I Never Did Mind About the Little Things

Apparently, you can't drink beer on Passover.

(Yeast, you know.)

Somebody at work asked me the other day whether or not Jews can drink beer on Passover. The question presupposed a couple things-- one, that I'm Jewish. Anybody who's not blind or stupid or both knows that just by looking at me, so there you go. It also presumes that I drink, and generally speaking, people who suppose this about me suppose that "everybody" drinks, so why shouldn't I?

And, really, why shouldn't I? I mean, I don't-- but there isn't really any reason why I shouldn't. No family history of alcoholism, no history of mental illness that would be exasperated by the presence of alcohol, no past traumatic experiences involving drink-- etcetera etcetera.

At any rate, I don't drink. Why? Probably because I'm holding onto my complete and total sobriety-- not even like a security blanket, but as a quirk. Something that makes me different from you. Something uncanny to remark on during a first date-- not that I'll ever have one of those again.

The question about beer on Passover also supposes something else about me-- not just that I'm Jewish, but that I have sufficient knowledge about and/or interest in the intricacies of Passover and its do-and-do-nots such that I would be able to rattle off an answer that would satisfy the innocent interoffice interrogator on the subject of barley and/or hops during the Passover holiday.

Friend, I do not possess the knowledge or the interest. I don't care. Eat pepperoni-filled garlic knots dipped in motor oil on Passover for all I give a damn. Chew panko-encrusted shards of broken glass. Please, just leave me alone.

Judaism.

God.

I feel like I'm never going to stop writing about it. It's like the girl you're in love with in high school that your brain can't ever let you stop thinking about. It's the pimple inside your nose. It's the goddamn tiddlit of broccoli stuck between your teeth in the back of your mouth-- your fucking miserable tongue just CAN'T STOP PLAYING WITH IT!

I don't know of another religion that is as obsessed with minutia, that loves detail, that wants nothing more than to separate and segregate until the end of time. When I think about Judaism, I picture a matryoshka doll. You know what I'm talking about. If anybody you know has ever been to Russia, that's what they brought back for you as a gift-- because, what the fuck else would they bring back for you-- a turnip with a beard?

Anyway, Judaism is like a matryoshka doll in that, when you look at it in a superficial way (the way lots of people look at things because, hey; who has the time?) it looks like a nice, painted wooden doll. Okay. However, the more you get into Judaism, the more you delve into its history and its ethics and, much more than that-- its thousands and thousands of covenants and rules and regulations, the dolls and the details get smaller and smaller and smaller until they're impossibly small-- until you can't possibly fathom how these crazy little dolls were once living so peacefully and so quietly inside of this big doll.

Can I turn on water in a hotel on Shabbat if less than 50% of the guests are non-Jews? This is a "legitimate" question one of my wife's friends asked once upon a time. Are you fucking kidding me? What does God want you to do-- go to the front desk and check all the last names on the register? Pull down all the pants of the guys staying in all the rooms to scope out their dicks for mushroom caps? Another real question: if a woman is pregnant, and she goes into labor on Shabbat-- can she call an ambulance if the EMTs are non-Jews-- oh, wait-- somebody has to call for her-- a non-Jew, because she can't use the phone on Shabbat. What if the EMT in the back of the ambulance with her is Jewish-- the goy has to drive. But, wait? Isn't it against Jewish custom for a Jew to work on Shabbat-- so an observant Jewish EMT won't work on Shabbat anyway.

Phew! Well, that solves that part of the equation.

It's maddening and it's madness. And we're just talking about the tip of the iceberg (Goldberg? Sorry.) here. The dolls just keep getting smaller and smaller and smaller as the knowledge goes further and further. And all I can say is: not interested. Leave me out of it. This craziness can have its fans and its fanatics, but I will not be one of them. Are we going to raise our children to be Jewish? Sure we are. Are we going to encourage this banana-pants dissection of a faith that originated before shabbat elevators and ambulances and running water-- fuck, no. Because I never did mind about the little things-- and I hope to hell my children don't either.

My Sabbath Elevator, Part II

Remember this post of mine?

I do. (Vaguely.)

