Steven M. Finkelstein

I never had an opportunity to know my fraternal grandfather, as he died twenty-five years ago, when I was three. I’m told that I thought he was sleeping, and I tried to get in the coffin with him, to wake him up. He’s spoken of only occasionally in my family, and when he is, there is always a certain mysticism about him, as he is described, depending on who is speaking, as being either larger than life, or, alternatively, quiet, good-natured, and easy going. I’ll never be able to know that, and it is a source of enduring sadness for me. All I know for sure is how much I look like him, from the pictures, and the fact that I’m told about it whenever there’s a family get-together.

My grandmother Dora remarried David Gresky, and he’s the grandfather that I knew. We weren’t close, exactly, but I liked David. He was charming in an understated way, and he seemed to have a good temperament and sense of humor. It may have come as a bit of a surprise to my father and aunt that Dora remarried, but obviously she knew what she was doing, because she loved David, albeit in her own way, which wasn’t exactly to shower those close to her with affection. I was reminded of this at the funeral, when she was the one who appeared to be holding up the best out of all of us. Even at ninety-six years old, her strength continues to astonish me.

Friday, the funeral, was an emotional day, not only because of David’s passing, but also because it marked my return to my fraternal grandfather’s grave for the first time since his death, twenty-five years ago. Grandpa Harry is buried on one side, David is buried now on the other, and there is a space reserved between them for Dora, who was wife to both of them. I can only imagine the sadness in burying not one spouse but two, and I wish there was more that I could do for Dora. Regrettably, there is not. She has always been one who has held her emotions very much at arm’s length, not the grandmother baking cookies with the children in the kitchen during holiday ads. I tried to convey to her my sympathies, though, and I hope she got the message.

Death is never convenient. Even when it is expected, it seems as though the living always have plans that they have to push around. They are busy with the business of life, a full time job. I fear death, of that there can be no doubt, because it is the unknown, and the unknown is frightening. But if the best of what I envision death to be is true, then it is at least restful, peaceful, and I hope that is what the experience is like for David Gresky. At almost ninety-five years old, David lived seventy years that I didn’t know him, and I never knew him when he was young and vital. A person who lives to ninety-five can be said to have lived many lives, and I hope that David’s were full of pleasurable experiences more so than painful ones. Knowing him for the time that I did, and the enjoyment that he seemed to take from being married to Dora, I think that is the case. Though he wasn’t of my blood, I was honored to have such a gentleman as a member of my family, and I will miss him. It is my hope that he is resting peacefully, and my thoughts will be with him in the days to come.

I remember before moving back here having a conversation with my sister Ann, who lived here earlier in the decade. She was telling me about how living in this city can eventually become draining. This was something that I already knew about, to a certain extent. I’d been here for six months, and the major drain I’d felt at that time had been financial. I hadn’t been able to find work; I’d had to leave. It had been stressful, definitely. Well, now I’m back, and I have a job, and my problem is pretty much the opposite; I’m working too much, six days, forty-two hours a week, every week, to be precise. It’s tough. I need the money, but I have to battle past fatigue to steal a stray moment here and there to get some writing done, and I’ve having a difficult time establishing any rhythm. For something I’m working on to have the same level of quality throughout, regardless of length, I need to go into my writing sessions fresh, my mind clear, ready to see what it is I’m trying to convey, the channel or conduit to whatever creative energy I’m able to tap into open. When I’m coming off an eight hour shift and I know I’ve got another one upcoming shortly, plus I’m worried about a myriad of other distractions, my work is going to be hurried, sloppy, and of inconsistent quality…and that’s if I’m even able to concentrate on the same project at all. I find that when I’m not getting to write every day, then what it leads me to is to keep starting new projects, rather than going back and concentrating on ongoing ones. That means I have plenty in the works, but I’m never able to progress with anything, let alone finish it. Ann moved to California eventually. Even though she’s finished with med school and is doing her residency right now, which means she’s working even more hours a week than I am, I sometimes kind of envy her, being on the West Coast, where the frenetic pace of New York that she’d talked about gives way to California Cool. I know about that attitude also, having spent time in L.A. It’s nice.

I’m not saying that I regret coming to New York. Far from it. That’s actually part of the appeal to me, the fact that you have to grind it out here, and nothing comes easy. The cost of living, the fact that a lot of people around here generate this kind of “don’t mess with me” intensity, and then the equally challenging weather that we get for most of the year…we get real seasons here, and experts seem to be in agreement that we’re in for an especially rough winter…it all combines to drain and to challenge, in every conceivable way, mentally, physically, psychologically. It makes it difficult to stay healthy, it makes the upkeep of a relationship difficult, and it makes you crave an off day like the craving for water when you’re wandering in the desert.

