A defense of and a message for Mother's Day

Alright, so...Mother's Day came and only sort of went.

I wanted to say something on this day for my mother, and her mother, and my father's mother, and everyone else's mother. Oh, and, of course, to future mothers.

Mother's Day can be claimed to be another holiday to make money with cards, candies and curios. I can certainly see the point. But I think it forgets something: there was a time, not so long ago, when giving birth to a child was a life-threatening attempt. That's still true in too many countries throughout this world. We should appreciate our mothers because, by dint only of location of birth, they were able to be safer when they birthed us. Basically, we should recognize our mothers as an appreciation for all mothers everywhere, especially those who give their lives for the lives of their children, whether in childbirth or in defense of their child's life.

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Now, I'd like to say something for my mothers (Mom, Nana, Grandma Chin, Lala, Grandma D, Pat, Aunt Roe, etc.) Obviously, some of these people are more my mother than others. But each of them has the same look in their eye when they talk or talked with me: a combination of love and pride with a tinge of fear that they might be screwing up. Everything here will not have pictures. I know that I like to put up my pictures of my subjects, but I don't have anyone's permission, and I feel like that's kind of a crappy thing to do for people I love.

My true grandmothers are Nana and Grandma Chin. My Nana is on my mother's side, and, oddly, lives in Atlanta. My mother's not from there, I'm not from there, no one in my family is, and yet, she's set up camp there now. *Shrugs* Anyway, I love her since she's the grandmother who's, historically, always pampered me. She's a beautiful woman full of life and vigor. Granted, she takes more naps now than ever, but she's still up for traveling and loves to hear about new music and new literature (she just doesn't like it all).

Grandma Chin is, logically, on the other side of the family. She passed when I was young, but I do remember one thing about her. She had a cane, but I can't remember why she did. She used to sit in this chair in the dining room of her house; she would eat something there and hang her cane on the bottom of the stair case railing. I, as a rambunctious child, would run around the house, which wasn't hard since it was basically a square. I would run from the living room to the darkly lit wooden porch, pass the orange wall-papered bathroom through to the lime green kitchen and hit the dining room and then the front door, which would light up the bottom of the staircase. Once, as I was running, and apparently far more cunning than I can ever recall being, I grabbed her cane and ran with it for a lap. Grandma laughed since she was sitting at the table eating; I guess she figured she didn't need it and I could play with it. What she didn't realize, as I said, was that I was plotting something. As I ran again, I grabbed her sandwich. She was angry, naturally, and went for her cane. Realizing that, in one hand, I had her sandwich, and, in the other, her cane, she sat back down and chuckled to herself. (She probably thought I was going to become a thief when I grew up. Or worse, a master strategist for the army!)

I was the first child of my mother and father, so they often, quite correctly, refer to me as the guinea pig child. My mother had to guess with me; whether it was with the best doctor in the city, which diaper brand was the sturdiest or how to go about the college application process, I was the one who paved the way for my sister. This isn't meant to sound bitter or angry toward my sister or anyone else; I hope I didn't convey that. I only wish to convey my profound thankfulness towards her for dealing with all of it with love, (mostly) honesty, curiosity and a hug waiting for me at the end of the day.

I wish I had more time to sum up every other mother in my life. Heck, I'd love to have more time to sum up every woman in my life. But I can't at the moment since it's almost 2 am. (This is where Mel laughs and says, "I've chatted with you much later than that." To which I say, shut up, you in-the-future-living, koala-petting, McDonald's-loving creep.)

Oh, and Harim, I promise. After the tour, your post is next. You know which one I'm talking about, right?

I Heart New York, Part 1

I know it’s been awhile since I’ve updated. I’ve been busy with a real life- what? Are you really mad about that?

With that in mind, I wanted to take a trip around New York. Maybe you guys can see why it is that I’ve been busy. Since, you know, this city is soooooo boring. Besides, I was visited by an old school friend who’s been living in LA since she left about 13 years ago, so tours of New York have been on my mind. Mel , from Mel Learns Her Lessons, made one recently about Sydney, so this is sort of inspired by her, as well.

Mel had it as an itinerary of about five days and had it spliced up depending on the day. I’m not sure I can do that seeing as this city is huge. I have a feeling you’re probably going to have to visit again just to see enough to say you know New York. Nonetheless, I’m going to give this a try.

