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March 21, 2007
Shul Dinner: 4th Generation Conflict
SCENE ONE: Find Your Gun Shop
"You know where your gun-shop is?"
"Uh-huh."
"Drive to your gun-shop. But do not stop and buy any weapons, Robert.
"Okey-dokey."
"Keep going along Washington Boulevard, not Washington Place, drive for about a mile-and-half and then you'll come right to the hotel. Make a left, and pull right in."
My shul is having it's annual dinner and Karen is making sure I do not end up in Orange County. Or the Mojave Desert. I have, um, cartography issues.
I have to attend all by my lonesome. Karen is still in the eleven month period of avelut, mourning for her father ZT'l.
Thank heavens for my trusty gun shop. To get me where I need to go, all Karen has to do is reference its location and then I can easily orient my way around greater Los Angeles. I'm telling you, rip my eyes out with red-hot poker and I'm pretty sure I'd still be able to find my gun shop.
Mapquest? The biggest fraud in the universe. They send you, literally, to Beirut, in order to get to the other side of town. Karen hates Mapquest the way I hate Hizbullah. Never believe their directions. Ever.
I'm driving towards my gun shop. My palms start to sweat. I pump the break. But I only slow down to about 15, 10, okay, 5 mph. I imagine the new Springfield Armory Enhanced Micro Pistol .9mm that I'm dying to own. Do I park, enter, and schmooze with my buddy Carl the ex-Marine sniper? Do I casually try on the new Springfield for size?
I do not.
I call on a Higher Power for I know that I have no control over my life. I press pedal to metal, and blow past my gun shop—and right past a red light.
Whoops.
SCENE TWO: Chinese Farm
At what point did Orthodox shuls decide to go baaaaad?
The music, and I use the term loosely, hits my stomach like Jack Bruce's lowest bass register. A deep, very uncomfortable thruuuuummm.
I feel vaguely nauseous.
Men who have been in war know the feeling. You're about to land in a combat zone, jump out of a freezing cold helicopter with absolutely no idea how much steel-rain awaits you. You also know that the intel you've been given is absolutely wrong. It always is. So your gut is churning because whatever is out there in the LZ is going to be ten times worse than your imagination could ever conjure.
Anyway, that's what it's like stepping into the smorgasbord.
There's a DJ in a dopey, hip/cool/whatever 50's hat, spinning so-called music. Speakers are set up every ten feet, so there is absolutely no escape from the gosh-awful racket. The corridor is submarine narrow, and the food tables are double-trailer wide. The guests, dozens of ravenous people, are packed six or seven deep.
There was an important battle in the Yom Kippur War, the Battle of the Chinese Farm. Perhaps the most furious, most bloody, most awful battle fought in that awful war. It was hand-to-hand combat, it was, according to friends who survived, according to men who I interviewed, "the end of the world."
Anyway, I'm not in the Chinese Farm. Obviously. But for some perverse reason, I'm strongly flashing on that bloody field.
I don't do well in crowds.
People have to shout to in order to be heard above the so-called music. And there's just no room to manuever. Basically, people have to shove in order to walk a few paces.
I'm telling you, ordinary life easily turns into low-intensity conflict.
Phone Call #1
Me: Hello?
Karen: Robert?
Me: Hey.
Karen: You get there okay?
Me: Uh-huh.
Karen: Good. How is it?
Me: Loud.
Karen: Come home early.
Me: I will. But I have to, y'know, make sure the Rabbi sees me, and the honorees, once I find out who they are.
Karen: You okay?
Me: I miss you.
Karen: You'll be fine.
SCENE THREE: You Destroyed My Novel
I tuck myself into a corner. Nibble on a carrot. A friend from shul approaches, and I gird myself for a few months ago he asked me to read his novel and give him some "honest feedback."
I did.
I am an idiot.
"Hey Robert, how you doing?"
"Okay, how about you?"
"Well, ever since you destroyed, pulverized, pounded my novel into the earth—okay, I guess."
Long pause.
I nibble my carrot. Whoops. No more carrot. I'm actually gnawing my index finger.
"You, um, didn't have a main character." Once again, I point out the obvious.
"True. True. You were right. And I appreciate your criticism. Really I do."
"So, are you rewriting?"
