Fried & True

by Fay Jacobs

  LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

  THE DEVIL WEARS IPOD

  I love my iPod, even though I’m not what the electronics industry calls an “early adopter.” Early adopters are those eager beavers who fiddle with new inventions before anybody else. Early adopters (EAs) bought CD players when the rest of us were still rewinding cassette tape spools with our pinky fingers.

  I’m a tardy adopter. If I’d lived in the 19th century, I would have been reading Jane Austen by candlelight long after everyone else had gas, if you’ll excuse the expression. I’m still wary of Halogen lights, wireless, and digital thermometers (you want to put that where???).

  Which is why I’m astounded that I purchased, programmed, and actually use an iPod. And which is also why, as I drove to New York last weekend, trying to get my iPod to play through my car radio, I recognized irony when it assaulted me in the ears.

  Back when Edison invented the stylus to play music on tin foil cylinders, early adopters tried out these tin foil phonographs. When Edison’s cylinder gave way to shellac discs, the record player was born. Between Edison’s records and Marconi’s radio, a beautiful relationship grew.

  Of course, the sound was awful. Jelly Roll Morton and Enrico Caruso came through with radio static and screechy needle skips on the 78 revolutions-per-minute records. Eventually, those sneaky early adopters got wind of 33 and a third rpm records and the first major format war ignited.

  Did you know that in 1940 audio pioneer David Sarnoff installed the first secret recording device in the White House? It took another 34 years to see the error in that plan. Meanwhile, 33s begat 45s and the classic long-playing record, or LP, triumphed.

  I came along in 1948 and by the late 50s wanted my very own record player. I can still see that green vinyl-covered box with a flip-up lid. Inside was a turntable, an arm with a diamond needle and a clip for that little round plug to stick into 45s to keep them from becoming Sputniks. Over the next decade I listened to my first Broadway shows, The Kingston Trio, and the ubiquitous TV stars cutting records, like Richard Chamberlain Sings! He really didn’t, but 12 year olds didn’t care.

  I practically wore out my LP of My Fair Lady starring Julie Andrews. That should have been a parental early warning. I really, really, really wanted Julie to be my best friend, talked about her incessantly and coveted her butch haircut.

  Early adopters forged on: Hi Fidelity, FM Radio (no static!) and the new technology called stereo. Nuclear families sat in the middle of living rooms marveling at bongo drum sounds flipping from right speaker to left. Dean Martin crooned That’s Amore, on speakers the size of restaurant dumpsters.

  By 1966 EAs brought us new 8-Track tapes. The sound quality stank and the tapes hiccupped every time they changed tracks, usually mid-song. But heck, you could take your music with you in the car!

  I finally capitulated and got an 8-Track player to listen to Sgt. Pepper while sipping cheap wine and enjoying the aroma of wafting…um, incense in the dorm.

  Dammit, my 8-Track was still virginal when those vile early adopters diddled with cassette tapes. You could fast forward or reverse them and the sound was better. So everybody had to dump their 8 track players (or shove adapters into them) and switch formats again. By this time I had 300 albums but they were the same 100 releases purchased in three different formats. I still have all three versions of Carol King’s Tapestry someplace.

  Actually, cassettes held the public’s attention for a long time. They hissed less than 8 Tracks but the sound on the radio, in the car or on the home stereo was merely good enough.

  Then, Land Ho! In the early 80s, technology and early adopters collided in their quest for perfection, touting the Compact Disc—a digital technology virtually eliminating tape hiss, squeaks, needle skips, and all the other humm, buzz and static we’ve enjoyed through the ages.

  Perfect sound. Of course, I didn’t buy a CD player until years later when I spilled a Pina Colada into my cassette carrying case and ruined all my 80s music—which, in hindsight, was not the tragedy I thought it was at the time.

  So I purchased my music for the fourth time, but got smart, joining six record, I mean music clubs. I’d get five free CDs with each membership, plus pay for the required two more CDs at regular price simultaneously, thereafter quitting lickety-split. For the record, no pun intended, I did not replace ABBA or CATS.

