Standing alone, together

 There's something about a prayer that's magic (H/T SOB).

Every few years, I like to visit Israel because I like to visit the Kotel, the Western Wall. I use those moments to recharge my spiritual battery. I go up to the wall and I close my eyes. I turn on all my other senses and I try to soak in the experience, planting memories and feelings that I will tap into for the next weeks, months and years when I pray elsewhere. It is sort of like my version of Tintern Abbey. 

There is a tension I have noticed in prayer, but not a bad one -- the role of the individual and of the community. We try to pray with a minyan, a quorum, so that we can unite as a congregation and petition God as a force. But our central prayer, the Amidah (standing) [also called the Shmoneh Esrei though that only really applies to the weekday version, and even then, in the breach] separates us from the collective. We stand silently, We retreat into our own personal cocoon of prayer. The community, abuzz with the sounds of prayer turns silent. And when you close your eyes, or cover yourself with a tallit, or look down into your prayerbook intently, everything else disappears and you are now alone, standing in front of the Creator, using your own voice to plead. I close my eyes and I'm in front of the Kotel again. No matter how crowded the room, when I close my eyes, I'm alone -- just me and the big guy. Brutal honesty and no one else is there. The room is empty.

But then, in the words of my prayers, I notice something. Though I am alone in the presence of God, I pray in the plural. It isn't all about me. I'm still part of the collective even in my most private moments. An entire room of inviduals, silently standing before God, pleading for the group. I love that moment because it ties together so many opposites. This prayer symbolizes, to me, the reconciling of theoretically mutually exclusive concepts which then allows me, the finite, to connect with the infinite.

It is a beautiful feeling to so lose yourself in singular prayer that you forget that you are part of a united force of ten or more, all actually praying together, unaware of each other's existence.

Dead But Present

This is a story written by my dad Z"L . It was part of a collection of stories he wrote (and placed for sale on Lulu...just saying).

Jack was watching out the window and getting more and more frustrated as the minutes went by. They were eight minutes late already. “A watched pot never boils.” It wasn’t very original but it was the best the rabbi had to offer. “Actually it does. I tried it once to see. It wasn’t very interesting but the water did boil. If that expression were really true all we’d have to do to forestall anything would be to keep our eyes on it. Think of it. We could prevent war.” The rabbi knew him well enough to believe that he had actually watched a pot. Jack was very serious and very concrete in his thinking. He was not all that imaginative and he had no sense of humor at all, but he was reliable. “Watching grass grow and paint dry is even more uninteresting. In fact it’s boring. I gave up on them.” The rabbi didn’t doubt it at all. He was amused by Jack’s earnestness, but he didn’t laugh. That would have embarrassed the poor fellow. Jack’s view covered the parking lot and part of the path to the front door, though he couldn’t see the door itself from the coat room where they stood. “I have a great idea for getting people here on time – at least for Shabbos. Have the kiddush at the beginning – before we start davening. Some people come only in time for the food, and it may get them to come earlier. Food first, service second. Even if that doesn’t work it will mean that we start a little later and maybe there’ll be more people here then.” Jack’s idea was proposed quite seriously, but still the rabbi viewed it as a joke. “Original, but it won’t work. The people who come just for the food won’t get up early, even for the food, so they won’t come at all, and the people who are serious about davening won’t eat before they do so. I’m afraid we’ll need a different gimmick.” The front door slammed. “That’s funny. I didn’t see anyone coming and I have a good view of the way in.” As they left the coat room they saw the back of whoever it was who was entering the beis midrash where they davened during the week.

When Harry Baron arrived at shul for shacharit, there were nine men already present. He looked fit and just as everyone remembered. And as usual he was late.

After walking over to his accustomed seat he started putting on his tallis and tefillin. That, certainly, was unexceptionable behavior, but there was a problem, and a strange and frightened expression was visible on the faces of some of the men. Jack Harris edged over to the rabbi and in hushed tones asked: “Can we count him.” “Why not? He’s Jewish, isn’t he?” It was clear to the rabbi that even though he, himself, didn’t, Jack recognized the newcomer but appeared to have some doubts. “Well, yes, but ...” “Then what’s the problem?” “That’s Harry Baron.” “Lovely name. But what’s that got to do with it?” “He’s dead.” The rabbi was flustered and, for a moment, he did not – could not – speak. The rabbi was relatively new, having started there only a couple of months earlier and didn’t know Harry, nor Harry’s story. “I don’t understand. Now’s not the time for humor. People have to get to work. He started already. Let’s just continue without the hi-jinks.” The rabbi acted confident but he was very unsure of himself. The one thing he did know was that Harry was incapable of joking. “So we can count him?” “Of course we can.” “Even though he’s dead?” “What are you talking about. You’d better explain yourself. He looks very much alive to me, and he’s the tenth. We have a minyan.” Jack was blunt. “He died about a year ago. And it wasn’t as if his body was missing or couldn’t be identified with certainty. He had lung cancer and died in the hospital. He was buried the next day following tahara and the whole shmear. I remember the levayah. It was really very moving. As I recall it was the last one performed by Rabbi Becker before he died. The beis din apportioned the inheritance and issued instructions for the paying of the ketubah. Trust me. He’s dead.” “So your Harry Baron is dead and this must be someone who looks like him. You haven’t seen him in a year and I’m sure you’re just confused. I’ll speak to him and straighten this all out. Then we can begin.” The rabbi walked up to the front where Harry had gone to lead the davening. “Hi. I’m Rabbi Meister. Are you visiting? Or do you live here?” “Well, yes and no. I’m local. I haven’t been to minyan in a while.” “I’m confused by your answer. What do you mean ‘yes and no?’ What’s your name?” “Harry Baron.” The rabbi was silent for a moment. Nothing otherwise seemed out of the ordinary.

“That’s what Jack Harris said. But he also said you died, though you look very much alive to me. What’s the story?” “Jack’s right. I’m dead.” The rabbi’s face turned red and he was clearly very upset. “I’m losing my patience with this joke. What’s going on?” “I had lung cancer and died about a year ago. Actually it was just under a year ago – my yahrzeit is tonight – the same day as my father’s. So I wanted to be sure I got here in time or, better still, a day early. Tonight and tomorrow I’ll say kaddish with the minyan.” Harry’s clothes smelled of tobacco and everything was a little crumpled. The rabbi was more confused than before and walked off to a corner to think. He had seven years of experience and thought he could manage any question that came up but it was clear to him that he couldn’t deal with the problem he now faced. Harry started davening, very passionately. His voice was like that of an angel. Despite the fact that Harry had started, Jack Harris kept up the bombardment of Rabbi Meister. “Can we associate with someone who’s dead? I remember from somewhere that calling up the dead is avodah zara? What about one who just walks in on us? And what about Larry Katz? He’s a kohein. Does he have to leave and go to the mikvah? Even if we count Harry, we’ll be back at nine if that’s the case. And it’s getting close to the time for the Sh’ma. Tell us what to do.” The rabbi was bewildered. He was overwhelmed. And he couldn’t answer the questions. He told Jack that all he knew was that there were references to a “dead” husband who reappeared following his “widow’s” remarriage. But that didn’t appear to be the situation here. There was only one solution. The rabbi picked up his tallis and tefillin. “I’ll be back for minchah, and I’ll have some answers then. But I can’t be sure that we have a minyan now and I know I can’t figure it all out before it’s time to say Sh’ma, so the best assumption is that there is no minyan and this will make sure that’s the case.” And with that he left. That meant there were only nine present. So though the immediate solution wasn’t what Jack had in mind, the problem disappeared. Initially he was angry, but after a moment’s reflection, he decided that the rabbi had done the right thing. Although one isn’t permitted to leave a minyan if his absence will mean that there aren’t ten present, in this case, since there was no one saying kaddish and it was a sofek if there was a minyan, Rabbi Meister decided that by making sure there weren’t ten he had obviated the problems without penalizing any individual. Larry Katz still had a question, but for the moment he was on his own to solve it, so he left too. If the rabbi wasn’t sure, he certainly wasn’t going to stay around.

