Main

October 17, 2008

Ma'ayan says: Hiya!

Karen and I are in Teaneck with Offspring #2, her wonderful husband, and our granddaughter Ma'ayan Ariel.

Ma'ayan says: “Now I'm famous!”

We wish a beautiful Shabbat and a joyous Moed to all our friends.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 05:55 AM | Comments (22)

October 16, 2008

Packing, Traveling, Enjoying

Karen has packing lists for every eventuality. She's got lists for trips to NY, lists for trips to Florida, lists for trips to Israel, lists of lists.

The love of my life is organized.

Days before we're set to depart, I schlep our suitcases down from the high shelf in the closet and Karen goes to work.

Me, I just watch in awe, and think about packing.

Says Karen: “I always overpack, and then on the last day, I edit.”

Last night, Karen, the recognized packing champ in the family Avrech, stepped into Offspring # 3's bedroom—OS #3 has been home, on High Holiday vacation from Stern College—and sank to the floor before an enormous suitcase.

I stood in the doorway and watched Karen and our youngest daughter huddle, discuss various items of clothing, then fold and carefully place each piece, like jewels, in the case.

Offspring # 3, hardly a timid or retiring young lady, sat cross-legged on the floor and allowed Karen to take charge.

No matter how old our children grow, they are always our children, and a central, built-in sense of trust floods their system.

I stood in the doorway and watched item after item pile up in the suitcase which is, I kid you not, the size of Albania.

Where did all these clothes come from?

Hey, I never saw those shoes! Gotta grab my camera and —

I didn't watch the debate. Obama and his Jewish enablers are far too, well, far gone.

I didn't read the NY Times, AKA Pravda-on-the Hudson.

I didn't catch up on all the blogs I regularly devour.

I need a respite from all the clamor.

No, I just stood in the doorway and smiled as my girlses packed.

It is during simple, everyday moments like this I experience hope, I experience joy.

We're flying east today to visit with Offspring #2, her wonderful husband, and our lovely granddaughter Ma'ayan Ariel. I'll do my best to blog while away.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:27 AM | Comments (4)

September 07, 2008

Pass the Salt

“Um, hi, it's me. I need to refill the salt shakers and I, uh, can't find the salt. I know it's here, but you know, can't find it. Call me back, okay?”

My job is to set the table for Shabbos. I love unfurling the table cloth, smoothing it out, then ever so carefully laying out the napkins. I get totally compulsive about aligning the edges of the linen.

We're having guests this Shabbos and I like to set out individual salt shakers for them.

But the salt in the shakers is running low. I also need to replace the rice grains which have started to look a bit moldy.

So: I strap on my pistol, grab my whip, don a cool explorers Fedora and like Indiana Jones dive into the kitchen cabinets searching for the salt.

I look behind everything: olive oil, sugar, flour, tea, mayonnaise, chocolate—nothing.

No salt.

Maybe Karen forgot to stock up.

Nah.

Karen never forgets stuff like that.

Like a madman, I stick my head deep inside the shelves and go: “Salt, anybody see the salt?”

I don't want to do this, but I'm defeated.

Whip out my cell phone, call Karen, leave a message.

Yours truly stares at the cabinets. For a long time.

Strangely, the salt does not come marching out like a Ziegfeld girl.

Karen does not call back. That's because she has a real job, real responsibilities.

Every Friday I head on over to my local library, pay my fines for overdue books and pick up a whole new batch.

“My, my Mr. Maverick, you certainly read a lot of books about Hollywood.”

“It's Avrech, and yes, I am helpless and powerless in the face of a star's biography.”

My librarian giggles: “You owe $3.00 for Marlene Dietrich.”

And just as I'm paying the fine, my cell phone chimes.

My librarian get all stern and says: “ No cell phones in the library.”

I go: “This is an emergency.”

She goes: “Okay, but make it quick.”

Karen says: “There's salt in the pantry, upper or lower cabinet. I can't be more specific, but it's there.”

“I looked there, no salt.”

My librarian stares daggers at me.

Karen sighs: “It's there. I don't know what else to tell you.”

“Okey-dokey.”

“That's your emergency, Mr. Maverick?”

“Absolutely.”

My librarian scans my bios of Paulette Goddard, Merle Oberon, Shirley Temple, Barbara Payton and says: “Your books are due in two weeks.”

“It used to be three weeks.”

“Patrons abused their privileges so now it's two weeks.”

You mean little ol' me?

Back home our salt shakers are sitting on the kitchen counter looking forlorn and desperate.

I dig into into the cabinets.

Again.

Look behind everything.

Nada.

Karen enters.

“Hi, I looked everywhere, I really did—”

Karen opens the cabinet, sticks her hand in, pulls out the container of salt.

Wow, that's amazing. How did she do that? It's a miracle, just like The Six Day War.

Karen sticks her hand into another cabinet and pulls out a second container of salt.

I'm genuinely impressed.

Karen's not angry, just baffled: “Robert, how did you miss that?”

“Well, hey, that's not fair, the salt was right in front. I was looking behind stuff.”

Karen just lets her gaze rest on me. There are some issues even a psychologist with a Ph.D cannot fathom.

I confess the truth: “Maybe because I'm, y'know, male?”

Karen darts about, efficiently and effortlessly putting up the food for Shabbos.

I look around, take a deep breath, and:

“Um, Karen, do we have a funnel?”

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:33 AM | Comments (18)

July 11, 2008

Mina Avrech Z'L

My mother, Mina K. Avrech, at about the time she met my father.

The yahrtzeit of my beloved mother, Mirka bat David A'H, will be observed starting tonight and continue until Shabbos evening.

The date corresponds to the 9th of Tammuz on the Jewish calendar.

But today, July 11 is also the date she passed away in 1989. My mother was just 65-years old; too young, too young.

A few minutes ago, I spoke with my sister Caron and she said to me: “I've been thinking about mommy all day. It's hard.”

Several years ago, I used almost the same words when talking about Ariel ZT'L in conversation with a wise Rebbe.

This Rebbe looked me in the eye and said: “It's supposed to be hard.”

Indeed.

I detest it when well-meaning people speak of “closure” in dealing with grief, as if the death of a beloved family member can be safely tucked away in some warm, fuzzy cabinet.

There is no closure, there is only the realization that life is unfair, that death comes like a monster when you least expect it, and ultimately the only thing that keeps us alive in the dreadful aftermath are memories.

Memories keep love alive, and only love can defeat death.

For as time passes, the lacerating images of illness and death are replaced by other memories—normal, glorious life as it was lived—and gradually the unbearable becomes bearable.

My mother was a unique woman of her time. She was raised in a strictly kosher home—my grandmother Channa Gittel Z'L was ferociously Jewish—but my mother, her five sisters and brothers, were not ritually observant.

And so, when my mother married my father she became a Ba'alat Teshuva, before the concept was widespread, admired and respected.

I'm afraid my mother was never given credit nor proper support for this gutsy decision.

As you can see from the pictures, my mother had that Barbara Stanwyck thing going on, with a healthy dose of Rita Hayworth thrown in, due to her lustrous auburn hair.

My father fell for my mother—hard.

During shiva for my mother, my father told me that after their very first date he called his cousin Sam Weber, who had set them up, and said: “I'm going to marry that girl.”

Thus my model for true love.

Mina and Abraham Avrech, wedding day, 1943

May the neshama of Mirka bat David have an aliyah

Karen and I wish all our friends a serene and meaningful Shabbat.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:29 PM | Comments (11)

June 08, 2008

Shavuot 2008

Maayan Ariel says: “Have a lovely and meaningful Shavuot.”

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 05:55 PM | Comments (21)

March 28, 2008

Seven Samurai and Baby

A great warrior pays tribute to the power of maternal love.

One of the great moments in Akira Kurosawa's masterpiece, The Seven Samurai, 1954, takes place mid-point through the film, after the samurai have cleverly organized the perimeter defenses of the village and trained the peasants in the art of warfare. In truth, the training is mostly about discipline, unit cohesion, and convincing the uncertain farmers that they can do battle, that they must do battle because appeasement to the brigands—the terrorists of 16th century Japan—means rape, pillage and death for the entire village.

And now, in one of the early battles, an outlying grain mill has been attacked and set on fire by the brigands. Kikuchiyo, played by the great Toshiru Mifune, the drunken lout who's out to prove that he's as good as the real samurai, rushes to the grain mill in order to rescue the civilians who are being butchered.

It's a haunting battle scene as Mifune splashes through a waist deep stream toward the doomed windmill. Pillars of smoke climb to the sky—it's a night battle so the sense of dread is deeply compounded. Off-screen we hear swords clashing, brigands shouting, horses screaming and snorting like beasts from hell. Kurosawa nails the essence of grunt warfare from time immemorial: it is chaos.

And then a young woman comes staggering through the stream towards Mifune. Her eyes are wide open saucers, she's heaving shallow labored breaths.

Her knees buckle, it's almost certain that she's been mortally wounded.

She comes closer to the camera, struggling to bridge the short distance to Mifune.

And now we realize that she's cradling a baby in her arms.

The young woman is leaking blood, leaking life, but the love and duty she feels for her child drives her onward—so that finally, ever so gently she hands her baby to the stunned warrior.

And then, once safely in Mifune's arms, the mother collapses and dies.

Mifune stands there covered in mud and blood. He's lit from behind by the burning building, now a roaring furnace. It's a vision of hell on earth.

Mifune, this lice-ridden samurai, this drunken brawler, holds the baby tight in his arms and cries out to his comrades: ”You see how this mother forced herself forward, she wouldn't let herself fall until her baby was safe.”

It's a stunning scene.

The swordsman is paying homage to another warrior, to a mother who protected her child to her last breath. It's a great moment as a down and dirty warrior recognizes and pays tribute to the power of maternal love.

And then another layer of narrative deepens the image, motivates the Mifune character beyond the quest for status and glory and makes richer this greatest of great films.

Mifune breaks down and cries. His tears are not just tears of pain, but rage boils within as he confesses in the next choking breath that he is the child of peasants—he had boasted, though no one really believed him, of samurai lineage—that his mother saved his life when he was a baby and then she too was murdered by brigands.

This scene is a turning point in The Seven Samurai, from now on the other characters look at Kikuchiyo with new found respect—even if he is the son of lowly peasants. And Mifune's motivation, now solidly established, allows his character to mature as a warrior, as a man—ultimately as a true hero.

All this went through my head as I stood and watched my daughter holding her daughter. Already Offspring #2 has that fierce protective look that I recognize and remember when Karen held our children.

And all this went through my head in shul, synagogue, as our grandchild was given her name and welcomed into the community of Torah and Judaism: Maayan Ariel.

Karen and I wish all our friends a lovely and meaningful Rest in Shabbat.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:20 PM | Comments (19)

March 25, 2008

New Seraphic Offspring

Mazal Tov!

With joy and gratitude to HaShem Karen and I are proud to announce the birth of a granddaughter to Offspring #2 and her wonderful husband.

