A podcast about books & life — not necessarily in that order
I haven’t posted a new Overheard in Dunkin’ Donuts in a long-ass time. Is it because I make coffee at home / in the office rather than go out to get it? Is it because people are more boring than they were in the old days? Who knows? All I can say is, I was prompted to bring back that tag this morning after I noticed this poster up in a DD near my office:
Yeah. A poster from Michael Jordan’s baseball-playing days, which were c.1994, long before this DD was even built.
I, um, wow . . .
I was pretty saddened yesterday by the news of Christopher Hitchens’ death. The inevitability of his cancer diagnosis meant it was a matter of short time, but the lucidity and intelligence of his subsequent writings must have left me optimistic that he’d recover.
I’m going to read some of his literary reviews and essays this weekend, and perhaps take up some of the novels and poems that he recommended, like Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop
Here’s his lengthy take on Anthony Powell and the Dance (with spoliers). I haven’t found any review or comment by him on The Leopard, but I’ll post if I do.
At the end of this long-ass post is the brief tale of the one time I bumped into Mr. Hitchens.
I first encountered A Dance To The Music Of Time in the mid-’90’s. A Borders bookstore had opened at the West Belt Mall in Wayne, NJ, and as was my wont, I inspected the fiction section — or was it “literature”?
At the time, my points of reference were the beginning of the G’s, where I’d look for Williams Gaddis and Gass, as well as David Gates, and the late P’s, where I’d check the selection of books by Richard Powers and Thomas Pynchon. It was in the latter section that I discovered Anthony Powell. University of Chicago Press had recently released a four-volume, slipcased edition of A Dance To The Music Of Time.
In college, I focused on “the encyclopedic novel” for my literature degree. I had a vague idea of what that term meant, and wound up conflating it with “really long novels with which I could impress/cow my contemporaries.” As such, this 12-novel cycle looked like it was right up my alley. Still, I’d never heard of Powell and the internet in that period wasn’t as awash in fan pages for obscure artists as it is today.
Further, I don’t recall there being any “flap copy” or anything else involving a plot description on the slipcase, which was shrink-wrapped to prohibit singleton sales. So I had nothing to go by, in terms of knowing what this series was about. The case was adorned with Poussin’s eponymous painting of the Dance, and the spine of each volume was a detail of one or another face of the dancers. I knew nothing of Poussin back then, still a year away from reading Arcadia
Sixty or so dollars was a large sum to me in those days, so I held off on buying the Dance. It slipped off my radar shortly after. When Powell died in 2000, I read up on the Dance a little. I considered tackling the series, which is a sort of roman a clef of British literary & society life through the eyes of a crypto-Powell narrator over the span of half a century, but never got around to it. I noted at the time that it seemed like a book to tackle in my 40’s. I used to say that about Proust when I was young, but I got around to him before turning 35, and should’ve done so sooner.
It wasn’t until last December, when U of Chicago Press announced that it had released all 12 novels as e-books, that I returned to the notion of reading the Dance. Like a good drug dealer, the publisher was offering the first e-book free. I had just finished My Year Of Gin, in which I would try a bottle of a new (to me) boutique gin each month of the year. I had planned to write about the project, but both overachieved (in terms of bottles) and underachieved (in terms of coherence), and so scrapped my chronicle of the project. You can, however, find photographic evidence here:
A Dance To The Music Of Time, it seemed to me, would make for a fine followup. The two projects were of a piece with what I now realize is a life of dilettantism. Why not give my amateur passions some degree of structure by organizing them around the calendar?
And so I decided to read one book of the Dance each month throughout 2011. Besides allowing the pace to mirror the seasons themselves, around which each novel was (subtly) organized, I was also protecting myself from burnout. I know myself well enough to know how easy it would be for me to roll through 3 or 4 of the books in the first 6 weeks of the year, before allowing the distractions and derailments that characterize much of my life to lead me away.
