Baruch Atah Ha Ha, Um, Not So Much

Always in search of free food and drink, last night Elana and I ventured to the Jewish Enrichment Center for a birthright reunion party. Come to think of it, our love of freebies is what got us to Israel in the first place.

The party was like a Jewish singles bar, with a generous ratio for the girls. Women on jdate could save $35 a month if they just went there.

Although I’ve been exposed to Jewish men all my life, I’ve been oblivious to the fact that they all think they’re funny. I’d say that about 90 percent of them are wrong. That doesn’t stop any of them from trying or deluding themselves into thinking their appreciation of Woody Allen makes them unique. And it’s sad, really, kind of like when underprivileged kids make a career plan out of making it to the NBA. Show me a Jewish man who doesn’t think he’s funny—that would be something special.

When I was little my mom told me that my dad was funny, as if I had never met him or seen his favorite dinner trick, miming an intimate moment with a ketchup bottle onto a piece of steak. She must really love him.

PS My dad can be funny—I love him too.

The Coke Side of Life

A popular souvenir from a country that doesn’t employ the Latin alphabet is a Coca-Cola t-shirt. What’s that about?

Perhaps these shirts are a way to capture the essence of the country. When I travel, my favorite things to look for, besides high-minded art of course, are the license plates and bottles. For me, these small things are reminders that the place I’m visiting exists in its own quotidian way outside of me and my visit. It’s humbling and oddly reassuring to think of all the things I don’t know about foreign license plates. And in a superficial way, these shirts are about capturing a small difference in everyday life abroad.

But really, American tourists wearing a Coca-Cola t-shirts in a different language is a great topic for a political science dissertation. Coca-Cola is an unabashedly American product. If a can of coke outside of the US is a sign globalization, then wearing a Coca-Cola shirt in another language is pronouncement of cultural imperialism. In a way, a Coca-Cola t-shirt is the perfect American keepsake. It says I was there, and America has made its mark on this country. A shirt in Hebrew, Russian, Chinese or any language really is ripe for historical analogies. Grad students, get working.

This I Believe

If you go to personal blogs for self-indulgent tirades on unimportant subjects, then I have the post for you:

This I Believe is a weekly NPR feature where a listener reads an essay about something he or she believes adamantly. Heart warming, right? Except This I Believe is incredibly boring. A few weeks ago, a guy named Lee talked for five minutes about his belief in marbled pastrami. Don’t worry, there’s some symbolism there.

Of course, this isn’t a fascist regime, where public radio is required listening. I don’t want to listen to This I Believe, but every week I ended up hearing it on the Most E-Mailed NPR Stories podcast. Who is e-mailing stories on marbled pastrami? Because whoever you are, seriously, marbled pastrami is a lame metaphor.

Shalom, Israel

Before I get all sincere, has Julia Roberts made a good movie since Pretty Woman? Seriously, why is she such a big deal?

When I left for Israel, I was very conscious of not becoming one of those birthright kids who returns from Israel an ardent Zionist with a new found connection to Judaism and can only describe the trip as amazing or life changing. In short, I didn’t want to be brain washed, and upon return, I’m afraid that the program did such a good job that I don’t even mind how brain washed I am.

I now see Israel as two things: A safe state for Jews and a country that happens to be located in a historic and somewhat crazy region. The program I did had six Israelis, and many of their families immigrated to Israel because Jews were being killed in their homeland. Some of the American participants were first generation Russian Jews who happened to get visas to the US before Israel. I know Israel isn’t perfect, but the idea of a state were a persecuted group will be protected is kind of a noble idea, especially considering that America isn’t taking in displaced Iraqis. That’s not to say other minorities shouldn’t have the right to the same safety, and if the UN chartered some land in Western Canada and ran a refugee country, I’d be all for that. Before the 1967 War, Jerusalem, the part of Israel that makes it holy, wasn’t even a part of the country. In a way, Israel’s location is a global-political coincidence: Great Britain and America wanted in an ally in that region and it happened to be the same place often referenced in the Torah. Before settling on Middle East, Israel was almost in Uganda!

