“Did you see O.J died,” I texted to my nephew this morning.
“I was just about to tell you the same,” he replied.
I followed his text with, “Like everyone else around the world right now, I’m tempted to say ‘karma is a bitch’ but as we both know, all too well, good men die of cancer too.”
His dad. My dad. And, dear reader, I’m sure the same for your loved ones.
In horror, we watch them suffer, while evil men sometimes skate through this life of ours without a scratch (so it seems).
With that said, maybe karma isn’t the cosmic retribution we collectively think it might be.
Or maybe it is, but you’ll only get hit by karma IF you believe in karma (so it seems).
But I most frequently look at it like this: “karma” is just another word for “inevitability”.
Because inevitability is the engine of the universe (this can be argued against but not successfully).
And if this is true, which it is, it means that all of everyone’s actions, thoughts, and feelings arise exactly as they must. Which means all outcomes are due, karmically, to good or bad choices. BUT those choices were inevitable.
So, is karma really a bitch? Who’s to know. Either way, it doesn’t bring back the two people O.J murdered. And to me, that’s what counts the most.
As for you, dear reader, if you’re taking the time to read these words, it probably means kindness inevitably arises in you more often than not and for that I am ever so grateful. And please, if you feel the nudge to be more kind more often, follow that impulse. I promise it won’t lead you astray.
Love/Thanks,
GB
“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.” – Ezekiel 25:17 (sort of)
“HOW WOULD MY LIFE BE BETTER IF I FINALLY FIGURED OUT HOW TO HAVE A FLAT STOMACH?”
Day-in-and-day-out for decades I’ve obsessed over being thinner but then, out of nowhere the other night, the above question arose in my mind and those incessant thoughts whiplashed to a sudden stop like a slam on the breaks and an unforgiving seatbelt.
My life wouldn’t be better. Not one goddamn bit.
How do I know? Because in college I was ripped. Six pack and everything. But was I any happier or content? I really don’t think so. And the crazy thing is, I never felt thin enough back then either.
DEAR READER: sixteen hours have passed since that last sentence. I waited and waited for the next words to arrive but they refused to comply. So, after an hour of staring helplessly at the screen, I decided to shelve this until today instead of forcing the issue. Art can’t be rushed. I mean, it can be rushed, but it will probably won’t be worth a damn when you’re through. Not that this is a great work of literature or commentary, but it still deserves my best effort and full commitment. Otherwise, what’s the point?
And now here I am, back in the light of day, and I’ll just be honest, after waking up to the fact that I wouldn’t be any happier with a flat stomach, I’m still stuck being fully obsessed with wanting a flat stomach.
I wish I was one of those people who can just take their shirt off at the pool in a laissez-faire manner without feeling bad about myself or worrying what anyone might be thinking about me. Especially since I know NO ONE is even thinking about me at all.
Everyday I plot and plan through variations of: maybe I should do a daily fast…maybe I should severely cut my calories… maybe I need to eat less rice…maybe I need to eat more rice….maybe I should only allow myself to eat oranges….grapes?…walnuts??…..etc etc etc.
But all of that uncomfortableness I’d have to endure would only be for the sake of vanity. Silly vanity. Because thankfully, I’m already fit as a fiddle. Like a Stradivarius. And I sure as hell have to remember it would be a giant slap in the face to everyone everywhere who’s literally, as we speak, struggling to scrape enough food together just to survive the day.
This is just going to be a foolish foible I’ll deal with which has seeped permanently into my psyche and cells from this society of ours. BUT, with all things considered, I PROMISE I still realize how lucky I am to have this “problem”.
I appreciate you trading a part of your day for my words. It means the world to me and I hope you don’t feel your time has been wasted on something that means next to nothing.
Instantly, I noticed the hospital visitor pass stuck to the upper left corner of his t-shirt.
The sticker was maroon in color with fading black lettering as if it was printed hours and hours earlier. Or maybe even, the night before.
He was around my age, maybe a bit younger, and around my height, but maybe a bit taller.
On my way out, I held the door open for him at a Panera Bread this afternoon as he entered the place with glassy eyes.
“I hate to see those hospital passes on people,” I said.
There was a brief pause of confusion, but then he looked at the sticker on his chest and said to me through a little laugh, “Thankfully it was just a baby.”
I smiled in relief. He smiled. And that was that.
