Blundering American

It's been fun...

2010-11-30T07:48:00.002-05:00

This will be my final post on this blog.

I can tell you that writing here has, and I'm not blowing this out of proportion, changed my life for the better in ways that I could have never expected.

But, now that I'm looking to a new chapter in my life, it is time to close this book for the final time.

To the friends I've made elsewhere, please know that I will still be checking your sites occasionally and commenting, as I've done before.

To those who have enjoyed my musings here, I'm glad I could do something to make you smile.

Until we meet again Internet...

Apparently, I'm getting old...

2008-10-29T21:40:00.003-05:00

I went to Homecoming at my alma mater last weekend and I pretty much knew I was getting old after being there. Certainly, the reason I felt older could be that college students seem only to get younger. But, this time it was because I found myself becoming my parents. And here's why...

What is with writing on the back of a pair of shorts or pants? Ladies, I offer the following observations before you don such a pair of pants. First of all, if your ass is big enough that I can see the whole word, then you really need to reconsider calling attention to it by having something plastered on your ass. Second, if you are a big fan of your team, what does it say about them when you decide to put them on your rear and sit on them? I once bought toilet paper with a rival team's mascot on it with the slogan, "The only place for a [opposing team mascot] face." Putting the team or school on your bottom doesn't communicate support or spirit.

If you love your team or school, show it by putting it on your chest. That's something we can all enjoy.

Confessions of an absentee voter...

2008-10-22T18:20:00.005-05:00

I'm an absentee voter.

I've voted in every election I've been able to vote in, except one primary election (and I couldn't vote in partisan races, so it wasn't much of a loss), but have only been to the actual polls once. For some reason, I just prefer to get my ballot in my hot little hands, do my internet research, vote, and either mail back or drop off that little green envelope. I think even in the world of sample ballots and early voting, I just prefer the certainty of an absentee ballot, because I get time to deliberate before actually casting my vote with my actual ballot.

Now, I fully realize that voting absentee means that my vote will, more likely than not, not be counted at all. Typically, only people who vote the old-fashioned way are actually counted and calculated. They don't open those little green envelopes with "official election mail" unless they make a difference in the result. Absentee ballots are the "Senate President" of the American electoral system; they only have a vote that counts when it actually matters. Of course, that's also the silver lining: If it actually matters, then my vote counts that much more.

Well, when the returns come in on the night of the 4th, hope it's a landslide. Because, if it isn't, you're going to have me to thank for what you get.

However, as much as I enjoy being an absentee voter, I can't help but feel a little guilt. Campaigns make their big push to lead up to November 4. I know that, they know that. But since I vote early, I don't get the same impact that your typical voter gets.

With Presidential campaigns, I really don't care that much. I've pretty much decided who I'm voting for by the time I finish watching the third debate.

But every once in a while, it can bother me.

Today, I dropped off my ballot and, when I got home, I found a flyer from one of the candidates for my community development district at my door. Typically, I don't feel guilty about not reading campaign literature before I vote, but last night, as I was finalizing my ballot, I went online to research the candidates for this position. Unfortunately, there wasn't a lot of information about them, so I ended up googling them to find out anything I could about them.

In addition to finding what they said at prior development district meetings and who was an incumbent, I also learned who had other people make contributions to their campaigns, who was making personal loans to their own campaigns, who had printed flyers, who had grassroots campaign parties, and who did any number of other things with their money. So, when I read this flyer, I felt a little guilty knowing that this candidate paid his own money (since he was the only contributor to his shoe-string budget campaign) to make this flyer (at Kinko's---told you they're revealing in small campaigns---and, yes, I know which one) and likely personally put it on my door. Yet, I didn't read it before I cast my ballot.

Of course, after actually reading it, I realized it wouldn't have convinced me to vote for him.

So that helped assuage the guilt a little bit.

Hi Internet. It's me.

2008-10-15T21:55:00.002-05:00

So, it's been some time since I posted last. I think part of the reason is that I've had someone to tell many of my thoughts to, which is no longer the case, and that I spend most of my time working on my computer, which is still the case.

I recently went through another year of High Holidays, but I had quite the predicament this time around. For the uninitiated, the High Holidays are Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) and Yom Kippur. Of course, Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement, but it is really just to atone for your sins against G-d. There are ten days between the two holidays that are really meant to atone for your sins against other people, but apologizing for having wronged them.

One of my favorite stories (which I remember vaguely from when I heard it) about Yom Kippur is about a two men who go to visit their rabbi in preparation for Yom Kippur. The first one says to the rabbi, "Rabbi, I have done an absolutely awful sin this year. I have done something absolutely terrible and I need to know how I can ever get the Almighty's forgiveness."

The rabbi responded by telling the man, "Go out into the courtyard and find the largest stone you can find. Then carry it back here."

Confused, the man did as the rabbi asked and found an enormous stone that he brought to the rabbi. Upon his return, the rabbi told the exhausted man, "Now, place the stone back where you found it, exactly as you found it."

Again confused, the man did exactly as the rabbi asked. He carried the stone to the place that he remembered it being and placed it in the position that he thought it was in when he took it.

After doing so, the man returned to the rabbi and the rabbi told him, "Deeply, sincerely ask the Almighty for his forgiveness for your terrible sin and I'm sure He will forgive you."

Soon thereafter, another man came to visit the rabbi and said, "Rabbi, I really don't think I've done much wrong this year and I don't really know what to ask G-d to forgive me for this year. So I'm not quite sure what I should do on Yom Kippur."

The rabbi tells the man, "Go into the courtyard and find as many small stones as you can carry. Collect them and bring them back here."

Confused, the man does as the rabbi asked. After a while, the man returns to the rabbi, barely able to keep all of the stones that he collected in his hands. The rabbi then tells him, "Put all those stones back where you found them, exactly as you found them."

The man, shocked, replies, "Rabbi, there's no way I can do that! There are so many that were all over the courtyard! I have no idea where I found them and where I need to put them back!"

The rabbi replied, "This is what you need to learn about Yom Kippur. You have collected small sins all year and this is the day that you fix them and put things back as they should be with G-d. If you cannot remember your sins, then you have all the more reason to ask for forgiveness for engaging in them because they are so numerous that you cannot even be honest with G-d about what they are."

I've always loved that story because it reminded me that Yom Kippur is really a time to ask for forgiveness for things you know you've done wrong and for things that you can't even remember.

However, the story doesn't answer one important question that I've had this year. What happens if you have a rock that is incredibly big to you and you know where to put it, but you just can't carry it back to where it belongs? What if you think struggling to put the rock back will be more painful than moving it in the first place?

I guess I'll have to look for another story to answer those questions...

The beauty of unintended humor...

2008-06-19T17:31:00.005-05:00

Today, I was checking out news articles online when I found this little nugget on CNN...

The highlighted section says, "The father is Casey Aldridge, a pipe-layer from Liberty, Mississippi." (emphasis mine)

Yes.

I'm sure he is...

Flattery...one heck of a Chanukah present...

2007-12-03T18:13:00.000-05:00

Last week, I received an email to my blog email account. Not having written in a long time (I know, I know...no guilt please), I figured that it would be something asking me if I wanted a larger penis, some Canadian drugs, or some Canadian drugs that would give me a larger penis.

It wasn't.

But it was something almost as cool...

It was an email from a Jewish publishing company. Apparently, someone over there was doing some Google searching on microcalligraphy and came across this post, which you may remember from my Blundering Through Israel series.

Apparently, they want to publish part of that post in a book for Jewish school kids!

(That was the point that I started doing the "happy dance.")

Needless to say, I'm incredibly, profoundly, and immensely flattered. As you might have guessed by the footer, I'm always a bit surprised when someone reads and enjoys what I write here. After all, I'm no Neil, Sass, Liz, Tracy, Kevin, or Julia. I haven't even varied from the standard blogger web site. I just write a bit on this little corner of the internet. And not having been around lately, I'm not exactly expecting a lot of visitors. So, that someone would actually want to reprint what I wrote is both surprising and touching.

So, yes, I'm beside myself with the flattery.

But don't worry, I'm not quitting my day job just yet...

Oh...and of course, Happy Holidays! I miss you all and hope to be back soon!!!

WHAT!?!?!?!

2007-08-23T11:44:00.000-05:00

I've stayed away from commenting on the whole Michael Vick thing. Probably because there's so much media attention on how degrading and disgusting his soon-to-be admitted actions were, I just didn't feel the need to join the chorus.

However, today I saw this article. (The article has since changed to reflect that he "backed off" the comments.)

Allow me to summarize (the original article)...

NBA star Stephon Marbury believes that all the hype about Michael Vick is overblown because, and I quote, "You know, from what I hear, dogfighting is a sport. It's just behind closed doors."

Excuse me???

First of all, I wonder if Marbury's "from what I hear" is like the "friend" people reference when they look for advice on embarrassing things. You know..."Well, I have this friend..."

Second, what kind of fucking "sport" has to be engaged in "behind closed doors?"

Third, I'd like to have someone make Marbury fight for his life for their pecuniary gain and be electrocuted or body slammed to death if they aren't up to par. After that, let's see if he thinks it's a "sport."

What a fucktard.

Oh...and on the Michael Vick thing, I'll say this: Who could have guessed that he would make Marcus the "good son?"

They say it's your birthday...

2007-08-05T08:29:00.001-05:00

Friday was my birthday.

Sorry for telling you so late...

I've always had pretty crappy birthdays. In fact, it's been known to be a birthday curse by my family. They try...they always do, but generally my birthday just sucks.

I think the reason for this began because I'm a summer birthday. A lot of people say, "Oh, that's great! Summer birthdays are the best! You get pool parties!" While there is, of course, some merit to the pool party argument (who really can dispute the pool party?) Summer birthdays generally sucked.

When I was in elementary school, the kids who had birthdays during the school year always had a day of "special treatment." The teachers would get them balloons, their parents would bring a cake, we'd all sing. This, of course, was in addition to the birthday party that would inevitably follow the next week.

Of course, when my August birthday rolled around, all my school friends were at sleep-away camp and weren't around. The camp friends were really more interested in camp than in your birthday, so, for some reason it always felt like a second-rate birthday.

Then, when I was 16, I started to have a what I lovingly refer to as a birthday curse. For some reason, things just never worked out on my birthday.

It wasn't until I was 29 that I had a truly enjoyable birthday. I organized a nice dinner with my friends in the city I was living in, which, because I was moving, doubled as a going-away party. So, even though it was enjoyable, it was bittersweet.

Well, this year, I had what has to qualify as the best birthday ever, all thanks to the adorable lady that has kept me busy and away from this online locale. Last Friday (I know!!! Friday birthday!!! How cool, right?!?!?), I woke up ten minutes before my alarm to knocking on my front door. Okay, that did scare the hell out of me, but when I opened the door and saw my fantastic girlfriend with bags of stuff, I knew something good was up.

She immediately told me to go back to bed. Well, ten minutes later, I was awoken again to breakfast in bed. Now, although I've brought breakfast in bed to others, I've never had it brought to me. But, I fully admit, this wasn't any breakfast in bed.

No, no. This was amazing.

Try not to be too jealous...

Stuffed french toast with strawberries, two types of syrup and chocolate skim milk.

And I got to eat it with her.

Oh yes, this was incredible.

So, after I woke up, I was greeted to the best things anyone could want on their birthday...

Presents!

Now, keep in mind, for years, I've been a "Presence is presents enough" kind of guy. And, of course, that was true here. Breakfast in bed was already presents enough. But, I awoke to a "sushi-making kit" and a rice cooker, so we could make sushi together. And, just when I thought that was all, I also received a stuffed college mascot, with a recording of my college football fight chant recorded by this lovely lady.

Well, the rest of the day was just as great. Birthday calls from family and friends, lunch with the co-workers (who's company I genuinely enjoy), surprise gifts from my assistant, and sushi dinner with my friends and that lovely girl who already treated me so wonderfully.

And then, a cake!

And just when I thought it was over, I came home, checked my email and had no less than fifteen happy birthday messages. Most of which I shared with that lovely lady who made it such a special birthday.

Oh yes. Indeed, a birthday to surpass them all.

To that lovely lady, thank you for making it, and everything, so wonderful. And to the rest of you, I hope all your birthdays are just as wonderful.

Sicko and Morning Joe

2007-07-10T08:22:00.000-05:00

I went to go see Michael Moore's new movie, Sicko, this weeeknd. Now, I fully admit he Moore is a total lightning rod, but as someone who had worked in the legal field in health care, I was particularly interested in what he was going to say.

I was not disappointed. Go see the movie.

Seriously.

And, when you want to do something when it's over, go to Moore's website and sign the petition to expand Medicare to all Americans.

Seriously.

Medicare has 1% administrative expenses (over head and SALARIES), while private insurance companies, even not-for-profit ones, have 30% or more in administrative expenses (much of which is salaries). Medicare is the most efficient health care payment system in the United States.

And as Moore implies, there's no reason that when we're spending more on healthcare than any other country (15% of our Gross National Product) on healthcare, that we should have the 37th healthcare system in the world (particularly when we already pay for one of the most efficient ones).

But what has disapponted me most is seeing the mainstream reaction to the film. Basically, there's a general acknowledgement that there's a problem with healthcare, but then, there's no actually discussion of the issue or the merits of any particular solution, whether it be a full universal system (such as what I advocated above), a basic universal system with supplemental insurance provided by employers or other sources, the present system with ERISA amended to require health insurance companies to be liable for their decisions (you want to see them start paying...make them liable for when they don't), or something else. That's the discussion that I hoped this movie would inspire.

Apparently, I'm truly naive. Because that's not the response I've seen.

Instead, the prototypical example that I've seen has been what was on "Morning Joe" on MSNBC this morning.

Here's what I learned:

1) Michael Moore is fat.

2) People are generally obese, which is their fault, and they need to change their eating habits and that (impliedly) will fix the problem.

3) Joe Scarborough has a personal trainer and that's why he's not fat, so people should be like him and exercise more.

My retorts:

1) Ad hominem argument - Whether Moore is fat or not neither harms nor buttresses Moore's argument that the health care system in the United States is woefully inadequate.

2) Where to start? First of all, obesity is not the obese person's problem...it's everyone's problem. The whole point of Sicko is that we're all in this together. So, if there's an American obesity problem, it's a problem for all of us, whether we're personally obese or not. If 30% of us are fat, it just means we're all going to sink together quicker. We're all going to have higher premiums, less opportunities to see our doctors, more Medicare/Medicaid/Private Insurance expenses. Ridiculing people who are doesn't get any of us anywhere quicker.

Second, a number of expensive health problems have nothing to do with obesity, but rather have to do with the profiteering of the private insurance system. I don't think pre-approval of ambulance services is something that is affected by whether you're obese or not, nor do I believe that obese people are more likely to get most forms of cancer. While obesity may help reduce the incidents of Type II Diabetes, heart attack and stroke, other severe debilitating illnesses, accidents, and the simple effects of age are not necessarily helped by reduced weight.

Third, why are 30% of Americans obese? Certainly, there are a number of factors, but let me suggest that part of the reason is that we do not teach good eating and exercise habits. I imagine most adults, frankly, don't know them, having been raised in a society that constantly advertises fast food, where we are told we need to work more to get ahead...essentially, working ourselves to death. Should we teach those values to our children? That would be a good place to start. So what have we been teaching children about health and physical fitness? Well, we certainly haven't been teaching them anything about it at school. We've decided that accountability for teachers is the priority there, so we've instituted school "grades" and "tests" to determine which schools are teaching better than others. However, those tests are in academic subjects (which, you know I value), but not about physical fitness. So schools, which are constantly faced with reduced state education funds are forced to make tough choices and, if you're an administrator being graded on how your students perform academically, but not physically, when you have to choose between cutting gym and an academic program, which are you going to pick? I'm guessing gym.

By the way, do you know what the top state expense in almost every (if not every) state (and certainly in my home state of Florida) is? Healthcare. Specifically, Medicaid - the joint state-federal program to provide healthcare to the poor. A universal basic system of healthcare would take this expense out of state budgets entirely. Then we could actually dedicate state tax dollars to education, like we should...including teaching nutrition, physical fitness, and other areas, reducing obesity and other lifestyle health-related problems (heck, then we might even pay teachers a living wage!!!).

3) I guess, being a member of Congress and now being a television personality makes it unlikely that former Representative Scarborough is going to run out of time to go to the gym and still have time to spend with his family. Also, I imagine his salary makes it much easier for him to hire a personal trainer at at least $50/session. Give me his salary and I'll hire a personal trainer too. In fact, if everyone in the U.S. had his salary and hours, then he'd be right...of course, there would be a lot of demand for personal trainers. --- Seriously though, this proves my point with #2. If Scarborough needs a personal trainer, then it means that he a) lacks motivation to do it himself or b) doesn't know what he's doing at the gym and needs someone to teach him. If the former is the case, he has nothing to complain about other people's lack of motivation. If the latter is the case, then he's an example of how we have failed to teach basic physical education as a result of the same policies that he advocated in Congress...teaching for a test.

Well, that's my take for now. Ideas anyone?

Taking a break from all your worries...

2007-05-03T09:11:00.000-05:00

I'm going to take a break from blogging for a little while. I'm not sure when I'll be back, so keep checking in...

Actually said while shopping with the girlfriend...

2007-03-29T19:45:00.000-05:00

Girlfriend: "Excuse me, but where are your dresses?"

Clerk: "Women's dresses?"

Me: "You sell men's dresses?"

Watching your girlfriend laugh hilariously while a clerk embarrassedly explains that there are also "misses" and "teen" dresses... Priceless.

Oh, the things a little Jewish guilt can do...

2007-03-28T19:00:00.000-05:00

Talk about a "thank you"! Imagine my surprise at this little nugget from my fine blogging friend, Neil, at Citizen of the Month:

Whoo-hoo! My moment of internet fame!!! Well, internet fame that doesn't involve a phishing scheme. And all it took was a little Jewish guilt...

14:59 left...

Cross One (or More) Off The List...

2007-03-27T21:00:00.000-05:00

I received a thank you email from Neil this week, thanking me for his birthday gift. Yeah, Neil's good like that. (Although he still hasn't made me his blog crush of the day yet. Don't make me pull out the Jewish guilt Neil...)

But what stood out to me was this line: "You haven't posted much this month. I hope it is for good reasons and not bad..."

He's right. While I've been a relatively common commenter, I really haven't written here in quite a while.

And it's time I told you why.

Really, there are two reasons.

The first is I finally got a long-awaited transfer at work. In light of the first rule of blogging (and you have no idea how hard it has been not to break that rule), to paraphrase Forrest Gump, that's all I'm going to say about that.

But it's the other reason that I'm going to tell you about. And I have to admit, this is the reason I've kept hidden from you for a little while.

About a month and a half ago, I--with some trepidation--went on a blind date. I had been on a series of bad dates over the past few months, so I really wasn't expecting anything.

I could never have been more wrong.

My friend, S___, called me and told me that I needed to call this girl that she knew. After some minor arm twisting, I called her and left a message.

It was your standard first call message. Nothing too involved. Just a little joke about her outgoing message followed by "S___ suggested I give you a call. Call me back when you get a chance."

The next day she did. And the conversation flowed like a river.

After an hour, I finally said, "So, would you like to get drinks on Friday?" She accepted and we made plans. Nothing involved. Nothing committing. Nothing intimidating. Just a meet and greet. An opportunity to see if we found one another attractive and could keep the flow at the next level.

And did we ever.

When she walked in that Friday, I was amazed. Gorgeous blond locks. Skin beautiful as porcelain. A smile that lit up the entire place.

And those eyes. Those amazing blue eyes. She looked at me and those pools of clear blue water were simply mesmerizing.

The time flew.

My friends and I scheduled dinner later that night for the post-date wrap-up, but pulling myself away from her was clearly going to be a challenge. Our face-to-face conversation was just as amazing as our pre-date conversation. I really didn't want to leave.

And there was the fact that she nursed the same beer for two hours.

But alas, I had plans. And I learned that the first date really shouldn't be more than two hours. The hard way. A few weeks prior. Like I said, a series of bad dates...

So, I left, drunk on this woman of such amazing potential.

When I met my friends for dinner that night, I immediately got the question: "So, how was it?" The only words I could muster in response were, "She's incredible." And then my cautious nature stepped in and I added, "But let's see what happens on the second date."

***

I strategically called her the next Monday. Valentine's Day was Wednesday and I didn't want to get too close to that with someone I had just met, I was leaving town at the end of the next week, and I didn't want her to think I didn't have anything to do on the weekend. Just enough time to create anticipation, but not enough to forget about me.

Yeah. I'm a planner. Unfortunately, there were a series of events that put a wrinkle into the plans, but hey...I'm an adapter too.

This time I caught her at home. We had the obligatory small chat and then I broke out with it: "Listen, I had a really good time with you on Friday, but here's the deal. I'm getting sick [I was...it was awful], my car's in the shop [it was...it was expensive], and I'm leaving town in the middle of this week for the entire weekend [I did...it was unbreakable]. But I really would like to get together again. Is it okay if we do something next week?"

"Sure," she said, "that sounds great."

"Fantastic," I reply, "I'll give you a call next week."

And then, even though this conversation could have ended there, it didn't. Once again we talked for another hour and a half.

Like I said. Flowed like a river.

On Valentine's Day, despite my friends protestations to send flowers (friends, mind you, who don't have normal relationships...so not exactly people I look too for dating advice), I sent her a text. Something small to let her know I was thinking about her on Valentine's Day, but something that minimized the day. And, as you know, I'm not a fan of Hallmark-dictated romance anyway.

She responded in kind. It expressed interest, but wasn't overbearing, sweet, but not desperate, funny, but didn't look like she was trying. Yep. It was the perfect email.

That next Sunday, I was on my drive back from my trip and I called her up.

"Hey there!"

"Hi!," she exclaimed, clearly happy to hear from me.

Once again we started with the obligatory small talk, but then I moved in.

"Look, I know we talked about getting together this week. Are you busy Wednesday?"

"No, I think Wednesday will work for me."

"Great," I said. "You may remember I mentioned I have tickets to that traveling Vegas show. Well, that's on Wednesday. And I can't think of anyone I'd rather take than you."

She accepted. To tell you something about this lady, when I mentioned I was a little tired as I was driving, she stayed on the phone with me, keeping me talking for two hours, so that I would be awake. She told me later that she enjoyed the conversation, but that's the kind of thoughtfulness that's just her.

To make an already long story shorter, it was an enchanting second date. There was flowers (note that they were at an appropriate time), hand holding, laughing, and a little polite kiss goodnight. All in all, it was storybook.

And since that night, things have developed fabulously.

***

I've always wondered if something was wrong with me. My female friends (of which there are many) often say, "Guys are like parking spaces. All the good ones are taken or handicapped." And having been terminally single, I just figured I was a "special" space. As in, permit special.

Over the past month and a half, I realized how wrong I was. I discovered I have things to offer, that someone can think of me with the same admiration, amazement, longing and sweetness with which I think of them. I've discovered I can have that romantic connection I see between so many of my friends. The comfort. The thinking in unison. The desire to spend every moment of every day with that person. The sense that, even when you've only been apart for hours, you feel as though you're reunited when you see that person again.

I've discovered that I too am entitled to a good-night kiss.

And I've learned all of this because of the most beautiful, sweet, angelic, amazing woman I've ever met.

I've gotten to enjoy so many things about her. How she's both an amazing woman and a little girl at the same time. How she thinks of me with small things, just to let me know she cares. How she and I both reach for one another's hand whenever we're within five feet of one another. How when I wink at her, she tries to wink back and even though she can't wink, the result is both hilarious and sexy at the same time. How she laughs with her whole body. How she gazes at me when I look at her. How she enjoys spending time, just on a swing. How we just "fit."

So, yeah. I haven't been writing for a good reason indeed.

It's because that list I posted yesterday has changed.

Item 48.

I've had a second. And I've had a first that's loved me back.

100 Things About Me...a retrospective

2007-03-26T06:57:00.000-05:00

A while back, I put together a list of 100 things about myself for my friend Julia. Then, I didn't quite feel comfortable sharing that list publicly. But I recently revisited the list and decided that, in retrospect, I would like to share it with you wonderful folks.

Of course, some of the list has changed...but we'll save that for the next post.

Without further adieu...

1. I've never ridden horseback.
2. I love aviation, but never wanted to be a pilot.
3. I'm very protective of my personal space (e.g. I
have seriously threatened friends to jab them with a
fork for touching food on my plate before I finish
eating).
4. I do not like to be touched...
5. ...except by the right people.
6. When I can't decide, I just buy both.
7. I buy my groceries in pairs.
8. Wholesale is brilliant!
9. I value no attribute higher than honesty...
10. ...other than loyalty.
11. I am deceptively shy.
12. I can't relinquish the remote.
13. I like when people offer decorating suggestions.
14. I hate when people offer "personal improvement"
suggestions.
15. I can't stand when someone asks me to smell
something they know smells bad.
16. I love being by water, but hate to swim.
17. I believe that fairness and justice are more than
just words.
18. I have an extraordinarily short tolerance for
bullshit.
19. I firmly believe that whoever invented little
drink umbrellas was brilliant.
20. I believe that you do catch more flies with
honey than with vinegar, but that doesn't mean that
sometimes drowning the fly with vinegar isn't the best
solution.
21. Of all the Friends, I'm most like Chandler.
22. I can dish it out like a champ, and can take
it...most of the time.
23. I am not at all homophobic, but want to tear the
throat out of people that say that they think I'm gay.
24. I don't drink caffeine.
25. I did well in school, but think anyone that says
I'm anything but an overachiever is full of crap.
26. I think it's a complement when people say they
thought I was older after speaking to me.
27. I think it's a complement when people say they
thought I was younger before speaking to me.
28. I like to make people smile.
29. My favorite song lyrics are the ones that give me
goose pimples when I hear them.
30. I fear the day that I'm not able to talk to my
parents every week.
31. I'm scared of not meeting my own expectations.
32. I hate the word "disappointed."
33. I believe in picking my battles.
34. I've spent years trying to beat people I hate.
35. I spent 12 years being in the limelight, but
really prefer to make other people successful from
behind the scenes.
36. I love dining out.
37. I am 110% pro-Israel.
38. I applied for jobs with the FBI and CIA.
39. I see politics as little more than entertainment,
but never stop hoping it becomes a way for people to
come together.
40. I'm a chocolate addict (like, really, I go
through withdrawal!).
41. I love food that you have to work to eat.
42. I hate to cook, except breakfast.
43. My favorite word is "perseverance."
44. My favorite instrument is the violin.
45. I used to sing for audiences.
46. Now, I only sing for myself.
47. I never told my first love how I felt about her.
48. I never had a second.
49. I don't like most children.
50. I'm afraid I won't be a good parent to my own.
51. I can shuffle poker chips.
52. I am a dead ringer for Kermit the Frog...not the
new voice (that guy sucks), the Jim Henson voice that
I grew up with.
53. I can twirl a pen like a beauty queen can twirl a
baton.
54. Although I have faith in people, I'm disturbingly
quick to write them off.
55. I refuse to be made a fool...
56. ...sometimes to a fault.
57. I don't think I'm good at what I do, and
sometimes wonder if I missed my calling.
58. I know, all to well, the meaning of the word
"trichotillomania"...
59. ...and "depression."
60. I know the lyrics to every Billy Joel song...
61. ...and every line of Casablanca...
62. ...and every episode of the West Wing.
63. I'm a hopeless romantic.
64. I regret not serving in the military.
65. Or having learned how to play a musical
instrument.
66. I LOVE getting e-mail...
67. ...almost as much as I love getting a handwritten
note from someone who just wanted to let me know that
they were thinking about me.
68. I've never thought I had anything to offer a
mate.
69. I have a disturbingly good memory.
70. I hold grudges.
71. I NEVER lecture someone after they apologize;
apologies are hard enough.
72. I've concluded I can't save the world...
73. ...but I can help.
74. I wish I were better at finishing things.
75. I kick ass at turning a phrase.
76. I hate chain letters (where the hell do those
things start anyway?!?).
77. I think someone else is married to my bride.
78. I love dogs, but am afraid to own one.
79. I don't wear jewelry.
80. I'm not comfortable with my body.
81. I love primary colors.
82. I have a love-hate relationship with the gym.
83. I almost never sleep late...
84. ...and hate waking up alone.
85. I make a rockin' omelet.
86. I let people underestimate me, and then relish
proving them wrong.
87. I love to win...
88. ...and will only let someone I really care about
beat me.
89. I can lie to people I care about...
90. ...but never do.
91. I'm exceedingly punctual.
92. And have little tolerance for people that aren't
on time.
93. I hate feet...
94. ...and love eyes.
95. I will go to war for people I love...
96. ...but rarely do so for myself.
97. I believe that those who benefit most have the
most to repay.
98. I will give without the expectation of something
in return.
99. I don't think of myself as an adult...
100. ...and hope I never will.

Please welcome our special guest...

