The Top Five Bar MYTHvahs—The Ruse 11-Year-Old Jewish Boys Need To Know About

At this very moment, a suseptible 11-year-old Jewish boy is being shammed by his parents. They are conning him about his Bar Mitzvah— the Jewish rite of passage into manhood when reaching his thirteenth birthday. I know this, because there’s little difference between 2021 and that morning in 1964 at age eleven when my parents summoned me to the kitchen. 

Mom sat at the dinette wearing a fluffy pink terry-cloth robe, her head turban-wrapped in toilet paper and covered with a pale-blue shower cap to secure spiky white rollers. Dad wore a white tee shirt tucked into blue dungarees, brown leatherette house shoes, and black socks.  

“Come, sit down mein Brian-del,” Mom said. “Now that you’re a big boy of eleven, your dad and I have something important to tell you about.” 

Shit, they’re going to talk to me about how babies are made. 

The kitchen lights supplemented glaring morning sunlight. I squinted as if sitting under a blaring floor lamp being grilled by Dragnet’s Joe Friday. 

 “You’ll be starting Hebrew school this summer preparing for your Bar Mitzvah in two years,” Dad said patting my hand resting on the table. 

Yep, here comes the schtupping talk. 

“And you know what that means?” Mom grinned and tilted her head, bobbling huddled curlers. “You’re a man.”

Bracing for gross specifics describing ins and outs of male and female genitalia, my chin dropped when Dad said, “And that means it’s time for us to tell you what you can expect when you turn thirteen and have your Bar Mitzvah.”

While I had dodged the sex talk bullet, here’s the shameless scam my parents—all Jewish parents for that matter—conned me with, a.k.a. The Five Bar Mythvahs.

 The Top Five Bar Mythvahs:

1.       “You’ll love preparing for your Bar Mitzvah at Hebrew school.” 

2.       “We’re going to throw a big party for you and all your friends.”

3.       “You’ll get fabulous gifts.”

4.       “You are now a man.” 

5.       “Now that you’re a man, you can make your own decisions.” 

Bar Mythvah #1: “You’ll love preparing for your Bar Mitzvah at Hebrew school.”

 Bullshit. It’s all lies. 

 At eleven-years old, I began my two-year sentence in Hebrew school—a.k.a. the Lambshank Redemption. A mandated punishment involving two hours every week after school memorizing a passage from the Old Testament…very long…in Hebrew…with top-secret musical inflection symbols written above the words and known only to the cantor and millions of permanently scarred boys plagued with little to no rhythm and pre-testicle-drop squeaky voices. Then, after twenty-four months of emotional scourging by a cantor who looked a bit too much like Hannibal Lechter, there’s the final humiliation of chanting—more like pig hollering—my Haftorah in front of a standing-room-only synagogue. That’s when I’d supposedly appreciate having endured incarceration. 

Bar Mythvah #2: “We’re going to throw a big party for you and all your friends.”

 What a pile of dog crap..                                                                                                     

That big party for all my friends? Me and two friends sitting at a table by the kitchen and twenty tables for my parents’ 200 invitees. The pièce de résistance featured a four-foot-long glass trough overflowing with fist-sized shrimp piled high around a giant Star-of-David ice sculpture. Seeing those innocent prawn families drowned in a sea of cocktail sauce, led to nightmares of murdered crustaceans being sucked from the safety of their shells and swallowed by trolling party whales. 

Bar Mythvah #3: “You’ll get fantastic gifts.”

What a crock of shit.                                                                      

Anticipating a new bike or stereo, I got two Cross pen and pencil sets (I wasn’t allowed to take them to school—they remained in a drawer till I rediscovered them at age thirty-five), about $500 in cash and checks (I never saw any of it), and $150 in savings bonds (which me and my two friends knew sucked, because (1) the tight-ass paid half price for its face value, and (2) you may forget about it or not make it to age forty-three when the bond finally matures).

Bar Mythvah #4: “You are now a man.” 

 Maybe in Moses’s house; not mine.  

 Most male Jews rejoice after the “You’re a man now” rabbinical blessing, anticipating adult-only sexual adventures opening up like a hot pastrami sandwich. Instead, I struggled for years understanding why becoming a man was not immediately associated with having sex. And kept sneaking my dad’s Playboy magazines from his bedside table. 

Bar Mythvah #5: Now that I’m a man, my path is mine to choose

 Give me a break.

 Most Jewish men enter college pursuing their mother’s mandate to secure a medical or law degree—defiantly, many end up as comedians and discount jewelers. After graduation, anxiety increases with the mom’s next question: “So, when are you going to marry a nice Jewish girl?” Those who knuckle under and marry spend several decades struggling to understand why marrying a nice Jewish girl is not immediately associated with having sex. After standing under the chuppah and crushing the wineglasses underfoot, we are expected to move into the time-honored and blissful Jewish family life. This involves buying a house and car we can’t afford, having kids for the grandparents to spoil, snipping foreskins while singing “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof, and asking our parents not to drop by unannounced, which invariably occurs on those rare occasions when having sex. 

 So what? 

 It’s too late for me, but not for you parents with pre-Bar Mitzvah boys. It’s bad enough we had to suffer schmeckledectomies when we were mere babes and mistakenly placed our teeny weenies in our parents’ trusting hands. So cruel. 

 To those Jewish parents with young male children: You have this one chance for redemption before your 11-year-old boy becomes a teenager, realizes he’s been hoodwinked, extorted, and that he’ll be masturbating most of his life. Come clean. Re-earn their trust. Forget your self-centered gratuitous party. Give them the cash. Keep the fucking pens.   

What the Tuck.

I was washing my hands in the Mens bathroom at New Orleans’ Acme Oyster House in the French Quarter and looked up to check my hair in the mirror–yes, I’m vain and insecure. I was interrupted by the reflection of two guys turning from their urinals, shaking shrimps, resettling oysters, and zipping up flies in perfect synchronization as if practicing a toilet routine for Cirque du Bidet. They walked past me, sinks, and stumbled through the door back into the throng of fellow shucksters slurping and slurring to the beat of “Caribbean Queen.” Hygiene note: According to the CDC, I’m one of the 31% of men who wash their hands after peeing. You know, hands that free and aim a putz that’s been smashed up against a fleshy wall of matted hair jailed in a dank Fruit-of-the-Loom prison–we’re talking late July N’awlins, y’all. 

