FYMTQ: Zach Linder

Meet Tumblr Zach Linder. Zach Linder writes a blog. It is called The Jew York Times. Zach Linder does improv/sketch comedy at UCB, but he does not look like this. Zach Linder is not going to take my shit any more. Zach Linder and I talked recently on the phone about The New Yorker and I tried to explain to him that the idea of writing while trying to actively get rid of your audience is a freeing thing. Zach Linder still didn't get it, and neither do I. Uncool fathers beware - America: meet Zach Linder.

What's your background?
I was booted out of Hebrew School right before my Bar-Mitzvah, was told by my high school teachers they couldn't wait to see my graduate and leave, was once banned from performing with my college improv group, and have been blacklisted by what was my dream job. It's been a rough go of it for this Great Neck-raised Semite with a penchant for internet crushes.

Why are you following us?
Back in April, Following YM criticized me for liking Kurt Vonnegut, two months later you dissed on me for my Woody Allen obsession and standing up for The Homeland. Come on, how can I not love you?

What era, day or event in blogging history would you like to re-live?
Three years ago two famous comedians, one of whom you've declared as overrated, set me up on a blind date in public as a gimmick for their comedy show. I blogged about it afterwards, girl called me out on it, one of the matchmakers called me a dick, and I was guilt-tripped into apologizing. Oh, it was a great old time. Last I checked, the girl works for Pitchfork, so I'll give her a 6.2.

Who do you consider to be the greatest blogger of all-time?
Six little words: "Dear Journal, Hi, it's me Doug."

What's your blogging motto? If you reblog it, they well come.
Three rules for life:
1. Tip well.
2. Never run for the bus.
3. Don't take any shit from anybody.

Describe that low moment when you thought you just might have to leave blogging for good.
Aforementioned blacklisting. It's a long story. Find me at the next Media Meshing to hear to the gorey details.


What was the last thing you read on Gothamist? Anything by the great Billy Hot Chocolate, the hottest new blogger on the 'ist circuit. Pencil that in.

If you could get rid of every baby and/or stroller tugging family in Park Slope at the expense of losing your beloved Union Hall, would you? Union Hall is the best bar in New York City (Dude, those are fighting words - now would be a good time to note that YM is not responsible for the opinions or views expressed by FYMTQ contestants. - Ed.), but let's get serious here for a second. First off, I'm in Cobble Hill. That's like a 20-minute commuting difference, so get your F-train nabes straight. Now, I know I'm in the minority (Fucking Jews aside) about this, but I am not amongst the hordes of twenty-somethings in the Slope bitching and moaning about the stroller mafia. My rushed dreams of domesticity and goal to be the "cool dad" prevent me from having any legit cynicism towards babies. That, and there's are some hot MILFs all up in that hood.

If you could change one thing about blogging, what would it be?
Fewer meetups.

What was your best or most expensive medication experience just after midnight on a summer Saturday?
18-year Highland Park, aged Gouda, Seinfeld DVDs

The mustache. Explain the origin and the death of it. The Truth: Beard wasn't right for the office, so it was shaved off leaving just the mustache in between the service and reception of my first cousin's Bar-Mitzvah in Feburary. Aunt Robin was not a fan. "It's uneven." It remained for four months, and I was looking for an excuse to shave it. We figured it would be a great stipulation for my bad-guy character to lose it in a match at my comedy wrestling show at the UCB, and then have it shaved live onstage. I changed my outdated avatar two months later.

Defend and/or explain Ira Glass in three sentences.
I've seen him walking his dog in Chelsea. He has a Wii, and was a fan of The OC. Married, but let's face it: probably in the closet.

Curt called improv an activity that merits the mass participation of "retards." What say you? (Improvise!) The best improv is done with as little irony or cynicism as possible. What improv does merit is a willingness to be positive, creative, sincere, a good listener, and to take your pants off in January on the 6-train with hundreds of other people. If that's retarded, then guilty as charged. Curt needs to get his tongue out of his cheek.

To Hell and Back Reliability

So: last Sunday, a Jew, a German, and an Italian walk into a shooting range.