"Yes, it's much better now."
Silence.
Do I offer to read the new, improved draft?
I do not.
It's official: my friend hates me.
SCENE FOUR: What're Ya Workin' On?
I make my way to the far end of the room. Why? Because it's there. The crowd has thickened. The volume of the so-called music has risen to a decibel level that could be used to extract valuable information from terrorists. I think I'm losing some hearing. Sheesh, all those hours on the shooting range with my .45 and it's the shul's annual dinner that ends up blowing my eardrums. I'm gonna write a letter to the NRA and tell them about this. File it under i-r-o-n-y.
"Robert."
"Moshe." (Not his real name)
"Where's Karen?"
"She's in avelut."
"Ah, forgot."
"That's okay."
"So, Mr. Screenplaywriter, what're ya workin' on?"
"Oh, you know, this and that."
"What kinda story?"
Moshe wears a black hat, his tzitzis, fringes, hang outside his pants, and he always makes a point of telling me that he does not go to the movies because he's way too religious. Which is fine.
So, why all the questions about my corrupt Hollywood career?
"Moshe, I actually don't really like talking about my screenplays while I'm working on them.
"No, how come?"
"I don't know, I guess I'm kind of superstitious."
"That's avodah zarah, (idol worship) you know."
Moshe is the kind of guy I really hated in high school.
"Strike superstitious. Let's do: eccentric."
Phone Call #2
Me: Hello?
Karen: Robert?
Me: Yup.
Karen: Where you up to?
Me: Just about to go into dinner.
Karen: Half-way home.
Me: I don't know most of the people here.
Karen: What else is new.
Me: The perfume is overwhelmiing.
Karen: If you feel a migraine aura, come right home.
Me: And I'm talking about the perfume on the men.
Karen: Keep me informed.
SCENE FIVE: My Cholent Buddy
Speeches. Awards. Chinese Auction. The waiter spins round the table pouring wine. Everyone says, "Puh-leese." Just look at them put it away. And I thought Jews didn't drink.
Boy, if this keeps up I'm gonna have to be the designated driver for my entire table.
The waiter comes to your humble scribe, and I shake my head from side-to-side: "No thank you."
And guess what, everyone is staring at me.
The guy next to me says: "Don't drink, Robert?"
"Nope."
He continues gazing at me.
"I understand," he says.
"You do?"
"Uh-huh."
It takes me a moment to puzzle this out. Then it hits me.
Robert does not drink
Robert is a Hollywood screenwriter.
Thus: Robert is an alcoholic.
"I'm allergic," I practically shout to the table. "I get migraines from wine and liquor. Heck, I even get migraines from perfume."
They just look at me with pity.
Obviously, I'm in denial.
I give up.
I actually feel like having a drink now.
Hey, look at that, My Cholent Buddy from the early minyan is wearing a tux, and he's schlepping a violin. Wonder what's going on?
Now, he's being called up to the podium. They flash a picture of My Cholent Buddy from one of the major Israeli newspapers. He's sitting on an IDF Merkava tank with a violin, about to enter Lebanon last summer.
My Cholent Buddy is introduced with a resume that's way beyond cholent. Turns out My Cholent Buddy attended all these music schools in Israel, and hoo-ha conservatories in Europe that have these pain-in-the-neck compound Germanic names that just never seem to end.
Who knew?
Anyway, My Cholent Buddy's playing his violin.
Oh
My
Gosh
I know nothing about music and even I can tell that My Cholent Buddy is a genius.
And I just thought that he was tall, and liked his cholent really hot.
SCENE SIX: FFF
I step outside to call Karen and tell her all about My Cholent Buddy.
Just as I'm about to dial, a woman I do not recognize boldly walks up to me.
INTERPOLATION:
A few years ago, I was working on a film and the genius Costume Designer explained to me his theory of how he gets to the core of a woman's character through wardrobe:
"It's all about footwear, Robert. Show me what shoes a woman wears and I'll tell you everything about that woman's character—from her soul to her flesh."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
The secrets yours truly learns on location. It is mind-boggling.
END INTERPOLATION:
Anywhoo.
This woman is wearing, I kid you not, the latest Manolo Blahnik lizard stiletto pumps which, I believe retail for a cool $750.000.
