[I'm back from my hiatus!]
The last series [High Holy Days] proved rather difficult after Day 2 or 3 (as you can tell from the slow, but steady deterioration of quality in my prose, and in the stretching I had to do to find related Semitic topics). This one, however, does not seem to wane with each passing entry. Maybe it's because the narrative is unforced and the story so captivating!
I arrived at the mall around 5:30p.m. after work on Saturday. Remembering that Ryan exited from the food court the week before, I too drove around to deposit my Prius near that fast food mecca. I consciously (but casually) checked each of the vehicles I passed on the way to the mall entrance. A small, dark cloud portending failure began to materialize above me: none of the cars matched the vehicle from the preceding week.
Not to worry, I assured myself. He might be on his way, or just parked in an aisle outside of view from me. Hope was high; I would see my destiny manifest!
Making my way from the Sears end of the mall toward the Macy's end, I noted several fellow shoppers. My powers of perception have improved appreciably since I started blogging--and they were already fairly keen before. I attribute this change mostly to the fact that I know I will need to recount details in my blog, so I assiduously scribble down information on my mental notepad for retrieval later.
A man and his junior high-looking son were shopping together. Interesting, fathers rarely go shopping with their brood. Maybe the mother is deceased, or ill? There was a very homely lady on a bench just outside See's Candy. She seems to be resisting nature's best attempts to beautify her. She really could have been more comely, but her misapplied makeup, the styling of her hair, and her Jane Eyre frock belied a prettier woman beneath. Then I passed by a couple of Korean ganstas...or the emaciated remains of what were once Korean ganstas. Despite their oversized clothing, their sunken-in cheeks and broomstick-like arms told me that this duo had a combined weight of about 120 pounds. Oh stars! It's amazing how many useless details I can commit to memory, if I only try!
I reached the other side of the mall without success. No matter, I'll just retrace my path, and keep searching. I crossed paths with a small band of punk-looking, crazy haired teens, but they were the wrong group. Then I passed by a diminutive Filipino, but his hair was too normal. To make matters worse, I was struck by a (very poignant) urge to visit the little boys' room, but my determination resisted. I knew that in that moment while I relieved my bladder, Ryan Conferido would pass by the restroom, and my dream would remain but a dream. I persisted against my carnal desire--my resolve compelled me to ignore the call of the urinal, which beckoned me like the sirens to Odysseus. I would not forsake my destiny for the paltry pleasure of peeing.
On my third pass through the mall, I passed by the father-son shoppers, and the skeletal gangsters. I visited EB Games again, hoping Ryan had come back to return a purchase, or try out another game. Still no luck.
By the fourth pass I had lost much--if not most--of my will power. Although the desire to deposit my nitrogenous wastes had passed, I was overtaken by a more primal, instinctual urge. I wanted to do a little shopping. I stopped in BR, the GAP, and this store that sells puzzles and calendars. In that last shop I was converted from a life-long capitalist to a red Commie. [See HHD 7, but be warned, only the final 2 paragraphs are funny.] But this temporary switch will be the focus of another day's entry.
I took one final trip through the commerce-laden corridors of the mall, but to no avail. Looks like I'm moving on to "Plan B". Wish me luck!
Monday, October 31, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes
...but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgement. (Ecclesiates 11:9)
I had dinner with Shui and Alvin tonight. After dinner we went back to Shui's place, hung out a little and just talked. Shui asked about ways that he could pray for me. As I answered his series of questions, a realization came upon me, slowly, the way the clouds roll in before a storm: I am dissatisfied with my life.
In my thinking, dissatisfaction is usually tantamount to saying "I am displeased with my portion from God. He has provided, but it is insufficient. Therefore, because I know better than God what is suitable and profitable for me, I want a refund, or at least an exchange." Hence, I am usually very quick to surpress the winters of my discontent.
Shui, however, holds a theology strikingly antithetical to mine. "I think all things are from God, except sinful things. If you're discontent, then that can be a sign that you should change something. Have you thought about how you can change your life?"
I had to confess that I had given it very little thought. Given my generally adverse reaction to discontentment, I cannot say that this should have been surprising. But the more I thought, the more I saw that there are rather egregious, unaddressed areas of my life, like my pride and selfishness. To change would mean acknowledging that I've been in sin for quite some time. To change would mean admitting that a large portion of my life has been wasted, has been displeasing to God. The "to change" camp was quickly losing support. It did not seem very glamourous.
Conversely, "not to change" would mean continuing in my wayward life, nonchalantly sweeping my problems under the proverbial rug, and complacently continuing on my merry way. Down the road however, my pride and selfishness would still need to be addressed; only they would be more menacing, because I would have been feeding them, grooming them, nurturing them longer. The "to change" camp was quickly gaining momentum...it soon won the election by a landslide.
I thought about much of this while taking a walk around Cerritos library, which is nice at night.
I'm taking a day or two off from the blogs to think more about all of this.
I had dinner with Shui and Alvin tonight. After dinner we went back to Shui's place, hung out a little and just talked. Shui asked about ways that he could pray for me. As I answered his series of questions, a realization came upon me, slowly, the way the clouds roll in before a storm: I am dissatisfied with my life.
In my thinking, dissatisfaction is usually tantamount to saying "I am displeased with my portion from God. He has provided, but it is insufficient. Therefore, because I know better than God what is suitable and profitable for me, I want a refund, or at least an exchange." Hence, I am usually very quick to surpress the winters of my discontent.
Shui, however, holds a theology strikingly antithetical to mine. "I think all things are from God, except sinful things. If you're discontent, then that can be a sign that you should change something. Have you thought about how you can change your life?"
I had to confess that I had given it very little thought. Given my generally adverse reaction to discontentment, I cannot say that this should have been surprising. But the more I thought, the more I saw that there are rather egregious, unaddressed areas of my life, like my pride and selfishness. To change would mean acknowledging that I've been in sin for quite some time. To change would mean admitting that a large portion of my life has been wasted, has been displeasing to God. The "to change" camp was quickly losing support. It did not seem very glamourous.
Conversely, "not to change" would mean continuing in my wayward life, nonchalantly sweeping my problems under the proverbial rug, and complacently continuing on my merry way. Down the road however, my pride and selfishness would still need to be addressed; only they would be more menacing, because I would have been feeding them, grooming them, nurturing them longer. The "to change" camp was quickly gaining momentum...it soon won the election by a landslide.
I thought about much of this while taking a walk around Cerritos library, which is nice at night.
I'm taking a day or two off from the blogs to think more about all of this.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
So You Think You Can Stalk, Part III
Despite the hapless misadventure of Saturday, I remain undeterred in my quest for photographic proof of my encounter with the person to whom Ben (cruelly, and erroneously) referred to as a "C-list celebrity". Let it be noted that most of my students at work recognize the name "Ryan Conferido". Let it also be noted that I do not pseudo-stalk anyone who does not meet the minimum requirement of "B-list celeb." I lead a busy life, and I have standards.*
Knowing that he's most likely unlisted, I nonetheless tried the online personal yellowpages. No use: that would have been too easy and un-blogworthy. Hope was starting to wane--and fast!
It was like something from MacGyver: he's stuck in a cave that's rapidly filling up with water. He's just tried making an impromptu bomb from dental floss, a toothpick, an Andes mint, and fingernail clippings. Unfortunately, the dental floss-to-mint ratio was off, so the homemade explosive wasn't powerful enough--but now all those materials are spent. To make matters worse, a 12-foot shark has just entered! [Yikes!] Think, MacGyver, think! The only solution: trick the shark into ramming a hole into the side of the cave. For bait, he has a buffalo nickel, pocket lint, his American Express and...what's this? That trusty piece of shark bait he's kept handy for just such an occasion!
Like the fortuitous MacGyver, I had one trick up my sleeve, the perfect trick--one that would be almost useless in any situation except for the very one in which I had found myself. Oh blesséd Providence! I cannot reveal my secret knowledge to the Internet community at large(for fear that it should fall into the wrong hands), but there is a little known way to obtain just the information I needed. As far as I know, it's completely legal, and only renders data that is in the public domain. So I was able to acquire an unlisted address.
Now, reader, perhaps you are shaking your head sadly while thinking, "Oh, the depths to which JT has sunk." (Perhaps you thought that long ago, in "So You Think You Can Stalk, Part I"). Or perhaps you are aghast at just how cunning and relentless I can be in pursuing the realization of my ambitions. (Just ask Pam, Chula, or Linda about my behavior before or during the Harvard MUN conference--but that is another blog entirely).
I do not invite your pity, nor do I accept your ridicule. Laud my ingenuity, wonder at the various avenues I have found toachievee that which would be unattainable to most mortals--but view me not with dejection or scorn. [Aren't these lines from the Creature in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein?]
So clearly I cannot simply ring his doorbell and request a photo. No, that would truly seem freakish and psychotic. He would wonder how I found his (unlisted) address. Itoccurredd to me that I could go "door-to-door", pretending to sell something (life insurance? girl scout cookies?). But all my genius would be for naught if a parental unit greeted me at the door instead of their break dancing son. The cogs in devious mind began churning once more: What would Sun Tzu do? What would out-do Sun Tzu? I could make a fortune off "W.W.S.T.D." bracelets with that catchy little motto!
Then I had it! [Later, I will refer to this as "Plan B":] I will go to his neighborhood, follow him to whatever destination he drives (maybe the hardware store, maybe the movies, maybe the mall again), then PRETEND to run into him! It's so brilliant, yet so simple! Somewhere in China, Sun Tzu is rolling over with envy in his grave! Upon "coincidentally" meeting him, I will ask for a photo, and ask three (carefully premeditated) questions:
1. So how did you get the idea to do a backflip onto your head, and how long did it take to learn that?
2. What 's one thing you learned while on SYTYCD?
3. If you knew from the beginning that you wouldn't win, would you still have chosen to do the show?
Geeze, I'm a regular Barbara Walters, minus the 7-figure income and botox; plus ALOT more work in securing these so-called "interviews". People are lined up around the block to be interviewed by her...but she probably had humble beginnings--just like mine.
To maintain some semblance of sanity, I will go "shopping" at the mall again this Saturday and wait for my "interviewee" to show up. If I don't run into him, I will resort to the aforementioned "plan B". You'll have to wait until at least Saturday for the conclusion of this series. Stay tuned! :)
*Editor's Note: Again, this is not so much about the celebrity factor as it is about perceived "winning". I set an objective, and since it is still within my power to reach said aspiration, I will work toward that end. Nonetheless, I do have standards, and certain, unrecognizable celebrities (like most authors, poets, Speaker of the House, Minority leader of the Senate, etc.) would not be worth the photo, since most people couldn't distinguish between them and Tom, Dick, or Harry.
Knowing that he's most likely unlisted, I nonetheless tried the online personal yellowpages. No use: that would have been too easy and un-blogworthy. Hope was starting to wane--and fast!
It was like something from MacGyver: he's stuck in a cave that's rapidly filling up with water. He's just tried making an impromptu bomb from dental floss, a toothpick, an Andes mint, and fingernail clippings. Unfortunately, the dental floss-to-mint ratio was off, so the homemade explosive wasn't powerful enough--but now all those materials are spent. To make matters worse, a 12-foot shark has just entered! [Yikes!] Think, MacGyver, think! The only solution: trick the shark into ramming a hole into the side of the cave. For bait, he has a buffalo nickel, pocket lint, his American Express and...what's this? That trusty piece of shark bait he's kept handy for just such an occasion!