Penned in the heady autumn of 2009-- before I was thirty. Before I was a father. Before I could no longer string together a cogent thought or coherent sentence secondary to the exhaustion that comes with becoming a diaper-changing machine.

I read this old post of mine with a mixture of intrigue, apathy, and amusement. Such vitriol spewed forth from me. Such offensively pulchritudinous platitudes.

Such piss. Such vinegar.

Sometimes I think I've mellowed out, now that I'm thirty-one and the father of two ardent squishies. Other times, though, I think I'm probably just getting warmed up.

I thought, when I read the infuriating "New York Times" article about the bizarre concept of the Shabbat elevator three years ago that I would write my blog, express my rage against my upbringing, my faith, my fellow crazies, and that would be that. The "New York Times" would move on, My Masonic Apron would move on, I would move on, the Jews in their insipid, self-congratulatory perpetually-motioned elevator would move up and down and up and down and up and down and the world would keep spinning on its charming little axis.

Unfortunately, as I thumbed around on my Blackberry's trackball on nytimes.com (shitty mobile edition) I realized that we're not really moving at all. We're quite assuredly standing still, though the elevator numbers of life continue to rise and fall with oh such cunning deception. My weary eyes glazed over the headline and my heart fell:

March 6, 2012

"On Jewish Sabbath, Elevators Do All the Work"

And all I could do was shake my head. And, no, I didn't say, "Oy," but thanks for asking.

We're still talking about this? Really? Part of the reason I stopped blogging hyperactively in the first place was because I felt like I was repeating myself, and here is the "New York Times" writing about this subject matter as if they'd just discovered it? Maybe the "New York Times" should throw in the towel, too.

When I last wrote about the Shabbat elevator, I was angry-- angry about hypocrisy and illogical practices and self-righteousness. Three years later, I feel the same way. I'm angry about the same things, I'm angry that Judaism's absurd inanities are fodder to entertain businesspeople on their iPads on their way to work on the subway. I can't imagine the "New York Times" would allow one of its staff writers to pen an article titled,

"On December 25, WASPs Don Ridiculous Sweaters and Sing Cloying Songs in the Cold"

But it's more than that. I'm not really angry at the Times, though I do kind of think they're beating a dead (Jewish) horse, I'm angry at Jews. Yeah, my peeps.

(Yo.)

We're immigrants. Foreigners. Outsiders. We came to this country in droves prior to the turn of the 20th century, and then again after World War II. My father came with a few of his hooligan, Jewfro'd friends in 1972 to get into textiles, never dreaming that it was perhaps an unwise choice. And I remember the line from "Cool Hand Luke", "What we got here is a failure to communicate."

Maybe what we've got here is a failure to assimilate.

Assimilation is often said and viewed as a poisonous word-- the dilution of culture and pride and faith-- but I posit that a little bit of assimilation is necessary for survival. It's healthy, it's normal, it's... well, okay. When I read about Orthodox Jews requiring special elevators to accommodate the Jewish requirement that you "not make spark nor fire" on the Sabbath, I guess that just makes me feel a little hinky. I mean, when you see a bunch of Jews crowding into one elevator and the rest of the world getting into another one, does that... I don't know... remind you of anything in particular?

WHITES ------------------------ COLOREDS

And ne'er the two shall meet.

Segregation is segregation, whether it's mandated from without or within. I think it would benefit the people who utilize these elevators to think about the message it communicates to the rest of the world-- and "the rest of the world" is something that I don't think Orthodox Jews give much thought to on a regular basis-- and that communique might be "we're special", "we're different", "we're... chosen." And I wonder, chosen for what? Chosen to be ostracized? Chosen to be identified and looked at askew and to be regarded as queer or suspicious or funny or weird? Chosen to be pondered over in America's most significant newspaper as an oddity, as something quaint or strange? I wonder about that. And I wonder, too, how the Orthodox Jewish community would feel if their special elevators were identified by a big yellow star, inscribed with the word "JUDEN".

You know, just to make them easier to find.

Tricky Dick

(Don't worry, this isn't another post about my dick. In fact, that's the only time in this post that I'll say those words together.)