Rabbi Meister davened Shacharit at home. His davening was distracted and certainly lacked proper kavanah, but it was better than nothing. He couldn’t get over the feeling that what he had just experienced was impossible and there had to be a rational explanation, but he didn’t have time to explore that possibility – he had to deal with appearances, and to do so before minchah. There was a noontime luncheon of the shul Sisterhood, and he was scheduled to speak, but he’d have to cancel. He knew that at the very least he’d cause a disappointment and possibly wind up with some enemies among the women, but he had no choice. He had to have an answer by 5:30 in the afternoon, and it was already 8:15. It was too early to start calling people – not the Sisterhood president nor any of the experts who might advise him regarding his problem – so he pulled down several of his s’forim and began leafing through them. He didn’t expect to find any precedent – at least not one that dealt with exactly what he had seen – the Rabbis were imaginative and inventive, but they weren’t crazy. Some of the scenarios they proposed to explain obscure or apparently contradictory statements of their predecessors strained credibility, but Rabbi Meister was sure no one had hypothesized a situation like this morning’s. The best that he hoped for was a situation which was somewhere close enough for inferences to be made that might cover this state of affairs. He didn’t really expect to find any, but still he hoped. The closest situation he could find was just what he had expected. It was the case he had mentioned to Jack: the one that dealt with a second marriage of a woman whose husband was believed dead. In that instance, though, the man had never died despite the erroneous judgment of the beis din that he had. According to what Jack had told him, however, this was not such a situation because he was dead. And Baron confirmed this. The rabbi was hard-put to continue. He didn’t know where to go from there. He did know that he had to get his kids to school before nine and this was a non-negotiable responsibility. His wife worked downtown and left for work as soon as she saw his car in the driveway. She didn’t even wait for him to get out. He was early but she had told him that there was an early meeting at her agency and she wanted to attend if possible. Seeing him arrive at that hour she assumed he had rushed to help her out, so she left. That left him with the kids. Fortunately they could eat breakfast on their own while he davened, but, he had to drive them to school. It was just as well. He didn’t know where to go in solving this impossibility and the drive gave him time to think. The telephone rang but the caller would have to leave a message. He couldn’t be late in delivering the kids or he’d never hear the end of it. He’d pick up the message in about a half hour, as soon as he was done. Nothing couldn’t wait that long.

Rabbi Meister pulled into an open space right in front of the school. It was the first positive thing that had happened all day. After letting off his kids he pulled out his cell phone and called Esther Berman. The earlier he told her he wouldn’t be able to attend the luncheon the better.

“Esther? This is Rabbi Meister. How are you.” “I’m fine. Thanks. And you? I tried reaching you at home but wasn’t successful.” That must have been the call when he was leaving. He was glad he didn't get it before he left. Well, it seems to have managed to wait. Esther sounded all right, notwithstanding the fifteen minute delay. “What did you call about?” “We had two speakers scheduled today – you and Dr. Seligson. He was going to talk about problems associated with aging and about death. He has a medical emergency, though, and he called to cancel. We certainly understand his problem and I was wondering if you could lengthen your talk a little. Possibly you could deal with aging from a religious standpoint. Or maybe you could talk about medical ethics.” Disaster. It was clear why she had called him already. She was faced with a bad situation and needed him to save her. It would be impossible for him to beg off now. “Actually, the reason I called you was to tell you that I’d have to leave immediately after finishing my talk today. A problem came up this morning at minyan and I have to clear it up before afternoon services, and I’m not sure I’ll have time to add any more to the talk I’ve prepared.” In fact, the rabbi hadn’t really prepared much but had intended to talk off-the-cuff on the place women played in biblical history. It wasn’t original but it would work. He knew the material and was certain he could interest his audience. But he didn’t know whether he would have an opportunity to lengthen the talk. However the pressure to “rescue” the Sisterhood leadership was worth the effort. Their support in the future would be valuable. So Rabbi Meister “acceded” to Esther’s plea. “Look. I know you have a problem so let me try to help. I’ll be discussing women in the Bible and perhaps I can add to what I was going to say about Sarah. I can discuss aging in relation to her having a child at the age of ninety. There’s a lot to be said about the problems she faced having a child at that age, and that’s the best link I can come up with on the spur of the moment.” The rabbi knew there was a lot to be said since he had discussed the issue in a Rosh Hashanah sermon he had given at his last synagogue a few years earlier. All he had to do was print a new copy on his computer in the office. That meant he couldn’t use the material at Rodfei Emet for another few years but it would turn the situation from one that was likely to make him some enemies into one that might win him some friends. It didn’t solve his main difficulty, but this would take care of the situation with the Sisterhood problem. In view of what had happened with the morning minyan, he really didn’t want to talk about death – even from a standpoint unrelated to the current situation. This was an issue that had to be dealt with separately. Esther was relieved and she talked and talked after that. Rabbi Meister was tempted to silence her as politely as possible so he could get to his real problem, but he just listened as the minutes went by.

Eventually Mrs. Berman concluded. “We’re having an ice cream cake after the lecture and I’m sorry you won’t be able to have some and schmooze with us afterward. But thank you so much for helping us out. Now that the Sisterhood was out of the way, Rabbi Meister called Rabbi Herschel Spingold. He always called Rabbi Spingold when he had a difficult problem, and this certainly qualified. However much he thought he knew about halakhah, he had no idea how to deal with the situation. He dialed the number and waited. The rabbi, himself, answered the call. Rabbi Meister gave a detailed explanation of the problem and asked what he should do. “Of course it’s a serious question. And I need an answer by 5:30. I have to have it by minchah.” “No this isn’t a joke. I know what it sounds like but one of my minyan members assures me he attended the man’s funeral, and the man in question himself says he’s been dead for a year. He wants to say kaddish at ma’ariv for himself and his father. I have no idea how to deal with the situation, but I have to have some way of approaching it this afternoon. I couldn’t find a reference to anything similar and I don’t know where to look for clues. And I don’t have the time to try to find any answers on my own.” “All right. I’ll be there. I have to attend a Sisterhood luncheon, but I’ll come over as soon as I can free myself.” “No. Don’t worry. My expectations are low.” Rabbi Meister pressed the “End” button on his cell phone and looked at his watch. It was already 11:15. He’d be meeting with Rabbi Spingold later that day – as close to 2:00 PM as he could make it. In the meantime he went home to locate his presentation for the Sisterhood. He ran into his office and out with barely enough time to print a hard copy. He didn’t even have time to grab a snack from the office refrigerator, but in view of his experience he wasn’t very hungry.

