When I hear someone say that it was so quiet that they could hear a pin drop, I think cliché. When I read it online, I think very bad writing.
When I hear someone say that they “could literally hear a pin drop” I think cliché and stupid.
When I read it in a book, I think very bad editor.
For the past month of so, I’ve been working on improving my golf game by hitting whiffle balls in the front yard. The goal has been to hit the ball as close as possible to my daughter without actually smacking her in the head or torso.
A raising of the stakes, if you will. Since golf tends to be a game of pressure-packed shots from difficult positions, I thought I’d create a little pressure of my own.
And so far, I’ve done very well, bouncing very few balls off her body and none off her head.
This morning a friend brought her two sons over to play in the backyard, and I quickly transformed the “try not to hit the baby” game into the “try my best to nail a boy with the ball” game.
While hitting a moving target is not a required skill on the golf course, it sure was fun, and I actually think it helped my short game a lot. Rather than simply lofting balls around Clara, I had to hit low line drives, high, over the deck bombs, and everything in between in order to have any chance at hitting those boys.
Being four-year old twins, they still made for small targets.
The boys have gone home and I’m supposed to revising my manuscript, but I find myself hoping that they come over again soon. Golf has always been fun, but today it was especially so.
I was recently speaking to a friend about hobbies, and she claimed that her hobby was shopping. When I expressed my doubts that shopping is a legitimate hobby, she attempted to equate it to poker, golf and reading (three of my hobbies), claiming that the pleasure she derives from shopping is no different than the joy that I feel after finishing a good book, making a long putt or winning a hand of poker by means of a well-timed bluff. I asked my friend if she would have as much fun if she were shopping without making any purchases. “What if you went to the mall without your wallet? Still fun?”
She found the idea ludicrous. “That’s not shopping. It’s just looking.”
Based upon this position, I pointed out to my friend that it isn’t the act of shopping that she enjoys, but the acquisition of material goods. If my friend found satisfaction in touring the mall, examining the latest merchandise, admiring the elegance of its design, and grabbing a cup of coffee, then I might be willing to consider shopping a hobby.
But as with most people who claim to enjoy shopping, my friend actually gains pleasure through the increase in the size of her wardrobe and the addition of material possessions. It's not the act of shopping that she requires, but the point of purchase.
Remove the purchase and shopping is no longer fun. Her words. Not mine.
In my mind, this invalidates my friend's claim that shopping is a hobby. It might make her feel better to think of her materialism as a hobby, but in my mind, it’s more akin to a sickness than anything else.
… we will wonder why everyone in the world was obsessed with vampires. … we will fail to understand why people opted to eat raw fish when perfectly good cooked fish was readily available.
… we will be amazed (like my generation is about cigarettes) that people didn’t assume that the use of a cell phone would eventually cause cancer.
… we will consider it bizarre and archaic that marriage was not available to all couples regardless of their sexual preference.
… we will still wonder what John McCain was thinking when he chose Sarah Palin as his running mate.
… we will stand agog at the remarkably primitive voting devices that our technologically-advanced nation continued to use even after the 2000 Presidential election.
… people will wonder what hallucinogenic, mind-reducing drug was added to the water supply to cause hordes of otherwise normal people to spend their precious, never-to-be-recovered time on Facebook games like Farmville.
Amongst my thousands of other projects, I’ve been working on a book of inappropriate nursery rhymes, based upon this little ditty that I came up with a couple years ago.
Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece was white as snow
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go…
Doodie
What do you think?
Can you imagine it in picture book form, with the page break falling before the last line? With the right illustrator, I think it could be gold!
I’ve got others, but I’m not ready to publish the whole thing online yet.
There’s been much discussion over the potential loss of the polar bears as a result of the recent melting of polar ice. Many environmentalists have adopted the polar bear as their symbol of the dangers of global warming.