At some point, my schedule will change, I’m sure of it, and then maybe I’ll have more time to work on the writing, to relax, and to just generally enjoy all that this fine city has to offer. But for now, it seems like I’ll just have to suck it up and go through the routine, stealing work time and leisure time whenever and however it presents itself. I feel so strongly that being here is what I was always meant to do, and everyone I talk to says being here the first full year is the hardest. The only thing that’s a little disquieting to me is that there are some people I’ve talked to that have lived here their entire lives, and they still are having financial hardship. That doesn’t bode well. And in this economy, no matter how much I complain, maybe I should just be glad to be working, doing anything, no matter what it is or how many hours a week. I feel like I’m reporting from the front lines here. And now I must go…I have to be at work in a couple of hours, and I still have a lot to do before then.

This past Friday I attended my first baseball playoff game, Yankees vs Twins at the new Yankee Stadium, game 2 of the NLDS. Nick Blackburn started for the Twins, A.J. Burnett, one of their big off-season acquisitions, went for the Yanks. It was a pitcher’s duel till the ninth, when a two run blast by Alex Rodriguez scored he and Mark Texeira, tying the score at three. The game went into extra innings, and was eventually won by Texeira, on a walk off bullet to the left field corner. I almost lost my voice from screaming so much, and I’ve never had so many high fives from strangers. I got back, all excited from the victory, and posted about it on Facebook…and I’ve been catching nothing but flack for it ever since.

People hate the Yankees. Not just dislike, hate. Why is that? The typical response I get is that they’re a store bought team. The Steinbrenner’s pay exorbitant contracts, like the $275 million to A-Rod over ten years, or the big money deals to Sabathia, Burnett, and Texeira this past off-season. Their detractors say they’re trying to buy world championships. They’re making the so called ”small market teams,” the ones who are trying to create the next big stars through their farm systems, seem like Mom and Pop stores competing with WalMart. All of that may be true. But keep this in mind. Just because a team has a huge payroll, that doesn’t mean they’re necessarily going to be successful. Just look at the Yanks postseason woes of the past five years, since losing to the Marlins in the ‘03 World Series. They’ve been unable to advance past the first round. Just because you get a lot of good individual players together, that doesn’t mean they’re going to play as a cohesive unit. They still need to come together and play as a team, and put their egos on the shelf. I’ve been watching this team all year, even before I moved back to New York at the end of June. I’ve seen the looseness in the clubhouse that’s been lacking from all those other teams. A-Rod being clutch here in the postseason has been an indication that they’re finally ready to draw together. And there are always going to be people who, because of the size of their payroll, and because they’re the big, bad Empire, are going to discount the great playing they’ve done all year and boo them.

Well, I don’t care what anybody says. Being from Cincinnati, the Reds remain my National League team, and living in New York, the Yankees remain my American League team. When you reduce sports down to their lowest common denominator, they’re about a squad representing a city or geographical area, and its people. Controversial, vilified, and slandered, that’s what the Yankees, and New York City, are all about. Love it or leave it, and I, myself, love it…and the Yankees. My squad. Friday night, my first trip to the new Yankee Stadium and first playoff game, though far from my last, was an unforgettable experience that I will cherish, always. The high price of the ticket was well worth it. I would have paid double that. I was among my people, and it was another in a series of cultural events that is gradually tying me more firmly to this, my new city. The people here can be gruff, sometimes, rude. But get them under the bright lights in October, in pinstripes, and you see what New York is all about: multicultural, united, proud, strong. And I can’t wait for the next round, when the Yankees clobber the Angels and advance to the World Series. I promise, you’re going to hear all about it on Facebook.

If zombie movies are a sub genre of horror, then zombie comedies, or zom-com, are yet another sub genre of that. The first and best of these that I’ve seen was Shawn of the Dead, a movie that gleefully blended horror and comedy in equal measure. It had some really sickening gore, frantic pacing, and a hard edge that meshed perfectly with fine performances, slapstick comedy, and British accents. ZombieLand follows a similar formula, though not quite as successfully or cleverly. How exactly the zombie plague comes about is very much glossed over. It’s covered in just three or four voiceover lines, actually: first came mad cow disease, then mad people disease, then zombies. Really? That’s the best you’ve got? Okay, whatever, I suppose. On we go. In zombie movies, it’s always one of two scenarios. One, the people are trapped somewhere (house, as in Night of the Living Dead, mall, as in Day of the Dead), and the zombies are outside trying to get in, or two, the people are out in the world running around with the zombies (as in Shawn of the Dead or Resident Evil: Extinction). Every once in a while you’ll get movies that fit in both scenarios (28 Days Later, for instance). In ZombieLand it’s the second scenario. Our heroes, Woody Harrelson and Jesse Eisenberg, meet up and take off across country, looking for a box of Twinkies and their parents, respectively. Before long they meet up with Emma Stone (Superbad) and Abigail Breslin (Little Miss Sunshine), sisters with trust issues who are just trying to survive the apocalypse. The quartet finds their way across the ravaged countryside to California, where, after a side trip to Bill Murray’s house (Murray plays himself), they settle in for a climactic showdown at a fictional West Coast amusement park. Everything works pretty well, except no new ground is really broken. Eisenberg is completely interchangeable with Michael Cera, as the two of them are competing in Hollywood at the moment, seeing which one of them can snap up the most lovable-curly-haired-loser-who-still-inexplicably-gets-the-girl roles, although maybe in a country overrun with zombies, maybe it’s not inconceivable that Eisenberg might actually manage to get laid. Terror does strange things to a girl. Woody plays pretty much the same role that he always does, and the girls are more or less baggage. There was nothing really objectionable, other than the fact Shawn of the Dead already did this bit, and so much better. This time around it’s skewed more toward the humor side of things and less toward the gore. None of the principle characters are killed in the end. It’s a horror movie with a happy ending, and in my book, that actually disqualifies it from horror movie status. This is more like a comedy with a few zombies in it; minimal gore, and far too many shots in slow motion. It’s not that I disliked it. It’s just that I’ve liked similar movies a lot better, and this felt a little bit like a retread. My rating: 6/10

