In the summer,
we’d do cannonballs
at the public pool.
freedom for two bucks
an extra dollar for ice cream
jackknives and coffins
biggest splash wins.
extra points
if you get kicked out
when all the girls are watching


look! there are my toes
wriggling in between the sand
and sand
in between my toes
and you, oh mom,
in your sun hat and black aviators
reading books in Hebrew,
waving at me
eating watermelon
with juice all over my face
I’m so in love


at paradise cove, at two p.m.
you could see dolphins
if you wanted.
Me and you, brother
we’d bury each other
up to our necks
where the small waves broke.
the sun reached its summit
and we couldn’t afford more freckles.
So we smeared sunscreen
on each other’s backs,
then let the water
wash it all away.


twenty minutes
after killing tuna sandwiches,
we’re on our boogie boards
holding on for dear life.
wave crests crashing over our heads
our tiny, little heads
“Twenty feet, at least”
I scream over the water to no one.
you got scared,
and went back.
so I followed.


castles in the sand
we dug wells,
captured sand crabs
that I wanted to take home
to start a farm
name them silly things
like Herbert and Roger and Nancy and Sherbet.
when the tide got high
you took the cup
let them all go,
like Moses freeing the slaves.
I was so proud
and so sad.


This is my Dad

tennis with Jack on Sundays; a twenty five year old mustache that was cut off; the luckiest backgammon player I’ve ever fucking seen; hits the treadmill level 13, speed  3.9 three times a week; afraid of dogs, cats, or anything that can jump up past his waist (though he claims he once had a dog for about three weeks); wavy, Hungarian hair; pink nose; smart enough to win Jeopardy; loves television; sad to see 24 end its run; he hates Larry King and news anchors – all of them – but because he loves television so much he’ll sit through it if we’re watching.

He know three great Jewish jokes, and is a master at telling them; he’s been to India twice and wants to take us there; he’s never been to Auschwitz and hates Germans; I’ve seen him make three things in my entire life: toast with cream cheese, matzo brie, and tuna with celery.  My brother Gil says my Mom and Dad are getting older now. “You’re away now and don’t see it,” and now he’ll ask them if they want tea or a sandwich or some cut up fruit.

He wakes up every morning at 6:15 for his first shower of the day, shaves his face (my dad has no neck), and suits up. Black for court. Gray for the office. Always pump. On Friday he has no clients – so he’ll wear a twenty seven year old pair of Levis and an orange Ralph Lauren polo I got him as a present when I was thirteen. He ends all his emails with love, always Aba and I think it’s the double lower case which makes me soft inside every time I read it.

At 7:20 every morning, has a cup of regular French Vanilla coffee and a wheat bagel smothered with cream cheese. Sometimes he puts the coffee in a paper cup, sometimes he doesn’t. But he wraps his bagel in a napkin and rips off a mouthful before the front door. The impact of his large teeth, the softness of the bagel, and his tough hands cause one sixth of the cheese to get smeared into the napkin. A quarter of the cheese will not make it into his mouth – it will smear into the paper napkin, or onto his shirt. In which case my dad will utter, “Fuck” or “Goddamn it” himself, without anyone of us hearing a word.

Rise of the Jew Fro

You know how people LOVE their tattoos, but love GETTING tattoos? The  burn of hydrogen peroxide on skin, the smell of ink bubbling underneath, the soothing buzzing sound of the drill…same thing with me and shaving my head. It’s like going to the mikva without having to see a bunch of  old naked Jewish men. (That may sound pleasant to some of you, but I pass on ass) Couple rounds with the clipper and I’m left with millimeters of fuzz surrounding my skull. And I never have that problem of having my hair in my face like the rest of you long-haired losers.

But at some point, we all begin to break.

Male Jews suffer from a disorder. We entertain the idea of growing out our hair and sporting a massive afro.  Expanding our base of hair from three to fourteen inches – thas a good idea. sually brought on by seeing Lenny Kravitz on a cover of Rolling Stone. We take one look in the mirror, glance back at the mag: I CAN DO THIS.

Seth Rogen brought the JewFro back into the public eye, until he got rich and lost weight. Speaking of Rogen, I saw this guy a few weeks ago, at Arlequin Cafe in Hayes Valley. Nice guy. Probably his stuntman.

2009-06-13 17.15.17
I saw him and felt inspired. Could I do it? Would mine look better? Could it look any worse?

After some deliberation, logic won out, and for seventeen dollars, the perfurmed Persian ladies at Supercuts did some damage yesterday.

It looks decent. But I feel like I’m letting the team down. So I compiled some studies of the Afro.

I’d like your input on how to proceed.




Vegan. Brews his own kombucha. Volunteered at an organic farm in New Zealand, harvesting beets and carrots all summer. Prefers Chacos over Tevas. Swears his rock deodorant works. Don’t get too close. Secretly purchased Soulja Boy ringtones on iTunes.



