My Traveling Israeli Buddy Roei Sadan, has almost reached the tip of South America . . . This Week I'm putting up one of his
amazing pictures!
1 year ago
Friday, March 27, 2009
Picture of the Week: Who Cares What Number When You're Engaged?
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
From the Mouths of Babes
While doing Exodus here, we hear all kinds of funny statements from the kids . . . Here are a few cute ones I've heard today
- When the Egyptians are listing their idols, the god of apples, the god of Black berries. "My father is the god of the Blackberry!"
- When a child was asked where he was from, relative to ancient Egypt . . . "We're from a place of many Jews: California!"
- "Moses, are you real?"
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Honey, You'll Frighten the Kids!
Note: I only have respect for the individuals described in the post below . . . their well meaning actions have been recounted only to prove a point - not to criticize their persona or abilities.
Children have many inalienable rights, and though I may sound as a sadist, the right to be afraid is one of them.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not in favor of scaring the living daylights out small children . . .
During the course of the Exodus portion of the Model Matzah Bakery, we make sure to keep the lights on for small children, tone down the excitement, and the volume, and over all make an effort to keep things on the warm and fuzzy side.
Pharaoh isn't wicked, he's silly.
I get that. Scaring kids isn't cool.
But some pedagogues, influenced by modern, new-age, PC chleb need to take a chill.
---
Case in point:
A teacher from a prominent pre-school came today with her pre-school of 30 some odd three and four year-olds.
"Make it kid friendly." She requested.
We happily obliged.
Lights, camera . . . Action!
I was on.
"Look there's Moses," the prerecorded intro chimed in.
I waved to the kids.
The teacher stopped me.
"Is that Moses?" She asked them.
'What?' I wondered, 'didn't she hear the voice-over? Duh I'm Moses!
"Yes," I said hesitantly - my voice booming on the mike, "I'm Moses . . . Hi there kinderlach!"
"Hi! Moses." reply the cute kids.
"No!" says the teacher. "That isn't Moses! That's a pretend Moses - he's just a Rabbi wearing funny clothes pretending to be Moses for pretend. Because everything here is just pretend."
The kids look at me like some deranged incarnation of It or Bozo the clown.
Gee, Lady. Thanks
"Moses," booms the voice of 'Hashem' from the recording. "This is Hashem, your G-d!"
"Kids!" says the teacher, "Is that Hashem? No! It's pretend. It's a rabbi on a record pretending to speak like Hashem, because this is all pretend."
"Welcome to Egypt," I say.
"Kids," asks my favorite teacher. "Are we in Egypt? No. This pretend Egypt in a pretend place, with a pretend Moses, who is really-just-a-rabbi dressed up, pretending to speak to a pretend Hashem for pretend . . . because this is all pretend."
The children stare at the ply-wood Pyramids spray-painted gold, like the Allied Forces upon first reaching Bergen-Belsen.
The children follow me into the palace.
. . . It's time for the first plague -Blood!
Pharaoh sits on his throne, a martini glass full of water tinted red with food-coloring is grasped in his hand.
"Children!" The teacher shouts out, interrupting Pharaoh's line about drinking a Bloody Marry, "Is that blood real? No! They're just pretending to drink pretend blood, for pretend. But we know it's not really a mean Pharaoh - it's just a Rabbi dressed-up-in-funny-clothes pretending to be a pretend pharaoh - pretending to be in a pretend Egypt, that isn't real, in a pretend palace - that isn't scary at all! Right?"
. . .
The kids are about to leave [Pretend] Egypt, now onto the real Matzah Bakery - right?
Nope
"The children need to process," she tells me. 'For pretend?' I think snidely.
"Children. Let's process what we've just experienced!" She says.
Process? Experience? I don't think I knew words with that many syllables when I was 3. I don't think I wanted to.
"Breath in, Breath out."
She exhorts them.
"We're processing now! Who's processing with me? We all need to process!!
