My town is in the news again. Turns out it’s just fine to eat the squirrels! Great!
Goddammit. Contra our mayor, it is fine to pick on people who dine on squirrels.
Commute of Death
I killed a chipmunk and a squirrel during the drive to the office: way to start the week off.
I have a press event down in Pennsylvania later today, so you all better be on your toes.
Operation: Yizkor
As I wrote last week, I was a bit disappointed by my old shul when I attended Rosh Hashanah services. This put me in a bind because my father wanted to recite the Yizkor prayer on Yom Kippur to commemorate his parents, and that meant we’d be kicking it new shul.
I’d been so busy during the week (hosting our conference and then getting our October issue rolling) that I had no time to scout out another temple. Fortunately, a friend of my father recommended one. Dad called me on Friday morning and said, “Guy really likes this temple in Chestnut Ridge. There’s a lot of Israelis there, so we won’t be out of place” — keep in mind, the last time I was in Israel was 1984 and the last time I’d attended services was 2000 — “and our only other choice is to go up to Spring Valley with the blackhats.” Done and done!
(At this point, you may wonder why I didn’t let Dad go it alone. After all, I haven’t been much of a Jew this decade, and Yizkor is only recited by those who have lost parents or a close relation. I like to think it was due to some sorta father-son loyalty, but I think it was more along the lines of how Dad and I generally relate to each other: as accomplices.)
So we rolled out on Saturday morning, the shul’s address punched into the GPS. Dad said, “When I looked up this place on Google Maps, the satellite image didn’t show any parking nearby. So we might have to walk a little.” Well, we figured, it wouldn’t be as bad as if we went to Spring Valley, where they chain off the streets during Shabbat.
Following the GPS directions, we found ourselves in a residential neighborhood, with no sign of a shul nearby. One last turn, and we saw a dozen cars parked on the street outside a standard bi-level house. “This must be the place,” I said. We got out of the car, I grabbed my yarmulke and tallis, and we walked over to the house.
(Just so you know, neither of us were fasting for the holy day: Dad’s got blood sugar issues, and I was wrapping up a course of antibiotics that were causing me to have paranoid delusions when I took them on a full stomach, so there was no way I was going to put them into my system without some sorta buffer.)
I didn’t know you could have a shul inside a house, but one glance through the front-door window told me we were in the right place: a little kid with payess was running down the stairs, followed by several other kids in their “Shabbat best” clothes. I knocked politely on the door, but got no response. Then Dad pointed to the windows from the rec room downstairs. We looked in and saw a tallis-bedecked congregation davening away. We started to walk around the house to see if there was a rear entrance to this in-home temple. As we turned the corner, we were greeted by a young bearded man in a kittlel and tallis.
“Have you come to pray?” he asked.
“Yeah,” my dad said. “I want to pray for my parents. We were going to go to the shul in my son’s town, but on Rosh Hashanah the rabbi wanted them to pray for the Palestinian victims.”
“Really? . . . What a world,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m the rabbi’s brother. Come in!”
As I said, the temple was a converted rec room. There was a narrow aisle to divide the six or seven rows of chairs. The ark for the Torahs was a fireproof safe at the front of the room, behind the lectern where the rabbi stood. A temporary partition separated the women from the men, while most of the children were in the room next door. The rabbi’s brother said, “There are two seats in the front over there. Let me get you a tallis.”
The front row? Great! Now the rabbi can look right at me while I fumble through the Hebrew and miss the responsive cues! Joy!
We settled in our chairs and it was then that I noticed a black hat resting on the windowsill and a dark-suited young man sitting on the chair in front of me. Unlike the rest of us, he wore no tallis, even though the ark/safe was open and a Torah was on the lectern. I consulted with my brother today and found out that unmarried men don’t wear tallises; evidently, it makes for a good singles-signal for the women on the other side of the partition.
Anyway, we read along as they worked through an aliyah or two (it’s a blessing over the Torah; sorry about all the Jewish terminology). Then the rabbi turned to me and kindly asked if I’d like to step up to the lectern for an aliyah. I demurred and offered up Dad. He tried to get out of it by saying that he didn’t know the melodies of the prayers, but the rabbi told him that he’d only have to read the prayer, and they’d take care of the singing. Up he went.
