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- They Sure Don’t Make Basketball Shorts Like They Used To is a 1998 self-released album produced by Hoobastank (then known as “Hoobustank”).
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- brassy: tastelessly showy; “a flash car”; “a flashy ring”; “garish colors”; “a gaudy costume”; “loud sport shirts”; “a meretricious yet stylish book”; “tawdry ornaments”
- (of an item for sale) Low in price; worth more than its cost
- relatively low in price or charging low prices; “it would have been cheap at twice the price”; “inexpensive family restaurants”
- Charging low prices
- (of prices or other charges) Low
- bum: of very poor quality; flimsy
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May 18
A strong spiritual or
Divine quality.
It began in the morning. 8am breakfast so that I could go off to the Old City Ramparts Walk on my own—it seemed too strenuous for my parents, or my still ailing wife. Andy, Aviva, Alana and Melanie were going off with a tour guide. So I set out, alone.
The Ramparts are the walls of the Old City itself, and after I bought the ticket for entry (16 shequels), I entered the gates and made my way up the stone fortification. Dan had described to me once an experience in Jerusalem that caused him to rank it as one of the top places he’d ever visited: as he walked above the four quarters of the Old City, he heard all the voices praying in unison, though each in their own language and faith; the strange cacophony, the ancient stone and mortar—it was the closest he’d felt to God.
I was in search of my own numinous moment.
Alas, it was not to be found that morning. As I made my way across the longer of the two tracks (they each are blocked at the end by the holiness of the Temple Mount), all I could find was a fascinating, but ultimately pedestrian behind-the-scenes look at the lives and mechanisms of the Christian and Muslim quarters—satellite dishes and corrugated steel sheds, plastic lime-stained water towers, children playing between hanging sheets, schoolyards and basketball fields, all with the glowing gold Dome of the Rock like a beacon in the background.
I had to hurry a bit, as I didn’t know how long the trek would take, and I was supposed to meet Julie, Gail and my parents at the Jerusalem Bus Station. The bus would leave at 11. As I descended at Lion Gate (after dead-ending and sheepishly calling down to the two security men for some direction), I found myself again deep in the Muslim quarter and under the hot sun, and began to head towards Jaffa Gate. I passed a street vendor who had accosted me the day earlier: "Come in, come, please! I have things here for you. You are Jap-o-nays?" Today: "So you are here again!" I pleaded with him that I had to meet my family. I told him I would be back tomorrow. He eyed me suspiciously and spoke perhaps in Arabic. Somehow, I understood: "Yes, is that so? Is this a promise that you make to me? Do you swear it?" I responded as honestly as I could, "We’ll see!" and took off at a half jog, weaving through the tourists and young shop boys carrying trays of tea and mint.
At Jaffa Gate, I hoped in a cab, haggled it down to 40 shequels, and headed to the Jerusalem Bus Station. Earlier, I had forgotten my water and so I purchased a bottle of peach iced tea for 7 shequels. More directions from a security officer, and I was across the street at a shabby bus stop, waiting for my family and Bus 99, the tour bus that would take us around a "Panoramic Tour" of Jerusalem.
My mother was impressed by both my independence and my punctuality. We boarded the almost derelict, slightly cramped double-decker. Each set of seats had two control boxes into which one could plug the cheap headphones that had been distributed by the driver upon our entrance. Passengers were slotting them in, the black plastic cords hanging snakelike throughout the lower compartment. People fiddled with volume controls and station settings—mostly music interrupted in any of 8 languages by phrases like "To your right you can see the Jerusalem hospital built in the late 19th century by the French," before returning to the warbling of another foreign tenor.
My mother and Gail and Julie stayed downstairs in what passed for air-conditioning while I went upstairs into the scorching sun for better photo opportunities. Julie was still feeling ill—this was her first major outing in a few days. My father joined me in the rooftop seats shortly, where we found the breeze to somewhat cut the otherwise stifling heat. For the next hour and a half, we gave up on the clicking, indecipherable descriptions and instead took photographs and talked. As we circumnavigated the major sites of Jerusalem, mostly oblivious to their history or import, I discovered again just how much I like my father.
We got off the bus at Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum, which is a gigantic, sprawling, and intensely powerful monument. We had only two hours, and it was not nearly enough (we would eventually return the following day). Where the Anne Frank House is a single portrait, shining a tiny bright spotlight on an incredibly moving story, making the universal out of the specific, this was the opposite end of the spectrum. The sheer breadth of the stories, the Hall of Names (where all the known names of those killed are kept both in hard-bound books, as well as digitally)—Julie looked up her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, Jakob and Mirla, the images, the films, the overwhelming number… almost too much to bear. But it is a beautiful space, the concentrated sorrow palpable, the shared grief redemptive.
After picking up th
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