Guests
by Ellis Weiner and Barbara Davilman, November 24, 2006 3:47 PM
Contrary to an impression we may have left in our previous blogs, we DID spend a bit of Thanksgiving actually giving thanks, although to whom, or Whom, or what (or even What), is still under review. And, to our credit, even an entire day later, we're still giving thanks for the things for which we gave thanks on Thanksgiving. Because we're Jewish, the first thing we're thankful for is our good health and our loved ones' good health. Modern health care, as everyone knows, is enough to make you sick, and we're grateful to be able to deal with it more on TV's "House" than in our own. We are mindful of the old Jewish proverb that goes, "Treasure your good health, for that is what makes you able to get out of bed in the morning and complain about everything else." Actually, it's not really Jewish, or a proverb. But it is old. We're also thankful for our loved ones themselves, most of whom we actually love. This list includes our parents, Ellis's children, and our respective siblings. Beyond that, it includes everyone it should include. They know who they are ? which is more than you can say about some people. After that, we're very grateful to be able to make enough money, doing what we love, to provide food, clothing, and shelter, not only for ourselves, but for the fine men and women of New York University, where Ellis's son, a student, functions as a conduit between our checking account and theirs. It is estimated that, by the year 2025, the average cost of a private university education in the U.S. will be ridiculous. (The average cost of a public university education will simply be absurd.) We're thankful that both our kids will be out of school by then, and that even if they're not, we won't be around much longer to have to deal with it. We are thankful for our wonderful friends. It is always a pleasure to join them in their homes for drinks, dinner, or simply an informal get-together, especially when we've been invited. We are thankful for Nature. Living in Los Angeles, we are the lucky beneficiaries of an ecosystem in which roses remain in bloom every day of the year, cilantro costs twenty-five cents a bunch (if you know where to buy it), and the faint, percussive whir of hummingbirds' wings can be heard, each morning, in spirited competition with the "sound track" of mankind's air conditioners, leaf blowers, police helicopters, traffic accidents, and jet takeoffs, the entire symphonic whole blending occasionally with the natural world's own music of the dog barking at Christ knows what. We are thankful for the blessings of civilization, including but not limited to the Internet, the digital video recorder, vodka (and, in some cases, tonic), the publishing industry, the candied cashew industry, the Brazilian music industry, the marinated mushroom industry, and dogs. Finally, on a more personal and heartfelt note, we are thankful to the Republicans for so completely crossing over to The Dark Side, for evolving from a party of corruption and greed into a parody of a party of corruption and greed, to where even people they had successfully terrified, hypnotized, or deceived, were able to appreciate them for what they are, and vote Democratic. Sentimental nonsense? Perhaps. But it's the nature of this week's celebration. Sue us, but we were ? and still are! ? feeling magnanimous. It remains only for us to wish our readers a (retroactively) happy Thanksgiving, and to remind all of you that Christmas and Chanukah are fast approaching. We're grateful for that, too, for then will come that time when millions of Americans, Christian and Jew alike, may join hands, exchange sincere wishes of respect and good fortune, and declare as one, "You know, Ellis and Barbara's books do make excellent gifts." What can one say, except, "Hey ?
