Yikes!

The Wrong Mindset

It's time for my regular rant about the Mindset List.

In case you're unfamiliar: Beloit College, a liberal-arts school in Southern Wisconsin (that's in Ripon's conference), puts out this thing every year called the Mindset List. A few humanities or social sciences professors sit around and list a whole bunch of cultural references that, while familiar to adults, are not familiar to 18-year old freshman. To read the mindset list, click here.

A few years ago, I wrote a long rant explaining how stupid this list is. (You can find it here... It was back in the days when this blog was far more expletive-filled.) Basically, it came down to two big problems with the list:

1. It assumes 18-year old students can't relate to cultural references to anything that happened before 1990 or so.
   
   
2. It places far too much importance on relatively meaningless trivia. For example, this year's list explains that to this year's incoming freshmen:

   12. Smoking has never been permitted on U.S. airlines.
   15. They have never had to distinguish between the St. Louis Cardinals baseball and football teams.
   25. Phantom of the Opera has always been on Broadway.
   29. Computerized player pianos have always been tinkling in the lobby.
   42. Ken Burns has always been producing very long documentaries on PBS.

   Do these things have anything to do with the mindset of 18-year-olds? With the exception of those 18-year-olds who are huge Arizona Cardinals fans, I think not.

Anyway, this year's rant is a short one because I got beat to it by Chris Heard (who is himself a college professor), who trashes this year's list in a snarky blog post. The highlight:

Okay, I don’t want to through each of the 75 items like this. Most of the rest could be grouped into such categories as “false,” “overstated,” or “irrelevant.” What the list really boils down to is this: the members of the class of 2010 take for granted some things that earlier generations lived through. Wow. What a revelation.

Amen. As I wrote two years ago, if college professors really cared about the mindset of their new students (and not just the fact that they grew up riding in minivans and listening to canned lobby music), then maybe they'd sit down with these (presumably bright) 18-year-olds and ask them, "Tell me about the world you live in."

Holloween

I don't get Halloween.

I've never really cared all that much about it. After a certain age, trick-or-treating loses its appeal, and I've never quite understood the notion of dressing up and partying. Why waste time playing dress up? Just have a party if you want to have a party.

I think I don't care about Halloween because there's nothing to care about. Halloween is a meaningless holiday, and I'm just not sure I can wrap my mind around the idea of celebrating a meaningless holiday.

Here you have a holiday that's widely celebrated, though it's totally detached from the original reason it was celebrated. (And if it was still attached to that original meaning, no one would celebrate it.) People do all sorts of things on Halloween, but they're all meaningless.

People carve pumpkins on Halloween. What's the point?
People dress up on Halloween. Why?
People knock on people's doors and ask for candy. What kind of ridiculousness is that?

Look, if someone's celebrating Halloween because these sorts of things have meaning for them, fine. But I don't know anyone like that. People don't celebrate Halloween because they connect to the ancient Druidic rituals or because its a deep and important part of their heritage. People celebrate Halloween because... they do.

How dumb is that? Halloween is an entirely stupid holiday that continues to exist because candy companies, horror movie producers, and costume makers depend on it. This is worse than Mothers Day, which, despite being invented by Hallmark, is about appreciating someone who deserves appreciation.

Let it be known that I will not be succumbing to this ridiculousness. My life will be a Halloween-free zone from here on out.

Good Shabbos. Welcome to my neighborhood.

I'm sitting on my mirpeset right now, doing some reading for school. Shabbat shalom. I just finished the chapter in Cohen and Eisen's The Jew Within where they talk about how American Jews believe in God.

Across the street, a burgundy SUV pulls up to an apartment building and parks. A guy wearing a kippah gets out of the passenger seat, and a woman dressed sort of "business casual" gets out of the back seat. The driver emerges, donning visible tzitzit dangling from under his shirt. He closes the car door, presses the "lock" button on his keyless entry system, and puts his kippah on. They walk into the building.