Returning attention to my mirrored self, I noticed the tip of my right shirttail had gotten stuck in my jeans front pocket, creating a ripple of lavender cascading over my hip. I jerked it free and tugged the two shirt-tails down into measured alignment. That’s when a shirty question hit me right between the buttons:

What happened to the days when men tucked in their shirttails? 

I was born in 1951 when PC protocol called for tails tucked, PF Flyers and Buster Brown’s laced, hair Vitalissed, parted and neatly combed, English Leather–if you were cool enough. I fell in line with the rules up until age seven when I began an eating marathon that would run uninterrupted until freshman year of college. This feeding stage led to ever increasing rolls of marshmallowy flab. Not even a daily exercise regimen of sprints to the kitchen for more Cheetos and Dr. Pepper, and then back to the den to watch my favorite TV shows helped. 

As a result of ballooning preteen years, I defied 60s shirttail conventions as well as tee shirt tucking rules–a effect resembling a pork sausage with a casing meat bulge. How could I have possibly known that my andouille coverup foreshadowed a trend-setting style revolution some fifty pounds less and fifty years later? These days, the tails-out look rules–even when wearing a jacket. There’s even a shirt company offering out tails only named Untucked. Go figure.

Here’s the tuckaway from my moment in a Mens bathroom in New Orleans: We’re all consumed by our reflected image–current Marie Claire or GQ style, perfect Gordon Ramsey menu for your party, right car key chain dropped dangling from your front pant pocket, posting twenty-year-old photos of svelte you by the pool on Tinder versus present-day snapshots with Fat Tire belly, cellulite and curling ear hairs. 

I am fifty-plus pounds slimmer than I was in college.

I still check my image in every reflective surface to determine if I’m still the fat guy who never felt as if he fit in. 

When will we cotton up to the fact that what you see is what you get? Believe it or not, there’s someone out there looking for exactly you. Reflect on that.

Could anything be wurst?

What’s up with aqua-suspension massage tanks at the mall? For the seductive price of $9.99, you’re inserted face down and fully dressed into the bottom half of a huge torpedo-shaped glass chamber and onto the bottom half of a turquoise-colored rubber membrane. The hinged top closed, latched tightly, and upper membrane sealed you now look like a large gob of pork stuffed into a life-sized blue sausage skin. Your stubbly looking legs stick out one end, your head and hands the other. You now spend 15 glorious minutes pummeled by “magic water fingers,” a moving track of water spouts with enough pressure to remove car paint. But wait…the real bonus comes for the crowd gathered five-deep around the glass tube that watches, points, and laughs while your 40 plus extra pounds of flubber wiggle, shake and waggle like Jell-O. Which brings up another quandary: why is it mostly people of ample proportions are the ones who pay good money to showcase their flab? So as to not offend any group leading to outcries, protests and death threats, I confess that I was a pork belly for many years. And the LAST thing I hungered for was displaying my fat ass and body blubber jiggling like water in an slopping wave pool.

Whatever. Back to my Bratwurst.
Keep !nking about it.

BK

“That’s fine with me.” What’s with that?

“That’s fine with me.” What’s with that?

Have you ever noticed how often the word “fine” is used as the default response to some of life’s most significant situations?

“How are you doing today?” “Fine.”

“I’m moving out.” “Fine.”

“How are you feeling about losing your job?” “Fine.”

“Would you be OK with my mom staying with us for a month?” “Fine.”

When what you are really wanting to say is more like:

“How are you doing today?” “I feel like shit. My bank called to tell me I’m $500 overdrawn, the dog vomited all over my bed and me while I was sleeping, and some pecker-wood keyed the side of my new leased BMW.”

“I’m moving out.” “Sure, go ahead and run away like you always do, dickhead. And while I’d really like to tell you not to come back to rid myself of your demeaning treatment, I’m weak and you know I’ll take you back for more of the same.”

“How are you feeling about losing your job?” “Well, this is the third time I’ve lost my job. I feel snake-bit and a complete loser. I’ll never find contentment. So, how the hell do you think I feel?”

“Would you be OK with my mom staying with us for a month?” “I’d rather stick a dull pencil in my eyeball than be trapped with your judgmental, mental case of a mother who has never accepted me as a viable human being, let alone someone good enough for you.”

Maybe our frequent use is exacerbated by its many meanings:

“Whoa, you are looking really fine today.” (Less frequently used these days as this leads to #metoo targeting, scorn, and banishment from society).

“Now, Billy, use the pencil sharpener and put a a really fine point on your pencil.” (Less frequently used these days because 1) little Billy is inclined to put his eye out, 2) stick little Suzie in the arm with aforementioned fine point, and 3) pencil sharpeners are only found in history museums in the ‘Rare Artifacts’ section).

“There’s a fine line between your desire to paint and being a valuable contributor to society.” (Less frequently used these days after attempts at heavy medication to stem movements of unproductive citizens: “dreamers and others with overly active creative minds.” This leading to a systemic outbreak of rampant innovations, bold freethinking, and lifted voices crying out, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore”).

We need to stop and reflect how fine things really are before we simply blurt it out. How about a new acronym instead? Frustrated. Insecure. Nervous. Edgy.

That’s fine with me.

Things are looking up.

My life is looking up.

Things are looking up.

There’s a reason why the best things in this world, are not of this world’s things. The sky is limitless.

When I was an 8-year-old kid, I would spend endless hours chasing the sky from my pilot’s seat on the swings at Preston Hollow elementary school in Dallas, Texas. I would push the limits of gravity with the meager power of leg and arm rocket thrusters, stretching beyond the azure boundary of the galaxies’ folded edge. Higher, higher, higher I would stretch until, feeling weightless and lightheaded, I’d free fall back to earth. Fearless—with each whoosh through space and time—I’d narrate my latest adventure. Outmaneuvering and blasting alien hordes into oblivion, I’d eventually eject from my seat. Releasing wings hidden inside my spacesuit, I would glide down to the powdery surface of planet Grog. Rolling over on my back, looking up through dizzy clouds of dust billowing from my landing, spinning deeper and deeper up into the bliss of deepening blue.

No thoughts about the past or future; just being now.

