The Swami Speaks
On Friday, October 31st, an otherwise quiet Southwest City neighborhood will be transformed into a gauntlet of horror, a boulevard of blood eagerly awaiting troves of pint-sized treat seekers.
Over the past few years, Halloween has become quite an event in my neck of the woods. A competitive, yet friendly atmosphere prevails among a smattering of homes, neighbors bent on adding a peculiar chill to the already nippy October air.
To the North of me, on Maiden Lane, the pioneering Hughes family is the standard by which all Halloweeners in this burg are measured (Halloweneers? That just doesn't sound right, does it?). The Hughes dwelling connotes a gigantic stationary All-Hallows Eve parade float, dotted with orange lights and comical gravestones. The benevolent innkeepers of this horror hotel treat every caller as a welcomed guest and the edifice serves as a meeting point, "Spook Central", if you will, for the entire neighborhood.Just down the street a group of young upstarts are raising the stakes, converting the front of their rental into a full blown pirate ship complete with canons! Suited in full costume, these swashbuckling lads continually fire volleys at unsuspecting revelers eliciting screams and temporary deafness to all within ear shot. Following three such consecutive salvos my fearless Coonhound Mya buried herself under our bed ready to abandon ship!Not to be outdone by these Depp impersonating delinquents, I began to hatch my own Halloween strategy designed to attract hordes of street roaming kiddies and thus ridding myself and my family of the bagged sweets which financed our dentist's Lexus.As darkness descended on the final day of October I began to launch my plan. This year I would pose as "Swami Jon" the all-knowing, crystal ball gazing mystic and sultan of sweet treats. My crystal ball was an inverted fish bowl, my turban fashioned out of aluminum foil and a wool cap. I thought my head-gear looked great until a young visitor remarked that it looked like I was making Jiffy-Pop on my head. Nevertheless, I was ready. Soon the roving youths would arrive.Prior to forking over the candy, I would stop each trick-or-treater and proclaim "The bubble-gum is yours Sahib, but first I must read your fortune." Gazing wide-eyed into the ball, I would try to make a prediction related to their costume. To a tiny girl dressed as Snow White I offered the prophetic words "you will meet six... no SEVEN dwarfs in the forest." She stared blankly as if to say "Grow-up mister," grabbed a Hershey's Crunch Bar and left. I did get a laugh from a kid dressed as Darth Vader when I correctly predicted that he would be killed by his son in the third movie. The right kind of audience is critical for these kinds of things.One future attorney (skeptical of my powers) asked for my credentials, postulating that I was not a true seer. I assured him that I was quite genuine and that the famous dish "Veal Swami Jon" had been named after me by a thankful client. Not a moan, laugh or giggle from this tike, prompting me to tap on my magic crystal and inquire "Is this thing on?"
Overall, I was pretty much a flop as a swami. My Jiffy-Pop crown just didn't cut it. Towards the end of the night a child dressed as the Grim Reaper darkened by door. Upon greeting this vision, I slowly rose, abdicated my post and sighed "I knew I would be seeing you sooner or later Sir, I am ready to go right now."Thanksgiving is coming up. What do you think about a twenty-foot remote controlled turkey that flies around the vicinity dropping stuffing bombs in it's wake? All I need is some foil and four D batteries to get me started.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Tales from the Temple
At month's end Jewish people all over the world will celebrate the beginning of a new year, the year 5769. A friend recently asked me, "Why is the Jewish calendar so different from the regular calendar?" At first I thought about offering a "home-made" explanation equating the Jewish calendar to that of the Chinese, heralding 5769 as the "Year of the Gefilte Fish", but it seemed like too much work.
Surely a Hebrew School lifer (such as me) could provide a simple explanation regarding the origins of the time measurement as concocted by my ancestors?
Frankly, I have very little to show for my six grueling years of religious study. Mentally absent during class, I could speak and read the chosen language with the proficiency of your average Eskimo. After six years you would think that something would soak in, yet, I remain hebreacally illiterate to this day.
Attending temple as a child was a yawn-inducing siege with no outlet to vent. Hours passed, fathers dozed, and children, stricken down by boredom, would lay prostrate on the carpet, overcome by the monotony. To re-create this scene with your own kids, simply drag your child to the wallpaper store for a few hours, then, whisk them off to an opera and observe the desired effect some time between the first act and intermission.
