Gorgeous

I'd like everyone to take a moment to recognize one of the more beautiful computer-designed headers anyone's seen in quite some time. Thanks to the inimitable Yossi, I finally have my very own customized header. Yup. If you'd like him to design something for you, just ask.

Meanwhile, he also designed this for me:



Here's the original:



What say you?

Morton hears a moo

When it precipitates, the salt comes out in vast torrents. Of course, if NY, has its way, there will be no more salt food. Aside from the obvious, like how will they serve cold cuts, there remains a deeper issue. Generally, in order to stop something, it's wise to not only stop the result but also the effect. In this case, will NY stop the rain so that the salt will stop pouring? I merely inquire.

In any case, a big Mazal Tov to Yossi and Bat Sheva Shomer on their wedding last night. It was quite the wedding, as these things go, and Yossi danced very nicely. I'd post some photos of myself from the wedding, but none of the websites have posted anything yet, so perhaps I'll post some at a later time. I also had quite the tête-à-têt with Rabbi Chaim Schapiro, among others (as in, I had conversations with others, not that the tête-à-têt was with others, which of course is impossible.

Earlier in the day I bumped into the several times aforementioned Shaya Lowenstein and his bride to be, Mushka Raigorodsky, who informed me their plans to be nuptialized in beautiful Los Angeles, California. Did I just say beautiful? Ha! The only beautiful part of LA, CA, is inside 7215 Waring Avenue, Los Angeles, California 90046. Regardless, I asked the future Lowensteins if they'd be flying me out to their wedding as part of the shadchanus gelt they owe me. I was told to take my wife for a honeymoon in LA. Forget that LA is a terrible place for a honeymoon, and that attending someone you don't know from bean's wedding for six hours is a miserable thing which I would never do to my wife, I still thought my ticket should be sponsored- after all, I made the shidduch, correct (it would be difficult to fly a basement anywhere)? Shaya mentioned that just like I went to my shadchan's wedding, I should go to his. As the Rosh would say, "touché"!

Update

Big Mazal Tov to Zalman Friedman (Big Fan) on his engagement to Brochie Marazov (presumably a future big fan).

Also, here's a couple pics of yours truly at last night's wedding, courtesy of COL.

In this pic you can see me and Chaz looking into each other's eyes. Rather strange.
Only two of the people in this pic are currently married. Email me if you want info about any of the others...

Doves

In case you were wondering why I'm posting these, it's because I'm in a very peaceful mood.

The blood runneth in the streets

It's like a Krakatoan Russia.

(By A. Petrosian.)

In case ya'll are wondering why I'm not writing anything on this here humble blog (and merely posting other people's pictures), it's because today I wrote a whole long thing on this here humble blog, and now I'm all blogged out!

The man doth protest

The tall structure in the center is a part of Peter Paul fortress complex, where Alter Rebbe was imprisoned.

No, the sky is not always of this color in Petersburg. Only when Putin kills especially many oligarchs on the particular day.

(courtesy of the CA)

Only in Texas

With thanks to the Shvigs.

The best wedding picture ever

Wishes spoken, desires known

I just got back from a mini-blogger convention... e, Nemo, and oh yeah, SZB. Did I mention that this little convention was in fact SZB's lchaim? Nice, eh?

"What regiment is this?" " First Minnesota," replied Colvill. " Charge those lines!"

In the summer of '03 TRS and LdT took several trips, including to Gettysburg. Above is TRS pictured with the monument to the 1st Minnesota Volunteer Infantry which was the first state volunteer regiment formally tendered to the Federal government under Abraham Lincoln's call for 300,000 troops in 1861. They also played a pivotal role in the battle at Gettysburg, as detailed here, with an 83 percent casualty rate, which stands to this day as the largest loss by any surviving military unit in American history during any single engagement.
Here we see TRS' back. But you had probably guessed that by now.
As you can see, I'm wearing a t-shirt from EAA AirVenture 2003, which LdT, Josh Hoffman, Ira, and I had attended earlier that summer in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. On my head is a South African rugby hat.
I look like a linebacker in this one!
And last but not least, here's me wearing my Buffalo Bill t-shirt holding Aloysius!
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In other news, if I was a Vikings fan, then (z×y)²=

This space for sale-contact TRS for details

Continuing with the TRS Yosemite trip '05...