Growing up in New Rochelle and going to Barnard, I never was wanting for a Jewish community. Most of my childhood friends are Jewish. Before this trip, Jewish culture meant Westchester culture, and if you’ve ever been the eponymous mall, you can understand my hesitation to feel connected to Judaism. But in Israel, secular Judaism was much more compelling. On Shabbat, we did a Kiddush, and I knew all the prayers almost involuntarily. When I was little, my family used to have a Shabbat dinner. It never felt religious: my mom and I didn’t do the prayer over the candles, no one in my family ate the challah, and my dad and brother would wear ill-fitting yarmulkes stolen from temple when they watched TV after dinner. Reciting the prayers again in a group of new friends felt inexplicably significant to me. It was like everyone in the group had the same experience as I did. It’s completely illogical since I’m not too sure about the God part in Judaism, but for the first time I felt that my yet-to-be-conceived children should be connected to this too, and that knowing the prayer over bread I don’t even like wasn’t a small thing.

For a lot of people visiting Israel, one of the novelties is that virtually everyone is Jewish. The supermarket clerk and the bus driver all know what Purim is. My many years at a snobby summer camp in the Berkshires didn’t make me think that being part of a Jewish community would make me more comfortable with myself, but on this trip, I was completely unguarded. In New York I never dance, but my earnest and bad dancing to Hebrew music became a running joke on the trip. Though most of us would never go to the same bar in New York, almost everyone on the trip got along and had fun with one another. I don’t know if that’s the credit of our stellar social skills, the length of the trip or the fact that we all came to Israel as Jews eager to learn more.

My favorite part of the trip was our last hike on Mt. Shlomo. The hike down is about four times longer than the hike up, and it involved a bit of rock climbing. I hadn’t gone hiking in a long time, and I had forgotten how much I love being outdoors. At one point there was an open hill that made more sense to run down. Sprinting down with my arms out, I hadn’t felt more exhilarated in a long time, maybe ever. After the hike, we had lunch at a terrible restaurant in Eilat. Instead of ketchup, they had this weird sweet-and-sour red sauce posing as Heinz. On the bus after lunch, our guide Udi asked if we liked the ketchup, and to a few boos, he replied, “It’s actually Christian blood, which you know we Jews love so much.” Like much Jewish humor, it doesn’t really make sense out of context, but the whole bus cracked up.

Shalom, America

After blowing my 2006 vacation days in Italy, I’m off to spend my 2007 days in the holy land. I’m going on a 10-day birthright trip to Israel where I’ll be doing all sorts of neat stuff like riding camels and becoming a Zionist. My twin goals for the trip are not to get blown up and to avoid complete indoctrination.

Ideas for Other Web Sites

The Internet has made the conversion from dollars to Euros or English to French as easy as wasting five minutes in front of a computer. But one thing virtual reality hasn’t covered is real reality. For any city with more than a downtown, the Web does a lousy job explaining neighborhoods. The problem is that traditional means of description, like adjectives and nouns, don’t really mean anything when it comes to neighborhoods. If I were moving to New York from DC, this description of the West Village from New York Magazine, “there’s still no better spot for charming townhouse apartments on quiet, tree-lined streets” wouldn’t help me because it doesn’t really explain what living in the West Village would be like. What would help is someone saying the West Village is kind of like Adams Morgan: Delightful during the week, to be avoided during the weekend. There should be a site that translates neighborhoods from one city to another. Gothamist, I’m looking at you.

Everyone’s a Finalist

I entered Radosh.net’s anti-caption New Yorker cartoon contest this week. My entry: “With a bigger arrow, this cartoon would look even more phallic.” Does it mean something that I’m not ambitious enough to enter the real contest?

Unrelated thought: If I were writing a book, I would make about-to-be chapped lips (you know, when they’re all red and puffy but look better than healthy lips) into some of sort of metaphor. I would also incorporate the sentence, “Parents and pet owners have a heightened sense of what’s interesting.” Related: have you guys heard about Clint?

Are You Ready for Some Football?

This guy has been wearing aviator glasses for at least 15 years. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen on the sidelines of football games all my life.

I don’t care about football: I don’t have a team or a favorite athlete. During the Super Bowl, I root for the commercials. And yet, I find Sunday football deeply relaxing. It reminds me of quiet afternoons, warm blankets and being too lazy to be fully entertained. Forget the spa, it’s game day.

Meet Clint

My mom picked out this adorable black lab mix on Friday. On Sunday, I ventured out to New Rochelle to meet the new dog. He likes squirrels, socks and my mom. Fears include the printer and the pet comb. With a crooked tail and a puppy’s curiosity, Clint is undoubtedly the most adorable member of my family.

earlier: Woof, Woof

The Etymology of Ignorance

The last time my vocabulary had any significance in my life was in 2000 when I took the SATs. Six years later and with no ambitions for graduate school, it’s a wonder that I still know the definition of any multi-syllabic word. Though it’s not of any real benefit to me, I’m still want to finish a Monday crossword and seem smart to friends, so I’m always trying to expand my vocabulary. And one day, I hope to remember what jejune means.

