It's Not Easy Being Jew ... & Harry Potter

January 12, 2013:  You’d think it would be easier. After all, we control the media. Wouldn’t that get us something? But no, it continues to be a hapless uphill battle to work our way into the mainstream of Christian living.

I was reminded of this, once again, watching Harry Potter movies, which I love. Those kids really know how to stick it to the Dark Lord, who, despite not having a nose, manages to wield a sizable pointy hat full of self-esteem. Daniel Radcliffe proved to be a terrific actor in my book, but deserved the part simply based on his accent, and especially how he says the word “Brilliant!” On repeated viewing, the movies have only gotten better. I’ve even come to like the twins, who were to me one of the scarier elements originally, and that creepy Emma Thompson character, who looks too much like the crazy bus driver in the third movie to make me comfortable. Of course, I don’t think I’ll ever completely accept the annoying Moaning Myrtle, or Headless Nick for that matter; it did the series well to vacuum the ghosts out of Hogwarts in the later movies and replace them with furniture. But on top of everything, just to hear Alan Rickman deliver one line as Professor Snape would make a whole three-hour viewing worth the time.

Some of you may not be following any of this, but let that be a Dark Mark on you and not me, because I’ve been trying to convince many of you for years to see the stupid things, but you can’t let go of your softcore pornography and your so-called “family time.” Let this be a lesson …

But, of course, once again, in viewing the first movie—“Harry Potter and Something-or-Other”—I was struck and disturbed by J.K. Rowling’s mean portrayal of the Goblin bankers at the wizard bank “Gringot’s” as long-nosed, money-grubbing trolls, with names like “Goldstein” and “Silverbaum.” (Actually, I don’t remember their names, but it’s pretty clear that’s what Rowling was thinking.) The little mealy, toad-like bankers are clearly anti-Semitic stereotypes. My god, the woman fell just short of Charles Dickens’ descriptions of Fagan in the book “Oliver Twist,” where he interchangeably referred to him as “the Jew.”

Now, being a self-hating Jew myself, I can sympathize with Rowling’s animosity. Obviously she carries bad associations around in her little experience. Perhaps her first husband, whose dumping of her is now legend, was in fact a member of our Hebraic race. Perhaps she felt contempt toward a Jewish banker, who took part in prompting her now-legendary alleged homelessness, leaving her and her daughter to fend for themselves with naught but their unbeatable spirit and a $1,200 Apple laptop computer with which she frequented local cafes concocting the spirited best-seller that brought her back from the pits of obscurity into the legions of the damned.

But what’s more surprising is that the likes of Hollywood—which we also control—would let the gross nose portrayal of the goblins go unchecked in that first lovely movie … perhaps the second and fifth too. Who can remember? They all meld together after a while into a soft blue light fanfare of glowing wands, Latin-sounding curses and exclamations of “Brilliant!”

But beyond all of that, what’s really, really, really interesting—sad, disappointing but true—is how few people would even notice this flagrant example of Jew-hating. I was chatting about it with a Potter fan just this week, and he actually expressed surprise, despite having seen the movie more times than me. “Yeah, but there’s one with a little nose,” he defended. A token Goyim Goblin—or “Goyblin,” as they’re probably known in some as-yet undiscovered Potter manuscript. Rubbish, I said, and shame on him for not recognizing this terrible anti-Semitic depiction of my people (meaning the Jews, not the Goblins).

All told, it’s an enlightening series for so many reasons. The books are okay, I guess. I read a few. I tend to have pretty high expectations for literature, as you might imagine. The movies are light-years better, except the books—afterward—serve as a kind of director’s cut for the movies, if you already have those characters firmly in mind … at least in my mind …

But what do I know. We Jews are only concerned with our Gringot’s!

Yes, We Need a Little Naked, Right This Very Minute

January 7, 2013:  Monday morning, and the remaining bounty of Christmas decorations demonstrates the continuing—dare I say growing—need for spiritual fulfillment in America (or at least my little corner of it). Yes, it turns out I’m not alone in the satisfaction I garner by way of the holiday season, and despite my heathen leanings, there are few joys in my world like the magic I project upon December.

No, I’m not alone, except I suspect many people don’t acknowledge their hunger. In fact, we as a nation—a world, perhaps, but I wouldn’t know—are starved for spiritual connections and fulfillment. But we’re too embarrassed to know what to do. Yes, I said embarrassed, because in my definitions of spirituality, it’s our own cloying discomfort with ourselves—everything from our outside appearance to the personal stench of our inner assholes—that keeps us from letting our guard down enough to allow spiritual satisfactions in.

