45. On Other Places in Which I Have Lived: Washington, D.C.

Tags

being single, douchebags, lashon hara, Pee-Wee Herman, thirtysomething, Washington D.C.

Before I forget, HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYBODY!!!

I’ll warn you in advance: alternative titles to this post included “On Not Being an Adult,” “On Friendship,” and “On Being Single.”  In fact, this post may end up being a little more personal and a little less about a city.  That’s okay—if you’re my close friend, you’ll totally dig it.  If you’re a complete stranger, you’ll also dig it, unless you’re some kind of Philistine who wouldn’t know brilliant writing if it bit you in the ass.  It’s like the emperor’s new clothes—if you can’t appreciate the sheer genius of my blog, then you must be a fool.  Also, I’m writing this piece in the nude.

There’s sort of a “young liberal U.S. city circuit,” and when you meet somebody between the ages of 25 and 35 in SF, chances are that she has lived in at least one of the following before arriving in the city by the bay: LA, NY, DC, and/or Chicago.  I am proud to say that I’ve lived in all but the last, mainly because Chicago is too darn cold (note: she may have also lived in Boston or Philly for school, but those don’t count, mainly because I never lived in either and I don’t want to bring my average down).  Many people know about my time in NY and LA (particularly if they’ve been closely following this blog), but not everybody knows I spent time in DC.  Admittedly, I was only there for four months—is that enough time for me to truthfully say that I “lived” there?  Yes, I think it is.  And I make the rules.

As you may remember from my insightful post on El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles de Porciúncula, I was not a huge fan of the city of broken dreams, so after 2.5 years of law school at UCLA I made my escape.  UCLA has this wonderful program in which students are allowed to spend four months externing for a government organization in D.C. all while receiving a full semester’s worth of school credit. When I was in law school I thought I was going to be an environmental lawyer, so I did my externship at the White House Council on Environmental Quality (the “CEQ”).  That’s right, ladies: I worked at the White House.  Kind of.

It was a dream job.  I got in at 9, left at 5, and while I was at work I spent my time meeting with intimidatingly intelligent people to discuss incredibly interesting things, like carbon sequestration and Asian carp and adaptation-based approaches to climate change.  I wrote a couple of memos, helped write (one short paragraph of) a Supreme Court brief, responded to FOIA requests (in a sort of rude manner, when necessary)…you know, the whole government lawyer shebang.

Even though I’m now writing about the political center of the U.S., I don’t want to make this into a political post.  However, I should say that after working in the government for just four months, I can start to understand where Grover Norquist is coming from.  Under George W., the CEQ had at one point as few as 3 people.  When I came on in January 2010, one year after Obama was inaugurated, there were 46 people in CEQ.  Were they all necessary?  I don’t think so.  I went to a lot of meetings in which a lot of nothing was discussed, and everybody would leave and turn to their colleagues from their various agencies and say, “goddamn Department of ________!  Wasting our time again!”  Each agency recognized that these meetings were 90% useless (plus or minus 10%), and was doing its best to blame the lack of progress on somebody else—Forestry Service, Fish and Wildlife, and Department of the Interior were always good targets.  Your tax dollars at work. I’m sure there were a few other agencies that are also useless, but I can’t remember them right now.

When I was at the CEQ, the agency had about 20 interns, and they were rapidly multiplying.  Do interns ever provide any sort of value add?  Not really.  True, they cost nothing, but they take up valuable space, and they actually did end up costing the CEQ money because a number of the “more important” interns insisted on traveling with the Chair to various “events” (i.e., mediocre publicity opportunities) in national parks across the country.  I remember that there was this one kid, maybe 22 or 23 years old, who was appointed as the Chair’s “Chief of Staff,” which meant that he would organize meetings, wear suits, and attempt (unconvincingly) to speak with authority.  You’d better believe that when I was 28 years old, I had a rough time not laughing when a 23 year-old kid with an expensive suit and a bad haircut tried to boss me around.  And our tax dollars were paying to fly this kid all across the country.  Damn you, Obama.  Damn you to hell.

D.C. is full of 23 year-olds who think that they’re really important.  They inhabit this space known as “The Hill” and apparently there’s a whole “scene” there.  I avoided it like the plague when I was there, but every now and then you’d meet a kid who spoke like he owned the damn town, and you knew he was probably a staffer.  I never understood the appeal—does not having any money and being really boring get a guy laid in D.C.?  There’s a reason why female inhabitants often refer to the town as “Douchebag City.”

I want to get off of this topic, but I feel the need to narrate one little anecdote of district douchebaggery, because it’s a story that begs to be told.  Towards the end of my time in D.C., I was at the 4 Ps Irish pub (which has since closed down) in Cleveland Park, my old stomping grounds, with a good buddy of mine.  We had been putting away pitcher after pitcher and were pretty far gone, when we noticed a pair of attractive young women and decided to chat them up.  I had a girlfriend at the time (more on her later), but my buddy was into one of them and I was being a good wingman.  Things were going pretty well and we decided to go out front for a cigarette.

4 Ps had a narrow front porch, and so we found ourselves sharing relatively tight quarters with a pair of young, Aryan-looking gentlemen in collared shirts and knit sweaters (my buddy and I were both wearing hoodies).  One of the young men grabbed the woman my buddy was into by the arm and asked what she was doing.  Shaking him off, she replied that she was talking to her friends and turned away from him.  My buddy, ever the friendly one, turned to the Mayflower-descendents and asked what they did in D.C.  “We’re lawyers,” the grabber replied.  “That’s great!” my buddy said, “we’re 3Ls in law school.  I go to American and my friend goes to UCLA.”  Knit sweater #2 then turned to the women and said, and I’m not joking here, “the guys you are talking to go to crappy law schools.  We went to Georgetown and now we work at [insert names of biglaw firms].  We make way more money than your friends are going to make, so you should talk to us instead of them.”

The women said no thanks and the four of us went back inside.  When our new ladyfriends went to the bathroom, my buddy looked at me and said, “we should go outside and beat the crap out of those dudes.”  We discussed it for a minute and decided against taking that action.  After all, we were both taking the bar exam in the summer and if the cops were called, that could put our future legal careers in jeopardy.  Also, we were both the products of suburban upbringings and Ivy-league educations, and thus not accustomed to settling disputes with fisticuffs.  Still, one of my biggest regrets in life was that we did not go back and pummel the crap out of those dudes.  By not beating the shit out of them, we were denying them an important life lesson, and I honestly feel bad about that.  Then again, they probably would have sued us.  Fucking pansy-ass lawyers.

* * *

I’m writing this piece on an airplane, as I’m flying from D.C. back to SF.  After taking virtually no vacations my first 3 years as a lawyer, I decided to take one for the New Year.  My co-workers were quite confused at my choice of D.C. for my vacation destination, because apparently when you go on vacation in the wintertime you’re supposed to go somewhere where the climate is warmer, not colder, than where you live.  What can I say, I don’t do what everybody thinks I should; I’ve always been a loner Dottie, a rebel.

A number of my friends from different walks of life have moved to D.C. over the past 15 or so years, and as a result I had so many people to see during my trip that I literally did not do any D.C.-related things.  I did not see a single monument, and the only time I entered a museum was to visit my friend who worked in the Postal Museum, but we just sat in the staff lounge and talked the whole time so I didn’t see any actual exhibits.  A friend in San Francisco had requested that I go to H Street NE and compare what is happening there to gentrification in the Mission/Western Addition, but I barely left the general Columbia Heights/DuPont/Chinatown area.  My one semi-touristy endeavor was going out to Annapolis to visit a friend, but while there all we did was go to a couple of bars (I mean, I wasn’t about to miss the 49er game, right?).  The trip to the bar was a success on multiple levels: the 49ers won, and I saw this street sign:

I was nervous about going to D.C. because I was afraid that it would make me think of my ex (the same woman whom I was dating during the 4 Ps douchebag incident…I told you there would be more on her).  She stayed in D.C. after I left and we tried the long distance thing for about a year and a half.  Our break up fucked me up pretty badly, and I was hesitant to return to D.C. because I was afraid I would (a) bump into her or (b) be reminded of her in a painful way.  However, two years after the fact, I am happy to say that I managed to go to D.C. without any painful memories (I also know that she goes to the Bay Area every year for the holidays, so by going to D.C. during that time I managed to avoid bumping into her on both ends).  Because we were only together in D.C. for a short time, there aren’t really any places in the city that remind me of her.  In fact, the only time any memory of her was triggered was when I passed by the Royal Palace strip club.  I took her there once on a date—it was her first time in such an establishment.

But enough about her—back to my trip.  All I did during my D.C. vacation was meet up with friends, sometimes one-on-one, sometimes in small groups, for meals, drinks, coffee, or to party.  I engaged in many intense and scintillating conversations that made me reflect deeply on life, myself, and my relationships with others.  I laughed more last week than I think I had in the 50 preceding weeks.  The whole week is kind of like a blur, but in my mind I am replaying the highlight reel, a series of vignettes and epiphanies that I hope do not fade from my memory anytime soon.  And in order to ensure that they do not, I am going to recount some of them here, in this very blog.  I know, I know—you came here to read about D.C., not the rantings of some oft-lonely, always-depraved, hirsute Jewish San Franciscan, but trust me, friend, there are plenty of pearls of wisdom to be cleaved from the oyster that is this blog post.  If not pearls, then certainly nuggets.

I stayed at a friend’s house in Columbia Heights.  She and her husband were out of town until my final night in town, so I had the place to myself, which was nice. As I was giving myself a tour of the digs, I noticed that they had a credenza on top of which sat about two dozen Christmas cards from various couples, about half of whom had children.  It then occurred to me that my friend and her husband were adults.  They are married.  They own a house.  They receive Christmas cards from a bunch of happy couples, some of whom have successfully procreated, and they put them on a credenza, which they also own.  I didn’t mention it yet, but my friends also own a dog (he was at doggie daycare when they were gone.  At first I was bummed, but it was probably for the better, given that I spent very little time at their place during my vacation).

I thought of my own station in life.  I am single, and I’ve been single long enough that I (and my parents) often wonder if I’ll ever get married.  I live in an apartment.  I think this year I received two Christmas cards, which I placed on top of my desk for about a week, next to my car insurance bill (the Christmas cards were thrown away when the bill was finally paid).  I don’t have a dog, and I’m actually afraid that my plants may be dead when I arrive home (note: arrived back home—one out of two of the plants survived).  I am years away from ever remotely considering having children.  When I see my contemporaries (and people 4-6 years younger than me) achieving all of these milestones, I’m not necessarily jealous, but I do feel kind of like I’m not an adult.

In San Francisco, nearly all of my coworkers have achieved or are in the process of achieving these societally-accepted (if not arbitrary) indications of adulthood, and many of my non-work friends have as well.  Thus, much of my time is spent drowning in conversations about wedding photographers, mortgages, and poopy diapers.  I’m not gonna lie—it kinda sucks.  In D.C., on the other hand, with the exception of the couple at whose house I was staying, all of my friends are unmarried (although a few are in long-term relationships), childless, and still renting, despite being in their early thirties.  There’s some sense of comfort that comes from having other friends in the same boat at this magical stage in life, and this commonality (combined with high-quality whiskey) led to a few enlightening moments, which I will now share with you, dear readers.

*            *            *

I met up with my former roommate (and dear friend) for coffee at Tryst in Adams Morgan.  We had lived in Cleveland Park together and used to frequent the cafe (not all that frequently).  Last year I had seen on the Facebook that this friend was participating in a “vegan lunch club,” which is something that young professional liberal women do in D.C. (I say that based on the fact that I know two people who fit who description and who do it).  In a vegan lunch club, every week (or day), one member will prepare a vegan meal for everybody in the group, and the group will sit together to enjoy the meatless, eggless, dairyless bounty.

My friend had quit her VLC.  I asked her why, and she said that while she had no qualms with the “vegan” aspect of the arrangement, the “lunch club” bit was starting to get to her.  In short, she did not enjoy the obligation of spending an hour every week with this particular set of colleagues.  “When I joined vegan lunch club, I was excited,” she explained.  “I thought we were going to discuss current events, movies, books, things like that.  The rest of the group wasn’t interested in discussing these things.”  “What did they want to talk about?” I asked.  “Other people,” my friend answered.

