Home: Back-to-school floral arrangement with pencils


Throughout my high-school years, I was a straight-A student. My only B was in driver’s ed (and that was a miracle, given my car accident the first day of driver’s training). Letting your teachers know you appreciate them can help your standing, too, and starting the year off with a gift on the first day of school never hurts. 

Here’s an idea that could get you an A+ for creativity. It’s a vase made of pencils covering a cylindrical container, with a tape measure as a ribbon. You can fill it with any flowers you’d like. It’s sure to cheer up any classroom. 

What you’ll need:

  • No. 2 pencils
  • Small glass/vase/can
  • Double-sided tape
  • Rubber band
  • Colored plastic tape measure
  • Fresh or artificial flowers

 

Step 1:

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8 Easy ways to conserve water right now


As you probably know, Gov. Jerry Brown ordered a mandatory water-use reduction of 25 percent across California back in April because of our state’s historic drought. It has been up to the individual cities and communities to implement the reduction efforts, so you may have received a letter from your local water utility company about how much you are required to conserve. Where I live, we have been told to reduce water usage by 20 percent from 2013 levels. 

Saving 20 percent can seem daunting, but when I think of it in increments, it seems more doable. Every little bit of conservation adds up and makes a difference. Here are some tricks I’ve implemented in my own household that are simple and do not require a lot of effort. I’m eager to get my next water bill to see how much I’ve saved. 

Check for leaks

There could be a leak in your home, and you might not even know it. To check, note the numbers on your water meter, and then don’t use any water for two hours. If the numbers have gone up, you have a leak and it’s time to hire a plumber.

Shower power

A whopping 75 percent of indoor home water usage happens in our bathrooms, and a lot of that is from the shower. According to the American Water Works Association, a typical shower lasts eight minutes. With a standard showerhead that uses 2.5 gallons of water per minute, each shower can add up to 20 gallons of water. So if you reduce your daily shower time to five minutes, you will save 225 gallons every month. If everyone in the family does this, imagine how much water you’ll save. 

Stop flushing so often

At the risk of being too graphic, you don’t really need to flush your toilet every time you use it. Some older toilets use up to seven gallons of water per flush. Even the newer ones, which are required to consume no more than 1.6 gallons per flush, make up a substantial part of our water usage. By flushing just one time less each day, we can reduce our monthly water usage by a minimum of 584 gallons a year.

Make your older toilets flush less water

A simple way to reduce water use is to minimize the amount of water that goes into your toilet tank. To do so, fill a plastic half-gallon bottle (such as an orange juice or bleach bottle) halfway with rocks to weigh it down, then fill it with water and tightly close its lid. Place the container inside your toilet tank, and you will save a half gallon each time you flush. Note: sometimes people put a brick in the tank for this same purpose, but bricks can erode and add sediments to your toilet.

Turn off the tap 

This one seems really obvious, but leaving the water on while brushing your teeth is a bad habit many of us can’t seem to break. However, when you remember three to five gallons of water come out of the average faucet every minute, you’ll realize this is another simple opportunity to save water.

Use the dishwasher 

According to the Natural Resources Defense Council, using an automatic dishwasher is more efficient than hand washing. New Energy Star dishwashers use three to five gallons of water per wash, compared to up to 27 gallons used by traditional hand washing, counting for those who let the water run the entire time. Even older dishwashers that use up to 15 gallons per wash beat traditional hand washing. Just be sure to run your dishwasher only when it is fully loaded. And scrape your dishes first, instead of rinsing them before putting them in the machine. 

Only wash full loads of laundry

The Alliance for Water Efficiency estimates the average American family washes almost 400 loads of laundry each year. Make the most of each load by making sure the machine is filled, even if the washer has adjustable load settings. And avoid the permanent press cycle, which adds up to five gallons for the extra rinse. If you’re planning to replace an older washing machine, which typically uses 40 to 45 gallons per wash, consider either a front- or top-loading high-efficiency model, which generally uses only 14 to 25 gallons. 

Keep a bucket handy for reuse

Don’t let water go down the drain when it can be used for other purposes, such as watering plants or cleaning. If you have to let the water in your sink or tub run for a few seconds to heat up, collect the cold water in a bucket to use later. You’ll be amazed at how much water you collect — all of which would otherwise just disappear down your drain.

Jonathan Fong is the author of “Walls That Wow,” “Flowers That Wow” and “Parties That Wow,” and host of “Style With a Smile” on YouTube. You can see more of his do-it-yourself projects at

How I created America’s most hated kitchen


You have not lived until you have been called “tacky and tasteless,” or been labeled as someone who has created “the ugliest thing I have ever seen.” But those are the sort of comments I get every time my Warhol-inspired kitchen appears on a decorating website. 

The first time it happened, I have to admit, I was taken aback. A popular shelter magazine website featured my kitchen and gave it a glowing write-up. I was hoping for some positive feedback, and lo and behold, I was thrilled to see that in a few hours, my article had racked up five pages of comments. Five pages! But then I read them. Uh-oh. Commenters had their pitchforks out for me. They were so offended by my design, they not only attacked the kitchen, they skewered me as a designer. Although one out of every 50 comments was a positive one, saying something like, “I can appreciate the creativity,” the mob became further incensed by any compliment, and voted thumbs down on the comment so it would be downgraded and deleted. I felt like a Kardashian.

I did not create my Warhol kitchen to make people vomit, as some commenters have suggested. I wanted a fun, colorful kitchen that would make me happy. My kitchen used to be all white. It had that clean European look, which was one of the reasons I liked it. But as I added color to the rest of my home, the kitchen remained white — and sterile. And when my condo was filmed for the HGTV show “Kitty Bartholomew: You’re Home,” the kitchen was the one room they did not film because, compared to the rest of the house, it was boring. The host, Kitty Bartholomew, pulled me aside and told me I had to do something about that kitchen. 

Fast forward a few years, and I was at the closing day of the Andy Warhol exhibition at MOCA. I was very inspired by the artwork, and I stopped in the museum store to get some souvenirs. It being the last day, all the Andy Warhol posters were 40 percent off. Standing in the middle of that museum store, inspiration hit me: I decided right then and there that I was going to buy one of every poster and decoupage it to my kitchen cabinets. 

I don’t know why I thought that would be a good idea, as I didn’t know whether the posters would even fit the cabinets, and, more important, I had never decoupaged anything before. For those of you unfamiliar with it, decoupage is the art of applying decorative paper to a surface. You typically see it on smaller objects such as boxes and trays, but never on such a large scale.

So, I did what any intelligent person who wanted to learn how to do something would do — I Googled it. And I found the nation’s leading expert on decoupage, Durwin Rice, author of “New Decoupage.” I emailed him, asking how I should go about putting the posters onto the cabinet doors. I wanted it to look like the artwork was printed on the cabinets, not merely glued on. Would that be possible?

Rice kindly replied, explaining the process for what I wanted to do. I was most skeptical of one of the steps — soaking the poster in water to relax the paper — because I was afraid the water would ruin it. But his directions worked! I’ve illustrated the steps above to show how easy it really is. And I’m happy to report that people who’ve followed the directions on my website have created their own versions of the Warhol kitchen, albeit with posters that reflect their own personal styles. One person, after she got tired of her decoupaged cabinets, even replaced the images with new ones by soaking the cabinets in water, scraping off the paper and starting anew. I’ve also become a decoupage fiend, decorating chairs, tables and even toilets. I haven’t shared those yet on social media — they would break the Internet.

Nowadays, I take negative online comments with a grain of salt. And I actually appreciate the really nasty ones, because at least they mean my work got a reaction. As an artist, I’d rather be hated than ignored. And you can’t ignore that kitchen.

CREATE YOUR OWN WARHOL KITCHEN

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Getting the hang of it: Helpful hints for displaying artwork


People love having art on their walls, but they’re often not so keen on hanging it. I understand. It can be intimidating just to get started. How do you decide what goes where? How high do you hang it? What if you put a hole in the wall then want to change where the picture goes?  So, instead of displaying their art on the walls, many people leave their precious paintings, prints and photographs in a closet or the garage to collect dust. That’s a shame. Even Velvet Elvis deserves to see the light of day. 

Well, fear not, my art-loving friends. It’s really easier than you might think to hang pictures like a pro. Just knowing the basics will empower you to turn your walls into a gallery.

Hang the art at eye level

The most common mistake people make is hanging art too high. Artworks should be at eye level, meaning that when you’re standing, you should be looking at the center of the picture. Although the size of each work varies, as well as each person’s height, a good rule of thumb is to position the center of the picture (measured vertically) between 57 inches and 60 inches from the floor. Of course, if the work is mural-sized and takes up most of the wall, then this rule doesn’t apply.

Work with the scale of the furniture

Another common mistake is to place artworks that are too small for the space allotted. Pieces that hang above a piece of furniture, like a sofa or a console table, should be at least half the width of the furniture, and preferably even three-fourths of the width, or more. It can even extend past the furniture. It’s better to be too big than too small. And if you don’t have a piece of artwork that’s big enough? Then group two or more pieces together so that, in total, they occupy enough wall space to balance the scale of the furniture.

Map it out first 

One of my tricks in hanging artwork, especially when grouping multiple pieces together, is to trace the shape of the works on a piece of butcher paper or newspaper, cut out the shapes, and tape them to the walls. This enables me to experiment with the placement of the art, moving it around without making any nail holes. 

Mix and match frames

When hanging multiple pictures together, give yourself permission to mix and match frames. I know stores often sell frames in sets with identical styles so you don’t have to think about it. But it’s actually very pleasing to the eye to mix up colors and textures — black, light wood, gold leaf, aluminum, etc. And don’t feel you need to match the wood finish on the frames to the wood finishes in your furniture. You don’t live in a Marriott.

Include mats

Mats set off the work to make it look its best. If you compare a picture with a frame alone to that same picture surrounded by a mat and frame, the one with the mat will almost always look better. I remember a recent visit to an art show in which an artist’s scribbles on index cards were framed for all to see. They were scribbles! Yet, because they were framed with a mat, they were suddenly elevated to art. (Sorry, my populist self could not deduce the deeper subtext, and I was left appreciating only the mat.) Although frame shops charge a hefty price to include a mat with your framing, it’s quite economical to buy pre-cut-to-size mats at stores like Aaron Brothers and install it yourself. 

Go nail-less

Some people who rent their homes are not allowed to put holes in the wall. Thanks to removable double-sided adhesive tabs such as 3M Command Strips, renters can still put up artworks without using nails. I was once decorating a client’s bathroom with several framed pictures. As I got out my hammer, I realized the walls were made not of drywall, but concrete. There was no way I was going to be able to put a nail through that concrete. With the client expected home in just a few hours, I quickly drove to the hardware store to pick up some 3M Command Strips. They did the job perfectly. Just be sure you check the package for the weight limitations; there are strips for lighter objects as well as heavier ones. 

Get high

One question I am often asked is how to hang artwork in a room with high ceilings. Again, work with the scale. Rather than hanging art that is proportional only to the width of, say, a sofa, you should aim to display art that is proportional to the height of the room. Tall, vertical pieces work well. My living room has 14-foot ceilings, so I have hung two 8-foot street banners to adorn the wall. Once I was helping a client move into a loft that had one very tall, skinny wall. She owned several paintings she had accumulated through the years, so I displayed them in a vertical line, reaching all the way to the ceiling. The height of the art accentuated the height of the ceiling and made the room look even larger.

Jonathan Fong is the author of “Walls That Wow,” “Flowers That Wow” and “Parties That Wow,” and host of “Style With a Smile” on YouTube. You can see more of his do-it-yourself projects at

Professional tips on clearing clutter and getting organized


There’s a post that’s going around Facebook right now about how creative people have messier workspaces. That certainly fits me. I would show you a picture of the desk I’m typing at right now, but it would ruin your image of me as the consummate style guru. (OK, that may not be your image of me, but let’s move on.)

And don’t even get me started on my closet. It is so packed with clothes, that I can squeeze a shirt in there — without a hanger. Feeling I needed some professional help to get rid of my clutter and get more organized, I consulted with Christel Ferguson of Space to Love, a Los Angeles-based interior decorating firm that specializes in organization and decluttering (” target=”_blank”>jonathanfongstyle.com.

