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[Grief Sucks]- June 9, 2020- Thanksgiving

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Today I seemed to have woken up grieving everything. There’s my dad, sure, I mean duh. But there’s all this shit it feels like we’ve lost this year. And I almost feel dumb and ignorant saying it, almost feel like the magnitude of what the Black community has been putting up with in this country makes everything else pale in comparison, but I can’t help it, and I’m sorry and I don’t know what to do. This morning I don’t feel like doing anything.

And that’s kind of a problem, because suddenly I have a bunch of clients who are like, let’s get back to normal! Hurray! Aside from the obvious, that come on really, things aren’t normal, there’s my own internal sense, something that seems to have been knocked off its center a bit in my brain. I felt it yesterday when I was a complete idiot on a call with some co-workers because I mixed up a Janet with a Janice—2 totally different clients with different issues. I felt it last night when I was awoken by some police activity literally right outside my bedroom window that was terrifying but ultimately ended peacefully. I was terrified they were going to shoot the man they were arresting. I could hear them cocking their guns. Neighbors were coming out of their houses, I’m sure donning their cell phones, demanding to know what was happening and I was just praying that no one was going to get shot. No one did.

I feel it now because my birthday is coming up and I don’t want it to. It’s not the usual reason, another tick on the slog to 50, it’s that I don’t want to have a birthday. I don’t want to have another milestone, to mark- another thing that has happened since he’s been gone. I was 46 when he died and soon I’ll be 47, then 48 and so on.

I found myself in the shower this morning running through the catalog of the people I have lost in my life. When did I start feeling better after they died? When did I stop grieving? Is there something I did? Is there an action I took that made me feel better? Did I cry more for Grandma than for Grandpa? Did going to, and in some cases, planning a funeral help? I was thinking about when my stepfather, Hank, died in 1997. When he passed away, I had recently moved to New York City after graduating from college and spending some time living in London. He and my mother were living in the Boston suburbs.

His illness and death as always been framed in my mind as a flaw in my character. Ok, maybe not fair, but a flaw of my age and my experience at the time that I honestly did not think he was going to die. The doctors did, and he did, he would joke about it, but I steadfastly refused to accept that. When I came to their apartment the Tuesday before thanksgiving, he was completely bed ridden and was too weak to speak. And still, I didn’t think he was going to die. I spent the next few days running errands including a completely surreal drive to a neighboring town to pick up a huge bottle of morphine at a pharmacy. They just gave it to me.

The night before Thanksgiving was quiet and we sat in dim light by his bed not really saying much. I was tired and decided to go back to the bed and breakfast where I was staying. Hank, though he couldn’t speak, seemed like he didn’t want me to go. The hospice nurse raised her eyebrows at me. I took his hand and said I’ll be back early tomorrow, I’ll see you then. Of course he died before I could see him again and his brother Dave, his son James, my mom and I stood by his bedside with his favorite priest crying. My mom looked at him and said “He has a smile on his face.” And then it started to snow.

Hank died on Thanksgiving and I always tried to focus on that, focus on being grateful for stuff. This was during that period of time when Oprah told us all to have our gratitude journals and man, I fucking tried, I honestly did. But all I could think about was that I never told him how grateful I was for stuff. I sat there by his bed thinking, he’s going to get up any minute. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to Dave’s house and eat turkey with us tomorrow. I was so mad at myself. I went to Atlantic City (because, at the time, it was the cheapest beach getaway I could afford) and yelled at the moon and the ocean for a while. But was it grief for Hank or grief that I was so fucking stupid? Of course he was going to die. Of course. This was my first hospice experience so I hadn’t yet learned the dirty little secret of hospice—you can check in any time you like, but you can never leave. And it felt like such a missed opportunity. I mean we weren’t super close, there were things I’m sure I can think of that we found annoying about each other. But when you’re sitting at someone’s death bed you don’t think about that, you say something meaningful, you thank them, and you don’t just expect them to spring out of bed and shout: “Just kidding!”

In the shower this morning when I was running through my grief inventory I was wondering: did that help? Did going to Atlantic City and yelling at the moon and the ocean help? Should I do that now? As long as there is no curfew, should I go yell at the moon or the ocean? Is that why I feel just so stupidly sad today? I haven’t been yelling or screaming, shaking my fist at things and such.

Not so much, I think. Instead I tried to be grateful that I told my dad I was grateful before he died. If it can help in how I felt when Hank died that I never make that mistake again, then it will help. March 4 was my Dad’s 75th birthday and I created a little book for him with a bunch of old photos and I thanked him for all the things he did for us—all the trips, all the lessons, and for just sticking around. I knew he wouldn’t hear me if I said it so I published it so he could sit with it for a while and know how grateful I was for all the things that he taught me. And that does make me feel better, that he knew that. Marge showed the book to every nurse and every aide that came to sit with him so that they would know also how grateful we were to him. And that does help, it really does. But I’m still sad.

[Grief Sucks]- June 3, 2020- As Good As You Can

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Last night I had another strange dream. I was with my hair dresser and for some reason my older brother, Jason, was there. I was trying to explain that I wanted something fresh, I was getting a little bored with my hair, and can she think of something stylish to do? Then Jason piped up and said “Honestly since you have been her hair dresser I don’t like anything you’ve done for her hair.” This, of course, despite being something my brother would never say, really pissed off my hairdresser.

As you can imagine, she gave me a crappy haircut, really short and choppy. Afterward, I was quite concerned about the blue highlights in my hair. I kept asking her: “Did you cut out all of my highlights? Do we need to refresh them?” and she kept saying: “I don’t know, do you want me to redo them?” and I just kept asking. I just wanted her to tell me what to do. She’s the professional purveyor of blue highlights, she knows more about this topic. Since getting the blue highlights originally in November 2019 I have learned many things about blue highlights but I am by no means an expert. I just wanted her to tell me what to do.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the very fine line between choice and necessity. For example, the last time I took my dog to the vet because she was chewing on her feet non-stop. The vet kept giving us all these choices of what medication to give her. I just wanted to say “I am not a vet! Just freaking tell me what to do!”

Ok, forgive me, I am going to back up a bit. During one of our many visits to Albuquerque, New Mexico in the years toward the end of Eric’s dad Alan’s life, we were present when he was being admitted in to hospice care. If you have never been exposed to hospice care, you should understand that this is indeed the most counter-intuitive experience you will ever have. You start having conversations about “life saving measures” and “do not resuscitate” orders. They have you a big sign to hang on your refrigerator stating that if you are dying, if your breathing has stopped, you do not want to be saved. Hmmm…you do not want to be saved.

You see, hospice isn’t about saving your life, it’s about ending your life. Not in an active way, but in a very passive way. I remember during the meeting with the hospice nurse when Eric’s dad was being admitted, there was this moment where the nurse is asking “Do you understand? Do you agree?” and there was this almost tense moment when I think all of us wanted to shout out “Of course not! What are you fucking nuts?” but that’s the problem again, choice vs. necessity. There is no choice, why are they asking you like it’s a choice? It was a necessity because hospice provided services that Alan desperately needed.

I remember after the nurse left and everyone but me left the room, Alan said to me: “it’s not fun talking about your death.” And I paused for a second, I wanted so desperately to come up some sort of Maya Angelou level of profound wisdom or comfort in that moment. All I could say was: “I don’t suppose it is.”

Let’s fast forward a bit. Eric and I drove to Aurora, Colorado very soon after hearing my Dad had been admitted into hospice care. We both understood what this meant, and the urgency was palpable. When we arrive, my Dad was actually standing, he was able to, with the help of a walker, get out of bed and move to the commode next to the bed, sit, do his biz, and then move back to the bed.

They had put a hospital bed in the living room and he was constantly fiddling with it, he seemed to be seeking the sweet spot between head elevation, foot elevation and pillow placement. Eric, me and my stepmother Marge sat by his bed and tried to help him in his quest for comfort. One of the “problems” was that he wasn’t in pain so we weren’t sure when to give him the morphine they had left for us. They said it would also help his breathing, but he seemed to be breathing ok.

It was two days of up bed, down bed, fiddle with the pillows. The nurse came Tuesday morning and said that he was having trouble breathing, we didn’t believe her. She asked where the oxygen was and we said he didn’t want it so we didn’t order it. She said to take the bed control away from him and we said no, that was the only control he had left. She said give him the morphine and we reluctantly agreed and gave him the lowest dose and he spent most of the rest of the day asleep.

