2020. 2. 16. 04:12ㆍ카테고리 없음
Composite photograph of the solar eclipse of 21 August 2017 as it progressed from partial to total. One of the highlights of the year just past.Today is the last day of 2017.Today is also the forty-second anniversary of my, a story I still don’t tire of telling. (By now, however, Dee may very well be tired of hearing me tell it.)There have been Goings On a-plenty in the wider world, but I shall leave it to those who are more expert and better remunerated to tell of all of the tragedies, horrors, and joys of life in the public sphere. Mass shootings, police brutality, public demonstrations, narrischkeit on the part of elected officials: This crap has become a feature of our collective lives in ever newer and more exciting ways in 2017. Natural disasters, of course, happen all the time, yet I am constantly amazed at the way we create our own.Nevertheless, there have been moments of transcendent joy.I will never forget the sense of anticipation with which we greeted one of the rarest and most beautiful astronomical phenomena this past August - the total solar eclipse that a small group of us from ’s front lawn. Being able to experience it was the fulfillment of a decades-long desire.This was the year I learned that wanting to do something was not the same as being able to do something. A lesson brought home to us after several weeks of painful, sweaty labor resurfacing our deck resulted in a not-especially-pretty start, along with a broken thumb for Dee.
I am reminded of an old poem by Hilaire Belloc:Lord Finchley tried to mend the Electric LightHimself. It struck him dead: And serve him right!It is the business of the wealthy manTo give employment to the artisan.We’ve learned, at considerable pain and expense, to give employment to the artisan. But for all that, we now have a nice newly bedecked deck as well as freshly painted rooms throughout our house.Ah, the house. We’ve lived in it for nigh unto two decades, and it’s looking like time for a change. Chez Elisson is all clean and decluttered (relatively speaking) now, the better for potential suitors to fall in love with it. As for us, we hope to relocate to something a bit more cozy, yet not too far away.
Having a master bedroom at ground level would be a helpful change: We have learned that there are some living space features that can become very important very quickly, most often without any warning. Thus, preemptive action is the order of the day.Elder Daughter continues to perform and to devise theatrical work in numerous venues, most commonly her home base of Philadelphia.The Mistress of Sarcasm, meanwhile, remains in Kingston, NY, where she andher boyfriend have - in addition to working on their usual individual artistic endeavors and the refurbishment of their building - opened an Airbnb.
This could be considered a logical extension of her previous work in the hospitality industry.Edith and Stella are ( keyn ayin hora) still doing well, alternating between periods of mutual peevishness and slowly budding friendship. They provide huge amounts of amusement, deposit generous quantities of Cat-Dookie in the litter box, and yank hair-floofs off each other as they engage in their games of Snarl ’n’ Chase.Some time ago, I realized that I have been writing online over thirteen years, having started my bloggy adventures over at the in July of 2004.
That’s old enough to be a Bar Mitzvah, but I’m not sure what that status means as applied to an Online Journal. Does it mean I’ve got to act like a grownup? Nobody reads blogs anymore anyway. That’s a shame, because that is where you used to meet new people strictly by the strength of your ideas.
Or, failing that, by how you expressed yourself. You didn’t have the self-selected audience of Farcebook - you were, so to speak, on your own.Alas, Farcebook ate most of the blogs, and Twitter nibbled the crumbs. But I don’t care. I may not write much over here, but I still tack up a post every so often to keep the place alive. It also helps me clear the ever-accumulating pile of Brain-Shit out of my noggin.
So there’s that. Somebody has to write sonnets about unspeakable bodily functions; it may as well be me.For Dee and me, 2017 ended on a thoroughly delightful note: a week-long (plus) visit from both Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm, together here with us for the first time in probably four years. We had expected the former to show up late last Saturday night, and so she did - but what we had not expected was that she had the latter in tow. Shrieks of joy abounded.Life is inevitably imperfect, but it’s the tough spots that allow us to appreciate the tender. May your 2018 bring those tough spots in minimal amounts while providing tenderness and joy in their fullest measure. Along with health, happiness, and fulfillment, without limit to any good thing.
In my Snot-Nose Days, when someone was gifted, it meant that that person was exceptionally talented or intelligent. Now it means that someone gave you something.Gift appears, now, to have become a verb. At least during Gifting Season.As Dee points out, the English language is constantly evolving.
We shouldn’t necessarily get our panties in a twist when usages change. As a Grammar Twerp, I recognize this truth and simultaneously accept it and loathe it.
If Dear Abby can get away with recycling the same Holiday Columns every stinking year, why not Elisson? We are therefore pleased to offer this thirteen-year-old Editorial Response previously published here and at, one that is both timely and appropriate to the season. Chanukah begins at sundown Tuesday evening, December 12 this year.We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the electronic-mail communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of Lost in the Cheese Aisle:“I am 8 years old.
Some of my little friends say there was no Judah Maccabee and that Chanukah is a load of crap. Papa says, ‘If you see it in Lost in the Cheese Aisle, it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth, was there a Judah Maccabee?” - Patty O’FurniturePatty, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except what they see.
