The Man Date

fun date

Recently I was having yet another chat with my buddy Hookah Jew, and we stumbled on a topic with which we both have struggled. I mentioned to him that I met a tres, tres chic lady at my internship and, as I am sort of new in this city, I wanted to ask her to hang out. Here in lies the dilemma, how do I ask a foxy chick to hang out without seeming like I am a vagina eater? Hookah Jew has encountered the same problem.

“I can’t ask a guy to hang out alone,” he says. “That’s a man date.”

Hmmmmmm, I thought. I guess I am not the only one who has had this problem.

My conversation with Hookah Jew lead me down a tangent I can only explain as a mind trip in the most basic form. I began to wonder, aren’t all hangouts really dates? Have I been dating my friends? Am I, in actuality, in relationships with several ladies and a quite a few men? And thus I found myself at the logical conclusion- what do you call a girl who is juggling several people at one time? A WHORE.

Fuck.

I am a relationship whore. You know what’s even worse? I am a long-distance relationship whore. All of my friends live in different states meaning I spend an inordinate amount of time figuring out what time zone I am calling and who I will be waking up this evening.

Suddenly though, it occurs to me that we are all relationship whores, and the panic passes. But why then do I create so much anxiety about asking someone to hang out?

I blame this all on college. And an unfortunate experience in middle school, but that’s a story for another… well never. I went to a delightful mid-west school chock full of the most awkward people you have ever met. Every class was like the first day in an episode of The Office, without the adorable Jim and Pam. We had dances every weekend- where drunken freshman would make-out while older classmen looked down condescendingly, thinking, “I wish I was a Freshman so I could make-out again.”

And it wasn’t just the dances. There was a kid who ran all over campus in shorts. He was aptly nicknamed, “running boy.” And another kid who lived outside. I forget his name, but I think it was something like Squirell or Gopher. People rarely dated publicly, and meeting new friends was so tough for the Awkwards that I beleive most of them stayed friends with the kids they met on the first day.

Not that this is bad. It’s fine to be awkward. But what happens to the bright young minds of tomorrow when they leave school? We are forced to have daily interactions with new and interesting people whom we have no idea how to approach.

Thus, the man date. Or the girl date.

And I can only come up with one solution to this problem. Go ahead and ask. Embrace your awkwardness. I recently hung out with two very awesome Dudes who explained that they became friends by going on a few man dates. One of them, an Intellectual with a dash of Euro-trash said, “We kept hanging out and we kept getting really drunk. I really liked him so I decided that we had to hang out sober. One day I called him and asked him to ride bikes. We’ve been friends ever since.”

See! Now isn’t that sweet. It sounds more homosexual than two peas in a pod, but it isn’t. And if there’s anything I learned from school it’s that, “If they won’t love you if you’re gay, then they might as well not love you at all.”

p.s. booo California.

p.p.s. Another proposed solution is just to hang out with members of the opposite sex so they don’t care if you are asking them out on a date. But that could lead to real whoreness so proceed with caution.

Until our next Date! Mwah!

Lou Focker

Why I No Longer Smoke Crack

Greetings friends and foes!

I come today with a new chapter in the adventures of a duo who will henceforth be known as The Unsinkables. It pains me to say that this was a semi-solo mission as the faithful Kelley is still MIA, flown the coop, adios amgio. In reality she is searching out a new lair for The Unsinkables as we speak, but more on that another day.

This past weekend I witnessed foolishness unseen since the days of my youth. There was a midet in a raincoat, a red carpet turned brown, blood and gore, and a category of slutery that will hence forth be known as “Courtney”ing.

I set out on this crazy night late into the evening. I should have known from the start when Cali-Girl (as she will be known to you) called me and asked me to join her at a party where there was to be a VIP room in a fat kid’s bedroom. “No good will come of this,” I thought, but I went against my better instinct- camera and pencil and paper ready at my side.

The second warning came when we pulled up at our rendezvous and I recognized the place as being the same apartments where my pseudo-grandmother lives. “This is where The Dick and Faux Painter Boy live?” I asked Cali-girl.

“Yes,” she replied, “but we are just picking up Faux Painter Boy.”

Faux Painter Boy’s apartment was a bachelor pad in the vainest of terms. And yes, he had a faux painted dresser. For those of you who do not know what faux painting is, it is a bizarre graffitti-like practice where basically anything is painted to look like a texture/substance. Faux Painter Boy’s dresser in particular was leopard-spotted. I can only imagine this was to match the leather couch and get girls in a “wild” mood.

