Euston Square, This morning

 
 
 

San Francisco June 2010

The Lazy Way of Doing it

Excerpt from an email to a long lost friend, lightly edited to fit this form, no textual changes.

"...I have recently been reunited with a few ghosts from the past. A guy I worked with in Israel just before I moved to England has been looking for me apparently for years, and finally stumbled upon my picture as his daughter was showing him the wonders of facebook. So he caught up with me after 32 years! I also took a long time getting back together with old school chums, and for a while had loose contact with only one of all my IDF compañeros. He too remains lost in time and space. I might do a search for him by and by. Rekindle or whatever.
Current status: single
How am I different from 25 years ago? Fatter, much fatter, gray (or grey) all over... my head, added opera to my interests and got back into arts generally (in a strictly non-creative capacity). Sexually my boasting skills have improved immensely. Of this I am especially proud.
I hope your domestic situation develops in a positive way. I recall at the time I regarded your new girlfriend as an interloper but had to admit she was probably the best thing to have happened to you.
I am now at the end of a 2 week holiday in Israel. Been looking after my mum almost on a daily basis (guilt tax). She moved a couple of years ago to a retirement community, a really posh one, with my dad. They (well, she) dragged their feet and when they (well, she) finally did move, my dad didn't get a lot more than a year's worth of the good life. So now it's her alone, needy, and as difficult as ever. She doesn't swear like the rude nan from the Catherine Tate Show (if you don't get it in your country youtube it) but a school friend came over and I invited her to stay for lunch I cooked. My mum was nice to her, after all she remembered her well from the old days. But the minute the door closed behind on her departure my mum said: "My God, hasn't she turned ugly!" I was rendered speechless.
I went with her (Rachel, not mum) to the opera last night, and as ever in Israel, there was enough drama besides the show itself to divert. First the security men at one of the entrances couldn't handle the problem of what to do with a blind woman with her guide dog, so they asked her to stand aside, bewildered, while they had a think. Boss just said "do not admit" and walked off. I went in and told the girl at the ticket window I wanted something done about it before I collect my tickets. She said: "Well, you can write a letter..." at which point I kinda lost my rag. A support group was swiftly formed (I hadn't realised the woman was in fact in a group of several culture vultures, because they just stuck by the security men to plead with them for clemency). Before you knew it they saw the error of their way and the woman, close to tears by now, was allowed in with her dog. I was a bit shaken by the spectacle so went for coffee as soon as Rachel turned up. Then, during the opera a cellphone started ringing. I was outraged. But then it dawned upon me it was in fact my own phone! Aarrgh!! A swift scramble and the nefarious instrument was turned off. Rachel couldn't resist muttering audibly and icily "damned uncultured Israelis" just to twist the knife a bit. She's a bit like that is Rache.
In my defence I must explain that the phone, my mum's old, old nokia (which I use when in Israel) was on "silent" but a simple test during the interval proved this mode indeed didn't work.

Facebook? Bah!

Doesn't do much for my Grumpy Old Man mode when a Facebook "friend" who hasn't called in more than a year invites me right out of the blue to join her on Farmville. You know who you are. Apparently it makes no difference whatsoever that in my profile I say quite explicitly that I never join stuff, add applications etc.
I am of course being a total hypocrite because if I hate it so much I could just delete my account, couldn't I...
Oh, and what about the fact that unlike IM platforms you cannot open your Facebook page in the Invisible mode. If you're in you're on. So that odious person you accepted as friend but really wouldn't cross the road to piss on him if he was on fire can immediately hit you up, because he is quicker on his keyboard than you on yours.
Facebook? Bah!!!

What shall We Do With Rude Tube Workers?

You who know my style, and let's face it, there are only a handful of you out there, will have noticed by now that I simply never, or rarely write about my work, or its politics thereof. Those who know me in the context of work (London Underground) know that I am a bit of a disciplinarian, to put it mildly. I am capable of having a laugh with anybody, but be late for your duty and you'll find that I take no prisoners. So you'll be forgiven if you're taken aback by what I'm about to say.
Lay off the "Rudest Tube Worker".


http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/8325406.stm



I watched that short clip time and time again, trying to hear just what is said there. Here is my opinion, for what it's worth.

