by Dr. David Fialkoff, Editor / Publisher

Episode 1

Gerry, a spry and lovely man of 99 years, regularly attends services at synagogue. You might have seen him walking around town, all around town, as he does. He wears a straw hat with a feather in it, not always the same feather. One recent evening he fell on his way to, and not far from, the synagogue. People who stopped and helped him insisted that he go to the hospital. He agreed to go to the General Hospital.

Somehow, those of us already inside got the news. Two people went off to check for him at the various hospitals, without success. The next morning Gerry came to synagogue, apparently no worse for wear. Regaling his concerned listeners with had happened, when prompted, he took off his straw hat to show a smallish gauze bandage, adhesive taped to the crown of his head, explaining:

The rabbi's wife, who had been part of the audience, at that point very lovingly asked Gerry, "Can I get you something, coffee or tea?" Gerry declined. The crowd still quiet and attentive, I piped up, answering her ridiculously, "I'll have a smoothie." Perfectly mannered, she replied, stating the obvious, "I don't have a smoothie," and made her exit.

Everyone laughed at my absurdity (I don't care if you're laughing at me, as long as you're laughing), including the rabbi, who, prolonging the joke, pointed out, "That's why she didn't ask you." Services began.

Episode 2

I wrote about meeting a new guy at synagogue, David Morrison, from Detroit and Florida. As he knew, liked and wanted to talk more about Lokkal, we've gotten together two times since, to do just that, at the house he's renting on Orizaba. Both times, his lovely wife Deborah, coming home from somewhere, has popped into their living room to say hello to we two Daves. The last time, before leaving, I helped David and his handyman move some large mattresses, and put my two cents in about how to modify their bases, work being done in honor of their daughters coming for a visit.

After receiving his thanks and bidding David goodbye on the second floor, I made my way downstairs. There, crossing the courtyard on my way to the front door, I noticed Deborah in the kitchen, and went in to say hello. We chatted while she made her French lentil soup, my prattle distracting her, one hopes pleasantly so, from cutting the kale.

To appreciate the rest of this anecdote you need to know that tefillin are small boxes containing tiny written parchment scrolls, that religious Jews strap on during morning prayers, in fulfillment of the biblical command, "You shall bind these words which I command you today on your arm and they shall be as frontlets before your eyes"; and, further, that, at some point in our as yet brief association, David had mentioned that he was having his set sent down to him from Michigan.

That day, as the lentils boiled away on the stove, David came downstairs and was pleasantly surprised to see that I had not left, and was in fact cheerfully conversing with his wife. He joined us, and, a few minutes later, when I was truly about to make my exit, he informed me, "My tefillin arrived. I've been putting them on." With an affect of relief, as if having just solved a riddle, I replied, "I knew that you looked different."

David smiled, Deborah laughed, and I headed towards the door. Leaving them laughing is always a good strategy.

Episode 3

Camie Fenton, who publishes the Insider's Guide, and I have been meaning to talk about working together. Informed of this, this same David Morrison, who just arrived here two months ago, happening to make Camie's acquaintance, arranged for the three of us to get together sometime next week. In the series of emails flying between us to set day, time and place, David hazarded a joke, leaving himself wide open.

To appreciate the rest of this anecdote you need to know that my father's tongue was so quick and sharp that you might not know he had cut you, that you were bleeding, until your shirt started to get wet. He could employ a delayed effect, like the Touch of Death that some say was used to kill Bruce Lee.

I'm very good at it myself, but I don't do sarcasm anymore. I'm reformed. And even if I weren't, I don't know David well enough to say what I was thinking; maybe if he were from New York instead of Detroit. But when he wrote:

It took a lot of restraint not to zing back:

The Joke

"Woke comedy," like "military intelligence" or "jumbo shrimp", is an oxymoron. Late night comedy now has all the ideological flexibility of a Soviet or Maoist indoctrination session. Charges of racism, cultural appropriation and micro-aggression, however justified in some regards, have put a damper on what we're allowed to laugh at.

So, I feel the need to point out that Selma Hayek, herself part Mexican, told the following joke, and that I'm just repeating it. With that trigger warning, and with no disrespect to my beloved adopted home here it is:

The Song Lyric

I grew up (although my daughter will tell you that I never grew up) with Allan Sherman records. One of his songs, to the tune of "God Rest You Merry Gentlemen," goes like this:

For everyone's sake, let's hope next year is better and good things all come our way.

Happy New Year!

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