They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All they care about is that fat red-suited guy who schleps presents to Yenemvelt and back. All minds, Patty, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, goornisht, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.Yes, Patty, there was a Judah Maccabee.He existed as certainly as dedication and courage and devotion exist. He kicked some serious ass back in the day, Judah did, throwing the Greco-Syrians out of Judea and reclaiming the holy Temple.
His struggle was a struggle against assimilation, against those who would be seduced by the pop culture of the day. He fought his battles so that we Jews would retain our cultural identity and not be swallowed up in the prevailing pagan mainstream. How dreary would be the world if there had been no Judah Maccabee! It would be as dreary as if there were no Pattys. (Or furniture.) There would be no candle-lighting then, no singing Ma-oz Tzur (or even those stupid dreidel songs), no commemoration of the miraculous rededication of the Temple.
Arlo Guthrie Illness
We would even today be schmearing ourselves with olive oil and burning pig hearts as sacrifices to Zeus. And our Christian friends would have no Christmas - for the culture that gave rise to Jesus would have been wiped out. The eternal light - the ner tamid - with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.Not believe in Judah? You might as well not believe in fairies. Or the Matzohball That Does Not Sink.
Or Eliyahu ha-Navi. You might get your papa to hire men to watch all the seder tables of the world to catch a glimpse of Eliyahu, but even if you did not see him, what would that prove? Nobody ever sees Eliyahu ha-Navi drink his wine at the Seder table, but that is no sign that there is no Eliyahu ha-Navi. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn?
Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. (Although those footprints in the grass were more likely made by your Papa as he tried to sneak back into the house with a snootful of booze after the office Xmas party.) Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.You can tear apart the knish and see the tasty filling inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond.
Is it all real? Ah, Patty, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.No Judah Maccabee?
Thank G-d he lived - and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Patty, nay, 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to chase the Greco-Syrians out of Judea and combat the forces of cultural assimilation, making glad the heart of childhood.Happy Chanukah!Originally posted on December 25, 2004. Earlier today, Dee and I were going through a small corner of the massive Archive d’Elisson, trying to decide what to hang on to and what to pitch. That’s especially challenging for us, given that every single household move we’ve made for the last thirty-nine years has been a corporate affair. Which means that we’ve carted around Stupendous Amounts o’Crap simply because we could. Occasional decluttering notwithstanding, we are overdue for a massive inventory reduction.Books are just one corner of the Archive, and getting them moved to the basement - a stage in their eventual onward travels - is an exercise in Letting Go.
And some things, we’re just not ready to let go.Case in point: a book of nursery rhymes that Mom gave the Mistress of Sarcasm for her fourth birthday. When we opened the book and found the inscription on the flyleaf - an inscription in my mother’s distinctive handwriting - I just about came unglued. It was just one tiny reminder of a hole in our lives. A Missing Person.We all - most of us, anyway - have those Missing Persons. As we get older, their numbers increase, until eventually (but not too soon!) we join their ranks. And my mom went missing almost thirty years ago.
You get used to that feeling of loss, because you have no other choice. But it’s always there. And once in a while, in addition to formal occasions of remembrance (for us Red Sea Pedestrians, five times a year), you get reminded informally.A scrap of handwriting. A photo album. Perhaps an old video or even a home movie.Or an inscription in a book. It’s so appropriate.
She and my Dad devoured books like most people snarf up salty peanuts. I owe my love of books - especially SF books - to her. She could (and did) discuss Childhood’s End with a seven-year-old Elisson who had read it and was blown away by the ideas contained therein.Damn, I miss her.Today is her ninetieth birthday.
It’s a perfect day to toast her memory with a Rob Roy - her favorite cocktail for Special Occasions.Mom celebrates at Cousin Stef’s wedding, October 1987. This is how we remember her: an irrepressible spirit.
Arlo Guthrie - Alice’s Restaurant Massacree - at Georgia Tech’s Ferst Center in February 2007.No smells of turkey roasting:Instead, the pong of paint,For in our humble householdThis year, the turkey ain’t.We’re going out to dinner -Perhaps I’ll order steakTo substitute for all the dishesDee and I won’t make.We’ll still be plenty thankfulFor friends and all our fam’But as for all that cookin’ toil?The kitchen work be damned.Q: Mommy, what did you make for Thanksgiving?A: Reservations.Yes, Esteemed Readers, it’s true. For the first time in my life (as far as I can recall), we’re dining out for Thanksgiving. A sensible option while the house is being painted.Sure, we’ve enjoyed the holiday at other people’s domiciles: Not every year do we break our collective asses to feed a multitudinous array of friends and family. We have had momentous feasts with our children, a sure sign that they have not only flown the nest, but have soared. And of course, the normal state of affairs is for us to prepare - most often with a little help from our friends - a veritabobble groaning board.But this year, it will be the pleasures of the Rented Table, the Purchased Meal, the Not-Having-To-Clean-Up-The-Fucking Dishes-Afterwards sort of affair. There will be no monster turkey set to brine in the five-gallon Home Depot bucket overnight, no rice and sausage dressing perfuming the house.
