Fall back

Ooops I did it again.

I'm actually not a clumsy person, but you wouldn't know it from this post. Or this one. Subconsciously it may be because I believe in the rule of three more strongly than I thought, because this will be the third post I've done about me falling hard and flat on my back like a ton of bricks.

Fat, Jewish bricks.

Here's what happened.

I was minding my own business, doing award-winning, crowd-pleasing, results-getting, competition-killing, raise-worthy work at my bedroom desk for my 100% remote job with the world's leading cybersecurity company. In the course of that vitally important work, I make it a point to stay hydrated.

As one does.

Since it was just after noon, I started out to the kitchen to see if there was something good hiding out in the fridge for lunch. But before I got there, I turned around and went back to my desk to clear two water glasses (see hydration above) and put them in the dishwasher.

Are you with me so far? We're coming up on the part where the hardwood floor breaks my fall. And almost my back.

As I reached for the glasses, my very fashionable yet reasonably priced Vionic flip-flops got caught between the plastic desk chair mat and the area rug it overlaps. I started falling forward, water glasses in hand. Then I thought, let's see if I can put my early years as a danseur with the New York City Ballet to good use—if I turn, maybe I can slow my roll by grabbing the edge of the bed. The glasses went flying from my hands. I tried grabbing the bed and missed, which isn't easy cause that sucker is a two kids, two adults and two dog accommodating California King.

Thanks to the inertia, momentum, velocity and enormous amount of gravity at work, that giant thud you heard a little after noon PST today was me.

As luck—my luck—would have it, I was home alone: my daughter has a big time advertising job and had to go into her real office to work, and the wife had to take our German Shepherd Ace to the vet for some blood work. So I laid there a minute on the floor, my back screaming every swear word it knows at me, and tried to figure out how I was going to stand up.

The answer was fast. I sat up, grabbed the bed for leverage and got myself up off the floor. With that one move, it quickly became apparent my back wasn't going to be done swearing and screaming at me any time soon.

Just like my high school girlfriend.

Fortunately I had an acupuncture appointment this afternoon, so I managed to lower myself into my thirteen-year old Lexus ES350 (I really need a car with higher ground clearance) and went. And instead of working on my feet (long story, another post), he worked on my back.

It felt better for a little while afterwards. I don't know if it was physical or mental, but you can say that about most things with me.

So tonight, it's the heating pad on and off every twenty minutes, trying to keep the grunting sounds every time I move to a reasonable volume and not moving around too much. With any luck it'll start to feel better in the morning, and I'll be in for a quick recovery in the coming days.

Of course, the bad news is my Cirque du Soleil audition is off for now.

Pomp you up

Tonight was my son's high school graduation. And I don't mind telling you, I took it just fine. I was a pillar of strength, unmoved by hearing Pomp & Circumstance as all these fine young adults marched down the aisles, reaching the end of their four-year journey and celebrating what they've accomplished these last few busy years of their lives.

Who're we kidding. From the minute I sat down you could've wiped the floor with me.

There's something so poignant and wonderful about seeing all these kids - many whom I've known since they were in first grade - getting ready to go out in to the world to make their marks, take their chances, learn their lessons and celebrate their successes.

The secret they don't know, can't know, is that this is the best part. Right now, when it's all ahead of them.

His graduating class is about a hundred and twenty. The entire high school is around six hundred. They all know each other. They've built relationships that will last a lifetime. It's easy to see this class is close and intends to stay that way.

I envy them. My high school memories aren't nearly the caliber theirs will be. I'm in touch with friends I want to be in touch with from that time, but it's nowhere near a hundred twenty people. As I think about it, that's probably a good thing.

My graduating class alone was the size of his entire high school. That's what I get for going to a primarily Jewish public school in the Fairfax district instead of a private Christian school in Cerritos. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Jesus was one of our boys - amIright?

Anyway, besides bursting with tears I was bursting with pride for my boy. I love him something fierce, and I can only dream of one day becoming the quality human being he already is. He's compassionate, intelligent, funny, inventive, resourceful, determined, imaginative, brutally handsome. And now, he's on his way to his next important stage in life..

One of the pastors who spoke tonight said tomorrow they're freshmen all over when they start college. Then they're freshman again when they get married. And freshman yet again when they have kids of their own. I know exactly what he meant.

I'm a freshman when it comes to letting my boy go.

