Jew Eat Yet?

Thirteen

Today is my daughter Leah’s 13th birthday. I don’t know why I’m so stunned—when my mom was my age (48), her kids were 29, 26, and 24. Still, it seems impossible to me that my daughter has officially entered her teenage years. I remember watching the movie “Thirteen” starring the brilliant Holly Hunter and Evan Rachel Wood a few years ago and being terrified about what was in store. Not that my family will ever match that gritty portrayal of adolescent sex, drugs, and petty crime (please God!) but I'm sure the film raised the hackles of every parent in America. Today Evan Rachel Wood lives with her boyfriend, rocker Marilyn Manson. Gulp! I don't want to make any assumptions about the guy—maybe Evan and Marilyn have a fantastic relationship—but is it okay to state my preference that Leah not end up with someone who took his last name from a serial killer?

I’ve marked Leah’s 10th, 11th, and 12th birthdays on this blog, but this is the first time in thirteen years that we are separated on this day. Last week I put her on a plane (all alone!) to France to meet her mom and French grandparents in the French Alps. I was glad she still had to wear the bright orange “Unaccompanied Minor” badge around her neck since she could pass for so much older these days. I miss her like crazy but she called yesterday afternoon just as it was approaching midnight in France so I got to wish her a happy birthday as she turned 13. She had a great day on the slopes and when I asked her why she was up so late she said, “We just had dinner. We’re up this late every night!” Oh, those cosmopolitan French!

I turned 13 on September 4, 1972, and I remember it well. It was a difficult year for me and I remain grateful that Leah is already light years ahead of where I was emotionally at her age. I wonder if Leah will share my fascination (obsession?) with the past when she gets older. I wonder what shape the world will be in when she’s 48 and how much she’ll remember about what was happening when she was young. Today, on my daughter’s 13th birthday, Benazir Bhutto was buried in Pakistan following yesterday’s tragic assassination. On my 13th birthday, Bhutto’s father, President Zulkifar Ali Bhutto and Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi were announcing their joint plan for lasting peace on the subcontinent. Bhutto had recently met Gandhi in the Indian city of Simla, in the Himalayas, and he was accompanied by his 19-year-old daughter Benazir. The promises of the Simla accord would be dashed when both Gandhi and Bhutto were murdered by their enemies. And now this week, Benazir was struck down as well.

A 26-year-old George W. Bush was in the news on my 13th birthday. In an article describing the excesses of the many Washington parties held by foreign missions and delegations while the United Nations General Assembly was in session, young Bush was cited because of his “flair for offbeat party ideas.” He had just helped his dad out by taking a group of international guests to the Bronx Zoo to see over 550 kinds of birds. I think he missed his calling. It saddens me to think that Bush is the only President Leah has ever known (she was only five when he was "elected"). Thank God that will change soon.

Another big story in the news on my 13th birthday was the almost completed World Trade Center in New York. As finishing touches were being put on the North Tower, New Yorkers were busy criticizing or rhapsodizing the mammoth structures, “…a man mountain generating its own microclimate. Snow falls upwards; high winds blast off the Hudson and whirl between the tower walls. With its glittering aluminum skin, the Trade Center will be visible from Bear Mountain all the way down to Asbury Park. When its towers are heated, the Trade Center is expected to generate its own clouds under certain temperature conditions.” Its brief claim as the world’s two tallest buildings would be eclipsed a few months later, even before the buildings were finished, by Chicago’s Sears Tower. In all the hysteria about how the towers were changing the New York skyline (“they look like two tall kids in a choose-up basketball game”), no one could have ever predicted that these immense landmarks would be ripped out of that skyline less than thirty years later.

What world is in store for my 13-year-old daughter? How can we predict what political, social, and technological upheavals await her generation? We can’t, and sometimes it’s too scary to think about. I pray that her generation’s leaders are marked by the compassion, intelligence, humor, and creativity that Leah already exhibits today. As she begins her life as a teenager, I wish my daughter a lifetime of exciting challenges, wide-eyed enthusiasm, and unremitting self-acceptance.

Happy Birthday, Leah! I love you.

