"The Double-Edged Attribute Of Doubt"

“You doubt.”

Somebody once said that to me. I took it as a compliment. Partly because I enjoy being a Doubter. Partly because I take pleasure in receiving confirmation that something I believe about myself is correct. Partly because the woman who said it made “You doubt” sound like a compliment. And partly because she was a nice-looking woman. Though those “partlies” are not of equal importance, in the scheme of things, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself.

As far back as I can remember, I have always been an Orthodox Doubter. A Doubter who doubts everything but doubting. I recall back in Third Grade – or Grade Three as Canadians call it – being a student at the Toronto Hebrew Day School, it was Bible class, and they were teaching us about the moment the Ten Commandments were delivered, a moment where, we were told, the blind could suddenly see and the deaf suddenly hear.

I can see myself, sitting in class, seriously doubting that the event depicted in the Book of Exodus had actually taken place. My reservations emerged as a derisive guffaw, followed by an unambiguous, “Oh, sure!” Shortly after which, I was relocated to the principal’s office.

So I’ve been skeptical for quite a while. Not cynical – a cynic doesn’t believe anything. A skeptic, which, to me, is synonymous with “independent thinker”, merely says, “What you say may be true, but I’m going to need a little more evidence.”

If you want me to believe something, you’re going to have to meet a higher evidentiary standard than, “It says so in the Bible.” The Bible’s a wonderful book, but its legitimacy derives more from the belief in its Divine Inspiration than from objective, corroborative support.

“A blind man confirmed that, during the delivery of the Ten Commandments, he was suddenly able to see. This reporter was unable, however, to locate the man later to confirm whether or not, after the delivery of Ten Commandments, he went back to being blind.”

Ultimately, the belief in the events described in the Bible is a matter of faith, a characteristic found in extremely short supply in the Doubter.

The condition of doubting is no respecter categorical boundaries. The committed Doubter is a Doubter across the board. Though this global consistency does not in any way, at least in my eyes, reduce its respectability as a way of looking at the world, it must be truthfully acknowledged that the Doubter’s perspective does not come without a rather hefty personal price.

Consider the hardly unpopular sub-category of the Doubter – the self-Doubter.

Welcome to my world.

But hey, if you’re a full-service Doubter, how can you, if intellectual integrity means anything to you at all, exempt yourself?

You can’t.

A situation that can prove troublesome. Especially when you’re trying to do something enormously difficult. (Or, as the optimists call it, challenging.)

Like running a television series.

Like The Cosby Show.

Which I ran for a couple of months at the beginning of its run, and then had to walk away from, primarily because I very seriously questioned my ability to do the job.

I will bypass the specifics of “the conditions on the ground.” We will focus simply on two facts: the challenge was monumental, and the galoot facing with dealing with it was a lifelong Doubter.

Smart people do not put money on such situations working out.

Why? Because of the inevitable, accompanying “Doubter’s Attitude”, an attitude, which will single-handedly determine the likelihood of success.

Here are the “Bettor’s Odds”, based on the Doubter’s “realistic” (or maybe without the quotation marks) mind-set:

“I’ve done this before, I can do it again.”

Fifty-fifty.

“I’ve done something similar to this, there is no reason to believe with a certainty that I can’t do it this time.”

Thirty-seventy, against.

“I have never done this before, and though there is little reason to believe I can do it this time, I am going to give it a try.”

Not a chance in hell.

Doubters clearly have their limitations. On the sidelines, they’re terrific, voices of sanity against calamitous over-reaching. On the front lines, however, you are better off with somebody else, someone with the, problematic to the Doubter yet often successful American sense of “can do” certainty.

History records Americans achieving the impossible, again and again. Against reason, and overwhelming odds, Americans blast through the Rockies and build the transcontinental railroad, Americans rocket to the moon, Americans go into their garages, and come out with the internet.

And Americans take on an Everest of problems and obstacles, and make movies and TV shows, and sometimes, really good ones.

Where are the Doubters? Looming on the periphery, skeptically shaking their heads.

