65 Billion Dollars, but Only 1 Friend

This past Sunday, I decided on a whim to go see The Social Network.  The theater was so incredibly packed that I had to sit separately from the two people I was with, which forced me to pass the candy and water that I illegally smuggled into the theater down an entire row of people. (Note: if you’re going to the Kips Bay AMC, there is a perfectly placed Rite Aid next door that sells insanely cheap candy and 50 cent bottles of water.)

The movie sort of went by in a blur.  It was two hours long, but felt like it was only 30 minutes.  I guess I was just so engrossed in JT’s brilliant acting that I lost track of time.  But honestly, Justin Timberlake did a pretty good job portraying Sean Parker, although I think they made him out to be way more of a villain than he is in real life.  The real bad guy in this movie is Mark Zuckerberg.  I hadn’t read The Accidental Billionaires (the book that the movie is based on, published by Vintage), and I never really paid attention to the various lawsuits that Zuckerberg was involved in.  In fact, before seeing this movie, I really knew nothing about the creation of Facebook other than the fact that the CEO was the youngest billionaire in America.  The movie and the story line were interesting enough that I actually felt compelled to google Mark Zuckerberg and see what he really looked like.  (Did you know he had a cameo on The Simpsons last Sunday? And he’s dating some girl named Priscilla Chan?)

The movie makes Zuckerberg out to seem like a total a-hole.  He can’t handle rejection, he blogs on Livejournal about how his ex-gf has small boobs, he compares women to farm animals, he screws over his only friend in the world, he is devoid of emotion. If anything, seeing this movie makes me feel less inclined to even use Facebook.   

The movie was great though and I highly recommend it to anyone, whether you’re on Facebook or not.  I am now anxiously awaiting a movie based on the turbulent beginnings of Myspace featuring Tom.

Practicing Freedom

By: Regina Musicaro, contributor

“Freedom is liberty from both physical and mental restraints.”

I once worked with a girl who found every reason to complain. She craved sympathy for the every day inconveniences of life, like missing a bus or receiving too much homework. She was the girl who walks into work in the morning to say, “This is just NOT MY DAY because . . . I lost my watch, I can hardly make rent, the chicken was dry, my parents fight . . .” I soon started to elicit the sympathy she desired, or rather pity. This girl was living in a mental prison. I’ve met happier people who have survived horrific events like the Rwandan Genocide. Assessing your personal freedom is a worthwhile activity. But you must not only assess it, you must practice it.

In Civil War Harper’s Weekly, May 7, 1864, the following passage appears:

“NEGROES ESCAPING OUT OF SLAVERY,

WE present on page 292 another view of one of the principal features of the war; namely, the escape of negroes, at all points within the rebel lines, from the house of their bondage. Mr. A. R. WAUD, who furnishes the sketch, sends the following account of a recent exodus during a Federal reconnaissance into the enemy’s territory . . . : “Coming in from the reconnaissance many negroes joined us. As it was not possible, on account of the muddy roads, for them to keep up with the horsemen, they were allowed to ride the spare and captured horses—many of them, however, coming to us on their masters’ horses. . . . ;but these dusky ones suffered horribly from fear of recapture several times.”

The above passage is from an archived newspaper from the American civil war.

Lately I’ve been doing Capoeira Angola, which is an Afro-Brazilian martial arts developed by enslaved Africans living in Brazil. These slaves used Capoeira to free themselves. It’s a beautiful art form that builds incredible body strength as well as relationships, grace, and axé (pronounced ashay), which is a word that can be translated as “life force” or “good vibration.” Axé is the vital personal energy that comes with personal and physical freedom. Capoeira Angola is a healing practice. It teaches its students to develop physical strength, to sing spiritual songs and to play music. Practicing Capoeira pushes the physical limits of the human body. To succeed, you must tolerate pain, commit yourself to discipline, and make a service-oriented offering to the group. As a metaphor to freedom from slavery, those who practice modern-day capoeira aim to escape mental traps such as anxiety, obsessive thinking, traumatic memories or pessimism. In other cases, they are escaping more concrete traps such as gang involvement or abusive relationships.

