I don't know you, but add me on Facebook

Hey, Mind If I Add You On Facebook?

Hey there! You know my friend Will? I can't believe we're both at this party and we both know Will!

Where'd he go? I'm not sure, I think he said he was grabbing a beer. You know Will, one minute you come up to him and start complaining about your job and ask him "where the poon at?" and the next he's awkwardly introducing you to an acquaintance and quietly slipping away in the pursuit of more alcohol.

But never mind him! Tell me a little bit about yourself! At least enough so that I can remember the barest fact about you and immediately add you to Facebook, thereby increasing my friend count and giving me a false sense of popularity.

What you think adding a complete stranger is weird? I hardly think so; I mean, I have 870 Facebook friends who can vouch for how awesome I am. Sure, I've only met 820 of them once, but they definitely got a sense of who I am...at least enough of a sense to click "accept" when the friend request fell into their inbox.

Why are you looking around the party when I'm talking to you? Are you trying to find another cool friend to introduce me to? Maybe I can add them too!

OK, that's cool...you're pulling out your Blackberry while I'm telling you about my top 10 albums of the 2000s. That's fine, just look down at the tiny screen in the palm of your hand:

You're just where I want you.

Remember how I casually asked your last name when we first met? Well, it's gettin' formal up in here now bitch because I can spend this uncomfortable beat adding you on Facebook.

It's the 21st century and if I know your first and last names...we're friends.

OK, watch this, I'm pulling out my iPhone and opening up the Facebook app and looking you up. Even as you're walking away from me because our conversation died a painful, awkward death when I made that joke about Asians and "shitty wok"...I know that we'll be virtual friends forever.

Yes, we will soon be online friends because no one except celebrities ever turn down friend requests. Believe me, I've tried! I'm still waiting for Chris Daughtry to be my friend. What's his deal?

Oh well, there's always Twitter for people who want another layer of privacy when they reveal their innermost private thoughts for all to see.

Anyway, nice to meet you and we'll definitely be friends forever even though I've only met you once for about a minute and a half and I will most certainly never see your bored, almost disgusted face again.

Get ready for a lifetime of "thumbs up" to statuses you really wish only your closest friends could read. Prepare yourself for annoying invitations to join my Farmville community and empty, meaningless birthday wishes like "happy birthday bro". Do I even know how old you are? Please! I don't even know what decade you were born in.

Isn't technology wonderful?

All Christmas Songs Were Written By Jews (sort of)

In other news, judging by my "approve comment" queue, Yahoo! seems to be link-spamming now...either that, or people just really excited about Yahoo decided to post comments like "hey, do you know of any good websites? the only one I know is Yahoo!"

Either way, it appears I have nothing better to talk about than whether or not Yahoo! is link spamming. I can only hope your life is as exciting, varied and just plain spectacular as mine, because if not, you're probably even closer to the dark specter of suicide than me.

Kudos to you, suicidal reader!

Anyway, I'm a Jew during Christ-week, so of course all thoughts lead to despair, self harm, and hours upon hours of ordering take-away Chinese food and watching "Seinfeld" reruns. You can NEVER see those enough times.

The only dim glimmer of hope that I have is the knowledge that you, kind Christian reader, are singing songs during yuletide written by yid tools! That's almost a pun, but instead of being a pun, is more like literary vomit. Actually I wouldn't really use the word literary, more "chunky, off-green colored", but you get my gist.

Anyway, it's true, kind sir or madam...we wrote some of your most beloved Christmas songs. This little tidbit of knowledge will probably cause you to:

1) Ban the use of said songs because "that there the Devil's music written by them Jew-types"
2) Sing songs louder to underscore bitter irony of the Jews jubilant embrace of Christmas: our culture is slowly dying do to mixed marriages and gentrification, therefore we have become a willing cog in the very system that has been trying to kill us for 2000 years.
3) Not actually care because they're just stupid holiday songs.

Either way, I'm sleepin' with one eye open tonight!

Here are a list of Christmas songs written/co-written by Jews:

The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire) - Writers Mel Torme and Bob Wells...Jewish!
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Holly Jolly Christmas and Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree - Johnny Marks was a Jew who specialized in Christmas songs:
Do They Know It's Christmas? (Feed the World) - Bob Geldof 1/4th Jewish...maybe a bit of a stretch, but he does look Jew...ish.
Santa Baby - written by Fred Ebb and Joan Javits (both Jews, Javits of the famous family)
I'll Be Home for Christmas - Walter Kent, who wrote the music and Kim Gannon, who co-wrote the lyrics...JEW!
Silver Bells - Jay Livingston and Ran Evans...you guessed it...
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year - George Wylie (not his birth name) is also famous for writing the Gilligan's Island Theme Song
Sleigh Ride - Mitchell Parish who wrote the lyrics, was Jewish and born "Michael Hyman Pashelinsky" obviously.
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! - lyricist Sammy Cahn and music composer Jule Styne teh wuz Jewish.
There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays - Al Stillman, the lyricist...
White Christmas - Irving Berlin wrote this one...or should I call him by his birth name Israel Isidore Baline? Nah, that just sounds silly.