Here we have, left to right, TRS, Levi Schusterman, Yale Spalter, YL Heber, and Nochum Tennenbaum.
Here we find TRS and YL Heber at the Chabad House in Fresno. The squint is because I had suddenly seen a bright alien apparition. Or maybe not.
That's better.

TRS in Yosemite

So what do we have here? This would be TRS' yeshiva trip to Yosemite national park in early summer '05. Pictured above we find, from left to right, Peretz Wolowik, TRS, Falie Levin, Yehuda Leib Heber, and Levi Schusterman.
Here we find TRS and Moishe Gourarie praying to the Good L-rd. And yes, I see that tefillin strap too...
TRS sleeping like a babe-notice the negel vasser and the hat (TRS is very chassidish).
TRS stoking the flames of brotherly love. In the background with the floppy hat is Nissy Gansbourg, who I used to learn Chassidus with Shabbos mornings.
And right before Maariv. Notice TRS (not even) speaking softly and carrying a (relatively) big stick.

Secret journeys of menessness

It's been more than a week since I last blogged properly. So much has happened in that time, and of course I'm not at liberty to disclose most of the excitement (the CIA made me sign a nondisclosure agreement). Still, Leon Panetta knew that I was a blogger when he asked me to do some work for the company, and I'd be remiss if I didn't share some of the exciting adventures that occurred to me in the last few days. It's your choice whether you want to believe them or not, but let's just say that Michael Jackson's death sure was mysterious, eh?
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It all began last Friday morning, when I received a phone call from the CIA asking me to take part in a classified mission. I didn't find out that the call was from the CIA until later, because I didn't recognize the number and why should I pick up the phone if I don't know who is calling me? Anyway, I figured that they'd leave a message if it was really important, and then I'd call them back. They did in fact leave a message, but I didn't pick it up on Friday morning because there were seven messages preceding it, and I wasn't interested in listening to all of them.

That Saturday night I picked up the message, and recognizing the importance of the call immediately resolved to phone them back. I finished my delicious mustard+mozzarella tostino (thanks sister!), had a quick drink, and dialed the phone number. Within minutes I was preparing my kit for what would prove to be one of the most dangerous and thrilling adventures ever experienced by man or woman. I asked what I should tell my faithful readers, who would of course be wondering where I was and what I was doing. My handlers told me to tell everyone that I was on vacation, and helpfully provided the following picture to demonstrate:
Of course, I was really far away doing exciting things. I left for my secret destination at just past midnight, and arrived a couple hours later, disgusted with the talk radio I was exposed to on the way. Look, I'm all for Solomon Dwek ad nauseum as the rest of you, but why oh why do stupid people have to call in to offer their stupid opinions as well? My new policy is that anyone who calls a talk radio show (and a Jewish one for that matter!) must be a couple french fries short of even the most desultorily depressing meals. So that was that.

So there I was, in the most foreign of countries, awaiting further instruction and eating some ginger crunch. When the call finally came I was ready, and I immediately moved into position behind enemy lines. The lodgings I had stayed in when I first arrived were at once rejected by the firm as being far too opulent for the image they wanted me to maintain, and so I was thrust from a life of comparative pleasure for one of much suffering and great distress: the mattress sagged terribly in the middle. Being a professional often requires one to make these sorts of sacrifices, and the additional factor of its being for my country somewhat mitigated the circumstances surrounding this most disastrous (for my back) development, but even this did not prepare me for the crowning misery that was to be my constant companion in that most foreign of countries: a significant lack of wireless internet. No longer would I be able to indulge in the pleasure that is the largely-ceremonial checking of the email or the mostly-menial drudgery that is the the updating of the blog. Still, as I wrote previously (read a few sentences above if you've forgotten already), I was doing this for King and Country, and knew that I need not fear, for the other King was near.

What exactly did my super-secret mission entail? If I told you that I'd have to shoot you-seriously, what did you expect? The mission was super-secret! All right, I understand, you're dying for a little enlightenment. Basically, the CIA really really really wanted me to do some shtuff here, take care of some of these people, and generally make mayhem appear in the mountains and run down like a righteous stream spreading democracy and other forms of goodness for all men and women under the sun. Oh yeah, they also wanted me to locate Porter J. Gross' lost dry-cleaning, but I didn't have much success in that endeavor.