It’s hard to enjoy the food aromas anyway when they must compete with the vaporous exhalations of alkyd semi-gloss enamel and interior latex.No matter where the meal, we still have plenty for which to be thankful. And you, Esteemed Reader, are most certainly on the list. May this season bring you good things without measure, and may we all continue to have limitless reasons for gratitude.Oh - and why the photo of Arlo Guthrie above? Simple:“Now it all started two Thanksgivings ago, was on - two years ago onThanksgiving, when my friend and I went up to visit Alice at therestaurant, but Alice doesn’t live in the restaurant, she lives in thechurch nearby the restaurant, in the bell-tower, with her husband Rayand Fasha the dog.”Yes. Another Thanksgiving-Restaurant Connection.
I’m having beets for breakfastThough some might think it weirdThey’re earthy and deliciousAnd they’ll maybe stain my beardI’m having beets for breakfastPickled, roasted, or just rawMuch better than granolaThey’re the best you ever sawI’m having beets for breakfastThey fortify my spleenWho cares if my kitchen counterLooks like a murder sceneMove over, Cheerios and Lucky CharmsWhen I eat them beets, them lovely beetsI cannot come to harmI’m having beets for breakfastDeep purple, they are dyedAnd when I go to drop a deuceI might be horrified. “Take also unto thee wheat, and barley, and beans, and lentils, and millet, and spelt, and put them in one vessel and make bread of it.' - Ezekiel 4:9Apparently, a lot of folks look at the Scriptures as more than nourishment for the soul: they’re a cookbook as well. At least, that seems to be the thinking behind, which is made from a variety of sprouted grains that includes the above-mentioned wheat, barley, beans, lentils, millet, and spelt.Sprouted grain bread is actually pretty nutritious, even though it contains millet, with which I first became familiar when we fed our parakeet.
A sprouted grain contains less of the carbohydrate-rich endosperm than does its unsprouted comrades, while providing a higher proportion of protein. Good, and good for you!I’ve eaten Ezekiel bread and breakfast cereal, and it’s reasonably tasty. The cereal bears a superficial resemblance to Grape-Nuts, with only minor differences in texture and flavor. Fortunately, it does not give me the kind of hallucinatory visions that are familiar to anyone who has spent a lot of time reading the Book of Ezekiel.Basing your recipes on the Bible is tricky business, though.
Just look at us Red Sea Pedestrians: we follow in the steps of our ancestors who were in so big a hurry to get out of Dodge that their dough had no time to rise. Thus, we eat the famously constipating unleavened bread known as matzoh.And if you put the proper context around Ezekiel’s recipe, you find that it was intended as a punishment: a bread to be baked over burning human excrement. This gives a whole new meaning to the time-worn expression “holy shit.” Perhaps it explains those hallucinatory visions, too.Hey, we now know that Flavortown has been around for a loooong time. Take that, Guy Fieri! She lies in repose, with her face all aglow -Aglow, but not with desire.She is lit by the Super-Smart Handheld DeviceWith its world-containing screen’s fire.A political rant? Monty Hall (1921-2017). Requiescat in pace.Monty was having the dream again, but it was different now.The curtains were there, as always.
But this time he was one of the contestants. Standing on his usual mark was a guy with glowing eyes, leaning on a scythe. And the curtains were black, so black they seemed to suck the light out of the room.“What’ll it be, Monty? Curtain One, Two, or Three?”“Curtain Two, please.”Curtain One opened to reveal a shiny Cadillac hearse.“Wanna change your mind?”Monty knew the paradox that had been named for him.
“Three,” he croaked.Of course. The goat.Monty Hall, noted game show impresario, passed away Saturday at age 96. Now he gets to see what’s behind the Final Curtain.
Ave atque vale. The world goes on, the world changes, thought Lisbeth.Technological revolutions within her own lifetime had altered society beyond imagination. Social media. One tyranny after another.In a twisted response to Trump’s brief administration, Joyce “Granola Granny” Munchisson had run for President on the PETA ticket and had won handily. Animal protein was now strictly forbidden; hot dogs and hamburgers had gone the way of the dodo.Lisbeth was the hostess at Charlie’s. She loathed their vegan food, but it was good cover for her role as leader of the Veal-vet Underground. The girl with the Cheeseburger Tattoo.
Ever since the dawn of the Automotive Age, people have found ways to project human characteristics onto their automobiles. Animated cartoons a century old have shown cars as living, breathing, sentient beings. It’s hardly a surprise, when so much of our collective lives is suffused with our personal means of transport.When visualizing cars as Cartoony Metal People, there are two divergent styles: the Chevron, in which the headlights serve as eyes and the grille as mouth; and the Pixar, where the windshield represents the eyes.Chevron (top) vs Pixar (bottom).If one were to rely solely on these examples, one would conclude that cars using headlights for eyes have personalities befitting normal, matter-of-fact suburban humans, whereas windshield-eyed vehicles are far more exaggerated.
