Los Angeles

by A M Homes

  MS. HOMES: Did you ever think of becoming a rabbi?

  DR. KOGEN: No, but people have suggested that to me several times. What’s interesting is that I didn’t have such a strong religious background. I’d feel uncomfortable, I’d want to leave the bris right away because I feared people would ask me questions. But I’ll never forget my first bris. First of all, do I charge them? Is that fair? I’ve never done one before. And secondly, do I tell them this is my first bris? So the first call came in—they got me off the list from the temple. And they didn’t bother asking how long I’ve been doing this, how many have I done, they just said show up. I said fine. And then came the next question, what’s your fee? Well, I had to charge them a minimal amount, so I charged them the minimal amount. I show up and, much to my consternation, I walk into a room filled with macho Israeli guys and an Israeli family. I was twenty-six at the time, and I was thinner and younger and I happened to look young for twenty-six. And these guys immediately surrounded me. And they’re all laughing. You’re the doctor! And the mohel! You are too young to be a doctor and mohel! What is this, your first bris? And they’re all laughing. I go, “As a matter of fact, it is!” They thought I was laughing because I was joking. I was laughing because I was so terrified. I was shaking so much during the circumcision, I had to keep my elbow in my stomach just to steady my hand. Afterwards, immediately they said, you want a drink? Yeah, I’d like a shot of vodka! It was a terrifying experience. It takes years to really become competent. Because, as opposed to a residency where you’re following an established doctor, your professor, and there’s a constant patient flow where you get to kind of hone your skills, as a mohel, there’s nothing like that. Six months later I’m in a big mansion in Bel Air and everyone there is an attorney from Beverly Hills, and the grandparents insist on telling me they’re all attorneys, you better not screw up, and there are three rabbis there who flew in from New York. And half of them are producers and directors. And I was terrified.

  MS. HOMES: What do you do when you’re terrified?

  DR. KOGEN: Well, there’s nothing you can do. You’ve got to go for it, unless you quit. I had a colleague who was an obstetrician gynecologist in Beverly Hills, and she was performing her first bris … she’s ready to do the actual cut, and she reaches over and notices that she forgot the scalpel blade. And she stops everything, goes in her bag, and starts looking around in there, and brought no blade. They had to take scissors, or a knife from the kitchen, and do the final cut. And she said, that was it. She came back three times, four times, made sure the baby didn’t get infected, and never did a bris again. It’s just terrifying. Because most doctors are used to doing an operation in a hospital, which is a very secure, comfortable setting. They have a lot of backup, they close the door, they’re in the operating suite, they want more light, less light, music. They want some extra hands, grab an extra nurse, more supplies, move the table up, move the table down, change the lighting, give me hot or cold, is it hot in here, too cold? I’ll tell you something. A bris can be an unbelievably powerful thing, and I get letters from families who say that they’ll never forget it. If it’s done with the right attitude—it can be a powerful, wonderful experience.

  MS. HOMES: One of the things you were saying before was how it really is a sort of bloodletting, tribal, male-bonding thing.

  DR. KOGEN: It absolutely is, if you step back and look at the essence of it. It is a bloodletting. It is something that has been done, prior to the Jews, by African tribes and cultures. Egyptians, Phoenicians, used to do it on adolescents. And even the Muslims, in the first year, and usually between the ages of nine and thirteen. And clearly it’s a bloodletting. It’s tribal. It identifies you as born into the tribe. What’s remarkable about it is here we are, year 2001, the beginning of the millennium, and we’re performing something that is thousands of years old … in context. More importantly, in context in L.A. Where much is cutting-edge.

  MS. HOMES: No pun intended!

  DR. KOGEN: No pun intended. I’m sorry. Cutting-edge cultural, fashion, media, everything. Convenience. Los Angeles, in many ways, is the genesis point for the world. And here I am, with the people who are working in this area. And not just L.A., San Francisco. I’m taking care of half the people at Oracle. But yet, when we get down to it, I’ll be doing a bris at the Beverly Hills Hotel, at the Four Seasons Hotel, the owners of the hotel are there, it’s their grandchild. Everyone is as polished, as refined, and as elegant, as worldly and as sophisticated as possible. There are hundreds of people showing up, limousines pulling up, valet parking, full catered event, live band, orchestra, everything else. And we’re all sitting around, standing around this poor little baby, cutting off the end of his penis. It’s unbelievable! It really is unbelievable!

  MS. HOMES: One of the things you talked about before was that sometimes you’re doing this for a family that isn’t a Beverly Hills family. How would you describe the difference between the two?

  DR. KOGEN: The ceremonies that I like best have nothing to do with the theatrical or the people, in terms of their financial status or their power status. To me it is purely the essence of the family themselves. If it’s a loving, emotionally-connected, respectful ceremony, respectful of themselves, their child, and me—because sometimes they’re actually quite disrespectful to me and what I’m trying to accomplish—then I’m thrilled. I don’t care who they are, as long as the ceremony rises to the point that I hope it rises to. I look at myself as the person who lays the foundation. I do the best I can, I work hard at it. I’m very passionate about how it should be. I speak to people on the phone for hours, and I try to guide them to make the ceremony a thoughtful ceremony, but I can only go so far.