Three Years of Blogging: What I’ve Learned

Today is the third anniversary of my blog. I still don’t know what possessed me to start writing in this thing on December 23, 2004. I had never heard the word “blog” until a few days earlier and I wasn’t really sure what a blog was. I’d only read one or two of them but I thought I’d give it a try, never dreaming I’d still be writing in it three years later.

Here are a few lessons I learned along the way:

Blogs give you creative freedom. I spend much of my work life as an editor on other people’s manuscripts or writing for hire on topics that I don’t choose. I love this work but my blog provides a much needed outlet for writing about whatever I’m interested in at the time. I often find myself droning on and on about obscure or arcane topics and it never even occurs to me to wonder whether anyone will be interested in reading my posts (until later, that is—see below). I cling steadfastly to the control I have over this blog and find it extremely satisfying. I wouldn’t be against working on a commercial blog, one with a specific audience in mind that is created with the aim of making money, but this blog will always be a place where I can write about whatever the hell I feel like—even blogging itself, a subject sure to send readers scurrying to the next URL! It’s a funny balance, because part of me clearly craves attention (why else would I be blogging?) and yet as I sit down to write, I really only consider what’s of interest to ME at that moment—it’s a narcissist’s dream! Is it taking time away from other creative projects that could ultimately generate income? Possibly, but it’s also provided sparks for ideas that I never would have had otherwise.

Blogs make you more neurotic than you already were. Three years into blogging, I would love to report that I have a completely healthy attitude about people commenting on my blog. Didn’t I just say how much I enjoy writing for myself, without obsessing about what I believe the “public” wants? And yet there’s a part of me that still judges each post I write based on the number of comments I receive. I have blogger friends who receive more than 50 comments on every post, no matter what the topic. In three years, I’ve only had one post that generated more than 50 comments. So what? Why do I care? I appreciate the people who comment, but I also appreciate the readers who don't. It really shouldn't matter. This is my 349th post, I’ve received 3,429 comments to date, and I’ve had 658,420 hits. But don’t by impressed by that last number since the majority of those hits are from Google searches that inadvertently lead people to my site. (In the past twenty minutes, I’ve gotten hits from people searching for christina crawford, wilco trivia, amy winehouse brother, hairbrush spanking in the 50s, kendall hailey today, support our troops christmas decorations, diane keaton nude, carolyn jones topless, white college dudes and their black girlfriends, flying monkey bolsheviks, and scarlett johansson breasts.) I know that when I read other people’s blogs, I only leave a comment if I have something to add, no matter how much I enjoyed the post. At least my insecurity never impacts what I write about. If it did, I wouldn't have recently followed an insanely looooong post about Jewish pogroms in 1880s Russia with an insanely looooong post about the Armenian genocide. Oy.

Blogs are private spaces (commenters are not protected by the First Amendment!). As much as I just said how much I value comments on my blog, I never hesitate to zap ones that I find offensive or freakishly bizarre. This isn’t about people disagreeing with me, I have no problem with that, just the crazy nuts who write things that are so obnoxious I can’t bear to house their ravings on my site. Included in this category are a smattering of neo-Nazis and actual Nazis who have commented on some of my posts that touch on Hitler and the Holocaust. I’ve had several folks, including the grandson of a high-ranking Nazi official, extol the virtues of Adolf Hitler, explain how he got a bum rap, and scream about how the Holocaust has been grossly exaggerated by Zionist activists. Fascinating stuff, you Nazi fucks, now get off my site. I then receive outraged emails from these people accusing me of censorship and violating their free speech. Huh? They are free to write whatever they like, no one is threatening to have them arrested, but I am under no obligation to pepper MY blog with their crazy bullshit. I’ve seen such complaints on many blogs and it saddens me how some people have so little understanding of free speech issues. Maybe I should count my blessings about the number of comments on this site. Quality, not quantity, right?

Blogs put you in touch with amazing people. By far, the most rewarding thing about having a blog is the online community that develops and the people that you connect or re-connect with. I am so grateful for all the friends I’ve made as a result of this blog. There are people I’ve met who I feel I’ve known my whole life, other people I feel so close to from reading their blogs or their comments on my blog that I can’t believe I’ve never met them in the flesh. I’ve discovered several new branches of my family tree, gotten in touch with people I haven’t spoken to since Lyndon Johnson was in office, and made connections with fascinating people of all ages, backgrounds, and beliefs. And yes, a handful of Nazis and other psychopaths, but you can’t expect it all to be good!

