The box. Explained.

So remember a few weeks back when on a Sunday morning, Anna and myself discovered a mysterious box? You know, the one that taunted us with its presence and brought up images of perhaps intrusion, deceit, and utter deviance?

Well, for starters, we threw it out.

That's right. As it was taking up space in the closet, Anna turned to me several days ago and just went "I don't want this here."

I tend not to disagree with Anna about these matters, not because I have a deficit of manhood or because I'm passive, but basically I've learned living with a woman (not just a woman, THE woman of my life, my soulmate, other phrases that will score me brownie points) that when they are determined to do something, it's useless. Completely useless. You just go with the flow before you became yet another casualty and I'm forced to put another 5 dollars into the "(Jerk) Jar". Yes, we actually have one.

So I chucked it into the garbage without any hesitation. Not because I cared, but rather because I'm a man and I'll take any opportunity to throw things into the basket. Which is odd considering I'm absolutely terrible at basketball and have met toddlers with more athletic ability than me.

Anna went to go take a shower last night, while I finished up a show on the telly. (I've been watching British TV shows lately so I find myself drawn towards their vernacular.)

All of a sudden, the water shut off. "BABY!"

Something was about to happen. I looked around, and noticed no small disasters near me. Nothing I had done in the last five minutes, at least.

Anna popped her head out of bathroom. "I figured it out!"

Life? Medical school? Why I'm so addicted to Doctor Who as of late?

"I figured out what the box was!" My head began spinning. That thing was long gone. I figured it was something unnecessary, something we'd laugh about.

It was our doorbell. Yes, we threw out our doorbell. Which had stopped working right around the time of its prompt removal.

This is going to be a very awkward conversation with our landlord.

..No worries. I'm still here.

Well hello folks!

I know what you're thinking. Tzvi begins a blog, starts out amazing, tells some stories and zingers the way only he can, and then...silence for weeks.

Did he already give up on his project? Nope.

Just got caught up with a few things.

1) Began watching The Wire, the gritty realistic HBO series (2003) which basically engulfs your entire life. My life for the better part of a few weeks was watching this amazing TV series. I plan to continue speaking about it in future entries, but this isn't the place. As a start though, I recommend you seek out the entire series before passing any sort of judgment. [An excellent resource for this comes in the new iPhone/ iPad/ Roku / Younameit application known as HBODemand, which can allow you to view this entire series provided you have an HBO Subscription and are one of the listed providers, with others coming soon.]

2) See #1.

3) Still See #1.

4) Got my wisdom tooth taken out on Tuesday. Which is great if you want to live a life filled with constant salt water rinsing, entire head wraps filled with ice, and well, constant explanations of my tooth.

Oh, you're curious? My extracted tooth was growing in at such an angle that it almost nicked the nerve and gave me permanent nerve damage to a part of my face. But as a good med school friend told me "You're just being a (Pansy)."

So sit back, hold on tight, more entries on the way. Love you all, except you reader. I just still really like you.

Russian TV shows scare the hell out of me, too.

I have a confession to make...I'm not actually Russian. But yet, I am. Allow me to explain.

My parents, years and years ago when I was just a hope and a distant dream, came to this country from a little place called Odessa, in Ukraine. So technically, while my family lineage extends all the way into Ukraine (heck, I probably have about 15 cousins still there), we all consider ourselves Russian. This is because my family left the soulless communism when it was well...communist USSR, so it was all Russia at the time.

And thus, we're Russian. Which explains why we don't consider ourselves Ukrainian. Why we all speak Russian. But yet we are still different from Russian Russians, who are the hardcore types who were the same folks my parents were quick to leave behind in the first place.

Which explains the heritage I have to uphold. Which explains why I had to nod and smile during every communist joke growing up, claim I love vodka (it's better than beer though), and why I have one of those ironic "Communist Party" t-shirts in my closet. But yet, none of this really encapsulates the culture I have to endure on a daily basis.

For some of those intricacies, I highly recommend the website Russians Anonymous (http://www.russiansanonymous.com) of who not only tackle the same subject matter, but they have their website figured out. Meaning they have pictures. (Hey, I bring wit and humor. Even Michael Bay didn't start out by making huge explosions in his backyard.)

So, I'm visiting my house the other night, spending quality time with my parents. Which mind you, means my physical body in at the table with my parents while we all watch TV. Good intentions, right?