Why so serious indeed? Simple. It’s just fear—fear of … well, everything! Fear originally cultivated in our respective demented families of origin, but blindly perpetuated by a demented society, drives us, controls us, and—to this point—prevents us from allowing ourselves to experience the pleasure of a free spirit.

You must understand—in fact, I insist, if you’re going to read my Blah-ugh!—you understand that spirituality is not synonymous with religion or religious practices—though these can offer a means to the valuable end—but more importantly describes—identifies, in fact—who we really, authentically are, despite what our thinking muscle keeps insisting. If you’re able to set your thoughts aside for a moment—a delightfully simple yet simultaneously hard motion—and allow yourself to fully wake up into the moment of this very moment—you may just understand in that instant that all that you are right now—that whole awareness and consciousness—is everything about spirit, and that spiritual relates to all those things that aren’t centered with your physical body or your calculating mind.

That said, getting in touch with your authentic self thus demands—at some point—that you honor that self by letting it be itself. (My god, even the grammar checker on this stupid computer couldn’t digest the heady tone of that line!) The problem is that, so often … too often … we’re constantly bombarded with societal messages that prevent us from risking being ourselves, mainly because we live in fear of what other people may think, or that exposure of being ourselves will somehow prevent us from getting something we think we need.

But let’s shift back to more Blah-ugh!-related inquiries and ideals, and so move the question of What of the Jews? While the Clausians continue an impotent attempt to prolong vague spiritual stirrings through light bulbs, the Hanukkoids are hunkered down in customary defense, waiting for the next uprising. Some smart Jews—like myself—make a big show of endorsing Christmas in order to thwart suspicion and keep the Nazis off the trail. It’s pretty sneaky, I know, but what do you expect from a Jew? The sneakiness is in our blood. (Boy, this computer doesn’t like anything I’m doing today!)

But all kidding aside—and I want the B’Nai Briss to know I’m kidding—we’re never going to come close to achieving that much-desired spiritual fulfillment as a society until we lighten up and start running around naked, even in the cold weather. The upside of tragic events like Newtown is that they provide people an excuse to fall apart. That’s why so many people tend to wallow in these kinds of events, if you will, because it affords an opportunity to be naked without fear of reprisal, because for that window everybody’s naked and they won’t be singled out. People hate to be singled out, even me; it’s just that some of us, through necessity, grow used to it.

I propose that starting this year people begin an informal competition of displaying the most outrageous lawn decorations they can imagine—no holds barred. I think this will be a good spiritual practice for a culture desperate to have the stick yanked out of its ass, but too self-conscious to even acknowledge that it’s there.

In March I Bash the Irish ... In April, Someone Else ...

March 15, 2012: Beware the Ides of March ... and if not that, certainly beware the Irish. They're a crafty lot, as the movie "Leprechaun" demonstrates, and what with Green Vomit Day quickly approaching, it's important we get ourselves ready for whatever strange debacles may lie just ahead in our dark, four-leafed future ...

But before I go into a lengthy rant against anyone's religion, I think it's important I take a moment to remind Blah-ugh! readers that this Blah-ugh! is less about bigotry and intolerance than it is about trying to create buzz around my new e-novel SPACE CASE, which as you all know is the racially tense story of a bigoted earth woman who's forced to mate with a black man from outer space. (Please understand that the term "black" is appropriate in this case, because this alien's ancestors are NOT from Africa, as may be the case for the typical misconstrued African-American earth dweller who is incorrectly referred to as "black," but instead he hails from a region on the planet Visnoid where skin pigments come in a remarkable range of vibrant colors, including one stylish shade of ebony that would put a vain panther to shame.)

Now, I've completely forgotten what my point was, because I began it so long ago, but you can bet the Irish had something to do with it. Or was it the Italians? This reminds me that I meant to get Italian food for lunch today and completely forgot to, opting instead for Chinese. I can only imagine that this sort of experience is the kind of thing that perpetuates the stereotypes surrounding the Chinese and their craftiness. Of course, there's a good chance that Italian laziness also played its part, along with my own Polish stupidity.

The nice thing about the Polish is that the word is also "polish," which has a nice, clean, well-groomed sense to it. It's a much better moniker than, say, Latvians, or Urkutskians. I'm glad I'm not from Urkutsk, which for a long time I believed was only a region in the board game Risk, but now I think may actually really exist, although its natives are probably ashamed to enter the U.N. because it's such a silly name.

Other countries have silly names as well, including ours. In a sense, we don't even HAVE a name, which is REALLY annoying. I wish we were called SOMETHING, like Featherland ... or Vermeel ... or Kasha ...