|
Guests
by Ellis Weiner and Barbara Davilman, November 22, 2006 11:22 AM
Today is the day before we lose whatever control we have in our lives ? or, rather, whatever control we've conned ourselves into thinking we have. It's Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. And, as we all know, once Thursday hits, there's no turning back until the exhaustion, depletion, and eerie calm of January 2nd. Yes, tomorrow starts "the holiday season," and from then on, we're in it up to our eyeballs. We're looking down the business end of a full six weeks of shelling out money we don't have, eating what we shouldn't eat, traveling to see relatives we spend the year avoiding, feeling (or denying) guilt at over- or under-spending on gifts for people who don't or maybe do deserve less or more, and waiting for it all to be over ? all while fending off the implicit and explicit messages of every tv commercial, storefront sign, and giant beaming billboard proclaiming this "the happiest time of the year." Psychologists ? and dogs, parrots, and anyone else with a rudimentary feel for human nature ? know that in two days we shall commence our annual season of maximum depression and suicide. The pressure to be happy, under normal conditions a faint microwave background buzz in the American soul, asserts itself with particular force once we swing into December. We are now obliged to believe in everything we spend the rest of the year doubting ? peace on earth; goodwill toward men who bear goodwill toward us; the hope that the tomatoes in the supermarket must (even though it's December) be good, because they really wouldn't charge this much for one that crunched like an apple and tasted like jicama. We are under siege from the Holiday Borg, and resistance is futile. As Tom Lehrer says in his Christmas song, "Christmas time is here, by golly/Disapproval would be folly." So what should we do on this last, precious day? How do you celebrate, or at least exploit, the calm before the storm? Some of you, of course, are cooking like maniacs. Barbara admires you, particularly if you enjoy cooking, which she so doesn't. Our deal is, Ellis cooks, and Barbara cleans. Fortunately, he likes cooking and, to everyone's, or at least his, vast relief, she likes cleaning. However, the tragic fact is that, for the last two months, our dishwasher's been broken. (The reasonable person will ask, "Why don't you get it fixed?" It's a long story, and concerns the unnaturally narrow and short counters in our house. Just never mind.) What matters is, Barbara has banned any and all dinner parties with four or more people. Luckily, we have, during this troubled time, managed to con some people into enjoying our company, so we don't spend every night eating dinner at home, alone, and watching reruns of Law and Order. And our luck has held for Thanksgiving. Someone has invited us over for dinner. Which brings us back to the original question: what should we ? the non-cookers, the invitees, the guests-to-be ? do on the day before? The answer is simple: we should run our lines and prepare for our appearance. Those of us lucky enough to be invited to Other People's Homes have a big responsibility, one which we fear some take too lightly. When invited to dinner, Thanksgiving or otherwise, and (it's almost too good to be true) handed food and drink at no charge, the least we can do is to be our best selves. We must be people whom other people look forward to seeing and spending time with. And if that means writing about these issues in such a way as to wind up ending a sentence with "with," so be it. As Miss Manners so lucidly put it (we're paraphrasing), the obligation of a guest is to make your presence preferable to your absence. We must have amusing anecdotes with which to tickle the assembled throng; we must be up on all the latest news, but not too much so, lest we obnox the general gathering and strangle the entire conversation by being a big fat Smarty Pants. We must also be a good, if not fabulous, listener. But there are different kinds of "good listening." For a juror in a murder trial, being a good listener means paying attention, remembering what you hear, and keeping your big, or even small, mouth shut. This will not do, however, at a dinner party. Being a "juridical" good listener at a convivial table where people are drinking and dining is the equivalent of being a passive, if well-behaved, passenger on a scull in a crewing race. In both circumstances, you have to pull your weight. Sure, this may sound obvious, but sadly it's often ignored. People think they can show up at someone's house and "just be themselves." This is grotesque. The whole point of socializing is for everyone to help everyone else to not just be themselves, but to be part of a larger, smarter, more amusing whole. Otherwise, why bother? Dinner-party good-listening, then, entails not only "listening," but "talking," about topics of general interest. Such as? Well, such as the following. Here's a little cheat sheet of topics, along with some general suggestions about how to approach them and what to say ? when you're not, of course, listening. Politics ? It's impolite to gloat but it will be almost impossible not to. If you find yourself in a roomful of Republicans, first, make sure you haven't blundered