I read somewhere that the third anniversary is supposedly when a couple becomes aware of the durability of their relationship. That’s why leather is the traditional gift for these celebrations. I think that’s true—after three years I feel very grateful for what this blog gives me. I may have to battle the pre-Christmas crowds today and go buy a leather cover for my MacBook. Thanks to all of you for stopping by during these past three years!

A Father’s Plea to Teenage Boys

Two weeks from today my daughter officially becomes a teenager. This morning I looked at our reflections in the bathroom mirror and was startled to see that Leah is only an inch or so away from my height. We joked how she’d soon be towering over me since she’s growing like a weed and I’ve started moving in the other direction. Leah has changed so much during the past year. She let her hair, which she’d been straightening for years, go completely natural, she’s developed her own unique style of dress, and she has shown so many signs that she’s maturing into a caring, evolved, socially conscious person. Leah started 7th grade this year at a new middle/high school and she is loving it. Sure, adolescence is a minefield but this very progressive school seems to be a great fit and she’s thriving there. There is a kindness at this school that I find very heartening. When I finished a school day at her age, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. I ran out the door as if I was escaping from prison and I never looked back. When I pick Leah up from school, I am always surprised to watch the long end-of-day ritual that includes tearful goodbyes and so much frantic hugging you’d swear these kids were about to leave the country for a dangerous war zone and thought they were never going to see each other again.

When Leah was little I swore I would never become one of those over-protective fathers who threatened the life of any boy who dared to date my daughter. Now that she is showing some interest in the opposite sex (and to give my poor child one tiny vestige of privacy I’ll refrain from supplying any details!), my resolve is being tested. I’ve met a few boys at her school that I liked so much I’d sign the matchmaker’s shidduch papers tomorrow. As I’ve mentioned before, sometimes I think arranged marriages are a great idea. God knows many of the relationships that people find on their own are total disasters, why not leave it up to the professionals? My great-grandparents’ marriage was arranged for them and it was probably one of the most successful relationships in my family. On the other hand, if I had allowed my family to arrange my marriage, I probably would have ended up with the girl my Aunt Mary tried to fix me up with at her own son’s wedding in Toronto when I was a teenager. She grabbed me during the party and tried to force me to sit at this girl’s table, whispering to me that “her parents are sitting on two million bucks.” I think she was even a distant relative. Eww. Okay, forget the arranged marriages, I guess Leah will have to find her own bashert.

As a freelance writer and book editor, I spend many of my days roaming the neighborhoods of Los Angeles, stopping at libraries, coffeehouses, and bookstores that have wireless Internet access. I often find myself in one of these places when school lets out and I frequently get the opportunity to overhear conversations between groups of teenage boys.

Oy.

Yesterday I was sitting in front of a Starbucks in Brentwood, one of the wealthiest areas on the west side of Los Angeles. A group of five high school boys from the exclusive Brentwood School barreled into the courtyard at about 3:30, and I found their conversation and demeanor a little horrifying. I tried to think back to when I was a teenager and I suppose I would have been equally repulsed listening to my own conversations—teenagers will be teenagers, boys will be boys. Talking like that amongst themselves is all part of the experience of growing up and figuring out who they are, right? Still, there were plenty of behaviors exhibited by this group of privileged teens that made me want to interrupt their afterschool gathering and give them some much needed advice, especially if these guys represent the dating pool my daughter will be calling on. She doesn’t live or go to school anywhere near Brentwood, but I’m sure these guys were not that atypical. So, Brentwood Boys, here are just a few words of wisdom from your eavesdropping elder:

Pull your damn pants up! Look, I get that certain fashion statements come and go and that such fads are always judged as outrageous by the older generation. Hell, I used to wear a lime-green Nehru jacket to school in the early 1970s. My other “uniform” was an old t-shirt with a faded tuxedo drawn on the front, ripped jeans that were way too long, and a very beaten-up fringed leather jacket. I also acknowledge that as an adult I’m no fashion maven—my daily garb hasn’t changed very much from my high school jeans and t-shirts days. But in the history of modern civilization, has there ever been a fad as ridiculous as baggy pants worn completely under the butt? I heard that this style originated in prisons where men were not allowed to have belts. Okay, I get it. But you guys are cinching your expensive designer pants with even more expensive belts, making sure that your Abercrombie-clad rears are in full view of the public whether we like it or not. Get real, boys, your gangsta-posing is SO 2005.