Dad handled himself well. Hebrew was his second (third?) language, so it’s not as if he was going to be tripped up by anything but his eyesight. When he finished, the rabbi said, “You’re from Israel?”
“Not for 40 years now,” Dad replied, in his completely implausible accent.
“Still, you served in the IDF?”
He nodded.
“So why don’t you lead our prayer for the lives of our soldiers?”
At this point, I held my tallis up to my face to stifle my laughter. Our plan for Operation: Yizkor had been to sit in the back row of a large-sized temple, get Dad time to pray for his parents’ souls, and sneak out. Now he was up at the lectern leading a prayer for the IDF, and we were “trapped” in the front row of a rec room-sized shul, sure to be given dirty looks when we sneaked out.
As I said, we tend to think of each other more as accomplices than as father & son.
Dad did fine with the prayer, and once the next congregant came up for an aliyah, he rejoined me in the front row. We followed the prayers and the Torah reading, but then something caught my eye. Next to the black hat on the sill, there was a small metal container. It looked like a shoe-polish tin. A large price sticker covered the top, so I couldn’t discern what it was.
Anoter congregant sat beside the down beside the dark-suited gentleman in front of us. He picked up the tin and opened it, revealing a fine brown powder. He proceeded to take up a pinch of it, snort it deeply into both nostrils, shake his head slightly, sneeze, and close the tin.
I was agog. He was taking snuff? In the middle of shul? During Yom Kippur? When we’re supposed to be “afflicting” our bodies? And no one was saying anything? I turned to Dad and mouthed a “WTF?” but he had been too busy looking around for his friend Guy and hadn’t seen the snuff.
(Now, I’d never actually seen anyone take snuff. I thought it went out of fashion about a century ago. I did attend a high school here in NJ where just about everyone dipped chewing tobacco, but I later realized that they were mostly cretins and that spending 3+ hours in the weight room every day was not going to compensate for the fact that they couldn’t read a book. But I digress.)
Operation: Yizkor was reaching its culmination, and the rabbi took the opportunity to explore the rite and what it meant. Literally, the prayer implores God to “remember” our dead. Given God’s all-seeing- and all-knowing-ness, the rabbi explored the question of why we’d ask this of God. He gave a heartfelt “sermon” about that question, discussing what it means to be Jewish and dead, and Jewish and living. He had a wonderful sequence about how it didn’t matter “what kind of Jew” one was, and proceeded to list a broad spectrum of us. I’m thankful that he included the not-particularly-observant.
As a non-practicing Jew, I tend to feel shame around my devout brethren. I stumble over prayers on the rare occasions that I’m in a shul, don’t know the melodies, and forget response-cues. Visiting my brother’s temple in St. Louis for Shabbat a few years ago, I embarrassed myself by not knowing that you’re supposed to be silent after a ritual hand-washing (and not knowing the prayers associated with the hand-washing). A lot of times, it feels like everyone else knows what page we’re on, and I’m holding the book upside-down.
It frustrates me, but not to the point of wanting to learn it all. An exploration of that would take up a lot more time than I’m willing to devote to it right now.
So, I know the intent of the rabbi’s pre-Yizkor sermon wasn’t to justify my Judaic laziness, but it did offer me some sort of comfort, an alleviation of my shame and awkwardness.
Then we headed out to the kids’ room, while my dad and others who had lost their parents remained for Yizkor. I shot the breeze with the rabbi for a little while. He was interested in the new attendees, and asked plenty of questions about me and Dad. I sorta assume he was trawling for new worshipers, which is understandable.
Unfortunately, I experienced the same odd sensation talking with him that I’ve had in any of my interactions with Hasidic Jews: I feel like they’re hearing another voice in their heads that keeps them from fully engaging in the conversation. It’s as if they talk behind a veil, or as if their words all carrying extra signals that I can’t pick up. It’s not the same awkwardness I feel from not knowing the prayers and rites; rather, I think they’re bursting with God and it’s subtly altered their minds. I wish that didn’t sound condescending; I don’t mean it as such. It may just be a cultural thing, with so many of these Lubavitcher Jews coming from eastern Europe and Russia. Maybe their speech-patterns are just different enough that it leaves me unsettled.
