SCREWED

Hijo mio (my son):

Tonight, when I walked in the front door, you rushed over to ask me what I did at my work today. Well, I guess you could say, if you want to refer to a specific task, that I reviewed the English translation of a filmed Spanish interview of a construction worker who fell down from a building and suffered a serious accident. The interview is for a documentary we are making about a construction company that exploits its workers (yes, I know exploit is not on your vocabulary list this week; it means, mas o menos, to treat workers like poo-pooh because some greedy bastard (oops!) wants to make lots of moolah). I reviewed many translations in the course of the day, but one in particular really got to me, one from Cesar Manuel, yes, this one rattled me (and I know rattled is on your vocabulary list).

The company did nothing to help him out when he fell down and lost consciousness, and it just tried to brush off the whole thing. You see, hijo mio, many companies take advantage of workers who have left their families in Mexico, who need a job, who will work long hours for low wages and poor conditions, and who will not complain or make demands about what is fair. The companies treat the workers like machines or animals, not like human beings. They treat them, yes, like poo-pooh.

When Cesar returned to work after his accident, the company assigned him to light duty because it did not want to have any problems if they fired him. So they had him go into a small dark room where, day after day after day, he had to count the screws in a box. Can you imagine that? He even remembered the number of the different types of screws he had to count: 1,400, 800, 600…Later on, when I was no longer reading words and numbers on a piece of paper, but had gotten up to watch the interview on TV, I was rattled by the expression on his face as he relayed that degrading experience. The words on the page could not begin to convey that expression as he stated the number of screws he had to count: 1,400, 800, 600…He tried to make a joke of it now, but in spite of the distance in time enabling him to recognize the absurdity of the situation, the full force of such a humiliating experience still imprinted pain all over his young face.

I read and watched as he went on and on (not to sound too technical here, but it was sort of hard to figure out where to put comas or periods…) and dramatized the encounters with the inhumane foreman who prevented the other co-workers from talking to him, or kept them away from him or how the foreman tried to find ways to get him in trouble. It was like watching a puppet show of multiple voices as he impersonated his own voice, the voice of the foreman and his own voice commenting on that interaction in the past. I was so moved by the way he referred poetically to the company taking away his interior spaces, how they were getting to his interior spaces and crushing him there with the humiliating task of counting screws all day.

I am sorry: I don’t think my words are doing justice to any of this. Words really suck big time sometimes.

One wonders why he did not just get up and leave and find another job, why, if he was getting screwed, he did just not tell the boss to screw off and stop screwing around with him (yes, I know, those terms are not on your list this week!). But that is not so easy to do, not when there is not much work around, not when you are in bad shape, not when you are here illegally, not when you need to provide for your family here and in Mexico. So you go on and count screws and more screws and more screws-- until you get to 1,400 and suffer a daily blow to your sense of self, and end up getting all screwed up-- in all senses of that expression.

Hijo mio, you want to know something that is kind of confusing in all this? I was pleased Cesar was doing such a good job at conveying his miserable experience. I know that sounds bad, but it is true. I was pleased the emotion he displayed was right on, and that he spoke so well and was so clear, and said the right expressions like “modern day slavery.” I don’t think I could have written it any better if I had to make it up for the movie we are making. Even the background behind him for the shoot was perfect, full of religious icons to help present Cesar to the future movie-goer as a fine religious person and contrast him with the evil construction company that exploits workers (remember that word?).

Strange, huh, how we need to use other people’s miseries to try and make the world a better place. How we need to dramatize it all to rattle others and lower the number of people who are in places like the one he was in. Do you think that maybe I am bit screwed up myself for thinking this?

I have never met Cesar, but I suddenly feel a connection to him. I feel like I have to share his story with others, starting with you.

Buenas noches,

Tu papi

ON GAZA

I am an American Jew. My life began on 6/6/1967 as the Six-Day War was getting underway, which is well-understood to be one of the many sparks of the current military conflict in Gaza. At one point in my life, I spent six months (lots of 6's here) in Jerusalem where I felt utterly homeless, not at all the way a wandering Jew was supposed to feel like, and wondering where all the other Jews like me were. One of the most awe-inspiring and refreshing memories of an intense 6 months in the Holy Land was discovering The Marx Brothers' Night at the Opera one late Friday night inside the welcoming warmth of the Jerusalem Cinemateque while everything else outside was closed down for Shabbat.

The situation in the Middle East is not so cut and dry. It is a morally messy matter. I am tired of my silence.

I read article after article and get the talking points made by each side, and I can somewhat modify my perspective in the course of a day. And yet I just can’t accept that macho man (and woman) Israeli military force is a solution to the “problem.”

I look at the troubling photographs of dead Palestinian children, I see the poverty-stricken Gaza streets, and I am also troubled that, yes, these same photographs become part of a Hamas PR machine to get the West to side with them.

I am sickened by the one-sided perspective of the American political class who can only sympathize with Israel and only gets their side of the story.

I am sickened by the contextually false and empty comparisons of bombs coming from Canada and Mexico and how we would surely and without a blink respond to this by crushing them with all our might.

I am bothered by Israel the Victim.

I am bothered by progressive Jews who would otherwise deplore violence in all other situations but who can so easily rationalize the Israeli aggression.

I know former Primer Minister Menachem Begin was part of a terrorist organization, but that was okay, of course, because it was a Jewish terrorist organization.

