Welcoming in the New Year—Part Two

Noodle kugel is a casserole with noodles, eggs
and cheese. Often cinnamon and raisins are added
for sweetness. 

When we left off last week I was at the water’s edge attempting to find redemption. As far as I know none of the ducks were harmed as the result of our actions. Being analytical by nature I pause to contemplate if my contrition outweighs the salacious thoughts swirling in my synapsis. Needless to say, human impulse provides abundant fuel for cleansing and purification.

Naturally, while I was working out at the gym this week, the right shoulder of the twenty-something crushing her abs on the machine in front of me had a tattoo with the words, “Judgment is weakened by desire.” Coming in the middle of the Days of Awe, I knew this was a sign. Fortunately, my judgment informs my habitual attendance at the gym, and while I desire the attention of that or any young (or for that matter, old) woman, it never weakened my commitment to complete all of the reps in each set on the chest press and throughout my routine.

The Sound of the Shofar.

Getting back to the Days of Awe, as promised last week, I will attempt to provide a detailed description of what they are and how they are supposed to work. They begin, as previously noted, with Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Ten days later, they end on Yom Kippur, which translates to, “ The Day of Atonement.”  Similar to a twelve step program, one must first acknowledge the problem before a solution can be sought. Easy enough, I misbehaved or had impure thoughts. (Go ahead; tell me you didn’t. Put it in the comment section. I dare you.) No heavy lifting on Rosh Hashanah. Like I said, it’s really a happy celebration.

Next, you’re supposed to make amends. We were invited to a party on Sunday to welcome the New Year. It was at the home of friends we used to see around once a month. My guess is it was more than a year since we saw them last. The other couples, which we used to see at those monthly get-togethers, were there, too. While our lives have taken us in different directions, and exclusion does not necessarily imply malice or misconduct (Birthdays, Bar Mitzvahs, Graduations, Weddings and Funerals have limitations; you can’t invite everyone), I never heard anyone say they were sorry. Everyone wished everyone else a Happy New Year and enjoyed the visit, especially the food. The blintzes and kugel were fabulous.

The Hebrew letters spell out Yom Kippur.

Finally, the big day is just around the corner. Tomorrow, at sunset, Yom Kippur begins. That’s right, Jewish days start at sunset of the previous day. I used to think that was ridiculous until I realized how arbitrary it is to begin a day in the middle of the night. (If you question my logic, then explain the reason for 24 hours in a day, 60 minutes in a day and 60 seconds in a minute; why not 10/100/100?) Jews fast the day; no food, no water. The metaphor is one a writer readily identifies, a book. On Rosh Hashanah, the first day of awe, it is written, and Yom Kippur, the final day of awe, it is sealed. What is our fate? Sickness, health, hunger, abundance, sorrow, happiness, ignorance, enlightenment, poverty, wealth, death, life? May you be sealed for a good year in the Book of Life. Amen.

Welcoming in the New Year—Part One

Symbols of Rosh Hashanah
from upper left clockwise: shofar, apple
and honey, torah (scroll) 

Most Americans, even those who still have print calendars where the holiday is clearly marked, are unaware today is Rosh Hashanah. The words literally translate from Hebrew to the English, “Head of the year.” In the synagogue, the Jewish house of worship, the Hebrew words, “Yom Hazikaron,” are heard. These say, “Day, the First,” from left to right, but Hebrew is actually read from right to left, so you get, “The First Day.” Or, as David Letterman’s man in Time Square put it last night, Happy Newish Jew Year.

For anyone who has a sense of history, or has checked out the best seller The Bible in original print or modern audio version, the Jewish people and their calendar go back to the time of Abraham. No, not Lincoln, the one who begat Isaac, who begat Jacob—that one. Actually, he was a few thousand years before Jesus, so instead of the calendar reading 2013, it reads 5774. Also, unlike the Gregorian calendar, named for the Roman guy who devised our current model, the Hebrew calendar is lunar. In other words, the layout of the months is based upon the moon rather than the sun. If that isn’t confusing enough, because the Jewish New Year comes so early, Hanukkah, the holiday with the candles and spinning top that normally coincides with Christmas, begins on Thanksgiving.

Sweetness of the New Year: apples and honey

As one might imagine, like in most cultures and religions, the New Year is a time of celebration.   One popular custom to symbolize the sweetness associated with its arrival is to dip a slice of apple in honey. It’s not bad. Really, go ahead and try it. You can let me know what you think in the comment section.