Now, what gives me the authority to do this? I’m a native of the city, born along the East River in a high rise hospital right off of 70th Street in Manhattan. If anyone’s able to do this, it’s me.


This is from the Roosevelt Island Tram looking at Manhattan (that bridge on the left is the 59th Street Bridge, like the one from the Simon and Garfunkel song), so I was born a few blocks up from where we're looking.

Day 1- This is probably the best chance, especially if it’s a weekday, to do all the touristy stuff and get you used to the pace of the city. We’ll hit up Times Square, the Disney-fied madhouse of the city, filled with tourists who I always want to strangle when I’m around them (since they’re basically morons who clog streets by not knowing how to walk or deal with people- see what I mean about the pace?) I’m really not usually violent, and I don’t have a problem with tourists, but something about all those annoying bright lights and mess of people makes me go a little berserk. Anyway, we’ll also see the Main Library, also on 42nd Street, and Grand Central (Terminal or Station, take your pick, but most New Yorkers just drop both). Then we’ll head down to 34th Street from there and find the Empire State Building, since it’s so difficult to find. If you really want to wait the 4 hours for a chance to go to the top, be my guest. I’ll go do something productive while you’re waiting.


Yes, those are people...sitting in the street? You have no idea how much this boggled people's minds for awhile.

As it’s getting late and the airlines stopped serving food a long time ago, we’ll head back uptown a bit and grab some Ethiopian food at one of my favorite restaurants in Manhattan, Queen of Sheba. But before that, we’ll grab an early vodka at the Russian Vodka Room, an old man lounge of Russians who fled with Perestroika. Then, with our dinner, we’ll get a decanter of Ethiopian honey wine (it’s like mead), which will warm the cockles of the coldest of hearts. You’ll also get drunker than an ant drowning in a barrel of wine. Then, we’ll head to my favorite bar/restaurant in Manhattan (but not in Brooklyn) called the Delta Grill for a few drinks, some Led Zeppelin (they love to play “When the Levee Breaks,” which seems masochistic when you find out the owners are all from New Orleans) and some tasty, tasty Cajun snacks. Then we’ll stumble our way home and live to fight another day.


Yeah, I can deal with the crowds in Grand Central. They have a place to go, most of the time.

Mel, I promise I would come up with way more creative solutions for the drinking. Like buying a few dozen cannolis at La Bella Ferrara in Little Italy or Veneiro’s in the East Village, and watch the drunks pass by and laugh as they fall. Then, we’d get super sick from all the sugar and then we’d probably start making friends with the drunken kids by offering them one.


This is the best shot I have ever seen of the Empire State Building. And I've taken a water taxi at night and still didn't see this.

Day 2- Whew. What hangovers. Let’s go walk this off. We’ll start with a nice big brunch at Tom’s in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn. They have lines running around the block for their food, with a cult following the likes I’ve never seen for brunch. We love our brunches up here. I’ll get my usual, the Florentine omelet made with lots of feta and a side of the smoothest grits this side of the Mississippi with two big mugs of coffee. They’ll bring around cookies and we’ll eat our fill.

Then we’ll walk all this off along Flatbush Avenue. Maybe, when we pass BAM- the Brooklyn Academy of Music- we’ll stop in for an afternoon indie film (maybe a Gondry, Mel, if you’re lucky?) Then, we’ll keep pressing on ‘till we hit Brooklyn Heights. There, I’ll offer you a choice- the best pizza in the city and a fairly long wait at Grimaldi’s (you want to cause a fight among New Yorkers? Ask them where to get the best pizza; some will say Original Ray’s, some will say Di Fara, some will say Lombardi’s, some will say Lucali; I say Grimaldi’s with Di Fara a close second). Or we could have amazing Yiddish food with touches from the Afro-Caribbean neighborhood at Junior’s. (Oh, also, they have the best cheesecake I’ve ever had- by a long, long, long mile). Oh, and Junior’s almost never has a wait, since they take up about quarter of a Brooklyn block, which are usually twice as large as Manhattan blocks. Either way, you choose. We finish our food satisfied. (Some of this is beginning to read like a "Choose Your Own Adventure" novel).


See? Grimaldi's is the best. Oh man, I'm hungry now.

