Roll that Film!

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I discovered a great Web site, Jewish Impact Films, that offers brief, entertaining films to help promote Jewish concepts: Shabbos, Kashrut, Sukkot, etc.

It's fun, it's insightful and it's Jewish!

Jewish Impact Films -- click on it!

I'm a Wuss for OnStar (TM)

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No, hubby and I don't own GM vehicles and so we don't have OnStar in our cars, but next best thing to having OnStar access in your vehicle, is listening to the OnStar radio spots.

I'm such a sucker when I hear these three minute ad pitches: it's like a soap opera for the airwaves -- Will the "victim" get through to the OnStar person? Will OnStar get through to the emergency services? Will OnStar be receptive to compliments following the crisis?

I like hearing the disparate accents of callers and the OnStar reps. I like knowing that usually there will be a happy ending. If not, I think the company has their advertising means a little mixed-up.

Sometimes the desperate voices pierce my heart though...as was the case this a.m. just as I drove into the parking lot at work. In this scenario, a 48-year-old man thought he was having a heart attack, emergency personnel were contacted and by the end of the commercial, they'd arrived on the scene. But by the end of the commercial I was also suddenly weepy. I could actually hear the pain in the caller's voice, the tightness, the clenching in his chest, and I actually hoped that he, too, received a happy ending.

Need directions? Call OnStar. Need help unlocking your vehicle? Call OnStar. Car won't drive? Call OnStar. G-d forbid you need emergency medical treatment? Call OnStar.

Need a laugh? Link to BlondeStar.

Give a Book a Look

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I grew up around books: reading them, buying them, collecting them, proofreading them, copy editing them, editing them, shelving them when I worked in campus libraries, donating them when my personal collections got too vast.

I've always been interested in book cover design, typography, author bios on book covers, back cover blurbs, front cover flashes.

In almost every way, books have been appealing to me, except in one as the years went on: THE PRICE. As I got into my late teens and early twenties and I cruised bookstores, lookin' for a good read, I'd find something that I might've read about in a magazine, which sounded interesting to me, and I bought it. I could still afford to. As time went on, I began to head to the publishers' clearance tables of the bookstores, gathering up several books at a time to buy.

But even those days are long gone. Books are damn expensive to buy. Working in the industry, I know that books are damn expensive to produce, so paying the price shouldn't be such a shocker. But it still continues to be.

I always wonder how people can afford to belong to monthly bookclubs, such as my company offers, and get boxfuls of books, paying shipping and handling and state/provincial taxes. I wonder how people can go into the bookstores and buy two or three hardcovers or even paperbacks each month.

As a parent who wants to pass on a few good reads to a child (and not necessarily from a public library or even a secondhand bookstore), I'm at somewhat of a loss when I see the prices of books. Tonight I bought two thin paperbacks for my two oldest children, as a treat for them. These books that total between them less than 200 pages, ran me up a bill of $14 or so...Canadian. Maybe in the States it would have cost me $11 or so. It's still a lot for a silly and simple read, nothing notable about these books.

I, on the other hand, managed to find a softcover publishers' clearance book for myself; I paid 99 cents for the book, which was about 6 years old and a wonderful piece of fiction by a Canadian author who is fairly well-known in these parts. This book even received a wonderful review in the NY Times in its heyday. I felt lucky to have a 99 cents find for a good piece of fiction, but honestly, it hurt me that the author-publisher relationship had come to this and his book was like confetti that's left on the floor after a great party -- fun while it lasted, but a hassle to get rid of.

I adore children's books. Children's books, hardcover or soft, do not come cheap, but a parent has to make some exceptions to make some worthwhile purchases of such books that can become family keepers.

I'm only blogging about the price of books because when I came home tonight and showed the kids the books I bought for them, my daughter asked me after examining the book jacket, "How come we always have to pay more for books here than in the United States?" I had to give her a quick explanation of the American vs. the Canadian dollar, and then gave her a brief concept of book publishing costs in general.

Maybe she "got it" but I'm still wondering about it all.

A Writer's Anxiety Dream

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I have claimed elsewhere in my blog that I am not a writer: I write. But for the sake of this post, consider me a writer.

The other night I woke up from an anxiety dream; you all have them -- before important dates, before big meetings, when expenses need to be paid, etc. I think the most common one people have is that they miss a test, or get into a test and realize they don't know any of the answers or that they studied something else altogether.

My dream had to do with submissions I'd given recently to a Jewish Canadian annual literary journal for consideration for this year's edition. I haven't yet heard anything from the editor/publisher, but in my dream my two poems were published. This journal is released in conjunction with Toronto's Jewish Book Fair held every November and suddenly I was at the venue of the launch, and handed a book and told right there and then that my poems were in. Only problem: they got my name wrong!

When I know I will have something published, I often like to use my maiden and married name if possible; many people from my past would not know my married name but would remember that I was one of the "literary" ones at school if they saw my published piece with my maiden name as well. So I was supposed to have had all three names show up in the index. One poem had me listed only as Pearl, like I was some rock singer a la Jewel or Madonna/Esther. The other poem listed my names completely wrong. There was also some kind of bracketed disclaimer in the index with my poems, implying they were heavy-duty sad, or something like that. I was so angry because I was told that the literary journal had been edited, but I thought that if they got my names wrong, how could it have been edited. And I wondered that nobody would know it was me who wrote either poem with the altered/shortened names.

It is weird to have this dream: I do not yet know if my poems will be accepted this year, like last year and two years before that...but I'm guessing that with my anxiety dream, it means that I'm hoping they will be!

Sometimes No News Is Good News (or Better News)

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At shul today I was talking to a former classmate. She told me that another former classmate (someone I went to Jewish day school and a few years of public high school with) is DYING. She's apparently in 4th stage of lung cancer. I was rendered speechless. This 44-year-old woman is dying...DYING.

I was never friends-friends with this girl, but we were classmates, acquaintances, and I liked her. I have not seen her probably in 25 years, since high school graduation. She never married, never had children, and continued to live at home with her widowed mother. I think that life did not treat her the way she'd have liked to be treated, although she was cute and perky and spunky and very lively and fun.

I know where this girl/woman lives, and actually for so many years when I passed her home, I always just felt like knocking on the door and saying hi just out of the blue. But I never did. There'd have been a greater chance a few years ago, when my mother-in-law happened to befriend a woman in Florida who was this girl's mother. That would have been the perfect opportunity to check in with the girl after so many years and just catch up.

Last year I ran into a friend of that girl whom she grew up with and I said to please give her warm regards from me, that I think of her from time to time.

Now, I really feel the need to see her, to say hello (and unfortunately also maybe a goodbye), to give her a hug. It is so weird, so very akward for me... I never really had anything doing with this girl aside from just a friendliness and school history, and I want to seek her out before it's really too late to do so. It isn't about appeasing me and my conscience, though. I just have felt a curiousity about her all these years, what she's done with herself, see who she's in touch with still, to reminisce about teachers and classmates...

I have another classmate, Sharon Nechama, whom I went through Jewish day school with, and she left after grade 9 for public high school. We ran into one another 2 or 3 times throughout the years and caught up on our lives for a few minutes, but that stopped: that classmate died at the age of 27 in a car accident. I found out where she is buried and every year or two I make it a point to visit her kever. You don't necessarily have to be friends with a person to feel a strong compassion; there is just some common history, some childhood kind of bonding that serves as a basis for memory.

I will G-d willing find a way to visit this other classmate while she is still among the living. I hope that she is willing and able to still see visitors. I don't know what nechama (comfort) I can give her at this point in her life, but I can tell her how I always liked her, how she helped build up my self-esteem at an impressionable time in my life and I've always remembered her for that goodness.

Miriam/Marilyn, I hope that Hashem is watching over you and blesses you...


***************************

Update -- Sunday afternoon:

I did call my classmate around noon today; I just took the bull by the horns, looked up the number, reached her mother, who gave me my classmate's private number.

I was bothered all day yesterday, and all night yesterday after hearing the news. I couldn't sleep well at all, and between 4 a.m. and 4:30 a.m. I was on the computer looking up the definition and symptoms of 4th stage lung cancer. I needed to know what this woman was going through.

