The bungalow

This past shabbos I was perusing a periodical of dubious origins (if I recall correctly it was Mishpacha) when my sister directed me to look at the advertisement on the back cover. It was for a Boro Park electronics store, and featured two "packing lists", one for the bungalow and one for camp. Besides for the fact that both lists were absolutely ridiculous (you might as well stay home if you need half of what they suggest) there were a couple of items which struck us as being rather funny.

In the camp section they have "video-less iPod" or something like that. This is itself is not funny, and actually makes quite a bit of sense. After all, we wouldn't want little Yoely watching Prison Break, would we? What is funny is that in the bungalow list it says "DVD player (for rainy days and the van ride)". So it's not okay for little Yoely to watch Prison Break, but little Suri can?

Ahh, they can only watch on rainy days. Does G-d not care if you watch movies when it rains? Oh, I get it! G-d can't see through the clouds!

Of course, this still leaves us with the issue of car journeys- after all, it says in the Shema "uv'lechtecha baderech"? Perhaps when travelling the DVD player can only be used for Jewish movies like Schindler's List and The Little Mermaid.

So once you're in your bungalow colony with your four thousand dollars of electrical shtuff the question arises, "How do I safeguard all my electrical shtuff?" The answer of course is that you shouldn't bring any of it to the bungalow colony but instead should leave it at home. But who's going to watch it at your house? Your husband of course! And this way, he can use the DVD player the whole week (he's lonely without his family). But what about on the weekends when he drives up to be with his beloved family? He can bring all the equipment with him! But how will he watch DVDs (after all, it was purchased with travelling in mind)? He can go up with a friend! This way, not only will one of them be able to drive while the other watches, but they'll be saving the environment too, thus potentially qualifying for tax rebates!

As you can see, Boro Park electronics stores have your best interests at heart, so go patronize them today! And don't forget little Yoely maybe you can buy him a used carburetor or something to make up for the video-less iPod.

Bridal?

Two seminal events happened in the previous 24 hours: Nemo told me that I need to be more controversial, and I started getting emails from Haveil Havalim, which made me realize that next week it's my turn. AWK!!

To celebrate these two occurrences, I think I'll just post something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Sounds good? Well, you already had the new, so here's something old, originally published on October 29, 2007, entitled, "So then":

Education is a terrible thing. Or maybe not. Tonight the Shluchim from YHSTC went to Chabad of S. Louis Park, otherwise known as Rabbi Shagalow, for a Shiur on the Friedriker Rebbe's epistle on true education. What struck me the most was how much I don't enjoy Jewish geography, the game you play to figure out how everyone is related to everyone. But guess what? I'm not actually related to anyone. Well, at least to anyone in Lubavitch. Point is, I stand there on the side, catching onto a stray name that I can at least claim acquaintance with, while everyone else is figuring out how they're fourth cousins with half the universe.
Anyway, we discussed talents that people have. Which got me thinking, what talents do I, your faithful blogger, have? Writing relatively humorous stuff? Check. Eating Sushi? Check. Accomplishing great things? Well, do I? Have I? Will I?

Problem is, I started writing this now, past midnight, because I figured that it would be good to blog while my gristle was still fresh off the grill. But instead it's turned into one of those soul-searching, touchy-feely type blogs, and I for one am not interested in writing that kind of thing. So instead, I'll tell you all that it's not who you know, it's what you know. Right?
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Something borrowed? Check out these idiots in Seattle.

And finally, for something in blue, what could be better than this?

4 AM Poetry

So there you are

at the farbrengen

patronizingly helping that bochur out

or making him think you're helping him out

or even convincing yourself you've helped him out

but have you helped him out?

who knows?

who cares?

oh look, they brought out soda-pass it here white boy!
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You know

if you somehow corralled all the cows in the world

into a pen

not too big

just right for them

they'd still

have emotional issues
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beer is not

a solution to life's problems

but sometimes

it's a good substitute
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Tuesdays have been better

but I wouldn't bet

on them being much better
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Lessons from a bird

Tonight there was a hakhel gathering for smicha in Morristown-here is one of the gems that was related.

