"I Am A Hitler Teapot..."

Photo courtesy of New York Post

It is a good time to revisit this subject now that we have all had a chance to blow off a little steam.

If ever I were to buy a teapot that looks like Adolf Hitler, surely it would be this teapot. Clearly, its cutesy, abbreviated mustache top and swooping combover handle offer security of liquid containment and optimal pouring comfort when one desires a fresh cup of Nazi java. The teapot is professionally attired in black-tie, raising a gold whistle bell salute to der Fürher, and ready for the cover of a quippy New Yorker cover. 

A magnificent marketing scheme, J.C. Penney. Perhaps, I should not judge this editing mishap. Maybe the time is right for a new line of hip, minimalist teapots designed in the likeness of deceased dictators. A stand mixer wobbling with Stalin's military garb and pot belly? Or, a slow-cooker with receding hairline glasstop resembling Kim Jong-il? Who's with me?

No?

I wonder if the teapot still looks like Hitler when turned spout forward or if it is just pareidolia. 

Oh, Adolfo, how you have managed to stay with us for nearly 70 years! You are the nutty great-grandfather no one wants to invite to family functions but who inevitably manages to arrive, always whining about the Jews and wearing the same sweater from last year's Christmas and the same style of facial hair, just a little thinner. You have left little bits of posthumous memorabilia and, even generations later, we cannot seem to abolish your ghost from our daily lives. If, now, we see you in teapots, tomorrow we may see you in our coffee mugs, our favorite reading chairs, the printed text we read, even our stool. This is societal post-traumatic stress of epic proportions and we just might need a giant dose of talk therapy to help regulate our emotions.

The Nazi Who Was Too Old

I made the mistake of reading the reply tweets to an article about Hans Lipschis, a Nazi guard stationed at Auschwitz, that has recently been taken into custody in Germany on the basis that he committed war crimes. He will be prosecuted. He is 93.

The tweets on his hash tag -yes, he has his own hash tag- include "let him die alone leave the poor man alone [sic]," "his 93 wat u gna do to him end his long life [sic]," and "At 93?" For the time being, ignoring all egregious grammatical errors, I question the morality of these comments on the basis that a) I am not entirely sure that the people responsible for prosecuting Mr. Lipschis are checking up on Twitter's #Lipschis and b) most nonagenarians are not implicit in the systematic and systemic mass murder of a third of an ethnicity's entire population.

"Oh, sure, that geriatric beat his wife and burned his dog more than a half-century ago. But, and I quote, 'wat u gna do to him end his long life [sic]' in the name of justice? Phooey! Let that cute, little old man live!"

What if Hitler managed to stay safe in his bunker until the ripe old age of 93? When people found him, would the populace have said, "Come on! He's old. 'wat u gna do to him end his long life [sic]' 'At 93?'" What if it is Dzhokhar Tsarnaev 70 years from now? Osama bin Laden? Perhaps, for the sake of argument, we need less high profile figures. How about a member of the Taliban who raped women and beat children? A boy soldier of the Interahamwe armed with a machete in the Rwandan genocide murdering a Tutsis child? Or what if one of the men involved with the rape of a five year old girl in India escapes to anonymity and lives until 93 before anyone finds him again? Raise your hand, please, if you would be content to allow anyone linked to the plotting and execution of the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon to escape with impunity until old age.

Some argue, "If you were a German citizen, you could not say "No" to the Nazis," or that "many of Germans were simply too young to understand." Like our former pope, Mr. Ratzinger, yes? At the beginning of the movie Downfall, Hitler's real-life secretary discusses that youth and ignorance, in retrospect, were no excuse for revering der Fürher and for allowing the events of the Holocaust. I agree.

I saw a man with a swastika tattooed on his arm today. My wife had just had a procedure done at the hospital and the nurse and I were wheeling her to another office in the building. He was in the waiting room wearing a black tank-top, wearing mostly black, with a girlfriend who was texting on a black iPhone and also wearing mostly black. Between the two of them, they had many black tattoos. None were of an Auschwitz prisoner identification number. The swastika, of course, stood out to me, being one of an extreme minority in the oh-so-diverse state of Maine. I had a thousand reasons to discuss with this fine gentleman the amorality of his tat, the embarrassment he brings to the human race, or simply to tell him the insignia is facing the wrong direction (a funny, albeit unwise, prank). Then, I sobered up. I had my wife to tend to and my children to think about -a father should not be risk a physical altercation, especially with a stranger. Maybe he had a knife. Maybe he would follow me. Maybe he had a gun. I wanted, and still want, him to know that he and all the Lipschises of the world should be prosecuted for the environment of fear they instill in normal people and their children. I wanted to declare in his face, so he could feel the heat of my breath, "I'm not scared of you."

