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."

I Should've Taken The Cannolis.

Living in Maine, I feel like Henry Hill at the end of Goodfellas. All I want is some good matzoh ball soup but I can't even find Chanukkah candles for our menorah. There's not a single good bagel let alone a decent bagel store in the entire state. Pizzas are made at gas stations with crusty bread and ketchup. Sometimes, they're made with a new-age, soy cheese, hydroponic spice that leaves your palette with more questions than answers. Mainers, lend me your ears: basil does NOT belong in bagels! And while we're at it, hamburger meat on pizza is only a small step away from a dried out, open-faced sloppy Joe.

When we moved up from Queens, my wife and I left the land of the plentiful ethnic food in favor of a quieter lifestyle. We said good-bye to gyros and reubens, to moo shu pork and cannolis, to Korean food, to Jamaican food, to Indian food, good-bye to all in search of a calmer quality of life. We moved "down east" and every local knew where to get the "best" bagels or the "best" pizza. "Deah," they said, "have you tried Abbey's* bagels? Those are A1." First off, bagels should never be described by a steak sauce. Secondly, I'm not buying it! Everyone's told me they know of a good bagel place and every time I walk away unsatisfied and violent. People, rolled dough does not qualify as a bagel!

Now, don't get me wrong: Jewish cuisine is not exactly savory. Gefilte fish tastes like poop. But, an occasional brisket sandwich would be nice. I'd like the option of an Italian restaurant whose chef actually uses real tomatoes for sauce, not the generic canned puree. As it is, the nearest Olive Garden is over an hour away. Were it closer, I might consider that an improvement -mind you, my father emphasized in no uncertain terms that we, as Italians, do not eat at Olive Garden. I used to be able to get a slice a foot across by a foot and a half long for a buck twenty-five. The "pizza" up here is a piddly seven inches long, at best. The vendor should pay the customer to eat it. Pete's Pizza* only sounds good because of alliteration and should be fined for false advertisement.

I saw Goodfellas when I was twelve and promptly found two other kids with Italian names to start my family. Fairfield County had a new godfather. I used to rewind the scene in jail as Henry described Paulie's method of using a razor to slice the garlic. Just to make myself feel more Italian, I began cooking some sort of slop that I called Italian food because I sliced the garlic paper-thin. I felt more Italian but the food tasted Canadian -sorry, Canada. Eventually, I grew older and began taking an interest in my family history and before she died, I asked Grandma to teach me how to make her meatballs. They were definitely not her meatballs. People up here think it's the best Italian food they ever ate because an Italian made it. They even consider my matzohball soup** authentic Jewish cuisine but it's as authentic as the box it came in. People of Maine: zeppoles are not gigantic blimps in the air! Matzoh is not a creepy TV program of mimes from the seventies!

Somebody, please, send me a real bagel! I'm dying up here.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of these exceptionally overrated food vendors.
**In the interest of full disclosure, I've made matzoh ball soup once in my life, had to look up the spelling for zeppoles on Google, and would consider upgrading the status of gefilte fish's taste to mud if people take offense.