This point really registered with me.  Talking about other people is unbearably tedious compared with pretty much any other subject of conversation (besides the weather), and yet it’s probably what we talk about the most.  Some amount of talking about other people is appropriate—for example, on this trip I obviously had to show all of my friends a recent photo of my nephew and gush about how he’s simply the awesomest kid ever.  Also, we often learn funny stories about other people that are worth sharing.  However, it’s very easy to slip into lashon hara (that’s Hebrew for “talking shit”)—sadly, this sometimes helps us to feel connected with others.  While it’s important to feel connected, I’d rather feel inspired, and lashon hara may effect a lot of emotions, but inspiration is not one of them.  At the request of one of my best friends, I have made a new year’s resolution to surround myself with people who inspire me more, but I realize now that anybody can inspire me if we can shift our conversation to something, anything, beyond other people.

*            *            *

I got pretty fucked up with my friend in Annapolis.  We started by going to a tavern a little off the main drag so that I could watch the 49er game.  My friend had been told that it was a “hipster bar,” but it was really just a sports bar, filled with Ravens fans who reminded me that outside of the liberal cities I mentioned at the beginning of the post, much of America is pretty darn obese.  However, they had “Sweet Baby Jesus” (peanut butter chocolate porter) on tap and some darn good buffalo wings, so we really had no choice but to start drinking at 4 PM.  After the game my friend took me to a bar that brewed a number of beers in the 8-12% ABV range, and then we went back to his place where he had a bottle of Woodford Reserve waiting.  In college we used to drink a lot of Jim Beam, but I’m proud to say that at the very least, we’re now adult enough to afford better quality booze.

“You know what sucks the most about being single?” my friend inquired.

“The loneliness?  The lack of regular sex?  The fear that you’ll be alone forever?  Not having a second person to help pay the rent?  Going to restaurants and movies by yourself?  Bitterly cooking for one every night?  Trying to date and realizing that all of the best women are taken?  Getting bitter every time you see an ad for a romantic comedy?  Having no one to kiss on New Year’s Eve?  Everything about Valentine’s Day?”  So maybe I had thought about this before.  Just a little.

“No!” my friend shouted.  “It’s when your friends who are couples are so fucking condescending!  Do you notice how they do that shit?  How they look down on you and make fun of you for being single?  Like you’re some kind of freak or something?”  I had to agree—in fact, just last week I had been the butt of a joke of a pair of couples friends due to my singledom.  I won’t go into details, but it really chapped my hide.

The truth is that in your thirties, it can become hard for singles to remain friends with couples.  Couples like doing shit with each other.  It would be weird for me to go on a ski trip with three couples.  Sometimes it’s awkward going to dinner with couples…or if not awkward, annoying.  There’s often a sense of “you don’t understand—you’re single,” and while this is probably true, y’all don’t gotta rub it in, okay?  Soon some of these couples will start having kids, and the ever-endearing cries of “you don’t understand—you don’t have kids” will begin.  I can hardly wait.

“Put that shit in your blog!” my friend shouted, slamming back another bourbon and laughing so hard he nearly choked on his ice cube.

*            *            *

For New Year’s Eve, a friend of my friend threw a private party in a DuPont watering hole.  We had the upstairs to ourselves with an open bar, and everybody took advantage of the situation. It was an interesting collection of people, with the core group being my friend’s Skeeball team (see: stuff white people like), and all of their friends.  There were many people over the age of 30 who were not married, who did not own homes, and who did not have children.  In fact, I’m fairly sure that nobody at the party had kids—because once you have kids, you don’t go out to wild parties.  As far as I could tell, there was only one married couple, and they had gotten married earlier in the day.

I think if we were all 5-10 years younger, the whole scene could have erupted into a Bacchanalian orgy.  Instead (and to my slight disappointment), when midnight rolled around, the atmosphere was somewhat subdued, and most people who had came alone did not engage in a smooch (sadly, I was included among these ranks), except that one chick made out with the Russian dude.  There’s always that one chick who makes out with the Russian dude.  Another highlight was the 23 year-old girlfriend of one of the Skeeball folks flipping out because she wasn’t getting enough attention and shattering her champagne glass on the ground.  That relationship probably won’t last…but I suppose that’s what happens when you try dating a 23 year-old.

It made me very happy to be in a room of belligerently drunk 30-somethings.  There was no vomiting or overly-obnoxious behavior, because we 30-somethings can hold our liquor, but there was plenty of ribaldry and bawdy conversation, and a fair amount of dancing (although not as much as I would have liked).  All in all, a damn good time for this old man, and it gave me hope that although all of us are becoming adults at our own paces and in our own manners, I will always be able to find kindred spirits with whom I can get shitfaced.

One final note: on NYE, prior to heading to the party, my friends showed me the video for Miley Cyrus’ “Wrecking Ball.”  It was my first time hearing the song or seeing the video, and I will admit that I wept.  After seeing that video, I was so disgusted with the present state of female singer-songwriters that I insisted that we watch the videos for Lisa Loeb’s “Stay,” Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn,” and Fiona Apple’s “Criminal” all in quick succession—whenever I start to panic at the state of music in this day and age, I just revert back to the early 90s version of the applicable genre.  Fiona Apple had more sexy in the top joint of her pinky than Miley Cyrus will ever have in her whole naked body (which I guess I have now seen).  However, I admit that Fiona Apple, and Natalie Imbruglia, and probably Lisa Loeb were all waaaayyy too skinny.  I’m really glad that as a society we have moved away from that whole “thin is in” thing.

*            *            *

I’m sorry if you clicked on this post expecting more about Washington, D.C.  Once you get away from all the monuments it’s a pretty nice town, with a few good restaurants, some excellent museums, decent live music and no shortage of fun bars.  Everybody is really smart—in fact, I fear that D.C. could potentially beat SF in a trivia contest.  D.C. has a burgeoning tech scene (supposedly) and I could waive into the D.C. bar without taking another test, making it one of the few places in the country I would consider moving.  But then again, the fact that I stepped off my plane (which had been delayed at Washington Dulles for 3 hours for “de-icing”) into balmy 47-degree weather and felt warm is an indication that D.C. is no place for me.  Also, “Washington D.C. Love Affair” does not have the same ring to it.  So it looks like I’m going to stick around SF for a little while longer.

Right before I got on my plane to come home, I received a group email invitation from a friend back in SF.  She was organizing an impromptu get together to celebrate the closing on a house she bought with her fiancé.  The gathering was to take place at a restaurant in Oakland that was “baby friendly.”  I just laughed.

And speaking of Russian dudes:

Yes, I understand that the band itself is German.  Stop overthinking this shit.

39. On Other Places in Which I Have Lived: Marin County

Tags

Chief Wiggum, Frank Lloyd Wright, Marin, Moons Over My Hammy, naked statue chicks, rehab

I was born in San Francisco, and don’t you forget it.  I came into this world in the UCSF Medical Center at Mount Zion, right on Divisadero.  This makes me a native, gosh darnit!  That’s right—I have a ton of street cred.

Then, when I was 6 months old, I moved to Marin County, where I stayed until I was 18. I didn’t establish permanent residency in the actual city of San Francisco again until I was 29 years of age.  When I used to live outside of the Bay Area, and particularly outside of the country, if somebody asked where I was from I would reply “San Francisco.”  But I can’t do that living here, because in the very, very off-chance that the person asking is a native, he or she will further grill me about where I grew up, and eventually I’ll have to sheepishly admit that most of my youth was spent not in San Francisco, but in Marin.  Make no mistake—I’m more of a native than all of the “San Franciscans” here from Boston, Maryland, LA, Ohio and even San Jose, but I’d be lying to myself and to you if I said I grew up in the city.

Nope, I’m “from” Marin County.  There, I said it.  For those of you who don’t know Marin County, have you heard of the Golden Gate Bridge?  If you’re in San Francisco, and you go north across the Golden Gate Bridge, you end up in Marin County.  No, not Sausalito.  Not necessarily Sausalito, anyway.  Sausalito is a town.  Marin is a county, comprised of numerous towns.  Sausalito is very touristy and not representative of all of Marin.

Since I know many of you are NY-centric, perhaps this map can help:

Here, Marin is unfairly and inaccurately analogized to Westchester County.  Yes, I’ll admit that like Westchester, Marin is north of a major city and very wealthy.  However, there are two key differences between Marin and Westchester.  (1) Westchester was founded by puritans and Marin was founded by hippies, and (2) Westchester Country sucks.  Item (2) is not true of Marin.  Remember that band Stroke 9, who sang that “Little Black Backpack” song?  Long before they hit the big time, they wrote a song in which they declared, once and for all, that “Marin County’s a-ok.”  True story.  You can listen to the song here, on Stroke 9’s myspace page.  I’m sure you can find them on Friendster as well.

I’d like to write a little bit about Marin, because for what it’s worth, growing up there had a profound effect on me and played an integral part in making me who I am today, for better or for worse.  I don’t know if this post will dispel any myths about Marin County or if it will just reinforce the tired stereotypes.  I also don’t know if anybody who is not from Marin will find this entertaining or informative.  Hell, I’m not sure if anybody who is not from Marin will even read this.  But if you are from Marin, I hope that this makes you smile, nod your head, and say, “yup, that’s just about sums it up.”

I think it’s best to start by pointing out that Marin County is completely beautiful.  Take a look:

That’s pretty much anywhere in Marin.  We also have a coastline:

This is our Civic Center.  You know, where you go when you get a speeding ticket:

Our Civic Center was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.  Who designed your county’s Civic Center?  Was it somebody famous?  Because Frank Lloyd Wright is pretty famous.

Most people who grow up in Marin (excluding, funnily enough, many of my closest friends) develop an early love for hiking and the outdoors, just by virtue of living so close to exquisite nature.  If you’re into mountain biking, we practically invented it, so I’ve been told.  I actually have friends from Westchester who told me that they’d go drive several hours to the Catskills to go hiking.  From my parents’ house in Marin (and most people’s houses), you can walk a very short distance to get to the Mt. Tamalpais watershed, with its 5 lakes.  Speaking of which, this is Mt. Tam:

This is a statute in front of the Bon Air shopping center in Greenbrae that is supposed to depict Mt. Tam (speaking of “completely beautiful”):

But Marin County is not all about natural beauty and hot naked statue chicks.  If it was, nobody would make fun of you when you mentioned that you’re from Marin.  Unfortunately, people do make fun of you if you’re from Marin, mainly because Marin is known for being very rich and very white.  On the latter, consider this: I went to a public high school and in my graduating class of 250, we had two black students, two girls who both had the same first and last names.

I didn’t understand how rich and privileged we were in Marin until I finally left the confines of Marin and headed to New York for college.  Actually, that didn’t help much, because most of my classmates were from Westchester and were even more rich and privileged than me.  But that is neither here nor there.  I was one of the “poorer” kids in my high school in that I didn’t get my own Beamer or green Ford Explorer when I turned 16, and instead had to drive my mom’s Subaru hatchback to school.  Or maybe my dad’s Audi A4.  Dammit.

My high school was very suburban “in-crowd / out-crowd,” and given my general bitterness at the world in my early 30s, I bet you can tell where I fell in that spectrum as an angsty, awkward teenager.  I do chortle a bit when I see pictures of groups of folks I knew growing up in Marin who are still friends with each other today, banded together drinking red wine in Napa or in the ski lodge in Tahoe, looking like a J. Crew ad.  So that’s why they make fun of us!

You don’t have to skim the WASP-y, Westchester-like surface of Marin too far to find the seedy underbelly.  My boss at the law firm now often jokes that because I’m from Marin, I must be some kind of drug addict (she is from Berkeley, but like many other law firm partners has lost her sense of irony over the years).  While I am not and have never been a pothead, alcoholic, cigarette smoker, or addict of any other sort (hell, I don’t even drink coffee, which is very rare for a LAWYER in SAN FRANCISCO), I can understand where she was coming from.  While my yuppie classmates were putting on their polo shirts and getting rides from their drivers to the racquet club on the weekends, my pals and I, with our long hair and Converse All Stars, were taking bus #20 or hitchhiking to the now-defunct Marin City flea market to buy Zippos, knives and old rock and roll T-shirts (I had a great black Led Zeppelin tee I wore for many years, as well as a Sonic Youth one that said “Pretty F*ckin’ Dirty” on it, which was totally awesome).