Like the fortuitous MacGyver, I had one trick up my sleeve, the perfect trick--one that would be almost useless in any situation except for the very one in which I had found myself. Oh blesséd Providence! I cannot reveal my secret knowledge to the Internet community at large(for fear that it should fall into the wrong hands), but there is a little known way to obtain just the information I needed. As far as I know, it's completely legal, and only renders data that is in the public domain. So I was able to acquire an unlisted address.
Now, reader, perhaps you are shaking your head sadly while thinking, "Oh, the depths to which JT has sunk." (Perhaps you thought that long ago, in "So You Think You Can Stalk, Part I"). Or perhaps you are aghast at just how cunning and relentless I can be in pursuing the realization of my ambitions. (Just ask Pam, Chula, or Linda about my behavior before or during the Harvard MUN conference--but that is another blog entirely).
I do not invite your pity, nor do I accept your ridicule. Laud my ingenuity, wonder at the various avenues I have found toachievee that which would be unattainable to most mortals--but view me not with dejection or scorn. [Aren't these lines from the Creature in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein?]
So clearly I cannot simply ring his doorbell and request a photo. No, that would truly seem freakish and psychotic. He would wonder how I found his (unlisted) address. Itoccurredd to me that I could go "door-to-door", pretending to sell something (life insurance? girl scout cookies?). But all my genius would be for naught if a parental unit greeted me at the door instead of their break dancing son. The cogs in devious mind began churning once more: What would Sun Tzu do? What would out-do Sun Tzu? I could make a fortune off "W.W.S.T.D." bracelets with that catchy little motto!
Then I had it! [Later, I will refer to this as "Plan B":] I will go to his neighborhood, follow him to whatever destination he drives (maybe the hardware store, maybe the movies, maybe the mall again), then PRETEND to run into him! It's so brilliant, yet so simple! Somewhere in China, Sun Tzu is rolling over with envy in his grave! Upon "coincidentally" meeting him, I will ask for a photo, and ask three (carefully premeditated) questions:
1. So how did you get the idea to do a backflip onto your head, and how long did it take to learn that?
2. What 's one thing you learned while on SYTYCD?
3. If you knew from the beginning that you wouldn't win, would you still have chosen to do the show?
Geeze, I'm a regular Barbara Walters, minus the 7-figure income and botox; plus ALOT more work in securing these so-called "interviews". People are lined up around the block to be interviewed by her...but she probably had humble beginnings--just like mine.
To maintain some semblance of sanity, I will go "shopping" at the mall again this Saturday and wait for my "interviewee" to show up. If I don't run into him, I will resort to the aforementioned "plan B". You'll have to wait until at least Saturday for the conclusion of this series. Stay tuned! :)
*Editor's Note: Again, this is not so much about the celebrity factor as it is about perceived "winning". I set an objective, and since it is still within my power to reach said aspiration, I will work toward that end. Nonetheless, I do have standards, and certain, unrecognizable celebrities (like most authors, poets, Speaker of the House, Minority leader of the Senate, etc.) would not be worth the photo, since most people couldn't distinguish between them and Tom, Dick, or Harry.
Monday, October 24, 2005
So You Think You Can Stalk, Part II
The self-applied pressure was intense. Don't lose him, I admonished myself. But don't get too close; don't be too obvious! You don't want to botch this rare sighting! Admittedly, the situation was turning a little too Steve Irwin (a.k.a. "the Crocodile Hunter"), but there was no turning back: I would get a photo with Ryan Conferido.
I had to stay close enough to keep my prey in view; trailing too far behind risked losing his rather compact frame in the herd of shoppers who had gathered at the watering hole late on a Saturday afternoon. But following too eagerly was equally dangerous: I didn't want to be noticed, lest I be mistaken for a "stalker"...
Actually, some part of me was resigned to the fact that my actions basically constituted low-level stalking, but nothing that would warrent a restraining order or psychological evaluation. Still, I feel very averse to the appellation "stalker"--there's so much social stigma attached to that term, and I'm pretty sure it must be proscribed somewhere in the legislation that governs my fine homestate.
Careful follow just far enough behind so as to avoid detection, I tracked the SYTYCD contestant; 15-25 paces seemed to be the ideal distance. I called Linda to tell her about my discovery; talking on my cellphone provided the added benefit of making me appear more natural as I fed my neurotic compulsion. Ryan and crew entered EB Games. Afraid that being in the store would provide unwanted proximity, I waited outside. Afterall, it would be a little too obvious if I followed him in, observed his purchase, then followed him out again. I stood near the entrance to the Disney Store, which provided a good view of the front of EB Games. From this vantage point, I could moniter all who entered and exited (without being directly observed myself by anyone inside the store).
They were inside EB games for what felt like ages; maybe they're testing out some game, I rationalized. I had to call Alvin. What was taking him so long? I phoned Alvin, and inquired about his location. He mumbled something about "Maple". I updated him on the status of my mission, and told him to hurry, because I didn't know how much longer Ryan would be inside EB Games, which is dangerously close to a major mall exit near the food court. A few minutes later, Ryan & Co. emerged from the store, and headed toward the food court exit!
No! my monologue began. This can't be happening! I am so close! Where is Alvin?!? WHERE IS ALVIN!?! I need that camera! I must get this photo! How can I blog about a celebrity sighting without proper proof? This will be a disaster! Govenor Schwarzenegger needs to declare a state of emergency, stat!
I saw some minions of the refreshment stand pointing. "Yeah, that's him," I confirmed as I walked by. He exited, with posse. I followed him out to the parking lot, and watched him get in his car and drive away. I redialed Alvin's cell, and told him Ryan Conferido was gone. Gone was the photo op. Gone was the glory I would have as I relayed this story to my grandchildren, their eyes wide aglow with delight. Gone was the proof that I wasn't just a crazy blogger fabricating the whole incident. :(
<--Here's an provisional photo of me at the mall. You'll notice a bare space where Ryan Conferido should be. We'll fix that soon.
So Alvin and I did some shopping (instead of stalking) at the mall. One retail worker greeted me, "Hey man, what's up?" Is he talking to me? I wondered. When did it become proper form to refer to clientele as "man", or greet us as "hey man"? What's with this casualization? Is he aware that consumers are his source of revenue? that customers should be treated with respect? that in the hierarchy of shopping, shoppers are at the apex?
When I worked retail at BR, I treated customers with deference--to the point of obsequiousness. Even the most irascible curmudgeons were addressed as "sir" or "ma'am", usually in the phrase "yes, sir/ma'am, it is indeed my fault. I'm very sorry--the BR factories have been mislabeling all sizes this season. Our size 32-waists are labelled as '44'. Let me get you a 44." I'm not sure how this casualization began, but it's time to reverse this unnerving trend.
I went back to Alvin's house and sulked a little: I do not like to "lose". This felt like "losing". My goal was to have a photo taken, but my goal remained unrealized. Sigh. Somehow my manifest destiny was derailed. I should have called Alvin first, not Pam! If only I had called Alvin first, he would have had sufficient time to arrive with camera in tow. Then I began planning, scheming. I will win. MY DESTINY WILL BE MANIFEST! The wily wheels in my brain began turning feriously; I would need a plan so brilliant it would make Sun Tzu's The Art of War look like child's play. How could I get my photo with Ryan Conferido?
I had to stay close enough to keep my prey in view; trailing too far behind risked losing his rather compact frame in the herd of shoppers who had gathered at the watering hole late on a Saturday afternoon. But following too eagerly was equally dangerous: I didn't want to be noticed, lest I be mistaken for a "stalker"...
Actually, some part of me was resigned to the fact that my actions basically constituted low-level stalking, but nothing that would warrent a restraining order or psychological evaluation. Still, I feel very averse to the appellation "stalker"--there's so much social stigma attached to that term, and I'm pretty sure it must be proscribed somewhere in the legislation that governs my fine homestate.
Careful follow just far enough behind so as to avoid detection, I tracked the SYTYCD contestant; 15-25 paces seemed to be the ideal distance. I called Linda to tell her about my discovery; talking on my cellphone provided the added benefit of making me appear more natural as I fed my neurotic compulsion. Ryan and crew entered EB Games. Afraid that being in the store would provide unwanted proximity, I waited outside. Afterall, it would be a little too obvious if I followed him in, observed his purchase, then followed him out again. I stood near the entrance to the Disney Store, which provided a good view of the front of EB Games. From this vantage point, I could moniter all who entered and exited (without being directly observed myself by anyone inside the store).
They were inside EB games for what felt like ages; maybe they're testing out some game, I rationalized. I had to call Alvin. What was taking him so long? I phoned Alvin, and inquired about his location. He mumbled something about "Maple". I updated him on the status of my mission, and told him to hurry, because I didn't know how much longer Ryan would be inside EB Games, which is dangerously close to a major mall exit near the food court. A few minutes later, Ryan & Co. emerged from the store, and headed toward the food court exit!
No! my monologue began. This can't be happening! I am so close! Where is Alvin?!? WHERE IS ALVIN!?! I need that camera! I must get this photo! How can I blog about a celebrity sighting without proper proof? This will be a disaster! Govenor Schwarzenegger needs to declare a state of emergency, stat!
I saw some minions of the refreshment stand pointing. "Yeah, that's him," I confirmed as I walked by. He exited, with posse. I followed him out to the parking lot, and watched him get in his car and drive away. I redialed Alvin's cell, and told him Ryan Conferido was gone. Gone was the photo op. Gone was the glory I would have as I relayed this story to my grandchildren, their eyes wide aglow with delight. Gone was the proof that I wasn't just a crazy blogger fabricating the whole incident. :(
<--Here's an provisional photo of me at the mall. You'll notice a bare space where Ryan Conferido should be. We'll fix that soon.
So Alvin and I did some shopping (instead of stalking) at the mall. One retail worker greeted me, "Hey man, what's up?" Is he talking to me? I wondered. When did it become proper form to refer to clientele as "man", or greet us as "hey man"? What's with this casualization? Is he aware that consumers are his source of revenue? that customers should be treated with respect? that in the hierarchy of shopping, shoppers are at the apex?
When I worked retail at BR, I treated customers with deference--to the point of obsequiousness. Even the most irascible curmudgeons were addressed as "sir" or "ma'am", usually in the phrase "yes, sir/ma'am, it is indeed my fault. I'm very sorry--the BR factories have been mislabeling all sizes this season. Our size 32-waists are labelled as '44'. Let me get you a 44." I'm not sure how this casualization began, but it's time to reverse this unnerving trend.
I went back to Alvin's house and sulked a little: I do not like to "lose". This felt like "losing". My goal was to have a photo taken, but my goal remained unrealized. Sigh. Somehow my manifest destiny was derailed. I should have called Alvin first, not Pam! If only I had called Alvin first, he would have had sufficient time to arrive with camera in tow. Then I began planning, scheming. I will win. MY DESTINY WILL BE MANIFEST! The wily wheels in my brain began turning feriously; I would need a plan so brilliant it would make Sun Tzu's The Art of War look like child's play. How could I get my photo with Ryan Conferido?
