Asparagus is great
You know what you just ate
Odorific
and for some terrific
Each time you micturate

Today, my friends, is a milestone. Today, I have successfully made it one entire year!

Thank you, thank you very much!

”Good morning, y’all, and thanks for flying with us this morning. Listen up, OK? Cuz I got some important information to tell ya, and if you don’t pass the short quiz I’m gonna pass out afterwards, I’m gonna have ta go through it all again, and as sexy as my voice is, I know y’all don’t want that.”

With that, the thin, middle-aged woman with long, permed hair the color of auburn that can only come from a box, commences into the canned speech that anyone who has flown more than once in their life can say by heart. She ends her safety speech with the requisite reminder that it is illegal to smoke or tamper with the smoke detectors. ”Of course, if you really do need to smoke, just push your call button, and I’ll be happy to open the door and let ya smoke out on the wing. It’s a bit breezy out there, so hold onto your hat.” She laughs at her own joke even though it’s not funny; I cringe and sink my nails into my armrest; meanwhile, the little old lady covered in liver spots across the aisle from me laughs along with our flight attendant, as do many more people than I would expect.

I’m sitting at the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport on my way back from a business trip to Houston. Because I work for the government, I am bound by the travel rules and must fly on the designated contract carrier. I don’t get to travel too often, but frequently enough so that I have had an opportunity to sample the various airlines that fly the friendly skies. This particular trip, it may surprise you, is not on the airline you probably expect it to be given the witticism of the flight attendant who has tried her hardest to hide the fact that she is pushing 50 and lays claim to a beautiful double-wide somewhere in a tornado-prone area of the American south. Yet, it is clear that the flying paradigm is once again changing, and I can feel that shift as it happens.

Although many people say that air travel as we know it forever changed on September 11, 2001, the simple truth of the matter is that like all things, air travel is not immune to change and like any good business, it should adapt to suit the needs of its customers and to evolve as new technology and public interest dictates. Think about it. There once was a time when the stratosphere was the unique realm of the rich, powerful, and adventurous. Not too long after, it became affordable and accessible to the masses. At that time, delicious food was served on fine china with metal forks and knives. Drinks were consumed from crystal goblets. Not too long after, we were given barely edible, microwaved food in disposable containers. (Midwest Express brought back some of the romanticism of an earlier era by reintroducing real plates and glasses.) In the 1980s, the great and mighty, His Royal Highness, Savior of the American Way and Protector of All, President Ronald Wilson Reagan, deregulated the airlines and fired countless air traffic controllers. (How few of us recognized the irony when G.W. insisted that Washington National Airport be renamed Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport?) Then came Osama Bin Laden and his minion of morons. I remember a time when I could actually meet my loved ones at the gate as they disembarked. I remember a time when I could pack a carry-on and nothing else, secure in the knowledge that I would be able to shampoo my hair with shampoo from the bottle I brought with me. I remember a time when I didn’t wonder how people could take a plane down with bottled breast milk. I also fondly remember—in yet another ironic twist—the halcyon days when I didn’t have to pay $5 to eat on a plane. Oh, to have one of those disgusting, microwaved meals they used to give us.

The fact that we are no longer served meals aboard a flight has nothing to do with national security or terrorism. 9/11 caused a chain reaction that was, in reality, already waiting to happen. The dominos had been lined up and ready for someone to flick the first one since deregulation. With everyone afraid to travel in the aftermath of the worst terrorist attack on American soil, the airlines were forced into bankruptcy, and they did whatever they could to cut corners in an effort to stay aloft. The first to go, of course, was the succulent cuisine. Years later, after the companies settled down and things returned to a tenuous normality, CEOs and their bean counters realized that the only thing removing dinner did was boost revenue; while we poor folk in steerage may have griped, we continued to buy our tickets, and even paid ridiculous amounts for Pringles and granola bars. In all fairness to the airlines, it was smart business not to bring food back if it didn’t cause a loss in ticket sales. (I offer a suggestion to the major airlines: At the time of ticket sale, offer us a meal for $5, $10, even $20. If I’m already purchasing a $400 ticket, I’ll be much more content to add on another $20 at that moment than later, while I’m in the air.)

