Well, I’ve already gone on the record as not being interested in going to Coachella, not because the lineup of bands wasn’t exciting but because I wasn’t interested in the discomforts involved in the crowds, heat, overpriced food, lines for port-a-potties, mobs waiting to get on shuttles back to the expensive motel/condo and general fatigue involved with spending 8 hours a day watching bands. This first weekend of Coachella, my decision was cemented when I plugged my laptop into my TV to watch the almost-live-stream of Coachella Live on YouTube, what some in the internet snarkosphere have dubbed “Couchella.” Get it? Couch instead of “Coach.” I know! Puns! Anyways, Couchella essentially eliminated the one reason I might have wanted Coachella: the fear of missing out on a big cultural event in real time.
Ok, so I guess we’ll be the “Couchella” generation
Stay cool: 10 rules to follow with all your heartstrings
So the main problem with getting older is that a lot of people tend to get way less cool. We all know about it and fear that it can “happen” to us. In contrast to these types though, we also all know a handful of people who defy the odds and actually get cooler as they age. These are some of the things they do, which you can do, too, if that’s something you’re into.
A few reasons why you’re too old to ‘sext’ anyone
A couple years ago, when news stories of the kids these days, with their newfangled camera phones, texting each other grainy pictures of their bits and pieces, taken with their cell phone cameras, I was like, “Yeah, that’s not reeeaaallly a thing.” I just thought it was one of those things that happen a couple times and then the media blew it out of proportion. To quote The Roots song, ‘Rising Down’, “They probably chalk it up as a disturbing new trend.” And then, last year, when Tony Weiner didn’t understand that Twitter wasn’t private and instagrammed his schlong to the whole world, turning NYC’s newsmedia into an ebulliently drooling puppy the process, I just assumed he was a weirdo. However, over the past couple of weeks, I’ve come to the conclusion that ‘sexting’ is actually a thing.
New York City’s parents are like children
Like most performers who’ve made their way in the big city, I’ve had many side jobs. While the majority of my peers seem to wait tables, I prefer dealing with whiny children as opposed to whiny adults. I babysit.
I’m the eldest (isn’t ‘eldest’ much more prestigious than ‘oldest’?) of three and my mother worked providing child-care, so it comes naturally. I’m excellent at imagination games and improvising stories, an under-demanded skill beyond the playground. Being good at make-believe doesn’t exactly instill one with a sense of superiority, but as I met the city’s elite children, a miraculous thing happened.
10 rules for visiting your superhome
These are rules to follow when you go home to your childhood birthplace or where you pretty much grew up or as some put, it your “superhome”. My father is hacking and coughing in the background as I write this because, yes, he is turning 70 and yes, that’s what they do. If/when you are coerced into visiting your parents I find these things to be very helpful. Not kidding he’s still coughing and he told me this terrible ailment was due to his “sinuses” earlier in the car. Well, what do I know?
- DO BRING YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER HOME WITH YOU – I find that this lessens the blow of your parents’ criticisms and in the case of only children (like me) gives you an ally in the “fight.” Your significant other, depending on the time you’ve been together, probably totally gets it and makes for a great partner in crime with their winks and text messages back in forth in the back seat of the car while your parents are bickering with each other about the volume of the music. If your parents like this person, that’s an added bonus because they’ll probably will feel less like embarrassing themselves or you around them. However, you never know. You just don’t.… KEEP READING!
Obscure buzzbands are terrible for dance parties and/or making friends
Not too many years ago, I was what you might call a pretentious music snob. I bought imported vinyl from new bands, and out-of-print pressings from those long disbanded (Modern Lovers b-sides, anyone?) Not only did I DJ at my college radio, I had the top listenership. And I was on the board of directors.
I took great pride in knowing more about music than any of my friends. I became an obsessive consumer and curator of taste. I could instantly pick out new bands worth listening to from the ones that were mediocre or just weren’t going to be around in a year. But one day, I realized something: I wasn’t having fun. Everything I knew told me I shouldn’t enjoy the music that made me feel the best, and I didn’t want to relate to the people who knew the random obscure crap that I couldn’t believe I was saying.