The slaves who practiced Capoeira disguised the practice as a dance so they could become strong without revealing their escape plans. The successful slaves freed themselves while others died trying. When we enter a Capoeira class, it is easy to take this historical fact for granted. If I could witness any past moment in history, it would be the triumphant day of an escaping slave.

Imagine an overworked, battered man. He is an African slave living in Brazil, the country where he was born. The man appears tired and resigned but beneath the surface he possesses stamina and resilience. He has a plan. This man wakes up in the morning feeling very nervous but then turns the energy of his anxiety into anger and determination. He knows this is the day that he either wins or dies but he also believes in his own strength. He sees his master approach with the intent to give orders but the enslaved man feels a surge of adrenaline. He kicks the master directly in the chest. The shocked master falls to the ground in shock. And then, of course, the slave runs. This man has never seen the edge of the plantation. He’s never seen the ocean. He has neither stood at the top of a mountain nor sat in a cushioned chair. But he sees Paradise. Many times he had played Capoeira with his fellow enslaved friends. Together they sang the song called Paranà ê. It’s as song about faith–knowing with certainty that paradise exists and that one must find it: 

Paranà ê, Paranà

I will leave for Bahia, Paranà

I will not stay here, Paranà

Paranà ê, Paranà ê, Paranà

If it will not be this week, Paranà

it’s the week that comes, Paranà

Paranà ê, Paranà ê, Paranà

As the man runs, the words of the song repeat in his mind like a motivational chant (think of that inspirational song on your i-Pod that gets you running on the treadmill). The master is out of sight, perhaps mounting a horse, perhaps alerting local officials, perhaps assembling an angry mob. The enslaved man is now very far from the plantation. He is filled with exhilaration but also terror because he has no home and no destination. His friends are left behind while his family has long been dispersed. His ancestral land of Africa is a place that he’s never seen. What will he eat tonight? Where will he sleep? Who will he love?

What happens next? Try to follow this man in your mind. Could you write the ending to his story? Could you pinpoint a moment in time wherein he achieves both physical and mental freedom. What conditions would this require?

William Faulkner said that, “We must be free not because we claim freedom, but because we practice it.” This quote further illustrates the complexity of freedom. At what point did the slave actually achieve the freedom he sought? As U.S. citizens, we brag about our freedom. We too soon take our freedom for granted.

Even if you are not practicing Capoeira, ask yourself if you are practicing freedom. The alternative is physical or mental imprisonment. This imprisonment takes many forms, especially the mental kind, and may involve the desire to impress your coworkers, a fear of terrorism while riding the subway or angry rumination due to an inability to forgive someone.

Here’s a good place to start. Ask yourself these questions:

Do you worry? Do you describe yourself as “really busy” until . . .? Are you going to be free after graduate school? After you get a promotion? When you’re no longer sick? After you lose weight? Will you be free when you find a spouse? Are you lacking freedom today because you were charged an ATM withdrawal fee? Like the slave running from the plantation, we are forced to take an inventory of where we’re going and why. And though the liberation from enslavement was the first and crucial step to a free life, the slave is wise enough to know that one must build not just a house, not just a success story, not just a relationship but *axé* along with the release from physical bonds. Freedom is a moment-to-moment practice rather than a set of circumstances. Personal freedom should frame all of your actions and thought. My favorite advice from Richard Rorh (an American priest) can be summarized as: Contentment is from within. Do not expect tomorrow to be different from today because how one does anything is how one does everything.

Old Fashioned Beef Stew & Cranberry Compote

I’ve realized that whenever I have a day off work and I’m staying in the city, I always wind up doing the same thing…making beef stew.  Beef stew is one of my favorite meals and also one of my favorite things to cook.  It’s rare that I have a full day all to myself to make it (since it takes hours to cook).  I’ve decided to share my recipe with all of my readers (probably 1-2 people, really).  This recipe came from my mom who made this for dinner at least once a month when I was younger.

Ingredients:

• 2 lbs beef chuck stew (buy good quality meat from somewhere like Fairway, Eli’s or Whole Foods and cut the fat off)
• 6 medium sized onions
• 6 medium sized potatoes
• 3 small carrots (I happen to love carrots, so I put more in)
• 1 teaspoon of salt &  1 teaspoon pepper
• 2 tablespoons of flour
• 1 tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce
• 4 tablespoons soy sauce
• 1/2 a bag of frozen peas
• 1 bag of frozen pearl onions
• 2-3 tablespoons of red wine
• You can also add sun dried tomatos, but I prefer it without.

