Something Was Definitely Missing...

As it turned out, it was squirrels.

When you go away to a different land, there are things that you notice right off the bat that are different from the place where you were raised, and then there are things that are less obvious, that maybe you don't notice at first, that you have to really think about. Or, not think about and they just come to you at some moment when you're thinking about something else. Like perhaps the way ponytails bob and whip around when college-aged girls are out jogging.

For... example.

When Mrs. Apron and I were honeymooning in Bali, one thing we noticed straight away were all the dogs. There were goddamned dogs all over the fucking place-- stray dogs, feral dogs. Dogs eating garbage, dogs sniffing incense and rice and banana peel offerings left out on the sidewalk for this god or that god. Dogs masterfully avoiding getting run over by speeding mopeds containing entire families.

The Bali dogs.

The guidebooks we read mentioned this phenomenon, but we would have noticed anyway, because they were everywhere, and you'd have to have your head stuffed pretty far up your own ass to not notice it. I'm talking, like, smelling-your-own-spleen territory here.

One of the things that was less obvious to notice about Bali was that everybody spoke English. I didn't pick up on it for a couple days but, I can remember energetically bargaining with a street art vendor on a painting I really wanted and thinking to myself, "Holy shit-- here I am, all these thousands of miles away from... anything remotely English or American, and every goddamn person I've run into here speaks at least some English."

Even if it's, "Jut loo-keen, okay!" from a shopkeeper or a somewhat bewildering "un, too, see, por, pibe, six, seben, ten" count-off from a Balinese traditional dance instructor.

Something that was even less obvious than that was the observation that nobody seemed particularly anxious about, well, anything. And maybe that's a stupid thing to say-- anxiety is universal.... I suppose, and I admittedly wasn't sitting at the kitchen table of a Balinese couple trying to make ends meet, but you know how you can walk along the streets of Boston or Philly or D.C. or New York and see some anxious-looking motherfuckers? Brows furrowed, hands thrust deep into pockets, eyelids absolutely creased in worry? I don't know, maybe I'm just a dumb tourist, but I didn't see... that. And it led me to think that maybe anxiety isn't as universal as we may be tempted to think it is. Maybe it's more of a Western construct. Maybe it's manufactured by Woody Allen and Pfizer to keep us all in check and in analysis and in the pharmacy lines.

In Ireland, the thing I noticed immediately was that the cars were different.

Renault Clio

Skoda Octavia

Peugeot 308

Nissan Micra

Volkswagen Caddy

Toyota Avensis

Ford Mondeo

Opel Vectra

Renault Laguna

(And those are the ones I remember, just off the top of my head. Which is... desperately sad.)

It wasn't until two days into our trip when I remarked to my wife, while strolling through the National Botanic Gardens in Glasnevin, Dublin, that, as far as I could tell, there weren't any squirrels in Ireland.

Which, for a native of the Philadelphia area, is disconcerting. And wonderful.

AH-ha.

Many several years ago by now, my wife (who was, back then, my girlfriend) was babysitting for two children belonging to this family who lives nearby. She sent me a text message earlier in the night saying that she was craving a pickle, and that there were none in the refrigerator in the house occupied by the two children belonging to the family who lived nearby.

So, I procured a pickle from a local establishment which trades in such things, and I brought the chick who was, at that point, my girlfriend, a pickle.

She was elated. She invited me inside and, although we didn't have sex in these people's master bedroom as I'd been lead to believe we would by Hollywood, we did have an enjoyable conversation. At some point during my visit, my wife left me alone in these folks' living room so she could go do something babysitterly like put children to sleep or fold up the Twister mat or whatever. While she was gone, I was left to eyeball the immense, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf belonging to these people who lived nearby.

Philosophy.

Cooking.

History.

Theory.

Humor.

Literature.

Biography.

While the subjects and the heights and spines and the colors and the ages of these books all differed, one from the other, there was a common element that united all of these published, literary works, or unified most of them, at least.

Jewish.

Jewish authors.

Jewish themes.

Jewish titles.

Jewish slants and bents and perspectives.

