A Eulogy

This is unedited...forgive me.

I know every blogger is going to be writing about the death of Beastie Boys' Adam Yauch. I'm no different.

I, perhaps, have less of a reason than others to write about him. I wasn't much of a fan until later in life and, the it was cool to like the lesser known tracks, I was a fan of their singles, my favorite, "Sabotage." I liked the bandwagon, I suppose.

So, of course, I loved "Fight for Your Right (to Party)," an undeniable classic of the Eighties that solidified their tenure the music world. I have a memory of this song at an eighth grade dance, the winter dance, I think. All the boys we sitting on a fold-out lunch table when the song came on and, immediately, we rocked the cafeteria. We were gods. I clutched the edge of the table, my body banging my head back and forth as if I we exorcising the Devil. Suddenly aware of myself, I looked up to see several friends laughing at me. And, because it was absurd, laughed, too, and went right back to head-banging with impunity.

Here's why: Adam Yauch and I were a little bit alike...both bass players, both named "Adam," and both from mixed Jewish-Catholic families passively ignoring religion. Adam later became a Buddhist. Being Jewish was never cool, at least not where I grew up. We were geeks, though I willfully assimilated. But, Adam and his bandmates, also Jewish to varying percentages, made it alright to be Jewish. The Beastie Boys were cool. They broke into a realm of music where, to many, they were strangers. What business did a bunch of Jewish kids from Brooklyn have rapping?

For that moment back at the dance, I didn't care about being an outsider; I liked it. What's more, as a self-hating, thirteen-year-old boy, I liked myself, even if only for a short while.

Thank you, MCA.

Pithy Moment

I had already eaten the last of a specific kind of candy that my daughter asked for today. Her Jewish grandmother gave them to her on Easter. She still has copious amounts of chocolate. I'm a monster.

Announcement

Two more forthcoming publications:  One in April, entitled Pedigree and also the first chapter of Matzoh and Meatballs, in AUDIO format at WordPlaySound and a short story entitled The Lobster's Name Is Nick in print form from a new journal,  The Alarmist. 

Keep reading....another post is...well...um...right below.

Woody Allen

I’m supposed to love Woody Allen.  His films are ground-breaking, witty, exploratory...and, he’s Jew that’s made his success from being Jewish.  Perhaps, we should ignore the illegitimacy and taboo of his split from Mia Farrow and union with Farrow’s -not Allen’s- adopted daughter Soon-Yi Previn, just like we should ignore Roman Polanski’s questionable sexual behavior with a minor.  Perhaps, I judge.  I liked The Pianist, Mr. Polanski.

Nevertheless, I hate Woody Allen.

I regularly leave his films, saying, “That was pretty good...I think.”  Usually, I find myself wanting more from his plot or something more dynamic.  I want his characters to be less annoying -not much less, just a little less.  I want his productions to meet my expectations...this never happens.

To that, many will say, “Oh, but you just don’t get it.”  For the record, my wife considers me a closeted hipster.  I like small-production quirky films -hell, I call them “films” rather than “movies.”  I have an ironic taste for poorly-sung alternative music.  I like Wes Anderson.  No mustache, though...well, a full-beard.  Does that count?  So, if what they say about hipsters is true, I get a whole lot of what others don't.  

But, I don't get Woody Allen.  

I've tried multiple times, often laughing when others do, so as to participate with the in-crowd.  I tried to get inside the minds of his morally-questionable protagonists.  After seeing What’s New, Pussycat?, I tried to feel what it felt like for women to casually fall in love with me -very unsuccessfully.  I tried to shift out of focus after seeing Deconstructing Harry.  I tried to enjoy the Twenties when I saw Midnight in Paris.  I couldn't get past Sean Penn's mustache in Sweet and Lowdown. 
 

"But, what about Annie Hall or Crimes and Misdemeanors or Mighty Aphrodite?"
 

My answer is, "I don't know," and I feel left out.  Am I not cultured enough?  Not intellectual enough?  Should I shave my beard into a mustache?  I want to be part of this, Mr. Allen.  Why must you be so exclusive?  I am missing something.  I need to defocus myself again.  Or enhance my neurotic tendencies.  Or have an affair.  Or learn how to dance the Charleston.

Don’t worry, Mr. Allen, I’ll figure out all your references and innuendos.  I’ve got Wikipedia.

Pithy Moment

After each new blog post, my mother insists that it's her favorite of all time and that she's increasingly proud of the man I've become...I'm thirty-four.

Announcement

I've got a couple publications approaching online.  Be on the lookout at:

Intellectual Refuge
(some Friday within the next few months)

and

Eunoia Review
(mid-April).

Thanks and keep reading...a new post is below.

Melancholy, Brooding, and Tennis

Tennis is a lonely sport.

It's a game of introversion.  Introverts hate it because all you can do is think.  Extroverts hate it because you ultimately curse at the umpire or the crowd or the air when you lose a point.  John McEnroe...well, need I say more?

What does this have to do with Italians or Jews, you ask?  Not much, except that this was my sport.  I could have been good.  Maybe not "Federer" good, but when I was a teen, I broke the top 50 in New England.  I could have been better but Andre Agassi was my hero.  My doubles partner and I took his "Image Is Everything" campaign very seriously, often dressing in our matching denim shorts with hot pink Agassi-style shirts.  Spandex, too.  But, like Agassi, I thought too much, brooded too much, and became melancholy too quickly on the court.  It got lonely out there.

Perhaps the most riveting moment of tennis came in the Round of 16 at the U.S. Open in 1991 when an aging Jimmy Connors -on his 39th birthday- went head-to-head with young Aaron Krickstein.  I was there in the nose-bleeds, cheering Jimmy on, as he stole the crowd from Krick and ultimately won the match.  It wasn't until years letter, when I saw a re-run of the match, that I realized who the loneliest person in the stadium actually was:  Krick's father, Herb.  Even as Krick wins a point, his father's melancholy keeps him tensely tugging at his own neck (watch at minute 3:30).



Krick had his dad.  His dad had no one.  Unfortunately for Herb, Connors won that day.

We Jews are not known for our athletic prowess.  We're not usually the favorite to win at sporting events.  So, it's really f***ing exciting when we do!  That's why we love Sandy Koufax; he was the Muggsy Bogues of baseball, both alone and lonely in their climb to the top, both anomalies on their own turf.

I love the picture below.  Jews and basketball.  There's a sadness in each of their expressions that seems to say, "If you want to win, you have to be okay with loneliness."