And that’s what it’s really all about: good business. As demands for certain services wax and wane, industry should adapt, as long as it doesn’t adversely affect the bottom line. Indeed, if it was to increase overall revenue, and a competitor appears to be profiting from it, why not absorb that business model into yours?

And that’s why we see this love-fest occurring on planes. It was bad enough when Southwest Airlines started taking liberties and talking to us like we were old chums, but now it seems that everyone is doing it. I have nothing personally against Southwest as a company. In fact, I’ve flown with them multiple times, and each time, I arrived safely at my destination. Only a few times were we ever significantly delayed. Yet, every time the flight attendants would get on the mic, I’d want to gouge out my eyes or poke a hole in my eardrum. (I sat next to a SWA pilot once, and he said that the first thing most SWA pilots did when they got into the cockpit was turn off the switch that allowed them to hear what was broadcast in the cabin. I felt vindicated.) I make no pretense that I’m not an elitist, nor do I pretend that I like people, so it probably comes as no surprise that I find this chit-chattiness particularly abhorrent.

I pay a lot of money to fly, and the last thing I want to be reminded of is that I’m trapped in a tin can at 36,000 feet. There’s no other way to describe it, but when that flight attendant gets on the mic and starts in with her “y’all”s or his “hey gang”s, they stress the fact that I am in fact little more than a captive audience. I am paying for their service, not their friendship. I don’t want to be chummy with them. I don’t want to be friends with them. In fact, I almost always bring a book and at least one crossword. Sadly, for the first ½ hour that I’m in the plane, I can’t read or work on the puzzle because the flight attendants are so busy gapping away on the mic (of course, they would say it’s “entertainment.” I say it’s odious drivel). I do bring my iPod, so I can plug in and disappear into a good sonata, quartet, or concerto, but again, I am deprived of this escape route because I am not allowed to listen to my iPod until we have reached a certain level (and the flight attendant is more than happy to, once again, get on the damn mic to let me know that approved electronic devices may now be used).

People don’t like formality these days. We live in a time when people wear ripped jeans and tee shirts to school, church, and even court. We no longer wear morning coats to breakfast or dinner jackets to supper. Within a generation or two, the esoteric knowledge of the ancient ways of crafting the For-in-Hand and Half- and Full-Windsor will be lost forever. Even in restaurants, we see this trend from formal to fraternal. How often do you look up from the menu only to see your server sitting across the table from you? In school, more and more students call their professors by their first names instead of Dr. So-and-So. Even the grocery store clerk wants to know how your day was, and too many of us will tell them, like they really care. Another clear indicator of this trend toward informality is on our buses, trains, and metros. How many of us have sat next to someone who is on their cell phone talking about topics that should be discussed only in the privacy of their homes: I’m talking about the lady who is discussing her Pap smear or the old man informing the world of the results of his colonoscopy.

I don’t think it’s too much to ask to be waited on, to be pampered, to be serviced. There are precious few places left in this country where we can truly be treated like we are someone important, and we, the customers, should be demanding a return to this sort of treatment. If I’m going to pay a ton of money for an airline ticket, a hotel room, or an expensive dinner, I feel that being served and treated like I’m a valued customer is part of the price of the ticket, room, or plate. I’m not asking that they should grovel and wash my feet, but a few more “yes, sir”s and “thank you, ma’am”s would increase the tip far more than “hey buddy”s and “fer sher”s could ever hope to.

I guess that I really shouldn't be surprised, then, that the men and women working in the airline industry see the trend toward informality and instead of walking upon the well trod path, they are blazing the trail, hacking away at pretence and stuffiness with their machetes of howdys and hiyas. It definitely seems to be working for Southwest Airlines, so why shouldn’t other airlines be incorporating this new, hip, fun business model into theirs?

