I just like this story - Mind that post
I read a group biography about J.M. Barrie, the Llewelyn Davies family (the boys behind the lost boys of Peter Pan) and the du Mauriers - their cousins. Barrie is the author of Peter Pan and many other books and plays, though the rest of his work seems fatally dated and not read or performed I think at all anymore. George du Maurier, the boys' grandfather, was the author of Trilby (from whence the character and word Svengali came) and his grand-daughter Daphne du Maurier wrote many best sellers, Rebecca probably being the most famous. I've always been interested in Barrie because if you read Peter Pan (aka Wendy and Peter), rather than just saw the play, you might have been stunned, as I was, by the undercurrent of frustrated sexuality and other family psycho-drama in it. Some of it is a little disturbing and you really don't have to search hard for it. It pops right out at you. I've only had that one book to base my ideas about him before I saw the Disney version of their story, which tells us a much nicer, somewhat inaccurate and condensed version of the tale. I did not know how dark and sexually confused Barrie was before reading this biography, although I believe the author of the book, has taken great leaps of logic and blamed Barrie for everything that went wrong in the LD/du Maurier family based on a lot of speculation (although, to be fair, some at the time felt likewise), even if it was well researched, mostly by a review of surviving letters. I looked at some other biography reviews online and it appears Barrie's darkness or creepiness is rather well documented. Even in his own life, sex was an undercurrent and not a thing he ever experienced. His connection with the LD family was, not surprisingly, seen as an invasion by the boys' father, Arthur, by the boys' longtime nanny and even, eventually, some of the children, one who as an older man committed suicide (ran in front of a train) and another who might have killed himself as a youth - certainly he drowned with another boy in a mysterious circumstance that could have been a double suicide. And Daphne du Maurier was certainly a mess, though perhaps it helped make her a great writer too. But, there is no need to analyze it further here as I seek no conclusion. The book is just how I came upon the following very, very short story Barrie wrote which I will relate below. No one doubts that Barrie was a brilliant writer and in the book I was reading on him I came across something that caught my fancy, titled Mind that post:
"A relatively poorly-off couple had been married for thirty or more years in happy times together. the time came when the wife died - all solemnity and customary mourning - undertaker - put in coffin - gently carried downstairs and out through the front garden towards the hearse. Taking the coffin out of the garden it struck a post of the garden gate. This seemed to stir the dead lady as there was a suddenly a knocking inside the coffin. They opened the lid - she'd 'come round' - was helped out - and they had another good year or two together. Then she died again and all as above until - as the coffin was going through the gate the husband said 'Eh, mind that post.'"
I suspect quite a few spouses might feel exactly the same way.
I just like this story too - If you build it, they will embarrass you in front of everyone.
Speaking of being a boy, it was great. I had so many laughs. You know what I mean. You are with friends and you start laughing and you just can't stop. I could write a whole post just on those experiences as I remember many of them to this day. But, I'll just tell one right now and save the rest for another post.
Anyone who has actually read a few posts from my evalovin' blog may recognize the commenter who uses the pseudonym "Bear." Bear was a childhood friend and to this date still is. He has written many a caustic comment in response to my posts, and often cracks me up, though I'm the target. A few people have told me they have read my blog just to read his comments. And since only a few people read it . . .
Well, one day, in a galaxy far, far away a long, long time ago . . .
Bear and I went to the movies to see Kevin Costner's classic, Field of Dreams. IMDB tells me that it came out in 1989, so I guess that is when we saw it. We were in our very young 30s, so not boys, but we had been boys together. In my mind, we were much younger, but if the movie came out in 1989, then that's when we saw it and how old we were. We watched it at the Westbury Movie Theatre. I can't begin to tell you what a dump this movie theatre was. You went there to see movies that were no longer first run, the trade-off being that it was a lot cheaper. And it should have been, because the place was crumbling, and the quality of the film, or maybe it was the projector, was pretty bad.
I had never seen Field of Dreams. Bear had. We were in our seats waiting for the movie to start when he decided to tell me that at the end of the movie Costner's character is going to speak with his dad's ghost (sorry, if you were going to watch it someday; it won't matter much), who asks him if he wants to play catch. Bear gave me a heads up that, on account of his own father having died some years earlier, he was going to start crying when he hears that line. I understood. You don't really want your friends to see you crying and I didn't even mock him. I have a vague memory he even said - "don't mock me." That is too vague in my head to be sure of. But, I do remember that his dad was the first person I ever shed even a tear over when he died. In any event, we watched the movie and the ghost dad was just about to say, "Son, do you want to play catch?" when Bear actually stood up and left the theatre. I listened to the line about the catch. It didn't make me sniffle and I tear up easily at movies. That's because I was thinking to myself, "Eh. My dad never played catch with me."
