Shake! Shake! Shake! Shake! Shake! Shake!

And while we're on the topic of disco, one of the most prominent, successful and definitive disco bands of the 1970's was K.C. and The Sunshine Band, led by frontman Harry Wayne Casey. Formed in 1973, the group had a string of enormously popular dance hits, a run which came to a screeching halt in 1980, as disco itself, along with its sartorial accoutrements, met its demise.

K.C.'s songs are disco par excellence. The requisite elements are all present and accounted for:

• as one disco enthusiast beautifully described, a "happy chord progression in the minor scale";
• mid-tempo percussion and bass occupying center-stage;
• electric guitar confection;
• exclamation marks from the trumpets;
• refreshingly shallow lyrics extolling the virtues of dancing

and voilà!

But one of the most salient characteristics of K.C.'s songs is not to be found in the above list. The chorus of one of their biggest hits illustrates the feature nicely:

Shake shake shake, shake shake shake,
Shake your booty! Shake your booty!
Oh, shake shake shake, shake shake shake,
Shake your booty! Shake your booty.

(That I had no idea -- nor to this day am I entirely sure -- what exactly booty is never diminished my enjoyment of this delicious musical tidbit one iota.) In any event, we are struck by K.C.'s propensity to repeat, in part or in entirety, the titles of his songs.

To test the veracity of this observation, I listened to three K.C. songs and counted the number of times the title appears. The results are corroborative:

• I'm Your Boogie Man: 24
• Keep It Coming Love: 33
• That's The Way (I Like It): 30

Now I had always thought this repetitiveness was simply a product of happy-go-lazy songwriting, but a while ago, I learned that this was far from the case.

[K.C.] worked part-time in a record store. He noticed often that customers would come in not remembering the titles of the records they wanted, and the store would lose the sale — this is the reason so many of his songs repeat their titles over and over.

Clearly, these early experiences had a dramatic (is it going too far to say obsessive?) impact on K.C. So the repetitiveness, far from signifying an indifference to the lyrics, was, on the contrary, a decidedly calculated move on K.C.'s part, stemming from a savvy commercial instinct.

Music critics and die-hard fans often use the phrase "going commercial" or "selling out" when they feel that a musician has shifted styles, producing less serious music, in order to appeal to a broader audience. (Given that I was usually part of said broader audience, I was never bothered by this.)

But K.C.'s ploy takes the commercial angle of songwriting to a whole nother level, as they say. For it is one thing to craft a song in a style which will be pleasing to the masses, and will therefore lead to increased record sales. But it is another thing altogether to craft a song which is, in essence, an advertisement of itself. Here, the medium has truly become the message, and the message is to purchase the medium!

Indeed, one part of the K.C. song "That's The Way (I Like it)" has the backup singers whispering "That's The Way" over and over again, reminiscent of how in the 1950's, in certain movie theaters, the projectionist would flash the words "Drink Coke" on the screen, in the hopes of sending a subliminal message to the audience -- the difference being that in K.C.'s case (not to be confused with Casey Kasem), the advertisement is self-referential.

Self-referentiality is not completely absent in other items that we consume:

• Printed material, displaying the title in the margin of each page;
• Fashion designer clothing bearing the logo;
• Car hood ornaments.

But in the above, the self-reference is marginal: the ornament or label is but one small part of the product. With K.C.'s songs, the entire product, from virtually start to finish, trumpets itself.  I cannot think of any medium other than the pop song that carries the potential for a product to announce itself over and over, whereby the entire product has become an advertisement for itself.

In contrast, consider this chorus, of a song which came out just 2 years prior to K.C.'s debut:

Don't you remember you told me you loved me now baby
You said you'd be coming back this way again, baby
Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh baby
I love you, I really do.

The title of this lovely Carpenters ballad? Superstar. Not only is the title completely absent from the lyrics -- one is hard-pressed to find the remotest connection in the lyrics to it. Perhaps this was one of those very songs whose title escaped a customer's memory, awakening K.C.'s keen commercial instincts.

