Yearly Archives: 2006

Shopping for Inspiration

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Our weekly writing assignment recommended that we ‘experiment with senses you tend to ignore by going to a supermarket with no intention of shopping, and concentrating on listening’  ‘I always go to supermarkets with no intention of shopping’ I thought to myself, ‘but listening to the aisles and become a writer, now there’s a concept.’ The more I thought about it the more excited I became. ‘How could I have overlooked the storytelling potential of listening-in-a-supermarket?’ So successful that all great writers did not take on the challenge and left their protagonists out at sea, slaughtered them on the battlefields and sent them upstream on rafts or down waterfalls in canoes. ‘Could it be a coincidence the Oliver Twist had to be bullied into asking for more gruel? Was there any reason why Injun Joe died of hunger in McDougal’s cave? Why did Jake Barnes roam the restaurants of Paris with Lady Brett Ashley only to eat Hungarian Goulash? Why did all these people have to eat so poorly?’ The pieces of evidence were accumulating in my head like a fast-forwarded movie showing termites building their mound. Could it be that so much genius stepped aside only to allow me to park my story telling abilities in this vacant literary parking spot? Were they all were calling to me to rise up and unravel the mysteries of the whispering supermarket aisles with my yet-to-be-discovered story telling voice? How could I shy away from such an opportunity? But am I worthy?’ I was intimidated by the notion that the ghosts of dead Nobel Prize laureates were waiting for me to free them from their limbo between the aisles of ‘Safeway’. ‘Will it be my quarks of literary brilliance that will let the soul of Hemingway finally come to rest in a jar or peanut butter?  Being a sworn shopping-hater how could I spend time in the aisles without arousing suspicion?

Destiny takes care of the blessed – my writing opportunity presented itself a week prior to my son’s Bar Mitzvah (the Jewish coming of age ceremony for thirteen year old boys). A Bar Mitzvah is the most important events in the life of a Jewish family second only to marriage. The importance of the event is celebrated with amounts of food to match. Somehow you never have enough time to prepare even though you know the date thirteen years in advance, so it all came to the last week, the week of my literary inspiration.

‘I have a busy week with my students’ Imma (Hebrew for Mom) turned to me, she did not even bother to soften the blow with ‘I know you hate it but’ She went right to the verdict: ‘…you’ll have to help me with the shopping.’ There it was in all its bluntness. I turned slightly to the right and lifted my head exposing my jugular, the universal sign of surrender. Then I turned back slowly to face her, stopping the turn when our eyes locked. Inside I was rejoicing: ‘a last minute state of mind, where the sense of urgency dulls the sense of quantity, what could be better?’

‘We need soft drinks, and paper plates, and disposable utensils, and cream cheese, and meat, and ’ Did Imma expect me to memorize all this? She must have read my mind. ‘Let me write down what you need to get.’ She started to work down a ‘hers-his’ task list. ‘I could help with the strawberries’ I offered, knowing that strawberries would be the enablers of my literary quest. The Bar Mitzvah happened to fall during a rare period of strawberry shortages inflicted by unprecedented weather patterns. The news channels made it a point to mention that strawberry fields were no longer forever. ‘Good evening I’m Leslie and I’m Dennis soggy ground prevented the pickers from going into the strawberry fields the second week in a row Those that ventured into the fields drowned in the mud or were swept away by torrential water.’ My sense of reason was telling me that I would have to constantly buy strawberries.

‘You never know when the supplies will dry up.’  I argued.

‘You don’t have to keep buying’ Imma said, ‘all you need to do is get a large quantity a day or two before the party.’

‘Are you aware of the shortages?’ I asked raising my voice as if to say ‘do you want me to help or not?’

Not a muscle moved in Imma’s facial expression. This was the stone mask of disappointment, which was her way of saying ‘Why is it that I always regret having to ask you for help?’

‘Strawberries have a half-life of thirty two hours’ I began, eager to make amends. ‘Which means that one out of eight strawberries I get a week in advance will still be edible by the time it gets to the party.’ I was speaking as fast as I could, hoping to complete my argument before the contempt in her eyes crushed my ability to speak. ‘With the current shortages there is no telling if there will be any strawberries in the stores two days before the Bar Mitzvah’.  Imma was more concerned with the half-life we still had to spend together ‘get as many as you want’ she said.

I bought strawberries in quantities that allowed us to control their price in global markets. I bought them in every aisle of every store that sold them. I walked the aisles from dawn till dusk, listening, lifting boxes, playing strawberry Tetris with green plastic baskets rearranging the strawberries into more appealing formations, anything that would appear to have purpose; as long as I could walk the aisles a little while longer, but my listening were left unanswered. Imma sensed that there was something going on. As I was about to leave the house on another strawberry mission, she moved to the doorway and stood in a hug-timeout position. I held her close, our bodies touching, my cheek touching hers, with my hands holding her shoulder blades. Her arms were tucked under mine. Imma released her grip, held my elbows and pulled them towards her, indicating that I should complete the hug with my hands around her back. She released my left elbow and raised her right arm behind my neck, resting her hand on the back of my head. Her fingers tightened slightly around the back of my skull, repeating three light squeezes with the tips of her fingers her way of saying ‘deep inside there is a man I love’ A short tender moment that would help us keep moving through the shopping days that lay before us. I pressed my head closer to hers feeling the softness of her cheek against mine.

The rains stopped on the day of the Bar Mitzvah. My son read his designated portions from the Prophet Ezekiel beautifully. In a clear strong voice he sang about the revival of the dry bones, the dry bones in the valley ‘These bones will rise’ he sang with an innocent young voice. I was too absorbed in my offspring’s performance to realize that the prophet was speaking to me. It was during Kiddush (the blessing over the wine and bread) that my vision cleared. ‘Dry bones rising from the valley dry bones rising from the aisles, the souls of literary genius rising from between the wines to the right and the bread to the left provided that one was facing the dairy products.’ I had to get to the aisles one more time, but how, the day’s schedule was full. There was a reception following the Kiddush, continuing to lunch, followed by speeches and songs we had prepared for the Bar-Mitzvah boy, then coffee and some cakes, and finally sitting with the guests through the afternoon and into the evening forcing them to eat the strawberries. The next day was Easter and the aisles would be closed. It had to be that night or there was no telling when the next opportunity for resurrection would present itself.

Fortunately there was a dance party for the kids scheduled for later that night. As we prepared the party hall at the community center, hanging balloons, laying out soft drinks on the tables, filling bowls with potato chips, gummy bears, m&m’s and cookies Imma turned to me: ‘Do you think we have enough soft drinks?’ she asked. ‘Not only are we missing drinks, we are also missing ice and bowls to put it in’ I lied to the woman that would be at my side come what may. ‘Very well, go to Albertson and get what you think we need.’