To make a long story short, she was so pleased I called her, I was pleased I called her and got to speak to her. I think we will get in touch from time to time via e-mail, and if she wants visitors, I will make it a point to go and see her. In the meantime, I wish her strength and the ability to have many pain-free days...

Reflections on Yom Kippur

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1. I turned on the computer tonight, to our home page www.Haaretz.com. There was a picture of Hillary Clinton addressing a Beverly Hills, California, congregation. What was she doing in a -- and I'm guessing here -- temple or a synagogue, probably not a shul or shteeble.

What was Hillary doing: headlining for the Israel Bonds drive? Appealing to congregants and annual visitors that if they plunk down their good hard-earned U.S. dollars, they will benefit the country of Israel?

To me, Yom Kippur is not Yom Kippur without a Bonds drive! I had a card sitting on my seat at shul. My eight-year-old daughter had a card on her seat. Thank G-d she didn't get ambitious and fold down the $25,000 tab or even the $1000 tab. Her (non-extistent) allowance won't pay for it!

2. I know that most people find the Kol Nidrei service very moving. After all, we are standing before G-d, repenting for our sins and appealing for another year of good and to be inscribed in the Book of Life. Yes, it is moving, as is every time I beat my chest as I list my sins.

Perhaps surprising to you is my love for the closing service of Yom Kippur -- the last-minute reminder of my requests, before the Gates of Heaven close to us, before the book is sealed. I wait for the blowing of the shofar, and not because it marks the end of my fast -- I fast well, thank G-d, and could probably carry on into the next day, if I only get to have a drink of water. That shofar marking the end of the fast is so powerful for me, such a rich sound that heralds the end of this solemn holy day, yet marks as a reminder that our requests have been heard and dealt with by G-d. When men are standing and davening an entire day for their salvation and the salvation of their congregants, and they still have the energy and mindset to blow this beautiful ram's horn is a wondrous thing...as is the sound that emits from the shofar...that last lingering note.

3. A friend kindly sent me this link. Please take a few moments to watch this film, especially that we've just had our own personal conversations with G-d in shul, in our prayers and in our thoughts.

http://www.theinterviewwithgod.com/popup-frame.html

MEME's the Word (aka The 23rd Meme)

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I found this very interesting meme on someone else's blog, and thought I'd try it. You might like to, as well.

1. Delve into your blog archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.

Unfortunately I discovered that this didn't work for me--my 23rd post is only one sentence, four lines long.

Oh well, better luck next meme....

A Shout-Out to Blogland/Blogville/ the Blogway

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I've said it before, yet I have to say it again: I love blogging. I love writing blogs. I love reading blogs. I love commenting on blogs. I love reading comments on blogs.

It's just over a year now that I learned of blogs and began to read them, one in particular. (my blogging writing career started December 2004) But then I went to that blog's listed links and checked some of those out. A couple of them became regular reads and then I'd link to those bloggers' links...and so on and so forth. (I can't help but always think of the hair product that advertises: "I told two friends, and they told two friends and so on, and so forth.")

I have a very complete life with a beautiful family, a full-time job, a lovely home and various interests. But it is difficult for me to remember life "BB"--before blogging. It's just like some of us can't remember life "BK"--before kids, or life "BM"--before marriage. I can't remember what I was doing a year and one week ago -- it wasn't as if I watched much TV, because I didn't. It wasn't as if I was reading, because when I read all day at my job, it's difficult to read for pleasure. I think, if I recall correctly, I was just a "surfer" but not a "blogger". Very proudly I can now say that I am BOTH!

I won't start renaming blogs that I read, but let me say that my day doesn't feel complete unless I've cruised past your blog several times a day, seeking new posts, new comments, new comments on comments. There are several BRILLIANT writers out there -- BRILLIANT, as in good and articulate and enlightening; and BRILLIANT, as in extremely entertaining, causing me to crack smiles or break out in laughter. There are those BRILLIANT writers out there who with a simple turn of phrase can encapsulate what you are feeling, what you are thinking. There are those BRILLIANT writers out there who paint a canvas with a spectrum of emotions, from the black of anger and despair to the white of purity and holiness and calmness...and everything in between. The sunny yellows, golds and oranges, the drab browns and grays.

I have learned so much from many of you -- about life, about perception, about traditions, about Halacha, about current events, about human frailties and human strengths, about nature, about literature/music/art, about geography and history and social studies. And most importantly, I have also learned more about myself...as I interact on this virtual highway...and carry this knowledge with me.

I hope that the coming (blogging) year equally brings you personal fulfillment and simple joys.

Yom Kippur Celebrity Trivia

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My grade 6 English teacher told me many years later when I met her again that she was a two-day-a-year shul Jew. She claimed she walked in on Rosh Hashanah and walked out on Yom Kippur. Yes, there are countless Jews that come out of the woodwork to partake in these two solemn holidays that mark the tone of the coming year. At least they do that...

Here is an interesting piece I read in the Jewish World Review, a wonderful online source of information.

Far from religiously observant, these celebs had an affinity for Yom Kippur
By Nate Bloom


Yom Kippur, the most solemn Jewish holiday of the year, has produced a number of celebrity anecdotes.

Famous actor KIRK DOUGLAS, who became very religious in the early 1990s, recalls that for most of his life he was not observant, but he always went to synagogue on Yom Kippur. He credits this practice with keeping a spark of faith alive that was kindled in his later years.

In a lighter vein, comedian ROBERT KLEIN says that against his better judgment he once accepted a lucrative club date on Yom Kippur. He got an infected wart. Since then, Klein has not played on Yom Kippur, and he says that one club owner calls him the " SANDY KOUFAX of comedy."

The owner, of course, was referring to the decision of baseball great not to pitch in a 1965 World Series game which fell on the holiday. Other Jewish players who have sat out the day include Hall-of-Famer HANK GREENBERG, current star SHAWN GREEN, and KEN HOLTZMAN, an excellent pitcher who played for several teams in the '60s and '70s.

Holtzman, then playing for Oakland Athletics, declined to pitch in a 1973 play-off game against the Baltimore Orioles that fell on Yom Kippur. His team had no problem with his decision and the A's management said it would find a local Baltimore synagogue where Holtzman could attend services. He was, however, surprised when a limousine appeared in front of his Baltimore hotel on Yom Kippur morning. The driver told Holtzman that he was told to take the pitcher to synagogue.

As reported by the Forward newspaper, "[Holtzman] was escorted to front row center of the synagogue, where he was offered a handshake by a distinguished-looking man standing near his family. 'Ken, let me introduce myself,' the man said. 'I'm JERRY HOFFBERGER, owner of the Orioles.' For Holtzman, the moral of the story was simple: 'Jews stick together.'"

Another story concerns musical great SAMMY DAVIS, JR. , who converted to Reform Judaism in the mid-1950s. In 1959, Davis refused to work on Yom Kippur during the film production of "Porgy and Bess." Director OTTO PREMINGER, who was Jewish, but famous for his insensitivity to other people's feelings, got angry at Davis and called the film's producer, the legendary SAMUEL GOLDWYN.

Goldwyn immediately called Davis and wanted to know if it was true about his refusing to work. Sammy said that as a Jew he could not work on the Day of Atonement. There was silence for a moment, with Goldwyn no doubt noting that stopping production to accommodate Davis would cost $30,000, a large sum then. Finally, Goldwyn, who was a non-practicing Jew, said, "Bless you." Production on the film was stopped for Yom Kippur.

The final anecdote concerns the famous composer/conductor LEONARD BERNSTEIN. Bernstein came from a family of Talmudic scholars, but was only moderately observant in his adult years. However, Bernstein would hire a taxicab for Yom Kippur and go around Manhattan "shul-hopping." He did this because he loved to hear many different cantors' interpretations of the traditional prayers.

Bernstein knew, of course, that riding was forbidden on the holiday, so he would have the cab driver drop him off a block away from each synagogue so that synagogue-goers would not see the famous conductor riding on the holiday.

His son, Alexander, commented that his father would immediately intensely concentrate on the service and the cantor upon entering a synagogue. He was carried-away, his son said, in a world of his own.

********************

May we all, celebrity or not, be inscribed in the Book of Life once again for a happy, healthy and successful year. G'mar chatimah tova.

