tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24137835194688192172024-03-04T23:36:23.112-08:00655Jack655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-85137611517230914782013-03-21T22:55:00.002-07:002013-03-21T22:55:58.828-07:00I Hope It's So<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">We all know how Facebook is the "go to" place to look up old friends, high school mates or just snoop on people you don't talk to anymore. Yea, I admit it but I don't think I'm alone in doing this. In any case, for some reason, for the past few months, I had been curious what had happened to an old college friend I had and with whom I stayed in touch with up until about 1992. Then we stopped speaking for a reason that I can't even recall now. I'd run into her now and then at awards and televised events as she was a teleprompter person, tapping out scripts and words for famous people to say. But not long after that, I didn't see her at these kind of events any more. She just disappeared. And we stopped talking.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Over the last couple of years since Google and Facebook appeared on the scene, whenever I had a free moment, I'd try and look up her name but really didn't find anything current. Did she move away? Did she get married and change her name? I'd search for a minute and then just move on. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">And then today, I had a moment and searched and this time, finally found a lead to a writer who credited my ex-friend as her first editor. She was saddened to hear that my ex friend had died. She died just last month. I know you'll think it's weird but somewhere in the back of my messed up Jewish brain I had recalled when I couldn't find her that maybe she had died. That's me, always imagining the worst. Yea, maybe she died. And stupid me, she really did die.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I have to say I'm ashamed to say "friend" because I wasn't a good friend, particularly since she died and I never made amends with her. I guess as a means to lessen my guilt, I was curious to find out what were the circumstances of her death, as if somehow that would make me feel as if I was with her when she was suffering.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">BTW, my ex-friend was Lauri Klobas. We met at Cal State Hayward and kept in touch over the years in my moves first to New York and then to LA. Lauri was a big Jan and Dean fan and Beach Boys fan and eventually worked for Brian Wilson. She also had a flair for writing and authored several books on Disability and images and portrayals in the media. She was good but also very dramatic. I wasn't surprised then that after some searching, I found that she kept a blog called 'Letters from Home." There, I came across one of her last blogs dated two years before she died which sort of gave me a chance to do all the catching up we would've done had we reconciled as friends. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I must say that reading it was weird, in a movie sort of way, where letters after the fact take you to the beginning of story you want to tell. But if you knew my friend Lauri, you'd know that would've been a perfect exit for her. She loved all things movie and music and as I said, had a flair for the dramatic. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Lauri's last words to me in a letter she wrote (she wrote letters even when people moved over to emails and they were very descriptive and sometimes dramatic): "I hope it's so" Those four little words became sort of an inside joke between me and Marlee, as she knew her as well, and we always said we'd look to each other and mouth them if we ever ran into her. Oddly, they are most fitting here, as I paste her last blog entry. Feel free to read it below. She was whip smart, kind, sometimes annoyingly precise but always had a smile. Appreciate the words and the person she was. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">As Lauri said "I hope it's so." </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Jack</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Posted 10/18/08 9:57 PM From Lauri Posts 8864 Last Apr-2</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">To All [Msg # 61449.1 ] </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I got off the LFH list when Barbara started it up again... so, this is not really a letter</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">from home, just a letter to friends.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I had a good spring and summer, busy and running about... working and just enjoying life. I did a big editing job on a MS for a Forumite and that started getting my writing engines going a bit. And then a miracle occured-- I started reading again.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">When I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2002, I thought my reading and writing would be good companions during the treatment but they weren't. I pretty much abandoned the wirting because I could not lose myself in a make-believe world when my own had become so serious. As for reading, well, I just couldn't concentrate anymore. Reading something like Alex McCall's Precious Ramotswe books was an ordeal. I could have once been through a book like that in a day!</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">In 2004 when the cancer came back, I still hadn't gotten back the reading and writing. Now, some four years later, in the blink of an eye, the reading came back. I read more in a week than I'd read in the previous six years! I knew it wa sonly a matter o ftime for the writing to come back. I've felt it in my bones.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Or maybe it was something else. The second week of June, I bent over to put my laptop under my desk at work as we broke for lunch. Somethng went sproinnnngggg! under my right arm. After that, I couldn't life my arm to do anything. When I'd pull open a door, I could feel the whole girdle of muscles on my side aching.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Since that's been my troublesome side (where the cancer was found), I went for a mammogram. "It's as perfect as perfect can be," the docter said, much to my relief. When I asked about the sproinnng, she traced a line on me, exactly where it hurt. "That's your latissimus."</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I was relieved it was just a weird muscle pull.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I went for my six month oncology check-up on June 30th. I told the doctor about the sproinnng and she palpated the area and felt nothing. "If you're not worried about it, I'm not worried about it," she said, and I was told to come back in six months.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Also in that time frame (I'm just not sure when), I was making my bed and I bent over and something that felt like electricity exploded at the base of my spine. I fell on my elbows on the bed saying, "WHAT was that??" I thought that, at last, my if-fy back had gone out" on me. I've had pinched nerves, slipped disks, the whole gamut. This was new.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">As I babied my right sproinggged side, something else went out of whack in my back. And then, I fell right on my tailbone. Needless to say, my back has been a mess for months. The acupuncturist is getting rich.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">The oncologist called back. She didn't like my blood test from the 30th. Wanted me to take another. It got delayed because I got bit by some nasty insect that left a 4-inch red welt on my arm. I waited for that to improve before I had blood drawn again, not wanting it to skew the results with the bite business going on. Got it done a week later. She liked the second blood test less than the first which turned August into an odyssey of scans and appointments, The day after the Labor Day weekend, she called me and told me that I had metastasized breast cancer. She'd known before the weekend but let me have the holiday to enjoy.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">And so, I am about to start Chemo 3.0, a regime that will be far more brutal than anything I have had. Before, I had one treatment every three weeks. This will begin as an oral regime, 14 days straight. I imagine I will be far sicker than I've ever been but I don't care as I now feel it in my pelvis and spine. I have already had one surgery, a thing called the Gamma Knife which radiated out four small, small tumors in my brain. This was so painless that I went home and had pizza for dinner that night. It's rather amazing. I am also a candidate for something called the Cyber Knife that does the same sort of thing in the body... computer pin-pointing of tumors and they are blasted away by some beams of whatever (I forget). I am hoping that removes the problems and that the chemo will be more of a "mop-up" operation. Before the Cyber Knife option came up, she said I might be on chemo for as long as a year this time... and that really gave me pause to think-- would I rather die with my soul intact... or go through this grueling marathon again which tears one apart mentally and physically?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Well, things hurt now and I want to fight it. Hurts so bad that I am having trouble walking and am about to go out on disability at work.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I'm going to fight to keep my reading and the almost-there writing stuff intact. I may not have another six years to gain them back.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I have a friend who's going to help me out with things, should I not be able to go shopping or what have you. One of my immediate needs is to get to the DMV. I need to renew my driver's license before the 28th (my birthday) and want to have the picture taken with my hair, which is REALLY good right now. I don't want to be pictured in a wig. But it hurts to walk to get into the car to get to the DMV! I need to try and do it this coming week.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">The Pavilion of Pink Lights was a wonder to me in 2004. I hope, what with all the troubles and everything else around us, that some of you can blast me pinkly or prayerfully or however you send energy and love. The odds are much different this time but I know I can beat the Beast back again. I've done it twice before. After four years, I thought I was done with it but no, it wants me really bad. And I want it gone as much as it wants to eat me alive.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Up until 2002, my medical record read that I'd had a tonsilectomy at age 6. There was nothing else. But I have certainly made up for lost time since then, unhappily so.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I just have to hang in there. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Lauri</span>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-34646806289217866632012-12-08T11:00:00.000-08:002018-06-20T17:29:48.133-07:00Happy Ha-noo-kah! Happy Eas-tah!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rKVAWVkD7ZTITHD2FU3SvkRMipO1rFVlFxPsiPJa_3Z1y9jBcfYPueZ9gmeXLIeTZimcOsoLITADZt6Q1BcKCM3AxTfQhMdbDTy_E7Wm0_zIdp9J7wc0N3m709P59kXnVfNEqXq_i7cS/s1600-h/images.jpg"><strong><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140890138235139794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rKVAWVkD7ZTITHD2FU3SvkRMipO1rFVlFxPsiPJa_3Z1y9jBcfYPueZ9gmeXLIeTZimcOsoLITADZt6Q1BcKCM3AxTfQhMdbDTy_E7Wm0_zIdp9J7wc0N3m709P59kXnVfNEqXq_i7cS/s320/images.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /></strong></a><br />
<h2>
<strong>Jack's Happy Hanukkah story. It's a yearly tradition.</strong></h2>
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<strong>San Leandro is a small suburb of about 70,00 people, outside of San Francisco, right next to Oakland in Northern California. It lays claim to a few distinctions. It is the Sausage Capitol of California. It is the home of Rice-A-Roni – even though Rice-A-Roni is advertised as "The San Francisco Treat.”<br /><br />It was also profiled by a piece on CBS in the late 60's as being one of America's most racist cities. It may have been but we never really knew..well, sort of...<br /><br />And San Leandro is my home town.<br /><br />Back in the 1960’s and 1970’s, being a minority was problematic for most minorities in San Leandro; that's because there really weren't many minorities in San Leandro. There was one instance of an African American family who had a cross burned on their lawn. And there were stories floating around that when a family that was not Caucasian was planning to move into another part of town, neighbors would conspire to buy the home themselves. </strong><br />
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<strong>Though San Leandro was “The Cherry City” and prided itself on being friendly and welcoming, it was oddly conflicted when it came to its residents who were different.<br /><br />As for our family, we were <u>definitely</u> different - but not like any of the other minorities in town. Our parents were deaf. We didn't "speak" another language so people could identify us by the sounds of Chinese or Portuguese. When we walked into stores, we “spoke” in American Sign Language. Sometimes our parents, in an attempt to be like hearing people, tried to speak, but most times, we all conversed quietly, with only the small grunts that my parents occasionally made and swish of the hands in the air to break the silence. It was all very fast and stealthy. And it was great when you wanted to talk about someone who was standing right there who didn’t understand sign. In any case, there were definitely not very many people like The Jasons in San Leandro; people didn't quite know what to make of us.<br /><br />We were also Jews. Because San Leandro was primarily Catholic and Protestant, being Jewish meant that once in a while you got your share of weird remarks. My PE teacher, Mr. Barry, often called out to me with this greeting, "Here comes the roly- poly Matzah Ball." And who kows what my lunch mates were thinking as they stared when I took out Matzah for lunch when it was Passover time (Maybe it was because it was TUNA on Matzah; not a good combination). </strong><br />
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<strong>But there was sanctuary (pun intended) from the stares. It was in Temple Beth Sholom. It was San Leandro's only Jewish synagogue. It stood right in the center of town and was rather modest and respectable, as conservative congregations went. It was where every Jewish kid in San Leandro and Hayward went to get Bar Mitzvahed or to attend Sunday school from the 1950's up until today. And though Jews were definitely a minority in San Leandro, Temple Beth Shalom allowed them to feel as if they belonged someplace. That worked for most members of Temple Beth Sholom, but again, we just had to be different from everyone else.</strong><br />
