Monthly Archives: February 2011

I learned the term “fascism” at a very young age and, while I didn’t quite understand what it meant, I was bright enough to ascertain that most people around me thought it was bad.  I probably gleaned this information from a classmate of mine who told me, “Fascism is bad.”

The same classmate informed me that he believed our elementary school teacher was a fascist; and sure enough, I started to see signs that he was correct.  She’d say –

Teacher: “Now remember, everybody: be quiet in the library.  Discipline is very important.”
Josh: {Gasp, then sotto} “The fascists valued discipline.”
Teacher: “Once we’re done here, we’ll go back to class and pick a strong leader for our softball team.”
Josh: {Gasp, then sotto} “The fascists valued strong leadership.”
Teacher: “After that, I’ll explain why the flawed system we call ‘capitalism’ inevitably oppresses the proletariat.”
Josh: {Gasp, then} “Wait.  No. She’s just a Marxist.”

When I was in college, I went clubbing once.

“Clubbing” is the gerund form of the verb “to club,” meaning to have one’s remaining self-esteem ripped away in a sweaty, soulless environment — not to be confused, of course, with the verb’s other meaning: to beat people with clubs…which, nine times out of ten, makes for a much more enjoyable evening.

* * *

A little background: before this experience, I hadn’t been to a dance since high school — a dance that took place at a video arcade.  The decision to hold prom at Crista’s Coin Castle was particularly awful because not only could a girl shoot down my request to boogie in order to play “Space Invaders,” but the rejection would be accompanied by sound effects.

Josh: “You wanna dance?”
Girl: “No.”
Spade Invaders: “Eeeeeeewww…BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!”

To make matters worse, my date that year was April June, an anorexic Mormon who had a voice resembling my cockatoo when the bird became scared –

Martina, the cockatoo: {flapping her wings} “EEEEErrrrrr!!!”

I couldn’t turn down April, though, because, you know, she had no volume control.  (Wah, wah, waaaaah…)

Still, I accepted the invitation.  I didn’t want to be mean.  So, I just talked shit behind her back –

Josh: “I’m going to prom with April.”
Friend: “I’m sorry.”
Josh: “You’re sorry?!  What makes you think I’m not excited?”
Friend: “Josh, let me put this in Jewish terms for you:  there’s not enough Manashewitz in the world to make that girl attractive.” {then} “Plus, she sounds like your cockatoo.”

* * *

April came to my house that night and everyone took pictures.  Except my mom who said –

My mom: “Why do I need a picture?  I already know what shit looks like.”

She was kidding….I hope.

I put on the corsage.  April’s like –

April: “Ow!  Josh, you’re missing the dress.”
Josh: “Missing.  Yeah.  Where’s the jugular vein again?”
April: {flapping her arms like a bird} “EEEEErrrrrr!!!”

* * *

The dance was awkward as hell because this good little Mormon girl starts bumping and grinding and freaking and dry humping me like it’s Easter Sunday and I’m just thinking –

Josh: “I hope she doesn’t try to kiss me later.” {grinding forcefully} “We’d be moving waaaay too fast.”

And there’s nothing like dancing five feet away from the 7-foot tall security guard who goes by the name “Hammer.”  …who also happens to be April’s mother.

Despite my feeling that I was being punished for being nice, there was one moment of excitement.  Brittany, the girl I always liked in high school, approached me at the dance.  She said –

Brittany: “Josh?”
Josh: “Yeah?”
Brittany: “Do you know where Matt is?  I wanna fuck him.”
Josh: “No, Brittany, I don’t…but would you dance with me?”
Brittany: “Josh, it’s nothing personal, but when I dance with someone, I like to feel their chest muscles against me, and you don’t have any.”
Josh: “That’s totally personal.”
Brittany: “Oh.  Right.”
Josh: “I wasted four years fantasizing about your shallow ass just so you could tell me that?  Well you know what, Brittany?  I’m sorry you feel that way.”
Brittany: “And I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Devastating.

* * *

But somehow, despite my past, I am riding in a car headed toward a club with my friend Brandon who turns to me and says –

Brandon: “Get excited.  It’s Jew night!”

Now there’s a part of me that’s instantly afraid of the possibilities for this club environment.  What if it’s like a caricature of a parody of a stereotype?  I imagine everyone will be wearing blue and white; instead of a disco ball, there’ll be a giant, spinning dreidel; they’ll have Go Go Dancers with prayer shawls; the DJ will be MC Matzo Balls and he’ll be playing Snoop Dogg’s remix of “Hava Naglia” called “Hizzo Nagizzo”; there’ll be a separate champagne room called the Gaza Strip Club…where you’ll pour hummus on strippers.

It could be terrible, is what I’m saying.