Here are a few neat articles that talk more in depth about this:

New York Times - "Whose Christmas Is It?"
Los Angeles Times - "Bob Dylan joins long list of Jewish musicians performing Christmas music"

Strangely enough, Adam Sandler's "Chanukah Song" was written by the Alabama chapter head of the Aryan Nation.

Amazing Photograph

Since this blog is called "a picture of a photograph", I thought it only apt to include this particular picture of a photograph.

More about its background after you look at it. For right now, just make sure to click on the thumbnail and look at the picture full size...


When do you think this picture was taken?

Well, you're wrong because it was around 1905. The photo was taken by Sergey Prokudin-Gorsky, an early pioneer in color photography. His work is really worth checking out; vibrant, classical and just a tad (unintentionally, of course) psychedelic.

So go check it out...I'll still be here.

Flat Tire In Barstow

Today, my tire burst.

Just an average problem for a normal person, but for me it becomes a herculean nightmare of Beckettian despair.

I go to work at Zappos in Las Vegas (Henderson, but who's counting) about once a month, and usually I fly. This time I said to myself "you know what would be nice...aside from the usual gentle sobbing? Driving to Las Vegas...while gently sobbing."

So there I was, Power Bar and bag of corn nuts in hand(s). Driving joyfully down the I-15 blasting Bob Marley...then I heard a WHIZZZ...BLOP...RUDDER, RUDDER, RUDDER. I also think I heard my tire say "fuck you, Jew", but that could just be the voices in my head.

In any case, I stop, get out and notice 1/2 my rear driver's side tire about ten feet from my car. Then I look around and realize I am 30 minutes from the nearest town going back towards LA and about an hour from the nearest town going towards Vegas.

To understand the I-15, you must also understand that 95% of the exits lead to one road that takes you straight to the I-15 going in the opposite direction. There is nothing remotely building-like within eyeshot, and at night there is no eyeshot.

Literally, it's darker than a particularly dark cavern painted black. When I got out of the car, I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, and it was only for the grace of the headlights of a passing motorist zooming by that I could even make out the fact that I had a flat tire in the first place.

I'm a native New Yorker and didn't have a license until I was 21. I didn't drive on a daily basis until I was 25...and at the most, "drive" means about 25 miles a week. In other words, I've never changed a tire.

And even if I could...I couldn't. My flashlight was out of batteries and there was no possibility of even seeing in the trunk to figure out where the spare might be (or if I even had one).

At this point, I started imagining that my sexy body would lure a crazed loner on a trip to Vegas to rape and murder, to decide to begin his vacation early.

Alone, alluring and frightened, I called up AAA and gave them my brother's account number (for I do not have AAA because I am an arse). They asked me if my brother was there with me. I told them no. They said "hey, sorry! we can't help you".

I begged them to help a brother out...they "allowed" me to sign up for a membership...and then asked me where I was. Needless to say, I didn't know where I was, specifically or generally. I had no idea if I was in California or Nevada. They couldn't help me.

That's when the SCARY LIGHTS pulled up. Looking in my rear view, I saw a giant car with bright lights came barreling towards me. My anus clenched and I begged the operator to stay on the line because "I am insane and paranoid".

The lights, obviously, were mounted on the front of a Highway Patrolman's car. Yay! I asked him what state we were in. "California!" YES!

The AAA operator said "what town?"...I gave her my nearest exit, but she needed to know the town. I asked the Patrolman, who said "we're in the desert. There's no town for miles!". He told me the name of the nearest town (Barstow), which was 30 minutes away.

The operator said "someone will be there in 45 minutes to an hour. The cop left and said "stay in your car and buckle your belt"...which I did for well over an hour, shivering and nervously overheating at the same time. I believe that's how Michael Jackson died.

Finally, the tow truck came and said that I could drive to Vegas on my mini doughnut, but if it blew out (my ten year old doughnut + Manson Luck = Yes), I'd be left in an even worse mess. He called up the only repair shop in 50 miles and asked if they had my tire. "Yes!" they proudly exclaimed.

