I tidied up my point of view...

Yesterday was the first day of the rest of my life.  My New Year's Day was January 9, 2017.  I had yet to acknowledge the new year as I started coming down with a full body mucus suit at about 10:30 p.m. on NYE.    There I was with my Prosecco and expensive cheese counting down to the end of the purge of 2016 when I started getting that hard to swallow-hot behind the eyes-cotton packed in every orifice feeling. Fucking really?   And then I died.
But then yesterday--feeling better and motivated--was a snow day.  So that put me behind another day.  I'm actually kind of right on time if you think about it, because nobody starts the new year on the 1st.  They brunch and recover from New Year's Eve.
So today. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. And just like any other year I won't be making any solid resolutions. (Especially since my year is nine days shorter than everyone else's.)  But like some of my friends who go completely sober in January to get their livers together, I've decided to take on a short term project.  I am going completely news free for the first 30 days of (my) 2017.  I am a news junkie.  I absorb every plane crash and pussy grab and mass shooting and cardiac study.  It takes up a good three quarters of my work day. And sucks up about seven eighths of my serotonin.  It's time to take a step back. Play dumb.  Be the damsel in distress.  Woefully uninformed.  Talk about only eye shadow at my next social function.
It will come with some challenges.  Like--General Assembly session convenes tomorrow and like it or not, I have to participate.  And I will miss out on all but bits and pieces of the Presidential Inauguration, which boycott or free joints or whatever, I would've watched anyway because it's just the kind of pomp and circumstance I live for.  This also means I will be severely limiting my social media intake-at least the feeds and timelines, only seeing headlines at the bar and in the doughnut shop.
I'll come back to shore just in time for the Oscar's and the Grammy's-because, duh.  (Lucky for me I timed this just right for the Golden Globes.) 
I'm looking forward to the break--to be empty and vapid. I've already started.  This morning I sang Zayn's Pillowtalk all the way to work after waking from a sex dream about Milo Ventimiglia.  Actually, it could've been just a make out dream.  The details are fuzzy.  And I'm not really sure I'd let him do it to me...
I know some sad, heavy shit is coming in 2017.  But for the next 30 days I don't have two fucks to give about it, I'll be too dumb to care.

Maybe I'll Just Leave Town...

When I was a kid I used to think the notion of "home for the holidays" was so romantic.  That travelling home for the holidays would be like in the movies--Mom and Dad would cook for you and have the house decorated and it would feel special.  And you'd go have a beer at the local bar and run into an old high school flame or foe and make adult amends.  But my family was always close enough that the travel usually only took up an hour or so of the morning, and the indecision of whether to light the menorah or trim the tree made things unnecessarily complicated.  I was jealous of movie holidays.  Later, as an adult living states away from my family, holiday travel became hectic and obligatory-like traveling for work or racing to the hospital to watch Aunt Bev die. But with presents.  I should know better.  But after some unexpected turns this year I was hopeful for some holiday magic.  Some feeling of excitement or nostalgia that would propel me into the new year with a new outlook.  So my wife and I set out into the mountains, packed into a van with two cold, wet dogs--one embarrassingly overweight, the other slowly dying--to be 'home for the holidays' with her family.  My in-laws.  (...)  (...)
They live in the house my wife's stepfather grew up in.  It is full of charm and creaks and character.  But as you might imagine it was built back when people took up much less space. The bathroom was not designed for lazy bathing.  The kitchen not made to accommodate dust-gathering monster machinery.  Maneuvering becomes a game of Jenga.  Because my wife didn't grow up in this house I do not get the novelty of sleeping in her old bedroom covered in Morrissey posters.  But we do get to sleep in the attic where the grandkids play-surrounded by tea sets and stuffed animals and remote control cars.  This is where we will wake up at 4 a.m. to clanking dishes and a blaring television, two grown adults screaming at each other about Velveeta because one of them is legitimately deaf.  Their family dogs-originally trained for hunting-will bark when air moves and let themselves in and out of the house as they please, the door banging behind them every time.  (My favorite is Missy.  She only has three legs and looks like Jar Jar Binks and Marilyn Monroe had a baby. My kinda girl.)  And I'll climb down the steep staircase that hasn't had a working light in at least five years in anticipation of creamed tomatoes and gigantic buttermilk biscuits.  And for 20 minutes it'll all be worth it...
Only that breakfast wasn't meant to be this year.  After a visit to the doctor, my father-in-law has given up carbs.  We would also have no hot water as the hot water tank went out after 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve. So there I stood on Christmas morning, taking a whore bath from a boiling pot, trying to make myself presentable for extended family.  You may be wondering at this point if this small town family accepts me as an in-law.  Yes, they do.  I'm showered with gifts.  My father-in-law thinks I'm the prettiest one.  The youngest grandchild understands that he has two aunts who live together.  HOWEVER.  Not one of them knows I'm a Jew.  Dyke?  OK.  Kyke?  No. 
And so I stay closeted--eating the microwaved corn on the cob that is offered to me for Christmas dinner. 
(Sidenote:  To be fair I am not knocking my mother-in-law's cooking here.  Everyone knows that my own mother cooks meat no less than three times before it actually makes it to the table--microwaved for defrosting--boiled to kill anything that may have landed on or near it--and finally oven for the actual "cooking" part.)
And then on Christmas night two heartbreaks--the news of George Michael's passing, and having to explain to the older and more tipsy members of the family the difference between George Michael and Boy George, and learning that I would not be getting the homemade yeast rolls I love so much.  What would we find in their place?  That loose hussy Sister Schubert had somehow made her way to another of my holiday functions!!!!
All was finally calm when we settled in for movie night.  It was there I discovered that like 112% of the female population, I would probably do anything The Rock asked me to.  Though he probably wouldn't ask me for much without access to hot water.
I am most thankful this year that my holiday travels are over.  That I am back to my routine. Taking hot showers in a house where the pets don't know how to open doors.  Where there are no ancient black death stairs to die on. Where I can be half Jewish all the time. Where I can watch the news in peace (sort of).  Though I notice Lester Holt is on holiday vacation.  I wonder if even he is somewhere stomping around in his old bedroom, exasperated by his mother, trying to explain to his family what he does for a living...