There isn't a President of the United States that people love to hate more than Richard Milhous Nixon.

First of all, he's an ugly cuss, so that makes tearing him up a lot easier, and I can respect that on some basic level. We respond to peoples' physical traits a lot more than we might like to admit. If Adolf Hitler looked like Leonardo DiCaprio, my family tree might never have gotten planted.

I wouldn't dare go on record claiming that Richard Nixon didn't do shitty things-- he did, and I think most of us can agree on that. He did some very shitty things, at a very shitty time in our country's history.

We should all probably hate the thoroughly corrupt and endlessly contemptible Warren G. Harding just as much, if not more, than we hate Richard Nixon, but we don't. Presumably, this is because Warren Harding did shitty things a long time ago, and, let's face it, he was more handsome than Richard Nixon, so it's kind of harder to hate him.

See? Pretty-like.

Don't you want him to be your grammpaw?

In spite of his immaculate suit, thoughtful demeanor and his distinguished eyebrows, you've got to admit that he does look infinitely capable of some seriously dirty deeds, no?

Every now and then, new Oval Office audio tapes are released from the Nixon era that reignite the nation's obsession with getting a serious hate-on for Dick Nix. On Friday, they released tapes of Nixon going off about blacks and Jews. If you don't know by now that Richard Nixon was a happily profane bigot, then you need to go back to 7th grade, immediately. If you're already in 7th grade, I feel a little wrong about your reading this blog. Stop it.

Here's a few of the choice items from the new tapes about Jews:

* “The Jews are just a very aggressive and abrasive and obnoxious personality.”

* “I don’t want any Jew at that dinner [with then-Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir] who didn’t support us in that campaign. Is that clear? No Jew who did not support us.”

* “Most Jewish people are insecure. And that’s why they have to prove things.”

Nixon also implied that most Jews avoided the draft in Vietnam.

* “I didn’t notice many Jewish names coming back from Vietnam on any of those lists; I don’t know how the hell they avoid it. If you look at the Canadian-Swedish contingent, they were very disproportionately Jewish. The deserters.”

There wasn't much about African-Americans that was especially juicy on these latest tapes-- there's been good (well, bad) stuff before. This time, he stated that he thought blacks could improve and strengthen our country "in terms of 500 years. I think it’s wrong if you’re talking in terms of 50 years. What has to happen is they have be, frankly, inbred. And, you just, that’s the only thing that’s going to do it."

Nice, yeah?

Oh, and it sure doesn't help that he looked like this:

"One of these days, Alice... straight TO THE MOON!"

Anyway, as an insecure Jew who is the son of an aggressive, abrasive, obnoxious Jew, I just want to say that, Dick, I don't hate you. You were human. You were mortal. You were an ignorant, ill-informed, uncultured yabbo from the dusty shitstorms of Yorba Linda, California and your mother was whacked out and you lost your brother early on in life and your power went to your head and, brother, you were one fucked up cookie.

And it's okay. Because I'd be willing to bet that, if there were cameras and bugs on every one of us, we'd all hear ourselves and our loved ones say stuff that would turn our skin green and curl our toenails.

I know WikiLeaks sounds like big news now, but nothing ever changes. Nothing is new. We're all quite awful sometimes. The only thing that saves us is that, usually, nobody's listening.

Blind Mr. Apron

You know how, once someone you know gets an iPhone, suddenly everyone you know is sending you emails that end with the unctuous phrase,

"Sent from my iPhone"

That's how life goes, I guess. In 1948, the first year the Volkswagen Beetle was imported to America, they sold 2.

Two, people. Two.

The next year, it was over a thousand. After that? Forget about it. Everyone had one, or everyone knew someone who had one. It was like an infestation, if you'll pardon the pun.

Nicknames are kind of the same, but kind of different. One somebody has one, it sounds cool, and everybody wants one. The best thing about nicknames is that they don't cost anything, and the next best thing is that a nickname is only something that someone else can give to you.

You can't come up with your own nickname. You just can't.

Ball players love nicknames. Like Whitey Ford. And... well, I can't actually think of any more.