Cut meat in 2″ pieces and place in a large kettle.  Cover with water and cook slowly for 1 and a half hours.  Add veggies and cook until all are tender, about 45 minutes.  Thicken with flour (blended with a little water making a white paste; see image).  Add ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce, salt, pepper, etc.  (Note: if soy sauce is added, use salt sparingly until soy sauce has been mixed in and absorbed).  Let sit for 2 hours or until ready. Continue to use flour paste to thicken sauce if too watery. Serves 5-6 people. Goes well with red wine and Italian bread.

I’ve also noticed this goes well with my Grandma’s Cranberry Compote, so I’m sharing that recipe as well.

Ingredients:

• 1 16 oz. can of Ocean Spray whole Cranberry sauce
• 1 20 oz. can of crushed Pineapple (Dole is a yellow can and says “in it’s own juice”) – DRAIN before using
• 1 3 oz. package of cherry or strawberry jello
• 1 cup boiled water
• 1 teaspoon lemon juice

Mix Cranberry sauce and drained pineapple together. Sprinkle and mix in lemon juice.  Dissolve jello in 1 cup boiling water and add to mixture.  Mix everything again.  Put in refrigerator to sit for a day.  Note: this needs to be prepared the day before you want to serve it, so that it has a chance to thicken.

It may not look like much, but it’s the highlight of every Thanksgiving dinner my family has.

I Was Told There’d Be Cake…And There Was

Book Review by Uptin Saiidi, editor of www.eruptin.com

I’ve now lived in New York City for two years.  I have yet to buzz up a random passing friend into my apartment the way Jerry so often did for George and Elaine.  I’m still on the hunt for the right coffee shop for my six closest friends to pass hours on end that will feel as homey as the Gunther-managed Central Perk Coffee Shop.  I certainly don’t know any magazine writers who can afford to buy an enormous one bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side, complete with a closet filled to the brim with loads of $5,000 manolo blahniks.  And I’m still waiting to see a Dorota-type dressed Russian maid in the Upper East Side running away from her 17-year old boss named Blair.  While these TV depictions of the city may very well have been unrealistic, they’ve been too ingrained in me to not hope for each of them to be staples of my New York life. 

With so many inaccuracies portrayed on television, I found it comforting to relate to the real essays in Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake.  And now that HBO bought the rights to the book, we can hope that soon enough her essays will come to life on television for the next breed of New Yorkers to be. 

Sloane is one of the most authentic and appealing narrators I’ve read in quite some time.  Her humor emerges subtly when least expected, yet explodes once released.  Her voice is equally as endearing as it is self-deprecating and it’s easy to feel like you’ve known her for quite some time just by reading the opening paragraph. 

Her stories lock you in from the opening first line: “As most New Yorkers have done, I have given serious and generous thought to the state of my apartment should I get killed during the day.”  

Her insecurities of all the things she’s been collecting over the years surface as she shares a hypothetical conversation between her mom and dad while they clean out her apartment following her hypothetical death. 

But don’t think her essays ring only relatable to those who live in the city or are familiar with it.  In “The Ursula Cookie”, Sloane recalls the experiences of her first job in the publishing industry working for a boss who constantly was dissatisfied with her and sometimes resorted to literally throwing a stapler at her head.  In a state of panic, Sloane would run to the receptionist where she’d beg to be retold stories of previous assistants who had done worse than her. 

Her essay about her obsession with The Oregon Trail computer game resonates with almost all children of the early 90’s.  She shares memories of the times she would fill up a wagon with people in her lives she hated; one of the names would be her math teacher, so she could intentionally lose the game by starving her or by fording a river when she knew she was weak….all to get the satisfaction of seeing a pixilated box pop up on the screen saying, “MRS. ROSS HAS DIED OF DYSENTERY.”

Sloane’s second book, How Did You Get This Number, was released this summer and has already received wonderful review attention. 