That guy's conduct is unreasonable, obsessive and slightly deranged. He is a man in a state of high agitation, frustrated and hostile. Why?
I could never accept his conduct as shown in the clip. But before we jump down his throat, like notably the Evening Standard's front page "Sack Him" headlines, I beg you to take some points into consideration.

The clip clearly starts well after the conflict has been triggered. The Customer Service Assistant is surrounded with what seems like a sea of people who have just been delayed (according to other eyewitnesses, the clip recorder included) by the person with whom the CSA had that ugly (and avoidable) argument. We all know what it means when a person's arm is trapped in the door of the train. It can only happen when someone shoves his arm into the closing doors, in the knowledge that comes with experience. The train will not be able to move, and the train operator will have to open the doors again sooner rather than later. It causes more congestion, delays and misery to others, but it increases your chances to get on board the train you couldn't take in the first place, so who cares about the rest of those suckers who chose to wait patiently for the next train?

All the while the CSA whose job is to stand on the platform throughout the peak period, and who is there to stop exactly this type of anti-social behaviour from occurring, has an incredibly stressful time. The CSAs on platform duties are as ordinary and extraordinary as the public they serve. But put anybody on a tinderbox of this kind, and you're never too far away from a flashpoint. Our CSAs get plenty of training, part of which is how to deal with what we coyly call "challenging behaviour". The man at the centre of the now infamous incident clearly didn't apply his training on this occasion. But what exactly preceded the bit we get to see? Has he been provoked, swore at? I must stress that no matter what mitigating circumstances there may be, the CSA could have handled the situation better. Specially if he was to dissect it at his computer in the comfort of his living room, like I am. The man he was shouting at - where is he? What has he got to say for himself? Is he, like the CSA who was rude to him, traumatised by the incident? I can't help wondering whether anybody bothered to put their arm around him and ask him how he were.

So there. You'd probably have thought I'd say: "you're finished mate". If you had, you'd be wrong. We, and London Underground have a duty of care to our colleagues we are so proud of. Now is as good a time as ever to put it to good use.

Family Fault lines

The Shiva took its toll on us, i.e. me. I never got along with my big brother Benny. From childhood we've been chalk and cheese. So now that tragedy and tradition threw us together for (nearly) seven days, it very rapidly turned into our own reality show type thing, with me finding fault in everything he does, and he getting fed-up with my disdain and disapproval .Just for the record, he's 57, I'm nearly 56 year old. As it happens my sister Lea, who lent her home and garden for the week-long event works for the Ramat Hasharon City Council. Therefore seemingly the entire workforce turned up, a liberal handful of people every day, throughout the day. Nobody stayed away: from the cleaners and tea-ladies right through to the Mayor. Benny begrudged that. "If I still worked for El Al there would be thousands of people here". I confess I kind of chuckled at that bizarre comment. He also tends to hog the conversation and his voice gets louder and more shrill as he whips himself up into a frenzy of extacy. He rants (my mum is really scared of him, and he is capable of smelling fear or vulnerability, particularly in women) endlessly, tends to repeat words for emphasis and he listens and talks with his mouth. Take that for seven days, from 9:30 AM (Lea soon told him not to show up a second before 10:00) till 22:00 at the earliest. We were soon at each other throats, almost to the point of fistycuffs, to my mum's horror. Several callers were old chums of dad's from when he was an officer in the air force. Although he was ground crew, in admin, some old buddies were airmen. One such visitor was for many years our next-door neighbour in Ramat Hasharon. Let's call him Ron. Ron was one of the founding fathers of the Israeli Air Force, the first Israeli to fly faster than the speed of sound, and later, at over mach 2. He was the top test pilot, unmatched by anyone in almost any air force under the sun, with unparalleled experience in all French jet fighters during the 50s and 60s, with American and Israeli aircraft added to his resume thereafter. What that man didn't know about flying wasn't worth knowing. Even now, at about 80 years, he still is a handsome man, as cocky and charismatic as he's ever been. But even he crumbled before my brother onslaught of opinions about the ins and outs of a recent news item regarding the crash of an F-16 that cost the life of a brilliant young airman, an incident that touched a nerve in Israel as the pilot was the son of the first Israeli astronaut who died along with the entire crew of the the space shuttle Discovery upon re-entering the atmosphere few years earlier. Ron wanted to opine on it, having been asked to do so by Benny. I was in the living room, they were on the patio, and all I could hear was Benny prattling on and on while Ron merely managed to sneak a word in here and there, only to be thwarted by Benny agreeing or otherwise, loudly, with him before resuming this monologue of his opinion, how he felt about the whole thing, and who he held responsible for the incident. He then proceeded to deliver the all but defeated Ron the coup de grâce: the sales pitch. Benny works for a place that fits people with special insoles etc., and he identified Ron as a perfect target audience. I thought: yeah, mention what you do. Hand out a card, sure, why not. But to use your father's demise as a business opportunity really grated on me. The torture went on all morning that day, till Ron decided he's had enough and left, having had scant chance to actually talk to my mother. Other irritating things about Benny: his phone would ring (need I tell you he has nothing but the loudest, most annoying "joke" ringtones and message alerts), he would calmly stick the bluetooth earpiece in and carry on talking loudly (the only way he knows) wherever he may be: among people around one of the tables, in the garden, on the recliner. Not once would he get up and walk away a couple of steps. I'd look on with disbelief as people would look at one another, at him, and he would remain blissfully oblivious to all around him. I kept thinking: this is totally wrong, but if we weren't siblings I doubt if we would even be acquaintances socially. I can't fucking stand him, and I'd be stupefied if the feeling weren't mutual. How sad.