My eyes narrowed and moved to the music collection, which I only had a brief moment to study before my then-girlfriend now-wife returned from upstairs.

Jewish composers.

Hebrew lyrics.

Jewish singer-songwriters.

Israeli orchestra.

Irritated, I abruptly cut my visit short and left the house, noticing, as I walked out, the "Evil Eye" hamsa by the front door as I passed.

I would qualify the rest of this post by saying, "I don't have a problem with being Jewish" but, clearly, that would be a lie.

I do. I do have a problem with it. In fact, I kind of can't stand it. I reek of Jewishness.

"I've got a friend who's Jewish, but he doesn't look Jewish," a coworker of mine said to me recently, "but you really LOOK Jewish."

That might sound horrible and inappropriate and offensive, but he ain't just whistlin' Hatikvah.

In Dublin, my wife and I arrived at the departure point for our tour bus on Friday, August 5th. There was an elderly lady standing in front of the steps to the hostel, her bags packed, her slicker on, her teeth-- well, I don't know where her teeth were. Probably in her suitcase. But her eyebrows were drawn on and she was ready to go. We made superficial smalltalk with her about Ireland before my wife said, "I need to go get breakfast, do you want to come with me?" I said no, because this lady was starting to get entertaining, I thought. She had just checked her watch (which read five minutes of nine) and announced, in a thick German accent,

"Ah. Zey are late."

There was no way I was going to miss an opportunity to hang around this woman, I thought, so I said to my wife, "No thanks, you go on ahead. I'll stay here in case the bus shows up."

My wife rolled her eyes at me, thinking she was trying to rescue me from this woman's clutches, and disappeared around a Dublin street corner. The woman, who I silently named "Gerta" chatted amiably for another couple minutes until a natural silence interceded between us. She broke it with,

"You are from Israel."

Notice the distinct dearth of any interrogative punctuation mark. Another silence, this one less natural, took its place before I replied with,

"Uh-- no. We're... I'm-- we're American."

"Oh," she said, "AH-ha." She peppered her conversation with "AH-ha's", making sure to really emphasize the first syllable. "But," Gerta said, "that is where your people are from. Israel."

Again-- no question mark.

"Yes," I said, suddenly wishing I'd gone for that croissant with my wife as sweat trickled into my asshole hair-forest, "my father is from Israel."

"AH! AH-ha!" she ejaculated, with a satisfied smile, indicating "Got one!" on her face. "Your nose, though, your nose," she continued mercilessly, "is Persian. You have a very Persian nose."

Yes, I thought, and you have no teeth or eyebrows. Did you lose them in the war?

Instead of saying that, I came up with, "Well, my father was born in Iraq."

"AH-ha."

I spent a good healthy portion of my 55 minutes in the chair yesterday talking about what it means to me to be Jewish, both at home and abroad, about what it's like having the map of Israel (or Persia) tattooed onto your face, about being perceived as weak, nebbishy, schmecky, cheap, stuck up, intellectual, a nerd, a schdork, a minority, with a big nose. And kinky hair. In 1993, "Frasier" first came on the air, and introduced the world to Niles Crane, the hopelessly pedantic, more hopelessly romantic brother to Frasier. He was always dressed in a suit, and had a head of beautiful, flax-colored, thin, soft, WASPish hair.

When I was thirteen, I went into the barbershop owned by the man who, many years before, had given me my first haircut.

"Bob," I asked, "can you do something to my hair to make it look like David Hyde Pierce's."

He looked at me with a mixture of sympathy, confusion, and despair.

"I don't think so," he said. "But you've got beautiful, thick hair. You'll appreciate it some day."

I'm still waiting, Bob.

A Tramp Abroad

It wasn't cackling, I don't think.

And I wouldn't call it "cavorting" either. That almost sounds too refined. Too many syllables, I think.

Braying, maybe. Because braying implies assery and, as a contestant on last week's "Project Runway" stated, "It's either classy, or assey."

Well, these guys were assey. As in, behaving like asses.

At Dublin Airport.

At a gate reserved for U.S. Airways passengers.

Americans.