Abbie Hoffman's Steal This Book, with its vehemently anti-commercial title, is K.C.'s diametric opposite. Indeed, a book penned by K.C. would be entitled Buy This Book (Don't You Dare Steal It!). In fact, I have an idea for a new song for K.C., "Buy This Song (You'll Like It)". K.C., if you're reading this, the rights are yours. And if it's as good as your hits of the 70's, I just may and I probably will.

Ludwig Van Boogie

As Beethoven was to 19th century music, so was disco to 1970s music. And, to take this already absurd analogy to its inescapable absurd conclusion, the 1970s saw a confluence of the two: a disco-fied version of Beethoven's 5th Symphony, A Fifth of Beethoven (to be accompanied by a fifth of Jack Daniels?), a gloriously preposterous amalgam of the sublime and the ridiculous. One wonders (well, at least I wonder!) what Beethoven would have made of this unlikely hybrid. Would he have turned a deaf ear to it?

Purely gratuitous aside: I wondered whether there was a word in the English language signifying the process of rendering something in disco style. Disco-fy? Disco-ize? Disco-grify? Having settled on disco-fy, I am now struck by how science-fictional it rings, which has planted the idea in my mind for a movie where alien invaders attack earth, armed with weapons which turn humanoids into people with three-piece suits and no tie, gold chains, platform shoes, with one finger pointed heavenward. Lord help us, doctor -- he's been discofied!

One undeniable property of disco music, no matter how silly one finds it, is how eminently danceable it is. The moment your body hears that crazily funky bass line, harnessed to that syncopated African beat, sprinkled with electric guitar wah-wahs and short blasts from the horn section, try as you might to stop it, it will spring into action.

First, your head and shoulders will start swaying from side to side. Next, your legs will start a-quivering, while your feet are a-tapping on the floor. Soon, your entire torso is oscillating in your seat. And before you realize it, your body has picked itself up from your chair, and is dancing with wild abandon, shaking like the leaves on a tree. Go ahead, listen to the proffered video. I defy you to remain absolutely still!

Couldn't do it, couldja? See?

The Professor and The Dirty Driveway

As mentioned in an earlier post, during my high school years, on Sabbath mornings, I used to attend a small Synagogue, known as a Shtiebl, as it was located in the basement of a house. I served the role of chanting the weekly portion of the Torah.

One of the few congregants under the age of 65 was an economist, originally from England, who at the time was a professor at the University of Toronto, and who has had a most distinguished career in the field of the history of economics, spanning roughly five decades.

As his house was just a hop, skip and jump from the Synagogue, he used to occasionally invite me over afterwards for Kiddush. For those readers of mine who are unfamiliar with this term, it is, for the purposes of the present context, the ritualized equivalent of coffee and cake.

His better half, hailing from France, is a sweet, demure, intelligent woman. To my teenage mind, she struck me as decidedly reminiscent of a charming character out of a 19th century novel. The three of us would have quite a pleasant time, sitting at their dining room table, engaged in stimulating conversation.

I recall that he once showed me a book he had recently completed, and told me that he was now in the process of putting together the index. He explained to me how creating a book's index was a much more difficult process than most people might realize. (I imagine that all of the advances in computers of the past three decades have automated that process considerably.)

On one particular occasion, the professor and I happened to be standing by the window of his living room, and were presently joined by his wife. We noticed that their neighbor's driveway was full of dirt, and that the neighbor was cleaning the driveway with a water hose. He would very slowly sweep the stream of water across the width of the driveway. When he reached the end, he would advance the stream slightly, and reverse direction, now sweeping the other way. In this manner, the dirt was gradually pushed forward along the driveway, towards the street.

Interestingly, all three of us fell under the hypnotic spell of the action of the hose. It was somehow mesmerizing to watch that border, separating the now-clean portion of the driveway from the still-dirty territory, advance forward, inch by inch (or, for my metric friends, centimeter by centimeter) under the propulsion of the spray of water, like an army division pushing a battle-line forward. The effect was oddly soothing as well.

*Ring!* Hello?

Hi, Frank! What are you doing right now?

Nothing much. What's up?