The dial that evening happened to be on Russian television, of which has always fascinated me. But I have another secret to share...my Russian isn't so great. I can understand casual Russian conversation, and I can read / write Russian. But I speak at the level of a two-year old, and I have actually met infants with better Russian prononciation than me. And Russian TV? The actors / comedians/ singers / whoever speak so fast it blows my mind.

So how do I watch Russian TV? By nodding and smiling. I get the basic gist of it, and I can understand it mostly. But what I don't understand completely confuses me, and even moreso...Russian humor.

Russian humor means that every show is sprinkled with some sort of humor, and it extends from the juvenile (cross dressing) to that of various animals (seen a monkey or two), and even jokes about drinking. I know, shocked as you are.

True Story: I watched a game show once with my late grandmother and father that was an odd mix of Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. 5 letter word, the clue was "This goes great with bread in the morning." I said butter, answer was vodka. Can't make this up.

Anyhow, back to the other night's television quest. A commercial aired for a new show! What was it about? Why...it's a show about Russian women who are all extremely overweight. Something something Ruskaya (Russian in well..Russian) XXL!

The first few minutes were boring until they panned in one girl who I thought was the best looking of the bunch. My parents lamented how the girl looked "like a stick". I said I thought she looked good (Russians are brutally honest if anything), to which I was told "Of course you do...Anna is skinny." Hear that hun? Compliment from the in-laws.

This raged on for a while, until they randomly brought out a group of people with over-sized lips. And I don't mean slightly. These people would give you nightmares as their lips were engorged in such a fashion, it looked like 5 Botox injections completely regressed any chance of looking normal again.

Next, a woman was brought out that looked entirely like a man. Moustaches can apply to both genders, apparently. Then a man who looked like a woman was carted out. Long, flowing bleached blond hair looks odd on a man.

Then, in the Coup De Gras of completely awkward things to watch with my parents, the main attraction entered the stage. Not just any woman, mind you, but...the woman with "Russia's biggest bustline". To say that her chest arrived before her was an understatement. She had cleavage inside of her cleavage. And then more cleavage. The homeless could have lived in there. I could go on. Her chest was huge.

It was at this point either the show ended, or I had to go. One of the two. For all I know, they could have showed something worse and I blocked it out of my memory. The way I had to block out certain Russian television events from my childhood.

But come to think of it, with the way Russian television is, it's no wonder that I grew up with my quirky sense of humor. Don't get me started on Russian concerts, however, that's a whole different ballgame.

The box.

I've always hated Sundays.

Chalk it up to the forced family time growing up (window shopping at stores too expensive to even think about purchasing items at) , or the predominance of sports (I am an extremely casual sports fan), but Sundays have always left something to be desired for me. Not this morning though.

I woke up in a pretty good mood, eager to finish my book "Ready Player One" which my friend Jon lent me two weeks ago. I'm seeing him tomorrow so I figured I would finish the book ahead of time, which I wound up doing about ten minutes ago. This entry isn't about that book. (Which is fantastic and you should be reading. Right now.)

I rolled over in bed, plotting out my escape from the room not because Anna was still sleeping, but because I had to use the bathroom. I stealthily swung my feet out, lifted the sheets perhaps a quarter inch, all while Anna was still face down on her pillow. Unaware of anything except her psyche and her deeply relaxed state. So it figures that the second I get out of bed, she's up and alert. "Why are you getting out of bed?" I swear, my future wife has super sonic hearing. It's the only explanation.

I returned from washing up to find Anna in bed, staring off into the distance. We have oddball personalities, but no, this isn't a common occurrence. So I asked her what was wrong. She motioned towards something she was looking at. "What is that box?"

I looked in the same direction as her, and unable to figure out what she was looking at, asked her what she was talking about. "It's right there! How do you not see it!" Even at 9 am on a Sunday, female logic is triumphing over my existence. Figures.

She continued asking about this box until she pointed to it. "There, under the dining room table!"

Like a gentleman, I got out of bed. Climbed underneath the table so my 6'1.5" height was no longer in play, and reached underneath our luxurious wooden..well table. I found a box. "This box?" I called out.

"No! The other box." Just once, I'd like to get something on the first try. It'd be refreshing.

I called out to her. "Which other box?"