Do not fear though. I got out of there as soon as possible as the techno beats nearly deafened me for the few minutes I was present.

We finally made it to the party around 12 or 1. I parked in the synagogue next door. (Again, I should have known better, having spent the better part of the evening at services downtown.) Walking to the house, I ran into Bob, who needs no introduction for he is as ridiculous and small as he sounds. “Bob” I yelled. “How the hell are you?” and tapped him on the shoulder. I did not realize he was urinating and what proceeded was as unpleasant as you could imagine.

When we made it to the door, there was indeed a red carpet. The torrential downpour earlier had turned it more of a crimson color though. There was also a random photographer snapping precious memories of legions of boobies bursting from dresses and men behaving like outrageous drunks. My gray wife-beater and jeans stuck out like a lion in a petting zoo, but I rocked it all the same.

The next few hours went like this. Drink, drink, drink. Smoke. Blah Blah Blah. Smoke. Drink. Blah Blah. Smoke. Blah Blah. Line for the bathroom. Blah Blah. And so forth.

THEN- disaster. Most Drunk Girl is getting her groove on while on the dance floor when she slips and face plants, knocking herself unconscious and bleeding profusely. Now, this is the difference between high school and adulthood. In high school, this would have ended the party, especially after someone announces that an ambulance has been called. In adulthood, all the guests were shuffled to the backyard until the ambulance had come and gone and the party continued.

During this calamity, the midget made his appearance. Leaning against a hallway, talking to some lady friends, I suddenly turned and behold! A small fat man in a rainjacket came out of nowhere. He was zipped all the way up so that only his face peaked out and I had the strange image of a turtle coming out of his shell.

Cali-girl nudged me and whispered, “That’s him.”

“Who?” I said.

“Him,” she said, “The one who mounted me when I slept here once and tried to make me touch his penis.”

“That is FAT DAN? No!” I shouted. (I don’t think he heard me, but…)

“Yes,” she said, “I will never recover.”

(Insert hug and touching moment here. tear**)

Later on I saw old friend Jackass as he was being cornered by his obnoxious ex-girlfriend. In the spirit of charity I tried to assist.

“Jackass, want to come have a smoke?” I asked.

What follows angers me for two reasons.

“No.” he said, while looking prickous and dick-like. “I don’t smoke.”

so 1- Jackass does smoke, especially when he’s drunk, which he was and

2- I was trying to rescue you from Psycho Curl you fuckwit.

Let that be a lesson to me- do not help people that date Pyschos. They are,in fact, crazy as well.

As the night waned, I looked about and noticed a few things. One- everyone was skinny. Two- everyone was possibly (i say this with only the slightest uncertainty) on drugs. Three- there were maybe four people attending with IQ’s above what could be classified as borderline retarded and all of them thought they were sober enough to drive home.

What can be learned from this debauchery?

Well, I do not, nor have I ever, smoked cracked, but if I ever felt the temptation I would reflect on this night of drunkeness and moral depravity to remember that all of those people’s parents probably smoked cracked. And I think I will have enough on my hands as a parent to deal with without giving birth to a Moron.

Check back for pics.

Love you later,

Lou Focker

ps- I apologize for my deviation from the standard format of my messages to You. There comes a time in a writer’s life when one must stray from the past and experience the foreign in order to learn and grow in their uniformity.

The BEST

Recently I read a New York Times article discussing grades. To put it simply, it claimed that colleges were having difficulty with students expecting As for effort. According to schools, no matter how hard students try, they might never receive an A, as an “A” should go to the students who perform the best in the class.

Something in this article spoke to me, even more so now that I am teaching in a classroom. It is evident that there is a lack of healthy competition between students today. Rather than pushing themselves to achieve as much as possible, they are content to simply coast along catching the As as they fall gently in their lap like manna from the sky.

When did society decide that everyone deserved to be the best? The best, by definition, is exclusive. It stands as singular and isolating. There should only be one winner at the end of the day, and just because you try does not mean you will win.

The devastating consequences of a lesson never learned are more evident than ever now that I am a college graduate. All around me I hear the cries of my peers complaining that they deserve better jobs than the minimum wage ones now available. They feel it is beneath them to do anything less that the most prestigious jobs. So much so that many are willing to move back home.