Well, our neighbor is unwinding his hose -- it looks like he's about to clean his driveway!

Hey, awesome! I'll be right over -- try to make sure he doesn't start till I get there!

Will do, but try to hurry. Carol and David are already here, and I've invited Bev and Gus over too. And the popcorn is in the microwave!

Quite a while the three of us stood there, captivated by this curious form of entertainment which is unlikely to win any awards anytime soon.

Until finally, the professor looked at his wife and me and said: "What are we doing?!" The spell broken, the three of us looked at one another, simultaneously burst into laughter and then returned to the dining room, to resume our conversation.

Postscript. Speaking of being easily entertained, in Street Gang, the encyclopedic chronicle of the television show Sesame Street, author Michael Davis tells us that in the mid-1960s, when children's television was still in its, uh, infancy, children who were up early in the morning would turn on the television and sit and stare at the test pattern until 7 a.m., when the daily programming would begin. If only they had neighbors with dirty driveways...

One-Time Smoker

I have several memories of the typical events that would take place in the mornings of my childhood. You know, the regular morning rituals, such as brushing your teeth, packing your schoolbag, eating toast and orange juice. And, of course, the sound reverberating throughout your entire house, of someone coughing without end. *Cough*, *cough*, *cough*. Yet another minute, and yet another. Horrible, raspy hacking sounds that come from the depths of the chest cavity. Culminating, just as often as not, in a gag reflex leading to actual cough-induced vomiting.

This was the morning ritual which my poor father had to go through, the effects of a three-pack-a-day habit. Unfiltered, I might add. As a consequence, throughout my life, the thought of smoking never once entered my mind.

I recall once asking a friend in my senior year of high school, out of idle curiosity, whether he smoked. His answer: "You know what I think makes more sense than smoking. To take a comb made out of steel, and comb my skin with it, so that the skin peels off and starts to bleed." His response graphically expresses how utterly untempting the notion of smoking was for me.

I'm reminded of a show I once saw on television decades ago. (How odd, and oddly pleasant, to be able to conjure up stories several decades old!) The show, "Scared Straight", was a documentary of a program being used on at-risk teenagers. These teenagers were on the road to a life of drugs and crime, and nobody was able to reach them.

The solution: these teenagers were put alone in a room with some of the more hardened specimens from the penitentiary. (I cannot recall whether the encounters were one-on-one or group settings.) Quite a sight to see these cocky, ornery teens suddenly swallow and become meek as lambs, in the face of the display of ferocity from those inmates. Scared Straight, all right.

My idea for a Scared Straight program: play for youths a video of the first 30 minutes of a typical day of a heavy smoker, in all its non-stop coughing, hacking, wheezing, gasping, and vomiting glory. Every day for a week. My prediction: the percentage of youths who take up smoking will plummet.

One day, a year out of high school, I saw a close friend of mine, who adheres to the proverbial straight and narrow path as closely as anyone I know, smoking. Well, land sakes alive! My shock was such that, if memory serves correctly, I literally snatched the cigarette right out of his mouth and crushed it, followed by quite a stern lecture.

Thus, for the first 45 years of my life, a lit cigarette had never entered my mouth. (I may have once put an unlit one in my mouth.) But two years ago, a friend of mine was over one evening, and we were relaxing and talking. She is a light smoker. I do not allow smoking in my home -- my friends know that they must retire to the balcony when they feel the need to indulge.

But for some reason, on this particular evening, I allowed her to light up in my living room. After a minute, I said to her: "Let me have a try." Her eyes wide-open in utter disbelief, she handed me her cigarette. I held it in my hands, and put it to my mouth. I drew upon it, inhaling deeply, thus, at the ripe age of 45, becoming a first-time smoker.

I loved it! What a rich, pleasing taste! And, much to my surprise, I did not cough in the least. For the next minute or so, I took several more drags on that cigarette, enjoying that satisfying aroma. (Tastes good -- like a cigarette should.) And then handed the cigarette back to her.