I entered ‘Albertson’ with trembling knees, leaning heavily on the shopping cart in front of me. I had no intent of buying anything; I was there to listen. I headed straight for the aisle with the strongest voices. The only sound I heard was the repetitive clicking noise of an employee stamping price tags onto a new load of bars of soap. Somewhat annoyed, I moved to the utensils aisle. For a few minutes I pretended to compare identical plastic bowls, while I listened. Every minute or so I would put a bowl into the shopping cart to make things appear natural, not wanting to draw attention to myself. With five bowls and no revelation I moved to the ‘picnic’ aisle. ‘Where can I find a disposable table cloth?’ I asked a passing worker hoping to set a casual atmosphere and ease Hemingway’s tension. The employee shrugged and I quickly thanked him with a nod, not wanting to disturb the silence any further. But Hemingway did not take the bait. I moved to soft drinks to pick and choose between the diets and the regulars, between Pepsi and Coca-Cola, Mountain Dew and Sprite, added a few bottles to my cart still nothing. Half an hour later, with five plastic bowls, seven bottles of soft drinks and four ice bags threatening to melt I had to start heading back. It was then that I heard a voice a coming from in front of me and a little to my left:

‘Would you like paper of plastic, sir?’ The tone was detached without sentiment. It was a rude awakening. ‘No need for bags’ I replied softly, too devastated to make up my mind. Mechanically I loaded the redundant products into the car and headed back to the party. I had listened to so many senses: the sense of ‘urgency’, the sense of ‘quantity’ and the sense of ‘reason’. Yet revelation continued to elude me. Did I misinterpret the location of the aisles? How dry was my valley? Imma thanked me for the extra drinks and ice, all of which remained untouched and had to be taken back home later that night.

‘You haven’t eaten all day’ Imma said as we walked in, ‘Would you like me to heat you some chicken?’ ‘I’m not all that hungry’ I answered. ‘How about a peanut butter sandwich?’ she asked. ‘Fine please do.’ She knelt down to the cabinet and poked around a bit:  ‘You’re not going to believe this; we’re out of peanut butter.’

‘I’ll run to the Safeway to get some’

Writers Block

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I wake again in our bedroom, vouchsafed another day,

‘Vouchsafed’ is a verb, or so it seems; that’s all I know of what it means.

But if I guess I might be wrong, the story might become too long.

Despite my age I am no sage my ignorance might waste this page.

Go look it up but there’s a twist – I cannot move without its gist.

 

My wife of many years wakes up. She looks at me I’m frozen stuck.

I am still groggy she assumes; her normal ritual resumes.

She draws the shade; she puts on cloths; she rubs my nose – It seems that I am  comatose.

‘Can you hear me dear’ she asks; her voice so tense it croaks and rasps.

 

I can’t confess under duress, which tantalizes her distress.

She grabs the phone and calls real quick ‘my husband’s stiffer than a brick!’

‘Is he cold and blue, or warm and breathing? Are you sure that he’s not sleeping?’

‘His eyes are open’ she replies tears are welling in her eyes.

 

The sirens come and then the engine, the yellow one, a sign from heaven.

Bill and Jack are dressed in black; they come with their survival pack.

They are well-built and reassuring; if all was normal, quite alluring.

They take my pulse, they watch me breath: ‘He’s stable ma’am just hold on, please.’

 

Then the ambulance arrives, its crew determined to save lives.

There are two of them as well, Leonor and Isabel.

All four in boots, with radios – they stand there tickling my toes.

They check my kidneys, liver, spleen; my heart is metered on the screen.

 

My heart is ticking nice and strong, a sinus regular and long.

They are perplexed with my condition ‘perhaps he has a drug addiction?’

Bill looks up and clears his throat ‘Has he left you with a note?’

‘There is that page; he made some signs; it doesn’t say much, just two lines’

 

Around the page they congregate to see if they can guess my fate,

‘Vouchsafed’, they read, ‘why it is clear for all to see that this has got to be the key.’

‘But we have never heard this word before’ moan Bill and Jack and Leonor,

‘It means to grant’ Isabel chimes, ‘I hope that gets us off the dime.’

 

Before another word is said I am erect and out of bed,

Nature calls I must respond, I rush outside to the fishpond,

I lean relaxed against a tree; It is a great relief to pee

Our day could well have gone to hell had it not been for Isabel.

 

With my bladder back to normal, I gain composure, acting formal,

Pulling up my underpants, I shake my saviors’ strong right hands,

‘Grant’ is what it means she said; that’s all it is

and we are saved.

Bar Mitzvah Tale

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Tintin did not want a Bar Mitzvah ceremony; a typical starting point for most of his life endeavors to date. The risks of standing in front of an audience and not giving a perfect performance outweighed the benefits. To us it was simply a matter of getting ahead of him in the negotiations, finding a win-win compromise which would put his cunning young mind at ease and satisfy tradition and provide substantial financial rewards. Starting a year ahead of time, Ima timed the debates over the issue at monthly intervals. Months into the debate Tintin conceded to have the ceremony ‘as long as its not hundreds of people’ which was his shrewd way of saying ‘no’ given the size of the synagogues in the valley. As family history shows, no child of ours ever threw into the spokes of the wheels of history a monkey wrench which Ima could not unlatch. If Tintin would not allow himself to be stripped of his dignity by hundreds of pairs of eyes at ‘Beth David’, ‘Temple Emanuel’ or the ‘Hebrew Day School’ synagogues, so be it Ima turned to Habbad. By the time it was all said and done Tintin had less than eight weeks to prepare. A few short meetings with a Rabbi, long hours in our bed with Ima reading and reciting blessings, maftir and haftarah, ups and downs,  smiles and frowns, days of hope, days of despair, ‘Can’t you see I’m not prepared!…’ We had another Bar Mitzvah in the air and it would be during Passover.

