Friday, January 28, 2011

400 Rabbis and a Fox

January 27, 2011

Dear Mr. Murdoch:

We are rabbis of diverse political views. As part of our work we are devoted to preserving the memory of the Shoah, and to passing its lessons on to our future generations and to all humankind. All of us have vigorously defended the Holocaust's legacy. We have worked to encourage the responsible invocation of its symbols as a powerful lesson for the future.

We were therefore deeply offended by Roger Ailes' recent statement attributing the outrage over Glenn Beck's use of Holocaust and Nazi images to "left-wing rabbis who basically don't think that anybody can ever use the word, Holocaust, on the air."

In the charged political climate in the current civic debate, much is tolerated, and much is ignored or dismissed. But you diminish the memory and meaning of the Holocaust when you use it to discredit any individual or organization you disagree with. That is what Fox News has done in recent weeks, and it is not only "left-wing rabbis" who think so.

Abe Foxman, National Director of the Anti-Defamation League, a child survivor of the Holocaust, described Beck's attack on George Soros as "not only offensive, but horrific, over-the-top, and out-of-line." Commentary magazine said that "Beck's denunciation of him [Soros] is marred by ignorance and offensive innuendo." Elan Steinberg, vice president of The American Gathering of Jewish Holocaust Survivors, called Mr. Beck's accusations "monstrous." Rev. Welton Gaddy, president of the Interfaith Alliance, called them "beyond repugnant." And Deborah Lipstadt, professor of Holocaust Studies at Emory University, says Beck is using traditional anti-Semitic imagery.

"I haven't heard anything like this on television or radio -- and I've been following this kind of stuff," Lipstadt said. "I've been in the sewers of anti-Semitism and Holocaust denial more often than I've wanted."

We share a belief that the Holocaust, of course, can and should be discussed appropriately in the media. But that is not what we have seen at Fox News. It is not appropriate to accuse a 14-year old Jew hiding with a Christian family in Nazi-occupied Hungary of sending his people to death camps. It is not appropriate to call executives of another news agency "Nazis." And it is not appropriate to make literally hundreds of on-air references to the Holocaust and Nazis when characterizing people with whom you disagree.

It is because this issue has a profound impact on each of us, our families and our communities that we are calling on Fox News to meet the standard it has set for itself: "to exercise the ultimate sensitivity when referencing the Holocaust."

We respectfully request that Glenn Beck be sanctioned by Fox News for his completely unacceptable attacks on a survivor of the Holocaust and Roger Ailes apologize for his dismissive remarks about rabbis' sensitivity to how the Holocaust is used on the air.

Lead supporters (organizational affiliation listed for purposes of identification only):

Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson, Vice President, American Jewish University, Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies
Rabbi Dan Ehrenkrantz, President, Reconstructionist Rabbinical College
Rabbi Daniel Nevins, Dean, Jewish Theological Seminary Rabbinical School
Rabbi Yael Ridberg, President, Reconstructionist Rabbinical Association
Rabbi Ellen Weinberg Dreyfus, President, Central Conference of American Rabbis
Rabbi Steven Wernick, Executive Vice President, United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism
Rabbi Eric Yoffie, President, Union for Reform Judaism

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Of Wesley Snipes, Aldous Huxley, Glenn Beck and Bananas

At some point, the dystopian future became the dystopian present. The exact moment that this happened is hard for me to pin down, but it was sometime after 9/11 and before that Head On commercial. Science fiction authors and film-makers saw it coming a mile away. I'm thinking of Orwell's 1984, Vonnegut's Player Piano, Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, Fritz Lang's Metropolis, Huxley's Brave New World, and (of course) Demolition Man with Wesley Snipes and Sylvester Stallone.

Clearly, whatever was in the future, and always only in the future, became the present. No, firemen are not burning books, we don't use seashells to wipe our asses, and the entire population isn't addicted to pharmaceuticals (well, that last one is right on the money, hats off to Huxley). Whatever it is we are doing these days has a numbing affect on the noggin. Where does one turn for comfort?

We live in the Information Age, they tell me. Obama referenced it last night in the State of the Union. Actually, it seems like we've been in it for awhile. There must be some hipster doofus name that is more up to date, but I'm not going to open up another window on this thing to look it up.