2007-03-02T08:00:00.000-05:00

Last week, I spoke with Alecia about one of her dating experiences. The only words I can use to describe the story are "blog worthy." However, Alecia's fabulous blog theme-based, E-letters, didn't quite lend itself to a complete appreciation of the story. So, in order to get the full effect, I told her that I would be honored if she guest blogged at this little corner of the internet. And, without further adeu, I turn this post over to the fantastic Alecia with an e:

I’ve recently been released into the wild. Vulnerable, and innocent I’ve been thrust into this vast expanse where I’m easy prey for single, available, stupid men. Well, not that easy, let’s not get crazy here. I said they were stupid, not me. I’ll admit, my dating education is sparse. I lack the knowledge of a good date. Then again, I’ve never been treated to a good date. I’ve never actually dated until now. Serious relationships? You got a problem, come to me. I have life issues down pat. But “the dance” as my good friend likes to call it, is beyond me. The games, the manipulation, the toying, the sales pitch, and then the cliff hanger... what? Are we individual marketing firms or are we human beings? I’m not up for it. Leave me out of it. I’ll invest in a dog and a Santa size bag of sex toys. Thank you. What has led me to this weary decision? Date #4.

We’ll call him T. We were given phone numbers through mutual friends, which then led to a couple weeks of calling daily and messaging. We knew what each other looked liked, our conversations were pretty good, I knew a lot about him by the time the date was set up. Or so I thought.

The original plan was for him to come over for a couple hours and just hang out, possibly a movie, though movies are never good for a first date. (Please refrain from comments like, “Why would you have him over to your house on the first date?” I’ve already been lectured about that multiple times by multiple people. Nuff said.) However, that didn’t happen. He instead asked me if I would go to his house so he could cook me dinner. I wasn’t really up for that, and quite honestly, already annoyed with him. Changing plans before we’ve even had the first date cannot be a good sign. But, what did I do? I went. Yes. I went. And I was starving. I didn’t get there until around 9 or so and really thought he’d have dinner pretty much set. Nay. He had just started it, we didn’t eat until around 10 pm. Lame.

While he’s cooking I’m learning things about him. Examples you beg? Okay... let’s start.

First, he’s not that great of a conversationalist, I’m a talker...try to keep up with me. I’m wandering around and my eyes are taking in the site of his apartment. I’m thinking, not to be a materialistic wench but you’re a physical therapist why are you living in a frat house? And a frat house it was. As my eyes fell upon Playboy magazines and cut-outs of naked girls taped to the side of his fridge. Cut-outs. Yes you read correctly so no need to go back and figure those words out twice. He said he was 31 but that’s still out for debate. He laughed at things that weren’t funny and didn’t laugh at things that were. However, all this was just mildly amusing to me at this point.

I walked over to his movie collection. He had an entire row dedicated to Tom Cruise. You heard me. So I look back and say to him, “Oh, I see I have some competition.” Blank stare. Okay...moving on.

Dinner is ready and served to me in a small, shallow bowl. Chicken and rice. Let’s just say that by the time I got home I wanted to eat my face off because I was still hungry. He starts cleaning up from the meal that he considered a glorious creation simply because he used basil. Good job. High five.

As he’s cleaning I notice this bi-fold screen trying to hide a table. I’m like, “T...what’s going on here?”

“Yeah I try to hide that from everyone.”

“Well you’re not hiding it from me.” I poke my face around and what to my wandering eyes should appear?

From end to end is a village built of Legos. I’m speechless. Almost. I think I said, “Why?”

“Well it was all at my mother’s house and she wanted it out.”

“Yeah I can understand why.” I then turn around and with a raised brow expression say,

“Wow...”

He then says to me...straight faced, completely serious, “Yeah...it’s a pretty amazing spread.”

In fear that I was going to completely bust a gut in this guy’s face I had to quickly turn around so he couldn’t see my face. I then just looked up at this ceiling for a bit and he goes, ‘What?”

“Oh, I was just looking for the glow in the dark stick on stars.” He didn’t think that was funny either.

The date did not improve. He wanted to watch a movie and I mistakenly let him pick it out. He managed to pick out the worst movie ever made. “Super Troopers’... what? That’s not a date movie. Ever. At least for me. However I thought that since it was a date he would at least sit next to me on the couch and perhaps we could talk whilst watching. WRONG. He sat in the designated guy chair and didn’t pay any attention to me for a solid 2 hours or so. Except for when he’d look at me and say a line of the movie right before the character did. For real? Stop it. I know. I still can’t believe it.

The movie ended and he looked at me and goes, “Okay.” like... "Okay, get the hell out.” So I’m like, “Okay.” Gather my things and head out.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Really? Please don’t.

“Okay.”

“Text me when you get home so I know you get in okay.”

“Okay.” Fair enough. I can do that.

I drive the 25 minutes back home and let him know that I’m safe and sound. Meanwhile I’m still in my car. As I’m walking into my apartment all I can think about is the fact that I do not want him to call me the next day. So I send him another text:

“Yeah I gotta say, I don’t think this dating thing is going to work out for you and me.”

He writes back:

“I’d have to say I agree.”

Aaahhahaha. I’ve not heard from him since.

Worst. date. ever.

I immediately called my host here and spewed this story to him. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh so hard. In the aftermath, this story has become entertainment fodder for many so I thought I should at least write about it. Thanks to BA for letting me share it on his blog.

~Alecia (with an E)

No Alecia, thank YOU...

Sittin' on the dock of the bay...

2007-02-23T15:21:00.000-05:00

It's February, I've taken the afternoon off work and I'm sitting on my porch, listening to iTunes and blogging in 75 degree weather. Did I mention I love living in Florida?

Start your jealous/hateful/envious comments now...

Apparently, I'm it.

2007-02-15T08:11:00.000-05:00

I'm going to go to Chicago and beat Kevin senseless with his own dismembered arms.

He tagged me.

Grrrrr....

So, now, according to the rules, I have to write a meme about describing six strange facts about myself and then tagging six over people in their comment section of their own blogs.

At least it doesn't have to be something I haven't blogged about before.

OK, here goes...

6. I have a very mild version of a disorder called trichotillomania. Now, while this may sound like some crazy phobia, it's not. It is a disorder related to obsessive compulsive disorder that compels a person to pull out their own hair. I've written about it before here.

5. I am a bit of an insomniac. Since I wrote about this last night... Well, you get the idea.

4. I sleep on one side of my bed. Wrote about that one here.

3. I constantly add numbers I see in sequence until I come to a single digit. Let me give you an example. Let's say I saw a clock with, oh...let's say 8:27 on it. Well, I would add those digits together to get 17 (8+2+7=17), then I would add those digits together to get 8 (1+7=8). I have no idea why I do this, but I do. If I start to talk to people that aren't there, say like a roommate that doesn't exist, a little girl, and a government official, call someone.

2. I know the entire movie Casablanca by heart. In fact, I own the video, the DVD and the script. Although it was going to be a post some other time, the name of this blog actually comes from the following line in Casablanca:

Major Strasser: You give him credit for too much cleverness. My impression is that he's just another blundering American.
Captain Renault: We musn't underestimate American blundering. I was with them when they blundered into Berlin in 1918.

1. I am a natural extrovert who had forced himself to become an introvert. Don't ask my why this happened. Honestly, it's about three different posts that I'm not really even ready to start writing. It will suffice to say this: I used to be the star, now I'm content to be behind the scenes.

Ok...so who to tag... I'll go with Neil, Liz, Sass, Tracy, Alecia...yeah, sorry, I can't come up with a sixth. Sorry guys...Kevin made me do it. Blame him... I have.

Seen any good movies?

2007-02-15T08:00:00.000-05:00

I have.

Written, directed, and produced by the fabulous Liz Rizzo of Everyday Goddess fame, I think you'll agree, she brings down the Hammer.

Check it out for yourself at http://films.thelot.com/films/2542

I still find it amazing that I have fellow bloggers that, unlike me, have actual talent.

Tonight's Insomnia-Inspired Discoveries

2007-02-15T04:34:00.000-05:00

1. Noise-reducing headphones may be absurdly expensive, but actually work.

2. Paper towels can be a short-time substitute, but are no long term replacement, for Kleenex.

3. Reading blogs at 4 a.m. is pretty similar to reading them at a normal hour. Commenting, however, not so much.

4. A disturbing number of people leave AIM on all night.

5. Spam is delivered at all hours. Which makes sense, since it's probably coming from Europe, Australia or Nigeria.

So, what exactly IS Valentine's Day...

2007-02-14T07:00:00.000-05:00

Although I generally try to be nice about it, I have always had trouble "celebrating" Valentine's Day. First, being Jewish, I have an issue with celebrating the martyrdom of a Catholic saint. Yes, I know, the holiday has become quite secular and is now a mere opportunity to let someone you care about know that you care about them. Well, that brings me to my second issue: I don't think I need a calender to read February 14th to let a woman I care about know that I care about her.

I think it's much more romantic to let her know that for no reason at all.

But all these candy hearts and Valentine's Day gift ideas got me thinking about who the heck St. Valentine was. Well, here's some of the stuff I found:

From Wikipedia:

According to the Catholic Encyclopedia, the saint whose feast was celebrated on the day now known as St. Valentine's day was possibly one of three martyred men named Valentinus who lived in the late third century, during the reign of Emperor Claudius II (died 270):

a priest in Rome
a bishop of Interamna (modern Terni)
a martyr in the Roman province of Africa
The very brief vita of St Valentine has him refusing to deny Christ before the "Emperor Claudius" in the year 280. Before his head was cut off, this Valentine restored sight and hearing to the daughter of his jailer.

A panty-dropping story if I've ever read one... Anyway, a more romantic version from The History Channel:

One legend contends that Valentine was a priest who served during the third century in Rome. When Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men -- his crop of potential soldiers. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the decree, defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. When Valentine's actions were discovered, Claudius ordered that he be put to death.
Other stories suggest that Valentine may have been killed for attempting to help Christians escape harsh Roman prisons where they were often beaten and tortured.

According to one legend, Valentine actually sent the first 'valentine' greeting himself. While in prison, it is believed that Valentine fell in love with a young girl -- who may have been his jailor's daughter -- who visited him during his confinement. Before his death, it is alleged that he wrote her a letter, which he signed 'From your Valentine,' an expression that is still in use today. Although the truth behind the Valentine legends is murky, the stories certainly emphasize his appeal as a sympathetic, heroic, and, most importantly, romantic figure. It's no surprise that by the Middle Ages, Valentine was one of the most popular saints in England and France.

Basically, nobody actually knows...apparently Catholic holidays don't emphasize the symbolic underpinnings of the holiday.

Well, I know that this holiday has taken on a life of its own. So, selling out my kvetching session for the lovely ladies who occasionally visit this blog, I keep a tradition alive and offer you the following poem by e.e. cummings, especially to the wonderful woman who introduced me to this poem:

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

Happy Valentine's day!

Playing to the fringes...

2007-01-21T02:20:00.000-05:00

While I was sitting awake, my insomnia kicking in, trying to get back into my most recent Chuck Palahniuk book, Diary (so far, eh...), I noticed something. Something that even I recognize as odd about myself. And if you've been visiting here often, you know that odd is normal for me. But I digress. Okay, here it is: Even though I have a queen-sized bed, I sleep almost exclusively on one side, the right side.

I don't know why I do this. It's not as though I've ever truly share this bed with anyone. Sure, my alarm clock is on the side I sleep on, making it easier for me to smack the snooze button in the morning, but is that really a reason to abandon a full side of my bed? Have I neglected the left side of my bed? Is the reason for my insomnia some type of jealousy, where the left side of my bed has conspired with the right side to wake me in the middle of the night unless I share the love with the left? Is there some type of bed-related politics where my bed is telling me that my campaign for sleep has passed the primaries, and, after initially campaigning to the fringe, I now need to refocus on the center? Have I unfairly written off the left side, wrongly and hastily concluding that its tree-hugging ways would be less comfortable and familiar as the right? Am I a right-side snob, or worst yet, a left-side bigot?

The other strange thing I've realized is that, for some reason, I relinquish pillows to the unused side of my bed. Now, I'm a guy, so I don't have "decoration pillows," a phenomenon deserving of a post all on its own. No. I have four pillows on my bed and they are all what I will dub "utility pillows." In other words, each of these four pillows is useful for more than decorative purposes. Two are those funky bean pillows in sham cases, the type that mold to the head to give the neck constant support. The other two are full and soft cushy pillows, the kind that support the head and double as something to hug while sleeping (note the earlier reference to not actually sharing my bed...).

But strangely, two of these pillows, one bean sham and one white cushy, spend their time predominately unused, residing on the lonely left side of my bed. Occasionally, I'll grab one and bring it to the right side for the night. But, it feels like I'm just borrowing it, as though I were borrowing a yard tool from a neighbor, taking it temporarily from its left side home for a short job and then returning it, sometimes later than I should have. And in the morning, the first thing I do is return it to the left side and fluff it back to its original cushyness.

And there those two pillows sit. Either happily or lonely on the unused left side of my bed.

Maybe I should change my strategy. Maybe I should move more to the left. Maybe I will discover that I'm really a centrist sleeper and that my bed has been trying to tell me something all along.

Eh, screw it. I'm too tired to do anything different.

Days of future past...

2007-01-20T10:00:00.000-05:00

The other night I was out at a bar with one of my friends and a few of her friends. When a couple of her friends showed up with an attractive, albeit less than brilliant, girl, I took the opportunity to practice my flirting skills. I knew that it wasn't going anywhere, but figured that it was as good a way to pass the time as anything else that evening. And that belief was confirmed when I learned this girl was more than a decade my junior.

My friend was rather merciless in her later criticism since I had spent so much time talking to a girl who, as she said, "has no more than three brain cells that are constantly at war with one another." Certainly, this girl wasn't a genius by any means, and one of the most attractive qualities I find in a woman is a sharp intellect.

However, as I talked to this girl, I was fascinated by something about her, although I couldn't figure out what it was at the time. Only later did it occur to me that what I found so intriguing about talking to this girl was that in a very real way, this girl had her entire life ahead of her.

As a young adult, who has chosen my career path and likely will stay in the same profession or something related to it for the rest of my life, I take that part of my life for granted. I'm always going to either practice law or engage in some related profession. I'm always going to have things related to work and I'm always going to have to travel on vacations.

However, this girl hadn't made that choice yet. She wasn't tied down by her job, her professional development, and, most importantly, her bills. She has all these hopes and dreams and plans that she was---or at least believed she was---on the cusp of fulfilling. She had places she wanted to see, things she wanted to do, concepts she wanted to learn, people she wanted to meet.

And for someone who sometimes feels they spend each morning heading to the salt mines, in many ways, this was refreshing. Listening to this girl's anticipation and joy when considering her life ahead was a feeling I had forgotten and her excitement was almost contagious.

So, while this flirtatious conversation may have made me the butt of my friend's jokes, I really didn't care. This conversation was worthwhile, even if it was just the pleasantness of seeing a part of myself I've lost in someone else, and even it was in someone I'll probably never speak to again.

A quiet new year...

2007-01-05T20:50:00.000-05:00

I awoke on January 1st of this year to my first of a number of phone calls. The first sounded something like this:

Friend A: "Dude! You awake?"

Me: "Uh....yeah, yeah, I think so."

Friend A: "Oh my G-d! What a crazy night!"

Me: "Oh yeah?"

Friend A: "Yeah, I got totally hammered and you're never going to believe who I woke up with this morning!"

Me: "Uh, your girlfriend?"

Friend A: "Try again..."

Me: "Whoa."

Then I got this call:

Friend B: "I wasn't very good last night."

Me: "I think I just had this conversation."

Friend B: "I don't know what you mean."

Me: "Never mind. Go on. You were being bad..."

Friend B: "Yeah, guess who I didn't have sex with last night."

Me: "Well, you aren't in the same city as me, so I'm pretty sure I'm not on that list."

Friend B: "No smartass! Guess who I almost had sex with, but didn't."

Me: "Um...maybe you should just tell me the story..."

Then this call:

Friend C: "Geez..."

Me: "Geez what?"

Friend C: "I thought she'd never leave."

Me: "So, you had a good time with the New Year's date, eh?"

Friend C: "Yeah, until this morning and she decided to monopolize my bathroom."

Me: "Did everyone have oysters at their New Year's parties or something?"

It seemed that I was the only person on the planet who didn't get lucky on New Year's Eve.

I've spent a lot of New Year's Eve's out, but, perhaps because, as a teen, my parents never let me leave the house because they were concerned that the unnamed, unfaced drinkers were taking the opportunity to use a holiday to get smashed and hop behind the wheel, I was used to staying home. And this New Year's, when it became evident most of my friends were partying out of town, I decided to revert to my old ways. I figured it would be a quiet night at home, lying in bed, reading a book I had promised I would finish. I didn't think my phone would ring.

And I certainly didn't expect that it would be Alecia.

For Alecia, New Year's Eve isn't about renewal and resolutions. It's haunting. And it's painful. Two years ago, Alecia's mother and her mother's boyfriend were viciously and savagely attacked by a drug addict, beaten within an inch of their lives.

And, from her window, Alecia saw it all. Her body frozen as her eyes were unable to comprehend the sheer horror she was witnessing.

So, for her, New Year's isn't a time where she looks forward. It's a time where she's forced to look back.

And it's not something anyone would want to see.

Knowing this and knowing that she had spent the evening with her family, when Alecia called, I didn't know what to expect.

"I just left my family. When I left, my mom hugged me. For a really long time. And then she said, 'I love you' in a different way then she usually does."

"Yeah, I can understand that."

Alecia had just gotten home and decided that she just wanted to get ready for bed and wake up in the new year.

But with this beginning to our conversation, I thought we'd start talking about two years ago, but we didn't. We just talked. Talked like we had so many times before, two friends just talking and laughing. She was lying in her bed. I was lying in mine. She was dishing out her sass. I was responding in kind with my incendiary irreverence. We were thousands of miles away from one another, but here we were, having pillow talk. Even though we couldn't see one another, we knew we were both smiling.

And, in a strange way, it felt like I was there with her. Just there. If she needed me.

Honestly, it was one of the most memorable New Year's Eves I had ever had.

I guess I was pretty lucky after all.

I'd be merry, but I'm Hebrew...

2006-12-25T09:49:00.000-05:00

Is that what he meant by Super Ego?

2006-12-19T20:19:00.001-05:00

I was chatting with my good friend, Alecia, who is quite the blogger/letter-writer in her own right. Lately, we've been discussing her social life issues, since they are so much more exciting in a don't-want-to-look-but-can't-turn-away-from-the-twenty-car-pileup sort of way than anything going on in my life. So, in an attempt at cultural humor and to let her know that I understood the layers that make up a woman's deepest thoughts, I attempted to reference a sometimes-quoted line from Titanic. I meant to say, "A woman's heart is like a deep ocean..."

Here's what I actually said:

ba: modern day philosopher, the old lady from titanic once said ...

ba: "a woman's heart is like a dead ocean"

ba: "deep"

ba: whoa...that was WAY too freudian

alecia: yikes

ba: yeah, you can see what my social life has been like lately

Sometimes a cigar...

Is Mistletoe a Christmas olive branch?

2006-12-17T09:06:00.000-05:00

I woke up earlier this Sunday morning than I should have and started catching up on my blog-reading. When I came across this post from Neil's blog, which is always entertaining (no talking penis this time, but entertaining nonetheless), I read this line, "It DOES bother me that most of the complainers about the 'War on Christmas' come from conservative commentators such as Bill O’Reilly and John Gibson." Add CNN's Lou Dobbs to that list of the profoundly stupid...

First of all, correct me if I'm wrong, but don't we have a real war going on? And doesn't it diminish that little conflict in Iraq to use the retarded phrase, "War on Christmas?" It's not like people are laying roadside bombs because someone said "Happy Holidays."

And the more I think about this "War on Christmas" thing, the more I begin to feel like it's really thinly veiled Antisemitism. These aren't people who are pissed off about "political correctness" for Kwanzaa or some Islamic holiday (since there isn't really one right now) or because a Hindu doesn't have anything exciting to do this season. These are people who don't want to have to accommodate their speech because it may not be respectful of Jews, who are celebrating an entirely different holiday at this time.

And these "news commentators" aim to create stupid issues like this to drive wedges between people, to make people--not only different--but disrespectful of those differences. As though, because someone is different, it's an assault on who they are, and, therefore, by saying Happy Holidays, someone is not being respectful, but rather is giving up who they are for who I am.

And, none of that is even remotely true.

When someone says, "Happy Holidays" to me or "Happy Hanukkah," I appreciate it. When I see one of those screens they flash on TV with "Happy Hanukkah," I'm touched that they thought enough about my holidays, even though I'm in the considerable minority, to say something nice like that.

But, I'm not an idiot. I know me and "my peeps" are just 2% of the population. So, when I get a "Merry Christmas," I don't get bent out of shape. I just smile and say, "You too."

"Oh, and, you can pack those Hanukkah candles in a plastic bag."

Denial ain't just a river...

2006-12-13T21:53:00.000-05:00

This week I've watched a considerable amount of news about Iran's Holocaust Denial Conference. Frankly, I've found it intriguing. And after viewing the diverse views espoused by such respected professionals as David Duke and Adolf Ahmadinejad in an open forum that was so thoughtful as to exclude any historian or Holocaust survivor, I've had to reconsider my views. That's right, searching the recesses of my mind, my upbringing and my history, I've had to reconsider.

And I've come to the conclusion that I've been duped.

And so have you.

That's right, we've all been led to believe in a so-called "historical event" of which there is no real proof.

You and I have been duped into believing this:

That there were earthquakes in Iran.

I know, I know. This flies in the face of years of inculcated information. But, take a second and consider the following questions:

Have you ever experienced an earthquake in Iran?

If you haven't, then how do you know they really exist?

If you believe you have, can you be sure it was an earthquake? How do you know it wasn't something else, like, oh, let's say an underground nuclear weapons test?

Sure, we've all read the articles, from the media outlets, the New York Times, the BBC, the Jerusalem Post---there was an "earthquake" in 1990 where 35,000 people "supposedly" died, that there was another so-called "earthquake" in December 2003 that claimed more than 15,000 so-called "victims."

But who's to say that this wasn't just part of the well-known Iranian media conspiracy? Who's to say these "facts" of recorded history haven't been blown out of proportion?

Sure, there may have been some shaking or something and maybe some people were injured, probably like 10-15 or so, but those reported casualty numbers are so big, they just can't be true. Geology just can't be that cruel.

So, here's the real reason. Iran has always been looking for world sympathy, a way to justify its existence, since it was just "given" to the Iranian people at the fall of the Ottoman Empire. These "earthquakes" are it. They create worldwide sympathy for the supposed victims and lead to masses of foreign aid---even from the Iranian entity's sworn enemies. In fact, if it wasn't for the brainwashed pro-Iranian U.S. Congress, the Iranian entity wouldn't even exist today!

Oh yes, we have been fooled. Fooled by Iran's desire to coddle world opinion. Fooled by our sympathy for people in need. Fooled by our belief in the "truth" of history and geology.

And, I, as one truly enlightened person, simply will not be fooled anymore.

There have never been earthquakes in Iran.

It's beginning to feel a lot like time to hit the iPod...

2006-12-11T20:16:00.000-05:00

I realize that most people would have me drawn and quartered for this, but here's the thing.

I hate Christmas music.

It's not that I hate Christmas. Although I do feel bad for religious Christians who have had Hallmark destroy what was once an actual religious holiday, I'm really ambivalent about the holiday.

I like the lights.

Well, the white and red ones.

The rainbow colored ones, however...sorry. Gaudy.

But the red lights and the white lights, very pretty.

I like the giving nature of the season, although I wonder why the other 11 months don't matter.

I even like It's a Wonderful Life, although I don't know why Jimmy Stewart doesn't learn his lesson after seeing what his life is like without him every single year.

But the music, the fucking music, drives me batty.

It's not that I'm Jewish. I mean, my mother's Jewish and she can't get enough of the Christmas music. In fact, if I go home for the holidays, it's more likely that I'll hear the music in our Jewish home than anywhere else.

And it's obviously not that I'm a Scrooge. Like I said before, I kind of like the season.

So, today, I started thinking about why I have this viseral reaction to Christmas music and this is what I came up with. It's The Gap's fault.

When I was in high school, I worked for The Gap for two years. That annoying kid who would welcome you to the store and immediately address your needs or remember the last time you were there and what you bought, yeah, that was me. One of the side benefits of a disturbingly good memory. The reason you got "greeted" wasn't just because the company (that's what we called it, "the company" -- very 1984, I know) wanted you to feel comfortable in the store, it was because the likelihood of a properly greeted shop lifter continuing to shop lift was exponentially smaller. At least according to "The Company."

It was a good job and, frankly, I still own clothes I bought while I worked for the company. The discount was wicked good. To this day, I still feel bad paying full price for anything in the store.

However, during "Holiday"---which is what The Company calls it---everyone's schedule increased. I worked an ungodly number of hours then. And the whole time, the whole fucking time, that stupid ass Christmas music tape would blast through the speaker system over and over and over.

Nothing, and I mean nothing can ruin you forever for Christmas music than hearing it every damn day, all day, for over a month.

No one was happier for the 26th.

Reality bites...

2006-11-19T21:24:00.000-05:00

I was going to write about those mundane things that make Sass ask me to contribute to her Carnival, but today, my mind is elsewhere. And for good reason.

I've struggled with my share of mild to clinical depression. I think most people in my age group have.

When I was in college, the world seemed to be my oyster. I could do anything, be anything I wanted. But when reality set it and the mundane world of a "job" took over, I felt trapped. Very trapped.

And sad. Very sad.

I just expected more than the daily grind.

More from my job. More from myself.

It took a while, but eventually, after discussing it with many, I realized I wasn't alone. Life just didn't meet the expectations of so many people.

And that's when I stopped being depressed about work and started looking at other things for fulfillment.

And ironically, that's when things at work started to fall into place.

But I remember those days well. How hard it was to get out of bed every morning. How impossible it was to be happy when I was so overwhelmingly depressed inside. How it seemed like my soul, my love for life, was dying a little with each passing day.

So, this week, when I found out that a family member of mine was struggling with clinical depression, it took me back to those feelings. Unlike so many times when I hear of someone's problems, I know just how she feels.

I just hope she knows I love her very much and wish with every part of my heart that she feels like herself again soon.

I watch movie. Is nice...

2006-11-05T19:33:00.000-05:00

I have often used this little corner of the internet to warn others of movies that are little more than a waste of two hours. However, every once in a while I see a movie that I, not only like, but would encourage other people to see. Borat was one of those movies.

If you've been living in a hole, Borat is one of Sasha Baron Cohen's characters from Da Ali G Show. Cohen, who is Jewish, plays a vehemently anti-Semitic reporter from the former Soviet province of Kazakhstan who comes to the United States to film a documentary about the differences between the countries. In reality, Cohen uses Borat to, not only display his comic brilliance, but our own ignorance of other cultures and the thinly veiled xenophobia that continues to curse our culture. The movie is comic satire at its best.

A warning is necessary. I watched a number of parts of this movie through my fingers, so embarrassed for Cohen's victims that I almost didn't watch their responses, but I couldn't bear not to. I had the feeling that I get when I watch Steve Carrell in The Office, multiplied exponentially. This movie is not for the faint of heart. Unless you entirely lack sensibilities, you'll be offended and shocked on a number of occasions. The only way I can describe the feeling is that it must have been what the audience felt when they watched "Springtime for Hitler" in The Producers.

Of course, Borat takes one aspect of Jewish humor to an extreme. Making fun of Antisemitism is nothing new for Jews. It's a cottage industry of Jewish humor that has been indulged in by Mel Brooks for years, subtly used to incredible success by Jerry Seinfeld, and more obviously used by Larry David. But what made Borat different was that, while I was laughing hilariously at Cohen's actions in the Southern city I live in, I was wondering what was going through the heads of the obviously gentile audience I was watching it with. Sure, Cohen is extreme, but does this kind of virulent Antisemitism resonate with some of these people? In other words, is everyone here in on the joke?

I got my answer the next night. I went out with a friend visiting from another city and, when he designated himself as the driver, I got absolutely hammered. And I had a blast doing it. We went to a local bar/dance club for 80's night and, frankly, I had more fun than I've had out in quite some time.

At 2 a.m., the club closed and we, along with a large group of other people, were asked to leave. I've never understood the logic of kicking a bunch of drunk people out on the street at the same time, but that's neither here nor there. As I was walking out of the bar, my friend was advertising that he and I went to the rival school (probably not brilliant, but he's a little crazy and I was drunk). After hearing we went to a rival school, a girl then said to me, "Yeah, well, you're probably Jewish too."

I instantly started to press her.

"Oh? And what if I was? What would that mean? Why would that matter?"

She didn't respond.

I kept pressing. "You said it. Why would that matter? What do you mean by that?"