The Habbad synagogue is small and cozy camouflaged as an office in an aging two story condominium on Sunnyvale road between Fremont and Remington Avenues. Locating a synagogue in an office complex is Habbad’s way of acknowledging the times: people just don’t take time off to pray anymore, perhaps if they could worship while they stop by to take care of something else. And so one can visit a dentist on the floor above or get some tax consulting across the hall. To turn the two offices that it was into a place of worship all of the interior walls were moved to one room, creating a single confined area with a walk-in space, a small office in the back and a storage room to the left, all three crammed into a space smaller than a common kitchen. A small table with a basket of Kipots (prayer caps) stands next to the entrance. You need the head gear to enter; you can pick up the rest of the worshiping equipment once inside the prayer room. The prayer room is the size of a king size bedroom. Office windows that rise from the floor to the ceiling are located in the corners of the room, covered by graceless-yet- functional blinds made of aluminum strips. The floor is covered with an industrial bluish-green carpet which over time built its own odor and character. Whoever chose the carpet did not want the worshipers to pay attention to the floor. Neon lights stationed at regular intervals between grayish ceiling panels shine white light at the carpet. Three rows of simple reception seats face the fro nt of the room. What used to be a six-panel sliding door of a walk-in closet zigzags down an Aisle symbolically separating the seats into two groups the left for woman and the right for men. Bookshelves with Sidurs (prayer books) and Talits (prayer shawls) stand against the back wall behind the seats. Three columns of extra seats, taller than any man are stacked in the far back corner of the room, in case there is a rush on this house of prayer. The seating arrangement faces a crate like ark which houses two Torah scrolls. During prayer the Torah scroll is rolled open on a podium which stands between the ark and the right seat section, covered with red velvet. The un-matching velvet colors stand out, drawing attention to the ark and the podium, away from everything else.  This is barebones Judaism as it was intended to be, cases are settled before god and your pears – the setting is irrelevant.

The Bar Mitzvah took place three days after the Passover Sedder. We arriv ed at the synagogue a few minutes before the ceremony. Saturday or not, we cleaned matzah leftovers which stood out against the dark murky color of the carpet. The Rabbi looked the other way, adapting to our need for basic esthetics and cleanliness. Nowadays the call to rescue faiths that hang by thinner threads overrides the Sabbath holiness. Besides, we were alone with the Rabbi in synagogue. The Rabbi started the ceremony without waiting for his congregation to convene; they would gather as the prayer went on and on. Tintin sat between Daniel and me in the front row two feet behind the podium, staring straight at it as a condemned man stares at the gallows, rubbing his hands and jiggling his knee. Ima and the girls occasionally peeked over their shoulders through the ‘mehitza’ with encouraging smiles. I put my arm across his shoulder stretching over to Osmo’s back an eagle wing over the chicks. Osmo put his hand on the yearling’s shaking knee. Tintin avoided eye contact, buried his eyes in the Sidur pretending to read, refusing to fall for the false solace offered to him by family love. His business was with the podium and the scroll which lay open on top of it. At times like this he views the world in two colors black and white. Seven ‘aliyot’, seven condemned men, the first six would be spared, and he would be the seventh. As far as he was concerned there was nothing that we could say or do to save him. Fearing shame he wanted to run, yet the same fear kept him is his place. There were more than forty people in the room when the time came to bring out the Torah.

The Rabbi turned to me: ‘Can you call someone in your congregation to open the ark?’ This was not a question I had no choice I sent Yair. Yair did not hesitate for a moment. With a slight nod of his head the Rabbi offered Tintin to pass the Torah through the congregation Tintin passed. The Torah was brought out and opened on the Podium.

‘Ya-aleh hhh’ he was looking at me trying to remember my name, or pretending not to know it.

‘Yiftah’ I said using the correct pronunciation.

‘Yiftah Ben’ ‘Amatzia ve ‘

‘Yiftah Ben Amatzia Rishon…’ He cut me off.

I stood up and took a step forward to the podium waiting for further instructions.

‘Hold your tzitzit to the beginning of the reading portion’ he instructed, pointing with the metal finger to the middle column of the open scroll.

I did as I was told.

‘Kiss the tzitzit’ he continued in a tone which I told myself was full of fervor.

I did.

‘Now here’ he pointed again to what I assumed was the end of the portion. I made a mental note that he did not say ‘here where it says’, he did not expect me to try to read.< /p>

I did.

‘Now kiss the tzitzit’. I made another mental note that he did not use the word ‘again’, this was not repetition; each step of the ritual was unique.

‘Barechu’ I began

‘Baruch Adonai’ the congregation answered

‘Baruch Ata Adonai’

 

He then read the Torah, not for one minute assuming that I could have read it myself. We repeated the tzitzit touch-and-kiss, again the Rabbi avoided saying ‘again’, and showed me back to the Sidur for the blessings when the kissing was done. ‘Stand here’ he instructed when I was done reading the closing blessings, positioning me at the right corner of the podium. He scouted the room for the next ‘Koreh’ (reader). His eyes locked with Motti’s.

 

‘Ya-alleh’

‘Morde chai’ Standing before god, Motti reverted to his god given name.

‘Mordechai Ben”Nahum ve’

‘Mordehai Ben Nahum – Shenni’, the Rabbi cut Motti off.

 

Motti received the same instructions what to touch and when to kiss, making me feel better about myself. As the Rabbi read for Motti my ego rose even higher, only to crash in shame when I remembered that this was not all about me, we were all preparing for the seventh Aliyah – Tintin in front of God, or in front of himself. I looked at Tintin who was staring at a point right in front of him, more or less at Motti’s rear end. I looked at Osmo, he smiled, I winked, Motti continued to read while Tintin continued to stare at his read end not seeing it. Motti complete his part, we shook hands as he took my place at the right of the podium, and I went back to my seat. Haim was summoned third.

Daniel was quite surprised when he was inv ited to read ‘fourth’. He gave the Rabbi a ‘what the hell’ glare, stared at me, saw my ‘you gotta take one for the team’ look and rose from his chair assuming the big brother role with honors. As he pulled his Talit closer over his shoulders, I could read his mind. He was quickly reciting the verses he had heard in the house so many times over the past few days, polishing his own Bar Mitzvah memories. He read very nicely, with the Rabbi standing guard ready to help him along should an unfamiliar word and a memory blank meet. Osmo did not need any help. He read the blessings, touched, kissed, replaced Haim and waited for the next ‘Koreh’ (reader) to be called.

‘Ya-alleh’ As the Rabbi turned to scan the congregation, pulling his Talit back from his head, I finally understood his pattern, too late to do anything about it. He was calling upon those in the room whom he did not know, triaging the flock, discerning between those who could still be save d and those that were too far gone. His eyes fell on Hanan. God alone would not have called on Hanan to stand before him, but with the Rabbi at his side, God was willing to give it one more shot. Hanan stepped up to the plate without a Talit, hands in his pockets, signifying defiance with every step. The Rabbi thought nothing of it, a quick flick of a hidden finger and some loyal follower quickly shed his own and wrapped Hanan in the prayer shawl. Touch-kiss-read that’s all there is to it, but there is always one more bug It doesn’t say where to stop and Hanan went right on to the closing blessing not stopping for anyone to read the Torah. To a bystander this kind of reading could have been received as a mix of piety and ignorance. Knowing Hanan, piety had nothing to do with it. The Rabbi let the benefit of the doubt win over the embarrassment and intervened to calm the fervor of the runaway payer. He was more specific when it came to the closing: ‘read from here to here’ he said pointing to the closing blessings in the Sidur. Now that I understood the pattern it was obvious that Gadi would be called next.