While I have also grown concerned over the environment in recent years and don’t want to see the polar bear disappear from this planet, I think that it might be prudent to revise the Oslo Agreement, which permits the hunting of this supposedly endangered species. The treaty allows hunting "by local people using traditional methods," although this has been liberally interpreted by member nations. All nations except Norway allow hunting by the Inuit, and Canada and Denmark allow trophy hunting by tourists.
More than a thousand polar bears per year are killed under the auspices of this treaty.
While I believe that the preservation of longstanding Native American traditions is a good thing, there are certain customs that we may want to put the kibosh on. For example, scalping was a common practice for the North American Indians, but we don’t allow this sort of thing to take place today.
If we are really concerned about the possible extinction of polar bears, why not start by keeping the bullets and arrows out of their heads?
I’m just about finished reading THE BOOK THIEF, which provides a very interesting view of Nazi Germany from the perspective of a child. Among other things, the book portrays a country that is fanatic in assuring its citizens support the German ideals and purpose at all times. Children are indoctrinated into these beliefs through rituals and customs, an active re-packaging of a shared history, and through organizations like The Hitler Youth. From all accounts, it was a highly effective means of assuring that the citizenry supported the Third Reich and all that it represented.
It’s got me thinking about a subject in this country that I have always felt uncertain about: The Pledge of Allegiance.
Specifically, I’ve grown more and more uncomfortable over the years with the process of asking school children to recite the pledge, for a number of reasons.
The first and most obvious problem with our pledge is the reference to God. Since the Constitution clearly establishes a divide between church and state and the government under Washington and Adams clearly asserted that the United States is not a Christian nation, the inclusion of the words under God, which were added in 1954 after a campaign by the Knight’s of Columbus (the world's largest Catholic fraternal service organization) brings religion into the public schools in such a way that I consider unconstitutional.
In 2002, a federal court agreed with me, only to have their decision overturned by the Supreme Court two years later. Regardless of the Court’s decision, I think that asking children to recite these words in a public school is unconscionable, and I cannot imagine why it is permitted to continue.
In addition, asking elementary-aged children to pledge their allegiance to a nation, when their understanding of a pledge, the nation to which they are pledging their allegiance, and the implications of such a pledge, is limited at best, strikes me as a form of nationalistic indoctrination that is akin to the activities that took place in Nazi Germany.
THE BOOK THIEF depicts a nation in which German children are required to raise their right hand and offer a Nazi salute whenever asked. They are compelled to join Nazi Youth Brigades and memorize such pertinent information as Hitler’s birthday and important dates in German history. They are eventually required to read MEIN KAMPF and are encouraged to be seen with the book in their hands. Long before they have any understanding of the country in which they live, these children were indoctrinated into its ideals and purpose.
Is the teaching of a pledge of allegiance to children much different?
Before these students are asked to pledge their allegiance to anything, shouldn’t they possess a solid understanding of it? Why not wait until students have a couple years of US history and a class on US government under their belts before asking them to make this pledge?
Some may claim that the pledge is voluntary, and as a result, no student is ever forced to pledge his or her allegiance. But how many elementary school teachers are explaining the voluntary nature of the pledge or creating an environment in which seven-year olds feel comfortable remaining silent while their friends and teacher pledge their allegiance to their country?
And besides, the pledge is factually incorrect. It states that the United States is indivisible. But I seem to remember four years during the 1860’s when this nation was clearly divided, complete with separate capitols, currency, and Constitutions.
Yet we have our children pledging their allegiance to this factually incorrect, religiously-loaded form of nationalistic indoctrination in schools everyday, and everyday I grow more and more uncomfortable with it.
What is an elementary school teacher to do?
From time to time my in-laws have debated moving from their sizable home in the Berkshires into a 350 square foot, single room apartment that they own in Manhattan.
I tried to convince them to purchase the small house next door to us when it was for sale about a year ago, but they thought I was crazy. Some of my friends and family agreed, unable to imagine living next door to in-laws regardless of the positivity of our relationship, but I had a series of flag-based signals ready to keep things civil if they ever decided to move in.
