My TV debut

When I visited Mumbai for a weekend in the summer of 2007, I did so with the hope — albeit slim — of being picked up at the Gate of India by a Bollywood lackey casting extras. Though I was asked to be the token whitey in a few Indian family pics (standard occurrence when visiting monuments in India), I sadly did not get whisked off to the extravagant sets of Bollywood and lasting fame.

But two years later, I finally got my go as an extra…on the set of the last episode of the first season of “Bartender Wars” — coming soon to the Fine Living Network.

Yeah, yeah, I hear you. What’s the point of being an extra if no one’s ever going to see the show? Fine Living Network? Nope, I hadn’t heard of it either.

So the point? [a] to get behind the scenes and see how it’s done, and [b] free drinks. all night. Sounds like a pretty good deal, right?

Our filming time was 7:30 to 10pm. We showed up right on time, but the crew was running late and we didn’t actually get into the holding dock (bare bones bar, snacks: cheese balls, almonds, some sort of strange dorito mix and hot dogs…mmm…) until 9ish. An hour and some later, our numbers finally get called and we’re ushered up the stairs and onto the bar set. Light, cameras, action!

A slim, tanned girl in a slinky white dress and fashion-conscious cork wedges spins the bartender wars challenge wheel, and we all cheer (as instructed) for a pre-determined outcome. Her flash of a smile is awkward but the show moves right along (she’s only a pretty extra, can’t expect perfection).

Take-aways: It’s all fake. The female bartenders’ boobs included. Ok fine, that you already knew. But the extras are actually drunk. You can’t fake that sh*t. You will be made to do stupid stuff. Especially if you’re an extra in a show devoted to drinking. We all (that would be six of us, sitting on stools lining the bar) were conned into doing lemon drop shots whose main (and by main I mean only) ingredient was pickle juice. (It’s ok, we’re New Yorkers, we heart pickle juice, but we did feel rather silly falling for Lisa’s trickery…first a round of jack to mask that briny-sour pickly smell).

When not competing, Lisa mixes at the W Hotel in Hoboken and apparently makes killer Mango mojitos. W Hotel patrons who favor their drinks ‘dirty,’ beware.

Break-up Texts

Back in the day, when I graduated from college, texting hadn’t yet caught on in the States. But it had in Italy, which was my first destination after commencement.  There, I was introduced to the rather romantic, Italian art of texting, though a text was more frequently referred to as an SMS – pronounced along the lines of essemmesse. The Italians send lovely little love texts – full of big kisses (bacioni), quotes from romantic poets long dead, and cheesy lines like this one:

A volte mi chiedo dove abitino gli angeli, in aria, in cielo, o in terra? Non lo so, so solo che un angelo tiene adesso il proprio cellulare in mano.

And in English: Sometimes I wonder whether angels live in the air, the sky, or on land. That I don’t know: I only know that an angel currently has her cell phone in her hand.

I got that one from a guy I’d hung out with twice. I hadn’t been planning on a third time seeing as the chemistry just wasn’t there, but then I got this text…

While in Italy, I read an article in the Florence Metro paper that disparaged Britney for divorcing her beau by text but also pointed out that texting seemed to be encouraging Italian males in their early teens to be more affectionate and sweet, as it enabled them to send ‘thinking of you’ messages throughout the day and goodnight kisses at bedtime – sans too much effort or the teasing of their friends.

UK texts weren’t nearly as noteworthy, but for the fact that English boys (not huge verbal communicators to begin with) seem to think the advent of texting is indisputable proof that man was never intended to actually speak on the phone.

My faves from India were from a random guy I met in Calcutta, who had just applied for a passport so he could travel to America. We happened to share a birthday, and that sealed it – we were to be friends for life:

1+1 = 2 My eyes looking for U. 2+3 = 5 Sense missing for U. 5+2 = 7 Days thinking of U. 7+5 = 12 Month dreaming about U. 99 + 1 = 100 Years I need a sweet friend like you.

