The Marriage Contract

When a Jewish man and woman get married they enter into a pre-nuptial marriage contract. This contract is called a Katubah. Being that the Katubah that I had signed is in Hebrew and I do not speak, read or write in Hebrew, I have no idea what kind of contract I had entered into. Ilana does have a knowledge of Hebrew, winked to her mother and had a look on her face that I would assume the devil would have when he got hold of your soul.

When we were married I had no idea that I would have to sign this document. I had asked the Rabbi what I was signing and he just laughed. I turned around and looked into the faces of everyone who was present when I had signed it and they had all whispered to each other and laughed as well.

Thirty years have passed since I had tied the knot and signed the document. To this day I have not found a translation of the Katubah but I can say that from the knowledge that I have amassed over the past thirty years I believe I know most, if not all of the rules and regulations I had agreed to.

The first thing Ilana said to me after I signed the contract was "What is mine is mine. What is yours is mine". This is most likely the first paragraph and the premise of the Katubah. The next item on the Katubah is that the wife gets to spend an obscene amount of money by buying mezuzahs for every door way in the house. For anyone who does not know what a mezuzah is, it is a small decorative holder that contains a hand written parchment scroll reciting a prayer to protect your home. The holder can be a cheap piece of plastic to an expensive piece of artwork. The mezuzah is then nailed to the doorway at an angle. Regardless of the holder, the parchment which is written by a certified scribe is quite expensive. Ironically, the only room that doesn't have a mezuzah in the doorway is the bathroom and that is the room where I need the most amount of luck. Instead of a mezuzah, I must count on prunes and laxatives to have a meaningful, religious experience.

The Katubah to my understanding also states that it is the husband's responsibility to go into the backyard each weekend and pick up about five pounds of dog droppings. Every second weekend I am obligated to mow the lawn. The Katubah is not one sided, it also spells out the obligations of the wife. The wife does laundry every Sunday with the exception of towels. Laundry is a complicated process and must be done just so. Towels are the only exception. Any idiot can do towels so that is why it is relegated to the husband.

Ilana has made laundry into an art form. When she finishes it smells springtime fresh and is soft and fluffy. Ilana divides the wash into eight separate loads. Work clothes; blues, green and grays; jeans; reds and purples; white underwear; color underwear; delicates and Towels. Each different load has many different settings from sturdy to delicates, hot, warm, cold, combination of hot and cold; fast spin; long spin; rinse once, rinse twice; add softener or not; when to add bleach or not. The permutations are mind boggling. I for one do not wish to master this art. My idea of doing laundry is taking everything, shoving it all into the machine in one giant load, add soap and hit the on switch.

When you get through the washing process you now have to consider the drying process. Some clothes shrink in the dryer. Some melt. What gets hung to dry (aside from the husband after signing the Katubah)? Then comes the folding. Have you ever tried to fold a fitted sheet?  I read somewhere that Thomas Edison and Albert Einstein never mastered this. E=MC² actually was an attempt to quantify the laundry process but Albert Einstein changed his direction to understand the beginning of the universe which was  in his eyes a much simpler process.

One of the other  responsibilities that is delegated to the husband in the Katubah is doing the dishes, pots and pans after a meal. I am very good at this if I must say so myself and I take great pride in this task. On this evening I went into the kitchen and found all of the pots and pans clean and dried and all of the dishes placed into the dishwasher. This was a clear violation of my rights as spelled out in the Katubah. I had felt violated. I confronted Ilana and laid down the law. The law of the Katubah! I said in my best Tevye to Golde voice "I don't do the laundry and you do not do the pots and pans!"

All in all I believe that I have mastered my responsibilities that I had agreed to in the Katbbah. The Katubah actually is designed to protect the rights of the wife and is essentially a one sided document. Contractually or not, I gladly accept my responsibility as husband and seeing a smile on my wife's face is reward enough for me. The traditional alternative would be handing over four hundred zuz if she ever wanted to leave me. I have no idea what four hundred zuz is in today's dollars.

JAP: Jamaican American Princess

JAP (Noun, slang): Acronym for Jewish American Princess. A pampered young Jewish woman, especially one who takes material advantages for granted.

Danielle is one of my daughter's best friends and a young lady whom we have known for seventeen years who has been an integral part of our extended family.  Danielle is not Jewish. She is of Jamaican heritage and a proud Christian (she pronounces it as Crist-ee-ahn). As she is such an integral part of our family we felt compelled to ease her into our Jewish traditions. Mind you that we never had any intention of converting her from her religion to ours but the Jewish tradition is one of education and allowing it's followers to choose their own path of spirituality. Danielle was anxious to learn our traditions and proved to be an outstanding student. Before we knew it Danielle became a JAP. A Jamaican American Princess.

Since she was little she had participated in our Passover seder and has read the Hagadah, ate matzoh, dipped her herbs twice and polished off enough maror (pureed apples, figs, dates and nuts mixed with honey and concord grape wine) to effectively block up her kishkes (intestines). On Hanukkah she learned to love potato latkes and fried dough (I can't spell the Hebrew name but they are akin to Italian zeppoles) covered with powdered sugar. Little did we know that Danielle would embrace our traditions to the level that she did.

Danielle's education in Jewish tradition started innocently enough. We explained the holidays, we introduced her to Jewish fare and taught her a few Yiddish words. We probably went too far when we told her that Jesus was Jewish. She was aghast when we told her this she said "No way. Jesus was Christian. Like Christ as in Christ-ian". We explained that he was the son of Joseph and Mary who were Jewish and before Christ there were no Christians. We further explained to her that Christianity is derived from the name, Christ. Danielle went home and confronted her mother who did confirm this.

A week later Danielle came over and asked to learn more. She said since Christ was a Jew than Judaism is in her heritage as well and would like to know more. She asked how she could be more Jewish. We were amused and eagerly taught her everything we knew about Judaism (which isn't much). We told her that in order to act like a Jew you must always answer a question with a question. We also told her that she must master the ability to make everyone around her feel guilty and master the art of being a pampered princess.

A month or so passed and Danielle's mother called and asked what we did to her daughter. Apparently Danielle came home from school and this conversation ensued:

"How was school today?"

"How should it be? School is school" she responded.

"Did you get to school on time?"

"Time, shmime. What does it matter"

"What is wrong with you? I never saw you act like this".

"Oy vay[i]. Stop being an alter cocker[ii] mother".

We were mortified. How did this harmless lesson get so out of hand? We apologized and informed her that this is probably a passing phase and Danielle will get this out of her system. The next week Danielle came over for the weekend. She looked somewhat forlorn.

"What's going on Danielle. How do you feel?"

"How should I feel? I walked here from the bus stop and my feet are killing me a bissel[iii]. But it's not that bad a bi gezunt[iv]".

"Danielle, I spoke to your mother and think that we must have a talk."

"Later. I am famished I had lunch at school today and couldn't eat any of that chazerei[v]. It was drek[vi] I tell you. Pure unadulterated drek! The school doesn't serve latkes or matzoh balls. I was all fermisht[vii]."

"Ok. We'll eat first."

"Wait. Let me finish.   Reverend Smith came to the lunch room and asked me what the problem was. I told him that if they don't start serving decent kosher food at this school I will have a meesa masheena[viii]. The Reverend looked at me like I was meshugge[ix]".

"Danielle, you go to a Catholic school. They don't serve kosher food".

"And I ask... Why not? It's a shanda[x]."

The weekend continued this way. Danielle was spewing out Yiddish words and phrases that to this day I still do not understand. It finally got to the point that we could not sit back and do nothing. We made a horrible mistake bringing Danielle into our world and for the sake of her family and Judaism we had to correct this situation. We sat Danielle down on the couch and had an intervention. 