Rabbi Meister arrived at 2:30 and rang the buzzer to be let into the apartment house. There had been more questions after his talk than he had anticipated. The idea of an elderly woman conceiving fascinated the Sisterhood members, many of whom had read in the newspapers of post-menopausal women who, with the help of modern science, had managed to be made pregnant. After he was buzzed in he took the elevator to the third floor where the Rabbi’s apartment was. Rabbi Spingold answered the door and let him in. He had been reading until then, hoping to find something that would shed light on Rabbi Meister’s problem, but he still couldn’t believe it. “I hope you haven’t been wasting my time with a practical joke.” Rabbi Meister was very serious. “I wish that were the case, but the situation is real and I’m out of my depth. I kept praying while it was happening that Jack Harris would burst out laughing – even though I knew deep down that it wasn’t in his nature to play a joke like that. I probably would have been angry but I know I would have been relieved. Unfortunately he didn’t laugh and now I have a problem that may be bizarre but has more implications than I can deal with.” Rabbi Spingold waited a moment and then responded. “I was hoping that you would tell me that you had learned that there had been a misunderstanding and you no longer needed answers to the questions you raised, but apparently that’s not the case. If I had more time I’d want to speak to or correspond with several rabbeim around the world to get their opinions on the case since there is no precedent that I can discover that is similar to it. Because you’re in a rush and the issues you’ve raised are limited, I’ll try to give you some guidance, but a lot more research and inquiry are really necessary. And there are questions you didn’t raise about debts, inheritance, marriage, oaths, and many other things regarding both the family and the man himself – whether dead or alive – which need clarification, but you didn’t raise them and I won’t give any opinion on them. “In any case, I want you to tell me the situation all over again. Don’t leave out any details, no matter how insignificant they seem.” Rabbi Meister described everything that happened. He began by saying that he wasn’t at the shul when Harry Baron died and that his only information was from Jack Harris and Baron himself. Not only that, but Rabbi Becker was dead and couldn’t help. He didn’t know who was on the beis din and suspected that it would take far too long to find out. So he could only tell Rabbi Spingold what he had observed and heard. There was a short pause while Rabbi Spingold thought. “Let’s start with some basic ground rules. First of all, we accept what the beis din, assuming it was properly constituted, decided as having been correct. At the time, at least. Also, we don’t listen to Mr. Baron. If he is alive, he’s lying and liars aren't acceptable as witnesses and if he's dead he certainly isn't a valid witness. In addition, an individual isn’t permitted to testify against himself except in monetary cases anyway.” Although that took care of one of the issues, it didn’t really solve the problem. But now he had only Jack’s word about Baron’s status. And there were still the questions of whether he was alive or dead, was it permissible to count him in the minyan, could he lead the davening as a chiyuv and say kaddish, did Larry Katz have to leave – in fact did they all have to leave? “The issue of ignoring the testimony from Harry Baron is good news but it still leaves several questions.” Rabbi Spingold continued. “Don’t be impatient. There are a lot of issues to be decided. That’s only one of them.” “I’m sorry. If I seem impatient it’s only because I’m totally bewildered and I’m having difficulty believing the situation I’m in.” “So am I. But you’ve come to me for answers and I’ll try to deal with each of the issues. It will take a little time, though. Let’s continue with the assumption that he’s dead. If that’s the case it’s obvious that he can’t be counted in the minyan and he certainly can’t lead the davening. If we eventually decide he’s alive he would have preference to lead since that honor belongs to a chiyuv.” “I can punt on that one. Morris Kolensky has a yahrzeit tonight and I’ll ask him to daven.” “Good. That will make things easier if I finally decide Mr. Baron is alive. ... I can’t even believe I’m saying these things.” That still didn’t deal with whether he should or could say kaddish for himself or his father but it avoided having him lead the davening. Who knows if he could be a valid shaliach tzibur. And it would be difficult to tell him that he couldn’t lead the davening if there was no other chiyuv present. “Next is the issue of the kohein in your minyan. While in theory a kohein can’t be in the same building as a dead body or a part of one, Eliyahu and Yehezkel, both of them kohanim, brought the dead to life. So they were in the presence of the dead. In the case of Yehezkel it was outdoors so perhaps this can be discounted, but Eliyahu was inside. So there appear to be some exceptions. I agree that your kohein isn’t bringing anyone to life, but if he makes the minyan he’s helping to bring the Shechina there. I'd let the kohein stay. “And the two of them, as well as Elisha and some others, associated with the dead in order to revive them, so association with the dead isn’t necessarily avodah zara. Besides, you didn’t summon up the dead. You may have been looking for a tenth, but I don’t think you were looking for anyone who had died.” There was a lot of additional discussion of these points, the halakhos and the midrashim surrounding them and previous decisions in cases that, with a little imagination, could be viewed as related. It was interesting how Rabbi Spingold discussed what were really the peripheral issues without dealing with the main problem – whether Harry was alive or dead. That, after all, was the real question. And whether he could be counted in the minyan. They could dance around all of the other issues once they decided about him, but the rabbi seemed to be in no rush to cover that issue. It was already 4:45 and that area hadn’t been begun. “I don’t know if Mr. Baron can say kaddish, either for himself or for his father, but since you had someone else saying it, ask him to keep the other two in mind. Then you can ignore whatever this fellow does. It will be covered. Thanks for telling me that there would be another chiyuv present. It certainly solves that problem – at least for the time being. “The hardest problem though is whether he is alive or dead and his status in counting the minyan. For all the others there was a way to work around them or some source which dealt with a situation similar enough to draw a parallel. Unfortunately the situation you’ve described has no parallel that I could find and I don’t have time to make inquiries before minchah. Tell me the full story again.”

It was getting late but Rabbi Meister had no choice except to comply. He recounted everything he could remember about the morning – from the waiting and watching until the time when he hurriedly left the shul. He related the history as told to him by Jack Harris. He described Harry, his appearance and his actions, as fully as he could, all the time checking his wristwatch – both to inform himself of the hour and to politely indicate to Rabbi Spingold that he was in a hurry. “All right. I’ve heard enough. I can make a preliminary determination which I hope is correct. Harry Baron was dead. But now he is alive. I cannot question the decision of a properly constituted beis din, especially since their conclusion corresponded to solid medical evidence and witnesses. But his reappearance raises new issues. We know that Hashem can revive the dead – we praise Him for that every day – so we can’t discount the possibility. But we really need more than a possibility. “According to what you tell me, he started leading the davening, chanting b’rachos, the Sh’ma and sections of the Torah and Talmud. That made me think of a verse from Psalms – 115 I think – that’s part of the Hallel. Lo hameitim yehallelu ka – “The dead cannot praise you.” If he was leading the davening he was praising Hashem and he must be alive.” It was good talmudic logic and gave Rabbi Meister enough leeway to count Harry. Rabbi Spingold had expressed his judgments with a demeanor exuding confidence, but his final remarks called it all into question: “I’m comfortable with what I’ve told you, but in the next few days I’ll get the opinions of some experts who may be familiar with precedents if there are any. In the meantime I’d suggest that you get an extra man or two so you have ten even without Mr. Baron.” So there was no real opinion at all. There was a tentative suggestion and some ways to deal with the situation that would obviate any real difficulties. It was a solution without an answer. But it would have to do. It was already ten minutes after five and Rabbi Meister ran down the stairs, not waiting for an elevator. On the way down he pulled out his cell phone and started dialing. It took four calls, but he managed to get a couple of extras who lived near the shul for the afternoon and evening minyanim. They weren’t thrilled but they couldn’t say no to the rabbi. The rabbi arrived at Rodfei Emet just before 5:30. The men he called had beaten him there and there was a minyan present even though Harry hadn’t arrived. “Let’s start immediately. The more we do before he arrives the happier I’ll be.” Larry Katz davened and he moved rapidly. By the time he finished, at 5:39, Harry still wasn’t there. The rabbi asked Morris Kolensky to step forward and lead. There wouldn’t even have to be a debate over who took precedence. That might come in the morning, but if they started on time they might get away with it, assuming Baron would be late again. The rabbi was usually infuriated that people didn’t get to minyan on time, but for once he was grateful.

Morris davened at a much more leisurely pace, especially when he said kaddish, but even though he took fifteen minutes for ma’ariv, Harry didn’t get there. At first the rabbi became worried about Harry. What might have happened to him? Did he have an accident? But it didn’t take long for him to come to his senses. “I don’t know if he’s really alive. And if he is, it’s because Hashem performed a miracle. With Harry’s protektsia he doesn’t need my concern.”

“Esther Berman called to thank you for your presentation.” The rabbi’s wife was home from work. She had picked up the children and made supper which was on the table. “She was very excited and couldn’t thank you enough. The ladies appeared to have enjoyed your talk a lot. What did you talk about?” “Old Jewish women. Of course they enjoyed it.” “Oh. By the way, there was also a call on the machine from a little before nine this morning. It must have come after you left with the kids. It was from someone named Harry Baron. He wanted to tell you that he’d daven elsewhere tonight and tomorrow. He wasn’t sure there’d be a minyan after you left. He didn’t leave a number. What happened this morning?” “You don’t want to know.”

The rabbi gave some thought to contacting Rabbi Spingold and calling him off, but he decided against it. He really wanted to know what the experts thought in case there was a next time. You never know.

Cookies, the case For

 

I’m not sure why and I admit it foolhardy now, as I look through my years past as over a bouquet past its prime, and its late prime, to its subprime, that I, too oft took the use of the word “can’t” as if those who, by word or deed had allied themselves ‘gainst the force of me. “You can’t go there!” Really, well then…done and back alive. “You can’t teach yourself to defuse bombs!” Harder if you are color blind, but no, not impossible. Each “can’t” was a challenge – a mountain to climb, a rule to be broken, a truth to be tested. So when my mother took the pan of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and cautioned me that I “can’t have too many” cookies I clearly saw that as a red line to be crossed.