No concerns about homework or chores; just being now.

No tears from lacking friends and often feeling lonely; just being now.

I am no longer that small boy. Still, at times I want to escape alien thoughts, concerns, and fears. Mount my pilot seat and swing. Higher, higher, higher I would rise until—feeling weightless and lightheaded—I float away into the sky’s embrace.

We create most of our burdens; heavy things from this world that hold us down. Alien things we call hate, fear, possessions, envy, greed, confrontation, self-reliance, and indifference. They stalk the galaxies in hopes of possessing our egos and thoughts, vaporizing our consciousness of now. Like small kids, we can terminate aliens with Destructo Beams we call love, courage, nothingness, respect, generosity, surrender, others, and compassion.

Swing higher. Beyond your self. Higher. Beyond worldly things. Higher. Jump. Know weightlessness and limitless wonders of the sky. Now.

Up, up, and away.

***

Thanks for stopping by.

Keep !nking about it.

BK

Bread and butter me up, please.

Bread and butter me up, please.

The other day I overheard two women saying “Bread & Butter” as they walked around either side of a slate-colored concrete stantion on the sidewalk. Their casual comment triggered memories about my family, where superstitions were super-sized. In addition to the tried and true variety of superstitions about mirrors, ladders and black cats, we also had the bonus of some Jewish classics passed on from Mom: “If you sneeze while speaking about a dead person, pull up both your ears.” Or “If you’re sewing a button on a shirt while wearing it, chew on a piece of thread so your brains don’t get sewed up.” And my favorite, “After saying anything that might be perceived as evil, you must spit out ‘puh, puh, puh’ to ward off demons.”

According to the dictionary, a superstition is defined as an irrational belief arising from ignorance or fear. There are superstitions for almost all aspects of our daily lives. Some are actually practical, for example Don’t walk under a ladder—DUH! Most are ridiculous. Gullible and insecure people embrace some doozies:

1. A loaf of bread should never be turned upside down after a slice has been cut from it.

2. Never take a broom along when you move. Throw it out and buy a new one.

3. If the first butterfly you see in the year is white, you will have good luck all year.

4. An acorn placed at the window will keep lightning out.

5. A dog howling at night, when someone in the house is sick, is a bad omen.

6. It’s bad luck to leave a house through a different door than the one used to come into it.

7. A horseshoe hung in the bedroom will keep nightmares away.

8. If you catch a falling leaf on the first day of autumn you will not catch a cold all winter.

9. It is bad luck to light three cigarettes with the same match.

10. Dream of running: a sign of a big change in your life.

Just imagine how much more relaxed and productive we would be if we weren’t running around hanging horseshoes, buying new brooms, muzzling dogs, chasing leaves, and righting loaves of bread. Advertisers, religious institutions, and politicians thrive on creating baseless fear in people through attempts to control our behavior. “If you’ll just take these three supplements every day…,” or “For a mere $50 donation you’ll begin experiencing God’s blessings…,” or “If we do not invade, we are sure to be the next target of….” When will we stop swallowing myths and old wive’s tales?

As for me, I’m off to buy my weekly lottery ticket using my kids’ birthdays, while rubbing my rabbit’s foot, and wearing my shamrock boxer shorts.

Good luck!

Blah, blah, blahg.

Blah, blah, blahg.

“Please read my new blogs.”

“Please like my blogs.”

“Please follow my blogs.”

“NEVER ask people to read, like or follow your blog.”

According to Tumblr, as of April 2018 it is estimated that there are 409 million registered blog accounts. All my bookie friends have advised me that 409,000,000:1 odds are not terrific for getting my blogs read, liked, or followed. Now, I consider myself an educated person—graduated kindergarten, elementary and middle school, high school, and college—and have spent 40+ years advising clients about making the right choices when positioning their businesses for success. I stole the best two pieces of advice ever from a professional blackjack card counter client who, having been banned from all casinos, offered a $495 2-day seminar to teach people his card counting method. His opening statement on the first day was, “The two most valuable pieces of information I can give you if you’re serious about making money counting cards while playing blackjack: #1— you will never beat the house. The house odds are and always will be against you. By counting the cards from the dealers deck, you can tell when the deck is rich with face cards and aces. That’s when the house odds against you are lowered. And that’s when you can win more hands and should increase your bets. And #2—you must know when to walk away from the table.” I have shared these two gems with countless clients over my career with great success, some people even telling me that my sage wisdom really guided their trajectory…I was a marketing guru…and other uncalled for accolades. So, you might ask, why the hell would I not take my own advice and walk away from the blogging table? Good question.

I mean really, is my writing and what I have to say that engaging or important? Does anyone really care about me writing a book of personal essays? When people say they laugh at my attempts at humor, are they actually laughing at me while thinking to themselves, “Just in case he’s mentally unstable and has an alter ego as a vampire, I’ll encourage him so he’ll go away.” While reciting two chapters from My Shorts the other day to a small group of relatives and friends, I overheard some comments murmured between the circle of listeners:

“He’s going to depend on this for food?”

“Is he really making a book out of this?”

“People don’t wanna read this. They want to hear about sex and violence.”

And my favorite, addressed directly to me.

“Is there any pornography?”

While I am tempted to use some of these for back cover quotes, common sense would suggest my attempts to build a following for My Shorts (see…you’re rolling my eyes while I’m chuckling to myself)—let alone reading, liking and following my blogs—common sense tells me I should can my professional writing dreams and enroll in class to become a certified circumciser’s aid. While speaking to a rabbi about the merits of this pursuit at my age, I asked a logical question.

“Is it too late for me to get ahead in this field?”

His response, “Not at all. All you have to do is cut low.”

Blah, blah, blah…I’ll stick with blahging.

Born to be…guilty.

Born to be…guilty.

Born in 1951, I’m the by-product of parents from the Bronx New York tribe. When I reached communication age (mostly muttering “Huh?” and “Wha?”), they disclosed the “You’re-a-Jew” essentials. We are God’s chosen people; Jesus was a rabbi and died a Jew, not a Christian; Jesus is not the Messiah or God, let alone George Burns or Jim Carrey—God is God; everybody is actually Jewish—descendants of Adam, Abraham, Joan Rivers, Billy Crystal; we observe all the Jewish holidays with bonus days for Christmas and Good Friday; we don’t need to read the Bible—God’s Chosen People are already in; we eat matzoh during Passover until surrendering to a bagel, lox and cream cheese; we drink disgustingly sweet Mogen David wine after all prayers; we eat holiday meals only when mom extols, “OK, enough praying. Let’s eat before the potato knishes are hard like hockey pucks.”