But I was.

He wins.

Lipschis wins.

Hitler wins.

Dear Belieber

                               Photo of Bieber's angelic silver jacket courtesy of Wikipedia.org

When a modern teen icon interfaces with a teen icon whose posthumous "fame" awakens humanity to the injustice of genocide, one must seize upon the opportunity.

Friends, it is not every day that Justin Bieber visits the Anne Frank House nor does he frequently sign Ms. Frank's guest book so eloquently, wishing intimately that Anne would have been a "Belieber." Note that this term is, in fact, forever etched into said guest book, begging commentary in every social media arena. Comedians have found new fodder. Jeff Ross tweets that Anne would likely have not been a Belieber, but rather a Ke$ha girl. Amy Schumer tweets "Dear Kitty, I know I should focus on the certain genocide we are all facing, but Joey from New Kids is too dreamy #belieber." Well played, Ms. Schumer, well played. I wonder: would Ms. Frank have had her own hash tag?

Regardless, after a day of contemplation and soul-searching, I beg to differ with Mr. Ross; I beliebe Anne would have been a Belieber. And perhaps, if we may beliebe in this, we may also beliebe that Justin's allure might have been potent enough, even in war, to penetrate Adolf's ears so that he might have hummed an occasional Bieber hymnal to himself. And, perhaps, even in war, such emotion flowing from Justin's lips might have softened the hardest of white supremacists and appealed to Adolf's better sensibilities, thereby giving him pause before initiating his Final Solution. Friends, indeed, if our celebrity idols could have such impact, if North Korea and the United States may potentially find common ground in Dennis Rodman, might not have Ms. Frank and her kin and the six million Jews of Europe been spared? Could Bieber have deliebered victims of the Holocaust to safety had he been born multiple generations earlier?

Oh, sweet Bieber, I beliebe.

Suits, Weddings, and Funerals

Picture of G. Clooney impressed with his attire courtesy of LifeInItaly.com

As a general rule, most of us prefer to be plussed, rather than nonplussed, the term "plussed" meaning the most opposite of "nonplussed," relevant for purposes discussed here to circumstances in which plussing may yield respect, and established as a word exclusively for the purposes of this article. In other words, Mandy Patinkin's character, Inigo Montoya, put it best in The Princess Bride when he said, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

My father always said that I should have two suits: one for weddings and one for funerals, the former by far more practical as it doubles for interviews, the latter a darker commentary on the nature of "dressing to kill." I managed to pick up a couple suits before my wife and I left New York for Maine. The Men's Warehouse was having a two-for-one sale and, at the time, I remember thinking it would be rather difficult to find a tailor in Maine. I have never had less of a need for suits.

When I was in high school my father came home after buying two suits totaling three-thousand dollars. He was a garmento in the garment distict of the City -for anyone from Boston, "City" does not refer to you. Every night he would come off the Metro-North Railroad and the garage door would go up at exactly 7:42 p.m. One particular night, he walked in two suits richer and three-thousand dollars poorer. My mother was nonplussed.

I did not acquire the fashion sensibility exhibited by my father in this anecdote and instead took to nappy shoulder-length hair, denim overalls, and flannel shirts. It was the nineties and I had no qualm about expressing the real me: a Grateful-Dead-with-all-the-assumed-connotations-listening, My So Called Life-loving, wannabe-hippie, counter-culture, sex-crazed kid. Again, my mother was nonplussed.

I was plussed.

I was so plussed that in all my nonconformity, I did not notice my conformity, the same conformity for which I was so disdainful of my father's suit-wearing conformity.

It was not until college that I began to acquire a more tidy style, though my shorter hair was due more to my thinning hair. These days I keep my sideburns long for that nonconformist edge but I have entered the age of daddy-casual: collared shirt, a v-neck sweater, jeans. Even then, I feel out of place in Maine. I went to a funeral here where most wore black t-shirts. I thought I would be out of place without a blazer. That's Maine for you. My father would disagree and say that it is about respect.

Regardless, this is the real me: daddy-cas'. Smooth. Maybe not three-thousand dollars smooth, but the garmentos might at least like my shoes. I keep my suits covered in the closet and pull them out for weddings or a funeral, the former being far more frequent for now. They are good suits, too, good for plussing people. That might not be the most important thing but it is fun to pluss people. I like to pluss if for no other reason than, when strangers see me with my kids, they might think, "That guy looks like he's got a lot of respect for fatherhood. He doesn't look like a bum. I'm plussed by that dad."