Doubting is an admirable perspective.

It’s too bad it makes it so hard to get anything truly difficult done.

"Thee Liberal Lawman"

The State of Arizona is about to, or is talking about at least, designating the Colt the “Official State Gun.” This is the same state where, only months ago, nineteen people were tragically gunned down. The argument can be made, of course, that they were not gunned down with a Colt. It was a Glock. So it’s not the same thing. It’s like comparing apples and apples manufactured in Germany.

Gun rights advocates famously proclaim, “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people.” My observation on this matter adds only two words to that pronouncement:

“People with guns kill people.”

It’s true that a gun has never fired itself. It doesn’t have any fingers. Or carry a grudge. It is also true, however, that, among thousands of other victims, all of our assassinated presidents were gunned down with guns. Hence the term, “gunned down.”

No president was ever “gunned down” with a knife. No president was ever “gunned down” with a blow dart. No president was ever “gunned down” with a sharp pin, with maybe a little poison on the end of it. All of our slain presidents – Lincoln, Garfied, McKinley and Kennedy – were gunned down – one hundred percent of them – with guns.

“So what?” you say. So there were guns involved. That doesn’t prove anything. Well… maybe not. Though it does seem a little suspicious. If thousands of people were dying, and there were mushrooms in the vicinity, a thoughtful observer might conclude: “Call me crazy, but I have a feeling mushrooms had something to do with this.” But with guns, there is no connection.

Okay. I have no credibility here. I know that. I was born in Canada, where people don’t own guns, by which I mean handguns. In Canada, the most serious threat to life and limb is a guy saying, “You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’.” After which, they would generally walk away, but you’d still feel shaken by the disruption in civility.

I know nobody’ll listen to me on this matter. (Or possibly any others.) But there was a man who lived a hundred and thirty years ago whose beliefs matched those of this humble Canadian gun atheist; maybe you’ll listen to him. The man, coincidentally, did some of his most noteworthy work in the state of Arizona.

He was the marshal of Tombstone. His name was Wyatt Earp.

Wyatt Earp – the Liberal Lawman.

Sounds crazy, no? – as Tevye might say. But it’s true. Why do I call Wyatt Earp a liberal? Listen to what he did, and then you decide how to classify his behavior.

As marshal of Tombstone, Wyatt Earp enforced an ordinance, requiring any cowboy, or cowgirl, riding in to town to check his or her gun, or guns, as the case may be, at the City Limits, the gun, or guns, to be returned to them on their way out of town.

Wyatt Earp took away the guns. What else could you call that but liberal?

Why did Wyatt Earp, who was not known to be a liberal in any other aspect of his life – he was not known to recycle, champion gay marriage, or demand that the rich shoulder their fair share of the tax burden – confiscate people’s guns when they came into town? Let’s listen to him explain his actions, in his own (made up) words:

“Why did I confiscate the guns? Well, let’s see, now. Besides, bein’ marshal, I also ran the town’s gambling operation. Now before we had the ordinance, these cowboys’d come in, they’d want to show off their shootin’ skills, to impress some dancehall girl, or to just to see who was the best shot. ‘Course, that would be me, but I chose not to participate.

“They’d say, ‘Hold up that Ace of Spades.’ Then they’d pull their guns, and try and shoot ‘er dead center. Well, sir, this led to a lot of shot-up Aces of Spades. After that, there was no way you could use ‘em anymore. A player’s sittin’ at the table, his hand fanned out in front of him, and one of the cards he’s holdin’ has a hole through it. It don’t take no genius to figure out what it is.

“Those shot-up Aces of Spades were plumb useless.

“Well, of course, you can’t send away for one card. You’d have to order a whole new deck. Now this may sound like nuthin’, but you’re orderin’ ten, twenty new decks a week – because all the Aces of Spades had been shot to pieces – it can really eat into your profits.

“And, consarn it – pardon my language – but as soon as them fresh decks’d come in, I mean, you’d just slip off the wrapper, and there’d be some no-‘count desperado blastin’ away at the new Aces of Spades.

