On 29 November 1947, the United Nations General Assembly recommended the adoption and implementation of the partition plan of Mandatory Palestine.
On 14 May 1948, David Ben-Gurion, the Executive Head of the World Zionist Organization and president of the Jewish Agency for Palestine, declared ”the establishment of a Jewish state in Eretz Israel, to be known as the State of Israel,” a state independent upon the termination of the British Mandate for Palestine, 15 May 1948.
May the Almighty continue to bless and protect Israel.
I recall being in a big city law library years ago and seeing four freshly-minted and most attractive young female lawyers. It was a Friday afternoon and I asked what wild and woolly plans they had for the weekend. They said, “nothing much.”
Nothing much?? No dates? No being taken out to restaurants and movies? No romantic weekends somewhere, far away from the drudgery of the law?
The general consensus among that sad little group of young ladies was that guys of their vintage were either intimidated by intelligent successful women or their tastes drifted toward the ‘easier and skankier’ members of their sisterhood. Guys their age tended to follow the path of least resistance, both intellectually and sexually.
(Why is she working Friday night instead of going on a date??)
I was agog and aghast. This situation, rather widespread according to that mopey little gaggle of girls, could not be allowed to continue. It was an outrage. An affront to common decency. Steps of some sort needed to be taken.
The need for Big Brother to step in and take things firmly in hand was obvious. Thus, the idea for “The Board” was born.
I have long believed that there should be some kind of government tribunal… The National Relationships Board or The Federal Dating Tribunal… something along those lines.
Guys… and by this I mean otherwise decent, appropriate and eligible young men [1]… would be hauled up before the panel to account for themselves as to why perfectly lovely, charming girls aren’t being taken out on dates by decent boyfriends who treat them right.
(You got some ‘splainin’ to do, son!)
Very severe penalties would be handed down to those who cannot give good reasons as to why so many gorgeous girls are left standing on the relationship sidelines.
Any guy who could not provide a good excuse (let alone string together a grammatically cogent phrase) would be dealt with in the most severe manner.
The Tribunal’s motto… Pull Up Your Pants; You Look Like an Idiot!
Naturally, I would be head of the tribunal because I see on a daily basis how so many wonderful young ladies are reduced to putting up with rude, crude, thoughtless, heartless, brainless morons. And that’s when they can find guys in the first place!
[1] There being a glut of inappropriate guys and an apparent dearth of good guys, the Board would concentrate on the latter. As a girl can’t swing a cat without smacking some loser with it, The Board would concentrate on the eligible yet clueless within the pool of available men.
If you’ve spent any time in The South, I’m fairly confident that you will have heard your fair share of “sirs” and “ma’ams,” and in a culture and society where civility and common decency… let alone chivalry… are becoming all but extinct, this is breath of fresh air.
Etiquette… manners, for lack of a better word… is still taught in many segments of The South.
In polite circles, gentlemen still stand when a lady enters the room. Gentlemen nod with perhaps the slightest of bows when they take their leave of a lady. Doors are opened for ladies. Chairs are pulled out and tucked in. “Ladies first” rarely needs to be said… it is a given.
The old saying is that if a woman’s car breaks down at the side of the road, all she has to do is lift the hood and stand by her car. Not 5 minutes will go by before some gentleman… even a truckload of them… will pull up and offer her a hand. My dearly beloved friend from Arkansas, Danielle, confirms this. “Hell… they LIVE for that kind of stuff!”
In grocery stores, gentlemen routinely allow ladies to go ahead in the checkout line. If a lady needs a shopping cart (or buggy, as they are often called), a gentleman will offer to give her his own.
While not born or raised in The South, I’ve adopted the practice of calling just about everyone Sir or Ma’am. I get mixed reactions, to be sure. Some girls think it is quaint or cute. Some women take it as a remark that they look older than they are.
One lady, I believe at the post office, smiled wistfully and said to me, “I can’t remember the last time someone called me Ma’am!”
She patted my arms and said, “Don’t ever stop doing that.”
Now before you have visions of berserk toddlers going on a murderous rampage, let me assure you that is not the case. Well, at least not here.
(Somebody is NOT happy!)
It was more like…
“Toddler’s refusal to give up the microphone during a
family karaoke evening started a quarrel that left
two men hacked to death with a meat cleaver!”
(Are you ready to rumble??)
