As I grow nearer to the dreaded age of ninety, I have found myself joking about the triple threat of attaining that age: running out of time, ideas, and functioning neurons. Well, I can josh about this now, but it’s really no joking matter; it is almost certainly my destiny. But before I subside into the shadows of dementia, I figured I could resurrect, if not myself, then at least some of the nugatory trifles I wrote sometime ago, which you may have already read but more likely have forgotten
For this purpose, I decided to draw on one of my less well-advised books, which I called Confessions of a Humorist Manqué. So, I’ve adapted some of the contents of that book and rewritten portions of it so as to conform to the dimensions of a blog. I hope you will enjoy reading some of my whimsical tales, especially those that demonstrate my proclivity for making a fool of myself.
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Jews are funny.
I am a Jew.
Ergo: I am funny.
Well, I may be funny, but I also know that’s a slippery syllogism, or as we used to say behind our teacher’s back, a sillygism. After all, it doesn’t say
All Jews are funny. I could be the rare exception. By the time you finish this blog, you can render your verdict.
But consider my background. I am old enough to have grown up listening to
Jewish comics on the radio. (Do you remember radios or at least remember hearing about them? They were very popular in my day along with slide rules.)
Jack Benny, for example, or in the early days of television,
Milton Berle (Uncle Milty!),
Sid Caesar,
Amos ‘n Andy. (All right, they weren’t
all Jewish.) Most kids grow up wishing they could be football quarterbacks or well-healed thugs wearing shades and Armani suits. Me? I grew up wishing I could be
Woody Allen, only better looking.
Anyway, when I was a kid, I had a reputation for being the quickest quipper in the West. For a while, some people even thought I had Tourette’s. But no such luck. Besides, I soon found that being King of the Yock Hill didn’t get you the girls. They just tended to look at you pityingly and then went for the nearest jock. So I was obliged to recess my tongue and devote it to licking the crumbs off my bagels.
Nevertheless, in high school I retained enough of my humor to be voted “class wit.” (This is true. I still have my plaque. That is not true.) These days, of course, as I begin to slide ever nearer into the early stages of dementia, people tend to refer to me as a halfwit (okay, I know that’s a lame joke, but what do you expect from a lamebrain?) But I think it’s in the genes, anyway, because my son, Dave, recently told me that in high school, he was voted “class clown.” It runs in the family, I tell you, it’s tribal, it’s
tradition! (Think
Tevye.)
Speaking seriously for a moment (I promise it won’t last), in my life as a professor and author, I have spent much of it
writing books about seemingly grim and morbid subjects, such as what it’s like to die (it’s not as bad as you think) or what it’s like to be
a Palestinian living in Israel or the West Bank (it’s as bad as you think) -- books that I hoped would educate and edify my readers, maybe even enthrall them if they were to read about what people actually do report when they come close to death, but don’t get around to it. But I have mostly not written blogs like this one whose main purpose is merely to entertain. But if not now, when?
I mean, in this dark and dysphoric age in the reign of Donald II, when the world seems to be going to hell, anyway, maybe what we need is not love, more love, but laughter, more laughter. At least in the tenebrous gloom of our time, it is one way to keep our sunny side, up, up, before we go back to putting our head in the sand or spending our time looking to join the local opioid club.
So, in this blog I have gathered some amusing stories of things that have happened to me or that I’ve witnessed, some of which, I must say, do not present me in a flattering light. But at this stage of my life, I have no reason to conceal from the world what a sometimes ass I was, and no doubt still am.
Embarrassing Moments
When I was a young professor back in the Antediluvian period, before the invention of computers and other devices to further the art of plagiarism, I used to teach large classes in
social psychology in banked lecture halls where the seats rose steeply seemingly into the stratosphere. With my poor vision, I couldn’t even make out if the top rows were full of students paying close attention or whether they were masturbating to relieve their boredom.
Anyway, in those days, professors were accustomed to distribute course syllabi on the first day of class, and for my large classes, I simply asked students in the front row of the aisle to distribute them for me.