If lovers are like MOON then friends are like STARS and have you noticed that the sky can look beautiful with out MOON but not without *STAR*

To be fair, all of the above is recycled material. I’ve thought about it before, written about some of it before, etc. But what dusted the cobwebs off the topic of texting was a gem that a friend recently received.

Set the scene: Boy and girl date. Boy doesn’t want to date girl anymore. Boy too much of a pussy to break up with girl, so he acts like a jerk – distant, unemotional, irresponsive – until she breaks up with him. Some time passes, and boy moves to girl’s neighborhood (not on purpose, it’s a cool neighborhood, lots of people are moving there). Boy has a neighborhood-related question, and seeing as girl’s lived there for ages, perhaps she can help him out.

Boy texts girl: Hey would you be able to do me a favor?

Girl texts back: Really Dave, this is pushing it. Are you hurt? injured? If you need a kidney it’s out of the question. In short: favor unlikely.

1 day later…

Girl texts boy again: By the way, what was it?

People used to write, keep and cherish letters. We have a record of our emails, but when you’re 75, do you really envision yourself sifting online through the many thousand to re-read the particularly touching ones? I suppose the simple answer would be to print out the good stuff now to save you the trouble later, but I don’t have a printer, so that plan’s out the window. The point is – for the most part, we don’t have a record of our texts. I scribbled down a few from Italy on bits of paper and quickly found that bits of paper have a habit of going missing…

But fear not, anthropologists of the future, there are now a slew of websites that encourage users to aggregate their electronic comms by theme – I’ve mentioned textsfromlastnight before, but postcardsfromyomomma is also getting heaps of attention in the media. So I’m thinking it’s high time we get a site up and running for funny “break-up and its aftermath” texts. We may, lest we get too down, want to include the funny “falling in love” ones as well, for example: you are crazy beautiful you make me drool

Other amusing, indicative of our times, user-generated-content sites:

maybeyoushouldntbuythat.com

thisiswhyyourefat.com

stuffwhitepeoplelike.com (oldie but goodie)

And, finally, on a completely unrelated note, I like this:

Pepper Spray, Scrabble, Newsletters and Sundays Off

Thursday evening, I was ordering a pint at Fat Cat – a sprawling basement rec room/jazz bar in the West Village – when all of a sudden, everyone started coughing uncontrollably. At first I thought it was only me with the pesky piece of fluff in my throat, but then Meredith caught the bug, others too and soon enough the words ‘pepper spray’ were tentatively making their way through the heavy air. Between hacking coughs, we looked around us, perplexed, searching for the pepper spray perpetrator, when a girl behind the bar said, “Sorry guys someone accidentally sprayed pepper spray.”

Accidentally?

Unconsciously I think, we all turned and stared at her accusingly – our eyes wide in disbelief, our gazes wavering only upon recoil from a coughing fit. She quickly understood that we had, mob-like, collectively placed the blame for the mishap on her and countered, “It wasn’t me. But someone behind the bar sprayed it accidentally.” Alrighty then. Stranger things have happened.

Mystery solved, Meredith and I grabbed our drinks and Scrabble pieces, heading away from the pepper and towards the band and an unclaimed, plastic-protected Scrabble board. The plan was to get in a quick game before heading over to Le Poisson Rouge for a Budos Band show at 11pm. (If you’ve ever played Scrabble with me, you know that it’s not in me to play ‘a quick game’ or even a ‘moderately paced game’ of Scrabble. For every turn, I like to come up with at least three options – if not more – and play only the highest scoring word once I’ve exhausted all letter combination possibilities. That’s me – thorough to a T).

We had managed a measly two words, when our party of two expanded to four, and we chucked the letters back in the bag for Round 2. In the midst of all this, I learned that before meeting at Fat Cat at 9:30, Meredith had gone from work to The Strand, where she listened to 20 minutes of Jonah Lehrer’s talk on decision-making before going to get her hair cut at 7:30, from which she headed to a cafe to catch up on her New York Magazine reading – she was falling behind in her subscription. Luci – after gutting fish all morning at chef school – went to one of two internships she’s currently juggling (Time Out and Eater.com), then to an art show with boyfriend Krystian and Rice to Riches for a sugar rush before joining us for what she thought was going to be Ping Pong but ended up being Scrabble at Fat Cat (which is conveniently located literally next door to her apartment). Phew.

