My nephew Adam is a nice boy and he's about to become a man. So this Friday night, Sylvie and I are off to the Amtrak to Silver Spring, Maryland to attend the festivities.
It's Sylvie's side of the family, and never did I much care for most of them. But after fifty-five years of marriage, you shut up and go. That's marital advice, my friends. Shut up and do what your wife wants. You'll live longer and be happier. You need a fancy-schmancy marriage counselor like you need a hole in the head. Button your pisk and go.
Adam's father, Bobby is a bit of a schmendrick. A fifty-two year old who calls himself Bobby? What? Is he on the Howdy Doody Show or some such? You're 52 years old with a big house in the suburbs already, be Robert or Bob or Rob. But Bobby? What are you, a mouseketeer?
This will be my first Bar Mitzvah since I stepped down from the Bima. A little sad. A little nostalgic. A little laughter. A few tears.
But Adam is a good boy and handsome too. So you go. You eat a frank in a blanket. You do a little Hora, Cotton Eyed Joe or Electric Slide and you say goodnight.
It's a mitzvah after all.
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