When the High Holidays neared, our temple would mail out what amounted to a sales piece offering tickets for the big events. Funds were raised for building improvements and other synagogue matters through the sale of these tickets. Dutifully, my parents supported the cause and purchased tickets for the entire family. During a particularly lean financial year for the Kaufman family, my Dad had to scale back on the ticket order, cutting our ticket inventory in half. Somewhat embarrassed by the situation, Pop enlisted my help in a scheme he had devised so every family member could attend.
When we arrived at the temple, Pop sent me into the building first, pushing a ticket into my left hand. Once inside I would race immediately to the coat room and rendezvous with him as he waited outside of the back window. Entering the building I double-timed it to the coat room window where Pop awaited. Checking over my shoulder for witnesses, I passed my ticket back to Pop, then ran back to the entrance, greeted one of my sisters, grabbed her ticket and headed back to the window where Pop would, again, re-circulate the entry pass to another family member. Although I felt like I was short-changing God in some way, I understood that it was the only way we could attend as a family.
Little by little we inched into the synagogue, my sisters and Mom unaware of the covert manner in which we entered. It wasn't until we all sat down that I realized that I hadn't taken the last ticket to the coat room and that my Dad was still waiting outside. The service was about to begin as I slipped through the congregation and headed for the coat room. Remembering that the coat room door was locked during the observance period, I quickly returned to the sanctuary only to find the doors closed, barring me from entrance.
Sweating and gasping for air, I made my way to the main entrance where I found my dad trying to negotiate his way passage into the edifice, even promising the unflappable doorman that he wouldn't pray if he gained entrance. Unable to reach a settlement with the unyielding door-keep, Pop sat down on the temple stairs and waited. Closed out as well, I joined my partner-in-crime on the stoop missing most of the holiday ceremonies.
The following year we were able to purchase tickets for everyone and my dad made sure to include some extra funds in the envelope, an offering meant to square himself with God, I suspect. During my two hour wait with Pops on the stairs of the synagogue I learned that skirting the system never seems to turn out like you planned and that temple can be quite exciting, (rarely, alright almost never, but sometimes). To all I wish you a happy and prosperous 5769 and serve this reminder that now id the perfect time to start planning your big 5770 "Year of the Matzo Ball" extravaganza!
At month's end Jewish people all over the world will celebrate the beginning of a new year, the year 5769. A friend recently asked me, "Why is the Jewish calendar so different from the regular calendar?" At first I thought about offering a "home-made" explanation equating the Jewish calendar to that of the Chinese, heralding 5769 as the "Year of the Gefilte Fish", but it seemed like too much work.
Surely a Hebrew School lifer (such as me) could provide a simple explanation regarding the origins of the time measurement as concocted by my ancestors?
Frankly, I have very little to show for my six grueling years of religious study. Mentally absent during class, I could speak and read the chosen language with the proficiency of your average Eskimo. After six years you would think that something would soak in, yet, I remain hebreacally illiterate to this day.
Attending temple as a child was a yawn-inducing siege with no outlet to vent. Hours passed, fathers dozed, and children, stricken down by boredom, would lay prostrate on the carpet, overcome by the monotony. To re-create this scene with your own kids, simply drag your child to the wallpaper store for a few hours, then, whisk them off to an opera and observe the desired effect some time between the first act and intermission.
When the High Holidays neared, our temple would mail out what amounted to a sales piece offering tickets for the big events. Funds were raised for building improvements and other synagogue matters through the sale of these tickets. Dutifully, my parents supported the cause and purchased tickets for the entire family. During a particularly lean financial year for the Kaufman family, my Dad had to scale back on the ticket order, cutting our ticket inventory in half. Somewhat embarrassed by the situation, Pop enlisted my help in a scheme he had devised so every family member could attend.
When we arrived at the temple, Pop sent me into the building first, pushing a ticket into my left hand. Once inside I would race immediately to the coat room and rendezvous with him as he waited outside of the back window. Entering the building I double-timed it to the coat room window where Pop awaited. Checking over my shoulder for witnesses, I passed my ticket back to Pop, then ran back to the entrance, greeted one of my sisters, grabbed her ticket and headed back to the window where Pop would, again, re-circulate the entry pass to another family member. Although I felt like I was short-changing God in some way, I understood that it was the only way we could attend as a family.
