A vicious ham-handed attack was recently perpetrated on the troubadour of the knife and fork and minstrel of all things food – Charles Ferruzza by the humorless militant organized fat people.
I hate to break it to the fat people, but sitting around and reading the Pitch in search of things to be offended at is not a healthy activity you should be engaging in to become less fat.
I don’t have any use for organized anything – labor, religion or fat people. No matter how many politically correct titles you invent for yourselves or how much you lobby to be considered normal size, all you have managed to do so far is to take the livelihood away from the people who made a living working for freak shows.
Lottie Grant, Circus Fat Lady, now considered size 4
There are two kinds of fat people – the ones who have a sense of humor about their size and the ones who are angry and bitter. The ones who can laugh at “yo mama” joke and the ones who are offended at a drop of a cupcake. I belong to and know plenty of the former but have no desire to associate with any of the latter.
So the next time you are sitting with another chubby young woman “who seems mortified at having to spend another Friday night with (you) instead of being on a real date”, don’t blame Ferruzza for noticing, with this attitude you’ll spend every Friday night there for the rest of your sad life.
The mid-1970’s, when 7-year-old me was roaming the mean streets of Odessa, was a great time to live there. Odessa’s Jewish population somewhat recovered from the devastation of the World War II and the pogroms and devastations before that and, while the Soviet Government had a firm grip on the emigration spigot, prospered as much as was allowed. Jewish actors, teachers, musicians, artists, restaurant singers, underground business owners, doctors, tailors, professors – Odessa’s Jewish population was having another one of its golden ages. Maybe I should say “Odessa’s adult Jewish population” because many kids like me didn’t know we were Jewish.
Recently I ran across a website where Jews of my generation were describing how they discovered that they belonged to the Tribe. Not one of them found out from their parents. It was always a neighbor or neighbor’s kids, some lady at the store, an angry classmate, an opponent in a fistfight, someone throwing an insult or a backhanded compliment; Jewish kids were last to know about the most important thing in their lives. And then I understood why we don’t always see eye-to-eye with the American Jews, the ones carried to a Rabbi on the 7th day to have parts of them snipped, and taught how to participate in the great world Jewish conspiracy from their early days. Unlike them, we made it to adulthood intact, without ever seeing a Rabbi or even knowing the word Rabbi, or anything about being Jewish or the conspiracy we were born to participate in. While they were able to proudly announce their Jewishness in more languages than one, our nationality was conveyed in a series of winks and tongue-clicks with an understanding look and a sad face.
Around that time every resident of Odessa worth his eggplant caviar recipe had to have an underground recording of so-called Odessa songs. These were the songs usually performed in restaurants or weddings, sometimes funny, sometimes stupid, but always entertaining and good for dancing. Some of those included faux Yiddish lyrics and even when the original Yiddish had some meaning they were copied from musician to musician so many times that they lost all or most of it in the process. My household of course had a tape like this and I played it enough times to remember all the words in Russian and Yiddish. Except I didn’t know it was Yiddish, just like I had no idea I was a Jew and many other things a 7-year old not supposed to know. I also didn’t know I couldn’t sing.
I am at the center with my usual facial expression. Girl whose father was a part of the panel of celebrity judges is on the left wearing glasses. Odessa, 1976
That didn’t prevent me from volunteering to perform in a school concert. The casting committee consisted of my first grade teacher with the last name Rosenberg* and the father of my classmate with the last name Schneider*. I went on to perform a hit “Rahilya, May You Croak, I Like You”.
It went something like this:
Rahilya, may you croak, I like you.
I can’t live without you, Rahilya! Rahilya, we’ll get married, you’ll plump up
And we will live on the beach together.
And then the Yiddish part started. I dutifully repeated every word with an exceptionally joyful intonation, perfect projection and a smile on my face. At that moment I was Pesachke Burtstein reincarnated if I only knew who he was.
Afn boydem bakt zikh knishes,
They are making knishes in the attic
Funem tukhes shit zikh mel.
And flour is pouring out of the ass
Az der tote trent di mome,
When Papa is banging Mama
Kinder makhn zikh aleyn.
Kids are playing alone.
Rahilya, you are beautiful like Venus,
But you will grow a large belly
And if not, let the cholera take me
But let it take you first!
Rahilya, we will go to Yessen-tukhes**,
Where sun comes up between the blue mountains,
And if not, kish mir in tukhes***
But my patience has run out.
Tears filled my teacher’s eyes and streamed down her face. My classmate’s father, a gentlemen in what then seemed like his 70’s but probably in his 40’s, was shaking and crying like a baby. We didn’t have Kleenex then so they wiped their faces with newspapers and rags. I finished with an especially well-done kinder makhn zikh aleyn and triumphantly looked over my teary-eyed audience of two.
This is the original song I was performing that day from the infamous tape.
httpvh://youtu.be/n8j1_ksW61M
My parents were friends with my teacher, so she just called them that night and asked them to try and contain my singing talents at home.
My Mom still reminds me about this every once in a while.
I never found out why I wasn’t featured in the school concert.
I still remember the words to this and other songs from that tape but nowadays my only audience is the shower curtain.
I don’t remember how I found out I was Jewish but I don’t think it was from my parents.
And that’s how I was a Yiddish singer.
*Unmistakably Jewish names
**Play on word combination Yessentuki, a famous Soviet resort, and a Yiddish word tukhes (ass).
***Kiss my ass (yeah, I know lots of ass-words in this song)
Big thanks to my friend Yelena S. for her Yiddish expertise in preparation of this post.
Today’s trip to the past of the Johnson County,KS takes time travelers to historic downtown Overland Park.
Then:Voights Building Black and white photo of the Voights building at 80th and Santa Fe Dr. taken from opposite corner showing intersection of the two unpaved, dirt streets. There are two men sitting on bench outside of drugstore. A horse-drawn carriage is parked on one side of the building and an automobile is parked on the other visible side. The building itself is brick with striped awnings over the windows and doorways. There are several large windows at the store front. The window behind the men on the bench says “DRUGS.” Also visible in this picture is a wooded “Rail Road Crossing” sign, a telephone pole, a tree, and another brick building in the background.
Apparently Voights Building (1911-1927) burned in 1927 and was rebuilt as a one story building where law offices are today; we also find out that it was located at the North-West corner of 80th and Santa Fe. Another mention of the historic building is here.
And here is what it looked like today:
This look at the past was brought to you by the Kansas City Lunch Spots : Where Lunches and Spots Meet In The Open. Also sponsored by: My Job: Weekdays Off, WTF. Additional financing by: Old People: We Were There When the Old Building Burned.
Previous posts here and here.
