The Ivester Presents...

By Broncosaurus

Remember when I was so psyched about March? Well that has obviously come and gone and if you follow my ravings on ‘Summer of One Thousand Bullshit’ then you might have noticed in my last post that things since the Final Four have been glamorless and squalor-y in the motel in which I find myself residing. The news isn’t all bad though! All this April bullshit has left my checking account pretty swollen in a below-the-poverty line sort of way. Not, like, encephalitic levels of swelling, but definitely spider bite swelling. Not a bad spider bite that will kill you, but a pretty gnarly one that itches like a bitch. To clarify that analogy, let me summarize: if my normal financial state is smooth, unblemished skin, my current state contains some venom and has a bump on it? A money bump. Or the venom is the money? I have really made a pig’s ear of this shit. Let’s forget the whole thing. Just remember that I am low-stakes rich, and stoked about it.

So all the air mattressing, leaky showering, semi-insane screaming neighboring, it’s all been worth it because now I can leave Tahoe in style (read: with a cooler full of dope sandwiches and a 12-pack of Low Carb Monster Energy Drinks) and pursue National Park Passport stamps to my heart’s content for almost the entire month of May. For those of you who don’t know me well, understand that the pursuit of National Park Passport stamps is second only to my friends and family on the list of things that maximum elate me. Visiting National Parks, Monuments, and Historic Sites is what I was put on this glorious Earth to do. There are some 1500-odd stamps (including bonuses) of which I have collected 234 since acquiring my first stamp January 1st, 2007 (Point Reyes National Seashore). Collecting the rest isn’t on my ‘bucket list’, it is my ‘bucket list’. Some of you might think that this is a hobby for 7 year-olds. The prominent placement of the passport stamps among the Junior Ranger souvenirs in visitor centers across our fucking sweet land lends credence to your theory; but I’d like to see a 7 year-old take 3 weeks off from work to drive to Topeka to visit the Brown vs. The Board of Education NHS. Swish.

All told, my road trip from South Lake Tahoe, California to Damascus, Virginia (via South Point, Ohio) should land me a healthy 30 stamps, ranging in color from the vibrant orange of the Mid-West region to the distinctive baby shit yellow of the Rocky Mountain region. About this, I am beyond stoked.

The stamps aren’t even the only terrific shit coming my way in May! At the end of this trip I’m going to be sipping whiskey and smelling foul on the Appalachian Trail, surrounded by my beardedest buds at Camp Riff Raff, where in the past we have partied heartily enough to garner the sponsorship of Miller-Coors, who will be giving us a metric shit-ton of beer. Also pretty much the whole time I’m going to be dressed old-westily, which is going to be a damn blast. My old West attire will come in handy when I am Maid of Honoring the shit out of my dear friend’s Cowboys & Indians themed wedding at this Trailapalooza. Fucking yes.

Damascus is still many pop tarts from now, though. What other awesome shit am I going to be doing until then, you ask? Well for starters, I’m going to finally get to see this fucking thing in person:

There are straight up 17 NPS stamps within a 10 minute radius of this beast.

Also I’m fixing to see this m’rf’cker as I cruise through Denver will my sun roof open and my left arm getting painfully charred from prolonged dangling out the window:

Photo (used without permission) courtesy of the incomparable Ashley Cunningham

Hopefully when we recreate this photo, I will be less hammered on Peach Schnapps. Or, rather, I hope that I will be able to hide it even a little bit better.

Other highlights of May include, but are not limited to: leaving this horrible, horrible motel, leaving the jerkwater Chili’s I work for in Carson City, Nevada (oh btw, Carson City is the biggest podunk crap heap of a city I’ve ever seen. Lots of ignorance, not a lot of good Indian food—> worst of both worlds) and returning happily to my home Chili’s in Barboursville, West Virginia, where I belong, among friends, slinging queso to hill people. If I’m ever asked to define irony, I’m going to cite the several months my co-workers in Nevada made fun of me for being a redneck (quick background on me: I was born in San Francisco and received a Bachelor’s of Fine Arts in New York City. I’m about as redneck as an interracial gay couple driving a Prius) when they themselves lived in Carson City, Nevada. Irony, folks! Also, I realize but don’t care if any of that made me sound pretentious. Normally I go to great pains to avoid sounding pretentious, because I’m actually pretty fucking all right, but in this case I don’t give two shits. Carson City is a complete butthole and I do not care who knows it. I guess we could add ‘never going back to Carson City’ to the list of great things about May 2012!

