L'dor v'dor

My supervisor Maia (pronounced like the ancient South American empire) has put on STAR 98.7, and so currently I'm listening to "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" by Green Day. I'm feeling literal today, so here's a list of what I've decided are some possible candidates for the Boulevard mentioned in the song:

Valencia Boulevard, Santa Clarita, CA: Probably not. The only thing broken on this thoroughly suburban thoroughfare is the occasional 40-something's french tipped nail or heel of a Steve Madden, a casualty whose killer is the loose hem of track suit pants or a Talbot's skirt. From the 5 freeway to City Hall and on through the auto mall, dreams are busy coming true on this V-town artery. True to the "dream" motif, the new Valencia street sign looks like it was jacked from downtown Sesame Street. Somewhere there's a furry muppet who's totally fucking lost.

Las Vegas Boulevard, Las Vegas, NV: Perhaps.... Sin City dreams must be made of the same impenetrable material as the bubble which shields His Holiness the Pope. This is the only place in the world where you can lose thousands of dollars to ephemeral Luck but then walk outside and hire the services of a wanton Lady. Nothing broken here but those persnickety monogomy vows you made when you got married. They need to change that slogan: What happens in Vegas, gets you divorced. What happens in Vegas, means a visit to the free clinic. What happens in Vegas, is really itchy.

Hollywood Boulevard, Hollywood, CA: Ding! Dreams aren't broken here, they're absolutely shattered. For the Angeleno, this is the epicenter of Schadenfreude. Some well-known demolished dreams on this road include: the dream of the wide-eyed Starlet; the dream of the moviegoer walking out of the Chinese Theater saying, "That was $15?"; the voyeur’s dream of seeing a celebrity and meeting only wookies and Charlie Chaplin. The best has to be the dream of the tourist: he hops gaily out of his van, pocket-sized digital camera in hand, unable to retain his flood of excitement—“this is Hollywood!” he says, “land of the glamorous première.” When he sees there’s far more glamour in a Tim Burton Gotham than in his idea of Hollywood&Vine, his crestfallen look satisfies the bitterly hypocritical Angeleno like nothing else.

Ok, so people in LA really aren’t that bitter. Well, there are 2 exceptions: those who’ve just had a really bad day (and can you blame them for a little schadenfreude?), and people who didn’t make it as an actor, and found nothing else. Those people are like unsweeted chocolate or bay leaves or something (shit, I don’t know. Think of something bitter. Insert it. Laugh).

So for those of you who’ve read my blog before, I would imagine that you’re quite tired of my little resurrections after too-long hiatuses. I know, I should impose a statute of limitations on myself—if after nearly 8 months of absence, don’t try and be a damn Christ figure thinking he can walk right into Jerusalem and enjoy triumph. PS, I’m not comparing myself to Christ—I am neither a psycho nor a Beatle. Anyways, I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’ll vanish again, but I apologize for the times I did.

Speaking of Jerusalem! I have been working for nearly two months now down at a temple (rather, the temple) in the San Fernando Valley (for non-natives, think “oh my god, becky, look at her butt!” and Fast Times at Ridgemont High. It’s that valley). I’m interning this summer with the Los Angeles Jewish Symphony, and they are in fact headquartered at this temple (which shall remain nameless, lest someone googles it, finds my page, and I am hated forever) which I’m told is the largest temple west of the Mississippi. Translation: I hang out with tons of the Chosen People all day long.

Now, before I start in on them, a disclaimer: In a diverse setting like, say, a UN Conference, I’m not about to start assigning stereotypes. I won’t think that the colorfully dressed Zimbabwe representative propagates African stereotypes or that the Korean delegate eats rice like it’s going out of style. No, in a setting with many walks of life, like in the day to day happenings of a large city, I’ll not observe behavior and think of it as typical of that race or class. I’ll choose the moral high ground before milking comic possibilities.

