In the Queue

By Adam Brownstein

Every year the first part of December ushers in beloved traditions in our family.  There is the task of cleaning latke-detonated oil patches on the caesar-stone counter.  With it, the sobering endeavor of excavating wax from our armada of menorahs.  Every season, we commit ourselves to memorizing Adam Sandler’s “Hanukkah Sony”, although this year we have forsaken it for Daveed Diggs’ can’t-get-it-out-of-my-head ode to puppies.

More ecumenically, a steady diet of Christmas tunes envelops our mornings of coffee, scones cheeky banter.  Mariah Carey.  Olaf’s Holiday Party.  “Christmas by Myself”, the catchy anthem from the one hit wonders the Waitresses.  More Mariah Carey.  Kenny G (Bar Mitzvahed in 1969) masterfully interpreting “White Christmas” by Irving Berlin (Bar Mitzvahed in 1901).  And somewhere around December 8th, Michael Bublé is being thawed out just in time to croon the rest of the playlist.

As the holiday hits flow through the kitchen, my children adhere to another ritual . . . interrogating me about all of the yuletide cheer.

“What’s up with all of this CHRISTMAS music, Dad?” my eleven-year-old daughter posed one Saturday morning over a leisurely spread of pancakes, Nutella and Ed’s Favorite Gravlax.

“Well, you know, the great majority of Christmas songs were composed by Jews,” I proudly retorted.

“Really?” inquired my eight-year-old son (aha!  I had landed a captive audience!).  “Like who?”

“Where do we even BEGIN!!!”, I quipped, rubbing my hands together in bwah-ha-ha excitement.  “For starters there’s The Christmas Song (formally known as “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire”) by Mel Torme.”

“Wow!” both of them resolved.  Sensing their enthusiasm I pressed forward, chuffed full of confidence.

“And then there’s “Let It Snow” by Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne,” I noted.  “Not to mention “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” and “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” both written by Johnny Marks.” 

“Wu-doph!  Wu-doph!” my two-year-old son shrieked. 

“Yes!!! Wu-doph indeed!” I confirmed, nearly spilling my mug of coffee in excitement.  “And we mustn’t forget “Walkin’ in a Winter Wonderland” composed by Felix Bernard and his capable gentile co-writer Richard B. Smith!”

As I dug through my grey matter for more tribally-penned holiday hits I noticed my eldest children losing interest.  My wife stole a glance at me that denoted a “quit while you’re ahead” vibe.  Cluelessly unfazed by her warning, I continued dispensing invaluable trivia to our children.

“And if you want to spice things up a bit, how about “Santa Baby” by Joan Javits and Phil Springer.

Now our two-year-old began to back away slowly, like a student in the back of the class locating the exit door.  My audience waning, I broadened the scope of my lesson in desperation. 

“And we need not limit ourselves to Christmas music my darlings!”, I pleaded. “Bob Dylan! Simon AND Garfunkel!  Carole King who gifted us with the miracle that is “Tapestry”! For heaven’s sake, Drake!”

My wife issued another glance from over the rising steam of her tea mug.  This one a warning that I have brazenly jumped the shark from over “mildly amusing Dad” to “annoying, irrelevant curmudgeon.”

Sigh. 

Fortunately, this time of the year offers another tradition free from the judgement of my family.  It is now that I like to take stock of all of the books I’ve enjoyed over the past 12 months.  My mother, who kept a vast library throughout her life, urged me to read widely, mostly because it was fun, cool and a nice way to help me stay focused. I’ve always looked for well-read friends and family to help light the way to great titles, and fortunately I have no shortage of them.  There is my friend and mentor in Seattle who turned me onto Jill Lapore.  A clever friend in Singapore issues early reviews on the latest Niall Furgeson tomb.  A wise, old uncle-like figure here in Tokyo sends along hard copies of the timeless wisdom of Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks. 

My ultimate source of great books is a kind of year-in-review book club, dutifully curated by another mentor back in Seattle.  Each year they survey a broad range of thinkers, doers and a few lackeys like me, ultimately sharing the top picks across the group.  After devouring “Code Breaker”, “One Billion Americans” and “If/Then” from the 2020 list, I stumbled across a work with an outlandish title: “The Subtle Art of Not Given a F*ck”.  As the paper of record noted, potty-mouth Marketing is a cheap trick, and it certainly worked to get my attention.  Furthermore, it had garnered multiple thumbs ups from the venerable book club, so I added it to my Kindle and tucked in to see what all the fuss was about.

Written as a kind of navigational guide out of the mind-blowing naivete of young adulthood and into the comfortable-in-your-own-skin years of early middle age, “The Subtle Art” advises an inward approach to happiness.  It is easy to be blown off course by the noisey winds of what the cool kids are doing on the Insta or the Twitter or the Tickity-o-Tock.  But if you make the effort to take stock of what’s really going on inside of you, you just might find that precious signal of what makes you truly happy.

The book goes on to issue a logical warning; doing the things that matter to you might not make others around you happy, comfortable or “cool with that.” Hence, the reasonable title of “ . . . not giving a f*ck.”  You might offend strangers.  You will probably vex friends and loved ones.  But you will not disappoint yourself.  