"Who was afraid she asks?"
Two lone hands are timidly raised?
"Is that it?" She asks. "I was afraid. Let's see again who was afraid!"
More hands come up.
"That pretend Pharaoh in the pretend Egypt that was pretending to be in the pretend palace was scary -wasn't he!"
Finally most of the children have their hands raised to express their fear. Some in the back begin to whimper . . .
Pretend Pretend Pretend.
No wonder the kids were afraid!
----
Children need to pretend. They need to experience wonder and excitement . . . They need to be able to 'process' on their own what is real and fake - to meander to that place in every child's heart where fantasy and reality blur.
They need to know, within safe limits, what is really scary in life, and what isn't really something to be afraid. They need to discover these boundaries themselves.
If we try so hard to convince a group of children that an innocent looking rubber frog isn't scary, then we implant fears in their minds that aren't real.
Generations grew up with Bambi's mother being shot by Man . . . and they turned out none the worse.
It's watered down, P.C. hogwash like this that is scary! It'll produce a generation of children with out a sense of wonder and imagination, emotionally handicapped by false fears and doubts.
Technorati Tags: Exodus, Life, Education, Childhood, Rants, Humor, Psychology, Fears, Imagination, Passover
Friday, March 13, 2009
My Engagement Blogging Round Up
Het Joodse bruidje
It's been a very eventful week - from traveling to chicago, Purim, getting engaged, and then coming to LA for the Exodus - model matzah bakery.
I'd like to take the moment give a word of thanks to all of those who shared in our simcha . . .
From all of the lovely comments on this blog (A tip for stat-hounds: getting in engaged is great for your hits!)
to everyone @Twitter!
Especially all of the special blog posts:
The Flying Dutch Jew with his amazing photos.
The Real Shliach for taking a moment out of his busy five post a day blogging schedule to say l'chaim and recount the event!
Chaviva and Tuvia for schleping from Hartford to spend some time by the simcha of someone they'd never met in person!
and
for shouting out my Mazal Tov!
[Oh and no thanks to the king of yellow journalism, the Lubavitcher Tabloid - who, for some strange reason, continues to ignore every article I write . . . and didn't bother to mention my engagement (that's why I use Shmais peoples!!)]
I love you all!
A good shabbos!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Mazal Tov!!
To All of my Blogging Friends, near and far - regular or occasional:I am engaged to Chana Langman from Chicago. I would like to personally invite you to the L'chaim (engagement party) tonight, Wednesday, March 11.I would be honored to see you there and wish you a mazal tov and say l'chaim together in person The address is:FREE Shul 1383 President St Brooklyn, NY 11213 (718) 467-0860
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A Gutt Shushan Purim
Ten Points for anyone who can tell me where this picture was taken . . . 20 for why!
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Picture of the Week 71
The memorial at Miła 18 - site of the famed Warsaw Ghetto uprising bunker
Wishing everyone a good Shabbos!
Technorati Tags: Warsaw, Miła 18, Ghetto, World War II, Holocaust, Photography, Picture of the Week
An Amazing Wedding for an Amazing Yankel - Photo Essay
I know I recently posted pictures from the wedding of CYFried - but my second longtime partner in arms, the inimitable Amazing Yankel was married Monday night . . .
Click on the link to enjoy the pictures
The Flying Dutch Jew, JuBoy and Mottel - in 770 before the Chupah
The Amazing Yankel during a serious moment.
The Barditchever Zeide reading the Kesubah
Bochurim dancing after the Chupah
Mottel with one The Real Shliach
In Traditional Polish Wedding Dress . . . and a Lithuanian in arm.
