PUNCH DRUNK

That’s the Answer.

The Question:

“In what state of mind must you be to purchase a T-shirt like this in Helen, Georgia?”


[Modeling credit: Mickey H.]

HELLOOOOOOO, ZEEBA NEIGHBA!

Well, not a Zeeba Neighba, to the disappointment of the local Crockydiles.

But a Neighbor, nonetheless.


Meet Neighbor, the Mistress of Sarcasm’s new kitty. Formerly resident with the ex-boyfriend of one of the Mistress’s Savannah Buddies, Neighbor had to find a new home when said ex-boyfriend’s new roommate moved in with a pack of dogs...which made her (understandably) uncomfortable.

The Mistress had always had a soft spot for Neighbor, possibly because, at some point in her Shrouded and Mysterious Past, she had evidently suffered a crushed larynx. It poses no problem for her now, except for the fact that the best “meow” she can muster is a half-strangled croak. Cute, in a nerve-jangling way (I suppose).

I think it speaks well of the Mistress that she should open her home to this little lady. Not only that, but maybe it will put a stop to her threats to kidnap Hakuna and/or Matata.

SPIKE!

Recently, both Dax Montana and Velociman were first-time recipients of Hat Tips from The Professor. The result, of course, is the fabled Instalanche - a humongous short-term traffic spike.

The good Professor, you see, is one of the Exalted Ones of the Bloggy-Sphere, with his daily Link- and Screed-Fest averaging close to 150,000 hits per day (per Sitemeter). A link on the Instapundit index page will easily throw off traffic of 1,000-3,000 hits, depending on how the post is worded. Even a tiny percentage of click-throughs generates what for most Bloggity People is a humongous surge in the number of visitors.

We Jawja Bloggers are also familiar with the related phenomenon of the Acidbath. A link on Rob Smith’s index page will throw off a few hundred extra hits - about 10% of his normal daily traffic of 2,500-3,000 visits. The first time Rob threw me a link, I saw a Major Spike in my hit-count - and a quick peek at the referrer log told me what had happened.

Instalanches are serious bidnis. I have had a Grand Total of one, so far - the result of hosting a Carnival of the Cats back in June. Here’s what it did to my traffic:


See if you can spot the Instalanche.
The first clue I had that something was different was the little doomaflitchie on my sidebar that tracks the number of visitors currently on the site. Instead of the usual two or three - or the eight I’ll get during an Acidbath - I was seeing thirty or so. Woo-Hoo!

Last week, though, I saw a new phenomenon: the Instalanche-by-Proxy, AKA the Fuming Acidbath.

Rob had linked one of my posts containing pictures from the recent Ice Cream Social in Helen. This generated an Acidbath...but a couple of days later, it looked like there was another Acidbath going on, with my hit count up and the referrer logs all pointing to Gut Rumbles. But there was no new link - just an old one, close to the bottom of Rob’s index page. Wha’ hoppen?


Acidbath, followed by an Instalanche-by-Proxy.
Simple. Rob was in the midst of an Instalanche, and his traffic had jumped from ~3,500 daily hits to over 13,000. The overflow was being flushed through his Link-Matrix, and I was seeing an Instalanche-Once-Removed. Whodathunkit?

Now, lest you think that it’s All About the Visitor Stats, let me make it very clear that visitor statistics and hit counts - fun as they might be - are completely meaningless, unless you’re trying to scratch out a living selling Bloggy Advertisements.

Really.

Sure, it’s a nice Ego Stroke to get a Heapin’ Shitwad of Traffic. But really, as far as I am concerned, I’m a lot more interested in the folks who come back for More of My Bullcrap, again and again. The ones who, in a burst of Wretched Thinking, have stuck me on their blogrolls or RSS subscription lists. My regular commenters, who actually have to take the time to sit down and type something. People who actually read what I write on this, my Exercise in Self-Aggrandizement and Time-Wastage.

You, my Esteemed Readers, are the ones I care about. By themselves, hits don’t mean shits.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go check my Sitemeter...

[Update: The estimable Laurence Simon reminds us that just as we have the Instalanche and the Acidbath, so also we have the Crapalanche, the result of a link at This Blog Is Full Of Crap. Got a nice ring to it, too!]

PRUNING UP, ONE YEAR AT A TIME

Birthday shout-outs go to Jim, of the Place to Pull Over by the Side of the Highway and Pee; and Zonker, of Thunder and Roses, both of whom celebrated Yet Another Trip Around the Sun yesterday.