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<strong>That's because were Sephardic Jews - Jews who hailed from Southern Europe. Our grandparents who lived close by didn't speak Yiddish like everyone at Temple; they spoke Ladino, a form of ancient Spanish. Jews who spoke Spanish? Suddenly my friends assumed we were Mexican. And we didn't eat brisket, bagels or Kugel like everyone at temple did either. We ate baklava and fassoulia, borekas and boyos. </strong><br />
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<strong>And we weren’t fair skinned like temple members that came from Eastern Europe. We were dark and swarthy. If you looked at my baby pictures, you’d actually think I born a black child - Jew-fro right there for all to see. Well, at least I didn't burn quickly in the summertime.<br /><br />We were just very different. And being different, we attracted other temple members who were really different.<br /><br />One Jewish couple in particular lived on "Oakie Hill." Oakie Hill was the unincorporated part of San Leandro just above our house and the name probably got its name from the people who moved there from Oklahoma during the Depression; thus the name, "Oakies." More than likely the name came from the fact that most people who lived on Oakie Hill were just poorer than everyone else in San Leandro. In any case, we never really saw any other members of the temple hanging out with them but we continued to say hello to them when we saw them at the grocery store. We didn’t even mind sitting next to them in the back of the temple when no one else would.<br /><br />The most distinctive thing about the couple was that they drove the biggest, oldest Lincoln Continental - black. People probably thought they were undertakers. Many years later when I moved to New York, I realized they reminded me of a couple I might have seen living on Chrystie Street or Hester Street on the Lower East Side in Manhattan; older, probably in their seventies and always wearing black clothes. The husband was portly and was never without his hat. The wife was usually nicely coiffed but wore clothes that were definitely from another era. She also also wore the thickest glasses I had ever seen. They were tinted blue - not like sunglasses - but as somehow prescription glasses because she might have had a problem with sunlight. And they both spoke with heavy accents. It sounded as if they were Eastern European but their speech was delivered in a cheery, high pitched fashion. Different. But we liked them.<br /><br />One day around Passover, we were riding with our parents in our 1960 Sky Blue Chevrolet Biscayne. My brother was probably playing on the dashboard beneath the back window waving to people behind us and I was more than likely playing with the strange little hole in the floor behind the driver's seat that allowed me to see the pavement whizzing past below. I remembered we pulled up to a light and waited for it to change when suddenly, my brother and I heard a horn honk. Of course since we were Mom and Dad's ears, we looked around excitiedly. (Every ride for us meant that we were practically the drivers. We had to pay attention to sounds, look for ambulances. It was grownup for sure). </strong><br />
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<strong>When we looked around for the honking sound, right next to us at the light was the black Lincoln Continental, idling noisily. And inside were our friends in black from temple. They were excitedly waving hello. My brother and I got our parents’ attention and we all excitedly waved back.<br /><br />Then our friends in the Continental motioned for our parents to roll down the window so they could talk to them. (They never seemed to get it that our parents were deaf). Instead, I rolled down the back window and shouted "Hello!" With a cheery smile as she pushed up her dark glasses closer to her eyes as if she wanted to see us more clearly, the wife leaned around her portly husband and shouted out in her loudest Eastern European accented voice, "Happy Happy Han-oo-kah! Happy Eas-tah!" He husband nodded in agreement.<br /><br />It was neither holiday.<br /><br />Hanukkah was months away and Easter wasn’t a Jewish holiday. But we didn't really mind. They were being friendly to us swarthy deaf Ladino types. A</strong><strong>nd we were happy to talk to anyone who wanted to talk to us. Birds of a feather, you know.</strong><br />
<strong><br />They remained there smiling and waving, even when the light changed to green and we drove away. That was the last time I remember seeing them, but from that point on, no matter what holiday it was - Jewish, Christian or secular – my brother and I would intone "Happy Han-oo-kah! Hapy Eas-tah!" We’d do it on Yom Kippur. We’d do it on Passover. We even do it on Christmas. And we definitely did it on Easter and Hanukkah.<br /><br />And we do it to this day. I'd like to think that we do it because it was part of our interesting childhood, of growing up Jewish and Sephardic with deaf parents in San Leandro. If kids made faces or adults stared at us in the market because our parents talked differently or laughed because we ate Matzahs or that our friends were different, our parents taught us that it didn't matter; though we were minority, within a minority, within a minority, we were definitely not minor - by any means. At least that's what they implied with their cheery smiles when we wondered out loud that the gas station attendant ignored my brother and me when we would interpret for our parents. "They're just hearing people," my mom would say. And with that carefree attitude, it was if they wanted us to understand that we were unique. It's an attitude my brother and I carry around to this day and one which for which I am forever thankful. How else could we have dealt with living in such a strange land of white skies and rock gardens that was San Leandro?<br /><br />So if you see me on the street this holiday season, you could say "Happy Holidays" or "Peace" or "Happy New Year." But it would be really fun to say "Happy Han-oo-kah! Happy Eas-tah!" instead. Just to be unique. Just to be different.<br /><br />Happy Hanukkah, or however you'd like to spell it.<br /><br />655Jack</strong></div>
655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-62038670120063197222011-07-20T13:00:00.000-07:002011-07-28T13:09:10.877-07:00Fat Jack<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1WGloFz4sGSCoBX8tHw3WsT4Cbk9s941HPFkTEg-YJIcAhSzcfHUpIU-exQodoYp5hFHAT183Y99OrslnpvwVBxj58tDMUK9aBMOQmtG1M3j_VFpbT_QB8OVMVf8tKylLs_2QLEm3QTOs/s1600/JackinHS.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 314px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1WGloFz4sGSCoBX8tHw3WsT4Cbk9s941HPFkTEg-YJIcAhSzcfHUpIU-exQodoYp5hFHAT183Y99OrslnpvwVBxj58tDMUK9aBMOQmtG1M3j_VFpbT_QB8OVMVf8tKylLs_2QLEm3QTOs/s320/JackinHS.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586529873346214930" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This is me in high school. As you can see I was a chub. In fact, my nickname in high school was Fat Jack. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But when I went back to my 35th high school reunion recently , I looked as I do now. I was proud of my change/transformation. That's because I told myself Karma insured everyone else who was skinny in school was fat and I was skinny. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I really wasn't interested in going up to people who made fun of me in school. I was more interested in hanging with old friends who I had seen many times over the years who treated me like Jack without the fat.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And yet, I had to talk to just ONE person, someone who made fun of me just as a way to show off, just like in some bad TV movie about the ugly duckling turned into a swan. Big mistake Former Fat Jack. Karma's a bitch and works its magic both ways.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After a few minutes of scanning the room, I found the perfect person. It was Cas Munoz,who was my gym teacher. He was the one who always taunted me for being last when we had to run laps around the track. He was old, he looked like a bulldog, and he liked to bark out orders. "Jason, run! Jason go to the showers." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Or sometimes just "Jason!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Cas Munoz also happened to be the teacher who taught me how to drive. For that one summer in 1972 while a classmate whose name I can't remember sat in the back seat snapping her gum as a means to open and close the cold sores she had in the corners of her mouth and while Randy Cashion, the big bully who kept eyeing me in the rear view mirror, waiting for the right moment for Munoz to turn his head so Cashion could womp on me (just another word for beating the s@#^ out of someone), I was happy to sit behind the wheel humming to "Daniel" or "Song Sung Blue." For that one summer while Munoz maneuvered me around the white lines in the car with two sets of brakes, I was finally driving and I was happy. In the end when I got that little driving certificate, I was so proud that I could finally get behind the wheel of my inherited 1961 Ford Falcon that was peeling grey paint, that I didn't care I had to do it while sitting on a telephone book. Yea, I was fat AND short and my arm still hurt from Randy Cashion womping on me but I was now a l<i>icensed</i> driver. It was <i>boss</i>.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, now, 37 years later, as I walked up to him, I suddenly realized I didn't hold any grudges. Not against Randy, not against the other kids who called me Fat Jack. Not even against Cas MunozI was more interested in thanking Cas Munoz. And m</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;">aybe I didn't need to show off. Maybe all I needed to do was to just thank him; let bygones be bygones.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;">Thank him for teaching me how to drive. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;">That's because looking back, I realized that i've loved the times I've spent driving down the open road. Lots of times, I took road trips not because I wanted to go someplace but simply because I wanted to find a big stretch of open highway with a big black thunderstorm at the end or a blazing setting sun and just DRIVE. One summer I even drove 13,000 miles, through deserts, cornfields and big cites, eventually touching 38 states with the wheels of my Datsun B-210 with only an AM-FM radio to entertain me because it was there. When I got home, my car festooned with stickers from every tacky tourist attraction and Civil War memorabilia shop, I proudly proclaimed that if all else failed, I could be a truck driver; that's how much I loved the open road and the feel of a steering wheel in my hands.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Now, here I was once again with the guy who taught me how to drive. I considered Cas Munoz as he drank his cocktail. He looked the same, as if he hadn't aged a year. Same face that looked like a fist with eyes, same thinning hair. Then I overheard someone say he was 80. Only 80? Wasn't he 80 <i>back then</i>? And then I remembered how we perceive people older than us when we're young.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> If you don't believe me, just look at your high school yearbook. Then try and tell me students and teachers don't look older than teenagers and teachers look today.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Now I was in front of him, both of us adults. We could talk as equals, And now I would be doing something good because mom taught me it was always good to talk old people; you might learn something.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">With an air of former-fatty-turned-skinny confidence, I cleared my throat, shot out my right hand.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Hey Mr. Munoz, I'm Jack Jason and I just wanted to thank you for teaching me how to drive. Every time I get into a car, I think of you. I just wanted to tell you what a gift you gave me. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then I added, "thanks for being my teacher."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Munoz cocked his head, considered my words for a moment and then looked over his glasses and got within three inches of my face. I could smell his aftershave and see the hairs in his nose (I'm still short). </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;">Then he cleared his throat, and barked, quietly but just as if we were back on the field at San Leandro High School 35 years ago,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Hey, you were fat..."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">***********************************************</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Today, I struggle to stay away from Fat Jack and vow daily never to be fat again. Former fatties know the next part. Sometimes the fat voice in your head gets too loud and you overdo it and get too skinny. In fact, all you have to do is watch my stint as interpreter for Marlee Matlin on Celebrity Apprentice. Someone commented that I looked like a Holocaust victim by week 12. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Though I professed to haveI an excuse - we never had TIME to eat because the producers kept everyone so busy making pizzas or running around finding camping equipment. In the end, sometimes I listened too much to the voice of Cas Munoz or the other kids who taunted me way back when that made me obsessed and kept me away from the carbs and sweets that made me fat when I was a kid. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;">But I eventually realized that all I needed to do was just chill. And make sure that as I get older, I STAY ACTIVE - some Spinnng, P90X, lots of hiking - and watch the dessets and sweets and definitely, no Cracker Barrel. It's pretty simple, really. Eat sensibly and definitely don't starve. Most of all, enjoy food but don't revolve your life around it. And go figure, my Grandmother lived to be 97 and pretty much ate whatever she wanted. It's all about moderation.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I still have that fat kid in my brain and I guess that's okay. It</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> keeps me balanced. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It keeps me on the edge. It k</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">eeps me sharp.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mostly, it just keeps bullies from womping on me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-90498848426759912332011-04-22T12:45:00.000-07:002011-04-22T12:50:41.792-07:00Evil Eggs, A Holiday Treat<object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9XBEtbgwTzg&rel=1"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9XBEtbgwTzg&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br /><br />Ah, the Deviled Egg. Everyone's favorite hoiday treat once you've realized that you've bought too many eggs for your Easter Egg hunt. Yes, the Deviled Egg. You'll find them on movie sets and family picnics; church socials and PTA meetings. The treat that's sure to please. And why not? Who could ever resist those little salmonella boats, just waiting to be eaten? Why even Fluffy, the cat, enjoys them too as she walks about unoticed on the dining room table.