Beard Sparks Friends To "Name That Gaba"

It's been something I've been meaning to do since 1986 - the last time I attempted such a venture.

So one morning, about a month ago, I stared at my face in the mirror, a bloodshot gaze that came from not enough sleep after catching an episode of The Equalizer on late-night television.

"Your problem," I told myself, "is that you're lazy."

And so, right then and there, I decided to take advantage of my lethargic approach toward shaving.

And let the beard grow out.

The last time I had a beard was over four years ago, and if there's anything that can be said about that bout without the razor, it's that the comments overheard were often humorous.

There was the wedding I played DJ at, for example. One of the bridesmaids commented to another that, at least if the pastor hadn't shown up, we would have had a replacement rabbi at the reception. Me being the rabbi, I guess. Obviously, this was a lady who watched Fiddler on the Roof about 30,000 times too often for her own good.

This, of course, was nothing compared to the "standard" references to bearded men of note throughout history - Abraham Lincoln, Moses and the rock band ZZ Top. One of my friends went so far as to call em "Honest Gabe," partially because of Mr. Lincoln, to a degree because of my last name.

I had grown a beard for the first time while in college in 1984, starting three weeks before the Tigers-Padres World Series matchup. So I had already heard a lot of the same types of commentary about my facial feature.

A former college roommate dubbed me The Neanderthal Man, because I resembled one of the lead characters in the movie, The Clan of the Cave Bear. Another ex-roomie started a betting pool on how long my beard would be by the end of the semester.

What you have to understand about these references is that, by the time the jokes and comments were in full swing. I had a pretty healthy beard. The rabbinical reference was probably accurate in terms of internal appearance, except I didn't grow the sideburn curls like the ultra-religious Orthodox Jews did. By comparison's sake, what I have right now is but a mere babe in the woods, a puppy in need of growing up.

Still, this time around, the silly statements are getting any sillier. The beard was entering its second week at the time Operation Desert Storm took effect, an done of my friends thought my infantile-stage growth made me look like Saddam Hussein.

Right. I didn't even know Saddam had a beard. Maybe she meant Fidel Castro, or Yassir Arafat. You know, evil, domineering leaders with beards.

By the next week, another acquaintance thought I looked like a priest.

No, I thought, there's a contradiction in terms. By the time Valentine's Day rolls along, I'll probably be the second coming of Cupid (a bearded one, at that). Or Ringo Starr.

How long will it stay? Who knows? Probably at least until it warms up a bit more.

Or until I'm just too lazy to keep being lazy in the morning.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Palestinian Issue Has God Shaking His Head

Former journalist I.F. Stone once said that if God is dead, He died trying to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict.

The conflict is alive and kicking - this time in the limelight because of unprovoked attacks by Iraq against Israel.

Iraq's Saddam hussein says he is fighting a holy war, with God on his side. If God is dead, He's probably turning in His grave.

After being bombed two successive nights, Israel has acted most un-Israeli by not sending her air force to retaliate against Iraq.

And this amazes me, as it does most everyone I know. We all expected Israel to respond immediately; a few figured she woudl strike before Hussein did.

Hussein wanted nothing better than to bring Israel in, for two reasons: (1) to break up the allied coalition; and (2) to bring the Israeli-Palestinian issue to the front.

And wouldn't that make for interesting fodder in the fodder file?

Since 1948, when a territory called Palestine was divided between Palestinian Arabs and Jews, the Middle East has been one big discord: four ArabIsraeli wars and more battles, bombings, terrorist attacks, political upheavals, assassinations and military coups than the rest of the world combined.

God, what a mess.

The war that led to the breakup of Palestine uprooted more than 500,000 Arabs from their homes. These people - Palestinians - sought refuge in Jordan, Syria or Lebanon - all Arab nations.

Now, this isn't really as mild as, say, an eviction notice. The comparison is rather moderate, truth be known.

But logic would seem to dictate that if someone is evicted from their house, a sibling might be inclined to take that person in for a while, assist in some way.

However, logic does not always prevail in the Middle East. Incredibly, no Arab nation looked after the Palestinians, shunning them like they had the plague.

Not all the refugees set up camp in the bordering Arab countries; 150,000 remained in the new nation of Israel. And while life for them could be difficult, they were allowed some political rights - something unimaginable in an Arab monarchy or dictatorship (are you listening, Saddam?).

An eventual culmination of these tensions was the formation of the Palestinian Liberation Organization, which served as an umbrella organization for all clubs, societies, and parliamentary groups serving the Palestinians.

The PLO was created in 1964 and has been a wonderful school for anyone who ever dreamed of becoming a professional terrorist.

Another branch thrown on the Palestinian refugee fire was the Six-Day War of 1967, sparked by Egypt's blockade of the Gulf of Aqaba. Israel saw this as illegal and proceeded to raid Egyptian, Jordanian, Syrian and Iraqi airfields.