While my white bread classmates were going to the polo fields in Golden Gate Park to actually play polo, my buddies and I were hanging out on Haight Street, eating cheap Chinese food and buying Doc Martens, or as we called them, “Docs.”  You know, before it was cool.  Note: I never actually bought Docs.  I did however, have long hair down to my shoulders, and I constantly listened to the Grateful Dead and Phish.  I was also really into flannel and Seattle grunge.  Basically, my friends and I were badass compared to everybody else in Marin.

There’s a downside to all of that badassery, as you might expect.  I had a lot of friends with drug problems.  I had a few friends who ended up in jail, and a few who O.D.’d.  Believe it or not, but money doesn’t cure all of life’s and society’s problems, and in some cases potentially exacerbates them.  Take this little anecdote: last month I had a wonderful reunion with two of my very close friends from the old country (let’s call them L and S), two kids whom I’ve known for over 20 years each.  We were sitting in my one friend’s apartment in Oakland, as he smoked cigarettes and played some Lee Fields on his record player.  I sat far away on the opposite end of the couch, avoiding the cigarette smoke although I knew it had infected my clothing the second I walked through the front door.  “I’d ask if we should get some beer,” I said, “but I think both of you are sober, right?”

“Yup,” said L, “I got sober in the city 6 years ago, B got sober in Marin 5 years ago, and S got sober in the east bay 4 years ago.”

“That’s right, J,” added S.  “When are you gonna join the club?  You’re the only one who still drinks.”

“That’s true,” said L, “but on the other hand, J is the only one who didn’t completely fuck up his life at one point.”  To think that I survived drug addiction, even though I grew up in Marin!  Every time another friend goes to rehab, I always think, there but for the grace of G-d go I.  I remember getting to college and being amazed by how sheltered the rest of my class seemed.  I was the guy from the lily-white super-rich suburb—should I have been the sheltered one?  Then again, what do you expect from the county that invented the concept of “4:20”?

I don’t like cops—Marin taught me that.  To this day, I get nervous when I see a cop car, whether I’m driving or walking.  Marin cops don’t have much in the way of serious crime to attend to, so they spend their time breaking up high school house parties, giving out tickets for rolling stop signs at 2 AM, and confiscating forties of malt liquor.  Such experiences taught an already rebellious young J to further question authority.  For all of last month, there was constantly at least one cop car on my block, to prevent squatters/homeless/protestors/lords-knows-who from getting into the empty lot that was formerly the Hayes Valley Farm.  Just seeing those cop cars made me feel less safe, and with good reason: for every cop in Hayes Valley, there was one less cop in Hunter’s Point or the Mission or some other neighborhood that actually can use cops.  Whether in a yuppie suburb or in a yuppie neighborhood of a big city, cops without real crime are bad news.

My parents still live in Marin (in the same house!), and I also have a few close friends there, so I find myself heading over the bridge usually around once a month.  Have you ever gone back to the place of your childhood?  It can be very bizarre.  There are memories hiding everywhere that leap out at you when you least expect them, triggered by a sight or location you haven’t seen or been to in years, and on surprisingly not-so-rare occasion they knock you flat on your ass.

Sometimes I’ll get a full-blown flashblack, like the time I went to the Candy Stop in Corte Madera and got a slush puppy and then went to the picnic table and remembered that time that A got super drunk in the middle of the day and started harassing people and P, sporting a pink mohawk, chased him down and awkwardly swung his fists down onto A’s shoulders, knocking him down and into a state of unconsciousness.

Sometimes I’ll have a vision that’s like a montage of “greatest hits” moments, like the time I drove past the spot where Old West (a.k.a. “Old Meth”) pool hall used to be and I remembered the time I won a mini four-person pool tournament with my friends and the time I got the high score on the Cyclone pinball machine and the time I kissed my third girl ever in the parking lot and the time we went onto that houseboat and A ended up huffing VHS tape head cleaner at the suggestion of this really tall black gay dude who looked kind of like Grace Jones and then fell onto the floor and started shouting “I feel warm! I feel warm!”

And sometimes I won’t have a specific memory, but a general overwhelming flood of emotion, like when I drive past my old high school (Redwood High School—Go Giants!) and I suddenly feel like I have long hair and zits and I’m awkward and lonely and depressed and terrified of girls.  It’s a really unpleasant feeling for me, thinking of the way I was in high school, but at the same time there’s this strange comfort.  To this day I often feel like I’m cheating fate or really lying to myself when I display any sort of self-confidence or extroverted tendencies.  It’s funny, people who meet me today don’t believe me when I tell them I’m shy, but people who met me in high school don’t believe me when I tell them I’m not.

I get a little sad when I go to my parents’ house and I realize that I would have to make ten times more money than they ever did to have a house like theirs in Marin (or anywhere in the Bay Area, really).  Marin County would be a wonderful place to raise your kids.  I remember one time when I was 14 or 15 and I wanted to sneak out to meet some friends on a Saturday night.  I put on my clothes and tried to quietly sneak down the stairs, but when I got near the front door my parents came out of the T.V. room and saw me.  “Where are you going?” my mom asked.  “Uh…I was just getting a snack.”  “Then why did you get all dressed up, just to get some oreos?”  “Uh…I…”  “J, you don’t need to sneak out.  Just tell us where you’re going.  We don’t care.”  You wouldn’t tell your kid that if you lived in a big city, would you?

Of course, my mom probably wouldn’t have let me out that night if she had known that I was going to meet up with two of my more hoodlumesque friends, and that we were going to hitchhike to Larkspur, get an older person to buy us a fifth of rum, get wasted on the picnic table behind the fire station and then go to Denny’s for a Moons Over My Hammy (or if we were feeling adventurous, a “Moons Over My Bacon”).

Kids who grow up in the suburbs always complain about how boring their hometowns are.  And yes, underage drinking and trips to all-night chain restaurants do not exactly make for the most exciting childhood.  Nonetheless, I must have gotten some enjoyment from those halcyon days of my youth because to this day, when I drive across the Golden Gate Bridge and back into Marin, I almost always can’t help but smile.  I guess there’s something to be said about that.

Oh, also, apparently my hometown is no longer boring.

30. On Other Places in Which I Have Lived: Israel

Tags

David Foster Wallace, Israel, krembo, Palestine, Ralph Macchio, violence

It’s that time again, folks, when the Facebookosphere is chock-full of news, opinions, rants and other flotsam and jetsam related to the Israel/Palestine situation (I’m assuming things are getting equally heated in the Twitterverse, Tumblrena, and Pinterest-zone).  I’ve been holding back from espousing my own opinions (and mercilessly shooting down the opinions of others), but now I suppose it’s time to throw my kippah into the ring and tell it like it is—because I totally know the whole story on everything related to Israel and you should trust my opinions, nay, facts, above all others.  I wasn’t going to do this, but a very dear friend encouraged me to, and when a very dear friend encourages me to do something, I usually do it, especially if it involves me getting to be self-righteous and publicly share how I’m right and everybody else in the world (literally) is wrong.

I’ve written a lot about Israel, and my relationship with the country (or “the land,” as they call it over there) on various occasions on my different blogs through the years, and I want this post to provide a perspective different from that portrayed in my previous writings on the subject.  So let’s begin by talking about Israel as if the whole “conflict” thing didn’t exist.

In the wintertime in Israel, you can get these things called “krembos”.  They’re kind of like mallomars, but I’m assuming they’re kosher.  You buy them in these huge boxes—I think there are 40 to a box, and then you pass them out to everybody you know, or even to complete strangers.

The main beer served in Israel is called Goldstar.  Not Beer Maccabi—that shit is for Americans only; no self-respecting ‘Raeli would ever put that to his or her lips.  Goldstar is delicious and a 500-mL bottle of the stuff is the perfect remedy for the hot Mediterranean sun.

Most Israelis are Jewish, but when you think of the people of Israel you really should clear the traditional images you have of Jews out of your mind.  When you think “Jewish male,” you typically think of a neurotic, whiney, balding hairy guy with thick glasses and asthma.  Leave that mental image behind at the airport, ladies, because Israelis, despite their religion, are REAL FUCKIN’ MEN.  Here is your average Israeli man:

And the WOMEN!  Oh my freakin G-d!  Remember that chick you met in college who you thought was kind of cute but she was from Lon-gai-land (pronounced with a really obnoxious accent) and really JAP-py?  And when I say “JAP-py,” I don’t mean Japanese, you racist.  Well every single Israeli woman is 12 times hotter than her, and is into drinking Goldstar, eating steak, and giving BJs.  Not to mention the fact that she doesn’t mind crawling through mud and could legitimately kill you with her bare hands.  This is a run-of-the-mill Israeli woman:

And that’s all Israel is, really.  Just a lot of that stuff, and really really good falafel.

Sigh, if only.  The reality is that the Israel/Palestine conflict is a lot like herpes: it’s always there, it doesn’t go away, and those affected never forget that its there because it won’t be too long before the next flare-up comes, and that really, really sucks.  Let me qualify that statement: the Israel/Palestine conflict is a lot like herpes from what I understand.  In any event, we’re now in the middle of another pretty intense flare-up, and, as happens during every spat of violence in that neck of the woods, the worldwide blame game has begun.  Don’t get me wrong—if there’s ever a time to play the blame game, it’s during war.  Each side is intentionally killing people.  Whether you call the attacks “random” or “surgical,” the Israelis and Palestinians are each using violence as a means to some ends, whatever they may be.  Violence is very difficult to justify (to some of us, virtually impossible), so when your team is using violence, you need to pull out all of the stops when it comes to rationalization.

Looking at Facebook, it’s safe to say that I have far more friends in the “Team Israel” machane than in the “Team Palestine” refuge camp.  What can I say—I have a lot of Jewish friends.  Nearly all of them are liberals, so I was kind of surprised to see that just one week after my friends were posting about how Fox News was full of shit, this oldie-but-goodie was popping up everywhere and being treated as if it remotely represented legitimate journalism:

The same nice liberal mensches who blasted right-wing pundits for being close-minded and one-sided were posting this clip and claiming it to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth:

Truth be told, I’m not sure I entirely disagree with this second video.  For those of you too lazy/not interested in watching, the thesis is that the reason the Israel/Palestine conflict exists is because the Palestinians want to kill Jews.  The piece ends by saying that if Israelis laid down all of their weapons, they would be slaughtered in a day, whereas if the Arabs and Iranians laid down their weapons, there would be peace.  Given the rhetoric I’ve heard from political leaders in the region and political professors back in my college days, I do not disbelieve (yes, that’s an intentional double-negative) that many, if not all, of Israel’s neighbors would wipe Israel off the map given the chance.  If Iran gets a nuclear missile on Monday, it would not surprise me if there was an explosion in Tel Aviv on Tuesday.  Maybe even Monday evening, depending on when the nuke was received and how long it takes to fire off.  Israel’s actions, therefore, are in self-defense.  If Israel doesn’t strike first and strike hard, with no mercy (sir!), it will be annihilated.

It’s difficult to write a serious blog post about Israel without including at least one clip involving Ralph Macchio.

But I digress.  The clip above (the Prager University one, not the Cobra Kai one) provides a justification for Israel’s use of violence, but takes the position that Palestine has no reason for attacking Israel other than the fact that Arabs hate Jews.  I do think it’s safe to say that Palestine’s attacks on Israel are not “self defense,” in that they are not meant to protect the Gaza strip from annihilation.  If Israel wanted to complete annihilate Gaza and slaughter all of its inhabitants, Israel has more than enough firepower to do so in a week (or a minute, if you recognize that Israel has nuclear weapons).  I think the Palestinians would put up a valiant fight and receive little, if any, support from their neighbors, but the result would be ugly.  This is all a moot point—for whatever reasons (world public opinion, basic morality, etc.), Israel is not all-out destroying Gaza.  Fucking it up a little for sure, but not destroying it.

