Jewish Jihad!

I originally thought that boycotting my family's Passover dinner would lead to the Channel 7 alliteration treatment:

Next on 7 News: Passover Pandemonium! Matzo Mayhem!! Hebrew Havoc!!!

Instead, Jenn ended up more ticked than anyone else in the family (note to self: do not anger the one who provides the roof over your head. Also, do not taunt Happy Fun Ball).

A quick primer:

Passover, according to Judaism - The 8 day observance commemorating the freedom and exodus of the Israelites from Egypt during the reign of the Pharaoh Ramses II. Woo hoo! Follow me to freedom!

Passover, according to Jon - The bane of humanity's existence (well, except for the Jews being free. That part strikes me as a good thing). How bad? I'd rather be stuck behind a pickup in the left lane.

Passover and I have been at odds since my early years when I was told that if I were to observe, I'd have to give up bread (as well as cookies, cakes, pastas and any other products with yeast) for 8 crazy days and nights. Why? Because on the way out of Egypt, the newly freed Jews were in such a rush to get to the airport, they didn't wait for the bread in the oven to rise. So, unrisen, or unleavened bread - made solely of water and flour - was all they had to eat. Apparently, if it was good enough for them, it should be good enough for everyone else. Whatever. In place of bread, we have matzo, which tastes like toasted cardboard that needs more salt.

Back in my formative years, I gave matzo a shot, but was never able to last more than a few days before I caved and went back to Wonder Bread. At first, I felt bad about it, but then I had two epiphanies. First, just because the Israelites didn't want to stop at a Panera on the way home doesn't mean the rest of us should suffer for their impatience. Secondly, I found a loop hole - Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement. On Yom Kippur, Jews fast for 24 hours to atone for their sins. After that period of time, they are good to go for another year. Take that, matzo! I so should have been a lawyer.

Like divine intervention, it all became so clear: 8 days of matzo or 24 hours of fasting? Even W can understand that type of fuzzy math. As for me, I was home free...and continue to be as Yom Kippur is the one Jewish holiday of the year that I do observe. Well, except for that time two years ago when I was in Vegas and forgot, but seriously, what the hell was I supposed to do? Atone for my sins...in Sin City? That would be awkward.

Every year, my family celebrates the first night of Passover with a big dinner at my Aunt and Uncle's home a few towns away. For the purposes of this blog post, let's refer to them as Auntie Em and Uncle Tom (not necessarily their real names). For the most part, this get together is one of the most miserable days of my life. Consider:

• There are anywhere from 15-25 people cramped in a kitchen that is more suited for 10 dwarfs. Once you sit down, don't expect to get up for hours.
  
• In my family, the grand total of people who are even remotely interested in our religion is? One. You guessed it...Auntie Em, who insists that everyone in attendance take part in the ritual Seder reading, especially the 4 questions. Other than Auntie Em, no one else truly enjoys this, especially as it's another 30-45 minutes that we are wedged into our chairs at the table. Did I mention that this is done before we get to eat?
• Auntie Em is a wonderful person, but she might be the world's worst cook. I'm not sure if she simply doesn't care or somehow thinks that what she makes is actually, you know, edible. Either way, it's brutal. When what you make is consistently dry, overcooked and borderline tasteless, don't you think it's time to maybe stop winging it and perhaps open a recipe? If you're Auntie Em, apparently not.
  

Add all of this up and I've had it. A couple of months ago, Jenn and I were out to dinner with my Uncle Eliot and his wife Marta (different people; real names). After a couple of cocktails, Eliot and I had enough - we weren't going to Passover dinner because life is too short to spend a night being miserable. It was time to put our foot down; lay down the law; cowboy up...that kind of thing. We talked about heading to Federal Hill in Providence for a night of excessive amounts of Italian food and wine. Marta had a commitment that night and wasn't going to Passover dinner anyway, and Jenn was going to Passover - mostly because I told my mother and grandmother that she would be there. So, the plan was made. Passover dinner was out...liberation, pasta and wine was in.