I Want To Go to the Zoo, Zoo, Zoo

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Did I tell you the other day about a heatwave? Well, I spoke too soon. Yesterday was cool, today was cool...and a beautiful fall day. What to do?

Of course PROJECT SUKKAH should have been #1 on the list. But for different reasons, we had to put it on hold until next weekend. (yes, I know, we're cutting it close...but we tend to live our lives that way.) I suggested a drive to the country to an outlet mall and then to go antiquing in a nearby town...but then my husband and I imagined the mall scene--having to keep a tight rein on the children -- and the antiquing scene -- "Don't touch that. It'll break. It's AN ANTIQUE! No, it's older than I am..."

Then I suggested the zoo. I have two sets of prepaid tickets (through my work's social club that gets tickets to social/sports/entertainment venues at a reduced rate) that are good until next May and next July...and I thought that today is as good a day as any.

The children got excited with the offer, a knapsack was packed with snacks, drinks and sandwiches, cameras were loaded with batteries and off we went.

Thank G-d for reduced ticket rates; otherwise, it would have cost the 5 of us about $71 just to get through the gates, and that was on top of the $8 parking.

What is lovely at the zoo is to see the same animals at different times of the year: I've been in spring, summer, winter and fall. Who'd have thought that you could snap a photo of an African elephant with a backdrop of maple leaves turning into golds and crimsons. Or polar bears lounging on the rocks in the sun, instead of hitting the cool current of the man-made lake?

Of course the orangutans and monkeys are always fun to watch as they primp and groom themselves, scratch their tushies without shame and do their acrobatics on the built-in "jungle gyms" their habitats offer.

Today, one of the prettiest exhibits we saw were free-flying butterflies in a small-scale rainforest setting. I know they're attracted to bright colors, but for some reason they liked my black sweatshirt and settled on my chest a couple of times. The colors of these creatures were magnificent and unlike the simple monarch butterfly most of us are used to seeing. Unfortunately, my children let out shrieks and shrills OF FEAR when butterflies settled on them or came too close.

We walked for miles through the regions and continents that the zoo is divided into. Sometimes I couldn't help wondering as I looked at the animals through glass dividers: "Are we looking in at them? Or are they looking out at us? Who is really the creature on display?"

I'll leave you with this from the famous 1960's film, Dr. Doolittle. We certainly "grew accustomed" to these lyrics:

TALK TO THE ANIMALS

If we could talk to the animals,

just imagine it,

Chattin' to a chimp in chimpanzee,

Imagine talking to a tiger,

chatting to a cheetah,

What a neat achievement it would be!

If we could talk to the animals,

learn their languages,

We could take an animal degree,

We'd study elephant and eagle, buffalo and beagle,

Alligator, guinea pig, and flea!

We would converse in polar bear and python,

And we would curse in fluent kangaroo,

If people ask us "can you speak rhinocerous?"

We'd say "of courserous! Can't you?"

If we conferred with our furry friends, man to animal,

Think of all the things we could discuss

If we could walk with animals, talk with the animals,

Grunt and squeak and squawk with the animals,

And they could talk to us!

MEMEorize These

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Mirty so kindly invited me into the loop to respond to these:

1. Seven Celebrity Crushes

2. Seven Things I Can Do

3. Seven Things I Cannot Do

4. Seven Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex

5. Seven Things I Say Most Often

6. Seven Things I Plan To Do Before I Die

Okay -- here goes...

Seven Celebrity Crushes (call me wacko, but...)

1. Billy Crystal
2. Michael Feinstein (is it okay to have a crush on a gay man?)
3. Jerry Seinfeld
4. John Stossel (I don't even know if he's still a news guy on the air)
5. The guy/fellow lawyer from Ally McBeal who died off early on in the show
6. James Caan
7. Kenny G. (I think we could make beautiful music together)

Seven Things I Can Do

1. Write poetry
2. Sing soprano, sing alto
3. Spell b-a-t-h-y-s-c-a-p-h-e
4. Make up captivating bedtime stories for my children
5. Write letters that express what I can't say in person
6. Be a peacekeeper
7. Make people laugh and smile

Seven Things I Cannot Do

1. Bake cakes too well
2. Fold up a map too well
3. Make decisions too well
4. Geometry
5. Drive a stick shift
6. Sit quietly through a movie without shifting continuously in my seat
7. Relax

Seven Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex

1. A nice smile
2. Wittiness
3. An open, friendly look
4. Natural personality
5. An interest in what I have to say
6. Sincerity
7. Bright, clear eyes

Seven Things I Say Most Often

1. Okay
2. Whatever
3. Anyhow...anyway
4. This blogger that I read said/did/told...
5. Okay, "booba"
6. Ciao
7. Love ya

Seven Things I Plan To Do Before I Die

1. Publish a children's picture book or an anthology of poetry
2. Give some people from my past a piece of my mind...in a nice way, of course
3. Write a personalized letter to each of my children
4. Learn to be more independent, more self-sufficient
5. Put our photos in photo albums (those of you who have followed my blog will understand this comment)
6. Break down some more barriers between people
7. Tell family and friends how much I cherish them and how much they've impacted my life (and at this point I'm starting to cry....so I'll end here)

Eye Is Healed, Eye Is Healed

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Picture being in the South, at some kind of Baptist revival meeting. A faith healer is on hand and he's doing his magic on congregation members.

I, a visitor, walk up to the stage, where this minister puts his hand on my eye, says some mumbo-jumbo, removes my eye patch.

I loudly declare: "EYE IS HEALED, EYE IS HEALED!!!"

(And that, dear folks, is an update on PatchPearl's eye condition. Thought you might want to know. Thanks for your concern.)

Eyewitness

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So I'm home today from work -- PatchPearl could not see going into work till 2:30 and trying to read manuscripts and other copy for 5 1/2 hours. Besides, it would be treacherous and torturous to drive, especially today when it's raining and foggy.

I got up this morning to prepare my kids' lunches and jackets, and help see them off to school. Then I was on the computer for a bit and then I went back to sleep for two hours. My body needed it, my mind needed it.

But of course when I woke up, I realized that things around the house needed to get done. Yes, I have tons of leftovers from Yom Tov, so there's minimal food preparation for Shabbos. But I saw that I still had to put away fancy platters and serving dishes that sat in the middle of the dining room table since Yom Tov, I had to unload the dishwasher. It was clear to me that four baskets of clean laundry had to be folded and put away. Clutter needed to be de-cluttered, and from my point of view the perfect time to do this stuff is when it's quiet, no kids around, no other great responsiblities looming over my head.

With this eye patch, my vision may be rather limited...but believe me when I say I can still see the whole picture.

I wish you all a good Shabbos and a wonderful weekend.

Better Than a Poke in the Eye with a Sharp Stick

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The title of this post refers to something my husband always says when there's a choice to make. If we decide on the first alternative instead of the second, he might say this. If things don't go as planned, he might say this.

And today I say it.

At 5:45 a.m. I was lying on my daughter's bed; sometimes she requests that I lie with her, and of course, I fall asleep. She was pulling the covers and kicking them off at the same time and I turned around to look at her and see what was going on. And then I got it: THWAP! Poked in the eye. The pain was instantaneous and my hand went to cover the eye. I ran out of the bed and ran into the master bedroom, crying from the pain and unable to catch a breath to speak. My husband who woke up kept asking, "What's wrong? What happened?" And I couldn't get the words out. Finally between large gulps and sniffles I told him and he immediately made a compress to put on my eye.

I have, thank G-d, a high threshold of pain I believe (natural childbirth 3x; no painkillers after root canals and other minor surgeries), but this pain and the pressure behind the eyeball was almost intolerable. What was worse was that exactly two weeks ago, my co-worker somehow managed to scratch her cornea with a paper towel, and I had a feeling I had done the same to myself.

For an hour I couldn't open my eye, my nose was running like what, my eyes were tearing like what. It was like I had a severe cold, sinus infection and allergies rolled into one. But I knew I had to get to work and then see what to do: try to get an appointment with my eye doctor or go to a walk-in medical clinic. I chose the former and later in the morning, managed to book an appointment for this evening.

At first the discomfort and pain were tolerable, but then throughout the day at various intervals, the nose and eyes started running again, and I was blinking incessantly. Imagine when you wake up with that gritty, sandy feeling in your eyes; now imagine an entire sandbag has been dumped in your eyes, and someone is pushing your eyeball from behind, to boot! That's the pain I was having.

