Ecstatic and overwhelmed, I raced over to tell my buddy Paul, who lived in a garden apartment around the corner from me in Randallstown. He opened the door, looking a bit grim-faced, as I blurted out my news. “Have you seen the TV news yet today?” he asked. “The space shuttle exploded. All the people on board are dead.”

That was my first real life lesson that a) the world is a lot bigger than just me, and b) the latest news (personal or otherwise) can be eclipsed by something far more profound in mere seconds. It’s a fickle universe, and especially today with the information technology revolution and news dissemination operating at breakneck speed, our lives often seem to be swirling in some sort of existential blender.

Since then, I’ve covered nearly every story imaginable for the JT, from zoning meetings and talks by Soviet refuseniks to breaking news about arsons and hate crimes at shuls to controversial neighborhood patrols and death row inmates. I’ve written articles about Holocaust survivors and interfaith relations, of heroes and quirky characters, about spirituality (or the lack thereof) in contemporary congregational life, about Israel and the challenges of sustaining Zionism in American Jewish life.

I even had the opportunity to travel to Louisiana in 2005 and chronicle Jewish communal rescue efforts in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.

And I’ll never, ever forget the sight of empty plates dotting the landscape on Reisterstown Road after the blaze at the old Suburban House, left there by older patrons who exited the building still noshing.

There’s not enough space here to reminisce about all of the stories I’ve written for the JT. Don’t worry, I’ll spare you.

But even more than the articles, what’s given me the greatest pleasure has been getting to know the people who live, work and give their life’s blood for this community. They are what makes Jewish Baltimore special. They value community in a way that may be unlike any other Jewish community in North America.

Oh yes, they can be a vexing, demanding bunch. Over the years, we’ve often half-joked here about how our readers feel that the JT isn’t owned by any particular family or business group, but by them. When something appears in the paper that comes off as inappropriate, inaccurate, demeaning or just plain dopey, they often let us know in a frank, no-holds-barred way.

Trust me, I’ve done my share of listening to incensed readers. But that sense of “ownership” and entitlement is what’s made working here so incredibly rewarding and enriching.

I’m leaving the JT after 26 amazing years here. I take with me wonderful, poignant memories and a wealth of meaningful knowledge and insights.

But the most gratifying aspect of this job has always been serving the readers and community. You’ve allowed me to come into your homes, neighborhoods, workplaces and shuls, to help tell the ever unfolding story of Jewish Baltimore. You’ve opened your hearts and souls to me, to share your tragedies and triumphs. And I will always be grateful.

An amiable Social Security retiree and amateur genealogist who lives in Pikesville with his wife, Mical, Larry first heard about what he’s dubbed “the Morstein Torah” from his bubbie in the late ’70s. It was a sefer Torah that his great-grandfather Harry Morstein commissioned while visiting Palestine in 1927-1928. Harry, a Ukrainian Jewish immigrant who owned several movie theaters in Baltimore, was an inveterate traveler and a flamboyant personality. He had the Torah shipped to Baltimore and gifted to the old Agudas Achim Synagogue in Lower Park Heights, to which he belonged.

In 1983, fueled by curiosity, Larry decided to locate the Torah. He learned that Agudas Achim had merged with Randallstown Synagogue Center on Church Lane. The spiritual leader there, the late Rabbi Israel O. Goldberg, helped him find the Torah, which featured the name of his great-grandfather inscribed in Hebrew into the wooden handle holding the scroll. “It was in perfect condition,” Larry recalls. “I’ve never seen another Torah like it. It was so identifiable and distinctive.”

Over the years, Larry thought about the Torah occasionally. Last year, his sister, Eileen Samberg, visited from Massachusetts and happened to ask about it, re-igniting Larry’s interest. Initially, he inquired about the Torah at Moses Montefiore Anshe Emunah Hebrew Congregation, which at one time was located on Church Lane, too. The folks at MMAE told him they had no records of the Morstein Torah.

