FinermanWorks

I have a new outlet for my pedantic nature and a new chapter in my ongoing satire.  Imagine me on the faculty of an Orthodox Jewish college.  Well, I already had the beard–although I grew mine out of lethargy rather than piety.  And if in the next generation, a number of Orthodox Rabbis are prone to quote Victorian wits as well as the Talmud, I think you can trace the source of the heresy.

Yes, I am teaching rhetoric to seven young men who spend most of the day reading from right to left.  They are immersed in Jewish studies from 9 to 4, and then these exhausted fellows are turned over to me and the secular curriculum.  I am proud–perhaps amazed–that none has fallen asleep in my class.

 Of course, I do command a certain awe.  One of the students had “googled” me and found my claim to fame.  So the first class began with the students asking about Jeopardy. A student exclaimed, “You were once on Jeopardy?”   You can imagine the haughty tone in my reply, “It was more than once.”   In every crowd, someone feels obliged to trying stumping me with a question.  “Name ‘the Five Good Emperors.”’  I hope that I looked condescending as I reeled off “Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius.”  You may be relieved that I answered every question correctly.  (Thank the Orthodox Jewish God that these kids weren’t into sports; otherwise, they would see why I lost the Tournament of Champions.)  After about fifteen minutes of Stump the Know-It-All, however, I suspected that the students were simply trying to avoid the joys of Rhetoric.

So, it was time to resume the syllabus. Following the department syllabus, our first day’s reading was two short stories.  The authors made an interesting tandem:  Elie Wiesel and Alan Sherman.  Imagine the essay topic on those readings:  Compare Auschwitz and the Catskills. 

In a later class, the assigned reading was the E.A. Robinson poem “Richard Cory.”

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

The students were enthralled but perhaps not for the right reason.  The motive of Corey’s suicide was less intriguing than his method.  One asked why Corey chose to shoot himself.  I explained, “That was the gentleman’s ‘way-out.'”  A student disputed that, “I thought they used a knife” and he simulated disembowelment.  I correct him, “That is how the Japanese do it.  In the West, it is the pistol.”  Another student asked about hanging.  I told him that was considered low-brow.   Drawing and quartering was mentioned; I explained the entire process of strangulation, vivisection and rending apart.  Given all those steps, it made an impractical method of suicide.

I can’t vouch for my students being educated but they certainly are being entertained.  “Richard Corey”  was not intended to be a manual for suicide, but I am dealing with the adolescent mind and its distracting turns.  I told the students, “If I were a train, I would be easily derailed.  However, since you are my passengers you would all be dead.”

First, let me offer some travel hints for those of you planning a trip from Belarus to Utah.  Don’t count on a direct flight.  Air Belarus probably doesn’t get farther than Vilna.  At some point, you will miss a connecting flight.  A relative of a friend made it up all the way to Chicago before she found herself taking up residency at O’Hare Airport.  Until the next available flight, the lady had twelve hours of airport food and CNN overheads.  Since she doesn’t speak English, she might have thought that Wolfe Blitzer was intelligible.

When told this story, some sympathy was expected.  Nah…I have heard worse.  I have survived worse…

Out of college and with no prospects of a career, what could be a better time to take the Grand Tour of Europe.  I might “find myself”; if not, I was in a wonderful place to be lost.  From February to December of 1975, the shabby, shaggy younger me ranged throughout the continent.  It would be quicker to tell you the countries that I didn’t visit:  Ireland, Albania, Romania and Poland.  Yes, I even got to Russia, although that required joining an organized tour.  (You just didn’t show up at the border of the USSR and smile your way through.)

I generally traveled by train and, to avoid the cost of a hotel, I would travel by night.   That was my planned itinerary for my last day in Prague.  I would see a Smetana opera that evening, get to the railroad station and board the night train to West Germany.  Seven hours later I would be in Munich.  So, what could go wrong? 