I must take a minute to add an aside. I too have been living at home for a short period since graduation. But in my defense, I was working the lowly jobs so many of my peers turned down. I chose to stay at home to save moeny so that when I set out to pursue to my dreams I will be adequately prepared for success. (I may also be prepared for failure, but I choose not to see that as an option.)

I also see evidence of the entitlement of my generation each and every time I enter a bookstore. The sheer amount of trashy literature decorating the shelves is astonishing. Who told these people that they could publish a book?  Furthermore, who published them?

There is much more to be said about the topic, but I find myself overwhelmed and annoyed. I can say this much though, my students who get “A’s” this year will really deserve them, and I hope to leave them with a greater message than “An A for effort.” I hope they will learn that everyone can succeed at something, but not everyone can succeed at everything.

Oh! This reminds me. I once met a devastatingly handsome man who was good at everything he tried. It was disgusting and I could barely stand to be around him. In the end, he is alone because no one can stand comparing them-self to him. So who really wants to be the best at everything?

The End

This is Phenomenal

Old guy complaining about the youth of today

http://crabbyoldfart.wordpress.com

Why I Hate “Cool”

 

I stood next to an ex-boyfriend of mine and stared at a friend of ours. She walked around an open restaurant, stopping to pick up an empty cup and talk to customers. She wore green shorts over gold lame leggings, a baggy yellow tank top over a gray sports bra. She probably hadn’t showered in a few days, and knowing her, I could imagine what she smelled like. I looked up at my ex and he turned his face to me. “She is so cool!” he said.

This was not the first time I realized that I think “cool” is stupid, but it was probably the most profound. I twitched my head as he said it, creating my own sense of deja vu- a misstep between the neurons firing in my brain. “What?” I asked him.

“She looks amazing” he replied, his eyes shining with envy.

I had to admit, this girl had more confidence than a charging rhino. She could have walked up to the president in a dirty t-shirt and never had a second thought, but part of me rebelled against what I was hearing.

“She doesn’t look cool,” I said. “She looks stupid. She is wearing green shorts over gold tights and it looks ridiculous.”

“No way. She looks awesome.”

I realized I was doing the equivalent of trying to convince a raccoon that the piece of tin foil he held so dearly was worthless. I gave up.

So here’s my dilemna. I understand that the ability to wear anything and pull it off effortlessly is special. I also appreciate style. But where is the line between style and poor taste? How do we know the difference between someone who’s edgy and someone who’s oblivious?

The truth is it’s irrelevant. Because there’s NO COOL. If a person wants to wear a beanie  and a tutu everyday of their life- Who cares? It doesn’t make them better or worse than me. It just makes them a person in a beanie and a tutu.

And if a person likes to listen to pop music, watch bad action flicks and television shows, it doesn’t mean they are not worthwhile. People can like whatever they like and embracing that they are who they are is all part of the game of life.

Just a short time ago, I used to be very concerned with being in the “know.” I wanted to be the first to find cool bands, to see cool movies, to spot cool artists. But I realized that the effort it takes for me to find those things is an effort I could be using to do those things. What if, rather than trying to be cool, we re-direct that effort towards being better- better people, better artists, better lovers. My aunt once told me that to be a master of something, you must work on it for 10,000 hours. So in order to be a master of cool, you have to work on being cool for years and years, and by then end of that time, you will undoubtedly not be cool because part of coolness is not trying.

Basically, it’s a Catch 22. So stop caring. Decide what you like and what you don’t like, but there’s no need to judge. Except for cool people. You can tell them they suck. Because if they really are cool, they won’t care what you think.

Crash!

Friends,

It is with post traumatic stress that I bring you the news that your faithful writer and her fighting partner almost died last week. We were on our way down to  have a good ole time in the sunshine state of Florida. It was early, and Kelley and I had been out LATE the night before dancing. BTW- I might have met a cutie for the books but I’ll let you know how that all pans out. Funny enough, Kelley lost her phone that evening and I dropped mine in the toilet. We should have seen all the signs.

So after picking up Kelley and causing my entire family to wait for me we set out on the long road. It began to rain. Another bad sign. We kept going. I told you before that Kelley and I have had some crazy adventures. In a way, it was always a kind of bad luck. We would go on a seemingly harmless expedition and next hing you know, money goes missing or someone gets hurts and what should have been silly fun has turned into a serious offense. It had been quite some time since our bad luck had caught up with us so I took this to mean that we had grown out of our childish ways, had learned to make good decisions. I should have seen it as a sign that we were in for a BIG one.