Regardless of what they call it, it blows. The people who do the most writing can't spell and have nothing to say. All those texting pricks, their fingers flying like King Kong playing the piano with his thumbs. Glenn Beck calling everyone a Nazi while dressed like Ben Franklin and flitting around a chalkboard, whatever the hell that is all about. Our first black president, a Republican, being called a, "socialist." The death of journalism. WikiPedia as a source of "reliable" information. Assholes who blog. America without manufacturing. Rand Paul. John Kerry as a coward, George Bush as a war hero. Creationism. Tea Party. And all those poor fucking Cavendish bananas getting wiped out by the Race Four blight (oh, you'll soon know about that, you apes). Where does one find comfort?

Something else happened in the aforementioned time period. My mother died, right around the time I was undergoing ECT in 2003. It must be me who changed, not the world. Yes, I like that. My expensive education, while useless, taught me a thing or two about the world. It introduced me to authors whom I'd never have otherwise discovered. Would I have ever read Beowulf or The Scarlett Letter if not forced? Not bloody likely. And Finnegan's Wake by James Joyce had me thinking that the professor was making fun of her students.

These tales, while perplexing and/or anger inducing (Finnegan's Wake had me thinking that I was dyslexic, slow-witted, and perhaps the recent victim of a stroke, then I realized that everyone thinks that when they try to read it...everyone), helped me realize something. I'm not sure what it is exactly that I realized, but it has something to do with the way human beings respond to mortality, pain, greed, joy, fear, and that awful feeling one has when biting into something hard in a hot dog. Comfort may be found (a modicum of it, anyway) in knowing that one is not alone.

My friend, the under-rated Somerville artist Mary Galli, turned me onto Kurt Vonnegut, who had somehow been off my radar until my mid-twenties. And along with that magnificent bastard, there was James Baldwin, Daniel Wallace, Joseph Heller, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Ray Bradbury, Spaulding Gray, Alice Walker, Vladimir Nabokov, Jennifer Egan, PD James, Howard Zinn, Edward Albee, Virginia Woolf, Eugene O'Neil, Ursula K. Le Guin, Edith Wharton, J.D. Salinger, Joseph Conrad, William Kennedy, and on and on. A chorus of men and women who were (and are) equally confused, angry, amused, afraid, vexed, and annoyed by the whole spectacle.

I need them all, every last one of them. They are all ingredients in an efficacious tonic, even if there may be a bitter aftertaste and perhaps a hangover now and again. The unendurable becomes something worth watching and hearing, with a little help. A little perspective. A voice in the crowd, saying things that make the clamor and din worth enduring.

But I'd still like to smack one of those pricks who drive while texting.

Monday, January 24, 2011

The Gun Owner

If you own a gun, you're a coward. You've given yourself over to fear, of what you probably aren't sure. Chinese organ thieves, Mothra, dark foreigners, aliens of the illegal and space sort, who knows. What we do know is that you sit in your little abode, always aware of where your gun is and where the bullets are and how fast it would take you to load that sucker and prepare to defend your collection of NASCAR plates and shot glasses collected from county fairs across the country.

What is the profile of a gun owner? Here are the basic characteristics.

1. As I mentioned before, this is a fearful person. He knows that whatever bad may happen, his ability to reason his way out of the situation is nonexistent. Most gun owners and enthusiasts are not particularly bright, so they need a gun to make up for a lack of intelligence.

2. A lack of moral scruples. Me afraid, me put holes in you.

3. A small cock. Most gun owners have tiny genitals, and need their gun to compensate. It's a scientific fact.

4. Gullibility. These people have seen many movies where a gun solves the problem. The good guy reaches for the gun, the bad guy falls down, goes boom. They like this idea. They fondle their gun, drool, and think of any one of a thousand scenes from television and film where a gun saved the day. They live in a fantasy world.

5. A disconnect from reality. Gun statistics plainly indicate that owning a gun makes you and your family far more likely to die or be injured by a gun. Guns cause FAR more problems than they solve.

After the recent shooting in Tucson, the finger of blame has been pointed at mental illness. Some Right Wing morons have said that we need to register the mentally ill, and leave gun nuts alone. I submit that a desire to own a gun is a mental illness in itself, and a sign of well below average intelligence.