Since that evening nearly two years ago, I have not tried another cigarette, nor has the thought as much as crossed my mind. But something about the notion of never having even tried a cigarette made me feel like I was regarding cigarettes as more powerful than myself, as if in order to guarantee that I not fall under their spell, I must make sure to never so much as try one -- otherwise, I would become enslaved to them. Now, having tried one, I know that they are a pleasant indulgence, but one that I can easily choose to forgo.

Postscript. I am pleased to add that, about 20 years ago, my father gave up his decades-long habit of smoking, through the aid of the nicotine patch. Kudos, Dad.

My Best Is My Worst

Back in the early 90's, when I was living in Manhattan, a high school friend of mine was as well, and we would get together occasionally. At the time, he had a girlfriend, and the two of them were so close that I took it for granted that they would be together forever. Sadly, that was not the case.

I remember them telling me one evening that the very quality that initially attracts you to a romantic partner is the very same quality that will ultimately lead you to break up with them.

Now when they told this to me, it sounded like utter nonsense. In other words, if you are attracted to someone because they are kind, that means that you will ultimately break up with them because they are kind?! Completely illogical. I couldn't for the life of me fathom why they would say something like that.

It would take more than a decade and a half for me to finally comprehend the point they were expressing. And not only do I now wholeheartedly agree with it -- it has become one of the core axioms of my belief system.

But to me, the concept goes far beyond the context of relationships -- it goes to the very heart of what we as human beings are. In a nutshell: my best is my worst.

What I mean to say is that those very qualities that exist within us that we are so proud of, and that serve us so well is so many different situations, are the very same qualities that get us into trouble in other situations.

One person is gentle, loving, unconditionally accepting, completely uncritical. Wonderful, right? Absolutely. You'd like to meet that person, right? Positively! And yet, that same person may find themselves in a situation where they need to set boundaries because someone is taking advantage of them. Or they may be in a supervising position, and need to discipline someone for inappropriate conduct. Their tendency to express only positive things to others may make it extremely difficult for them to adopt a slightly more authoritative stance which is necessary in such situations.

It works in reverse, too. Our worst can suddenly become our best. I know a woman who is one of the most indifferent, apathetic people I've ever met. And yet, this nature of hers, which most of us would not put on a top 10 list of desirable character traits, serves her beautifully in at least two contexts: (a) She can be very forgiving following situations of conflict. Since she doesn't care about anything (I exaggerate, of course!), she simply doesn't hold grudges! It's all water off her back. (b) In situations of great stress, she is grace personified. Again, since she doesn't care about anything, nothing rattles her.

I've seen this concept in myself as well. I am an extremely focused person. In fact, hyper-focused would not be inaccurate. In my day-to-day work, my ability to focus on the heart of the issue and not get distracted by non-essential details allows me to clearly and logically analyze situations and deal with them systematically. However, this same tendency to focus can lead me to dwell on past events that would best be laid to rest.

I therefore think that in many respects, people do not have strengths and weaknesses. Rather, we have raw qualities, which may manifest themselves as assets in certain situations, and as liabilities in others. Therefore, if there is some aspect of ourselves which displeases us, attempting to remove that aspect from our being may not be the way to go -- for that very aspect may be extremely beneficial to us in other contexts. The more we recognize the dual nature of our basic tendencies, the better equipped we are to refine them, harness them, and to increasingly use them only in ways which will benefit us and others.

Braveheart

When I tell people here in Israel that I moved here from Canada, the second most frequent response I get is how brave it was of me to do so.

(The most frequent response, which I encounter with far greater frequency than the second most frequent response, is one of dumbfounded wonderment: whatever could have possessed me to leave a wonderful country like Canada to come here? I'm not sure whose surprise is greater: that of Israelis, that I willingly chose to move here, or my own surprise that Israelis should be so shocked that someone should find their country a desirable place to live.)

Whenever I am praised for this so-called bravery, I feel morally compelled to protest. My definition of bravery, I say, is when you are truly afraid of taking a certain course of action, but you perform it nevertheless. And this does not apply in the least to my act of moving to Israel.