It's not clear whether this observation is borne out by reality, but how much reality can you ascribe to a sentient vehicle, anyway?There is something comforting about the Chevron model. Me, I think it’s the eyelids. They seem to convey a certain relaxed - almost sleepy - air. The Chevron car is homey, nonthreatening. This is the kind of car you would take with you to run a few errands in the neighborhood. It’s the car next door. It needs a nap.The Pixar car, though - is he happy?
Is he insane? He looks like he’s up for adventure - an adventure of the sort Thelma and Louise might involve themselves with. He runs on Hi-Test, which he guzzles by the six-pack.This business of anthropomorphizing our vehicles is nothing new, as I mentioned above, but I suspect it will really get a shot in the arm as we take our first tentative steps into the age of self-driving cars - automobiles in the truest sense of the word. Ascribing a persona to a car that drives itself is really nothing strange: in fact, it seems perfectly natural.Meanwhile, what say ye? Are you a Chevron or a Pixar kind of person?Postscriptum: I’ve been reminded of other anthropoid cars by commenters here (thanks,!) and on Farcebook - specifically, Herbie the Love Bug and My Mother, the Car.“My Mother, the Car,” was a TV series that aired during the 1965-66 season with a total of thirty episodes. The mid-1960’s were notorious for their horrible sitcoms, and MMTC, which featured a superannuated jalopy ensouled with the protagonist’s dead mother, was one of the worst.
Even die-hard TV nostalgia freaks throw up a little in their mouths when they think of this show.Herbie was the star of six Disney live-action feature films between 1968 and 2005 as well as of a five-episode television series in 1982. You’d think Disney would avoid the concept of an animate vehicle after having seen how badly MMTC bombed, but that didn’t faze them. And Herbie, surprisingly, was a success. Of course, Volkswagen Beetles have a certain cuteness factor, and then there was that dead mother business.But both Herbie and MMTC’s Gladys, despite being sentient, were cars in their outward appearance.
They looked, respectively, like a Volkswagen Beetle and a 1928 Porter. No cartoonishness.
But it’s appropriate to give them a passing mention. So there you are. Jeffy hated second grade.He was younger and smaller than most of the kids in his class.
He was also very intelligent. These characteristics made him an all-too-frequent target of bullies: It was as predictable as sunrise that the Stoopnagel twins would make his day unpleasant.
Between the incessant spitballing and the abuse on his homeward walk, it made Jeffy loathe school.Abruptly, the bullying stopped. After recovering from broken kneecaps, the twins never pestered Jeffy again. And every day, they nervously presented him with their lunch money.Jeffy liked second grade now, thanks to the mobster under his bed. Twenty years ago today, Dee and I were in Boston, depositing Elder Daughter at what would be her new home for the next four years: Boston University.We had done the obligatory College Search Trip, E.D. And I, the previous summer, visiting several schools in the Northeast. But it was pretty clear from the get-go that she was interested in one college, and one college only, from the moment her feet touched ground on campus - and that college was Boston University.
And so that is where she decided to go.The intervening year - Senior Year! - passed all too quickly, and before we knew it, it was time to transport our daughter and her Critical Belongings to Boston.Logistics were a bit tricky, since we were living in Houston at the time - a Gawd-awfully long distance away by any surface transportation. Fortunately, since E.D.
Would be living in a dormitory, there was no need to schlep furniture. We would simply pack whatever miscellaneous clothing and supplies she would need in boxes and ship it up there by UPS, freeing us to fly without a monumental amount of checked baggage.What we didn’t plan on was a UPS strike. The stuff got there eventually.It was an eventful weekend, what with our scurrying about and helping to get our daughter situated in her new digs. Still there was more: It was Dee’s birthday.And then came the shocking news from England about the tragic accidental death of Princess Diana.The United Kingdom and the remnants of its Empire mourned.
And we Americans mourned with them. It was a sad coda to what had started out as a fairy-tale story, one that had gradually developed darker tones as the years passed. Sic transit gloria mundi.But our concerns were more immediate. We had a birthday to celebrate! And we had the bittersweet task of getting our firstborn settled in to her dormitory room, ready to begin her independent adult life. It was a bittersweet day.I’ve, and yet I can still conjure up the emotions I felt back then, a peculiar stew of joy, agitation, horror, grief, excitement, and unabated love. What else can you expect from an eventful weekend?
The total eclipse of 21 August 2017, photographed in Englewood, TN by Yours Truly. George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.He had, somehow, managed to get himself marooned on an island. That’s standard pirate fare, except his island was in the middle of one of the largest cities in North America.There were several cats on hand, and George briefly considered lashing them together to make a raft. But after pondering this idea, he thought better of it. Even a bad pirate, he thought, wasn’t that stupid.Who will be eaten first?
