THE TYGRRRR EXPRESS

For those who know, I recently descended upon the nation’s capital, Washington, DC. I am as thrilled to be back in Los Angeles as DC was to get rid of me.

I had a plan in place. A 4pm flight would have gotten me to DC just before midnight. The rental car company is usually the least complicated aspect of my trips, allowing me to arrive around 1am at the DC apartment of the DC Vixen. The DC Vixen is a republican Jewish brunette, but I am happily involved with the Chicago Cannonball. At 1am, the DC Vixen had what any man in that situation would desire…a couch to sleep on and a warm shower in the morning. My meetings at the White House were supposedly to begin at 9am, giving me a good 7 hours of sleep. I prefer 14, but 7 would have to suffice.

Unfortunately, not everything in this world that is American is set up to allow plans to function properly. While I try to consider myself patriotic, I do not blindly follow my nation. I believe in America, but nothing bothers me more than something that claims to be American, and yet acts unamerican. I was the victim of the worst kind of American.

Yes, I am referring to that bastion of worthlessness, American Airlines. I detest flying them. If I ever had a positive experience flying them, I was too young to remember it. Although United is a close second, American stands alone at the bottom. In an industry as contemptible as the airline industry, that says a lot.

I have said on many occasions that I worship at the altar of big business. Therefore, if you are a big business, and I dislike you, then nobody in America likes you. If you are the worst in an industry I dislike, then you should quit. Nevertheless, American Airlines did not quit entirely. They just acted like they did, which led to a four hour delay of my flight. I did manage to get a whole row to myself, and thankfully I sleep very well on planes. Even American could not bother me while I was asleep.

Before taking off, I called the DC Vixen and let her know that I was arriving at 4am instead of 1am. She let me know, sweet angel that she is, that I was not going to be arriving at her place at that hour. I am still shocked to this day knowing how many women sleep comfortably without me showing up. I asked her if I could just drop by her place and use her shower. Unfortunately, she wakes up at 5:45am and leave at 6:30am. I asked if I could use her shower at 5am. She reminded me that she is not a morning person, and this was not going to work.

She did offer me a suggestion that actually seemed feasible at the time. I should just go straight to the hotel that was having the conference, and use the shower in their gym. I have to admit I did not think of that. I arrived at the hotelat 4:30am.

Just before reaching the hotel, I noticed that one area had a ton of security and do not enter signs. I needed to turn my car around, and on more than one occasion even high security areas would allow me to enter, make a u-turn, loop around, and promptly exit, so I would be headed in the right direction. Yet this place seemed like a fortress. I was curious as to what could be so special that I could not make a simple u-turn without enduring a conflict that I would not survive.

I looked up, and realized I was at the White House. Ok, fine. The extra security was merited. I turned my car around in the middle of the street, although there was no traffic at 4:30am. I pulled up to the hotel, and looked for the gym.

The Hotel was the St. Regis. For those who ever want to brag that they stayed in the hotel right next to the White House, it only costs $800 per night. For $700 a night less than that, a Courtyard Marriott has a comfortable bed and a tv set with enough channels to make life peaceful.

Looking at this hotel, I kept thinking that it looked like the type of place where people like Eliot Spitzer and Ted Kennedy kept their girlfriends. It is located on K Street, which is where all the lobbyists hang out. As much as I love politics, being that close to everything made me want to give myself a good scrubbing. Then again, it could have been the grime of being on a plane all night that gave me that feeling.

The gym was locked. Only guests were allowed to use the facilities. This hotel was not about to make an exception. I explained that while I was not staying at the hotel, I was attending the conference. They stated that if I wanted to rent a room, I could. When they quoted the $800 price, I had the concierge help me find my eyeballs on the floor. I popped them back in, and explained to them that I only really needed a bed for 4 hours, and that I knew they did not do discounts in such a ritzy area. To my surprise, they were willing to do a partial stay for only $565. Given these prices, I can see why Spitzer’s call girl charged so much. She lived in one expensive town.

