Sunday Brunch...

This past weekend my family gathered in Palm Beach for the unveiling of my Grandma's headstone.  For those of you that are unfamiliar with the Jewish religion, this is an event that takes place about 6 months after the initial funeral.  I loved my grandmother, however, as we were her "step" family (my grandfather got remarried when my father was in law school), she never really quite felt the same about my sister and me.  

Growing up, my mother made it a point to take the hour long drive to Palm Beach to have Sunday Brunch with my grandma and grandpa.  I remember thinking that my grandparents were very fancy as we ate on fancy china and a real table cloth- my house has paper plates and plastic cups. There was a catch with brunch, you should never tell my grandma that you liked a certain food item, because for the next 10 years, that item would be placed in front of you in a crystal bowl (this was my fate with cottage cheese-which I later grew to detest) and you were expected to eat an entire pint of the vile item.  Birthday's at grandma's involved cakes filled with fruit layers and some low-fat frosting...no 10-year-old wants to see fruit chunks between layers of vanilla and chocolate, not to mention the frosting, gross.  Overall, the brunch was a time to sit around and talk about what was going out with "the kids."  These brunches sort of lost their appeal once I was old enough to start having to help clean up.  Now I realized why we use paper plates in our house.

A day at grandma and grandpa's wouldn't be complete without swimming at the pool (with its dinosaur-sized lizards and a lively 70-85  year-old crowd) and an early dinner of KFC chicken buckets.  Started off the day as the Waltons' ended it like the Cosby's. 

After my grandfather passed away (thats another story involving a very religious Jew in a Catholic nursing home), our trips to my grandma's slowly ended as did my grandmother's health.  Outliving her care giver (I am not kidding) my grandma put up a great fight, and finally at the age of 100, she decided it was time to go.  On a side note- my father forgot to mention to my family that Iris, the care giver who lived with my grandma died, typical. 

At the funeral my grandmother's "blood" relatives came out in full force- as they and everyone knew, they would be getting her life savings and the place in Palm Beach.  My grandparents had opted to be buried in a terrible neighborhood- this was consistent with my grandmother's frugalness.  Prior to the funeral, like typical Friedman fashion, we had to use the restroom, dressed in our Sunday best, we stopped at a McDonald's that was decorated with Black History memorabilia.  When my family walked in every single head turned and stared as the four white Jews making a b-line to the restroom.  I did learn that air conditioning was created by an African American, so the trip was not a complete wash.

I never really liked audience participation in shows or events, and the idea to go around and say a memory about my grandmother made me nervous.  I wanted to think of something deep, yet memorable- when it was my turn, all I could think of was "She always had the food I wanted at brunch."  That wasnt going to be written on her headstone.  I was a bit perplexed because her "blood" relatives were talking about how she took them to Mexico, on cruises, paid for their nose-jobs and kept on mentioning her famous pie- um who the hell were we talking about- all she gave my sister and I were banana's, Nips and Kennedy half-dollars.

So now back to this last weekend, my family (and my grandma's side of the family) made their way back across the wrong side of the tracks  for her unveiling (you really do cross a train track- entering the bad part of town).  After hearing round two of how my grandma paid for this and that and how amazing her cooking was the stone was uncovered.  To set the scene, my grandma's entire family is hysterically crying, while my parents are standing there probably wondering if someone is in the process of taking the rims off of their car.  Looking at the headstone, my mother noticed that the year was incorrect- my grandma died in 2008- not 2003...curious, her head looked at the name to the left of hers- Leo?  Then it hit her, causing her to laugh- the entire ceremony (complete with music provided by portable speakers with an iPod) was conducted over the wrong bodies.  For nearly an hour, Leo and Sylvia Friedman were being told stories and sung to by complete strangers.

They eventually found the correct headstones and proceeded to do an abreviated service (dont worry the music was repeated) over my grandparents.  I know that somewhere they heard the entire service...probably eating that gross cake with a side of cottage cheese.

Clean it up kids,

Dan

Spring Break...

In college, if you were in a fraternity or sorority, wore Abercrombie and Fitch or a Nike headband with gelled up hair or owned a Prada black purse; Spring Break mean't one thing- Acapulco. Prior to my trip my grandmother passed away and my parents allowed me to go to Acapulco for my senior year as a way to "celebrate her."  This is what my parents said as I signed my life away on documents that stated that the travel agency was not responsible for my life if lost while mourning my grandmother.  Ironic.

After going to the gym for a month- I had to look big for the loads of hot girls-the big trip had arrived.  Starting out on a low note- I managed to leave my ATM card in the ATM.  Always a great start to a week-long trip to a foreign country.  Then I figured that I would probably lose it in Mexico, regardless; College Park, Maryland seemed like a safer place to lose a card.  After arguing our way into First Class, we arrived in Mexico wasted and fed.  The Hyatt (who had a page on Friendster at one point-silly) would be our home for the next week.  After checking in it was down to the pool.  