That made us feel bad, we felt like we had doped him and so he wasn’t able to really stand up anymore. He tried to get out of bed and me, Eric, my step-mother Marge and my Dad almost ended up on the floor. Marge said she wanted him back. She wanted him to be able to get up again, to go to the bathroom, to sit on the edge of the bed rubbing his back while she talked about their sailing adventures.

We all had a terrible night and I woke up with a certain amount of dread and clarity. They needed to take away our choice. We were making the wrong choices because we loved him and didn’t want to lose him and it’s no fun to talk about your own death. They needed to tell us what to do, they needed to take away our choices because we were making them for the wrong reasons.

I called the nurse, used the word “road map” and she returned. The oxygen came and we agreed on a schedule for the morphine and the anti-anxiety drugs. She explained to us, whether it was true or not, that him being asleep all the time now, essentially in a coma, was more about the progression of the disease than the drugs. That was what we were witnessing was him comfortable and up down of the bed was him in discomfort.

And so he slipped away from us 36 hours or so later. He was comfortable, he was peaceful. As the aide who was sitting with him said at 1:30 in the morning: “There’s no more breathing.”

It’s no fun to talk about your own death, or the death of someone you love. It’s really no fun to have to let go of any power you ever thought you had over life. It’s hard to understand that you need to surrender to the inevitable because it’s inevitable whether it’s good or bad, and you can do is try and make it as good as you can. I guess that’s the only power we have: “as good as you can.” That’s love, right? As good as you can.

 

[Grief Sucks]- May 31, 2020- Ask Dr. Science

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Home again. Back to normal. Who knew “normal” would be the world burning down? All of our restlessness of the past 3 months has collided with all our anger from the past 50 years. I hear sirens as I sit here.

It’s strange when you lose someone that you start to think that when things happen, when the world changes again and again and again, they won’t know this thing happened. Their world froze in time the second the breathing stopped and yet here I sit listening to sirens and deleting advertising emails from my inbox for the best Father’s Day gifts.

There are no more fathers in our lives. No more step-fathers or grandfathers or fathers-in-law or father fathers. No one to buy a tie for anymore. It hits me at times like that, times like when I’m standing in my bedroom that has been the same for 15 years except for that “Ask Dr. Science” mug on the dresser that wouldn’t be there if he were still alive.

After my grandmother passed in august of 2018, I remember going through her house, looking for mementos that I may want to keep before the estate sale. It reminded me of the old version of Wheel of Fortune when you got to go shopping after you solved the puzzle, before they realized that cash was a better prize than an overpriced washing machine. I had that feeling again walking through my dad’s house. All I really ended up with was the “Ask Dr. Science” mug. I can’t remember when I bought that for him, probably a father’s day present. I do remember being quite proud of myself because the back of the mug said: “I know more than you do!”

That motto embodied my dad. Not only did he think he knew more than you do he probably did. But the other thing that embodied my dad was that he would teach it to you if you wanted. My dad had several acts in his life: high school science teacher, sailor, camper, photographer, guitar player, banjo player, ukulele player, hot air balloon enthusiast. But the one thread that he carried in to every act was he was a teacher. Never before since perhaps my husband Eric did an avocation so perfectly line up with a vocation.

So here I am, home again, where everything is so familiar yet so completely changed. Grief sucks.

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[Grief Sucks] May 22, 2020- God Laughs

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Here’s the next quote I used to say a lot which now has new meaning: “Man makes plans, God laughs.”

I’m sitting on a deck in a backyard in Aurora, Colorado listening to my stepmother’s wind-chimes and the wind rustling through the trees. All the irises and columbine flowers have bloomed as well as the tree they call the “bee tree” for what I’m learning are obvious reasons. There is a lot of suburban wildlife in the backyard of this house my Dad and stepmother moved into during my junior year of college. I won’t tell you when that was but let’s just say the year didn’t start with a 2. There are squirrels and magpies, bunnies and blue jays. Yesterday I saw a momma fox and her 2 little kits running around in the neighbor’s front yard. I had seen them a couple of days ago on the very deck where I sit now.

This blows my mind a little because I grew up in Aurora, not in this house, but not far from this house, and I never saw a fox or a fox kit in our backyard. Granted it could be attributed to the suburban wildlife feeding station my dad and stepmom set up at this house with peanuts and thistle and seed. Finches like thistle, apparently, and I’ve seen a goldfinch, a strawberry finch and some sort of grey finch that doesn’t seem to have its own sexy name. It is oddly peaceful, considering all the madness that seems to me lurking out there at the stage door, just waiting for someone to crack the door so it can rush in.

My dad was a high school biology teacher when I was a kid and there were always snakes and hamsters and other critters around. Every outing was an adventure of what sort of creepy crawlers were trying to scurry away from us. More than one time we would find an injured snake and we would catch it and nurse it back to health to be released into a field away from our house. We would catch tadpoles in puddles and raise them to be little frogs. If my hamster died, it was time to do an autopsy that even Quincy would admire.

After they moved into this house, my dad created a camera set up that was like a hunting blind- a tripod and curtain to hid him and provide good light, a chair. He would sit there and stare out of his camera lens and wait for something to scurry into frame so he could take a picture. Eric used to tease him and call him Terry Mieger- the world’s laziest nature photographer.

Joking aside, he did also venture out into nature beyond the backyard- reservoirs, mountains, zoos. The first time he went to Florida he probably took 2,000 pictures of birds and flowers and alligators. One year, when visiting us in LA, he almost had a stroke when he discovered there were turtles in the pond in front of the famous Hobbit House in Culver City. I had taken him there to see the unusual architecture and tell the interesting “only in LA story” about the house. But all he saw were those fucking turtles. Dad had many chapters in his life and his last was an actual nature photographer. He taught classes in it, because of course he did, and belonged to clubs. Every year he would create a calendar with 12 of his favorite photos from the year and send it out to everyone he could think of.

Being here in Colorado this week has made me think a lot about states—the United States in which we live, that is. More specifically how, why in the fuck, when it comes to matters of life and death, should there be differences in how things are handled, from state to state. Shouldn’t it be, when it comes to the most essential thing about yourself—your life, your breath, your health—that the only state we truly live in is the state of being a human being.

Before I came here, I thought a lot about this in relation to this COVID crisis we are in. Why can I get a free test in Los Angeles without even symptoms, while other areas refuse to even acknowledge there is a problem? Why am I required to cover my face while other states are not? Not even other states, but other cities, other counties that I can literally WALK to. Why can’t we have one unified response to the problem so that we just get it over with? I’m asking these hypothetically because I know there are answers and no solutions but I don’t want to dwell on it too much.

Now that I’m here I’ve been thinking about this in relation to healthcare. Two weeks ago my dad was placed in hospice care. He had been diagnosed with cancer a little over a year ago and after a year of ineffective treatments, among other things, we have come to this. Isn’t it strange how these things always happen faster than you think they will?

I wish I could say that this is my first experience with home hospice care. It is my 4th in 3 different states. This is my 2nd experience with the Denver hospice. And I found myself wondering why in Massachusetts my stepfather had a hospice nurse with him almost 24 hours a day yet here we have to pay for a nighttime health aide and we’ve seen the nurse twice. Why in New Mexico did we feel so supported, from the nurse to the bath aide to the chaplain, they provided everything we needed and were with us whenever we raised a hand, yet here we’re not even sure how much medication to give and when. My stepmom hasn’t even met the hospice doctor.

And again I start to think, shouldn’t this be the same for all? Shouldn’t all of us have the right to die in the same level of comfort no matter our zip code? Shouldn’t the family members of the dying receive the same level of information, or support, or guidance no matter where? And yes I’m being naïve but so fucking what. We should want these things. And I know it’s not worse right now because of the pandemic because my other experience in Denver was during normal times. The only difference now is we’re talking through masks.

There you have it—COVID and my dad’s death, two of my top reasons for hating 2020. Two reasons to remind me about how far away we are from what is important. Two reasons for me to wonder why we have to be so far away.

Dad died early on May 21. We finally figured out the meds and he was finally peaceful. He taught us a lesson until the end, that you don’t change who you are just because you can’t walk and you can’t talk. He could still roll his eyes, he could still give me that look when he knew what I was saying was bullshit. I’ll never forget that.