There was once a bird who was sleeping (undoubtedly he had been farbrengin the night before) when the rest of his flock went down
south for the winter, and he had to go alone. He left so late that it began to snow when he was only a couple hours into his journey. He was soon caught in the blizzard, and he became trapped under the snow. A horse came over and began to go to the bathroom, and as the excrement poured over him the bird began to sing from pure joy. After all, the excrement would melt the snow and he'd be able to fly! Before the snow was gone a fox came over, saw the bird, and realized that he'd soon have a good dinner. The fox began to lick the excrement off the bird, who realized that he'd have to make a run for it-as soon as the fox had finished licking, before he had a chance to bite the bird, the bird would fly away to safety. Unfortunately though, the bird mistimed his jump for freedom, and he was eaten by the fox.

There are three lessons that can be learned from this story.

1. Not every time someone goes to the bathroom on you does he mean to do you bad.

2. Not every time someone licks you does he mean to do you good.

3. Don't sing when you're lying in excrement.

His fictive self

Orton didn't much like the rain. It always seemed to him that the rain was a completely unnecessary waste of water, and besides, it always seemed to him that the rain ruined his picnics. Being a good American, Orton decided to do something about this major problem.

The first person Orton approached was the head of his local meteorological society, who rejoiced in the name Robert. Robert listened to Orton's complaints with the gentle sensitivity that heads of local meteorological societies are renowned for, and then proceeded to make them both a really nice cup of properly hot tea. Orton, waiting patiently for a response, sipped his tea while Robert pondered Orton's words. After a few minutes Robert said, "You know, it's really very interesting. There's really only two ways to use the words 'love-hate relationship.' Either the person is being very serious, or they're making a joke. Think about it."

Orton thought about it for a minute, and then asked, "What the heck does that have to do with anything?"

Robert gently responded, "Oh, it's very simple. You have a love-hate relationship with rain."

Orton, having finished his tea, slammed his cup down and said, "That's so not true! I don't have a love-hate relationship with rain-it's a hate-hate relationship!"

Robert was not disturbed by this outburst, and he calmly said, "That's not possible. No one could possibly have a hate-hate relationship with rain. I mean, who doesn't love rain, at least on some level?"

"Me!", proclaimed Orton, "I do! I hate rain! Hate hate hate hate rain! Why don't you get it, you with your silly cups of tea and fancy titles and whatever-I hate the rain! Stop negating my feelings-I need to feel validated!"

Robert, still unperturbed, said, "I don't think you need a meteorologist, you need a mental therapist."

So Orton went to visit a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist had Orton wait in the waiting room for several minutes while he finished drinking a really good cup of nice hot tea, and then he called Orton in. Orton came in, and said, "Hello, my name is Orton, and I need help."

"Well, you've come to the right place then, because I can help you. Tell me, did you get a referral?"

Orton, wondering why the psychiatrist hadn't told him his name, guardedly said, "Yes, I was told to go to a therapist by the head of my local meteorological society."

The psychiatrist, whose name (if you must know) was Dr. Orange, took copious notes, and then said, "Oh, hmm. Interesting. Yes. I see. Quite. All right, what appears to be the issue that you need help with?"

Orton, still in the dark as to the identity of the doctor, suddenly had a brain wave. He recalled that their had been a name on the door of the office when he had entered, but he hadn't bothered noticing what it said. He resolved to figure it out, and to that end asked, "Actually, before we get started, could you possibly tell me where the men's is? I ate a burrito before coming here, and it's disagreeing with my stomach."

Dr. Orange took some more notes and said, "Oh, of course! Why don't you use my personal bathroom here so that you don't have to waste too much of your billable hour?" Saying this, Dr. Orange opened a door off the office and pointed Orton inside.

Orton was of course quite put out by this, and tried to think of a way to rectify the situation. With a flash of brilliance he began to unroll the toilet paper into the toilet, and when he had done that he threw all the tissues in to the bowl too. He was about to flush when he remembered that people often kept extra toilet supplies beneath the sink, and he checked. There wasn't any toilet paper there, but there were seven or eight instant noodle soups which were all, Orton noticed, empty.

After flushing the toilet a couple times (the first time it jammed a little, and he had to clear it up) Orton opened the door and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry to bother you, but there's no toilet paper or tissue in the bathroom!"

