Homme:
As I gazed at your hot chocolate eyes
Over the donut distressed table
At Tim Hortons,
I traced our initials in the foam of the $1.95 Cappucino
And licked the contents off my finger.
A taste of things to come.
Woman:
We watch Hockey Night in Canada:
I touch the scars on your left cheek
With my right fingers:
Remnants of Pee Wee hockey.
Homme:
Remember the first time I knew you
In that wilderness way
I took you in my arms
In the canoe…
Woman:
As if it could have been anywhere else, my toque wearing teddy…
Homme:
(interupts) Bear.
You were going to say.
Woman: And now
So many years passed
I still recall the soul of the hinterland
Trapped in the fabric
Of your skipants.
Homme:
Ah…tu remember my petite pamplemousse
Our trip to La Belle Provence
How we sailed down the Mountain Royale
In our snow scuffed snowshoes
Woman: And how we heated our lips
On the warmth of the Depanneur wine
That stained our teeth
The colour of love
Homme:
Scampering in the Quebecois sleet and stopping
To read the license plates.
Murmuring the sleek sensual sound of : Je me souviens over to each other
And wondering out loud
What it actually meant.
Together/Tout Ensemble
We celebrate our unity
On our Hudson Bay beige and rainbow blanket
And after the festivities:
Lying together listening to the familiar sounds of
Our beloved Leafs losing.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Kalamazoo Diaries: Monk-y Business
The summers of my youth were spent in what my curmudgeonly but darling friend Bram calls a Jewish cult in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. If indeed Olin Sang Ruby Union Institute was a Jewish cult, it was a benevolent one. We did pray twice a day including on field trips to Farmer Max’s (who was a suspected pervert) and at the Milwaukee Zoo to the stares of various Wisconsin goyim. There was also a lot of sugar saturated juice. But there was also a lot of pot and loosely organized circle jerks.
In the ten years that I attended at the Institute, there were several incidents that as a law-abiding member of civil society, I’m not terribly proud of. I did take 75 campers down the Wisconsin River in an electrical storm while a little high. Actually, a little more than a little high since when our fearless leader, Joe, stood at the front of our canoe convoy and shouted: “If it doesn’t kill you, it will make you stronger”, I attributed the quote to Machiavelli and not to Nietzsche. This filled me with much shame and I remember the mistake as if it happened five minutes ago. The taking of 75 campers down the Wisconsin River in an electrical storm was hardly troubling as it was simply de rigeur. My counsellors did it to me and their counsellors did it before them. L’dor v’dor-from generation to generation as my people say.
Nor am I proud of neither correcting my counsellors nor my campers when I caught them engaged in fumbling acts of amateur sex. Had I intervened, I could have saved them much confusion and misery not to mention therapy bills later in life. Instead, I laughed at them. Or worse, I walked away.
None of this though can compare to the incident with the Monk.
The Institute was located on one bank of a small body of water called Lac LaBelle. Every afternoon, we would undergo rigourous swimming lessons in water that at its deepest reached our midriffs. Across from the lake and well within our vision rested a tranquil brown structure known as a monastery. There, in the peace of the corn fields that made us all into allergy medication addicts, monks would retire to their monastery to do whatever it is that monks do.
One of the things that the monks did was take an early afternoon walk around Lac LaBelle.
“Aviva,” I would ask my adorable counsellor. “Why do they time their walks when we are walking around in our bathing suits.”
Aviva would just sigh. What else was she going to do. I mean really, if you had me as a camper, wouldn’t you just sigh?
“They are just going for their walk, Natalie. Don’t bother them. They have taken a vow of silence.”
A VOW OF SILENCE!!! Now that was a challenge.
“Seriously. A vow of silence? What does that mean exactly.”
“It means that they can’t talk. They need to pray and be at one with God.”
“Double dare you to say hello to them. Triple dare you. Infinity Disneyworld dare you!!” I was jumping up and down refusing to let this one go.
“Nat. You can’t disturb them. You have to respect their silence.”
Aviva was a nice girl. She was well-raised and understood human decency. I however did not.
“Respect is overrated!” I declared. And with a toss of my red hair, I approached the monk.
“Natalie...get back here.” I heard the thin high voice of Lincoln Shlensky—one of the male counsellors whom I swear was assigned specifically to deal with me at such moments.
But I was right in front of the monk, and I knew I had about 45 seconds to get this guy to talk before Lincoln went medieval on me.
“Hey, you. Cute guy with the brown dress on. I betcha if I take off my bathing suit right here and right now, you’ll talk, yes?”
I had my hand on my pink bathing suit strap and was all ready to go when Lincoln grabbed and hoisted me over his shoulder. He then delivered a devastating sleeper hold which knocked me out.
When I woke up, I had been hog-tied to the flag pole. The entire camp surrounded me: a sea of red, white, and blue. A ghetto blaster was blasting the lyrics for a song that only Satan himself could have commissioned:
Born down in a dead man's town
The first kick I took was when I hit the ground
You end up like a dog that's been beat too much
'Til you spend half your life just covering up
I started screaming. Screaming to drown out that infernal chorus, that cacophonous nightmare, that musical malignancy that despite my pleading refused to go into remission:
BORN IN THE USA
And not just once. And not twice either. But four fucking times the campers and counsellors of the Institute repeated that line. And that was only the first stanza. I remained tied to the flag pole for what seemed like an eternity but which was really the entire Born in the USA album. The camp turned my suffering into a party: drinking Budweiser and dancing late into the Oconomowoc night as I died a thousand deaths. Voldemort’s Cruciatus Curse would have been a soothing balm compared to this.
And for what? Because I wanted to strip for a monk to get him to talk? Talk about the punishment not fitting the crime.
And yet, it did.
I have felt guilty about this incident for decades. In the middle of my praying for the Leafs to get into the first round during Yom Kippur services, I would ask God to forgive me for my indiscretion. I begged Him or It or She to give me the opportunity to say sorry to International Monkdom. But how? And where?
**********************
“MONKS!!!!” I screamed at Michelle. “There are monks here!!”
“Yes, Natalie. There are monks. The Middle Ages had a lot to do with religion-the rise of Christianity, you know.”
“Can I talk to them? Can I go up to them and speak and they will acknowledge me and listen?”
“Of course.”
“But what about their no-talking rule, their vow of silence?”
“Well, why would they be at a conference if they couldn’t talk?”
“You make a good point.” I spot a monk sampling some of the dark chocolate munch at the Sistine Chapel snack booth and start walking in his direction.” I take a few steps and then feel someone tugging on my LuLu Lemon hoodie.
“What are you doing?” asks Michelle.
“I need to say sorry to the monk.”
Michelle is torn between wanting more details and feeling that ignorance is indeed bliss. She lets go of my hoodie and starts talking to a trim but tall medievalist wearing a pink corduroy jacket with a paisley tie. Perhaps he is going to come out at K-zoo? Realizing I don’t have much time to think about that possibility, I mad dash it to the Sistine Chapel snack booth and come face to face with a very attractive monk.
Oh shit. What do you call a monk? Brother? Father? Saint? Mr.?
I run back to Michelle. Surely she will know this.
“I don’t fucking know.”
I run back to the Sistine Chapel snack booth.
“Father, sir, Mr. Monk. Hi. I’m Natalie. Can I borrow you for a minute. I need to talk to you.”
He is really cute. The fact that he has not had sex in a very long time if ever inspires all sort of lascivious thoughts but I am almost 40 and I suppress them.
“Yes, Natalie. How can I help you.”
“Can I take you for coffee?”
“I don’t drink a lot of coffee. Could we have tea instead. I bring my own. From the monastery, you know.”
“I would love to try some tea from a monastery.”
“We go outside and climb up the hill that I now refer to as Mount Snorelson and sit down on the grass. He pours me some tea from a stainless steel thermos from Eddie Bauer. My husband has the same one.
“I have a confession to make.” I say.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m not a priest. But there are some inside. Shall I get one for you?” He pauses.
“Wait. You are a Jew, no? Why do you need to do confession?”
“How do you know I’m Jewish. My nose isn’t that big is it?”
He points to my necklace.
“Oh yeah right. The Jewish Star around my neck. Dead giveaway, I guess.”
“Indeed. Now what would you like to “confess” about?”
“Well, I have to tell you something that I’m not proud about.”
“Go on.”
“The summers of my youth were spent at a Jewish summer camp in Oco...”
The monk starts to pale visibly.
“nomowoc, Wisconsin. Do you know where that is?”
He puts down the Eddie Bauer thermos.
“Well, it’s on this little lake, Lac LaBelle, not really relevant, but so one day, when I was very young, like 14 years young, I tried to break a monk’s vow of silence by....”
“Taking off your bathing suit!” He jumped up and started walking away from me.
“Come back, come back.” I called to the monk. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. I have learned respect and couth and civility since then. My mother sent me to military school. Look at me. I’m here in Kalamazoo with you and 3500 medievalists. I did good. I am a fine upstanding member of this world!” I stand up and remembering the time I went to a Catholic wedding and Rob pretended he was Catholic to taste the host which he claimed was really a glorified shrimp chip, I got down on my knees. “Bless me Monk, for I have sinned. I will never so help me God offend a member of Your team.”
He reached into the pocket of his brown gown. Oh Fuck. Is he going to pull out one of those necklaces the Christers use. What are they called again? Rosemaries? Rosacea? Wait, what did we chant when we did that Abortion March on D.C. in the late 80s....Keep your something off my overies??
He pulls a device out of his pocket and presses a button.
“Blast it! I hate my Blackberry!” He threw it over Mount Snorelson. “I told Brother Will we should all get iPhones.”
“I have an iPhone.” Is Apple really going to intervene on my behalf against God?
“Natalie. I forgive you. We all forgive you. But I must borrow your iPhone.”
I hand it over to him perplexed. “What for?”
He points it at me, and I hear the familiar sound of a mobile picture being snapped.
“Can you e-mail it to me?”
I e-mail him the picture of my genuflecting outside the Exhibits Hall at the International Medieval Studies Conference in Kalamazoo, Michigan.
He starts to laugh and takes my hand.
“Natalie. You are a legend back home.”
Huh? Me. A nice Jewish girl from suburban Toronto a legend at a monastery in Wisconsin. I feel mildly flattered.
“I am from that Monastery in Oconomowoc. When new monks come to train, our senior leader, Brother Abe, tells the story about how a red-headed teenager from the camp across the lake tried to get him to talk by taking off her bathing suit. It always gets a big laugh. And now I can tell my Brothers that I met you, and I can show them your picture.”
“OK, but for the record, I didn’t take my bathing suit off. I just said I would. But then Lincoln Shlensky got me in a sleeperhold, and tied me to the flag pole and made me listen to Bruce Springsteen. I felt like Jesus on the Cross.”
“Hey, don’t insult the Boss or you’ll have to apologize all over again.”
And then for the first and only time in my life, I apologized for insulting Bruce Springsteen.
Me and my new friend walked back to the Sistine Chapel snack booth where he offered me some bourbon-infused fudge and honeysuckle mead to wash it down. We shook hands and promised to have tea on Mount Snorelson next year.
“Only 360 days away,” said Stephen J. Rose cheerily as he sampled some fudge.
I went back to the booth feeling peaceful and spiritual.
“Take down,” said Michelle. “Let’s pack up and hit the road.”
And we did, our path home shared by a red and white 1950s Oldsmobile with a sculpture of Elvis carved into the trunk.
Don’t even ask.
Kalamazoo Diaries.
In the ten years that I attended at the Institute, there were several incidents that as a law-abiding member of civil society, I’m not terribly proud of. I did take 75 campers down the Wisconsin River in an electrical storm while a little high. Actually, a little more than a little high since when our fearless leader, Joe, stood at the front of our canoe convoy and shouted: “If it doesn’t kill you, it will make you stronger”, I attributed the quote to Machiavelli and not to Nietzsche. This filled me with much shame and I remember the mistake as if it happened five minutes ago. The taking of 75 campers down the Wisconsin River in an electrical storm was hardly troubling as it was simply de rigeur. My counsellors did it to me and their counsellors did it before them. L’dor v’dor-from generation to generation as my people say.
Nor am I proud of neither correcting my counsellors nor my campers when I caught them engaged in fumbling acts of amateur sex. Had I intervened, I could have saved them much confusion and misery not to mention therapy bills later in life. Instead, I laughed at them. Or worse, I walked away.
None of this though can compare to the incident with the Monk.
The Institute was located on one bank of a small body of water called Lac LaBelle. Every afternoon, we would undergo rigourous swimming lessons in water that at its deepest reached our midriffs. Across from the lake and well within our vision rested a tranquil brown structure known as a monastery. There, in the peace of the corn fields that made us all into allergy medication addicts, monks would retire to their monastery to do whatever it is that monks do.
One of the things that the monks did was take an early afternoon walk around Lac LaBelle.
“Aviva,” I would ask my adorable counsellor. “Why do they time their walks when we are walking around in our bathing suits.”