‘Ya-alleh’ the Rabbi did very little scanning, he had memorized the faces and focused on Gadi as he clung to Hanan who tried to bail to his seat, rather than remain at the side of the podium.

‘Gadi”Ben’

‘Ben-Zion’ this was a tricky one

‘Ben Ben-Zion’ I made one more mental note congratulating the Rabbi for his correct management of ‘double Ben’.

Humi sauntered in when Gadi was done. Humi was still wearing his traveling pouch to indicate that he had come directly from the airport. His timing was too perfect to fool anyone. Seeing how pale Hanan was he broke into a broad smile and took a seat in the front row as if to say: ‘I would have loved to be called up, but I just arrived from Israel thirty minutes ago’&n bsp;

Then it was Tintin’s turn. He rose tense and miserable. His hand trembled when he held the Tzitzit to the scroll; I wondered how much visible trembling bothered him. It runs down the father side of the family, Suma and Tintin got stage-fright induced hand-trembling from me. We can play our stage parts perfectly, but it takes a few minutes for the trembling to stop. Tintin sang with a strong steady voice, a higher pitch the only vocal indication of his tension. To the rest of the world this seemed to be his regular singing voice, common to nervous Bar Mitzvah boys whose voices have not yet changed. If not for the carpet, you could hear a pin drop. Congregations are silent when a boy sings his portion, cheering him on with their silence. We all reflect on our own anxieties when we read our Torah portions, the older ones forty years ago, the younger ones forty days ago. As the ‘maftir’ went on the hand holding the ‘Etzbah’ became steady, the knee stopped moving as he read the blessings after the ‘maftir’. Half way into the Haftara his voice settled to its normal pitch. I read ahead, searching for potential pitfalls, and reading back to where Tintin was reading. I counted the verses that still lay ahead, the lines, the words, realizing that I wanted this to be over for Tintin’s sake, feeling remorse that this was all I wanted. ‘Ben Adam ha-atzamot ha-eleh kol beit Yisrael hemah’ Ezekiel’s prophesy of the resurrection of the dry bones, a prayer of hope for a better future, a belief that there is a future, and my only concern was to put it in the past. I snapped out of my guilt trip to scout the text ahead. Five more verses: ‘Here comes a munach revi-ih’ I worried, I didn’t like the way the Rabbi taught him to sing the ‘munach revi-ih’. Tintin read past it without a hitch, his tone rising and falling perfectly. ‘What an ear’ I thought, thanking Ima for the kids’ musical education. I read on to wait by the ‘sof pasuk’. ‘ el admat Yisrael.’ Two more verses, any hard words, any ‘mapik ba-hei’, which robs you of your breath just when you need it to finish off a verse? No mapik, no double ‘yod’ god name traps, just a few ‘pashta’s’ which Tintin had no problem with. ‘We should be ok.’ ‘dibarti ve-asiti neum adonai’. Tintin cinched it and without much ado went on to read the blessings that follow the haftarah. ‘Baruch asher bahar binvi-im tovim’ Tintin was calm you could hear it in his voice. ‘Zur kol haolamin’ I had to stop and wonder about the repetitive content. ‘Rahem’ Can we really be expected to recite this every day? ‘Samhenu’ Do we need a king? Isn’t it time we gave the prayer book a little overhaul? ‘Al hatorah mekadesh hashabat ‘ and it was over.

‘You’re hired’ the Rabbi congratulated Tintin smiling. Tintin stood under a shower of candy.  I recited ‘Baruch sh-ptaranu’. The Rabbi opened his ‘drashah’ by blessing us and thanking us: ‘When the Porat family came to me forty five days ago…’ You see in America you begin preparing for a Bar-Mitzvah a year in advance if your average, six months in advance if you are sworn optimist, three months is advance reckless forty five days is considered impossible. ‘…But I am a man of faith’, the Rabbi continued ‘and Amitai came through beautifully’. ‘Yes, Rabbi’ I though to myself, all it takes is a mother with the talent, patience and strength to cuddle, cajole, reward and reprimand her cantankerous offspring. All it takes is a mother who understands her child’s fears and aspirations, who will not let him give up on himself, who will help him bring out his best no matter how hard he tries to wiggle off the hook. A mother with unsurpassed teaching skills, knowing that she has to push and keep pushing hard so that the child learns that he can live up to the challenge. There were so many times that I wanted to step in and give him a break. I can only be thankful that I didn’t. It would have sent the wrong message, making the task at hand appear daunting. ‘It’s all in his head’ Ima would have said. I could only marvel at the simplicity of the conviction.

We had kidush, the girls stayed to clean the bluish-green carpet while Ima rushed home to prepare for the main reception. I followed with Tintin and friends in the other car. I contemplated the Rabbi’s closing words: ‘at times this ceremony is both the grand opening and the going out of business sale of a child’s brush with his Jewish tradition’.

Time will tell.

Hey Dude

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Hey Dude,
We’re kinda sad,
We thought you’d always
Stay seven years old
But even when all is said and done
You will still be our little one.

Hey Bro,
We hope you know
That we’ll always
Stay by your side
The day before your homework is due
We will be there,to do it for you

And even if we make a scene
Don’t bust a spleen
Hey Dude, it’s just love
Please show affection.
And though we know that we are crude
And mean, and rude,
It’s all for your good
Trust us we’re older

Hey Flink,
You know we think,
There is no one
Quite like you in this world.
You’re funny, and charming, and hip
But sometimes you really should get a grip.

And anytime you feel some strain
Don’t try cocaine.
Just stick to your sports
You are our champion.
Some more advice from us to you
Hey Dude, stay true
Stay caring and kind
Don’t pass the ball too much.

Hey Dude,
Let’s wrap this up,
We’d like to wish you
A Happy Birthday
Remember that we will keep having fun
Cause you’ll always be our little one.

כנגד בן רביעי דברה תורה
אחד חכם
ואחד רגיש
ואחד שעושה עצמו תם
ואחד שיודע לדרוש

עוד מינקות כשהיית יוצא לקניות,
ודורש מאמא ממתקים ושטויות.
כשנוכחת שהיא נחושה לסרב,
ביקשת “אז קני לי דבר שאינני אוהב”
כמו כל בן-זקונים החי חיי מותרות
המודע שלאחיו אין כאלה זכויות
ברשותך, אנחנו רשאים כל יום לבלות
אבל רק כמה דקות. quali ביחד ב-

זו לצד זו שוכבות בסל התכונות
דקות הבחנה, מקוריות, ובגרות,
אינטיליגנציה רגשית, נחישות וזריזות
ומה לעשות, קצת “פיין-שמקריות”.
תפוח תאכל רק אם הוא חתוך,
בשנתך תתכסה רק בשמיכת פוך
נעליך עולות סכומי עתק,
תסלח לנו טיןטין אתה מפונק!

