Sometimes A Blog Is Just A Blog

I had a really great story to share the other night, but truth be told it was little more than a quick one-liner that didn't lend itself to blogging. One of those "you had to have been there" stories better conveyed in person rather than in writing.

So I shared it with a friend, and he provided some additional observations. Observations that made the story all the more bloggable--just not from my keyboard.

So instead of borrowing his observations to tag onto my story, I promptly relinquished all blogging rights to the tale to Mr. Moose's Story Book. Enjoy.

Shameless Self-Congratulation

Literally overnight, my allegiance has shifted.

The Examiner is out; the Express is in. As if I haven't mentioned it in practically every post to this point, you know why I prefer the Examiner--their superior puzzle page and the chance there will be an especially lazy, plagiaristic column by Mr. Know-It-All so I can create an equally lazy post here. On the rare occasions when I'm in the mood for superior, free-of-charge editorial content (or the Examiner is unavailable), the Express, a lightweight version of the Washington Post, is what does it for me.

This morning began with a check of my e-mail, and a congratulatory message from a recently honeymooned fellow blogger.

Huh? Congratulations for what? Thanks to B&T, I learned that I finally hit the blogging big time after three arduous months of occasional blogging by having bestowed upon me the mother lode of blog shout-outs in the D.C. area--a quote in Express' daily BlogLog. I did get a shout at DCBlogs a few weeks back, but in the blogosphere, that's sort of like getting a Golden Globe when what you've really got your eye on is the Oscar. (Oh, well. So much for future shouts from DCBlogs.)

B&T posts a lot more regularly and gets these fairly frequently, so it's not such a big deal to him. We share some common DNA, especially the blogging and height genes. He is usually the one to clue me in to happenings in the blogosphere. But given my status as a loyal reader of the Examiner, with no Express accessible to a honeymooning B&T, and with none of Express' 284,899 other readers aware of my real-world identity, I was totally unaware of the shout-out until his return to cyberspace a week after publication.

So I downloaded the .pdf (much as you can for the next week or so here) and was a little disappointed to see that what was quoted wasn't what I would consider to be my best work. If I had to bet, I would have thought the Express (as the top newspaper read on the Metro every morning) would have taken something from my Metrorail piece a few weeks ago, particularly the bit about the smelly old 1000-series cars. No such luck.

I rushed to catch the Ride On, and on my way to the Metro, I thought about what I could have done on my commute last Wednesday had I known about this. I could have watched fellow Express readers on the train as they turned to page 36 and gauge their reactions for myself. The theatre has legendary stories about playwrights sitting in the audience incognito to gauge reaction and solicit feedback, and I was a week late for my once-in-a-lifetime chance to do the same.

Then things took a surreal turn. I arrived at the Metro station rushed to get to work and overdosed on ego. I grabbed the first paper shoved in my face by the two competing paperboys at the station (who are both easily in their 40s), assuming it was the Examiner. Nope. I got the Express instead. So, resigned that there would be no Kakuro this morning, I stood on the platform, and rapidly turned the pages to get to the inferior puzzles.

And in quickly passing by today's BlogLog, something stopped me in my tracks.

No way. This is too weird. (And you can download it here for the next two weeks or so to see for yourself.) Shakespeare, Hemingway, Stephen King and J.K. Rowling have yet to make the BlogLog two weeks in a row, how did this happen to me?

I boarded car #1125, and (having had a nice rain yesterday) took a whiff. Yuck. Fate suddenly turned me into a disguised Neil Simon in the back of the Plymouth Theatre during previews of The Odd Couple, sharpening up the script based on the audience reaction.

It didn't occur to me how many Metro riders read the Express until I had a vested interest in its circulation this morning. And from my vantage point, I could see that practically all of them were favoring Express over Examiner. Based on my limited survey sampling of one subway car, the fullsize, "big-boy" paper, The Washington Post, is a distant third.

I was actually close enough to about a half dozen Express readers to see what page they were reading. So I discreetly kept a watch on them as, at various times, they each reached Page 36 and the BlogLog.

Some smiled. One pointed it out to his Examiner-reading seatmate. All of them took a noticeable sniff to verify my olfactory assessment of conditions in the antique 1000-series cars.

Now I was no longer Doc Simon in the back of the theatre. I was Clark Kent, standing idly by with that cocky, knowing smile as Lois and Jimmy marvel at Superman's latest and greatest feat at the end of every episode.

Do I take this ego trip full-tilt on my ride home tonight and rip open my shirt in full view of the Express readership to reveal the large "M" tattooed on my chest? Naaaah. Just knowing that this blog is read and apparently found to be engaging by at least one reader is enough to keep me posting on a semi-regular basis.

Thank you for your support and continued encouragement. Doors closing!

Another Grueling Day In The Office...

Wikipedia: TAG Heuer

Computerworld article from Google search: "Antarctica ATM"

And he's off to his 9 a.m. tee-time.

"I Feel Like A Million Bucks"

Let me begin by saying I have a lot of admiration for Ted Kennedy, and offer prayers for his battle against a serious brain tumor. Having lost one of my closest friends to the same tumor, it will not be an easy couple of years ahead.

But think about it for a minute...what does it mean when a man easily worth nine figures says he feels "like a million bucks" after brain surgery? The stocker at the Wal-Mart who'll be making $6.55 an hour next month thanks to the senator's work on the Fair Minimum Wage Act might feel like a million bucks after having a boil lanced, but shouldn't Ted feel something like a billion bucks for the statement to have any real significance?