Aviva would just sigh. What else was she going to do. I mean really, if you had me as a camper, wouldn’t you just sigh?
“They are just going for their walk, Natalie. Don’t bother them. They have taken a vow of silence.”
A VOW OF SILENCE!!! Now that was a challenge.
“Seriously. A vow of silence? What does that mean exactly.”
“It means that they can’t talk. They need to pray and be at one with God.”
“Double dare you to say hello to them. Triple dare you. Infinity Disneyworld dare you!!” I was jumping up and down refusing to let this one go.
“Nat. You can’t disturb them. You have to respect their silence.”
Aviva was a nice girl. She was well-raised and understood human decency. I however did not.
“Respect is overrated!” I declared. And with a toss of my red hair, I approached the monk.
“Natalie...get back here.” I heard the thin high voice of Lincoln Shlensky—one of the male counsellors whom I swear was assigned specifically to deal with me at such moments.
But I was right in front of the monk, and I knew I had about 45 seconds to get this guy to talk before Lincoln went medieval on me.
“Hey, you. Cute guy with the brown dress on. I betcha if I take off my bathing suit right here and right now, you’ll talk, yes?”
I had my hand on my pink bathing suit strap and was all ready to go when Lincoln grabbed and hoisted me over his shoulder. He then delivered a devastating sleeper hold which knocked me out.
When I woke up, I had been hog-tied to the flag pole. The entire camp surrounded me: a sea of red, white, and blue. A ghetto blaster was blasting the lyrics for a song that only Satan himself could have commissioned:
Born down in a dead man's town
The first kick I took was when I hit the ground
You end up like a dog that's been beat too much
'Til you spend half your life just covering up
I started screaming. Screaming to drown out that infernal chorus, that cacophonous nightmare, that musical malignancy that despite my pleading refused to go into remission:
BORN IN THE USA
And not just once. And not twice either. But four fucking times the campers and counsellors of the Institute repeated that line. And that was only the first stanza. I remained tied to the flag pole for what seemed like an eternity but which was really the entire Born in the USA album. The camp turned my suffering into a party: drinking Budweiser and dancing late into the Oconomowoc night as I died a thousand deaths. Voldemort’s Cruciatus Curse would have been a soothing balm compared to this.
And for what? Because I wanted to strip for a monk to get him to talk? Talk about the punishment not fitting the crime.
And yet, it did.
I have felt guilty about this incident for decades. In the middle of my praying for the Leafs to get into the first round during Yom Kippur services, I would ask God to forgive me for my indiscretion. I begged Him or It or She to give me the opportunity to say sorry to International Monkdom. But how? And where?
**********************
“MONKS!!!!” I screamed at Michelle. “There are monks here!!”
“Yes, Natalie. There are monks. The Middle Ages had a lot to do with religion-the rise of Christianity, you know.”
“Can I talk to them? Can I go up to them and speak and they will acknowledge me and listen?”
“Of course.”
“But what about their no-talking rule, their vow of silence?”
“Well, why would they be at a conference if they couldn’t talk?”
“You make a good point.” I spot a monk sampling some of the dark chocolate munch at the Sistine Chapel snack booth and start walking in his direction.” I take a few steps and then feel someone tugging on my LuLu Lemon hoodie.
“What are you doing?” asks Michelle.
“I need to say sorry to the monk.”
Michelle is torn between wanting more details and feeling that ignorance is indeed bliss. She lets go of my hoodie and starts talking to a trim but tall medievalist wearing a pink corduroy jacket with a paisley tie. Perhaps he is going to come out at K-zoo? Realizing I don’t have much time to think about that possibility, I mad dash it to the Sistine Chapel snack booth and come face to face with a very attractive monk.
Oh shit. What do you call a monk? Brother? Father? Saint? Mr.?
I run back to Michelle. Surely she will know this.
“I don’t fucking know.”
I run back to the Sistine Chapel snack booth.
“Father, sir, Mr. Monk. Hi. I’m Natalie. Can I borrow you for a minute. I need to talk to you.”
He is really cute. The fact that he has not had sex in a very long time if ever inspires all sort of lascivious thoughts but I am almost 40 and I suppress them.
“Yes, Natalie. How can I help you.”
“Can I take you for coffee?”
“I don’t drink a lot of coffee. Could we have tea instead. I bring my own. From the monastery, you know.”
“I would love to try some tea from a monastery.”
“We go outside and climb up the hill that I now refer to as Mount Snorelson and sit down on the grass. He pours me some tea from a stainless steel thermos from Eddie Bauer. My husband has the same one.
“I have a confession to make.” I say.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m not a priest. But there are some inside. Shall I get one for you?” He pauses.
“Wait. You are a Jew, no? Why do you need to do confession?”
“How do you know I’m Jewish. My nose isn’t that big is it?”
He points to my necklace.
“Oh yeah right. The Jewish Star around my neck. Dead giveaway, I guess.”
“Indeed. Now what would you like to “confess” about?”
“Well, I have to tell you something that I’m not proud about.”
“Go on.”
“The summers of my youth were spent at a Jewish summer camp in Oco...”
The monk starts to pale visibly.
“nomowoc, Wisconsin. Do you know where that is?”
He puts down the Eddie Bauer thermos.
“Well, it’s on this little lake, Lac LaBelle, not really relevant, but so one day, when I was very young, like 14 years young, I tried to break a monk’s vow of silence by....”
“Taking off your bathing suit!” He jumped up and started walking away from me.
“Come back, come back.” I called to the monk. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. I have learned respect and couth and civility since then. My mother sent me to military school. Look at me. I’m here in Kalamazoo with you and 3500 medievalists. I did good. I am a fine upstanding member of this world!” I stand up and remembering the time I went to a Catholic wedding and Rob pretended he was Catholic to taste the host which he claimed was really a glorified shrimp chip, I got down on my knees. “Bless me Monk, for I have sinned. I will never so help me God offend a member of Your team.”
He reached into the pocket of his brown gown. Oh Fuck. Is he going to pull out one of those necklaces the Christers use. What are they called again? Rosemaries? Rosacea? Wait, what did we chant when we did that Abortion March on D.C. in the late 80s....Keep your something off my overies??
He pulls a device out of his pocket and presses a button.
“Blast it! I hate my Blackberry!” He threw it over Mount Snorelson. “I told Brother Will we should all get iPhones.”
“I have an iPhone.” Is Apple really going to intervene on my behalf against God?
“Natalie. I forgive you. We all forgive you. But I must borrow your iPhone.”
I hand it over to him perplexed. “What for?”
He points it at me, and I hear the familiar sound of a mobile picture being snapped.
“Can you e-mail it to me?”
I e-mail him the picture of my genuflecting outside the Exhibits Hall at the International Medieval Studies Conference in Kalamazoo, Michigan.
He starts to laugh and takes my hand.
“Natalie. You are a legend back home.”
Huh? Me. A nice Jewish girl from suburban Toronto a legend at a monastery in Wisconsin. I feel mildly flattered.
“I am from that Monastery in Oconomowoc. When new monks come to train, our senior leader, Brother Abe, tells the story about how a red-headed teenager from the camp across the lake tried to get him to talk by taking off her bathing suit. It always gets a big laugh. And now I can tell my Brothers that I met you, and I can show them your picture.”
“OK, but for the record, I didn’t take my bathing suit off. I just said I would. But then Lincoln Shlensky got me in a sleeperhold, and tied me to the flag pole and made me listen to Bruce Springsteen. I felt like Jesus on the Cross.”
“Hey, don’t insult the Boss or you’ll have to apologize all over again.”
And then for the first and only time in my life, I apologized for insulting Bruce Springsteen.
Me and my new friend walked back to the Sistine Chapel snack booth where he offered me some bourbon-infused fudge and honeysuckle mead to wash it down. We shook hands and promised to have tea on Mount Snorelson next year.
“Only 360 days away,” said Stephen J. Rose cheerily as he sampled some fudge.
I went back to the booth feeling peaceful and spiritual.
“Take down,” said Michelle. “Let’s pack up and hit the road.”
And we did, our path home shared by a red and white 1950s Oldsmobile with a sculpture of Elvis carved into the trunk.
Don’t even ask.
Kalamazoo Diaries.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Kalamazoo Diaries: The Pose of Stephen J. Rose
His name was Stephen J. Rose. And had he lived in India, he would have been an untouchable. But, now that I think about it, he was just exactly that from the minute he entered primary school in Green Bay, Wisconsin until he discovered Dungeons and Dragons in Grade 9. But from that moment on, his fantasy world and reality merged and he found true happiness.
Stephen J. Rose’s annual climactic moment began when he drove up in his lime green Pontiac Sedan to the entrance of Goldfinger Hall to register as an Independant Scholar for the international medieval studies conference. From there, he walked to the souvenir stand to purchase the two tags he would wear over his somewhat blossoming left bosom which, and I kid you not, read as follows:
Greek Geek
Latin Lover
Everytime I saw those red labels on the chest of Stephen J., I saw porn magazines. There was absolutely nothing I could do about this vision. Inevitably, Stephen J would make his way to our booth and proceed to buy one of my books. This time, it was a book on medieval gardens.
“I want to plant one at my house”
“What makes a garden medieval?”
He leaned onto my stand, his feet in what we former figure skaters call a spread eagle and starts talking, but I am easily distracted by the the uber perky blonde at the Pearson booth who has started to giggle. As did the uber perky blonde at the Brill booth and the uber perky blonde at the Brepols booth.
OK. I have to digress here. I know its a bit early, but it has to be this way. I suffer from this weird syndrome that Rob has diagnosed as Echoalia. If one suffers from echoalia, they will hear a word and then repeat it constantly often accompanied by hysterical laughter.
Let me give you a few of my favourites:
“Ness” (a street in Winnipeg)
“Lagimodier” (another street in Winnipeg)
“Niedermeyer (as in Joe and if you don’t know who that is, you should feel shame)
“Fufaika” (Russian word meaning warm coat mentioned in a book I read as a child called The Endless Steppe)
“S’wingen..Cocksuckah.”
“Brepols” is another one. I echoaliad all over that one while I was breastfeeding my daughter because it seemed like the perfect combination of breast and nipples. Whenever I hear Brepols, I see a breast pump. Again, there is nothing I can do about this visual.
I’m not sure why the Perkies are all laughing at Stephen J. Rose. I actually think they are rude. I take Stephen J’s money which, because we are in America is all the same colour and therefore terribly confusing, and bid him a good conference. He tells me he will send me pictures of his garden and I am very gracious. I do wipe my hands with one of Olivia’s baby wipes. I can’t help it.
“Can I get a copy of your book on Snorri Snorelson and his Edda?”
“I’m sorry, what are you looking for?”
“Can I please get a copy of your book on Snorri Snorelson and his Edda?”
There is a mass of grey bangs in my face that smells like Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific and large blue glasses with a tint in them that keeps shifting.
Snorri Snorelson. The manic laughter begins at the base of my throat. I need to leave. Michelle knows I need a time out. She tells me to go take a break. I dash out the back door and run up the hill behind the Exhibits Hall like Jamie Somers on crack and collapse on the grass, tears pouring out of my eyes.
Snorri Snorelson. Snorri Snorelson. Snorri Snorelson.
After about 2 hours, I can finally think of something other than Snorri Snorelson. I collect myself and go back down the hill. Tess and Michelle are tidying up the booth.
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah, are you OK?” Tess asks. She’s never been in Hell with me and looks a little concerned.
“I have to tell you guys something really important. I was just reading in the Kalamazoo Gazette that there is a serial killer on the loose.”
Michelle rolls her eyes. She knows exactly what’s coming.
“Seriously, a serial killer.” Tess is concerned. “And it’s so deserted around here.”
“You know what his name is?”
“Nat....”
“SNORRI SNORELSON!!!!!” Michelle just points to the door again.
I take a long walk and wonder yet again if I need to be put on some sort of medication. I type this exact question into the Notes application of my iPhone so that I can bring it up with my shrink when I get home.
“Can I fix your hair?”
“I’m sorry. Can you do what?”
“Can I please fix your hair.”
The Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific medievalist is back in my face. She is a short medievalist and she needs to stand on her turquoise painted toes to reach my head.
“You have such beautiful long red hair and its a little wild. I would like to tame it with an Alice.”
My hockey stick reappears magically into my left hand. I proceed to slash her gracefully like Hannibal Lecter did to the Brandenburg Concertos when he sliced open a prison guard. However, I must confess that I do prefer Brahms Requiem at such times.
She proceeds to take out one of those fuzzy pink elastic band type things and starts to wind the first quarters of my hair on either side.
“Oh, you want to pull it back into a Woogy”
“Yes, I want to tame it with an Alice.”
“Oh, you want to pull it back into a Woogy.” I say a little more forcefully.
“Yes, I want to tame it with an Alice.” She says a little louder.
“Do you know what a gogoplata is? I ask sweetly.
“Yes, its a mixed martial art chokehold that was invented in 13th century Gaul.”
“No shit. Are you serious.”
“Totally serious. Do you watch MMA?”
