Always Write a Thank-You Letter, No Matter How Unwarranted

Originally posted February 2011.

Dear Aunt Beatrice,

Thank you for the Barbie doll. How did you know I never had one?

To be honest, that’s not a fair question. I’m not sure how I can expect you to know what I already possess and know whether a Barbie doll is an appropriate gift to give a man for his thirty-fifth birthday. That is indeed a hefty chunk of information of which to keep track, and I know you have your hands full already, what with the sixty or so cats with whom you generously share your living quarters. Goodness knows that also knowing what might be a suitable gift for a person in my demographic group lies beyond your everyday experience, and probably has for a long time.

I do not wish to be remiss in noting the care with which you obviously selected the wrapping paper, and the liberal use of Scotch tape in ensuring that it stayed in place. The colors are certainly vivid, and the Santa Claus motif playful. This being June, I certainly did not expect any such thing, not least because we are Jewish. It was nothing if not original.

The same level of attention and care obviously went into selecting the card. It is indeed very sweet of you to wish me, in honor of my birthday, congratulations on my marriage; how many people are lucky enough, ten years after their wedding, to keep receiving the cheer usually directed only at newlyweds? This is especially surprising in light of the fact that of those ten years, I have been divorced for the last eight. It is so kind of you to remind me of all the feelings associated with my marriage, feelings I thought had faded.

Now, some gift givers, especially the pretentious ones, insist on using their own stationery and inscribing their good wishes to the recipient in their own hand and words. I note that you dispensed with all that in favor of commendable practicality, and selected a card with the greeting already printed in it. This has been your practice, as I recall, for many years, and it is most considerate, I think, that you thus share in providing a living for writers whose job it is to come up with those greetings. You might not know, in fact, that those writers especially need the income, as they lack any marketable skills. I had not known you were so socially conscious. This certainly belies the image of someone who prefers the company of felines to that of humans.

But I think the most striking aspect of the card, and the gift as a whole, was that you addressed it to someone named Harold. I have consulted our extensive genealogy just to be sure, but I’m certain there is no one in our family named Harold. I must admit this mode of address caused me some confusion at first, but then I recalled the level of your social awareness. I reasoned that you must have a didactic purpose in mind, perhaps that our society places far too much emphasis on the self, and that I should be thinking of others in my time of joy.

I shall take that lesson to heart, Aunt Beatrice: I have already donated the Barbie doll to an animal shelter, where the residents can play with it to their hearts’ content. It will serve a more constructive purpose there, after all, than even its manufacturer intended.

So thank, you, Aunt Beatrice. I hope we have many more occasions to celebrate.

Yours truly,

Thag

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Up Next: Thag’s Guide to Patently Insincere Thank-You Notes

Please Like Mightier than the Pen on Facebook, and we promise to be more grateful than your unappreciative, slovenly, insubordinate, undisciplined, gluttonous, rotten, inattentive, rude, ignorant, illiterate, loud, lazy coworkers.

(Oh, and as for insincere thank-you letters: http://wp.me/pSXPz-fo).

Classic Thag, February 2011: You Are Cordially Invited to Attend Reality

 

Originally posted February 9, 2011.

Dear parents of my six-year-old’s classmates:

Thank you for including my son in your child’s after-school birthday party. Aside from the obvious generosity involved in putting together such an event, the party provides a number of social and educational services that only became clear to me after the fact. I would like to share with you my appreciation of each one, first and foremost the junk food.

My wife and I attempt to restrict our children’s intake of sugary, greasy or only marginally nutritious snacks. We try to instill in them a like for green vegetables, for fruits, and for a variety of protein-rich foods such as fish, chicken and meat. This contrasts sharply with your philosophy, as demonstrated by your complete reliance, for the occasion, upon candy, potato chips, pretzels, buttered popcorn, cake, cookies and more candy.

I had anticipated, perhaps ignorantly, that a party for two dozen or so first-graders at dinnertime might include something vaguely resembling dinner. Granted, preparing dinner for two dozen first-graders can prove quite a daunting task; I did not expect anyone to take upon himself such an endeavor. However, I note the existence of at least four pizza parlors within a six-block radius of your home, all of which offer free delivery. Pizza is not the optimal dinner every single day, but its just-above-marginal nutritional value nevertheless renders it superior to candy, cake, cookies, and greasy snacks. I rather doubt these pizza places would have survived this long without the patronage of local families such as yours; I thus find your sudden reluctance to engage their services original, to say the least.

