What Do You See?

Dear Mrs. Jones,

I wish to clarify that I am not now, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. I work at Home Depot and I told Sarah how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had. Then I found one more in the back room, and several people were fighting over who would get it. Sarah's picture does NOT show me dancing around a pole. It's supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot. From now on I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Smith*

*Special thanks to Moonbeam for sharing this

Branding is Everything

I think this is gonna be fun.

Triple H

The right to be heard does not automatically include the right to be taken seriously.

Hubert Humphrey.

There are a whole lot more great ones right here.

By Any Other Name

I'm in a boy band.

We've got four guys in their late forties/early fifties with similar levels of hair loss on top and paunch at our middles. Three guitars and a bass.

We've also got a wunderkind 22-year-old keyboard player and a seasoned accordionist. Our drummer (son of the bass player) sits in with us when he can. We pretend to have natural rhythm when he's got a high school band concert or community engagement project.

We played a 150th birthday celebration at our shul today. Over the last year-and-a-half, we've appeared under a number of monikers.

The Beth El Brotherhood Boy Band
The New Meshuggenah Minstrels
Khaveyrim

We've considered a couple of other names that have been rejected.

For some reason, they wouldn't put our name in the temple bulletin as Jew Man Group. We're pretty sure Jewk Box Heroes would have suffered the same fate.

A quick web search let us know that Mazal Tov Cocktail was already taken.

And we decided we'd be liable to Monty Python for copyright infringement if we adopted Red Sea Pedestrians. (Ten non-redeemable, non-transferable points for the first one to post a comment telling what Monty Python work that's stolen from.)

We may have found a permanent name this morning.

Ladies and gentlemen:

THE ROCK HARD BAGELS

From Generation to Generation

Monkeyboy brought a tear to my eye the other day. We were scheduled to go to a neighbor's New Year's open house at noon.

At about 11:00 am the wonderful man who is the leader of MiDC's Tuesday afternoon chess club at the public library (and a friend and mentor to me since we served together on our synagogue's board) called. Monkeyboy answered. I was out and RFB was in the shower. Mr. F. was calling to invite Brady to come with his family to a 12:10 pm theater production of Les Miz. His grandson's friend had turned up sick at the last minute and the F's had an extra ticket.

Monkeyboy explained that he didn't think he could go because of the open house, but that he'd ask his mom as soon as she got out of the shower. (I was out doing errands.)

I called home from the grocery store (Have the birds eaten up the suet? Should I buy more suet cakes? "Very Berry" or "Woodpecker's Delight"?)

Both RFB and MiDC got on. RFB and I heard about the invitation together. I probed a little.

"You were right to warn Mr. F. about the conflicting engagement, but if you had no other considerations, which would you prefer to do?"

(He's already learned that you're not supposed to cancel an existing social engagement if something better comes along, but I was prepared to offer a parental dispensation from this rule of etiquette.)

"I'd rather do both," came the typical 11-year-old response.

Before I could get a word in, he continued, "But you can't put your tush in two places, so I think I should go to the open house."

My grandmother used to say, in Yiddish:

"Ich ken nisht tanzen bai tzvei chasanas mit ein tuchas"
Which means: I can't dance at two weddings with one behind.

(I just looked up the phrase and English translation on Google to get them exactly right. Ain't the Internet cool?!)

I speak only enough Yiddish to swear, so Monkeyboy has heard (and was repeating) his great-grandmother's age-old wisdom as filtered through my imperfect recollection. But he got the point.

"Whoo-boy pal, I'm proud of you," said I. "You're a real mensch. And if there's a heaven, Bubbye's smiling down on us right now."

I waited 'til after I got my kiss goodbye and rung off before I let myself tear up.

I'm doing it again, right now. *

*By way of full disclosure, I should acknowledge here that I also cried at Rhoda's wedding.

What's a Tell?

I played in a new poker game last night.

I won, which is nice.

A "tell" is something you do inadvertently, even subconsciously, the tells other players (at least those paying attention) something about your hand. It's usually very subtle.

