I've been living up to my multi-hyphenate hype more then ever lately. Over the past year, I've written several pieces for the gorgeous glossy Weddings In Houston Magazine. It's no secret that weddings are a boom industry, and few places more so than Houston.
I've had the opportunity to write several fashion profiles and a wedding photography primer...with more pieces on the way. Check 'em out if you're of a mind!
Profiles in Elegance: Judd Waddell
A series of four quick, fun quizzes to take your mind of our country's crippling financial debt! Answers are uʍop ǝpısdn to prevent cheating!
QUESTIONS: [table id=1 /]
[table id=3 /]
[table id=4 /]
[table id=5 /]
Don't worry, I didn't direct this one. Fellow Killing My Lobster-ites Chris Parisi & Damon Brennen asked me to play "a surly scientist" in this video, and as they make killer vids, I rushed to accept. Written & shot for the latest KML show, Killing My Lobster Reboots, here's "The Phone":
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LvKeO9Q6CII
It's been up for about four days and has topped 53,000 views as of this writing. No doubt as a result of my bravura performance. Enjoy!
My latest video is a collab with some great folks: Killing My Lobster writing compatriot Annie O'Rourke, actress Lauren Burns, and Adult Swim & Funny or Die staple Brian Burgoyne behind the camera. Produced by the effervescent Natacha Ruck, natch.
A parody of dating advice videos, it's also the perfect way to ring in the first day of Spring! Enjoy!
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1bGqOJUYQs]
The Lonely Venus Guide to Meeting Men in a Park by Ken Grobe & Annie O'Rourke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Thanks to the fine, discerning folks at Communication Arts for making Want Magazine their Web Pick of the Week! It's always a pleasure to see a project you've put your heart and soul into get props.
Although sometimes I wonder what anyone who Googles me must be thinking: "Waitaminute...the guy getting press for interviewing UX legend Donald Norman and the guy getting press for making videos of talking burritos and hipsters getting punched...IS THE SAME GUY?" Yes he is, Google-stalker with bad grammar. Yes he is.
This latest KML video has a special place in my heart--and not just because I co-wrote and co-produced it. It's because I've spent the better part of my career juggling vocation and avocation. When I was an editor, I would write prose and comics scripts on nights, weekends, and, one very lonely Key West holiday. While in advertising, I performed weekly gigs with an improv troupe, wrote and produced a sketch comedy show, and played Joe's Pub and CBGB with my comedy/rock band. My point being, more often than not, I've used my day job to fund the stuff I loved.
That's what inspired our second of the two "Feed the Lobster" campaign spots: There's just too many of us out there with a day job and a dream.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zu-sCUAQzmo]
Ably directed by the legendary Chris Parisi and my co-writer/producer, Miriam Wild-Smith. See for yourself, feel free to donate, and have a great 2011.
If there's one thing I've learned from my comedy-rock-band days, it's to be grateful for any press, good or bad. So I feel extremely fortunate that two of my
KML videos received positive pixels within a day of each other!
The SF Egotist, my favorite resource for local Advertising industry news, just big-upped our Feed The Lobster year-end appeals campaign, calling us "a great tax deduction." That's miles better than what AgencySpy called me the other month over "Coffee Wars." And no, I won't link to it (although I'm still grateful for it!).
From my flu-sick-bed, I sat--okay, laid down--for an interview with Thalia Gigerenzer of The Bay Citizen, a very cool and objective BA news source. She wanted to know about The Coffee Wars and how much it holds a mirror up to SF coffee culture. I was not at the top of my game, but my answers were surprisingly coherent, if a bit rambling. I'm a rambler. Read the article here. The article, in turn, seems to be touching off another twitter-eddy (tweddy?) of activity about the video, which I hope leads to more YouTube views etc. It's pushing 65,000 views as of this writing!
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMqutKBS5iE]
Unfortunately, I wasn't lucid enough to plug my latest KML video, Feed The Lobster: Costumes, which could use more views, as we made it to generate donations to KML itself. See that vid here.