We walk off all of that by getting on the Brooklyn Bridge. We cross the Bridge; hopefully, the sun’s starting to set. If it is, we’re very lucky because this is the best place to be near sunset. Even if it isn’t, it’s still absolutely gorgeous. On the Manhattan side, we find City Hall and the courts. If you’re a Law and Order fan, you’re going to enjoy this since this is where they shoot all those courthouse steps scenes. We’ll walk along Battery Park. Again, hopefully, the timing is right. There’s a beautiful spot, a lookout point that I stumbled upon one day on a date. I looked like a great date, since it's such a romantic spot- it has a clear shot of the Statue of Liberty, and at night, when all the lights are on it, it’s like there’s no one else in the world but you and the statue. Then, once we’ve wrested our gaze from her, we wing the rest of the night, but I have a feeling we’re both pretty tired.


That's technically the Brooklyn Bridge Park, but I can't think of a place in New York I would rather be at that time of night.

With that, I think I’m going to cut us. I promise I’ll return to the subject in a few days. (Always leave them hanging, eh?) I have a special something planned for tomorrow and then I hope I’ll have the chance to finish up this touring piece for Monday. If not Monday, then Tuesday. See?


Lady Liberty in all her glory. This is the most poetic shot I've ever seen of her, except, due to fog, you can't see the statue lit up like I was talking about.

Oh, I feel bad about calling out Mel twice and no one else, so since I have only four followers…I’ll call y’all out: Valerie, Harim, Benny. There you go.

Springtime for Greg in New York (do I have to explain that joke?)

It’s taken me awhile to come up with a good blog post. I want to write a post about one of the main pieces of this blog- my possible and gradual falling out of love with New York.

This post isn’t going to be about that. This one is going to be much shorter. I wanted to talk about a couple of random things instead.

Let’s start with how beautiful the weather here in the city was tonight, but not for the day. There’s a reason I live in a fairly cold weather climate. According to the local news, it was 92 degrees Fahrenheit (33 Celsius; you’re welcome Mel!) during the day, and 80 degrees at 11 pm. The city, during the summer, averages 85 degrees, and summer doesn’t go into full swing here until July and stays until the end of August. Are you kidding me???? It was gross (a word I seldom use) today. As my friend Daniel said today, “I prefer cold to hot. You can always put on layers. You can’t peel your skin off.” Oh Daniel, how pithy.


Haha! Get it?

But nighttime, and especially downtown, where the streets tend to get closer to the rivers and the ocean, was beautiful! We sat in Washington Square Park, and watched the beautiful NYU ladies and the “so-hip-it-makes-me-feel-like-a-jock” gay guys. There was a little kid playing an old, cruddy piano. He was good, but it was very by rote; his pieces, such as Chopin’s Nocturne Opus 27 No. 2 (yes, I know of that by memory), were pretty, but lacked any emotion. The breeze breathed into us, and all of my senses had been awoken. Ahhh, now this is spring in New York, the second best season here (there’s a reason someone named a film “Autumn in New York”).



Springtime means something more than just beautiful weather. It means baseball. [Sports are a guilty pleasure of mine, particularly soccer, baseball and hockey]. Pay no attention to the prognostications and economics of sport; American football holds no power over the country like baseball does. I take that back- this region, from about Philadelphia all the way up to Maine, along the sea coast and in about one hundred miles, is baseball country. When I feel that early spring breeze and the girls start to wear flowing dresses without stockings underneath, I remember spring baseball leagues when I was very young. I couldn’t get into it; when I was young, I didn’t like any sports, preferring to read and draw (I still love these things far more than any sport).


You wouldn't believe how hard it was to find any pictures of springtime dresses and New York that didn't involve Paris Hilton.

Somehow, though, I still remember the smell of fresh leather from the mitt on my left hand and the feel of cold aluminum in my hands as I strained to make some contact of the bat to the ball, to make my grandfather proud. And then, when I failed as I often did, I was reminded by my peers that I should just go back to my books. I embraced sports when I reached middle school, thanks almost entirely to feeling like an outcast among my fellow boys, some more manly than others. I champed my teeth and dove into the games, reading about their histories voraciously. I started to work on shooting a basketball or on pitching a baseball. And here I am now, rooting on my hometown Yankees with one eye and, with the other, watching the ladies. Oh, spring, how I missed you.