Christmas lights

They say the two happiest days of owning a boat are the day you buy it and the day you get rid of it. I think the same can be said for Christmas trees. I know what you're thinking. Why's the Jewboy talking about buying Christmas trees?

I'll tell you why.

For starters, I love the trees. The fresh scents, the lights, the decorations. I also happen to be married to a woman who isn't a member of the tribe, so Christmas has always been the big December holiday in our house for as long as I can remember. And not to advance any stereotypes here, but I'm pretty good at math. 8 days of Hanukkah, 12 days of Christmas.

After four years of Hebrew school, a bar mitzvah and dating enough Jewish girls who made "till death do us part" sound more like a goal than a vow, I decided to opt in for a holiday a little more festive than what I'd grown up with, even if the point of the celebration wasn't exactly in my wheelhouse (although He was a member of the tribe, just saying).

Plus why would I limit myself to just blue and white lights when I can have so many different colors?

Anyway, every year we go to Brita's nursery in Seal Beach, and re-enact Goldilocks & The Three Bears as we pick out our perfect tree. "This one's too small." "This one's too large." "This one's just right."

But the secret about Christmas trees is that the exact moment it's up, decorated and ready to be enjoyed is the exact moment my 6000-year (5775 to be exact) history of worrying kicks in.

Has the tree been watered? Is it taking the water? Are the pine needles dry? Why is it dropping so many? Did we turn off the tree lights when we left? Is it going to go up in flames and take the house with it? And can the presents be saved if it does?

After a minute of standing back and admiring it, the moment has passed, my mind is spinning and I can't wait until it's out of the house (which is also how I felt about my high school girlfriend).

Every day we have to vacuum the needles that've dropped so the puppy doesn't eat them. Suddenly, what started out as a joy and spirit-lifting visage has become something I can't wait to get rid of (girlfriend joke again).

Sometime after New Year's, long after everyone else has taken their tree down, we'll finally get around to putting the hand-made, antique, mercury glass, Salzburg-bought decorations away, then kick the tree to the curb for the recycling truck to come take it.

It's sad thinking about something that brought me so much joy - although briefly - being gone so suddenly. To snap myself out of it, I just do what I did when it first got here. Stand back, look where it stood and admire the pure beauty and joy of what I see.

All the living room space I get back.

AT&T Jew-verse

Everyone has to live with a certain amount of denial in life. Otherwise, we'd never cross a street, get on a plane or eat at Jack In The Box for fear of what could happen to us. It's how we manage everyday risk and emotion.

Since, according to this article, the average consumer can be exposed to between 3000 and 20,000 ads a day, and actually see and register about 250 of them, commercials - especially bad ones - have also become one of the things we have to deny in order not to be overwhelmed by them. Out of necessity, they become white noise.

It'd be a second career getting mad about all of them.

However, there is one commercial so bad, so hateful, so grating in the most primal way, I feel pointing it out is less of a gripe and more of a public service. It's this one:

Here's how I'm pretty sure the meeting went.

CLIENT: What do you think the kid should look like?

ART DIRECTOR: Well, he should be...

ACCOUNT PERSON: We were leaning towards a "New York" look. (actually does air quotes)

CLIENT: You mean Jewish.

ACCOUNT PERSON: Yes, you know, curly hair, big nose...

Laughter erupts in the room.

CLIENT: Can we have him say some Jew sounding words?

WRITER: Like fancy, schmancy or for cryin' out loud?

CLIENT: Yes!

ACCOUNT PERSON: (hamming it up - no pun intended) Oy vey, we'll do it.

ART DIRECTOR: Maybe an argyle sweater, so he looks like the old Je...uh, old "New York" guys you see in the jewelry mart.

CLIENT: I love it. What do they say?

ACCOUNT PERSON: Mazel tov?

CLIENT: That's it!

Laughter erupts again.

Don't get me wrong, I love the Jews on TV. I can even tolerate the stereotyping. But what I hate is a stale concept, long past its expiration date, that's been done a gazillion times before - in this case a kid talking like a wiser, older "New York" grandfather to kids slightly younger than him who, for some inexplicable reason, know how to act their real age.

And wagging the corn dog while he's talking must be a Jewish tradition I'm not familiar with.

It's frustrating because it's AT&T. A big client with a huge advertising budget and decent production dollars to spend, and this is the best they (and their 65-year old, Jackie Mason loving writer/art director team) could do.