How to make rose ice cubes


Could this be the coolest idea ever? Ice cubes with roses frozen inside will add a glamorous and festive touch to any summer party. They’re also ideal for bridal and baby showers or a romantic dinner for two. Place them in an ice bucket for chilling wine, champagne or sodas, and get ready to melt some hearts. 

The trick to making these ice cubes is to freeze the rose buds while they are submerged in water instead of letting them float on top. Otherwise, only part of the rose will be encased in ice. When I first featured this idea in my book “Flowers That Wow,” I devised a complicated system of wooden skewers, twist ties and tape to keep the roses submerged. I’ve since created a much easier process.

The question that always comes up is whether these ice cubes are edible. While most roses are indeed edible, many growers use pesticides, so I would avoid putting these ice cubes in drinks unless you’re sure no chemicals were used. Just use the ice to cool the bottles of wine or sodas.

What you’ll need:

  • Ice cube trays
  • Distilled water
  • Small roses

 

Step 1: 

Picture this: DIY photo books


We love taking photographs, don’t we? According to Yahoo, 880 billion photos were taken in 2014. Sadly, most of the photos we take remain on our smartphones or SD cards, never to see the light of day. My mother, who witnesses her five children busily snapping photos like paparazzi at every family get-together, constantly complains that although everyone’s taking photos, she never gets to see any of them. 

In our digital age, photos aren’t printed — they’re shared on social media. And even when we do have our photos printed, they typically end up in shoeboxes rather than being displayed in photo albums. 

Thanks to a growing number of online book-printing sites, however, more and more people are compiling their pictures into photo books. And this is not your bubbe’s photo album. The new generation of photo books are bookstore-quality, bound publications that can look like coffee table books. You can create them with drag-and-drop ease, incorporate text, borders and backgrounds, and choose from various binding options. 

Following is a comparison of three popular photo-book publishing services. There are, of course, many more, but rather than confuse you, I am comparing three services I have personally used, so I can speak from experience. 

Shutterfly 

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I have used Shutterfly.com to print photos from my digital camera for more than a decade. When it first launched its photo-book capabilities in 2004, I was an early adopter and became a book-making fiend. Even though the technology was so new at the time, Shutterfly managed to make the creation process extremely user-friendly, easy enough for a novice to figure out  — for we were all novices at the time. 

Fast forward to 2015, and Shutterfly is the dominant player in the photo book market. In fact, when I did an unscientific survey of my friends and family, almost all of them use Shutterfly. Part of the reason is that the site, with its many premade design templates to choose from, is geared to the beginner. 

I would recommend Shutterfly to anyone who’s new to photo books, although I have been using the site less frequently, as I don’t use its pre-designed templates, and other sites offer more design flexibility at a lower price.

Presto Photo

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I was also an early customer of Presto Photo, then known as viovio.com, back when it was run out of the founder’s house in North Carolina. At the time, I was actually not looking for a resource to print photo books, but rather to print press kits. I had been making press kits by making colored photocopies and placing them in a pocketed folder, but the photocopies were expensive, about $1 a page. With Presto Photo, I was able to create a soft-cover, professionally bound press kit that looked like a booklet, or an annual report for about half the price of color photocopying. 

A few years ago, when I was taking a furniture history class at Santa Monica College, our final project was to write a paper comparing and contrasting four pieces of furniture from two different periods. Not content to write a simple paper with some photos attached, I created a hardbound book through Presto Photo using photos I’d taken at the Getty Center and adding text and other illustrations. Needless to say, the other students really hated me for that.

One advantage of Presto Photo is its huge selection of sizes to choose from. Unique to them are mini-sized albums as small as 3 3/4-by-
2 1/2. I’ve made them for unique and memorable party favors. 

While Presto Photo is not as easy to navigate as Shutterfly, it does have drag-and-drop features. I like it because it also allows me to design my book in Photoshop or InDesign first, then upload the PDFs.

Blurb

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Jaws drop when people see the books I’ve had printed through Blurb — they are absolutely gorgeous. Blurb offers hard-cover books with dust jackets, so they look like professionally printed books you would find at a bookstore. I have made coffee table books with my vacation photos, wedding photo books for friends, even cookbooks. And the price is surprisingly affordable. A 100-page hard-cover book with dust jackets costs less than $50. 

What I like about the Blurb book creation process is that you can assemble the book using Blurb’s free downloadable software. Then you upload the book when you’re ready to print. I’ll admit, it’s a little tricky to work with the program. But once you get the hang of it, it’s pretty manageable. They do offer an online bookmaking tool as well.

Not only does Blurb make books that look like they belong in a bookstore, it also functions as a retail site from which you can sell your book. You can set the price mark-up you want and keep the profits. They will even help you sell your book on Amazon, or as an e-book through the Apple iBook store. 

6 things every home should have


Whether you’ve just moved into your first home or have been living in the same house for decades, there are certain home essentials that just make life so much better. 

Everybody has their own “must haves.” (For example, my mom can’t live without a rice cooker.) My suggestions here are certainly not definitive — they may even inspire you to think of more. How many of these essentials are in your home?

 

Nine ways to display your books on a shelf


I recently received a decorating S.O.S. call from a friend. She had just bought a beautiful set of bookcases, and as soon as they were installed in her living room, she eagerly placed all her books on the shelves. But something wasn’t right. It all looked a little blah. Unfinished. Even haphazard. Could I do something about it, she asked.

After staring at the bookcases for a few seconds, I made two quick fixes that took just seconds to do, without rearranging any of the books. And the difference was like night and day. First, I moved all the books forward. Just because a bookshelf is 16-inches deep does not mean you should push all the books to the back to make use of that depth. Next, I lined them all up about an inch from the front of the bookshelf. All of her books, of course, had different widths, but lining them up to the same point gave them a uniformity that was really pleasing to the eye. It’s amazing how those two simple adjustments could so change the look of the bookcases.

After working with design clients over the years, I’ve realized that a lot of people are at a loss when it comes to appointing their bookshelves. Sure, you can just cram a bunch of books in a row, like most people do. But is there an artful way to display your books so that you can show you’re as stylish as you are well read?

Beyond pushing your books forward, let’s look at some different ways to arrange them. Because a picture is worth a thousand words (sorry, books), I’ve photographed nine display configurations — some you undoubtedly already know about, and a few new ones that might spark some design inspiration. 

The Classic Vertical

Is an IKEA Sofa for You?


I have a confession to make. I own an IKEA sofa. 

When I disclose this little tidbit of information, people think I’m kidding. IKEA is great for bookcases and office furniture, but there is still a stigma attached to IKEA’s more substantial furniture pieces, like beds and sofas. So when I was in the market for a new sofa sectional a few months ago, I initially did not consider anything from IKEA. 

The new sofa I was buying was replacing an old sofa from Z Gallerie that was on its last legs. The upholstery was shot. And because the cushion was attached to the frame, I couldn’t just replace the cushion; the entire sofa needed to be reupholstered. 

From my experience with the Z Gallerie sofa, I knew the one most important feature I wanted in my new sofa — removable covers. Reupholstering a sofa often costs more than buying a new one. Slipcovered sofas made sense for me, but I did not like the style of traditional slipcovered sofas I was seeing in stores. I’m just not a shabby chic kind of person. If only I could find a modern sofa with removable, replaceable slipcovers.

That’s when a nagging voice in my head kept telling me (in a Swedish accent) to think about IKEA. Because IKEA offers its sofas in a variety of colors, yet aims to keep inventory and its signature “flatpacking” manageable, most of its sofas come with removable covers. Eureka! But how’s the quality? The comfort? The style?

Knowing you can’t judge a sofa by an online photo, I ventured to the IKEA store in Carson to give it the old Goldilocks, trying every sofa to see which one — if any — felt just right.

At the top of my list was the Friheten. It is a thoughtfully designed, compact sectional that folds out into a bed, and best of all, is available in hot pink. Hot pink, people! There’s even a hidden storage compartment under one of the cushions. I was ready to buy it … until I sat on it. The cushions are so stiff I could not imagine lounging on the Friheten for more than a few minutes. In a way, it would be ideal for out-of-town guests because it would make them want to leave.

Next, I tried the Ektorp, which was actually quite comfortable. I could picture it in a cozy Scandinavian farmhouse. But comfortable as it was, the traditional style did not go with my modern décor. 

Then I sat on the Karlstad. Now this was more like it. Here was a sofa that had clean, contemporary lines. The cushions had just the right amount of give. And it had a wide selection of cushion-cover fabrics. I really loved that these cushion covers were form-fitting and did not look at all like slipcovers. The one minus of the Karlstad was the ugly legs. They are rectangular light-wood blocks that scream “cheap.” Fortunately, IKEA sells modern aluminum legs that go with the Karlstad for only $20 per set of four. 

So, after more bouncing up and down on the showroom pieces, I purchased my first IKEA sofa — the Karlstad chaise/loveseat combination. I selected the Isunda Gray fabric, which is a beautiful tweed that seemed very durable. And the retail price of my configuration was just $829.

I was warned that assembly was required on the sofa, but I figured that meant I would just have to screw in the legs and put on the cushion covers. Oh no, was I mistaken. When the delivery people dropped off the multiple boxes in my house (I recall there were at least seven different boxes I had to take apart), I realized I would have to basically assemble the whole frame, connecting the seat, back and arms. Fun.

But you know what? It wasn’t that hard to put together. It did take me almost three hours, because we’re talking four separate assembly manuals totaling 64 pages, but each individual step was easy. And I’m not that handy.

So how is the sofa holding up? Sofa, so good. The cushions are holding their shape quite nicely, and the fabric still looks new. It has not pilled, even with the dogs’ occasional scratching. I am actually not that worried, because worst-case scenario, if the upholstery is destroyed, I can buy replacement covers at IKEA for about $200. 

Is an IKEA sofa for everyone? Of course not. But if you keep an open mind, there are several benefits to an IKEA sofa that you won’t find with other brands. I find it interesting that while there is a perception that IKEA furniture does not last, the ability to change out the upholstery in many of its sofas actually gives the furniture a longevity lacking in more expensive options. 

And one more nugget of information: I wrote this column sitting on the Karlstad, using one of the sofa arms as my laptop table. Like I said before, IKEA’s always been great for office furniture. 

Jonathan Fong is the author of “Walls That Wow,” ”Flowers That Wow” and “Parties That Wow,” and host of “Style With a Smile” on YouTube. You can see more of his do-it-yourself projects on

Decorating to improve your love life


Admit it. The first time you visit the home of someone you’ve just started dating, don’t you love to snoop around the place to get some clue about this potential mate? You might look at the pictures on the wall, the books on the shelves, maybe the style of furniture to get an idea of their interests and tastes. But a home speaks volumes more about a person than that.

A home reveals your personality. It says where you are right now in life. And it reflects how ready you are for a relationship.

So what is your home saying about you? Is it saying you’re a real catch? Or is it telling the world you’re stuck in the ’90s? 

Even if your home is sending out distress signals, you can decorate and accessorize to invite love into your life. Here are just a few tips to boost your home’s romance quotient. Because when you make a few changes to where you live, you’ll be making big changes to how you live. 

Get rid of white walls

If you ask people why they have white walls, they’ll probably say, “I don’t have time to paint” or “I didn’t want to pick a color and then see that it was a mistake.” Think about it. Don’t these excuses sound like reasons people avoid relationships? Write this down and put it in your fortune cookie: If you can’t commit to a color, how can you commit to a relationship? 

You’re probably a pretty good judge of color already, you just don’t know it. Go into your closet and pick out your favorite items of clothing. What do you wear over and over again? Which outfits do people always seem to compliment you on? If you look so good wearing these colors, you’ll also look good with these colors surrounding you. 

Sampling colors on your wall doesn’t have to be risky. Many companies like Home Depot sell little jars of their paint colors that you can try out. Don’t be afraid of making a mistake. If you don’t like it, try another, and then another. It’s just like dating. If it doesn’t work out, just move on to the next one. And you don’t have to worry about hurting the color’s feelings because you didn’t call back.