When learning that Agudas Achim was never part of MMAE but Randallstown Synagogue—and the latter shul disbanded about eight years ago—Larry contacted Rabbi Leonard Oberstein, former spiritual leader of Randallstown Synagogue. Rabbi Oberstein said the shul donated its Torahs to different synagogues and Jewish schools in need of sifrei Torahs. But he said there are no records of where they were sent. Larry also checked with the Jewish Museum of Maryland about possible leads on the Morstein Torah, but the JMM doesn’t keep records on such matters.

That’s why Larry, 65, who in his “retirement” has a side business of antiques dealing and chair caning, recently called the Baltimore Jewish Times. “I once found it and it seems I’ve lost it again,” he says of the Morstein Torah.

Larry, who grew up at Baltimore Hebrew Congregation but doesn’t belong to a shul these days, says he doesn’t want to find the Torah for spiritual reasons. He’s not looking to acquire or claim it, or write it off on his taxes. He simply looks at the Torah as a special connection to the great-grandfather he never knew, a man known for hobnobbing with Hollywood stars and being a schmoozer and bon vivant of the highest order.

Like many of us, he has an unquenchable thirst to know more about the family members that came before him. “This is part of my family lore,” Larry said. “And it has disappeared.”
Larry requests that anyone who has information about the Morstein Torah contact him at LaurenzoC@aol.com. “When I find it, I’ll put it in my family genealogy,” he says. “This is a mystery. But if find it, I won’t lose it again.”

When the time arrived for questions from the audience, one gentleman stood up. The passage of time obscures his exact words, but the man basically said something to the effect that it seemed highly inappropriate and offensive that the JCC would bring the AIDS Quilt to a Jewish institution, since he said the Torah expressly forbids homosexuality. When the organizers asked him to sit down, the man steadfastly refused and continued to pose the question, over and over. Eventually, as the rest of us watched in utter amazement, the man was literally picked up by the then-executive director of the JCC and the head of another Jewish agency and carried out of the building, kicking and screaming.

What seemed innocuous to the rest of us—the AIDS Quilt, a symbol of loss and hope, bearing the names of victims of an epidemic—to this man was the manifestation of just about everything wrong in the world. He simply didn’t want to see it at his JCC.

But times do change.

Recently, I saw a notice that among its summer programs, the JCC—this time in Owings Mills—is offering a discussion session in June for parents and friends of people who are lesbian, gay, bisexual, questioning or transgender.

Like I said, times do change. And what was once alien or unusual to us is now, for the most part, commonplace.

When he first came to Baltimore from New York in 1960, my dad used a public bathroom downtown. He suddenly heard a big commotion, to find a cop beating up a man in the bathroom. The man’s “crime” was that he was born African-American. It turns out my dad, a native New Yorker, had wandered into a “whites-only” restroom and received a firsthand lesson in segregation-era Baltimore.

It’s easy to talk the talk, it’s another to walk the walk. Recently, I heard from an old friend, a woman I haven’t seen in two decades who moved from Baltimore to California. It turns out she at some point decided that she was living a lie and decided to become a he.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was a bit blown away with this development. After all, we’re not talking about someone just switching shuls or making a job change. But I wrote back and said I was glad he was doing well and would love to catch up over a beer the next time he was in town. And by the tone of his response, I could tell my acceptance meant a lot to him.

These issues coming before us as individuals and as a society are not easy ones. They require struggle and contemplation. But what’s important is being open and welcoming to these folks. Because someday, our discomfort will seem as antiquated and inane as a “whites-only” bathroom.

Downstairs in front of the courthouse, I didn’t see any protesters, just TV cameras and some cops. So I knew it wasn’t going to the L.A. riots of ’92. But I also knew that a racially-charged case like this, coming so soon on the heels of the Trayvon Martin case in Florida, could prove to be a volatile situation if folks on either side of the aisle were vehemently displeased with the verdict.