But, that's not the funny part. After it was over I walked out into the lobby. The theatre was run by a middle-aged couple. They were very nice, but a little weird. Weird in the kind of way an old couple might be who run a dilapidated movie theater and do everything from selling tickets to popcorn just for the fun of it. When I got into the lobby after the movie ended, not too long after Bear, I saw the old man right in the middle of it, talking to him. Bear had his glasses off and was rubbing his red wet eyes. We left the theatre together.
As soon as we hit the pavement, Bear launched into a rant. You have not lived until you have seen Bear go into a rant about something that irritates him, but if you have ever seen the Seinfeld episode where someone took the nickname "T-Bone" that George had wanted, his fit comes close. As Bear explained to me rather dramatically, he had run out into the lobby so that no one would see him cry, including me. Unfortunately, the old man had stopped him and asked him what was the matter. Bear, a little embarrassed and not wanting attention, quietly explained to him that his father had died and this scene just gets to him.
Now, in a situation like this, you'd expect the man might pat him on the shoulder and say something like, "It's okay, son. It's nice you feel that way about your dad." But, I guess that was too prosaic for him. He was so excited a movie in his theatre has touched someone that he turned and shouted to his wife in front of everyone, "Honey, this man is crying." When Bear came to that moment I lost it. He was tromping up and down on the walkway on the side of the theater, wildly gesticulating like a madman and spouting forth like you've never heard while I lay on the sidewalk, unable to get up with my arms wrapped around my ribs because I was laughing so hard I thought I was going to break them. That's not just an expression. I literally remember lying there on the sidewalk thinking my ribs were going to break if I didn't stop laughing so hard. I don't know how many minutes it lasted, but it seemed like a really long time. God that was funny. Laughing now just thinking about it.
I just like this story - in memory of a friend
Speaking of laughing, some funny memories come back to me of a woman I will call K, the mother of some of my daughter's childhood friends, who also became my friend for a long time. We lost touch these last few years. Her husband recently called to tell me she had passed away. She was only past 66 but had been battling illness for years. Thinking about her, two stories come to mind.
I met her when she lived across the street from my daughter's mother's apartment in a cosy little condo complex. The kids were free to run about the little neighborhood (which I thought dangerous, but . . .). When I would go to visit or pick up my daughter, I would often walk up the stairs across the street to visit with K, as my kid would just as often be there as her own home. It was the kind of home where the door was usually open, and you could pick up the phone if it rang and answer it for her. K was kind of a second mother to many kids who lived in the complex. In fact, so much so that I was once disappointed when she'd naturally believed her own daughter over mine when she accused her of writing a curse word in another friend's house (though years later, as an adult, her daughter laughingly admitted to all of us that she had lied).
One day I stopped up to see her and she asked me if I would like the last piece of steak she had cooked. We sat down at the table and she put it down between us on a place. After a few seconds while she busied herself, I said "K, just how young do you think I am?" She looked at what she was doing and put her hand to her mouth, laughing. "It was a reflex," she said.
She had been cutting my steak into little tiny pieces, as if for a child.
Another memory. K had been dating my daughter's uncle (let's call him "Uncle Q"), some years younger than her, who was living with his my daughter, her mother and stepfather for a while. He was a very nice kid in his 20s, but deeply insecure from a rather difficult upbringing. He was leaving K's apartment when I came in and he told me he was going home to sleep, needing to get up early. I went into the bathroom for a few seconds and then came out. The phone rang almost instantly and I picked it up for her. "K's house." It was Uncle Q, who said, "David, why did you call me a 'goddamn fucking liar' out the window?" I thought a second. I would have no reason to do such a thing, but . . . "Hold on a second, Uncle Q. That sounds awfully familiar."
I put the phone down for a second and asked K, "did you just hear me scream 'goddam fucking liar?'"
"Yes," she said. "You do the same thing every time you are here. You walk into the bathroom, step on the scale and scream out 'Goddamn fucking liar!"
Poor long-suffering Uncle Q, walking across the street, heard someone scream "Goddamn fucking liar," looked over his shoulder to saw me standing by the window with an angry grimace, looking in his direction.
