“Today I am a Swiss Army Knife!”

Most Jews of a certain age (and up) will fondly remember the old joke about the Bar-Mitzvah bukher (boy) just about to recite his own “Today, I am a Man” speech, when he notices the gift-laden table and exclaims “Today I am a Fountain Pen!”

Well, not in my universe.

My own Bar-Mitzvah was a carefully orchestrated event. Back in Israel, my parents secured my uncle’s back yard, and invited about four hundred people. Two hundred relatives were invited for six p.m., and the remaining two hundred friends had invitations for eight thirty. Needless to say, on this beautiful July evening, the relatives felt no need to get up and leave, and soon my aunt and uncle’s house and yard were overrun by hundreds of people (there was only one bathroom…). I was certain that the caterer suffered nightmares for years to come.

Truth be told, when you’re thirteen it’s all about the presents. And the cash. When asked by family friends “What would you like for your Bar-Mitzvah?” I was ready with a long lists of books that I prepared in advance. A bookworm from birth, I saw this as the perfect opportunity to expand my library and impress people with my literary and poetic tastes. I also netted 6,500 Israeli Pounds, a large sum in a currency that has long departed our world, and many diverse objets, including toys, an electronic signal probe (for my lab), numerous compass and pen sets, and two Swiss Army Knives. The pocket knives were the gift of one Professor Pekeris, who was a valued customer at my grandparents’ delicatessen. They were both rather large, old-school Victorinox folding knives, exactly the sort of thing that you would not want your kid playing with. However, by that stage of my life I was perpetually building or dismantling a variety of electronic devices, and the soldering iron was running in my room pretty much 24/7. Moreover, I had the run of my father’s Biochemistry lab at Tel Aviv university, and if I could play with radioactive isotopes I could certainly be trusted with a simple blade, right?

And thus began my love story with Swiss Army Knives. I perpetually carried one with me (who didn’t?) and I kept buying (and losing) new ones, mostly from the Lublinsky Family knife store on King George street in old Tel Aviv. One of my prize knives was a Wenger 22-tool, and when it was stolen from me my father bought me a replacement 24-tool Victorinox, which to this day is still on my desk. Essentially, in the thirty-eight years since my thirteenth birthday I have not been without one. Knowing my penchant for them, my son bought me a 16-tool Wenger locking blade for my recent birthday. It still pales in comparison with the SwissChamp he got for his Bar-Mitzvah…

Most of the stuff I got for my Bar-Mitzvah is long-gone. I still have several of the books, but that’s pretty much it. My dad locked the cash up in a six-year savings account, and thanks to Israel’s hyper-inflationary Seventies, by the time I got my hands on it it was barely sufficient to purchase a ten-speed bicycle…

That is why, to the horror of many of our friends, the Feinstein family has a standard Bar-Mitzvah gift: We don’t give cash (that’s for weddings), and we don’t buy books (nobody reads anymore). We hand out a Multi-tool, initials-engraved Swiss Army Knife. Two things I’m certain of: First, it takes chutzpa to hand out a Bar-Mitzvah gift emblazoned with a red and white cross, and second, much like the late Professor Pekeris, long after I’m gone I will still be fondly remembered for giving the one gift that all the grown-ups flinched at.

Life on Good Old Tobacco Road

It seems that some things have not changed in the Tar Heel state since Harry Golden came to Charlotte back in 1941. According to the September 6, 2014 New York Times, hundreds of children under age 18 still work on some of North Carolina’s 1,800 tobacco farms, “They are trying to avoid what is known as “green tobacco sickness,” or nicotine poisoning, which can cause vomiting, dizziness and irregular heart rates, among other symptoms.” says the Times. Some kids are working 12-hour shifts!

This is utterly unacceptable, no child, whose body is still growing and developing, should be exposed to these massive amounts of nicotine and pesticide poisonings. And I don’t care if it’s an undocumented teenage migrant worker, or the farmer’s 12-year old heir apparent son. This practice needs to be outlawed, and soon.

The Drill

Soccer is the only sport whose practice drills are significantly more complicated than the game itself.