However, as with so many religious celebrations, there is another, more sobering, aspect to this holiday. The first day of the New Year is also the first day of the Days of Awe. There are ten days of awe, during which time it is incumbent upon those of good faith to repent for their misconduct and seek forgiveness from those they have harmed, as well as from the almighty. Next week, in part two, I will explore this in further detail.

Blowing a long twisted shofar (ram's horn)
Symbol of the ram that Abraham sacrificed
instead of his son, Isaac.

Among the many rituals performed during this holiday, one I customarily observe is Tashlich. There are nearly as many interpretations of the term as there are of what exactly its purpose is. Unlike most prayers, which are said in the synagogue, the songs and recitations for this ritual take place at the water’s edge. So, my mother and I braved the 102 degree heat and joined around 50 other souls under the trees near a small lake in a community park. After our collective voices made their plea, each of us took some bread crumbs to throw into the water. As I made my solitary declaration, it did not matter to me whether my misdeeds were being symbolically cast into the sea or my soul purified by the cleansing liquid in front of me. My concern centered on the consumption habits of the ducks and would they survive another New Year.

A Night of Comedy

I'm not sure why they call it the Sunset Strip;
it reads Sunset Bl.

One of the oldest jokes told by thousands of comedians the world over is how their wives can never pass up a sale and how they simply nod their heads at how much money they’re told they saved while discovering there is no money left in their account to pay the bills. I have always considered myself fortunate because Debbie really does not like to shop—even the sales. However, when she is given a gift card, a coupon for something free, or a ticket for a free show, it doesn’t matter that there is a minimum purchase or a sales presentation required, as long as she gets her free item she is satisfied, or more to the point, elated.

For the past several decades Debbie and I have donated blood every couple months. We have always appreciated the water, juice and cookies provided by the American Red Cross after we have given our pint. When they started giving vouchers for the Laugh Factory, we became part of the audience. All right, so it costs a few gallons of gas to drive to Hollywood (Long Beach is closer, but for some reason we haven’t made it to that club, yet.), there is no free parking and a standard two-drink minimum.

The very sign under which we were standing
when we saw Kevin Nealon on our previous trip.

Until last year our trips to the club were on the weekend, because we had to get up early for work during the week, but then we retired. So, our last trip before last night found us waiting in line on a Tuesday night. In typical Hollywood fashion we saw a guy dressed like Jesus, and another guy who looked like a younger version of Samuel L. Jackson. Then, Kevin Nealon, a SNL and Weeds cast member and the headliner, walked past with a clipboard. Later, he was standing next to me in the men’s room. I racked my brain for something clever to say, but realized I might be interfering with his concentration. As I headed for the bathroom door and he bent over the sink, I said, “Break a leg,” to which he responded, “Thanks.”

I think some of the humor at this club
has gone to the dogs.

Since we had two vouchers, each good for a pair of tickets, we invited our daughter Heather and her boyfriend, Jonathan, to join us. We picked them up after they got home from work and drove to the famous Sunset Strip. Traffic wasn’t too bad, so we were able to get a good place in line and sat in the fourth row.

Deb decided to check out the bathroom to see if Whitney Cummings, star of Whitney, creator of Two Broke Girls and the headliner, was in there. As it turned out, she cancelled and sent her Whitney co-star, Chris D’Elia, in her place.  His humor was pretty good, but I particularly enjoyed KT Tatara, whose lack of an Asian accent apparently baffles people. He pointed out he was only half-Asian, as his father was the only Asian besides Bruce Lee in the 70s to marry a white woman, instead of the other way around. Eric Schwartz, the bald headed rapper, who closed the show after D’Elia, delivered one great joke after another. He did a great take on Taylor Swift as a stalker and another on the sign of a heart people make with their hands actually being a set of upside down balls. By far, however, the best joke was that after tax, tip and parking, it cost only $125 for a free night of comedy.  

What Kind of Idiot Writes

No writers found anywhere along this coastline.

After spending last Saturday morning in a windowless room in the back of a Claim Jumper Restaurant conveniently located off the 405 listening to an author explain to my monthly writer’s group how to “cut the flab” from their masterpieces, it occurred to me that I was surrounded by a flock of dodos.  Yes, I’m referring to what Webster defines as, “an extinct flightless bird with a stout body, stumpy wings, a large head, and a heavy hooked bill. While the physical features may not have pertained to all those gathered, the reference to the phrase, “dead as a dodo meaning no longer effective, valid or interesting,” fit like a glove.

Even after the sun sets and this light comes
on, no writers will be found along this beach.