Don’t be nervous when you read the back of I Was Told There’d Be Cake and see reviews from a bunch of people you probably never heard of who aren’t even referenced to a major publication.  If you’re up for a humorous read, this is no doubt one of the funniest books you will encounter.

Dinner with Schmucks

 ”I don’t believe you have diarrhea!” she said.

“I don’t believe you don’t believe me,” I responded.

Thus began one of the most asinine arguments I’ve ever had with another human being. The Colombian and I were supposed to have dinner with some of her friends this past weekend, and I made it clear when the plans were first discussed that I had no interest in going. I have no problem with her friends. Their husbands on the other hand, I actually kind of can’t stand. And by “kind of can’t stand,” I mean “really can’t stand.”

I’d met the two husbands in question a couple of weeks ago at yet another self-thrown birthday party at a lounge. While the women split off into their own little group to discuss whatever it is women discuss when they’re alone together (Oprah? I don’t know), I was stuck listening to a couple of Wall Streeters share their views on the economy. “Hussein is gonna mess our shit up, if he’s not stopped” said a short, paunchy overpaid Goldman Sachs employee, wearing a watch that cost more than the car I drove in college. “Screw Hussein, man! F’ing Hussein! How did he even get elected?” asked the other height challenged Westchester resident, wearing an expensive suit that was a size or two too big, and looked like his mother bought it for him when he was twelve so he’d grow into it by his Bar-Mitzvah. “Someone needs to take this mofo out,” the first guy exclaimed right before I excused myself and walked away. I didn’t want to hear something that would lead to me being subpoenaed, so I left the two balding Napoleans with the seven figure incomes at the table, and spent the next twenty minutes nursing a Sprite at the bar.

So it wasn’t surprising that the Colombian refused to believe that I was experiencing gastrointestinal distress less than an hour before we were supposed to meet her friends and their racist, plotting husbands. “All of a sudden you have diarrhea?” she asked suspiciously, after she forced me to get graphic by not believing my “I don’t feel well” excuse. “That’s usually how it happens. It’s kind of an all of a sudden thing.” “You’re lying!”

 ”You want me to text you a picture?”

Silence.

“Just take something and come.” “I can’t leave the house in this state.” “You knew you didn’t wanna come and now you’re using this as an excuse.” “I know it seems that way, but the fact remains, I ain’t leaving the apartment.” “Fine!” “Fine!”

She went alone, and in an ironic twist of fate, I was spared from experiencing filthy nastiness spewing out of two assholes.

Distant Summer Memories

June is rapidly passing and we’re almost in the heart of the summer.  Summer in New York City can be especially oppressive – the dank, hot, smelly subway stations, the weak air conditioning at the office, the lack of any clean public pools…Going to the park in the sun is fun and all but provides no relief from the heat…I’d rather sit in my room blasting the A.C.  Not that NYC isn’t fun in the summer with all the things to do, but sometimes we find ourselves daydreaming about summers past, perhaps spent on the beach or in the suburbs…There’s nothing like summertime when you’re young and liberated from school.  It’s hard to remember the last time I have felt such a feeling of freedom and release. So why not relive it on this blog? Here are the memories that stick out the most from our childhood summers:

Lauren Helman: On Fourth of July, after sitting on lawn chairs and eating extremely buttery popcorn while watching the fireworks, my brother and I would run around the front yard and collect fireflies in baby food jars. (Side note: You may ask: why were there empty baby food jars around the house when we were definitely both over the age of 5? It was because my mother always had a penchant for Gerber Apricots and she always made sure to recycle glass.) The worst part of this memory is that after we caught around ten fireflies, all freaking out, packed in like people on a subway, banging into each other in this tiny baby jar, we would empty them out on the sidewalk all in one big pile.  They would never fly away immediately because, if you haven’t noticed, fireflies are extremely slow at flying.  So my brother and I would then smash them with our feet, this way we could smear the yellow light around like paint.  What sort of delinquent children murder fireflies for sport?  I still don’t know the answer to this question, and I feel guilty whenever I think about the cruel and senseless murder of these poor flies.  It was pretty awful, like a mass genocide of lightening bugs once a year.  The strange thing was, we would only do this on the 4th of July, like some sort of sacrificial offering to America on Independence Day.  The sad thing is, that’s the most patriotic I think I’ve ever been in my life.