For I was never, not even for a split-second, scared of moving here:

1. I had been a teacher for several years, and was looking for a career change, and so, was eager to begin a new chapter in my life.
2. I felt confident that Israel's extensive networking system would assist me in making the necessary connections to find gainful employment.
3. I was a single man, and so, I would not have the considerable pressure of supporting a family.
4. Finally, I had absolutely nothing to lose. Living in Israel had been a dream of mine for years. If things worked out, then I would be fulfilling my dream. If they did not, there would be absolutely nothing to prevent me from returning to my native country, and I would have the inner satisfaction of knowing that I had at least tried to live out my dream.

In contrast, take a person who has worked hard to build up a good business, is doing well, comfortable but not fabulously wealthy, supporting a family -- if such a person moves to Israel, he risks losing the lifestyle of security he has established in his country of origin: will he be able to re-create his business? will he find appropriate schooling for his children? and so on. Such a person is indeed a stouthearted man...

One day, about five years ago, the porch light of the house I was living in at the time burned out and I had to fix it. The ceiling of this porch was about 10 feet off the ground, so I had to use a small ladder to reach it.

Now I have had an intense fear of heights for as long as I can remember. See those men on the left? If you study the photo carefully, you will notice that I am conspicuously absent. Indeed, I get a greater sense of vertigo from merely looking at that photo than those men had from actually sitting on that ledge several hundred feet above the splat.

How vastly different are we from one another! Standing on the 3rd or 4th rung of that small ladder to change a light-bulb induced an infinitely more palpable sense of fear in me than lunching way up in the heavens did for these men. And yes, these men would absolutely not fit my definition of bravery. For the part of the brain which tells me to be petrified when looking down from a great height is quite obviously completely absent in theirs.

So if you wish to call me brave for moving to Israel, I will demur. But if you think me brave for changing a lightbulb on a 10-foot-high porch ceiling, I will graciously accept your compliment.

Jumps out of Bed at 6 in the Morning

I taught in a Jewish school in the Boston area for several years in the nineties. One of the families I became close with had a son in the high school who was on the school's basketball team. He was not very tall, but what he lacked in height, more than made up for in agility and ability.

One of the many kindnesses I received from this family was their allowing me to stay with them for a while one summer when I was between apartment leases. You certainly learn a lot from living with people! The members of this family were warm, interesting and down-to-earth. It was actually a wonderfully fun time for me. (And dare I hope for them as well?)

Anyway, early one morning, I heard someone stirring. It was the basketball athlete, lacing his running shoes. I looked at the clock and saw that it was 6 in the morning. I asked him what he was doing. He said he was getting dressed to go out and shoot some hoops in a local schoolyard. Why? Because he liked playing basketball.

Oh, did I love hearing that! To enjoy an activity so much that you enthusiastically spring out of bed at 6 in the morning on a vacation day to get busy at it. If you too, dear reader, have an interest that arouses your sense of excitement in this way, then you are blessed. And if you haven't yet discovered it, I truly wish that you do soon. Painting, skateboarding, writing, gourmet cooking, ballroom dancing, glass blowing or all of the above. Just try to not disturb the others who are still sleeping, when you get up at 6 in the morning. Although if you do by mistake, and they understand why you're up, I'm sure they'll share in your joy.

Cold Enough for Ya?

I immigrated -- or "made Aliyah" (literally, "to ascend"), as they say -- to Israel at the end of the year 2000, on the very day of my 37th birthday. Prior to that, I had lived virtually my entire life in North America, primarily in the city of Toronto, but spending also a decade in the U.S., in the cities of New York, Boston and Baltimore.

One of the things I truly appreciate about Israel is its warm climate.

Most of the ten years I've spent here have been in Beer Sheva, a mid-size (for Israel), modest, but nice, town in the Negev region. It is the quasi-official capital of the southern region of Israel, but actually, the distance from Beer Sheva to Eilat, located at the southern tip of Israel, is roughly equal to that of Beer Sheva to Metula, at Israel's northern border -- even though probably 90% of the population -- or more -- lives in the northern half.

(One is reminded of the fact that roughly 75% of Canada's population live within 100 miles of its southern border, meaning that the vast majority of the area of world's second-largest country is virtually unpopulated.)