"Danielle. We made mistake".

"Vus machs da[xi]?"

"Remember when we told you that Christ was Jewish?"

"Why shouldn't I remember that? You think maybe I am senile?

"I was wrong. Christ wasn't Jewish. I lied to you."

"What's all this mishegoss[xii]. Why are you telling me this?"

"Danielle. You are Christian, your parents are Christian."

"But you have great food! You have Rabbi Akiba[xiii] and the parting of the Red Sea".

"You have that too. The Old Testament is part of the Christian heritage as well".

"But you have such cool and descriptive words. If I can't use them I won't be able to communicate effectively".

"Ok. Danielle. I didn't want to say this but you forced my hand. I spoke to the council of Jews and they don't want you."

"There is no such thing. I know what you are doing. This is a test of my faith. Did I pass?"

I wasn't getting anywhere with this line of reasoning. It had then hit me...

"Danielle, Jews don't get Christmas presents!"

"Why didn't you tell me this months ago! This is such a stupid religion."

Danielle went home that Sunday evening and gave up heavy malaga wine and matzoh for sacramental wine and communal biscuits. We have learned our lesson. The Judaic tradition is too powerful a concept for the uninitiated. In the future we will keep all of the good stuff like kishke[xiv], matzoh brie[xv] and the epic discussion of the great rabbinical scholars at the Sanhedrin to ourselves. Knowledge can be a dangerous thing in the wrong hands.

---

[i] "Oh, how terrible things are"

[ii] Old fart

[iii] A little

[iv] "As long as your healthy"

[v] Junk

[vi] Shit

[vii] befuddled, confused

[viii] horrible death

[ix] Crazy

[x] A shame

[xi] "What's the matter?"

[xii] Craziness

[xiii] Rabbi Akiba was a politically powerful scholar and teacher who was  a hero and activist who suffered a terrible martyr's death. We honor him at our family's passover seders.

[xiv] Kishke is the Jewish version of the Scottish Haggis. It is made with the intestinal lining of a sheep stuffed with bread crumbs, vegetables and chicken fat and then baked. Yum.

[xv] Matzoh soaked in eggs and milk and sauteed with butter. Salt and pepper to taste, It is usually eaten with jelly or sugar.

Gratuities

After reading my previous two essays my wife stated I was being bitter. I said Nay. I am being factual and honest. She didn't go for it. In my continuing series of bitter essays I include a topic that very often brings out the ire in me...

Definition: Gratuities - (noun, plural) Gifts of money over and beyond the payment due for services performed.

The concept of gratuities has always been daunting to me. I have always felt uncomfortable in situations where I wasn't sure how much to tip. Searching the web has not been much help as tipping is very often governed by personality, region, race and nationality.

Many European nations have, as far as I am concerned, the best tipping custom. They include the tip and the local taxes in the price of the food. What you are charged is what you pay. No calculations required. If you are charged $100 for a party of four, you quickly calculate that everyone has to pay a share of $25.00. I absolutely hate restaurants that write on the bill that tax will be added at the register.  When you get the bill you have to figure the sales tax first. Is it 8.625% or is it 8.650%. Wait... didn't the sales tax increase to 9.625% last month. What the F@#&! would it be so difficult for the damn server to include the sales tax before he gives me the bill. I take a percentage off the tip just for the sheer laziness of the restaurant to add the sales tax.

Even more than hating restaurants that do not initially include the sales tax, I hate the ones that add gratuities to the bill in advance. Every now and then I will see a stamped comment stating that a gratuity of 20% has already been added to the bill. I want to know is it just me or does this apply to everyone? Am I being viewed as cheap bastard before I even sit down? Is it my clothes? My demeanor? I always wondered if the service wasn't to my satisfaction would I be able to reduce the automatic gratuity. Are automatic gratuities enforceable in a court of law? These are the questions that race through my mind whenever I go out to eat.

It has been explained to me that the automatic gratuity is imposed by many New York restaurants due to foreign tourists not leaving tips as they are accustomed to the pay one price policy that is prevalent in Europe. Several years ago I was informed the reason was due to teenagers not leaving appropriate tips. Before that I was told (in a more openly racist era) that people of color do not tip. Somehow I wonder if this is all hype and just another way to increase profits. Who actually is getting the gratuities? About two years ago the staff at Nobu sued the owners for withholding and pocketing their tips.

I use the following standard to calculate tips:

1.  I start at 20%

2.  No one tends to us within 5 minutes - Deduct 5%
3.  Server doesn't smile - Deduct 5%
4.  Server is pretty and smiles at me and calls me Hon - Add 10%
5.  Accuracy of order - Deduct 2% for each wrong item
6.  Relish plate and rolls brought to table without asking - Add 2%
7.  Server crouches - Deduct 3% (servers at Applebee's are advised to crouch in order to be lower than the patron thus making the patron feel superior)
8.  Refills drinks expeditiously - Add 3% (free refill add 1% more)
9.  Server tells me I don't need the french fries - Deduct 10%
10. Throws in a free appetizer - Add 2%
11. Adds automatic gratuity to bill - Throw away my calculations that I became so engrossed in keeping track of to the extent where I didn't get a chance to enjoy the food and pay the posted amount under protest.

In actuality I usually double the tax which in New York City would result in a tip of approximately 18%. In a cheaper restaurant such as Friendly's or Chili's I will up grade a dollar or two. It has always bothered me that a server in a restaurant that charges $15 to $20 per person, the server does the same amount of work as a server in a restaurant that charges $25 to $50 per person. Due to this (based on a 20% gratuity for a dinner for two) the server in the less expensive joint will get a tip of $8.  The server in the more expensive restaurant would get a tip of $16.00 for the same amount of work. I ask you, is this fair? Also, should I punish a server for poor food quality or kitchen efficiency by reducing the tip?

For a while I was leaving cash as the gratuity at the cheaper restaurants so the server would have the option to declare a lesser amount to the IRS. At the more expensive restaurants I would include it on the credit card to make sure that it was declared by the (elitist pig fancy shmancy) server with an attitude. But I am patriot and believe that everyone has the responsibility to pay their fair share of taxes.

THIS IS A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: PAY YOUR TAXES!

I do not condone misrepresenting your income to the IRS. Your taxes are needed to ensure the proper operation of our government and to finance all of the wonderful work it does in Iraq and Afghanistan and helping out the ailing banking and investment sectors and the underpaid CEOs and executives who are unable to afford the bare necessities that are needed by people in their position such as luxury yachts, personal jets and villas in the Riviera.

Have you noticed lately that counter service people at delis, donut shops and pizzerias are placing tip jars on the counter. I ask ... for what? Waiters are paid ridiculously low salaries in anticipation of gratuities. Counter people are paid normal hourly wages. I don't get gratuities for doing my job. Readers take my word and do not allow yourself to feel guilty and shamed for not leaving a tip at a counter. save the money for a worthwhile charity such as the American Diabetes Association, the Red Cross or the Brooklyn State of Mind Barry Levine Retirement Fund.

A Moyle (person who performs ritual Jewish circumcisions) at a bris (a Jewish ritual circumcision) was asked why he performs this ritual. He responded, "the pay is lousy but the tips are good."

As I mentioned earlier, I found searching the web for tipping advice troubling, so I will include my own list which I now follow religiously.