Sunday, October 23, 2005
So You Think You Can Stalk, Part I
My vest was starting to "pill". For those of you unfamiliar with garment jargon [I was deliberating between that term and the slightly-more-alliterative "vestment vernacular"], "pilling" is the process in which the fibers of an article of clothing begin to form little, unsightly "balls", typically caused by friction with skin, accessories (such as bag straps), or other pieces of clothing. I had two vests (both from high school) that were pilling something awful, so it was time to throw them away buy replacements at the Cerritos Mall.
Entering the mall through Macy*s, I noticed a group of punk Asians; I wouldn't have take much notice, but they had cool hair. I, however, was a man on a mission, and had little time to spend admiring unique 'dos. "Onward, Christian consumer-soldier!" I commanded myself. As I exited Macy*s, I noticed that Bath & Body Works already has flocked, faux evergreens and gigantic red tree ornaments adorning their window display. The window itself has been frosted with that fake, white aerosol concoction.
"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," I commented to myself, noting that Halloween has not yet arrived. The holidays really do come earlier every year; pretty soon we'll be doing Christmas shopping around Independence Day, and Labor Day sales will be rescheduled to Groundhog's Day. The sight of this red, green, and white spectacular in mid-October (especially because the mercury was in the 90's only a week ago!) threw me off kilter, as if I were experiencing some sort of seasonal jetlag. The sensation was only heightened when I noticed, just outside Bath & Body Works, a small cart offering Hawaiian-themed shirts with a hibiscus print, lays made of plastic flowers, and other pseudo-tropical goods. I dismissed the feeling as "another rift in the time-space continuum", and continued my vest quest.
As I passed Guess (against whom I had carried a long-standing boycott, which I dropped as soon as they stopped using Paris Hilton as their spokesmodel), I passed the punk Asians again...only this time, something was different.
"Isn't that...?" I asked myself with an ambivalent mix of skepticism and hope. No, it can't be. But who else has that hairstyle? No, what are the odds he'd come to the Cerritos mall? Well, it is a very good mall, and he does live in Downey. But it's so unlikely I'd have a celebrity sighting in Cerritos; this isn't Westwood, Newport, or Beverly Hills. But that hair: it's so distinct. Well, if it is him, I will definitely have something interesting about which to blog!
Knowing that these circuitous, interior dialogues can sometimes last for hours--if not days--I decided the best course of action would be to view this would-be celebrity from the side or front, to confirm (or repudiate) my suspicion. Walking casually (but swiftly) about 10 feet to his left, I swiped a glance. It couldn't have been longer than a fraction of a second, but it was more than enough to realize my hope: Ryan the-craziest-breaker-ever from So You Think You Can Dance [hereafter "SYTYCD"] was walking in the Cerritos mall not 7 paces from me!
I wasn't celebrity-shocked, or even giddy. I was experiencing a sort of high, but I think it's the high I usually get when I know I've been "right" about something. I love being "right".
I can't lose him, I told myself. This is only like my third celebrity sighting. [Well, four if you count the time I met one of the Beach Boys on an airplane coming back from Hawaii. The other two are Brandon Call from Step by Step, and AJ McLean--Backstreet Boy--with his girlfriend at the Ralph's in Westwood.] Don't be too obvious. The distinction between "excited fan" and "psychotic stalker" is a very fine one in this situation.
My first step, was naturally, to call my cohort in all things: Pam. We had watched SYTYCD faithfully every week; we voted for Ryan (then later for Melody and Blake after Ryan was voted off). After appraising Pam of my good fortune in finding this pot of gold breaker, I called Alvin.
"Alvin! You will never--NEVER--guess who's at the Cerritos mall. Ok, just take a couple of guesses and I'll tell you. No, not him. No, not her either: it's someone I would want to see at the mall. No. Ok, ready? It's Ryan from SYTYCD! For sure it's him, he's with his crew, a bunch of punk-looking Asians with spikey hair." From here I go on to tell him the information already recounted in this blog (sans the "Bath & Body Works time-space anomaly").
"Are you busy? Well, that can wait, can't it? Please come down here right now with a camera. I can't blog about this without proof, and I don't have a camera. No, I don't have a camera phone. I think they're pretentious. A phone is a phone, and a camera is a camera. Drive as fast as you can, because I don't know how long he's going to be here."
Will Alvin make it in time? Will Ryan escape our hero's best attempts at stalking? Tune in tomorrow, same bat-time, same bat-blog.
Entering the mall through Macy*s, I noticed a group of punk Asians; I wouldn't have take much notice, but they had cool hair. I, however, was a man on a mission, and had little time to spend admiring unique 'dos. "Onward, Christian consumer-soldier!" I commanded myself. As I exited Macy*s, I noticed that Bath & Body Works already has flocked, faux evergreens and gigantic red tree ornaments adorning their window display. The window itself has been frosted with that fake, white aerosol concoction.
"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," I commented to myself, noting that Halloween has not yet arrived. The holidays really do come earlier every year; pretty soon we'll be doing Christmas shopping around Independence Day, and Labor Day sales will be rescheduled to Groundhog's Day. The sight of this red, green, and white spectacular in mid-October (especially because the mercury was in the 90's only a week ago!) threw me off kilter, as if I were experiencing some sort of seasonal jetlag. The sensation was only heightened when I noticed, just outside Bath & Body Works, a small cart offering Hawaiian-themed shirts with a hibiscus print, lays made of plastic flowers, and other pseudo-tropical goods. I dismissed the feeling as "another rift in the time-space continuum", and continued my vest quest.
As I passed Guess (against whom I had carried a long-standing boycott, which I dropped as soon as they stopped using Paris Hilton as their spokesmodel), I passed the punk Asians again...only this time, something was different.
"Isn't that...?" I asked myself with an ambivalent mix of skepticism and hope. No, it can't be. But who else has that hairstyle? No, what are the odds he'd come to the Cerritos mall? Well, it is a very good mall, and he does live in Downey. But it's so unlikely I'd have a celebrity sighting in Cerritos; this isn't Westwood, Newport, or Beverly Hills. But that hair: it's so distinct. Well, if it is him, I will definitely have something interesting about which to blog!
Knowing that these circuitous, interior dialogues can sometimes last for hours--if not days--I decided the best course of action would be to view this would-be celebrity from the side or front, to confirm (or repudiate) my suspicion. Walking casually (but swiftly) about 10 feet to his left, I swiped a glance. It couldn't have been longer than a fraction of a second, but it was more than enough to realize my hope: Ryan the-craziest-breaker-ever from So You Think You Can Dance [hereafter "SYTYCD"] was walking in the Cerritos mall not 7 paces from me!
I wasn't celebrity-shocked, or even giddy. I was experiencing a sort of high, but I think it's the high I usually get when I know I've been "right" about something. I love being "right".
I can't lose him, I told myself. This is only like my third celebrity sighting. [Well, four if you count the time I met one of the Beach Boys on an airplane coming back from Hawaii. The other two are Brandon Call from Step by Step, and AJ McLean--Backstreet Boy--with his girlfriend at the Ralph's in Westwood.] Don't be too obvious. The distinction between "excited fan" and "psychotic stalker" is a very fine one in this situation.
My first step, was naturally, to call my cohort in all things: Pam. We had watched SYTYCD faithfully every week; we voted for Ryan (then later for Melody and Blake after Ryan was voted off). After appraising Pam of my good fortune in finding this pot of gold breaker, I called Alvin.
"Alvin! You will never--NEVER--guess who's at the Cerritos mall. Ok, just take a couple of guesses and I'll tell you. No, not him. No, not her either: it's someone I would want to see at the mall. No. Ok, ready? It's Ryan from SYTYCD! For sure it's him, he's with his crew, a bunch of punk-looking Asians with spikey hair." From here I go on to tell him the information already recounted in this blog (sans the "Bath & Body Works time-space anomaly").
"Are you busy? Well, that can wait, can't it? Please come down here right now with a camera. I can't blog about this without proof, and I don't have a camera. No, I don't have a camera phone. I think they're pretentious. A phone is a phone, and a camera is a camera. Drive as fast as you can, because I don't know how long he's going to be here."
Will Alvin make it in time? Will Ryan escape our hero's best attempts at stalking? Tune in tomorrow, same bat-time, same bat-blog.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Right-of-Way: The Right Way (?)
Having dropped off a coat and shirt at the dry cleaners (in the mini-mall that also houses Formal Notice tux rental, Pizza Hut and "Mexican Foo"--a missing "d" in the sign)*, I exited the parking lot and turned right onto Bloomfield (heading north), and proceeded slowly through the Bloomfield/Del Amo intersection.
Out of (almost) nowhere, this white Camery-looking vehicle [my make/model recognition is not very reliable, but it looked Camery-esque] turns left in front of me! My very visceral response was to step on the breaks and honk--but initially I decided on only the former.
In these quasi-life-or-death moments (and it wasn't even "quasi", because we were both driving fairly slowly), time seems to move in slow motion, or my brain is zooming along at Mach 4--or, in a happy, synergistic coincidence, both. This provided (what seemed to me) an extraordinary length of time to excogitate the advantages and drawbacks of using my horn.
This remarkable speed of thought was possible because my mental processes were being performed without the impediments of subject-verb agreement, conjugation, word order or syntactical arrangement--indeed, without the restraints of language at all. My cognition was not in words, but in pure thought: wordless perception, deliberation, and decision. Nonetheless, I can retroactively use the medium of language to give voice to my unarticulated thoughts:
What is that woman in the white car doing? Is that a handicapped parking permit hanging from her rear-view? Handicapped or not, she shouldn't be allowed to drive if she poses a hazard to drivers around her. I should honk to warn her--I'm supposed to honk to prevent an accident. It will also alert her to the fact that she is in the wrong. Wait, maybe I'm in the wrong: did the the light change? [I take one last quick glance at the traffic signal, and see that I still have a green.] No! Clearly I have the right-of-way; she should NOT have turned left. [At this point I lay on the horn.] Maybe it wasn't necessary to honk, since I was going slowly enough to have avoided an accident without honking.
At this point, her car has finished it's turn, and I slip back into using language to process information and develop my judgments. That driver looks remarkably like Linda's mother; I wonder how Linda's mom is doing now--she's back from her trip. I really should blog about this incident. My honking was unnecessary, but hopefully it startled her, and she'll be more careful next time. Hopefully this will be an interesting blog entry. Maybe she didn't realize I would come through the intersection, because I had just exited the parking lot, so my car wasn't in the street when she began her left turn. She's still at fault, because the person making the left turn is always at fault.
From the California Dept. of Motor Vehicles website:
Use Your Horn
When necessary to avoid accidents. Don't honk at other times.
Don't Use Your Horn
If slowing or stopping your car will prevent an accident. It's safer to use the brakes than honk the horn.
To show other drivers that they made a mistake. Your honking may cause them to make more mistakes.
Because you are angry or upset.
I see that I did not meet the "Use Your Horn" prerequisite per se; additionally, I used three of the "Don't Use Your Horn" criteria to justify my honking. If you drive a white Camery-like vehicle, you are a physically challenged Asian female, and a sporty, "seaside pearl" Prius honked at you on Wednesday at the Del Amo/Bloomfield intersection, I apologize.
*Editor's note: It was a little difficult to describe this situation accurately without so many details. I apologize to my readership who are unfamiliar with the particular minutiae of the Cerritos cityscape with which this entry is concerned.
Out of (almost) nowhere, this white Camery-looking vehicle [my make/model recognition is not very reliable, but it looked Camery-esque] turns left in front of me! My very visceral response was to step on the breaks and honk--but initially I decided on only the former.
