Drought, Disease and the DMV

I recognize that it has been quite some time since my last entry, but I have been busy applying for a summer internship and training with my thirty-something coworkers for a Tough Mudder that I will not even be participating in. So, as much as I would love to apologize and say I know you’ve been awaiting another update, I’m not sorry and you haven’t been so let’s not kid ourselves.

Another major reason that I haven’t written of late is because California has been pumping me full of disease. Since I arrived here, I have come down with:

• A 24-hour virus with flu-like symptoms
• Poison oak on my left arm, lower back, upper butt and entire magical forest of pleasure and delight
• Poison oak once again in less of the forest, but also in my nose, ear and on my lips
• Unbearable indigestion from the steroids I was taking to deal with the poison oak
• Faltering patriotism, since this horrible state accounts for so much of America

Despite having the luxury of lying in bed and watching The Shawshank Redemption (arguably the film that has fallen the furthest from Oscar grace and into incessant reruns other than Schlinder’s List), the 24-hour flu-ish thing left me bitter, angry and convinced that Californians had unanimously agreed that I should return home. This was further proven by the drought that threatened a regional water regulation, which seemed to be spurred by my arrival.

It was even further proven the next weekend, when I went hiking in Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park (which I will write about if I get around to it) and contracted poison oak. I choose “contracted” carefully, as this unrelenting itch-ferno is like a case of herpes bestowed by Satan himself. While I’ve been hanging out with my good friend Matt a great deal here, I must say that my best friend on the west coast is by my side at all times:

 

The following is a progression of the poison oak on my left arm (including how much time each stage lasted), which you may feel free to skip if you are easily made queasy:

 “Hm, whaddya think that is?” (2 days)

 “Yikes, that burst and now I’m really itchy all of a sudden…” (5 hours)

“HOLY FUCK MY NERVE ENDINGS ARE EXPLODING. THIS AGONY IS UNBEARABLE.” (10 days)

“Eh, wasn’t all that bad.” (1 day)

To ice the proverbial cake, a couple of weeks ago I had to get some paperwork for my car’s smog check (I thought smog only existed in Ferngully: The Last Rainforest). The adventure took me to the most magical place on Earth:

Now, I’ve spent time at the DMV before to get both my learner’s permit and my driver’s license. However, I must have blacked those instances out of my memory, since had I recalled standing in line there, I wouldn’t have been surprised enough by this go-around to write in my phone, “This place is a stinking bastion of all things hellish and pathetic.”

Allow me to elaborate.

To start, I have never seen a prostitute in person, but I may as well have been greeted by a pay-per-orgy on my way in. As soon as the doors creaked open, I was met with a clan of decrepit middle-aged blondes named Sally who stank of cigarettes and desperation; I’m almost positive that this DMV was a converted drug rehab clinic and the state didn’t want to spend the time or money to kick out the squatters.

I approached the front desk, only to receive a gruff welcome from the head banker of Gringotts:

To my right stood this haircut:

Where did they get these people? Did they dig up the most low-budget eighties porn they could find and just hire the ogres straight from the VHS? To make things worse, the computers had been stolen off the set of Die Hard:

I could go on, but the pain of reliving my time at the DMV is both too great and has been explored by far greater comedic minds than myself.

Instead, I’m off to go rub Cortizone on my penis.

Dreamin’ of Californication,

Luke

Also, be sure to check out the intern blog I've been writing for the company I'm interning at, CKR Interactive. I promise that it's neither boring nor professional.

Please Take the T-Bird Away

There has been one consistent focus of my attention since arriving here in sunny Santa Cruz: this sleek, sporty 2000 XTerra.

24 mpg highway, rear-wheel drive, 143 hp. The toughest car on the road. They would award this monstrous car beast to winners of Survivor in the early seasons because the competitors had fought their way through Hell and deserved a prize fit for a winner. And oh, what a prize it was.

Maybe 15 fucking years ago.