Hysterical. Fortunately, he believed me.
I just like this story - Ancient Jewish aliens
Speaking of long-suffering (a real weak transition, I admit), it was Passover as I wrote this. Let's hear it for the Jews, among whom one noted author has provided some important information about extraterrestrials. I have always enjoyed tales of aliens visiting earth and love watching the various tv shows about UFOs, some of which are just too silly. It never seems to bother any of the hosts of these shows that beings who could travel the stars in vehicles to come here, seemed to only be able to work in stone once on earth. My favorite part of any of these shows is when the narrator says "Ancient alien theorists believe. . . ." and then follows it with something fun, but ridiculous. How many ancient alien theorists are there anyway? Can there be more than five? For all I know, it's a great career and you can get a degree, or at least a certificate.
Which brings us to Josephus. You may or may not be aware of him, as he isn't exactly well-read today. He was a Jewish man who lived a little after the time of Christ (the only person, almost contemporary with Jesus that we know of who tangentially referred to him outside of writings collected as the New Testament. He mentioned, really in passing, "the brother of Jesus, who was called Christ, whose name was James" - unless it was a later Christian interpolation, as his other Jesus reference appears to be). Josephus eventually was made a slave by the Roman king, but when freed, took Roman citizenship. He is the author of several histories.
In one of them, The Jewish War, he relates as follows, something possibly more interesting than the Jesus reference:
"A few days after the Feast, on the 21st May, a supernatural apparition was seen, too amazing to be believed. What I have to relate would, I suppose, have been dismissed as an invention had it not been vouched for by eyewitnesses and followed by disasters that bore out the signs. Before sunset there were seen in the sky over the who country, chariots and regiments in arms speeding through the clouds and encircling the towns. . . ."
I wonder if the "ancient alien theorists" we hear about on these shows have heard of that one.
I just like this story - More Jewish humor
Speaking of the Jews, one day I drove an elderly attorney home to Long Island from court in the city. During the drive, he told me this story. I have to paraphrase because I don't remember the exact words, but it went something like this:
"I grew up in Brooklyn, a Jewish kid. Back in the 1950s I spent a Summer working in the Hamptons. I met a young woman, also Jewish, and we really hit it off. I thought we might have something special because she let me kiss her, and back then, that was a big deal.
When I returned to Brooklyn, I gave her a call. I thought her father was a little rude to me on the phone when I asked for her. She seemed reluctant too, when he put her on, but she agreed to see me.
I went and picked her up at her house. I was upset by how hostile her father and brothers seemed to me. But, we went out and had a great time. When I brought her back, I asked her if I could see her again. She told me that she liked me a lot but could not see me again.
I had a feeling religion might play a role in it, and that there was a misunderstanding, so I said to her, "You do know I'm Jewish, right?"
"Yes," she said sadly, "but you are not Sephardic."
Religion. Oy vey.
I just like this story - Still more Jewish humor
When I was growing up, our house was filled with books, many on shelves in our breezeway (no idea why that otherwise useless odd room off our garage was called that). But, in our living room, one book had pride of place for many years on the coffee table. It was a large red covered book on Jewish humor. The exact name of this book I could not tell you and searches on the internet have not been fruitful. It might be The Big Book of Jewish Humor, but that's a guess. I'd know it if I saw it and could flip through it a bit. Anyway, it was a very funny book, with many anecdotes about eastern European Jews, including fictional ones from the legendary city of Chelm.
Actually, I forget most of those actual anecdotes in it, maybe all of them. I just remember the "feeling" of them. There's one though I may I remember. To be honest, it might be from another source, but, who really cares? Still, this one anecdote I will relate I have often pulled out when discussing relationships. Obviously, since I remembered it, it resonated with me and I've been told by some people that I told it to that they really liked it and wanted to remember it to use themselves. You tell me:
A Jewish husband went to his rabbi and said he wanted a divorce.
The rabbi was surprised. He said, "Why do you want to get divorced? Your wife is a beauty. She is a good cook. She gave you children and keeps your house. What's so wrong with that?"
"Well," said the man, "suppose you buy a new pair of shoes."
"Ah," said the rabbi, "a parable."
"The shoes are made of the finest leather. They are expensive, with durable soles and good to look at."
"Yes," said the rabbi. "I see the analogy."
"But," continued the man, " you are the only one who knows. . . ."
