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cause somewhere, some poor sack is watching Monday
Night Nitro and wondering aloud if "The Rock" will win
tonight's match. And if you are dumb or not living this life to
win the race, you will walk away with the thought
"People are so stupid, everyone is so stupid.
I'm going nuts and I'm smarter then any of them"
If you're smart, you'll understand that this kind
of living is not your sworn enemy, rather, it's just not your cup
of tea. And it's how things are when they are ok. Your
kind of living probably isn't Wrestling or say Friends, but you
have something which takes the place of it.
Cause you can go anywhere and watch the pattern,
whether it's in Walmart, Target, the Ethan Allen store or a some
handcrafted boutique design house, we are not very complicated
creatures, whether you are a Mercedes S class, stainless steel
coffee cup drinking, valet parking motherfucker or you drive a
truck, like loose, easy and friendly women and love sports, or
you're in pain, alone, desperate for some connection with any
person who might really get you.
We are all the same, we only sometimes categorize
life, to the point that we categorize everyone away from ourselves
and then we realize we're alone, have no peers, feel an ache, to
want to find someone who could just make you happy with
familiarity. Thus you fall into the
"I think I am the only independent sane
person left in the world" category.
At that point, riding on a bus somewhere between
nowhere and getting there, you can take solace in being alone in
your anonymity, but with others. Sometimes that's all we need.
Sometimes the burnout does not allow you to go through routine,
watching routine, knowing that routine is the only thing that
holds you together. That's burnout and it's often times not
possible to get about that vomiting fear of I am living my life
in routine
Some people don't like routine, it terrifies them,
some of them scoff, some of them cling to it and it'll put you on
House Arrest, that's me.
So I envy the thought of riding eighteen hours
hopefully during the night hours. I would love to be surrounded by
some thirty or sixty people who I don't know, but I can watch, no
routine, just time to absorb the lives of some score of people and
not have to think about my own life, or how it ties somehow in the
conspiracy of mediocrity.
Yeah, we're really just hearing about the visists,
not the journey, I'm gonna ask Jonnie to tell us more about that.
Cause I know it doesn't sound like the way to travel, but it sure
as fuck does seem like the way to get some serious crash therapy
/social meditation.
Try it one weekend, go to the bus terminal, buy a
ticket for a place where it will take you eight hours to travel
too, then lay over, get something to eat, read a magazine, wait
about two to four hours and come back home. Tell me what you saw,
tell me what you felt and then think about how your life may
compare or is? Bus trips are the last route before the refugees
become gypsies and lose a sense of homeland or their own self.
It's an amazing place to get perspective. find who we are
again. pablo
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For
anyone who doesn't know, here's how it works. Passover lasts for
eight days. But on the Jewish calendar, each day begins at
nightfall. This is because pretty much the entire Jewish
calendar, and huge chunks of our culture, are centered around
celebrating Passover. It's far, far more important than
Hanukkah; it's about as important to Jews as Christmas and
Easter combined to Christians.
On the first night of Passover, which is the beginning of
the first day of Passover, you begin with first Sader, which is
simply the first feast. On the next night, you have second Sader,
and then Passover goes on for six more of these fucked-up Jewish
days sans Sader.
That first Sader is the most important event in the Jewish
year, and although I don't believe in Judaism and don't believe
in G-d, it was rather comforting to spend this occasion with
Jews. It was even better spending it with Michael, a Jew who
doesn't believe in Judaism either (I'm not sure how he feels
about G-d). And Michael had planned for us to have Sader with
his Russian Jewish friends, a jovial group of people who grew up
under Communism, and therefore had little idea of how Sader was
supposed to be conducted. This was the greatest possible relief,
since it's been a while since I've practiced Sader, and was
afraid of embarrassing myself with a rusty memory. (I realized
when I sat down that my fears were unnecessary; eating Passover
dinner isn't hard, and I remembered how it's done.) |
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I don't remember the names of Michael's Russian friends. Even if I
did, they wouldn't really be any of your business. So I will refer to
them as husband Dimitri, wife Anna, and mother, oh hell I don't know,
Ivana. I'm not sure if Ivana is Dimitri's mother or Anna's mother, but
she cooked all the food.
And it was a fabulous spread. It was the sort of cooking that could
only come about under Communist Russia, although I doubt Ivana realizes
that. Take, for example, the gefilte fish. Now, the idea behind gefilte
fish is that it has already been completely de-boned and prepared, so
that you don't have to do any sort of work while eating it. This isn't a
precursor to the laziness of the hamburger; this is so that the fish is
kosher on the Sabbath, and other days of rest, like first Sader. If you
had to remove the bones, you'd be working, and that would be a sin.
 Ivana's
gefilte fish, while it certainly tasted like gefilte fish, was a totally
unique spin on the taste. Flavorful and exciting, it demanded to be
eaten, and eaten in quantity. The experience was most pleasing. It was
also not served in the standard gefilte fish patties, but rather, it had
been stuffed back into the skin of a fish. The fish was served whole,
then cut into gefilte slices. The head was on the plate, with olives
replacing eyes. Such culinary adaptation could only come from Russia,
and I say that it could only come from Communist Russia because I
seriously doubt that the fish wrapped in skin could be considered kosher
for Passover.
The meal was tremendous. After I had stuffed myself on gefilte fish,
I was alarmed to encounter a full second course, complete with lamb.
Ivana had also made a cake out of matzo meal, and it was an extremely
heavy creation. I left in some shame, unable to finish my cake, certain
that I appeared rude. But it was a cake made out of matzo meal, damnit.
I challenge any of you to consume such a creature.
The Sader was missing two of it's usual Jews. Dimitri's Russian
friend had the flu, and Michael's brother had just been falsely accused
of hit and run, and was feeling too unnerved to socialize. The feast had
gained me, of course, and Cosmos - I gathered it was Cosmos's first
Sader. I did my best to consume wine for all the missing Jews, and
indeed, all of the Israelis that were murdered earlier that day. We all
do our best.
As I say, they were a jovial bunch. Ivana spoke little English, but
she seemed to follow it much better than she spoke it. Dimitri was a
jolly man, who could have reminded one of St. Nick, but was a good deal
thinner. Anna was hilarious and saucy, the Russian-American modern
woman.
Cosmos offered the opinion that ancient soldiers should have
attacked horses rather than mounted knights, and we debated this for
several hours, the proscribed Passover service forgotten.
As we drove home, Michael told me about how he met the Russians.
Seems that he and his mother were visiting Russia, when his mother
became quite ill. Dimitri was her doctor, and told Michael that Russia
was killing him, that he had to get to either Israel or the U.S., and he
had no great desire to serve in Israel's military (almost all Israeli
citizens are required to serve in the military). So Michael and his
mother sponsored him. I listened to this story, until we got on the
Golden Gate Bridge. At that point, I had to quickly poke my head out the
sunroof and start screaming,
"I'm on the Golden Gate Bridge! I'm on the Golden Gate Bridge!
Hey everybody, I'm on the Golden Gate Bridge!" like the drunken
imbecile I was.
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