L'histoire de sa vie

This will be a quick entry because I have very little to say except for this: apparently I pronounce the word “syrup” differently than others.

Throughout my time outside of Texas, I’ve noticed that there are many things I say differently than others, such as the days of the week, the word “display,” “descent,” “umbrella,” and other things. This doesn’t bother me that much. I’ve come to expect it.

But yesterday in Talmud class, I was talking to Arielle about fruit cups and stated that I like the peaches better in syrup rather than water. Tani freaked out: “What did you say?”

“Syrup,” I responded. [Sir-Up]

Apparently outside of my region of the country (aka the region that matters), these ridiculous people pronounce the word differently. Something along the lines of “See-rup.”

This has almost no effect whatsoever on the Kanye West line: “I drink a boost for breakfast, an ensure for dessert, somebody ordered pancakes, I just sip the sizzurp.

Yesterday I dropped my absentee ballot into a mail box on Columbia’s campus. I received my ballot a few days ago, and it took about that long to finish filling it out since apparently there are ten million open positions that all require primaries. In addition to the gubernatorial race, there’s the Lieutenant Governor, County Clerk, some other clerk, a Railroad Commissioner, Tax Assessor-Collector, and an astronomical amount of judges.

I learned in Mishnah Sanhedrin that the lowest ratio for judges should be one to ten. However, I’m concerned based on the size of the ballot that we may be exceeding that. In fact, it seems that I am the only Houston citizen not running for a judicial seat.

Seriously, the ballot was three pages long, each page about the size of three normal sheets of paper, with four columns on each page. I was actually a little amazed. I understood the full meaning of “Voter apathy” as I ran through checking off the occasional unopposed name.

Anyway, here’s my reflections on this election and a few things to consider should you ever decide to seek public office: [My reflections are from the LWVHouston Voter’s Guide, a non-partisan publication produced by the League of Women Voters annually.]

• Get a website. Seriously. Several times there were three or more candidates who all had the same things to say but one had a website. Guess who got my vote.
• If you’re going to say the same thing as every other candidate, at least use proper spelling and grammar. I did in fact see a few mistakes, the kind of rookie mistakes unacceptable for someone seeking any form of job, especially one in which you can publicly see who you’re running against.
• Incumbency goes a long way in races with little else telling the candidates apart. At one point I voted for someone because she not only has held the office before but has been a judge for over twenty-three years!
• Send in a bio when the LWV asks you to do so. It’s not hard. In races where one candidate had a bio and one did not, the choice was clear. I’m not voting for a lazy judge.

That’s pretty much it. If you’re in Texas make sure you stop by the polls on March 2 and cast your vote in the Primaries. It’s a great coincidence that we have the chance to make our voices heard on the anniversary of Texas’ independence.

I’ve spoken in the past in this blog about my hatred for Dunkin Donuts, and I believe I made it sufficiently clear in that post that I consider a good doughnut to be a real treat. When done right, a donut is a sweet, delicious, awesome food pretty much unparalleled in the pastry world. A doughnut is a fried ring of goodness, and is truly a thing to be celebrated.

Friday evening, I was watching Curling on TV, an exciting match between Canada and Denmark, when suddenly I had a serious urge for a good doughnut. I turned to Rebecca and Ariel and announced my intention to go, albeit in the dead of night, downtown to 14th street and acquire for myself some doughnuts of high quality from the fine establishment known as the Donut Pub.

We departed around one in the morning, and arrived, due to the fact that the NYC Transit System pretty much sucks hardcore, much later, around twoish. Luckily, the Donut Pub, living up to its reputation, is open twenty-four hours a day. We ordered our doughnuts and sat down at the bar to eat. [Contrary to the name, the Donut Pub also serves various breakfast foods. Those around us were drinking coffee and eating other stuff too.]

I had a regular glazed doughnut and a French Cruller, which was so sweet that it kinda hurt to eat it. Ariel, who also had one, agreed. Nonetheless I finished it with a smile on my face, as it was fantastically delicious. I washed it down with Hot Chocolate, and we went back uptown.

There’s really not much to this post, I’ll admit, but in writing it, my goal was to accomplish the following tasks:

1. Express (again) my love of good doughnuts
2. Point anyone in New York who feels the same way toward the Donut Pub
3. Use the phrase “fine establishment,” a phrase oft underused in this day and age (sadly).