Regina Musicaro, Grad Student: My favorite summer memory happened in 1995.  I was in Pennsylvania with my brother, Joe and two best friends, Maria and Elizabeth.  The four of us were all around the same age (9 yrs old – 11 yrs old) and we were all native city kids.  My brother and I were from Brooklyn and our friends were from Manhattan.  We were staying in a house surrounded by woods and without internet access.  We did not even have a working T.V.  Given the lack of mind-numbing electronic entertainment, we started to use our imaginations.  

There was a lake just across the dirt road in front of the country home.  The lake had a lush green island in the middle.  We decided that the island probably housed wildlife like deer and bears.  If only we could get to that Island, we could track down a bear–not to kill–just to see one.  We were determined to get across to that island no matter what it took.  Plan A was to build a raft.  The only problem was that we didn’t have wood or nails or tools or carpentry skills.  Then we decided that we should just buy a rubber raft from Walmart at the local town.   However, the town was at least twenty miles away and our moms refused to drive us there.  We considered swimming to the island but it looked very far so we weren’t sure we had the stamina to make it all the way there.  Five days went by.  During these days we engaged in several fruitless activities such as begging parents for a ride or scouring the forest for giant branches that might provide the same buoyancy as foam pool noodles. 

 

Finally, we had reached our last resort.  In the middle of the night we climbed out of our bedroom window and snuck down the dirt road towards the lake.  This time we weren’t headed right across the street but a half a mile away to Sailor’s Landing, which was an alcove with two fishing docks.  At Sailor’s Landing we climbed into one of the docked row boats.  But as Maria began to untie the rope, we chickened out.  What if the owner of the boat lived nearby?  Wasn’t this technically stealing?  Then Maria had an even better idea.  We climbed onto the boatless dock and she started to pull up one of the metal pole anchors.  This dock was huge:  it stretched twenty feet long and five feet wide.  Soon all four of us were tugging at the four metal poles at each corner of the dock.  When they were pulled out of the ground, the massive dock started slowly drifting away from shore and towards the island.  

We were filled with exhilaration.  Then excitement.  Then fear.  I was the first to jump ship.  I panicked at the moment that I realized:  a) The dock might never make it to the island and instead leave us stranded on the lake and  b)  We were defacing public property . . . disobeying our parents . . . possibly headed towards a bear-filled island in the middle of the night.  I jumped into the water with a huge splash and started swimming towards the shore.  Then my brother jumped, followed by Maria, and Elizabeth.  Eventually we were standing on the shore, fully-clothed and drenched, as the dock floated into the distance.  

Days later the dock was once again securely mounted in it’s original position and we never touched those metal poles again.

 

Marc Friedman, Freelance Writer: We waited for the night watchman to retire at midnight, our hearts pounding three times with every tick of the clock that hung above the entrance to the latrine. We were an eight man unit until Feldman dropped out. He claimed he was hurt, but we knew he was just afraid. I couldn’t blame him. We were young, gutsy, and stupid, and had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.

When it was time, we moved liked a well-trained platoon through the untamed bush of the Highlands. Bartell led us with silent hand signals. His cool cockiness gave us the strength to advance when most of us wanted to retreat back to home base. We knew capture was a very real possibility, and that the consequences of a failed mission would be dire.

We were less than a hundred yards from our target when Burger went down. I found no signs of a wound, but the blood was everywhere. “Go without me,” Burger whispered angrily, as he shoved me away. “I can’t leave you,” I told him. But when I turned my back on him to motion for help, he got up and ran back to base.

We entered quietly from the South side in three teams of two. Bartell closed the door behind us, and we were mere feet from our prey. The near total darkness made it difficult to see, but our fearless leader pointed and we obeyed. “You, over there….You, there,” he mouthed until each of us was assigned a target. I stood at the foot of a bed, lit only by the moon, anxiously awaiting further instructions. For a moment I wished I was Burger. But then, Bartell urged me on. He gestured for me to make my move, and I did. I nervously reached down towards my mark, my hand inches away, when suddenly my arm stopped. I could move it no more because it was being held back by a force I could not fight. What we had feared most was happening. The lights were flipped on, and all I could see as my body trembled, were a pair of ass cheeks so big that the short shorts in which they were imprisoned could have clothed a small village.

