Tuesday, September 28, 2004
I got lost on my way to Tuesday
This is weird. I actually have a 5 day work week this week. Gasp! I haven't had one of those in nearly a month thanks to Labor Day, the Rosh, and the Yom. Already, I feel discombobulated. Today feels like Thursday and yesterday was completely inocuous and without identity. This is the part where everyone says, "Fuck you, Alan. 'Bout time you git back busting yer hump." Fair enough. Bite me, though, would ya?
So this most recent visit to see the family back in Phoenix happened. That's about the long and the short of it. Not really any time for events to materialize when you have such a quick turn around and when your weekend is dominated by such an event as the holy day of atonement. At the behest of my dad, I made my annual trip to services, dusting off the tallas and kippa. My brother, like myself, has little tolerance for the long, dry ordeal. It's repetitious and, this service at least, was unnecessarily long. My brother tells me that he suffered during Rosh Hashanah services when I was in LA. Well this time... things were going to be different. I was going to entertain myself come hell or high water and I was going to do it by getting my brother to crack up laughing at the most inappropriate times. I'm proud to say: Mission accomplished and then some. Icing on the cake was that it was an Orthodox service. Chabad, no less. So any glares we received were extra comforting. Look, I can't help it if the guy in front of my looks like a Leprachaun. He's practically begging me to do an Irish accent and talk about how he fondles little boys when he's tanked on pale ale and potatoes. "Come find mi pot o' gold" he taunts. My dad didn't appreciate it none too much, but I was able to deflect most of the criticism because I was able to maintain my composure. Unlike my brother who was burying his head in a book every five minutes. Ever since I moved away from home, I kind of feel bad for him around this time of year. The high holidays are always accompanied by obligatory family gatherings and luncheons featuring the same faces that you only ever see at this time of year. My absence leads to my brother running into minefields like this:
Family friend: So, how's everything in LA? You a Hollywood bigshot or what, eh? You talk with Steven Spielberg, yet? Why don't you talk to Spielberg? He's Jewish, you know.
Brother: You're thinking of my brother.
And so it goes for the poor guy. I figure I'm doing him a service by making obscene comments to him on the holiest day of the year.
Something shocking, though, related to services. I don't know if you're all aware, but a tallas is kept in a tallas bag. They're finely crafted and don't come by terribly cheap. Anyway, I left the room during the mourner's prayer and returned to find the my tallas bag had been lifted. Swiped! The hell?! Here? Of all places? No doubt, some douche bag who only shows up for and hour of services once a year mistook it for his own and scurried off so that he and his boring wife could make it over to the Goldbergsteinbaums for dinner. Or something to that effect. Anyway, I was pissed. I told my dad afterwards not to bring me to his coven of thieves again. Ain't that a pisser?
Minor highlight unrelated to anything above. The airline steward on my Southwest flight is the Mothman. As in The Mothman Prophecies Mothman. Yeah, the guy who talks about the chapstick. That guy. His voice is a shrill whisper and this is how he announces that refreshments are on the way:
Mothman: You're getting... thirsty... You want to drink something... Peanuts...
I don't know, struck me as odd.
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So this most recent visit to see the family back in Phoenix happened. That's about the long and the short of it. Not really any time for events to materialize when you have such a quick turn around and when your weekend is dominated by such an event as the holy day of atonement. At the behest of my dad, I made my annual trip to services, dusting off the tallas and kippa. My brother, like myself, has little tolerance for the long, dry ordeal. It's repetitious and, this service at least, was unnecessarily long. My brother tells me that he suffered during Rosh Hashanah services when I was in LA. Well this time... things were going to be different. I was going to entertain myself come hell or high water and I was going to do it by getting my brother to crack up laughing at the most inappropriate times. I'm proud to say: Mission accomplished and then some. Icing on the cake was that it was an Orthodox service. Chabad, no less. So any glares we received were extra comforting. Look, I can't help it if the guy in front of my looks like a Leprachaun. He's practically begging me to do an Irish accent and talk about how he fondles little boys when he's tanked on pale ale and potatoes. "Come find mi pot o' gold" he taunts. My dad didn't appreciate it none too much, but I was able to deflect most of the criticism because I was able to maintain my composure. Unlike my brother who was burying his head in a book every five minutes. Ever since I moved away from home, I kind of feel bad for him around this time of year. The high holidays are always accompanied by obligatory family gatherings and luncheons featuring the same faces that you only ever see at this time of year. My absence leads to my brother running into minefields like this:
Family friend: So, how's everything in LA? You a Hollywood bigshot or what, eh? You talk with Steven Spielberg, yet? Why don't you talk to Spielberg? He's Jewish, you know.
Brother: You're thinking of my brother.
And so it goes for the poor guy. I figure I'm doing him a service by making obscene comments to him on the holiest day of the year.
Something shocking, though, related to services. I don't know if you're all aware, but a tallas is kept in a tallas bag. They're finely crafted and don't come by terribly cheap. Anyway, I left the room during the mourner's prayer and returned to find the my tallas bag had been lifted. Swiped! The hell?! Here? Of all places? No doubt, some douche bag who only shows up for and hour of services once a year mistook it for his own and scurried off so that he and his boring wife could make it over to the Goldbergsteinbaums for dinner. Or something to that effect. Anyway, I was pissed. I told my dad afterwards not to bring me to his coven of thieves again. Ain't that a pisser?
Minor highlight unrelated to anything above. The airline steward on my Southwest flight is the Mothman. As in The Mothman Prophecies Mothman. Yeah, the guy who talks about the chapstick. That guy. His voice is a shrill whisper and this is how he announces that refreshments are on the way:
Mothman: You're getting... thirsty... You want to drink something... Peanuts...
I don't know, struck me as odd.
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