Until Eliot bailed hours beforehand.

I had a feeling he would. Both my mother and grandmother laid on the guilt when I informed them of my decision. It's either my greatest strength or greatest weakness, but once my mind is made up, it is very rarely going to be changed. As for Eliot, he folded faster than France. My 82 year old grandmother - who ranks just behind Hitler, Kim Jong Il and the Iron Sheik in generating propaganda - had him quaking in his boots.

And so, Passover dinner came and went. Everyone from the family was there, with the exception of myself, who hightailed it to a friend's house to watch a Bruins playoff game....just as Jenn was getting home (it seemed like a good idea at the time).

While Jenn eventually forgave me, I haven't heard from anyone else in the family, meaning one of two things. Either they got over it quickly and realized that it wasn't a big deal. Or they hate me and I've been disowned (Stacey, tell your mom I could be in the market for a new family).

Regardless, I wouldn't expect to attend any future Passover dinners. Like the Israelites who left Egypt, I've tasted freedom, and it most certainly did not taste like overcooked turkey. It did, however, taste an awful lot like pepperoni pizza.

Besides, I've somehow compared my grandmother to Hitler. What else needs to be said?

Rules Of The Road

I was going to invite my friend Mark to "guest" blog on today's topic (lousy drivers), but reconsidered for two reasons:

First, in writing the post, Mark would likely get so worked up and angry that he would end up muttering vulgarities to himself, and whomever he happens to walk by, for the next 3 days. I am not kidding. Secondly, commenting on what he would want as his last meal, it took 937 words for Mark to realize that he needed to give it more thought. I fear that if I let him write about bad drivers, the resulting manifesto would make the Lord of The Rings trilogy seem like a children's book.

First, the obligatory disclosure - I have a lead foot. I believe 80 is the new 55. I do not drive recklessly, but I do drive aggressively and believe that the best defense is a good offense. Of course, I also believe that Eli Manning is the antichrist, so my beliefs should be taken with a grain of salt.

And with that said, it is astounding to me just how many terrible drivers there are on the road. These people are a menace to themselves and surrounding motorists. It's a broad spectrum of offenses - from a failure to understand the basic rules of the road to making inexplicably idiotic maneuvers. How do I react? Well, I will simply say this - if I was exposed to an overdose of gamma rays instead of the mild-mannered Bruce Banner, I would spend 95% of my driving life as a big green guy with an attitude problem. Instead, I spend 95% of my driving life as a bald, pasty-white guy with an attitude problem.

Why so cranky, you ask? Well, it's because I am wired that way. But if you are looking for specific examples, here are 8 things I have seen just in the past week or two (in no particular order of importance):

• Driving too slowly in the left lane. How slow is too slow? If you are not passing cars in the middle lane, that is too slow. If the car behind you is virtually sitting on your bumper, that is too slow. If you look in the rear view mirror and the driver of the car behind you seems to be screaming at no one and making odd distorted body movements that may include the extension of a middle finger, that is too slow. Oh, and I really appreciate it when you vacate the left lane AFTER I pass you. That's always helpful.

• Pickup trucks in the left lane. If you drive a pickup truck, I don't care how good of a driver you think you are. You should not be in the left lane. Do truck companies affix a warning label to the dashboard of pickups, warning drivers that going more than 60 mph may result in severe pubic itching? It certainly seems so. If you own a pickup, I'd like you to do 2 things. First, read the paragraph above. Second, get the hell out of the left lane.

• Swerving across 2, 3, 4 lanes at 70 mph because you didn't realize your exit was fast approaching. Hey, it happens to all of us - we don't realize how quickly the exit is coming up, so we risk life and limb to avoid traveling another 2 miles to take the next exit and turn around. Of course, most of us would rather sit in a 14-car line at the drive-thru than actually get out of the car and walk inside Dunkin Donuts. In both instances, common sense should prevail. And for those of you who care, milk and 2 sweet-n-lows.
  

