The miracle isn’t in heaven. The miracle isn’t on 34th Street. This year, the miracle is on Skokie Valley Road, where an unassuming Jewish Deli, covered in a fresh sheet of post-Christmas slush, would like to offer good tidings.
Merry Christmas to All and to All an Oy Vey!
Let’s push aside the children who were gunned-down at Sandy Hook. Let’s push aside the firefighters who were gunned-down at a 4-alarm ambush. Let’s push aside Wayne LaPierre’s psychotic episode, and look the other way, as the so-called “Free Press” keeps pretending a public nervous breakdown is the modern day equivalent of an “NRA Presser.”
‘Tis the season. Sing with me: Fa La La La La La La La Lunatics.
I’m lucky. There’s a general consensus in my life it’s okay to offer me advice. Grandpa Bernie used to say free advice is worth exactly what you paid for it. But he was a self-made man. I’m an entitled brat.
I’m told to cut my hair. I’m told to shave my face. When I don’t cut my hair, or shave my face, I’m told I look like an aging rock star who was never a rock star in the first place. To free advice, I say thank you.
I’m asked why I’m not dating. I’m asked why I’m not married. When my age is uncovered, and it’s revealed I’m not divorced, with a couple kids in therapy, I’m asked what’s wrong with me. To this leading question, I say thank you.
Got a private message from a friend of a friend. He told me to tone it down. In light of the national tragedy at Sandy Hook, he declared my tone as “lacking compassion, distasteful.” To this friend of a friend (who I would never choose as a friend), I say thank you.
I appreciate all of your help in diagnosing my “blind spots.”
It’s certainly no fun when your head is reeling with the thoughts of other peoples thoughts in your thoughts. Especially unwelcomed, unsolicited, icky thoughts.
But I’m lucky. ‘Tis the season. The little drummer boy has become the little bummer boy. Sadness is a lesson, life conspiring through good intentions, or questionable intentions, to offer you a turning point.
Last year, I applied to be a mediator. I was shot-down. Dad pulled me aside. He told me to give it another shot. So I doubled-down, going to The Harvard Negotiation Project, where I stepped-up my game.
Last month, I re-applied.
During the phone interview, the woman asked why I was unique. I told her at 45, it’s not so much that I’m unique, as available. She paused. Then asked if I had any questions for her. We’d spent a good part of the interview discussing the challenging “personality issues” surrounding a family run Jewish Deli. So I thought it would take some of the pressure off the seriousness of the interview to ask what she preferred: corned beef or pastrami? She said neither.
Pa Rum Pa Pum Pummeled.
‘Tis the season for movies. But it’s hard to know the difference between hype and genuine excitement. Mostly, I see movies alone, not wanting to drag anyone else along on my silly obsession with uncovering the next great story.
On Christmas Eve, my brother and I have a ritual. He takes me to his favorite place on Earth, Chinatown. And then to see a movie, of his choice. I’m lucky.
“This Is 40.” It should be called “This Is The End Of Judd Apatow’s Movie Making Career.” At some point, it’s enough: enough movie making, enough screenwriting, enough home building. Burn the blueprint, do something else.
I heard Quentin Tarantino being interviewed by Howard Stern. At the outset, I should confess, I had already decided I was going to see “Django Unchained.” But after the interview, instead of being even more excited, I was turned-off. Got the sinking feeling it’s going to be a meandering Nigger-A-Thon.
Quentin Tarantino seems too in love with the word, and himself.
It’s not only the revelation that the editor he worked with since “Pulp Fiction” has died, even though it has a lot to do with it, so much as it has to do with how much Quentin Tarantino talked about himself.
Not a Creature was Stirring Except Spike Lee’s Wrath.
Speaking of silly grudges, President Obama called-off his vacation in Hawaii so he could return to Washington and get nothing with John Boehner accomplished besides the perception he’s sacrificing himself for the greater good. Please, Mister President, don’t. I’m begging you. Let the Bush Tax Cuts expire. Let the Bush Tax Cuts expire for everyone.
As one nation under tax cuts, with temporary privileges and supreme court justices for hire, let’s all join hands and leap off the Fiscal Cliff.
Let’s pay off our debt. Let’s get on with our lives. Enough…