A Brief Note on Passover

I have no idea about Passover. It seems like every other high holiday: somehow or other the Jews escape some unearthly pestilence or an unjust, violent persecution. Regardless, a few years back, it was a good excuse to be dismissed early from a faculty meeting so I could call my mother before sundown.

On Passover, there is something about Seder and pig's blood; something about famine and disease; maybe something about gefilte fish and calling home before dark. I cannot even say whether I have actually ever celebrated a Seder. In fact, I ate pork and drank gluten-free beer two Passovers ago. As it is, I am writing this well after dark.

It is what it is: Passover and me are like Karl Rove and Ru Paul sharing a basket for an Easter egg hunt. Involvement in Passover may be forever ambiguous but, no matter what, I damn well better play along and call my mom.

New Short Story

Please check out my new short story, entitled THE TRANSPLANT, live now with Hobo Pancakes (http://www.hobopancakes.com/).

Warning: It's political fiction...or is it?

James Earl Jones as a Short Old Jewish Woman

Picture courtesy of Mattinee

Rarely have I encountered other Jews and not felt the need to prove my Jewishness. There have been those times when I've thought, "Well, I'm more Jewish than him but at least I'm not that Jewish." After visiting my wife's high school pals, though, I was reminded of a night when I felt the perfect amount of Jewishness. Katie and Jason's New York wedding gratuitously nestled itself into Autumn: breezy, brisk, early signs of the turning foliage. Winona Ryder and Richard Gere were not present but I would not have been surprised had they walked in and positioned themselves next to the bride and groom.

I left my car with the Battery Gardens' valet, a man possibly in uniform, possibly not, and appearing as though he might drive off with the car and my tip. Meditatively distracting, the sunset-silhouetted Statue of Liberty backdropped the chuppah, which was made from white birch limbs grown, though memory may be fabricating this, in Katie's home state of Vermont, a locale not commonly known for its abundance of synagogues. An elderly female rabbi, donning gold flowing garments hosted the ceremony, speaking as if she were reenacting James Earl Jones' "People Will Come" speech in Field of Dreams.

For the first time since my grandfather's funeral almost ten years earlier, I wore a yarmulke -I fully intended to keep it because...well...you just never know. Prior to the funeral, I hadn't worn a yarmulke since middle school when I attended Aaron Hochberg's bar mitzvah, a rite of passage I, myself, avoided for fear that such a display would prevent the New England female coterie from allowing me to second base. In the interest of full disclosure, I also kept Jason and Katie's wedding program for self-educational purposes, as it contained information, albeit humorously presented, about the Jewish tradition, intended as self-tutorial for the bride's Gentile family.

There were lots of Jews.

There were lots of Jews from Long Island.

There were also lots of Gentiles from Long Island.

There were lots of Gentiles from Long Island who were likely better Jews than me. Although, if it came down to it, I'd bet on Bruce Willis acting a better Jew than my actual Jewish self.

Still, I felt at home at this wedding. Not because of the yarmulke or the chuppah or the Jews or the Long Island Gentiles -clearly not because of these things since these did nothing but make me feel less Jewish- but rather because I felt like I was so much nearer to the average height of the room. Although the DJ, a hipster Obi Wan, was the tallest man in the room by at least a foot, the average height couldn't have been more than five-foot-six. Yes, I was short the average by three inches, but I fit right in and I realized why I identify with my Jewish side: nobody's big.

At the wedding, I didn't have to muscle past anyone's armpit to get to the bar or punch somebody in the thigh for a turn at the urinal. No cricks in my neck, no meathead jocks snickering at the impossibility of my manliness, and, no dancing my head into somebody's elbow.

I hadn't had so much fun at a wedding, perhaps, ever. It was communal fun, right down to the horah -Wikipedia told me this was the circular, hand-holding dance as the bride and groom are lifted onto chairs (I needed Wikipedia because this definition wasn't in the wedding program). This was a tax bracket who came of age in the eighties so there was no shortage of Bananarama and Boy George. I once liked to dance when I dated a Latina girl fifteen years prior but it was a competitive, angry dance. Since then, the interest fizzled. Now, I was among my people. I danced.

As the end of the wedding approached, DJ Obi Wan played the last song, a tune with an anthemic whistle, resolute, determined. A song of relentless advancement. I thought, "I love this song. I need this song." It was motivational in a non-Anthony Powers kind of way. It felt sincere but it certainly did not feel Jewish. It was a far cry from Klezmer despite the um-pah, um-pah bass. During our visit with Katie and Jason, I seized the opportunity, asking if they recalled the name of the song.

They both answered: "Home."