Red: Stay away.
Yellow: Come over if you’d like.
Green: Get your ass over here now.
Obey the flags and we would’ve had no problems.
But they missed their chance, a golden opportunity, and now they have a single room apartment staring them in the eye.
With a house busting at the seams with a lifetime collection of furniture, clothing, art, electronics and assorted stuff, in addition to their two dogs, we’re relatively certain that my mother-in-law and father-in-law will kill each another if they ever attempt to move into such a small space. Even so, I am always on the lookout for ways to make their potential living situation better.
Behold the absolute genius of this space-saving furniture designer. My wife and I have plenty of room in our home at the moment, but being a minimalist, I’d still love to have this furniture gracing my rooms.
After publicly flogging my fellow book club member (her words) and having another member propose that we may need to consider group therapy, a choice was finally made:
BOTH WAYS IS THE ONLY WAY I WANT IT by Maile Meloy, a short story collection published last year but just came out in paperback.
I chose a collection of Nicholson Baker essays a year ago but this is the first short story collection ever chosen. I’m thrilled. Ever since college, I’ve always loved short stories.
And she’s only giving us a month to read it, which thrills me even more.
As much as I complained about my book club, I really love it and look forward to each and every meeting.
I’d almost say it was worth the wait, if the wait wasn’t so long…
When I was a kid, my town and the surrounding communities were terrorized by the Blackstone Valley sniper. For a period of about two years, someone was firing a rifle into picture windows at the silhouettes standing behind the curtains. For a while, I remember being forced to leave the lights turned off by my parents in fear that we may present a target for the lunatic. In my childhood memory, the sniper just went away, replaced by other childhood concerns, but after a nightmare last night that resurrected the gunman, I found myself searching for information about the subject this morning.
And shockingly, I found it quite easily.
It turns out the Blackstone Valley sniper was actually two men, who are in the midst of 40 and 45 year sentences for their crimes. There was a total of eleven shootings from 1986-1987, and though no one was killed, four people were wounded in the attacks.
A piece of parental advice:
Parents should tell their kids when bad guys get caught. It may prevent an future evening of terrifying nightmares.
Just as we were leaving to yesterday’s wedding, more than an hour away from home, my DJ partner, Bengi, noticed that the a tire on the truck was flat. Not trusting the spare, we got creative and managed to load all of our equipment into my Subaru Outback. It was crowded and a little precarious, but we managed. This is my biggest fear when it comes to working as a DJ:
Failing to arrive at a wedding on-time because of car trouble.
And it’s almost happened once before. Had we not noticed this flattening tire and made it ten miles from home before it ran out of air, things would have been dicey indeed.
We got lucky.
In the spirit of near-disasters, I spent the rest of the day making a list of the ten most potentially disastrous moments in the fifteen year history of our company. We’ve performed at more than 300 weddings over the years and have managed to avoid any serious problems on a wedding day, but we still have a decent list of blunders and tribulations. Here’s what I think is our top-ten, in chronological order:
Equipment failure created serious sound issues: At our second wedding, brand new audio cables reeked havoc with our sound system. We were never able to get the volume to acceptable levels and songs recorded on two separate tracks (like Twist and Shout) dropped their lyrics entirely, transforming them into karaoke versions of themselves. Thankfully, the guests were under the impression that the missing lyrics was intentional and simply replaced the words with their own singing. Unfortunately, we did not diagnose the source of the problem until after the wedding and were asked several times throughout the night to “Turn up the music!” to no avail.
Stopped a parent dance mid-song: At our fourth wedding, Bengi accidentally stopped a father-daughter dance mid-song. To his credit, there was less than a ten second gap in the music, but ten seconds in a moment like that can feel like ten years. Since that night, neither one of us has ever made a mistake like that again.
Asked a man in a wheelchair to rise: A year or two into our careers, Bengi introduced a grandparent from his seat, asking the man to rise and be recognized. The man was in a wheelchair. After four of five requests, I finally informed Bengi of the man’s infirmity and he moved on. We no longer ask anyone to rise unless it’s a group request.