“Some nights, we’d have to close down the entire operation. ‘Sorry, boys, they’re all fifty-one carders.’

“Well, sir, I said, ‘Enough is enough.’ And I got this ordinance passed – ‘No guns within the City Limits.’ Since then, we’re all playin’ with full decks.

“Is that the real reason I took away the guns? Nah, I was just funnin’ ya. I can’t help it. A comedy writer’s writin’ my dialogue.

“The question seems plumb stupid to me, like ‘Why’d you step off the tracks when the train was comin’?’ I mean, think of the reality here. Cowboy walks into a bar, gets all likkered up, and before you know it, he’s in a fight. If he’s totin’ a gun, somebody gets themselves killed. If he ain’t totin’ a gun, they don’t.

“Why do I take away the guns? Because

“People with guns kill people. And people without guns don’t.”

“Is it constitutional to take away people’s guns? Well, you know, it’s embarrassin’ to tell it, but I was fordin’ this river, one time, and my pocket copy of the Constitution fell out of my pocket, and got carried away. That wasn’t the comedy writer pullin’ your leg there, that was me. Look, I don’t know diddly about the Constitution. But what I do know is this:

“After the ordinance, the town of Tombstone was lot safer for people and playin’ cards.”

Don’t listen to me, folks. Listen to Wyatt Earp..

"The Curse"

Correction: This posting appeared accidentally last week, but it told me it wanted to be published today. I have listened, and I have republished. If you missed it, this is your lucky day. If you didn't, read it again. You may have missed something.

Okay. Here we go. For some of you, again.

I thought I had beaten it. I was sure it was a thing of the past. I ha hoped that by moving to another country leaving no forwarding address, that I had finally eluded its grasp, that I’d gone “Witness Protection Program” on the problem

But I was wrong.

I have written about this before. How, when I used to watch hockey, which means Maple Leaf hockey, which as the only hockey there was – because I was a Leaf fan, and because those were the only games they showed – every time I’d go out the room, the Leafs would score.

For years, every time one of the great Leaf sharpshooters – Keon, Mahovlich, “The Chief”, George Armstrong, a full-blooded Indian – would put the puck in the net, I’d be in the bathroom, or taking out the garbage, or in the kitchen, making popcorn. I’d hear crowd-roar from the TV room, and I’d know:

I had missed another Leaf goal.

I was happy, of course. But less happy than if I had actually seen it.

I thought about contacting the Leafs, and informing them about my magical power – “I can make the Leafs score; I just have to stop watching the game.” I figured maybe they ‘d give me free seats, and I could go for a hotdog, whenever the Leafs got control of the puck.

But I just let it go. Probably for the best. I mean, it wasn’t like I could control the situation – the Leafs need a goal so I’d deliberately leave the room and they score. It didn’t work that way. The leaving had to be natural. I couldn’t fake having to go to the bathroom, because somehow it would know. But every time I actually had to go,

“He shoots; he scores! Pulford puts it in for the Leafs!”

Time after time after time.

Flash Forward: Half a Lifetime.

I don’t watch hockey anymore. I no longer live in Toronto, and besides, the Leafs haven’t won the Cup for 43 years. In situations of this nature, one’s enthusiasm tends to wane.

Okay, so I get a new computer. My daughter Anna volunteers to set it up, load some programs, download, upload, something with “load.”

I’m sitting there watching, “there” being my office, where the computer is located. I get bored, so I turn on the TV. I switch to the hockey channel, not so much because I want to check out the hockey, but because it’s one channel down from the baseball channel, and I had already seen the show on the baseball channel.

So I turn on the hockey, and lo and behold,

The Leafs are playing.

I immediately get the old thrill, seeing those blue and white uniforms, and the big Maple Leaf, painted at center ice.

I’m one Happy Chappie. My daughter is programming my computer for me, and I’m watching Leaf hockey.

They are playing the Penguins, from Pittsburgh, a city that, when I watched in the old days, did not have a team. The score is tied, one-to-one.