In these quasi-life-or-death moments (and it wasn't even "quasi", because we were both driving fairly slowly), time seems to move in slow motion, or my brain is zooming along at Mach 4--or, in a happy, synergistic coincidence, both. This provided (what seemed to me) an extraordinary length of time to excogitate the advantages and drawbacks of using my horn.
This remarkable speed of thought was possible because my mental processes were being performed without the impediments of subject-verb agreement, conjugation, word order or syntactical arrangement--indeed, without the restraints of language at all. My cognition was not in words, but in pure thought: wordless perception, deliberation, and decision. Nonetheless, I can retroactively use the medium of language to give voice to my unarticulated thoughts:
What is that woman in the white car doing? Is that a handicapped parking permit hanging from her rear-view? Handicapped or not, she shouldn't be allowed to drive if she poses a hazard to drivers around her. I should honk to warn her--I'm supposed to honk to prevent an accident. It will also alert her to the fact that she is in the wrong. Wait, maybe I'm in the wrong: did the the light change? [I take one last quick glance at the traffic signal, and see that I still have a green.] No! Clearly I have the right-of-way; she should NOT have turned left. [At this point I lay on the horn.] Maybe it wasn't necessary to honk, since I was going slowly enough to have avoided an accident without honking.
At this point, her car has finished it's turn, and I slip back into using language to process information and develop my judgments. That driver looks remarkably like Linda's mother; I wonder how Linda's mom is doing now--she's back from her trip. I really should blog about this incident. My honking was unnecessary, but hopefully it startled her, and she'll be more careful next time. Hopefully this will be an interesting blog entry. Maybe she didn't realize I would come through the intersection, because I had just exited the parking lot, so my car wasn't in the street when she began her left turn. She's still at fault, because the person making the left turn is always at fault.
From the California Dept. of Motor Vehicles website:
Use Your Horn
When necessary to avoid accidents. Don't honk at other times.
Don't Use Your Horn
If slowing or stopping your car will prevent an accident. It's safer to use the brakes than honk the horn.
To show other drivers that they made a mistake. Your honking may cause them to make more mistakes.
Because you are angry or upset.
I see that I did not meet the "Use Your Horn" prerequisite per se; additionally, I used three of the "Don't Use Your Horn" criteria to justify my honking. If you drive a white Camery-like vehicle, you are a physically challenged Asian female, and a sporty, "seaside pearl" Prius honked at you on Wednesday at the Del Amo/Bloomfield intersection, I apologize.
*Editor's note: It was a little difficult to describe this situation accurately without so many details. I apologize to my readership who are unfamiliar with the particular minutiae of the Cerritos cityscape with which this entry is concerned.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Systemic Symptoms
A few weeks ago* I had lunch at Marie Callender's. Such an event is typically no cause for alarm, and in- and of- itself, probably not blog-worthy. [Dear reader, however, please recall my ability to turn in the most banal events into self-contained novellas on my blog]. As I quaffed my tall glass of ice water, an epiphany formed in my teeming brain: I have become part of the System!
What System? you are likely asking. The yupp-ified educational-economic complex that drives the social-political-financial machine that is America. I am part of the System. And it all happened so subtly, I would have hardly noticed, were it not for my exceptionally bourgeoise lunch. I was consuming Marie Callender's "quiche sampler", which includes: a their applewood smoked bacon quiche with spinich, and topped with tomato slices and provolone and mozzarella cheeses (all in their delightfully flaky pie crust); chicken Waldorf salad made with fresh apples, cranberries & raisins; a spring salad with balsamic vingarette, mandarin oranges and caramelized pecans; and three pieces of asparagus.
"My lunch is so bourgeoise that the proletariat McValue lunches down the street are going to rise up in open rebellion to overthrow it!" I mused. "I could only be more systemic if I were on my cell phone trading stock tips with my broker, driving down the street in some SUV convertible, all while running over some poor old lady, and justifying it by noting that she was 'not a productive part of our free-market economy'."
Then it hit me: I need my fun (but sometimes stressful) job in the Palisades to support my bourge Marie Callender's lunches, keep gas in my environmentally conscious Prius hybrid, reside in my suburban dwelling, &c. &c. I've allowed myself to be trapped in the System!
I need to simplify. That's the new buzz word: simplify.
*editor's note: "The High Holy Days" series, by virtue of the fact that it required me to blog about topics ostensibly related to Judaism, precluded me from blogging about a variety of then-current situations in my life. Now there is an impressive backlog of ideas accumulating in my already teeming brain, where these thoughts and observations are mixing, interacting, and procreating like proverbial rabbits.
What System? you are likely asking. The yupp-ified educational-economic complex that drives the social-political-financial machine that is America. I am part of the System. And it all happened so subtly, I would have hardly noticed, were it not for my exceptionally bourgeoise lunch. I was consuming Marie Callender's "quiche sampler", which includes: a their applewood smoked bacon quiche with spinich, and topped with tomato slices and provolone and mozzarella cheeses (all in their delightfully flaky pie crust); chicken Waldorf salad made with fresh apples, cranberries & raisins; a spring salad with balsamic vingarette, mandarin oranges and caramelized pecans; and three pieces of asparagus.
"My lunch is so bourgeoise that the proletariat McValue lunches down the street are going to rise up in open rebellion to overthrow it!" I mused. "I could only be more systemic if I were on my cell phone trading stock tips with my broker, driving down the street in some SUV convertible, all while running over some poor old lady, and justifying it by noting that she was 'not a productive part of our free-market economy'."
Then it hit me: I need my fun (but sometimes stressful) job in the Palisades to support my bourge Marie Callender's lunches, keep gas in my environmentally conscious Prius hybrid, reside in my suburban dwelling, &c. &c. I've allowed myself to be trapped in the System!
I need to simplify. That's the new buzz word: simplify.
*editor's note: "The High Holy Days" series, by virtue of the fact that it required me to blog about topics ostensibly related to Judaism, precluded me from blogging about a variety of then-current situations in my life. Now there is an impressive backlog of ideas accumulating in my already teeming brain, where these thoughts and observations are mixing, interacting, and procreating like proverbial rabbits.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
FreshAir
As a regular NPR listener, I occasionally find diversion in FreshAir, the NPR interview segment hosted by Terry Gross. Last week, Terry spoke with Emmanuel Jal, a young man who grew up in Sudan. By the age of 8, he had been conscripted into the Sudan People's Liberation Army, for which he fought as a child soldier. The whole interview is here, if you want to listen. [I am focusing on only about a 2 minute portion of the conversation, which begins 18 minutes into the dialogue.]
If you're unable to access the interview, I have reproduced (with remarkable accuracy) the segment of the interview I want to discuss:
Gross: I've read that during this period there was so little food that some of the boys would eat flesh of dead bodies.
Jal: ...what's the point? I said lemme go home to where my dad is and try to live in the village. At least [there would be food at home]. The journey ended up being terrible; that's where I was forced into the occasion to almost eat a dead body.
Gross: So when you're ALMOST forced to eat a dead body, what goes thru your mind when you're deciding "Do I do this...or not?"
Jal: I was thinking like what about if I survive? What am I going to do when there are people there? I've eaten someone. Does it mean that I'm gonna be eating people because if there's no food then because I’ve eaten people and survived [then] I'll end up snatching children and eating them? Then I said, "God if you're there, give me something to eat because I don't want to eat someone." So, the prayer...it worked. A bird came, and then I ate that bird, so I said, "Oh, it worked". A bird, a crow. I was depending first on snails, snakes, vultures, and then wild animals.
Gross: But some of the boys you knew did eat the flesh of the dead.
Jal: Some ate...those who ate never survived. Any person who ate a human being at that time, they never survived. But the few that survived went and died from trauma...They just become mad, and they just died. They are crazy because they remember the images, eating human being so they just go crazy. Some would just commit suicide.
At this point in the interview, Gross seems satisfied that she has induced in Jal a state sufficiently close to post-traumatic stress disorder, so she cuts to a commercial break. Perhaps it's difficult to get that sense from my transcript...listen to the portion 18 minutes into the interview if you have access.
In my assessment of the situation, he seemed rather reluctant to discuss his venture into near-cannibalism, but Terry pursued with a series of questions. First she tries to get him to share his own experience. When he denies having eaten another person, she asks what it was like to almost eat someone. He becomes slightly more candid, but nervous laughter ensues when he confesses wondering whether "I'll end up snatching children and eating them". Finally Terry questions him about others whom he knew who participated in cannibalism.
Poor Jal is then forced to recount stories of people who were so traumatized by having to eat other human beings that they either died from the shock of cannibalism, or committed suicide to escape the guilt.
I'm sure there is journalistic virtue in Gross's exposing the scourge of war, especially because she draws out particular details that you won't hear from the 30-second token clip about the atrocities in Darfur during your local eye-witness "news" format. [But don't get me started on eye-witness "news". That's another 4-5 blogs worth of tirade.] Perhaps it was necessary for Gross to push her interviewee past his comfort zone so that listeners could better grasp how appalling the situation in Sudan has indeed become.
After hearing the interview, however, I detected what appears to be a perverse fascination with cannibalism in Gross's tone, particularly as she articulates her last question with the pointed phrase "the flesh of the dead", which sounds like some campy 1970s horror film. She simply refuses to drop the topic. As I listened, I caught myself yelling at the radio:
"Drop it already, Terry! He obviously does not want to discuss this aspect of his childhood. Leave the poor man alone! What is your obsession with cannibalism?"
Anyway, it made me think about how far journalists should go to bring attention to a story to the public's attention. Is it okay to objectify sources, asking them to describe, quantify, and relive their pain? Interestingly, I heard a different NPR interview last month in which one man said he couldn't be a news reporter, because it seemed too callous to ask people how they felt about their personal tragedies.
If you're unable to access the interview, I have reproduced (with remarkable accuracy) the segment of the interview I want to discuss:
Gross: I've read that during this period there was so little food that some of the boys would eat flesh of dead bodies.
Jal: ...what's the point? I said lemme go home to where my dad is and try to live in the village. At least [there would be food at home]. The journey ended up being terrible; that's where I was forced into the occasion to almost eat a dead body.
Gross: So when you're ALMOST forced to eat a dead body, what goes thru your mind when you're deciding "Do I do this...or not?"
Jal: I was thinking like what about if I survive? What am I going to do when there are people there? I've eaten someone. Does it mean that I'm gonna be eating people because if there's no food then because I’ve eaten people and survived [then] I'll end up snatching children and eating them? Then I said, "God if you're there, give me something to eat because I don't want to eat someone." So, the prayer...it worked. A bird came, and then I ate that bird, so I said, "Oh, it worked". A bird, a crow. I was depending first on snails, snakes, vultures, and then wild animals.
Gross: But some of the boys you knew did eat the flesh of the dead.
Jal: Some ate...those who ate never survived. Any person who ate a human being at that time, they never survived. But the few that survived went and died from trauma...They just become mad, and they just died. They are crazy because they remember the images, eating human being so they just go crazy. Some would just commit suicide.
At this point in the interview, Gross seems satisfied that she has induced in Jal a state sufficiently close to post-traumatic stress disorder, so she cuts to a commercial break. Perhaps it's difficult to get that sense from my transcript...listen to the portion 18 minutes into the interview if you have access.