She's also wearing an outfit that, ahem, modestly sheath her shoulders and knees—frum in word—but it's Azzedine Alaia tight. Which is to say: her skirt and jacket look like they have been spray-painted on.
This is a new phenomenon. The FFF: The Frum Femme Fatale.
Does this woman actually go to my shul? She looks way too dangerous.
"Are you Robert J. Avrech?"
"Um..."
"You are. I know you are."
She sounds like Joan Crawford—after about ten vodkas.
"You wrote Body Double."
I have been scolded for this film so many times in the Orthodox community that I've come up with this really clever answer.
Pay close attention:
"No, actually that was the other Robert J. Avrech."
She licks her lips and smiles like a Black Widow who has just eaten her young. Wow, the lip gloss she uses really kicks light. I should ask what brand she uses. Karen would definitely like to know.
FFF leans in close, puts a hand very lightly on my shoulder. Her nails are lacquered red as a Chinese vase, they're sharp as daggers.
She whispers: "I adore your film. I've seen it like twenty times. It. Is. Awesome."
Striding away, she shivers as she walks; high heels like ice-picks.
Phone Call #3
Me: Hello?
Karen: Robert?
Me: I'm in the car, on my way home.
Posted by Robert J. Avrech at March 21, 2007 07:03 AM
Comments
Seraphic Secret is private property, that's right, it's an extension of our home, and as such, Karen and I have instituted two Seraphic Rules and we ask commentors to act respectfully.
1. No profanity.2. No Israel bashing. We debate, we discuss, we are respectful. You know what Israel bashing is. The world is full of it. Seraphic Secret is one of the few places in the world that will not tolerate this form of anti-Semitism. That's it. Break either of these rules and you will be banned.
"The FFF, The Frum Femme Fatale."
I've also heard them called "Hot Channies." It's a very pervasive phenomenon. My mom is still talking about a Rabbi's wife that she saw wearing a very slinky dress while pregnant. To quote my mother, "I could see the outline of her belly button!"
Posted by: Fern R at March 21, 2007 11:59 AM
I like this new screenplay of yours, "Shul Dinner."
Of course you couldn't tell that Moshe what you're working on...'cause he'd be part of that "avodah zarah."
Wow, to think that some hard work, dedication and avodah zarah can get someone an Emmy Award and other award nominations... :)
Posted by: Pearl at March 21, 2007 12:02 PM
Wonderful. WONDERFUL. Keep 'em coming!
What I can't understand is why some women are willing to make themselves incredibly uncomfortable in shoes that, to my naive eyes at least, look incredibly ugly and are downright dangerous to walk in. (My save-the-world daughter would say that they've "internalized the oppression.") Be the women's reasons as they may, my husband has been saying for years that the men who design fashionable women's shoes actually hate women.
Posted by: Sara at March 21, 2007 12:34 PM
It's funny - for some reason I don't see you as gun toting.
anyhoo...
these social occasions sound like they're so excruciating for you. can't you just pretend you're doing research?
Posted by: mata hari at March 21, 2007 01:39 PM
I call them HPWs, the HP being High Priced.
Anyway, you make me feel kind of guilty of the hypocrisy you describe. I don't go to movies either, probably because of slippery slope considerations, but I am fascinated to read about movies.
The thing is, if I were to bravely face that hypocrisy, I would probably favor the movie side over the frum facade. So I'll continue using my hypocritical, unctuous personna to save what little there is left worth saving.
Posted by: Brz at March 21, 2007 02:24 PM
Pearl - to be fair, I think the dude meant that superstition is avodah zarah. Either way, an obnoxious comment. (However, at least he didn't stone you, Robert.)
Posted by: ralphie at March 21, 2007 02:36 PM
Am I mistaken or is your gun shop on the same street as your hardware store?
Not that it matters but if it is where I am thinking of it is near some old stomping grounds of mine.
Posted by: Jack at March 21, 2007 05:05 PM
Robert,
Did you write this in one sitting?
Have you had it lying around your C: drive for a year?
Or what?
Wow....
Sorry about your index finger. Think of yourself like the stuck creature that has gnawed itself out of a trap -- the trap of being nice. You're just going to have to learn to dish out criticism harder. Watch and learn.