I do recall that in my youth, birthday parties in my area tended to feature pizza from a particular place followed by ice cream from a different particular place. They usually happened at the same skating venue. Now, I do understand that you prefer to conduct your party at home, and that skating venue is both six thousand miles away and probably defunct. Nevertheless, the experience of my youth conditioned me to expect some sort of party activity to accompany, or at least alternate with, the food. In your case, this activity seemed to consist of watching TV shows or movies of questionable merit, with occasional individual forays into the kitchen to ingest more candy, cookies, cake and greasy snacks. I applaud your bold disregard for stodgy, “mainstream” pediatric guidance.

This innovative, hands-off approach to kid partying offers the obvious advantage of leaving the parents free to engage in other activities; clearly, you seized this opportunity to pour even more effort in to party-related pursuits, such as opening and serving more snack foods. I stand in awe of your efficient ways.

My son had an advantage over most of the other children, in that he arrived a good bit before the other guests, and benefited from more individual adult attention. He informs me that this attention consisted of sitting him in front of the TV and serving him a sandwich with chocolate spread. Thus, in addition to the junk food he would receive a little later with the rest of the pack, my son also got to consume one additional portion of yet another permutation of grease, sugar and empty calories. Thank you for singling him out for such special treatment.

His early arrival time, as well, contained a lesson for us. While I had always been under the impression that the time listed on an invitation represents the time the event will start, you disabused me of that notion – when my son arrived, the preparations were nowhere near complete, which highlights yet another benefit of your robust sit-them-in-front-of-the-TV policy. I note that most of the other parents displayed keen awareness of this etiquette quirk, as they did not begin bringing their children until about twenty minutes later, judging by my son’s description.

The cumulative effect of your child’s birthday party, I must say, brought out a side of my child’s personality that I rarely, if ever, get to see: when his body, vocal cords and mouth work faster than his brain, as a result of significantly increased blood sugar. He was so excited about the party, he could not focus on getting in pajamas for a full twenty minutes after getting home, and then did not fall asleep until well after his usual bedtime despite continual encouragement. Thank you for enabling me to experience this phenomenon once again. I really do not get to do that frequently enough.

This has been an edifying, educational experience. Words cannot convey how I anticipate the effect of your child-rearing on my son for years to come.

Yours truly,

Thag

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Mazel Tov. Today You Are a Mockery

Dear friends, family, and honored guests:

That’s how Rabbi Stein wanted me to begin this bar mitzva speech. Out of deference to him I kept the opening line, but the rest, well, you’ll understand in a minute.

Let’s face it: today is not about my becoming a man. I’m this little pipsqueak whose voice hasn’t even started to change. My parents’ friends routinely describe me as “cute,” and they don’t mean it in a Ricky Martin kind of way. I’m not even old enough for Ricky Martin to mean anything to me, for crying out loud. How can anyone expect someone who hasn’t even hit the pimply-faced stage to answer to manhood? It’s time to stop pretending that’s what this is about.

It’s also not about celebrating some milestone. You want a milestone? On Thursday I managed to restrain myself from running away and playing Grand Theft Auto when I was supposed to be preparing the reading in the synagogue. First time that’s ever happened. But don’t attribute that to any onset of maturity – attribute it to Dad threatening to ground me for a month and take away my iPhone if I didn’t buckle down and practice.

Alternatively, you might think this celebration has something to do with my ability to read a text in ancient Hebrew and recite a few benedictions, as if I didn’t simply get a recording and memorize it. A budding star, the ladies all cooed. A real ear for tune and rhythm and trope, the men declared. A real load of garbage, I say. A parrot could do the same. Would you celebrate a parrot with a lavish party, maybe force him to wear an ill-fitting suit and a tie too big for his neck? Wait, don’t answer that. I’m not sure I want to know.

So let’s give the honest answer to why we’re all here today. We’re all here because Mom and Dad want to show off, or at least make the social statement that they can throw a shindig like the next assimilated couple. Keeping up with the Schwartzes – no offense, Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz; I like you a lot – is the great temple-centered pastime. We bar mitzva boys are just pieces in this glorified board game our parents and grandparents feel compelled to play.