But here’s the thing.
10 things about my 30s I’m looking forward to
I turn 30 this year, and rather then live in denial, or act like I’m depressed about it, I’m choosing to get excited about it. Here’s a few things I’m genuinely excited about.
Friends getting divorced. To all my married friends who see this, I want you to know that I am sincerely happy about your marriages. I thoroughly enjoyed your wedding, think your wife/husband is terrific and am overjoyed you’ve committed to your life partner. However, let’s be real. Statistics show that half of you aren’t gonna make it, and if that’s the case for you, let me just say I hope it happens this decade, while we’re all still young enough to revel in it. I’m envisioning we’ll help you get over your failed marriage with last minute trips to Vegas or Montreal or Madrid. I’m gonna help my newly divorced friends open a new life chapter with drinks, food, music and reveling in the good life. It’s gonna be great.
Yeah, I’ve seen too many independent movies.
How to be an asshole at the artisan coffee bar
Let me preface this post by saying on the scale between coffee slobs and coffee snobs, I probably land closer on the snob side of the spectrum. I live in San Francisco, home to, like, half a dozen different obnoxiously hip, artisan coffee roasters, and so I’ve been conditioned to enjoy a machiatto with a neat little design in it and to prefer an individually prepared cup of coffee over a large breaw. Even the pretentiousness of baristas, who refuse to, say, use skim milk in a cappuccino I find amusing. And when I leave the city, and am iphone-searching to find a coffee house where I can get a nice coffee drink, I know to look for someplace that brews Stumptown (Portland) or Intelligentsia (LA) or Blue Bottle (SF), because I know the coffee will be delicious and the atmosphere will (probably) be appealing.
How to have a drink at the bar by yourself
There’s no shame in drinking by your self at the bar. I’ve done it often, when traveling or killing time before meeting someone or, I dunno, wallowing in personal despair. However, I admit I used to be self-conscious about what I looked like, goofy Jewish guy nursing a high-life by himself, while people on dates or hanging out with coworkers surrounded me. Maybe everyone sizes each other up at the bar like I do, or maybe everyone just goes about their business. Either way, I’ve spent an hour or two at the bar enough times to know how to do it with something approaching class. So with that, I humbly submit my rules, which if you follow, you won’t look like a complete asshole. Unless, you already do, in which case, I can’t help you.
1. Don’t play with your phone.
This is a big one. It’s cool to occasionally check your phone for a new message or quickly respond to one, but sitting at the bar, by yourself, scrolling through your Facebook feed or playing Draw Something is a bad look. Next time you’re at the bar, look around at the solo flyers. The glare of the iPhone reflects their sadness, does it not?
How to be an asshole at a mixology bar
Last weekend, a group of friends and I were encouraged to check out a craft cocktail spot in Lower Manhattan (that will remain unnamed) by a friend who is into mixology and had read that the spot had good cocktails. There were a couple warning signs that this maybe wasn’t the place to bring 7 people who were already drunk, hungry and ready for Brooklyn – the bouncer who asked if we had a reservation, the white table cloths, the model hot waitresses. However, I remained optimistic, right up until the point when the spot in question turned me into a perfect asshole, and not in the way it’s supposed to.
The source of my cheap-beer elitism
When I was 15, I drank micro brews. Sure, if the only other beer around was Pabst or Milwaukee’s Best, I’d drink it, but not without a bit of pretentious grumblings.
I suppose it made me feel sophisticated to like well-crafted products. I had an Esquire subscription that Henry Goldman got me for my birthday, and I actually read it. I was far from wearing English-cut three-piece suits at that point. I wore jeans and a t-shirt, or sometimes my girlfriend’s pajamas. I wasn’t fashionable and I wouldn’t have been able to tell you the difference between a California Sauvignon Blanc and one from the Marlborough region of New Zealand . . . But I was a beer snob.