Soon, we were called back in. I sat down beside Dad, and one of the congregants behind me called to the gentleman by the window. He turned around and handed me the tin of snuff, so I could pass it on.
I went right back to agog-ness. Aren’t we supposed to be afflicting our bodies before God? No food, no water, no nothin’! Except snuff?
The services continued, and we tried to figure out the best way to sneak out. Some people were leaving as the prayers continued. They had kids, so it was easier to justify. We were a couple of grown men, with no good excuse.
Eventually, the rabbi came over to talk to us, and asked about Dad’s military service. Then he called to the guy in front of me and asked for the snuff.
I passed it on to him, and said, “Sir, you have to explain this to me.”
“It’s snuff!” he said, smiling and opening the tin. “It helps sharpen the mind. Fasting on Yom Kippur can really wear you down. Want some?”
“. . . Well, sure, but –!” I replied, taking a pinch and inhaling it deeply. It had a spicy odor, and made my nostrils heat up. Of course, I sneezed a few moments later, but it did perk me up a bunch.
Still, I wanted to ask him if taking something like this on Yom Kippur wasn’t ‘cheating.’ Then I thought, “Gil, these guys are a lot more devout than you are. They study Torah and the commentaries all their lives. If they’re taking snuff on Yom Kippur, it must be permitted.”
So I let it go, and got back to the prayers for a bit, until Dad & I saw an opening. A large family was heading out, so we edged sideways and started to move down the aisle. The rabbi noticed, smiled, and shook my hand to thank me for coming. Dad immediately broke into his #1 excuse, “I had open-heart surgery a while back, and I can’t stand too long.”
I would’ve gone with his diabetes — it made more sense as a reason to skip out during a day in which we’re not supposed to eat or drink — but sometimes you need to drop the big one when you’re busted. As it turned out, the rabbi didn’t care about any excuses; he knew we were there for Yizkor, and he seemed happy that the shul was there for us.
I have to say, it was a heck of a good experience for me, to be around devout Jews and not feel like I’m letting the side down. Of course, I didn’t tell them that I have a Christian wife and we have no plans to have kids, but hey.
In a light rain, Dad & I walked back to the car. “They didn’t do the full Yizkor the way I remember it,” Dad said. “Maybe that’s because it was on Shabbat.” We talked for a while about linguistic differences between Hebrew and Yiddish. Dad said they knew he was an Israeli because he pronounced the letter “tov” as a “t,” while they tended to pronounce it as an “s.” He wondered why that happened, where the letter drifted in sounds.
Dad thinks about that stuff a lot. He doesn’t do research to find the answers to this stuff, but I’ve always found it comforting that at least he asks questions.
“I’m proud of you,” I said. “We made it through the whole event and you didn’t make one joke about getting lunch.”
“I’ve got a sandwich in the car. Wanna split it?”
The Sopranos Never Ended
Friday night, I was a man on a mission, and that mission led me into the purple-, blue- and green-tinted world of Clifton, NJ’s Bliss Lounge to meet the world’s most devout atheist.
On April 13, 2007, retired boxer Bobby Czyz was involved in a terrible car wreck, one that left him in a coma for around four weeks. I’d been friends with his brother Vince since 1988, so when I read about Bobby’s injuries in the New York Post a month after the accident, I checked to see if there was anything I could do to help out. Vince, living in Turkey, had some stories about the accident and its aftermath, but I’m not one to gossip about a person who made a living out of beating people into submission.
My boss had known Bobby Czyz a lot longer than I knew Vince; he used to go see the fights at the Ice World in Totowa, NJ (where the Duvas started their Main Events promotion) back in the early 1980’s. I had filled him in on what I knew about Bobby’s injuries, which wasn’t much. Last Thursday, he was reading a local paper’s sports section when he came across an article about Bobby’s travails and the upcoming benefit for his hospital fund. The article has a lot about the accident, injuries and recovery, so you can check that out for the gory details (and some examples of Bobby’s sense of humor).
I considered going to the event, at least so I could report back to Vince about his brother’s general condition. Then I checked out the website for the venue, and developed a new Gil Roth Guideline: If I look at a club’s website for more than 60 seconds and still can’t tell if it’s a stripclub, I shouldn’t go there.