Beats the old Dirt Nap any day!

HAVEIL HAVALIM #41

The forty-first edition of Haveil Havalim is up at Biur Chametz.

As Zman Biur points out,

This is a very special installment of Haveil Havalim (“Vanity of Vanities”). First, it is the final edition before the annual synagogue reading of Ecclesiastes (Koheleth), the book from which its name derives. More significantly, though, 41 is also the numerical value (gematria) of the Hebrew spelling of “blog.”

Ahhh, them nutty Jews!

CARNIVAL OF THE CATS #82

Where the Dolphins Play is host to this week’s Carnival of the Cats.

And everybody knows kitties love dolphins - mainly because they develop a taste for the ones that end up as contaminants in the Tuna Catch.

BEST NEWS I’VE HEARD...

...in a long time.

Yeah, I’m cynical enough to have laid down a chip in Velociman’s Dead Pool - but that’s a bet I’d happily forfeit. I want The Acidic One to be around for a long, long time. Part of it is sheer selfishness - I like reading his stuff - but part of it is the knowledge that the world would be a poorer place without this King-Hell Crackerino getting in everybody’s grill.

When I saw Rob at the recent Southeast Writers’ Conference and Ice-Cream Social, both SWMBO and I were shocked at how bad he looked. Rob was rode hard and put up wet, even if I managed to snag a semi-cherubic picture of him (he did look a lot better after having that 90-minute rubdown, for sure).

It was great to meet him, there amongst the Mighty Bloggas of Jawja, but his being with a bunch of Happy Tipplers all weekend may not have been entirely in his best interest. Just Damn.

Anyway, we’re pleased to see Rob act like the mensch we know he is, and try to get his shit back in one sock. Because everybody knows:

A world without Acid...is just Base.

HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES APPLE FESTIVALS?

A crowd of us decided to take advantage of a beautiful, crisp autumn day and take a ride up to the hills of Ellijay, home of the Ellijay Apple Festival.

Well, it was crisp in the morning, anyway. By the time the sun was over the yardarm, it had warmed up into what seemed to be the low 80’s. Hardly crisp – but still, with cloudless, deep blue skies and low humidity, it was the perfect day for our Festive Activities.

Joining She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were Dr. T and his wife Shelly, and Gary and JoAnn F., all friends of long standing. Dr. T, Gary, and I are The Original White Hat Posse, and the ladies put up with us as best they can.


The White Hat Posse: Dr. T, Gary, and Elisson.

First stop was at a local Intercontinental House of Flatcakes, where we encountered a Most Unusual Waiter.

The usual waitstaff in places like the Intercontinental House of Flatcakes consists of middle-aged women, with the occasional Fresh-Faced Teenager. But here, we had Tosh, a middle-aged Japanese gentleman of modest stature, moderate girth, and Outsize Personality. I mean, this guy was off the fucking hook. And I could relate, for Tosh was the kind of guy who can Do the Voices.

The man was manic, by which I mean to say his Nutjob Knob had been turned all the way to 11 – and then broken off in the socket. He took our orders in a nutty, Japan-meets-Jerry Lewis kind of frenzy, every so often shifting his voice into a higher register, as though he had inhaled helium. And he would punctuate all this with a Woody Woodpecker cackle that was astonishingly authentic.

It takes a lot to nonplus Elisson…but I was nonplussed.

After breakfast (we made sure to lob Tosh a hefty tip – he was a scream!), we caravanned up to Ellijay in two cars – men in one car, ladies in the other, the better to allow the Girlz to talk about whatever fluffy crap they talk about (probably our dicks) and for us to talk about the Manly Crap we talk about (sports, Humorous Radio Shows, frints ’n’ burgoolies). The time passed quickly and we got to Ellijay well before mid-day.

The Apple Festival, from a distance, resembled a Post-Katrina Tent City, but once inside, it revealed itself for what it really was: a Nawthen Jawja Crap Craft Crapft Fair. All kinds of Fascinating Folk-Art. If you ever develop a jones for a Bear Carved from a Tree-Stump, this is where you need to hustle yourself off to.


They had clogging. Not the kind I’m so good at, but the kind that involves people tromping around on a wooden stage in Clonky Shoes. Sorta like Deliverance meets Riverdance. Impressive.


Milk, milk, lemonade. Around the corner, fudge is made sold.