I point out to Brandon that, while I have nothing against Jewish women — I’m practically one myself — I generally associate them with sweat, neuroses, and health problems.  They’re not cool like, say, black chicks are cool.

Brandon tells me I’m a terrible person, and assures me that this will not be as ridiculous as I fear it will be.  Then we arrive at “Club Jewniverse.”

* * *

Standing in line, I’m surprised to feel somewhat uncool.  Everyone around me pulls out his/her cell phone, like –

Club guy: {talking into the phone} “Where you at?”

I didn’t have a cell phone at the time, so I pull out my wallet instead –

Josh: {talking into the wallet} “Where…are you?”

Also, I start to notice everyone else’s trendy clothing.

Josh: “Shit.  Brandon, am I dressed appropriately for a club?”
Brandon: “Uh…maybe chess club.”

It’s true.  I’m wearing a collared shirt and a brightly-colored sweater.  Combined with my unkempt beard and Jewish afro, I look like homeless Bozo the clown just won a shopping spree at the Gap…and went straight for the tweed section.

I don’t think Jews are cool; so, I definitely don’t want to be the biggest loser here.

* * *

Now I still have this very juvenile character trait where I feel the need to rebel against the majority.  So, as Brandon and I are stuck in line, I become the anti-Semitic Jew.

Josh: “What is taking so long?  Is everyone arguing with the bouncer over their half-off coupons?” {as the bouncer} “It says valid until the birthday of Israel.” {as a Jewish woman} “Today is the birthday of Israel.”

Brandon’s like –

Brandon: “Josh, please.  Don’t do that tonight.”

Brandon, by the way, is NOT Jewish.  He just wants to find someone to make decisions for him.

As I’m standing in line, the girl in front of me starts to make conversation.  She and I go through the normal questions you ask when you’re in college — “What school do you go to?  What’s your major?  Do you have any contractible STDs?”

This would be promising, except for the fact that that she honestly looks like she’s foaming at the mouth.  Either that or quite a few guys already had a very fun evening with her.

All right…

* * *

But, despite all of this, I walk in the club optimistic.  Optimism — the first ingredient in disappointment soup.

I’m in the room outside of the one where the actual dance floor is located, but I can still feel the bass affecting my body.  I can feel the tempo of the music in the hairs of my head and become hyperconscious of all of my internal organs, because they feel like they are being crushed to a very quick 4/4 beat.

In fact, I am actually incapable of standing still because the beats are moving me across the room, which makes it even more impossible to have a conversation.

Josh: {to a girl} “Hey, what’s your name?” {bouncing away, reaching back.} “Wait.  Agh!”

I can’t see.  I can’t hear.  I feel dizzy.  …and I just lost a contact.  LET’S GO TO THE DANCE FLOOR!!!

* * *

Right off the bat, I’m having trouble breathing.  I can’t figure out if it’s a result of my nerves, the overly-crowded environment, or the fact that all of these big-nosed Jews have sucked in all the free air.

Eaaaaaasy now.

Regardless, I’m ready to pick up some women; so, I think of what my friend Joel says about the gender –

Joel: “Don’t ask them what they want.  Tell them.”

I approach the first lucky lady and say –

Josh: {Pointing to her and me.} “You.  Me.”  {Nerdy dance move.} “Dancing.”

She says –

Girl: “I’ll be right back.”

And as she walks away, I look at Brandon –

Josh: “I’m in!!!”

Thirty minutes later, still dancing alone, I realize that was pretty stupid of me.  That was almost as dumb as believing that the girls at the strip clubs…have life ambitions.

Joel piece of advice number two: a good pick-up line involves a bet.  For example, “My friend and I have a bet going.  He thinks you’re a doctor; I think you’re a cop.”

So, I go up to girl number two –

Josh: “My friend and I have a bet going.  He thinks you’re Jewish.”
Girl: “I have a boyfriend.”
Josh: “Okay.”

She then walks away to dance with four different guys.

Finally, I move to a circle of women.  Better odds, right?  If one says no, you just turn to the girl right next to her and say, “You’re my second choice.”

But this is more awkward than I expected, and I immediately feel like I’m in a nature documentary –

British voice: “Watch as the male tries to force his way into the group.  Depending on the collective opinion of the dancing females, the circle will either open to accommodate the gentleman or, in the case of this young nerd, close instantly.”

I talk to one of them.  I say –

Club: {bass drum} “Mm-ps.  Mm-ps.  Mm-ps.”
Her: “What?”
Josh: “MY NAME IS JOSH.  NICE TO MEET YOU.”
Her: “UCSD, PRE-MED, SYPHILIS.”
Me: “REALLY?  UCSD?” {pause} “AH, I’LL TRY NOT TO BE ELITIST.  YOU WANNA DANCE?”
Her: “NOT WITH YOU.”
Club: “Mm-ps.  Mm-ps.  Mm-ps.”