into the wrong party. Then take the high road and be magnanimous. Express relief that the Democrats took the House and Senate. Discuss it in conservative terms, i.e., the new majority will "stop the hemorrhaging of our tax dollars" and "put an end to the desecration of our Constitution." If anyone still defends the administration, and the war, treat them as you would a person suffering from brain damage. Smile warmly and agree with everything until they shut up. Religion ? It is still, apparently, impolite to scoff at someone's beliefs. However, if you find yourself in a roomful of right wing Evangelicals, it might be fun (after, again, making sure you're at the right party) to ask them to explain The Rapture. But note: keeping a straight face will be harder than you think. Enthuse along with them as they exult in how wonderful it will be, to be dead and in heaven with Jesus, and express sympathy for how miserable their lives must be here, now, on earth. Or, if in a room of less fundamentalist believers, pose the question for group discussion: "How come, except for Sally Field as the Flying Nun, I have yet to see or meet a happy or joyful person who devotes their life to God? Why are nuns and priests and ministers and those types always so bummed all the time?" Point out that the Hassidic seem angry, the Evangelicals seem driven, the Catholics ? well, let's not go there. As for the Muslims, let's not go there, either. Together! Sex ? It is impolite to pretend to be on the fence about gay marriage. If gays pay taxes like the rest of us, then they should be treated equally by the state. If someone objects, and decries homosexuality in moral terms, just keep saying "the Human Genome Project" until they give up. Gossip ? It is not so much impolite as just dumb to admit that you don't know all about Tom Cruise and Katie Holms. We mean, really. Come on. If you truthfully don't know that
|
Guests
by Ellis Weiner and Barbara Davilman, November 21, 2006 11:20 AM
Book writing, even when brainstormed by collaborators or dictated by a subject to his ghost, is essentially solitary. So is reading, once you're out of kindergarten ? which, we may note with understandable pride, we are. You write your stuff alone, you send it out into the world, and the world consumes it alone. Everybody keeps their hands to themselves and there's no talking. One of the principle pleasures of public readings, therefore, is getting to meet your audience ? a benefit that can be all the more rewarding when, as in the case of our books Yiddish With Dick and Jane (YWDAJ) and Yiddish With George and Laura (YWGAL), the book you're reading is intended to make people laugh. Then the lucky/pathetic author(s) experience the added delight and horror of learning, in real time and via real people, which lines land with a concussive burst of ha-ha and which fizzle and lie there in dignified, poignant silence. We had ample opportunity to engage our audience and gauge our work during our recent somewhat-gala East Coast Tour. Of course, these were hardly our first readings, and so we had some vague idea going in of how the public would react. For example, we pretty much knew that we had a hammerlock on the crucial 70-year-old-Jewish-woman demographic. We had read to them before. Some of them were literally our mothers. Seventy-year-old Jewish women were our constituency, our base, our peeps. And, indeed, when we arrived at the Port Washington (Long Island, NY) Public Library for the night's show, there they were, in force: enough seventy-year old Jewish women for a complete soccer game, including refs, coaches, and soccer-grandmom fans. But there were other people in attendance as well ? younger people, older people, people who were not remotely women but were, in fact, men. We'd read in "Port" before (and Barbara's mother lives there), so the gig presented us with a home field advantage which we exploited big-time. We schmoozed and kibitzed. We threw in a local joke. And, frankly, we killed. True, someone will reply, "Wait a minute. You 'killed' with a crowd consisting of your mother and her friends? So what? They walked in loving you. They arrived pre-killed for your convenience." Maybe. But the crowd neared a hundred (the night's before had neared sixteen), so we were killing strangers (or "we killed with strangers," or "at strangers," or whatever the preposition is) as well. So we were delighted. This was more like it. This was the robust, appreciative turnout and merch-moving triumph we'd had in mind. Imagine, we imagined, how electrifying the next appearance, in Washington, D.C., would be. This, not because DC is a hotbed of Judaism (although it's at least, arguably, a warmbed of it), but because, unlike its predecessor, Yiddish With George and Laura is a boldly, if not outright obnoxiously, political book. Yiddish With Dick and Jane is pseudo-nostalgic social satire; YWGAL is a bloodthirsty hatchet job. While the story confines itself to an adorable tale concerning the President and his nukular (sic) family, the Glossary is openly anti-administration. In fact, when arranging these appearances, we always offered our hosts a choice: the PG-13-rated YWDAJ (For "Some homosexual content and drug-related humor. Parents Tepidly Cautioned."), or the R-rated YWGAL (For "Blistering