“Nah, I’m old-school. I watch WWF.”
“WWF is for pussies and panty waists. Let me show you on my iPhone.”
Me and my Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific medievalist grab a Starbucks and go hang out by the fountains and the Canadian storks, I mean pelicans, I mean geese. She proceeds to show me some MMA on You Tube. I counter by showing her how The Undertaker took down 5000 lb Big Daddy V with the gogoplata. She is smitten. We watch a bunch of Undertaker matches and then I show her the greatest 5 minutes in Sports Entertainment History: the entrance of the Undertaker. Actually, I don’t show her in as much as I perform it for her since I have been practicing it daily when I walk Raffi into his Jewish day school every morning.
“Natalie. You need to come back to the booth. Stephen J. is looking for you.” Michelle is motioning to me.
My medievalist looks at me with a touch of melancholy. “Come back soon.” I think I’m in love.
Stephen J. Rose is indeed back at my booth.
“Did you know that your name means Thimble in German?”
Yes, you dipshit. Of course I know that. It was one of the more polite terms of reference that I heard growing up-the others being the obvious Pizza Hut, Fingerslut, Fingernut and the highly creative but kind of gross Finger Up Her Butt.
“I had no idea. You learn something new every day.”
“Oh yes. Well. It’s because..well, you know. A house on a finger is what a seamstress might have used in Carolingian times when she was sewing. A thimble if you will.”
I won’t actually...and who the fuck is Caroline. Michelle kicks the back of my knee.
“Would you mind selling me your last copy of....Snorri Snorelson and his Edda?”
I have grown up in the last half a day and I calmly procure the last copy and hand it to him. I bid Stephen J. Rose goodbye as he leaves the booth. But the Perkies are giggling again and even though I am not perky and will never be so, I am tired of being left out of this joke.
“Whazzup?” I go over to the Brepols booth.
“Oh my God,” says the representative who bears a wonderful resemblance to my favourite of all my gay male loves, the late Douglas Laird Robinson. “Have you not seen it?”
“Seen what exactly?”
“It. Look, he is leaning over the Palgrave counter. See it now? On his...his....derriere, his hindquarters, his...”
“Plumber Butt....oh Dear God. I am looking at the barest skin, a portion of nakedness, on the lower side of Stephen J. Rose. His Wrangler jeans having deserted him by 5 cm. And there it was in red for all eternity:
K-Zoo 4-Ever
OK. That’s it. I have had absolutely enough. Nowhere does it say in my contract that I need to bear witness to this madness. I start to hyperventilate. Michelle grabs the EpiPen and there before 3500 medievalists, she expertly jabs me into the fleshy side of my left thigh.
“I’ll be back.” She sighs to Tess whose mouth is wide open. She won’t be accompanying us next year. This I already know for certain.
“Michelle bundles me into the backseat of the white car, and drives me back to the spaceship. The epinephran turns the world into double vision and instead of 10 medievalists crossing the street into Goldfinger on a red light, there are 20. Instead of 1 Happy Spa, there are 2. Instead of 90 Starbucks, there are 180. You get the idea. But maybe you do not. Maybe you need me to sing you the song that I sang to Michelle on the way home. Maybe only then, you can start to appreciate my pain.
“On the first day of K-zoo, my Michelle gave to me: a book about Snorri Snorelson.”
“On the second day of K-zoo, my Michelle gave to me: two purple Alices, and book about Snorri Snorelson.”
“On the third day of K-zoo, my Michelle gave to me: 3 pairs of Wrangler jeans, two purple Alices, and a book about Snorri Snorelson.
“On the fourth day of K-zoo, my Michelle gave to me...”
Michelle has cranked up the music. Her husband and she have this radio program called the Mich Vish Interracial Morning show. You should listen to it. CFRU 93.3—Wednesday at 7:00 am. They play music that I have never heard of because it was created post 1991. Neither have ever heard of Carole Pope. But I have, and now I am singing High School Confidential. And the windows are all open. And I’m just about to get to that line...you know the line I’m talking about, when we arrive at the spaceship.
“Go up to the room and relax. I’ll be back later.”
I do what I’m told. I’ve exhausted her and more importantly, myself.
I go up to our room, pull out the emergency stash of Absolute that I keep in a little pink girl flask that Rob gave me for such occasions and take a delicate sip because that is all one can with such a device. I take 422 such sips and then pass out to everyone’s great relief.
Kalamazoo Diaries.
Stephen J. Rose’s annual climactic moment began when he drove up in his lime green Pontiac Sedan to the entrance of Goldfinger Hall to register as an Independant Scholar for the international medieval studies conference. From there, he walked to the souvenir stand to purchase the two tags he would wear over his somewhat blossoming left bosom which, and I kid you not, read as follows:
Greek Geek
Latin Lover
Everytime I saw those red labels on the chest of Stephen J., I saw porn magazines. There was absolutely nothing I could do about this vision. Inevitably, Stephen J would make his way to our booth and proceed to buy one of my books. This time, it was a book on medieval gardens.
“I want to plant one at my house”
“What makes a garden medieval?”
He leaned onto my stand, his feet in what we former figure skaters call a spread eagle and starts talking, but I am easily distracted by the the uber perky blonde at the Pearson booth who has started to giggle. As did the uber perky blonde at the Brill booth and the uber perky blonde at the Brepols booth.
OK. I have to digress here. I know its a bit early, but it has to be this way. I suffer from this weird syndrome that Rob has diagnosed as Echoalia. If one suffers from echoalia, they will hear a word and then repeat it constantly often accompanied by hysterical laughter.
Let me give you a few of my favourites:
“Ness” (a street in Winnipeg)
“Lagimodier” (another street in Winnipeg)
“Niedermeyer (as in Joe and if you don’t know who that is, you should feel shame)
“Fufaika” (Russian word meaning warm coat mentioned in a book I read as a child called The Endless Steppe)
“S’wingen..Cocksuckah.”
“Brepols” is another one. I echoaliad all over that one while I was breastfeeding my daughter because it seemed like the perfect combination of breast and nipples. Whenever I hear Brepols, I see a breast pump. Again, there is nothing I can do about this visual.
I’m not sure why the Perkies are all laughing at Stephen J. Rose. I actually think they are rude. I take Stephen J’s money which, because we are in America is all the same colour and therefore terribly confusing, and bid him a good conference. He tells me he will send me pictures of his garden and I am very gracious. I do wipe my hands with one of Olivia’s baby wipes. I can’t help it.
“Can I get a copy of your book on Snorri Snorelson and his Edda?”
“I’m sorry, what are you looking for?”
“Can I please get a copy of your book on Snorri Snorelson and his Edda?”
There is a mass of grey bangs in my face that smells like Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific and large blue glasses with a tint in them that keeps shifting.
Snorri Snorelson. The manic laughter begins at the base of my throat. I need to leave. Michelle knows I need a time out. She tells me to go take a break. I dash out the back door and run up the hill behind the Exhibits Hall like Jamie Somers on crack and collapse on the grass, tears pouring out of my eyes.
Snorri Snorelson. Snorri Snorelson. Snorri Snorelson.
After about 2 hours, I can finally think of something other than Snorri Snorelson. I collect myself and go back down the hill. Tess and Michelle are tidying up the booth.
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah, are you OK?” Tess asks. She’s never been in Hell with me and looks a little concerned.
“I have to tell you guys something really important. I was just reading in the Kalamazoo Gazette that there is a serial killer on the loose.”
Michelle rolls her eyes. She knows exactly what’s coming.
“Seriously, a serial killer.” Tess is concerned. “And it’s so deserted around here.”
“You know what his name is?”
“Nat....”
“SNORRI SNORELSON!!!!!” Michelle just points to the door again.
I take a long walk and wonder yet again if I need to be put on some sort of medication. I type this exact question into the Notes application of my iPhone so that I can bring it up with my shrink when I get home.
“Can I fix your hair?”
“I’m sorry. Can you do what?”
“Can I please fix your hair.”
The Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific medievalist is back in my face. She is a short medievalist and she needs to stand on her turquoise painted toes to reach my head.
“You have such beautiful long red hair and its a little wild. I would like to tame it with an Alice.”
My hockey stick reappears magically into my left hand. I proceed to slash her gracefully like Hannibal Lecter did to the Brandenburg Concertos when he sliced open a prison guard. However, I must confess that I do prefer Brahms Requiem at such times.
She proceeds to take out one of those fuzzy pink elastic band type things and starts to wind the first quarters of my hair on either side.
“Oh, you want to pull it back into a Woogy”
“Yes, I want to tame it with an Alice.”
“Oh, you want to pull it back into a Woogy.” I say a little more forcefully.
“Yes, I want to tame it with an Alice.” She says a little louder.
“Do you know what a gogoplata is? I ask sweetly.
“Yes, its a mixed martial art chokehold that was invented in 13th century Gaul.”
“No shit. Are you serious.”
“Totally serious. Do you watch MMA?”
“Nah, I’m old-school. I watch WWF.”
“WWF is for pussies and panty waists. Let me show you on my iPhone.”
Me and my Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific medievalist grab a Starbucks and go hang out by the fountains and the Canadian storks, I mean pelicans, I mean geese. She proceeds to show me some MMA on You Tube. I counter by showing her how The Undertaker took down 5000 lb Big Daddy V with the gogoplata. She is smitten. We watch a bunch of Undertaker matches and then I show her the greatest 5 minutes in Sports Entertainment History: the entrance of the Undertaker. Actually, I don’t show her in as much as I perform it for her since I have been practicing it daily when I walk Raffi into his Jewish day school every morning.
“Natalie. You need to come back to the booth. Stephen J. is looking for you.” Michelle is motioning to me.
My medievalist looks at me with a touch of melancholy. “Come back soon.” I think I’m in love.
Stephen J. Rose is indeed back at my booth.
“Did you know that your name means Thimble in German?”
Yes, you dipshit. Of course I know that. It was one of the more polite terms of reference that I heard growing up-the others being the obvious Pizza Hut, Fingerslut, Fingernut and the highly creative but kind of gross Finger Up Her Butt.
“I had no idea. You learn something new every day.”
“Oh yes. Well. It’s because..well, you know. A house on a finger is what a seamstress might have used in Carolingian times when she was sewing. A thimble if you will.”
I won’t actually...and who the fuck is Caroline. Michelle kicks the back of my knee.
“Would you mind selling me your last copy of....Snorri Snorelson and his Edda?”
I have grown up in the last half a day and I calmly procure the last copy and hand it to him. I bid Stephen J. Rose goodbye as he leaves the booth. But the Perkies are giggling again and even though I am not perky and will never be so, I am tired of being left out of this joke.
“Whazzup?” I go over to the Brepols booth.
“Oh my God,” says the representative who bears a wonderful resemblance to my favourite of all my gay male loves, the late Douglas Laird Robinson. “Have you not seen it?”
“Seen what exactly?”
“It. Look, he is leaning over the Palgrave counter. See it now? On his...his....derriere, his hindquarters, his...”
“Plumber Butt....oh Dear God. I am looking at the barest skin, a portion of nakedness, on the lower side of Stephen J. Rose. His Wrangler jeans having deserted him by 5 cm. And there it was in red for all eternity:
K-Zoo 4-Ever
OK. That’s it. I have had absolutely enough. Nowhere does it say in my contract that I need to bear witness to this madness. I start to hyperventilate. Michelle grabs the EpiPen and there before 3500 medievalists, she expertly jabs me into the fleshy side of my left thigh.
“I’ll be back.” She sighs to Tess whose mouth is wide open. She won’t be accompanying us next year. This I already know for certain.
“Michelle bundles me into the backseat of the white car, and drives me back to the spaceship. The epinephran turns the world into double vision and instead of 10 medievalists crossing the street into Goldfinger on a red light, there are 20. Instead of 1 Happy Spa, there are 2. Instead of 90 Starbucks, there are 180. You get the idea. But maybe you do not. Maybe you need me to sing you the song that I sang to Michelle on the way home. Maybe only then, you can start to appreciate my pain.
“On the first day of K-zoo, my Michelle gave to me: a book about Snorri Snorelson.”
“On the second day of K-zoo, my Michelle gave to me: two purple Alices, and book about Snorri Snorelson.”
“On the third day of K-zoo, my Michelle gave to me: 3 pairs of Wrangler jeans, two purple Alices, and a book about Snorri Snorelson.
“On the fourth day of K-zoo, my Michelle gave to me...”
Michelle has cranked up the music. Her husband and she have this radio program called the Mich Vish Interracial Morning show. You should listen to it. CFRU 93.3—Wednesday at 7:00 am. They play music that I have never heard of because it was created post 1991. Neither have ever heard of Carole Pope. But I have, and now I am singing High School Confidential. And the windows are all open. And I’m just about to get to that line...you know the line I’m talking about, when we arrive at the spaceship.
“Go up to the room and relax. I’ll be back later.”
I do what I’m told. I’ve exhausted her and more importantly, myself.