Between words, Meredith triumphantly offered us the New York Mag she’d just finished with. I was tempted, but being behind on my own subscription to The New Yorker, hesitantly declined. Luci – who gets New York Magazine at home as well – chimed in that she too was behind, so much so that she’d decided to stop getting the newspaper delivered. “It’s impossible to read a weekly magazine, a daily newspaper and still find time to read a book.” Too true. Enter the NY Times Weekender.

When I came back to New York at the end of the summer, I quickly realized that everyone who was in the know subscribed to email newsletters galore. Travel deal newsletters, new eatery newsletters, what’s new in French Manhattan newsletters, what’s free in NY newsletters, best book newsletters and untold others. I signed up for a few myself – but mostly as a result of jobs I was applying to – UrbanDaddy and Travelzoo for example. But now I too understand that the best way to keep on top of everything that’s happening in this on-speed city is to open up my inbox to all and sundry. Don’t trust yourself to have the time to go looking for the latest info – sign up to have it find you.

The more newsletters you receive, the more you’ll have to read (on top of your magazine+newspaper+book+websites of choice). You’ll also have more to do, be (or at least feel) more in touch with the pulse of the city and use most or all of the following to describe the kind of life you lead:  exciting, frenetic, dynamic, hectic, educational, interesting, post modern, overwhelming, fun, overscheduled, stimulating, drunken, crazy, over the top, memorable, story-worthy. You will also live with the comfort of knowing that when you don’t take advantage of something that’s at your fingertips, it’s not because you simply don’t know about it, but rather because you choose – wittingly – to opt out.

More often than not I feel completely inundated by this age of too much information, which is why after a week that reads something like Meredith’s and Luci’s Thursdays (both are avid newsletter subscribers), I’ve opted to spend this Sunday at home – sleeping in, catching up, cleaning a bit and completely cut off from the madding crowds and their misuse of pepper spray. A Sunday as leisurely as a three-hour game of Scrabble.

Happy March!

Blast from my Google past

Little video from my London days. I know it’s shameless to post it on my blog now, but I didn’t have one (a blog, that is) then, and if this is to be a sort of personal compendium, this glimpse into my GOOG life should have a home here. Plus the tune is just so catchy…

In Fact

The current issue of The New Yorker houses a rather self-reflective article on fact-checking entitled “Checkpoints: Fact-checkers do it one tick at a time.” A must read for folks who balk at a misreported fact (no matter how trivial) and find that typos teeter a fine line between careless and offensive.

I happen to be doing a lot of fact-checking at the moment. And working for an online publisher has its perks – errors, spelling or otherwise, can be fixed in a flash. The error and all record of it disappears, and poof you can pretend it never even happened. What a godsend for all those perfect people out there who ‘never’ err.

From my personal experience with fact verification and double-checking, I’m beginning to wonder whether one can ever really be sure. It’s important that your verification come from a reputable source, naturally, and even better, from the corroboration of numerous reputable sources. The trouble is, it is very possible for many to believe the wrong thing (think mob mentality instead of the wisdom of crowds), and even reputable sources can disappoint. As per the aforementioned article: “An error is everlasting…once an error finds its way into print it ‘will live on and on in libraries carefully catalogued, scrupulously indexed…silicon-chipped, deceiving researcher after researcher down through the ages, all of whom will make new errors, so on and on into an exponential explosion of errata.'” It’s all very post-modern, really. What is real? Does reality exist?

And how many people actually care? The explosion of the internet, along with the blogosphere, has made information more accessible, sure, but it’s also made a lot of misinformation parading as information more accessible as well. When people read something unbelievable, they say, “Wow, I can’t believe that actually happened” not “Is this really true?” We place a hefty amount of trust in the media (though we are getting better at identifying political slant), and this especially holds true for print media. My father – who worked for Reuters for many years – bristles at the apparent fact that newspapers will publish anything these days without a thorough fact-check. And it’s true – there have been scandals. And if it’s happening at big outfits like the New York Times, you know it’s got to be rife everywhere else as well. Judging from the “Checkpoints” article, though, you’re still safe with The New Yorker.