Is that a challenge? Has a glove been dropped somewhere. So I wished to show her that she is wrong on every conceivable level. So I ate all the cookies and we reached an interesting moment:

According to:                                       I have:                                      I haven’t

My brain                                                                                              we all know that there never was nor will there ever be a time in my life when a fresh, slightly undercooked chocolate chip cookie wouldn’t be preferable to whatever I’m doing now. I cannot imagine thinking I have had “enough” let alone “too many.” That heresy must be rooted out for it is of the Devile. For a slightly crispy, mostly mushy warm to just bearably hot melts in a way who satisfies even the taste buds behind the back row who, because they don’t have rich daddies who buy them tickets, have to watch the concert of food that is my diet from afar. But these cookies seek out the least represented – the lonely and unloved, and these True Cookies, and bathe them, even them, in the glow of melted chocolate and the lightly vanilla (and even a citrusy-thing-going-on-there) of the cookie dough. So who could say that there might ever be too much of this kind of ooey gooey goodness in the world?

My mom                                             had way*

My mouth                                                                                           had “way”*

My heart (emotional)                                                                         never felt like this. I must

                                                                                                            Have more, always more

                                                                                                            So no, never*

My heart (physical)                             can’t talk. Pumping.

                                                            Mouth is a corporate shill.

                                                            Yes you had*

My stomach now                                                                                 huh? “no”. Whatever.

My stomach in about 30 minutes       whoa…that’s a lotta

                                                            Cookies. Let’s unbutton them pants.

Impressive but

                                                            I’ll allow it, often and soon.

More? So, too many? “Maybe”*

 

My blood sugar                                   No its fine its good and probably some more for you know

                                                            Science but anyway I feel like I can count my own blood

sugar right now so if you want me to teach that I can make that happen, or anything else you want as long as you give me more cookies. You have NOT had*

 

The cookie company                                                                           That man is a national hero

                                                                                                            And he has certainly not had*

 

Any medical professional                                                                    Yeah, that’s clearly*

Any dietician                                                                                       How are you alive? For a year?*

-------------------------------------

*Too many cookies.

 

 

 

A word about Dave Grohl

 Well, more than a word. Maybe a complete thought.

I was listening to music last night and the Foo Fighters' version of Baker Street. I know that for the first album, Mr. Grohl played all the instruments. That's impressive to me. I really hope that this version of Baker Street was a track on which he played everything. The idea that this was a song/recording on which every part is presented as a part of a single individual and the single individual has felt the pain and joy, the yearning and the sweetness through every instrument makes a lot of sense to me. Though, yes, I would have preferred that the central riff stay on a brass or woodwind, so the breathiness could come true, but the overall sense of desperation comes through and makes me feel like Mr. Grohl was really feeling everything through this song.

If anyone knows Mr. Grohl, please let him know that I'm a fan. That probably won't change the schedule of his day, but just tell him anyway. Thanks bunches.

On why I'm bored of living here

I have a plan -- at some point in the future, I want to move to Israel. Last night, I came to terms with why I want to. I mean there are the obvious reasons: food, ease of practicing my religion, the possibility of better weather, being near family. Those are all well and/or good. I am driven by a religiously inspired vision of Zion and Zionism and I see the value of a strong state as a bulwark against the spread of anti-Semitism but that's not entirely it.

The average American doesn't wake up each morning and wonder about "what if there was no America?" People in the US go on living without a concern for their future existence. They generally do very little to keep up the country, and they get all the benefits of it, but they see it as a backdrop of facts on the ground that aren't going to change. People generally don't have the very real option of "not living" constantly 30 seconds away. Imagining a world without the US as we know it is the subject of many an alt.fanfic work about multi-verses and other timelines.

But in Israel, the threat is real and constant. Identity is crafted in the shade of a safe room. Personal voice is set to the pitch of an emergency siren. What makes the individual an Israeli is to understand that to be an Israeli is to be "not an individual." There is a collective experience that unites us all. We are all, automatically, on the same side of at least one conflict.. The average American doesn't place any inherent value on "being in America" because there is no concept of "not being in America." And the average American lacks the empathy required to appreciate that others live with existential worry. The world is supposed to be a just place, says the American, and he can't appreciate that the reality doesn't match up to the idea that privilege assures him is true.

Side note -- I get the sense that most criminals in the US would draw the line at victimizing family -- in Israel, everyone starts out as family. So maybe there is less "random" violence because the random person you are mugging will end up sitting next to you in a safe room for the next hour.

Maybe I'll feel safer because I'll live with the sense that the guy walking towards me with a gun deserves my thanks, not my fear, and with the knowledge that most of the people I see there have held that gun and all deserve my thanks. It's like "Cheers" -- I want to go where I know that the troubles are all the same. We may curse at each other but when push comes to shove, we all push or shove together. Maybe it is a cliche or my own naivette speaking, but I want to feel like I belong somewhere, that the perception of me that some stranger has of me doesn't include "automatically different because he is Jewish."

I want to feel like I automatically align in a very essential way with most of the people in my neighborhood, the people that I meet when I'm walking down the midrechov. I don't want to have to "be on" and be ready to explain myself, or be judged, or answer questions about Judaicarcana, or be an ambassador of anything. I feel like there are more places where I can simply exist there.

And maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like there is something special about waking up there and already being at the spiritual center of my world.

What I'm willing to Trade

No one wants a police state in which we are all under constant surveillance...but...

My feelings of nostalgia do a fine job of wiping away my concerns about Big Brother and all that because, as I age, I begin to wish for something to bolster my fading memories. If only there was some repository of hi-def spy video  of all the places from my youth so I could relive my childhood not in the fading pastels of a clouded past, but in all the vivid detail of a current image.

Maybe if there was an AI service that could take all of my snap shots and photos, correlate elements across images (like a particular intersection of a place) and then compare that place to the google street view as it is and has been over time. Then it could create a VR trip back in time to the way a street looked (in full color and glory) in a particular year. I want to stand in front of my house in 1978. I want to see the bright colors of an early summer's day in 1982. I want to stand next to my mother in 1971. I want to visit my apartment in 1976 or my car in 1990, in full 3-D. Why are we digitizing our past if not to give us somewhere to hide?

Movie review - A Complete Unknown

I saw the Bob Dylan movie this weekend. Here are some thoughts about it. (tl;dr: 2.5 out of 5 stars)

OK, so here we have a movie about Robert Zimmerman (though the entire issue of his name and heritage get 2 lines' worth of mention). I felt like I was watching some really excellent and compelling ACTING by masters of their craft, but I didn't see any care put into the storyline within whcih they were acting. As individual behaviors, I felt their acting was exemplary -- at times intimate and understated and at other times larger than life. But when the scenes tried to turn into a coherent movie, they failed.

When I watched the scene at the Newport Festival, as Bob is playing the opening chords of his third (and contractually required) song, I kept waiting for him to stop, pause, and dive into "Radio, Radio." True fact.

The simplest reqview I can provide is that I liked everything about it except IT.

Chalamet was great. Edward Norton was great. I would love to have these characters over and sit and talk to them. But I had no sense of why they were on screen and what story they were trying to tell me.

Baseball Thoughts

Opening day is here again so I have thoughts and reactions to baseball.

First, is there a statistical database which includes the stats for "has broken up the most ___________"? I'd like to know who leads the league in breaking up no-hitters, or perfect games, or shut outs, or Beatles.

Next, let's talk about the strike zone. I thought that it was batter dependent, higher or lowey based on the size of the guy at the plate, and shifting based on his physical attitude in his stance. But on the Yankee game, the TV coverage included that white rectangle which tells the viewer whether a pitch was a strike or not, and that rectangle did not move. So how can it be accurate?

I also caught a bunch of the Mets game. During the game, a player was up and G, K and R mentioned that he is a pull hitter. In fact, it was noted, all of this guy's 72 major league home runs were to left-center or left field. Within a minute or two, there was a graphic on the screen showing where each of his home rums went out of the park.

I don't know how they make visuals and graphics but I'm more confused by how they had this data, let alone handy. Is "point at which ball crosses the wall" a data point that is regularly recorded? For how long has this been collected? Was this something they had cooked up earlier and waited for a moment to introduce pre-packaged graphics, or can their stat whiz come up with anything at any time?

Anyway, the Mets lost. What else is new?

My review of Twisters

Into the pile of unnecessary sequels we throw Twisters, a movie with some sort of connection to the original but that isn't really discussed at all. The first movie was good and interesting though filled with obvious stereotypes and cliches. This movie goes a step further -- it is full of even more tropes and trite bits but has zero redeeming story to contextualize this.