When I approached a young man sitting in the first row on the left side of the auditorium to do this favor, he refused.
I blinked with surprise and said, “What’s the matter? Are you blind?”
Guess.
One day, a student came into my office during office hours when my door was open and said, “Professor Ring, may I s-s-s speak to you?”
He had a strange grin on his face, so I thought he was putting me on.
“Certainly, I said. Please s-s-s sit down.”
He wasn’t.
When I was a teenager, I fell in love with
classical music and listened to it obsessively. I even kept a little brown spiral notebook in which I listed every piece of classical music that I had heard over the radio. During my high school years, I arranged to become an usher at the performances of the
San Francisco Symphony where I could hear the performances for free. Even in those days, but it is worse now, I confess, I prided myself on my knowledge of the classical repertoire.
One night the orchestra was playing a piece by the Hungarian composer,
Zoltán Kodály, called
The Hary Janos Suite. At its conclusion, I initiated the applause, but was surprised that only a smattering of applause followed.
Then the music continued.
I spent the rest of the concert under my seat and to this day, more than a half century later, I am never the first to clap even if I’ve heard the work fifty times.
How I Became a Pyromaniac
On May 21, 2012, I received an intriguing email from a trio of authors in Colorado, which contained a rare compliment: They were planning to write a book modeled after one of mine dealing with near-death experiences,
Lessons from the Light, and wanted to advise me of their intent to make sure it was okay with me. They also asked if I might be willing to confer with them about their undertaking, if I wished.
I had not heard of these authors, but apparently many others had. I learned that they – a husband and wife, and the brother of the husband – specialized in giving retreats on spirituality and healing, that they had done so in about 60 countries, and had already written some twenty-two books, which collectively had sold over a million copies. These were certainly well established and successful authors, so I quickly assented, and with delight, to their overture.
This was the beginning of what has become a deep and loving friendship with the Linns –
Denny and Sheila, Denny’s brother Matt, and John, Denny and Sheila’s teenage son.
After many delightful email exchanges, they suggested that, inasmuch as I was planning to visit one of my daughters in Colorado, I might want to spend some time with them during which I could actively collaborate with them on their book over a period of several days. I accepted with alacrity.
Once my visit to my daughter was over with, a friend of the Linns drove me to their house in the Colorado mountains. There were forty-five steps up a seemingly small mountain to their front door – for a moment, I thought I was back in Amsterdam! But the Linns were very welcoming and we all had a wonderful and warm conversation over the dinner that Sheila had gone to a great deal of trouble to prepare.
But trouble of another kind was soon to come.
In the morning, after taking a shower, I nearly burned down their house.
When the shower was over, I turned on the switch that controlled the heat lamp in their downstairs bathroom. Or I had innocently assumed that it did. I was wrong.
It actually controlled the sauna in the adjacent room.
That sauna was rarely used, however, and had been used mostly for storage.
Soon smoke began to billow out, the smoke alarms went off, and all hell broke loose!
Matt, who had been sleeping in the room next to mine, jumped out into the hallway. The other Linns, who had been sleeping upstairs, leapt out of their beds and came charging downstairs (Denny injuring his leg in the process) and we all began furiously trying to beat out the fire before it spread any further.
It was touch and go for several minutes, but finally it was quelled.
I felt like killing myself.
By now, the fire brigade had arrived, the paramedics, ambulances, the works. We all had to clear out for a time.
When we were allowed back it, the house reeked of smoke, although the actual structural damage was confined mostly to the sauna.
The rest of the day was devoted to various officials coming by, insurance inspectors, cleaning people, etc.
The house would be uninhabitable for several days. (Fortunately, there was an attached house that was empty that we could use in the meantime.)
So much for our book collaboration!
By now, I had learned that though the Linns had insurance, their deductible was still $5000. I wanted to pay them before killing myself.
And you know what? They wouldn’t hear of it! I insisted, they resisted. I persisted. Finally, Sheila told me in so many words that she would horsewhip me if I dared even mention the subject again.
