Picture it:
Temple Beth Israel. Eugene, Oregon. Yom Kippur. 5776.
Mrs. K and myself are sitting at the most solemn of solemn services. She turns to me,
"You're dressed like one of the Three Stooges."
"I AM!?!?"
"Oh, crap."
"I was going for that!!!"
"Shut up."
"Shemp. Did I nail it?"
"Shut up."
Oh, I nailed it, alright.
I have reposted, and will soon post new, Three Stooges write-ups. It's completely ego-driven self-indulgence, yes. Too, I believe it sets a nice tone. Looks good on my resume, as well.
Secondly, please note the addition of my own personal Wooden Indian, courtesy of my artist pal Greg Donchatz.
I know that in our current year of 5776, this little piece of American Iconography is frowned upon to no small extent. However, I beseech you to realize that no ill will is intended. I am simply hearkening back to a simpler time, when we were -- well -- simpler.
A time when literacy was far from common. A time when symbols were a far more universal language than was the written word. A time when you wandered into town and recognized a saloon by its swinging doors, a barbershop by its pole, a pawn broker by its three balls, and a tobacconist by its folksy wooden statue of Mel Brooks gazing majestically off into a spiritual plain distance, holding an offering of cigars under his beautiful headdress.
See, that's lovely.
Thanks for reading.
Best of wishes,
Kap