Claiming lounge chairs at the pool was an art.  Much like crazy teenagers that wait for Harry Potter Books in the freezing rain or as those of us that went to Maryland remember, waiting for Basketball tickets in the snow at Cole- getting a chair required you to get to the pool by the crack of dawn.  In an effort to outsmart and secure the best seats (terrace level facing the ocean), we decided to come home from the clubs, change and use our towels as blankets.  Who needs to sleep in the room you are paying $300 per night for...idiots.  

The highlight of our days at the pool arrived promptly at 5 (this was a very strict policy) and ended at 6, on the dot. However, in the 59 minutes making up this hour, chaos ensued.  It was here that I decided to become the MC for the pool area, taking command of the microphone doing a stand-up routine (where I basically made fun of those at the pool who were not binge-drinking).  At the end of the week,  I was known as the "guy from happy hour," my grandmother would be so proud.

At night, it was pretty much the same- however, the lounge chairs were replaced with $2000 tables with bottles.  I could not tell you what the names of any of these clubs were- but like those that came before me, I did "Dance with the Devil"  (who rumor has it is gay) and watch the sunrise through the clubs large windows.  This "Devil" character was a man painted with silver who stood on a large podium - really got the japs going.  I have a feeling Elmo could be standing on a podium and we would have gone equally insane (who even knew what was going on).  I dont remember much about those nights, but I do know that everyone was taking some sort of prescription sleeping pill that to be honest I think my grandmother was taking prior to her passing (Again ironic).  The highlight of the evening were the fireworks that streamed down from the ceiling, which I am sure would have broken many fire codes back in the US.

I dont want you to think that I was not able to take in the scenery of Mexico, aside from the Hyatt and the random nightclubs we stumbled into like drunks.  While lounging at the pool, my body sent me a message that it was over my vacation of tequila, vodka and quesadillas.  I proceeded to throw up what I thought was blood.  My quick thinking (and my wasted condition) led me to my "little brother" from my fraternity...after asking him if he could speak Spanish, we were off to the hospital.  

My little brother was not the brightest bulb; he often left his keys in his car, and frequently went days without showering, but he was perhaps the nicest guy I knew- and the thought that he didnt speak Spanish never crossed my mind.  Upon entering the hospital, which resembled a makeshift lab featured in the movie "Saw", I found myself playing a game of charades with the doctor...or man dressed in a white coat playing doctor, who knows.  After no tests or coherent exchange, I was given pills and determined that the "blood" was really my happy hour margarita, ole, oh vey.  

I will always remember my time in Mexico...I know this because I brought my video camera to capture the seven days of binge-drinking of me and my friends.  In addition to running around the hotel slurring my words, jumping in girls showers and filming hours of incoherent life altering conversation- I managed to film myself sitting on my bed doing nothing, talking to myself for two hours.  This movie will certainly not earn me an Oscar nod, but I do have some great footage for studies on alcohol and teenagers.  Wouldn't my grandmother be proud.

Clean it up Kids,

Dan

 

Food Stamps, Part 2...

I remember when I got the letter than I technically had been working 13 years for- the letter of either acceptance or rejection from the University of Maryland.  Of course, I had to have my mother call the minute that the letter arrived.  There I was in debate, stealing quarters from the debate candy closet (see previous blog) and I was called to the phone.  Looking back- it all seems like Beverly Hills 90210, how did my mother have the number to the debate room's phone?  

It's funny how you find out that you are in college in October of your senior year...like I dont get the point of the rest of the school year?  My senior year was a series of dumb acts- Melissa dared me to take off my pants in AP History (I did it), going to house parties and drinking alcohol that were in bright pastel colors (seems thats not so normal), reading Cliff notes instead of the actual books.  Not sure who this Cliff character is- but he certainly had a smart idea.  Once I got into college, I quickly dropped out of my Honor Physics and Math courses...lets be honest, I was in, and I was not going to be a scientist or mathematician.  I switched right into "Volpe World."  Where the tests involved coloring and re-taking tests that you did badly on (using the same version of the previous failed test).  A retired non, Mrs. Volpe was perhaps the friendliest and dumbest teacher on earth.  We used to literally run into the class, sign in, and then proceed to run out the back entrance of the classroom.  Good Times.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand.  Food Stamps.  I have to say that while I really learned a lot from applying for food stamps, I found the entire process very annoying.  So today, the second most important letter I would receive arrived- the decision regarding my food stamp situation. On a side note, the postage was only $0.34 cents- no wonder why the Postal Service is having a hard time, the government that runs it is stiffing them on postage.  Unlike my acceptance from years before, Daniel Friedman's "January 28th, 2009 request for food stamps...NOT APPROVED."  I appreciated how they took time to bold this decision.  My dreams of running through Whole Foods as if I was on Supermarket Sweep were over.  I could take the matter to the next level and request a fair hearing, but that involved a lot- and the office is not located near my apartment.  