Lose the clutter

Before you get into a relationship, you need to get rid of your emotional baggage. The same thing goes for the unnecessary physical baggage that’s cluttering your home. From the looks of all their out-of-date magazines, you’d think some people were dentists. Throw all the junk away. This goes especially for items that remind you of a past relationship. That stuffed bear your ex won for you at the arcade? Dump it. Those maracas from that party you threw together? Hasta la vista! From this day forward, you are starting with a clean slate, so let your home reflect that. Then you’ll be open to filling your home with new souvenirs, new memories and new relationships.

Get comfy

Male or female, everyone loves a softie. How inviting is your furniture? Does it allow people to kick their feet up and stay a while? Without having to make big purchases, just incorporating some pillows and throws with luxurious, soft textures can help make up for a lumpy sofa. Area rugs will warm up a space, especially if you have hardwood floors. And soft lighting not only makes you look better, it casts a glow that puts everyone at ease.

Buy housewares in complete sets

When you’re buying dishes, buy the complete set for eight with the salad plates and those cups and saucers you’ll never use. When you’re buying towels, buy the whole set with matching hand towels and washcloths. (And buy more than one set.) Why? First, it shows that you are now an adult. You’re not a college student anymore, so don’t accessorize your home like you’re still in a dorm. 

The most important reason, though, is because it used to be that people waited until they got married before they got these items (and usually they were gifts). But by owning them before you’re married, you’re telling the universe that you are comfortable as a single person. You have a life. You are not waiting to get married to feel complete. And, ironically, it’s usually when you accept that you’re already a whole person that you happen to find your other half.

We spend so much effort on new hairstyles, clothes and teeth-whitening kits when we hit the dating scene that we forget it’s our homes that are the true reflection of ourselves. So the next time a date comes over, remember that your home is an open book.

Make it a book with a happy ending. 


Jonathan Fong is the author of “Walls that Wow,” ”Flowers that Wow” and “Parties that Wow,” and host of “Style with a Smile” on YouTube. You can see more of his do-it-yourself projects on

Confessions of an ex-hoarder


I’ve run out of excuses for hanging on to stuff.

No, I haven’t achieved Zen non-attachment to material things, but I’m no longer on the road to “Hoarding: Buried Alive.”

It was easiest to get rid of the piles of unread magazines.  Those now get the heave-ho every few months.  The fear that had made me their custodian, which I’d confused with the theoretical pleasure I’d have when I’d eventually read them, was the chance I’d miss something important.  The reality, it turns out, is that if I do overlook some essential, or just juicy, journalism, I’ll hear about it from a friend, or online, and saving a link to it for reading later, even if later never comes, requires no real estate from my non-virtual life.

Clothes were harder to let go.  I didn’t really believe that wide ties would come back, or that someday I’d be glad I saved those tap shoes (don’t ask).  But it was easy for me to mistake my closet for a scrapbook, to treat old clothes like souvenirs of where, when and who I was when I got them. When that happens now, I remind myself that if I’m warehousing something I haven’t touched for years in order to keep alive the guy who once wore it, it’s less punishing to put a selfie of it on my hard drive than to be sentenced to a lifetime of curating my personal wardrobe museum. 

Book-hoarder has been an even tougher role to jailbreak.  It’s intellectually respectable to have your own library.  I love looking at all those spines on all those shelves; they map the cultural journey I’ve taken, and no Kindle can duplicate that experience.  But shelving books three-deep, which I’d been reduced to, was a labor of guilt, not love.  I still can’t throw books away; it feels sinful, even if I didn’t like them, even if I never have or will read them.  But I’ve learned that I can drop off cartons of books at the local public library with a perfectly clear conscience.  If they end up in a dumpster, my hands are clean.

But these were all baby steps.  My big problem, the ball I’ve chained myself to for decades, is the stack of boxes, currently numbering 33, in my garage.  Every move I’ve made – from my parents’ home, to dorm rooms, to apartments and houses and homes of my own – has included the fiction that it’ll be easier to deal with those multiplying cardboard boxes at the other end, when I unpack.  Of course, I never do. 

At first, it was just mail that I saved.  When I was a kid, getting a letter was as unusual, though for different reasons, as it is today.  I loved mail.  Corresponding with someone beyond the bounds of my family bunker was evidence of my growing autonomy, a validation of my nascent identity.  I could no more throw letters away than I could toss a Kodachrome in the trash.  Yes, I saved pictures, too.  And postcards.  And comic books, baseball cards, Mad magazines, geometry projects, ticket stubs, lists of books I’d read and places I wanted to go – anything that testified to my existence.

In college, I couldn’t bear to throw away the spiral notebooks I had filled so carefully with notes, not to mention the course catalogues, term papers, student publications that ran what I wrote, calendars, address books, I.D. cards. Travel added new categories of ephemera to save – odd matchbooks, cool baggage tags, train schedules, hostel receipts, shells from Greek islands and sand from Israeli deserts.  I don’t think it was OCD; it was proof of my cosmopolitanism, and prophylaxis against amnesia.

Once in the work world, it was effortless to justify the files I kept amassing.  Those pieces of paper made up a personal archive, priceless material for the memoirs I’d one day write and the biographies that would doubtless be written about me.  Surely future historians would be grateful for the 18 drafts of Vice President Mondale’s acceptance speech at the 1980 Democratic convention, the relentless pre-production script notes I wrote on “Three Men and a Baby,” the letters I got from baffled friends and newfound fans when Time published a piece I wrote in praise of mysticism. 

It’s a wonder I was able confine this monument to me to 33 boxes. 

Today I’m on the road to recovery.  Marvels like document scanning and cloud storage are enabling my rehab, and though I suppose there’s still the risk that I might turn Dropbox into my digital garage, I’m now throwing away more stuff than I’m converting to PDFs.  But it isn’t technology that’s motivated my self-intervention, or the panic of seeing myself in the mirror of a Discovery Channel hoarding show.  It’s the freedom I’ve given myself to entertain some humbling thoughts.

The truth is that pretty much no one is going to need this stuff I’ve saved, least of all me.  I’m not going to use the 1978 White House phone directory to recall the names that will trigger the anecdotes that will make Chapter 4 of my hypothetical memoir sing.  (Those 18 drafts, though, are going to the Minnesota Historical Society.)  Shakespeare’s tax records may be gold, and Ben Franklin’s juvenilia may inspire entire dissertations, but the list of dishes I ate on my first trip to Italy are biographically fascinating to no one.  The day when I finally have the time to savor the call sheets of the first movie I wrote will likely also be the day I’m evaluated for dementia.  Maybe, out of all the mail I’ve hoarded, there’s a way to reconstruct who I was then to the person who wrote it, but I’d rather give those packets of letters back to their authors – which I’ve actually begun doing – than disappear down the forensic rabbit hole of reading them.

There’s no mystery why I’ve saved so much stuff: to prove that I’m alive, that I’m someone, that my trail on this earth is worth preserving.  My fear of letting go of those boxes is the fear of mortality, the fear of not having become worthy enough to investigate and document.  What’s taken me too long to recognize is that the present moment is more than enough time to manifest and appreciate that worth; that its measure is not what some stranger may someday find riveting; that its meaning and poignancy derive not from the fear of death, but the love of life. 


Marty Kaplan holds the Norman Lear chair in entertainment, media and society at the USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism.  Reach him at martyk@jewishjournal.com.

A realtor with Knack


Sharona Alperin “sold” her first home while still in her late teens. 

At the time, Alperin was several years away from gaining her Realtor’s license, and both the circumstances and the client were a bit unique. Doug Fieger, the lead singer of the rock group the Knack, was looking for a home base in Los Angeles. While actual Realtors searched for listings, Alperin was the one who showed more than a dozen properties. 

She had what might be considered a stronger-than-average interest in this process. Alperin was Fieger’s girlfriend, and they were planning on living in it together. (That never happened — there were issues with the house and then they ended up breaking up — but she is that Sharona, the one immortalized in the Knack’s 1979 No. 1 song, “My Sharona.”)

Picture, then, a young woman in denim, sunglasses and a black motorcycle jacket being picked up by real estate professionals and driven around to million-dollar homes. Even as a teenager, the yeshiva-educated Alperin had a talent for going room to room and conveying a property’s possibilities.

“I grew up in sales,” said Alperin, who now lives by Hancock Park. “I was in my father’s furniture showroom when I was 13 and 14. I sold clothes [on Third Street as a high-schooler]. And it wasn’t just that I had the art of selling. I think I had an affinity for architecture, for a house being a home.”

The Realtors who accompanied her noticed Alperin’s skill and urged her to consider home sales as a career. She agreed, eventually falling under the mentorship of Alan Long, founding partner of Dalton, Brown & Long Realtors, which later became DBL Realtors. More than two decades later, she is routinely one of the top-selling agents for Sotheby’s International Realty, which acquired DBL in 2004. A few times a year, she teaches a training class titled “Sharona’s Street Smarts.”

“Everything has changed,” she said, “except the true soul of real estate, which is finding a home.”   

One of the basic tenets of being a successful Realtor, she says, is the ability to listen to your clients, to hear what they want rather than to impose your vision upon them. 

“Sometimes as an agent, we’re there to facilitate and to open their minds to possibilities, but we need to hear what they’re really asking for, what they’re identifying with and what’s really important,” she said.

When not out in the field, she can be found at Sotheby’s Sunset Strip office or through the Web site mysharona.com. Not only was she the namesake of the hit written by Fieger and Knack guitarist Berton Averre, but her image — wearing a white tank-top and jeans and clutching the album “Get the Knack” — adorns the single’s cover. Through the song’s longevity, her name has become her professional calling card. 

“I want to say 90 percent of my life over the last 30 plus years, when I say my name, someone says, ‘Oh like ‘My Sharona’? Even if they don’t say it, I can tell in my head that they’re humming it,” Alperin said. “I don’t always say, ‘Yes, that’s me. I’m “My Sharona.” ’ I don’t always engage, but many, many times, of course, I do.”

Many of Alperin’s clients are celebrities, and her experience with Fieger and in the rock world helped her get in tune with the unique needs of her clientele. Perhaps a client may need a special media room, a secluded backyard or extensive space for entertaining. Privacy can be needed as well. 

“We can have paparazzi issues,” Alperin said. “I could be showing a property on the Sunset Strip, and in the final moments, security comes up and points out a building on Sunset that could be looking into the bedroom or yard and it nixes the whole thing. Some very famous clients may need an egress gate in the back or a way of getting from their garage into their house without having to walk through the front door. They all have different needs, and not just the stars.”

The daughter of Marvin and Miriam Alperin, she grew up near the Fairfax District. Educated at Hillel Hebrew Academy, she jokes that she followed the usual path of a young Jewish girl, going from yeshiva to sites around the world for four years with a rock ’n’ roll band.   

Now married to Jason Aizenberg and the mother of 14-year old Eden and 10-year-old Adam, Alperin still loves to travel, but maintains, “I live and breathe real estate.”

Eco-friendly home reveals ‘greener’ pastures ahead [SLIDESHOW]


As scientists continue to warn us that our over-consumption of natural resources is putting too great a strain on our planet, the idea of sustainability — of reducing one’s carbon footprint, recycling and finding a cleaner, greener future — has never been more popular. And while the green trend has been picking up steam in the home-building world, there aren’t many places where it’s been more evident than at the new Vision House in Pacific Palisades, and in the work of its interior designer, Jill Wolff.

The Vision House is a concept of Green Builder Media, a leading national North American media company focused on green building and sustainable development, who previously constructed Vision Houses — state-of-the-art, environmentally conscious dwellings — in cities such as Orlando, Fla., and Aspen, Colo. Two years ago, Robert Kleiman, one of the co-founders of Los Angeles-based Structure Home, was looking to become more green in his own home designs. He noticed Green Builder’s leadership in the area and contacted the firm for help.

“It’s easy to learn individually how to build green,” said Kleiman, speaking by phone from his offices, “but it’s hard to teach a whole culture.” Kleiman knew that with Green Builder’s help, Structure Home could learn from the best, and so the Vision House Los Angeles was born. 

Wolff, the owner and founder of Jill Wolff Interior Design, has worked on more than 300 homes in the Los Angeles area over the past 25 years. The Vision House, however, presented a new challenge for her, and a learning experience. “I learned so much about green design and sustainability on this project,” Wolff said. 