They had Festive Food. Hell, they had everything. Turkey legs. Corn dogs. Dog legs. Corn of the cob, sans dog. Fudge. Ice cream. Hot chocolate (which I’m sure was a big seller in the 80+ degree heat). Freshly-squeezed lemonade and cherry limeade. And Fried Shit of every description. Everything tastes better fried – including this Fine Train-Wreck of a Lunch Platter:


Everything tastes better fried. Even this...whatever the hell it is.

An hour or two of tramping around the Applefest in the warm blistering sun, and all of us were ready to Call It a Day…but not before stopping in downtown Ellijay for a little antique-browsing and a late lunch at the local Ice-Cream Parlor and Hamburger Emporium. Once again, we were graced with a Waiter with Personality, this time a youngish, dark-haired lass with a slightly wonky left eye.

The hamburgers were pretty good, all things considered, although requesting a specific degree of doneness was – so the waiter informed us – a Big Honking Waste of Time. You get what you get is apparently the philosophy of the house. Since what we got was good, no worries.

Then we made the mistake of ordering up a slice of Chocolate Meringue Pie (which the waitress insisted on calling “Chocolate Cream Pie”) after seeing the immense portions the patrons at the adjacent table were shoveling down.

It was dense. It was rich. It was Completely Fucking Flavorless. I mean, no taste of chocolate whatsoever. I guess we all had been hoping for something more along the lines of a Greenwood’s Classic…but, alas.

Thus fortified, we headed home. After a break of an hour or so, we all reconvened at Dr. and Shelly T’s home, there to soak in their heated pool and share a light supper.

All in all, a very enjoyable day. Good weather...good friends...and we even managed to score a couple of pecks of good apples!

A STUDY IN STRIPES

Miss Matata catches some rays in the kitchen. The pattern of shadows from the blinds, along with the stripes in the area rug, got my attention almost as much as the squirming, excessively whorish Kitty-Slut.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

This tasty little meme has taken on a sort of Life Of Its Own - like certain Carnivals - and now seems to be a semipermanent fixture in the Bloggity Landscape, thanks to regular participants such as pesky’apostrophe, Feministe, and Rox Populi. [I think Rox gets actual credit for inventing the damn thing.]

Anyway, now Elisson can play - because I have scored me a 20 gig iPod, thanks to a generous birthday CashWad from the Daddy d’Elisson, Eli his ownself. Sweet.

And so, I present the first Blog d’Elisson Friday Random Ten:

1. Thousand Island Park – Mahavishnu Orchestra
   
2. Aish Tamid – Matisyahu
   
3. Bolero – Frank Zappa
   
4. Shrimp (Dubplate) – Mr. Scruff
   
5. Roll Right Stones – Traffic
   
6. Avenue Q Theme – Avenue Q: Original Broadway Cast
   
7. King Kong – Frank Zappa
   
8. Angie – The Rolling Stones
   
9. The King of the Golden Hall – Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
   
10. With You There to Help Me (Live) - Jethro Tull

ASK MR. DEBONAIR

Dear Mr. Debonair:

Call me a slob if you wish, but I like ketchup on just about everything - eggs, steak, meatloaf, even gefilte fish. Is there a polite way to get ketchup to come out of a newly-opened bottle? Sticking a knife in just seems so...déclassé.

(signed) Alive or Dead, It Tastes Better with Red

Dear Alive,

Far be it from me to call you a slob on account of your love of the Great Red Condiment. While I myself might not care to enjoy ketchup on a grilled New York strip, it does add a certain je ne sais quoi - I don’t know what - to meatloaf, pot roast, and the like.

Whatever you do, though, don’t be putting it on cottage cheese. Aside from its Nixonesque resonance, that is just plain perverse. Yes it is. The principle of de gustibus non est disputandum can only be stretched so far, Sirrah.

But your question had to do with extracting the Red Gold from the bottle. And it is a conundrum to make Grown Men weep, this business of starting a fresh bottle. But once you know the secret, you need never again reach for a knife in order to Get the Job Done. Rather, you will scorn those benighted souls who do so!

Here is knowledge:

• Remove the lid of the ketchup bottle. This is critical.
  
  
• Invert the bottle and hold it by the neck, using your right hand. Hold your left hand a few inches to the left of the bottle, at such a height that the bottom of your left hand is at the top of your right hand (which is grasping the neck of the bottle).
  
  
• While holding your left hand still, rap the bottle smartly against your left hand, using a twisting motion of your right wrist. The shoulder of the bottle should strike the meaty heel of the left hand.
  
  
• A few sharp raps should be sufficient to dislodge the ketchup without causing it to dump out on your food in one noisy “splorp.” Once the flow starts, use a gentler rapping motion to get the exact amount you want.
  