In my assessment of the situation, he seemed rather reluctant to discuss his venture into near-cannibalism, but Terry pursued with a series of questions. First she tries to get him to share his own experience. When he denies having eaten another person, she asks what it was like to almost eat someone. He becomes slightly more candid, but nervous laughter ensues when he confesses wondering whether "I'll end up snatching children and eating them". Finally Terry questions him about others whom he knew who participated in cannibalism.
Poor Jal is then forced to recount stories of people who were so traumatized by having to eat other human beings that they either died from the shock of cannibalism, or committed suicide to escape the guilt.
I'm sure there is journalistic virtue in Gross's exposing the scourge of war, especially because she draws out particular details that you won't hear from the 30-second token clip about the atrocities in Darfur during your local eye-witness "news" format. [But don't get me started on eye-witness "news". That's another 4-5 blogs worth of tirade.] Perhaps it was necessary for Gross to push her interviewee past his comfort zone so that listeners could better grasp how appalling the situation in Sudan has indeed become.
After hearing the interview, however, I detected what appears to be a perverse fascination with cannibalism in Gross's tone, particularly as she articulates her last question with the pointed phrase "the flesh of the dead", which sounds like some campy 1970s horror film. She simply refuses to drop the topic. As I listened, I caught myself yelling at the radio:
"Drop it already, Terry! He obviously does not want to discuss this aspect of his childhood. Leave the poor man alone! What is your obsession with cannibalism?"
Anyway, it made me think about how far journalists should go to bring attention to a story to the public's attention. Is it okay to objectify sources, asking them to describe, quantify, and relive their pain? Interestingly, I heard a different NPR interview last month in which one man said he couldn't be a news reporter, because it seemed too callous to ask people how they felt about their personal tragedies.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
-Shakespeare, Sonnet LXXII
Thankfully, it has passed. As some of my readership is aware, I had an intense, but short-lived, pre-midlife crisis. For the time being, catastrophe has been averted.
In what is probably one of the best (though undocumented) authentications of the existence wormholes or other temporal disruptions in the space-time continuum, I by-passed an entire three decades of life and woke up about 55 years of age yesterday morning. My hair seemed noticeably thinner on top, my stomach adopted a convex curvature, my skin lost some elasticity--as though a reverse-botox procedure had been performed whilst I slept.
This metamorphosis was, to say the least, unsettling. I had gone to bed Tom Welling, and woke up something more akin to Tom Arnold. Frantic, I turned to Alvin for consolation and advice.
"Alvin, I've aged 30 years overnight!" I began. Raving madness such as this should have prompted Alvin to hang up immediately, but perhaps he wanted to see where this was going. "You could actually plot the ever-increasing rate at which I'm aging--PLOT IT!--on Excel! Having plotted it, you could extrapolate that in exactly two and a half weeks, I will have transformed into a saggy skinned, bi-focaled, balding, wheel-chair bound exemplar of age! I'd be like daikon, with glasses. DAIKON!"
At this point, my delirium had reached a fevered pitch; words erupted out of my mouth in rapid, vociferous succession. I was barely even thinking...a polluted stream of consciousness spewed forth, and poor Alvin's ears were being contaminated. I continued, "I'm being catapulted--CATAPULTED--through time at the speed of light. THE SPEED OF LIGHT!! Alvin, it's not even supposed to be scientifically possible to attain the speed of light, but here I am wizzing right along into my not-so-golden years!"
"Did you know that scientists can now slow light to..." Alvin tried to interject. But it was no use. My hysteria was not to be impeded.
"It's like when you're driving through an area with which you're vaguely familiar, and then all of a sudden--you're lost! And you don't know how you got lost, but you're sure that you're lost. You don't know where you made the wrong turn, but now you're in the wrong place. That's me! How did I get so old? Where did I make the wrong turn?!? But there was no wrong turn! It's a one way street to soft foods and prostate check ups."
At this point, poor Alvin couldn't escape; the best he could do was hunker down and wait patiently for the storm to pass. "There was no wrong turn! But how did I miss the signs? THE SIGNS! How did I miss them? They were everywhere! EVERYWHERE..."
I continued for a while, bemoaning the decrepitude of my body. Alvin said he'd pick me up and drive me to Pam's house for a study party. The following morning I awoke to find that just as easily as it had come, my delusion had absconded into the night.
Friday, October 14, 2005
High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 10
This is the final day of the HHD series, 2005. I really can't say that I fasted, as per the custom for Yom Kippur (however, my appetite was noticeably small today...I had only a salad for lunch, and shaved ice for dinner), nor did I refrain from work (although I *did* wait until after midnight to begin this post). All in all, you can see that I did not do very well in observing the traditions and practices of Yom Kippur, but as a non-practicing, non-Jew, I don't think very much should have been expected of me.
I had all sorts of fun ideas about this post, including: (a) recounting a hilarious anecdote from Sandra Tsing Loh about the noticeable absence of Jews in New York in You've Got Mail; (b) interviewing a Jewish friend and asking her "What does it mean to you to be a Jew?"; (c) trying some "Jewish experience" with Pam and blogging about it. The latter two struck me as too close to exploitation, and the former as some sort of copyright infringement.
So instead, I will end the High Holy Days on the theme of non-practicing Jews. One of my friends at UCLA, whose name I will not reveal lest his parents find out that he is a pork-eater (but Jeff, you know who you are!), loves bacon and pepperoni. The manner in which Jeff has intimated his partaking in this guilty pleasure betrays his shame. I think our unwillingness to avoid sin (or perceived sin) corroborates man's sinful nature. Why would we do something if we really thought it wrong?
When I tempted near UCLA (not the most pleasant or rewarding occupational experience), I had a Jewess co-worker named Sarah*, with whom I regularly ate lunch. During our second lunch together at the cafeteria, Sarah ate a ham and cheese sandwich. I was mortified on her behalf! She was concomitantly breaking two rules about kosher dining! It was all I could do to prevent myself from snatching the contraband article away from her, giving her the "meat doesn't mix with dairy products" spiel, and suggesting the roast beef with a nice kosher pickle.
Surprising Jew & Jewess of the Day: Geraldo Rivera & Monica Lewinsky (what a strange, but not inappropriate coupling)
Not-so-Surprising Jew & Jewess of the Day: Bernard Sachs (tay-sachs disease neurologist) & Natalie Portman
*One might be tempted to conclude that Sarah has no real connection to her Jewishness based on her meal selection. A fierce debate broke out, however, when another coworker downplayed the Holocaust. Sarah also loves Curb your Enthusiasm because of what she termed it's "Jewish humor". She would recite (nearly verbatim) (to my dismay) the show's dialogue after each new episode aired.
I had all sorts of fun ideas about this post, including: (a) recounting a hilarious anecdote from Sandra Tsing Loh about the noticeable absence of Jews in New York in You've Got Mail; (b) interviewing a Jewish friend and asking her "What does it mean to you to be a Jew?"; (c) trying some "Jewish experience" with Pam and blogging about it. The latter two struck me as too close to exploitation, and the former as some sort of copyright infringement.
So instead, I will end the High Holy Days on the theme of non-practicing Jews. One of my friends at UCLA, whose name I will not reveal lest his parents find out that he is a pork-eater (but Jeff, you know who you are!), loves bacon and pepperoni. The manner in which Jeff has intimated his partaking in this guilty pleasure betrays his shame. I think our unwillingness to avoid sin (or perceived sin) corroborates man's sinful nature. Why would we do something if we really thought it wrong?
When I tempted near UCLA (not the most pleasant or rewarding occupational experience), I had a Jewess co-worker named Sarah*, with whom I regularly ate lunch. During our second lunch together at the cafeteria, Sarah ate a ham and cheese sandwich. I was mortified on her behalf! She was concomitantly breaking two rules about kosher dining! It was all I could do to prevent myself from snatching the contraband article away from her, giving her the "meat doesn't mix with dairy products" spiel, and suggesting the roast beef with a nice kosher pickle.
Surprising Jew & Jewess of the Day: Geraldo Rivera & Monica Lewinsky (what a strange, but not inappropriate coupling)
Not-so-Surprising Jew & Jewess of the Day: Bernard Sachs (tay-sachs disease neurologist) & Natalie Portman
*One might be tempted to conclude that Sarah has no real connection to her Jewishness based on her meal selection. A fierce debate broke out, however, when another coworker downplayed the Holocaust. Sarah also loves Curb your Enthusiasm because of what she termed it's "Jewish humor". She would recite (nearly verbatim) (to my dismay) the show's dialogue after each new episode aired.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 9
October 12 marks the penultimate day in the High Holy Days of 2005, and accordingly, the penultimate entry in the HHD series. Unfortunately, today was also the nadir of Autumn, 2005. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and thus there isn't much about which to blog.
Tomorrow is Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement for Jews. "Since Yom Kippur is the day to ask forgiveness for promises broken to God, the day before is reserved for asking forgiveness for broken promises between people, as God cannot forgive broken promises between people." (http://www.holidays.net/highholydays/yom.htm)
So if you have broken any promises since last Yom Kippur, today is the day to ask forgiveness.
Surprise Jews of the Day: Leonard Nimoy & William Shatner--both Ashkenazi Jews. Mr. Spock AND Captain Kirk!
Not-so-Surprising Jewess of the Day: Debra Messing, Bette Midler, Fran Drescher, Monica Geller
Tomorrow is Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement for Jews. "Since Yom Kippur is the day to ask forgiveness for promises broken to God, the day before is reserved for asking forgiveness for broken promises between people, as God cannot forgive broken promises between people." (http://www.holidays.net/highholydays/yom.htm)
So if you have broken any promises since last Yom Kippur, today is the day to ask forgiveness.
Surprise Jews of the Day: Leonard Nimoy & William Shatner--both Ashkenazi Jews. Mr. Spock AND Captain Kirk!
Not-so-Surprising Jewess of the Day: Debra Messing, Bette Midler, Fran Drescher, Monica Geller
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Hiatus from the High Holy Days Hodge-podge
"There is a certain perfection in accident which we never consciously attain." -Henry David Thoreau
I had a whole spiel prepared for today's entry, but something unexpected came up. We'll return to our normally scheduled HHD programming tomorrow.
I found it. I wasn't searching for it at the exact moment of its discovery, but I found it. Even if I had applied every last inch of my mental capacities--even the innermost recesses of my convoluted, calculating mind--I could not have planned it. It was one of those fortuitous events that we must attribute purely to Providence, then celebrate and enjoy the happy discovery--in this case, the path to better living.
Some backstory may be required for those unfamiliar with my current living conditions. My sister and I occupy a house we inherited at the beginning of this year. I have tried to be agreeable, but there has arisen one "wedge issue", an issue so vociferously contested as to preclude any and all compromise, an issue on which we have both implacably defended our mutually exclusive paradigms, an issue that has brought us to an insurmountable impasse...until now.
The abridged version of this previously unresolvable dispute may be relayed as follows: she believes that it is acceptable (if not desirable) for her three large, unruly retrievers to rip the carpet asunder, use furniture as chew toys, gnaw on window sills, track in dirt and debris, suffuse the house with au de canine--and saturate my clothes with the same distinct aroma--and (in creative and astoundingly diverse ways) depreciate the property value of the house in what would otherwise be a very bullish Los Angeles real estate market. I disagree with her endorsement of this situation.