Although I was not permitted to use the gym for a shower, I was allowed to use the bathroom. I completely missed the normal bathroom and wandered into a private bathroom that was bigger than my first dorm room in college. The napkins to wipe hands with were big, and they were thick. They were thick as…well…towels.

Yes, Skid Row had met the White House. I locked the door, stripped down, and used the sink to take a shower. Thankfully it was 4:30am, and nobody was awake. The lather from the hand soap was rich enough, and the sink faucets had water that was just lukewarm enough. I managed to lather, rinse, and dry off, and even have time to brush my teeth, hoping that the hotel management would not find out. A housecleaning lady did come by, but thankfully did not knock on the door. Before changing into my suit, I had to dry the floor. Whatever material is used to make those hotel napkins is a most impressive substance.

There is nothing like the feel of a nice suit over a body that has had an inadequate shower and most likely an even less adequate soap removal. Nevertheless, given how badly Washington reeks, the worst I could do was fit in.

It was now 5am, and the concierge told me I was welcome to read the paper, but sleeping in the lobby was not permitted. The guy seemed to empathize with my situation, but I know he would have gotten in trouble had other hotel guests seen a vagrant in the lobby. Granted I was quite the well dressed vagabond in my suit and patriotic American flag necktie, but putting lipstick on a pig doesn’t make it a gazelle. I definitely did not look my Wednesday best.

I went to the breakfast room, accepted a couple of complimentary newspapers, and found a chair on the other side of a divider that was obstructed from view. The chair was facing the outdoors, so that my back was to the public. It looked like I was reading the paper. I fell asleep in the chair, all the while aware that more than one episode of “Murder, She Wrote” had an episode where somebody spun aound a chair to find a dead guy sitting in it. In at least one case, the wrong guy was killed. Why can’t killers look and make sure that the right person is being targeted? Besides, at that moment the chair would have been a bigger loss to the hotel than me if anything had happened. It was an expensive chair.

After some more intermittent sleep, the meetings actually started at 10am instead of 9am. As someone who does not drink alcohol, I was surprised to see Bloody Mary’s being served. I truly was in a town filled with Kennedys. It turns out they were virgin drinks, which allowed me to try the Bloody Mary for the first time. They were miniatures, and I had 3 or 4 of them. Man, I hope they were non-alcoholic. Given that I was staggering due to exhaustion, I assume the drinks were virgin drinks because I was not any less coherent or dextrous after consuming them.

Despite burning eyes and searing exhaustion, I made it through the meetings. I departed for Dulles Airport, which might be one of the worst ones in the nation. American Airlines actually almost left on time, and again I had a whole row to myself.

Yes Dorothy, there truly is no place like home. My shower is mine, and nobody can ban me from using it. Sure, the building could have turned off the water for maintenance, but I would have just at that point killed an innocent bystander and taken their restroom. Or I would have sulked and accepted it, or something inbetween.

I still love politics, but DC is not for me. In the spirit of Randy Newman, all I can say is that I love LA.

eric

For those of you wondering how long it would take for me to just simply recycle columns, the answer is not “every single day.” However, to come up with an original column every year for a holiday that my mother simply does not care about would be pointless. I could write about something else, but then others would ask why I neglect my mother.

With that, I present last year’s column “Dear Mom, Happy Useless Symbolic Holiday.” Updates to the column are solely to create the illusion of effort.

Oh, and I called my mom yesterday in case I were to accidentally forget today.

For those who have been reading the Tygrrrr Express more often than never, you have learned that there are certain things I just don’t talk about.

I am not a fan of vulgarity or crudity. I just think a certain amount of dignity and decorum should exist.

Former Georgia Governor Zell Miller goes into the topic in depth in his book “Deficit of Decency.”

It still baffles me that people talk about stuff that just should not be discussed.

I don’t even like to say some words.