"The box that's right there. How do you not see it?" 9:02 am and I've already managed to get several things wrong. Preview of married life, according to most popular comedians. "C'mon, it's right there!"

I turned around, and a device I had never noticed before was there right in front of me. Usually blocked by one of our dining room chairs, I noticed a box plugged into an outlet I never saw up until that moment. I jiggle it a little bit, and manage to take it out of the wall socket. I have no idea what it is, so I bring it back to bed so both Anna and I can take a look at it.

"What do you think it is?" I ask. I hold it out to Anna but she refuses to touch it as if the thing was made out of hot lava.

"I don't want to touch that!" Anna tells me. While it's continuing to sit in my hands. I take one for the team. "How do you not know what that is?"

I shrug. I don't. And truth is, I still have no idea what is. I place it aside. "So what do you want for breakfast?"

Anna looks at me in surprise. "Aren't you curious about what that is? What if it's a recorder?"

I try to defuse that thought by stating that it's a smoke detector. Anna points out that our smoke detector is in the hallway. I try suggesting that it's our carbon monoxide detector. She points out that our carbon monoxide detector is in the living room.

I shrug again. "Okay, well do you want me to put it back?"

"No...put it in the closet or something."

And so it sits. I have no idea what is. All I can tell you is that it doesn't tick, has no timer, and just appears to be a battery of some sort. For all I know, we have now unlocked some force field, or we'll find that gravity stops working around here. Nothing would surprise me.

I wound up having some Trix cereal. I consider that a small victory, at least for a Sunday morning.

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"A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid." - J.R.R. Tolkien

When does breakfast time start?

Me and Anna, my fiance (*my issues with this word are a sure-fire future entry) proceeded with our usual Saturday upon waking up this morning.

It's nothing fancy, just a trip down to the local bagel store to get some fresh air, and potentially some exercise. Today was a beautiful day, so we decided to walk.

Breakfast went off without a hitch (which is unusual considering the amount of times they've gotten our orders wrong), and we were heading back when a sign caught my eye. It was adorned on the 24-hour location of a fine, local establishment.

A trip over to Wikipedia / Wikipaedia could tell you that this is White Castle, a burger relic that seems to sincerely thrive on either populations that can't tell that tiny, microwaved burgers are not actually "the norm", or folks that put themselves into a state where consumption of quantity vastly overpowers the quality of the food.

When the 2004 hit movie Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle came out, it proved to be in the latter category and it had the effect of propelling the burger chain back in the public eye. It is still nowhere near its competitors McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy's, and certainly not near any other chains such as Five Guys, Burger Shack, or any other establishment.

In other words, if you're a burger aficionado, it's easier to pretend that this place doesn't exist. Don't get me wrong, I've partaken in it before. But it's easily been over ten years since I had the store-bought microwave version (too easy) of the burgers, much-less actually shown up in person to eat one pint-sized burger, much much less a "Crave Case (!!!)".

But this post is not to infer the wrath of the White Castle Corporation (no idea if that's their actual name). They have a niche product that works for them. It's their sign that caught my interest.

As it operates as a 24-hour establishment, I was intrigued by a sign that mentioned that breakfast was served "starting 12 am!". And this annoyed the hell out of me.

Call me conservative, but 12 am seems waay too early to grab breakfast. I have never, with my own two eyes (okay four..I wear glasses), seen anybody eat breakfast at 12 am. Ever. I have seen people eat all sorts of ungodly products at this hour, but I never heard a drunk person (or worse) go "You know what I'm in the mood for...a bacon, egg and cheese." Never happened.

And while I'm sure there's a NYC truck somewhere that dabbles in this (and places like Denny's do exist after all), this just isn't the normal routine. If somebody's stumbling into a joint at the late / twilight hours, they're probably getting something so dirty, and so greasy that they are going to A) Post a picture on Instagram which will get posted to Twitter which will get posted to Facebook so they can secretly be proud of the year they've taken off of their life or B) Completely go against their dietary and even religious beliefs. (For those wondering, I have seen B before. Maybe that's a story for another time.)

So it got me thinking...when is the perfect Breakfast hour? We've eliminated 12 am because it seems so impractical. By this logic, I believe we can eliminate 1 , 2, and 3 am because people will run quicker to Taco Bell for a Chalupa then they will to a Dunkin' Donuts so they can try the new Texas Toast sandwich. In other words, not flying.

