You Keep Using That Word.... (Redux)

When I first started using Facebook, I wanted to enjoy the full experience, such as it was, and so I tried "liking" things. All the kids were doing it, after all, and where could the harm be? Just to be on the safe side, though, I generally avoided commercial products and mainly limited my likings to movies, TV shows, musical acts, and the occasional white supremacist book club (only one of those is a joke!). I ran into a small hiccup, however, when I chose to express my liking for Elvis.

Now, when I say "Elvis," I of course mean the Elvis who is still making music--and, frankly, the only Elvis of any true musical significance, i.e., Elvis Costello. Facebook, however, assumed I meant this other guy.  Yes, I know, hard to believe, but there was another famous musical Elvis--I think his last name was "Stojko" or something. So now I get these updates on my news feed informing me that on this date in Elvis history Mr. Stojko joined the army and on that date he ate a pancake, etc.

Well, anyway, today's Elvisania was a trivia question: What was the first movie  in which Elvis made his film debut? As opposed to what? His third film debut? Rest assured: No Elvis Costello fan site would make such a stupid mistake! Mainly because Elvis Costello hasn't done any films, but that's beside the point.

You Keep Using That Word....

Overheard on the local New York rock station: a promotion for an upcoming concert extravaganza, featuring headline acts too numerous to mention or remember. Nevertheless, I was momentarily stunned to hear that one of the acts was Queen. Before I could quip that Freddie Mercury's performance was expected to be a bit shaky, the promo continued, "with surprise guest vocalist Adam Lambert."

All well and good, but do these folks not know the meaning of the word 'surprise'?

Cyclone Fever! Catch It!

Last night, I sojourned with FOS and SOFOS to Citi Field, where we enjoyed a Mets' win on an altogether perfect night for baseball.  My thirst for the sport, though, was not quite slaked (in fairness, the Mets have a recent history of leaving their fans unslaked--I didn't even get to see David Wright!).  So today I took in my first ever minor-league game (yes, yes, "except for the Mets! heh, heh, heh"--bite me) at the Coney Island home of the Brooklyn Cyclones, a "short-season A-ball" affiliate of those same New York Mets.

Walking down the boardwalk to MCU Park, I passed a family--mother, father, two kids--who were also heading to the game.  I discovered this by overhearing their conversation. I also discovered that they were British.  And I'm not talking football-hooligan-oy-give-us-a-pint-mate British; these were Colin Firth and Emma Thompson in Timon of Athens Brits!  The little boy, maybe six years old, asked, "Daddy, whom are we rooting for?"

"We're rooting for the Brooklyn Cyyy-clones, Dear."

"Whom are they playing against?"  (I swear to GOD I am not making this up!)

"Erm. . . The 'Connecticut Tiii-gers.' Yes, I believe they're from the upstate portion of New York."

Then the mother chimed in, "No, Darling, Connecticut is another state."

"Oh, I see.  Well, Kevin, I'm afraid I have given you some incorrect information."--VERBATIM!--"It seems that the Connecticut team is not from New York ahfter all."

All I could think at this point was, "Oh, please God, let these people be sitting next to me!"  Alas, they were not.

The stadium is, as you might expect, a fraction of the size of Citi Field, seating about 7,500 people as opposed to 40,000-plus.  I had a great seat: twelfth row, right behind home plate, but really nobody is terribly far from the action.  Considering how close I was to the field, I was struck by how normally proportioned the players were: These were clearly kids, all a ways off from the Major Leagues.  The average age was about twenty, and the average build was high-school basketball benchwarmer; no hint of steroid abuse here.  But once the game started, it was baseball.  The pitchers may not have been throwing 98-mile-an-hour fastballs and 12-6 curves, but they threw hard; the hitters made contact (or not), just as Major Leaguers would.  And in the end, the Cyclones won, so the day can be considered a success.

But most notable was the atmosphere.  Whereas at Citi Field--or any Major League venue--everything is slick and highly polished, at MCU Park, everything was just a bit tackier.  It was "Camp Day" at the stadium, referring to the numerous day camps from around the Tri-State area making field trips to the game, but "camp" might just as well have referred to the ironic fidelity to minor-league spirit manifested by the game's incidentals.

First, the game had a sort of master of ceremonies, the "King of Kings County," a tummler of Kramdenesque proportions.  In a blaring red vest and pants and wearing a red velvet crown, the King exhorted the crowd to cheer ever-more lustily for the hometown team.  He also presented festivities between innings, including a three-legged race between two fans and two members of the Brooklyn Beach Bums cheering squad (yes, cheerleaders!); a "dizzy race," involving two fans racing after spinning around with their foreheads on bats; a baserunning race between a young fan and the Cyclones' mascot, Sandy the Seagull.