When it comes to some of these pictures . . . don't ask
I hear they sell Ecstasy in Holland - Quoth the Dutch Jew
Tradycyjne Polskie Wesele Taniec - Traditional Polish Wedding Dance
TRS tearing up a rug
The Amazing Yankel - Berditchev Style
To the one who found Bob the Schnitzel (formally Bob the Chicken) - Don't look at the painting to the left (^_~)
Dancing
And a kiss for my favorite Yankel - may he and his wife tchi' have many long, happy and chassidishe years
Technorati Tags: Weddings, Video, Vorst Chabad, Judaism, Crown Heights, New York, Photography, Dancing, Hassidim
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Basement Blogging Comes to Letters of Thought
There's been a recent social experiment amongst certain individuals in Crown Heights and it's associated suburbs (Morristown, Milwaukee, Atlanta etc.) They have taken up a creative writing experiment and I've contributed to it as well.
Below are their paragraphs, with mine appearing last.
Oh and the Aliens? Yes . . . I went there.
(Cheerio's Paragraph)
His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York.
(TRS' Paragraph)
Suddenly, a shot rang out. And then another. And another. Shots, that is. Suffice it to say that our hero was nonplussed, and quickly looked around for one of the ubiquitous rookie cops who had been hanging out on every street corner for the last few months. They were nowhere to be found. Our hero realized that the shots had been fired at him, and he looked around for some cover. There wasn't any, and he ducked. All this took less time than it took to write, but the murderous assailants were not to be denied, and our hero was soon lying in a puddle of blood.
(Le7's Paragraph)
He touched the growing puddle of crimson blood and painstakingly pulled his head a few micrometers off the rough concrete to take one last look at himself. He shuddered before gracefully slipping into oblivion. The street was quiet save for the rustle of a few dead leaves and old candy wrappers. The air was thick with the uneasy quietude of deceit and police sirens started to whine in the distance.
(Sarabonne's Paragraph)
It was but a few minutes later that Henry found himself ambling along the same street feeling sorry for himself. Here he was, 43 and dressed as Little Bunny Foofoo for some brat's birthday. He had heard the shots and promptly ignored them. Last thing he needed was some idiot cop playing games while he was in the bunny suit. God it was hot and the polyester itched terribly. Henry was mid-spit when Gary came into sight. Choking on saliva, he ran to get closer. Blood was everywhere. "Aw man..." he muttered.
(Dovid's Paragraph)
"Gary Feld is a 22 year old Caucasian male brought in this afternoon with a gun-shot wound to his left hip, he has no significant past medical history and is now in stable condition. He will be admitted to the surgical floor shortly. A surgical and anesthesiology consult has been ordered. He is being given morphine as needed for pain.” Hearing his name, Gershon groggily opened his eyes, slowly remembering the events of the day. The dim light shining from the metallic stand was painfully bright and made him conscious of a splitting headache. He quickly shut his eyes, but not before he caught a blurred glimpse of his surroundings. There were two women in white coats standing by his bed in the emergency room. The younger one presenting his case was clearly nervous and stuttering, almost cowering in the presence of the older scowling lady. He also thought he saw an obese African American man dressed like a nightmare bunny eying him curiously. Morphine can do strange things to you he thought as he drifted away.
(RAW's Paragraph)
Meanwhile, our "hero" Gershon's shooters continued on to their main objective: Gershon's residence. Gershon’s basement apartment was situated in a residential neighborhood. The presence of these tough, well armed men would obviously attract attention, but they made no attempt to be discreet. Their mission as they had planned it would not take more than five minutes, and they hoped to be out of the apartment long before the police arrived. Before their M-class Mercedes had completely stopped up outside the house, the men dashed to their assignments. There were four of them. Two took up guard positions outside the house. The other two shot off the bolt on the door and went inside. They knew exactly where to go. In the bedroom was a small, portable safe. It was a junky contraption, and they easily shot off the lock. Inside were neatly arranged packages of cocaine. They stuffed the whole safe into a medium-sized gym bag and left, satisfied that they had found everything they had come for. “Let’s go. We’re done here,” the leader said, stuffing the bag into the trunk of the car. All four men jumped back into the car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance as their car screeched away into the night. Nobody was going to catch them.