I was given my version of this sleek, sporty piece of banged-up shit when I arrived. Of course of, of course I was thankful to have a car that I could call my own and of course I am not picky when given anything that will make my life easier. A car that gets me from A to B, no matter how beat up or out-of-date or driven-predominantly-in-Hialeah is more than fine by me. More than fine by me. Do not be mistaken.

This car, however, had recently had some “important wires” gnawed to oblivion by
rats, so my uncle – insisting that it wouldn’t be monetarily worth a full rewiring – had the mechanic “just kinda tie some of the wires back together.”

This thing was a death trap.

Without any other options (other than my uncle’s three other cars), I decided to suck it up and drive Evel Keneval’s Wet Dream to and from work and other places in the area.

One night, I came to a red light and hit the brakes with a power of maybe four out of a possible ten. Like, the light-changed-to-yellow-but-I-still-had-about-30-feet-so-the-choice-was-obvious-but-almost-too-close-to-tell power. To my horror, the brakes hopped my murder mobile straight into the middle of the intersection. I reversed as soon as I could, narrowly avoiding death and peeing a little for emphasis.

I had to get this car checked out.

The next day I approached my uncle.

ME

“Uncle (not what I call him), – explain what had happened the night before – can we please get the brakes checked out?”

Uncle

“Oh, Lukie. That car is so old I probably would’ve junked it if you weren’t here. I’m not putting any more money into it.”

Well, my life is worth at least twice the sum it would cost to fix the brakes, but who’s to say how my uncle should spend his money other than the state prosecuting attorney following my death?

A similar thing happened later that week, so I decided it was time to take the car in myself. The mechanic at Wheel Works explained that safe, functioning brakes are at 8 millimeters and that my breaks we’re at a very unhealthy 2 millimeters and were bound to give way at any moment.

I decided not to even ask about the wires.

Upon reporting this to my uncle, he conceded and allowed me to drive his Mercedes (score) if I changed the oil. I did so, and that lasted for about seven hours before my uncle changed his mind and said he’d pay to have the brakes replaced on the Xterra.

I was very pleased. Partly because I got my way, and party because now that I had to drive the XTerra, I wouldn’t have to hold my breath and run through my last moments every time I got within three feet of another car.

But mostly because I got my way.

Fast-forward to one week later. I’m driving down Highway 17 toward Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park (an adventure in-and-of itself) and I am having the time of my life. In fact, here is a transcription of what exactly I demanded that Siri record (with some additions to ensure that it makes logical sense from my brain to your eyes) as I was careening toward my day-hike:

           

“I'm driving down Highway 17 and the roads are winding it's so beautiful [and] the brush [on the side of the road] is so thick. I just cut off a cool car [and the driver] seems really angry but I'm so satisfied because I'm in a shitty 2000 XTerra and I'm just really really happy with these beautiful beautiful hills covered with thick brush.”

I then followed that inspirational moment with another thought:

“I've never been on winding roads like this it's like a roller coaster [but] I'm in control so the fear for my life is real.”

It was at about that point that I noticed my exit. Too late, however, did I notice that said exit curved off into a small-diametered circular ramp, one that did not seem like it would accommodate a 2000 XTerra with wires that were “just kinda tied back together.” I hit the brakes – maybe closer to a six out of ten this time – and promptly skidded into some rubber pylons used to mark the exit. I sat there, stunned and inhaling the stench of burnt rubber as the “beautiful beautiful hills covered with thick brush” remained miles behind me. It was just me, the road, and my 2000 XTerra.

But of course, of course I would be thrilled to have a car that would get me safely from A to B.

[He’ll] have fun fun fun til [his uncle] takes the T-Bird away,

Luke

Animal Style Tears

In the last week, I have almost had a fatal car accident, come down with a paralyzing virus and been itchier in more places on my body than I knew were available to itch. But I think I’ll save those stories for next time.

For now, let me give a brief summary of my first two weeks here, for those of you who read to keep up with my life rather than just to listen to me rant and tell stories that usually end with me being unhappy. Since arriving in San Francisco, I have:

• Discovered a delicious new easy-to-make meal that consists of eggs, tomatoes, oil, vinegar and other goodies.