Other May highlights include the weather, which will probably be temperate and awesome, the release of the 12th Sookie Stackhouse book which I am going to shamefully devour in private, Mother’s Day (I’m not gonna get to spend this with my Mama, but hopefully you all will. Unless you and your mama don’t get along? If that’s the case then I’m sorry and I hope you guys can work it out), and the potential for me to attend some West Virginia Power minor league baseball games, which I will do with gusto despite their being a farm team for the Pirates (yark).

Four more days of this hellish April shit show and May Magic kicks off! Can I get a fuck yeah?

By Ryceps 

The ex-patriot community in Istanbul is peculiar for its cheerful

desperation, as if we all elected to live on this large piece of
driftwood, clutching for the center, grinning as our legs dangle
underwater, playing footsie with one another all the while.

Most forays into living abroad in Turkey start very similar to mine: a
mid-to-late twenties teacher, often with very minimal teaching
qualifications, sets out to teach English language to native Turks for
about six months. Invariably, however, the shock of how comfortably
one can live in this city hits and seduces even the strongest into
long-term residency. And why not? Our community services predominately
the upper-echelon of families, preparing high schoolers and
businessmen with sub-par English skills for SATs/university and
international business, respectively. Thus, payment is often in US
dollars, and significantly more than that overage resident in Istanbul
makes. Partner this with how inexpensive food and room are here, and
most ex-patriots here can go out every night to convivially imbibe
liters (yes, that’s the metric system) of the terrible beer Efes and
the national aniseed liquor: raki.

Besides the prevalence of the drinking culture, the next most
surprising thing about my group of ex-pats is how terribly incestuous
it is. By this I mean that logically, there are only so many of us in
this community- the number 75 comes to my mind- and Turkish men and
women are not necessarily lauded for the rationality and stability in
relationships. It seems that every foray into the metro here showcases
a Turkish couple wailing in melodramatic fights, punctuated with pleas
of love and desperation that would make our American soap operas
blush. As a result of Turkish relationships bordering on farce,
damn-near everybody has slept with everyone in this insular crowd.
While one may believe that a group of liberal, mature professionals
could handle a little promiscuity, one would be hilariously incorrect.
The ensuing drama and gossiping actually help make this group so
entertaining, with relationship statuses changing too fast for
Facebook to keep up. The ultimate conclusion to take from this is: if
you are a visiting couch-surfer in Istanbul, the ex-pats will be all
over your fresh face like white on rice.

I’m not trying to take this group down a peg.  There’s something
beautiful in a community where people adhere so closely to each other,
so far away from the support groups which we’ve fostered back in our
home countries. Here, I’ve discovered an open, artistic community in a
beautiful, multiethnic city which, for all of its foibles, has been
extremely good to me. I miss that city, from the run-down and
dangerous Tarlabasi to the tourist-flooded street or Istiklal, and its
proliferation of the cheapest and best drunk-food that one can find.
But it is the community of ex-patriots which I miss the most, and I
wish them the happiest as they keep making the best out of a foreign
situation.

By Broncosaurus 

By Zizzly Bear 

Yes it’s that time of the lunisolar year again when we set out on lining our refrigerators with aluminum foil and purging our pantries of all the sinful carbohydrates and grains like pasta and cereal (which we weren’t even eating anyway). It’s early Spring, and while all of our friends are incessantly chatting away about the mournful demise of Christ and how many Cadbury eggs they can hide in their half bathrooms, we Jews gather round our specially clothed table, with our nicest (read: “least used”) silverware and prepare our stomachs for seven grueling days without penne, rigatoni, linguini, fettuccini, farfalloni, gnocchi, or capellini. Or, as my mom would say, “Spaghetti.” It’s Passover, dig in!