Anna says she can’t concentrate with the TV on. Could I mute the sound, or go in another room? I first mute the sound, but it’s no fun watching silent hockey, so I retreat to the Master Bedroom, which is literally ten feet from my office. I turn on the bedroom TV, and I switch to the hockey channel, where I discover that, while I was changing rooms,

The Leafs had scored.

Well, there you had it. “The Curse” was still there.

It was exactly like the old days. I went out of the room, and the Leafs scored. I couldn’t believe it. But the confirmation was right there on the scoreboard. Before, it was tied. Now, it’s

“Toronto – two; the Penguins, one.”

I watch the game, and in less than a minute, the Penguins tie it up. It is now two-to-two.

Anna calls me back to show me something. I return to my office. As I watch the demonstration, my mind immediately starts to wander, my eyes drawn to the muted TV. I notice the score:

“Three-to-two, Leafs.”

Thirty seconds; that’s all it took. But there it was: I leave the game, and the Maple Leafs score again.

A minute later, the Penguins tie it up. It is now three-to-three.

We are going out for dinner; I am informed that it’s time to leave. I go downstairs. Dr. M is not quite ready. I go into another room, and switch on the TV. (Yes, we have a lot of TV’s.) I turn to the hockey game. I check out the score:

“Four-three, Leafs.”

I just went downstairs! But I wasn’t watching. So, once again,

The Leafs scored.

Thirty seconds later, the shorthanded Penguins – they have a player in the penalty box – steal the puck, and they score. It’s a four-four tie.

I leave the game, and we head out to the car. It feels chilly, so I go back for a sweater. I have apparently left the downstairs TV on, and as Anna, who had turned it off, passes me, she says,

“The Leafs just scored.”

Final tally? Four times, I go away from the TV, and four times – all four times – the Leafs score a goal. And then, there’s this little bonus.

I keep watching three times, and all three times,

The Penguins score.

It was a truly horrifying discovery. It was now apparent that, not only had “The Curse” not disappeared,

It had actually

Gotten worse.

"The Major Difference"

Think about it. It’s pretty amazing. (And not a little disturbing as well.)

You want to be an actor. But what exactly does that mean? What being an actor means is that you have this job. And what that job involves is this:

You show up someplace, you go into your Dressing Room, and you take off your clothes. If it’s an historical production, the underwear goes too. Otherwise, doffing the outside clothing is enough.

So that’s the first thing; you take off you clothes. Then what you do is you put on the character’s clothes, and for as long as you’re portraying that character, those are your clothes.

Okay, the transformation is just getting started. The wardrobe is only the beginning.

You move on to “Hair and Make-Up”, where they rearrange your hair and your face to approximate, as closely as time, their talent and money will allow, the visual “look” of the character. You check yourself out in the mirror, and you do not see you anymore. Who you see is the character, which can be a little disconcerting.

“Look at that! I have a mustache!”

And you have it for the duration of the job.

“Even when you go home?”

“No, just when you’re there. Unless you actually grow your own mustache, in which case it’s always.”

“You mean, for life?”

“Maybe, if you like it.”

You have committed the character’s lines to memory. And, if you’re a certain kind of actor, you’ve thought seriously about the motivations and feelings underlying those lines. You may alter your voice delivering those lines – a different accent, a different type of projection – shy or bombastic, if you’re King George the Sixth, with a stammer. You may also adopt a different speaking rhythm – “Machine gun”, deliberate, like you grew up in the South…

None of it – not the lines, not the motivation, not the delivery – None of it is you. It’s entirely the character.

“I feel uncomfortable saying that line.”

Nobody cares. Because it’s not your line, it’s the character’s. The character is extremely comfortable saying that line. And, if you want to keep acting, you will be too.

Props? A sword? A musket? A hook, if you’re playing a pirate, maybe a gold tooth, and a parrot? If they’re “character appropriate”, on they go.

You make your way onto the stage, or the soundstage, trying on the “character’s walk” as you go. You’re a new person now, definitely not yourself. “Yourself” doesn’t walk with a limp.