When the sand had settled, Israel owned Egypt's Sinai Peninsula and Gaza Strep, Jordan's West Bank of the Jordan River (also known as Judea and Samaria), and the Golan Heights portion of Syria. The taking of the Occupied Territories brought almost one million Palestinians under Israeli rule, something nobody had anticipated.

It's almost 24 years later, and the problem is still there. Unrest is still an everyday occurrence in Israel, for the in-state Palestinians demand more freedoms, and tensions grow.

I don't know what will happen regarding the Palestinian issue after the war against Hussein ends. If God isn't dead, maybe He's been trying to figure out a solution.

Then again, maybe even God doesn't have that answer.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Oil's Not A Reason To Slide Into War

Several years ago, a newspaper political cartoonist drew up then-Israeli leader Menachim Begin's "Peaceful Withdrawal of America" scenario.

As you may well remember, the United States was asking Israel to return portions of land it had won in war to her Arab neighbors. And the cartoonist, playing off this request, made some light of a "what-if-we-turned-the-tables" spoof.

What if the United States were forced to return all its previously-conquered territory?

Would we give back lands to France, Spain, Mexico? Would we dance with wolves and return parts of this country to the Native Americans?

This cartoon comes to mind in light of the current Persian Gulf situation, where we are imposing that Iraq leave its conquered territory and let the Kuwaiti government - currently in exile - return to power.

As I write this, the United States and Iraq are preparing to become larger-than-life versions of the World Wrestling Federation. You know, "In this corner, Uncle Sam 'The Ultimate Warrior' America, and in this corner, 'Hulk' Hussein."

But even as I joke about the Persian Gulf crisis, it is important to realize that the events taking place are shaping our lives this very minute.

Let's face it: War is no joke. We saw that in Vietnam and we're seeing it again now.

And as I sit here, punching out these words, I am filled with confusion and rage.

Most of my confusion regards the reason we've stuck our butts in the sand of Saudi Arabia in the first place.

I'd like to believe it has something to do with freedom, which is what this great and wonderful country is supposed to stand for. I'd like to believe the United States is trying to right a wrong which has been committed by a volatile, untrustworthy Arabic leader.

I'd like to presume our interests have nothing - not a thing - to do with big business, or oil reserves, or politics, or whatever else comes to mind.

I'd like to assume it;s because we, as America, are doing the right thing. That for once we haven't placed ourselves in a Catch-22 situation.

But I cannot. My confusion over the reasons leaves me numb and angry.

I am not a supporter of war. When the battle cries of hawks and doves are heard, my megaphone will be on the side of peace.

Every time I think of why we've sent thousands of soldiers and millions of tax dollars to the Gulf area, my mind tells me it's oil.

We could be sending our monies to assisting the homeless, not to the Gulf.

But instead, we send it overseas.

Oil rules. Oil commands. Oil is like a god that drives us, because it drives our automobiles.

It's not freedom of people we're interested in. It's freedom of business.

I wish I didn't feel so. I wish I could watch the news or see President George Bush's lips move with words like "freedom" and "democracy" and not tie in the big business factor so quickly, so presumptuously.

But I do.

And I'm not alone. Across the nation this past weekend, there were peace vigils. Protests stated. Flags burned.

And to those of you who are opposed to that last part, let me say that I'd rather we be burning flags in protest of a questionable war, than laying that same flag over a casket of a soldier who was killed in battle.

And that's the prospect a war would give us.

Again.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

What's In A Name? In This Case, Everything

For the first six months of my employment at the Ogemaw County Herald, this column was called "Thoughts at Small."

Call it that no more.

"Thoughts at Small" is dead. Long live "The Gift of Gaba."

The new title of this column is, of course, a play on my last name ... and my ability to talk up a storm.

The old title was a play on the phrase "thoughts at large," which a couple thousand readers did not quite comprehend. (A common problem with the kind of humor that lives in my slightly deranged left-wing brain.)

More on that later. Right now, back to the new column name. On more than one occasion, I have been reminded that my last name sure lives up to my ability to gab.

Oh, well. That's the price I have to pay for being the way I am. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure out the correlation between "Gaba" and "gab." At least, not from a linguistic standpoint.

This moniker was most recently suggested by my Grandma Sally - also a Gaba - who lives in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale. She thought it would be a pretty original, cute and funny title for the column.

Well, she was right - at least, in the "cute" and "funny" arena, I suppose. My mom loved the idea. My sister loved the idea. Even my managing editor thought it was a pretty good idea, proving that, gee, maybe I had something good here.

But it is hardly original.

What these four people have in common, if they didn't know before, is that it brings to about 750 the number of people who have told me, during the last 12 years of so, that I have this gift. The Gift of Gaba.

Like I said, you don't have to be a rocket scientist. Spend 10 seconds with me and it will be obvious that I'll never win any awards for being shy and reserved.

"The Gift of Gaba" is a new name for this column. But The Gift has been with me for years.