(EndOfWorld's Paragraph)
Dina Light snickered as she watched the taillights of the receding car. She waited another minute (56 seconds, to be precise) before getting up from the ground. She casually sauntered down the block, trying to put as much distance between herself and the now obviously-broken-into house. Amateurs. But she would have loved to be there when they opened those bags. She snickered again. Amazing how one box of confectionery sugar can go such a long way. She reached into her bag and gave her semi-automatic a reassuring pat. She reached a little further, past the glock, the colt, the pepper spray, the hunting knife, where was it? Ah. She uncapped the lip gloss, applied a thin coat to her lips and resolutely strode off. The job of a narcotic officer never ended. Time to find Gershon and save the world. Again.
(CA’s paragraph — feel free to trim; sorry, I said I suck at fiction; plus, I am packing for moving)
Henry paced nervously in the ER waiting room. Detained as an attempted murder witness, he was stuck, in his bunny suit, in the hospital, in a nervous state of mind. Henry, a hypochondriac suffering from OCD, did not like hospitals. Besides, he was under a court order to stay away from buildings with fire alarms. Henry had a compulsion to pull them — the red color, the feeling of a pulled lever, the sirens, the lights… Henry gulped nervously and started pacing back and forth. He was going to stay in control. This obsession had him arrested five times, cost him his job and luxury apartment in Manhattan, estranged him from his family and pet iguana. But today he was going to stay in control!.. Henry entered the bathroom. The first thing he saw was a bright-red fire alarm. Staring at him. Sneering with its lever’s white outline. Inviting. Henry backed nervously towards the sink and suddenly realized that his bunny suit’s hands have no zippers. He had no way to splash some water on his face. A scrubbed-in intern with a walrus mustache opened the door of a stall and dropping “Howdy, partner?” in a thick Texan drawl left the bathroom. Without washing his hands. This was too much for Henry. He turned to the fire alarm and licked his lips, tasting bunny fur. The last thought that entered his mind before he reached for the lever was “Ben told me to try pancakes with sour cream in that Russian place”. Henry filled his lungs with slippery air of the hospital bathroom and pulled. Fire alarm exploded in Henry’s head with hundreds of bright sounds. Loud flashes, bouncing off the white bathroom walls, pushed his tortured mind off the cliff, into the abyss of primeval insanity. Ricardo, a hit man for the Colombian mob sent to the hospital to finish off Gershon, entered the ER waiting room and was knocked off his feet, unconscious, by something bright-pink with big ears that ran out of the bathroom, charging towards the ER exit.
Below are their paragraphs, with mine appearing last.
Oh and the Aliens? Yes . . . I went there.
(Cheerio's Paragraph)
His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York.
(TRS' Paragraph)
Suddenly, a shot rang out. And then another. And another. Shots, that is. Suffice it to say that our hero was nonplussed, and quickly looked around for one of the ubiquitous rookie cops who had been hanging out on every street corner for the last few months. They were nowhere to be found. Our hero realized that the shots had been fired at him, and he looked around for some cover. There wasn't any, and he ducked. All this took less time than it took to write, but the murderous assailants were not to be denied, and our hero was soon lying in a puddle of blood.
(Le7's Paragraph)
He touched the growing puddle of crimson blood and painstakingly pulled his head a few micrometers off the rough concrete to take one last look at himself. He shuddered before gracefully slipping into oblivion. The street was quiet save for the rustle of a few dead leaves and old candy wrappers. The air was thick with the uneasy quietude of deceit and police sirens started to whine in the distance.
(Sarabonne's Paragraph)
It was but a few minutes later that Henry found himself ambling along the same street feeling sorry for himself. Here he was, 43 and dressed as Little Bunny Foofoo for some brat's birthday. He had heard the shots and promptly ignored them. Last thing he needed was some idiot cop playing games while he was in the bunny suit. God it was hot and the polyester itched terribly. Henry was mid-spit when Gary came into sight. Choking on saliva, he ran to get closer. Blood was everywhere. "Aw man..." he muttered.