Backed truck into a sink: After scoffing at Bengi’s ability to back up his own truck, I took the wheel of the Durango and promptly backed into an outdoor sink at Saint Clements's Castle.
Offered to beat up four Chicago guys: Four large, thirty-something men began repeatedly requesting songs from the band Chicago at a wedding.
Chicago, mind you. Hardly considered manly rock-and-roll.
We played three of their requests, which was a lot considering the number of requests and songs that still needed to be played for the bride and groom. Unsatisfied, these men, who were probably drunk at the time, threatened to beat me up if I refused to play another Chicago song. “We’re going to drag you out to the parking lot and kick your ass if you don’t play our song,” one of them shouted.
“No,” I said, stepping from behind my equipment. “I’m going to walk out to the parking lot right now, kick your asses, and then I’ll come back inside and still not play another Chicago song. Let’s go!”
“Whoa!” the man cried. “Take it easy. What’s your problem?”
They left us alone for the duration of the night, but boy do I wish he had taken me up on his offer.
Client failed to pay us: Our policy is to collect payment prior to a wedding, but through a series of purported mistakes and miscommunications, a bride and groom did not pay us prior to a wedding but assured us that the check was in the mail. It was not. A month after the wedding, the groom left for a tour of duty in Iraq and we were left threatening to sue a woman whose husband of thirty days was now halfway around the world in harm’s way. Eventually, we did, and when she was served the papers indicating that we were taking legal action, she immediately came up with the money.
Threatened by a Polish uncle when he was told to stop playing music: Occasionally Bengi and I are asked to play alongside a band. On this occasion, the groom asked his uncle’s band to play thirty minutes of Polish music before giving way to us for the rest of the night. We took over at the appropriate time, but the uncle was under the impression that his band would take a fifteen minute break and then resume playing. When we explained that we had been asked to play music for the duration of the wedding, he threatened to beat us up and toss us out of the wedding. Rather than allowing me to offer to fight him in the parking lot, Bengi got the best man, the father of the groom, and eventually the groom involved. Within ten minutes, the groom was physically removing his uncle from the premises as we played on.
Forgot my tuxedo at home: Bengi and I arrived at a wedding on the shore, more than an hour from home, and were nearly set up and ready to go when I realized that I had left my garment bag on a bush beside his driveway. Though I momentarily considered hiding behind the equipment for the night in my shorts and tee-shirt, I instead drove fifteen minutes down the road to an outlet, ran into a men’s clothing store, and told the first salesperson I met to “Hook me up with a suit and shoes as fast as you can!” Three salespeople went into overdrive, tossing clothing of all kinds over the changing room door to me as I frantically tried on sports coats, shirts, pants, shoes and even socks. I made it back to the wedding just as the cocktail hour was ending, just in time for the bride and groom’s introductions.
Overheated Durango: On the way to a wedding on the shore, the Durango began to overheat, forcing us to pull into a gas station to allow it to cool. We added antifreeze, gave it fifteen minutes to cool, and drove at excessively slow speeds to the wedding, stopping every fifteen minutes to allow it to cool again. We were thirty minutes late but still managed to be set up and playing music on-time.
Forgot my laptop: Just last year, we had arrived at a wedding at a country club about thirty minutes from home when I realized that the backpack containing my laptop and all the CDs that had been burned for the wedding were still sitting in my car at home. I drove home at the speed of light and arrived just as the cocktail hour was ending.
I know it’s not even July, but football season is nearly upon us and I couldn’t be happier. In just a couple short months, my beloved Patriots will begin playing again, and for the first time in nearly twenty years, I will have season tickets to the games.
I can’t tell you how much I love attending Patriots’ games. The two-hour drive, the impossible traffic, the tailgating, the food, the bitter cold weather, the screaming fans… I love every part of it.