Driving home was murder; the sun was glaring in the west, in the direction I had to travel. Even with my sunglasses and the sun visor down, any time the sun hit my eyes, my vision blurred up with tears and pain.

Well, I just came home from the opthomologist. And I am a Moshe Dayan wannabe with an eye patch -- flesh tone, not black, thank G-d. Yes, that THWAP! in my eye managed to cause an abrasion. The doctor put an ointment in the eye, patched it up so it wouldn't get infected with bacteria, and tomorrow will check it out.

To drive with an eye patch (at least in my eyes-- yes the pun was intended!) is rather difficult; to keep the eye closed under the eye patch is rather difficult. To type this post is somewhat difficult.

My daughter kept apologizing profusely for what she'd unknowingly and unintentionally done, and even called me on the cell this a.m. as I drove to work, giving the first apologies. (when she woke, my husband told her what happened; she'd slept through all the medical drama) When I came home from work, she gave me more apologies and countless kisses. When I got back from the eye doctor, there were more of the same. And my youngest wondered aloud if with the patch I now qualify to be "a pirate."

Yes, this was a mishap, and thank G-d it wasn't worse. Because a poke in the eye with a finger or fingernail is ... as I said when I started this post: "Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick!"

A Yom Tov Heat Wave

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"We're havin a heat wave
A tropical heat wave
The temperatures rising..."

One would think that October brings a crispness to the air, a cool breeze, the need to wear a light sweater when outdoors...

Yes, one would think. BUT NOT THIS PAST YOM TOV!

Rosh Hashana was sweltering hot -- whatever new wool suits and wool hats women bought for the chag, had to be stored for another time. The straw hats came back out, the lightweight, light-colored suits and shoes came out of storage to make appearances.

It took me 30 minutes to walk to shul. It took me 40 minutes to recuperate from that 30-minute walk.

My parents came for lunch the first day. My mother was wearing a dark pinstripe wool dress, my father was in his dark suit. I said, "Ma, just looking at you makes me hot." She and my father told me how their shul was FREEZING!!! In the winter it's freezing 'cause they cut back on the heat, during the High Holidays it's freezing 'cause they cut back on the heat...and put on the air-conditioning.

As my daughter and I walked home together yesterday from shul, we played a game. I said, "I'm sweating like a...." and she filled in the blank. We went through the roster of family members, including cousins and uncle and aunt that were expected for lunch. Interesting how all her answers seemed to have some form of the word "fire" in it. I don't sweat like fire, but I sure was hot like it!

A summer heat wave for Rosh Hashana could very well become a cold snap and a need for ski jackets when sitting in the sukkah in a couple of weeks. Maybe it won't be Marilyn Monroe singing in the background, "We're having a heat wave..."; maybe it'll be some MGM musical actress singing "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow..."

The Yummy Awards

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So...we have the Emmy Awards, the Grammy Awards, the Oscars, the Soul Train Awards, the RITA Awards...and I now declare the grand prize winner of the 2005 Yummy Awards: TorontoPearl's husband.

This past Yom Tov, we hosted ALL the meals at our home; the number of guests ranged. Five in our family plus: one guest on Monday night, four guests for Tuesday lunch, six guests for Tuesday night and eight guests for Wednesday lunch.

When you host so many guests, many of them children, you need to offer a variety of foods. We like to refer to these days as "marathon eating" days, or as I wished a fellow blogaholic, a "happy foodfest!" She was going to have 27 people at one meal, but thank G-d, it was to be a potluck meal -- 27 people at one meal can either be a grand success or a dismal failure, and I give her credit for even having so many people sit at one or two tables. If it were in my home, I think the meal would end up like a meal that I used to have in the hotels in the Catskills or Florida: some of the guests would be at the first sitting for dinner, other guests would show up for the second sitting!

In any case, let me get back to my situation, my menu and my husband, the recipient of the Yummy Award.

Mr. TorontoPearl has a knack for easily finding his way around the kitchen; while I'm still reviewing the ingredients necessary for a recipe, he's already whisking, or chopping, or pureeing those same ingredients. He is quick, he is able, and he's g...o....o....d!!!

As I'd been busy for the past several weeks with freelance projects, yet had had the "brilliant" idea to invite countless people for Yom Tov, and the holiday was nearing, something had to be done. So hubby took the bull by the horns, started to plan menus, which we debated at great length in between my tackling a manuscript on Yiddish curses, and a manuscript on Reform Jewish identities and affiliation with a particular synagogue. As we debated the menus, I threw out some of those newly learned curses, and but then decided that if hubby was going to help me prepare for the chag, maybe it wasn't such a grand idea to want to reform him or his meal suggestions.

But variety, variety, variety was to be the key. And variety means several choices. And hosting four major meals means not wanting any repetitions. And not wanting any repetitions means lots of dishes that need to be housed in the refrigerator. And two full-size refrigerators and a bar fridge means learning to stack your dishes. And stacking your dishes means labeling them first so you know what's under all that aluminum wrapping.

So in one breath I will tell you some of our -- "our" meaning mostly hubby's prepared -- menu items. Chicken soup. Chicken soup with matzoh balls. Chicken soup with homemade kreplach. Broccoli-leek soup. Ashkenazi gefilte fish. Moroccan fish balls. Middle-Eastern eggplant. Orzo salad. Green salad. Meatballs. Turkey schnitzel. Honey-mustard chicken. Turkey legs. Barbecued chicken. Sweet-sour stew. Brown rice. Roasted potatoes. Honey cake. Chocolate cake. Apple cake. Brownies.

We even came up with a food-related joke. One of our meals had several dishes that used cumin to flavor them. It was decided that Sephardic cumin is the new Ashkenazi cinnamon.

In any case, my hubby is the master chef; I'm the sous chef. He prepares many dishes. I wash many dishes. He gets the Yummy Award; I get to eat everything yummy.

And best of all, we have enough food left over to feed a small army, to sustain us through most of this month's chagim, if not at least a couple more Shabboses.

Of course, after all the chagim are over, it's probably to be the diet route for us. Hmmm...wonder what goodies hubby will think up for our menus then. Water with ice. Water with slice of lime. Or maybe our intended diet will just be "food for thought"!

Shanah Tovah

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I wish you all a sweet, happy, healthy, prosperous New Year.

May 5766 be filled with blessings for each and every one of you.

I'll catch you all "next year"!

A Flock of Seagulls

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This is something I've wondered about for years...

I've always associated seagulls with lakes and beaches and oceans and rocky shoresides. My parents have countless photos from Miami Beach with my father throwing bread up into the air and feeding the gulls on the beach. We have photos of gulls dive-bombing into the water when they spy an unprotected fish that they want to enjoy as sushi.

Please explain to me why so many seagulls have managed to find their way inland, namely to suburban parking lots of office buildings, malls, supermarkets. Why are they patrolling the asphalt of synagogues and schools? Why are they lured to hang out and hold meetings around Dumpsters?

This is a year-round phenomenon, not just specific to a certain season. These creatures caw-caw-caw their way far far away from beaches, and lakes, and normal habitats.

Perhaps they've been listening to and adapting to the song lyrics to the "I Ran" song by... A Flock of Seagulls:

...And I ran
I ran so far away
I just ran
I ran all night and day...

These birds' version would have them singing: "I flew, I flew so far away..."

Listen, birds, get away from here. Go back to Miami Beach, Santa Monica, Baltimore's Inner Harbor, South Street Seaport. There's nothing for you at Beth Avraham, No Frills, Bayview Glen Day School, Hillcrest Mall. Nothing I say...in those parking lots...except perhaps some suburban garbage. Which, I might add, does not compare to the sushi and seaweed that you've been used to eating for years.

Fly -- fly south. Get yourself a GPS and start moving those troops -- oops, flocks! -- outta here.

Ma, You're Such a Cut-Up!

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Yes, I sometimes call my mother "Ma." She is certainly not what one pictures when you hear someone referred to as "Ma"-- think Nancy Walker in Rhoda, but if it's not Mom, it's Ma that you'll hear me saying.

Yesterday I was over at my parents' house to do some freelance work; I knew I'd get some peace and quiet and few interruptions. When I'm home and with the three kids, there's always something that needs to be dealt with and my work sometimes suffers.

