Alizah Salario

This astute appraisal of J.D. Salinger’s work by Michiko Kakutani encapsulate the conflict many writers face. To write, one must know the world. The keen observations that resonate with readers and define literature with a lasting shelf life all come from being profoundly affected by the world.  But yet the writer, if sensitive and sharp enough to attune to the frequency of human behavior, is also apart from it.  In order to do her job, the writer must hush any external voices, shut out distractions, and listen to a voice that is at once her own and that of the story that aches to be told.  

So the writer must take what she can; it is both inner serenity and turmoil that shape her work. Perhaps Salinger was caught deeply in this dilemma; the greater his success, the further from the world he retreated, until there were no more stories to be told.  This sort of torture is known by those who feel their work is inspired one day and worthless the next. Indeed, all of Salinger’s stories are versions of his own.

“If the writing is honest it cannot be separated from the man who wrote it.”  – Tennessee Williams

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/29/books/29appraisal.html?src=tp

I’ve never had trouble getting a date – until I moved to New York. Blame it on an intensely competitive dating pool, a city bursting at the seams with people who are overbooked and overworked, or my own theory that most people find flirtatious texts, Chinese food and meaningless sex more satisfying and cost-efficient than an actual date. I thought I was content being single and unfettered without so much as a textworthy crush until I started to develop a thing for the men of Jersey Shore. (I spend more time watching them than interacting with males of my own species). Then I could smell it: desperation.

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Dear Mr. President,

After tonight’s State of the Union Address, I think we may be able to work things out. I know I may have seemed distant lately, but can you blame me? You were trying way too hard to play it cool and appear unaffected. The truth is, automatons are boring. I need you here, present, invested in what we’re trying to build together. I know you’re under intense pressure and scrutiny, but when you retreat, you lose yourself. I know you’re a thinker, but I’m glad to see you didn’t get caught in your head tonight. Words mean nothing to me.

If not now, then when? I couldn’t agree more. Deep down I’m rooting for you. I was so proud of you tonight, and for the first time in awhile I really believed that we just might be okay. I don’t want to settle for second best. I don’t think we should give up when things get tough. I am strained, but hopeful too. I want a better life, too. No one ever said this was going to be easy, but I don’t want to see us making the same mistakes we’ve made in the past. You really validated my feelings and finally spoke with the assurance and authority I’ve missed. After all, that’s what I liked about you in the first place. But it’s not so much what you said, but how you said it. In short, I felt that you truly cared.

With your wing man Joe smirking in the background, I knew you had it in the bag.

Best of luck, your hopeful citizen,
xoxo
Alizah

Hat, gloves, scarf, sweater, tug, zip, wrap, pull. Getting ready to go out is like suiting up for battle. Everything seems harder, everywhere seems farther. Even going downstairs to get the newspaper is painful. You have that extra slice of bread because you need that extra layer, and before you know it even your loose jeans are tight.  Flip flops and spaghetti straps are ancient history. The thought of wearing a bikini frightens you. On top of it, you have a cold. You haven’t seen the sun for 12 consecutive days. Read the rest of this entry »

It is hard to think of writing about anything else than Haiti this morning. Anyone who has ever experienced any sort of loss (and that would be us all) can only fathom the heartache of the Haitian people and their loved ones.

As a journalist, or perhaps simply as a human being, I feel the need to be at the core of the event and bear witness to tragedy and suffering.  I have been amazed once again at the expediency of information and the way people around the world have galvanized to help, aid and abet.  I wonder though, how the process actually gets going. Read the rest of this entry »

I love the way I move in art, and I feel somehow changed within a space redefined by sculpture.

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In just a few weeks, Jersey Shore has become the new Keeping Up With the Kardashians. Snooki is a household name and fist pumps are the new dance floor craze. Perhaps this inconsequential scrap of pop culture doesn’t deserve my attention, but to be quite honest, the show has sucked me in – twice. I think I’ve got a ’situation.’ (See Mike and his 6-pack – now I know you want to watch the show to get the inside joke)

We all know that Shore, just like The Hills, Laguna Beach and all sleazy reality television, is edited and remixed until the truth is unrecognizable. Each character is whittled down to a vapid, stereotypical version of his or her true self.  Perhaps I’m giving ‘The Situation’ and J-wow too much credit, but I refuse to believe anyone is as simple as GTL (gym, tanning and laundry).

I’ll let the show speak for itself. A few choice quotes from yesterday’s episode:

“These girls aren’t hoes. It may take, like, a couple of times of hanging out before they’ll get naked and get  in the hot tub.”

“Its all about your numbers. If you call enough girls, you’re bound to hit it.”

“If I’m feeling the beat, I just may feel moved to move my fist up and down in a pumping motion.”