When she refused to respond to me again, I started yelling at her (and yes, this clearly was the alcohol), "Zeig Heil, you Antisemitic bitch!"

While I was too sloshed to notice, at some point, she or one of her friends put gum in my friend's hair, which he took out and put in her friend's hair.

Yeah, I don't know enough about that to really write about the details, but I think you get the idea.

Today, while I was nursing my hangover, I couldn't help but think back to what I thought when I saw Borat. How would this girl respond to that movie? Would she realize that it was a Jewish comedian satirizing the absurdity of her own deep-seeded illogical hatred? Or would she see it as a more extreme view of the right perspective?

Honestly, I'm disappointed to admit that I think it would be the later.

What disappoints me most is that I don't think she's alone.

And there's nothing funny about that.

More of the Wonderful World of Home Ownership

2006-11-01T18:53:00.000-05:00

A few months ago, I heard stories of people getting sticker shock from their property taxes. When I got my preliminary tax bill, I thought, "Okay, it's a little high, but nothing out of control."

And then today, I got the actual tax bill.

Not only did it exceed my escrow, but it was over four times more than what the preliminary bill said.

So, to my county tax collector, I ask this question:

What the fuck????

So instead of paying my taxes and insurance out of the escrow I've been paying all year, I'll be dipping into savings and hoping I get it back on my tax return.

Whoever the new governor is, he better provide some tax relief.

The Switch...

2006-10-30T18:20:00.001-05:00

For those who are expecting a Seinfeld-ish story about how I switched from a girl I'm dating to her really cute roommate, I'm sorry to disappoint. But then again, if you've been reading long, you would know that my utter lack of game would preclude such a story anyway.

No, no. This switch is not nearly as exciting, but to me, exciting nonetheless.

After annoying the crap out of Kevin with questions, this weekend I got a Mac.

I've held off from posting on this topic because, frankly, I didn't know how much I would like it. I thought that my desire to get a Mac might be a blinded perception that I really didn't want one, but that my iPod had convinced me that life simply must be easier than dealing with a PC. Indeed, I half expected that I would return it within a few days.

But I haven't.

Instead, in the past two days, I've fallen in love.

I bought a Macbook Pro laptop last week, but didn't receive it until Saturday. At first, I thought it was going back. When I wouldn't let it restart after installing a load of upgrades (from the original version of the operating system), it freaked out a bit. Then, there was an issue with the keyboard that was apparently left over from that upgrade.

But after that, it was easier than...well, maybe that's an analogy I should avoid.

Sure, I had problems with getting my PC to "share" files over my home network. I also had some issues getting Open Office (yes, I refuse to dish more money over to Microsoft if I'm making the switch) to work with my old Wordperfect files. But it's hard to blame Apple for those issues. Their software worked seemlessly. My PC, however, was less cooperative.

What's been keeping me from the "switch?" Well, two things. First, until recently, I've been a gamer. Lately, I haven't really had time for it, but through high school and college, I loved computer games. In fact, the poor gaming selection has been the reason I've avoided Macs for as long as I have. But lately, I haven't really had time for games and, honestly, haven't had the same interest. Sure, every once in a while I like to get my fix, but I don't feel the need to have beaten the newest game the second it comes out, like I once did. So, a little time on the Xbox (yeah, I know it's Microsoft, but I love Splinter Cell), and I get my fix. And if I want to get made fun of online by 15 year-olds, I just log into my Xbox Live account. So, that's no longer an issue...well, now that the second issue is also resolved.

Second, like a kid clutching his security blanket, I simply couldn't deal with the prospect of not having Windows. Like I was in an eternal Catch-22, I hated dealing with the instability and "crap" that came with Windows, but the familiarity with it kept me there. I had too much software with Windows to entirely give up on it.

There was one other thing, that I would be remiss to mention: The right mouse button. Since Windows 95, I loved my right mouse button. I loved how, if I wanted to know everything and anything I could do at any point, that menu was just a right click away. I didn't need to memorize keyboard shortcuts. I just clicked. And the folks at the Apple store's answer was "just press the open apple button." Honestly, that wasn't a very satisfying answer for me. When you use your mouse, you don't want to have to touch the keyboard.

But I got tired and annoyed with waiting for my PC to shut down. Dealing with the programs that forced their way into my system tray. Cursing as I got an error message that I didn't know what it meant or how to fix it. And the answer that I got from my friends who were more knowledgeable about PCs than me (which, by the way, is pretty damn knowledgable), was unacceptable: "Just format your hard drive and reinstall everything."

No.

Software is supposed to work for me. I'm not supposed to work for it.

So the "It just works" philosophy that I experienced with iTunes and my iPod resonated with me. And when games became less important and I learned about Bootcamp, the Apple software that lets a Mac run Windows as well (or possibly better) than a PC, would let me clutch my blankie, I started looking, seriously, at a Mac.

And now, two days in, I really do love it.

Wireless networking. Easy with Airport. Working with a PC. No problem (from the Apple side). Learning OS X. Less than 2 hours and I felt like an expert.

It really does "just work."

And how I've longed for a computer that does.

But here's the real kicker.

I didn't even have to give up my right mouse button.

Apparently, a "right click" is as easy and putting two fingers on the touchpad and clicking the mouse button. Who knew? Although I don't know why they didn't know that at the Apple store.

So, so far, I'm beaming.

I've even thought about putting one of those Apple stickers on my car.

Maybe I will if I continue to like it this much.

But let's not get crazy just yet.

But I will make this really big step...

Why I don't watch baseball...

2006-10-23T13:30:00.000-05:00

With one exception, I've stopped watching baseball.

The exception being, when I'm bored, I like to watch Florida Marlins games. But really, that's because I was there for the birth of the team and will probably be there when they leave Florida for a place that will help fund a retractable roof stadium. But that's a different issue.

But, other than that, I don't watch baseball.

The reason is, I just don't see a need anymore.

Like so many other people, I was attracted back to the sport after the strike by the home run contest between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. Then, I wanted to know if Barry Bonds would shatter that record by hitting 73 home runs in a season.

I admit it. It was exciting.

Until I realized that it was all bullshit.

When the Sultan of Swat, Babe Ruth, hit 60, he wasn't visiting Balco. When Roger Maris, every man's slugger, hit 61, he wasn't on the cream and the clear. When Hammerin' Hank Aaron slugged 755 home runs over 22 glorious seasons, he wasn't injecting himself with Human Growth Hormone.

But that's what baseball is now.

It's not about seeing how the players of today match up with the achievements of the past. It's not about history meeting present. It's not about love of the game.

It's about cheating.

Sure, we've all seen Exhibit A: Watching Barry Bonds blow up like a Goodyear blimp with muscle from his 20's to his 40's. But take a look at Exhibit B: Kenny Rogers.

Kenny Rogers was the starting pitcher for the Detroit Tigers in last night's Game 2 of the World Series. After players complained of the "abnormal" flight of the balls he was pitching, Kenny was discovered to have a "substance"---a likely illegal substance---on his hand, he wasn't disqualified. He was asked by an umpire to "do [the umpire] a favor" and "wash it off." Later, Rogers said it was "dirt."

So instead of being thrown out on his keaster, he went right back to pitching.

ESPN then began searching old game film from the playoffs. Apparently, Mr. Rogers's neighborhood is close to an oil rig, because that same substance appeared in not one, not two, but at least FOUR different game films.

So, in the face of this probable cause, in the face of yet another embarassing scandel, in the face of another player who is shaming the game loved by our parents and grandparents, what did Major League Baseball do?

Nothing.

That's right. Nothing.

They put on their blinders and let yet another player cheat.

They told all the kids who were watching this game, "It's ok to cheat. It's even ok to get caught. Just lie about it and everyone will cover it if it's important enough."

I've come to expect it from Congress and corporate America, but now is it so bad that the American game can just be a home of rampant cheaters?

Well, now that I think about it, maybe that's where Congress and corporate America learned the tricks of the trade.

Either way, that's why I don't watch baseball.

I hate Auburn

2006-10-14T22:16:00.000-05:00

I had what I hoped would be an interesting post to write. Something moderately witty that I hoped you would have enjoyed.

But now I don't feel like writing it very much.

In fact, only two words come to mind:

Fuck Auburn.

I'll be back when I can think of something else.

...I Am A Jew.

2006-10-10T18:53:00.000-05:00

I was at Yom Kippur services last week, asking for forgiveness for skipping the second day of Rosh Hashanah services. Since I'm not allowed to eat all day, I usually stick around for the whole service. Near the end of the service is a part of the service called martyrology.

Martyrology is the part of the service where Jews remember the people who were killed for no reason other than being a Jew. While much of the service at the conservative synagogue that I attend is in Hebrew (half the time I have to look at the translation, but it just feels more religious for some reason), the martyrology service is not. In fact, much of it is stories and poetry.

For example, one story is one that many Jewish kids learn in hebrew school, that post-school school I suffered through on Tuesdays and Thursdays that screwed me out of being able to play any sports. That story is about Hannah and her seven sons. To give you the gist of the story, Hannah and six of her sons are killed, one at a time, when they each refuse to bow down to a king, because only G-d can be bowed to in the Jewish faith (and even then, Jews only bow to the ground once a year, on Yom Kippur). After killing Hannah and her six sons, the king, presumably in a sense of mercy, tells the youngest son that he will drop something on the floor and the youngest son can simply pick it up, making it look that he has bowed before the king and sparing his life. Yet, the youngest son refuses. Rather, he decides that it is more important that people not get the impression that he will bow before anyone other than G-d, even at the expense of his life.

Hearing it for the first time, the story is a powerful one, but after hearing it all your life, you become a bit desensitized to it. Particularly because it seems so far off, with a story that is so inapplicable to living in a democratic country, where there aren't all-powerful kings and instantaneous death sentences.

But the martyrology service doesn't just tell old stories, it tells of one of the most significant recent events in the Jewish cultural zeitgeist: the Holocaust. There's a recitation of the death camps and a remembrance of those lost.

But this year, something stuck out at me. It was a poem written by an anonymous author and found engraved in the wall of a ghetto. It said:
I believe in the sun, even when it's not shining.
I believe in love, even when I don't feel it.
I believe in God, even when He's silent.

What was so different for me about this poem was that it wasn't an event I couldn't relate to. It was the Holocaust. It wasn't even a generation ago. And there are people who are still alive who suffered unimaginable horrors in it.

So, as I imagine it does with many Jews, its an event that resonates with me. But I can't help but think of the Holocaust as something in the past, even though it was the recent past. So, I didn't really consider what it was to be a martyr after I heard the shofar blow ending Yom Kippur.

Until today.

Today is Daniel Pearl's birthday.

Daniel Pearl was a journalist and he was Jewish.

In 2002, when Daniel Pearl went to the Pakistan to report on the war for the Wall Street Journal, he was kidnapped and likely tortured. Before his captors murdered him by beheading him while he was still alive, they videotaped him saying the following: "My name is Daniel Pearl. I'm a Jewish-American. My father is Jewish. My mother is Jewish. I am a Jew."

And that's what's so strange. Daniel Pearl wasn't even a religious Jew. In fact, if you had asked him, Daniel Pearl would probably have rated being Jewish pretty low on the list of things that identify him.

Yet, he was viciously murdered for no reason other than his religious culture by ignorant savages who blamed him, and me, for all the world's ills.

Like all real martyrs, he was a reluctant one.

No, that's too much. Actually, he didn't even want to be one.

But, now, he is.

And the fact that he is a martyr, rather than a journalist, father and husband are the things that test belief.

Yet, it would be so much better not to have to believe in the face of such deafening silence.

In Memoriam of Peter J. Carroll, 42

2006-09-11T07:46:00.000-05:00

This post is part of the 2,996 Project originated by D.C. Roe. (The tributes are mirrored here.)

To any of Mr. Carroll's family members who may read this, this story is based on information I was able to gather from September 11th information on the internet. While I included as many confirmed facts as I could, I used dramatic license based on publicly available information and your published descriptions of Mr. Carroll to fill in any gaps. I hope you believe I did Mr. Carroll justice. It's what a hero deserves. -B.A.

Pete Carroll was at the firehouse for Squad 1 at Brooklyn's Park Slope on a temperate, clear September 11th when the alarm bell rang. Pete was always the joker, keeping the other guys laughing with his jokes and impressions and, before the alarm went off, today was no different. Pete had just finished one of his signature stories and the guys thought this story, like so many of his others, was just hilarious.

But when the alarm went off, everything changed.

Pete became a different person when the fire alarm bell rang. The humor melted away like ice in an inferno.

"Okay boys, time to get to work," Pete said matter of factly.

When the fire bell rang, the firehouse, much like Pete, changed. The usually relaxed atmosphere transformed into an organized chaos. While anyone not familiar with the rush of firemen to their station may not be able to make sense of the static activity, to the trained observer it was a symphony, a symphony of sights and sounds of everyday heroism.

Pete not only took his part in the symphony, but seemed to lead it, as one of the first to grab and equip his gear and make his way to the fire engine.

And while Pete was all business, he was concerned. It was just before nine o'clock and Pete hadn't called his wife, ToniAnn, yet this morning.

Pete called ToniAnn almost every morning, often just to tell her that he loved her. Pete and ToniAnn were recently married, but had their own Brady Bunch. Between them, they had six children from previous marriages. Pete had four: Nicole, Michael, Peter, and Christopher. And ToniAnn had two: Anthony and Dana. And ToniAnn's children loved Pete like a father.

Pete and ToniAnn had spent much of the past ten months together, because Pete simply couldn't bear to leave ToniAnn's side. ToniAnn had been diagnosed with a rare nerve disorder, fybromyalgia, and with her chronic fatigue syndrome, at times, she was simply too weak to move.

Pete wouldn't have it. He would pick ToniAnn up and carry her from room to room, anywhere she wanted to go. Pete would carry her to the ends of the Earth if she wanted him to, but she never asked for that. Being together was all they both needed.

And when ToniAnn was hungry, Pete happily cooked her favorite steak dinner to help her gain back the weight she had lost to her illness. And when ToniAnn cried because she couldn't bear the pain, Pete cried along with her.

As hard that it was for ToniAnn and Pete, it was easier for them to deal with because they had each other. So that was why Pete always called ToniAnn, just to make sure she knew how important having her was to him.

But, as concerned as he was, Pete couldn't call ToniAnn right now. He had work to do.

"Come on boys, let's go!," Pete encouraged as his slower, but still rushing brothers in arms made their way to the engine.

And in a blink of an eye, the red lights were flashing, the siren was blaring, and Squad 1 was on their way.

Their destination: The World Trade Center.

***

"Oh my goodness," Pete said aloud, unaware that he had said anything at all. Pete's head was tilted back in a way he had witnessed many tourists look at the city. His eyes were transfixed on the tallest buildings in southern Manhatten, the Twin Towers. For the first time he had could remember they were smoking. They were both smoking. Spouting smoke like giant Roman candles, as if they were part of some perverse fireworks show.

Again, to himself but unknowingly aloud, Pete said, "We've got to save those people."

As Squad 1's engine approached the foot of the complex, a mass of people watching this surreal scene parted for the engine to park. And as the engine approached, it joined a chorus of police and fire sirens and a lightshow of red and blue lights.

As Pete stepped off the engine, he felt something light hit is face. Then he felt it again. And again.

Pete looked up and saw snowflakes raining down under the perfectly blue sky. A perfectly blue sky except for the smoke coming from the towers.

How could it be snowing?

Then Pete realized, it wasn't snow at all. It was paper. Flakes of paper. Flakes of paper snowing down from the towers and flicking him in the face as they made their way to the ground.

Pete ran. With seventy pounds of gear, Pete ran like people's lives depended on it. Because he knew they did.

Pete ran right into the South Tower lobby.

Once he was in the lobby, Pete ran to the stairwell, and there he began helping people down the stairs.

And there he stayed.

"You gotta get out," his radio crakled.

But he ignored it. There were too many people. Too many people who needed help. A scared woman. An older man who needed assistance.

Pete was there. Helping them. Helping them all. One after the next. Ignoring any warnings from his radio, as time faded into nothingness, Pete helped anyone and everyone he could.

As he was helping an old woman down the stairs, Pete heard a rumbling. At first he thought it was an earthquake, but then he realized it wasn't coming from the ground. It was coming from above.

And it was coming quickly.

And Pete thought to himself, I hope the kids know how proud I am of them and ToniAnn and the kids know just how much I love them.

***

As most of us stopped, to see the fire in the sky,
you were in the trucks, passing us by.

As the unthinkable horror, makes us shed a tear,
you entered the building, in your rescue gear.

As we sat in panic, praying for no more
you were climbing stairs, floor by floor.

We sat confused, awed, and in strife
you were looking, hoping, and praying for life.

As the building came down, we feared you would too.
But God gave you wings, and instead you flew.

Yakko goes to the other "Sunshine" state...

2006-08-30T19:09:00.000-05:00

Last week I was pleased to discover that I was taking a business trip to California. Although I was initially disappointed that I would have to take this trip alone, I was happy to have a traveling companion, Yakko Warner.

You see, Yakko and I go pretty far back. Much like Yakko, I am also an oldest child. Also like Yakko, I have a younger brother, who's crazy (but in a good way) and a baby sister, who's just damn cute. And most importantly, like Yakko, I'm sarcastic enough that people can't decide whether it's more appropriate to laugh or smack me in the head.

Yes, Yakko and I are quite the duo.

So I was quite pleased to learn that he would join me on my trip to San Francisco.

That is, of course, until I remembered just how much of a ham he really is.

Here he is on the plane in Florida:

Of course, he wouldn't shut up the entire way to California. He told me about how he and his sibs used were put in the WB water tower in the 1930's, about how he met Steven Spielberg, about how he helped Einstein discover the theory of relativity by singing the "Acme" song backwards ("The E comes last, the m comes next, the c we're almost done, the a that's last...uh, that a looks like a 2").

Yeah, I know Yakko, I watched the show.

Geez, I thought he wouldn't shut up.

I was so relieved when we finally got to San Francisco:

Of course, Yakko immediately noted that this wasn't "his part" of California, but commented, "It is San Francisco, so I'll make dew." Ugh...again with the puns Yakko?

I checked into the hotel and Yakko decided it was a great opportunity to relax and put his feet up.

After all, traveling can be grueling for cartoons.

After a long day of traveling, I wanted to head to sleep, but Yakko wanted to stay up. Thankfully, there weren't any pay-per-view movies on the hotel receipt when I checked out, particularly the pay-by-the-minute kind. The bosses aren't too happy about those.

I should have guessed that he would be a pain in the ass the next morning when it was time to get up.

So then, we headed off to court. With some coaxing, Yakko decided that sitting on the Judge's bench while I made a court appearance probably wasn't appropriate, even for him.

I guess contempt of court can even persuade cartoons to be on their best behavior.

After court, we went back to my hotel room and while I checked out, Yakko got some California rays on the front of the rental car.

Hey, Avis never said you can't lay out on the vehicle!

So, instead of wandering around aimlessly in San Fran while we waited for the redeye home, Yakko persuaded me to take a drive and visit PostModern Sass, who recently moved to nearby San Jose.

Sass was busy with the new job, so Yakko and I entertained ourself in San Jose, seeing some of the sites.

We visited The Fairmont:

"Why doesn't work put you up in digs like this?"

Just gut the wound, why don't you?

We visited the Museum of Art:

(note the little red circle at the toe of the statue)

And Yakko showed the California bear just who's boss:

After Yakko had his way with the bear, we headed over to Gordon Biersch, Sass's new Banknote, to meet up with Sass.

Sass ordered Yakko a drink and Yakko was more than happy to oblige:

Much more than happy:

Of course, he only passes out when the check gets to the table...

And when we get outside, he's wide awake to get attention from the ladies:

"Heeeelllloooo NURSE!"

After his libations and female attention, Yakko was pretty rejuvenated, so much so that he went to check out Sass's new super chic apartment complex.

He spent some time soaking in the fountain:

And playing an old English favorite:

"Why no, that's not a croquet mallet in my pocket."

Geez, Yakko, is that really necessary?

Yakko was so rejuvenated, he decided to put together Sass's desk:

He's much more useful around the house than I am.

So when Sass said, "What else of San Jose do you want to see?"

Yakko chimed up with, "We don't have Safeway in Florida!"

Yeah, well, we don't have earthquakes either, but I don't want to experience one while I'm here.

But since Sass was hungry and sans vehicle since getting to the States and Yakko was up for a unique California grocery experience, I was outvoted. And I have to admit, Yakko was pretty happy when we got there:

Particularly when he found the beer section:

No, Yakko, TSA won't let us take liquids on the plane home.

"No problem! It'll be gone before we get on the plane!"

Geez, didn't you have enough at GB? Lush.

Yep, Yakko was so happy at Safeway, particularly with the alcohol selection, he even joined the membership club:

But then it was time to go. We wished Sass the best on her new home and headed back to San Fran, where Yakko and I were shocked by the prices at SFO's airport restaurants:

"Wheel of Morality, turn, turn, turn, tell us the lesson that we must learn. Today's lesson: Morally Bankrupt."

So with less in my pocket than when we went to eat, Yakko and I caught the redeye home. And you simply can't take a redeye without a neck pillow:

Would have been nice if he hadn't hogged it the whole time.

"No pain, no gainy..."

Keep it up and this might be the last time I take you anywhere.

Do we have our priorities up-fucked?

2006-08-25T07:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Ms. Perrson,

Can I call you Cecilia? Great.

There was once a ship that attempted to sail between our two countries that didn't exactly make the voyage. Perhaps you've heard of the little boat. It was called the Titanic. Now, one of the stories of the Titanic, and indeed one of its greatest ironies, was that while this ship was sinking, after having its side ripped off from an iceberg, the musicians were playing classical music, pretty much until the end. Some people have found this quite noble, believing that it calmed the passengers. I, however, have always thought that even the greatest composer would find it almost impossible to stop a full-fledged panic, like that likely to come over me as I die drowning in freezing ocean water. So, basically, I subscribe to the opinion that musicians playing on the Titanic was slightly more useful than polishing the brass as the ship was going down.

Which brings me to my point.

I understand that things must be difficult out there in Boomerang, finding appropriate programming for children. And, goodness knows that in today's world, finding anything appropriate for children can be a challenge. The cartoon reels that you have in your files are probably from periods of time with humor that simply isn't funny anymore, as it is, rightfully, considered offensive and generally inappropriate for children.

So, imagine my surprise at reading this article this week. Evidently, you've determined that Tom and Jerry episodes which "glamorize" tobacco products might have a negative impact on children.

Let me begin by saying, I am no friend of tobacco products. I've never had one and anticipate that I never will. I find the smell of cigarettes disgusting in every sense of the word. I can't stand next to people who have just smoked, and I've actually refused to date a rather attractive girl because she smoked. Simply, I believe the less smokers there are, the better.

However, I would be remiss if I failed to acknowledge my concerns with your position here. You see Cecilia, I believe the reason you are objecting to tobacco products on Tom and Jerry is because, well, I think you are concerned that children may...and call me crazy for thinking this...emulate what they see on a cartoon.

I know, I know. I too am shocked by this Cecilia, but honestly, it appears to be the only premise from which your tobacco cartoon ban appears to have spawned. But you, yourself have stated that Tom and Jerry smoking "could be seen as glamorizing smoking." The only way I can see this to be the case is that you anticipate children to emulate this activity.

And, you see Cecilia, this is where I have a problem. Now, don't get me wrong, I think getting rid of Tom and Jerry smoking scenes is probably not a bad thing. However, if you are so deeply troubled by children emulating scenes from Tom and Jerry, I can only ask why you haven't directed your efforts to, well, for example, this:

Now Cecilia, as a Southerner and a gun owner, I of all people understand the importance that some Americans place on their Second Amendment rights. However, I'm inclined to think that Tom pointing a firearm at not one, but two, other living beings (which, as gun owners know means he's made a decision to kill them) is, well, less than ideal firearm responsibility.

But perhaps firearm responsibility, or lack thereof, isn't your bag. After all, you are on the other side of the pond where the cops carry whistles and sticks. So, let's look at a different example:

I'll grant you that it's possible that Tom could simply have a toothache and is being helped to keep his mouth open by that little yellow bird. Indeed, Jerry may be investigating with that rather painful looking hammer in an effort to relieve Tom of his obvious pain. Of course, Jerry may just be waiting for an opportunity to clobber Tom too.

So let's try a different example:

Again, I'm sure you'd tell me that it is certainly a possibility that Tom isn't thinking of kicking the crap out of this little mouse. I must confess, it's possible that Tom may be daintily placing the mouse on the windowsill. However, that awkward angle of Tom's foot and his winked eye, in an effort to aim, makes me somewhat doubtful of that explanation.

Okay, let's look try yet again:

While this may look a bit bad, I'm sure you would tell me that Tom could simply be taking care of his friend Jerry's place while Jerry is in the Poconos or Cancun or something. Sure, Tom could be concerned, but I'm inclined to think that a cage, three mouse traps, two fox traps, a spring gun and an axe trap may be a bit of, excuse the pun, overkill.

So let's shift the subject a little. I'm sure people who would consider this frame offensive are just being "oversensitive":

After all, how many Pacific Islanders are there in Great Britain? Four, five? So, surely their opinions aren't all that important. And I bet they'd be pretty touched to see a mouse dressed this way.

And, of course, I must bring your attention to this:

Now, I know what you're going to say Cecilia. You never see Mamie's face, so how could anyone be offended or claim that Mamie is perpetrating a blatantly racist stereotype? I can see how you might find it perplexing how a faceless black woman with a large chest and ass in slippers and an apron could be seen as offensive. I guess people who felt that way were probably also just being sensitive.

Cecilia, I must confess, I grew up watching Tom and Jerry cartoons. Frankly, I found them genuinely funny as a child. And despite watching them, I never became a smoker; I certainly don't consider myself racist or to harbor any other type of discrimination; I'm not at all violent with other people (well, with the exception of some well-planned sibling torture, but let's just ignore that shall we?). Other than the somewhat disturbing things you may learn about me in the archives to the left, I consider myself a relatively well-balanced individual. And, although I was entertained by Tom and Jerry, I didn't spend my life emulating them.

But if you're going to engage in censorship of cartoons from another era under the auspices that children will learn the wrong things from them or emulate the activities within them, I ask you this: Is "glamorizing" smoking really the biggest problem, or is banning smoking scenes in Tom and Jerry just polishing the brass banister on the Titanic?

Yours truly,

Blundering American

P.S. Tell Tony, "Yo Blair" for me!

Yes, this is a repost of what I posted on the 22nd. It didn't get much front page time and I didn't have the compelling desire to write anything else. If you didn't catch it the first time, I hope you like it, I reposted for you! If you did, don't worry, I have a feeling something new is coming soon...

Blogger Appreciation Day

2006-08-24T07:30:00.000-05:00

A good idea is a good idea. No two ways about it. I'm going to break a few rules though. So, with that caveat, here's to a few folks that I try to stop by each day:

The man who started the holiday...

The wonderful woman who started me blogging, and in case you're wondering, she's even more beautiful than she is talented, which is saying a lot. Even though she's not around the blogosphere anymore, I wish she'd clean those damn parasitic ads off her site...

One of my first and favorite morning stops who reminds me of the guys I hung out with in college... Starting your day with prehistoric porn, that's just damn funny...

Sometimes you need a little Sass, sometimes you need a lot. And when you need a lot, you can be sure there are a lot of links...

Where I learn more of what the fairer sex thinks...(although the country music, I'll never understand)

Where I get my cultural taste for the day (and yes, that girl in the I heart Ha'shem shirt is extremely hot)...

Where I realize there are people just as fucked up as me...

Where I get my gossip fix...

Where I go to be inspired...

Where I've been stopping by lately, because, well, I just want to know what she would do...

Happy Blogger Appreciation Day!!!

UPDATE: Sweet, I'm appreciated!!! Thanks Kevin!!!

I am Jack's elusive REM

2006-08-15T23:24:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite authors, Chuck Palahnuik, said in best in one of my favorite books, "With insomnia nothing's real. Everything is far away. Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy."

Lately, I've been having trouble falling asleep. I've been hiting the Tylenol PM bottle when this problem is accompanied by a headache, and that seems to do the trick. But since I am sans headache tonight, I decided to try to get some natural sleep. And, well kids, here I am. Typing away atwhat is, for me on a work night, an ungodly hour.

Of course, the problem with insomnia, besides that observed by Palahnuik, is that I then begin to think about why I have insomnia, which only keeps me awake. Thinking.

Mental note: Stop thinking.

Damn.

Well, I give up. I'm going to read Lullaby. Maybe that will do the trick.

Yeah, a book about a poem that kills those who hear it. That'll definitely work.

Of course, if I'm not awake in the next eight hours, call someone...

A post war story everyone can enjoy...

2006-08-15T19:00:00.000-05:00

This is one of the best news stories I've seen out of the Israel-Hezbollah war (thanks to Bangitout):

Breast implants saves woman after Hezbollah attack
Aug 15 8:07 AM US/Eastern

One Israeli woman has received an unexpected boost from her breast implants during the Lebanon war -- the silicone embeds saved her life during a Hezbollah rocket attack, a doctor said.