On Wednesday a secret CIA spy plane dropped me off at the New Jersey Transit station in Morristown, New Jersey, and I waited forty five minutes for a train. I had run out of provisions the previous night, and was therefore subsisting entirely on earth, wind, air, and fire. When the train arrived I boarded (could a more natural progression be affected?), carrying with me a portmanteau filled with quite valuable products that also happened to way more than your average pet parakeet's panoply of potpourri. A few minutes into our journey produced a stoppage of unusual duration at a train station, followed by the news that a tree had fallen down and blocked the path we were to take to the terminus of our journey's purpose and self-same existent purpose, and we commenced to continue our waiting for a time in the future when all branches would be cleared and we could once again commence to continue our self-same journey in the all the comfort provided by useless redundancies and the Comet V. So that was what, forty minutes? Yeah.

Remember, in a few short hours from then I'd be beginning one of the 25 hour fasts Judaism is famous for, and I was still without victuals. Shortly after making it past Short Hills the power went off, and wild jubilation sprung forth. Correction: there was no longer any air conditioning, and we all began to suffer in turn. At this point I really started to be annoyed with my CIA people persons for putting me on this train, and as if by magic there was instantly projected over the on-board speaker system (give or take fifteen minutes) instructions to vacate the current train because there wouldn't be no train to Krenitz that day. In other words, the lack of electricity was terminal, and if we wanted to reach the terminal in New York we'd best lug our way over to the other track, where a rescue train would soon live up to its name.

At this point I noticed a chassidishe woman (I was unable to see her socks, and therefore could not ascertain which brand of Bobov she pledged her allegiances to) on the train with me, and I thought that perhaps she'd have some cholent and kishke with her, or at least a few rice cakes. Before I had a chance to confront her/beg for food I was faced with the insurmountable challenge of getting to her position, and my heavy case filled with valuable products of a most holy nature proved no match for her three shopping bags. In short, she left me in the dust. Fortunately for her (for who knows what I would have done in my food-fueled rage against the machine?) another train soon appeared on the horizon, and once we arrived in Manhattan I fully expected the inhabitants of the last three hours of my universe to break into spontaneous dance and shower the conducting crew with accolades more deserving of those who wear pink shirts in Oshkosh than of a bunch of overweight white guys just trying to do their jobs and get home in time for supper. I soon learned that this was not to be, and my disappointment was only rescued by a not-so-chance-filled-but-certainly-well-hyphenated encounter of a third kind with a very special blogger in the station that rejoiced in its Pennness.

And thus was Tisha B'Av won.

What a chassidishe farbrengen can accomplish...

This afternoon I got an email from Webby over at crownheights.info with that picture I referenced earlier. In the email he also said some other shtuff, but since I'm finally learning to keep my big mouth shut...NOT! Regardless, I'm not sure if even I, TRS, would spill the contents of a private email. Actually, I would. If you pay me enough. Don't worry Webby, I'll split it 50/50.

Yud Shevat with the (possibly) greatest living Rabbi on the planet

So I go to the Minnesota farbrengen for literally five minutes, and who's there but Webby from Crownheights.info with his camera taking pictures, making it look like I was there the whole time. Well, I wasn't. I would have liked to be, but I was by the (practically empty) ohel tonight (said the whole maaneh lashon! First time ever! Woohoo!), and when I got home I had to eat something before I fell completely off the face of the earth. Then I walk to this farbie, and leave five minutes later for another. Crazy. Oh yeah, here's a nice little picture he snapped of yours truly:

That would be me in the green sweater, TC, and Shlomo Goldin. Here's some pictures of us from a couple of months ago. For all those who think my green sweater is cute, does it become less cute if I wear it nearly every day? Just wondering. The two guys in the foreground are Baruch Dorfman and Rabbi Mottel Friedman, of Nshei Chabad fame. Moments after the snapping of this picture Mr. Webby snapped one of me sticking my tongue out at him. He said, "You'll regret that!", to which I said, "Are you kidding me? I'd love that posted online!" He smiled as if he'd fulfill my wish, but then someone told him who I was and about my deep-seated need for as much publicity as possible, and I guess he reconsidered, which kind of stinks, because it was a cute picture, green sweater and long pick tongue and all.
Anyway, from there I made my way to the LA Farbrengen being held in the Beis Levi Yitzchak Shul with Rabbi Mendy Schapiro, who happens to be possibly the most sincerely religious person I have ever met. As in, he really cares. Sure, other people care, but he does something about it.
Due to the limitations of the medium (iPod Touch 2nd Gen) and the many people talking in the room I wasn't able to hear everything he said, so the following may be a little choppy, and perhaps even a bit jagged, which would conform to some people's opinion of me in real life. e, when will you get a blog I can link to? Anyway, here it is. Remember, all the mistakes are no doubt mine, all the genius is doubtlessly the rabbi's. Enjoy.