So, soon after I got into the house, my mother gives me a bag and a card-- my parents didn't get to see me on my birthday, so here was the next best chance to belatedly share the day with me. Cards mean an awful lot to me and the sentiments written inside it mean even more; you can usually get by with just a card for me, because, in essence, that is also my best gift.

Before I got to the card, I got to the envelope. My mother had managed to find this in some newspaper somewhere -- PEARLS OF WISDOM -- and taped it onto the envelope. I stared at it and had several thoughts running through my head.

1. My mother must've cut that out a while ago and saved it for just the right time. I told her that my blog is called PEARLIES OF WISDOM, very similar to what she'd put on the envelope. She smiled at that close coincidence, even though she doesn't quite "get" this blogging phenomenon and my deep interest and involvement in it.

2. My mother could very well be a kidnapper. You know how, usually in old movies, when someone's been kidnapped, the family gets a ransom note made up of cut-out and glued letters from newspapers and magazines...? Well, my mom is pretty good at that!

For years, she'd find the letters of or the words "Pearl" or "Pearly" or photos of pearls and oysters, or my horoscope or a photo of a gift she'd planned for me and would affix it/them to a birthday card. Her creativity has always run rampant and is something I cherish.

3. I said that cards mean a lot to me. I'm beginning to think that envelopes mean a lot to me, as well!

Truth Lies in the Eyes, Not in the Hat

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This past Shabbat I went to one of the shuls I belong to but don't frequent weekly for various reasons; I'm usually at one closer to my house. But this week I went to this one and was in the main sanctuary where there was a bar-mitzvah going on.

I'd gone to day school with the bar-mitzvah boy's uncle and I said to my friend, "I wonder if Mark came in from Israel for the bar mitzvah." She said he doesn't go by the name Mark anymore, and my memory worked for me and I recalled the classmate's Hebrew name. She pointed and said, "I think he's the one down there wearing the shtreimel." My eyes sort of fell out of my head and she explained, "I was told that he follows the Bostoner Rebbe..."

I'd heard that this classmate had become quite religious, I just had no clue as to the extent! I still remembered him from days when he went to a conservative shul in Toronto. But I knew I'd like to say hello to him -- IF he'd be willing to talk to a female.

To my luck, when I left the women's gallery, he (the only Jew in this Orthodox shul in the shtreimel) was at the door I'd have to pass through. I stopped in front of him, waited till he finished speaking to someone and said boldly, "Mark _____!" And after a brief pause, I said, "I guess you're better known these days as Avraham."

"Yes," he answered, but he still had a questioning look. I announced myself with my maiden name: "Pearl ______!" And then he gave a smile and proceeded to make small talk and said how pleased he was that I'd come up to him to say hello.

I knew I'd put him on the spot and watched as his eyes sort of furtively looked at me and then looked away while he spoke. Here I was, speaking to someone I'd known in class from preschool through junior high, but who looked so very different than anyone I knew personally. Aside from the shtreimel, I'm guessing (but didn't quite notice if) he also wore a "bekeshe" and the rest of the Chassidic look, but he also sported a gray beard down to his belly button and now wore glasses. Normally I would've passed this man on the street, would have given him a second look -- not because I recognized him, but because it is rare for me to see a Jew dressed like this where I live. They do live in the city, but in the "south" end.

I stood before him, looking for anything I recognized of this person of the past. And then I spotted it...in his eyes. I did not know the beard, I did not know the glasses, I did not know the shtreimel nor the garb, but I knew those eyes.

It is very clear to me that there is truth in the saying that the eyes are the window to the soul. Keep your eyes open at all times and you will see things that other people might not.

It's a Beautiful Day (Again!) and Could Be for U2

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Back in May, I posted using the title, "It's a Beautiful Day." That U2 song is catchy in its lyrics: "It's a beautiful day -- don't let it slip away..." I wrote that May post after a doctor visit where I'd been given a clean bill of health. I'd stepped out of the hospital where I'd seen the doctor, took a great big healthy breath while I gazed at the clear blue sky and wonderful sunshine.

Today while I drove to work, that song played on the radio. It was perfect timing: the sky was blue, the sun was shining...and life is generally good.

I know that life can't always be good for every one of us, and we each have to cross bridges, jump hurdles, take detours to get where we want to go, but I hope that it isn't just shadows crossing those paths, but sunshine, too -- sunshine that can take your breath away, it's that blinding.

Wishing you all sunshine...and beautiful days.

A Poignant Portrait

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The other day I posted about a fellow blogger's upbeat blog suddenly becoming a downbeat blog. Life had thrown him a curveball to deal with.

I opened my computer this morning to read this most recent post of his. And such is life--sometimes you don't go out with a bang, but rather, with a whimper.

Queens General

TUESDAY MORNING
The doctor said his movements were just reflexes. But the Jamaican nurse said my father could hear if you talked to him. So, I did. I held his hand. I made some small talk. When I mentioned that we flew in on American Airlines, his favorite airline, I thought I saw my father’s head move slightly in approval.
Sitting here in my father’s hospital room feels like a scene in a movie — the scene where loved ones gather around someone who is unable to talk or breathe by himself. Movie scenes are the only real experience I have of these things.
It’s not looking too good. It’s still not clear if it was a heart attack or not. Whatever the reason, my father, Arthur Kramer, collapsed in the living room. He is over seventy and not in great health, so it was shocking, but not entirely unexpected. No, I’m lying — it’s always unexpected.
I’m not sure I’m ready yet to talk about my feelings. My head is spinning with confusion. My mother is much stronger than I am.
I would like to bring up my usual favorite subject — Sophia — and say how heroic she’s been. I was with Sophia when we got the frazzled phone call from my mother. Sophia and I were in midst of the most mundane moment possible — we were examining some fake Tupperware in the 99 cents only store to see if it would be a good container to hold some nuts. When the phone call came, I became a zombie. Sophia picked up the slack and called up NY, to talk to the paramedics working on my father. One paramedic said that it was hopeless and they were going to pronounce him dead. Sophia insisted that they keep on trying, and after a few minutes, they actually did revive him! It was like a miracle. Even if my father doesn’t make it through this, it has been wonderful to have this added time to be together and say goodbye.
While we were still in Los Angeles, we lost contact with my mother. My long-time friend, Rob, called around and found out that my father was admitted to Queens General Hospital. This was ironic since my father has worked at Queens General as a physical therapist for forty years. When we called the hospital for information, no one would give us any. Sophia called again and again and found Marina, a Russian-speaking clerk. This wonderful clerk said she would get the information for Sophia. Not only that, she said that since couldn’t use the hospital phones to call Los Angeles, she would buy a calling card at the gift shop to call back, if Sophia couldn’t reach her. What a terrific person!
We arrived in NYC in the morning. My father was in the emergency room, but doctors were not to be found. When a doctor finally showed up, he came with 7 interns in tow. Sophia thought that he was spending more time teaching his students than caring for my father, and spoke up, something my mother or I didn’t have the nerve to do. The doctor huffed and puffed, but Sophia was right. He apologized and promised to come back to give a personal consultation.
It’s really important to be proactive in a sterile hospital setting. It was amazing to have Sophia to talk to the medical staff and it was amazing to see how it changed things for the better. When she saw that my mother and I were scared to touch my father without a doctor’s permission, she showed us that we could talk to him and hold his hand. She’s still the only one who is not afraid to wipe his brow, massage his neck and put his head in a better position. She was so knowledgeable about things that some of the doctors assumed that she was a doctor herself.
Eventually, the nurses realized who my father was — someone who worked at the hospital for years. Many didn’t recognize him without his large black "Woody Allen" type glasses. When they knew he was "one of their own," they all promised to give him the best attention.
Things are not looking good for my father. But I’m glad to have people around who are loving and collected. Like Sophia. Like my long-time friend Rob, who came visiting today. And that Russian clerk. I remember during the Katrina disaster wondering to myself why some just stayed in town, doing nothing. But very few of us are ready for a disaster or tragedy in our life. It just comes, sometimes even when you’re in the middle of examining fake Tupperware at the 99 cents only store.