When I was in graduate school, I dated a Catholic (with both a capital C and a lowercase one) girl. She gave me a book one year for a gift. It wasn’t just any book; it was a book she had read while she was still in high school. According to her, it was a book that changed her worldview and gave her insight into a topic she never expected to be interested in. Having attended Catholic school and grown up in a suburban Midwestern town, she knew very few Jews. In fact, when we met in 1996, I was the first real Jewish friend she had ever had. Fortunately, she was smart enough to know that we didn’t have horns or anything like that, but she still knew very little about the religion or the culture or the people. I am pleased to say that she is quite knowledgeable now, thanks in part to me, but also thanks in part to this book. Of course, that book was Leon Uris’s Exodus.

I dutifully read the book, and thought that it was very interesting. I must confess that I remember very little of the book 12+ years later. I do remember that I enjoyed it, and that I was glad that she had read it and understood a little better the importance to the Jews of a homeland, particularly after the Second World War and the atrocities that were afflicted upon European Jews. I am blessed that I was born in an era where anti-Semitism is at an historic low. True, there is still hate related crimes against the Jews, and, perhaps even worse, anti-Semitic sentiment still reigns, but fortunately, I have never really been personally exposed to serious anti-Semitism. I am also fortunate to have been born in the US, where arguably, I am more protected from anti-Semitism than almost anywhere else in the world. I also consider myself lucky to have been born in an era where the State of Israel has asserted her right to exist, and although too many people still die (on both sides), and there are still too many bombings, there isn’t war and the serious constant threat like from 1948 thru 1967. I have been blessed to have lived and toured Israel at a time when peace was the norm, and attacks were not…at least where I lived in Jerusalem. My friend SK may feel differently; she lived in the north and had to sit in her bomb shelter almost weekly.

I finally got around to watching Otto Preminger’s insanely long movie adaptation of Uris’s book (which was no slim novel itself). In a nutshell it was exactly what I expected. Bad acting, poor sound, obvious dubbing, and too many shadows of the cameraman (most obvious in the scene where Ari and Kitty kiss for the first time as they overlook the Valley of Jezreel). Nevertheless, it fascinated me to watch this epic unfold on my television (I can only imagine what it was like on the Big Screen). It amazed me how propagandist it was (was the book so much so as well?). How could anyone walk out of that movie and not say, “hell yea the Jews deserve their own land…and what’s with those awful Arabs? They were invited to live in peace and said no. F’ them. It’s their own fault.” Of course, the reality of the situation between the Jews and the Arabs was (and still is) much more complicated than Otto made it out to be, and there were other, centuries old forces at play.

I’m not ashamed to say that I got caught up in the moment of the movie, and I kept thinking, how exciting and romantic it would have been to be living back then, just before the birth of a nation. To be among the first generation who created a fertile, vibrant country out of sand and dust. It reminded me of what the Jewish people had to go through to get the world to have any sympathy whatsoever to allow the partition to happen, and what these same people had to go through in order to survive in an arid land with enemies on all sides. Just like the American experiment has baffled economists and historians, so, too, has the survival of Israel baffled all the naysayers. Logically, the country shouldn’t have survived the War of Independence, let alone any of the other wars. And yet, somehow it has. We could talk about God’s covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. We could talk about God’s promise that Jerusalem would never fall. We could talk about a myriad other explanations, but no matter what, the bottom line is that the State of Israel did survive, and she has prospered.

I think that the part of all of this that has been gnawing at me lately is that back then, I think everyone knew what they were fighting for. Ari claims to have dynamite strapped to the Exodus’s engines. If the British try to take the ship, he will detonate it, killing every Jewish man, woman, and child, as well as the British soldiers. When the Haganah commander finally decides that all children under 13 must return to Cypress to ensure their survival, he is reprimanded by those very children’s mothers. They would rather see their children die struggling to reach Palestine, then die behind barbed wire like some caged animal. I have heard stories that the #1 bus in Jerusalem (which takes you from town right to the Western Wall in the Old City) used to have grenades regularly lobbed into it. Back then, so the stories go, someone would immediately throw themselves upon it, sacrificing themselves to protect the rest of the bus. There’s another story I’ve been told about a soldier during the War of Independence. He was part of a demolition crew, and they were ordered to destroy a key bridge, lest the Arabs use it to get their forces across. After the explosives were set, it was discovered they had no detonators left. Knowing full well the importance of destroying the bridge, the soldier stayed behind. After giving his unit enough time to get to safety, he ignited the dynamite by hand, taking out the bridge, and himself with it. I’m not so sure that modern Israel has this sense anymore.

