HIDE THE MENORAH!
By Dan Tirman
My heart surged with joy and wonder at pre-dawn when I awoke to find my
bedroom decorated with gifts and the magic of Christmas. At the age of
four, I somehow assumed I'd know this dreamy intoxicating coziness again.
But it wasn't to be. One day, my little playmate, Carol Hiris, solemnly told me
that she was Catholic and advised me to find out what I was. Later that
night, my father informed me that I was Jewish, which I, in turn, informed
tiny Tarquin Rottoti, who was only three, who ran inside to find out from his
father: Catholic. The numbing reality was that the very same children I
played with got presents under a decorated tree, merrily adorned their
homes with festive lights, and had their good behavior assessed by Santa
Claus prior to his yearly generous visits to their homes. How I admired the
Mullea family, whose expansive estate was smothered with multicolored
lights, snow men, Santa Claus, elves, reindeer, the works. What a show
they put on! How I longed to be part of a gentile clan climbing onto a roof
with strings of lights to create a spectacular holiday spectacle. Alas, the
closest I'd get to a roof was "Fiddler", for all I could count on, literally, were
the nine orange bulbs of the Hanukah menorah. Oh, don't get me wrong. I'd
meticulously attend to the Hanukah menorah during those moderately
anticipated days of celebration when the Jewish community would relate a
tale about a group of brothers called the Maccabees, who won a battle
against the Syrians some long time ago, thus saving the Jews from yet
another life and death assault on their entire existence. And, of course, the
oil burning candles in a temple miraculous held firm for eight days, hence
the lighting of the menorah...yada yada yada, as they say...I just wanted a
bulb to light, desperately. So, I took it upon myself to be sure my parents
hauled out that electric menorah where I'd strategically position it by the
front window of the house. On each of the eight nights, I'd twist on another
orange bulb so that the world could see we were on top of our game. I'd
make the very most of it, but still looked up to the sky on Christmas eve,
just in case I spotted Santa...on his way...even if he'd just be "in the
neighborhood."
MORE>>
____________________________________
JUNGLE BOOGIE
By Randy Turner
I have lived a rather adventurous life, much of which I plan on recording
someday in my memoirs. Just 2 years out of college, I formed my own
technology company and did business all over the world. Every year I lived
in a different location, first Venezuela, then the UK (Bristol and Aberdeen),
then France, Germany, Brazil, and finally, a second stint in Venezuela. All
together, I was out of the country for almost 8 years, finally moving back to
the US in 1994.
During my 2nd stay in Venezuela, I was a "seasoned" world traveler, a la
Indiana Jones, or so I thought. I felt I was ready for anything, and given the
exchange rate of Venezuelan "bolivars" to the US dollar, I could afford to
live the life most Venezuelans could only watch on re-runs of "Dynasty" or
"Dallas".
MORE>>
____________________________________
untitled
By Kelly Carlin-McCall
May 11, 1997 - It is Mother's Day, and I am exhausted, spent - emotionally
drained. Mom has taken a sudden turn for the worse, and sunk into some
kind of child-like state that I can't quite identify. She acts and speaks like a
three-year-old child. This panics me, but all I can think of this morning is
that I have to get her to drink her orange juice. She hasn't eaten in days.
She won't. Or more likely, she can't. The chemo is ravaging her far worse
than the cancer on her liver. Happy Mother's Day mom.
Dad, dad is somewhere else. New York City. He's taking care of mom the
best way he knows which is by being on the road where he makes people
laugh so that he can keep the house that she loves so much. You see my
dad is George Carlin. And even though he's been successful in comedy,
he's not always been successful at picking out ethical business managers,
and so for the last 15 years he has been paying off endless taxes and
penalties to the IRS. And so, every few months they threaten to take the
house. He truly believes he is out there for their future. But there is no
more future for Mom. There is only this moment - me sitting on the end of
her bed begging her to just take a sip of the orange juice. Her blood sugar
is dangerously low, and she needs it. But, like a bratty child she shakes her
head and refuses. I can't blame her. She probably can't taste anything
anyway, or keep it down.