"This is an extraordinary case, but it's a fact that the silicone implants prevented her from a more serious and deeper wound," Jacky Govrin, of the hospital in Nahariya that treated the woman, told army radio Tuesday.

"The young woman went through surgery two years ago to have a larger chest," he said. "During the war she was wounded in the chest by shrapnel" that got stuck in the implants instead of penetrating further.

The woman did not emerge from her ordeal completely unscathed, however.

"The shrapnel was removed but the implant had to be replaced," Govrin said.
Of course, this will be next week's article:

Israeli Women Contribute to Post-War Effort By Getting Implants
Aug 22 8:07 AM ET/US

After one woman's life was saved by her breast implants, Israeli women everywhere are going to their plastic surgeons, not just to make their men happy, but as their patriotic duty.

"I just finished my IDF service, and I figured implants were the most natural way to defend myself and my country," said one woman, who then added, "okay, maybe not the most natural."

Another woman, who is actually in the IDF explained her reasoning, "Body armour is only so dependable. If Hezbollah attacks again, I want all the protection I can get, and if it happens to turn some of the hot soliders' heads, so be it."

While men all over the country are rushing to plastic surgeons to protect their mates from any future rocket attacks, the reaction among the male members of the IDF is mixed on the new "defense measures." Most of them approve overwhelmingly. As one male solider stated, "Are you kidding?!?! I can't wait to see those girls in uniform! With those guns, I won't ever look at a shiksa again!"

But at least one male solider expressed some reservations. "I'm more of an ass and leg man," he said, "Personally, I was more interested in having women soliders cut their uniforms into low riders."

Just watch, it's only a matter of time...

Blundering Through Israel - Epilogue

2006-08-07T20:03:00.000-05:00

While I was in the middle of this series, I was asked, as someone who just spent some time in Israel, to write about Israel's war with Hezbollah. But, besides not wanting to interrupt the flow of the series (except for the need to warn about that horrible M. Night Shamylan movie), I didn't really know how to begin to discuss it.

Until last Sunday.

Sunday I was visiting friends from my Israel trip and, since I left their phone numbers at home, I called my roommate from Israel and left a message asking him to call me back.

Until last weekend, I had been a CNN addict since the beginning of the Hezbollah war. I watched intently, concerned about my family and friends in Israel, concerned about the people and places I had just seen, concerned about the homeland I love.

But this weekend, the news got away from me. I had spent a lot of time traveling and, frankly, the iPod's more entertaining on a long drive than NPR (except the Car Guys and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me, those kick ass).

So, when my roommate called me back, I was a bit surprised when he said, "I know why you called me."

"What are you fucking psychic?"

"Dude, I can't believe it either."

"Uh, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Haven't you been watching the news?"

"No. I've been out of town. Shit. What happened?"

"Did you see that Katushas fell and killed 12 Israelis?"

"No. Shit. Where did that happen?"

"Yeah. This is the worst part.... Kfar Giladi."

Kfar Giladi is a kibbutz kilometers away from the Lebanese border. One of the businesses the kibbutz runs is a hotel. It was that hotel where we spent our first two nights in Israel. And it was where my roommate and I met and forged our incredibly strong friendship.

I spent half of the reunion lunch I was having with people on my trip that day discussing the surreal feeling of having just been in Kfar Giladi, Sfadt, and the Golan Heights. And how, now, everyone there is listening to air raid sirens and making their way to bomb shelters.

And, honestly, I didn't know if being home in the states was really where I wanted to be.

Since I've gotten back, a number of people have made comments to me like, "Wow, you just got out of there in time." And, yes, it is clearly safer here than it is in Nothern Israel. But, in a strange way, I feel powerless here.

Don't get me wrong. I'm well aware of the fact that if I were over there, I'd be, not only powerless, but, other than my debatable blogging skills, pretty much useless. But the feeling is a feeling from my heart, not a feeling from my head.

And any comfort I'd be to my friends and family in Israel would be overwhelmingly countered by how scared my own family would be.

But it doesn't change the emotional attachment I have to that little country on the Mediterranean.

To more directly answer the question, I think the fighting is, as it is every time, a tragedy. The fact that Israel's neighbors simply will not accept its legitimacy and its right to exist is incredibly unfortunate. The fact that organizations like Hezbollah, dedicated not to settling disagreements or resolving disputes over land, but to the complete and total annihilation of Israel and the Jews that live there, not only continue to exist, but to thrive, is appalling. The fact that these terrorist thugs use innocent Lebanese civilians as shields for their weapons and themselves in the hopes of creating pictures that will turn public opinion against Israel at the expense of their own people is disgusting. And the fact that these murderous zealots are not only allowed to exist and occupy Southern Lebanon, but remain a part of a supposedly democratic government nauseates me.

I wonder if these events would have been avoidable. What if Israel had continued its buffer zone in Lebanon? What if the UN had actually taken the steps to disarm Hezbollah and demilitarize southern Lebanon that it should have? What if we had dealt with the real imminent threats in the Middle East, Syria and Iran, rather than Iraq, and eliminated the shadow supporters of this war against Hezbollah?

But, despite the media shift against Israel (much of which has been the result of media manipulation), I don't think Israel's reaction has been inappropriate. The fact remains that when we had our own passenger planes used as missiles against us in New York and Virginia, I didn't want a "proportional response," whatever the hell that means. I didn't want three of the perpetrators' strategic targets taken out. I wanted fire and brimstone. I wanted the perpetrators to think that the fury of G-d was being brought down upon them. I wanted the perpetrators to sleep more scared than the families of the victims, fearing that each moment could be their last and knowing that it was the United States that would decide when they would meet their maker. And above all, I wanted a clear message to anyone that would even consider anything like 9/11 again, if you try to attack us, you will feel our pain one-hundred fold.

And this was one coordinated attack against the United States.

Israel, however, is the only country that is surrounded by neighbors who want it destroyed and who will seize (and have seized) any opportunity, any perceived weakness, to attack. And, what you can't tell by reading the news, is just how close, how incredibly close, those people are to where Israelis live and work every single day. Frankly, it's like living in Manhattan and having hostile governments and terrorists living in and firing rockets from across the river in New Jersey.

So, yes, I believe that Israel's reaction has been appropriate. Entirely appropriate. And, just as I would expect the United States to protect me with overwhelming force if Mexico or Canada or Cuba were firing missiles at where I live, I believe Israel is entirely justified in doing the same thing with Hezbollah.

Certainly, I feel for Lebanese civilians. Lebanon, like the vast majority of Middle Eastern governments, has a populace of brainwashed, uneducated masses. Rather than have real debates about their political direction and invest in the betterment of their own people, to answer their people's questions about why their lives are so difficult these leaders point to Israel the United States and say, "You are the blessed ones. You are the ones honored by Allah. Why do the Jews and the Americans live so much better than you? Because they are infidels. Because they are the cause of your problems. Because they are holding you down and suppressing Allah's true will."

And rather than, at minimum, question or, at most, revolt against their own corrupt and woefully deficient leadership, rather than recognize the better lives of their neighbors are the result of valuing education and implementation of democratic institutions, they buy what their "leaders" are selling them, hook, line, and sinker, support their zenophobic agendas, and even electing these demagogues into their governments.

And they keep these hate-mongers in charge. These demagogues continue to use their people as pawns, to keep them ignorant, and to direct their anger outward, so they won't take the time to look in their own mirrors.

And, when these hate-mongers attack Israel or the United States, they use their own people as human shields, indiscriminately ignoring the inherent value of human life in order to exploit them to enrage their own ignorant masses and to sway world opinion. And when they die in disproportionate numbers, the hate-mongers point their finger again, conveniently ignoring that they placed these people in front of a loaded weapon to being with.

So, I feel for the Lebanese people. I genuinely do. I wish that they would look inward, question the general premises that are forced upon them, ask whether having Hezbollah, not only on their Southern border, but in their government is truly in their interest, and truly explore whether their neighbor to their south should be demonized and labeled as a threat or simply acknowledged as people who just want to live their lives in peace and let them do so as well.

So I will always, always feel that Hezbollah is solely responsible for what is happening now. And I will continue to see the blood of innocent Israelis and Lebanese on Hezbollah's hands.

Blundering Through Israel - Part X - July 5, 2006

2006-08-07T19:00:00.000-05:00

Yes, I know it's been a month to get this whole trip blogged. I couldn't overwhelm you crazy kids all at once, could I?

Continued from Part IX

We have concluded our trip with a wonderful time in Tel Aviv and while I have enjoyed my first time in Tel Aviv, I wanted to revisit something I said earlier.

Early on, I discussed how I had hoped my first trip to Israel would be the opportunity to make friends that I would have my entire life and, how, at the end of that month, I was disappointed. I didn't connect with anyone and, while I loved my time in Israel, it was, in essence, a rather lonely and isolating experience.

That led me to a resolution on this trip, one that probably sounded a bit rude and selfish. Namely, that this trip was for me. Just me. And if I made some friends along the way, fabulous. If I didn't, no biggie. I was going to enjoy this time for myself and myself alone.

How wrong I was.

Recollecting her experience, one of my friends wrote that meeting people on this trip was like meeting them in dog years, it was a seven to one ratio.

And she was right and wrong. Right in that, as if we had traveled near the speed of light, time really did slow down and my relationships with so many of the friends I made on this trip evolved much more quickly than they did with people I've known in other contexts. Wrong in the ratio. Within these ten days, I've met people that I feel like I've known for my entire life. And even though I haven't, I certainly know I'm going to know for the rest of my life. Some because we call one another whenever something happens overseas. Some because we call one another whenever we're in town. And some, very special ones, who we call whenever we want someone to talk to.

And, as you read early on, this was not the way I anticipated things would end up. After my first Israel experience, I didn't think I'd see any of these people againe. But now, I'm talking to them, with calendar in hand, looking for the opportunity to see one another again. I call them when we are in different terminals of the airport, just to tell them that I miss them already.

So, while so much of this trip was building my spirituality and my bond to Israel. It actually built something much more important. Something I've been missing for some time.

It built me a Jewish community.

It's a community of people throughout the state and the nation.

And it's a community that, no matter where I am, is always there for me.

And, perhaps that the real value of this experience. Knowing that there are so many other people like me who are so different. Knowing that we may disagree and have different values and argue like family, but, when it comes down to it, we're there for one another when we really need help.

And that enormous, unbreakable bond extends out of each of us, winding together like tree roots, and extending over the vast oceans to a little country that's smaller than New Jersey and the people who live there.

A little country with a simple blue and white flag with a Magen David in the center, built on blood, sweat, tears, and most importantly, eternal hope.

Some final shots of Eretz Yisrael (transl. "The Land of Israel"). A shot from my balcony in Tel Aviv, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea...

A sign at the Marina in Herzelia, in case you're curious how far it is from Moskow (2620 km) and Tokyo (8000+ km). Just don't ask me how much that is in miles...

Blundering Through Israel - Part IX - July 4, 2006

2006-07-29T13:00:00.000-05:00

Continued from Part VIII

I had hoped to write about something else today. I had hoped to write about the experience that Eretz Yisrael, the Land of Israel, has had on me. I had hoped to write about how, for the first time in my life, I seriously weighed the prospect of making aliah. I had hoped to write about the unique experience of being here on U.S. Independence Day. I had hoped to write about how this experience, and I can only call it an experience, was not just a break from the ultimately unimportant bullshit I deal with on a daily basis, but refreshment of my soul, a reminder that my dedication to Israel genuinely helps people, people I had never met, but who couldn't have been happier to see me.

And above all, I had hoped to write about how, despite my efforts to experience this solely for myself, the people I spent this experience with crept under my initially defensive exterior and genuinely touched my heart.

I had hoped to write about all those things.

But, even here, life intervenes.

I have a number of friends who were hurt by a woman in the past and have allowed it to dictate how they treat women. While I've certainly had my heart ripped out and stomped on until it's a bloody pulp on the floor, I've made a concerted effort never to fall into that trap. While one friend has indicated that the respect with which I treat women is because of my close relationship with the women in my family, I believe that's only one of the reasons. Another one of those reasons is because of an experience I had in college.

One night, I was out with a number of friends at one of those random parties at someone's house that are all too common in college. Among the friends I was with was M____. M____ had been having a hard time with a guy she was seeing and was looking to drown her problems for the night, not surprisingly in alcohol. Copious amounts of alcohol.

M____ spent a considerable amount of time that night hanging on this guy, J____. I had known J____ previously and had had a few discussions with him, often about the random bullshit that guys usually talk about. So, while M____ was clearly inebriated, she seemed happy, having what seemed to be a drunken college night.

I, however, was pretty tired. I had spent most of that day working on a presentation and had only wanted to make an appearance. So, when I was offered the opportunity to leave, I quickly checked on M____, who drunkenly told me she was fine, and left for the evening, hoping to catch up on some much needed rest.

The next day, I called M____ to make sure she got home alright and see if there was any funny story from the night I may have missed.

"Hey M____, how are you? Have you recovered?"

"Um, no."

"Okaaayyy. What exactly does that mean?"

And then the words I'll never forget hearing. Ever.

"J____ raped me last night."

The words tore my heart out of my chest. Once I got over the initial shock and what must have been a good five to ten seconds of silence, I started questioning her about her well-being. While I don't remember much else of the conversation, as I was pulling my jaw up from the floor, I do remember that we spent the next G-d-knows-how-long with me repeatedly asking what I could do for her and her saying "nothing."

Simply stated, I felt incredibly guilty. Incredibly guilty.

I felt like if I hadn't made the decision to leave, if I had properly recognized that M____ had had way too much to drink, if I had been there a little longer, things might have been different.

And I've carried that guilt since that day.

And it's one of the other reasons I treat women the way I do.

Because I remember what it's like to see the scattered shards of a woman who was treated so horribly.

Earlier, I mentioned that I wanted to write about the people I have met on this trip who touched my heart, but am saving it for another day.

That's not entirely true. Today, I'm writing about K____.

K___ and I met on the first day of this trip and it was like we had known each other forever. On every activity, K____ and I were together, cracking jokes, learning from one another, discovering Israel together. To borrow an analogy from Forrest Gump, K___ and I were like peas and carrots. Strangely, even though I was on a trip where I knew no one, thanks to K___, I spent the entire time with one of my closest friends.

Yet, our relationship was plainly platonic. While K___ is absolutely adorable and sweet as sugar, for some reason, we just struck the friend vibe from day one. But it was one of the very rare times that I struck such a strong "friend vibe" with someone that I knew I could let down those defense mechanisms I have spent so many years developing and immediately give her my complete trust.

And, time after time, K___ proved me right.

After our last full night in Israel, I went out with my family friends, realizing that I probably wouldn't see them for years. However, K___ went out with the rest of my group, hitting the Tel Aviv bar scene.

Evidently, it was a crazy night, because at 2 a.m., I was sitting with my Israeli family friends when the parade of taxis began pulling up to the hotel. And with each taxi, the drunken passengers stumbled their way onto the sidewalk and into the hotel.

Each one had a slurred story to share from their evening out, some of which were entirely incomprehensible. But one of my friends said to me, "Dude, K___ is really hammered."

I knew I had to see this.

About fifteen minutes later, I had said my goodbyes to my family friends and walked back to the hotel. Soon thereafter, K___ arrived, with B____, pretty much pulling her out of the taxi.

Yeah, "really hammered" didn't begin to describe that scene.

I ran up to K____ and immediately grabbed her other arm, trying to ensure that she didn't fall onto the ground. She turned her head, brushed her hair from her face and said, "Hey honey!"

As the perennial designated driver, I've seen a lot of drunk people in my days. A lot of drunk people. But something was different. Very different.

When I looked into K___'s eyes before, I could always see her. The real her. The person I knew and trusted and adored. But, when I looked into K___'s eyes at that moment, she wasn't there. Sure, it was her face and her voice, but her eyes were no longer the deep pools to her soul. They were glazed mirrors, reflecting my bewilderment back to me.

And I couldn't figure out why.

Despite this, K____ began having a conversation with some other people from the trip in the hotel lobby, often joking about her inability to stand up straight. Yet, as she wobbled from side-to-side, she continued to hold what appeared to be a drunken, but cogent conversation.

While I was distracted by another one of my friends, B____ and K____ started walking to the elevator. I immediately excused myself and got into the elevator with them.

As B____ pressed the tenth floor, I was searching for a coothful way to try to determine whether or not K____ knew what she was doing, whether she was consenting to what I knew was going to happen. Also at the forefront of my mind was that, although I felt like I knew K____ forever, the fact was that I didn't. I had only known her for this week and, she was a grown woman who I only knew for that amount of time, I couldn't help but think, what right do I have to stop her from doing anything?

When we got to the tenth floor, K____ and B____ walked off the elevator and K___ said, with a giggle, "I don't live here!" Before I could muster the courage to interject, K____ waved back at me and giggled, "Okay! Bye!!!"

As the elevator doors closed, my stomach twisted into a knot I hadn't felt since college.

Disturbed and concerned, I went back to my room, where I learned my presence wasn't welcome due to my roommate's plans that evening.

Ultimately, I ended up at the empty hotel bar until 5 a.m., sipping water like it were vodka, literally worried sick about K_____.

The next day, K____ wasn't at breakfast or at any of the morning activities.

While I tried to tell myself that she was probably fine, when I hadn't heard from her by noon, I called her cellphone.

We had a short, pleasant conversation, but one of those conversations where you each know the other person is holding back. She asked me about my evening and I told her, "Why don't you meet me downstairs and I'll tell you all about it," knowing that I was going to discuss nothing of the sort. Rather, I had decided that I needed to talk to her about the events of the night before and, in order for her to truly understand the concern that led me to raise the issue, we needed to talk face to face.

"Great!," she said, "I'll meet you down there in ten minutes."

I sat down on the hotel patio overlooking the Tel Aviv beach, staring into the beautiful blue water, thinking of how I was going to discuss what happened with K____.

Eventually, she came onto the patio. And before I could utter a word, she looked around and seeing no one, stated, "Someone slipped me a mickey last night!"

My jaw dropped.

When I could muster words, I said, "Then you need to sit down, because we need to talk."

I told her the story about what happened to M___ and college, how it made me feel, and how I always regretted those events. Then I told her that I didn't mean or want to infringe on her decisions or her life, but that I was deeply, deeply concerned about the events of the night before.

Then I asked, "Do you remember talking to me last night?"

"I saw you last night?"

Oh shit.

"Yeah."

"What happened? I don't remember anything."

Then I told her everything. I told her how she came into the hotel, how she had a glassy look in her eyes, how she could barely stand. How I went with her in the elevator. How I wanted to take her, but didn't know if I could or should.

"Then why didn't you take me to my room?!?!"

I heard each word in slow motion. And each syllable struck the center of my chest and pried my heart out of my body.

K___ had just vocalized what I had been agonizingly saying to myself for the past ten hours.

I told K___ that I wanted to, but that I had never seen her drunk and didn't know the difference. I told her that I didn't know if she was making a conscious decisions, but I didn't know that she wasn't either. I told her that I didn't even know what floor her room was on. I told her that, even if she hated me, I wish I had intervened now, but that I couldn't change what happened.

And, in many ways, I wasn't explaining it to her. I was justifying my inaction to myself.

K____ looked out to the same sea I looked at before, her thoughts deep as the water, her blonde locks brushing her face and floating in the ocean breeze.

Accompanied by the sound of crashing waves and never looking away from the water, she told me how she was, for all practical purposes, unconscious that evening. She told me that her only memory after being at the bar was waking up in B____'s room, naked, but not bruised or hurt. She told me that she understood why I didn't take her that night and I had no reason to feel badly. And, most importantly, she told me she was fine, a little embarrassed, but fine.

I told her she had no reason to feel embarrassed. I've come to hate when wrongful actors blame the victim, so much so that it's one of things crawls under my skin like few other things. And I repeated it over and over, hoping that she would truly listen to that point.

And as we sat and stared at the Mediterranean together, watching the foam tops and listening to the sounds of waves crashing, all I wanted her to know was how sorry I was that I wasn't strong enough when she needed me.

And how I promise to be there from now on.

Always.

Sorry, no pictures this time. Sometimes words say enough...

An important interlude...flush the Lady in the Water...

2006-07-27T18:57:00.000-05:00

I've been working on Part IX of Blundering Through Israel when I've been able, but sometimes intervening events require an immediate response. Sometimes people need to be warned of dangers that are lurking.

And so, to sound such an alarm (and distract you from noticing my blogging failures), I offer you this review of the new M. Night Shyamalan movie:

Let me start by stating that I am a fan of Shyamalan's work. I've seen every one of his movies and, even when I've found them predictable, I've enjoyed them.

That streak ended with Lady in Crapper.*

To say that this movie was terrible would be to give it too much credit. The story was muddled, self-involved, and, ultimately, downright dull. Shyamalan gives us a fairy tale/bedtime story, but reveals the parts of that story as he needs more to establish something resembling a plot. Indeed, the "understory," which is presumably supposed to captivate the audience, is less interesting than the actual story of the movie (which is saying a lot). The end result is a confused and resoundingly boring mess.

I also think it's incredibly trite to have the writer/director cast himself as an author whose work will influence the world. Plleeaassee! As Shyamalan recognized in the DVD features of the Sixth Sense, he is not a very good actor. While I appreciate the "director cameo" made famous by Hitchcock, anything more than three lines should be left to those with some semblence of acting talent. He ultimately comes off as self-involved and vain.

And speaking of self-involved, having a movie critic who hates everything wrongly predict his own future based on his knowledge of movies is incredibly trite. I expect more than Scream-type (no offense to Scream, which did a wonderful job of being what it was) entertainment when I lay down $8 for a Shyamalan picture. This character appeared as nothing more than an extended middle finger to movie critics. Critics, by the way, who are quite rightfully lambasting this mass-produced monstrosity.

Furthermore, the directing talent that I have come to expect with Shyamalan's work was entirely vacant. While Shyamalan use of unique camera angles is often used to develop characters and perpetuate the story, here it was as if he was simply searching for opportunities to use these "camera tricks." At times, I felt myself saying, "Just fucking stop and put the camera where it's supposed to be!"

The only redemption for this otherwise disasterous piece of garbage was good (although I would certainly not label them exceptional) performances by two actors, the main character, Cleveland Heep, played by Paul Giamantti, and the water sprite, Story, played by Bryce Dallas Howard. Although the dialogue was sometimes stilted (why can't water sprite's use conjunctions? Don't they have conjunctions in the Blue World or is that something else we're not allowed to know?), those two actors were the only reason to stay in the theatre at all. Because it certainly wasn't the trite, dull, and, ultimately, predictable story.

So if Shyamalan is reading this, feel free to use that link to the left and drop me an email so you can send me my $8 back. My only regret (besides seeing this movie to begin with) is that I can't get back the hour and fifty minutes of my time that you completely wasted.

* Sorry, I can't bring myself to create a link. You'll just have to google it.

Blundering Through Israel - Part VIII - July 3, 2006

2006-07-24T08:13:00.000-05:00

Continued from Part VII

Today was caucus.

In caucus we discuss our experiences, our thoughts, and our personal beliefs, particularly how they have been affected and influenced by our time in Israel. And then we make our financial commitment to Israel for the next year.

If you're wondering what happened in caucus, what I said, what other people said, what my thoughts and recollections were about it, sorry. Not this time.

Some things are better left remembered rather than said.

If your curiosity simply requires more, here are some more pictures. These are from the Dead Sea, which has a 33% salinity. For comparison, ocean water is 7% salt and Salt Lake in Utah is 14% salt. The high concentration of salt and minerals literally forces you to float...

A model of Jerusalem during the Second Temple period. The Second Temple is the tall building surrounded by walls with the rays of sunlight reaching towards it. The retaining wall to the left is the Western Wall today...

A replica of the Dead Sea scrolls...

Totally illegal photos of the actual Dead Sea scrolls (breakin' the law...). The things I do for you crazy kids...

The portion of the museum housing the Dead Sea scrolls. It was constructed with Kabbalistic influence...

One of the sculptures from the sculpture garden...

Jerusalem at dusk...

Shots from our private concert with top Israeli recording artist Idan Raichel...

Our time with the Israeli Bukhari community...

Blundering Through Israel - Part VII - July 2, 2006

2006-07-23T08:50:00.000-05:00

Continued from Part VI

Today was Masada. To anyone who had heard the phrase "snake path," that is all that needs to be said.

For the uninitiated, climbing Masada is the practical equivalent of going to the gym when you really don't want to, but feeling really good and proud of yourself afterward. Times ten thousand. On both ends.

Masada was a city-fortress atop a mountain created by King Herod. In 70 B.C.E., a small group of religious zealots took refuge there after the Romans destroyed the Second Temple. After two years of trying, the Romans seized the fortress by building a ramp to the top on the back of the mountain.

As the Romans breached the defenses, the Jews at Masada made a decision that distinguished them from many other Jews. They decided that, rather than suffer the imminent torture of humiliation of Roman punishment and slavery, they would engage in a mass suicide, dying free.

The 45-minute (45. Yeah. Right.) climb up Masada was bright and early, in order to avoid in the intense summer desert heat.

Climbing Masada is like using a stairmaster. A stairmaster on steroids. Lots of steroids. When you're asleep.

Seriously.

But the physical pain of climbing the mountain is nothing compared to the perplexing questions that confront you at the top.

Masada is more than a national landmark. It is part of the Jewish zeitgeist. The idea of Jews killing themselves rather than facing slavery and humiliation is incredibly romantic to the Jewish community.

But is it really a sign of strength?

One fact brings this issue to the forefront for me: There are no descendents of the Jews of Masada.

Consider the possibility that Jews of the Holocaust simply committed mass suicide rather than suffer the unspeakable atrocities of the concentration and death camps. While some did, the majority did not. And it is the children and children's children of the survivors, those who relied on hope and faith rather than pride and glory, who make up the world's Jewish communities today.

So who is stronger, the person who bears the torture and humiliation in the hope of survival or the person who kills himself, and his yet to be born descendants, to preserve the dignity of avoiding it?

And doesn't a Jew who kills himself complete the goal for the anti-Semite by expediting his work?

Isn't living the real act of resistance?

And if so, aren't the survivors the real martyrs?

If this is the case---if the attempt to live is more honorable than the act of death by one's own hand to avoid humiliation and servitude---then why is Masada a source of pride? Why is Masada so highly revered? Why do entire families go to the top of the mountain to have their bar mitzvot in the ruins of the Masada synagogue? Why did I feel such a connection to the past when I prayed in that same synagogue? Why should we revere those who contradicted not only Jewish law, but the principal Jewish value---any law can be broken to save a life?

And yet we do. We sing songs of our pride in Masada. We tell the story as one of resistance and sacrifice, not one of shame.

Yeah.

With questions like these, that climb seems pretty easy.

Masada from the ground (admittedly a little blurry)...

A model of Herod's Northern Palace...

The view from where it stood today...

Davening morning prayers at the synagogue atop Masada...

The ramp built by the Romans to breach Masada. You can see the Roman encampments at the top and the top right...

A model of the bathhouses...

The bathhouse ruins...

The false floors of the bathhouses...

The Israeli flag, flying atop Masada, as a symbol that it will never again be conquered...

Blundering Through Israel - Part VI - July 1, 2006

2006-07-22T09:56:00.000-05:00

Continued from Part V

While the rest of my group is exploring the Old City of Jerusalem, I've taken the "optional activity" to optionally leave the tour and fulfill an eight year old promise.

The last time I was here was three days after my little brother left. He spent a year in Israel, studying at a university and living on a moshav, which is a village in Israel that contains some communal characteristics, such as a business on the moshav's property.

One of the families on the moshav adopted my brother as one of their own. So, naturally, when I came to Israel, they called me on my cellphone (yes, everyone in Israel has a cellpohone, even tourists), and invited me into their home.

I instantly clicked with everyone. In true Jewish fashion, they stuffed me like a goose and made me feel at home, which was doubly wonderful because on a trip where I didn't have a person I connected with, I found solace with my new Israeli family.

Above all though, was the instantaneous connection I made with G___, one of the sons in the family. He and I were both around the same age and gelled in a way that makes the barriers of oceans surpassable and the barriers of brotherhood extend beyond blood.

I enjoyed teaching the only girl of the family, N____, English, which she immediately told me she was learning when she found out I was from the States. This twelve year-old girl was so sweet and inquisitive; she stole my heart with her absolute adorability.

And her little brother, Y___, with whom I share a Hebrew name, became my adopted baby brother. We went to Cessaria together and he stood between the ancient columns, mocking Sampson who stood there centuries before, in a way only a little boy could do.

And S_____, who also was around my age, was a young man with his whole life ahead of him, on the presapice of doing something great, something I know I would see in time.

Their parents, my new Ema and Abba, took me in as though I was born in their house, spent hours talking with me, even without a fluent knowledge of English, proving the love of family has no language barrier.