Walking outside in Beer Sheva on a February day in shirt and pants -- without the need for any of the traditional winter accoutrements -- was something that I never ceased to derive pleasure from. What a delicious feeling of freedom!

That is not to say that Beer Sheva has no cold days. Far from it. And even on warm days, the temperature can drop quite precipitously in the late afternoon, so that the evenings and nights can be quite chilly indeed. And many people, myself included, get colds and so forth during the periods when the weather changes.

One of my years in the Negev region was spent in a lovely suburb of Beer Sheva called Meitar. And though it is but a 15-20 minute drive from Beer Sheva, the climate is very different. Meitar, you see, is (a) at a higher altitude, being geographically part of the Hebron hill region and (b) an extremely open place, so there is nothing to cut the winds down. Meitar is therefore noticeably colder than Beer Sheva. Every time I would visit Beer Sheva, I would immediately feel upon my arrival as if I had landed on a Caribbean island. In fact, I moved back to Beer Sheva from Meitar for precisely this reason.

After 9 years in the Beer Sheva environs, I decided to see what life would be like in a larger city, and so I moved to Jerusalem. The city is a jewel! I've heard it said that there are world travelers who consider Jerusalem among the most beautiful cities of the world, and I can see why. The city is encased in rich history. As I simply walk down the street, I often feel like I am in the middle of a large, fascinating, city-wide museum, each building an exhibit unto itself. Charming neighborhoods, places of historical and religious interest, juxtaposed with delightful modern areas with shops and cafés. All coated in the famous "Jerusalem stone".

One not insignificant drawback which Jerusalem has, at least for me, is its relatively (for Israel) cold climate. In the coldest months, I have the heat on practically 24/7. So, although Israel is much warmer than my native Toronto, cold weather has by no means been absent from my experience here.

In all of the 10 years I've lived in Israel, my only excursion thus far outside of its borders has been in the fall of 2008, for a wonderful occasion: my sister's wedding. I will never forget the moment I walked out of Toronto's Pearson International Airport that bright mid-September morning.

Are you familiar with former heavyweight boxing champion Mike Tyson? He exploded onto the boxing scene in the mid-1980s, and fought his way to, within two years of his professional debut, become the youngest world heavyweight champion. He would split his opponents as mercilessly as I split the infinitive "to become" in the previous sentence.

How dominant was he in those early years? Here is a partial list of the lengths of some of his earliest bouts, from 1985 alone:

1:47 [03/06/85] 0:52 [04/10/85] 0:39 [06/20/85] 1:05 [08/15/85] 0:39 [09/05/85] 1:28 [10/09/85]

0:37 [10/25/85] 0:54 [11/01/85] 1:17 [11/13/85] 1:19 [12/06/85] 0:50 [12/27/85]

Do you really need to know anything more than that to realize how utterly dominant he was in that era? 52 seconds? 39 seconds? How would you like to train for hours, day after day, for weeks on end, for a sporting event, only to be laid out flat in 39 seconds flat? Why, the entire fight can be summarized in three words: Ding! Wham! Splat! Watch some of those fights; they're all, of course, on youtube. It is quite amusing to watch some of Tyson's opponents bouncing around the ring before the match, all cock-of-the-walk, knowing that in about 65 seconds, they'd be horizontal.

I will never forget the moment I walked out of Toronto's Pearson International Airport that bright mid-September morning. As the electric doors slid aside, and I stepped into the Canadian outdoors for the first time in 8 years, wham! I was socked in the face by a Mike Tyson wallop. The coldest moment of the coldest night of the coldest year in the coldest region in Israel did not come anywhere close to this. A brutal gust of wind that, like an electric shock, suffuses through your entire body with its bitterness. Israeli cold weather is to this as the Little League is to the NFL. Compared to Canadian cold, Israeli cold is downright cute, like a little girl putting on her mommy's lipstick. And, mind you, this was a September morning! For the love of Pete, what would a January evening be like?

I probably won't find out anytime soon. In fact, one of these days, you just might find me on some place on the globe situated within 100 miles of the equator.