And, as I sat there, with my legs tightly crossed and my fingers bracing against my temples as they hooted and yelled and whooped and cut through the air with accents that would have put the street urchin flower seller Eliza "Awoowaaowwaaah!" Doolittle to shame, I wanted to dig up the flooring of that airport terminal and disappear beneath it.

"This is what it is," I said to Mrs. Apron, "this is what I have been struggling against so hard for ten days-- to not be associated or lumped into a category with these... people.

Categorius Americansus.

Universally despised and stereotyped for having no manners, no class, no appreciation or respect for other cultures, no indoor voices, no knowledge of another culture's history (much less their own), garish, harsh, inconsiderate, packed to the hilt with complaints, cellphones, and bad attitudes.

Oh, and fat. At least we all know I'm not that.

The lady on the plane smushed up against my poor wife for seven hours and forty minutes was, though. Hailing from New Jersey, she smelled like New Jersey-- an odd combination of old tires, a toilet, and bay water. Easily tipping the scales at around four hundred pounds, she billowed over into Mrs. Apron constantly.

"Eating left handed sure is a challenge on these planes," she said to my wife.

"It's all challenging," was Mrs. Apron's demure reply as she dodged a dough-like elbow to the chin.

I'm discovering that I am very much encumbered by a desire to always do "the right thing", to "behave", to "be good". Those compunctions were amplified a thousand-fold on this vacation to Ireland, where I was hyper vigilant about not being the last one back on the tour bus. ("Oh, we're waiting for the Americans.") To not make uninformed comments about the history of the Northern Ireland/Southern Ireland/British conflict, to not turn my nose up at the local food, (black pudding? Seriously?), and to not say or do the wrong thing culturally, morally, ethically, etceterally.

All of this, I am sure, made travelling with me at times uncomfortable and annoying for my dear wife. And I regret that. Could I have done anything differently to ease up a little bit? Probably, but, in the moment, it's hard to say. It's a terrible thing, being hyper vigilant-- about anything really, because your asshole never unclenches quite enough for you to actually enjoy a good shit, or to just enjoy yourself-- whether you're shitting or not. I know that, at home or abroad, I'm a good boy, and that I shouldn't have to walk around apologizing for the fat, braying troglodytes who came before me and who will come after me, no more than white folks down south who are trying to lead normal lives shouldn't have to walk around apologizing for slavery.

Unless they're racist pieces of shit, of course.

Diecation

On Tuesday, Mrs. Apron and I are leaving Pennsylvania for Ireland. It's kind of like leaving Joan Plowright for Halle Berry. While I feel kind of badly for Pennsylvania, it's not like we're not coming back. Halle Berry's just a fling (that'll MAKE ME FEEL GOOD!) but we all know that my heart and soul belong to Dame Plowright.

In short, in spite of the fact that we're going to a historically-significant, lush, beautiful, cultured part of the word where it's approximately 60 degrees during the day: we'll be back.

In case you lack certain powers of observation, due to some cognitive disorder, Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, or the fact that you're half Betta fish: I'm pretty excited about the fact that we're going on vacation. We haven't been overseas since our honeymoon to Bali, and that was.... wow.... four years ago. We've been to Maine twice since then, but this here trip coming up is the real deal. The dollar against the euro sucks lumpy walrus nippies, and I'm kind of disappointed by that. In Bali, we were able to live like early 19th century plantation owners-- staying in five-star hotels for approximately twenty-two American dollars a night. In Ireland, it's not going to be that way. Of course, I haven't lowered my standards any to accommodate for the poor exchange rate; we're just going to basically go broke.

But that's okay, because it's not like we're saving up for anything important and supremely expensive coming up on the horizon. You know, like twins.

But, really, we know that we need this. This last opportunity to see strange sights without little knuckleheads screaming in the not-so-distant background, to have quiet meals, to have casual, kind of loud sex in another time-zone, to viciously judge (and not be) the annoying couple with ferociously wailing children on the airplane.

We need this. We need Ireland. And we're taking it by its sweet, pale, freckled titties.

I just hope we don't die.

There's lots of ways to die on vacation.