To make matters worse, although the guest speaker shared a tale of how she planned to sever her relationship with her agent, the rest of us compared notes on the number of rejections we had received from these literary gatekeepers, or worse still spoke of self-publishing. In an age where your average consumer of the written word is measured by the number of tweets, text messages or tags on Facebook she receives on a daily basis, the idea of spending time writing even a thousand word parcel of flash fiction, let alone a short story or a novel seems absurd. If people truly crave characters, plot development, setting, themes, morals, or a beginning, middle and end, they download Netflix, YouTube, reruns of Jersey Shores, or cool off at the local multiplex.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull is a
famous character, not a writer.
Even birds have more sense.

I mean, who reads anymore? All right, so you’ve been caught, but don’t worry the number of hits on this, and nearly all other blogs, continues to fall. More often than not the web browsers look for highlighted text to click on to get some video talking head or action scene. Words for words sake seem superfluous with all the out-of-work actors available to recite or perform the necessary communication. Whenever anyone says to read between the lines today, they are instructing an actor to take a dramatic pause in the dialogue or asking an audience to recognize a change of setting without the protracted chase in between, no reading or inferences needed.

During the course of the past week, my lovely wife Debbie, whose beautiful photography adorns this post, made two separate trips with two different sets of people to the beach, while I stayed at home and wrote. True, the window is open with a slight breeze blowing in my direction. The plumeria (see previous post) still fills my vision beyond the screen. Palms are observable a few doors away, but it seems useless to argue, “It’s just as good as being at the beach.”

According to every book on writing I have ever read there is only one reason writers write. They write because they must. Their power to resist the opportunity to scratch the itch is even less than the fox strolling past the chicken coop (that’s the proverbial hen house for those limited to literal metaphors). Indeed, we are so masochistic we willingly become an anachronism.

So, while my wife enjoys the sun setting over the ocean, the salty air drifting gently to cool her summer skin, I peck away at another revision of a short story for some literary journal nobody has ever heard of, or start writing the second novel before the first is sold.   

IT’S OFFICIAL: “We’ve turned the corner”

"Turned the corner? I think we're going to fall off the edge."

According to a reliable source whose anonymity I am sworn to uphold, based on everything that is sacred in the land of journalism, and nearly everyone who has ever been on the Internet regards blogging as serious journalism, it has been confirmed that it can be stated somewhat unequivocally and certainly officially, “We’ve turned the corner.” Of course, that leads all skeptics and some with less inquisitiveness than a baby rhinoceros on a hot day to inquire in good faith just where exactly were we when we turned the corner. Given the wide range of perspective associated with those who regularly scan the blogosphere, the number of individuals who randomly stumble upon these features while searching for exotic cuisine or easy to prepare after a long day at the office meals, and the occasional discriminating former leftist now critically informed right wing talk radio listener or fascist recently enlightened to the essence of peaceful sustainability by a nineteen year old with a tattoo strategically placed above the backside of her jeans shorts that reads, “the best things in life are free,” it would appear we were approximately seven degrees north and twenty-four degrees east of where we started.

I don't see any corners. Seems like we just keep
going around in circles.

Now, knowing what kinds of law suits can transpire given the litigious nature of both the loosey-goosey lopsided lunatic liberalism of leftist commies and the rootin’-tootin’ ridiculous rancorous robotic conservatism of the neo-Nazi radical right, it is under advisement of counsel with all due speed my sponsors insist upon their full recognition of disclaimer. Don’t tell me you didn’t see that coming.

So, you think we've turned the corner, do you?

However, quite honestly my regards for clarity have prompted me to leave the comfort of my well-fortified abode and head straight into the eye of the storm to garner a reasonable explanation of the exact parameters whereby readers of this blog may ascertain a reasonable, if not definitive assessment of where we are. Over the course of the past four weeks my readers have come to know my trusted plumeria with its delicious fragrance, my daughter, the lawyer, who turned two score and seven two weeks ago and would probably refer out any law suit filed against me unless it has to do with filing a worker’s compensation claim, and my youngest child who traveled to Southern California from her sweltering home in Tucson, Arizona to pretend to enjoy the company of her parents at the county fair but really to gorge herself on sushi with the aforementioned sister. With all this in mind, I think it is only fair to step back and take a look at the bigger picture.

Having gone outside and into the street, carefully scanning the sixteen homes that line both sides, it is safe to conclude anyone entering has, in fact, turned the corner. It might also be noted all residents are gainfully employed, retired, or living off substantial savings. Given this preponderance of substantially significant information one can safely within an adequate margin of error reliably conclude the aforementioned change has taken place, but then you are required to rely upon someone who lives in a cul de sac.

