Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To School I Go!

It’s Fall, which has always been my favorite time of the year. The days are cool and crisp, and the nights get cold. The trees change color and it rains a bunch. Oh, wait, that’s what Autumn was like when I lived in New England.

Here in So Cal, we get about three days like that a year.  And they might be in June. So other than by looking at the calendar, we never really know what season we’re in. 

But this year I can tell you it’s Fall because I’m going back to school.  I am not going to be clutching a Wonder Woman lunch box, or a book bag filled with number 2 pencils and brand new erasers. But otherwise  it doesn’t feel like much else has changed.

My stomach is in knots. I admit it; I’m scared.

I’m not afraid of the work – I never was. I know I can handle that. But, now, just like when I was 6 or 18 or 21 and starting first grade, college and graduate school, I’m terrified of the intangibles. The things I can’t control. Did I mention that I’m a control freak?

Like what if I don’t make any friends? What if people are mean to me? What if I’m the oldest person in my class? What if, like in the nightmares I started having last week, I get terminally lost?

If I’m thinking rationally, I know the answer to all these questions.  I may not make friends but I’ll survive with a few acquaintances.  No one is going to be mean to me; no one will care that much. That’s the joy of not being 7 anymore. Or 16.  And yes, there is the distinct possibility that I’ll be the oldest one in my class. 

Big freaking deal.  I have a ton of life experience to draw upon. For what that’s worth. (I hope a lot!)

I now understand  that while it would be lovely to meet a whole new group of potential work buddies and have them adore me, it’s not imperative. Unlike when I went to school the last time, I have a group of supportive friends, great former colleagues and a host of people I can draw on in a pinch.

I’ve also learned that I can’t make people like me. Which is good, because anyone that you can make like you, usually isn’t really a decent friend anyway.  Chalk that wisdom up to age and experience.

Also I've noticed that lately I don’t really give a damn. If somebody doesn’t like me, it’s a bummer, because everybody wants to be liked. But if they don’t, I’ll live. And probably thrive.

The folks that my career depends upon liking me don’t have to adore me. They just have to know they can depend on me. And they usually do.

This time, like every other time I went to school, what I’m really afraid of is getting lost.  Even with GPS I get lost everywhere.

My undergraduate college was pretty small, but I managed to spend the first few days of my freshman year wandering around in a daze. I ended up in the art department a few times, and did spend a lot of time walking around with a map up to my nose. They have an app for that now.

Now instead of being branded as a Freshman because of the map, all student look alike: they have cell phones in front of their faces. Which may be useful in places where Freshmen are hazed.

When I went to graduate school my classes weren’t even held on the main campus, they were in downtown Chicago, which brought a whole other level of getting lost. I missed L exits and ended up in odd, unpleasant places. It wasn’t efficient, and I was late for a lot of classes, but I sure did get to know the city.

This time I’m going to UCLA. UCLA is big. Huge, even.  In all the years I have lived in Los Angeles I’ve only been on campus a few times. Those were for concerts that I was working.  That didn’t intimidate me much.

I had great plans to scope out the school today, since class starts tomorrow. I was going to get a parking pass and a map. Or app. Naturally that didn’t happen.

My house is pretty much as far away from UCLA as you can get and still be in Los Angeles. So I’m going to leave an hour and a half early tomorrow.  I won’t have a Pokeman backpack, but I’ll be clutching a tote bag I won at a horse show filled with notebooks and pens.

But I’ll still be the one holding the map in front of my nose. 

Signs Of Autumn: Heat Waves and the High Holy Days

It’s officially Autumn today, which, when I lived in New England was a harbinger of a few things: cool weather, leaves changing color and the High Holy Days. Now that I live in Los Angeles it’s a little different. Fall is represented by horrible heat waves, leaves drying up and dropping, and the High Holy Days.