Another group of individuals who love their nicknames are musicians. I'm not talking about P. Diddles or whatever the fuck his name is now, I'm talking about real musicians. Like Mississippi John Hurt and T-Bone Burnett and Ramblin' Jack Elliott. Like Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf.

If you look through the history of American musicians, you'll no doubt observe that there are a good deal of musicians who referred to themselves, or were referred to by other people as "Blind" Somethingorother.

Take Blind Snooks Eaglin, who passed away in February of this year. Snooks went blind in early childhood from glaucoma. It's been said in literature that his voice was very reminiscent of Ray Charles, which I think is pretty coincidental considering that, well, you know. After Snooks went blind, at age 5, his father gave him a guitar.

Now, I don't know about you, but, if I had a son who was blind, the first thought that would go through my mind would not be, "Here, have a guitar."

But I guess that's why I'm never going to have a kid who's going to be a musical prodigy, be referred to as "The Little Ray Charles" or "The Human Jukebox" both of which Snooks was.

There's Blind Boy Fuller,
Blind John Davis,
Blind Roosevelt Graves,
Blind Mississippi Morris,
Blind Tom Wiggins,
Blind Alfred Reed,
Blind Joe Reynolds,
Blind Lemon Jefferson,
Blind Willie Johnson,
Blind Blake

and, of course, the bands The Blind Boys of Alabama and The Five Blind Boys of Mississippi.

There's also, according to Wikipedia, 124 more blind musicians who don't use the word "Blind" in their titles and/or names.

So, I'm left to wonder a couple of things here...

1.) Why the hell are there so many blind musicians?

2.) Where are all the deaf painters?

3.) Did I ever take the Ektorp cover out of the washing machine?

4.) How exactly does a blind musician decide whether or not to call himself "Blind" Whatever?

Question four is the one this is occupying most of my thoughts today. Like, take Ray Charles. Why didn't he call himself Blind Ray Charles? Or Ray Blind Charles? Or Ray Charles (Blind)? Charles was getting noteriety in just the right time period to be publicizing his disability in his name-- I don't think anybody would have noticed, or cared, in the early 1960s. Stevie Wonder I have more trouble picturing as Blind Stevie Wonder. Maybe just "Blind Wonder" would have been enough. It sounds not vaguely superhero-ish, but I think it works. You picture him flying through the air in front of a levitating keyboard... slamming into telephone poles.

I have even more trouble picturing Andrea Bocelli calling himself "Blind Andrea Bocelli." Though I think it would be pretty awesome.

I guess it has something to do with marketing and your clientele-- how you want people to see you.

Me? I don't know if I'd want to be referred to as "Jew Mr. Apron." Or "Scoliosis Mr. Apron." Or "Left Leg 3/8-of-an-inch Shorter than the Right" Mr. Apron. Or "Asthmatic Mr. Apron."

But that's just me.

I Love Jew, Really I Do...

Note: The following would probably be better suited if it were directed at a therapist. Due, however, to the shitty insurance that I carry and the free nature of the blogosphere, it is instead presented herein as a blog entry.

I'm sure you don't mind.

I've noticed lately that I have a really difficult time being in situations where I am surrounded by Jews.

This is a somewhat strange problem, being that I am Jewish.

I didn't seem to mind it very much when I was younger, but I definitely do mind it now, and I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm pretty sure that something's wrong with me, and that nothing much is wrong with them.

This past weekend, my wife and mother-in-law journeyed down to a hyper-Jewish area in Baltimore. I can't remember the name of the town-- it doesn't matter. Now, I grew up in what I thought was a Jewish neighborhood-- you know, lots of synagogues all over, people walking to schul, a Bloomingdales within twenty miles. This place, though, made my hometown look like Butte, Montana. Case in point, I was a little hungry having forgotten to eat breakfast that Sunday morning. "No problem," my mother-in-law said, "There's a Subway over there on the right."

"And it's Glatt-Kosher."