"Know what?" asked the rabbi.
"You are the only ones who knows - they pinch."
I just like this story - it looks good
Speaking of things that look good but aren't (another weak transition, I know), do you eat your ticket stubs? I do. Styrofoam coffee cups too, although I don't swallow that. When I was a teenager I was standing online for a movie with my stub in hand. When I got to the door I discovered that I had completely eaten my ticket. I got into the movie somehow, but, really, who would do that?
I'm not entirely alone. I was delighted to come across this tidbit of a Russian man named Pyotr, who briefly worked at the Ministry of Justice:
"One 'traditional' anecdote, and the brief history of [Peter] as an official is complete. He had been entrusted with a signed document from the chief of his department, but on his way to deliver it he stopped to talk with someone, and in his absence of mind never noticed that, while talking, he kept tearing off scraps of the paper and chewing them--a trick he always had with theatre tickets or programmes. There was nothing for it but to re-copy the document and, however unpleasant, to face his chief for a fresh signature."
I think by "traditional," he is saying that the ministry story might be apocryphal, but the eating of theatre tickets seems to come from his personal knowledge.
I received this anecdote from The Life & Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky, written by his first biographer, his own brother Modest. I'm reading it now, but the abridged edition is 829 pages, and I may weary of it. However, so far, I can compare myself to the great Tchaikovsky in several ways.
Ancestry from the western Russian Empire
Some legal education
Eater of theatre tickets
And there the comparison must end, as he was certainly one of the greatest of composers of his era, in my view, of all time, whereas I practiced the violin for six months and still could not tunefully play Mary had a little lamb. It sounded so much like a saw on an iron pipe that my favorite memory of that time is leaving my traumatizing Mary on the answering machine of my friends, none of whom was aware I was even trying to learn to play. My intention of surprising them at an impromptu Christmas concert had to be forsaken when it turned out I had zero aptitude for it.
I just like this story - the lady in the carriage
Speaking of those who become the greatest in their field, Paul Morphy was almost universally considered the greatest chess player in the world during his short time playing and by some the greatest chess prodigy in history. After returning from his first trip to Europe where he wiped the club floors with many a great chess player, including Karl Anderson, who was considered the greatest player before and after him, Morphy would thereafter, with few exceptions, only play giving a handicap (such as giving a pawn and move or a knight, etc.), even against top players, when he would play at all. He was a strange one, refusing to play for stakes and retiring soon after returning to America to pursue more "serious" matters, that is, practicing law. He was a very courteous man though, and had no problem playing with women (this is the 19th century) or, for the sake of chivalry, throwing a match to one. Though there were some good women players, they rarely ever competed with the men (they still play separately at the championship level, though I can't think of a reason for it). But, according to a May 31st, 1859 New York Evening Post, this happened:
"The Mysterious Chess Player.--In a notice of Morphy, the great chess player, a queer incident occurred to him soon after his arrival in New York. A carriage drove to the St. Nicholas, in which was seated a splendidly dressed lady. She sent up a card, and requested an interview with the chess champion. The interview was granted, when the fair visitor demanded the privilege of playing a game with Mr. Morphy. Mr. Morphy looked at the magnificent eyes of the stranger, and said, 'Yes certainly.' The chess table was brought to the window, and Mr. Morphy placed the men. The lady, of course, was permitted the first move. Half a dozen moves on either side and Morphy found himself interested--his visitor promised to prove the most formidable antagonist he had had for a long time. Being absorbed in the game, Morphy directed the servant to admit no one else until it was completed. The game lasted two hours and was drawn. The lady was then satisfied, and blushingly took her leave, Morphy himself accompanying her to the carriage. The moment she had gone, Morphy and his friends set at work to ascertain the identity of the beautiful visitor, not doubting that the name upon her card could be found in the directory. This, however, proved to be a mistake, and though every endeavor was made to ascertain precisely who was the visitor, the gentlemen are as much in the dark as ever. Whoever she may be, she played the best game in which Morphy was ever a contestant, and she probably adopted these means of matching herself with Morphy in order to assure herself of her own skill."
Who was the mystery woman? No one ever learned. It sounds a little overstated as, like all chess champions, Morphy did lose some games. But, it has all the makings of a great novel, particularly as Morphy later went crazy. Just throwing it out there.
This exciting episode of I just liked these stories must come to an end. It has been a long hiatus as the first I just liked these stories was posted 8/29/09. At the time, Bear told me it was his favorite.