Don't look at me like that. If you think about it, you'll agree with me, because it's true. I won't even go into the airplane ride, which I am dreading. I'm really trying to not talk about it too much, but, obviously, I'm failing at that. I know all 136 people just survived that Guyana plane crash, and that's great for them, but two people were just killed in the Wright brothers replica plane crash. And these things happen in threes.

N'yah mean?

Seriously, though, it would be so cliché if we died on this plane. The "Today Show" and everything would make a huge deal about it, because we'd be two of the annoying Americans who died, and, of course, they would elevate our otherwise relatively meaningless deaths beyond any and all reasonable proportion because we're pregnant-- WITH TWINS!

Oh, God, I can't stand thinking about Matt Lauer's carefully creased brow and Ann Curry's empathic hand-wringing on the desk next to her "Today Show" coffee mug. Of course, we'd get lots of media coverage because we're white, but we're not blonde and/or hot, so maybe the coverage wouldn't be as extensive as it otherwise would be. You know, if we were hot and/or blonde. But we're definitely white, and definitely pregnant (WITH TWINS!) so that would get us on at the 7 o'clock hour for sure for realsies.

Aside from the obvious possibility of perishing in an air disaster, there are tons of ways to die once in Ireland. While provisional violence has calmed down recently, there's always the chance that some IRA lunatic will blow up a department store or a café that we happen to be walking past. Our tour bus could hit a suicide sheep rigged with explosives. We could be mugged and killed so some red-headed thug can make away with the waterproof shoes I just bought at Salvation Army for $5.99 in preparation for our trip. An inebriated pub patron could fall into us, causing us all to tumble down like dominoes, causing fatal noggin injuries on the curb.

Sorry, "kerb".

Weirdos.

We could fall to our deaths at the Cliffs of Moher. It happens. Apparently, in 2007, two people died there, though the Garda Síochána ruled it a murder/suicide, probably to keep the tourism trade humming along.

All this is to say that my wife deserves a shitload of props, because traveling with a neurotic asshole can't be all that much fun. This is also to say that, of course, having sex with Halle Berry might be extraordinarily jubilant, but it's probably safer to ball Joan Plowright.

Fundled Faith

Well, those priests are at it again...

My father loves to raise eyebrows with his vulgar commentary on the latest abuse scandal in the Catholic church.

"You know why that John Paul was always walking around bent over, right?"

"No, Dad. Why?"

"Because he always had a little boy under that dress of his, giving him a fundle."

Dad, in that quaint, Israeli way of his, pronounces the word "fundling," but we all know it's pronounced "fondling." And we all know it's disgusting and ickie and gross, but we can't help laughing, especially when he calls it "fundling" or makes reference to "the Catholic tussies."

Of course, there's nothing funny about the report issued today by the commission charged with investigating the systemic sexual, physical and emotional abuses perpetrated by Catholic priests, nuns and other officials at reformatories, schools, workhouses and orphanages from the 1930s to the 1990s in Ireland. For those of you who came here today looking for a laugh-- um, go enjoy the My Masonic Apron archives or a repeat of "Maude."

Tens of thousands of victims. Decades of unmanaged and unprosecuted abuse. Countless lives shattered and needlessly fucked up at the devious and deviant hands of people protected by the sanctimonious untouchability of God's shroud. I know very well that my father knows how to pronounce the word "fondling" and I think his reluctance to call it what it is stems from his very real abhorrence of the deeds-- he'd rather make light of it. For too many years and too many decades, the Catholic Church has also not come clean and called it what it is, but for a very different reason. It's only a crime if you identify it as such. If you conceal, if you lie,if you shift blame, if you apologize for the perpetrator, if you castigate the victim instead of the predator, well, then, you're just letting the molesting machine roll along on its merry little way, aren't you?

Well, God bless.

Religion, like Tylenol, is great if it's used correctly. If it's abused, also like Tylenol, well, then you're in trouble. I very much doubt that there's a Hell, but, if there is, I hope there's an especially hot and fucked up place for those who misuse their religious authority to torture young children.