May we all share only simchas together.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:36 PM | Comments (69)

March 06, 2008

Gone to Texas Plus Jerusalem Massacre

John Wayne, Stagecoach, 1939

Karen and I are flying to Texas for cousin Tali Belle's Bat Mitzvah—is that a great Jewish-Texas name or what? Anyway, I don't know if we're going to have a chance to blog from the Lone State, so this might be a mini vacation for Seraphic Secret. We'll be back late Sunday afternoon.

Far too often family members only meet at funerals. Karen and I have decided to make every effort to travel to simchas, celebrations: weddings, circumcisions, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs.

The pursuit of happiness is enshrined in our Declaration of Independence, and Judaism places the highest value on the holy rituals that mark our identity as Torah Jews. These ceremonies are vital, not as vulgar showpieces for displaying wealth and status, but for transmitting the knowledge, love and joy of Torah from one generation to the next.

Karen and I wish all our friends a beautiful and profound miracle in Shabbat.

Udate #1: And now we must all say Tehillim, Psalms, because Arab terrorists have once again murdered innocent Jews.

And after we say, Tehillim, it's time to dispose of this wretched Israeli government, elect a leadership that will cease negotiating with terrorists and follow a policy of taking the war to the jihadists until victory is achieved.

Update #2: Seven students from Yeshiva Merkaz Harav have been murdered by Arab-Muslim terrorists in Jerusalem, thirty-five have been wounded.

Update #3: Soccer Dad notes that the Olmert government's incursion into Gaza was not a coherent military operation but a self-serving political move. And now, infamously, Olmert, Livni and Barak have caved in to Hamas.

Meanwhile, I have to finish packing. Somebody puh-leese unchain me from my Powerbook.

Update #4: Mere Rhetoric points out that the media spin is the usual brain-dead “cyle of violence” yadda-yadda. Reports of three terrorists, which indicates a substantial operation, and a large intelligence failure. We can expect to see celebrations in the streets of Gaza any minute now, with horns blaring and sweets handed out to children. Jews have been murdered as they studied Torah—for the Palestinians, it's party-time.

Here's what they have to say about the massacre:

Abu Abir, a spokesman for the Popular Resistance Committees told Ynet that the terrorist attack at the Jewish seminary in Jerusalem in which six people were killed was a blessed act. "The only way that Israelis will have security is if they get up and leave Palestine. All Palestinians will chase after every last one; we won't leave them space to bury their dead. This is the first of many acts that the Palestinian resistance promised and started to carry out."

Fawzi Barhum, a Hamas spokesman, said that "following the IDF action in northern Gaza, it is only natural that the Palestinians react to the massacre that the Israeli army carried out."

Sure, let's expel Jews from Judea and Samaria, and while we're at it let's divide Jerusalem.

What can possibly go wrong?

Packed my socks, my suit, two L.L. Bean shirts, two ties, my favorite slippers. Now I have to agonize about what books to bring. Grrrrrrr!

Update #5: Yup, thousands of people celebrating in the streets of Gaza. Report from Elder of Ziyon. Hey, I have an idea: stop sending this genocidal statelet power and fuel.

Keep in mind that the victims are high school boys as young as 15-years old. Our girlses attended seminary around the block from Mercaz Harav. They had good friends who attended this fine yeshiva that was founded by by Rav Avraham HaCohen Kook.

The terror alert has been raised all across Israel.

Deep breaths, one after another.

My head is pounding.

I'm wearing my hand-tooled cowboy boots, bought on location in Dallas a few years ago. Look great with my Shabbos suit. Kinda like George Dubya Bush—but Jewish.

Oh-oh, our flight's been cancelled, due to severe weather conditions.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:08 AM | Comments (13)

December 21, 2007

Karen's Free Lunch at Yeshiva of Flatbush

“I dunno, even when I was younger, in college, and I'd go out with my friends to regular restaurants, I had no interest, no desire to taste non-kosher food.”

Karen says: “What about pizza? Pizza never tempted you?”

“Pizza, lemme tell you about pizza. You know what pizza tempted me, you know what pizza absolutely killed me, the one pizza that I was not allowed to eat was actually kosher pizza. You know what pizza that was?”

Karen screams: “Yeshiva of Flatbush pizza. I know exactly what day they served it: Friday.”

I nod my head.

It's over forty years ago, but the memories of my, er, Yeshiva of Flatbush education are still fresh, in perfect focus. Karen and I attended grade school together, so we have a world of memories in common. It makes for a strong bond. It also helps that I've been in love with Karen since I first laid eyes on her in 4th grade.

Karen, my personal GPS, reminds me to stay in the right lane, I have to merge into another freeway soon.

“I'm telling you, I was so jealous of the rich kids in Yeshiva of Flatbush who ate the school cafeteria hot lunches. And we, the peasants, sat all segregated with our greasy brown bag home lunches. Do you remember how the fragrance of the pizza would start filling up the school by mid-morning?”

“We could smell it in the annex.”

“It was like a narcotic, opium or something. I would salivate like a dog.”

“My mother gave me gefilte fish sandwiches.”

“I got peanut butter and jelly. By the time I unwrapped it the bread was limp, soggy. I was like: hey, maybe starvation isn't so bad.”

Karen goes: “And to add insult to injury the rich mothers used to come to school and serve the pizza to the kids.”

“Right, right. With their hair all sprayed and done up.”

“And jewelry. The rich mothers were wearing fancy pearls in the middle of the day. Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Right, I remember the sparkling jewelry as they served the pizza. I remember thinking: what universe is this?”

“Here's the merge to the freeway.”

“Okey-doke.” I ease into the right lane.

Black clouds are gathering overhead. It's like a Hollywood shot. There will be rain as Karen and I attend the levaya, the funeral, for the father of one of our best friends.

I say: “I wanted a slice so badly. I'm telling you, I'd happily shell out a hundred dollars today for a slice of that pizza.”

Karen goes: “I ate the pizza.”

I almost lose control of the car.

“What?”

“Yup, I was appointed the lunch monitor and got to eat with the kids just for watching them.

I'm thinking: Traitor.

“Y'see, sometimes it pays to be a good girl,” Karen teases.

Mata Hari.

"Not to mention the best good looking girl in school, ” I add.

“Here's the exit. Watch out for the truck.”

“I cannot believe you got to eat the pizza.”

Karen chuckles, looks out the window, points to the cemetery entrance gates.

Karen says: “Hey, there is such a thing as a free lunch.”

“It was good, huh?”

“You cannot imagine. It tasted better than it smelled.”

Karen and I wish all our friends a beautiful and profound miracle in Shabbat.

Today's Links: From Dirty Harry at Libertas, Reagan Officials Angry at "Charlie Wilson's War" — on history and truth.

My good friend, Dirty Harry has his own site, where he discusses things other than Hollywood, check it out.

Finally, my buddy Treppenwitz on, sigh, Israel, The Jewish State. Honestly, I can't believe this even a topic up for debate. Listen, once you deny the character of Israel as a Jewish State, you have officially joined the ranks of Fatah, Hamas, and every Jew-hating transnational terrorist organization on planet earth.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:49 AM | Comments (53)

November 22, 2007

Aunt Pearl, Nanny & Thanksgiving

“Your grandmother felt that the most important American holidays were Thanksgiving and Fourth of July. Oh, she just just loved America, was just so grateful to this country.”

I'm speaking to my beloved Aunt Pearl, my mother's baby sister. We're separated by several thousand miles; she lives in Florida, I in California, but for a major portion of my life Aunt Pearl lived in Brooklyn, with my grandmother, Chana Gittel Z'L, just a few minutes from wherever my parents lived.

Aunt Pearl called me Little Man, even when I grew older and towered over her diminutive five foot frame. We have always been close, Aunt Pearl and I. She never married, never had children, worked hard her entire life, took care of her mother, my grandmother, sacrificed much to be a good and faithful daughter. My Aunt Pearl has always been an independent woman, a feminist, without the anger, without the fashionable slogans, without the oh-so-dreary badge of victimhood. She's a remarkable woman.

“Tell me about Thanksgiving when we were children, Aunt Pearl.”

“Oh, it was so important to Nanny, she would invite all the children and grandchildren over to the apartment, cook all day, and because Aunt Regina and Uncle Albert lived in the same apartment building you kids used to run back and forth between the apartments.”

Yes, with countless and rambunctious cousins we would fly up and down the steep granite stairs, howl at one another and listen to the echoes ricochet off the concrete walls of the pre-war apartment building. We drove the neighbors crazy.

“Things changed when people in the Jewish community started making weddings on Thanksgiving. Your grandmother did not like that, she did not approve of that at all. She said it was wrong. Your parents would drop you and your sister off at our apartment and go off to a wedding. Don't get me wrong, we were thrilled to have you kids all to ourselves, but still, Nanny felt that Thanksgiving was too important a holiday to be cast aside for weddings. It was not respectful. Jews, she felt, should be more grateful.”

“She was right.”

“You know what else she hated?”

“What?”

“When her children got older and more prosperous, and they took vacations in Europe. She said to them: 'Why are you going back to Europe? I took you out of Europe. We fled from that bloody soil. Go see America.' Oh, Robert, she just loved America. Your Nanny was always grateful for all the blessings of America.”

Karen and I wish all our friends a Happy Thanksgiving.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:38 AM | Comments (27)

November 10, 2007

Moments Like This

Karen and I are with family here in New Jersey.

Last night, during Shabbos dinner, as conversation and laughter flowed, as my girlses, Offspring #2 and Offspring #3, jumped up and down—like a scene from an Offenbach opera—serving dinner, as Karen's mother queried my son-in-law about his recipe for baked gefilte fish, as the light of the Shabbos candles spread a soft pool of light over the room, I thought to myself:

Who cares that I'm on strike?

Who cares that Apple stock has just lost over 5% of its value?

Who cares that the price of gas is close to $100 a barrel?

Yes, I looked at Karen the woman I've been in love with since I've been 10 years-old, and I looked at my smart and beautiful girlses, my son-in-law and mother-in-law, and I understood with perfect clarity that the best in life revolves around moments like this.

I was happy. I was content.

And yes, I wished, oh how I wished that our son Ariel ZT'L was here to share these moments.

Karen and I wish all our friends a Shavua Tov.

And Happy Birthday, Marines! Semper Fi. Thank you for all your service to our country.

And on this day let's not forget Project Valor-IT Veteran's Day Fundraiser, to provide voice-activated lap-top computers to injured and disabled veterans. Please donate generously. This is a very important tzedakah, charity.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 04:25 PM | Comments (10)

October 01, 2007

Security and the Secret World of Women

“How was security duty?”
“Great.”

Our shul has armed security guards. To help identify members of our synagogue and take note of scary strangers, volunteer members of our synagogue take turns with the guards.

My turn came a few days ago. Karen wants to hear all about my amazing adventures fighting international terrorism.

“First thing I walk up to the security guard and check in. He tells me that if we spot a stranger approaching the shul and said stranger is wearing an unseasonably bulky overcoat, well, my job is to grab his arms, pin them down, and make sure the terrorist doesn't depress the trigger and, er, detonate.”