Baby Come Back

Big eyes, a button nose and pouty lips:
What's a Daddy to do?

In the song he seeks the return of a lover. In my case it is the return of my youngest child. She left six years ago to attend the University of Arizona, and ended up staying in Tucson when she was able to find work in her chosen profession and her romance was blossoming. The latter came into full bloom enough to purchase a house together, but before it became a home the petals wilted, and they went their separate ways four months ago. Last night, Courtney returned to her Southern California home for the first time since the break up.

Now, I certainly don’t speak for all parents, but for this Daddy it was difficult when his baby left home. It was even more difficult when she decided to become an Arizonan after graduation. Still, I adjusted. The seven-hour trip through the desert several times a year seemed quite doable.

Courtney shows off her dimple at graduation.

Then, there’s the matter of doors. Empty nesters rarely worry about doors. I mean I still close the bathroom door when I’m using the toilet, but if I’m making a quick change in the bedroom I don’t feel compelled to close the door on the off chance Debbie might get a glimpse of my briefs. Or, the front or back door remain open while the AC or heat are running, but we don’t feel obligated to close them just because when the kids were around we insisted they conserve energy (i.e. “What’s the matter with you? Were you born in a barn?”)

Speaking of barns, the three of us are going to the fair on Friday. I’m sure they have fairs in Arizona, but I’m pretty sure the sights, sounds and smells of the extravaganza in Costa Mesa will delight our visitor.

Look out Orange County, the two sisters are back together.

Tonight, big sister Heather (see last week’s blog) and boyfriend are coming over for dinner. Deb has already prepared the spinach pie and chocolate cake. If things get too slow we also have recently converted VHS tapes of the girls’ first years to DVD.

The rest of the itinerary for the next few days is pretty loose. In all likelihood the two sisters will find some raucous adventure to amuse themselves while Heather’s beau is gallivanting in Vegas over the weekend.  Perhaps we raised them to be too conscientious, because Courtney is driving back on Sunday, so she can be at work early Monday, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find Heather working on some cases at home, so she can have a jump on her billings for the week.

At any rate, being retired empty nesters does have its advantages.

Second Chances

Whoever said you never get a second chance, not only forgot to consult with the guy who said if at first you don’t succeed, he forgot to check with me. Not having any experience as a husband when I married the first time at the age of twenty-one, I turned out to be pretty lousy at it. However, I did manage to have a beautiful daughter before the marriage completely fell apart.

Heather graduating from Touro Law School
at the Lincoln Center in NYC, May, 2010.

Now, I could have thanked my lucky stars to have had a chance and left well enough alone. According to a friend, Samuel Johnson declared that remarriage was the triumph of hope over experience. In that case, it was only fitting that Elizabeth Taylor had a diamond larger than the hope diamond, since she found a way to have hope triumph on seven different occasions. While I pride myself on my perseverance, I’m not sure I could have endured that much heartbreak, but I am grateful for my second chance. It’s not that I’m that much better of a husband, just more experienced.

When Debbie and I had our first child together, it was my second daughter that was born on the second of August. That’s right, tomorrow is Heather’s birthday. Right from the start she tested my desire to be a father for a second time. In fact, the second I fell asleep was when she became colicky and started crying. We spent numerous nights in the days before 24 hour television trying to find the one late night station, or tuning the radio to some music she found suitable.

Heather (left) with her sisters outside Tucson
last fall.

At her second birthday party Heather uttered the words that have been immortalized in one of our favorite home movies, “More prezzies, more prezzies.” Even though, she complains about having gone to law school and the huge debt she has as a result, her mother and I are grateful it enabled her to enter a profession where her average annual salary is likely to continue to exceed what her two teacher parents earned. Although she claims to have reigned in her desire for “more prezzies,” she admits to an occasional need for some retail therapy.

Heather (right) with Debbie on Mother's Day
this spring.

No matter what her complaints may be, there are two qualities I am proud to say she shares with me. First, she is generous to a fault, and second she retains and can dispense a huge amount of trivial information, particularly about movies. Last night, as we celebrated her birthday with dinner at the Wolfgang Puck Bistro inside Macy’s at Southcoast Plaza, she said she finally saw the movie, Across the Universe. So, we debated the roles the actor Jim Sturgess has played. Her boyfriend, Jonathan, and Debbie looked on in amazement as we consulted imdb.com when we wanted confirmation.

So, tomorrow, as everyone flips over another day on their calendar I will celebrate the second day of the month as my second chance at marriage and a family, and the anniversary of the birth of my second child. Will anybody second that?