DC 2: The Bar Mitzvah

It was Saturday, and though I hadn’t found a job yet, I still treated it like a weekend morning. Some interviews were lined up, and since rent wasn’t an obligation, I wasn’t in a rush to start my day. I ate cereal and watched television. I had the apartment to myself while my party-planning uncle, Mark, pulled extra hours on a bar mitzvah. After sipping the last of the milk from my bowl, he called me.
“Hellllllllllllo,” he elongated. He asked me to dig around to see if he had any incense left. I found them in one of the drawers of an end table. He instructed me to stuff them in a tote with the large Bic lighter. There were two options: he could send somebody to pick the things up or I could bring them over. I agreed to head over.
“How much money do you have?” he asked. I dug through the pockets of the pants I wore from the night before. Six bucks left after dropping some cash at the bar by myself. He assured me that he’d pay the cab fare, so I threw on some clothes and locked up, running over to 16th St to catch a cab to the Four Seasons.

When I got to Georgetown, Mark walked out front and slipped the driver some bills. I didn’t think he got a lot of sleep, but he looked pretty intact.
“What time did you get back last night?” I asked.
“4:15. Slept, showered, got back here at 6:30.” He stared off before returning his attention to me. “6:15.” He had pretty much been there for fourteen and a half hours. But that’s what he does, always trucking along enthusiastically, like a man feeling the residual effects of a cocaine bender.
Mark led me inside, down into the basement. An arched entryway congratulated Joshua in English and in Hebrew. I waited outside while my uncle made the rounds, giving instructions to the waiters, the hotel staff, and whoever else were his employees for the day. I met a woman with a shaved, silvery head named Annie. She looked like an aged, frumpy version of Kanye’s model girlfriend. We stood silently before Mark returned and dragged me inside.
I finally saw what Mark had been talking about: the Middle Eastern marketplace. But, you know, not really a Middle Easter marketplace. More like if the Middle East received a makeover from your home decorator. Produce stands that could be a display at a high end furniture store. In the next room, one stand had Falafel, another had salmon. And all of these things were appetizers.
We ran into Susanne, the woman in charge of organizing this event, except she requested Mark’s help at the last minute, so she seemed to possess less authority. Some gauze was taped to her chest and sticking out from her spaghetti strap top. Instinctually, I thought ‘Breast Cancer Survivor,’ but remembered Mark mentioning her face looking pretty good “after getting some work done.”
Mark and I squeezed through a curtain into a backroom. I saw two rows of set tables. A carpet-like partition and some additional curtains blocked off another room, where a boy sang from the Torah. The tour must be over soon, I thought. Then Mark grabbed flowers to use as center- or end-pieces, so I assisted him. When he started to show me how he wanted a pile of nuts at each place setting, there was a tacit understanding that I was going to help out for the day.
The had a process for the nuts: scoop them with a cup, pour some in my palm, release them on the table near the upper corner of each plate. This proved too slow, so I simply splashed them onto the table straight from the cup. A younger woman stopped me. Because there was no lighting, I could barely make out her face or the blonde, frizzled hair, and her all black attire helped cloak her in the shadows.
“You need to stop that,” she said, flat hand atop my wrist. “The guests are complaining.” Mark overheard, so he stepped in while I continued to work. I reverted back to my palmed nut technique, which seemed to make the girl happier. But she stopped me again a few minutes later.
“This is way too loud. He’s reading the haftarah. It’s the most important section of the service,” she said. Her voice dripped in condescension. Would she enjoy the irony of instructing a fellow Jew? I thought.
Again, I remember Mark gossiping about Susanne’s daughter, Corrine, a twentysomething that had worked as a nurse in New York but returned to DC after a series of panic attacks or emotional episodes. To give her something to do, Susanne put her to work, despite little experience. I didn’t need any verification to know that I was dealing with Corrine.
When the service finished and the guests were led out of the room, the employees and I stacked the chairs and cleared the area. With the partition moved and the curtains widened, we brought out the tables from the backroom. We fine-tuned the place settings, added some fruits on the table to complement the nuts. “Nephew, nephew!” Susanne cheered each time I passed. Waiters placed spoons in bowls of hummus and tahini sauce. Some Yiddish four-piece band started performing in the corner. After roughly thirty minutes, the room for the bar mitzvah was converted into a dining room. The curtains had stretched along the ceiling, giving the effect of a succah. My Catholic uncle was responsible for a lot of this.