You might remember a MASH episode where everyone realizes that Major Winchester whistles when he's got nothing.

Well, here's a freebie, if we ever play poker: Pokerface in DC got a good hand last night and promptly spilled his beer all over himself.

That's a tell.

In G-d's Image

I've been thinking about what it means to be made in G-d's image.

And I've decided we take a pretty narrow view.

I fear it's mostly because it's impossible to write with flippers.

Never Again Will One Generation of Veterans Abandon Another

A cousin just came back from Iraq.

Here's the story.

And here's a cool postscript from his wife, my cousin Nancy:

As a follow up to the story (and this will make more sense after you read the story), our doorbell rang this afternoon. There stood the head chef from Wegman's with a HUGE tray of sushi. I think every kind they make was on the tray. He said "Welcome Home, Sir, and Thank You from Wegman's."

From My Mom

...and finally, thank you for giving me to Tommy rather than Michael Vick.

Happy New Year

A) I'll get back in the habit now. (No cheap nun jokes please.)

B) The single greatest internet time waster I've ever seen. (Until the next one.)

C) Movie recommendation: If you haven't seen it, see The Bucket List. I cried like a sap at the end, but it's a beautiful story. Freeman and Nicholson are awe-inspiring.

D) One past post will eventually have a sequel. Check this out first. It's ok. I'll wait. (You only need to read the part about The Home on Gorham Street and some of the comments)

OK. Now, out of the blue, I get an e-mail from a woman I've known since high school. We hadn't been in touch for nearly 20 years and hadn't seen one another for closer to 30. But we remember one another fondly.

Her aunt is down-sizing and has found letters my father wrote to her when they were young. 60 years ago. Would I like to have them?

Letters in my father's hand? The father who killed himself when I was two? The father I've spent a lifetime scrounging up stories about, to stand in for the memories his suicide denied me?

I am thoroughly convinced that the time I am closest to understanding my father is when my depression is at a low trough. Once I get through it, I thank G-d for modern medicine, an able psychiatrist, the love of family and for chocolate.

But while I'm in its grasp, I can almost understand why he thought my Mom and I were better off without him. It feels like I'm never going to get better. I'll always be miserable and needy and cranky. I'll always need support and never be able to give support.

Then things improve, and I'm left with, among other things, more sympathy for --- and less anger at --- my father.

And I want to know him better.

So, yes, I'd very much like to have those letters.

My friend was pleased and I gather her aunt was pleased too. I've thanked them both and now have the letters, along with a campaign card from my father's run for student president of Franklin High, a couple of pictures of him in his youth and the program from a New Year's event. It's sort of a time capsule from the mid 1940's.

The accompanying letter from Mrs. ______ indicates that my father and she were close. I've browsed through the letters themselves, but not very much. There are a lot of then, in ink and written on both sides of the note paper, and in a scrawl that's only marginally better than my own. They're not all in order, nor are they all dated. Some cover very emotional subject matter. Mrs. _____ wrote that she'd only re-read a few and that it was hard.

RFB is urging that I approach all of this slowly, if at all.

Wise counsel, no doubt.

But I'm guessing you'll eventually hear more about this.

E) Special thanks to Laura B. , Churlita, Mrs. Hairy Woman and Stephen for helping to encourage me to get back to blogging.

I Love It When My Friends Are in the Paper

This article features one of my favorite people.

Mazal Tov, Jenny.

Perspective: Esquire Magazine, 1958

Skip Gates is a national treasure.

And, as it turns out, Jake Javits was nearly clairvoyant.

Who knew?

Check it out.

Dewey Beats Truman

The Rising

This brightened a sullen Monday morning.

Election Scam

In the dirtiest political trick of the year, a false announcement, on official-looking stationery, has been circulating.

It says that to control the large crowds of voters this year, Election Day is being split into two, on Tuesday and Wednesday of this week.

It says Republicans are supposed to vote on Tuesday and Democrats on Wednesday.

This is completely and brazenly false, the worst sleaze-job in history.

It's the Democrats who are supposed to vote on Tuesday, with Republican voting set for Wednesday. *

*I'm David and I approve this message