A few minutes later, another group of three -- dressed similarly -- walks up to the same building. Both men are wearing kippot, one a beanie-style white one. One of them also has dangling tzitzit.

A few minutes later, a third group of three walks down the sidewalk on my side of the street. The men are both wearing khakis and blue Oxford-style dress shirts, as well as colorful knitted kippot. The woman is dressed in slacks and a stylish top, with stiletto heels. One of the men is pushing a stroller. They're talking about parshat hashavua, and quoting Bishop Desmond Tutu.

Suddenly, a woman on a bike rides up, and dismounts in front of the apartment across the street. She's wearing biker gear... spandex shorts, a sporty looking top, and a small backpack. She says, "Good shabbos!" to the group with the stroller on my side of the street.

"Thanks for your note," the stroller-pusher says.
"Well, it was a beautiful drash," the bike woman replies.
"I'm glad you liked it," stroller-pusher says. "Good shabbos."
"Good shabbos. Bye."

Bike woman walks into the building across the street, following the six before her.

"You need to put this on the blog," Sara tells me.

גשם

I love the rain.

It's still summer. In Los Angeles, summer lasts until at least October. And in Los Angeles, it doesn't rain in the summer. Our heat is a dry heat. It rains in the winter here in Southern California.

For some reason -- a freak of nature, I guess -- it rained for about three minutes this evening.

I love the rain. It leaves everything smelling fresh and clean. Sort of like dryer sheets.

The rain reminds me of Israel. Last year, it rained for something like a month straight. We got sick of the rain.

But tonight, when I heard the rain, I ran out and sat on my mirpeset.

Mmm. Rain.

I'm a Bad, Bad Man

"Contraband items not allowed in the stadium include: glass bottles, cans, weapons, poles, umbrellas, backpacks, 14 inch or larger purses or bags, coolers, thermoses, beachballs, inflatables, banners, signs, flags, use of laser pointers, firecrackers/fireworks, boom boxes, air horns, whistles, musical instruments and pets."

-From the Dodger Stadium A-to-Z Guide, published by the LA Dodgers (emphasis mine)I went to the Dodger game to night with Ari, Noam, and Jaimie. It was a lot of fun. We had great seats (thanks Joel and Ariella), the Dodgers won, and it was a beautiful night.

I also got a chance to do something I've wanted to do for a long time. A dream came true tonight.

In case you've never been to a Dodger game (or to any baseball stadium where beach balls are common): People bring beach balls to the baseball game. Beach balls are not allowed at the baseball game. People bring them anyway. They sneak them in. Then, they carefully (so as not to get caught by stadium staff) inflate their beach balls. Then, they hit their beach balls into the air. The beach balls bounce around. People hit the beach balls all around the stands. Eventually, an usher notices. He or she comes down the aisle where the ball is bouncing around, and stands there, waiting for the ball to fly by so they can catch it and confiscate it.

I hate beach balls. Three reasons:

1. Beach balls can be very dangerous, or at least very bothersome. If you're sitting close -- like we were tonight -- foul balls come into the stands at high speeds. You need to pay attention. Beach balls are a dangerous distraction. Even if you're sitting far away, a flying beach ball that hits someone who is not paying to the beach ball game could disrupt a well balanced coke or beer, or hit an old lady in the head, or whatever.

2. I came to watch a baseball game. I didn't come to play with your beach ball. Beach balls are not allowed at Dodger Stadium. Beach balls are allowed at the beach. I didn't pay $10 to park, $10 for a ticket, $4 for a coke, $4 for a hot dog, and $5 for a bag of peanuts so that I could be a spectator/participant in your beach ball game. I'm here to watch the baseball game. Keep your beach ball out of my way. I don't want them landing in my lap, landing on the field, or in the stadium at all. [Same goes for the wave: I didn't come here to be part of some giant coordinated movement of people. I came here to watch the ballgame. This is a baseball stadium. If baseball is too boring for you, then don't come. Now sit down and shut up.]

