David Foster's (comedy) Blog

This is my blog on my journey through the stand up comedy world and the rest of the world as well. Hope you enjoy. Visit my alternate identity at davidfosteracupuncture.com

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8 Things Dad & Biggie Smalls Had in Common

I don’t remember when we discovered that Dad shared his birthday with Biggie Smalls, but I remember how happy it made us. Shortly thereafter, we found out the two also shared their birthday with Mr. T and Havoc from Mobb Deep. This made us even happier. Somewhere underneath this WASP from Staten Island we called “DAD,” was there some intimidating, young black thug? We liked to believe so.

Coincidences like these might seemingly make it difficult to defend astrology. I mean, what did Dad have in common with these self-proclaimed killers who rapped mostly about sex, money and getting intoxicated, usually in the same breath? I guess a lot, actually. Dad enjoyed a drink or three on occasion (each day) and drove a 7-series Beemer at the height of his career. He grew up in New York with a single mom, definitely loved music, and now I’m starting to wonder who he might have killed? Probably some Red Sox or Dallas Cowboys fan. I’m sure he had his reasons.

Dad and Biggie were two of my favorite men, obviously on opposite ends of the spectrum in familiarity; but love comes in many expressions. I loved the Notorious D.A.D. in a way I could never love B.I.G., but the inverse is probably equally true.

As a newly married man with fantasies of family (FOF?) I imagine this is a brutal reality to prepare for: After puberty my kids will come to love certain strangers, as much, if not more than they love me, just in a different way. Fortunately I figure also from my own personal experience that they’ll never weep tears of appreciation while discussing “their Biggie Smalls” (at least I hope not), whereas I can barely talk about Dad for 60 seconds without crying.

I’d like to examine the 8 things DAD and BIG shared in common, not in defense of astrology, but in the interest of commemoration and highlighting fundamental human similarities over superficial differences, an important theme in our present time. Of course there are likely more than 8, but 8 is a conspicuous in Eastern philosophy… and there’s the ages they would have turned today:

1.     DAD would be 88! BIG would be 48! Crazy Eights… and three 8’s equals 24, which is half of 48. I guess I’m admittedly more curious what Biggie would be up to these days, since Dad’s cognitive and physical plateau of his twilight decade was sadly typical. Many wonder if hip hop would have died the way it did shortly after BIG if he hadn’t. I assume it still would have, as one of the great historical constants (in music) is change, and just as the Beatles eventually gave way to Poison and Def Leppard, Biggie would have given way to Drake and Lil Wayne. I wonder if he’d still be with Faith. I wonder if Jay-Z would have risen to become the godfather/Russell Simmons figure of the culture. Would he and BIG have shared the title or would it have been exclusive to BIG, and would anyone be using the term “bae?” Who knows?

2.     Brilliant writer: Dad never completed his personal memoir (he did start it) but he was definitely the Biggie Smalls of birthday cards and personal letters. Getting a hand-written letter from my father was as if sent from a lost time of years past. It was as if he’d sent it from the 1940’s, pre-war. Although not in old English, it felt like it should have been, with thoughtful prose and a finely crafted penmanship in the kind of thin black ink only found on the desks of corporate big wigs. There were no clichés or generic thoughts in Dad’s cards – instead specific reflections on the year past and that to come. Similarly, Biggie is credited as one of the greatest lyricists of all time. While pretentious fools naively rank Tupac higher, those who know (better) are able to distinguish between conscious subject matter and clever writing. Tupac was kind of the Christopher Nolan of rap, tackling profound topics, but at the expense of quality art. Instead, Biggie rapped about what guys in their early 20’s knew best: Sex and weed. His brilliance was in execution and content, the cleverness of his metaphors and witty humor he was able to ironically weave into raps on dark topics, a la Quentin Tarantino from the same era.

3.     Humor: I have many memories from childhood of workdays when Dad would take me with him into the office. Our arrival on the floor was like a moving comedy show as he would shout at receptionists into open doorways at friends, occasionally with mild expletives like George Costanza’s corporate colleagues from Houston. Everyone loved him. Everyone laughed at Dad’s jokes, including Mom at home, but I always laughed longest and loudest and he’d look at me affectionately, acknowledging: “My biggest fan.”

4.     Golden Era’s: Just as Biggie spearheaded the golden era of hip hop, alongside Nas and Mobb Deep, Snoop, Dre, Jay-Z and Wu-Tang, Dad was an ad executive in Manhattan when it was still cool to be an ad executive in Manhattan. Just like BIG was a Bad Boy, Dad was Madmen, the show that enlightened me to the fact that Dad’s glass of Dewar’s on the rocks he’d pour nightly after getting home was probably not his first of the day. In any case, both men were patriarchal pillars of culturally defining movements in New York City history. I’m very proud of that.

5.     “Cheese, eggs and Welch’s Grape:” For Dad it was more like cheeseburgers and Dewar’s scotch, but let’s be honest – neither BIG nor DAD could recall when they last wore a 32 waist. When Mom would go shopping for shirts Dad would call out to reminder her: “Extra Chubby,” which could just as easily have translated to “Extra Biggie.” We all loved Dad’s belly.

6.     “Crazier than a bag of fuckin’ angel dust! When I bust my gat motherfuckers take dirt naps!” OK, to my knowledge Dad never owned a gat or busted it at anyone, but I never saw anyone more out of control than when Scott Norwood missed that field goal in Super Bowl 25. Dad frightened all of the kids in the party as he bumrushed the television, screaming: Fuck you, Marv (Levy)! Fuck you! As far as we all know Marv Levy is a sweetheart.

7.     168th Street: Odd coincidence, I found out Biggie Smalls died while I was skateboarding at the triangle on 168th St. and Broadway, across the street from Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. 20 years later I found out my father died as I held his hand on 168th Street inside Columbia Presbyterian Hospital.

8.     Me: I think we have many parents in life, the most important of which by far being our biological ones, but our psycho-emotional development is then undoubtedly impacted and shaped by best friends, romantic partners, idols and society on the whole. It is on enormously different scales – extra chubby, biggie size different scales – but I wouldn’t be who I am without the Notorious DAD or the Notorious BIG. I thank you. I love you. RIP.

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My Quarantine Continuum: Day 28

I notice myself not calling friends and family as much anymore. I’m not disconnected – I’m lucky – married – but there seems as if there’s nothing left to say. If most dialogue doesn’t literally begin with, “What’s going on,” it is at least implied: What is going on? Not much. Groundhog day continues for most: Waking and cooking and cleaning and whatsoever activities you use to keep busy. For those of us with passions in the arts or fields that require great study to become great at, time can be well spent. Still the monotony is unrelenting and challenging to dissolve, especially sans the most basic secondary needs: Fresh air, nature, human interaction.

For me the most disturbing weeks have been the first and last, the latter pretty much no matter what week we’re in. The former for other reasons: In the first week I was as happy as I remember being in recent memory. The dark circles around my eyes disappeared as I slept great and still took a mid-day siesta. A mandated “stay-cation,” and it was logically more relaxing than any vacation I’ve been on. No bags to pack, no travel to the airport, not even a walk to the store because it was dangerous. The first world pandemic of horror expressed at home as gluttonous pandemonium. Our groceries and wine were delivered and both indulged in nightly. I spent my afternoons leisurely catching up on busy work I hadn’t been able to then plunging into creative projects that for years have been stuck in the sludge of priorities. I spent evenings in laughter, catching up with loved ones overdue for a phone call, basking in longer phone conversations than we’d had in years (and I pity those who lack the courage to transcend texting). At first I was elated, then quickly self-aware of how disturbing this was: We’re in a Goddamn quarantine because an international virus is dropping people like flies. Why am I so content? Did I actually need rest and time off this badly… and will I ever get this again?

Somewhere around day 10 everything shifted. There is a principle in Chinese Medicine – really all of medicine – that emphasizes the importance of dosage: That which can heal a condition may also in the improper dose exacerbate it. Have you ever been exhausted from too much sleep? Gotten a headache from too much coffee? All the mind and body want in every moment is homeostasis, which means our perfect prescription is ever-changing based on our place in time and present activities – which means being assigned a particular medication in perpetuity is usually questionable.

By the end of the second week I grew tired of calling people. We all had less to say, which occasionally made social interaction more depressing. In a not so odd turn of events social distancing generated more pathological social distancing. I regularly have to sleep during the day and can’t sleep at night and it’s become more challenging to detect what the body wants. Whereas cooking every meal was briefly a fun project and no doubt healthy (I lost 4 pounds in 9 days), now it turned me into Bill Murray in Groundhog Day: tedious at best, mania-inducing at worst. Nightmares of more dishes in the sink and chopping vegetables, staring blankly into the refrigerator wishing some kind of ghost would pop out of it to prepare just one meal, psychotic ideations of simply water fasting until this was all over just to absolve myself of the repetition. My back hurt from loading and emptying the dishwasher, also probably from sitting at my desk. I had less stamina for working on projects as the demand for initiative wore on me, and what I really wanted was sleep. I could see the quality in my work suffer when work became all that was. Absence makes the heart grow fonder; the heart, in Chinese Medicine refers to the mind, and “fond” might arguably translate as stimulated. Absence makes my mind sharper. Now in our new normal on Day 28 I look forward to new things, simpler things:

1.     Days where I feel energized enough to call a loved one. Some calls last 3 minutes – today’s lasted 3 hours. I am grateful phor my phellow philosophers philling my mind with pheelings of phreedom.

2.     Group texts with homies that make me laugh…

3.     Still fantastic meals if I do say so. If you can google you can cook, and I’ve learned by going slower at the sink and cutting board respectively, I’m able to mitigate some irritability.

4.     My almost daily run in the park (I do the mask and distancing), sometimes followed by a few minutes of Qi Gong, sometimes even an extra block walk out of my way back home. The weather’s been unfortunately irresistible. We leave our shoes in the hallway, “outdoor clothes” in the foyer, and Purell immediately upon entering.

5.     That 7:00 cheer for the heroes has become my daily highlight, thus serving as a nice reminder of the concept that enough giving of sincere gratitude eventually comes full circle in nourishing its’ giver.

6.     Finally, I’ve never spent more time on social media. It’s a nice distraction, a way to pseudo-connect and get an occasional laugh. I’m grateful for it (but what might this suggest about those who are always on it while not in the middle of a pandemic? The proverbial quarantine of a hollow existence…).

As we supposedly, optimistically reach a plateau in cases I fear I’ve also hit a plateau of illusion. Just as fish don’t know that they’re wet, maybe I no longer know that I’m quarantined. I know that I miss my mom and brother, friends and clients, but their absence has transformed within my consciousness, just as it did when I lived in Los Angeles. We’re just not together anymore. They’re not a part of my world. Though in Los Angeles I knew when my next flight home would be. I knew when I’d see them next – when I’d hug and kiss and laugh with them all. Here we don’t know. For the first time in our lives we can’t know. Some say the end of April while others say August. Both extremes seem unreasonable. I just can’t see a celebratory Cinco de Mayo this year - equally impossible to envision is still being in this fuckin’ apartment on July 4th! If that’s the case I’ll just move to China. I hear Wuhan’s chillin’.

Thank you to the front line, the grocers and delivery folk. Couldn’t do it without ya!

Fuck you to the fools responsible for our lack of preparation, the ignoramuses who don’t distance, and sociopaths who kept working past the point of reason, incidentally harmed others and revealed themselves as part of the problem.

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I’m With Kap: Why I Support Kneeling for the Anthem

I love Mike Francesa, though said love is mostly compartmentalized to his views and subsequent expressions on sports and athletes. I’ll never forget the experience of falling in love with his show as it became quickly apparent that he was in my brain, better yet, the better version of my brain, poignantly elaborating on everything I’d thought and wished I could express in a way that made every other sports talk guy sound second rate. Nevertheless, my brother and I would joke that we’d never before observed a greater disparity within one person’s IQ between one subject matter and every other in the world.

Have you ever heard Francesa discuss movies or TV shows or political climate? Before your eyes (ears) he suddenly transforms from all-knowing guru into this generic, old, white, Long Island dad, who isn’t necessarily racist but says some things that racists say, thinks Frank Caliendo is funny, and… voted for Trump.

I was once listening as one of his callers, typically cut from the same cloth pontificated on the Colin Kaepernick saga by making the point: “Football is entertainment, Mike. It’s entertainment, am I right? (red flag any time someone poses this rhetorical) We don’t need to turn on the TV at 1:00 for our favorite pastime on Sundays and have it ruined by these guys kneeling during the national anthem. It’s supposed to be entertainment.”

I held my breath in prayer that Mike would come through for me.

“That’s a great point,” Mike said, “ a really great point,” and he broke my heart.

First of all, do they even televise the national anthem before every game? I’m honestly not even sure because like most fans, I don’t tune in for the national anthem, and I’d venture a guess that up until now this caller didn’t either. I think we can all agree that the entertainment is in the actual football, so until players start wearing NAACP stickers on their helmets or perform end zone celebrations that include raising one fist as they hang a Nazi dummy from the end zone post, I’d say the entertainment compartment remains unblemished.

Mike continued in accord: “People work hard all week long, and they just want to relax on Sundays and watch football – not your political protest. And you’ll see, you keep doing it and people will stop watching, and you’ll have to get a regular job paying not nearly as much as you’re getting paid now to play a kids’ game.”

Okay…

1.     Umm, no they won’t (stop watching). Do you have any idea how popular football is? I know you do. The NFL could air Black Panther rallies over the national anthem and KKK cross burnings at the Super Bowl halftime show and it would still do better numbers than any NBA finals or World Series game. If you think the mindless drones of the Midwest who worship football second only to the Lord in heaven, Jesus Christ, and Donald Trump, are going to stop watching football you are out of your Diet Coke-infested mind.

2.     Can we agree that the only thing more reprehensible than getting paid loads of money for playing a kids’ game is getting paid loads of money for simply talking about said kids’ game?

3.     If a five second clip of five or ten guys silently kneeling while the surrounding 75,000 others are standing in reverence compromises your ability to relax on Sundays then you should seek immediate mental health.

Obviously one is free to disagree whether there is in fact social injustice, but isn’t this part of what makes our country great, the very first amendment: Freedom of Speech? Aren’t you that much less “American” when you protest peoples’ right to protest, ironically shitting on the Bill of Rights whenever it happens to not appease your views? When Lebron James, Carmelo Anthony and Chris Paul used their platform to speak out against violence in urban communities it didn’t seem to bother anyone. Mohammed Ali and Arthur Ashe were activists whose legacies are both celebrated, and Bruce Springsteen often interrupts his actual entertainment to do the same. Why didn’t any half-wit, Jersey douche bags call in about these?  

When Kaepernick first made the decision to kneel I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I knew it didn’t offend me as an American. I just wondered what a lot of others did, whether it was the right context for the action, in terms of potential efficacy towards intention. For years it was one of the biggest stories in sports, which might indicate actualization of the first stage of efficacy.

He made it clear that his choice had nothing to do with disrespecting the troops or their families – that there are many components of a nation, and his message was in regards to just one of those components. One could equally choose to kneel in protest of the drug companies, health insurance or legalization of Monsanto poisoning our food. Or we could stand in support of the troops, our democratic freedom and land of occupational opportunity. I found this point to be thoughtful, indisputable, also personally relatable.

I grew up a huge hip hop head and was often judged and criticized, mostly by fellow whites as being inauthentic, the inverse of an Uncle Tom; but also occasionally by black people, for not having the right to culturally appropriate “their thing,” because I didn’t have to worry about getting shot by cops when I walk down the street.

I always thought this was an unfair card to pull, since as abhorrent as police brutality is, it still makes up a very small percentage of the black experience in America. I’ve lived in New York my entire life and have spent a huge chunk of time in black communities. If the people I see on the streets are in this alleged perpetual state of worry about getting shot then I’d hate to see what they look like when they’re relaxed. I think it’s horrible how authorities have often dealt with the black community, but it would be as impossible for blacks to be relegated to a perpetual state of worry or fear as it was for New Yorkers to be of terrorism after 9/11.  

This is classic cherry picking, highlighting only the most tragic examples of a particular reality in order to make an accused transgressor seem as such. My hip hop appropriations being labeled as disrespectful to social inequality was as inaccurate as Kaepernick’s kneeling is to the troops or their families.

As we grow into adulthood we become abundantly aware that we are flawed, then we come to terms with accepting that the partner we fall in love with is as well. I remember how enlightening it was for me in adolescence when I first heard (white) friends criticize “white people” in broad strokes that were only somewhat tongue and cheek. This was huge for me, and so logical. Of course! We live in the diverse melting pot of New York. We should surely specify when we’re talking about white people, as there are other people in the world. Secondly, “white people” as a group have resounding flaws, as well as strengths, and it’s OK to acknowledge either or both. The same goes for black people, Hispanics, Asians and Arabs, as well as men, women, and groups of every religion. I think one of the primary red flags for stupidity is a failure to recognize the shortcomings of the group which one is inherently a part of. Much more disturbing to me than the 15 or 20 black players I see kneeling for the national anthem is how long it took to see even one white player join them.

As individuals we are microcosms of our group and/or our nation, which means if we are flawed so must be our macrocosm, which means we should take every opportunity to correct said flaws. We’re quick to honor and celebrate those of us who make great efforts to address their individual shortcomings, but equally quick to attack those who attempt the same for the group they are a part of. Colin Kaepernick is part of the black “group,” but he is also a part of America, a successful, upstanding part I might add. For this it pains me to see teams run from signing him, as fast as he’s run for so many end zones, in fear of backlash from their fan base who might oppose his peaceful protests. The Philadelphia Eagles signed Michael Vick after he was released from prison for the violent crime of torturing and killing fighting dogs. Kaepernick, conversely, is legally protesting violence with the intention of raising social awareness, and he can’t get back into the league. It should be no surprise that our society is in the state that it is. Also, fuck the Eagles.

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My 2nd Trip to Paris: The Strike!

Mamidou worked the night shift at the front desk of L’Empire Hotel, and it was his job to open the doors for us when we stumbled drunkenly home from our nights of Parisian gluttony. He’d originally grown up in Senegal, but “lived many years in U.S.,” having split a decade between Brooklyn and the Bay area of California.

“I prefer California,” he said. “New York too cold.”

I just laughed, which is my default response to anyone expressing any kind of preference over New York. It’s like someone saying they didn’t like The Godfather. I know we don’t see the same world, so laughter keeps things amicable but logically distant.

One of the things we enjoyed about Mamidou, besides his joyous demeanor in response to our drunken faces at the door, was his nightly rants against French people. “They don’t wanna work,” he’d yell. “French people do not work… and they want to work even less than that! They don’t know how good they have it.” In retrospect I think Mamidou may have been as drunk as we were.

His monologues were in response to the national strikes going on, supposedly driven by the goal of longer and greater pensions upon retirement. “France is ‘the country of strikes,’” Mamidou explained. “You didn’t know that?”

We do now, as our arrival in Paris this time was not without a hitch.

“Should we take a cab?” my wife (who was a mere fiancée for the last trip) asked after we retrieved our bags at the airport.

GPS indicated the difference in time of arrival to be negligible while the price gap was huge. We’d relied heavily on the train last time in Paris and came to fall in love with it relative to the MTA, the way a woman does with her new boyfriend that treats her well after decades of neglect in an abusive marriage.

The train platform was crowded. After a few moments loud announcements came (in French only) over the speaker. The locals looked displeased and a few of them departed back up the escalator. If not for the language barrier I’d have thought I’d never left New York and we were stuck at Columbus Circle.

Apparently there was a strike affecting the train operations on a national scale. Eventually we all left the station, forced to climb broken escalators, some of us sacrificing the future of our rotator cuffs to be gentlemen, carrying old ladies’ suitcases up the non-functioning escalators. My wife and I were sweating, confused and exhausted – that barely-any-sleep-on-a-red-eye-exhausted, angry– and it looked as though this trip would not be nearly the success of the previous one. Thankfully, there are few things that cannot be cured by a nap, alcohol and good food with your best friends. Next time you feel horrible I highly recommend this 4-part prescription.  

My best (wo)man from my wedding and her husband were in Paris for their anniversary. Their last two days were our first two, not coincidentally of course. Since our first trip my wife seeks any excuse to go to Paris; so if you know us and we’re even peripherally friendly, by all means let us know if you’re planning a trip. We’ll meet you there.

NIGHT 1 was dinner at Bon Georges, followed by Moulin Rouge, then cocktails at the Little Red Door, followed by another dinner and more cocktails at some wherever-the-fuck, dope Parisian late night corner spot filled with beautiful, thin people drinking, eating cheese, and smoking cigarettes.

We arrived at the restaurant too early, which is always a good excuse to grab a pre-dinner drink. Jillian and I sought espresso, still running on jet-lagged fumes, but our dates were (understandably) ready for wine. We went around the corner and spotted Bo Man Café, which looked nice enough.

The first red flag should have been when they were “out of espresso.” “Out of espresso?” Where are we? Are we absolutely sure the plane ever took off from JFK? Are we in Long Island? Fair enough. “We’ll have the $6 glass of Cotes du Rhone.”

This might sound cheap, but we’ve had many a brilliant $6 glass of wine in France already. Unfortunately this experience would bless us with a joke that would kill in a black comedy club of wine aficionados, nicknaming it: “Cotes du Wrong.” It was the worst glass of wine we’d ever had in the nation of France, also the worst Cotes du Rhone we’d ever had. It wasn’t corked. It just sucked. Do not go to Bo Man Café.  

Bon Georges was excellent. The artichoke puree soup with truffles blew everyone’s mind, as did the filet mignon special and my roasted pork chop with roasted onions that reminded me of a fancy version of how the west African restaurants do fish in Harlem. Although Paris is best known for duck and red meat, my experience thus far is to never skip the soup if and when it appears on your menu, as it’s always been incredible. Do skip the frog legs, as they were a bit too oily, and I’ve had better even in Chicago. We did only one bottle of Bordeaux, followed by a couple of single glasses, as we were in a rush to go see the tits.

Moulin Rouge, unfortunately almost ruined tits for me forever, as tits lose their luster when you’re looking at 48 of them at once, from 50 feet away, all of identical (B-cup) size and attached to 24 bodies doing the Can-Can. I never thought I could be less turned on while looking at naked French girls in their physical prime. As the saying goes… too much of a good thing… Though maybe this degree of exposure is part of the reason European culture tends to be less sexually repressive than ours in the west. In any case, you could never have told me I would see so many boobs in a show and my favorite part would be the contortionist and shirtless, diesel, yoga balancing guy. You equally could never have convinced me that my least favorite part would be the champagne (in Paris). Yuk! Higher quality drinks were in order immediately afterwards.