Two years ago, during the Patriots’ undefeated regular season, I took my friend, Kelly, to her first game. We watched the Patriots defeat the Washington Redskins, 52-7, in one of the most lopsided victories that I have ever seen.
My favorite moments from the game included:
I was actually a little worried about Kelly. A 52-7 drubbing of the opponent in the midst of an undefeated regular season might have set her future expectations a little high.
I’ve seen this happen before.
In 1998, I took my former step-daughter, Nicole, to her first Yankee game at Yankee Stadium. It turned out to be the day that David Wells pitched a perfect game. The Stadium was buzzing like never before, and at the end of the game, strangers were hugging one another and crying in jubilation.
It forever tarnished Nicole in terms of her appreciation for the game.
The next day, I was watching the game on television when she walked into the living room and said, “The Twins already have 6 hits. That’s terrible.”
It was the 7th inning.
Less than a year later, I would take Nicole to her second game at Yankees Stadium. This time David Cone pitched a perfect game. It was Yogi Berra Day at the Stadium and Don Larsen, who threw the only perfect game in World Series history as a member of the Yankees, threw out the first pitch.
That’s right. Out of the twenty perfect games in the history of baseball, I have been in attendance at two of them, and Nicole’s first two Major League baseball games ever seen live were perfect games.
It’s spoiled her on baseball forever.
So I found myself hoping that Kelly wouldn’t doesn’t expect her golden boy, Tom Brady, to throw three touchdowns and run for two more every time she made it back to Gillette Stadium. The Patriots played as near a perfect game that day as is possible, but I knew that before long, they would find a way to break my heart.
Little did I know that they would wait for the Super Bowl that year to do so.
I was listening to an interesting story on mapping on This American Life today, and it gave me the idea of writing the short story or a novella in which a protagonist’s life is told through the scars on his or her body. A series of keystone events in the protagonist’s life with a scar associated to each. Maybe a little contrived, but it might work for a short piece.
It also caused me to think about the scars and other imperfections on my body and map them out as well. They tell quite a story.
Here is a list of my scars, listed chronologically:
I haven’t added to my scar collection in almost ten years and am trying hard to keep it that way.
I’m a member of a slacker book club.
Yes, I’ve heard stories about slacker book clubs before, and perhaps you are even a member of one yourself. But my slacker book club is the most slackery of all book clubs on the face of the Earth, because taking months to read the book or not reading the book at all is just the tip of our proverbial iceberg.
My group can’t even choose a book.
In our book club, each member takes a turn choosing the next book. The last book that we read was NUDGE, a non-fiction text about the ways in which people can alter the decision-making of others through small organizational changes. I didn’t love the book but found certain aspects of it interesting enough. But the problem was that it took our fellow book club member, who I will call Boris, almost four months to choose the book.
Four months! And this the member of our group least likely to read the book in the first place!
Four months. Can you even imagine a scenario that might explain this failure?
Since our last book club meeting, which occurred almost two months ago, we have been waiting once again for the title of our next book. This week I thought I’d finally get one when the sloth-like person in charge of choosing this book, who I will call Sister Mary Magdalene, contacted me in hopes of borrowing some of my audio equipment.
“Sure” I said. “Pick it up on Wednesday morning. The only catch: You need to choose the next book club book before you get here.”
This is what it has come to: the withholding of favors in order to convince an intelligent, well-informed, well-read individual to name the title of a book.
Any book.
Thankfully, Sister Mary agreed.
On Wednesday morning she arrived at my classroom with a smile on her face, a skip in her step, but (did you see it coming?) no book title in mind.
Mind you, Sister Mary is married to Brother Thomas Aquinas, who teaches high school English and reads more books than anyone I know. She lives with a man who can talk about books for hours and would be more than happy to offer her some suggestions, and yet she arrives on Wednesday with nothing in mind other than the intent to break her promise to me.
“I know, I know,” she said as she shuffled her feet in deserved shame. “But the last couple books that we read were duds, so I feel like expectations are high.”