פורט על גיטרה, מנגן על פסנתר
למד קרן-יער, .
זנח את התופים לטובת סקסופון
כנראה שרצה למנוע אסון.
מתאמן שעות על מגרשי משחקים
בשארית כוחותיו קורא בספרים.
מה הפלא שצריך לעשות בשבילך שיעורים…

אך עם כל זאת, אין ברירה אלא להתמודד
seniority ו-shit cycle עם חוקי ה-
שלא תתישב באוטו מקדימה בשוגג.
קצת לא נעים על שעלייך היינו עובדים
ואתה ילד טוב, ולאחים גדולים מאמינים.
זה לא טעים, מצטערים. Wassabe כפית של
מה שאתה מוכן לעשות בדולר זה פשוט מזהים.
ובנסיעות ארוכות לא משתעממים
כי תמיד לך אנחנו מציקים.

אם ננסה למצוא מסעדה בה תאכל
תהיה ברירת המחדל.Tony Romas

אתה יכול להרגע, “לשיר” סיימנו,
אך את מילות הברכה, רק התחלנו…
קצת קשה לנו לעכל
שאחינו הקטן מצוות מקבל.

We have so many things that we still want to say
That go on and on, and we can’t sing all day.
So instead, we will do our best to speak from our heart,
But who the hell even knows, where to begin? Where to start??

Though you are the youngest, from you we have much to learn,
You have excellent taste, for which we all yearn.
And by excellent taste, we mean anything expensive
For the “פיין-שמקר” you are finds cheap things offensive.

At Payless, for instance, where our shoes we go buy
You spit in disgust, glance away and then sigh.
Perhaps in Nordstrom, you’ll find something nice?
Though something from a catalogue online would suffice.

We should learn from you that presents should be hoarded
No holiday or birthday, goes by unrecorded
Come summer vacation, when Ima thinks she’s in the clear,
You come with demands, which you’ve “saved up” all year.
Only you have the will power, to delay your pleasure,
Knowing that if you wait a bit longer, you’ll double your treasure

Can you also please teach us to play all your tunes?
Guitar, french horn, and piano on late afternoons.
We’ll save the mornings for the sax and the flute,
For practicing three hours you deserve a salute!

And how do you get Osmo to forgive you, after you guzzle his drinks?
You drink all your Gatorade, and then gulp down his when he blinks.
Let us know how a strawberry dipped in wassabe you managed to eat,
For the single dollar we offered? I’d say it was an impossible feat.
A cruel combination, but a true story still,
We’re sorry you ate it, and became quite ill.

So we ruined sushi for you, but beef you still like,
Tony Roma’s, you want? Or a hunger strike?
You’re going to need a much stronger case
That includes something other than sauce on your face
Even now, after you’ve been “Tony Roma’s” deprived
It seems that somehow you actually survived!

Please teach us your ways, of how you always win,
Even when Ima is fuming, you can get her to grin.
How? We all ask… a minute ago she could kill…
It’s a wonder how charm and humor become a life skill.

I suppose that your humor is an unteachable trait
So we’ll leave the jokes to you; you were the funny one since you were eight!
Your wisdom is also a quality that is rare,
You know when to glance, when to look, when to stare.
You know whose buttons need not be pressed
And when to back off, when your siblings are stressed

We rapidly adopted “qualie”- your greatest invention
It’s brilliance is completely beyond comprehension
The best way, by far, to discuss what went on in our day,
It is our time to catch up, to laugh, and to play.
Though you’re always in the middle, and this you’ll deny
But since you’re the creator, you can have it, no lie.

Unfortunately you’re stuck with three siblings that are older,
In order to sit shotgun, you’ll have to be bolder.
The law of seniority is one set in stone,
And knowing us, we probably won’t throw you a bone.
But we aren’t too worried, knowing how stubborn you are,
If you set your mind to something, we know you’ll go far
(even, in time, sitting in the front seat of a car)

Tin Tin you know, you’ll always be seven to us,
Even on your bar mitzvah, we’ll make the same fuss.
We will try our best, and try to learn how you do what you do,
We probably wont succeed, but in any case, just know we love you.

So Many Things

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We have so many things that we still want to say

Those go on and go on, and we can’t sing all day.

So instead, we will do our best to speak from our heart,

But who the hell knows where to begin? Where to start?

Though you are the youngest, from you we have much to learn,

You have excellent taste, for which we all yearn.

And by excellent taste, we mean anything expensive

For the a ‘fine-shmeker’ you are finds cheap things
offensive.

At Payless, for instance, where our shoes we go buy

You spit in disgust, glance away and then sigh.

Perhaps in Nordstrom, you’ll find something nice?

Though something from a catalogue online would suffice.

We should learn from you that presents should be hoarded

No holiday or birthday, goes by unrecorded

Come summer vacation, when Ima thinks she’s in the clear,

You come with demands, which you’ve saved up all year.

Only you have the will power, to delay your pleasure,

Knowing that if you wait a bit longer, you’ll double your treasure

Can you also please teach us to play all your tunes?

Guitar, french horn, and piano on late afternoons.

We’ll save the mornings for the sax and the flute,

For practicing three hours you deserve a salute!

And how do you get Osmo to forgive you, after you guzzle his drinks?

You drink all your Gatorade and then gulp down his when he blinks.

Let us know how a strawberry dipped in <i>wassabe</i> you managed to eat,

For the single dollar we offered – I’d say it was an impossible feat.

A cruel combination, but a true story still,

We’re sorry you ate it, and became quite ill.

So we ruined sushi for you, but beef you still like,

Tony Roma’s, you want? Or a hunger strike?

You’re going to need a much stronger case

That includes something other than sauce on your face

Even now, after you’ve been Tony Roma’s deprived

It seems that somehow you actually survived!

Please teach us your ways, of how you always win,

Even when Ima is fuming, you can get her to grin.

How? We all ask, a minute ago she could kill…

It’s a wonder how charm becomes a lifesaving skill.

I suppose that your humor is an unteachable trait

So we’ll leave the jokes to you; you were the funny one since you were eight!

Your wisdom is also a quality that is rare,

You know when to glance, when to look, when to stare.