Since the government didnt find me needy enough to warrant food stamps, I will stick to my weekly Chipotle lunches subsidized by my friend Sara.  A pound of beans, chicken, rice, lettuce topped off with an absurd amount of sour cream and cheese makes anyone forget about the lack of a job.  

Clean it up kids,

Dan

Status, Pokes and Tagging...

I would conservatively estimate that I have about 10 friends.  I am talking about 10 people that I would sit at a meal with and not want to kill them, 10 people that I actually call on a regular basis and 10 people that I would expect to remember my birthday.  However, according to Facebook, I have 809 (I think some people deleted me as of Monday I was at 813.).  You know what I dont have - 809 friends, not anywhere close.

To get to this staggering number, I started with my close group of friends, from there I branched out to my friends from College, high school, then camp, then teen tours, then it kinda just spiraled out of control.  It seemed that everyone I met would request my friendship.  Lets be honest, if I met a guy on any dating website- the next step would be to quickly look him up on this stalker site, if their profile wasnt public (annoying), then a mandatory add was extended.  This now grants you access to their pictures and the people you know in common. (Its not a good sign when you have hooked up with 13 of your 21 common friends-consider that circle done.)  However then there is the situation, where you have 67 friends in common, yet you have no clue who the person is-but you add them, I mean you had to have met them at some point in a blacked out haze. 

Recently, it came to my friends attention that a particular person deleted an entire group of us. It felt like that Asian girl from Gossip Girl was leaving the cool crew- not that we are cool. However, after about 50 emails among the deleted group- it came to our attention that no one really was losing sleep over this loss (that puts us to 810).  Now, I do know one guy that deleted me because things didnt exactly turn out the way he planned (811) and the final two mysterious losses I still have yet to uncover...I'll just say they no longer own computers.  I am not sure when it is appropriate to delete someone-kinda seems a bit passive aggressive.  Dropping a Facebook friend kinda reminds me of that cervical cancer commercial- "One Less".  

I dont think I words "status" and "tagged" have ever been so popular in the English language. At first, I was not a fan of the "status" feature- no one cares if I am at the grocery store, out with my bitches, in a movie or "MIA direct to LGA".  However, this all changes if you are interested in the person- suddenly you are constantly checking his or her status.  When using the photo feature of this site, you can "tag" a photo- this feature is so annoying.  Lets be honest, as long as the one doing the tagging of pictures looks good- you are screwed- one eyed shut, armpit stain, or fat- you are tagged as well.  To be honest, I think people post pictures to brag about where they are, who they are with and how drunk they are (this is especially relevant in "Mobile Uploads").  Like we get it, you drink and you have friends.

Scrabble was never a game that I was running to play in my pre-Facebook days.  However, ever since Scrabulous hit the site, I was hooked.  I know I was not the only one that was crushed when Hasbro pulled the plug on this bootleg version of the game.  If I ever met the two Indian men who created the game- I would let them know that they were responsible for eating up at least 2 hours of my working day.  In the official version of Scrabble- half the fun is creating the name for the game.  The other half of the fun is cheating and coming up with words that you need wikipedia to understand the meaning. 

About 4 months ago, Facebook switched formats-which caused an online uprising where the weapons were our status updated "kim is not happy with the new Facebook!".  Like Kim, get a life and stop looking for single Jewish guys that went to GW, no one wants to marry you. Meanwhile, like Kim, I think I am meeting my life partner on this site- who knows, maybe a "poke" will set them over the edge.  Speaking of "pokes"- what the hell is the proper response to one?  I have an idea- write me a note (which I am sure I will ignore) or be bold and buy me a gift- I love getting virtual chocolates that cost $1.00. I mean really?  Along the lines of relationships and Facebook- it seems that as soon as you "link" a relationship, you might as well be engaged.  However when you are engaged or married and go the opposite route- well that is just embarrassing (time to update the pictures).  

I could go on and on about Facebook, but I have to update my status about me updating this blog.

Clean it up kids,

Dan

Jewish Geography...

There is a game that is more popular than Monopoly or Scrabble, its a game that requires few skills, it is the game of Jewish Geography.  From the UES to the great public universities across the U.S, jappy jews are connecting, as if to form an army of the Star of David.  I must admit, I am a big player in the game.  

The beauty of Jewish Geography, is that there is never a winner.  Here are the rules, you are introduced to a fellow Jew.  Step two, you ask background information- where they grew up, what camp they went to and college they attended.  Step three, you offer your information (even if not asked). This is done to assure the other player that you are well qualified as a worthy opponent. Step four- try to shot off as many Jews as you can and see how many people you know in common.