“And what's the security guard's job?”

“To call the Bomb Disposal Unit at the FBI.”

“Oh, great.”

“Actually, he was just kidding.”

“Funny.”

“I thought so.”

“So what did you do on security duty?”

“Karen, it was amazing. Did you know that every woman who comes to shul changes from walking shoes into high heels once she enters the gate?”

“What do you think I do, Robert?”

Clueless me.

“Oh, really? Anyway, I identified three distinct styles of changing into high heels. Ready?”

“Shoot.”

“One: The Audrey Hepburn. It's a smooth back-hand motion. That's where the woman kicks back her heel and slips on her shoe, underhand from behind—all the time balancing on one foot. It's incredibly feminine, very Breakfast at Tiffany's, and my personal favorite.”

“I do that, but only my right foot, then I cross my left foot in front.”

“Right, very common. Two: The Post. That's where the woman leans against a wall or a post and crosses one foot in front of the other. It's not so elegant, but gets the job done.“

“Amateurs.”

“Three, and this is very rare, but probably Oscar worthy: The Step-in. And that's when the woman puts her heels on the ground, then slips off her walking shoes and in one smooth movement just steps into her shoes. It's like ballet. I only saw one woman pull this off. It was awesome.”

“That was security duty?”

“I told myself I was looking for shoe bombers. You know it's amazing, you women have all these private rituals and we males are totally oblivious. Also, you don't really get all dressed up for me, do you? I mean you're just putting on these nice outfits and nose-bleed high heels to go to shul and sit in the women's section.”

Karen waves her hand dismissively:

“Oh no, never for men. First, it's about the outfit, then it's about other women, and then it's for men.”

“We're an afterthought.”

Karen shrugs.

The secret world of women.

Karen says, “You know the really good looking security guard?”

“Um, no.”

“Take my word for it. Anyway, he's always teasing me about changing my shoes. I got so embarrassed that finally I changed into my heels behind the food sign down the block, and now he just goes: 'I saw you behind the sign.'”

“He and I talk about guns all the time. He has no idea that you're my wife.”

“Would that make a difference?”

“Are you kidding, there's a code of honor among guys with guns.”

A few days later Karen and I exit shul together, we pass the, er, handsome security guard and Karen sings out:

“This is my husband.”

I wave.
He nods.

The next day the security guard and I are discussing guns and ammo and various high-powered scopes. He interrupts our conversation:

“Hey man, I didn't know the lady is your wife.”
“S'okay.”
“You don't mind me sayin', she's like—”

The security guard waves his hand as if just scalded.

We continue discussing the pros and cons of the the new Springfield enhanced micro.9mm

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:08 AM | Comments (24)

August 03, 2007

Seraphic Offspring in D.C. for Shabbos

We don't do this very often but: Offspring #3 is in Washington D.C this Shabbos with Camp Morasha. My daughter, counselor to sixteen spirited young ladies have just returned from a trip to Parris Island—

“No Daddy, I'm not going to sign up for the Marines, not a Manolo Blahnik in sight, duh!”

— will be davening with The National Synagogue, previously Congregation Ohev Shalom. If any of our readers would be so kind as to greet our daughter with a Good Shabbos, Karen and I would greatly appreciate it.

Just seek out Seraphic Secret Offspring #3.

Karen and I wish all our friends a lovely and meaningful Shabbos.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:46 PM | Comments (6)

July 12, 2007

Karen Goes Hollywood

“Point with your index finger.”
“Where?”
“Up.”
“Why?”
“I've got a great shot.”
“Like this?”
“No, move your finger to the right, to the left, up a little, down a little. Oh, oh, that's so perfect, Karen! So exciting! Just like the Jewish Louise Brooks. Hold, hold! ”

Snick!

“That's a wrap.”

“One of the the most important elements in film language, and the one that's most frequently forgotten by lame-o film directors is scale.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Your finger; the Hollywood sign; wait, you'll see.”
”For a writer, you're so non-verbal.”
“Citizen Kane plays with scale all the time. Spielberg, at his best, understands scale and plays wonderful tricks with out-of-kilter proportions. Silent film stars Harold Lloyd, and Buster Keaton were brilliant with sight gags like this, you'd have ten or twelve in a film.”

Anywhoo!

Somehow—and it's a mystery, like the Big Bang—Karen has managed to lure me out of my office and we spend the day investigating Black holes, Red dwarfs, White dwarfs, Dark matter and a host of other cosmic riddles at the newly renovated Griffith Observatory here in Los Angeles where I snap this photo of Karen and the famous Hollywood sign.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:05 PM | Comments (22)

June 13, 2007

Home

My eyes pop open. No need for an alarm clock this morning. Gray light presses against the window panes. The sun is not yet risen. I sit up and heave a deep sigh. Looking about the room, I promise myself—once again—to find a proper place for all the DVDs the Academy sends this time of year. The discs, in their vote-for-me decadent packaging, sprawl on the floor by the TV like some high-end virus.

I tell Karen that it's time.

Somewhere under the comforter Karen says: “I'm going to have a headache all day getting up this early.”

“Well, you don't have to come. I can do it alone. It's okay.”

Karen breathes: “Five more minutes.”

Downstairs, I daven, pray, make a quick breakfast, scan the front pages of the newspaper and notice that though the body count in Gaza is approaching pretty horrific levels, and though men are being hurled from high roof tops, and though people are regularly being kidnapped, tortured and murdered, and though children cannot go to school for fear of being shot down by their beloved Arab brothers, and though mortars are being lobbed all over Gaza City—the N.Y. Times still insists: "Civil War Feared."

Gee willikers, if this isn't civil war the N.Y. Times sure are a callous, blood-thirsty pack. I mean what does Fatah and Hamas have to do to get a proper "Civil War in Gaza" headline?

Sheesh, talk about the death of language.

Karen comes downstairs, prepares her tea. I can't help but smile. She dresses like a chic sun-kissed Cali lady even for this little errand. A great A-line dress, kicky gold and black-toned flats that have a nice Chanel feel. As an accessory, Karen is now wearing my old Swiss Army watch with the very broken-in leather band. It's such a cool look because the watch face appears so big and military on Karen's little wrist; it's an effortless touch—thus ultra-fashionable by virtue of not trying to be fashionable. Observe: No flip-flops, no shlumpy over-sized sweats for Karen. The love of my life knows What Not to Wear. What can I say, after thirty years of marriage the woman brings me to my knees—and she doesn't even know it.

I drive. Karen and I chat, wondering out loud if she's changed a great deal since last we saw her.

Whoa. I cruise into a great parking spot on the first level. Perfect.

We make small talk with the other anxious parents; we sit, we pace, we wait.

Observe: Lots of flip-flops and massive, baggy sweat shirts. Hmm, maybe I should nominate them for What Not to Wear. They need Stacy and Clinton—badly.

And there she is, trudging up the ramp like a Jewish peddlar from generations past; Offspring #3 is bent over, pushing her luggage cart, heavily laden with bags and suitcases.

Abruptly, Karen bursts past the No Entry Gate, right past the astonished Homeland Security Guard.

“Yo, lady!”

Karen sobs, embraces Offspring #3; holds her so tight I can see the azure veins pulsing in Karen's ivory throat.

Moving to join them, the Guard, a big burly slab, vigorously waves me back. However, he dares not interrupt mother and daughter. No doubt he senses that petite Karen will instantly deck him.

Gazing at my wife and daughter, I feel a thick lump swelling in my throat.

Offspring #3 has been studying Torah in Jerusalem for a year. She is utterly changed—and yet completely herself.

I am happy. I am proud.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:57 PM | Comments (16)

May 22, 2007

Heaven Will Split

“You will see a great miracle.”
“Me?”

My Rebbe nods his head just once, but with perfect conviction.

I am eight-years old, third grade in Yeshiva of Flatbush. One of our Hebrew teachers, a Rabbi, has taken me aside during recess; he is telling me a great secret.

“HaShem makes this miracle happen—but only for special children, good children.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Just stay up all night on Shavuos learning Torah.”
“Golly.”
My Rebbe smiles.
“What will I see?”
“Heaven will split apart and reveal… everything.”

I actually feel a shiver fluttering up and down my spine, like the wings of a butterfly.

I beg my father to take me to the Beis Midrash so I can stay up all night with the grown-ups, and of course witness heaven splitting, though I don't tell him this part. It's my little secret.

“You're too young”
“I'm bigger than last year.”
“Not as big as next year.”
“That's not fair.”
“Who said life is fair?” My father goes Kierkegaard on me.

In my bedroom that night, I sit by the window with a chumash on my lap. I try and learn Torah but my eyes are drawn to the sky, to the stars, to the lemon moon.

I am soooo sleepy.

Heaven will split…

A vigorous shake of the head will surely keep me awake. But no matter how hard I try my body rebels and grows so very weary.

I know, I'll just catch a quick nap, get some rest, and then wake up in time to see the miracle.

There is no way I am going to miss heaven splitting. It sounds better than any movie I have ever seen.

My father shakes me awake for shul.

I actually sit up with tears in my eyes.

“What's wrong?”
“I fell asleep, I didn't get to see the—”
“The what?”
“Nothing.”

Together, my father and I walk to shul. I feel like a total failure.

Now, almost fifty years later, I am still that little boy who believes that heaven will split—if only I act appropriately.

Seraphic Secret will be off-line for Shavuos, the time we set aside to celebrate the giving of the Torah from G-d to the Jewish people. Karen and I wish all our friends a joyous and meaningful holiday.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:56 PM | Comments (15)

May 09, 2007

Robert: Not Too Normal

“I guess you noticed, I came home a little later than usual."
“I thought so."

Karen and I are sitting at the Shabbos table—twenty minutes late.

“Sorry.”
“What happened?”
“Should I tell you before or after Kiddush?”
“Before. I can't stand the suspense.”

FLASHBACK:

Twenty minutes earlier.

EXTERIOR. SYNAGOGUE - NIGHT

Robert exits synagogue, says Good Shabbos to various congregants, and walks down Pico Boulevard, on his way home.

Suddenly, from behind:

Persian Guy: Mr. Avrech?

Robert turns around.

Robert, (voice-over): Oh no, don't tell me my Persian buddy wants to talk about his Apple stock on Shabbos?

Persian Guy walks up, does NOT extend his hand in a Good Shabbos greeting.

Robert: Good Shabbos.

Persian Guy nods and gives a modified bow. Robert notices that Persian Guy looks quite distressed. Something is wrong.

Persian Guy: I wanted to tell you that I am reading of your web-site.
Robert: Oh, that's great. What have you been reading?
Persian Guy: I read the How I Married Karen writing.

Robert gets all puffed up with pride. He just knows that compliments will come rolling in.

Persian Guy: I have to tell you, Mr. Avrech, I am very distur-bed.
Robert: Huh?
Persian Guy: It is not right for you to be in love with a little girl. Kareeen is just 10-years old and you are an adult age man and, and —

Persian Guy is sputtering in barely contained fury.