Food Servers - 20% (+/- 5% depending on the quality of service)

Food delivery people - $1 per $10 of order
Barbers/ Beauticians/Pet Groomers - 15%
Salon Shampooer - $1 to $2
Cabs/Car Service - 10%
Bell Hops - $1.00 per bag
Hotel Housekeepers - $2 per night
Sky caps - I don't use them. I prefer to carry my own bag
Mail deliverer - Yeah. Right. They are not supposed to solicit tips.
Sanitation workers - City: $0 (if you live in a city that has private sanitation $20 each or you may find the garbage on your lawn)
Service People - None. Unless they give you an upgrade and don't charge you.
Building Superintendent (not including city owned building) - $100 per year
Building concierge, staff, parking attendants - $20 - $25 each per year.
Newspaper delivery - $20.00 per year (minus the cost for replacing all papers thrown in a puddle or used to provide the dog with a chew toy.
Tipping Cows - I threw this in to keep you on guard. Not a wise thing to do.

In this continuing series of bitter complaints the next topic will be Splitting the Restaurant Tab. I don't drink so why should we split the bill evenly!

Please contact me at balevine@mail.com if you wish to discuss this topic further or convince me that I am a cheap bastard.

The Colonial Mansion - World Famous in Brooklyn

Recently I had found an old acquaintance on Linkedin who I had worked with at a Brooklyn Catering hall many years ago. This brought back a flood of memories. Many of the people I will write about are no longer with us. I can relate some of the lighter memories but will omit the many other more damaging stories out of respect to their memories (not that they deserve it) and to their families that are still around (that do deserve the respect).

The Colonial Mansion. It wasn't colonial (it was built in the 1930s). It wasn't a mansion. It was a  catering hall that was a world famous institution in Brooklyn. Nearly everybody in Brooklyn had attended a Bar Mitzvah or wedding at the Colonial Mansion in the 1950s and 1960s. In my family working at the Colonial Mansion was a rite of passage. Akin to the Sioux indians placing hooks through the skin and being dangled from trees. I was not related to the Feuerstein and Birnbaum families that owned the hall, but my Aunt Margie's husband, Seymour, was.

The Colonial Mansion was a kosher (just barely) business and the food was usually pretty good. In the 1950s they were known for their football weddings. A football wedding is one where the food platters are placed on a table and everyone threw the food to each other. Eventually the service demanded some refining and the parties became sit down affairs and served by waiters.

At their busiest they handled as many as ten parties a weekend in the three ballrooms. Aside from the decent food they were probably one of the cheapest halls in the city. They cut costs by paying staff poorly, reusing leftover food and watering down the liquor. My father, Harvey, worked there as the Gardé Manger (preparing the cold foods such as salads, deserts, fruit platters, fish platters, etc.) and was the kitchen manager  responsible for ordering food and hiring the per diem kitchen staff. At sixteen years of age I spent a summer working with him in the kitchen.

The Birnbaums were three brothers and a sister, Harvey, Sam, Irving and Blanche (whose married name was Feuerstein). The two older brothers eventually left the business and moved to Florida. The business was then operated solely by Irving and Blanche. Blanche's two sons, Bernie and Nate, were active in the running of the business. Irving's two son's who were talented musicians didn't really want anything to do with the business. Bernie was the most personable of the two Feuerstein brothers and handled much of the front end and schmoozed with the clientele. Bernie is actually mentioned in Sammy "the bull" Gravano's autobiography as a friend. Nate's main job was pouring the cheap liquor into the expensive liquor bottles and rearranging the plastic fern fronds that decorated the dais tables in the ball rooms. Both Bernie and Nate drank excessively and died relatively young most likely as a result from drinking.

After the summer in the kitchen, I started working as a waiter and stayed there nearly eleven years working as waiter, bartender and head waiter. Aside from the Jewish parties, the Colonial also catered many Italian weddings as well (where meat and dairy were served together -  not very kosher). When parties were booked the Jewish clientele were informed that tips were payable in advance and added to the cost of the contract. The Italian patrons were not advised of this, therefore, the Italians tipped but it was very rare that we received any from the Jewish parties. In the eleven years I had worked there, I must have worked between 2000 to 2100 parties. I have heard Hava Nagila and the Bunny Hop so many times I actually cringe just thinking about it (wait... I am cringing right now... Ok it's over lets move on). We started at nine in the morning Saturday and worked through to one AM (sometimes two AM) Sunday and back again at nine AM to twelve thirty AM Monday for a total of 26 to 28 hours. I came home with between one hundred ten and one hundred thirty dollars. That was less than five dollars an hour but we ate for free and got cigarettes gratis as well.

During the years working there I had met Neil Sedaka, Phil Donohue, Marlo Thomas, Tiny Tim, and Carlo Gambino. I never personally waited on Carlo Gambino but he was an excellent tipper and passed hundreds around. One lesson I had learned was that when someone says that he will take care of you at the end of the party if you keep the drinks coming he will sneak out before the end of the party and leave you with zilch. The tippers who will really tip will tip you at the beginning and at the end.

As I had mentioned before, my father made the cold food platters. At the end of the party he would throw all of the uneaten fruit on the platters into the garbage. One day Blanche walked in and saw my father throwing the food out and promptly went to Bernie and complained about the waste of food. Bernie came in and went through the garbage and pulled out the unused fruit. He told my father that he is to re-use the leftover fruit. The next day my father threw away the uneaten fruit again but this time included broken glass in the garbage as well. Bernie came in and was incensed at seeing the fruit in the garbage especially after the dressing down he gave him the previous day and went dumpster diving for the fruit again. This time he came up with fruit and shredded skin. Needless to say this was never an issue again.

There were two loveable characters that were employed as porters. Artie, a short black man who at times could be cantankerous and John who was hard of hearing and mumbled. Watching Artie and John was like watching Laurel and Hardy. On one occasion they came out with a ladder to replace some burnt out light bulbs on the marquis over the front entrance. Artie picks up the ladder, turns and inadvertently hits John in the head. After the stars subsided they set the ladder up and Artie climbed up as John held the ladder in place. Of course the next thing you know Artie is standing on John's fingers.

John calls up (mumbling) "Artie yer standin' on my fingers".

Artie hears John but doesn't actually understand what he is saying yells down, "Shut up".

"But Artie..."

"I said shut up fool".

"But ... "

"Just hold the damn ladder idiot!"

This went on for another five minutes. We yelled up to Artie but he ignored us as well. All we could do was laugh as John shrugged and winced in pain.

Nathan "Nate" Birnbaum was the sad sack of the Colonial. Nate's main job was to pour the cheap liquor into the expensive liquor bottles. He would spend hours in the back room like a chemist pouring solutions into beakers. A good portion of the liquor was probably consumed by Nate as well. In the eleven years I worked at the Colonial only one patron was able to tell that the scotch in the Chivas Regal bottle was not in fact Chivas.  

Nate's wife eventually left him and he had moved into a small, depressing apartment in Bensonhurst. He had no life outside of work to speak of but he had one possession that he had cherished. His Cadillac. One night after work Nate went to his car, sat down in it and passed away. He was in his mid to late fifties when he died.

The porters who worked late after everyone else went home swore that they saw Nate's ghost in the ballrooms re-arranging the plastic fern fronds on several occasions.

There have been many television exposés regarding what happens in restaurants and foods that are tampered with. The same happens in catering halls. I for one have never defiled the food that I served my customers no matter how irritating or insulting they may be. But I have seen co-workers spit in the salad dressing, urinate in a barrel of pickles and when a customer sent back a slab of prime rib that wasn't well enough one of the waiters would throw it on the floor and step on it before placing it back on the grill (you want shoe leather you'll get shoe leather). I understand why someone would want to do it but a little modicum of self control should take precedence.