I read a group biography about J.M. Barrie, the Llewelyn Davies family (the boys behind the lost boys of Peter Pan) and the du Mauriers - their cousins. Barrie is the author of Peter Pan and many other books and plays, though the rest of his work seems fatally dated and not read or performed I think at all anymore. George du Maurier, the boys' grandfather, was the author of Trilby (from whence the character and word Svengali came) and his grand-daughter Daphne du Maurier wrote many best sellers, Rebecca probably being the most famous. I've always been interested in Barrie because if you read Peter Pan (aka Wendy and Peter), rather than just saw the play, you might have been stunned, as I was, by the undercurrent of frustrated sexuality and other family psycho-drama in it. Some of it is a little disturbing and you really don't have to search hard for it. It pops right out at you. I've only had that one book to base my ideas about him before I saw the Disney version of their story, which tells us a much nicer, somewhat inaccurate and condensed version of the tale. I did not know how dark and sexually confused Barrie was before reading this biography, although I believe the author of the book, has taken great leaps of logic and blamed Barrie for everything that went wrong in the LD/du Maurier family based on a lot of speculation (although, to be fair, some at the time felt likewise), even if it was well researched, mostly by a review of surviving letters. I looked at some other biography reviews online and it appears Barrie's darkness or creepiness is rather well documented. Even in his own life, sex was an undercurrent and not a thing he ever experienced. His connection with the LD family was, not surprisingly, seen as an invasion by the boys' father, Arthur, by the boys' longtime nanny and even, eventually, some of the children, one who as an older man committed suicide (ran in front of a train) and another who might have killed himself as a youth - certainly he drowned with another boy in a mysterious circumstance that could have been a double suicide. And Daphne du Maurier was certainly a mess, though perhaps it helped make her a great writer too. But, there is no need to analyze it further here as I seek no conclusion. The book is just how I came upon the following very, very short story Barrie wrote which I will relate below. No one doubts that Barrie was a brilliant writer and in the book I was reading on him I came across something that caught my fancy, titled Mind that post:
"A relatively poorly-off couple had been married for thirty or more years in happy times together. the time came when the wife died - all solemnity and customary mourning - undertaker - put in coffin - gently carried downstairs and out through the front garden towards the hearse. Taking the coffin out of the garden it struck a post of the garden gate. This seemed to stir the dead lady as there was a suddenly a knocking inside the coffin. They opened the lid - she'd 'come round' - was helped out - and they had another good year or two together. Then she died again and all as above until - as the coffin was going through the gate the husband said 'Eh, mind that post.'"
I suspect quite a few spouses might feel exactly the same way.
I just like this story too - If you build it, they will embarrass you in front of everyone.
Speaking of being a boy, it was great. I had so many laughs. You know what I mean. You are with friends and you start laughing and you just can't stop. I could write a whole post just on those experiences as I remember many of them to this day. But, I'll just tell one right now and save the rest for another post.
Anyone who has actually read a few posts from my evalovin' blog may recognize the commenter who uses the pseudonym "Bear." Bear was a childhood friend and to this date still is. He has written many a caustic comment in response to my posts, and often cracks me up, though I'm the target. A few people have told me they have read my blog just to read his comments. And since only a few people read it . . .
Well, one day, in a galaxy far, far away a long, long time ago . . .
Bear and I went to the movies to see Kevin Costner's classic, Field of Dreams. IMDB tells me that it came out in 1989, so I guess that is when we saw it. We were in our very young 30s, so not boys, but we had been boys together. In my mind, we were much younger, but if the movie came out in 1989, then that's when we saw it and how old we were. We watched it at the Westbury Movie Theatre. I can't begin to tell you what a dump this movie theatre was. You went there to see movies that were no longer first run, the trade-off being that it was a lot cheaper. And it should have been, because the place was crumbling, and the quality of the film, or maybe it was the projector, was pretty bad.
I had never seen Field of Dreams. Bear had. We were in our seats waiting for the movie to start when he decided to tell me that at the end of the movie Costner's character is going to speak with his dad's ghost (sorry, if you were going to watch it someday; it won't matter much), who asks him if he wants to play catch. Bear gave me a heads up that, on account of his own father having died some years earlier, he was going to start crying when he hears that line. I understood. You don't really want your friends to see you crying and I didn't even mock him. I have a vague memory he even said - "don't mock me." That is too vague in my head to be sure of. But, I do remember that his dad was the first person I ever shed even a tear over when he died. In any event, we watched the movie and the ghost dad was just about to say, "Son, do you want to play catch?" when Bear actually stood up and left the theatre. I listened to the line about the catch. It didn't make me sniffle and I tear up easily at movies. That's because I was thinking to myself, "Eh. My dad never played catch with me."