They put in all that CGI and I just wanted to die...

Apparently I am becoming quite the Star Wars expert for someone who started studying so late in the game.  For instance, I know that 93% of the men I will be sharing a theatre with at any showing will have split ends for days.  And of that 93%,  85% will be goateed.  And of that 85%,  37% will have fat girlfriends (probably with quirky socks).  The remaining 48% will still be clinging to the commemorative popcorn tins.
I'm also learning that things would be a lot easier if they could've just released these movies in the proper fucking order.  So without further ado--the latest edition of WGW's Star Wars Cliffsnotes...

Rogue One

This one basically follows the same formula as the others--strong willed woman eventually develops a soft spot for some asshole she hates. Tavern scene.  Cheeky robot has all the good comebacks. Only all the creatures look a lot more like venereal disease in this one.
Forest Whitaker clomps and wheezes all around like somebody's halfway house Gramps.
Blind Bruce Lee tries to save Aleppo.
The kid from 'The Night Of' flies everyone in to Vietnam.
Darth Vader is mean.
Pocket protectors are in full effect on all the important uniforms. Is this the case in all of them?  I've never noticed them before.  I guess it takes one under Jimmy Smits' chin for me to pay attention.  Anyway, if I see this look start creeping up on fall runways-I'm out.
And no spoilers--but if you've seen the first one from back when Carrie Fisher and Harrison Ford were boffing (which is now technically the fifth one...again, nerd is a serious requirement here) then you pretty much know how it ends.


There. I just saved you two and half hours you could be using on holiday festivities.  It's a public service, really.

I feel so broke up, I wanna go home...

Road Trip 2016.  Part Six.  L'aventure Finale.


It's been a while and I realize I never did share the last leg of my summer New England road trip.  This only proves two of my most repeated character flaws--1. I have some surface commitment issues, and 2. I never have known when to end a story.  But at the time I had so wanted to let it be known that there are no gentlemen in Connecticut.
We made it to Mystic just as the sun was going down, learning there were only three motels within town limits.  None of them being diamond properties, the first one we happened upon was the winner.  An old school place with what used to be a full service eat in restaurant.  The lobby was brand new and beautiful, until we approached the front desk.  Where we were greeted by a girl who likely looked at a lot of pictures in Mademoiselle magazine and drove a Ford Probe, but missed the prom to have a baby. With lopsided eyebrows stenciled in with greasy yellow-brown kohl pencil.  BTW-one of them was smudged as if someone had run their finger tip straight down through it.  She booked us into a double room, and outside and upstairs we went--into a damp, dark, outdated hallway topped with water-stained drop ceiling tiles.  Some of them broken.  Some of them missing altogether.  It may be the first time I ever inspected for bed bugs, including the time I stayed in a NYC hostel.  The only logical next step was to find some dinner and strategize ways to keep our bare feet off the carpet and bathtub, our bare butts off the toilet seat.
And so I found myself at Mystic Pizza looking at all things Julia Roberts and a dining room full of forty-something women who'd probably spent some time in the late 80s deciding if they were a Kat or a Daisy (nobody wants to be a JoJo)--and a few men who probably fancied themselves Charles Windsor types.  Then the waitress asked me if I would like to keep the menu and I realized she thought I was one of them.  I politely declined.
The next morning was sunny and blue. I woke up alive (lung fungus to be determined)--ready for the final leg of the trip.  The one I'd looked most forward to.  But my travel companion became unhinged no sooner than the bags made it to the car.  And she raged.  And yelled.  About everything.  About nothing. And raged some more.  The girth of it taking up so much space there was no room for argument or reason or defense strategy.  And a feeling welled up inside of me--a slow stirring mix of defeat and indifference, and an anger at having to feel it. And I knew.  That all of the giving up, giving in, going along, missing out--none of it mattered.  And never would. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.
I never made it to the water that day.  But I experienced Mystic Pizza.  Walked through a Black Dog Boutique I could've taken a shit in.  Shuffled through a gallery tended by a man too busy to answer my question. Then we left for home.  With no photo evidence.
I've never been so caged.  Sharing 70 cubic feet of space through rush hour Bronx traffic, and the never-ending Jersey Turnpike.  With a balloon in my chest and a snake in my gut.  It's the only drive I ever took that made me feel less free.
And I deserve a do over.