Posted by: Jeremiah at March 21, 2007 05:50 PM
Fern:
Hot Channies? Well, I never. It's pervasive? Now I'm terrified.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech ![[TypeKey Profile Page]](http://www.seraphicpress.com/nav-commenters.gif)
at March 21, 2007 05:53 PM
Pearl:
When Moshe hit me with the avodah zarah charge, he was referring to my comment about being superstitious. I guess my noirish, clipped dialogue didn't make that clear. Sorry.
Anyway, he was being a real jerk. I hope that much was clear.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 21, 2007 05:59 PM
Very funny!
Posted by: kishke at March 21, 2007 06:03 PM
Sara:
Glad you're enjoying.
I don't know if men who design women's fashion hate women, I mean, no one forces these women to wear the shoes. The pshat is: high heels are sexy. Most women like to feel sexy. Most men like to look at sexy women.
It benefits no one to deny the essential nature of male and female sexuality.
As the great American abstract artist Frank Stella once said about his canvases: "What you see is what you see."
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 21, 2007 06:20 PM
Mata Hari:
I am a proud and loyal member of the NRA.
I don't have to pretend I'm doing reserach at these functions, I am—for Seraphic Secret. Oh, the suffering I endure for this blog.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 21, 2007 06:28 PM
Brz:
I wasn't really describing hypocrisy as much as a single jerk. It's okay to be fascinated by Hollywood. I understand that. But telling me that I'm guilty of avodah zarah—which is pretty darn serious— because I don't want to discuss my writing, is insensitive, inappropriate, rude, and massively stupid.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 21, 2007 06:37 PM
Ralphie:
He did not stone me. Very true. But I cannot vouch for my behavior the next time he accuses me of idolatrous behaviour. By then, who knows what wicked weapon I might be packin'.
Just kidding.
Really I am.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 21, 2007 06:51 PM
Jack:
I'm always glad to give my gun shop a free plug:
Martin B. Retting, Inc.
11029 Washington Boulevard
Culver City, CA 90232
(310) 837-2412
Great store. Great service. Great guns.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 21, 2007 07:00 PM
Jeremiah:
Yup, wrote this in the AM. Before I sat down to work on my script. Took about an hour-and-a-half. The shul dinner just took place last Sunday night. Three nights ago.
Karen says I let people take advantage of me all the time, reading things and offering criticism that take up a huge amount of my energy. She says my time is too precious.
I don't do it anymore. Now, Karen screens everyone and everything.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 21, 2007 07:11 PM
Hi Robert,
Ok. I thought that you were talking about Retting. I have driven by a million times but never been inside. I'll have to make a point of checking it out.
Posted by: Jack at March 21, 2007 07:59 PM
Forget "Watch [me] and learn."
Just watch Karen and learn.
Posted by: Jeremiah at March 21, 2007 08:10 PM
Kishke:
Odd, it was not funny while it was happening. It was kind of awful.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 21, 2007 08:54 PM
don't like mapquest? what about gps?
a friend of mine was visiting your neck of the woods a few years ago. he told me that during his drive up the pch his gps kept on telling him he was driving in the pacific ocean
Posted by: Ari Kinsberg at March 21, 2007 10:21 PM
Of course women like to look sexy, and men like to look at sexy women. But I hardly think stilleto heels belong in the category of the "essential nature of male and female sexuality." What did people do during the millenia before they were invented?
And of course no one forces women to shell out incredible sums to buy these shoes. But in our mass media-saturated age, what is considered "sexy" is heavily influenced by the message put out by those who want to sell their products. This is legitimate enough so that I wouldn't ban these products or their advertisements, but I think we all need to be conscious of social influences on our "nature."
Who knows? Perhaps men living in earlier eras would have seen not sexiness but danger in a woman shod, clothed, and manicured like the FFF you describe - and would, like you, have fled more or less on first sight.
Posted by: Sara at March 22, 2007 01:44 AM
And I thought Jews didn't drink.
In my experience (I am at least partly talking Australian Jews here) they are not like that at all. It is Americans who don't drink, or who as a mimimum get into weird puritan stuff over it. Jews are more like Dracula. They never drink..... wine. Ask them to join you for a stubbie though, and they are generally fine with it.