Little by little we inched into the synagogue, my sisters and Mom unaware of the covert manner in which we entered. It wasn't until we all sat down that I realized that I hadn't taken the last ticket to the coat room and that my Dad was still waiting outside. The service was about to begin as I slipped through the congregation and headed for the coat room. Remembering that the coat room door was locked during the observance period, I quickly returned to the sanctuary only to find the doors closed, barring me from entrance.
Sweating and gasping for air, I made my way to the main entrance where I found my dad trying to negotiate his way passage into the edifice, even promising the unflappable doorman that he wouldn't pray if he gained entrance. Unable to reach a settlement with the unyielding door-keep, Pop sat down on the temple stairs and waited. Closed out as well, I joined my partner-in-crime on the stoop missing most of the holiday ceremonies.
The following year we were able to purchase tickets for everyone and my dad made sure to include some extra funds in the envelope, an offering meant to square himself with God, I suspect. During my two hour wait with Pops on the stairs of the synagogue I learned that skirting the system never seems to turn out like you planned and that temple can be quite exciting, (rarely, alright almost never, but sometimes). To all I wish you a happy and prosperous 5769 and serve this reminder that now id the perfect time to start planning your big 5770 "Year of the Matzo Ball" extravaganza!
Monday, September 08, 2008
Born Looking Old
The Summer Olympics are over. Michael Phelps is back on dry land and several "sixteen year-old" child gymnasts are proudly displaying their medals in a Beijing fifth grade show-and-tell session.
The Chinese women's gymnastics team was truly spectacular whatever age they claimed during the games. Why should gymnastics have an age limit anyway? The controversy sparked a rare competitive instance where participants were suspected to be too young. Normally such disputes involve a bearded Little Leaguer mowing down frightened batters who, unlike their opponent, did not drive themselves to the ballpark.
I was born looking old. Nearly fifty, I can honestly say that I was asked for age verifying identification only once in my life.
Annually the neighborhood known as "Little Italy" situated in the lower east side of Manhattan stages the San Genarro Festival, a fund raising street carnival which attracts of thousands of people daily. In 1980 I attended the gala with Roni, a young lady who I had just started dating. We strolled along the carnival booths, snacking on Neapolitan delicacies until we reached an odd looking man standing on the corner of Mulberry and Grand Streets. The gentleman was guessing people's weights, ages and birthdays with remarkable accuracy. Surrounded by an enormous crowd, the man amazed the group with his skills, never presenting a single customer with any of the trinkets meant for someone who could stump him. Not one teddy bear or slide-whistle left that booth, at least until I came along.
Chided by my charming companion, I stepped before this would be psychic, paid my dollar and dared him to guess my age. Placing his hand on his chin, the man looked me up and down for a little over a minute, scribbling something on his pad only to cross it out again. The crowd was getting restless. Finally, the man was ready. His clasped hands tossed high into the air, the would-be prophet boldly announced "this gentleman is 29 years old and was born in late April"! The crowd stood silent awaiting my authentification.
Everyone was starring at me including Roni, shocked that she might me dating an "old man." I approached the man and assured him that I was but twenty-one years old and was born in mid-December. Roni looked relieved and a somewhat angry horde vehemently demanded my birth-date credentials. Producing my wallet for the mob to clearly see, I handed my driver's license to the fallen prophet who sought to substantiate my claim. Upon studying my permit briefly, the stunned seer drew close to me and whispered something under his breath. "You need to lay off whatever you've been smoking pal, you look awful," murmured the distraught diviner before begrudgingly handing me my well earned prize. The mob dispersed with a sigh of defeat as we began to walk away with a small teddy bear which I had presented to Roni.
Unwilling to relinquish his title as "Mystic of Mulberry Street" just yet, my former opponent stopped Roni and I offered us a double-or-nothing proposition. He would guess Roni's age within two months of her birth date against a four foot high stuffed replica of "Scooby-Doo" which had probably been sitting in his booth since the early seventies. Bereft of any vanity, the intrepid Roni accepted the challenge and the crowd quickly reassembled.
It took seconds for the leaky clairvoyant to pronounce her twenty-years old and three months. The crowd grew silent as I broad smile lit Roni's face. "Mister, you are way off she announced proudly, I'm only sixteen!" Honestly, I had no idea! Instantly, sweat covered my body like a tropical storm passing over Cuba, as two hundred judging eyes burned through my skull. Roni lifted her Holy Trinity High School student ID from her pocketbook as proof of her tender years, while I quickly pondered my exit strategy. I had managed to go from world weary youth to pervert in 6.4 seconds.