I was able to successfully do all three. Stay tuned tomorrow for my reflections on voting in Texas’ upcoming primary election.

Every year I try to see the Oscar-Nominated Animated Short Films. It has been my experience that they tend to be amazing pieces with phenomenal animation, a great story, and they’re over before you have a chance to get bored. Last night, I went with a bunch of friends to the IFC to see this year’s slate.

We saw eight animated films in total, including a few that were “highly acclaimed” though not nominees. My favorite was The Lady and the Reaper, a Spanish film that was unbelievably funny. [Try this link.] In addition, French Roast, A Matter of Loaf and Death (the latest Wallace & Gromit Film), and Granny O’Grimm’s Sleeping Beauty were all excellent as well.

There was one film that was overly dreary, and of course it came from Poland (not much of a shocker then that it included a caricature of a Jew as one of the characters). Other than that, the films were all pretty awesome.

Of course, nothing will come close to the awesomeness of The Danish Poet. I have still yet to see an animated short as good as that gem.

So this is the final post for my Olympics wrap-up. Basically here’s some stories that either don’t fit in to the other three days or that I forgot to mention. I’m for sure forgetting things here as well, so I apologize. Perhaps if I remember enough, I’ll put them in another post.

1) Quatchi, the biggest mascot, in stuffed-animal form is infinitely more adorable than Quatchi in web form. Compare the online version to the left with this photo I took of the Quatchi plush that I purchased for Rebecca. Notice the major differences highlighted by the “real” Quatchi’s fur, much happier smile, thinner legs, mitten hands, and general cartoonishness. Actually it’s a little odd that the cartoon version is less cartoony than the plush version. Also keep in mind that this picture conveys only about one-third of the actual adorableness of the Quatchi stuffed animal.

2) One of the things Jacob told us when we visited him was this story of how Vancouver had gone out of their way to clean up the homeless population of the city so that they wouldn’t “interfere” with tourists etc. Apparently this was very controversial. Nonetheless, we had two homeless interactions.

First, there was Patrick, this extremely helpful homeless guy who gave us directions (unasked) and tried to give Adir a hat (we kinda freaked out when he was like, “I got something for you”) but ultimately asked for money only after he held a full conversation and directed us. Adir remarked that it was unlikely he’d give money to another homeless guy after the lengths to which Patrick went.

Then, on the last day in Vancouver, while looking for food, we found ourselves in the sketchiest part of town, aka the part of Vancouver the VANOC probably hoped tourists would never see. It was FILLED with homeless people. Some were picking up trash, some were asking for money, but ultimately, the dilapidated storefronts were simply inundated.

3) So even though America didn’t show up at the two events we saw, later that night, we were in the Whistler Olympic Gift Shop, surrounded by Canadians watching the Women’s Moguls on TV. We joined in. An American was in first, but the Canadian currently racing displaced her. The Canadians erupted. The announcer said, “It’s all up to the last competitor, Hannah Kearney from New Hampshire.” I turned to Adir and said that if Kearney won, we had to go crazy. He responded that afterwards we’d have to ditch to avoid angry Canadians. Sure enough, Kearney won.

On the way to the Biathlon, there were these loudspeakers that kept saying “Biathlon Legends!” and then would have some boring story about someone that won once. There aren’t a lot of Biathlon Legends (en français: les lègendes du biathlon.) But when Hannah Kearney won the gold, we went crazy, ran away, and knew that she was our “Moguls Legend.”

4) Here’s a story I forgot to include in the transportation entry. On the way to Newark Airport from Manhattan, it was an ungodly hour and there were four extremely drunk Asians on the train. One couldn’t find his ticket and was cussing more than ever. The following are actual quotes that emanated from this kid: [To the conductor] “F***, I’m f***ing sorry man, just give me a f***ing second.” [After he found his ticket.] “The f***ing ticket was in my f***ing right f***ing jacket f***ing pocket!”

That’s it! Hopefully I didn’t forget anything (I probably did) but anyway L’histoire de sa vie returns to regular programming on Sunday. Stay tuned!

Our Olympic food experience varied, but here’s some great stories associated with Vancouver sustenance.