Thanks to Thalia and Queena Kim for their interest and for the coverage!
Folks, my latest video for Killing My Lobster is up and I'm proud as hell of it. It's an ad for, what else, KML. They're a non-profit, after all, and they provide a valuable service for the Bay Area and beyond: make people laugh. If you're down to donate a couple of bucks, please do.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LVnbOS9RmvI]
Thanks to the fine folks at Goodby, Silverstein & Partners, who loaned us their ArtWorks studio space, and GSP's Eric Herron, who helped us out with equipment, elbow grease, expertise, and good humor.
Directed by me, co-written and co-produced by my buddy Miriam Wild-Smith, and costumed, acted, and edited with love by a plethora of Lobsters. Enjoy!
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMqutKBS5iE&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3] I've spent a sizable chunk of my spare time this past year writing and teaching for Killing My Lobster, the Second City of San Francisco. And while I feel like I spent the first few months making my bones, earning the respect of my talented co-writers and our equally gifted actors and directors, I like to think I've gone on to acquit myself over this year's shows.
The latest, and possibly most satisfying, example of this is the film I wrote and produced for Killing My Lobster Holds the Mayo, their final show of the year. The film is called The Coffee Wars and it's a Ken Burns parody, showcasing the rivalry between two of the best-known (and my favorite) artisan coffee brands in town.
It's blown up beyond all (well, my) expectations thus far, garnering over 8,00014,000 hits in less than three days, and crazy amounts of Twitter chatter. It's even attracted a hater or two, which is always a sure sign of online heat.
Kudos to director Rand Courtney, actors Fred Wickham and Sarah Mitchell, and the rest of the superb cast, crew, and musicians who made this film such a joy to make and, I hope, to watch. With apologies to Joan Baez.
The project I've been working on diligently for the last six months, Want Magazine, is up and looks amazing. Kudos to my Editor In Chief, David "Dahveed" Gomez-Rosado and our incredible staff. I wrote and/or edited some articles of which I couldn't be prouder.
WantMag is chock full of learnings and observations about the field of User Experience, as well as product design, architecture and marketing. But not boring. Really.
One of my particular favorite things about the mag is our video interviews, conducted with some of the leading lights in the field. Here's my interview with the man who coined the term "User Experience," Don Norman.
And here's one with the founder of UX agency Adaptive Path, Peter Merholz.
Plenty more to be found at Wantmag.com. Have at it! And tell 'em Ken sent you.
Whew! The Facebook namepocalypse is finally over. My latest Examiner piece covers the fallout: The upshot: most everybody’s happy.
Read MoreFacebook blogger Danielle Smith tells the story of discovering she had a photo of her stolen from Facebook...and used in a Czech supermarket ad.
Read MoreAs of, well, now, I'm the San Francisco Social Media correspondent for Examiner.com. I had big plans for my first piece, but then this whole Facebook namepocalypse thing came up.
Read More
Here in Haridwar, at the source of the Ganges river, people go to the ghats here to purify themselves in the waters. But every night thousands come here to honor their dead. So, just before sunset, we set out to the river Ghats, for the sunset ceremony.
When we got there, people were sitting on the steps and platforms for probably a solid half-kilometer of the river, most of them purchasing or already holding small floats consisting of leaves, flower petals, and a small candle. We snuggled in on the steps among the mourners. Across the Ghat from us, a family poured ashes into the river from a plastic shopping bag, then bathed themselves in the water, openly weeping.
Occasionally someone in a uniform would shout orders at the crowds, in a tone that seemed more explanatory than harsh. I’m pretty sure he was telling all of us how the ceremony would go, what to do, and when. Occasionally he would reach his hand into the water and splash everybody, making him seem like some sort of jovial univormed tour guide. Natacha freaked out at having the water splashed on her, and I wasn’t too happy about it either. As it turns out, since it’s the source of the ganges, it’s fairly clean and extremely cold.