Sounds simple, but there are some bonus points to be had: any horrible gossip about the person (drug, abortion, family lost all of there money and engagements) are big point earners. Other point earners, mentioning teen tour (Musiker's Summer Discovery, Rein Teen Tours) or country clubs that you visit while seeing Grandma and Grandpa in Boca.  On a side note, the only thing I learned at Musiker Summer Discovery UCLA was that it is very easy to fail a college course.  In hindsight, no 16-year-old should be left alone for two-months in California unsupervised.  These key words demonstrate how well connected you are to the Murray Hill lifeline.  

You can also lose points: be wary of who you are talking about, I have been caught in the situation where its been the persons best friend/ex.  Not a comfortable predicament.  And finally, be sure you know the first and last name of the person in question- Friedman, Levine or Adam and Jessica will not help you in this game.  Chances are there are more than one "Adam" at University of Michigan.  This will most certainly end the game.

Armed with these simple rules, you too will be successful in playing Jewish Geography.  I wish you luck- so put on your trendiest outfit, your limited-edition Nike's and head to your nearest Brother Jimmy's, Games on, bitches.

Clean it up kids,

Dan

From the Faucet

Late night/early morning television is a world where informercials rule the airways.  Last night, I found myself reluctantly turning on the television at 4:30 a.m.  I must say that your programming options are limited at that time.  It seems that all anyone wants to talk about is the weather or they are trying to sell you some product that will enhance your life.

I dont pay much attention to my colon.  However in last nights gripping infomercial, "Is colon detox hype?", I was captivated with the Dateline-style reporting/selling of this product.  Now, I didnt start off watching this informercial thinking that I had any issues with my colon- however, about 10 minutes into this I too felt "bloated, heavy and lazy" (then again at 4:45 in the morning I wasnt exactly going to run a marathon).  The computer graphics were equally as convincing; it basically looked as though a child drew a picture of a colon and then scribbled with a brown crayon between the lines.  At this point I switched the channel and felt the urge to use the bathroom.

Matching Outfits...

As a child my parents forced my sister and I to wear a number of matching outfits.  I am not sure why my parents and parents around the world think this is a cute look.  Lets be honest, no one wants to see two awkward Jewish kids in matching outfits.  I remember a sweater number that said- "Sister" and "Brother", a neon look-my sister completed it with neon earrings and a t-shirt and red short combo that made its way on our family holiday card.  Luckily, by the time my sister and I were in middle school, we were free of the Brady Bunch inspired looks.

Now my parents on the other hand never did grow out of the matching looks.  I guess when you grow old, you think its cute to match your partner of 25 or so years.  Now it was no secret that my mother dressed my father.  His holidays were sprinkled with ties and shirts (complete with the tags on all articles of clothing to show how the item was originally $130 marked down to $25). Who doesnt want to see the exact price of the gift that they are getting?  

I was fortunate enough to attend sleep away camp in Maine.  For those that are not familiar, camp is a place where your basic responsibilities are waking up and going to water-skiing and pottery.  It was tough.  On Visiting Day, everyones parents came to camp to see a terrible dance performance and look at all the crappy arts and crafts that would soon make there way into the cabinets and drawers of the campers homes.  Who wouldnt want an indian tribal mask made out of clay and straw in their living room?  The camp that I went to attracted a wide variety of campers; there were the Russians who stole and put our gaming systems in a bag in the woods, the Upper East Siders whos fathers worked at Kraft ( I later found out he was the president- and fly into camp in a helicopter) to your everyday normal kids, like me.  

Waiting at the gates of the camp, the parents poured in- and then I saw my parents....Now I dont have anything against the blueberry, but I have a problem when they are on my parents matching shirts.  Oh yes, my parents choose to wear matching blueberry shirts to my camp visiting day.  My mother, like my sister had years before, completed her look with matching blueberry earrings.  I think I felt badly for my father- here was an accomplished man wearing a shirt covered in little blue fruits.

Twelve years later and my parents still did not learn their lesson.  The matching outfits returned at a University of Maryland's Parents Weekend.  As part of the weekend's festivities, my fraternity had a parents brunch.  After cleaning the beer cans, condoms and drug related items from the previous nights festivities, we were about to entertain 150 parents and convince them that we were becoming better men with their dues used to pay for cheap beer.  My parents felt it necessary to wear matching UMD Sweatshirts and black pants.  Now, I understand their school spirit- my father was paying over 100K for my education and well my mom was proud that I was in school (not that there was another option).  I was mortified.  It was like I was the first Friedman to go to college (I am not.)  

Its funny how I find myself unexpectedly  wearing matching outfits when I go out in Chelsea.  It seems as though American Apparel's deep V-neck is the new outfit for this neighborhood.  I guess this look is better than a sweater that says "Brother" on the front.

Clean it up kids,

Dan