Festival of Light (Bulb Jokes), #1

How many Orthodox Jews does it take to change a light bulb?
Ask your rabbi.

Festival of Light (Bulb Jokes), #2

How many Conservative Jews does it take to change a lightbulb?
Only one, but it takes three years.

[Note: If you don't get this joke, Google the following words: triennial cycle Conservative Judaism.]

Festival of Light (Bulb Jokes), #3

How many Reform Jews does it take to change a lightbulb?
We believe that light can be experienced in many ways,
and that the bulbs themselves are no longer necessary. However,
if you find the lightbulb personally meaningful, you may
change it yourself.

Festival of Light (Bulb Jokes), #4

How many Reconstructionist Jews does it take to change a lightbulb?
We reject this medieval prejudice against the dark.

It's a Wonderful Life (Reprise).

For the holiday season, a reprise of my first post.

The Dove.

Over dinner with friends the other night, I was reminded of this 1968 parody of Ingmar Bergman's films. Enjoy, courtesy of google video (and my wife, who forwarded to me the link).

Spam of the day.

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Thought for the day.

"University politics are vicious precisely because the stakes are so small."
-- Henry Kissinger

Kinda makes you think, huh?

About six months ago, in my little neck of the woods, gas sold for about $3.50 per gallon, and I could buy tomatoes for about $1.50 per pound. Right now, gas sells for $1.50 a gallon, and tomatoes cost $3.50 per pound. So I suppose higher fuel costs don't always drive higher produce costs.

Overheard Conversation.

Earlier today, in a campus coffeehouse:

Young woman to young man: How was your concert Saturday night?
Young man to young woman: It was really cool. Benny Golson sat in with us.
Young woman to young man: Who's that?

And so America's greatest cultural contribution to the world, jazz, continues on, invisible.

After the young woman left, the young man and I were both waiting for our coffees, and I started an ``I couldn't help overhearing...'' conversation with him. Clearly, playing with Golson was a major high point in his life so far.

Strange Correlation.

If you earn $25,000 per year you're most likely poor, if you earn one dollar per year you're most likely extremely wealthy.

How the Attack on a Chabad House Hits Home.

First of all, let me note what should be an obvious point: It is an atrocity whenever and wherever noncombatants are deliberately targeted for torture or murder simply to promote political, religious, or national agendas. Whether in Mumbai, Pakistan, Congo, Rwanda, Baghdad, New York City, Oklahoma City, or Jerusalem.

So when I also note that the attack on a Chabad center hit home for me I do not mean to diminish in any way the devastating sufferings of so many others.

But indeed, the attack on the Mumbai Chabad House did hit close to home, for me.

Anyone, such as myself, who has to occasionally travel for professional reasons to various out-of-the-way places, and who also is a Shomer Shabbos (Sabbath Observant) Jew, knows to seek out the nearest Chabad house for stay over Shabbos (Sabbath). I have on several occasions enjoyed the wonderful, open, hospitality of Chabad Rabbis and their families, who have made space for me in their homes and at their dinner tables.

Frankly, I have felt more at home, and spiritually refreshed, enjoying Shabbos in a Chabad house with people I've only known a few hours than I've sometimes felt in the company and homes of people I've known for decades.

And for those who have enjoyed Chabad's hospitality, it comes as no surprise that the Mumbai Chabad Rabbi and his wife, Rabbi Gavriel & Mrs. Rivkah Holtzberg (may their memories be for a blessing), were kind, lovely, beautiful, people.

Moreover, in the US, while so many Jews wring their hands over the assimilation and imminent disappearance of the American Jewish Community, the Chabad movement has actually accomplished something: They have brought thousands of Jews back to their culture and faith. Chabad accomplishes this through their warmth and the simplicity of their direct spirituality.

Chabad is, in fact, an acronym: Chachma (Wisdom), Binah (Understanding), Da'as (Knowledge).

To attack a Chabad house in India is to attack Jews simply for being Jewish. To attack the very idea that Jews have a right to live.

Responding to Terror.