“If the last couple books were duds, then how can expectations be high?”
And you know what’s an even better way of raising expectations to unreasonable and unattainable levels?
Spend three months looking for the perfect book. How could any book possibly live up to the scrutiny of a three month search? Unless she picked the next Pulitzer Prize winning novel, this book will never live up to a ninety day hype.
This occurred on Wednesday. It is now Friday morning and we still do not have the title of our next book.
Seriously.
WE STILL DO NOT HAVE THE TITLE OF A BOOK.
So I am imposing some new, unilateral rules on our book club, including:
1. The next book that we will be reading will be announced at the book club meeting.
2. If you do not have a choice in mind by the time you arrive to the meeting, you lose your turn to choose.
3. If you fail to choose a book on three consecutive turns, you will be forced to read Virginia Wolff’s TO THE LIGHTHOUSE as punishment.
I’ll let you know when Sister Mary Magdalene finally announces the must-await title. Perhaps you can read along with us and help me determine if it was worth the wait.
I was watching Journeyman today, a show that was sadly cancelled by NBC after just one season. In the episode, two characters are discussing the possibility of marriage.
The female character asks, “Are you looking for a woman who will eat take-out and watch South Park?”
The male character responds, “If I hold out for perfection, I might never get married.”
The pride and joy that I felt in knowing that I married a take-out loving, South Park junky was indescribable.
I reference the apocalypse often. Not the apocalypse mentioned in the Bible, but the real possibility that someday, governments will collapse as a result of a man-made or natural disaster (or zombie invasion) and human beings will find themselves living in the Stone Age again. While I am not looking forward to this day, I am prepared for it and will be ruthless about my survival. I’ve already chosen the people with whom I will band together, and many close friends and family are excluded from this list because of what I perceive as their inability to survive under extreme conditions and/or their unwillingness to do the unthinkable in order to keep their family alive.
When the apocalypse comes, it’s every man for himself.
Years ago on the last day of school , one of my colleagues gave me a Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kit, complete with Raman noodles, matches, Twinkies, and THE ZOMBIE SURVIVAL GUIDE.
I’m thinking about adding her to my band of merry survivalists. I’m pretty sure that she’s ruthless enough, and the addition of the Twinkies to the kit was clever on a number of levels.
As a result of my desire to be prepared for this unfortunate day, I’m always on the lookout for new and pertinent information regarding apocalypse-related scenarios.
McSweeny’s provides just such information. It’s a brilliant and potentially lifesaving list that all good apocalypse-preparedness experts should know about, as gruesome as it may be.
I’m only jealous that I didn’t think of it first.
I was standing in line at 7-11 yesterday. The line was long and not moving quickly. There was only one register open and I could see the frustration on the customer’s faces as I entered the line with bottle of Diet Coke in hand. Thankfully I also had my iPhone with me and a healthy supply of podcasts with which to occupy my time. I was listening to Bill Maher’s Real Time and quite content despite the situation.
This is more than I could say for the woman in front of me, a forty-something with a basketful of items and nothing to do. Less than 30 seconds after my arrival in line, she turned and spoke to me despite the headphones that were clearly blocking my ears.
“Can you believe this line?”
I call this type of person a line coward. This is a person who feels the need to complain to his or her fellow line mates without ever having the guts to say something to the cashier, manager, or owner about whom they are expressing their displeasure. I can’t stand this form of passive-aggressiveness and usually call these cowards out. But I was doubly frustrated in this case because this particular line coward had interrupted my podcast in order to talk behind the cashier’s back.
This left me feeling especially frisky.
“I’m sorry,” I answered. “Have you mistaken me for the cashier? Because we’re standing at the back of the line. Not the front.”
The woman was silent for a moment, attempting to process this unexpected retort. It’s a look with which I am familiar. It asks, “What the hell’s going on here? Are you a loon? Mentally incompetent? Could you be serious?"