Our early Judaic formation demands five years sentenced to Hebrew school. We graduate, understanding that we nosh mostly on foods rich in butter, refined sugar, and fats. Key examples of our fare include black & white cookies, halvah, cheese blintzes, Danish (the baked type, not the citizens), rye and pumpernickel bread, Muenster cheese, creamed herring, fatty corned beef and pastrami, and various kugel dishes.⁠ We gain weight. Then we say prayers for low cholesterol and blood sugar counts. We prepare for Bar (male) or Bat (female) Mitzvah when we turn thirteen—this culminating with a catered party for the parents’ friends, envelopes filled with cash or check, Cross pen & pencil sets, and official declaration by the rabbi that you are now a man or woman. Male Jews spend the next four years trying to understand exactly why becoming a man is not immediately associated with having sex.

Most Jewish men enter college pursuing their mother’s directive to secure a medical or law degree—I was inept in math beyond division, vomited while dissecting a frog in the 9th grade, and got a ticket and criminal record after jaywalking on the way to school when I was nine. I was screwed. In defiance of pursuing accepted and guilt-free careers, many become standup comics and discount jewelers. After⁠ graduating, anxiety persists with the next edict to marry a nice Jewish girl—preferably one of your mom’s Mahjong friends. Those who knuckle under spend the next decade trying to understand why marrying a nice Jewish girl is not immediately associated with having sex.

After marriage, we live the time-honored model of Jewish family life: buying a house and car you cannot afford, having kids for the grandparents to spoil, snipping foreskins, singing “If I were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof, and asking your parents not to drop by unannounced—which invariably occurs on those rare occasions of having sex. Finally, you face mounting psychiatric bills from all the guilt, vexed looks from your parents and lack of sex.

Don’t get me wrong, I am proud of my Jewish heritage. There are numerous traditions and reasons why the Jewish faith is cool, not the least of which is our direct relationship with God, aka Yahweh from the Old Testament. We were definitely tight. Passover is the best illustration of our BFF connection; the whole slavery of the Jews for 400 years in Egypt, ten gnarly plagues climaxing with the Angel of Death (not to be confused with any Marvel comic villains), 40 years wandering with Moses in the desert (we’re talking hot sand, snakes, rocks, scorpions, and irritable camels), and finally crossing into the Promised Land, described in the Old Testament as “…a land flowing with milk and honey.” Boy, those ancient Jews were shocked when they arrived in the much-touted Promised Land. Anyone who has actually visited Israel since Moses’ crew, has discovered that the “land flowing with milk and honey” tagline was, in fact, the first Israeli Convention and Visitor Bureau’s bait-and-switch—Israel is mostly hot sand, snakes, rocks, scorpions, irritable camels, crumbling ruins, with the added bonus of a dead sea.

All things considered, with the addition from years of counseling and medication, my Jewish foundation has been a real blessing. Among its many benefits, I genuinely appreciate the flavor enhancement of fats in any foods, I have embraced feeling guilty about most things including feeling guilty when I don’t have anything specific to feel guilty about, and I get satisfaction and more for my money from knowing where to find the deepest discounts. Mom said it best. “You don’t have to be Jewish to have a better life, but it doesn’t hurt.” I am enjoying a better life, but sometimes it is irritating. Thank God for Benadryl.

6822

Dad and Victoria

6822

Part 1 (1956)

Summer storms attacked Texas flatlands vengefully and without warning. This Dallas afternoon—playing alone in our front yard—was no different. I was pursued by five Apache warriors on painted ponies: coyote-yelping, bows and arrows drawn, sun-toughened faces streaked in white, black and blood-red symbols. The sudden tempest attacked from the left flank; it squashed the chase. The gale’s fury and howling obliterated our savage ruckus. An expansive row of 20-foot spired evergreens, just ten yards ahead, bowed submissively to the wind’s assault. On our right flank, hordes of violet-laden cloud goblins charged down from hills of sky. Defeat’s stench surrounded us. I ran for cover in a cave-like gap defined by two burly evergreen sentries. Sweat stinging my eyes, I dove head first into verdant cover. Landing hard, my hands throbbed from black dirt and twig wounds. Barbaric gusts clawed my shield. Safe at last.

From the left, a new threat; menacing growls rustled the evergreens’ folds. My senses shrieked terror’s warning. A wolf? Bear? I jumped up, my face tangled with branches and foliage, and burst full sprint from the trees. Tears streamed.

“Mommy…Mommy…”

*

Part 2 (1991)

My daughter Victoria finally stopped laughing. She was sitting next to me in the front seat of the red Toyota rental. Tears welled in her eyes as she caught her breath.

“Dad, you’re such a dork.”

We were visiting my Mom and Dad in the summer of 1991. Victoria was 10 years-old and I was taking her to the house in which I grew up at 6822 Lakehurst. My family lived there from 1954 until 1967 after moving from New York. Dallas was just a big town in the 50s and 60s; vast expanses of ranches and farmland bordered the homes slowly appearing as if dots of dripping paint on clean canvas. I had just shared the wind story on the way to my childhood home. It was a perfect sneak preview to more episodes of “The Best of Dad’s Adventures.” I was itching—figuratively, not a nervous rash—to park in front of the post WW2 sand-colored brick ranch home. I had envisioned painting imaginary murals from my treasure chest of childhood memories, pointing to spots in the front and back yard along with sections of the house where I played. I would narrate the time I hid from monsters in the built-in wooden clothes hamper in the hall bathroom, peering out from my cave through the small, hinged wooden flap. We would hold our breaths when I retold the Tarzan saga; staked to the savannah’s floor (the top of the tool shed), bound hands and feet with wet leather strips, painfully outstretched under blazing sun with lazy scorpions snapping pincers to the rhythm of their stinging arousal. We would stand beneath the Mimosa tree in the righthand corner of front yard where, perched for hours in the crooks of its smooth arms, I captained my Man ‘O War in pursuit of gnarly pirates; the tree’s pink-feathered blossoms cannon blasts from the port side. I would milk each word when remembering lying in bed and hiding under my cowboy patterned blanket, shaking as scratchy footsteps grew louder. Closer, closer, closer…the footfalls stopped. Motionless, I waited and waited before slowly maneuvering my head out from beneath my covers. Pitch blackness. A sudden shock of something cold and wet touched my left cheek; the nose of our French Poodle, Can-Can.