  Which brings me to the hell that those doggone early adopters have unleashed this time. Peer pressure finally convinced me I needed an iPod to carry with me the entire contents of my CD cabinet—which, by the way, was pretty empty, since I threw away all my bulky VHS tapes in favor of slim DVDs, requiring me to buy back my favorites yet again.

  As for the iPod, I love it. Following three bleary days at the Dell, every CD I own is digitally stockpiled in the thing. If I trusted technology, which I do not, I could just throw away all those CDs and reclaim shelf space for the photo albums I refuse to convert to digital slide shows.

  So as I headed up the Jersey Turnpike last weekend, I tried to enjoy selections from my entire iPodded music library played through my car radio. I had a gizmo supposed to play my iPod via wireless magic by tuning in a local radio station. What I got was barely audible Dixie Chicks along with some hideous 1960s AM radio static. Worse, the radio errantly drifted to some God Squad station railing about “ho-mo-sex-iality.” Please, I’d rather listen to CATS.

  When we spied a Bed, Bath & Beyond, we stopped to buy a tiny speaker system for Mr. iPod so we could turn off the squawking car radio.

  Down the highway we went, unwrapped the little woofers and tweeters and discovered that the whole damn thing was made of flimsy plastic, and get this, Mr. Thomas Alva Edison—the speakers were, ta da, TIN FOIL. And it sounded like it, too.

  What comes around goes around. What will those zany early adopters think of next! Wouldn’t it be ridiculous if they tried to get us to give up our 54-inch TVs for 2.5 inch Podcasts? Naw, that’s just way too absurd….

  August 2006

  LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

  IS IT REAL OR IS IT…MARKETING?

  Marketing has gone too far. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a marketer. My whole career has been spent trying to get people to visit places, see things and buy things. I’m a professional.

  But my skills pale in the face of some 21st century marketing practices.

  I’m now being told I need an outdoor kitchen.

  From Restoration Hardware to the Pottery Barn, outdoor spaces (we used to call them patios) can be more than mere decks. Not only have creaky picnic tables been supplanted by teak ensembles with Mission Style armchairs, but now you can have a whole kitchen outside. With your stainless steel three-burner barbecue grill—you know, the one that could double as the space shuttle booster, an attached Corian countertop, and even an outdoor wine cooler, so you can bring your wine outside in the heat to cool it—outdoor kitchens are really taking off. Or so the catalogues say.

  “Everything you would expect from a conventional kitchen can be found with our outdoor kitchens.” Really? Do they have fridges filled with last week’s doggy bags and zip-loc bags of fuzzy things resembling science projects?

  I was lusting after the Garden Gate catalogue, with its gorgeous outdoor tables, chairs and, get this, sideboards, when I came to my senses. I rarely use my indoor kitchen, why the hell would I need an outdoor one? To be just like my indoor kitchen, my outdoor kitchen would need a phone on direct dial to 1-800-Pizza.

  Here’s a good one—“a gazebo with woven panels, sturdy steel framing and mosquito netting creates an exquisite outdoor room, as beige fabric allows this structure to coordinate beautifully in any outdoor setting.”

  I thought green goes best with the outdoors, besides, wasn’t the point of eating outside to enjoy the natural environment? You want coordinated fabric? Go in the house.

  I turned the page in the catalogue and saw swagged draperies, yes, draperies, “perfect to set the mood in any screened porch.” Window treatments fo
r the porch? And see, even I’m calling what used to be curtains, window treatments. And I’m not even a gay man.

  How about those outdoor heaters. “Take the chill out of the evening air with the 30” Copper Fire Pit. Elegant design and durable construction create a stylishly functional backyard centerpiece.” My backyard centerpiece is an oscillating sprinkler. And a can of bug repellent.

  And what’s with the Media Room thing? Every new house has to have a Meeedia Room with theatre seating and a TV big enough to watch life-size football. I don’t need to see sweaty men slapping each others’ butts that big.

  Besides, my whole house is a media room. The TV is in the Great Room—and by the way, that’s the place we used to call the living room, but now builders save money by not putting up an extra wall and it’s a Great Room. My computer is in the den, my music is in my ears, and I read in the bathroom. I don’t need a Meeedia Room.