I’m not worried about our culture becoming vapid and superficial. It already is. Truth be told, I see nothing wrong with a little brain candy now and then. (One can enjoy both the New Yorker and The New York Post). I’m worried about ‘everyday’ people who opt to become their media-created persona – fantasy becomes their reality, the character more potent than the individual. The JS crew is perhaps the most ‘real’ of reality t.v.’s hit shows, and that is exactly why it will have an insidious effect on viewers. But what happens to those of us who aren’t reality stars, but think they should be? Every single one of us now has the ability to create our own ‘celeb’ persona via Twitter, Facebook, etc. I’m concerned because I see a narrow, reductive version of myself emerging through social media – and I’m told this is a good thing.

Its not that I think value lies in my superficial traits, but I most certainly feel the pressure to capitalize on them. Truth be told, I’ve heard time and time again that I must ‘brand’ myself in order to find some kind of niche as a writer. So folks, what should it be? Cute cub reporter looking for the next scoop a la Lois Lane? Intellectual yet fashionable single girl in the city a la Carie Bradshaw? Arts afficionado? Lonely introverted writer? Should I put a flower or a glamorous photo on my website as a defining trait? The list of potential identities is endless, yet none stand alone. By definition, branding is reductive. Out of context, my ‘characters’ are unfit and untrue. I know this, yet I feel the need to create a public persona before I’ve even rubbed shoulders with success and fame.

I do not think this is crisis of morality or character. It is a loss imagination and the ability to believe in bigger things. Hook ups and bling itit is. There is no mystery left and perhaps no room for fantasy.  I’m still searching for a brand – one that is authentic and undeniably me. In this media climate, I’m not sure how marketable ‘authentic’ is. Sigh. Maybe I should just change my name to Skooki.

Update #1:

Just as I was regretting this seemingly vapid and unimportant post, The New Yorker comes out with their Jersey Shore critique. A must-read.

Oh, and Gawker has some fancy-looking Jersey Shore graph too.

My visit to The Shrine was a long time coming. This Central Harlem world music venue/performance space/art gallery/restaurant was mentioned to me while reporting in East Harlem a handful of times, and as a journalist I always have to follow-up on a good lead.

The Shrine is modeled after Nigerian musician and activist Fela Kuti’s original haunt. The place pulses with breath and magic and is nothing short of fantastic. Indeed, it is a Shrine: a room-sized alter dedicated to musical greats and rich cultures where those humbled by the beauty of the arts come to worship. The walls are plastered with Disco and Motown record covers – Diana, Aretha, Tina, to name a few – in their huge-Afro heydays. Rainbow letters, the kind used for a child’s birthday party, spelled out ‘Harlem United’ on the back wall. A disco ball and an antique chandelier hung from the ceiling; oddly, each seemed equally appropriate. The black and white patterned tapestry behind the stage lent a homey feel to the space. The only thing that felt out-of-place were the $13 cocktails, but after all, this is Manhattan.

Friends and I sat around picking off of a Mediterranean plate and a basket of plantains. The first performer to take the stage was a Japanese jazz signer who cooed to the audience, “I am so happy, so so happy to sing for you today.” I admit, I was skeptical, but she could scat and croon along with the best of them, even when her thick Japanese accent emerged when singing elongated vowels. Still, her covers of old standards like Blue Moon and Blackbird just didn’t sound liked I remembered. I missed the scratchy recordings of the masters, yet she sang a view originals and I can now say I’ve heard jazz in Japanese. I began to feel nostalgic for a time and place I’ve never known.

The second set was The Plaine Truth, a rock group of incongruous dudes. The classic beats were refreshing, but titles like ‘Pocket Full of Soul” kind of ruined it for me (I’m not sure where I keep my soul, but it sure isn’t in my pocket.) I quickly got annoyed when one of those media types (Oh! The media!) stuck his camera near my face to record footage for a show in Brazil. Who knows? You might catch me grooving at the Shrine on a t.v. set in San Paulo.

It is difficult to define the scene, or know who, if anybody, really belongs: the Rastafarians, the neighborhood locals, the awkward looking hipsters, the beat poet-era cats who exude the deep and vibrant aura of artists. Of course, I wonder where I fit in this breakdown, and I think its strange that I mentally arrange people in a grid of ‘the real deal’ and ‘posers’ on one axis, “true music lover” or “artistic dilettante” on the other.  I guess all I’m trying to find, and define, is something authentic. As always.

No matter where I go in New York, I’m surrounded by delectable food options.  Yesterday, I had just  finished my morning workout (resolution #2) and was eager to nourish my burgeoning muscles. I’d made it to 1:30 without any caffeine or sugar, so I decided to treat myself organic style.  I stopped at a little vegan cafe and ordered the Adam & Eve. It sounded raw, stripped bare of any impurities, and kind of sexy. In fact, it was a simple glass of fresh squeezed carrot, orange and ginger juice.  $4.50 seemed a bit steep, but I thought it was worth it. When the server handed me a small plastic cup containing no more liquid than a child’s juice box, I cringed. Small was tiny.  Was this some kind of a cruel joke? How much had I paid per ounce? I downed my little plastic cup in a few sips. Still hungry, I then stumbled upon Soup Stop, where I got a cup of spinach lentil that came with bread and a small apple for $4.90. A great deal, plus that post-soup inner warmth  on a bitter cold day to boot!  Case in point: eating healthy on a budget can be done, and done well.