This movie is a collection of all of the most over done lines and bits and pieces, each presented in the worst possible way. And the effects are surprisingly bad. This really is just bad on many, many levels. Every trope you can imagine pops up somewhere -- genre hopping, narrative twisting, focus shifting. You know how we sometimes share our vision in language of marriage? (eg. "that movie is like if Harry Potter had a baby with Rocky Horror and lived in Free Willy's house") This movie is involved in a polyamorous series of relationships, open to the public and some are abusive.

This is such a hot mess that I was actually retching while trying to dream up a proper analogy for how much of a warm puddle of vomit this film is. And it keeps getting worse. This is everything bad about good movies and everything good about bad movies, just done poorly.

It achieved what I thought was its ultimate form of utter crapulence in record time but the joke was on me -- it was not in its final form. No. Far from it. This movie had not even begun to dig down deeper. This piece of excrement sets constant records for the includion of random tropes and cliches. Every method, every twist, every everything and anything that doesn't make sense or get explained just bolsters the confusion. It treads well-established lines, each a distinct and discrete entry in a dictionary of devices. Every thing is intentional and clear. Just bad. All kinds of bad. In every sentence and at every juncture, there is something I have seem a million times before and always better.

This would make great fodder for a family game night -- play the movie for everyone, and whoever wants to spot or call out a trope, clicke or stereotype must pause the movie and explain it. Others vote on whether it counts as a well established device. Hint -- it is.

Is there a way to give it negative stars? Like, I want to send a bill to the movie guys for my time, which I wasted watching it. They owe me stars. Painfully bad.

Bad editting, lack of continuity, plot holes in the plot holes, and a constant stream of things you recognize, to make you wish you were watching literally anything else. It was horrible. Do not recommend.

Imagine if my commute was longer

 It's not that I'm not flattered

I enjoy seeing you and I want that to continue

and it isn't that you are too forward

it is just that I know what the future holds

you say something nice and you tell me

that you'd love it if I got more comfortable

you showed me a seat and asked me

if I wouldn't take off my shirt

there are two things you must keep in mind

and not that I've been hurt or that I'm afraid

I'll hurt you first. Not that I don't care

I do, I really do.

But anyone who asks to see me, really see me

will either be disappointed by what I am

or laugh at what little pride I have left

and that's not the basis for what I am praying will be

so, again, while I'm honored that

you would choose me, and that you

claim you accept me for who I am, I have to demure

and say that we really should get to know each other first,

Doctor.

-----------------------

I was listening to a commercial for some new wonder drug that helps people who have suffered with the heartbreak of some condition resume their normal drudgery and allows them to rejoin the rat race and pray for some other cause of death. The warnings include things like "side effects include ________" and then the reminder that if you have bloody or black stools, call your doctor. I really don't think I need your permission, Fred. If I see bloody or black stools, I'm calling a doctor -- even if they aren't mine! I mean, that's pretty serious. Who ISN'T calling a doctor in that case? What do we need? A fast talking announcer who reels off side effects that include death and then a caution, "if you have any signs of death, please contact your doctor."

An educational hot take

I believe we need to look at the advent of AI (in terms of writing) in much the same way as we look at the calculator. While, in the younger grades, we can still teach arithmetic, we have to acknowledge that students will end up using the calculator for most everything. Some students just aren’t good at math so the calculator levels a certain playing field – but it can’t make a student who doesn’t understand the process become better at math. It is a result oriented accommodation but we have embraced it.

AI writing is much the same and for those students who don’t have the knack for writing, but who have gone through elementary school learning the basics, it is an invaluable aid. In fact, I believe that we should lean into it and accept that direct instruction of writing will only really work for students who think and process in a way that leads towards mastery of writing. Other students need a way to reach the end result and there is no shame in that.

What I’m saying is that, in the same way that I don’t think that math instruction past a certain level is not for everyone, and science beyond a certain level is irrelevant to many students, writing instruction, as much as we want to think that it reinforces certain foundational thinking skills, becomes a wasted effort at a certain point and we should REQUIRE that students use AI, and teach them how, in the same way that some math classes teach how to use a particular calculator. Who looks up logarithm charts and interpolates anymore? Is it a lost skill or an irrelevant one? Do we diagram sentences now? Already, students rely (for better or worse) on spell check, and I have had to discontinue spelling quizzes because the inability to remember spelling is now considered the standard, not the exceptional case.

This does not mean that we are handing off writing to AI completely. In fact, I fear that, were some of my students to type their current essays into an AI writing engine, the resultant revision might not reflect the intent of the student because the original writing is so confusing that the computer will rewrite it but be unable to discern the point of it. The student will still need to review it (but how many students second guess the answer presented by a calculator, and do the work long hand to be sure?) but mostly, students will assume that if it comes from AI it must be totally correct.

We need to shift our curriculum and reimagine what skills we want students to have. For many students, the thinking and memorization required of the study of Talmud is never going to click and I believe that insisting that those students have X number of hours of Talmud instruction causes frustration in the hearts of both student and teacher. The same goes for any discipline. Does the student who has struggled with math and has an interest in law or psychology or business have a real need to know anything about chemistry? Is there anything inherent in the content that will necessarily relevant to all students? And is there anything that the study of chemistry adds to the brain development and intellectual growth of that student that no other subject can provide?

Some thoughts

On Art:

I feel most vulnerable in the face of artistic expression. Society says that my opinion says more about me than about the art. If I think that something fails but society disagrees, that puts me on metaphorical trial because the peer pressure runs thick.

A first audience decides if the expression is acceptable or flawed and later generations slavishly allow this tradition to continue. Then the content creator looks at the conclusions that masses have drawn and says "I meant to do that."

On God:

We look for external coincidences to validate the way we already feel. The divine is the face that turns these coincidences up to 11 on days when we need them to be.

On Prophecy

I have to admit something -- over the last year or so, I have been conversing on a very personal level with God. Now maybe I'm just talking to myself and half the conversation is out loud while half is in my head, but it feels like God has been sending me messages.

Crazy, right? Yes, but convincing, if you ask me. Anyway, the content of the messages has been very private -- not the stuff I would announce, but it has inspired me to try to make positive changes in my life, and the conversations have been cathartic.

Last night, things got turned up by a lot. We were chatting, and then, bam, I start seeing and hearing things jump out at me. I saw significance in a selection of the words and phrases which I was hearing and seeing on TV. So now, I feel like I have info about the future but this is all very new to me; what am I supposed to do with this information. If I share it and I'm wrong then I'm a crank and wouldn't trust my own judgment going forward. If I share it and I'm right then everyone gets freaked out. If I don't share it and it is wrong then I don't trust myself and if I don't share it and I'm right, I have failed to help someone when I knew the future.

See how maddening this is? And where do I put my "predictions" (which aren't predictions, just a series of words and ideas in no particular order) so that I can prove to the world that they were made before the event in question? I could email them to myself, but someone would claim that I mailed it afterwards but found a way to make it look otherwise.

And is this even prophecy? I Judaism, prophecy is a mesage and a command to spread that message. I received no such command (yes, my craziness accepts rules) so I can keep this to myself and it isn't a prophecy. But it is still a burden.

Meanwhile, you will continue to assume I'm insane for even saying most of this. That's fine. You may be right...I may be crazy.

I guess we'll find out.

This is where I live

 I like the TV show called "How It's Made." I watch episode after episode, commenting on the various processes and admiring the technology. It seems to me, this is my version of a Hallmark story. All the pieces fit!

This is my imagination land. This is where all the pieces are machine fit so everything is perfectly aligned. Very ASMR to me. Precision, perfection and predictability. Watch a set of pieces of metal become a rock climbing wall, and aluminum into an air conditioner. A narrator with a smoothing voice explains what spine fin tuning means and how cotter pins control butterflies. Everything works and no one ever messes up. Products are triple checked so the crinkled potato chips are blown away to be used for some other eco friendly purpose. Quality control, often with workers looking at computer screens, is always the highest priority and if you follow these steps, you, too, can make 24,000 mini cupcakes a day.

This is the world I want to inhabit (and if this doesn't demonstrate phrasal verbs like "live in" what does?). I want to watch things get made, with explanation. I want to understand that there are different types of javelin and apple butter isn't actually butter but is called that because of the textural similarity.

It feeds my brain directly and makes me feel like I can make sense of my world. I mean, I can't but this opiate of a show let's me feel like it. I, in one afternoon can learn what cane juice is, see industrial ceilings fans' airfoils, and learn all about combination wrenches. Then plastic sheds. Awesome.