(DIGRESSION: Isn't there something unfortunate about a boardwalk-based entertainment outfit presenting anything named "Sandy"? EOD)

There were also the requisite t-shirt launches--I still have never caught a t-shirt at a sporting venue, so, y'know, my life remains empty--and dance routines.  The hot-dog race was exciting (Mustard won in what must be considered a major upset to anyone who follows the snack-and-condiment racing circuit).  The Cyclones also employ a young man, the Brooklyn Buccaneer, who wears a pirate outfit and runs screaming down the right field line waving banners every time the Cyclones score--because, obviously, when you think of Coney Island, you think of. . . pirates. . .?

I don't know whether the whole sideshow is typical of a minor-league experience.  It felt authentic--in a thoroughly kitschy sort of way--but that could just mean my resistance to irony has been hopelessly depleted. 

The Best Medicine

So as I was saying, yesterday I went with FOS to see "Old Jews Telling Jokes," currently playing Off-Broadway.  I don't imagine a synopsis is necessary, although I must protest that two of the cast members, Dara Cameron and Chuck Rea, are not what anyone would call "old."  Is a little truth-in-titling too much to ask?  Still, the show was highly entertaining: Ninety minutes of borscht-belt humor delivered with perfect timing.  Anyone--any Jew, anyway--past bar-mitzah age has probably heard some or all of these jokes before, but they still retain their charm.  One of my personal favorites:

Old Man Rabinowitz is getting ready to retire after forty years in the hardware business.  He tells his son, "Yitzhak, I am going to retire.  The business is now yours.  I know you will continue the fine tradition of Rabinowitz hardware."  With that, Old Man Rabinowitz leaves the store for the last time, and within a week he is down in Florida, enjoying his retirement.

A few months go by, and Rabinowitz decides to fly back north to visit his son.  On the way from the airport, he sees a gigantic billboard.  On the billboard is a picture of Jesus Christ on the cross, with the caption, "THEY USED RABINOWITZ NAILS!!!"

Well, you can imagine, Old Man Rabinowitz nearly has a heart attack right there in the cab.  When he gets back to the hardware store, he grabs his son by the shoulders, starts shaking him, and yells at him, "You, Schmuck! Are you crazy with that billboard?!? You can't say 'They used Rabinowitz Nails!' Not only will no one ever shop here again, but the goyim will run us out of town! I can't believe you could be so stupid!  You need to fix this!  I'm going back down to Florida before my head explodes, but I'm going to come back, and you better have made this right!"

Well, a few weeks later, after recuperating in Florida, Rabinowitz returns to see his son again.  He's in the cab from the airport, approaching the billboard.  He can barely stand to look, but as they pass he sees the new sign.  Now, the billboard shows a limp and lifeless body crumpled at the foot of a cross.  The caption: "THEY DIDN'T USE RABINOWITZ NAILS!!!"

Nu?  Anyway, if you like that kind of thing, there's a lot to enjoy in the show.

Insofar as "Old Jews" has a deeper meaning or a "message," it's that there is no such thing as an inappropriate time to tell jokes.  Maybe it's a "Jewish thing," but I think they're right.  Many is the time that a gentile friend or acquaintance has said something to the effect of, "How can you make a joke at a time like this?"  Even WOS has, on occasion, reprimanded me for "misplaced" levity.  But to the question, "How can you joke about [insert serious or somber topic]?" the best answer I can give is, "How can you not?" 

Sure, some topics are "not funny."  Child molestation is not funny.  The Holocaust and 9/11 are not funny.  Then again, just because something is not funny does not mean one cannot joke about it.  The Battle of Agincourt is not funny, but only the French refrain from joking about it--and they refrain from joking about everything.  Olives are not funny.  Indeed, most things in the world are not inherently funny, including--perhaps, especially--the things about which we most commonly joke: Just think about how many jokes begin, "A guy walks into a doctor's office. . . "  Life often presents us with a stark choice: Laugh or cry.  A good cry can be refreshing, but for the most part laughter is better.

IPads Are Useless for Blogging

Went today with FOS to see "Old Jews Telling Jokes" at the Westside Theater in Manhattan. I enjoyed it, and I plan to share a little bit more about it. At the moment, however, my laptop--a comically archaic (according to FOS) Netbook--is refusing to hook up to the interwebs, and typing on the iPad's pop-up keyboard is inconvenient to say the least. So you'll all just have go wait 'til tomorrow when, perhaps, the connection will be more stable.

Something to look forward to, I suppose.