Lay off the caffeine! Wow, you guys are already slaves to the evil Starbucks empire? This is not great news for your growth patterns or nervous systems. Believe me, from where I sit, you teens are jittery enough, what’s with the venti mochas, frappucinos, and lattes? And the two of you downing Red Bulls, what kind of high are you getting from that? You’re just asking for trouble. You can look forward to dehydration, restlessness, arrythmias, and major sleep deprivation in your future. Let’s not even talk about the empty calories you’re downing in those syrupy drinks. Sure, most of you have super-fast metabolisms NOW and are as thin as heroin addicts, but just wait. As for the one overweight kid in your group, I hope you’re getting plenty of exercise and not spending too much time on the Internet. Your “Fuck Me, I’m Fat” t-shirt tells me that you’re not completely self-conscious about your size, but then again, the t-shirt is so blindingly offensive, I’m too busy wondering about the dress code at Brentwood to worry about your health.

Put down your cell phones. Five guys hanging out together and yet in the thirty minutes I was at the table next to yours, there was never a moment when at least two of you weren’t jabbing on your cell phones. What is so important that you have to ignore your friends sitting there? You also seemed to enjoy giving each other the finger during several impromptu cell phone photo sessions. By now you must have endless galleries of such photos. I don’t know who you’re talking to on your cell phones but I hope it’s not your mom or girlfriend with that constant barrage of expletives. But, hey, I remember the phase where every other word out of my mouth was a four-letter one. And I certainly would never have talked that way to my teachers or parents. So go ahead and express yourselves any fuckin’ way you want when you’re together, but DON’T be calling any of your female friends bitches or hos.

STOP SMOKING! Really, guys, WTF? Out of the five of you, four were chain smoking the whole time you were there. Are you freaking nuts? I guess you're all 18 so your smoking isn’t illegal in California, just clinically INSANE! With everything that is known today about cigarettes and the effects of nicotine and tobacco on the body, why the hell would you ever start smoking in the first place? Do you really think it’s “cool?” Is it possible that you could be that stupid? Statistics would say that two or three of you have at least one grandparent who has died from some hideous smoking-related illness. My mom started smoking at your age and she was a three-pack-a-day addict for decades until she finally gave it up. We were all so proud of her for licking her addiction but eight years later she still died of small-cell lung cancer. Believe me, you don’t want to go through that. I know you all still think you’re immortal, but you’re not. This is the WORST thing you could be doing to your health, you are literally killing yourselves and you need to STOP it immediately. Honestly, for all my worries about becoming the clichéd overprotective father, I think I might lock Leah in her bedroom if that would keep her from developing a smoking habit. Luckily, she thinks smoking is just as disgusting and dangerous as I do. Expensive as hell, too. Do your parents know what you’re doing with the money they give you?

Okay, I’m done with my speech, Brentwood Boys. Maybe you’re really nice guys and just going through the normal phases of adolescence. But stop with the cigarettes and all the other stuff that is dangerous like drugs and booze and unprotected sex. And when you do drink or do drugs, for God sakes, stay away from your fancy cars. Don’t think you’re entitled to a free ride in life just because your parents are rich. Pay attention in school and do whatever you can to make the world a better place. Or just try to get through these years without making a total ass of yourself, you’ll thank me later. Remember to be kind, to look people in the eyes when you talk to them, and to treat everyone you meet with respect, even if you think they are total dipshits. Good luck, guys. Oh, and one more little thing….if you ever hurt my daughter, I may have to kill you.

May I Have This Dance, Amy Winehouse?

HOORAY! The third night of Hanukkah brought my family a Grammy nomination! Wilco was nominated yesterday for Best Rock Album! The band’s latest CD, “Sky Blue Sky” will be up against Bruce Springsteen’s “Magic” (Wow!), the Foo Fighters’ “Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace” (I’ve actually heard of them and they’ve already won twice in this category), John Fogerty’s “Revival” (Jeff interviewed this icon a few years ago in Interview magazine); and Daughtry’s self-titled debut album (Who? Oh, Chris Daughtry, who was once a finalist on “American Idol?” Gulp!).