Before I go, I have to add that I just glanced over and saw a black cat running away from the deck toward the side of the house. Beside the obvious question of how many holes do they have in their stupid fence, I would also like to add, “what the fuck?” It’s official, I’m truly doomed. God’s laughing, I suppose.

 

[Grief Sucks] May 19, 2020- Tempting Fate

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I used to have this running joke with people:

People: “How are you?”

Me: “Could be worse.” (everyone laughs) “Or maybe I shouldn’t tempt fate”

I’ve been thinking lately, is it me? Did I indeed tempt fate? Is it my fault that we are now in the midst of a global pandemic (depending on who you ask)? I’m going to say no, but you know, I’m white, middle aged and sort of liberal so I like to think I have that kind of power.

Dispatches from May 2020: Things are sort opening again and no one really feels great about that. I mean, mostly no one. I will caveat this by saying that I work in HR and my husband, Eric, works in live theatre. Things have been fun around the Sims household lately. In my industry, we have had quite a roller coaster, and lately we’re dealing with  the questions about reopening. Here is a recent typical conversation with one of my clients:

Client: “Can you advise how we can safely go back to work?”

Me: “Work from home.”

Client: “But everyone wants to come back to the office.”

Me: “Why?”

I mean, cause I hate to break it to them, but all the reasons they want to come back to the office are about to go away. Remember your awesome “pets in the workplace” policy? Gone. Free snacks in the breakroom? Gone. Breakroom gone too. Frosted Flakes dispenser near the foosball table? Gone- both the Frosted Flakes and the foosball. Weekly happy hour with a free Uber ride home? Yep, you guessed it.

So really, why are we so hot to get back in the office? I mean unless you have a cat or a 2 year old isn’t it not only safer—but better to stay home? Maybe I’m projecting. I mean, honestly, I’m an HR Consultant, so I get paid whether you screw up the return to work or not- and if you do screw it up, I get paid more! So everyone wins! Or at least I do and the lawyers do, but as long as Trump doesn’t, we’re all good, literally.

I don’t want to get too intellectually political, only personally political. I’m not going to pretend I’m right or that I know a whole lot of the details which constitute the debacle of American society right now. If you want that, listen to the “You’re Wrong About” podcast. I have fastidiously avoided listening to, reading, or even acknowledging as English anything Trump has said for the past 35 years, but in particular the past 4. So, in fact checking, I may be wrong about some things. However, I am going to admit, and liberal friends don’t hate me because you guys could use to start forgiving people a little, when Trump was elected, I had this thought that he was such a buffoon that he was basically incapable of really accomplishing anything as president. I literally said to myself, “How bad can it be?” Thanks Fate for the answer being: “Worse than Vietnam.”

Quick, Oliver Stone, make a movie about COVID-19 before the election so we can all start feeling guilty enough and change our minds.

Nutshell time, lots and lots of people are dying or getting sick and lots and lots of people either don’t care or don’t believe it. I care, and I believe it, and I’ve been working from home for 5 years so what do I know about it?

[California Seething] – Passover in the 11th Plague

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About 20 years ago my parents moved to Albuquerque. I guess they wanted to see where Bugs Bunny had taken a wrong turn so many times, or maybe it was easier to find a synagogue there than in Outer Mongolia. And indeed, they found Congregation Albert, which is better than any temple I’ve ever been to in America let alone Ulaanbaatar. Sure, Temple Beth Ghengis Kahn is nice and all but they sing everything like this-

which works for Adon Olam but that’s about it.

Every year since my parents moved to Albuquerque I’ve been coming out for the Seder, but since my travel plans are often dictated by my work schedule, we haven’t always done the Seder on the same night of Passover. Some years it’s the third, some the fifth, some the weekend before. About 5 years ago we actually managed to have the Seder in the Breaking Badfirst night and Elijah was so shocked he didn’t come. He was already in Albuquerque but thought there was no way we’d have the Seder the first night so he did the Breaking Bad Tour instead. Look, Albuquerque, I’m all for making a buck off the tourists but all the Breaking Bad stuff is a bit much. Between the locations, souvenirs, and kiosk at the airport you should change your motto from “Land of Enchantment” to “We take the ‘Meh’ out of Meth!”.

At any rate, in mid February (or One Month BCE – Before Covid Era) I was in Albuquerque and I thought “wow. It’s gonna be practically impossible to get out here for Passover. We’ve got shows at all three theatres, there’s a first preview at the Douglas on the 8th for a show opening on the 10th. I guess I could fly out early on Saturday the 11th, have the Seder that night and fly back early Monday in time to be at the office for a meeting at 10. Oh well, Passover comes whether I’m ready or not, so we’ll find a way to have the Seder.”

Flash forward to the end of March, or the Year 5000 CE (or Two Weeks, whatever), and I’m standing at the Ralph’s in Venice practically weeping with joy because unlike our neighborhood supermarket, they have eggs, sanitizing wipes, and even toilet paper. And not some sandpaper, off-brand, one ply nonsense – but honest to God legit Charmin! Fortunately, the moment was captured on video:

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All the shows have been cancelled, the office is closed, and getting to Albuquerque is even more impossible than I could have possibly imagined.

And yet, on the first night (the first, mind you! No one was more shocked than me, except maybe Elijah) of Passover, I found myself looking out at tableau of my family. We were in different homes, across 3 time zones, My aunt was actually floating in outer space but I think that’s just cause she trusted her son to get her set up on Zoom and we have a proud, long standing tradition of smart-alecky behavior in my family. Case in point this photo of my grandmother from my wedding:

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We were not sitting around a physical table but rather arrayed in those oh so familiar Brady Bunch squares which form the matrix of our lives these days. I screen-shared a custom Hagaddah which I created for the occasion filled with all sorts of lefty, progressive, inclusive readings (thanks Haggadot.com), seduced my family with promises the Seder would only last an hour, and we shared a Reform, accessible, interfaith friendly touchy-feeley Seder (touching the heart- not the face!) in virtual space.

And it was wonderful

My wife pointed out afterwards that, as she looked out at all the people participating, she could not remember a time when all these various segments of our family and close friends had ever been in the same place together. She reminded me of an observation I shared when we did a FaceTime happy hour with her brother and his girlfriend in Denver. That we could have always been connecting in this fashion with friends and family in other places, but until now it never would have occurred to us.

I’m not denying that things really suck right now. We live in unprecedented and unpresidented times. To call this country a dumpster fire is an insult to hard working dumpster fires all over the world. But if there is one drop of wine in the otherwise empty glass, it’s that we have learned, quickly and of necessity, how to untether community from geography and come together like never before. Perhaps in future years there will be a screen on the table to welcome those to our Seder who are far away or not able to leave their homes. The screen will also serve as a reminder of this time, when we chose as free people to remain confined in our narrow spaces because a plague came that affected us all. A plague that didn’t bother to check your doorposts for blood. In that sense, we are all Egyptians this Passover. May our hearts never grow hard, like Pharoh’s.

The question with the most obvious answer right now is “How is this night different from all other nights?” except tiger-kingfor maybe “who should I vote for in November?” or “Dude, are you watching Tiger King?” The question I’d rather ask, though,  is “how is this Seder the same as all others?” After all, the story of Passover is still the same (spoiler alert- we’re free!), my family is still delightfully unruly despite my best efforts (how did I end up being the Clark Griswold of the Sims Family Virtual Passover Vacation?), my sisters still each play their appointed roles of the Wicked Child and Simple Child (family is like the old Hollywood Studio System- once you’re typecast, you’re typecast for life), I still giggle when I hear “House of Bondage”, the matza is dry, Dayenu is too long, the jelly in gefilte fish is one of life’s great mysteries, and a young goat can still be purchased for the low, low price of two Zuzim. If my grandfather were there, I like to think he’d still make the “month of Datsun” joke when the “month of Nisan” is mentioned in the Seder. I know he would have dug into his wallet like a man extracting his own kidney to reward the afikoman finder with the big prize of ONE DOLLAR. “Big spender” my grandmother would have said derisively, and maybe, somewhere this year, outside the range of even Zoom, she did.