These people are to be pitied. They are so afraid, like little chipmunks hiding in the raptor exhibit at the zoo. Their cowardice can be addressed, but it takes work. It's difficult to transplant a spine.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Carriage

The carriage clock in the hallway is ticking away the seconds. It's a reproduction 1836 Garnier and is lovely. At the hour it will chime softly. Each second brings me closer to the end of my life. The end of my life is a lonely place. Death is a private thing, very intimate. Between the person the the universe, and the clock is measuring the steps.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Ghost and Annie

Annie awoke at dawn, on a soft, green chair, sleepily walked into the bedroom and jumped onto the bed, where she yawned. She spun around several times and eventually settled between two members of the pack, Darren and Nancy, who didn't notice her arrival. In a little circle, she occupied a small space between Darren's belly and the small of Nancy's back. Once again, she yawned, and then put her head on a rumpled bit of blanket, her eyes closing immediately.

In her little dog dream, Annie could speak in a faint whisper. She wore clothes in her dream, Nancy's jeans and sweater, and Darren's black Fedora hat. It suited her nicely, and she found herself wishing for shoes. She stood up and walked to Darren's ear, lowering her nose, careful not to let her whiskers brush him. He was deep in sleep, and snoring a bit. She spoke so softly that only he could hear her.

"Dearest human, when the sunlight slips through the window and cuts across your eyes, waking you up, there are a few things I'd like you to remember." Said little Annie as she looked around the room, particularly at Nancy. She was being careful not to wake anyone up.

"Never again speak angrily, for it is upsetting, even if the matter doesn't involve me. Walk me more often, and refrain from tugging at my leash, I find it annoying." Annie felt that a cat was nearby, and sure enough, Ghost jumped onto the bed and stared at Annie poised above her human's ear. They stared at each other for a moment.

Ghost spoke, also in a whisper, "You're taking a hell of a chance, dog." Annie insisted that she leave her alone, but she didn't. Ghost curled up at the foot of the bed. Annie decided to ignore her.

"Besides that, I'd like to thank you, dear human, for I know how harsh is the world on the little things." With that, she shifted over to Nancy's ear as Ghost watched intently. Annie said, "My love and my faith, you are new here, but you've proved your worth many times over. Your delicate hands reassure me, as does your voice. Something about your voice pleases me greatly."

Ghost interjected, "They don't need to hear this. We are a close pack, and the humans have never failed us." "Yes, but sometimes the big one speaks in a loud voice, and I feel compelled to hide." said Annie. Ghost shook her head and flicked her tail, "We are under their protection. They feed us and govern wisely, never letting a fight lead to injury. And we are always welcome on their bed."

"I wish they'd let me go outside, without the leash. I can protect myself." Annie ruminated. Ghost was quick to respond, "You're not bound for you own protection, you foolish dog, but to keep you from running away. I've seen you chase squirrels, you'd be gone in no time at all."

Annie's expression changed as she looked at Ghost. There was a bit of anger. "Squirrels need to be stopped, you know this. They need to know who is boss, and the way to do that is to chase them up a tree. It is so frustrating when the fat human holds me back, as if he cares about the welfare of the tree rat!"

Ghost looked annoyed, "He doesn't care about the wild tree rat, he just doesn't want you to slip away, get lost, and lose you forever. It wouldn't be an issue for me, as I think you are very different from us cats, you don't quite fit in here at the House of Four Cats." There was a long pause, and then Annie spoke, "We both know that if the fur-less ones accept me into the house, I'm cat enough to live here. "

"You're not a cat." said Ghost.

Annie turned to an old cat curse, "May a dark human find you and damn you to The Outside, where no smell is familiar, where you will find no kindness, food, water or the stroke and scratch of affection," She moved closer to Ghost, who started to back up to the edge of the bed, "where the rain and snow falls upon your head, and the feral dictate your fate!"

Ghost looked angry, but also more than a little frightened, "Choke on your doggie toys, hound!" With that, violence erupted. They soon found themselves downstairs, with the cat perched on the bookcase, and the dog staring up at her. Words had no place now, and all was communicated the the eyes.

Annie woke up to vigorous pats upon her little head, and a kiss.