I joked with my boss about this new rule, until he reread the article and said, “Larry Holmes is gonna be there? You have to go! He has the third-biggest head I’ve ever seen in my life! You gotta get a picture of him around a normal-sized person!” I wondered if the other listed guests, Chuck Wepner and “Goumba Johnny” had similar claims to fame.
I checked with my wife; I was hoping she’d offer to come along, even if just to stay in the car with the engine running, in case I needed to make a quick escape. She decided I could fly solo on this mission to the heart of Goumbaville, NJ. So I drove down Rt. 3, paid the $20 cover (all proceeds go to the health fund), took a seat at an oval bar with a shifting-color light above it, and ordered the worst gin they had. I figured this would ensure that I barely drank it, as the last thing I wanted was to get pulled over for a DUI in Clifton, NJ on a Friday night.
The lounge’s site contends that it’s “the Northeast’s sleekest and most futuristic venue.” I’ll leave you to decide how futuristic the place is; here’s a collection of pictures from the venue, including security. If the future is going to look like this, color me retro.
I surveyed the club. At only 8:45, it was pretty laid-back; only two dozen or so people were in the place, a few of whom were checking out the sports memorabilia that would be silent-auctioned off later in the night. I figured it would get busier as the night progressed, but I was only planning on being there for a few minutes, enough time for 20% of a drink and a little conversation with Bobby. I’d have to get back home soon, lest my wife fear that I was getting ready to swap my Honda Element for a Camaro and switch allegiances from Springsteen to Bon Jovi.
But if there’s one defining aspect of NJ Italian “culture” more important than the Camaro and Bon Jovi, it would have to be the Sopranos, and one glance around this club told me that David Chase wasn’t making things up. There were a few skinny, dweebish boxing aficionados in attendance, but there were a bunch of men who seemed ready for a casting call for a Sopranos roadshow revival. They were bulky (but not huge) middle-aged men, balding, talking with their hands, chewing unlit cigars and wearing Cuban or Hawaiian shirts. I sat at the bar, about as out of place as ever, thinking, “Ooh! That guy wants to be Silvio! And there’s Paulie!”
Living in a quieter, more rural section of northern NJ, and never having been a clubgoer, I guess I hadn’t realized how closely reality and art hewed, when it comes to Italian-American stereotypes. A few years ago, Amy & I were wandering through an Italian furniture store up here — “I didn’t know you can actually make an entire piece of furniture out of shellac!” — when a salesman got a call on his cell-phone. The ringtone? The theme to The Godfather.
I was disappointed to find that Larry Holmes wasn’t present. There was only one black guy in attendance, and he was around a foot shorter than Holmes, with a normal-sized head. I figured Larry would arrive later, especially since the benefit was scheduled from 8pm to 2am. Of course, we all know that nothing good happens after midnight (Gil Roth Guideline), so I wasn’t going to stick around for him. Or “Goumba Johnny” and Chuck Wepner.
I headed across the room to introduce myself to Bobby. I have to say, the guy gave no visible indication of having been through the ordeal he went through. He told me that he dropped 35 lbs. in the hospital, and put about 15 or 16 back on since getting out.
Bobby and I had met once before at the publication party for Vince’s collection of short stories, but I wasn’t banking on the memory of a guy who’d been in a 4-week coma a few months earlier. I said, “I’m friends with your brother Vince. Published his book about 10 years ago.” He smiled, shook my hand, and proceeded to tell me how well he’s recovering.
It was a brief conversation, but he was energetic and happy to talk about his family (again, no gossip about people who can beat me to a pulp), Vince’s latest writing, and his experiences in the hospital. He told me that his conversation with God (according to the aforementioned World’s Most Devout Atheist) occurred when he was in a coma, but wouldn’t go into details about that.
The two times he flatlined, on the other hand, were alright. He said, “I found out that it’s okay when you die. Nothing happens, but at least you’re not getting punished or judged.”
We shook hands again, and I took his picture. Then I walked past the enormous bouncers, headed out to a parking lot of sportscars and Escalades, got into my Blue Toaster, and drove home.