From the November 28 mass email announcement from my local Chabad Rabbi, responding to the atrocities in Mumbai:

My emotions are raw and numb and I don't really have any words to describe my feelings. The only thing which comes to mind is, let's fight terror by increasing in our good deeds. Let's just do random acts of kindness. Even though we may not feel like it, let's do extra mitzvos.

Light candles, study torah, go to shul, give charity, say a prayer...whatever. Let us become just a little better for the memory of Gavriel, Rivka, and the other terrorist victims.

The Great Thanksgiving Pseudoachievement

Picking every last morsel from the turkey carcass, long after the meal is over.

I am, like, literally annoyed.

I don't know what's up, but this past week I've been (not) literally deluged with improper ``literally'''s over the radio. By professional writers no less. Maybe a dozen or so times. I've heard about Bosnia being literally torn apart, and I've heard about airplane pilots literally barking at their passengers. Sheesh.

The noise in the car.

About 20 years ago, my wife and I were on a somewhat longish drive in western Massachusetts, at night. I started to hear an odd, troubling, knocking sound coming from the passenger side of the car. I asked my wife if she heard a strange noise, and she said that she did. I pulled into a parking lot and walked around the car, looking carefully for whatever was wrong. I looked under the car. I found nothing, and so we pulled back onto the road. The noise began again. I became worried again. I wasn't sure what to do.

At some point I said to my wife that I was afraid that a tire on the passenger side might just detach and roll away, or something like that. She said, ``Passenger side? The noise is coming from the driver's side.'' Immediately I opened the lid of the small storage compartment between the front seats, and we were both able to see that there was a full, unopened can of soda, bought at the previous rest stop, rolling back and forth, causing the knocking sound.

I suppose there's no real point to this story, except that occasionally our worries really are unfounded.

Pseudoachievements.

I have a new word: pseudoachievement (or, pseudo-achievement).

A pseudoachievement is something that feels like an achievement but is not. For instance, watching every episode extant of 24 is a pseudoachievement.

I'm not sure whether watching every episode of The Wire is a pseudoachievement or a real, if minor, achievement; maybe it's a quasiachievement.

I am sure that completing every level of the Linux computer game Supertux is a pseudoachievement.

Learning how to use italics in Blogger is a pseudoachievement.

Blug.

It amazes me how certain people who have otherwise busy lives are able to add to their blogs almost every day. I am not one of these people. In fact, I think I'll refer to this occasional series of ramblings as a blug: A sluggish blog.

Crime Fiction.

For some time now my main vice has been crime fiction. I'm still a novice, but over the last five years or so I've sampled several authors and read the complete (or near complete) works of a few: Elmore Leonard (whom I had regarded the best of the lot for some time); George Pelecanos, Michael Connelly, Ian Rankin (who were all tied in second place). Runners up, in my ranking, included John Harvey, Lawrence Block, and Ruth Rendell. Lower on the list were Patricia Cornwell and John Sandford.

In fact, once I found Emore Leonard, his work became the standard by which I compared everything else. (With Tishomingo Blues being the last of his great novels, in my opinion.) Indeed, I would rank crime novels on a scale of 0 to 1 Elmore; for instance, Pelecanos' Right as Rain would get a .9 Elmore. Jonathon Kellerman's Dr. Death would get a .05 Elmore.

But in just the past few weeks I've been working through the crime fiction of an author whose work stands well above anything I've read before in the genre: Walter Mosley. While I've only read five or six of his novels so far (in both the Easy Rawlins and Fearless Jackson series), his work is deeper and more beautiful than I could have imagined possible. (Now I should warn you, there is a fair amount of schmutz sprinkled throughout his work, but no more than say in Connelly's.)

His books leave me astonished. Moreover, his finely drawn characterizations and fantastic plots remind me more of the work of Isaac Bashevis Singer than other crime fiction novelists.

And here is the question: Why has Mosley not won an Edgar for any of his crime novels? (The Edgar being the award of the Mystery Writers of America.) Unfortunately there is an obvious answer to this question, and it doesn't make me happy.

I'll go further: The world I've entered through Mosley's fiction (i.e., the novels I've read so far), set a generation ago in African-American Los Angeles, is rich, profound, and textured. While much of contemporary American crime fiction is set among the Black American urban underclass, it is only after reading Mosley that I have realized how superficial the portrayal has been by other, white, authors.