But, that's not the funny part. After it was over I walked out into the lobby. The theatre was run by a middle-aged couple. They were very nice, but a little weird. Weird in the kind of way an old couple might be who run a dilapidated movie theater and do everything from selling tickets to popcorn just for the fun of it. When I got into the lobby after the movie ended, not too long after Bear, I saw the old man right in the middle of it, talking to him. Bear had his glasses off and was rubbing his red wet eyes. We left the theatre together.
As soon as we hit the pavement, Bear launched into a rant. You have not lived until you have seen Bear go into a rant about something that irritates him, but if you have ever seen the Seinfeld episode where someone took the nickname "T-Bone" that George had wanted, his fit comes close. As Bear explained to me rather dramatically, he had run out into the lobby so that no one would see him cry, including me. Unfortunately, the old man had stopped him and asked him what was the matter. Bear, a little embarrassed and not wanting attention, quietly explained to him that his father had died and this scene just gets to him.
Now, in a situation like this, you'd expect the man might pat him on the shoulder and say something like, "It's okay, son. It's nice you feel that way about your dad." But, I guess that was too prosaic for him. He was so excited a movie in his theatre has touched someone that he turned and shouted to his wife in front of everyone, "Honey, this man is crying." When Bear came to that moment I lost it. He was tromping up and down on the walkway on the side of the theater, wildly gesticulating like a madman and spouting forth like you've never heard while I lay on the sidewalk, unable to get up with my arms wrapped around my ribs because I was laughing so hard I thought I was going to break them. That's not just an expression. I literally remember lying there on the sidewalk thinking my ribs were going to break if I didn't stop laughing so hard. I don't know how many minutes it lasted, but it seemed like a really long time. God that was funny. Laughing now just thinking about it.
I just like this story - in memory of a friend
Speaking of laughing, some funny memories come back to me of a woman I will call K, the mother of some of my daughter's childhood friends, who also became my friend for a long time. We lost touch these last few years. Her husband recently called to tell me she had passed away. She was only past 66 but had been battling illness for years. Thinking about her, two stories come to mind.
I met her when she lived across the street from my daughter's mother's apartment in a cosy little condo complex. The kids were free to run about the little neighborhood (which I thought dangerous, but . . .). When I would go to visit or pick up my daughter, I would often walk up the stairs across the street to visit with K, as my kid would just as often be there as her own home. It was the kind of home where the door was usually open, and you could pick up the phone if it rang and answer it for her. K was kind of a second mother to many kids who lived in the complex. In fact, so much so that I was once disappointed when she'd naturally believed her own daughter over mine when she accused her of writing a curse word in another friend's house (though years later, as an adult, her daughter laughingly admitted to all of us that she had lied).
One day I stopped up to see her and she asked me if I would like the last piece of steak she had cooked. We sat down at the table and she put it down between us on a place. After a few seconds while she busied herself, I said "K, just how young do you think I am?" She looked at what she was doing and put her hand to her mouth, laughing. "It was a reflex," she said.
She had been cutting my steak into little tiny pieces, as if for a child.
Another memory. K had been dating my daughter's uncle (let's call him "Uncle Q"), some years younger than her, who was living with his my daughter, her mother and stepfather for a while. He was a very nice kid in his 20s, but deeply insecure from a rather difficult upbringing. He was leaving K's apartment when I came in and he told me he was going home to sleep, needing to get up early. I went into the bathroom for a few seconds and then came out. The phone rang almost instantly and I picked it up for her. "K's house." It was Uncle Q, who said, "David, why did you call me a 'goddamn fucking liar' out the window?" I thought a second. I would have no reason to do such a thing, but . . . "Hold on a second, Uncle Q. That sounds awfully familiar."
I put the phone down for a second and asked K, "did you just hear me scream 'goddam fucking liar?'"
"Yes," she said. "You do the same thing every time you are here. You walk into the bathroom, step on the scale and scream out 'Goddamn fucking liar!"
Poor long-suffering Uncle Q, walking across the street, heard someone scream "Goddamn fucking liar," looked over his shoulder to saw me standing by the window with an angry grimace, looking in his direction.