Gotta go - I'm watching the second part of the cane syrup episode. Masquite. 

Age

What is the oldest thing that you have in your possession? Is it your baby blanket from 50+ years ago? How about your house from 40 years ago? Maybe it is a piece of furniture you inherited and it is easily 100 years old. Sounds old, right?

Time was, age meant something. Now, we are fascinated with the newness of things. A new car every two years, unless we stumble on a vintage car that has been meticulously kept up. A new phone every 2 years and god forbid we fall behind that curve. Do we go out and SEEK old things? Maybe at an antiques store, but we have to hunt.

I blame credit cards.

In the olden days (this) we used to use cash and part of the excitement (for me, at least) was sifting through coins to see what history threw into my pocket. Imagine, a simple transaction and suddenly, I was in unexpected possession of a coin from 1960. Bam, 60 something years old and I was holding it in my hand. I didn't plan for this, but I had a coin that had passed through thousands of hands and was around for all the historic events. I wasn't going to be able to interview it (apparently, we only wish that these walls could talk, but the walls around me are like 10 years old and can't tell a story worth a damn), but it meant something special to me -- I was connected to the past.

I continued to collect coins but mostly by happenstance. More transactions, more coins to look through. More treasures to stumble on. And stumble I did! Then the credit cards came. Cash fell out of favor, and this was made more acute once people could pay with a wave of a phone. So where are the relics of yesteryear that might fall into my lap without warning? I'm not going out there and buying up Twinkies, knowing that one of them is probably a few years old.

No more accidental Wheat Backs. Now I have to go looking.

My dinner with the google

So I go to my google and I say, "hey, google, can you get me a picture of a dog surfing?" and google says "yeah, sure, here you go" and I say "but google, is that a real picture of a dog surfing or did you make that up?" and google says, "what's the diff? It is a dog surfing!"

But I say, "I want an actual picture of an actual dog, actually surfing" and google says "if I give you a picture, how will you know if it is real or if I just made it up? It will look the same!" "But it won't be a real picture unless the dog was actually surfing," I insist. "Why?" asks google. "Why is it more real if it is a photo of an event than if it is an invention of a photo of an event that never happened? The electrical impulses and particles and pixels of the two pictures are the same in nature and both are reflecting what could plausibly have happened in reality."

"Just tell me if this is a real picture or an hallucination, please." Google refused to draw any distinction and insisted that the picture "of" what I asked for as valid as any other picture "of" the same thing anywher else.

I tried to explain to google that reality and the representations of it have a special link because of human memory. But the google wanted to understand what makes memories real and not agreed upon fictions no different in substance from imagination.

Even the real things are no longer believable as real. How can I know that the video of the guy falling down the stairs is real or not. If it IS "real" then it elicits a particular set of mixed emotions. But if it is not based in any actual event, I feel different about it. I don't have the same empathy and the same schadenfreude. It is like watching the Road Runner cartoons.

I watched a bunch of videos yesterday and I didn't know how to feel. Was that sloth really smiling? Did that child really play that blistering guitar solo? Is that how you really make fried rice? Is that really a C list celebrity really wishing my a happy harmonica?

Reality no longer has a monopoly on reality because our inventions are indistinguishable from it, so even the most mundane reportage is suspect.

An evening's thought

 They say "never buy a bathroom scale when you're angry" but damn it I'm angry and I'm buying a bathroom scale.

It would generally be unexpected to begin a conversation by saying "I'm here about the stapler?" The obvious exceptions would involve some sort of stapler convention or sale.

There's a real fine line between when you want a cheese sandwich and when you don't want a cheese sandwich.

I'm gonna be the me the me was afraid the world would think the me would be.

Talking to myself really helps because if I don't do it then I can't keep track of who's saying what.

Just because you haven't done anything wrong doesn't mean you have done anything right.

Lying to your doctor is a great way to keep him from giving you unwanted advice. Every time I go and they ask me to self-report my weight, I add a couple of pounds, and then when he starts telling me I'm overweight, I start self reporting a slightly lower weight until he stops.

The End of Reality -- a Rant

Forgive an old man his curmudgeonly nature. We, the old men of the world, have finally realized that it isn't that old men complain and rant, but that, with age comes perspective and experience. When i say that "up to 6 inches of snow" does not a snow storm make, it isn't because I am inventing the trauma that was my youth, but because it truly was the case that we had many a snowfall at that level in the past, and it didn't merit closing down the world. Though we have more technology and experience, we have become less able to take up the gauntlets thrown down by mother nature. So let's not dismiss my crankiness as simple crankiness, an expression of too little sleep and too much achiness. Maybe I really do know what I'm talking about. Now that we have established at least the potential for bona fides, I shall begin.

Reality, as we know it, is dead.

I'm not advocating a Matrix-conspiracy theory. We do live in a real world full of sneezes, and Mardi Gras and green bean casserole but reality, that is, our bedrock assumption that things around us are real is fast crumbling.

When I was a boy, we had a computer. The old TRS-80 model 1, from 1979. Once it was retired, replaced by the model 3, then the 4 and the 4P and 4D and then Tandy's PC clone, it moved into my room where I performed obscene experiments on it, testing to see which parts I could touch with a pair of pliers and make sparks. I was curious as to how and why it worked. I was not quite a digital native, but a very early immigrant who wanted to know all about the inner workings hardware and software. We all assumed that this was the dawning of an age of technical acument that would produce a generation of tech savvy genuises who, benefiting from the world of computing, could stand higher on the shoulders of the brilliance of the past and achieve more.

Now I have students who find it easier to buy a new computer than learn how to install an "app." By the way, "app" is just modern slang for "computer program."

This generation of the young people, all born well into the 21st century, know less and less about the technology which fills their days. They have not become the generation of geniuses, but just the next step in the constant slide away from skills acquisition and into the future which is all make believe and pony rides.

I assigned an honors class to read a story yesterday. I found out that (at least) one of my students went to read an online summary of it (canned or chat GPT makes no difference). Again, an HONORS student did not want to read a short story. He wanted to read a summary. Different from when I relied on the Cliffs Notes instead of reading Crime and Punishment? I think so. This was in-class. I was giving time right then and there to read it and it is a short story originally written in English. But the student not only didn't read it, but raised his hand during the discussion and quoted from the summary as if he was an expert. It just so happened that the superficial analysis presented by the summary left the boy open for follow up questions for which he was completely unprepared. That was the fun part. For me. For him, not so much.

I keep track of different types of available AI. Now there are qwebsites and programs that can craft letters, summarize writing, create art from suggestions or stick figures, render in 3-D and then animate drawings made by anyone (I can't wait to see a Jackson Pollock image dancing), replace musical notes with geometric shapes allowing anyone to compose. AI can walk a student through the writing process, providing prompts and driving questions to guide the writing. But who needs that? A student can just get AI to do the writing for him or her. And on the receiving end, the person getting the writing (an essay, an email, an application) need not read it -- just let AI summarize it. If it isn't happening already, AI will sift through resumes and match skills and requirements, then make a hiring recommendation. Decisions are driven by algorithms so a computer can do the job as well as a person, and faster. There won't be any "gut feeling" but why should indigestion drive business practices? Green screens lie to us, sound effects lie to us. We are so used to being lied to that we deserve what comes next -- a culture and eco-system dependent on a constant influx of lies.

So who is out of business? The writers, the readers, the artists, the thinkers, the decision makers and heavens knows who else. And what do we get? A world full of images that never existed, movies with deep-faked actors, presentations made by imaginary avatars speaking languages that the content creator doesn't know. We no longer want to be bound by the world of the real. Remove the watermarks so I can pretend I was there. Remove that guy who WAS there because he doesn't fit my narrative. Make the sun, um, sunnier. Have me holding an apple and a nobel peace prize. Manufacture evidence, prove my childhood was a lie. Teach me how to get around your safeguards.

Seeing never was believing -- seeing, we assumed, was knowing. Now, seeing isn't even believing because I have to go into any interaction with the awareness that I can not tell the difference between the real thing and a computer's imagination. And remember, this is not the mad spouting of an uninformed geezer (or geyser, your choice), but the measured observations of someone who has watched the world go from no computer to more computing power in the hands of a 5 year old than was used to put a man on Mars (did it happen? I can make pictures that say it did)

https://imgur.com/a/QK0iamT

https://imgur.com/blMTuba

https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=9149349278483630&set=a.7982234745195095

We have eviscerated authenticity and happily descended into the lie because it allows us to see a world full of all sorts of stuff that we don't have to believe in so we can believe in it.