When women are going through their emotional thingie, I don’t want to hear about. I don’t want descriptions, or visuals, or any other Powerpoint presentation on what they are going through. I don’t even want to hear the words. An ex-girlfriend of mine used to say she had a stomachache. I was in college, I was naive, and I got her some tylenol. I never found out until one of her friends told me exactly what the problem was. It was a woman thing, not an ordinary stomachache. My girlfriend at the time was upset that somebody else told me, because she was a private person. I also did not want to know.

I also have anxieties about losing my appendages. When women are sitting around talking about what they would do to a man if he cheated, I don’t want to hear it. I once walked in on a “war council” of six women, and one of them held up a scissors and said, “We’re talking about (male appendage), want to join us?” I ran out of the room in fear. To this day the movie “War of the Roses” creeps me out because of that one scene.

One time the girlfriend of one of my closest friends revealed an intimate sexual detail of her relationship with him. She told me that she felt comfortable telling me because she knew how close he and I were, and that she knew I already knew. He and I were, and to this day are, close. We also never talk about that stuff. He was mad at me for hearing it when I wanted to hear it less than he wanted it told.

The relationships I have with my friends are not shallow. Some of those relationships run very deep. Nevertheless, boundaries exist. Many of them are unspoken, because they should not have to be spoken.

It is for this and other reasons I do not like to spend my weekends in Victoria’s Secret.

https://tygrrrrexpress.com/2008/03/entering-victorias-secret/

One friend I have known since age 11 made the mistake of interacting with a woman that had some depressing qualities, one of which was being a blabbermouth.

My friend was refusing to speak to her, and she wanted me to talk to him. She thought that over two decades of friendship gave me the latitude to get involved in his love life. It didn’t. I kept telling her that her problem was not my business, and that her business was not my problem. I also told her that as soon as I tried to talk to my friend, he would say, “I don’t want to talk about it.” I told her that the reason my friendship with him worked so well is because we don’t talk about stuff. We leave each other alone.

She kept badgering me, so I called him. The conversation was ridiculous.

Eric: “Listen, I need to talk about something. As soon as I start talking about, you are going to snap at me and say, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Well before you do, I don’t want to talk about it either, but the only reason I am bringing it up is because somebody begged me to talk to you about it, and I promised them I would talk to you about it.”

Friend: “What is it?”

Eric: “I was at a party and I ran into (name redacted).”

Friend: “I don’t want to talk about!”

Eric: “That’s what I said! She wouldn’t listen to me. She talks about stuff.”

Friend: “We never talk about stuff. That’s why we get along.”

Eric: “I told her that. She would not listen. She insisted you would talk about it.”

Friend: “Well I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eric: “Ok, good. Does this conversation count as talking about it?”

Friend: “Yes it does.”

Eric: “Ok, so if she comes back to me, I can say with honesty that we talked about it.”

Friend: “Yes, we talked about it.”

Eric: “Good, I’m glad we talked about it, and I’m glad we’re done talking about it.”

Friend: “Me too. So what’s up?”

Eric: “Nothing much. You?”

Friend: “Nothing much man. Give me a call some time.”

Eric: “Yeah, it was great talking to you bro. Take care.”

Yet if dealing with that woman he did not want to discuss was awkward, another aspect of life is excrutiatingly painful.

I don’t know why I get so uncomfortable about normal bodily functions, but why can’t people just shut up about it?

When I tell my secretary that I am “stepping way for a few minutes,” or “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she either nods her head or says “ok.” That’s it. The “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” policy works. Neither one of us will benefit in any way from knowing.

One friend of mine, a good guy, for some reason feels the need to say things like, “There is nothing in the world like a terrific…” I am like, “Dude, I don’t to hear it.” I have admonished him more than once. It’s not conversation I have any desire to engage in.

My office building has six floors. My company only works on the sixth floor. There is a cafeteria on the third floor. Therefore, there are no reasons except one to be on half of the floors in the building.

What is it about guys that they have to give each other a hard time about something natural that everybody does?

When you are 14 years old, saying, “Mention my name, get a good seat,” is funny. Adults should just look the other way.