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As the Seder ended, we drank our third and fourth cup of wine (or fifth or sixth or cup number DON’T JUDGE ME), opened the door for Elijah to make a contactless delivery of messianic redemption, and returned to the reality of ourelijah separate homes. For some participants, it had already been dark outside for a while, others were just sitting down to dinner as the sun was beginning to dip in the sky. For 90 minutes though, we had been connected in a space outside our distant homes, telling the ancient story together. And, yeah, yeah, I know I told everyone that Seder would only take an hour and it went way longer – that’s just another way this Seder was like all others. SUCKERS!!!

I’ll close this post the way we began the Seder. By saying Shechiyanu. By thanking God, whoever or whatever that may be (is the Flying Spaghetti Monster still a thing or did atheists have to dump him after too many people started actually believing in it? Cause the same thing happened to Joseph Smith), for bringing us to this place- safe, healthy, in a home with food and soap and hot water, and for the miracle of technology that provides a gossamer thread of human connectivity when we desperately need it most.

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam,
she’hecheyanu v’ki’manu v’higi-anu laz’man hazeh.

Praised are you, Adonai, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe,
who has sustained us, maintained us and enabled us to reach this moment in life

Have a happy Passover, a happy Easter, joyous Flying Spaghetti Dinner, or just the best week you can muster at home with a minimum of uncontrollable sobbing (PRO TIP: you don’t need to wait for the Seder to have four glasses of wine. DON’T JUDGE ME.) Wishing you all strength and love.

Hashanah be Zoom, l’shana ha ba’ah be Albuquerque.  This year on Zoom, next year in Albuquerque- and may Elijah be “the one who knocks”

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[California Seething] New Amsterdam or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Legal Weed and then Started Worrying All Over Again Cause Weed Still Makes Me Paranoid as FUUUUCK

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Chapter One: Fantasy Island

There comes a time in every Angeleno’s life when they Google Map “recreational dispensaries near me” in order to find one that’s within walking distance from their house. For me, that time came a couple of days after seeing the Dead & Company at Dodger Stadium. I was sitting on the couch late at night watching clips from old Dead shows on YouTube and trying to decide between having a midlife crisis and walking the dog- until finally I realized- – why not do both? And thus the search began!

Of course, I the only reason I had to look for a recreational dispensary is that I’ve always been too superstitious to get a medical weed card.  You see, my mother always told me it was bad luck to fake an illness and of all the motherly advice she’s given me in the last 45 years, that’s the one fucking piece I decided to take. I didn’t listen when she said “don’t walk under the bridge at night cause there might be axe murders.” I didn’t listen when she said “don’t take Uber cause the driver might be an axe murderer (my mom thinks axe murderers are a big problem in this town- when the real Cal Seething- 030915- punkylickproblem is Axe Body Spray. She needs to watch less Criminal Minds and more Entourage.) I also didn’t listen when she said “don’t let the dog lick your head” cause I still let my little Punky-poo go to town on my head like it’s snack time at camp and she’s got a big, sweaty Otter Pop. And, I sure as hell didn’t listen when my mom said not to smoke weed in the first place. “Just Say No” was the only thing I said “no” too. I said “HELL, YEAH” the first time a scraggly nickel bag was offered to me Freshman year of High School. I smoked those stems and seeds out of an old Sherlock Holmes pipe I had lying around. In more innocent times (8th grade) this was part of a Halloween costume along with a deer stalker cap and plaid bathrobe. Sherlock Holmes as proto-Lebowski, I guess? Come to think of it, that would have been a pretty great look for my walk to the dispensary- which, as turns out was only 0.2 miles away! How awesome is that? The last time I lived this close to a recreational dispensary, I was in college and his name was Tyrone.

Now, there were some distinct advantages to going weed shopping at Tyrone’s. Like the 3’ bong that circulated endlessly through his living room as New Amsterdam- Cheaterthough propelled by Newton’s Laws of Marijuana Motion (ganja in motion shall remain in motion unless bogarted by some fratboy douche with the Axe Body Spray and the “Cheat on your girlfriend not your workout t-shirt. Seriously, who invited that guy?) Tyrone smoked A LOT. He smoked like he was training for the Weed Olympics (or “X-Games”) and gunning for Willy Nelson’s spot on the American team.

New Amsterdam- YakovThe selection at New Amsterdam on the other hand blows Tyrone’s out of the bong water. I can’t even compare buying weed in college to shopping at New Amsterdam without sounding like a Yakov Smirnoff bit: “At New Amsterdam, they have big selection of cannabis- indica, sativa, oils, creams, edibles, vape pens! In college, we have two kinds of cannabis only- weed in bong or weed in bowl- if you want edibles, smoke out of apple. New Amsterdam- What a dispensary!” Holy crap- if they ever legalize weed in Branson I’m totally going to open a dispensary with Smirnov. We can call it “Branson Buds” and then do a reality show called “Branson BUDdies.” And then we’ll flip houses! And holy shit I could go for some Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch right now! Sorry, sorry, sorry- I shouldn’t have started hitting the vape pen while I was still writing this.

 

Oh right! The vape pen- that’s what I wanted to buy at New Amsterdam. I first used one when I went to see the Dead and Company and I can safely say I was the highest person in Dodger Stadium since Darryl Strawberry went to rehab. But unlike Darryl Strawberry, the vape pen never disappoints! It just kept going and going like the Energizer Bunny or like a 90’s hack comic who still uses the Energizer Bunny (or Darryl Strawberry) as a punch line. Yup, that comic just keeps going and going and going until he drops dead of cirrhosis outside the Ha Ha Hole in North Hollywood while trying to squeeze one more punch line out of Lorena Bobbit, dolphin-free tuna, and Zima and, yes, that comic is Jay Leno.

And much like Jay Leno, the vape pen is disposable and leaves an artificial taste in your mouth though, unlike Jay Leno, it comes in a slim, attractive package and always makes you feel good. Hey- turns out I like my cannabis like Donald likes his wives- slim, attractive, fake and disposable (and New Amsterdam- Melaniaprobably not made in America.) Ohhh, I’m sorry- did that make Melania feel bad. Well, “I really don’t care- do u?” #BeBest

Anyhow, the dispensary was closed the night I first looked it up, so a few days later my wife Lauren and I strapped our presumptive little maltipoo Punky into her harness and set off on the journey to New Amsterdam. For as the Chinese proverb says, “the journey of 0.2 miles begins with a single step and ends in like 500 steps or 1000 if it’s a round trip.” I say presumptive maltipoo, because we never actually gave her a DNA test. This is partially because they’re expensive but mostly cause I don’t want to know who that crazy bitch has murdered. Sure- she seems cuddly and adorable, but she’s really a ferocious killer. It’s like Child’s Play 8- Dog of Chucky. That’s why Lauren and I both went- because Lauren had to wait with Punky outside. I mean, sure I I could have said she was a service dog- assuming you consider running around in circles like a little white blur New Amsterrdam- Tattooyapping her head off like a coked up Herve Villechaize the day he finally kills them all (“Za Plane! Za Plane! SO MUCH BLOOD!”) every single goddamn time she sees some douchenozzle in Axe Body Spray ride by on a Bird Scooter to be a service, which I ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO but the ADA doesn’t see it that way- gotta get Betsy DeVos on that. Or, wait- who’s in charge of ruining protections for the disabled? Jeff Sessions? Stephen Miller? The Mooch? Surely someone in this garbage administration is responsible for hurting the handicapped? What the hell is Putin paying for anyhow?

So Lauren waited outside as our little Tattoo freaked out (“Za Bird Scooter! Za Bird Scooter! SO MUCH BLOOD) and I entered New Amsterdam. I gave my ID to the beefy man behind the desk in the registration area (oh THESE are the groceries that Donald was talking about) and the beefy man gave me his scowl of approval. With that, I stepped forward into a whole new world- one I can only describe as my college self’s Fantasy Island. (“Za Weed! Za Weed. SO MUCH BUD)

Now where’s my goddamn Cap’n Crunch??

Chapter Two: It’s Summer Time but the Vapin’ Ain’t Easy

As you’ve already guessed, I’m old. Not Honeymooners, Ed Sullivan, moon landing old but Yakov Smirnoff, Zima, Challenger explosion old. Quick test to see if you are Gen X: What does NASA stand for? If you answered:New Amsterdam- NASA Logo

National Aeronautics and Space Administration– You’re too old.
Need Another Seven Astronauts– You’re Gen X! “Congratulations”
Alexa, what’s NASA? – You should stop reading this right fucking now. You’re either too young or the President of the US and either way this ain’t for you.

