In today’s lexicon of compulsions, phobias, and obsessions, one stands out front and center. It’s FOMO, the acronym for Fear of Missing Out. One subset of this disorder, or an adjunct to it, is the need to stay glued to one’s TV or other device, absorbed in the endless repeating of the same information about some major event, more often than not a catastrophe, for hours and days on end. Think ‘9/11,’ the Gulf Wars, or some such, and how many of us were glued to the Tube when these events were going on, hoping that every hour or two we might be told something we hadn’t heard before, but continuing to watch even if there was nothing new to report. I’ve decided that, this time around, in the middle of the 2023 war against Hamas, I would not get sucked into this mind-numbing but passive kind of activity. I would attempt to remain as calm as humanly possible, not giving in to fear, anxiety, or anger, remaining focused and informed, and would try to figure out what, in my limited capacity, I could do to be ‘useful, not just ornamental’ (Something my parents used to say.)
Author: fredcasden
After the Hagim — Part 1
Just sitting and chilling. Or if you feel the urge to use a fancier term, ‘decompressing.’ Barbara and I had hosted The Levines over chol hamoed, and we needed to calm down from all the excitement. Day One, we all went down to DCity and formed a committee to assist Barbara in purchasing the recliner that that she had long been pining for. That evening we visited friends, and the six of us squeezed into their sukkah, big enough for three, until it started to rain.
Why don’t you give it a try….
It started with a suggestion made years ago – Why don’t you give it a try? – from Michael, a charter member of my kiddush club. If I remember correctly, he was out of work at the time, and to occupy himself, began researching his family history. He was quite successful, finding all sorts of cousins and who-knows-who-they-are’s waiting to be grafted onto a Family Tree. And not just for show; he has been in contact with bunches of them. Of course, if you’re doing something that’s fun and you consider it worthwhile, you’re going to share the news the same way you share a wee dram – gladly and often.
I double-dare you
I’m almost done with my regularly scheduled article, a continuation of my previous post, ‘Three bagels, please,’ but sometimes one has to shift gears and go with the flow. And this may be one of those times.
I can imagine the following scene in the schoolyard of a Jewish School somewhere in the world. Shimi says to Yanki, ‘I dare you to put a tack on Rabbi Schwartz’s chair.’ To which, Yanki responds, ‘Oh yeah? I double-dare you.’ To that, there is no response. A wimpish type might go on, ‘I triple-dare you,’ but by then all the fizz has gone out of the seltzer bottle, and nobody I know would sink to that level. If you’ve been double-dared, you’re it, and get on with it, whatever ‘it’ is.
Three bagels, please
You can figure out more or less when this conversation took place, one between Barbara and her maternal grandmother, Mary Caplan – known in the trade as ‘Momsie” – from the topic under consideration. I can only assume that the older woman had in mind a memory from her childhood: sitting in a horse-drawn sled on a winter’s day somewhere in the Pale, swaddled in blankets to keep warm. And now, she said, men are walking on the moon. She was expressing her wonderment, but also, it was her way of saying, cut me a little slack (my paraphrase). So much has changed in my life, it’s no wonder I can’t keep up. Momsie was born in 1898.
A good cocktail and some common sense
Introduction
Long ago and far away. That’s the where and when of my childhood, those multiple decades past in a very Jewish neighborhood in the northern part of The Bronx. (That’s right, ‘The Bronx,’ not ‘the Bronx,’ and certainly not ‘De Bronx.’ We were classier than that.) I could compile a list of some size about the special qualities of our neighborhood, but here are two things that I think are interesting. One, you never saw a cop on a beat anywhere near E. 208 St.; there was no compelling reason for any of police officer to be there. Second, there was a notable lack of watering holes in the area, at least where the Jews lived. And that absence of alcohol was true in our home and, I assume, in the homes of my friends. There may have been some ‘schnappes’ here and there in the neighborhood shuls, but who knew about such things?
Number 27
The following incident should have happened, although it might not have. It was at the annual convention of comedians held somewhere in the Catskills. A bunch of old-timers and their families would gather round and regale themselves with stories and punchlines that were all too familiar. They each knew the repertoire of their fellow comedians so well that they had assigned a number to each joke that anybody told. All a performer in their midst had to do was grab the mike and rattle off a number to be followed by the appreciative laughter of their colleagues and their guests. It so happened one year that a fledgling performer came on stage and confidently announced, ‘number 27.’ To his chagrin, there was deathly silence – not a peep. (known in the trade as ‘Mount Rushmore.’) Mortified, the novice returned to his seat in the audience, unable to fathom why he had just bombed on stage. An hour later, a more seasoned comedian took the mike. ‘Number 27,’ he began, followed by five minutes of people laughing, guffawing, proverbially ‘rolling in the aisles.’ The young man, totally stunned by this turn of events, turned to his neighbor, a veteran jokester. “I don’t get it; I told the same joke, number 27, an hour ago, and nothing. This guy, they’re laughing so hard, they’re wetting themselves. What is he doing that’s so different?’ The older man turned to him and quietly explained, ‘It’s all in the timing.’
Does that include me?
You want a back story? I’ll give you a back story. This was years ago, and we and The Levines were standing in front of the small supermarket on Emek Refayim (in the Jerusalem neighborhood of the same name). We probably had just come from brunch at the late, sorely missed café, Tal Bagels, across the street. And there in front of the market was a volunteer for the J.S.P.C.A., offering at a modest price the organization’s calendars for the new (Jewish)year. Of course, Barbara and I wanted one, as did The Levines. Every year since then, I have made it a point to obtain a few of these treasures, which I then distribute to those who want.
The Wine Festival, One More Time
Another five or ten minutes and we would have been out the door and on our way to Jerusalem, and then it would have been too late to let us know. But the house phone rang, and it was friend Ezra. Of course we’re still home; otherwise we couldn’t answer the phone. A terrorist attack at Kikar Yahalom? And the bus schedule is all messed up because of police activity? The loop that I am out of, Ezra is definitely in it. He might even be the loop itself! The incident he was telling me about happened outside the local Burgers Bar maybe a half an hour before he called. But Ezra heard about it and, knowing of our plans, called lickety-split to let us know. OK, Barbara, said I, let’s activate plan B. Someone might be thinking out loud, Before you write about plan B, out of idle curiosity, what was the original plan A? Fair enough.
On the Ninth Day
I’m not suggesting this as a general rule, but there definitely are times when seeing something for yourself is more than ‘a good thing.’ We all (maybe I’m being generous about ‘all’) have some vague notion about ‘the pyramids along the Nile’ and the statues and structures – now in disrepair – in Ancient Greece. But when you get to see the temple at Abu Simbel or the buildings on the Acropolis up close and personal, it leaves an impression, something you don’t forget so easily – as in, this is the real deal, not just an image on Wikipedia.
alittlebiteast 