They tell you where to stand. They direct you where and when to move. They instruct you to wait “a beat” before saying your line. They want you to look directly at the person you’re speaking to. Or not to.

“The person you’re speaking to.” That’s right. And also, not exactly accurate. Unless you’re delivering a soliloquy, you are addressing someone else. But not another person, however. Another character.

That’s acting. Two or more characters, talking to each other.

“I’m Doctor Zhivago.”

“I’m your mistress.”

“Really?”

“No. I’m an actress playing your mistress.”

“What a coincidence. I’m an actor playing Doctor Zhivago.”

Of course, that isn’t what happens. Actors never “break character.”

“Even at lunch?”

Maybe at lunch. But definitely not while they’re acting. While they’re acting, they never look up at each other, with their false noses and their prosthetic teeth, and go, “This is ridiculous!” and start giggling. If it happens, they yell, “Cut!”, and they do it again.

“And this time, no giggling!”

Perhaps this doesn’t sound bizarre to you, two people who, in truth, are not the characters pretending for all they’re worth that they are. But when it comes to acting, as they say in High Noon, “That’s the whole thing.”

The thing I’ve discovered about myself is that, even though I once aspired to be an actor, I actually had little aptitude for the work. Why not? Because, when you get down to it, I am severely lacking in the ability to pretend.

Which an actor, one hundred percent, requires.

I can imagine really well. But imagining is different from pretending. Pretending involves not a small measure of deception. You have to persuade people that you’re somebody else.

Imagining, on the other hand, says, “I’m not trying to pull the wool over your eyes, like if I were pretending to be somebody I’m not. I am simply engaging in an imagintory flight of fancy, and I am acknowledging ahead of time that that’s what I’m doing.”

In an earlier blog posting, I imagined I was a giraffe, terrified by the freedom of the jungle, because “Freedom’s just another word for running for your life.” I imagined that situation, and I brought you along for the ride. But I never for a moment tried to delude you into believing that I was actually a giraffe. Why? Because I know myself, and I am aware that I could never get away with it.

“I’m a giraffe.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Where are your spots, then?”

“They fell off.”

“You’re not very tall.”

“I’m a short giraffe.”

“And two of your legs are missing.”

“A lion ate them – All right! I’m not a giraffe! And I apologize profusely for the deception. You are nice people, and you deserve better than to be lied to. And I will never do it again. I promise. Don’t hurt me.”

Writers versus actors: If you can immerse yourself fully in a character, if you possess the “look ‘em straight in the eye” audacity to pretend you are somebody you are unequivocally and certifiably not – a condition viewed as severe “mental illness” in an other arena – then you can be an actor.

If you can imagine, but you can’t pretend?

Then you belong right here.

“What if I just played myself?”

Stop it!

"The 'Chicago' Story"

“Imitation is the sincerest form of plagiarism.” – Oscar Levant

Recently, very late at night, I was wandering around the house, searching for the room that my sleep was in. I ultimately landed in the bedroom which houses our new, big screen HDTV, which I don’t like that much because everything is too clear, but it’s still a novelty and well worth a visit when it’s four in the morning and playing the piano is not really an option.

So I’m flipping around the channels, looking for something that will either be so dull it will put me to sleep, or interesting enough to make me not mind being awake. Dr. M’s prescription for such matters is a hybrid of these solutions. It’s actually somewhat perverse. When she discovers a program she really wants to watch, it immediately puts her to sleep.

It’s really kinda sad. The bad stuff keeps her awake. “Oh! Look at that!”, and she’s off to Slumberland.

Oh, well.

My “remote flipping” brings me to the movie musical, Chicago (2002). I like that movie. It’s flashy, and it’s fun.

Chicago started out as a Broadway show in 1975, where it ran for a highly respectable 936 performances. Later, in 1996, the show was revived, running for over 5000 performances, which, as they say in A League of Their Own:

”That would be more then, wouldn’t it.”