Sharing scenes from my childhood felt appropriate as, like me, Victoria had spent most of her early childhood playing alone. And when it was time for “make-believe,” I was the preferred playmate her favorite characters: Mermaid and merman, Al Gator, Little Mermaid and Sebastian, My Little Pony, Smurfs, and Barbie & Ken. I wanted to reveal glimpses of my own childhood. That spending time doing things alone was OK and not only about feeling the stings of loneliness from rejection by the “popular” kids. The OK-ness of being an introvert. Where solitude fans flames of imagination and creativity; like her Daddy.

We headed south down Hillcrest Road in North Dallas, speed limit still a snails-paced 35 miles-per-hour. We were only four blocks away. My pulse quickened. I slowed down. At the intersection of Hillcrest and Lakehurst, we would turn right and immediately arrive at 6822; second house on the left from the corner.

Two blocks.

“OK, our house will be the second house from the corner on our left,” I said.

One.

Excited. “Here it comes, sweetie.”

“OK, Daddy,” she responded. She sounded excited, too.

I turned the steering wheel sharply to the right, braked and prepared for the reveal. The car stopped with an abrupt jerk. My eyes widened like the eyes on a vintage Felix the Cat wall clock.

The second house from the corner on our left. Empty swatch of grass. Mound of dirt. Rubble. The red-bricked ranch house to the right of where our house once stood combined with the corner house formed what appeared as an open-mouthed smirk with a missing tooth. All that remained of the sketch of my childhood were eraser shavings and pencil ghosts scattered across a sheet of withered drawing paper. Deep sigh.

“Where is it, Daddy?”

Disbelief. “It’s gone.” Pause. “I can’t believe it.”

We sat together in the front seat of the car, Victoria’s head resting tenderly on my shoulder, her hand cradling mine.

We pulled away from the curb.

Hordes of dark, violet-laden cloud goblins gathered in the distance.

***

“No thanks, I’m stuffed.”

The Victim

“No thanks, I’m stuffed.”

I relieved myself today in the Dazbog Coffeehouse at the corner of 9th and Downing. Having walked over an hour on the splendid, greening, crisp spring Denver day, urgency struck. With a snap-pea sized bladder, I was grateful some establishments allowed non-purchasers respite and access to a more civil outlet for bladder release than ducking into an alley or behind clustered evergreens. Having successfully taken hold of the matter, I was enjoying a deep sigh of relief. And that’s when I glanced up and noticed the sign taped to the wall above the tank:

NO PAPER TOWELS
IN TOILET
(Please ☺︎ )

Seemingly insignificant at first, I was unsettled by the smiley face staring at my package, currently front and center in a less-than-flattering presentation. My stream of consciousness shifted to the origin of the sign’s request. I thought, does that mean that right in my own neighborhood there’s a rash of bandits stuffing paper towels into public johns? The idea was both odd and disturbing. Considering myself fairly open-minded, I gave my fellow men the benefit of the doubt as to the thinking preceding such heinous acts of defiance. And may I say insensitive?

Stream of thought #1:

“Now that I’ve done my business, and even though there’s a roll of toilet paper behind me on the tank, I’m going to get some paper towels on the opposite side of this large bathroom to finish up. I prefer the rougher scrubbing quality of paper towels versus the less efficient use of the softer, silkier, cushier qualities of traditional toilet paper.” Wipes. Stuffs. Flushes. Water and particles overflow.

Stream of thought #2:

The guy who performs the more recognized act of washing his hands at the sink, then using 11 sheets of paper towel to dry his hands. Fully dry, he examines his options. “Hmmm, how shall I dispose of this unpleasant, dripping mass of towels? I could compact them into a tight soggy clump, put them in my pockets and take them home to dry and recycle…or I could jam them into the toilet and flush repeatedly until they are far enough into the shaft that the next gentleman won’t notice…or I could just toss them into this trashcan right next to me… I’m going for the toilet.”

I felt confused and culpable simply because of my sex. I was also certain that upon exiting the bathroom other guys in the coffeehouse would point and sneer. I exited the bathroom, lowered my eyes, and rehung the key that was connected by string to a soiled ‘whiteish’ spatula; I assumed for theft prevention or mixing pierogi ingredients in the bathroom sink. I walked to the front counter.

“Hi there, can I get you anything?” asked the guy dressed from head-to-toe in Dazbog black.

“Yes, I need some answers.”

“Shoot.”

“I’d like to know the backstory of the sign above the men’s toilet. You know, the one….”

He grinned and interrupted. “Oh, that. Yeah, we’ve had some problems with the paper towels.”

I’m pissed. “Really? I mean, really? C’mon, is this another Russian ploy to make us look even dumber than we already are?”

Laughs. “You’d be amazed at the shit people do in our bathrooms.”

Enough said.

The Plane Truth

My Escape Chamber

The plane truth.

Will someone please tell me why airline passengers sitting next to each other feel compelled to converse at decibels loud enough to shatter concrete? The two people sitting next to me are close enough to each other to hear their swallows of Chablis and vodka splash into their stomachs.

“For God’s sake, will you please lower your voices; I’ve already lost the hearing in my left ear!” Admittedly, I’m a chicken shit, but oh how I want to blurt this out.

I’m on my return flight to Denver from a weeklong exhausting trip to Dallas and Nashville. I was in Dallas for the unveiling of my mom’s headstone, marking the end of the traditional Jewish year of mourning and the anniversary of her passing. Then to Nashville for two full days of research interviews for a ghostwriting project. I think they call it “ghostwriting” because I keep stumbling around drooling like a zombie from The Walking Dead. The trip concludes with three fun days sharing mutual birthdays with my 7 year-old granddaughter and enjoying my son’s family. I was worn out, confirmed in the bathroom before boarding my Southwest flight, the skin beneath my eyes drooping like melting wax. Moments before, I successfully executed a pre-board appeal to the gate attendant. My routine involves limping to the desk, smiling and noting the person’s name before pleading. “Hi Christy. I’ve had recent back surgery and if possible I need to sit by the bulkhead.” Frown. Pause. Shift weight to other foot. “Any chance I can pre-board?” While true, I do confess that said back surgery was 4 years ago. Now a senior, however, I am cashing in on random manipulated acts of kindness.

