A Short Post About My Mom

It took my parents a few months to tell me they discovered my blog. There was no deep discussion about it, mainly because the only time we really talk is when we Skype, and then most of the time is spent trying to make Liam laugh.

But my mom did say, "You know I saw the blog."

By this point, my sister has already told me they knew, so I said, "Yes, I heard."

And my mom said, "People must feel sorry for you if they read it and see you don't have a mother. It's sad that you don't have a mother."

"Why? I only wrote about Dad? I didn't write anything about you?"

"No."

So here is a short post about my mother:

She was born in Paris. She found out she was Jewish in her early teens, when the kids in her class started calling her a Dirty Jew. She had to ask her parents what they meant. The family moved to Israel, where the kids now called her a French Whore.

In her early twenties, living in Tel-Aviv in the crazy '70s, she got to know all the Bohemians. The famous journalists and writers. They tried to get her high and they dedicated poetry books to her. I saw one of these books. She still keeps it.

She hitchhiked with her sister one day. My dad and his friend pulled over with their scooters.

They got married and had a girl. Then they got together again and made a boy.

That boy, a cute little thing, seemed promising at first, but he was also a bit weird, reading the phone book all day. Doctors told my mom her son was borderline autistic, so she bought me a soccer ball and taught me to kick it. All of my childhood friendships revolved around soccer. She still reminds me, "Who taught you to play soccer?"

My mom, my sister and I, used to have dance parties. It was the late '70s. We danced to some Disco. "You're okay. You're smart. You're in." And of course, "Funky Town." She only had one disco tape, but we didn't need any more. We also listened to a lot of French music. Charles Aznavour, Sylvie Vartan, and of course, Jacques Brel.

One day, I think I was about eight, we were walking from our house to the bus stop, and she held my hand and asked me, "Do you know what's the most beautiful thing in the world?" And I said, "What?" because I wanted to know. And she said,"It's A little hand inside a big hand."

And it's crazy that it stuck with me for nearly thirty years now. And every time I hold my baby's hand I think about that and know that, as usual, and as if there was any doubt, my mom was right again.

I'm looking for a book

Back in England, when I worked in this warehouse filled with books, I used to take breaks and read first pages. Sometimes the first pages became the first chapters, and then I knew I just had to take the books home with me.

But one book got away. I read the first chapter and thought it was really funny, and then I put it down and continued working, and then I just forgot about it. But I've been thinking about it a lot since then. About ten years now. I've tried every possible Google search, but nothing.

So, sounds familiar? (and forgive me--it's a ten-year-old memory)


This guy is in a party. I think it's on a boat. He tells a story about a friend of his who runs into David Bowie on the street. He's a big fan, so he stops Bowie and tells him how great he thinks he is. Bowie is actually surprisingly happy to talk to the fan. But he also looks depressed. Anyway, the guy runs into David Bowie the next day, and this time Bowie comes up to him and starts talking. He's wearing this baseball cap because he doesn't want people to recognize him. And they chat for a while, and it's great that a fan can just talk like that to the great David Bowie.

Anyway, the next day David Bowie calls him and tries to meet up. And it's not a sexual thing. No. David Bowie is just interested in this guy's company. But then he starts harassing him all day and all night, to the point where the guy doesn't sleep. He doesn't answer his calls. He feels he's going insane trying to avoid David Bowie.

Then one morning an electrician comes over. He's wearing a baseball cap. This guy's roommate lets him in. The electrician opens the small door under the staircase, bends over, and starts reading the meter. Now, this guy is about to walk downstairs and he sees a guy with a baseball cap who seems to be hiding under his staircase. So he runs down and starts beating up the electrician.

So he beats him up for a few minutes before he suddenly realizes it's just an electrician. And he says to the electrician who's lying there on the floor (and this punchline has been haunting me for ten years), "Sorry, I thought you were David Bowie."

---------------

Oh, and in other news,

Dear fire-alarm battery,

Really?

3am?

You couldn't wait a few hours to make your point?

You passive-aggressive piece of shit.

Yes, They Could

I was watching The Daily Show when Jon Stewart said Obama was elected the next President. I was left speechless when the good guys won. When a man who got into politics to make the world a better place actually became the President. Pretty surreal after these last eight years.

And I even cried a little when he said

And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.

Because, you know, it was a moment without cynicism, and we got that moment of truth again not after our cities were attacked, but because we have overcome our fears. Because we have managed to finally tell ourselves and the rest of the world that we were one.

But we're not.

What did we prove on Tuesday?

That America can't take a giant step forward without taking one backward? That in order to elevate ourselves we need a minority to step on?

I'm out of ideas. The people who voted to ban gay marriage will be judged by future generations. When they talk about those who voted to ban gay marriage, they will sigh and give the usual excuse, "He was a good man, but you know... He was a man of his time."

Joe Solmonese of Human Rights Campaign wrote an Op-Ed yesterday:

You can’t take this away from me: Proposition 8 broke our hearts, but it did not end our fight.

Like many in our movement, I found myself in Southern California last weekend. There, I had the opportunity to speak with a man who said that Proposition 8 completely changed the way he saw his own neighborhood. Every “Yes on 8” sign was a slap. For this man, for me, for the 18,000 couples who married in California, to LGBT people and the people who love us, its passage was worse than a slap in the face. It was nothing short of heartbreaking.

But it is not the end. Fifty-two percent of the voters of California voted to deny us our equality on Tuesday, but they did not vote our families or the power of our love out of existence; they did not vote us away.

I am proud to live in this country. I am proud of the people who voted for intellect, leadership, and progress rather than fear-mongering and intolerance.

But these base emotions people rose up and ignored while voting for President were the ones that guided those who voted to take away basic human rights from others. Because they could. Yes, they could.

Our house is united