You know whose buttons need not be pressed

And when to back off, when your siblings are stressed

We rapidly adopted ‘qualie’- your greatest invention

It’s brilliance is completely beyond comprehension

The best way, by far, to discuss what went on in our day,

It is our time to catch up, to laugh, and to play.

Though you’re always in the middle, and this you’ll deny

But since you’re the creator, you can have it, no lie.

Unfortunately you’re stuck with three siblings that are older,

In order to sit shotgun, you’ll have to be bolder.

The law of seniority is one set in stone,

And knowing us, we probably won’t throw you a bone.

But we aren’t too worried, knowing how stubborn you are,

If you set your mind to something, we know you’ll go far

(even, in time, sitting in the front seat of a car)

Tin Tin you know, you’ll always be seven to us,

Even on your bar mitzvah, we’ll make the same fuss.

We will try our best, and try to learn how you do what you do,

We probably wont succeed, but in any case, just know we love you.

Cross Cultural Dog Sitting

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Now that Suma is deep into mechanics and Yeela is into forms of government and how they came to be, it is for me to bring us all back to earth and talk about the ‘yom-yom’. I would have written sooner about the yom-yom but I had to wait for Lulu to leave. You cannot use double syllable words around Lulu because it thinks you are talking to it. All the animal knows are combinations of doubled syllables, ‘nay-nay’, ‘treat-treat’, ‘chi-chi’, ‘yum-yum’, ‘go-go’, ‘pu-pu’ and etc, etc. Normally who would have given such an anecdote a second thought, but its not taking things for granted that makes us better people. Why not ponder the reason behind the fact that every word is doubled when Chinese speak English to Irish poodles? Not wanting to take this for granted I thought about it and came up with a plausible explanation – bear with me.

When the Huang family first got custody of the dog they named it ‘Lu’ which is a nice short Chinese name. All Chinese names are short and for a reason. If neither Sabba Amatzia nor Michal nor I have not told you the story behind the reason then I will tell it to you now. If you have heard it skip a page.

Many years ago the Chinese people had no checks and balances regarding the length of the names they used. Consequently it just so happened that in a small fishing village along the banks of the mighty Yang-Ze river lived a boy whose name was: Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad. One day Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad and his friends went down to the river to play. As they were playing Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad walked into the water and was swept by a wave. Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad Called for help . Not everyone noticed that Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad

‘Who is calling?’ asked one of the boys. ‘Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘ answered another. ‘Can’t Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad swim?’, asked a third. None of Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad could swim well enough to help Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad. We should run to the village and tell the Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘s parents that Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad is in trouble’.

So they ran back to the village calling out for Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘s mother. At first no one could not hear them over the cackling of the chickens and the squealing of the pigs, but as they got closer to the out-skirts of the village where Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad lived, people heard their screams and came out to see what was wrong. ‘What is the matter children?’ asked a passerby. We are looking for Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘s house they shouted. ‘Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad lives down the street’, answered the man. So off they ran to Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘s house. When they got there they all chanted as one ‘Mrs. Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘, ‘Mrs Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad, please come out’.

When Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘s mother came out the boys quickly told her that Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad was in trouble. Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘s mother quickly summoned Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘s father who together with Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘s mother ran back down to the river where the children has said that Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad was struggling in the water. By the time Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad‘s parents got there Uzu-Ruzu-Kuku-Ruzu-Yenta-Bela-La-Ma-Ne-Te-La-Va-Le-Ya-Na-De-Vo-Ne-Do-Za-Mini-Grad drowned.

Sensing that time was of the essence in this case, and seeing how a tragedy could have been avoided has the story fit into a short paragraph, the Chinese reverted to short names like ‘Ho’ ,’Chi’ and ‘Ming’.

Five thousand years later here was the Huang family with a dog they happily named ‘Lu’. To their dismay they found out shortly thereafter that that ‘lu’ means ‘toilet’ in the dog’s mother tongue. Imagine their plight. On one hand they did not have a lot of leeway to stretch the name. On the other hand they could not leave the name as is and have the dog find out what it meant when it grew up. Walking a fine line between the cultures they came up with the idea of doubling the name. Not too long, and nobody in their right mind would think of translating it to ‘toilet-toilet’. Just to be on the safe side and assure that the dog would not one day become suspicious they double everything they say to it.

Which brings me back to the point I was trying to make about discussing the ‘yom-yom’ in front of ‘Lu-lu’. The dog is a nervous wreck as it is. I don’t know if you noticed that the dog has a rag doll that squeaks when bitten. Lulu thinks the doll is bubble gum and chews on it to calm itself because the squeaking is very aggravating. The closest I could come to a double-sounding short sentence that the dog could understand was ‘Lulu’, to which it would look at me with its watery brown eyes that have no eyeballs, ‘GFUCK-ADUCK’ to which it would cower for a moment and resume it chewing all the more nervously. Heaven knows if ‘yom-yom’ means anything in the dog’s doubled language, so I chose to wait.

All this drama to get to the yom-yom, when the yom-yom is mundane otherwise it would not be called yon-yom, but I’ll try to focus on the more exciting events. For example I finished reading Hemingway’s the ‘Sun also Rises’ which should have been called ‘This Book also Ends’. Of course it would not be prudent not to praise Hemingway’s writing and his ability to vividly portray a group of the careless, unattached, spur-of-the-moment life style of a group of Americans in post WWI Paris and small towns in Spain. A portrayal which is achieved through brilliantly simple dramatization that puts the reader in the cafes of Paris, streams in the Pyrenees mountains and bull-runs in the small towns of Western Spain. Indeed a great example in story telling and character building – but its the reader’s character that is being built most of all as you struggle through yet another page of agonized undecided love washed down by another casual glass of bourbon. Encouraged by my achievement, I started reading ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’. The opening was familiar. The setting is very similar to Alistair McLean’s ‘Force Ten from Navarone’ (the sequel to ‘The Guns of Navarone’). The task is to blow up a bridge which spans a deep gorge in a mountainous area behind enemy lines. The wars are different but have been raging for quite some time and in both cases its the underdogs that needs to destroy the bridges. The difference is that Hemingway writes about real people and what war does to them. MacLean writes about war with stereotyped heroes and villains playing out their expected roles. We’ll see if I am mature enough to handle the difference in perspective. On a side not the Hebrew translation is called ‘For Whom the Bells Toll’ so as to avoid confusion with the door bell, and have every husband avoid reading the book saying ‘it’s for you dear’.