Him, or the cats?At least he had plenty of Jack around. Damn that Harrrhvey!Lashed together to honor the king of 100-word stories, and his creation: George, the not-very-good pirate. About a dozen years ago, Lair inspired me to begin writing my own 100-word stories, all of which are conveniently accessible both. He’s dealing with Hurricane Harvey right now, and we hope he won’t have to lash his cats together to make a raft. Here’s a story that, in some respects, hearkens back to the Good Old Days of crapblogging.Crapblogging has fallen on hard times, methinks.
For that matter, blogging has fallen on hard times. Rather than having to maintain a blog and earn a readership in the wilds of the open Internet, people waste spend most of their time on Farcebook, where their communications are visible to a self-selected audience. Since - in theory, at least - your (”ffriends“) know who you are, nobody wants to describe details of personal excretory experiences quite the way they did on the semi-anonymous platform of a blog.Hell, the word “blog” sounds like an excretory experience.On Farcebook, one tends to be more circumspect. Which is why I’m writing this on my blog. Which I will most likely link to my Farcebook page, so who am I kidding, anyway?Anyway, this is a true story, and it is more an observation on just how damned inconsiderate people can be in the Age of Portable Electronica than it is a crapblogging post.We begin in one of the local eateries, where Dee and I are meeting a friend of long standing - technically, the daughter of a friend of long standing - for lunch. And as we wait for said friend to arrive, I hear the Call of Nature.
It is not a subtle whisper: rather, it is a clarion call of the sort that requires immediate attention.I carefully make my way to an all-too-distant restroom, only to discover that the sole stall is occupied. OK, I can handle this. I’ve got muscles in all the right places.A few minutes go by, and I am becoming, ah, err, a bit impatient. And that’s when I hear the bippity-boop of a smartphone coming from the stall.Son of a bitch!I wait another minute. Bippity-boop!And now I do something I have never had to do in all the years I have walked the planet. I knock on the stall door.
Twice.“Oh, sorry!” And now the stall’s occupant scrambles to, as they say, finish the job.My comment? “Thanks - another minute and I might have had to shit in the urinal.”These fucking kids and their smartphones, am I right?
Moon and Sun.These two Cosmic Objects are due to have a rendezvous in less than two weeks, an event I’ve been.It is a rendezvous that depends mightily on your point of view. The Sun is about 93 million miles from the Earth - just the right distance to allow water to exist in its three most useful phases.
The Moon is roughly 238,900 miles away, so it is nowhere near the Sun. But by a happy coincidence, the Moon, thanks to its closer distance and smaller size, occupies almost exactly the same angle of view from our Earthbound perspective. Just enough to cover the solar disc without obscuring its corona.It means that total solar eclipses are fleeting and rare phenomena. You have to be in the exact right place to see one, and its duration will usually be less than two minutes as the Moon’s seventy mile-wide shadow speeds across the Earth’s surface at hundreds of miles per hour like a dark finger tracing a path along a map.We’re hoping to be right in the middle of that shadow.Eclipses can be predicted with absolute certainty; the motions of the celestial spheres follow immutable laws. The weather, however, is another matter. Let’s hope and pray for a sunny day!
Eric “Pop” Tartz was a fixture in his small town, where he was especially loved by the local children.He was a man of regular habits, not all of them respectable. Mornings, you could catch him getting toasted at Ernie’s Breakfast Bar.Pop was a crusty fellow, but people who knew him would say that beneath his dry exterior lay a sweet, melty heart. Detractors, on the other hand, called him tasteless.Tasteless?
Maybe but he must have had dark secrets. One day his body was discovered at the Breakfast Bar, bitten nearly in half.Someone had had him iced. Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!”.“Hey, Rocky! Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!”.“C’mon, Rocky! Look at me do the rabbit trick!”.“Rocky!
Rock!”.“Rock?”June Foray, 1917-2017. Ave atque vale.The legendary June Foray, the human behind hundreds of cartoon characters - most notably Rocket J. Squirrel of “Rocky and Bullwinkle” fame - at the age of 99.People often compared her to Mel Blanc, the “Man of a Thousand Voices,” the artist who brought Bugs Bunny to life. There were those who would call her “the female Mel Blanc,” to which animator Chuck Jones was said to have retorted, “Mel Blanc was the male June Foray.”My childhood was brightened in so many spots by Miss Foray’s remarkable talent. The world of animation - nay, the world - is poorer without her in it.Rockyescat in pace, June. This is a story about miracles.When some people think of miracles, they think of dramatic events.
They think of Moses standing at the edge of the Sea of Reeds as God splits the waters. They think of Jesus turning water into wine at a wedding in Cana or feeding the multitudes with a handful of loaves and fishes. They think of Muhammad ascending to Heaven from the Rock in Jerusalem where Ibrahim was restrained by Allah from sacrificing Ishmael.
Whether these events really happened matters not. These are our foundational fables. These are the Great Miracles, articles of faith.As for me, I am a skeptic when it comes to big miracles, the wonderful stories beloved of those who share our Abrahamic faiths: I tend to view them as myth rather than historical truth. Nevertheless, I see the miracles of our daily lives all around me. The impossibly complex machines - our bodies - that allow our brains to function.