1) On the first night in Vancouver, Adir and I left Downtown to visit my friend Jacob who goes to UBC. We chilled at this awesome place called Benny’s Bagels, which basically just consists of delicious bagels (the good kind) and cheap beer. Seriously, this is my kind of place. Seeing Jacob was really great as I haven’t seen him since Nativ, where we lived together, and he’s always a fun guy. For food, I had a poppy seed bagel covered with cream cheese and Swiss cheese, then toasted. Adir had a “Mexican” bagel which consisted of jops, cheese, chips, and general nacho toppings. We all had Pale Ales and Lagers from Okanagan Spring Brewery.

2) At the games themselves, the food choices were standardized (the same at both venues) but oddly diverse. Choices included: Pork Schnitzel on Bun, Veggie Chili, Potatoes w/Rock Salt, Poutine, “Bob in a Sleigh,” and other interesting options. There were also cookies, bananas, and other snacks. Finally, there was beer, which, due to the cost-prohibitive nature of said beverage, I did not partake. Also, most importantly, the luge was dangerous enough without beer.

3) I did not visit this establishment, but the story is as follows: a year before I was born, my mother attended Expo 86 in Vancouver. She stayed at a B&B run by some Scandinavians. When asking where young people such as herself and her friends would go out, the Scandinavian suggested a place called “The Cake.” He pulled out a map to show the group. Pointing to the map, he said, “Here. The Cake.” The map read, “The Keg.” This is a story that cracks me up, so obviously I had to find The Keg. It wasn’t hard: it’s now a chain steakhouse and bar. They’re all over Vancouver and there’s even one in Whistler.

4) While in Whistler, we ate dinner at this pizza place called “Fat Tony’s.” The pizza was great, but the thing was this guy came out halfway through the meal and was like, “How are you enjoying the pizza? I’m Fat Tony.” He explained that the place had only been in business for four days. I didn’t believe he was actually the owner and Adir and I argued about it. On our way out, Adir asked the cashier. He explained that not only was that in fact Fat Tony, but his wife was the waitress. So I was wrong. Except here’s the thing: I looked up Fat Tony’s online just now, and it hasn’t been open for just four days. It’s been open for at least a year plus, as there are Yelp! reviews from 2008! The address matches and everything. Very odd.

Stay tuned tomorrow for a ‘wrap-up’ of the wrap-ups!

This is a continuation of the wrap-up of my trip to the Olympics, focusing on our transportation stories.

So a huge amount of the time on our trip was devoted to transportation. Seriously, the breakdown looks like this:

That’s a vast plurality of our time spent on getting places. Here’s some stories:

1) Customs to get into Canada was ridiculous. Here’s a rough transcript of what Adir and I went through:

Customs Guy: You’re travelling together?
Us: Yes.
CG: How do you know each other? You’re from Texas and you’re from NY.
Us: We go to school together.
CG: What school?
Us: Columbia University in New York.
CG: How long have you known each other?
Us: Threeish years?
CG: What do you do now?
Us: We’re still in school.
CG: How did you afford this trip? Do you have a job?
Me: I do IT work.
Adir: And I tutor.
CG: What are you doing here?
Us: Seeing the Olympics. [Isn’t everyone?]
CG: Do you have tickets?
Us: Yes.
CG: What are you seeing?
Us: Luge and Biathlon
CG: Let me see the tickets. [Note: WHAT?!]
Us: Okay… (hands the tickets over).

This continued for quite a while. Compare this Gestapo interrogation to the customs guy on the way back to America:

CG: Did you have fun?
Me: Yes.
CG: Okay. (stamps form)

CG: Do you have any food on you?
Adir: No.
CG: Oh. Okay. (stamps form)

2) Speaking of Gestapo, on the (long) bus ride between Whistler Village and the Whistler Olympic Plaza, we were surrounded by Germans. The bus was filled with Germans, Norwegians, Canadians, and us, but somehow we ended up completely in German territory. With tons of Germans all around us, my immediate reaction was “Das ist ein Offiziers tisch!”

3) We took a gondola back from the Whistler Sliding Centre back to Whistler Village. It was odd because it was a five minute gondola ride but no one other than Adir and I wanted to hold a conversation. There were people to my left who started to join in, but the people on my right were just silent. For all five minutes.

4) The busses in Vancouver were confusing as hell. First, we got off the SkyTrain (which cost way more than it should have) and tried to catch a bus that wasn’t running during the Olympics. Then later, we wanted to catch a bus, and due to the Opening Ceremonies, they were being rerouted. Some natives were freaking out. Seriously, I have no idea where the rerouting was (we caught the bus before said rerouting) but I’m guessing that it was far.