Sure, I shopped for cannabis in stores before, when I lived in New York in the 90’s. There was that video store in Spanish Harlem or “Hamilton Heights” as it is known by real estate brokers and college kids who don’t want their racist parents to worry “It’s not Spanish Harlem, Mom, it’s Hamilton Heights- yes, like the musical. Of course it’s safe- it’s quiet uptown”. This video store had like two copies of Quiz Show, a bunch of empty boxes and $30 eighths if New Amsterdam- Blockbusteryou showed the “green membership card”. Sorry, did you hear that? It’s the sound of 10,000 former Blockbuster owners kicking themselves at once. Seriously, how did you guys miss this? Block-BUD-ster? Eh? Eh? It was right there for you and now Yakov Smirnoff and I are gonna open one in Branson.

And there was Juice & Juice in the Village where for $12 they sold you a small juice and a dime bag. This place still exists, which is cool, but now they charge $15 and you only get juice.

But New Amsterdam was the first store I ever entered that sold cannabis unabashedly. Clean, bright LCD screens advertising the specials of the day. Free pre-rolled joint with purchase of $100 or more. Small plastic purple jars brimming with luscious green buds available for connoisseurs to smell and compare. Young women behind the counter with t-shirts, name-tags, nose-rings, and knowing looks eagerly waiting to fulfill your every cannabis need. It was crazy – all my life marijuana was forbidden fruit and now- instead of offering me the apple, the serpent brings me to an Apple Store. Fantastic. I sauntered confidently up to a young lady behind the counter whose name tag identified her as “Ariel”  and said, a little too loudly, “I would like a vape pen, please.”New Amsterdam- Dispensary-Crop

Nothing

I tried again

“I would like a disposable vape pen, please.”

Nothing.

Ariel just gave me the kind of expectant and slightly terrified look you get when you walk into Starbucks and just say “coffee” and the barista is staring at you and just praying to Howard Schultz that you’re not some crazy person cause she can’t remember under what circumstances she’s allowed to call the cops.

Finally, Ariel realized she was going to have to give me my cue: “Indica, Sativa?”

I was frozen. I had heard these words before, but never bothered to learn what they mean- it never seemed to matter. Like Yakov Smirnoff would have said “when you wait in line all day for toilet paper, you don’t ask is it Charmin?”

So I relied on my old “I have no idea what to choose” standby. I gave Ariel what I hope was a probing look and said “What do you recommend?”

She asked “Do you get paranoid?” Which is a terrible question to ask a paranoid person, but I resisted the urge to say “Who’s been saying that about me??” and said instead “Yes, a little.”

She reached under the counter without hesitation and pulled out a little white package and said “Try an indica blend, this one’s Bananaberry. $47.95. Plus tax”.

And so, $52 later, in cash (they don’t take credit cards. THANK GOD. At least something about this transaction was shady) I was back out on the street with Punky, Lauren and an Indica Blend Bananberry Disposable Vape Pen.

Later that night, after a couple glasses of rose, I decided to test out my new purchase. After spending only ten minutes figuring out how to open the package, a pulled out the slim black rod. One end was flat, the other had a pinhole. Remembering the Dead show, I put the pinhole in my mouth and sucked and…nothing. The tip lit up bright green- but nothing seemed to come through. Still, I held the nothing in my lungs and breathed it out. Could it really be this smooth, this effortless? Sure I didn’t feel anything, (suck) but maybe it creeps up on you. (suck, suck) Like…slowly (suck, suck, suck) Like….really slowly?

Nothing. Like the girl in Chorus Line, I felt nothing- no matter how much I reached deep down to the bottom of my soul and tried.

Maybe there was something I was missing? I opened up the packaging and peered inside. Was there something I was missing? A book of instructions with the Ikea dude showing me the do’s and don’ts? A bag of little screws? An allen wrench?New Amsterdam- Ikea

Nothing.

I scrutinized the vape pen- was there an on/off switch, home button, fingerprint pad? Maybe it’s voice activated “Hey Vapey, get me baked?”

Nothing. How could I possibly be failing at this? It’s technology and weed- I should be crushing this! Hell, I’m the one who first taught my mother how to program the VCR and later introduced her to Emoji (MOM EMOJI PRO TIP: Ghost pirate is the closest to Axe Murderer). And I’m the one whose mastery of Microsoft Access once made me feared by men and beloved by women (specifically the women at Apple One.) And I’m the one who made a bong out of a coconut cause there was a coconut in the apartment and why the fuck not? New Amsterdam- ClippyI used to be a genius- how could I suddenly be so dumb? And if I am so old and dumb- where will my help come from? Clippy, Clippy- why hast thou forsaken me???

Noticing my struggles, Lauren asked- “How is it?”

“Oh, it’s good, you know. Really smooth.” – Oh don’t look at me like that- of course I lied. How could I admit that the vape pen was a bust, that I’d wasted $50, that the emperor has no buzz??

Turns out, it’s surprisingly easy. The next day, when my friend Scott came over after brunch, I handed him the vape pen to see if he would have better luck. He took one suck and said “dude- this things broken- take it back.”

Right.

Brain go boom.

New Amsterdam- Brain

Of course – I can just take it back for a refund.New Amsterdam- Yakov

Channeling Yakov Smirnoff: “At New Amsterdam- when drugs not work- you take back for full refund. In college, when drugs not work, you lie to your friends about how awesome they are – ‘oh yeah, dude- I can totally feel the acid kicking in…it’s reeealll mellow.’ What a Dispensary!”

And so, we leashed up Punky and took the 0.2 mile walk to New Amsterdam. When we got there, Scott played Mr. Roark with crazy little Tattoo and I went inside.

I walked up to Ariel and pulled out the package with the vape pen.New Amsterdam- Dispensary-Crop

“Hey – I think the vape pen that I got here yesterday might possibly not be working.”

“Sorry to hear that- can I see you hit it?”

OK- here we go- the moment of truth – I pulled it out- sucked and….

“Oh yeah, that’s not working. Let me get you new one” She took the package and in seconds replaced the broken vape pen with identical one. “Try this”

Skeptical, I put in in my mouth, took a big suck and

COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH
COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH

So that’s what Bananaberry tastes like. It tastes like VICTORY.

And so I left New Amsterdam the proud owner of Indica Blend Bananberry Disposable Vape Pen that actually works which I’ve used exactly twice. Cause like the title says- weed still makes me paranoid as FUUUUCCK.

Now- who took my goddamn Cap’n Crunch? Sic ’em Punky!

New Amsterdam- Chucky

A Walk Through the Store

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In 1987, I spent the summer in Israel with my middle sister and my Dad. We’d lived in Israel from around 1978 to 1983 in Arad, a small town in the middle of the dessert that was far enough from any armed conflict to be safe for seven year old kids to walk home from school alone. After 1983 we moved back to the States to the leafy green and profoundly disappointing suburbs of Albany (Smallbany), NY- specifically, the town of Delmar (Dullmar).

My Dad was still a partner in a small apparel company with a factory in Arad, so we spent summers and holidays and every week we DadPost-Aradcould in our apartment there. I loved that apartment. The cool tile floors and big balcony window from which I could see past the end of town to the blue mountains of Jordan beyond. So much better than our US brown two story carpeted house which overlooked nothing but the construction sites of our Dullmar development and the high school that would someday form the backdrop of all my grown-up anxiety dreams (for the love of God, when do I stop panicking about failing French???)

Anyhow, the summer before my Freshman year in High School in 1987, my mom and oldest sister stayed back in Dullmar while the rest of us went back to Arad. It was probably the greatest summer of my life. Not because of all the touchy-feely lovey-dovey family bonding crap we did- but because my Dad worked all the time, my sister and I were teenagers and he left us THE HELL ALONE. The only time we HAD to be home was when my Mom called so that we could reassure her that he was doing the bare minimum to keep us alive. Though, of course, there was the one week I missed that call because I was hiking up north. When she called, he just said I was “outside…somewhere” – which was technically true- I was, in fact, outside…six hours away, straddling the fence to the Lebanese border, rappelling down a dry waterfall and eating lunch on an overturned tank in a river. I don’t know how the rest of that conversation went, but I do know that no simple phone call would suffice when I came home- NO SIR! I had to sign an affidavit as proof of life and fax it to her post-haste. I’m surprised she didn’t make me take a picture holding the newspaper.