I had mentioned earlier what I had learned about promises of tips. Here is a list of other things that I have learned from working at the Colonial and I am not stereotyping:

1. Teachers at parties get drunk and randy.

2. Masons and Knights of Pythias lodge brothers eat a lot and have no self control.
3. College students at their senior proms are oblivious.
4. One can actually burst their stomach at a buffet. Not a pleasant sight and requires immediate hospitalization.
5. Most people cannot tell expensive liquor from cheap.
6. Fights usually break out between families when Italian and Irish people wed. Most notably the groom angry at his new bride for putting cake on his face, shoved the entire top tier in her face and knocked her down. A fight ensued that went from the third floor to the second floor where a bar mitzvah was being celebrated. Someone went in and said "look at the fuckin' Jews" which resulted in a new group becoming embroiled in this fight. There was fighting all the way down to the basement and out into the street which resulted in the police getting involved in the festivities and a little old Iridh lady beating a police captain with her pocket book.
7. Minors should not drink. They puke a lot.
8.  Elderly people will put their left over chicken, salad and ice cream in the same doggie bag.
9. Becoming a pizza deliverer is a better career choice than working as a waiter in a kosher catering hall.
10. Cooking scrambled eggs in copper pans turn the eggs green.

As the Colonial was one of the cheapest catering halls they eventually started getting a lower class clientele. I remember my last day working there vividly. We had a party were everyone was nasty and difficult. The party was nearly over when an older patron had asked for more non-dairy creamer. The waiter that had the table was insulted and abused all night and refused to go back to that group. As the head waiter, I went to assist  and was very polite and accommodating. I brought a fresh pitcher of non-dairy creamer to the table when the guy grabbed it out of my hand thus causing the pitcher to fall and get on his clothes. The next thing I know the guy jumps up and is ready to fight.

A minute later I have twenty people coming at me. I retreated into the kitchen as the mob followed me in. I picked up a pot lid as a shield and a twelve inch butcher knife as weapons and brandished them proudly as a roman gladiator fighting a horde of Goths. Finally other people with cooler heads got their family members to go back to the ballroom. I walked downstairs, threw my jacket in the boss's face and said I was sick and tired of the shit they call customers and quit.

My father continued to work there for the next ten years working 60 to 70 hours a week. He worked there nearly 30 years and was let go at Christmas without a thank you, pension or any health benefits. Luckily he was able to start collecting social security and had coverage through my mom's retirement benefits. I have no regrets about working there. There are many good memories and I met many good people who went on to achieve wonderful things. Aside from a few celebrities I had also met a Shaolin priest working as a dish washer, Runyonesque characters who talked about the horses, Lieutenant's in the Columbo crime family and people straight out of a Dicken's novel (think Great Expectations and Oliver Twist). Most are gone and many I have enjoyed working with and wish that I could get in contact with again.

Shortly after my father retired the Colonial Mansion went out of business after fifty years of catering to the masses. The last time I was in Bath Beach the noted kosher catering hall was a Muslim Cultural Center. Another example of how the Jews and Muslims are linked from Abraham not only in scripture but in Brooklyn as well..

A Life Examined: The First Six Years

In my blog I occasionally make references to the history of Brooklyn. As I approach my older years I realize that my memories of growing up may be considered historical by my children and their children. Therefore I will be including  my memoirs to provide a historical reference as to who I am and provide insight as to what the hell happened to me.

I was born September 12, 1953. The same day that future president John Kennedy and Jacqueline Bouvier were wed. World War II ended eight years prior and the Korean War ended the prior year. The first space flights were less than nine years away and we were becoming embroiled in another war in Vietnam. We were also living under the shadow of a nuclear winter as tensions between the USSR and our country were escalating. Gasoline was less than 20 cents a gallon and cars got ten miles to the gallon and that was considered economical.

The first six years of my life where spent mostly on East 4th street and 18th Avenue in Brooklyn, We lived in a one bedroom apartment in a four story walk up on the 4th floor. Yes, Alyssa, I lived in an apartment and not in a cave. When my daughter, Alyssa, was younger she asked my wife what we did for fun when we were children. When Ilana told her we played hide and seek, ring-a-leevio, spud and watched TV just like children do today Alyssa said "You had television in caves?"

I have a lot of memories from East 4th street. For one there were lots of kids and there was never a want for companionship. We were known as the East 4th Street gang, The toughest and rowdiest gang in our building. Ronnie, Bobby, Franky, Ralph, Little Barry (I was Big Barry), Ricky, and Charlie to mention a few. To mention the fun things we did included tying all of our bikes up to form a train and chugged around the block, we ran up the block, we ran down the block, we pretended we were on a lion hunts and caught cats. Mind you we never hurt them and always let them go a just a little frazzled. I stopped doing this when one clawed my face and nearly missing my eyes. Believe it or not cats do not like to be caught and placed in bags.

The building had three small courtyards and each were designated after the kid whose apartment overlooked the yard. There was Frankies yard, Ricky's yard and our most favorite, Cecelia's yard. The reason for this was that Cecelia's mom always baked small sweet potatoes for us and passed them out though the window. There was another yard in the building next door but we were prohibited from going there after Ralph stuck his head through the black iron fence and couldn't get it out. For the life of me I cannot figure out why someone would want to stick his head through a fence. I think Ralph was trying to prove that his ears were not that large. They were Ralph, get over it.

Good times yes, but there were bad times as well and most of the bad times were  caused by Charlie. Charlie was a walking disaster area. He was what is known as a shlemiel (pronounced as shleh-meal). Shlemiel and shlemazel (pronounced as shleh-ma-zl) are two yiddish terms describing people who constantly have bad things happening to them. My friend Mark had explained the difference to me once. A shlemiel is a person who goes to the ball park with seats in the upper tier, buys a hot dog with the works and a beer and drops it. The shlemazel is the guy below who they land on.

During a rain storm Charlie asked me to help him close the hallway windows so the floors wouldn't get wet. My window had a ten inch triangle of broken glass that popped out and almost severed two fingers off my left hand. Charlie also punched Bobby in the face while Bobby was tying his Keds forgetting he also had a twig in his hand thusly puncturing a hole through Bobby's cheek. Charlie also hit Ricky in the head with a brick giving him a few stitches as well. I do not believe that anyone was spared the wrath of Charlie.

Then there was Cheryl. Yes ... Cheryl. All of the boys had a crush on Cheryl. Charlie and I were always vying for her attention. This may have been the cause of Charlie's hostility. I no longer remember who had won her affections but I do know that shortly thereafter we moved to an apartment in a two family home owned by my mother's sister, Margie, leaving Charlie without any real competition. While growing up I had two cousins living nearby that were approximately three years older than I was. Stan (who by the way is an actor from TV and movies who goes by a different name)  the son of Margie and Seymour and there was Larry (now a successful dentist in Pennsylvania)  son of my father's sister Esther and her husband, Hank.

Each weekend my parents asked which cousin that I wanted to visit. My choices were Stan, who was fun and entertaining, and Larry who hit me and inflicted pain. Hmmm? Did I want to have fun or ne subjected to endless pain and humiliation? Difficult choice. If only there was some other factor that would help me make my choice.

There was.

Brennan and Carr, the legendary double dip roast beef emporium on Avenue U and Nostrand Avenue. This was a no brainer. Ok dad, lets visit cousin Stan. What I cannot figure out even to this day is as I had the power of choice, how is it that every other week I had to visit cousin Larry?

In 1959 we moved to our new apartment on Avenue X in Sheepshead Bay. My parents dropped me off at my Aunt Margie's house the day before the move. The next morning Stan said that we are going to go war with the Brodleib boys who live up the block. Stan's strategy was that he will take care of the two older brothers and I am to take on Richie the youngest of the three who was my age. What I didn't know was that this was a play fight so when Stan said, "Ok Barry. Kill!", I went running down the block with Stan and trying to impress my older cousin I had tackled Richie and started banging his head into the floor. Finally I was pulled off of him and Stan said "What the hell, Barry! what are your doing! We're only playing!". 