5) Security to get back into the US is crazy tough. The TSA isn’t in charge, but rather the CATSA/ACSTA (two words because of the French), and they are tough. After my bags were X-rayed, they also did a hand-search of all my stuff, and then I was asked to put my hands in my pockets and take them out.

“What?” I asked. The instructions were repeated. So I put my hands in my pockets and removed them. Then they were swiped and tested for explosives residue. Even better than this ridiculum was when Adir had to undergo the full body scan. “Well I know this violates child pornography laws,” he said, “but I guess it’s better than the pat-down.” Ultimately, we both got through, deemed safe by the Canadian authorities.

Stay tuned tomorrow for some more stories about the Olympics.

It’ll take me a couple days to fully cover all the subjects I’d like to discuss from my trip to the Olympics, so I figured I’d start with the most obvious: the games themselves.

Early Saturday morning, Adir and I woke up and caught a bus to Whistler, about two and a half hours away from Vancouver. Upon arriving at Whistler Village, we made our way to the Whistler Olympic Plaza (WOP on all the signs, pronounced “vop” by the nearby Germans) to see the Biathlon.

The Biathlon was every bit as ridiculous as I suspected it would be. Every five seconds, another skier would take off from the starting point, rifle strapped to her back, around a 1.55 mi track. She would ski and ski and ski, until eventually she got to a shooting range, eerily close to the starting point. Each skier had to make three total laps, and shoot twice, once lying down and once standing in basically the exact position shown above. Most of the shooters were amazingly accurate.

Adir and I walked around a bunch and viewed the race from different vantage points: near the shooting range (with the XFL camera above), shortly after the starting point, near the first major turn, and near the bridge where skiers continued on to the other side of the course.

There were no ricochets. However, there were some crazy foreigners who kept yelling the same two syllables over and over, and this may be just as good.

Later in the day, we made our way to the Whistler Sliding Center (soon to be known as the Nodar Kumaritashvili Memorial Sliding Center, I presume), to see the Luge. The luge is, simply put, awesome. Unfortunately, Adir and I were colder than we had ever been before, causing us to only stay for one one round (there were two that evening) as the snow would not stop pounding down on us.

We viewed most of the round from the point of the track where the highest speed was achieved (about 45 seconds into the 48-50 second run). This is approximately the point where Nodar died during practice, going 88 miles per hour (terminal velocity for Doc Brown’s DeLorean, so I’m convinced that he’s not dead, he’s just stuck in 1955).

These lugers ZOOMED by with the utmost speed, except for the Japanese luger, who apparently wasn’t in much of a hurry to get to the finish line. Of course, I should talk: the Americans didn’t really show up to either the Biathlon or Luge. It was a little embarrassing to see these Germans and various Scandinavians destroying our pride in winter sports. On the other hand, the Canadians weren’t so hot either so I guess it all works out in the end.

Stay tuned tomorrow for some more stories (more ridiculous than this simple recap) about the Olympics.

While I’m at the Olympics, the reins of L’histoire de sa vie are being handled by guest posts from two of my favorite blogging friends. Today’s post is from Jody, who can usually be found at his site, Jody’s Escapades. Check it out! –Nathan

When Nathan asked me to be a guest writer for his blog, L’histoire de sa vie*, naturally my response was "absolutely not." However, after much persuasion and the promise of redemption in the afterlife, I reluctantly agreed.

People are always asking me for favors: "Jody, can you pick up my son from daycare? His father is incompetent and I am going into labor." "Jody, can you sit in this desk and speak into the teleprompter? Michelle and I want to take the kids to Hawaii." "Jody, can you land this plane in the Hudson? I think a pack of birds just flew into the engine."

While it’s all nonsense, I always comply because I am a pushover. So, here I am writing a blog post for Nathan Hernandez Menachem-Miller, who is currently in Vancouver, British Columbia, competing in the Miss Teen Canada Winter Curling Beauty Pageant. If you are still reading, you were either born stupid or have had a lot of practice.

I like Nathan’s blog because he takes us from the micro to the macro. Little situations expanded into big ideas. For example, I was reading his post about how he managed to save $90 on a digital camera by using someone else’s credit card, and then BAM! the identity crises of developing nations in the post-colonial Indian subcontinent! Micro to macro, that is what good blog writing is all about.