Moshiach is not going to come through those chassidim who saw the Rebbe and loved him. The chassidim who work hard, those who didn't see the rebbe, they're the ones who are going to bring moshiach.
The Rebbe didn't want bochurim who thought bad about themselves. He wanted bochurim who thought they could change the world.
Nowadays bochurim are depressed. Not depressed, but walking about in a daze.
When I was a bochur I had a real bochur issue. I thought I was a lost case. I wrote to the Rebbe in adar '52.
A chossid is not affected by the world around him. Because the world is bluff.
When you're alone in your bedroom, and you open an igros. I know people who watch movies. They do it because they're not happy with themselves. The Rebbe speaks the word of Hashem. If you learn sichos, translating each and every word, and make a decision to not be a woman, not be a wimp. Grab your etzem. You won't feel atzmus, you'll feel strong. We live in a wacky generation. The Rebbe told us that moshiach is coming. Who's going to bring him? Not the big chassidim who love. It's going to be the chassdim who work.
A bochur messed up in shidduchim, the Rebbe told him to learn chassidus.
The Rebbe is moshiach, but before we say that we say adoneinu, moreinu, and rabbeinu. We have to accept the Rebbe before we can have moshiach.
The chassidim who saw the Rebbe, they don't have it hard. Unless you're a chitzon, what's so difficult?
The kavanah is, there's no default. When will chassidus be real? When you make decisions and act according to chassidus. Not through giluim will you bring moshiach. Through hard work. Who is going to bring moshiach? The bochurim who struggled.
I speak to bochurim who are engaged. They tell me, without the rebbe's horaos, you're a lost case. Forget about Torah, how do you deal with anger?
Before the Rebbe, no one spoke about tafkid hador. There's going to be opposition. How do you deal with opposition? Not through love only. You have to fight it.
B'gashmius, it's amazing. Kids, jobs, life. Mofsim. Tomorrow there'll be bochurim who will have mofsim themselves. They're going to make a decision to become a better person.
Bottom line is, if you go to the Rebbe tomorrow, and you made hachanos, are you going to drop those hachanos when you're done? That's not what the Rebbe wants. The Rebbe wants you to continue on.
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There's a story that doesn't work so much-Lazer, you're a shtickel baal seichel. There's a story from the Rebbe-acharon shel pesach 17 the Rebbe brought the story. It's an unpopular story. It might not work. If you're a pnini it'll work. The Rebbe told about Shmuel Munkes. He was a smart guy with a sense of humor. He was looking for the Alter Rebbe in Liozna at the middle of the night. He said that the Rebbe must be up in the middle of the night. He looked around the town, every house was dark except for the Rebbe's house.
The Rebbe learned Torah all night. The Rebbe didn't sleep.
Shmuel Munkes said, I want to sleep in your house. The Alter Rebbe said, you couldn't find anywhere else to sleep? Shmuel Munkes said, this is also a Jewish home! The Rebbe said, I'll call my goy to throw you out. Shmuel said, my goy is bigger than your goy! Fine, the Rebbe let him stay.

The Rebbe explained this story. A bochur comes and says, I want to learn chassidus, to be a chassis. Do we welcome you with open arms? No! We investigate. Do you want to be cool and hip, or do you want to be battul? You have a goy? What does the goy want and do? Even after that, your goy is bigger than the Rebbe's goy. You sinned. You become a chassis easily? Not happening. Cry. Then you can become a chassis.