• Gone to a drive-in with my friend Matt to see Frozen. Going to a drive-in with a dude was the best thing I’ve done to prove I’m confortable with my heterosexuality and how I identify masculinity since:

Wearing this Band-Aid.

Dressing like this cat.

Posing like this.

• Accidentally locked myself out of my uncle’s house twice, the second of which time I jury-rigged and scaled a small cooler stacked on top of a large cooler stacked on top of a small metal table designed to hold a single flower pot stacked on top of a large table not designed to hold any of those things in order to climb to a balcony and enter the house through an unlocked door on the second floor because I’m fucking Tarzan King of the Jungle.

• Gone to a comedy show in San Francisco, where I was called out three times: for being the only self-identified Jew in the audience; for being the only self-identified Floridian in the audience; for having the only comedian-identified male voice that screamed like a female voice in the audience.

• Tried to speak Italian with an Italian man who is visiting my uncle and been rejected repeatedly before calling him out on it. He now won’t speak to me in English.

• Hiked Angel Island with some friends from Dartmouth, only to be stranded there for three hours afterward because of a misinterpreted ferry schedule.

• Eaten at In-N-Out Burger for the first time ever.

• Regretted eating at In-N-Out Burger for the first time ever that same night.

• Watched the first six episodes of Freaks and Geeks and cried four times, the movie In a World… and cried twice and a four-minute video of a newswoman talking about bullying and cried once. The last time I cried at piece of entertainment was Monsters, Inc. more than ten years ago. My twenties are gonna be rough.

• Been invited to dinner with the incredible families of two of my very good friends, proving twice again that it really does make you appreciate your friends more when you know where they came from (thanks again, Shells and Ritters).

Also, I’ve decided to embrace the Millenial mindset and keep my entries short. You don’t have all day, and I want to give the appearance that I’m posting more content. It works out for everyone.



I’ll have a double double with animal style fries,


Luke

Who's Annie Wilkes?

Upon sitting down to reflect on 2013, I couldn’t help but return to my disappointment that I discontinued posting blog updates about my Italian adventures. Some intended future entries included my date with an Italian bartender that ended in an apartment she shared with her ex-boyfriend and a weekend in Venice that featured a blizzard, a nearly broken knee and one of the top ten worst floods in the city’s history. Considering that both caused me physical pain, it’s probably best that you didn’t vicariously experience them.

Picking up where I left off almost a full year later, my most recent adventure brings me to San Jose, California. While there I will be working on the creative team for the recruitment marketing agency CKR Interactive, of which my uncle is President/CEO. Nepotism aside, I will also be living in his house.

I’m looking forward to the opportunity to learn more about marketing and to be on my own again in the big bad world. Not that it wasn’t wonderful to spend six weeks at home with limited car access, but watching American Pickers and poring over Andy Kaufman’s Wikipedia page could only entertain me for so long.

It’s on to bigger and more adult-ish things.

      –       Brief writing interlude to compulsively stare at my nails like a degenerate meth addict in the middle of the airport; I stopped biting them three weeks ago and have somehow been developing itches all over my body just so I can scratch myself.   –

I’ve been recently inspired by Marc Maron’s podcast “WTF” (you should check it out if I have yet to bully you into doing so) in which Maron – a comedian who hit the scene around the same time as Sarah Silverman and Louis C.K. – interviews famous creative powerhouses like Robin Williams, Judd Apatow and 400 others about their thoughts on their craft and what choices they made in their lives and careers to earn their success. The podcast is altogether honest, brutal, hilarious and poignant.

I’m hoping to take some of what I’ve learned from Maron’s interviews to inspire my time in San Francisco; I need to figure out what I want out of my twenties and I hope to emerge a more creative, engaging person with a tangible business sense and exploit my relationship with my uncle to learn more about my mom in her heyday.

I guess it’s either that or Wolf of Wall Street into an underworld of hookers and a cocaine addiction.

