Baby, You Can Drive My Car

I recently got a raise and a bonus at work. My wife convinced me that I should spend part of it to buy something I wanted for myself that is completely unnecessary. I bought a Garmin nuvi 260. I think of this as completely unnecessary because, back where I come from, there were people who you could go to to ask directions to anywhere and find out local places of interest and the best restaurants. These people were called Gas Station Attendants. GSA’s were the GPS systems of pre-history (1950’s – early 70’s, which is back where I come from).
I wanted the GPS because, even though I am a man, I am directionally challenged. I blame this on the fact that I have lived in the female dominated world of my mother, sister, grandmother, niece, wife and daughter for the past 50 years. My internal compass is thrown off by secondhand female hormones. Also in my defense, I grew up in a city (LA) that has streets laid out in logical grids. Cincinnati wrapped their streets around 7 hills and then made half of them one way in order to trap people and grow the population. It’s easy to get lost and confused, so the Garmin helps. But the real usefulness of the GPS will come when I visit other cities or when I lend it to my daughter so she doesn’t get lost visiting her friends going to college in who-knows-where. My daughter finds her way home by looking for "the house with the big bush in front of it", so I know she can use a GPS.
I chose the nuvi 260 for portability and text-to-speech features (I didn’t want the more expensive features on higher-priced models).
I tested my new GPS on the way to work and back yesterday. In the morning, I made it easy and followed the simple path down the interstate to the office. On the way back I gave nuvi her real test. I say “her” because the Garmin’s voice is female, speaking in unaccented American English. The way I tested her was to take a detour off the interstate. When you deviate from Ms. Nuvi’s chosen route, she says, “recalculating” and then starts giving you new directions based on where you have foolishly chosen to go. Her primary goal was to get me back to I-71, but I frustrated her further by sticking to a winding path of side roads that is the detour I use when traffic is backed up on I-71. nuvi, abandoning all hope of getting me back on 71, decided we were safest sticking to one main road that is direct but heavily traveled. My insistence on bypassing that crowded street convinced her that I am completely clueless. She had to “recalculate” several times. I swear to you that when she says “recalculating” she totally conveys her exasperation with my fumbling attempts to find my own way. You can actually hear her sigh in the middle (“re-CAAL-culating”). Seriously, find someone who has one of these and listen to it. You can hear her little electronic eyes rolling. I am not making that up.
I checked the “tools” section and found that the default voice I was hearing was not just "American English", but, actually, “American Wife”. After I “missed” a few turns, Ms, nuvi started to get absolutely pissy. “I really think you should have turned there”, she said, in a very passive-aggressive tone. Then she just gave up. “Hey, just go whichever way you want.” Exactly one turn and 0.6 miles later, she said, “You never listen to me anymore.” Finally, I guess she just got distracted and forgot she was mad: “Hey, if you turn here there’s a great little antique shop over on Locust Street. It’s practically on the way." I looked over at Ms. nuvi and thought about all the reasons I had considered her a fun companion and an important part of my travelling life. "Re-CAAL-culating," I said.