In past years, I’ve made it…a few days without the breads. If you’re going by the strict definition, grains and beans such as coffee are out too, so if you’re a stickler you could say I’ve never gotten past day 1. Okay, yes, there were a few years in my boyhood when I wouldn’t wake up and sprint (read: “trudge”) straight for the coffeemaker, but those days are a distant memory now and growing means changing and changing means tweaking the rules when it comes to religious observation. Passover, as a good friend of mine reminded me, is a Bacchinaliac celebration that encourages us to lounge, to drink, to enjoy the collapse of our enemies and rejoice on a life that consistently hangs in the balance from generation to generation. Passover, literally, is bittersweet. While enjoying the company of your family and watching them slowly drift through glass upon glass of Manischewitz, you read from the Haggadah and explore topics of child murder, plague, unholy acts with animals, dismissing your ancestors, forced social assimilation and, last but not least, sodomy (I’m sorry I misread that, it’s “meddling”).

So as the state of Israel hangs in the balance and my family structure fluctuates with the addition of grandnieces and second cousins and all sorts of those nondescript family members who will end up being referred to as this person’s son or that person’s aunt for Hanukkahs to come, I’ve decided to share what I’m grateful for this Passover season. I’m a good little nebbish who loves the holiday so I present my thoughts to you. It’s a silly list, I know, but nothing says I love the holidays more than shamelessly ranking things which I generally have no control over. Git ‘er done!

1.     My grandfather over-pronouncing “herb”

Yeah, he’s old school so he throws the voiced “h” in there. And you know what? No one says a goddamn word. Because he’s grandpa.

 Next!

2.     My sister and the four questions

This one I suppose I have some control over, since I was born before the youngest Zizzly cub. Other than that, it was just a matter of time until she learned how to read and could regale the table with an unenthusiastic recitation of the Passover four questions. Every year I remember the excitement of reading the four questions allowed to my family, then learning enough Hebrew to speak them in native tongue, and every year I forget all of them by the time the carb-free choco matzos hit the table. Ah well, there’s something about not being able to eat bread.

Next, I guess.

3.     Deciding what movie we’re going to watch when all the other family members go home

Last year it was The Tourist starring Angelina Jolie and the dude from Pirates of the Caribbean. This year I’m thinking Drive Angry. It’s the perfect post-Seder flick. This holiday’s all about enjoying freedom and what’s more free than choosing to watch a Nic Cage movie entitled, “Drive Angry”? Usually it takes a while to collectively choose a movie, I’m hoping this year we can decide early and digest. You’d think we’d have a system in place whereby every family member gets to pick the post Pessach entertainment, but no, it’s a grueling 15 minutes of finding the lesser of a handful of evils. Am I still doing this?

Oy, next.

4.     Here’s a good one: “ZACHARY’S HAGGADAH”

That’s right, I have been reading from the same Haggadah since I was a wee tot. And it’s got my name in perfectly penned caps written across the top in penmanship I only wish I could replicate these days. Seriously, my handwriting looks like a mix of Muhammad Ali and Paul Reubens. Also, I just realized I wrote “Zachary’s.” Not “Zack’s” or “Zizzly’s.” What a confident and headstrong child I was. Seriously, what happened to me? Anyway, like pitchers who refuse to change their sweat and dirt stained baseball caps in the heat of a great run, I too have never once used a different Haggadah. It’s more than superstition, it’s like my extra Passover appendage that lets me reach out and grab the hand of the Lord. Okay, maybe not that crazy, but I haven’t broken the streak yet and I sure as heck don’t plan on doing so this year. I mean every year I add newer, awesomer stains from red wine to charoset. It’s an extension of the Jewish me. I’m like the John Wetteland of Passover.

And I’m back – next!

5.     Day, Day-enu!

Roughly translated, it means: “it would have been enough for us.” Dayenu is possibly my favorite part of Passover. The song (which is basically just a repetition of the word Dayenu ad nauseum) is preceded by a list of awesome things that G-d did to prevent the Jewish people from being exterminated. It’s a fun way to wrap up an evening of gruesome storytelling. “They were mean to you? Now they dead.” Dayenu. “They took your cash? Here’s their land.” Dayenu. And I’m not sure whose idea it was to put the little diddy at the end of service in which you’re encouraged to drink upward of five glasses of wine, but it really provides a nice continuity to the evening.

Phew, that was a close one.

Happy Passover everyone. Live long and prosper and next year may we be in the land of Israel.