But I could never spend Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, with them. My program was centered around Shabbat and the idea of leaving it for any reason was unheard of.

So now, eight years later I was able to fulfill my promise that next time, I would spend Shabbat with them.

And what a Shabbat it was. Once again, Ema and Abba stuffed me like a goose with all types of Israeli goodness. We sat outside, within earshot of the artillary being fired in Gaza, and discussed Israeli and American politics, our Jewish identities and our national differences.

G____ was so different and so identical to how I remember him. He and I continued the many discussions we had about everything the closest of brothers discuss as though they had never stopped. We were simply, truly, totally happy to be talking to each other one-on-one, without instant messaging or telephones between us.

S____ had fulfillled the greatness I knew was in him. He was now the father of a beautiful boy, A____. While I admit I'm partial, A___ happens to be one of the smartest and cutest kids I've ever met. And to see S____ with him, to be in the presence of the sheer, unadulturated, unqualified love that this father eminated to everyone around him was simply breathtaking.

N___, the little girl I taught some English, was a little girl no longer. She had become a beautiful woman. And it took no stretch of the imagination to know that she had stolen the hearts of many men since when she stole mine eight years before.

So too, little Y___ was now a young man. He plated his guitar and exuded talent. We spent hours with my iPod, listening to American music that hadn't made its way to Israel and, with each new discovery, Y___ would say, "Oh! You have to burn a CD of that for me!"

Shabbat is a family holiday in every sense. The holiday is designed to set a time aside for people to spend time with their families and develop the relationships that last forever. When I was younger, my family had Shabbat dinner together and there was no getting out of it. No matter what the reason, for those one or two hours, no one could leave the Shabbat table.

And eventually, no one wanted to leave. It was a time we spent with family, talking to one another about just about everything. And now that my family is in many different parts of the country, we still call each other right before Shabbat to wish each other, "Good Shabbos."

So this Shabbat was both special and familiar. I traveled halfway around the globe to find the same thing I had at home, my family. Nothing could have been more worthwhile.

I found myself looking for any and every opportunity to spend time with them.

While I have pictures from my visit with my Israeli family, I've decided not to post them. Some things just aren't meant to be shared. Hopefully, you'll enjoy these shots of Jerusalem from Mount Scopus instead. And yes, I know the date stamps are a little off...

Blundering Through Israel - Part V - June 30, 2006

2006-07-19T18:57:00.000-05:00

I realize that this part of the world is in turmoil right now, as it has been for many of my past posts. Ultimately, I'll probably post my thoughts about it. But for now, I'm going to complete the series and let the intervening events take their course. That being said...

Continued from Part IV

Whenever I tell someone Jewish that I lived in the Washington, D.C. area, it's just a matter of time before I hear the question, "Did you go to the Holocaust Memorial Museum?" I explain that I have, complement the museum, and then, distinguish it from the Israeli Holocaust Memorial Museum, known as Yad Va'Shem (transl. "Hand of G-d").

While I am moved by the U.S. museum---and I don't want to take anything away from it, because it's not only important, but extraordinarily well done---the museum operates from the proposition that you know little about the Holocaust and educates in exacting detail. Yad Va'Shem, however, begins with the principle that you have some knowledge of the Holocaust and moves on from there. In many ways, Yad Va'Shem is much more visceral, more raw, more internal.

However, this feeling was an eight year old memory for me, because I had never been to the renovated museum at Yad Va'Shem.

But now that I have, that feeling I had from eight years ago is even more true.

Yad Va'Shem is heart-wrenching, fascinating, emotionally exhausting, and extraordinary, all at the same time. While I could tell many stories about it, I'm going to limit myself to two.

The first is about the trees at Yad Va'Shem, which you can see in this picture.

Yad Va'Shem has a number of carob trees on the museum property. Each of these trees is dedicated to a person. Not a benefactor (at least in the traditional sense), but a "Righteous Among the Nations." This title is preserved for individuals (and one country, Denmark) that, for no personal benefit and at the risk of their own lives, save one or more Jews from the hands of the Nazis. Each tree has this Righteous person's name on a plaque in front of it.

But the reason Yad Va'Shem chose carob trees is that it takes seventy years to bear fruit. Like the carob tree (and the Talmudic stories about it), the Righteous never saw the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren that blossomed from the people they saved. And yet, for no reason other than their own humanity, they risked their lives to save the Jewish people one at a time.

The other story is of the Hall of Names.

The Hall of Names is at the end of Yad Va'Shem. The Hall surrounds you with shelves upon shelves of books with the word Yizkor (transl. "Remember"). Contained within the books are three million names of Jews who were slaughtered by the Nazis.

However, despite the Nazis' meticulous record-keeping, and as a result of their widespread desire to annihilate the Jews, many entire families were simply wiped out. There's simply no record of those lost families, no one to tell their names to Yad Va'Shem.

So while the Hall of Names has over three million people memorialized in its volumes, it has many empty shelves. Those shelves serve as a perpetual memorial for those three million Jews whose names will never be known.

As you can see, even a picture of some of those empty shelves tells more than anything I can write here.

And the collage of pictures above reminds you, that these aren't just names, but people.

Each name was a life. A mother, a father, a child, a grandparent, a grandchild. A person with hopes, dreams, aspirations. A person whose future was snuffed out with less care than a candle. And, ultimately, for no reasons other than hate and apathy.

While the Holocaust is and will always remain an indelible and profound part of my Jewish identity, the lessons are far more universal. One lesson is still inscribed at Yad Va'Shem and is attributed to Pastor Martin Niemeller:

When the Nazis came for the communists, I remained silent; I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats, I remained silent; I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists, I did not speak out; I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews, I did not speak out; I was not a Jew.

When they came for me, there was no one left to speak out.

This is Jackie Hendeli, a Greek Jew from Saloniki and Holocaust survivor, whose incredible story included nine days in an overstuffed cattle car with no water on his way to Auschwitz, the indescribable torture ofAuschwitz, and the Nazi death marches at the end of the war, I simply could never do justice...

My favorite sculpture; a woman whose children are holding on to her, but have been cut out of her body...
More artwork from Yad Va'Shem...

And the reminder of eternal hope that the view of Jerusalem inspires upon leaving...

Blundering Through Israel - Part IV - June 29, 2006

2006-07-16T17:23:00.000-05:00

Continued from Part III.

My father has been to Israel many times. One of the reasons is the city of Or Akiva. Or Akiva is a poor city in central Israel near rather wealthy areas, such as Ceaseria. The city serves as the home of many new immigrants who come to Israel, often with little money.

After Israel's founding, Or Akiva was in very poor shape. The city had an extremely high crime rate and considerable drug problems. It also lacked any viable infrastructure. The homes were in extraordinary disrepair and there was no viable sewage treatment. In fact, much of the city had raw sewage in the streets.

The American Jewish community stepped in to help. Through various methods, they contributed money to improve infrastructure and made sweeping changes in Or Akiva. And when the situation in Or Akiva stabilized, much of the community moved along to other Israel projects.

Except Miami.

Miami stayed, realizing there was much work to be done in Or Akiva and has spent the last thirty years making widespread and incredibly significant contributions to Or Akiva. And to this day, Miami serves as Or Akiva's sister city.

For the past seventeen years, I've heard my father discuss projects related to Or Akiva. He's been involved, in one way or another, with almost every major project related to the city. And the organizations he's involved with make, not only financial contributions, but send employees to live in the city and manage the use of the contributions to address the community's needs. However, while I've heard of Or Akiva often, it had always just been the name of an Israeli city.

Until today.

Today, I visited Or Akiva for the first time. I toured the older part of the city and saw some dilapidated houses that we learned were the example of how the entire city used to look. Then we went to the rest of the city.

The improvement of thirty years of investment was exponential in scale. The entire city, while still certainly having a way to go, was simply not even comparable to the dilapidated few houses that were examples of the city three decades before. Certainly, this was still a poor city, but one where investment bore hope and where its citizens discovered opportunity.

The jewel of Or Akiva is its schools. Prior to the Miami Jewish community's help, the schools in Or Akiva were some of the worst in Israel. Graduation rates were abysmal and students had very little opportunity for success.

But today they are the gem of the city. The schools are so good that the wealthy community of Ceaseria, where parents could send their children anywhere for school, send their children to Or Akiva's schools.

We went to a school for at-risk children and celebrated their completion of their year with them. The kids loved the toys we brought, but were even more enamored with the digital cameras that everyone in my group had. One even asked me if he could keep mine.

As we joked later, those kids have expensive taste!

My favorite story of Or Akiva and Miami is an older one. Or Akiva was scheduled to become a city in 2001. A Miami contingent came to Or Akiva to join the residents for this momentous occasion.

The dedication ceremony was set for commence at 4:00 p.m. on September 11, 2001.

The Miami group was loaded on their buses at 4:00 p.m. Israel time to go to the ceremony.

Then the cellphones began ringing.

When the Miami group realized what was happening---that America had been viciously attacked by terrorists---they unloaded the buses, when to a television and watched the events unfold. The Or Akiva dedication ceremony was delayed.

The residents of Or Akiva were beside themselves.

Here were these people who had provided so much help to them for over a quarter century and now their homes were under siege.

So the residents of Or Akiva did what Jews do.

They brought food.

Lots of food.

And they were there for the Jews of Miami in their hour of need.

And later that afternoon, when the time for the city's rescheduled dedication ceremony, the people of Or Akiva made clear that the ceremony could wait until another day. But the Miami group decided that the dedication was why they were there and that it was incredibly important to the people of Or Akiva.

So the ceremony went on.

And now, the Or Akiva dedication plaque reads September 11, 2001.

The Or Akiva Community Center...

A gift to Or Akiva from Miami...

Our party with the kids...

Our visit to the Tishbi winery. Such great wine!

Some shots of Ceaseria...

An unfinished sarcophogus...

More ancient ruins in Ceaseria...

The palace in the sea. The square in the middle was a freshwater pool...

Where the chariot races happened. A la Ben Hur...

The Ceaseria bathhouse false floor. Wood would be burned underneath to make a sauna...

One of the beautiful Ceaseria mosaics...

More ancient Roman ruins in Ceaseria...

Blundering Through Israel - Part III - June 28, 2006

2006-07-10T14:23:00.000-05:00

Continued from Part II.

The first full day in Israel was just that. A full day.

The day began with rafting down the Jordan River (sorry, no pictures, couldn't risk getting the camera wet), followed by a nature hike in the Golan Heights, by the Jordan. Hopefully, the pictures from the hike will offer a sense of the incredible beauty of northern Israel. As the area that provides two-thirds of the nation's fresh water, it is an incredibly lush part of the country. And even though I'm the "indoorsey" type, I feel like more than a visitor---like I was always meant to be here.

After our time at the Jordan, we went to Sfadt (pronounced Tza-fat, with short a's). Sfadt is renowned for its mystical history as the origin place of Madonna-made-famous Kabballah. It also houses a large orthodox Jewish community and a community of Jewish artists---two communities that don't always coexist well together.

The most well-known art in Sfadt, other than its candles, is its microcaligraphy art. In these paintings, entire sections of the Bible are inscribed into watercolors paintings of biblical scenes as the lines of the pictures.

I knew I desperately wanted one of these paintings showing the biblical scene of Jacob wrestling the Angel, but I didn't anticipate I would find one. I walked into one gallery and the artist/owner said, "I see your name tag. What is your hebrew name?"

I told him and he said, "I have a painting of your biblical namesake. Here, let me show you."

He pulled open a drawer and took out an amazing pience of art. "Look," he said, pointing to the top corner, "Your namesake, with his brothers."

But then I looked at the bottom and there, in the lower right hand corner, was a picture of Jacob wrestling the Angel.

And as I looked closely at the lines that made up Jacob I saw a very familiar part of the Torah.

The part I read sixteen years earlier.

My parsha. My bar mitzvah Torah portion.

Admittedly, I'm not the most religious Jew, but that rite of passage still holds a special place in my heart.

And now, sitting in front of me was a beautiful painting with my parsha and my namesake.

I had to have it.

For the first time in a long time, price really was no object.

And I still got a pretty good deal.

So now I have a cardboard cylinder that both reminds me of a fantastic city and allows me to display two important parts of myself.

Money very well spent.

Some shots of the nature hike in the Jordan River, by the Golan Heights...

An old synagogue in Sfadt...

My infamous painting...

More pictures from Sfadt...

Blundering Through Israel - Part II - June 27, 2006

2006-07-08T06:44:00.000-05:00

Continued from Part I

Today was predominately spent traveling to Israel, but once I got here, I remembered how much I love being here. Just seeing street signs in Hebrew---even though I can't read it---reminds me of how special it is that there's a country of people like me.

Okay, like me, but different.

Very different.

But as an American Jew, I can never shake the feeling of constantly being a minority. When people advocate prayer in schools, they aren't advocating saying the Shema. When people claim that they are "saved," they mean being "saved" from beliefs like those I hold.

So being here reminds me that somewhere these debates occur involving my beliefs, that somewhere, people like me are a majority, not just a vocal minority.

And that place is here.

But the bus ride to dinner tonight was a stark reminder that Israel is no panacea. As we drove from the Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv to Kfar Geladi, the hotel/kibbutz on the northern border with Lebanon, we took a new toll road by "the Green Line," that area that separates Israel proper from the territories. And lining the Green Line is the security fence---a winding line of electrically charged chain-link fence and 24-foot concrete barriers constructed to keep Palestinian Arab terrorists from striking inside the Green Line.

As I looked at the Arab cities from the window of the bus, I couldn't help but think that I drive three to four times the distance between there and here on my fifteen-minute drive to work.

With a nation so small, it's no wonder Israelis always feel under siege.

Seeing for yourself how close the Palestinian Arab cities are to the Jewish areas reinforces how, in the absence of a true and lasting peace, something has to be done. Hopefully, the fence is the answer.

But as important as the fence may be for security, it stands as a constant reminder of how far we---and by "we," I mean all people---have to go. Fences and walls shouldn't have to be necessary. Good neighbors should be able to exist without them.

And, hopefully, someday they will.

Hopefully, someday we'll be able to coexist together, respecting and appreciating each other's differences, not just tolerating them. Hopefully, someday all people will be able to live together freely and equally.

But for now, the security fence stands as a reminder that that day is not today.

And this troubled land, which I love so much, shows how much progress the world still needs to achieve.

The new and improved Ben Gurion Airport:

Some blurry shots of the separation barrier:

The view of the Lebanese border from my hotel room in Kfar Geladi:

The beautiful hotel on the Kfar Geladi kibbutz:

Blundering [To] Through Israel - Part I - June 26, 2006

2006-07-06T17:39:00.000-05:00

My deep-seeded love of air travel reared its ugly head when I experienced the extraordinary cluster fuck that occurred in the process of finally getting to Israel. The story is a long one, but full of the entertaining antecdotes that you have come to know and love.

When I booked my flight to New York, I made the mistake of doing it online without consulting anyone who was on my trip. I used on the panoply of online ticket services and purchased the cheapest flight to get to New York's JFK, our departure point.

At least it was what I thought it was the cheapest.

I also booked what was the shortest flight to JFK, a drive to Jacksonville, followed by a flight to Miami and then to JFK.

At least it was what I thought was the shortest.

Evidently, those internet services don't really tell you about little things like JetBlue. JetBlue had a less expensive direct flight from Jacksonville to JFK.

Yeah. I got hosed.

However, no airport trip would be complete simply be getting screwed on tickets. When my Miami flight got onto the tarmac, the pilot came on the speaker---always a bad sign---and told us that while the crew was unloading the luggage from the last flight two panels came off the plane's cargo hold!

I'm willing to admit that I am certainly no expert in aviation. But I'm going to take a stab in the dark and say that large pieces falling off the plane before it gets into the air is probably a bad thing. Sure, large pieces falling off the plant after it gets into the air would be worse, but before...still bad.

Evidently, the airline agreed because we, and by "we" I mean an entire airplane of passengers, sat at the gate for a solid two hours waiting for them to repair the plane.

As a rule of thumb, anytime an aircraft is repaired at the gate, I tend to get a little nervous. I visualize some groundscrew (and you can break that up as grounds-crew or ground-screw) man named Pedro running to the plane with jumbo pack of duct tape, yelling to his coworkers, "No, no! We just need to put this on it!"

Eventually, we were cleared for takeoff and I had a lovely discussion with the lady next to me, who told me of all things New York. As a born and bred Southerner, I always enjoy having Yankees tell me about the north. Unfortunately, this pleasantness quickly passed.

When I got to JFK, I raced to the baggage claim. The takeoff delay (a/k/a shit coming off my plane) make my comfortable transfer to El Al a mad dash across the airport.

And the Miami-JFK flight was no help. Whatever the problem was with the luggage compartment, it wasn't fixed when we got to JFK. Apparently Pedro's duct tape job was a temporary fix. It was another hour---that's right, another hour---before the luggage started to come out on the luggage carousel. The only saving grace was that I won the luggage lottery.

Everyone has experienced the luggage lottery. Each person sits at the luggage carousel with a claim ticket in hand, hoping---indeed, praying---that their luggage comes out first.

And I won. My bags were two of the first five off the carousel.

No NBA first pick, but I'll take it.

I grabbed them and, like Mercury, ran through the airport (and with an overweight bag, that says a hell of a lot). It was during that dash that my trip coordinator, quite literally, ran into me when she almost took me out with her luggage cart.

We ran like diuretic track stars in search of a bathroom to the El Al ticket counter, which for the first time that I've ever seen, was entirely barren of any other passengers. And, after I sweet talked my way into checking an oversized bag (I love flirting with Israeli women), we were on our way.

***

The last time I went to Israel, I looked at it as an opportunity to make friends and share the experiences with them. And it didn't quite work out that way. I didn't really connect with anyone on my trip and certainly don't keep in touch with them now. Looking back, I wish I had been a bit more selfish then, letting the experience be one only for me.

So, it may sound a bit rude, but this time, I plan to be a bit more selfish. I see the next week or so as an experience for me and me alone. If I meet some people who's company I enjoy, great, but it's not the reason I'm here.

I'm here to experience my history, to find myself, to remind myself who I am by experiencing where I come from from that singular perspective.

I know it sounds selfish, but sometimes being selfish is the way to learn about those little parts of yourself that you wouldn't have discovered unless you looked.

And this week is my time to search.

Throughout this series, I will accompany the posts with pictures from my time is Israel. Hopefully, this will give you some glimmer of this fantastic experience. Today though, all you get is the plane location monitor as we approached Israel. Don't worry, the good stuff is coming soon...

The joys of international travel...

2006-07-05T22:54:00.000-05:00

I got home about 30 minutes ago, after spending around 30+ hours on planes, in airports (waiting on standby tickets) and driving home. New post tomorrow afternoon/evening. Really.

Shalom means hello, goodbye and peace...

2006-06-23T21:38:00.000-05:00

I'm going to Israel early next week and don't anticipate posting until I return. However, I have already bought a journal to write posts on the road (and in the air) and am taking a digital camera to show you some of the many sights.

I'll see you crazy kids soon...and with lots of stories to tell! Stay tuned for "Blundering Through Israel" in the second week of July!

Sometimes you wonder what the editor was thinking...

2006-06-21T06:06:00.000-05:00

Rarely... ok, very rarely, I will look at my alma mater's student newspaper online. Now, my school has quite the proud sports tradition. However, it also has a reputation as a party school. So, imagine how my sixth-grade mind digested this little nugget:

Among some of my thoughts were:

1. "I bet it's a sleep-away camp."

2. "I didn't know they needed a camp for that."

3. "Do they need volunteers for the activities?"

4. "Gives a whole new meaning to the rise-and-shine wakeup call."

5. "And just when you thought you knew what you were getting when you asked for S'more."

Any others?

You can't take it with you...

2006-06-13T15:00:00.000-05:00

As you may know, I'm a bit of a news junkie. So imagine my surprise when I saw this article:

While articles about Congress giving themselves a pay hike usually bother me, what struck me about this particular article was the following text:

"This year, Vice President Cheney, House Speaker Dennis Hastert and Chief Justice William Rehnquist receive $212,100. Associate justices receive $203,000. House and Senate party leaders get $183,500."

For those who don't follow American Government, Chief Justice William Rehnquist died and was replaced by Chief Justice John Roberts before the present term of the Supreme Court.

While we definitely have our share of governmental problems in the U.S., I'm inclined to guess that we probably don't pay federal judges after they died. Went to jail, yes. But dead, probably not.

Update: Evidently, AP discovered Rehnquist isn't going to receive a salary in the grave after all and changed to the story to reflect that CJ Roberts will receive $ 212,100.

Hey Little Twelve Toes

2006-06-10T11:38:00.000-05:00

Although there's no reference to the good ol' School House Rock days, Carnival of the Mundane 12 has all other types of fun over at Kiss My Sass. Make sure to check it out.

Adventures in home improvement...

2006-06-04T07:09:00.000-05:00

Lately, I've been in a hell that has kept me busy on my weekends. The nine levels of hell of home improvement.

Let me start by giving you a baseline to understand where I'm coming from. I am not handy. As I've mentioned elsewhere, the Home Depot has changed their slogan specifically for me: "You will screw it up. You, we can't help."

Typically, my home improvement projects follow this pattern: I start with the best of intentions, don't know what I'm doing and, ultimately, fuck it up requiring it to get fixed at a much higher price by someone who actually has a clue.

That right. I'm the Dubbya of home improvement.

So it was with the best of intentions that I took on dealing with my kitchen wallpaper.

As you probably guessed, I did not take on this project lightly. However, this had to be done.

When I did the walkthrough of my house when I bought it, I had a few ideas for change.

Oh, I could put a fan with a light here. (It's Florida...every room has a fan.)

I could change the color of this room and repaint this bathroom.

Maybe I could get some flowers to plant out here.

But one feature stood out.

What the fuck did someone do to the kitchen with this hideous wallpaper? And what species of invertebrate was tasked with putting it up?

To say the kitchen wallpaper was horrible is a profound understatement. It was vile. Seriously vile.

The pattern was terrible. The seams weren't lined up when it was applied.

And, worse, it was cheap.

I say "was" because I've spent the past month of weekends trying to get this paper-shaped crap off my walls.

Before you give me the standard, "Oh that's easy...just use a steamer." Don't. Been there, done that, have the Lowe's return receipt. The steamer doesn't work. Remember, I said this is "cheap" wallpaper.

What that means is that the "wallpaper" comes off easily. Too easily in fact. This whole project started because the wallpaper decided to start coming off on its own. So once I started ripping it down, I saw the real problem. The problem that would make me feel like Sisyphus for the past month. The cheap wallpaper had a layer of masking paper underneath.

That masking paper has been the bane of my existence on this project. I can't paint over it, because once it gets damp, parts of it start wrinkle, bubble, or come off the wall.

Parts of it.

Other parts adhere to the wall stronger than Michael Jackson does to the story that he's never had more than one plastic surgery.

And surgery is pretty much what it takes to get them off. The wall, that is.

Also, don't bother to tell me, "Just hire someone." Workers won't do this. Seriously. They outright refuse. They're more than willing to fix the damage after I finish, but they absolutely won't take off the wallpaper because the amount of time requiring to do this work comes out to almost nothing per hour, or they would charge me more than the price of granite countertops to get it done.

So I've spent a month of weekends with water and a metal scraper, prying pieces of masking paper off my walls. And I've done a pretty good job of tearing into the walls as well.

And now, the rock looks like it's getting to the top of the hill.

Of course, painting comes next. So I'm sure it will roll back down in the near future.

Update: For those who are curious about what this looks like, this shot of the ugly wallpaper, the masking paper and my bare wall will hopefully provide some sense of my pain.

Do you own a watch...?

2006-05-24T19:22:00.000-05:00

The first day I worked for a judge during my first summer of law school, the judge said to me, "Honestly, I have one big issue with lawyers and litigants...really anyone who appears before me. I hate it when they're late. I see it as a sign of disrespect. If someone is late then it means they don't take this or me seriously."

Immediately, my already high level of respect for this man grew.

I've always hated when people are late and I have an extremely low tolerance for it. Although I've never been in the position to issue a bench warrant to someone who doesn't take seriously when they tell me that they will be at a certain place at a certain time (and admit it, that would be damn cool), I have taken quite a number of people to task for their inability to read a clock. In fact, when one of my friends (who is serially late) was late to an event after telling me when she would be there, I took her to task so harshly that she not only apologized, but promised that she would never be late after telling me a concrete time again.

To date, she hasn't been.

Yeah, I can be persuasive.

So, when I was listening to a local NPR story as I got dressed this morning, I heard a story which made me yell at the radio.

And I'm not exactly a yeller.

[Warning: Long lead-in ahead]

One of the big news events in Florida lately has been that a young, African-American kid died as a result of events that occurred at a "boot camp." Evidently, we here in Florida have decided that the best way to reform difficult juvenile delinquents is to make them go through quasi-military training. I still think real punishment would be sending them to Iraq. That's apparently not part of the program. Anyway, after being beaten by guards at the boot camp the kid died.

When he was initially autopsied, the medical examiner determined he had died of complications of sickle-cell anemia. Apparently, the bootmarks on the kid's face weren't a contributing cause to the kid's death according to this M.E.. Well, people in the area went ape-shit, particularly the African-American community, and some state legislators (some of whom will prostitute themselves for any type of publicity) jumped on the issue. They demanded another M.E. investigate the case (not a bad idea), and then demanded the firing of the initial M.E. (oh, get friggin' real...while I think there was serious reason to doubt the M.E.'s conclusion, I'm well aware that science is anything but an exact science; trying to fire the guy is profound overreaching). Nevertheless, one state legislator imparticular has been all over this issue, claiming that she's met with the victim's family and promised them that she won't rest until this guy is fired, drawed and quartered, and disemboweled.

And that leads to today's local NPR story. Apparently, yesterday, the medical examiner's office had a meeting to discuss the issue. However, the meeting ended before the legislator got there. Of course, I thought for a minute that perhaps the M.E. was playing games and started the meeting early, adjourning it before there could be too many political issues.

And then they played a quotation from the legislator.

She stated roughly (I can't remember exactly) that she was only just over a half hour late for the meeting and that the M.E. was leaving just as she was arriving.

That's right, this legislator, who is so dedicated to this particular cause cared so deeply about this attaining retribution for the supposed wrongs committed by the M.E. that she didn't even bother to show up for the fucking meeting on time! And then, she's such a prima donna that she makes it sound like they should have waited to start until she got there!

Ugh.

To add insult to injury, the reporter doesn't even ask her why she didn't show up on time for an issue she cares so deeply about!

Ugh. Squared.

What good is freedom of the press if the press don't use it? Schmucks.

My take (if you can't tell already) is that if this was so important to her, if her promise to this family who lost this child meant anything to her, if she cares so deeply for their loss and about the supposed wrongful acts of this M.E., then the least she could do was set her fucking watch ten minutes early to make sure she was there on time. The people that elected her showed up on time to vote for her. She should extend the same fucking courtesy.

Of course, that would require her to debunk the assumption the world didn't revolve around her.

And that's an issue, I just don't have time to deal with...

We interrupt this regularly scheduled Carnival of the Mundane for this news bulletin...

2006-05-11T22:30:00.000-05:00

WASHINGTON (FNN) -- On Monday, US President George W. Bush nominated Air Force General Michael Hayden to be the new CIA chief, sparking many to speculate that the reason for this controversial nominee has eluded public attention.

Fake News Network has discovered that the President does, in fact, have a hidden agenda. Specifically, the expected Senate focus on General Hayden will avoid otherwise vigorous scrutiny of the President's other nominees and appointees, which will be announced next Monday.