(Dovid's Paragraph)
"Gary Feld is a 22 year old Caucasian male brought in this afternoon with a gun-shot wound to his left hip, he has no significant past medical history and is now in stable condition. He will be admitted to the surgical floor shortly. A surgical and anesthesiology consult has been ordered. He is being given morphine as needed for pain.” Hearing his name, Gershon groggily opened his eyes, slowly remembering the events of the day. The dim light shining from the metallic stand was painfully bright and made him conscious of a splitting headache. He quickly shut his eyes, but not before he caught a blurred glimpse of his surroundings. There were two women in white coats standing by his bed in the emergency room. The younger one presenting his case was clearly nervous and stuttering, almost cowering in the presence of the older scowling lady. He also thought he saw an obese African American man dressed like a nightmare bunny eying him curiously. Morphine can do strange things to you he thought as he drifted away.
(RAW's Paragraph)
Meanwhile, our "hero" Gershon's shooters continued on to their main objective: Gershon's residence. Gershon’s basement apartment was situated in a residential neighborhood. The presence of these tough, well armed men would obviously attract attention, but they made no attempt to be discreet. Their mission as they had planned it would not take more than five minutes, and they hoped to be out of the apartment long before the police arrived. Before their M-class Mercedes had completely stopped up outside the house, the men dashed to their assignments. There were four of them. Two took up guard positions outside the house. The other two shot off the bolt on the door and went inside. They knew exactly where to go. In the bedroom was a small, portable safe. It was a junky contraption, and they easily shot off the lock. Inside were neatly arranged packages of cocaine. They stuffed the whole safe into a medium-sized gym bag and left, satisfied that they had found everything they had come for. “Let’s go. We’re done here,” the leader said, stuffing the bag into the trunk of the car. All four men jumped back into the car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance as their car screeched away into the night. Nobody was going to catch them.
(EndOfWorld's Paragraph)
Dina Light snickered as she watched the taillights of the receding car. She waited another minute (56 seconds, to be precise) before getting up from the ground. She casually sauntered down the block, trying to put as much distance between herself and the now obviously-broken-into house. Amateurs. But she would have loved to be there when they opened those bags. She snickered again. Amazing how one box of confectionery sugar can go such a long way. She reached into her bag and gave her semi-automatic a reassuring pat. She reached a little further, past the glock, the colt, the pepper spray, the hunting knife, where was it? Ah. She uncapped the lip gloss, applied a thin coat to her lips and resolutely strode off. The job of a narcotic officer never ended. Time to find Gershon and save the world. Again.
(CA’s paragraph — feel free to trim; sorry, I said I suck at fiction; plus, I am packing for moving)
Henry paced nervously in the ER waiting room. Detained as an attempted murder witness, he was stuck, in his bunny suit, in the hospital, in a nervous state of mind. Henry, a hypochondriac suffering from OCD, did not like hospitals. Besides, he was under a court order to stay away from buildings with fire alarms. Henry had a compulsion to pull them — the red color, the feeling of a pulled lever, the sirens, the lights… Henry gulped nervously and started pacing back and forth. He was going to stay in control. This obsession had him arrested five times, cost him his job and luxury apartment in Manhattan, estranged him from his family and pet iguana. But today he was going to stay in control!.. Henry entered the bathroom. The first thing he saw was a bright-red fire alarm. Staring at him. Sneering with its lever’s white outline. Inviting. Henry backed nervously towards the sink and suddenly realized that his bunny suit’s hands have no zippers. He had no way to splash some water on his face. A scrubbed-in intern with a walrus mustache opened the door of a stall and dropping “Howdy, partner?” in a thick Texan drawl left the bathroom. Without washing his hands. This was too much for Henry. He turned to the fire alarm and licked his lips, tasting bunny fur. The last thought that entered his mind before he reached for the lever was “Ben told me to try pancakes with sour cream in that Russian place”. Henry filled his lungs with slippery air of the hospital bathroom and pulled. Fire alarm exploded in Henry’s head with hundreds of bright sounds. Loud flashes, bouncing off the white bathroom walls, pushed his tortured mind off the cliff, into the abyss of primeval insanity. Ricardo, a hit man for the Colombian mob sent to the hospital to finish off Gershon, entered the ER waiting room and was knocked off his feet, unconscious, by something bright-pink with big ears that ran out of the bathroom, charging towards the ER exit.