Which reminds me of something many of you may not have known, or perhaps cared about -- Did you know Soviet Union translates to mean "States United." Now, does that make any sense? It's moot now, but really, what were we all thinking throughout the Cold War, with such comically juxtaposed names?! U.S. / S.U. !! But what kills me is that no one noticed. I mean, even I didn't for a long time, although I was only born in the sixties, so at least I have that excuse for the early post-war years. What about YOU?!

How did we get on this? I was setting out to make fun of the Jews -- the Sephardic, not the Ashkenazi. I mean, what's with Hanukkah?! It starts on a different day each year. Who designed this religion?! The Polish?

No, but seriously, I'm still trying to figure out if my rampant prejudices and stereotyping are a good thing or a bad thing. (If you're laughing, by the way, they're a good thing, but if you're taking steps to have my book banned in schools, we'll need to reshape this post ...)

In a sense, I feel like a valuable museum-like period piece from another era -- meaning the Cold War -- still an example of that strange, sometimes bitter, sometimes hilarious time when fictional characters like Archie Bunker and Fred Sanford were teaching us not only to be aware of our differences, but to celebrate them with humor and embarrassed arrogance, especially if we felt deep down that our differences were better than those of others, or at least not QUITE as different ...

One nice thing about pre-judging people is that it saves a lot of time. And who has ANY time these days, what with text messages to send and millions of emails bouncing each way and Snooky getting pregnant and all the conversations we've got to HAVE ABOUT Snooky and her pregnancy and her being Ho -- (or a Hoe, depending on your stereotyping decisions) -- and all the new facts bombarding us about other television shows and the magazines about people who are ON television shows and ... It's just crazy!

And that's why there comes a point where we have to just cut corners in some area of our lives in order to make a finer showing ...

So why NOT blame the Irish this month? It'll help balance the joyous festivities of their holiday ... And then next month, we can blame someone else for the warm weather -- perhaps the Arabs!

Once Upon a Walk

April 11, 2011: Greetings! I'm glad you could join me again. I have so many things planned to share with you ... and yet I'll probably fail to get to most of them, so adjust your expectations accordingly.

To begin, I enjoyed a marvelous walk last afternoon -- and in fact covered 6.75 miles, which I hope impresses those of you who see me only as a brilliant intellect, and not the strapping physical specimen others of you know me to be. (You know who you are! Don't pretend!) The details I'll spare you, as they mostly involve trees and no one wants to hear about them unless they fall over. However, early on, I had an interesting (well, not really) experience at the bank machine that got me to thinking, as bank machine experiences are wont to do.

You see, as I set out from town, I needed to make a stop to deposit a check I was carrying for $4.96. (I get a lot of these little checks, actually, though most of them aren't for amounts even that large -- usually under a dollar. If you want to know the details, please write me and I'll tell you more, but I'd rather not have to right now, as I'm very busy.)

Anyway, as I walked up to the door, a guy came out and declared, "If you're gonna make a deposit, don't, 'cause it just ate my money." He was distraught, and briefly detailed that he'd just called his wife (although I'm still not clear why), and they were leaving on vacation to Florida in the morning and he'd needed to put the $600 in the account, but the machine (as machines will do, left to their own devices) had simply eaten the money and then denied any involvement, and he was bumming.

I offered my sympathies and suggested it would all work out, as they'd have to see there was an unaccounted $600 in the coiffers the next morning (hopefully, unless the machine had somehow funneled it to the Contras or the Tea Party representatives or something). He was amenable to the thought, and almost good-humoredly declared it a mere annoyance after all. He somehow alluded to his wife again, which was starting to get on my nerves. Then, at the same time, interestingly, we both said that he should best simply "breathe" and it would all work out swimmingly.

The point of this whole story, which really unfolded after I walked away (certainly not willing to chance losing my $4.96 check) is one of Racial Awareness (or R.A., as I've coined it merely for the purposes of this entry, and will subsequently forget coining by the time I get to the next paragraph). Regular Blah-ugh! readers will recall several insightful essays I've shared involving how, despite my far-liberal social leanings, I sometimes can't help being the product of a race-conscious upbringing (or a race-conscious something. Maybe it wasn't my upbringing. Perhaps it was my downfalling. Who really knows?)

The point is, I began to speculate on whether his being black was going to impact his chances at getting his money back. (See, I hadn't mentioned that he was black. And how many of you Whiteys out there thoughtlessly drew a picture of a white man at the ATM, and were -- even for an instant -- surprised by this disappointed customer's blackness? ... Come now. Be honest. (You racist scum! You're even worse than I am!))

Yes, I was thinking his credibility could be called into serious jeopardy by the sight of his skintone at the ATM camera. ("Hmmm," I could hear the corporation heads concurring. "He could be a liar. He is, after all, pretty black.")