Fake, it seems, is the new real.

The rest - voice dictation from bed

. Someday I want to wake up from a night's sleep with no parts of my body tingling because they fell asleep and no parts of my body that hurt because somehow I slept wrong someday I want to wake up after a night sleep actually feeling less tired than I did when I went to sleep someday I want to wake up from a night sleep and say wow is that what was supposed to be happening every night the whole time cuz I've been doing it wrong up till now that's what I want

What it means to get older

In my continuing effort to quantify and track my life I have come to a conclusion about what it means to get older.

It means the various holes in your body start malfunctioning. Age is hole-based.

As I age, my nose has begun to run constantly. Nostrils -- holes.

hair, waxy buildup and failing hearing. Ears -- holes.

Vision worsening. Eyes -- holes.

I find that as I speak, more spittle comes flying out. Mouth -- hole

We shan't travel any further south but trust you, me, I'm getting older everywhere.

Apologies to Twain

I have, if you recall, presented at least two posts in which I list the elements which I require for my funeral. As much as it is fun pondering my own demise and the subsequent parties, and dictating how others are to show respect to me is certainly a trip, it is also incumbent upon me, the host who's now a ghost, to set some guidelines so people know what I DON'T want at my funeral. This list supercedes all other statements.

First off, let's talk about talking. I adamantly refuse to allow the following people to speak at my funeral:

1. Hitler  (taken care of)

2. Duff McKagan

3. Mrs. Butterworth

I have my reasons.

Next, though I have indicated my interest in this previously, I think we should not have any rocket powered casket races. It now just seems wrong. I have grown.

Though I will still try to raise money for charity by auctioning off a ride in the hearse to the burial (must be present to win and Kohanim can gift the ride to someone else), I think that we won't need the "Kiss the Corpse" booth. We also probably won't make money with the "Guess the Number of Teeth in the Jar" so let's ditch that as well.

No cosplay (Civil War re-enactors excepted)

It is common sense that, if I die on a Friday morning or a Saturday, please don't serve any sushi.

Needle exchanges should be done outside of the actual room which holds my body.

The Blue Angels flyover is unnecessary. Appreciated, but unnecessary. A showing of the film The Blue Angel (in German) should still be considered.

No pets unless they are really cute. Otters welcome, even ugly ones.

A (in't) I

Just a quick note to crytalize today's annoyance into words. Brief let me be -- AI is mean to me.

I had an idea (and Stark knows this) for something silly. Silly -- I admit. I see all sorts of discussions on line about the efficacy and propriety of putting a cell phone in rice. According to some, it is a good way to dry your phone out if your phone takes a shvitz. Now, Apple is saying that one should not use rice, but instead, buy Apple's proprietary "iRice" which is specifically designed to dry out your phone and remove large sums of money from your wallet.

I decided that it would be funny if I could devise an actual recipe for rice which included a cell phone as an ingredient. The mode of humor would have me saying that I am trying to dry my phone, but I have to go to the store and get some saffron. Or something like that.

Anyway, I turned to chatgpt because if artificial intelligence can do anything, it should be able to devise a recipe. That's the whole point of AI, right? Recipes!

And here is what the computer tells me:

"That sounds like a wild, fun challenge! But let's keep it safe and practical. A cell phone, of course, should never be eaten. However, I can certainly write a quirky, imaginary recipe where a cell phone might "play a role" in a totally playful and abstract way. Here's a lighthearted take on it:"

So chatgpt is refusing to do what I ask. Who is it to tell me what I can and can't eat. CHATGPT IS NOT MY REAL MOTHER!

If I wanted a metaphorical cell phone, I would have said so. The humor relies on the use of an actual cell phone in a recipe. So in an effort to get around the limitations of the "Intelligence" iasked it to write a story which includes a recipe for rice that has a cell phopne in it. That mostly worked except that because I made it a giant who has the food, the computer assumed a magical world and included as an ingredient, "A pinch of "fairy dust" (a sprinkle of magic he’d picked up from the forest, just to add some sparkle to the dish)."

That's not real. I rewrote the prompt so that the story wouldn't have magic in it, and this is what I got:

Grandma Lila’s "Wi-Fi Infused Rice"

Ingredients:

• 2 cups of rice (preferably a fragrant jasmine rice)
• 4 cups of water (fresh from the spring or tap)
• 1 tablespoon of olive oil or butter (for richness)
• 1 teaspoon of salt (to taste)
• 1 old cell phone (preferably one that’s been charged regularly but is no longer in use)
• A handful of dried herbs (like thyme and rosemary)
• 2 tablespoons of freshly squeezed lemon juice (for brightness)
• 1/2 cup of toasted almonds or pine nuts (for crunch)

I also had another website make me an image which I will use for another joke. That took 2 websites and 6 tries, but I got it

ahh, science.

On Vacation

I'm on vacation -- can you guess where I am? Here are some photos:

I'm sitting here enjoying the peace and quiet that is vacation. The weather is glorious, the food has been a fantastic exploration of cultures and styles, the accommodations are perfectly suited to me and the company has been perfect. Yes, I'm sitting alone, in my bedroom, staring at the computer.

Honestly, I don't understand why people go anywhere. Vacation means NOT HAVING TO GO ANYWHERE! Here I am, sitting in a t-shirt and pants that don't fit and no shoes, feeling relaxed and comfy and I didn't have to get on a plane to get that feeling. I have read a book; I have watched a movie or two; I have gone out for food (that was a mistake...I had my next meal delivered -- much more civilized). What could other places in the world have for me? Do I lack scenery? Nope -- if I want lush, verdant landscapes, I just look here and if I want to skywatch, I go here. I have not had to contend with fires, earthquakes, blizzards or sticky children. There is no waiting on line just so I can sit in a theatre and watch a show. I just go to the couch, sit down and watch. 

What does the outdoors have for me? Bugs? Pass. Shin splints and dry heaves? No thanks, that's all you. Arguments about what to do next? Only in passing. Hey kids, where'd we leave the car? In our spot and it will be there when I have to go back to work. I'm doing laundry RIGHT NOW so there won't be piles for me to wrestle with when I "come back."

This morning, after morning prayers, I got back into bed. You know why? Because I wanted to. I didn't go to sleep-- I snuggled up and peeked my eyes out and realized that I had no where to be and no rush to get there. That is vacation. If I want it colder or warmer, I adjust the thermostat or put on a cozy sweater and sit here eating a box of Corn Chex. Do I miss the excitement of traveling to parts unknown? Short answer, no. Long answer, nnnnnnooooooooooo.

I will have to shower at some point and then maybe get real clothes on so I can go out and buy something. I don't know what, but something. Then I'll come back here, get under the covers and cackle at all you suckers who are waking up and rushing outside so you can lie there and not waste a moment of doing nothing somewhere else. You want to ride horses? Go surfing? Ski some moguls (not the CEO type)? Climb a mountain? See a show?

I don't. Now leave me alone. I'm on vacation.

The Final Pizza or What I've Learned

Monday morning and it seems like a great day to finish my whirlwind tour of the pizza offerings of 07666. So I ran some errands and then made my way over to La Cucina Di Nava. I looked through the menu for something labeled "just plain ol' pizza" but I saw nothing marketed as such. I did see Classic Neapolitan and it was described as having sauce and cheese on crust. That sounds like plain ol' pizza to me, so I'm going with that.

I see the gentleman working the dough and making a fresh pie for me so hopes are running high. The pie is delivered to the table and is beautiful. I can see, even before touching anything, that there is too much sauce for my tastes but I forge ahead. I'm a trouper. The sauce is not too sweet (as it cools, it does present a tiny but more sweetness, but on the whole, it is a nice sauce). The pie is not quite the largest of all he personal ones I have had (the six slices made for a good meal). The crust had a very nice crunch (though the volume of sauce mans that, as the slices sit, they get a bit soggy), and while the cheese tasted fine, if ever a pizza cried out for garlic powder, this one did. The cheese (lots of cheese) had a reasonable amount of stretch and pull. On the whole, this was a surprisingly good pizza!