Then my sarcasm seemed to penetrate her mind. Comprehension dawned on her face. “Gimme a break,” she replied, dropping her eyes to avoid eye contact. “I was just saying…”
Normally this would have been the end of my attack, but like I said, this particular line coward had felt the need to interrupt my podcast with her nonsense, so I pressed the issue a little further.
“Because if you have something to say to a person, you should say it to their face and not talk about them behind their back.”
Rather than shoving the woman any further into her shell, this last remark caused her to come roaring back out. An admitted miscalculation on my part.
“Look, I have a right to my opinion, you jerk. Why don’t you go to hell?”
This is the great thing about these line fights. Unless you’re willing to abandon your carriage and the time you took to shop, there’s no place for either combatant to go, including hell.
“I have a better idea,” I said. “If you have a complaint, don’t force it upon strangers.”
She responded with an unfortunate series of words and I opted to cut things off there. It was clear that the woman was beginning to lose her temper and would either begin crying or screaming if I pressed the issue any further. I returned my headphones to my ears, cranked up Bill Maher and smiled, only breaking eye contact when she finally turned around.
Apparently a couple of the customers standing in line with us did not approve of my verbal challenge. As they left the store, they shot me the stink eye. I was inclined to shout, “Spare me your dirty looks and come to her aid next time, you bunch of cowards!”
But I restrained myself.
Behold! The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, my newest favoritest place on the Internets. Wit and wisdom, combined with amusing pop-culture references and a deep understand of the human condition.
A truly astonishing blend of truth and humor.
Here are just five of my favorite obscure sorrows lists:
n. disillusionment upon rewatching a beloved pop-culture touchstone of your youth and having to confront its hand-puppet characterization, magnetic-poetry dialogue, jury-rigged plots and undisguised pandering to its audience, all of which—by the power of Grayskull—makes you wonder what else in your mental fridge is past its expiration date.
n. an innocuous touch by someone just doing their job—a barber, yoga instructor or friendly waitress—that you enjoy more than you’d like to admit, a feeling of connection so stupefyingly simple that it cheapens the power of the written word, so that by the year 2025, aspiring novelists would be better off just giving people a hug.
n. the phenomenon of observing your parents interact with people they grew up with, which reboots their personalities into youth mode, reverting to a time before the last save point, when they were still dreamers and rascals cooling their heels in the wilderness, waiting terrified and eager to meet you for the first time.
n. the lucky fascination felt when a typo immeasurably improves a sentence you wrote, singed by the underlying recognition that the book of your life is credited to you but is not in your handwriting, which nevertheless appears in trace passages of many other lives.
n. the moment when your enjoyment of something you’ve adored since you were a kid—riding bikes, taking photos, eating, running around—evaporates on contact with hardcore fanatics whose ferocious obsession with technique sounds as satisfying as slurping through the last airy dregs of a slushie, which gives you the emotional equivalent of brain freeze.
A few years ago, in an episode of “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” the comedian Larry David bought scalpers’ tickets to his congregation’s High Holy Day services, and was kicked out when his subterfuge was discovered. It was extremely funny but only because of the biting truth behind the gag.
If you’re not aware, most Jewish temples require worshipers to purchase tickets for services during the High Holidays. In addition, most temples charge a substantial fee when a family joins their congregation.
Even worse, many synagogues do not sell tickets just for the holidays. They sell memberships, which include holiday tickets. What is a person to do if he or she does not want to join a synagogue, but wants to attend holiday services?
I find these requirements to be dreadful, shameful, and sacrilegious, and not surprisingly, I have yet to find a single person, Jewish or otherwise, who disagrees with me. Even Larry David finds these customs to be ridiculous, at least according to the opinions expressed on his show.
The argument has been made that the High Holidays elicit such a large turnout that tickets are required in order to guarantee a seat. Of course, this idea is ludicrous. First off, since when has any religious institution complained about having too many worshipers? And under this system, only those who can afford the tickets have access to the precious few seats available.