3. Beach balls are stupid. What the hell is the point of this beach ball game, anyway? Hit a beach ball around. Stare at it hoping that it comes near you so you can hit it. Hope that the usher doesn't catch it. If the usher does catch it, boo him for confiscating the beach ball. (It's not like its his job or anything, and it's not like it was unexpected). This seems like a very fun game, doesn't it? Well, if by "fun" you actually mean "insanely retarded," then sure. [Again, same goes for the wave. Is your life so ridiculously bland that you derive pleasure from being part of a large group of people that makes a game out of standing up in succession?]

A while ago, I vowed to myself (and my brother, who also goes to Dodger games to -- surprise -- watch the games) that if a beach ball ever landed right in my lap, I'd pop it. To repeat: I'm here to watch a baseball game. I don't want to deal with flying beach balls. Why sit there, trying to see the field over the heads of people standing up to reach the ricocheting beach ball, just to wait for the usher to catch it?

So tonight we were sitting just a few rows off the field, right behind third base. Serious foul ball territory. It was a great game. The Dodgers and Reds were see-sawing back and forth for a while. Some idiot pulls out a beach ball. Some other idiots encourage their small children to take their eyes off the game -- remember, the field is 25 feet away and hard objects are flying around at 100 mph -- so that they can watch the beach ball and hit it if it comes their way. (In my opinion, this is nothing short of child endangerment.)

Next thing I know, the beach ball is in my lap. Conveniently, I'm holding a pen. I'd rehearsed this moment in my head hundreds of times.

I raised my arm, pen poised in my hand. I brought it down hard on the beach ball. The pen punctured the soft plastic, and the ball deflated.

People booed. I ignored them. I watched the game. Ari, Noam, and Jaimie stared at me, mouths agape. I was the official bad guy of the section.

I smiled on the inside. People quickly forgot about the beach ball and went back to watching the game, talking with their friend, reading the ads pasted on every spare surface of the stadium ("Steve Garvey says 'Don't go bald! Get plugs!'"), or whatever. I was a hero to crotchety baseball-loving Dodger fans everywhere.

There was a dad sitting next to me with his three-year-old (or so) son on his lap. A minute or two after my moment of beach ball deflation glory, he was still struggling to comprehend.

"Daddy, I want to hit the beach ball," he said softly.

"I'm sorry. You can't hit the beach ball. That man popped the ball."

"Why did he pop the ball?"

"I don't know."

"But I wanted to hit the ball," he said, quietly and mournfully.

"Well, there's no ball anymore. That man popped it."

Am I evil or what?

Goodbyes Are Hard

I'm leaving today, but I'm one of the last of my friends to do so.

Lots of people left motzei shabbat, or even earlier. Joel left a few days ago. Sara left a couple of days after that. Rochelle left last night.

I have had to say goodbye to everyone (though I'll see the people going to LA soon enough).

Taking two weeks to say goodbye is hard. The last couple of days have just been one after another. Each of my teachers, Marcy, Lior at Zolley's, Gilad at Hess, the security guard at Restobar, Zoe, the Restobar waiters and managers, Kevin, Reiner, my mirpeset...

As I finished packing this evening, I took a break to go to Restobar and order my favorite drink one last time.

קפה הפוּך, גדוֹל, עם חלב דל שוּמן

In one hour I'm off.

להתלזלז

Ridiculous Shoes

Nowadays, I get to walk around on a moonbounce everywhere I go.

I bought a pair of these ridiculous shoes. They're blue. They look like gardener's shoes. They are the most comfortable pair of shoes I've ever worn. They're rubber. They were very cheap. You can wash them in the dishwasher. (You can also cook salmon in the dishwasher, but you probably shouldn't do both at the same time.) Sara also bought a pair (hers are cute and pink).