I get it that Palestinians were treated like shit by the Egyptians and the Jordanians before 1967, and that the Arab world treats them like unwanted step children, and that supporting the Palestinian cause serves their purpose of having a common enemy of Israel so they can keep their repressive regimes in tact.

I get the role of Iran in this geopolitical equation, and don’t want Iran to get any stronger.

I get it that the Palestinians would be better off if they had a Gandhi running their show, and that they have been unable to get their act together.

I read somewhere that Hamas was created by the US and Israel to counter Arafat and Fatah, which does not surprise me one bit.

I am sure that Israel was not negotiating in good faith, and that the Palestinians were not negotiating in good faith either.

I get it that Hamas probably wants more Palestinians to die because it benefits their campaign, and that they are all a bunch of no good thugs and killers.

I am bothered that, according to the American political class, Israeli children are “traumatized” by having to endure unexpected home-made rockets from Hamas but Palestinian children living under occupation, seige or blockade are not traumatized living in such dire circumstances.

I believe each side has a different starting point for the conflict and of who started what and where.

I am bothered by a lack of nuance, of depth in understanding the complexity of the situation by the American political class (except for good ole Kucinich).

I believe the line between defense and offense is fuzzy.

I can find nothing to love or look up in any of the repressive Arab political systems in the Middle East .

I sometimes comprehend the desire my fellow Jews have for a Jewish homeland, though never at the expense of another group, and never as a place for me to call home.

I know I am probably naïve, and my fellow Jews in Israel will think I don’t know what the hell I am talking about because I am not there, on the ground. And yet I just can’t accept that macho man (and woman) Israeli military force is a solution to the “problem.”

ON JUDAISM AND MATH

The other day, as we were driving back to Los Angeles from a family member's Bar Mitzvah in Santa Barbara, my eldest son wanted to know if one day he would get to have one of those parties when you turn thirteen. I told him, in a very matter of fact tone, that no way was he going to have one, and reminded him of his blessed Half-Jewish state; I added, however, that though he did not have a choice in regards to this Bar Mitzvah business, that he did have a choice in regards to which half of his body he wanted to be Jewish. If he wanted his legs and arms to be Jewish, or his hair Catholic and his ears Jewish, that was perfectly fine with us; needless to say, as his penis is not circumcised that would naturally have to be part of his goyish self.

Maybe, just maybe, I was not being fair; and after I thought about this some more, I wondered if maybe we could find a compromise of some sort. Yes, I would talk to his mom about having half a Bar Mitzvah. At first I saw it in the light of Italo Calvino’s fantastical fable, The Nonexistent Knight and The Cloven Viscount. The scene before me would be cut in half, straight down the middle—with half a rabbi, half a son, half a torah. And, logically, half a God. Then the realism set in, and I imagined half the people absent-- which I would have not minded, given my wacky extended family. Of course, that would mean half the cash, so I would have to eventually foot a larger chunk of his college bills. Then again, half the religious service and half the Haf-torah portion, would not be so bad at all. And if my son really wanted he could sing the rest of his Torah portion in the shower at home. In spite of being a family of zealous secularists I wondered if my wife would seek to balance out the religious equation by having our three boys go to church and eat half a communion wafer or hang half a Virgin Mary up on the wall near the Mark Rothko print.

But once I was through with this fantasy, I just could not stop thinking about this Half-Jewish stuff. Something just did not sit right with this concept. It was too simplistic, like a one size fits all way to deal with one’s identity. After all, not all half-Jews are worth the same. For starters, there is the issue that if the mother is Jewish and the father is non-Jewish, the kids are not half-Jews, but full-Jews; or, the fact that a circumcised son of a Jewish father is more Jewish than my sons. And I lose points not just by having three uncircumcised boys, but having three uncircumcised boys who eat Spanish Ham with milk on a daily basis. On the other hand, I must be able to claim points for having spent six months in Jerusalem wondering and wandering aimlessly; or the fact that I complain a lot; or that I feel morally superior to my goyim neighbors, or that I give every cool creative person that I like, from a Portuguese architect or poet to a Malian guitarist, a Jewish ancestor; or that I am clumsy.

Plus, there are days when I feel more Jewish than other days. I leave my house feeling 54 percent Jewish and by the time I get to work I feel 98 percent Jewish. Sometimes I have, say, a 75 percent Jewish day but then I go to sleep and have a 100 percent Jewish dream. There are mornings that suck and I get down to feeling a mere 10 percent Jewish, but then I remember the members of the cool clan-- Kafka, Freud, Einstein, Billy Wilder and Groucho Marx, and the identity barometer rises back up to 100 percent.

Not to worry, my eldest son is good at math- he can whip out a pencil and paper and figure out the percentage of his Judaism.

FLIP FLOPPING AWAY

Indeed, there are perils to exposing the kids to a daily dose of political jargon. So if you are not ready for generational class warfare or a session of a good old-fashioned food fight, I would recommend sticking to the easy stuff like talking about soccer, tennis or Indiana Jones (not Wall-E, though, as this is too dangerous a conversation topic with conservative pundits having a fit about it being part of a liberal Hollywood conspiracy).