MORE>>
____________________________________
>> VISIT OUR ARCHIVES FOR PAST PODCASTS, STORIES AND TROUPE MEMBER BIOS
By Dan Tirman
My heart surged with joy and wonder at pre-dawn when I awoke to find my
bedroom decorated with gifts and the magic of Christmas. At the age of
four, I somehow assumed I'd know this dreamy intoxicating coziness again.
But it wasn't to be. One day, my little playmate, Carol Hiris, solemnly told me
that she was Catholic and advised me to find out what I was. Later that
night, my father informed me that I was Jewish, which I, in turn, informed
tiny Tarquin Rottoti, who was only three, who ran inside to find out from his
father: Catholic. The numbing reality was that the very same children I
played with got presents under a decorated tree, merrily adorned their
homes with festive lights, and had their good behavior assessed by Santa
Claus prior to his yearly generous visits to their homes. How I admired the
Mullea family, whose expansive estate was smothered with multicolored
lights, snow men, Santa Claus, elves, reindeer, the works. What a show
they put on! How I longed to be part of a gentile clan climbing onto a roof
with strings of lights to create a spectacular holiday spectacle. Alas, the
closest I'd get to a roof was "Fiddler", for all I could count on, literally, were
the nine orange bulbs of the Hanukah menorah. Oh, don't get me wrong. I'd
meticulously attend to the Hanukah menorah during those moderately
anticipated days of celebration when the Jewish community would relate a
tale about a group of brothers called the Maccabees, who won a battle
against the Syrians some long time ago, thus saving the Jews from yet
another life and death assault on their entire existence. And, of course, the
oil burning candles in a temple miraculous held firm for eight days, hence
the lighting of the menorah...yada yada yada, as they say...I just wanted a
bulb to light, desperately. So, I took it upon myself to be sure my parents
hauled out that electric menorah where I'd strategically position it by the
front window of the house. On each of the eight nights, I'd twist on another
orange bulb so that the world could see we were on top of our game. I'd
make the very most of it, but still looked up to the sky on Christmas eve,
just in case I spotted Santa...on his way...even if he'd just be "in the
neighborhood."
MORE>>
____________________________________
JUNGLE BOOGIE
By Randy Turner
I have lived a rather adventurous life, much of which I plan on recording
someday in my memoirs. Just 2 years out of college, I formed my own
technology company and did business all over the world. Every year I lived
in a different location, first Venezuela, then the UK (Bristol and Aberdeen),
then France, Germany, Brazil, and finally, a second stint in Venezuela. All
together, I was out of the country for almost 8 years, finally moving back to
the US in 1994.
During my 2nd stay in Venezuela, I was a "seasoned" world traveler, a la
Indiana Jones, or so I thought. I felt I was ready for anything, and given the
exchange rate of Venezuelan "bolivars" to the US dollar, I could afford to
live the life most Venezuelans could only watch on re-runs of "Dynasty" or
"Dallas".
MORE>>
____________________________________
untitled
By Kelly Carlin-McCall
May 11, 1997 - It is Mother's Day, and I am exhausted, spent - emotionally
drained. Mom has taken a sudden turn for the worse, and sunk into some
kind of child-like state that I can't quite identify. She acts and speaks like a
three-year-old child. This panics me, but all I can think of this morning is
that I have to get her to drink her orange juice. She hasn't eaten in days.
She won't. Or more likely, she can't. The chemo is ravaging her far worse
than the cancer on her liver. Happy Mother's Day mom.
Dad, dad is somewhere else. New York City. He's taking care of mom the
best way he knows which is by being on the road where he makes people
laugh so that he can keep the house that she loves so much. You see my
dad is George Carlin. And even though he's been successful in comedy,
he's not always been successful at picking out ethical business managers,
and so for the last 15 years he has been paying off endless taxes and
penalties to the IRS. And so, every few months they threaten to take the
house. He truly believes he is out there for their future. But there is no
more future for Mom. There is only this moment - me sitting on the end of
her bed begging her to just take a sip of the orange juice. Her blood sugar
is dangerously low, and she needs it. But, like a bratty child she shakes her
head and refuses. I can't blame her. She probably can't taste anything
anyway, or keep it down.
MORE>>
____________________________________
>> VISIT OUR ARCHIVES FOR PAST PODCASTS, STORIES AND TROUPE MEMBER BIOS
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