I’m not a terribly religious Jew, but in the past I really made an effort to attend services on the Holidays. It seemed – and was – the least I could do. I’m not alone in this, since it’s practically impossible to get into a synagogue on the Holidays unless you already belong to one. There is this syndrome among the Tribe that’s dubbed the “twice a year Jew,” and I confess I’m one. 

Basically, that means that the only time you show up for services are the two important days: Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Rosh Hashanah is the start of the Jewish New Year and the day you’re entered in the “Book of Life,” and Yom Kippur is the big one: the Day of Atonement.  Most non-Jews think of Yom Kippur as the “day of the crabby Jew” as we’re supposed to fast from sunset to sunset. Everybody knows a hungry Jew is a cranky Jew.

When I was a kid my family was a little more observant than I am now. My brother and I went to Sunday school and he was actually Bar Mitzvah’d. Not so much me.

I hated languages and Hebrew was no exception. I was given the choice to be Bat Mitzvah’d  -my brother was given no such option- and I ran for the hills. The idea of spending time learning a Torah portion and then reading it in public literally gave me a stomach ache, so I got a pass.

Still my dad occasionally went to Friday night services, and always said the Kaddish, the mourning prayer, for his parents and brother. We all sat shiva for them.

But our big appearances at synagogue were on the Holidays. My main memory was that it was stiflingly hot. I believe that there is always a heat wave during the High Holy Days to remind us that we were originally a desert people.

The central rooms of the shul were well air conditioned, but the library, where the latecomers sat --which was constantly us -- was barely cooled.  Then as now, ladies always paraded their new Fall fashions; they looked lovely. Sweaty, but lovely. Okay, they weren’t sweaty, they were extremely ‘glowing.’  Jewish divas don’t sweat. They glow.

For a lot of people the Holidays are a social occasion. Since many folks don’t go to synagogue regularly, these are the only times they see one another. So in addition to the Cantor up on the bema, or alter, singing his lungs out, there is a steady hum of conversation. Of course, there’s always someone who really wants to hear, shushing the talkers. It must be frustrating since it’s completely a losing proposition. Everyone knows you can’t shut up a Jew.

When I first came to Los Angeles, I tried going to a number of different congregations around town. Because I was young, single and interested, they usually let me attend services for a small visitor fee.  They were all desperate for new members. Since I never joined – membership the fees were staggering, and I always felt like a distinct outsider – that didn’t last long.

For a few years, my friend and Lollapalooza boss, Stuart and I were members of the Synagogue of the Performing Arts. We went to occasional Friday night sevices

which were fun, but the big days were the holidays. Services were usually held in the Beverly Hills Hilton and the turnout was huge. There were great celebrity sightings, and it’s in those pre- 9/11 days, it was the only time I’d seen really tight security at shul. Of course then it was more to keep the paparazzi away, than to keep a crazy loon from gunning down a room full of Jews.

One year we even brought Perry Farrell with us. Even though I was dressed in my Los Angeles best, he looked better in a gold-lame suit. He also could read the prayers in Hebrew. I was impressed. So were the Rabbi’s daughters, who were huge Jane’s Addiction fans.

My old neighborhood in North Hollywood was practically ground zero for Valley Jews. There were three synagogues in walking distance. Not that I ever walked. I am an Angeleno after all. 

But now that I live in the West Valley, the nearest congregation is a hike.  I’m both lazy and unmotivated, so on Wednesday evening I’m going to attend a yoga class with a bunch of other slacker Jews. And Thursday, instead of fighting the crowds for parking and seating, I’m going to go for an actual hike. I’ll see a bunch of trees with the leaves turning brown, think of my dad and other missing friends and relatives and say my prayers there.

My New Series: Law & Order: NFL or Why I May Have To Break Up With Football

I love football.  None of that namby-pamby college stuff for me. I really love professional football.

Or I used to. Now I’m highly conflicted. I still love the game, but the league has lost me.