TUESDAY NIGHT
Sophia and I went for dinner across the street — at the Hilltop Diner, which ironically, I wrote about a few days ago. My Dad likes this place because it is close to the hospital. After the cat scan, the doctors told us that the prognosis was "very grim." There was severe damage to the brain and kidneys. We had our first big cry.
Despite it all, things haven’t been totally depressing. My father wouldn’t want it that way, and it is not my mother’s personality. We snuck in some food from the Hilltop Diner and ate in my father’s room. We told him that he would have liked the pot roast.
Afterwards, my mother and Sophia went home to rest. I decided to spend the night near my father.
I haven’t read any of your messages yet, but I know you have written. One of my mother’s friends called my mother, asking about my father. "How did you know?" asked my mother. "It’s all over Neill’s blog," she answered.. "And so many people wrote such beautiful things."
So, thanks.
And by the way, my mother doesn’t call my blog a "bolo" anymore. Now she calls it a "blodge."
Like, I said before, my father was a pretty happy and friendly guy. He wouldn’t want gloominess, even with the grim outlook. If anyone wanted to do something to make him happy, it would be to watch one of his four favorite movies:
1) The Guns of Navarone2) Gunga Din3) The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly4) Lawrence of Arabia

WEDNESDAY MORNING
Finally, read your comments. Thanks again… everyone. It was so touching.
My mother spoke with a rabbi about the inevitable. My uncles are coming to town. Moore stress!
As I type this, I am eating pizza — the hospital cafeteria is a pizzeria! How New York is that?!

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
This afternoon was extremely emotional. Word got around the hospital that Arthur was in ICU. One after another, doctors, nurses, and staff came to visit my father. They called him a "sensitive person," "dedicated to the hospital," "always there to help everyone who asked and everyone who didn’t," "a godsend to his patients," "funny," "a man who was the president of the Jewish doctors and nurses organization AND was the yearly Santa Claus," and "someone who flirted with all the nurses. (that one sounds familiar!)" I actually didn’t realize how loved he was by people at his work, almost as if he had another family apart from us. I didn’t know that he was so involved with the hospital auxiliary that provided funds for things the hospital couldn’t afford . I was also surprised that everyone seemed to know me because I was apparently the only thing he talked about (other than the flirting).

WEDNESDAY NIGHT
The neurologist spoke with the family. The hospital did more tests and the doctor said that the damage to the brain was even more extensive than they thought. All the other doctors agreed. There was no chance of him ever regaining consciousness or any awareness of things around him. We said that we knew that my father would never want to live this way. We had to sign all sorts of papers to allow them to disconnect the support tomorrow.
Afterwards, my uncle, his wife, my mother, Sophia, and I went out for dinner at one of Dad’s favorite diners and we shared funny stories about his life.
Tomorrow morning, we’re going to say our goodbyes to a kind and generous man, Arthur Kramer, my father.

G-d and Science

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G-d is sitting in heaven when a scientist prays to Him, "G-d, we don't need you anymore. Science has finally figured out a way to create life out of nothing. In other words, we can now do what you did in the "beginning."

"Oh, is that so? Tell me..." replies G-d.

"Well," says the scientist, "we can take dirt and form it into the likeness of you and breathe life into it, thus creating man."

"Well, that's interesting...show Me."

So the scientist bends down to the earth and starts to mold the soil.

"No, no, no..." interrupts G-d. "Get your own dirt."

Blogging: A Circle of Friends

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You may note links in my margin to fellow bloggers (still needs updating...don't fret if you're not there). These people -- some whose blogs I just read, others whose blogs I comment on, and others still, who I correspond with offline -- have become in essence a circle of friends.

There are many kinds of friends in this world: best friends, fair-weather friends, needy friends, long-distance friends, acquaintances, casual "Hi, how are you?" friends...and now, blogging friends.

When you open up your world to us, exposing us to nearly every nook and cranny of your life, you are opening your mind, your heart and your arms to new friends...whether or not you realize it. Even if blogging is perceived by some people as some kind of superficial bridge, for other people it's very real.

I'd been planning to blog today about something light, but this light became a little dimmer... and I'll soon tell you how so.

I've tried to back off the blogging mode for the past week; I haven't succeeded fully (you'll notice), but I have managed to diminish the time spent around blogs. And that's been good for me. However, I've still peeked in on my favorites, even if not every day, then every other day. I need my "fill" -- your posts entertain me, enlighten me, tap into my social, moral or emotional consciousness. In essence, they help to enrich my already-rich life.

One of the newer blogs I read is written by a California-based writer/Web producer. He is extremely funny and sharp; his tremendous following proves that. I know that when I turn to his blog, I will end up laughing silently or out loud as I read his offbeat words, accompanying photos and follow-up comments. His posts are lighthearted, FUN and a wonderful diversion in my day.

It is evident that this blogger has attracted a like-minded crowd; comments are riddled with wittiness and many inuendoes of all kinds. It appears that his commenters like to "joust" with this blogger, like to top one another's comments, and each seeks some kind of personal recognition from the blogger.

This, in essence, is what my post was going to be solely about today: this fun blog I read and the fun comments that surround it. I was going to question aloud where the blogger gets his often-outlandish and wacky ideas to blog about. I was going to question aloud why women primarily read, or at least comment, on his blog. I was going to question aloud why this blogger is rather popular.

But this morning I was told by a blogging friend (used sincerely) that this happy-go-lucky blogger had a new post...that wasn't funny, that wasn't witty, that wasn't happy-go-lucky. His post entitled "Bad News" was indeed that -- his father had had a severe heart attack on the East Coast and he was leaving California to go and see him and be with his family.

Of course, the comments were still there. Those same readers who usually leave witty, snarky and chatty words left brief heartfelt messages that relayed prayers, warm thoughts and heartfelt words.

Blogging about our worlds and ourselves shows that life is about good and bad, good and sad. We've read Jack and Stacey's posts about their very ill fathers and the personal/emotional/anguish they've gone through as a result; we've read David Bogner's posts about young friends who've taken ill, been severly wounded or have passed away; we've read the anguish of parents who have lost children through illness, sudden or lingering; we have read bloggers' personal trials and tribulations as they've described them to us.

We have been up when you, the blogger, are up; we have been down when you, the blogger are down. We ride that emotional roller coaster with you: we cheer you on, we console you, we laugh with you, we cry with you, we give you the hugs you need, we give you the space you need.

It is my sincere hope that the Californian's next post will be called "Good News" -- but G-d forbid it isn't, he should know that we are with him in spirit, if not in body; his widespread array of readers may not be there in proximity, but they will be there in soul.

Because, after all, we are all [blogging] friends....

In Good Company

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I definitely share something in common with the following people, some alive, some deceased, but all notable folks:

Mickey Rooney

Walter Pidgeon

John Coltrane

Ray Charles

Ben E. King

Julio Iglesias

Bruce Springsteen

Jason Alexander

Ani DiFranco

So, if anyone has access to Mickey Rooney (like, if he's sitting at a restaurant table beside you, having lunch) or Jason Alexander (if he's not busy, trying to make a sitcom comeback), or if you don't care that I wasn't "born in the U.S.A." and if you have access to Mr. Springsteen, please pass on this message: "I'll be expecting a call/e-mail/card from you.... Remember mine, and I'll remember yours!"

Mind Your P's & Q's

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(again, it's not really me...it's my evil twin blogging)

Spent a few late-afternoon hours in the park with my children today. They played baseball; I played "conversation catch-up" with neighborhood/shul friends.

When my husband went off to learn before mincha, my older son and his friend were playing baseball, and my youngest had some kind of tantrum, so I offered to play baseball with him -- I'd pitch, and he'd bat, and then we switched roles.

I joined him on the baseball diamond, and as I moved closer to him, I noticed the front part of his shorts were a bit wet.

"N, did you pee in your pants?" I asked. (he's been trained since he was age two, but if he gets a bit "too involved" in a game, he might just forget he needs to go to the bathroom, which is a common practice among boys, young and old, apparently)

"No, it rained a little." (wow, how far a child can stretch the truth...)