Of course, we did do some stuff as a family- like when my Dad took me and my two best friends to Jerusalem and made a brief pit-stop in the West Bank so he could pick up some Hebron wine glasses. He made each of us memorize three items on his to-do list of the day. I suppose in the days before Siri, taking three freshly bar-mitzvah’d boys to an incipient war zone was the next best thing.  Naturally, the Hebron glass guy knew my dad. Wherever he went, everyone always knew my dad. There was one time, several years before this amazing summer, when we were hopelessly lost in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. We drove around in circles for what to a restless 10 year old seemed like FOREVVVVVVVER until he finally stopped at a restaurant to feed his weary and hungry family. How noble. How heroic. He positively insisted he had never been there and we believed him completely right up until the owner greeted him with a convivial “Shalom Alan!” as soon as he walked in and the waiter brought him a big bowl of Ful Medames right after we sat down. His Ful made fools of us all.

I thought of this recently when we went to his favorite ice cream place, “I Scream for Ice Cream”- or “Bill’s” as he called it- referring to DadPost-IceCreamthe owner’s name, a few days after he died. He loved that place. In fact, during one of the very few conversations my Mom and he had about the afterlife, she asked “where do you think we go?” and he said without hesitation “Bill’s.” Anyhow, we all walked in dreading the moment that Bill, would smile broadly behind the counter and ask “where’s my friend?” But he didn’t. Bill came out from behind the counter and hugged my mom. We didn’t run an obituary but somehow Bill knew, just like the owner in that long ago restaurant knew my Dad’s name and favorite order. That’s just who my Dad was.

It may come as a surprise to those that met my Dad later in life that so many of my memories involve him being in motion. Walking, driving, flying, playing racquetball. Either that or working. He was always working until Parkinson’s made him stop. I didn’t think about it then but as I get closer to the age he was when he was diagnosed I find I work like he did- wrapping myself in my work like a familiar scratchy blanket. And so the thought of just giving it up is as unimaginable to me as I’m sure it was to him. And yet- he did- without a moment of regret or remorse. He just gracefully moved on to a new phase of his life as he gradually pursued what would become his longest standing occupation- working with Bar and Bat Mitzvah students on their D’var Torah, or as it’s more commonly known “speech”. When I was a Bar Mitzvah student there was a simple formula to follow – all platitudes, no insight. The Torah portion wasn’t something to be digested- simply regurgitated to the tune on the tape the Cantor made. But he expected his students to dig deep into their Torah portion- to savor it in all its richness and share the complex flavor with the congregation. So many of his former students came up to us after his Shiva services at Congregation Albert, the Albuquerque temple that became my family’s spiritual home. Time and time again they said the same thing “your Dad was the best teacher I ever had.”

Everyone who met him after they moved to Albuquerque knew him as this inspiring guy in a wheelchair spreading wisdom. The Yoda ofDadPost-Yoda Torah. A wise and spiritual man. Funny, patient and infinitely generous of spirit. And, to be sure, he was all of those things. But one of the things he and I were talking a lot about as his days were winding down, was the way in which Torah refuses to make saints of our teachers and leaders. And as so many people told me how amazing he was, I kept thinking about the other side of my Dad- the guy who could be exasperating, stubborn and infuriatingly single minded- especially when food was involved.

In 2002, I directed The Lonesome West at the Powerhouse Theatre in Santa Monica. It was my first show in LA and my parents came. Even back then, it was challenging for them to travel and I was extremely grateful that they had made the effort. It was an older theatre, and our idea of ADA accessibility was getting the whole cast out to carry the guy in the wheelchair up the four steps from the small lobby to the back row.DadPost-Powerhouse

Anyhow, once we got my Dad situated, my friend Julie sat next to him in the back and I went to the front with my wife, and my Mom so she could hear better. I was pleased we had gotten him in and proud to share this play that I felt I directed so beautifully. I thought rather a lot of myself then.

What I didn’t know as I moved to the front row, was that he had brought with him a GINORMOUS bag of jelly beans. To this day, I don’t know where he had those hidden and how he smuggled them in. Now, it’s one of the mysteries of the universe.

Anyhow, about halfway through the play was my favorite scene. It was a quiet conversation shared by a young girl and a priest in torment. I thought it was some of the best work I had done, subtle, nuanced and suffused with the pain of unrequited love. And half way through, as the audience sat in rapt attention and the theatre was absolutely silent… CRASH!!!!! The whole bag of jelly beans came splattering to the ground. And I was in the front row just fuming- where did the jelly beans come from? How did he sneak them in? Why did he bring them to the show? Who, who WHO eats jelly beans at the theatre? And WHY IN THE NAME OF EVERYTHING THAT IS HOLY did he have to pick this exact, beautiful, perfect moment to drop them all over the ground???

And then, while most people would have just left them on the ground quietly and gone back to focusing on the UNBELIEVABLY BEAUTIFUL FREAKING SCENE THAT I DIRECTED – he started rustling around and picking them up and I was sitting in the front row going out of my mind silently screaming at him to CUT IT OUT. One jelly bean….rustle rustle rustle….. Two jelly beans STOP IT! Three jelly beans…rustle rustle rustle….four jelly beans….JUST LEAVE THEM! My friend Julie leaned over to him and said “Mr Sims, what are doing? Just leave them on the ground.” But he wouldn’t. He wanted those stinkin’ jelly beans and nothing was gonna stop him. Five jelly beans….rustle rustle rustle….six jelly beans…and then…. CRASH… One jelly bean….rustle rustle rustle.

And the best part was, later on that night, my brother-in-law told me that the best piece of advice he ever got from my Dad was “Don’t spill your candy in the lobby” And I thought, of course, yes, that’s great advice! Why drop your candy in the lobby when you can drop it RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE QUIETEST MOMENT of the show and then try and pick it up again piece by piece by piece AND DROP IT AGAIN. Oh yes. OH YES. CLEARLY THAT’S MUCH BETTER.

And there you have my Dad. If there was something in life he wanted to taste, he wouldn’t just leave it lying on the floor. He would try DadPost-GardenPicjpgand try and try again to experience the full sweetness of life and wasn’t going to let anything stop him. And I thought of that when I saw a picture of him sitting in the garden after being in bed for three months, about a week before the end. I’ll admit, I didn’t think he would ever make it outside again- but then I realized- ah! There was one more piece of candy left, and with all his might, he managed to eat it.

The last time my Dad was in the hospital, he started working on a book called Walk Through the Store. It was his guide to common-sense leadership inspired by role models in his life and biblical figures. The title came from his experience at Jordan Marsh as a very young manager. Every Saturday, store Vice-President Cameron Thompson would walk through the whole store engaging with employees, hearing their concerns, observing customer interactions and making notes to share with his fellow executives. This made a profound impact on my Dad. While I don’t remember him ever talking about it before he started working on the book- I certainly observed the impact of this experience on his leadership style.  He got to know the people working for him, talked to them with respect, got involved in their lives. When we were in Israel, that crazy summer of ’87, we had dinner at the home of one of his Bedouin employees- though it was really more of a compound than a home. A large, sparsely furnished concrete structure with beautiful rugs on the floors, a kitchen swarming with women covered in head scarves making pita bread, some windows with glass, some just rectangular openings to the outside, kids everywhere running around and playing soccer and a permanent tent where his older parents lived. They had come to terms with staying in one place, but living encased in concrete was more than they could adjust to. We sat in the tent drinking mint tea and eating watermelon. My Dad’s employee was so proud to share his world with my Dad- and my Dad asked questions, engaged with the whole family, made sure they knew what an honor it was for us to be there. I remember thinking “this is pretty cool. I’d like to be the kind of boss my Dad is. You know, Someday- after I retire from the Boston Celtics.” Anyhow, I guess that’s what he thought when he saw Cameron Thompson walking through the store. And fifty years later, as he lay in bed eating pureed food, he was determined to convey this message to future generations.