OK, here’s what happened. A couple were celebrating the Qixi Festival (i.e. China’s Valentine’s Day), with a singing session at a local karaoke parlour. So far, so good. Trouble starts when the parents’ four-year-old son hogs the karaoke mike and the doting parents were indulging him. [1]
(Beijing… we have a problem)
Mayhem ensues when two of the karaoke kid’s uncles berate the father for having raised such a spoiled child; a “Little Emperor”, as the Chinese say [2]. Push literally comes to shove, then shoving proceeds to punching. A nephew grabs a meat cleaver and hacks the uncles to death.
(The problem solver)
Sadly, this is not an isolated incident. Karaoke-related violence is a real problem in the East.
Other karaoke massacres have taken place in the Philippines, where the Frank Sinatra song ‘My Way‘ has had to be removed from many songbooks after sub-standard renditions provoked a string of killings.
(Clearly a trouble-maker)
In Thailand, meanwhile, a man shot eight of his neighbours, including his brother-in-law, after tiring of their tuneless reprisals of John Denver’s ‘Country Roads.’
(An incitement to violence)
In the United States, a woman punched a man for continuing to sing Coldplay’s ‘Yellow’ after she had told him he was not up to the task.
(It would have driven Mother Teresa to violence)
In her defence… it WAS a karaoke version of Coldplay’s ‘Yellow!’
[1] NB: Karaoke is taken very seriously, not just in China but throughout Asia.
[2] There is no shortage of criticism inside China for the bad behaviour of the Little Emperors, the children raised under the strict one-child policy and doted on by their parents and grandparents.
I had occasion the other day to spend a leisurely afternoon with my dearly beloved friend, Davka Frei. [1]
Davka is a stunningly beautiful Jewish girl who has zero interest in Yiddishkeit. [2]
It’s not that she hates Judaism or even dislikes it. It’s simply not on the radar with her. As such, she is continually flummoxed at the fact that I live an observant Jewish life.
I did not grow up Orthodox. I chose to become Orthodox later in life. And this is what gets her!
You see, while Davka can wrap her mind around someone being observant because he or she was raised that way and ‘did not know better’ (i.e. FFB – Frum From Birth [3]), she has a much harder time understanding why someone who ‘knew better’ (i.e. had a normal non-observant life) would choose a frum lifestyle.
(Frum vs Frei)
Fortunately for the both of us, the Frum/Frei debate hasn’t affected our relationship in the least because for the most part we are completely dippy about each other. For all of our differences in terms of religious observance, we thoroughly enjoy each other’s company.
(Frei vs Frum)
And it is that genuine affection that trumps just about everything else.
In our own way, we are both as Loonie as they come… but we arrive at our loopiness from different angles.
(That’s not us, btw)
That’s what makes lunch (kosher, of course… my friend puts friendship over flavour! [4]) with Davka such a wonderful, delightful experience.
[1]Davka Frei (pronounced ‘DAHV-kah FRY’). Not her real name. Davka Frei is a pseudonym. Davka is an Aramaic word that has no precise English translation. The closest you can come is probably ‘very’ or ‘exactly’ or ‘precisely.’ Frei (lit. ‘free’) is a Yiddish/German word meaning ‘non-observant’or ‘not Orthodox’… as in ‘free’ from religious observance.
[2]Yiddishkeit (from the Yiddish; Lit. “Jewishness”) – the word is usually used to mean Judaism and everything related to Jews and Judaism.
[3]Frum (from the German fromm, meaning “devout” or “pious”. The ‘u’ is pronounced like the ‘oo’ in ‘book’ or ‘cookie’) meaning committed to the observance of Jewish commandments and law, specifically of Orthodox Judaism. Frum is the opposite of Frei.
[4] Truth be told, our last lunch together was at the Oasis Cafe in downtown Toronto. I wasn’t expecting much. We both had the Eggplant Parmigiana with caesar salad and Peach Snapple. It was astonishingly good. Davka: “It’s so delicious, you’d never know it was kosher!” LOL
I’ve given this a lot of thought and have come to two conclusions.
One: most people don’t know how properly to flirt. This is because…
Two: most people don’t know what flirting is.
Flirting is as complex as it is fundamental.
Flirting is about communicating with a person through a careful procedure that involves a little curiosity, a bit of brevity and laughter, and some meaningful glances and smiles. While it can be aggressive and obvious, I personally put this overt style of flirting in the ‘hitting on someone’ category.
To me, flirting is quiet and subtle. A look that lingers a moment longer than it otherwise would. The tiniest of smiles. The most seemingly innocent double entendre or Freudian slip. A meaningful exchange of glances in reaction to what a third person says. The most subtle of body language. Ideally, only the most observant of bystanders would even know there was any flirting going on at all.