Dr. Orange took some notes, and then rising from his chair and walking to the bathroom he said, "Oh, that's very strange. I thought I told my secretary to make sure there was always a good supply of both. I suppose I'll have to fire her. Nevermind, I'll show you to the bathroom at the end of the hall."

After finishing up in the bathroom (Orton hadn't had to go, but he took the opportunity to check his email on his iPhone) Orton walked back to the office, and reading the nameplate and committing it to memory he walked into the office saying, "So where were we Dr. Franklin?"

Dr. Orange said, "I'm sorry, you have the wrong office. Dr. Franklin meets patients in office 207-this is 214. Hers is right around the corner."

Orton was (understandably) quite shocked at this reception, and he said, "Huh? You aren't Dr. Franklin?"

Dr. Orange didn't understand what all the shock was about, and he said, in an annoyed tone, "No, I'm not Dr. Franklin. I thought we already established that. This is office 207. Hers is 214. It's down the hall. Now if you'd excuse me I have to work on these patient notes. Thank you, and good day."

Now Orton was really confused. "Those are my notes you're working on," he exclaimed, "You were just seeing me!"

Dr. Orange looked at Orton for the first time since he had come back into the office, and he gave a start of recognition. "Why, so it is the man I was just seeing! Who would've thought it? I'm sorry for being so rude just now, but as I said, Dr. Franklin's office is just down the hall, number 214."

Orton, getting a bit frustrated now, testily said, "What? I'm your patient! Ok, maybe I called you by the wrong name accidentally, but why are you sending me to another doctor?"

Dr. Orange looked compassionately at Orton, and he said, "You say it was accidental, but it's what we in the business would call a 'Freudian slip.' You called me 'Dr. Franklin' because she's the doctor you really want to see."

Orton said, "What are you talking about? I've never heard of this guy Dr. Franklin before. Look here, I'm paying a lot of money for this visit, and you're wasting it on a whole load of stupidity-what is this, some new form of therapy or something?"

"Don't be ridculous," said Dr. Orange, as he wrote in big letters in his notes 'UNRESOLVED ANGER ISSUES (PROBABLY STEMMING FROM CHILD ABUSE)', "both you and I know that the only way to have a proper and therapeutical session is for both involved partners to be fully committed."

"What would make you think I'm not fully committed?" asked Orton. "Didn't I pay through the roof for this appointment? Didn't I show up on time, cancel my golf, miss my favorite tv show (Prison Break), and break my date with my wife so that I could come?This is ridiculous!"

Dr. Orange wrote in his notes 'PLAYS GOLF, WATCHES PRISON BREAK, HAS A WIFE-OBVIOUS SIGNS OF MENTAL DEFICIENCY EXPLORE EARLY CHILDHOOD AND PRENATAL CARE' and then said, "You may think you're fully committed, and I'd certainly like to think you are, but it appears that your id, ego, and superego have all spoken, and they've revealed that we're simply not on the same page. I'm sorry, but you should really go see Dr. Franklin."

At this point Orton was quite fed up, and he figured that Dr. Franklin couldn't be any worse than this guy (whoever she was), so he made his goodbyes and got the heck out of dodge. He found office 208, and continued up the hallway following the rising numbers until he came to room 214. It was the ladies bathroom. "This is ridiculous!" he thought, "sending me to a ladies bathroom? What kind of insanity is that?" Orton was by now thoroughly fed up, but he wasn't the type to just give up, so he walked back to office 207 and barged in. Dr. Orange was in the middle of arranging his collection of instant noodle soups.

"Why did you send me to a women's bathroom! Dr. Orange looked up from his arrangements and said, "Do you mind? I'm working on my prized collection here. Manners never hurt anyone, and in your case, their lack is very much felt."

Orton was in no mood for such histrionics, and he sharply said, "To hell and high water with your precious collection, give me an answer!"

Dr. Orange, no stranger to violent patients, calmly continued arranging his collection (this time by expiration date) as he said, "Even though you've been most rude I will answer your question because I think that sometimes when we deal with people we must teach and lead by example, not expecting to necessarily influence with great words nor awesome deeds but rather to affect a change with quiet assurance and measured tones."

