The Bully Pulpit

Here is my contribution to the current dialogue about the devasting effects bullying can have on a child (and the resulting adult):

I am utterly convinced that my fourth grade bully is now a Lexus driving, front row, center court seat owning Knicks loving asshole of a lawyer.  I have no proof of this as he has not bullied me in over 41 years but little pricks usually grow into big pricks.  And like a Viagra fueled penis, he is most assuredly a priapismic dickhead whose ego is permanently engorged with the love of his own thoughts.  This might seem rather harsh but my blog is my art and my art is my catharsis.  Besides, it's this or therapy and Google does not yet have a free therapy app, or do they?  Hold on while I check......Okay they do.  Click here for the site.  In any case this summer of discontent occurred back in 1970, yet unlike many of my fellow baby boomers the unease that had settled over me was not attributable to the War in Vietnam.  I was only ten years old at the time and besides, my parents had already promised us that we would love Canada if the war wasn't over by my brother's eighteenth birthday.

The bullying did not take place at my elementary school while I was attending the fourth grade.  Except for a few random purple nurples in the hallway or a goober or two hurled my way in gym class, I escaped elementary and middle school relatively unscathed.  And if any bullying did occur in school it was usually a one time deal.  To be honest, I can't say that I never hurled a verbal assault or two down the ladder myself.  But for some reason I allowed myself to be victimized while at summer camp between my fourth and fifth grade years.  And this was at a summer sports camp for nice Jewish boys.  When I asked my parents why they sent me to a jock camp in the first place they replied "because that's where all your friends went".  True, but I was no jock.  By third grade I had already rejected soccer and little league in favor of Boy Scouts and the Milben Beginner Chemistry set.  And at the age of ten I knew that one should always add acid to water not water to acid but I had no idea what the infield fly rule was. 

The main premise for the entire summer at Camp Alton was, in fact, an eight week long sports competition between two sides: The Gray team represented by even numbered bunks A through L and the Green Team represented by odd numbered bunks A through L.  In other words, right from day one the kids who slept in Cabin K1 were the mortal enemies of the kids who slept in Cabin K2 and B1 teens would never socialize with B2 teens even though we were all little Jewish kids from the suburbs.  Everything we did, and I mean everything, was judged and scored, then tallied up at the end of the summer to see which team won.  If our bunk beds were not made up properly we lost points.  If a candy wrapper was found under the bed we lost points.  Every arrow we shot and missed in archery and every strike out in softball was calculated, correlated, kept track of and used against your entire team at the end of the summer.  How's that for self-esteem building?  One half of an entire summer camp went home losers.  And I don't believe there were grief counselors in those days on the bus ride home from Lake Winnepesaukee.

So I imagine that right from the first pitch, on July first, it became quite obvious to my bunk-mates I was not going to be much help in securing the Green Team's brass nameplate being placed on the plaque in the dining hall, permanently proclaiming the winner of the summer of 1970.  And if my lack of batting power didn't seal my fate then the soft gentle weeping into my pillow at night because this was the first time I was away from home certainly did.  All these years later I don't even remember the details of the teasing but I do remember that it got so bad that my counselor marched me down to the camp director's office one morning for some fatherly advice.  This is what Chief (you read that correctly) had to say; "Just walk right up to Jeffrey [the bully] and punch him in the nose without any warning.  He will never bother you again".  This was the adult male camp director's advice to a homesick ten year old child.  And he further instructed my eighteen year old senior counselor to advise me when the perfect opportunity arose.  But much to my everlasting shame I never did the deed.  My older brother, who was in cabin G2, did it for me.  Bless his little twelve year old heart.  My brother did what I didn't have the guts to do.  He walked up to Jeffrey after he had been teasing me one afternoon and socked him square in the nose.  Knocked him right to the floor.  I don't remember if I got any respect after that but I knew at least my brother had my back. And ironically, Jeffrey became a camp celebrity because he survived an attack by an older camper.  He bragged about it all summer.

It might seem pathetic to still be thinking about this now that we are all adults and Jeffrey could very well be a grandfather by now.  But I was clearing out my Mom's attic one day and I came across the Camp Alton yearbook from 1970.  And there, on page 12,  were me and Jeffrey sitting and smiling along with our eight or so other cute little ten year old friends from cabin K1.  How could I have let such a cute little ten year old be so mean to me?  And staring down at his little innocent cherubic face all I could think about was how nice it would have been to smash my fist into it.


So Jeffrey R. from Long Island, NY, if you are out there, Facebook friend me because we need to talk.

No Parking Here to Corner.

There is a law in the town where I grew up. On-street parking is banned between midnight and 5:00 AM.  If you have overnight guests who can not fit their car in the driveway you must go down to the police station to get a special permit for overnight on-street parking.  This ordinance seems rather persnickety but it keeps the streets clear and prevents would be ne'er do wells from casing the well appointed houses.  To this day I resent  non-residents parking their car in front of my house for anything other than short local visitations.  Besides, having cars parked all over the street debases the suburban context of the neighborhood.  Especially if the owners live in the apartment complex a block away.  This isn't Philadelphia after all.  We have driveways for a reason.  And if my thoughts are subtly tinged with elitism then I plead guilty by cultivation. I hate cars parked in the street for the same reason I don't golf:  The only private golf course in my hometown of Rockville Centre, NY  had an unwritten exclusionary agreement that Jews were never to be admitted as members.  So when I grew up, cars were never parked in the street all night long and Jews simply did not golf.  At least no Jews that I knew of in high school.  Those notions are as much a part of my psyche as never being without a number two pencil and a pad of lined paper on which to keep track of the things I need to do.