I sipped scotch in the corner by the bar while guests were led back inside. A couple of adults made toasts, while some kids goofed off just outside, their faces stuffed with grapefruit and figs or chocolate and almond caramel squares. Mark had said that about $48,000 was spent on food alone. “White people with too much money,” he laughed, shaking his head.
One of Susanne and Mark’s co-workers, Meghan, passed by.
“You’ve helped out Mark with other parties, right?” she asked me.
“Nope. Actually, this is the first party of his that I’ve even been too.” And it was true, although I had seen a few pictures from other events, heard about how he threw big spectacles for the Smithsonian and Republican National Convention.
“After my bar mitzvah,” I told her, “I hid in my basement with my best friend and played my new guitar.” I smiled.
“I know, right?” This agreement was more like her interpreting my story allegorically, like I was indicting the upper class. She left to chat with someone else.
Later, Corrine passed by.
“My feet are killing me,” she complained.
“Ahhh, bummer,” I said. “Were you here since last night too?”
“No.” She looked at me like I told a bad joke. “It’s these shoes.”
After my drink, I milled around, snuck in a few snacks for myself. Mark and I reunited back at the arch at around 2:15. Our services were no longer needed; Susanne and the crew would handle clean up. She had to set up another party that evening before heading to Europe the next day.
“This is wild,” I complimented. “I haven’t seen anything like this before.”
Mark smiled. “This is maybe a third of what I usually do.”



(note: besides Mark, names were changed)

An Open Letter to Jay Leno

Dear Jay Leno,

Congratulations on usurping the 10PM primetime slot every weeknight. Though there was a good chance that the time would’ve been filled with crappy medical/police/court dramas, you have denied five different hour-long programs from getting a chance to find an audience.

Most of us understand NBC is struggling right now in the rankings, but your network is known for capturing a younger audience. After all, you’re part of the family that airs “The Office” and “30 Rock.” NBC has been able to strike a great balance between the hyperactive idiocy of Fox and the geezer-ish tendencies of CBS (ABC is ostensibly non-descript). Wasn’t there just the slightest possibility that one of those five hours during the week could’ve been a gem, a quality program that could’ve reached a large audience?

Of course, that’s where the risk came in. You were on top with “The Tonight Show.” The leader of late night, wasn’t that your title? Millions of viewers, albeit with an older audience. Still though, picking you guaranteed success. So after whining like a baby, reluctantly handing the reigns to a program that many argue you shouldn’t have even hosted in the first place, NBC revamped their schedule. Not just a show but a five-night-a-week gig, “The Jay Leno Show.”

This is an almost equally risky move, considering it’s unprecedented. The comedy/talk show format during primetime? But hey, you had the built-in fan base, not to mention you’d be pretty cheap. Well, relatively speaking; you’d continue to be paid an egregious salary, but the show is cheaper to produce and is a cheaper investment than five hour-long shows (let’s just swipe the notion of a half-hour sitcom stuck in there).

With a new move like this, surely the formula for your show would be different? I mean, it’s not “The Tonight Show,” it’s “The Jay Leno Show” (the ubiquitous ad campaign made sure we knew that). And what changed? Not much. A new, tacky set, sure, but a lot seemed intact. You brought your band with you, you continued with your unfunny monologues. And ‘Headlines’? Oh, how could you have a show without it? Don't forget about ‘Jay-Walking.’