* * *

But I’m still trying to stay positive.  I’m trying to get into the L.A. mindset, like –

L.A. person: “It’s fun and I’m losing a couple pounds.”

…but my real voice keeps saying –

Josh: “It’s not fun and I’m losing a couple decibels of hearing…and my self-respect.”

I get turned down again and again and again, one girl even adding –

Bitch: “No way.”

I know it’s time to stop because I’m getting hostile.  In my head, I’m thinking –

Josh, Internal: “What’s wrong?  I thought I was a pretty good-looking guy.  I just want to have a good time…but this whole thing is making me depressed.”

– but what I say is –

Josh, External: “Seriously?  You have the face of a fucking horse.” {turn to the girl next to her} “You’re my number two choice.”

* * *

Brandon, meanwhile — who is substantially less attractive than I am — is doing substantially better.  He’s dancing/dry humping with some girl who has wrapped herself in an Israeli flag.  (Basically, he’s forcing his business into Israel.  I’m like, “What are you, Palestine?”)

Hell, even the paraplegic guy is getting lap-dances in his wheelchair.  (And here I thought legs would be a plus at this kind of thing.)

Is it because these people are sweating less than I am?  Is it because they’re better conversationalists?  Is it because they’re not wearing a bright orange sweater that says, “No means no?”

No, I decide.  It’s because clearly, these girls are whores and idiots.

* * *

Brandon sees that I’m suffering; so, like all male buddies, he does nothing.

I threaten to walk home, even though it’s ten miles from our apartment.  Brandon says –

Brandon: “Okay.”

– and continues to dance.

Before I go, I ask for Brandon’s help, proposing that we approach women in a group of two.  He’ll take one girl; I’ll take the other — unless he takes both, which I’m emotionally prepared for.

Brandon wanders off for a minute, then returns looking like a giddy schoolgirl.

Brandon: {sing-songy} “I found you a black girl.”

He pulls me toward two girls who look really hot from where I’m standing, although I’ve lost both contacts at this point; so, the elephant man would look attractive.  Brandon says –

Brandon: “Hey girls.  Dance with my friend and I.”

And I hear one girl say –

Girl: “Jooooosh, no.”

I’m thinking –

Josh: “Have I gotten that bad of a reputation in forty-five minutes that people I haven’t even met reject me by name?”

Then I lean in.

Josh: “Brittany?  Brittany from high school?”

Now this should be one of these movie moments where I stick out my chest muscles and say –

Josh: “Baby, You lost your chance.”

But this ain’t the movies, and my chest is more concave than ever.

Brittany: “I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”
Josh: “Yeah?  Well…………agh.”

I about face towards the door; but as soon as I do, I realize how slim the chances are that this girl is right here, right now.  I realize that life is short…and that I can’t keep re-living the worst of high school into my early 20s.  I’ve gotta enjoy myself, God damnit!  This is for all of the losers in high school who pined over a girl and didn’t get her.  I am your symbol!

I about face again.  Without speaking, I grab Brittany by the hand and take her to the main stage.

The song changes from fast tempo to sex-you-up tempo.  I start grinding against her, and Brittany starts grinding against me.

I look out at the hundreds of people staring at me.  “Yeah!” I think, “This is awesome!”

Fuck you, old Josh!

Fuck you, insecurity!

Fuck you, lack of –

Brittany pulls me in close, and touches my chest.  A frown appears on her face.

And just like that, my confidence evaporates.

I begin to sweat.  I go into a neurotic state of panic.  My arthritic knees begin acting up.

Sweat.  Neuroses.  Health problems.

This whole time, my conception of a Jewish woman has just been the things I hate about myself.  Like a German Shepherd, Brittany can smell my fear…and, without speaking, she walks away — to go dance with Brandon.

* * *

When I was in college, I went “clubbing” once…and only once.

I woke up on Thursday morning with the sensation that someone was punching me in the left eye; so, I called my medical provider, Kaiser Permanente –

Josh: “Hi, I’m having severe pain in my left eye.”
Woman on the other end: “Can you come in next Tuesday?”
Josh: “Really? That’s…actually way better than I expected from you guys.”

The next morning, the pain had gotten worse. I decided to lie on the phone in order to get in sooner –

Josh: “I’m literally bleeding from the eye.”
Woman on the other end: “How about Monday?”

* * *

With no other clear options, I decide to wait it out in the emergency room. Three hours later, I am allowed to see a nurse who yanks on her shirt collar like a cartoon character and says –

Nurse: “Guuuhhh!!!”
Josh: “What? Is it infected?”
Nurse: “Uhhhhhhhhh…I don’t know. Let’s ask the doctor.”

The doctor comes in, making a similarly cartoonish sound.