This morning, I finished reading the last of the 12 books, Hearing Secret Harmonies
I certainly enjoyed reading the novels, and I’ll be the first to admit that Powell’s prose can be quite tortured at times. I was also amazed at the reticence to reveal anything about the narrator’s own life or feelings, to the extent that one never learns Jenkins’ children’s names nor much about the books he writes over his 70 years (his volume on Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy
At times, the sheer volume of coincidental meetings can be maddening (coincidence being the author’s point, I know). Another type of coincidence, during a bombing raid of London, strains all credulity. But then, perhaps that’s because my own life doesn’t have much room for chance meetings nowadays. In the early books, bumping into old friends takes the place of the narrator having to commit any real activity. While the stories and the interrelations of his friends and acquaintances are engaging, I found the “autumn” novels — those covering WWII — much more entertaining, because the narrator was largely removed from his society surroundings and had to become much more of a participant in the world. Paradoxically, the level observation is much sharper in these books than the preceding ones. There’s a wonderful comedy of manners of Jenkins’ superiors at dinner, highlighting the absurdities and hierarchies of military life. (There’s also a great moment when Jenkins, who remembers everyone over the years, encounters his brigade from earlier in the war, and discovers that his old cohort has no recollection of him whatsoever.)
I think Jenkins also undergoes a maturation process during the war novels. By book 9, The Military Philosophers
As I look back over the scope of it all, a story beginning in 1920 or thereabouts, carrying on to 1971 (the year I was born, coincidentally enough), and flashing back to Jenkins’ childhood in the naughts, I’m struck by the vividness of so many minor characters. Just like life, I didn’t think much of some of them at the time and miss them now they’re gone. (Speaking of which, Powell is merciless in his characters’ ends. So many figures are simply reported dead as the years carry on. I was under the impression that the whole cycle of novels would revolve around the four schoolboys introduced in the first book, and then found myself thinking, “Well, they didn’t actually show us [x]’s body, so maybe he’s still alive and will be back in a later novel…”, as though Anthony Powell was writing The Fantastic Four or something.)
But I won’t write too much about the goings on of the Dance. I do think it comprises a wonderful tapestry of the transformation of a certain class in British society throughout the century, but it’s also the sort of thing that no one (I know) reads anymore. In harmony with my college self, that’s probably a big part of why I stuck with this project all year.
Just as Jenkins sees patterns and echoes throughout the generations (and there are plenty of echoes in the last novel), I know there are echoes of myself from that pretentious college kid to this pretentious trade magazine editor. But there are also substantial changes, both internal and external. That Borders was demolished a few years ago, before the chain itself went under. Pynchon and Powers? I don’t read them much anymore.
I’m not sure if I’ve changed all that much since beginning A Question of Upbringing
I had two missions for November: write a novel for National Novel Writing Month and grow a moustache for Movember. I failed miserably in the former (although I did write about 1500 words of something that could grow into a short story, a first chapter, or a one-act play) but succeeded wildly in the latter, proving that natural facial hair growth will always trump creativity and a sketchy work ethic.
Amy hated the ‘stache with a passion, and offered to contribute to the men’s health charity behind Movember just to get me to shave it off early. I decided to keep it for a few extra days so that she could take some pix in natural light.
And, of course, while shaving it off, I had to try out The Hitler:
My pal Tom Spurgeon, the Comics Reporter, was visiting from New Mexico (and staying with us) this weekend to attend the Brooklyn Comics and Graphics Festival, so on Saturday I drove out to the Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church in Williamsburg to see some cartoonists and serve as Tom’s valet. I took no pictures, so instead you get 20 quick observations/notes on the afternoon. After I shaved off the Hitler.
1. I was dressed pretty generic adult-prep at the event — white button-down oxford, black sweater, tobacco khakis — and was kinda stunned to find out that all the sartorial stereotypes about Williamsburg hipster guys were true: the trucker hats, wild facial hair, chunky eyeglasses, flannels, skintight jeans, Converse, etc. I had assumed this stuff was an exaggeration, but it was a veritable uniform for the men at the festival and in the neighborhood. I think some of the cartoonists treated me nicely because I was dressed like such a (non-ironic) square. Or an adult. Whatever.
2. The festival was just packed. I was impressed by the turnout. It’s a smaller affair than the Toronto Comic Arts Festival we attend every May, but New York paradoxically may not have the same space opportunities that Toronto has, at least for an event that doesn’t charge admission for attendees. It’s got a lot of potential, esp. with the Williamsburg art-crowd, but it’ll be tough to keep the show from getting too crowded.