Osmo had a brief bout with literature which ended on the dark side of the moon. Osmo read ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’ and wrote a book report about role models and inspiration – a topic which I assume was dictated by the teacher. Freshman year book reports are graded on mass as well as content. Sufficient mass assures some content so in order to beef up his paragraphs Osmo borrowed quotes from his learned literary critique ‘Reedy’ – who goes by a first name only like ‘Madonna’ and ‘Oprah’. Reedy who is of Asian-Latino origin, was randomly raised in Singapore which is an ideal place to hear about European culture and history. When he moved to the United States with his mother, Reedy literary criticism became known thanks to the fact that he lived right around the corner. The scholar that he is, Reedy reviewed Osmo’s work and generously gave it a final touch by adding a conclusion that Hitler was a good example of an inspirational leader – period. After all, if Mel Brooks could propose ‘Spring Time for Hitler’ why can’t Reedy propose ‘Hitler for Inspiration’?

Personally I would have had more respect for Reedy’s work had he not terminated his closing statement with such a shallow conclusion, and had added that this inspiration, which he held in such regard, was one of History’s most brutal examples of influence towards racial hatred, taking intolerance and prejudice to unprecedented extremes which resulted in cataclysmic destruction and loss of life. It would have been nice if Osmo had connected the dots and shown that it is Atticus Finch (that’s where Gregory Peck comes in) through his courage, stands up to such injustices and through his actions inspires us all to recognize once again the fundamental principles of equality and justice which are the cornerstone of any moral society. Principles which millions died to defend against Hitler’s ‘inspiration’. To make a long book report short – Ima blew a gasket, Osmo removed the jewel-statement from the crown, Reedy moved on to work on Mao, and the dots remained unconnected. Perhaps this writing gives us some closure, given that Osmo has time to read it.

To be fair to Osmo I have to say that he was struggling to draw the right balance between English literature where he was on the cusp of intellectual achievements compared to his friends, and ‘World of War Craft’ where he was lagging far behind them. In fact he was lagging father than I had dared to imagine, but I’ll get to that. WoWC is a computer game. Need I say more? Not really, except for explaining why Osmo was lagging behind the pack. Approximately two weeks ago Osmo approached me: ‘Bushy, Casey just got this top of the line computer’. Knowing that Casey did not need a top of the line computer to calculate the speed of expansion of Super Novas I was inquisitive: ‘What will he do with this top-of-the-line computer of his?’. ‘There is this new cool computer game which you play over the Internet’… The picture was crystal clear. There was a new social habit which mutated from the computer saloons that flourished a few years ago and used to lure the boys likes flies to cow dung with a similar social effect. Thankfully for technology, the saloons have pretty much varnished when Internet bandwidth increased and prices of home computer power dropped below the four digit mark. Nowadays you are able to have your own personal high end play station within the convenience of your home- you meaning all but Osmo. Osmo helped me along with my thinking: ‘Brandon’s dad built Casey’s computer from top-of-the-line parts for a thousand dollars’. I responded with a resounding ‘Hmmm’. Osmo knew that you don’t just hmm things away – I owed him a course of action, and continued to lay the ground for a fruitful discussion: ‘Casey’s computer has one gigabyte of RAM’. To which I proposed that we would add more memory to his computer. Knowing the future tense meant anywhere between here and eternity, Osmo needed something more tangible on the table: ‘Can we go and buy the game so we can try it?’. This was a low risk gamble on his part. Having the game would be a small investment which he might have to pay from with his own money, but it would assure the future of his computer. This is a principle he learned from Ima known by the general term ‘Hahanah Le-Video’ from the days when video cassette players were the luxury high tech gadget of the house. At that time buying a video cassette player was a major investment, which many would payoff over the course of a year or two in monthly installments. It was a big deal, however buying a few cassettes to show your friends you were serious about the device was quite affordable, and provided for some social headroom while postponing the financial burden by a few weeks. Its been years since people with any dignity have done anything with video cassettes but the term stuck. Nowadays its DVDs that are the real thing. Based on the same principle you first buy or rent a movie on a DVD for ten dollars, then in order to make good on your investment you buy the DVD player. Osmo was applying the logic to computer games and computers. I liked the way he optimistically played the numbers regardless of his benevolence towards our spending on his behalf. To put myself on the side of responsibility I calculated that a price tag under four hundred dollars was something to hope for. Not that is was negligible but if all his friends had computers that could play the game, and his not having one put Hitler on the role model list, then it was worth the cost. Needless to say that we got the game without Osmo spending a dime. Needless to say that it did not run on his computer, that I tried to tinker with the computer myself, and that six hours later I had a computer which would not even boot.

I took the comatose machine to ‘Compurun Systems’ on El-Camino which was right around the corner as the car drives. It was the Friday before New Years eve and I wanted to fix the machine in the same year that it was broken. The owner greeted me with an accent that comes from beyond Israel’s eastern boarders – probably Iranian. ‘We charrrge seventy five dollarrrs which arrre un-rrrefundable to assess the prrroblem’ he explained. I was familiar with this logic and decided to bite the bullet – given the understanding that the machine would be ready the next day. Wishful thinking. On Monday, a day into the new year, I came into the shop to inquire about the machine only to hear the owner’s future plans for the machine: ‘I will have to rrreinstall the operrrating system and install 512 MB of RRRAM’. When I mentioned that he was two days late and he still hadn’t done anything with the machine he burst out: ‘YESTERRRDAY WAS A HOLIDAY, EVEN TODAY STORRRES ARRRE CLOSED’. Given our ethnic backgrounds he allowed himself more than he could afford, thinking that I would be swept into his emotional tantrum and we would both be on a level playing field. Little did he know that that Ima had primed we with tools of self control second to none, by sending me to a whole day workshop at Stanford a few months earlier. The workshop was called ‘Assertiveness in Business’, a means to tame the madmen of the orient and train them in the subdued rituals of the west. The workshop focused on techniques for getting what you wanted in varying business scenarios. It was more helpful than Anger Management’s ‘gooozz-fraaava’ chant. Just like Jack Nicholson’s workshop, it was a way of selling a formalized form of the obvious over a period of time which justified the price. The point of the workshop I attended was to waste an entire weekend hearing about having to be nice, focusing on your goals, not being petty, argumentative. The lessons all proved themselves worthy as I stood facing the raging Ayatollah.