What it Was Was Football

When I first became interested in college football, I was a teenager living in LA and OJ Simpson was still a hero, not a killer. The only slashing he did then was running for touchdowns, leading USC to victory over rival UCLA and Heisman winner, Gary Beban. OJ later won the Heisman and a Rose Bowl, but then lost to bitter rival Ohio State. Back then the Rose Bowl was exclusively a contest between the Pac 8 (either USA or UCLA) and the Big Ten (either Ohio State or Michigan). At that time Ohio State was coached by Evil Incarnate, Woody Hayes.
As years passed, I became more interested in pro football. Yes, children, LA actually used to have professional football teams. The Chargers left LA for San Diego before my time; but the Cleveland Rams replaced them and I was an LA Rams fan. Then the Rams left for Anaheim, the Raiders arrived from Oakland and then went back. I can't really critisize these teams; I myself left LA for Cincinnati and became a Bengals fan (Bengals current quarterback, Carson Palmer, is a USC grad and Heisman winner who has not killed anyone yet).
I never followed college football during those years and I certainly was not about to root for the Ohio State Buckeyes.
When my neice went to Cal I paid a little attention to their football team, which challenged USC a few times and I also checked in on the University of Cincinnati when they made it to a few minor bowl games. But I never watched any games. And my wife never watched even more games than I never watched.
I've told you all this so you will understand how bizarre it was that Karen and I were intently watching LSU play Arkansas yesterday and we really cared about the outcome. Why? Because if LSU lost, it was one of the steps needed for Ohio State to get back in the running for the national championship. Yes, Ohio State. See, our daughter is going to Ohio State. Even SHE, my almost fashion designer, sports hating daughter, has become a college football fan. And all 3 of us knew the teams involved and the scenarios that needed to happen for The OSU to get into a championship. It's still possible, but, even though LSU did lose (great, 3 overtime game!) Ohio State will probably end up in the Rose Bowl playing USC. And I'll be rooting for Ohio State. That's like if I switched from being a Dodger fan to being a Yankee fan. But you know, Woody Hayes is long gone and OJ is in jail and I'm paying tuition to Ohio State. So my money's on them.

A Plague of Roaches?

"Is Marijuana Kosher For Passah" (Passover)

As we always ask at the Seder, "On all other nights we fire up a doobie at dinner. Why on this night do we just get wasted on wine?"

It's logical to put aside your refer during Passover because, when you get the munchies, all there is is matzah. and, even when you're stoned, that's just dry, tasteless crackers.

But why would toking on a number be non-kosher for Passover? Because we fled Egypt before our crop could be harvested and dried? Because the locusts ate it all? Because we would start giggling about the word "Pharaoh" and not be all serious about how we were once slaves in Egypt?

According to the article linked above, it's because weed is classed as a legume. Have these rabbis ever had a drug education class in school and SEEN a marijuana plant? In what way does marijuana resemble peas, beans or peanuts? It looks more like a tomato plant to me.

But, then, I'm foolishly looking for logic in kosher law, which is like looking for an honest man in D.C. There is no logic: The article says it is because legumes were stored next to grain and might fraternize too much and become assimilated. Another explanation (and this is only for Ashkenazic Jews) is "The Smak (Rabbi Moshe of Kouchi, 13th century, France) explains that products of (legumes) appear like (wheat or grain) products. For example, it can be hard to distinguish between rice flour (kitniyot) and wheat flour (chometz). Therefore, to prevent confusion, all kitniyot was prohibited."

Seriously, the "Smak" rabbi? The Smak rabbi says we can't eat peas because we might confuse them with flour? Only if we are STONED! "Dude, am I eating a pack of Ho Hos or a bag of lima beans? I am SOOOOOO wasted right now, man. Wait, wait - listen: 'Pharaoh'. hehehe 'Phaaaaraooooh'. SNORK! It sounds SOO weird."

So, if we don't get high and confused on Passover, we should be able to eat legumes, right? Dude, I am so confused. At least I know grass is allowed on Easter.