Persian Guy: It is just wrong.

Robert, (voice-over): Oh my gosh, Persian Guy's reading comprehension is on a second grade level.

Persian Guy: How can you do this!?
Robert: Wait, wait, hold on. You don't understand. I was a child too.

Persian Guy stares at Robert. For a long, long moment.

Robert: Are you getting this? I was ten-years old when I fell in love with Karen. We went to grade school together. We were both little children.

Persian Guy frowns, deeply confused.

Persian Guy: You were not an adult?
Robert: Noooooo!
Persian Guy: Ohhhhhh. I begin to understand.

His head bobs up and down like it's on a spring. He's taking in this new information very… very… slowly. The puzzlement gradually leaks from his eyes. Finally:

Persian Guy: But Mr. Avrech, is it really normal to fall in love when you are 10-year old?

END FLASHBACK:

Resume Robert & Karen at the Shabbos table:

“He thought you were a pedophile."
“Yup.”

Karen slaps the table, throws back her head and laughs.

“Funny, big funny.”
“I think he's got some cognitive problems.”
“Of course, now he just thinks I'm not too normal.”
“Robert, look on the bright side.”
“Which is?”
“Not too normal is much better than being a pedophile.”

I chant the Shabbos Kiddush and then sing the Eishet Chayil , and more than ever feel every single word at my very core:

An accomplished woman, who can find? Her value is far beyond pearls.
Her husband's heart relies on her and he shall lack no fortune.

She does him good and not evil, all the days of her life.
She seeks wool and flax, and works with her hands willingly.

She is like the merchant ships, she brings her bread from afar.
She arises while it is still night, and gives food to her household and a portion to her maidservants.

She plans for a field, and buys it. With the fruit of her hands she plants a vineyard.
She girds her loins in strength, and makes her arms strong.

She knows that her merchandise is good. Her candle does not go out at night.
She sets her hands to the distaff, and holds the spindle in her hands.

She extends her hands to the poor, and reaches out her hand to the needy.
She fears not for her household because of snow, because her whole household is warmly dressed.

She makes covers for herself, her clothing is fine linen and purple.
Her husband is known at the gates, when he sits among the elders of the land.

She makes a cloak and sells it, and she delivers aprons to the merchant.
Strength and honor are her clothing, she smiles at the future.

She opens her mouth in wisdom, and the lesson of kindness is on her tongue.
She watches over the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.

Her children rise and praise her, her husband lauds her.
Many women have done worthily, but you surpass them all.

Charm is deceptive and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears God shall be praised.
Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her works praise her in the gates.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:21 AM | Comments (28)

April 26, 2007

No Yen for Yoga

“Get on the floor”
“Do I have to?”
“C'mon, just lie down for a minute.”
“I don't really wanna”
“Robert, can't you just do this one thing for me?”

Karen has just returned from her Wednesday evening Yoga Minyan, an all women's Yoga class she takes with several lovely Lubavitch ladies. Karen's got that adorable Audrey Hepburn thing going on in her black sweats, cheerleader hair-ribbon, a pink flush on her cheeks—but oh-oh, the love of my life wants to show me how relaxing the whole experience can be.

I don't know, I'm pretty relaxed sitting on the couch, watching America's Next Top Model and hurling insults at my TV screen, at the fashion industry, the pathetic non-models, the Nuremberg-like judges, and most of all at myself for wasting an hour of my life. I tell myself that the real reason I'm watching this dreck is because I'm in the industry and I have to know what the networks are programming.

Professional research.

Uh-huh.

Grumble, grumble. I tear myself away from the couch, rip my eyeballs away from a self-absorbed train-wreck who's whining about her self-esteem, and splay myself out on the floor.

Anything for Karen.

“Are you relaxed?”
“I'm lying on the floor. How can this be relaxing?
“Robert, cooperate.”

Sheesh. This Yoga thing brings out the drill sergeant in the love of my life.

Karen hovers over me, leans down, manipulates my neck. Hey, I've never seen Karen from this upside down POV. She's positively adorable. Maybe I can con her into giving me a massage—because wouldn't you know, every single muscle in my body has gone taut as a steel spring.

Karen presses down. Hard.

“Try and relax your shoulders so they press against the floor.”

I try, and fail, miserably.

“You're so tense,” Karen observes.

Well, yeah, I'm lying on the floor, and one of the contestants is crying her eyes out because her best friend just died of a drug overdose, and all the other girls are like sooooo mean to her, and for the next shoot Tyra wants them to pose as corpses—I kid you not—but still look all fashionable, sexy, and chock full of life.

Here's the thing: my self-esteem is fine, but I'm pretty sure my IQ is taking a fast downward spiral.

And do know this rule of television viewing: the more TV you watch the stupider you become.

Karen heaves a great sigh. The subtitle running under her chin reads: Hopeless.

Karen smiles tolerantly, but with affection, and indicates that the Yoga demonstration is definitely over.

I'm what's known in prison as "a hard-case."

I hop back on the couch, scrunch up into my little corner, and watch the models pose as really well-dressed dead girls. The photo shoot director yells: “I need more attitude, more energy, c'mon girls—you're dead.”

Now I'm relaxed.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:04 AM | Comments (25)

April 17, 2007

Loss, Lessons, Life

In the aftermath of the Virginia Tech tragedy, a small congregation of mothers and fathers will have joined the select chorus and community that have buried their own children.

That club is an exclusive club. It seeks no new members. The club prays fervently that it die off, though in the heart of hearts of each member, they know better. With each new member, old wounds are reopened, and the heart ache that never really goes away, overwhelms again.

A luminous post by Seraphic Friends, Sigmund, Carl & Alfred, please click here to read the entire article.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:05 AM | Comments (1)

April 13, 2007

Time Capsule: The Author

Karen wrote the note.

Karen's mother, the Lee Remick look-a-like, has been with us for Passover. As a surprise, she brought the note that Karen typed during the Six Day War.

When Karen showed me the aging piece of paper, tears puckered in my eyes. The creases are split so deeply the folds are barely holding together. The paper is more like some ancient papyrus.

Karen's explosions of emotion are witnessed in every youthful keystroke. The note to self, the urge to stand witness to history is a masterpiece of religious Zionisim, of youthful idealism, and a perfect fulfillment of the verse: If I forget thee O' Jerusalem.

After I dried my tears, I said: “Can I put this up on Seraphic Secret, huh, huh, huh?”
I can be really annoying.
Said Karen: “But there are so many typos. It's highly embarrassing.”
“Our readers will love you for it. You were so young.”
“Robert, I was sixteen years old!”
“Oh my gosh, I was so helplessly, hopelessly in love with you—typos and all.”

Congratulations to those who guessed correctly, and to those who did not. In a Seraphic contest it's impossible to lose, only to have a good time.

Karen Adds: In a lesser footnote to history, the uncorrected errors in this note indicate how backward technology was forty years ago. It was written on a mechanical typewriter. There was no liquid paper, let alone a delete function of word processing. In order to correct those errors I would have to use a correcting paper, which had to be inserted in the exact spot of the typo, retype the error so it would disappear, and then type the correction! This was way too much work for a teenager and in fact, way too much work for anyone of any age. I failed my typing course, and still reverse letters when I type - it's a neurological dysfunction that I can compensate for in this modern age

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 05:58 AM | Comments (8)

April 12, 2007

Note from a Time Capsule

This note, typed over 40 years ago, the paper now fragile and yellowing, was just recently discovered in the back of a desk drawer.

June 7, 1967

Today I feel I am libing momentous history. IN Three days Israel had crushed ger opposition. With G-d's heop the Israeli frorced through the Arab lines and captured the old city, parts of the Jordanian shore, and has taken over the Suez Canal. We have reached the wailing wllwall. Jews are praying at the wall!

Tomorrow there is a masss rally in Washington D.C. We await the settlement of peace. Pardon my typing, I had to get some of this down so I could read it years hence.

Who do you think wrote this note, Robert or Karen? The answer tomorrow.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:55 AM | Comments (16)

April 06, 2007

Seraphic Seder

During one of our Passover Seders, as we chanted the prayers of the Haggadah, the guests at the table fell into a passionate discussion about the meaning of "freedom."

One man said: "There are people, Jews even, who want to take away my Second Amendment rights."
A Yeshiva student frowned and said: "Remind me, what's the Second Amendment?"
I said: "The Right to Bear Arms."
The Yeshiva student went: "Ooh, that one."

A guest from New Jersey smiled hugely and said: "Now I know I'm not at Pesach seder in New York!"

And here's an amazing site: The Gun Owner's Alliance, where you get to Ask the Rabbi, everything you need to know about guns.

Oh, and let us not forget to wish a happy one year on-line anniversary to Seraphic Friend Jeremiah. His blog Jeremayakova is a gift to America. You see, once upon a time Jeremiah was a scary Marxist/Lenninist. Now he has come to his senses. He knows how the other side thinks and operates. Thus, he is the liberals/progressives/whatever worst nightmare, for liberals are, basically, crypto Marxist/Lenninists. We wish the good Jeremiah a huge Mazal Tov!

Karen and I wish all our readers a lovely and meaningful Shabbat.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:52 PM | Comments (8)

March 27, 2007

Robert Steps Out

The Mission

"I need a manual can opener."

Karen mimes a leveraging motion in the air: wrist held aloft, then a downward motion, like an oil derrick: pump, pump, pump.

"Not electric, Robert, got it?"

I rip a post-it and carefully scrawl: man can opnr.

"We also need dishtowels, two red, two blue, one large bathtowel, and one colander."

On the post it, I add: dsh twls bl, rd, 1 bth twl, 1 ?

"What's a colander?"

Karen yanks open a kichen drawer, hauls out a bowl that has lots of holes in it.

On the post-it I write: clndr: prfctly gd bwl thts bn prfrtd by AK-47.

"Got it?"
"Uh-huh."
"I head to the door."
"Robert, where you you going?"
"Um..."
"You know where your gun shop is?"
"You have to ask?"
"Okay, the store is parallel to your gun shop, so just take Pico, make a left on Beverly Glen, then a left on Olympic, go straight on Olympic and you'll see it on your right in about two miles. Can't miss it."

The Gadget Wall

I don't get out much. When I step into the store I halt in my tracks. I am simply overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle, not to mention the zillions of products for sale.

I reach for my post-it. Grasp it in my grubby paw, and hold on for dear life.

Just to show that I mean business, I grab a shopping cart. Naturally the front right wheel wobbles and makes this weird little horror movie sound.

I have never seen so many garbage cans in all my life. So many ways of disposing of life's trash. Up and down the aisles, I wander. I'm looking at these weird little desk fans. Hmm, maybe I should get one for Offspring #3 when she hits Stern College. It gets awfully hot and muggy in New York. And look, this one comes in pink. Isn't that cute. And here's one desk fan that has this fuzzy thingee all over it. It actually looks like a Tribble from that great Star Trek episode.

Screeech.

I hit the brakes.

I grab a salesman.