Betty, or Aunt B, as the entire population of Camp Nachas called the girls’ head counselor, had busted up our raid and nearly broke my arm. There she stood, all two-hundred dowdy, cellulite ridden pounds of her, screaming for us to get back to our bunks immediately. My five bunk mates ran, leaving me with Aunt B. and a room full of giggling twelve-year-old girls. I was humiliated, as Aunt B. held onto my arm, leading me out of the girls’ bunk, down a hill and into the camp director’s office. “Who was with you?” he demanded to know, as I wondered why I couldn’t be a wimp like Feldman or get nervous nose bleeds like Burger. I wanted to tell him that we were just young, stupid kids. Hell, only three of us had pubes, and I wasn’t one of them. I only went on the raid because Bartell told me it was cool. I wasn’t even sure what to do once we got there. Now I was being grilled like a twelve-year-old P.O.W. by a fat chick who made poor fashion choices, and a middle-aged orthodox Jew who was pissed that he’d been woken up in the middle of the night to deal with a horny kid.

I didn’t give up my friends, but I did get docked from Color War. It was a small price to pay for a fond memory of my summers at Camp Nachas.

Change: The Only Thing That Always Stays the Same

Everybody fears something in life, whether it’s spiders or snakes, heights or flying, public speaking or death; everybody dreads their inevitable encounter with the one thing that haunts their dreams and leaves them awake at night with worry.  There is every kind of fear in the book, there’s even a website dedicated to a listing of fears and phobias.

Alektorophobia- Fear of chickens…Agrizoophobia- Fear of wild animals…Bufonophobia- Fear of toads…Chorophobia- Fear of dancing (this fear is known for being easily overcome by ingesting alcohol)…

Yes, some of these phobias seem ridiculous – reading about them reminds me of that girl on Maury who started panicking and weeping when they brought a pickle out on the stage, because of her crippling fear of pickles (maybe she was really just scared of Snooki from Jersey Shore?)

Anyway, the fear I’m most concerned with is the fear of change.  Apparently, that can be qualified as Tropophobia or Metathesiophobia or even Cainophobia (the fear of “newness”)  So, what do you do if one of your biggest fears is something that is a constant recurrance in life?

People experience constant change throughout their lives, obviously, and it’s something that will never stop, yet it’s the one thing that seems to scare the crap out of me…and apparently not just me, as there are tons of websites devoted to “change phobia”.  I guess the main concern is going from a state of general happiness to a state of unhappiness, and of not knowing what the outcome of a certain action will be (fear of the unknown). Whether it’s changing a job, an apartment, moving to a new city, breaking up with a significant other, ending a friendship, or the death of a loved one; the notion of some major aspect of life becoming altered in some way, and possibly not for the better, terrifies me.  Yes, of course I’ve learned to deal with and even conquer this fear (as well as my fear of heights and flying in planes), but there’s always still a remnant of it gnawing away at the back of my mind whenever I must make an important life decision.  Like an uninvited wedding guest, change will always rear its ugly head, even when you think you’re set on a pathway of stability.

I’ve discovered one of the ways to cope with change is to simply welcome it into your life.  Instead of dreading certain things, we should look forward to them.  Once you realize that change is necessary to move ahead in life, when it’s sometimes a blessing in disguise even when you can’t possibly imagine why or how, that is when you can stop fearing it.  Just imagine how boring life would be if everything always stayed the same. This is what I had to keep reassuring myself of when in a single month, I signed a lease on a new apartment and changed jobs.  Though the idea of change and of an unknown future still irks me, the truth of the matter is that if there’s one thing in life that will never change, that you can always count on, it’s that nothing ever stays the same…and it’s the really big changes that make life a bit more interesting.

So readers, leave a comment and let us know what is the biggest change you’ve ever made in your life and how did you adjust to it/what was the result?