So why is Gaza firing rockets on Israel, if not out of self-defense or hatred?  It’s pretty simple—life in Gaza is complete and utter shit, and this is due largely in part (can I say that—“due largely in part”?) to the actions of Israel.  Pro-Israel supporters will deny this fact, but believe me when I say that Israel’s hands are anything but clean.  Are the rocket attacks on civilians justified?  No way, certainly not to me.  But does it make sense that somebody living in complete shit would try to attack the force causing such shit-living?  I think so.

What it all comes down to is that Israel is in an unfortunate position where, in order to maintain its safety, it needs to take away the civil/human rights of others.  It’s a vicious cycle—Israel attacks the Palestinians and takes aware their rights in order to increase its security, the Palestinians retaliate with more violence, which incites Israel to attack more, and so on and so forth for all of eternity.  Literally.

I hung out with an old friend today.  She’s been avoiding Facebook these days because she simply does not want to get involved in the conversation.  Although this friend and I constantly debate on issues of economics, education, and politics in general—we’re both extremely left-leaning, but in very different ways—I think our opinions on Israel are somewhat aligned, although we’re both kind of optimistically/pessimistically (yes, that’s possible) agnostic about the whole thing.  I’m serious about the agnosticism—I hope you didn’t click on the link to read this looking for any answers.  Then you’ll be really disappointed—even more than you usually are when you read my blog.

The general concept in which my friend and I both believe is that that part of the world has been ensconced in war pretty much forever, and that hasn’t been working all too well, so now it’s time to try peace.  In our conversation, my friend even dropped one of my favorite quotes of all time, “insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results” (said by a famous Jew, keep in mind). Here’s a video that aptly sums up the “war pretty much forever” part:

But “trying peace” (or “giving peace a chance,” as it is sometimes called) is not exactly easy.  Both sides will need to swallow a lot of pride and be willing to make sacrifices.  My friend pointed out that David Foster Wallace once said that in order for there to be peace in the region, Israel will need to accept that there will be some terrorism, period.  It may take a long time for the terrorism to go away—perhaps a generation or two—but it will go away eventually if Israel stops reacting to a little terror with a lot of retribution.  By the way, dear friend, I googled a bit and couldn’t find the exact DFW quote on this—can you please point me to it?  Is it buried deep in Infinite Jest?  I admit that I never finished that book.

Let’s say that again: in order to have peace, Israel will have to accept that there will be some terrorism.  It’s inevitable.  Will this terrorism be worse than the current situation?  Will more Israelis die if Israel steps down from its attacks on Gaza and its day-to-day sanctions and siege?  The answer is probably yes…and that’s going to make it a pretty damn hard sell for Israelis.  “Hey guys, here’s the deal.  Your kids, or more likely your grandkids, will experience peace—a beautiful state of existence that you have simply never known and can’t comprehend.  Unfortunately, in order to achieve that, we’re going to have to randomly kill tens, hundreds, maybe even up to a thousand or more of you every year for the next 5, 10, 20, 40 years.  How does that sound?”  It’s easy to say “come on, take the damn deal!” from my sofa in America.  Take the deal, but first, can all of my cousins and friends and other loved ones in Israel please move here first?

And we all know what happened to David Foster Wallace.

I didn’t watch the third Obama/Romney debate, but apparently there was one moment where the two candidates were basically arguing over who loved Israel more.  There is a (probably true) notion that in order to secure the Jewish vote, a candidate needs to kiss Israel’s ass.  Obama obviously didn’t need to worry about the Muslim vote (because he’s a Muslim, duh).  The conventional wisdom is that, if you’re Jewish, you automatically unconditionally love Israel.  A lot of people, including myself, don’t quite understand why.

I can try to explain, but first an anecdote (don’t worry—I’ll try to make it into a segue).  When I was teaching English in Japan, a fellow English teacher (who was also a friend from college) introduced me to a friend of hers who was a New Yorker of Colombian descent.  I was explaining how I had just gotten back from visiting my grandmother in Israel, and the friend asked, “so wait a minute—do you consider yourself to be Jewish, American, or Israeli?”  I asked him if he considered himself to be Colombian or American.  “I’m American, but my family is Colombian.  It’s different, isn’t it?”

It is different, in several ways.  First of all, “Jewish” and “American” are not mutually exclusive.  I wouldn’t ever say I’m a “Jewish-American”—I don’t think one says that.  I’m Jewish.  I’m American.  Judaism is my religion, and also to some extent (or even to a greater extent) my culture.  It’s not my nationality—that’s where “American” comes in.  “Israeli” doesn’t even fit into the equation.  As I explained to the friend, although my grandmother was currently living in Israel, my ancestors are not from there.  I can’t rightfully say that Israel is my “homeland”—as many people with Palestinian roots often say, the Israeli “right of return” is a misnomer.

That notwithstanding, there is a bizarre, cosmic, magical feeling that I and many other Jews get when in Israel.  I didn’t go on birthright (living in Israel for a year when I was 18 made me ineligible…and I always get annoyed when I tell people I’ve been in Israel and they say, “oh, on birthright?”), but I always hear stories from kids who went on those trips that begin, “I stepped off the plane, and I knew I was home.”  Quotes like that are unbearably cheesy and, honestly, a discredit to our people.  When Woody Allen stepped off the plane in Ben Gurion for the first time, did he say that he was home?  No—he complained about his back, made a joke about how he got an awkward erection during his security pat-down and asked where he could get some Chinese food.  Now that’s how a real Jew reacts to Israel.

And yet…I think I felt that same syrupy cheesiness the first time I went to Israel (well, not the very first time—my first time there I was 5 years old and apparently complained for the entire trip) and I still get that feeling when I go back.  When the airplane lands, everybody claps!  The weather is constantly beautiful and the people are so loving.  It always confuses the hell out of me when people talk about Israelis as these horrible war-mongers, because I can honestly say that, once you get past their rude exteriors, Israelis are the warmest people on earth.  And it’s genuine warmth, in no way superficial.  I always feel welcome and loved when I go to Israel (and not just because I lost my virginity there).

I “lived” in Israel for a year, but honestly, I was on tour the whole time, bouncing around from one volunteer program to the other, “working” in a factory in a kibbutz, “studying” Hebrew and history in Jerusalem, “researching” migratory birds in Eilat, and “farming” on a Jewish settlement in the West Bank (this was before a lot of violent shit went down—a year after I left the settlement was attacked and several people were killed).  I was 18 at the time, so most Israelis my age were in the army.  It was one of the non-flare-up times and I barely thought about any sort of violence.  I just explored the country—it’s small and in the course of a year I covered most of it.

In contrast to 18 year-old me, there’s now a relatively strong movement of Jews against Israel.  It’s part of the larger “BDS” movement—“boycott, divest, sanctions,” typically considered to be three peaceful weapons outsiders can use against Israel.  The general idea is that just because you’re Jewish, that doesn’t mean you need to support Israel unconditionally…or at all.  Here’s a clip from “Young, Jewish and Proud,” one of the more “hip” BDS off-shoots:

Groups like this really used to piss me off, because I truly felt, based on my own life experiences, that there was some intrinsic connection between Judaism and Israel.  “If you are Jewish, you have to support Israel, period”—that’s what I was taught, and it’s what I taught myself.

However, in my later years I’ve learned to question the intrinsic connection between Judaism and Israel, but not entirely.  I still support Israel and feel connected to the land (whether I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid or there’s something genuine to that notion I’ll never know), but not enough to condone every one of its actions, many of which I find heinous.  I disagree with nearly every opinion I’ve heard from any of my friends and family—from my New Jersey summer camp friends to my spiritual aunt to my Muslim cousins, no matter who I’m talking with, I’m tempted to argue (and admittedly, the result is that I’ve spoken to nobody on the subject of Israel in the past week except for that one friend).  If only somebody would make a movie for Jews who feel similarly to me!  Oh wait, my aunt and her husband did.  And it rules [SHAMELESS PLUG!!!]:

Okay, admittedly, I’m probably a bit more on the pro-Israel side than the film, but it’s close enough.

More than anything, the Israel situation tests the limits of human optimism.  How can anybody possibly maintain hope for any sort of resolution?  It’s really hard, but on the other hand, what else can we do?

There’s only one thing left to say: Shalom.  Salaam.  Peace.

If you read this entire post, I love you.

29. On Travel

Tags

gastrointestinal distress, Giants, hospitalityclub.org, India, Obama, Travel

Before I begin this entry, I need to say a quick FUCK YEAH SF GIANTS!!!  After all, this is technically a San Francisco blog, and you’d better believe that I was whoopin’ it up with the young whippersnappers in the Mission last night, watching as all kinds of garbage cans and furniture were set aflame.  The last time we won I was in a foreign country with somebody who didn’t care about the game and it kind of sucked; this time around I was in the city I love with a few hundred thousand of my closest friends.  I definitely yelled “yeeeaaahhh!” more times and high-fived more people than I have on any other night of my life.

Update: I kind of forgot about this post and now it’s the day after Election Day, so I need to say a quick FUCK YEAH OBAMA!!!  After all, this is technically a San Francisco blog.  I was actually in the Muni (public transportation) when Obama won, and my sister texted me “YEAH BITCHEZZZZ”.  If it weren’t for that, I would have never known.  It was a much, much weaker celebration than when the Giants won.  I’m glad my city has its priorities straight.

Okay, now for your regularly-scheduled program.  I have a buddy who is about to embark on a crazy year-long adventure, starting in Indonesia and ending lord-knows-where.  I’m very stoked for him—I hope he keeps some kind of blog or other media page so I can live vicariously through him.  I love travel, and can honestly say that little has shaped my worldview more than my extensive experiences abroad.  I recommend travel to every single human being on this earth who has the opportunity to do it.  It is possible to spend time in another country without gaining any new perspective, but if that happens to you, then you’re doing it wrong.

I was going to write my friend an email with some friendly, semi-solicited travel tips, but then I realized that all of the sage travel advice I’ve accumulated over the years would be best shared with the whole wide world.  So now, for your edification, here are J’S AMAZING TRAVEL TIPS!  Please note that these are not so much tips for a quick romantic week in Paris where you’ve planned out the hotel, meals, circus show, and all that jazz.  These are tips for extended travel, particularly in the third world (er…developing world.  Damn you, PC thugs!).

So here’s the thing: I was about to start writing these when I was hit with a wave of déjà vu, and I remembered that I’d actually written a list of travel tips before, when I was in Turkey two years ago (coincidentally, the last time the Giants won the World Series).  The problem is that I can’t remember if I sent these to my friends after I wrote them.  Thus, if these seem familiar, I apologize…but can you please let me know if I already sent them?  This is too weird.

Here are the old ones—somewhat American-specific, because we need more help with this sort of thing:

1. Yes, things are different in other countries.  People speak in different languages, eat different foods, and interact in different ways.  That is why we travel—to experience something new.  You are in their country, so understand that they are right and you are wrong.  Once you can grasp this, your travels will be much easier.

2. If somebody does not understand English, speaking louder and slower will not make them understand any better.  Try using hand gestures, pointing, or best of all, drawing pictures.

3. Eat the local food.  Yes, it might give you diarrhea.  It’s worth it.  Trust me.

4. Speaking of which, remember that abroad, especially in the Middle East and Asia, diarrhea is bacterial, as opposed to viral (like it is in the states).  Antibiotics and hydration salts are much better remedies than immodium and other medicines that simply dry you up.

5. If she doesn’t speak much English, and she’s willing to have sex with you after all of five minutes, follow the advice of Li’l Wayne and “don’t be surprised when she ask where the cash at.”

6. Remember: you are an ambassador to your country.  Every person you meet will assume that all Americans are exactly like you.  Thus, if you’re gonna be an asshole, say that you’re Canadian.

7. Many cities have some sort of “tallest building” or “high hill” that you can ascend to get an amazing city view.  Sometimes you even need to pay a fee to do so.  It is always worth it.  Whenever you can get a panoramic view of a city or other area of interest from above, you should not pass up that opportunity.