"Excuse me, I need a can opener."
"Over there, aisle 12, The Gadget Wall."

He actually says it with capitals.

The scale of The Gadget Wall is enormous. I'm talking El Cap. I stand at the base of The Gadget Wall, craning my neck as I look up. I get dizzy, like Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo.

They have gadgets piled twelve deep. After about five minutes I manage to locate the can opener section.

Guess what?

Of the ten dozen can openers, not one is manual. Every single can opener is electric.

I wander around, my post-it still in my fist, and manage to grab hold of another salesman.

"Excuse me, I need a manual can opener."

I realize that I sound disturbingly like a drug addict saying: I need a fix.

He looks at me, confused, "Wha?"

I do what Karen did. Make that little leveraging motion in the air. Wrist held aloft, the downward motion, pump, pump, pump.

"Manual. Can. Opener." I repeat.

Salesman walks me over to the Gadget Wall. Grabs an electric can opener.
"These are better."
"Karen wants manual."
"Who's Karen?"
"My wife."
Salesman grins.
"You tell Karen this much better."

Oh boy.

I think there's a definite cultural divide here.

"Listen, I'm not gonna tell Karen this is better. Karen wants a manual can opener."
Salesman challenges: "How come?"

Smiling: "I didn't ask. She's my wife. You know how it is, right?"
"I guess."
"And your job is to help the customer, right?
He shrugs. He's not sure.

We just stand there.

Finally, he has an idea. "Lemme get my Floor Manager."

The Actress, Sorta

Two minutes later, Salesman returns with a tall, black-eyed woman. She must have tons of authority for she carries a clip-board. I'm impressed as heck. She's like a Color War General in Camp Morasha. She's thin as a whisp of smoke, and she's got blue/black hair the color of a Colt single action .45. Floor Manager has the unmistakable look of an out-of-work actress. She is radiant—but hard. Think: Maria Montez meets The Great Texas Dynamite Chase. I'm something of an authority on this embittered Hollywood look. I've been observing it for over twenty-five years.

"Can I help you sir?"

"I need a manual can opener."

She just gazes at me with those bottomless, flinty eyes. Man, I would cast her as a killer babe in no time at all. She doesn't have to act; she has presence.

I do it again. Miming the action: pump, pump, pump. I'm turning into a regular Marcel Marceau. Which, if you think about it, is absolutely pathetic.

I hate mimes.

The Salesman adds: "Karen wants it."
The Floor Manager asks: "Who is Karen?"
The Salesman says: "The Mrs."
The Floor Manager says: "Got to be manual?"
I say: "That's what my wife wants."
The Floor Manager goes: "Gotcha."

We just stand there. This store is about 14 million square feet stuffed with every product on the face of the earth (except guns!) and we three adults are in a, ahem, Mexican/Jewish stand-off.

The Floor Manager says: "Lemme see what we got in back-stock."
She disappears.

Salesman shuffles merchandise from one rack to the next.
"You think she'll come back?" I ask.
He shrugs.

Ten minutes pass. The Salesman drifts away.

I hum to myself.

People gaze at me. Everyone is shopping. They have a purpose in life. I, on the other hand, am just standing and humming: "Oh Say Can You See, By the Stars Early Light..." etc.

It hits me: I have been cruelly abandoned.

I manage to find a really soft bath towel, four great dish towels that are super absorbent, and just the right shades of red and blue. The colors are very Barnett Newman.

Colander. This is a bit more difficult. Karen should have warned me that there are about one-hundred different brands and shapes of colanders. There are big colanders and little colanders. There are round colanders and triangular colanders. There are plastic colanders and aluminum colanders. And I don't even want to get into the various holes that the manufacturers drill into colanders. It is seizure inducing.

Here's what I always do in such situations, I follow the advice of Maimonides, The Rambam. In Hilchos Dayos, Rambam tells us that in life it's always wise to follow Derech ha-emtzai, the middle path.

I do not buy the most expensive, I do not buy the cheapest. I buy somewhere in the middle.

Okay, mission almost accomplished. So I didn't get the manual can opener. Karen will understand.

Front wheel screeching and wobbling, I make my way to the cash registers. Suddenly, the hard-eyed Store Manager falls into step beside me. She holds out a dust-covered little plastic package.

"Here you go."
"Wow, where'd you find it?"
"In the back. Last manual can opener in Los Angeles. Look at the price. Dollar ninety-five. Bargain."
"I thought you ran out on me."
"Nah. You shopping for your wife like that. It's like so sweet."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Hey, hope you don't mind me asking; you an actress?"

The Floor Manager giggles. She doesn't look so hard-eyed any longer. In fact, she looks like what she is: a sweet, generous Los Angelino.

"You kidding? I'm studying to be a paralegal."

Sheesh, so much for my twenty-five years of so-called expertise.

She flashes me a brilliant smile, bops back to work.

I should get out more often.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:12 AM | Comments (44)

February 19, 2007

Aliens in My Bedroom

1. The alarm to the house: Red light. Laser-like intensity.
2. The digital clock on Karen's night table. Pulsating green numbers.
3. Karen's computer: Two sharp green lights.
4. VCR: Another digital clock, not the same time as Karen's clock. Gotta fix that some day. Uh-huh.
5. DVD Player: Another green light. I should just get out of bed and switch it off. But then I'll just have a red light.
6. Cable Box: Another digital clock, different time than the VCR and the digital clock. What time is it?
7. Apple Powerbook: Sleeping, but pulsating a fierce, other-worldly white light.
8. Electric toothbrush: Steady pin-prick of green light.
9. Electric shaver: Displaying a row of rectangular lights. Like grinning green teeth.
10. Recharging PDA: Solid green light.
11. Apple Wi-Fi: Steady, sigh, green light.
12. Cell Phone: Recharging on my night table. Guess what color the light is?
13. Land line phone: Three red blips, day and night. Inches from my nose.
14. Powercord: On the floor, a tiny rectangle of harsh red light, like some new strain of insect.

And what's this? A whole new display of pulsating green and red lights across the room. I've never seen those before!

Oh boy.

It looks like aliens have landed in the master bedroom. Casa Avrech is under attack. It's four in the morning and I climb out of bed to investigate these strange new lights. Cautiously, I make my way toward the frightening pin-points of green and red. Sheesh, I just know I'm gonna be hoisted up to the mother ship, and terrible experiments will be conducted on my mortal body.

I get closer and closer to the strange new lights.

WHAP!

"Ouch!"
"Robert, are you okay?" Karen says groggily.
"I walked into the mirror."
"Why?"
"I thought I saw aliens."
"Good thing you didn't shoot."
"Well, gee-willikers, Karen, bullets wouldn't be very effective against a superior race now would they? Everybody knows that."

When I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn I was afraid of the dark. Now, there is no darkness. Our nights are splashed in the neon greens and reds of our electronic devices. It's disorienting and, well, just plain unnatural.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:18 AM | Comments (29)

February 06, 2007

The Battle of Teaneck

Ki-choo. Ki-choo. Ki-choo.

Something is falling from the sky, thudding dully on the hood of my L.L. Bean overcoat. It's not rain. It's not snow. This is a real mystery. I'll bet Al Gore has some, no doubt, really interesting theories.

"What the heck is this stuff?"
"It's called hail, Dad," says my son-in-law.
"Right, forgot about this stuff."

Karen and I are spending Shabbos here at: 40°53′27"N, 74°0′40" W, otherwise known as Teaneck, New Jersey. I have also heard Teaneck referred to as, Ir Ha-kadosh, the Holy City, a somewhat ironic reference to the incredible burgeoning Orthodox population, with the attendant shuls, yeshivas, kosher restaurants, mikvas -- and, naturally, stratospeheric real estate prices. I understand the average one-bedroom shack costs four million dollars, whoops 4.1 million dollars. I've been informed that the price went up because they've just established a new kollel on top of the old kollel.

It's Friday night and my son-in-law and I are walking to shul. It's two minutes away from Offspring #2's apartment, a young couple's minyan in a local yeshiva. Karen has appropriately dubbed it: "Camp Newlywed."

The ground is like glass. After over twenty years in Los Angeles I've not only forgotten what hail is, I've also forgotten how to tip-toe my way across a few blocks of ice-coated concrete.

Meanwhile, I'm just standing in the middle of the street, looking up at the sky, staring at the hail, like some Amazonian tribesman newly injected into civilization who has just glimpsed his very first hailstone. That's how remarkable I find these ki-chooing objects.

Gee, I should use these as a special effect in my next film. A young couple are reunited after a long separation, they clench and kiss, BOOM, the heavens open up with hail, back-lit, of course, and they kiss, crescendo of music. Great shot. Uber-romantic. The audience does not have to know just how uncomfortable these kinds of shots are for the actors. In fact, actors hate these shots where they have to get all wet and cold -- and do it over and over and over again. The audience never sees the actors popping mints, sighing in boredom, shivering like crazy. The illusion is all.

Anywhoo!

I have no idea how we beat the British. I have no idea how we won the revolution.

I'm not kidding.

I'm freezing. And I've only been outside Offspring #2's cozy apartment for about two and a half minutes.

I'm ready to surrender -- to anybody!

Our American Colonial ancestors (okay, my ancestors were being raped and murdered by Cossacks, but I think of myself as purely America!) were giants, heroes.

A little Teaneck history via Wikipedia:

During November of 1776, Teaneck was witness to General George Washington's famous withdrawal of Colonial forces from nearby Fort Lee on the Hudson River. Early on the morning of November 20, 1776, Washington rode by horseback from his headquarters in Hackensack through Teaneck and across the Overpeck Creek to Fort Lee. There he watched as 6,000 British troops made their way by boats up the Hudson River. He arranged for his owns troops to abandon their vulnerable position on the Palisades. Abandoning camp and most of their provisions, they hastily made their way across Overpeck Creek and through Teaneck to New Bridge Landing (today's Brett Park in Teaneck). They crossed the bridge, marching barefoot, two abreast, their garments so worn that they were exposed to the cold rain that fell that day.

And I'm kvetching about walking across a little patch of ice.

I should be ashamed. Deeply ashamed.

So I spend all of davening feeling really guilty for being such a coward because I know that if I was around during the American Revolution I would have been one of those soldiers who just threw in the towel. I might even have been a deserter. And George Washington, the Father of my Country, would have been really disappointed in me -- but ordered my hanging, because, you know, he just has to set an example. And I'll be one of those guys whose name will be cursed forever in American history books.

Sheesh, how do these things always happen to me?

So, how was Shabbos in Teaneck? Except for the part where I march barefoot in the snow, and except for the part where I get hung by the neck until dead -- it was great.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:16 AM | Comments (15)

February 03, 2007

Home

Offspring #2 is driving us from Brooklyn to spend Shabbos in Teaneck. It's cold in the old neighborhood. My ears are numb and throbbing. Back in California anything below 60 degrees is considered cold, but this is the real thing. Though, I imagine, New Englanders would label this 17 degree cold-snap as "refreshing."