Take the case of flip-flops and its variations (i.e. Flip-Flop Flap, Hendrik Hertzberg-The New Yorker). After we got over the hurdle of my three boys looking down at their smelly feet and taking off their flip-flops to play with them, and we got right down to analyzing the concept, it became a free-for-all. Their first reaction was to be silly and say okay papi, I get it, so I vote for Obama this week and Mc Cain next week; or I vote this week but not next week, etc. Needless to say, I pulled out the washed-out pooh pooh on Mc Cain talking points from my back pocket, and squashed that interpretation. That was the easy part.

It was when they realized they could apply the term Flip-Flop to the home front, as a domestic affair directed at my own actions, that I knew I was in trouble. So, papi, one day you tell us it’s okay to watch Iron Man and the next day you say its not for kids. So, papi, yesterday it was not okay to drink coke and now you say it is okay. So, papi, yesterday you looked the other way when we were wrestling and beating up each other, and today you are having an anxiety attack over this. What’s the deal, eh? Are you a flip-flopper, just like them? I was at a lost for words; at some point, unable to defend myself as they were ganging up on me, I remembered a quote in the LA Times from Governor Schwarzenegger regarding this matter. So I went and got it and read the best parts out loud to them:

"Flip-flopping is getting a bad rap, because I think it is great," he said during an interview taped last week and broadcast Sunday on ABC's "This Week." "Someone has made a mistake. I mean, someone has, for 20 or 30 years, been in the wrong place with his idea and with his ideology and says, 'You know something? I changed my mind. I am now for this.' "As long as he's honest or she's honest, I think that is a wonderful thing. You can change your mind," he said. "I have changed my mind on things, and there is nothing wrong with it."

What can I say? Words of wisdom. Who would have thought I would get help from The Terminator to save me from my wild boys? With our budget mess he is the one who could probably use our help. Though maybe not, as per The Sacramento Bee:

Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger, to the dismay of his aides, last week cracked a joke as the state began another fiscal year without a state budget. Asked whether he was worried that the state will run out of cash, the Republican governor said, "Not at this point." Then he pulled out his money clip, adding, "As a matter of fact, I still have some left."

Now this Flip-Flop stuff is almost as perilous as the dinner discussion regarding the House Committee on Government Reform and Oversight, and its chair Congressman Henry Waxman (the boys had a field day with his last name, as you can imagine, and the fact that he is a chair). Okay, so they fell asleep during the Government Reform part of the sentence, but they loved the sound of the word Oversight. It was like they kept having the hiccups over and over. Though more than the sound, they liked the concept, and soon my eldest son was asking (not yet with a subpoena) for our bills to make sure we did not get overcharged for the no-bid summer camp his brothers and him are attending, or to audit our tax records to make sure he was properly deducted. I am a progressive and all that, but at some point I said enough is enough. Maybe this has something to do with to my own political millieu growing up during a military regime in Peru in the early 1970’s, but I told my sons that at home their mother and I were taking our cues from those unfairly discredited third-world Latin American dictatorships. No tax records for you. No copies of any bills for you. And if you don’t do as I say, or like it, tough! You have no say in the matter. This Checks and Balance and three branches of government stuff is fine out there (well, it ain't happening in Washington D.C. either with a compliant congress caving in to Bush with FISA, or Karl Rove brushing off congressional hearings to go play golf), and it reads well in history books my kids will read in school one of these days; but at home, it’s a third-world Latin American dictatorship-- though one with a smiley touchy-feely human face, of course.

DINNER TIME

Like all parents of young boys (in my case: 10,7,4), dinner is one of the most frustrating times of the day (along with getting them ready for school; getting them ready for bed; getting them ready for breakfast; getting them ready to get ready). Like all parents, I have recurred to the cliche of: "eat your dinner because there are kids starving in Africa, blah blah." And to no avail, of course. Last night, rather than dumping the bowls of broccoli over their heads, I figured I would try a little bit of reserve psychology on them. If the starving kids in Africa won't do the job, maybe our well-fed world leaders at the G-8 summit might be the way to do it. So I went over to the computer and printed out copies of their 18-course gastronomic extravangaza (see menu above) served at the G-8 summit in Japan-- that is, the G-8 summit where our world leaders are focusing on the global food crisis.

Here was my strategy: sit down right now and eat your nice and simple dinner of broccoli and fish sticks, or I will make you eat all of the stuff on that menu, all 18 courses (except wines or champagne). Yes, all of it, including that sea urchin and the caviar! Yuck. That would do it, that would scare them into submission. But no, they just continued to ignore my pleas, neglecting the nice and simple food on their plates, the "food I worked so hard to put on the table, blah blah", with my 4-year old now under the table playing with his magnets and legos.

I raised my voice, and said: that's it, that's it; your mom and I are going to the market right now and we are going to prepare the 18-course gastronomic extravangaza. And you will sit here until you finish it. Even if you have to sleep here! I was losing my patience. I was frustrated and dissapointed that my strategy was falling to pieces. I went over to grab the bottle of my cheap Malbec from Trader Joes and said forget it. I give up. I suck at this parenting business.

At some point, probably after I had downed a couple of glasses of the Malbec, my eldest son, who is the only one of the three that is good about eating, came over. He brought his copy of the menu and made some comments indicating the absurdity and hypocrisy of world leaders stuffing their faces discussing the global food crisis while there are starving people around the world. I was so excited he had used the words "absurdity" and "hypocrisy" (where did he pick that up from?), that we got carried away talking, and I missed his two sneaky brothers slipping away from the dinner table, leaving behind their plates full of the broccoli and fish sticks. Another failure to the long list!