The awards will be doled out just two miles from our house at the Staples Center on February 10, 2008. It looks like Jeff and my sister will be flying out for the event and I couldn’t be more thrilled. Kendall and I don’t have any chance of attending the actual awards show but when Jeff was nominated several years ago, we got to attend the after-party at Warner Brothers studios. It was the only time I ever had the experience of stepping out of a limo onto a red carpet and I cherish the memory of the paparazzi groaning in disappointment when they realized Kendall and I weren’t famous. The party was fun, even though we didn’t have a CLUE who anyone was. I do remember meeting the Dixie Chicks just before their big controversy (which hasn’t stopped them from winning 13 Grammy Awards since that time including 5 last year).

I better study up on what “the kids” are listening to before Grammy night. Amy Winehouse is up for several awards, despite her current problems. Should I try to befriend her at the party? She’s nominated for Record of the Year as are Beyoncé, Justin Timberlake, Rihanna, and those Foo Fighters again. There are SO many artists nominated I’ve never heard of but there are also some very familiar names among the nominees. These include Barack Obama (who Jeff is playing for tonight at a Chicago benefit), Bill Clinton, Barbra Streisand, James Taylor, Bette Midler, Paul McCartney, Aretha Franklin, Levon Helm, Charlie Louvin (Jeff recently recorded a version of the Louvin Brothers’ classic “Great Atomic Power” with this amazing musician), Peter Himmelman (Bob Dylan’s orthodox son-in-law who used to play my sister’s bar, Lounge Ax, in Chicago, and daven in her basement), Meryl Streep (!), Maya Angelou, Jimmy Carter, and the casts of two of my favorite musicals, “Grey Gardens” and “Spring Awakening.” Fantastic group of people, even if scary Amy Winehouse is getting most of the attention!

When Jeff actually won two Grammy awards in 2005, he wasn’t here to accept them because he had a gig in Birmingham, Alabama, that night. I admired his decision not to blow off his fans for some stupid awards show, but I desperately want them to attend the February event. For one thing, Jeff’s previous nominations were in categories (including Best Alternative Album) that for some irritating reason were not televised. This is the first time Wilco is up for such a high profile category.

To be honest, I still find the concept of these shows troubling, but as I admitted years ago in yet another fawning, name-dropping, living vicariously through the accomplishments of my family members’ post, I am always ready to abandon my highly principled arguments against such awards the minute someone I know gets nominated for one. So even though I seriously question the legitimacy of the Recording Academy proclaiming anyone in the music industry “better” than anyone else, I’ll be rooting for Wilco and hoping that Jeff wipes the floor with those hacks Springsteen, Grohl, and Fogerty.

Amy, sweetheart, save the last dance for me.

O Chanukah, O Hanukkah

I’ve been so busy with work and family stuff that I feel like I haven’t posted on here since the days of Judah Maccabee. To quell the rioting in the streets over my absence, I will pause from my obligations to wish any readers I have left a Happy First Day of Hanukkah! Or is it Chanukah? The two accepted spellings of this holiday (and I’ve seen about a dozen other variations) are yet another schizophrenic aspect to being a Jew in America.

For many of our holidays and rituals, we seem to have two ways of doing things: one when we are amongst ourselves, and then a more Americanized, goyified way that is more suitable for mass consumption. Hanukkah’s spelling problems obviously come from the challenges of transliterating Hebrew sounds that don’t exist in English. When I looked up the two different spellings of the word in the Los Angeles Times archives, I noticed that almost all pre-World War II references to the holiday spelled it Chanukah, which I consider the more Jewish way, and then suddenly, in the late 40s and beyond, the spelling switched to Hanukkah (and the number of articles about it quadrupled). I guess that’s the price of assimilation and increased attention. If we’re going to pit our holidays against the Christian ones, we better make sure they are easily digested by the non-Jewish populace. Better avoid those hard gutteral “kh” sounds that are so hard for many goyim to pronounce (Kendall converted years ago and still has a hard time getting that sound out of her throat). It must have been all the non-Jews pronouncing Chanukah with the “ch” sound used in “church” that led to the new spelling. (In my Hanukkah meme from last year, I talked about the great “Saturday Night Live” sketch in which uber-shiksa Mary Kay Place attends her Jewish friend Gilda Radner’s holiday celebration: “Bobbie, these Chanookah decorations are out of this world!”)