3. I was awfully darned happy to get to chat with Drew Friedman, whose work I’ve enjoyed for about 20 years. He turned out to be a really pleasant guy, and liked the stylish business card my wife got me for my 40th birthday. I gave him the card so he could spell my 3-letter name correctly in the copy of Too Soon?
4. Earlier in the day, I discovered a great Gary Panter rarity, a cardboard-bound proto-collection of his Jimbo comics
5. I turned from one table and literally bumped into Matt Groening, who was at the festival with his son Abe. He may be the highest net worth individual to whom I’ve ever said, “Pardon me.” I’m pretty sure some of my friends would have simply fainted dead away upon meeting Mr. Groening.
6. I had a mind-blowingly good tongue burrito at Yola’s Cafe on Metropolitan Ave.
7. I wanted to pick up some original art from the Scott Eder Gallery table, but wasn’t inclined to spend in excess of $2,000 for a Jim Woodring page. (The “Matt Groening’s here!” prices, as one wag put it.) I ended up buying a partially inked sketch by Al Columbia and a set of 4 silkscreen prints of Woodring’s stuff. It was a lot cheaper. Multiple people warned me against showing the art to Al Columbia when he was signing at the Fantagraphics table later in the evening, for fear that he would take it from me and rip it to shreds. When I saw Al at the table, I realized they were right to worry. This is what I bought:
8. I bought the new Gloria Badcock comic from Maurice Vellekoop, because he’s a hoot. He also loved my business card and asked to keep it.
9. I walked over to Union Pool to attend the Chip Kidd & David Mazzucchelli panel, but the room was way overfilled, with attendees milling outside in the bar’s courtyard, way out of earshot. I was bummed. Later in the day, I bumped into Chip and had a pleasant conversation. We have a mutual friend in Samuel Delany, so I established my not-just-a-fanboy bona fides. We talked about his work, the panel earlier in the day, comics in general, and Delany’s health. I told him that I wanted to bring my copy of The Learners
10. The BQE separated the church (where the festival was) from the Union Pool bar (where the panels were). The city noise was kinda exaggerated by the volume of cars zooming by overhead.
11. I bought the new Kramers Ergot anthology. I thought about getting each of the contributors to sign/sketch it, because they were all on hand, but I didn’t know many of them by name or work, and thought it would be rude to say, “Don’t know you, don’t know you, don’t know you, don’t — Oh! Hey! Sammy Harkham! What are you doing out on shabbat?” And in a church, no less!
12. I got to meet Jeff Wong, who drew the cover for Tom’s book on Stan Lee
13. Like all artists, cartoonists really do like to receive praise for their work. I (briefly) interrupted R. Sikoryak’s conversation with a couple to let him know how much I enjoyed his Masterpiece Comics
14. I hoped that the Drawn & Quarterly table would be able to replace a recent issue of the Acme Novelty Library that had been misprinted, but they didn’t have it in stock. They promised to send a replacement. When I tried reading the book 2 years ago, I thought perhaps Chris Ware was engaging in some post-modern storytelling wackiness by running the last 12 pages of the book twice, but concluded that the printer/binder just screwed up. It was almost as bad as when I started reading a Xerox preview of The Birth Caul
15. Near the end of the evening, I caught up with Gary Groth at the Fantagraphics table. We spoke briefly a few nights earlier, at an event at The Strand honoring legendary cartoonist Jack Davis (Fantagraphics just published a retrospective of Davis’ career
16. I found street parking right around the corner from the festival, which made up for my getting raped by bridge-tolls: $12 at the GW, $6.50 each way on the Triborough. The Triborough really is an amazing bridge. Robert Moses sure had a heck of a vision for New York City. (You can be wrong and still have a vision.)
17. Tom moderated a conversation with Brian Ralph and CF, neither of whose work I’d read before. I took Tom out for dinner before the panel, where he worked on his questions, and then dropped him at Union Pool while I took our stuff back to the car. I thought that the panel would be more sparsely attended than the Kidd/Mazzucchelli one from a few hours before, since it was the last one of the day, but it was packed, with people spilling out of the room and into the courtyard. So I sat in the bar, had a Plymouth & tonic, and wrote for a little bit.
18. There were 3 women at the table behind me, arguing about whether one of them knew she was hot and was just downplaying it. One said, “Screw you! You don’t go to a comics festival in a kimono and thigh-highs if you don’t think you’re hot!” I was puzzled because, when I walked past the table on my way in, I reflexively noted that none of them were hot.