So, to all who praise The Wire or Richard Price's Clockers: If you have not yet sampled Walter Mosley's take on urban crime fiction, do so now.

True Genius.

On Monday I had to take my MacBook to the local MacStore for some mundane repairs. The technician who handled the repair had a business card listing his occupation as ``genius.'' Later that day, and over the course of the week, I had the rare privilege of having several conversations with a visitor to my department who was both a MacArthur Fellow and member of the National Academy of Sciences. He also gave a series of astonishingly beautiful lectures on his research in mathematical biology. So I suppose his business card should read ``SuperDuperGenius.''

My Obama Moment.

Friday, November 7, 2008. It had been cloudy and rainy for several days. Almost anyone describing the weather in a single word would have said ``gloomy.'' I was standing in the elevator, when an African American woman in her mid-50's walked on, wearing a large Obama pin. She looked at me with a huge smile and said, ``Isn't it a beautiful day today?''

On the beginning of the semester.

A favorite saying from when I was an undergraduate: It's better to fall behind in your coursework early in the semester. That way you have more time get caught up.

You know you're an academic when...

...at the end of the first week of classes you find yourself
3 weeks behind.

Moose Turd Pie. In memory of U. Utah Philips (May 15, 1935 -- May 23, 2008)

My favorite joke is Moose Turd Pie, which I was lucky enough to hear from U. Utah Philips himself sometime in the late 1980s. The joke is both funny and extremely instructive. I tell this joke often -- although sometimes, depending on the audience, I substitute ``mustard pie.'' (Note: The joke itself starts after various preliminaries. Your patience, however, will be rewarded.)

Summer Vacation

There are many, many good things about the so-called ``academic life.'' And it really is churlish to complain -- especially given the number of people I know in the private sector who have had the misfortune to suddenly find themselves out of a job. But I am going to be a tad churlish here and complain about one of my pet peeves: The assumption by so many people I meet that I'm ``off'' during the summer. Now, I know that my schedule during the summer is pretty darn flexible. I know that I get to wear shorts and faded Hawaiian shirts during the week. I know that I don't have to shave or otherwise take care of my appearance. Or bathe regularly. But darn it, I'm working hard. Banging my head against research projects that seemed so promising in the spring. Writing grant proposals. Getting grant proposals rejected. Revising papers. Getting papers rejected. Revising them again. Rejecting other people's papers. Helping graduate students finish their dissertations. (Well, one graduate student.) Grading qualifying exams. Etc.

It's an Exciting Life

It is a commonly held opinion that child-free adults lead more exciting lives than their child-burdened contemporaries. Not true. I've just returned from a drive (as passenger) with my permit-equipped 16-year-old son. Yow!

It's a Wonderful Life

Now that September is almost upon us, I thought I'd start things off with a preparatory note for the upcoming Holiday Season. By ``Holiday Season, '' I mean, of course, that time of year (in the US, at least) when the super-duper-classic film ``It's A Wonderful Life'' is put into continuing rotation on cable TV. For the dozen or so residents of the English speaking world not familiar with that film, let me briefly review the plot: George Baily (played by Jimmy Stewart) runs the Baily Building & Loan in Bedford Falls. On Christmas Eve, George's not-too-bright and borderline drunk Uncle Billy misplaces a bag containing a substantial portion of the Building & Loan's cash on hand; the evil Mr. Potter finds and hides the money. Suddenly, the Building & Loan appears to be on the brink of collapse, and George decides to take his life -- believing that the world would be a better place if he had never been born. George's guardian angel intervenes, saves George, and shows him an alternate history of Bedford Falls, without George Baily. In this alternate history, of course, the world is a much worse place. George realizes that, in fact, his life was worth living. George returns to his family, and all of his friends show up with money to save his business. Community, family, and friendship prevail. Everyone cries.

HOWEVER....the real moral of the story is that George should have fired the obviously incompetent Uncle Billy well before he created serious trouble -- or should have placed him in a position without actual responsibility. Family loyalty should never trump sound personnel management.