Stan, this was an important piece of information. It may only be me, but I think some advance notice of this was in order.  Luckily Richie had the hardest head of anyone I ever knew and did not suffer any immediate physical damage even  though there may be some evidence that there may have been long term damage as Richie exhibited questionable behavior later on like having biting contests with his dog and dousing his hands with lighter fluid and setting them ablaze.  But that, as they say, is another story.

In 1959 Avenue Y was still a partially dirt road as so was a 1/4 mile of Nostrand Avenue leading up to Sheepshead Bay. Rainbow Lanes on Knapp Street was a vacant lot and the Sheepshead Bay Water Treatment processing center was less than half the size it is today. Incidentally, you may find it interesting  (or not) to know that the Water Treatment center is one of the largest in the country and processes most of  the sewage (human feces) produced by the three million plus inhabitants of Brooklyn that gets dumped into the ocean to feed the fishes that are so abundant in the New York Bight. About six years ago the odor scrubbers caught fire and stopped functioning. With typical city efficiency the rehab that was supposed to be done in two years has still not been completed creating a somewhat pungent earthy aroma when you pass by.

Rainbow Lanes has been closed down for several years and has been converted to a nameless warehouse type facility. Word is that it is a DOD/CIA terrorist

prison and interrogation center. The Burger King across the street probably loses many customers because of the treatment center odor but stays in business by supplying meals for the prisoners,  sorry I mean, detainees. This may be a human rights violation but I do admit that I have partaken in a double Whopper (number 2 on the menu) from time to time.

This was essentially the first six years of my life. How much of this defined my life I may never know. But every decision one makes and every experience one has contributes to the definition of that person. The East 4th Street Gang, Brooklyn style pizza, Brennan and Carr, Roll-n-Roaster and Nathans definitely played an important part in who I am today. There is a saying that you are what you eat. And conversely you eat what you are, whatever that may mean. 

2012 - The End of the World

December 21, 2012. It is foretold that the life as we know it will come to an end on that date. Nostradamus had predicted this as many others have as well.  There are many signs that are pointing to this inevitable event.

There was an earthquake in Virginia and hurricane Irene nearly hit New York last summer, the El Nino phenomena was discovered ten years ago as was the hole in the ozone layer.  Newt Gingrich is leading the polls while real newts and frogs are disappearing. The New York Islanders won three games in a row.  Basketball season almost didn't start.  If these signs are not harbingers of dark things to come, I don't know what is.

I, for one, am really concerned this time around. I have noticed the flying patterns of the geese flying south this year. I have counted the chirps of crickets and found that the staccato of their chirps is off by one chirp per minute. Postage stamps stick to my tongue when I lick them. Yes, I am an observer of the arcane. Most normal people do not notice these minute changes in the universe. I am proud to admit that I am not normal by any means.

I had a dream once.  In the dream I was a little bushy tailed squirrel foraging for nuts and berries. I was cute and fluffy and hopped around the woods in a wavy motion. The other forest animals asked me where I was going to store my nuts and berries. I realized that unless I hid them properly the others would take it when my back was turned. So I decided to eat all of the nuts and berries. I kept eating them and as a result got fatter and fatter so I could no longer fit into the hole in the tree.

I realize now that this is why I am overweight. I have been preparing myself for this moment, When the end of the world finally comes all of the skinny people will die of malnutrition. I will be in a position to outlast them all. The joke is on you skinny person.  The only shortcoming to this plan is if they try to run after me before they succumb to their hunger. Believe it or not I am not a fast runner. But I have a plan for this as well. I will carry a bag of celery which I can throw on the ground to create a diversion so that I may escape. Skinny people love celery.

Von Donnekan has theorized that we have been visited by extraterrestrial beings many times in the past. They were responsible for the Nazca lines in Peru, the building of the pyramids in South America and Egypt and the excavation of the Grand Canyon. He also pointed out that many ancient drawings show godly beings wearing space suits and helmets. This leads to the most compelling evidence that the world will cease to exist in 2012. It was noted that the Mayan calendar ends December 20, 2012. If anybody knows calendars it's the Mayans! They even went so far as carving the calendar in stone rather than shiny paper stock to ensure that someone would be able to read it in 900 years.

Let's fast forward to the twenty first day of December 2012.

A boulder was unearthed in Prospect Park that was deposited there by a great glacier during the last ice age period 16,000 years ago. On the boulder were marks similar to the Nazca lines found in Peru, It was interpreted by scientists and religious leaders that the end of the world as predicted by the Mayan Calendar would start not in Peru, but Prospect Park in Brooklyn.

Thousands of pilgrims from all over the world arrive at the great meadow of Prospect Park. Thousands of cars and buses are lined up on Flatbush Avenue and Eastern Parkway hopelessly trying to get to the Park. Many investing their life savings to make this final pilgrimage. Hawkers are selling End of the World T-Shirts with Peter Griffin mooning God and Revelation T shirts of God mooning Peter Griffin. Falafel and hot dogs are being sold by street vendors for twenty dollars each, There are mimes, musicians and religious zealots playing the crowds as well as high wire, juggling and explosives expert Dexter Tripp. Kids are break dancing and smoking pot that they stole from the Brooklyn Botanical Garden's medicinal herb exhibition across Flatbush Avenue..

Someone looks up and points to the Sun and shouts.  The daylight starts to fade as a  circle of blackness at first small begins to grow and begins to block out the Sun. A hush falls over the multitudes. A child begins to whimper and a hipster starts to cry. Everyone watches the growing darkness with reverent awe. Within moments there is a realization that the Sun is being blocked out by a large extraterrestrial ship that is approaching. The crowd shouts and vacates a large area as it becomes apparent where the craft is going to land. As it lands it kicks up a large cloud of dust from the arid baseball field.

After several moments the dust settles and a door opens and a ramp descends to the ground. A man in a golden suit emerges bearing a package. He removes his helmet and appears to be human. He raises the package, smiles and says...

"Boy do I feel stupid. I was passing Alpha Centauri and realized I forgot to give you the rest of the calendar".

At that point someone shoots him and yells "Go back home alien muthafucka*.

To my friends and family, have a healthy and happy New Year!

For  readers who can't get enough of this blog and are masochistic enought to want to read it again and again and money is no object, Brooklyn State of Mind: The Whole Skaboodle - Volume I is now available as a trade paperback and can be purchased at Createspace or Amazon. At $9.95 for 56 pages (that's almost 18 cents per page) it makes a great gift.

Hobbies

Recently it had occurred to me that other than work and reading when I have time I do not have any hobbies. I do eat and watch TV but I don't really consider those as hobbies. I considered collecting coins and stamps but I found the idea of doing so boring. Besides my reading vision is constantly getting worse and these hobbies would cause a great deal of eye strain.

I remembered when my wife, Ilana, used to crochet she was very happy, calm and relaxed. She would take her little wicker basket, grab her little crochet needle, unroll her little project and start to crochet. Yes. she was very happy indeed. She crochetted (I don't know if this is grammatically correct) bear rugs for the kids, scarves, hats, toilet paper covers, mittens, tapestries and blankets.

That is the kind of hobby I need. If Rosie Greer could knit, I could crochet. If anyone reading this does not know who Rosie Greer was, he was one of the greatest linemen who had played for the New York Jets in the 60's. Rosie was not the robot maid of the Jetsons. If you don't know who the Jetsons will be (they won't be born for another 1000 years), look it up. I got a skein of yarn, a needle and started to crochet. After twenty minutes what I had was an unrecognizable ball of knotted up yarn. Ilana said I could take a class but I vowed never to go back to school so that was a dead issue.

I thought deep. I thought hard. After weeks of thinking I glanced over at an empty box that had some items I received from Amazon and I came up with the perfect hobby. Bubble Wrap.