The myriad pipes and tubes, the strands of nerves that allow us to awaken every morning. These are the everyday miracles, and they are numberless.This is a story about miracles.This is the story of Houston Steve, who - along with his wife Debby - purchased a house in southwest Houston in early 1979. Unbeknownst to any of us at the time, the house they bought had been ours - in fact, our very first house, the house we had purchased as soon as we had gotten engaged. But Dee and I had never sat at a closing table with them, it having been a corporate transfer.
And so we had no idea who the purchasers were, nor did we care. It was sheer coincidence on an astronomic scale when Steve and I sat next to each other at post-Minyan breakfast one morning in 2002. After all, what were the odds?We became good friends with Steve and Debby after that.
Our friendship was, we felt, predestined. And yet it grew naturally out of our common values and interests. Besides, how many couples can claim that they each have children conceived in the same bedroom?This is a story about miracles.This is the story of Bonnie and Harris, with whom we became close friends in late 1987. Soon after we became acquainted with the couple, we moved to another town in Connecticut. And then, two years after that, to Houston. Dee and I were the godparents of their only son, and we were devastated a few years later when they announced - seemingly out of the blue - their intention to divorce.The divorce created an unfortunate estrangement between us and Bonnie.
We were no longer close when she remarried, and so we were not there to comfort her when Bruce, her second husband, passed away after only a few short years. It’s a regret that we always will carry within us.But during Bonnie and Bruce’s unfortunately short-lived marriage, they moved to a different house on the other side of town.
As Bonnie described it to a friend one day, the friend gave her a funny look. “You know you bought Elisson and Dee’s house, don’t you?” She had not known. What were the odds?This is a story about miracles.In 2010, Houston Steve’s beloved Debby got a bad diagnosis. She soldiered on, allowing the doctors to take out pieces of her, one at a time. What she never allowed them to take was the quality of her life.Meanwhile, in late 2013, Dee had reestablished contact with Bonnie, who was still living in Connecticut, albeit in a different town now.
They wept over all the time lost together, and their friendship was rekindled. After a visit with us in early 2014, Bonnie made plans to move to Atlanta. By that Thanksgiving, she was settling in. It did not take long before she was solidly ensconced in our circle of friends and had gotten to know Houston Steve and Debby.These are the miracles of our technological age, the Ars Electronica that facilitate reconnections and allow unlikely new friendships to blossom. (Ask any blogger. Or ask The Younger Elisson.)This is a story about miracles.Debby passed away in August of 2015.
During her five-year-long struggle with the Emperor of Maladies - throughout all the surgeries, years of chemotherapy, and, as theend neared, the Gamma Knife - she had never allowed herself to be ill. Two weeks before her demise, Debby and I had been at Party City, buying supplies for a Shabbat dinner she knew would be the last she would host.
When things suddenly became dire, she retired to a room on the ground floor of her home and passed within thirty-six hours. And as was her wish, she left her house feet first.Houston Steve and his children grieved for Debby. Our faith prescribes a seven-day period of deep mourning (shiva) followed by a thirty-day time of partial grieving (sh’loshim) during which certain normal activities are resumed, and Steve followed these prescriptions carefully and lovingly in the arms of a supportive community. But in his heart Steve had been grieving for years. Ever since the day Debby received the Bad Diagnosis.As Steve resumed social activities - some within our circle of friends, some not - we knew that there would inevitably be situations in which Steve and Bonnie would be together.
We made sure that other friends would be around at such times. We were not going to be playing Yenta the Matchmaker.And yet. This is a story about miracles.One day last fall, Steve and Bonnie informed us that they were going to start seeing each other. And, some months afterwards, they announced their engagement.
We were ecstatic.This past Thursday, they were married in the little chapel in which we conduct our daily morning services. It was an intimate affair, with just a handful of Houston Steve’s relatives and a small group of friends. Despite my being a skeptic in matters having to do with the Afterlife, I could almost swear that Bruce and Debby were both looking on, smiling approvingly.One of the Great Miracles? No, this one was not quite Scripture-worthy. No seas were split; there were no heaven-ascendant chariots; no transmutation of beverages.An everyday miracle? Absolutely not: what were the odds?But that this was a miracle, I did not doubt for one second. And we were there from the beginning.
The Steampunk E-Cigarette Emporium was failing. Built with a massive amount of Charlie’s personal capital, the Emporium was a financial disaster, and Charlie could not understand why.Having procured the finest supplies, he offered an extensive selection of aromatic vapors. Madagascar vanilla, Vietnamese cinnamon, pure menthol, even good old-fashioned Virginny terbacky.
All awaited his customers, who could inhale their selections while seated on plush banquettes. He had spent a fortune on rich Corinthian leather.
And the steampunk theme was a natural.Was it the sign above the entrance? “Welcome, Vapists!”Perhaps it needed to be bigger, he thought. According to one version of Wonder Woman’s origin story, Queen Hippolyta desperately wanted a child. So much so that she resorted to sculpting one from clay.
