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Original name for this post was going to be Too Much News Blues, but then I saw this headline.
” I’d hate to add France to the No Fly Zone,” I say.
Alarmed, Scarlett, my lifestyle consultant, looks up from this Month’s issue of Elle.
“ You can’t write off a whole country just because of some hooligans,” she says
I don’t want Mr. Greenberg to be proved right. He taught Sunday School at Larchmont Temple. Anti-Semitism was the whole point of Western Civilization, he said, the fulcrum, the foundation, the essential characteristic. Assimilation? Hah! Look at what happened to the German Jews.
Don’t get comfortable was his message. Don’t trust the goyim. It could happen here.
I knew he was dead wrong about America. Anti-Semitism was a side show, a mere bagatelle compared to slavery and genocide of Native Americans. But Europe?
I don’t want to retreat into Defensive Tribalism.
I don’t want to live in fear.
I hesitate before signing a petition. I make a small donation to J Street. Self-hating Jew? How could I not be proud to belong to a people who gave us Shecky Green, Rosa Luxemberg, and half of Karl Marx?
History repeats itself, second time as farce, according to Karl Marx. The difference between a race riot and a pogrom is the degree of state sanction—it’s not Kristallnacht, I remind myself, but maybe an early warning?
“Whatcha gonna do?” says Memphis Earlene with a shrug. “Things are tough all over. Look at the Ukraine.”
Land of the ancestors, hers and mine.
Memphis Earlene’s people were the ones who turned down the chance to embrace one of the three great monotheisms and stuck to pagan ways.
“What’s so great about Monotheism?” she says.
“Give me an hour, I’ll come up with something,” I say.
But I haven’t.
Poor Maureen Dowd, but how could she have known? She hadn’t spent the early Eighties being a weekend hippie like I did. But smoking is so hard on the lungs if you inhale. Walter White, meet Betty Crocker.
“Step away from that oven. Put the cookbook down,” says Memphis Earlene, “Don’t even think about it.
She’s referring to those Alice B. Toklas Gingersnaps I used to make.
Little known fact–baked dope is much stronger than smoked dope. The high is higher and kicks in long after you forgot you’ve eaten the cookie–or cookies, because the ones I used to make were tasty. Two were more than enough. Three was asking for trouble.
Good times, not that I remember much.
Woke up one morning to find an empty canister, a huge puddle of ginger colored dog puke and Morgan sleeping off what could have been a bad acid trip on steroids in a human being but was just naptime. He’d eaten an entire Tupperware canister of fresh baked Alice B.Toklas gingersnaps I’d been careless enough to leave on the coffee table.
There’s no such thing as a bad acid trip if you’re a golden retriever. They are enlightened beings unlike you or me or Maureen Dowd.
If you live in Colorado and insist on venturing into the dangerous world of baked goods you’ll want the weakest dope possible, the kind frequently taken for oregano, not the one toke variety. One toke dope is Overkill. And you don’t want to use sugar. Sugar adds that addictive quality, which is why it’s so hard to stop at just one Pepperidge Farm Mint Milano.
If you insist on baking cookies they should be no more appetizing than dog biscuits.
Diet dog biscuits.
Dear Internal Revenue Service,
This is a love letter. Bet you don’t get many of those. Mind if I call you Irving? You’ve been called worse. Some think hating you is the highest form of patriotism. I, on the other hand, think of you as the man I married in 1975 when I was fresh out of law school and saddled with debt.
We met at a job fair in Washington DC, back when women with law degrees were novelty acts. Your experience with women was limited to secretaries, clerk typists, and the girls at the Lone Star.
I looked into your pale eyes and said, “Speak to me about ERISA.”
Aha! A live one, you thought.
When you asked about my long-range career goals I lied and said I wanted to be a GS-13 Tax Law Specialist. I signed on to protect and defend the Constitution.
There’s a wistful quality about you, Irving. At parties you stand around the clam dip and hope beautiful women will flirt with you. You wear cheap suits that are too big in the shoulders and use Old Spice aftershave. You are tone-deaf, near-sighted, humor-impaired, and partially color-blind, which is maybe why your socks don’t match. Your eyes are the color of cocktail onions bottled in brine. You are officially apolitical, like death itself.
You thrive under fluorescent light, much like the plants we keep in our cubicles to remind us that green is the color of life as well as money.
You are partial to veterans, men who almost became priests, and big fish from small southern towns where everyone works for the mills. People for whom institutional loyalty is second nature. I was loyal to you in my fashion. “Taxes are the price we pay for a civilized society, ” I’d respond when taunted.
You are furtive about your trysts with high priced call girls who so often steal your wallet, but not about those long lunches in the Lone Star.