19. A woman standing by my table looked at me like she was about to say something, then stopped. I asked her if I knew her. She said she thought I was someone else. “The mayor of Chicago?” I asked. “Because I got that last week.” She didn’t see any resemblance between me and Rahm Emanuel. I admitted it was puzzling. She sat down at my table and we chatted for a big about cartooning. She gave me her new photcopied 8-page comic, presumably because I told her I was here with Tom.
20. Lots of people give Tom their comics. We joked about the “Comics Reporter sales bump” and thought about designing a stamp, a la Oprah’s book club, for the CR Seal of Approval. After his panel, Tom made his round of goodbyes back at the festival, and we headed back to NJ. The drive home was smooth, and I was glad to escape the constant vibration of the city. I’m afraid I’m a little out of tune.
I’m the guy whose idea of a good getaway vacation is spending 4 days in May/June in Annapolis discussing the work of Flannery O’Connor.
Anyone with me?
I know I haven’t blogged in a while, but here’s a giant photo set, with lots of commentary, from my Germany trip! It includes peregrinations around Frankfurt, the second and third largest cathedrals in Germany, the Occupy Frankfurt movement, Sexergy (?), Friedrich Schiller, and of course, gin and accordions
Sorry; still trying to write some fiction, so I haven’t been blogging. Here’s a quick state-of-the-Gil address:
The Germany trip went pretty well. I did manage to get out from behind that fence with the barbed wire, and I had a long conversation with one of my German advertisers about psychology, guilt, evil, responsibility, reconciliation, and the 2006 World Cup, which went a long way in helping me work through some of my issues with visiting Germany.
I was invited by another advertiser to attend the European Outsourcing Awards, sponsored by a competitor of ours. I thought of doing a Kanye West and bum-rushing the stage during an acceptance speech, but was trumped when one of the losing companies began heckling a winner. (Essentially, the prize was won by a company that managed to get its clients’ products back on shelves a few months after one of its warehouses burned down. The heckler said, loudly, “Maybe I should let MY fucking warehouse burn to the ground and then I’LL get a goddamned plaque!”)
At the awards, I was seated beside a CEO who’s worth north of $50 million. We shot the breeze for a while. He laughed at some of my shtick, making him the highest net worth person ever to find me funny.
I spent an overnight in Freiburg for another client visit. My dad tells me his dad was from there. Walking around the old town, I noticed two different awnings for shops named after Roths.
I took a ton of pictures, but haven’t sat down to process and tag ’em yet. I’ll get those up this weekend, maybe. There are some neat ones of the cathedral in Freiburg.
After 3 or 4 days, I found myself enjoying my walks around the city and such. I realized that it’s because I couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying. Unlike other European languages, German is less passionate, and more purposeful. So I felt like everyone had something relatively important to say, but the words themselves didn’t make any sense to me. I found myself growing angry when I heard people speaking in English. It’s much easier not to listen to insipid conversations when they sound like gibberish. Eventually, I figured out that I was in a very boring episode of Aeon Flux.
I drank so much red wine on this trip that I’m surprised I didn’t develop gout.
The Lufthansa Lounge at the Frankfurt Airport leaves the booze out for the patrons.
My flight home took more than 16 hours, thanks to the freak snowstorm that hit the northeast on Saturday. I boarded the plane at 11:00 a.m. (5:00 a.m. EDT) and disembarked at 9:15 p.m. EDT. Then I got to drive home in that gnarly weather and dodge fallen trees and power lines as I got close to my house. Where we had no power or heat for 30 hours.
I’m very thankful that there’s a wood-burning stove down in my library.
I haven’t shaved since I got back, and, catching up on my RSS feeds, I discovered that it’s currently Movember, the month that guys grow mustaches in support of prostate cancer research. (Go make a donation.) So this morning I shaved off everything but the ‘stache, much to my wife’s chagrin.
Luckily, I have John Hodgman’s guide to mustache etiquette to help me through this month.
There’s a lot more to write about, but I’m afraid I’m consumed with the story about the time the princess of Yugoslavia and I discussed philology.