Growing up, The New York Giants were practically a religion in my house. When I was very small I believed that YA Tittle was either a god or the devil incarnate, a changeling who  morphed from Sunday to Sunday depending upon how he played. It was a little confusing.

Moving to California has tested my fandom. Unless I shell out for the Sunday Ticket package, which is beyond my disposal income, it’s pretty hard to see the Giants play every Sunday.  

‘Course the way this season has been going, that could be seen as a blessing. They have been so bad that my man Victor Cruz tweeted an apology last Sunday and promised they’d do better.  Yikes.

But the NFL is making it really hard to be a fan these days. It’s very difficult to justify following a sport that not only doesn’t care about its players (see: the ongoing concussion crisis), but doesn’t give a damn about its fans either.

I don’t really think anyone realistically believes that sports figures are superhuman anymore.  If anything, players are far, far too subject to human foibles. Arrogance for one thing. A lot of players seem to believe that just because they can -throw, dribble or hit- a ball, they are somehow no longer subject to the same rules as the rest of the civilized world.

This doesn’t only apply to sports stars by the way, but to many of the zillion new ‘celebrities’ crowned daily.  But we’re talking sports here.

Sadly, these days news of NFL players being arrested is barely news. With horrifying regularity players are hauled in for DUIs, bar brawls, drugs and even murder.  Thank you Aaron Hernandez.

But the rash of domestic violence cases in the NFL has shaken a lot of us to the core. Primarily because of the flat footed way the league has dealt with it. Which is mostly to ignore the problem. Denial as a policy is not the best response. That’s PR 101. Ask anyone. Really, go ahead.

The San Diego Union Tribune keeps a database of players who have been arrested for domestic violence. Yes, there are so many incidents that there is a hefty database needed to keep track. Obviously the most scandalous is the recent Ray Rice incident. Not because it’s the worst situation  (that honor goes to Jovan Belcher, who killed his pregnant girlfriend and then himself), but because there is video of the incident.

You know that line ‘you have to see it to believe it?’ Well the NFL saw it. And didn’t.

The NFL’s reaction to the first video, the one of Rice hauling his unconscious girlfriend out of an elevator and dumping her on the floor like a piece of trash,  was to suspend Rice for two games. Two games! They nailed Brown’s player Josh Gordon with a full year’s suspension for smoking pot!

Think about that, all you ladies who the NFL has been courting as fans: the NFL believes that assault on a woman is a less serious offense than smoking a substance  which is legal in 23 states.

As everyone knows, the situation got worse for the NFL. When that bastion of news integrity TMZ, released a second video of Rice cold-cocking his now -wife Janay Palmer in that elevator, Commissioner of the NFL, Roger Goodell denied seeing it.  That seems unlikely since there since there is audio confirmation of its receipt at the NFL back in March.  Word out of the NFL offices is that they are investigating.

Oh goody. That’ll make it all better. The only thing female fans like more than being lied to, is hearing about a new investigation.

What’s not being investigated is why Greg Hardy of the Carolina Panthers, who was convicted of domestic abuse – and is appealing – is still playing football. He was never suspended at all. Not a single game.

In response to all this, today Commissioner Goodell created a panel of consultants to “help lead and shape the NFL’s response to domestic violence.”  They are an experienced group. Lisa Freil  is the former head of the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit in New York County’s District Attorney’s office.  She is joined by Jane Randel and Rita Smith who also have a wealth of experience with domestic violence.  They will report to Anna Isaacson in the newly created position of vice president of social responsibility.  Isaacson

previously headed the NFL’s community affairs and philanthropy division. Which I guess gives her insider experience in dealing with the NFL. Or something.

It’s a nice PR move, but it doesn’t really mean anything other than the NFL will have another group of folk weighing in with opinions and no power to effect change. But maybe it will harder for the league to be tone deaf when the criticism is coming from inside.  Time will tell.

On second thought, maybe it is a good time to be a NY Giants fan. While they suck on the field, they seem to be an okay group of guys off of it.  .