Bear with me a moment, please, as I go off on a tangent. Hey, sometimes on this site you’re going to get publication news, and sometimes you’re going to get my stream-of-conscious ramblings. Sorry, that’s just how it goes.

Sometimes I think about the many “selves” that I’ve been in my life, my own evolution as a person and the many personas that I’ve adapted. Which of them have actually been me? You could make the argument that they’ve all been me, I’ve just been in different phases, had different values, different goals. I wonder what the previous selves that I’ve been would think about the selves that were due to come after them, as I’ve traveled about the country, city to city, state to state, growing older, and perhaps (though this is debatable), wiser. Would the me that I was be contemptuous of the me that I’ve become? I think so, sometimes. The fact is, I’ve become more settled as I’ve aged. I’m not as reckless as I was, and I react to situations differently than I used to. I really hope that it’s a sign of maturity. But what also enters my mind is the fact that my life isn’t done, obviously; it will continue, and most likely, my values, tendencies, and what I regard as most important will also change. I wonder, therefore, that what I perceive as an ever growing sense of responsibility…if I may say so, adulthood…will one day be eclipsed again by what was once, frankly, self destructive and irresponsible behavior that I engaged in. I don’t think that it will…but you never know. I’m all too aware of the relationships and the mindset that has led me to make what I view as progress in my life, but what if I was deprived of those things? What if I was to suffer what I perceive as a relapse? The truth is, I think that I’ve made major strides. But I’ve always been a person for whom a semblance of normalcy, of functioning in society, has been just that, a semblance. I’ve always had black, unpredictable moods that lurk below the surface; just ask anybody who’s known me over my long, ofttimes strange history, and they’ll tell you the same thing. Yes, I’ve calmed down. I’m somewhat of a family man now. I’ve reduced my vices, drastically. But who knows what the future holds?

In many ways, I have the things in my life that I want most. I’m living in the city where I’ve always wanted to live. I’m in a satisfying, indeed, a wonderful relationship. Of course, my ultimate goal still eludes me, supporting myself exclusively as a writer, and though I continue to strive for it, sometimes I just grow so tired. There’s a reason that the overwhelming percentage of former English Writing majors don’t make it, and it’s not because they’re not talented. It’s because they don’t have the endurance, the desire to stick it out. I’ll continue writing. I’m compelled to. But working forty plus hours a week right now, six days out of seven, I feel like so much time is wasted. Even when I do have the opportunity to write, I feel pressured, because I know it’s my only time that day, or in a few days, that I can be creative and advance my projects. I feel pressed. And most artists don’t work well under those conditions.

I suppose I shouldn’t really be complaining. I’m supporting myself, and I’m in the place I want to be, geographically, anyway. I seem to have a handle on things. It’s just I feel that I have to monitor myself closely. I don’t know what the future holds, and I must stay ever vigilant for signs of cracks in the foundation of my good moods. I am ever fearful of that “relapse.” And considering the fact that the vices that I spoke of have been all but eliminated from my life, I can’t help but wonder, if I do suddenly feel the need to lash out, frustrated with my existence, with my lot, then what would I use to replace them? What is ”acting out,” here, now, at this point in my life? I know what it constituted then. Not so much, now. Perhaps I’m making too much out of nothing. Maybe I’ve just reached a point where I’m on cruise control, and if I’m feeling the depths of these doldrums, from here on out I’ll just have a couple of drinks and rant at the stranger on the stool beside me, or sit at home in a corner with the lights off, rocking back and forth, staring at nothing. But I’m familiar with the concept of midlife crises, and I feel like I’ve had a few hundred of them in my life already. Would fulfilling my ultimate goals finally give me the peace, the mental clarity for which I’ve been searching, I don’t know how long? I would hope so. Because I think that maybe, the reason I set the bar so high for myself is because I’m almost afraid to reach it. Thinking that if and when I do, if it doesn’t do for me everything that I hoped it would…in essence, bring me Nirvana…then what in the world will I do then?  What new unattainable goal could I set for myself? I don’t know. But that is why, even though success in my chosen field is what I most want, it’s also what I most fear.

Enough for now. Today is my off day, the only one of the week, and I’ve spent enough time being gloomy. A long, cold winter is stretched out ahead of me, and I must fortify myself for it. We’ll talk again soon.