The Brooklyn landscape slips by. Brick buildings are vanquished by graffiti, garbage carts overflow and seem home to legions of cats. The sheer volume of humanity in the street is not so much muti-cultural as, well, a great big heaping of normal Americans. This was the America of my youth, immigrants trying hard to be Americans.

When we first moved to Los Angeles over twenty-years ago Karen said to me:
"Everything here looks like a set, and all the people move around so smoothly, like extras."
"I know and I love it 'cause it's sooo not Brooklyn." I replied.

Bensonhurst has changed since Karen and I left. The Italian "social clubs" where pot-bellied wise-guys smoked cigars and growled into corner pay phones are long gone, replaced by Korean groceries. Russian beauty parlors seem to sprout at every corner. But the gentrification that has overtaken Flatbush and even Williamsburg has left our old neighborhood untouched. Bensonhurst remains stubbornly lower middle-class and blue collar, a haven for new, hard working immigrants.

"Daddy, don't you get nauseous when you read in the car?"
"Nope."
But a funny thing happens: not two minutes slip by when a queasy feeling hits the pit of my stomach, and I close the book in my lap.

Ah, the power of suggestion.

A woman pushing a stroller darts between the double-parked cars. Cars slow up, hit their brakes, and allow the oblivious mother to make her way across the traffic-choked avenue. I feel like jumping out of the car and severely chastising her: "Excuse me, lady, you have a baby, dontcha think you should maybe cross at the corner, at a green light!"

Offspring #2 expertly weaves her way through the incredibly hostile Brooklyn traffic. She is trying to switch lanes to make a right turn -- but a huge truck is ominously blocking her path.

"You are soooo much bigger than me, Mr. Truck, c'mon, be nice."

And as if hearing Offspring #2's plea, the trucker's brakes hiss; he gives her ample room to maneuver, and Offspring #2, like a miniature Mario Andretti, zips into the right lane, hangs a sharp turn, then flashes me a dazzling smile.

A gelid fog hangs over Brooklyn. The light is flat, without depth, and I feel like I'm back in a corner of my childhood. But now, in spite of the cold, in spite of the lack of the depth, Brooklyn looks lovely.

A new thought settles inside of me, quietly but urgently it whispers: no matter how many miles separate us, no matter how long I'm gone, Brooklyn is the home I can never quite leave, and Brooklyn is the home that can never quite leave me.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:14 PM | Comments (28)

December 29, 2006

Karen Dreams

Karen says: "Last night I dreamed that I was flying over our old neighborhood in Bensonhurst."
"How high in the air were you, above the clouds?"
"Oh, no, just above the rooftops."
"That's great, I love that POV. Were you just gliding along?"
"Absolutely. I could see every street, every building, our house, even my father's ZT'L old shul. But you want to know the funny part?"
"You couldn't find the brakes?"
"No, as I was dreaming I was wondering: does flying burn up calories?"
I crack up.
"Always in character. Even in your dreams."

Karen and I wish all our Seraphic Friends a lovely and meaningful Shabbos.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:28 PM | Comments (14)

December 05, 2006

The Hidden Wonders of Tasting Wine

Offspring #2 is turning an interesting shade of green.
She winces and says: "Daddy I don't feel so well."

I had a feeling this was going to happen. Offspring #2 is no bigger than a whisper, but she's got the spirit of Antigone, and so here at the Herzog Wineries, my daughter and her husband have been excitedly, and for the first time in their lives, tasting several wines for, ahem, several minutes.

Family vacation. Offspring #2 and her husband have flown in from NY to spend a few days with us. We've driven up north to the Herzog Kosher Wineries for a tour, and to have dinner at the world class Tierra Sur kosher restaurant. We'll be spending the night in Santa Barbara. A friend has been kind enough to loan us her weekend home.

I stand beside Offspring #2 and her wonderful husband as the Wine Lady pours the various kosher Herzog wines and describes them using words like: airy, full-bodied, lean, herb-scented, jammy-fruit and ripe, and I have to admit I'm seriously flashing on the movie Sideways.

The Wine Lady is perky, friendly, chatty and she generously answers all my dumb questions. She treats my complete ignorance with endless reserves of patience and good cheer.

"It's okay to mix all these wines?'
"Oh, sure, no problem."
She lets loose with a huge mega smile.
"How come you're rinsing out the wine glass with more wine, and not with water?"
"Water would only destroy the flavor."
Big sweet smile.
"Do people come here to get drunk?"
"Most don't. Most people really care about wine."
"I have a cousin who's a wine expert. Would she look down on your kosher wines?"
"Oh, I don't think so. Our wines are excellent."
"My cousin's looking for the Leon Trotsky and Edith Wharton of wines."
Big smile. No comment.
"Wine is fun, would you like to taste?"
"Can't, I'm allergic. I get migraines from liquor.
Wine Lady's face actually crumples like a used kleenex. She stares at me like I'm an orphan and a refugee from Sierra Leone who's also had his right arm hacked off by one of the lunatic militias who own that wretched country.
"That is soooo sad," she coos. "Wine is really fun."

Meanwhile, Offspring #2 is slowly melting into a puddle before my every eyes. I know my daughter. I know her limits. It won't be long now before she crosses her hands over her stomach, moans as if auditioning for a Roger Corman horror flick, and cries...

"Daddy, I don't feel so well."

Yup, that didn't take very long.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:17 PM | Comments (12)

November 30, 2006

Unveiling the Unveiling

On Friday, November 24, a group of loving and loyal friends and relatives gathered for the Hakamat Hamatzeva, the unveiling of the headstone, for Karen's father, Rabbi Philip Harris Singer ZT'L.

Karen and I would like to thank all those who took the time to honor Rabbi Singer's memory by attending the service. We especially want to thank Lance Fogel, long-time Seraphic Secret reader and commenter who has just made aliyah. At a moment's notice, Lance dropped everything, got into a car and came to the cemetery. Lance is a good friend to the Avrech/Singer famillies and we greatly appreciate his kindness and generosity.

We also wish to thank Seraphic friend David Bogner AKA Treppenwitz, who took time out of his incredibly busy schedule to make sure that we had a minyan. David and I have had a cyber-relationship for over three years. Finally, we met face to face and as soon as we did, well, it was as if we were picking up the thread of an old and familiar conversation. David's wife, the lovely and talented Zehava, made Karen and I feel right at home in her home, and Zehava's cookies were--oh my goodness--magic!

I'm embarrassed to admit that after announcing the details of the unveiling in Seraphic Secret so often, we discovered that we had been given the wrong information, the row and aisle numbers and been mistakenly transposed, hence David Bogner was fated to stand at the wrong row for far too long, and missed my remarks.

Anyway, I promised David that I would publish my speech.

*******

We thank all those who have taken the time out of their busy schedules to attend this service. We also would like to acknowledge the absence of my mother-in-law Celia Singer, who, unfortunately, was unable to make the trip for this unveiling. Of course, my mother-in-law desperately wanted to be here, but circumstances prevented it. The same goes for Rena and Naomi. Their absences are deeply felt. These members of the family may not be here physically, but we know that they are with us in spirit.

A unique perspective has allowed me the priviledge of bearing witness to one portion of the life--public and private--of Rav Pinchas Tzvi Singer, ZT'L. For close to 30-years I have been Rav Singer's son-in-law.

When you enter a family you cannot help but notice the family dynamics that are at work for, naturally, they are achingly familiar, yet at the same time, there is something almost other-worldly about how any other family leads their lives.

Let me step back a moment and tell you that Rav Singer was a presence in my life even before I married Karen. My father, Rabbi Abraham Avrech was the Rav in the JCH in Bensonhurst, just a few blocks away from Rabbi Singer's Avenue O' Jewish Center. Every once in a while my father, half-kidding, would tell me to go daven by Rav Singer's shul, that I should listen to his Shabbos speeches, that Rabbi Singer was "probably the best speaker in America."

My father also said, and this is a quote: "Rabbi Singer might be the most talented orthodox Rav we have. His talent and learning are simply vast."

I should also mention that before Karen and I were married my father met with The Rav, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, and he referred to Rav Singer as, "A Bakee." One who is fluent in Torah and Talmud. From The Rav, this is the highest compliment.

And so, Rav Singer always stood out in my mind as a figure much larger than life. His reputation for Torah knowledge and learning surpassed his considerable pulpit speaking abilities.

Confession: I actually did attend the Avenue O' Jewish Center when I was a student in Yeshiva Flatbush. I was in the 8th grade; I had had a crush on Karen since she transferred from Yeshiva Ohel Moshe in 4th grade, and one Shabbos I davened at the Avenue O', not I have to admit to hear Rabbi Singer speak, but in the hopes of getting a glimpse of Karen in shul.

In any case, I remember that Rabbi Singer did speak powerfully and after shul he said "Good Shabbos" to me and sent regards to my father once he learned my last name. I remember being incredibly intimidated by Rav Singer's deep bass voice. He used it like an instrument, like an oboe. Rabbi Singer had real presence; he projected authority and I was terrified of his overpowering personality and never went back to his shul--not until my auf-ruf.

This week's Parsha Toldot, which is translated as Generations, is a rich and appropriate chapter to mark the unveiling of Rav Singer's headstone, for what is the story of generations but the story of educating one generation of Jews in Torah after another. In this my father-in-law excelled, and in this he dedicated his life.

The parsha, the chapter, tells us of Yaakov and Eisav, siblings from the same parents--yet with utterly different values.

Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch comments that Yitzchak made sure to give the exact same education to Yaakov and Eisav but Yitzchak was also wise enough to understand that the brothers were of radically different temperments, and so he allowed room for the education of each child to be customized for their natural talents and inclinations.

One of the first qualities I noticed when I entered the Singer family was Rav Singer's exquisite sensitivity to the individual nature of all his children. He made sure that Rena, Karen, Naomi and David all received superb educations--but there were variations for each unique personality. No child was locked into a predetermined mold.

The Singer Shabbos table was a unique educational experience. Rav Singer would always pose a seemingly simple question about a Shabbos custom: why do we perform this particular custom? And all the children would pelt their father with answers.

"Nope, nope, nope," my father-in-law more often than not would reply, and then proceed to give the correct answer. But when one of the children did manage to come up with the correct answer, my father-in-law would tilt forward--like a prize fighter, and cry out in joy: "Ah-hah!" And everyone would smile like 49ers who have just struck a rich golden vein.

From the private to the public my father-in-law carried his zeal for educating toldot, generations.

Countless times I have met adults, middle-aged Jews, who have told me that they are connected to Judiasm, only because of the Talmud Torah they attended in the Avenue O' Jewish Center; that their connection to Yiddishkeit rests on the powerful personality of Rabbi Singer, a forceful man who made such a deep impression on them when they were children.

Never one to rest on his laurels, Rav Singer worked tirelessly for Yeshiva Shalaavim here in Israel, and helped build it into one of the preeminent Torah institutions in the world.