The Little Red Door was a revisit from last trip – a lovely creative cocktail lounge that attracts the local sophistos, hipsters and tourists. It wasn’t as crowded as last summer, but the bigger difference this time was it did not mark the end of our evening. We left hungry and drunk and it was 1:30am in Paris, which in real world terms is only about 9pm. The night was young! My friend, Daniel, craved a slice of pizza because he, like us, is from New York. Instead we found another restaurant still bustling with locals smoking cigarettes, surely prepping for the five-hour work day that lay ahead for them to start around noon. Daniel ordered what I imagine to be the Parisian counterpart to pizza: French fries. I got another full meal: Burger, pommes frites and a burrata caprese, and plenty of beer. We got to bed at 4am.

DAY 2 was Angelina’s for brunch, followed by the Catacombs, then dinner at Pottoka and drinks at Le Fumoir.

Angelina’s was our 9:30 breakfast reservation, and I honestly never felt so good after five hours of sleep after a night of drinking after a two-hour sleep red eye the night before. Paris man…Situated almost directly across the street from the Louvre, Angelina’s is an iconic brunch spot (and set to open a new location in NYC, God help us). I thought I was being less of a tourist by getting the eggs benedict, but it didn’t much match the restaurant’s décor, upscale crowd, or awesome coffee. Instead I spent most of my (hungover) breakfast picking as much as possible from my wife’s plate: The greatest French toast either of us had ever tasted. On brioche bread with the perfect amount of sweetness and an ever so subtle taste of rum, it was just divine. A bit more of a Beverly Hills-type crowd than either of us would prefer, and if not for the shit bag, overcast weather I’d have thought we were back in rocky-ass Nice. Nevertheless, the service was lovely - even uncharacteristically diligent. On the way out we were advised to get the hot chocolate, which tasted good, but was more like a hot melted fudge in a coffee cup. It was insane. You could’ve cut it with a knife, and in spite of its reputation, I do not recommend to anyone baring any consideration for their A1C.

Next we crossed the street to the holiday market. We’d already had breakfast, so it was apparently time for shots of cognac and cups of mulled wine, which worked out perfectly, as it helps to be intoxicated while watching the wife shop. If I don’t get at least one son or tomboy I’ll surely be joining some kind of men’s club.

The Catacombs is a “museum,” as the French call it. What it actually is is a dungeon of a cemetery five stories under ground where six million broken up skulls and skeletons lay buried from times of an epidemic hundreds of years ago. It is… fucking… creepy. As we wound down the tight spiral staircase, floor by floor, we eventually wondered if it would ever end. The walls were covered in graffiti, which in most cases of urban environments makes the atmosphere more intimidating. In this case it actually had the opposite effect. People got dizzy as the air got colder and staircase narrower, so when I saw next to other scrawled marker on the wall: “Astoria 19thSt.,” it had a great calming effect for me. Other douche bags from New York had been here – guys I’d probably call friends – and momentarily, Catacombs seemed not so scary, humanized, ironically.

Minutes later was a completely different story. I was in a dimly lit hallway about 100 yards long with ceilings only 6-12 inches above my head, lined on either side with literal skulls and crossbones (actually bones laid mostly parallel, but “cross bones” sounds cooler). Some hallways were longer and quieter than others, and a few times I genuinely looked over my shoulder for the sole purpose of making sure a ghost wouldn’t tap me on the shoulder from behind and in the process ruin my vacation and change my life forever more. I was hung over and probably still drunk and just not ready for such an experience. I made it through. I checked it off my list and took a bunch of pictures, although not every one that I wanted to. There were bars over cages in front of pitch black spaces, and I was so shook by a few of them that I resisted taking a picture for fear of the flash revealing a demon skeleton that would lunge forward and growl as if from some horror movie and my brain would be fucked forever. It should be noted that one of my flight movies on the way over the day before was Pet Sematary.Who knows how much this may have played into my comical levels of cowardice and paranoia.

After climbing the five stories of spiral staircase back up to reality I figured I could finally catch my breath and relax. The drama was over. No one had tapped my shoulder, no demon ghosts had appeared for my eyes only.  I could return to great food and fine wine, unnecessary beers and one too many espressos… right?

Wrong. Supposedly there was an international scare happening. We were told because of the strike that flights were being canceled and my (Jewish) wife had entered an all-out panic that I couldn’t help but find the irony in. “You’re afraid of being trapped for an extra day in PARIS?Things could be worse.”

Believe it or not nobody was trapped (unfortunately). Life went on, all flights were on time and it’s flowin’ like mud around here, you know what I’m sayin’?

Pottokawas a dinner recommendation from the same person who’d recommended Derriere, which was our best dinner of the entire first trip, but ironically our worst (lunch) of this trip. Pottoka is on the lesser frequented left bank of town, offering an unplanned second visit to the Eiffel Tower, and this time we got to see its lovely flashing night lights, albeit engulfed in the overcast sky.

Pottoka ended up the all-star MVP of the trip, and arguably the greatest dinner I’ve ever had in my life. Although chicken generally gets ignored on Parisian menus for the beef, pork and duck, my wife and I looked at each other at almost the same time after reading over it and said we were considering the chicken. It was a farmed breast stuffed with chestnut and beef, served with pumpkin, black garlic and ham foamy, cooked to crispy, juicy perfection of course. “What is ‘ham foamy’ you ask?” I have no idea how or what it is. All I know is the plate featured a dollop of foamthat tasted exactly like ham and went nicely with each bite of chicken, and it was definitely the best chicken I’ve ever tasted. Not to be ignored were the other plates: A beef cheek with bacon, shallots, anchovies and macaroni gratin, preceded by a farmed foie gras with cocoa nibs, pickled mushrooms, remoulade celery and chestnuts soup poured over all of it at the table by the server. The whole experience was completely insane. And you’re insaneif you go to Paris and don’t go there. Actually you’re insane if you don’t go to Paris soon with the explicit intention of going there. Go there. We only did one carafe of red wine, but that’s because we were meeting friends for cocktails later on at a lovely spot near our hotel, Le Fumoir. One night there we had one of the loveliest servers in all our time in Paris. Another time was the complete opposite, but the drinks and atmosphere are definitely can’t miss.

Finally the night was over, and for literally the first time in the 21stcentury I slept for 11 hours. I usually sleep between 5-7 hours, the former side of which is obviously pathological and frankly, the bane of my existence. I woke up and looked at my phone and it said11:03am. I figured it must be a mistake. I figured there was a better chance of evil spirits in the Catacombs having somehow scrambled the visual cortex of my brain into reading numbers inaccurately than there was of my sleeping 11 hours. Fortunately I woke my wife up and she saw the same digits on her phone. They were the same on the TV, and in a glorious storm of prolonged jet lag, alcoholism, and the de-stressed mind of vacation, I set my adulthood record for sleep. I was elated, on cloud nine! My wife, on the other hand was immediately panicked that we’d missed the continental breakfast and actually had to move urgently to make lunch. I gently reminded her: “Fuck the continental breakfast, babe. I just slept 11 hours. Also, we stayed out late and woke up late. I mean, are you Parisian or not?As the wife now deeply covets the status of honorary Parisian, this is a card I can always pull. She calmed down and we went about…

DAY 3: Lunch at Derriere, followed by Musee D’Orsay, an Italian dinner at Norma and drinks at Lavomatic.

Derriere was the star of our previous trip – sadly, the flop of this trip. It was nice that our friends, Daniel and Yael, joined to say goodbye on their way to the airport, but the soup was cold and taste of the food mediocre. Go for the dinner!

Museum D’Orsay was situated conveniently about a 15-minute walk from our hotel. It had been closed the day before due to the national strike, and today only the ground floor was available for viewing. This meant no Van Gogh, which initially gave my wife pause: “Do we still want to go with no Van Gogh?”

“Yes, I replied. We’re on vacation and time is at a premium. We can’t afford to get off the itinerary, lest we sacrifice some amount of food or wine, which is not an option.”

She agreed, and agreed further upon realizing midway through the walk in the museum: “Ya know, I don’t think I like art… I don’t understand it.”

I love my wife. She and I possibly share less in common than I have with anyone I’ve ever met. We like almost none of the same TV shows, movies or music, and she hates sports almost as much as I do her two religions,General Hospital and Disney World. But the one thing we do share in common is an equal disinterest and ignorance around politics and paintings (not counting graffiti).

D’Orsay was okay. There were plenty of boobs and penises, but it didn’t compare to the Louvre, nor do I think it would have even with Van Gogh. When it was 16 minutes before closing time we were rather aggressively ushered out, which perpetuated the semi-sour experience and brought on thoughts of how we’d calm down and de-stress: Wine.

Norma wasn’t part of the original itinerary. We had one night to improvise dinner and wanted something close to another recommendation for drinks, Lavomatic. Norma was Italian food, but being in Paris we were sure to order the fried squid appetizer. It was the best calamari we’d ever had, and instead of marinara sauce, they served it with mayonnaise, much to my pleasure and my wife’s dismay. She kept dipping pieces in the burrata caprese tomatoes and I kept looking around to see if anyone noticed. The basil pesto gnocchi with burrata cheese was the best gnocchi either one of us had ever tasted, and the wine in spite of being not French, was excellent. The server didn’t speak a word of English and we didn’t give a shit.

Lavomatic is a functioning laundromat situated underneath a speakeasy cocktail bar in the heart of where the riots for bigger pensions and less work had taken 11 lives the night before. My otherwise wonderful bride, who is more or less ruled by the fear emotion, expressed reticence about going; though I would hear nothing of it. “The riots were yesterday. That’s like a lifetime ago. Nobody got killed today all day.”

On our way there we passed a historic monument with graffiti scrawled across it: “C’EST NOUS LES BRAVES!”(Translation: “We are the Brave!”) I’m not sure if “brave” is the adjective I’d use to describe a determination to not over-work, but whatever it is, is a quality and goal I admire. We are lost in the west.

We knew we’d reached our location when we saw a young, strapping man in a long, black coat standing conspicuously on the sidewalk in front of a door as the only person on the quiet block. We were already a bit drunk and unsure of how to proceed. Somehow I felt like Tom Cruise in Eyes Wide Shutso I figured best to just show my ID. He enjoyed that very much, getting a good laugh: “That’s OK, man, this is Paris, I don’t need that.” We laughed, which encouraged him further: “But thank you, I couldn’t tell. What is that, powder on your face there?” He gestured to my mostly white 5:00 shadow, mocking my pathetically wishful idea that someone might ever ask for my ID again.

“Wait right here,” he told us as my wife attempted to collect her hysterics at me.

He let us in to a small foyer of a space with one locked door and two giant washing machines. I tried pulling and pushing the door.

“No, no,” my wife said. “It’s a trap door, you know?”

“A trapdoor?!”

“No, not a trap—you know, like a trick door. We have to open the washing machine!”

Quick reminder: She’s a doctor and I have a Master’s degree in Chinese Medicine.

I turned to ask the bouncer outside how to get in but he just smiled and turned away. It was futile, like asking a Chinese acupuncturist a question about our medicine. Figure it out for yourself, is the general maxim in Chinese Medicine, which is an utterly moronic tradition in my opinion, and one that leads me to drink hard liquor in Laundromats.

The western MD figured out how to open the washing machine and we walked up two flights of stairs to a tiny bar in the attic that resembled a popular teenager’s basement hang out. The ceilings were low and the crowd was young, probably just post-college, poised to enter the grueling work force of 25-hour weeks and greater pensions. There seemed to be a lot of dates happening, legs crossed and angled towards one another on small loves seats or bar stools, and it had a distinct Williamsburg feel, logically. “Affirmative Action” from Nas’ second album in 1996, came on shortly after our arrival and it reminded me that God is always with me.

We broke from the vin to humor the mixology and sat enjoying two cocktails each. My go-to is scotch-based and I think Jillian leans towards vodka. At one point an older couple came in, thankfully then stripping us of the title, and were seated just next to us at the bar. Is this like the opposite of the kids’ table?

The first thing my wife noticed was the aromatic cloud of cigarette that followed them in. She made a face and whispered to me the way irritated wives do, then for a moment showed relief when the smell dissipated. Unfortunately, olfactory reprieve was brief, before she was re-assaulted by their even more offensive body odor.

“Well… Paris, babe.”

Jillian shook her head, and I swear to you a moment later went aghast for a third and final time. Another lean in: “Oh my God, she just farted. She just basically farted on me.”

“Oh.”

We moved our seats, finished our drinks and made our way back downstairs, probably wishing we could have thrown our outfits in the washing machines. We drunkenly enjoyed laughing at ourselves with the bouncer on our way out. It was fun. No one got killed.

Day 4: Finally the continental breakfast! Another shopping day in Little Israel, then a huge dinner plan SNAFU turns magical and we close with Hemingway.

L’Empire Hotel had a lovely front desk staff and the room itself was totally fine. We were pleased with its convenient location being almost immediately halfway between the Louvre and a lot of our chosen shops and restaurants, especially since the trains were closed due to the homicidal riots. Finally, it was beyond sweet of the staff to give us a complimentary bottle of wine for our (mini) honeymoon stay. However, in my now half decade of (arguably) over-indulging in the grape’s finest contribution I’ve never seen a screw go directly through the middle of the cork to the other end after having not been able to pry it out even half an inch using all my strength. We tried pouring some out through the hole in the middle just to sample, but it was to no avail, and surely not worth the effort. Safe to assume it would not have been to our liking.

The continental breakfast staff was not as lovely as the front desk (separated only by 20 feet) and the food actually didn’t compare to that of Villa Opera Drouot. Instead, the highlight of our morning eggs cheese and baguettes was the rather short, gentle-looking Italian man who sat alone at the table next to us in the humble dining room. He’d already taken his plate from the buffet, ordered his espresso, took out his phone and made a call. It was the angriest I’d seen anyone since we left New York. A true travesty that neither one of us could follow his Italian, but we definitely each caught a “mafankulo” and “bafangu,” respectively. He was mustering as much a whisper as was possible, but anger is anger and ours’ weren’t the only heads in the room to turn. We were both concerned for the immediate future of the person on the other end of the phone. He hung up and enjoyed his espresso and cured meats and left quickly, before we did.

When we left it was on to more shopping Christmas was three weeks away. Why not bring to our loved ones gifts from the city of love? We shared a falafel sandwich and it was the best falafel we’d ever tasted, but made a point to eat very little in preparation for our final night of great gluttony.

Before dinner was a mission of vindication. We’d never made it on our first trip to the highly recommended Hemingway Bar in the Ritz Hotel and were determined to make it this time around. We arrived at opening time, 6:00, and there was already a 40-minute wait to get in. The cozy bar was full, and the elder, English maitre’d with a warm face kindly advised us to wait on the lobby couches and he’d come get us as soon as there was space. “It could be sooner,” he added. “But I’d count on 40 minutes.”

We figured that was fine. It would give us time for one drink before dinner, which at 30 euro/drink would suffice.

40 minutes came and went, as did 50, as did we. We informed the maitre’d we had to leave, who again kindly recommended we try again after dinner and he’d skip us to the front of the line. He was so nice.

Terres du Truffes was one of our favorite experiences from our summer trip to Nice. They put truffles on everything! Black truffles, summer truffles, even white truffles, and served us what at the time as the best Margaux we’d ever had. As it turned out they had another location in Paris, so we were sure to make a reservation for our sequel. Unfortunately, as is the case with most sequels…

We got there at 7:30 and the restaurant was empty. Maybe a reservation wasn’t so imperative after all. They sat us in front of the window (as restaurants do to give the illusion to the street that there are actually people dining there) and it was chilly. The menu didn’t reflect what it had online, nor what we’d had in Nice. Where was all the duck? It was mostly egg dishes and cold fish… in December. As we sat there being ignored for five minutes we finally called the waiter over to ask if we’d been given the wrong menus.

“Is this for brunch?”

“No, no, this is the menu,” he replied in an accent noticeably thicker and more broken than that of the staff in most of the more reputable venues thus far.

He didn’t ask if we wanted anything to drink, alcoholic or otherwise, and after five more minutes of being ignored I peaked around the corner to note a table full of bread baskets surely awaiting the dinner rush. But, what about us? We like bread.

I had an impulse and we walked. No goodbye, no oi revoir or merci. We just bounced.

We were hungry, tired and cold, the trifecta of adjectives to describe Jewish; but sadly no longer anywhere near “Little Israel.”

We tried walking in at Balaganand they laughed at us like when Patrick Bateman tried getting a reservation at Dorsia. The host was courteous and recommended a market of restaurants affiliated with them just around the corner. We went around the corner and got lost. We saw no market. No restaurants, no nothing. We were growing colder, hungrier, more irritable. Our last evening seemed doomed.

“Let’s just go anywhere - I saw a spot a block back,” I muttered and my lovely bride stood by my indignant side.

A red awning and red seats – it must be good. At the least there seemed to be patrons there. They gave us a nice table upstairs and we figured it would be decent.

Le Castiglioneended up serving us one of the best fucking meals I’ve ever had. We started with a Bordeaux and soups – French Onion (“the authentic kind,” as the menu read) and a pumpkin puree with hazelnuts. We planned on sharing our entrees – the veal Milanese and filet mignon with peppercorn sauce and pomme frites – but Jillian barely allowed me an angle at her veal.

“This is just like my mom used to make,” she raved. “Do you want more?” she contrived an offer, but I was just as fine with my steak. It was perfect. A totally generic-looking restaurant and the steak was on par with any New York steakhouse. For dessert was the coffee crème brulee, and I’d go as far as to say the meal was even better than that of the original Terres du Truffes in Nice. One comes to expect magic in Paris.

Upon return to Bar Hemingway we were skipped to the front of the line as promised. I wouldn’t call it hokey, but it was definitely touristy, filled with mostly attractive young, professional Americans and Brits, yukking it up over over-priced cocktails served by the loveliest of white-coats. The room was brightly lit, as most are in Paris, and there were pictures of the psychopathic, genius, Hemingway, all over the walls; in addition to one of the Obamas at the bar perched immediately next to our seats in the corner. A row of sophistos lined the remainder of the bar seating, and next to us sat three young blonde girls, who seemed to be having a joyous, reunion at the maximum decibel of volume that was still respectful and appropriate, which is no unimpressive feat. Proximal to them was a double date of two gay men along with a straight couple who were no distant second in flamboyance, however still oddly coveted the attention of the trio of girls. One of the gay guys paid one of the girls a compliment on her jaw line that was no less awkward than if it had been delivered by some goofy straight college bro in the 90’s. “Thank you,” the girl laughed in response, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as when the (apparent straight) girl came over in hopes of merging their two tables. It was pathetic. It was like trying to sit with the plastics in Mean Girls, except these girls weren’t mean or plastic. They were just obviously long-time best friends, drunk and having the time of their lives, which is an impossible frequency to penetrate for a complete stranger.

Luckily she got the hint without anyone having to be rude. She made her way back to her double date and my bride and I continued our intoxicated eavesdropping. The complimentary olives and pistachios were as good as any I’ve ever had, although the $30 cocktail was no better than Lavomatics or Little Red Doors’. It was a great experience, but I’d probably only go back if there was no wait.

We woke at some ungodly hour and paid some ungodly expense for an Uber to the airport, as rates were jacked up due to the strike.

“I miss Paris already,” Jillian lamented on our dark, cold cab ride.

“I’m sorry, babe,” I consoled her, and became abundantly aware that we were presently neck deep in the most comical first world problem in the history of mankind. How sad it is, to leave Paris for New York City (for the second time in a year), and not know when you’d be returning.

Wikipedia defines “Paris Syndrome” as a culture shock experienced mostly by Japanese tourists when they visit Paris that can last anywhere from a few days to the rest of their lives. I can’t tell you how entertained we both were to read about this “syndrome.”

For my wife “Paris Syndrome” means something different – something I think more common and understandable. It’s an addiction to Paris – no cheap addiction – and a preoccupation with wanting to always be there. After our first trip she began googling flight deals at the airport gate on our way home, which is obviously what lead to this trip in the first place. After this trip I had to quickly shoot her down like a parent: “No. Please. Just… please… no more trips to Paris for a while.” It’s just not sustainable.

This brings me to my own definition of “Paris Syndrome,” which is no less in love than my wife is, but I’d like to think a bit more optimistic and enlightened.

“We live in ‘Paris,’ babe,” I man-splained to her in hopes of not flushing away all of our retirement and kids’ college funds on steak and wine. We live in New York City – pretty much the only place in the world that Parisians equally admire and crave to see and be a part of. We don’t have to travel halfway across the world to eat incredible food late at night, drink fine wine and be immersed in rich metropolitan culture. We have it right precisely where we both were born! Sure, the food might not be of quite the same caliber and the wine isn’t as affordable, but it’s more affordable than hotels and airfare – that’s for sure.

My “Paris Syndrome” is another kind of beast. It’s a degree of celebratory alcoholism, socializing and gluttony, which is also a seamless transition when you get home two weeks before the holidays. Last time we returned I spent 3-5 weeks of basically pretending we never left. Sure, I went back to work and resumed the responsibilities of a real adult in a world that doesn’t as much value well being, but I went out with friends more often, stayed out later, consumed a bit more, and relished in the incredible privilege of having been born and raised, for all intents and purposes, in Paris. This time has been more of the same. Paris reminds me to celebrate more and stress less. It reminds me to occasionally look at my home through the lens of a tourist, thereby reinvigorating my excitement for home and mitigating the effects of the daily grind. That is what “Paris Syndrome” means to me.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

Can my Dad & my Wife Become Friends in Heaven?

Before Jillian I’d never dated a white girl. I’d dated half white girls and Asian girls, plenty of blacks or Hispanics, but I just never so much dug “my own kind.” I don’t think I had a fetish, as fetishes tend to be more specific in preference, which apparently didn’t describe me. If anything, I suppose I had an anti-fetish.

Fools indiscriminately assign pathological etiologies to personal choices: All comedians must be on stage doing the (arguably) bravest and most difficult thing in the world because of their desperate need for attention, their weakness, ironically. And those who date outside their race are guilty of a fetish indicative of some unresolved issues. Instead, I always thought my preference was more superficial, in the honorable way. I like dark hair and dark skin. Even in elementary school (before I had many black/Hispanic classmates) my first crush was a darker Italian and Jewish girl. Surely it’s no coincidence that this also describes my final crush, Jillian.