I limp down the jetway, hobble through the doorway, wince when hefting my bag into the overhead bin, and gingerly maneuver into the first row’s aisle seat. Next to the window, a guy in jeans and sky blue t-shirt with some sort of medical logo is watching an NBA playoff game on his iPad. He doesn’t look up as I buckle my seatbelt.

Good sign. He won’t bother me. Now, if we can make it through boarding without someone taking the middle….

“Ladies and gentlemen, please go ahead and take those middle seats as this is a full flight. Every seat will be taken.”

Well, so much for that.

“Excuse me, sir. Is that seat taken?”

Hmmm. An attractive young woman with gentle face, kind eyes and soft voice. Good sign.

Smiling. “It is now.” I stand and step into the aisle, allowing her time to wedge the brown leather briefcase into the overhead bin and settle into her seat. Taking a deep breath, I insert the two earbuds of my Bluetooth headphones, open my iPad, select Chris Botti for some soothing jazz, and settle back for much needed decompression.

*

Reaching 10,000 feet, I realize I’m in for a hellish 2 hour and 47 minutes. The gruesome twosome have just ordered their first round of drinks, thus enhancing their insidious loud conversation. Oh, and did I mention they were LOUD? Raising my headphones volume to “Max” and jamming the earbuds deep into my ear canals, I am fairly certain grey brain matter will begin dripping from my flared nostrils momentarily. I swap Chris Botti for AC/DC. “Highway to Hell” is no match for the two Dementors relentlessly yakking away in their chamber of hollers. Even Bon Scott’s shrill voice fails to mute fragments from their banal exchange.

“Yeah, I just got the award as top colostomy bag salesman of the year.” Proud of himself. Second glass of vodka initiated.

“Really? That sounds like a big honor.” Impressed. Polishes off her first glass of Chablis.

“I’m on the highway to hell
On the highway to hell
Highway to hell
I’m on the highway to hell.”

“My favorite all time movie is Howard the Duck. What’s yours?”

“Well, I like…like action movies, like…actually I don’t know.” Giggles. “That’s a loaded question.” Halfway through her second glass of Chablis.

“Not really. I can read people. And I can tell you’re a woman who likes movies with dogs and romance. C’mon, I’m right, right? C’mon.” Nudging

“Hey Satan, paid my dues
Playing in a rocking band
Hey mama, look at me
I’m on my way to the promised land, whoo!”

“Actually, not. Although I really liked the The Shape of Water. The way the creature’s thing popped out was really cool…though you never actually see it.” One raised eyebrow and tilted head.” And then they do it in the bathtub.” Pauses. Giggles. “So, what’s a ‘colossus ski bag?’” Hiccup. “I like to ski, you know? Should I have one? Can I buy one from you?”

“Highway to hell
I’m on the highway to hell.”

“No, silly woman, it’s a colostomy bag. It gets rid of your waste by….”

“Wow, that’s sounds great. I’ve been wanting to trim down a bit. Are they easy to use?”

I stab the flight attendant button, leaning out into the aisle to grab her attention. Desperate for additional bags of peanuts in hopes that the combination of crunching and acid rock will cover his description of a device for rectal waste bypass. Should that fail, I am ready to stuff the remaining honey roasted peanuts into my ears along with the earbuds.

“Have you seen Napoleon Dynamite? I think Uncle Rico is amazing. Third vodka.

“Yeah, I saw that one. Lafawnduh was cool…duh. Get it? Duh.” Giggles and wipes spittle from chin. “Want some M&Ms?”

“No, I’m afraid I’ll get ramped up from the sugar.” Guffaws.

“I think they go great with these Wheat Thins and my Chablis.” Giggles.

“You know, you’re quite the happenin’ lady. Hey, I think I’ll have one of those M&Ms. Any chance you can find me a green one? I’m a natural kinda guy.”

“Stop it, you silly man.” Nudges his right arm. Giggles. Incessantly.

Reply chuckle. Eyebrows inverted ‘V’s.’ “I can be serious too. I was a high school basketball coach once. And a little league baseball coach.” Pauses, wipes mouth. “I guess you could say I like working with balls.”

“And I’m going down
All the way
Whoa!
I’m on the highway to hell”

“Are you flirting with me?” Sits up straight, yanks the bottom edges of her lavender knit top—thus accentuating her curviness—and takes a sip from her latest Chablis, never taking her eyes off the coach-turned-all-star-colostomy-bag-salesman.

I casually unbuckle my seatbelt, walk to the front bathroom, slide the lock, lower my head into the toilet, rest my right cheek against the shiny metal, push the blue FLUSH button…and flow into the cool, clear ultramarine liquid swirling around my head. Repeat. Repeat. Refreshed, I grab all remaining paper towels, tissues, and feminine napkin bags to tamp away excess blue streaks and globs now fused to my hair and white soul patch. Deep breath and then I calmly turn and bang my forehead three times on the diaper changing panel on the wall to the left above the toilet.

Shirt front smoothed. Collar straightened. Decorum restored. Returning to my row, the two bobbing parasites watch me lower into the seat. I grin civilly as if to say, “If you even think about asking me anything, it will be your last spoken words before I straddle your seats and cram the remaining bags of honey roasted peanuts down your….”

“So, what do you do?” she asks cordially.

***

9th and Downing

At the Corner of 9th and Downing in Denver

9th and Downing (August 2017)

The northeast corner of 9th and Downing, Denver. A whirligig of mixed senses splattering asphalt and concrete canvas. August’s breath, tepid and leafy green, exhales on scaly fleshed stucco, brick, and glass. Sitting on a metal chair in front of Dazbog coffee shop, seat of black faux wood slats. I look up. The scene tumbles east along 9th Avenue; cars on each side form a mosaic-dotted line ending four blocks away at the westernmost border of Cheesman Park. A single blink of emerald framed by gathered trees resembles a closed eyelid beneath a monocle.