  
• This technique can be used to get practically every molecule of ketchup out of a narrow-necked standard ketchup bottle.
  
  
• As for those squeezy bottles, what are you wasting your time reading this? Those pose no especial challenge. Squeeze away - wimp.

[Tip of the Mr. Debonair topper to She Who Must Be Obeyed, who loves her some ’chups on just about everything short of Breakfast Cereal, and who taught Mr. D everything he knows about Ketchup Extraction.]

CARNIVAL OF THE COCKROACHES

Part of doing things Bloggy-Style™ is finding a need that nobody knew existed and filling it with a Time-Wasting Exercise that nobody wants.

And thus it is that I announce to my Esteemed Readers the first Carnival of the Cockroaches, to be held Friday, October 21 - a week from today. Get your submissions in by Thursday, October 20, 9:00 pm EDT (that’s Eastern Daylight Time, folks - same as New York time) to be assured of a slot in what may very well be the most revolting Carnival since Acidman ran the Carnival of the Crappers.

Send me links to your Cockroach-Related Posts. Stories, photos, whatever. Even RFOAC’s (Reasonable Facsimiles of a Cockroach) are acceptable. I will compile them and the result will be a Carnival that will have everybody scurrying for the baseboards as soon as the light is turned on.

I'll be accepting submissions by e-mail at elisson1 (at) aol (dot) com (be sure to include “Carnival of the Cockroaches” in the subject line)...or leave a comment with your permalink. And maybe I can get Ferdy to add it to the Carnival Submission Form to make y’all’s lives even easier.

If you give me your trackback URL, I’ll make a good faith attempt to send you a ping. As long as Haloscan doesn’t act too cranky, that is.

[Image shamelessly ripped off from GuyK at Charming, Just Charming. Lovely!]

LIFE AND DEATH

A few days ago, on the way home from The Great Corporate Salt Mine, I happened to tune into NPR, which I listen to as an occasional alternative to the F-Bomb Comedy Channel on XM Radio. The host of “All Things Considered” was interviewing a Pakistani university professor of some sort concerning the recent earthquake that affected Pakistan, Kashmir, and India, and some of the comments the professor made were quite illuminating.

In a discussion of the rescue and recovery efforts, a question came up concerning Ramadan, which began last week. During the month of Ramadan, Muslims refrain from eating and drinking during the daylight hours – this month-long fast is one of the Five Pillars of Islam, and its observance is essentially universal among devotees of the faith. The question was, would Muslims in the affected areas – both victims of the earthquake and the people responsible for rescue operations – observe the fast, even though such observance might have a negative impact on the physical stamina of both the already weakened victims and those who were working so hard to save lives?

The answer surprised me, although maybe it should not have.

The professor stated that even under the most dire circumstances, most Muslims would continue to fast. He went so far as to relate a story of one of his relatives who had been suffering from a gangrenous leg. The man’s leg needed to be amputated promptly, as septicemia was setting in. Given the man’s severely compromised condition, the surgery could not be attempted unless he took some nourishment. Instead, he chose to continue his fast – and, as a result, he died.

It is, said the professor, considered to be a great act of holiness to maintain one’s discipline in religious matters, even unto death. In this case, the man chose not to save himself because to do so would violate his religious precepts.

This is a way of thinking that is dramatically different from the philosophy of Islam’s Abrahamic brother religion, Judaism.

In Judaism, we have plenty of commandments to observe: 613 of them, to be precise, although not all of them can be observed in the absence of a Temple and sacrificial cult. But, with rare exception*, none of those commandments is more important than the need to save a life. The Hebrew term is pikuach nefesh - the preservation of life – and it trumps all religious duties.

[*The exceptions: If a Jew is forced to choose between death and engaging in a forbidden sexual act, denying the existence of the One True God, or murdering someone, death is preferable. But in all other cases, transgression is permitted - nay, required - to save a life.]

We observe a 25+ hour fast on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, with observant Jews also fasting on Tisha b’Av, which commemorates the destruction of the Temples in Jerusalem. But if fasting poses any danger to an individual’s health (typically due to age or infirmity), that individual is commanded to avoid it.

Observant Jews do not ride on the Sabbath, nor do they talk on the telephone. But if an observant Jew has a heart attack on Saturday, he is required to call 911 and get an ambulance ride to the hospital. Pikuach nefesh is the royal flush that beats the full house of Sabbath observance.