At the last Czech train station before the German border, all the passengers were roused from the train.  The secret police no doubt was searching for aspiring defectors.  There were only a few passengers; we took our bags and were prodded into a fairly large, utilitarian room that served all the purposes of a train station.   At some point, the police search concluded; I didn’t hear screams or gunshots, so the inspection must have been uneventful.  No doubt in some Slavic language, there was an announcement that the passengers could return to the train.  But I don’t speak any Slavic language, and I didn’t notice the other passengers leaving the room.  I only realized at the last minute that my train was leaving.  I rushed out to the platform; the train was slowly moving and there was a possibility of jumping abroad.  However, I was somewhat deterred by the sight of guards with machine guns.  Here was my dilemma:  I could live to regret missing the train…or not live at all.

I decided to wait for the next train.  There certainly would be one.  The station master made use of his fingers and a schedule to tell me when that next train would be.  Unfortunately, I learned that there would be a slight wait of 18 hours.  Being stranded at a Czech border town at 2 in the morning does not have much allure.  My predicament made me a slight celebrity–and anecdote–at the station, and a cab driver offered in pidgin German and English to come to my rescue.  HE could drive me to the German border.  That certainly seemed preferable to 18 hours in stasis.  Of course, I agreed.

However, what he couldn’t explain–or didn’t wish to–was the exact nature of that Czech-German border.  So, when I left his cab and approached the Czech border crossing, I learned that the German crossing was just seven kilometers away.  A mere four-miles of no-man’s land at 3 in the morning; yes, I was also in the dark but there was a paved road for my convenience.  I certainly kept on it, since I didn’t wish to stray into any minefields that landscaped either side.  I imagine that there were a few sniperscopes on me as well; had one of the guards been in a grouchy mood, this story would be an incident rather than an anecdote.  To further assure the guards that I was an imbecile rather than a spy, I sang as loudly as I could.  Fortunately, I do have a good voice; so there would have been no aesthetic justification for shooting me.

At approximately 4:30 a.m., I reached the German crossing.  Yes, its guards looked at me with amazement; but as long as passport was in order, my sanity didn’t need to be.

And now you know my tale.

I will be going to choir practice with more than my usual share of guilt.  I can’t read music but I manage to sing within an octave of the correct note.  My dyspeptic tendency to belch in the middle of a hymn is almost a tradition at our synagogue; it is like being my own metronome.  No, this is a crisis of conscience.  I am an accessory to a crime–and my choir is going to sing it.

If you have never heard Hatikva, the Israeli National Anthem, then you also have never heard Smetana’s “Die Moldau.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yd2v8kqjYwc

Perhaps the Israeli National Anthem should be renamed “Chutzpah.”  At least plagiarize a Jewish composer!  Rodgers and Hammerstein may offer this paean to Zion, “Chaim Every Mountain.”  Irving Berlin could have anticipated Israel’s precarious situation: “You Can Get Imans With a Gun.” For a more spiritual tone, George Bizet might lend “Torah Adore.”

(John Mellencamp is Gentile; otherwise I would have suggested “Herzl So Good.”)

But here is my choice for the Israeli National Anthem.  It even means “Yes, Yes” in Hebrew.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDbFbZCWhj4

p.s.  For more on Monsieur Offenbach…

Moulin Rogue

Each week of the year a specified portion of the Torah is read in synagogues. Saturday, at bar mitzvahs around the world, the congregations heard Leviticus’ strictures on treating leprosy. If you weren’t invited to the ceremony, let me summarize the prescription.

First, wait to see if God bothers to cure the leper. If the leper seems cured, the following rituals are to be performed. The former leper cannot enter his tent for seven days, but must sleep outside it. The leper is to shave his head and eyebrows (and beards where applicable). To thank God, the recovering leper must prepare two lambs for sacrifice. If, however, the leper is poor (leprosy can effect your income–especially if you are a pianist or waiter), two pigeons are an acceptable substitute.

Blessed is the Lord our God for not being a status-conscious materialist.

During the service, the Rabbi must have felt like a leper trying to explain the relevance and profundity of this Torah passage. What did he say? There is not much conviction when a sermon begins “Some scholars think that it means this….” According to these scholars, if your eyebrow is sinful and impure, you would want to shave it, too.

Of course, Rabbi Eugene has a different interpretation. I have long suspected that the Book of Leviticus was the first example of Jewish humor. Yes, the Greeks introduced burlesque (The Trojan Horse was anatomically correct) but Leviticus proves that we pioneered irony. “Let’s insist that a fingerless leper shave.”