There are people counting down the days until we go home. I am not one of those people. I am counting how many pomelos I can fit into my stomach between now and June 3. I am also counting how many times I can sit at Restobar, eat onion soup at Atara, say "Yashar, yashar, yashar" to Israelis asking directions, listen to Singer bitch about his landlady, get my hair cut at Avi Manko, get called Motek ("sweetie") by grown men, and yell at gross cats.

Oh yeah. And shawarma. Mmm. Shawarma.

Whatever. At least I have ridiculous shoes.

נזכר ולא נשכח את ילדינו שנרצחו

For a larger image, click here.

I sit on my mirpeset -- my balcony -- almost every day, usually with Joel and Rochelle. For me, it's a safe place.

From it, you can look down at Restobar, the best restaurant in Jerusalem. Three years ago, Restobar was called Moment Cafe.

Three years ago, on March 9, 2002 at 10:30 p.m., a man walked into Moment and detonated himself. He killed eleven people, ten of them in their twenties.

Three years ago, the walls of Moment were splattered with blood, and pocked with nails and bolts. Three years ago, Orthodox men wearing latex gloves climbed on the trellises, scraping up pieces of human tissue so that they could be properly buried.

Three years later, eleven families gathered outside to hear songs and poems, to light candles, and to say kaddish.

The large black sign was covered in eleven portraits, and a sign that said נזכר ולא נשכח את ילדינו שנרצחו.

"We will remember and not forget our children who were murdered."

On a table, next to eleven candles, were scrapbooks filled with pictures, letters, army commendations, and newspaper articles.

Three years ago, Danit Dagan, 24, and Uri Felix, 23, were meeting up with friends at Moment. They were to be married that May, in just two months.

Three years later, their mothers lit candles and held a scrapbook containing a three-year-old slip of paper. A wedding invitation.

Celebrity Grudge Match: Tevye vs. Gwen

Tevye and Gwen:
Looking for the same thing?

During the Superbowl, there'll be a new commercial from Pepsi advertising a new round of the iTunes promotion in which they're giving away free song downloads on iTunes under the caps of specially-marked Pepsi bottles. I watched the commercial (which can be viewed online at Mac Observer) and noticed a song that sounded rather familiar.

I did some research, and discovered that the song is Rich Girl by Gwen Stefani and Eve (it's on Stefani's new album, Love, Angel, Music, Baby). It's basically a hip-hoppified remake of "If I Were A Rich Man" from Fiddler on the Roof.

I downloaded the song right away.

It isn't that bad, though I guess (as is the case with Stefani's music) that it would get annoying pretty quick if I kept listening.

My particular interest, though, is with the lyrics.

The original version is about Tevya, a poor milkman, wishing he were rich man. He's a hard working guy who keeps having bad things happen to him, and he's struggling to maintain his tradition (or, if you're gonna get the obvious Biblical allusion, his faith). Though its title and chorus may suggest a certain materialism, the song is really about Tevye's frustrations with the hardships of being poor and how he just wishes his life were easier and that he could better provide for the people he loves.

Tevye asks for a roof with a tin roof... presumably so his family can live in a house that doesn't leak when it rains. He dreams that his wife were well fed ("With a proper double-chin..."), that he'd considered wise by his peers, and of lots of fowl so that the town can hear them squawking (though, again, he's asking for the kind of food a rich man would eat in a poor Russian shtetl).

Gwen's song is a bit different. To the melody of Tevye's poor-man fantasies of food and shelter, she wishes she were a rich girl so she could own a "Galliano gown" (I assume some expensive dress designed by someone important to rich people), multiple homes, including one in London that she'd require a first-class plane ticket to visit. She talks about wanting cash to flow so that she could impress people with her expensive things. Oh yeah... there's another difference in the songs...

She is rich.