FNN has learned that President Bush has named the following nominees and appointees:

After learning of her success at discovering her own cyberstalker, the President has nominated Wordnerd as Chief of the National Security Agency. A White House senior official touted the nominee, stating, "With her incredible knowledge of the internet and other technology, there's no question she's the right woman for the responsibility of running the Nation's foreign, and not-so-secret domestic, wiretap programs. Our national security is more than safe in her hands."
With her innovative views on English grammar, the President has nominated Everyday Goddess as the Secretary of the Department of Education. "Ms. Goddess's new look at language has been exactly what the President has been looking for his entire administration," the White House official said. "Finally, someone has real ideas to distinguish American English from what they speak on the other side of the Atlantic."
In an incredibly bold move which is sure to improve foreign relations on the northern border, the President has nominated a Canadian citizen, Postmodern Sass, to head the Commission on International Religious Freedom. Evidently, the President was impressed with Ms. Sass's desire to learn the nuances of Jewish culture and anticipates she'll bring a new, distinctly Canadian position on multicultural tolerance to the agency. The senior White House official commented, "The President was incredibly impressed with Ms. Sass. In fact, she's told us that she's already attempting to learn Hebrew and Yiddish, just so she'll know Jewish colloquialisms!" Upon learning of her nomination, Ms. Sass commented, "Are you a meshuggina?!? Oy, I'm getting ver clempt!" However, Ms. Sass's ability to deal with intellectually challenged Craig's list shoppers was not a factor in the President's decision.
The President has appointed Jack Cluth to head the Transportation Security Administration. By teaching passengers to think of who is waiting for them at their destination, Mr. Cluth hopes to reduce the focus on how long passengers have to wait in security before boarding their flights. "We really think Mr. Cluth's perspective will be a distraction...I mean, innovation to help address long security lines."
Expecting her to extend the need to attack obesity in inanimate objects and to stop hospitals creating their own child-patients, the President has appointed Wenchypoo to the Presidential Counsel on Physical Fitness. In her appointment letter, the White House stated, "Wenchypoo's going to give a whole new perspective on how to fight the battle of the bulge." Apparently, the President also believes Wenchypoo stood out among other possible appointees due to her fascination with largesse and unique expressions of faith.
Joining Wenchypoo on the Counsel will be new appointee, muse, who plans to advocate the benefits of exercise, not just in the United States, but in Israel as well. Muse is incredibly unique because Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert has nominated her as the Israeli Ambassador to the United States, to help people here understand the lasting and often unspoken effects of Middle East violence. Strangely, muse is also being considered for the Occupational Safety and Health Administration due to her belief in the importance of rubber gloves. The White House counsel's office is exploring the legality of muse's possible OSHA appointment.
The President nominated Josh Cohen as Secretary of the Department of Energy. Evidently, Mr. Cohen's strategy when he takes office will be to explain to the public that they are taking it up the tailpipe in more places than the gas station. "This is exactly the energy strategy we've been looking for!," one White House source exclaimed, unable to contain his exuberance over the nomination. Although Mr. Cohen was initially considered for the Department of Labor, his advocacy for eliminating minimum wage positions was seen as too controversial, even amongst this group of nominees.
Upon learning of her discovery of way to reduce the deficit by finding alternative sources of government funding, the President appointed miriam to the Office of Management and Budget. A White House official explained, "We're not quite sure how she's going to get traffic court for the federal government, but we have faith she'll figure something out."
Elated with his ability to focus on good news in Iraq, the President announced he was nominating Chuck Ziegenfuss to replace Donald Rumsfeld as Secretary of the Department of Defense. "We knew if someone looked hard enough, they'd find good news in Iraq," said one White House official. The White House indicated they plan to look for someone with Secretary Ziegenfuss's diligence to search for WMD's in the hopes of finding those as well.
Jeffery Strain was nominated to lead the Government Accountability Office due to his diligence in making, and completing, to-do lists. "Who else would you want to keep a government bureaucracy on track?," asked one White House source.
The Random Yak was nominated to the Chemical Safety and Hazard Investigation Board after advocating a day without socks. Certainly, anyone who has gone sockless for an extended period of time is more than qualified to discuss chemical waste.
Since she understands how a child can always get his or her parent's attention, the President has nominated Writing Life to the Administration for Children and Families. "We just hope she can help all parents have that kind of dedication," said one White House source.
Based on her ability to maintain historical documents, CountryGoalie has been nominated to head the National Archives and Records Administration. "If she maintains her own work that well, I'm sure she'll be great and taking care of the country's valuable documents," said a White House senior official.
In light of his ability to convincingly lie to his own relatives, Tynan was nominated to the Office of Government Ethics. However, White House sources indicate the President had some reservations about this nomination. "Apparently, Tynan is predisposed to feeling guilty when he lies," one White House source said. "There's just no place for that in government."
After learning of her night of nothingness, Leespea has been nominated to head the Federal Emergency Management Agency. As a White House source said, "Someone who can admit they do nothing is a definite improvement over Michael Brown."
With her expertise in international movies, Fitena will make an interesting addition to the International Trade Commission. The unofficial White House comment was, "She can focus on what's really important and brings a perspective from Mauritius. Who was the last nominee you heard with those characteristics?"
Her ability to recognize the importance of nature and the simple things in life, led the President to nominate Mata H as Administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency. "At bare minimum, we'll know she'll protect the pretty stuff," said one White House source.
The President has nominated Tracy Kaply as Chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. As an official close to the President stated, "Anyone who deals with their archenemy by drowning them in bleach is exactly who we want advising the President during war time. That's the no-holds-barred mentality the President has been looking for."
With her unique views on the nation's rails and roads, Heather B. was nominated to lead the Bureau of Transportation Statistics. "We've really underestimated the number of people who have the audacity to wear obnoxious orange shirts on rails like D.C.'s subway," said a White House staffer. "She'll be perfect to focus on that kind of overlooked information."
Even though his focus has been on elves and hobbits rather than humans, the President saw it fitting to nominate Neil Kramer to head the National Endowment of the Humanities. "Even if we can't get him to focus on the human side of humanities," stated one White House source, "most of what we do can pretty much be summarized as fantasy anyway."
After offering his observations about what does not qualify as new television programming, the President nominated Kevin Apgar to Chair the Federal Communications Commission. Said one White House staffer, "When the President saw 'Lost: Revelations,' he was so disappointed about its promotion as a new episode that the President knew he had to appoint Mr. Apgar."
After showing the President some of his favorite pictures and a group of letters that he emphatically asserted were poetry, tiff was nominated to head the National Endowment of the Arts. "The President was happy a picture of him was included," said one staffer, "although he admitted it wasn't his favorite pose."
Due to a strong interest in contraception, the President nominated Mark Rayner to lead the Department of Health and Human Services. "Sure, the administration has concerns that someone who cares so much about the history of 'the pill' could affect support from the right," stated one staffer, "but hell, we're out of here in 2008 with or without their support!"
In light of her sympathy for octogenarians, Maribeth has been nominated to head the Center for Medicare and Medicaid Services. One official stated, "She has exactly the type of sympathy for the elderly we're looking for to manage Medicare Part D."
The President was so impressed with her ability to make small spaces comfortable for their occupants that he named Nelumbo to lead the Department of Housing and Urban Development. However, the President stated the nomination would not become effective for 5 to 6 months.
After she spent a weekend helping the economy, Kristen Havens was nominated to lead the Department of Commerce. "We need someone who thinks first about the economy," said a White House source, "and Ms. Havens spent her weekend improving consumer confidence, even if it was just herself."
Questioning the American reliance on computers caused beej to be nominated to head the beleaguered National Aeronautics and Space Administration. "The President couldn't agree with beej more," said one source. "In fact, he's hoping beej makes our next trip to the cosmos with pressurized water rockets or coke and mentos."
Having discovered that you can meet strange creatures in parks, Marisa was nominated to lead the National Park Service. "She knows just how dangerous parks can be when you don't take precautions to protect yourself," said one seniorgovernmentt official.
And, for obvious reasons, Hyperion was nominated to lead the Department of Justice's Witness Protection Program. Asked about the nomination, no White House official would comment. Hyperion also could not be located for comment.

Only time will tell if the President's strategy will be a successful one. Nevertheless, the Senate will certainly be busy over the next few months.

-- Some outstanding bloggers made invaluable contributions to this report. And yes, these are all actual U.S. government agencies. End of big government...yeah, right.

Update: I realized some of the links did not go to the proper place. Please retry if you had difficulties in the past. To the bloggers whose links I screwed up, my sincerest apologies.

Join the fun! You don't even need a ticket...

2006-05-09T19:43:00.000-05:00

This Friday-ish (I say Friday-ish because outside forces may lead the posting to be on Saturday), yours truly will be hosting the Carnival of the Mundane. While the quality of submissions has been outstanding, so far, quantity is running low. So, join the Carnival! And bring your blogger friends (froggers? bliends?). Send those submissions. We may even have a guy in a sphere of water. Okay, maybe not... But we'll definitely have a bearded lady! Okay, maybe not that either... But I'd still love to have you!!!

Update: Despite earlier suggestions to the contrary, quantity appears just fine. Now, it's time for me to do my best to be creative and still get this up by Friday. Of course, more submissions are always welcome!

Another theory on what that letter says...

2006-05-08T13:21:00.000-05:00

Iranian President Ahmadinejad sent President Bush a letter today through the Swiss American Interests office. Most of the papers I read indicate that there may be something related to the nuclear program that Iran is developing or other world issues.

I don't buy it. Here's what I think the letter says:

Do you think buying prescription drugs from Canada is the least expensive way to get your prescriptions? No way! Buy your drugs direct from Iran! We have everything you want at bargain basement prices! Viagra! Oxycontin! You want it, we have it! No prescription needed!

Send this letter to ten world leaders or you will have three weeks of bad luck! This letter is totally true!

I guess we'll find out if I'm right tomorrow when the letter's contents start leaking from the White House.

Does this mean I have to like those stupid commercials?

2006-04-18T17:14:00.000-05:00

Last week, I officially joined the 21st century.

After fighting for hours to get a decent mix on the antiquated MP3 player that I take with me to the gym, I gave up. I sold my soul to Apple. Yes. I bought an IPod. But in my spending frenzy, I didn't buy just any IPod. Nope. I bought the crem-de-la-crem of IPods, the 60 gigabyte black monster that I now refer to as my toy.

And, as you might expect, I had to tack on the service plan, the case/armband/clip, and now I'm itching for the car radio adapter.

How could this happen you ask? Well, after looking for an alternative to my crappy MP3 player for months, I decided that if so many people have IPods, there must be something good about them. And, hell, the 30 gigabyte model was only $100 less, so if you're going to buy, why not get as much storage as you can for that price?

Little did I realize that as far as digital music is concerned, 60 gigabytes is pretty much a bottomless pit.

Initially, I was concerned how much my 60 gigabytes was going to last. Like most people, I have a pretty thorough CD collection. At the risk of dating myself, I have a few tapes from the ol' days, but for the most part have CD's. So, I began loading CDs onto my IPod.

At first, I was a little wary. After all, I wanted to be sure I had the "good songs." So I pulled the two to four decent singles off of most CDs and ignored the rest of the crap.

However, after loading a plethora of CDs, I quickly realized that the songs were taking very little space. Needless to say, I became a bit less discriminatory at that point.

I also realized just how many songs I own that are crap.

Record company bastards.

Anyway, three three-hour sessions later, after loading my entire CD collection, I discovered the wonder that is podcasting. I subscribed to podcasts faster than the President can pass the buck. I loaded every podcast I could find on every subject I could find that I thought I might, someday, be interested in. I looked at the capacity, figuring, surely I had made a dent in this little bit of black covered goodness.

Nope. Not a dent. Less than 4 gigabytes used.

When they say 15,000 songs, they mean 15,000 songs.

No wonder Apple is killing the MP3 market.

Of course, I couldn't sell out completely. I still use my black earphone rather than the uncomfortable white ones that came with the lifelong jukebox.

For my next adventure, I think I'm going to test my new toy's video capabilities...

...who brought you forth from the House of Bondage.

2006-04-14T11:55:00.000-05:00

Last night was the second night of Passover, which for Jews is the holiday that celebrates our exodus from slavery in Egypt. The holiday involves a lot of unique customs to make the night different from all other nights and to teach children the importance of remembering that we were once slaves, but now we are free.

We have a number of customs in my house, such as cups that we only use on Passover (which were gifts from family friends), we give our guests Matzah bags for use in their own houses, and have cute ways (including visual aids) to recite the ten plagues that G-d inflicted on the Egyptians to persuade the pharaoh to let the Israelites escape bondage and leave Egypt. If you don't want to read the story (which is in Exodus), you can watch The Ten Commandments or The Prince of Egypt and you'll get the gist.

While I love the classic story from the holiday, as I've gotten older, what I think about the holiday has developed. And no theme is more significant on Passover than the affliction of slavery. Almost everything during the holiday is a symbol to remind us that we were once slaves and now we are free.

When I was younger, I was under the incorrect impression that slavery had been abolished. Certainly, I was aware that the 13th Amendment of the US Constitution prohibits involuntary servitude and I wasn't aware of organized slavery anywhere else.

As I've gotten older, I've realized how naive this was.

The fact is that there are women and children every day who are sold into sexual slavery and sexually exploited throughout the world. This practice is rampant and has been referred to as human trafficking. One woman's story was recently featured on PBS's investigative show, Frontline.

Katia lived with her husband, Viorel, and her son in Moldova. Moldova is one of the poorest nations in the former Soviet bloc. In order to find work to make money for her family (work such as maid work or other unskilled labor), Katia went with an acquaintance, Vlad, to Odessa in Ukraine. There, unknowingly, Vlad sold her for $1000 US to a slave trader, Angela. Katia, obviously was not told that this was why she was placed on a ship with a number of other women or why her money and passport were given to the slave trader for "safekeeping."

Nevertheless, Katia was taken to Turkey, with these other women, each of whom were sold to a "pimp." Katia was sold to a pimp with a ruthless reputation, Apo. Apo's wife, Tanya, told Katia that she would work as a prostitute for Apo. Katia was given some water and in about 15 to 20 minutes started hallucinating. At that moment Tanya explained to her that they bought her to have sex with their clients. When Katia started to resist, Tanya told her, "You're not the first. We already had girls like you. Those girls that didn't want to do it at first, work and enjoy it now." Katia told her, "If you like to f*** Turkish men, then you f*** them." Tanya slapped Katia and left.

This was the beginning of Katia's attempts to resist, which led Apo to "break" her. Katia was incessantly beaten and raped until she would no longer offer resistance.

Katia was then locked away and forced to service at least two "clients" a day. Katia, like may of these women, was told that she would have to "work off" her "debt" to her pimp. However, for each client, the women are paid almost nothing, the vast lion's share going to their pimp. And if there are any problems, such as a complaint from a client, the woman's debt is "increased," or the woman is sold to another pimp and given a new "debt," placing these women in a unending cycle of exploitation.

Katia's husband, Viorel, persuaded Vlad to give him any leads that would help him find Katia. Viorel traveled to Turkey, followed leads, and attempted to gain the trust of Tanya and Apo in order to find Katia. Viorel's attempts to have the Turkish police aid him either led to a series of problems or went without a response.

Ultimately, because Viorel sought Katia so intently, Apo and Tanya were concerned that Katia was more trouble than she was worth and let Katia go. They gave her $20, dropped her off at the airport, and sent her back to Moldova. Katia walked to her home and showed up on her doorstep where Viorel found her.

Katia, however, was in the first trimester of a pregnancy when Vlad sold her into slavery. After her ordeal, Katia's pregnancy miscarried.

For selling Katia into slavery, Vlad received a suspended sentence and was placed on probation.

Sadly, Katia's story is as happy an ending as these stories get. According to the US State Department, 700,000 to 2 million people, the majority of them women and children, are trafficked each year across international borders. Thirty-five percent are under the age of 18. Most women and children who are sold are never heard from again. They are stolen from former Soviet republics, India, or other poor countries and spend their lives in Turkey, Japan, UAE, Israel, or any of a number of other countries doing nothing but servicing clients.

They are slaves, plain and simple.

And, for that reason, Passover must serve as a reminder not only that my people were delivered from slavery, but that too many people are not.

To learn more about Human Trafficking, go here or here or here.
To learn more about Katia's story, go to this Frontline website.

You can't get it from my keyboard, right?

2006-04-09T17:55:00.000-05:00

I've been meaning to post for a while, but last Wednesday, at work, my eye really started to itch, so I began rubbing it. And rubbing it. And rubbing it.

I thought I might have something in my eye, so I went to the bathroom and began washing it out. Figuring that I just scratched my cornea, I was sure I'd be fine in a few hours. Those hours came and went, and I said to myself, surely, all I need to do is go to sleep and I'll be fine when I wake up. The cornea is one of the fastest parts of the body to heal, so all will be good.

When I woke up Thursday, my eye was as unpleasant as the day before and there was a white filmy substance in it. (For you, no detail is too small. Or gross. One of the two. Definitely.) I figured I'd see what happened over the next few hours and, then, if things weren't clearing up, I'd consider going to the doctor. I realize that most people would have taken this as a clue to go to the doctor, but I'm a guy. And if there's one way I fit the stereotype, it's that I avoid going to the doctor until absolutely necessary.

At around 11 a.m., while I was reviewing a deposition, I realized I couldn't actually read it. The time had come. I called and made an appointment with the doctor for later that afternoon.

To make a long story short...ok, shorter...I was diagnosed with Viral Conjunctivitis, also known as "pink eye." While more an annoyance than anything else, I'm pretty sure this is one of the more disgusting afflictions placed upon homo sapiens. The virus is highly contagious (which meant no work on Thursday or Friday) and is spread through contact with tears (which get on hands and then make there way to other people). Probably the cutest part of the virus is that it can spread from one to both eyes and seal them shut. Thankfully, I didn't have that experience.

One of the other "side effects" is reading becomes pretty much impossible. So, no posts. No work and no posts. I guess you've got to take the bad with the good.

Nonetheless, I've been home since Thursday, afraid to contaminate others with this rather nasty little bug.

Oh well, break's over. Work starts again tomorrow.

P.S. I'm hoping to put up a Passover post in the next few days. Unfortunately, the subject of the post has been preempted by the fine folks over at Jewlicious, but I'm going to post it anyway.

The first rule of Fight Club is there is no Fight Club...

2006-03-26T14:07:00.000-05:00

I haven't posted in quite a while, but if you frequent this little corner of the internet, you already knew that. The reason is that the only things I've really had to talk about relate to work. And, to paraphrase Tyler Durden, "The first rule of blogging is there is no blogging about work."

So, I haven't written anything because, other than my self-censored subject, lately I haven't had anything to say.

Apparently, I'm not alone.

Some of you may have noticed a change to the list of links on the left there. One of the reasons for the change has been that Alecia, one of my blogger friends, decided to retire her "Alecia with and e" blog in favor of something a bit more thematic, E-letters.

Apparently, someone with the name "Saber" thought quite a bit about Alecia's old blog. So much so that when she moved to her new address, s/he decided it would be fun to not only take over her old site, but also to take her intellectual property, namely her old original posts (presumably from a prior cached version of her site), and begin posting them back on the then-retired site.

Yes, apparently Saber doesn't have anything to say either.

The difference is when I don't have anything to say, I don't steal the words of someone who does.

So Saber, if you're reading this, take a look Section 1301 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. What you've done is not only immoral, it's illegal.

And here's a little free advice: Remove the posts labeled Student Orientation, Quote of the Day-Blake, Barnes and Noble . . . and Love, and Quote of the Day . . .

Immediately.

You didn't write them, you haven't credited the author, and you don't have the author's permission to print them.

At the risk of tampering with greatness, I rephrase the words of legendary Tequila Mockingbird.

Cease. Desist. Now. Motherfucker.

V is for Va-va-va-voom

2006-03-12T22:36:00.000-05:00

You may remember I have a thing for Natalie Portman.

After seeing this on Saturday Night Live, I strangely find her even more attractive.

Don't ask me why because, honestly, I can't explain it. Gangster rap has never done anything for me before.

Some visitors on the seventh day...

2006-03-11T17:22:00.000-05:00

Every so often I go to a local Shabbat (Jewish Sabbath) dinner. This week, there was a middle-aged Orthodox couple I had never seen before who brought luggage with them.

In an attempt to break the ice, I asked them where they were from.

"Toronto," the woman replied.

Thinking of my friend, Sass, and my recent acquaintance, Maria, I said to them, "Oh really? I know a few people in Toronto!"

Naturally, the woman asked, "Oh really? Who?"

This was the point I realized I had just started a conversation that was going to end awkwardly. Somewhat embarassed, I replied, "Well, I've only gotten to know them online, so I don't really know last names." Or, in Sass's case, first name. But I thought I'd let that slide.

The woman smiled, in what I can only guess was an attempt to make me avoid feeling like a complete moron.

In a half-hearted effort to save myself, I blurted out, "Have you ever been to the Banknote?"

That ended the conversation.

Let me make sure I understand this one...

2006-03-10T17:11:00.000-05:00

One of the blogs I read included this article today:

You can read the article here in its entirety.

But I'll save you the time by summarizing the key points.

Jerry Falwell likes me. But he still thinks I'm destined for eternal damnation.

Thanks Jerry. You're tops in my book too.

Check those things out!!!

2006-02-27T20:04:00.000-05:00

For Fat Tuesday, drop off your favorite post from your blog at Carnivale of the Mundane!

And don't forget, "Show me your links!"

Who's got next?

2006-02-24T07:45:00.000-05:00

By now, you should know, I lack game.

What can I say? Some guys have it. Some guys don't.

I don't.

Somehow, I get the wrong f-word with any female I'm interested in.

Friends.

Geez, even saying it gives me the shivers.

So, imagine how surprised I was when a girl I've been interested in (and, yes, to the next question, she's Jewish) broke up with her boyfriend. I gave her grieving space for some time, but then, like a lion stalking its prey, began slowly moving in.

One night, we were at a friend's party. She and I were standing together. She had her arm around my waist and I was combing her long locks with my fingers. She looked in my eyes, leaned in close and said:

"So, tell me about your friend, I___."

Are you fucking kidding me?

So I spent the next I-don't-know-how-long-but-it-felt-like-forever listening to her tell me how great my friend was, how interested she was in him, and how she was hoping he indicated some interest in her as well. All with one of the worst fake smiles I've ever mustered.

And during this conversation, she indicated my apparent flaws. My eye color (damnit, I like my blue-green eyes!) and the fact that I'm not bilingual. I don't understand the bilingual thing. I talk to people in Canada, England and Australia on occassion and I understand them perfectly.

Nevertheless, there I was. Discovering a whole new realm of hell.

The only way it could have been worse would have been if she had started singing, "It's a Small World After All."

So the search continues.

In the meantime, if you know any women who are cute, Jewish and local...

...or better yet, if you have Sasha Cohen's number...

Is this the right meeting?

2006-02-23T13:37:00.000-05:00

My name is BA. And I'm an Olympaholic.

I'm not sure when it started. Probably 1984, when I lived in Los Angeles and went to a number of the Olympic events. It may have started earlier, when my father, who was a college gymnast and women's gymnastics coach would watch gymnastics with me, correcting each mistake made by the Olympic gymnasts and predicting, with uncanny accuracy, their final scores.

Ever since then, I've been addicted to the Olympics.

It doesn't matter what the event is (although, I must admit, I'm not partial to figure skating...although that Sasha Cohen, hot and Jewish, keeps me somewhat interested), I can watch it and immediately be intrigued.

However, recently, this issue took on a life of its own.

I discovered curling.

And, simply stated, I've found a new high.

For the uninitiated, curling is sort of like shuffleboard, where two teams of four compete sliding 45 pound stones down a sheet of ice. The scoring system is a somewhat complicated, but involves who can get the closest to the center of a target-type series of circles.

Ah, it must be like horseshoes you say... Oh, how wrong you are.

Curling is actually more akin to chess than to horseshoes. While there is certainly a level of skill required to place the rocks where you want them, the real gift is in calculating the strategy to accumulate the most rocks near the "button" by the completion of the "end," or when all the rocks have been thrown. If you get there before the "end" had ended (yes, that was intentional), it doesn't matter.

So, thank all that is holy for Tivo and Microsoft (yeah, I know, I didn't think I'd ever thank them for anything) for CNBC's Olympic curling coverage, because without that team, I don't know how I could catch all the sometimes-slow-but-always-fun-action. And nothing is more entertaining than watching financial reporters and pundits attempt to comment on curling...that's worth watching alone.

Unfortunately, overachieving Team USA's men's curling team was eliminated from gold or silver contention yesterday by our much beloved, but curling-reviled neighbors to the North. So, after the bronze medal game, I'm going to be forced to go cold turkey.

I wonder what curling withdrawal symptoms will be like...

For Valentine's day...

2006-02-12T19:17:00.000-05:00

There are a number of women I care about, some of which have plans Valentine's evening, some of which don't, but all of which I'm thinking about. So, for each of my Valentines, and you know who you are, I offer you the following poem by an anonymous author.

I ~~kept~~ ~~crossing~~ ~~out~~ ~~words~~ ~~until~~ ~~all~~ ~~that~~ ~~was~~ ~~left~~ ~~was~~ you.

Have a happy Valentine's day.

Was this how Bill got into trouble?

2006-02-02T19:25:00.000-05:00

When I was in law school, I had a single apartment. Unlike undergrad, where roommates often get in the way and where studying was less frequent, I felt a single apartment would offer me the solitude needed for marathon study sessions. So, because I was often the only person at home, friends knew they could call me late at night and, unless a female voice answered, it wouldn't be that big of a deal.

One evening, I called my friend V_____. V_____ had gone to undergrad with me, but left for graduate school in Canada (see Sass, I know someone else from Canada). V____ and I had always been fast friends and often engaged in the verbal jousting that tested both intellect and flirtation. V____ told me that she couldn't talk at the time, but promised she would call me back.

I ended up falling asleep and was awoken to the sound of my ringing phone.

"Heeelllooo," I said in that sleepy weariness between the world of the sandman and reality.

"Hi!," exclaimed the exceedingly cheery voice on the phone.

"Hi, how are you?," I asked V____, still drifting in and out of consciousness.

"I'm gooood! Were you asleep?" she asked, still exceedingly cheery.

"Uh huh," I responded, fighting to keep myself awake.

"Want me to come over and cuddle?"

I understand, at this point, I probably should have realized that this was not V_____. I mean, V____ lived in Canada and I was in Florida. But for some reason, I thought not only that this was V____, but that she was fucking with me. So, in proper fashion, I played along.

"Of course, I do! Hold on a second. Let me wake up."

Then I put the phone down and rubbed my eyes. I sat up to fight off the sleepiness and, finally, picked up the phone.

"Okay, I'm back."

"Okay, so you want me to come over and cuddle?," she repeated. There was a high pitched giggle in the background, that I realized had been there for most of this conversation.

Now, that I had awoken, my dreary voice was back to normal.

"Sure," I said maintaining my side of the charade, "do you know where to go?"

"Wait a second," there was a pause and in my mind's eye, I could see this girl figuring out this wasn't the voice of the person she had intended to call. She returned, serious as a heart attack, stating, "Is Tim there?"

"Uh...sorry, there's no Tim here."

"I'm sorry. Wrong number."

"No problem. Does this mean you're not coming over to cuddle?"

[click]

And while I considered the fun I could have had with call return (a/k/a *69), I went back to sleep with a smile, knowing I had just given two college girls one hell of a story to tell.

The Candidate, Muslim style

2006-01-27T16:12:00.000-05:00

The news from this week has been, well, unsettling. However, yesterday, I saw an article that reminded me of a 1972 movie with Robert Redford called "The Candidate." In the Candidate, Redford plays a candidate for a political office. Redford's character doesn't think he has a chance, but uses the campaign to get his issues out to the public, seeking to change the dialogue. The movie ends with the end of the campaign where Redford's character discovers that, although he never intended to and against all odds, he has won the campaign. Redford then turns to his campaign manager and utters one fantastic line: "What do we do now?"

Well, in bizzaro fashion, it appears life has imitated art. Yesterday, an article in the Jerusalem Post, a number of Hamas supporters and candidates were exceedingly forthcoming about their election by the Palestinian Arabs. For example, a Hamas leader in Nablus, a professor at An-Najah University who did not run, told the Post that many of the leaders were disappointed with the results. "We didn't want this, we didn't hope for this. We wanted to be in the opposition." He continued, "Now all the responsibility is on us." Another Palestinian Arab, Ahmed Doleh, who was a candidate, summed it up this way: "Instead of being an opposition in the Palestinian Authority, we are the PA."

As the Post recognized, Hamas apparently sought to be the opposition party in the Palestinian Legislative Council, continuing terror attacks on Israel, addressing Fatah corruption, and voting down any bills proposed that compromised its ideals, leaving Fatah to clean up the mess. Now, Hamas has to move from being terrorists and critics to being the government. So, Hamas members probably spent the day looking at each other with blank looks on their faces uttering the Arabic version of Redford's classic line, "What do we do now?"

Of course, neither Robert Redford nor his character admitted to terrorism, murder, and ethnocentricism. And while that would have certainly made for an interesting movie if it had been the case, when it's reality, it's just plain disturbing.

Personally, I'm disturbed, but not surprised. What did the world expect from a society that has been inculcated with a culture of hate and death, where Palestinian Arab children are encouraged to kill themselves in order to kill their neighbors? It should be anything but a shock that they picked murders and terrorists as their leaders. The real lesson is the same as the one that we apparently didn't learn from the Holocaust: A culture of hate anywhere is a threat everywhere.

Munich

2006-01-07T12:38:00.000-05:00

Being a Southern Jew, I and a number of my Jewish friends had absolutely nothing to do on Christmas Eve other than watch It's a Wonderful Life for the 90th time, so we all got together for a Jew-crew Christmas Eve tradition: Chinese food and a movie. How our people survived for forty years in a desert without Chinese food, I'll never know.