Touring the home, which sits on a gently sloping residential street in Pacific Palisades, offers a master class in the use of space. The house sits on a long, narrow lot that “was actually the swimming pool for the house next door,” according to Wolff, who tailored much of her design, in concert with the architects, to make “it feel like it’s not just a skinny, narrow, bowling alley kind of house.”

The main entrance is at the center of the home, leading on one side into a spacious living and dining area with tall, movable glass walls that open onto a carefully landscaped back yard. On the other side, a downstairs office sports huge glass doors that let in ample natural light. Nothing about the home feels cramped or narrow. 

“From the exterior you have an anticipation of what it’s going to be,” Wolff said. “But when you walk through the door and you see the comfort level and the coziness and the warmth of the materials that are used, it takes you on a different trip.” Much of the home’s colorful and often-whimsical art was made by graduates of Otis College of Art and Design.

Wolff said she got her start in design at an early age. “I decided that I wanted to be an interior designer when I was 8 years old,” she said, laughing. “I decided that because my mom’s best friend was an interior decorator, and she had decorated our house, and I had loved the whole process of it. I thought it was so fun and so creative.”

After high school, she studied at the Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising. “I was lucky enough to intern with a big-time Hollywood designer named Barbara Lockhart, and that just clinched the whole deal,” Wolff said. “I had all these great women that influenced me in my career, and I’ve been working ever since.”

The Vision House was an unusual project for Wolff, she said. “Since it’s a spec house, and I didn’t really have clients, I created a faux family … a kind of fantasy of who the family is going to be.” The house abounds with recycled materials, including a wagon wheel that has been turned into a mirror and corrugated cardboard shaped into surprisingly beautiful light fixtures.

The home also showcases technology such as hydronic radiant heating, solar panels and a gray-water system with ultraviolet disinfection. “The Vision House has the latest in technology, but I want people to see that if they’re clever and if they think about it, they can bring a level of sustainability into their own homes,” said Wolff. “Anything is a start.”

Most of all, Wolff shows that green living can be fun and fashionable: “I really want people to see that it can be comfortable, it can be cozy … and it can be unexpected,” Wolff said. “It’s not just green to be green. It’s green to create a better life for someone.”

Rabbi Michael Lerner’s home vandalized again


The northern California home of Rabbi Michael Lerner, editor of the progressive Tikkun magazine, was vandalized for the fourth time in the last year.

In an e-mail sent to Tikkun supporters, Lerner said that on Tuesday evening, two black-hooded men pasted signs on the outside of his house and garage saying that “Palestine is an Arab fantasy.” The statement was a reference to Republican presidential candidate Newt Gingrich, who called the Palestinians an “invented” people.

Earlier in the day, Lerner had appeared on a local National Public Radio affiliate to discuss his book “Embracing Israel/Palestine” and the Israeli-Palestinian peace process.

“It seems obvious to me that the attack, while responding to the NPR interview with me this morning, is part of the same attempt to terrorize me and my family as the past three assaults,” Lerner wrote in his e-mail. “As the police made clear to us the last time, the goal is not to destroy property as much as to remind us that they know where we live, and that we are not safe.

“Needless to say, in a world where Israeli right-wingers this past week burned a mosque and assaulted an IDF (Israeli army) post for allegedly being too pro-Arab, there is no way to be sure that all these warning shots at me are only meant to scare and do not suggest that worse may be coming if my book gets more attention.”

Lerner said that he would not let the incident intimidate him.

Never Too Old to Write a Letter … of Torah


The Jewish Home for the Aging has never had a Torah it could call its own. Since the home first opened in 1912, synagogues or individuals have donated Siferei Torah to the senior-living community, but the scrolls were often old and tarnished, with faded letters or finger smudges on the parchment. These Torahs are considered pasul, or unfit for public reading, but they were the only ones available to the home for religious services.

Now the Reseda-based home, which provides care to about 2,200 seniors through its in-residence housing and community-based programs, is in the process of creating its own kosher Torah — a “Torah for the Ages,” as the project is being called.

“It’s upsetting to this point we haven’t had our own Torah,” said Corey Slavin, vice president of fund development, who with home CEO Molly Forrest conceived the project.

Slavin said the $200,000 raised for the project more than covers its costs, and remaining funds will be dedicated to various programs and services at the home. The home expects its Torah, begun April 13, 2008, to be completed sometime in 2010.

Rabbi Shmuel Miller, who has worked locally as a sofer (Torah scribe) for 15 years, was commissioned to write the Torah, which will rotate between the home’s synagogues at the Eisenberg Village and Grancell Village campuses when finished. Officials hope the Torah will inspire its residents and their families to remain or become connected to their faith and community.

The Torah’s production is quite a community effort. In keeping with the 613th and final commandment mentioned in the Torah — “Now write this song for yourself and teach it to the Children of Israel” (Deuteronomy 31:19) — residents, family members, sponsors and anyone else who wants to may write a letter in the home’s Torah. Thus far about 100 people have written in the scroll.

Rabbi Sheldon Pennes, the home’s spiritual life director, said that writing in the Torah is considered the responsibility of each Jew.

During a writing session on Feb. 22, 101-year-old Cedelle Weiner found herself up close and personal with the Torah for only the second time in her life.

The first time was a year ago.

She said she did not feel very Jewish until coming to the home and found she was inspired to study with Rabbi Anthony Elman, who works at the home’s Grancell Village campus.

“This is a completely new life for me,” Weiner said as she underwent the ritual hand washing and said the appropriate blessings.

After sitting down next to Rabbi Miller, the scribe, Weiner put her hand on his and watched as he filled in a silhouetted letter from the word hamoftim (“wonders”) from the Torah’s penultimate sentence: “He had no equal for all the signs and wonders which the Lord sent him to perform in the land of Egypt against Pharaoh and all his servants….” (Deuteronomy 34:11).

“The home is fantastic,” Weiner said when she was done. “I have been entertained, and now I’m getting a Jewish religion I have never had. At 101, I’m doing something different, and I am now writing [in the Torah], which I never did before.”

Rose Bentow, 86, almost couldn’t contain her excitement as she fulfilled the commandment. She was one of several Holocaust survivors who were sponsored by family members, community members or total strangers to come and write a letter in the scroll.

The moment harkened her back to her small Polish town, circa 1928. Her grandfather told her to stay out of a particular room because a man was writing the Torah and couldn’t be bothered.

Little Rose’s curiosity got the better of her, so she quietly opened the door.

“I said, ‘He’s playing with a feather. He’s not writing,’” she recalled. “I asked my grandparents, ‘Why can’t I go in?’ They said, ‘This is how you write the Torah.’”

Pennes, the home’s spiritual life director, said everyone experiences the moment differently.

“It looks like just someone writing letters on a piece of parchment,” he said. “But it’s a spiritual event. People feel it spiritually, emotionally. It’s hard to put into words.

“Children see it simply. But when you’re older, you appreciate it differently, especially when we recite the Shehecheyanu. The idea of living to this point is amazing. That process heightens sensitivity to the mitzvah that’s about to happen.”

For more information about the Torah for the Ages, visit http://www.jha.org.

This time, I remember


We’re sitting around my parents’ dining room in Century City for Shabbat dinner, and the conversation veers toward our childhoods in Iran.

My cousin, who’s a few years older than I (though you’d never guess it by looking at her, because she has that remarkable ability to forgive the world instantly for all its cruelties), is talking about the big house on Shah Reza Street where I grew up — how grand and magnificent it had seemed to her in those years, how every time she came over with her parents and sisters, she felt awed and startled by the vast garden with the many pools, the high, forbidding walls of yellow bricks, the outsized halls and heavy velvet drapes and 12-foot-high French doors that opened onto tiled balconies with wrought-iron railings.

Across the table from her, another cousin, this one from the other side of the family, concurs. “We were scared to talk or move or, God forbid, play there when we came over,” she says. “That just wasn’t the kind of place where you did silly childish things,” she says. “It seemed like everything that happened there was serious and important and dramatic.”

They go on like this for a few minutes while my mother fusses with the dinner.

They’re playing that “Do you remember?” game I dread because I’m so bad at it, because I don’t remember anything — ever — unless I’m writing about it; it’s like I read a book of stories once and memorized every line, and after that I stopped seeing or learning anything ever again. So I never participate in these reminiscences and certainly never encourage them; I try to slip away unnoticed when the conversation begins or, if that’s not an option, I explain that I’ve been in a coma my whole life, I’m brain-damaged, yes, I’m sure I was there, right along with you, when all this happened but I might as well have been on Mars for all the impression it’s left.

Except this time, I know exactly what they’re all talking about.

I remember the house — every corner and back door and hidden stairway in it, every ancient tree and life-sized statue and fresh-water pool in the yard, every rusted metal gate, razor-wired brick wall, secret passageway and narrow tunnel and dark alley. I remember all the rooms, the kitchens, the servants’ quarters. The French, hand-carved furniture, Czech crystals, Persian rugs, Italian marble floors. To me, it had the aura of a place in decline — a fortress of pride and vanity, built with the kind of care and attention that implies unwavering faith, unabashed arrogance, a certain confidence in one’s immortality.

Built by my grandfather when his children were very young, it had stood stalwart against the decades and the many turns of history, resisted the carnage of time and the pull of entropy, the many upheavals in the city’s constitution, the decay of the streets, the onslaught of traffic, the mass immigration from the countryside to the city. And yes, it was indeed the scene of great drama and outsized stories, not the kind of place that tolerated childhood. So when my forever-young cousin turns to me with a bemused smile and asks, “Do you remember?” I can actually say “Yes, I do remember, this one I remember well.”

What I can’t say is how shocked I am to learn that we all have such similar impressions, all these years later, of the house on Shah Reza Street. That I never thought anyone else would remember the place as I did, never knew how much of what I remembered was factually correct. I never knew how much larger, more theatrical that house had become in my imagination, how different — smaller — I would find it when I went back to Iran.

It’s been 30 years since I saw the house, I want to say, and this is the first time I realize that other people saw it as well, and perhaps in the same way. It’s been 30 years since I left Iran, and I still know I’m going back some day, because I have to see that house again, to stand before the yard door and discover if it’s indeed 12 feet high, or if I’ve imagined it so, to ring the doorbell and see if I can hear its chime echo up and down the street. Everything else I knew or thought I knew about Iran has changed with time; even my sense of belonging, my sense of familiarity with the people and the language and the customs of the place, has faded beyond recognition, but somehow, I know it will all come back the minute I see the house, that I will recapture all my lost memories, be able to tell truth from fiction, to put together the many pieces of myself that now lie across the landscape of time.

I would go back to the house some day, I’ve always thought, and no matter how old it’s become, how many other families have lived in it and how many changes it has undergone, I will walk into the first floor hallway and smell my grandfather’s cigarette smoke, climb the steps to the second floor and find my older sister, so quiet and innocent the teachers call her “the holy mother,” listening to Barry White while she does her math homework. I will walk into the bedroom where the three of us girls sleep and see my old bed just where I left it the day we flew out of Iran for what turned out to be the last time. I will open the closets and find my old clothes, pull the drawers and rescue my plastic dolls from their 30-year slumber.

My childhood. My parents’ youth. My little sister with the hazel eyes and the red hair and the tiny hands holding popsicle sticks as she walked around the house on scorching summer afternoons, the orange ice melting against her impossibly white skin. My beautiful aunt with the dark brown eyes and the short, short skirts, the red patent-leather boots, the fearlessness with which she announced one day she was going to America — “to New York, or L.A., or whatever,” she said — to study.

Half an hour into the meal, my mother has finally finished running back and forth into the kitchen, bringing out a new dish every three minutes and chiding the kids for not eating enough, all this dieting will make you sick your bones will hollow out you won’t be able to study your skin will turn grey hasn’t anyone warned you about the dangers of malnutrition?

“You have,” my little niece whispers quietly, “just about every week.”

My mother ignores the response, sits down at the table and overhears the conversation about the house. She puts a plateful of rice in front of my younger son and says, as casually as if she were still talking about food, “They tore it down.”

The others are too engrossed in the chatter to take note of what has been said, but I turn to her and ask, “What’s been torn down?”

“The house,” she says. “They tore it down.”

She has said this too matter-of-factly, with too little emotion, so I don’t believe we’re talking about the same place.

“What house?” I ask. “Who’s ‘they’?”