To finish up- I wanted to say that I doubled my readership! Mel Cotton, from all the way out in the inner west (which I’m still a little confused over) of Sydney, has joined in and I’m glad to have her on this journey. Bear with me, dear reader; I’m just starting to figure this all out. Oh, and thank you to Valerie, who lives in Oregon, I believe, for a wonderful comment on the first post. I always enjoy being called a “genius.”

I’m going to tag Meryl Streep in this, just for you Valerie.

Hobos, hohos and ding-dongs (and elephants)

I realized two things after the last real post. One is that I didn’t link to Ben's page. The second thing is that my story was supposed to serve as an introduction to me, and I think it was more about Ben!

Here’s the thing: I think the majority of people who would read this are well aware of Ben. They’re well aware of me. However, I’m treating this blog as if it’s speaking to an amorphous being. Let’s call this being Mr. Internet. Hullo, Mr. Internet.

One quick thing to say: on the 6 train on the way out last night, a young man of 20 came into my car. He said he was from Washington, and he was trying to get to Florida for work. He looked grungy, and, by grungy, I mean dirty, not Nirvana-esque. He had a yellow, short, squat pit bull with basically a canine backpack around his (the dog’s) waist. He looked healthy and well-fed. His coat was actually shiny and petting him didn’t make my hand feel greasy. Essentially, this young man took care of his wonderful, loving, well-trained dog. My heart broke, and, as he walked by, I saw other people search for change. I pulled out my wallet and gave him a dollar. I’ve done this before, especially for very good buskers, since I feel like they gave me something (aural pleasure). When he walked away, I went back to my copy of Rumi, but it felt useless. I just wanted to sit and think. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts and memories. It was the first time I ever gave money to a homeless person and didn’t feel any sort of pity in doing it. That is to say, every homeless person I gave money to previous to him was out of pity for that person. In his and the dog’s case, I didn’t feel bad for them necessarily. I just wanted to share what I had with someone who seemed like he needed it. Do I know if he spent it on booze? No. Do I know if he goes home to a really nice studio on Montague Street? No. All I know is that it felt right to help these two, the consummate boy and his pup going on an adventure. As he walked away, I stared at myself in the subway window, which, especially when in tunnels, doubles as a mirror. I looked back at a well-fed face with my trimmed hair and beard, and wanted to cry.

That was depressing! Let's be happy and laugh at my expense; with that, I'm going to steal a post from Ben. It's a good one- Five key things I didn't experience until after the age of 23, or: The most revealing post you will EVER read on this blog

1. Very public displays of affection (not to be confused with public displays of too much affection)


2. Finally getting British humor (and finding it funny)


3. The joys of sexting
(Uhh...how do I show this without revealing my sex life?)

4. Growing a moustache!


















5. Being Zen, if only for a moment

(Seriously, can this guy be our mascot?)

Just some of the babes of YOaCaYB or "YOCK- YIB" UPDATED

Ben told me to post pictures of "the babes" from the last post. So here you go, Ben, considering he's the only one who's following me at the moment.


Charlize Theron and the luckiest phone ever created


Jon Stewart, looking slightly high and holding a very phallic microphone. I know I said babes, but he might as well be. Yes, I have a man crush on him.


Fiona Apple, doing her best to look like a 18th century 12-year-old child. Love me. I'll never treat you badly. I'll always be there when you need to cry.


Anna Kendrick, looking like she probably did when I winked at her (in my dream). You know how you walk down the street and you see someone great looking, but you're not necessarily sure why you feel that way? That's how I feel about this lady.


Meryl Streep, probably looking down at the rest of Hollywood and smiling wryly with the knowledge that she has more talent than the rest of them put together.
























Also, I didn't add a picture of Scout because she's on a bike trip at the moment and I don't know if I have permission to do so. This is Scout; I had to update because she's on a bike trip and I didn't yet have her permission, until now! She's left Irvine, and all her Facebook says is that she's on "the Central Coast," which apparently means just north of Santa Barbara in wine country. Confession- I don't know much about Californian geography. Heck, I don't know much about West Coast geography. As you can see, Scout is beautiful and has a great personality. And she's single, male readers not named Ben!

Samson, or how to lose your facial hair and stay cool

So, I opened a new blog; I haven’t had one since the first couple of years of college. That was a whiny one, full of awkward quizzes and it had a Morrissey quote in the background. This one is not going to be like that.

