I was born 8lbs 11oz in Maimonides hospital in Brooklyn. That’s right. People are actually born in Brooklyn. They don’t just move here after college to start a band or write. This is me as a baby:
Cute, right? I look a little confused but in a healthy, curious way. Most likely I’m wondering: why is there a blanket on my head? And what is that rather large thing in front of my father’s face? I still have the double chins, btw. Not as obvious now, but trust me, if I pull back my head just so, out they come.
So if you’ve met me, you’re probably thinking, “Where’s the Brooklyn accent?” I haven’t made an effort to lose it because I never really had it to begin with. My parents were born abroad and while both have accents–my mother’s is quite legendary–neither sound like Brooklynites. Growing up I was friends with a few local boys who had fantastic accents–they shall remain nameless, since one of them Facebook stalked me recently. Twenty some-odd years I haven’t seen this guy and all of a sudden he’s sending me numerous emails, asking if I remember all the “Peter Pan” games we played growing up and giving me his phone # and asking if I would like to hang out with him, because he has lots of free time. Umm, No. I’m good, thanks. Considering that this is the same guy who at ten years old once took a shit in front of someone’s apartment on a dare–I saw him do it myself–I think I’ll pass on the invitation.
Here’s my father in an amazing seventies outfit:
And we think we’re cool? That shirt is the shit. Here’s my mom:
I’m digging the pose. Also, the 70’s film stock. I just downloaded the hipstamatic ap for my iphone because pics from the 60s and 70s look so goddamn cool. I’m nostalgic for an era I never (or barely) lived in.