The Survivors—those who lived to tell the horrors of Auschwitz, Dachau, Buchenwald, and the other concentration camps—are dying. There are only a handful left. Likewise, those still alive who fought in the Haganah, the Palmach, and the Irgun are also growing fewer and fewer. The old soldiers who created the Israeli Defense Forces, the army that every other army studied because they did the impossible on a daily basis have all long since retired. The last war in Lebanon is an example of how things have changed in Israel. Ignoring America’s strong hand in the goings-on in that war for a moment, it was still clear that IDF command were at a loss of how to organize and lead a major war. This is not necessarily their fault, and ironically, it can be seen as a good thing: while almost every IDF soldier has seen some sort of combat, none, until the last war in Lebanon, had actually been to war. Israel’s current army is a mere shadow of the once fearsome army that broke the rules and impressed even its bitterest enemies. People today have forgotten what their fathers and grandfathers fought for.

This is not an argument about land for peace or anything like that. This is an argument of patriotism, of familiarity, of comfort. Israel is now 60. By strict definition, that is 2 generations. People of the current generation have forgotten what it’s like to struggle daily for Israel’s very existence. I don’t mean to negate or diminish the current situation of suicide bombers and rocket attacks from Gaza, but I would argue that this is not the same as having to stand guard 24 hours a day so that your kibbutz isn’t ambushed by the enemy. With all due respect to those who have lost loved ones in recent times, today is very peaceful compared to 60 years ago. And this has created a generation that has taken Israel’s existence for granted. Today, no one fights for Israel’s right to exist, or for its right to exist as one piece of land and not two states. Granted, there are still extremist Arab groups that still want to see the destruction of the Jewish State, but with the Jordanian and Egyptian peace accords and the official pacts, accords, and talks with the Palestinian Authority, it is becoming much more rhetorical than literal.

I am a hopeless romantic, always looking for an adventure and excitement. As with most things in my life, I was born too late. I doubt that I will ever find myself telling my grandchildren stories that grandchildren and even great grandchildren today hear from their grand- and great grandparents about what it was like in the late 1940s in Israel. I worry that I might actually have the opportunity. I believe that now is the time for the IDF to look at how it operated back then and learn from itself. If there is a 2 State agreement, I am concerned that our biggest fears will be realized and that there will be another war for independence. It took the United States 2 wars to convince the United Kingdom that we were serious about severing ties with the Empire, and it seems likely that Israel, too, will need to once again demonstrate her resolve to survive in the inhospitable climate in which she resides. Unlike the US, every war that Israel has fought has been for her very existence and independence, and a future one will be no different.

I pray that there won’t be, but, God forbid, if there is another Arab-Israel war, I pray that the old attitudes and feelings of pride will return to the Jewish people, and they will recognize and understand what they are saying as they sing HaTikvah:

I really like the concept of anthropomorphization. Sure, I understand why vegetarians and vegans get bent out of shape when they see a pig clad in chef’s hat and apron, waving a hoof, and smiling invitingly for you to enter Bob’s B*B*Q. The idea of humanizing dinner is not incredibly appealing, even to a die-hard meat eater like me. I have no problem with my meal having been a living, breathing animal not too terribly long before it was plated for me (and the less that interval, the better, for I do love a rare filet mignon or a nice juicy, medium-rare rib-eye), but I would prefer not to be reminded during that short interval that my lamb chop was crying “baa” a short time ago.