Oh well, I guess you can't have it all. Its either feeding the kids or bonding over the absurdity and hypocrisy of the world we live in.

PARENTING IN TIMES OF BUSH

It is a pleasant Sunday afternoon with my three boys painting away: the soft sunlight falls on their sweet and eager faces, on their paint-spotted fingers; the soft sunlight splashes across a dining room table covered with a protective tablecloth of the opinion pages of The Los Angeles Times.

I look down, away from their radiant faces, and catch the T word, the one so present these past years. Paint spills on the pros and cons of Torture, as writer after writer takes a crack at this dreadful subject and spins it to his or her ideological liking.

The legal maneuverings of John Yoo, the former legal advisor to President Bush, to justify the use of torture, are worlds away from the funny figures my kids are now painting, and yet his words are literally right here, underneath their artwork.

The incongruence of this domestic Sunday scene is hard to digest. What can I say? It is the worst of times. It is the best of times. There is beauty before my eyes. There is horror out there, down there.

Standing there in typical old-school fatherly fashion (i.e. white underwear tank top, sandals and disheveled hair; a cold bottle of Pilsner Urgell in one hand and the digital camera close by ready to capture a fleeting scene), I embark on a mental trip of moral confusion: Do I pull the newspaper away, and like a masterful magician do it without anything falling out of place, without the dirty plastic cup of water and the paint brushes moving an inch? If my ten-year old looks down and catches sight of the T word, should I find a kid-friendly analogy and talk about this subject? Or should I just grab a paint brush and black out all the texts, all the countless instances of the term torture down there?

There you have it: Parenting in Times of Bush.

Maybe next week I am just better off using the Sunday comics or the sprawling Big-5 sporting goods ads instead to cover the dining room table!

SIGNING STATEMENTS

Remember all the fuss about Bush's signing statements? If you don't recall these are the pronouncements by the President upon signing a bill into law that enable him to "disobey" the law. Among the laws Bush said he could "disobey," according to a Boston Globe article from way back then (circa April 2006) were "military rules and regulations, affirmative-action provisions, requirements that Congress be told about immigration services problems, ''whistle-blower" protections for nuclear regulatory officials, and safeguards against political interference in federally funded research."

Basically, the whole enchilada.

Anyway, as Bush is getting ready to leave office, I am suggesting that as a kind of parting gift, he issue an executive order granting each one of us patriots one single signing statement for our personal use. Since these days he is going around giving parting gifts to the telecommunications industry via FISA and the oil industry via his lifting of the off-shore drilling ban, he can do something for the rest of us. Who knows, there might still be a chance to modify House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's recent characterization of Bush, the man and not just the administration, as "a total failure" and leave it as "a total failure who did one good thing." God bless him.

In another post, I am going to propose that readers submit the signing statement of their choice, meaning the law they want to disobey. But this post is about me. In my case, I would keep it simple and close to home. I would issue my own personal signing statement disobeying the city's law and the excessive fines for taking shopping carts out of the parking lot: $100,000.00 for the first offense and a ten-year prison sentence for a second offense. Can you believe that? I know this is not asking for much, and its on the ridiculous side, but its important to me. You see, my law and order credentials are on the line with my kids repeatedly thinking I am some kind of bandit by regularly taking them out for a ride in the streets of my neighborhood, outside the boundaries of the market parking lot. Last year, when the City Council was working on this draconian ordinance, I tried my hardest to keep the law from passing. I sent the following letter, which didn't make much of a difference. So I am now counting on Bush to save the day and give me the power to "disobey" legally:

Honorable Councilmember Weissenberger:

On behalf of myself and my three boys, I am urging you to vote No on the Clean Streets Clean Minds Act of 2007. Come on, to fine a person $100,000 for a first offense, and a ten-year prison sentence for a second offense for taking a shopping cart out of the parking lot! What are you thinking? To quote my kids, this sucks big time as public policy.

Now those fines are way too excessive, all the more so these days when kinky bored soldiers get a slap in the wrist for torturing and humiliating foreigners, or a CEO just gets one of the vacation homes taken away for defrauding our tax system. Besides, I have not included going to prison as part of my career plans. At least not at this stage of my life, as I have a wife, three hungry and talented kids, car payments, a mortgage. Maybe when I was younger and confused, it might have done me some good.

Whose idea was it to be so tough on this issue of shopping carts? And to include it in the Clean Minds Clean Streets Act of 2007? Have you read the Act? I understand your youthful flirtations with Cuban women and European political ideas are a liability to your budding political career, and require for you to demonstrate a firm belief in law and order and good old-fashioned property rights, but come on, isn't this going overboard?

Now, I am sure you can get creative and find a way to use the R word here (yes, Regulate). If the problem is about the homeless, then require them to take a shower or learn proper English before they can pile their belongings onto the cart. If the neighbors are worried about noise pollution, then add padding to the wheels. Get the artistic community involved, and create mobile avant-garde art pieces. The environmentalists must be ok with all this, no? How about a mini-Olympics involving shopping carts! Who knows, this might be good for your career, as you can bill yourself as a Kind and Creative and Progressive Problem Solver (KCPPS). I am sure it would poll well.

I am aware there are many interests battling away at this issue: the corporations afraid of losing profits; the neighbors worried about lower home prices because of stranded shopping carts; the transportation lobby worried about alternative modes of transport; the bleeding heart liberals worried about the animals; the union worried about the lost jobs gathering the carts.