But cmon! I work at a TEMPLE, and a damn huge one besides. These people are a gold mine, the same as if I’d walked into the Lesbian Equality Foundation or the Republican Barbecuer’s Convention—any time you put all of the same kind of person in a single place, they can’t help but come together in the spirit of complete predictability! It’s the reason that when you get a bunch of music kids together, they go on and on about Bach, to the frustration of the business major. It’s why when you go to gay clubs, it’s like a veritable parade of the Flavors of Queer: twink, bear, priss, weirdo, idiot, genius, hottie, “oh-dude-is-that-your-real-face?”, etc. So the disclaimer is this: I do not assign the following traits to all Jews, but merely enjoy that when grouped together, you discover that no one has ever been more gifted with comic truth than Fran Drescher.

I’ll start with what is hands down the most fascinating thing about Jews who are always at the temple: no matter where you were born, grew up, or even lived for a period of time, as a Jew you will have a thick New York accent. It’s not just the bagel-shmearers from the Upper West Side—I know three women from Santa Monica who call me Cwawrl and drink cwaffee. And those are just the basics. Here’s a crash course in speaking like a Jew (again, no matter where you’re from):

· When it’s hot, you ask the custodian to turn on the “eh condishionink.”

· Rachel is pronounced with a long “ah” and a gutteral –ch.

· Darfur, or rather the cessation of that nation’s genocide, is a big topic. “Dwaw FUH” is the pronunciation.

Doting parents name their children Micah and Rebecca, Aaron and Abraham.

“Herschel and Joshua! You two need to stop fighting and get your backpacks or you’ll be late for shul.”

The Jews are a people blessed with wonderful music (I’m being serious. To walk down the halls of a religious organization and not hear “How Great Thou Art” or “Unless a Grain of Wheat” is marvelous. Mwaw. Mwawvelussss. Almost). However, the absence of tired old hymns such as those makes for interesting non-religious ceremonies, such as Hebrew School graduation, which includes a performance by the oh-so-darling graduates. The program includes:

“Heal the World,” Michael Jackson

“Hero,” Mariah Carey

and a barrage of your favorite Motown hits!

Now, this next one may be the most sensitive, so I’ll approach it carefully. To begin, I know many Jews who would not be considered “rich.” In fact, most of the Jewish people I know do not enjoy the exorbitant incomes that many a crusty anti-Semite would accuse them of having. That said, the temple is in Encino, sometimes called the “Beverly Hills of the Valley.” At this temple, the Donor is held in the highest regard, and there are quite a few people with the income to make large donations. So what all this wealth (and willingness to donate) means is that you end up with a number of people who need to be thanked and appreciated. This is done in the form of the almighty and omnipresent Plaque. Come, a tour:

When you turn off of Ventura Boulevard onto the temple’s street, you pull into the Beth and Simon Levin Parking Center. You then walk past the Cindy and Howard Liebeskind Security Bungalow and into the Cookie and Mark Leibsohn Synagogue. If you’re tired after a long walk through the hallway, you can rest on the Alisha Reskowitz Bench in the Bob and Sarah Shulman Rest Area. However, the Sandy Makowski Bench is across the hall. The toilet you pee in is given in memory of Daniel Green, and the David Hoffman Paper Towel Dispenser is a battery-operated automatic. Don’t worry if you make a mess, because the custodian (who is not donated, apparently) will clean it using his Rachel and Moses Wichtberg Mop, which he pulled from the Bunny and Merv Eichman Broom Closet.

However, with all of this said, the Jews are not without a sense of humor, even (or perhaps especially) when it comes to themselves. After attending a Shabbat service (my boss asked me to join her choir), the Rabbi encouraged the faithful to go to the back, take “10 Jewish minutes” and enjoy some coffee and cake. Because Jews, he said, should never do anything without coffee and cake. More than any other group I’ve encountered, this is a people who recognizes exactly that—they are a People. Their sense of unity and solidarity with their own is rock solid and incredibly admirable. Family life is the absolute center of existence, and the love shown to one’s neighbor is immense. Perhaps it is the Jews’ devotion to one another which has kept them alive throughout their difficult history.

Sure, “difficult history” is tough to take seriously when 14 year-old Samantha Lichtman walks in with a Prada bag and Jimmy Choos. Ahem, but that’s neither here nor there.

I’m finishing my writing tonight while enjoying the soundtrack from Amélie. It would seem on the surface that Minimalism and Frenchness are two ideas that have nothing to do with one another, but it comes together beautifully.