Joseph Epstein, reviewing the new book about Sid Caesar in the weekend’s Wall Street Journal, gave the best explanation I have ever read for why so many great comedians are Jewish. It starts, he writes, “with finding absurdity in the ordinary, humor in the serious. How could it be otherwise in a people said to be chosen by God yet throughout history persecuted more than any other? … Life itself, they sense, is a bit of a joke – one too often played on them. God himself, some Jews believe, loves a joke. This is reinforced by Jewish habits of criticism, irony, skepticism.”
Last night’s World Series game was played in Dodger Stadium, the third oldest in baseball, which I remember being built. The Canadian national anthem was sung by a white-bearded Rufus Wainwright, whose grandfather, Loudon Wainwright Jr., I used to read in Life magazine.
In the current Spectator, Rory Sutherland wonders: "Is it just me, or is there something odd with the culture when the world's most successful musician has absolutely no appeal to men whatsoever?
Two of the old friends I saw in New York last week said they come down here occasionally to visit their daughter who lives in West Palm Beach. At the airport, I met a couple flying down to see their daughter at UM. It's a nice change from - or rather addition to - people coming to Florida to visit their parents.
The woman at the gym I had seen many times, though not recently; the man was new to me. He was a large muscular weightlifter, the sort who likes to convey to everyone around him how hard he’s working by grunting loudly and exhaling with great force. At one point he announced, as if anybody cared, “I forgot to do my biceps!” Walking toward the woman, my back turned to him, I rolled my eyes and gave her a can-you-believe-this-guy smile.
She smiled back and said: “’That’s my son.”
(I’m off to New York for a few days – back here Friday.)
Speaking of celiacs, we not too long ago had dinner with another couple that is half-and-half. I mentioned to the husband – a fellow imbiber of gluten – that I was thinking of starting a support group for Spouses of Celiacs. We not only sacrifice in support of our spouses – steering clear of doughnut shops, for instance – but we suffer the indignities of the perennially overlooked. In restaurants, Hania and the server will enter into a long and detailed conversation – often interrupted by a trip to the kitchen and a consultation with the chef – while I sit quietly looking at my phone. Sometimes the server, having spent so much time at our table, assumes his work is done there and blithely heads off without taking my order. This is extremely frustrating; I get enough inattention from editors; I don’t need waiters adding to my feeling of invisibility.
The husband liked my idea. “And,” he said, “we’ll have our meetings in a Chinese restaurant.”
(Celiacs tend to avoid Chinese food because of soy sauce, which contains wheat. I thought it was a brilliant suggestion.)