Anthropomorphization is not a new thing, nor is it any wonder it’s been around forever. Think about our ancestors. They had no science, no technology, not even Wikipedia to get answers about why the sun rises and sets, why the tides ebb and flow, or why the sky is blue. In an attempt to answer these and other questions, and to help make sense of the universe in which they lived, they created myths and lore to explain things. They created gods who not only looked like human beings (when they weren’t disguised as amorous geese or other such things), but also personified human idiosyncrasies, human quirks, and human scruples. It helped to humanize the gods so as not to be so afraid of them. It also brought godliness closer to humanity. It is no coincidence that with the creation of monotheism and the use of religion as a form of social control also came the commandments against creating idols and graven images. These monotheistic religions were not about bringing God closer to us, but bringing us closer to God. If God had human features, we would have nothing to look up to or strive to be like. Nevertheless, mere mortals that we are, we still give some human attributes to God. In the Torah, God is seen as a father figure, slow to anger, but swift to mete out punishment and justice. When Moses is allowed a glimpse of God, he sees the back of the Almighty’s very human-looking head. Later, Christians anthropomorphized God in the form of Jesus. As the Son of God he is flesh and blood, and does not engender true godliness until his death, resurrection, and Ascension. Yet, even as a man, he is unlike other humans in that he still possesses God-like features, viz.: his ability to walk on water, turn water into wine, and raise Lazarus from the dead, among many others. (God-like perhaps, but each of his miracles had been performed by mortals in the Old Testament, even his greatest miracle of all, ascension: both Enoch [“And Enoch walked with God, and he was not; for God took him.” (Gen. 5:24)] and Elijah [“and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven..” (2 Kings 2:11)] ascend.) Even today, there is as little anthropomorphization within the Abrahamic religions as possible, with Jews and Muslims refusing to create any sort of image of God, and Christians using the image of Jesus upon the cross as a reminder, rather than an idol.

Yet in other aspects of our lives, we continue to anthropomorphize all sorts of things, not just Bob’s mascot at his restaurant. How many of us have named our cars (or worse yet, our genitals)? The next time you walk to your automobile, look at it from the front: headlights are the eyes, windshield the forehead, and side mirrors the ears (I had a car we called Van Gogh because the right-side mirror had been clipped). Have you ever looked into the rear- or side-view mirror and seen a semi hunkering down on you? Doesn’t it sort of look like a hunchback? And it’s not just the lights/eyes or mirrors/ears. Let’s say that you are on your way back to your vehicle after a long day of shopping at a crowded mall. Sure enough, there are 4 cars in a row, all the same make, model, and color as yours. (My mom is right that certain makes and models travel together: you see a rookery of T-Birds soaring down the highway, a herd of Impalas grazing at the light, a murder of Maseratis flying around the race track, and even a shrewdness of Civics lounging in the parking lot.) Yet, even without looking at the license plate, you can somehow identify your car. Why? It’s because cars have personalities. There is something unique and utterly indescribable that allows you to identify your car from all the others sitting next to it. That is anthropomorphization at its finest.

Like cars, computers, too, have their own personalities. Many times I feel that like me, my computer has not yet had enough caffeine when I start it up. It runs sluggish and angrily…especially on Monday mornings. My computer at home doesn’t like it when I “wake it” from “sleep mode” (I have a Mac, and even the indicator is anthropomorphized: there is a light on the front that, when in sleep mode, glows brighter and dimmer, mimicking the deep, steady breathing of a sleeping person. I thank God every night that my computer doesn’t have a deviated septum). We often complain that our computers are acting up, much like we do about our children. After all, isn’t a computer akin to a child?

The other day, a colleague was having problems with her computer. I overheard the tech at her desk, and it was rather embarrassing. I felt as though I was intruding on something intimate, private; as if I’d walked into a gynecological or prostate exam. I think I may have even blushed. His questions were very clinical: “Has your computer been acting up?”, “Has it been running slowly or sluggishly?”, “Have you noticed any weird emails lately?”, “Have you noticed any attachments that shouldn’t be there?”, “Has it been spitting out incomprehensible code lately?”, “Hmmm, it sounds like it might have a virus.” I was wondering if he was going to pull out a syringe and inject it with some antibiotic. There you go little computer, you’re all better…here’s a lollypop.