Orton didn't even bother responding, which irked Dr. Orange, because he had rather liked his kettle speech. Realizing though that his sharp words were to meet no fellow foil he continued, "I sent you to room 214, which as you so brilliantly point out is in fact the women's
room, because that is where Dr. Franklin has her offices. Any other questions?"

Orton suddenly remembered something which had bothered him before. "Did you really fire that secretary? I'd feel really guilty if you had-I mean, she did nothing wrong."

Dr. Orange said, "My secretary? Oh yes. I was just joking. I wanted to inspire some guilt in you and see what the effects would be." After saying this he wrote in his notes 'GUILTY CONSCIENCE-PROBABLY A PATHOLOGICAL LIAR AND SERIAL MURDERER AND RAPIST OR SOMETHING'.

Meanwhile Orton walked back to the bathroom and timidly knocked on the door. After all, he wasn't the sort of man who walked unannounced into a ladies room. Nothing happened, so he knocked a little harder. Still nothing. Orton decided to give it one more try, and this time he got a response. A note was slipped under the door that said, "I'm busy right now, come back when I'm not busy."

Orton looked at this note and thought, "Wow, that's ridiculous. How should I know when she's not busy?"

Another note slipped under the door as soon as he finished thinking this that said, "If you really cared about your mental health you'd make sure to know when I'm not healthy."

This answer freaked Orton out, and he decided to drive home. It rained.

Uncle Moishe visits his therapist

Hello Uncle Moishe.

Hello Mr. Therapist.

What seems to be the problem Uncle Moishe?

I feel very unsatisfied with my work.

Really? You don't feel fulfilled helping little kinderlach learn their mivtzos?

After you've been doing this for long enough you realize it's all-I mean, I've been singing for these kids on stage for what, thirty years now, and every generation turns out worse than the last. What a bunch of brats.

So you mean that you've been working hard for many years and you don't see any results?

Are you kidding me? I've given my heart and soul to these little pipsqueaks, and what thanks do I get? None at all.

So you feel like no one is appreciative of all your work?

And worst of all are these "miztva men" of mine.

Why, what's wrong with them?

Have you ever seen the way they act? It's crazy. All the adults love them, because they can tell a joke or two-and who do you think wrote the jokes?

You?

No, but that's not the point. The point is that I'm working my tail off here, and what have I gotten for it?

A sterling reputation?

Not even that. Everyone just thinks I'm an old creep.

Well, that is understandable, isn't it? I mean, older men who prance around on stage wearing silly costumes and kiddie songs for six year olds?

Am I any different than, for example, Moses?

Moses?

Yeah, Moses.

What about Moses?

Well, he was eighty when he started leading the Jewish people, wasn't he? And I bet he looked pretty funny in his robe, and yet what do they call him?

Moses?

Exactly. And what am I?

Uncle Moishe.

You see the difference?

Not exactly.

Well, I'll tell you the difference. Moses is dignified and honorable. Uncle Moishe sounds like a guy who rooted for the New York Giants before they left for San Fransisco and liked sauerkraut with his hamburgers.

Do you like sauerkraut with your hamburgers?

What kind of insulting question is that? You think you're my dietician or something?

Do you have a dietician?

Of course! How else do you think I stay in such great shape?

Um, I hate to break it to you, but....

What are you saying now?

Listen, you're certainly a shape, but I'm not sure if you fit into any recognized ones.

What are you trying to say now?

OK, forget I said anything, let's move on. What else is bothering you?

My beard.

Your beard is bothering you?

Yes.

What exactly about your beard bothers you?

The color.

Ahh, you don't like having a white beard.

Exactly.

What's wrong with having a white beard?

Nothing. Except that when you're dancing around on stage like a fifteen year old it's nice to have a beard that fits the part.

So why don't you do something about it?

What do you suggest?

Liposuction?

Huh?

Sorry, that was just a joke. Why don't you dye it?

Because I'm not a faker.

What do you mean by that?

I'm not a faker. I don't lie, connive, cheat, misrepresent, etc.

Ahh. You're a truthful individual.

Correct.

In that case, goodbye.

That's it?

That's it.