So now, I come home from work, eat dinner and then when I relax I take out my basket of bubble wrap, seek out a particular sheet that inspires me, unroll and start popping the bubbles. At first I popped them lineally vertical and then horizontal. After a few weeks I became proficient enough to do them diagonally. After a month or two I was able to pop out portraits of presidents. I was so happy. It brought my blood pressure down and it had elevated me to a level of karmic bliss. I could even do it in the bathroom and if it got soiled it is easy to clean!

Unfortunately my hobby did not sit well with my family members. My daughter ripped the bubble wrap out of my hands and said that the constant sound of the bursting bubbles was annoying. Ilana raised the volume of the television, my son made it a point not to come home until he was sure I was asleep and my dog urinated on my basket od bubble wrap. I think it was the dog but I would not put this past my son.

I came home one night and found my entire collection of bubble wrap and my bubble wrap version of Picasso's Guernica missing. I searched the garbage pails but alas I could not find it. The masses had spoke. They were not happy with my choice of hobby. Now I am back to square one and have to devise a new hobby. I am currently trying to combine a Tuba with a bubble solution reservoir and bought a collection of Lawrence Welk CDs. Who knows. I have a little less than four more years before I retire. I think that this can turn into a second career.

Resistance is Futile

One of the great moments in television history was when the Starship Voyager met the Borg for the first time in the episode "Q Who?". The ultimate outcome of machine/human integration was not presented as an appealing forecast of the future. The six million dollar man showed the benefits of such integration, but left unchecked Lee Majors could have had metal projections and wires sticking out of his face and bodily cavities. But the 1960's was an ominous time with a nuclear threat over our heads. Hiroshima was only 20 years earlier and we didn't believe we would live to see the next millenium. We all wanted to see a rosy outlook for the future and believed that technology was a good thing and held the seeds for world peace and an end to starvation and disease. We wanted to forget the horrors and evils that technology could bring if left to it's own course.

While not quite the visionary that Steve Jobs was (see note), I do predict the integration of computer chips into our neural network which will allow us to communicate and surf the web without any external equipment and this will be very evident within the next ten years. We will be bluetoothed!

I have done my part to keep this integration with the world wide web at bay by not getting a cell phone when they were marketed to the general public. What's wrong with using public phones? I caved due to peer pressure and bought an Omnipoint phone manufactured by Ericcson. My fight had escalated to the next level and I had vowed to not buying a smart phone. What's wrong with a phone that just makes phone calls? Who needs a phone that can socially network with other people, hold 5000 albums of music, your entire life story in photos and film clips and allow you to effortlessly send and receive email and text messages? No not me, I do not need to be that connected.

It started so innocently. I was at home bored to death and I put myself on Facebook. This was pretty cool. Instantly I am connected to dozens of people I know.  I am now aware of where they are, what they ate for dinner, what they're doing, and who they are doing it to. I was amazed at how easy it is to socialize through this method. Before I knew it I was connected to hundreds or people and if I wanted I could connect to thousands of people.

Not being satisfied with the limitations of telling everyone what I am doing on Facebook, I took the next step and started to write a blog which is what your are currently reading, If you're not reading this you are not missing much, at least that's what some people tell me. Now I have unlimited space to express my beliefs and opinions and to write things that can be deep or incoherent, or both. So here I am baring my inner most throughts and secrets to all (except for the stuff that can get me in trouble), by the way I really enjoy my job and my bosses and must admit they are doing wonderful work and are excellent leaders.

Both of my children moved up to iphones and this has turned out to be a wonderful thing. They spend so much time being connected to the cyber-social world (the collective) that they have been a pleasure to live with. They do not have the time to find fault with me and criticize the choices I have made in life. They are happy. Everyone is happy!

Something's wrong. I am not as happy as I should be. Given that I am a depressed introvert, only have a number of friends that I can count on half a hand (if I had a finger amputated) and generally do not like other people, I can't understand why I am not happy living in my little house, in my little world consisting of three million people within an area of 70 square miles (I had to throw something in about Brooklyn after all Brooklyn is the basis of my blog). What is making my kids happy that I don't have? Youth? Good looks? Cheap room and board? Then it occurred to me. I do not have a smart phone.

Four weeks ago I bought an HTC Trophy Windows 7 phone. My kids had iphones but I couldn't cave in completely by getting the same phone they had. I chose the Windows phone. It was also $25.00 extra as opposed to the $199.99 to $249.99 Verizon charges for the iphone with a two year contract (I prefer to be called frugal instead of cheap). I did my research. The reviews for the phone where overwhelmingly positive. I am also positive that Bill Gates is using one instead of an iphone.

The first two weeks I had the phone I was adding apps, surfing the web, perusing Facebook, sending text messages and watching Netflix until 2:00 AM in the morning. It has occurred to me that the combined knowledge of every person alive or who has ever lived is now at my fingertips. The WWW makes the legendary Library of Alexandria look like a 1st grade primer. I can convert fahrenheit to celsius, acres to hectares, ounces to drams, see a satellite view of Toldedo, Ohio or Toledo, Spain from the comfort of my mattress. I can see the entire cast of Star Trek and read their resumes and see their head shots whenever I get a notion to do so, wherever I am.

Resistance is futile. As Matthew Broderick said in The Producers, "Stop the world! I want to get on". I can't wait to get implanted and join the collective. Typing on a virtual keyboard is so limiting. The Borg may have lousy complexions and have hardware and attennas sticking out of their bodies (which probably gets in the way of sex but with virtual pornography available who needs physical sex?) but you can tell they are as happy as a bug in a rug.

Note: This blog is dedicated to Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple, who passed away this week at too young of an age. He was a brilliant visionary and will go down in history as one of the greatest innovators who has ever lived. My comparison of myself to Steve Jobs as a visionary was satirical in nature. Imagine what he would have brought to being if he had lived another 40 years.

The World is a Stage

In 1099 Will Shakespeare and William the Conqueror took the chunnel from Normandy invading England with their corpulent wit and charm and co-penned many plays, novels and television scripts. England was never the same again. Until that point the main form of entertainment in the British Isles were Druid human sacrifices and an occasional Roman orgy.

In 1664 John Smith and his brother came to the New World selling cough drops when Jeremiah Smith was inspired by the beauty of John's sixteen year old girl friend, Pocohontas, and decided to start a theater troupe in Virginia. Their success quickly became a national phenomena among the colonists and native americans. The troupe soon moved to Provincetown, Massachussetts and then on to the great white man way... Plymouth in late November. At the Plymouth Plantation Theater the Smith brothers introduced a new innovation, a show and a turkey dinner. Dinner theater was born.

Since then New York City has become the theater capital of the western world (at least on this side of the Pond) showing dozens of formula musicals and comedies requiring families to take second mortgages to see a show and treat the kiddies to McDonald's. Fortunately, NYC is also home to hundreds of off Broadway, off-off Broadway and so far off Broadway that you are in Brooklyn shows. I frequently find shows through the Smarttix website which is the sales venue for many of these theatrical troupes. The ticket prices are very often cheaper than a movie ticket and usually more entertaining and substantial.

There are many talented playwrights, actors and innovators who call NYC home and due to this you will usually see an outstanding individual performance even if the total performance is mediocre. Over the last few years we saw a marvelous drama set in Ireland (The Pagans), a musical set around the final years of Mark Twain (where the cast of four almost outnumbered the audience), A greek tragedy set in the antebellum south (Medea/Ma Deah), a Korean percussion performance set as a kitchen comedy (think Three Stooges meets Hells Kitchen with drums) and Broadway's Next Big Hit (an outstanding improvisational group that creates a Broadway Musical from audience song suggestions).