Perhaps it’s just a difference in comedic tastes, but I thought you would’ve expanded a little bit. The comedy and the bits are as broad as ever. Jim Norton complaining about airports? Are you fucking kidding me? We’re on the cusp of 2010. If the public wants comedy but has to deal with more of your brand of humor, I think we’re ready to laugh at a different observation, ya know?

Oh, but the probing interview with Kanye! One day after an unflattering moment that received an unwarranted amount of attention (his anti-book rally didn’t receive as much attention), you had one of the first (the first?) interview with him. In a Barbara Walters-esque 20/20 moment, you asked him if his mother (whom you met!) was still alive, what would she say? I’m not trying to excuse West’s behavior, but it’s not like he worked at Dachau. Did you have to exhume his mother? In this instance, Ye’s embarrassment supersedes Taylor Swift’s

Besides interfering with the possibility of new programming, your unwavering adherence to your tired schtick, your refusal to get off the air, PERIOD, you’ve committed the worst atrocity. When Conan hosted “Late Night,” he was coveting your time slot. He had to endure your position as the lead-in, and after a shaky start, spending years crafting a unique, comic persona and show, and after having his show aired at an ungodly hour during the work week, he finally got the desk in June 2009. And after a mere three months, you’re back on right before him.

Fuck you.

Sincerely,
Justin Levine

DC 1: Introduction

Yesterday started with a 6.5 hour car ride. I slept through the first part of it, spending the rest of the time talking with my uncle or scanning the radio for tolerable songs. It wasn’t until the final leg of the trip when I realized I was living in a new city.

I’ve been to Washington, DC a number of times, including a recent trip in June, but it’s still an unfamiliar place to me. It’s not like Boston, where even after my earliest visits reminded me how comfortable I felt in New England. Sure, I’m living with my uncle, but I’m in a new city and, for all intents and purposes, I’m all alone.

We arrived at his apartment in the early afternoon. It overlooks the Meridian Hill Park, and though it’s close to a few major neighborhoods, my uncle places it on the fringe of Columbia Heights, the ‘rich part’ of DC. His place is small; the fridge takes up more than a quarter of the kitchen and the dining area and office form a hybrid corner. Despite the size, it’s luxurious. The complex’s roof overlooks the city, with memorials on the periphery and the Washington Monument jutting out in the distance. But my uncle’s personal touches still stuck out the most; a plasma screen hanging on the wall, free of stray wires; a plastic-pouched organizer hanging in the closet, clothes stuffed in every pocket; silver containers to consolidate the food, separated by cereal, pasta, coffee, etc. And tucked in close to the window, by a ledge shelved with glass vases that shimmer like diamonds: my bed for the next few months.

I unpacked my things, fitting all my clothes into one closet, the excess of my bags underneath the daybed. Shortly after, my uncle drove us to the Costco in Virginia, and we hauled boxes of groceries back to apartment. I helped my uncle meticulously organize our goods. Eventually, we ate, and when there was nothing left to do, I reminded myself: I’m in DC.

Instead of spending my first day exploring, I stayed inside. The lack of motivation to head out was akin to my first day of college, where I found my sense of excitement and fear colliding and creating a sort of paralysis. I indulged in an unhealthy amount of cable TV. I figured I could sleep off the last of my anxiety.

After breakfast this morning, I went for a run past various embassies, the White House, and the Washington Monument. In the afternoon, I applied for some jobs while sitting in the local café. I stumbled around Dupont Circle, admired the variety of restaurants, perused a bookstore. In the evening, after venturing home, I sat in Meridian Hill and read. It was reinvigorating.

Nothing huge happened today. I wasn’t in shock or awe of my new environment, like Gauguin in Polynesia or the American ex-pats in France. Perhaps my limited city experience has left me a bit jaded. But all the same, it was life changing. I made a conscious attempt to change my life, and though it can turn out shitty or sweet, at least I made the change.

(As you could infer from the title, this is the inaugural post in what I intend to be an ongoing series. That means you'll have to ignore the initial intention of this blog, which was to avoid my personal trials. Whatever).