My father-in-law's love of Eretz Yisroel was unsurpassed, and though he was never able to make aliyah Rav Singer did everything possible to support the Land and the people. And let it be noted that my brother-in-law David and his lovely wife Elana have imbibed and fulfilled their parent's ahavat Eretz Yisroel and made aliyah--in fact, so great is their love for The Land that they made aliyah twice!

During shiva, a Rav who served on the Vaad Harabanim of Flatbush with Rav Singer, told me an amazing story. As President of The Vaad, my father-in-law proposed and insisted on one essential platform for that organization in regards to Israel, and it was this: The Vaad of Flatbush should never, ever publicly criticize the State of Israel. No matter what the political situation, no matter what political party was in power, no matter what political hot-cake was on the front-burner, my father-in-law insisted that the Vaad maintain a moratorium on criticism.

Think about this.

This is a unique and almost unprescendented stance for orthodox Rabbis: to maintain silence. For it is far easier to stand up and criticize, to claim to know better, to claim to have more knowldge, to be purere, holier. But because of Rav Singer's force of personality, because of his absolute love of Eretz Yisroel, because, in principle, he was correct, and he knew it, the Vaad went along with his proposal.

On a personal note, I miss my father-in-law's force of personality. I miss his absolute surety, his mastery of Torah and Talmud were, for me, a harbor of safety, a harbor of jewels and gold in a world that is more than ever preoccupied with trivial matters.

Every day I reach for the phone to call Karen's father in order to pose an halachic question, only to realize as I am punching in the numbers that he is no longer of this world.

Every day I recall his mastery of the Yiddish language, to hear him give a Gemara shiur in Yiddish was enough to bring tears to this non-Yiddish speaker's eyes. And of course there was his sense of humor, not just funny, but falling-down-on-the-floor-and-rolling-over-funny.

In the parsha, there are several sentences that deal with the digging and naming of wells.

26/18 "And Isaac dug anew the wells of water which they had dug in the days of Abraham his father and the Philistines had stopped up after Abraham's death; and he called them by the same names that his father had called them."

It does not take a great deal of imagination to see the wells as containiing the depths of the Torah. Time after time, in an endless and brutal cycle, Philistines come to stop-up the wells of our Torah, to bury them under layers of sand, to go as far as to rename our Torah--but men like Yitzchak, men like Rav Pinchas Tzvi Singer ZT'L stand fast, dig up the well, let flow the sweet waters of Torah, and give back the original names.

Yes, this is the picture I hold in my heart and mind of my revered father-in-law: a man of perfect faith, a man of perfect conviction, a man who, even now, lovingly toils at the depths of Torah, in the heavenly Beis Midrash.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:38 AM | Comments (11)

November 19, 2006

Out the Door

Karen and I are on our way out the door of Casa Avrech. We're headed for Israel where we will be visiting Offspring #3 who is attending seminary in Jerusalem. We are also in Israel to for the unveiling of Karen's father, Rav Pinchas Zvi Singer, Z'TL.

The unveiling for Karen's father, Rabbi Philip Harris Singer ZT'L will take place Friday, November 24, 2006 (Kislev 3) at 10:00 am. The cemetery is Eretz Hachaim near Beit Shemesh, Israel. Block 1 Section 8.

We'll only be in Israel for a week so we won't have time to travel and visit all our Seraphic Friends. For the first few days we'll be in Efrat with Karen's brother David and his wonderful wife Elana, and then from there we move to a hotel in Jerusalem. I have no idea if I'll get a chance to blog from Israel. We'll see.

I love being in Israel, the only problem is you have to travel to get there -- and I hate traveling.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:15 AM | Comments (3)

November 17, 2006

Thanksgiving in Jerusalem

Karen and I are flying to Israel on Sunday Novemebr 19th, via a direct flight from Los Angeles to Tel Aviv. For the first few days we will be staying in Efrat with Karen's brother, David.

For Shabbat, we will be in Jerusalem.

It is no accident that we will be in Israel during Thanksgiving. This important American holiday holds a special place in our hearts -- as Jews we understand that America is unique among the nations of the earth in the manner in which she has embraced her Jewish citizens. We view this as an extension of the American democratic character, and of the core religious nature of a good portion of the American people.

Several years ago, when Offspring #2 was attending seminary in Jerusalem I was also there for Thanksgiving. And so this year, with Offspring #3, Karen and I will celebrate America in Jerusalem -- for this is fitting and proper and in these times when a good portion of the world has declared jihad on America and Israel what could be more fitting than to celebrate Thanksgiving in Jerusalem.

The unveiling for Karen's father, Rabbi Philip Harris Singer ZT'L will take place Friday, November 24, 2006 (Kislev 3) at 10:00 am. The cemetery is Eretz Hachaim near Beit Shemesh, Israel. Block 1 Section 8.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:36 AM | Comments (4)

November 15, 2006

Rav Singer, ZT'L Unveiling Information

The unveiling for Karen's father, Rabbi Philip Harris Singer ZT'L will take place Friday, November 24, 2006 (Kislev 3) at 10:00 am. The cemetery is Eretz Hachaim near Beit Shemesh, Israel. Block 1 Section 8.

Karen and I are flying to Israel on Sunday November 19th.

I have been asked to say a few words at the unveiling--a great honor. Now, I wake every single night at precisely four-in-the-morning feeling overwhelmed by this responsibility. As a Torah scholar, I am ill prepared to speak and do justice to my father-in-law's memory. He was a Torah giant, and even today it's impossible to measure his loss to the family and to the Jewish people. I cannot count how frequently a halachic question comes up, I reach for the phone to call Karen's father for surely he will have the answer-- only to realize that he is no more.

I miss my father-in-law. I miss his stories--unexpected, sophisticated, and often fall-on-the floor-funny. I miss his unyielding belief in his own Torah knowledge. It was comforting to know that when he decided a legal Jewish question, even if his opinion flew in the face of the "what everyone said." His opinion would always be proven to be the correct one. I miss, oh how I miss his basso profundo oboe-like voice. It still echoes in every chamber of my heart.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:59 AM | Comments (5)

November 13, 2006

Where's Karen? Plus: Thoughts on Screenwriting

Sunday morning. Beverly Hills. I'm attending a 25th wedding anniversary party for close friends from shul. The backyard is a a dream conjured by a dream. An azure lap pool shimmers under the cauterizing morning sun. Further down are basketball and tennis courts.

The waiters in crisp black and white uniforms are straight from central casting--out of work actors. The male waiters have lantern jaws, and each waitress is thin as a sheaf of wheat.

I'm sitting at a table by the pool, sipping a Cafe Latte, and worrying about a deep structural problem in a movie outline I'm working on. Always, it takes me longer to write the ten page outline than the hundred and fifteen page screenplay.

Movies are all about structure. Internal narrative logic.

For me, dialogue is easier. Those words flow like water down a hill. Often I smile, hum, weave and bop in my desk chair as I compose snappy dialogue. It's fun. But I torture myself over structure; the trick is to include just the right amount of exposition, yet it should not feel like exposition. My scripts are (hopefully) so tight that if I remove even one crucial plot scene--inevitably everything collapses. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and realize that I can make the structure better, leaner, smarter, but it will mean ripping apart everything, and starting all over again. I try and convince myself that it's not worth it, that the revisions will not be that much better. But in the end, I almost always overcome my hesitations, my fear, my laziness, and make those drastic revisions.

Writing is rewriting.

This is the mantra that lives and courses through my bloodstream.

The best screenwriters are the ones who are willing to throw away draft after draft until, somehow, thay have made the right creative decisions. It's all about the intersection of craft, instinct, and experience.

This obsessive urge to make my work better, to make it, well, perfect, takes up a huge amount of my brain's real estate. I am also acutely aware that from my end, a not inconsiderable number of my daily interactions and conversations are tainted by the endless screenwriting and creative churnings of my mind. I am with people but all too often -- in body only.

It is, to put it mildly, exhausting.

A friend from shul, a physician, sits beside me. He looks at me for a long moment as if he doesn't quite recognize me:
"Where's Karen?"
"She's in avelut (mourning)."
"Right, right, I forgot. Sorry. I'm so used to seeing you two together..."
"Tell me about it."
The doctor's wife says: "Robert, aren't you going to eat anything?"
"Um, no, Karen's not here."
My friend and his wife look at me for a long moment, not quite comprehending.

Jump Cut:

A lawyer and his wife sit down at my table.
"Robert?"
""Uh-huh."
"Where's Karen?"
"She's in avelut."
"Oh, right. I'm so sorry. I forgot. That was about two months ago, right?"
"More like five months ago."
"Whoops, sorry."
"Aren't you going to eat?" The lawyer's wife says.
"Nope, not without Karen here."
"Do you know how strange that sounds?" she says.
"Believe me, I'm well aware."

Jump Cut:

My stockbroker sits beside me.
"Where's Karen?"
"She's in avelut."
"Oh right, I forgot, forgive me."
"No problem."
"She didn't sit shiva here in Los Angeles so it wasn't as much on my radar."
"Perfectly understandable. Listen shop talk. Now that the Democrats are in power is my portfolio going to take a dive?"
"Hmm, perhaps some of your pharmaceuticals, but not Amgen, that's holding strong. In general the politics are uncertain and the market likes uncertaintly. I think we'll be fine for the forseeable future."
"Okay, thanks"
My stockbroker's wife says: "Robert, aren't you going to eat?"
"No, Karen's not here."
She gazes at me wide-eyed.
"I'll grab the wrong food, poison myself." I explain sheepishly.
"Odd seeing you without Karen," she observes
"Y'think?"

Jump Cut:

My friend Danny sits beside me. His wife is also in avelut. We look at each other and grin.
Danny asks: "You going to Israel next week?"
"Yup. Gonna spend Thanksgiving in Jerusalem. Take Offspring #3 for a nice American style Thanksgiving meal."
"Cool. Me too."
"I hear you take pills on the plane and sleep the whole way to Israel."
"Sixteen-hour flight. You bet. I take Ambien. What about you?"
"Proust."
"Huh. Never heard of that drug. Is it new?"
"French writer. Wrote one book, seven volumes, a million words. Twenty pages in and I am so out. He's like a massive dose of Ambien."
Danny laughs. He says to me, "So what's it like, you know, this whole social whirl without Karen."
I point an index finger to my head and squeeze an imaginary trigger.
"Kaboom," I growl.
Danny laughs. "I hear ya. Boy, do I ever I hear ya."

Fade to Black:

Karen Adds:

Robert might have been embarrassed to include the most important impediment to his partaking of the lavish brunch. He told me the food was served as a buffet, and this meant standing in line, and choosing from a vast array of dishes. This presents two challenges. First, Robert hates crowds, and can't tolerate any massing of humans. Second, he has trouble identifying foods, especially those that might be strongly spiced. I am his food censor and line-crasher. So, I guess he just decided to avoid the possibility of eating something that might set off a migraine. Don't worry, I'm sure if he was really hungry he would have drummed up the courage.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:16 AM | Comments (20)

November 08, 2006

My Refrigerator Disability

FADE IN:

"Karen, we need more strawberries."
"Did you look in the fridge?"
"Um, yeah."
Karen steps into the kitchen, opens the fridge, reaches in--without even looking--and plucks out a basket of, surprise, strawberries.
"It's a miracle," I say, "like the Six Day War."