I stared at him, not batting an eye, ‘gooozz-fraaavaing’ to myself. It took all but two seconds to crush him. I could tell he knew he lost. He lowered his voice and continued as though nothing had happened. ‘You can take the computer back whenever you want, but these things take time’. I knew I would take the computer back, but not before I drove a nail through his stingy heart. ‘Can you please give me an estimate of what it would cost to fix it’, I said, mustering my wealth of natural sweetness and humility. This put him on the spot – if he refused I could dispute the money I had already paid just to get an estimate. That was not an option I was sure. If he gave me a low quote he would be trapped into working for less money than he was used to, if he gave me a high quote – that would be the amount he would have to be prepared to see fly away. He opted for third trying to sweeten the blow: ‘Two hundred and fifty dollars for the extra labor, including the seventy five you already paid.’. ‘What about the parts?’ I asked just as sweetly, prepping his hopes. His eyes became moist with the prospects of our renewed friendship, which he blew away in an instant: ‘I’ll have to call you back.’. This was one of the oldest tricks in the book, and I was not falling for it. ‘Let’s assume one hundred and fifty dollars for the parts’, I said – ‘Does that seem fair?’. He was reeling with greed and gratitude and all too quickly agreed assuring my hunch that he would have ripped me off for the parts as well. I figured he had me suckered for three hundred dollars, high enough for the fall to be painful. I pretended to think about it for ten more seconds. ‘That’s a lot of money to invest in such a machine, I’ll take it back’. He brought out the computer from the back room, placed it on the counter, showed me where to sign the paperwork – all without saying a word. I thanked him politely forcing a nod out of him and left him a little dusty man in a little dusty room (the closing sentence of ‘The Dark Crusader’ – I just had to stick it in somewhere). We never spoke again.

It took Bill, Branden’s dad, ten more excruciating days to fix the machine. It was Thursday when it was ready. We spoke on the phone, he had the machine in his hands. I paid with a credit card, believing that it worked and he delivered it to our house that evening. Osmo installed the game and yet it would not start. He summoned Casey over, but still the game would not start. Osmo woke at nine the next day and came to me. From his looks I knew the game was not working. ‘Bushy…’, ‘MAAHHHHHHHHH‘I regained control, the passing two weeks had frayed my nerves, but it was not Osmo’s fault. ‘Why don’t you call their technical support?’, I suggested, rationalizing that I was not just passing the buck, the child needed to assume responsibility where he could. Osmo came back five minutes later: ‘Its the graphic card’. I really wanted this game to work for all our sakes. It was Friday morning, a week and a half into the new year, my resolution long over due and the levels of stress rising. It was Stuff-learning-day at Homestead, so Osmo had the day off with nothing to do but fret about the machine. The weekend was in jeopardy I had to act.

‘Call Bill up and ask which card to get.’.

‘AGP with 128 Megabytes of RAM’.

‘Did he say where you can get them?’

‘Best Buy, Office Depot or Frys’…

‘Let’s go to Best Buy’ I said but Best Buy would not open until 10:00 AM.

‘Let’s go to Frys’ I said circling back in the parking lot.

Osmo felt uneasy ‘Don’t you have to be at work?’

‘It can wait’ – I genuinely wanted the game to work, there was a lot hanging in the balance.

On the way home from Frys I glanced at the instructions and confirmed my worst fears that replacing a graphic card would require mucking with the BIOS. ‘Just pull out the card and insert the new one’ I told Osmo. I dropped him off at home and continued to work. He called half and hour later. ‘The computer smelled like something was burning with the new card, so I put everything back the way it was’. ‘Call Bill and ask if he can guide you through the process’, I said with dwindling hopes. If the card was fried because it was not wired properly when installed it would be another long weekend. Thankfully the divine had concluded that we had paid our dues. Bill had a technician in the area whom he diverted to our house. That evening when I came home I went to see how Osmo was doing. He was sitting in front of his screen clicking on the keyboard with the concentration of a concert pianist. On the screen I could see something that looked like it walked off the good old Pokemon cards (remember Blastoise?). The thing was running through a turquoise-colored forest with its back turned to us. The bottom left corner of the screen showed a scroll with a message inscribed on it. All games that respected themselves used images of decaying scrolls to print the message of the day.

‘Bushy, this is awesome, I’m at level six…’

‘Is the Internet connection working OK’

‘Are you kidding me, it hella fast’

‘So everything is working’

‘This computer kicks ass!’

‘So we’re good?’

‘Peachy’

‘What is he doing?’ I asked hating myself for making a gender judgment without asking.

‘He is on a quest’ Osmo answered authoritatively.

Pokemon was not turning his head as it ran which confused me a bit. If you were on a quest wouldn’t you be looking left and right for whatever it was the quest sent you to search for? But I was too drained to ask questions. Happy that a load had been lifted from my shoulders, content that I had given the child a fighting chance, I sat down on the corner of his bed, closest to his chair, gawking at the screen, catching my breath. Fifteen minutes later we were off to see a basketball game between Stanford and their arch rivals CAL. On the way I learned more about levels and quests. I learned that Osmo was at level six, Osmo was at level six, which sounded very high to me. Perhaps I was swayed by the scale which is grade river rapids. Grade one is dead still water. Grade six is every thing that falls into that water ends up dead.

‘What level are your friends at?’

‘Sixty’

‘Sixty’ I repeated stupefied by the magnitude of the gap I had allowed between my child and others.

‘Sixty’ he assured me in a voice which was surprisingly devoid of frustration.

‘All of them at level sixty?’ I continued to press the point hoping to find stragglers.

‘All of them’

This meant that Tom and Casey and Mike and Brandon and Yoav let alone intellectuals like Doron had Osmo rolling in the dust. I swallowed hard, thankful that we had the game and it was working. How could we have possibly let the child fall so far behind?

‘What level is Reedy?’ I asked.

‘He doesn’t play’.

‘Why’

‘He thinks its a stupid game.’

I had a negative opinion of a computer game from a scholar who had a positive view of Hitler’s personality. I was all for negative opinions of computer games, but the Hitler part eroded the judgment of its credibility. Between me and myself I agreed that the game’s quality was not an issue at all. What mattered was getting Osmo back on track with his cohorts. As we drove into the campus I got more of my academic bearings together and continued to probe into the the new world that was opening to me. The fact that all his friends, regardless of their skill sets were at level sixty was perplexing.

‘Is sixty the highest level?

‘Yes’

‘So what happens after?’

‘You get to go on quests’

‘So that was not a quest we were looking at?’

‘Not exactly’

‘And these quests are what?’

‘Well, I’m not sure really but you get to play against other players’

The good news was that there was an upper limit which bound his friends and he could catch them. The bad news was that this game would most likely exhaust itself before the winter was over. I made a mental note to ask about Chess over the Internet, and found a parking spot somewhere in the middle of a dark wooded grove of the campus East drive which was packed with cars headed for the game. We left the game early so as to avoid the traffic which could have kept Osmo away from the game for another hour. Over the course of the weekend Osmo progressed from level six to level ten. All indicators are green, at least on Osmo’s front.

Tintin’s game still does not work, not even on Osmo’s machine. I won’t let that trouble me for now, we’ll learn over the course of the years whether I made the right decision.

I think Ima told you all the rest of the yom-yom details over the phone.