Actually, it was an Italian, a Jew, and a German, in that order. When I arrive at the West Side Pistol Range, strangely - or not - located in the Flatiron District, 99 is already sitting at a plastic table in the lobby, accompanied by a tall, plastic cup of iced coffee. He's staring into the distance, five feet away, into a wall. The normal niceties we greet each other with aren't present. It's 11 AM. I'm sitting at the table, mumbling some shit about getting work done, and sipping away at my paper cup of coffee - emblazoned with The New York Times* logo - and we sheepishly make excuses for The German, who has yet to arrive. 99 is an on-time kind of person: this is somehow contradictory, I find, to the idea of being self-employed.

Me, I'm a disheveled, ugly mess. I stayed up late watching Michael Clayton for the first time, and woke up thinking that everyone could be out to fuck me; a great mentality to take with you to the gun range. I arrive two minutes to 11, which is exceptionally early for me. I was told via Curt - our organizer - that the "people at the gun range are really strict about being on time," and if there's anybody you don't want to be late for, it's some grizzled Heston fan who works at a gun range in New York City.

Someone fires off a few rounds in the range behind us, and I nearly piss myself and/or fall over, coffee cup and all. The first gunshot you hear in the morning is a loud one (but not nearly as loud as the guy later firing off a fucking hand cannon two stalls down from us - we don't know what gun he was using, and like we were going to ask). Trying to have a "catching up" conversation while someone is gatting a piece of paper five feet behind you is relatively jarring.

Curt rolls in ten minutes later - our voices had been low; tired. He yells from across the lobby: "Guys! Good morning! What's up?" What's up? Keep your fucking voice down, man. These guys have GUNS. Fucking GUNS. I guess it's worth noting that Andrew made some excuse for not coming, but we know he's a pussy and can't really handle a gun anyway, so, you know, that's cool.

We file into a makeshift classroom and sit at desks, filling out paperwork that releases the West Side Shooting Range of any liability in case they have to take me out for loading the gun inside out and putting a hole anywhere but down the range - an entirely likely outcome.

ENFORCEMENT AGENCY?, one of the questions asks. I lean over to Nic: "Is this where I fill in 'YoungManhattanite.com'?"

"Look at the back," he wearily notes. "I think we might be in trouble." There was a list of, "If you are's" as in, IF YOU ARE A USER OF OR HAVE EVER BEEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF MARIJUANA OR ANY OTHER DRUG, YOU MAY NOT SHOOT HERE. IF YOU ARE ON TRIAL FOR OR HAVE EVER BEEN CONVICTED OF A MISDEMEANOR CRIME, YOU MAY NOT SHOOT HERE. Etcetera. We met at least three of the criteria for not being able to shoot there between us, but Curt tells us that it's fine. "Just be cool." It was, and we were.

The room was mostly women, one of which was a young Asian lady, there by herself, with an abundance of lipstick on. I was worried about her - 99 might ask for her number, which I'd have to stop. People who go to a gun range by themselves, for the first time: worrisome. Small women who go to a gun range by themselves, for the first time, on a Sunday morning, in an abundance of makeup: stay the fuck away.

Our instructor was a nice, well-to-do type - he didn't sound like a New Yorker, which was good: I felt I was in the hands of a professional with limited psychopathic reach. He even helped me tape up a pair of safety goggles, because I'm a right-handed, left-eye-dominant, which means I'm too much of an invalid to be able to close my left eye. Whatever. After twenty minutes of a class that was mostly DO NOT SHOOT ANYBODY WHO WORKS HERE WITH A GUN, we stepped out of the classroom. We sat at a table. We loaded our magazines. We stepped into the stalls. We started to fire. And then, with our Ruger 1022 semi-automatic rifles, some of us aimed.

The most thrilling thing about shooting a gun this morning wasn't hitting the target, which I ceremoniously - and much to everyone's surprise - actually did. No. It's firing a semi-automatic weapon. "Most guns are semi-automatic, dickhead," my roommate later reminds me. This is true, but the last real gun I shot was a single-action lock-and-load at a summer camp^; before that, an air-pistol BB Gun on a camping trip. So I guess this was my first semi-automatic weapon, which I was about to compare to eating my first Eggs Benedict**, but it's different than that. But you know both are dangerous as fuck and probably not good for you. Except one you eat, and the other one can put a bloody fucking hole in someone. So, you know, different, but the same.

