That's a paddlin...

Boost Mobile - you took a seminal childhood memory - the glorious, groundbreaking, and influential Super Bowl Shuffle - and you turned it into a bleary-eyed zombie-eaten corpse of itself. It burns, IT BURNS! Between this, the GI Joe movie, and a recent glimpse of my 3rd grade school picture, my childhood has really taken a beating this year. It's a damn good thing I'm an adult and I don't have to deal with that sort of...

Home purchasing - oh, wait, that's right, I have to do THIS, instead. I'd take a thousand locker shoves from Geoff Terman before I'd go through this again.
Mortgage broker: So if you get me this statement, and a copy of the checks, we should be good to go.
Me: Great! Here you go.
MB: I'm sorry, I meant THIS statement, and a copy of the backs of the checks as well.
Me: OK! Here you go.
MB: Oh, did I forget to ask for a complete sexual history? I'll need that, as well. Oh, and a copy of the original statement, but notarized and handwritten.
Me: Here. Take this.
MB: Oooh, my mistake. It seems that now the underwriter needs the ORIGINAL statement that you faxed three weeks ago, but it needs to come from the fax machine of one Jerry Boseman, of Butte, Montana. Here's his number, if you'll just
Me: Who's the closer now, bitch?

Dan Brown - I wasted 5 hours to read your stupid book, Dan. And I want them back. If you're going to just write the same damn story over and over again, at least hide some of the redundancy. And your obsession with large, hulking evil men who are all devilishly handsome and inhumanly strong speaks volumes about your...interests. I'm not knocking it: all I'm saying is, you're super gay. Own it. And stop publishing.

Sarah Palin - you're a retarded hypocrite.

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Booyakasha.

Festus - you're the size of my thumb right now, but evidently that's enough to make Wife nauseous for six weeks. ENOUGH. If you're going to be this big a pain inside the womb-a, G-d help us when you claw your way out in August. And if you think it's unfair that I'm already complaining about you and you're not even born yet, well...good luck in the Fancy Pants Clan, my fine little whatever-you-are-that's-not-really-a-person-yet-but-has-a-heartbeat-and-toes.

The Olympics - you are not interesting unless someone is crashing. And while there have been some great spills, everything has to have a heartbreaking story. I've got my own crap to deal with, Canada and NBC. I don't need to hear about how the Nordic Combined team all bonded over their shared experience of being adopted and then sold to a cult but then rescued by loving grandparents from Sweden who only wanted their grandson to be great at something, since little Tommy, Roy and Deke can't even read. Wake me when Community's back on.

February - go away, now. This month I have:
- received a black eye from Child,
- broken my own glasses with a lamp,
- had sharp stabbing abdominal pain that mysteriously disappeared after a quick run to the ER,
- dealt with the mortgage nonsense you read about just 30 seconds ago,
- had to deal with 3 feet of snow, and the narrowed streets and the awful drivers and the new and varied potholes and the leaks and the worrying about the new house and whether it's flooded and will we know before we move? because the seller sure isn't going to be forthcoming with that information,
- and now the melting of the snow, which means watch out for enormous falling icicles that will impale you and your loved ones! Hooray! And,
- Black History Month. Not that I'm opposed to blacks getting their own month, but history is boring. We have a black president! Let's hear more about him! Although...

Barack Obama - you are being a real big pussy, Mr. President. Sack up, slap Harry Reid in his old white face, and have Glenn Beck waterboarded. You are the leader of the free world, one of the smartest men to ever sit in the Oval Office, and you let Congress handle health care? Maybe you ARE retarded. In the meantime, own your agenda, and tell the Republicans where to shove their teabags. I know there's room for them all on Sarah Palin's chin. And now that she's working at Fox, it's not like she's got anything better to do.

The secret scourge of winter

In these frigid times people complain about snow, and sleet, and bitter winds that seep through cracks and crannies into their very bones. Then there are the attendant illnesses and maladies, from the sniffles to walking pneumonia (also the boogie-woogie flu, but an outbreak hasn't been reported since the late 70's, and hopefully will never be heard from again).

None of these affect me too badly. Being from Wisconsin I never really feel alive unless it's 20 below, with swirling wind and lake-effect snow. And as a guy I refuse to admit vulnerability or weakness, so as far as any of you know I never get sick. 

There is one other hidden aggravation, one that doesn't come up in polite conversation, unless it's a discussion between two fifth-graders. It causes no small amount of discomfort, and is almost completely unexpected; a silent killer, if you will. I'm referring, of course, to static electricity.

We recently got a new couch (for free! Yay Jewness!). Slowly but surely we're tenderizing the cushions so they're perfectly cushiony, and the best configuration for the two of us to nap comfortably at the same time. So far it's matched up quite well against our old couch. Except for one small, itsy-bitsy problem.

Every time I sit on it, and get up, and touch something or someone, I get a nasty shock. I've seen the tiny bolt of electricity shoot from my finger to Wife, or to a fork, or to the microwave. There is no remedy, no preventative measure to protect me. I'm at a loss. I can't not sit on the couch: it's my couch. But now I can't go from my couch to the kitchen without inflicting upon myself some substantial pain. 