So opening that chamber door, I knew the courtroom would probably be packed with media people, black and Orthodox activists, clergy, family members, attorneys, concerned citizens, etc. But I wasn’t sure what the mood in the air would be.

To my surprise, there was an air of civility and respect that filled the courtroom. Not to sound too “We Are The World,” but I saw African-Americans schmoozing with frum and secular Jews, laughing and discussing matters not even related to the case. I’m not saying it was like a country picnic, but you would’ve never known that the verdict was about to be announced for a divisive case that has chilled relations between African-Americans and Jews in this town.

I made my way through the courtroom—only a half-hour before Judge Pamela J. White cleared Avi Werdesheim of all charges but found Eliyahu guilty of false imprisonment and second-degree assault (although cleared of carrying a deadly weapon with intent to injure) – and found a seat next to a woman I didn’t know.

After a few pleasantries, I learned she was Tessa Hill-Aston, president of the Baltimore City branch of the NAACP. A longtime educator and activist, Tessa spoke to me about how the wheels of justice should’ve turned more quickly in this case (something probably most local African-Americans and Jews would agree on), and then about her organization. We discovered we had several people in common, and she was delighted when I told her I grew up in the Gwynn Oak-Woodlawn area, which is where she lives.

A proud Forest Park High School graduate, Tessa told me she’s had Jewish friends all her life and still keeps in touch with old pals from Forest Park. She asked me if I was old enough to remember Gwynn Oak Amusement Park. Old enough? I told her my family’s timeworn story about when as a 4-year-old, I ran away from home because I wanted to go to Gwynn Oak. After learning I couldn’t get on the rides without a ticket, I came back home in a police squad car. (But that’s another story.)

Tessa had a good laugh about that story and informed me that her son – now 30 and like me an alum of Powhatan Elementary School – sort of did the same thing, playing hooky from school with a buddy to catch fish and worms in a stream at the park. (Ironically, he now works for the Baltimore City Bureau of Water & Wastewater.)

In the midst of these anecdotes and revelry, a member of the sheriff’s office came into the courtroom and bluntly told us all to clam up, because the judge was coming. But I couldn’t help but think how my conversation with Tessa, as well as the other exchanges going on in that courtroom, is the true heart of black-Jewish relations, not these incidents that occasionally arise and (with the assistance of carnivorous fanatics, lawyers, media and politicians) threaten to tear us apart.

That’s where true relations begin and end – out of the glare of the spotlight.

Of course, the testimonials for the legendary, hard-charging Wallace are ubiquitous right now, as they should be, given his profound impact on contemporary journalism, broadcast and print.

Here’s my own little reminiscence of him.

Back in March 1987, when I was a cub reporter for the BALTIMORE JEWISH TIMES, “60 Minutes” did a controversial piece on the status of Jews in the former Soviet Union that was denounced by several national Jewish organizations as being highly imbalanced and distorted. Remember, these were the days when leading American Jewish activists were routinely being arrested outside of the Soviet embassy in D.C. Former refuseniks speaking about the harsh treatment and persecution of Jews in the FSU were a common sight in Baltimore and other Jewish communities around the nation. The liberation of our brethren living under communist totalitarian rule was a unifying mission among American Jews of all denominations and stripes.

The “60 Minutes” piece, now largely forgotten, was condemned by major American Jewish groups for depicting life for Soviet Jews as being fairly pleasant and upbeat, save for those pesky, troublemaking refuseniks.

My editor at that time, Sherwood Kohn, assigned me to write a story about the controversy and even suggested I call Mike Wallace, who anchored and reported the segment. Initially, I felt that Sherwood’s suggestion to call Wallace had no merit whatsoever, that I might as well try to climb Mount Everest barefoot in a half-hour. But wisely, I kept my feelings to myself and called CBS in New York.

“`60 Minutes,’ please,” I said to the receptionist there who answered the phone. (Remember, this was back in the days when human beings actually answered phones at companies and corporations.)