<br /><br />And don't forget to let them sit out for at least a couple of hours to get nice and ripe. Nothing says Happy Easter better than four hours on the john after enjoying a warm and aromatic Deviled Egg!<br /><br />Happy Easter..err, Eating, err..Passover!<br />655Jack655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-50515207208608079682011-03-20T15:05:00.000-07:002011-03-20T16:03:08.741-07:00<iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/fCNGIaSSEZI?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuoP_Ht9J2dstHuikdUCxYLBVYsLPpkQ45suhBW0kqKQhZMAOVaBVEvjF9zAdOB3yAwFcdzZXrCw-8p37joYmFzjNvK3_xfSh0CzUdAQ90EMxD1oYGlMkBJsJMf8IkVx1LbIVqNv1lm_v/s1600/Unknown.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuoP_Ht9J2dstHuikdUCxYLBVYsLPpkQ45suhBW0kqKQhZMAOVaBVEvjF9zAdOB3yAwFcdzZXrCw-8p37joYmFzjNvK3_xfSh0CzUdAQ90EMxD1oYGlMkBJsJMf8IkVx1LbIVqNv1lm_v/s320/Unknown.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586287170754510562" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It is a joyful day. Yes, today I found out where the delicious additives in Cracker Barrel's "healthy" string beans come from. They probably come from Hormel. The video above just reaffirms it. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">You see the one and only time I ever ATE at Cracker Barrel was in Grand Rapids, Michigan. (I admit I've been to Cracker Barrel many times since as I've traveled the country because though I'm no fan of the restaurants, I can't get enough of the gift shops where tea cozy's made to look like barnyard animals and Coca Cola decks of cards with extra large print sit beside jars of foot long licorice whips and refrigerator magnets). There has never been anything on the Cracker Barrel menu for this finicky former fat boy with an acid reflux issue could eat; it was all pork, Pork, PORK with some red meat, brown/white/yellow sauces thrown in and lots of potato products. As we walked into the Cracker Barrel Restaurant with my family and cousins in Grand Rapids, I whined "I can't eat anything here. It's gross."</span></div></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">After employing a delaying tactic looking at the travel sized Sorry game in the gift shop, I finally decided I would be a team player and at least go into the dining room and SIT at the table. No sooner than I had sat down then my cousin said she had made a discovery.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"> "I found something YOU can eat."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">My eyes scanned the giant tri-fold menu but all I could see was more variations of Arnold the Pig (name that vintage 60's TV show).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">"They have string beans!" she pointed proudly. And there, under "sides" of corn succotash and creamed spinach were string beans. Simply string beans.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">Great, string beans I thought. Give me a couple of buttermilk biscuits (without the pork gravy) and I guess I can call it a meal. What more could I expect from Cracker Barrel. The waitress didn't seem to mind that the little fussy guy from the Left Coast of the USA who, just a few moments earlier sat there with a disdainful look and who shook his head "no" when she asked if there was something he wanted to order, now was ready to order. "Coming right up," she said cheerfully.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">For some reason the string beans took longer than everyone else's meal. While my family and cousins dug into their Country Fried Steaks and Gravy and Over Easy Runny Eggs on Hash, I waited patiently for my string beans. Well at least I had my glass of water in the mason jar with a handle to sip from.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">Finally the beans arrived.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">I have to admit the first bite was pure heaven; salty, creamy texture and just the right temperature, I didn't mind that they were covered with slivered almonds. They just tasted good. Now everyone was happy that I was happy (or they were just happy that I stopped whining). Oh frabjous day.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">After a few minutes of "hmmm, these are good" and "wanna take a bite?" I decided to engage our waitress. I was just so happy there was something for me to eat. I motioned to her (I can't recall her name but she Somebody "Lou" like Betty or Joan) because I had to tell her how much I enjoyed the beans. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">"Scuze me," I piped up as she poured some tap water into my mason jar with a handle, "but I had to tell you how much I LOVE these string beans with slivered almonds."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">"Why, thank yew!" She was as proud of them as if she cooked them herself.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">Ever eager to find a way to continue the conversation with Somebody Lou, because, face it, everyone else was too into their gravy, ham hocks and potato skins, I asked her if she could tell me how they made the string beans. Were they steamed with a little butter? Parboiled and then tossed with some oil like canola or olive? Or were they flash fried, then tossed in a baking dish and lightly seasoned with herbs and sprayed with Pam?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">"They're made with bacon fat.."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">The whole room fell silent while everyone looked to see what my reaction would be.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">"B-b-b-b-acon FAT?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">"Yep! Good isn't it?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">I realized then that no amount of sticking my finger down my throat (forget that I have a fear of vomiting that I will elaborate in another blog posting) or greasy buttermilk biscuits would erase the damage to my esophagus/stomach lining/duodenum/small and large intestine that I imagined, let alone the image of my long passed Grandmother who now loomed it front of me because she was the one who made me throw out the little Christmas tree I brought home from school or who taught us that bacon and all pork products were evil just because we were Jewish.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">BACON. FAT.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">I had eaten nearly half of plate of string beans and the other half sat on there in a pool of slivered almonds and slightly yellow and cream colored liquid that was basically liquified lard. It was then I realized I would have to make a choice. Push away from the table and never set foot in Cracker Barrel ever again; or suck it up. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">I sucked it up. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">In fact, I ate it up and used my biscuit to finish off the sauce. For me, it was pretty disgusting but damn they tasted good! While I ate the rest of the beans, everyone else at the table sat in disbelief. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">I had crossed the pork barrier and there was no turning back; acid indigestion, the runs, and eternal Jewish hell (aka eternal guilt) be damned. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">655Jack </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">was eating pork meat trimmings and pig lard. And I liked it. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">Guess I can check Cracker Barrel String Beans made with bacon fatt off of my pork bucket list.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-5393426402885557312008-09-29T21:51:00.000-07:002008-09-30T02:07:16.773-07:00Happy New Year / L' Shana Tovah<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOyw3wW_5Mz3c8xjhWINKVtVDbUtNxRu6H5GZam63-pZKONgnxc5secg-gT76IlNl0HXQLoQ6NxN8wFopnCTeSYSsFBX45Mu7-NYZii0W0OyLMS0HBl_0TTrwfuo6ZypPhl7zouxG4RQqL/s1600-h/IMG_4417.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOyw3wW_5Mz3c8xjhWINKVtVDbUtNxRu6H5GZam63-pZKONgnxc5secg-gT76IlNl0HXQLoQ6NxN8wFopnCTeSYSsFBX45Mu7-NYZii0W0OyLMS0HBl_0TTrwfuo6ZypPhl7zouxG4RQqL/s320/IMG_4417.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251736818143074482" /></a><br />We Jews are lucky. We get two New Years. The regular one and the Jewish one. Except the Jewish one isn't so festive, in that Dick Clark-now Ryan Seacrest-can I stay up until Midnight because the champagne I drank way too early has made me loopy and I can't keep my eyes open kind of way. It's a sit in temple (and usually during the hottest day of the year) in your best suit and tie and contemplate the year you've had and the year that's coming up kind of way. I wouldn't have it any other way.<br /><br />I'm home and it's 2 am and I can't sleep. It's New Year but unfortunately this year, I was flying as the Jewish New Year began and for the first time in a long time, I wasn't in temple. I stressed out a little and then rationalized that perhaps being at the Western Wall last Thursday was the next best thing I could've done. I'm not sure, but just in case, I'll ask for forgiveness next week on Yom Kippur.<br /><br />From me to you, a sweet and Happy New Year655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-67594957876810223212008-09-28T02:19:00.000-07:002008-09-29T21:40:52.635-07:00A long, last vacation blog 9.28.09<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHk8ZOwtnMWZiLj9HZEfdQ1jebvScXn4Z_hxpD9M617cpL6rYQuew0voRkR9PReRQjQ7GfpePvom7oeSpYJWeY6MBmZppHR1mvOZts53AiqeSZkSUbvQtE7AK7HeMr-Lr7QyrK43VXqRZ/s1600-h/IMG_4353.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHk8ZOwtnMWZiLj9HZEfdQ1jebvScXn4Z_hxpD9M617cpL6rYQuew0voRkR9PReRQjQ7GfpePvom7oeSpYJWeY6MBmZppHR1mvOZts53AiqeSZkSUbvQtE7AK7HeMr-Lr7QyrK43VXqRZ/s320/IMG_4353.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251665047951358290" /></a><br /><br />Cruising the high seas isn’t for you if:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">You don’t like people who talk loudly</span>. I’ve noticed a pattern now and it has nothing to do with the fact that cruises typically attract older people who might, in turn, be hard of hearing. Outside on dry land, people talk a moderate level and even when the occasion necessitates an elevation of voice volume (“Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup!” or “You’re what???” or “My stock is NOT worth how much?!”). But for some reason, the open ocean makes people want to talk loudly. They talk loudly at meals (I’ve heard every detailed conversation from people several tables away); they talk loudly during on board presentations; they even talk loudly in the library (“Miss, why is it that I can’t get my “In-ter-net” to connect to my favorite soap opera web site?”). I figure it must be that we’re so removed from civilization, from the throngs of people we encounter in our daily lives back home, that many people feel the need to release all that pent up noise and just TALK. They’re loud and they’re proud of where they hail from. I think it’s an American thing. The foreign types I’ve seen like the Germans, the Spaniards, the Chinese don’t seem to talk as loudly as the Americans. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />You don’t like to see big bellies and by-pass operation scars by the poolside</span>. Cruisers are very proud of their bodies, no matter what shape or size they come in. And if they got scars, well, show ‘em off, they seem to say, as they parade around the pool (and sometimes around the dining areas, library and shops), scars in full view. I know you know that I’m a bit of a shy guy, some might say a prude but a scar is one thing. A big belly is another. But big bellies with scars just don’t look good together. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">You don’t like people watching</span>. If you don’t like people watching or observing how people on board remind you of people back home, try another kind of vacationing. I for one LOVE watching people and looking at how much they remind me of famous people is one activity I get into here. Everyone we’ve met on board does it! Even the nice couple from Minne-SOH-tah that we’ve been fortunate to share our dinner table with each evening does it. The woman who sits behind us each night is “Lucille Ball.” “Look, Lucille Ball is getting on tour number 4.” The Asian guy with the long white hair and moustache is “Mr. Miyagi.” “Mr. Miyagi” was doing the 4000 piece crossword puzzle in the library.” Last night I found myself saying to everyone at the dinner table that I ran into Wilford Brimley in the elevator and everyone nodded in agreement, knowing exactly whom I was talking about. It’s fun!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKe4xd9qg_eC2lKSvsSOH97Xsj9t5Iqm0yWUoi0eTFssbuvk-RgsUGboDEmtQ4wTNQSCJugw5xeZuREu4hYR2rcpQ_cYMTCWM_Smz37s4qOwYMCnlhHUuGUJzE_zbRnNz9GI_zdjJs9qCO/s1600-h/IMG_4357.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKe4xd9qg_eC2lKSvsSOH97Xsj9t5Iqm0yWUoi0eTFssbuvk-RgsUGboDEmtQ4wTNQSCJugw5xeZuREu4hYR2rcpQ_cYMTCWM_Smz37s4qOwYMCnlhHUuGUJzE_zbRnNz9GI_zdjJs9qCO/s320/IMG_4357.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251668457780387778" /></a><br /><br />Anyway, back to my travels. After two days of open sea cruising (I spent time reading, going to the movies (saw a great little movie called “The Visitor” and napping) I woke up early yesterday morning in Israel. It had been 20 years since I’d been to Israel and I had forgotten what a beautiful country it is. And safe. I had a chance to talk to our tour guide Moshe about the threat of terrorism and he said that it was all a matter of perspective. He said to take into account the number of days in the year that you DON’T hear about something bad happening in Israel (or any place for that matter). He also said if he believed the news, the US is more dangerous than Israel. He said the news from the US is always about school shootings, hurricanes, commuter train accidents and child abductions. Perspective. <br /><br />It was interesting to note that during the course of this trip, I got 4 emails from friends who sent me news about 8 tourists kidnapped in Egypt. Was it a warning not to go there? (Too late, tour ticket’s been paid for). Eight million tourists visit Egypt each year; I’m not good at math but 8 out of 8 million is a pretty small percentage. I know, I know, you’re just watching out for me but again, try looking at the world from the opposite end of the binoculars. The stuff up close looks awfully small if you just turn the binoculars around and look in the other end. Every day people die, but babies are born. Every day, people get into car accidents and many die, but millions more enjoy the road. And every day people travel all over the world visiting the most exotic and wonderful places and a very small, small, small percentage are kidnapped or killed.