Media aside, though, there’s always been a bit of a grey area between lie and exaggeration. Any seasoned cocktail party storyteller will tell you that embellishment is a key tool of the trade. Is fact all that important to us when it comes to an entertaining tale? When a film is ‘based on a true story,’ do we query to what extent? Do we want to know which parts are true and which are based? When it comes to comforting or advising, it seems that the option of honesty is always, unavoidably preceded by the modifier brutal.

Stable people seem to intuit the difference between an embellishment that’s merely that (and can be enjoyed or appreciated as such) and one that’s a lie. One too many outrageous stories (especially of those that put the speaker in the rosy spotlight and paints all other players as crazy/stupid/ignorant/insensitive) and your listeners are going to glaze over, drift to more credible, if somewhat less amusing, storytellers.

Not long ago, at a rather informal sorority almuni brunch (yes shock horror I was in a sorority at college), someone was recounting the honeymoon tale of an absent sorority sister and recent divorcee (I’ll call her Samantha). “Sam told me that on their honeymoon, her husband turned around and said, I think if I met you today, I would never marry you.” The requisite chorus of shocked gasps, omigods and sympathizing nods ensued, but instead of joining in, I ventured, “Is anyone here very friendly with Samantha?” A round of head-shakes. “So,” I continued, “do any of us actually believe that Samantha’s ex said that on their honeymoon?” A brief skip of silence made me wonder if the all-you-can-drink bloody marys had gotten the better of me. Had I been totally inappropriate? No, as it turns out. No one at my end of the table had any more faith in Samantha’s far-fetched stories than I did.

Most people are not sticklers for facts, don’t fine-tooth-comb or do it one tick at a time (like our friends at The New Yorker). In fact, it’s uber pomo (read: cool and cutting edge) to blur the line between fact and fiction, but there is a limit and a context to people’s willingness to play along. And whether you’re reporting inaccuracies intentionally or not, it’s pretty devastating to be branded as that person (or publication) who (that) can’t seem to get it together to know when it’s important to stick to (or triple-check) the facts.

Sexperimenting

Just a quickie about neologisms. I wrote a little while ago about fupas and flirtationships; ever since I’ve been on the lookout for words I’ve never seen before, and they are just popping up everywhere.

A friend recently sent me in the direction of a NY Times piece on Rev. Ed Young who encouraged his congregation of 20,000 in Grapevine, Texas to engage in a ‘sexperiment’ (seven days of sex) as a way of getting closer to god. (Don’t worry, he’s still an advocate of abstinence – for the premarital, he recommended chocolate cake as an alternative.) I baked brownies a week ago and have been eating at least one a day – thus far no indication that it’s bridging the gap between me and the almighty. Perhaps brownies don’t suffice as an alternative to chocolate cake?

Grey’s Anatomy coined ‘oncebian’ and ‘twicebian’…for the infrequent lesbian.

A Virgin Atlantic ad spoke of ‘airphoria.’ I think this can be used no matter the carrier. It’s pretty hard to have a good flight experience, especially if you’re relegated to economy (which most of us are), so it seems reasonable to describe a flight that doesn’t make you want to slit your wrists as airphoric. Or should we save the term for those exercising membership in the mile high club?

Chrismukkah. A convenient one for those whose fate is an interfaith relationship (or just another marketing gimmick), but it’s just made the national circuit given yet another White House gaffe. Invites to a White House Chanukkah reception this year bore an image of a Clydesdale-drawn Christmas tree en route to the White House’s front door, already adorned with a Christmas wreath. Nice to know someone’s looking after the details.

I like that language is so malleable. As long as you know your audience and your letters (and a little latin), you can be an inventor of words. For now though, I think I’ll stick to documenting (mockumenting) – a resident neologistorian.