What I learned in German class today:
Sorry it’s been so long since I last posted. For what it’s worth, it’s not that I wasn’t writing; I just wasn’t blogging. I’ve been spending some time trying to write a piece of fiction, because I still labor under the weird notion that I’ll be able to craft something more emotionally effective or Important if I do it under the guise of fiction.
It’s really difficult for me, because I’m too respectful of (my version of) The Facts, and also because I tend to make characters who think and react like I do. So I’m trying to get out of that.
Which brings me to Germany. I’m writing this in a cafe of Museum fur Kommunikation in Frankfurt. I’m here for a big pharma conference. Given my family history, I’m not thrilled about being here. I used to tell coworkers & friends that I’d never come here. Why now? Well, business demands it, and I goofed on my coworkers for cutting me out of this event last year, when it was held in Paris, so it wouldn’t be right for me to subsequently blow it off out of personal preference. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to attend a show in Dubai or Saudi Arabia.
But that’s not the only reason I’m here. I wanted to come because I wanted to see what it would do to me. I have no gauge of it right now. I got off the plane a couple of hours ago after an overnight flight, and my room isn’t ready yet, so I’ve just been wandering around the museum district and taking pix. I’m somewhat zonky from the flight, so I haven’t thought too deeply about Germanness. I do find it funny every time I see a word that ends with “fahrt”.
At the end of the week, I’ll visit a pharma facility in Freiburg. My dad says his dad’s family comes from Freiburg. I wonder if part of my ambivalence about this country comes from that idea that it’s part of my heritage. It’s not just nemesis, Mordor, base of evil. It’s in me.
Here’s a sheep with an old telephone for a face:
There are little kids having a birthday party here. Germans are so goddamned strange.
Commenting on my Rosh Hashanah post, Rabbi Zvi wrote, “Nice wrap up. What about your aliya to the Torah? No mention? Chag Same’ach”
Just what I need: more Jewish guilt.
Well, since you asked . . .
The Days of Awe were a bit rough for me: straight from the shofar to the ER, then a week of work-craziness and anxiety that left me fearing imminent death. At the end of the week (Friday into Saturday), we had Yom Kippur, in which we fast to atone for our sins. (And, as Rabbi Zvi has reminded us the last few years, to become like angels, who neither drink nor eat.)
I had an appointment in NYC on Friday afternoon, which left me stuck in weekend-rush-hour traffic on the way out of the city. By the time I got home, it was just about time for Kol Nidre, the service & prayers that signal the beginning of Yom Kippur. I talked myself out of heading back out to pray, on the grounds that I’m a crap Jew, tired, already starting my fast, and didn’t want to leave the dogs feeling neglected. I can justify virtually anything. I stayed in and wrote about my difficult, mortal week.
The next day, I was supposed to pick up my father for Yizkor, so he could pray for his departed parents’ souls. But that morning, he told me that he was having bad flu-symptoms from his flu-shot a few days earlier. I asked him to zap over his and his parents’ Hebrew names, which I’d need to give someone to make the prayer in his stead.
I’d have said the prayers myself, but you’re supposed to leave the shul during those prayers if both of your parents are living. I can’t recall if I’ve ever asked the rabbi about it, but I think it’s verboten to stay in the shul for Yizkor prayers if your parents are still alive, even if one of them asks you to do it for their parents. Dad asked me to take care of this assignment a year or two ago, when his back/leg pain was too great for him to move. He e-mailed me the names: Abraham Ben Efraim [him], Efraim Ben Abraham [his dad], and Batia Bat Zelig [his mom]. I wrote them down (violating the Sabbath, holiday, and spirit of everything else), dressed nicely but not ostentatiously, picked up my tallis and yarmulke, and headed out.
Yizkor was scheduled for 11:30 a.m.; by JPT, that meant it would be shortly after noon. I left the house with plenty of time to get to the Courtyard Marriott where Chabad was hosting High Holiday services, but I didn’t reckon on an incredible traffic jam at the top of Rt. 287.
One of the key aspects of life in northern NJ is having alternate routes planned in case of traffic/accidents. But no matter how well you plan, you can get trapped sometimes, like when you’re on that eight-mile, exitless stretch of 287 from Oakland to Mahwah.