My taste in girls never bothered my parents. Mom’s Jewish, and of course would have loved nothing more than a Jewish daughter in law, but this was not mutually exclusive to her being not a racist asshole. Mom was cool, as was Dad, who was surely more interested in cup size than skin color. Still, when Jillian and I first started dating I felt compelled to keep it a secret, ironically.

Jillian’s mostly Italian but her last name is Cohen and she is… wait for it… a doctor.A Jewish doctor! One night after our third date, I met my friend Ferrian, a fellow non-practicing Semite, for dinner. I told her about Jillian and how I was smitten, and without missing a beat Ferrian blurted out: “You can’t tell your mom!”

She understood what I did, that I couldn’t possibly get Mom’s hopes up to the height of all heights – a Jewish doctor – and risk them being shot down if it didn’t work out. It had to remain a secret, at least until we were official (my brother and I jokingly wondered if I could keep it a secret until the wedding, then reveal Jillian’s race and profession at the reception, at which point Mom’s body would blast off into outer space).

About a month after Jillian and I exchanged “I love you’s” my father requested a lunch date before his upcoming trip to (visit my sister in) Arizona. Throughout our meal it was on the tip of my tongue! I wanted to tell him, especially because Dad wasn’t even the one who would be so heart broken if the relationship hypothetically ended. But Dad was associated with Mom, and as a former juvenile criminal I’m self-conditioned to err on the side of secrecy, even when it seems excessive. Plus, the Yankees were in the thick of the ALCS versus Houston so we had plenty else to talk about. After lunch we hugged and kissed goodbye, but even as I walked down the block to the train I shook my head. Something didn’t feel right about it.

The next week I confessed my secret to Mom and realized I’d underestimated just how cool she is. “I’m dating someone I met at the doctor’s office,” I told her.

“Oh, really?” she asked. “One of the nurses?”

“No. One of the doctors,” I said.  

Mom’s lips pursed together and sprayed saliva in laughter. “Really?! Good, honey. That’s good.” It was as if she was mocking me.

“Next you’re gonna tell me she’s Jewish,” she joked.

“She’s Jewish.”

Mom’s body thrusted forward and back as she practically fell over. She wasn’t impressed. She didn’t have her hopes up. Of course she was happy, but mostly she figured it was adorable, possibly frivolous and insignificant. Because I was so in love I forgot that I was 39 and my mother had had a front row seat to my dating life that had been so fickle and mutable for 25 years. Jewish doctor or not, Mom wasn’t attached to any results. She was the Buddha.

The following weekend Dad returned from Arizona and suddenly had to go to the hospital. After several similar episodes his heart finally gave out, and on October 15, 2017 he passed away. A few days later the Yankees lost the ALCS.

Jillian had to meet my mom and my sister, cousins and aunts, uncles, and the many extended Corleone families of Mom’s New Jersey Jewish mafia all for the first time at Dad’s funeral in Brooklyn. How well she handled it was a testament to her character. She would see many of them all again at our wedding, also in Brooklyn.

I still cry all the time when I talk about my dad. I was so sorry he didn’t get to meet Jillian, sorry that he didn’t get to know her, nor she him. They’re both such wonderful people, and my sadness around this missed opportunity has more than once been the impetus to new tears.  He would have loved her, and not just for her cup size.

More than once I’ve been thinking about Dad while sitting with my now bride, enjoying her angelic energy and easy going nature and felt compelled to blurt out: “My dad would have loved you.”

“Aww, I would have loved him too,” she always says, followed by: “I feel like I do love him – even though I never met him… it doesn’t feel that way.”

I know what she means and maybe girls are just generally better at this than guys, as my mind insists on it being untrue. “You don’t know him,” I think. “You didn’t know him,” and it isn’t out of anger, but just disappointment with reality. Sometimes – often times – there’s no oneto blame.

At our wedding my older brother pulled me aside and commented: “Dude… Dad would’ve loved her. She’s great. He really would have loved her.”

A few hours later came the only impromptu speech of our (small) reception. The best man and bride’s maid had finished theirs’, and my (Leo) older sister refused to be silenced. She stood up and brilliantly delivered an off-book, short and sweet welcoming of Jillian to the family, citing as her main point how much our father would have loved her. Were it not for the wine, my Y chromosome and the crowded party I definitely would have lost it. I knew she hadn’t overheard my brother and I talking earlier. We just all had the same thought.

I don’t know if I believe in Heaven or an afterlife or reincarnation, though I suppose I do err on that side. I know I’m as far from being Atheist as I am from Hasidic Jew. If there is a Heaven I imagine Jillian and Dad will one day become friends, and that makes me happy, for both of them. Dad’s sense of humor will be back to what it was before his last decade and he’ll make her belly laugh the way I’m able to on most of my good days. His sentimental, sensitive side will be so warmed my Jillian’s sweetness and softness. He’ll be affectionate with her, as he always was with all of us, rubbing the top of our heads, screwing up our hair and occasionally squeezing our shoulders or slapping our thighs until it hurt. Slap your own thigh, old man, get the hell outta here! He’ll do the same to her and she’ll probably be too nice to scold him for it… until they become really close, at which point she will. Trust me.

Dad was a great conversationalist before life got too difficult, and he’ll be fascinated to pick the brain of an integrative medicine doctor. He knew how to inquire. He asked great questions because they came from a place of genuine curiosity. Dad was a Manhattan ad executive in the 1960’s and 70’s. He was a player in a multi-layered business with lots of energy and moving parts. He understood how dynamic environments operated and in turn got excited to learn about professionals in other endeavors. He’ll be that much more excited to learn about the one inhabited by his amazing daughter in law.

For our wedding Jillian and I scouted venues in Jersey, Westchester and all five boroughs, but I suppose it wasn’t a coincidence that we ended up getting married in Brooklyn, the same borough where Dad is buried. I can surely put aside any of my own agnosticism to know for sure that Dad was there with us watching that day (would he have made the commute to Westchester?). Maybe he helped give us the beautiful weather to facilitate our dream of a ceremony in the park (the day before was a wash-out shit show). Maybe it was him speaking through my brother and sister, respectively, just letting me/us know of his presence and approval. Maybe there is a Heaven or something like it somewhere, and there’s no maybe as to whether Dad and Jillian will be friends. They will.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

How Did the Yankees Become the Red Sox?

Just as important as it is to have friends who see the world similarly to yourself is having those who challenge your perspective – not with contrarian pretense – but organic disagreements that force us to reflect on the all important WHYwe think the way we do and consider if one or both parties have room for flexibility.

One such friend of mine is a Mets and Jets fan, the poor bastard, but an educated intellect in spite of his unfortunate childhood choices. He was beyond confounded, to the point of angry with me when I told him I couldn’t (and didn’t) even watch Game 4 of the ALCS.

“Whaaa? How could you not--?” It’s your team! You can’t— This is what you watch the whole year for. For this! “

And I understood. For a Mets/Jets fan the playoffs are like food to a starving man. No matter how gross or stale it is, he wants it. He needs it! It’s enough just to be eating.

Conversely, the Yankees fan has dined at all the finest restaurants and continues to do so on a regular basis - just not the top finest one in quite some time. On one hand that latter truth is fair, right? Let the other teams have a chance. On the other hand, that’s not how life works. In life pro football has the Patriots, basketball had the Lakers and Spurs, and baseball better have its most legendary franchise that happens to represent the greatest city in the world in the borough that created hip hop for God’s sake. We should dominate, maybe not always, but mostly.

The Yankees’ loss in Game 2 was disappointing but acceptable. A split in Houston was acceptable. Even when my friend tried to humorously rouse me for it I responded arrogantly, with that cocky conviction of Yankees’ years past: “Yeah, it took Houston 11 innings just to get a split.”

I believed in us.

And it wasn’t that we lost Game 3. It was how we lost. Just like last year against Boston and the year before against Houston, we couldn’t get a hit in a big spot. Sure, this was against Cole, but so what? Great teams hit great pitchers all the time in the postseason, plus we got enough hits to put runners on base in the first place. We just couldn’t bring them home.

Game 4 was more of the same. Our play grew boring and frustrating, monotonous, and spectating began to feel like a job. Watching baseball should not feel like a job.

For me it brought up the ghosts – not the old ghosts, unfortunately, but the new ghosts of the 21stcentury: Mariano’s missed throw to second, an inept offense against the Florida freakin’ Marlins, the Red Sox breaking the curse, and year after year after year of the best hitters in baseball cowering like stunned bullies as soon as the calendar turns to October. Something is wrong.

Sure, we won in 2009, and obviously no ring is anything to spit at, but c’mon… That is the one title I would concede to Yankee-haters as purchased, with an offensive free agent shopping spree that overshadowed the entire rest of the team. This fact isn’t mutually exclusive to the great play of C.C., A-Rod or Matsui, or any of the individuals who performed valiantly. But it wasn’t at all like the teams of the 90’s or 70’s that went through war together and discovered success with grit and magic. I don’t know if it was the towers falling or Boston’s curse breaking, but in my opinion that magic has been gone for almost 20 years, and now we are the new Red Sox of the league. Ugh, how hard is that to face?

I understand that the fans of the Mets and most other teams would kill to be competing in the playoffs every year. They diagnose Yankees fans as inherently fair weather, spoiled and overly entitled to demand more, to which I demand: Why shouldn’t we?

First, this is New York. We work the hardest to pay the most rent and generate the most culture of any metropolis on the planet. We’re the best.

Second and more importantly, we’re adults, with lives and responsibilities and free time at a premium. We don’t owe it to our team to “support” them anymore than they owe it to us to stick around when another team offers them a bigger contract. I own Yankees t-shirts. I go to a few games a year and cheer, drunkenly, loudly, and always stay to the last out. And I pay for YES on my cable bill. Consider me in support.

There can be a fine line between disloyal and disinterested. It’s one thing to jump from team to team, choosing new loyalties every time the wind blows, but another to lose interest in a loser. For example, I’ll always be a Knicks fan but I don’t watch them anymore because to me (and many others), sports lose their allure when they lose drama. Without hope there is no drama. Add to that the déjà vu all over againof watching your protagonists transform from savages in the box into hitless wonders, and frankly it’s boring. Ultimately we tune in to be entertained, which is why I had to break from it.

I was happy to hear that we won Game 5, eager to cheer us on in 6 with hopes to watch Game 7 at a bar in the Bronx. Unfortunately, the new Yankees reared their ugly heads again (or didn’t), and another night of stranded runners, weak swings at bad pitches, and heartbreak watching yet another team accomplishing what we seem no longer able to. I won’t be so naïve to say I won’t watch next year, as I love baseball too much, but how are we supposed to get excited about October after almost 20 years of being teased and lulled to sleep?

Red Sox fans, you did it four times as long. I humbly ask for your advice.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

Dear Eli: A Thank You Letter

Dear Eli,

As we seem to approach the end of an era I find myself experiencing a combination of feelings. Most notably last Sunday, when we had 4thand goal for the go ahead score, I noticed within my heart, for the first time in my life, a subtle desire to see the Giants lose.

Sports is about competition, not only between the teams on the field, but also the fans in the stands, in the lunch rooms on Mondays, and social media for the rest of our lives. We want for our team(s) to be the best, as well as our guy(s) to be the best, and when we can discover some synchronization between statistical evidence and emotional wishes… well, it’s lovely.

It wasn’t that I wanted (or ever want) the Giants to lose last week, and the new QB seems relatively likeable, talented and promising. But we all knew what it would mean (and meant) when he crossed that goal line to take the lead. It meant I might never see one of my favorites to ever do it do it again. The player I credit with reigniting the franchise I’ve followed since childhood, then bestowing me with two of the greatest days of my life, especially 42. Now all of a sudden, some guy I never met before wins some routine game in Tampa, and on an otherwise pedestrian Sunday night I am once again faced with my own mortality: That change is inevitable, father Time is undefeated, and all of the other clichés to describe the sad reality that everything we love will one day be lost.

The other part of my disappointment was typical sports fan ego. Most of us in New York have loved you so much and appreciate all that you’ve given us, not just in bragging rights but the all too taken for granted element of weekly entertainment predicated on annual hope for potential success. For this, I guess I was rooting for one last piece of evidence to prove your critics wrong. He’s not done, he’s still great and has always been great.And who knows? This is sports. Anything’s possible; but for the meantime their chants have been apparently vindicated.

Nevertheless, I’ll always argue against the water cooler philosophy hacks (mostly fans of NFC/AFC East teams), whom over the years have criticized your lack of enthusiasm relative to other quarterbacks on the field, and idiotically misinterpreted your calm demeanor as indicative of a lack of fire or passionate leadership, ironically questioning whether you were tough enough for the league while you hold the second longest streak of consecutive starts in NFL history.

What I imagine these morons don’t realize is that we probably wouldn’t have earned our two latest rings if not for your cool demeanor. Sure, you’ve had some tough years and your share of bloopers, but in crunch time, when it matters most you’re one of the best I’ve ever seen do it. Similar to Derek Jeter, an uncanny ability to mentally tame the moment, to focus and not over-react to any isolated instance or play until the last second was off the clock. This kind of equanimity is a gift, in my opinion relegated mostly to older souls who tend to be misunderstood by the muggles and masses that mindlessly circle around cubicles and rely on the greatness of others as their sources of both entertainment and self-definition. Such calm is a personal quality I myself am envious of, as my temperament probably more closely resembles that of the quarterbacks your critics most covet. Although if given a shot, I doubt I’d achieve two consecutive starts in the league or ever record a first down. But I’d do plenty of cursing and screaming, ranting and raving… in pain.  

I grew up in New York to a father who had grown up in New York before the Jets were even a thought. My dad bled Giants’ blue and held two season tickets from the time he got his first job out of college in 1956 to when those nasty seat licenses were implemented in 2008. His disdain for the Cowboys and Jets respectively was obviously only magnified between 1969-’79 when they each had so much success and we had so much of the opposite. I started going to games as a six-year old in 1984, but my earliest clear memory of fandom was being bundled into my snowsuit by Mom in January of ’86 and staying to watch the bitter cold end of our trouncing the Washington Redskins for our first ever Super Bowl birth. I remember looking up and seeing huge leaves of toilet paper suspended in mid-windy, freezing air over the field as the 70,000 fans went ape shit with excitement, tossing beer and confetti over each other with reckless abandon. I’d never seen anything like it before. Dad kept me safe, and I loved every minute. Finally, we were the best.

That team obviously had a great run, but most of the 90’s were mostly disappointing, and it wasn’t until your arrival that we were back. Thank you for bringing us back! Thank you for at least a decade of good football, of annual hope and invested interest in cheering for my dad’s team, now my brothers’ and my team. We lost Dad two years ago, maybe appropriately just as the team was beginning to struggle; though maybe also a case of chicken or egg, as I did inherit my aforementioned temperament from the old man (he loved you, but he cursed you out a lot too), and I’m sure watching some games wasn’t always so good for his heart.  

Thank you for always doing your best – for being a class act – for being so respectful, genuine and likeable (to anyone with any I.Q. in the three digits). By the way, the reason idiots are indifferent to such sincerity of character is because they’re unable to distinguish it from its opposite. Most of all thank you for that deep-seeded, magically unflappable calm that doubled the amount of Lombardi’s on our resume and crushed Boston fans’ hope of having what would have been the greatest bragging rights in the history of any sport. It was just three years after the Red Sox broke the curse and Yankees’ fans hearts in the process, and three months after they’d won again and solidified their position as the presently superior team in the rivalry. 19-0 would have been just too much to swallow. Instead, “18-1” will forever taste like sweet buttery, delicious cake for the soul. That was one of the last games I got to truly enjoy with my father before his mind started to go, in the direction of his aching bones, heart and joints. Thank you so much.

Love, 

David

[davidfostercomedyblog]

My Trip to Paris: A Review

Like any typical heterosexual male the idea of engagement photos seemed as appealing to me as that of a fantasy football league might to most heterosexual women. Nevertheless, I am happily engaged to the latter, and in cliché fashion conceded to said photo shoot, and have never been so grateful for a decision.

It was a week before our European vacation, and our (French) photographer asked us: “Where will you be staying when you go to Paris?”

“We got a hotel in Nice, Airbnb in Paris.”

“Oh, you better make sure they have air conditioning,” she informed us. “Most Parisians don’t have A/C’s. The units are considered ‘unsightly.’”

Umm… seriously?

The forecast for our upcoming trip was to reach record highs in temperature. Not record highs for July or our particular dates. Record highs. It was going to be 109… degrees! The hottest two days in the history of Paris, on which we’d scheduled a walk to the Louvre, then down the Seine River, and up the gabillion steps of Sacre Couer, at the end of which I’d implicitly scheduled a good night’s sleep, which would be impossible without air conditioning.

I reviewed our booking on Airbnb, and sure enough there was no A/C. When I emailed our would-be host to confirm this preposterous notion she responded: “I have a great fan though.”

Good for you.

Our late cancellation was the happiest we’ve ever been to eat $240. We had a hideous air conditioner in our otherwise lovely, entirely red suede hotel room in Villa Opera Drouotin Montmartre. There was red everywhere. Red wallpaper, red blankets, even a 360 red velvet seat in the red lobby. But it was cool, literally. It was the greatest continental breakfast we’ve ever had in our lives, and we were happy.

The first thing I noticed upon arrival at the airport was the urinals. I’ve never seen bulls’ eyes of such small diameter. Do the French have better aim?

Second was the plethora of friendly assistants at the train station, all of them fluent in English, all eagerly awaiting the opportunity to help even the most dumbfounded of tourists, which pin-pointedly described us. Can you imagine such an experience with a New York MTA worker? They look at you like instead of “Excuse me,” you opened with a derogatory slur and are requesting they literally carry you on their back to your desired destination. Paris: 1. NYC: 0

Next we sat on the train, which was faster and cleaner than New York’s, though that goes without saying, as every train on the planet, I imagine including those of third world countries, is much cleaner than New York’s. Paris: 2. NYC: 0.

We sat next to college kids, two French and one British, who were making fun of American tourists’ stereotypical ideas of Paris being this “romantic town, where everyone just gets cheese and wine and a baguette and eats it all on the streets.” When we got off the train I swear to God all I kept seeing were locals walking along the sidewalk eating baguettes or sitting at outdoor restaurants drinking wine and smoking cigarettes.

Baguettes were everywhere. I saw old men walking along the street chewing away at them, sometimes plain, others with ham and/or cheese stuffed inside. I saw young girls with grocery bags full of baguettes, others with just the one long one they’d need for that evening, way too large to fit in the designer pocketbook held in their other arm. Older women, young men, apparently poor people, rich people, black, white and Hispanic people (just kidding, there’s no Hispanics in Europe) – it seemed everyone had a baguette. I digress.

We weren’t sure if the cliché college kid pontifications were for our benefit, but I chose not to respond, a) becausewe weren’t sure, b) engaging in philosophical debate with college kids makes as much sense as engaging in confrontation with the schizophrenic homeless guy on the 6 train, and c) I was so jetlagged that they probably could have spread brie cheese all over my face and put their cigarette butts out in the mush and I would have let it slide. Whoever can get more than a few hours sleep on those red eyes are as gifted in my mind as Michael Jordan or David Blaine. Finally, the kids’ insults were at “Americans,” which I don’t identify as anyway. We’re New Yorkers - not Americans. There’s a difference.

We were two hours early for check-in, so decided to maximize our tourist time by taking the 20-minute walk from Montmartre to Sacre Couer.

Jesus, was it hot. It was 105 degrees. The walk was perpetually uphill and when we finally arrived there were more staircases than in the MTA’s latest atrocity, the 86thSt. Q train. What a moronic architectural disgrace that is.

We bought water from a local store and the lady didn’t even offer us a plastic bag. None of the stores did for entire whole trip. They all had them behind the counter if you needed, but I never saw anyone take one. Paris: 3. NYC: 0.

I could feel sunburn setting in. I took off my long sleeve shirt and threw it over my head to protect myself. The Asian tourists kept their umbrellas up for protection (though when do they not?), and the Italians were next to naked (though when are they not?). The heat was inescapable. It felt like the temperature was climbing along with us up the steps. Instead of a church, it was as if we were making the pilgrimage in Egypt. We had to take regular breaks and be mindful to breathe and stay hydrated, and constantly remind ourselves: “This is vacation, we’re having fun. This is fun. It’s vacation. This is… this is… this hot as fucking hell. Let’s take a lap around this church and go home.”

Sacre Couer is gorgeous: Incredible view of the city outside, and even better art inside. A local came over and requested I remove my hat, and I wasn’t sure whether my Americanism or Judaism was more apparent. We put hats on intentionally in our place of worship.

Finally checked in the hotel, we passed out for two hours in the coolest bedroom in Paris and woke up rejuvenated. We had dinner reservations at Derriereat 19:30, which was the earliest possible reservation because 19:30 is what time Derriere opens, which is just about the fanciest thing I’ve ever heard of.

Our table wasn’t even ready yet, but the maitre’d was friendly.

“Please, have a seat, we’ll get you a glass of wine and let you know when the kitchen’s open.”

Lovely!

Even my fiancée, who is rouge-exclusive, opted for white because of the climate, and it was the best white wine either of us had ever tasted in our pathetic American lives. Pouilly Fumé, crisp, minerally, dry and perfect and it was 6 euro, half what it would be back home.

We waited and waited, watched a few other parties get ushered into the restaurant ahead of us, and wondered if we should say something. I got up to remind the host of our presence, and he was flamboyantly sweet, super pleasant and matter-of-factly excited to seat us.

Ahh, Europe. Is it possible for a constant intake of alcohol, tobacco, bread and cheese to be physiologically offset by a complete lack of urgency and adherence to time?

When we finally got inside we found an adorable, almost hipstery chic spot that had apparently been someone’s home converted into a restaurant. We each sat in our own cushiony love seat across from one another in a spread out living room/library/game room as an active ping pong table was set about three feet behind my head.

Our waiter, Tyler, was from Canada, hence boasted the perfect hybrid of debonair French style with a western work ethic. We were relieved that he spoke English, but soon discovered so does 90% of the country. Tyler was jovial and handsome and encouraging of our order choices. The duck was insane – the best we’d ever had – the braised beef with zucchini was even better.

“Fuck you,” my fiancée kept exclaiming at how blown away she was by the food. I was happy we were able to show the local Parisians how New Yorkers applaud quality – by cursing it out.

We could have returned the knives, as the meats would have fallen off their bones with even the side of the same soup spoon we used to eat the best Gazpacho I’d ever tasted. With dinner we had the best rouge in the house for only 14 Euro per glass, and as a reward Tyler and the sommelier came over and insisted we all do a shot of rum. We were adequately buzzed with bellies full of beef… and bread. The whole experience was magnefique.