• Changing lanes for no apparent reason. One of my personal favorites. I'll be humming down the highway, only to come up on the dillweed (copyright Stacey Holifield, 2008) in the Dodge Neon who is doing 60 in the left lane. So, with nobody in the middle lane, I start to pass....and almost plow into the dufus who was driving in the right lane with nobody in front of him, but who realizes that 88 virgins await him in heaven if only he will move into the middle lane....right now. Seriously, just shoot me.

• Slowing down significantly when passing a state trooper who pulled someone else over. Yup, your worst fears are about to be realized. Even though you're only driving about 10 mph over the speed limit, the trooper who is writing someone else a ticket is going to notice you, ditch the other guy and decide that it is you who is the bane of humanity's existence. I especially love it when you speed back up again, usually going even faster than before, thinking you've outsmarted the law. Good for you.

• Choosing the wrong lane at the red light. So you're approaching an intersection with 2 lanes. There's no one in front of you in either lane, there is no "No Turn on Red" sign, AND...you are planning to continue straight through the intersection when the light turns green. Which lane do you choose? Why, the one on the right! Of course you do...you f@!#ing motherf*!&ker. I hope you get stuck behind a pickup that is going 20 in a 40 zone.
  

• The Fast Lane meltdown. You're approaching the toll plaza and do not have a Fast Lane, EZ-Pass or any other type of transponder. But wait! Only at the very last second do you realize that somehow, you are in the Fast Lane! What do you do? Why, you come to a complete stop, put on your blinker and wait for some kind soul in the next lane to let you in. This despite the fact that the Fast Lane signs and road markings are visible approximately 17 miles before the toll plaza.
  

• Not using the blinker. So you're cruising down the highway at 80 mph in the right lane and need to get in the middle lane to pass the pickup in front of you that, for a change, is actually driving in the correct lane. Meanwhile, I'm in the left lane and about to get into the middle lane because the Soccer Mom in the minivan and on the phone is doing 55. While I, most courteous of all drivers, signal my intention to change lanes by using my blinker, you believe that blinkers are for wimps and take it upon yourself to cruise into the middle lane with no warning whatsoever. Our cars come about 3.2 inches of touching, when I back off, let you take the space and quickly proceed to spaz out, tailgating you, flashing you my high beams, threatening to castrate your pet goldfish....and you can't for the life of you understand why I am carrying on.
  

I could go on, but not only are you probably bored silly, you get the point. However, if you are guilty of any of these offense, I would kindly ask you to stop. As in, surrender your license and start taking the bus. Or a big-wheels.

Yo!

So how do I keep this blog updated on a frequent basis? Easy...show videos! This way, I don't have to actually come up with credible, original thoughts. God bless you, YouTube.

And speaking of the Pennsylvania primary, when I came across this video - which gives the Rocky treatment to Barack and Hillary - it became my sacred duty to share with you, my adoring public. Enjoy:

FREEDOM!

There is an old saying in my head: Jesus taketh away and Jesus giveth. At least that's how it has played out since we moved into the parsonage. There can be no doubt, I may be one of the luckiest idiots on earth...and certainly the most fortunate Jew in Weymouth - not only do I get to live off The Lord's dime, but even more improbably, Jenn hasn't thrown me out yet (don't worry, between now and the apocalypse, there's plenty of time).

Still, for all the good things that have happened since we moved last August, weighing extremely heavily on my broad and charming shoulders has been the fact that my maiden voyage into the real estate market did not play out exactly as I had hoped – which is probably what the Captain of the Hindenburg thought when he started to smell smoke. Clearly, this tends to happen when one buys at the very height of the bubble. In fact, I am reasonably certain that signing the closing papers in 2005 with my pen actually caused the bubble to burst, so there is a good chance I started to lose value in my home before I actually left the lawyer's office.