I crawled along for two miles on the highway, bailed at the 17 S. exit, and had to improvise a route to the Courtyard. I fretted that I would arrive too late for Yizkor. I had left my watch at home and had stowed cell phone and wallet in the glove compartment, so I wouldn’t be carrying all those concerns with me into temple, but the dashboard’s digital clock still taunted me. One voice told me that I shouldn’t be worrying so much, since all that anxiety helped wipe me out this past month. Another voice said, “You watch; this’ll be the one time a congregation sticks to the published schedule.”
I started to hurry once I was on 17, but decided to take it easy once I (safely) passed a speed trap. I realized I would have little chance of talking my way out of a ticket by telling a cop, “I was speeding to get to Chabad so I can pray for the souls of my father’s dead parents!” Perhaps if I pre-emptively put the tallis and yarmulke on, I would have garnered some pity and been let off with a warning. Better not to find out, I thought, trusting that Yizkor would run a little late.
I got to the Courtyard and parked next to a minivan. A gentleman in his 30s was standing at the back of the van, putting on a dark jacket. I thought perhaps he was also headed to pray, another part-time Jew like me. Then I noticed a duffle bag at his feet filled with two cases of Bud Light, and concluded that, no, he was not here for Yizkor. Probably a wedding, definitely a party. Clearly not fasting.
I grabbed my accoutrements, hurried into the building and found the hall that Chabad rented out for the holidays. The room was packed, with several men left standing in the back of the room on the other side of the mechitza, the partition that separates the men’s and women’s sections of a synagogue. The mechitza was wooden, with a lattice at the top. The door to the room was on the women’s (and children’s) side. As I walked in and hurriedly unpacked my tallis, Rabbi Zvi saw me through the lattice and said, “GIL! What’s your father’s Hebrew name?”
“Abraham,” I said idly. I think I’ve described Rabbi Zvi before. If not, here’s a picture:
“GIL BEN ABRAHAM!” he said, thumping the pulpit. I continued to unfold the tallis, making sure I had it oriented correctly. I reached around one of the overflow gentlemen to pick up a copy of the mahzor, the prayer book for the holiday. I looked for a seat, shook a hand or two with congregants and, as Hashem is my witness, was just trying to find somewhere I could creep in without making a scene.
“Gil!” Rabbi Zvi repeated. I looked to the front of the room, where he stood in front of an opened Torah. He gestured at it and said, “It’s your aliyah!”
I was being called up for a blessing of the Torah. That’s why Rabbi Zvi needed my father’s Hebrew name. That’s why everyone in my path was looking at me querulously and/or impatiently. Somehow, I was now the one delaying Yizkor.
I put the mahzor down and strode a few steps up to the Torah. I kissed the corner of my tallis, pressed it to the beginning and end-points of this Torah portion, then read the first blessing (which precedes the rabbi’s reading of that portion), which was written on a laminated page beside the Torah:
Barchu et adonai ham’vorach. (Praise the One to whom our praise is due)
The congregation responded:
Barchu adonai ham’vorach le-olam va’ed (Praised be the One to whom our praise is due, now and for ever)
And then I was like:
Baruch atah adonai, eloheinu melech ha-olam, asher bachar banu mikol ha-amim, v’natan lanu et tora-to. Baruch atah adonai, notein ha-Torah. (We praise You, Eternal God, Sovereign of the universe: You have called us to Your service by giving us the Torah. Wepraise You, O God, Giver of the Torah)
And I actually read them okay. I read from the Hebrew instead of the English transliteration beneath it, as is my prideful wont. Or it’s because I want to absorbe the shame of not being a very good Jew. Or some combo thereof.
Rabbi Zvi read the Torah portion, and then it was my turn to recite the second blessing.
Now, before I go into apologizing for messing this up, I want to offer up the following half-assed excuses:
a) I had a tough week and was still cognitively burned out,
b) I was fasting and hadn’t had coffee in 22 hours, and
c) I hadn’t had time to read along in Hebrew in the mahzor, which would have helped me get back into the annual flow of reading a prayer or two aloud in front of a few dozen people.
I do know exactly where I messed up in the second blessing:
Baruch atah adonai, eloheinu melech ha-olam, asher natan lanu torat emet v’chayei olam nata b’tocheinu. Baruch atah adonai, notein ha-Torah. (We praise You, Eternal God, Sovereign of the universe, You have given us a Torah of truth, implanting within us eternallife. We praise You, O God, Giver of the Torah)
And I screwed up on b’tocheinu. It’s got a slightly weird vowel and consonant combo, or at least one that I had so much trouble with in Hebrew school as a kid that I thought I might be slightly dyslexic. And, really, the fasting does make my tongue grow thick and unwieldy. (It’s not the lack of food so much as the water and, to a lesser extent, the caffeine.)