Her song isn't about wishing she didn't live in a world where she has no choice but to pull a milk cart around a town with no paved roads, but a celebration of the fact that she lives in one that pays her ridiculous amounts of money for the bit of otherwise-useless talent she has. She and Eve acknowledge this when they sing,

Yes ma'am, we got the style that's wicked
I hope you can all keep up
We climbed all the way from the bottom to the top
now we ain't gettin' nothing but love.

Wait, now I get it. See, they deserve to have ridiculous amounts of money to spend on useless dresses and multiple homes because they pulled themselves up by their bootstraps with nothing but hard work.

Tevye should have just realized that he was going nowhere pulling his milk cart. If he could just have gotten a makeover from the Queer Eye guys, he would have been able to take that song-and-dance act of his right to Hollywood & Vine for a record contract.

This new song sounds kinda cool, but its lyrics are thoroughly disgusting. Here are two grotesquely wealthy women, singing about all the money they have due to their good looks and natural talent to the melody of a song about a guy who has no choice but to be poor because he lives in a world where chicken dinners are a luxury. They sing about having multiple homes while hundreds of thousands of people in Asia have no homes because they looked outside one day to see giant waves of water. Over a hundred-thousand people died last month across the world while Gwen and Eve fly first class wearing pieces of fabric that cost thousands of dollars.

Ultimately, Gwen Stefani is singing about finding happiness in objects. Here's what Tevye is singing about:

If I were rich, I'd have the time that I lack
To sit in the synagogue and pray.
And maybe have a seat by the Eastern wall.
And I'd discuss the holy books with the learned men, several hours every day.
That would be the sweetest thing of all.

Whoever gave Ms. Stefani the rights to the song ought to be ashamed.

Shabbat.

Joel. Mirpeset. Sun.

This morning, I sat (actually, for this part I stood) in shul and heard Howie read:

זָכוֹר אֶת-יוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת, לְקַדְּשׁוֹ. שֵׁשֶׁת יָמִים תַּעֲבֹד, וְעָשִׂיתָ כָּל-מְלַאכְתֶּךָ. וְיוֹם, הַשְּׁבִיעִי שַׁבָּת, לַיהוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ: לֹא-תַעֲשֶׂה כָל-מְלָאכָה אַתָּה וּבִנְךָ וּבִתֶּךָ, עַבְדְּךָ וַאֲמָתְךָ וּבְהֶמְתֶּךָ, וְגֵרְךָ, אֲשֶׁר בִּשְׁעָרֶיךָ. כִּי שֵׁשֶׁת-יָמִים עָשָׂה יְהוָה אֶת-הַשָּׁמַיִם וְאֶת-הָאָרֶץ, אֶת-הַיָּם וְאֶת-כָּל-אֲשֶׁר-בָּם, וַיָּנַח, בַּיּוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי; עַל-כֵּן, בֵּרַךְ יְהוָה אֶת-יוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת וַיְקַדְּשֵׁהו

Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shall you labor, and do all your work; But the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord your God; in it you shall not do any work, you, nor your son, nor your daughter, your manservant, nor your maidservant, nor your cattle, nor your stranger that is within your gates; For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, and rested the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day, and made it holy.

(Ex. 20:8-11)

After several days of rain and cold (in fact, over a month of cold), we've had a few days of warm sun here in JLem.

Thank God for the mirpeset (that's a balcony). Yesterday, Joel and I discovered that it got lots of sun and was warm all afternoon long. We spent our pre-Shabbat hours lounging around, listening to music, and reading the paper.

Today, I went to services, made a salad with Sara and Jen, had lunch at Rebecca and Julia's, and then came home to...

...sit on the mirpeset in the sun with Joel and Roch. Rachael soon joined us. It was pretty much a perfect Shabbat afternoon. We sat, read, talked, acted gross, and barbequed. We sat around and did nothing. It was pretty much the definition of rest.

The day ended with dinner with Sara and her dad at Philadelphia, a rather good restaurant on Derekh Chevron owned by Israeli Arabs.

Quite the "sabbath day."