I’ve worn those hospital passes more times than I’d care to even think about. For weeks in a row. And also for many months.
There’s so much suffering in the world and I hope this new baby sees very little of it. And just as importantly, I hope he or she doesn’t add any measurable suffering either.
Maybe he’ll/she’ll realize early on that we’re all connected.
That we’re all one.
The reader of these words, right now, is also the one who wrote them.
Henry said this to me yesterday after I put his entire nativity scene back into his garage for him. Multiple figurines, a large cumbersome piece of plywood and three cinder blocks. It would have taken him two hours at the very least but being about forty years younger, I knocked it out in ten minutes.
Henry is the sweet old man who lives next door to me and as I was starting off on a leisurely walk around the neighborhood, I saw him sitting in a chair on his front lawn next to Baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, a few sheep, a camel and some shrubbery.
My grandfather had a similar chair he would read the New York Times from outside on the stoop in Brooklyn. It’s one of those rickety chairs with woven blue fabric which the back of your legs would painfully stick to when you tried to sit up. He was Abraham. My dad’s dad. And he’d always be wearing one of those white tank tops meant to go under a real shirt. With his deep tan and full head of fully gray Ronald Reagan hair. He sailed here as a little boy from Odessa, Russia/Ukraine and I just had to hold back a few tears while thinking about him and thinking about my dad. I had no intention of writing about the two of them, again, but the words go where the words want to go. I’m just a marionette punching the keys like a monkey with a baseball hat on in Panera Bread.
After Henry told me I was sent by the Lord, I quickly said back to him, “Hey man, let’s not go overboard.”
We both laughed.
I was happy to help him but it also scared the hell out of me. Although I feel 21, I’m 51 and I’m scared as hell of getting old. Getting old, maybe being poor, maybe being alone. But what really keeps me up at night is getting old and then dying before my life even starts.
And I don’t feel my random acts of kindness are enough to have lived a full life, but they’ll have to be for now. Especially since so many lives are robbed from people before they even had the privilege to think about any of this.
With that, I want to thank you from deep with inside my guts for taking the time to read these few paragraphs of mine. You have justified my existence, once again, for this day. And I mean that with volcanic sincerity.
Early yesterday morning, lying in bed wide awake before my doctors appointment, I said to myself, “If I’m okay, if this turns out to be nothing, if I dodge this bullet, I’ll be more grateful, more often, from now on.”
Hours later, back in bed, lying in the same position, I was so grateful to be okay. I was so grateful to have dodged the bullet. Whatever I’m feeling in my stomach turns out to just be a benign cyst, and not, well, you know.
And then the next damn day, just like that, my little orange friend Scooby is gone. Two cats I loved like family are gone within seven months of each other.
Thankfully, The Scoobz wasn’t killed by a coyote like The Jing was. But his original “owner” who neglected the fuck out of him and abandoned him about a year ago, swiped him from my porch late last night and moved five hours away today.
So much for the power of gratitude.
But I am still grateful. With all of the day to day horrors in the world, I’m still grateful. There’s goodness in the world. And where I can’t see it, which is often, I’ll be it.
I hope someday you will join us and the world will live as one.
I saw these words on plaque affixed to a bench outside of a cancer center.
I brought my friend there today. He’s mostly alright thankfully. Just a checkup.
As I waited for him with my face turned towards to the sun and my eyes closed, I realized it’s December 11th. My dad died of cancer exactly eleven years ago.
I called my mom.
I called my sister.
And now as I write this, I’m thinking about Ray Manzarek. The keyboardist for The Doors. He once said in an interview, “The ancient Egyptians use to say, if you say a man’s name, he is alive. So I take this opportunity to say Jim Morrison. “
And I take this opportunity to say Harold Berman. I miss you and love you beyond all words. Beyond all worlds.
– gb
P.S. Thank you for reading this. And as always with this, I’m not here for likes or for sympathy (although they are appreciated of course). I’m just here with a few words because I had no choice but to write them. For myself and for you. Just in case you needed some warmth and self reflection.
P.PS. Even though every day may not be wonderful, always seek the wonder in each day. Thank you again.
A guy in the mall today was wearing a white tank top with “FUCK BIDEN” on it in huge black letters.
Under that was the American flag. And under the flag it said, “AND FUCK YOU FOR VOTING FOR HIM YOU FUCKS.”
As automatically as removing my hand from a hot stove, I pointed to his chest and said, “That’s the stupidest tank top I’ve ever seen.”