I won’t continue with everything that took place over the next few days except to say that all the Linns did was to offer me love, support, kisses, and promises of their enduring friendship. We had the best time together – despite everything – and shared many intimate personal stories together. We even managed to get quite a lot of work done on their book.
This is how I really came to know and love the Linns. That’s the kind of people they are. And though it all, we have remained in touch ever since as loving friends.
I have also learned to take showers in dim light, if necessary. And I have promised them they will never have to put me up as a houseguest again. God willing, my days as an inadvertent pyromaniac are over.
Memorable Encounters
The Girl Who Didn’t Like Mozart
In graduate school for a while I dated a girl with the rather unfortunate name of Bonnie McBane. She was not alluring either, but in those days before my life as a lothario began, I took what I could get.
One evening, I took Bonnie to a concert. Opening the playbill, we found that a
Mozart symphony was on the program. I think it was “
The Haffner,” one of his best. Bonnie sniffed, “I don’t like Mozart.”
“You don’t like Mozart?” I spluttered incredulously. She confirmed that I had heard correctly, and indeed during the performance of the symphony Bonnie looked bored.
Of course, that put the kybosh on my relationship with Bonnie, the girl who didn’t like Mozart.
Afterward, I thought I would write a short story about her. After all, I already had a title for it. But I never did.
Though I think I just I have.
Very short.
The Student with the Box
For this class, I asked students to maintain a course journal in which they were to write their comments on the assigned books, the lectures and on anything in their personal lives that they felt connected with the themes of the course.
One year, I had a particularly intelligent and thoughtful student who would come into see me during my office hours to discuss the topics of the course and his reaction to them.
Although I always offered students the option of submitting their journals to me for evaluation during the course, I often did not see them until the end of the semester.
However, I was puzzled to find that my splendid student had not turned in any journal at all.
I managed to track him down at his dorm and asked him to come in to see me
He came bearing a box, a large box. I was puzzled by the box, but first I asked him about his journal and why he hadn’t yet submitted it.
It turned out there was a good reason for that. He had never bothered to keep one. Instead, he had spent his time constructing this box, the one that now lay on my desk. He explained that he felt the box had somehow expressed what he had learned from the course, and better than words could ever do.
He invited me to peer into the box through an aperture I hadn’t noticed.
When I did, I saw that he had constructed it with a complex of internal mirrors that seemed to reflect infinity, the incomprehensible, a universe of light.
I was impressed, but how was I to grade him?
“Are you willing to destroy this?” I asked in a moment of inspiration.
He looked at me in shock, hesitated, and then he picked up the box and heaved it with full strength onto the floor where the shards shattered seemingly into a thousand pieces of glass. It made a terrible noise and since my door was open, nearby professors rushed into my office to find out what had made such a clatter.
The student was shaking.
I gave him an A-. Because he had hesitated for a moment. Very Zen, no?
Mom Near the End
My mother had a sad life and a long and slow descent toward the edge of the cliff of her death over which she toppled at the age of almost 89 in June of 2001.
Her last years were spent in a nursing home in Berkeley where, until her last year or so, I was accustomed to pushing her around the neighborhood in her wheelchair. She was, however, lucid to the end, even though she was by then hard of hearing and generally very passive. She did not like to be touched, and mostly she was taciturn, too.
I tried to entertain her by recounting my latest adventures and sharing family news.
“You talk too much,” she said to me one day.
On another occasion, when I thought she might not have long to live, I spent five minutes or so telling her about
my work on near-death experiences. Finally, I asked her, “So, mom, what do you expect will happen when you die?”
She narrowed her eyes and replied in a flat voice: “Nothing. I expect to be dead.”
Once, on what turned out to be one of our last times together, I asked her if she could tell me some of the things in her life that had given her the most happiness.
“You,” she said.
