Proverbs 23, Verse 4
"Don't weary yourself trying to get rich."
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CHIPPED WISDOM:
I saw "Fiddler on the Roof" on Sunday. Licensed, American Jews are required to see this play performed live at least six times in their lifetime.
(The Good Book says.)
At 33, I can say I've done my Semitic duty twice. I'm on my way.
Jews born after 1971, the Good Book was amended to read, must be subjected to repeated, innumerable viewings of the film-- at least until the Betamax or VHS tape wears to the point where the wedding procession for Tzitel and Motel goes fuzzy. Then you can say you're ready to become a man, or woman. In our faith, the bar/bat mitzvah means nothing. It's all about the wear on the "Fiddler" tape, which must be checked and documented by a rabbi or his designee.
And notarized.
On Sunday, I sat in the audience, in the second row, mind you, of a large summer theatre organization of which I used to be a part many years ago, to see this production of "Fiddler". It was a strong, ambitious, energetic production. As my wife pointed out, to see "Fiddler" as a Jew is kind of an uncomfortable experience-- you really have to allow yourself to get over the schlockiness of some of the stereotypes, particularly nebbishy Motel and shrill-as-a-pill, up-in-yo-grill Yenta. I was okay after about twenty minutes. And then it took me another ten or so after intermission to get back into it. But I was thoroughly along for the ride. I got caught up in the swell of the Bottle Dance at the wedding, even though I could see the outline of the bottle rest inside the black hats, which ruined some of the illusion, but who cares? When I saw the production at my old college-- the first time I'd ever seen "Fiddler" on stage-- one of the bottles dropped, which made it even more exciting because you're sitting there going, "FUCK! They're really DOING it!"
That's what live theatre is. Waiting for the bottle to drop.
We're all waiting for the bottle to drop, I think. At plays, in life. Wherever. For some of us, it's thrilling, for some of us, it's an inevitability and we drolly congratulate ourselves when it happens. I know which camp I'm in, and I wish I was in the other.
Don't you?
I was listening intently, as if I was hearing it for the first time, the lyrics to "If I Were a Rich Man" and, even though I hate it when people say this, I hear it differently now. Now it's not just some fat schlub throwing his arms around in the air going "yebbadeebadeebayebbadeebadeebaDUH!". Now it's someone with whom I identify a little bit more, and not because he's Jewish. Because he's fantasizing. He's allowing his mind to go there, which is a dangerous thing-- far more dangerous than dancing around with a bottle on your head or, for Christ's sake, on a roof with a goddamn violin.
Dreams are ballsy.
Dreams are ballsy.
My wife and I are dreamers. We just had a contractor over to talk about ripping the shit out of our bathroom. Why? There's nothing especially wrong with it. Everything's functional. The faucet does its faucet thing. The tub fills, and it empties.
Oh, but it's all disgusting and we hate it we hate it we hate it we hate it.
We're people who hate our bathroom.
I guess there are people out there who don't quite have that luxury-- to hate some inanimate porcelain things-- but we do. We are that. And, if I were a rich man, I'd do marble this and granite that and stainless this and rip that out and re-caulk that and strip off this and slap on that and wouldn't have to work hard yebbadeebadeebaDUMB.
You know? I would.
We look at listings on Zillow. We call it "Real Estate Porn". Look, but don't touch. Can't touch this. Is this the little home I purchased it? When did it get to be so small?
So. Fucking. Small.
We can't sell our house. We can't get a bigger one. But we gaze. We ooh and aah at exposed beams.
Mmmmmmmm... yeah, EXPOSE THOSE BEAMS, LOVER! SHOW ME YOUR COPPER FLASHING!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH OOOOOOOOOOH!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Sorry. I'll just.... clean that up..... later.)
Everything's so small, everything's so precarious. I joked with some woman a few days ago. I joke with women. Call it flirting-- I don't care. She was saying that she's terrified of zombies. I furrowed my brow at her.
"How old are you? Listen, I don't need zombies to scare me. I wake up every morning terrified just that I've woken up."
Work is terrifying. Coming home is wonderful, but also terrifying. Making money is terrifying. Making so little of it is terrifying. Making so much of it is terrifying. And, all the time, that bottle.
That fucking bottle.
Sunrise. Sunset.
Amen.
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