Anyway, the thrilling thing about firing a semi-automatic weapon for me was pulling the trigger a bunch of times and hearing the loud BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG, and then clicking the cartridge release, letting it drop to the floor below my stall, and slamming another five-bullet cartridge back in. I felt like Dirty Fucking Harry. In the stalls next to me, Curt and Nic were taking their time; I heard about five or six seconds between each shot. They probably heard about three between every five, for me.

Anyway. I did okay. I hit the center of my target a few times and after the thrill of hitting the target was gone, I just went for the loud noises. I am a luddite with no regard for precision, talent, or skill. Just loud noises^^.

We finished 100 rounds. We sat at the table, rolling up our shot-out targets. Curt did far better than I did - that wasn't hard - but even he admitted to the thrill of popping off rounds with little regard for aim.

99 starts rolling his targets up, and Curt stops him. "Woah, man. Jesus." He had more or less pumped 17 rounds into the center of his target. "Holy shit."

"Yeah, you know, I just saw what was happening with the first one and re-adjusted my aim here, held the gun this way, until I finally knew where the bullet was going." Spoken like a true by-trade designer. Just, you know, put this thing here, put that thing there. And then SHOOT IT DEAD-FUCKING-CENTER. It was like that moment where R. Lee Ermey discovers Private Pyle is a marksman - not entirely unexpected, totally impressive, and a little scary. Except I'm Private Pyle and I couldn't shoot the broad side of an N-Train.

Leaving the place, I noticed a sign on one of the counter-windows: SIG SAUER - TO HELL AND BACK RELIABILITY. I jam a finger at the sign: "We should have that somewhere near our masthead."

At brunch, we didn't save. We had orange juice with bubby wine in them, and Curt ordered soft-boiled eggs, which I just don't understand - so much work! Nic didn't say anything, but I could tell he was fascinated with watching Curt eat them, with precision. Kind of a European thing, those soft-boiled eggs.

We starting talking about sketch comedy. Curt noted that it's "for retards," and quickly added an "I apologize if you have any mentally deficient people in your family. But it really is." I almost convinced him my sister was retarded, but then told him I didn't have a sister.

The takeaway is this: who's the bigger pussy? The guy who walks out of the West Side Pistol Range with his own gun, or the guy who walks out and has a mimosa?

I'd like to think it's the former, but it probably isn't. Then again, I guess I'd rather be a pussy: I really do enjoy having brunch. It's nice.

Anthrax, Looking Down The Barrel Of A Gun (Beastie Boys cover)

*This is worth noting because someone is still stealing my fucking Times subscription, and I couldn't stop thinking about this until I got to the gun range, sans paper, with the only New York Times-issued paraphernalia I had on me this morning being that goddamn coffee cup. Listen, you dickless thief: if you're reading this, and there's any takeway for you, buddy, remember: I am a fucking marksman. Or someone I know, is.

^Not the Jewish summer camp; they would never have rifllery at a Jewish summer camp. Most Jews don't like guns. Figure it out. Also, really, though, it's kind of a Goy thing.

**Definitely a Goy thing (ham and dairy). For the record, so is mayonnaise, or so my grandmother says.

^^ This also describes approximately 30% of the YM Masthead's Writing Style, so at least I'm in good company.

Zuckerman Bet

From Eli Valley:

Please forward this to Lockhart Steele, with the note that I suggest he start putting aside money between now and November so it's not a sudden loss. Just $10/month for five months, which is basically a sacrifice of one apple martini per month.

You'll notice, despite your inebriated left-side paw-print signature, that you were the Witness.

As "Witness" I am obliged to blog this (and I think I collect 20% either way the action goes), but I honestly don't remember much from the evening other than a couple of Israeli girls at 11th Street Bar.