I go up to our room, pull out the emergency stash of Absolute that I keep in a little pink girl flask that Rob gave me for such occasions and take a delicate sip because that is all one can with such a device. I take 422 such sips and then pass out to everyone’s great relief.
Kalamazoo Diaries.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Kalamazoo Diaries
The Journey Begins...
It’s 7:45 am. I am bidding good bye to civilization. Good-bye to espresso. Good bye to fresh bread. Good bye to my listeria that is growing in my garden. Or is it wisteria. Who can possibly know the difference.
I have a bus to catch. The bus that will take me to Guelph, Ontario and from there into a white rental car that will carry Michelle and I to the 44th meeting of international medievalists held annually in a medieval garden in Rome close to arugala salad, homemade pasta and passion fruit gelato.
“OK, Nat. Can you map out our route to Sarnia on your Iphone.”
Sarnia, Ontario. And from there to Flint. And from Flint to Battleship or Battleford and then to the hotbead of international medievaldom: Kalamazoo. To the pros: K-zoo. And to the amateurs: The Zoo. But to me, the annual piligrimage to summer camp for medievalists can simply be referred to as Hell.
We stop at the Subway in Sarnia like we did last year, the year before, and the year before that. I order a tuna sub and something that is called soup but isn’t. My iPhone is losing battery life and with that loss goes my only connection to the 21st c. I need to do something. There is no outlet in Subway nor in the bathroom at Subway. We go the pet store and ask them to charge my iPhone. This they do. I look at the chameleons changing colours in their holding tanks and wonder if someone is going to pitch me a book idea on Medieval reptiles. Michelle says it has been done already by 231 different publishers. I breathe a sigh of relief.
On the road again. We go over the border where we are not stopped and therefore not given respite. Faster than a Michael Phelps lap, we are confronted with the worst roads in the entire galaxy complete with dead deer and discarded pieces of tire.
What’s that you ask? Discarded pieces of tire? Yes. Lots of it. I know, I don’t get it either. How does the truck keep driving if it has lost pieces of tire.
“It just sheds the tire, Natalie. The tire is still there.” Michelle sighs and keeps staring into the tree-lined highways that remind me of Treblinka, Sobibor, and Belzec. People tend to forget about Belzec and I feel personally responsible for always including it.
“I think if someone wanted to create a death camp, they should do it here. It really is quite perfect. You have railway lines and lots of trees and areas for mass graves.”
“Can we listen to Flight of the Conchords now.” Michelle has done this trip with me before. I don’t know why she volunteered to go again. Perhaps it is because no one else will go with me anymore.
At 3:30, we get the call.
“Hi Natalie. It’s Suzie. Suzie from the warehouse. Your books aren’t there Natalie. They aren’t there.” Suzie is our hot, young, frequently breathless Distribution coordinator. Her job it to ensure that books arrive from the warehouse to Kalamazoo. This is what she is paid to do.
“Why aren’t they there?” I ask mildly concerned but not panicked.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“I don’t know is not an answer.”
“I know. I don’t know. I just don’t. Know.”
“Let us know when you know.” I hang up.
“This is going to suck.” I said to Michelle.
“I feel you.” Said Michelle.
We drive into Kalamazoo. There is a sign for the airport that says Air Zoo. I need to leave.
“We can’t leave. We just got here.”
I see a tall roadside ad for a massage parlour called the Happy Spa. “Personalized massage available.”
“You know what that means dontcha? Says Michelle who is far hipper than I will ever be.
“Ummm. That you can design your own massage?” I respond. A true naïf.
“It means “to completion.”
“Completion of what? The massage? One would hope so. I pay serious coin for a massage. They better finish it.”
“Oh my fucking God. Do I have to explain everything to you.”
I take a minute to think about “to completion.” Nah. That’s can be it. Why would someone want that from a complete stranger.
“I don’t think you have that right. I wouldn’t want some grody guy touching me like that.”
We are at a red light. Michelle has her head on the steering wheel.
‘You have been married wayyyy too long.” She pronounces.
We drive in silence past the football stadium that is the size of Toronto, past the pond where the pelicans and storks frolic (“They’re Canadian Geese, you moron. Please write that they are Canadian Geese. Natalie, I’m going to proof this before you post it on your blog.”) and into Valley 3 of the Goldfinger Dorms at Western Michigan University.
“No books.” Tess arrived yesterday and is sitting at our empty booth in the Exhibits Hall where 4000 other publishers are busy setting up their medieval wares that include numismatists, coffee, fudge and munch made by monks, and an entire wall bedecked in amber jewellery from the former Soviet Union with uneven quality. And books. Lots and Lots of books.
“We heard.” Said Michelle.
“They’ll be here tomorrow.” Said Tess.
“Lets go to the mall.”
We leave our booth empty;the sounds of other publishers’ boxes being ripped open a reminder of how bad we are going to look tomorrow at 8:00 when the medievalists storm the Hall looking for books on lapidary formation in the 12th c and we have none. But, we are living in the moment and it is 6:00. We have an hour at the mall.
The Gap in Kalamazoo is the last place one would find a medievalist and so I treasure my time there. Michelle tries on a beautiful dress. We are blissfully transported to any Gap anywhere and for a minute, I forget where I am.
“If you buy a membership card, you can get 10% off all future purchases.”
“I don’t live here.”
“Oh, are you from out of town. Grand Rapids? Flint?
“From Toronto.”
“What state’s that in?”
And then I remember exactly where I am.
We leave the Mall and drive to the Radisson hotel which looks exactly like a spaceship.
“Fingerhut. Ha Ha. That’s a funny name.” Says the perky hotel person at the check-in desk.
I find that ironic coming from a woman named Buffy Duberman.
“Are you with that medieval conference?”
“Yup.”
“You medievalists are some of the nicest people that we get here at the Rad. So much better than those management consultant types.
She has a point you know. I’ve worked with management consultants and they are almost without exception assholes. In fact there is an inverse relationship in management consultants between how dumb they are and their asshole quotient. But I digress. But then again, I’m at a medievalist conference. Digression is de riguer.
We drop our items off in our room and head down to the hotel bar which is capable of seating the Western Michigan football team, their coaches, groupies, cheerleaders, and water boys; the Western Michigan wrestling team, local personalities like Ben who was a finalist in American Idol and who sometimes plays the piano at the hotel bar, and 3500 medievalists.
“I’ll have a Kalamapolitan.” Says Michelle. Last year, we drank about 6 of them and then proceeded to sing the entire soundtrack of Les Miserables.
“I’ll join her.” I said.
At some point, we order dinner which like most things in the US is super sized. (The obesity problem in the US is easily understood if you spend half an hour in any American city). A little drunk and a little full, we go up to bed and watch a bit of James Bond, but just as Pussy Galore enters the room, we are already asleep.
Kalamazoo Diaries
It’s 7:45 am. I am bidding good bye to civilization. Good-bye to espresso. Good bye to fresh bread. Good bye to my listeria that is growing in my garden. Or is it wisteria. Who can possibly know the difference.
I have a bus to catch. The bus that will take me to Guelph, Ontario and from there into a white rental car that will carry Michelle and I to the 44th meeting of international medievalists held annually in a medieval garden in Rome close to arugala salad, homemade pasta and passion fruit gelato.
“OK, Nat. Can you map out our route to Sarnia on your Iphone.”
Sarnia, Ontario. And from there to Flint. And from Flint to Battleship or Battleford and then to the hotbead of international medievaldom: Kalamazoo. To the pros: K-zoo. And to the amateurs: The Zoo. But to me, the annual piligrimage to summer camp for medievalists can simply be referred to as Hell.
We stop at the Subway in Sarnia like we did last year, the year before, and the year before that. I order a tuna sub and something that is called soup but isn’t. My iPhone is losing battery life and with that loss goes my only connection to the 21st c. I need to do something. There is no outlet in Subway nor in the bathroom at Subway. We go the pet store and ask them to charge my iPhone. This they do. I look at the chameleons changing colours in their holding tanks and wonder if someone is going to pitch me a book idea on Medieval reptiles. Michelle says it has been done already by 231 different publishers. I breathe a sigh of relief.
On the road again. We go over the border where we are not stopped and therefore not given respite. Faster than a Michael Phelps lap, we are confronted with the worst roads in the entire galaxy complete with dead deer and discarded pieces of tire.
What’s that you ask? Discarded pieces of tire? Yes. Lots of it. I know, I don’t get it either. How does the truck keep driving if it has lost pieces of tire.
“It just sheds the tire, Natalie. The tire is still there.” Michelle sighs and keeps staring into the tree-lined highways that remind me of Treblinka, Sobibor, and Belzec. People tend to forget about Belzec and I feel personally responsible for always including it.
“I think if someone wanted to create a death camp, they should do it here. It really is quite perfect. You have railway lines and lots of trees and areas for mass graves.”
“Can we listen to Flight of the Conchords now.” Michelle has done this trip with me before. I don’t know why she volunteered to go again. Perhaps it is because no one else will go with me anymore.
At 3:30, we get the call.
“Hi Natalie. It’s Suzie. Suzie from the warehouse. Your books aren’t there Natalie. They aren’t there.” Suzie is our hot, young, frequently breathless Distribution coordinator. Her job it to ensure that books arrive from the warehouse to Kalamazoo. This is what she is paid to do.
“Why aren’t they there?” I ask mildly concerned but not panicked.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“I don’t know is not an answer.”
“I know. I don’t know. I just don’t. Know.”
“Let us know when you know.” I hang up.
“This is going to suck.” I said to Michelle.
“I feel you.” Said Michelle.
We drive into Kalamazoo. There is a sign for the airport that says Air Zoo. I need to leave.
“We can’t leave. We just got here.”
I see a tall roadside ad for a massage parlour called the Happy Spa. “Personalized massage available.”
“You know what that means dontcha? Says Michelle who is far hipper than I will ever be.
“Ummm. That you can design your own massage?” I respond. A true naïf.
“It means “to completion.”
“Completion of what? The massage? One would hope so. I pay serious coin for a massage. They better finish it.”
“Oh my fucking God. Do I have to explain everything to you.”
I take a minute to think about “to completion.” Nah. That’s can be it. Why would someone want that from a complete stranger.
“I don’t think you have that right. I wouldn’t want some grody guy touching me like that.”
We are at a red light. Michelle has her head on the steering wheel.
‘You have been married wayyyy too long.” She pronounces.
We drive in silence past the football stadium that is the size of Toronto, past the pond where the pelicans and storks frolic (“They’re Canadian Geese, you moron. Please write that they are Canadian Geese. Natalie, I’m going to proof this before you post it on your blog.”) and into Valley 3 of the Goldfinger Dorms at Western Michigan University.
“No books.” Tess arrived yesterday and is sitting at our empty booth in the Exhibits Hall where 4000 other publishers are busy setting up their medieval wares that include numismatists, coffee, fudge and munch made by monks, and an entire wall bedecked in amber jewellery from the former Soviet Union with uneven quality. And books. Lots and Lots of books.
“We heard.” Said Michelle.
“They’ll be here tomorrow.” Said Tess.
“Lets go to the mall.”
We leave our booth empty;the sounds of other publishers’ boxes being ripped open a reminder of how bad we are going to look tomorrow at 8:00 when the medievalists storm the Hall looking for books on lapidary formation in the 12th c and we have none. But, we are living in the moment and it is 6:00. We have an hour at the mall.
The Gap in Kalamazoo is the last place one would find a medievalist and so I treasure my time there. Michelle tries on a beautiful dress. We are blissfully transported to any Gap anywhere and for a minute, I forget where I am.
“If you buy a membership card, you can get 10% off all future purchases.”
“I don’t live here.”
“Oh, are you from out of town. Grand Rapids? Flint?
“From Toronto.”
“What state’s that in?”
And then I remember exactly where I am.
We leave the Mall and drive to the Radisson hotel which looks exactly like a spaceship.
“Fingerhut. Ha Ha. That’s a funny name.” Says the perky hotel person at the check-in desk.
I find that ironic coming from a woman named Buffy Duberman.
“Are you with that medieval conference?”
“Yup.”
“You medievalists are some of the nicest people that we get here at the Rad. So much better than those management consultant types.
She has a point you know. I’ve worked with management consultants and they are almost without exception assholes. In fact there is an inverse relationship in management consultants between how dumb they are and their asshole quotient. But I digress. But then again, I’m at a medievalist conference. Digression is de riguer.
We drop our items off in our room and head down to the hotel bar which is capable of seating the Western Michigan football team, their coaches, groupies, cheerleaders, and water boys; the Western Michigan wrestling team, local personalities like Ben who was a finalist in American Idol and who sometimes plays the piano at the hotel bar, and 3500 medievalists.
“I’ll have a Kalamapolitan.” Says Michelle. Last year, we drank about 6 of them and then proceeded to sing the entire soundtrack of Les Miserables.
“I’ll join her.” I said.
At some point, we order dinner which like most things in the US is super sized. (The obesity problem in the US is easily understood if you spend half an hour in any American city). A little drunk and a little full, we go up to bed and watch a bit of James Bond, but just as Pussy Galore enters the room, we are already asleep.