You’re so not my type. You know nothing about jazz nor do you subscribe to High Times for indoor gardening hints. You haven’t spent your adult life studying t’ai chi so you could become a better surfer.“What’s foreplay?” you asked me once; and when I explained, you said it would take too long.
Oh Irving! You saved me from a life of shared apartments in rough neighborhoods, storefront clinics, second hand clothing and ramen noodles in exchange for the best years of my life, the prime time of my days (Monday through Friday with a half hour for lunch).
Financial dependency laced with resentment? I’d call it old-fashioned married love, not unlike my grandmother’s marriage, which lasted 50 years most of them unhappy. I was only going to stay till I finished my first novel, which would surely be a bestseller, like Fear of Flying.  Please don’t laugh. We were all young once, except you.
Like many women I shaped myself to your needs, which were foreign to my nature, and consoled myself with fantasies of secret stardom. Attempts were made to ignite passion in hotels that did not have room service. I was Joan Didion with a migraine in Detroit but we’ll always have Fresno. That motel had a swimming pool and the nighttime sky stayed pink. We pretended I was Joni Mitchell and you were Crosby, Stills and Nash. I’m glad you talked me out of the tattoo. Some might call it Stockholm syndrome, but I say love the one you’re with. 
Writing was my true love, but you came first.
Thirty years passed, not as a dream. More like a situation comedy in real time with no laugh track. Your gradual loss of self-esteem was painful to behold. I watched you experiment with hair gel and try to squeeze your stout self into Euro-styled suits. You wanted to look more ‘corporate’. Tried to pass yourself off as MasterCard or LL Bean. I protested when you changed our mission statement.Instead of “taxpayer assistance” we would provide “customer service,” and “customer satisfaction”.
I drew the line at language abuse.
“Customers? ” I cried. “They’re taxpayers, not customers. Real customers can take their business elsewhere. No one says ‘I was going to sign up with IRS but AOL offered me free Internet porn. ”
You looked right through me with those cocktail onion eyes. It was as though I hadn’t spoken.
I skipped out on my retirement party. Didn’t even say goodbye. Our divorce was final and I was bitter at first about The Wasted Years.
I should have been more gracious, especially in light of the pension. Writers need patrons or grants or some means of earning a living while we are learning our craft, and even afterwards. You kept me on a short leash in terms of time but left me to write whatever I chose so long as it did not reveal sensitive taxpayer information. You honored your obligations.
You were my first and best teacher. You taught me that proper punctuation has the force of law.
With love and gratitude,
 David Foster Wallace’s unfinished novel The Pale King comes to mind.
 Topless bar in Washington DC across the street from the FBI building. Rumored to have been acquired by the FBI from a seizure.
 The Employee Retirement Income Security Act of 1974 (ERISA), a heartbreaking work of staggering complexity, intended to ensure that the private pension system would provide meaningful benefits to employees through a series of tax incentives. It was widely believed that this could be accomplished through a complex network of regulations containing loopholes big enough to drive a truck through.
[iv] Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. quote that is carved above the entrance of IRS Headquarters at 1111 Constitution Avenue.
[v] Published in 1973. Arguably the Great Jewish American Feminist Comic novel. Certainly the first, and a hard act to follow.
[vi] The anti-Erica Jong.
[vii] Title of song by Stephen Sills. Don’t think the original expression was his.
Definition of Hubris: Losing 5 pounds and deciding to get rid of all my fat jeans.
“You’ll be sorry,” says Memphis Earlene.
“Do it anyway,” says Scarlett, my Fashion advisor.”You can always get more on ebay.”
Definition of neurotic: Losing five pounds and wondering if it’s an early sign of ovarian cancer instead of the result of more exercise and eating less. T’ai chi twice a week. Sushi instead of pizza. Seltzer instead of coke.
” NO one gets neurosis anymore,” says Scarlett. “You’re just an old fashioned worry wart.”
“You’ve just got the blues,” says Memphis Earlene . ” Take 2 CDs of Lucinda Williams, a shot of Jack Daniels and call me in the morning.”
Scarlett has a better idea.
” Go through your closet, get rid of everything that makes you feel fat, anything you can’t imagine wearing again, every shopping mistake. Especially the ones with designer labels. There’s a lot of trapped energy in your closets–perfectly nice stuff that needs new homes.”
Even more fun than shopping–re-cycling.
Cleveland Park Liquors is almost empty, and it’s a Saturday! Where are you, people?
Usually neighborhood stores are crowded when catastrophe looms; everybody stockpiles on toilet paper and canned goods, but that’s for blizzards and hurricanes, not Government Shut-downs .
Washington definition of blizzard is four inches of snow.
Government shutdowns, on the other-hand, well this one looks like the real thing so no one’s buying anything they don’t absolutely need. Good bye Johnny Walker, hello Jim Beam for starters.
“Where’s my Southern Comfort?” Memphis Earlene growls.