Beyond A Doubt

-"Halacha course canceled due to lack of interest."

That was the shocking yet vaguely amusing announcement we heard over the PA. It was my Junior year in an orthodox day school in what is now a very frum community. Apparently some administrator took it upon himself to actually consider areas of student interest, or disinterest for that matter, even to the point of sidelining a hallmark of Jewish education. Obviously, it is imperative for a religious student to absorb the tenants of the faith or in the very least be aware of the rules which he is breaking. It's somehow more fun that way. But that year was to be robbed of its mischievous transgressions. If we didn't know the laws, we couldn't be guilty of violating them nor would we have the temptation to do so in the first place. Shlomo Auslander has a great related article (Hat tip:NJG).

But what is it about Halacha that seemed so useless to our school yet always served me well in cure of insomnia or as a coaster? For all of you who heard about halacha but never got to read from the text, the answer is this. It's just page after page of dry, boring facts that requires an equivalent of a law degree to become proficient. At the time, I just shrugged and said, "Great!"

But I have come to appreciate the significance behind that moment, even more so lately. I guess I had gotten used to years worth of technical educational manuals that I had forgotten what it was like to learn about life through the fictional escapades of others. Much more illuminating and better retained are the gleaned words of wisdom or useful insights from stories, in the context of an enjoyable parable rather than from dry lists.

I recently listened to the book-on-tape, The Salmon Of Doubt, compiled from Douglas Adam's writings. One 2-page story, entitled "Cookies," made a great impression upon me. Go to your library and read in the real book page 150-1 for the full flavor. Should you proceed here further, you can save a quarter on inter-library loan because I do reveal the punch line. In brief, he was sitting at a table waiting for a train with his package of cookies, coffee and a newspaper. Opposite him was a businessman who proceeded to open the package of cookies and eat one of the cookies! Douglas said nothing but ate the next of his cookies and then the man ate the following. Douglas was upset but didn't know how to deal with this affront. His tension was building as was his righteous indignation. When the package was finished the man walked off. He then looked under his paper and found his own sealed package of cookies beneath his paper. He had been eating the other man's cookies all along while that man quietly suffered the infraction!

Douglas had been so sure of his take on what was happening, considered rebuking the man, was horrified and yet resigned to refrain from confrontation. His reality during those moments seemed as clear to him as anything else he would bet his life on but one little itty bitty fact was missing and that changed the entire meaning and context of his exchange. Could there really exist another perspective?

My friend complained to me recently about the character of another friend's wife pointing to the fact that she never sent a thank you card to him for a wedding gift sent 10 years ago. First off, I was surprised he remembered who sent him thank you cards and that he could hold a grudge so long. Secondly, I told him Douglas' story and asked him to consider if his gift was lost in the mail, or her thank you card was lost as well. Perhaps, the husband had agreed to write it and failed to do so thus absolving the wife. I asked him to take a step back and consider there might be alternate realities than the one he felt so grounded in. It's a lesson that could be summed up in a book of facts as "Don't jump to conclusions or off cliffs for that matter" or "Things may not be as they seem on the surface unless you're actually on the surface" or "Don't judge a book by its cover unless its pornography" but in the absence a very telling context they are just neat sayings that are so passe. Instead, Douglas Adams succeeded in forever implanting his insight into my mind in a way no dry text could ever. So drop your textbooks and pass me a trashy novel.

Please feel free to share your own stories about some faux paxs based on the third person omniscient, "If our hero had only known..."

Concerted Effort

In the span of less than one week, I have managed to see more than 50% of all the concerts I have ever gone to. So either I'm an obsessive fan, although a fan by definition is someone obsessed with something; a fan on a whirlwind expedition to absorb all the energy from any and all concerts within earshot or I was so lame that I never availed myself of the orgiastic delights of auditory group-pleasure. Sad to say I fall into the latter category but all that is behind me now and I can take my place among all the mad derelicts that think that the musicians are really directing the songs at them, or amongst the bottle breaking lunatics and other tailgate partyers. I throw in this last disparaging remark based on a first hand inspection of the parking lot just prior to my escape through the bewildering labyrinth of the parking lot post-concert jam. Some may call it a jam session but I would rather just have tea with lemon. Who am I kidding, I prefer Dr. Pepper.

In case you are wondering, no, I hadn't once again tried to help some unfortunate fool to jump-start her car although apparently there was another such opportunity which thank God someone else beat me to the punch. Just seeing those cars properly juxtaposed made me Feel Like The First Time I endeavored to come to some poor damsel in distress. I have been burnt by many a woman in the past but the last one went a bit too far.