<br /> <br />One thing that has changed in Israel since I was last here is the traffic. It’s crowded as hell on Israeli highways and many times I thought it made LA traffic look like Christmas morning. They don’t drive fast in Israel but they drive crazy. Cars come perilously close to each other as they drive down narrow streets; but no one seems to get hit! Pedestrians are brave too; they dart in and out of cars and manage to make it across the street in one piece, even as vehicles barrel down on them. It’s funny that I’ve seen more accidents on big wide highways in the States than the narrow little streets or scary traffic circles that you see all over Europe and the Middle East<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIXBcYUqtu04fw0YujU5lW-bdWot0Oc5pC2NW-oJryGa9D3x_Cp4kxIu4kKxCU4H2OKvgZ3Qvt5W8KUhUCGwxbYbHXzxw97Ufvo8oNKEFTNuLj51BTiGGErsf2dIaZPqfa9MoVwc2j3-u/s1600-h/IMG_4367.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIXBcYUqtu04fw0YujU5lW-bdWot0Oc5pC2NW-oJryGa9D3x_Cp4kxIu4kKxCU4H2OKvgZ3Qvt5W8KUhUCGwxbYbHXzxw97Ufvo8oNKEFTNuLj51BTiGGErsf2dIaZPqfa9MoVwc2j3-u/s320/IMG_4367.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251663865963504226" /></a><br /> <br />That being said, after a few hours of landing in beautiful Haifa (reminded me of San Francisco with it’s hills and seaside locale), we found ourselves at the Jaffa Gate, ready to proceed on foot into the Old City, Jerusalem. The golden stones which the city is built from and which brightly reflects the sunlight, only enhanced the sense of holiness that surrounds the city.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3NiTefHY5eRJz0hI06G-q-39FLRCJN_P6pYS_9fvc0Jm6sNqV1uaii1O-fYsDF2352Aeh47935oG16rg3_xLaNOBuNLezCKRHNKXgNPpXotQuDn7Z2KOj2Fm2Xk4xjvIhj6UYeEZLSTuT/s1600-h/IMG_4387.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3NiTefHY5eRJz0hI06G-q-39FLRCJN_P6pYS_9fvc0Jm6sNqV1uaii1O-fYsDF2352Aeh47935oG16rg3_xLaNOBuNLezCKRHNKXgNPpXotQuDn7Z2KOj2Fm2Xk4xjvIhj6UYeEZLSTuT/s320/IMG_4387.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251663874346654370" /></a><br /> <br />Our first stop was the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the church erected on the site where Jesus was crucified. Imagine climbing a narrow set of steps with people from all over the world, speaking every language imaginable to a small hole in the ground where the cross that Jesus died upon was placed in the ground. The wait to see the spot where Jesus was resurrected was even more crowded and the line to crawl into the room, 6 people at a time, was 2 ½ hours long. The best bet to get close to Jesus was the slab of rock where his body was purified. That only required a few minutes wait as people kissed the stone, placed their money and crucifixes on it (obviously to bless the crucifixes but I couldn’t figure out why they put their money on it). Even as Jew, I was in awe of the history of the place; a church where millions of people over the eons have come to pray and remember a man who started out as a simple carpenter.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6K4wGjA4pQxJ-7WJsQl7Xz-e2G8IJWHTMshPLyZS-RVEomJgcFPQzB3AC2z2cQ_L1irg_9WOH5ZuJQzxyFEIpZ2rc-XSiL_42qiFQB_ML5AO6WqkDEBtdScm9a8v_oekZRORRBZJRr2P8/s1600-h/IMG_4428.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6K4wGjA4pQxJ-7WJsQl7Xz-e2G8IJWHTMshPLyZS-RVEomJgcFPQzB3AC2z2cQ_L1irg_9WOH5ZuJQzxyFEIpZ2rc-XSiL_42qiFQB_ML5AO6WqkDEBtdScm9a8v_oekZRORRBZJRr2P8/s320/IMG_4428.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251663882586927794" /></a><br /><br />Our next stop was the magnificent Western (Wailing) Wall. I had only been here once before and it still gave me goose pimples when I walked up to it. There at the wall, I saw the thousands of notes placed in the cracks as I placed the 8 notes that friends had given me. I also said a personal prayer and then, of course, did the tourist thing and began snapping pictures. I didn’t want to forget the moment. My dad walked over in his floppy hat and smiled broadly for the camera. Not bad for an 84 year old guy!<br /><br />The rest of the day was devoted to walking in and among the streets of Jerusalem. It was interesting to hear from our jovial Israeli tour guide that the Arabs in Israel were just that - Arabs - and he seemed to refuse to recognize any of them as Palestinians. He also told me that most Israelis are not religious, contrary to what many might think. Patriotic yes, religious no. But here and there, we did see the familiar black hats, long coats and beards and we laughed to hear Moshe say “why they think that wearing clothes from 100 years ago in Russia in 90 degree heat means you will be closer to God, makes no sense to me.”<br /><br />We left Israel watching traffic crawl on the other side going into Jerusalem for at least 20 miles and the Mediterranean sun setting before us. If any of you ever had doubts of coming to Israel, get rid of them. The sense of history is just too much to ignore. Plus they’ve got the best hummus this side of Pico Boulevard.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhXo0o9sUNfbHHYFd9rDs1zGa0A8lI-YwwoNCMt3CowLRDnzPflSFmNXJZJZIbkeebb79ITBPNcr5AKyGWPGZQoS7LmJOTlVKDxPuQqBEGDVLdamL-iAp-HWNZ7l8YkRj-zmfIEGXcoK0/s1600-h/IMG_4476.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhXo0o9sUNfbHHYFd9rDs1zGa0A8lI-YwwoNCMt3CowLRDnzPflSFmNXJZJZIbkeebb79ITBPNcr5AKyGWPGZQoS7LmJOTlVKDxPuQqBEGDVLdamL-iAp-HWNZ7l8YkRj-zmfIEGXcoK0/s320/IMG_4476.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251663886531645154" /></a><br /><br />Next we visited the largely unconsidered island of Cyprus. I say unconsidered because how many of you would ever think of going there? It’s really quite interesting; an amalgam of Greek, Turkish and British cultures. It’s supposedly the birthplace of Aphrodite and we visited many sites of antiquities devoted to her and her mate, Apollo. But more importantly, it’s the home of Haloumi cheese! Yes the only cheese you can throw on the grill (I learned that from our very musky smelling but pleasant tour guide). We visited a small Greek Cypriot village, tasted some very sweet Cypriot wine and marveled at the overpriced souvenirs.<br /> <br />Yesterday we’re cruised our way to Egypt and waited to begin our tour at --groan -- 6 am. That’s because we landed in Alexandria and Cairo was 3 hours away. In fact, we had signed up for a 12-hour tour where we were scheduled to see the Pyramids at Giza and the much-heralded Egyptian Museum. No matter what time I had to get up, I was determined to go, as I’ve wanted to see the Pyramids for years. Last year it was the Great Wall and this year it had to be the Pyramids. (Maybe next year it will be the Taj Mahal in Agra, India)<br /><br />Egypt was fascinating. My first impression was that it was pretty poor as countries go. Many buildings are left empty, litter covers the highways and public transportation consists of several people jamming into private mini buses. The landscape was definitely desert and reminded me of parts of Mexico – cactus, date palms and dry riverbeds. But what was fascinating was the influence of religion on daily life. Unlike in Turkey where being a Muslim wasn’t necessarily reflected in the clothes that you wear, in Egypt you’ll rarely see a woman’s head uncovered. At one point in the Egyptian Museum, I saw the freakiest sight – three women dressed in black, head to toe with just their eyes exposed looking into a display case of mummified animals. The room must have been 90 degrees (no A/C at the Egyptian Museum so if you want a sauna experience, go there first) and yet they walked about without a bead of sweat on their eyebrows (all I could see!). Wild!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qgL3mSZxNSlyElgRBAbur-dfr1H4gqvVOZkPEbr2ePZdGi0wsRDHcT1lENpMKSd5LudYt6KtaPWz_prnAe3PACAH48bjSSqTS9FkUIAzmK1ficjTWCttoOnxFV28PfcaAr4An9Z2shVS/s1600-h/IMG_4500.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qgL3mSZxNSlyElgRBAbur-dfr1H4gqvVOZkPEbr2ePZdGi0wsRDHcT1lENpMKSd5LudYt6KtaPWz_prnAe3PACAH48bjSSqTS9FkUIAzmK1ficjTWCttoOnxFV28PfcaAr4An9Z2shVS/s320/IMG_4500.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251665746357720754" /></a><br />When we drove into Cairo and saw the Pyramids in the distance, I found myself bouncing up and down as if I was ten years old again waiting to see the Matterhorn along side the San Diego Freeway on our way to Disneyland. Funny, they looked just like the Luxor Hotel from afar! But when we drove up to them, the size and grandeur of 3 pyramids perched on a sandy hill was just awe inspiring. I couldn’t believe I was finally there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgshWNyVrP1CRantv-t1sSPhLSk-Ac4GEuT4uIm0VrBBxMFzkwxrL48QjEwQIn1vvmDjDyIIwuCohaKHfOdyIOAaKvlgGJB6J4ZslFQezxwxoI9fBsUkMrU7KvTd8EdspcWJyH1GqvQiBq/s1600-h/IMG_4544.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgshWNyVrP1CRantv-t1sSPhLSk-Ac4GEuT4uIm0VrBBxMFzkwxrL48QjEwQIn1vvmDjDyIIwuCohaKHfOdyIOAaKvlgGJB6J4ZslFQezxwxoI9fBsUkMrU7KvTd8EdspcWJyH1GqvQiBq/s320/IMG_4544.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251667970439966034" /></a><br />I also couldn’t believe how much of humanity was there; thousands of people, on foot, on bus, on camel -- all crowding the site. And it was hot – Palm Springs hot; about 90 degrees and a very warm wind blowing the dust about. Nevertheless, I tackled my photo taking in earnest and snapped about as many angles as I could of the spectacular stone structures. Next we ventured to the magnificent Sphinx, which, as I’m sure you’ve all heard, is not as big as you would imagine. <br /><br /><br />But I was impressed nonetheless probably because the damn thing has always appeared to the statue where all the world’s secrets reside. The sight of the sand colored statue, worn and weathered by time, as it gazes towards the East, and knowing how many people over thousands of years have come to visit it is overwhelming. You can’t help but take pictures as if you’ve seen a UFO for the first time. By the time we left the Sphinx, I was dripping in sweat having had to contend with thousands of people who ventured together through stone corridors to find the right vista which to see the spectacular Sphinx.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFjX6IPTX7C8lmAW66xuH7ZmSZeChXiSUw17CbbGhPS-v-L7ZJr2HXdLHp8G1ekekPHUsvuHzRcXRwbg19kf2FX0VjQ0wkLZuHhIFonZ-NTHnal6UiLNV7jye6dN6kBIXeuTtyYhT9aKaU/s1600-h/IMG_4541.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFjX6IPTX7C8lmAW66xuH7ZmSZeChXiSUw17CbbGhPS-v-L7ZJr2HXdLHp8G1ekekPHUsvuHzRcXRwbg19kf2FX0VjQ0wkLZuHhIFonZ-NTHnal6UiLNV7jye6dN6kBIXeuTtyYhT9aKaU/s320/IMG_4541.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251665742202102658" /></a><br /><br />After a great lunch at the Cairo Hilton, we made our last stop at the magnificent Egyptian Museum, the largest museum of Egyptian antiquities in the world. It was crazy to think that we had only 2 hours to see over 500,000 pieces so we budgeted our time wisely and tackled the main exhibits like the Rosetta Stone and the treasures of King Tut. The museum was oppressively hot – no air conditioning as I said EXCEPT in the King Tut treasure room. Once we found it, we all huddled in there like dogs lying on a cool garage floor trying to escape the summer heat. But it was certainly worth it to see that funeral mask, in all its gold and lapis glory once again (remember when the King Tut exhibit and all the hoopla that accompanied it came to the US in the late 70’s?). Even the creepy room of mummies at 90 degrees was worth the visit. It’s too bad they didn’t allow cameras; otherwise I would have been there for hours snapping away.<br /><br />We got back to the ship at 7:30, tired and sunburned but satisfied that we saw sights that not many have a chance to see. Which brings me to the point that I want to make here. Travel if you can. The world is so damn interesting to stay locked up at home. If you’re afraid of what might happen, fuggedaboutit. You’ve been watching the news too much. There are millions of tourists who visit these places every day and the chances are greater that you’ll slip and fall in your bathtub than suffer some terrible fate while traveling on the road in some faraway country. <br /><br />And if you can’t afford to travel, open up a book and read about those faraway places. Go to the bookstore and open up a big atlas and see how many countries you can read about; renew your subscription to National Geographic (and when you’re done with a bunch of issues, give them to a school or donate them to the Goodwill; they love to take them!). You will find yourself amazed and fascinated by the variety of the world’s culture and its people when you have the chance to see it in person or through the lens of travel books and magazines. Travel is a great leveler. One you’re away from home, you find all the cultural arrogance you carry with you slipping away and in its place, and you’ll find some much needed humility. I can’t live without it.<br /><br />I’ll be back home tomorrow night but going right back to work and this time traveling to more sedate places like Alabama and Michigan. In the meantime, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about this trip as much as I have had writing about it. <br />Cheers,<br />655Jack655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-48197902884335759762008-09-26T05:32:00.000-07:002008-09-26T05:43:17.415-07:00Just a moment while I return to the real world. Then it's back to vacation...9.26.09I'm writing this from somewhere in the Mediterranean, between Cyprus and Egypt and I read this transcript on line and couldn't resist posting it. It's amazing how news that takes place 6,000 miles away can seem so close thanks to the wonders of the Internet. I feel like I'm at home with all of you, cringing each time Sarah Palin speaks.<br /><br />Back later with my vacation blog from Israel and Cyprus. <br />655<br /><br />COURIC: You've cited Alaska's proximity to Russia as part of your foreign policy experience. What did you mean by that?<br /><br />PALIN: That Alaska has a very narrow maritime border between a foreign country, Russia, and on our other side, the land-- boundary that we have with-- Canada. It-- it's funny that a comment like that was-- kind of made to-- cari-- I don't know, you know? Reporters--<br /><br />COURIC: Mock?<br /><br />PALIN: Yeah, mocked, I guess that's the word, yeah.<br /><br />COURIC: Explain to me why that enhances your foreign policy credentials.<br /><br />PALIN: Well, it certainly does because our-- our next door neighbors are foreign countries. They're in the state that I am the executive of. And there in Russia--<br /><br />COURIC: Have you ever been involved with any negotiations, for example, with the Russians?<br /><br />PALIN: We have trade missions back and forth. We-- we do-- it's very important when you consider even national security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where-- where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is-- from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there. They are right next to-- to our state.655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-19452776831964982952008-09-22T05:58:00.000-07:002008-09-22T06:39:14.695-07:00I'm Available for Weddings & Bar Mitzvahs: 9. 