Last night we saw a performance at the Under St. Mark's theater of a radio reading of two of H.P. Lovecraft's stories The Call of Cthulhu and Reanimator. The performance included two very talented actor/readers, smoke and lights going on and off. I enjoy Mr. Lovecraft's stories and was looking forward to watching a re-creation (or should I say a re-animation) of an old time radio broadcast. Both actors were wonderful but I was dissappointed that Radio Theater did not manually re-create the sound effects that were employed in creating the radio dramas of yesteryear. The sound effects and music were sadly pre-recorded.

I wanted to name the two actors but unforunately I cannot find the program to do so. As there are only five or six readers of my blog I don't believe this omission will have any profound impact on their careers. All in all I enjoyed the reading anyway (as a reading and not as a radio show). Ilana fought to stay awake. It may have been better if they threw in a turkey dinner.

On Being Faithful

When I look at myself in my mirror I am disgusted at what I see. I have heard this from others but this feeling of disgust comes from a different place. The face that stares back at me reminds me of my indiscretion. I believe it will take a month or two to get over this feeling but I am also sure that my wonderful wife will always wonder if she can ever trust me again.

After nearly 30 years of marriage to the most wonderful person I had ever known, my lover, best friend, trusted confidant, mother of my children. I had strayed. It happened so innocently I can hardly beilieve it had happened at all.

Last Thursday, I was home from work due to a morning appointment for me and a veterinarian appointment (for Lady, my cute little pooch) in the afternoon. I was driving home from the first appointment and had four hours to kill before the next appointment when I had passed Ariel. I couldn't resist the temptation, pulled into the nearest parking space and proceeded to commit the act that had changed the face of my relationship with Ilana.

I had let someone cut my hair other than my wife.

I walked into the barber shop, Ariel's, smelled the hair product, shaving cream, aftershave, hair spray, disinfectant and the other manly vapors that permeated the atmosphere of this manly lair. My hormones went ballistic and I was hooked. I had asked if they could fit me in and they invited me to sit in a chair that goes up and down and swivels. I stripped down to my underwear and the stylist said "Why are you taking off your clothes?"

I said "Doesn't everybody?" I always strip down to my civies so as not to get hair spinters on my clothes and then I could jump right into the shower. He said "Put your clothes back on. What the hell is wrong with you? There are children here! Look, that kid over there is crying". The kid was crying to his mother "Damn my eyes! Mommy please take me home. NOW!"

I put back on the clothes and explained that I had my hair cut at home for nearly 30 years and thought that it was requisite practice to remove your clothes before getting a hair cut. He rolled his eyes and mumbled something in Hebrew as I sat down in the chair. I twirled the chair around twice. It doesn't get more fun than that!.

When I first married Ilana, I was working for the Welbilt Stove Company as a service technician and traveled through the Bronx and Westchester on my usual route. My vehicle did not have air conditioning and that summer my hair was always a sweaty, oily mess by the time I had got home. One afternoon on a particularly hot and humid day I came home utterly distressed and said that I was going to shave my hair off completely.

Ilana's green eyes lit up and she said, "Can I cut it?" At first I had said, "No way! What if you do a poor job and leave some bald spots?" She responded, "You're going to shave it off anyway. If I mess it up you can always go that route". Impeccable logic. I married a pretty smart woman!

She cut my hair and left three bald spots but the haircut was otherwise pretty, pretty good. The next time she had cut my hair there was only two bald spots. With each succesive hair cut she got really good at it and only drew blood from my ears three or four times after that. Yes, those where happy times. Everything was alright in the world.

Until I strayed.

As I left Ariel's it had occurred to me that I will not be able to hide this betrayal when I pick up Ilana from work. Should I wear a hat? No, that will only postpone the inevitable. Maybe she won't notice and my hair will grow out and she will never find out. I was waiting in front of Ilana's work place and saw her walking to the car with a lovely smile on her face. She sat in the car, gave me a hello kiss and asked how the Vet appointment went. I started to drive off. She didn't notice. Alright I am home free!

Five minutes went by. "YOU CUT YOUR HAIR!" she yelled. "After 30 years you went to someone else!" Busted. What could I do now? Do I lie? Do I try to place the blame on her? I decided not to make up a flimsy lie like, "No. It must be your imagination" or follow the other strategy, "What did you expect? I had asked you last week and you said you had a headache."

No, I couldn't do that to her. Knowing I had strayed placed a heavy toll on my heart I could never compound that by further hurting her feelings or making her doubt her hair cutting skills.

I will have to live with this. Like it or not and I will make amends to restore her trust in me. Before I go to a dentist I will clear it with her first. Maybe that home dental kit I had bought for her 27 years ago was not a great idea.

My Philosophy Revisited

Philosphy, a word originating in ancient Greece, meaning the "love of reasoning".

When I attended Brooklyn College one of the required courses was an introduction to philosphy. Our final project was to write a ten page term paper detailing our personal philosophy and beliefs. Professor Taylor returned my paper a week later with a big red D and wrote that my philosophy was bullshit.

"Bullshit" is the academic term used by highly educated people who do not have the ability to comprehend the views of other people that are believed to be their intellectual inferiors. I have had many discussions with people who have PhDs who believe they are experts in every single facet of life. The degree of PhD means that the person who was awarded that degree is highly proficient in the field that the PhD was awarded in. This means that they are as stupid as the rest of us in every other field.

Okay, enough of the preliminary stuff. I will now get back to my philosophy and I will begin with a question ... What is the largest living organism on this planet? You may say the largest organism on this planet is the mighty blue whale. Or you may not. Unless you said mushroom, you would be wrong. The mushroom cap that you see sprouting from the forest floor is only the reproductive organ of the fungus organism. The entire organism includes the fileal network attaching the mushrooms caps to the entire "network".

Scientists have concluded through genetic testing that the mushroom caps in one part of the forest whose name does not come to mind, was genetically identical to the caps in another part of the forest several miles away. Therefore the cap was part of the same organism that sprouted the cap in the other part of the forest. In conclusion, this was one organism that spreads out many miles and with further analysis it was estimated that the entire organism actually weighed several hundred tons.

Now that I have laid the framework for the basis of my philosphy; and yes, I love mushrooms sauteed with onions (which has actually no relation with my philosophy, unless these were hallucinogenic mushrooms); I will proceed with explaining my philosophy and when I conclude with this I am hoping to start the next scientology cult. Donations will be accepted. Make the checks out to Cash.

Through the study of quantuum mechanics, and I do believe that all mechanics overcharge, the nature of reality is starting to be questioned. When those of us 40 years of age and over, went to school there was matter and there was energy. It now appears that matter is only a phase of energy and energy can be a particle or a wave and the same particle can exist here and across the universe or in another dimension at the same time. We grew up in a universe with three dimensions and were dumbfounded when they said Time was the fourth dimension. In the last 40 years we are now up to eleven. Holy crap! No wonder the generation of our children and grandchildren is so screwed up. We were all on drugs in the 60's and 70's and even under a hallucinogenic, LSD induced stupor, our existence was more comprehendable.

I actually believe in this stuff. The Shroedinger's cat theory was kind of cool. Essentially what Schroedinger theorized was that when the cat is in the box, it is neither alive or dead. It may exist or it may not. I still don't know what this has to do with a kid from the Charlie Brown comic strip, but this is a dynamic kick in the head! This leaves us to question what existence really is.

I know.

There is only one intelligence in this universe and it is not a man or a woman with a long white beard that smites people just for the hell of it. This is a universal intelligence that everything in the universe is a part of. There is no reality. Reality is what the intelligence percieves.

We do not actually exist. We are not only manufactures of that intelligence, we are that intelligence. There is no YOU and there is no ME. There is only I. This intelligence has always existed and has always been alone. Just as a person placed in an isolation tank for several weeks begins to hallucinate and create an alternate reality, this intelligence has had much time to create it's own delusions and realities. We are all one and part of this universal intelligence. I call this the FORCE on steroids. This also explains why the world is so screwed up.

