The Pittsburgh synagogue massacre depressed me deeply.
If I were a good person, I would be depressed by all incidents like this, aimed at whatever class of marginalized people.
But I’m not a particularly good person, so incidents that unsettle me are primarily those that target me.
I’m a Jew.
Most people meeting me don’t suspect this since I have an Italian last name, and Italian Jews were mostly annihilated during the last World War.
I’m not exactly what you would call an observant Jew. I go to synagogue exactly once a year on Yom Kippur. I don’t have a mezuzah over my door. I don’t eat much pork, but that’s more a health thing as I get older: I like the taste, but I feel torpid after I eat it, as though all the blood in my brain is rushing to my stomach. I suspect pork must take a long time to digest.
Anti-Semitism is rampant here in the quaint and scenic Hudson Valley, so I am privy to a lot of casual Those damn kikes talk. I seldom say anything. In part, that’s protective mimicry—don’t wanna blow my cover though when Donald Trump Jr. becomes Prez and starts herding us all off to the camps, it won’t matter since he’ll have access to Ancestry.com’s massive DNA data banks.
Partly, though, it’s because I have become weary with my self-appointed role as Liberal Educator to the Masses.
It’s odd because I am very quick to call people out on racist remarks that involve African Americans.
I note, too, that there was also a shooting at a Kroger’s in Louisville last Friday. Two people (black) dead. Facebook is a-slosh with indignant Social Justice Warriors crying out, Why should the Jews get all the attention?
I consider this another form of Anti-Semitism.
Jesus Christ, assholes. Attention is not a limited resource. Really.
There’s enough to go round.
On Sunday, I went on a fact-finding mission to the local Unitarian Universalist Fellowship.
It was very sweet, and I will probably go again.
I think there were a lot of people there who’d never been before. We all slunk off together before the Unitarians could trap us into Ordeal by Koffee Klatch after the service.
They had a guest—what do you call them? Preachers? Leaders? She was very eloquent and dynamic. She spoke a lot about Samhain, the Celtic holy day that coincides with Halloween. A liminal portal: The cattle are slaughtered; the dead return. She asked us to close our eyes and summon our dead, so I did, and I was surprised to see, painted in living color on the underlids of my eyes, surprisingly vivid portraits of Tom, my mother, Rik, and—oddly enough—the Former Democratic Congressional Candidate.
A crack at the bottom of the portal streaming the white light through?
They had a musician who played a Tibetan singing bowl. Maybe that’s why the evocation was so vivid and so effortless.
If only I could sit in a room forever and listen to the music of Tibetan singing bowls, I would be perfectly content.
I spent the weekend writing about robo-advisor financial services. Which was not as boring as it sounds. Robo-advisors are investment algorithms. Rudimentary AIs. They’ve been around for a long time, but as is usually the case in professions, they were not made available to the general public but only to financial planners, gowned and gartered in the various accouterments of certification.
It’s likely that a significant proportion of those financial planners didn’t have the foggiest when they mumbled their incantations—Asset Class Diversification! Hedging! Growth Stock!—at their clients.
I, for one, am very happy to see the demise of this class of professional parasites.
It rained. And rained. And rained.
This gave me an excuse not to go running.
Although at one point I did climb on the elliptical machine.
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