  And I’m not even going to discuss marketing successes like caffeinated water (drink plenty of water, then hit yourself over the head with a frying pan in order to sleep). And speaking of frying pans, now we need George Foreman indoor grills (now there’s something that DOES belong on the porch…). Then there was the salad spinner. It’s lettuce for pity’s sake, wash it off.

  On the beach I see people using a moving van to come in for the day. They have to have their L.L. Bean pop up shelter, Crate & Barrel collapsible table, and Coleman industrial sized cooler. And wireless laptop. It’s the beach, people, bring a towel, a hat, and a book (preferably, mine).

  But here’s the marketing plan that caught me by surprise. I opened the mail last week to find a letter to my dog Moxie from his veterinarian. It reminded him that now that he’s turned eight years old its time for him to ask his Mom or Dad to make an appointment for his Senior Wellness Examination.

  I looked at the dog. Was he reeling in stunned disbelief like I was, the day I opened my mail to find my AARP card? I’m surprised Moxie didn’t look at me and ask for Metamucil.

  The vet, by the way, is excellent, very caring and competent. But me thinks marketing has gotten the best of the practice. Senior Wellness Exam? Whatever happened to an annual Rabies shot, flea dip, and a dog biscuit? Neither Moxie nor I consider him a senior citizen, and while I’ll do anything within reason to keep him healthy, two hundred bucks for “wellness” tests makes me want to be de-wormed.

  Really, this marketing thing is out of hand. All of a sudden we can’t survive without naturally holistic pet foods, bathroom faucets that look like exhibits in the Museum of Modern Art and my favorite must-have: GPS in the car.

  First off, it’s dangerous. Look at the thing while driving and you’ll be the first to know exactly where you are when the garbage truck hits you. It reminds me of a depth finder in a boat, which tells you exactly how few inches of water you are in after you’ve already run aground.

  Meanwhile, back in the car, GPS is a gimmick. Do you know anybody who actually uses it after the first week? The one time somebody demonstrated it for me, the car let us know that my own street didn’t exist. “Okay, my friend says, “let’s pop in the name of this restaurant we’re sitting in front of. The navigation system did a good job, telling us that the pavement that we were parked upon was actually two blocks away.

  Now I’m not a complete throwback. Some marketing has won me over. Like the DVR—the digital video recorder you can order from your cable company. It’s fantastic. It should be marketed more. Unlike the Video Tape Recorder, its simple to operate, the time never blinks 12 o’clock, and I can watch The L Word any time I want.

  Ditto with the cell phone and Broadband Internet Access. But give me a break from those aggressive marketing gurus who push products or services we really don’t need. Enough, already.

  Though I must sheepishly admit, I’ve made the appointment for Moxie’s wellness exam. You can never be too careful. But he’s damn sure not coming home to dine on holistic kibble in our outdoor kitchen. Frankly, I’m just glad he uses the outdoor bathroom.

  September 2006

  LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

  A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE

  Ever since Georgia State Representative Billy McKinney lost a primary battle in 2002, I’ve been feeling uneasy. According to The Washington Post, he blamed his loss on the “J-E-W-S.”

  Nice. While it’s some comfort that McKinney lost, it still made me queasy. I’ve spent more than half my life working to prevent discrimination against gays and lesbians. It’s been my issue both personally, for small instances of discrimination, and, in a wider sense, for our community as whole.

  But until some recent news articles, I never really took anti-semitism as a personal threat or a contemporary issue. Who’s head’s in the sand now?

  I flinched when reading about the resurgence of European anti-semitism and the massive hateful propaganda, nurtured in Arab nations, that the Jews were behind 9-11.

  Hearing vicious anti-Semitic rants from Iranian officials and reading of nations which refuse to recognize Israel’s right to exist is very discomforting to say the least.

  And we cannot forget Mel Gibson’s wild eyed rant about the Jews causing all the wars in the world. Frankly, I thought that was the Republicans’ job.

  It’s enough to make me want to “come out” as Jewish and start paying more than lip service (like eating lox and bagels), to my religious heritage.