So, with that short, but sufficient, explanation of the situation, onward to the revelation of my discovery! My friend Annie will be interning at a pharmacy in Downey for several weeks, and in order to avoid a four-hour daily commute from Mission Viejo, asked to sojourn here, at Casa de la Doggie. In order to rectify the state of this dwelling (and to forestall condemnation by the health department of Los Angeles County), I am trying to patch up as much dog-related damage as I can. One step in this process has been to Febreze the odors out of the house.
I went through an entire 27 ounce bottle of Febreze this morning--and found it refreshing and uplifting! When I came home, I started using another half a bottle, until my merry Febrezing was interrupted by a volley of profanity emerging from my sister's room. It seems she--unlike I--was very unhappy about the new scent of our home. She indicated (between obscenities) that the aroma was too strong, and was causing something of a headache. This had never occurred to me, because I find Febreze delightfully understated, like a country meadow, or early morning mist (those might be names of two varieties of Febreze).
Because she likes the dogs to wander freely in and out of her bedroom, my sister refuses to close her door to prevent Febreze from wafting into her room. So herein lies the key to my future happiness: I can keep Febrezing away to eliminate dog odors, and this in turn (according to my well developed hypothesis) will be noisome enough to make my sister capitulate and leave the dogs outside.
Accidental discoveries: Scotchguard, penicillin, x-rays and the negotiating leverage of Febreze.
Surprising Jew of the Day: Sammy Davis, Jr.
Not-so-surprising Jew of the Day: Benjamin Netanyahu
I had a whole spiel prepared for today's entry, but something unexpected came up. We'll return to our normally scheduled HHD programming tomorrow.
I found it. I wasn't searching for it at the exact moment of its discovery, but I found it. Even if I had applied every last inch of my mental capacities--even the innermost recesses of my convoluted, calculating mind--I could not have planned it. It was one of those fortuitous events that we must attribute purely to Providence, then celebrate and enjoy the happy discovery--in this case, the path to better living.
Some backstory may be required for those unfamiliar with my current living conditions. My sister and I occupy a house we inherited at the beginning of this year. I have tried to be agreeable, but there has arisen one "wedge issue", an issue so vociferously contested as to preclude any and all compromise, an issue on which we have both implacably defended our mutually exclusive paradigms, an issue that has brought us to an insurmountable impasse...until now.
The abridged version of this previously unresolvable dispute may be relayed as follows: she believes that it is acceptable (if not desirable) for her three large, unruly retrievers to rip the carpet asunder, use furniture as chew toys, gnaw on window sills, track in dirt and debris, suffuse the house with au de canine--and saturate my clothes with the same distinct aroma--and (in creative and astoundingly diverse ways) depreciate the property value of the house in what would otherwise be a very bullish Los Angeles real estate market. I disagree with her endorsement of this situation.
So, with that short, but sufficient, explanation of the situation, onward to the revelation of my discovery! My friend Annie will be interning at a pharmacy in Downey for several weeks, and in order to avoid a four-hour daily commute from Mission Viejo, asked to sojourn here, at Casa de la Doggie. In order to rectify the state of this dwelling (and to forestall condemnation by the health department of Los Angeles County), I am trying to patch up as much dog-related damage as I can. One step in this process has been to Febreze the odors out of the house.
I went through an entire 27 ounce bottle of Febreze this morning--and found it refreshing and uplifting! When I came home, I started using another half a bottle, until my merry Febrezing was interrupted by a volley of profanity emerging from my sister's room. It seems she--unlike I--was very unhappy about the new scent of our home. She indicated (between obscenities) that the aroma was too strong, and was causing something of a headache. This had never occurred to me, because I find Febreze delightfully understated, like a country meadow, or early morning mist (those might be names of two varieties of Febreze).
Because she likes the dogs to wander freely in and out of her bedroom, my sister refuses to close her door to prevent Febreze from wafting into her room. So herein lies the key to my future happiness: I can keep Febrezing away to eliminate dog odors, and this in turn (according to my well developed hypothesis) will be noisome enough to make my sister capitulate and leave the dogs outside.
Accidental discoveries: Scotchguard, penicillin, x-rays and the negotiating leverage of Febreze.
Surprising Jew of the Day: Sammy Davis, Jr.
Not-so-surprising Jew of the Day: Benjamin Netanyahu
Monday, October 10, 2005
High Holy Days Hodge-Podge: Day 7
Today's story has a relationship to Judaism that is tenuous at best...I was going to choose another topic, but this is an interesting thought, and might be a welcome repose from the very high (and very holy topics) of late.
It is difficult to conceive of any group more consistently persecuted throughout human history than the Christian church--though this is indeed probably a "statistic" that is impossible to quantify. If there has been a group that has born more oppression and mistreatment, however, I think it would have to be the Jews. They faced social and economical marginalization in medieval and early-modern worlds, and the genocide during the holocaust. Even today they are still the favorite target of intolerance and discrimination across the European Union.
While I categorically deplore the historical suffering of the Jews--and in no way condone it--today I will look at "oppressors", or rather, one "oppressor" in general: Joseph Raymond McCarthy. Yes, we all learned to denounce the House of unAmerican Activities from our high school history teachers. Yes, we all read The Crucible and quaffed its pedagogy on the ills of McCarthyism. But let's re-examine--if only for a moment--Senator McCarthy and the times surrounding McCarthyism.
Communism. It was all about the fear of communism, right? But these fears were paranoia, just mass hysteria created by McCarthy. I think it's easy to vilify him in hindsight, but the growth of communism during that time did seem to threaten capitalist democracy. In 1949, the Soviets nuclear testing confirmed their appropriation of nuclear technology. Later that year, Maoist forces took control of China, effectively bringing (what was then) over one-fifth of the world's population under the Red umbrella. The General Secretary of the UN Charter meeting was convicted of perjury regarding espionage for the USSR, and a physicist from the Manhattan Project confessed to espionage for the Soviets in the same year. Throw in a war in Korean and some iron drapery for good measure, and you've got yourself a real source of angst.
I'm not denying that many people lost their careers and had their lives ruined by (sometimes baseless) accusations, but it's hard not feel that McCarthy's fears were, at least in part, justified. With little exhortation, one can imagine the growing concern these events must have caused: the growing popularity of communism was something akin to the ineffable global attraction to the Macarena in 1996. We were all swept up in the craze, in the novelty and quirkiness. Sure, in retrospect it's easy to dismiss both as well-meaning mistakes of the past, but caught up in the moment, who could resist their seductive allure?
So McCarthy was out to protect America from communism, which was just as appealing as the Macarena, but without those carefree pelvic gyrations--and seemingly far more pernicious. It seemed America was hemorrhaging state secrets; the Red shadow was creeping across the globe, and threatened cherished American values: democracy, capitalism, the Lindy Hop, and individualism. Without encouraging reckless witch hunts, I think we can sympathize with the fear of a (perceived) inexplicable foreign threat.
Surprise Jew of the Day: Kerri Strug (who knew?!?)
Not-so-Surprising Jew of the Day: Toby Ziegler (of the West Wing)
It is difficult to conceive of any group more consistently persecuted throughout human history than the Christian church--though this is indeed probably a "statistic" that is impossible to quantify. If there has been a group that has born more oppression and mistreatment, however, I think it would have to be the Jews. They faced social and economical marginalization in medieval and early-modern worlds, and the genocide during the holocaust. Even today they are still the favorite target of intolerance and discrimination across the European Union.
While I categorically deplore the historical suffering of the Jews--and in no way condone it--today I will look at "oppressors", or rather, one "oppressor" in general: Joseph Raymond McCarthy. Yes, we all learned to denounce the House of unAmerican Activities from our high school history teachers. Yes, we all read The Crucible and quaffed its pedagogy on the ills of McCarthyism. But let's re-examine--if only for a moment--Senator McCarthy and the times surrounding McCarthyism.
Communism. It was all about the fear of communism, right? But these fears were paranoia, just mass hysteria created by McCarthy. I think it's easy to vilify him in hindsight, but the growth of communism during that time did seem to threaten capitalist democracy. In 1949, the Soviets nuclear testing confirmed their appropriation of nuclear technology. Later that year, Maoist forces took control of China, effectively bringing (what was then) over one-fifth of the world's population under the Red umbrella. The General Secretary of the UN Charter meeting was convicted of perjury regarding espionage for the USSR, and a physicist from the Manhattan Project confessed to espionage for the Soviets in the same year. Throw in a war in Korean and some iron drapery for good measure, and you've got yourself a real source of angst.
I'm not denying that many people lost their careers and had their lives ruined by (sometimes baseless) accusations, but it's hard not feel that McCarthy's fears were, at least in part, justified. With little exhortation, one can imagine the growing concern these events must have caused: the growing popularity of communism was something akin to the ineffable global attraction to the Macarena in 1996. We were all swept up in the craze, in the novelty and quirkiness. Sure, in retrospect it's easy to dismiss both as well-meaning mistakes of the past, but caught up in the moment, who could resist their seductive allure?
So McCarthy was out to protect America from communism, which was just as appealing as the Macarena, but without those carefree pelvic gyrations--and seemingly far more pernicious. It seemed America was hemorrhaging state secrets; the Red shadow was creeping across the globe, and threatened cherished American values: democracy, capitalism, the Lindy Hop, and individualism. Without encouraging reckless witch hunts, I think we can sympathize with the fear of a (perceived) inexplicable foreign threat.
Surprise Jew of the Day: Kerri Strug (who knew?!?)
Not-so-Surprising Jew of the Day: Toby Ziegler (of the West Wing)
Sunday, October 09, 2005
High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 6
[Note: In honor of Saturday, I've taken a sabbatical and rested from blogging on Day 5.]
"Because you have listened to the voice of your wife, and have eaten of the tree of which I commanded you, 'You shall not eat of it,' cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life; thorns and thistles it shall bring forth to you; and you shall eat the plants of the field. In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Genesis 3:17-19
Before journeying any further on the jaunt that will be this entry, allow me to make (not one, but) several disclaimers. (1) I enjoy my job: there are few careers paths that I can imagine in which I would take more delight. (2) I am not complaning in this entry: the following sentiments in no way express discontent, ungratefulness, or any other manifestation of dissatisfaction with my line of work, or my life more broadly. (3) No students were harmed in the typing of this blog entry (at least not yet, anyway...)
On paper (read: the punch-card that my maniacally controlling, won't-pay-you-for-a-single-minute-more-than-you-worked employer a.k.a. Satan makes me use), I teach about 30 hours of class per week. In reality (read: according to the meticulous, and infallable yet overworked-and-ever-more-weary chronograph that is my mind), I average something closer to 45-50 hours. Wherein lies the discepancy? The minutes and hours I slave away grading essays, creating quizzes, preparing and reviewing lesson plans, and doing a variety of other tasks as a faithful clog in the lucrative, well-oiled machine that is the modern test-prep industry.
But I'm tired at the end of the week. Which brings me to another point: there is no end to my work week--it's just one unbroken cycle with a beginning, but strangely--and sadly--without end. Yes, I'm on the job seven days a week. On Saturdays I teach from 9-5, then go home and prepare for SAT II Biology class the next day. On Sunday after church, I zoom over to Roland Heights, teach till 5, then go home and ready myself for the classes in the week to come.