Given the religious proclivities of the Greeks of the time, one can assume that prayers and sacrifices to the Olympian gods were employed as well.Hippolyta’s prayers were answered. With uncharacteristic compassion, the goddesses living atop Mount Olympus brought the clay child to life.The child, who would be known as Diana, was subsequently raised to adulthood by the Amazons on the mysterious isle of Themyscira.Thus was born the Legend of the Girlem. In a 2007-vintage photo, Dee and our daughters relax on a rainy afternoon in Washington, D.C.Today is when we remember our mothers, without whom we would have a devilishly difficult time existing on Planet Earth. They are the ones who not only contributed half of our genetic material - the stuff that makes us us - but they’re the ones who had to schlep us around for something on the order of nine months, enduring (in some cases) nausea; bloat; enlarged abdomens (coupled with bladders squished down to the size of raisins); sleepless nights, and swollen extremities. They are the ones who cleaned us up after we crapped our diapers; the ones who wiped our noses, applied bandages to our scraped knees and - later - our scraped egos. They were the first ones we would run to for help when help was needed. Because Mom!We are fortunate to still have Dee’s Mom walking the planet with us.
Mine is long gone - twenty-nine years - but she remains in my heart, always.We have our precious Mamacita, our adoptive 89-year-old mommy, who loves her brood of “framily” children as her own.And then there’s Dee, herself, who was, is, and continues to be a role model in the mothering business. She has many talents and capabilities, and she has given me many gifts over the years, but the gift of our daughters is one that daily brings a smile to my face and warmth to my heart.Happy Mother’s Day, sweetheart! And happy Mother’s Day to all moms - family, friends, and members of the great human family.
“They’re gonna do what?!”The little village of Katzenellenbogen-affen-Yam was barely more than a speck on the map, but its minuscule size belied the extreme piety of its inhabitants. Yet now, as the Day of Atonement approached, they were faced with a most serious religious problem.For reasons known only unto the Eternal One, a plague had descended upon the shtetl’s chickens, wiping them all out. Not a single pullet was left with which the villagers could purge their sins by performing the ancient ritual of sh’logn kapoyres.The village rabbi consulted his dusty tomes and found a solution. “Use a duck,” he announced. Let’s have supper at StarbucksWe’ll stay awake all nightWe can drink caffeine’Til our teeth are greenO, won’t it be a delightLet’s have supper at StarbucksBring your laptop alongThe WiFi is freeAnd there’s a place you can pee’Cause, man, that coffee’s strongThere are muffins and cakes and protein barsBut there’s no valet to park your carsLet’s have supper at StarbucksWe’ll be up the whole damn nightAnd when we get to our houseMy beloved spouseYou know I’ll treat you rightYou know I’ll treat you right.
Dee and I were driving around, running a few errands, when she turned to me and asked, “Where were we coming back from Monday night when they had Johnson Ferry Road blocked off?”My Ivy League-educated brain shifted immediately into overdrive. I had this.We had been out to dinner with friends at a popular Italian place. One with which we had been very familiar when we lived in Sweat City. It had gotten its start there, beginning with a single restaurant downtown and later adding a second location outside the I-610 loop on the west side.
And then came the deluge: a deal with Outback that resulted in massive expansion across the country.Now, what the fuck was the name?Me: “Carraboogio’s?” (Ohhh, so close!)Dee: “Carrababba’s.”We looked at each other. Of course, it was Carrabba’s.Derp! Albert Einstein once famously said that doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results is the definition of insanity.It could also be said that it is the definition of how a four-year-old plays with toys.
Arlo Guthrie
Call it discovery rather than insanity, the latter of which is a condition more descriptive of full-grown adults.Consider the case of a small child playing with toy cars. “If I put these toys on the top of the fence where they often fall on the other side and become unreachable, should I (1) continue putting the toys on top of the fence, or (2) stop putting the toys on top of the fence?”Ahhh, the tenuous connection between action and consequence: That connection is the great undiscovered country for a four-year-old, and learning how it operates is a Critical Life Skill. Some little ones figure it out pretty quickly, while others take a bit longer.And some of us adults never quite get it.
Being human dooms many of us to living on the slack side of the learning curve. “Did someone just try to poke me? When Igor Stravinsky wrote The Rite of Spring, he was doubtless not thinking about the Passover festival, but our seasonal holiday - our Rite of Spring - creates its own musical masterpiece every year, in smell instead of sound.I’m upstairs while Dee is beginning the lengthy labor of preparing for our Passover Seder tomorrow. There’s a humongous slab of beef brisket in the oven braising merrily away, while a massive skillet of matzoh farfel with onions and mushrooms adds to the symphony of cooking aromas.They’re the aromas of the season. The distinctive (and beloved) Pongs o’Pesach.Soon we will introduce other aromatic grace notes.
The sweet medley of fruit compote as it simmers. The apple, cinnamon, and wine of the charoset. The sprightly fragrance of asparagus, the vegetable that - more than almost any other - connotes springtime.The lower register of our symphony will be composed of the deep, mellow aroma of onions caramelizing in goose schmaltz, a key ingredient in the chopped liver I’ll be making later this evening.Handmade shmura matzoh.