At the other end of the table, my cousins and sisters have stopped talking; my daughter, who’s been taking Farsi lessons at UCLA and is therefore more attentive than usual to family talk (what she calls “Persians’ strange stories”) is looking at me as if to glean the importance of some house being torn down somewhere in the world.

“I don’t know who ‘they’ are,” my mother says. “But they tore down the house on Shah Reza Street. My brother drove by the other day and saw it was all gone, the whole place has been leveled, probably a while ago already.”

For a moment, no one speaks. I don’t know what the others are thinking but for me, the news has repercussions greater than can be processed in the course of one evening or one whole day. I’m not sure what it means, or why I hadn’t been told sooner, or why my parents don’t seem particularly disturbed by this.

I don’t know why my sisters don’t ask, why my cousins slowly pick up the conversation and go on in the same vein, playing the “Do you remember” game about a place that, until minutes ago, had been eternal, everlasting, my true North.

Gina Nahai is an author and a professor of creative writing at USC. Her latest novel is “Caspian Rain” (MacAdam Cage, 2007). Her column appears monthly in The Journal.

Where Is Home? U.S. or Israel?


One, two, tree.”

“No, dad! It’s one, two, thhhhreeee.”

Growing up with Israeli parents in Los Angeles was often uncomfortable. I never felt completely at home. My parents were not locals, yet I was. They pronounced things differently with heavy accents: “Thhhhreeee,” not, “tree!”

It was funny, but awkward. Here I was correcting my father’s English. I got a real kick out of it, but deep inside I was confused. Where was home?

Every summer we would visit Israel, yet I did not feel entirely at home there either. I was a spoiled kid from ritzy Los Angeles who found Tel Aviv dirty and hot. I loved spending time with my cousins at Gordon Beach and hiking around the Negev with local Israeli summer camps. Nevertheless, during these visits, I was convinced that home was a plane ride away. Home was in Encino or Santa Monica, even LAX. Back in Los Angeles, though, the same sense of uncertainty waited for me patiently at the terminal.

My Israeli background did not usually serve as a source of pride, but rather a cause of confusion and even embarrassment. I even refused to speak Hebrew with my parents, answering in English whenever I was asked something in this foreign tongue.

Trying to blossom without roots can be very frustrating, and I would often be angry with my parents: Why were my roots so far and distant from me? In Los Angeles I lacked that deep connection to place, people and heritage. My parents sent my brothers and me to Hebrew school and surrounded us with their Israeli friends and their kids. But these efforts to create a Jewish/Israeli identity always seemed forced and unnatural to me — as if we were trying to import roots from Israel and plant them in foreign soil.

When I turned 15, my family and I moved to Israel. The first years were hell. I didn’t understand the language and even failed many of my classes. I felt frustrated and alone. How could my parents do this to me? Right when high school was getting exciting we move to this crazy country where I wake up in the night to the sound of the neighboring Arab village’s misgad (mosque). In the morning, I would wake up to the sound of a donkey — where the hell was I?

In the army, my connection with the land, the people and the country began to flourish. I was forced to question why I lived in Israel, why I served in the army — why was I ready to die for this country? Over time, a strong sense of belonging and identity grew within me. I began to feel passionate about Israel, and six years, later I left the army as a captain commander, after stressing to hundreds of soldiers that Israel is our home and that we must fight day and night to protect her.

Now I study at Columbia University. Is it hypocritical to educate soldiers to serve their country and then get on a plane to NYC for four years? Today, I know it is not. Growing up in Los Angeles and studying in New York has broadened my mind. I am able to appreciate what other Israelis often neglect, and I don’t take Israel for granted. I’ve worked hard to build my sense of home and reconnect to my roots, similar to the way my people have, after thousands of years, built their home and reconnected to their ancient roots in Israel. Now that I have such a connection, I am able to derive strength from it, regardless of my physical location.

It brings me both pain and joy to see Israelis in the United States searching for stability and identity, as I once did. Many are driven by economic goals and dreams; others arrive because they are sick and tired of a country that is so complex and intense.

Through my experiences, I was forced to search for the roots I felt I was lacking. Maybe other Israelis in America and other Americans in Israel are experiencing something similar. Whether I choose to live here, there, or in both countries, one thing I’ve learned for sure is that the search never ends.

Edoe Cohen is studying political science and economics at Columbia University, and modern Jewish thought at the Jewish Theological Seminary.

Saying Goodbye 101


On Sept. 1, my husband, Larry, and I will move our son, Gabriel, into his dormitory room at Carleton College in Northfield, Minn., where he will begin his freshman year.

How do we formally honor this important rite of passage that, more than a bar mitzvah and more than his high school graduation, marks Gabe’s entrance into adulthood, with all the concomitant responsibilities?

Let me say that another way.

How do we kiss Gabe goodbye without dissolving into pitiful, sobbing fools who will undoubtedly embarrass our son and ourselves?

Judaism gives us plenty of advice on child-rearing. Proverbs 22:6, for example, says, “Train a child in the way he should go, so when he is old he will not depart from it.”

But what Judaism doesn’t give us, when a child is old enough to depart from us, is a ritual to mark the sanctity of the occasion and, no matter how much we anticipate the eventual prospect of an empty nest, to contain our overwhelming emotions.

“By its very nature, this is something that can’t be contained,” Gabe insists. “I just have to go out and live it.”

But how do we live it?

We, who know from experience — our oldest, Zack, is beginning his senior year of college — how gut-wrenching the actual leave-taking is.

We, who know from experience how permanently our family configuration will — once again — seismically shift.

What can we do beyond opening a new checking account and beyond ordering, among other things, two sets of extra-long sheets and a hamper?

And beyond playing Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young” over and over in the car and hysterically crying, a form of implosion therapy recommended by my psychologist friend Jody, whose oldest child leaves for college this month.

Surprisingly, Judaism offers a number of leaving home ceremonies. The oldest I discovered, dating back to the 1970s and found in “The Second Jewish Catalogue” (The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1976), is called “On Leaving Home: A New Rite of Passage.” It recommends several home rituals, since Judaism places so much emphasis on the family, that range from hosting Havdalah, the quintessential Jewish separation ceremony, to invoking the traditional Jewish blessing over the children.

Others can be found on www.ritualwell.org, a Web site that collects and makes available a variety of innovative Jewish ceremonies and traditions. One includes a father’s prayer to be read at the Shabbat table while another provides a ceremony for affixing, if permissible, a mezuzah on the child’s dorm doorpost.

And the Union for Reform Judaism (URJ) publishes “T’filot HaDerech,” “Rituals for the Road to College” (available at www.urj.org). Part of the Packing for College Initiative, proposed by Rabbi Eric Yoffie at the union’s 67th biennial almost two years ago, the booklet includes rituals and readings for congregations, families and individuals to celebrate this modern life passage.

Additionally, a few congregations have moved confirmation to the end of 12th grade, enabling the students, according to Rabbi Fred Guttman’s article in the spring 2005 issue of Reform Judaism magazine, “… to intertwine what it means to come of age both as Jews and as young adults — the emotional touchstones of graduation and leaving home for college.”

But why haven’t these leaving home ceremonies taken off? Why aren’t we gathering together as families, as day school classes and as congregations before sending our 18-year-olds off to college? After all, we Jews are adept at marking life transitions that challenge and overwhelm us — birth, adolescence, marriage and death — with ceremonies that comfort, contain and sustain us.

“Perhaps it’s because we tend to focus on b’nai mitzvah, confirmation and graduation,” Rabbi Michael Mellen, director of youth programs at URJ, says. “As a whole, we see [leaving home] as a natural progression that just sort of happens and doesn’t need something to bring it home spiritually.”

But he recognizes the need, along with the beauty and power, of a ceremony to bring parents and young adults together at this moment.

And so, on Aug. 26, the Shabbat prior to Gabe’s departure, Larry and I will integrate a small ceremony into our Shabbat dinner, something to give voice to our excitement and our pain, our pride and our fears.

“What do you plan to do?” Gabe asks suspiciously.

“We will each say something nice about you and talk about what we will miss most,” I answer.

“This is serious, isn’t it?” he says.

And Larry and I will bestow the traditional blessing: “May God bless you and protect you. May God’s face give light to you and show you favor. May God bestow favor upon you and give you peace.”

Carleton College has given us parents a graph to show just how bumpy a student’s adjustment to college can be — from honeymoon to culture shock to initial adjustment to mental isolation to acceptance and integration.

We parents have an equally bumpy road ahead.

And so, on Sept. 2, when Larry and I say our final goodbye to Gabe, no matter how meaningful our last Shabbat dinner and no matter how many times we have cried to “Forever Young,” we will undoubtedly fall apart.

Then, as Gabe says, we will just have to go out and live it.

 

Clearing the Air About Allergies


Scary statistic to contemplate: About 10 to 15 percent of kids suffer from allergies, and the rate has been rising steadily for the past 20 years. Though no one knows why allergies are skyrocketing, we do know what causes them. Allergies are an immunological “overreaction” to a substance that enters the body through airborne particles such as pollen, skin contact, or ingested foods. Though this may sound quite simple, allergies are notoriously tricky to diagnose. The symptoms are remarkably diverse, varied in degree, and easy to confuse with other ailments.

1. If your child has cold symptoms that seem to drag on forever, allergies may be the real culprit. Does your child get endless but fever-free head colds — complete with sniffling, sneezing, itchy nose, watery eyes, and noisy mouth-breathing? Could be that she’s suffering from perennial allergic rhinitis, the body’s unhappy response to such year-round allergens as dust mites and animal dander.

How to handle: Talk to your pediatrician about whether your child should be evaluated by an allergist/immunologist; a skin test can identify what triggers your child’s symptoms. Once the results are in, you can work on minimizing the presence of the offending triggers. But unless you plan to lock your child in a mold-free closet for the rest of his life, complete elimination isn’t always possible. Over-the-counter oral antihistamines and decongestants can help, but they can be sedating. Ask your doctor whether the prescription drug Claritin, a nonsedating antihistamine, is an option; it’s approved for use by children age 6 and older.

2. If your child experiences these same symptoms, but they always strike in spring or summertime, you’re probably dealing with seasonal allergic rhinitis. Sometimes inaccurately called hay fever, this kind of allergy can actually be triggered by an array of pollens that become airborne as plants bloom. Need further help diagnosing your child? Look for this give-away, says Dr. June Engel, a biochemist and author of “The Complete Allergy Book”: Since your child’s nose will be itching like crazy, he may well do what’s known as “the allergic salute” — he’ll rub the palm of his hand upward against the tip of his nose to relieve the itching.

How to handle: Electric bills be damned: You may want to shut the windows and run air-conditioning during the height of the season to minimize pollen entering your home, says Dr. Francis V. Adams, pulmonary specialist and assistant professor of clinical medicine at New York University Medical School. Check with your pediatrician for advice on which antihistamines to try, and keep in mind that this medication actually prevents symptoms rather than cures them, so use them at the first hint of seasonal rhinitis.

3. Wheezing, coughing, tightness of the chest, and shortness of breath are usually hallmarks of asthma, an allergic condition in which the bronchial tubes narrow and the lungs become congested due to inflammation. Triggers may be anything from dust mites to mold to animal dander to cigarette smoke. Complicating matters still more, exercise has been known to bring on episodes, and in about 80 percent of cases, a viral infection will kick off the reaction. Typically, a child with asthma will experience his first symptoms before age 3.

How to handle: If your child wheezes or you have any other reason to suspect asthma, contact your pediatrician right away.

Obviously, you’ll want to keep your child away from the specific allergens and irritants as much as possible (warning: this may mean finding the family pet a new home). Beyond that, your child should have a bronchodilator spray available to be used whenever he feels wheezy and take an anti-inflammatory drug on a regular basis to keep his airways open. If your child ever seems to be struggling for breath and his medication doesn’t bring relief, bring him to the emergency room immediately.

4. When raised red patches crop up on your child’s skin, you’re probably dealing with hives. Hives can be an allergic reaction, commonly to an insect sting or food (peanuts, for instance).

How to handle: Of course, avoiding your child’s triggers is the best defense. But if your child is afflicted, be on the lookout for those cases of hives that can turn deadly: “If your kid brushes up against a tree and gets only a hive or two, it’s nothing to be concerned about; treat the itchiness with an over-the-counter oral antihistamine such as Benadryl,” says Dr. Jack Becker, chief of the allergy section at St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children in Philadelphia. “But if all of a sudden he feels funny — that’s how a child will typically describe the sensation — has trouble breathing and is breaking out in hives all over, that’s extremely serious.”

This can progress to a potentially deadly condition known as anaphylactic shock, in which the tongue and throat swell up, cutting off the child’s air supply. If your child ever does show these symptoms, call for an ambulance immediately.

The deadly stage of the reaction might not hit until 10 hours later — when you mistakenly think everything’s back to normal. Also, get a Medic Alert bracelet or some other kind of identification that will let emergency workers know what the problem is in case you’re not present.

Beth Levine is a writer whose essays have appeared in Redbook, Woman’s Day, Family Circle, the Chicago Tribune, USA Weekend and Newsday.

 

Hail to the Seder Chief


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I can just imagine my Orthodox grandparents worrying about making the seder come alive for their grandchildren. Grandma was too busy de-feathering chickens and grandpa taking care of business in his violin shop to think about how we might be kept happy at their seder table. Entertainment and seder would never have been uttered in the same sentence in their Bronx home behind the H. Bass Music store.

But I am different. I have the time and the energy to make our seder a swirling, interactive event for my four grandchildren. Why, they can even dip their little feet into my cellophane Red Sea as it parts on my living room floor.

And, to top it off, I am the maven of plague bags. When the kids were very little, the bags were little. The first years they were small, white paper bags with simple black lettering. Simple items went into them: frogs that I had made out of green paper, 99 Cent Store kid’s sunglasses for darkness, wrapping bubbles that popped like boils and small plastic cups colored with red markers to signify the blood.

No grandchild would ever sit tired and glassy eyed just waiting and praying for the meal. We would go through the entire hagaddah, but with enough diversions to allow them to stay ‘with us’ without having a grand melt down before the first course.

In 2003, I went big time. I bought small canvas bags for 99 cents each but then had them machine embroidered by my dressmaker friend Liz. Each child’s name was written in a different font and color. She attached ribbon fringe with multicolored beads to the bags. Creativity and hopes of keeping their attention and in the process teaching them the significance of the seder meal was my goal. And now, my friends were getting involved as well.

Last year, we had our bags, we had our green gummy frogs, we had our boils and our blood. When it came to talk about darkness, I turned out all the lights and each person at the table talked about what darkness meant to them. The kids said bedtime and a few of the adults joked about sex.

But everything seems to pale in comparison to my hail. Now, you have to understand that the previous years’ hail was quite adequate. Small rolled up pieces of silver foil did the trick and could be playfully tossed around the table. But, a few weeks before Passover, I had read in The New York Times about a grandfather (surely he did not own a violin-making store) who also tries to engage his young grandchildren at seder time. During the day, the article said, this man secretly and gently places minimarshmallows on top of the blades of his wooden ceiling fan. My eyes lit up. This would be a real crowd pleaser. When the fan was turned on, the little white pseudo-hail would fly around the room, just like the real thing as all would watch, wide-eyed.

I had a ceiling fan. I would buy the tiny puffs and we too would have our authentic San Fernando Valley hail. Surely the kids and the grown-ups would stand in awe of this my most fabulous creation to date.

Everyone followed me from the table as we marched to my computer room where the fan was silently waiting with its marshmallow topping. One of the kids turned on the fan and as predicted, the tiny white confections started flying. Up, down and on the ground. I waited, if not for deafening applause, at least oohs and ahs from my adoring fans.

Here is what really happened. They looked; some may have even thought, “Wow, that was great!” At least I hoped they did. But no one said much and if they did, it was lost in the shuffling of feet as they scurried back to the seder table.

The marshmallows. I was too tired to even think of cleaning them up that night or even asking for help. We did get a few up, but that was because they had stuck to the bottom of shoes and kept sticking us down as we walked.

The marshmallows a week later? Many still remained where the fan had dutifully blown them the night of our seder. Many more hardened where they lay but I learned to walk gingerly among them. As the days melted into weeks, they began to harden. A friend said, “If you leave them on the floor long enough, next year they will really feel like hail.” She was on to something. My ever creative mind clicked in and I answered:

“Yes, and the kids could wear woolen hats and mufflers and maybe even ski clothing.”

When I started to think about erecting a miniature ski lift next to the pool, I knew, that even for me, that would be going over the edge.

Maybe my grandparents back in the Bronx had the right idea after all.

Barbara Joan Grubman is a retired speech specialist and author of “Introduction to terrariums: A step-by-step guide” (Nash Pub, 1972) She lives in Woodland Hills.

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Creative Chuppahs Are Labor of Love


Nancy and Kim Goldov wanted to personalize everything about their wedding. She sewed her own gown. He composed music for the ceremony. They both created a new last name to share: combining Stolov and Goldschmidt into Goldov. So it probably didn’t surprise anyone that the couple spent months crafting a one-of-a-kind chuppah to say their vows under.

“The rabbi used the image of weaving our lives together,” when he commented about the way Nancy and Kim carefully planned their creative wedding, with the help of friends and family. Nancy says they decided to make their own chuppah out of hand-dyed silk and handcrafted wood in part because they wanted to create a lasting memory.

“The wedding became a focus for all of our creative energy,” she explained.

They also were able to take such a creative approach to the chuppah because they had lots of time and friends who were craftspeople and willing to help with the woodworking and dying of the silk.

“It wasn’t a sudden wedding. It was a very planned wedding,” Nancy said. “It’s not something every couple could do or want to…. We kind of went overboard.”

But now, thanks to their hard work, Nancy and Kim also have a beautiful canopy over their bed. They can look up and see the magical “tree of life” with pomegranates, apples and figs. The tree surrounds a Star of David made from a piece of spallted maple wood found in a park. The four posts of the canopy are a delicate combination of several different kinds of wood.

Nancy says the chuppah cost a few hundred dollars to make, but is now considered a priceless family heirloom. She is having a quilt made for their bed that mimics the design of the tree. Someday she may change the chuppah in some way to signify their children.

One of the questions Nancy asked concerning her creative chuppah was whether it adhered to Jewish law concerning wedding ceremonies. According to The Jewish Catalog and Rabbi Maurice Lamm’s book, “The Jewish Way in Love and Marriage” (Jonathan David, 1991) the chuppah is affected more by tradition than law.

Traditionally, the wedding ceremony took place under the stars as an omen that the marriage should be blessed with as many children as stars in heaven. To create a more intimate space for the ceremony, rabbis in the Middle Ages allowed the use of a chuppah, which symbolizes the groom’s home into which he invites the bride. It is required only for the seven blessings and only the bride and groom need to stand under it.

“It teaches that this simple, fragile room which is now common to both partners launches the marriage,” Lamm explained.

As with any wedding ceremony decision, it is best to discuss chuppah ideas with your rabbi before you start collecting materials and assembling the structure. Depending on whether the rabbi is Reform, Reconstructionist, Conservative or Orthodox, he or she may have different ideas about what is required.

Some of the more common kinds of chuppahs involve a tapestry or tallit fastened to the top of four poles. The poles can be held by four friends or put in some kind of stand. Keep in mind the length of your ceremony before making a decision about whether to have people hold the poles. Some brides prefer to decorate the tapestry with flowers.

How elaborate a chuppah you choose also depends on how much time and energy you want to put into the project. A combination of creative energy and a little chutzpah helped Jenifer Thornton and her mother create a special chuppah for her wedding.

“I’m in a creative field and I knew that I didn’t want to just do the standard,” Jenifer said, adding that they researched whether they could rent a creative chuppah but found nothing to their liking.

“We just kind of thought, if it works out, great.” The only problem was — and this would be a big problem for many brides — they didn’t know what the chuppah was going to look like until an hour before the wedding. They couldn’t put it together in advance and then move to the location of the ceremony.

Jenifer and Philip Thornton’s chuppah consisted of plaster columns; adorned with lace netting, green plants, ivy and copper ribbon.

“It was beautiful and everyone loved it. The only thing I would change would be the lighting,” she said, indicating she would recommend backlighting the chuppah for a greater impact.

She says it wasn’t expensive, but warns that finding proper columns can be a challenge. Most replicas that can be rented are too light and easily toppled by sudden movement.

“It’s difficult to rent them,” she said. “They have to be heavy. You definitely don’t want them to fall over.”

She rented the columns from a friend who doesn’t usually loan them out.

Another approach to creating your own chuppah is to consult with an architect or a landscape designer. When Julie Israel got married about five years ago she was lucky enough to have an architectural designer right in the family, her mother, Linda Haugen.

The chuppah for Julie’s wedding to David Israel consisted of “marbleized” wooden columns and a trellis covered in ivy and flowers. The structurally dramatic chuppah fit in well with the architecture at Temple De Hirsch Sinai.

“It was a very dramatic and important structure and it added considerably to the whole ceremony,” she said.

Fitting the chuppah to the setting and the personalities of the bride and groom is very important, but perhaps the most critical aspect of the project is getting prepared to build it the night or morning before the wedding in just a few hours.

Her experience in architecture and the theater prepared Linda for the project.

“If someone wanted to have a chuppah like ours, they should turn to someone with our level of experience,” she said. “It would be difficult for the average person to do it. It really involves a lot of thought and coordination.”

When asked if such a structural chuppah could have a second life after the wedding, Linda said one could consider reconstructing it in their garden: “It’s your first house and that’s what’s so lovely about it.”

From the Mouths of Babes


How Do You Decide Whom to Marry?

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•You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming. — Alan, age 10

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•No person really decides before they grow up who they’re going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you’re stuck with. — Kirsten, age 10

What Do You Think Your Mom and Dad Have in Common?

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•Both don’t want any more kids. — Lori, age 8

What Is the Right Age to Get Married?

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•Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person forever by then. — Camille, age 10

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•No age is good to get married at. You got to be a fool to get married. — Freddie, age 6

How Can a Stranger Tell if Two People Are Married?

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•You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids. — Derrick,

age 8

What Do Most People Do on a Date?

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•Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough. — Lynnette,

age 8

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•On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date. — Martin, age 10

What Would You Do on a First Date That Was Turning Sour?

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• I’d run home and play dead. The next day I would call all the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns. — Craig, age 9

When Is It OK to Kiss Someone?

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•When they’re rich. — Pam,

age 7

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•The law says you have to be 18, so I wouldn’t want to mess with that. — Curt, age 7

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•The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them. It’s the right thing to do. — Howard, age 8

Is It Better to Be Single or Married?

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•It’s better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone to clean up after them. — Anita, age 9

How Would You Make a Marriage Work?

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•Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a truck. — Ricky, age 10

Wilshire: Boulevard of Sanctuaries


Wilshire Boulevard’s stature as the grand concourse of Los Angeles is due in part to its many architecturally distinct synagogues and churches. Those located in the Wilshire Center district, between LaFayette Park and about Western Avenue, are some of the most notable and serve some of the city’s oldest congregations.

The boulevard in the 1920s was the natural place for the institutions and their members to relocate. They saw that, in the future, downtown’s narrow, congested streets would no longer be the center of the community. Los Angeles was turning into a driving city, and Wilshire became the nation’s first Automobile Age thoroughfare. Religious establishments that wished to be part of the exciting future moved to Wilshire Boulevard.

On the boulevard of big dreams they constructed edifices on a grand scale to suit the surroundings. It was in the same era that architects gave Los Angeles proud, new symbols of aspiration, such as the marvelous City Hall and the museum-quality Bullock’s Wilshire department store. The new houses of worship also aspired to greatness. Their membership typically numbered in the thousands, and the pews were filled with mayors, judges, publishers and other movers.

Congregations didn’t need to advertise their addresses, just the corners: Wilshire at Berendo Street for Immanuel Presbyterian, Wilshire at Harvard Boulevard for St. Basil’s Catholic Church, Wilshire at St. Andrews Place for St. James Episcopal. They formed a community that crossed denomination lines. During the years around World War II, the Christian churches joined for an annual procession on Easter Sunday. At the conclusion of services, worshippers would jam the sidewalks to watch cars promenade along Wilshire.