Kalamazoo Diaries
Friday, May 1, 2009
Killing my Inner Figure Skater
Every morning THEY made me wear a purple satin skating dress with green flowers
Every evening, I fished the sports pages out of the garbage can and read the Leafs game notes.
Every morning THEY made me practice moves with names like salchow, axel, and camel spins.
And every evening, I curled up to watch the Leafs or if they weren’t on, to watch news about the Leafs.
In the wilds of suburban Jewish Toronto, the girls did not play hockey. The girls figure skated. We wore white figure skates with purple guards. We wore little skirts with panties sewn into them. We did not eat because if you were thin, it was easier to jump. We got yelled at by Yasha Shmushkin for not doing enough strength training. We got yelled at by Diana Williams for not being graceful. We got yelled at by our parents for not practicing enough. And then finally, I turned 14, began smoking and drinking, and discovered punk rock, and that was the graceless ending of my figure skating career.
But it was not the end of my love for hockey.
Hockey has been a constant theme in a life that has seen periods of studying genocide, dressing up as a HeartSmart chicken in Brandon, Manitoba, writing computer manuals, and postering as a management consultant. It saw me though the early death of my father, my mother’s breast cancer, the birth of my kids (I credit surviving the labour of my daughter on being able to distract myself through a wild Leafs game against the Islanders), and the raising of my kids.
About five years ago, I had the privilege of interviewing Hayley Wickenheiser, arguably the greatest hockey player to ever wear a Jill. During the course of speaking with her and appreciating what she had done for women’s hockey, I began the slow process of killing my inner figure skater. I watched Hayley and the girls win gold for Canada. I watched women practice slapshots at the local rink. And I said, “ I can do this.”
At the tender age of 39.5, I figured it was time to lace ‘em up.
I was the first one signed up for the Dufferin Grove Learn to Play shinny Wednesday nights at 10:00 pm. I showed up at 9:30 There was a scrappy game of women’s shinny already ongoing. I just stood there in the freezing cold watching them and wondering if I would ever be able to play with them.
When coach Dan arrived, he asked me if I needed a stick. I said: Oh my God, are you really going to let me have a STICK!! My own STICK!!
“Well, you really can’t play hockey without one.”
“No, you don’t get it. Holding a stick for me is like holding a Torah.”
“A whah...OK, never mind. What side do you shoot from.” He held out a stick.” I grabbed it with my right hand and put it on my left side holding it the way I had seen Salming and Sittler do it a million times.
“Looks good. Time to hit the ice.”
I gingerly got on the ice and took a few baby steps. “Oh spare me,” I thought to myself. “I can skate better than this.” And so I did. Long graceful strides, picking up speed, head up, knees bent. All of those thousands of dollars and thousands of hours of figure skating finally paying off.
“Grab a puck and try skating with it.”
There I was flying around the ice, stick handling as though I had been doing it for years.
“OK. Now stop.”
What do you mean stop. How do you stop. When you figure skate, you use your pick. But hockey skates don’t have picks. I thought I killed my inner figure skater but it is pulling a Lazarus.
“Dan....how do you.....CRASH.”
My father’s voice in my head: “Get up or you’re going to get cold.”
“You OK?”
“Yup. Fine.”
Dan looked at me and winked: “Good for you. When you fall, it means that you are trying something new.”
For two days, my left knee is one big bruise; my right elbow is a mess and I have checked the weather forecast obsessively to make sure that the weather will be OK for Sunday night’s drop-in class.
One of the last things Hayley Wickenheiser said to me was: “You have the right to play the game.”
Thanks Hayley. I will.
Every evening, I fished the sports pages out of the garbage can and read the Leafs game notes.
Every morning THEY made me practice moves with names like salchow, axel, and camel spins.
And every evening, I curled up to watch the Leafs or if they weren’t on, to watch news about the Leafs.
In the wilds of suburban Jewish Toronto, the girls did not play hockey. The girls figure skated. We wore white figure skates with purple guards. We wore little skirts with panties sewn into them. We did not eat because if you were thin, it was easier to jump. We got yelled at by Yasha Shmushkin for not doing enough strength training. We got yelled at by Diana Williams for not being graceful. We got yelled at by our parents for not practicing enough. And then finally, I turned 14, began smoking and drinking, and discovered punk rock, and that was the graceless ending of my figure skating career.
But it was not the end of my love for hockey.
Hockey has been a constant theme in a life that has seen periods of studying genocide, dressing up as a HeartSmart chicken in Brandon, Manitoba, writing computer manuals, and postering as a management consultant. It saw me though the early death of my father, my mother’s breast cancer, the birth of my kids (I credit surviving the labour of my daughter on being able to distract myself through a wild Leafs game against the Islanders), and the raising of my kids.
About five years ago, I had the privilege of interviewing Hayley Wickenheiser, arguably the greatest hockey player to ever wear a Jill. During the course of speaking with her and appreciating what she had done for women’s hockey, I began the slow process of killing my inner figure skater. I watched Hayley and the girls win gold for Canada. I watched women practice slapshots at the local rink. And I said, “ I can do this.”
At the tender age of 39.5, I figured it was time to lace ‘em up.
I was the first one signed up for the Dufferin Grove Learn to Play shinny Wednesday nights at 10:00 pm. I showed up at 9:30 There was a scrappy game of women’s shinny already ongoing. I just stood there in the freezing cold watching them and wondering if I would ever be able to play with them.
When coach Dan arrived, he asked me if I needed a stick. I said: Oh my God, are you really going to let me have a STICK!! My own STICK!!
“Well, you really can’t play hockey without one.”
“No, you don’t get it. Holding a stick for me is like holding a Torah.”
“A whah...OK, never mind. What side do you shoot from.” He held out a stick.” I grabbed it with my right hand and put it on my left side holding it the way I had seen Salming and Sittler do it a million times.
“Looks good. Time to hit the ice.”
I gingerly got on the ice and took a few baby steps. “Oh spare me,” I thought to myself. “I can skate better than this.” And so I did. Long graceful strides, picking up speed, head up, knees bent. All of those thousands of dollars and thousands of hours of figure skating finally paying off.
“Grab a puck and try skating with it.”
There I was flying around the ice, stick handling as though I had been doing it for years.
“OK. Now stop.”
What do you mean stop. How do you stop. When you figure skate, you use your pick. But hockey skates don’t have picks. I thought I killed my inner figure skater but it is pulling a Lazarus.
“Dan....how do you.....CRASH.”
My father’s voice in my head: “Get up or you’re going to get cold.”
“You OK?”
“Yup. Fine.”
Dan looked at me and winked: “Good for you. When you fall, it means that you are trying something new.”
For two days, my left knee is one big bruise; my right elbow is a mess and I have checked the weather forecast obsessively to make sure that the weather will be OK for Sunday night’s drop-in class.
One of the last things Hayley Wickenheiser said to me was: “You have the right to play the game.”
Thanks Hayley. I will.
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Rabbi Who Tried to Kill Me
Its 5:30 on a Friday morning. I am sitting in the basement of Holy Blossom wondering half consciously to myself how I got talked into doing the morning shift of the Temple’s Out of the Cold homeless shelter.
At about 5:45, three men walk into the program. The first two look about as bad as I do—like they just rolled out of bed. The third is wearing a seriously coordinated running outfit: black running shoes, black socks, black running tights, black t-shirt with a black running vest with the fashionable mid-80’s neon green stripe made famous by the fashion criminals that ran amok just after the release of Flashdance.
The only coherent thought I have is how the hell did this guy have the presence of mind at this hour to actually get himself into something so coordinated.
One week later and the scene repeats itself. At 5:45, the same three men walk into the program. The first two looking just as bad, but the third is wearing the exact same thing. And the next week, and the week after that.
After about 4 weeks, I think the guy might be a bit obsessive.
After about 2 months, I imagine his closet to be like that of Mickey Roarke’s in that salute to soft core porn known as 9 1/2 Weeks: hangers filled with black running tights and running vests with neon green stripes.
I have no clue who this guy is but I suspect strongly that he is certifiable and that something needs to be done.
One Friday morning, I summon up my courage and go into the kitchen where the Gang of Three are theoretically making breakfast. The first guy is attempting to open up a can of apple juice and mumbling about being in the South African army. Somehow, I can’t see this 50-something Jewish guy hanging out in Soweto but who knows these things. The second guy is on the kitchen phone yakking about human rights and the UN and The Hague. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, there are about 50 homeless people waiting for their eggs. I am relieved to note that the third guy is attending to the task at hand and is busy scrambling. There is a large aluminum bowl filled with the first batch and I go over to take it out to our starving buddies.
Oh my God…so gross I can’t even speak. The eggs are greenish and overcooked and I see shells on the sides of the bowls.
“Umm Kids…”
No response.
“Yo…guys…hello…these eggs suck…I mean seriously, these are inedible eggs…”
Bang Bang Bang with the can opener, “But Madame Justice… Article 69 of the Charter…”and the third member of the Gang of Three stirs obliviously…
I pick up a red, white and blue rubber ball that had probably been there since 1978 and throw a wicked fastball against the wall.
What’s a girl to do, I ask you? It’s 6:00 in the morning, I’ve got a bunch of homeless people waiting for breakfast and three Jewish males who can’t get it together.
“Whadya do that for” asked one of Pik Botha’s finest.
“What in God’s green earth do you want me to do with these eggs…these are a human rights violation…”
“Human Rights violation…did you say Human Rights violation…” the other guy has just got off the phone.
“Who are you anyway…”
“Who cares who I am…we have a situation gentleman, now I know your wives aren’t here to help you function but can you attempt to finish making breakfast…”
“Listen sweetheart, says Apple Juice man…just chill out..
There is nothing that will make me roll my eyes faster than an over-40 year old using the expression “Chill Out”.
“Jesus Fucking Christ and all of the Saints and their wives…you go and “chill out” and while you’re at it, why don’t you go and employ some Township Rules to the riot that’s about to erupt outside…”
“Relax”, says The Hague…and by the way, have you met…
Now..for all the women out there…you will appreciate this moment. It was one of those where you have two thoughts going on in your mind that completely contradict each other. Because just before the third guy turned around, I kind of thought to myself: “You know…that guy’s got a nice…” and then he turned around.
“the Rabbi…”
Oy and Veh.
I crossed myself and began saying 30 Hail Mary’s and a few Oh Father’s—why wait until confession…and got myself right out of that kitchen.
It took me two years to get back into that kitchen—two years before I thought the Almighty would forgive me my moment of mild salaciousness directed at one of his Representatives on Earth. Many have suffered His wrath for far less.
Two years later and Gang of Three are short a toast maker and dishwasher. Putting bread in a toaster obviously not a skill picked up the SA army, The Hague, or the Seminary. The toaster is off to one side so I don’t have to talk to any of them and I wash my dishes quietly.
And then one day, He speaks.
“Miss Fingerhut..”
“Yup.” Wash, wash, wash.
“How are you Miss Fingerhut?”
“Can you pass the soap.”
“So..Natalie…what’s up”
These God types. They like to get into your head very quickly. If you ever notice, when you talk to one of God’s representatives on earth, they love to make direct eye contact and ‘cess you out. Hence, if you’re smart, you keep your answers short.
“Nodda”.
They also want to find out how committed you are to the Tribe. They usually have creative ways of getting that out of you, as you will now witness:
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Yeah…a sister…but you wouldn’t know her.”
“Why is that?”
“Cuz she aint into the God thing.”
“And you…are you into the God thing.”
See what I mean.
“Towel please…these dishes are dripping all over the place” And God isn’t going to provide maid service at this hour.
“Where did you go to school?”
“Well, I did nursery school at Hillcrest, then moved onto Steelesview, then Harrison Rd Public School, then ….”
“Actually, I mean university.”
“Some left-wing loonie bin in New York—you’ve probably never heard of it”
“Really…I went to a left-wing loonie bin in Califonia.”
OK..I have to admit at this point that I’m mildly interested. I actually contemplate a response.”
“Really, which one.”
“You’ve probably never heard of it.”
Ha, Ha, Ha, you are so funny…
“Well, I went to Sarah Lawrence.”
“Really”, he looks amused. “I went to Pomona.”
“No way…Pomona…and in the 70’s…man you must have had fun…what did you study?”
“Who said anything about studying.”
Uh-Huh. OK then. The Rabbi at the Holy House of Forest Hill Village in Toronto Canada was a pot smoking hippie slut dude. I’m riveted.
“What do you do now?”
“Computer stuff.”
“What kind of computer stuff.”
“I help people figure out how to use their computer.”
“I don’t know how to use a computer.”
Long pause.
“Icanhelpyououtonedayifyouwant.”
“Sorry, did you say something.”
“I said: If you need some help one day, let me know.”
“We’ll be in touch”.
And indeed he was. A few days later, I receive this call from his assistant imploring me to do something about His Rabbinical Lord’s inability to perform the most basic tasks on his desktop.