A Jew by Any Other Name...Is Still a Jew

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Original Birth Names of Jewish Performers

Woody Allen --- Alan Stewart Koenigsberg

June Allyson --- Ella Geisman

Lauren Bacall --- Betty Joan Perske

Jack Benny --- Benjamin Kubelsky

Irving Berlin --- Israel Baline

Milton Berle --- Milton Berlinger

Joey Bishop ---Joseph Gottlieb

Karen Black --- Karen Blanche Ziegler

Victor Borge --- Borge Rosenbaum

Fanny Brice --- Fanny Borach

Mel Brooks --- Melvin Kaminsky

George Burns --- Nathan Birnbaum

Eddie Cantor --- Edward Israel Iskowitz

Jeff Chandler --- Ira Grossel

Lee J. Cobb --- Amos Jacob

Tony Curtis --- Bernard Schwartz

Rodney Dangerfield --- Jacob Cohen

Kirk Douglas --- Issue Danielovich Demsky

Melvyn Douglas --- Melvyn Hesselberg

Bob Dylan --- Bobby Zimmerman

Paulette Goddard --- Marion Levy

Lee Grant --- Lyova Geisman

Elliot Gould --- Elliot Goldstein

Judy Holliday --- Judith Tuvim

Al Jolson --- Asa Yoelsen

Danny Kaye --- David Daniel Kaminsky

Michael Landon --- Michael Orowitz

Steve Lawrence --- Sidney Leibowitz

Jerry Lewis --- Joseph Levitch

Peter Lorre --- Lazlo Lowenstein

Elaine May --- Elaine Berlin

Yves Montand --- Ivo Levy

Mike Nichols --- Michael Peschkowsky

Joan Rivers --- Joan Molinsky

Edward G. Robinson -- Emanuel Goldenberg

Jane Seymour --- Joyce Penelope Frankenburg

Simone Signoret --- Simone-Henriette Kaminker

Beverly Sills --- Belle Silverman

Sophie Tucker --- Sophia Kalish

Gene Wilder --- Gerald Silberman

How Curious George Escaped the Nazis

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(Okay, so I'm not supposed to be online, but it's my lunch hour -- does that count? And I wanted to share this very interesting article with you. All those times that you read a Curious George book for yourself or to your children, did you ever think of the story that came before the ones you're familiar with? Here's that story...)


From the New York Times



By DINITIA SMITH
Published: September 13, 2005

Curious George is every 2-year-old sticking his finger into the light socket, pouring milk onto the floor to watch it pool, creating chaos everywhere. One reason the mischievous monkey is such a popular children's book character is that he makes 4- to 6-year-olds feel superior: fond memories, but we've given all that up now.


In the years since the first book was published in the United States in 1941, "George" has become an industry. The books have sold more than 27 million copies. There have been several "Curious George" films, including an animated one featuring the voice of Will Ferrell that is scheduled for release this February, and theater productions, not to mention the ubiquitous toy figure. Next year, PBS will begin a Curious George series for pre-schoolers.

But in truth, "Curious George" almost didn't make it onto the page. A new book, "The Journey That Saved Curious George: The True Wartime Escape of Margret and H. A. Rey" (Houghton Mifflin), tells of how George's creators, both German-born Jews, fled from Paris by bicycle in June 1940, carrying the manuscript of what would become "Curious George" as Nazis prepared to invade.

The book's author, Louise Borden, said in a telephone interview from Terrace Park, Ohio, that she first spotted a mention of the Reys' escape in Publishers Weekly. "But no one knew where they had gone from Paris, the roads they took, the dates of where they were, the details," she said.

Her account, intended for older children, is illustrated in whimsical European style by Allan Drummond, and includes photographs of the Reys and wartime Europe, as well as H. A. Rey's pocket diaries and transit documents.

For her research, Ms. Borden combed the Rey archives of the de Grummond Children's Literature Collection at the University of Southern Mississippi, interviewed people who knew them and traced their journey through letters and postmarks.

Hans Reyersbach was born in Hamburg in 1898 into an educated family, and lived near the Hagenbeck Zoo, where he learned to imitate animal sounds, as well as to draw and paint. During World War I, Mr. Reyersbach served in the German Army; afterward, he painted circus posters for a living. After studying at two German universities, he went to Rio de Janeiro in the mid-1920's, looking for a job. He wound up selling bathtubs on the Amazon.

Margarete Waldstein, who was born in 1906, also in Hamburg, had a more fiery personality. After Hitler began his rise, she left Hamburg to become a photographer in London. In 1935, she too went to Rio.

Mr. Reyersbach had first seen her as a little girl sliding down the banister of her family's Hamburg home, and now they met again. They eventually married, and founded an advertising agency. Margarete changed her name to "Margret" and Hans changed his surname to "Rey," reasoning that Reyersbach was difficult for Brazilians to pronounce. Crucially, the two became Brazilian citizens.

For their honeymoon, they sailed to Europe, accompanied by their two pet marmoset monkeys. Margret knitted tiny sweaters for them to keep them warm, but the monkeys died en route.
The Reys ended up in the Parisian neighborhood of Montmartre, where they began writing and illustrating children's books. In 1939, they published "Raffy and the 9 Monkeys." Mr. Rey drew the illustrations, and his wife helped to write the stories. Hans initially had sole credit for the books, but eventually Margret's name was added. "We worked very closely together and it was hard to pull the thing apart," she later said.
Hans was a fanatical record keeper, listing exp
enses and details about their work in tiny pocket calendars. In 1939, he began a story about the youngest monkey in "Raffy," who was forever getting into trouble but finding his way out. It was called "The Adventures of Fifi."

That September, war broke out. The Reys had signed a contract with the French publisher Gallimard for "Fifi" and other stories, and in a stroke of luck received a cash advance that would later finance their escape.

By the time the Germans marched into Holland and Belgium in May 1940, the Reys had begun a book of nursery songs in both French and English. "Songs English very slowly because of the events," Hans wrote in his diary.

With refugees pouring into Paris from the north, Mr. Rey built two bicycles from spare parts, while Margret gathered up their artwork and manuscripts. They then joined the millions of refugees heading south, while German planes flew overhead.

The Reys found shelter in a farmhouse, then a stable, working their way by rail to Bayonne, and then to Biarritz by bicycle again. They were Jews, but because they were Brazilian citizens, it was easier to get visas. One official, perhaps thinking that because of their German accents they were spies, searched Mr. Rey's satchel. Finding "Fifi," and, seeing it was only a children's story, he released them.

They journeyed to Spain, then to Portugal, eventually finding their way back to Rio. "Have had a very narrow escape," Mr. Rey wrote in a telegram to his bank. "Baggage all lost have not sufficient money in hand."

The couple sailed to New York in October 1940, and "Curious George," as Fifi was renamed - the publisher thought "Fifi" was an odd name for a male monkey - made his first appearance the following year.

The Reys wrote a total of eight "Curious George" books; Hans died in 1977, Margret in 1996. The ensuing "George" books were created by writers and illustrators imitating the Reys' style and art.

"Like Hans Reyersback and Margarete Waldstein," Ms. Borden concludes, "the little French monkey Fifi would change his name, and it would become one to remember. "

*************************************

Addendum: Thursday,10:50 p.m

My apologies to Rabbi Neil and to Jack who, I found out earlier this evening, already posted the Curious George story. I did not steal the story from them; I thought I was giving non-NY Times readers a breaking/interesting story. This is what I get from weaning myself off of blogging. I'm late to get a piece of the pie!!!

See, I said "weaning"; I didn't say "going cold turkey". THAT would be much more difficult, but for the most part I curbed my enthusiasm greatly these past couple of days regarding blogs. As tough as that is for me, I had to -- and still have to -- do it. But then again, if something as interesting as the George story catches my eye before a week from now, I might just have to post it.

In the meantime, Shabbat Shalom to my Jewish readers; happy weekend to all others!

Your friend (who is really only here in spirit; if anyone asks, I wasn't here!),

TorontoPearl

Elul: A Time for Introspection, A Time for Change

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I've "introspected" and have decided I need some changes in my life. I'm pretty happy overall with myself as a person, but there is always room for improvement and growth. One of these changes involves my getting off the computer. Instead of getting tired of blogging and reading blogs, I'm finding new ones to read and comment on. This cuts into a big chunk of my personal time. Even before I discovered the world of blogs last October, my life was pretty quick paced. I'd tell people, "Life gets in the way." These days, it's life -- AND BLOGGING -- getting in the way.