A middle-aged man sits opposite me. Face wrinkled and right hand propped against his forehead, a neighborhood Bedouin wandering pages of a black-covered paperback. Prussian blue heat from his fixed gaze rises in dense thought balloons. The black knit polo shirt and wrinkled khaki shorts darken amidst soot streaked canvas umbrella shadows. The fabric’s raven, white, and tomato-red colors mirror the Dazbog sign affixed to the wall above the door to my left. For an instant, I’m back sitting outside a coffeehouse in Budapest six years previous; slate, dusty, and crimson laden with communism’s scar tissue.

Russian phrases stencil the store and outer edges of the outdoor umbrellas. The large front windows reverse the clouded scene of me typing to the disdain of rust-bricked Victorian homes observing from across the street. Behind and to my right, the wounded moan of a bus’s engine approaches. It crawls to a stop, sighing exhaust. A bent, gangly older man in threadbare blue jeans and stained sky blue t-shirt jerks back as the jaws of the bus doors yawn open. He ascends, each step labored. Toothless gums slap shut. Sated, the whale-like vehicle exhales a deep groan and rejoins the waves and ambient sounds of other vehicles.

A hint of roasted coffee overcomes my distractions. Intoxication is abruptly replaced by acrid scents of urine and body perspiration. The first from an onyx-colored Great Dane peeing on the black metal fence post 3 feet away. The second from his tattoo-laden male owner. In his twenties, wearing an askew black cap, black weathered jeans pulled down low enough to reveal a rim of greying boxer shorts. Jet black tattoos spread up from bony arms, to neck right below his chin. The artwork’s mystery hidden beneath his concrete-colored goth t-shirt draws attention to pierced lip, nose, and silver ear ornaments. Noticing I’ve noticed his dog watering the post, lemon raindrops splashing off the pavement in my direction, he shrugs his shoulders and offers a half smile as if commenting, “What can I say?”

Relieved, the two continue down the sidewalk.

Looking up from my keyboard, I see the man at the next table is reading D.H. Lawrence. Unable to discern the title covered by his right hand on the bottom half of the black cover, and having finished my cup of black coffee, I decide it’s time to move on.

“It’s not really a word.”

“It’s not really a word.”

Bentley Researching

I have a good friend in Minneapolis who refers to herself as a ‘bohemian.’ She is the colorful outcome of mixed marriage. Delightful and lovely in so many ways, I was puzzled by her portraying her self-prescribed ‘bohemistic’ (right, it’s not really a word) oddity: “I’m not really black; the black community tells me I don’t really fit. I’m not really white; the white community tells me I don’t really fit. It’s interesting spending a good portion of your life trying define what’s fitting…about not fitting.” The sound of the word intrigued me: bohemian. Its resonance is mysterious…organic… earthy…primal…‘bohemic’ (right, it’s not really a word). Captured, I had to know more.

My curiosity ignited I did what renowned scholars, teachers, academicians and A.D.Dists (Any Distraction Accepted) would do; I Googled the etymology of the word ‘bohemian.’ The link led me to the world’s most esteemed, resourced, studied, quoted storehouse of world knowledge: ‘Wikipedia’ (right, it’s not really a word). I dove into a tub of bohemian data. It felt as if I had removed my shoes and socks, rolled up my pants legs, and climbed into a vat of newly harvested fat and juicy syntactical grapes. Stomping these fruits of knowledge, I felt like Lucy Ricardo dressed in her ‘gypsyesque’ (right, it’s not really a word) and up to her knees in one of her grape stomping escapade; giggling, hands on hips, high-stepping. With every squishy footfall, I dizzied with linguistic intoxication.

Bohemian

From Wikipedia:

“For other uses, see Bohemian: disambiguation (right, it’s really a word)

Bohemians are the people of Bohemia, in the Czech Republic, inhabitants of the former Kingdom of Bohemia, located in the modern day Czech Republic. The an cient Kingdom of Bohemia was absorbed into the Habsburg Empire after 1527 and came under the control of Vienna…

…the word “Bohemian” or a derivate was used to designate all inhabitants of Bohemia…

… “Bohemians” is still used when there is need to distinguish between inhabitants of the western part of the Czech Republic (Bohemia), and the eastern (Moravia) or the north-eastern part (Silesia).”

Expecting revelation, instead I was confused and frustrated. I hoped to see pictures of famous historical ‘Bohemians’ and ‘Bohermians’ (right, it’s not really a word) based on my pre-conceived thoughts about societal misfits, oddballs, outcasts and other societal dregs. Who I thought were famous ‘bohemians’: Joan of Arc, Rasputin, William Wallace (aka Mel Gibson in kilts), Albert Einstein, Papa Hemmingway, Pee Wee Herman, Howard Hughes, Julius Ceasar, General Patton, Steven Colbert, Timothy Leary, Dr. Phil.

Nope. None. Nada. And then, a payoff! It reads:

…“The term “Bohemian” as related to Bohemianism – i.e. describing the untraditional lifestyles of marginalized and impoverished artists, writers, musicians, and actors in major European cities – has little or nothing to do with the above, though, often leading to confusion.”….

Huh? The last line stabbed deep into the heart of such cultural catch-all definitions, what I call “drive-by” judgment; metaphoric stones cast upon those among us who don’t quite fit the accustomed, accepted, comfortable, safe, predictable, textbook definition. How about: Expressionists. Dreamers. Mathematicians. Architects. Engineers, Philosophers. Authors. Scientists. Activists. Like: Van Gogh, Da Vinci, Isaac Newton, Frank Lloyd Wright, Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, John Milton (no, not Milton Berle), Plato, Charles Darwin, Harvey Milk.

Or, even more questionable ‘bohemaniacs’ (right…) of ‘their time’ in history. Like: Martin Luther King Jr., Ghandi, Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther, Sir Thomas Moore.

Or, likely the most infamous ‘boheretics’ (uh huh, right…) of all. Like: Abraham. Moses. Isaiah. David. John the Baptist. Jesus. Frank Zappa, and David Letterman.

So, where does that leave the rest of us common folk? The counter-intuitive bloggers, graffiti artists, social workers, school teachers, mentors, and other assorted misfits who keep dreaming. Trying. Dancing. Believing. Giggling while squeezing juicy meaning out and between their toes. The residue of what can be remains at the bottom of the barrel.