For our Christmas Eve movie, we decided on Munich. For anyone who has been living in a hole for the past month, Munich tells the story of a group of former Israeli Mossad agents who are assigned to avenge the kidnapping and murder of 11 Israeli athletes in the 1972 Munich Summer Olympics by the PLO (under the guise of the name "Black September"), a Palestinian-Arab terrorist group (that has now, thanks to the Oslo Accords, been granted legitimacy...good job Oslo). When I first heard the title of the movie, I was excited because I thought Spielberg was going to create a movie about the actual events of Munich. I've seen a number of documentaries about those events (since I was actually born after they happened, I couldn't witness them myself), and, frankly, a two and a half hour movie could easily be made about those events, the apathy of the international community, Germany's inconceivable series of blunders and fuck-ups that led to the Israeli athletes deaths, and how the Olympic response of having the games continue was "almost like having a dance at Dachau." The movie, however, is content to attempt to sum up those events in a series of flashbacks and focuses instead on Israel's purported response to this vicious public attack during an athletic event that is supposed to be a peaceful expression of athletic competition.

I say "purported" because, despite the events in Munich that led to the movie and Mossad's actual efforts to bring justice to the perpetrators of the crimes, the movie is a work of fiction. Like so many movies today, Munich is "based on" real events. I've learned to be apprehensive of this often-used phrase. After all, "The Terminal"--where Tom Hanks plays a foreign man who is trapped in an airport terminal for months where he learns English, falls in love, and creates an entire life for himself--is based on real events (probably that some guy was once trapped in an airline terminal overnight). "The Perfect Storm"--where George Clooney boldly leads a fishing crew into a "perfect" storm that results in their deaths--was so "based on" true events that it led Clooney's real-life character's family to sue the filmmakers for defamation. "The Exorcism of Emily Rose" was so loosely "based on real events" that the fine print that follows the movie states that the movie should not be considered accurate in any regard.

So, "based on" is pretty much an analogy for "bullshit."

But that wasn't my biggest problem with the movie. Neither was the incredibly controversy in the Jewish community that this movie has inspired. Nope. My issue was a bit more fundamental.

The movie sucked.

Call me crazy, but I'm of the absurd philosophy that if I spend two and a half hours of my time and nine dollars to see a movie, I should leave the movie entertained. I wasn't. My informal test of whether a movie is boring is how often I check my watch. Zero or one time (because, after all, some movies are long, but still entertaining), I was entertained. Two times, questionable. Three times, sub par.

I checked the time in this movie five times. That's right. Five times.

Yawn.

You'd think with a controversy surrounding it and Oscar buzz before the movie was even released, the movie wouldn't suck. Well, there goes that theory.

UPDATE: My powers of prognostication are quite impressive, if I do say so myself. Don't believe me? Take a look at this.

ANOTHER UPDATE: One of my favorite blogs, Jewlicious, recently ran a post pointing out the fictional-facts of the movie. While you can read the excellent post here, I couldn't help but repost the graphic originally created by ck and posted on the Jewlicious website. Man, I wish I knew how to make these things...

Actually seen at the movie theater...

2006-01-01T10:08:00.000-05:00

In Maxim magazine, there is an ongoing "article" called "Found Porn," where readers submit unintentionally sexually suggestive pictures for publication. So here's my contribution...

While at the movie theater this holiday seeing Memoirs of a Geisha (which was excellent), I looked up at the electric marquee to see the following:

Fun with Dick 8:15

I knew I should have bought the phone with the good camera...

Happy New Year all!

The most magical place on Earth, my ass... the straight to video sequel*

2005-12-10T15:15:00.000-05:00

"Excuse me, ma'am."

Surely they aren't ma'aming my friend K____. I mean, K____ is older than me, but she looks seriously young. Of course, this means, I'm going to get sir'ed in the near future.

"Yes. Ma'am. Wrapped packages aren't allowed in to the Wedding Pavilion or the parks."

"Uh...this is a wedding gift. You know. For the wedding."

"Yes. Well, someone will have to take that for you. Security and all." And just when I think, finally, a Fucking Mouse employee is going to do something useful (even if it is in the name of security), one of the bridesmaids comes up to us to take the gift. "Just give the package to her."

You're shitting me. Fucking Mouse.

One of the ushers comes up to K____ and I and takes K____'s arm to escort us into the Wedding Pavilion. The Pavilion really is quite nice. Beautiful high ceilings. Nice architecture. And glass windows at the front looking out over the water separating us from Epcot and that fucked up ball. But we're far enough away that you really can't see the park and there's no sign of the Mouse anywhere.

As we get to our seats, K___ and I must have been thinking the same thing, because we both stopped and looked at each other. Then K____ said to me, "So, you think they can pack in the benches a little tighter?"

Seriously.

The benches could not have been five inches from the back of one bench to the front of the bench behind it. Doing out best impression of sardines, K____ and I sucked in and wedged ourselves into our seats.

When the ceremony began, K___ and I were still sitting at attention (as it was the only way we could sit in the pews), but could not help but go into catty-mode. While the navy blue bridesmaid's dresses were actually nice, it became clear that there was no uniform "dress code" for bridesmaid shoes. When the youngest bridesmaid pulled up her skirt slightly to roll the white carpet down the aisle for the bride, not only was it apparent she was wearing open-toed, platform-soled sandals that were too small for her feet, but that she hadn't considered get a pedicure to get rid of the green nail polish on her toes (which, of course, didn't match her finger nails).

The bride, however, looked fantastic. And the groom looked good as well. After everyone made it to the end of the aisle, the ceremony began. The reverend welcomed us all, opened his book, and then something became apparent to everyone in the room. Well, if not everyone, certainly to K___ and I, who turned to each other with the same "what-the-fuck" look.

The reverend hadn't looked over the service before he started.

Now, I'm well aware of the fact that a lot of people can read something aloud just fine without having read it beforehand. And, hell, I certainly expect that a reverend, particularly one like this who has a few years on him, has probably conducted a wedding or two before. So, there are circumstances where reviewing something you read before a gathering of people isn't necessary before you actually do it.

This wasn't one of those situations.

The reverend stuttered and stammered through the entire service, often mispronouncing any polysyllabic word. Of course, these were complex words that never appear in a wedding ceremony, like "matrimony" and "dedication." It was so painful to watch, I was tempted to get up, yell at him to shut the fuck up and sit down and take over the ceremony myself.

Eventually, the reverend went off script, proving that he wasn't actually retarded, to discuss how he had come to know the bride and groom, how close he had grown to them, and how they had become like family to him. Of course, when he went back to reading, the stuttering and stammering began anew. Finally, as though the Lord had taken mercy upon us, he stated, "You may kiss the bride."

The groom leaned in, and almost like it were scripted, fireworks began shooting off across the water in Epcot, right behind them. As I learned later, the firework show had been early and, although paying to have fireworks in the background is certainly an option (isn't everything with the Fucking Mouse), this show purely was coincidental.

The reverend, not to have his incompetence outdone by a mere fireworks show, then announced, "ladies and Gentlemen, I now introduce for the first time, F____ and D____ D____!"

One problem.

The groom's name wasn't F____.

The bride owns a dog named F____.

But the groom...not F___.

The groom, who now had a look of panic on his face as if he were thinking, "Is this thing legal if they guy said the wrong name?," attempted to lean toward the reverend to have him correct the mistake. The reverend though, apparently so taken up with emotion by having married two young people who are like his family (whose names he may also not be able to remember), simply shooed the couple down the aisle.

And even if the reverend could have corrected it, it was too late, the music was blaring, streamers were falling.

Then, just as I had forgotten that I was at a Fucking Mouse wedding, once the bride and misnamed groom were out the door, , one of the Fucking Mouse employees yells out, "Everyone please proceed to the buses! You cannot take your cars to the reception! Buses will return you to the Wedding Pavilion after the reception!"

Nice. Good way to keep the mood.

Couldn't that have been included in the program or softly mentioned to guests as they left the ceremony?

Fucking Mouse.

After getting a crowbar and wedging ourselves out of the pews, everyone proceeded outside and, at the direction of the bridesmaids, stood by the limousine to greet the bride and groom as they left for the reception. Then the Fucking Mouse employees came over to the limousine and shouted, "There's no greeting the bride and groom. You all need to get on the buses."

Patented Fucking Mouse.

As it turns out, the Fucking Mouse employees were wrong. The guests were supposed to greet the couple as they left.

Nevertheless, K___ and I piled into the buses with the rest of the guests and took a lovely trip through the bowels of the Fucking Mouse property where we had majestic views of multiple port-a-potties to a "behind-the-scenes" entrance to Epcot's Hall of the Americas.

Along the way, K___ and I bet on whether the Fucking Mouse would serve real alcohol. I guessed they wouldn't, being too concerned about their image. K___ thought they would, but that the Fucking Mouse would insist on a cash bar at exorbitant Fucking Mouse prices.

As we got off the buses, we were directed into the park by Fucking Mouse employees waving lighted flashlight cones used by airport traffic controllers. As we walked into the park in our formal attire, Fucking Mouse guests looked at us like we were insane.

These are the same people who paid $120 a ticket to get into this place for the day.

Yeah. We're insane.

We walked by a group of vendors and I couldn't help myself but turn to K____ and ask, "Dare me to buy a turkey leg?"

When we entered the reception, K___ and I were both exceedingly thankful we were both wrong and there was an open bar. Granted, the bartender diluted the alcohol more then he should of, but there was an open bar nonetheless.

So, K___ and I made a b-line for the bar, followed by a trip to the ever popular hors d'oeuvres table. Figuring that we would let the older guests take the tables with seats, K___ and I went to a "stand-up" table. Soon enough we were making small chat with people we really didn't want to talk to, an older man and his wife, who by the size of her hat apparently thought the reception was at the Kentucky Derby. As they were telling us about their vacation, I began looking at the four very full plates of appetizer they had between them. I kept thinking to myself a) you know that you can always go back and get more, don't you, and b) we are still having dinner at some point, right? Maybe the lady needed the extra energy to keep her head up with that hat on.

After suffering through the exceedingly painful conversation, I saw that both K___ and my drinks were getting low. When I returned from refilling them, the other two guests were gone and I was the recipient of quite a nasty gaze.

"I can't believe you left me alone with them."

"Oh. Sorry, but after listening to that I really needed a drink."

"Don't do it again. Seriously."

"Okay."

At dinner we sat with some more "interesting" people. There was also a bridesmaid who wore more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker and Katherine Harris combined, with her companion (who I believe she introduced as her "fiancee"). However, K___ and I couldn't tell the companion's sex, so we nicknamed it "Pat." And Pat wasn't exactly the most attentive fiancee. When Tammy Faye mentioned she was cold, Pat just responded, "Oh yeah?" After watching this ordeal, I asked K___ if it would be too obnoxious if I gave Tammy Faye my jacket. K___ said, "While I would like to see that, probably better if you don't." It wasn't until Tammy Faye explicitly requested Pat's jacket that s/he bothered to give it to her. Apparently chivalry among the androgynous is dead.

K___ and I spent much of the evening on the dance floor. We also spent some time with the newly married couple, where I introduced myself to "F____." And then we were ready to make it an evening, so we thanked the parents for having us and congratulated the new bride and groom.

We left the reception, only to be stopped by a Fucking Mouse employee.

"Excuse me, sir..."

See, I knew that "sir" was coming.

"Sir, you can't leave."

Marcel, in his Fucking Mouse uniform, was rushing toward us.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, sir, the buses are going to leave in a little more than a half an hour and the park is closed, so we can't let you leave without an escort."

I have a feeling that "escort" isn't the good kind, the kind with a name like "Bubbles" or "Candi."
"How long will it take to get an escort?"

"A little more than a half hour."

Fucking figures.

"So, we have to sit here and wait for a half hour before we can leave?"

"Yes sir."

Ugh.

Then Marcel plops a nice crap cherry on top of his shit sundae.

"Thanks sir. And have a magical evening."

Fuck you too, Marcel.

So, K___ and I wait, falling asleep, for forty-five minutes before we can leave the wedding. Finally, the bride and groom leave and we return to the bowels of the park and get on our buses. After a tour around the "resorts," where K___ passed the time by napping and I passed the time by flirting with a cute girl, we are finally returned to the "Pop Century" and again walked halfway through the property to get back to our room.

After chanting "Fucking Mouse" a few more times, K___ decided to dare me to have a little fun with the Fucking Mouse employees at 1 am. And that's a dare I just can't pass up.

"Front desk."

"Hi. Um...I just got back to my room and...um...have been looking everywhere...and um...I can't seem to find my minibar. Is it under the bed or something?"

[silence]

"Uh...no sir. [pause] You don't have a minibar in your room."

"Are you sure? I mean, I'm really starting to lose my buzz."

[silence]

"Yes sir. I'm sure."

"Shit. Okay. Thanks."

"Have a magical..." [click]

"So K____, dare me to call back and ask what the pay-per-view porn channel is?"

*This title makes reference to the fact that the Fucking Mouse releases a straight to video sequel to every animated film it makes, whether successful or not. Yet another effort to suck dry parents who have no choice but to appease their children by buying them everything with a Fucking Mouse logo.

We interrupt this regularly scheduled post for a news bulletin

2005-12-07T22:00:00.000-05:00

See. Told you so. The cab thing is true too.

And, to demonstrate the accuracy of the rest of that post, this was posted on PostSecret this week:

(back of card) "I work at Disney World. I always act really super-nice but in my head , when a guest is being annoying, I imagine myself SMASHING THEIR FACE IN!!"

Fucking Mouse, indeed.

I plan to post part two soon...

The most magical place on Earth, my ass... a tragedy in two parts

2005-11-23T09:25:00.000-05:00

The other week, I went to a wedding in Orlando. While with some exceptions, weddings are usually not much to write about, this one was different. It was at Walt Disney World. While when I was younger, I always looked forward to going to Disney World, as I have matured I have come to discover Disney for what it truly is: a marketing and capitalistic scheme gone awry where image is given dominance over substance in an effort to create a demand in children to get their parents to fork over large amounts of money for a quasi-"magical" experience. So, I guess you could say, I'm not exactly a fan of the Fucking Mouse.

I picked up a friend on my way to Orlando and she, who also hates the Fucking Mouse, and I were off to the world of the commercialized Tinkerbell. Because the wedding was an evening wedding we stayed on Disney property and, since I didn't realize we were actually staying on Disney property, I did not make suggestions of which hotel to stay in, such as the stunning Grand Floridian or the luxurious Yacht Club. Rather, my friend made reservations at one of the hotels the bride's mother had suggested, the Pop Century Resort.

After an almost unsuccessful attempt to find the "resort," (which is never a good sign) we finally drove into the parking lot of the hotel which a friend later described to me as the "Motel 6 of Disney property." I personally think that description fails to give Motel 6 the respect it deserves. Nevertheless, as we drove up we were greeted with a series of five large buildings, each with huge illuminated "architecture." Additionally, each building had phrases on the top such as "Groovy" or "Don't have a cow man!" Upon discovering the outside of the main lobby building, I realized that the "Pop Century" meant each building had a different decade theme, so the "architecture" I saw were enormous "Rubik's cubes" for the 80's and giant "cell phones" for the 90's (complete with Disney's main number on the cell phone screen.) The phrases on the top of the building were sayings that found their origin in the particular decade. My friend and I looked at each other and said, almost in unison, "I fucking hate the Fucking Mouse."

Oh yes. I was in the most magical hell on the face of the Earth.

Because of holiday weekend traffic, my friend and I were in a bit of a rush to get changed and get to the Fucking Mouse Wedding Pavilion. So we make our way into the Fucking Mouse Pop Century lobby with a desire to get to our room as quickly as possible. We rush to the registration and get in the line. Of course, in Fucking Mouse fashion, there's a 90-foot empty maze to get to the part of the line that matters and, I must admit I was surprised (and even commented to my friend) that the line didn't include signs that said, "15 minute wait from this point."

And that's when I first discovered that the Fucking Mouse is about as efficient as chewing your way through a lead pipe.

Although we have only two people in front of us, we waited over twenty-five minutes for someone to help up. In true Fucking Mouse efficiency, although there were seven employees behind the registration counter, only three were actually registering guests. And I use the phrase "registering guests" in a rather loose sense of the term. One of the Fucking Mouse employees was chatting with the guest and dancing to the disco music that was causing my ears to rupture and bleed. Another was showing a guest where different places were on a Disney property map (how about directing that to the Concierge who doesn't have anyone in line?!?!). While I can't be sure, I think the third employee was picking her nose and showing it to a guest, claiming it was going to magically grow into a carriage to take her to the royal ball.

Fucking Mouse.

We finally get to the registration desk and my friend says, "We want to be the fastest registration you've had all day!" Yeah, right. Like that's a real accomplishment with Speedy Gonzalez over here. "Here's the credit card, here's the reservation number." Move Fucking Mouse boy, move! To his credit, he did actually attempt to check us in quicker than the people before us. But then, despite the fact that the line actually grew in the twenty-five minutes we were in it, Fucking Mouse employee number two (dancing boy) actually stops checking in people to talk to us! First of all, we really had no desire to talk to another Fucking Mouse employee. These people are Stepford Wife freakish enough. Second, uh dipshit, don't you have something more important to do than talk with us, like clear the line growing behind us by the minute?

My friend and I finally make our way to our room, which has to be one on the edge of the "resort" and we undertake a mad dash to get there so we can change for the wedding. After having a personal freak-out session when we thought the Fucking Mouse employee failed to properly scan our cards, we tried a few more times to open the door and eventually successfully made our way into our room. Besides the truly horrid decor, Fucking Mouse commercialism couldn't even escape the room. Smack dab in the middle of the room was a framed Fucking Mouse poster.

I quickly changed into my suit and, while I was waiting for my friend to change, I turned on the television and sorted through the Fucking Mouse-Viacom owned stations. At least they own ESPN. As I always do, I then began to search around the room for little things like the mini-bar. Yeah. Right. Not in this craphole.

My friend then called the front desk for directions to the Fucking Mouse Wedding Pavilion, which, by the way, we were due at in around forty-five minutes. She and the Fucking Mouse employees had the following conversation:

"Hi. I need to get to the Disney Wedding Pavilion pretty quickly. How do I get there?"

"Go to the front of the resort. Take a bus to the Magic Kingdom. When you get to the Magic Kingdom, get on the monorail. Take that to the Wedding Pavilion area. Then walk a mile and a half to the pavilion and you're there."

"Uh...that seems like a long way. How long will that take?"

"The estimated time is about an hour and a half to an hour and forty-five minutes."

"Like I said, we need to be there sooner than that. Is there anything quicker?"

"Well, that's the directions."

"Uh...yeah...thanks."

"Thanks for calling the front desk and have a magical evening!"

Have a magical evening. Seriously, take that magical phrase and substitute "Go fuck yourself." That's what these Fucking Mouse employees are really thinking.

It was then that I suggested we call a cab so if our plan to get considerably inebriated comes to fruition, neither my friend nor I have to drive back to the "resort." After all, nothing spoils a trip to the Fucking Mouse than going to Fucking Mouse jail.

My friend responded, "Fine. You call."

"Hi. I have to get to the Wedding Pavilion. Quickly. And the directions we were given won't get us there in time. Can you call me a cab?"

"Hold on sir. I'll connect you with a taxi company."

They won't call the cab for you? Even the Miami International Airport calls the cab for you and there people shoot at you. What a fucking joke.

"Thanks for calling the front desk and have a magical evening."

Yeah, go fuck yourself too.

"Yeah. This is [such and such] cab company."

It was then that I was able to explain that I needed a taxi and where I was going. Of course, in order to get the taxi, we (including my friend in high heels) had to walk all the way back to the lobby from our remote room. And while I adore my friend, her decision not to send her rather large and fragile gift ahead of time wasn't exactly her most brilliant moment. Less than ten minutes later and after some chatting with the taxi driver (a skill I developed in D.C.), we were at the Fucking Mouse Wedding Pavilion.

Hour and a half my ass.

Only the good...

2005-11-10T22:00:00.000-05:00

When people, particularly college students, find out what I do for a living, I usually receive a series of questions about law school. Every once in a while, I'll get a question about One L or The Paper Chase. "Is law school really like that? Is it that cut throat?"

For me, the answer was no.

That's not to say that many people didn't find their law school experience to be exceedingly competitive or that if I had started in the class before mine or in the class after mine, that I wouldn't feel the same way. But that just wasn't my experience. For the most part, there was a sense of collegiality and mutual respect that permeated my section. And I firmly believe that the reason my section had this sense of collegiality was because of the people in it.

The top of my class set the standard. The top two graduates in my class were so nice that you couldn't feel bad that they just kicked your ass all over the classroom. And there were the friends with whom I spent most of my time. We relied on each other when we were frustrated and congratulated each other when we succeeded.

And then, there was Dan. Dan was unique. Dan was the guy in my section who always made things better. When I was called on in class and thought I made a complete idiot of myself, Dan was the guy who would come up to me and say, "You made some good points. Good job." When I was so stressed I could feel beads of stress dripping from my head, Dan was the guy who would say, "Hey man, relax. You're a smart guy. You've got this." When I was so concerned about the difference between a C+ and a B I couldn't see straight, Dan was the guy who would remind me, that grades were important, but not as important as being a good person.

Dan always seemed to have perspective. It didn't matter if we just suffered the worst academic hazing in our lives, Dan had a smile on his face. In three years of law school, I don't think I ever saw Dan without a smile. Dan was the first guy to crack a joke. Dan was the guy who, if you looked a little (or a lot) unhappy, he would sit down next to you, put his hand on your back and tell you that it was all going to work out. In three years of constant self-doubt, Dan always let you know that you were important, wanted, appreciated.

And Dan was one of those perfect guys. He had it all. He was good-looking, wicked smart, funny, charismatic, compassionate, and so many other adjectives that even if I could list, wouldn't even begin to do him justice.

Simply, Dan was the kind of guy that you'd hate if you didn't like him so damn much.

There's a Yiddish word to describe someone like Dan. Mensch.

Like many people in law school, once Dan and I walked the stage at graduation, we didn't really keep in touch. I think we anticipated the usual. That we would run into each other later in our careers or at our alma mater's football games and we'd laugh about old times, catch up and tell our legal war stories. But that didn't happen.

Earlier this week, I received an email from an old friend from law school.

Unbenownst to me, on December 23, 2004, Dan was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia called AML or Acute Mylogenous Leukemia. Over the past year, Dan had been struggling with this disease. Dan was in hospitals from Miami Beach to Seattle. Dan underwent radiation therapy and received an engraftment of his sister's blood cells to hopefully fight his own cancerous blood cells and send his cancer into remission. And through it all, from what I was able to tell from his website, Dan kept that picturesque, patented smile that I remember perfectly from law school.

In August 2005, things apparently looked better for Dan. His website indicates that his cancer went into remission. But, unfortunately for all of us, that didn't last long.

At 1:40 p.m. on November 5, 2005, Dan lost his struggle with AML. And on November 8, 2005, at almost the exact time I learned all of this, Dan was being laid to rest.

If I could talk to Dan, I'd tell him that I'm so sorry I didn't know. That I'm sorry I didn't call or send an email or ask friends who may have known what was happening to him. That I'm sorry I didn't have the opportunity to see him and smile or crack a joke or pat him on the back and comfort him. That I wish I would have taken time from the trivial things I dealt with on a daily basis and been there for him.

Of course, I know exactly what Dan would say. "No problem buddy."

Like I said, Dan was unique. I will miss him dearly.

And, even though it was only for a short period of time, I am a better person for having known him.

I've included some pictures of Dan below from his website:

The road less traveled by...

2005-11-04T21:48:00.000-05:00

I know I've been gone for a while, but I have a feeling this post will more than make up for lost time for the quantity perspective. I don't make any promises about quality. Oh yeah, it will probably also explain where I've been...

I believe in destiny. I also believe in free will. How can I believe in these two seemingly contradictory principles? Well, it goes a little like this. I believe each of us have things we were meant to do, things that fulfill us and make us genuinely, truly happy. But I also think we have the freedom to choose those things or other, sometimes seemingly better, alternatives. When we choose an alternative, we have turned away from our destiny and picked an option that will make us unhappy, no matter how hard we try.

For example, I believe that each of us has someone that is our destiny. And when someone meets his or her destiny, spending the rest of life in love is, in a word, easy...or at least easier. So, why do around half of marriages end in divorce? Because people choose the wrong person. They take the wrong path. They either have jumped the gun and married someone who isn't their destiny or they just let them out of their lives and ignored destiny when it looked them in the face. Free will overrode destiny, so no matter how hard they tried, their relationship simply was not going to succeed.

Which brings me to my point. I've been thinking lately about my path in life. In fact, I've been thinking about it a lot. When I wake up, when I come home from work, when I get ready for bed (which is disturbingly close to when I come home from work). And recently, I've come to have doubts. A lot of them.

When I was a young, my parents' friends would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I would answer immediately. "I want to be a paleontologist." The response was almost standard. First, the adult would say how impressed they were that I knew such a big word and then inevitably ask, "What's a paleontologist?" My response, which was just as standard, was, "A scientist that studies dinosaurs." Then I would inevitably get the condescending, "Oh..."

My parents, however, were never surprised by my bookwormish pre-adolescent career choice. They always emphasized their love of books, knowledge, and self-improvement. And I think they also expected I wouldn't want to be a cowboy or fireman after I said my first words to my grandmother at six months and read them one of my bedtime stories when I was one.

Nevertheless, I always retained my love of all things scientific, but it, like me, evolved. While I continued to enjoy the physical sciences (and, as you will learn, social sciences), I became distracted by other things. In elementary and middle school, I fell into drama. I was quite outgoing when I was little. It was a function of moving around the country every two to five years. I learned, quickly, that other kids didn't introduce themselves to the new kid, so I took it upon myself to let people know who I was. Believe it or not, being outgoing, sometimes exceptionally so, would not only attract friends, but often kept bullies at bay.

But drama seemed to find me. One of my parents friends was an agent and, after indicating to my parents that she would like to get me work, she began to find me jobs. For a kid, there's nothing better than an acting job. You get out of school of the day, eat free food, stand were someone tells you to, smile, say some stuff that you don't always understand but have memorized, and get more money then you could ever conceive of. Granted, two to four hundred dollars isn't a lot now, but then, geez, that was a fortune.

When I moved to California, once again, I fell back into drama. I went to one of the main drama feeder schools into the Hollywood actor pipeline, a magnet program in a less than totally desirable area of Los Angeles. I took drama courses because...well...they were fun. Again, I got to get on a stage, be someone else for a little while, say some stuff I memorized, and classmates or an audience would clap. It's a lot better than taking some other electives where I would just sit at a desk all the time.

I wasn't the best student in California. I wasn't bad, I just wasn't good at what I wasn't interested in because I...well...wasn't interested. But in fifth grade, I had a teacher that changed that. While Mr. Johnson deserves a post all to his own, I will say briefly that he had a profound impact on me in an subject I never thought I was good at. And although I didn't know it, on parent-teacher night, Mr. Johnson informed my mother and father that I had scored higher on the required standardized math exam than any of the other twenty-five kids in my class. My parents, bewildered, responded with, "Are you sure that was him?"

That's when I learned I was actually good at math.

But eventually, I left California, albeit as a much better math student, and, at the ripe old age of twelve, I realized that leaving California really meant leaving drama behind. I still did some things in theatre. I took chorus classes in middle school, since in addition to acting I was also into singing both in California and many years before. But I quickly learned, in my new school, chorus classes were really for the kids that didn't want to do anything for an hour. And, shocked by the considerably more restrictive life my new school offered to its students than the one to which I had become accustomed, I became disenchanted and kept more to myself than I had in the past. But something strange happened. I began paying attention in my classes. And for some strange reason, I found the tests easy. Hey, how hard is an exam when you actually know the information you're being asked? Without studying, I started coming home with all or almost all A's. Once that happens, I couldn't let it slide. Now there's a bar. I began to expect it from myself.

So here I was. In seventh grade. High personal academic expectations, drama skills I wanted to retain and continue to develop, and beginning to think about what the hell I wanted to do for the rest of my life. That's when I started thinking about the law.

But what does a middle school student know about the law? I know what I saw on LA Law and on Night Court. They both looked like fun. You get to stand up, talk, and even resolve some problems. I knew you had to go to school for a while to be a lawyer, but I liked school now, so that's wasn't a problem.

Then I started looking for something to do that would get me ready for law. I learned that to be a lawyer, you have to be good at arguing, so I got into debate. However, my love of drama kept me into the speech side of "speech and debate," rather than the nitty-gritty, research-heavy, flow-sheet-crazy, argue-until-you're-blue-in-the-face debate side of "speech and debate." Oh yeah...and the girls in the speech events were much cuter.

When I got to college, I immediately sought out speech. My university had a speech and debate program that offered me the opportunity to compete in a way I had never before and, in time, my new team became my family away from my family. And even to this day, my coach remains my other mother. But, I spent nearly every weekend with my team, whether it was competing or partying on a bye week. But speech and communication (because, of course, I picked a major I thought would benefit me in law school) introduced me to a new love: Rhetoric.