Food prices and calories generally seem to go in inverse proportions, but where there’s one good deal there’s bound to be another. As of today, here’s what $5 or less can get me in and around the UWS. I know many of these items don’t constitute a meal in the eyes of the average three squares a day eater, but in my unconventional book, these items often sustain me.  In a few weeks, I hope slash the sugar filled ‘meals’ for healthier options.

P.S. Not sure why but I feel that I’m revealing a very sacred part of my soul here. I’m not sure if these choices reflect the works of a sick mind or merely a neurotic one.

1. Small cup of carrot apple ginger juice at Cafe Blossom: Columbus and 82nd
2. Egg and cheese sandwich on a bagel (I prefer sesame) at Nussbaum and Wu: Broadway and 113th
3. Two slices of cheese pizza at Joe’s (Located in the West Village but Adrian Brody loves the place. Need I say more?)
4. Frothy large latte from Max Cafe: 122nd and Amsterdam
5. Chocolate croissant and hot chocolate from Chocolat: Broadway and 122nd
6. Giant chocolate chip cookie from Levain bakery (yes, 1 cookie is over 4 bucks. Does anyone notice a theme here?):  74th and Amsterdam
7. Luna bar and naked juice (my favorite post-workout combo): Subs Conscious: Amsterdam and 120th
8. Liege waffle with dinges from the Belgium waffle truck (this is actually $6-$7 but its become my Monday ritual) Parked at 113th and Broadway on Mondays

Healthy suggestions? I’m starving.

The true test of a man’s faith resides in what he is willing to sacrifice. Israel Campbell proves his devotion to his faith three times over in Circumcise Me, his one-man show running through February at the Bleeker Street Theater. Campbell chronicles his journey to Judaism, the  show’s heartfelt narrative hinging on an anecdote about the three circumcisions he underwent for each successive Jewish conversion. Precisely how Campbell went from Catholic schoolboy to strung-out addict to Orthodox Jew – all in one lifetime – is detailed in an hour-and-a-half long show that illuminates Campbell’s insights and perpetual questioning. Make no mistake, Circumcise Me doesn’t rely on shtick about what happens when a scalpel meets a grown man’s penis (three times). Nor is it merely about Judaism. It is a tale of transformation and one man’s discovery of what everyone longs to find: a sense of belonging.

Campbell is a gifted storyteller whose entire show is a meditation on a very Jewish question: why? He relies on stock Jewish humor throughout the show (there’s even a glossary of Yiddish and Hebrew words in the program), but his message buoys above overplayed shtick. With sarcasm and hyperbole, he succeeds in highlighting the sometimes ludicrous nature of Jewish conversion. Before his last conversion to Orthodoxy, if he wanted the food he cooked in his own kitchen to be kosher, he was told he either had to cook with his Orthodox raised roommate (who didn’t keep kosher), make one ingredient meals (he goes on a long diatribe about a broccoli-only Shabbat dinner), or become an Orthodox Jew.

Campbell’s dedication to and love for Judaism is undeniable, and his sincerity  makes him utterly appealing onstage.  When I spoke with him after the show, I shared the story my own bizarre conversion experience.  My father was Jewish, my mother is not;  I was raised by my father in a Jewish home with his Jewish girlfriend, but technically, my sister and I were not Jews. Although Judaism was the only religion I had ever known, I was informed shortly before my Bat Mitzvah that I would have to convert.  I couldn’t convert to what I already was, I reasoned. Yet because Judaism is passed down matrilineally, anyone born to a Jewish mother is automatically a Jew, therefore, I was not. My conversion with my sister was nothing more than a dip in the ‘holy’ waters of Lake Michigan and a blessing.  Still, I resented having to go through what I considered a parochial ritual, and felt insulted that my connection to Judaism was determined not by my actions and beliefs, but factors beyond my control.

Naturally, I was impressed by Campbell’s total willingness to relinquish his old way of life for the sake of personal growth. It is one thing to go through the motions, but another entirely to transform the essence of one’s life. Religious poseurs give a bad name to dramatic spiritual change,  yet those who masquerade in their own lives feel even emptier after superficial spiritual dabbling. Campbell’s internalization of Judaism and his earnest quest for spiritual connection sets him apart. He lives in Israel along with his wife and their twins; he has been tested and had friends perish in suicide bombing attacks and remained devout. In his words, he is a ‘total’ man, a man who is whole.

One of the show’s most poignant moments comes at the very end. when Campbell explains his reasoning behind adopting the name Israel. The word literally means, ‘He who wrestles with God.’   Like any good comedian, Campbell never lets us forget that he is a man who knows what it is to feel misunderstood and pained. Perhaps Campbell’s identification with Judaism is not jut about ritual and community, but his unrelenting search for answers that age-old question. Why?