Neighbors took care of one another. The congregation at Wilshire Boulevard Temple welcomed offers to hold High Holy Days services in the larger sanctuary at Immanuel Presbyterian, a few blocks to the east. The temple also held services inside the gorgeous Wilshire Christian Church, built at Normandie Avenue on land donated by the Chapman family, for whom Chapman University is named.

Likewise, when the original St. Basil’s burned down, Wilshire Boulevard Temple invited parishioners to worship in its sanctuary until a new Catholic church was finished. At the dedication of new St. Basil’s in 1969, Rabbi Edgar F. Magnin sat as an honored guest at Mass alongside John Francis Cardinal McIntyre.

Congregation B’nai B’rith had been the leading downtown synagogue at the time its members voted to relocate at Wilshire and Hobart boulevards. The new Wilshire Boulevard Temple served some of the city’s most respected and influential Jews.

At the dedication in 1929, banker Marco Hellman presented the ark, and Jack Warner, one of the studio-owning Warner brothers, bestowed colorful murals depicting the history of the Hebrew people painted by Hugo Ballin. The artist, whose work also decorates Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles and the lobby of the Los Angeles Times Building, painted on canvas in his Santa Monica studio, then mounted the murals around the 100-foot-high, mosaic-inlaid dome in the octagonal sanctuary.

Placing such prominent artwork in the synagogue was not typical of the time. But Rabbi Magnin hoped it would add warmth and an element of mysticism to the surroundings. The temple’s architecture by David Allison and Abraham Edelman is regarded as a work of art in itself. With Italian and Belgian marble, carved mahogany and inlaid gold, it is the only Wilshire Center religious home listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Allison was the Wilshire architect of choice in the 1920s. He is credited with designing the cathedral-like First Congregational Church on Commonwealth Street, across from LaFayette Park, the similarly regal Wilshire United Methodist near Windsor Square and the imposing First Baptist Church off the boulevard behind Bullock’s Wilshire. Allison also contributed the design for several of the original Italianate buildings at UCLA, including the stunning Royce Hall.

Like Wilshire Boulevard Temple, Immanuel Presbyterian opened in 1929. The acquisition of the land five years earlier had stirred up controversy among the members. Some opposed the idea of giving up the prestige of being downtown to start over as a country church. Today, Immanuel Presbyterian is the most Gothic-looking structure found along Wilshire, dark and brooding with a soaring bell tower and windows by the historic Judson Studios and Dixon Art Glass Co. Gothic chandeliers hang inside the massive sanctuary, capable of seating 2,000 worshippers.

These days, the congregations in mid-Wilshire are not as large as at the district’s peak. But their establishments all stand as important monuments to the dreamers who saw where Los Angeles was headed and knew how to get there.

Adapted from “Wilshire Boulevard” by Kevin Roderick, to be published next year.

Commitment’s Price


These days, many women complain about the epidemic of males who run in terror from the thought of a committed relationship.

But there are plenty of guys out there who are eager to commit. I know, since I just found one.

Like many people searching for love, I found Ken through an online matchmaking service. As soon as I clicked on his profile and photo, I knew that any guy with a face that honest and eyes that sincere wouldn’t steer me wrong.

After a bit of research, I had it on good authority that Ken didn’t smoke, drink, bet the mortgage at the racetrack or chase women. He didn’t care if a woman looked like Jennifer Lopez or Kathy Bates. He was just a sincere guy looking for a little honest love in his life.

There was only one thorny issue: What would my husband say about all this?

Clandestinely, I offered to meet Ken. We took a walk around the neighborhood and hit it off. I invited him home to meet the family, but warned him that my husband might not go for this arrangement.

I realized that Ken’s manners could appear a little crude and urged him to be on his best behavior. Yet despite my admonitions, Ken behaved badly during his trial run with the family. It did not help that one of his first acts as a guest in our home was to appear in the living room, chewing on a pair of underwear that he had lifted from the laundry.

“He’s just nervous,” I said, trying to excuse the inexcusable. “Besides, he’s an orphan. It’s not his fault that he didn’t have anyone to teach him the finer points of social etiquette.”

“Next thing you know, he’ll be chewing up the furniture,” my husband said. “Let’s send him back.”

“No!” the children shouted in unison.

This was the only thing they had all agreed on since the night I suggested they eat Corn Pops for dinner. They thought Ken’s manners were charming, probably because he made their own behavior look classy in comparison.

We overruled my husband, but our victory came at a price. As Ken began to feel more comfortable, he revealed a kinkiness that I would never have imagined.

He lapped water from the toilet, filched snacks from the garbage, including things too repulsive to mention, and jumped on the kitchen table when our backs were turned and ate all the cheese off our just-delivered pizza. These boorish behaviors made a black mark on Ken’s record.

“I’m sure he’ll learn to behave eventually,” I said, doubting whether this was really true.

Ken may have been cute, but based on what we could glean of his intelligence, he was unlikely to ever qualify as a Fullbright scholar. One day, I came home to find that my husband’s prediction had come true: Ken had tunneled through one of the living room couches, his face still full of couch stuffing. I wondered: Could this relationship be saved?

Reprimands did no good. If we shouted, “Ken, drop that calzone, right now!” or “No making woo woo in the shoe!” he seemed genuinely contrite, if not a little confused. His expression seemed to ask, “Did you think I’d sit here reading the Wall Street Journal? I’m just a beagle, for God’s sake!”

This explains why for years I flatly refused my kids’ pleadings to acquire a canine companion. I envisioned cleaning up messes throughout the house, pitching good shoes into the trash that the puppy had chewed and trying to stop his insane barking at the mailman.

Essentially, I envisioned the very life I am living now. We’ve had fish and turtles and still have a hamster that has enjoyed surprising longevity, given our previous adventures in pet ownership. However, I fear that one day soon we will arrive home to discover the hamster has died of a heart attack while running on his wheel, terrorized by our new puppy, who thinks the rodent is lunch.

Under the force of my kids’ grinding, incessant pleas (a specialty of the house), I buckled. In a moment of insanity, I agreed to hunt with my youngest son on the Internet, clicking on dozens of doggie profiles. We immediately had to dismiss several inappropriate candidates.

“Hairball came to us with a bit of an attitude problem, but with a lot of work, he’s sure to become a reasonably lovable companion,” was one honest description of a terrier. Just what I needed: another personality with attitude.

One handsome lab came with this caveat, “Shaquille is recovering from a mastectomy and is fearful of children. Takes antidepressants daily. Would do best in a quiet, adult-only home.”

Most of these darling doggies were not destined for our family, including a skateboard-riding Lhasa Apso that nipped at young children; Leroy and Estelle, a pair of yappy Chihuahuas that had to be placed together or they would commit suicide, and an aged rottweiler named Boo recovering from a broken leg. All things considered, Ken seemed the best of the bunch.

True, since he joined the family we are down by one couch, three shoes, two pizzas and an unquantifiable pair of socks and underwear.

But at least he wasn’t afraid to commit.


Judy Gruen writes the popular “Off My Noodle” humor column, available on her
Web site, www.judygruen.com. She is also
a columnist for Religion News Service.

In Search of ‘Shlomi’


Shlomi, the 16-year-old protagonist of the Israeli film, “Bonjour, Monsieur Shlomi,” has his hands full.

He cooks the family meals, cleans up, does the laundry, is the peacemaker in his quarrelsome Moroccan family and bathes his grandfather, who greets him every morning with the film’s title.

For his pains, the wide-eyed Shlomi is considered none too bright by his family and in school, where he is flunking out.

Worse, Shlomi believes the outside world’s assessment of him, which seems to be confirmed by his first attempt at romance. When he suggests to his girlfriend that they “upgrade” their relationship — Hebrew slang for having sex — she “freezes” him out.

At home, the situation is even worse. His obsessive mother has kicked out her hypochondriac husband for a one-time slip with her best friend. Shlomi’s older brother is the mother’s favorite, and she regales the boy with clinical details of his real and fancied sexual conquests.

Shlomi’s older sister has twin babies but regularly returns to her mother’s home to detail her fights with her husband, who shamefully surfs the Internet for porn.

It all looks like another story of another dysfunctional family, a recurring theme in Israeli movies, when Shlomi’s life slowly turns around.

A perceptive teacher and school principal gradually peel away Shlomi’s layers of self-doubt and discover an exceptional mind and poetic sensibility.

A neighboring girl recognizes Shlomi’s real inner worth, and in a beautiful scene they shyly offer each other their finest gifts — she, the herbs she grows in her garden, and he, the diet-defying cakes he bakes in the kitchen.

The film’s theme is “the pain created by the gap between one’s outer image and the inner truth,” said Shemi Zarhin, the film’s director, himself of North African descent.

“Monsieur Shlomi” is a charming film, a word rarely applied to Israeli movies. Oshri Cohen portrays Shlomi with absolute veracity and his relationship with his grandfather (Arie Elias) is deeply affecting.

As a special bonus, Ashkenazic viewers will get a much-needed insight into the lifestyle of Israel’s Sephardic Jews. Although director Zarhin’s ancestors came to Palestine nearly 300 years ago, “both I and Oshri grew up with the mindset that we were part of Israel’s underclass,” he said.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Shlomi” opens July 16 in Los Angeles.

A New Relationship


A relationship with a new city is like a relationship with a new guy. At first, you compare a lot — my ex had better nicknames for me; he made the bed in the morning. My ex was the one for me, and now I’m just marking time before becoming that old lady in line at the bagel shop who talks to her slippers.

You feel in your bones the sudden drop in comfort level with this new entity. You have to close the door when you pee. You have to explain who people are when you’re gossiping about them. You have to take it from the top. It’s a tedious process. And you wonder why we all know one of those couples who should have broken up a long time ago before they got in a rut and furnished it at IKEA.

Now, as for my comparison, settling into a new city can be similarly jarring. I’m not sure which I’ve done more of, but I know I’m not the only one with a trail of broken leases as long as her trail of broken relationships.

I’ve dug up and planted and dug up and replanted more roots than an obsessive-compulsive gardener.

And now I’m at it again, trying to make a go of it with this slick Pat Riley of a city called Manhattan. And as always, the relationship got off to a rough start, and I wanted nothing more than to go home. And my new therapist gave me her home number. And I didn’t know if I had lost my ability to start over.

It’s been six months since I relocated for work, "taking a break" from the love of my life, Los Angeles.

I didn’t want to love again, but it turns out we’re adaptable creatures. The other day, someone asked where to get a good cheesecake, and out of my mouth, smooth as ricotta, came "Junior’s in Brooklyn has the best. And they ship." And I let myself feel pretty good for knowing this, and for passing as a local more often than not, and for saying "Brooklyn" like I could tell you how to get there on the 4.

This city has won me over like a guy you go on a mercy date with but end up marrying because he remembers how you take your coffee and what size shoe you wear. It’s the little things that slowly weasel their way into your heart, that make you feel at home.

I have the name of a Chinese delivery place in my cellphone and need only speed dial my way to a dumpling delivery.

I hail a cab as easily as I used to parallel park.

I could tell you what cast members have been replaced in "Hairspray" on Broadway. I can find Broadway by foot.

Now I love my Lakers like Shaq loves his Escalade. Still, there’s something about finding your seat at Madison Square Garden that makes you feel like you’ve got this town wired. Sadly, you have to watch the Knicks once you get there, but if I can learn to love this city, maybe I can at least duty date its basketball team.

On the right night, I can climb out of my 400-square-foot apartment and sit on my fire escape and look down the block at doormen leaning on awning posts. I can watch little doggies in little sweaters strolling the Upper East Side, a neighborhood immortalized not only by "Breakfast at Tiffany’s" but also by famous fictional resident, Carrie Bradshaw.

I know how to describe a location as being "on 67 between one and two," instead of saying "on 67th Street between First and Second avenues." I know that Central Park starts on 59. Like I said, these are small things, but like the small apartments and small grocery store aisles here in the Big Apple, they grow on you.

Maybe that’s the only way to fall for a place as hard and humid and expensive and compressed as this one. You endure the hard parts so you can experience the simple pleasure of saying Brooklyn like you mean it.

How do you go from wanting to hurl yourself off the Staten Island Ferry to thinking you might just want to dock here for awhile? You let yourself. And having done so, I’m starting to think it might just be that simple with relationships, too. And here is the most deeply buried lead in the history of singles columns: I’ve got what some might call a "new boyfriend" in this new city (and by "some" I mean people without a crippling fear of commitment).