  My parents were secular Jews. They didn’t attend services but they identified greatly with ethnic Judaism—and they were of the generation that refused to buy Volkswagens and Mercedes because of the manufacturer’s World War II connection to the Third Reich.

  Struck with a little Jewish guilt when my sister and I were young, my folks sent us to “Sunday” school on Saturday at our local temple. One day, while I was in religious class, with my mother and sister on their way to pick me up, my mom skidded the car on an icy street and wrecked her 1957 Thunderbird. Mom and Sis had only minor injuries, but that was the absolute end of my religious training. My mother took the accident as a sign from God that we should be doing other things on Saturdays. Kaput. Finito. Done.

  Decades later, when a number of people here in town got together to form the first Jewish congregation in the entire county, it interested me a little.

  So after a few visits on the High Holy Days, with Bonnie coming along, I began to feel a kinship with Seaside Jewish Community. With the exception of weddings, funerals, and a stray visit to DC’s gay synagogue, this was my first religious experience in over 40 years (unless you count créme brulée).

  Not surprisingly, I was a little lost amid the Hebrew prayers and songs, but not among the crowd. At least 10 congregants were friends from CAMP, I recognized several people from the Art League, and a few more from downtown businesses. The nice thing is that it didn’t feel like a straight synagogue or a gay synagogue. There was a great mix.

  So now, in addition to hosting our annual Chanukah party where we serve Bonnie’s fabulous Matzo Ball soup and Latkes (potato pancakes), I am part of the budding Jewish community here.

  And one the things that drew me to this congregation is the person who most often leads the services. Beth is our lay rabbi.

  She does a terrific job and is a wonderfully wise and spiritual person. Also lots of fun, because long before I showed up in schul, we’d been socializing with Beth and her partner Fran. So actually she is our lay lesbian rabbi. She’s a lay rabbi because she knows her stuff but hasn’t been through the official rabbinical training. I do believe however, that she is an ordained lesbian.

  It’s been nice going to the occasional Saturday morning service and adding a bit of organized religion to my life. Somehow it feels different than all my previous forays into a synagogue. It feels integrated, with my family of choice, my gay life and my spiritual life (or at least heritage and culture) all coming together and recognized by this welcoming congregation. Adding that touch of spirituality seems appropriate to me for the very first time in my life. A touch.
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br />   And then it happened. My mate, who always enjoyed the study of religion and was herself a committed Christian until she was lobbed from her church for being gay, began to take an interest.

  To be sure, Bonnie has always loved Jewish food, Jewish jokes and Jewish women. But I was a little surprised when she told me she wanted to explore converting to the Jewish faith. “Making matzo ball soup isn’t enough?” I asked. No, she really wanted to study.

  “A couple of pounds of pastrami won’t satisfy your craving?”

  Nope. She decided she liked the philosophy behind the religion and felt very comfortable with our little Jewish congregation.

  So my mate started taking Hebrew lessons from Beth and practicing her alphabet and prayers by playing recorded lessons on her iPod.

  I am very, very proud of her for making this choice and taking on all the hard work and introspection required to see it through.

  However, I think the ability to make the requisite sounds for Hebrew and Yiddish words is genetic. Telling somebody they have a lot of Chutzpah (Yiddish for gumption) and pronouncing the CH with the properly liquid “CHuh” sound is easy for Jewish people. Non-Jews have to really work at it. It’s the difference between calling a complainer a kvetch or a k-vetch.

  So, I’m sitting reading and Bonnie is in the next room going over her last lesson and reading aloud. It’s hard to tell if she’s clearing her throat or reciting a prayer. When she gets to a particularly juicy “Chuh” in the text I wonder if she might need the Heimlich maneuver.

  And so it goes. We’ve gotten to the point where Bonnie is explaining the meaning of the Jewish holidays to me and I’m becoming a more observant Jew by marriage. A member of the religious left as it were.

  And there’s no sense kvetching about it. I’m answering to a higher power: Bonnie, when she’s on a mission.

  And even if I did kvetch and complain, I’d just be preaching to the converted.

  Shalom.

  September 2006