I worked for a Kennedy family member for a number of years, at a time when the matriarch, Rose, was "celebrating" birthdays in her late 90s and early 100s. Quotes planted in the press following these celebrations presumably coming from Rose's lips were warm and flowery prose along the lines of "how wonderful it is to be surrounded by my wonderful friends and family" as well as something topical indicating she had a clue about current events. Meanwhile, the eyewitness accounts I received from these parties reported the birthday girl as actually saying things like, "Blee blee blee banana tree sweep Gloria Swanson" as she ingested mass quantities of cake without benefit of a fork or napkin.

So while I can't swear that Teddy wasn't throwing out one-liners right after 3.5 hours of brain surgery, the Kennedy press machine is certainly capable of making us believe whatever they want as Camelot begins its final act.

I Swiped An Extra Bracha

Attending the wedding of a cousin and fellow blogger last night, MoCoSpouse and I were excited to have the honor of being among the Chosen people to deliver the sheva brachot--the seven blessings that are part of the traditional Jewish wedding ceremony. The groom called about a month ago to offer us the prized Bracha #1, and confirmed by e-mailing the transliterated blessing and English translation we were assigned.

I studied the transliteration and found the original Hebrew text online, which I often find easier to read than the transliteration. The day before the ceremony, the groom contacted me to ensure I had my part down. I mentioned my mastery of the Hebrew, and the the groom quickly clarified that we would only be reading the English translation, leaving the heavy lifting to the rabbi. Okay, works for me.

With the exception of a few technical difficulties and unmuffled motorcycles nearby that made the audio portion of the wedding difficult for all to hear at times, the outdoor wedding was perfect. For the visual portion, the bride was stunning and smiling from ear-to-ear. The groom was dapper and charming. Threatening skies held off. The ceremony went off without a hitch. That is, until the rabbi announced it was bracha time.

The rabbi called all the readers to line up at the podium, where the brachot were printed with our names in what must have been 80-point font. In case someone forgot their part or reading glasses, the groom left nothing to chance.

So MoCoSpouse and I took the podium, and the rabbi recited the first of the seven brachot.

"Baruch Ata Adonai, Elohainu Melech HaOlam, Boreh Pri HaGafen." (emphasis added)

And we looked at the transliteration. What we read clearly under our names was:

"Baruch Ata Adonai, Elokainu Melech HaOlam, SheHakol Barah Lichvodo."

"You are blessed, Lord our God, the sovereign of the world, who created everything for his glory."

Anybody who ever went to Hebrew school through the second grade should recognize the blessing the Rabbi offered as the standard prayer over wine, and seeing as it's offered approximately 373 times during the wedding ceremony, I thought his reciting it was merely a preliminary leading up to our assigned bracha. Yet there was a pause on the part of the rabbi that clearly indicated he was waiting for a translation. From us.

A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Had my cousin's decision to join a reform congregation led him to a spiritual leader who was somehow cutting corners--would he also be enjoying the crabcake hors d'oeuvre waiting for us after the ceremony? How do I deal with this unscripted portion of the service? Do I throw caution to the wind and answer the Hebrew with the correct translation, or use the translation provided for #1 as it appeared on the crib sheet?

So what came out of my mouth was the product of hearing the given prayer translated thousands of times in my lifetime.

"Blessed art thou, oh Lord our God, King of the Universe, who hath created the fruit of the vine."

"That is correct," the rabbi called out, as if he were a game show host and the buzzer was about to go off.

I stood at the podium without leaving, not sure exactly what to expect next as Bracha Couple #2 stood alongside us.

"Baruch Ata Adonai, Elokainu Melech HaOlam, SheHakol Barah Lichvodo"

Yesssssss! Our assigned blessing!

So MoCoSpouse and I provided the given translation.

"Also correct!" the rabbi added.

I thought about getting cocky and asking "Brachot for $600, Alex?" and taking on the next bracha challenge as well, but wisely restrained myself as we took our seats as readers #2 and on continued to take their turns. All the while, I kept wondering about the unscheduled blessing over the wine. What was the significance? I made a mental note to look it up online when we got home.

All continued smoothly with everyone reading their assigned parts. The groom's sister took on the challenge of lengthy #6, for which I believe Oliver Stone is currently negotiating movie rights. Then the unlucky #7 readers got to the podium. The rabbi had nothing to say as they stood there for an uncomfortable moment, waiting for a bracha that never arrived. They had no choice but to slither back to their seats, understandably confused, underblessed and humiliated.

Only in creating this entry and studying all seven brachot have I learned the shocking truth. The blessing over the wine is, in fact, one of the seven brachot. The groom had provided us with the brachot in order from one source, the top choice when you Google "seven brachot" while the rabbi chose to work from his own script, #4 on the Google hit list at the time of this writing. So I inadvertently jonesed Bracha #7.

So for the thousands of Jewish brides and grooms planning their ceremonies during this busy wedding month, the lesson is simple: make sure you find a rabbi who knows how to Google.

To the hapless pair of first cousins who traveled hundreds of miles to recite Bracha #7, only to find it shamelessly stolen in full view by a second cousin once removed: God probably understands and forgives, hopefully you do as well.

Mazel tov to the bride and groom!