Once I was getting off at the fourth floor and a pretty woman who knew me asked why I was on the fourth floor, and she asked if my company expanded. I just said, “We are everywhere my dear.” I don’t know why I had to answer that question, but the truthful answer made me uncomfortable.

I also carry a notepad with me that hides the newspaper. Every guy brings a newspaper, but waving it proudly is just gross. By having my legal pad I look like I am contemplating work. I am sure everyone knows, but that is me.

I can’t be on the sixth floor. One of my colleagues might be there. The only option is the third floor. When a coworker sees me I just make a remark like, “off to get a beverage.” That way they think I am going to the cafeteria. I even walk towards the cafeteria until the elevator shuts.

Occasionally it is amusing, when everybody has to go at the same time, and guys are passing each other in the elevator looknig for an empty floor. Then it is ok, because everybody knows what everybody is doing. Of course the boss wants to know why it takes 30 minutes to handle a bodily function, when the truth is 10-15 minutes is spent trying to find a floor.

Also, if you are in there when I walk in, and you see me…leave. I don’t want you there. I need peace and quiet. I don’t want you, whose life revolves around me, telling everybody that you heard or saw me, and what happened. Also, if one of us accidentally walks in on the other one because the door did not lock properly, never ever discuss it. It never happened, and I saw nothing. Sheesh!

One office I worked in had a cool guy who brought the newspaper into work every day. The sports section was left in the “reading room” for everybody, and nobody was to remove it. I once asked him out loud where the sports section was, and he yelled, “Ok, who removed the sports section from the reading room?”

The guy who did it was less embarrassed about taking the property out of the reading room than of having to be in there to begin with. When one of the women said, “That is so gross,” like she had never had a stomach eruption before, it reaffirmed why guys fear being caught having to go. My coworker then announced that when nobody was looking, whoever took it should just put it back. That helped matters, but now everybody knew I had to go.

One ex-girlfriend from three years ago had a studio apartment. It was a nightmare. We would go to sleep, and in the morning I would have a stomachache from eating too much the night before. My place is a two bedroom, two bathroom. No problem. Her studio apartment was small. I did what any paranoid guy would do. I would drive home by myself.

Yes, we lost many hours together because I did not stay over during the day. Thank heavens the Chicago Cannonball has a bathroom that is far away from the bedroom.

The point is, men are disgusting creatures, and even though we have our vulgar moments, that does not mean it is necessary to inflict them upon others.

Anyway, I have to take care of something.

It is not your business. Don’t ask me about it, leave me alone, and don’t talk to me about it afterwards.

Don’t even know about it. Everybody does it, but they don’t have to talk about it.

My legal pad has plenty of writing on it that looks like serious business. Time to go work on some business reports and grab a soda from the third floor.

eric

My Grandma Sylvia passed away 3 weeks short of her 100th birthday. She died the night of April 28th, and my last conversation with her was earlier that morning. I was visiting her, and when I kissed her on the cheek and told her I loved her, she replied that she loved me as well. I then went to work on Wall Street, flew to Los Angeles, and got the news when my plane landed the night before last.

As awful as the last 24 hours have been, I would like to take today and share some of my memories of her. She was an impressive woman on every level. Below are some of my interactions with her. All of these exchanges took place when she was in her 90s.

I pointed out that there was an NBA basketball player that was nicknamed “Grandma-ma,” and that this player wore the booties, the bonnet, and the rest of the grandma outfit. My grandmother floored me by saying, “Yeah. Larry Johnson. The Knicks aren’t doing so well.” I have no idea when she followed basketball.

When I told her I was going out on a date, she told me to make sure to protect myself. I told her I had a warm winter jacket. She replied, “That isn’t what I meant young man, and you know it.”

She was married for 67 years, and had 2 children, 5 grandchildren, and 6 great grandchildren.

She told me the other day that it sometimes took her 30 minutes to get from her chair to the bathroom and then back into bed. I told her that It took me longer, especially on weekend mornings. She laughed. She said, “Well you are an old man. You are not as young as you used to be.”