One popular fact that gets tossed around a great deal is that scientists believe there are as many as 52 “flirting signals” used by humans around the world.
I don’t know how or where the scientists picked up such information but speaking strictly for myself the Number One Undisputed Capital of Flirting, bar none, is The South.
There is something about the flirting that goes on south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
Flirting is not merely a skill way down yonder in the land of cotton… it has been elevated, refined and transformed into an Art!
It is through the art of flirtation that people in The South experience the pleasures of interacting with the opposite sex.
Flirting can be a means by which to get into a relationship, of course. It is certainly an enjoyable way to get to know someone initially.
But to me, flirting is an end in and of itself. It doesn’t have to lead anywhere else. To me, flirting is its own reward.
And when flirting with a Southern Girl… the rewards are immeasurable.
It’s been 12 years since I went down to The South. It’s been 12 years since I’ve experienced Flirtation as Art.
One night when I was driving down from Canada to Arkansas, I stopped at Jackson, Tennessee.
A few months before, an old girlfriend of mine, LK, introduced me to a wonderful place in Jackson called Casey Jones Village and I thought I would pop by to see if it was still open.
As I pulled in and parked, I could tell they’d had some kind of festival or concert there and, sadly, it looked like I’d missed it. Everyone seemed to be packing up. Rather than head back out on the highway, I decided to get out and stretch my legs and have a bit of a poke around.
I’ve never had bad luck meeting people in The South.
I headed toward the Old Country Store & Restaurant as there was group of musicians gathered there just to the left of the store. Looked like maybe they were a family. Two young ladies on violin. Two older gents on guitar. A stand-up bass. A banjo. Perhaps a harmonica.
I’d almost reached them when they lifted their instruments.
And that is when I heard it.
That small group of musicians started playing the beautiful Tennessee Waltz.
I just froze in my tracks, taking it all in. I was transfixed.
I’m not sure if any of you have ever experienced a perfect moment. I did that night at that place.
The music. The night. The mild night air. A gentle breeze blowing the long blonde hair of one of the girls playing the violin.
I was in awe.
It was like looking at a Norman Rockwell painting come to life.
Although I know it’s not possible, it seems to me I held my breath the entire time. I was so afraid that if I spoke, if I moved, if I did anything… I would spoil the absolute perfection of the moment.
I’ve always liked the Tennessee Waltz. But on that exact night at that exact time and place… it was the most beautiful tune I’d ever heard.
When they finished, they began packing away their instruments.
As I quietly came forward, I noticed a big old mason jar with some money in it. Not a lot of money, I’m sad to say.
I took all the cash I had on me and rolled it up, put a $5 bill around the outside and placed it into the mason jar. It must have been around $400, I think. And I actually felt guilty for not being able to pay more… to pay them as much as they were worth in my eyes.
You see, I wasn’t giving them money. I was merely trying to pay back a small token amount of what they had given to me that night.
You can’t put a dollar value on perfection.
I’ll always remember that night… and The Tennessee Waltz.
One of the things I miss most about The South is the Stars and Bars.
Otherwise known as the Confederate Battle Flag. [1]
Now I am mindful of that fact that this particular flag is a controversial image. There have been protests and petitions trying to get the Stars and Bars removed from state flags and even to stop flying the flag on schools, government buildings and other public property.
I’m not a part of that history. I wasn’t born in The South. I’m not even American. The baggage associated with the Stars and Bars is something I don’t carry. I can have positive feelings about that flag because I can pick and choose the things with which I associate it.
And I am the first to admit that my associations with the flag have virtually nothing to do with reality and everything to do with a fictional romanticized concept of what I personally feel the flag and The South was, is and should be.
I am sometimes met with a mixture of righteous indignation and moral outrage on this subject. “How would you feel if someone expressed positive feelings about the swastika and Nazi Germany?” Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t feel too good about it. That’s probably because I have a connection to that symbol and what it means.
But all that doesn’t seem to have any effect on me when it comes to the Confederate Battle Flag. Maybe it should… but it just doesn’t.
All the times I’ve been down in The South… all the people I’ve met and befriended… all the places I’ve been to while I was there… all have been positive experiences for me.
When I think of The South, I have nothing but good memories and good feelings. When I think of The South, I remember friends and loved ones.
When I think of The South… I picture the Stars and Bars.