As my sisters and I each came to visit, we would sit with him, talking as much as his energy and Parkinson’s would allow, taking notes on our conversations, inching the book forward like a relay race of mismatched penmanship, with mine being the worst of the bunch. He and I talked a lot about Abraham as a biblical role model of leadership, and I encouraged him to include Moses as well since there are a lot of tricky aspects to Abraham’s story (e.g. the whole “Sarah? Oh no, she’s not my wife, she’s my sister” bit.) A couple of weeks before he died, my Dad asked me to think of examples from Moses’ life that we could use in the book. I took that as a win. Luke scores a point on Yoda.

I was scheduled to fly out on Rosh Hashanah- Thursday, Sept 21. The night before, my Mom called. It was a call I had been expecting for almost a decade. Every time she called at an unusual time, a small pocket of dread would open up in my stomach. Usually, it was nothing and the pocket would close up again releasing a sweet cloud of pink relief. Sometimes there was serious news- emergency room trips, hospital stays, falls, new symptoms. Each of these developments was like a step down on a ladder of wellness- and after each step, they would fight their way back to a new version of normalcy. But this time, there was nowhere left to go.

He talked to my sisters first and then me. He couldn’t really say much on the phone, so I did most of the talking. I talked to him about Moses. I reminded him that, at the end of Moses’ life, he couldn’t enter the Promised Land. He could only see it from the mountain top. I told him that he too was at the mountain top- and from there, he could see his legacy carried forward. He could see his kids, his grandchildren, his students, his friends. All of us that learned from him. All of us that were touched by him. All of us who were better people for having known him. He might not finish the book- but he could see from the mountain top that his lessons were secure and a new generation would carry them forward. It wasn’t fair. It never is. It wasn’t fair for Moses and it wasn’t fair for him. But at least he could see his promises fulfilled. At least he could see us walking through the store.

And so he spent Rosh Hashanah on the mountain top while his body struggled for breath in bed. I arrived on Thursday. He slept a lot. He couldn’t eat or drink. When his eyes opened, he looked up at the ceiling towards a fixed point. I hope it’s a long time before I know what he was seeing. He couldn’t talk, sometimes he gasped and we thought….and then he would start breathing again. CNN was on TV but the sound was off. So when no one was talking, there was just the oceanic rhythm of the oxygen machine endlessly pounding the surf.

On Friday night, we welcomed Shabbat in the bedroom standing around him. We lit LED candles, so as to not blow up the oxygen tanks, and did Kiddush. He hadn’t spoken or even really verbalized all day. And then- as I finished the blessing on the wine we heard “Amen”. It was the clearest thing he said in days. It was the last thing he said. He died on Saturday morning, holding my mom’s hand while she talked to him about the lesson plan she was preparing for Sunday School about the High Holidays. A team to the end and beyond.

At 7:30 AM on Saturday morning, September 23rd, the 3rd of Tishrei, she called me into the room.
“I think he stopped breathing”dadcoverpic-crop
I put on shorts quickly.
I entered the room.
His eyes were closed.
He lay still.
We said our first goodbyes.
We talked about what to do next.
Who to call,
When to call,
What to say.
She turned off the oxygen machine,
And the room
went
quiet.
It was jarring,
how quiet the room was
then.
It’s jarring,
how quiet the world is
now.

There is a line in Hamilton- in the song “It’s Quiet Uptown”, which is sung right after Alexander and Eliza Hamilton have lost their son Phillip to a duel:

“If you see him in the street,
Walking by himself,
Have pity.
He is working through the unimaginable.”

When I saw the show, three weeks after my dad died, that line broke me open, weeping.
Because that’s how I feel.
Nothing in my life has changed.
Everything is fine.
I’m just working through the unimaginable.
I’m just working through the unimaginable.

I love you, Dad.
I miss you.
I hope that you saw me from the mountain top.
I hope you were proud.
I hope you’re free now.
To go where you want eat what you want do what you want.

And if you see me by myself, talking to myself.
walking through the store,
Don’t worry.
I’m just working through the unimaginable.
I’m just working through the unimaginable.

Enjoy Bill’s. I’ll see you at the mountain top.

DadPost-WheelchairPic

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[California Seething] 2016. Ugh.

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Once upon a time, when I was a ambitious young know-it-all moron in New York, I worked at the Strand Bookstore. The slogan for the bookstore was Eight Miles of Books (no cal-seething-010317-strandrelation to the Eminem movie. I know, I was disappointed too). My job was to shelve books along with an army of other ambitious young know-it-all morons. The Strand was constantly buying used books for resale. Every day New York’s Desperate Class would line up with hungry eyes, hoping to trade books for cash and, like an eight-mile long coiled python, the Strand would spit out loose change, devour the books and deposit them in some corner of its endless belly. Our job was to help the serpent digest.

Every day we walked in to work with dreams in our hearts and crumbs in our beards and were assigned a section of the store. No matter what the section was, there was a waist high stack of books lining the aisles. Our job was to find room for these books in the alphabetically correct position on the already bulging shelves. After a few hours of this, when we were about half way through the stack, we’d go to lunch. And when we returned 30 minutes later, the stack was exactly as high as it had been in the morning and while there were more crumbs in our beards- the dreams were gone. When I asked my boss if I could put “Sisyphus” on my nametag, her cold, dead eyes told me that she’d heard that joke. A lot. I didn’t last.

Anyhow, I bring up this unpleasant chapter of my work history as way of explaining why I haven’t written much in 2016.

Every day last year, I woke up with my head crammed full of information in various sections- Family Tragedy, Syria, Celebrity Death and, of course, Election.  And just as I was in the midst of formulating a coherent (by my standards) reply- another load of horrible news would be dumped in the section I was working on, and I had to start over. And so my mind is filled with fragments of posts that chart the mood of 2016- grief, numb horror, outrage, frustration, exhaustion, cautious optimism, fleeting hope, crushing disappointment, grief, daily mortification, rage, terror, grief, grief.

And now I find myself wanting to write something funny and wise or at the very least comprehensible (again, by my standards) which will wrap up this terrible year- but what to say? Usually, one can rely on Top 10 lists in these situations- but what kind of list would suit 2016? “Top 10 Deaths that Ripped the Heart Out of My Chest Still Beating Temple of Doom Style”? Or maybe “Holy Crap! These 10 People ACTUALLY Survived!” or maybe the “Top 10 Totally Inappropriate Tweets that Demonstrate the Terrifying Degree to Which Trump is Not Suited to be President Sent Since 3:35 This Morning”?

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I mean, sure- all good- options- but I think I’ll cut right to the chase and go with the “Top 10 People or Groups in 2016 Who Can Seriously GO FUCK THEMSELVES”cal-seething-010317-trumpcave