There are a lot of beautiful homes in the world. But you have to go to a light house. One that has the light of Torah.
You can't just say that you want it. Don't just think that by wanting it you can get it. You have to go to a light house. No ego. No self.
Don't think you can just write to the Rebbe and it'll all turn out fine. You can't just surrender. You have to cry out and say, my goy is bigger! Just because you want to be a chassid doesn't mean the Rebbe will accept you. There are no smooth roads. You have to cry. You have to beg to be accepted. You have to want it very hard.
Don't think you farbrenged, decided to be a chassid, and now the sky is going to open for you. You have to open your own heart. Bochurim think that they work hard, and now they should feel elokus. Well, it's not going to happen. It takes hard work. You have to live with chassidus. Until moshiach comes there is no red carpet. There is no free lunch, no free supper.
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When a bochur these days wants to be serious, not ad d'lo yadah, it's very easy to put the Rebbe out of the picture. There's a story with R. Yoel Kahn. There was a family who lived in a totally frie kibbutz. They were sick of living in Israel where the religious parties are taking over. So they moved to Tasmania. He was a professor in psychology. They moved so that no one should bother them. Tasmania is the achurayim. It's far away from far away. They moved away and had a good time. No one bugged them.
This is like bochurim who want no one to bother them.
The reform rabbi there left back to America, and they needed a new rabbi. The congregation needed a new rabbi, and they came to this professor and asked him to become their rabbi. He said he wasn't even reform, he doesn't believe in everything, but they said, you're Israeli, you can read Hebrew. He became the rabbi.
His Kids started to ask him regarding yiddishkeit. He had no answers. His wife started praying. A week later he met rabbi Gutnick walking down the street in Tasmania, and they became close, and eventually they came to the Gutnick's house in Melbourne, and asked, why did you come here? Gutnick said, we got a letter saying we should come to Tasmania. When was the letter? The day the woman prayed to Hashem, if you're there, please, show us a sign.
You might think she cried and the Rebbe answered. R' Yoel Kahn said, the Rebbe thought of them, and she cried.

Not too shabby...

Thank the one above I had a pretty good Shabbos. And even a pretty good erev shabbos. Here's me before my haircut.

And another...

And here's after the haircut...

Remember, I only get three haircuts a year...I told the guy to give me a one, but this looks more like a two, which kind of stinks. The peyos are supposed to be a three, as per the instructions of the Rosh, though I guess if I got a two then they should have been a four. Oh well. I guess the barber will have to do some burning, not only for violating the Rosh's will, but also because he didn't give me the cut I wanted.

Once the holy Shabbos began I made my way to the holy confines that are 770 and conversed with several people who want attention, i.e. webjem, tanyachaz, and several who don't, who therefore won't be getting any attention.

Due to my incredible amount of self-control and amazing amount of hiskafia-type powers, I got up at 9:10 and was in 770 by 9:38, allowing me to get an aliyah pretty quickly and Daven with the Minyan. I know, you're impressed. It must be the earliest I've been in 770 for five years or something. Heck, I even did 2/3 of Shnayim Mikrah during kriah, which was preceded by the ceremonial chucking of candy at Ephrayim Baskin, whose Kiddush I attended after the cessation of prayers. Due to my many sins I didn't stay very long, which is pretty sick, and instead went upstairs and chatted with Nemo, SZB, Big Fan, and a few others from my MN days. Also featured, downstairs, was Mottel, and Eliezer Wrightman, who wants me to tell y'all all about his absolutely gorgeous tie, which is mamash morahdik and will no doubt have thousands of Raptors fans/Lubavitch girls swooning as soon as they lay eyes on him. This would also be an appropriate time to mention all the middle-aged women who follow me obsessively, at least that's according to their brother who I mikveh'd with before the whole thing even started.

Oh, and here's an entirely gratuitous picture of part of my family. I hope they don't get mad at me for posting, though I can bet you they will. Well, you have to suffer for art.
Edited for Content
Fine, another. That's my brother in law from Denver, if you were wondering.

Two nieces playing...

And one with yours truly...

The hat (pics and all)

After much clamoring and gnashing of teeth it's finally time for the TRS Old Hat Post! Here's picture number 1!

And picture number 2!

And picture number 3!

And picture number 4!

Oh the joy!