I asked Rabbi Stein how bar mitzvas were celebrated when he turned thirteen. He said they weren’t. You turned thirteen, you assumed some new responsibilities and went on with your life. If you were lucky, your parents could arrange a bit of herring and schnapps after services one morning. But hey, since the goyim always knew how to party, why couldn’t we Jews learn to do the same? After all, trying to blend in with the surrounding societies has worked so well over the last twenty centuries or so. They love us by now, right? Show the neighbors you can hire some dancing waitresses and they’ll forget all about your reputation as a Christ-killer, or a blood-in-the-matza murderer, or an imperialist Zionist, or whatever the epithet du jour happens to be this century.

It’s pretty convenient that you celebrate this occasion, or whatever it is, when your kid is as likely as not to be years away from facial hair of any significant quantity. He’s not really a teenager yet, so you can get him to cooperate with your hedonistic, consumerist bash without a major risk of adolescent rebellion upsetting your big plans. Mom? Dad? How’s that working out for you?

Honored guests, if you want this event to be about maturity, I suggest you so-called grown-ups exhibit some. I want to be proud of my heritage, but the only message I get from you is that my heritage is only important if it doesn’t interfere with a business opportunity, or trips to Aruba, or social climbing. Somehow I get the feeling that’s not the message in the ancient Hebrew text you all say I – and I quote every last one of you – “read so beautifully.” I shouldn’t even know the word “travesty” at my age. So how about “bitter irony.” Will that do?

Mazel tov. You’re now ready to become grown-ups.

 

We’ll Play Spin the Molotov Cocktail

A slumber party? Why, that’s a terrific idea, Lynn. Good for you. Only in second grade and already getting creative with birthday celebrations. How many friends do you want to invite?

Ah, I see. Hmm. Well, Lynn, we’re going to have some difficulty fitting the whole class, even just the girls. It is a big class, after all. If you really want this to be a sleepover for everyone, then you’re going to have to trim the numbers a little. I can suggest a couple of ways: invite only the kids you like – or that you would like to like you - and forget the others. They’re just losers, and you don’t want to associate with losers. The other possibility is to invite everyone for a party, but only your real friends get to stay over.

I want to make clear that either way, you must make sure that absolutely everyone knows which group they’re in. You can’t have losers just up and assume that they’re in just because no one rubbed their loserness in their face enough. So when you issue invitations, distribute them when everyone is around and make a point of remarking loudly about who deserves your friendship and who could never hope to be in your league.

But that’s just the beginning, since we do need to plan the party itself. Obviously it needs to be on a weekend when no one has to worry about getting up late. So let’s make it next Saturday night, since your birthday is Sunday, and we can do a little “official” birthday celebration at breakfast, and you and your friends can have another special thing to gloat about in the presence of the unworthy, just to twist the jealousy dagger a bit.

We’re getting ahead of ourselves, though; we need to discuss the afternoon and evening first. So you want just to invite one group, not stagger it as I suggested? That’s good; it’s less complicated that way. What activities do you have in mind? Oh, nice – pin the tail on the donkey. May I suggest a variation you might enjoy? How about instead of a donkey, you use the picture of one of your unpopular classmates? Oh, I knew you’d like that.

Then what? Oh, I guess pizza, unless you have some other idea. Hmm. Yes, going to the pizza parlor instead of ordering in is a good idea, and it’s walking distance, too. Are you sure that Freeman girl will be outside at that hour? She might not see you and your buddies pass by. Oh, she always plays with her dumb dolls about then? Fine. You need to pretend you don’t notice her. It will actually sting more than if you say anything to her. It will be a greater blow to her self esteem to realize her existence doesn’t even register with you than if you take the time to give her attention, even if it’s negative. It’s important that you internalize that attitude long before junior high.

When you come home, we’ll announce it’s pajama time. Ooh, it just occurred to me: if you really want to do this exclusion thing right, there has to be somebody who ends up crying and going home early because everyone is treating her like an outcast. It’s probably best if you find someone who really, really wants to be part of your clique, someone who will be thrilled to pieces to be among those who received an invitation. But once she gets here, you have to make sure she doesn’t get too comfortable. She can’t be allowed to really feel she’s made it into your inner circle. The idea is to keep the teasing and meanness limited until we get back from the pizza place. Then, once everyone gets out their pajamas, have the rest of the girls gang up on her and mock her mercilessly. It could be anything, but her taste in sleepwear would make a fine issue to start with. Then you can move on to her hair, and how it resembles some kind of roadkill baking in the sun, or accuse her of liking the most hideous boy in the class. I’m sure you know that facts aren’t the point here. Your goal is to make sure this girl ends up in tears, running to me so she can call her parents and go home. I’ll pretend to sympathize, but inside I’ll be cheering you on. Before she leaves, you need to say something about not wanting to have over a crybaby who would probably wet herself in the middle of the night anyway.

But back to pajama time. Once everyone is ready, I’ll put on a nice long movie for you to watch. I have a number of them you haven’t seen yet: Silence of the Lambs, The Shawshank Redemption, Platoon, Schindler’s List, and Pulp Fiction. Any of those should really set the tone for the rest of the night. If any of your guests decide the movie is too scary, that’s a clear indication she’s a loser and should go home sooner rather than later.

It’s important that you learn this lesson early in life: there’s no such thing as too picky when it comes to choosing friends.

You Exist Only to Serve Me. Right, Mom?

I believe you misunderstand, madam: my not getting the biggest piece of cake actually is the end of the world.

As you know, after all, this is my favorite kind of cake: rich chocolate cake with smooth mocha frosting. If I do not end up with the lion’s share of its chocolaty goodness, I simply cannot go on – and nor can the universe, the persistence of which depends on me. I cannot recall the universe existing without me; therefore my continued wish to exist ipso facto determines whether the universe continues to function. QED.

I cannot fault you completely for not immediately grasping the importance of giving me exactly what I want lest existence itself cease; you might not have noticed, as you seem to be operating under the assumption that the other children in this household deserve some of your attention. So allow me to enlighten you in that respect: life itself, not to mention the movements of the heavenly bodies and interstellar dust, possess meaning only insofar as my desires are fulfilled. This serves to explain the vehemence with which I protest your refusal to allot the largest portion of cake to me. Consider what is at stake, madam.

Your continued attempts to discuss such concepts as “compromise” and “sharing” demonstrate that you have not absorbed the thrust of my remarks. The fact that Tommy has not yet received a single serving yet I demand a third might appeal to some puny or marginally noteworthy sense of justice, but in the grand scheme of things – which is to say, my agenda – it remains of negligible importance. As we established in the preceding two paragraphs, whether or not Bridget receives any cake at all, let alone a piece approaching mine in volume, means exactly nothing.

What’s more, your mention of my recent rejection – just last week, you assert – of the selfsame cake to justify serving me less than I wish entirely misses the point. My desires, as fickle as you may find them, nevertheless give your existence purpose. It matters not whether you find them in any way consistent. Make me happy, and life fulfills its purpose; deny me, and everything you see around you might as well disappear, for it has betrayed its existential objective.

A wise move, madam, placating Bridget with a variety of sweet for which I do not care. You seem to be gaining awareness of the way things are meant to operate in this world. Let us hope you internalize the lesson by the time I turn six, and life shall run smoothly.

It Will Rain on Your Birthday Party Because You Deserve It

For Belinda’s fourth birthday party, we wanted something really special, something she’d remember forever. She’d be grateful and appreciative, and never make trouble again. Because that’s the way kids’ minds work, right? Abnd giving the little darling exactly what she wants is the best way to raise a child. So we hired someone to run the party for us, and she picked out a theme: knights and princesses! All the kids were invited to come dressed as knights or princesses! And there would be balloons! And store-bought cake! And fun, managed activities! And no down time whatsoever! And all these exclamation points!!!!!!

It was shaping up to be a great party – as the day came, Belinda couldn’t stop talking about it, and which of her nursery schoolmates would come. I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I didn’t mention any of the five boys whose parents don’t let them socialize with girls after they turn three, for religious reasons. I also completely forgot about Shane, whose parents I should have talked to in advance, because there was a good chance he’d come dressed as a princess, and Belinda would just get confused and upset.

Then there was Thag, who didn’t bother telling his daughter there was a theme, just that she should come dressed up as a knight – and she didn’t even know what a knight was! I think these people do it on purpose, just to make my life difficult! And on top of that, there were all these allergies the kids suddenly had – how was I supposed to know that little Dara couldn’t eat peanuts, Jake can’t get near tree nuts, Gretchen has a sensitivity to wheat gluten, Marlo and Gregory can’t have eggs or dairy, and Joshua’s parents insist on raw foods only? Well! My parents certainly never had to worry about any of that, and somehow we all did just fine. To heck with all those restrictions! If they don’t want to eat the ridiculous quantities of junk food and chemically enhanced desserts in unnatural colors, fine by me!