Devotion it ain't

I had a really weird dream last night about gays. Basically, I posted something about gay marriage on TRS one night, and a whole comment thread developed about it. I'd say which commenters were on which side of the debate, but I don't want anyone to get mad at me. There was also a new commenter, posting as anonymous, who wrote an impassioned defense of gay rights, or something like that. Later that night I was walking outside and chanced upon this blogger, who had some weird French name, and I told him he was wrong. He asked me why? I explained to him my view, that gay marriage is all wonderful and fine, and anyone who wants can engage in it, but at the same time, homosexuality is an abomination unto the L-rd, as described in Leviticus 19:22. He agreed with this, which disturbed me, because I was all ready for a fight, and here was this guy just giving in like that!
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Interesting dream, eh? And now it's time to dream again...

Roman à Clef

There was once, many years ago, a man who lived in Craiova and worked as a technician in the local armory. His name was Dudu. Dudu loved the various Romanian specialties, like ciorbă, shkembe chorba or iskembe, and always made sure to salute the flag when necessary. Dudu, like all men, had a major problem. He needed to find a wife. This was many years ago, when there were no blogs, and Dudu couldn't figure out what to do. None of the local Romanian women would marry him, and he didn't have the money to travel abroad.

This sad situation continued for many years. One day the military attaché of one of the consulates in Craiova came over to Dudu and asked him to pass on some secrets. Dudu was shocked. First of all, he loved Romania-how could it enter this man's head that he would betray his beloved country? Besides, this seemed to be a very pathetic way of gaining information. Dudu's superiors at the armory had often warned that he might be approached for military secrets and whatnot, but Dudu had assumed that if this were to occur it would be done with the suave and sophistication expected of one trying to turn a patriot into a traitor. Dudu figured he'd be wined and dined and offered great sums of money, and that it would take a lot of time and effort. And yet here he was just being asked point blank!

At first Dudu thought this was a test from his own government, or something similiar, and he declined. The attaché persisted, and Dudu asked him for a sign or proof that he was sincere. The attaché agreed to provide him with one, provided that he'd set a price. Dudu immediately grew wary again; after all, it was possible that the whoever was testing him simply wanted to find out how much he'd sell himself for. Dudu therefore told the attaché that he would first like to see the proof, and then they might discuss terms.

The next night the attaché met Dudu in their habitual meeting place (an old bar in a seedy part of town) and declared that he'd gotten irrefutable proof of his honorable intentions. Saying this, he pulled a pudding out of his briefcase with aplomb and placed it on the table.

Within moments a waitress came over and told them that no outside food was permitted in the establishment. The attaché apologized profusely, and put it away again. He looked at Dudu, and noticing the bemused look on the would-be spies face, he said, "I've wanted to do that for a long time now, but I never had the opportunity."

Dudu still didn't get it (he was Romanian after all), but he didn't want to let on that he wasn't the smartest knife in the kitchen, so he laughed politely and asked for some actual proof. The attaché, seeing that his little joke hadn't gone over so well (he had forgotten that he was dealing with a Romanian), put on a serious face and declared that if Dudu would like to step outside for a moment he'd see something that would knock his boxers off. Dudu immediately protested, "But I don't wear boxers anymore, only boxer briefs!" The attaché finally began to understand just what kind of person he was dealing with, but there was nothing to be done (he needed those military secrets), so he merely gritted his pearly-white teeth and stepped outside, leaving the question of underwear still floating in the hair like an unfinished sermon on Easter morning.

As both men walked outside they beheld a most wonderous sight. There, in plain view of both of them, was the most magnificent carriage that either had ever seen, with eight perfectly matched steeds and twelve footmen and runners for accompaniment. Dudu was amazed (for who would not be?) but he didn't get how this showed the attachés sincerity. The attaché was amazed too, because he hadn't expected a most magnificent carriage to be in front of his attestation.

Dudu asked, "Is this another one of your jokes?", but before the attaché had a chance to respond a great big bloodhound flew at them and proceeded to slobber uncontrollably all over Dudu's pants. A man in black flew out of the magnificent carriage and collared the dog, begging forgiveness with every twist of the collar on the mastiff's neck.

The attaché was paralyzed with fight, but before he had a chance to do anything (like put on the fake moustache he always kept in his case) the man in black got a good, hard look at his face. "Ahh," he exclaimed, "my old nemesis, the military attaché from the foreign consulate."