In the Jewish worldview, life is precious, with death to be avoided if possible. “What value is it if I go down to my grave? The dead cannot sing Your praises,” says the Psalmist. God, in our view, prefers that his subjects live, if blind obedience would result in death.

Now: knowing this crucial difference between Jewish and Muslim philosophy, which culture is more likely to strap bombs to women and children so that they can blow up innocent civilians in the name of jihad resistance? Which culture is more likely to let 15 schoolgirls burn to death in a fire because their country’s religious policemen would not allow them to leave the building, nor let firemen enter lest men possibly be exposed to the sight of Immodestly-Clad Women?

Ah, yes – I thought so. What do you think?

FRIDAY ARK #56

This week’s Ark is floating over at The Modulator. As usual, cats rule.

Just for shits ’n’ grins, I wonder if there’s any interest in a Carnival of the Cockroaches? You know, ’cause people like cockroaches...and there aren’t enough Carnivals in the Bloggy-Sphere already. I may just start one to see what happens.

BE PREPARED

Another Yom Kippur gone, marched off into history.

A full day of breast-beating public confessionals. A twenty-seven hour fast. Sounds like a Great Big Pain in the Ass, but it’s an exalting experience.

Yesterday evening, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I snarfed down a light pre-fast meal. Years of experience have taught us that it’s best to eat modestly before fasting; stuffing oneself with a big, heavy meal will only ensure an evening of discomfort, followed by the Morning of the Ravenous Belly-Pang.

In my case, dinner consisted of a mâche salad with a dab of bleu cheese dressing, a few random chunks of Brie cheese, a bowl of cereal (Weetabix and Swiss muesli), and some fruit compote...all washed down with lashings of Ocean Spray Wildberry Diet Juice & Tea.

If you’ve never tried Weetabix, by the way, let me save you the trouble. It’s a biscuit-shaped affair, much like the classic full-size Shredded Wheat, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Shredded Wheat is like Organic Brillo - you know when you eat it, you are going to be Scouring the Old Colon. Weetabix, on the other hand, turns into drywall spackling compound as soon as it hits milk. Guess which one is American and which one is British? [Hint: Which nationality considers “mushy peas” to be a Legitimate Foodstuff?]

About halfway through the bowl of cereal, I realized that the Deadly Combination of Weetabix and muesli had absorbed every available molecule of milk, and yet the mess still had the gritty consistency of kitty litter.

Wildberry Juice & Tea to the rescue. I simply splashed on enough Juice & Tea to render the cereal suitably moist...the consistency of Wet Shredded Newspapers. Tasty, that.

And thus I armed myself for a foodless day, a day of Religious Contemplation. I figured the cheese would counteract any tendency of the cereal and Reconstituted Dried Fruit to cause Nasty Digestive Surprises, and I was right. Even better: no excessive hunger pangs, not even as the day wound to a close.

Preparation: the key to success!

SMORGASBORGNINE

In which Elisson imagines himself to be a lonely Italian butcher from the Bronx...


Angie Velociman: What do you wanna do tonight this afternoon?
Marty Elisson: I dunno, Angie V-Man. What do you wanna do?
V: I wanna have some more a dat Chatham Artillery Punch.
E: Good idea. While yer at it, ya see dat guy onna tube in da river behind us? Whyn’tcha smack da crap outta him wit’chyer Half-Rubber stick? Maybe lob a couple rocks while yer at it?
V: Now yer talkin’.

[Photo shamelessly stolen from the most lovely Shoe. Post title shamelessly stolen from Skankin’ Pickle’s song of the same name.]

CARNIVAL OF THE VANITIES #160

Chris Hallquist (The Uncredible Hallq) hosts this week’s Carnival of the Vanities.

A peek in his Profile section reveals Chris to be 18. Heh. Eighteen years old, and he’s already hosting Blog-Carnivals...the first tender-footed step down the Road of Bloggy Perdition. Gaaaaaaahhhhh.

RADIO DAZE

One of my Minyan Boyz cohorts hosts a one-hour radio show Friday mornings on a (very) local station. Appealing to my Monstrous, Overblown Ego and my love of doing Silly Voices, he has asked me to sit in and do a guest shot this Friday.

I have no idea what I will talk about, but expect I will be “in character.” Several characters, in fact, something like a low-rent Phil Hendrie. And since the show is the Health Hour, I - and my esteemed colleagues Dr. Gupta Patel and Dr. Sidney Cronkite - may have a little fun. After all, my Minyan Boy buddy is a pharmacist...and I have extensive (albeit mostly out-of-date) experience in the area.

