I wrote this last year on the Before I Die wall.
We never met, but like many fans, I felt like I knew you.
It’s a funny concept, isn’t it? The idea that millions of people around the world feel close to you simply because your job is to act onscreen.
I often wonder what it must be like for celebrities. Humbling? Annoying? At first humbling, then annoying?
For us fans, it’s often the highlight of our weeks, months or years.
There were few famous people I wanted to meet in this world, but you were one of them. Something about you felt familiar. Maybe it was because you were Jewish, and I’m Jewish, and though neither one of us practiced, it felt like an important part of who we are.
Or maybe it was the way you presented yourself onscreen. Though you could act manic, there was a softness to you, betrayed by your bright blue eyes. You had the ability to look as though you were about to burst into tears or hysterically (more…)
My anxieties are reaching an all-time high lately, I thought as my doctor scolded me for touching my boobies too much.
“Quit squeezing your boobs!” is what she said, actually.
I had scrambled to the doctors after I became convinced that one boob was firmer than the other, thus meaning that a giant tumor was taking over the right side of my body. In fact, I’ve been having muscle issues on my entire right side for months now, and instead of being logical about it (the right side of my body is my mouse hand and I spend over 4-8 consecutive hours on my computer a day), I constantly dwell on the idea that I have side cancer.
I’ll refrain from getting into details on my boob-squeezing obsession, but I will say this: boob-squeezing is a slippery slope. If you think there is something wrong with your boobs and you constantly squeeze your boobs to see if something is wrong, then your boobs are going to hurt and then you’ll REALLY think something is wrong with them.
Just a dead shark on a forklift
MY MOM IS IN TOWN!
That means a lot of quality mom and daughter bonding time, her telling me I should brush my hair and her telling my boyfriend stories about how I don’t share food.
I love my Mom more than anything. I am her only daughter and she solely raised me, so needless to say we’re very much alike. Due to this fact and the fact that we both come from a long lineage of guilt-inducing Jews, we bicker a lot. I went to therapy to nip the guilt tripping trait in the bud, so when my mother, and especially my grandmother, try to pull it on me, I turn into a raving She-Hulk. When you’re little, you don’t know any better; feeling guilty for absolutely nothing was pounded into my soft skull at a very young age. When you’re older, you realize that normal people don’t say things like, “You think I’m stupid!” when you don’t agree with something they say or, “You must not like spending Christmas-” -we’re religiously inadequate Jews- “-with the family anymore!” (more…)
Today would have been Amy Winehouse’s 29th birthday.
Though I never took a strong interest in her music or her life, there’s no doubt that she was a falling star that burned through the universe too brightly and exploded into a million little stars into the great abyss (or insert whatever cliche you want to put there).
She was an anomaly, a slew of contradictions both aesthetically and musically: a Jewish girl from Britain who sang with guttural and smokey intensity, a cotton candy beehive hairdo and cat eye-wearer who enjoyed the heroin chic look of tank tops, wilted and tattooed arms and missing teeth.
She had the sound of Etta James, the look of Dusty Springfield and the self-destruction of Sid Vicious all rolled into one.
The majority of Winehouse’s pictures circulating the web are images of a sad, dirty and sickly young woman who looked much older than her age. Photoshopped photos emphasizing her cocaine-laced nostrils, her track marks or any other abnormality on her (more…)
The other evening I watched Woody Allen’s Annie Hall and Manhattan for the first time in a long time. While watching the film, I was reminded of how badly I wanted to be a middle-aged narcissistic Jewish male as a child. Forget being the Little Mermaid or Rainbow Brite, I wanted to be a freakin’ horn-rimmed balding and big-nosed kvetch.
It should have been disconcerting to my mother that a young girl from Upstate New York would want to mold her future personality traits after someone such as Woody Allen. However, considering I had a penchant for dressing up as other short, but less narcissistic Jewish men- most notably 2 out of 5 of the Marx Brothers and Rod Serling- I guess it should have come as no surprise.
I recalled the other evening the precise feeling I had when I first watched those films. It was as if the light bulb had finally been turned on. Here were these people who lived in New York City, were unapologetically self-aware, vocally insecure, and flailed their arms around (more…)
I am a Jew.
A non-practicing Jew.
One of those people that is- according to Judaic Law- Jewish, but yet has only participated in one mind-numbing Seder her entire life. The sort of person who really loves telling people she’s Jewish because she feels that it will help explain certain characteristics and because being part of the Jew Club is cool. Woody Allen? Gene Wilder? The Marx Brothers? They’re my peeps.
My grandmother grew up with her Orthodox Jewish grandmother and after a few years she was like, “f that”. So when she gave birth to my mom, she raised her Barely Christian. Then I came along and that Barely Christian turned into Notta Christian and I’ve been wandering around spiritually aimless for the past 28 years. When you’re young, this doesn’t really matter to you. You think you and everyone you love is immortal. As you start to get older and more jaded, you’re like, “Fuuuuuck, I am going to die. I better figure out where I’m going, otherwise this could get really depressing.”