Jump Cut:

On her way home Karen calls on her cell phone: "Do we need more milk?"
"Uh, sure."
"Look in the fridge."
I open the fridge and squint.
"Nope, nothing there."
"No, the fridge in the garage," Karen sighs patiently.
"Ah, right, okay, I'm opening the back door, walking down the back stairs, still with me?"
"Not going anywhere."
"Have I ever told you that I've been in love with you since the 4th grade?"
"Milk, Robert, stay focused here."
"Okay, opening garage door--yuck, I should sweep away the leaves here sometime--okay, opening fridge, wow, lots of milk here, how did that happen?"

Jump Cut:

"Karen, where's the chicken?"
"Did you look in the fridge?"
"Uh, well, yeah..."
"All the way in the back?"
"Which shelf?"
Karen springs down the stairs, glides across the kitchen floor, she opens the fridge, reaches in--and then hesitates. Then she opens the freezer and pulls out the chicken.
"Sometimes you have to look in the freezer, Robert."
"You fooled me."
"What is it with men and refrigerators?"

A profound question.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:14 AM | Comments (29)

October 11, 2006

Rejected by West Point

Deer West Point Generel;

I want to be in the American Army. I want to be a Generel like you. But heres the probelem. Iam a Jewish kid and iam also ORTHODOX. Do you know what this mean??? Well I will tell you. It means that i have to eat kosher food. Do you serve kosher food at West Point? No, you do not. I have checked. I think this is UNAmerican! I demand that you get kosher food in your West Point school so that I can go to school there and be a real soldeir and fight our kommunist enemees!!!!

Respeckfully,

Robert Avrech
Brooklyn NY

My father stands in the doorway to my bedroom. He's holding my letter to the Commanding Officer of West Point in his hand. How did he get hold of my letter? He does not look very happy. Hmmm, I wonder why?

"Robert, did you write this letter?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I wanna be a soldier."
"Why the heck did you use my official Army stationery?"
My father said heck, this means he's really angry.
"I figured it would get their attention."
"It did."
"Oh good."
"No, not good. It really, really got the Army's attention. In not a good way."
"Are you in trouble?"
"Don't ask."
"Are you going to be Count martialed?"
"Court martialed, no. But never, ever use my official Army stationery again!"
"Sorry."
My father stares at me for a long, long moment, his face is red with fury: "If you want to serve in a kosher army, join the Israeli army."
"Okey-dokey."
My father turns to go, then stops, looks over his shoulder at me and waves my letter at me: "Your spelling is atrocious."
"I'm only ten-years old."
"Still, my commanding officer said that I should buy you a dictionary. Here, I'm following orders."
My father hands me a hard-cover Merriam-Webster dictionary. It is heavy as a brick. I keep it with me through elementary school, high school, college--and it still sits over my desk at this very moment.

P.S. They still don't serve kosher food at West Point.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:16 PM | Comments (26)

October 06, 2006

Succot

The responsibilities break down like this:

I put up the Succah.
Karen and the girlses do the decorating.

This Succot, Offspring #2, newly married, is spending Succot with my father and mother in sunny Miami. Offspring #3 is attending seminary in Jerusalem.

So I put up the Succah, Karen did most of the decorating, but then needed my help for the last few stages.

It's fun working with Karen. She's efficient, thinks ahead, has a good eye for the golden rule, and doesn't over-decorate--a major problem with many Succahs. We go for the minimal-but-elegant-look.

At one point Karen turned to me and said: "I'm feminizing you."

"No, you're allowing me to perform a mitzvah."

Karen pondered my comment, decided I was right, and we happily finished our work.

Here's a fine Guide to the laws of Succot.

Karen and I wish you all a lovely and meaningful Shabbos and a Chag Sameach.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:18 AM | Comments (20)

October 03, 2006

I am That Jew in Shul...

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who was sitting in the first row right behind the chazzan.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who kept getting violently whipped in the face by the Chazzan's tzitzis as the Chazzan adjusted his tallis (prayer shawl) over his shoulders -- every twelve seconds.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who kept glancing over the mechitzah into the women's section, looked at Karen, thinking: "Wow, I am a Jew in shul on Yom Kippur married to the smartest, most beautiful woman in the world! How did that ever happen?"

I am that Jew in shul in Yom Kippur who tried really hard to concentrate on the davening but every once in a while his so-called mind, with a will of its own, made a list of the best Civil War movies ever made, and G-d knows, tried for a list of ten, but there aren't ten great Cvil War movies, and please, Gone With the Wind is not a great movie, it's not even good.

And so, here are the top eight Civil War movies ever made:

8. Birth of a Nation

7. The General

6. The Beguiled

5. Glory

4. Gettysburg

3. Cold Mountain

2. Major Dundee

1. Ride with the Devil. This is the greatest film on our list--by far.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who davened really hard, concentrated on the words, but every once in a while discovered that he completely blanked out, had no idea what he was saying, had to go back like five pages, start all over again, and before he knew it was so far behind there was no hope of catching up, and so had to just skip ahead.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who realized that the medieval Hebrew was so difficult that he really didn't understand a word and so davened in Hebrew and then read the English translation, fell behind. And well, see above for the rest of the story.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who by midday got a huge migraine, was seeing double and triple and wondered how he was going to make it through the rest of the fast.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who said to himself: Please G-d don't let the Rabbi SCREAM his sermon for the ninth year in a row. But of course the Rabbi absolutely let rip in a decibel level that is not measurable on any human scale.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur whose migraine agony just increased by about a hundred points on a scale of one to a hundred.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who started checking the pages in the machzor, more specifically, counting how many pages were left until the services were over.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who right in the middle of Unetaneh Tokef, wondered how it was that Rabbi Amnon of Mainz did not just bleed to death after all his limbs were severed by (according to the Artscroll Siddur) "his friend" the Bishop of Mainz when Rabbi Amnon refused to convert.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who, during Unetaneh Tokef, made a mental note to reassess "his friends."

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who covered his head with his tallis during Yizkor -- not out of deep piety, but to shield his tears.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who really missed Offspring #2, and Offspring #3 so badly that during the break sat in his Eames chair and leafed through a photo album of his girlses.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who started counting how many men in shul were wearing rugs.

Answer: 8

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who by Minchah was obsessively thinking about a plate of, get this, scrambled eggs.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who desperately wanted to sit down during Neilah but didn't because, good grief, there was a 98-year old man not two seats away still standing and not showing any signs of collapsing.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who kept thinking: I must be the worst Jew in this shul on Yom Kippur.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who did not say one word to another person during the entire davening. Not out of piety, but because he had absolutely nothing to say to anyone.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who kept looking at men sitting and davening with their sons and all he wanted to do was run from shul, lock himself in Ariel's ZT'L room and lie down on his son's bed and never get up.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who at the end of the davening, as everyone sang "Next Year in Jerusalem," instinctively knew what Karen was feeling, looked over his shoulder and yes, there she was, tears slipping from her eyes.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who came up with the idea of blogging this I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who is ultimately grateful for Yom Kippur, for nothing great and awesome comes easily.

I am that Jew in shul on Yom Kippur who walked home with his wife and said: "It's just us; no one can understand how we feel. It will always be just you and me."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:26 PM | Comments (58)

September 29, 2006

Karen is Royalty

On Shabbos evenings Karen often catches me up on important stories that I'm just too lazy to read by myself.

Last Friday night I was totally caught up in Jetta Carleton's brilliant one and only novel, The Moonflower Vine, one of the finest novels I have ever read, when Karen drew my attention to a truly momentous story in The Jewish Press.

"Jewish Descendants of King David to Meet in Jerusalem. Geneologists say that there are about 100 Jewish family names whose bearers are likely to be Jewish descendants of King David.

"Well over 1,000 Jews of royal descent, will participate in a reunion in Jerusalem next spring, May 28-30, 2007. This will also mark the official inauguration of the worlwide Davidic Dynasty Geneology Center and Museum in the Old City of Jerusalem."

For more information and if you want to put a "von" before your Jewish name, click here.

I have to admit, I am less than overwhelmed by this whacky story. I want to get back to my novel about three unmarried sisters in Southern Missouri during the 1920's. It's a bit like Pride and Prejudice--but in the American grain. This is a great American novel and I am completely transported to another time, another place, an utterly different mentality.

Then Karen starts reading the family names that are connected to the Davidic dynasty: The list seems to include every Jewish name in existence--except, naturally, mine: Adler. Fishel. Meisels. Posner. Singer. Twersky...

Singer?

"I am royalty, I am royalty." Karen giggles.

"Listen, do I call you M'Lady from now on or what?"

"Don't feel bad, Robert, you've obviously got seniority, your name is much older. Avrech, you are probably descended from Joseph."

Right. There you go. As Joseph was carried through Egypt, the Bible tells (Genesis, Mikeitz 41, 43) us: He [Pharaoh] also had him [Yosef] ride in his second royal chariot and they proclaimed before him: Avrech! Thus, he appointed him over all the land of Egypt.

Rashi, the great medieval commentator tells us that Avrech is a composite of two words: Av, father, to rach, which means tender in years. Thus, a father in wisdom but tender in years.

I continue reading "The Moonflower Vine." Jetta Carleton's prose is so precise, so dense that I can practically read the minds of the three sisters. Like Harper Lee, Carleton wrote only one book that is a masterpiece, but I'm afraid that no one has ever heard of "The Moonflower Vine."

Abruptly, Karen slaps her hand against the couch.

WHAP!

"What's wrong?" I ask, startled.

"Hey," Karen says cracking up, "I'm a JAP*."

Princess Karen and I wish all our Seraphic Friends a lovely and meaningful Shabbos and a G'mar Tov.

*Jewish American Princess

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:07 PM | Comments (18)

August 25, 2006

Scenes from a Wedding

"Is that your bag Ma'am?"
"Yes, yes it is."
The Character Actor plunges through the crush of bodies, grabs Karen's suitcase, and like the characters he always plays, yanks the heavy bag up from the airport luggage carousel, and sets it down right at Karen's feet as if it weighs no more than a feather.
"Anymore I can help you with?"
"No, thank you so much."

The Character Actor smiles and even gives Karen a little bow of the head. I think he did the same little gesture in Goodfellas right before he, actually his character, blew another character to kingdom come. That's the thing about actors: most of them have no lives of their own, they are empty vessels. Even when they are not working, they pull scenes to help them get through real life.

Karen and I exit the terminal.
"That man who just helped you, great character actor."
Karen looks over her shoulder.
"Really, how do you recognize him?"
I shrug. Mr. Modesty. It's what I do.
Karen says, "I never would recognize him, ever."

But I know what Karen is thinking, and it goes something like this: "How is it that Robert can recognize some obscure Hollywood character actor, can remember scenes and full patches of dialogue from films he has not