God Only Knows

This guy got drunk, fell 16 stories and lived. He says he survived because "somebody had a plan for me". I infer that he means God had a plan because he says "There ain't too many days go by that I don't thank God that I'm still here." and he went so far as to attend church the first Sunday after he got home. It's not clear if he means that God's plan was to get Joshua to attend church that one day and pitching him out a window was the best way God could come up with to accomplish it.
Most assuredly, I don't know God's plans or his M.O. for accomplishing them. I am nevertheless skeptical when people attribute someone's death or survival to "God's will" or "God's plan". For example, assuming there is no "Funniest Heaven's Video" show up there, why would God particularly want Sonny Bono to ski into a tree?
People are often rather selective in what they credit God for. When quarterbacks throw a touchdown pass, they often point to the sky, indicating their thanks to God. When, on the next possession, the quarterback throws an interception, he never shakes his fist at the sky, indicating that he is miffed at God. If God actually is determining the outcome of the game, why even play; we could just look for the score in the Church bulletin. And, seriously, if God were interested in football, why would it be played on the Sabbath (Friday night and Saturday for you Jewish, high school and college fans or Sunday for the Christian, NFL fans - Monday or Thursday night football being an abomination).
If God has a plan for us, I believe it's a very general plan and not so specific that it involves saving Joshua Hanson from his drunken stupidity. Does Joshua believe that this conversation took place as he crashed through the window:
St. Peter: Lord, Joshua Hanson just went out the window on the 16th floor of a building.
God: Joshua Hanson? Me damn it! I have a plan for him. I turn around for one second and they all get drunk and act crazy.
St. Peter: Perhaps you should not have given them wine, as Noah himself fell into trouble with that. That aside, you still have time to save Joshua.
God: Yeah, but I don't want it to look like a miracle. My plan for him is secret and I don't want him to suspect anything. Just stick an awning under him or something.
If that was the way plans were managed in Heaven, it would make God look like Michael Scott, the manager of The Office.

B Double-E Double-R U N, Beer Run

(this post's title is from here)
Reason #5 why I like my new neighbors:

Today was a typical Midwestern summer day, hotter than the hind hubs of Hades (an expression my mother taught me - apparently Hades' chariot has rear wheel drive which makes the hind hubs get hot). Actually, comparing the Midwest to Hell doesn't do it justice. Hell, being on fire, has a dry heat, much like Las Vegas and, therefore, would be tolerable and even welcoming to tourists who would never visit southwest Ohio in July or August.

Here, it is humid and infested with flying bugs which would frighten Satan's hounds. So there is almost no good reason for being outdoors working on a day like today, except if you washed your deck last week and need to seal it before it rains tomorrow. You have to wash your deck because the persistent humidity turns to a green, slippery gunk after prolonged contact with wood. (Deck sealing tip: When you spray the water seal on the deck, you walk backwards so that the sweat pouring from your head falls on the newly sealed area and beads up in small puddles rather than soaking into the wood.)

Speaking of hell, I was ready to sell my soul to the devil for a cool breeze or an ice cold beer.

So, there I was, halfway through this project, when my new neighbor walked over and asked, "John, are you a beer drinker?" Is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear genuflect in the woods? "Why, yes, I occasionally enjoy a brew." "I have some beer in that refrigerator over there", he said. "Please get yourself some."

This was quite a generous offer and brightened my afternoon - but wait, it got better. He said, "see the tap in the side? Just get yourself a glass and take what you want."

Oh. My. God. The man has a tap. In a keg. In a refrigerator. In his garage. A garage which is no more than ten steps from my driveway. I slowly turned and, with sweat stinging and gnats buzzing in my eyes, I gazed at the kegerator like a cartoon man crawling in a cartoon desert stares at a cartoon mirage oasis.

I finished sealing the deck, and went to the tap and pulled a glass for myself and one for Satan and we toasted the man who is my new neighbor and my new best friend.

Don't Ever Tell Anybody Anything

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was when I first heard about Catcher in the Rye, and what my lousy childhood was like and all that Holden Caulfield kind of crap.

When I was about 13, Susan and I flew by ourselves from LA to visit our grandparents in Lexington, KY. Our cousin, Karen V, who was about Susan’s age (16 or so) was there also, visiting from Evansville, IN. One day Karen happened to mention that she had read “Catcher in the Rye” as a school assignment. She described it as being an engrossing story about a boy who was having a breakdown while trying to deal with adolescence.

My Grandmother looked as if all her saliva had just turned to lemon juice. She told us that she had picked up that book at her daughter’s apartment one day. “I counted 12 ‘goddam's on one page,” she reported, “and I decided I didn’t care to read the book.”