Fifty million Elvis fans can't be wrong...

I love the beginning of the holiday season. When the air starts to change and everyone (O.K. maybe only me) gets excited about donating coats and buying underpants for the needy.  When the focus is on the Thanksgiving menu; just before the focus becomes how many gifts can we get under the tree, how big can we make the tree look, how much money can I spend, how much shit can we have, which of these things will make me look the most successful on social media. 
I think Thanksgiving may actually be my favorite holiday.  There really aren't any rules-no awkward gift exchanges-it's all about breaking bread and that feeling, I think, of a sense of community.  At least it is for me- because I haven't spent Thanksgiving with a single blood relative since I was a teenager.  (And this makes me less likely to become a holiday season suicide statistic.)  I love that the house is warm and dark, and there's food in every room. I love the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade--when all those singers we've never heard of lip sync badly into microphones swaying with the movement of the float they're on, slapping their unknown little faces like unplugged electric dicks.
And I love to feed people. (I also secretly love aprons.  Not kidding.)  Chocolate pecan pie?  I do that.  From. Scratch.  Dressing?  From. Scratch.--including but not limited to homemade croutons--Green bean casserole?  Not a can of anything in sight.  OK, I don't make those little fried onions but c'mon...  I will admit that it does skeeve me out to rub all over a dead turkey.  And it does always make me a little sad the first time I see the carcass unwrapped and headless in the sink.    But I cook on anyway.  Because to feed people is to love them. (GROSS!  who am I?!) I zest lemons, I toast pistachios.  I caramelize sugar, I make roux.  And every year I make a fancy dressing to toss into a leafy green of some kind.--This year it was pear and red pepper vinaigrette with mesclun.--And every year it never makes it to the table.  Because no one is looking for the salad on Thanksgiving.
But I have a dark confession to make.  All of the bread in my house is store bought.  Even 'special occasion everything is homemade' dinner bread.  Baking bread has always illuded me.  I have only recently mastered biscuit making, after many years and countless fails.  I just felt biscuits weren't quite refined enough for my elegant holiday buffet.  So there I stood shoving Sister Schubert's frozen yeast rolls into the toaster oven.  I think my guests doubted the talents of this enigmatic freezer section Jewish nun baking genius.  But after a couple of passes of the "appetite stimulant" around the table, we were all singing the praises of Mama Eunice.  Or Sister Celeste.  Or whatever it is her name turned out to be.
And the next day there was just enough wine and pie left over for my 'I-don't-leave-my-pajamas-on-Black-Friday-much-less-my-house-so-I'm-gonna-snuggle-under-this-blanket-&-watch-embarrassing-chick-flicks-all-day-then-pretend-I-missed-my-wife-when-she-gets-home-from-work' movie marathon.
Thanksgiving success!!  Thanks Sister Schubert!

How That Music Used to Make Me Smile...

How awkward were the American Music Awards?  Who decided Jay Pharoah and Gigi Hadid (and her Knots Landing hair) made a charismatic pair?  Why was everyone in the crowd 11 years old? Where did they find all those overly enthusiastic audience gays?  Why does Janelle Monae suddenly think she's Lynn Whitfield?  I may never know the answers to these conundrums.  But I do know this:

Uptown Funk already happened, Bruno Mars.  Please don't pull a Carrie Underwood and sing the same song for the rest of your jheri curled career.

Oh Twenty One Pilots--to be young and self-important again.  I'm so into your edgy image--it's clear you have a lot to say.  Unfortch, your lyrics don't say it.  I get it--you want your fans to be cutters, but instead you got white kids with dreads.  That's a tough one.  

Shawn Mendes gave me Jessie's Girl era Rick Springfield realness. 