The sun set and the ceremony began. A number of people had jumped the gun earlier, but once the sky darkened, thousands of little floats, each lit by a single candle, made their way down the Ganges, each one a remembrance of a dead loved one.
Later in the ceremony, a main stage area had some bona fide fire rituals, using torches and loud chanting. That was something to see.
I took dozens of pictures of this very beautiful (if frenetic) ceremony.
Natacha bought these crazy handbags made from unused sheets of product wrapping—M & Ms, Friskies, etc.
Walking along the ghats after the ceremony was just as nuts, if not more so because everyone was on the move. It felt like walking on the bordwalk of a beachside holiday town…or rather, four holiday towns on top of one another. So much to see!
There were people swimming in the cold, strong-current Ganges, changing in and out of swimsuits in tents along the ghats. At night! People walking from temple to souvenir stall to restaurant to temple again. Food stalls. Red-powder stalls. It was nuts, and a little overwhelming.
That night we ate dinner at the same place we had lunch—it was a ways away from the ghats and as such nice and quiet.
But for some reason, a horn & drum band—not the one we saw earlier, I don’t think—decided to start playing across the street from the restaurant. With a PA and their own lighting, no less!
Nuts. But fascinating.
Despite the early wake-up and extensive traveling, this was another tentpole day of the trip. The evening river ritual in Haridwar is an event that rivals that of Varanassi, without the twelve-hour train trip (or, at this time of year, the murderous heat). It was recommended to us by a friend of a friend, and we said what the hell. The train up was relatively uneventful. We chose the higher-class section this time, thank you, and got soft seats and food & water served to us. While waiting for the bathroom, I struck up a conversation with an old man in spotless white robes. He had one of those crazy-eyes old-men faces, and took great pains to tell me that Barak Obama is a muslim, and that once elected would unleash his secret muslim agenda on the world.
The guy was a classic old-school Hindu; he meant well, but had a head full of right-wing propaganda. He freaked me out enough that I quickly excused myself and hightailed it back to my seat.
So: an early train out of Delhi, dropping us off into an unfamiliar city at (as usual) the hottest time of day. For us, this was typical travel.
We looked for an i-café in the guide book, to discover that it had gone under. We searched for a tourist office, that was closed B/C it was Sunday. After walking aimlessly for an hour or more (and yes, snapping at each other b/c of the heat), Natacha & I did the right thing and tucked into an A/c restaurant with great food, and more important, A/c.
Haridwar is a true Indian tourist town. i.e. it’s all Indian tourists and no gringos. The town is the alleged source of the Ganges. There are three rivers that merge at Haridwar, becoming the Ganges, making this a holy place. The streets were hot and busy, and every so often an open truck with a marching band on it or an impromptou parade would come down the main street, banners, etc. Something religious, but I couldn’t guess what. Nuts.
And here’s something that fascinates me about India. Religion is intermingled with society in curious ways. In the case of Haridwar, it’s mixed with tourism. It’s one of the holiest places in India, but it’s like a holiday town: hotels everywhere, souvenir shops for days, and a hilltop temple surrounded by snack bars. Oh, and served by a cable sky-tram like something out of a ski lodge.
I guess it’s not that different from Mormons visiting Salt Lake City, or Catholics visiting the Vatican. I myself have a souvenir bottle opener with the Pope John Paul II’s face on it. I call it “The Popener.”
Of course, the Vatican doesn't have a creepy guy in a turban stick a live python in your face and say, "Picture!" Does it?
After finding a cheap room (we were only staying one night, after all), we set out on the town, which really was this crazy mix of holy city/tourist town. We decided to take the cable car up to the holy temple, which was absolutely packed. Maybe because it was a Sunday? Who knows. The Temple was surrounded with little shops that sold a variety of things from flowers and other temple offerings to jewelry and ice cream to…one other thing I’ll mention in a sec.
