A New Ride

My Christmas present just arrived.

Yes, it may seem a little late for Christmas.

But it’s exactly what I was hoping for.

A 2004 PT Cruiser.

Pewter in color.

And since Santa is done for the season, my older brother Kevin was the one who delivered it.

He drove the car more than a thousand miles, 1284 to be exact, to get it to me.

About seven years ago, my mom bought the brand new car when she was living alone in San Diego.

It took her everywhere she needed to go.

Which apparently was right around the corner.

That’s because in those seven years she put a whopping 12,000 miles on the car.

12,000 divided by 7.   Carry the one.

Wow.

I do more than that just going to Starbucks.

When my mom moved into an assisted living facility near us, she left the car in Southern California.

About a year ago Kevin picked it up and drove it home with him to the other side of the state.

We had all planned on Kevin selling the car and giving all of the proceeds to my mom’s college fund.

But that never happened.

And that’s a good thing.

When we decided to make the big move to New York, I decided to sell my big phat luxurious car.

I figured I didn’t need any car while I was living in the big city.

And I didn’t need a nice car when we moved to the ‘burbs.

Enter Phillip Travis Cruiser.

His friends call him PT.

What a perfect ride for what I needed.

And the perfect price too.

Free.

Happy Jewish Christmas!

And a few days ago my brother delivered the goods.

Talk about full service.

While he was here, we got some good solid quality brotherly bonding time.

And a bunch of great meals in too.

He’s 14 years older than me, so we probably have more in common now than ever before in our life.

When he was 18, he really didn’t want to hang with a four-year old.

Plus he always loved skiing and surfing and fishing.

And I loved... eating ice cream.

And sitting on a couch.

But now that we are both old.

And gray.

We talk all about all sorts of things.

Like when Muhammed Ali beat Sonny Liston.

Or Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde album.

Or the Food Network.

During his stay, I think we hit all of those.

And more.

When he got the car here, he handed me the keys and a list of things I needed to get done.

And so far, so good.

Oil change.   Check.

Radiator flush.  Check.

Rear Wiper.  Check.

Detail.  Check.

Registration.  Check.

Insurance.  Check.

Tires.   Not yet.

We figured that with less than 15,000 miles on the tires, they should be ok for a while.

I took them to the local tire dealer to check the air and double check the rubber.

They said the tires were a little worn on the side, but they should be fine through the winter.

“But keep your eye out for the Michelin $70 rebate and get them done then.”

REBATE????  

That’s the third word they taught me in Hebrew School.

You don’t want to know the first two.

I’m in.

Well as my luck would have it, tonight I was at Costco -- the greatest store in the world -- when I saw a sign.

Not a sign from God.

A sign from Costco.

BUY FOUR MICHELIN TIRES AND GET $70 OFF.

Sold!

So I went in to buy my four tires, get my $70 off, and check one more thing off my list.

But the Costco we were at only had one of the tires.

They told me that the Costco closer to where we are living had the other three I needed.

So we bought the one tire and headed home.

Ready to make the trek to the closer Costco in the morning.

About one mile from our home, with a fresh Michelin sitting in the back of the Cruiser, God’s sense of humor kicked in.

It sounded something like this.

THUMP.   THUMP.   THUMP.   THUD.

No way.

Way.

When I got out to check, I noticed the front left tire was as flat as the pancakes at Waffle House.

And if I noticed it, it had to be obvious.

I can’t even change my own oil.

Or my own tire.

Thankfully that’s where AAA kicks in.

While we were waiting for the tow truck, we did the walk, in near freezing weather, to get the kids home.

Then my wife drove me back to the car.

And within minutes the truck arrived.

And within seconds the guy put the donut on the wheel.

Or the axel on the rim.

Or the rubber on the whatever.

Whatever he did, he did it so quickly, I didn’t have time to say, “how’d you do that?”

No biggie.  I’ve made it 43 years without changing my own tire.

Why start now?

Too bad my brother wasn’t there.

I’m sure he'd know how to do it.

Oy Tannenbaum

When it comes to religion, my Jewish ancestors got a whole bunch of things right.

Matzo ball soup.

Fiddler on the Roof.

Rod Carew.

But nobody is perfect.

Who in the world signed off on making bacon illegal?

Now when it comes to creating a winter holiday for all the people to celebrate...

Advantage Christians.

Sure, Chanukah is fun.

Adam Sandler’s song is a classic.

I love them Potato Latkes.

And the idea of getting gifts on eight consecutive nights is a great concept.

Especially for a kid.

But nothing compares to Christmas.

The music.

The tree.

The bearded superhero.

Sure, my people have tried to ride the coat tails of the Christians.

Introducing Hanukkah Harry and the Chanuka Bush to the young kids of today.

But we can’t even agree on how to spell our holiday.

According to something called joemaller.com, there are 16 ways to spell the festival of lights.

Clearly we need a new marketing firm.

Not to mention, every time I light the menorah, I feel like I am going to burn down the house.

Christmas, on the other hand, is as simple as they come.

Shop for presents.   Wrap the presents.   Open the presents.


Done.


I've never been to Midnight, Mass.


But my dad was born in Worcester.


Growing up in Southern California, we would always spend Christmas with some friends in the San Fernando Valley.

Like us, they had a Jewish father and a non-Jewish mother.

Although, mine converted.

So we would always pretend to celebrate both occasions.

But there was no doubt what the headlining holiday was.

Each year, us kids would wait at the top of the steps at 6:30 on Christmas morning.

Waiting for the ok to go downstairs to see what Santa brought us.

Santa?

Believe?

Hellz ya!

I never once questioned Santa.

I never once questioned Santa bringing me presents.

I never once questioned why Santa would bring presents to a Jewish kid from the San Diego Hebrew Day School.

And neither would you.

It’s all about the presents, right?

And the children of today are no different.

My kids have no idea what the nativity scene means.

But they sure know how to build a Gingerbread house.

My kids have no idea where the city of Bethlehem is located.

But they know exactly where to find their stocking.

My kids have no idea who Jesus is.

But my son can name the other Alou brothers.

Call me a traitor.

Call me a phony.

Call me anything you want, but I LOVE CHRISTMAS.

And I always will.

I love the lights.

I love the songs.

I love the gifts.

Ok, that last part has changed.

I used to love getting the gifts.

What kid doesn’t.

Now I love giving the gifts.

And I especially love the mystery surrounding it.

I love the idea that my three kids are sleeping in a room tonight with their three cousins.

And all they can do is talk, think and dream about what presents they are going to get in the morning.

And let’s not forget the annual traditions.

The egg nog.

The spiked egg nog.

The Lakers game.

As the great Apostle Zero Mostel once said...

“Tradition, Tradition!”

Wait a minute.

Advantage Jews.

Growing up, we NEVER opened a gift before Christmas morning.

It was torture as a kid, but that is one rule I won’t bend on.

How funny is that, the Orthodox Jewish kid won’t let his half-Jewish, half-Korean kids open up their Christmas gifts until Christmas morning.

And it’s not even my holiday.

Every year, they pretty much beg me to open one gift on Christmas Eve.

And every year, I say no.

Now there is a part of this holiday season that we can all agree to.

And that is the day after Christmas.

As in, the day after Christmas sales.

Or as I call it, the Jewish Christmas.

Nobody likes a deal more than us.

Merry Christmas to all.