When she went to visit my grandfather in the nursing home, there was ice on the ground.  The accessoride was late, so she decided to walk it. When the light started blinking, she said, “Let’s go.”  When I pointed out that the light was blinking, she replied, “There are no cops. Let’s go.”  She then said, “Hold on to my arm. There is ice and snow on the ground and I don’t want you tripping and falling and hurting yourself.”

She was fiercely independent until age 94.  She even cooked for me.  She gave me grapefruit, knowing I would make that squinty grapefruit face. She would even insist on giving me green beans, even though I hated green vegetables. She would give me less and less of them every year, in the hopes I could handle smaller doses. The last year she cooked for me she gave me four green beans. I ate two of them, and said, “Grandma, I can’t do it. I don’t like them and I don’t want to eat them.” She relented, and thought I did not notice when she doubled my grapefruit intake. At least on the cereal front she allowed me to have Lucky Charms. Yet despite that privilege, I had to finish all the milk, in addition to the orange juice, and of course, that wretched grapefruit.

Pure dumb luck allowed her to live another 6 years.

On one visit in 2002, shortly after my grandfather died, I was sleeping in the guest bedroom. There was no phone in the room, so I would have to get up and go to my grandfather’s study just to answer the phone. When the phone rang and rang one morning, it was 10:30am. I stayed in bed, figuring my grandmother would answer it. At 11:15am, it started ringing again. When I got up to answer it, I saw papers strewn on the floor. Something was not right. She was on the floor having a seizure.

I calmly called 911 while thinking two things, which I later shared with my grandmother. My first thought was “not like this.” A woman who had been independent her whole life did not deserve this type of ending.

My second and more selfish thoughts was “not on my watch.” The last thing I needed was for the family to find out that she had died when I visited.

Thankfully the paramedics were fabulous, and saved her life. My grandmother thanked me for saving her life by giving me $1000. I thanked her and told her that with her money, I now had $800 in the bank.

Although she had more seizures over the years, they were not as serious as this one. Her levels would be off, and they would be readjusted. In the past year she had a new medicine, and it was working well. She walked with a walker, not needing a wheelchair. She had a live in aid who took care of her.

When I had a subsequent visit, she had a fall, and had to be taken to the hospital. Despite her occasional falls, she was lucky enough never to fracture anything.

Yet I had to deal with the teasing from my cousins, who decided I was a jinx.

So on more than one occasion, including a few days ago, I laid down the law with my grandma.

“Grandma, you have to be healthy when I visit. If anything happens to you when I am here, the entire family will think I did it. Then Angela Lansbury of Murder She Wrote or Matlock will show up and I will be arrested and taken away in handcuffs. I don’t need this.”

She laughed hysterically.

When I told her this weekend that I enjoyed spending time with “my best gal,” she asked “I’m your best gal?” When I replied that of course she was, she replied, “for now.”

On Sunday night we were watching “Deal or no deal.” My grandmother wanted to make deals, and my answer to everything was “No deal!” It did not matter what the situation was. She remarked, “You just don’t deal with anybody.” When a pizza commercial came on for four dollars a pizza pie, my grandmother remarked that at least that was a good deal. I again told her, “no deals for anybody about anything. We are not making any deals tonight.” She laughed, and when the 1-800 Flowers commercial came on, I told her that I did not care how pretty the flowers were, the answer was still “no deal.” She said I was too tough on people.

One memory of her was when she received an invitation to be the guest at a rubber chicken dinner in her honor. In real life, she did a lot of work with various organizations, but told me she was not going to the ceremony. She dryly said, “I don’t need an award to know I am old. My age tells me that, and so does my body.”

Although they had snacks in thew living room, my grandfather was not supposed to eat them. I would distract her, and he would eat them.

On the Sabbath, my grandfather would want to watch the Mets game, which was in direct contradiction to being an Orthodox Rabbi. My job was to be the heretic grandson, trip over the table, and have my nose turn on the tv. This was difficult given that it was a knob.