4 am is a tricky hour. Most people are either deep into slumber or just beginning it, and it's an overall odd hour to be eating. Not saying I haven't seen it done, but these are usually petty exceptions like a flight, and I like to think that airport food pretty much negates all usual logic of eating. No, 4 am is still too early for breakfast.

Now how about 5 am? I think we've discovered the real heart of Breakfast. "But 5 am is too early! I'm not up that early!" Number one, I envy your lifestyle where apparently you have the ability to sleep until some time where most people are already either just arriving at work, or have already begun to pretend to work. On my rotations, I have had the 'pleasure' of waking up at 4/5 am, and I can tell you from experience that 5 am just feels more natural for a bowl of cereal.

But is the opposite true? If 5 am is the perfect time for breakfast, wouldn't we have to negate that other meals aren't best suited for this hour? Right ahead of you, loyal reader. I have, in fact, seen people eat non-breakfast food at this hour. And the result was just a slight shade of revolting. I mean, just imagine watching somebody stuff pizza slices into their mouth at 5 am? Does that feel natural to you? Do you believe it is the right and privilege of people to eat whatever foods they want at 5 am? I don't care about how "American" it is, it's wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

So there you go, 5 am is the acceptable time to begin eating breakfast. Anything else is a mid-night snack, substance-induced state, or avoidance of ulcer-related pain. I rest my case.

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"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." - Lewis Carroll

..Let's try this again.

Judging by the one follower of this page (who I know in real life...hello!), and the fact that I have not updated this in a little over two years, it's time for a re-re-introduction. And an explanation, I suppose.

My name is Tzvi, and because of what I can only assume is my parents' quirky Odessian sense of humor, this was the real name picked for me by my brother. I can keep going on for a bit (not about that, it's not much of a story), but it's probably not the time. I assume this is because I'm neither famous nor in the public eye yet, so there's no need for anybody to hear the triumphs, minor tragedies, and even more triumphs that life has presented me so far.

Here's the facts: I'm an awesome guy who's working on his medical degree, and is just about to grab the brass ring. Which always struck me as an odd expression, because who really wants something brass? If it were me (and I may sound a tad spoiled), I would tend to go for something gold, or platinum.

I have a tendency to ramble and a tendency to type a lot, so you think I would have had a blog before. I did. It was my Xanga, and from 2002- 2007, it served as a post for my thoughts. ALL of them. I recently had to delete it because besides my tendency to post personal information (such as my last name), I also had a habit of talking about EXACTLY what was on my mind, and I more than annoyed a few people along the way. Not to mention something something, people's privacy, etc. The story of how the Xanga was deleted is a funny one in it of itself. Don't worry, I'll tell that one.

So you may ask, where has my creative energy gone since then?

I have a Twitter, but many times I find it difficult to really express my thoughts in 140 characters. And sure, there are websites that you can use to make your Tweets longer, but then it becomes awkward, the reader has to go to another website, everybody feels cheapened. I mean, what's the point of using a micro-blogging website if I'm just going to go off on tangents and not really play by the rules? (I was terrible at children's games because of this tendency.)

I do have a Facebook and you can friend me at...okay, gotcha. I do have a Facebook, but as we all know, it is now the gateway to personal information overload, and is most likely the nihilistic future we were warned about in the novel 1984. I post my actual thoughts on the Zuckerberg Project, and next thing you know, I'm being read by my long-lost cousin, some girl I met a college party my freshman year, and my landlord's cousin's roommate.

I had a foursquare account, but I got tired of battling with other people over who was in control of the grocery store across the street that I've actually gone into once.

I have a Instagram account but it's just one picture that my fiancee (oh stories are coming about her) took. I like taking pictures but the art of taking pictures and having people follow them when they're just going to wind up on Facebook and Twitter anyhow...overkill.

I never had a Myspace account.

...You get the point.

Anyhow, for the meanwhile, I intend for this to become an extension of myself until I can figure out what to really do with this. Add a theme? You'll quickly find out that I'm a person of many interests, so I'm going to let the fates decide this one. Design? I don't want to bother with colors at the moment and get trapped in hours of deciding whether a color is red, orange, or red-orange.

Anyhow, the previously aforementioned fiancee (she has a name..it's coming) just made me some instant coffee so I'll let this sit for now. More to come, folks.

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"Before I speak, I have something important to say" - Groucho Marx