Hmmm... kind of takes the fun out of everything, I thought, but what the hell? I entered this restaurant and was immediately overwhelmed by JEWISHNESS. Every female over the age of naught had a skirt going almost down to the ankle, lest we lascivious men be tempted by the sight of an uncovered heel. Hair was worn in an identically unflattering fashion-- and it was difficult to tell whose black hair was a wig and whose was real. Many tables were filled with young couples and an average of five small children each. The elderly Jewish men puttered around, exercising their jowls, hiking their stained pants up to their sagging nipples and ordering crazy sandwiches.

There was a sink with a metal cup and a towel by the counter, which I stared at, at first mistaking it for an emergency eyewash station. Some Jew I am, right?

Speaking of which, I received another reminder of my ignorance and idiocy when I tried to order my sandwich with the herb and cheese bread, found at any other Subway in the universe.

"Sir, have you never been to this particular Subway?" the African-American woman behind the counter inquired. Oh, Jesus, I thought, how could I be so fucking stupid? I was about to get a lecture on kashrut from a black girl.

"This particular Subway," she mechanically recited, "is a kosher establishment. What that means is: we do not serve any dairy product with any meat product. Kosher eating is a--"

"Right, yeah, okay, thanks," I interrupted. Can I have.... uh.... um....."

My tired eyes scanned the various meat objects proffered by this "particular Subway kosher establishment." I'd love to meet the rabbi who certified this restaurant-- he's probably more corrupt than the crookedest cop who ever raided an evidence locker. All of the meat that I could see was gray. Lots of gray, nondescript, floppy things. Gristle and fat hung off each sliver like dozens and dozens of small leeches, like a gelatainous curtain, like a... a.... oh, God....

I stared at the menu offerings like I had just arrived from Jupiter.

"I'll have a chicken and beef fry sandwich, please," I said, sealing my doom.

"Do you want parve cheese on that?" Parve cheese, I thought. That must be made out of potato flakes and wood shavings.

"No thank you."

I ate three bites of this sandwich before throwing it out, and, fortunately and miraculously, not up. It was like biting into a living jellyfish, covered with pickles and Southwest Chipotle sauce.

I was just happy to get the fuck out of that restaurant. As if the indignity of being lectured about my own religion from someone who learned about it from a PowerPoint presentation by Subway Foods, Inc. wasn't bad enough, I felt surrounded by people with whom I'm supposed to identify, but don't. All the men with beards and yarlmukes, all the women with large hineys and schmatas. All the children, all, all, all the children, some with strange defects. The old people with food on their chins. All the ccchuufffing, and choffffing. I'd say it reminded me of my grandfather, but it didn't. He never cccchhffed and choffffed. He was just there, saying inappropriate things and selling men's trousers.

I needed to leave.

Later in the day, my mother-in-law decided that she wanted to stop in a store called for "a couple things for Passover." I assumed we would be in whatever store this was for approximately eight to ten minutes, for matzah and.... I don't know.... matzah? This turned into an hour-long shopping extravaganza in a Jewish supermarket, the likes of which I have never, ever seen.

Can you guess that I won't be signing up for a "Jewpermarket Frequent Buyer Keychain Card?"

There were Jewish people everywhere, and that makes sense. Buying herring pieces in fluid and kosher hot dog buns and things that I have no idea what they even are, because the product name, nutrition information and ingredients are all in Hebrew-- a language which, I guess, you're supposed to know if you want to shop here.

The middle-aged couple in front of us in the checkout line had two shopping carts, filled to the kosher gills. Grand total for them?

$791.36

Now, sure, they were doing some Passover shopping. I can't imagine that this is their total every week, but JESUS CHRIST! The last time I spent that much money on something I was.... well, I have no idea what it was. Probably auto insurance.

I just don't understand what's wrong with me-- why I bristle so in situations where I'm surrounded by "my own people." Maybe it's because I'm jealous of them, that they're so facile and so ensconsed by the religion that it's just as easy as breathing for them, and because it's something that I was always expecting would embrace me, when, really, religion is something that you have to, at least initially, embrace on your own.

Maybe I'm just a hostile, intolerant asshole who doesn't like what he doesn't understand.

Maybe I need to start seeing a therapist.

A nice, Jewish one.