Original tweet here.

The bris would begin shortly. The chant of the Mohel, his clinking metal instruments, the shriek of an infant. We didn’t have to be in the room, but proximity was a sign of respect. I stayed close. Others stood outside in the hallway; they’d listen, not watch. Cookies and pastries and chocolates — “nosh,” as Grandma calls them — filled the air with sweetness. Comfort food; we’d need it.

Read it here.

Go to enough New York City open mics, and you start to recognize a cast of recurring characters. Who are the recurring characters of New York City open mics? And more importantly, have I become one of them?

Check it out here.

“You can’t understand the blues until you’ve had your heart broken, and you can’t understand disco until you’ve had group sex on Ecstasy.” – DJ Harvey

When I moved to New York City over a year ago, my guitar made the cut: It joined a pile of things I brought with me that I wasn’t sure what to do with, like the blender (someone kept stuffing it deep in my luggage regardless of my attempts to ditch it) and the iron (the wrinkles flatten once a shirt is on anyway, right?).

“I’ll play this again.” I eyed the instrument. The guitar became a fixture in my New York City closet, a prop, a piece of black wood strung with nylon, undoubtedly out of tune. It rested between shirts on hangers and a basket of laundry. I stored it somewhere I would have to see everyday, that is, if I wanted a change of clothes.

It was the same guilt-ridden strategy someone might use to be healthier: Place the fruits and vegetables in the front of the refrigerator so you feel shitty reaching around them. Install the pull-up bar under the bedroom door, engulfed in shame each time you walk under without doing one, just one. The best motivation for getting better at something is reminding yourself each day that you still aren’t.

The guitar sat there. And sat there. The skills acquired from lessons I took in high school years before — rotting away. “I’ll start playing again. When I have time.” I never made the time. I didn’t have a reason to.

II.

“The Blues are a mystery, and mysteries are never as simple as they look.” – BB King

I recently visited Brazil, a country with a rhythm. The language, the way people eat, walk and dance, they all pulse to a beat. I tapped my hand against my side walking down the street, or gently drummed my fork against my plate after I finished a meal. The rhythm was hard to ignore; It was a rhythm ingrained in the culture.

In Brazil, I listened to music with a common rhythm. Not a Brazilian rhythm, but connected similarly. The bands and artists included the the Yardbirds, the Jeff Beck Group, Led Zeppelin, Cream, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Mike Bloomfield, the Rolling Stones, the Black Keys, and probably a few more.

I listened to these artists hundreds, maybe thousands of times before, but I never noticed their shared foundation: the blues. The connected rhythm of Brazil helped me rediscover the blues and its genetic foundation in rock and roll.

III.

“Blues is easy to play, but hard to feel.” – Jimi Hendrix

When someone gives me an unsolicited music recommendation, I ignore it. I need to discover music on my own for it to mean something. There is a sense of accomplishment in the conquest. You invested time into  seeking a sound; The search happened naturally.

“You need to listen to this guy. He’s bluesy, ” or so I’ve been told in my past 20 or so years as a music listener by friends, family, and record shop owners (the latter of whom I’d also consider friends and family by my sheer gratitude for their ability to locate that one album I wanted at the bottom of a crate), but always ignored. The blues in my mind was something…dated. A type of music no one played anymore. It was irrelevant.

The artists I listen to the most are blues artists. I wasn’t paying attention. I had to figure this one out on my own to defeat my ignorance.

IV.

“If you don’t know the blues…there’s no point in picking up the guitar.” – Keith Richards

I picked up my guitar for the first time since high school a few months ago. The Brazilian rhythm helped me notice how even a complex web can share a simple foundation, like rock and roll and the blues. Discovering the blues seemed like a good way to get started again, a reason to pull the guitar out of my New York City closet, tune it, and play it. The blues was the foundation I was missing.