This, in turn, got me to wonder whether a white man was necessarily a better risk where such an event was concerned. Certainly not an Italian (like myself, and I'm not even one of your swarthier ones!), although the Irish may not fair any better, especially the ones with red hair ... It seems an Asian might be a good bet, as they're a notoriously hard-working and honest people (although they can be very loud when you're riding on the subway) ... Better still to be Jewish (also like myself), for they're just fat with money (although I'm one of the rare exceptions) and they're reputedly honest (although very loud, in many cases).

This led me to decide that it might be a good idea to start wearing a yarmulke every time I use the ATM, just in case the machine backfires. I can keep one in my car, and while they never seem to fit me right, I don't think the quality of those cameras is that fine.

It's wonderful the range of fulfillment one discovers on a typical late-afternoon walk!

NEXT WEEK: More sophistry and perhaps less punctuation.

I'll Jog Tomorrow

October 14, 2010: Well, I've just come back from an invigorating jog around town, and even though I'll probably develop a rash if I don't shower presently, I wanted to take a moment to file my latest report.

You see, as I jogged by the river and became aware of the Christmas lights they keep in the trees year-round, it suddenly occurred to me that Jews should really get more into the spirit of Christmas.

Now you understand, I'm half Jewish, so I'm very comfortable bashing the whole race and stereotyping. (You'll also remember how vigorously I worked to try and ban the Nazi flag in Connecticut -- an effort I abandoned when I saw how the least amount of support came from the Jewish community, including the Anti-Defamation League (lousy Jews!).

No, but I jest. I jest because I love. And I also know that my tiny Blah-ugh! readership is solely composed of three anti-Semites, so it really doesn't matter what I write.

The point is, however, that these lovely white lights are just that, and while all the associations for me stem from picturesque homespun Christmas celebrations in my youth -- (Who am I kidding? My parents were drunk half the time!) -- I don't really see what difference it makes what religious holiday we're celebrating, as long as the lights are pretty. I myself could care less about Jesus (if that is his real name!). He means little to me, except he always looks so depressed in those church pictures. Mind you, I have nothing against him as Messiahs go, I only think he gets too much superfluous media attention, especially around the holidays.

All of this reminds me that Halloween is coming, and as you know I vehemently subscribe to the belief that it's really our most social holiday. (See last year's entry if you don't believe me ... you lousy skeptics!) People are even getting into the spirit with orange lights in recent years, and who can say anything bad about that. And the leaves are changing, as do the seasons, and so do I, and you need not wonder why.

I'm starting to itch now, so I've got to go. Try to keep an open mind as Halloween approaches this year, especially if you're Jewish or some extreme Christian who poo-poos the lessons demon worship can teach you.

Jewing It Down

December 15, 2009: In light of the recent unpleasantness infecting my Blah-ugh! -- (You people act like children, and all I ever wanted to do was to make you laugh, and sing, and perhaps take your clothes off and chant my name while writhing on some stone altar somehwere out on a moor at Midsummer's Eve!) -- I thought it best to focus on less controversial subjects for the time being (meaning until you all learn to behave!) ...

That said, I thought it a good time of year to address my fears of being Jewish. Please understand, I'm only half Jewish, but like being half black in modern America, they'll still send you to the inferior restroom as a consequence.

Jews today have, of course, found ever-increasing acceptance amidst the Goyum. But like other often-battered minorities (and Yes, I include the Eskimos here) our comfort is always a precarious one, forever at the mercy of some violent midwestern Redneck, or some well-educated northeast Protestant who firmly believes he has conclusive evidence to support some of the stereotypes.

When all is said and done, I simply feel it makes more sense to lay low. While I'm always one to tout my Jewishness amongst the Chosen People -- Hell, I've even purported to be all Jewish when I knew no one would really have the nerve to check -- I've found it practically safer to keep my Gentile face in front where others are concerned, if for no other reason than to avoid the chipper Gee-Whiz comments of the Christmas crowd. ("Oh, you're Jewish. That's great," the implication being "Better you than me!")

And Yes, it is an arduous brand we bare, as both Steven Spielberg and I know only too well. As a people with ne'er a land to call their own (outside of Israel, Hollywood and what the ever-dignified and articulate Rev. Jesse Jackson so sensitively referred to as "Hymietown), we find ourselves forever faced with the fear of being excluded, ostricized, and, on the worst days, put in ovens.

So, in celebration of Hannukah, I intend to stand by my anonymity and keep the crosses off the lawn. And should, God forbid, things ever take a real bad turn to the worst of human nature, I'll swear we were only using the things because we couldn't find candleholders.

Next Week: Honoring (and taming) the dormant anti-Semite in all of us!