Nothing particularly noteworthy has happened as of yet, so I’ll fill space with some stories from the last week of break:

1. I passed out from getting my blood drawn. This has never happened to me, nor even come close to happening. I’d say my worst previous run-in with veins and pumping blood came when I had to walk out of ninth grade health class because my teacher pointed out the mitral valve on a black and white heart diagram.

So this time I sat in the chair and immediately said to the kindly nurse, “Look. I hate this. I am going to be an awful patient. You seem very nice and I do not look forward to ruining your day.” She assured me that she has bad patients all the time and proceeded to jam her six-inch-thick death-stick into my left arm’s pumping-blood snake. I slowly started to gray out while muttering variations of, “Fuck this,” etc. After they smelling-salted me back to health, I chugged a bottle of orange juice and ducked out of the office as soon as I could, pale as a ghost and full of shame. I had walked in intending to come off like this guy:

But ended up a lot more like this: 

2. I had dinner with my grandfather*, his psychopath of a girlfriend, my dad and Carol (my stepmom). I understand the characterization of “psychopath” may seem shockingly unfair for an old woman I had just met, but I think the term is generous. From the second she stepped out of the car, her eyes said Annie Wilkes a lot more than they did Dorothy Gale (those were good references that you should Google if you’re under 40). Not only would she look at me and giggle as she sipped her second glass of wine through a straw, but she claimed to be fluent in Italian and instead of speaking Italian to me (which I tried to avoid at all costs) she burst forth with a mixture of gibberish and bullshit in an Italian accent. She also name-dropped her friendship with Woody Allen for no reason; I like to think that it was one of her unstable neurons vaguely associating his and my Jewy anxiety. Grandpa, I give her a solid C– despite her young face and large boobies.

*My dad’s dad has been dating consistently since my biological grandmother died when I was one. His J-Date profile has gotten him more old woman ass than a seat in the rear orchestra of Carnegie Hall.

3. I went to Sawgrass Mills Mall to shop for new clothes, hoping that I could magically transform my wardrobe from unfoundedly-sexually-confident-preppy-South-Florida-Jew to HAIM-listening-San-Francisco-hemp-chic. Upon entering MSG Food Court, I noticed something peculiar; there were bright lights flashing from red sensors all over the walls and a robotic voice warning hurrying mall patrons of something I couldn’t quite hear. After all, the voice was competing with this type of a scene:

Curious, I approached one of the speakers, out of which the robotic voice was explaining, “Attention mall patrons: there is a situation in the mall that is being handled by the proper authorities. Please leave through the nearest possible exit. Do not panic.” Shocked, I looked around again to see that not only was I the only person listening but that I was also the only person who bothered to look up from my iPhone in the face of what could have been grave danger; heaven forbid there should have been a fire spreading or a gunman rampaging. This convinced me that my generation was the last useful one, which in turn inspired me to take advantage of the world around me before my successors inevitably fucked it up.

Since writing these stories, I arrived in San Francisco and spent a much-needed day with my cousin whom I had not seen in some time. It was during this time that I had my first run-in with a true California native:

4. My cousin and I were walking down to the beach when suddenly we saw a woman casually sit on the ground and then tumble over. She looked quintessentially Californian, the product of 40 some-odd years of desserts sweetened with dates and burgers made of soy and nuts. Think a middle-aged Professor Trelawney who carried herself with alcoholic grace. I rushed up to her and asked if she was okay, to which she admitted to, “Having too much vodka for being in my forties in the afternoon” and trustingly took my hand. I walked her to a friend’s nearby minivan and she assured me she would await said friend’s return.

After my first Californian beach excursion (California beaches are just like Florida beaches, in that they have sand that leads to water), my cousin and I returned to where we had left our new friend. The minivan remained and but was nowhere to be found.

I’d say a pitiful alcoholic who couldn’t stay in one place long enough for her friend to find her is the perfect metaphor for what I expect out of my stay here in the country’s longest state.

All hail the Beach Boys,

Luke (no name-change needed for my California persona)

If you liked these musings, check out the twice-a-week intern blog I’ve been writing for my company. My first entry is called “Wood Floors:”

http://interns.ckrinteractive.com/