We followed Tyler’s recommendations for the night (we would have followed Tyler into the gates of Hell), on to cocktails at The Little Red Door, and although neither my fiancée nor I are very much into cocktails you couldn’t help but trust in the elitist mixology menu. Drinks were fantastic. We ended up yukking it up with some gay New Yorkers coincidentally seated next to us on the couch, mostly over how superior the culture everywhere else in the world is to America, with the exception of New York – one of my favorite topics of conversation.

We walked the mile home because time flies while walking through any city. We stopped twice for some nightcaps and allowed the city lights to fuel our way. Although New York is the “city that never sleeps” Paris is apparently the city that always eats. 1:00 in the morning on a Wednesday night and it seemed almost every restaurant with outdoor seating was not only open, but practically filled with locals literally and figuratively chewing the fat. Any potential for jet lag and heat exhaustion had been instantly healed by meat and alcohol, but still we were spent, and a had a long next day ahead planned.

It’s possible I was woo’d by the air conditioning as I’m not much of a museum guy, but the Louvrewas great, definitely our favorite tourist attraction of the trip. We’d bought tickets beforehand and it took about 60 seconds to enter. Almost everyone there was quite pleasant, though the best part was the security guards at the Mona Lisa who were anything but. Groups of us at a time were being yelled at for not moving fast enough – like waiting on line to view the classic piece of art was a local crime and we owed a cowering apology while running and ducking for cover. They could have been instantly beamed to the central bookings jail in downtown Brooklyn and not missed a beat. One of them was the first white guy I’d seen in France with that pathologically rosy facial complexion that screamed alcohol, hypertension and New Jersey; and although it was clearly his job there to be an asshole we believed it to be a case of chicken or the egg.

I’d love to tell you it was beautiful, that Monawas beautiful and a magical experience of tourism, but I don’t think I ever got a good look. It was pure chaos, herded into a swarm of fellow tourists, and one of the only contexts where typical Asian good manners actually fell by the wayside as they refused to be denied the perfect photographs. Spun into confusion and shitted out the other side of the room we much preferred the rest of the less popular parts of the museum.

Before leaving my fiancée insisted on taking pics by the Pyramid outside and I… I just cannot tell you how hot it was. There were other people out suffering as well, but most were huddled in the shade, massaging their skulls with frozen water bottles and drinking from another. We muscled through it, took photos with fake smiles, feigning joy or even comfort so that everyone on social media could see that we had fun at the Louvre. Indoors we did. Outdoors was about survival.

Next door we passed by the other popular museum, D’Orsay (What is this, the museum district?), and fiancée asked if I wanted to go in. As I generally visit one museum per decade at home, my rule overseas is one per trip.

We walked along the Seine River,which was beautiful and I imagined on any day under 109 degrees would have been crowded with other cute couples cut from similar cloths. They’d be eating cheese and baguettes, as everyone had instructed us to do, but ours was a different kind of trip, and I’d surely have jumped into the river before sitting along it with quickly melting brie. There were benches where I could picture us sitting, but even the mental effort of creating said picture was burning calories at an alarming pace. We passed through the Tuileries Garden, got a croque monsieur and more gazpacho.

On the way home I bought a suit for our wedding! It wasn’t the plan, but hey… we’re just some hot shot New Yorkers flying by the seat of our pants in Paris. Beautiful pants as it were, as I never thought I could make such a baller move.

Of course going into the store was wifey’s suggestion, but I went along with it. “Should we go in and see if they have any nice suits?” she asked.

“We should go in and see if they have any nice air conditioning.”

They did.

And before we knew it we were whisked away into the back room as if we had a reservation for two. Everyone there’s faces were beautiful and their outfits even more beautiful. I felt a bit underdressed in my Marcus Camby Knicks’ throwback jersey (while sweating like Patrick Ewing) and my crooked Yankees cap, but before I knew it I was Julia Roberts with Roy Orbison blasting in my head, as one of the most charming men on the planet, Tomas, put together ensemble after ensemble, creating his own Mona Lisa out of me.

Me, the sweaty asshole who just walked in the door in his gym clothes. Instead of angry security guards yelling at us, Tomas took his time with me, like a true gentleman, never allowing me to put any of the jackets on myself. His assistant brought us bottles of water and suddenly I began to suspect I was on a hidden camera show and Richard Gere was going to come out of the back room and ignore my sexual advances.

One fabulous suit I tried on was apparently made of some high-quality but more delicate fabric that Tomas warned me of: “A suit like this – you can only wear this to work maybe two or three times a week… otherwise it will not last.”

Two or three times a week? Who the fuck does this guy think I am? I’m sorry, Tomas, I love you, but in case you haven’t heard it’s only about 1% of the professions in New York these days that even require a suit at work… and those guys can afford enough suits to wear them two or three times a year. I’m not worried about it.

After about an hour of trial and error, mixing and matching and texting photos across the pond to Mom and others for feedback, finally we came to a unanimous decision. Tomas even threw in the pink tie from his own personal stash, and when we said Au revoirI could feel that none of us really wanted to. What we really wanted was to buy four more suits, then two giant homes in New York and Paris respectively where we could all live out the rest of our years together as the most stylish commune of love. Unfortunately that’s not how life works. But I found more than my wedding suit in the Paris SuitSupply. I found one of my favorite people, one of my fondest memories from the trip, and finally, a hell of a deal! Weeks later my (Jewish) fiancée did her research and discovered after the conversion rate I’d gotten a $1000 suit for almost half the cost. Paris: 4. NYC: 0.

When we got outside it was still 109 degrees. We went home and hosed down in preparation for another night on the town…

Bofingerfor dinner: An apparently pork forward venue that seemed to specialize in shellfish and sauerkraut dishes. I’d never had to de-shell my own snails before, and if you would have told me at any point in life I would twice in one day feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman I would have at least figured one of the two would involve prostituting myself on Hollywood Blvd. Thankfully, none of the “slippery little suckers” went flying across the room into any waiters’ hands. A now experienced acupuncturist I figured I could successfully navigate this previously foreign task and eventually I was right (although two of them were stuck super deep inside and I resorted to simply brutally cracking them open). Absolutely drowned in the plate’s bath of garlic and oil they were delicious!  

The chilled cream of asparagus soup with mascarpone was the best I’ve ever had in my life. I understand this superlative is beginning to sound like a broken record, but hey, we’re discussing food and wine in Paris. It isn’t like I’m telling you I heard the greatest hip hop song of my life there.

Unfortunately the sauerkraut dish was anti-climactic in taste, overwhelming in size. A beast of a platter, and we figured the reason the runner brought burners to light underneath it must have been because no one could possibly finish this plate in less than three hours. Most of my family has hefty appetites and within my family I am generally the one most derided for overeating; but my fiancée and I couldn’t even make a visible dent in the dish. We left full sausages just hangin’ and neither of us even broached the monstrous pork knuckle that looked like too much to tangle with. What was most fascinating was the gentleman next to us ordered the same dish, had it arrive after ours, and absolutely demolished it before we’d thrown in our towel. “Was he overweight?” you ask.Absolutely not, he was handsome and slim, fit. This is Wonderland.

We had nowhere to take our leftovers, but figured better to gamble on running into a homeless person then just throw it out. We saw some poor man seated on the train station floor on our way to Latin Quarters, and bestowed him with what I assume was the best meal he’d had in years.

We passed by Notre Dame, and I felt kind of like an asshole - like the tourists in NYC taking pictures in front of Ground Zero before the new tower was built: Odd locational tone for a photo opp.

Latin Quarters sucked. Think Bleecker Street meets Time Square, and in case you thought bro-douchery didn’t exist outside of America think again. Lots of pubs and sports bars, novelty shops and loud partyers, and you could skip it. A friend of us warned it would be like this but was worth seeing once. Another friend told us of a cocktail bar there on the Holiday Inn rooftop, from which you could see the whole city. Sounds lovely!We passed by only to be told the roof was closed as a result of the heat. Night Deux was a bit of a letdown.

The next day was a more of the same, only to reinforce a lesson that as New Yorkers we should have already known: Avoid tourist traps. The elevator at the Eiffel Towerwas broken which greatly appeased my fiancee’s terrific fear of heights, however I’m still awaiting my refund for the aloof purchase. Champs Elysseswas… ehhhh… like Fifth Avenue meets Soho, but not even the nooks and cranny side streets of old Soho of the 1990’s – more like vomit-up-your-ass chain retail, Broadway Soho of 2019. My fiancée got to take some nice pics of that other humongous fuckin’ old thing, but besides that the marathon distance walking through the desert level heat was beginning to wear on me… and by this time my neurology had shifted to a degree of alcohol dependency which is not my norm. It was time to call it a day and begin the night.

We closed more similarly to how we opened, in a more cultured reverence for gluttony in a local spot we’d been recommended that happened to be right down the block from our red suede hotel room.

Le Bouillon Chartierdidn’t take reservations and had not one, but two lines wrapped on to the sidewalk of mostly locals waiting to get in. We wondered, with gratitude, why our wait was only about ten minutes, and were inadvertently given our answer once inside. It was packed and fast-paced, pretty noisy, though not much to look at. It had the gritty feel of Katz’s Deli or Barney Greengrass and the waiters were curt and void of pleasantries. Ahhh… we felt right at home.

The most expensive bottle of wine on the menu was 23 euro. And it was great! The prices of everything were dirt cheap – like fast food cheap - which only partially explained the line around the block. The duck confit was excellent, as was the whole sea bass (I felt I needed something just a touch lighter than incessant pork and red meat), and I think the whole meal with the full bottle of wine came out to 58 euro. I think it was during this meal that my fiancée began suggesting another “quick trip back” next month. “We can just come for a few nights and eat in places like this!”

We closed the night as we had every other, with drinks on the sidewalk at Café Le Brebant, which faced out on to the corner of the main strip, Poissonniere Blvd., constantly serving us a nice hybrid of the authentic Paris experience with familiar comfort of New York. Also, constantly serving us lovely wines until the early morning hours, though I always closed with a nice, cold IPA in a chilled glass, as I now suffer from alcoholism. The servers were still mostly God-awful and we always had to walk over to place orders, but they were all pleasant and we rationalized it was worth it to be absolved of gratuity.

The next day we took the train seven hours to Nice. It should have been six but Mercury was retrograde and shit was fucked. Nice was OK. Glad we did it – would never do it again. It’s a beach town, which in spite of its historically fancy reputation means the same thing it does anywhere in the world: More plastic surgery, less culture and nuance. Saw some boobs on the beach, but as is customarily the case, none of the boobs you wish to.

The water was beautiful but the rocks were painful and expensive. We had to buy special mats and shoes in order for the beach experience to be at all relaxing and I highly doubt I’ll ever use either again. From now on I’m sand exclusive.

We saw a great band one night, coincidentally named Bofinger, and had one amazing meal at Terres de Truffes, which translates as Truffle Land where they (predictably) put truffles on everything! White truffles over burrata cheese and sundried tomatoes as a “caprese,” summer truffles on the lamb confit and black truffles littered across the porcini mushroom ravioli! We downed a bottle of our new fave, the Margaux, and finished with the crème brulee with truffle infused caramel drizzle. It was fucked. Up.Suddenly we suspected maybe there was reason to come back to Nice after all. That was until my fiancée searched and found the spot had another location in Paris. So like, why ever go to Miami for a restaurant that exists in NYC?

To exhaust a cliché, we loved Paris. Who wouldn’t? Who doesn’t? I’ve literally never heard a negative report. It’s like New York but with its own twist and flare, and without our recently vampired cultural extraction by transplants only to be replaced with the vapidity of chain stores and pharmacies that once were implicitly prohibited from the once greatest city in the world.

It took me a full week to recover from the neurological storm of jet lag and alcohol withdrawal, though having to spend double the price for half the quality wine eventually ensured my sobriety. Sadly the same can be said for our food quality… even in New York! It’s an awful shame the farming practices our government permits in this country, and in my opinion reason enough to kneel for the Star Spangled Banner should you feel indifferent around the racial issues. Never say never, though I still doubt I could ever make a home across the pond, as I just don’t think anywhere in the world can offer the vibe of New York, nor our diversity. It’s possible that Paris and many other cities may come close in cultural diversity, though never in variety of style, subcultures and psychology. This was my one critique from an admittedly brief first visit – that Paris appears a bit more of a one-trick pony than NYC. In fairness, where doesn’t? They probably do their one trick better than anywhere in the world but it’s just not New York. The weekend after I came home I went out to dinner at Kyklades Greek restaurant in Astoria, then took the train uptown to the EPMD concert in the park in the South Bronx, where my boy, Ed and I were two of seven white people of the 800-1000 there. We watched the legends and devoured some dope, authentic Jamaican food for 8 euro (J/K, it was $10). Afterwards we got drunk at a bar by Yankee Stadium and watched the Yanks beat Boston. The next morning my fiancée and I had the best bagels, lox and cream cheese in town at the Upper West Side institution, Barney Greengrass. Our city is dirtier, as is our food. Our leader is dumber, our drinks are pricier. Still it’s always nice to come home.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

Rebuttal to NY Times Article claiming Misogyny in Superbad

In response to Aisha Harris’ article yesterday about her personal experience of the movie, Superbad…

We’ve reached a point in metropolitan culture where “bro” has become practically a derogatory slur for any (white) guy between the ages of 20-40 – or at least those who fit a specifically negative stereotype: That sports and beer-obsessed, suburban white guy, wholly void of any sense of style or social integration, broad-shouldered but with a gut, ignorant but educated, lazy but privileged, clean-shaven yet somehow repulsive “bro.” Ironically, this perfectly describes Superbad’s antagonists, as Jonah Hill and Michael Cera conversely portray the more typical, nerdy “losers.” They are barely yet pubescent, and obviously struggling with their crippling inability to fit the ubiquitous bro culture they’re surrounded by.

Harris begins by mentioning that in spite of the “piggish jokes” made about Bill Hader’s character’s wife, we never actually see her in the movie, which I imagine is to point out the lack of prominent female roles. Such a suggestion in this isolated case is absurd, as spousal humor, while arguably hacky, has been used in both directions of gender since the beginning of time (at least the beginning of comedy) without any requisite for physical presence of said spouse in the story.

She also cites Hill’s character, Seth’s expression of being repulsed by a “vagina by itself,” as if it is now comedians’ responsibility to help women (or men) feel comfortable with their bodies. God help the future of comedy.First of all, at no point in the movie is Seth depicted as the level-headed voice of reason. His opinions are obviously more a reflection of the character’s immaturity and inexperience than some message from the movie itself. Secondly and in Seth’s defense, I have never heard a girl in real life express anything but repulsion by the image of some strange penis on its own. Guys may love to look at breasts, and sure, we can all appreciate great bodies in general, but most genitals to most of us are visually appealing only within the context of sex.  

It brings up the questions of subjective lines and coinciding dichotomies. For example, where do we draw the line between misogyny and the brutally honest expression of male (adolescent) hormones, and does the latter have to be mutually exclusive to being a good person? After all, Michael Cera’s character seemed to love and respect his object of affection in spite of wanting nothing more than to “hit it.” Surely many guys, self included, can say the same of their initial instinct towards the woman they ended up falling in love with and eventually proposed to.

Harris conceded that what she appreciates most about the movie is its “surprisingly progressive (for its time)” attitude that taking advantage of drunken girls is not OK.

Ummm, “for its time,”in 2007?! Is she insane? 2007 may be pre-#Metoo, but I doubt anyone’s memory of it is the 1950’s. I can’t recall any movie from the past encouraging the taking advantage of a drunk girl. Even in License to Drive (1988!) the protagonist, played by Corey Haim, dismisses his idiotic fool friend (Corey Feldman) when he urges him to take advantage of his dream girl while she’s passed out drunk. This also happens to be one of the only peer pressure requests of the movie that Haim’s character does dismiss, which unfortunately would negate Aisha’s only ethical point in favor of Superbad. There are countless other examples like these in Hollywood’s history.

I understand that I’m not a woman. I didn’t grow up having to hear the expression: “You throw like a girl” in gym class, nor internalize the feelings that came with it. And obviously there have been infinitely more male characters historically glorified in leading roles than females. Still, I don’t believe anyone gets to escape the human condition, which probably first and foremost assigns some experience of self-consciousness and self-doubt. And although they’ve been the minority, every generation has surely boasted strong leading actresses, a la Michelle Pfeiffer, Meryl Streep, Hilary Swank, Diane Keaton, Sigourney Weaver, Natalie Portman, Anne Hathaway, Julia Roberts, and Emma Stone. Admittedly, this list is sorely lacking in people of color, especially in comparison with its hypothetical male counterpart.  

I agree with Harris that one’s entertainment preferences are often a deliberate form of sartorial display, but (hopefully) only up until a certain age. I understand this was a personal article for her – a reflection of how a particular movie symbolized and highlighted her own issues that she is now beginning to metabolize with greater wisdom and awareness. I’m confident, calling back to the inescapable human experience, that we can all point to particular voids from our childhood that probably contributed to whatever growing pains we struggled with. However, I don’t agree that there was anything wrong with Superbad’sdialogue or character portrayals in terms of gender. I don’t believe movies like Superbadare the enemy of social progress, anymore than gangster rap was the enemy of white American stability, anymore than all of the political rhetoric in all of Hollywood was able to stop our buffoon of a president from being elected, unfortunately. Show business has always proven to be not as powerful as many believe it to be.

Credit Harris for her self-awareness of possibly suffering from a lens colored by the #Metoo movement, which as is the case with most symptoms of social progression, can bring with it side effects, such as requested censorship, the perpetuation of self-limiting, individual victim stories, and anger driven by delusional beliefs such as the notion that sexual harassment was socially acceptable in 2007.

I think the political correctness of millennial philosophy sometimes operates similarly to pharmaceutical medicine, which might be logical, as big Pharma has grown exponentially in power during the present generation. My observation is that some millennials address branches instead of roots, symptoms instead of causes, and in the process neglect to rectify any deep seeded social issues. They attack movies or songs, or isolated comments. They over-diagnose pathologies such as racism or sexism, ironically guilty of the same mental laziness they attack, then in response they over-prescribe, as do bad doctors, and create more problems in the process.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

The Time I Bombed Trying to Open for Peter Frampton

“What happens if nobody laughs?” people ask.

“Nothing,” I tell them. “Literally, nothing happens.” No one is laughing or doing much of anything. Maybe self-loathing personified decides to occasionally kick the weak when he’s down in the form of a heckle or boo, but other than that nothing happens.

Internally, everything is happening. Thoughts race, feelings emerge, issues of anger and/or insecurity come to the forefront or recede deeper into our subconscious, per our choice of response to each varying degree of disappointment. Our feelings likely run the same gamut as those of all human beings off stage in any realization of failure on display. It’s the worst.

Call it what you will: Sucking, tanking, going down in flames, it all means the same thing. Eating my dick, seems to be the latest contemporary slang for a failed set, which I can only speculate refers to its being an awfully pathetic act of self-abuse that each of us least wants to do. Most universally it is known as bombing, another etymology I can only speculate as suggestive of the unanimous death in the room resembling that of a small village after being hit with a bomb. The crowd is “dead” - not in the good way; but devoid of energy, and their lack of joy has returned the favor to the comedian, his ego and confidence. Everyone is checked out and gone, said void filled either with judgment, sympathy or disgust.

Everyone bombs. Every comic you’ve ever seen, as well as just about every bit you’ve ever busted a gut laughing at, has bombed at some point en route to the marriage of its perfection meeting the crowd primed to appreciate it. The construction of a bit, whether long and ranty or a short one liner, is like the evolution of a barber’s haircut drawn out over weeks, months or years in a barber’s chair set on a city sidewalk for people from all walks of life and mentalities to walk by at all different times throughout its development to voice their opinion, as if it were finished. Of course, we’ve all had our hair cut hundreds of times, and thus all are aware that if we see the man with the clippers still looming over a funny looking “do,” there is still work to be done; whereas comics don’t get such a pass. Every audience assumes and expects, understandably, that they are receiving a finished product. I paid to see a show.Give me “your show.” Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Wedo not work like that. It’d be nice if we could – trust that we wish as much as you do for our bits to be completed fresh off the notebook. But a bit is not a bit until it’s been worked out many times in experimentation of how it impacts others. Like skateboarders have to try new and increasingly difficult tricks to become great, we must constantly work out new material, often crashing and burning, breaking our pride, dislocating our energies, getting bruised in the process. So while all art forms are attempting to connect and create a dynamic with its recipients, ours is one where immediate connection wholly defines it. We have to see and feel how it is received, and then based on the quantity and quality of the people in that room we can begin to determine how we can improve. It is a long term, polygamous relationship in which you probably only get to fuck us once. Sorry. We’re whores; whores who are required to be always adding to our repertoire if we wish to grow.  

For all intents and purposes, each crowd as they exist takes on the mindset of one individual. A blind date, if you will. Some start awkwardly, but turn great once the ice is broken. Others start wonderfully but hit a mutual wall of disappointment that leaves both parties considering removing their online dating profiles as soon as they get home. Some dates are downright awful the whole time, some are so good they lead to the bedroom that night, and/or to the altar eventually.

For a new/young comic, bombs feel pretty similar to what laypeople might imagine them to (this is logical, as the brand new comic is still very much a layperson). It’s humiliating, with every joke being thrown out more desperately from their heels like Apollo Creed going inevitably down in flames against the Russian. Like a rookie baseball player in the first week of the season who is so far 1/10, his sample size is still minute. He boasts an embarrassing .100 average, which over a full year would get anyone sent down to the minors. What’s important to keep in mind is there are still 25 weeks left in the season.

The veteran comic, by contrast, has had between 5-10,000 at bats. Sure, he’s struck out, popped out, and hit into double plays nearly 2,000 times, but he’s batting .800 career, for Christ’s sake. He’s good. He knows he’s good, and everyone in “the league” who’s been around for any respectable amount of time knows he is never in danger of being sent down to the minors. He is mostly unfazed by your silence, comfortable in taking his time to think how best to respond to your heckles. Laughter need not come tonight, as it has already come countless times before, and is sure to come again tomorrow or the next night. So, although bad sets still exist as disappointing missed opportunities to connect and enjoy, they eventually taste, digest, and come out the other side much differently through a vessel of greater information, confidence and awareness. Blame, if it exists at all, turns more outward than inward, and the significance of each set diminishes as it becomes a smaller mathematical part of his lifetime batting average.