I was driving in the right lane. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a silver thing come near my front right corner. I remember hearing Kelley say “Whoa.” I veered to the left to avoid getting hurt. We ran off the road.  When I tried to get the car back in the lane we swung crazily to the right. I over corrected and we spun left. I don’t know how many times we went back and forth. Kelley told me later that she told me to not to swerve and I shook my head and said,”I have no control.”

The tires must have caught the water on the road and we began to spin. Three or Four times- round and round. We moved closer to the median. I distinctly recall heading for it. At that point, a strange feeling came over me. I thought I was going to die. I breathed in and out, then I gripped the sterring wheel to brace myself. Even though I was holding on tight and my body tensed, I realized that I had completely let go of life and was prepared to die.

Later that day, after we had all been to the hospital and cleaned up in the hotel room, I rode in the backseat as we continued on our way. Listening to music and letting my mind wander, I realized that if I had died that day, I would have died happy. The feeling overwhelmed me, almost more than the crash. For the first time ever, I have no regrets. I feel directed, hopeful, successful. Even though I am not really any different than I was about a year ago, I have accomplished things I never believed I could, and more importantly, I learned how to believe in myself and love myself.

Of course, I had to almost die to realize how alive I am finally. Oh the irony!

I just wish the people I loved weren’t in the car when it happened. And I wish I hadn’t over-corrected. And I wish that car hadn’t tried to run me off the road.

But it’s okay, because we are all alive and well and I have another day to tell you my stories…

Dreams

The Great River Ganges

I can sleep more than the average person. There was a time when it was not unusual for me to get 12 to 15 hours a night. As I get older, sleep has become less and less important to me as my impending need to accomplish something grows greater and greater. But still, there are my dreams.

I have a very active dream life. Vivid colors, songs, persons of impressions fill my nightly thoughts. In high school, I had one rather amusing dream in which my math teacher wore a top hat and danced the can-can with a cane. Another time, I dreamt I was in the garden of Eden. Everything was humid  and orange-cast, and I laid on a bed while eating fruit after forbidden fruit.

 

 

Last night I had dream, Friends. I was on a journey, following someone to get something back. Who or what- I do not know.  But I was in INDIA! The Land of Mystery. There were electric colors and smells intoxicating, like a thousand flowers had bloomed overnight. I wandered through the city, chasing the back of man. Finally, he led me to a boy. It was Neelkanth, the eleven year old yogi. He wouldn’t speak to me. In fact, there was no sound at all, but he lead me to the Ganges. Together we crossed. Then through a great hole in the earth we crawled until we came to another larger river far beneath us.

“How will we get across?” I asked.

He pointed down, and then I watched as he ran from one great shelf sticking out of the earth and leaped far across to another shelf. The child yogi then turned to face me and I saw him, with the great Ganges before him, on a gold shelf of the earth, his hands together in prayer.

What does this all mean? This is the first time in my life when i felt like my dreams were really trying to tell me something. India has definitely been a theme lately. I am reading Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, and I recently saw “Mystic India” which is about Neelkanth, but there was some else there, something I am supposed to understand.

The most literal interpretation seems to be that I must take a leap. This week is my last week of my job before I begin to teach. I’ve just accepted an internship for a publishing company which just may lead to a whole new chapter of my life. But I feel as though I should look deeper, that there is something I am overlooking.

Tonight I hope the yogi visits me again. I will pray for understanding. I will pray for peace.

Tell me your thoughts.

 

 

The Worst Date

Friends, today I had a discussion with my co-worker about bad dates. I  don’t know how it came up and it’s really not important, but it sparked a memory in my mind that’s worth sharing.

We’ve all been on bad dates and this one is by no means the worst, but it was at the beginning of my experience with dating and has scarred me nonetheless.

I was 20 at the time and working at a local independent bookstore in Minnesota. Mike came in on a Saturday afternoon when I was re-stocking books in the science section. I looked especially cute that day and I remember because I wore a new zip up hoodie I just bought in Chicago a few weeks before. My coworkers were mostly men at the time and when Mike walked in they started up a lively conversation. As the science section was close to the front, I found myself in a primo position to eavesdrop.