Showered with a hail of catcalls, I wrestled Scooby onto my shoulders and (ironically) made haste for the safety of Chinatown. Roni explained that she didn't think her age would be a problem and that she always liked "older" men. In response I explained that there are specific laws that clearly illuminate the prison sentence range for offenders such as myself, (innocent or not) and that I couldn't get off work from that long a time period.
Roni, Scooby and I ended the evening with a platonic meal of Chinese cuisine. When the check arrived, my complimentary fortune cookie read "Confucius says: The greatest danger could be your stupidity." Great, now he tells me.
The Summer Olympics are over. Michael Phelps is back on dry land and several "sixteen year-old" child gymnasts are proudly displaying their medals in a Beijing fifth grade show-and-tell session.
The Chinese women's gymnastics team was truly spectacular whatever age they claimed during the games. Why should gymnastics have an age limit anyway? The controversy sparked a rare competitive instance where participants were suspected to be too young. Normally such disputes involve a bearded Little Leaguer mowing down frightened batters who, unlike their opponent, did not drive themselves to the ballpark.
I was born looking old. Nearly fifty, I can honestly say that I was asked for age verifying identification only once in my life.
Annually the neighborhood known as "Little Italy" situated in the lower east side of Manhattan stages the San Genarro Festival, a fund raising street carnival which attracts of thousands of people daily. In 1980 I attended the gala with Roni, a young lady who I had just started dating. We strolled along the carnival booths, snacking on Neapolitan delicacies until we reached an odd looking man standing on the corner of Mulberry and Grand Streets. The gentleman was guessing people's weights, ages and birthdays with remarkable accuracy. Surrounded by an enormous crowd, the man amazed the group with his skills, never presenting a single customer with any of the trinkets meant for someone who could stump him. Not one teddy bear or slide-whistle left that booth, at least until I came along.
Chided by my charming companion, I stepped before this would be psychic, paid my dollar and dared him to guess my age. Placing his hand on his chin, the man looked me up and down for a little over a minute, scribbling something on his pad only to cross it out again. The crowd was getting restless. Finally, the man was ready. His clasped hands tossed high into the air, the would-be prophet boldly announced "this gentleman is 29 years old and was born in late April"! The crowd stood silent awaiting my authentification.
Everyone was starring at me including Roni, shocked that she might me dating an "old man." I approached the man and assured him that I was but twenty-one years old and was born in mid-December. Roni looked relieved and a somewhat angry horde vehemently demanded my birth-date credentials. Producing my wallet for the mob to clearly see, I handed my driver's license to the fallen prophet who sought to substantiate my claim. Upon studying my permit briefly, the stunned seer drew close to me and whispered something under his breath. "You need to lay off whatever you've been smoking pal, you look awful," murmured the distraught diviner before begrudgingly handing me my well earned prize. The mob dispersed with a sigh of defeat as we began to walk away with a small teddy bear which I had presented to Roni.
Unwilling to relinquish his title as "Mystic of Mulberry Street" just yet, my former opponent stopped Roni and I offered us a double-or-nothing proposition. He would guess Roni's age within two months of her birth date against a four foot high stuffed replica of "Scooby-Doo" which had probably been sitting in his booth since the early seventies. Bereft of any vanity, the intrepid Roni accepted the challenge and the crowd quickly reassembled.
It took seconds for the leaky clairvoyant to pronounce her twenty-years old and three months. The crowd grew silent as I broad smile lit Roni's face. "Mister, you are way off she announced proudly, I'm only sixteen!" Honestly, I had no idea! Instantly, sweat covered my body like a tropical storm passing over Cuba, as two hundred judging eyes burned through my skull. Roni lifted her Holy Trinity High School student ID from her pocketbook as proof of her tender years, while I quickly pondered my exit strategy. I had managed to go from world weary youth to pervert in 6.4 seconds.
Showered with a hail of catcalls, I wrestled Scooby onto my shoulders and (ironically) made haste for the safety of Chinatown. Roni explained that she didn't think her age would be a problem and that she always liked "older" men. In response I explained that there are specific laws that clearly illuminate the prison sentence range for offenders such as myself, (innocent or not) and that I couldn't get off work from that long a time period.
Roni, Scooby and I ended the evening with a platonic meal of Chinese cuisine. When the check arrived, my complimentary fortune cookie read "Confucius says: The greatest danger could be your stupidity." Great, now he tells me.
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