I enjoy teaching, especially my verbal and writing classes. It's exciting, engaging, educational (both for my students and for me), entertaining, but also enervating. [I know, a tour de force of alliteration. Surprisingly, it came very naturally.] I don't know how people who hate their jobs do it. I mean, unless they're completely mercenary and being paid like Halliburton on a government contract (complete with extravagent junkets, a company jet, a time share in each time zone, and primo stock options), it's just not worth it.
I allowed the meticulous, and infallable yet overworked-and-ever-more-weary chronograph that is my mind to deliberate on this point, and it faithfully delivered to me an answer: the curse. Adam's curse. My curse. Though I enjoy my job, as a post-lapsarian man, I am destined to toil, and work by the sweat of my brow--even in our first world, post-industrial, technology-based, increasingly globalized economy of scale. Sure, America left behind the husbandry of Adam's agrarian world over a century ago, but here I am in a service-sector job of a service-based economy toiling with 21st century thorns and thistles.
I called Pam to relay this (rather depressing) epiphany. Her consoling conclusion: "Yes, you're a man. You're destined to labor and toil all the days of your life, until you die."
Surprise Jew of the Day: David Beckham
Not-so-surprising Jew of the Day: Jesus
Friday, October 07, 2005
High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 4
"Then the priests the Levites arose and blessed the people: and their voice was heard, and their prayer came up to his holy dwelling place, even unto heaven." 2 Chronicles 30:27
Act II: The Hapless Misadventure that Sometimes is an Answered Request
In HHD (High Holy Day) entry 2, I mentioned that I tend to manipulate my conversations with Alvin. So as I was chatting with him today (again, via the miracle that is the Internet), I indicated that during our workout this evening it would be Alvin who would direct our interlocution. I met him at Ballys, and, as per my custom, I began to dominate the discussion. I caught myself, and said, "Oh, I'm doing it again! Alvin! We agreed that you're in charge of the topics tonight."
Alvin chuckled, took a thoughtful pause to summon a topic that would be of mutual interest, then commenced: "So today I was deciding which headphones to buy...$60, blah blah blah...$20, blah blah blah...more portable...mess up my hairdo, BLAH!" Oh my gosh! I was about to lose consciousness this conversation was so boring!
I composed myself, and prepared to firmly--yet tactfully--reassert authority over what would have soon become (under Alvin's maladroit direction) a one-way trip to a conversational Bermuda Triangle. "I remember why I like to direct our one-on-one talks," I started. "Because when you start the topic, you chose something so asinine that it could engage no living being!"
Surprisingly, Alvin did not take offense. He just smiled and said, "Yeah, I know. That's why I am quiet. I listen more, and talk less."
Moral of the story: Alvin is a faithful, patient friend who is good at conversation, but should not be allowed to govern the topic of discussion.
Secret Jew of the Day: Krusty the Clown, birth name: Herschel Pinkus Yerucham Krustofski (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krusty_the_Clown)
Not-so-Secret-Jew & Jewess of the Day: Allen Ginsberg & Ruth Bader Ginsburg
Act II: The Hapless Misadventure that Sometimes is an Answered Request
In HHD (High Holy Day) entry 2, I mentioned that I tend to manipulate my conversations with Alvin. So as I was chatting with him today (again, via the miracle that is the Internet), I indicated that during our workout this evening it would be Alvin who would direct our interlocution. I met him at Ballys, and, as per my custom, I began to dominate the discussion. I caught myself, and said, "Oh, I'm doing it again! Alvin! We agreed that you're in charge of the topics tonight."
Alvin chuckled, took a thoughtful pause to summon a topic that would be of mutual interest, then commenced: "So today I was deciding which headphones to buy...$60, blah blah blah...$20, blah blah blah...more portable...mess up my hairdo, BLAH!" Oh my gosh! I was about to lose consciousness this conversation was so boring!
I composed myself, and prepared to firmly--yet tactfully--reassert authority over what would have soon become (under Alvin's maladroit direction) a one-way trip to a conversational Bermuda Triangle. "I remember why I like to direct our one-on-one talks," I started. "Because when you start the topic, you chose something so asinine that it could engage no living being!"
Surprisingly, Alvin did not take offense. He just smiled and said, "Yeah, I know. That's why I am quiet. I listen more, and talk less."
Moral of the story: Alvin is a faithful, patient friend who is good at conversation, but should not be allowed to govern the topic of discussion.
Secret Jew of the Day: Krusty the Clown, birth name: Herschel Pinkus Yerucham Krustofski (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krusty_the_Clown)
Not-so-Secret-Jew & Jewess of the Day: Allen Ginsberg & Ruth Bader Ginsburg
Thursday, October 06, 2005
High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 3
"Then the priests the Levites arose and blessed the people: and their voice was heard, and their prayer came up to his holy dwelling place, even unto heaven." 2 Chronicles 30:27
Act I: The Glory of Answered Prayer
"Why can't I date someone godly who looks like Takeshi Kaneshiro?" a female acquaintance bemoaned to me today via the communication miracle that is the internet. Then things took a turn toward desperation: "Can you tell me why? Why? WHY, OH LORD WHY?!?!"
"Do you know of any such person?" I replied.
"Do you think I'd still be single if I did?"
Ruminating on that thought, I recalled a certain "admiration" she has for a godly man we'll call "Elimelech" (in keeping with our theme). Sanctified though he may be, Elimelech is immensely cerebral--undoubtedly the most cerebral person I know. As you might expect, he is lanky, sometimes slovenly, and his complexion is...he would be the "before" person in a Noxzema commercial.
"You could just graft Takeshi's face onto Elimelech's cerebral body," I proffered helpfully.
"Yeah, but then I'd be stuck with Elimelech's cerebral body."
Seeing that the first plan had not resolved all her problems, I made a better proposal: "transfer Elimelech's mind and soul INTO Takeshi's body. The best of both worlds!" After a moment's consideration, I added, "Takeshi wakes up one day:"what the £*¢&?!? How did I get this cerebral body??? WHAT HAPPENED TO MY FACE?!??!"
Camera pans to my friend and Elimelech, rejoicing in the background: "Hallelujahah! Our prayers are ANSWERED!!"
Secret Jew of the Day: Elvis Presley! (maternal grandparent was Jewish)
Not-so-secret-Jewess of the Day: Barbara Streisand
Act I: The Glory of Answered Prayer
"Why can't I date someone godly who looks like Takeshi Kaneshiro?" a female acquaintance bemoaned to me today via the communication miracle that is the internet. Then things took a turn toward desperation: "Can you tell me why? Why? WHY, OH LORD WHY?!?!"
"Do you know of any such person?" I replied.
"Do you think I'd still be single if I did?"
Ruminating on that thought, I recalled a certain "admiration" she has for a godly man we'll call "Elimelech" (in keeping with our theme). Sanctified though he may be, Elimelech is immensely cerebral--undoubtedly the most cerebral person I know. As you might expect, he is lanky, sometimes slovenly, and his complexion is...he would be the "before" person in a Noxzema commercial.
"You could just graft Takeshi's face onto Elimelech's cerebral body," I proffered helpfully.
"Yeah, but then I'd be stuck with Elimelech's cerebral body."
Seeing that the first plan had not resolved all her problems, I made a better proposal: "transfer Elimelech's mind and soul INTO Takeshi's body. The best of both worlds!" After a moment's consideration, I added, "Takeshi wakes up one day:"what the £*¢&?!? How did I get this cerebral body??? WHAT HAPPENED TO MY FACE?!??!"
Camera pans to my friend and Elimelech, rejoicing in the background: "Hallelujahah! Our prayers are ANSWERED!!"
Secret Jew of the Day: Elvis Presley! (maternal grandparent was Jewish)
Not-so-secret-Jewess of the Day: Barbara Streisand
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 2
Day 2 of the High Holy Days, and the weather is warm and sunny: perfect, the way that one expects the weather in southern California to be 95% of the year.
Last night, after ingesting my daily portion of reading (this week is Sandra Tsing Loh's A Year in Venice), I had some time to ruminate, so ruminate I did. One thought led to another (as is so often the case in rumination) and soon I was thinking how unfair I am sometimes to Alvin.
Alvin is always very patient with me. He listens to my whining, then does his best to offer comfort or counsel. I am sometimes dissatisfied with his suggestions, but he is a faithful listener and dispenser of (not-always-helpful) advice. Alvin lets me pilot our conversations, even when I hijack them and take us on a journey on which he does not want to go. He would probably rather not discuss the merits and vices of Harriet Myers, or how Prime Minister Koizumi's economic reforms have poised Japan for a new decade of economic prosperity, or how Turkish ascension to the EU will affect Sino-European trade relations. But he lets me ramble on, and chimes in when what would otherwise be my uninterrupted monologue has gone on for too long.
There are probably two or three dozen other ways that I exploit my friendship with Alvin, but I think my enumeration thus far is sufficient to apprise the reader of my evils.
So, in the spirit of Rosh Hashanah, I thank Alvin for his graciousness, publicly apologize to him, and ask for forgiveness. Sorry, Alvin! You can remind me when I start to do any of the two to three dozen things that didn't list.
Secret Jew of the Day: Kenneth Cole
Not-so-secret-Jew of the Day: Steven Spielberg
Last night, after ingesting my daily portion of reading (this week is Sandra Tsing Loh's A Year in Venice), I had some time to ruminate, so ruminate I did. One thought led to another (as is so often the case in rumination) and soon I was thinking how unfair I am sometimes to Alvin.
Alvin is always very patient with me. He listens to my whining, then does his best to offer comfort or counsel. I am sometimes dissatisfied with his suggestions, but he is a faithful listener and dispenser of (not-always-helpful) advice. Alvin lets me pilot our conversations, even when I hijack them and take us on a journey on which he does not want to go. He would probably rather not discuss the merits and vices of Harriet Myers, or how Prime Minister Koizumi's economic reforms have poised Japan for a new decade of economic prosperity, or how Turkish ascension to the EU will affect Sino-European trade relations. But he lets me ramble on, and chimes in when what would otherwise be my uninterrupted monologue has gone on for too long.
There are probably two or three dozen other ways that I exploit my friendship with Alvin, but I think my enumeration thus far is sufficient to apprise the reader of my evils.
So, in the spirit of Rosh Hashanah, I thank Alvin for his graciousness, publicly apologize to him, and ask for forgiveness. Sorry, Alvin! You can remind me when I start to do any of the two to three dozen things that didn't list.
Secret Jew of the Day: Kenneth Cole
Not-so-secret-Jew of the Day: Steven Spielberg
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 1
Although I am not actually Jewish, I have managed to combine the best qualities of some outstanding Jews: the boyish charm of Scott Wolf, the brilliance of Einstein, the virtuosity of Itzhak Perlman, the economic savvy of Allan Greenspan, the literary genius of J.D. Salinger, all with the devastatingly handsome--yet unassuming--good looks of Noah Wyle. [Did you know that "Jonathan Taylor Thomas" is really a Jew named Jonathan Weiss? Did he think that having a Jewish name would somehow hurt his chance of success in Hollywood?!] I'm like Dr. Frankenstein's creature, assembled from all the best parts culled from remarkable Jews.
Ok, so I really have the boyish charm of Allan Greenspan, the literary genius of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and the good looks of Einstein, but I'm still the amalgamation of several famous Jews.