At the temple, I heard someone calling out to me—it was spotted crazy old hindu man from the train. He was in fact with his family, but he’d scared me enough on the train that I exchanged a few words with him and then went on my way.
The temple was shoulder-to-shoulder, as we inched along the passageways, lit incense, had sandalwood paint touched to our foreheads, etc. I didn’t receive the paint because most people assumed the little white patch on my forehead was a holy marking (it was cream to heal the cut on my forehead).
The temple was beautiful, if cramped, and it felt weird that there were so many people inside it, lining up to get in, lingering around it, buying souvenir statuettes next to it.
But then, Natacha and I found this photo booth service thing.
You know those cheesy sepia tone photos you can take that make you look like y ou’re in the old west, or the industrial revolution? This hill temple had a “service” where they took your picture dressed up in traditional India costume. Bejewled robes, headpieces, even a sword. I talked Natacha into having ours taken. It came out superbly and is our holiday card this year.
There were sample pictures where couple would have the sword, and the man would have it against the wife’s throat. That didn’t suit me at all…but I REALLY wanted the sword. So when we posed, we held the sword together. I think she held the hilt and I held the scabbard.
We then waited in a VERY long line to take the tram back down the hill, and who should we end up in line with but crazy old guy and his family.
It turns out that he’s not “crazy” old guy after all. He was actually a very sweet man who brings takes his family up from Delhi to Haridwar once a year for a day-long pilgrimage. They bathe in the river’s holy waters, visit the temple, and go back to Delhi the same day.
He even introduced us to his brother, and his adorable grandkids. He was so proud that one of them was acting in an upcoming school play, and was a pretty good hand with English. While waiting in line for the tram wasn’t that pleasant, it was very nice to spend some time getting to know this family.
I also took the best close-up picture of a monkey I will ever get. It didn’t even occur to me that it could’ve possibly reached through the fence & ripped my face off.
Traveling in India in the second-hottest month of the year, we lamented the weather many times during our travels. But here we were, in the south of india, i.e., India, only hotter.
We liked Cochi as a town, liked the time we spent in Kerala. I mean, how could you not—Varkala, the backwaters, the 400 year old synagogue? It was the most humane, least mercenary time we’ve had so far in the country. But the heat was just too much. We had to leave.
We did take a walk around the town citadel, first, and saw parts of the town where I wished we could’ve spent more time in: The coast, with those huge Chinese fishing nets (we actually got to see those in action and they were impressive. Like a Gilligan’s island trap, only eight times bigger and they worked. We saw the area church (another centuries-old building), did a teeny bit more shopping, and piled into a cab.
The cab to the airport was about 90 minutes longer than we’d expected. Our driver, as it turns out, also fancied himself a psychic. He foresaw great career success for Natacha in the future—interesting since she’s going back to school for the next few years. I don’t think he predicted anything for me.
He certainly didn’t predict the hour or so of torrential rainstorms that started just as we entered the airport. Nor did he predict the dozens of soldiers that filled the airport lobby, after which they escorted out two guys in coveralls, lingered around a while longer, and left. But I imagine he could’ve predicted our plane would take off late. Hell, I could've predicted that. This is India, after all.
We got into Delhi around 8 PM, at which time the temperature was 40 degrees Celsius. At 8 PM. Fortunately, we’d reserved an AC room in a decent place. Slept with the intent to get up crazy early for a train north, to Haridwar.
India.
After a fun day of shopping, chatting, and exploring, we took a crack at going to a 400-year old synagogue for Shabbat. It was closed during the day b/c of Passover, but we were told that it might be open for the Friday service. Worth a shot.
Once there, a Keralan man told us that there would be a service, but that it would be a short one, as it was Passover weekend and there weren’t enough men around that weekend for a minion (people were visiting their families and whatnot). I think that man might have been a shabbas-goy or something.
Eventually, a thin little old man in his 70s (80s?) in huge glasses and a kippah showed up. He looked like a cross between an Indian Don Ameche and my Grandpa Ned. He spoke to the Shabbas-goy in Hindi, then asked us if we wanted to come in for Shabbat. We eagerly nodded yes.