Last night's concert at Jones Beach featured Styx, Foreigner, and Def Leppard. The night was glorious and the vista from my nose-bleed seats stunning, the sand and surf at sunset reflecting the changing hues in parallel with Helios' final farewell. The yachts in the distance seems to beckon with a resounding 'Come Sail Away.' I was content, though, to remain in my seat and absorb the enormity of nature's beauty being rocked on by fantastically energizing music. 80's music seems to do it for me and I found that I actually knew a few choruses. Surprisingly, I didn't find this event overly loud, my earplugs remained firmly stuck to their container in my pocket rather than in my ears as I had planned since last weeks explosive, mind- bending, ear-ringing debacle. No debauchery, I'm afraid. I must admit, that I don't for one instance believe that Jones Beach staff took good measure to make the environment tympanically sound. Instead, I must come to the conclusion that most of my hearing in that range has been snuffed out by Rick Springfield last week. Alas, again I must lament that I found it hard to discern the lyrics or even just quick quips directed at the audience. I'm leaning towards a diagnosis of figure-ground processing deficiency. In large groups or in the midst of a lot of background noise, like at a wedding, I find I must strain to read lips to supplement what I am clearly not perceiving while others surely are. So from the moment the microphones were placed directly in front of their mouths, I was doomed. Yet for some ungodly reason my hearing is exceptionally acute in the middle of the night should a baby cry or if my child whines. It's a cruel world.

Allow me to digress for a moment and contrast the two concerts, one at North Fork Theaters and the other at Jones Beach theater. NF is very small and cozy in its own way. Being able to see what the performer looks like is certainly a plus. It also lends itself to better, more personal interaction between performer and victim. It's comforting to know exactly who is responsible for leading you deftly down the path towards deafness. The closed environs, however, amplify the sounds or perhaps the amplifiers do. The sound man is already deaf so who can know for sure. Jones beach has a huge amphitheater. I had a spare canister of oxygen owing to the fact that the air was so thin at this altitude. The nighttime gusts at some points made me feel as Cold As Ice. I found the experience rather odd and distant. There were these small stick figures moving in the distance. What were they doing exactly, anyway? To me every band and every person looked exactly the same, small and indistinguishable. I had a similar experience many, many years ago at Miss Siagon. I was a student at the time and, of course, to save money I bought the cheapest seats. I was unable to be drawn into the fantasy of the play because of such distance and the inevitable resulting detachment. The cast appeared like marionettes or children's puppets, they certainly couldn't be humans of that size unless Gulliver's story had some truth to it. That same feeling rang true this night. At that time I swore to myself that I would never skimp on tickets. If I was to have a night out at the theater or theoretically a concert, I would get something decent. However, exceptions must be made, for free tickets can not be turned down although in principle, you should realize that you get what you pay for. Instead of a bolt of lighting from heaven for violating my oath, a more sinister punishment was being hatched from above. And so I found it incredibly ironic that a seagull should pass overhead and let loose a rather personal package for me just as Head Games began to play. How much more devastating the surrounding laughter than the tired old trademark thunderbolt.

Allow to regress from whence I digressed... And while I really liked some of the songs, I didn't feel there was very much performing. At least Def Leppard had some cool graphics to go with their music and did use the large screen to show close-ups but Styx and Foreigner did not. How long can one watch midgets shuffle their feet a bit, toss their hair to and fro before it becomes inane? A friend pointed out that Madonna or Beyonce knew how to PERFORM rather than just sing. I would like to be entertained while I sit for three hours listening to music otherwise it just may as well be on the radio while I use my visual powers to attend to more Urgent matters. It Feels Like The First Time that I can truly say I finally understand the plight of women in our male-designed stadiums. An Urgent and pressing matter drove me to the unsavory bowels of the theater in search of a restroom. But before my eyes I beheld the longest line of men I had ever seen waiting for the loo. What happened to our God-given right to just find any old wall or corner or go over the railing of the stairwell for that matter? After waiting for 15 minutes, I decided to contain my...disappointment and waited until after the show.

What is it about lines that whenever you see one you feel compelled to stand there patiently for, god knows, how long? As I entered the theater before the show there were all sorts of gimmicks like 'sign up for a plasma TV' or 'spin the wheel and win a Harley'. As for me, I did end up waiting on lines for both because it just seemed like the cooperative thing to do. When I got to the front of one line I would graciously say thank you and proceed to the very next line and stand in turn. And so on. I did win a Harley...sticker but then forgot it under my seat when I left. A colossal waste of time and effort (the waiting in line thing).

But in case you're not sure, I really did have a blast after all.