Gypsies, tramps, and thieves? You say Bohemian. I say Bohumian. Let’s call the whole word off.

Blade Runner

Devils Thumb, Colorado

Blade Runner

More. Faster. Now. Better.

Think about it: We have all been and continue to be impacted in this age of Dehumanization through Technology. More. Faster. Now. Better.

Think about it: We are over-communicated with. Statistically, each and every day we each are exposed to over 20,000 bits of advertising messages; mail, TV, radio, web banners, cell phone, direct mail, billboards…. More. Faster. Now. Better.

Think about it: Nobody reads anymore! We are living in the On Demand society. The Opt-In-Me-That culture. The USA Today SkimArama runs. The Junk Mail Filers Anonymous syndrome. The Twitter Oh My God When Will Trump Stop.

More. Faster. Now. Better.

Yet…there is evidence of a Re-humanization Movement happening: Small home churches. Coffee shop gatherings, just to talk. Increase in people working with personal coaches and counselors. Dinner at home.

Remember Harry Chapin’s classic song, Cat’s in the Cradle?

Cat’s in the Cradle

“My child arrived just the other day

He came to the world in the usual way
But there were planes to catch and bills to pay
He learned to walk while I was away
And he was talkin’ ‘fore I knew it, and as he grew
He’d say “I’m gonna be like you dad
You know I’m gonna be like you”
And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man on the moon
When you comin’ home dad?

I don’t know when, but we’ll get together then son
You know we’ll have a good time then….”

The song goes on to convey how the son grows up, and when the Dad wants to spend time with him and his family the son now is too busy with all the “things” that have filled up his life:

“…I’ve long since retired, my son’s moved away

I called him up just the other day
I said, “I’d like to see you if you don’t mind”
He said, “I’d love to, Dad, if I can find the time
You see my new job’s a hassle and kids have the flu
But it’s sure nice talking to you, Dad

It’s been sure nice talking to you”

And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me

He’d grown up just like me

My boy was just like me.

And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man on the moon
When you comin’ home dad?

I don’t know when, but we’ll get together then son
You know we’ll have a good time then.”

Same narrative. Same life.

The point:

Life has a narrative for each of us. Written before time. Our lives are the ink. Some of us a letter, word, phrase, sentence, book. None more important or valuable than others. So, what value is there to speed-reading through the moments we are given.

More? Faster? Now? Better?

What if you were a parenthesis.

parenthesis [puh-ren-thuh-sis], noun

1. either or both of a pair of signs ( ) used in writing to mark off an interjected explanatory or qualifying remark, inserted for emphasis, to indicate separate groupings of symbols in mathematics and symbolic logic, etc.

Ever experienced a moment like this: You are driving with someone down the highway and off to your left a rolling, open field of tall emerald grass. Slender jade fingers bowing to a steady breeze. “Look at that field over there. Isn’t that an amazing picture?” Image acknowledged. Then out of view to mind what’s ahead. Notice one single blade? The one, combined with many ones gathered together? The emerald scratch of light on the landscape?

This is a moment of parenthesis.

Many parentheses—inserted for emphasis—are happening all around.

Less. Slower. Naturally. More.

(b)

The Tooth Hurts

Cairo, Egypt

The Tooth Hurts: Why finding contentment is like pulling teeth? 

While biting into a barbecued chicken drumbstick last night, I broke and swallowed the tooth to the right of my front teeth. 

Some people are born with special genes; they develop into great painters, philosophers, athletes, and entertainers. I got lousy teeth chromosomes. Over the last ten years, I have spent at least 25% of my time and +/- $25,000 in cold cash on dentists and oral surgeons. Putting more teeth into my asset extraction, are empty spaces once occupied by pearly off-whites: three back uppers (phase one of planned implants), one lower left (phase two), and one upper-back-right crown holding on by rotted stickum (phase three). And now, this fowl opening (phase four). All this, plus four previous root canals and so many crowns I feel entitled to rule a small fiefdom. Computing the overall investment and cost of living increases, I have willed equal mouth shares to my two kids. 

When I realized that the tooth had broken off—only to discover it was currently tumbling through my intestines on its way to my bowels—I had a nerve-out. Tossing my unfinished dinner plate into the sink, I huffed into to the bathroom and examined the desecration in the mirror. I looked like an extra from the cast of Deliverance. Devastated, I pounded my fist on the counter and exclaimed, “God dammit! I can’t believe this is happening to me. Why am I so unlucky?” Moping back into the living room, I avoided eye contact Lynn and plopped down onto the couch adding a not-so-subtle “Harumpf.” Closing my eyes and mouth, I processed the situation:

• Lynn, Bentley (our dachshund) and I were leaving in the morning for a week of rest, relaxation, hiking, and relishing the splendor of the Rockies and Carbondale, Colorado; 

• I wouldn’t be able to go to the dentist till we got back;

• I couldn’t smile or talk to anyone because people would cringe and likely offer me loose change;

• Lynn would walk a few steps behind me in public settings;

• I’d spend my time sequestered and avoid humiliation;

• Only Bentley would empathize. He had six of his teeth removed.

Ashamed. Victim. God had kicked me in the mouth. My life sucked.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a framed photograph on the wall—a picture taken in Cairo, Egypt five years earlier. While taking photographs from the back seat of a van headed to a place called Garbage City, I noticed a man shining shoes on a street corner. His radiant smile caught my attention and, though a thick-link chain ran along the sidewalk and blocked my view, I aimed and clicked off one shot. Not until that night, when reviewing images from the day, did see what I had captured—a perfectly framed image of a shoeshine guy behind a foreground sidewalk chain. With an unbridled Cheshire smile. Missing all but three teeth.

Many of us spend too much of our lives behind thick chains, working arduously to project the best image. Best college, job, car, salary, and neighborhood. Best body, hair, complexion, and perfectly aligned teeth. Unsatisfied, we whine about the current situation. “If only I had X, or could Y, I’d be happy.” 

And then there’s this photograph of a shoeshine guy, sitting on a trash-laden street corner in Cairo, his toothless expression exclaiming, “God, I’m the most blessed man in the world. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Why am I so lucky?” 

Along with the tooth, I swallowed my pride and smiled, knowing this tooth shall pass.