He smiled because I think at first he thought I agreed with him. But then it must have registered because after a few paces he spun around and yelled, “What did you say to me??”
“I said, your tank top. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”
And then I added, “It’s child abuse.”
“Child abuse?” He asked.
“Yes, child abuse. There are kids all over this mall and they have to read your filth.”
As if that was the craziest thing anyone has ever said to him, he responded with, “THATS WHAT YOUR CONCERNED ABOUT?”
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly that.”
“Well, THATS embarrassing,” he said.
“Yes, you’re right,” I said. “I’m embarrassed for you.”
And then his wife pulled him away and it ended as fast as it started.
Another crisis instigated and then averted.
Easy peasy.
But here’s the thing: 100% there was a 9mm in that light blue fanny pack of his.
100% he could have shot me dead.
100% none of this is worth it at all.
100% I need to let it go. Especially down here in shit-hole south Florida.
But the goddamn injustice kills me slowly everyday.
I just have to remember that good is prevailing. It’s taking it’s time and going at it’s own pace, but good is prevailing. The proof is in the history books.
Sometimes the universe throws you a curve ball with the skill of a pitcher in the Major Leagues.
I’m saying that because out of nowhere yesterday, I almost got into a serious fight at the gym.
But for the first time ever, I walked away before it escalated to actual bloodshed (That’s a total lie – I have never NOT walked away from a fight before it got out of control. But yesterday was the first time I instigated an altercation and held back from making it go nuclear. See, I have a thing with standing up to bullies when I catch them bullying others. I am, as John Lennon would say, their instant karma. And bullies, when they bully, aren’t expecting a seemingly innocent and unassuming bystander like myself to snap into such fearless and ferocious aggression. And let me tell you, they ALWAYS back down. Because bullies are weak. Weak minded. Weak souled. Which is why I always end up walking away with clean hands).
So yesterday, with Phish in my AirPods, I lifted some weights and then did a bit of cardio. I switched from music to a YouTube talk about inner peace while stretching because I like a bit of calmness towards the end of my session.
The talk was by a woman who survived the Holocaust. She found a way to experience the peace which passes all understanding regardless of who she was surrounded by. Because it occurred to her one day, while being questioned by the gestapo, that she would never be able to change those people. Or change her situation.
Among other things, she found herself thinking of flowers. Because flowers still existed somewhere. And both suffering and flowers were real. I nearly wept right there on my yoga mat.
After, I walked into the locker room and without conscious effort, all of the ego amassed in there, which usually infects me like a jungle grade Ebola, was dampened down to an almost imperceptible undertone.
They will be who they will be, but my peace is my own. And untouchable. There are flowers everywhere.
And that’s when the universe’s curve ball sailed right over the plate.
Smiling to myself and breathing easily as I changed into a bathing suit in order to hit the hot tub, I noticed the guy next to me toss two handfuls of paper towels on to the floor like he owned the place.
Reflexively, with absolutely no thought of the YouTube talk about inner peace, I said to him, “Hey man, are you really just go to leave those on the floor for someone else to clean up?”
Standing there shirtless, in his fancy shoes and pretty boy jeans, he looked down at the paper towels, then looked up at me and responded with, “Who the FUCK are you, the paper towel police?”
I said, “No man, I’m just a good person and…”
He cut me off and said, “No you’re not. If you were, you’d mind your own fucking business.”
He turned to face me directly and flexed his chest like an ape.
Here’s his quick description: a little older than me, a bit shorter than me, but totally jacked. He looked like a boxer or an MMA guy. But I swear, fear was the furthest thing from what I was feeling. I couldn’t have been more calm. Like I said, I’ve been here before.
And when he told me to mind my own fucking business, traditionally, that’s when I would have gone from zero to light speed.
Fully aggressive. Literally begging him to make a move. Taunting him.
There was this one time when I used to a be a bartender, a guy decided to test me by blowing cigarette smoke into my face. I casually walked out from behind the bar, quickly grabbed his hand and forcefully punched myself on the side of my head with it. I then offered him the opportunity to throw a real punch. Of course he didn’t take me up on that offer. Just another windbag of bravado with his tail between his legs when he realized that real life isn’t like the movies.
Getting back to where we were, it might seem like I was about to risk life and limb over a silly littering innocent, however, it actually wasn’t about that at all. It’s about standing up to barbarism and brutality.