They like to say that we're all made in God's image, but I don't think so. It's pretty hard to conceive of a God who would make men who are then ordained as His servants who then participate in these thoroughly ungodly acts. Kinda pokes a hole in that cozy little belief structure, doesn't it?

The fact that the Irish government was complicitous in covering up these immensely and powerfully awful deeds is a revolting stain upon that society. This is what happens when faith and government are, for lack of a more tasteful term, in bed together. Then again, seperation of Church and State hasn't done too much to ameliorate clergy scandals in this country.

The report fails to name names of abusers, because of a legal injunction from The Christian Brothers, one of the entities that ran many of the reformatories, whose hands are quite obviously stained with sickness and guilt-- otherwise, why the lawsuit? Without names, there can be no justice. It is impossible for any commission or any government or any church to give back these victims their childhoods, their innocence, or their dignity. The very least they deserve and are entitled to is justice.

I doubt they'll get it, though. After all, they're no children of God, right? They're just sons and daughters of the workhouse-- bastards and whores all.

People use religion for a lot of nefarious activities. Some people use it to sell you shit you don't need: like icons of Mary to nail up all over your house, or gold stars of David to wear around your neck. Some people use it to shame you for simply being human and making life's little mistakes that we're all supposed to make. Some people use it to compel you to behave, to walk the straight and narrow, to scare you shitless so you don't speak up or speak out. And some use it so they can fuck trembling, fearful young boys in the rectory when nobody's looking, and be certain of their victims' silence. After all, Hell awaits and, if that's not frightening enough, there's always the Hell on earth that comes as part and parcel of being a victim of rape, abuse and torture.

The Jews believe that God is there and that God sees everything, but I'm not so sure. If He is there, and if He does see everything, then I don't think He deserves that capitalization after all.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, You Fucking Morons.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

It's such a pleasure to see so many people out and about, honoring Irish culture.

Makes you proud.

I particularly admire the way people comport themselves on St. Patrick's Day. At a time when Irish culture is trying desperately to contain outbursts of violence from a hopefully bygone era, it's nice to see so many folks out there displaying their Irish pride.

Such displays of appropriateness.

Such good taste.

What I love most about St. Patrick's Day is that nobody goes outside their house looking like a total d-bag. People know that this is a holiday to celebrate and honor a troubled people, and they behave accordingly.

Americans especially.

Americans love St. Patrick's Day, for some reason. You might argue on the comment portion of this blog (go right ahead) that Americans love St. Patrick's Day because there are so many Irish immigrants in America. Well, that may have been true at one point, but I think Americans love St. Patricks Day because we love to get shitfaced and, in America, St. Patrick's Day is equated with massive alcohol consumption, which, as we all know, is totally cool!

It's interesting to note that the Irish Independent News isn't exactly headlining with St. Patrick's Day.

"Ireland Hit Worst By Recession" the headline blares.

Beneath that are two terrible stories of death, one involving three brothers who perished together in a house-fire, and another piece about two men who got killed in a "roadway horror smash."

Wait a minute-- where are the leprechauns?

Where's me Lucky Charms?

Since the overwhelming majority of St. Patrick's Day celebrations have absolutely nothing to do with St. Patrick, I have a new idea for this "holiday."

Let's call it "St. Poseur's Day."

This is a day where you can happily roam the streets pretending that you're something you're definitely not. Put on some green. Try on a retarded accent-- see how it suits you. Get totally shitfaced in honor of something you know nothing about, denigrating a country you will never visit, and getting on the jaun of a people you will never understand. Honor the great and most revered St. Poseur of the Ancient Isle of Fakery, who once crashed a Passover seder wearing a huge false nose.

Hm.

Speaking of which, why do other cultures never seem to glom onto Jewish holidays? Why aren't there "Yom Kippur Parades" in New York City? Street vendors could sell cheap, black felt hats and false beards and even Jew noses to the goyim poseurs of the world. What about "Kiss Me, I'm Jewish" pins? People could get shitfaced on Manischewitz by the jugful and call each other "Putz!" and "Schmendrick!"

Come join us, world. Let St. Poseur and the Jews unite at last.