Anyway, we arrived at the parsonage with some excess baggage, in the form of a personal loan needed to cover the loss on the condo. How much, you ask? Well, almost enough to buy one of these. It was my own fault, really. In a rush to buy a condo, I sorta, kinda, maybe didn’t pay attention to the fact that the town was a hellhole and wasn't close to either a T station or any major highways. Naturally, I couldn't wait to move in a couple years earlier. In a related story, I have some shares of Epilady and Skybus that I'm looking to unload. Any takers?

6 months and 10 days after we started plowing all of our resources into beheading the monster, we’re done. I am not posting this out of arrogance. I understand how fortunate we are to be in this situation, but since we moved, I've been constantly reminded of how I failed in the real-estate market and it didn't feel particularly good.

But if you'll humor me, I am going to enjoy the accomplishment for one day, because after today, while I bask in the glory provided by Mr. The Christ, a perfect storm is brewing within my family. My uncle and I have decided to boycott Passover dinner this weekend. Stay tuned.

Got Food?

(WARNING: audience participation requested)

I'm a bit of a couch potato. Always have been and probably always will be, although I don't feel as guilty now that I actually exercise. It's not that I don't like to get out and about, but for me, relaxation is plopping down on the sectional, feet propped up on the ottoman, watching the high-def big screen...ideally with a beer or cocktail (and pizza) in hand.

Although Jenn and I have about 391 channels at our disposal, one channel reigns supreme.

Wait for it....

Wait for it....

Yep, the Food Network...and if you didn't get the foreshadowing, then you obviously don't watch this:



Food Network probably makes up close to 50% of our TV viewing, which is curious for a couple of reasons. First, because I typically handle the remote, meaning that I'm not watching under duress from Jenn. And before you start thinking about how much of a control freak I am, here's how it works in Casa de Jesus: I handle the remote when I am home and Jenn handles it when I am not home. Considering that I can either be home or not home, this means that we each handle the remote 50% of the time. So there.

Secondly, I probably wouldn't eat 75% of the food that gets made on the various shows. I have a rather limited palate and classify myself as a "meat and potatoes...and Italian and Quiznos" kind of guy. I don't like seafood, many vegetables, lamb, some pork, most anything considered fusion, and Democrats. However, I enjoy watching the best of the best at work. Plus, in HD pretty much anything, even frogs legs looks delicious.

(Note: I am pretty sure Jenn is hotter for Giada than I am, so I feel no guilt linking to her photo.)

Sometimes, when watching Rachel Ray make a 17-course dinner in under 30 minutes, I'll think of the hypothetical "what would I have if I had only one meal left on earth?" question. Even being the picky eater that I am, it's a tough choice:

A visit to the middle of nowhere for outstanding ribs? Stay local for the best veal saltimbocca that money can buy? A trip to Antonio's for ridiculously yummy pizza? Or, the best comfort food of all time?

If you know me at all, then you know the answer is none of the above. If I had one meal left on earth, it would be a hunk of manly beef (stop snickering Stacey). Specifically, the Del Frisco's Double Eagle - a 26 ounce, bone-in strip steak that is as close to heaven as I am ever going to come (Jenn putting in a good word will not help). Add a serving of mac and cheese, and I will go a happy man.

And now it's your turn. If you had one meal left, what would it be? I would ask everyone who reads this to leave a comment. There is no wrong answer...if you would choose to have a can of chunky soup, well then, fine. You're a bit odd, but then again, you're not the one whose last meal would cost $150. Feel free to mix and match: i.e., a Big Mac and pepperoni pizza.

I'm asking for comments for two reasons. First, it's a fun topic and will be interesting to see the diversity in people's tastes. Secondly, it will help me start to get an idea of how many suckers, um, I mean friends, actually waste their time reading this blog.

It's easy to leave a comment. Simply click on the "comment" hyperlink at the top of this post and type up an answer in the text box. If you don't have a Blogger account, select the "name/URL" option and type in your first name...for URL, just type a period or dash.

Look forward to reading the responses. As for me, I am off to find my favorite candy bar.

I stand corrected...