Posted by: Michael Jennings at March 22, 2007 05:07 AM
I'm sure the event was awful while in progress. But your portrayal of it was funny.
The writing is very good. I assumed you just dashed it off, and was amazed. Now that I learn that you put an hour and a half into it, I am still impressed, but (slightly) less agog.
Posted by: kishke at March 22, 2007 06:21 AM
Ari:
Most GPS systems are flawed and weird, as you point out. I stick with my infallible human GPS system: Karen.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 22, 2007 06:26 AM
Michael:
I need subtitles here: "stubbie?"
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 22, 2007 06:29 AM
Kishke:
I never dash off anything—except when an FFF gets too close. No, writing is hard work, and I take it very seriously.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 22, 2007 06:31 AM
Sara:
As always, I give my guests the last word. Thanks so much.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 22, 2007 06:33 AM
A "stubbie" is a small bottle of beer: usually 250ml or 375ml. A "longneck" is a large bottle of beer: usually 750ml
Posted by: Michael Jennings at March 22, 2007 06:50 AM
I always admire when you publicly praise Karen in your posts and in your comments. This modest sidekick of yours is a true aishet chayil.
...But each time that you do it, and the way you do it, the name of comedienne Sandra Bernhard's one-woman show comes to mind: "Without You I'm Nothing." It almost seems to be the message you continually give Karen and the impression you leave with us -- but we know you're not too bad yourself :)
Posted by: Pearl at March 22, 2007 08:23 AM
Michael:
I'm learning a whole new language, Australian. Armed with such new words as: tosser, stubbie, and longneck, I can now watch "Australia's Next Top Model" and actually understand what the heck they are saying—as if it matters.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 22, 2007 09:23 AM
Pearl:
Without Karen I shudder to think what would become of me.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 22, 2007 09:24 AM
And I thought my life was tough lately.
Posted by: SC&A at March 22, 2007 09:38 AM
SC&A:
Not tough, just, um, interesting.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 22, 2007 10:20 AM
So this is your fantasy-of-fantasies: that someone out there will want to make a movie about the life of an Orthodox Jewish screenwriter.
Just make sure to keep Karen in it, otherwise you'll be like Woody Allen in Sleeper, only wearing tzitzis. Better to make another Annie Hall - it was more successful at the box office, wasn't it?
Posted by: Solomon2 at March 22, 2007 05:58 PM
Solomon:
Boy, you really do not know me at all if you think my life on film is my fantasy :)
P.S. I hate, hate, hate the films of Woody Allen. Outside of Jean Luc Godard, I can't think of a director who is more inept and pretentious and oh, yes, he's a child molestor.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 22, 2007 06:50 PM
I have refused to watch any WA movies since that awful truth came out. (But by then I had tired of him anyway.)
Isn't hitting on JLG a little unfair? I've never seen his movies, but I thought that for the French, the entire point of the French making their own movies is that they aren't Hollywood. Since Hollywood directors are talented, it's only proper that the French directors be untalented - a matter of national pride, of course. :)
Posted by: Solomon2 at March 22, 2007 07:18 PM
Solomon:
JLG is beyond untalented. He is inept, pretentious, and a proud Communist, so his films are absurd political screeds that are simply unwatchable.
You are quite right, French national pride demands that they make terrible movies, all the while attacking the barbarity of Hollywood films—which by the way, the French public eats up.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 22, 2007 07:34 PM
You had me laughing so hard at the end. My coworkers think I'm nuts because of that laugh.
Thanks.
Posted by: simon at March 23, 2007 08:46 AM
Simon:
You're very welcome. Have a lovely Shabbos.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 23, 2007 01:17 PM
This is the funniest take I have seen on shul dinners and dressed to kill frum women - FFF will forever be in my mind when I see them.
I can certainly see Robert as a card-carrying NRA member, it's called hiding behind the gun (or the Lincoln :-). Your true redemption will be when you can go toe to toe with an FFF (I'm still laughing), walk away the victor and enjoy the rest of the party.
Posted by: hmmm at March 25, 2007 09:14 PM
Hmmm:
I'll never be able to go toe-to-toe with a FFF. Are you kidding? They are way too weird and scary. I'd rather be at The Chinese Farm.
Posted by: Robert J. Avrech at March 25, 2007 09:55 PM