Café junkie / Bus stop preacher. Seeking a Publisher for his indie anthropology fashion zine. Can’t talk to girls but will whoop your ass in speed chess. Heroes: Malcolm X, Kanye, and Willis from Different Strokes.



Afraid of big words. Great at sales calls. Brings in leftover donuts, goes out to lunch with the CEO, leaves work early to hold down the Happy Hour. Currently listening to the Da Vinci Code book on tape. Have you read it? He has questions.

Put down the Germ and WALK AWAY

Advertising creatives are receptacles for useless information. We dump everything we find straight into our brains, let it seep out slowly. Hopefully, it leads to some interesting work. It can also have drastic repercussions.

Ever since I completed a print campaign for Purell Soap, I’ve become a full fledged germaphobe. I wash my hands constantly – 4 or 5 times a day. I scrub before I eat anything. I pound fists rather than shake hands. I de-MUNI-fy with antibacterial spray sanitizer after riding the metro.  If I forget to spray – it’s like skipping yoga for a day – something’s off.

Then it got worse. I started to realize how many surfaces my hands come into contact with everyday. Think about it. Then I paid attention to how often my hands make it into my mouth. It’s astounding. Automatic.

How other people do the exact same thing? Could I continue to trust them? I drew parallels with the ultimate health trap: ‘If you sleep with this person you sleep with everyone THEY slept with.’ Now I can’t touch a doorknob, ATM keypad, or shake hands with a stranger without wondering how many people had sex on them.

How to Win at Monopoly, when all you have is Baltic Avenue and $800 in fake money.

# 1 Pass and Grab

Buy up everything you can. Properties, utilities, railroads, EVERYTHING. Be an even bigger dick. Put some money on Chance and charge rent when others land on it. Don’t worry about not having enough money in the bank.  It’s early enough in the game that everyone’s still friends at the table. If you DO happen to land on Illinois Avenue and so poor you can’t afford the $24 rent, comp your friend a night stay in return at your place and you’re set.

NOTE: This only works in the at the early stages of the game. 45 minutes in and you’re cracking skulls to get that $6 your friend owes for sleeping in the slums of Baltic Avenue. Fuck him. You’ll need those six dollars when you gotta pay the Man in housing taxes.

# 2 Country Clubs

The other school demands more tact and patience. The prudent player skips half the board, buying property only in the real estate suck zones. A dice roll from Jail, these black holes draw in even expert players, and soon enough everyone’s getting raped at St. James.

These are the same bastards that run the high-end country clubs on Marvin Gardens & Ventnor Avenue. Less pricey than Pennsylvania Avenue, with a high mortgage, land on hotels here and you’re finished. If you manage to grab the orange, yellow, and red, you’ve got a bigger head than Daniel Day-Lewis in There Will Be Blood.
Picture 7

But not all places are terrible. There is one place that offers safety, relaxation, and peace of mind. And it’s not Free Parking.

It’s Jail.

After a few trips around the board, ruthless speculation, and nonstop construction, getting incarcerated is the sweetest thing next to finding two Red Starbursts in a row. The streets aren’t safe to wander, and going to prison is the best thing that could happen to you. Smoke a cigarette, watch others sweat over Luxury Tax, practice dice – once you’re rehabilitated, pay your debt to society with only 50 bucks.

You could even write a book your experiences or lay some tracks and put out an album about your experiences. Hitler wrote Mein Kampf in prison. It only led to bigger and better things for him. (It fucked over everyone else, but hey, this is YOUR game)

jail baby

The final school of thought, which is more of a strategy pursued by retards, is to buy up only railroads and utilities, and ignore everything else. The max you’re cleaning up is $200, (that’s if you own all FOUR) so this strategy is not recommended. Unless, you’re playing with actual real-estate agents, who will draw up contracts and cut deals in order to prolong the game even further.

douche bags

In that case, put down the boxcar or thimble you’re playing with. (The thimble is choice – it’s fun to hold and provides ample distraction when that asshole to your right has to count his money after every turn), Hand your cash back to the Banker and get a new set of friends.

In my experience, Country Clubs usually wins. Unless, I’ll-Buy-Everything-I-Land-On has enough money and brains to monopolize the light blues early on. (that’s the one with Vermont Ave) That requires passing GO! Minimum 4 times, coming up big in the Community Chest, and replenishing funds at Free Parking to build some houses. It’s tough no doubt, but do that and everyone’s asking you for favors.

That’s it! Next week we’ll discuss the love triangle between April O’Neil – Michelangelo – Raphael. I personally believe April is totes asexual, but journalism comes before sexual preference. And you know damned well she’d fuck a mutant turtle for a front-page story.