(Mottel's Paragraph[s])
"Pitiful," thought Ira Green. "Simply pitiful . . ."Ira paused for a moment, popping the cap of the little plastic bottle held in one of his sweaty hands. It was empty. Tossing the bottle aside, he reached into his desk drawer and took out a fresh one. Turning it upside down, he poured a generous handful of Tums into his hand.
"What exactly was pitiful?" He mused as he downed a handful of his "candies". To be honest, he was entirely unsure to what he had been referring to - if it the hit man Ricardo sitting nervously in the seat in front of the fold out table in the roach infested back of a cheap Bistro in Little Italy that served as Ira's "office", or if it was his own fate once the bosses heard that the Cocaine they had stolen from the Hasid in Brooklyn was nothing more then confectionery sugar, and the cheap kind at that.
Perhaps, it occurred to him, it was an even more profound conclusion about his life in general, as the Mafia's 'Jew' - the accountant for the aging Sicilian dons, and their go between with their contacts amongst their tentative allies - the Druglords of Columbia.
"What kind of job is this for a nice Jewish boy?" his mother had once asked him. "Your father slaves away night and day to put you through Columbia - and you can't even get a job as CPA for a local franchise of Corn Friend Chicken? Why couldn't you be more like your brother Arny? Such a good boy that is Arny!"
Whipping his ever sweating hands on the frayed sleeve of his tweed jacket, he reached up to adjust his glasses on the edge of his nose and straighten his hair. My, he thought wryly, the hear plugs were setting in nicely.
Taking out another handful of Tums, he returned his attention to Ricardo, who in the silence of the last few minutes, seemed to have been driven nearly mad with fear.
Popping a Tums in his mouth, he began to chew as he asked the hit man,
"Tell me again why you couldn't finish off that boy?"
"It was the rabbit!" Ricardo shrieked in fear. "You got to believe me Senoir! I was goin' to finish the job, you know, and suddenly all of the alarms go off. I don' why they go off, so I freeze. Try to act in'specious, like you say boss . . . But then this big pink rabbit comes running at me. It had big ears, a puffy white tail. It runs right into me, Knocking me down on the floor. I know it's real. I didn't drink any Tequilla or nothin', vato!"
What a mess, Ira muttered to himself. The hit man had lost his screws, the hit was alive, what was supposed to be pure Columbian was from Sugarland, Texas. . . and then there were the other problems - reports that the Israeli Mossad was on their trail - perhaps the Russian Mafia had tipped off its contacts in the Kenesset after his bosses had thrown in their lot with the Japanese Yakuza. Then there was this business with the crash landing the other day in Nevada - the word was that it was something more then a purported "Weather Balloon" - his bosses would want to know if it was connected to this business with the Ithorian Overlords. But that was an entirely different problem.
Oy - so many doubts.
"Carla, please see Ricardo out," he called to his secretary, "and tell big Guido I'm taking off 'sick' for the rest of the day."
One thing Ira was sure was that he would have heartburn soon - if he didn't have it already - or that his Ulcers would act up. Maybe both. Why if his luck held up, he'd get a batch of the Gout too. What kind of job was this for a nice Jewish boy in a tweed jacket, suspenders and
hear-plugs anway?
Technorati Tags: Writting, Fiction, Crown Heights, Short Stories, Mafia
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