A few seconds later, I said to the “60 Minutes” receptionist, “Mike Wallace, please.” To my great astonishment, about 10 seconds later, I heard, “Hi, this is Mike Wallace. Can I help you?”

I probably stuttered for a second or two – completely in shock that I was interviewing arguably the most famous and influential journalist of the latter half of the 20th century – and then I identified myself and my publication. Wallace couldn’t have been any kinder or more charming, probably noticing I was a bit young and nervous.

“Hi Alan, so nice to talk to you. Hope you’re doing well. Tell me about yourself and the BALTIMORE JEWISH TIMES.”

We spoke for about a minute about the JEWISH TIMES and its circulation and such, and then I explained to him why I was calling. Again, Wallace couldn’t have been more pleasant, even though I was calling to say that the leaders of American Jewry were really steamed with him (born Myron Leon Wallik to Russian Jewish immigrant parents) and his piece, even to the point of calling him a traitor.

Calmly and thoughtfully, Wallace defended the piece as well-researched and balanced, noting that he and the producers had intermittently spent six months on the project to make sure it was done right and thoroughly. “To say this story wasn’t well-researched or [was] one-sided is absurd,” he said. “This was done with a lot of care. I don’t think there was any distortion or lack of balance.”

When I pointed out to him that many Soviet observers strongly felt the piece completely bought into the Kremlin party line that Jews were treated quite well there – maybe in my naivete I was trying to “out-Mike Wallace” Mike Wallace – the veteran reporter didn’t even flinch or balk for a moment.

“Why isn’t the other side of the story ever covered? I deplore the Soviet Union’s policy of denying exit visas,” he said. “But as a reporter, I try to find interesting stories and shed light on our society and world.”

As far as Jewish communal criticism of the segment, Wallace said, “We don’t calculate what effect a story has with our audience. That’s up to the public. We don’t anticipate or second-guess.”

In the long run, history might now take issue with Wallace and his segment’s depiction of a sanguine life for Jews in FSU. Maybe Mikhail Gorbachev and the boys in Moscow did somehow pull the wool over the characteristically jaded eyes of the planet’s best-known “gotcha” reporter.

But on a personal level, I’ll never forget Mike Wallace’s easygoing manner, grace and spirit of generosity toward a young, nervous reporter who couldn’t begin to fathom that he was merely chatting on the phone with one of the field’s true giants.

Working with the Jewish community here, of course, can be fun and intriguing, and it can be challenging and vexing at times. And sometimes, you get a good laugh when you need one. Here’s a sampling.

Yesterday, I got a phone call from a very nice woman who sounded like she was in her 30s or 40s. She said she had a great human interest story for me. “I’m not a writer myself, so I can’t write it for you,” she explained. “But maybe you or one of your people will be interested.”

She said that she’s an interior designer – not an interior decorator, she emphasized when correcting me later in the conversation – who lives in the Jones Valley area. She’s about to move to Florida and get out of “Smalltimore,” as she put it. (When I asked where she was moving to in the Sunshine State, she seemed a bit unsure – just that she was hitting the gas the minute she settled on the sale of her townhouse.)

Anyway, she told me that about 15 years ago, her mom had a friend whose adult son was—um, how should I put this? – rubbed out by the Russian Mafia. (Well, allegedly, anyway.) Seems this poor fellow, a popular local hairdresser, had fallen into substance abuse and hard times, thus running afoul with the nefarious immigrant underworld. (Is there any other kind of immigrant underworld?)

The caller and her mom were invited to go through his belongings, to see if there was anything they may want or need, since the bereaved family was probably going to give much of it away to charity. While going through all of the stuff in his place, the caller noticed a custom-designed egg, artfully hand-decorated and with a loving, personal inscription to the deceased from the artist. The caller decided to keep it, as a quirky, rather morbid tchotchke.