Nevertheless, she would come in, and I would say, “I forgot.” She would say, “Eric, you know better.” The truth is, she knew better. We thought we had fooled her all those years. She was not happy about my chicanery, but she knew I loved my grandfather. Besides, I pointed out to her that my grandfather had suffered enough. No, not because he was Jewish. He was a Mets fan. She did not accept that as a valid answer, even after we tried to show her their horrible record.

Yet the one incident that will end up in my hall of fame of situations was when I tried to sneak in well past curfew. Yes, I was an adult, but her home meant her rules, and nice boys did not stay out all hours of the night. It was a few years ago, and I was returning from what I will only describe as a social function. I did not arrive home until several minutes after 4am.

I quietly entered her apartment, but unfortunately she had one part of her hardwood floor that always made a loud creak. As soon as I stepped on it, her perfect hearing caused her to stir. It was a race against the clock. As she walked with her walker, I quickly dove for her couch, got under the covers, and pretended to be asleep. When I saw her, I stretched, as if she had woken me up.

“There you are, sleeping like a little angel.” I smiled.

Then she took a cane (She never used one, it probably belonged to my late grandfather, although I do not recall his use of it.) that was attached to her walker, and used it to pull down the covers to reveal a fully dressed young man.

The 10 minute lecture I received was less mortifying than having to hear from my cousins how I stayed out all night like the deviant I was.

My grandma took notes of everything. She claims this was because her memory was failing. I suspect it was because she had ties to J. Edgar Hoover, although she most likely destroyed that evidence.

When she fell ill a few months later, I checked her notebook for phone numbers. I inadvertently opened up the page to my previous  visit where the last entry said, “Eric, 4:20am.”

When she got better, I brought that up with her. I explained to her that her entry was wrong, and that I got home at 4:10am, not 4:20am. She would not budge.

“The fact that I had to scold you for 10 minutes is because you stayed out so late. The 10 minutes counts. I am not changing the entry.” When my cousins mention 4:20am, I instantly protest by saying, “it was 4:10am!”

She was a funny, bright woman, and I am still in shock over her death. Yes she was old, but it still stings.

I had grandparents until age 36, which is 36 years more than many.

Besides, she is with my grandfather now in heaven.

They took a brief break from each other, but after 67 years, they were bound to continue together.

I just hope that when she sits at the head table with God and my grandfather, that she does not force them to eat green beans. I suspect at the very least, on days when it rains, it is either because the grapefruit they are being forced to eat is squirting down upon us, or because the tears of wincing after eating it is dropping to the ground.

I miss you grandma. May God bless you.

eric

On Monday, April 28th, 2008, I kissed my grandmother good morning. I told her I loved her and she told me she loved me back. The previous night we watched television from 7:30pm to midnight.

I told her I was going to Wall Street to work, and that  when I got back to Los Angeles, it would be 4am her time, and that I would call her the next day.  We exchanged several “I love yous.”

I left work at 6pm, got on my flight at 9:30pm, and landed in Los Angeles at 1:30am. I checked my email from my phone, and found out that while I was in the air, my Grandma Sylvia passed away in her chair. She went very peacably.

This happened without warning. On May 17th, she would have been 100, and she was excited about it.

She was 99 and 11/12,  and  when I left that morning she was fine.

I am sick to my gut right now, but at least I know that my last conversation with her was me repeatedly telling her I loved her, and her saying the same.

eric

The 8 day famine known as Passover began last night. Before boring everybody to tears with the political intrigue surrounding this holiday, first I shall spend my Sunday griping.

I arrived in Chicago today an exhausted mess. I had a 6:30am flight from Los Angeles, and rather than get a good night’s sleep, I started doing some administrative work on the new website I am working on. If one day you guys wake up and find out that the Tygrrrr Express has moved, no, I have not benefitted society by giving up blogging. I have merely relocated. The new site will be up and running soon. So I stayed up and worked on it until 4:30am, and then went to the airport. I do sleep on planes fairly well, but that was still not enough. I slept much of Saturday.