Unlike Nathan (or Barbara, as he prefers to be called), my experience in blogging is very limited as I only write about explosions, sex, and the exploitation of the lower to upper middle class, yet I think I can make a really poignant statement today during my stint on this little soapbox called the Internet.

Possible topics of discussion:

1. Why I am a vegetarian.
2. Why I don’t live in Texas.
3. My third hysterectomy.

Reasons why none of the above will be discussed:

1. Nathan is from Texas.
2. I am a vegetarian.
3. I only had two hysterectomies.

Why are you still here? Didn’t anyone tell you that the Internet now has revealing
pictures of Rosie O’Donnell for free?

… Alright, fair point. You can stay. Just don’t make any noise or touch anything.

I was on the crowded subway yesterday evening, returning from my internship at the New Yorker’s cartoon department (high five!), and a group of rambunctious youth packed on to the train. Included in this group was a young lady with a bunch of balloons. One of the goons who was with her intended on popping her balloons. I know this because he said "I have the intention of popping your balloons!" POP. Everyone on the train jumped and averted their eyes. Not me, though. I whipped around and gave the kid the telling of his life. "Listen you delinquent piece of bacteria, what could possibly compel you to pop a balloon on a crowded train?" He replied, "whacha gonna do about it, old man?" Whip. Crack. I nailed that doofus right in the groin. Dropping to his knees, I whispered to him, just loud enough so the whole car could hear, "if you are trying to impress these ladies, why don’t you act like a gentleman instead of popping their balloons." At that, I produced a bouquet of roses and gave one to every single lady in the car. To rapturous applause, I jumped out the back door of the train and disappeared into the darkness and mystery of the subway tunnel. It was really great and a complete lie. The kid popped the balloon and I did nothing. I jumped, averted my eyes, and ignored him because that is what we do in New York. We avoid confrontation out of fear of becoming a statistic and a blurb on the 15th page of the New York Times.

Well, shoot dang.

At that, I leave you with a piece of wisdom that my father’s father’s neighbor told him just before they left for the Battle at Valley Forge.

"Better go to the bathroom before you leave, as you never know when the next piss stop
will be."

Sincerely,
Jody Zellman
www.jodyzellman.wordpress.com

*An 18th century French phrase meaning, "the history of savie." Historians are still debating the exact translation of ’savie,’ but the current understanding is that it refers to instances when one attempts to turn on hot water in the shower and is instead doused in expensive, red wine.

While I’m at the Olympics, the reins of L’histoire de sa vie are being handled by guest posts from two of my favorite blogging friends. Today’s post is from Lia, who can usually be found at her site, bril-lia-nce. Check it out! –Nathan

“Checking in”

I used to know what it meant to “check in” at the airport.

It used to mean, “I’ve made it! I’ve arrived at the airport! Hear ye, hear ye, I am here, ready, willing, and able to fly today!”

But today, you can “check in” a few days in advance from wherever you happen to be. So instead of alerting the airline that you didn’t get lost on the way to the airport, you’re just telling them, “Yes, I’m still planning on flying next week. Will I make it there on time? Not necessarily. But I think I still might fly. Unless something better comes up.”

Once you make it to the airport, unless you’re checking bags, your airline has no idea that your cabbie didn’t accidentally take you to the wrong airport until you get on the plane. Clearly they don’t care if you don’t show up – they’ll auction off your seat to the highest standby bidder (if they don’t, they should!). So the question remains: Why bother checking in?

Special baggage items

As I was doing this online check-in a few days ago for a business trip, I found one question particularly interesting. “Are you checking any special baggage items?”

Of course, all my items are special. My new purple sweater with ruffles – it’s special! My laptop? One of my most special items. And one of my most special possessions is my new, New York-made, special brand of curly hair shampoo.

Since I didn’t think those items were noteworthy enough to have to declare, I clicked on the list of examples of these special items.

Antlers??? I knew I was forgetting something on this trip!

Clearly every time I travel, I make sure to remember to bring my contact solution, my warm coat, and my vaulting pole.

And I always bring a kayak, just in case the plane has to make an emergency water landing.

A Christmas tree, antlers, a pet in the cabin (reindeer?), and snow skiing equipment – apparently Santa Claus has set off the metal detector one too many times at the airport.