Darin’ Aaron Magoo
So sorry for the lack of updates, dear readers, but my buddy Aaron (a.k.a. Fink) came to visit this weekend, and we spent much time . . . um, hanging out, watching movies, and eating very NJ food.
Speaking of which, Fink may never eat solid food again, after back-to-back days at Hackensack’s finest: White Manna and Brooklyn’s Brick Oven Pizzeria. I’ve never seen someone use Jameson as a digestif, but it seemed to have the right acid content for him.
It was a good time, intestinal woes notwithstanding. We got Fink up to speed on the most entertaining movie ever, as well as a couple of movies with hot women in their 40s: Catherine Keener and Kelly Preston.
And . . . we meandered around Ringwood Manor on Saturday, where Amy & I took a ton of pix! (Fink also took pix on his iPhone, but we didn’t check those out.) It was a wonderful day — mid-70’s, dry, breezy and clear — so we spent a bunch of time just strolling around the grounds. Well, Fink & I did. Amy was pretty dedicated to working out her new camera. I was just happy to have some success with the macro function on mine.
Anyway, it was a weekend of fun conversation, fun movies, and heavy-duty dining choices. Oh, and we swapped our iTunes libraries, so I may stumble across even more obscure and bizarre music than ever.
(This post’s title comes from this morning’s installment of Achewood.)ÂÂ
Be mindful
Our friends John & Liz hosted a pool party yesterday, so Amy & I took her Mini for a spin up the NYThruway and had a lovely, relaxing time — surprising given the amount of small children present — meeting old friends and making new ones.
Oh, and we took pictures. I know you’ll be surprised to read that.
Here’s my photoset from the day. Amy’s should be posted soon are over here!
Getaway
Work is under control: the July/August issue landed on my desk yesterday, the Top Companies report’s website is live, our conference enrollment is rolling along, and our September issue looks like it’ll be a big one. So I’m taking a vacation day!
I’m heading down to Philly to visit a friend of mine (Drake, not Butch) for a while. No worries, dear readers: I’ll have my camera with me and will likely end up somewhere where I can take some neat pix. Maybe I’ll meander downtown in Philly or visit the suburbs near Swarthmore where I used to live. Or I could stop in Princeton on the way home and stop in at the campus art museum (and the Record Exchange, of course).
Sri Ranganatha and Worldwide Rooster 7
Enjoy the slideshow from my Friday adventure: our company picnic up in Pomona, NY, and then trip a through Hindu/Hasidic country.
Another Saturday Hike
(You can always blow off the writeup and go straight to the slideshow!)
Another gorgeous Saturday, another hike! My just-about-lifelong buddy Jon-Eric and I were supposed to meet for lunch on Saturday, but on Friday Amy pointed out how absolutely fantastic the weather was going to be (75, clear and dry), so she proposed a hike instead. Since Jon-Eric’s the guy who turned me on to the great hiking in NJ/NY, I knew he’d be all for it. As it turned out, she couldn’t accompany us, but Jon-Eric came up with a great one near Cold Spring, NY, off our Eastern Hudson Trails map.
When we got to the small Loebell parking area, there was one car and three bicycles there. A man and a woman were sitting in the car, and we checked with them to make sure we were at the right trail point, since we didn’t see any blue trail blazes. They confirmed that we were in the right place, and so we got our backpacks on and prepared to hike.
Then the woman said, “If you see three disoriented-looking people while you’re up there, can you point them toward this trail to get them back down here?” We laughed and said we would. “They’re supposed to be trail-running, but I doubt they’ll be running at this point.”
The man added, “And, uh, if they need water or first aid or anything. . .”
We laughed a little more nervously and headed out.
We encountered the “missing three” soon after. They were on the right trail, so we just let them know that the other guys were waiting with their car. They all had numbers on their shirts, as if they were in a race. They weren’t running.
As we trekked along, Jon-Eric asked, “What was on the t-shirts those people down at the car were wearing?”
I said the shirts had “NYARA” on them. I told him I’d never seen that acronym and I’d look it up when we were home. We kept on the trail. I misread one turn, but Jon-Eric corrected me, and we began to climb up Bull Hill. The trail ascended 500 feet in pretty short order, but it wasn’t a scrambling climb. It was just a steep trail that showed no signs of leveling off. It was early in the hike, and a cool day, so we weren’t too taxed by it. Which isn’t to say I wasn’t sweating like Patrick Ewing, but I do that when I’m driving, so hey.