Considerably more. The reason for Chicago’s greater success as a revival, I believe, is that the times caught up with the show, the cynical 90’s being more in sync with its subject matter – the corruption of the criminal justice system and celebrity (“O.J.”-style) prosecutions – than the Disco 70’s, with Travolta swinging his jacket around.

It’s interesting, I think, the way changing times can take a moderate success and transform it into a blockbuster. But that’s just a sidelight. You get that as a bonus.

You’re welcome.

What interests me today is the question of credit.

The indisputable creative force behind Chicago is the iconic Broadway and Hollywood director-choreographer, Bob Fosse. Fosse had a signature style – the cheesy vaudeville motif, featuring hats and canes, tightly synchronized dance-corps movement (where they all move as one), and the ever-popular pelvic thrust. And I’ll leave it at that, for fear of betraying an embarrassing surfeit of choreographical ignorance.

This oft-repeated imprint in on view in virtually all of Fosse’s work, most notably cinemagraphically, in the movie version of Cabaret (1972), and in Fosse’s mezmerizingly strange autobiographical film, All That Jazz (1979)¸ whose title is, not coincidentally, lifted from the Broadway musical Fosse spearheaded – directing it, as well as co-writing the book – Chicago.

The problem with his directing the screen version of Chicago in 2002 is that Fosse died in 1987. So they had to get somebody else.

The “somebody else” they got was Rob Marshall. According to IMDB, Chicago was his first feature-film directing assignment.

Mama!

You’re directing a film, bearing the directorial stamp of a theatrical legend, the show’s structure – a story told as a series of vaudeville routines – is pretty much set in stone, audiences know and love the original

What the heck are you supposed to do?

From my multiple viewings of Chicago, what I see is a capable director guided unwaveringly by the question, “What would Bob Fosse had done if he hadn’t died?, the result being a skillful, though not quite inspired, channeling of a one-of-a-kind genius, which could, not unfairly, be labeled,

“Fosse Lite.”

Consider the testimonials of two fictional mothers, not that Fosse and Marshall didn’t have actual mothers, it’s that I know nothing about these women, and I am making up what they said. Which is this:

ROB MARSHALL’S FICTIONAL MOTHER: “My Robby did a perfect job on Chicago.”

BOB FOSSE’S FICTIONAL MOTHER: “Of course. He stole everything from Bobby.”

The fictional mothers were both right. Rob Marshall was in a bind. Go his own directorial way, and he betrays the essence of Chicago, not to mention risking devastating comparisons with the original. Hew close to the original, however, and he’s ripping off a dead guy.

Boy, I’m glad they didn’t ask me to direct Chicago. I wouldn’t have known what to do!

Bob Fosse garnered “Best Director” Oscars for both Cabaret and All That Jazz. Rob Marshall was nominated for Chicago, but he didn’t win. I can understand the Oscar voters’ dilemma in this regard:

“Should we give the Oscar to Rob? Or give it posthumously to Bob?”

The voters sidestepped the issue, giving it to Roman Polansky (for The Pianist), who, though not dead, was permanently out of the country, (due to some shadowy shenanigans of an earlier decade.)

Writers – well, all show biz participants– are understandably sensitive to the misappropriated credit. Our reputations are all we have. Besides, the money, the status, the power, the big house and the cars. And we like things to be fair.

There was a point in my career where a guy got a really big job, due significantly to a credit, attributed to him, but which, in reality, was mine. I didn’t really care, because I had no interest in the job my credit had secured him. However, when the opportunity arose, I was very happy to correct the record.

"Profiles In (No Culinary) Courage"

Yesterday, I told the story about my heroic nine year-old classmate, Arye Leibowitz, who, withstanding pressure and persuasion, refused to eat the hamburgers and hot dogs served at my birthday party, because, by his ultra-Orthodox (or, to him, simply Orthodox) standards, they were not kosher enough.

Today – same story, different central character. Call it:

Earl Pomerantz – Picky Eater.

