Hot gartel, eh?

Lurve Lurve Lurve!

"Jim didn't much like it when his friend Tom forgot to take out the garbage from their room in the university dorm, but he didn't like criticizing Tom even more, so he kept his mouth shut. Tom, meanwhile, couldn't stand it when Jim sang while he was getting changed, but since he was mute he couldn't really do anything about it, so that was that."

"This, class is a perfect example of one-dimensional writing that has pretensions to humor but never really takes off anywhere and instead leaves the reader feeling like a piece of idiocy wrapped in lettuce and served on goyishe rye," said the literature professor, "and yes, Johnson, do you have something to say?"

Johnson did indeed have something to say, and he said it too. "What does it mean to 'feel like a piece of idiocy?'" asked Johnson, "and would it make any difference if you wrapped it in tomato instead?"

'And that's exactly the kind of snarky self-serving statement that I'm trying to breed you people off of," countered the literature professor, "and please, Johnson, see me after class."

"See you after class?" asked another student, "what is this, kindergarten? And anyway, if you're all for intellectual honesty and all that, then what's the problem with-"

The student was cut off by the literature professor, who realizing that he was rapidly losing control of the class, said loudly, "I don't teach this class to get argued with! I thought English majors were all pansies, what are you doing speaking up?!"

His tirade over, the literature professor turned back to his chalkboard to hide the quick swig he was about to take, and a minute later (after a reviving draught) turned back to his students to continue the lesson. Little did he know that one of his students, Lynda, bored out of her boxers by his continued droning, had taken to videoing his lectures with a small video camera and then editing his face so that it appeared as if he was in fact a goat. This was generally good for a few laughs, but usually made it no farther than the student lounge.

Lynda, who generally paid less attention to class than her parents paid in tuition (she was on a full scholarship), had once again been videoing (and not paying attention), but her professor's tirade had caught the ear of a few of her devoted followers, and they congregated around her after class and asked to see the video evidence. It played in glorious if grainy color on Lynda's laptop, and she even she was impressed with what she had gotten. "Nice," she said, "it's a good thing I'm a marketing major."

Six months later...

His career in tatters, the literature professor is working for the Mississippi Department of Education as a danish boy. Johnson is still serving himself, but now it's in front of hundreds of people every night at a successful 0ff-Broadway revival of The Women. And Lynda? She's still spacing out during class. Yup. Good times.

Golden

Silence is a pretty wild state of being. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. For example, if your sister has just given birth (which she did, incidentally), then it's probably not a great idea to just sit there numb with the news. Ideally you should jump and shout and whatnot until everyone starts looking at you a little funny, at which point you can go into the kitchen and fix yourself a strong drink.

Another bad time to be quiet is when your team is down by a touchdown/run/(field)goal and they have the ball/puck at the twenty yard line/bases loaded/powerplay/there's a reason they call it the National Boring Association. You shouldn't be quiet at this moment, because it's ridiculous to be quiet when you still have a chance to come out ahead.

Sometimes though it's a good thing to just shut up. When you're sitting in class the first day, and your teacher announces that his name is Mr. Slartibartfast (and even more so when he writes it down on the blackboard), it would not be a good idea to snort loudly and announce to your nearest classmate that your new teacher had a name like a pencil on steroids. Aside from this not being very happy, it would also probably result in threatening behavior from your new teacher.

Silence is also tremendous when you're talking to someone and they're ranting about this, that, or the other, and they have absolutely no clue what they're talking about (this happens to me quite often, strangely enough). What's to do? Sure, you could correct their every misconception and try to help them see the light, or at least stop spreading the darkness, but would this really be effective? Probably not. Most people who engage in this sort of anti-social nonsense aren't willing to have their world views change. Even if they were, they aren't interested in hearing about it from you. So what's to do? Shut your mouth. Let it go. Realize that contrary to what VIN thinks, you aren't going to change anyone's minds.

Change we can believe in is quite possibly the most important phrase to ever come out of Barack Obama's mouth, but is that change really going to be accomplished by talking? I don't think so. Look, he's been talking for like fifty straight years now, and what do we have to show for it? The first Kenyan ever in the White House. Whereas when he was finally quiet, at the beer summit, this nation changed in ways more incredibly then you (the average blog reader) will ever be able to appreciate. Of course, since you are reading TRS it shows that you're better than the average blog reader, so maybe there is hope after all. Hmm, interesting question.

Pithy fools

He heard a voice coming from behind him, and immediately swung around to see who it could be. Standing in back of him was a giant tortoise, but of course he didn't see this because it was standing in back of him. He turned around again when it made a noise, but it was still in back of him. This was all rather disconcerting, and he made a sudden movement-

and then silence.

The Right Shtuff

Still looking for inspiration? Well here it is, conveniently packaged and easily digested, perfect for all you stay at home dads and suchwhats.