  MS. HOMES: What would be an example of their not being respectful? They’re just not getting the significance of it?

  DR. KOGEN: Here’s a kind of interesting example of the difference between quote, the more middle-class or more average individual versus the more sophisticated and wealthy. I find that in general, the people who are more average—more average, that’s such a poor term, I don’t really like that term—they tend to spend more time and energy and more emotional focus on the oneon-one, and what the needs are to do a safe and proper ceremony. I find that those who are in the more upper echelons spend much more time worrying about the caterer, the setting, flower arrangements, renting the tables, and making sure that the bar is well stocked. So I would show up to a multimillion-dollar mansion in Bel Air, and even though I’ve talked to these people over and over again, and they’ve reassured me they’ll take care of my needs, and I walk in … and nothing I asked for has been taken care of. However, I look around, and they’ve got the caterer running around setting up, they’ve got a full staff. So it’s not as though they don’t have the money or the wherewithal to get someone to help them follow my instructions, they just don’t take what I need seriously. And it changes my whole mood. At that point I become the angry mohel. I find that that’s much less common in the more average family; they really follow my instructions and take it to heart. Sometimes I wonder why the extremely wealthy individuals even do it. They do it because they feel it’s necessary, but there seems to be no connection to it.

  MS. HOMES: Are they less spiritual, or less religious, do you think?

  DR. KOGEN: I think in terms of the central connection to the emotional element of it, sometimes they seem more disconnected. I don’t know what comes first, the chicken or the egg. Whether or not they are the more successful ones because they have that emotional disconnect, or they become more emotionally disconnected as they become more successful. … You know, the entertainers, especially in this town, they get an award for everything. I mean everyone’s kissing their tuchus. They’re performing something and I’m thinking, they have twenty million takes, they can do it over and over again, different angles. They’ve got a support structure up the wazoo, painting them and coloring them and lighting them and this and that. They’ve got the teleprompters. And as a mo
hel, there’s none of that. And there’s no reward. There’s no Christmas; Hanukkah time we get our apples or our gifts. There’s no awards banquet, there’s no retirement banquet. There’s none of that. I have another issue, particularly in this town. I get a phone call from the assistant.

  MS. HOMES: Right.

  DR. KOGEN: “Hi, this is Larry, I’m so-and-so’s assistant. Are you Dr. Kogen?” Yes. “Well, so-and-so’s having a baby, and they would like you to be the mohel at the bris. We have it scheduled …” They already have it scheduled. They don’t even know if I’m available and I can do it, but they’ve already taken care of it. And then I’ll say okay, and who’s so-and-so, and then they’ll give me the name, and I say well, okay, and I do the paperwork. I’m filling out the database with their name, just like a medical report, and saying, What do they do? And basically you hear a pause, and then you hear … “[breathes deeply] Well, they happen to be the president of Columbia TriStar,” or whatever. And I’ll say, “You know, in all due respect, Larry, if they’re not a rabbi, I don’t know who they are!” Why would I know them? And that always becomes a nightmare, because the assistants protect their clientele. I asked one family, you want me to circumcise the kid, what’s the address? And they said, we can’t give that out. And I said first of all it’s a medical chart, nobody’s going to see this, I’m not going to put this on CNN. And second of all, I’m supposed to go there. So when I’m there, don’t you think I’ll know where it is? It’s classic. So I’ve performed ceremonies in eight states. I get flown to Vegas quite often. I’ve performed on tennis courts, with red carpets, live band, live music, professional photographer, professional videographers. And also, I’ve given a bris where they were deaf, they had to sign it all the whole time. I’ve done brisses for interfaith, inter-race, single moms, I’ve had families who are gay males, two gay males. Interfaith gay males, who mixed their semen together in a test tube and inseminated a straight mom.

  MS. HOMES: Are there ever moments when you’re doing it, you think, Oh God, this isn’t going well, and you sort of wish everybody wasn’t watching?

  DR. KOGEN: The circumcision?

  MS. HOMES: Yeah.

  DR. KOGEN: No, not at this stage.

  MS. HOMES: How many do you think you’ve done at this point?

  DR. KOGEN: Approximately four thousand.

  MS. HOMES: So you’ve kind of got it down by now.

  DR. KOGEN: Recently I did a bris for a family. They lived in this unbelievable house in Beverly Hills. The father of the baby lived at his grandparents’ house. He was an architect in Mexico City, and he designed the home, and all these people flew in from Mexico City, and the Jews there are generally very, very wealthy, and the home was enormous. Just one of those unbelievable homes—I’ve been in a few, that’s what’s great about my job. It’s really incredible. There’s nothing quite like it. You have to understand something, it’s the only operation that’s an elective operation, not emergency, where a stranger comes in and thirty minutes later he’s doing it. Usually you know your doctor, you have an established relationship before the operation. In my case, I don’t meet these people. I walk in the door, and they’re handing me the most precious thing in the world, and I’m operating on it! On his penis! And all the issues that come with it. One father said to me, “My son’s going through this, I was wondering, before we get started and go out there, can you stick a needle in my penis, because I want to bond with my son, I want to feel the same thing.” And his wife just kind of looked at me like “Oh, another day with my husband. No big deal.” So he dropped his drawers. I said, “Come on, we gotta get going!” Took his penis, stuck a needle in it, pulled his drawers back up, packed up, and did the bris! So you know, it’s amazing. And that’s what I like about my work, is that I’m always in a new home, a new place. The traffic is terrible, horrible—that’s killing me. I’ll end up doing brisses in places like Modesto, Fresno, or southern Orange County, San Diego, I’ll do three ceremonies and then I’ll jump in a plane.