Hysterical. Fortunately, he believed me.
I just like this story - Ancient Jewish aliens
Speaking of long-suffering (a real weak transition, I admit), it was Passover as I wrote this. Let's hear it for the Jews, among whom one noted author has provided some important information about extraterrestrials. I have always enjoyed tales of aliens visiting earth and love watching the various tv shows about UFOs, some of which are just too silly. It never seems to bother any of the hosts of these shows that beings who could travel the stars in vehicles to come here, seemed to only be able to work in stone once on earth. My favorite part of any of these shows is when the narrator says "Ancient alien theorists believe. . . ." and then follows it with something fun, but ridiculous. How many ancient alien theorists are there anyway? Can there be more than five? For all I know, it's a great career and you can get a degree, or at least a certificate.
Which brings us to Josephus. You may or may not be aware of him, as he isn't exactly well-read today. He was a Jewish man who lived a little after the time of Christ (the only person, almost contemporary with Jesus that we know of who tangentially referred to him outside of writings collected as the New Testament. He mentioned, really in passing, "the brother of Jesus, who was called Christ, whose name was James" - unless it was a later Christian interpolation, as his other Jesus reference appears to be). Josephus eventually was made a slave by the Roman king, but when freed, took Roman citizenship. He is the author of several histories.
In one of them, The Jewish War, he relates as follows, something possibly more interesting than the Jesus reference:
"A few days after the Feast, on the 21st May, a supernatural apparition was seen, too amazing to be believed. What I have to relate would, I suppose, have been dismissed as an invention had it not been vouched for by eyewitnesses and followed by disasters that bore out the signs. Before sunset there were seen in the sky over the who country, chariots and regiments in arms speeding through the clouds and encircling the towns. . . ."
I wonder if the "ancient alien theorists" we hear about on these shows have heard of that one.
I just like this story - More Jewish humor
Speaking of the Jews, one day I drove an elderly attorney home to Long Island from court in the city. During the drive, he told me this story. I have to paraphrase because I don't remember the exact words, but it went something like this:
"I grew up in Brooklyn, a Jewish kid. Back in the 1950s I spent a Summer working in the Hamptons. I met a young woman, also Jewish, and we really hit it off. I thought we might have something special because she let me kiss her, and back then, that was a big deal.
When I returned to Brooklyn, I gave her a call. I thought her father was a little rude to me on the phone when I asked for her. She seemed reluctant too, when he put her on, but she agreed to see me.
I went and picked her up at her house. I was upset by how hostile her father and brothers seemed to me. But, we went out and had a great time. When I brought her back, I asked her if I could see her again. She told me that she liked me a lot but could not see me again.
I had a feeling religion might play a role in it, and that there was a misunderstanding, so I said to her, "You do know I'm Jewish, right?"
"Yes," she said sadly, "but you are not Sephardic."
Religion. Oy vey.
I just like this story - Still more Jewish humor
When I was growing up, our house was filled with books, many on shelves in our breezeway (no idea why that otherwise useless odd room off our garage was called that). But, in our living room, one book had pride of place for many years on the coffee table. It was a large red covered book on Jewish humor. The exact name of this book I could not tell you and searches on the internet have not been fruitful. It might be The Big Book of Jewish Humor, but that's a guess. I'd know it if I saw it and could flip through it a bit. Anyway, it was a very funny book, with many anecdotes about eastern European Jews, including fictional ones from the legendary city of Chelm.
Actually, I forget most of those actual anecdotes in it, maybe all of them. I just remember the "feeling" of them. There's one though I may I remember. To be honest, it might be from another source, but, who really cares? Still, this one anecdote I will relate I have often pulled out when discussing relationships. Obviously, since I remembered it, it resonated with me and I've been told by some people that I told it to that they really liked it and wanted to remember it to use themselves. You tell me:
A Jewish husband went to his rabbi and said he wanted a divorce.
The rabbi was surprised. He said, "Why do you want to get divorced? Your wife is a beauty. She is a good cook. She gave you children and keeps your house. What's so wrong with that?"
"Well," said the man, "suppose you buy a new pair of shoes."
"Ah," said the rabbi, "a parable."
"The shoes are made of the finest leather. They are expensive, with durable soles and good to look at."
"Yes," said the rabbi. "I see the analogy."
"But," continued the man, " you are the only one who knows. . . ."
"Know what?" asked the rabbi.