Ask The Readers Panel

This week, we asked readers from the “concrete jungle where dreams are made of” where they’d want to live if they had the option of moving to any city in the world…here’s what we heard back:

Katy Irwin, Actress, NYC: Paris, so I can learn French and reinact the film Amelie.

Alison Leiby, Sales, NYC: Aside from New York, I would live in Paris.  After spending a few months there in college, I could absolutely envision myself living there.  It’s a major city but it is incredibly manageable and still maintains that old world, European charm from the architecture and landscaping.  Also, my diet consists of 80% wine and cheese, so it’s the obvious choice.

Ed Kim, Business Analyst, NYC: Geneva.  It’s clean, environmentally responsible, diverse, with plenty of opportunity for adventure nearby.

Caren Goldberg, Teacher, NYC: Barcelona – Because the Gaudi architecture is uber trippy and there’s a beach!  Oh, the paella is pretty awesome too.

Katie Freeman, Publicist, NYC:  My first choice is New York, always New York. It’s a cliche, but this is where I always wanted to be, and it’s where I feel completely at home–both the good and the bad parts of feeling at home.  But if I had to choose another place, it would be someplace in the US- I can’t imagine living elsewhere. I’ve never been, but San Francisco would be a top choice. I love the West Coast–Seattle particularly–and San Francisco has many aspects I like in a city– bookstores, independent publishing, large bodies of water, and close to an airport to visit all the people I love across the country.

Robert Helman, Accounting Intern/College Student, (originally from NY, currently based in Maryland): London, New York, DC, or Boston.  Somewhere with lots of different people but generally a liberal basis and diverse surroundings.

Uptin Saiidi, Production Associate, NYC: I would live in Hong Kong or Tokyo because of the vast business opportunities and unique culture.  While it’s tempting to pick a European city, I think one of the vibrant Asian cities would provide more unique learning experiences. 

Mallika Dattatreya, Publicist, NYC: I would live in New York. I do love London, Montreal, Seattle and San Francisco… but nothing compares to New York City.

Leave a comment with your favorite city!

The Pillow People

Guest Post by The Disillusioned Dater, http://diaryofadisillusioneddater.blogspot.com/

I’ve been spending a fair amount of time in the Boro Park section of Brooklyn lately, while my grandmother is in a rehab center recovering from back surgery. If you’re not familiar with the area, think of a 19th century Polish shtetl with double parked minivans. If that doesn’t paint a picture for you, imagine Yentl with Blackberries. For the past few weeks, I’ve been shopping in their messy little grocery stores with refrigerators that are never set to the right temperatures, containing milk that expired three days before it arrived at the store. I’ve been eating the kosher, greasy pizza served to me by a kosher, greasy man who sees no need for wearing gloves when handling food. And most of all, I’ve been in awe at how these people dress, act and live.

But there’s an odd comfort being amongst what an ex-girlfriend used to refer to as “The Pillow People.” (She’d see them on her way to work in Williamsburg, carrying what she thought were pillows but were actually bags containing their tallises and tefillin). I actually lived in Boro Park until I was three, and although we weren’t “Pillow People,” I feel safe when I know they’re around. Maybe their presence reminds me of the times as a child when my grandfather would take me for pizza at that exact same kosher pizza store I ate at today. Or maybe I just feel at ease knowing that if any shit goes down, the Pillow People will have my back. They’ll throw a mofo off a roof if they have to. I’ve heard stories…

This afternoon, as I strolled up and down the streets of what seemed like the set of a modern day rendition of Fiddler on the Roof, I was reminded of the time a friend set me up with a girl from Boro Park. I told him she and I couldn’t possibly have anything in common, but his argument that at least I wouldn’t have to call her on Saturdays was enough for me to want to meet her. I was just out of a long relationship and having Saturdays off seemed like a good idea at the time. I don’t remember the pre-date phone conversation with the Boro park girl, but I do recall the sound of her monotone voice. I felt like I was talking to a humorless, robotic salesgirl at B&H Photo, only I wasn’t buying a camera – I was asking her out. I remember taking her to some kosher restaurant and being grateful that her Yiddish accent somehow disappeared in person, while at the same time lamenting the fact that I’d dragged my ass all the way to Boro Park for a date that would go nowhere. She was pretty and perfectly polite, but when she told me that she usually dates “Litvish” guys, I knew I was out of the running without having a clue at the time what “Litvish” meant – not that I even really wanted to be a contender.