  MS. HOMES: Have you had parents faint?

  DR. KOGEN: I haven’t had parents faint. I’ve had other people pass out. Oh, I can tell you stories, funny stories about that. How many stories do you want?

  MS. HOMES: Well, I’m almost out of time.

  DR. KOGEN: There’s a lot to talk about. Do you want to meet again? I can make time. Do you want to go to a bris?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Do You Need to Be Validated?

  The easiest way to be in Los Angeles is to be here for work—it gives you a focus, something to do. I decide that while I am here, I should do a little work, L.A. style. I need a new film agent. I make a list of who I’m interested in and make a few calls.

  The initial decisions about who I’ll meet are based upon how quickly my initial call is returned—in L.A. anything over twenty minutes is not acceptable unless the person is under general anesthesia. And then on the follow-up—do they have any idea of who I am? Do they pronounce my name correctly? Do they call me A. M. or Anne? Do they ask what the A. M. stands for? And when the assistant faxes directions to the office, is my last name spelled correctly—without an “L”? It’s a set of basic indicators, but by no means definitive.

  The meetings go like this: The receptionist buzzes the agent’s assistant to tell them that I’m here. “It’ll just be a minute,” the receptionist says. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thanks,” I say and sit down in one of the black leather chairs. It is like the waiting room of an upscale outpatient surgery center—not only can we represent you, but we can also do a nice colonoscopy.

  The agent’s assistant comes out and introduces himself. The assistants are almost always male and almost always have a one-syllable name, Brad. Tad. Sad.

  If it’s a really big, high-end agency, the walls and corridors are covered with art, good art. I stop to look, recognizing most of the pieces immediately—the best of contemporary. “Interesting,” I say to the assistant as I’m being led down the hall. “That’s a Gregory Crewdson from his last show.” “Really,” Tad, Brad, Lad says, “how do you know that?” “I know the artist,” I say, “and that’s a Nan Goldin, and a Cindy Sherman, and a really nice Gursky.” “Wow,” the assistant says, his head whipping around as though I’ve sprayed the place with machine-gun fire. The assistant shows me into an empty room; either a spare office or conference room. “He’s just on a call and will be right with you—would you like something to drink? Coffee, water, Diet Coke?”

  “Fine, water then, thanks,” I say.

  The agent comes in. I’m Bob, or Ben, or Jonathan, and this is part of my team. Do you mind if Amanda, Jennifer, or Jersey sits in with us? The above named are young people, earnest, Ivy League but bottom of the class (with good connections). They come in carrying legal pads. They carry the pads as if they like the feel of carrying a legal pad, as if they like the words, “legal pad.” It makes them think they might be in law school, that they might have gotten into law school—if they’d applied. Throughout the meeting they take notes and never speak.

  The agent begins.

  “I read about your book.”

  “I read the reviews of your book.”

  “I heard I should read your book.”

  “Your book agent is fantastic, I love him.”

  “What does your book agent say about me?”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “Who do we have in common?”

  “Six degrees, always six degrees.”

  “Do I see you in this business?”

  “Are you willing to stop being a novelist to come out to California and live? Are you willing to give up everything and become one of us?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Do I look crazy?”

  “We’re all crazy, that’s what we’re doing here.”

  The agent performs and then he stops and waits for the applause.

  “So, whadda ya think?”

  I begin again, in an
other agency with another agent, in another office. This time it’s entirely a solo show.

  “Let me tell you about you.”

  “Let me tell you about myself.”

  “Is there anything you want to ask me?”

  “Anyone you want to know?”

  “Do you know who I work with?”

  “Do you know what they think of me?”

  “I’m not trying to sell myself to you, we’re past that; you and I, we’re the same person, the same thing. You and I, we’re it, we’re in this together. You and I,” he says, gesturing like an ape, going back and forth banging his chest, pointing at my face, pointing his fingers directly into my face like he’s about to poke out my eyes. “I want you to meet people. I want you to do well, if you do well then I do well. I’m the guy you want calling people. You want to know why, because I’ll call them, I’ll call them every day and I won’t take no for an answer. And you know what else, people are happy to hear from me. They know it’s not bullshit when I call. They know I represent the best, the fact that you’re my writer means something. You may not know that, but they do. Here it’s all about who you know and what you sell and what you’ve got. And they all want what you’ve got. You’ve got the one thing they don’t have and can’t just get anywhere—you’ve got talent.”

  I try again, elsewhere.