It's so strange how jarring it is when actual talent shows up on an awards show.  Everyone is so shiny and pretty and immobile, and then along comes some asshole who didn't have time to brush his hair because he was busy being a person--or tuning his guitar.   Or how Sting was like someone's grandpa who couldn't be bothered to put a shirt on for company.  Because he doesn't have time to glue his eyelashes on, he's busy being Sting.  (Although I'm convinced he was the first man to pull duck lips.)

Is it me or does the Weeknd seem gayer?

John Legend, I love that you rocked one of Blanche Devereaux's old track jackets.  But please don't perform without the piano again.  It embarrassed me.

WTF Ariana Grande??!!  Good for you for learning to move less like a retarded giraffe, but was that your fucking grandma in the audience watching you flop all around in the sand with Nicki Minaj's vagina?

My second favorite thing about the whole show was all the girls losing their shit at the Justin Bieber show.  Crying, shaking, some of them looked like they were in a catatonic state.  I loved every minute of it.  My wife had the nerve to roll her eyes and laugh at them, but she cried at a fucking UB40 concert.  And not in 1988--it was like 3 months ago.

Lady Gaga once again tested my gag reflex.  Affecting that country sanger drawl.  Isn't she from Long Island or something?  I haven't been that offended since Iggy Azalea tried to go full T.I.  And besides, doesn't she know the only woman who can pull that off in country music is Keith Urban? P.S.  You're guitar isn't plugged in.

My very favorite thing about the American Music Awards was Robert Downey Jr.

Thank you Nicki Minaj, Rick Ross, Future,and August Alsina for not even attempting a lip sync game.  You all mostly just walked around with a mic to your mouths.  And I appreciate that.  No need to exhaust yourselves on my account.  Oh, and DJ Khaled--shut...the...fuck...up.  That is all.

And finally, the big finale.  Adam Levine in a dad sweater.  You really did it this time AMAs.  But ain't that America?

And the calendar's cluttered with days that are numbered...

Every day is End of Days.   I stood in the kitchen chopping vegetables a week before Prince died and said, "If something happens to Prince, put me on suicide watch."   I've yet to be forgiven.  And a few weeks ago when You Want It Darker was released, I sat listening to Songs From a Room and thought to myself, "What am I gonna do when Leonard Cohen dies?"... I mourned Leonard Cohen alone in a hotel bed. After dining alone in a town unknown to me, a stranger in a hotel bar.  Fitting.  I dare not even think the names of the songwriters still breathing that I worship every day.  I've fallen radio silent.   I know.  The weight of the world affecting me more than I had anticipated.--Election fatigue, the 2016 deadpool, a cloud covered supermoon, Sophia Urista not even making it to the top 12 on The Voice.
When I was a kid I listened to my friends talk about kissing boys and holding hands.  I always thought no one wanted to hold my hand because I gnawed on my cuticles, biting until they bled when I was nervous or bored.  But there was a girl named Shannon who bit her nails down until they were gnarled up little strips.  And she always had boyfriends.  Even though she had a bad perm and claw bangs.  So I thought maybe it wasn't about her hands at all, it was because she was skinny and blonde.--Because according to my mother, "not too many boys will be interested in a girl that looks like you, and no one is going to be perfect so you should probably just find a man who won't hit you." --Shannon had a normal name, and laughed a lot.  She probably didn't spend as much time as I did sitting in a closet reading book after book.  Or recording her own radio shows.  Turns out not that many people are attracted to that, even as adults.
Much, much later I found myself in bed with someone I'd never expected.  He was the cocktail waitress at my regular watering hole.  I fucked him with my knee high combat boots on--though it was mostly missionary and with the lights out.  When it was all said and done, I hinted for him to leave.  But I'm a gentleman so I at least walked him to his car. There on the sidewalk as the sun came up he asked me for my phone number, said he wanted to spend real time with me, that I was a cool girl. And I, completely naked except for the boots and a pillow to cover my lady business, refused.  I told him he didn't have to do that--to pretend he was interested when we'd already fucked.  He protested.  And I never really thought that much about it as he continued bringing me cocktails.  Until I started taking stock in my thirties.   And I realized that I could've given that kid a chance.  And a lot of other kids really.
I'm not sure how last Wednesday's nausea and circulatory shock translates into any of this. Why I wanted to drink myself to death this weekend.  (Spoiler alert:  I didn't.  I mean I drank until I couldn't feel my tongue, but I didn't die.)  Why the only love letter I've ever written was to say goodbye.  It's just train of thought maybe-word vomit.  A breaking the silence. An exhale?   Too Angela Bassett...
Grieving. End of Days.

"The false trumpet concealing madness will cause Byzantium to change its laws."