We never saw Jerry have a great set on Seinfeld. We heard about great sets and could assume they made up the majority of his track record, as his character was a professional comedian who’d appeared on The Tonight Show. Surely this was no amateur; but he and Larry David both knew that if a live set was to appear in an episode it had to go poorly, because failure is funny.

Watch any sitcom, movie, or any comic on stage. Misfortune and disappointment are the integral themes of every joke, as everyone knows there is no humor in great wealth, good looks, a level-headed peace of mind, or getting the girl, performing immaculately in bed and manifesting the perfect marriage. The only thing funny about that is how apparently unrealistic it is for most. This calls back to the reality that there is nothing at all ironic about comedians’ ultimate embrace of misery or symptoms of depression. Spare us the praise for “finding the humor in bad situations,” as bad situations are the actually the only places to find humor, and there is also a part of us that loves to laugh at the suffering of others.

Unfortunately, my mother and cousin were present for one of the most explosive bombs of my career. I’d gotten booked for a $500 feature spot at a theater in Englewood, Jersey, an unheard of gig for such a young comic. What was the catch?

“The catch,” which was not intentional, was that I was opening for a nationally famous musician who I was apparently a jerk for having never heard of: Peter Frampton, a legend in many circles, one of which would surely fill the theater, a demographic of mostly blue-collared, middle-aged, white biker types from middle and southern New Jersey. Guys whose middle school manifestations hated mine for being an honors class pussy with parents who loved him. Guys whose adult manifestations hated mine for being a hip hop, wanna-be, dumb “wigger.” It was quite possible I was not the right man for this job.

I researched Frampton before the show and became acutely aware that I couldn’t do the same jokes I’d been doing in the Bronx. Still in only my embryonic stage of development, I felt a bit dishonest telling the booker that 20 minutes would be “no problem.” I figured it might be a stretch and/or problem, but my 26-year old brain existed mostly between an admirable confidence and delusional arrogance that I could do anything, at least on one given night. Any given Sunday, as they say,not to mention that no comedian is ever going to turn down a challenge or money, let alone a coincidence of the two. And it wasa Sunday! As Mom and cousin were coming from opposite directions than I from the city, the plan was to meet after my set and go out for dinner to celebrate (mourn).

I waited alone backstage, Frampton nowhere in sight. I wore the only outfit I owned that didn’t obviously scream Hip Hop. A removal of my crooked baseball cap, slightly less baggy jeans, and a sweater instead of a hoody, although it was still Polo, with sleeves longer than my arms, much baggier than anything anyone in the building had ever owned in their life, truly a pathetic attempt. I looked like a white guy trying to look black trying to look white.

A disturbing calm came over me just before preparing to go on stage. While excessive nerves should be tamed with positive thought, breathing or whatever works for you, a complete absence of nerves is never a good sign either. A healthy amount of adrenaline beforehand is more than just normal, but almost necessary to do well. Personally, I’ve never had a good set drunk, as alcohol induces a very organic physiological apathy, which in spite of wanting to care very much, makes it impossible to connect with one’s listeners. On the other hand, the experience of nerves mean you care enough to calculate, think on your toes, and ironically, that you believe you can do it. In hindsight of my Frampton experience, I may have been intuitively precognitive that this was all wrong, and beyond some unforeseeable miracle there was no way it could go well.

The external situation was poorly set to boot. The crowd filling the venue was not made aware of any opening comedian. Stand-up is a relationship, and like any good relationship requires active listening, a different frequency and demand than music, which can be more passive and discontinuous. Inexperienced show producers classically make this mistake. They want to mesh two of their favorite things, comedy and music, in hopes of the result being greater than the sum of its parts. Sadly, this usually works about as well as George Costanza’s attempt to combine sex with watching sports and eating his favorite sandwich. Add to that the fact that the crowd was geared up for one of their very faves of all time, and Unknown Joke-teller is given a steep hill to climb.

As I stood behind the curtains with the stage director dividing his time and manic energy between whoever was giving direction into his headphones and tending to me, coordination seemed disheveled. I knew I’d be going on soon, but figured it would be after some kind of introduction to a dark room of seated people.

The house lights were still on. People were filing into their seats and there was no host or announcement over any speaker, when suddenly the stage director nudged my shoulder: “Go, go, you gotta go!”

“Right now? Just go and… What?”

“Yes!” he panicked. “We gotta get you off by 8:20, go!”

Little did he know this set wouldn’t make it anywhere close to 8:20.

I felt as naked and alone on the stage as laypeople imagine we feel.

“Hey, hey,” I weakly greeted them with the assertiveness of the guy who knows he has no chance with the girl.

“Take your seats, everyone.” I felt compelled to instruct them to where I desperately wished they already were.

God, the room was bright, and I could see them all. As nobody knew as much, and I didn’t know any better creatively, I dutifully informed them: “I am… a comedian – just here to tell you some… jokes, before the great, Peter Frampton comes out.”

A lone cheer in the distance for Frampton… people were still filing in. It’s never a good sign when you feel the need to practically apologize for your presence on stage or explain what you’ll be doing.“

“Take your seats, take your seats,”I continued.

I had nothing. No segue, no idea of where to begin, not an ounce of confidence in my pubescent well of material or the experience to improvise through such unexplored terrain. It was unlike any setting I’d yet been thrust into, and as feared, I was unqualified for the job.

I tried a since retired mediocre joke and got nothing. I tried two or three more of the same and got even less. Most of my stronger bits were geared more to the Bronx and urban crowds, and I hadn’t yet really learned how to write more universal material. As the lights finally went out in the house, the proverbial lights were going out on my set. Three strikes on stage are usually enough to acknowledge that you’re out.

“Alright,” I acknowledged the elephant in the room: “you guys obviously weren’t feeling those jokes…”

It was awful. I was rapidly dying, and like that quick realization of being physically overmatched in a fight, I had no idea how to get out of the stranglehold. I’ve got nothing for these people.

Disdain is as contagious as laughter, and the sentiment in the room became quickly unanimous. I can’t recall whether the first boo or heckle came first, but one surely immediately followed the other. It is rare for most humans to mature much past mob mentality, so once the green light is given for any animalistic behavior, it tends to snowball. It couldn’t have been much past 8:10 when the theater-filled boo’s looked and sounded no different than the notoriously disapproving Apollo Theater. They grew louder and more expansive. Finally someone started the perfectly two-syllabled “Frampton” chant, and although I had not yet been given the official signal to exit, this Monty Python-esq tirade was clearly demanding my time was up.

I thought of the show bookers sitting in the crowd. I thought again of my mom and cousin, and wondered where in the crowd they were sitting. Might they have been seated next to one of the loudest, most vicious hecklers in the room? Might they have beenthe loudest, most vicious hecklers in the room?  

“Frampton” chants poured down like rotten tomatoes, and finally I couldn’t help but laugh at the scenario (at least one of us could amuse the other). Although I don’t remember myself ever booing someone off stage, I surely have silently done so in my mind, and been “that guy” in the stadium at sports events and had a blast every time. I knew the show was a bad situation to begin with, and the blame wasn’t entirely mine. I felt okay. However, as soon as I decided to hopelessly join in the “Frampton” chant into the mic, I knew my time was up.  

I exited just before 8:15. The stage manager offered me a pat on the shoulder and an apology, handing me the least deserved $500 I’ve ever been given in my life. In fairness, there would be literally thousands more instances I’d earn $20 or even $0 in exchange for performances worth at least $500. Like accidental squibbed base hits in baseball, the good luck balances out with how often we get shafted.

I went backstage and quickly grabbed my things. Frampton wasn’t there, thank God. I’ve never so badly wanted to avoid meeting a celebrity. Is he even here yet? Who cares…

I snuck out the backdoor, praying not to see anyone who’d been in the theater. I wished I could change back into Clark Kent (or backinto Superman). Suddenly, I was 17-years old again, attempting to dart stealthily away from a wall I’d just covered in graffiti. My walk transformed into a scamper to go meet my mommy.

I heard a voice in the quiet suburban distance, a man outside the theater on his cell phone: “No, yeah, he still hasn’t gone on yet. Some comedian...” A pause, then a chuckle: “Poor. Very, very poor.” Of course I believed him, and felt bad about myself.

I called Mom and told her to leave – that I would not meet them in the lobby per the original plan. She understood. We sat down in the restaurant and Mom looked at me: “Those people were horrible! So rude! I’ve never seen anything like that!”Moms are the best.

I never heard from the booking company again. I think they shortly thereafter folded tent on the showbiz pursuit, returning back to the more stable world of high finance, their original trade. Is it possible my brightly lit expiration drained all of their hopes for success or belief in ability to spot talent, and I’d single-handedly shut down an entire company in just 15 minutes of bad jokes?

Although I’d been “wrongly cast” and the situation was poor, it left an awfully sour taste in my mouth. In typical human fashion, I chose to transform my inner sadness around it into outward anger and labeled the experience as (all) white people prejudging me, which caused me to hate them in return. I made the decision that my humor was not for white crowds, as they could not appreciate or understand me, in spite of the fact that this was a very specific kind of white crowd and I’d still only boasted a microscopic sample size. Apparently I learned how easily one can become racist: No more than a pinch of experience and a dash of maturity with a huge helping of rejection, and the broad strokes flow in excess. The fact is I’d just been a newbie in way over my head, still without the tools or experience to handle the curve balls, obstacles, and bullshit that come to comedians on a regular basis. As we finished our Chinese food and drove from the suburbs of Englewood, New Jersey over the bridge into Washington Heights where I lived, I thought it to be symbolic. I was back home, back amongst “my people,” ironically I suppose. I was done with suburban, white shows. I just didn’t want to feel that way anymore.

Sorry, Pete. 

[davidfostercomedyblog]

How I Got Into Stand-Up Comedy - A Personal Memoir

I got into comedy because my Probation Officer made me stop smoking weed.

Alice Corrigan, a wicked witch of a corrections officer whose reputation was well known in my high school. “You got Corrigan?! Fuck, sorry dude.”

I loved weed, and continued to smoke through my first year after sentencing, carelessly trying to fool the tests via substances like Goldenseal, Test Pure, and/or gallons of water the night before each meeting. I’d strain to abstain from my beloved herb for 24 hours, then on the ride home from the Corrections office light up in joyous release, rapping along to some rap lyrics that denounced authority.

But Corrigan was no fool, probably why everyone hated her. After about 18 months of our cat-and-mouse game of urine testing, my mother woke me up one morning holding the (portable) phone in my face.

“It’s Alice Corrigan.”

Rude awakening.

“Hello?” I answered, trying to invoke sounds of maturity and sobriety all into two syllables.

“Hi, David. I need you to come in today by 2:00 for a random drug test.”

Long pause: Random drug test. Isn’t that an oxymoron?

It was my friend, Nick’s birthday the day before, and we spent the night on my porch listening to the new Cypress Hill album, attempting to match their lyrics in actual smoke. Alice filled my reflective gap.

“These are mandatory, so I’ll see you as soon as possible.” She was so cold, so adult, so stern and unforgiving. I hated her so much.

“Oh, okay, no problem,” I answered, trying not to reveal my devastation.

“I’ll see you later,” she hung up.

I proceeded to pound gallons of water, desperate for a miracle, only to be told at our next scheduled appointment that my hyper-hydration was for naught. I came up positive, much as I apparently had in many tests for several months prior. One more positive test would constitute a “violation,” which meant at least a brief period of jail time, which was a line for me.

I enjoyed the adrenaline rushes of graffiti writing and shoplifting but wasn’t cut out for prison. I was rambunctious and experimental, arguably damaged and angry - but with a 1240 SAT (imagine if I hadn’t smoked weed all night the night before) I knew I was better suited for zoot suits than jumpsuits. A prison sentence, no matter how brief, was out of the question. I quit smoking weed.

For a while I was bored and depressed, confused as to how to fill this void that copping, rolling, smoking and occasionally selling weed had done before. Fortunately it was around this time that I met E and moved into Manhattan.

The 90’s were arguably New York’s “sweet spot,” when it was becoming safe enough to always go about your business and enjoy yourself, but also pre-7-11 stores and gentrification, and the culturally rich neighborhoods that once made the city into the capital of the world still retained their integrity. The Lower East Side was still inhabited by broke artists, and E had grown up in Greenwich Village, which believe it or not still boasted some shady blocks where you had to be street smart.

E’s crew of friends could have shown up in a picture under “cool” in the dictionary. They were the best of both worlds, mostly private school educated, but equally street savvy: A racially diverse group of 18 year olds who’d grown up as much on downtown pool halls and hip hop as they did on independent film study and fine literature. They had nicknames for one another and secret handshakes and genuinely scoffed at ideas of style or dialectic parameters based on skin color. I thought they were perfect. I was as quickly accepted by them as I was influenced, and before I knew it my wardrobe was more urban, dialect more slang, and for the first time in my life I wasn’t embarrassed about sounding smart. 

E and I became inseparable besties, literally overnight (on a magic mushroom trip), and frankly, I wanted to be him. He was mixed, Hispanic and white, but when you grew up in New York, dressed in all Polo and North Face gear, and referred to all guys as “niggas,” you’re just “Spanish.” He was the most charismatic, which made him the unofficial leader of our crew. His energy dominated every cypher, and he was as popular with the film nerds as he was with black thugs and girls of all backgrounds. Handsome and stylish, E didn’t need to be hilarious to get laid, but he was – funny bordering on psychotic even. We had many drunken nights downtown with the local pool hall crew that would leave my head spinning the next morning, not only in literal hangover, but also psychological reflection of who I was, who I’d been to this point, and wanted to be going forward.

Without weed I felt mentally clearer, sharper and wittier, more creative. E’s words began coming out of my mouth and mannerisms through my body. I noticed people laughing more at my jokes, gravitating more to my energy and deferring to me in conversation, and what 18 year old wouldn’t enjoy this?  

Funny is a muscle like any other. We all have it, though some of us with a greater potential than others. Two guys can go to the gym together every day for two years and do the same exercises and will come out not looking the same. One’s biceps will be bigger than the other’s. Maybe the other’s legs will be stronger. One will have lost a lot of hair. The other did not. They look at each other constantly, almost as much as they do the mirror, coveting that which contemporary women deem more attractive. They go home and listen to bad music. They have simple jobs and terrible conversations, small penises and an embarrassing medicine chest. They’re unhealthy, too big, uninformed. I digress.

E introduced me to Manhattan Public Access, which up until the advent of Youtube and iphones, was a reputable vessel amongst our generation. Everyone who was anyone was up on the few dope shows that aired weekly on one of the free (uncensored) networks. Spic N’ Spanish, Sam Kellerman Live (RIP), and most close to home, Baby Show, which was produced by another crew of arrogant Greenwich Village kids that E knew from childhood. They would run around town with their video camera making comedy sketches, then air them as a half hour variety show, a pre-recorded, low-budget, uncensored SNL, if you will. Skits were hit-or-miss (also like SNL), but they were always interesting, vulgar but smart, and obviously having tons of fun. I decided for the upcoming Christmas to ask my parents for a video camera.

Over the next two years E and I made about 50 sketches (with the help of our crew). We wrote our first (awful) screenplay and laughed harder with one another than either of us had before in life. We worked hard and often, and my mind’s generation of ideas seemed infinite in the absence of weed. I understand many other artists have the opposite experience, which is just one example of how one size can never fit all, whether with diet, medicine, or otherwise. Marijuana became as distant a memory as an ex-girlfriend you know you’d made the right decision about.

We became instant stars (within our crew). Everyone looked forward to seeing the next joint. We’d hold screenings at crew headquarters, and a subtle “sibling rivalry” even developed, i.e. Who do you like better? Q-Tip or Phife? Havoc or Prodigy, etc.? E or Sauce?I knew I could never compete with E, though others would occasionally say otherwise.

Sadly, I don’t think our friendship was as emotionally rewarding for him, but served as more of a temporary band-aid for his own inner turmoil. When we turned 21 E got more into alcohol and girls, and who could blame him? Girls loved him and he loved liquor, and apparently handled them both very well. I was slightly less tolerant of booze and much less attractive to the opposite sex, subsequently less enamored with the bar and party scene that didn’t seem to reflect the urban identity I’d always aspired to anyway. For the first time a divide had formed between my best friend and I that I didn’t know how to respond to. E would regularly wake me up in the middle of the night with drunken messages on my answering machine, often times a girl’s equally intoxicated laughter in the background; a live audio reminder of my un-coolness and unattractiveness, and worst of all, the inception of my falling out with my brother.

“Saaaaauce! Where are you, Sauce?

Hot, drunk girl: “Where are you Sauce?!”

“Come out, nigga, we miss you!”

Long pause, as I lay in the dark room staring at the answering machine, feeling 40 years old at 20, probably angry that I didn’t believe he really did miss me.

“Aight… pussy-ass nigga,” and I feared that he meant it, or that I agreed, or it was objectively true. 

Was I was a pussy-ass nigga?  

E became an alcoholic. He would black out and have episodes where he’d insult or try to fight me, spewing whatever resentments he apparently harbored in sobriety. I never knew how to respond, whether to laugh it off as brotherly jabs and repress the upset I felt, or react more alpha, consistent with the hip hop culture we’d all immersed ourselves in. Usually I’d get stuck in the middle, leaving me more confused and insecure in my identity than I had since freshman year high school. E’s behavior grew more erratic and I would shut down, unable to compete or keep up with his intoxicated mania that would occasionally embarrass me in front of mutual friends. After one such incident that took place in my room I looked out the window at the sun coming up on another drunken night and saw him and Tre still downstairs on 13thStreet, leaned up against Tre’s car smoking cigarettes. I was unable to fall asleep, too angry and hurt and unable to make peace with how insulted I felt. Finally, I ran downstairs with the intention of attacking and fighting him, but by the time I got to the block they were gone. I was glad it apparently wasn’t meant to be. Eventually my anger transformed into sadness, and although our tight knit crew continued to chill, our brotherhood was over. E was the worst best friend I’ve ever had.

As I sought to fill the void left by the video camera collecting dust in my closet, my college Film Writing teacher suggested to me: “There are other routes to success in entertainment besides improv skits. Have you ever tried stand-up?”

It sounded preposterous, and I was naïve enough to think my teacher must not have been aware of the shy little boy that still existed within me – also young enough to believe that shyness or anxiety are mutually exclusive to courage.

One year later I started dating a girl whose mom had been a heroin addict for 17 years. Over the course of our time together I heard many stories from both sides, of the hell Mom put her daughter through growing up. They were probably the biggest fans of my jokes I’d ever had, hysterically laughing at nearly everything I said and did, thus encouraging me with their loud Nuyorican flamboyancy. We dated just long enough for me to realize how funny I was, also how lucky I’d been to have the parents and opportunities I did. I was given everything (tangible) a human being could ask for. Why should I not pursue the most difficult thing in the world?

One night shortly after we’d broken up I stayed home to watch a Richard Pryor special, in hopes of lifting my spirits. Not only did it obviously achieve said goal, I was mesmerized by his ability. While on stage Pryor seemed to me to personify “alive.” He looked so free and engaged, so courageous and perfect in his proverbial dance with the crowd and his material. I watched him take risks and rule his space, all the while exhibiting the joy of a child, and thought to myself: That’s it. That is the perfect vessel by which to taste life. I had no choice. The following week one night while E was out drinking I hit my first open mic.

If you’ve never waited three hours to do three minutes for three angry people in a dimly lit room devoid of any energy then you’ve never lived. Actually you’ve never metaphorically died the comedy death that is most open mikes. Truly it is awful, piercing deeper into our souls than just performance nightmares, but as existential crises, stomping on our egos, leaving us with the indigestible knowledge that we can never get back those few minutes of life. For the moment all worry and doubt of our talents are replaced with a bittersweet conviction that we are in fact definitely wasting our time.

A number of comics seated gaps apart from one another around the periphery of the room, faces buried in their notebooks, preoccupied with their own creative agendas while your material through the microphone resonates as nothing more than white noise. Every joke seems to receive the same one or two laughs from the same two or three sweethearts, their sympathetic contrivances bouncing around the room, ironically transforming its tone from awkward to dismal. Once in a while pops in a more veteran comic, unforced to wait his turn and the nerds perk up, temporarily uncovering their faces to actually pay attention. Consistent with their greenness, laughter is given as automatically as it is from laypeople to the Chappelle’s and Seinfeld’s of the world. They either assume his punch lines to be funny before they arrive, are just desperately attempting to connect with the comic in any way, or both. As soon as the popular guy leaves you can practically hear the plunder of energy, the re-separation of attention, sighs plunging back into future discarded material and half-attention (at best) to the poor schlep forced to go next.

The only thing harder than performing for fellow comedians is performing for fellow comedians who are waiting to go on stage; and the only thing harder than that is performing for comedians who are waiting to go on stage and don’t know you enough personally to give your new banter any shred of credence. These are not real people, for all intents and purposes, which can make it impossible to get an accurate read on how your new material or yourself will ever be received by real people. Maria Shehata once posted a joke (on Facebook) I’ll never forget. Some well-built, grown man challenged her to punch him in the stomach as hard as she could. She did so, and caught him off guard with her strength. “He didn’t realize how many open mikes I’ve done.”

Wednesdays’ “Train Wreck” at The Parkside Lounge on Houston and Attorney St. was appropriately named. Located so distally on the outskirts of the Lower East Side, by the time I arrived I barely felt like I was any longer in New York, especially because the inside of it always reminded me of some Midwestern bar. Fat, old, white men in beards and plaid shirts lined most of the bar in front of a thin, buxom blonde who looked good only at first glance, the TV’s above her head showing sports highlights or the News. The occasional Bud Light-guzzling, 50-year old black guy walks by, his afro not at all kept to uphold any of the standards of contemporary urbanites. The jukebox played a lot of Lynard Skynard, or maybe it was just stuff I thought was Lynard Skynard, and my post-adolescent mind could do nothing but define myself via harsh (silent) judgment of it.

As if some illegal black market we partake in, the comedy room was located through a dark narrow hallway of bathrooms, then behind a curtain in the back room. Sign-up was at 5:30 with “showtime” at 6, and I can recall some weeks walking purposely slow to the venue so as to convince myself that I’d tried my best, but arrived too late for sign-up. The handful of times I braved to punctuality ended up being awful bombs of silence that ate at my core for the remainder of that night.

“Sauce, have you ever been racially profiled as a wigger?” the host once asked after my set, and everyone laughed for the first time since I’d gotten on stage.