Now, you’d think a guy who can read a book written in an archaic language could learn Microsoft Word but that was simply not the case. Typing was not the issue, no, that would have been at least mildly understandable. It was things like “Save” and “New Document” and “File Name” that really got him messed up. And as for formatting, forget it.
We start very slowly. Like as in how to turn the computer on and off. I direct him to open up the Pandora’s Box that is Word.“OK now what.”
“You type your sermons.”
“How should I type my sermon.”
“Well, you put your fingers on the keys and allow your thoughts to penetrate through your cerebellum and onto the screen. Let your fingers do the talking.”
Ha Ha Ha—OK, he’s not laughing. I’m going to hell—I know it this time.
He types a sentence. Its all in small letters and the occasional period has gone missing but it’s a sentence and I feel like we have made progress.
“Terrific. Really, that’s great.”
He’s totally non-plussed. “I could have written it faster…why do people say this is such a time saver—its taken 15 minutes to write one sentence. Really, this technology is very stupid.”
I try to motivate him. I try and explain that people in their 80’s are capable of using Microsoft Outlook and Excel and that if he would just give his computer a chance, he would find life much easier. One of the other rabbis came in one day as I was explaining the print function and told me, in that kitschy rabbinical way that I was doing “God’s work.”
“I’m an atheist.” I responded.
One Sunday morning, after a particularly awful Saturday night at the Wheat Sheaf Tavern where I had decided that scotch had replaced my water glass, I stumbled into his office nursing my Orange Gatorade which incidentally is the only thing to cure a hangover, and began the odious task of explaining italics and underlining. No matter how many times I showed him how to highlight words with his mouse and hit the “I” on the menu bar, it simply evaded him. After about an hour, I needed to get out of there or I was going to throw his mini Torah at him.
“Do you want a ride to the subway?”
His driving was legendary, but I was in no state to argue.
“Yeah sure…Eglinton West would be great.”
I mean really, the subway station was about 5 minutes away—I saw no downside.
We get into the car. There is paper everywhere. I could have sworn that I was sitting on a tallis of some sort which incidentally looks cute as a wraparound skirt. As we get to the corner of some street in Forest Hill and Eglinton, he makes a right. I let him go a few blocks and say kind of shyly because its bad karma to correct a member of God’s team:
“Ummm, you’re going the wrong way.”
“No, I’m going to Eglinton subway station.”
Being a typical female, I start to apologize profusely.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry…I actually need to go to Eglinton West subway station.”
“Eglinton, Shmeglinton…its all the same thing.”
No —they ain’t the same thing. Time to come down from Mount Sinai and come back to Bathurst St.
“Well, no, not really. One station is at Yonge St. and the other is about 25 blocks west.”
“Fine, fine…I’ll turn around.”
He drives down Eglinton to the station. But instead of dropping me off in front of the station like the rest of Toronto, he casually speeds past a 10 ft. sign that reads and I quote verbatim:
DANGER 500.00 FINE
DO NOT ENTER
FOR BUSES ONLY
He pulls into a bus lane and looks at me expectantly.
“Well, here you go.”
I have turned white.
A bus drives slowly behind us, the driver and passengers stare open-mouthed.
“Miss Fingerhut…what seems to be the problem..I need to go.”
Excuse me. You have just tried to kill me .I could have been mowed down before I reached 30 by a bus, and you are asking me what the problem is?
“Didn’t you see that sign?”
“What sign?”
“The 10ft sign that says this is for buses only.”
“Oh…I don’t pay attention to signs like that…they don’t interest me.”
“OK…well, that’s beautiful, truly, that’s great. I’m leaving now…I’ll catch you later…much much later.”
And he drives off, past another bus who has also stopped in shock.
I stand alone knowing that I had better think and think very fast. Because if I do not, if I do not use my brain to its maximum, the headlines on tomorrow’s Canadian Jewish News are going to read:
Ignorant female drives recklessly and gets Rabbi of Holy House of Forest Hill fined $500.
And I’ll have to leave town and move somewhere like Iqaluit where the circulation of the Canadian Jewish News is limited and often used to wipe the paws of the resident snow dogs.
A security guard, kind of cute in that security guard kind of way, greets me as I enter the subway station.
“Miss…do you understand what you just did.”
When in doubt, play the helpless female, there is no other way. Trust me.
“Sir…Oh Sir…my brother, he’s just visiting here from LA…and he doesn’t know from subway stations because you know in LA because of the St. Andreas Faultline, they can’t have subways and really its not his fault that he drove into the bus lane because he’s from LA—didn’t I mention that—and they are all crazy there anyway…really seriously nuts…think OJ.
“Miss…calm down…just calm down…”
I touch his shoulder slightly hysterical but also kind of flirty.
“Sir..you have to believe me…my brother didn’t know, he just made the turn to drop me off so he could go home and see our poor mother who hasn’t seen him in months because when he was about 25, he got hit on the head and ever since then has become this total religious nutcase.
He touches the large gold cross around his neck.
“You know…you shouldn’t call religious people nutcases.”
“Oh yes Sir…you are so right. I cross myself desperately hoping that my 15 years of Jewish education would not prevent me getting the right to left part across my chest correct.
“Is your brother a priest?”
“Oh yes sir..I mean no sir…well kind of sir—in a matter of speaking..
“What do you mean—it’s a basic question..is he or isn’t he.”
He looks like he’s bought Vatican Two so here goes.
“Well…he’s a priest whose Jewish.”
“Oh a Jewish priest…I get it.”
I desparately need to sit down so I motion to the bench just beyond the turnstiles.
“Sir…I’d love to expand upon this fascinating subject, but I really need to sit down…my brother almost killed me and I’m feeling a little funky and a bit confused and wondering who should I tell first: my poor mother or my shrink.”
“OK Miss, can I get you some water…you look a little pale...”
He goes off to the little store in the subway—I need to get out of there. Should I make a run for it…jump the turnstiles like I did as a nouveau riche punk rocker in 1980’s York Mills…
“Here you go Miss.”
“L’Chaim.”
“Le What…sorry my French isn’t very good…anyway, you were saying that your brother is a Jewish priest.”
He is so very interested and I am so very tired.
“Yeah…they call them Rabbis…they are basically Jewish priests.”
“Rabbits did you say…hmm…and can they marry?”
“Oh yes…absolutely…I mean you wouldn’t want to marry one of them because as you can see they are complete maniacs…”
He touches his cross again.
“Sorry…right…yes they can marry and have children—In fact I think both are highly encouraged-you know, Be fruitful and multiply and all that.”
“I have a wife and two kids…one on the way.”
“That’s terrific…Mazel Tov!!”
“Muzzle who.”
“Just an expression” I pat him gently on the shoulder. “Listen, sir, I really appreciate the water and have enjoyed our little conversation but my husband is waiting for me at home so that I can prepare Sunday dinner…”
“What do you Jewish people have for Sunday dinner.”
“Oh the same as you…usually some ham, potatoes, I like Baskin and Robbins for dessert.”
“Well then you run along and make sure to tell your brother never to go in the bus lane again. Its mighty dangerous and while I know the Lord Almighty would protect him, he still should be careful.”
“Oh I will Sir…I promise Sir…really Sir, you are most kind. I’ll say a prayer to my God to tell your God that you did a good one…I promise Sir…thank you.”
“Quite allright Miss…but do me a favour, don’t be forceful or anything with your brother, I don’t want to get on the Good Lord’s bad side..you know with the baby coming and all…just tell him gently..thank you kindly.”
“Will do Sir…Ciao”
I stumbled down into the underground, my brain completely messed up. Thankfully, the roar of the Southbound train silenced the noise in my head and it was only when a nice 80 year old Asian man typing on his Palm Pilot offered me his seat, was I finally able to laugh.
At about 5:45, three men walk into the program. The first two look about as bad as I do—like they just rolled out of bed. The third is wearing a seriously coordinated running outfit: black running shoes, black socks, black running tights, black t-shirt with a black running vest with the fashionable mid-80’s neon green stripe made famous by the fashion criminals that ran amok just after the release of Flashdance.
The only coherent thought I have is how the hell did this guy have the presence of mind at this hour to actually get himself into something so coordinated.
One week later and the scene repeats itself. At 5:45, the same three men walk into the program. The first two looking just as bad, but the third is wearing the exact same thing. And the next week, and the week after that.
After about 4 weeks, I think the guy might be a bit obsessive.
After about 2 months, I imagine his closet to be like that of Mickey Roarke’s in that salute to soft core porn known as 9 1/2 Weeks: hangers filled with black running tights and running vests with neon green stripes.
I have no clue who this guy is but I suspect strongly that he is certifiable and that something needs to be done.
One Friday morning, I summon up my courage and go into the kitchen where the Gang of Three are theoretically making breakfast. The first guy is attempting to open up a can of apple juice and mumbling about being in the South African army. Somehow, I can’t see this 50-something Jewish guy hanging out in Soweto but who knows these things. The second guy is on the kitchen phone yakking about human rights and the UN and The Hague. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, there are about 50 homeless people waiting for their eggs. I am relieved to note that the third guy is attending to the task at hand and is busy scrambling. There is a large aluminum bowl filled with the first batch and I go over to take it out to our starving buddies.
Oh my God…so gross I can’t even speak. The eggs are greenish and overcooked and I see shells on the sides of the bowls.
“Umm Kids…”
No response.
“Yo…guys…hello…these eggs suck…I mean seriously, these are inedible eggs…”
Bang Bang Bang with the can opener, “But Madame Justice… Article 69 of the Charter…”and the third member of the Gang of Three stirs obliviously…
I pick up a red, white and blue rubber ball that had probably been there since 1978 and throw a wicked fastball against the wall.
What’s a girl to do, I ask you? It’s 6:00 in the morning, I’ve got a bunch of homeless people waiting for breakfast and three Jewish males who can’t get it together.
“Whadya do that for” asked one of Pik Botha’s finest.
“What in God’s green earth do you want me to do with these eggs…these are a human rights violation…”
“Human Rights violation…did you say Human Rights violation…” the other guy has just got off the phone.
“Who are you anyway…”
“Who cares who I am…we have a situation gentleman, now I know your wives aren’t here to help you function but can you attempt to finish making breakfast…”
“Listen sweetheart, says Apple Juice man…just chill out..
There is nothing that will make me roll my eyes faster than an over-40 year old using the expression “Chill Out”.
“Jesus Fucking Christ and all of the Saints and their wives…you go and “chill out” and while you’re at it, why don’t you go and employ some Township Rules to the riot that’s about to erupt outside…”
“Relax”, says The Hague…and by the way, have you met…
Now..for all the women out there…you will appreciate this moment. It was one of those where you have two thoughts going on in your mind that completely contradict each other. Because just before the third guy turned around, I kind of thought to myself: “You know…that guy’s got a nice…” and then he turned around.
“the Rabbi…”
Oy and Veh.
I crossed myself and began saying 30 Hail Mary’s and a few Oh Father’s—why wait until confession…and got myself right out of that kitchen.
It took me two years to get back into that kitchen—two years before I thought the Almighty would forgive me my moment of mild salaciousness directed at one of his Representatives on Earth. Many have suffered His wrath for far less.
Two years later and Gang of Three are short a toast maker and dishwasher. Putting bread in a toaster obviously not a skill picked up the SA army, The Hague, or the Seminary. The toaster is off to one side so I don’t have to talk to any of them and I wash my dishes quietly.
And then one day, He speaks.
“Miss Fingerhut..”
“Yup.” Wash, wash, wash.
“How are you Miss Fingerhut?”
“Can you pass the soap.”
“So..Natalie…what’s up”
These God types. They like to get into your head very quickly. If you ever notice, when you talk to one of God’s representatives on earth, they love to make direct eye contact and ‘cess you out. Hence, if you’re smart, you keep your answers short.
“Nodda”.
They also want to find out how committed you are to the Tribe. They usually have creative ways of getting that out of you, as you will now witness:
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Yeah…a sister…but you wouldn’t know her.”
“Why is that?”
“Cuz she aint into the God thing.”
“And you…are you into the God thing.”
See what I mean.
“Towel please…these dishes are dripping all over the place” And God isn’t going to provide maid service at this hour.
“Where did you go to school?”
“Well, I did nursery school at Hillcrest, then moved onto Steelesview, then Harrison Rd Public School, then ….”
“Actually, I mean university.”
“Some left-wing loonie bin in New York—you’ve probably never heard of it”
“Really…I went to a left-wing loonie bin in Califonia.”
OK..I have to admit at this point that I’m mildly interested. I actually contemplate a response.”
“Really, which one.”
“You’ve probably never heard of it.”
Ha, Ha, Ha, you are so funny…
“Well, I went to Sarah Lawrence.”
“Really”, he looks amused. “I went to Pomona.”
“No way…Pomona…and in the 70’s…man you must have had fun…what did you study?”
“Who said anything about studying.”
Uh-Huh. OK then. The Rabbi at the Holy House of Forest Hill Village in Toronto Canada was a pot smoking hippie slut dude. I’m riveted.