I wonder how many fake ads for Dr. Smith’s Boner Oil I can slip in before they heave me out of the studio on my ear. One thing’s for sure: I will need to rein in my natural tendency to lob F-Bombs. For that will not do, even on a station that has a Listening Area Radius of about 600 feet.

Damn, what’s next? Podcasting?

[You can listen to Radio Sandy Springs on the Internet at www.radiosandysprings.com/onair.html. The show airs from 9:00-10:00 am EDT - that’s New York time for all y’all furriners - this Friday.]

HINENI

Here I stand, impoverished of deeds, trembling and frightened with the dread of He Who is enthroned upon the praises of Israel.

I have come to stand and supplicate before You for Your people Israel, who have sent me although I am unworthy and unqualified to do so.

Therefore, I beg of you, O God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob, HaShem, HaShem, God, Compassionate and Gracious, God of Israel, Frightening and Awesome One, grant success to the way upon which I travel, standing to plead for mercy upon myself and upon those who sent me. Please do not hold them to blame for my sins and do not find them guilty of my iniquities, for I am a careless and willful sinner. Let them not feel humiliated by my willful sins. Let them not be ashamed of me and let me not be ashamed of them. Accept my prayer like the prayers of an experienced elder whose lifetime has been well spent, whose beard is fully grown, whose voice is sweet, and who is friendly with other people. May you denounce the Satan, that he not impede me. May You regard our omissions with love, and obscure our willful sins with love. May You transform all travail and evil to joy and gladness, to life and peace, for us and for all Israel, who love truth and peace. And may there be no stumbling block in my prayer.

May it be Your will, HaShem, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the great, mighty, and awesome God, “I Am That I Am,” that all the angels who bring up prayers may present my prayer before Your Throne of Glory; may they spread it out before You for the sake of all the righteous, devout, wholesome, and upright people, and for the sake of the glory of Your great and awesome Name, for You hear the prayer of Your people Israel with compassion.

Blessed are You, who hears prayer.

- Hineni (t’filat l’sh’liach tzibur kodam musaf - The Chazzan’s Prayer)

[Among many Conservative and Orthodox Jews, there is a custom of not spelling out the name of God lest one inadvertently profane it; thus, you will often see the spelling G-d. While intending no disrespect to those who follow that practice, my own custom is to spell the word out in English and to use appropriate substitutes in the Hebrew (such as “HaShem,” literally “The Name”) to avoid inappropriate usage.]

Hineni is the prayer of the Chazzan, the individual selected by the congregation to lead the prayer service and thus to function as their representative in a Full-Bore Dialog with The Big Guy.

It’s a pretty serious responsibility.

Hineni puts one in the right frame of mind. Traditionally, the white-clad Chazzan chants it with a haunting, plaintive melody while he slowly walks the center aisle from the rear of the sanctuary to the height of the Bimah (the raised platform in front of the Ark). And unlike Kol Nidre, during which congregants will sing quietly along with the Chazzan as he threads his way through the challenging twists and turns of the melody, Hineni is solely the prayer of the Chazzan: there is a silence that is thoroughly remarkable given the size of the congregation (and the normal level of background noise).

Coming as it does at the end of Shacharit, the morning service, Hineni falls roughly two-thirds of the way through a 25+ hour no-food-or-water fast. The breath begins to take on that old Dry-Mouth Funk; the vocal cords are dry. But somehow, it all seems to come together.

Our greetings this time of year draw upon the imagery of the season, in which our fate for the coming year is written down in the great Book of Remembrance. Whether you believe it as literal truth or not, it’s a beautiful metaphor that recognizes that, while we are essentially powerless over our destiny, our actions - repentance, prayer, and charity - all have a positive impact, helping to avert the Severe Decree.

This expression of well wishes is traditionally Jewish, but it transcends all religious boundaries: May all of my family and friends - and all of the people I care about and who have made the world a better place - be inscribed and sealed for a good year.

A SEASONAL MEDITATION

Who put the bomp
In the bomp bah bomp bah bomp?
Who put the ram
In the rama lama ding dong?

I have no clue...

What I wanna know is,

Who put the “tit”
In the titkabeil?
Who put the “tush”
In the tushb’chata?

Boogity boogity boogity
Boogity boogity boogity joo...

[Note: In a little over 24 hours, I will be fasting and beating my breast, making atonement for this Incredibly Stupid and yet Arcane Post...]