Dancing in The Moonlight

I lived with my parents until the age of twenty-four. My first situation living on my own was a two-bedroom apartment, shared with a roommate, in a building located about 2.5 miles from my parents' house. (To this day, they still live in that house, which they bought wa-a-a-ay back in 1967!)

To give you an idea of how much I had to learn about keeping a home, I will tell you that when my mother visited my apartment a week or two after I moved in, she noticed that I stored eggs in the food pantry. She gently explained to me that eggs need to be refrigerated...

One week, my parents invited my roommate and me to join them for the traditional Friday night dinner. Now my roommate and I were Sabbath observers, and this meant that although we could drive to my parents' house, we would not be able to drive back, because driving is not permitted during the Sabbath. So, after the meal, we had to walk back to our apartment.

I should point out that this was in the thick of a cold Canadian winter. So we bundled up pretty heavily: winter suit, boots, heavy winter coat, hats, gloves, scarves -- the whole nine yards, as they say. Maybe even thermal underwear. Outside: dark, cold, bitter wind, ground covered by a thick blanket of snow, fairly deserted.

The walk was well over an hour. Of course, after a few minutes, the body heats up, so it was not terribly unpleasant. But it was cold enough. My roommate and I were certainly both looking forward to the moment when we would be back indoors.

About 12 minutes away from our apartment building, we came to a major intersection. Ah, the home stretch! Soon, we will be in our toasty warm domicile! After we crossed the intersection, we passed by a row of shops and such, which were all closed.

All but one.

The one place that was open was a restaurant, mediterranean I believe, that I had never really noticed, but being the only place open on this dark and deserted night, it now caught my attention. But the vision I saw when I glanced inside made me literally stop in my tracks. Quite a large crowd of patrons, dining on what looked to be very fine cuisine, clearly having a grand old time.

But that was not all that caught my eye. For in the very center of the restaurant was a young, exotic, bejeweled woman, performing a belly dance. I stood, staring through the window, positively transfixed by her intoxicating grace and beauty. If ever a performance were deserving of the label "poetry in motion", this sumptuous exhibition was.

Part of the mystique of that moment was surely the sheer power of the contrast. For the past hour, I had been trudging along, bundled up, in a dark, cold, austere, lonely winter night. Then, all of the sudden, out of nowhere, boom! An oasis of warmth, community, life, culture, color, sensuality. Ascetics, meet aesthetics.

I am reminded of a scene from the movie The French Connection, both the movie and the scene being among my father's favorites. Two undercover NYC cops are staking out a group of men suspected of drug involvement. Two of the suspects enter an extremely fancy restaurant. For the next hour or two, the suspects are seated in the plush decor of the elegant restaurant, served one exquisite delicacy after another, while the two boys in blue watch them from across the street, standing outside in the bitter cold, wolfing down stale pizza and putrid coffee.

And speaking of contrasts, my tale has one more: that between my own hypnotized reaction to the belly dancer and my roommate's. Either my roommate was less allured by her charm than I, or his suffering from the cold and desire to extricate himself from it was more acute than mine. For after a minute, he indicated that he wished to continue homeward bound. A suggestion from him that we lie face-down in the snow would not have surprised me more, for I couldn't understand how anyone on earth could willingly tear themselves from imbibing this scene of comeliness. So I convinced him to wait a few moments. But a couple of minutes later, an insistent: "I want to go. Now." caused me to most reluctantly tear myself away.

Apparently, it had occurred to neither my roommate nor me to separate, so that he could continue home, while I continued to gaze upon my visual treasure. And it's just as well. I might still be there today.

Well, You Never Know...

In the early 90s, I lived in Manhattan for a couple of years. During part of that time, I had a position chanting the Torah in a Synagogue in the Chelsea district of Manhattan. The Synagogue was just a couple of minutes from Madison Square Garden, as well as the Fashion Institute of Technology, whose students seemed to be primarily young models. Indeed, one of the many pleasant aspects of attending that Synagogue was gazing upon the student body (pun wholeheartedly intended).