I just heard a great story, and though it's well known it's well worth repeating. A Chassid once had occasion to visit a Misnagdic stronghold, and he received a warm welcome. What I meant to write was that he got a lot of heat from his fellow Jews for his personal views. Anyway, once it got time for him to leave his ever-solicitous hosts wanted to know what he thought of their city. How did they compare to the Chassidim he usually associated with? The Chassid answered, "The difference between a Misnaged and a Chassid? Simple! A Misnaged goes around thinking about Hashem all day, while a Chassid thinks about himself." The villagers were delighted, and they gave the Chassid extra Challah and Chrein to take on his long journey. As the Chassid was getting out of dodge, accompanied by the elders of the city, he said, "Oh, and to explain myself a little: A Chassid knows that Hashem exists, but he has his doubts about his own existence, so he goes around all day troubled by the matter. A Misnaged, on the other hand, knows that he exists, but as for Hashem? He wonders about Him all day, trying to figure out if He truly is there." It was lucky that the only people there were old, and the tomatoes they lobbed at him were fairly easy to avoid.

What does this story have to do with Pesach? Lots. No, really. Pesach is all about cleaning out the Chametz within you, escaping your own personal (as opposed to someone else's personal?) Egypt, walking three hours to eat Matza and drink wine with a bunch of people from S. Louis Park. What? You don't do that? Do you even have a Seder? Is there Judaism in your life?
Seriously folks, Pesach is serious business. Once upon a time, back in the day, in the land before time, many years ago, when they weren't so enamored of repeating themselves in order to artificially lengthen their blog posts (not that they had blog posts or anything), Pesach was very different. Cleaning? It's not like anyone had too much Chametz in the first place, so all they had to do was a little of this and a little of that, and presto! Life was good. They did have to Kasher their dishes, but they had a Rav to take care of that. Pesach was mostly about making sure the Matza remained dry and the wine remained wet. Interestingly enough, it was much easier to ensure the latter than the former. Who would've thought?

Nowadays, we've got problems. There's Chametz all over, our cars are filthy, and we can't even afford to go to Florida for the holidays, because the economy is in the trash. Oh right, six of you can afford to go to Florida. Sick. Anyway, as I was saying, cleaning is the biggest thing we do to prepare for Pesach. Our Matza? Most of us just buy it, along with wine, and anything else one might need to celebrate the holiday in style.

Is there a lesson in all of this? Way back when the main thing was keeping away from things: keeping the flour dry, the wine free of alien influence, the Goyim out of their cemeteries and our houses. Today things are different. We're cleaning, shopping, cleaning some more, shopping some more (the President is so proud). Maybe we're just not good enough to stay away from sin and temptation, after all, we're the lowest generation of all time. At the same time though, we can do, accomplish, make things happen. Sure, we're pathetic losers for being alive now, but we also have the unique capability to bring Moshiach. No other generation was given the same tools we were. Is it difficult? Of course. Can we do it? Do we have a choice?

Fine, so I didn't really connect the story and its moral. What you're gonna do, shoot me?

Healthy is as healthy does

Seeing as no one seemed to like last night's brilliance, here's some nice little farbrengen shtuff to keep you occupied.

Rabbi Chayim Friedman Farbrenged earlier this evening. Shocked by the lack of titles? I told you I was going to make this brief. When a surgeon prepares to do surgery, he (or she, for that matter) prepares himself extensively. He cuts his fingernails, and blunts, them. Then he washed his hands to the elbow, and then puts on latex-free gloves. The janitorial staff, meanwhile, has been working hard to ensure that the operating room is completely sterile, that not a single germ should be left standing. What happens then? The patient is wheeled in, the doctor takes out a knife, and boom! There's blood everywhere. What was the point of all that preparation? Obviously, it was to ensure that there's be no infection, that the patient shouldn't be damaged. Even though it may seem like he's being hurt by the doctor, the whole point is to help, and it would be terrible for anything to go wrong.

So too a person who comes to criticize his friend; he has to make sure that his motives are pure, and that his words are measured. He must keep in mind what he is doing, and what his goals are. The point is not to cut open, though that may have to be done; rather, the point is to heal.
After Rabbi Friedman said this I wandered on over and made the observation that in an emergency, there's no time for the doctor to wash his hands. A paramedic, if necessary, will plunge right in, disregarding the circumstances he finds himself in. Why? Because time is of the essence, and what good will it do the patient if his doctor's hands are pure but he is dead?
So too with education. Sometimes a Mashpia has the advantage of time, the ability to objectively evaluate a situation and ensure a sterile environment for his reprimand. Sometimes though, on the front line, the fire is burning, and someone has to put it out. There's no time for dilly-dallying, no opportunity to calm down. The guy has just got to go in there with guns blazing, and hopefully it'll all turn out all right.
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And here was a nice anon comment:

But really, I think maybe the point of the farb. was that when a regular fellow wants to criticize he needs to imitate the doctor or surgeon. Yes, in case of emergency you would allow a doctor to jump right in and skip some precautions. But a non-professional would be wasting his time and risking the life of the victim if he jumped in not even knowing of what precautions there are to take.