Shiva at Lea's

Dad's funeral took place last Friday. In accordance with Jewish law the closest male relation/s have to come in and identify the deceased before the burial can take place (in our case an exception was made to allow my sister Lea to see dad after she missed seeing him at the hospital, having returned from NYC moments too late before he was taken from the ward to the mortuary). My brother, as is his wont acted as though he was hosting a cocktail party, talking loudly and incessantly, gesticulating wildly, calling out to his common law wife when we were called to identify the deceased: "Mammy (the nickname he bestowed upon her), you wanna come in too?"
The service, first under a shaded area where prayers were made in front of the shrouded body (dad wanted a coffin but the rabbis vetoed it as unbecoming). I then read the eulogy. Then the short procession to the grave site, so short in fact that we had to kind of take a bit of a detour to give it some substance. My mum was supported by my sister Lea, who was crying and (I suspect) guilt ridden for having gone to the US while my dad was still ill in hospital. To give her her due, she was assured by the doctors that dad was stable and there was no urgency in his condition, serious as it was. Plus, she has practically been running both my parents lives for them in the last few years quite unselfishly, seeing to absolutely every aspect from major health issues to bringing home-cooked food to them, you get the picture.
The service was very well-attended, with the Mayor of Ramat Hasharon, my home town, and other dignitaries from my dad's military career, not to mention family and friends spanning several generations. Mum was pleased with that. She did mutter right after I gave the eulogy: "it went on a bit, didn't it?". Lea, in floods of tears, and I, emotional and choked as we were, almost had a fit of giggles! She later told me she loved my speech...
Afterward we repaired to Lea's house in Herzliya and the Shiva, the seven days of mourning commenced. We are a secular family, although both my parents come from a religious background. Their way of life was shattered during World War II, and by the time they emerged from the horror they were a greatly changed persons. We kept some of the traditions, but in a largely modern Israeli society we were brought up in a Jewish-Lite fashion. Therefore, we don't really follow every rule to the letter. I don't shave, and I wear the customary "torn" clothing: some old T-shirt with a small tear in the neck, the same T-shirt I wore for the funeral. Lea washes it every night, and I have it clean and fresh in the morning (against the rules, as I was told!). We decided to do the Shiva at Lea's as hers is the largest and the most accessible place. Also, she works at Ramat Hasharon City Council, and gets by far the largest number of visitors. Throughout the day every day the entire workforce seem to call, from the cleaners to the Mayor. This grates on my brother Benny no end, and gives me the kind of glee I know is so wrong, yet so pleasant.
More on the ins and outs of the Shiva in my next blog.