Then, just to make sure there's absolutely no escape, they run the crap out of this spot. You can't turn on the TV without seeing it everywhere. Maybe the kid got them the air time wholesale.

The best advice I can give the team, or anyone else associated with this spot is that same advice that works managing life's risks.

If someone asks if it's your spot, deny it.

Yum Kippur

Quick, how many Jews does it take to blog about Yom Kippur? All of 'em.

Not that the internet needed another blogpost about it, what with this fine post at Round Seventeen, and this swell one at Ad-Aged. But I thought what the hell, I'm just sitting here: I may as well write one. After all, we're not supposed to eat today, but apparently typing is still on the table (see what I did there?).

As I've posted before, I'm not really much of a practicing Jew. I don't know if it's because of four long years of Hebrew school and being bar mitzvah'd, or in spite of it. But as a result, whether I want to be or not, I'm still hard-wired to recognize the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. And because Catholics, despite what they think, have never had the market on guilt cornered, I can't help feeling like I should be more of a participant in the customs and traditions of this day. But here's the thing: for me, actually observing it would be a bit hypocritical. Somewhat akin to all the Jews who, since they're not supposed to drive today, make a proud point of walking all the way to the synagogue.

From the parking lot.

Yom Kippur is the one day we're supposed to reflect on and atone for our sins of the past year. I'm not bragging, but I think we both know it's going to take more than one day.

Besides, there isn't a day that goes by that I'm not constantly thinking about my sins. Since we're supposed to be fasting on this holy day, each year Yom Kippur only serves to narrow down the sin I should be focusing on most.

Gluttony.

The hunger games

As you can probably tell from the giant rabbit in the center of the table (I call him Harvey - look it up), this was our Easter dinner table before the food arrived. Easter's a unique holiday in terms of food intake. Not quite as much as Thanksgiving or Christmas, but still shovel-worthy.

Of course, the two main ingredients in the Easter dinner are ham and chocolate (Ham & Chocolate - great band. Saw them at Hop Singh's in '92).

Now, I happen to have a very special relationship with both these food groups. Sad but true, as I wrote about here, I'm actually allergic to chocolate. Fortunately the effects are only weight-threatening and not life-threatening, so my allergy doesn't prevent me from enjoying it in small quantities.

No matter how many dozens of those little chocolate eggs I have, they're still small right?

As the only 100% Jew in the family (which may be why Easter always feels like dinner at Grammy Hall's house), the other item, ham, has religious implications and overtones. Or at least it would if I adhered to kashrut - the body of Jewish law that deals with what may and may not be eaten, and how it may or may not be prepared. When it comes to dietary guidelines, Judaism has a pretty strict food pyramid.

I guess "pyramid" was a poor choice of words.

Anyway, as you may already know from this post, I'm a big (and getting bigger) fan of pork products. They are simply delicious in a way that traditional Jewish foods like matzoh, gefilte fish, and borscht never will be.

So as I do every Easter, along with the rest of my Christian family, I celebrate the resurrection - of my allergies and my disregard of Jewish dietary law.

And I can't wait to do it again next year.

You're breaking up

It's not exactly a contest, but I'm thinking this is definitely going to be an audience participation post.

I don't know why this is on my mind (Note to wife: really dear, no reason), but I was thinking about break-up songs. Not the crappy, syrupy ones that have too many strings and A minor notes (impressed aren't you?). Not the teen heartache or poppy Neil Sedaka-esque ones either.

I'm talking about the ones I listened to over and over that either perfectly captured the misery of the moment, or said what I wished I had.

Break-up songs are like fingerprints: everyone has one that's unique to them and their situation. Some are wistful. Some are vengeful. And some just kind of tell it the way it is. That's the kind I usually gravitated to because those songs were always the hardest to argue with.

So not surprisingly, here's the one that was always my favorite.

Now to the audience participation part. First of all, I don't think there's anyone who doesn't like to re-live one of the most painful times in their life over and over (Jewish, hello?).

Here's what we're going to do: let me know your favorite break-up song, and why. As they come in, an impartial panel of break-up and relationship experts here at Rotation And Balance International Headquarters will select the five most popular ones. Not only will they be posted here, but if you're the one who submitted it you'll also receive your break-up song as a gift from iTunes (I'll get your email addresses when we have the winners). That way, when the mood strikes, you'll be able to experience the excruciating pain of a failed relationship over and over again.

It'll be like you're an honorary Jew. Except without the bad wine and lackluster holidays.

You're welcome.