As tough as it will be for me, I have to step away from the computer ("Place both hands in the air where we can see them, and s...l...o...w...l...y step away from your computer"). I have freelance work deadlines to meet, family time that needs to be doled out, household and work commitments.

So I'll make like Houdini and disappear for a while...and then show my face yet again. Perhaps in a week. I'll be a year older by the end of next week, and supposedly a year wiser. Let's see if the latter proves true.


In the meantime, watch me s...l...o...w...l...y back away. G'bye ... G'bye ... G'bye

*****************

And in a meek, little voice I say, "I can only try..." That goes for not reading blogs, not commenting on blogs, not reading comments on blogs -- and not writing my own posts.

It's Worth a Shot in the Dark

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I apologize for the "look" of this piece; I'd copied it when I found it online, but now you can only plug in to NYTimes to read it. This (minus images) if from the copied piece I had.

It's a most interesting article...and apparently he's not the only screenwriter who's ever felt the urge to attack his own work!






A Screenwriter Shoots His Own Unproduced Scripts, With a Gun



Published: September 7, 2005

INGLEWOOD, Calif., Sept. 2 - In the dim light of a shooting range, a figure clad in black baggy trousers and a black T-shirt is carefully loading a .45-caliber pistol. He adjusts his glasses, plants his feet and aims straight ahead.

Misha Erwitt for The New York Times
The screenwriter Tom Benedek displaying one of his original works of art: an old script of his that he shot full of holes and then turned into a bronze sculpture.

Misha Erwitt for The New York Times
After firing a gun at a script, Tom Benedek photographs the results.

Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Five ear-splitting cracks ring through the cavern, and a flurry of paper - like tiny white feathers - wafts to the floor.
"That's 'Ivory Joe,' " says the screenwriter Tom Benedek, who has just pumped bullets into one of his 22 unproduced scripts. "It's a rewrite of an adaptation I did after 'Free Willy' for Lauren Shuler Donner," he adds, referring to a well-known producer. "A romantic comedy-drama."
Many a Hollywood screenwriter has bemoaned the brutal Darwinism of the movie business, has felt the dull pain of too many pages and too many years of orphaned work unproduced and unrecognized. Few, however, have found the path of catharsis and creativity discovered by Mr. Benedek.
After 20-plus years of a middling career as a Hollywood screenwriter, Mr. Benedek, 56 - the brother of Peter Benedek, a partner in the United Talent Agency - is forging a new path in the field of fine arts, using the raw material of his past failures for a canvas. Having shot the "Ivory Joe" script, which he wrote in 1992, Mr. Benedek will make it into a bronze sculpture, or take photographs with a special camera for striking jumbo prints. He will show these and other pieces this month in an exhibition at the Frank Pictures gallery in Santa Monica titled "Shot by the Writer - Works on Paper: 1982-2004."
In an era of self-referential entertainments like "Entourage" and "Fat Actress," it all seems somehow appropriate. With his shuffling gait, hangdog air and dark-rimmed glasses, Mr. Benedek might be the contemporary answer to the Michael Douglas character in the 1993 vigilante drama "Falling Down." In that film, Mr. Douglas was an otherwise peaceable Everyman who, after being fired from his white-collar job and suffering other indignities, takes control of his life by shooting his way across Los Angeles.
In the Hollywood hierarchy, the screenwriter is Everyman, an undervalued cog - albeit a well-paid one - in the whirring entertainment machine. Mr. Benedek's move to take control of his own work sounds like a dark fantasy for many of the movie world's ink-stained wretches.
But he prefers to call it closure rather than catharsis. "Sometimes it's fun," he said, as the harsh smell of gunpowder still lingered. "Sometimes it's sad. When I look at the exit wounds, and the paper and the words exploded by the bullets as I photograph them, it feels like I'm taking the words back."
Mr. Benedek said the project started when he realized he had run out of storage space in his garage, which was filled with 20 years of script projects, both produced and unmade. Among those that did become films were "Cocoon," "Free Willy" (for which he did not receive a credit) and "The Adventures of Pinocchio."
But there were nearly two dozen other completed scripts that never got a green light: An adaptation for Sydney Pollack about mental health. A drama about the Israeli spy Elie Cohen for Martin Scorsese. A comedy about a Soviet collective for the producer Ray Stark. There were stacks of boxes filled with drafts and notes, movies "that remain on paper and nowhere else," Mr. Benedek recalled.
Before throwing out some of this paperwork, he said, he felt he needed to "memorialize" the work. "Mentally, I was as encumbered as my garage."
Initially, he considered chopping the scripts into small cubes with a table saw and filming the process. Then he had a vision of one of his scripts, riddled with bullets, bronzed.
Somehow, that image stuck. He hired a shooting coach and the project grew into a serious endeavor, step by step. "It started as 'I'm just going to do one for myself.' I'd do it, and have it bronzed like a baby shoe," he said.
But it turned out to be complicated to make a bronze sculpture out of paper, and every two or three weeks Mr. Benedek would explore another step to make it work. He tracked down a foundry that could perform an age-old process, eventually using a wax mold and a rubberlike cast as preludes to pouring the bronze. And he found that the objects he was creating - the shot-up scripts - were visually intricate and often quite beautiful. A local gallery owner suggested he photograph them.
"It just snowballed," Mr. Benedek explained.
The artistic experience connected to a long-neglected interest in photography. Born and raised in Great Neck, N.Y., Mr. Benedek pursued fine-art photography as an undergraduate at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. He entered the movie business because he wanted to be a cinematographer. But his first break in the industry, in the 1970's, came from writing a screenplay, so he took that road instead.
It has turned out to be a path of only intermittent satisfaction. But the photographs and sculptures - those have turned out to be exciting, and deeply satisfying. The poster-size prints are exotic swirls of torn paper and random words like "love" and "time." The 30-pound bronze sculptures, pockmarked with holes, have their titles etched in gold letters: "Viagra Falls," a comedy written for the production company Working Title in 2001; "Spells," a 1986 rewrite of a horror film.
After two more rounds, Mr. Benedek reels in the script, now puckered and swollen by the force of the bullets. He flips it over to shoot the other side. "I feel like I'm creating something new from something old," he says, refilling the clip.
But is he still a screenwriter? Mr. Benedek hesitates before answering, as if weighing how prospective employers will perceive his response. Finally, he answers glumly: "Yeah. I just got a call to go to a meeting."

I'll Raise Your Heehee with My Ha

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"Yesh li jewkim ba-rosh." Loosely translates from the Hebrew as "I have bugs in my head."
I have quirks, neuroses, wacky ideas.

I have a problem with the way I've seen people note in blog comments that something is funny.
I'm used to seeing LOL or ROTFL (laugh out loud or roll on the floor laughing).
I'm used to plain out saying "That's funny." Or I like to say "Ha" as counterpoint to LOL (right, Randi?)

But I have a pet peeve; I can't explain it, but it's there...this bug in my head. I cannot stand seeing someone comment about a blog and then the words "heehee" showing up. What is up with that?

Either it brings to mind some little schoolgirl hiding her laugh, actually her "titter" behind her hand, a little shy, a little embarrassed to be laughing out loud, or if there's a third "hee" in there, it brings to mind a sinister, mocking laugh of an evil person. (and I've seen guys "heehee" as well)

I like hearty, robust laughter, and "heehee" is not it; it actually comes across as wimpish even if the reader has been entertained. We need people to comment and write: "Loud guffaw"; "This is so funny, I peed in my pants"; "Hilarious"; "Make the laughter stop!"

You wanna "heehee", go back to your play group; you wanna "ha" or "guffaw", hang out with the grown-ups!

I. blog.

Blogroll Me!

Its vortex sucks you in
leaving you
dry
or sometimes high.

Too much of a good thing
can't be good.
Can it?
Or perhaps I should use the affirmative
and just say

CAN IT!!!

This blogging of mine has replaced TV --
not that I was a big watcher anyhow --
for the past near year
you can find me sitting in front of
the little screen,
not the big one.

I find it equally entertaining,
educational and exciting.

My friends say I'm addicted.
Sometimes I admit it, other times I deny it.
Should I start a support group?

Will I have to start by writing on the blackboard twenty times:
I will not blog.
I will not blog.
I will not blog.
I will not.
I will blog.
I blog.
I.
blog.