For whatever reason, I left before Susan did, flying back to LA with a stopover in Pittsburgh. Upon arival in Pittsburgh I went directly to a book stand and bought “Catcher in the Rye”. Not only did it contain a plenitude of 'goddam's, it had a couple 'fuck you's too. If you had a million years to do it, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world.

Being a 13-year-old, fairly-well-adjusted, LA boy in 1969, I naturally identified with Holden Caulfield, the 16-year-old, depressed, NY kid from 1949. I guess it was that universal desire to avoid becoming an adult. What I had to do, I had to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all.

Maybe it was just that he was a rebel that said bad words. If you want to know the truth, I don’t know what I think about it.
Goddam.

Veni, Vidi, Vedding

One day back in 1977, I picked up this girl in a Greyhound station in a seedy section of downtown Los Angeles; she's been my wife now for just over 30 years. The story of how we got there involves coal miners, a large measure of snow and an ancient Latin teacher.

The genesis of our meeting was the moment my sister, Susan, decided to take Latin in high school. I don’t recall the reason she chose to study a dead language when Spanish might have served her better in Southern California. If I did, I might place the causality earlier, but, in our family history, that is where my road to marriage began.

Miss Kron was the last Latin Teacher that Inglewood High School would ever have. She was a most excellent instructor in the classic tongue because it was her native language. Based on her knowledge and her state of advanced withering, we knew she must have grown up under the rule of Julius Caesar and had undoubtedly had a torrid affair with Cicero.

Miss Kron not only taught Latin, she organized and sponsored Latin Club. Susan, always power hungry, became President of Latin Club and traveled to a state Latin convention. There, perhaps inspired by tales of Anthony and Cleopatra, she fell into a romance with another attendee, John E.

Omnia California divisa in tres partes est: Southern, Central and Northern. John E. was from Northern California; Susan was from the South. Fortune smiled on them because John was planning to attend Occidental College, near Pasadena, a mere 30 miles (or 3 hours drive) from our home. A couple years later Susan also matriculated at Occidental.

Meanwhile, as either an adoring younger brother, or an aimless youth lacking initiative and imagination, I copied my sister and took Latin at Inglewood High, became President of Latin Club and enrolled at Occidental College. Like the narrator in "A Prayer for Owen Meany, John E.'s only function was to bring together characters and set things in motion. I stopped short of falling for John E. and instead I met Pam, who became my girlfriend for most of our college years.

A few years after graduating, Pam went off to Indiana University for graduate work, where she served as RA in a dorm and met Karen, one of the residents.

In 1978 a blizzard hit the Midwest and, seizing an opportune time to make their point, coal miners went on strike. Faced with a shortage of coal and a glut of freezing temperatures, IU decided to give students an extended spring break. Pam was returning to SoCal for the break and invited anyone interested to join her and Karen was the only one to take her up on it, L.A. being someplace she thought she might live one day. They set off on a Greyhound bus.

Pam and I had been in kind of an on-again, off-again relationship. While I was thinking we were in an off-again phase, Pam thought we were on-again and spent the cross-country trip regaling Karen with tales of our impending engagement.

Pam had asked me to pick them up at the bus station and I did, transporting them to Pam’s mother’s house in the foothills. During the spring break visit I got to know Karen. She was intelligent, attractive and artistic. She laughed at my witty remarks and humorous comments which proved one thing: she was easily amused (my kind of woman).

When she returned to Indiana I tried courting her by mail (this was in early American times when email, IM’s and text messages did not exist). In deference to Pam, Karen resisted my wooing. But who can long resist the charms of a shaggy-haired, acne-faced accountant who could spout Latin mottos (Semper ubi sub ubi!)?

Eventually I won her over. What clinched the deal was that Karen was 5’8” and knew mostly short guys. I was 6’6” and thus it was the first time she had the opportunity to date a guy while wearing 4 inch heels. It’s always about the shoes with women, isn’t it?