Metamorphosis
Most of you are probably old enough to remember Vice-President
Dick Cheney, with his perpetual snarl. He was sort of a
Darth Vader character, pulling the strings for an often hapless
George Bush, who sometimes seemed to be Cheney’s puppet. Cheney, however, suffered for many years from heart problems, and eventually had to undergo a
heart transplant. But few people know the story of what happened to him afterward. You are about to find out about Cheney’s change of heart, one might say, with a double entendre definitely intended.
One morning, two days after
his heart transplant operation, Dick Cheney awoke from a pleasant dream feeling distinctly odd. For one thing, he was smiling.
His daughter, Mary, also noticed that there was something strange about her father.
She calls it to the attention of her mother.
“Mom, there is something distinctly odd about Dad this morning.”
“What do you mean,” Lynne asks, looking puzzled.
“Well, for one thing, you know how Dad always looks dour in the morning, as if life is a pain and why does he have to bother being pleasant.”
“Well, that’s just your father, darling.”
“I know that, Mom. But this is different. Dad looked positively radiant this morning.”
“Hmm, that is distinctly odd,” Lynne agrees.
“But that’s not all,” Mary continues. “What really was strange was what he was saying.”
“Mary, I’m in a hurry this morning. You know how angry your father gets when I don’t have his eggs ready for him. Please get to the point.”
“OK, Mom, it was about
Obama.”
“So?”
“He likes him now.”
“What!”
“He likes him. He thinks he’s been wrong about him all this time.”
“Mary, I have no time for jokes. Now, really, I have to get to the kitchen.”
“I’m not kidding, Mom. If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself.”
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“Dick, how are you feeling this morning, dear?”
“Couldn’t be better.” (Beaming) “I’m a new man!”
“You look well, dear. I even notice that snarl -- er, I mean, that little mouth tic of yours is absent today. Ah, Dick, I was wondering – Mary said you were talking about Obama this morning.”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking a lot about him lately. You know, Lynne, I really think I’ve misjudged the man. I mean, he’s not such a bad fellow. And, you know something else, Biden was right. For a black man, he is very clean and uncommonly articulate. You gotta give him that.”
“Dick, what are you saying!”
“I dunno, Lynne, it’s just something that I feel. I think when I’m up and about we should invite him and Michelle over for dinner. Maybe we can make amends.”
“Dick, I’m calling your cardiologist. I think the drugs that they’ve given you to prevent rejection must be making you delusional. I’m worried about you, honey. You’re not yourself.”
“Balderdash, Lynne, I haven’t felt this well and this clear-headed in years. It’s like I’ve just woken up from a bad dream – except my dreams this morning were very pleasant.”
Mrs. Cheney looks ashen-faced.
“And another thing,” Cheney says. “This thing about Mary, you know, her….”
“Please don’t bring that up, Dick.”
“No, really, Lynne. I’m proud she’s gay, and I’ve also been thinking she’s right about same-sex marriage. I don’t know what I was thinking before. I must have been bamboozled by all those rightwing nuts and those
Tea Party crazies.”
“Dick, those are your people. How could you be talking this way!”
Cheney continues to beam. His mind is elsewhere, a beatific smile of satisfaction on his face.
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“Doctor, I need to talk with you.” Mrs. Cheney is talking on the phone, which she cannot hold steadily. Her hand is shaking too much.
“Of course, it’s about Dick. Doctor, he is talking gibberish this morning. I mean, he is actually talking like a Democrat!”
“You don’t think it’s the drugs? But what else could it be?”
Mrs. Cheney pauses, and then she has an idea.
“Doctor, I know we are not supposed to know the identity of Dick’s donor, but do you think….”
There is a long pause.
“I know it is against the rules, but doctor, this is the Vice-President we are talking about, and he is a very sick man, and I don’t mean just physically!”
“All right, I’ll wait….”
A few minutes pass. Mrs. Cheney is very agitated.
The doctor comes back on the phone.
Mrs. Cheney listens with stupefaction.
Then she faints.
Mary, hearing a noise, rushes in, sees that her mother has now staggered to her feet and is sitting, dazed, in a chair, her eyes glassy.
She picks up the phone.
“A teen-aged black boy. From Chicago?”