But, alas, here’s the problem. She’s now flying down South and fears that the egg will not survive the car journey, especially since it’s already starting to crack with the cruel passage of time. She’s trying to find a good home in “Smalltimore” for it, but so far has been quite unsuccessful.

“So why, may I ask, are you calling the Jewish Times?” I said to her. She merely giggled, cleared her throat and said, “Well, you never know, maybe someone wants this egg and will take it in and take good care of it. Maybe someone remembers him and wants it, for some reason. I don’t know what to do with it, and I thought it’s a cool story. This egg has a special history and value. It’s funny, you know?”

Hmmm.

As the caller herself might say, only in “Smalltimore.”

On this week’s cover of the BALTIMORE JEWISH TIMES, you’ll notice a grouping of our previous covers, some old and some fairly recent. At the center is a JT dating back to Feb. 13, 1953, with its cover partially showing a well-dressed lady chatting with a man driving a car with logos on the doors: “MD. SCHOOL FOR THE BLIND” and “DONATED BY THE FRIENDSHIP SISTERS I.O.B.S.”

Our cover story this week is about the JEWISH TIMES’ current legal and financial situation, something that’s received a great deal of community interest lately. I won’t get into that here, you’ll have to read the cover story package.

But I want to give you a little background on that particular issue from 1953—and that lady in the photo.

Until about seven years ago, I had an elderly next door neighbor who lived alone named Jeanne Goldberg. We always called her “Miss Jeanne.”

Miss Jeanne was a wonderful neighbor: friendly, pleasant, thoughtful, generous, and mainly kept to herself and lived her life. When my kids were born, she sent over gifts. When I shoveled snow from her driveway and cleared off her car, she always later sent over chocolates to show her appreciation.

Miss Jeanne was all class.

She lived a full, rich life. She had lots of friends and interests, and even belonged to a bowling league well into her 80s.

Unfortunately as she got older, it became increasingly difficult for her to maintain the house where she’d lived for 40 years and raised a family. She eventually decided to clean out her house, sell it and move in with her daughter, Doris.

But at one point, Miss Jeanne called and asked me to drop by her house. She had something for me, she said.

When I went over, she handed me a mint-copy JEWISH TIMES from 1953. The editorial that week, penned by managing editor Bert Kline, was about anti-Semitism in the former Soviet Union.

“I thought you would like this, since you work at the JEWISH TIMES,” Miss Jeanne said. I didn’t even know she knew where I worked. It never came up in conversation before.

Thumbing through the issue in utter amazement, I said, “Jeanne, why do you even have this?” She said, “That’s me,” and pointed to the lady chatting with the driver in the top right photo of the cover. “I belonged to the Friendship Sisters, so I was on the cover that week. I had it somewhere in the house for many years, forgot about it, and when I was cleaning out my stuff, I saw it and thought you would enjoy having it.”

She was right. A couple of days later, I brought the issue to work, left it on my desk and have shown it occasionally to people over the years.

Not too long after that, Miss Jeanne moved in with her daughter and passed away. The world lost a wonderful, gentle, kind soul.

Now fast-forward to earlier this week. Our art director, scrambling to put together a collage of images conveying the legacy and relevance of this publication, asked me if I happened to have any “loose” copies of old JTs. All of our back issues are bound in volumes in our storage area, and that would be hard to photograph independently and well. She needed a loose one, and it seemed no one had one available.

Immediately, I thought of Miss Jeanne’s copy in my office and gave it to the art director. This week, Miss Jeanne is again gracing the cover of the JT, albeit in a very different way.

But it seems to me appropriate that she’s on the cover, helping us out. After all, it was people like Miss Jeanne who helped make the JT what it is. They considered the paper an essential, integral part of their lives, read it voraciously every week, and took personal pride in the JT’s national reputation. They reported their weddings, kids’ births and other simchahs in the JT, not to mention the times when they were trying to do some good in the world (like the Friendship Sisters).