22.08<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxfXxKtDGg_HiSTnw2ahj8jGub0uBZhRPt9k7O1J19LECuoyKEUQ-XN2xplSFFMe4XcMjtjoI1A9iXkWmcpQQX0wze9Dn-AMUIScjH_y7kuh4s2rGybrWFh7GuQzYKjZw9lgSUWONQGJg/s1600-h/IMG_4349.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxfXxKtDGg_HiSTnw2ahj8jGub0uBZhRPt9k7O1J19LECuoyKEUQ-XN2xplSFFMe4XcMjtjoI1A9iXkWmcpQQX0wze9Dn-AMUIScjH_y7kuh4s2rGybrWFh7GuQzYKjZw9lgSUWONQGJg/s320/IMG_4349.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248831622598188626" border="0"></a><br /><br /><br />So, we’ve sailed through the strait of water that separates Europe and Asia. We’ve visited ancient churches in Bulgaria and the famous Potempkin Steps in Odessa, Ukraine. We’ve even visited Romania, home of Transylvania and Count Dracula’s Castle and what’s been the highlight for me during the last three days? I made marzipan flowers…see? What do you think? I’m the next Food Network star!<br /><br />Three days ago (I’ve lost track of days of the week) we sailed the Bosporus. It was wild to find ourselves between two continents, sailing up a waterway that men and women have been sailing through for thousands of centuries.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JZmrO3ByW6FzGovvekXZUZoToYisjMgvVK3yYhdmwdw5gAbloCfzTzvfNAM83b3JK4QMesi8eq7ulTXViDDU9rBEWJOUy6B2rDBYld7LoR6fwiU9bdMRLs3TuGtiIkiR3pDd67R65yVL/s1600-h/IMG_4288.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JZmrO3ByW6FzGovvekXZUZoToYisjMgvVK3yYhdmwdw5gAbloCfzTzvfNAM83b3JK4QMesi8eq7ulTXViDDU9rBEWJOUy6B2rDBYld7LoR6fwiU9bdMRLs3TuGtiIkiR3pDd67R65yVL/s320/IMG_4288.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248831613673475714" border="0"></a><br /><br />The next day we found ourselves in Bulgaria (I heard someone refer to it as Ulgaria because they didn’t find it so pretty. I’m inclined to agree). Not much to speak of but we did find ourselves in a Bulgarian Orthodox Church where two monks chanted in harmony together beautifully. (I'll try and upload the video later).<br /><br />Speaking of ugly, because it was cold outside that day, I decided to wear my Obama ’08 hat to keep my keppe warm. Just as I was departing for our tour bus, some fat American guy walked by, looked at my hat and exclaimed loud enough for me and about 20 other people to hear, “there’s another idiot!” I yelled out “who said that?” and this guy with a gut so big that he probably hadn’t seen his feet in a few years said defiantly “I did.” I considered the source and left it alone. But I was fuming. I wanted to yell out something but couldn’t come up with a comeback fast enough. Then I looked around to see if people were nodding in agreement with him or me. But I should’ve known. No one seemed to care. They wanted to start their tours, damnit!<br /> <br />The next day, we were in more picturesque Odessa, Ukraine but the weather was pretty bad with rain coming down in sheets and a cold wind blowing like it was the middle of November. Now instead of signs being in letters we could recognize, were definitely in a place where they used the Cyrillic alphabet. I couldn’t decipher anything. Despite the rain, we were able to visit the magnificent Potemkin Steps and later, marveled at the architecture that reminded me a bit of St. Petersburg, Russia; buildings painted in pink and yellow and there were large boulevards lined with Sycamore trees. It’s unfortunate that the weather ended up being so bad because Odessa seemed to have a great deal of character and I would’ve liked to have explored more of the city on foot. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_2iFs2mhadrQBszH4VcLZ9riG_CB6ASqVKhnTqcyG3zbsJEBLpX3sSBdPUThpAQHe3LTs_9E8ouY528bXUUuZkh3o3RY0kTce09SzWuuypX1h0Iu1XBr11FdFoEkxCeuJcdzq-rNFU9b/s1600-h/IMG_4338.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_2iFs2mhadrQBszH4VcLZ9riG_CB6ASqVKhnTqcyG3zbsJEBLpX3sSBdPUThpAQHe3LTs_9E8ouY528bXUUuZkh3o3RY0kTce09SzWuuypX1h0Iu1XBr11FdFoEkxCeuJcdzq-rNFU9b/s320/IMG_4338.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248831621826383506" border="0"></a><br /><br />After a delay of a couple of hours last night due to rough seas, today we visited the last of three countries on our Black Sea tour - Romania. Romania was probably my least favorite. Except for the magnificent Beaux Arts Casino that was built around 1913, the architecture was gray and drab. Even the people seemed stuck in another era as they walked about in long shapeless dresses, clunky shoes and pants and jackets that were straight out of the video for “Bad.” But I guess that’s understandable when you realize that the country just came out from one of the most oppressive Communist regimes only in the 1990’s. An interesting side note: our tour guide told us that if you wanted to make a lot of money in Romania, just open a chain of private restrooms for public use. There are so few public restrooms available in Romania, he said, that people would be willing to pay just to use a clean toilet. Imagine that, a chain of public restrooms. I’ll call McCrapper; anyone want to make a fortune with me? <br /><br />Seriously, there is money to be made in the countries of Bulgaria, Romania and Odessa. They have joined the European Union but the change over is still a few years away. So before they switch over to the Euro, it’s clear that there are bargains to be had. Seeing, for example, that the average salary in Ukraine is $500 a month, one could easily snatch up some cheap land or set up a business. And if commerce isn’t your style, just take a vacation here. Traveling is very cheap. Granted you wont get the usual luxuries you might be used to but still pretty reasonable and it would certainly be an adventure, if that were your thing. <br /><br />Back to my marzipan. And no scoffing at my stylings; from what I’ve read on line about the Emmys last night, my marzipan making class sounds like it's way more exciting!<br /><br />655 Jack655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-1531443876757747382008-09-19T06:02:00.000-07:002008-09-19T06:19:27.492-07:00Istanbul, Day Two: A Day of Contrasts 9.19.08<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0-4ZbpW0Va34b8uZ81hvIueqlHNPqNZ9gRvZst0H3IIBbd3yJF3dUpm-YbaDD_JAUP5EowunYG1zxqZcqdhD7qBBGHmQQt6RQ4q5zLjkZh5BYX8YvjE4XNU_XRIk7uZhjnbLFeWtaseh/s1600-h/IMG_4240.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0-4ZbpW0Va34b8uZ81hvIueqlHNPqNZ9gRvZst0H3IIBbd3yJF3dUpm-YbaDD_JAUP5EowunYG1zxqZcqdhD7qBBGHmQQt6RQ4q5zLjkZh5BYX8YvjE4XNU_XRIk7uZhjnbLFeWtaseh/s320/IMG_4240.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247720962788237650" /></a><br /><br />New York may be The Big Apple. Paris may be the City of Lights. And after being in Istanbul for 2 days, I’d have to say that Istanbul is the City of Prayers and Spices. Everywhere you go in this city, the air is filled with the scent of spices and herbs as you see men on their bended knees in supplication to Allah. As a city that straddles two continents, it’s a city of contrasts, of architecture old and new, of a culture both religious and secular, and of cuisine both East and West. It was the perfect place for us to enjoy new adventures while indulging in our past.<br /><br />Yesterday we had a chance to visit the Grand Bazaar with our friend Lale whom my parents met over 25 years ago in the town where my Grandmother was born – Canakkle (pronounced “cha-nah-kah-LAY”). Canakkle is the modern name of the area of what was once known as ancient Troy. Lale brought her friend Isaac, whom we found out after a few minutes was also from Canakkle, shared a few of the names we had in our own family – Candiotti and Gormizano. If the name Gormizano looks familiar that’s because it is the real name of Edyie Gorme, whose family came from Canakkle and was distantly related to my Grandmother. Like most immigrants, they shortened their name when they came to U.S. Can you imagine if they hadn’t? “Ladies and Gentleman, please welcome to the Stardust, Steve Lawrence and Edyie Gormizano!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD35TFM9EFWDTMgLScjRf7EaLZ0jRA807rwhioJ0WFaEWNJNoFSEgFKMaS5ek1V1rS8Kdiyl8xDAgBDFIm4WNiDHkpPO8rHj64Z3ub-pBoDyVczqoWB_Bibt4V2rgZquJYdVl6yYg-NVBt/s1600-h/Mediterranean+Cruise+2006+430.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD35TFM9EFWDTMgLScjRf7EaLZ0jRA807rwhioJ0WFaEWNJNoFSEgFKMaS5ek1V1rS8Kdiyl8xDAgBDFIm4WNiDHkpPO8rHj64Z3ub-pBoDyVczqoWB_Bibt4V2rgZquJYdVl6yYg-NVBt/s320/Mediterranean+Cruise+2006+430.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247719118396315154" /></a><br /> <br />Lale and Isaac became our interpreters for the day as roamed the halls of the Grand Bazaar, as we looked and bargained for souvenirs. At one point Lale exclaimed “Mashallah” which I recognized instantly as a word my Grandmother used to say whenever she saw a beautiful baby or someone she was very proud of. I asked Lale what it meant in Turkish and she said it meant “Praise Allah” and that was said as a means to ward of the evil eye. Immediately, I came to understand that it was a word that the Sephardic Jews who lived in Turkey and Greece appropriated but which was actually a word that Muslims used. Now I know what to say when most Ashkenazi Jews say “kenahora”. I’ll just say “Mashallah” instead! Isaac and Lale then took us for a walk down cobblestone streets to the Egyptian Bazaar, otherwise known as the Spice Market. There, we were overcome by the scent of a thousand spices – Curry and Cardamom, Cinnamon and Cumin. The sight of piles of rainbow colored spices and herbs was incredible. Now we were hungry! <br /><br />Though we thought we could just find a restaurant and sit down, we were told that if we didn’t move fast, we’d be out of luck. That’s because in the Muslim calendar it is Ramadan, and as such, Muslims fast all day but eat from 7:30 pm to 4 am. We quickly found a great Turkish restaurant near Spice Market just before the Ramadan crowds began. We had more great food and topped it all off with creamy rice pudding just like Grandma used to make. We got back to our cabin on the ship wondering if we ever needed to eat again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvDRfi1BCO36aeQ1lKh_5rZqAdWLI7LcSP5D_JahnPN4_SM64S5aRnqJFP551eHbUZB9Pk1nzYIqoaF2ll1gUgv7CsBm7z_8fK5ibKQImbQt-qw6wJH57_N3A2b3nSF_sv9JoekVNCajb/s1600-h/IMG_4256.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvDRfi1BCO36aeQ1lKh_5rZqAdWLI7LcSP5D_JahnPN4_SM64S5aRnqJFP551eHbUZB9Pk1nzYIqoaF2ll1gUgv7CsBm7z_8fK5ibKQImbQt-qw6wJH57_N3A2b3nSF_sv9JoekVNCajb/s320/IMG_4256.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247718197713948434" /></a><br /><br />Today, we had an early pick up at the port and drove 45 minutes outside of central Istanbul to meet our cousins, Joseph Abrevaya and his wife Sara. Joseph and my dad are second cousins; their Grandfathers were brothers. While my dad’s family moved to the United States, Joseph’s parents stayed in Turkey. My parents had first met Joseph and his wife Sarah in 1982 but I had never met them before. If you would ask me to pick them out of a crowd, it would’ve been easy; the family resemblance was scary. Every Abrevaya looks the same! Joseph, a hearty and strong 89 years old and his wife Sara, who is 82, both spoke good English but the conversation veered in and out of Turkish, English and Ladino, the Judeo Spanish language of Sephardic Jews that my Grandmother spoke to us. We found out that a Great-Great Uncle, Jack Abrevaya was an interpreter to the Grand Sultan of Turkey and that the Abrevayas all share a tendency to be hard of hearing or deaf and live to be in their late 80’s and 90’s; some have lived to be over 100! “Mashallah!”<br /><br />I forgot to mention that when we walked into the Abrevaya house, I was instantly transported back to my childhood and my Grandmother’s house. There were the familiar scents of borekas and boyos, of cheese and olives; a visit to a Sephardic household is ever done without food. We looked pictures and delved into memories of families who were separated by years and miles but who still remained close to each other’s hearts. How awesome it was to know that I was sitting in a room with a man with whom I shared the same Great Great Grandfather!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi645DwcAgmjVjRav7udo9g0_5F6_16b2zGZ4a9yImqcVfyEJTJhYxJMr3ABcbu1A88zExUoNpSfzdD9rglBSNEtJyGr4DBIRZnvXci8CtsjfnavZ-tYBA56lnO3o800HLyOYwzqEi7XFuZ/s1600-h/IMG_4265.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi645DwcAgmjVjRav7udo9g0_5F6_16b2zGZ4a9yImqcVfyEJTJhYxJMr3ABcbu1A88zExUoNpSfzdD9rglBSNEtJyGr4DBIRZnvXci8CtsjfnavZ-tYBA56lnO3o800HLyOYwzqEi7XFuZ/s320/IMG_4265.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247719923323069186" /></a><br /><br />Soon it was time to head back to our ship and we said our goodbyes. It was great to know that we didn’t have to wonder if we’d return to Istanbul to see each other again; the Abrevayas go each year to Chicago to visit their children. Back at the port we indulged in one more Turkish treat and we had “cay” (pronounced “chai” and which means tea in Turkish, served in little curved glasses) and Baklava with Lale and Isaac at the restaurant that first popularized the sweet honey and nut treat in Istanbul. I noticed that unlike the hard chewy Baklava we had in Rhodes, this Baklava was soft and delicate. When I asked Lale where Baklava really came from – Greece or Turkey, she asked me which Baklava I liked better; the one I was just eating or the one we had a few days ago in Greece. The one I was eating right now, I told her. “Need I say more?” she replied. <br /><br />Tonight we sail up the Bosporus, the channel of water that separates Asia and Europe and into the Black Sea. Tomorrow we will wake up in Bulgaria. The thrill of venturing someplace I’ve never thought of visiting is exciting. <br /><br />655Jack655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-14928627029439708022008-09-18T02:28:00.000-07:002008-09-18T14:16:37.539-07:00Food Glorious Food - Jasons on the High Seas 9.18.08<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj57VINNdwtrfYWW7eEXmaRuHxyCI35P62Gd_3g-JEoBX1HyQtsEwwLKSt2iPA_VZiNB1bn-jdqJJjbJLaMZa-iej1qPis85rW1d5QbqFCkR6-xtuMble5-bdIpQZeal1t4Fz6yzxsvm_zB/s1600-h/IMG_4230.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj57VINNdwtrfYWW7eEXmaRuHxyCI35P62Gd_3g-JEoBX1HyQtsEwwLKSt2iPA_VZiNB1bn-jdqJJjbJLaMZa-iej1qPis85rW1d5QbqFCkR6-xtuMble5-bdIpQZeal1t4Fz6yzxsvm_zB/s320/IMG_4230.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247472778233966610" /></a><br /><br />On our way to Istanbul…<br /><br />Today, we arrive in Istanbul at 3 pm where our old friend Lale will meet us and take us to town so we can shop to our hearts delight at the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market. <br /><br />The Grand Bazaar is a fantastic, where you can find most anything from brass pots for making Turkish Coffee to Pashminas in any color that you can imagine. I’ve not yet been to the Spice Market but my brother tells me it’s full of scents that feel like you’ve dunked your head in a stew pot full of the most savory ingredients. I can’t wait.