You like? This hat was purchased a week after my Bar Mitzvah at Bencraft Hatters in Boro Park. That was in February 2000. It's now January 2009. This hat has seen me through a lot. And that's why I'm not giving it up without a fight.
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Meanwhile, in other news, I was quite disappointed by the Kehos sale. Fine, you make a whole confusing system so that everyone is paying a lot more than in previous years. I understand, it's a bad economy. But to have come out with exactly one book I want in the last seven months?
What is wrong with these people? All I ask for is the opportunity to spend money, and this is how they treat me?

Getting serious...

I had a nice conversation with a friend in 770 on Friday night, and he mentioned that more people would read this little blog of mine if I were to include pictures. I asked him if he was planning on sponsoring a digital camera. That got him, but I did promise to try and post a picture for all of you people's to look at. It is, as you may have guessed, a Purim picture. I don't normally dress like that. Nor am I normally that drunk. But it was fun. As is this cute little article from the Jerusalem Post. Oh yeah, and before I forget, let me just say Mazel Tov to Shneur Pruss whose Kiddush I attended today in 770 and who wondered if he'd make it on to TRS. Rest assured Schneur, you got my back, I got yours.

Meanwhile, on with the show. I promised someone that I'd write a nice character-driven (not like Joshua) story tonight, while to another someone I promised a mushy, self-introspective, angst-ridden post that would reveal my inner essence, lay bare my soul, make all you men out there vomit in disgust. So what's a guy to do? Could I kill two birds with one stone, and write an auto-biographical story, character-driven of course, which would also do all the other things I mentioned? I suppose I can try... Still, it'll be a pain. You see, too many people who know me would start asking questions or making references. I'm not interested in that. So here's the deal I'll make with y'all: If you're related to me then you can't ask questions. If I only know you a little then ask away. Fair?

This is the story of a boy named TRS. He hated thinking about serious things. To put it a different away, he hated thinking about things that required serious thought. Sometimes he'd blog for a couple hours, and G-d would, for reasons known only to him, cause all of TRS' hard work to go down the drain. TRS didn't like this of course, but he didn't let it stop him.
So what's up with serious and not serious? When did TRS decided to become the joker? He doesn't know. He isn't particularly interested in finding out. After all, the past is nothing, it's dead and done for, what good will come of dredging it up and peering at the little things that caused the big problems? Still, because TRS promised, he will look back and try to determine from whence his disease derived. When Pirkei Avos says that one shouldn't sit in the company of leitzim, it's generally translated as "scoffers", but I think it's more like cynics. What is a cynic? The question is half the answer, and cynic is defined as
1. a person who believes that only selfishness motivates human actions and who disbelieves in or minimizes selfless acts or disinterested points of view.
2. (initial capital letter) one of a sect of Greek philosophers, 4th century b.c., who advocated the doctrines that virtue is the only good, that the essence of virtue is self-control, and that surrender to any external influence is beneath human dignity.

Basically, it originally meant one thing, but no one knew what that was, so they used it inappropriately and now it means whatever it is that people want it to mean. Regardless, whatever it is that cynic means, G-d doesn't want you to be one. In fact, he doesn't even want you to sit among them. When people are sitting there "blessing" G-d, he wants you to pick yourself up and get the heck out of there. He'd prefer if you'd preach to 'em, or at the very least to douse them all with gasoline and send them the way of the South Vietnamese monks, but leaving is an option for the weak of heart and mind.

So there you have Mr. TRS, the cynic himself, the guy who takes nothing as he should, him who laughs at the most sacred and divine, not to mention the serious, and he has to examine his past and figure out what it was that went wrong. He thinks about it for a little while, ponders the question, but he can't come up with anything intelligent to write. Maybe it's just genetics. That would be a convenient cop out. But no, his whole life he's been copping out, maybe just once he can tackle the challenge head on instead of dodging it the way a punter runs for the bench whenever a return man gets within ten yards of him.