We decided to hold the party in the big public park nearby. So we got there an hour and a half before the scheduled time to set up: balloons, streamers, bags of party favors, games, and of course, litter. We brought extra litter just in case there was actually enough room for all of our refuse in the existing receptacles.

But of course no one showed up on time, and Belinda got antsy and upset. And the woman we hired, Nancy, kept dropping not-so-subtle hints about the time she would leave and not a second later unless we paid more, no matter how late things got started. We reluctantly agreed to have her start the obnoxiously loud music, which was the signal for he rain to start falling. Belinda started crying again. Gary started kicking things. Nancy smirked and started packing up her things, and then we got into an argument because her time wasn’t up and I’d paid her already. I started crying. Little Chester was the only one enjoying himself, as he got to the cake when everyone else was busy, and rolled around in the mud and wet grass.

So I don’t know about Belinda, but I’m certainly never going to forget this. But it also means I’ve got to make it up to her somehow: a bigger party next time, with twice as much excitement! And an indoor, rain-proof facility! And staff to wait on my little princess hand and foot! And gaudy colors that would cause Stevie Wonder to cower in fright! Yes! I’d do that for my daughter! And I know you wouldn’t do it for yours, which shows how much better I am at parenting than you.

Birthday Party: Abandon All Health, Ye Who Enter Here

Dear parents of my six-year-old’s classmates:

Thank you for including my son in your child’s after-school birthday party. Aside from the obvious generosity involved in putting together such an event, the party provides a number of social and educational services that only became clear to me after the fact. I would like to share with you my appreciation of each one, first and foremost the junk food.

My wife and I attempt to restrict our children’s intake of sugary, greasy or only marginally nutritious snacks. We try to instill in them a like for green vegetables, for fruits, and for a variety of protein-rich foods such as fish, chicken and meat. This contrasts sharply with your philosophy, as demonstrated by your complete reliance, for the occasion, upon candy, potato chips, pretzels, buttered popcorn, cake, cookies and more candy.

I had anticipated, perhaps ignorantly, that a party for two dozen or so first-graders at dinnertime might include something vaguely resembling dinner. Granted, preparing dinner for two dozen first-graders can prove quite a daunting task; I did not expect anyone to take upon himself such an endeavor. However, I note the existence of at least four pizza parlors within a six-block radius of your home, all of which offer free delivery. Pizza is not the optimal dinner every single day, but its just-above-marginal nutritional value nevertheless renders it superior to candy, cake, cookies, and greasy snacks. I rather doubt these pizza places would have survived this long without the patronage of local families such as yours; I thus find your sudden reluctance to engage their services original, to say the least.

I do recall that in my youth, birthday parties in my area tended to feature pizza from a particular place followed by ice cream from a different particular place. They usually happened at the same skating venue. Now, I do understand that you prefer to conduct your party at home, and that skating venue is both six thousand miles away and probably defunct. Nevertheless, the experience of my youth conditioned me to expect some sort of party activity to accompany, or at least alternate with, the food. In your case, this activity seemed to consist of watching TV shows or movies of questionable merit, with occasional individual forays into the kitchen to ingest more candy, cookies, cake and greasy snacks. I applaud your bold disregard for stodgy, “mainstream” pediatric guidance.

This innovative, hands-off approach to kid partying offers the obvious advantage of leaving the parents free to engage in other activities; clearly, you seized this opportunity to pour even more effort in to party-related pursuits, such as opening and serving more snack foods. I stand in awe of your efficient ways.

My son had an advantage over most of the other children, in that he arrived a good bit before the other guests, and benefited from more individual adult attention. He informs me that this attention consisted of sitting him in front of the TV and serving him a sandwich with chocolate spread. Thus, in addition to the junk food he would receive a little later with the rest of the pack, my son also got to consume one additional portion of yet another permutation of grease, sugar and empty calories. Thank you for singling him out for such special treatment.

His early arrival time, as well, contained a lesson for us. While I had always been under the impression that the time listed on an invitation represents the time the event will start, you disabused me of that notion – when my son arrived, the preparations were nowhere near complete, which highlights yet another benefit of your robust sit-them-in-front-of-the-TV policy. I note that most of the other parents displayed keen awareness of this etiquette quirk, as they did not begin bringing their children until about twenty minutes later, judging by my son’s description.