From my end, it is about my selfish motives regarding the loss of leisure activities; and it is also about therapy. By cruising the streets with my kids in a shopping cart, I am saving them large sums of money in future therapy bills, for they will no doubt grow up and love and understand their father. I imagine you will agree there is a positive public policy objective in bankrupting the therapy business.

I know deep down you will do the right thing. Please, don’t deny this hard-working semi- perfect father this pleasure, specially after years of existential anguish trying to get over the desertion of god in my life. Though my kids can’t vote they can surely find other ways to exert pressure. You can trust me on that one. They will be sitting on the front row on this Tuesday when you cast your vote.

If you have any questions, or would like to discuss this a bit more, you can call me anytime at (213) 845-9060. Or if you would like to hang out with the kids and me outside the parking lot in a shopping cart, let me know. It’s still legal. Hah Hah.

Sincerely,
David Kersh

Since that failed, I am now counting on my parting gift from President Bush: Executive Order 2930- A Single Signing Statement for Every Patriot.

THERE HE GOES

So my seven-year old boy slams the back door, darts to his room with his child-sized yellow and blue suitcase (monogrammed with his initials), and says he is leaving.

Leaving? Where?

As he opens the drawers, and plucks his t-shirts and shorts, and then dumps them into the suitcase, I step away to look on from just outside the door. I don’t feel mad, and I struggle to hold back a sarcastic remark or two, like don’t forget your toothbrush, or send us a postcard. I am somewhat confused, really, as I now see his two younger brothers also opening up drawers and dumping clothes into the suitcase. I suddenly think, the roles have shifted, I am becoming the one in the equation that stays behind, the one that is left open mouthed as the child leaves. For some reason, and not really knowing what I mean by it, I think this is a structural change not just in life, but in literature as well.

I don’t know where the place he is threatening to leave is. What does it look like? Who is there? I have a map in the other room, and it is not as if he has ever given any indications of a desire to run off to a particular place in the world. Is it Madrid, to roam freely the summer streets with his cool cousins? Is it the Disney store over at the Westside Pavilion to dive into a pile of soft "Lilo and Stitch" dolls? Is it grandma and grandma’s house to play endlessly with "Star Wars" legos and delight in an abundance of exotic Peruvian candy? In my case, that place was first the moon and then, when I got a bit older, an outdoor cafe on a narrow street in Paris.

But the image that keeps coming back-- as I try not to screw things up from my spot just outside the door-- is of me, a few years older than my seven-year old wantabee vagabond. I am walking around and around the block, holding on tight to a broomless broom stick with a tied-up towel (or was it a pillow case?) at the other end and my belongings all bundled inside. I don’t know how many times I walked around the block, but I see it getting darker and realizing this wasn’t what it was all made out to be. That wasn’t the first time, nor the last time that such a scene, or a variation of that scene, would take place.

Now everything is happening way too fast, and for the first time, which is why parenting sucks sometimes. None of the tips from the parenting books I have read come to mind, nor any of the examples of problematic situations seem to look like this one. Is this, after all, a problematic situation? I do remember reading about the three types of parenting styles, and about giving children choices, and not being too permissive or too authoritarian. Does that mean I tell him to come back at six and not eight? Cancun is nice this time of the year, as opposed to Miami, which is muggy and gross. Make a left rather than a right when you go out?

In spite of the desire to brush the scene off with sarcasm, those words, I am leaving, do hurt a bit, though I don’t take them too personally. They seem so damn natural, and so much larger than my son or myself. Have they been there from the beginning of time? What is startling, though, is how they enter the body earlier than I had known or even remembered.

Who knows, my minimalism might rub off and he might, after all, choose to travel light and grab the broom stick next time, instead of his child-sized yellow and blue suitcase (monogrammed with his initials).

GOD

Dear God,

First of all, I want to apologize for forgetting to RSVP and let you know I was not going to attend this year’s High Holidays services. The invitation got lost among the pile of unpaid bills and the daily dose of school papers—you know, requests for money, math homework, good and nasty teacher notes-- scattered over our kitchen counter, and it totally slipped my secular mind. Though, even if I had remembered, I would probably have not been able to get in touch in time, for the telephone number I have from my old Hebrew school days has long been disconnected, and there appears to be no forwarding number.

Anyway, I know you are the star of the show, and are present in prayer after prayer, but temple is not much fun these days. What were you thinking of when you invented Boredom? Was it part of a long-term plan to create employment opportunities for the entertainment industry and German philosophers? To tell you the truth, in order to experience a divine presence, I can avoid the traffic across town and eat a spoonful of my wife’s paella, watch a Kieslowski film, or listen to the Brazilian singer Cal Costa.

Speaking of Brazil, the other day I saw the film "God is Brazilian" by Carlos Diegues (the same director that made "Bye Bye Brazil" and "Black Orpheus"- the updated version). I don’t know if you had any say in picking the actor to play you (the popular soap opera actor, Antonio Fagundes) or on finding the stunning locations, but way to go! I too have been trying to get down to Brazil, but with a mortgage and three kids it is out of the picture these days. I noticed you have opted for a more stylish modern beard, and have lost some weight since Michelangelo painted you so serious on the Sistine Chapel (is it the low carb diet?). Better to be down in South America than in South of the USA. If you only knew what the Christian Coalition was doing on your behalf. Hey, how about using one of your nasty old testament biblical tricks and put them people in their place. They are ruining our country!