Apparently, Mike worked for a local radio station. This immeadiately intrigued me. Sometimes I fantasize about being on the radio, or at least having people listening to my every word, because my life would be so interesting and fabulous as a public persona. The fact that one of those voices that i may or may not have listened to during my long hours in the car was an actual person who could possibly be that interesting excited me.  

So I looked around the corner. AND BEHOLD! He was sort of cute. I made my way casually around the counter and positioned myself in an ideal flirting situation. Within minutes we were chatting. we talked the small talk, nothing really of note. I took the opportunity to check him out. He had a rugged appeal- sort of an outdoorsy type you’d expect to find in Washington or Seattle. Retro grunge out might say. But he did have a hemp necklace on… I should have taken it as a sign. (hemp necklace always = douche)

This is what I imagine Mike looks like now, bluetooth included

Our chatting died in a few minutes and we parted ways. I wasn’t upset about it. Just head back to the science section and my nook.

A week or so later he came back in and headed right for me.  “Remember me?” he asked.

I wanted to play coy so I said, “No.”

He smirked like he knew what I was doing because how could someone forget him? (Right. HA!) Finally after several  minutes of attempted witticisms and flattery, he asked if i wanted to go out.  I said alright and he got my digits.

Now, I admit that sometimes my eldest sister gives me bad advice, but when I told her about my date, her advice was to go and have fun, but take my own car. When I asked her why, she responded, “Lou, you don’t know what kind of a guy he is. Just take your own car. Trust me.”

When Mike called me the next day and suggested we go to a hip little hole in the wall called Bryant Lake Bowl, I said alright and told him I would meet him there. He told me it was no problem and that he could pick me up. I made up some excuse, saying that I had to work late so I would just come straight there. Again, he told me he could just pick me up.

Now maybe it’s just me, but I thought it was odd that my sister wanred me against riding with him, and then he tried to insist that i let him drive. I imagine it’s a generational thing, as hewas about four years older than me and maybe my sister, who is also older, knew something I didn’t. I finally insisted on driving and met him at the Bowl on a Friday night.

He  wasn’t there yet when I arrived. This, Reader, pisses me off. When a dude asks a girl out, he better be there on time. I arrived five minutes late, as is customary, and I expected him to be waiting. But, being the hemp-wearing necklace douche that he is, he decided to pull the I’m so cool and awesome I can’t even show up on time for my own date. LAME!

When he walked in I was already annoyed. He sat down, we ordered a drink, and then moved to the back of the place to bowl. Of course, there were no lanes open, and they wouldn’t be for an hour or so. Obviously this man has poor planning abilities. If he was smart, he would have arrived early and put our name on the list for a lane, but because he had to be ubercool, we were stuck without anything to do. And trust me, this man’s verbal skills were not going to keep me entertained for an hour (which makes you wonder just what kind of radio standards does MN have?)

So Mike suggested finally that we go. “Go where?” I asked.

“It’s a surprise,” he responded.

I said fine. Whatever to get out of the now-crowded bar. We went out to our cars. Again, he insisted we drive together. As this point, I acquiesced.

In retrospect, this might have been a mistake. He could have driven me off in a dark corner of the world and killed me. But, to be honest, I kind of felt like death would have been sweet justice for my agreement to go out with this Tool.

So I went where he lead, and we ended up at one of the lakes in Minneapolis. It was one of the smaller ones, called Lake Harriet and during the summer this is actually one of my favorite places to go.

“I thought we could go for a walk around the lake,” he said.

I looked down at my four inch heels, and then outside at the ice frosted ground.

“Ummm… it’s kind of cold,” I said. The high that day was 10 degrees, btw.

He insisted it would be fun so I agreed. It took us an hour to walk around the lake, during which we walked like toddlers, trying not to fall and break out necks, and snot dripped out of our noses and froze on our upper lips. Sexy. We eventually arrived at a bridge where Mike, turning to me, told me that, “I really wanted to show you this place.” Then he proceeded to talk about the stars.

Friends, why do men think talking about the stars is sexy? It’s not. And it’s especially not when you can barely breathe it’s so cold and your feet hurt like a bitch and all you can think about is that you would rather fall through this bridge and die a sweet death rather than listen to this guy talk any more.