The cumulative effect of your child’s birthday party, I must say, brought out a side of my child’s personality that I rarely, if ever, get to see: when his body, vocal cords and mouth work faster than his brain, as a result of significantly increased blood sugar. He was so excited about the party, he could not focus on getting in pajamas for a full twenty minutes after getting home, and then did not fall asleep until well after his usual bedtime despite continual encouragement. Thank you for enabling me to experience this phenomenon once again. I really do not get to do that frequently enough.

This has been an edifying, educational experience. Words cannot convey how I anticipate the effect of your child-rearing on my son for years to come.

Yours truly,

Thag

Taken for a Ride, or at Least a Lurch

Lesson number one from today: if you have a choice between the free buses and walking, hoof it.

You get what you pay for. Sort of. I mean, our municipal taxes definitely paid for the city-sponsored busing we “enjoyed” today, but it only appeared free because no one asked for tickets. Since thousands of people descended on the city, whose ancient parts attract oodles of visitors this time of year, the city wisely closed the central areas to private cars and arranged for free shuttles to and from several major parking areas around town. We would have avoided the central areas altogether, but (a) we live in the center and (b) we had a birthday party to attend smack in the middle of this tourist Mecca.

So far so good. Except that someone miscalculated the number of buses needed for each route; there seemed to be a glut of them for some outlying areas, but we waited a good half hour before one showed up to take the growing and increasingly agitated crowd to the destination nearest our home.

When it did show up, we and our children had to joust our way onto the bus. Now, you Westernized Protestants out there have no idea what it’s like among the barbarians of the Orient. This society views anyone who would wait patiently in line as a sucker. If you don’t know how to employ your elbows, shoulders, hips and feet to force your way through the competition, you will find yourself left behind. Age, sex, level of infirmity and encumbrance matter not a whit. Of course, once you do attain the prize of boarding, feel free to reserve any number of seats for the rest of your party; you’ve earned it. They just have to be good enough to find their way through the frenzied mob, as well.

I admit I am out of practice at this sort of thing. We got our car about eight-and-a-half years ago, so regular use of public transportation has faded into memory. The crowd-penetrating skills I honed for years before that began to atrophy, or so I thought. Fortunately, like riding a bike, they returned in an instant, even accounting for the folded stroller in one arm and the tired preschooler in the other. Somehow, my elbows knew exactly how to adjust to these new factors, and to position themselves so as to deny the persons adjacent any advantage in the forward campaign (I am even more impressed by my wife’s success, as she managed to navigate the scrum with a baby strapped to her back and a six-year-old in tow, while also keeping her eye on the nine-year-old, and not once did she have to pull rank by barking at those behind her to watch out for the poor baby on her back they were crushing).

The bus, of course, decided to break down after we’d proceeded about a hundred feet.

So we clambered our way off the bus and onto another directly behind, one originally slated for a different destination – and thus we managed to overhear an earful from the disgruntled passengers forced to disembark in our favor – passengers whose destination seemed amply served: I counted four buses for that route before we got our one, defective bus. Fortunately, the fellow in charge had no problem asserting his authority and telling them to file a complaint, though not in such polite terms.

Then came the traffic.

Lesson number two: If you plan to make pizza at home, make sure you have all the ingredients available BEFORE starting.

The aforementioned six-year-old attained that age today, so we went from one birthday party to another, albeit with the busing adventure in between (ABC Tours: we put the “busing” in “abusing”). Since no one anticipated a half-hour trip turning into a two-hour saga, we didn’t have time to go out to get the mozzarella before the guests started arriving. They were quite understanding of the situation, and remained patient even through two failed attempts to find the stuff at local stores. Finally, I trekked (on foot, of course) a bit farther and secured the cheese, and dinner was wonderful.

You might ask why we insisted on mozzarella, when other, less expensive and more readily available varieties of cheese can be obtained almost anywhere. You thus reveal yourself to lack any sense of taste. The local mozzarella may lack flavor – “may” as in the way Iran “may” be suspected of hostility toward, say, Israel – but as a pizza topping it still beats any of the other cheeses available here by a wide margin. They sell many different varieties of cheese, all called “yellow” cheese (as opposed to “white” cheese, which comes in a tub and might be confused with cream cheese if one’s idea of cream cheese is runny and bland), and which are standard fare in the pizza joints. The culinary hopelessness that such places embody makes that whole Iran-Israel thing seem rosy by comparison.

Lesson number three from today: keep your blog posts from getting too long.