Living a Jackie Mason Joke

This past July I was in Israel with my son. Unfortunately, we had experienced multiple rocket attacks in the Tel Aviv area. This was the drill: once rockets were launched, an air-raid siren would go off, and you had ninety seconds to get to a “secure area”, typically a basement, bomb shelter, or the “fortified room” required by law in all Israeli apartments (in the US we would call it “storage”). Interestingly enough, there was no “all clear” signal. The sign that it was safe to exit the secure area were explosions in the sky above. This indicated that the vaunted anti-rocket “Iron Dome” system had completed its interception, and that the rocket was destroyed. This amazing defensive capability reduced the rocket attacks in Tel-Aviv to be treated by the general population as a minor annoyance, one to be taken in stride together with a myriad of other daily annoyances of life, often so prevalent in Israel. One example: At the Mann Auditorium, home of the world-famous Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra (Musical Director: Maestro Zubin Mehta) it was announced before concerts commenced “we don’t stop playing for rockets”. Considering the venue’s superb acoustics, the siren probably wouldn’t have been heard inside anyhow…

One morning we were sitting in a cafe in Dizengoff Centre, Tel Aviv’s first-ever shopping mall. As soon as the lovely waitress put down our iced coffees, a siren went off. We rushed to the nearest shelter, the mall’s underground parking garage. After hearing the requisite explosions above, we went back to our table, only to find out that about half of the customers didn’t bother to return or, for that matter, pay. We felt bad about it, so we called the waitress over, and ordered the apple pie.

 Oh Captain! My Captain!

Full disclosure: I am not a New York Yankees fan. Not ever. My heart bleeds for my shaky, underfunded, wacky yet beloved Tampa Bay Rays. I am, however, an unabashed fan of the soon-to-retire Derek Jeter.

Jeter, who as a kid in Kalamazoo, MI had one childhood dream, to play shortstop for the Yankees, is wrapping-up his twenty-year stint with the team, the only one he’s been on professionally. There is the usual farewell tour underway, and tributes are made near and far, with total disregard for historical rivalries. So why are we so enamored with The Captain?

First-off, these past twenty years have been incredibly formative years for our National Pastime. Jeter broke-in on the tail end of the labor dispute that shut down Baseball in 1994, heralding a new era of Owner/Union peace and prosperity. There was much rebuilding to do in order to restore fans’ interest in the game, and three players were able to do exactly that: Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa, who in 1998 galvanized the American public with their sham, steroid-induced home-run race (we learned that years later, but in the meantime excitement was restored), and Derek Jeter, who showed fans everywhere how the game should be played and, more importantly, how it should be respected: No tattoos, no tantrums, no DUI’s, domestic violence, or other unsavory events. He keeps his private life, well, private. I understand that as you enter his Tampa home there is a basket where one is expected to deposit his cell phone, as no phones or cameras are allowed. He is impeccable in his public conduct and speech, and a true philanthropist. He was unarguable the “cleanest” baseball star in a dark era of performance-enhancing drug scandals. On the diamond he is the epitome of heart & hustle, being not only the all-time Yankees hit leader but also the protagonist of various legendary plays (“The Flip”, “The Dive” to name a couple) that help cement his greatness with his leading by example. And the contrast displayed during his sharing of the diamond with the traveling circus that is Alex Rodriguez only served to enhance Jeter’s clean image.

And then there was September 11, 2001.

Jeter’s stoic leadership of the team as play resumed in the aftermath of those terrible events became an iconic image of resiliency and perseverance, one that brought comfort and hope to millions of Americans struggling to cope with this new, bleak reality and helped us in our return to a more normal (or, at the very least, routine) way of life. He didn’t hit particularly well in the World Series that year, but his game 4 walk-off homer a few minutes past midnight earned him the eternal sobriquet “Mr. November”. Given the partisan, divisive nature of Washington DC politics I think that many of us found post – 9/11 New York City to be “The Capital of our Hearts” as the city that truly represents our country and what’s it all about. As such, Jeter wasn’t so much the decisive, charismatic General (that was Mayor Rudy Giuliani’s role) as much as he was the attentive Sergeant-Major, caring for his men and showing us how we need to move on. He helped the city heal its wounds and will forever be remembered and respected in that context.

I will miss his presence on the field, his calmness, his uncanny ability to hit the other way. With his departure we also lose the voice of the legendary Yankees announcer Bob Sheppard who long after his passing in 2010, continued to announce each at-bat from the heavens: “Now batting, number two, Derek Jeter, Number two”. Happy retirement, Captain!