“What do you do now?”
“Computer stuff.”
“What kind of computer stuff.”
“I help people figure out how to use their computer.”
“I don’t know how to use a computer.”
Long pause.
“Icanhelpyououtonedayifyouwant.”
“Sorry, did you say something.”
“I said: If you need some help one day, let me know.”
“We’ll be in touch”.
And indeed he was. A few days later, I receive this call from his assistant imploring me to do something about His Rabbinical Lord’s inability to perform the most basic tasks on his desktop.
Now, you’d think a guy who can read a book written in an archaic language could learn Microsoft Word but that was simply not the case. Typing was not the issue, no, that would have been at least mildly understandable. It was things like “Save” and “New Document” and “File Name” that really got him messed up. And as for formatting, forget it.
We start very slowly. Like as in how to turn the computer on and off. I direct him to open up the Pandora’s Box that is Word.“OK now what.”
“You type your sermons.”
“How should I type my sermon.”
“Well, you put your fingers on the keys and allow your thoughts to penetrate through your cerebellum and onto the screen. Let your fingers do the talking.”
Ha Ha Ha—OK, he’s not laughing. I’m going to hell—I know it this time.
He types a sentence. Its all in small letters and the occasional period has gone missing but it’s a sentence and I feel like we have made progress.
“Terrific. Really, that’s great.”
He’s totally non-plussed. “I could have written it faster…why do people say this is such a time saver—its taken 15 minutes to write one sentence. Really, this technology is very stupid.”
I try to motivate him. I try and explain that people in their 80’s are capable of using Microsoft Outlook and Excel and that if he would just give his computer a chance, he would find life much easier. One of the other rabbis came in one day as I was explaining the print function and told me, in that kitschy rabbinical way that I was doing “God’s work.”
“I’m an atheist.” I responded.
One Sunday morning, after a particularly awful Saturday night at the Wheat Sheaf Tavern where I had decided that scotch had replaced my water glass, I stumbled into his office nursing my Orange Gatorade which incidentally is the only thing to cure a hangover, and began the odious task of explaining italics and underlining. No matter how many times I showed him how to highlight words with his mouse and hit the “I” on the menu bar, it simply evaded him. After about an hour, I needed to get out of there or I was going to throw his mini Torah at him.
“Do you want a ride to the subway?”
His driving was legendary, but I was in no state to argue.
“Yeah sure…Eglinton West would be great.”
I mean really, the subway station was about 5 minutes away—I saw no downside.
We get into the car. There is paper everywhere. I could have sworn that I was sitting on a tallis of some sort which incidentally looks cute as a wraparound skirt. As we get to the corner of some street in Forest Hill and Eglinton, he makes a right. I let him go a few blocks and say kind of shyly because its bad karma to correct a member of God’s team:
“Ummm, you’re going the wrong way.”
“No, I’m going to Eglinton subway station.”
Being a typical female, I start to apologize profusely.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry…I actually need to go to Eglinton West subway station.”
“Eglinton, Shmeglinton…its all the same thing.”
No —they ain’t the same thing. Time to come down from Mount Sinai and come back to Bathurst St.
“Well, no, not really. One station is at Yonge St. and the other is about 25 blocks west.”
“Fine, fine…I’ll turn around.”
He drives down Eglinton to the station. But instead of dropping me off in front of the station like the rest of Toronto, he casually speeds past a 10 ft. sign that reads and I quote verbatim:
DANGER 500.00 FINE
DO NOT ENTER
FOR BUSES ONLY
He pulls into a bus lane and looks at me expectantly.
“Well, here you go.”
I have turned white.
A bus drives slowly behind us, the driver and passengers stare open-mouthed.
“Miss Fingerhut…what seems to be the problem..I need to go.”
Excuse me. You have just tried to kill me .I could have been mowed down before I reached 30 by a bus, and you are asking me what the problem is?
“Didn’t you see that sign?”
“What sign?”
“The 10ft sign that says this is for buses only.”
“Oh…I don’t pay attention to signs like that…they don’t interest me.”
“OK…well, that’s beautiful, truly, that’s great. I’m leaving now…I’ll catch you later…much much later.”
And he drives off, past another bus who has also stopped in shock.
I stand alone knowing that I had better think and think very fast. Because if I do not, if I do not use my brain to its maximum, the headlines on tomorrow’s Canadian Jewish News are going to read:
Ignorant female drives recklessly and gets Rabbi of Holy House of Forest Hill fined $500.
And I’ll have to leave town and move somewhere like Iqaluit where the circulation of the Canadian Jewish News is limited and often used to wipe the paws of the resident snow dogs.
A security guard, kind of cute in that security guard kind of way, greets me as I enter the subway station.
“Miss…do you understand what you just did.”
When in doubt, play the helpless female, there is no other way. Trust me.
“Sir…Oh Sir…my brother, he’s just visiting here from LA…and he doesn’t know from subway stations because you know in LA because of the St. Andreas Faultline, they can’t have subways and really its not his fault that he drove into the bus lane because he’s from LA—didn’t I mention that—and they are all crazy there anyway…really seriously nuts…think OJ.
“Miss…calm down…just calm down…”
I touch his shoulder slightly hysterical but also kind of flirty.
“Sir..you have to believe me…my brother didn’t know, he just made the turn to drop me off so he could go home and see our poor mother who hasn’t seen him in months because when he was about 25, he got hit on the head and ever since then has become this total religious nutcase.
He touches the large gold cross around his neck.
“You know…you shouldn’t call religious people nutcases.”
“Oh yes Sir…you are so right. I cross myself desperately hoping that my 15 years of Jewish education would not prevent me getting the right to left part across my chest correct.
“Is your brother a priest?”
“Oh yes sir..I mean no sir…well kind of sir—in a matter of speaking..
“What do you mean—it’s a basic question..is he or isn’t he.”
He looks like he’s bought Vatican Two so here goes.
“Well…he’s a priest whose Jewish.”
“Oh a Jewish priest…I get it.”
I desparately need to sit down so I motion to the bench just beyond the turnstiles.
“Sir…I’d love to expand upon this fascinating subject, but I really need to sit down…my brother almost killed me and I’m feeling a little funky and a bit confused and wondering who should I tell first: my poor mother or my shrink.”
“OK Miss, can I get you some water…you look a little pale...”
He goes off to the little store in the subway—I need to get out of there. Should I make a run for it…jump the turnstiles like I did as a nouveau riche punk rocker in 1980’s York Mills…
“Here you go Miss.”
“L’Chaim.”
“Le What…sorry my French isn’t very good…anyway, you were saying that your brother is a Jewish priest.”
He is so very interested and I am so very tired.
“Yeah…they call them Rabbis…they are basically Jewish priests.”
“Rabbits did you say…hmm…and can they marry?”
“Oh yes…absolutely…I mean you wouldn’t want to marry one of them because as you can see they are complete maniacs…”
He touches his cross again.
“Sorry…right…yes they can marry and have children—In fact I think both are highly encouraged-you know, Be fruitful and multiply and all that.”
“I have a wife and two kids…one on the way.”
“That’s terrific…Mazel Tov!!”
“Muzzle who.”
“Just an expression” I pat him gently on the shoulder. “Listen, sir, I really appreciate the water and have enjoyed our little conversation but my husband is waiting for me at home so that I can prepare Sunday dinner…”
“What do you Jewish people have for Sunday dinner.”
“Oh the same as you…usually some ham, potatoes, I like Baskin and Robbins for dessert.”
“Well then you run along and make sure to tell your brother never to go in the bus lane again. Its mighty dangerous and while I know the Lord Almighty would protect him, he still should be careful.”
“Oh I will Sir…I promise Sir…really Sir, you are most kind. I’ll say a prayer to my God to tell your God that you did a good one…I promise Sir…thank you.”
“Quite allright Miss…but do me a favour, don’t be forceful or anything with your brother, I don’t want to get on the Good Lord’s bad side..you know with the baby coming and all…just tell him gently..thank you kindly.”
“Will do Sir…Ciao”
I stumbled down into the underground, my brain completely messed up. Thankfully, the roar of the Southbound train silenced the noise in my head and it was only when a nice 80 year old Asian man typing on his Palm Pilot offered me his seat, was I finally able to laugh.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Hockey Night in Jerusalem
Middle East Conference: Barrie, Ontario. Winter 2009
“Ladies and Gentleman, the President of the United States, Barack Obama.”
(Applause)
We have a problem in the Middle East.
In the Middle East, there is tumult, torture, and trouble.
In the Middle East, and not in the Middle West
Or the North or the South
There is trouble.
Trouble is brewing in the Middle East.
Ladies and Gentleman: we can rebuild the Middle East.
We have the technology to make not only the first bionic man
But also the first stable peace in the troubled Middle East
We can kick the can’t and make it a can.
We can make it so for today’s children
And not just for their children
Or their children
Or their children’s children.
We can do it Now-and not in 60 seconds or 60 minutes.
Together, we will break bread, or challah, or pita.
Together, we will eat apple pie, chicken soup, and kebab.
Together, Americans, Jews, and Muslims
We will eat together
And the obesity problem will spread to the Middle East
And then we will all be (Ara) fat like Yasser-Avehu Shalom.
Peace will be with you.
You will be at Peace.
Help you I will.
Amen.(Applause)
“And now, a woman who needs no introduction, she has as many Nobel Peace Prizes to her name as there are bathrooms in Chelsea lofts, Natalie Fingerhut.
(Entrance is made to the combined sound of cheering and Hockey Night in Canada)
Dear Esteemed Leaders of the Middle East:
I have an idea.
Let’s turn the Old City into a hockey arena.
OK. You’ve had your moment of looking at each other in disbelief rather than in disgust. You’ve had your first moment in eons of actually being on the same page at the same time. Don’t try and get along now because I need your competitive spirits to make this work.
As you know, hockey is on the decline in North America having been upstaged by men getting into expensive racing cars and driving around in circles and occasionally blowing up. Just themselves though. Not women and children and innocent bystanders.
Hockey needs to expand somewhere and where better than the Middle East. The MHL if you will.
I mean let’s all be serious for a minute. The Old City is a dump, a 2-mile dry, dusty, unhygienic shithole. When was the last time the carpets were cleaned in the Dome of the Rock from all those stinky sweaty feet. Never mind the potential for a mass outbreak of Athlete’s Foot!! And the Wall needs a wash.
I remember the first time someone dragged me from the beautiful beaches of Tel Aviv where I happily checked out the cute guys . This 45 year old divorcee from South Jersey had taken my 25 year old self under her wing which was unattractively adorned in a turquoise wife beater that did not do wonders for her fleshy forearms. Bobbi decided that I needed to “Experience the Wall.” Though I protested loudly that I would have preferred to experience some hot Israeli ass, she ignored me. I even suggested a foursome but she declined.
Bobbi rented a car from a friend, stuffed me in her car, and drove along this road that has been graced with the classification of highway when in fact it is really just a death trap. Apparently, and I have no formal proof for this, more people are killed in highway accidents in Israel then in terrorist attacks. So, Arab leaders, take a note: more highways = more dead Israelis. If I wasn’t standing here trying to get you guys to kiss and make up, I’d advise a change of tactics.
When we got to Jerusalem, Bobbi took us to some hotel in that part of town that some of you really like to blow up. She told me that I needed to cover my shoulders which I did with my Sarah Lawrence College sweatshirt that I think I had used as a pillow one night when I slept through one of Sarah Lawrence’s horny and fun Saturday night invitation-only orgies. On my head, I donned God’s preferred head covering: a Toronto Maple Leaf’s hat.
Hey Hey Mr. Israel Security Guy..big gun back in pants. . .Why are you flailing your hands around, Mahmoud I’m sorry I can’t pronounce your last name. It’s more complicated than Khabiboulin whom I think hails from your sphere of influence. Not that he would know having spent 2 decades between the pipes. Not oil pipes, Sheik One and Sheik Two. Pipes. As in a Net. An innocent snarl of ropes that men stand in front of to prevent the puck from sailing past them.
Sorry, Mizz Livni. Are you trying to get a word in? You ask if women stand between the pipes. Well, they do. They do. But not as well as the men. Sorry, on this I have to agree with the more misogynist elements here today: in sports, women are not equal. I mean really, even Hayley Wickenheiser can’t make the NHL and her slapshot is 80 miles an hour.
Anyway, back to me. Bobbi and I walked to the Old City. She told me that I would remember this moment for the rest of my life. She was indeed correct. I remember beige. Beige everywhere. Dust, heat and beige. Nothing like the beautiful cafe that I had left back in Tel Aviv with its gorgeous view of the Mediterranean and the gorgeous men wearing red and blue Speedos reminiscent of the 1970s when I was only a toddler. And yet I remember them.
In the Old City, there were a lot of men but not a lot of Speedos.