8. Be a “student of life”.  By that, I mean hold onto your student ID card well after you’ve graduated, in order to obtain student discounts.  You can always tell them that you’re in law school.

9. If you’re traveling for a short time (under two weeks), don’t bother sleeping.  If you’re traveling for a long time, take a day every two weeks or so when all you do is sleep.

10. Alcohol is usually the best gift and the best way to make friends.  Except in certain Muslim countries.

11. If you’re going to be in a country for a while, learning a tiny bit of the vernacular goes a huge way.  People are extremely appreciative if you actually take a few minutes to try to learn the most basic magic words.  Try learning “please,” “thank you,” “water,” “how much does it cost,” “where is the toilet,” and how to count to 10.  If you’re a man, you may also want to learn “you are very pretty.”  If you are a woman, you may also want to learn “don’t touch me.”

11. Yes, they know you’re a tourist and yes, they’re ripping you off.  If they are asking 10 euros for something you know is only worth 5 euros, don’t buy it.  If they are asking 10 rupees for something you know is only worth 5 rupees, just fucking pay it.  Stop perpetuating the stereotype that Jews are cheap.

12. Don’t drink the water—but make sure that you drink a lot of water.

13. Learn how to squat.  Toilets are very…uh…different in other countries.

14. On that note, if you happen to come across a clean, western-style toilet, use it.  You don’t know when you’re gonna see one again.

15. Always carry a roll of toilet paper.  I realize that many of my travel tips relate to the scatological, but understand that these are, by far, the most important nuggets of wisdom I have to offer.  I learned all of these the hard way, and it was really unpleasant.  Like there was this one time, in Jordan, where…well, we can save that one for another day.

Then here are a few new additions I’m making now (in 2012):

16. Join either hospitalityclub.org or couchsurfer.com or both.  These are websites in which you enter any city in the world and you can find people there who will meet up with you, feed you, and potentially let you stay with them for free.  I cannot stress enough how wonderful these sites are.  When traveling abroad, there is no substitute for getting a tour from a local.  Through these websites, I have been to places and seen sights that are definitely not listed in even the most badass Lonely Planet-style guidebook, and I have also made wonderful friends, potentially for life.  If you join hospitalityclub.org, let me know and I’ll give you a good recommendation.

17. Plan as little in advance in possible.  In developing countries, you can almost always find a hostel or hotel on the fly, and train or bus tickets need to be reserved a day or two in advance at most.  Ideally, I say that if you’re going to be spending an extended amount of time in one country, you shouldn’t even plan more than a couple of destinations.  Meet other travelers and ask them where’s hot.  Find the guy in your hotel who speaks English and have him help you book your hotel in the next city—he’s probably friends with somebody there and might be able to get you a discount.  There’s so much to see, and if you have a fixed itinerary (i.e. if you’ve already paid for hotels in advance), you might miss out on a fun opportunity to do something else.  I still regret booking that flight from Santorem to Recife too far in advance and missing out on a chance to do ayahuasca with a local shaman.

18.  Make friends!  Even without partaking in option 16, it’s easy to meet people when you’re an obvious tourist, because people will be staring at you.  Find young people who speak English—they’re all over the place, looking for you—and chat with them.  One day in Jaisalmer, India a guy in his early 20s asked if I wanted to buy a bed cover.  I said no, but offered to buy him a beer, so we went to a local restaurant and shot the shit.  That evening, he randomly came by my hotel and offered to take me to a party in a farm 20 miles down the road.  The “party” was a bunch of dudes sitting around, eating curry and drinking beer.  They taught me a whole bunch of dirty words in their local Rajasthan dialect.  The only one I remember is “chut pachut”, which means “pussy ghost.”  It’s a very high compliment for a guy who gets laid a lot.  There’s also “chut pakora” which means “pussy cutlet,” but I don’t remember the correct context for using that term.

19. Pack super light.  Whatever you need, you can get it wherever you’re going, for dirt cheap.  They sell shoes, pants, and even towels in other countries!  You can actually get towels for free if you stay in a hotel.  Actually, don’t do that.  When I was in India in the winter, after one extremely chilly overnight train ride, I decided to steal a heavy blanket from my hotel for the next trip.  A week later, my wallet got nicked.  I should have known not to do that sort of thing in the country that invented the concept of karma.

20. Just because a country seems sexually liberated does not mean that nudity is allowed on all of the beaches.

21. Don’t buy drugs from the locals—they might be working for the government and you’ll find yourself forced to pay a very hefty bribe.  Instead, look for the Israelis.  They’re the ones with the dreadlocks who are staying away from the pork dishes.

22. Bring a deck of cards and a set of dominos everywhere you go.  This will help with making friends, initiating/facilitating drinking games, killing time, and impressing locals (that is, if you can use the cards for magic tricks, or make really cool domino lines with the dominos).

23. Carry around a first-aid kit with bandages, pain killers, antibiotics, and band-aids.  You’ll need all of that stuff.  If you don’t need all of that stuff, try being a little more adventurous.

24. You should probably get some shots before you embark on a trip into the third world.  For SE Asia and India, I think you want to get inoculated for typhoid and hepatitis (A and B). Get a tetanus booster too, no matter where you’re going.  Other than that, I’m not sure you need anything.  Before I went to India, I went to a vaccine doctor (who was Indian), and he prescribed me a regimen that would have cost around $1800.  I then went to a doctor friend who told me I didn’t need most of that shit and got the cost down to about $200.  You don’t need to get vaccinated for Japanese encephalitis (or however the heck you spell it).  No, really.  Also, I’ve never taken malaria pills.  I’m really scared—I’ve heard way too many bad stories about people going insane.

25. Write hand-written postcards and letters to friends and family back home.  It’s such a beautiful thing to do.

26. Buy a present for your mom.

27. As cliché as it sounds, stay off the beaten path. Hop on a sketchy bus that leads to some place you’ve never heard of.  When you’re in a foreign country, just walking around random villages that aren’t particularly famous for anything can be incredibly exciting.  People will stare at you–enjoy your celebrity status.

28. Don’t spend so much time in the Internet café.  I know it’s tempting and you feel like you need to be connected.  You don’t.  You’ll have plenty of time to waste on the Internet when you get home.  Trust me.  Although I do have some fond memories of Internet cafes…like this one time, in Tokyo, I…am not going to finish this story.

29. Try walking around without a map—that’s how you actually find your way around.  Worst case scenario, you can take a taxi back to your hotel.  Or maybe a rickshaw, or a tractor.  You did remember to write down your hotel’s address, right?

30. If you get the option to do something, just fucking do it—you’ll very likely get a story to tell your grandkids.  When you do tell the story, you’re totally allowed to embellish and stretch the truth—nobody else was there.  Worst case scenario—you’ll do something that you never want anybody to know about.  That’s okay—again, nobody else was there.  And of course, those end up being the best stories in the end…

Oh, and please, above all else, be safe!  No really, I mean it.

Bon voyage!

16. On Club Anthems

Tags

kids these days, music, running man, snobbery, soft-core porn, team of the 80s

I really want to do more SF-themed posts, but when I’m out of the city (and out of the country), it’s difficult to think of good topics.  If you want more SF entries, please send my boss a letter asking him to bring me home.  Instead, this week, I’m going to rant about the sorry state of music today, in particular, the music played in clubs, and in more particular (if that makes sense), the music played in clubs in Tokyo, which is the same music that was played in clubs in the states 2-3 years ago (from what I’ve been told).  But hey, give them some credit, they finally pulled Usher’s “Yeah Yeah” out of heavy rotation, after a 7-year run.  This is actually my only exposure to this entire genre of music—back home, I don’t ever go to clubs where they play poppy contemporary crap.  Don’t get me wrong, I like going dancing—I love me some Soul Night at Elbo Room and 1984 at Cat Club is an occasional indulgence—but I’ve never actually been to Double Dutch or Ruby Skye or any of these places.  I actually think that the last time I regularly went to clubs that played club anthems was when I was 18 years old and living in Israel, and the biggest hits were Eiffel 65’s “Blue” and Wamdue Project’s “King of My Castle”.  Oh man, when “King of My Castle” came on, all of the Russian dudes would get in line and do this crazy awesome Russian dance.  Remind me to show you sometime when I’m drunk.

When I go out in Tokyo, I normally like to see my DJ friends spin or go to Elbo Room-ish  types of places until the break-a break-a dawn.  However, after hours of being in such environments that are interesting musically, I will most likely have to back home.  On the way back to my hotel, I will inevitably stop for kebab at the Turkish place around the corner, and then I’ll have to swing into Vibration Bar for one last drink.  Actually, that’s not quite how it works.  The usual progression is that I buy a kebab, wolf it down in 10 seconds, then start to stumble home when a big Nigerian dude grabs my arm and asks if I want to go to Ultimate, a gentleman’s club on the second floor, above the Spaghetti shop.  When I decline, he asks if I want to go to a normal bar to get a drink, and I say okay and he points me down the stairs to Vibration Bar, promising that he’ll take me to Ultimate afterwards.  I still have yet to go to Ultimate, but I’ve been to Vibration Bar way too many times.  I usually only stay for a drink or two, although occasionally I’ll stick around a bit longer to see what unfolds.  I’m quite embarrassed to say that all of the staff there, from the bartenders to the waitresses to the bouncers, know who I am.

And what kind of place is Vibration Bar?

Here’s what you have to understand about the bars of Roppongi—they’re all kind of the same: meat markets for foreign men and the Japanese women who love them.  Gaspanic is the most famous and the dirtiest—so dirty, in fact, that I won’t even step inside.  Muse tries to pretend that it’s a bit nicer, and Vanity is the more Hollywood-style club (read: bankers and gold-diggers), but in the end the general theme is the same: you’ve got one night in Tokyo, you don’t speak a word of Japanese, and you’re hoping to get laid—here’s where you go.

Vibration Bar is no different, but it attracts a special subset.  One of the first times I went there, I met a zaftig young German lass named Marie, a regular who showed me the ropes as we knocked down 900 yen bottles of Asahi.  Try to imagine her saying this in a cute German accent (first, try to imagine what a “cute German accent” sounds like):  “So look J, here is how Vibration Bar works.  Over on this side of the room, we have big African men, from Nigeria and Ghana.  And over here, we have American military boys.  In the middle, we have what I call the ‘Burger Girls’.”
“Why do you call them the Burger Girls?”
“Well you see, although they like the African men and the military men, the true goal is to get the military men of African descent.  They are worth the most points.”
“Like a Venn Diagram?”
“Exactly.  But since black guys like girls with big butts, and the girls are all Japanese, they know they can’t compete with me.  So they go to McDonalds and eat a lot of burgers because they want to make their butts bigger, but it doesn’t work, so all the big black American men who like big butts come to Marie!”

I guess I probably should have warned you in advance that this post is not very PC.  I’ll also give the general disclaimer that nothing Marie said or says in the future reflects the opinions of this blog.  Anyway, after a little while, a group of 3 black Navy dudes came in.  Marie hopped up and said, “Oh good, now I will go fishing!”  She walked up to the tallest of the 3 (he was huge, I’d say about 6’8”, and by the way Marie is 5’3” at most), and pulled on his shoulder.  He bent down and she said something into his ear.  His head popped up and he started laughing.  Then she grabbed his shoulder again and yanked his head down to hers, and again said something into his ear.  This time he pulled his head up more slowly, and then Marie took him by the hand and started walking him out of the club.  The dude stopped into the bathroom on the way out, so she came back to say goodbye to me.

“What just happened?” I asked.
“First, I told him he was hot,” Marie replied.  “Then I told him we were going back to my place.  Now we’re gonna go back to my place to fuck.”  DAYUM!  Really ladies, is it that easy?