My plane ride home from the west coast did not crash, was not piloted by Ted Striker, nor did it land in scenic Rutland, Vermont (although when your plane does mistakenly land in Rutland, be sure to visit the Hathaway Farm Corn Maze). However, it was likely the most memorable flight I've ever been on.

The following is a true story:

1:30 a.m. (Eastern Time): Boarded Jetblue flight 476 bound from Oakland to Boston. The flight attendants announced that the flight would be full, but for about 20 minutes, I was alone in the aisle seat. Approximately 1 minute before the door was closed, 2 passengers came on board and...sauntered down to the empty seats next to me. Of course. Let's call this Jon's Law of Flight. If I had a dollar for every time I thought I had some extra room, only to have my seatmates board the plane at the last minute...well, I could afford to fly something ritzier than JetBlue.

Joining me were a couple in their late 20's. Hippiesh-looking guy with long beard & wool cap takes the window. Normal looking woman in Red Sox gear takes the middle.

2:00 a.m.: We're airborne, but in one of the most tragic announcements since the production of Cocoon 2, we're told that the satellite on the plane is out, meaning no TVs. I plug in my noise-canceling headphones to block out most of the cabin noise and try to get some shuteye.

3:00 a.m.: It's not working. I'm restless, I'm tired, the headphones are doing their job, but I am not asleep, nor am I approaching anything close to sleep. And now I'm starting to hear faint whispers coming from a gentleman sitting behind me. He's stirring, he's shifting, he's muttering to himself, "oh man...oh God..." over and over. Good times.

3:30 a.m.: Hippy-dude from the window seat gets up to go to the bathroom. I'm mildly annoyed. If you are on a redeye and not sitting in the aisle seat, it is your solemn vow and responsibility to drain the bladder before you get on the plane.

3:40 a.m: Hippy dude returns. I once again close my eyes and within a few minutes, the muttering from behind me begins again. Except it's not coming from behind me, and never had been..it's coming from the Hipster in the window seat. I look over and he's rocking, shifting, muttering. Not sure if he's in the beginning stages of a breakdown, but my antenna are starting to go up.

3:42 a.m.: Mr. The Hippy grabs a plastic bag and proceeds to throw up. Violently. Repeatedly. Each time louder than the last. Even with the noise-canceling headphones on, I am unsettled by what's happening about 2 feet from me. His companion has her hands over her face, obviously horrified. At about the 6th hurl, when I am starting to wonder just how bad this is going to smell, someone behind us pushes the flight attendant call button. A few seconds later, the flight attendant shows up and escorts Mr. Vomit to the bathroom in the back.

Where he remained, locked inside, until AFTER we landed more than 3 hours later.

Strangely enough, this wasn't the most interesting part of the flight.

3:45 a.m.: Sensing that the hippy's girlfriend is traumatized, I try to strike up a conversation and make sure she is OK. Turns out that she is not his girlfriend, just his roommate. She tells me that Ralph Hurler has a serious genetic stomach disorder that sometimes causes him to throw up for hours at a time. His brother and father also have it, but unlike his family members, who have learned to control it...our seat buddy employs a radical approach: do not see a doctor, do not take medication, do not eat more than a bite or two of food all day. Oh, and drink liberally. Within 15 seconds, my sympathy for this guy completely vanishes, although I wonder if his diet plan has its advantages over my daily 7-mile runs. Whatever.

Noticing the woman is in Red Sox clothes, I ask if she flew out for the games. Turns out she did. Also turns out that she may be the most crazed Red Sox fan on earth. Think Jimmy Fallon's character in Fever Pitch and multiply that by about 9. Olivia is her name and she is a 30 year-old bartender at Kennedy's in downtown Boston. Apparently, Olivia attends an average of about 75 Red Sox games every year, at least half of which are on the road. She estimates that she spends more than $10,000 every year on Sox games, plane tix, travel, etc.

In her travels, she has befriended a Sports Illustrated writer (who is taking her to Opening Day on Tuesday), spooked Tom Warner at a recent fan event and attended every playoff game in 2004, 2005 and 2007. Her career choice is not by accident - being a bartender brings in good money and a schedule flexible enough to go to any home or road game that she desires.