So we drove 30 minutes to the repair shop, who promptly told us "No!" they didn't have my tire: But they could get it tomorrow and there is a perfectly spermy cheap motel next door. Oh, but don't worry, the new tire will only be $200!

Thank goodness for great deals.

So I checked in to my cheap motel and promptly spilled some water on my bedsheets and noticed that no "wet mark" was left. This poses the question: "am I sleeping on a giant potpourri of vaginal juices, sperm and tears?"

The answer is at least 1/3 true, as I'm lying in the bed tonight, gently sobbing.

As an addendum, I bring you my Facebook status exactly 5 hours before the tow truck came:

working in las vegas for a few days this week. decided to drive there for fun...might be regretting that in 5 hours...

I've always been quite the grim portent of things to come...well, at least if you expect the worst, you aren't surprised when the worst happens.

So six hours in the motel reading Wikipedia articles on Genetics (DNA tests for ancestry purposes seem like a waste of money) and Judaism (my grandmother's maiden name Meyerson means "from Meir" who would have guessed it?)...and I have to finish my drive in 5 hours.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to wrap myself in filthy sex blankets. Brings me right back to the halcyon days of yore and my time at other cheap motels...

What is change?

So, it's the end of the year again. It used to be "whoopie! it's the end of the year" and now it's "oh shit, how the fuck did that year fly by so quickly?".

It's a time for mediative reflection, or at least staring at your reflection in the bottom of a glass of whiskey meant to kill the pain.

Either way, I'd rather be drunk.

I'm not sure what has changed between the time I started this blog (at the ripe old age of 24) and now (at the "smells like a ripe banana" old age of almost 29)...but something has.

Looking back on a decade, you can't really tell much about a person. Obviously things change because things basically HAVE to change in ten years.

But half a decade can define someone. What have YOU done since 2005? When I first started this monstrosity, I was living in NY and moderately optimistic about life, the universe and everything...but that's probably because I knew the answer without actually knowing the question.

But 5 years later and things have changed.

I'm living in Los Angeles and very definitely pessimistic about life the universe and everything...but that's probably because I forgot the answer and kept repeating the same question over and over again: "if everyone in LA speaks loudly on their cell phones about how successful they are...then why are there so many unemployable layabouts who have nothing to contribute to society?" I guess that's one of those things that are unanswerable, like why can't science develop a toupee that doesn't look like a dead rat?

Also, why are people incapable of knowing the difference between there and their or your and you're. Is it really that spectacularly difficult? Is it dividing zero while curing cancer?

Apparently change is good, because there is some implication of growth...but I don't see it. change is literally just change and growth is something you find within yourself. You can get up and move out of town, but it's not where you are, it's who you are. We can have a new president, but if they country's still a vacuous shithole...the country's still a vacuous shithole.

So here we are, staring 2010 blank in the face; acknowledging that things will never be like they were before, yet we're still the same; no more privacy, no more secrecy, no more "sorry, I didn't get your message"...but the only difference is people now know we're lying about not getting the message; we're entering an era of absolute connection, absolute absoluteness...one might say the era of "hey, we never realized this, but everyone's actually a douchebag!".

I would say "no thanks", but someone smart would probably point out that I've already lost the argument by writing an entry in a blog (a medium, which ten years ago I shunned with extreme sarcasm and prejudice). I go kicking and screaming, but I always go.

You've changed, I've changed...the idea of "change" has changed. I say, sit back and enjoy the miserable, pointless ride...but just try and keep up, otherwise things can get really awkward in social situations.

Postscript: I've only written in my blog a handful of times in the past 3-4 months, so my blog writing skills have mostly likely rotted away. If you don't get the central thesis of this post, it might be because there is no central thesis.

Post-Postscript: Thesis - what have you done for yourself in the past 5 years? is it a "lot"? Well, what's that even mean? Things might have "changed", but growth is really the important indicator. Have you grown? You have to look deeply within yourself to find that answer. My thought is that people probably haven't grown too much, but we just know MORE about people and demand they share EVEN MORE. So sit back, and give in, because it's only gonna get worse.

My Great Grandfather's Murder

My great-grandfather (my dad's maternal grandfather) was murdered in 1935 by a 16 year old.

During a $9 robbery of his general store, he was hit over the head with a bowling pin by 16 year old James Sullivan, and promptly died. They were able to trace the pin back to the bowling alley where James worked, and he eventually confessed to the crime. Apparently, he was obsessed with John Dillinger...as his friends called him "Little John Dillinger".