It makes sense that we try to humanize things. We are human after all, and it’s the only lens we have to view the world. It is always easier to comprehend things when we relate it to something we know, and many times we do this unconsciously (it’s quite intentional that most ads for watches show the time as 10:10—a smile—and rarely 8:20, a frown). Name your car, pet and caress your computer as you fire it up in the morning so it won’t be persnickety, but don’t ever forget that it’s not really a person. If we continued to see the moon as Artemis riding a silver chariot across the night sky and moonlight as her silver arrows raining down on us, then we never would have landed there in 1969. As science answers more and more questions, will we anthropomorphize less, or will we always see a human being in every inanimate object we use?

a friend of mine sent me this link...I like it, but it scares the shit out of me what I've actually been looking at on the Internet. I guess it's true that you just can't trust what you see:

http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1758889/

I'm cleaning out my email, and I came across this joke a friend of mine sent me yonks ago. Enjoy:

Two Scots, Archie and Jock, are sitting in the pub discussing Jock's forthcoming wedding.

"Ach, it's all going grand," says Jock. "I've got everything organised already: the flowers, the church, the cars, the reception, the rings, the minister, even ma stag night."

Archie nods approvingly.

"Heavens, I've even bought a kilt to be married in!" continues Jock.

"A kilt?" exclaims Archie, "That's braw, you'll look pure smart in that! What's the tartan?"

"Och," says Jock, "I'd imagine she'll be in white..."

I just finished reading A Pigeon and a Boy, by Meir Shalev. Shalev is the Sabra’s favorite author, so when we heard that he was speaking at the DCJCC a few months ago, we went to hear him. Afterwards, they were selling his book, and he was signing autographs. So, even though it was still a few months to Chanukah, and even though I was standing there, the Sabra bought me the book (in English, by the way) for my Chanukah present, and had Mr. Shalev sign it (also in English). I was a little surprised by how aloof he was while we were getting the book signed. The Sabra told him (in Hebrew) that he was her favorite author and that she had read every book he has written; she was buying this one for me so she could introduce me to him. He said, in sum (and in English), “thanks,” and pushed the book back to us. He did smile, so maybe he’s just a moody artist.

Superficially, the book is about Yair who is frustrated with his life and decides to build a home for himself. He is a tour guide, and while ferrying around some American dignitaries, he discovers that one had served in the Palmach, and had fought with a young pigeon handler nicknamed the Baby. Half the book is devoted to telling the love story of the Baby and the Girl, while the other half deals with Yair’s life, his estrangement from his American wife, Liora, and his subsequent love affair with “his contractor who is a woman,” whom he has loved from afar since they were young children. Obviously, the two stories are intertwined, but I will leave it to you to read the book to discover the story.

According to Shalev, the idea of the book came to him as he and his wife were driving to their new home that they were building, and he decided then and there that he wanted to tell the story of building a home. He described in detail, towards the end of the book, Yair’s journey from Tel Aviv to his new home, and it is almost word for word with how Shalev described the journey he and his wife took to their new home when he revealed to her that he intended to write the book.

The problem with all translations is that it is difficult to tell how much of the poetry and beauty in the choice of words strung together to form sentences are the original author’s and how much are the translator’s. Shalev has been called the Israeli Gabriel García Márquez, and after reading the book it is understandable. He paints his canvas with the same pigments that Márquez uses: the muted greens of a feminine voice, the bold violets of love, and the stark reds of hatred. Likewise, he uses the brushes of sarcasm, innuendo, sadness, and depression. And, again like Márquez, there is clear evidence of broad strokes of humor throughout, albeit with the hue of bittersweetness. At any given point throughout the story, you find yourself smirking or laughing aloud as your eyes water and that uncomfortable lump in your throat prevents you from swallowing properly.

Like a Vonnegut novel, there wasn’t much of a plot in A Pigeon and a Boy, but unlike Vonnegut, Shalev keeps your interested in his characters. You want to read more about their memories, about their lives, about their fears, and about their dreams. I would argue that there is a little Yair in all of us, and that is what makes the character so universal. No matter who you are, there are skeletons in your closet; for some those bones will haunt, for others, they are merely the remains of the past. Yair finds a home of his own, one with empty closets, one where he can start afresh, and that is not too different from anyone else. We all dream of starting over and starting fresh.