Karen returned to LA for the summer, traveling this time with her high school best friend Marti. They stayed temporarily in the small apartment with me and my roommate and best friend, Marshall. A year later Karen and I were married and Marshall and Marti were wed a year and a half after that.

And thus Latin, the root of all romance languages is also the root of a love story for four people brought together by foreign language, labor strife and Greyhound bus.

*In the classical Latin taught by Miss Kron, "V" is pronounced as "W", so veni, vidi, vici, (I came, I saw, I conquered) becomes way-nee, weedy, weeky.

War of Words

To answer Susan's question, yes I've been busy - November and December are crunch time for me at work. I've also not posted because I've been so angry/frustrated/depressed about the supposed "War on Christmas". People who want to "put Christ back in Christmas" really believe that the way to start is to boycott retailers who won't slap a "Merry Christmas" on their merchandise? The glow from millions of Christmas lights must be blinding them to the irony.
I feel sorry for the bitter people who believe in this imaginary war on Christmas and suspect that the malls have weapons of Mass destruction. These people are free to celebrate Christmas in their churches and their homes, complete with Nativity scenes and inflated Santa Clauses. Yet they can’t enjoy their freedom because the public square doesn’t have a manger display. Their radios are blasting Christmas music, their TVs are running Christmas movies non-stop, their friends and family are shouting joyous “Merry Christmas” wishes to them but they can’t hear them because they are still stunned by the cruel taunts of store clerks wishing them “Happy Holidays”. How DARE they?
These people are forced to acknowledge that there are some people with different religious beliefs than theirs and they interpret this as persecution of Christians. They are fortunate they have never been denied jobs or club memberships or respect because of their religion as others have in this country. Yet they so offended by having to share this freedom they can’t appreciate it. It’s very sad. I hope they are able to overcome their self-inflicted war wounds and have a Merry Christmas despite themselves.
What's wrong with people? I felt a little better after seeing Jon Stewart accept responsibility for the war. (Watch the "Secular Central" video)
Then I was saddened again by this story. I know it's not about Christmas but it's simlar in my mind. How can people be so close minded as to deny anyone the right to speak in a different laguage in a school hallway? God forbid (literally) their kids be exposed to the knowledge of different languages, different cultures, different religions.
For all these people I have a song to cheer them me up:

("We Need A Little Christmas")

Haul out the holy
Our Christmas tree will be A - Christmas tree again
When I’m out shopping
Don’t wish a “Happy Holi-DAYS” – to me again nooooowwww
Because there is a war on Christmas
The left wing nuts are in it
We’ve got to boycott Wal-Mart
That’s how we will win it
So let’s fight the war for Christmas
Let right wing Christians spin it
Get the public in a fury
Sue the Jews and stack the jury

So make – Ci-ty Council
Put up a life-size Baby JE-sus manger scene
This Chris-tian nation
Is what the se-cu-lar FOLKS – are endangering nooooooowwww
So enforce the Christmas spirit
Make everyone revere it
Make the pagans fear it---
And strike back at them in anger
Onward Christian soldiers
Fight the war for Christmas now!

Ka-Blah-Blah, Madonna, Yada Yada Yada

The true Kabbalists are mad at Madonna. Inevitably they are in the age-old catch 22, that, by condemning her song, they bring more attention to it and make it more successful. When I was about 13, visiting my grandmother, she told me that she had opened a copy of "Catcher in the Rye" and found 13 "goddamn's" on one page, so she closed up the book and perused it no more. I bought that book in the airport on the way home from my visit. Maybe these mystics hope that their criticism will cause more people to try and find out what Kabbalah is truly about and whether you need an "h" on the end of it or not (I don't know much about Kabbala and can't say if this is a good explanation or not) .
But I doubt that. Jews are not about PR so much - not like Christianity. Christianity has Mormon missionaries, Jehovah's Witness travelling salespeople, TV evangelists, and the retail industry from October through December. Christians believe it is important to convert people in order to save them (a very well-meaning motive). Jews go the other way, supposedly, based on the story of Ruth, trying three times to discourage converts. A rabbi must tell such a person that 1) we don't really control the world money supply, we spent it all on bar mitzvah parties (though we don't really encourage such lavishness). 2) you really don't want to give up bacon. 3) you will not exactly be admired for your choice (see the link under number 1)
Originally, Jews were big into conversion. Abraham, after all, had to build a nation. But instead of offering things like Christmas presents and Easter baskets, he had a travelling circumcision show. Not such a big draw.
Anyway, I seem to have digressed from focusing on Madonna. Ah, not focusing on Madonna - that should be in vogue.

He Got Caught In The Spotlight

but when we get to the end, he wants to start all over again.Friday night I performed at a show in Northern Kentucky. I had recently met this woman, Teri Foltz, who is about my age and teaches English at a Northern Kentucky high school. She also teaches stand up comedy there and she performs at open mic nights at places like Go Bananas. That's how we met: we were both performing at GB about a month ago and started talking. After that show, she asked if I would like to be part of this show on Friday. The show was set up by friends of hers that wanted to see her perform more than 5 minutes (which is all you get at GB) and do it in a smoke-free, f-word-free zone. Teri's husband is a jazz saxophone player and performs with a combo. the show was a mix of jazz and comedy with myself, a couple other stand up guys Teri likes, the emcee who does comedy songs and Teri as the featured comedian.I had 10 minutes which meant I had to put together two sets I'd done at GB previously. I spent a lot of time editing and weaving them together and I was not real confident that i had all the changes memorized. The show was in a theater (a former strip club) in Newport KY. Several of my friends were there and I was worried about what they were about to see. For two weeks I had been thinking that this would be the last time I performed - the pre-show stress is wearing on me. I was more nervous before the show than I usually am, worried that I would forget major parts or just mess up the delivery of punch lines as I was trying to think ahead to the next piece. Teri's husband and his jazz combo started the evening. The music was smooth and sweet and soothing, though not soothing enough to take away my jitters. I could suddenly not think of how my routine started. The emcee/comedy-singer came on and was truly funny with a topical song. the first comedian, Mike Cody, went on and was very good. The audience laughed; I laughed; I pictured myself up there, bombing. The emcee came back and did a couple more funny songs - I liked him a lot. Then he was calling my name. I swallowed the butterflies hovering in my throat. I got up on stage and did the first joke**, which was about how I happened to be in the show. It got a bigger laugh than I expected. And so did the next line. My whole set went like that. My timing and delivery just came out right as if I was actually a comedian. Part of it was that the audience was the right age for my material. They connected to it and the feedback of laughter helped keep me going. (I did forget one line which made me also have to drop a later line that referred back to it - not a big deal, but it did, and does still, bother me) the final big punchlines got a great response and I left the stage feeling really good.I didn't hear the next 10 minutes - I went outside and was talking to Mike Cody, who had some very nice things to say and asked me if I wanted to perform at the Viper Club (in downtown Cincinnati) on amateur night (Mike is the emcee for those). We went back in and heard the other comic, who was funny, but unfortunately did not get a connection with the audience this time out. There was a jazz interlude, more emcee songs and then Teri Foltz got up. She also did very well. She has really good material, including biting remarks about why she chooses to teach high school instead of middle school or elementary grades. Her humor is witty and intelligent and the crowd really enjoyed it, as did I. There was more jazz and we hung around until most people had left and then went home. I still had adrenaline going and was ready to do it again; I was thinking about performing at the Viper Room and what material I would use. Now, a couple days later, I'm not sure about it. What if I can't get that same roll going with the timing and delivery? what if I forget stuff?

**"It's kind of a fluke that I'm even here. I just met Teri a few weeks ago when we both performed at Go Bananas. After I finished my set, Teri came up to me and just asked me straight out, 'How the hell tall are you anyway?' I said 6' 6". Apparently that's all the qualifications she was looking for because here I am."