The whole reason I’m doing this is simple: to reclaim an ounce of coolness in my life. Yes, I know, blogs aren’t actually all that cool. Honestly, I just have too many interesting thoughts that it would be a shame not to share. (This is, of course, in my opinion). I shaved my beard for a job- I grew it back, but I made up my mind as my chin started to appear. I’m pretty sure I lost a bit of my soul when the sun hit my bare cheeks that morning. I figured if I was going to have to put up with this hair indignity, I was going to do it with my fingers on a keyboard and my ears listening to a new record for me to complain about.

What’s this blog going to be about? Does it matter? Does anyone reading need a purpose?

Let me introduce myself via a story. This is about a daydream (you know when you’re awake, but let your mind wander and it becomes almost a REM-sleep dream; this is that) I had. I told it once to my friend Ben (Benny Paul) while we were at Kings County, a pretty great, very dark bar near his place. (The main things I remember are: it’s fairly cheap, they had no limes for our G and T’s, and the bartender was extremely cute and knew her way around bourbon). He thought it was really funny and I told him it would be here. It also doubles as my introduction to his wonderful blog- basically, it’s a blog about being a young man in a huge city, being down and out and loving it, being up, and just straight being. Also, if you enjoy British humor and Burt Jansch, he’ll probably fall in love with you (and you, in turn, should fall in love with him). Every girl I know has fallen in love with him.

The daydream goes like this: Ben, who is a pretty great filmmaker, and I, not a bad writer, particularly of poetry, were at the Oscars. This is right after the actual show. We had a film in the running, and he was in for best director and I was up for best screenwriter, and the film was up for best picture. We sat there, clearly uncomfortable in our rather nice tuxedos, which were probably rentals. I had my friend Scout (not her real name, but a common nickname for her) as my date- I’m pretty sure she came with me for the experience and a chance to wear a fabulous evening gown. Benji brought Charlize Theron, who had a thick South African accent in this dream; we kept asking her about South Africa, so I think the main reason Ben brought her was because she was South African. Not a joke- Ben enjoys accents and foreign stories. What does it say about me that I felt I should bring my friend as my date to Hollywood’s biggest event? That’s like bringing your mother- you clearly couldn’t get a good enough date or you date so many hot people, everyone applauds when you’re not bringing around a hot, sexy young thing. Not that you’re not a great date or a beautiful woman (she’s both), Scout, but I’d like to think I’d be having sex with a young lady with my Oscar statuette in the other hand. By the by, ladies and some gents, I suppose, if you’re having sex and the toy of choice is a gold gilded Oscar, you should never complain about the sex you’re having. Not ever.

Anyway, Jon Stewart goes up there for the best screenwriter awards, and does these impersonations of some nominees, including me. Apparently, I was well known enough for this to be funny. He combines my natural speaking voice (when I’m not drinking), a lower, sort of mumble, with my propensity to go an octave higher when something ridiculous happens. Most people refer to this as the Jerry Seinfeld or sitcom voice. Naturally, I win best screenwriter and get up there, and basically pull a Fiona Apple. If you don’t know what I’m referring to, YouTube it now. I’ll be here when you get back. So, I start saying all sorts of things about how this isn’t important and that we’re all bloomin’ lucky for what we do. The orchestra quickly plays me off. Everyone awkwardly shifts in their chairs, but Scout laughs and Ben just smiles and shakes his head. When he wins, everyone’s super happy for him; he steals a quick kiss from Charlize and hugs from Scout and I, and bounds up to the stage, his hair flopping and his legs only sort of running, like he’s trying to cross a street when the cars are coming down on him. His acceptance speech goes much smoother, and one can tell by the look in his eye that he’s almost saying, “Let me apologize for Greg.” He doesn’t, of course; I wouldn’t do it out of protocol, and I’m not saying Ben’s a boor, but he wouldn’t do it for other reasons. Simply, that trying to apologize for someone else’s personality and beliefs is like pissing in the wind. That is my impression; Ben may disagree. Anyway, he thanks all the right people, goofily smiles and walks away. I think we win best picture; my memory gets fuzzy, but I do remember finally thanking all my friends and family. That might have been an E! interview though. Last thing I remember was me winking at a beautiful young lady as we leave the theatre; it was probably Anna Kendrick from “Up in the Air,” but it could very well be Meryl Streep, who Ben and I have agreed is just plain sexy.