No doubt out of guilt, however, Rabbis will not admit that Leviticus is a practical joke. (Of course, you can eat shrimp. What else are they going to serve at Jewish weddings?) But–unlikely as it is–if the bedouin barbarism of Leviticus is intended to be serious, then perhaps the Torah should be revised with more contemporary (less embarrassing) but equally revered Jewish texts.

Suitable alternatives would be the works of Philip Roth, George Gershwin or the scripts from any old television sit-coms. “And God did command Alan, Mel and Buddy to suffer the foreskinned Rob among them, saying ‘If I can make a funny Gentile, I must really be God.”

Margaret Thatcher is now completely dead.  The film “The Iron Lady” remorsely depicted her recent years, that sharp mind and temper lost in dementia.  In fact, that cruel accuracy was the most memorable facet of the movie.  The script itself was confused and befuddled.  The hapless viewer really had trouble keeping track of her life; apparently, “The King and I” took place on the Falklands.  She may have also murdered the Little Princes in the Tower by cutting off their school lunch programs.

Of course, Meryl Streep gave a remarkable performance.  She could impersonate every British prime minister, probably simultaneously.

From the archives, here is my prime minister primer.

My idea of casual conversation would include an allusion to Benjamin Disraeli. My acquaintance’s idea of a response was “Who?”  I hoped that I maintained a stoic mien but my eyebrows might have been doing the semaphores of  “How can you be so ignorant?” The lady, a friend of a neighbor, is Gentile; so she would have been indifferent to the most interesting feature of Disraeli. I just provided her with a brief description of a “British prime minister of the 19th century and a man of extraordinary charm and wit.”

Now, I don’t want to seem like a pedantic bully  (even if I really am) but I think that a middle-aged college graduate should have heard of Benjamin Disraeli. He is not obscure. It is not as if I had belabored the poor woman with such prime ministerial ciphers as Henry Campbell-Bannerman or James Callahan. (And if I had mentioned Andrew Bonar Law, she might have slapped me.)

I realized that Americans’ criterion for historical significance is whether or not it was made into a movie. But Disraeli has been, and he has been portrayed by George Arliss, John Gielgud, Alec Guinness and Ian McShane. Given Disraeli’s origins, Adam Sandler or Ben Stiller may feel entitled to play him! No, that woman should have heard of Disraeli.

In fact, I think that a number of British prime ministers merit at least a minimum of recognition.

Robert Walpole (1721-1741), a $2,000 question on Jeopardy but he was the first prime minister.

Lord North (1770-1782), the idiot during the American Revolution.

William Pitt the Younger (1783-1801, 1804-1806) if only because Pittsburgh was named for his father.

Earl Grey (1830-1834) because he had such great taste in tea. Yes, really.

Benjamin Disraeli (1868, 1874-1880): He needs no introduction.

William Gladstone (1868-1874, 1880-1885, 1886, 1892-1894): Disraeli’s rival. If Disraeli was Groucho, Gladstone was Margaret Dumont.

David Lloyd George (1916-1922) in case you were wondering who was standing next to Woodrow Wilson at Versailles.

Neville Chamberlain (1937-1940) who is now remembered as an insult and an accusation.

Winston Churchill (1940-45, 1951-1955), the man George Bush claimed to be–give or take the eloquence.

Margaret Thatcher (1979-1990): Disraeli’s politics with Gladstone’s charm.

Tony Blair (1997-2007) if only to prove that you were not completely oblivious.

David Cameron…oh maybe not.

“North Korea moved missile to east coast”

Like any immature tyrant, Kim the Young’un would crave the prospect of a New York premiere.  He blithely ignored the practical considerations.  Silo rentals are much cheaper in Chicago than Manhattan.  And he can forget about avoiding the U.N. inspectors now; in New York, they get free parking.

If he  thinks that the U.N. reports are bad, wait until he sees the New York Times’ reviews.

“Pre-postmodernist louche bildungsroman”–Michiko Kakutani

“The mutant love child of Sandra Oh and Harvey Fierstein”–Alexandra Stanley

“Absurdism reminiscent of the early oeuvres of Christopher Durang”–Ben Brantley (Wait, that’s supposed to be a compliment!)