We walked down some steps and emerged onto a very clean floor. The books that I had read as a kid were indeed correct; the area in front of the Wall was split in half by those dividers that one sees at concerts used to block high teenagers from jumping the stage. On the left were the men and on the right were the women. It felt very Josef Mengele and I wanted to tell Bobbi, but Bobbi was in the opening phase of a transformative moment . She had wrapped her pink with black polka dots shawl over her head and around her shoulders. I had another momentary memory recall – this time of Barbara Streisand on the cover of The Way We Were 8-track also from the 70s. Her face was the epitome of every cliché that I know you know: glowing eyes, mouth slightly open, nostrils flared (and she had a real shnib ifyou know what I mean—a real snout). And then I had a vision.
“You feel it too?” she whispered as though talking to a lover.
“Yes.”
“I know. I feel it every time I come here.”
“A new start”
“Tell me more.”
“I feel hope....and sportsmanlike conduct.”
“Hope yes. I always feel hope here.”
“Men, women, children cheering together.”
“A sound from heaven.”
“Everyone welcome; none turned away at the Gate.”
“We can do it.”
“The men section could be the penalty box.”
Needless to say, after I had been removed by security guards for drawing centre ice in blue indelible ink (which happily cut across both the male and female sections), and explaining that since there was already space dug out under the wall, we could easily put in dressing rooms and then players could make their dramatic entrances out of the Wall, Bobbi disappeared into the dull night of Friday evening in Jerusalem never to be seen by me again.
You don’t mind if I sit down and put my feet up on the mic stand, do you? .Now let me all tell you something and you listen. You all listen up good. You guys remind me of Madonna. Whenever you feel like you’re not getting enough attention, you go ahead and blow something so that the media notices you. But you know what? This is getting old-like really old. No one’s interested anymore. We are looking at Stan these days, and I don’t mean Lee or Rogers . I mean Stan as in Afghani, Paki, Tajiki, Kazakh and it goes on. They are the ones making all the big noise now and since most of them, unlike yourselves, actually have something called winter, we should really consider expanding the MHL to Kabul. Apparently, there are lots of young guys hanging around there dying to learn how to shoot.
That Wall that has you all up in arms, let me tell you the truth about it. A Jew named Herod who spent his days kissing the Roman Empire’s butt built this temple that you refer to as the Second Temple; the first one destroyed by some extinct people called the Babylonians. Took Herod 50 years to make this thing and fifty years later, guess what happened. The Romans destroyed it. Razed it to the ground, in fact. And they left..a wall. A wall, people. And not even the wall of the temple itself, just a supporting wall. A supporting wall, people. You likely have them in some of your houses.
And for you Muslims, the story is equally pathetic. One of your caliphs, Umar, ordered the building of a mosque on the Temple Mount. Do you know what the Temple Mount was used for before it had a mosque: it was a garbage dump. And even more insane, on this garbage dump, your ancestors found a rock—a big rock for sure—but a rock nonetheless. And they decided that this rock was the very rock that Muhammad was lifted to heaven on.
So basically, you guys, you’re killing each other’s kids for a former garbage dump and a supporting wall.
Let’s get those Romans back and do some razing people. It’s arena-building time.
No more drowning in blood. Let’s drown ourselves in Labatt Blue. Your sons should be shooting pucks not shooting each other, and your daughters should wear less not more and set themselves the goal of becoming puck bunnies.
You think blowing yourself up is painful? Try getting a puck in the face and having King Clancy stitch your cheek up on the bench as you get ready for your next shift? Or worse, forgoing the stitches and using a styptic pencil.
Hey...you with the Yasser scarf that you bought in Greenwich Village for 10 bucks...please send your scarf to Don Cherry care of the CBC so that he can have a suit made from the same pattern.
It’s time to move on everyone. Time for The Jericho Red Wings vs. The Tel Aviv Lightening.
And it’s going to happen you guys. Really it is. As you all sit here in Barrie, Ontario , 2 Zambonees together with 2 drivers are making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem . Please don’t mistake them for tanks and blow them up. Next month, the good folks from Tim Horton’s will be doing a pitch for us in the atrium of the Al-Aqsa mosque. We’re going to make Timbits a part of the Middle East’s vocabulary. We’re going to replace your Turkish coffee with Turn-up- the-Rim to win contests. One God is going to become One Game.
OK.
It’s Gut Checking Time.
Time to shut up and lace up.
Shalom and Salaam.
.
“Ladies and Gentleman, the President of the United States, Barack Obama.”
(Applause)
We have a problem in the Middle East.
In the Middle East, there is tumult, torture, and trouble.
In the Middle East, and not in the Middle West
Or the North or the South
There is trouble.
Trouble is brewing in the Middle East.
Ladies and Gentleman: we can rebuild the Middle East.
We have the technology to make not only the first bionic man
But also the first stable peace in the troubled Middle East
We can kick the can’t and make it a can.
We can make it so for today’s children
And not just for their children
Or their children
Or their children’s children.
We can do it Now-and not in 60 seconds or 60 minutes.
Together, we will break bread, or challah, or pita.
Together, we will eat apple pie, chicken soup, and kebab.
Together, Americans, Jews, and Muslims
We will eat together
And the obesity problem will spread to the Middle East
And then we will all be (Ara) fat like Yasser-Avehu Shalom.
Peace will be with you.
You will be at Peace.
Help you I will.
Amen.(Applause)
“And now, a woman who needs no introduction, she has as many Nobel Peace Prizes to her name as there are bathrooms in Chelsea lofts, Natalie Fingerhut.
(Entrance is made to the combined sound of cheering and Hockey Night in Canada)
Dear Esteemed Leaders of the Middle East:
I have an idea.
Let’s turn the Old City into a hockey arena.
OK. You’ve had your moment of looking at each other in disbelief rather than in disgust. You’ve had your first moment in eons of actually being on the same page at the same time. Don’t try and get along now because I need your competitive spirits to make this work.
As you know, hockey is on the decline in North America having been upstaged by men getting into expensive racing cars and driving around in circles and occasionally blowing up. Just themselves though. Not women and children and innocent bystanders.
Hockey needs to expand somewhere and where better than the Middle East. The MHL if you will.
I mean let’s all be serious for a minute. The Old City is a dump, a 2-mile dry, dusty, unhygienic shithole. When was the last time the carpets were cleaned in the Dome of the Rock from all those stinky sweaty feet. Never mind the potential for a mass outbreak of Athlete’s Foot!! And the Wall needs a wash.
I remember the first time someone dragged me from the beautiful beaches of Tel Aviv where I happily checked out the cute guys . This 45 year old divorcee from South Jersey had taken my 25 year old self under her wing which was unattractively adorned in a turquoise wife beater that did not do wonders for her fleshy forearms. Bobbi decided that I needed to “Experience the Wall.” Though I protested loudly that I would have preferred to experience some hot Israeli ass, she ignored me. I even suggested a foursome but she declined.
Bobbi rented a car from a friend, stuffed me in her car, and drove along this road that has been graced with the classification of highway when in fact it is really just a death trap. Apparently, and I have no formal proof for this, more people are killed in highway accidents in Israel then in terrorist attacks. So, Arab leaders, take a note: more highways = more dead Israelis. If I wasn’t standing here trying to get you guys to kiss and make up, I’d advise a change of tactics.
When we got to Jerusalem, Bobbi took us to some hotel in that part of town that some of you really like to blow up. She told me that I needed to cover my shoulders which I did with my Sarah Lawrence College sweatshirt that I think I had used as a pillow one night when I slept through one of Sarah Lawrence’s horny and fun Saturday night invitation-only orgies. On my head, I donned God’s preferred head covering: a Toronto Maple Leaf’s hat.
Hey Hey Mr. Israel Security Guy..big gun back in pants. . .Why are you flailing your hands around, Mahmoud I’m sorry I can’t pronounce your last name. It’s more complicated than Khabiboulin whom I think hails from your sphere of influence. Not that he would know having spent 2 decades between the pipes. Not oil pipes, Sheik One and Sheik Two. Pipes. As in a Net. An innocent snarl of ropes that men stand in front of to prevent the puck from sailing past them.
Sorry, Mizz Livni. Are you trying to get a word in? You ask if women stand between the pipes. Well, they do. They do. But not as well as the men. Sorry, on this I have to agree with the more misogynist elements here today: in sports, women are not equal. I mean really, even Hayley Wickenheiser can’t make the NHL and her slapshot is 80 miles an hour.
Anyway, back to me. Bobbi and I walked to the Old City. She told me that I would remember this moment for the rest of my life. She was indeed correct. I remember beige. Beige everywhere. Dust, heat and beige. Nothing like the beautiful cafe that I had left back in Tel Aviv with its gorgeous view of the Mediterranean and the gorgeous men wearing red and blue Speedos reminiscent of the 1970s when I was only a toddler. And yet I remember them.
In the Old City, there were a lot of men but not a lot of Speedos.
We walked down some steps and emerged onto a very clean floor. The books that I had read as a kid were indeed correct; the area in front of the Wall was split in half by those dividers that one sees at concerts used to block high teenagers from jumping the stage. On the left were the men and on the right were the women. It felt very Josef Mengele and I wanted to tell Bobbi, but Bobbi was in the opening phase of a transformative moment . She had wrapped her pink with black polka dots shawl over her head and around her shoulders. I had another momentary memory recall – this time of Barbara Streisand on the cover of The Way We Were 8-track also from the 70s. Her face was the epitome of every cliché that I know you know: glowing eyes, mouth slightly open, nostrils flared (and she had a real shnib ifyou know what I mean—a real snout). And then I had a vision.
“You feel it too?” she whispered as though talking to a lover.
“Yes.”
“I know. I feel it every time I come here.”
“A new start”
“Tell me more.”
“I feel hope....and sportsmanlike conduct.”
“Hope yes. I always feel hope here.”
“Men, women, children cheering together.”
“A sound from heaven.”
“Everyone welcome; none turned away at the Gate.”
“We can do it.”
“The men section could be the penalty box.”
Needless to say, after I had been removed by security guards for drawing centre ice in blue indelible ink (which happily cut across both the male and female sections), and explaining that since there was already space dug out under the wall, we could easily put in dressing rooms and then players could make their dramatic entrances out of the Wall, Bobbi disappeared into the dull night of Friday evening in Jerusalem never to be seen by me again.
You don’t mind if I sit down and put my feet up on the mic stand, do you? .Now let me all tell you something and you listen. You all listen up good. You guys remind me of Madonna. Whenever you feel like you’re not getting enough attention, you go ahead and blow something so that the media notices you. But you know what? This is getting old-like really old. No one’s interested anymore. We are looking at Stan these days, and I don’t mean Lee or Rogers . I mean Stan as in Afghani, Paki, Tajiki, Kazakh and it goes on. They are the ones making all the big noise now and since most of them, unlike yourselves, actually have something called winter, we should really consider expanding the MHL to Kabul. Apparently, there are lots of young guys hanging around there dying to learn how to shoot.
That Wall that has you all up in arms, let me tell you the truth about it. A Jew named Herod who spent his days kissing the Roman Empire’s butt built this temple that you refer to as the Second Temple; the first one destroyed by some extinct people called the Babylonians. Took Herod 50 years to make this thing and fifty years later, guess what happened. The Romans destroyed it. Razed it to the ground, in fact. And they left..a wall. A wall, people. And not even the wall of the temple itself, just a supporting wall. A supporting wall, people. You likely have them in some of your houses.
And for you Muslims, the story is equally pathetic. One of your caliphs, Umar, ordered the building of a mosque on the Temple Mount. Do you know what the Temple Mount was used for before it had a mosque: it was a garbage dump. And even more insane, on this garbage dump, your ancestors found a rock—a big rock for sure—but a rock nonetheless. And they decided that this rock was the very rock that Muhammad was lifted to heaven on.
So basically, you guys, you’re killing each other’s kids for a former garbage dump and a supporting wall.
Let’s get those Romans back and do some razing people. It’s arena-building time.
No more drowning in blood. Let’s drown ourselves in Labatt Blue. Your sons should be shooting pucks not shooting each other, and your daughters should wear less not more and set themselves the goal of becoming puck bunnies.
You think blowing yourself up is painful? Try getting a puck in the face and having King Clancy stitch your cheek up on the bench as you get ready for your next shift? Or worse, forgoing the stitches and using a styptic pencil.
Hey...you with the Yasser scarf that you bought in Greenwich Village for 10 bucks...please send your scarf to Don Cherry care of the CBC so that he can have a suit made from the same pattern.
It’s time to move on everyone. Time for The Jericho Red Wings vs. The Tel Aviv Lightening.
And it’s going to happen you guys. Really it is. As you all sit here in Barrie, Ontario , 2 Zambonees together with 2 drivers are making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem . Please don’t mistake them for tanks and blow them up. Next month, the good folks from Tim Horton’s will be doing a pitch for us in the atrium of the Al-Aqsa mosque. We’re going to make Timbits a part of the Middle East’s vocabulary. We’re going to replace your Turkish coffee with Turn-up- the-Rim to win contests. One God is going to become One Game.
OK.
It’s Gut Checking Time.
Time to shut up and lace up.
Shalom and Salaam.
.
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