"You are the only ones who knows - they pinch."
I just like this story - it looks good
Speaking of things that look good but aren't (another weak transition, I know), do you eat your ticket stubs? I do. Styrofoam coffee cups too, although I don't swallow that. When I was a teenager I was standing online for a movie with my stub in hand. When I got to the door I discovered that I had completely eaten my ticket. I got into the movie somehow, but, really, who would do that?
I'm not entirely alone. I was delighted to come across this tidbit of a Russian man named Pyotr, who briefly worked at the Ministry of Justice:
"One 'traditional' anecdote, and the brief history of [Peter] as an official is complete. He had been entrusted with a signed document from the chief of his department, but on his way to deliver it he stopped to talk with someone, and in his absence of mind never noticed that, while talking, he kept tearing off scraps of the paper and chewing them--a trick he always had with theatre tickets or programmes. There was nothing for it but to re-copy the document and, however unpleasant, to face his chief for a fresh signature."
I think by "traditional," he is saying that the ministry story might be apocryphal, but the eating of theatre tickets seems to come from his personal knowledge.
I received this anecdote from The Life & Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky, written by his first biographer, his own brother Modest. I'm reading it now, but the abridged edition is 829 pages, and I may weary of it. However, so far, I can compare myself to the great Tchaikovsky in several ways.
Ancestry from the western Russian Empire
Some legal education
Eater of theatre tickets
And there the comparison must end, as he was certainly one of the greatest of composers of his era, in my view, of all time, whereas I practiced the violin for six months and still could not tunefully play Mary had a little lamb. It sounded so much like a saw on an iron pipe that my favorite memory of that time is leaving my traumatizing Mary on the answering machine of my friends, none of whom was aware I was even trying to learn to play. My intention of surprising them at an impromptu Christmas concert had to be forsaken when it turned out I had zero aptitude for it.
I just like this story - the lady in the carriage
Speaking of those who become the greatest in their field, Paul Morphy was almost universally considered the greatest chess player in the world during his short time playing and by some the greatest chess prodigy in history. After returning from his first trip to Europe where he wiped the club floors with many a great chess player, including Karl Anderson, who was considered the greatest player before and after him, Morphy would thereafter, with few exceptions, only play giving a handicap (such as giving a pawn and move or a knight, etc.), even against top players, when he would play at all. He was a strange one, refusing to play for stakes and retiring soon after returning to America to pursue more "serious" matters, that is, practicing law. He was a very courteous man though, and had no problem playing with women (this is the 19th century) or, for the sake of chivalry, throwing a match to one. Though there were some good women players, they rarely ever competed with the men (they still play separately at the championship level, though I can't think of a reason for it). But, according to a May 31st, 1859 New York Evening Post, this happened:
"The Mysterious Chess Player.--In a notice of Morphy, the great chess player, a queer incident occurred to him soon after his arrival in New York. A carriage drove to the St. Nicholas, in which was seated a splendidly dressed lady. She sent up a card, and requested an interview with the chess champion. The interview was granted, when the fair visitor demanded the privilege of playing a game with Mr. Morphy. Mr. Morphy looked at the magnificent eyes of the stranger, and said, 'Yes certainly.' The chess table was brought to the window, and Mr. Morphy placed the men. The lady, of course, was permitted the first move. Half a dozen moves on either side and Morphy found himself interested--his visitor promised to prove the most formidable antagonist he had had for a long time. Being absorbed in the game, Morphy directed the servant to admit no one else until it was completed. The game lasted two hours and was drawn. The lady was then satisfied, and blushingly took her leave, Morphy himself accompanying her to the carriage. The moment she had gone, Morphy and his friends set at work to ascertain the identity of the beautiful visitor, not doubting that the name upon her card could be found in the directory. This, however, proved to be a mistake, and though every endeavor was made to ascertain precisely who was the visitor, the gentlemen are as much in the dark as ever. Whoever she may be, she played the best game in which Morphy was ever a contestant, and she probably adopted these means of matching herself with Morphy in order to assure herself of her own skill."
Who was the mystery woman? No one ever learned. It sounds a little overstated as, like all chess champions, Morphy did lose some games. But, it has all the makings of a great novel, particularly as Morphy later went crazy. Just throwing it out there.
This exciting episode of I just liked these stories must come to an end. It has been a long hiatus as the first I just liked these stories was posted 8/29/09. At the time, Bear told me it was his favorite.