<br /><br />The trip has been relaxing and great so far. There are a few things I noticed being outside the US:<br /><br />--Penelope Cruz is the most advertised face in the world; her face graces billboards, TV ads, newspaper pages. There must be something about that slightly long nose and half smile that appeals across cultures.<br /> <br />--Everyone parks on streets as they see fit. Going one way down a street doesn’t mean you have to park in that direction. You can even park on corners. Sometimes I wish we could do that in LA on days when there is alternate side of the street parking. It would be such a better and more efficient use of space.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Jd4gq3wku8Zssa76NNcxUSwClxr6MQNKAAK99Yz3Pt-ircjO8cvVduTXebR5_fwU8w0lmKaTJ1IxH9J94VXxaubgsCZnalhYVxqUAolDXD7lD_jTAMOcHdEkRESwMoJTxppUcUKP_liN/s1600-h/IMG_4239.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Jd4gq3wku8Zssa76NNcxUSwClxr6MQNKAAK99Yz3Pt-ircjO8cvVduTXebR5_fwU8w0lmKaTJ1IxH9J94VXxaubgsCZnalhYVxqUAolDXD7lD_jTAMOcHdEkRESwMoJTxppUcUKP_liN/s320/IMG_4239.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247460103126192978" /></a><br /><br />Now a little about the cruise; if you haven’t done it, you should try it once. A giant hotel where every morning you wake up in a different city, that’s what it is; great for traveling with kids or older parents. The lodging is great and the food is fantastic. Last night, the highlight for me was my roasted tomato bisque – smoky and thick - topped with a freshly baked crouton and drizzled with crème fraiche, while for my mom and brother it was their Dungeness crab salad, delicate and light and featuring the perfect mix of Asian spices. Dad’s favorite was his New York steak that he said was the best he had in years.<br /><br />The food kept on coming today as watched the ship’s master chef prepare a Grand Marnier Chocolate Volcano Cake in a cooking demonstration in the Food Network style kitchen (with cameras and witty repertoire) and then passed around individuals little volcanoes for all to savor. Yum! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrW5xQonPepLDapO7MuQsyymL5IWz5lj23X7ANlW9NCgj4ljhXjhuOnMOiZs3unPw4L266zzGm_smgWojgwptNUg7FzQwws6QN9Jx3IIMOMCFBMEyBlWBw5npuXIEjjj5YV1EdBmbOy_nG/s1600-h/IMG_4237.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrW5xQonPepLDapO7MuQsyymL5IWz5lj23X7ANlW9NCgj4ljhXjhuOnMOiZs3unPw4L266zzGm_smgWojgwptNUg7FzQwws6QN9Jx3IIMOMCFBMEyBlWBw5npuXIEjjj5YV1EdBmbOy_nG/s320/IMG_4237.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247460944790087490" /></a><br /><br />Not much else really. The vacation hasn’t really started until we land in Istanbul, so more later. Meanwhile, it’s time for a game of Scrabble with my mom…<br /><br />Catch you all later.<br />655Jack655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-54778546617871827362008-09-16T07:43:00.000-07:002008-09-18T14:05:22.670-07:00Yankee Where Are You? - The Jasons are Traveling Again! 9.16.08Let me just get this off my chest and then I'll give you a bit of my travelogue. John McCain can't be operating on all pistons if he says as I'm reading in the international papers that the general state of the US economy is sound. Everywhere we've been in Greece has indicated otherwise... <br /><br />It used to be that dollars were accepted freely in exchange for the local currency or that credit cards were also accepted. The mighty Visa and Mastercard ruled. Not so this time. Merchants demand cash - European cash. Ask for an explanation, they say "Lehman Brothers" or something about falling stocks. Today someone even said something about "Ike." It also used to be that you could easily run into Americans everywhere you went overseas. That's also changed. Granted that summer's over and everyone is back to work, back to school so not many Americans are out but even in slow seasons it used to be that you would hear American English SOMEWHERE. But we haven't this time. It almost feels that when they look at us, it's as a curiosity. <br /><br />Let me be bold and extrapolate here that perhaps the sinking/shrinking dollar or our fear of all things "foreign" has diminished our incentive to spread our wealth overseas as we once did? If that's the case, then I think we're on a bad path. You see, I believe that the wealth that we once spread like sweet smelling manure around the world though at times was annoying to others was actually helping to spread American culture and fostering American goodwill. But all we see are Russians, Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Brits and Germans. <br /><br />The point of all this melodramatic musing is to say that being here really makes it clear to me that it's time for a change back home. So, that's why I'm wearing my Obama 08 baseball cap the whole time on this trip to let people know that there are some of Yanks eager for change and that we all don't march lockstep to the drumbeat that's been pounding out of DC for the last 8 years. Some of us actually think about the rest of the big world we live in.<br /><br />That's just the way I see it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrD1tzaSmmYxF_xaEC2T22V-i0Y-7VPgQxQCf_R3Qtt3m2a7zLzMQk4J2VYssof5JxDFUvfDx-lr-8xxUXJSvxW27kq77caDpLzrHw-bF_9XOLGu7ZILVaYTbSaI_F_0n6w_LR40j4FyFJ/s1600-h/IMG_4214.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrD1tzaSmmYxF_xaEC2T22V-i0Y-7VPgQxQCf_R3Qtt3m2a7zLzMQk4J2VYssof5JxDFUvfDx-lr-8xxUXJSvxW27kq77caDpLzrHw-bF_9XOLGu7ZILVaYTbSaI_F_0n6w_LR40j4FyFJ/s320/IMG_4214.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247467207203439474" /></a><br /><br />Okay, now for the trip. It's very hot in Greece at the moment - it must be in the upper 80's and very humid. Despite the drippy heat, we've had a great time eating Greek salads, visiting our Grandparent's neighborhood and generally having a good chuckle as we watch German tourists, mostly the guys, walk around with their flabby white (and if they weren't careful in the sun, very red) <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_fc9sA4U7iYg6oh8jOARlTOj5Qtb6J_P6LpqxpBSyIrmLM8CsiyToZ9AKMVjHMHwvCiy7CoQDXzmiNMAooQzfBzVDoGj0HN_Y4P05aKYMZJO19Txo9l8RQAMbpsxvMIztCrJsNJo5tu7/s1600-h/IMG_4219.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_fc9sA4U7iYg6oh8jOARlTOj5Qtb6J_P6LpqxpBSyIrmLM8CsiyToZ9AKMVjHMHwvCiy7CoQDXzmiNMAooQzfBzVDoGj0HN_Y4P05aKYMZJO19Txo9l8RQAMbpsxvMIztCrJsNJo5tu7/s320/IMG_4219.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247468139330986850" /></a><br />beer bellies hanging over their 2 inch Speedos as they walk about munching on Gyros. <br /><br />We marveled at how the only remaining Jewish Synagogue in Rhodes has undergone even greater improvements and now there is a full museum and library featuring all the history of the Jews of Rhodes including all of those who were transported to the concentration camps during the last months of WW II. Sad to think that if the 1400 or so Jews that were here had lived, there would be thousands around and this would be a very different place.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpIqxzZPe0IfYxFvs8aUojX6f4u4FA4WylLDX1zcMu65ChJMA-keX4apxnKXCgB62r2uMQTqzLceZ_iAl76z1W-IinGuyFPGodT1kfKX_33Nt4KcY1g5sx-5F9p_W1e5nBXpf7hpE8-y1a/s1600-h/IMG_4201.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpIqxzZPe0IfYxFvs8aUojX6f4u4FA4WylLDX1zcMu65ChJMA-keX4apxnKXCgB62r2uMQTqzLceZ_iAl76z1W-IinGuyFPGodT1kfKX_33Nt4KcY1g5sx-5F9p_W1e5nBXpf7hpE8-y1a/s320/IMG_4201.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247466103850124418" /></a><br /><br />I've had a lot of fun being corned by the close talking elderly Irish tourist who talks to me and my brother (he thinks we're the same person) for hours about the smallest things he's encountered on his trip at a distance where I can actually see his nose hairs. His Lucky Charms accent almost feels like a put on but as he explained to me, he never gets out of his little green isle. <br /><br />Thankfully the food is much different here than in China. No mystery meat here. Just your basic chicken, meat or fish and if course, because it's prepared in Greek kitchens, it's fantastic. And the desserts, of course, are to die for. Baklava, Kadayif, Greek Coffee. It's all good. And the pace is lazy and laid back. A check will be presented only when you ask for it and even then it'll take a long while for the waiter to bring you back the change or shoo you out of the restaurant. It just doesn't happen. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEJjnaf0USNkZPSsWa4VIemrhlg5UhoXZGiu5RBXvMzYioHSmu0T8st3f9dcSOCu11dFnNZvjFS7e5w3w_9ruuW_9TjYAwAUD1itFQVe-2kXK-kpviEMOhUK9NBtHgy-QW511j3AEKDWM/s1600-h/IMG_4183.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEJjnaf0USNkZPSsWa4VIemrhlg5UhoXZGiu5RBXvMzYioHSmu0T8st3f9dcSOCu11dFnNZvjFS7e5w3w_9ruuW_9TjYAwAUD1itFQVe-2kXK-kpviEMOhUK9NBtHgy-QW511j3AEKDWM/s320/IMG_4183.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247468801135402290" /></a><br /><br />If you're itchin' for a little R&R in a place where you don't have to worry about drinking the water check out Greece. And if you want a better deal, go to Turkey. They're not on the Euro yet so the prices aren't as high there - yet! <br /><br />On our way to Athens tomorrow and hopping on the Rotterdam to begin our cruise to Turkey and the Black Sea. I'll check in with you in a couple of days.655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-56510572966188967632007-12-22T07:56:00.000-08:002007-12-22T07:57:13.943-08:00And Though it's Late, A Happy Hanukkah too<object id="A5679906337305529344" quality="high" data="http://llnw.jibjab.com/content/player.swf?content_url=http://www.jibjab.com/sendables/api/remote/11MKyNP7UHx3xVfMc5NuyQWI.xml" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="369" width="435"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="movie" value="http://llnw.jibjab.com/content/player.swf"></param><param name="scaleMode" value="showAll"></param><param name="quality" value="high"></param><param name="allowNetworking" value="internal"></param><param name="FlashVars" value="content_url=http://www.jibjab.com/sendables/api/remote/11MKyNP7UHx3xVfMc5NuyQWI.xml"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="never"></param></object><div style="text-align:center; width:435px; margin-top:6px;">Don't send a lame <a href="http://www.jibjab.com/sendables/category/48/holiday">Holiday eCard</a>. Try <a href="http://www.jibjab.com/sendables">JibJab Sendables</a>!</div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-23457650672063980052007-12-21T23:53:00.000-08:002007-12-21T23:56:01.631-08:00Happy Festivus from 655Jack & JibJab<object id="A6453095997880885248" quality="high" data="http://llnw.jibjab.com/content/player.swf?content_url=http://www.jibjab.com/sendables/api/remote/4H5vno2VIMIliVX0JXSxL9Gs.xml" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="369" width="435"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="movie" value="http://llnw.jibjab.com/content/player.swf"></param><param name="scaleMode" value="showAll"></param><param name="quality" value="high"></param><param name="allowNetworking" value="internal"></param><param name="FlashVars" value="content_url=http://www.jibjab.com/sendables/api/remote/4H5vno2VIMIliVX0JXSxL9Gs.xml"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="never"></param></object><div style="text-align:center; width:435px; margin-top:6px;">Don't send a lame <a href="http://www.jibjab.com/sendables/category/48/holiday">Holiday eCard</a>. Try <a href="http://www.jibjab.com/sendables">JibJab Sendables</a>!</div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-66638044455912078502007-12-15T21:23:00.000-08:002007-12-15T21:28:26.447-08:00I'll be Home for Christmas...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHQccdsopRAc0mZUIQytHIj0oCykHjMcLOQfCX3tqFyuwE3Ksxeeyx15QVJVdEJbjtxooTYDheFXN_mM5rr41t1hIcMuXtbOIvrt4qGkBiatI59jpU69z-Z6i_ronafBK74I0i_z-S44Y/s1600-h/thanksgivingimages.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHQccdsopRAc0mZUIQytHIj0oCykHjMcLOQfCX3tqFyuwE3Ksxeeyx15QVJVdEJbjtxooTYDheFXN_mM5rr41t1hIcMuXtbOIvrt4qGkBiatI59jpU69z-Z6i_ronafBK74I0i_z-S44Y/s400/thanksgivingimages.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144438149202155570" /></a><br />This joke came from presurfer.blogspot.com They, in turn, credited it J-Walkblog.com. Very funny.<br /><br />Pass it along.<br />655Jack<br /><br />A man in Chicago calls his son in New York the day before Christmas and says, 'I hate to ruin Christmas this year, but I have to tell you that your mother and I are divorcing; forty-five years of misery is enough.'<br /><br />'Pop, what are you talking about?' the son screams. 'We can't stand the sight of each other any longer,' the father says. 'We're sick of each other, and I'm sick of talking about this, so you call your sister in Atlanta and tell her.'<br /><br />Frantic, the son calls his sister, who explodes on the phone. 'Like hell they're getting divorced,' she shouts, 'I'll take care of this.' She calls Chicago immediately, and screams at her father, 'You are NOT getting divorced. Don't do a single thing until I get there. I'm calling my brother back and we'll both be there tomorrow. Until then, don't do a thing, DO YOU HEAR ME?' and hangs up.<br /><br />The old man hangs up his phone and turns to his wife. 'Okay,' he says, 'they're coming for Christmas and paying their own way655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-86948683859861113382007-12-10T09:54:00.001-08:002007-12-10T09:58:49.751-08:00On Another Night of Hanukkah: Who Knows What Night It Is? I'm Plastered.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj59emhrqx9vWRquWU0bYlASgIrfI6Ipl2JIthVuhC9v5weHmic1RZvGMyn1-unYhjD61HqYOTtoBSPyCVEh_DpaHL0suFFH_0fDimUBfPIQcFZPz0LWnrkyTC6beW2yq6MdpMg4FMPj7y/s1600-h/tequila_cake.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj59emhrqx9vWRquWU0bYlASgIrfI6Ipl2JIthVuhC9v5weHmic1RZvGMyn1-unYhjD61HqYOTtoBSPyCVEh_DpaHL0suFFH_0fDimUBfPIQcFZPz0LWnrkyTC6beW2yq6MdpMg4FMPj7y/s400/tequila_cake.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142404902439428626" /></a><br /><strong>From my pal Taya, who I assume is still working off her hangover, somewhere in Margaritaville. <br /><br />Enjoy.<br />655 Jack<br /><br />Tequila Christmas Cake <br />Ingredients: <br /><br />2 cups flour <br />1 stick butter <br />1 cup of water <br />1 tsp baking soda <br />1 cup of sugar <br />1 tsp salt <br />1 cup of brown sugar <br />Lemon juice <br />4 large eggs Nuts <br />1 bottle tequila <br />2 cups of dried fruit <br /><br /><br />Sample the tequila to check quality. Take a large bowl, check the tequila again. To be sure it is of the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink. Repeat. Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of sugar. Beat again. At this point it's best to make sure the tequila is still OK. Try another cup... Just in case. Turn off the mixerer thingy. Break 2 eggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.<br /><br />Pick the frigging fruit up off floor. Mix on the turner. If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers just pry it loose with a drewscriver. Sample the tequila to check for tonsisticity. Next, sift two cups of salt. Or someth ing. Check the tequila. Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table. Add a spoon of sugar, or somefink. Whatever you can find. Greash the oven. Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over. Don't forget to beat off the turner. Finally, throw the bowl through the window. Finish the tequila and wipe counter with the cat.<br /><br />Bingle Jells! </strong>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-45499498579154392722007-12-06T22:26:00.000-08:002007-12-06T22:35:57.425-08:00On the Fourth Day of Hanukkah, We Did it in the Road<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiADY4i4aKt5BNMe9PVB7czAUKsvgbB2pU_rhZ7Az937X9IitiaCSEIf-cdM2N2FE2kaEzsjFF56H3jvfLl3VNgqJsgsuq_pBgErH_ENGlb3NcEzOZdK72DpWynr7iFeW5J83Fvs8_zYepp/s1600-h/untitled.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141113953275901666" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiADY4i4aKt5BNMe9PVB7czAUKsvgbB2pU_rhZ7Az937X9IitiaCSEIf-cdM2N2FE2kaEzsjFF56H3jvfLl3VNgqJsgsuq_pBgErH_ENGlb3NcEzOZdK72DpWynr7iFeW5J83Fvs8_zYepp/s400/untitled.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The image to the right is an actual screen shot from KABC-TV's coverage of the recent Malibu fires. And this is what the viewer who took the picture wrote:<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><em>As we sat glued to television news coveage of the recent Malibu fire on the morning of Saturday, 24 November, 2007 to see if our area was in danger (fortuantely, winds blew the conflagration away from us and towards the ocean), one or more of thse factors produced some rather amusing (and risque) captioning. As a reporter from Los Angeles' KABC-TV was explaining how important it is for residents to evacuate fire areas when asked to do so because such prompt compliance allows firefighters to deal with just the fire and not also with "people in the road evacuating," the captioning (as shown in the still frame displayed above) reflected a distinctly different climax to that statement.<br /><br /></em></div><div><em></em> </div><div>Source: Snopes.com<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div>Happy Fourth Day of Hanukkah.<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div>655 Jack</div><div> </div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-6367915090961700322007-12-06T07:18:00.000-08:002008-12-21T13:13:11.206-08:00On The Third Night Of Hannukkah We Say: Happy Han-oo-kah! Happy Eas-tah!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rKVAWVkD7ZTITHD2FU3SvkRMipO1rFVlFxPsiPJa_3Z1y9jBcfYPueZ9gmeXLIeTZimcOsoLITADZt6Q1BcKCM3AxTfQhMdbDTy_E7Wm0_zIdp9J7wc0N3m709P59kXnVfNEqXq_i7cS/s1600-h/images.jpg"><strong><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140890138235139794" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rKVAWVkD7ZTITHD2FU3SvkRMipO1rFVlFxPsiPJa_3Z1y9jBcfYPueZ9gmeXLIeTZimcOsoLITADZt6Q1BcKCM3AxTfQhMdbDTy_E7Wm0_zIdp9J7wc0N3m709P59kXnVfNEqXq_i7cS/s320/images.jpg" border="0" /></strong></a><strong> San Leandro is a small suburb of about 70,00 people, outside of San Francisco, right next to Oakland in Northern California. It lays claim to a few distinctions. It is the Sausage Capitol of California. It is the home of Rice-A-Roni – even though Rice-A-Roni is advertised as "The San Francisco Treat.”<br /><br />And it was profiled by a piece on CBS in the late 60's as being one of America's most racist cities.<br /><br />San Leandro was (is?) my home town.<br /><br />Back in the 1960’s and 1970’s, being a minority wasn't too much fun for most minorities in San Leandro. One African American family had a cross burned on their lawn. When a family that was not Caucasian was planning to move into another part of town, neighbors would conspire to buy the home themselves. Others were looked down upon simply because they were working class and people called them "Oakies." Though San Leandro was “The Cherry City” and prided itself on being friendly and welcoming, it wasn’t as friendly when it came to its residents who were different.<br /><br />As for our family, we were definitely different and certainly part of a minority - but not like any of the other minorities in town. Our parents were deaf. We didn't "speak" another language so people could identify us by the sounds of Spanish or Tagolog. When we walked into stores, we “spoke” in American Sign Language. Sometimes our parents, in an attempt to be like hearing people, tried to speak, but most times, we all conversed quietly, with only the small grunts that my parents occasionally made and swish of the hands in the air to break the silence. It was all very fast and stealthy. And it was great when you wanted to talk about someone who was standing right there who didn’t understand sign. But more of that in another posting. In any case, there were definitely not like very many people like our parents in San Leandro. People didn't quite know what to make of us.<br /><br />We were also Jews. Because San Leandro was primarily Catholic and Protestant, being Jewish meant you got of anti-Semitic remarks. My PE teacher often called me "the roly- poly Matzah Ball." And there were definitely weird looks when I took out Matzah for lunch when it was Passover time. But there was sanctuary (pun intended) from the remarks I got and stares. It was in Temple Beth Sholom. It was San Leandro's only Jewish synagogue. It stood right in the center of town and was rather modest and respectable, as conservative congregations went. It was where every Jewish kid in San Leandro and Hayward went to get Bar Mitzvahed or to attend Sunday school in the 1960’s. Though Jews were definitely a minority in San Leandro, Temple Beth Shalom allowed them to feel as if they belonged someplace. That worked for most members of Temple Beth Sholom, but again, we just had to be different from everyone else!<br /><br />We were also Sephardic Jews- Jews who hailed from Southern Europe. We didn't speak Yiddish like everyone at Temple; we spoke Ladino, a form of ancient Spanish. Jews who spoke Spanish? My friends assumed we were Mexican. We didn't eat brisket, bagels or Kugel either. We ate baklava and fassoulia. Someone once asked me if we were Greeks. And I wasn’t fair skinned like temple members that came from Eastern Europe. I was dark and swarthy. If you look at my baby pictures, you’d actually think I born a black child. Well, at least I didn't burn quickly in the summertime.<br /><br />We were just very different. And being different, we attracted other temple members who were really different.<br /><br />One Jewish couple in particular -- I can't quite remember their name -- lived on Oakie Hill. Oakie Hill was the unincorporated part of San Leandro just above our house. The place probably got its name from the people who moved there from Oklahoma during the Depression (thus the name, "Oakies"). But more than likely the name came from the fact that most people who lived on Oakie Hill were just poorer than everyone else in San Leandro. And being that San Leandro was a racist town that it was, the term was likely applied as a means to stereotype anyone who lived there. We didn't think much of it but we never really saw any other members of the temple hanging out with them. But we continued to say hello to them when we saw them at the grocery store and we didn’t even mind sitting next to them in the back of the temple when no one else would.<br /><br />The most distinctive thing about the couple was that they drove the biggest, oldest Lincoln Continental - black. People probably thought they were undertakers. Many years later when I moved to New York, I also realized they reminded me of a couple I might have seen living on Chrystie Street or Hester Street on the Lower East Side in Manhattan. They were older, probably in their seventies and they always wore black clothes. The husband was portly and was never without his hat. The wife was usually nicely coiffed but wore clothes that were definitely from another era. The wife also wore the thickest glasses I had ever seen. They were tinted blue - not like sunglasses - but as somehow prescription glasses because she might have had a problem with sunlight. And they both spoke with heavy accents. It sounded as if they were Eastern European but their speech was delivered in a cheery, high pitched fashion. It was as if Borat married Minnie Mouse and they had kids. Different indeed. But we liked them.<br /><br />One day around Passover, we were riding with our parents in our Sky Blue Chevrolet Biscayne, my brother was probably playing on the dashboard beneath the back window waving to people behind us and I was playing with the hole in the floor that allowed me to see the pavement whizzing past below. I remembered we pulled up to a light and waited for it to change when suddenly, my brother and I heard a horn honk. Right next to us was the black Lincoln Continental, idling noisily. And inside were our friends in black from temple and they were waving hello to us. My brother and I got our parents’ attention and excitedly waved back.<br /><br />Then our friends in the Continental motioned for our parents to roll down the window so they could talk to them. (They never seemed to get it that our parents were deaf). Instead, I rolled down the back window and shouted hello. With a cheery smile as she pushed up her dark glasses closer to her eyes as if she wanted to see us more clearly, the wife leaned around her portly husband and shouted out in her loudest Eastern European accented voice, "Happy Happy Han-oo-kah! Happy Eas-tah!" He husband nodded in agreement.<br /><br />It was neither holiday.<br /><br />Hanukkah was months away and Easter wasn’t a Jewish holiday. But we didn't really mind. They were being friendly to us swarthy deaf types and we were happy to talk to anyone who wanted to talk to us. Birds of a feather, you know.<br /><br />They remained there smiling and waving, even when the light changed to green and we drove away. That was the last time I remember seeing them, but from that point on, no matter what holiday it was - Jewish, Christian or secular – my brother and I would intone "Happy Han-oo-kah! Hapy Eas-tah!" We’d do it on Yom Kippur. We’d do it on Passover. We even do it on Christmas. And we definitely did it on Easter and Hanukkah.<br /><br />And we do it to this day. I'd like to think that we do it because it was part of our interesting childhood, of growing up Jewish and Sephardic with deaf parents in San Leandro. If kids made faces at us because our parents talked differently or laughed because we ate Matzahs or that our friends were different, our parents taught us that it didn't matter; though we were minority, within a minority, within a minority, we were definitely not minor - by any means. At least that's what they implied with their cheery smiles when we lamented that people were staring at us in the grocery store. With their carefree attitude, they wanted us to understand that we were unique. And because we were unique, we were cool. It's an attitude my brother and I carry around to this day and one which for which I am forever thankful. How else could we have dealt with living in such a strange land of white skies and rock gardens that was San Leandro?<br /><br />So if you see me on the street this holiday season, you could say "Happy Holidays" or "Peace" or "Happy New Year." But I'd love it if you'd say "Happy Han-oo-kah! Happy Eas-tah!" instead. Just to be unique. Just to be cool. Just to be different.<br /><br />Happy Hanukkah, day three.<br /><br />655Jack</strong>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-75779032723322346972007-12-05T00:36:00.001-08:002007-12-05T09:36:46.400-08:00On the Second Night of Hanukkah, Balducci's Gave to MeHanukkah, 2007: Day 2<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiRZv2NOsYrILn50Co-91MiQ9QHRWLdIHdhCo99u-YFwMQalgu6nXpHIWkZCKxy2uaRZ8zAXdeMpxTH0Zs_BKpQ-XYqVsC8kVe39ScwVhlRVJVIJ0N15DCjFMFrIBTF60PmpcjHBWH4EZM/s1600-h/balducci_chanukah_ham.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140409110487922354" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiRZv2NOsYrILn50Co-91MiQ9QHRWLdIHdhCo99u-YFwMQalgu6nXpHIWkZCKxy2uaRZ8zAXdeMpxTH0Zs_BKpQ-XYqVsC8kVe39ScwVhlRVJVIJ0N15DCjFMFrIBTF60PmpcjHBWH4EZM/s320/balducci_chanukah_ham.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Ah, what would Hanukkah be without the Hanukkah ham? This picture came courtesy of my good pal Lisa Cahan of Chicago. Being the ex-New Yorker like myself, she knew I would get a kick out of this reminder of how Jews in New York City live with feelings of inauthenticity; that their Jewish inner selves are at odds with the city that spawned a Miracle on 34th Street.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Here's how it went for me living in New York City back in the 80's. For the first time in my life, I'm living in a city where I'm not the only Jew. In fact, I'm living in one of the most Jewish cities in America. There's a deli practically on every corner. Everyone says "oy" this and "shonda" that. Even the Mayor is Jewish. For a kid who grew up in the Catholic/Protestant Portuguese immigrant community of San Leandro, California and who never saw a bagel until I was 18, this was practically like living the Holy Land itself! And yet, when it came to Christmas-time, the whole city became Christian, Jew and Gentile. It was inescapable.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Christmas was everywhere. It was at Macy's in the store windows; in Rockefeller Center with the ice skaters and ginormous Christmas tree; and it was on every corner with the fat men in a red suits, ringing their bells, Salvation Army buckets in hand and ho ho ho-ing you into giving a little to those who didn't have a lot. Who would want to celebrate Hanukkah, particularly when the only things one had to counter the whole Yule time madness were lame little dreidels made out of clay and dime store blue and white paper garlands that said "Happy Hanukkah," that was never spelled the same way twice? Come on, I often said to my troubled inner self. Can't I be both Jewish and Christian just once? Just this year? Can I just dabble in some festive Christmas cheer?<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Yes, I wanted to celebrate Christmas. But only the commercial parts. I had no desire to put up a manger or go to Midnight Mass. All I coveted was my neighbor's tree and lights, and to warm up that lonely corner in my studio apartment with a pine scented tree. In the end, who would know? Mom and Dad were 3000 miles away and here I was, a graduate student living in a city of millions. I was an adult and could make adult decisions, presumably free from guilt. Most of all, I could finally indulge in my childhood fantasy of having a REAL Christmas tree. No more humiliating Hanukkah Bush or blue and white lights on the outside of the house that usually invited more stares and snickers than anything else.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>But each time I thought I would venture down the street to the neighborhood empty lot, filled with crack addicts and rats, now turned into the garishly lit Christmas Tree farm and buy my little Charlie Brown Christmas tree, I found I just coudln't go through with it. The consequences were just too horrific to imagine.