Bar Mitzvah Jubilee

Tomorrow I will celebrate the 50th anniversary of my bar mitzvah, the coming of age ritual Jews the world over celebrate for 13-year-old boys and, in many communities, for girls, as well. As I did half a century ago, I will wear the tallit, the prayer shawl, my parents bought for me as I chant the haftorah and lead the congregation in the musaf service. I will be just as nervous as I was the first time.

I'm not overly observant, though I think I am spiritual and religious in my own way. But that’s a discussion for another day.

Here's what I remember from that first entry into adulthood: Frustrated trying to buy an off-the-rack suit for me because I was too thin for any to fit, my father took me to a custom tailor not far from his factory on Broadway near W. 4th Street. He picked out two fabrics for sports coats. I didn't like either pattern, but this being late 1961, my truly rebellious days had not kicked in. Besides, I didn't fit into anything ready-made. Every few weeks I would take the subway to Manhattan for another fitting until the jackets were ready shortly before my bar mitzvah day, February 10, 1962 (my sectarian birthday is March 6; according to the Jewish calendar, my birth coincided with the weekly torah reading of Terumah, the segment devoted to the building of the Mishkan, the tabernacle, in the desert. My haftorah portion deals with King Solomon’s construction of the First Temple in Jerusalem).

Though a good Hebrew student, I was not confident in my ability to read from the torah as most bar mitzvah boys did, so I didn’t. Truth is, I suffered from stage fright. Still do, though I’ve learned to overcome most of it, and even enjoy speaking before groups of any size. Singing, however, still gives me the willies. I’ve taken some precautions this time, asking Ellie to sing several prayers.

My father was proud of my performance; he subsequently had me audio tape it for friends in Israel. He borrowed a reel-to-reel tape recorder for me to chant into. The tape was converted into records. But when we played the discs before sending them overseas we heard a disturbing background noise. It was the voice of our neighbor Charlie talking on his ham radio set. Our homes were attached row houses; his transmissions apparently came through our contiguous electrical lines. We had previously experienced interference from Charlie on our television set, but this was beyond the pale. There was, however, nothing we could do about it.

My bar mitzvah party was held at the Aperion Manor on Kings Highway in Brooklyn, the same catering hall where my brother celebrated his bar mitzvah four years earlier. For my party I wore a rented tuxedo sports jacket, burgundy with black stripes. Very chic. I liked the way I looked. My ears didn't stick out too far that night. I think I had a good time. Hard to say from the commemorative album, though in all honesty, I and most of my peers were really awkward looking. I danced the first dance with Adina Berzon, a twist, if I’m interpreting the picture in the album correctly. Upon further review, my ears did stick out. Ah, well...

It snowed the night before my bar mitzvah. Three to six inches. Fifteen years ago when I last sang my haftorah in synagogue it snowed 20 inches. As I mark the jubilee year of my bar mitzvah, it’s not supposed to snow, just rain Friday night, followed by a windy Saturday. My father used to say rain was a good omen when embarking on an auspicious undertaking.

Birdhouse, Bark-Mitzvah, Maxxed Out

Don’t tell the tax assessor, but we have a new residential unit on the Forseter homestead. It’s a single occupant birdhouse, lovingly painted by our grandson Finley.

I naturally was quick to hang it up next to the bird feeders and promptly sent off a picture to Finley’s parents, only to be cautioned that the little fellow used water color paint that needed a coating to insure it would not wash off in the first rain. A quick trip to the paint store solved that problem. So far, however, I haven’t noticed any birds taking up residency. Of course, this balmy spring-like weather could be the reason the vacancy sign is still lit.

I have noticed, meanwhile, that the Winter King Hawthorn tree we planted in our front yard in Finley Hawthorne Forseter’s honor has been attracting birds and even squirrels eager to munch on the red berries that sprouted on the branches in the late fall. Though horticulture Web sites say the berries last through the winter, when I looked outside a few minutes ago I noticed the berries were all gone. Ah, well...


Barking Up the Wrong Tree: Did you catch the latest craze, as in crazy. Seems some Jewish families are celebrating their dog’s “bark mitzvah” when the critter turns 13 in dog years, roughly when it is two years old. I kid you not. They drape a small prayer shawl over the canine’s body and place a yarmulke on the dog’s head. Here are mutt-shot views of some religiously-garbed hounds: http://www.google.com/search?q=bark+mitzvah&hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=7dy&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&prmd=imvnsu&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=9hcLT9m1KuLL0QGe6si3BQ&ved=0CGAQsAQ&biw=1215&bih=583. The potential for more excruciatingly bad puns—”muzzle tov,” chanting the “arf-Torah”—abound.

Several Christian denominations hold annual church services where all manner of animals are blessed, but for pure exhibitionism and, in my view, mockery of the religion, I can’t find a more silly and inane practice than that displayed by some of my co-religionists. See for yourself. Here are two examples of bark-mitzvahs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PsNjEzblZDw and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHyKrJgpQqM&feature=related. As one viewer commented on the second video, “The dogs are the most intelligent animals in this video.”


Maxxed Out: Has anyone else been amused by the choice of Pepsi Max to feature the NY Jets in one of its latest commercials? The gist of the spot is an inspirational half-time moment in the Jets locker room that exhorts them to victory.

Well, we all know the Jets failed to make the playoffs this year, the year coach Rex Ryan guaranteed a Super Bowl victory. Based on his size, Ryan no doubt would be better off drinking a reduced calorie beverage. But we also know from Jets players and other team observers that their locker room was far from a unified sanctuary. Indeed, rookie quarterback Greg McElroy labeled several players as selfish, not team-oriented. “I think the fact that we struggled at times this year really led to a really just corrupt mindset within the locker room,” McElroy told an Alabama radio station.

Pepsi Max is not the first, and surely won’t be the last, marketer to have a celebrity endorsement explode in its face because of inappropriate behavior or some other event beyond its control. My personal favorite happened in 2005. American Express built a campaign around Andy Roddick’s quest for the U.S. Open Tennis championship. It engaged then-budding comedian/actor Nick Kroll to play Roddick’s “mojo.” After Roddick would be shown going to sleep, his mojo would party and otherwise use his AmEx card to have a good time.

Based on his reaching the quarterfinals during the prior four U.S. Opens, American Express expected Roddick to play deep into the tournament. Kroll’s friends and acquaintances were eager to follow his mojo performance (we’ve known Nicky since our children went to school together— Dan played basketball with him on their championship elementary school team—and I’ve interviewed his father, Jules Kroll, the well-known financial investigator).

Someone, however, forgot to tell Roddick’s opening round opponent, Gilles Muller, about the multi-million dollar ad campaign. He knocked Roddick, and his mojo, out of the Open, in straight sets. I imagine AmEx executives and their ad agency contacts drank something a little stronger than Pepsi Max when that happened.