Sorry you tired, huddled masses yearning for the Lord on Passover. Space is limited and scarcity has always provided a means to profit. This is capitalism at work, damn it!
Secondly, if there was a genuine concern over the number of worshipers in attendance, for reasons of fire codes or structural limitations, reservations could be taken without requiring a monetary contribution.
While the practice of selling tickets was shocking to me when I was first told about it, what I find even more shocking it the apathy, indifference and unwillingness to affect change. I have yet to meet any Jewish person who disagrees with my opinion or these suggestions. In fact, most vehemently despise the purchasing these tickets and the paying for membership. Yet despite these strenuous objections, they continue to shell out the money year after year after year.
When I ask if anyone has ever attempted to buck the system, submit of formal complaint, or endeavor to institute change, the answer is always a resounding no.
I find this surprising, especially considering that the Jewish faith admirably encourages its members to question their faith when appropriate. If there is so much discontent over the need for tickets in order to attend a Passover or Rosh Hashanah service, why not refuse to pay? Boycott the service. Organize a petition drive. Rise up and be heard.
Either that or embrace the custom fully. Install automated ticketing machines in each temple, capable of accepting debit or credit cards. Sell popcorn and soda. Show previews for upcoming holidays. It sounds crazy, I know, but so does selling tickets to holiday services or charging membership fees as if temple is some kind of exclusive country club rather than a place of humble worship for anyone who wishes to attend.
Does anyone honestly believe that the Lord approves of charging worshipers on to attend his service in the same way that the NFL charges fans to watch their games?
This kind of pay-to-pray system is not limited to the Jewish faith. I have a friend who was not permitted to become a godfather to his friend’s newborn son until he resumed his monthly contributions to the church that he almost never attended.
I may not belong to any church or formal religion, but when you are ready to rise up and contest these shameful practice, let me know. Heathen or not, I’ll join, if only to help put an end to this nonsense.
When I was a kid, I stopped playing Monopoly because of my best friend, Bengi. Whenever we sat down to play, he would rally the other players against me, making it the group’s sole purpose to knock me out of the game before even began competing against one another. As long as Matty lost, everyone else was a winner.
And for reasons that I never understood, it always worked. Game after game, he would turn my friends, coworkers and even my girlfriends against me. Fifteen minutes after the game began, I would inevitably be bankrupt and sitting on the sidelines.
His friends will tell you that Bengi is fixated on making people happy, and this is true. What no one ever realized is that we are best friends because I will allow him to make everyone else happy at my expense.
I’m convenient to his goals.
I'm the perfect foil.
Recently, a couple of monopoly aficionados identified what they believe is the the shortest theoretical game of Monopoly possible. Just two turns long!
A dream scenario for Bengi.
Here are the game as they describe it:
Player 1, Turn 1: Roll: 6-6, Lands on: Electric Company Action: None, Doubles therefore roll again
Roll: 6-6, Lands on: Illinois Avenue Action: None, Doubles therefore roll again
Roll: 4-5, Lands on: Community Chest “Bank error in your favor, Collect $200″ Action: Collects $200 (now has $1700)
Player 2, Turn 1: Roll: 2-2, Lands on: Income Tax Action: Pay $200 (now has $1300), Doubles therefore rolls again
Roll: 5-6, Lands on: Pennsylvania Rail Road Action: None
Player 1, Turn 2:
Roll: 2-2, Lands on: Park Place Action: Purchase ($350, now has $1350), Doubles therefore rolls again
Roll: 1-1, Lands on: Boardwalk Action: Purchase ($400, now has $950), Doubles therefore rolls again
Roll: 3-1, Lands on Baltic Avenue Action: Collect $200 for passing GO (now has $1150), Purchase 3 houses for Boardwalk, 2 for Park Place ($1000, now has $150)
Player 2, Turn 2:
Roll: 3-4, Lands on: Chance, “Advance to Boardwalk” Action: Advance to Boardwalk, Rent is $1400, only has $1300 = Bankrupt