But this post isn’t about Marie—it’s about the music I was listening to when talking with her.  As I noted before, this was my first exposure to “club music” in about 12 years, and I gotta say, it sucks.  It sucks HARD, and I’ve compiled a list of the suckiest sucks of all, just so you can understand the agony I suffer through these days.  Keep in mind that Japan is a couple of years behind, but also remember that even though this music isn’t all new, it’s all new to me.  Without further ado, I present, coming from you live from Vibration Bar’s DJ Scratch, or as I like to call him, “DJ Now That’s What I Call Music Volume 38”:

THE TOP 10 CRAPPIEST CLUB ANTHEMS PLAYING IN ROPPONGI TODAY

10. LFMAO – “Shots”

The good news is Li’l John is still relevant in Roppongi, even without “Yeah Yeah”.  The bad news is…Li’L John is still relevant.  I can just imagine the session with the producers: “Hey guys, do college kids still like getting intoxicated and having sex?  And do they still like saying ‘fuck’?  I got it!  I’m fucked up…and I’m trying to fuck!  Er, tryin’—tryin’ to fuck!”  The worst part is that when they play this one in Vibration Bar, everybody gets excited and actually orders shots.  Fucking sheeple.

9. Taio Cruz – Break Your Heart 

Can somebody please explain to me how “R&B”, which stands for “rhythm and blues,” went from Joe Turner and Chuck Berry and Elvis and Otis Redding to this:

Okay, I actually just watched the video for the first time.  My G-d that girl is hot.  It almost makes me forget how much this song sucks.  Almost.

8. Wiz Khalifa – Black and Yellow

Marie told me that this song was about romance in Vibration Bar, and I believed her, although I thought that I probably would have heard some uproar about a song that blatantly racist.  About a month later my friend told me that it’s actually about a football team.

I’m sorry, that’s bullshit.  There’s only one good rap song about a football team out there, and I think we all know what it is.

7. J-Lo – On the Floor 

I went to Vibration Bar a while ago with a Brazilian friend and when this song came on he pointed out how it’s actually a remake of an old Brazilian song.  But little did he know that the Brazilian song was actually a remake of a Portuguese song, which in turn was a remake of a Bolivian song (with pan flutes and all), and somewhere in between then and now there was an Indian version too.  Check it out.  And then there’s J-Lo:

Meh.  A so-so remake at best.  Frankly, my thoughts on her version are similar to my thoughts on most everything in life: if there’s no pan flute involved, I’m simply not interested.

6. Black Eyed Peas – Time (Dirty Bit)

Let me say, for the record, that I have always thought that Black Eyed Peas sucked, even before the whole Superbowl debacle.  Their special brand of “positive dance rap” or whatever you want to call it has always made me nauseated, from “Where is the Love?” to “My Humps” (although my brother-in-law does a really hilarious version of that one in karaoke) to this newest bit of fluff and drivel, which ruins one of the greatest cinematic themes of all time.  Honestly, hearing somebody say that she’s had the time of her life used to make me think totally heterosexual thoughts about Patrick Swayze (may he rest in peace), but now it makes me think of—Fergie?  Hey—don’t phunk with my heart!

Seriously vomit-inducing.

5. Afrojack ft. Eva Simons– Take Over Control

About a month ago I went to Vibration Bar and this song came on (as it always does), and this one girl started dancing.  Now, this girl had already been grooving on the dance floor—clearly she had more dancing ability than your average Japanese girl (and I was later informed that she was actually Taiwanese, if that makes a difference), but when this song came on, she just exploded into the most incredibly powerful, raw, sexual display of rhythmic gyration that I or any other male in the place had ever seen in our lives.  Nigerians, navy boys, Jewish lawyer, all of us stopped whatever we were doing, put down our drinks, and allowed ourselves to me mesmerized by this modern-day dance of the seven veils.  I don’t think there’s a male who was in the club that night who hasn’t…uh…thought about that dance many, many times since then.

As a result, I had this damn song stuck in my head for a week.

This is what passes for dance music in the year 2012 (actual year of release: 2009).  We need another “Blue Monday”.

4. Cali Swag District – Teach Me How to Dougie

So I just watched the video of this for the first time, and I realized that “the Dougie” is sort of an actual dance—it’s basically what the dude from Jamiroquai was doing 14 years ago, where he kind of danced like he had no bones.  This is weird to me, because when this song comes on at Vibration Bar, all of the girls put their hands on the tables, stick their butts out, and move their hips in an inviting way, as if making their asses into targets against which men can rub their crotches, which is usually what happens.  Remember how, in middle school dances, boys and girls used to “freak”, which was about as close as some of us would get to sex for quite some time?  Well at some point in the past 17 years (Christ we’re old) since we graduated from middle school, doggy-style has become the official “freaking” position.  And in Roppongi, this song has become the doggy-style freak anthem.  And it sucks.

Teach me how to jam my ass into your crotch, teach me teach me how to jam my ass into your crotch…

3. Jay-Z and Kanye – Ninjas in Paris

If you ask me, hip-hop died with Tupac and Biggie.  I know you love Jay-Z, and I guess I can respect him, but he’s just not my thing (except that album he did with the Beatles).  Kanye is just incredibly irritating—can we all agree on that?—although his cameo on Southpark was brilliant.  I don’t understand the appeal to this song in a club setting—it’s not all that danceable, the beat is just annoying, and you can’t really sing along.  In fact, it kinda clears the dance floor of Vibration Bar, and that, my friends, is just sad.

I much prefer the version by the ladies of Social Proof, which is an extremely dope SF/tech industry blog that you must check out (even though it makes me feel incredibly old).

Incidentally, the ladies of Social Proof (who are clearly Mission People) never responded to my letter asking them out on a date—it must have gotten lost in the mail.  I’m also assuming that the roses I sent them went to the wrong address.  I’m not sure what happened to the 18 emails and 32 voicemails I left for them.  Sigh, I will never understand women.

2. Katy Perry – California Gurls

It’s really interesting watching all of these videos for the first time (except for the Black Eyed Peas video, which I literally could not stomach for more than 15 seconds)—I have a new appreciation for these songs.  For example, with this song, at first I didn’t understand the appeal.  Seriously, this pop shit is so cheesy that it’s making Madonna and Paula Abdul roll in their graves.  But then I watched the video, and it suddenly made sense:

First, Katy and her production team made a song targeting the key 13 year-old girl demographic, and then they made it into a soft-core porn video (complete with the requisite “money shot”) in order to tap into the “horny male” segment.  I mean, let’s face it, after watching that, you’re still humming that song in your head, right?  But really, it is G-d-awful. In fact, when Marie told me this was her favorite song, I knew that we could never be together.  That, and the fact that she likes younger, large black men as opposed to older Jewish men of average stature.

1.5. Chris Brown – Yeah 3x 

Before I started writing this post I actually wrote down my list of the 10 worst popular songs, and somehow I forgot to include this gem, which is probably the most popular of them all.  Heck, you might say that “Yeah Yeah Yeah” is the new “Yeah Yeah.” It should probably tide Tokyo over for another 7 years until somebody even worse than Chris Brown (if that’s possible) comes up with “Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah,” which will undoubtedly include a reprise of Li’l John.

The choreography of the video ain’t bad, but this song is definitely making Michael Jackson roll in his grave (and I believe he’s actually dead).

AND THE SINGLE WORST SONG PLAYING IN ROPPONGI CLUBS TODAY IS…

1. LMFAO – PARTY ROCK ANTHEM

Yes, the worst songs playing in Tokyo today do make an LMFAO sandwich.*  I actually encountered this song before I came to Tokyo—you may recall that it was in a commercial for Kia (you know, the affordable Korean car) that featured hamsters doing the Running Man, which apparently is now called “shuffling”.  Then, when I got to Tokyo, I learned that this piece of crap was not just a really bad snippet from Kia’s creative team, but an actual song that people listen to.  And when I realized that, I wept.

Incidentally, today I went to the Tokyo Dome to see the Hanshin Tigers face the Seattle Mariners.  My friend and I were mortified to find that this song is Ichiro’s current walk-up music.  The Mariners got clobbered 5-1, and frankly, when your star player chooses this as his walk-up music, your team deserves to suck.

So there you have it kiddies—welcome to my world and the heinous club anthems that exist herein.  Clearly, I need to get my ass home to SF and its “Stuff White People Like” musical appeal ASAP.

*I know, I know, sandwiches are not named for what’s on the outside, but what’s on the inside—you call it a “pastrami sandwich”, not a “rye bread sandwich”.  And yes, this would normally annoy me.  It reminds me of when I was in 8^th grade and my best friend dyed his hair blue.  Everybody called him “Smurf”, which pissed him off because Smurfs are all blue except for their hair (for those Smurfs who have hair).  This is similar, and I’m sorry.  Deal with it.

12. On Other Places in Which I Have Lived: Los Angeles

Tags

Anthrax, Dodgers suck, LA, other cities

When I did my post about New York last month, a friend of mine suggested that I call my series on other cities “On Other Places Which I Have Loved.”  Truth be told, that was my original intention…before I realized that I would want one day to write about LA.

The story begins in Japan about 5 years ago.  I was living in a small town called Hadano, about 72 minutes outside of Tokyo on the Odakyu Line.  Every Saturday I would ride the train into the big city, go to my favorite all-you-can-eat Indian buffet in Shibuya, walk around Yoyogi Park and Harajuku, meet up with a friend or two for dinner, then hit up a club, and either take the first train home at 6 AM, or wake up in a love hotel bathtub, minus a kidney.

One weekend was different.  I did not find myself out exploring the wild Japanese bright lights big city, but instead spent the weekend in my favorite internet café—Club Sega, where you can sleep (and do other things) in the padded cubicles and drink free strawberry milk to your heart’s content.  But this time I was not playing World of Warcraft for hours on end (was WOW even around 5 years ago?), instead I was frantically racing to finish, print, and send out all of my law school applications.  I don’t remember why I was in such a hurry, but I remember spending many, many hours in that Club Sega, doing it all at once.  Finally, I finished the apps, printed out copies, grabbed my backpack and headed out to the train for the ride home.

When I got into the train, I noticed that the guy standing next to me was an American, probably in his 50s, wearing a Boalt cap.  I got excited and told him that I had just sent off my application to Boalt.  I wanted more than anything to get into Boalt (which, for you young ‘uns reading this, is now called the “Berkeley School of Law” or something like that).  At that point I had spent 8 years away from the Bay Area and was ready to go back.  Stanford was a long shot for me, and I knew it.  Hastings was a fallback—and I had heard it was a corporate lawyer factory and I certainly didn’t want to end up working in a corporate law firm after school (ha!).  The man, having graduated from Boalt over 25 years ago, still looked back on those days fondly, and talked my ear off about his alma mater, giving me plenty of unsolicited advice (as lawyers are wont to do) about what I had to do when I was student there.  It was a sign—I was destined to go to Boalt.

But I didn’t get into Boalt.  So I went to UCLA.

I never really gave LA much of a chance.  How could I?  I’m from the Bay Area.  We hate LA.  We see Angelinos as everything we are not: fake, shallow, superficial, snobby (I mean, in a bad way…not like our SF snobbery, which is justified and fun for the whole family), stupid and boring.  We hate their smog—we much prefer our fog.  We think their traffic is a joke, as we’d rather save the planet and get some exercise by walking or riding our bikes.  As my aunt once put it, “The problem with LA is that there are no good places to eat and the city has no charm.”  Oh, and let’s not forget how much we detest the Dodgers.

It’s funny—baseball aside, people from LA really don’t hate SF.  I recently watched a Bill Maher clip in which he went off on Republicans from the “heartland” for always hating on those “elites on the coast,” while you never heard Jerry Brown talk smack about those horrible Midwesterners.  It’s similar—mention “LA” to a San Franciscan, and you’ll get a groan, or maybe get slapped (at least that’s what usually happens to me); mention “SF” to an Angelino, and you’ll get an “oh, I like San Francisco, I think I’ll visit there again soon.”  This is not because Angelinos are better people than San Franciscans.  This is because they recognize that our city is vastly superior to theirs.  Duh.  Or, if I may bring us back to fifth grade, “no doy hicky.”

Unfortunately, I’m a deeply opinionated, cynical asshole, and I had pretty much already made up my mind about LA before I got there.  However, I had a long talk with an Angelino friend of mine shortly after I arrived (I allow myself the occasional Angelino friend), and he basically laid it out: LA is a big city, and no matter who you are, there’s something for you hiding in there somewhere, amongst the farmers markets, Pink Berries and swimming pools.  On his advice, I set out on the quest to discover “my LA.”  It took me over a year, but I eventually found an LA I didn’t despise.

A major step was moving away from Westwood after my first year of law school.  Although Westwood was convenient for school, I can’t imagine it being a remotely enjoyable place unless you’re a UCLA undergrad student.  There are three bars in Westwood: one is actually a Mexican restaurant, one is a shitty crowded sports bar, and one is the Westwood Brew Co., where, as my friend put it, “no single person has ever gotten laid.”  I think there were three things I liked about Westwood: the Indonesian restaurant, Diddy Reese (an amazing cookie/ice cream shop), and I can’t remember what the third one is now.

I had a friend who owned a condo in Hollywood and wanted to lease it out while she spent a couple of years in London, so at the beginning of my second year I moved there.  Located just off Hollywood Blvd., right by Runyan Canyon, it wasn’t exactly convenient for school, but the neighborhood certainly had character.  In my building everybody was Russian, Jewish, gay, or some combination thereof—and that really sums up about half of the buildings in Hollywood.  The other half were the “hottie houses,” where you could only get an apartment if you were really hot.  The building next to mine was a hottie house, and there was a first floor gym with a giant window looking in so when you walked by you could see all of the really hot girls and muscle-bound guys working out, and know that the residents of the building were much hotter than you and those with whom you lived.  These hottie houses were filled with aspiring actors and musicians—no, really, that’s not a joke—and they couldn’t have leases any longer than 6 months because all of the residents quickly learned that just because you’re hot, it doesn’t mean that you’re going to be successful in Los Angeles.  The ubiquitous moving vans really made driving down my street a pain in the ass.

Every now and then, usually when waiting for the bus, I’d strike up a conversation with one of these young-and-hopefuls.  I literally heard, “Yeah, I moved here about three years ago to work on my music, and, like, nothing’s happened yet, but I just got a new agent who used to work with the Edge from U2, and I’m pretty sure that this year things are gonna really take off…”

Yeah, you heard me correctly back at the beginning of that last paragraph.  I did say “waiting for the bus.”  I took the bus to school every day, in brash defiance of the LA vehicle-driving mentality.  I owned a car, and used it on weekends when I had to (which was pretty much all the time, as very little in LA is accessible via public transportation), but during the week I tried my best not to contribute to the awful traffic, pollution, laziness, and superficiality that comes with LA’s car culture.  I was very fortunate that there was a direct bus line from Sunset to UCLA.  The ridership was about 25% UCLA students, 75% Mexican maids living in East LA and working in Beverly Hills.  I also took the subway to K-town for my internship.  Yes, there’s a subway in LA.  If you live and work near one of the 3 places in the huge city that it services, I highly recommend it; it’s never crowded, even during rush hour.

Hollywood also had the “walk of fame”—you know, where people come from all around the world to take a picture of Bill Cosby’s name written in the sidewalk.  There were the Hollywood clubs, which I avoided like the plague—places designed for rich men to hook up with uber-attractive, vapid women.  I’ll acknowledge that seeing these young, hot wannabe starlets in their tiny tight dresses and high heels stumbling drunk down the boulevard late at night was fun, but these clubs were a simply pathetic scene.  Any time bottle service is involved, I want to find the nearest studio exec (or, if we’re in New York, I-banker) and punch him in the face.  Not that I need bottle service to get that desire.

Although this might not exactly sound like my scene, at the very least it was somewhat interesting.  I enjoyed living as a sort of “resident alien” (if I may compare myself to Aristotle), sent as an observer of a bizarre sociological experiment: what happens when you tell a bunch of hot, naïve kids from the Midwest that they’ll be rich and famous if they move to a incredibly dirty, gritty, disgusting part of California?

But other than making fun of my residents, there were some things about LA I genuinely liked.  There were some great burger joints: Umami Burger, Father’s Office, and 25 Degrees at the Roosevelt Hotel, to name a few.  There was the dive bar down the street from me called “Coach and Horses” (a.k.a. “Crotch and Herpes”) where I once saw Scott Ian of Anthrax—a pretty sweet celebrity encounter, if I do say so myself.  I loved going to the Cat & Fiddle on Sunset for Sunday jazz.  Supposedly Morrissey sometimes made an appearance there, but I never saw him.  However, there was no shortage of Morrissey-obsessed Mexicans, with their pompadours and Mozza tattoos.  It’s a whole thing in LA—Mexicans and Morrissey.  This clip pretty much sums it up:

I also liked some of the hipster-ish places like Los Feliz, Silverlake and Echo Park in the eastern part of LA (note: these places are not East LA—just like you don’t live in Harlem if you go to Columbia).  Wednesday night Dub Club at the Echoplex remains one of my favorite nights out of all time, and Thursday nights at Little Temple were pretty dope as well.  Oh, and I liked that Polish bar in Santa Monica, and going to Zanzibar if the music was good, although I’d never to go the beach in Santa Monica because let’s face it, it was absolutely disgusting.  And what was the name of that really cheesy sports bar in Culver City, that had karaoke 4 nights a week?  You know I loved it—but I’m pretty much a sucker for all things karaoke.

I think the episodes of Mad Men when Don went to LA kind of sum up the whole mystique of the city: a magical place where the weather is always good, you can get good oranges, everybody is good looking, and nobody ever works.  It’s as though the city takes its motto from L.A. Story: “Little girl, let your mind go and your body will follow.”  And honestly, I can see the appeal of that kind of lifestyle—it just isn’t for me.  I will take my SF fog and intellect over LA’s sunshine and flakiness any day of the week.

In summation: LA has great weather, and there are some good restaurants, bars, and museums (I know I didn’t mention the museums before, but just trust me).  Unfortunately, you have to get stuck in traffic for an hour to get to these places, and once you get there it takes another 20 minutes to find parking, and once you finally find parking and enter these places, they’re filled with Angelinos.  I did find my LA…but then I got the hell out there as fast as I could.

Oh, and fuck the Dodgers.

Outtro 1:

Outtro 2:

8. On Japanese Toilets

Tags

ball-peen, bidet, Buddha, Japan, robots

Eventually I’ll have to write a post entitled “On Places in Which I Have Lived: Japan,” possibly dividing it up into separate posts for Toyama and Tokyo, but I realize that I should at least give you a little something about Japan now, while I’m still in Japan.  I’m in Japan, by the way.  I’ve been here for 4 months and I’ll be here for 2 more—my law firm sent me here to TCO some B.  I’ll say it’s a lot different being a lawyer in Tokyo than it was being an English teacher in the middle of nowhere.  But more on that later (in subsequent posts).

Writing about Japan is always fun and very easy to do; one need only to write about what he sees in his day-to-day experience and anybody who has never lived in Japan will find it hilarious.  For example, it snowed in Tokyo last night, so this morning the sidewalks were covered in ice.  On my way to the subway, I passed an “obaachyan” (grandmother) kneeling on the ground, smashing the ice in front of her restaurant with a ball-peen hammer.  When I passed by, she looked up at me, smiled and said, “ohayo gozaimasu!” (good morning!), then went back to smashing at the ice with the ball-peen hammer.  That’s hilarious!  And do you know why that’s hilarious?  Because I used the word “ball-peen.”

I got a lot of mileage out of writing about my experiences in Japan when I lived here as a teacher.  My adoring fans never grew tired of hearing stories about awkward Japanese co-workers, drunk Japanese businessmen singing Carpenters songs and passing out in the middle of the street, jiu-jitsu and love hotels.  The beautiful thing about Japan is everything you’ve heard is true.  “Is everybody in Japan obsessed with Hello Kitty?” Yes!  “Do people eat a lot of sushi in Japan?”  Yes!  “Do girls dress up like anime characters in Tokyo?”  Double Yes! “Can you really buy used schoolgirl panties in vending machines?” Oui oui, monsieur!   But just hearing of these things does not do the empire of the sun justice.  No, this is one post where I have to give you some visual aid…

And thus, I will introduce you to a concept I did not write enough about when I lived here last: Japanese toilets.  Everybody, meet my toilet:

Now, meet my toilet’s console:

Does your toilet not have a console?  Oh my friend, if it does not, then you are missing out.  What can my toilet do?  A better question would be “what can my toilet not do,” and the only answer I can think of is “sing the entire score of The HMS Pinafore a la Sideshow Bob,” but honestly, I bet it could do that too with minimal training.

First of all, what these pictures do not show is that the seat is heated to a toasty 42 degrees (C), which is perfect for keeping your butt warm during those cold winter evenings.  Remember when your dad got that new car in the late 90s that had the leather front seats with the butt warmers, and so at night you’d take off your pants and turn the warmers on (but not too the highest setting—that totally burned!)?  Imagine getting to do that every day.  That is just one small portion of the joy that my toilet brings to me.

My toilet also makes me happy because it keeps me safe.  We’ve all heard about how there are 14 times as many bacteria on the taps of the sink than there are in the toilet, and how washing your hands after you use the toilet is actually detrimental to your health, right?  I mean, that’s my excuse for not washing my hands.  But the Japanese, in their ultra-sanitary ways, have found a way around that catch-22, by making a toilet with a built-in faucet that automatically turns on when you flush, with no need to touch any filthy taps!  Also, if there are any bacteria left in the toilet after you flush, a little Pokemon comes out and zap them.  Unfortunately I couldn’t take a picture of my Pokemon, because my bathroom is dark and exposing a Pokemon to flash is the Japanese equivalent of feeding a gremlin after midnight.  And believe me, an evil Pokemon is the last thing I need!

Hand-washing, of course, is only the beginning.  If you looked closely at the picture of the console above, you may have noticed that there’s a button labeled “wash bottom”.  This, of course, is a euphemism.  When I think of “washing one’s bottom,” I envision some kind of luffa being used to really scrub down one’s cheeks.  My toilet doesn’t do that.  It does, however, have a robotic arm that comes out of the back of the bowl and shoots water up your anus.  Yeah, I used that word.  “Anus” and “ball-peen” in the same post.  I’m on a roll.  Here’s a pic:

Notice how I had to use my foot to cover the sensor, which is there to prevent kids from shooting water all over the bathroom.  When I was growing up in Marin there was a kid whose parents had a bidet, and we used to go to his house and turn the bidet on full blast, so the water would hit the ceiling.  Little kids just love shooting water all over bathrooms—that’s the way it is.

But I digress.  Don’t be fooled by the relatively simple design of the robo-anus-cleaner.  This is a complex machine with many moving parts and options for adding variety into your cleansing experience.  Now maybe your robo-anus-cleaner just has one measly setting, and thus can only cater to people of a certain height, weight and internal thermometer, but with my robo-anus-cleaner:

• You can manually control the position of the “nozzle,” or you can set it to “move” so it gently slides back and forth;
• You can control the water pressure (in the photo, it’s on the minimum setting);
• You can control the temperature of the water, from ice cold to piping hot and everywhere in between.  I like to keep it on “medium rare.”

There’s no set time for how long the cleansing experience lasts—sometimes you just want a quick burst for a pick-me-up, sometimes you need a more involved session (with lots of button-pressing and knob turning—yes, there are knobs too, in a secret compartment in the toilet).  Needless to say, you have not live until you’ve had your anus cleaned by a Japanese robotic toilet.

I’d like to take a moment now to talk about sexism in Japan.  I’m not talking about sexism against women, you know, those archaic notions that are still prominent in Japan, that women are meant to be seen and not heard, and to be married by the time they’re 25, and that the only functions of women are to look pretty and bear children.  This is one kind of bad sexism that exists in this country, but equally bad (well, maybe not quite so much, or not really at all) is the sexism against men that one sees all over Japan.  Yes, you heard me.  There are certain things in this country that are designated as being for women, and men are simply not allowed to enjoy them.  For example, puri-kura, those obnoxious photo-booths that little Japanese girls love but I really can’t stand. In a lot of puri-kura shops, boys aren’t even allowed to enter without accompanying females–how sexist is that?  Or consider the “lady’s set.”  Available at many restaurants for lunchtime, the “lady’s set” is considered to attuned to a gentler, more feminine palate.  Sure, a man can technically order the “lady’s set”—if he wants to be ridiculed by his waiter, blown off by his date, or, if he’s at lunch with this boss, fired.  The worst part is that the lady’s set always has the best food!  Take, for example, the Okinawan restaurant in my office building.  Okinawan food varies from really bad to really amazing.  On the really bad end is goya, which is a spongy, bitter, green, bumpy, cucumber-like vegetable that I am convinced was Roald Dahl’s inspiration for the “snozzcumbers” in The BFG.  Yuck.  But then look at (or really, taste) rafute, Okinawan pork belly.  Soft, tender, oh-so-fatty, melts in your mouth, makes you sexually aroused just to know it exists in the world…sorry, it’s hard to keep this blog PG-13 when I’m thinking about this:

Yeah, admit it.  You totally want some right now.  But dig this—in the Okinawan restaurant in my office building, the only way you can have rafute for lunch is with the gosh-darned lady’s set!  It’s for women only!  In the eyes of Japan (or at least in this particular restaurant), only a weak, pathetic man who is willing to sacrifice his personal and professional reputation may taste this golden, marshmallow-like juicy cut of pig flesh that would make the most orthodox of rabbis rethink his faith!  This is truly sexism at its worst.

Apparently the designer of my toilet was equally sexist, because she made the “bidet” button pink and in the English translation wrote, “for women.”  And between you and me, fair readers, to this day I have not used it, out of fear that it would make me less of a man.  But ya know what?  I don’t care what Japan thinks!  I’m going to go test it out right now!

Well, that was interesting.  How did it feel?  You know when you set your phone to vibrate and then call yourself?  Kind of like that.

So by now you might be thinking, okay, I’ve “washed” my “bottom” and “bideted,” I’m all wet down there!  What do I do?  Don’t worry, dear friend, my toilet’s got you covered.  By pressing the third button, you activate the dryer (which of course has an adjustable temperature).  Does it work?  When I came to Japan 7 years ago, I was blown away by the hand dryers in public restrooms (no pun intended…ugh, you ever notice how when somebody says “no pun intended,” it usually brings your attention to a god-awful pun that you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise?).  With hand dryers in America, it’s always “Step 3: wipe hands on pants,” but in Japan, you put your hands into the dryer and they come out dry!  Well imagine that technology—on your butt.

And people ask me why I never want to leave my hotel room!

There’s one last element of my bathroom I should point out.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen enough sci-fi movies to know that any technology that is this advanced will eventually become self-aware and turn on its human master.  And I’m not gonna lie, this is something that I fear every time I sit down on my super-toilet.  I shudder to think of the havoc this john-from-beyond could wreak if it one day decided to rebel against its bipedal oppressors.  But if that ever happens while I am on the throne, I have a safeguard that will mitigate any damage that could ensue.  Recognizing that an unholy robotic Armageddon could be unleashed at any moment, the designer of my bathroom had the foresight to install this within arm’s reach:

Pressing this button causes the emergency phone console in my living room to flash and beep, and a woman’s voice calls “トイレに来てください,”which means, “please come to the toilet!”

At that point, whoever is in the living room can come and save the person in the bathroom from whatever horrors the toilet is unleashing.  In my case, my savior will probably be the enlightened one himself, who is the only other resident of my hotel room:

And that, my friends, is my Japanese toilet.  It’s funny—I had originally planned on somehow using the toilet as a kind of metaphor for Japan in general, intertwining all sorts of Japanese social commentary, but in the end I just wrote an entire post about how the Japanese toilet is just totally freaking awesome.  Kind of like Japan.

5. On Other Places in Which I Have Lived: New York

Tags

Bettie Page, New York, other cities

San Francisco is the city that I love the most, but I’m not sure if I’d love it as much as I do if I hadn’t spent a significant amount of time (around 12 years) living outside of the Bay Area.  I’ve often felt that you can’t love something unless you’ve experienced what else the world has to offer.  Indeed, I’ve often asked, how can you know which ice cream flavor is your favorite until you’ve tried them all?  How can you claim with such conviction that America is the greatest country in the world when you have never owned a passport (that one was targeted towards my conservative readership, if it exists)?  How can you even think about settling down with one thing that you claim to love when there is so much more to explore first?  Interestingly enough, my ex-girlfriend used a very similar line of logic in explaining her justification for dumping me.  Believe me, the irony was not wasted.

With that in mind, this post is my first of several, which will be spaced out over the next several months, discussing the places I have lived outside of San Francisco.  And what better place to start than the self-proclaimed best city in the world, New York!  Because I’ve technically only lived in the city of San Francisco for about a year and a half cumulatively, New York, where I spent 3 and a half glorious years, takes the cake as the city in which I have spent the largest chunk of my life thus far.

I went to college in New York, at Columbia.  I generally don’t tell people this fact, because when you tell somebody that you went to Columbia, they usually either assume that (a) you’re an elitist snob, (b) you’re much more impressive than you actually are, or (c) you’re inferior (if they went to Harvard, Yale, or maybe Princeton).  However, in order to fully grasp my New York experience, you need to know that I viewed the city through the bizarre alternate reality prism of Columbia.  Indeed, that’s part of the beauty of New York—there are so many different ways to experience it (unlike San Francisco, where you really only have two options—see my previous post).

Columbia was definitely a bubble.  Some Columbians liked to claim that they live in Harlem, or even Morningside Heights (which was actually much more dangerous than Harlem), but really, Columbians live in Columbia.  When I was there, we spent the bulk of our time in the rectangle defined by Broadway, Amsterdam, 112^th and 118^th.  We drank at the Columbia bars and ate at the Columbia restaurants.  I liked to refer to people in the area who were not students as “Townies”, who seemed somewhat out of place among the “educated elitists”.

Nonetheless, right outside of Columbia lay the beautiful city of New York, and I made it a point to venture out into the alluring bright lights as often as I could.  I had a number of friends at NYU so I spent a fair amount of time in the Village.  It always felt like such a hassle to get all the way down there on the Subway—I never, ever took cabs when I lived in NY—but it was always worth it.  Eating falafel at Mamoun’s.  Going to the Blue Note with my parents when they were in town to pay for it.  And of course, going to Cherry Tavern, my favorite bar in the world, for the “Tijuana Special”: $5 for a shot of cheap tequila and a Tecate in a can.  I used to throw an annual party there and to this day I still occasionally get an email from a friend I haven’t seen in forever that says, “I went to Cherry Tavern the other night and thought of you!”

New York seems like such a money-driven, expensive city, but man, we sure rocked that city on the cheap.  Buying forties from the bagel shop and getting drunk on the steps in front of the university library.  Drinking straight from plastic handles of “Poland Spring” vodka that cost $10.99—I’m seriously surprised that I didn’t go blind.  Grabbing giant sandwiches from Hamilton Deli that would last for two meals.  Taking the subway instead of taking cabs (as noted above).  Walking instead of taking the subway.  Going to the MoMa, Met and Whitney but not the Guggenheim because we couldn’t get into that one for free with our student IDs.  Spending the afternoon walking the length of Central Park, from 110^th street down to 59^th.  Going to free art gallery openings in Chelsea and drinking the cheap wine.  Seeing jazz for $6 at Smalls.  The most expensive meal I ate while living in New York was a few nights before graduation, when a bunch of us went to Rain on 82^nd and the bill, including many drinks, came out to around 70 bucks per person.  Now try going out in New York and spending less than $70—it’s hardly possible.

When I hear about New York, it sounds like the bad guys have won.  CBGBs got replaced with a Citibank.  “A”, my favorite little Caribbean joint in Morningside Heights (not Columbia), got replaced, most likely with a Citibank.  None of my friends, not even the lawyers, can afford to live in Manhattan, so they all moved to Brooklyn.  Brooklyn got overrun by hipsters, whom I think I dislike for some reason.  A subway token increased from $1.25 when I lived there to $2.50, and they got rid of the tokens altogether (that actually occurred before I arrived, I think).  Hot dogs became more expensive too, if I remember correctly.  The 1% got too much power, and then the protests against the 1% became annoying.

But still, when I visit New York—and I try to go back every year—I feel like that indescribable New York spirit with which I became so enamored in my college days has yet to be defeated.  New York will always have that raw, gritty flavor, even if the whole city gets Disney-fied.  I think in the past, people associated New York with Frank Sinatra.  Now, people probably associate it with Jay-Z.  But for me, New York will always be Lou Reed territory: filthy, rude, starving, dark, and hopelessly and utterly romantic.  Filled with really hot girls who will read 18^th-century French poetry to you when they’re completely naked (except for their fashionable reading glasses).  And they also have on blood red lipstick and they’re smoking cigarettes in an extremely sexy manner.  And their hair is jet black and they all kind of remind you of Bettie Page.  And in their apartments they burn candles in old wine bottles in close proximity to their violet satin curtains, with complete disregard for their buildings’ fire codes.

And the pool halls are all smoky, even though they banned smoking indoors years ago.  And the bars all have Yuengling on tap.  And in the wintertime there are hot roasted peanut stands on all the street corners and they make the streets smell like sweet, syrupy sugar.  And the buildings block out the sky but you’re not missing much because the sky’s always gray anyway.  And everybody speaks multiple languages and is Jewish, and they all dress in black and say things like “Avenue C is the new Avenue B.”  And you always feel like you’re on drugs, and there’s a big chance that you actually are.

The summers are too hot in New York, and the winters are too cold, at least if you’re from California, and autumn only lasts for a week and spring only for a day but those two short seasons are enough to make you forget all of the miserable weather you endured.  It’s funny, growing up in California, I always found that “talking about the weather” was a silly cliché, because nobody in California talks about the weather.  In New York people often talk about the weather, and by “talk” I mean “complain”.  New Yorkers complain a lot, in fact.  This is probably a result of the fact that they’re all Jewish (as I noted above).

New Yorkers are New York-centric to a comical degree.  When I was living in LA, a buddy of mine from New York came to visit.  We were sitting in a restaurant in Venice and two guys sat down at a table close by, one wearing a Dodgers cap, one wearing an Angels cap.  I started talking about baseball with my friend, and he asked, “so in California, do people prefer the Yankees or the Mets?”

On the subject of baseball and New Yorkers, I tend to like Mets fans more than Yankees fans.  I tend to like Jets fans more than Giants fans.  I tend to like Islanders fans more than Rangers fans.  I don’t follow basketball, but if I did, I’m not sure that I’d tend to like Nets fans more than Knicks fans.  I mean—New Jersey kinda sucks.

But I digress.  There’s the old saying, “Leave NY before you get too hard, leave SF before you get too soft.”  New York did bad things to me.  It turned me into a cold, bitter, cynical asshole.  How could it not—doesn’t it do that to everybody?  I don’t think I could ever live there again, but I’m always happy to visit.  It’s more fun to visit anyway.  New York is a constantly evolving city, but the change is so gradual that you’ll never notice it if you live there.  On my annual visits, it is all too clear that things have gotten cleaner, shinier, richer, and more boring.  Some of the rough edges of New York have been sanded down.  Movie tickets became ridiculously expensive.  Everybody got younger.  Then again, they opened the High Line and I must say it is absolutely beautiful.  Global warming has tamed the winters, and nobody is going to say it’s a bad thing (as one friend of mine noted, 70 degrees in December is a “convenient truth”).  They opened a new tapas place in Chelsea that is superb.

No matter how much New York changes and ceases to be the city in which I lived in the halcyon days of my youth, I can honestly say that I will always love New York.  From an objective standpoint, I might say it’s the best city in the U.S., if not the world.  Whenever I speak to a foreigner who has never been to America but is interested in visiting, I always recommend New York as the number one place to go if his or her time is limited.  New York will give you the ultimate American experience as we want you to see it—a country brimming with diversity, strength, culture, and, in its own twisted way, prosperity.  It’s as American as apple pie.  A really over-priced, gourmet piece of apple pie.  With vanilla ice cream.  Vanilla bean ice cream.