I can remember it clearly being around as far back as 1979, when I was a violinist in high school. Like most young musicians, I hated to practice.

In orchestra, my conductor, Mrs. Palmieri, would often turn to me and, in her even-toned, calm manner, ask me to KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT! To this, the rest of the class would invariably being to laugh.

Herb Isaac, our top cellist, was another excessive talker. He could sympathize with my plight, although having The Gift of Isaac seemed biblical, rather than vocal. After Mrs. P. would get through with her five-minute tirade, Herbie would turn to me and say, "I talk just as much as you, Paul, but I never get chewed out. It must be The Gift of Gaba."

Hmmm.

Having The Gift of Gaba is especially helpful each week when it comes to putting down the words that fill this column space on the opinion page.

And the replacement of "Thoughts at Small" now means you don't need to be a rocket scientist to understand the play on words that hovers over this rambling, left-wing lunacy each week.

Thank my grandma if you happen to be in the Fort Lauderdale area. She's easy to find ... just look for an older lady gabbing endlessly about her grandson, the writer.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Advice For The Lovers: Hire A DJ, Not A Band

Last Friday, December 7, marked a famous day in our country's history.

Pearl Harbor Day? Yeah, I suppose that's a significant date. But that wasn't what I was thinking about.

It was payday, but that truly significant event happens every two weeks.

The parade through downtown? Of course ... not. The West Branch Christmas Parade was nice, but there is one event which encompasses all of the glory of a parade, payday and other noteworthy experiences.

December 7 was the day my managing editor, one Jeffrey A. Savitskie, and one Amy Ruediger, took the inevitable plunge into that much-cherished entity known as wedlock.

Having never been married, I am fully unqualified and inexperienced in giving advice on nuptial bliss.

But that never stopped me before.

This information is geared to anyone who is even remotely close to getting hitched, bonded, tethered, joined, tied, handcuffed, better halved, sharing tax returns, united, or, for lack of a better word, married.

Or even engaged.

Mind you, it's too late for these lovebirds. But I can still give some advice to you, the prospective "made in heaven" team.

Now, I'm not going to give a lot of advice on the actual ceremony. I'll leave the service up to the reverend or rabbi in charge.

My advice is geared toward your having the best reception possible.

I used to play disc jockey at weddings and have entertained enough people at receptions to fill the Pontiac Silverdome.

I have seen just about anything and everything that can happen at a reception, from fights to "kiss the bride/groom" ratings (almost always a perfect 10) to Groucho Marx fake glasses.

Now, none of this will pertain to the newlyweds mentioned in this column. Jeffrey and Amy had a small, private ceremony. But if they had gone all-out, they might have used some of these basic pointers:

A) Hire a disc jockey, not a band.

This is a personal bias, as I was never talented enough to play in a band. But let it affect your decision, especially if you end up hiring me.

Disc jockeys always have the most up-to-date music. Let's face it - if you ask a band to play Warrant's "Cherry Pie," odds are that, unless it's a garage band, they won't know it (not that I would blame them).

B) Know what songs will be played and let the disc jockey (or, i guess, band) know what songs you do and don't want played.

This sounds a little technical, but let me explain:

There are about 10 songs which are "musts" at wedding receptions. Most of them you've probably heard at every wedding - "Celebration," "Old Time Rock and Roll," "Footloose," "The Hokey Pokey," "New York, New York," "Johnny B. Goode" and "Twist and Shout" are included in this list.

But let the DJ (or band) know what you do or don't want played.

If you insist on hearing "American Pie," let the person in charge know. If "Disco Duck" is "your song," tell them.

If you cannot stand Elvis Presley, tell the M.C. (or lead singer) not to play anything by him. Even if everyone else in the place wants to hear "Jailhouse Rock."

Hey, you're paying the bill.

C) Pick a sappy, meaningful love song for the bridal dance.

One time, I was asked to play "Aqualung" by Jethro Tull for the bridal dance.

(If you've never heard of Jethro Tull, let's just say that, while I like its music, one does not normally hear any of it at weddings. It's hardly the type which will cause insulin shock by listening to.)

I stared at the couple for a moment, trying to understand what they said. Then, when I realized they were serious, I explained to them that my pet goldfish had chewed up my Jethro Tull's Greatest Hits album the week before. So they picked "Always" by Atlantic Starr, a more fitting tune.

And one the fish had not eaten.

D) Consider the "worst man" choice carefully before asking.

Everyone knows who the "best man" is - the guy who does all the dirty laundry work before the wedding so that he can give a meaningful toast at the beginning of dinner.

But the "worst man" is entirely different. He's the man who comes in late, objects to the wedding (it doesn't matter why), dresses funny and gets stone-face drunk midway through the evening's festivities.

With these pointers, I hope your wedding goes off without a hitch.

And to Jeffrey and Amy: I hope you enjoyed the most important night of your lives - even if you didn't have a disc jockey (or band) to make your reception complete.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.