I wasn’t prepared to feel so small and didn’t know if I should risk retorting. Instead I remained mum, and it reminded me of the drunken, belligerent insults I’d had to absorb from my best friend during the past year. I felt like the new kid being pointed and laughed at by all the other cookie-cutter students who’d known each other for years. I felt I was being made fun of by the lames for being different, but I had no way to prove so, and was unable to laugh at myself.

In my 15 years in comedy to come, at the Parkside was the only time I was heckled by a comic. It was an Indian girl, a bit older than me, a regular, familiar face in the front row, who interrupted midway through my set: “Do you know that you’re white?”

Her remark got only a couple of laughs from the room, I assumed because even if the majority appreciated her sentiment, her timing was inappropriate. You don’t heckle fellow comics.

“I do,” I responded to her, able to muster only a hint of sarcasm through my lack of confidence. She’d hit a nerve. As my blood boiled I quietly finished my set, minutes later walking home, cursing out the Indian girl, as well as myself, rationalizing that I was “too real,” too authentic, and the act of stand-up was too contrived for me. It wasn’t for me. I figured I’d return to improve. A few months would heal this wound, and eventually I made my way back in time for sign-up.

At home life was worse, as I’d made the mistake of moving in with E. Our dynamic was fractured, probably by both of our hatreds for him, and I’d completely lost track of my voice. I felt like I was always bombing. I had no confidence, no sense of identity, and practically walked on eggshells when E was home, for fear of being derided in a way that emasculated my vulnerable ego. I’d gone from expressing the best version of myself to the worst version of myself and it was the inception of my anxiety disorder: An overwhelming head rush that would come on either at random and linger throughout the day, or during acute moments of social anxiety. I had no idea how we’d gotten to this place, and at 23 years old even less of an idea of how to climb out of it.

I consider February 13, 2002 to be when I actually started doing comedy. It was a different open mike, Gladys’, on W. 46thSt. in Times Square, known to be “one of the better mikes” in town – a spot I’d already bombed at once the week before.

For some reason beyond my awareness, for the first time in my life I killed from the first sentence out of my mouth. Something must have clicked, or maybe it was just dumb luck of the first joke hitting then riding the wave of confidence instilled by the unanimous laughter. From start to finish the entire five minutes was an out of body experience, watching myself delivering my words and the crowd responding as if I knew what I was doing; almost reminiscent of how it feels to lose our virginity. It isn’t that we’re unable to enjoy the moment, but the experience is clouded by the mental joy for its significance. It is literally unbelievable.

As I walked on air to the back of the room, overhearing my name repeated into the microphone by the host and the sincere applause that followed, I was stopped by a tall, friendly black dude, Max.

“That was great, man.”

“Thanks.” This must be what happens when you don’t suck.  

“Are you available tomorrow night?” he asked.

Huh? “Sure,” I responded with a contrived calmness, and he booked me for a $25 spot on a Valentine’s Day show at some local bar in Castle Hill in the Bronx.

He’s gonna give me $25 to do comedy?! Literally 10 minutes ago I had under my belt about 15 shitty spots over the course of two years and no clue as to whether I could ever have a good one. Ha… sucker!

“Thanks, man, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

I invited Tre to the show, and it wasn’t only because he’s black. He was also my other roommate, had nothing else to do and a car, which would save me a late night train ride home from the Bronx (something I had no idea would be in store on a weekly basis for years to come). I purposely did not invite E – not that he would have come if I had – but his presence would have made me that much more nervous. Instead, Tre was neutral.

The show was at a typical Castle Hill neighborhood bar, probably 60% Puerto Rican, 40% black, and one white person. Familiar hip hop blasted from the DJ booth as the majority of the patrons all fraternized and flirted, or freaked each other to the funky rhythms filling the fortress. How fun! A quaint little room, though not offensively so, the “stage” was set next to the bar and facing out to a handful of tables while the rest paralleled the bar traveling stage right.

The bouncer was friendly enough, and gratitude washed over me when I saw Max immediately after walking in the door. Like I’d just spotted my friends’ table in the school cafeteria, I gave him a pound and hug that I hoped everyone else in the room noticed. He greeted Tre and directed us to two empty seats at the bar, almost directly in front of the wooden box they’d be using as a stage. We ordered a couple of beers and I tried to act like I wasn’t terrified.

I was told I’d be going on second and instantly wished I could get up and walk around, go outside to pace, or just be anywhere besides the confined physical position I was in. I learned later in my career that I absolutely could have. Instead I sipped my beer and felt it mildly settle my nerves as I struggled to pay attention to one word anyone before me said. I remember a Puerto Rican comedian making a joke about my being the only white guy, though amiably padding it with a compliment and head nod of camaraderie. He had a decent set, and none of this had any impact whatsoever on my internal state. As he finished and Max came back up my panic set it, and I realized I wasn’t seated far enough way from the stage for this degree of nervous energy to be walked off.

As Max introduced me the DJ played the new hit single by Jadakiss and Bubba Sparxxx, a white rapper from down south (surely not a coincidence), and for some reason I felt like I’d look more nervous if I didn’t dance. My nerves produced some idiotic, upper body dance moves that had to be atrociously caught somewhere in between serious and mockery. I was a damned fool, surely looking as amateur as I did white, but I got lucky. The crowd bought my faux confidence, misinterpreting it as organic from this goofy white boy with whom they were too unfamiliar to detect the difference.

I did the same jokes as I had the night before, which was really the only jokes I had, which was five minutes about the perks of dating a girl who already had a boyfriend (the ex-heroin addict’s daughter). It was hacky and simple and delivered with a hokey animation, but for the setting it was perfect. Every joke hit even harder than the night before. I got laughs on set ups and punch lines, and in between bits even my defense mechanism persona of laissez faire facial expressions sent many of the women into hysterics. I “had them,” as we say, and it became fun. I was killing.

I’d never experienced anything like it before. Once killing, we reach a point where the crowd no longer cares how clever each joke is, but instead they’ve fallen in love with us. Who we are begins to shape our material instead of the material shaping who we are, and our listeners reward us with a benefit of doubt not dissimilar to what we get from close friends. I’m sorry to break the news, but this is also why it’s erroneous when laypeople take pride in having just “made the comedian laugh.” First, we’re not necessarily funnier than every non-comedian in the world. We’re just the ones who chose stand-up comedy as a pursuit. Second, and more to the point, in a social engagement there’s a good chance that welikeyou,your personality and energy. We might even love you and/or are warmly responsive. This doesn’t mean our laugh is sympathetic or your joke is not funny, but “making the comedian laugh” is not the equivalent of knocking out the boxer. In the exchange of humor the importance of connection cannot be overstated. I digress.

Tre and I stuck around until the end of the show, basking in my glory. Max paid me the $25 in cash, and it felt like $25,000 in my hand. I couldn’t believe someone had just given me money to do comedy, but even more appreciated were the pounds and hugs I received on my way out. I could feel Tre proudly walking behind me; also some of the women in the room eyeing me, and I didn’t want the night to end. I suggested to Tre that we go to Club Passion, downtown. “My treat!”

Club Passion was a ghetto strip club on 8thAvenue. For clarification purposes, “ghetto” strip club does not imply only the strippers’ ethnicity, but also the nature of the club. Instead of a traditional strip club setting, Passion functioned basically like a party filled with male customers and extremely forward, sexy women in thongs and lingerie whose job it was to “work the floor.” Whoever happened to be on the stage and pole at any given time was usually the least paid attention to, as fly girls were all over the room grinding on guys for dollars at a time; and most touching was permitted, if not encouraged.

It was one of the greatest nights of my life, instilling in me a pride and self-confidence that seemed to heal all of my wounds from my fractured friendship with E, and filled the void left by our defunct skit productions. His habits and lifestyle continued in the same direction but our friendship began to feel like a friendship again, mostly because I’d discovered in myself a strong sense of purpose and pride, and even my anxiety symptoms got a lot better and less frequent. I was a comic, better yet an “urban comic,” and (thought) I was good at it! I felt happy for the first time in two years, and we developed a new dynamic, where the student had sort of surpassed the teacher.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

My Battles with Bullies in Bathrooms

By the time I graduated high school I was a juvenile delinquent. Not a thug necessarily, but “thuggish” at times, surely at my inception somewhat a “wannabe,” but herein lies an implicit truth about the existence of a wannabe: It must be possible to become.

Actually I was banned from graduation ceremonies, having been expelled from school in the third month of senior year. I’d been arrested six times, gotten into about as many fights, smoked 1000 times that much weed, and was dating a bad bitch from 173rdSt. in Washington Heights.

Josefina was my first (puppy) love, who I remained with for two years and just so happened to live smack in the middle of one of the most drug-ridden ghettos in New York… nine blocks from my favorite weed spot, Riva’s, on 164th. An adolescent boy couldn’t ask for two better birds to hit with one stone in the form of a $5 bus ticket over the (George Washington) bridge.

Her family was the poorest I’d ever met. Stereotypical, but they were poor even relative to their community. Their apartment was a 1 ½ bedroom, railroad style, and it housed my girlfriend, her older sister and brother, his wife and two kids, a baby that was born in the second week of our relationship, and “Senora,” as I addressed Josefina’s mom (and never learned her real name). The three ladies shared the queen-size bed in the room. and the two kids slept on mats on the living room floor. There was always rice on the stove, always Telemundo or baseball on the TV, and there wasalwayssomebody home.  

We’d take to the kitchen to get whatever alone time we could, passionately making out and abruptly pulling away each time we heard a creek in the floor that might be her (Catholic) mother. On the rare occasion that we knew Mom was asleep we’d take bolder risks, our adolescent hormones thrusting hands into each other’s pants until either I was relieved or another creek in the floor. This was how I first discovered blue balls. It was also where I became fluent in Spanish, and “fluent” in the hood.

“Gentrification” was a foreign concept to Washington Heights at the time. It was five years removed from the city’s homicide record of over 2,400 in one year. For 100 blocks, from 135thto 235th St., was mostly Dominican immigrants and first generation kids who ran the gamut from my sheltered, sweet-as-pie girlfriend to coke-selling murderers and kids who occasionally shouted threats at me walking the streets hand in hand with one of “their women.” Amongst the more harmless were the homeless alcoholics, crack heads and their dealers, mostly posted up against steel gates, either peering suspiciously under low-brimmed hats or shouting across Broadway some slang Spanish incoherencies, no doubt to confuse the boys in blue, who patrolled in much fewer numbers than they do today.

Why my typical Jewish mother allowed me to pursue my crush via public transportation each week is beyond me, except for the fact that the dichotomy of Mom was she was fundamentally cool, also eager to nourish any symptom I exhibited of normalcy. A (pretty) girlfriend not only is not criminal behavior, it is socially applauded. As long as I came home on time and called back whenever she paged me I was allowed to visit my girl.

As much as I loved being in Josefina’s house I equally loved leaving to get the last bus home at night. Her house was hot and crowded, and eventually all the lovey dovey kissing and groping got boring, especially on the lucky nights where I’d cum. As relieving as that still new experience of my genitals was, equally relieving was breaking free into the crisp winter air of the New York streets.

I’d throw my headphones on and hood up over my head, and jump on my skateboard for the six-block ride from her building to the bus terminal. Broadway was just enough downhill that I could pick up speed, but not so much that I had to worry about going too fast to stop for cars.

I loved the feeling of cutting through the night, zooming past the crowds, aware that I stood out as the only white kid and only skateboarder most passers by had seen all week (since my last visit), unabashedly rapping aloud to mywalkman, blasting hip hop from the latest Stretch & Bobbito show, reveling in whatever stares my nerve may have drawn, operating within the perfect storm of courage and naivete, as well as a wide-eyed idealism around social integration. I wasn’t a quite good enough skater for most tricks but whenever I successfully ollied the circular sewers it made whatever song I was listening to that much more invigorating.

Once at the terminal I would stop in one of the local bodegas (that didn’t ID) for a 22-ounce of Heineken or Presidente and either a Phillie or Dutchmaster to smoke before my ride home. It was a real pleasure for me these evenings: enjoying the company of my goddess, then skateboarding to my music en route to getting blunted alone for the warm bus ride where I’d most often read, either something for school or something by Albert Camus, the first author I ever was aware of liking.

One particular February evening was way too cold (or “brick” as I learned from Josefina) to roll my blunt outdoors on the platform. It was just barely not too cold to smoke out there since there was no such thing as “too anything” to smoke. I figured it best to roll up in one of the stalls in the bus terminal bathroom, and this would berth one of my first suburbanite lessons in street smarts the hard way.

The George Washington Bridge bus terminal in the 1990’s could be best likened to Chris Rock’s description of The Carter Apartments’ crack house converted by Nino Brown in New Jack City (1990). Humanity’s sense of urgency was feast or famine, most characters either standing in the exact same spot for hours on end, drinking from the same brown-bagged bottle of rum, or psychotically racing from the west side of the building’s exit to the east as if their life depended on it, the whole time screaming at a “colleague” trailing behind, or worse, tugging their apparent child along by the arm. It was the first place that I saw “quasi-homeless” guys, as described by my native Manhattanite cronies.

“Quasi-homeless” meant what it sounded like: This guy has definitely spent nights on the street, but most nights he has a roof and bed somewhere, whether in a basement of a building its landlord had lost track of, some shelter, or possibly the stall I was about to use to prepare my evening smoke.

The public restroom was usually empty at this time of night. Maybe one or two vagrants propped up against one of the urinals with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his friend taking care of an entire week’s hygiene in one of the many sinks on the wall, spilling puddles of mess in a six-foot diameter around him on the floor, but for all intents and purposes, empty.

This night was different: Five or six guys, all quasi-homeless, stood around smoking and talking in a cypher. Most were old Dominican men, which meant probably harmless, but a couple were a bit younger black guys. Nobody bore any visible weapons, nor did they seem to look at me like a shark spotting its prey; though I couldn’t help but feel like Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs ((also)1990), frozen in fear by the police officers in the bathroom, terrified to proceed casually forward, even more terrified to bust a U-turn out of the situation, which would instantly reveal my cards. This moment of mutual acknowledgement felt like an eternity, though surely I only balked for half a beat before continuing forward as if I walked into smoke-filled bathrooms in the ghetto in the middle of the night with dangerous dudes standing around all the time.

I entered one of the many bathroom stalls, closed the door and turned to lock it to no avail. No lock. If there’s one thing you could count on in the bus terminal stalls it’s that something would be wrong. If the door actually had a lock then it was missing a toilet seat. If it had a toilet seat it was either broken or covered in literal bloody shit. If you did actually manage to find a fully operational, functioning stall there was no fucking way it had toilet paper. Normal people did not use the George Washington bathroom stalls to release bodily functions. They used them to do drugs, which I hadn’t thought of at the time, but the rest of the guys in the room had.

I may have gotten the plastic wrap off of the cigar before the door was kicked open, the two black dudes menacingly standing inches away from me. Suddenly I was a robbery victim from one of the sketches on Raekwon’s classic, Only Built for Cuban Linx, which had come out just months before. It’s amazing how different the experience of something becomes when perspective shifts from third person fiction to second, non-fiction.

“What the fuck, nigga? What the fuck?” they started in. “Whatchu’ got?”

“I got nothin’,” I protested, and I’m not sure if it sounded more unbelievable or more filled with terror. Probably equal.

“Fuck you, son, you think I’m playin’?” and he dug into my pockets, patting me down more aggressively than any cop ever had.

I looked at the less talkative of the two and for some reason his left hand was covered in blood, I assumed his own.

But… why? Even if you’d just cut your hand only moments ago… you’re in a bathroom with soap and running water. Obviously any inquiry, even with the intention of genuine concern, was out of the question.

“I’m not playin’,” I weakly reiterated and he responded with my first ever bitch smack to the face. It was sobering enough to deliver its message non-verbally - still accompanied by: “Shut the fuck up, nigga!”

I thought about how these guys probably saw me, how it was 180 degrees different from how I’d seen myself. I wondered whose perception was closer to accurate, and of course feared it was theirs’. I wondered if they hated (all) white people and if that was playing a part in all this.

It was as dangerous a situation as I’d ever been in. I looked around the stall and saw nothing but hard surfaces. It was… well, a public toilet. There was no seat cushion, nor soft hand towel or bowl of potpourri like in my mom’s bathroom. I was terrified of being beaten - my head hitting the jagged-cornered pipes behind the toilet seat, or worse, the bus terminal toilet seat. Yuk.My skull cracked open by metal edges and sharp corners, my blood mixing with the Heineken on the floor. I was a boy and these were men - obviously insane men at the end of their rope, from a different world than mine. Fear of the unknown is not the same as racism, which proclaims knowledge in spite of its ignorance; whereas aware ignorance is really a non-crime that we’re all guilty of in regards to some group, and can make scary situations that much scarier.

“Run yo’ shit, bitch!” yelled Bloody Hand, and I prayed he wouldn’t touch me.

He didn’t. The other one tore my bag off my back and turned it upside down, but all that fell out was an Albert Camus book and my Heineken bottle, which crashed down onto the tiled floors shattering and echoing so loudly off the bathroom walls that the noise may have saved my life.

Their sense of urgency escalated. They dug through my pockets, violating my manhood, grabbed my only $5 I had for the bus, my nickel bag of weed, and were mindful enough to even grab the blunt to roll it. Thankfully they somehow missed my Walkman and beeper (stashed in my jacket), which would have been like losing one’s phone today. I backed an inch away and in a flash they were gone. Phew.

They left my backpack along with a now beer-covered version of The Stranger, both of which I collected as I made my way out of the bathroom behind them. Most of the old Dominican men did such a good job of feigning unawareness that it was believable. It wasn’t far-fetched to think occurrences like these were regular. A couple of them shook their heads and I wasn’t sure if it was at the guys for their awful actions or me for my stupidity.

I left the bathroom and noticed the wall clock said 11:06. Fuck! I had nine minutes to sprint back to Josefina’s place, borrow $5 and get back to make the last bus, lest I might be prohibited from continuing to ever come back.  

Running back up Broadway’s incline in the freezing cold made me self-conscious of my appearance: A white teenager dashing at full speed up the sidewalk, weaving in and out of people at 11pm on a weeknight in February. Drugs. Trouble regardless, but surely drug-related. I then thought it was possible that no one in Josefina’s household would have $5, as food stamps were more common in their home than actual dollar bills. Fuck, what will I do if that’s the case? Nothing. Call Mom, sleep in the city, and go to bed with awful blue balls.

Fortunately Josefina’s older sister had some cash, along with some racist comments about my transgressors (she’d grown up in D.R.).

“They hit you?!” she asked, and my penis so wished that my new girlfriend wasn’t present for all this.

“Just smacked me once,” I squirmed in confession.

“Yeah, I could see that mark on your face.”

Oh, really? Can you see your sister’s vagina drying up? Anyways…

I still had my book and my skateboard, and barely made it to the bus on time. I was too shaken up to read, too sober to stop my mind from racing. I felt ashamed and embarrassed, like my lack of street smarts had been exposed along with my lack of toughness, and I felt unfit to listen and rap along to the music that I loved so dearly. This is an interesting social fetish, exclusive to hip hop culture, that one should have intimate personal knowledge of the artists’ experience in order to earn the right to enjoy and appreciate their work. Rather absurd when put that way in my opinion. Still, society continues to assign the diagnosis of absurdity in the opposite direction.  

I realized I’d been lucky. Lucky Josefina’s older sister had $5, most of all lucky that the situation hadn’t gone worse. I was born in New York City in 1978 and was abundantly aware of how such scenarios could play out. I was grateful. Still, there was something eerily familiar about all those hard surfaces and sharp corners in the bathroom stall.

5 Years Prior:

Aside from his Puerto Rican heritage, Jose Veranda, was as prototypical a jock douche bag as could be: Short and stocky, huge in the chest and shoulders, a bona fide weightlifting gym rat. As a freshman he was captain of the JV wrestling and football teams, and for spring it was the strength-focused events within track & field. My springs, conversely, were (our awful) JV tennis team and recreational skateboarding, and I imagined this was just one of the many reasons Jose hated me.

I was in 8thgrade, one year below Jose, though I felt five years behind him in maturity and testosterone. Most of my friends were skinny, prepubescent Jewish or Asian kids who sucked at skateboarding but were great at math. Our physiques weren’t defined, except by ribs and collar bones, both of which I was consistently afraid would be broken by Jose.

Tennis practice was at the high school after classes for the day ended. We’d walk through the much bigger, more daunting gym, into the locker rooms and out the back door in our horribly uncool outfits, wielding in our hands the ultimate red flag of “faggotry” in the form of the tennis rackets our moms bought for us.

Jose and his buddies would hang around the gym like they owned the place and mock and pester us all, but his main focus was always on me. He’d flick my ear or shove me from behind, boasting to his like-minded crew, recognizing me as an easy target. I recall one time him taking me down into a wrestling move he’d surely recently perfected and pretzeling me into submission, then high-fiving his friends like they were all in Central Casting for the role of jock bullies. I hated Jose, but also made it a point to never avoid walking through the gym for fear of running into him. I knew I risked pain and humiliation every time, but was determined to not allow this to stop me from living my life.

One day while walking through the locker room I saw him turn the corner from the opposite direction and in a flash my afternoon went from mundane to terrifying. I felt my stomach sink and the rest of my body go soft and numb as I prayed he would leave me alone. I feared a surprise punch to the gut or worse, face, but he seemed to be distracted, apparently focused on something else, probably some mission to max out over 250 to go home and stroke his massive ego in lieu of the micro-penis that surely must have contributed to such a personality.

Nope, he’d fooled me, and instead of a punch he caught me off guard by spitting on the middle of my tennis team t-shirt as if it/I were the side of a curb.

I’d never responded to him before, instead always assuming the role of dead, fluid weight at the whim of whatsoever he pleased to do with it – but this was too much. It was too gross and disrespectful. I kept walking but muttered aloud: “dickhead.”  

He doubled back, happy to put his next set on hold to address his favorite target’s sudden acquisition of nerve. He grabbed me and pushed me up against the wall.

“What did you call me?” he demanded, and I had no idea how to respond.

“What did you say, pussy?” he demanded again, and I felt like I was about to receive my first real ass-kicking for no doing of my own.

My mom likes to proudly remind me of the report she once got from my kindergarten teacher in her first ever parent teacher night. There was an overweight, socially awkward Indian kid, Chad, that all the other kids used to pick on, and supposedly myself and another friend were the only ones who would stand up for him. It was ancient history. Six year olds aren’t very scary, not even to other six year olds, and now I was Chad.