That is why my latest agitation has so profoundly affected me.  The incident brought together these two fundamentally different, yet equally sacrosanct, principles in my life:  Don't ever violate residential parking rules and always have some form of lined paper on hand.  In this particular affair, I violated the first rule and the offended party violated the second rule.  And in this perfect axiomatic storm we can clearly see that two wrongs do not make a right.


The transgressions occurred on the evening of my office Christmas party (Jews might not golf but we do attend Christmas parties).  The restaurant we had chosen for the gala is in a residential neighborhood and there is little, if any off-street parking for the patrons.  So the street is normally crowded with cars parked in front of the homes near the establishment.  A situation which I, by the way, find abhorrent for the homeowners.  But I was not involved in the zoning decision to allow the restaurant to expand without a parking lot so what blame can I have?  None if you ask me.  Especially since it was dark and there was no sign stating "No Parking Here to Corner".  There is always a sign specifying this rule.  Even if the corner curb is painted yellow.  A very faded yellow, I might add, hardly even visible the next morning in the full light of day.  It just so happens that there was a driveway curb cut right on this corner so when I did park there I made sure to be at least two feet from the apron so as not to block the driveway.  And as I previously specified, I did not notice a yellow painted curb.  If I broke the law it was not due to a wanton disregard but rather an inattentive ignorance.

So when I arrived back at the car after a joyful night with my coworkers, I was rather shocked to find the following note tucked under my windshield wiper:

The note was presumably written by the homeowner in front of whose house I parked.  So I further presume he had access to whatever stationery supplies one normally has in one's home.  A stapler and some paper clips perhaps.  Maybe scotch tape especially since it is the week before Christmas and there are presents to wrap.  Or how about a legal pad and at least some form of writing paper?  And no, I cannot believe this particular homeowner has so fully embraced the paperless revolution as to use only an iPad, iPhone, and Word.  Because if that were the case then some inkjet paper would have at least been available.  This venomous note lost some of its gravitas not because of basic grammatical errors (who hasn't confused you're with your) nor because he dragged my innocent car into his double scatological metaphor (I may indeed be an asshole, but my automobile is certainly no piece of shit).  No, even though I truly feel horribly hypocritical for illegally parking in front of his house I cannot but help to lose some of my sympathy because his note was written on a sheet of Bounty paper towel.  As for the arrows over the i's I have not a clue.  I believe this guy must be the same one who showed up to every test in high school without a number two pencil.

I seriously flirted with the idea of knocking on his door to apologize but then I remembered that the guy who never owned a number two pencil was also the same one who gave me wedgies in the locker room after gym class and stole my desserts during lunch.  No, some amends are best left unsaid.

Maybe They Should Serve Sponge Cake After the Mass

This is a true story.  I have not twisted the facts to make my point.  In fact, I don't even have a point. Nor has it been Rashomonized because of any bias I may have toward the subject matter.  This anecdote is strictly observational in nature and you may glean from it what you will.  All I can say is, I don't even get it.  I have no explanation for the disconnect in the subjects I observed as they shuffled past me on their way home from Sunday Mass at My wife's Catholic Church.  My own spiritual experience with the Mass is by proxy....through my wife.  And while I might not get a religious euphoria after attending Mass with her, I  feel at least some camaraderie with my fellow human beings.  Well, I can see how they would feel fellowship toward each other anyway and perhaps all of humanity by extension.

On this particular Sunday I did not actually attend the service with Tammy.  As is sometimes my wont I walked to the Church near the end of the Mass to meet her outside, on the sidewalk, on her way home.  I have observed that no matter what has happened Saturday night, such as a major argument over the fact that her Church going puts a major dent in our Sunday plans, she always returns home from Mass with a skip in her step and love in her heart.  Praise the Lord.  So as I stood on the sidewalk warmly anticipating her smile as she left the Church, I felt a sodality with the other congregants as they walked passed me on their way home.  I was in a grand mood, because I knew Tammy would be as well, and I hadn't even attended the service!  Surely every churchgoer felt the same way.  I was ready with a smile and a hearty hello. But to my great dismay not a single person made eye contact with me as they walked past.  They walked with their heads downcast and to the man, a scowl on their face.  Not a single person said good day nor did they even acknowledge my existence.  I looked down at myself to make sure there wasn't drool or some sort of bodily discharge from a sneeze oozing down my shirt making me look like some crazed bum.  But no, as usual I was dressed better than most of the people who were leaving the service.

Twenty-five people must have passed me.  Were their sins not just forgiven?  Did they use up their allotment of  "peace be with you"s?  Could they sense my Jewishness?  I have no idea.  This incident, by the way, happened long before The Pope changed the Liturgy to better reflect the sentiments of the eighth century Latin speaking monks.  Because, you know, now everyone will feel even more connected to God.  Why let a little modernity ruin your relationship with a six thousand or so year old deity?  The Jews get it.  They read from an ancient papyrus scroll and sing and pray in archaic Hebrew.  And I know for a fact that they feel so happy after a service they will give their piece of sponge cake to any stranger who happens to be standing there.