Anyway, let me get to the reason as to why I am writing. Yes, I am well aware of the absurd predicament of writing a letter to an entity I am not sure even exists (the post office probably deals with similar situations on a regular basis). You see, the kids are asking questions. Well, they have been asking questions for some time, but I just can’t seem to shift the subject anymore and talk about girls or "Star Wars." They want to know if you exist, and the “figment of the imagination” explanation just goes over their heads.

So I have come up with a solution, and I hope you do not mind and are mature enough to accept this. Face it, you have become too popular for your own good (and you should know that)! Nietzche got it all wrong, and you are still alive and kicking. Basically, I have suggested to my kids to substitute the word “Life” wherever they encounter the word “God.” The graphic result is something along these lines: Oh my --g-o-d Life! or g-o-d Life Dammit (my middle child suggested we use “Chocolate” instead, but I told him we needed a more all-encompassing term to substitute you; he suggested “Sweets”). I know you are probably thinking a strikethrough is not an original stylistic recourse, and postmodern theorists have been using it for over two decades to denote the absence of a presence (or is it the presence of an absence?), but it seems a sensible solution to this little problem, as it pays respect to your hard work while it keeps my kids from being treated as freaks at school.

Really, do not take it personally, for I am advocating the same stylistic recourse for other aspects of my kids’ lives (i.e. substitute George Bush with Almost Gone).

Well see how the kids react. I will keep you posted.

Take Care, David

ON CLUMSINESS

Contrary to Professor Ralph Bengelsdorf’s findings published in the latest issue of The New England Review of New Science , I do not believe for one minute that clumsiness is a genetic problem that can be cured by slowly injecting the DNA of Boris Perchonov, the famous Russian ballet dancer, into the body of a clumsy human being. Now, I understand the Professor is a superb scientist who has been short-listed for the Nobel Prize and an Academy Award; and I also understand he is currently the leading authority in the field of astro-bio-socio-genetics, and is respected and all that, but I think this time around he got it all wrong.

For the sake of science, I am prepared to offer a simple counter theory based on raw empirical data (i.e. me); while it might not earn me much praise in the scientific community, and some will label me a good-for-nothing-amateur, it will, at the very least, offer comfort to clumsy folks out there who will be relieved knowing their “misfortune” will not be passed down.

So (drum roll), this is my theory: clumsiness is cured by having children. And the more, the better.

Let me back up here just for a second. Approximately ten years ago, before my first son was born, my wife made no mystery of the fact she was worried I would not be dexterous enough to handle the manual duties of fatherhood. Though I had been buff and athletic for a large portion of my life, something happened in college where I became a cigarette smoking klutz. Sure, I was able to use this as a way to pick up women who were into existentialism and all that, but it got old after a while. In a scale of one to ten, I was probably a five, meaning I was able to make it from point A to point B in one piece, though along the way I bumped into the door, tripped on my feet and spilled a couple of french fries on the floor.

Nevertheless, once my first son was born something close to a miracle happened. I was not conscious of it at first, but months into fatherhood I woke up one morning, looked over to my wife, and said-- Do you realize that I have stopped being clumsy? Not only was I able to handle the manual duties of fatherhood quite capably, but even when I was alone I could make it from point A to point B without much commotion (though, occasionally, I did trip on the carpet).

After the second son was born, whatever trace of clumsiness was there was clearly on its way out. Not only that, I had started to even make inroads to other the side of the aisle, to that of gracefulness. Whereas the birth of my first son had helped cure clumsiness in the upper regions of my body (not spilling soda on myself), the birth of my second son affected the bottom half, so I was able to glide around the house with the grace of a Fred Astaire. By the time the third son was born, it was my verbal clumsiness that was on its way out the door.

Now, I admit every one in a while I miss my old clumsy self. I have tried to pretend to be clumsy for old times sake, but I just can’t do it. I try to drop the glass, but it does not work, as I go to grab it before it falls to the ground.

Not all is perfect, though, and my wife claims she hears creaking when I walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night. But that is beyond me, really, and I tell her it is the fault of the creaky hardwood floors that we so much wanted when we were looking for a house.

That’s it for me, kid-wise. I can only imagine the levels of physical and mental prowess I could reach if my wife and I continued procreating!

TRIP TO LIMA

My six-year old son, right before going to sleep, says he wants to go on a trip to Lima, Peru—the place I was born in and grew up before coming to Los Angeles—so he can see me as a little kid.

What can I say? There is something so charming about the thought that travel, from his perspective, could be not just about going from point A to point B on a map, but from being a forty-year old man to a child his same age. So, as he is all bundled up inside the blanket, and his eyes struggle to remain open, I hold his hand and wonder what such a trip would look like.

There are some complications, of course. For starters, I would have to figure out at what stage to transform myself from my current physical state of a somewhat responsible parental figure to the little kid I once was, the one my son wishes to get in contact with. I would venture to say it should happen sometime after we got through security at LAX; if not, that would most likely guarantee us a false start, and the two of us kids would be put in a taxi by a TSA representative and sent back home to my wife. The bathroom in the airplane? There, I would walk out with oversized pants dragging along the aisle, and empty ends of the shirt sleeves dangling alongside my reduced body. Can I sit here? Hey, it's your papi, for real. In that transformed state, it would be hard to scold him for playing his Gameboy too long, or deny him the coke he is asking the air hostess, who is trying to figure out what is going on here. Needless to say, it might be better to leave this transformation business, for now, as a literary device. If not, we will never get to Lima.