I wished somebody would come save me, but nobody did. It was almost as if the Universe outside of our interaction had completely frozen and everyone disappeared from it for the moment to allow Jose and I to play out one another’s karmic themes embedded in this awful dynamic.

“Nothin’,” I protested, purposely omitting the final g sound with the intention of feigning non-chalance. We both knew I was really saying: I’m obviously terrified of you, so I take it back. I take it back, I apologize, I bow to you and I’m sorry. Clearly you are the victorious dominant alpha in this scene, which by the way nobody is even privy to see, so can we let it go, please?

“You called me a fuckin’ dickhead, motherfucker.”

Apparently jock douchebags don’t speak Between-the-Lines sentiments.

In a hopeful attempt that he might find the humor in my desperate resolution to matter-of-fact logic, I exclaimed: “You spit on me!” In my mind he would smile and slap me on the cheek with just barely more strength than was appropriate, and then walk away. I remembered Jose had a handsome smile with dimples on both sides, and in spite of his lack of height and self-confidence, always had a pretty girlfriend.

“I don’t give a fuck what I did, bitch. I’ll spit on you, I’ll shit on you, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want to you!” and with that he firmly slapped the wall next to my face.

I flinched, convinced that that was it. I was about to get my nose broken, concurrent with cranium smashed into the hard tiled wall just inches behind it; but he spared me. I thought about what he’d said – he would shit on me – and realized that that was a line – I would fight Jose before I’d allow him to shit on me. I also realized that he didn’t much particularly want to kick my ass. If he did he already would have. Jose ‘s hate for me was organic, but his pleasure was more in scaring and abusing me, which made me think of rapists and serial killers, and wonder just how far up the sociopath scale from them are bullies. The retraction of dimples on the bull-headed face just inches from my own brought me back to the present moment.

“What are you gonna do?” he demanded.

“What do you mean? Yo, I’m not doing anything, you got it.”

“What are you gonna do to apologize?!” and he smacked the wall again.

“I dunno, man, I’m sorry,” and I looked down at his spit drying on my chest. I felt so pathetic, and for the first time in my life I so desperately wished I was someone else.

“Kiss my shoes,” he demanded.

“Oh, c’mon, dude—“ I offered the classically ineloquent appeal to the relatively decent and reasonable human being we know exists somewhere inside all of us.

“Nah, nah, nah, kiss my shoes, pussy, or I’m gonna kill you right here.”

“C’mon, Jose, why--?”

And he delivered a third smack to the wall, this time using the other hand to shove me in the chest and I could feel his strength in only his left hand pressing my entire body back into the wall. His face managed to get red over his perfect ethnic complexion, which made his anger more believable.

“Just do it and we’re good. Do it, and I’ll forgive you. Don’t and you’re dead.”

I sighed and looked into his big, round menacing eyes and wondered what he was capable of. I quickly looked away, too weak to maintain contact with him. I scanned the room out of my periphery, wondering why nobody had passed through the locker room. Obviously I couldn’t fathom kissing this asshole’s shoes, but what was my alternative? What would be the fate of the more courageous choice? It could be as mild as a tough punch to the gut, and he walks away leaving me curled up on the floor for a few minutes, the wind knocked out of me but pride still in. Or it could be as bad as one more cliché blow: the punch to the gut followed by kneecap to the face, and suddenly my nose and/or jaw are broken, covered in blood and who even knows what that feels like. I need some kind of surgery or procedure, I’m permanently disfigured, my mom pulls me out of school and we move to Jersey and I have to make all new friends, leaving behind a legacy of a victim of violence.

I looked back into his insistent gaze, then around the room we were the nucleus of. It was a bathroom: nothing but the hardest of surfaces and sharpest of edges. Ceramic urinals and toilet seats, flushing handles of metal with jagged auxiliary parts behind them. A couple of glass mirrors, which if broken could stab me in the eye, leaving me blind like my Dad was in his right eye, and who knows what that feels like! Gosh, I’m such a Jew.

Jose wasn’t going anywhere, which meant neither was I, and I just wasn’t yet ready to venture into the unknown world of physical confrontation. Slowly I knelt down to one of my top ten regrets in life.

His sneakers were an old Asics running shoe, not stylish, but an acceptably generic choice among athletes. They were dirty, but not disgustingly so, not moist. The dirt was the least of my problem with what I was about to do. I thought about Marty McFly, about punching him in the balls and running onto my skateboard, then thought twice. This isn’t a movie. What if you miss? Worse, what if you don’t? You’re going to see this guy everyday for the next four years. You don’t get to disappear into another decade as soon as you get in touch with Doc.

I used as little of the red part of my lips as was possible and pecked the cheek of his right sneaker as lightly as I ever had any girl’s face. But I made contact - he saw it. Contractual obligation fulfilled. And before I could raise my shamed head and stand up he was gone. Both Asics disappeared, and my senses returned. In the distance I heard the shouting voices and laughter of fellow students who weren’t enduring emotional trauma and wondered if they’d been audible the entire time. It felt like a bad dream, like I was temporarily in some alternate reality, a la Biff’s in Back to the Future 2, and I wished there was some way to rewind and reverse it. I felt like a used hooker left on her knees immediately after her John had zipped up - an abused child, not literally raped, but “raped,” and I stood back up, life to never be the same again.

I remember playing video games in my parents’ basement that night before dinner, unable to get the incident out of my head. When I interacted with my dog it felt like our love was perverted by this horrible memory. When I spoke to my little brother who so looked up to and adored me I felt unworthy of his respect. I’d never felt anything like it, this awful anger muddled by humiliation and regret.

You asshole! I screamed at Jose in my mind. You fucking horrible piece of shit!

You pussy! I screamed at myself. You little, pussy-ass Jewish faggot!

Most people stereotype their own (cultural) group as much as members outside of it, as most of us share the same particular experience of our group as outside members who are in close physical proximity. My experience of Jewish kids was they (we) were soft, and for the first time in my life I hated that about us. It was the first time in my life that it mattered.

It took weeks my negative mental continuum to stop, months for me to feel back to normal. But life went on, as it does, and Jose pretty much left me alone forever after. Maybe he felt he’d proven his point. Maybe he actually felt bad. Maybe it was a bit of both. In any case, while I condone standing up to a bully to get him to stop, apparently the opposite can also work. If only I could do it again I’d surely have spit back in his face and opted for any amount of physical pain over the emotional one I felt in its stead.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

Dude in Headlights: Story of when I ran from a deer!

It was a beautiful summer night. I’d just gotten home from completing an unsuccessful 15-year pursuit of stand-up comedy, and for the first time in 20 years was living with my parents.

Believe it or not I wasn’t terribly depressed. The joy of being no longer in Los Angeles and back home in the greatest city in the world actually outweighed the heartbreak of my dreams’ flushing down the shitter, and the humility of that shitter being the same one I sat on as a 4-year old.

I’d spent the evening with one of my oldest, closest friends, “Biz,” aka. “Riz,” aka. “Do-Riz,” aka. “Adam Rochman” – what a treat. One of the sweetest, funniest human beings you could ever meet, as a kid he was known for smelling all present parties’ butts in immediate investigation of any fart odor. As an adult he’d grown to be one of my idols: a happily married, financially successful man who didn’t live with his parents. Suddenly, I had many idols.  

Riz treated me to the Mets game (his team), whom I felt I could appreciate that much more, having now personally experienced adult failure and disappointment on a such a grand scale. We had a blast.

I don’t recall whether the Mets won or lost, partially because I didn’t care, but also the only person I know who talks more than me is Riz. In fairness we had infinity to catch up on, not the least of which being he was newly pregnant, and supposedly I got the very first reveal. After the game we’d part ways on the 7-train, Riz to his beautiful midtown apartment, I to Mom’s house, via a transfer to the A-train, and another to a brief bus ride on good ol’ Rockland Coaches, the criminally unreliable, dog shit of an undoubtedly going-to-hell bus company that ironically holds a special place in my heart as my medium between home and the city through my juvenile delinquency.

My hometown is just 14 miles from the Bronx, but its suburban landscape makes the Bronx look like Manhattan. From the bus stop were two options… really three:

1.     A two mile walk through the pitch black, deadly silent beyond chirping crickets, a half mile of which is up a huge hill fit only for those just embarking on their first career in life.

2.     A half-mile walk along part of the same route culminating with a 20-yard trek through the miniature forest that set the backdrop for my backyard for all of childhood (MOST POPULAR OPTION).

3.     Get Mom or Dad to pick me up from the bus stop. On the ride home I spoke to my (Jewish) mother who insisted on coming to get me from the bus.

“No, no, are you crazy?” I responded, in an obvious adoption of the martyr role, desperately grasping at any opportunity to feel like a man with some semblance of integrity. I may live with Mom and Dad and have to use their car daily to seek employment, but I’ll be damned if I need a ride home from the bus stop.

We argued for a few minutes like George Costanza and his mother, until finally she gave in. Mom had to wake up early the next morning to go to work for her customary 12-hour day, which helped yield resistance. I would walk home.

It was a beautiful late, summer walk. New York’s weather compares to Los Angeles’ about as closely as Los Angeles’ personality does to New York’s, but the humidity doesn’t much bother me. I looked forward to a before bed shower to wash off the Mets; otherwise I felt great. I listened to Eric B. and Rakim in my headphones, feeling like I could be Rakim, “the Rakim of acupuncture:” my second lifes’ passion (actually third if you include professional skateboarder, which never could have happened).

The final road before the aforementioned forest was always dark, even relative to the suburbs: One of those barely lit suburban back roads where you could streak naked in the middle of the night and it wouldn’t even really count. No one would see you. How do I know? I’ve done it.

As I approached the final bend I came suddenly face to face with her. She was beautiful. My three years in L.A. had been the least successful romantically (and “romantically”) of my life, and I’d so looked forward to dating human beings again on planet Earth once I returned. Of course that was completely irrelevant in the moment, as “she” was a deer. Not even in my weakest California moments would I have done a deer.

While growing up in Rockland County seeing deer was a rare and special treat, not terribly unusual, nor terribly common, as they had plenty of wood area separate from society to have their own society. Magically, we co-existed. Sadly, in the past ten years I’ve noticed deer sightings to be much more common. I see them every day that I visit my folks, and usually not one at a time, not even always on the periphery of the woods. I see them on the block, often standing in groups on the street corner, as if they’re the ones gentrifying our hood, not vice versa, and instead of trendy restaurants they’re selling drugs. “Anti-gentrification?”

I don’t dislike white people. As a matter of fact I consider the expression, “white privilege” to be a form of prejudice, and neo-Liberals as racist as Republicans, just via a different mechanism. My belief is that all cultures are prone to their own unique flaws, and one of white peoples’, in general, is a short sighted tunnel vision of devaluing culture, nature and community in exchange for commerce and material gain. “We” are doing to the deer exactly what we’ve done to Brooklyn in recent years and the Native Americans 500 years ago. 

I digress.

As I looked into the eyes of the lovely beast we both froze, and I realized we both were afraid. The deer wasn’t moving and if I wanted to complete the short cut home I had no choice but to walk in her direction.

“Afraid of a deer?!” said every single fucking person I’ve told this story to.

Yes, afraid of the deer. Why?

Well, for one, I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT DEER. THAT GOOD ENOUGH?! I’m not a fuckin’ veterinarian, nor a zoologist. Sure, I grew up in the suburbs, but now I’ve spent the greater (and latter) half of my life in the city and genuinely feel more nervous walking past a deer on a pitch black street than I do through a housing project in the Bronx. Why? Because I’ve seen people successfully do the latter. Conversely, I’ve never observed another human being walk past a deer, or a monkey or ostrich, or any other wild, Goddamn animal that isn’t sold at pet stores as further accessories of gentrification. I’m aware of reputations, and obviously I was 90% sure I’d be fine if I strolled towards the deer. But is 90% good enough when it comes to being attacked by a beast?! I couldn’t rationalize making such a decision based on hearsay alone.

As we stood there on the dark road, I fully clothed with a miniature suitcase in tow, she vulnerably “buck naked” in my direct path I decided to consult the omniscient web. I took out my phone and googled: “Do deer attack people?”

I expected what George Costanza did when he asked the doctor if his skin discoloration could be Cancerous: “What are you crazy? Deer attack people?! You’re nuts! Get outta here! You’ve got a better chance of her walking up to you and whispering ‘I love you’ in you ear and giving you a $100 bill!”

That wasn’t what it said at all. Instead the top links were much more to the tune of: “Although it is rare…” which was more than enough for me. The last thing I wanted to do was turn and walk back the long way home; then again apparently not. The last thing I wanted to do was get mauled to death by some deer bitch in the suburbs. The second to last thing I wanted was compromise my manly martyrdom and call Mom to come get me, and the third to last thing was retrace my steps and take the long way home. I checked out a few more links, desperately seeking comfort that no deer ever attack anyone. When I didn’t find it, without a moment’s hesitation I turned an about face.

It was a long walk, even longer than the original one from the bus stop to home would have been, including up and down two small hills with my fake-ass/big-ass carry-on bag rolling behind me. Still I chose to not get angry. My temperament and frustration comes up when I’m convinced there’s something better either I or someone else could have done to avoid a crisis. Instead there was no one to blame for this inconvenience. I couldn’t blame the dumb, poor beast for standing in the middle of the street, and the consequential bottom line was just an hour later to bed on this non-school night, because there were no “school nights,” because I was unemployed. Besides, it was hard not to find the humor in the situation.

40 minutes later I’d arrived at my block, this time via the Google Maps car path, and I was relieved. By this time the humidity had begun to get to me, not to the same degree as California’s culture and psychology, but still… I was hot.

I walked down the road that I had literally tens of thousands of times and my childhood home was finally in sight. I was just three houses away when suddenly I noticed directly in my path another Goddamn, FUCKING DEER!

Was it the same one?! I had no idea. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. If it wasn’t then what the hell are all these deer doing all over the streets? If it was then what kind of sick, strategic genius of a deer was I dealing with, and also what the hell are these deer doing all over the streets in the middle of the night? Was I being directly targeted? FUCK!

This time was a greater distance between us, maybe 40 yards. I had more space to run if need be, nevertheless the deer was as frozen in the headlights of my crystal blue eyes as the last one, staring me down from afar, immobile and directly planted in my path home. The situation had become that much more humorous, also that much less so in the experience of the moment.

I side-stepped the road onto my neighbor’s front lawn. I figured in case the deer decided to charge me they had a fence I could hop into their backyard that would offer a tangible barrier between the murderous animal and myself.

I had to make a choice: Swallow any ounce of pride left from my time in L.A. and wake Mom up by calling her to come pick me up two houses from our home in a comical exhibition of cowardice, or risk my life. I took out my phone again, this time not for more Google research but for option A.

“What?!” my poor, exhausted mother exclaimed into the phone. “Where did you say you are?”

Long beat before: “I’m two houses down.”

“A deer?!”

“Yes, a deer, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Obviously I didn’t even want you to pick me up from the bus stop an hour ago, let alone our neighbor’s house now, but I ain’t walking past this deer. I’m just not doing it. I’m sorry.”

“Oh my God, David… really… I’ll be right there.”

It was like I was 17 again and she was picking me up from the police station. It wouldn’t be until the next day, and all of her days to come, that Mom would find the humor in the situation. As if I hadn’t sufficiently disappointed her in life, 38-years old without a girlfriend or dollar to my name, and now I was requesting rides home in the middle of the night out of fear of deer.

The bitch-ass deer scattered as soon as the garage door opened and the engine-fueled car came barreling out. So much for “frozen in headlights.”

Mom picked me up, and the Costanza family dialogue instantly resumed.

“Where’s the deer?! I don’t see any deer!” she demanded.

“What?! It ran when it saw you coming! What do you think I’m lying? I just wanted to wake you up in the middle of the night so I could stand around sweating for ten minutes on the Cahill’s front lawn? You think I’m tellin’ stories about deer?!”

“I think you’re nuts! That’s what I think. A deer?! Really, come on.”

“Well, what the hell do I know about deer?! What am I, a deer expert? I know their behaviors and tendencies?”

“What?”

Mom was tired. She continued though. “Deer do not attack people.”

“That’s not what Google said.”

“Google?!”

“Yes, Google! You know? The world wide web.”

“Oh, God, gimme a break. Deer only attack if you try to attack them.”

“Oh really?! You know that?! What are you, Wildlife Jack--?”

 “—Jack?! Why am I a man? … I’d be Jane. Wildlife Janie.”

Finally we were home. By the time I went to my shower and Mom to sleep I got a laugh out of her, and Dad thoroughly enjoyed the story over breakfast. I have no beef with the deer – only sympathy – as we are both simply products of our environment, theirs’ overrun with American commerce, mine without any life necessity of understanding them. Maybe if we spent more time with the deer and understood they have all the same fears and desires as we do we wouldn’t so thoughtlessly displace them out from their homes, all the while avoiding them interpersonally at all costs. Maybe if the deer had access to better education and greater opportunities then their contributions in the long run would pay even greater dividends than the homogeny of more homes and fancy restaurants. Maybe then the world would be different. I would have succeeded at stand-up comedy and Mom would have slept through the night.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

Old Friends Just Crossing Paths... Wishing It Was More

One of my most valued compliments from my early 20’s came from a pretty female friend telling me: “I wish there was another one of me, so I could sleep with you.”

 Okay, admittedly there are higher compliments, not the least of which being the indirect one of a girl actually sleeping with me with the one of her that does exist; although such instances were few and far between during that time in my life.

I understood what she meant. At the time she’d been sleeping with my best friend and couldn’t bring herself to sleep with the both of us with her same physical structure. I respected that. My boy was better looking than me and got more girls, but often when he kept them around long enough they came to find me very not bad. Girls are impressive like that, in their innate ability to find someone more physically attractive with greater familiarity. Guys are better at sports.

Last night in the train station at W. 4th St. I ran into a former comedy colleague in Liz Miele, and it wasn’t coincidental at all. I’d walked across town from my job on Houston and Forsyth for dinner, basically because I wanted to walk by all the comedy clubs and run into someone I know. Wish granted.

As Liz and I recognized one another on the train platform we simultaneously smiled. She looked rushed, I assumed headed to a show in the local hood. For a moment I wasn’t sure whether we were going to actually stop and chat or just exchange a pleasant greeting and K.I.M. (keep it moving). Liz and I know each other for 15 years, but we’ve probably only been in each other’s presence 50 or 60 times total (as is the case with many comics), and never outside of a show venue. I was happy to see her take her headphones out one ear at a time, and throw her arms up as high as she could for a hug. We would stop and chat.

I began to hear the expression: “It’s good to see you,” long before I realized people ever actually meant it sincerely. I thought it was another colloquial synonym for: “Hi,” like “How ya doing?” or “What up?” I’m grateful for the opposite experience in adulthood to have enlightened me otherwise. It was so good to see Liz.

“Where are you living?” Liz asked, a typical but sincere question people offer in a best effort to connect while passing on the street.

I told her I was living with my girlfriend, to which she responded: “Great!”

I asked her where she was living but didn’t get an answer. Was she homeless? No, she was flustered. I could tell she had to go, so I cut her off in order to liberate her social obligation.

“You got a spot, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead,” I encouraged her, but could tell she didn’t want to leave me. Liz is so fucking sweet. But she’s also fucking funny, and had to go to her spot.

“Okay, okay,” she panicked, desperately scrambling for some way to make the world different than it is… “I’ll text you… or I’ll— I dunno. I want to be friends!” and we laughed at how unfiltered and lovely it was. She went to her show. I went home.

I almost cried before I got on the train. I wished the world wasn’t the way it was. I wished there was another one of me – actually eight or nine others – the first of whom would do comedy again, full-time. The others wouldn’t work at all, but would simply spend time sitting and reminiscing with the many loved ones I’ve come across, not only in comedy, but all the jobs I’ve had – all the people I’ve been so touched by and been fortunate enough to touch in return.

When I was in my early 20’s and the highest compliment I’d get was of hypothetical sexual interest I thought the experience of love was reserved only for family, significant others, and close friends with whom I spent every waking hour and considered soul mates. I’m grateful to realize, now entering my early 40’s, the opposite experience. I can love people I’ve known very briefly, bus boys who I worked with for only a few months in California, receptionists who only saw me part-time at my first job back in New York; plenty of people who couldn’t be further from soul mates with whom I’ve barely spent a full week’s time with. How do I know I love them? I don’t know. I just do.

I love Liz, in spite of not knowing her so well, maybe because I know her for so long, or because we shared a concurrent journey, and what a journey it is. My experience is that it is easier to fall in love with people when you’ve shared mutual vulnerability, regardless of whether your personalities would be compatible outside of the work place. While a “work friend” to me used to mean someone I didn’t like enough to be a real friend, it now often means someone I wish there was another one of me to become best friends forever with.

I love many of my old comedian friends, and often wonder if it’s not the fraternity I miss even more than performing. Probably not, but it’s surely a component. I miss the grumbling ciphers by the bar, a circle of comics either talking shop or talking shit; whining about how awful the business is, how awful their life is or their latest bit is going. I miss the misery, admittedly, I can be honest about that now. I don’t miss the nightly late nights, the daily rejection and hopeless fear of ultimate failure, but I do miss a lot of the grind and hilarious cynicism that comes with it.

“Get back into it,” say to me only laypeople - never other comics - because comics know better. Laypeople have no idea the energy comedy sucks from your soul and havoc it wreaks on your physiology and central nervous system. It’s unhealthy, objectively, and most comics who I’ve run into and relayed my retirement status to have replied: “Congratulations, dude, good for you.” They get it.

I got a random text from Zach Sherwin about a month ago with a picture of a sign in L.A. with my last name on it. This is one of the few great things about texting and iphone technology: More peripheral friends from your past who ordinarily might balk at actually taking the time to call send cute expressions of “hello” out of the blue. It lets you know they’re thinking of you, and forces you to think of them, which otherwise might not happen. It’s sweet.

Zach Sherwin is another great comic and an old friend from Los Angeles. We couldn’t have done more than ten shows together and definitely didn’t meet up for lunch outside of show settings more than five times. But we loved each other way before the respective fifth and tenth instances. We had a lot in common. We’re both comedians, both white nerds who grew up loving hardcore hip hop, though my façade betrays the latter a bit better than his. We also both shared a passion for the subjective realm: Buddhist philosophy, astrology, psychedelic plant medicine and such; most of all we loved talking to each other. I felt we admired each other, and I was so flattered to be admired by someone so great, which is pretty much the definition of friendship. It’s pretty much the definition of love, and I so wish there was another one of me who could just sit around and relish in these relationships and dynamics, but that isn’t how the world works.