Anti-Administration mockery and Open Contempt of Republicans."). We don't particularly want to offend people ? although, now that you mention it, we ourselves have been offended, and worse, by the liars, criminals, and demagogues that have controlled our national life these past six years, and so, really, if ? Look, never mind. Let's just leave it that we're looking for laughs, not outrage. Of the hundred or so people in the audience at Port Washington, only one woman disapproved of our partisanship; afterwards, she indignantly told the lady in charge that it had been "inappropriate." But that's what Republicans always say, when the facts are against them and reality comes a-calling. When we asked the D.C.J.C.C. if they were willing to present YWGAL they said, to coin a phrase, "Bring it on." So we looked forward to a tumultuous, raucous evening of Democratic triumphalism and high-contrast (Bush/Yiddish) laffs, all in an auditorium the size of the Met. Sure, it rained ? poured, really ? the whole day of the reading. And yes, the entire area was under a Tornado Watch for the duration. But so what? Who cared about the stupid weather? Everyone. Literally everyone in the greater DC metro area cared. We had eight people, half of whom consisted of Ellis's sister, her boyfriend, Barbara's cousin, and the woman who had booked us. And forget "the Met." The reading took place around a table in the library, like a very specialized and very, very restricted grad school seminar. Oh, yes, people laughed, and we all chatted pleasantly afterwards, and if we couldn't have fielded a soccer game with the participants, we could have at least played bridge. But a pattern had begun to suggest itself: A small, disappointing turnout one night, a lusty and appreciative crowd the next. Would it continue? The next night's reading was to be in Boston, for the "Shabbat Boston" event of the Combined Jewish Philanthropies, to be held in the Hebrew Senior Life center following Shabbat services nearby and a kosher dinner. Read that sentence again. We'll wait. See how none of those names suggests a sexy evening of lively hilarity? And yet that's exactly what "went down." The Hebrew Senior Life center ? a low, broad room suitable for Bingo or mind-numbing testimonial luncheons ? was devoid of Hebrew seniors living life. Instead, it filled up with attractive, chattering, vivacious Jewish men and women in their twenties and thirties, about eighty of whom trooped into the next room, after the meal, for our reading. They were fabulous. We were fabulous. Everything was great. One reading remained, at a synagogue in Danbury, Connecticut. If you're keeping score at home you know that, for the pattern to hold, the Danbury gig would have to be something of a dud. But how sad-making that would be ? and as the last event of the tour, too. How preferable to round off this odd-numbered series with a hybrid evening, a final perf consisting of both a rousing success and a heart-sinking disappointment. This would not only perfectly balance the books (two good, two not, one half-and-half), but would restore symmetry to the universe. Impossible. And yet... Half the audience, we learned, had dragged themselves away from a classical music event that had started ninety minutes earlier at another venue, and had essentially come out of solidarity with or obligation to the organization that booked us. The reading took place in a multi-purpose room, to an audience seated at an array of round dining tables. Thus, while the table to our left roared and giggled and squealed, the group to our right maintained a stony silence throughout. It was, as Barbara pointed out, like listening to a stereo with one broken speaker. Thus ended our East Coast Tour '06 ? i.e., we broke even. It should be mentioned that, without
|
Guests
by Ellis Weiner and Barbara Davilman, November 20, 2006 12:16 PM
Remember when air travel was glamorous? Remember when it was at least somewhat fun? Okay, but remember when it was tolerable? Remember when it wasn't a series of slaps in the face and kicks in the teeth? Remember when "traveling" meant "traveling" and not "waiting for traveling to end"? I know: that's pre-9/11 thinking and pre-9/11 remembering. But having just returned from our hyper-swanky East Coast Book Tour '06, we feel we've learned a thing or two about transporting oneself across these Still United States that bear mentioning and that can be summed up in two simple words: Turn Back. And don't pretend this doesn't apply to you or somehow isn't relevant to significant numbers of the population. Thanksgiving week is the Most Traveled Week of the Year; everyone, counter-intuitively, wants to travel long distances to be with his own or someone else's family in order to express thanks ? presumably for the fact that we don't live with those people all the rest of the year. Families (as we explore in our best-selling Yiddish With Dick and Jane, and its newborn sibling, Yiddish With George and Laura) often resemble social experiments as scripted by Sophocles, translated by Pinter, and directed by George Romero. People measure the success of their lives by how much they don't resemble the conditions in which they grew up. Isn't that what is meant by the American Dream? And isn't it therefore worth it, to travel for hours, breathing