 Citizens United: The price we pay

We are in the midst of one of the most hotly contested senatorial races in our state’s history. The incumbent, Democrat Senator Kay Hagen is defending her seat from Republican Thom Tillis, former NC House Speaker. It is a tight race with bizarre twists: at the recent debate, it seemed that Mr. Tillis was actually running against president Barak Obama, and Senator Hagen seemed to be running for the State Legislature. Regardless, whatever tactic either candidate chooses to incorporate, and whichever issues they wish to showcase, are all fine by me. Both of them are fully entitled to put what they think is their “best foot forward” and, if they happen to trip and stumble doing this, well, as Harry Truman used to say, If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. Senator Hagen should be particularly aware of the trials and tribulations of the campaign trail, being the niece of legendary senator and governor of Florida, “Walkin’” Lawton Chiles.

Not only is the race highly contested, it’s also shaping-out to be the most expensive senate race in the history of the state. What makes it so important nationally has nothing to do with it being run in North Carolina, and it could have equally been contested in Alaska or Wyoming. The Republican party sensed an opportunity to obtain a majority in the US Senate, and the Democrats are doing their level best to prevent that, which leads us to the heart of the matter:

The landmark Supreme Court ruling in the 2010 case known as “Citizens United” has forged a new reality, one in which there are virtually no limits on the amounts a corporation may spend on election media buys. Moreover, there is no limit regarding the regionality of the spend. Thus a Political-Action Committee from, say, Alaska, can intervene in a local election in Long Island, NY. The Supreme Court has ruled that any limits imposed would be akin to infringing the corporations’ First Amendment protected Free Speech rights. As a result, one cannot turn on a television, radio, or Internet device these days without being bombarded with messages depicting Speaker Tillis as Lex Luthor reincarnate, or Senator Hagen as a proverbial she-devil. The mudslinging is on, and most of it is without knowledge or approval of the candidates themselves. Thus, a dual injustice is done to the candidate: those potential supporters who are coming over from “the other side” are put off by the notion of a virulent, offensive, negative candidate, and those on the opposite side are prone to think poorly of their own candidate, leaning on the adage that “there’s no smoke without a fire”, so something may actually be wrong with our guy/gal. All of this is occurring without the active consent or involvement of the candidates or their campaign managers, who are nevertheless ultimately accountable for the message. For the life of me, other than for the economic gain of local TV stations, I cannot understand how North Carolina can possibly benefit from this tsunami of electioneering cash, and the ensuing dumbing-down of the electorate. Under “Citizens United” a majority of the money spent on these media buys is not disclosed to the Federal Election Commission, and even when disclosed, specific donor information often remains hidden.

There should be complete transparency and control: We need to end this “nudge nudge, wink wink” third-party messaging by requiring all ads to be approved by the campaign they support, and surely there must be a way to end this avalanche of money from out-of-state interests who are trying to hijack the North Carolina elections.

“Ashe-Ville-Good!”

What in tarnation is happening in them thar hills? Apparently our beloved Berkley-in-the-mountains is becoming a major player in matters other than Highlands tourism (“Asheville – come for the protests, stay for the shopping” remains my favorite slogan) and currently boasts the largest number of craft (AKA “micro”) beer breweries per capita in the country! Sierra Nevada and New Belgium are opening-up large production facilities, and people are starting to refer to the home of Biltmore, Thomas Wolfe, and anti-Obamacare crusader Mark Meadows as “The Napa Valley of Beer”. How did this suds-sation come about? Surely it can’t be the local college students, most of which probably would wisely limit their binging to $2 Pabst Blue Ribbon, as opposed to some $7 lager with an unpronounceable German name. Are we reverting to our NASCAR/Rum-running roots? Seems to me that from a sheer volume and weight perspective it would be easier to outrun John Law in a pickup filled with moonshine milk-jugs, as opposed to yeasty 50 gallon oak beer barrels. Not that there are any shenanigans here – it’s all on the up-and-up and, for the out-of-town folk, actually comes with tax incentives and job-creation credits, courtesy of our obviously thirsty Raleigh gum’ment. Pub “crawl” tours and bicycle bar-hoppings have become all the rage, and “The Wicked Weed” is not what you would think at all, but rather the name of a local brewery referencing King Henry VIII personal opinion of hops.

So by the time the Obamas relocate to their hilly abode (haven’t you heard? They recently acquired property in Asheville, albeit with no tax incentives) we can all expect to see our forty-fourth president recruited for a public-service announcement supporting the local establishments, in his best James Brown impression: “I don’t always drink beer, but when I do, Ashe-Ville-Good! (I knew that I would now)”.