yustyoking

Tanz im der Straße

If you think I am going to make a pitch for a charitable donation, surprise!!!

Fuhgeddaboudit!

It’s June, summer is here and we’re dancing in the street. Why would I put a pall on glorious summer barbecues, refreshing days at the beach, even pool parties, over something as selfish— and shellfish— as a request that you, dear reader, give up your hard-earned cash for me, your dear writer?

Not only a writer, but a friend.

As the French say, “Don’t visit France, just send your money.”

I say, keep your money, behalte dein Geld, I am making a pitch for a charitable donut. Maybe an elevator pitch for a feature film. Wassup? Two minutes of monologue to sell a concept to risk-averse film moguls. Harvey Weinstein lives! Maybe he’s a bad guy, maybe he’s a good guy, but I love his movies.  

We at the Hinterland Relief Fund (often disturbingly confused with the Hitlerland Relief Fund, of which we are NOT affiliated) have asked Sylvia de Plathelovich— the Walter Cronkite of local news— to come out of retirement and join us poolside to paw through the mail, electronic posts and legal documents to HELP SAVE THE WORLD.

Nothing less.

Tanz im der Straße in German means “dance in the street.” But why limit ourselves to German? Tanz in Urdu means a sarcastic, mocking sneer.

Nothing less!

Shades of Afghanistan.

It might seem tone-deaf to solicit contributions for downtrodden peoples in Africa, Asia and the Far East when closer to home, the Homeland of the Jews is getting pounded by Hezbollah missiles in the north and the murdering rapists of Gaza in the south. Who gives a flying banana over global warming, drought, starvation, tsunamis, political oppression and the near extinction of the armadillo when the Children of the Book are suffering ten times more? Even little climate activist Greta Thunberg has parked her Strike for School Lunch placard, donned a keffiyeh and marched in Malmö, Sweden for the eradication of Israel.

Nothing less!

Here’s the method behind my madness: Once a month, I tear open the collected solicitations from charitable organizations that come in the mail. My mom was a Certified Public Accountant who wrote tax code. When paying her taxes, she took advantage of tax deductions for charitable contributions. Giving to thirty different charities, she honed it to an art form. Now that she is no longer with us, the solicitations continue to weigh down my mailbox.

By the time I finish glancing through these appeals, I am ready to scream! Their dripping sincerity, bogus friendliness and the urgent summons made to our better nature, leave me clawing the walls.

To maintain my sanity, I end up writing a scathing blog in self-defense.

Meanwhile, the college students are marching.

I say: From the river to the sea, no Palestine for you or me!

SUPPORT ISRAEL.

Oh, see, I did end up making an appeal.

Kev