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Because actually getting one would've meant living with the distinct possibility of my long passed away Grandma Flor coming back to life to screech loudly at the sight of the little tree just as she did when I was six years old and I brought home a small tree from school. It was pretty traumatic then and it must have scarred me for life. Here I was at 26 years old, and I couldn't buy myself a damn tree because way back when I was but a wee kid, my grandmother threw out the small tree I brought home. And here I was 20 years later, treeless. I couldn't even sing "Away in A Manger" when it was on the radio. When it came to the line "The Little Lord Jesus" all could I muster up was "The Little Lord Mm-mm." Man, Grandma. I love you but you messed me up!<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>In the end never got that Christmas tree.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>But this story doesn't have a sad ending. I've found a most perfect way around my guilt. These days, I don't covet that tree or sparkly lights to satisfy my itch to celebrate like my Gentile brothers and sisters. Instead, all I have to say is "I'm going to Disney World" -- just like those Super Bowl players say after winning the big game.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>What am I doing in Disney World, you may ask? Well, if you happen to be in Florida this year around December 28th, you can find out. Come on down to EPCOT Center to see Marlee and me reading the story of Jesus and singing along to traditional Christmas tunes as part of the Candlelight Processional. Yes, you heard it right. The story of Jesus!<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>For the last 7 years, Marlee has been invited along with a host of other celebrities, to participate in a program of scripture and song as a means to entertain the thousands of holiday visitors to Disney World. She signs the story of Jesus and I narrate it. In between passages, a choir of 350 singers and an orchestra of 85 perform wonderful Chirstmas songs. I admit that the first year though I was eager to indulge in my Christmas fantasy, I was initially concerned because I didn't know the names in the Jesus story, let alone the story itself. And Marlee was no help. She laughed to herself at my dilemma. And as she said, she had no guilt; it didn't bother her because she said she could be reading the phone book in sign language for all the hearing audience knew. I was the one who had to SAY the story right. Even the producers of the event knew this Jewish kid was venturing in to Virgin Mary territory when, after the first performance, they handed me the CD of the show that they sold in the park to visitors and asked me to "enjoy" how Phylicia Rashad narrated it. From the first track on the CD, I got the hint. Too much Jew and not enough Christian here. Eventually I figured out that if Danny Kaye could sing "Snow" and Babra Streisand could sing "I'll Be Home for Christmas," then I could certainly muster up a decent narration of the story of the Little Lord "hmm-mm" that would make Marlee proud. <br /><br /></div><div></div><div>Well, eventually, I got it right. And they've been asking Marlee (and me) back ever since. She and I perform three times a day and we shout out one hell of a hallelujah chorus. And we must be doing something right because there's a standing ovation each time. So, come on down. If you do, you'll see Marlee signing the story BEAUTIFULLY and me, off to the side, microphone in hand, satisfing my annual need to celebrate some Christmas cheer. I like to call it "Two Jews Reading the Story of Jesus." <br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>And if the ghost of Grandma Flor should decide to visit me in the Florida night, I'll ask her for the same special dispensation that I'm sure the great Irving Berlin, who was probably a very nice Jewish boy, asked of the ghost of his Grandmother when she found out that he wrote the most famous Christmas song of all time, "White Christmas"...<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div>"Grandma! A guy's gotta make a living!"</div><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><div>Say Hallelujah and pass the Hanukkah Ham. And have a Happy second Day of Hanukkah.<br /></div><br /><div>655Jack</div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-79802303638102261422007-11-30T12:02:00.000-08:002007-11-30T12:11:22.215-08:00On the First Night of Hanukkah, My Chicken Gave to Me...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVkNDDwOjDGF5h38i3qBdrNQwwPz-BD-5DMAw46KpRJ_mNJ4cJg0LGuGQX0Bt22hmQHsZvfKEn83hm-Miz4LzksfljTpAlJGgNmLKh4E6C0eJZ0wNaHleqXw_4YYrrg7mCWtzf8UFGzxiC/s1600-r/Whole_Chicken_With_Giblets.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5138727935734216338" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4k2hfazfnuQWUlXyQrYvKiyZSeduNEID6wrqOR3gBLwh0j1T1Xlnk5-hhk6n9yQwWbhJVNK4Cx6rfbQIcSEfRRIwURyZJYjFavt3AkS5YRgVdYMKp6fBskayeuwVZ6FXqRbE4wOpK-HQ4/s320/Whole_Chicken_With_Giblets.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Before you go and start cutting up that Kosher chicken you got from Trader Joe's to make your chicken soup for the first night of Hanukkah, you better check those gizzards. You never know what you'll find. 655Jack<br /><br /><strong>Bracelet Lost 28 Years Ago Found In Chicken<br /></strong>(WBZ) FAIRMONT, Minn It won't fit him anymore, but a Gloucester, Massachusetts man has his metal identity bracelet back after it was found inside a chicken gizzard in Fairmont, Minnesota.Aaron Giles, who is now 32, lost the bracelet in his grandfather's barn 28 years ago.Giles lived in Fairmont as a child and played hide-and-seek and other games with his brothers in the barn.He told the Fairmont Sentinel he thinks he lost the bracelet when he was 4 or 5 years old.The barn was dismantled a few years ago, and the materials were used to construct another barn in a town about 45 miles away. Giles thinks his bracelet was imbedded in the barn materials when they were moved.Workers at a meat store were cutting up chickens when they spotted the bracelet in a chicken gizzard recently. Giles told the paper the bracelet pieces are intact and the clasp still works.It had the street address and phone number of his childhood home engraved on the steel, along with his father’s name, Doug Giles. That allowed a worker to track him down.Giles says he expects the bracelet to stay in his family for many years to come."It's the strangest story that I have ever heard in the meat locker business," store owner Mark Olson told the Sentinel. "I've heard of livestock swallowing unusual objects, but this situation stands out."</div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-78722338511170546322007-11-30T08:02:00.000-08:002007-11-30T08:14:29.949-08:00Four Crazy Brits to Celebrate 8 Crazy NightsIt's that time of year again. Time to light the candles! It's also time to have a latke (kudos if you know how to work with hot oil; I find it scary), have some gelt (if anyone has the inside track on where to get some 75% cacao dark chocolate gelt, you could make a killing in the 18-49 demo!), have a dreidel (please, if Jews can write great Christmas songs like "White Christmas," why can't they write a decent song about something made out of clay?!). Or Hava Nagila! Let's all chant "OY!"<br /><br />Happy Hanukkah to all!!<br />655 Jack<br /><br /><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/AOxVXQlZXqI&rel=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/AOxVXQlZXqI&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-54871596067127109132007-11-19T18:44:00.000-08:002007-11-30T12:21:43.224-08:00Is that you, Hanukkah Claus??<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnK58ZrF2ROHAvfg1joKTq0np1JI_d1QJzgmWZKRSoXauu8PlETgsQZ0PzUhe-XYBpIt73tWzoVwlTS-NE0sI5Hd9fARw234oAww1_8Z1MtW6rLX4YDO5zGq4kf9X-j3ElZfYGrf9IgXHb/s1600-r/Xmas04a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5138731165549622946" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpnG6vLPO9z3tFEbAE-008kta1IBd-Oho4psnf7lP9rcUbLv_w3z9XKCibkEuUmbQqRS9QFCT4xquIJXQCuL0BYd1ieAA5etAUWqU-PbwVYX93GQYN7xx_BZtZ05rlb6jHj8Xdv8pX_VEc/s320/Xmas04a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">Turkey Day is just 3 days away and that means</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">the holidays will soon be upon us (they actually</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">started at the stroke of midnight after Labor Day)</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRYUxIlNyrl_JdJnDO9awRJHyz6hcJ-lWqeV1rlz7rahbxoK1YG6uG5cPuFY8LPXlwQN-CaCZjdGm-yi8ZYYFm_YIVTRAabZKe3MoryeRJHFs7XO_Z2TDJOo8bkpJPhS6DozP3IF_UT9W/s1600-h/Xmas04.jpg"><span style="color:#006600;"></span></a><span style="color:#006600;"><br />Whether you worship the Western Wall, Jesus, Allah or the Almighty Dollah, it's time to celebrate! I'll try my best to post more often. Look for holiday musings, both past and present and some of my favorite links in the next few weeks. </span><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#006600;">Only 16 shopping days to Hannukkah and 35 shopping days to Christmas! Don't ask me when Kwanzaa is...</span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#006600;">655Jack</span></p></div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-73526683038761993582007-11-19T18:25:00.000-08:002007-11-19T18:29:52.402-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcIPFPbjxStDrkRBVxBwM-408ngKKlb6VmX3ldJaPanHbeVVBg5KcMAmnFSTCISfyKDBadOJZvS9coPUIjLG2-PRlt67YbR6achIr0kb1L5RY5Qk_SX2DXTO2qGMANWPjCZHljK8zVLzP/s1600-h/its-a-wonderful-life.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134743810503761698" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcIPFPbjxStDrkRBVxBwM-408ngKKlb6VmX3ldJaPanHbeVVBg5KcMAmnFSTCISfyKDBadOJZvS9coPUIjLG2-PRlt67YbR6achIr0kb1L5RY5Qk_SX2DXTO2qGMANWPjCZHljK8zVLzP/s320/its-a-wonderful-life.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Here's a great article from <a href="http://www.gadling.com/">http://www.gadling.com/</a> as all of you contemplate your holiday travels. Make sure to think of the TSA this year in your holiday stocking; just make sure it's 3oz. or less.</div><div>JJ</div><div> </div><div><strong>Love the snow globe, but don't hand carry it on an airplane<br /></strong>by <a href="http://www.gadling.com/bloggers/jamie-rhein">Jamie Rhein</a> </div><br /><div>While perusing the list of things not allowed as carry ons on airplanes, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snow_globe">snow globes</a> caught my eye. These are those items I usually associate with Christmas. Remember the one in "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0038650/">It's a Wonderful Life"</a> -- the Jimmy Stewart classic holiday movie? The snow globe represented the main character's idlylic town--all cozy and snowy in winter. Even if you had that snow globe-- calling it an antique--a movie classic piece of memorabilia, TSA wouldn't blink and eye before snatching it up and selling it on Ebay. </div><br /><div><br />Okay, I remember a snow globe at the end of "It's a Wonderful Life," but maybe I'm making this up and I just think I saw it. But, there was also a snow globe in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0033467/">"Citizen Kane"</a> that crashed to the ground and broke at the end of the movie when the main character dies, right as he whispered, "Rosebud." Either one, doesn't matter. You can't take it on the plane.<br />See, the water in the snow globe might not be water at all--and heaven knows what those white flakes or glitter that swirls about when you shake the globes might be made of. Plastic, sure. How about EXPLOSIVE plastic? Just kidding, I have no idea.</div><br /><div><br />I'm actually not faulting TSA for putting snow globes on the list. I never would have thought of their possible use as a terrorist weapon. Seems mean to me. Clever, sure, but definitely mean. Snow globes are magic. They are where you hold a world in your hand that you can alter by turning it upside down or shaking it. They are like the best memories of childhood--like pudding. You can take pudding on the plane, but just 3 ounces or less.<br />So if you happen to be traveling for the holidays and pick up a snow globe in some gift shop, just remember, wrap it in a towel or something, and put it in the middle of your suitcase--otherwise, maybe you can buy it back on <a href="http://search.ebay.com/life-snowglobe_W0QQfkrZ1QQfnuZ1QQfsooZ2QQfsopZ32">Ebay </a>like Neil suggests.</div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-67904220139488423542007-10-09T10:28:00.001-07:002007-10-09T10:28:57.741-07:00Sometimes You Just Gotta Dance<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/d2AN7kBQOsw' name='movie'/><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/d2AN7kBQOsw'/></object></p><p>These guys have the right idea. So what if they're monkeys; sometimes you just have to dance. </p></div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2413783519468819217.post-72181236648616545002007-09-30T14:31:00.000-07:002007-09-30T14:39:22.312-07:00Hurts So BadA slow Sunday, but meanwhile...<br /><br />This was an article that came up in my Yahoo! News. What was interesting was the picture that Reuters used to accompany it.<br /><br />No lie.<br />655<br /><br /><strong>What? Did I say something wrong?</strong><br /><strong><br /></strong>Tue Sep 25, 11:34 AM ET<br /><br />Malaysian doctors have reattached a man's nearly severed penis after his first wife, enraged by his comparison of her sex skills with those of his younger second wife, decided to chop it off with a kitchen knife.<br />The man, a 43-year-old Indonesian worker in southern Johor state, was lying in bed with his 48-year-old wife talking about his newly wed second wife, who is in her 30s, when the incident happened, the New Straits Times newspaper reported.<br />Despite his shock and pain, the man managed to pull on his trousers and ride his motorcycle to a nearby hospital, where doctors had to put in 11 stitches to reattach the organ. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZ-26TJ9nmaQ4Ka0mXFsGOC2Rj8ob7iw-Eias0mZ4jESQZgz6KlCS7UW7xoejUhIpAgAXUNEeM_I0e1wYEcaSvYVZ5DnZ2RTk7ljE7gQ0nrE8uaCDd2xgBcjIOpvKCt_3WlABC2r-fN9V/s1600-h/2007_09_25t142437_450x306_us_malaysia_penis.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116113695744240114" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZ-26TJ9nmaQ4Ka0mXFsGOC2Rj8ob7iw-Eias0mZ4jESQZgz6KlCS7UW7xoejUhIpAgAXUNEeM_I0e1wYEcaSvYVZ5DnZ2RTk7ljE7gQ0nrE8uaCDd2xgBcjIOpvKCt_3WlABC2r-fN9V/s320/2007_09_25t142437_450x306_us_malaysia_penis.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The man later complained to police, who arrested the woman and plan to charge her with voluntarily causing grievous hurt with a dangerous weapon, which carries the penalty of a three-year jail term and a fine, the newspaper reported.<br /><br /><div align="right"><em><span style="color:#3366ff;">Reuters - Tue Sep 25, 2:26 PM ET A knife is used to cut gammon in Stuttgart May 15, 2006 in this file photo. (Michaela Rehle/Reuters)</span></em></div>655Jackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10670962581177006774noreply@blogger.com0