I used to look down on the Pillow People, wondering how they could live the sheltered lives that they do, but I wonder now if these Pillow People aren’t somehow better off not having to deal with Internet dating.

The Common Response

by Columnist Aaron Field

The common response from my friends (both Jews and non-Jews) whenever I write something about Judaism or Israel is similar to a parent’s response to their cranky baby’s poop habits…they know it is inevitable and annoying, but they also know their baby can’t help it. Ok, some might find it difficult to draw parallels between an incessant pooper and 26 year old Jewish kid who can’t shut up about Israel, but the gist is the same; it is obviously difficult for me to refrain from discussing Judaism or Jewish culture, even when my friends tell me to shut up just as its difficult for babies to stop pooping when their parents would like nothing more than to stop changing diapers.…

I bring this analogy up not to gross anyone out, but to wake people up….The recent events in Israel mark a turning point for the Middle East and the Obama Administration. Everyone, from President Obama, to the European Community, to the butcher down the street, is putting his two cents into the fray regarding the now infamous Turkish Flotilla and Israel’s blockade of the Gaza Strip. Of course, the reason any two cents are being offered up in the first place is because this situation is open to debate. There is no right or wrong answer just as there is no quick and easy solution to this recent chain of events – which in actuality, is based upon a great deal of history. But there are considerations everyone must be mindful of when delving into the debate.

Israel’s response to the Flotilla is a distinct action from the blockade of the Gaza Strip. While many nations are now calling on Israel to end the blockade, they are also grouping their admonishment of the Israeli blockade in with Israel’s response to the Flotilla breaking the blockade. If this event did not transpire, many nations would sit idly by, as they have done for years, in their passive neutrality towards the blockade. The recent events have essentially acted as a trigger to admonish Israel for actions that should be deemed separate and apart from the Flotilla. It can surely be said that the blockade is immoral and some may even assert that it is illegal, but the issues must be discussed individually. If they are not, the sideline reporters and naysayers and politicians and countries will sound much like a child does when he yells at his parents for their institution of a curfew because he was punished when he broke the curfew. The child understood the rules of the game going into the night. He had lived by them before- probably reluctantly, but he had lived by them….now he is trying to change the rules mid-game. Both the rule and its premise should be up for debate, but it is unfair for accusations to fly as a reactionary measure in the heat of the moment.

Where were England, France and Germany before this incident? It’s easy for them to call shots from the sidelines, but until they are in the midst of the confrontation, it is better that they shut up. Many people don’t know that these countries who find it so easy to cast aspersions, including the U.S., have similar blockades, with their respective ports- if a flotilla came to their countries under the guise of humanitarianism, it would be turned away. If it did not, the navies of these respective countries would not sit idly by as the international community says Israel should have done in this situation… England and France and the U.S. would board those ships, and if threatened would defend themselves, because they all realize what Israel realizes; a law without enforcement, is no law at all.

From the reports in the news, it appears as if this humanitarian fleet of ships was Gaza’s only hope for receiving aid. This, in fact, is far from reality. As it stands now, Israel allows humanitarian relief to enter Gaza via land, so that they may check it over for weapons. Does this delay the process for humanitarian aid? Of course. Does it prevent it from getting through? Of course not. Does Israel have to check the aid that goes through its borders to Gaza? Until extremists stop smuggling weapons in under the guise of humanitarian aid, Israel must continue to check shipments at the Gaza Border. I would be scared to see what would happen if Israel folded to international pressure and lifted the blockade. How many more people will be killed on both sides, both from the escalation of terrorism and the reaction to it?

Israel was ill prepared for this Flotilla as evidenced by their disproportionate reaction. They should have and could have done a good number of things differently- use rubber bullets and other non lethal weapons for one and possibly engage in a longer, more drawn out standoff for another. But not enforcing the blockade would simply lead to a slippery slope of more violence. And while it is easy for the international community to chastise Israel in this time of heightened tension, they need to be weary of their own hypocrisy first. And they need to be weary that the very country they are chastising may be the only one that is protecting the stability of the Middle East.