May that tradition go on for a long, long time to come.

May Miss Jeanne’s memory always be a blessing. And may the JT always be a relevant, authentic part of our lives.

After leaving the Pikes that evening (and watching in horror as that smarmy Richard Gere swept adorable, husky-voiced Debra off her feet), I immediately realized that I left my scarf in the theater, somewhere around the first or second row. Like I said earlier, it was a very chilly night, and back then I actually wore scarves. This was my favorite scarf. So I contemplated trekking back and begging an usher to be allowed inside to retrieve the scarf. But since it was late and the theater was likely closed, I bagged it and figured I’d return a few days later to pick up the scarf.

When I did so, however, I discovered that the Pikes had closed – for good, as a movie house.

So much for my scarf. And Debra Winger.

Of course, since then the historic Pikes has reopened in a multitude of fashions – as a kosher bistro, as an Italian-themed restaurant and as a diner. Owner Will Reich has worked hard to make the Pikes Diner a fun and unique dining experience, and he’s been a strong backer of revitalizing downtown Pikesville in the post-Suburban House era.

Now, as reported by Rochelle Eisenberg in this week’s Jewish Times, Reich is attempting to transform Pikesville’s nightlife – “What nightlife?” you ask—by showcasing live music at the Pikes.

With the paucity of live music venues in Northwest Baltimore, this is an idea that merits kudos and applause. For years, I’ve heard people kvetch bitterly about having to schlep downtown or to D.C. to hear live music or for some vibrant nightlife. Years ago, I even wrote a column about how synagogues and temples in the area should host post-Havdalah coffeehouse shows and live music performances at their facilities, as many with-it churches do on Saturday nights.

Everyone I spoke to about this matter heartily agreed with me, but nobody did anything. Zilch. Sometimes it feels like it’s easier for us all to complain than to actually follow up on decent, fairly obvious ideas.

It seems that Reich is putting his thoughts into action, recruiting live entertainment acts for after-dinner performances on weekends. Since January, the Pikes has featured such fine local bands as the Rube Goldberg Solution, Mister Wilson, JD and the Blades, Heads Up, and Shinola.

And lo and behold, people are coming in droves. Naturally, Reich is taking this on to help his business, but it’s also reminding people that downtown Pikesville is still a viable place to visit, shop, enjoy and maybe even be entertained.

Who knows, maybe other businesses in P-ville will open on weekend nights and give Reich a little run for his money and help build a reputation for Pikesville as a go-to place? Having a vibrant nightlife center would only benefit everyone in the area (except, possibly, those poor teenagers who might cringe at the sight of their parents “dancing” to classic rock tunes).

Let’s hope that Will Reich is on to something.

Now if I could only find my scarf.

Now, I still find that to generally be the case, even though I’m a good distance from being characterized as remotely young anymore.

Recently, I went to Beth Tfiloh Synagogue to cover a talk given by Wall Street Journal reporter Lucette Lagnado on her new book “The Arrogant Years,” about growing up in Cairo and Brooklyn. The talk was absolutely fascinating, Lagnado was delightful, and BT’s Epstein Chapel was packed.

But still, frankly speaking, hardly a young person – or even a moderately young person – was anywhere in sight.

I hear this from people in the local Jewish community all the time. “I went to the such-and-such lecture, and I was the youngster person in the auditorium by a long shot.” Not long ago, my wife and a friend went to Chizuk Amuno Synagogue to hear Dr. Gershon Baskin discuss the clandestine talks that went on between Israel and Hamas to free abducted Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit.

She told me that the talk was mesmerizing, but she and her friend were a bit surprised to be among the youngest in the room.

By the way, this is meant as no screed against the older generation, who tend to be more compelled by profound issues and intellectually-oriented discussions and are willing to come to these events. Unlike my generation and the generations coming up, they’re the ones that really keep dialogue and discourse thriving. God bless ‘em.

