12/01/23
Newsletter #521
The Crack of Dawn
In 1970, a year before my Bar Mitzvah, it was apparent to both my parents and I that I knew nothing about Hebrew, even though I had ostensibly been attending Hebrew school three days a week for the previous seven years. For the first five years I simply paid no attention, then for the last two years I skipped every single class. After the whole school day at regular elementary school, every Tuesday and Thursday, or Monday, Wednesday and Friday, a short bus would take me and another Jewish kid to the nearby United Hebrew School. As soon as I arrived, I tossed my briefcase into the bushes, walked up to Franklin Drugs, where in the alley behind the store the local juvenile delinquents hung out and smoked cigarettes, and I happily joined them.
However, since I was now going to have to stand up in synagogue and recite my Bar Mitzvah portion – the hunk of the Bible that’s read at that specific time of year, every year, always – I was going to need a lot of help. My parents found a Hebrew tutor named Mr. Marlmelstein, an old, white-haired, Eastern European, concentration camp survivor with a tattooed number on his arm. His job was to phonetically teach me my portion, which was a lengthy hunk. The meaning of what I would be saying seemed to mean nothing to him, so I never asked. This was ancient Hebrew; don’t question it; what does it matter? Just say it right. Given these circumstances, I was told that I did a very good job. However, I could have been reciting in Chinese, Bulgarian or Pig Latin for all I knew. Mr. Marmelstein had previously been the tutor of my delinquent, drug-dealing buddy, Robert, the year before. He would frequently say, in his thick accent, “That Robert, he’s a vooden head,” then he would knock on his own head. This was meant as encouragement to me. Robert thought it was funny. He’s dead now.
My cousin, Eric, who is the same age as me, and then lived in L.A., got stuck in a dual Bar Mitzvah with some dumb kid who did a crappy job, basically screwing the proceedings, although Eric himself did just fine. Eric’s Bar Mitzvah party was held at some swanky country club located off Sunset Blvd. in Westwood. This is where I met Eric’s delinquent buddy, Darren. After Darren and I spoke for a few minutes, he suggested that we get the hell out of there, cross Sunset to UCLA, and there was a guy he knew in the dorm who had weed, LSD, and other cool drugs. Without a second thought I agreed.
Attired in our suits and ties, Darren and I began walking up Sunset Blvd. He said that it was right across the street, but it was actually about a mile up to the UCLA dorms. We got there, and indeed the guy did have all kinds of weed and drugs. There was a whole big scene going on at the UCLA dorms in 1971. It was hippy Candyland. After we had smoked a joint or two, I realized that I’d better get back to the reception. As Darren and I hiked up Sunset, I just knew that we’d stayed too long and I was late, and I was in trouble. When we got to the long driveway leading to the country club, all of the Bar Mitzvah’s attendees were in their cars waiting in a long line to get out onto Sunset. Among the cars was my family. Beside the driveway was a big lawn. My dad saw me, got out of the car, then literally chased me around this large lawn until he got his hands on me. Then, in front of about twenty cars full of people sitting on this long driveway, he threw me to the ground and proceeded to beat the crap out of me.
Eric and his family were in one of the cars near the back of the line. Eric’s dad, my Uncle Lou, saw my dad (Arnold) down on his hands and knees in the grass, but he couldn’t see me below him. Lou said, “What the hell is Arnie doing out there? Grazing?”
Have a great day. It’s gorgeous here in San Diego — 70 and sunny.