So I blundered my way through that one. Eventually my eyes darted down to the English transliteration so I could see how badly I’d messed up, and then I zoomed through the rest of the blessing, face a-flush with shame. The congregant called up for the aliyah before mine still stood beside the pulpit. I shook his hand, he returned to his seat, and I took his place, standing in front of the packed house. I thought, “Well, Yom Kippur’s not about being comfortable, and if I have to demonstrate my lack of Jewishness in front of a room full of observant Jews, then that’s on me.”
After the next aliyah, when it was my turn to sit down, I had to take a chair right in the front of the room, facing back at the crowd. Not my first choice, but it’s what was there, and abasement is abasement, as it were.
Two seats over from me was Guy, my dad’s Israeli pal. Guy had turned us on to this congregation a few years ago, when Dad told him my story about how our local shul kicked off Rosh Hashanah by opening with a prayer for the Palestinian victims of Israeli aggression. Guy & I chatted for a bit while the services continued.
I should note: this is what Jews do, at least in my experience. Sure, there are some prayers that are solemn, or otherwise performed in silence, or in unison, but during a lot of the time at shul, you’ll hear various conversations going on. Guy asked where Dad was. I told him about the bad reaction to the flu-shot, and he said, “I’ll call him tonight after the holiday. But how are YOU doing? Your father told me you were having problems with your heart.”
I’m starting to think that there are only two things over which my father has ever felt any bond with me: owning dogs and heart issues. I told Guy about the ER trip right after Rosh Hashanah, and we talked for a while more. I’ve perfected the trick of having trouble accepting other people’s concern for my health while also resenting people who don’t show concern. I’m a difficult man.
I asked Guy if he’d be able to say Yizkor for Dad’s parents, since he was going to be staying in to pray. He said he would, and I told him the Hebrew names of all involved.
During the services, both of the shul’s Torahs are held up and presented to the congregation. For the second one, Rabbi Zvi called up one of his regulars. The man was tall, older, powerfully built, with a pitted face and a short white beard (not a Hasidic beard, just a face-hugging one). He wore a large tallis draped over his shoulders like a lion’s pelt. It nearly reached to the floor, and he had to gather it up on his shoulders before he took up the Torah.
He held it aloft by two handles, and I felt a stirring of pride in my heart that nearly moved me to tears. (As I said, I’ve been much closer to my emotions these past weeks.) I looked at this middle-aged Jew in a hotel meeting room in suburban NJ, bearing the scroll that carries the word of the Lord and the history of our tribes. My shame at tripping over the aliyah melted away. I felt this wonderful sense of community, of a bond (okay, a convenant) that has been carrying on for millennia and would continue long after I’m gone.
Of course, it was fleeting. I can’t even keep my own mortality square in my sights, now I’m going to target my soul and the spirit of Judaism?
I stayed at services another hour or two, said goodbye to Guy, and stopped at my father’s on the way home. We sat on his front step and he talked for an hour. He told me about Gene Simmons’ visit to Israel on his reality show, about his new brick driveway and how it may be sloped toward the garage instead of away, about his brothers, about some reality show he’s obsessed with in which people sell their homes and move to foreign lands about which they’ve done zero research, about how part of his family came from Freiburg, where I’ll be spending a day next week, about another reality show featuring Italian-American car mechanics who appear focused on eating themselves to death.
I told him about a fine meal I had at Mario Batali’s Manzo a day earlier. I didn’t talk about Love & Rockets or The Leopard. I wanted to tell him that I love him, which we say sometimes in conversation, but really tell him, tell him that I appreciate his concern for me, that I’m sorry we never learned to talk to each other. I didn’t. I didn’t hug him either, thinking his vaccine-induced flu might be contagious.
Amy was smoking a pork shoulder when I got home. It smelled awfully nice, especially since I was 21 hours into a 25-hour fast. She apologized for being the opposite of kosher, and we watched LSU destroy Florida State for a while. I broke fast with a 10″ pizza from my favorite (local) pizza joint.