Hello Amazon? Are You There?

Hello. My name is Sharon and I’m addicted to books. It has been 14 days since I’ve read a new one.

You see my Kindle - my second one – died.  To add insult to injury, I was two-thirds the way through a really good book.  At this point, it’s been so long I barely remember its name.  Which means, I’ll have the annoying experience of rereading the book before I’m ready.  I’ll half remember it, but the details will be fuzzy.  First world problems.

The Kindle itself is a dilemma for me.  I really don’t like e-readers. I like actual books with pages that you can mark up and open and close.  And, unlike e-readers, physical books don’t break.  They last until you dump a cup of coffee on them. Even then, they’re usually still readable, just rippled.

Not so with e-readers.  When both my Kindles went belly up, I turned them on, and there were no words, just  wavy lines through the screen. My books had disappeared.  Apparently they are in the cloud somewhere cavorting with a lot of hacked photos.

I naively called Amazon thinking that maybe they’d provide a solution, a fix perhaps

? Ha! I made a joke.

Because I’m a Prime Member, Amazon's answer was to give me $10 off purchasing a new Kindle.  What a deal!  But considering the amount of money I spend buying books, I was grateful for any crumb. So I took it. 

Being a Prime Member, I was promised, no, guaranteed, to have my new e-reader in two days. Awesome! Labor Day weekend was coming, and I planned to spend most of it reading. I know, you’re jealous of my wild and crazy lifestyle.

Imagine my dismay when after four days it still hadn’t arrived. The countdown to Labor Day was on, and with still no Kindle on my doorstop. I was beginning to go through book withdrawal.

Strangely, however, a shiny new Kindle showed up – two days after I’d ordered it – at my mother’s farm.  

Yup, even though I went through the billing and shipping information with Amazon two separate times, they sent my Kindle to my mother’s address. Oopsy.

That meant mom had to mail it back to me. If that doesn’t sound complicated, you don’t know my mother. Suffice it to say, that by the time she remembers to send someone to the post office and ship it to me, the Kindle might be out of warranty.

Since this whole muck up was Amazon’s fault, I  contacted them and see if I could at least get the $10 postage refunded to me.  I know, I made another joke. I’m a regular Jimmy Fallon. But I figured it was worth a shot.

I don’t know if you’ve tried to reach Amazon customer service lately, but it doesn’t exist.  At least not in the traditional sense. If you look deep in the Amazon website you can find a number to call. It will put you in touch with a lovely person from India who cannot help you at all. But they will be extremely charming about it.

If instead, you choose to email them, they promise to respond within 12 hours. Which they will. They will not resolve the problem. But they will not do it  in a very polite way.

None of this is exactly a huge issue in the great scheme of things, but I really do like to read. When my friend hit me up with the Facebook book challenge, (post the 10 books that have stayed with you and tag some friends), it was really hard to whittle the list down to 10. 40 would have been easier.

(For those that care, here is my list: “84 Charing Cross Rd,” “On the Road,” Anything by P.G. Wodehouse, “The Beautiful and the Damned,” “Naked Lunch,” “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Tests,” “A Book of Common Prayer,” “Vanity Fair,” and “A School for Young Riders.” )

The thing is, I’ve read all of the books on my shelves enough times that I can repeat most line by line. While waiting for the Kindle to arrive, I was desperate for something new. I devoured copies of “The New Yorker,” “The Blood-Horse” and even “Entertainment Weekly.” I was starving for new material.

My mom, ever the practical lady suggested I get off my ass and frequent an actual bookstore.  Like I hadn’t thought of that already.

The problem is, there aren’t any. At least not nearby.  There are many, many malls and no bookstores. The empty shells of Barnes and Nobles litter the Valley, but closest bookstores – used or new – are in Studio City.  Which is a hike. And I’m lazy.

I suppose that I could have ordered some new books from Amazon. With my Prime Membership they’d have been delivered in two days. Probably to my mother’s house.