But I’ve been to New York, D.C. and other towns. I’ve gone to hear speakers at different venues in those cities, and I’ve seen young people come out in droves. I know young people are truly interested in matters other than the newest reality show bimbo, what happened on “American Idol” last night, and video games.

Nobody has ever been able to adequately explain to me why the Jewish under-55 set in Charm City tends to avoid intelligent and informative community talks and events at all costs. Is it all about marketing? Admission fees? Busy careers? A lack of curiosity or time? High gasoline prices? Mass apathy? All of the above?

I always thought that as time moved on (and I myself grew older), I’d see a change as people mature and evolve and get more interested in weightier topics. Of course when you’re in your 20s, you’re usually thinking about members of the opposite sex, creating an identity for yourself, members of the opposite sex, forging a career for yourself, members of the opposite sex, etc. (You get the picture.)

But now that we’re older, we can’t all be home reading books by Kierkegaard, can we? Why are we less willing to take out the time to stimulate our minds in a communal setting than our predecessors?

The question remains, post-Boomers, where are ye?

Lately, Holocaust survivor and Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel and other Jewish leaders have wasted their collective breath condemning proxy ritual ceremonies conducted by Mormons to posthumously baptize Jews. (Unfortunately, I seriously doubt anyone’s listening over in Utah.)

The latest victim of this bizarre practice? Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter who was kidnapped and savagely executed by terrorists in Pakistan a decade ago this month.

Seems that Pearl was baptized by proxy last June at a Mormon temple in Twin Falls, Idaho, according to the Boston Globe.

This news comes in the same month it was learned that the parents of Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal were recently baptized posthumously by those pesky, tenacious Mormons. Also, Anne Frank was posthumously baptized earlier this month, and the names of Wiesel’s father and grandfather were found to have been submitted for proxy baptisms.

OK, in the United States, there are nearly six million adherents to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Internationally, there are nearly 13 million of ‘em.

Really, do they need to recruit a handful of Jews in the hereafter? Don’t they enough members, living and deceased? What kind of religion is this, anyway? Is it like Facebook, where you want to snag as many “Friends” as possible?

Not surprisingly Daniel Pearl’s parents, Judea and Ruth, told the Globe that learning of the proxy baptism was “disturbing news.”

“He lived as a proud Jew, died as a proud Jew and is currently facing his creator as a Jew, blessed, accepted and redeemed,” they stated. “For the record, let it be clear: Danny did not choose to be baptized, nor did his family consent to this uncalled-for ritual.”

Even Pearl’s French-born widow, Mariane, a Buddhist herself, called the baptism “a lack of respect for Danny and a lack of respect for his parents.” She joined Wiesel in calling for Mitt Romney, the world’s most famous Mormon (next to Donny & Marie), to apologize on behalf of the church.

Well, I’m not sure you can really expect ol’ Mitt—who’s pretty busy these days—to apologize for the policies and actions of his church. That’s a little like asking JFK to apologize for the Catholic Church’s pre-Vatican II policies, or Joe Lieberman to apologize for Adam Sandler movies.

But here’s the thing. Yes, it’s patently gross, insulting and offensive that Mormons indulge in this kind of behavior. We’ve been dealing with it for decades now. But on the other hand, it’s almost too ridiculous and inane to get too bent out of shape about.

I have this running argument with a good friend of mine. He can’t stand that fundamentalist Christians believe that he and every other Jew (and all non-Christians, for that matter) is going to hell because they refuse to be saved. It drives him nuts, and it also makes him meshugah that it doesn’t keep me tossing and turning at night.

My feeling about it is, if that’s how they feel, fine. I know who I am and what I am. They can talk as long as they want—just as long as they’re not rounding anyone up.

And that’s how I feel about the Mormons and their ridiculous, eccentric, ghoulish retro-proxy nonsense. If they wanna try and get me after I check out, that’s cool. Give it a whirl.

Just keep out of my face ‘til then.