  1. Who Else? The most dangerously underqualified person to ever be elected to any public office in the entirety of human history since Og beat Zog by a landslide promising to “make cave not stink again.” Even though Og failed to keep this promise by constantly farting in the cave, his supporters called his shameless flatulence “refreshing” and said “his butt say what people are thinking”. And he was still soooo much more qualified than the brainless hateful demagogue who won. And so before he fucks the country like he wishes he could fuck his daughter- he should go fuck himself.
  2. The idiotic idiot racist idiots who voted for Trump and are also idiots. Now – I know that you Trump voters resent us coastal liberal elite types for looking down on you and thinking you’re dumb. But the only reason we  think you’re dumb is that you actually are.  And the way we know for sure you’re dumb is that you’re TRUMP VOTERS.
    Also – I know that you get upset when we accuse of being racists- but….I mean…..you did vote for the dude who was endorsed by the Klan. Which cal-seething-010317-fluttershyis….you must…admit…kinda racist. I mean, if he was endorsed by My Little Pony, I’d say you were Futtershy fans, but it’s the fucking KLAN. And it wasn’t just some half-assed, obligatory “oh, I guess he’s the lesser of two evils for the white race” kind of endorsement. No- they gave Trump their full throated, whole hearted support. Hell, if the Berniecrats supported Hillary like the Nazis supported Trump we would have WON THIS GODDAMN THING. So- yeah- I’m calling you racists and worse. Cause if you walk like a duck and quack like a duck and Sieg Heil like a duck and degrade women like a duck and support conversion therapy like a duck and rip of Hijabs like a duck and deface synagogues with feces and Swastikas like a duck AND VOTE LIKE A DUCK then yes, yes you’re a misogynistic, xenophobic, gay bashing, hate mongering, anti-Semitic RACIST ASSHOLE DUCK and that’s exactly what I’m gonna call you (also- I’d like to apologize to ducks- not sure why I dragged you guys into this). Oh- and- yes- as I mentioned earlier- you’re also quite dumb.And don’t give me any of this cutesy-pie “Alt-Right” nonsense. This isn’t “Alt Country”. You’re not Wilco fans- you’re Nazis and you should all go fuck yourselves. Oh- and- right- did I mention already that you’re all very dumb?
  3. Anyone over the past few months who uttered the phrase “Clinton and Trump are basically the same”- especially if you didn’t vote or voted third cal-seething-010317-cokeparty.I know that in America we’re often asked to choose between two products that are basically the same- but let’s be very clear- Clinton vs Trump was NOT Coke vs Pepsi. No- Clinton vs Trump was Coke vs shoving your face over a streaming geyser of raw sewage and holding it there with your mouth forced open by Kellyanne Conway for four years – taking breaks only to go bobbing for bullshit in a tub full of Mike Pence’s puke. Boy – I bet that can of Coke sounds pretty refreshing right about now doesn’t it, sugar, carcinogens and all? Well- it’s too bad- you didn’t think it mattered- so it’s sewage for everyone! So- yeah- thanks a lot. When nobody has healthcare, Russian tanks roll over Europe, Exxon is drilling in Yosemite, Muslims are rounded up, Planned Parenthood has been replaced by a wire hanger and a punch in the gut and you shake your fist at the heavens (Facebook-wise) and say “oh- if only there was something I could do to stop all this!” – just remember- there was – and you didn’t. So go fuck yourself.
  4. Hillary bashing liberals. Hey guys- remember the Primaries? Weren’t those fun! Posting all those memes about how lame Hilary was, spreading right-wing Clinton basing propaganda repurposed for the left, crucifying her on Facebook because she gave a couple of speeches to stock-brokers and GASP helped raise money for Malaria drugs, cal-seething-010317-hilarymemelambasting the DNC for being annoyed with your petulance. Sigh. Good times. So many fine memories to look back on between waterboarding sessions at the internment camp. Oh- but wait- I forgot- you’re a white, straight male- so you won’t actually experience any consequences for the reckless role you played in destroying American democracy. Why your 401(k) might even go up! Hell, the closest you’ll come to internment camps  is reading about them while you’re in the doctor’s office waiting for the free physical that comes with your employer sponsored health insurance. But boy you sure will be outraged when you find out about them! You’ll sign all sorts of petitions on Change.org and share links from USUncut and DemocracyNow! And all your little Bernie Bro Buds are just gonna be so impressed with you that they won’t be able to resist responding to your post with Outrage Face Emoji. There’s sticking it to the man! The power elite is simply shaking in their boots thinking about how many Likes you get from your skinny-jeans friends and I can’t wait to hear all about it while I’m busting up rocks in Jew Camp and thinking just how much you should all really go fuck yourselves.
  5. The thieves who steal email, the crooks that put them up to it, the sleezeballs who publish the emails and us suckers for lapping it up. So- you know how like 44 years ago a couple of burglars broke into the DNC headquarters to steal some documents and the nation was so aghast when we discovered the President was involved that he had to resign in shame? I know right- how adorable we were! Clearly we hadn’t yet learned that the right way to react when confidential information is stolen cal-seething-010317-julianis to scrutinize it for petty, irrelevant nonsense scandals while totally ignoring the criminality of the act committed and rampaging corruption behind it.
    Let me put this differently- let’s say your credit card number was stolen and used fraudulently. Which of these two responses would you prefer?

    1. Bank contacts you immediately asking to confirm charges. If you can’t, the account is closed and flagged in case there are any future uses, the fraudulent charges are reversed and a new card is sent out with an apology.
    2. Credit card thieves publish your entire purchase history which is promptly scrutinized by everyone in America. Outraged imbeciles share click bait headlines with fake scandals (“These FIVE purchases by Eric will PUT HIM IN JAIL FOR SURE!” like there’s some law in this country against a 44 year old man visiting the American Girl Store and Build a Bear Workshop which of course there only is in North Carolina and we’re hoping it gets repealed). The credit card company does nothing cause they don’t want to seem like sore losers and the scumbags who ripped you off are hailed as folk-heroes and “whistle blowers.”
      Oh, shut up, you would pick A and you know it. But that’s not the choice we made during the election, is it? We chose to be outraged by the stolen emails so now we get to be terrified by Donald Trump’s tweets- lucky fucking us. And for that we should all go fuck ourselves.
  6. James Comey. Oh, go fuck yourself
  7. Vladimir Putin. Oh- you- SERIOUSLY go fuck yourself
  8. Jimmy Fallon. This one hurts. I really liked you but you just couldn’t stop humanizing Trump. I mean – bringing him on the show during the height of the campaign after all the terrible shit he said, so you can ruffle his hair like a lovable golden retriever? That’s like bringing Hitler on after kristilnacht and doing Movember bits about his mustache. And cal-seething-010317-fallontrumpI know you don’t want to live in Trump’s America any more than the rest of us – you just can’t help yourself. Ass kissing is heroin to you. So now make it up to us- use your show for the next four years to spread the message of love, equality and acceptance. Show us with joyous enthusiasm how great this country can be when we celebrate our diversity and play together. Or just bring Billy Ocean back on. That would be cool too. Meanwhile, I’ve sadly got to ask you to go fuck yourself.
  9. Colin Kaepernick. So let me get this straight- you kneel during the anthem to protest injustice but you can’t even be bothered to vote? Fuck that. It means nothing to be “woke” when you sleep through election day. You want to be a leader- lead to the polls. Now you might as well take pride in your choices and stand tall during the anthem- cause  like it or not- this is the country YOU made through inaction. Thankfully you’re a terrible quarterback and nobody’s gonna care next year if you kneel for the anthem while you’re eating Cracker Jacks in the stands. Meanwhile, please go fuck yourself.
  10. The Grim Reaper. Dude- you were off the chain this year. How about giving us a fighting chance next year? Like maybe instead of chess, we could play vintage Atari? Cause you may be able to checkmate us into the grave- but we will kick your bony ass in Frogger.
    And I’m not just talking about all the beloved childhood icons you took or the artists and leaders whose voices will be sorely missed during the difficult years ahead. I mean, that all sucked, but I’m particularly referring to the two people I love that you took within a week of each other.
    Mike & Sheila – you each deserve a much fuller and more articulate tribute (by any standards) than I can give you right now 2000 words deep in this post. Suffice it to say that we love you, we miss you, and we feel you absence every day. The world is a better place for the time you spent here, but God, it could be so much better if you were with us still.
    And so Mr Reaper, for everyone you took this year and all the sorrow you left behind, you can seriously go fuck yourself.

So, yeah- that’s my list. There are a lot more people I could have put on- Kellyanne Conway (the answer to the SAT question _____ is to Ann Coulter as W. is to Trump), the Fox News Legion of Doom being considered for the cabinet, Debbie Wasserman-Schultz for mostly sucking at her job and, of course, GFY list perennial Bill Belichick – Trump’s pick for the Director of the Bureau of Weights and Measures.  But I’d like to wrap this up on a positive note and I need to finish before the end of 2017.

So….here we go:

Ending on a positive note!

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This past Hanukkah, I lit candles with my parents on Facetime every night. This may not seem like such a big deal- but my dad’s had Parinkson’s for 25 years, and this year was particularly difficult (cause of course it was.) There were times back in the spring that I doubted that on December 31st we’d be singing the blessings together.  And yet- there we were. And it was a miracle. That we’re lighting candles together while thousands of miles apart. That another year has passed and we’re singing the blessings off-key- thanking God for the gift of the candle lighting ritual, for making miracles, for sustaining life. And I was, in that moment, truly thankful for the miracle we were experiencing. And I will be thankful for it always.

Yes, there are many lights which are extinguished much too soon. But Hanukkah we remember: sometimes there’s only oil enough for one day but it miraculously lasts for eight. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Alright- so 2016- we’re done with you- go fuck yourself. Bring it on 2017- death, injustice, love and miracles. We’re ready for you.  No matter how bad things get- they could be a lot worse. I could still be working at the Strand.

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Ugh indeed.