To avoid another “Kosher Kerfuffle” such as the one that befallen my ninth birthday party, the mothers now opted for “The Dairy (not meat) Route” in their menu selections, serving nothing that could lead to any kind of dietary disturbance. The result was a duo of offerings more suitable for a Hadassah Ladies Luncheon than a childhood celebration. The food choices were now:

Egg or salmon.

Sandwiches.

Little Early P. did not like egg. And he did not like salmon.

(It is unproductive for picky eaters to try and justify their objections. Let’s say, “I reject the two on textural grounds”, and leave it at that.)

Cut To:

The birthday luncheon of another nine year-old boy in my class.

We are arrayed along both sides of a long table, prison-style, wearing colorful party hats secured by thin rubber bands tightly beneath our chins. “Serving Mothers”, balancing trays piled with sandwiches worked their way down the line.

The “Egg or Salmon Express” was barreling inexorably towards the station.

It was only a matter of time before they got to me. Torturing me with the (literally) unpalatable question:

“Egg…or salmon?”

Throughout that tension-building day, “The Question” was absolutely the only thing on my mind. Navigating my mother’s drive to the “Party House” it wasn’t locating the address penciled on the slip of paper clutched in my sweaty palm that I was focusing on. It was,

“Egg or salmon?”

Wandering blindfolded towards a suspended cardboard donkey, his missing follicular appendage clenched tightly in my outstretched arm, it wasn’t that tailless target I was thinking about. It was,

“Egg or salmon?”

Buying time by racing into the bathroom when “Lunch!” was called, it wasn’t peeing that dominated my attention – I didn’t have to pee – It was,

“Egg or salmon?”

That was the nightmare – my unavoidable collision with the “Sandwich Choice Choo-choo.” You could hear the rhythm of the wheels, powering inexorably in my direction:

Egg-or-salmon-egg-or-salmon-egg-or-salmon-egg-or-salmon-egg-or-salmon-egg-or-salmon-egg-or-salmon-egg-or-salmon

Whoo-Whoooooooooo!!!

Finally…

It was Zero Hour.

The “Party Mother” hovered over me wielding metal tongs, ready to transport a sandwich to my clown-stenciled plate the minute I answered the determining question:

“Egg or salmon?”

I do not now, nor have I ever had, a “Poker Face.” The face that I helplessly turned up towards the mother said, “Don’t make me eat this.”

Then, suddenly, a light bulb clicked on in her brain.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You’re the ‘Special One!’”

And she immediately disappeared into the kitchen.

It was not clear what was going on. I only knew I had won a reprieve. I’d have been happier if the mother hadn’t blurted, “You’re the ‘Special One’” quite so loudly. Being singled out for uniqueness is invariably a mixed blessing. Check out the historical track record of “The Chosen People.”

It did appear, however, that I’d been spared the “Egg or salmon” dilemma, relieved of the necessity of mumbling my feeble, prepared response:

“Neither.”

Moments later, the “Party Mother” smilingly reappeared. She headed my way, a single sandwich sitting on a paper plate, which she placed before me with a cheery, “There you go.”

I looked down at the sandwich. It was not egg. It was not salmon.

It was peanut butter and jelly.

I don’t like peanut butter and jelly.

Any more than I like egg or salmon.

I just sighed. Not at that table. Just now. Because I have to explain this. And I know that I won’t be convincing.

Okay. Peanut butter I like. It’s smooth and it’s sticky. Jelly, on the other hand, is bumpy – from the pieces of fruit in the mixture – and it’s slidey. To my – undeniably finicky – palate, “smooth and sticky” does not go with “bumpy and slidey.”

At all.

But there it was. Sitting on my plate.

It was clear that my mother had called ahead on my behalf:

“He doesn’t like egg or salmon. He likes peanut butter.”

The “Party Mother” had generously put herself out, preparing a special sandwich just for me, adding the jelly because,

“Who doesn’t like peanut butter and jelly?”

Me.

I didn’t want to eat it.

But I did.