And therein lies the problems I have with Shalev’s book. It is not actually with his book per se, but with the genre in general. I do not enjoy watching—or even reading, but less so with books—horror films. It is not that I don’t appreciate the skills of the authors, or the talents of the makeup artists, or even the skills displayed by the actors. No, it is much simpler. I don’t like to be scared. There are so many things in life that already scare me, I don’t want to see my fears made manifest on the Silver Screen. If I am going to the movies or to read a book, it is for escape, to escape from the fears and worries and concerns that I face every waking (and sometimes sleeping) moment. This is why I prefer comedies and action and adventure films. For an hour and a half I can escape into a world of make-believe where some unimportant average shmoe (like me) can rise up and save the damsel in distress/country/planet/galaxy/universe. So, too, it is with books that are sad. A friend of mine would say that being sad is wonderful sometimes and that it’s good and cathartic to cry. I agree, but these are not the feelings that I look forward to on grey, rainy days, as I curl up on the couch with a book and hot cuppa. Like fear, there is enough sadness in my life, and especially on wet, dark days, that I do not want to read about misery and dysphoria. I prefer to read something that will make he happy, smile, and even laugh. I like to laugh.

There are, of course, exceptions to this reticence of mine to frolic in the River Melancholia, and when the mood hits me to sail upon her warm, inviting waters, a book like A Pigeon and a Boy is the perfect vessel.

Here we go. New Year’s Eve and Day have come and gone, and now it’s time to get down to business with my New Year’s Resolutions. Below are all my resolutions, in no particular order, for 2008. Let’s see how many I actually do:

• Buy a new suit
• Cook more, eat out less
• Find a new job
• Finish my 10 year old article
• Get angry less
• Get back to doing research
• Go to the Gym
• Keep "It" up for another year
• Learn a new language
• Lose 30 pounds
• Make a new friend
• Read a classic
• Start my book
• Take a class
• Take more pictures
• Tick off something else on my “Things to Do before I Die” list
• Travel to a country I’ve never been to before

When I was little, I always wanted to go to my father’s work. He was a career civil servant, and he never felt that it was appropriate taking children to his place of employment. Of course, this always made me very sad. I wanted so much to be with him, to spend time with him, and it hurt to think that he didn’t want to share his time at work with me. Likewise, he never wanted us to call him at work unless it was an emergency. This, too, was not a pleasant feeling. Why? How could such a wonderful, loving father as mine not want to be with his son? Not want to talk to his son?

In all fairness to posterity, I must confess that I did get to go see his office on rare occasions, and from the span of 20-odd years, my limited memory recalls that my father’s desk was by a window. He had a flat desk with papers and books piled high. On the right-hand side, across from the window, was a long return that was rounded at the end. The other important feature that I can recall from the mist of memory is that the walls of his office didn’t reach the ceiling. How weird I thought that was. I didn’t know from cubes and open space layouts at that time.

Now, as a civil servant myself working in a cube in an open space layout, I understand that it wasn’t that my father didn’t love me or that he didn’t want to talk to me, but rather, he didn’t think it was appropriate for children to be in a space that would disturb others. He didn’t like to talk on the phone about personal things because there was no privacy. I feel like I owe him an apology.

Today, thanks to the cube environment, it all became clear to me that this was the truth of the matter. The woman in the cube on one side of me has her daughter here. This daughter has not yet learned inside and outside voice and talks entirely too loudly. I think it’s wonderful that she has such a creative mind, but a grown-up office is not the place for her to express her creativity or bang on the desk or run up and down the hall or run into and out of other people’s cubes.

I should mention that this disrespect for others working so closely together is not limited to children who don’t know any better (indeed, the child’s mother should have known better than to bring the child in the first place). The odious woman on the other side of me is on a teleconference and is using her speakerphone. When I politely asked her to take it off of speakerphone because it was disturbing me, she said that she was on a conference call. I said I understood that, but it was still a distraction to others in the office. She said, “I’m going to go ahead and leave it on speaker.”

In the immortal words of Jar Jar Binks: “How wude!”