I glanced down at the piece of paper as I walked. It was printed with even rows of text, each line a separate idea I would riff on. It was my set, my bits, my jokes and my gags. My goal was to make a bar full of strangers laugh, and just for a few minutes at a time, loosen their grip on reality. I looked down at the paper, and then back up to make sure I didn’t walk into someone: I spotted packs of men and women in their suits and dresses on cell phones making plans for the evening, looking for relief. I was in my work clothes, t-shirt and jeans, also looking for a sense of relief. Eyes back down on the paper. I read sentences, already memorized. I wanted to read them again. Just in case.

If you forget something while you’re up there, take out the paper and have a look. That’s what everyone did last time. That’s what open mics are for: practice. No, no, that’s amateurish. You’ll seem vulnerable and no one will laugh.

Four blocks away. Paper still in my hand, but down at my side, folding against my jeans with each step. I ran through my routine (can something be your routine if you haven’t done it before?) in my head, counting 1, 2, 3 before delivering a punchline to an audience that wouldn’t exist for another 20 minutes. The stories and set ups were easy; They were just like a regular conversation. Punchlines were more difficult. Infinite ways to deliver, only a few ways to get a laugh. The 1, 2, 3 pause before a punchline…creates tension. In a few seconds of silence…the ears tense and wait. Relief was the reward for patience.

You’re only going to be up there for six minutes. Depending on how quickly you get your first laugh — if you get one at all — it will either feel a lot longer or shorter. Don’t try to seem cool. Just go up there and do it like you practiced.

Three blocks away. The paper was now stuffed in my back pocket. I made a detour at a Wells Fargo to use the ATM. The bank was styled like a McDonald’s: glistening reds and cheap, plastic yellows. There’s a joke here somewhere. A bank that’s like McDonald’s… Storing the thought for later, I took a twenty from the ATM. $5 to perform; A small cost for a new experience.

Don’t forget to introduce yourself once you step on stage. Your name is easy to remember, and if for some reason you do well, you’ll want them to know it. Do I introduce myself before and after, or just before or just after? Wait to see if the host introduces you, and then decide.

Two blocks away. Headphones on. Take the mind in another direction,. Music on. The blues. Comedians are supposed to be sad, right?

The link between music and comedy. In music, a verse builds tension, and a repetitive, catchy chorus relieves the tension. In comedy, a story or setup builds tension, and a punchline relieves the tension.

One block away. I quickened my pace and approached the club. A guy stood outside puffing a half-burned cigarette. I removed one headphone, looked at him, and reached to my pocket to grab my wallet for my ID. Nevermind. He wasn’t a bouncer; He was a patron temporarily trading his beer for a cigarette. I walked past him and entered the club.

I walked to the back of the bar and pushed away a draped black curtain. The room, revealed. Brick walls, bare except for two chalkboards with the week’s schedule. Tomorrow night was trivia night. One bright light — the spotlight — lit the corner stage. I paid my fee at the door.

“Yeah, I’m here to perform.” My name was scribbled on the bottom of the list. “That’s Mann with with two n’s,” I said correcting her. I took a seat on the metal folding chair in the back of the room.

The jokes about shit and dicks and porn always work, but are easy. I can make Jewish jokes because I’m Jewish, right? Seinfeld did. Most Jewish comedians do.

I chipped away at my nails, and a pile nail debris formed by my sneakers. I kicked the pile and sat on my hands. I wasn’t paying attention to the comedian on stage; I was only anticipating my turn.

I hope I didn’t have my routine too memorized. Canned material never sounded right, only when Carlin did it. My bin Laden bit is a little dated by now, but the cab driver I told it to the other night still laughed. He was Middle Eastern.

Brendan went on stage. He placed a voice recorder on his chair before going up. Brendan is friend and has been performing for about a year. He seemed relaxed, almost bored, greeting the host like he did each week previously. He forgot his new bit half way through his routine and transitioned to the bit about the time he threw up in the back of the cab. Most of Brendan’s bits are about alcohol. He’s Irish, with red hair. It works for him; It wouldn’t work for me.

Hopefully the audience is intelligent, cerebral enough to pick up on my references. What if they don’t know who Anne Frank is? That joke I have won’t work if they don’t.

I tapped the host, who had taken a seat in front of me after introducing Brendan.