Doctor: “Yeeeesh!”
Nurse: “What do you think, Doctor?”
Doctor: {stares at my eye for about 30 seconds, then} “What do you think, Nurse?”
Josh: “God damnit.”

* * *

Due to the severity of this unknown condition, I get sent to a different department, where — to make a long story short — I am allowed to see an ophthalmologist who looks at my normal right eye and then at my nearly closed, abnormally puffy and red left eye, asking –

Ophthalmologist: “Which eye am I looking at?”

I know they have to do that for lawsuit purposes, but it couldn’t have been more obvious if I had an arrow going through my pupil.

She eventually informs me that I have blepharitis, which, first of all, you never want anything that ends in “-its,” or begins with “bleh,” for that matter. And the “f” phoneme ain’t too pleasing, either.

She tells me –

Ophthalmologist: “It’s a disease you mostly find in 80-year-olds.”

– then adds that, because I can’t wear my contacts until it heals, I might as well update my glasses prescription.

* * *

Miraculously, I only have to wait an hour and a half for an optometry appointment; however, as I am about to head over, I have this conversation –

Josh: “Where’s the optometry department?”
Kaiser employee: “Okay, you know where La Cienega is?”
Josh: “Wait. It’s not in the same building as ophthalmology?”
Kaiser employee: “No. You gotta go down Venice, turn right on Cadillac, turn right again on La Cienega, pass the Yum Yum Donuts on your right…”

Okay.  Let me just stop here to say, I’m not good with directions — never have been. Every time I ask for them, the dialogue is the same –

Josh: “Excuse me: how do I get to the park?”
Passerby: “First you want to take a left on this street, go three blocks, pass the Mexican restaurant, cut through the supermarket, and make a right on Alejandro Avenue.”
Josh: “Ok. So, first I take a left?”
Passerby: “Yes.”
Josh: “Thanks.”

Then, immediately after turning left, I’ll flag down another passerby –

Josh: “Excuse me, how do I get to the park?”

Same situation here. I remember the first part of the directions, then call the Kaiser main line –

Receptionist: “Did you pass the Yum Yum Donuts?”
Josh: “Not sure if that’s the landmark you should all be referring to, but yes.”
Receptionist: “Okay, then it’s gonna be between a McDonald’s and a Taco Bell.”
Josh: “The optometry department?”
Receptionist: “Mm-hm.”
Josh: “Of Kaiser Permanente?”
Receptionist: “Yes.”

And sure enough, there it is: sandwiched between a McDonald’s and a Taco Bell.  It’s like a scene from “Sesame Street” –

“Sesame Street” character: {singing} “One of these things is not like the other…”

I’m thinking, Yeah, because McDonald’s and Taco Bell are good at what they do!

* * *

Now I’m with the optometrist, doing the whole “better one or two” routine while eating a cheesy gordita crunch. The optometrist tells me that once the blepharitis goes away, a bubble may form permanently on my eye.

Josh: “What?!”
Optometrist: “Oh, it won’t hurt.”
Josh: “It’ll hurt my dating life!”
Optometrist: “Ha ha ha…yeah.”

I ask when I should come back to see her.

Optometrist: “Come back if it hurts.”
Josh: “It hurts now.”
Optometrist: “Oh, then maybe…yeah, I don’t know.”

* * *

As I hand my current frames over to the optician for updating, I realize that, for all intents and purposes, I am blind. Without contacts or glasses for the next ten days, I will not be able to drive, see a film, or even see the human being in front of me unless I really lean into him/her.

So, I say a temporary goodbye to my Honda in the pay-by-the-quarter hour parking lot, and hope that I will find someone to help me pick it up later on. Until then, I wander home, my arms outstretched like a zombie’s.

“Excuse me?” I ask, “how do I get back to Cadillac?”

When the man in front of me does not respond, I realize that he is a tree.

* * *

EDUCATIONAL RESOURCE –

If you have a passion for helping others, an online healthcare degree may be for you.

I have access to two cars — my sister’s 11-year-old, teal Honda Civic and a red Audi TT convertible that I bought in high school during what was, I fear, my mid-life crisis.

I prefer to drive the Honda, because when I drive the Audi, I have conversations like this –

EXT. GROCERY STORE – DAY

JOSH (early 20s, gangly) exits the store, carrying several bags.  As he approaches his car (a 2001 red Audi TT convertible), a WOMAN (30s, portly, strangely threatening) walks over.

Woman: “Nice car.”
Josh: “Thanks.”
Woman: “My boyfriend would love it.”
Josh: “Oh yeah?”
Woman: “He’d kill for this car.”

{Josh nods, disinterested.}

Woman: “He’d kill you for this car.” {Pause} “With a bat!”

{Josh looks back, horrified.}

Woman: “You wanna meet him?”