And as I dutifully forced down that concoction of slippery-sticky goo, a beaming mother hovering over me, delighted to have made a little boy happy, a searing thought echoed accusatorily through in my brain:

“You’re no Arye Leibowitz.”

"Profiles In (Culinary) Courage"

A recent issue of the Atlantic included a composite review of a trio of books penned by “foodies”, gluttonous gourmets, who pride themselves on their willingness to eat virtually anything that is placed in front of them.


Not content to brag about the unlimited range of delicacies they will willingly sample, these dietary daredevils felt the need to disparage those who are less adventuresome in their eating habits, including people who reject certain dishes for religious reasons, the believers charged with the unforgivable sin of culinary cowardice, their religious convictions depriving them of the delicacy of Yak's Eye Soup.

I see that perspective as arrogant, supercilious, mean-spirited and wrong.

Consider this story:

I’m nine years old. It’s my birthday. I attend the Toronto Hebrew Day School, an Orthodox Jewish parochial school (some called it a Pinocchio School, because the kids who went there had big noses.)

I invited all the boys in my class. For some reason, boys’ birthday parties did not include girls, and vice versa. The explanation for this may possibly be found in the Old Testament, though – and I have, admittedly, not read the whole thing – I recall no Biblical citations regulating children’s birthday parties.

One of my Third Grade classmates was Arye Leibowitz, not a close friend, but on birthday parties, it was all-inclusive. Except for girls. Who knows? Maybe girls did come to my party, but, being Orthodox, they were required to celebrate it in a separate room. I never actually checked to find out.

“That room’s not for coats. The girls are in there.”

Nah, probably not.

Anyway, the standard menu on these occasions was hamburgers and hot dogs.

My mother, though not Orthodox, always kept a kosher home, this arrangement requiring the purchase of exclusively kosher food. (Which included kosher Jell-o, or Ko-Jel, the real Jell-o reputedly containing pork hoofs among its jigglifying ingredients.)

The hamburger meat was bought at a kosher butcher shop; the hot dogs came pre-packaged from the supermarket, the product’s wrapper branded with a small but prominent “R” with a circle around it, certifying kosherosity.

I don’t know why they picked “R” to signify “kosher.” Perhaps they were following the Hebraic approach, making “R” the first letter, if you were reading the word “kosher” from right to left. That may not be correct. It’s just a guess.

The call went out: Curtail the festivities. It’s time to eat.

As the other kids race to the table, ultra-Orthodox Arye marches into the kitchen, seeking confirmation for the acceptability of the menu before he can partake. The “Okay” sign would be a specific rabbinical signature. It had to be exactly that guy.

And that’s when it started.

Though the rabbi’s “Seal of Approval” was absent, my mother assured Arye that the food was indeed kosher, producing the name of the kosher butcher, and the wrapper for the hot dogs. (“See? An ‘R.’”) This, unfortunately, fell short of the requisite guarantee.

It turned out that, though the food was kosher by my mother’s standards, it did not reach the more rigorous plateau maintained by my more observant classmate Arye and the family who raised him.

What we had here was a standoff. A nine year-old boy, dressed in cuffed blue jeans and a faded flannel shirt, sticking tenaciously to his guns, in the face of adult pressure, and the natural urgency to fit in. Arye argued his position forcefully. The food was not acceptable, and he refused to give in. He couldn’t. His religion forbade the possibility.


Understanding but firm, my mother kept at him, her position,

“It’s okay, Arye. It’s kosher enough.”

The kid held his ground. Though not without cost. As this painful scenario played out (I was watching from the sidelines, feeling terrible for what my classmate was going through, and not a little bit to blame), Arye bore the strain of his predicament. Surrendering to the tension, he eventually…

Started to cry.

“I can’t eat it,” he whimpered, his voice still strong, but his shoulders hiccupping with anxiety, and tears running down his reddening cheeks.

In the end, my mother made him something else.

Self-righteous “foodies” want us equate such behavior with cowardice. To me, Arye’s solitary stand was the most incredible act of personal courage I had ever witnessed.

Tomorrow, a story about me. Where I behave exactly the other way.