“Hey man, it’s my first time doing this. Mind giving me some feedback after my set?”

He turned his neck towards me, but not his body. Concerned, he asked, “It’s your first time on stage?”

“Yes, well, no. It’s my first time on stage doing standup. I’ve done improv comedy and given speeches…”

“You gotta wait until I see you a few times before I give you any feedback.”

He turned his head back towards the stage. He was either being honest, or wanted me coming back again and again. Probably both. Brendan left the stage and sat down. The host went back up and grabbed the mic.

I was called up. My turn.

“Good luck, dude,” Brendan said.

Performing for the first time felt like drowning. Trapped, stiff, tense. Each laugh from the audience would be a gulp of air. Get enough laughs and you can breathe, maybe swim to the surface.

I made eye contact with a few members of the audience. I had my jokes memorized, but I threw in some “well, what else do I want to talk about?” to make it seem less so. The non-sequitors helped me relax.

Jokes are math. Add the right variables together and you’ll get laughs.

The room was filled with sad people, or so it seemed, which is more obvious once you are on stage. No smiles until right after joke. Everyone was slouching, beer sipping. Because the audience was made up of other comedians, everyone was on the defensive. “Go ahead, try to make me laugh” is the attitude. Everyone anticipating the other guy’s punchline.

The host gave me my red light when I hit the 6 minutes mark: An open cell phone flashed in my line of vision. I was only ¾’s of the way through my material.

Too much. Better than not enough.

I put the mic stand back in its original position and hopped off stage back to my seat. Brendan nodded, but didn’t make eye contact. “You did well,” he said, staring at the empty stage.

I approached the host again at the end of the show and asked how I did. He hesitated, then relented. “It was good that you took the mic off the stand and put it behind you. It lets the audience know, you know, that you mean business.”

Some comedian once said there is no practicing in comedy. The only way to get better is to go do it. It’s like boxing; You’ve got to get jabbed in the face a few times until you get better.

The old woman wore a purple and teal nylon tracksuit. The pants purple, the jacket teal with grey stripes down the sleeves. The logo on the jacket was unrecognizable, like something you’d buy at a flea market. Her sneakers were tied and clean, though worn around the edges.

Buses passed; the old woman never got on.

“Everyone has a story,” the old woman said between short breaths.

She was quiet, or what some might call a good listener.

I told the old woman about Sarah, a middle school classmate. Sarah’s feet pointed inward and she tripped easily, even if she stepped on something small like an eraser. Sarah sat next to me in science class. One day Sarah told me she would be missing school the next day because she was volunteering at the Special Olympics. During role call the next day, the teacher asked where Sarah was. “Oh, Sarah?” I said, “She’s at the Special Olympics.” The teacher frowned.

“There’s no being right if everyone is wrong,” the old woman said. “All you can do is laugh.”

I told the old woman about my grandparents who live in Florida and forward me conspiracy emails with subject lines like “How To Deal With People Who Claim The Holocaust Didn’t Happen (i.e. Mel Gibson).” My grandparents have poor eyesight, so when returning their emails, even the absurd ones, I have to avoid condescension while making sure my message is legible. I once bumped up the font to size 30—a derisive one word per line. Realizing this, I dropped the font to size 28. Okay, two words per line.

“If you ever decide to email me, let’s stick with font size 30,” said the old woman. She squinted as a bus pulled away.

I told the old woman about my friend David, an addict. He sent me a text message when he left rehab: “I’m back in the game.” I hoped it wasn’t the drug game. I learned his game was Glee. A new addiction. Within a week of being home David started an Glee blog, a mailing list, and a Facebook page with pictures of his face copied and pasted into pictures with the Glee cast.

“Glee? Send that boy back to rehab,” said the old woman between chuckles.

After a pause, the old woman turned her head my direction. “Where you heading, anyway?”

I told her I was going to visit Sarah, the girl with the inverted walk. I showed her Sarah’s address on the back of a envelope.

“No need to take a bus. Sarah lives just a few blocks away.” The old woman pointed.

I stood up to leave. “Your socks.” the old woman said. “They don’t match.”