The snap of breaking matzoh provides a crisp percussion element.There’ll be other additions to the program. Dee has already prepared the gefilte fish, which will (when served) provide the overture to the festive meal, with its sting of horseradish. Houston Steve has a vat of chicken soup (with caramelized onion matzoh balls) that will likely require a tanker truck to transport it here. And there will be a mountain of sweet stuff as well, provided by our friend Debbie.I’ve heard variations of this symphony all my life. And I look forward to it every year.Regardless of your religious or family traditions, this time of year is one that is filled with taste memories. Why not share yours in the Comments?
Every religious institution has a cadre of employees and functionaries without whom it could not function. For example, a Roman Catholic church would be in big trouble without its priest, its altar boys, and whoever gets to swing that incense censer.The synagogue, of course, is no exception.Most people, when asked to name the essential personnel at the Jew-Church, will put the rabbi at the top of the list. It’s nice to have a rabbi, of course - having someone who holds ordination papers lends a certain amount of gravitas to the proceedings and is also handy if you want to conduct a wedding - but he or she is not necessary. Same goes for the chazzan (cantor), whose voice is as superfluous as it is mellifluous. Lay people can perform these roles.The real essential personnel are the ones who work behind the scenes: the custodial staff.
These are the folks that see to all the daily operations of the building without which there would be disorder, filth, and discomfort. These functions overlap to an extent with those of the “ Shabbes goy,” a function that really deserves its own category.“Shabbes goy” is a term that literally means Sabbath Gentile: a non-Jew who performs functions on the Sabbath that are not permitted to the observant Red Sea Pedestrian. It is, of course, not that simple: anything having to do with Jewish law never is. A Jew cannot simply hire a non-Jew to stoke the fireplace on the Sabbath in his stead, for that is equally forbidden.
But he might say, “Gee, it’s awfully cold in here (wink wink, nudge nudge),” and the implicit assumption is that the non-Jew, unconstrained by the rules of Sabbath observance, might take it upon himself to throw a log on the fire. The same rationale allows lights to be switched on or off, thermostats to be adjusted, and so on.Being a Shabbes goy is a respectable profession is its own way, and there are who served in that role before achieving fame and fortune in other fields. Perhaps you’ve heard of them: Elvis Presley, Harry Truman, Al Gore, Barack Obama, Colin Powell, Thurgood Marshall, and Mario Cuomo.“I wanna hunka hunka hunka burnin’ chopped liver.”There are other jobs as well. The shammes (AKA beadle or sexton) may perform minor functions such as ushering and assisting with religious functions. In our congregation, we call these folks the “go-getters,” and their job is to ensure that religious honors are distributed properly and that the service flows smoothly. You would be surprised how much subtle choreography is involved in a religious service.The gabbaim (singular: gabbai) officiate during the ceremonial reading from the Torah scroll, ensuring that any errors in the reading or cantillation are corrected, and announcing page and verse numbers so that the congregation can follow along in their printed books. Because the scroll contains nothing but consonants - no vowels or musical notes, which must be memorized by the reader - the function of the gabbaim is essential.And yet perhaps the most unsung (and critical) role in the synagogue is that of the Haisse Dondeh.
It’s hard to imagine any Jewish house of worship functioning without at least one Haisse Dondeh, and I suspect that many of our Christian friends may have a person (or persons) with a similar job in their congregations as well. What does he do? When someone is standing at an inappropriate moment, he shouts, “Hey! Siddown there!”H/T: Joe Saruk z'l. And Buy My Kid’s Handmade Needle-Felted Finger Puppets, Too, Dammit!Cast o’ CharactersYet More Self-Aggrandizement“Got-dam Philistine! Is NOTHING sacred to you?” -“The Bard of Affliction.” -“My hat’s off to Elisson!
All hail Elisson!”-“Elisson’s blog: mysterious.like unraveling a turban and finding a moist dildo inside.” -“.Obi-Wan Kenobi of Georgia.”- Cowtown Pattie“The Shakespeare of poop jokes.”-“.when I grow up, I want to be Elisson.” -“Elisson ain’t right. We know that.”-“Elisson.has totally gone off the deep end.” -“.of many talents.”-“.the ever insightful Elisson.”-“.Elisson, my man.I’m impressed.you are the man.” -“You make my heart sing.”-“.maniacal, obsessive rants about duck fat.” -“In a world almost entirely without heroes, Elisson stands alone.”-“I really want to whup Elisson upside the haid.” -“The world is a much stranger place since I began reading your blog, Elisson.”-“the cat’s ass in his trademark white fedora” -“.R’ Blog Shem Tov.”- Erica Sherman“By gadfrey, sir.You’re the most amazing character. There’s never any telling what you’ll say or do next, except that it’s bound to be something astonishing.”-“Elisson, you are such a Renaissance Man you make Newton, Descartes & Copernicus look like Larry, Moe & Curly!”-“You.
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