Not to be a party- pooper, but interspersed with the sweet moments of recovering and sharing lost time with my son, there are serious matters to consider. Take the fake police alarm on top of my cousin's black Toyota when he comes to pick us up at the airport. I imagine he would be the one to pick us up, as that was the way it was the last time I was in Lima, about fifteen-years ago, after I finished college. Things were pretty awful back then. There was terrorism, cholera, bombs, black-outs, bodyguards, kidnapping -- you know, the usual stuff. My cousin had this fake alarm to help him get to places quicker, along with a loaded gun in the glove compartment next to the bag of peanuts. According to Travel and Leisure magazine, things are better these days in Lima-- why, just making it to the pages of that swanky magazine is a step forward. Still, his nostalgia for those days keeps him from giving up his fake alarm. At some point along the way, my son would take notice that even the police cars are pulling over to let us pass by. Knowing him, he would relish this state of lawlessness, which would mean, among other things, that the tireless efforts on the part of my wife and I in the realm of rule-making would be literally and figuratively thrown out the window.

Looking out the window-- the literal and figurative one-- and as traces of the past mix with an abundance of poverty in the decrepit streets, I am torn between letting him sleep or pointing out significant sentimental places, for, after all, that is why we are here. There are the obvious choices, such as my dad's bakery with the friendly bakers in the back, which one morning, when I was his age, was bombed to pieces as an act of Anti-American rage. Undoubtedly, he would be more interested in the present tense and its realizable goals-- actually eating the tasty chocolate pastries-- than in some dusty memories of wooden tables sprinkled with flour or the crema chantilly I licked off my fingers once upon a time. You got to hand it to the kid, his practical nature, unlike his melancholic dad with a soft spot for lost worlds.

Oh, and how could we not place a visit to my grandparent's house, the geographical heart of my childhood! My grandfather, though a dictator to everyone else in the family, was for me the greatest person in the world. At that house, he would stop playing his game of solitary over in the corner table and, cigar-smoke billowing around his massive figure, have me ask him in Yiddish-- bitte mia gelt-- "please give me some money," before peeling off a fresh ten soles bill. Surely, my son would pick up on this ritual, and seek to put it into practice on a daily basis-- which would mean I would have to include this as part of the travel expenses. Of course, we would have to go to my Jewish grammar school, which shows up in every story I write about Peru. Once there, we would poke our heads through the heavily guarded spinach-green gate, and have him figure out which one of the boys in the gunpowder gray uniform singing the Israeli national anthem is his papi. Most likely, given his rebellious nature, he would get it wrong on purpose, and point to my friend Jacobo, who, in all fairness, looked a lot like me. Though, rather than being traumatized for leaving Lima as a little boy, never left the city and was recently jailed for tax evasion, mortgage fraud and counterfeiting. Oh well, not the greatest of career choices.

Now, there is a good chance that while hanging out together in the Lima of my childhood, my six-year old son and the six-year-old-version-of-me could stumble upon the smells and sights of another Lima, i.e. the one from my post-college trip. He has not yet asked to meet that part of me, so I guess that itinerary--- with its twenty-something bourgeoisie existential homelessness drama-- will just have to wait for another night.

SUMMER STORIES

It is summer vacation, and my ten-year old son is hard at work, writing his version of the Indiana Jones stories with the two of us (he has me as Indiana K) in starring roles, battling nasty Nazis in faraway and exotic places, including, most recently my grandfather’s Moldova. Needles to say, he is not bothering to deal with historical or geographical veracity; basically, they are just the bad guys out there trying to capture us or kill us as we search for a golden goose or something. Not far from his computer, I sit at the laptop and struggle with real-life villains closer to home, meaning those over in Washington D.C. Pardon the cheap pun, but compared to Bush and his gang of thugs my son’s made-up nasty Nazis are kids stuff.

So he writes and I write: ah, how wonderful!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the starring role, especially for a person who has trouble even handling a water gun, much less the sophisticated weaponry the two of us get to use. I admire his snappy dialogue, and the way he has incorporated some of my typical expressions, including lines I use when I get upset at him (I guess it must be therapeutic for him to do this). And sure, it’s cool to be endowed with such superhuman traits, and for the two of us to be on worldly adventures (instead of being cooked up here in LA), and narrowly escaping from the nasty Nazis who are after us as we search for that golden goose in Mali or wherever.

But lately I have been tempted to tell him I am not as powerful as he has portrayed me in his summer stories. In fact, I feel like a wimp as I wrestle with opponents more formidable and harder to pin down than his made-up nasty Nazis. I am referring to such rivals as Political Reality, Pragmatism, Indifference, Apathy, Amnesia and how they relate to a situation where our leaders who have committed serious crimes are probably going to get to retire with impunity. How can we just look away? How can we let them get away with this? So while he comes up with twists and turns to keep his stories moving forward, and sends the two of us on ever-more dangerous missions to foreign places that he randomly chooses from the beat-up world map over our dining room table, on my side of the table the tough questions just keep on piling up. Below is a random sample:

At what point do the thousands and thousands of "Jail Bush" bumper stickers; the abundance of daily references in editorials and articles to the crimes, lies, manipulation, deception, etc.; the sinking poll numbers; the books and books and books providing the supporting evidence and insight into the pathetic actions of the administration; at what point do all these factors, all the rage and frustration come together to gather enough force so it becomes viable to hold the President accountable for his actions? What is it going to take to create the conditions for this to be politically realizable? Where do we need to exert pressure? How do we stretch our political process so there is an opening for justice to prevail? How have people in other nations mobilized to demand justice? How have forces in other nations come together and been able to rise above fear and other limitations to hold those responsible for crimes committed? If it can happen to Fujimori or Pinochet, why not to Bush? What is the price to pay for letting this gang retire with impunity?