So, in reality, as per my philosophy, Professor Taylor did not give me a grade of D. I gave it to myself. I am writing this blog for me because you do not actually exist and are not really reading this blog. When my keys are not on the table and suddenly they are, it is because they did not actually exist before I brought them into being again. This has some serious emotional overtones and I would seek the help of a therapist if only one really existed.

I am much happier now. I no longer pay my mortgage or any other bills, I can eat whatever I want because my physical body does not actually exist. I love my philosopy and I know you will too!

I wonder if there are any side effects of these new pills the doctor gave me.

Getting back to those donations, even though you do not exist, send them anyway in case I am wrong.

The Million Jew March Against Racism

JJ: Good Evening, this is John Jamison reporting from the mall in our nation's capitol. Tonight we will be interviewing Rabbi Marcus Cohen, organizer of the first Million Jew March against Racism. The march has been scheduled for Sunday, December 26th, 2010 to protest the anticipated failure of Santa Claus to give gifts to the estimated 20 million jews living in the world today.

JJ: Good evening Rabbi Cohen, how are you today?
MC: How should I be? I'm freezing my kishkes off here. Couldn't we do this interview inside?
JJ: Rabbi, I understand that you are expecting one million jews to be here Sunday. That would be a remarkable feat considering the actual number of Jews residing in the country.
MC: No, not really. As in passover we can prove that the 10 plagues are actually 256,000. Therefore, 10 Jews are actually 256,000. If we get 40 to show up that is actually one million twenty four thousand.
JJ: But, to the rest of us wouldn't that seem to be only forty?
MC: What? You see what I am talking about. Jesus walks on water, has a perpetually filling wine goblet. That you believe! Hashem multiplies 40 people into over one million and you question! Well actually you may have a point there but we are expecting a sizeable group as we are serving bagels and lox right after the march. We will also be going to Atlantic City before heading back to Brooklyn.
JJ: What prompted you to organize this march?
MC: I was reading my daily prayers and I had a thought and called out to Sadie, my wife. Sadie! you know what that nice italian family is getting for Christmas? What? She said. A brand new Cadillac. And you know what I got for Hanukkah last week? What? she said. A pair of argyle socks. They are nice argyle socks, but they are most definitely not a Cadillac.
JJ: I don't get your point.
MC: What's not to get? I am the one not to get. This is America, land of the free, land of equal opportunity. Everyone is equal. So why does Santa give the Christian family a brand new $40,000 car and I get a $3.00 pair of argyle socks? Because Santa is a rascist!
JJ: You do realize that Santa is make believe. No body over the age of six actually believes there is a Santa Claus.
MC: Now you tell me? What am I going to do with all those bagels?
JJ: Well, thank you Rabbi. This is John Jamison reporting from the mall.

Meanwhile, somewhere near the north pole:

SC: Ho, Ho, Ho! Hey shrimp, get me my list!
Elf: Here Santa.
SC: Did you check it?
Elf: Twice.
SC: Twice, huh. Barry Levine, is on this list. Isn't Levine a Jewish last name?
ELF: Uh, yea.
SC: How many times have I told you that I do not want any Jews, Muslims and Zoroastrians on this list? I should kick your keyster down the stairs, ya little bastard!
ELF: Please don't beat me again Santa!

To all of my Christian Friends, Merry Christmas! To everyone else, Happy Holidays! HINT: I want a Play Station 3.

Obscure Organized Crime - Part 1: South Philly

This is the first in a series of articles about the history of crime in our cities. Much has been said about infamous personalities such as Arnold Rothstein, Alphonse "Al" Capone and Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow but what about the unkown personalities that in someway or another shapped our cities. Today's story is about a crime war that took place in Philidelphia that shaped the city by forcing beneficial changes in one of the most crime ridden and poorest areas of the city.

It was in the 1960's that reputed crimelord boss Oscar Gilhooey known by his associates as Oscar "G" took control of organized crime in South Philadelphia. A cantankerous, mean spirited person believed to be the child of Irish immigrants, Oscar allegedly came to this country in 1934 with no possessions but the clothes on his back. Oscar always wore green fur coats to display his Irish heritage and claimed to have a pot of gold in his possession. His first job was working with a small time south Philly hood Richard "Dick" Clark, known as "The Boss" who had used intimidation and thug tactics to grow his refuse collection company, PBS Collections, into the largest privately owned trash company on the east coast. Richard Clark also had an interest in the music industry in South Philly and had small interests in a local television station.

Oscar soon met another Irishman, Kermit "The Frog" Sullivan, a dapper and charming individual from Brooklyn and soon became the best of friends. With Oscar's drive and Kermit's keen business sense they soon started their own trash collection company, PIX inc. and forced PBS out of business. Kermit referred to his childhood as living in a swamp and insisted that one day he would be a Hollywood icon.

The garbage collection business did not prove to be profitable enough and Oscar and Kermit recruited a fiscal genious, known as the Count, to take care of their books and financial transactions. Still not seeing the profits they had desired, they had enlisted a greek enforcer, "Snuff" Al Luffigas, to squash any resistance. Snuff was a huge and formidable character who instilled fear among anyone who was not cooperative or crossed their paths. Due to his large size and hairy appearance, Snuff, rarely had to use physical force to intimidate. It was believed that he received the nickname "Snuff" for snuffing out his victims but it had never been documented that he had actually killed or even injured anyone.

All seemed to be going well when Oscar made a comment about two gay men who resided on South Street which was overheard. Bertram O'Connor and Ernesto Padua were definately the wrong persons to snicker at. Ernesto arrived from Sicily about 10 years earlier and was the son of a mafia capo in Palermo. Bertram was known for his fierce temper and fighting skills he learned as a commando during WWII. Word reached the pair from a trusted associate, Bill "Big Bird" Wilson, who was a numbers runner and aficionado of the arts in the historic section and also had a small interest in the blossoming rock and roll music industry. After learning of Oscar's comments and homophobic rantings they had sworn to bring Oscar down.

Preceeded by several incidents on Walnut Street and Chestnut Street, the final showdown occurred on Sesame Street. During the melee popular caberet singer and occasional lover to Kermit Sullivan, Peggy Sue Porcine known as Miss Peggy to her friends, was injured by a flying pie pan. Kermit, upon seeing Miss Peggy fall to the sidewalk, ran to her side and dragged her to safety. Nauseated by the continuing violence the next day Kermit went to city hall and demanded a meeting with Mayor James "Big Jim" Henson. He turned states evidence against the carting industry and Oscar was arrested, tried and sentanced to serve 15 years in Eastern State Penitentiary as the only prisoner.

No charges were filed against O'Connor and Padua. The Count had absconded with much of the monies made by Oscar and Kermit, invested it in off shore accounts and is reputed to atill be living in eastern Europe. Kermit and Miss Peggy entered the protective witness program but resurfaced several years later in California. The twosome appeared in televison shows and a few films. They never attained their dreams of becoming the next Nelson Eddy and Jeanette McDonald. Al Luffigas and Bill Wilson, finding that they had a common interest in food and the arts, opened a chain of chicken restaurants and bought a failing television station in New York City that they named after the original trash collection company. As of today this TV station has been critically succssful even though they continue to have woeful cash shortages. Oscar G is believed to be homeless and living in the streets around the area of his fateful encounter with Bertram and Ernesto.

In our next installment we will discuss the California movie industry and how it was shaped by two colorful rathscalions, brothers Barry "Bugs" Warner and Dan "Daffy" Warner who charmed millions from investors with the intention of absconding with the investments, and inadvertently turned a failing movie studio into one of the great successes of the 1950s.