And from the Korean archives…

Kim Jong-il Dead

At such times, I miss Larry King…

Welcome to Larry King Live. My guests tonight are former secretary of state and not bad golfer Colin Powell, former secretary of state and still a looker Madeleine Albright, and classy historian but regular mensch David McCullough.  Our topic tonight:  What is the impact of the death of Kim Novak, and how did a beautiful Chicago Polish girl become dictator of North Korea?  Of course, I am not surprised that she had the atomic bomb.  Did you see the way she danced with William Holden in “Picnic”?

Powell:  “Picnic” was a very good movie, but I think that there is some confusion here.

Larry:  You weren’t suppose to look at white women that way?

McCullough:  Kim Novak is still alive.  It is Kim Jong-Il who is dead.

Larry: So will Alec Baldwin get custody of their child?  Let’s call Alan Dershowitz to find out.  Hello eminent professor and killer lawyer, have you been watching the show?

Dershowitz:  God help me, yes.  Alec Baldwin was married to Kim Basinger. He has never been married to Kim Novak, Kim Stanley, Kim Hunter, Kim Darby, Akim Tamiroff or Kim Jong-il.

Larry:  You know Akim Tamiroff looked sorta Jewish, but I think that he was Armenian.  Madeleine, do you ever confuse the two?

Albright:  No, I try to mistake myself for Episcopalian.  But weren’t we suppose to discuss Korea?

Larry:  Absolutely, and after this break, Paula Deen will join our conversation on the death of Kimchee.

 

Parody’s End

Hoping to exploit the popularity of World War I and influenza pandemics, HBO promoted “Parade’s End” as the intelligent “Downton Abbey.”  It wasn’t even an intelligible version.  A better comparison would be that “Parade’s End” is the British “Burns and Allen”:  Madcap wife dismays husband and Empire.

There are only a few minor interpolations.  Just imagine that George has Asperger’s Syndrome, Gracie is sleeping with the entire membership of  the Hillcrest Country Club, and the club’s golf course is the Battle of the Somme.

The Bread of Affliction

A.D. 30:  When given the choice between flogging and crucifixion or a week of matzoh, Jesus proved that He wasn’t a masochist.  Hoping to sleep in, He did place a wake-up call for a week later.  The problem is that eternity can be off by a few days.  Confronted with three more days of unleavened misery, Jesus must have quipped “the Jews are trying to kill me.”  Unfortunately, the remark was taken out of context.

A.D.  2013:  In what seemed to be a suicide attempt, my lunch was peanut butter on matzoh.  The asphyxiation was not irreversible; I merely required a tracheotomy with a jackhammer.

p.s.  From the Archives: https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2006/12/23/the-greatest-story-ever-miscast/

Irony #1:

In a display of unimaginable humility, Pope Francis admitted that Argentina was in South America.  This was considered an act of heresy in his native country which insists that it is part of Europe.  Argentina acknowledges a slight proximity to Brazil and Paraguay but dismisses the coincidence as mere guilt by association.  “The geography is an optical illusion” explained the Argentine Chamber of Commerce; “It really is more accurate to think of us as western Italy.”

While Chile’s population is also of European extraction, Argentina denies even being extracted.  The rest of South America agrees with Argentina’s assertion but also adds some very unkind adjectives.

Irony #2:

Covering the papal election of Francis I, a NBC reporter exclaimed, “South America has been waiting 2,000 years for this.”

Without even knowing there was a Church?  During those first fifteen centuries,  South America probably did not need a Pope unless it was to judge potato-carving contests.  At least in North America, the Pontiff would have been gainfully employed as the lacrosse commissioner.

And perhaps South America has been waiting for its own Pope since it split off from Pangaea.  Of course, at that time His Holiness would have called the Diosaur.  This is not to suggest that every large reptile was a practicing Chretacian.  There were also Jewrassics.  Who do you think got blamed for the meteor?

“Hello and welcome to our coverage of the 111th Papal Election.  I’m Bob Costas, along with Matt Lauer.”