And why are we afraid to do what is right?

You get the picture.

The truth of the matter is, I am not sure if, given the realities on the ground, these questions belong to a branch of fantastical literature just like my son’s summer stories. It is a depressing thought, and a defeatist attitude, surely not worthy of the all-powerful Indiana K., but it seems that in our current political reality the drive for justice is pure fantasy.

And yet…and yet…like so many others I just can’t give up on the possibility of finding a place for these questions and their answers on this side of the page, out here in the real world. That, my son, is the adventure I would like to write for you.

AND JUSTICE FOR ALMOST ALL

Like many others, I have my issues with the Pledge of Allegiance. Fortunately, my kids go to an open-minded elementary school where they are not required to recite it-- so my comments below should not be construed as those of a selfish self-serving anti-patriotic ungrateful under-appreciated un-American father (in other words, this is not just about me and my family). There is really nothing original, nor even interesting about my issues: the aversion to fetishizing a piece of cloth with stars and stripes; the discomfort at such a blatant fusion of church and state; a dislike of its mechanical brain-dead too-easy to-memorize-beat. Lately, however, I have been struggling with even the best parts of the Pledge of Allegiance, like its resounding “…and justice for all” ending. Who can argue with such noble aspirations, such a lofty value? Forget about the worn-out bearded Almighty in the middle of the sentence and just stick with the secular sexy stuff—Lady Justice herself. Why, it should be a no-brainer. But when you are dealing with a no-brainer of sorts all this becomes a bit more complicated.

Let’s face it: unless George Bush is prosecuted for the war crimes he has committed (need I remind the reader of the list of charges? Just go to the bookstore, where every week a new book comes out further detailing the criminal and pathetic actions of Bush and his gang) millions of American school children will be a bunch of liars. Not mine, of course, since they don’t have to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Every morning, every time they utter the “…and justice for all” ending they will be flat out lying! I know such a proposition is hard to process, but it’s true, and unless something is done every boy and girl will eventually grow a long thin nose just like Pinocchio. And not everyone, especially with the way the economy is going these days (the mortgage crisis, escalating oil prices) can afford a nose job. I can’t believe I am about to say the following, but compared to this, I would go as far as to suggest that the “under god” part be brushed off as a mere policy difference between secularists and believers: since you can’t proof if He is really up there or not, just let it be. Ok, I will let that be. But when you have a president responsible for the deaths of over 100,000 lives who will be able to retire at the ranch with impunity that is too much to bear! Even for a selfish self-serving anti-patriotic ungrateful under-appreciated un-American father like me. Why, whether god exists at all, or whether he is under the table or over us or between us or inside us; or whether god should just stay at home and leave the flag alone, that kid’s stuff compared to letting Bush get away with murder.

So…yes, there are ways to deal with this matter. There is the impeachment track, of course, which is getting more coverage overseas in Le Monde than in our own press. There is the new book by Vince Bugliosi, "The Prosecution of George W. Bush for Murder," which does a fine job of rubbing off the author’s anger and laying out the legal framework for such needed action to take place. And there is another option, which is to modify the Pledge of Allegiance (more on this below) so our kids are not a bunch of liars. Evidently, the preferred course is to follow Mr. Bugliosi’s lead, and hopefully a brave Attorney General or District Attorney out there will not just read the book and put it down, but move forward with this.

Really, nothing should be off the table and we should explore all options. We should take a multi-prong approach, and not just wait for a brave AG or DA to get his act together, or sit back and watch as the House of Representative shoves Congressman Dennis Kucinich’s 35 Articles of Impeachment inside one its procedural drawers. That’s where the drive to amend the Pledge comes in. I would suggest we start with a basic and easy to recite amendment: “…and justice for almost all.” It has a nice ring to it, and it’s conceptually easy to grasp. There are other possibilities, of course, like: “and justice for all, except George Bush.” I know it’s not as poetic, and it might bring up constitutional issues in terms of personalizing this; plus, we know Bush is not the only criminal of the group and his other cronies merit recognition. After all, we don’t want Rice, Cheney, etc. to feel left out. Whatever the final outcome, whatever the final word of the sentence becomes, the record should be unequivocal in terms of the genesis for such a change in our cherished Pledge. Though not as satisfying as putting the Man behind bars, further shaming him into the history books might offer us some degree of consolation. So, let’s get going, let’s go to school boards, to our neighbors. Let’s face it: putting all our eggs in Obama’s basket will not wipe away That Smirk from our collective consciousness.

Then again, given the widespread public uproar caused years ago by efforts to delete “under god” (with Senators tripping over each other to see who could denounce such a sacrilegious action the loudest) messing with the Pledge of Allegiance might be just as quixotic as, say, trying to prosecute a president for a crime.