Eventually, we reached the crest of Bull Hill and stopped off at the first of many scenic points. A hyper-friendly dog named Nebbie greeted us, accompanied by her (?) owners. We shot the breeze with them for a few moments while taking in the scenery. Then another group joined us at the point: the man and woman from the car.
“Did they take a helicopter?” I asked Jon-Eric. “How’d they catch up with us?”
He pointed out that we’d taken the longer route up, and that they must’ve gone on the Split Rock trail, which we’d be taking at the end of our route. Still, they were awfully quick.
They greeted us and said that they hadn’t gotten a chance to go on the trail, so they wanted to see some of the points on the hill before leaving. Jon-Eric asked them what NYARA is. We discovered that it’s the New York Adventure Racing Association and that the couple from the car were helping run the association’s adventure race, a.k.a. The Longest Day.
What does The Longest Day entail, you ask? Kayaking, mountain biking, trail-running and orienteering, over 12-15 hours. “That’s one long-ass day,” I muttered.
Our friends on the scenic point were volunteers up from Philadelphia. The top three teams in the NYARA event qualify for the USARA’s national event in November, which appears to be sponsored by a brand of whiskey. The trio we encountered on the trail were, unfortunately, coming in last.
As we meandered on up the ridge, we laughed over the idea of entering an adventure-race, but I think Jon-Eric would’ve been all over this idea, if we were 10-12 years younger.
From there, we continued along the ridge, stopping for all the great views. We discovered that we could see NYC from one of the points. The horizon was really hazy, but I just barely captured the sight with my camera (you’ll need to hit the “all sizes” button and check out the largest version).
As we sat down for some water at one of the points, we were greeted by a hiker who was coming from the other direction. He told us about some of the amazing views just off the trail, which were tough to find now that the leaves we so thick.
Back on the trail, Jon-Eric commented about the etiquette of hiking: “It’s funny that someone will just talk to you on the trail, and tell you about a great scenic point, or just say hello and start a conversation, when you’re up here. Because if a stranger tried talking to you in the city, you’d just run away or ignore him.” I thought about Borat.
On the way down from the ridge, we got lost a bunch of times due to crappy trail blaze placement, but that became a point of fun as we goofed on our inability to see the color yellow. The bad blazes reached the peak of absurdity when, we found this one. “I don’t think that one should count,” I said.
I’m sure I’ve written before about the friendship Jon-Eric and I share, and this hike was another episode in the loose, easy conversation we have on our hikes (previous installment: Sterling Forest on New Year’s Eve day). It’s awfully good to have friends you know well enough to talk with in shorthand.
And when we don’t talk, it’s usually either because we’re enjoying the silence, or totally out of breath and trying not to show it.
(Yeah, yeah. You wanna go see the slideshow.)
“You Can’t Miss the Bear!”
Thursday evening, I came across the story (thanks, Deadspin!) about . . . well, why don’t I let the headline speak for itself? Ex-Marine Kills Bear With Log.
Friday morning, around 6:15 a.m., I looked out of my window and noticed a full-sized bear walking into my driveway from across the street.
I zoomed across the house to grab my camera and take some pix (from upstairs), but the bear was out of sight. I went down to the front door to take a peek outside. He’d already ambled over to the neighbors’ yard, and was too shielded by trees for me to get a good photo of him. Unless . . . I was stupid enough to run over and get closer to him!
It’ll gratify you to know that I’m actually not that stupid. Instead, I lamented the lost pic. It’s the first time I’ve seen a bear in my neighborhood since I moved back to NJ in 1995. I’ve seen them a few times in morning commutes, and my old girlfriend saw one during a nature-walk, but that was it.
At work yesterday, I mentioned both stories to one of my coworkers who once shot cell-phone video of a whole family of bears walking through her backyard. She shared a story about the vicious bear gangs in her town.
Of course, this doesn’t beat last year’s “bear wanders into urban war zone” story that ended with the Irvington, NJ cops unloading their shotguns on a black bear that was believed to have gotten lost while trying to score some weed.