“Bob, did you know that the Romans spelled 111 as CXI?”

“No, I didn’t and neither did the Romans.”

“Now this election is called a conclave because the Cardinals are meeting indoors.  So if they were meeting outdoors, it would be a convlex.”

“Thank you, Matt, for that expression of faith.  You believe everything the interns tell you.”

“The potential Popes will be judged on beauty, poise and talent.  Did you know that Pope Benedict XVI won because of his Marlene Dietrich imitation?

“Why does your staff hate you so much?  I doubt that you are intentionally cruel.  Maybe they are just underpaid Ivy Leaguers who resent a man of your unique intelligence making millions.”

“Thank you, Bob.  Now, the contest will be held in the Sistine Chapel which was named…”

“Let me guess, Matt! Was it a nun named Sister Tina?”

“Of course, a Catholic would know that.  Well, I sort of had a Catholic education, too.”

“Yes, one or two of your wives were…”

“And in grade school I had Catholic friends, at least when I gave them my lunch money.”

“Let’s talk about the Papal election.  If the cardinals’ choice reflected the demographics of the Church, the next Pope would be a Brazilian woman.  Of course, that won’t happen.  What we would call Gerrymandering was originally Hieronymandering.” So the college of Cardinals is a  disproportionate  bloc of Italian curmudgeons.  Imagine a room full of Antonin Scalias.  Fortunately, they can’t abide each other;  so they need to agree on the least repellent candidate.

Cardinals are not allowed to filibuster, so they are less medieval than the U.S. Senate.  There is also a time constraint; if no candidate is elected by the third day, the cardinals start getting smaller meals.  By the ninth day, they are looking for communion crumbs.  By the time the stomach growls are doing Gregorian chants, someone will get elected.”

“I knew that.”

No, you didn’t, Matt.  Our coverage continues with Savannah Guthrie skinny-dipping in baptismal fonts.”

I was persecuting Anne Hathaway before it was fashionable!

From September, 2008…

 Magnifique Timing

The French are connoisseurs of scandal. How would Americans react to topless photos of Laura Bush? Mais les Francaises give an appreciative smile to the display of their First Lady and note that it is a French tradition. The Louvre has a gallery’s worth of bare-chested French queens. There is even a porcelain bust of Marie Antoinette’s bust; the guillotine was merely her second venture into the topless.

Nevertheless, the executives of Lancome Cosmetics could have wished a more discreet time to introduce their new perfume “Magnifique.” According to the hyperventilating advertisement:

“It’s the fragrance that celebrates her vibrant feminity, her joie de vivre. Infused with the spicy impertinence of saffron, the warmth of roses and smoky embrace of nagarmota wood. Audacious. Passionate. Utterly Magnifique.”

On second thought, Lancome should have named the perfume “L’Embezzelle.” That is the scent emanating actress Anne Hathaway, Lancome’s symbol of its new product, and the girlfriend of convicted embezzler Raffaello Follieri.

Follieri claimed to be the chief financial officer of the Vatican, coaxing millions from the easily impressed. Perhaps he was offering time-shares for the Sistine Chapel. The self-proclaimed financier collected millions as well as the affection of the Hollywood starlet. She moved into his $37,000 a month New York apartment. Unfortunately for his investors, he was not robbing St. Peter to pay Paul. Follieri has admitted to 14 counts of fraud, conspiracy and money-laundering. He faces a prison sentence of 4 to 5 years; it is unlikely that Ms. Hathaway will volunteer to share his cell.

The actress has suffered the indignity of this bad publicity, but she denies any knowledge of Follieri’s chicanery. In law, this is referred to as the “stupid slut defense”. Ms. Hathaway is reported to be cooperating with the FBI–does she have a choice–and has turned over all of the jewelry that Mr. Follieri gave her. And, yes, she has also broken up with him.

Nonetheless, I feel that Lancome might have created a more appropriate ad for Ms. Hathaway:

“It celebrates your infinite gullibility and your irrepressible vacuity. The tropic allure of an off-shore bank, the oaken splendor of a juryroom, and the tantalizing bouquet of a plea bargain. It is all your senses but common. Shamelessly yours! L’Embezzelle!”