We are surrounded by people who seethe selfishness and someone needs to stand up to that. Because maybe they’ll think twice next time. And then our world might become a bit kinder. My mom always wants to know why I have to be the one to do so. Because, as Hillel said, if not me than who?
But there’s something I need to add here. Something I’ve never written about. Two and half years ago, while stopped at a red light, I got hit from behind by a drunk driver which resulted in a rather serious neck injury.
Because of this, and since I wasn’t sticking up for anyone, and it wasn’t a life and death situation, and no one was being anti-Semitic which I have no patience for, I knew I needed to bow out regardless of wanting to teach a lesson to this child in an adult body.
I was standing there barefoot in a bathing suit, on a wet floor, and if I slipped, it could have been curtains for me. And I promise, unfortunately, I’m not being hyperbolic at all.
Instead, I calmly replied, “I’m not trying to start a fight with you man, I’m just saying you should clean up after yourself so it’s not gross in here.”
He told me to go fuck myself and added, “You want to go right now?”
But I was flowing with the peace that passes all understanding.
“No, I really don’t,” I said. “You’re not worth it. And this will just end with me in jail. So I’m done.”
But now a crowd was gathering. And he didn’t like being told that he wasn’t worth it. So he had to raise his voice for the onlookers and he shouted, “No, you’ll end up in intensive care!”
I said nothing. All I did was grab my towel from my locker and let a few long seconds pass.
Finally, I looked back over to him. He was still standing there shirtless. Flexing.
Slowly I said, “You are, EXACTLY what’s wrong with the world.”
He really wanted to fight after that. I saw it in his eyes. He was one clouded decision away from throwing the first punch.
But I was ready for it. I surreptitiously wrapped my towel tightly into a tight strand and was going to Jason Bourne his arms with it if he lunged for me (yes, I actually have the skill set – but that’s a story for another time).
Here’s what happened next: we both just stood there. No one moved. I thought a tumbleweed might roll between us – followed by that whistle from Clint Eastwood’s The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.
And then it just ended. It ended as quickly as it started. Because it occurred to me that I could walk away. So I did. Right at the most critical point. No more words. No more nothing.
A minute later, after keeping eyes peeled behind my head, I was in the hot tub, thinking about that surprise of a cosmic curve ball. From peace to war in a blink of an eye.
Was it a test? Should I have just ignored him?
No.
Because I’m my father’s son. And my father would have done the same. Because he always did the right thing. Always. All ways.
In addition, we have to remember our Einstein who said, “The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”
Is there a moral to this story?
Yes.
We are who we are. And although it would be easier to turn blind eyes, it’s just not me. And I’m grateful that it’s not. Come rain or come shine.
And let me also add, if we are being tested, it’s probably to see if we are willing to go out of our way for others. Other good people. And all innocent animals.
Love/Thanks,
GB
P.S. While in the hot tub, replaying the whole showdown in my head, thinking about how violence can unexpectedly erupt like a volcano and bury a peaceful heart in it’s flow of molten lava, a scene from Scorsese‘s “Shutter Island” flashed itself into my mind.
Warden: Did you enjoy God’s latest gift?
Teddy Daniels: What?
Warden: God’s gift. Your violence. (Daniels looks at him blankly)
Warden: When I came downstairs in my home, and I saw that tree in my living room, it reached out for me…a divine hand. God loves violence
Teddy Daniels: I…I hadn’t noticed.
Warden: Sure you have. Why else would there be so much of it? It’s in us. It’s what we are. We wage war, we burn sacrifices, and pillage and plunder and tear at the flesh of ours brothers. And why? Because God gave us violence to wage in his honor.
Teddy Daniels: I thought God gave us moral order.
Warden: There’s no moral order as pure as this storm. There’s no moral order at all. There’s just this: can my violence conquer yours?
Warden: You’re as violent as they come. I know this, because I’m as violent as they come. If the constraints of society were lifted, and I was all that stood between you and a meal, you would crack my skull with a rock and eat my meaty parts. Wouldn’t you?
Warden: (Leaning across the Jeep to Teddy as he lets him out) If I was to sink my teeth into your eye right now, would you be able to stop me before I blinded you?
A muscular man sporting long hair and a tank top whizzed by in a shopping cart just the other day.