And please, don't say that TRS is being harsh on himself. No one knows TRS better than himself. Of course, he's also blinded by self love, but that seems to be a common condition. So again the question is, what happened? What turned that sweet, trusting little boy into the raving lunatic who stays up 'till 5:00 (and beyond!) writing nonsense?
I don't know. Sorry.
Sometimes when TRS is at a farbrengen and taking things seriously he thinks about all this. TRS doesn't like to think seriously because he doesn't like the facial expression involved. When he graduated from kindergarten he received the "Mr. Smiles" award. He had wanted to get the "Mr. Architect" award because he was the big man on campus when it came to building vast cathedrals out of blocks during nap time, but some undeserving little something or there got it instead. But maybe TRS' teachers were right. If there's one thing of which he can be proud, it's his smile.
Which is exactly why he doesn't like being serious. Being serious wipes away the smile. Please, don't comment "lav davka" because by TRS it is davka. Don't go 'round distributing Tzvi Freeman or Yossi Jacobson articles which say that true joy comes from taking life seriously, or some such nonsense. Yes, it may be true, but it doesn't put a smile on your face. You want to smile, you can't take yourself or other people too seriously. The New York Times never smiles because it takes itself too seriously. The Rake too, even though you'd think it would know better.
Before this descends into a typical youth vs. world revolutionary rant let me remind you that this is TRS on serious. He isn't normally this full of himself, but when pressed to, he can do it with the best of them. Sure, it might take him seven hours, banging out a few words here and a few words there, but it gets done eventually. TRS not on serious makes fun of youth vs. world, which is merely another variant of youth vs. world, al derech the rye catcher. However you want to go about it, it's pretty hard to transcend stereotypes. Oscar Wilde may have done it, but since then? Whether you're with them or against them, writing vaguely so that no one has any idea what you're talking about or in excruciating detail so that they don't care what you're talking about, or even if you're hungry and regret throwing out the chili a couple of hours ago, there just doesn't seem to be much you can do to escape the fates.
The spirit catches you, but it doesn't bring you down. Spirits aren't that classless, they're much worse: they make you into one of them. When the spirit grabs hold it transforms you, and there you are, all spiritual yourself. What's a serious guy to do?
______________________________
There, you people liked that? Has anyone vomited yet? Make sure to do it in the toilet so as not to inconvenience Rabbis who rejoice in the name of Mottel. I hope I satisfied your desire for existentially angsty shtuff, even if I didn't quite manage to turn it into a story. Next time give me something better to write about, and before you can say "Peter" there you'll be.

No cheese for you!

I'm thinking of changing the name of this blog from "The Real Shliach" to "The Real Chaim Schapiro". What do you think? Anyway, during shiur today, the Rabbi explained the many opinions re: Na"t Bar Na"t, and the many ramifications involved therein. At one point he mentioned that Halacha paskened one way, but for the public we pasken another way. My ears immediately perked to full attention, and after shiur I asked him to repeat what he had said, so that he couldn't come to me later with taanos.
So, when a pot is not a ben yomo, and you cook pareve in it, then you can later take that pareve out of the pot and eat it with the other min. For example, if you have a fleishik pot that was last used for meat two days ago, and now you cook spaghetti in it, you can take that spaghetti out, put it on a milchig bowl, and eat it with cheese. Yummy.
Now, if you have smicha, then you can do this. Otherwise, fawgettaboutit. Why? Because you, my smicha-less friend, don't know the halachos and would get all mixed up, violate G-d's commands, and burn forever in the fiery pits of hell for all eternity.
At this point please excuse me while I get hysterical. THE RABBIS HAVE ONE LAW FOR THEMSELVES AND ONE FOR THE PEOPLE! I needed to get that out of my system. Yes, it's true, we just can't trust the common folk to understand these things, so unfortunately we have to deny them the chance to eat this particular delectable delicacy. I hope you don't mind.


Meanwhile, moving onto much more important matters, it's now time for the pictures of the cutest two year old niece in the universe, later followed by the cutest five month old niece in the universe. I'd like to provide pictures of the cutest three year old niece in the world too, but I can't find any recent pictures. Sorry. Anyway, here is my two year old niece Raiza Miriam:



And, here is five month Chaya Mushka:



I'd love to write some more, but A. I'm tired out from my day of strenuous learning (this is true) and B. It's not like I have anything brilliant to say anyway.

Pictures!

Here are those pictures I promised a bit earlier. For more, and some videos, check out TC's site. He took the photos, so he's entitled to some credit, right?

Here's the Karkafta...


Group Tefillin...I'm wearing his baseball cap while he wears my Yarmulkeh (If that explains anything)


Shema


Part of the Line...


Barack Obama moments before I didn't shake his hand...


While we were in line I figured we should have a group photo, hence:


A random reporter from Fox who we met (and TC harassed)...