedule. The next step is chasing after Nana with a pooper scooper.

Sadly, I am guilty of such behavior (not the pooper scooper thing, the not calling thing). It's not for lack of love- I ADORE my Mom Mom (yes I still call her that). But again, life happens and you're so wrapped up in your own BS, everything gets pushed aside. This past weekend, in the spirit of Christmas, I went to make things right and not only called grandma, I visited her. Results? Brilliant. Mom Mom is an amazing woman because not only was she nothing but sweet she fed me, twice! Better yet, I haven't had that much fun just talking to someone in I don't even know how long. Because, unlike younger folks, your elders have no filter. They're retired, they're achy and they're just dying to tell you what they think. And it's worth it! Mom Mom is smart and funny and has seen some shit in her day- I am embarrassed that I'm on here blogging about my crap- she should be doing it.

What have I learned? Call Grandma. Nowhere else can you hear juicy gossip, get history lessons and eat lasagna all at the same time.

Monday, December 29, 2008

When Stereotypes Go Bad


I'm a liberal guy. I've dated all races, embrace all cultures and voted for Barack Obama. I try not judge anybody. Howwever, stereotypes don't just pop out from thin air. For example, I am Italian and unfortunately some of us do in fact have blow outs, do steroids and fist pump at some club in Sayerville. There's an old stereotype that those of Asian descent are not good drivers- sure enough, my cousin once drove behind a guy that was eating rice with chop sticks while steering a Camry. As it turns out, Avenue Q was correct: everyone is, in fact, a little racist. On a regular basis, I find myself shaking my head in disgust as I see an individual demonstrate the biggest stereotypes of their particular background. Most recently, it was a Japanese woman with a camera on a very crowded 5th ave.

In addition to bizarre game shows and Anime, the Japanese are very well known for taking picture of everything while visiting America (Gung Ho and those Big Apple bus tours especially come to mind). Yesterday, as I was walking with my family on the way back from an all too crowded Rockefeller Center, I noticed this little kid, no older than 9, carrying a stack of hot pretzels up to his chin over to his dad, a street vendor. He was being followed by a wide-grinning, middle-aged Japanese lady who was incessantly snapping photos of him. Only this was not an adorable youngster helping his old man provide for his family, this was a little person/midget with a Clark Gable mustache working his job. In my eyes, he went from being a Kodak moment to being a guy who probably gets stared at around the clock, so I went about my business. Japanese lady with the camera didn't see it my way. This horrible woman literally followed this poor gentleman FOR BLOCKS and wouldn't stop snapping pics- it was on par with the paparazzi at it's worst. I am not a religious man so my moral barometer doesn't reach far, but I do live by some principles. One of them is to not harass midgets who sell pretzels. This despicable lady so enraged me that if you were on that street yesterday at around 3:45 you saw a little person being followed by an inconsiderate Japanese lady with a camera, followed by a screaming white dude trying to take pictures of this jerk to see how she felt being harassed. The only problem was that she fit into another Japanese stereotype: the woman had the reflexes and speed of her ninja ancestors. I run 5 days a week and I had no chance of catching her.

This story is interesting to me for three reasons: One, it argues the point that stereotypes exist for a reason, two, it shows how awful people can be yet third, the visual of a little person with a dapper mustache being chased by a stereotype is the classic example of "only in New York." I am about to enter my thirties- this is when a lot of people start to loosen their grip on their liberal ideals. I don't want to be one of those people but I find myself becoming just slightly more judgmental than I used to be. If next time I'm driving and the car in front of me is going 5mph and weaving all over the road, I will most likely assume it is the Japanese camera lady and curse her. I will judge her awful auto-handling skills and continue to obsess over her lack of compassion for the human condition. But then I will giggle to myself and thank her for giving me a classic New York experience. I love you and hate you, walking stereotype lady, be well.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

It's Gotta Be The Shoes: Bush Finally Gets It Right

An angry Iraqi journalist covering a surprise Baghdad press conference today by George Bush threw a shoe at the outgoing president and yelled, "This is a farewell kiss, you dog!" When the melee calmed down Bush responded, "So what if a guy threw his shoe at me?" For the first time in his 8 years in office, I agree with the W. Someone threw a shoe at George Bush, who cares?

A stolen election, war on false pretenses, Katrina, Karl Rove and a giant economic crisis and the guy ONLY got 2 size 10 shoes thrown at his head. Not a bad deal at all. I don't understand why the man was even apprehended. If anything, why didn't we think of this years ago? Using shoes as a threat not an uncommon reaction to bad behavior if a child displeases their parent, we should apply the same set of rules to our elected officials. Hey Bush, your doctrine is shit, how would you like my shoe right up your ass? Governor Blagojevich, the senate is not for sale. You better hope I don't catch you, I'll smack you with my shoe. It doesn't have to be anything ultraviolent but just imagine the real violent threats against our presidents going down if we were all promised a sneaker toss apiece for every screw up? There would be a line from Sacramento to DC in anticipation of teaching a lesson to "The Man" but at the end of it, we all move on. So, corrupt officials watch it man, I've got some size 13 Nikes and I'm not afraid to use them.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Worst Job Ever

I went out with some work friends last night for some good old karaoke. We were all having a blast. Sake, sushi and Phil Collins. Amazing. As I sang my heart out to Hotel California, I was on top of the world. Then I sat down and as someone was belting out Ice, Ice Baby I saw it. I looked away from the scene of the crime and my eyes were fixed on the sushi chef- and he looked like he wanted to kill himself.

Can you imagine? When we go do karaoke, yeah most of it's bad, but it's just a wacky experience. But to be that sushi chef? He's probably constantly thinking about his buddy who's got a sweet gig doing hibachi over at Shogun meanwhile, this poor bastard's limited to making California Rolls for some ass to wolf down in between ironic renditions of Ace of Base songs. So, next time you're at a karaoke joint selecting a song, think of this guy: