I go to the gym.
That is to say, I make every effort to go to the gym.
To be clear, I make my best effort to go to the gym.
Just so there's no confusion, I sometimes go to the gym,
but most of the time, I don't.
In my sophomore year of college I needed some type of activity to fill the enormous, gaping, Earth-destroying asteroid-sized hole in my schedule. The problem was that I was taking undergraduate and graduate courses at the same time; the latter did not start until the evening and the former promptly ended just past lunch. While I knew about the existence of a gym on our poor excuse for a "campus," I was never had never felt a desire to be within the confines of its man-sweat soaked walls, breathing in its man-sweat-vapored air.
Prologue.
I was not single at the time and—and I assure you, most guys in steady relationships do—thought that any attempt to improve my outward appearance was a complete waste of my valuable time; time that could have otherwise been spent watching pirated movies on my laptop in the library—and I assure you, many hours were spent doing just that. I was a skinny pole-of-a-human-being and did not care. Could you have blamed me? Why sweat at the gym when you can get the milk for free?
Nevertheless I had time to kill and was running out of movies to watch. With a faded-pink-faced Master combination lock and a change of shorts and shirt in tote, I took the two flights of stairs down to the basement of Rogers Hall and thus began my foray into the process of forging and sculpting muscle tissue. It was slow-going at first, but after a few weeks I started to like the "pain" although I had yet to see any "gain." Like a child who just did his first push-ups, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, flexing my puny biceps in desperate search for any hints of a muscle bulge rising up just under the skin's surface.
Surprisingly, I kept at it and actually saw results. This fueled my vanity and helped me fight the constant, internal battle against complacency and sloth. In the off moths I was able to maintain my new-found regimen by using a Bally Total Fitness membership that I had gotten with my family at the Jew-ripe age of 13 and then had promptly abandoned at the age of 13-and-a-half. Going back to that gym I felt like General MacArthur reclaiming Manila, except instead of overjoyed, newly-liberated aborigines, I was surrounded by juiced-up, spray-tanned, Axe-bathed walking stereotypes. I felt sound as a pound.
Near the tail-end of my illustrious college career I had picked up a workout buddy in form of my BFF Eric after convincing him to sign up for a Bally's membership. I quickly brought him up to speed and in no time we were pumping out the same weight and reps. We helped push each other in those difficult times when we felt like we were stuck and not improving ("plateaued"). I looked forward to our time at the gym, because that was our time to catch up on the television that we've watched or chances with females that we've ruined.
As a side-note, he has never thanked me for transforming his scrawny physique into its current form. I will be expecting a gift of some sort from his future wife of greater or equal value to a year's-worth of personal training sessions.
Thanks to Eric and our silent, never-spoken-of competition to see who will become bigger and stronger, I was able to keep a, for the most part, steady gym schedule: a diligent three days per week. Not the most intensive of workout schedules, but still pretty good by 1-out-of-every-3-American-kids-is-overweight-or-obese standards.
The schedule started to break down once I moved in with my girlfriend. Having someone tell you they love you just the way you are can really take its toll. Losing my gym buddy in the process—through distance, not death—did not help matters. I keep looking for and finding excuses. The irony is that I know how much harder it is to start back up once one has been out for too long. I dread that first day back after a too-long a hiatus. I've been there many times before: muscles too reluctant to stretch, give up too easily, recover slowly.
I hope that it is the winter and now spring months that are making me lethargic. Once the summer comes and I drop the five-or-so hibernation pounds I've put on I will be back to my old routine. However, I know I will not be pushing myself with the same intensity as before. I will likely settle into a less-strenuous maintenance routine, which is probably healthier anyway as I will be reducing the amount of stress I put on my body.
The above-mentioned intentions are written here as a statement for the record and for no one else's benefit but my own.
I GO TO THE GYM!
5.04.2009
4.22.2009
Revelation Through Selfishness
I think at this point it's safe to say this blog is clearly no longer "tech-centric."
I am not entirely proud of it, but I have been called selfish at various points in my life. However, I think I am in the upper class of selfish people, because unlike the runts below me I recognize this quality in myself whereas everyone else is completely blind to this glaring shortcoming of their personality. Given this last sentence, I must also admit that I have been called arrogant at times as well.
When it does so, my brand of selfishness manifests itself in my dealings with those that are not all that important to me, and is otherwise held in check—to the best of my abilities—vis-à-vis those I truly love and care for. However, despite being called arrogant, I am not delusional enough think myself perfect and therefore will slip on occasion and expose my selfish nature even to those that are near and dear to me. I usually do not mean to be that way, but at times it can be a bit of a reflex action; something I do not realize until after the act has already occurred, the offense made, and the damage done.
This post is about one such recent act of selfishness that I had perpetrated against the one I love most, and my emotionally-draining, -exhausting, -difficult attempt to make amends. By performing the nominal act of repentance, which I describe below, I exposed my rawest of nerves, explored aspects of my character whose nature, when encountered, felt completely foreign and counter to what I knew about myself (or at least thought I knew), but after which my love for this wonderful person that is now the premier source of my happiness and whose happiness is premier, will have become more complete, more deep, and more plentiful. With this act I lifted the self-imposed blindfold I was donning prior to my going through with this experience and was able to accept and gain a deeper understanding of my one, my everything, completely, and without reservation.
With so much preamble (near the point of filibuster) one would think that I must have had to perform some Herculean task as penance for some unforgivable transgression. In reality, the truth—to some—may seem laughable, but to me was anything but.
The crime: Failing to read my girlfriend's blog archives.
The punishment: Reading said archives.
My girl is an incredibly talented writer. Although my opinion may be biased, I know it is shared by hundreds of readers who frequent her blog and leave glowing comments and reviews after every post. I knew of its existence before we started dating. Its archives date back to a pre-us era. A period of time that, for her, consisted of constant highs and lows (but don't take my word for it, go read the archives!). The writing is vivid, clever, imaginative, and just plain spectacular.
In the not-too-distant past my girlfriend, rightly, pointed out the odd fact that I never went back to read all her old blog posts. She—once again rightly—said that had I had a body of work out there somewhere, she would stay up all day and night until she had absorbed every word of it.
I must admit I was rather shocked at myself, because this clearly was a terrible omission on my part. Why wasn't I interested enough to go and read all those posts that had been born out of my love's past experiences, and crafted by her superior literary skill? I really had no answer. All I could offer was a mea culpa and a promise to read them all in the near future. It was just after this promise was made that she warned me that I might run into mentions of previous men in her life as, again, these writings were from a time before we were dating. The comment was innocent enough but it certainly had an effect, and it lodged itself in my brain as I—with zero hesitation—navigated to her blog (this was happening while I was at work) and began randomly clicking on archive links seeking out these mentions that she had warned me about. I cannot say what led me to do this. Some base curiosity, I suppose. Even as a rush of anxiety and panic swept through me, I continued to click. I came up nearly empty-handed, finding only a fleeting mention here and there, but my search was definitely not exhaustive.
Following that day I let sleeping dogs lie and avoided that blog like the plague. I never thought myself so weak and pathetic and yet there I was, cowering, like an ostrich with its head in the sand. Days went by and I had forgotten all about it.
As a side note, I am not as completely naïve as I sound. I am fully aware that I was not the first man in my love's life. I have heard her recount—with a fair amount of detail—past almost-relationships and not-almost-heartaches. It was tough to hear, but I dealt with it in a rational and mature manner. Of course there is something inherently different between hearing her tell these stories now that we are together, and reading about them in these flowing, poetic, and tragic descriptions, which were written at a time not-far-removed from the events that they describe, without the aid of filters or omissions to blunt the blow.
No, just the raw...honest...brutal...and emotional truth.
This was my act of selfishness. I was a total coward. Nothing more than an insecure boy unable and unwilling to face the truth. Unable and unwilling to frame it in its proper context, which would have been the rational and mature response. I refused to drown myself in my love's gift, her talent, her ultimate passion. I stayed away, tail securely between knees.
Two days ago, she brought it up again. It was just a passing comment, but it stung my now guilty conscience. After some labored though I finally made the decision to refuse to let myself be ruled by this despicable cowardice, this wretched selfishness.
That same night I began to read. Going all the way back to the beginning—two years before our beginning—and continuing to read post after post. A body of work that spanned weeks, months, and years. It took nearly 2 days for me to consume it all, but consume it all I did.
It was difficult. Throughout, my pulse raced, my heart pounded against the inside of my chest. The ever-present lump in my throat, the gut-wrenching anxiety. I had wished I was a nail-biter. Even while reading the "happy" and "silly" posts I felt these extreme emotions in anticipation of what I might learn in the next story. There was a general feeling of melancholy that draped itself over me as I continued to read. It took me some time to analyze it and find its source. It had to do with the fact that I was reading about this girl who was not quite the girl I know now. The girl back then was different. Not better, not worse, just slightly different. I did not know that girl. She did not know me. We were not in each others' lives. This inherent nature of time and cause and effect made my heart ache as I read on. I do not know that it is entirely normal for me to have felt melancholy as I read about and imagined my love's life without me in it. However, in a way, it is a testament to how completely I haven given myself over to her, and for that I am not ashamed.
For obvious reasons the most difficult passages to read were ones that described her own heart aches. Throughout the entries she wrote there is an underlying longing, a desire to have someone special in her life. Her constant having to say good bye to those that are so special and important to her only add to this running theme. The cavalier ways in which people handled her heart were tough to get over, but my sorrow was infinitesimally smaller to what she must have felt.
It felt like one of those nightmares where the one you love is trapped inside some white room, completely unaware that you are on the outside, screaming and banging away at the sound-proof glass that separates the two of you. You can do nothing but watch as some terrible fate befalls your love. That is how it felt reading those passages.
The writing is so vivid, so lucid, it lifted me up and dropped me inside that room, onto that street. It left me there to stand and shout at the top of my lungs, "It's okay! I'm here! I'm here!" Being just a ghost, a disembodied observer, I had not the means to interfere or intervene. I was a helpless spectator as my love was there feeling the worst of pain.
Many times I had to stop to catch my breath and slow down my heart. I would wander into the kitchen or the living room to seek her out. I just wanted to hold her and to thank whatever force (God, Luck, Entropy) that brought her into my life and me into hers. I did just that, trying not to let her see my eyes well up or show how deeply touched I was by what I had just read. Of course she saw it anyway. She saw it on my face, in my eyes, felt it in my embrace.
With her help I got through it.
Reading those incredibly-written pieces I came away feeling immense pride (not pity). I felt so proud of my love, her incredible talent and her unwavering resilience. I saw that she never let her vulnerabilities become weaknesses. Her incredible wit, her inexhaustible enthusiasm, and her boundless ability shine through in every turn of phrase, and in every sentence crafted to perfection.
As for myself, the experience has taught me that I'm far more insecure than I let myself—or others—believe. I hope that this will teach me not to fear tests of emotional muster. I benefited greatly not only from the insights I have gained into her nature, but also it served as an invaluable introspective.
As I draw this to a close, I realize I do not want to end on a paragraph talking about myself. I really want to make this an homage to the only (last?) sexy lady in my life.
Here's to you.
I love you baby.
I am not entirely proud of it, but I have been called selfish at various points in my life. However, I think I am in the upper class of selfish people, because unlike the runts below me I recognize this quality in myself whereas everyone else is completely blind to this glaring shortcoming of their personality. Given this last sentence, I must also admit that I have been called arrogant at times as well.
When it does so, my brand of selfishness manifests itself in my dealings with those that are not all that important to me, and is otherwise held in check—to the best of my abilities—vis-à-vis those I truly love and care for. However, despite being called arrogant, I am not delusional enough think myself perfect and therefore will slip on occasion and expose my selfish nature even to those that are near and dear to me. I usually do not mean to be that way, but at times it can be a bit of a reflex action; something I do not realize until after the act has already occurred, the offense made, and the damage done.
This post is about one such recent act of selfishness that I had perpetrated against the one I love most, and my emotionally-draining, -exhausting, -difficult attempt to make amends. By performing the nominal act of repentance, which I describe below, I exposed my rawest of nerves, explored aspects of my character whose nature, when encountered, felt completely foreign and counter to what I knew about myself (or at least thought I knew), but after which my love for this wonderful person that is now the premier source of my happiness and whose happiness is premier, will have become more complete, more deep, and more plentiful. With this act I lifted the self-imposed blindfold I was donning prior to my going through with this experience and was able to accept and gain a deeper understanding of my one, my everything, completely, and without reservation.
With so much preamble (near the point of filibuster) one would think that I must have had to perform some Herculean task as penance for some unforgivable transgression. In reality, the truth—to some—may seem laughable, but to me was anything but.
The crime: Failing to read my girlfriend's blog archives.
The punishment: Reading said archives.
My girl is an incredibly talented writer. Although my opinion may be biased, I know it is shared by hundreds of readers who frequent her blog and leave glowing comments and reviews after every post. I knew of its existence before we started dating. Its archives date back to a pre-us era. A period of time that, for her, consisted of constant highs and lows (but don't take my word for it, go read the archives!). The writing is vivid, clever, imaginative, and just plain spectacular.
In the not-too-distant past my girlfriend, rightly, pointed out the odd fact that I never went back to read all her old blog posts. She—once again rightly—said that had I had a body of work out there somewhere, she would stay up all day and night until she had absorbed every word of it.
I must admit I was rather shocked at myself, because this clearly was a terrible omission on my part. Why wasn't I interested enough to go and read all those posts that had been born out of my love's past experiences, and crafted by her superior literary skill? I really had no answer. All I could offer was a mea culpa and a promise to read them all in the near future. It was just after this promise was made that she warned me that I might run into mentions of previous men in her life as, again, these writings were from a time before we were dating. The comment was innocent enough but it certainly had an effect, and it lodged itself in my brain as I—with zero hesitation—navigated to her blog (this was happening while I was at work) and began randomly clicking on archive links seeking out these mentions that she had warned me about. I cannot say what led me to do this. Some base curiosity, I suppose. Even as a rush of anxiety and panic swept through me, I continued to click. I came up nearly empty-handed, finding only a fleeting mention here and there, but my search was definitely not exhaustive.
Following that day I let sleeping dogs lie and avoided that blog like the plague. I never thought myself so weak and pathetic and yet there I was, cowering, like an ostrich with its head in the sand. Days went by and I had forgotten all about it.
As a side note, I am not as completely naïve as I sound. I am fully aware that I was not the first man in my love's life. I have heard her recount—with a fair amount of detail—past almost-relationships and not-almost-heartaches. It was tough to hear, but I dealt with it in a rational and mature manner. Of course there is something inherently different between hearing her tell these stories now that we are together, and reading about them in these flowing, poetic, and tragic descriptions, which were written at a time not-far-removed from the events that they describe, without the aid of filters or omissions to blunt the blow.
No, just the raw...honest...brutal...and emotional truth.
This was my act of selfishness. I was a total coward. Nothing more than an insecure boy unable and unwilling to face the truth. Unable and unwilling to frame it in its proper context, which would have been the rational and mature response. I refused to drown myself in my love's gift, her talent, her ultimate passion. I stayed away, tail securely between knees.
Two days ago, she brought it up again. It was just a passing comment, but it stung my now guilty conscience. After some labored though I finally made the decision to refuse to let myself be ruled by this despicable cowardice, this wretched selfishness.
That same night I began to read. Going all the way back to the beginning—two years before our beginning—and continuing to read post after post. A body of work that spanned weeks, months, and years. It took nearly 2 days for me to consume it all, but consume it all I did.
It was difficult. Throughout, my pulse raced, my heart pounded against the inside of my chest. The ever-present lump in my throat, the gut-wrenching anxiety. I had wished I was a nail-biter. Even while reading the "happy" and "silly" posts I felt these extreme emotions in anticipation of what I might learn in the next story. There was a general feeling of melancholy that draped itself over me as I continued to read. It took me some time to analyze it and find its source. It had to do with the fact that I was reading about this girl who was not quite the girl I know now. The girl back then was different. Not better, not worse, just slightly different. I did not know that girl. She did not know me. We were not in each others' lives. This inherent nature of time and cause and effect made my heart ache as I read on. I do not know that it is entirely normal for me to have felt melancholy as I read about and imagined my love's life without me in it. However, in a way, it is a testament to how completely I haven given myself over to her, and for that I am not ashamed.
For obvious reasons the most difficult passages to read were ones that described her own heart aches. Throughout the entries she wrote there is an underlying longing, a desire to have someone special in her life. Her constant having to say good bye to those that are so special and important to her only add to this running theme. The cavalier ways in which people handled her heart were tough to get over, but my sorrow was infinitesimally smaller to what she must have felt.
It felt like one of those nightmares where the one you love is trapped inside some white room, completely unaware that you are on the outside, screaming and banging away at the sound-proof glass that separates the two of you. You can do nothing but watch as some terrible fate befalls your love. That is how it felt reading those passages.
The writing is so vivid, so lucid, it lifted me up and dropped me inside that room, onto that street. It left me there to stand and shout at the top of my lungs, "It's okay! I'm here! I'm here!" Being just a ghost, a disembodied observer, I had not the means to interfere or intervene. I was a helpless spectator as my love was there feeling the worst of pain.
Many times I had to stop to catch my breath and slow down my heart. I would wander into the kitchen or the living room to seek her out. I just wanted to hold her and to thank whatever force (God, Luck, Entropy) that brought her into my life and me into hers. I did just that, trying not to let her see my eyes well up or show how deeply touched I was by what I had just read. Of course she saw it anyway. She saw it on my face, in my eyes, felt it in my embrace.
With her help I got through it.
Reading those incredibly-written pieces I came away feeling immense pride (not pity). I felt so proud of my love, her incredible talent and her unwavering resilience. I saw that she never let her vulnerabilities become weaknesses. Her incredible wit, her inexhaustible enthusiasm, and her boundless ability shine through in every turn of phrase, and in every sentence crafted to perfection.
As for myself, the experience has taught me that I'm far more insecure than I let myself—or others—believe. I hope that this will teach me not to fear tests of emotional muster. I benefited greatly not only from the insights I have gained into her nature, but also it served as an invaluable introspective.
As I draw this to a close, I realize I do not want to end on a paragraph talking about myself. I really want to make this an homage to the only (last?) sexy lady in my life.
Here's to you.
I love you baby.
11.22.2008
Holidaze
We've all heard that cliché a million-and-a-half times: "It's that time of year again." For me, in winters past, this time of year usually meant nothing more than the start of the new snowboarding season, and was excitement enough. I paid zero to no attention to the bare trees adorned with twinkling Christmas lights or the emerald wreaths hanging on front doors. After all, what was in it for me? In my family we barely celebrate Hanukkah. When I was younger it came and went without much fanfare. Today, it barely gets an honorable mention. Back then, Chanukah (alternate spelling used here in the interest of equality) just meant another $20 from the grandparents to last me until New Year's Eve, which is when I would maybe score a couple of more gifts.
I guess growing up in communist and therefore atheist Russia did not easily lend itself to partaking in and maintaining religious holiday traditions. Hanukkah was not a big deal—never mind the actual high (real) holidays—and I did not even know that Christmas existed until I moved to this country. For us Godless Ukrainians, the biggest celebrations took place New Year's Eve, which is when "Grandfather Frost" would bring presents to all the young boys and girls. We even had a "New Year's" tree that my parents would still put up for several years after we had immigrated. I would constantly have to explain to my friends who saw it that it definitely was not a Christmas tree. They eventually took to calling it my family's Hanukkah bush.
"Are you putting up the Hanukkah bush this year?"
As I got older, my parents got more lax and the New Years' gifts dried up along with my feelings about the season. Since then I haven't really been able to—nor did I really feel a need to—"get into spirit" as they say. I would just be excited about and looking forward to hitting the fresh powder on my freshly-waxed snowboard; dreidels and baby Jesus be damned.
This year, however, the holiday season has a different feel to it. I'm in a much happier place emotionally and as a result I think I'm able to soak up the excitement that others are feeling about this time of year. None more so than my girlfriend, whose Christmas spirit is absolutely intoxicating and highly infectious. I really think some of her excitement is beginning to rub off on me and I don't mind one bit, because I really want to feel that anticipation that I remember feeling as a little boy, the one who waited for Дед Мороз to come and leave him presents under the New Year's tree.
I feel like a backwards bear coming out of a long summer's hibernation. Hopefully I'll be able to come out of my holi-daze.
I guess growing up in communist and therefore atheist Russia did not easily lend itself to partaking in and maintaining religious holiday traditions. Hanukkah was not a big deal—never mind the actual high (real) holidays—and I did not even know that Christmas existed until I moved to this country. For us Godless Ukrainians, the biggest celebrations took place New Year's Eve, which is when "Grandfather Frost" would bring presents to all the young boys and girls. We even had a "New Year's" tree that my parents would still put up for several years after we had immigrated. I would constantly have to explain to my friends who saw it that it definitely was not a Christmas tree. They eventually took to calling it my family's Hanukkah bush.
"Are you putting up the Hanukkah bush this year?"
As I got older, my parents got more lax and the New Years' gifts dried up along with my feelings about the season. Since then I haven't really been able to—nor did I really feel a need to—"get into spirit" as they say. I would just be excited about and looking forward to hitting the fresh powder on my freshly-waxed snowboard; dreidels and baby Jesus be damned.
This year, however, the holiday season has a different feel to it. I'm in a much happier place emotionally and as a result I think I'm able to soak up the excitement that others are feeling about this time of year. None more so than my girlfriend, whose Christmas spirit is absolutely intoxicating and highly infectious. I really think some of her excitement is beginning to rub off on me and I don't mind one bit, because I really want to feel that anticipation that I remember feeling as a little boy, the one who waited for Дед Мороз to come and leave him presents under the New Year's tree.
I feel like a backwards bear coming out of a long summer's hibernation. Hopefully I'll be able to come out of my holi-daze.
11.10.2008
Idling
I spy my girlfriend through a narrow crack between the living room and kitchen doors. It's only a crack because my line of sight, while reclining on the couch, allows me only about a six inch wide portal. I see about quarter of the red Kitchenaid mixer (currently set to medium speed), a bit of counter top, and the rest is all umbrellas and chairs. The Wedding Singer is on the television, but I'm not really interested as I've seen it way too many times. Oh, Jon Lovitz! ... Ok back.
What made me want to write about this? Because every 40 seconds or so I am treated to the delightful sight of my lovely girlfriend hard at work mixing up some wonderful concoction that I can't wait to try. Today it happens to be a pomegranite and poached quince sponge cake.
Although I can only see about 2/3 of her back through my little porthole, every so often I catch a glimpse of her beautiful profile (she looks so cute in her glasses). Every time she makes an appearance, like the marquee star of a Broadway play making her first, long-awaited entrance from stage right, I'm filled with a warmness that is only matched by the heat radiating from the pre-heated oven (350 degrees Fahrenheit) and by writing about I hope to capture this feeling and linger in it a while longer as I try to find the words with which to describe it (and doing a poor job of it (a wordsmith I am not)).
That is all. Carry on.
What made me want to write about this? Because every 40 seconds or so I am treated to the delightful sight of my lovely girlfriend hard at work mixing up some wonderful concoction that I can't wait to try. Today it happens to be a pomegranite and poached quince sponge cake.
Although I can only see about 2/3 of her back through my little porthole, every so often I catch a glimpse of her beautiful profile (she looks so cute in her glasses). Every time she makes an appearance, like the marquee star of a Broadway play making her first, long-awaited entrance from stage right, I'm filled with a warmness that is only matched by the heat radiating from the pre-heated oven (350 degrees Fahrenheit) and by writing about I hope to capture this feeling and linger in it a while longer as I try to find the words with which to describe it (and doing a poor job of it (a wordsmith I am not)).
That is all. Carry on.
10.20.2008
Flipping the Switch
At some point in our lives we take that figurative step into adulthood. Sometimes we flip that mental switch from young adult to adult proper consciously and willingly; other times, we have to be dragged kicking and screaming. Whichever way it happens, looking back, we can easily identify when that moment came and went. I would imagine that for the majority of would-be and could-be adults, this mental roll-over happens to coincide with the day that they permanently leave the parental abode, decide to venture forth and forge their own future.
And thus I flipped the switch this past weekend, deciding to take the plunge in a doubly-bold move of not just moving out, but also moving in with my lovely. It was a surprisingly easy decision to make. Easy as pie.
"It seems that it is the norm with this generation," said a colleague of mine recently, referring to to today's young people's propensity to live at home well into their 20s. I, however, cannot vouch for the accuracy or veracity of this assertion, because to me it seems that there is still a social stigma that is associated with failing to launch before the age of 25. I would know.
Nonetheless it finally happened for me and in the most advantageous, and wonderfully and wholly blissful way imaginable.
Who wants to live alone in Brooklyn anyway?
"You have to do your own growing no matter how tall your grandfather was."
- Abraham Lincoln
And thus I flipped the switch this past weekend, deciding to take the plunge in a doubly-bold move of not just moving out, but also moving in with my lovely. It was a surprisingly easy decision to make. Easy as pie.
"It seems that it is the norm with this generation," said a colleague of mine recently, referring to to today's young people's propensity to live at home well into their 20s. I, however, cannot vouch for the accuracy or veracity of this assertion, because to me it seems that there is still a social stigma that is associated with failing to launch before the age of 25. I would know.
Nonetheless it finally happened for me and in the most advantageous, and wonderfully and wholly blissful way imaginable.
Who wants to live alone in Brooklyn anyway?
"You have to do your own growing no matter how tall your grandfather was."
- Abraham Lincoln
9.16.2008
Europe: Recollections and Reflections
“Dude, you're in fuckin' Prague!”
That's when it hit me. That feeling that I was missing since the start of the trip finally reared its bashful head while I was sitting on a bench in a park on Kempa Island near the Malá Strana part of Prague. It was probably the picturesque scene in front of me: hundred-year-old buildings with intricately-detailed facades nestled into and between rolling, green hills; towering chestnut trees in bloom reminding me of Kiev, the calm flow of the emerald-colored waters of the Vltava. All this man- and otherwise-made beauty opening up to me managed to finally break through my unexpectedly jaded attitude towards where I was, where I have been, and where I was yet still to go.
The idea was hatched just about two years ago and that is how long it took for it to come to fruition. Various extenuating circumstances.. ahem.. friendswithnomoney.. ahem ahem.. had prevented my vision of a European excursion from becoming a blissful reality. Then finally the stars aligned.. ahem.. foundnewfriendswithmoney.. ahem ahem.. (dastardly cough!), the flight was booked, the hostels reserved, and the trip was on!
Amsterdam: What a city!
Its crooked houses, with giant windows big enough to fit a grand piano peer over the canals and narrow streets like watchful shepherds tending to their flock. Its seedy Red Light District, with every vice on proud display, delights you with its decadence. A feeling of amazement takes sweeps over. You wonder why it is that you do not fear for your life or property even as you are offered every hard drug imaginable by shady characters on street corners. Its cobblestone streets teem with bicycles running through them, giving the city its pulse. Its pubs and restaurants are packed with travelers and locals, all wanting to hear your story and gladly willing to share theirs over the amber glow of an Amstel or the warm, nutty aroma of a strong, proper cup of coffee.
The spirit of this port town is distilled from the warm hearts of its people. One of these that we were fortunate enough to meet was a 40-something rocker in a Screaming Trees t-shirt. We met at a local brewery that is located under a reconstructed old, Dutch windmill. The man recounted a tale about hist visit to New York City in the late 70s. His journey started in L.A. where he began a hitchhiking tour to the Big Apple. When he finally got there with nothing left to his name but a $20 traveler's check, he slept in 25 cent porno theaters in the Bronx, and loved every second of it. This story was an example; the one thing that you come away with when you meet the people of Amsterdam is that they know how to deal with whatever life throws at them with a laid-back attitude and a smile. You simply cannot faze these people.
Coming into Amsterdam I was somewhat unnerved by the fact that the excitement of being in a foreign country, away from everything familiar and dear to me had not yet hit me. I was fully expecting to be as giddy as a school girl, and yet here I was, in this ancient city, brimming with amazing people and history and acting like I'm above it all. Although disconcerting, I was not about to let my jaded outlook put a damper on this momentous trip.
Our days were spent partaking in the standard tourist fare: museums, restaurants, and coffee shops. One afternoon was spent visiting a lovely cheese farm just outside the city where I had purchased a 2 kg wheel of some peppered cheese along with some smoked. It saddens me greatly to say that the cheese wheel did not make it to the end of our trek across Old Europe. By not letting it out of its paper bag, the cheese was not allowed to breathe and sweat in the open air and therefore proceeded to grow pasty green mold to match its new, unsavory scent.
Our last day in Amsterdam was spent with each of us going our separate ways and doing our own individual "thing." This was something that I initially thought was the antithesis of what a buddy-style European vacation was supposed to be, but it turned out to be the perfect way of saying goodbye to such a wonderful city.
I decided to rent a bike near the Central Station and simply ride from one end of the city center to the other, taking as-of-yet-unexplored routes and re-visiting favorite spots. I rode through the luscious greens of Vondelpark, on to the bustling cobblestones of Dam Square, and past the magnificence of the Rijksmuseum. I ended my afternoon at a cafe by a canal where I enjoyed a banana-topped, Amsterdam-style pancake (washed down with a few pints of sweet Amstel lager), and a conversation with a couple of chaps from northern England who were motorbiking their way across Europe.
"Is that a small portion for you?" They inquired, looking at my pancake, after I told them I was from the States.
It was during my solo bicycle ride through Amsterdam, during which I was free to let my mind wonder wherever it may, that began to feel the pangs of longing for my love nipping at my heart.
Berlin: What a history!
It is easy to feel small and insignificant in this reconstructed metropolis. Its colossal, neoclassical structures do not embrace you with their enormous breadth, they domineer and intimidate. The Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate, Tiergarten, all stand as stark reminders of the deep and unfortunately terrible history of this state. Seeing all the monuments and memorials, I came to see that this city does not hide its past, but confronts it, and uses it as a lesson to the rest of the world; holds it up, brandishes it with a warning and a slogan: nie wieder, never again. Drinking in the spirit of this city, this city that was the stage upon which dreadful events were played out that changed and defined the 20th century, brought on a solemn feeling of connectedness with the history of my family and my people. This experience was made more poignant while walking the Straße des 17. Juni, while gazing out over the featureless, concrete blocks of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, and while gazing upon the execution chambers and ovens at Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp.
Being in Germany and being confronted with these confusing, and mostly morose emotions, I wanted to ameliorate my internal turmoil in the proper, locally-accepted way of eating incredibly rich, artery-clogging, food and drinking an obscene amount of delicious lager. The food in Germany was incredible. I did not think I would ever get tired of eating delicious, savory pork in all its forms. Combining the savory flavors of fried, braised, boiled swine with the tanginess of the most delicious mustard in the world and the most incredible sauerkraut made me a very happy man.
All that was left to do was to sample the world-renowned Berlin nightlife. Just such an opportunity presented itself in the form of a Berlin pub crawl. Starting in a trippy "squat pub" my travel companions and I were afforded the opportunity of all-you-can-drink beer for an hour and screwdriver shots for the whole night. After downing a few skunky pints I felt much more relaxed and was able to sit back and enjoy the scenery that consisted of approximately 30 to 40, mostly college-aged tourists getting drunk, falling over each other and desperately trying to hook up. The night was pretty much awash only after a couple of pub stops as I quickly lost any and all desire to drink or get drunk (drunk people are much more fun to observe through sober eyes) and relegated myself to ensuring a safe journey back to our hostel for my inebriated companions.
One of these, however, developed alternative plans as he met and quickly proceeded to chat up some local, queer-looking birds—each one more androgynous than the former—and decided to accompany them to a club located in a God-knows-where part of the city. I pleaded with him to come to his senses and come off the tram with the rest of our pack, but in the end I gave up, no longer caring about whatever predicament he might get himself into. I gave up because I realized that I had nearly become what I had dreaded of becoming on this trip: the den mother. As it happened, Boy Wonder returned the following morning. He collapsed into bed at 0600 and did not rise until 2000, just in time to join the rest of our trio for a final dessert and coffee in that storied city. We made our way to the Communist-built Fernsehturm (TV tower) and its spinning, overpriced restaurant, and toasted to continued success on what had so far been a relatively safe and enjoyable trip.
We left Berlin on a rainy, miserable day. How fortunate.
Prague: What magnificent beauty man has wrought!
Our introduction to Prague came in the same way we acquainted ourselves with the other cities on our trip: via walking tour. Two of us—myself being one—managed to swindle out of paying for it in a manner where the fault was not entirely ours. We also took in a classical concert, enjoyed some lazy afternoon paddle boating near the Charles Bridge, and of course joined a pub crawl. Unfortunately this crawl was quite disappointing. We started out as a trio and quickly became a duo as a fellow had realized he had had enough and bailed for the evening. The remaining two—myself being one—decided to soldier on, but really it was a waste of our time and patience. There was nothing particularly memorable or interesting about this crawl save but for a trio of funny-looking and funny-sounding Germans, one of which proceeded to make balloon animals in order to try to win the heart of a young, Swiss girl. We left not long after his first poodle took shape.
Out of all the cities that we visited, Prague was the most difficult for me. The incredible vista views begged to be seen through lovers' eyes, and yet here I was, without the one I love, with nothing but my lonely, homesick eyes to gaze upon the incredible panoramas. Walking across the famous Charles Bridge, even with the crush of several hundred people, I never felt more alone. We spent more days in Prague than in any of the other cities on our tour because it was to be friendlier on the wallet (the Czech Republic has not yet converted to the Euro). With all these days to fill and not a whole lot to fill them with, my mind again broke loose from its pragmatic binds and I spent nearly every moment thinking about my love and how I longed to be with her. Although we were able to stay in touch throughout my trip via the Internet, it was not an acceptable substitute for the real thing.
I was in a desert. Each of my five senses ached to have their thirst for the woman I love quenched.
Of course this is not to say that I did not enjoy Prague, quite the contrary! Prague is an incredible city with a rich, long, and beautiful history. The city had truly touched me. It touched me to the point that I was so moved by what I was seeing all around me that I proceeded to get an incredible urge to sketch. My desire was fulfilled on our last full day in the city as I picked up some bare essentials at a local art supply store (all while deflecting attempts at ridicule by my companions), went to a park, picked my scene, and began to put lead to paper. I was not completely unsatisfied with the result.
Munich: What beer!
The people of Munich take many things seriously, of this I am sure. However, I saw first-hand how seriously they take their beer. It teeters on the edge of absurdity. Yet when you sip that golden, sweet lager for the first time you come to realize that it's not farce but brilliance. I enjoyed Munich. For me it was a toss-up between Munich and Amsterdam, but I believe Munich wins by a nose because it has better food and beer. Just thinking of the jovial atmosphere at Hofbräuhaus and the sheer enormity of Augustiner Bierkeller brings a smile to my face. Coming back to the wonderful food and even more wonderful drink felt like a homecoming. I love this city.
In many ways it was very appropriate that we ended with Munich. Despite the fact that we were one man down coming in to this Bavarian capital, and I was sporting a sizzling cold sore on my upper lip, it was a truly relaxing and enjoyable experience. In many ways the atmosphere there was very similar to Amsterdam, but with a more big-city feel that I found made me feel more at home. Having this sort of easygoing atmosphere allowed me some time to reflect back on all that I've seen and experienced—the vast majority of which is not recounted here—on our two-and-a-half week excursion. No matter how I tried to frame the trip in my mind, I kept coming back to the same point which I will expound upon here.
The trip to me was a demonstration. A demonstration done by me for the sake of me. My mind was catching up to what my heart had already known. These incredible sights, the amazing people, it all comes to naught if you cannot share these things with the one(s) you love. I believe that is also what motivated me to write this all down: an unavoidable desire to share how I was touched and changed by my experiences. Often, writing down our musings and reflections is an easier way to express the complicated emotions and ideas that bubble up to the surface than to try to explain them extemporaneously.
And so I share this.
That's when it hit me. That feeling that I was missing since the start of the trip finally reared its bashful head while I was sitting on a bench in a park on Kempa Island near the Malá Strana part of Prague. It was probably the picturesque scene in front of me: hundred-year-old buildings with intricately-detailed facades nestled into and between rolling, green hills; towering chestnut trees in bloom reminding me of Kiev, the calm flow of the emerald-colored waters of the Vltava. All this man- and otherwise-made beauty opening up to me managed to finally break through my unexpectedly jaded attitude towards where I was, where I have been, and where I was yet still to go.
The idea was hatched just about two years ago and that is how long it took for it to come to fruition. Various extenuating circumstances.. ahem.. friendswithnomoney.. ahem ahem.. had prevented my vision of a European excursion from becoming a blissful reality. Then finally the stars aligned.. ahem.. foundnewfriendswithmoney.. ahem ahem.. (dastardly cough!), the flight was booked, the hostels reserved, and the trip was on!
Amsterdam: What a city!
Its crooked houses, with giant windows big enough to fit a grand piano peer over the canals and narrow streets like watchful shepherds tending to their flock. Its seedy Red Light District, with every vice on proud display, delights you with its decadence. A feeling of amazement takes sweeps over. You wonder why it is that you do not fear for your life or property even as you are offered every hard drug imaginable by shady characters on street corners. Its cobblestone streets teem with bicycles running through them, giving the city its pulse. Its pubs and restaurants are packed with travelers and locals, all wanting to hear your story and gladly willing to share theirs over the amber glow of an Amstel or the warm, nutty aroma of a strong, proper cup of coffee.
The spirit of this port town is distilled from the warm hearts of its people. One of these that we were fortunate enough to meet was a 40-something rocker in a Screaming Trees t-shirt. We met at a local brewery that is located under a reconstructed old, Dutch windmill. The man recounted a tale about hist visit to New York City in the late 70s. His journey started in L.A. where he began a hitchhiking tour to the Big Apple. When he finally got there with nothing left to his name but a $20 traveler's check, he slept in 25 cent porno theaters in the Bronx, and loved every second of it. This story was an example; the one thing that you come away with when you meet the people of Amsterdam is that they know how to deal with whatever life throws at them with a laid-back attitude and a smile. You simply cannot faze these people.
Coming into Amsterdam I was somewhat unnerved by the fact that the excitement of being in a foreign country, away from everything familiar and dear to me had not yet hit me. I was fully expecting to be as giddy as a school girl, and yet here I was, in this ancient city, brimming with amazing people and history and acting like I'm above it all. Although disconcerting, I was not about to let my jaded outlook put a damper on this momentous trip.
Our days were spent partaking in the standard tourist fare: museums, restaurants, and coffee shops. One afternoon was spent visiting a lovely cheese farm just outside the city where I had purchased a 2 kg wheel of some peppered cheese along with some smoked. It saddens me greatly to say that the cheese wheel did not make it to the end of our trek across Old Europe. By not letting it out of its paper bag, the cheese was not allowed to breathe and sweat in the open air and therefore proceeded to grow pasty green mold to match its new, unsavory scent.
Our last day in Amsterdam was spent with each of us going our separate ways and doing our own individual "thing." This was something that I initially thought was the antithesis of what a buddy-style European vacation was supposed to be, but it turned out to be the perfect way of saying goodbye to such a wonderful city.
I decided to rent a bike near the Central Station and simply ride from one end of the city center to the other, taking as-of-yet-unexplored routes and re-visiting favorite spots. I rode through the luscious greens of Vondelpark, on to the bustling cobblestones of Dam Square, and past the magnificence of the Rijksmuseum. I ended my afternoon at a cafe by a canal where I enjoyed a banana-topped, Amsterdam-style pancake (washed down with a few pints of sweet Amstel lager), and a conversation with a couple of chaps from northern England who were motorbiking their way across Europe.
"Is that a small portion for you?" They inquired, looking at my pancake, after I told them I was from the States.
It was during my solo bicycle ride through Amsterdam, during which I was free to let my mind wonder wherever it may, that began to feel the pangs of longing for my love nipping at my heart.
Berlin: What a history!
It is easy to feel small and insignificant in this reconstructed metropolis. Its colossal, neoclassical structures do not embrace you with their enormous breadth, they domineer and intimidate. The Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate, Tiergarten, all stand as stark reminders of the deep and unfortunately terrible history of this state. Seeing all the monuments and memorials, I came to see that this city does not hide its past, but confronts it, and uses it as a lesson to the rest of the world; holds it up, brandishes it with a warning and a slogan: nie wieder, never again. Drinking in the spirit of this city, this city that was the stage upon which dreadful events were played out that changed and defined the 20th century, brought on a solemn feeling of connectedness with the history of my family and my people. This experience was made more poignant while walking the Straße des 17. Juni, while gazing out over the featureless, concrete blocks of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, and while gazing upon the execution chambers and ovens at Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp.
Being in Germany and being confronted with these confusing, and mostly morose emotions, I wanted to ameliorate my internal turmoil in the proper, locally-accepted way of eating incredibly rich, artery-clogging, food and drinking an obscene amount of delicious lager. The food in Germany was incredible. I did not think I would ever get tired of eating delicious, savory pork in all its forms. Combining the savory flavors of fried, braised, boiled swine with the tanginess of the most delicious mustard in the world and the most incredible sauerkraut made me a very happy man.
All that was left to do was to sample the world-renowned Berlin nightlife. Just such an opportunity presented itself in the form of a Berlin pub crawl. Starting in a trippy "squat pub" my travel companions and I were afforded the opportunity of all-you-can-drink beer for an hour and screwdriver shots for the whole night. After downing a few skunky pints I felt much more relaxed and was able to sit back and enjoy the scenery that consisted of approximately 30 to 40, mostly college-aged tourists getting drunk, falling over each other and desperately trying to hook up. The night was pretty much awash only after a couple of pub stops as I quickly lost any and all desire to drink or get drunk (drunk people are much more fun to observe through sober eyes) and relegated myself to ensuring a safe journey back to our hostel for my inebriated companions.
One of these, however, developed alternative plans as he met and quickly proceeded to chat up some local, queer-looking birds—each one more androgynous than the former—and decided to accompany them to a club located in a God-knows-where part of the city. I pleaded with him to come to his senses and come off the tram with the rest of our pack, but in the end I gave up, no longer caring about whatever predicament he might get himself into. I gave up because I realized that I had nearly become what I had dreaded of becoming on this trip: the den mother. As it happened, Boy Wonder returned the following morning. He collapsed into bed at 0600 and did not rise until 2000, just in time to join the rest of our trio for a final dessert and coffee in that storied city. We made our way to the Communist-built Fernsehturm (TV tower) and its spinning, overpriced restaurant, and toasted to continued success on what had so far been a relatively safe and enjoyable trip.
We left Berlin on a rainy, miserable day. How fortunate.
Prague: What magnificent beauty man has wrought!
Our introduction to Prague came in the same way we acquainted ourselves with the other cities on our trip: via walking tour. Two of us—myself being one—managed to swindle out of paying for it in a manner where the fault was not entirely ours. We also took in a classical concert, enjoyed some lazy afternoon paddle boating near the Charles Bridge, and of course joined a pub crawl. Unfortunately this crawl was quite disappointing. We started out as a trio and quickly became a duo as a fellow had realized he had had enough and bailed for the evening. The remaining two—myself being one—decided to soldier on, but really it was a waste of our time and patience. There was nothing particularly memorable or interesting about this crawl save but for a trio of funny-looking and funny-sounding Germans, one of which proceeded to make balloon animals in order to try to win the heart of a young, Swiss girl. We left not long after his first poodle took shape.
Out of all the cities that we visited, Prague was the most difficult for me. The incredible vista views begged to be seen through lovers' eyes, and yet here I was, without the one I love, with nothing but my lonely, homesick eyes to gaze upon the incredible panoramas. Walking across the famous Charles Bridge, even with the crush of several hundred people, I never felt more alone. We spent more days in Prague than in any of the other cities on our tour because it was to be friendlier on the wallet (the Czech Republic has not yet converted to the Euro). With all these days to fill and not a whole lot to fill them with, my mind again broke loose from its pragmatic binds and I spent nearly every moment thinking about my love and how I longed to be with her. Although we were able to stay in touch throughout my trip via the Internet, it was not an acceptable substitute for the real thing.
I was in a desert. Each of my five senses ached to have their thirst for the woman I love quenched.
Of course this is not to say that I did not enjoy Prague, quite the contrary! Prague is an incredible city with a rich, long, and beautiful history. The city had truly touched me. It touched me to the point that I was so moved by what I was seeing all around me that I proceeded to get an incredible urge to sketch. My desire was fulfilled on our last full day in the city as I picked up some bare essentials at a local art supply store (all while deflecting attempts at ridicule by my companions), went to a park, picked my scene, and began to put lead to paper. I was not completely unsatisfied with the result.
Munich: What beer!
The people of Munich take many things seriously, of this I am sure. However, I saw first-hand how seriously they take their beer. It teeters on the edge of absurdity. Yet when you sip that golden, sweet lager for the first time you come to realize that it's not farce but brilliance. I enjoyed Munich. For me it was a toss-up between Munich and Amsterdam, but I believe Munich wins by a nose because it has better food and beer. Just thinking of the jovial atmosphere at Hofbräuhaus and the sheer enormity of Augustiner Bierkeller brings a smile to my face. Coming back to the wonderful food and even more wonderful drink felt like a homecoming. I love this city.
In many ways it was very appropriate that we ended with Munich. Despite the fact that we were one man down coming in to this Bavarian capital, and I was sporting a sizzling cold sore on my upper lip, it was a truly relaxing and enjoyable experience. In many ways the atmosphere there was very similar to Amsterdam, but with a more big-city feel that I found made me feel more at home. Having this sort of easygoing atmosphere allowed me some time to reflect back on all that I've seen and experienced—the vast majority of which is not recounted here—on our two-and-a-half week excursion. No matter how I tried to frame the trip in my mind, I kept coming back to the same point which I will expound upon here.
The trip to me was a demonstration. A demonstration done by me for the sake of me. My mind was catching up to what my heart had already known. These incredible sights, the amazing people, it all comes to naught if you cannot share these things with the one(s) you love. I believe that is also what motivated me to write this all down: an unavoidable desire to share how I was touched and changed by my experiences. Often, writing down our musings and reflections is an easier way to express the complicated emotions and ideas that bubble up to the surface than to try to explain them extemporaneously.
And so I share this.
8.14.2008
The Blogs They Are 'A Changin
The updates have been few and far between. I assure you—and by 'you' I mean 'me'—that there is a good reason for this: things are just too good. There are so many wonderful things around me at this juncture that it has become extremely difficult for me to separate from myself and write about random, mostly mundane, news items. I am so completely content within myself that leaving this comfortable inner-abode seems completely unnecessary and rather undesirable. In fact, I am so affected by my current state of bliss that I am beginning to reconsider the entire purpose and motivation behind this blog. Why do or should I force myself to write about these things? Are my opinions on these topics so unique or interesting? I distinctly recall getting the most enjoyment from writing about my personal experiences and reflections.
Perhaps I need a new mission statement and a better understanding of what it is that I like about writing and what I like to write about. I am beginning to think that it is unreasonable for me to expect of myself that I should be able to stay on any particular thematic path for any meaningful length of time. Maybe that's just not my style.
This blog began as a way to fill a need. That need was to have a creative outlet that would allow me to focus my mind and collect my thoughts. Also, quite frankly, it served as a way of performing upkeep on my writing, or more generally, written communication skills. I still believe in this, dare I say it, art form's utility, but I may still need to mold it to fit my style and find my niche.
I am still new at this. There are many things to consider.
To be continued...
"Ch-ch-ch-changes"
- David Bowie
Perhaps I need a new mission statement and a better understanding of what it is that I like about writing and what I like to write about. I am beginning to think that it is unreasonable for me to expect of myself that I should be able to stay on any particular thematic path for any meaningful length of time. Maybe that's just not my style.
This blog began as a way to fill a need. That need was to have a creative outlet that would allow me to focus my mind and collect my thoughts. Also, quite frankly, it served as a way of performing upkeep on my writing, or more generally, written communication skills. I still believe in this, dare I say it, art form's utility, but I may still need to mold it to fit my style and find my niche.
I am still new at this. There are many things to consider.
To be continued...
"Ch-ch-ch-changes"
- David Bowie
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