Anyway, in honor of my Jewish compatriots, I have decided to dedicate the next 10 days of my blog to the High Holy Days, the 10 days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Today is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, on which Jews are expected to "examine their past deeds and ask for forgiveness for their sins", and "review the history of their people and pray for Israel". (http://www.holidays.net/highholydays/rosh.htm).
The disadvantage of this cross-cultural blogging experience is that I will probably have very few first-person accounts of anything resembling Judaism, ergo "hodge-podge" in the title. So be prepared over the next week and a half for a variety of unnaturally unrelated thoughts and stories that I will try to string together with my new theme: the High Holy Days.
Happy Rosh Hashanah!
Secret Jew of the Day: Jonathan Taylor Thomas (a.k.a. Jonathan Weiss)
Not-so-secret Jew of the Day: Ariel Sharon
Ok, so I really have the boyish charm of Allan Greenspan, the literary genius of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and the good looks of Einstein, but I'm still the amalgamation of several famous Jews.
Anyway, in honor of my Jewish compatriots, I have decided to dedicate the next 10 days of my blog to the High Holy Days, the 10 days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Today is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, on which Jews are expected to "examine their past deeds and ask for forgiveness for their sins", and "review the history of their people and pray for Israel". (http://www.holidays.net/highholydays/rosh.htm).
The disadvantage of this cross-cultural blogging experience is that I will probably have very few first-person accounts of anything resembling Judaism, ergo "hodge-podge" in the title. So be prepared over the next week and a half for a variety of unnaturally unrelated thoughts and stories that I will try to string together with my new theme: the High Holy Days.
Happy Rosh Hashanah!
Secret Jew of the Day: Jonathan Taylor Thomas (a.k.a. Jonathan Weiss)
Not-so-secret Jew of the Day: Ariel Sharon
Sunday, October 02, 2005
"Let them have dominion...
... over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.” (Genesis 1:26).
I am house-sitting. Perhaps that is too luxurious a title for what I am actually doing: I am dog-sitting. But Fuji is no ordinary dog. No, no, no. Fuji is the modern day equivalent to the cats of ancient Egypt, which were worshipped as gods and served by the humans who exalted the felines above themselves. Indeed, it has felt much less like "dog-sitting" and much more like idol worshipping these last three nights.
Perhaps you, reader, need some background on how I came to occupy my role in this travesty of idolatrous dog-sitting. Naomi Sakamoto, a long time friend of our family, is getting married in Hawaii, but leaving Fuji in a kennel would be anathema to Naomi's parents. In fact, it is rumored that Mrs. Sakamoto would not attend her only daughter's wedding if a sitter could not be found to attend to Fuji. This tidbit succinctly provides a depiction of the role Fuji plays in the lives of her owners.
Thus my family asked me to watch Fuji, so that both parents of the bride could participate in the wedding. Ostensibly, my official duties are fairly simple: feed Fuji twice a day (half a scoop each of two kinds of food), make sure she has water, and don't let her disturb the neighbors with barking. Fuji, however, has seen to it that in reality, things have not been so easy.
I had to meet Fuji twice before dog-sitting; both times I had to enter with Naomi, to give the appearance that I was a "friend". Fuji barked at me nonetheless, and so I was instructed to offer treats--a practice that has since become ritual upon my entering the house. These ceremonial offerings of jerky win Fuji's tolerance of my presence; they earn me her favor, ensure that she won't bring calamity or natural disaster upon the land, and will hopefully secure her blessing of a good harvest this autumn.
Despite my faithful execution of the sacraments, apparently I was remiss in my duties as substitute chief priest. Last night, at 2:07 a.m., Fuji began barking. The phone rang. Angry neighbors complained. Immediately I offered double portions of the jerky sacrifice, but to no avail. I prayed for quiet, but Fuji was not to be appeased. The phone rang again--more angry neighbors. Finally, after nearly an hour of sincere entreaty and several pieces of jerky later, I had sufficiently atoned for my transgression (the nature of which I am still unsure), and Fuji went back to sleep.
Clearly I do not have my God-endowed dominion over this animal. I feel that this is an unhealthy, unbiblical relationship. This dog was created to obey me, and I to have dominion over it. Something of the created order has been perverted.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven...
...Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest.
Four entries from the English major, and not a single literary allusion (save the domain name of this blog)? It can't be, you scoff--and rightly so. To rectify, I have included this quote. 5 points (plus sincere respect) if you can identify the author and source of the excerpt. (Answer at the bottom, plus the rest of the passage.) The text is dealing with mercy, the topic--practically applied--of today's entry.
Before class on Thursday, my student Jeffery came up to me and asked me to quiz him on transitive/intransitive verbs, direct objects, objects of prepositions, and subject compliments. Jeffery is usually spirited and spry, but today he seemed anxious, and explained that if he failed Thursday's grammar test he would be in big trouble. I had him parse a few sentences, and seeing that he seemed to understand last week's lesson, I told him not to worry and review on his own. Throughout homework-time, he reviewed carefully, but nervously.
After the half hour homework/study period, Jeffery, along with his classmates, took the test. Here was probably the most histrionic test-taking experience I have ever witnessed. He massaged his temples; he flailed his arms; he released a sigh, then a soft whine; he put his head down on the desk; he massaged his temples again; he released a whimper, then a sigh; he rubbed his eyes, then repeated the entire procedure.
When I called time, he was still working; I let him finish one last problem, then collected and redistributed the tests for correction. Jeffery's score: 65% (at my work, a student needs 70%+ to pass). After having found out, he put his head down on the desk and wept. I knew this was serious, so I dutifully recorded "70%" in the grade sheet, and gave it to the office attendant. [Incidentally, the difference in score was equal to one answer on the 20-question test.]
During break time, I called him out to another room and asked him what was wrong. "My mom said that if I fail another test, she won't let me come home. Last time I failed, she didn't come pick me up from class." In my mind I like to see justice applied strictly: I support the death penalty; I had one of my students in Beijing expelled for cheating. Every teacher, however, has a soft spot for the weeping student. You can't be human if you don't feel sorry for the weeping student.
He wasn't bawling, mind you--that would just be pathetic. But he was weeping, and cheerless, lachrymose* globules clung to his long lashes like clumps of translucent mascara. It was a strange image that created strongly ambivalent sentiments in me. I was at once moved by empathy for his plaintive visage, yet I also appreciated the aesthetic of that moment, for there is something particularly beautiful about the sincerity of a child's tears, about the deep feelings they hold for things to which we have long become calloused.
I showed him the grade sheet (falsified score and all), and he said, "thank you, Mr. James", but he seemed still draped in the shroud of meloncholy. Then I imagined what it must be like for one to believe that his value comes not from who he is, but what he can do, what he can produce, what he knows.** As someone who doesn't have children of his own, I know it's not my place to judge parents, but it strikes me as abusive to raise a child letting him think that he's only as good as his grades.
"Look at me, Jeffery. In the eyes. I think your mom wasn't serious about not letting you in. She just wants you to study hard and do well in class, okay? Don't worry about the grade--you passed. Stay after class, and we'll work on some more practice problems." So we worked for 20 minutes after class, and I do really think he has a better grasp on transitive/intransitive verbs, subject compliments, and the rest. Perhaps he will soon forget this week's grammar lesson, but I hope he will long remember mercy, and pass the experience along.
*Ok, so "lachrymose" doesn't carry the meaning with which I endowed it in that sentence, but it's such a nice, yet seldom used word that I think I'm justified in extending the definition, and thereby hopefully encouraging it's use by others.
**After I got home, I realized that my professors, living in the world of "publish or perish," are similarly judged by their intellect and ability to produce over their personalities and humanity (which is unfortunate, because some their respective characters are just as remarkable as their respective intellects). I do, however, think they have better coping strategies to deal with this pressure than does Jeffery.
5 points if you knew Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice (Act IV, scene i. Said by Portia).
The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest.
Four entries from the English major, and not a single literary allusion (save the domain name of this blog)? It can't be, you scoff--and rightly so. To rectify, I have included this quote. 5 points (plus sincere respect) if you can identify the author and source of the excerpt. (Answer at the bottom, plus the rest of the passage.) The text is dealing with mercy, the topic--practically applied--of today's entry.
Before class on Thursday, my student Jeffery came up to me and asked me to quiz him on transitive/intransitive verbs, direct objects, objects of prepositions, and subject compliments. Jeffery is usually spirited and spry, but today he seemed anxious, and explained that if he failed Thursday's grammar test he would be in big trouble. I had him parse a few sentences, and seeing that he seemed to understand last week's lesson, I told him not to worry and review on his own. Throughout homework-time, he reviewed carefully, but nervously.
After the half hour homework/study period, Jeffery, along with his classmates, took the test. Here was probably the most histrionic test-taking experience I have ever witnessed. He massaged his temples; he flailed his arms; he released a sigh, then a soft whine; he put his head down on the desk; he massaged his temples again; he released a whimper, then a sigh; he rubbed his eyes, then repeated the entire procedure.
When I called time, he was still working; I let him finish one last problem, then collected and redistributed the tests for correction. Jeffery's score: 65% (at my work, a student needs 70%+ to pass). After having found out, he put his head down on the desk and wept. I knew this was serious, so I dutifully recorded "70%" in the grade sheet, and gave it to the office attendant. [Incidentally, the difference in score was equal to one answer on the 20-question test.]
During break time, I called him out to another room and asked him what was wrong. "My mom said that if I fail another test, she won't let me come home. Last time I failed, she didn't come pick me up from class." In my mind I like to see justice applied strictly: I support the death penalty; I had one of my students in Beijing expelled for cheating. Every teacher, however, has a soft spot for the weeping student. You can't be human if you don't feel sorry for the weeping student.
He wasn't bawling, mind you--that would just be pathetic. But he was weeping, and cheerless, lachrymose* globules clung to his long lashes like clumps of translucent mascara. It was a strange image that created strongly ambivalent sentiments in me. I was at once moved by empathy for his plaintive visage, yet I also appreciated the aesthetic of that moment, for there is something particularly beautiful about the sincerity of a child's tears, about the deep feelings they hold for things to which we have long become calloused.
I showed him the grade sheet (falsified score and all), and he said, "thank you, Mr. James", but he seemed still draped in the shroud of meloncholy. Then I imagined what it must be like for one to believe that his value comes not from who he is, but what he can do, what he can produce, what he knows.** As someone who doesn't have children of his own, I know it's not my place to judge parents, but it strikes me as abusive to raise a child letting him think that he's only as good as his grades.
"Look at me, Jeffery. In the eyes. I think your mom wasn't serious about not letting you in. She just wants you to study hard and do well in class, okay? Don't worry about the grade--you passed. Stay after class, and we'll work on some more practice problems." So we worked for 20 minutes after class, and I do really think he has a better grasp on transitive/intransitive verbs, subject compliments, and the rest. Perhaps he will soon forget this week's grammar lesson, but I hope he will long remember mercy, and pass the experience along.
*Ok, so "lachrymose" doesn't carry the meaning with which I endowed it in that sentence, but it's such a nice, yet seldom used word that I think I'm justified in extending the definition, and thereby hopefully encouraging it's use by others.
**After I got home, I realized that my professors, living in the world of "publish or perish," are similarly judged by their intellect and ability to produce over their personalities and humanity (which is unfortunate, because some their respective characters are just as remarkable as their respective intellects). I do, however, think they have better coping strategies to deal with this pressure than does Jeffery.
5 points if you knew Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice (Act IV, scene i. Said by Portia).
The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
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