And that’s how I can tell you relocation is something that happens inside. It happens when you make up your mind to stop expecting a parade down Fifth Avenue and just let yourself stop and smell the toasted nuts on the corner.


Teresa Strasser writes from Manhattan where she is a feature reporter for Fox’s “Good Day Live.” She’s on the Web at www.teresastrasser.com.

Holocaust Museum to Reopen Doors


The Los Angeles Museum of the Holocaust (LAMH), dubbed the “Wandering Jew of the Community” by one survivor, has lost one more rented home, found interim shelter in another, but is dreaming of a permanent place of its own.

Led by a self-described “quixotic” physician as chairman and a feisty executive director, the museum is fighting tenaciously for its survival and insists that it fulfills a needed mission in Los Angeles and in Holocaust education.

The odds facing the hard-pressed LAMH include its proximity to the high-profile Simon Wiesenthal Center-Museum of Tolerance, diminishing financial backing from The Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles and declining involvement by the Holocaust survivors who founded the museum.

Yet, there are hopeful signs. Executive Director Rachel Jagoda has sent out a flurry of grant proposals and has been rewarded with a $100,000 check from the Annenberg Foundation and lesser sums from three other foundations and a German bank. Best of all has been a $3 million pledge from highly respected Holocaust survivor, who wishes to remain anonymous, earmarked as the building block for a permanent museum.

It is the dream of Jagoda and chairman Dr. Gary Schiller that the structure might rise on city-owned land in the midtown Pan Pacific Park, next to the Los Angeles Holocaust Monument.

The museum had its beginning in 1961, when a group of survivors donated artifacts from their concentration camp experiences and founded what was then known as the Los Angeles Martyrs Memorial and Museum of the Holocaust.

The first home was a single room in The Jewish Federation building at 6505 Wilshire Blvd. In 1978, the museum took over an entire floor of the building, and the space expansion allowed it to add extensive exhibits and photo displays, archives and a resource center, in addition to initiating tours and programs for the public and students.

As space in the building became tighter, the museum moved to various other floors, each time to smaller quarters, Jagoda said. In the late 1990s, when The Federation had to temporarily evacuate 6505 to repair earthquake damage, the museum and the community library rented a small separate building on Wilshire’s museum row.

There the museum staged a number of well-received displays, most recently an exhibit on the Nazi persecution of homosexuals, which attracted 5,000 visitors.

The staff and volunteers also expanded the mentor and educational programs at about 60 public and private schools, mostly in the inner city, involving about 2,500 middle and senior high school students.

Early this year, the landlord announced that he was converting the museum building to condos and evicted the tenants. Left homeless, the museum was forced to close its doors March 1 and put the exhibits in storage.

After much frantic scrambling, LAHM signed a lease to take over the street floor of the ORT Building at 6435 Wilshire Blvd., next to The Federation headquarters. There, the redesigned museum is expected to open in June or July.

In the past few years, as annual Federation support for the museum dropped from $189,000 to $120,000 to the current $60,000, relations have soured.

Now facing annual expenses of $400,000 for operations, rent and a three-person staff, the museum leadership has its work cut out. Schiller pins some of his hopes on the Hollywood community, with whom he is planning a major fund raiser.

However, the museum’s support from survivors, its original base, keeps going down. Except for the $3 million pledge, “they haven’t stepped up to the plate,” Jagoda said.

Dr. Samuel Goetz, a survivor and chairman of the museum board from 1995-1999, countered that many of the most active survivors have died, and that others have become frustrated by the museum’s lack of continuity.

A more fundamental question is whether at a time when giving to Jewish communal institutions is flat and demands in Israel and at home are rising, if support for the Holocaust museum is money well spent.

Schiller vigorously answers in the affirmative. The 40-year-old hematologist and oncologist at the UCLA Medical Center, and a noted researcher in leukemia and bone marrow transplants, draws on his own practice for an analogy.

“I am frequently asked why we should spend money to save the life of a 60-year-old cancer patient, when there are millions of kids who haven’t been vaccinated,” he said. “I answer that it’s not one or the other. We have the financial resources to do both.”

As cities with much smaller Jewish populations have shown, there is enough money for a first-rate Holocaust museum, community centers and other needs, if the whole community is involved, rather than relying mainly on a handful of big-time philanthropists, who are hit up for every cause, Jagoda argued.

Nor does Schiller believe that the Wiesenthal Center, whose work he admires, obviates the need for a community Holocaust museum.

“The Wiesenthal Center and its Museum of Tolerance are nonsectarian and deal with universal discrimination and genocides,” he said. “We are focused purely on the Holocaust. We have strong relationships with schools and colleges, and we reach out to parts of Los Angeles nobody else reaches.”

For information, contact Rachel Jagoda at (323) 651-3704or visit www.lamuseumoftheholocaust.org .

A Father’s Daughter


I am a Jew, a journalist and a professor, but I also am an anguished and proud father. Last month, my wife and I welcomed our daughter back to Los Angeles for her annual visit to observe the High Holidays with our family. She will not be coming home. Home for her is Israel, where she has lived for 23 years.

We hope to talk about things other than the subject, but who’s kidding whom? After all, we are Jews. Inevitably, we will banter about politics, be it the wackiness of California’s recall election or the tragedy of Israel’s dead-end policy in the territories.

Aliza Ben Tal left Los Angeles as Lisa Fromson after her 1980 graduation from Palisades High School to participate in a Machon program. That began her aliyah process largely, it turned out later, on behalf of a Soviet Jewish family we befriended when I was the CBS News correspondent in Moscow 30 years ago. That family, the Yakirs, waited 14 years to obtain exit visas and when they arrived at Ben-Gurion Airport, Aliza and her brother, Derek, were at the foot of the airplane ramp to welcome them to Israel.

Aliza maintains an abiding belief in the viability of a Jewish homeland. She has lived through the war in Lebanon, the Gulf War in which wearing gas masks became a frightening daily ritual, and the first and second intifada. In 1993, her mother and I sat with Aliza in her kibbutz apartment, watching the televised coverage of Yitzhak Rabin and Yasser Arafat shaking hands on the White House lawn. Her hopes for peace soared, only to be crushed two years later when she attended the rally where Rabin was assassinated. Peaks and valleys are a curse experienced by every Israeli, sometimes more than once daily. Like so many Israeli wives, Aliza has had to say farewell to her husband countless times when he was activated by the Israel Defense Forces to serve in Gaza or in the West Bank. In what seemed to me like a moment of despair, she recently wrote the family:

“I can’t say that any great love will ever be shared by Israelis and Palestinians, but dialogue between people, trying to overcome stereotypes, break down barriers, listen to one another’s narratives … this and only this is our way out of this madness. What worries me most is not the sad reality of our neighbors, but the disintegrating moral fabric of our country — the values that those who are only 10 years older than I tried so hard to create and preserve, the ‘beautiful Israel’ going up in dust…. We are becoming a nation suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder … and at every assassination, every attack, our Palestinian counterparts grow more and more enraged. No wonder the kids here like trance music and that hard drugs are so rampant today among our youth in Israeli society. Blast the reality out of your head. Angry Palestinian kids, on the other hand, are recruited to blast our reality out of their lives. Are we in fact doomed to kill one another?”

I wonder how many other parents are reading messages or letters of this kind from their sons or daughters who made aliyah? I wonder, too, about the silence of the tens of thousands of Israeli university students and compare them to the raucous Vietnam-era students I covered in the 1970s. Many of the Israelis had gone off to war, returned from the territories or Lebanon and, since then, act as if they have nothing to say. Is this part of an unwritten bargain with the government that underwrites most of their education?

But then must we in the Diaspora also remain silent? I think not. Israel does not need cheerleaders for a bankrupt policy led by a man whose gross miscalculation in 1980 took the country into the quagmire of Lebanon, causing countless Israeli lives for 20 years. Shortly after the Six-Day War in 1967, Moshe Dayan told me the occupation would prove to be like an incurable cancer and he was right.

Yet, the so-called Jewish establishment shushes us, cautions us against criticizing Israeli policy, arrogantly presumes to speak for all American Jews and then kowtows to one faction-ridden government after another in Jerusalem or fetes its leaders here in lavish fundraising dinners. Once, I agreed with that policy, but not anymore.

My wife and I travel to Israel every year. We support a wonderful university where Aliza earned her undergraduate degree. Most importantly, we have our blood invested there in the body of our daughter, whom we love and admire with all our hearts. We want Aliza and Shai Ben Tal to live out their lives in peace, security and happiness. We will not pretend that we were overjoyed to see them board an airplane to return to an Israel that we once thought was beyond reproach. The prospects for peace now are at best gloomy.

As a journalist, I’ve been eyewitness to a dozen wars in my lifetime. I’ve seen and smelled too many deaths on the battlefields of three continents. I stood on the Golan Heights in 1967, believing that it was the conflict that might finally bring peace to Israel. It did not happen then and it will not happen now. The eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth tactics of the present government remind me of a conversation I had in Saigon in 1956 with a French Foreign Legion colonel as the Tricolor was being lowered for the last time in Indochina. As a warning to Americans he told me, “We could go on killing the Vietnamese, but eventually we discovered there were just too many of them willing to die for what they believed in.” It took us 16 years to discover his truth.

How long will it take the hawks in Israel and the United States to wake up to the obvious?


Murray Fromson is a professor of journalism in the
Annenberg School of Communication at USC and a veteran foreign correspondent. He
can be reached at FromsonM@aol.com

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Good Timing Lands Luck in Director’s Lap


I’m sure that when Greg Pritikin made his first feature film, "Dummy," now in theaters, he had no inkling that he had inadvertently grabbed an indie-film brass ring. But when he cast Adrien Brody as a maladroit but sweet schlemiel who is obsessed with ventriloquism as the way to win a woman’s heart, Pritikin really lucked out. Up to that point in his career, Brody was a well-regarded young actor who had displayed a wide range in American independent films. Then came "The Pianist," the Oscar, the Kiss and, suddenly, Brody is a movie star. Which means that "Dummy," a film that would have otherwise slipped through the cracks, is making its way into theaters, and that is not at all a bad thing.

Pritikin’s film takes place in a sort of every-suburb America of tract houses with manicured lawns and two-car garages, and is utterly devoid of anything to place it in historical time. Even the cars and the music — whether punk, show tunes or klez-punk — could be 20 years old, and the film’s story of a hapless schmo trying to find a way to express himself despite his suffocating Jewish family is a Philip Roth retread from the 1970s.

And yet, on a certain unadventurous level, it works. Steven (Brody) is fired from his job when he tries to give notice after deciding to surrender to a lifelong ambition to take up ventriloquism. He lives at home with his overbearing mother (Jessica Walter), omni-absent father (Ron Liebman) and chronically depressed sister, a failed singer-turned-wedding planner (Illeana Douglas). When he meets his unemployment counselor, Lorraina (Vera Farmiga), he immediately falls madly in love. With his deranged punk-rocker friend Fanny (Milla Jovovich) in a splendid against-the-grain performanc as his wildly inept guide, he tries to woo her, with disastrous results. Only when he begins to express himself through his dummy does the real, warm, sweet Steven emerge.

Although Pritikin seems to be laboring to tie up plot ends almost from the film’s opening shot, the film has a cheerfully dopey quality that can be quite winning. You know that Steven and his dummy are fated to bring happiness to Lorraina, his sister, Fanny and her cataleptic band and everyone else in the state of New Jersey (although Pritikin manages one hilarious and unexpected surprise during the final credits).

But for all its obviousness and the mechanical working-out of plot, "Dummy" has a certain tenderness towards its characters that is satisfying for its sheer unexpectedness. Pritikin starts out unpromisingly with a shrill, cartoonish tone, but once he gets the worst of the exposition out of the way, there is a warmth here that is quite pleasant. Moreover, "Dummy" has at least one really lovely moment of pure silence, a two-shot, held for nearly a minute, of a painfully awkward silence between the perpetually uncertain Steven and an expectant Lorraina; the discomfort in the air is palpable and moving.

It’s pretty hard to tell where a new director will go from the evidence of only one film, but Pritikin bears watching. After all, who could have guessed where Brody would land?

"Dummy" is in theaters now.

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