by Gabe Berman – the author of Live Like a Fruit Fly

Archive for the month “November, 2015”

It’s A Bird, It’s A Plane, It’s More Of My New Book

The espresso machine at Starbucks sounds like a Velocirapter.

The coffee grinder, like the engines of a battleship.

The long table of kids “studying”, like a schoolyard at recess.

The music isn’t exactly what I’d choose for myself and the surrounding conversations could oftentimes be taken down a notch.

But none of it registers egregiously with me. It just blends together as an expected frap of sound and I can always sit peacefully within the midst of it.

Then why do I find myself making mental fists from people talking on their cellphones and from heathens who dare to watch videos on their laptops without headphones?

I mean, it happens at the same volume or even at a lower one than the aforementioned list but it’s infinitely infinitely infinitely more irritating. Right?


But why?

I’ve been dwelling on for as long as I’ve been dwelling at Starbucks.

And I finally figured it out on the day following the attacks in Paris when a dude next to me decided to play a game on his phone sans headphones.

Like detonating a suicide vest or shooting indiscriminately into a crowd, it’s terrorism.

Terrorism of a lesser degree of course, but terrorism nonetheless.

And that’s why this registers so monstrously with me.

It’s the filthiness of the absolute disregard of any lives other than their own.

It’s the devotion to rudeness.

Like the guy who ordered coffee on line before me. He was confused, for some ridiculous reason, about the differences between the Christmas Blend and the Pike roast and got super snippy with the employees over this minuscule non-issue.

When my nephews were a little younger, we’d always play the “what super hero would you want to be” game.

I’d always say Superman but that all changes today.

I’m trading the “S” on my chest for a “K”.

I want, more than anything else in the world, to be Karma Man.

And I’d deliver karma swiftly, justly, and ruthlessly if need be.

But in the mean time, as I wait for my cape to come in, I’ll continue to seek out the beauty in the world and add to it as often as possible.

And I hope, if there’s anyone reading these words right now, you do the same.

– – – – –

In Live Like a Fruit Fly, Gabe Berman shares his recipe for living a more joyful, worthwhile, and abundant life in every way. A witty, entertaining, and insightful read.” — Deepak Chopra, Author, The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success


Another Helping Of My New Book

Every year I swear to myself I’ll never do it again, but here I am in Starbucks sending a “Happy Thanksgiving” text to every person in my phone before I meet up with my family for dinner.

I certainly don’t give to receive, but how dare some people not take the two seconds to text back.

I should just delete them. Because what’s more cathartic then a good ol’ house cleaning of the contact list?


Except for maybe an hour long foot rub for $23 at one of those Asian foot spa places. Although, let me say this: RUBBING MY FEET FASTER WILL NOT MAKE THE HOUR GO BY FASTER – PLEASE SLOW THE HELL DOWN BEFORE I VOLCANICALLY EXPLODE WITH ANXIETY! And while you’re at it, stop yanking my toes like I’m one of those old cigarette vending machines. Who does that feel good for? Nobody, thats who.

Just rub. Firmly. And for the love of God, slowly. Thank you.

A few people texted me back already and a few of those few people said they were thinking of me today because they know how hard it must be on the holidays without my dad around.

I thanked them sincerely but the truth is, I miss him so much more on the regular random days. Like while I’m having coffee by myself in the morning. Or when I see his beloved boating magazines in the bookstore. Or late at night, while flipping through channels and stumbling upon Goodfellas.

Or when I want to text my good friend Danny, and have to scroll passed “Dad” in my contacts to get to him.

That happened a few minutes ago.

I just can’t bring myself to delete his cell phone number from my phone. Actually, I can’t even consider it.

Here’s what I will consider however: eating a giant turkey leg. I’m usually the strictest of vegetarians but my dad lived for those damn turkey legs and tonight, for him, I’m going to get all Fred Flintstone on one of them. If not both of them. In each hand. At the same time.

And later, when I’m in the bathroom, dying of stomach convulsions, he’ll look down on me, sarcastically call me a shmuck, and then smile.




Forgive Me Father…

Sitting here at the kitchen table, at one in the morning, in the house I grew up in, I’m about to type words which suddenly sound like a confession.

I just caught the end of Almost Famous, a movie I’ve seen many times, and the final minutes made me feel more alive than real life usually does.

It’s as if every expression of unconditional love, friendship, forgiveness, and selflessness I unknowingly miss from my childhood has been summarized and exquisitely encapsulated in a few facial expressions and dead-on dialogue.

Why a confession?

I don’t know really, but that’s how it’s resonating.

Maybe because I’m admitting that I’m not always so in love with life.

And that’s a little sad.

I just wish I can feel the feelings this film leaves me with more often.

I swear I’m going to figure out how. I’m going to dedicate my whole goddamn life to it. For me and for you.

Because that love, stripped down and exposed, is an intoxicant like no other.


Fuck Matt Damon

You know what, fuck us.

Just, fuck us.

Fuck our whole goddamn species.

I saw The Martian the other night and these were my exact thoughts as the closing credits hit the screen.



In case you’re not up on the movies, The Martian is a new one starring Matt Damon.

He plays an astronaut who’s left for dead on Mars by his crew. But get this ladies and germs, he’s totally alive. And they totally go back to save him while all of Earth’s inhabitants sit on pins and needles.

It was awesome.

Such an awesome movie.

So awesome that I clapped as soon as it was over.

Nevertheless, fuck us.

It’s so pathetically human to risk everything, without sparing an expense, to save just one person.

As we should.

But what’s so pathetic of us is that within just two klicks of everyone reading this, there’s definitely a kid who went to bed hungry or some old person who’s totally been forgotten about.

And I certainty don’t see any sympathetic mother fuckers forming candlelight vigils in the middle of Times Square for these poor folks as they did for Matt Damon.

C’mon Gabe, it’s just a movie.

No, it’s not just a movie.

It’s our reality and you know it.

But no one’s life is worth more than anyone else’s.

Our species is totally fucking doomed until those nine words become our collective religion:


And not to freak anyone out, but I’ll let you in on a metaphysical little secret: there’s truly only one life. And it’s flowing through all of us.

Right now.

In this exact moment.

Life, this perfect, unified, inevitable, ineffable force, is flowing through you and I, through the rich and the famous, the sick and the poor, the birds, the bees, and of course the trees.

And what should we be doing with this one life of ours?

Caring for it. All of it. Because, we are it.

thank you for trading your time for these words – it means the world to me,

buy my goddamn book here:


Before you take life so seriously, remember:


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