Thanks for stopping, Liz. I want to be friends too.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

Memories Of Pops (M.O.P.)

My Dad loved going to sleep to the sound of the rain, which he ensured I’d never forget, as he said it almost every time it was raining at bedtime. Who knew his repetition would be such a blessing, as I am reminded of my pops on each night that it rains (good thing I moved back from L.A.)?

 My father loved Neil Diamond. I think that’s one of my earliest memories, being “dragged” to a “Neil” concert at Madison Square Garden, and I couldn’t have been a day older than seven. I put dragged in quotes because Dad didn’t have to drag me anywhere. He was my hero; I would have followed him any place. I put Neil in quotes because once Dad liked someone enough for long enough they were on a first name basis. After that they’d graduate to some affectionate nickname, including for my sister, Jenny, he’d always greet with: “Ferman!” as in “Jenni-ferman.”

Cracklin Rosie and I Am, I Said, those were Dad’s jams, and although he would have gladly donated his limbs to divide amongst all of his kids, he would equally quickly shush any and all conversation whenever one of his jams came on. The volume was up, windows down, shades on, and my elder father, the self-proclaimed “Fossil,” was instantly and consistently 30 years old again.

We’d arrive at our destination and always knew so once we heard one of Dad’s signature exclamations: “Throw out the hook!” That meant get out of the car.

My father shared a birthday with Biggie Smalls, and maybe it was no coincidence that he so enjoyed word play and linguistics. Some of it was Italian or Yiddish, the latter borrowed from Mom’s side of the fam, but other regularly used words or expressions neither my brother nor I have heard anywhere else: 

1.     Gudalia (phonetic sp?), basically meant any kind of leftover scrap, or maybe most literally translated as “thing.” Eg. He’d point to the corner of your lip during dinner: “Ya got a little gudalia there on the side of your mouth.”

2.     Schmendrick: Term of endearment for anyone he feels needs to be reminded of their carelessness or stupidity.

3.     Weirdly: My brother.

4.     Fossil: Himself.

5.     Gavalt! Shit!

6.     Foccacta: Fuckin’

Dad was a chef, great on the barbeque, but most famous for Sunday night spaghetti bolognese and garlic bread, a recipe passed down from his mom, and rejoiced over by all extended family as well; and he’d bottle up extra sauce to give to loved ones each week. 

He was insensitive to individual sleep requirements, subsequently famous for shouting up from the bottom of the stairs at whatsoever hour he finished making breakfast: “Motion! Motion, you guys! I wanna hear motion up there!” An ex-girlfriend of mine once slept over and was so scared and confused that she just started shuffling her legs back and forth in place. “What’s happening?” she asked. “Why motion?” Breakfast is ready.

Dad was a dad. He loved his scotch and beer, and later on wine by the liter when Mom disallowed the former. He loved sports and Playboy magazine, and I was always grateful that issues of the latter were never disallowed. I recall my first experiences of comfort having a beer with my father on our back deck. However socially pathological, it felt good to be acknowledged as a man, accepted as a peer, subtly welcomed into the next stage of life. 

Dad loved his BMW’s, and although we weren’t wealthy (wealth is relative), he ensured during my first 13 or 14 years that the “company car” lease was a “Beemer.” My vague memories are of the red 3-series, but later on, assumedly with promotions, he graduated to the 735i. I recall my friends being impressed, and I was so proud.

Everyone everywhere truly loved him. I think it was partially for this reason that it made it all the more sadder later in life when his faculties waned to the point of compromising his capacity for interaction. What has life done with my father? I would think, typically alternating between frustration and acceptance. 

I don’t know if we were spoiled, nor do I necessarily know if spoiled is necessarily wrong, so long as your kids understand they have to work. But Dad surely spoiled us in the sense of doing anything in the world for his kids, and I hope I some day get to pay forward his selflessness with even half as much heart. 

I have few memories of playing a little league baseball or soccer game without Dad there, cheering me on. Maybe he’d occasionally show up late from his morning golf outing, of which I was always curious to know his score, and I knew it wasn’t as good when his response was: “I hit some nice shots.” That meant over 90. Yikes.

Some of my favorite childhood memories were of our trips together to Giants Stadium, usually about five per year, as my younger brother was too young and older brother too old, plus lived separately with Dad’s first wife. I used to get so excited once I started recognizing the navigation to the game, then even more excited for the hot dogs and soda and hot chocolate, and reminders: “Just one more. Don’t tell your mother.”

In my rebellious years when I’d get arrested for shoplifting or graffiti Dad was always the one to come and pick me up, as Mom wanted to leave me in the holding cell for as long as possible. He never yelled, never hit or berated me for my actions, instead just shook his head and tried talking to me like an adult. The next day I’d find a nice letter from him on my bed, gently inquiring what was wrong, offering his help, reminding me that he loved me. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to hear you, Pop.

When I grew up and started doing comedy Dad was my biggest fan, an inversion of roles I’ve come to believe indicates success, and most of our trips to Giants games were spent eagerly discussing my shows from the week. Incidentally it was originally his idea to begin this blog, or “diary” as he called it, to document my journey.

Dad was a great writer. He looked forward to writing cards and letters to his old friends, mostly his fellow alumni, fellow fossils from Colgate University and Trinity Pawling Boarding School, where his own mom had sent him in response to his own juvenile mischief. He loved to read, mostly biographies on political or sports figures he admired, loved the written word and it loved him back. When phone conversation became more difficult in his final years, we’d exchange emails, at least one per week and I try not to beat myself up for not being more consistent.  

Though I begged to stay in New York, Mom forced me to go to college in D.C., mostly because I’d gotten into a great school that she insisted I try. When I promptly returned after my one-semester “try” my GPA was uncharacteristically low, and I wasn’t even accepted into City University. Dad immediately drove into Manhattan with my high school transcript and SAT scores, and made a logical plea to the dean of students to just give his son a shot. They agreed, and four years later I graduated with Honors from Baruch College. Unfortunately, because of the extra time we had to spend in the admissions office Dad’s car was towed to the 12th Ave. impound, thereby bumping the price of that first semester tuition up another $100.

What can I say, but I loved my father? Apparently he loved me, all of his children quite a bit, and I’m just so grateful, so fortunate and blessed to have had one of the good ones - one of the great ones. I can’t think of any more appropriate way to close than with one of my favorite spiritual mantras for interpersonal closure: I’m sorry, I forgive you, I thank you, I love you.

Love,

David  

[davidfostercomedyblog]

The Thrill of Defeat: Remembering Dad

In his later years it was rare to get a call from Dad after 6pm, as dinner was followed up with TV and (more) wine, a formulaic pair that apparently facilitates the body’s evening intention the way coffee and eggs do its mornings, even more so with age.

It took us a while, but my brother and I both eventually learned to avoid calling him after this time, lest be reminded, via the perfect storm of decreased attention span and auditory acuity, of our father’s mortality. Dad became notorious for the abruptly terminated, 40-second phone calls, that always went something like:  

“Hey son, how ya doing? You’re good? Work’s good?”

 “Yeah, Dad, all’s pretty--“

 “Okay, gimme a call this week, I love ya, goodbye.”

“Err… what? Hello?”

So to say it came as a surprise when I saw his name pop up under “incoming” on my phone at around 10:30 one weeknight last summer would be an understatement. I looked in utter confusion at my girlfriend seated next to me on the couch.

“Who is it?” she asked, her eyes big with that classic Jewish worry, unfounded terror, which has been part of what I’ve fallen in love with, probably not so ironically.

“It’s my Dad,” I said, and relief washed over her.

“Hello?”

“Heyyy, son.”

“Hey… Dad,” the skepticism in my response as thick as if he’d walked out on us when I was six and this was the first I’m hearing from him.

“I wanted to talk to you about something about myself, if you have a minute,” and terror washed back over my face. Dad was sensitive and loving, though in typical white man fashion, not much one for emotional communication. He’d smother us with hugs and kisses and recklessly screw up our hair with an affectionate hand, but vulnerable dialogue around self-awareness was not a usual part of his repertoire. “So what could this possibly be about… at 10pm (the Dad equivalent to 4am)?”

“I think,” he started, “and by all means tell me if I’m off here…” (I already presumed he was)… “Have you ever noticed about me… well, I think I may get a bit too affected by the outcome of ballgames, you know? Like the Yankees and Giants… I may get too upset when they lose. Have you ever noticed that about me?” 

My jaw dropped to an open grin as I turned to my girl. It was like Michael Jackson asking if he may have had too much plastic surgery; or Tony Montana in the last scene of Scarface wondering if he has a coke problem. 

After the Giants lost a heartbreaking playoff game to the 49ers in 2002 my mom at the dinner table chose to find the humor in the situation: “Well, at least the Jets are still in it,” she offered as a sarcastic silver lining, knowing full well that Dad hated the Jets even more than he did the Red Sox or Cowboys.

“How would you like a fuckin’ bottle of wine broken over your face?” Dad asked Mom, and the only reason we knew he was joking was his unblemished record of non-violence. Dad was a good man, but an even better Giants fan, with little to no sense of humor around losses and disappointment.

Mom laughed him off; Dad shook his head, smiling in Jack Nicholson-like madness.

“They give me gray hairs, I tell ya, son. They give me gray hairs. I had a full head of black hair before I started watching the Giants, you know that?”

Well, I would hope so. Before you started watching them you were 9 years old.

I have vague childhood memories of dinners taking on a different tone after bad losses, and more vivid, recent memories of Dad cursing out the television if the Yankees give up even one run with a six run lead, all while sitting pretty in first place in the middle of May. I guess if you could say anything for him it’s that he lived in the moment. No matter what was going on in the game or where we were in the season, Dad was invested. A missed free throw or a four-pitch walk, especially after the Yankees had just taken the lead, and Dad’s signature catharsis would appear, a right foot slammed into the floor concurrent with the same side hand slammed into the same side (bad) knee, accompanied of course by the expletive of the moment.

My brother once remarked: “What is that move? I’ve never seen anyone else with that move before.”

That’s Dad’s move.

Dad cared, not just about the Yankees and Giants, and (20th century) Knicks, but that much more about his family, his five kids, which is likely why his passion for the game(s) was so infectious. My friend, Nick Cobb, is a hilarious stand-up comedian, who does a great bit on how absurd it is to be emotionally invested in a sports event, and every time he recites it I’m reminded of how different he and I are; how different people are; and I’m reminded of Dad.

Nick’s absolutely right. It’s illogical and immature, a tad bit insane to feel such fury around a group of guys you’ve never met before scoring less points than another such group of guys just because the former group wear shirts that have your hometown written on them. It’s probably only a notch above the animalistic frequency that propagates slavery and war, and presently our preposterous presidential debacle. Fortunately sports are much more a source of integration and celebration, and although ultimately insignificant in the higher realms of spirituality, they serve a positive purpose, if in no other way as a superficial means towards deeper connection.

In our final meal together Dad played all his classic hits: Asking me about my career, the logistics of my upcoming week, and of course if I’d been watching the Yankees playoff games. Obviously I had, and in his final days (really his final years) sports was the only subject matter about which we seemed to still communicate on an equal plain. Because of his waning faculties coupled with a general lack of understanding of the modern business climate, I often felt unfulfilled by our dialogue around my job; like it was tedious and too surface and any time I tried to delve deeper I’d lose him, frustrated between sympathy for and impatience with my father. It looks quite difficult, growing old, but also in the words of Michael Corleone (in another of our common bonds): “It’s not easy to be a son, Fredo.”

I am my father, through and through, not just according to my mom, but also in my own moments of self-reflection. When Scott Norwood missed wide right and the Giants won Super Bowl 25 Dad spent approximately five minutes crouched over the television set giving Marv Levy the middle finger, screaming at the top of his lungs: “Fuck you, Marv! FUCK YOU!” It’s a memory most etched into my brother’s mind, who was eight at the time, presumably cowering under the living room table; and we’ve since reflected as to what the exact beef was with Marv. As far as we know, Levy was a good guy, a great coach and had never harmed any women, children or small animals. Nevertheless, you wouldn’t have known as much to watch Dad berate him through the screen on what was surely one of the best days of his life.

17 years later when Plaxico Burress caught the game-winning touchdown in Super Bowl 42 to solidify the Giants’ win and ruin the Patriots’ perfect season I sprinted out of my cousin’s bedroom (I’d been watching the final quarter in a dark room by myself while our entire family sat sanely together just ten feet away) and thrust my 180 pound frame into the air to collapse upon my unprepared loved ones on the couch. I hurt my brother’s knee, then ran into the room and destroyed my bed frame. In the days after the parade I was experiencing such severe chest pains that I had to go to the hospital. All tests were negative. I just had to calm down.

My opinion is that one of our main purposes in life is to take as much of our parents’ good as possible, and leave as much of the bad. This is a goal I think I’ve at least matured into in the realm of sports, as I still celebrate the joy of victory, but don’t as much attach myself to the agony of defeat. Whereas I once punched a gaping hole in my bedroom wall when John Starks went 3/19 in Game 7, and had to sit in silent memoriam for almost an hour when Mariano blew the save to the Diamondbacks in ‘01, I find in recent years that I have an easier time moving on.

“It’s just not worth it,” I explained to Dad on the phone. “Like, we’re so lucky to be Giants fans, and God bless us, Yankees fans - overall, we’re quite spoiled, and get the opportunity to celebrate much more often than other fans. And I have you to thank for that! So I think it’s important to keep in mind going into these games that winning is a luxury that we just can’t expect to happen the majority of the time. It’s impossible. This isn’t to be negative, but just a bit realistic in our expectations so as to better, achem… manage our emotions… you know?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Had he fallen asleep? “Dad?”

“Yeah, I think you’re right… So you have noticed that about me then?”

LOL! “Yes, I think that’s fair to say. I mean, I think it’s great, and it’s a passion you’ve passed down to me, which I appreciate, but I think it’s important to keep things in perspective. Like I may get mad at a playoff game, a win-or-the-season’s-over kind of game, but I don’t allow myself to get angry at a regular season baseball game, of which there are 162! I think that’s an important distinction.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” he responded. “I think that’s good advice, son. I’m gonna try to remember that,” and in characteristic fashion he told me he loved me, hung up and was gone, all before I could fully reciprocate: “I love you.”

Nevertheless I believed him. I’d spent years trying to convince him to eat healthier, to drink less (alcohol) and more water, and really never got through. But one five-minute conversation on a random summer weeknight and I suspected it was actually transformative. It was less than two months before he passed away, and it might sound silly, but I wonder if it wasn’t one of the last lessons Dad had to learn before moving on. Everything about it was just so odd, the timing in relation to his death, the timing of the phone call and energy of his response.

Like anyone who’s lost a parent, I think about Dad often, but especially after Yankees wins, which was always the best time to catch him, in good enough spirits to occasionally generate a call doubly as long, even multiple minutes! I realize I miss sharing that with him. I miss being able to connect with him, as after certain games I still observe my mind’s kneejerk reaction: Call Dad – but I can’t anymore. I’m so lucky, so grateful, to have had the father I did for as long as I did, whose good was so good, and bad was at worst just sort of hilarious, and promise to do my best to continue to celebrate like a fool, but also to not adopt his move of the foot slam/hand into knee slam. That’s Dad’s move.

[davidfostercomedyblog]

Sugar: The New Smoking

After freshman year of college my Probation Officer issued me a final warning: If one more marijuana test came back positive I’d be “in violation” and imprisoned. I thought I would never quit weed, nor would I be able to if I had to; but apparently we can do just about anything, depending on the definition of “have to.” I was terrified of sobriety – just not as much as I was of jail. After having smoked all day, everyday for three years I quit cold turkey for the following two.

Once Probation was over I figured I’d go back, but when I tried our relationship had changed. She changed, or I had, or we both had and she didn’t love me anymore. What had been my favorite thing in the world suddenly induced feelings of panic and anxiety, and it took a few years of stubborn attempts (like all pathological relationships) before finally I gave up. It wasn’t until weed was out of my life that I discovered my passion for stand-up comedy; which lead to my performing all over the world, including on HBO and several other networks; which lead to my meeting the girl that introduced me to Chinese Medicine.

In spite of having now spent the last decade of life on the more health conscious side of the spectrum I’d never until recently explored any radical diet of complete abstinence. For New Year’s, 2018, at the behest of my teacher, Dr. Frank Butler, I decided to jump the Keto bandwagon. This meant for the first time in my life no bread. No pasta, no rice or potatoes (not even yams!), absolutely no sugar whatsoever. I was terrified again, then equally shocked that I’ve kept it up, though grateful, as what I’ve already learned about my/the human body just may have saved my life.

I was four weeks into “ketosis” when I went to visit a friend who manages Gustiamo, an incredible Italian food exporter in the South Bronx, and in typical Italian fashion he insisted on showering me with samples. Sample after sample of literally the greatest olive oil that’s ever grazed my palette, and who was I to turn down such generosity? I didn’t hesitate when he passed me what I assumed was vinegar.

Wrong. It was Saba.

What’s Saba?

“Isn’t that incredible?” John phrased his statement to me as a question.

My eyes got as wide as they’re capable of getting, as I’d never tasted anything like it before. Such savory, delicious, sweet vinegar!

That’s because it’s not vinegar, schmuck.

“It’s like a syrup,” John explained, “made by cooking down grape must,” and he walked away in his own personal mic drop, leaving me alone with the experience.

Suddenly I felt awful.

No, that’s an oversimplification. I didn’t feel awful. 90% of my body felt fine, but I was overcome with an uncomfortable head rush, not dissimilar to my own expression of anxiety that has intermittently plagued my past 17 years. I was barely able to think. I picked up the bottle to read its ingredients. It was all in Italian, but hey, I’ve seen the Godfather over 100 times; and I speak Spanish.

In Spanish sugar is “azucar.” This bottle of saba had 38 grams of “zucchero,” and I felt like I’d just drank them all. Meanwhile I hadn’t even drank 10% of them. Still, I was legitimately trashed, almost as if on a bad weed high, and almost hesitated to drive home when it was time 15 minutes later.

The “high” lasted two hours, but the lesson will stick with me forever. Either I suffer from a degree of insulin resistance I’d be well advised to take heed of, or sugar is poison, or a bit of both. I’ve since had three similar experiences as a result of the notorious, “hidden sugar” in restaurant foods, and once even from too many organic blueberries! I feel like a kid again, but instead of my Probation Officer, I’ve got an acupuncturist trying to steer me towards a better self.  

How long do M&M’s stay good for unrefrigerated? What about refrigerated?

The answer to these questions is all you have to know to never eat M&M’s (or anything shelved adjacent to them) ever again. The fact that they don’t spoil should inform us: This is not food, in spite of it being edible. The fact that we can inhale and exhale cigarette smoke doesn’t make it oxygen, right? So, why do we eat junk?

Basically because it’s been in our faces for our entire lives so most of us don’t feel its negative effects immediately after consuming it. In every store window and school cafeteria, on every shelf in every convenient store and practically every home we’ve been in has been some form of edible toxicity… that all happens to be delicious to boot! Whether consciously or not, this creates in us some degree of acceptance, that although we’re aware of its (lack of) quality, how bad could it be, really?

What if we weren’t conditioned as such? What if sugar had always held the same stigma that cigarettes now hold? What if the companies couldn’t advertise, the prices on M&M’s went up to $12/pack, and every night on TV, just after the commercial depicting a smoker dying of Emphysema was a sugar addict suffering in Diabetic coma? Instead we’ve been fed (no pun intended) the opposite message.

In the wise words of Malcolm X: “You’ve been had! Ya been took! Ya been hoodwinked! Bamboozled! Led astray! Run amok! This is what he does!”

Obviously Malcolm was talking about the white man’s doings to black people, though I believe an equally accurate accusation is of the rich man’s doings to all of the masses. At some point big corporations realized they could turn a much bigger profit if they made cheaper food that didn’t expire, obviously sans regard for how it might impact the human body. Typically, competitive companies turned copycat, and the marketplace was flooded with these new forms of “food” that were even more addictive. As a more aware adult I find a good rule of thumb to be: Always suspect the product(s) being put out by the best businessmen, for what are the chances that the most clever marketing minds are also the most physiologically aware? Too many of us exist under the blind impression that we’re not under constant attack by big business. We walk into stores that sell junk and instead of seeing poison we see options. We assume if something is all over the place: How bad could it be? Neglecting the fact that equally all over the place are irredeemable diseases that logically should not be ruining so many people in a country so wealthy.

One of the most dangerous platitudes recycled in regards to diet is: “Everything in moderation,” a true fave of people who love their vices. One of my favorite rebuttals came from my teacher, Jason Ginsberg: “Yeah, everything in moderation… Including moderation. It means moderation can work, but to paint a broad stroke as a dietary prescription for all is as irresponsible as eating something that doesn’t expire.

Some people have allergic responses to substances that would make moderation as harmful as would its opposite. Others have longstanding, complicated conditions that require everything they ingest be as clean as possible in order to have any chance at a full recovery. Should a 40-year old with an autoimmune disease be allotted moderation in the same way as a 25-year old athlete in great shape? We must define moderation, which is impossible, which is why it is dangerous. Its huge subjectivity and subsequent dosage being determined by non- professionals couldn’t possibly qualify as a “balanced diet.” Are cigarettes in moderation okay? What about fast food? If sugar is as toxic as studies show it seems like introducing it into the body every day could have as negative of an effect as daily vegetables would a positive. Therefore, if you are navigating through any serious illness a more effective approach would probably be abstinence. As for myself, the notion of never having another Manhattan bagel or pizza, or my brother’s delicious pasta terrifies me even more than any anxiety attack, but if nothing else I’ve already learned one thing from my Saba-interrupted ketosis: I’ll never eat sugar again.

I have patients come into the clinic all the time requesting “the herbal formula for weight loss”, or that I do “the point for headaches,” or heartburn or anxiety. Do these exist? Yes, there are approaches Chinese Medicine offers for the various patterns that express such symptoms. However, in my opinion much more valuable than adding remedies to our problems would be subtracting the original sources of said problems. The Latin translation of “doctor” is educator. This implies that any health practitioner who is only offering additional intake for patients, not suggesting any omissions is doing at most half the job; for a particular herb that might assist weight loss can at best only break even against the inflammatory effects of sugar. Less is more, a cliché many Americans refuse to accept, as most of the cases I see are a result of too much of a bad thing, as opposed to not enough of a good. We’re the richest country in the world. We’ve got plenty of the good. We’ve just got too much bad as well.