After looking it up, I can tell you that jejune means lacking nutritive value; devoid of significance or interest. And yet, two days from now, the definition will have fallen out of my head like so much earwax.

Why can’t I remember what this word means? I blame Woody Allen.

I first heard the word jejune in this bit of dialogue from “Love and Death:”

Sonja (Diane Keaton): That is incredibly jejune.
Boris (Woody Allen): That’s jejune?
Sonja: Jejune!
Boris: You have the temerity to say that I’m talking to you out of jejunosity? I am one of the most june people in all of the Russia.

If you didn’t know what jejune meant, would that dialogue have helped you figure out its definition? In my case, not so much. And P.S. June is a month, not the opposite of jejune. So since my first experience with jejune was befuddlement, I’m always confused when I hear it. Jejune or not, I have no idea what that word means.

It’s Over, A.O.

Don’t give me that look, Tony. I know what you’re up to.

A.O. Scott is one of my favorite writers. He’s smooth, he’s insightful, and he can even explain how the Times picked the best book of the past 25 years. But his writing tricks me into seeing terrible movies. Last night I walked out of Marie Antoinette, a movie he claimed to be the answer to the question, “what to do for pleasure?” He described The Science of Sleep “as (an) authentic a slice of life,” which is true in that both life and that movie are boring. And don’t even get me started on the Aristocrats, which was fine, but not worth rushing to the theater to see as he suggested.

I know I can’t rely A.O. Scott’s film criticism; apparently we have different tastes. But every Thursday night, I find myself checking for his new reviews and then getting duped into seeing an awful film. After Marie Antoinette, I’m going on a break. From now on, just book reviews from you.

Against Cultural Learnings

So Sacha Baron Cohen, you’ve won this round with the American media. Every outlet can’t get enough of you. The campaign leading up to your movie has made anyone who was offended by Borat’s antics seem like a fool. Because what sensible Semite could be offended by a Jew singing “Throw the Jews Down the Well”? And those Kazakhstanis have no right to be upset that a mock-bassador has garnered their country more attention than any of their advancements since their break with the Soviet Union.

But let’s be honest about Sacha Baron Cohen. His humor is lowbrow and offensive. Whether you’re laughing at Borat’s description of Jews, Borat’s background, or the Americans he tricks, you’re laughing at someone for being stupid.

Anti-Semitic culture produced by Semites has been around since Moses parted the Red Sea, but to me the whole thing seems self-hating. And I’m no fool.

R.I.P. The Mix Tape

“The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don’t wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules.” –Rob Gordon (or Nick Hornby depending on your perspective), High Fidelity

Even before seeing High Fidelity, I knew the rules to mix tape making. Owners of “Music to Listen to Vol. 1

Woof, Woof

My parents are getting a dog! We don’t have a name yet. My mom wants Velázquez but would settle for Degas. (I know.) My brother and I like Federer and my dad would be happy with Fido. I would push Scissors, but I didn’t like Seize the Day enough. Any suggestions?

Stop Being Polite

Real World Denver begins November 7. I would be excited but I don’t have cable anymore.

Despite being able to name almost every cast member from all 17 previous season, I’ve always been ashamed of my predilection for the Real World. Even when the Real World was “real”—because it’s realistic that a person with full-blown AIDS would spend his last months on a reality TV show—I was a closeted fan of the show. From my experience, watching the Real World implies having too much free time and too little ambition to do anything better.

Each season of the Real World evokes different memories of loneliness for me. I saw New York and L.A. on repeats at 5:00 and 5:30 every afternoon when I was 12. When the episodes were over, the house would be dark and empty. An impression from the sofa fabric would still be on my face when my mom came home. Miami reminds me of the Saturday nights my parents went out to the city. My brother and I would order greasy Chinese food with the 20 dollar bill they left us. After dinner, he played NBA Live in the den and I watched TV in my parents’ room.

Since my middle school malaise, the show is less about avoiding pleasantries and more about seeing what happens when three men with hairless chests and four anorexics get drunk in a hot tub. I don’t care that Real World is not about race relations anymore, but I am curious about the frat and sorority member who now infiltrate the show. The new casts seem too superficial to have ever gone through an awkward phase, so why did they watch? And don’t they know what being a fan of the show implies to their cool friends?