Rhetoric was incredible. It had great thoughts from great minds and so much of it started with Aristotle. How cool is that? It's got to be cool if it's based on Aristotle! In this new and exciting world of rhetoric, I looked at communication events and determine why they were successful or unsuccessful by looking at communication models and offered my own thoughts and opinions on why the communication events successfully or unsuccessfully met the models and produced an expected or unexpected result. And every once in a while, I would suggest improvements to the communication models as well.

Yeah, I loved it. But I had planned to go to law school and, while I loved rhetoric, it was only a step in the chain to being an attorney.

And, after a major and a thesis in the subject, I said goodbye to rhetoric when I left undergrad. After all, thanks to my interest in rhetoric and my strict attention to my other college grades, I had law school in front of me. And I was elated with law school. Because I loved it.

In law school, I discovered the rules that made everything work. Suddenly, phrases I thought I understood, like "corporation" or "option" or "property" or "contract" or "crime" or "enumerated powers" had different meanings. I learned this amazing and wonderful historical process by which we have govered ourselves. And I can still remember the day in law school when I had the epiphany that these grandiose governmental institutions, Congress, the President, the Judiciary, the State Legislatures, the Governor, are all really the same thing: People. People who, despite their many differences, are all committed to the same values. Freedom. Justice. The Rule of Law. And I realized that these words, concepts I simply accepted my entire life, were both newly mysterious and exceedingly precious. They offer so much and can be lost so quickly. To hear someone say that is one thing. To truly, actually, realize it for yourself....well, that's another.

But when I left law school, I began to realize that the beautiful, raw, unadulterated body of law that I loved in law school was gone. I was dealing with problems, lots of them. And no one cared about these grandiose legal concepts that I had loved to discuss with my classmates in law school. People only cared about a legal concept if that concept got them to where they wanted to be. And the development of the law wasn't a concern, it was an argument to give to a judge for the benefit of a client paying in six-minute increments. I discovered, in practice, the law was something entirely different.

So, I've been trying to learn how to practice this profession and trying to determine if I enjoy it. So far, I can't say I do. I don't like the gamesmanship, the emphasis on speed rather than thoughtful deliberation, the information overload, and the lies. Especially the lies. The lies are a spit-in-the-face of the honorable profession that I signed up for. Add that to the fact that even in public practice, "the law is a jealous mistress" and, yeah, I've got doubts. In fact, I think, right now, doubts are about all I have. Well, doubts and stress.

I thought moving to the public sector would give me a little more time, but it hasn't. I'm working the same hours and sometimes more hours...ten to eleven a day, and most weekends. But the stakes are higher and the salary is lower. And I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss my blog.

But above all, I wonder. I wonder if the first answer was the right answer and my childhood love of dinosaurs would have been a source of lifelong fulfillment. I wonder if my affinity for math was a guide to a profession I gave short shrift. I wonder if I should have gone for a Ph.D. in Rhetoric. I wonder if I should have looked for other passions that I may not have recognized before. I wonder if I put something into my head in seventh grade and ignored anything that may have told me different. But most of all, I wonder whether I let my free will turn me away from my destiny. Whatever that destiny may be.

Good help is so hard to find...

2005-10-10T20:48:00.000-05:00

Ms. Patricia Harrison
President and CEO
Corporation for Public Broadcasting

Dear Ms. Harrison:

As you know, in today's political environment, the Corporation for Public Broadcasting has come under fire. PBS has been criticized as unfair and lacking balance, typically by conservatives. Indeed, this past year has seen efforts to eliminate funding for PBS as a result of the content of its broadcasting. However, a bipartisan response ensured that PBS will continue to offer quality investigative programming, excellent documentaries, and insightful news programming.

I have been a loyal PBS viewer for some time. I often tell friends about the variety of programs I enjoy on PBS. From the intellectual diversity of Nova, to the varying perspectives of POV, to the thorough investigative reporting of Frontline, I remain a dedicated PBS viewer. And when I hear criticism of how television serves no purpose other than instant communication of news, I cite PBS as evidence of how wrong that criticism is.

It is with this background that I ask you about the following. This evening, I sat down to watch what I hoped would be an interesting documentary program, Elusive Peace, a two-and-a-half hour analysis of the Middle East peace process. After the first forty-five minutes drew me into the program (although I would point out some factual omissions in the program, but we'll save that letter for another day), your PBS station interrupted the program and put on an episode of Antiques Roadshow already in progress. Do you have any idea how mentally scaring it is to instantly go from shuttle diplomacy to the price of an 18th century highboy?

Being the second time this problem has occurred, I felt the need to inform you of it. Don't get me wrong, I realize that the Corporation for Public Broadcasting is on a limited governmentally supplemented budget, but I must ask, how hard is it to find someone who can put the tape into the machine and press "play" while also looking at a monitor to make sure they are not interrupting another program? When I was in elementary school, there was a kid who ate glue while operating a projector. If you would like his name, I think he might still be available.

So, Ms. Harrison, it is hard enough for PBS to gain viewership. Please don't dissuade more people from tuning in. By the grace of all that is Jim Leher, please, please, please encourage your stations to hire A/V people who know what they are doing.

Sincerely,

Blundering American

And by popular (okay, singular) demand...

2005-10-04T20:50:00.000-05:00

A good friend and blog mentor (what exactly is that? blogentor? mentog?) aptly recognized here that blogs are like peep shows. You get to see a little story of someone else's life. However, while the writer often reveals thoughts and experiences that he or she may not tell people personally, they often retain the story in its entirety for themselves. Until I began this little endeavor, I don't think I recognized the truth behind that observation. Now I do.

After I posted this, my friend, S____, commented about the "Dentistry Wedding." Evidently, one reason was because he was able to break the not-so-subtle-first-letter code of names and determine about whom I was writing. He then asked me for more stories from that evening and, I must admit, there were plenty. Typically, I probably would resist the temptation to revisit an event for a number of reasons, but in this case I tend to agree with S___. There were some other experiences that are worth mentioning, such as:

-When I was walking from the ceremony to the elevator to go to the cocktail party, two dentists behind me began discussing how easy it was to fleece the system that I prosecute people for fleecing. After they both all-but-admitted to criminal activity, I turned around, introduced myself using my official title and suggested that they may want to discuss their fraudulent activities in a somewhat more private environment. They introduced themselves and Jon Smith and Joe Smith and promptly excused themselves. I was tempted to ask for their professional identification numbers, but that would have been so unsporting.

-At the cocktail party, S___ tried to convince me that, despite the copious amounts of alcohol that he had consumed, he "reeeaaalllyyy wuuzznn'tt thaaaat drrruunnkk" because his stupor was psychologically induced.

-S___ then attempted to further justify his inebriated state by pointing out how his wife, M____, had been "ssssooooo" drunk at B___ and J____'s wedding that she engaged in a tear-included chorus of That's What Friends Are For the weekend before. When I asked if M____ took the microphone to ensure that she was heard by all who attended the wedding, M____ assured me she had not. S____ later indicated that, it wouldn't have mattered because, microphone or not, everyone at the wedding saw M____'s drunken accompaniment of Dionne Warwick. Perhaps a call to Dionne and her Psychic Friends Network could have avoided that scene (I was tempted to provide a link, but just couldn't justify it to myself).

-When I indicated to S___ that his wife's previous drunken state did not explain his, S___ indicated that he only drinks like this when he is at a wedding. I then asked the all-important question, "And how many weddings have you been to lately?" S____'s response, "About one each week."

-I spent time on the dance floor with H___ and R____ who thoroughly impressed me with their ability to cut a rug on the dance floor. Recognizing my surprise, A___ told me I shouldn't be too impressed, because when H___ and R____ were engaged to be married, they took dance lessons so that people would have my exact reaction. Even with that caveat, I was still impressed.

-I was also impressed that one of my friends hit the dance floor, because I had never seen him do so. When he got onto the dance floor, I finally understood why.

-After refusing to take part in picking the bride up on a chair during the Hora for fear of dropping her, I watched as four other guys tried to pick her up, only to drop her. Who knew that a dentist would have such catlike reflexes in a wedding gown?

-Newlywed, J____, proposed to me because her new husband, B____, could not be found at the time. Apparently, she thought I was the best of what was available. In case you're wondering, the room was pretty much empty at that point.

-Witnessing (although, thankfully, not directly) the groom's brother taking a bubble bath in the post-wedding hospitality suite.

Of course, there were other events as well, but may of them would require a painfully detailed introduction about how many of my friends and I were politicos at our alma mater. Recognizing how excruciating non-politicos find that type of discussion, I'll just leave those stories out and spare you from a detailed rendition of university politics.

There was one other story that doesn't require such background information. One that I initially hesitated to write. But in considering exactly how to approach this post, I figured the catharsis would be worthwhile.

My friend, A____, has taken it upon herself as a personal mission to find me a girlfriend. However, recognizing the importance of finding someone of a similar background, A____ has been searching for a girl that she has dubbed as "100% Kosher." I'm not exactly getting fantastic results on my own, so I've become a willing participant in this little endeavor of A___ playing shadchen (Yiddish, transl. "matchmaker").

Some time ago, A____ suggested that I meet her friend, C___. (No. C___ is not C___ from this post.) After A___ has talked C___ up for some time, I ended up meeting her on my own. I approached her, we talked a bit on a few occasions, and eventually I asked if she wanted to grab lunch sometime. C___ was visibly taken aback (which even I recognize is a bad sign), but gave me her email address. I emailed. She tersely responded. I replied. She responded again. But what was lacking in these messages was any reciprocal interest.

Let me explain what I mean by that statement. I don't expect women to throw themselves at me (although, I must admit, the thought has some appeal). It's just not the way the little dance works. However, I have come to expect that if someone is interested in knowing something about me that when I ask that person questions about themselves, they answer and then ask some questions about me. When someone only answers my questions, but asks me nothing in return, I take it as, "Thanks for coming on the show. We have some lovely consolation prizes."

Well, that was the situation here. I got the message. Loud and clear. And I never pursued anything further. I'd always attempt to be polite though. Say hello. Talk to C___ when no one else was. But I'd be lying if I didn't say that the situation was a little embarrassing for me. And running into C___ wasn't exactly something I looked forward to for that reason.

After I invited A___ to the dentist wedding, she told me how excited she was to see C___, who would also be in attendance. I, however, was less than thrilled.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against C___ at all. And it's not like I haven't been rejected before. I mean, please, I've gotten to the point that I admire the technique. But for some reason, since I approached C___ it has been awkward and, well, as much as I hate this word in this circumstance, weird. I have an inability to speak to her and, even when I do, she's, whether intentionally or not, rather cold with me. Ultimately, I've resigned myself to "It is what it is."

When we arrived at the wedding cocktail party and reception, it was what it was. As expected, I told C___ "hello," to receive a "hi" in return. While I pretty much knew the program, the limited efforts that I took to strike up any conversation went unreciprocated. So, in that regard, the evening was pretty much status quo.

The reason this whole little ordeal bothers me though, really doesn't have anything to do with C___. That seems to be the only part of the circumstances that I'm comfortable with. As I said before, "it is what it is." What bothers me is how, despite being at an event with so many of my friends and watching two of my friends get married, I felt so isolated.

Don't get me wrong, I love spending time with B____ and J____, and H____ and R____, and B____ and his girlfriend, and most certainly with M____ and S____. They make me feel funny and fun and, most importantly, wanted. And I was so happy for the groom when I spoke to him and all he could do was rave about his beautiful bride.

But when I looked around and realized I was the "single one" among so many married friends, it was a bit depressing. In so many ways, my life is the antithesis of theirs. To put it bluntly, while they've found their one and only good night kiss, I'm still just setting the alarm and going to bed.
And that, I think, is what bothered me about the situation. It predisposed me to look around the room with this jaded view. And once I did, I realized, no matter how many people are in the room, right now, there's one very important one, that I have yet to meet, who is absent. That unique and special one. My one and only good night kiss.

Two dentists and two rabbis were standing under a chupa...*

2005-10-01T13:20:00.000-05:00

Last week I went to the wedding of a friend of mine. He's a dentist. He married a dentist. So a prerequisite to going to this wedding was having good teeth. The wedding was black tie and, rather than throw away money on a rental tuxedo, I finally resigned myself to purchasing one and having it for any future formal occassions I may have. And I must say, it's a damn nice tux.

My invitation also included my name "and Guest." so rather find someone in whom I had romantic interest who would actually be willing to be seen in public with me, I called my friend, A____, who indicated that she was not invited, but who was friends with everyone there. So, I invited her as my date, she accepted and we were ready for a fabulous formal evening on the town.

Because the wedding was on the other side of the state, I was staying at my parents house. A____ showed up at around 5:15 or so, and we spent time talking to my parents. In case you're wondering, my parents are totally friend-compatible, so that presented no issues. However, the wedding, which was scheduled at 6:45, was quickly approaching. Nevertheless, A___ and I did not want to be the first people at the wedding, so we decided to burn some time by watching our alma mater kick the crap out of whoever they were playing that week.

When we got to the hotel, we couldn't find anyone we knew. We approached the room we were supposed to enter and the doors were closed. A___ and I looked to the right, and there was the bride, getting ready to walk down the aisle. Apparently, A____ and I misjudged the time it would take for us to get there. And our fashionably late, became a horribly unfashionably tacky interruption.

Nevertheless, we persisted to open the door, and everyone in the audience looked at us as we realized that the door was not oriented so we could enter the back of the room, but rather at the side of the room. I looked at A___ and A___ looked at me and the only thing I could think to say was, "Go ahead."

So A____ walked in (looking fabulous in her fire engine red dress), and made a b-line for the back; I followed immediately behind her (Who would blame me for following a hot blonde in a red dress?). We looked around for a few seconds and realized something. Something petrifying. Sometime that you never want to realize when you are late to a wedding. No seats.

Yes, apparently there were only the exact number of seats that there were guests and, because A____ and I showed up late, the two seats that we were supposed to sit in were now hidden amongst the morass of people watching the front of the room (with the exception of those who were looking at us in the back of the room). As the panic of standing uncomfortably in the back of the room set in, I looked for someone, anyone, to help us. I turned my head to the left and saw two familiar faces. My friend, M____, and her husband, S_____, were gesturing to A____ and I and wording quietly, "Stay there! Don't move!"

Taking M____ and S___'s suggestion, A___ and I froze like deer in headlights, doing our best to blend into the drapes. Although A____'s red dress looked fabulous on her, it made our efforts to make ourselves inconspicuous a bit of a challenge. Basically, it was like trying to hide Shaquille O'Neal at a dwarf convention, or trying to hide Courtney Love....well....anywhere.

Then everyone stood. The bride came out and walked down the aisle, I was thanking all that was holy that when everyone looked at the back, it wasn't just us standing. After the bride made her way to the chupa, everyone sat down and A___ and I reengaged in the drape-hiding activity that was previously so unsuccessful.

After the bride walked down the aisle, the wedding planner/hotel manager/quasi-authority figure approached A____ and I and whispered, "If you walk to the front there are seats up there." Okay, let me get this straight. You just saw us make the embarassing walk-of-shame in to the ceremony within thirty seconds of the bride walking down the aisle. We're standing in the back pretending we are badly designed window dressings and you want us to walk to the front of the wedding, looking for seats? Hmm, let me think about that...yeah, no fucking way.

"Can you get us something back here?," I whispered hoping this woman would take pity on us and retrieve us chairs, but it didn't matter. Wedding planner/hotel manager/quasi-authority figure had walked away. Apparently she was more interested in telling us what to do than actually helping us avoid the obviously embarassing situation. I turned to A___ and said, "I don't know about you, but I'm thinking we stay back here and call as little attention to ourselves as possible. I'm not walking to the front." A____ seemed to be working out of the same playbook: "Damn right."

So A___ and I stood in the back, with unobstructed views of the lovely ceremony, watching two of our friends tie the knot under a chupah brought together by teeth. We saw our friend looking quite dapper and his new bride looking as lovely as could be. We listened intently to their two rabbis as they spoke throughout the ceremony. And when it was done, we blended in with the crowd as they left.

All in all, it wasn't too bad. But I couldn't help but feel bad for A___. After all, I wasn't wearing heels.

Of course, if I was I'm sure we would have attracted a lot more attention.

*As an inside joke for A___, the alternative title to this story was, Hangin' with the Shiksa in the Red Dress. However, in the interest of keeping the appeal of the post broader (i.e. for the two other people that read what I write), the more universal title appears above.

Another season, another reason...

2005-09-22T22:13:00.000-05:00

With premiere week just about coming to a close, I think I can say that as I am now without HBO, the new season is going to seriously suck. Granted, I haven't seen the season premiere of the West Wing, but even with an exciting and actually undecided election on the way, I'm inclined to believe that the show should start winding down. Mind you, I am an official West Wing addict. I have every season that has been published to DVD, have watched every episode (except two) when they originally aired, and even purchased a DVR just in case I wasn't able to watch the show when it came on. Yet, as addicted as I am, and while I'm impressed with the show's ability to stay interesting with the defection of Tommy Schlame and Aaron Sorkin, I'm starting to think it's about time to call President Bartlett a lame duck and pass along the reigns of power to someone else. (Not to mention, with everything that's going on in the real world, what drama could the West Wing create that we haven't seen already: A war, a sagging economy, a terrorist leader on the prowl, presidential approval ratings that are going down quicker than some sorority girls I know, two simultaneous Supreme Court vacancies (yeah, yeah, O'Conner's staying on the Court until she has a replacement) including one created by the death of the Chief Justice, and not one, but two killer hurricanes in less than a month. Even with the finest mushrooms in all the land Sorkin couldn't have come up with that story line.)

NBC seems to have not only stuck with what it thinks worked, but tried to double up on the idea. Not only did NBC bring back Donny Trump's Apprentice, but it started a series for Martha Stewart's Apprentice too. I have to admit, Trump's Apprentice seems to bring back the sass of the first two seasons. The contestants are interesting, diverse and impressive. DT is in full snake-strike "you're fired" mode and sponsors have gotten in line to get their product placement on the show.

Martha's show, on the other hand, is weak. Really weak. While I could only stomach 2/3 of the program, I can say I saw enough to know I saw too much. First of all, Martha had the chutzpah to actually claim that she went to jail for her business. Now, I'm no expert on her case, but I'm pretty sure that she went to jail for lying to the federal government. So, unless she's claiming that she lied to the government to protect her business, rather than attempting to keep the profits from the possible insider/swing trading she likely engaged in, she's either a profound idiot or completely full of crap. And what was up with house arrest? I mean, is it actually some type of punishment when you have house arrest and you live in what she's got?

Rather than having two trusted business advisors, Martha has one advisor and her daughter. I mean, seriously, what does Martha's daughter know about the cutthroat world of business? How many times has she been concerned that Martha is going to fire her? And it's not like the girl is even a decent judge. While Martha a/k/a "Pushover" is wavering, her daughter spits out a "golly gee wilikers, this sure is a tough decision." The other advisor, who is the only person with any balls on the entire show (although like every male on the show, I have doubts that he will ever use them for more than really bad decoration) retorts back with, "I don't think so. This one is easy." He then proceeds to tell Martha what to do, which she follows to the letter. Yeah, this is exactly the business acumen that I look up to. But then again, I think anyone who looks up to this mass media marketing criminal seriously needs to reexamine their priorities.

However, the firing (if you can even call it that) was the worst part by far. Rather than Trump's aggressive, deliberate, and determined "You're fired." Martha goes into a discussion with her prospective firee that sounds like she's breaking up with him: "I just don't think you fit in [apparently conformity is a good thing at Martha Stewart Living]. I don't think this is going to work out." I thought she was going to finish with, "It's not you, it's me." Then she stands up, walks around the table, and shakes the firee's hand before sending him out the door. I was hoping I'd hear her yell, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out!" But I guess that wouldn't be "Martha." Of course, if Martha were a man when she was sent to prison, she'd have bigger ass-protection concerns.

Well, as if this whole dragged out firing scene wasn't lame enough, Martha then returns to her seat and (I shit you not) pulls out a piece of Martha Stewart Living letterhead and writes the firee a handwritten note to console him on his departure. Am I the only person who sees the irony in this? I mean, where, oh where, could Martha have gotten the habit of writing people handwritten letters? In fact, I'm sure she still has the Danbury Federal Correction Institute letterhead.

So, yes, the Apprentice: Martha Stewart is lame. Incredibly lame. The only value to the show would be to watch it with a lot of alcohol and drink every time you see Martha's house arrest ankle bracelet disguised by wardrobe. After all, she was still on house arrest during the filming of the show.

However, what agitates me the most about new crap like The Apprentice: Martha Stewart (other than that I wasted 38 minutes of my life watching part of it) is that innovative, unique, well-written shows that just have not found their audience are given the ax, while reality crap is left on the air. One example is Jack and Bobby which was on WB last season.

Jack and Bobby, created by Tommy Schlame, one of the great minds behind the West Wing, was about two brothers, one of whom would eventually become President of the United States. In essence, the show was a cross between the West Wing and Dawson's Creek. The show was well-written, excellently acted, and brilliantly cast. It dealt with teenage angst and serious contemporary issues. One of the most unique parts of the show was that you knew the beginning and the end, but discovered a piece of the line between the two in every episode.

In a moment of the "profound brilliance" for which television executives are known, some idiot at WB decided it would be smart to run a show that would appeal to West Wing fans against the West Wing. Well, unless people have a two-channel DVR, you can imagine what happened. That's right, West Wing fans wouldn't defect, even in a sub-par season. However, rather than try the show in a better time slot for a second season, WB just pulled the plug, taking an excellent show and throwing it on the scrap heap.

Of course, with the programming choices that WB considers worthwhile, I couldn't help but write to the company. That letter stated:

To whom it may concern:

I write to express my profound disappointment with your decision not to renew Jack and Bobby for another season. The show, one of the best written and most innovative since The West Wing was, quite simply, brilliant. Yet, despite it's superb concept, writing, and acting, you ran it against another political show with incredibly loyal watchers and, when those people didn't leave, you just dropped the show.

What is perhaps most disappointing is that you remain to run garbage like "Charmed" and "Reba" while canceling quality programming like "Jack and Bobby." In the future, when you have a fantastic television program, please give it a chance.

Sincerely,
[BA]

As evidence of my point, Seinfeld originally had dismal ratings in its first times slot, but NBC saw promise in the show, moved it to Thursday at 9 and it flourished into the most successful series of all time (possibly with the exception of MASH).

So a new season has begun. Unfortunately, it looks like it has begun with disappointment. At least we still have PBS...until the Corporation for Public Broadcasting goes under the knife.

Update: I have not heard back from WB regarding my letter. Shocker.

Another date which will live in infamy...

2005-09-11T21:14:00.000-05:00

For the past four years of September 11th anniversaries, I have generally avoided the emotional stories. The touching personal dramas on television that recount that clear Tuesday morning. I think it's because the experience was so emotionally difficult the first time around that I don't want to force myself to deal with those emotions a second time around.

Instead, I watch the History Channel or the Discovery Channel and learn about any number of different things about the events of that day: How the architecture of the towers absorbed the power of passenger planes slamming into them, how the fuel from the planes ultimately caused the towers to collapse, how the New York subway system avoided flooding when the retaining walls of the towers began to fail. I think, by concentrating on those events from the left side of the brain, it helps me to avoid all the emotional baggage on the right side.

Today, I watched a special on the 9/11 Commission Report on the History Channel. And it highlighted portions of the report (which you can read more about by clicking on the link to the left). But there are some portions of the report and the documentaries I saw that bear noting, some of which were interesting, but most of which were quite disturbing:

The plane that went into the Pentagon was initially intended for the White House. Bin Laudin himself wanted to hit the White House, but when the hijackers couldn't locate the White House from the air, they directed the plane into the Pentagon on the other side of the Potomac in Arlington, Virginia.
The plane that went down in Pennsylvania was intended to hit the Capitol. While the loss of life would have been horrible, and the idea of not having that beautiful rotunda there would have been hard to comprehend, also disturbing is that Congress was in session on September 11th, 2001. So those brave passengers not only saved countless lives by sacrificing themselves, but, in a very real way, they saved our government, our democracy, and our way of life.
The Twin Towers actually resisted the impact of the two planes that slammed into them, as they were originally intended to do (although the largest plane at the time of the towers' construction was considerably smaller). However, the speed of the impact literally blew the fire resistance material off the metal in the towers and the burning fuel became so hot that it ultimately melted the metal of the buildings, causing them to collapse.
The impact of Flight 11 into tower 1 took out the elevator shafts and stairwells. So while many of the responders were focused on saving the people at the impact site and above, there was no way for those people to be saved in tower 1, so response would have been better focused on saving people in tower 1 below the crash site.
The impact of the plane into tower 2, however, did not take out all of the elevator shafts and stairwells, because the impact was in the corner of the building, not the center. However, information could not be communicated effectively and many people did not know that Stairwell Shaft A was available, leaving it considerably unused.
Firedrills in the WTC only required people to leave their offices and move towards the center of the building, so many people in the towers had never actually used the stairs before. While this may not initially seem to be a problem, the stairs were not uniform throughout and when the shafts were black with soot and smoke and electricity was out, the failure to practice leaving the building through the stairwells likely cost a number of people their lives.
Police and fire radios did not work properly in the WTC and there were so many different communication systems among first responders that it was entirely futile to attempt to communicate a single order because there was no way for all first responders to receive it.
The 19 hijackers entered the airport security system with little, if any, resistance. Although some of them actually set off metal detectors, some security officials allowed them onto the planes without assessing the reason the hijackers set off the detectors. Basically, to paraphrase one member of the 9/11 Commission, the hijacker could have had an AK-47 in his pants and security would have still let him through.
The planes scrambled to defend Washington, DC went over water into the Atlantic Ocean to defend the city. Because no one told the pilots that the threat was from civilian aircraft being used as missiles, the pilots assumed that they were defending the country from a Russian missile attack and went into the ocean to intercept the missiles. However, even if the planes were over Washington, it would have made little difference. The pilots were not made aware that Vice President Cheney had issued an order (from a secured bunker under ground) to down any civilian aircraft approaching Washington. Of course, the Vice President asserted that this order was made as a result of discussions with President Bush. However, President Bush, who was then on Air Force One was having difficulty communicating with anyone because Air Force One's communications systems were not working properly. (Whether the Vice President was acting without authority, because only the President can issue such an order, remains a debatable question, but there is little doubt that on September 11, 2001 the United States Government was acting after being decapitated.)
CIA translators provided severely flawed translations of classified documents from Arabic on regular occasions, and when an employee raised issue with the inaccurate translations, she was disciplined. When she raised issue with her discipline to those higher up the chain, she was fired. Her complaints may not have mattered because many CIA translators told her statements to the effect that, "America is getting what they deserve" or "Now America is going to see a little of what it dished out." Remember, the accuracy of a CIA translation can make the difference between actionable intelligence and an innocuous statement.

As a result of the failures of the communication, the failures in our security apparatus, and widespread systemic problems, the 9/11 Commission offered a series of recommendations to better prepare us for another terrorist attack, including, among many others, a centralized intelligence apparatus under a single Cabinet authority Intelligence Director, increased intelligence and counterterrorism Congressional oversight, disclosure of the amount of national security funding, and an information age revolution for intelligence and counterterrorism agencies. The vast majority of the recommendations made by the 9/11 Commission remain unaddressed to this day.

We should remember September 11, 2001, always.

But it's long past time for us to fix the problems that were exploited on September 11, 2001.

Fleecing of America...and a few other countries...

2005-09-04T09:44:00.000-05:00

And now, the post I mentioned yesterday...

The other day I checked the traffic on my site and discovered, to my surprise, I was getting a lot of hits. Well, as you might have guessed from my many statements to that effect, I don't expect mounds of readership on this little corner of the internet. But, to my surprise, there were considerably more hits than expected over the last few months.

So I looked over the source sites of these hits and discovered a relatively consistent pattern. Apparently, I've garnered a little bit of internet fame. Well, maybe not me, just one of my experiences, Gone Phishing. Yes, it appears that what I will dub as the "kutiekylie scam" has hit the internet with full force.

Apparently, this little site has served readers, and some anonymous commenters (thanks ya'll...love the comments!!! And wow, from the UK!) as a bit of an internet consumer report. Well, I'm quite happy to help people from falling into scams. Entertaining a bit is nice too, but stopping people from falling into scams is also a plus. So, with one exception, the comments are open. Feel free to share your "BackSideBabe" stories. The more entertaining the better.

The exception you ask? No spamming. If you spam the comments, the comment will be deleted. Normally, I would never delete a bona fide comment. Good, bad, whatever. Spam, as with the lunchmeat, well, it's a different category altogether. Spam gets roundfiled.

With that caveat, comment away!

P.S. For you other Blogger bloggers, Blogger has added a word verification option that will, hopefully, reduce spam commenting (spamenting? commam? spamments?). Check it out here. Recent spam comments have led me to turn the feature on (freaks...). Hopefully, this little step won't stop readers (both of them) from making bona fide comments.