The sentence was originally death, but my grandmother's family spoke on his behalf during sentencing, and it was commuted to life in prison. My grandmother Ethel passed away in 2008 (at the ripe old age of 98) and took all the first hand memories with her. No one quite knows what happened to James, so if you're related to him, or are him (aged 90ish)...it would be great to find out, so please leave a message below.

Anyway, here's an article I managed to dig up about James from the NY Post circa 1936. Figured it's worth posting here for posterity's sake.

EIGHT MINORS IN DEATH HOUSE AT SING-SING PRISON

SING SING PRISON, N. Y., Nov. 26—James Sullivan, seventeen-year-old schoolboy convicted of murdering a Brooklyn storekeeper in a $9 hold-up February 20, entered the death house at Sing Sing Prison Tuesday to await electrocution on January 7.

The arrival of young Sullivan brought the death-house population to twenty three. Nine of those scheduled to die have not yet reached twenty-one years of age. Never in the prison's history have so many minors awaited electrocution.

Shackled to Deputy Sheriff John Durant and accompanied by Deputy Sheriffs James Shortell and John J Gabay, Sullivan arrived hatless and without an overcoat, was neatly clad in a blue suit, black shoes and dark socks.

"The place seems so big and strange," he murmured as the deputy sheriffs led him to the warden's office for the customary examination. Responding to the question as to what led him to commit the crime, he said "I had, a craving for money."

Sullivan became convict No 62,-707 He is five months younger than Wenworth Springer, another seventeen-year-old death house inmate awaiting execution for a murder in New York. - Springer will precede Sullivan to the chair on January 7.

Sullivan was brought to Sing sing from the City Prison in Brooklyn where he has been lncarrcerated since last April. As he left the Brooklyn prison, a convict shouted: "Don't worry, kid. you won't burn."

A pailid, sandy-haired youth, Sullivan failed to see his mother as he passed through the gate and he seemed not to hear her cry: "my god, he's only a child".

Sullivan bashed a bowling pin on the skull of Herman Meyerson. forty-eight years old, when he entered Meyereon's store at 2881 Atlantic Avenue, Brooklyn, last February and took $9 from the till. At school the boys had called him "Little Dillinger" because he read everything he could of John Dillinger, the late outlaw.

As a side note, one of Herman's sons became Lee Myles (of automotive fame) and was the star of a fairly amusing, possibly true, story I wrote in my blog last year.

Wasted Days...

Man, today is just one of those days.

You know what I'm talking about; the sun seems to set before it's even risen, your feet are about 30 degrees cooler than the rest of your body and your eyes are in a constant battle with your mind over what to actually stare at; nothing...or everything.

Booze just won't cut it today, as the problem isn't the usual "morbid self-loathing". Today the problem is apathy...the total absence of wanting.

Well, that's not true, because today makes you "want" to sleep for several hundred hours until your nickname becomes "Rip Van Jewkle" but that's not going to happen, no matter how many decorative beards you affix to your chin.

So the day will slowly pass and your brain will slowly drool out of your ear. Everything moves slowly today; especially entropy and apathy.

Hopefully tomorrow will come and wash the feeling of today away, but more likely you will be sitting at this desk tomorrow twiddling your thumbs and wondering if the next day will wash the feeling of today away.

But of course it wont, because the next day is Monday, which means you will be working and the only thing working does is give you something to do while you don't really have anything else to do.

Woot!

CSS VS The Rolling Stones

I have an Of Montreal station on my Pandora, which if you know the band, either plays me mind-bending modern psychedelic synth rock, or...crap.

Well, a few weeks ago a song came on named Let's Make Love and Listen To Death From Above by a Brazilian band named CSS ("Cansei de Ser Sexy", or literally "I got tired of being sexy"). I immediately took to it for reasons I usually take to modern songs...it reminded me of another, undefinable song.

Well, I finally figured out what that other song was...Too Much Blood by The Rolling Stones off their woefully underrated 1983 album "Undercover".

The beat, the guitar riff, the style of speak-singing and even the basic chorus are extremely similar ("let's make love and listen to death from above" vs "too much, too much, too much blood!"...you can even sing one over the other.)

In fact, you can even "couple up" these couplets

Rolling Stones:

I want to dance, I want to sing I want to bust up everything And make some love

CSS:

Fight me, deny me if I fear when you're close Let's make love and listen death from above

The Rolling Stones song is a little more arranged and contains a horn section, but really...they're pretty similar; musically, at least.

Now, this probably wasn't deliberate on the part of CSS, but it's one of those delicious musical continuities that I love discovering, even if it would be of little-to-no interest to the casual listener.

Anyway, here are both the songs...what do you think?



CSS - Let's Make Love and Listen To Death From Above



The Rolling Stones - Too Much Blood