As I read through The Subtle Art I experienced a profound sense of deja vu.  Over the course of my life I have taken painstaking measures to please those around me (note to self for further study, perhaps that’s why I do so well in Japan?).  Was there some past life in which I was a stone-cold liberatarian, marauding the earth in search of opportunities to offend peasants and landed gentry alike?   Hmmmm.

Meditating upon this, I came to the epiphany that while I was no master (past or present) of not giving a f*ck, I was related to someone who was.  Indeed, my father personified this creed in a rather charming, occasionally offensive way.  The examples were abundant.

On a family holiday in Bali a few years back we found ourselves enjoying an amazing lunch in Ubud at a quaint palapa restaurant.  There was a nice pool steps away from our table, and as I sipped my icy-cold Bintang Lager I thought how gratifying it would be to go for a dip.  Pity that none of us had brought our swim kits.  Squinting through the mid-day sun I observed a portly, jovial man, wading around in the pool in his birthday suit.  His REI travel vestments lying on the side of the pool, my exhibitionist father beckoned the rest of us to join him.  We had little time to refuse given that we were helping to resuscitate the kind waitress who nearly fainted at the disturbing sight. 

On another vacation in the Wasatch Mountains we again found ourselves taking in the ease and pleasure of a mid-day meal, this time on the view deck of a fancy hotel.  As plates of biscotti and accompanying coffees arrived my father wandered off to a small amusement area near the restaurant.  The play area had a kind of horseshoes game, only instead of horseshoes there were bean bags.  He began to carefully inspect the heavy bean bags in his hands (imagine  Indiana Jones weighing out just the right amount to replace that Golden Idol in the first film).  Having found two bean bags that seemed to be to his liking, my father calmly placed them in his hiking rucksack.  

“Neill Brownstein, WHAT do you think you are doing!?!?,” my wife yelled while I smiled in the background, feeling very happy for marrying a woman who could scold my father.

“Well I’m glad you asked!” my father rejoined, a giddy smile spread across his face.  “We have this African safari trip coming up next month, and I need something to steady my 100-400 camera lens while I photograph the wildlife.  These bean bags will be perfect for that.”

“And will you be adding those bean bags to the lunch bill at this hotel?” inquired my wife, her dander now up. “Or, did you plan to just walk off with them???”

“Oh I doubt the hotel would really mind,” my father quipped.  “Anyway, that’s their problem isn’t it?”

There are examples ad nauseam beyond holidays.  Cutting to the front of the take out line on Sunday nights at Chef Chu’s (much to the chagrin of more patient patrons).  Waving and smiling to other motorists while he cuts into a lane. Persistently interrupting my beloved stepmom when she is speaking. Or, worse, persistently changing the topic when she is speaking usually with the subtle segway of “ . . . whatever.  That’s not important.  Let’s change the subject.” Arriving late for social engagements, especially with friends who value punctuality. The list goes on.

Recently, I returned to California to spend time with my American family. Floating between Tokyo and San Francisco, once an afterthought of globalization, was now a special treat.  After a heartfelt embrace at SFO and a pilgrimage to Peet’s Coffee for a sentimental cup of Major D’s, my father and I proceeded to drive up to San Francisco.  We arrived at the remarkable UCSF Precision Care Campus in China Basin to spend time with a loved one who was undergoing treatment. 

As it was mid-day, the parking lot was full upon our arrival.  While other cars circle about like sharks in search of lunch, my father rather abruptly parked his ancient 7-series BMW in the very middle of the parking lot and shut down the engine.  Surprised by an ensuing traffic jam inside the parking lot, a blue Tesla pulled around us, its pilot issuing a judgy glance in our direction.

“Dad, what are you doing?” I denoted.  “This is a parking lot, not a drive-in movie theater.”

“Well, Aj, I’m just doing what Leonard Kleinrock would do in this situation,” my dad quipped, casting his eye across the horizon of parked cars.

Now a grey Tesla glided past us, actually honking their horn.

“Who the f*ck is Leonard Kleinrock, Dad?”, I asked.  “And will you start the car and circle around please???”

“All the world is a queue, Aj,” my father retorted in a calm and measured tone. “Leonard Kleinrock is the principal architect of Queuing Theory.  I’m surprised you were unaware of that given your passion for operational research.”

“I’m AWARE that if you don’t move this car soon, you will have a posse of aggrieved Tesla owners seeking to give you a beat down right here in this parking lot, or worse, on Twitter.”

Unfazed by my trivial rantings, my father elucidated his master plan to park the car. 

“Queuing Theory informs us that by remaining in the middle of the parking lot we augment the probability of a positive outcome, notably finding a parking space.  Right now we have better access to more potential open spaces than any of these clueless buffoons looping around us,” he explained. 

Just as I was about to really lose it, something unexpected and rather delightful happened.  Right in front of us the calming white lights of yet another Tesla illuminated.  The driver, a UCSF medical professional clad in scrubs and a fleece vest, waved cheerfully at us and proceeded to back out.  As we parked, I recalled the salient wisdom of The Subtle Art and the master class on the subject my father had just gifted me with in the parking lot of a hospital. 

“Dad, who was the father of Queuing Theory again?” I inquired, my tone now soft and inquisitive and filled with the joy of knowing you have a wonderful parent.

“Leonard Kleinrock at UCLA, Aj,” he imparted.  “But that’s not really interesting, is it?  Let’s change the subject!  Tell me about life in TOKYO!!!”