Reader, I suddenly realize that you may be wondering why I disliked this man so much and I might have left out a few key details. First, all he did was talk about himself.  Second, he came with his hair poofed out in such a way I knew he must have spent an hour blow-drying it, and then tried to tell me that he was so busy today he didn’t even have time to take a shower and that’s why he was late. Third, he insulted my shoes, saying, “those are a little fancy for bowling, aren’t they?”  Gentlemen, don’t ever insult a girl’s shoes.

On a side note, and I promise I will get back to the story, Kelley once went out on a date with a boy she really really liked. In order to prepare she bought herself a new pair of boots off ebay. They arrived by UPS just minutes before her date arrived so she threw them on and flew out the door. Once at dinner with said boy, Kelley was working her game when she noticed boy was staring at her shoes. She asked him what was up and he asked her what size shoe she wore. She thought it was odd, but she responded, “Nine…” Then her date paused before asking, “Is that big for a girl?” Kelley was offended! “No.” she curtly responded. And then she looked down at her shoes. They were HUGE. Somehow the size had been switched and she was so nervous she didn’t notice. They must have been a men’s size  12. She was humiliated and hid her feet under the table for the rest of the night. Thankfully, this did not hinder her ability to be foxy and get laid.

But back to Mike the Douche. After talking about the stars for five minutes, he then tried to kiss me. Needless to say, I threw up in my mouth. And rejected his advances.

Finally I convinced him that my fingers were about to fall off from frostbite and he took me back to the car. I thought we were headed home, when I realized he was going the other way. AHHHH! i demanded he tell me where we were going and finally he admitted that he wanted to suprise me by taking me to the Ice Castle, a sculpture in Minneapolis. I agreed at this point because I wanted to see and I figured this could be my masochistic fun for the month anyways.

But when we got there, it was CLOSED. And not just closed, but basically over for the season. And he made me get out and walk through dirt, trash, and puddles of water/ice from the remains of the sculpture. We did that for five minutes. All this time, he wasn’t even fazed a bit. i thought he might be the least bit embarrassed, but know. He tried to pretend that it was really cool and he wanted to show me the “behind-the-scene” ice castle all the time. Right….

On the way back to my car, Mike asked me if I wanted to come over to his place. I told himI would rather stab my self in the eye with a pick axe. Well, I didn’t really- tell him i mean. But i said no. Mike took this as a chance to debate. NO means NO Buddy! I had to listen to him argue with me for ten minutes about why I really did deserve at night in his love palace. Oh god. Men are ridiculous.

To top it all off, he tried to kiss me again when I got to my car. I swatted him away like a fly. Leaving, he stopped me with his car in the lot, rolled down his window, and said, “I’ll call you later this week. It’s been fun.”

Fun like the electric chair I thought, but I smiled and waved him off.

The end

but not really, cause he actually called. I finally got to be a dude and just ignored it until he went away, which took at least two weeks and several deleted messages.

And that is really the end.

I write this all because I am starting to date again and I must remeber the strength of my resolve.

It’s a Mardi Party

Get Those Beads!

Fellow Friends! Greetings! It has been far too long and I apologize, but the adventures I encountered shall speak for themselves. Last week was Mardi Gras, and yours truely was in New Orleans, living the jazzy lifestyle one might expect.

Our little firecracker Kelley was off on her own adventures, skiing the slopes in Park City and jet-setting to NYC to stake out the apartment situation. Her tales are exciting in their own right, and I will get to them another day. But this means that I went it alone.

Ahhh! New Orleans. A city unlike any other. The food is fabulous. the rich are ridiculous. The poor are desperate. I heard after Hurricane Katrina that the city’s “vibes” changed and I beleive it, but not having been there since I was 14,  I can’t confirm for certain.

I went to this crazy town for the party, but alos to catch up with an old friend. We will call him Dr. Wang (as Wang is his last name and he is in medical school). Dr. Wang lives in student houseing right in the heart of the city, easy walking distance to most of the parades.

I got in the Friday before. This was probably the craziest night. Dr. Wang’s friend, and for lack of a better name I will call him Peter Johnson, had arrived earlier. They had proceeded to the nearest restaurant and promtly imbibed themselves.

The ride from the airport to the apartment was full of ranting and raving as we darted through traffic and careened over streets not yet repaired. We finally got in, made ourselves a drink, and walked to the French quarter.