The attaché couldn't deny this patently true charge, and he made no response. Turning to Dudu, the man in black said, "And what do we have here? A Romanian with business with a foreign government? How interesting. I'd like to take you in for questioning."
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Dudu never even saw the wife that was waiting for him.

It's like, OMG!

Holy smokes. I'm engaged! I only just realized it. I mean, I knew it before, but now I'm back in yeshiva and... I'm not a bochur anymore, I'm a chassan. Between the two lies a vast gulf. Pretty danged crazy if you ask me.

There's a custom to make the final sheva brachos in a yeshiva. In non-Lubavitcher yeshivos it's said that this is done to show the chassan that he may have been domeh to a melech for the last week, but now he's back to being a regular guy, no better than anyone else.

In Lubavitch, we do this to show the chassan what his roots are, to demonstrate that while he might be leaving the halls of Torah he's still very much a tomim. Not for naught do mashpiim proclaim "po nikbaru", here you will be buried. The very air of Tomchei Tmimim affects a person and effects a fundamental change-as the famous saying of the Rebbe Rashab had it, anyone who eats the kashe of Tomchei Tmimim won't die without doing teshuva. The wags say that this is because the food is so bad that it kills all who eat it, and the death is so painful that it causes a person to do teshuva.

In truth, of course, this saying means that a person who went to Tomchei Tminim and imbibed its atmosphere has forever gone a soul change that no amount of subsequent degradation or filth can possibly tamper with.

There's a story told about a bochur in Tomchei Tmimim who didn't exactly live up to the high standards expected of a tomim. He was a letz and a bum. Yet when the time came and he left yeshiva to get married some bochurim escorted him to the train station and he was in tears the whole time.

Why was this? After all, this bochur had never showed any particular affinity for the yeshiva when he had been a student there. From whence came this sudden change of heart?

The answer is that he looked into his soul and he realized what he was doing, what he was getting into, and he understood all that Tomchei Tmimim stood for, and what it meant to leave it for the last time.

The Rebbe said that the time between the engagement and the chasunah is extremely precious. A person has to chap arein, to grab every last bit of spirituality he can and store that up foe the rest of his life. It's not a time for foolery and frippery, but rather one of intense preparation for the awesome (in every sense of the word) state that marriage is.

Don't get me wrong, I'm really excited and all, but I also realize the awesome responsibility that is coming to me. As Rabbi Mendy Schapiro (LA) told me right before my lchaim, I'm now responsible for more than myself, both physically and spiritually.

I told my friend Zalmen B. when he asked me what I was planning on doing after the chasunah. I told him that I was planning on supporting my family. He said, "Right, but I know that too. What's the difference between before you get engaged and after?" I answered, "The difference is very simple. You know you have to support a family-I have to support a family."

You're gonna burn!!

I should get some sleep tonight (and every night, for that matter), so here's an encore presentation (edited a bit for clarity) of Moral Equivalency, which was first published on March 3, 2008. Enjoy!
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Last night I was reading a book by Rabbi Dr. Abraham Twersky and it reminded me of something that I heard from Rabbi Manis Friedman a couple of weeks ago.

He (R. M. Friedman) was once teaching at Bais Chana and one of the girls, who was a J for J, was arguing with him for hours. Eventually, he disproved everything she said, and was waiting for her to give in. She didn't. He asked why. She responded that she was afraid, because the J for J people told her that if a Christian-type person ever left the faith then they would burn forever in the fiery pits of hell, or something like that. So even though she realized that it was all garbage, she didn't want to chance it.

R. M. Friedman asked her, "Have you ever seen the curses in the Torah?" She hadn't, so he showed them to her. She was shocked. What kind of loving G-d was this? Rabbi Friedman explained, first quoting the the famous story of the Mitteler Rebbe's fainting when he heard the curses read on Shabbos, and later explaining that when his father read the Torah, he didn't hear curses.

What's the reason for this? When a son hears his father speaking negatively, even cursing, he knows that it's really all love. That's why Jews hear all the curses in the Torah, and instead of getting all scared they go and eat by the Kiddush. Why? Because they know that it's their father cursing. Christians though, they read the curses and get scared, because it's not their father doing the cursing, and they're not sure. Maybe he means it?

The girl became Frum.