I was walking through a super market parking lot and he wasn’t so much in the cart, but instead standing on the back axle like any kid would. Riding the semi steep decline down to where his car was parked. Bat-out-of-hell style.
I yelled to him, “Hey! I always do the same!”
And in cahoots with a mild Doppler Effect he yelled back, “Fifty-nine years old and never too old!”
He was smiling and I smiled too.
I’m fifty-one, thankfully feeling thirty-one, and although I also zoom through parking lots on the back of shopping carts, there are the voices I must contend with.
The voices inside my head.
“You’re fifty-one and take a look around. Look what everyone has but you. Nice houses. Families. An actual career. You’ve wasted your whole life. You’re nothing. You’re a failure. And time is ticking away. It’s almost too late.”
I tell myself not to listen. They’re just the voices of this sick judgmental, money driven society. Voices masterfully impersonating my own voice. But I know who I am. I know I’m everything that’s good in this world. They’re not actually my own goddamn thoughts about myself.
Or…
Are they?
I hate to admit it, but they are.
At least sometimes they are. But I swear, underneath that cacophony of horse shit, I know who I am. And I know what actually matters.
Coincidentally, but as we know there is no such thing as a coincidence, I was in my car earlier that day listening to The Police. Specifically, a live version of their songs “Voices Inside My Head” mashed with “When The World Is Running Down”.
I was at a red light. Clear minded. Looking at a hundred or so tiny black birds sitting on power lines overhead like staccato musical notes.
When the drums kicked in and the song amped up, the light turned green and the universe turned my head to look to the right of my car.
There was a cemetery there.
All of those people. Maybe mostly forgotten. Buried along with their not-enoughness.
I was just about to write, as usual, what’s the point of this? And then say, as usual: you know the point. But as I was about to type that, a Paul Simon lyric popped into my head. So, I’ll end with that instead.
“What’s the point of this story?
What information pertains?
The thought that life could be better
Is woven indelibly
Into our hearts and our brains.”
Love/Thanks,
GB
P.S. Sorry, but I just can’t leave it like that. Because that’s not my point. The point I imply but no longer make. My point is this: Seize the day. But I don’t mean that in the way I used to years ago. Like, go after everything you want. Make the most of each minute. Today I find myself meaning it like this: go easier on yourself in this day. You deserve it. If kindness is your set point, or you’re striving to get there, you deserve to go easy on yourself in this day. In other words, chill the fuck out my friends. We know where all of this is heading. Just turn to the right and look for yourselves. So, with that, let’s all take a breath together in this moment. Please. And if you’re holding in your tummy at all, let it out all of the way and breathe. Thank you. And thank you, again, for trading your time for my words. It literally means the world to me.
Last night at 2am, I stood in front of the fridge and relentlessly plowed baby carrots into a tub of hummus like it was my job.
Why?
Because I could.
At first my mind was clear. Blank faced, I just chomped away like Bugs Goddamn Bunny. But then I remembered how bloated hummus makes me feel, which, of course, didn’t stop me in the slightest. Shortly thereafter, on autopilot, I started thinking about finances/future prospects/people in my life etc. ect. etc. to infinity. But all of that was suddenly eclipsed in my head by mental images of the Israelis held hostage. What they must be going through in that exact moment. The terror. The pain. The helplessness.
I thought about how overwhelmed with relief and joy they’d feel if they could just be back in front of their fridge, eating whatever, whenever they wanted to. Because they could. How grateful they would feel just to be able to worry about trivialities once again.
Simultaneously I felt heartbroken and grateful. And then sickened with myself, truly sickened, for sometimes needing the tragedy of others to remember to feel grateful for the ease and goodness of my life. How dare I? How fucking dare I?
I polished off the humus, stuck the few remaining carrots back in the fridge, and then leaned against the kitchen counter thinking about what my mom told me a few hours earlier.
She said Amy visited her grandmother’s grave which is at the same cemetery where Rory is buried. Amy is one of Rory’s best friends. Rory is my brother-in-law who died of pancreatic cancer in February.
She left a bag of Swedish Fish, his favorite candy, at his headstone.
Today would have been his 51st birthday. He’s five days older than me and I always mocked him about it. I’d dial him up, say happy birthday and then call him an old man. He’d laugh and say something like, “Don’t worry, you’ll catch up soon.”
I’m crying a little as I type this.
Oh life….It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Thank you for reading this. I wish you and your loved ones health and happiness.
OMGabe 