My hotel is not ready until late Sunday, so last night I crashed at a friend’s place. “The General” stays with me when he comes to LA, and he has an awesome condo in Chicago within walking distance to the House of Blues. When I say walking distance, I mean about 50 feet. He is in Michigan this weekend, so he left me the keys to his bachelor pad.

This would be a golden opportunity to get buck wild with the Chicago Cannonball, but she is in North Carolina. Does my pain ever end?

Actually yes. She arrives in a couple hours. 

Nevertheless, I had to spend the first night of Passover without her. I call the holiday the 8 day famine because there is usually nothing good to eat. Bread is forbidden. No pizza, no hot dogs or burgers (I could eat them without the bun or roll but that is not the same), or any other bread based food. The first two nights Jews can attend Seders, which are big feasts. The final 6 nights we basically starve to death.

Some years it gets so bad that I have been known to argue with Rabbis that tacos are allowed because the shells are hard and flat like Matzoh. Apparently this argument does not wash. Corn and rice are forbidden in some cases, but forget it. No bread is enough for me.

My problem is that I have a memory like a sieve. I spend time trying to find food without bread, and then I forget what I am supposed to be trying to accomplish. One year I could not think of anything, so I said I would just go have a sandwich. As I was about to buy the sandwich, I said, “What the heck am I doing!!!!” Yes, I forgot that sandwiches consist of bread. If only the Earl of Sandwich had explained this to me.

I remind everybody around me to remind me not to eat bread. If I fail, then they have failed, and they must hang their heads in shame. Then I force them to eat Matzoh. Matzoh is cardboard, only with less flavor. When non-Jewish people tell me how much they enjoy the taste of Matzoh, I want to hit them. However, I am too drained from a lack of food intake to throw a punch.

Yet the true conspiracy of Passover is political in nature. It has a ritual that seems innocuous on the surface, but is much more sinister. This involves the issue of reclining.

Because we are celebrating our freedom from the bondage of Egypt, we are supposed to enjoy the evening as relaxed as possible. Slouching is normally bad manners, but on this evening we are supposed to recline. Eating while reclining sounds good, but there is a catch. For reasons that are only described as “tradition,” it is required that we lean to the left. Leaning to the right is considered bad because legend has it that it can lead to people choking on their food.

That’s right, Jews are officially being ordered to lean to the left. I have had it. This is left wing activism at its worst. Can a republican have one evening in peace where giving up deeply held beliefs is not a requirement? I wanted to have Synagogues across America lose their tax exempt status to hurt their budgets, but given the taste of the rubber chicken at some of these places, it seems the budget cutting has already taken place.

I wanted to videotape this cult like behavior of ordering the Jews to lean to the left, but was banned from taking pictures or videotaping the evening. The excuse the Rabbis gave was that it is impermissible to take photos or use other electronic devices on religious holidays or on the Sabbath. This is a convenient coverup to me. I suspect that the reason why most dinners fall on the Sabbath or on holidays is to prevent people like me from gathering evidence. Their defense is that the Sabbath or holiday itself is the sole reason for congregating. How coincidental.

Liberals truly believe that the purpose of religion is to eliminate all conservatives. How else does one explain the phrase, “If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off.”? When will liberals stop using religion to advance their own agenda?

The religious left is out of control.

Anyway, between sleep deprivation and malnourishment, I am starting to resemble the guy in the town square grousing about everything and nothing. Then again, his dinner probably will taste better for a few days. All I know is when I go to bed tonight I am going to lean so far to the right that I might leave imprints in the wall, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop me. I am making my stand.

Actually, keeping the Chicago Cannonball happy is a priority. I will lean whichever direction she likes. I just hope the hotel has sheets with elephants on them to help me erase the scourge of liberalism that the Passover conspiracy has foisted upon me.

Now I need to find some Dr. Browns Black Cherry Soda and some of them yummy waxed jelly rings that only seem to be around Passover. I just hope I can get to the minimarket without having to make any left turns.

eric