I want to love my new couch, I truly do. But this is really pissing me off. So I may have to light it on fire. And then not only will there be no more static shocks, but our apartment will also be much warmer. There's something to say for that. 

Where's my kerosene?

Oops, I did it again

In honor of Britney Spears losing custody of her children, I have lost my Bears post. And no, I'm not going to try and recreate it - do I look like Dr. Frankenstein to you? Instead, you get a post that was supposed to go last week, and maybe you'll get the Bears recap tomorrow. If you're lucky. And you ask nicely.

In the meantime, enjoy. Also, two seasons are kicking into high gear, and damn soon: the real presidential campaign, and the NBA season. Words shall pour forth upon both matters as events require.

A message from Rollo Horschmeier, CEO, Uniflexicom, Inc.

All this talk of universal health care, affirmative action, and whatnot fills me with the bloating discomfort that comes with the rise of Communism. Zombie Stalin has been roused from his great mortal slumber, so he may walk freely in the halls of our HMOs, our churches, our foyers, tracking dirt and decayed organs everywhere.

I say NO! We shall not surrender to some dead Russian who can’t even speak English. We’re American – the only ruler before which we bow is an unscrupulous oil-rich Mideast tyrant who is still willing to sell us petroleum while keeping quiet with the whole oppression thing. So unless the king of Saudi Arabia comes waltzing in here, we’re standing tall.

45 million uninsured? Get a job, sickies! Stop coughing on my car, I just washed it. Eternally escalating drug costs? Ever hear of the black market? Be proactive! Contributing to the illicit transfer of necessary medications helps us market the war on drugs, another successful capitalist project. We’re pretty well inured to images of little minority kids all hopped up on goofballs; but show me a granny strung out on blood thinners, and we’ve got a new ad campaign! I can see it now: little old lady with a frying pan, feebly wailing away at her kitchen appliances. “This is your brain on nitro-glycerin. This is your brain on Cumiden.”

You’d rather have the government running things? A bunch of old white guys who’ve never had to do a minute of real work in their lives? They don’t know what’s best for this country. Leave it to us, your neighborhood international conglomerates. We know what you want; our commercials explain it quite clearly. The other CEO’s and I, distinguished men all, can trace our roots back to the very first colonies of Jamestown and Plymouth, where commerce was conducted over slaves and smallpox. Your expendable income has elected us to rule over your purchases, and when has money ever misled you? You want to hand over your lives to a bunch of overprivileged pansies? Don’t give the politicians the satisfaction. Let Uniflexicom take care of you. And don’t worry about healthcare, or immigration, or terrorists. If there’s something you should buy to keep you safe from these ephemeral dangers, we’ll let you know with easy-to-understand, sexy commercials.

More on Noah Feldman, Child Professor

The Forward has an interesting piece here about Dr. Feldman comparing himself to the apostate to end all apostates Baruch Spinoza. Evidently when Spinoza gave religion the finger, didn't bitch and moan when he wasn’t included on Judaism's New Year’s card list. Surprising? No – Spinoza was a brilliant man, and helped usher in an intellectual revolution unmatched until Kentucky Fried Movie introduced the world to wacky random humor.

/ Digression – I did, in fact, just compare Baruch Spinoza to Samuel L. Bronkowitz. Cream in your jeans, indeed. /end digression

So it's not like Spinoza didn't know what he was getting himself into. Not to say that Prof. Feldman isn’t intelligent – he’s only a kid, and he’s teaching at Harvard Law! – but the Forward gives way too much weight to his article. Great dissenter? Let us quickly compare some highlights from the lives of the respective men.

Spinoza – engaged in a reverse-Abrahamic analysis of G-d, associating Him with all nature, which evidently ticked off the frum powers that were, and he was excommunicated (put in charem, for the Hebraicallly advantaged). Published just once during his lifetime, never married, and died ignominiously at the age of 45. His legacy and posthumous publications helped generate the fervor and rebellion that lead to the Enlightenment (thanks, Wikipedia).

Feldman – has examined the collision of church and state through books on democracy and Islam, both in the abstract and in Iraq, and on the Establishment Clause. His rebellion against traditional Judaism consisted of marrying a Korean woman. His writing has so far led to stereotypical Jewish self-flagellation, and immature insults on the level of “if you whine like a child, we’ll treat you like a child.”

Obviously Spinoza gets the nod in head-to-head heresy. We don’t know whether Dr. Feldman considered the intellectual or spiritual foundations of his secularization, or even if he has in fact turned away from all religious practice. We do know, that all he chose to write about was his high school’s decision not to keep other alumni apprised of his life-cycle events and personal successes. As though there weren’t enough Maimonides graduates on the Harvard alumni lists who could get that info through the Crimson Legacy, or whatever the Harvard alumni newsletter is called. So now we can move on from Dr. Feldman’s solipsism.

Anyone know why they keep calling Maimo a yeshiva?

Working...Overrated?