He led us in, and we removed our shoes, even though he said we didn’t have to.
The synagogue was beautiful, oozing 400 years of history from every wooden pew, every mosaic’d tile, from each ornate chandelier and each of the hundreds of colored blown-glass globes hanging from the ceiling.
It was smallish for a synagogue—maybe the size of two winnebagos side-by-side, with maybe a dozen pews in the back, a half-dozen along one side, and a few long benches along the other side. The walls, the ceiling, the podium—everything was touched by a love for this place and its history. Multiple chandeliers hung down, as did the hundreds of blown-glass bubbles (sea-glass?) and other ornaments
The center podium was similarly ornate. The floor was bare. A few stacks of siddurim lay next to the center podium. The three of us were the only people in the synagogue.
The old man motioned for Natacha to sit on the women’s; side, and bade me sit next to him on the men’s side. He had decent English, with an accent that was part Indian, part almost Yiddish. I wish I knew the man’s history, but I didn’t want to pry.
He had huge thick glasses. I imagined him to be a long-lived merchant in the area. I took a prayer book and sat in the back pew next to him.
We talked for a while, mostly me answering questions about where I was from and about American politics. I so wanted to ask him about himself, his life in India, but I was a guest in a revered place, and I didn’t feel it was my place.
A heavyset man in a sarong and kippah showed up and spoke to the old man in Hindi, glancing at me briefly. They chatted for a bit, then in accented English, he asked me where I grew up. I told him, “Los Angeles. California.” He smirked and said, “Los Angeles. California. Like I don’t know where Los Angeles is.” He would tease me about that several times over the course of the evening. Turns out the guy was a teacher from Cleveland, dividing his time between India and Israel (which would account for the accent).
He then hammered me with questions about where I was from, my religious background, my job, all in that asserting-status sort of way that I find Israelis do. He asked me where I spent Passover, and criticized me for not finding somewhere to spend Passover in India.” The Internet,” he said. “look up India and Passover,” as if it was as easy as that. Hell, maybe it was.
Soon, we all settled down and the men started praying. I’d read what I could from the siddur, and look around this beautiful space, at the blown-glass spheres in the ceiling…
…and this feeling came over me. Like I belonged, in a way I don’t anywhere else. The fact that here I was, half-way around the world, and these people took me in; and that together we enacted thousand-year-old rituals together, ones we all KNEW…filled me with such a sense of connection, of belonging, that I got choked up afterwards.
II felt so grateful to be there, to be accepted. Particularly in a country where we’re so out of place.
At the end of the service, the old man had the caretaker guy open up the arc, and we got to see and touch the four Torahs, each with a breast plate that was one of the first things that the Jews brought to Cochin, centuries ago.
We did the Kiddush over the wine at the center podium, then separated as the regulars went home or went visiting. It was one of the most genuinely moving experiences I’ve had in this country. Or ever.
One of the most consistent irritants when traveling abroad is this: people are constantly asking you where you’re from. Every tout and huckster. Every schoolkid who knows three words of English. Every employee at every store. Every rickshaw driver. Without fail. I think part of it is to get your measure, and determine how much money you might have. After a while, it gets invasive and unpleasant.
The same thing happened to me when I traveled through Indonesia years ago. After a while, I gave joke answers. My favorite was “Disneyland,” but the locals just thought I’d said “New Zealand” so it didn’t work.
But upon entering Kerala, I made up another fake country name: “Viagra.” Natacha didn’t want me to do it. But I figured if I was going to get the same annoying question thirty times a day, I should have a little fun with it.
The first time I tried it was in the spice shop. The guys there barely missed a beat, looked at each other with a little confusion, and said, “That is a drug, yes?”
Busted.
Then they laughed. So not only did it backfire, but I basically told them I came from an ED drug.
But it sure felt better than saying “USA” for the four hundredth time.