I quickly figured out a trick which I will share with you readers because I love you so. When you don’t have any beads, people give you more because they feel sorry for you! and you don’t have to flash any skin! Amazing. I got the best beads of the weekend that way-  a fabulous multi-colored strand with a painted mask on the end. Whenever I got new ones, I handed them over to Dr. Wang and quickly begged for more.

I shall take a moment to discuss the begging. Only in this strange circumstance would it ever feel normal to plead with a man for some beads. I found myself at moments wondering if I really wanted what i was asking for and why I would allow myself to scream and jump up and down for something I would normally pass by. It’s a strange culture and harks back to days when pandering was the norm. I for one am glad I no longer have to sell myself in the streets to make a living as a woman.

So after countless begs, I announced that I was hungry and Johnson agreed so we set off for Cafe du Monde, a New Orleans Staple. Open twenty four hours with satisfying late night coffee and tasty beignets, it was the perfect end to our first evening. Oh- and Johnson’s drunken attempt to snort powdered sugar reminded me of days of yonder when middle school kids pretend to snort pixie sticks and all was gay and lighthearted.

The next day was my first parade. It was Endymion, and it was quite the show. I met new friends and stood on a railing for hours screaming for beads. I caught several good ones, but by the end of the day I was exhausted. I also took note of the deep-rooted segregation apparent in the city. Each of the marching bands was either all black or all white. On one said of the street were opulent mansions, and on the other, foreclosed, run-down houses. It saddens me that in this day and age there are still such sharp divides.

On Sunday, we ate at a tasty little cafe called St. Charles Tavern and I enjoyed awesome Gumbo. (I realize Reader that I am talking a lot about food, but in one of the tastiest cities in the world, how can you not?) Then we meander our way over to the Tulane Medical School party. And that, reader, is where I will leave off until next time as I feel like the sheer length of this post may be overwhelming.

With Love and Beads,

Lou Focker

The Jew in You and Me

When I was a young girl, I went to a small private school in Atlanta named Galloway (http://www.gallowayschool.org/). There was a mix of students, but a large portion of them were of the Jewish ethnicity. When we celebrated holidays in school, Hanukah and Passover were included. When I went to my friends’ houses, we not only made cookies but potatoe latkas as well. And bar-and-bat mitzvahs were all the rage of the 7th grade. Thus I have spent a large portion of my life with and in the Jewish community, including my recent stay in Israel.

When I was in Israel, I toyed with the idea of making Aliyah. Aliyah, for those of you who don’t know, is a process by which a non-Israeli born Jew declares his Jewishness and thus becomes a citizen of Israel. It is fantastic. The Israeli govern,ent gives you lots of money to move to the Jewish homeland, and they provide you with extensive support as you go about making this palce your home. As I mulled over the idea in my mind, I was inevitably faced with the question, “Am I Jewish?”

As a little girl, I thought I had Jew envy, a disease also afflicting our fair Kelley. But as I traced my history, I discovered that my mother converted to the Jewish faith before I was born. According to Jewish law, which says that Jewishness is passed down through the mother, that makes me Jewish.  (Now it is a hot debate in Jewish circles right now of whether or not a reform conversion is considered a real conversion, and as my mother converted reform there is some questioning by religious officals as to whether my jewishness is legitimate.) I face the question now as how to claim this identity I was unaware I possessed.

Am I struck by how does one claim a new identity? People change- that is inevitable, but to go from one day solidly embracing a part of yourself to another day being asked to embrace another part seems incoherent. There has to be a period of disconnection. I am reminded of the pop hit Harry Potter and for those of you who haven’t read it- Spoiler Alert! Harry’s nemesis Lord Voldemort (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_Voldemort), divides himself into several items in order that he may live forever. I am beginning to thinkt hat we all do the same.

How many different things do you identify yourself as? Me- I am a woman, a writer, a lover, a smoker, a Jew, an athlete, etc. All of these things are who I am but none of them exclusively define me.  I realize now it is because these identities are unstable and capricious. We have many of them so that we can grow and shift and never be without something to stand on.

So for those of you out there who are struggling with who you are, let it be a comfort to you that you are not just one thing. You may be a Jew, but you may also be a Christian (as contradictory as that sounds) and you may be a writer, but you may also be an office worker.

It’s time to start realizing that we don’t have to check one box. We can be who we want to be, and today, I am a Jew.

A Picture I Found on the Internet titles, "My Identity as a Jew." I thought it was fitting