FYMTQ: Sara Zucker

Meet Tumblr Sara Zucker. It only takes two beers to get her wasted, like many of her generation she's afraid of capitalization and when I sincerely complimented a photo of her wearing a black beret by saying it made her look Orthodox, she replied, "christ, way to make a girl feel suicidal."

Following Young Manhattanite Tumblr Questionnaire

What's your background?
jewish american princess from long island rebelling against the confines of "the man" by wearing ripped jeans and studying to become a museum archivist/librarian.

Why are you following us?
ever since rosie o'donnell stopped posting those videoblogs of hers, i've been looking for a quick fix of internet entertainment. don't worry, i'll unfollow you in a few days.

What era, day or event in blogging history would you like to re-live?
when i went out with a guy from jdate who turned out not to have been jewish. wait, you said "re-live"? weird, i thought you meant "kill yourself".

Who do you consider to be the greatest blogger of all-time?
mo rocca; if i had pockets sewn into the skirt i am currently wearing, i would put him in one of them.

What's your blogging motto?
i'll show you mine if you show me yours.

Describe that low moment when you thought you just might have to leave blogging for good.
i haven't had such a moment yet, but i suppose now that i've admitted it, i'll have mine tomorrow.

What was the last thing you read on Gothamist?
how to dress like brooklyn, because i love when the new york times generalizes hipster culture; they're usually correct on all accounts.

If you could change one thing about blogging, what would it be?
the constant need for acceptance, although it is something that i myself may not be able to squelch. i love to be loved, don't you, julia allison?

What was your best or most expensive medication experience just after midnight on a summer Saturday?
calamine lotion to nurse my poison ivy outbreak after a bonfire at camp eisner in eighth grade. i'm sorry, that's not a very exciting story.

Would you consider dating one of us, only for 24 hours, if it meant the opportunity to meet the lowest branches of New York's reblogosphere?
sure, why not? i always have a craving for steak and fake conversation.

Wouldn't It Be Nice

Surfing films and surfing documentaries are a dime a lame baker's dozen, and most of them just find their poorly sketched characters circling the same central theme: the search for some kind of purported "Real", a cliched stoner-zen where life exists in the search for a series of singular moments taking place on a wave, on top a piece of polyurethane foam. A few of these films have been great (Stacey Peralta's "Riding Giants", "Step Into Liquid"), but most are just boring ("The Endless Summer", "Thicker Than Water") and some are absolutely miserable ("In God's Hands", "Blue Crush", "North Shore", and most famously: "Point Break", though I'm sure I've missed plenty). And then there's this guy.

Not ever having surfed, and being a bitter, stubby, mouthy little Jew, I can't say for certain that this kind of enlightened experience doesn't exist. And I'm sure it's fun, too.

But back to mouthy Jews: Surfwise - a new documentary by Doug Pray - follows the story of one fascinating Dorian "Doc" Paskowitz, a devout conservative Yid and a Stanford med school graduate in the 1950's. After graduating, Doc moved to Hawaii and became the AMA representative there. For the time, this was already somewhat unorthodox, so it goes without saying that Doc soon abandoned his medical practice, moved to Israel, (supposedly) brought surfing to Haifa and Israel at large, and after being rejected by the IDF as a volunteer, moved back to America. He married his third wife, and had nine kids. And with them, he decided to pursue a dream existence: his reactionary intellectual's utopia, one detached from law, from learning, and supposedly, from restraint. So he made his kids surf. All of them, all the time. And he made them do it while growing up in an RV, away from school, away from society, away from everything but the pursuit of the perfection of the aforementioned moments. It was the socialist summer camp fantasy, and for a while, it worked well. Until it didn't. And Surfwise goes from good to classic when you start seeing the kids' respective lives now, post-utopia, when it starts exploring something that's missing from the populist conversation on any exploration of meaning in things like surfing: what happens when you really, really, really fixate, romanticize, and follow through on the incredibly trivial (like catching a wave) in search of something much greater. It happens more than most people would like to admit.

It opened at the IFC Center on Friday. Go see it.



Surfwise - Official Site

Further reading: The otherwise perennially useless Esquire film "critic" Mike D'Angelo wrote a decent piece about the film.