So again, the point of the farb. might be: don't wait until you need to criticize and then learn how to go about doing it. Prepare yourself NOW for the eventual need to criticize (constructively), become a doctor (or an aide), so that in an emergency, you'll be qualified to open your mouth.

Or something like that.

It's been a long time coming, and it ain't ending too soon either

"It's a journey that may take a thousand years," said the world renowned travel show presenter, "and what could be better?" His producer wasn't too thrilled with the idea. "A thousand years? Are you nuts? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get a pilot approved for one season? And you're asking a studio to give you a millennium? You're nuts in the head!" The world renowned travel presenter was not to be deterred, and he simply switched allegiance, a common enough occurrence in Hollywood, though not common enough to escape the notice of the local tabloids, which proclaimed the next morning, "I don't want to spend the next thousand years together with you!"

So there they were, setting off on what might prove to be the longest bust in television history. The execs had taken a while to warm to the idea. They has asked, "When do we get to send this baby to syndication," and, "It's like reality TV but the only prize you win at the end is that you get to go to sleep." Cooler heads prevailed, and about six months after filming began the promotional material started up. Once again some of the powers that were thought this a trifle ridiculous-after all, the life cycle on this particular product was going to exceed that of its creators, and maybe they should figure out if its any good anyway before spending millions of dollars sending kitschy shtuff to reviewers? This was taken to be a good point by the cooler heads, but they were put back into the freezer and the pr team got to work.

The public was, it turned out, intrigued by this new travel show, and they began to pester the network for information. A snag was hit when it was revealed that the premiere was shot in Lakewood, but this was soon solved by simply not showing this segment. After all, when you have a thousand years to work with, what's a half hour here or there? One critic remarked that it seemed a little ridiculous to begin a thousand year's journey by stumbling on the first step, but he also wrote that, "Lakewood is a pretty boring place, I'm not sure why anyone would want to spend any amount of time there, even if they had lots and lots of time to spend elsewhere," which seemed to solve whatever problems had come up, at least for the viewers.

Sunday night was marked off on the calendars of many Americans, who tuned in to watch the beginning of what promised to be the greatest show in the history of television and indeed in the history of humanity. The show, entitled, "It's been a long time coming, and it ain't ending too soon either," began with the world renowned travel show presenter was seen sitting in a beautifully restored early-American wood cabinet drinking a martini and smoking an expensive cigarette, while explaining to a group of rapt teenagers that sartorialism was not in fact a vapid response to capitalism, but was rather a rather well thought out response to Dan Rather's insistence on being himself. The teenagers didn't quite get what was going on, but they did understand that here was their chance to shine brightly, or at least to maybe get some of the martini.

After cutting away from this seen of parochial guidance the world renowned travel show presenter was seen hiking over the dales and through the hills to his grandma's house, proclaiming that, "Only here, in the clear blue mountains of Kansas, where time itself seems to have stopped and the green-fleckled hens of a time too far gone to make any sense of stand sentinel to the vast powers that once decided the fates of a million peasants." Not one to mince words, he also said that the best local product to be had at the time was steamed pickles, though the one shot shown of him eating them wasn't particularly revealing, though perhaps this could be blamed on the barf bag which featured prominently not being translucent. Much better looking were the french fries from McDonalds which could be seen peeking out from in between the cushions in the custom made recreational vehicle which served as both the living quarters for the presenter and his publicist, who was really the power behind the throne, even if she was only 26 and had a nose like a pig on anabolic steroids.

The grandma proved to be the first big seller on the show, providing the first controversial headlines (at least, the first controversial headlines having to actually do with the show) and having an inner reserve that belied her outer belligerence, bellicose and taciturn nature, and general air of being one of the few, the proud, the latrines. What caused all the controversy was her stating, on air, that she made the very best clam chowder in the whole wide world, a point which was hotly debated by the water heaters in thousands of homes over the following weeks. It was later pointed out that she had actually made this statement six months prior to its being said on national television, and there was really no reason to get all worked up out about it. Besides, the wags wagged, there was no reason why the people who were being paid to edit the show couldn't have just left it out. The public opined that they seemed to miss an essential part of the equation here, even if the public couldn't quite figure out what it was. It was most unfortunate when the grandma went and died while sliding into third, and there was that. Fortunately, as the show's producers said, "We've got a lot more footage," so no one seemed to mind too much. All right, maybe the grandma minded, but she didn't say anything, so everyone figured it was ok.

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.

Not always a good thing

לבי חלל בקרבי

I'm back!

And better than ever.