My boss evidently dislikes this Place of Business almost as much as I do. When I told Wife that my boss was going to be out all this week, she asked “Does he ever work?” I wasn’t sure what she meant. “You do realize he’s taken at least a week off every month since you started working there.” I’ve been at Big Box Retailer HQ for several months; I crawled into the deep recesses of my memory and what do you know? Wife was right.

I’ve never been in this situation. Usually I’m the slacker, or the one who loathes the very walls that imprison me every day. But now it’s my supervisor, the template against which I’m supposed to measure myself as an employee, who can’t seem to make it to work for ¼ of every month. Not that I blame him. I can’t say whether this is indicative of the entire Big Box industry, but this place is boring. I feel my mind losing its edge, my thoughts dulled until they’re as incisive as an old man’s gums. I end up chewing on projects for hours, slowly eroding the issues until I’m left with a mushy, unidentifiable glop. Wow, that’s gross. We’re going to leave that metaphor behind in the new paragraph.

But my boss shouldn’t have to deal with such problems. He sees the Big Picture, he’s got Decision-Making Power, and windows. Every time I go into his office, though, his desk is empty, and he usually hasn’t looked at whatever I’ve come to discuss. Because of the maze-like setup of the building, it takes a good few minutes from my office to his, and that’s more time wasted. Time I could be reading news on the Web, or writing this. I’ll walk over, and he’ll ask me some detailed question, and I won’t know what he’s talking about, so I’ll be sad, and confused, and amble back to my office, and bury my sorrows in Wikipedia, looking up the connection between Scientology and the Aztecs (there isn’t any. Save yourself some time and go right to ESPN. That’s where you really want to be, anyway).

When he leaves my boss gives me a few projects to finish, but it’s never enough. I end up wandering the halls, hoping to run into someone who can give me something else to do. Sometimes it’s actual work, other times I don’t make it past the cafeteria and I get to hand out Tuesday’s Tasty Tacos, which is more rewarding than you’d think.

Has your boss been this blatant about his or her dissatisfaction? Have they given you busy work so they can get back to reading about cat clothing, or whatever is their particular hobby/fetish? Sharing helps us cope.

Dear Noah Feldman

Dear Professor Feldman,

I’m sure you’ve heard or seen or read some of the responses provoked by your article in the New York Times Magazine. Your Q&A on Jewcy.com also resulted in quite the variety of reactions. If I may, I’d like to take this opportunity to respond in my own way, to address you as if you were a small child, and not a Harvard Law professor. Although if you are supposed to be in the fifth grade, then the fact that you’re teaching graduate school at Harvard is pretty sweet.

All schools need money to stay open. Especially if they’re located in Brookline, Massachusetts, where it’s reasonable to pay for a parking spot what most people end up shelling out for medical school. The most likely source of funds for these institutions of higher learning is alumni. As a member of the Harvard faculty, surely you’ve seen well-heeled older men and women strolling the grounds, trying to remember in which dorm room they lost their virginity, if only so they can put a plaque with their name on it above the door, memorializing those fantastic twenty seconds.

When these fine old folks read about their alma maters, they don’t like to read about fraternity hazing involving farm animals and industrial lubricants, or school presidents saying that men are better at math and women than women. They want to hear about Nobel Prize winners, or the new National Lampoon film (just kidding. Maybe if the Lampoon just stopped with the movies, everyone would be happier. I know I would).

Well, Noah, Jewish high schools are the same way. They need money, and they need it from alumni. And religious school graduates don’t like to hear that other alums have not remained similarly connected to the Jewish community, just like they don’t want to know about that school’s fading reputation, or its stodgy and antiquated pedagogical practices (maybe that’s a letter for another time).

Intermarriage, from a religious perspective, might possibly be seen, in some ways, as a failure. Maybe. And if that failure is repeatedly mentioned and rehashed in school publications, donors might not be so inclined to support that disappointing institution. They might send their money elsewhere, to schools more successful at maintaining Jewish continuity. Also, other alumni might be offended, not because you threaten their beliefs, or their commitment, but because you represent the collapse of a finely-tuned, delicate system dedicated to ensuring there are more Jews in ten years than there are now (barring wars, the return of Jesus, and the like). And they’d like that mechanism to succeed. And a school trying to maintain that system might not want to publicize the fact that sometimes, they’re just not that good at it.

So you see, Noah, trying to reconnect through your high school’s alumni newsletter might not be optimal. When people ask me what I think the best way to return, on some level, to Jewish living, I offer these options, in no particular order:

a) Spin a dreidel. Gambling is a great way to start doing something compulsively.

b) Get drunk on Purim. It’s like New Years and Halloween in one! Plus, like gambling, addiction helps you get back into a routine.

c) Picking up change off the ground. Sure, it’s easy, and stereotypical, but who doesn’t like having exact change at Starbucks?

d) Join the vast underground conspiracy. We’re always looking for new ideas for controlling world finances, the media, and educational institutions. And since you’re already ensconced at Harvard Law, you’re already on the inside. There are great benefits, and I’m sure they’d be willing to throw in a book deal as a signing bonus.