Sufjan!

Apparently Michigan is a real place. Here's what's going on there.

We landed near Detroit. Big airport. Got a tram. Going up and down elevators. I already hate Michigan.

Oh, and the airport has signs in English and in an Asian language. Random shit or global conspiracy?

Michigan to me: "Is Pepsi okay?" -- No, it's not! And don't call it "pop," either. It's not 1950.

The drive from Detroit to Grand Rapids (or as all the signs in Michigan say: "Gd Rapids." Someone got promoted for that genius idea. And it came to a meeting. And maybe it was unanimous, and everyone said it was great to save three letters per sign).

Anyway, that drive is the most boring, soul crushing experience of your life. Absolutely nothing. Absolutely no hint of the theory that beauty exists elsewhere in the world.

The main street in Grand Rapids is sad. Name a chain restaurant, it's there. And chain store. God, it was awful.

Went to a wedding around there.

At first, everything was cool.


But then, someone got cranky and started hitting me.


So I went outside.


And I looked around, and had to admit it was pretty nice.


In summary: After I don't write for a while, I have the feeling my next post should be amazing, so people would think I've been writing for a week. I'm overwhelmed because I can be judgmental about my blog, and I can't let it become a blog where I'm off for a week and then come back with nothing! And I'm making myself fail, because nothing I write could be at the level of the thoughts in my head (not that there's that much complexity over there).

And you know what's more? A good writer could have taken a long weekend in Hell Hole, Michigan, and make something meaningful come out.

After a week away I can't just write about a book I liked or about my new cellphone, even though I've been thinking about this book for years and even though I want to tell people about the cellphone because I'm so happy to leave Verizon, and if I can't express this happiness in my blog, then the terrorists have already won (actually, they will win on November 4th).

Look at the cute baby!

Purple Hair and I Didn't Care

Before I moved to London, I had lived my life the only way I knew how, by following the usual route. And although every once in a while a situation confronted me and shouted there was another life out there, I worked hard to ignore it.

Like watching Full Metal Jacket in high school. And watching people going crazy and killing other people and themselves, and yet, I still wanted to join the military and be a fighter in the army. And even as I saw a guy going crazy in the first few months there, exactly like the guy in the movie, only he was let go before he shot himself, I didn't think going crazy was the only sane thing you can do when confronted by insane situations. Instead, I thought the guy cheated us by leaving us behind, and cheated himself for not allowing himself to be a fighter. A great warrior and all that good stuff.

And then I went to England, and everything changed. No one knew me. I was twenty-two-years-old and free for the first time.

But that freedom to push myself and find my individual boundaries came with a price. With no guidance other than watching the mistakes of others, I made some mistakes of my own.

I was so invested in my reinvention, that I decided to let go of my past, as if anyone can.

I didn't return my parents' phone calls. I lost touch with my high school friends. I walked across the street if I heard someone speaking Hebrew. Damn tourists. And here I was, sitting alone with my cappuccino in Old Compton Cafe, watching the people in Soho, but really admiring my own faint reflection, admiring the person I'd become. Everything I thought I knew was a lie. My previous life was a lie. Yes, I'll take another £5 coffee, cheers.

This is just a simple introduction to excuse myself for lack of promised purple hair photos. With no guidance and no ancient set of values, a young man must invent his own philosophy. For example, I thought carrying a camera around would stop me from experiencing life. I don't know where that came from. But five years in London, I didn't take one picture. I have some pictures I took from other people's spare copies, but no... I don't know... no artistic expression of my own experience, if you will. And no picture of me with purple hair. The picture above is probably the closest one I have.

And the picture below is from around that same period, but still, no purple hair. And that's as long as my hair gets in photos, at least the ones I have. It got much longer later. Almost reached my hips before I thought it was getting silly. Then I saw Trainspotting on opening day, and when I left the theater I shaved it all. What's the worst that can happen, I thought? It'll grow again.

Funny thing about hair, it doesn't necessarily do that.

And that's about it. Just a word of caution before you wet your panties over my picture: That's 13 years ago. The hair that did grow back has since fallen, and is now spread on pillows and shower floors all the way from London to Baltimore. I don't wear necklaces anymore. No more earrings. I think my lips are thinner.

About Me

A while ago, over at this website, they told me I needed an About Me page. And I guess it's fair enough. Someone getting here by accident needs some context. For example, Google "Eric Cantor douche." (You will currently find me at number 5, just before Wonkette's "Eric Cantor smells of cow dung." Really, for a long time I was number one for that search. For a long time I was also number one for "Glenn Beck naked." I know, pretty cool).

Anyway, I was born in Israel thirty-almost-six years ago.

There was a big war when I was nine months old. A lot of people died protecting the honor of nation who would not negotiate with its Egyptian enemy. Five years later the Egyptian enemy's President, Sadat, stood with the Israeli Prime Minister, Begin, to shake hands and later, to receive the Nobel Peace Prize. Three years after that peace treaty, in a parade celebrating the war I witnessed as a nine-month-old, Sadat was shot dead. I was eight and I remember being sad as if a family member died.

So I'm now eight years old.

But it's getting a bit too long already. Let's cut some corners.

I went to school for many years. Nothing much happened there. I did my homework and shit.

Then I finished high school and had two weeks before I was supposed to join the military. So I read the Lord of the Rings books and then I joined the military.

That military thing was bullshit. I was in Golani. I met the biggest dicks in the world and I met selfless people I will live the rest of my life looking up to. But most of the time I carried heavy shit in the service of a false ideology. Hooray!

Three years later, a few months after I left the military, I moved to London. It was just a vacation, but I ended up staying. And I painted my hair purple.

I was there for five years. Working odd jobs, playing bass in a band, drinking. In late August in 1997, I went to Camden Town with the singer to give out some demo tapes. It was gray and nasty and it was the end of summer, and I told the singer that a day that started like that would surely end up bad.

So I met my American Girl that night, and two years later I moved with her to Brooklyn.

This crazy guy found two Pit Bulls tied to trees in Prospect Park, and gave them to our roommate. For some fucked up reason, he couldn't take care of them anymore, so we took over.


Then we got married. Then we moved to Silver Spring. Then to Baltimore.

I'm not a scientist, so I can't say exactly how this works, but one day Honey peed on a stick, and now we have a baby.


That's the short version. But there's so much more. Like introspective stuff about searching for my role and the meaning of it all. And I hate the fucking mall.

It's getting late.



(Oh, and my email is peopleinthesun@gmail.com)

"That One"

But who cares what I have to say? Here's what they say about "That one" on Free Republic:

It was an appropriate assertion. I liked it.

Yes! Obama has a name it's HUSSEIN! But we have been told to not use that name!

I would have called him something else. I guess “that one” works.

We just refer to him as “it”.

I think until he furnishes his legitimate birth certificate, “That one” is quite appropriate.

He should have said shithead.

And that's about it. Here's a quote from a reader at the National Review Online blog, The Corner:

Well I have gone outside and pulled up my Mcain/Palin sign. This election is over. I will vote for Mcain but I know that come Nov. 5 Obama will be our president-elect.

I feel sorry for Sarah Palin. A once promising career will be permanently connected to the landside loss of John McCain.

I weep for my children and their families.

Have a good night, y'all.