I looked at the old woman. She lifted up both legs of her purple track pants and pointed to her ankles. “Mine don’t either.”

I nodded. She smiled.

I walked toward Sarah’s. I thought about Sarah’s inverted walk and my grandparent’s conspiracy emails and David’s Glee addiction. I thought about the old woman’s mismatched socks.

I glanced back at the bench; it was vacant. I heard the swish of the tracksuit, the rhythm of the sneakers. The old woman was on an afternoon jog. Jogging at the speed of walking. But still jogging in her mismatched socks.

It’s a good sign when people take their pursuits seriously, but themselves less so.

The story is set in the transitory period between college and a career. The protagonist struggles to manage his personal issues through music, the one thing that gives his experiences meaning.

You can read Tuesday here. It’s also accessible in the top right corner of this page

If you enjoy the story, please share it.

Thanks to Luke Nathan, who helped edit the story.

Thanks to Chris McKenna, who wrote the song that inspired the story.

And thanks to those who read early drafts of Tuesday. Your feedback was valuable in shaping the final cut.

Some changes moving forward:

1. Content will be less business-y, less blogg-y. Expect stories, fiction, humor. Sporadically, some music, drawings and photography. Stay fresh via RSS.

2. I’m going to be experimenting with an exclusive newsletter, content TBD. I don’t imagine writing more than once or twice per quarter. Enter your email address in the sidebar to be included. I won’t spam you…unless I find a really, really good porn vid.

3. My Twitter account has evolved into a playground for humor. Follow me here.

4. I’m on Tumblr, too. No writing; just photography I shoot around New York City and the occasional song or video. Click the little play button on the Streampad bar at the bottom and have a browse.

5. Most importantly…well, not yet. Another announcement to follow…

Recently, I’ve forayed into music production. Specifically, DJing. I’ve always been the “music guy” in my circle of friends, casually claiming the title of “DJ” at parties. Developing an ear for how people react to different forms of music and studying the psychology behind it, it was appropriate to learn DJing beyond clicking tracks on iTunes.

The “DJ” is different things to different people: The radio DJ, or Disc Jockey, plays records, chats about songs, and engages in an open dialogue with his listeners. The wedding/bar-mitzvah DJ is an MC and party host, rather than the guy who plays the music. The DJ/producer (the type I am studying) expresses himself solely through sound. The DJ/producer mixes, scratches and blends records, using the turntables as an embodiment for instrumentation.

The DJ/producer is the most technical of the DJs, and requires a basic understanding of music theory. The tool-set of the DJ/producer includes, at minimum, two turntables and a mixer. The turntables play the records and the mixer controls which record(s) protrudes from the speakers at which volume, and with what quantities of treble and bass.

Learning to DJ is like learning an instrument. The process has dragged painful nostalgia of when I first picked up a guitar, and the frustration of training my hands and ears congruently. The ear training feels foreign, even to a regular music listener:

1.) Count the number of beats.
2.) Mentally organize the beats into packets of bars.
3.) Choose the perfect cue, mix and drop points.

The steps need to be processed simultaneously, which the hands then react to.

When I DJ, it feels like I’m training exotic areas of my brain. It’s taken months of practice to regularize tasks that I remember appearing simple when I was an outsider. Consider record mixing, one of the most basic maneuvers of a DJ:

1.) Choose two tracks within an overlapping 10-12 BPM range.
2.) Play one track while cueing the other.
3.) Adjust the pitch so the tracks have matching BPM.
4.) Prepare the cued track for the mix.
5.) Drop the cued track on the first beat of the bar.
6.) Repeat.

The goal should be to have two separate tracks that sound like a single track: A unique-to-the-DJ, live, remixed song.

The DJ can take a rock-and-roll track, transition to a hip-hop track, and then again to an electronic track, all while making it sound like the song never changed. The DJ allows his audience to enjoy the ambiance of social environment with his sounds serving as a backdrop to the social interaction. In a room of music, the DJ is in control.

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The Ronettes’ Be My Baby is the most sonically pleasing song I’ve ever listened to. It’s an instant mood-enhancer.