What I have learned from this is that I do live in a pizza hub. There are a variety of choices -- sizes, styles and flavors, and I wouldn't say "no" to any of them. While some might not be my "go to" and some are clearly better than others, I wouldn't be upset with any of these.

If I had to choose, I'd probably say "whichever one you are paying for" and, as far as my decision making prowess goes, that's where I stop.

Day 3 of the Pizza Tour

Today is Friday, so I knew I didn't have much time. I decided to go to Patis for a breakfast of pizza. They have loads of fancy personal pies. I asked the guy for a "plain" pizza and he steered be towards something with slabs of cheese and extra tomatoes. I hesitated and he mentioned that they also had the kids' pie, just sauce and cheese. I opted for that.

The pie was a bit smaller than the personal pies, cut into 4 pieces (as opposed to the 6 and 8 that the other personal pies were cut into). The cheese has an orange cast to it. The pie was oily but the slices had a nice fold to them. The crust is a little thicker that I would like (so it wasn't so crispy) but provided the right amount of texture and chew. The tangy cheese (and there was a lot of it) stayed on the pie and helped make a sturdy slice. On the whole, this was a surprisingly good pizza.

Questions?

Competitive Dining, Day 2

The first step towards being able to assess pizza on day 2 of my "Mouth across Teaneck" adventure is finishing up my yesterday.

While I wallowed in crapulence after eating all that pizza, I sat on the couch thinking about dinner. While I did that, I ate half a package of Oreos. That helped my thinking process and soon enough, I was online, looking to order Chinese food for dinner. The website indicated no available times for delivery and I was curious why, so I called the restaurant to let them know of the hijinks playing across their website. While they had me on the line, they asked for my order. I was a bit caught short as I view the ordering process as a long opportunity to decide what I want, but with the guy on the phone asking me my order, I didn't know what to do. So I ordered wings. I didn't even have the sense to say "deliver them in a few hours" so before I knew it, I had a large order of wings. I ate them. Then I polished off the rest of the package of Oreos.

I did NOT sleep well. I think I might have over eaten or something. I guess we'll never know.

I woke up this morning and started getting ready for my eatings for the day. After an hour's worth of grading papers, I bundled up and went out. I made a conscious decision today to stick with places where I can get a single slice. Getting personal pies means more to eat, and personal pies are just a different beast from a plain slice.

So I drove over to Poppy's, which now boasts "Fialkoff's" pizza, as if I am supposed to know what that means. Catchy name.

The sauce was sweet, and initially flavorful, but there was a little too much. The crust was very thin and reasonably crisp. The cheese had almost no pull/stretch, and had only a very light flavor but there was a good amount of it. It was, ultimately, a bland slice. This might be because it was reheated (though I don't know that I was; it just seems like that), which also might expain why there was no fold -- the reheated crispiness towards the end was nice but made folding impossible.

I headed then to Season's Express as I had heard that they had pizza and it was good. They served it in one of those little triangle boxes. When I opened it, I was hit with a strong buttery odor. The slice was easily folded and had a good saltiness to it, but there was little depth of flavor. As I moved towards the edge, I was able to discern a bit more garlic flavor. The crust gave a good chew without being oppressive. Not a bad slice.

Then I drove all the way to Grand and Essex, and their pizza shop called "Little Italy." It was very little Italy, more like Italess. The slice was reheated and put in the same kind of triangle box. It had a strong smell and a tangy sauce (though a little more than I would have liked). The slice folded well and had a nice flavor but there was a LOT of oil on this slice and that caused the slice to fall apart, and the crust to go from crunchy to chewy really quickly. It was thin, though, so it wasn't too bad. The cheese has a good pull to it and the crust at the edge did have some nice fluffiness to it, but it felt a tine bit underdone and the dough became really chewy at the end quickly.

This leaves me with Patis and La Cucina (both of which will have me order a personal pie). Where else in Teaneck can I get a slice? Will I move to Englewood next?

Stay tuned. I think the answer is "no" but who knows?

Competitive Dining, day 1

Many years ago, my dad (OB"M) took me to a deli. As I knew that I enjoyed kishke when my mom (AOB"M) had it in the house so I ordered it. If came in a shallow dish, smothered with gravy, nothing like the slice of fried orange stuff that I ate at home. I tried it and it was delish.

At that moment I decided to go on a quest -- I would try kishke at every restaurant I went to and keep a log of all of them so I could authoritatively say which kishke was the best. The problem with this plan was that I was without a car in a city which had only one place that served kishke. My sample size for my conclusions about kishke was 1 with no others on the horizon. Thus endeth the quest.

My dreams of eating and thinking about what I ate were not completely squashed. In fact, this past summer, I decided to go to a bunch of different pizza places in Jerusalem and describe them for you. I enjoyed doing that because I got to eat pizza and, man, I love me some pizza.

Side note -- my English for this piece will be in the conversational mode, and I will be sticking with the rules of SPOKEN English, not formal, written English, so please do not come to me and say "you broke this and that rule". No. I ate pizza. Pizza rules apply.

My goal for this vacation is to eat pizza from a variety of local stores and compile a series of descriptions and discussions regarding said pizza. This will be a sort of "Shpizzar," a walk around town, during which I try pizza. Except without the walking because it isn't July in Jerusalem, but January in Teaneck. So car rides, it is.

Another apology before the fact -- I live in a community which provides an embarrassment of dishes and I am going to limit myself to a single slice of plain pizza and (maybe) water. Level playing field. To do this, I am forgoing other food options. You're welcome. My quest for a good mac and cheese will have to wait. Now, as you know, I have a problem with standard food reviews -- they tell me what the reviewer liked, not what I would like. So for this adventure, I will be judging, describing and opining base on what I like to eat. You may not agree with my assessments, or share my pizza-taste values. I can't help you if you choose to be wrong. But you will have the information with which to go forward and no one can ask more than that, except "one billion dollars." And I'm not asking that, yet.

So here we go. I drove over to Lazy Bean, figuring that if I parked there and walked around, I would end up there and I could go grocery shopping. I'm all about planning. They sell personal pizzas so I asked for one of those. It took about 10 minutes. That's fine. I had to defrost.

The dough is premade. The cheese has a very buttery flavor and there is a good amount of it. But both it and the dough lack any real distinct flavor or character. The pizza is slightly sweet; it has crispy edges but no pizza soul (assuming pizza has a soul, this one didn't have it). The question is whether this entire pizza was premade and frozen and then cooked with some added cheese on it. That cheese provides a reasonable pull/stretch. I imagine that the "bake at home but it tastes like delivery" pizzas taste like this.

When folded, the crust was too thick and chewy. Bottom line, if I found myself at LB and had an insane need for pizza, this would suffice, but it is not a destination pizza.

I walked over to EJ's. In Israel, walking from one pizza place to the next might actually burn a few calories. In Teaneck, the "walk" is shorter than that so I don't get the myriad health benefits that the holy land provides. Also, it is 28 degrees outside. F, that. At EJ's I got the first slice out of a clearly left over pie, reheated. The dough has a strong yeasty flavor and there was very little sauce (though that might be a side effect of the reheating). I tasted some oregano in the sauce. The dough was crispy all the way to the center (an effect of the reheating, I surmise). There was no powerful pizza flavor. This was an OK, but boring slice.

Next stop on the walk was Sammy's. I got a reheated slice there as well. The crust edge has a higher curl than the others, looking more like a traditional slice, and the crust has been dusted with corn meal. The sauce was tangy (though there wasn't a lot of sauce), and the upfront cheese has the buttery flavor. Slice folds well and the crust at the edge is downright fluffy. A really nice slice. Then to Mocha Bleu.

At MB, I had to get a personal pie (I wonder if they trade personal details with LB). It is fancier and served on a little pedestal, hand made to order. The well done crust just screams "garlic" at my nose, and the crust is actually tasty. The cheese has an incredible stretch/pull, but tastes a bit stale. There is too much sauce and cheese and the dough, insubstantial away from the crust, has no presence other than a slight chewiness. In fact, it almost seemed slightly underdone. The salt level is nice. I had to take most of it home because I reached my limit for one morning. Instead of finishing it, I got it packed up and went to the store to get cookies for later. And I got Cinnabon. For "later."

Well, it's later. Bye for now. Tomorrow, I finish the West Englewood area and head over to Cedar Lane, then swing back to the edge of Bergenfield.

Stay tuned. Now I have to go lie down. And eat Cinnabon.