brutalized air while strapped into the forcedly rigid posture of a scolded second-grader while watching, or pretending not to watch, some movie you have no intention of watching, in order to return to the scene of the crime to celebrate one's escape therefrom? You bet it is. And that's why you, or at least someone, will be traveling this week just as we'll be getting back from our own soi-disant "East Coast Tour." May we share our impressions and offer some "notes"? It came off, if not without a hitch (because there were many hitches), then without a hitch resulting in loss of life or property. The plan was simple: have various Jewish organizations fly us from L.A. to and around the east coast. Rent a series of cars in which to drive from city to city, from relative to relative, and stop off at assorted venues to give public readings of Dick and Jane or George and Laura. Dedicate and autograph copies of the books. Visit certain bookstores and sign "stock." Meet the faithful and cultivate new friends, or vice-versa. We were upbeat and optimistic. We were flying into a region dense, not only with friends and relations, but with Jews. One scheduled reading would be at a Hadassah meeting, another at ? get this ? the Washington, D.C. Jewish Community Center, yes, the D.C.J.C.C., ground zero of the political conflict that had obsessed us for years and resulted in our writing George and Laura in the first place. ("The country is polarized" is another way of saying, "It's a civil war in all but name.") We imagined a big auditorium with hundreds of shouting, exulting Jewish Democrats. Financially, the trip was an exercise in voodoo economics. The thinking, to the extent that there was any, held that we'd draw sufficiently large audiences and inspire them to purchase (and to tell their friends to purchase) enough books, as to make the trip ultimately break even financially. (We were paid basically nothing for these appearances, but our hosts did cover most expenses.) Besides, we hadn't seen our parents in months and months, so what the hell. We hand-made our wised-up sophisticated-traveler sandwiches for the flight, and drove to LAX. Everyone by now has a favorite nightmare anecdote about getting through Security at a major metropolitan airport but, for some reason, we had no problem. The flight, which threatened to leave an hour late, instead left only about 45 minutes late ? a minor inconvenience. And guess who was on the flight. Fabio! Of course, he sat in first class, where men are men and seats are designed to human scale. We sat in coach, where men are toddlers ? or, at least, the two toddlers a few rows in front of us were. It was they who, obedient to their inner toddlerian imperative, cried and screamed for five hours straight. Or so it seemed. And isn't that what's important? As for landing, ours can best be illustrated by posing the poignant question, When was the last time you vomited? If you're in your teens or twenties, your answer may very well be, "Um, I think, like, yesterday. What time is it?" But we can't remember when last we hurled, and so, as the plane circled in a stalling maneuver while they "changed the runways" down at JFK, and the woman one row behind us commenced to throw up loudly and moaningly and apologetically and repeatedly and…well, liquidly, we found ourselves re-acquainted with a form of human behavior we had not seen, heard, or smelled in some years. Of course it could have been worse. Of course we could have crashed in the Andes and ended up eating each other. Still, the woman was right behind us, the kids were still screaming, and the old, classic Cunard Line ad motto "Getting there is half the fun" had undeniably devolved into "Getting there is half the problem." But we got there (every time we looked around at Baggage Claim, there he was, seemingly eager to be as close to us as possible: Fabio, Fabio, Fabio. He seemed very nice.) and got ourselves together for the next evening's reading, first of the series. It was raining and eerily warm. We had spent the day meeting people and running errands and were therefore harried and worn by the time we arrived at the appointed private home to elbow our way good-naturedly through a throng of Hadassah ladies. But there was no throng. There were four or five gals floating around the cleared-out living room. We hoped, for an insane instant, that we had come to the wrong house, that this meager little tableau that made us feel like Jehovah's Witnesses (in our nice clothes, with our precious text) was some weekly canasta group taking a break. But no. This was the place. Then, before we had removed our rain coats or collapsed our umbrellas, the excited hostess ran up and, with tears in her eyes, told us how, two years earlier, she had read Yiddish With Dick and Jane to her father as he lay, dying, in the hospital. It afforded them both a few laughs in what otherwise had been an impossible situation. She was moved. We were moved. She said thank you. We said thank you. Then we all had soda and cake and admired the new puppy while we waited for the other women to arrive. In the end we had an audience of fifteen. And if we didn't exactly kill ? you can't kill with an audience that small ? we certainly wounded. So it came off okay. Next day: The Port Washington Public
|