The Synagogue was known as the Fur Center Synagogue, after the neighborhood in which it was situated. Built in an earlier decade, it seated hundreds, even though, by the time of my tenure, typical attendance was  just about three dozen.

One of the reasons I always enjoyed praying at that Synagogue was that the congregants were such interesting, colorful, and diverse people. True individuals! One was a man in his seventies, who had fought with the partisans during World War II, while another was a man in his 40s, who was a Vietnam veteran. One was a pianist, and a group of us once went to hear him play at a piano bar. Another man, who came only a couple of times, was a "performance artist", and when a few of us went to see him perform, he burst onto the stage wearing nothing but underwear and a gas mask. Then there was the thirty-something couple who had been married in Central Park, which to me seemed so incredibly romantic -- in all senses of the word.

One of the many very fond memories I have of that Synagogue was the time we celebrated the holiday of Sukkoth there. A small Sukkah had been constructed in the alley outside the Synagogue, and several of us remained after services to eat there. Since this was not your typical Mister Rogers neighborhood, the local police on patrol would occasionally stop by to make sure all was okay. A warm, mutual friendship grew between us and one of the men in blue, a handsome, mustachioed Italian man in his thirties, to the extent that, a week later, he joined us as we danced during our celebration of the Simchat Torah festival.

One of the people with whom I became quite friendly was a woman in her 50s. I can still picture the two of us standing on a busy intersection in lower Manhattan one evening, after we had had dinner together at the Second Avenue Deli, passionately debating the existence of God. She was a very pleasant woman, always smiling, and always cheerful.

Her home was in the Village, comme on dit, a relatively short walk from the Synagogue. I was there only once, but the memory of that one visit is not likely to leave me anytime soon. For when I entered her apartment, I was alarmed by the vision that confronted me.

Dozens (hundreds?) of stacks of paper, approximately chest level, covered the entire space of her living room. She left a narrow empty path, in order to allow one to navigate from room to room. But by and large, her entire apartment was covered with these chest-high stacks of paper.

I understand that this is a not-unheard of phenomenon, but at the age of 26, I had certainly never seen anything remotely like this. I am actually reminded of the boiling lobster. For I've heard tell that a lobster is boiled alive thus: it is placed in a pot of tepid water, and the temperature is very gradually increased -- eventually, right up to the boiling point. But since the change is gradual, the lobster does not perceive the change in its environment, and stays put, right up to the bitter end (or tasty end, if one happens to be the one who has ordered said lobster). (Full disclosure: as someone who keeps Kosher, I have never sampled lobster, or other forms of sea food.)

So did the transformation of my friend's abode from a pleasant dwelling (which I must assume was its original state) to a pulp and paper warehouse proceed along the same lines? One wonders at what point my friend looked at her accumulating sheafs of paper and thought: "This won't do". And what thought process led her to the decision to continue adding stack to stack, until the apartment resembled one of those children's puzzles, where one has to trace a path in a maze from point A to point B.

I randomly picked up a sheet or two of paper from the top of one of the piles. I was truly curious as to what sort of papers my friend considered so terribly important that she would allow them to so completely disrupt her life. I cannot recall the precise contents of the sheets I looked at, but it seemed fairly clear that these papers (a) were several years old and (b) would not likely have any relevance at any point in the future.

When I asked my friend whether she really needed to keep these particular papers, her response was a nonchalant: "Well, you never know."

I later thought about this reaction. Given that my friend was obviously intensely attached to this motley collection of papers, one actually might have expected a far fiercer response, along the lines of:

Of course I need these papers! How dare you question my judgment! I did not ask for you to intrude into my personal, private affairs! I'll thank you to mind your own beeswax!

But no. Rather, a decidedly blasé: "Well, you never know". The more I reflect upon it, the more I find the complete and utter lack of conviction in her response très amusant. It seems to me analogous to a general being asked in battle whether his company should attempt to take a hill, and replying: "Uh, sure." Or a woman responding to a proposal of marriage with a: "Hmmm, all right."

A parting thought. I wonder if, on occasion, my friend would realize that she actually did need one of the papers lurking somewhere in those myriads. The ensuing scene would prove most interesting.