A couple of other tidbits to give you an idea of this woman: she is completely incapable of having a rational discussion about the Sox - they can do no wrong and just might win every remaining game this year (oops); despite being reasonably attractive, Olivia has had just 3 boyfriends in her adult life, nothing steady since 2004 and does not date during the season; oh...and one more thing...which I did not think was even possible: she talks so much and so fast that a certain ex-girlfriend seems shy by comparison.

Needless to say, between the vomiting seatmate and the cartoonish Sox Fan, I didn't even try to sleep for the remainder of the flight. I'm still trying to comprehend how someone can devote that much of their life to a sports team.

Anyway, should you find yourself in the city looking for a place to imbibe, hop into Kennedy's, ask for Olivia and tell her Jon from the plane sent you.

The last week...

No, the great blog experiment has not ended. I've had an exceptionally busy week where I simply haven't had a chance to keep my immensely unknown site updated. Tell you more, you ask? Well, who am I to deprive you?

Friday, March 29: MANLY BEEF NIGHT. Get your mind out of the gutter (except you Stacey, you wouldn't be the same). Every year on our birthdays, my friend Steve and I have a delicious and perilously expensive tradition of taking the other out to a top-tier steakhouse in the city for a 5,000 calorie meal. Last week did not disappoint: we dined at Ruth's Chris, where all of the food is bathed in a sea of butter right before it's brought to the table. Take that Lipitor! The bill was obscene - $65 less than dinner for 7 at a restaurant one night later - but the food and drink were top-shelf.

Saturday, March 30: It took longer than one might think, but between doing laundry (while my wife was getting loaded on Manishewitz in Jerusalem), packing, a few hours of work and shaving, my day was shot. Dinner with 6 friends at the Longhorn steakhouse was most enjoyable and educational. We as friends don't hang out much anymore, so I cherish the occasions on which we do...and I've learned firsthand that the food at Longhorn stinks.

Sunday, March 31: Flew to San Francisco (on time!), had lunch with my oldest friend Charles (sorry Tony - we grew up on the same street, but Charles lived closer, so I am certain I met him first), and traveled down to the Stewarts in Sunnyvale.

Monday, April 1: I lived the life of a Bay Area commuter. I took the train back and forth to Schwartz' San Francisco office, put in a reasonably full day and dined with the Stewarts at PF Changs in celebration of two birthdays - mine and Calvin's.

Tuesday, April 2: Worked a full day and had the pleasure of seeing the Sox squeak out a 2-1 victory against the A's. The McAfee Coliseum is largely unremarkable and one of several cookie-cutter stadiums that were built a few decades ago. On it's own, it was a fine place to watch a game, but it was lacking in character (but not lacking in garlic fries).

Wednesday, April 3: Sox 5, Oakland 0. Took the day off from work.

Thursday, April 4: A full day in the office and taking the redeye back to Boston.

Some thoughts:

• I very much enjoy the San Francisco office. It's 20 floors up in the middle of downtown. However, getting into the office 3 hours after my colleagues in Waltham results in a jam-packed workday where it takes 2 hours to catch up and 6 remaining hours to squeeze in 8 hours of work. No complaints...I love it out here.
• The people of San Francisco actually obey walk signals. All week long, while the masses are waiting for the signal to turn, I'm running through the crosswalk. I wonder if they secretly hope I get plunked, just to teach me a lesson.
• Travel during this week has been eerily perfect. Which means my flight home will either crash, be piloted by Ted Striker (hint: Airplane!) or mistakenly land in Rutland, Vermont.
• Congrats to my 2nd oldest friend Tony for being hired as the newest mechanic for Comair. With the exception of your brother Rob, you dislike most of your family, so I am always around to accept the Comair friends and family travel pass.
• Outdoor hot tubs are most enjoyable, especially in the chilly air and with a glass of wine in hand.
• I miss my wife.
• Jenn too.