While many Yiddish words have crept into daily usage, another tactic in presenting our practices to the outside world is the Anglify the words we use at home so that outsiders can understand. This is a courtesy that makes sense in certain cases, but sometimes popular culture goes too far, in my opinion. I don’t think a single Yiddish word was used in the movie version of “Fiddler on the Roof” and many of the English translations seemed bizarre to Jewish viewers. Calling a yarmulke a beanie or skullcap or a chuppah a bridal canopy, or even the character called Yenta the Matchmaker which led many viewers to mistakenly believe that the matchmaker’s first name was Yenta. How could they know that the word yenta means matchmaker in Yiddish (no it doesn't, see comments below) so her name in the film was basically “Yenta the Yenta.” Did the producers really think that Gentile viewers would have freaked out if they heard a Yiddish word and not have been able to understand some of them in context?

Hanukkah brings its own euphemisms. Want to spot a goy at a Hanukkah party? Look for the guy talking about potato pancakes, candelabras, and spinning tops rather than latkes, menorahs, and dreidels. I’m not criticizing these folks, we had several at our table last night who used these words and they couldn’t have been more charming, respectful guests. In fact, this year the goyim outnumbered the Jews at our house and they slaughtered us in a cut-throat game of dreidel, winning most of the chocolate gelt. I then noticed that the gold foil-wrapped gelt I bought earlier in the day also suffered from an identity crisis. Half of the coins were shekels with Hebrew lettering and the other half were Euros and South African krugerrands. Oy, at least there were no Nazi Reichsmarks with Hitler’s image embossed on the foil!

Hanukkah seems much more “popular” today than when I was growing up. I hate the fact that it has come to be a true competitor to the commercialization of Christmas (an accident of the calendar and a marketing ploy of the toy companies), but it has, and the holiday products are no longer relegated to a single dingy shelf at the back of the card store. The first time I heard any mention of Hanukkah on television was in 1963 on my favorite Sunday morning program called “The Magic Door.” Produced by the Chicago Board of Rabbis, this wonderful TV show featured a Peter Pan-like elf character named Tiny Tov who lived inside of an acorn house in the city of Torahville.

I never missed an episode of this show. It featured the only Jews visible on TV when I was young, except for a few assimilated characters (usually played by Catholics) such as Bernie on “Bridget Loves Bernie” and later Mary Tyler Moore’s friend Rhoda Morgenstern. Apart from the captivating Tiny Tov, the characters on “The Magic Door” included puppets Booby Beaver (!) and Deedee and Scrunch, and a few human friends. The residents of Torahville celebrated all of the Jewish holidays, read stories from the Old Testament, introduced Hebrew words and phrases, and explored Jewish values. Every week, Tiny Tov would enter into his magical world by singing the following song (if there any Baby Boomer Chicagoans out there, let me know if I’m remembering these words correctly):

A-room zoom zoom
A-room zoom zoom
Gily gily gily gily gily
A-sa, sah.
Come through the Magic Door with me
Just say these words and wondrous things you'll see!

How I’d love to see this show again. The funny thing is that countless Gentile Chicagoans also loved the show without knowing what they were watching. Many kids, including my Polish Roman Catholic friend Dana, used to watch it “religiously” every Sunday when they got home from church, never realizing that the show was aimed at Jews. Without their parents' knowledge, these kids were being indoctrinated into the ways of the Hebrews for half an hour every week. Getting them right after church? Brilliance! Proof of the plot? Dana ended up marrying our very Jewish friend, Chuckie Cherney. Go, Tiny Tov, another one for our side!

Okay, before anyone takes offense, I’m just kidding! Dana did marry Chuckie, but it’s not the Jewish way to proselytize and persuade Christians to convert. Maybe that’s why all the Christmas/Hanukkah comparisons rub me the wrong way: