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April 22, 2008

The Battle of Algiers Never Ends

Synagogue in Algiers.

“What year were you expelled from Algeria?”

“In 1956, the F.L.N. told us that we were not really true Algerians.”

“What were you?”

My luncheon companion, a handsome man in his late 60's, smiles broadly: “Filthy Jews.”

“How long did your family live in Algeria?”

My friend sits back and ponders a moment: “Oh, since the churban, [586 C.E.] the Destruction of the Temple. That's when our family made its way from Babylon to Algeria.”

“It must have been hard to leave.”

He just shakes his head in sorrow.

“The F.L.N. confiscated our home, our furniture, our bank accounts. For the revolution, they said. In truth, the committee members just stole for themselves. We were allowed to take one suitcase each. We arrived in France hungry, exhausted and penniless.”

“Were you ever compensated?”

He laughs.

“Did you receive government help?”

“Of course not. We all went to work. We would not take hand-outs. We had pride. We went to school, worked our way up into the middle class. France was good to us. I even enlisted in the army. I became an officer. But you know what happened. There was another officer in my unit, and he kept talking about dirty Jews. Everything with him was dirty Jews, dirty Jews.”

“The battle of Algiers, it never ends, does it?”

“No mon ami, it does not, not for us Jews. Anyway, I told him to stop, that I was a Jew. Well, this made it infinitely worse and he just never stopped. Finally, I took him outside and I thrashed him. I utterly thrashed him.”

“You are my hero.”

“You know what he did?”

“Cried like a girl.”

“He pressed charges and I was brought to a—what's the word?”

“Court Martial.”

“Oui, exact, tribune militaire. And there was a General, very stone-faced, who was presiding, and he kept staring at me. And the officer defended himself by saying that he did not mean it when he said dirty Jew. He said it was as a joke.

“Some joke.”

My French friend, who looks like a dapper European diplomat out of central casting, sits up straight and rattles off a string of irate sentences in French.

I hold out my hands as if checking for rain.

It's, er, Greek to me.

“Pardon, but I was so angry in the tribune when he said it was a joke that I shot up in my seat and I attacked him with a J'accuse.”

“Mazal Tov. So, what happened, what was the verdict?”

“Ah, I was terrified of the Director General. He just stared at me and I was sure that he was a Jew-hater, he had that cold, Jew-hating look. But in the end he just said that officers may not speak in such a manner, that it was not honorable, and that brawls are for drunken peasants. That was the end of it. Charges dismissed.”

“Not a great ending.”

“Wait, it is not ended. In the courtyard, I am walking away and I hear someone calling to me. I turn and it is the General. I think to myself, oh no, now I am in trouble. He is going to break my rank. He comes over and I salute. He tells me, the next time he calls you a dirty Jew you must be a gentleman, challenge him to a duel—and then shoot him between the eyes.”

“Get out of town.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, go on.”

“I say, but Mon General...”

“The General says, I am Jewish. I say, no, I do not believe it. He says, I will prove it, and he recites: Sh'ma Yisroel Hashem Elokenu Hashem Echad. Hear O' Israel The Lord Our G-d The Lord is One.”

Seraphic Secret on Algeria: Part One

Seraphic Secret on Algeria: Part Two

Seraphic Secret on Algeria: Part Three

Seraphic Secret on Algeria: Part Four

And please read Wolf Howling's important analysis of the Persian threat: Next Moves in an Existential Chess Match.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:11 AM | Comments (19)

April 18, 2008

Passover 2008

Amsterdam Hagadah, 1695.

“A few years ago, my father was in surgery for ten hours. It was an extremely complex operation for a very serious tumor.”

Karen and I are paying a shiva (condolence) call to a friend in the community, a prominent physician, and as he speaks about his father his voice drops a register. It's as if he can't quite believe that his beloved parent is gone.

“Anyway, after the surgery, there were so many tubes running in and out of my father's body, he was hooked up to so many machines. Finally, my father woke up and the surgeon asked my father if anything was bothering him.

“My father said: 'Yes, the situation of the Jews in Israel bothers me.'

“That's the kind of man my father was,” says our friend.

On the way home, Karen and I talk about the story. We are both deeply touched. It's so personal, and yet so completely Jewish.

It is also a perfect Passover story.

The Torah stresses: “... you shall eat Matzos, the bread of affliction... so that you will remember the day of your going out from Egypt all the days of your life.” (Devarim 16:3)

All the days of your life.

Because the Torah understands that memory is short, and human beings need physical rituals in order to keep memories alive.

Now, as always, assaults on Jewish memory, on Judaism and the Jewish people are rampant. On Passover we celebrate our freedom, but we remember bondage because there are always enemies anxious to enslave and annihilate the Jewish people.

Karen and I wish all our Seraphic Friends a lovely Shabbat and a Chag Kasher V'sameach, a Happy and Kosher Passover.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:57 AM | Comments (17)

April 03, 2008

The Son of Stranger Among Us

Lee Richardson as The Rebbe in A Stranger Among Us, 1992.

“Excuse me sir, I was wondering if you would mind changing your seat?”
“Um, what's the problem?”

The flight attendant glances nervously over her shoulder. I follow her gaze to a rather beautiful young woman who just might qualify as a contestant for America's Next Top Model.

The flight attendant wants me to sit next to Heidi Klum II.

No problemo. I'm all about cooperation, and as the man says: Can't we all just get along.

“The gentleman says that he'd prefer not to sit next to a woman, so I was wondering if perhaps you'd help us out and...”

Now I see him, the Hasidic man sitting next to the Heidi Klum II. He's all scrunched up in his seat, looking at me with pleading moo-cow eyes, begging me to rescue him from this totally untznius, immodest, situation.

Here's the thing: I'm not even wearing my yarmulke.

On my head is my Seraphic Press baseball cap so I'm not out as a fellow Jew, certainly no one has a hint that I'm a sympathetic Orthodox Jew.

Okay, it's official: the Seraphic cap is, um, Seraphic.

There are worlds within worlds.

The flight attendant practically plants one on me when I agree to switch seats. I feel like reassuring her that our Hasidic friend is harmless. He will not riot, will not set cars on fire, will not denounce American Airlines as a Jew-hating corporation. If he does not get his way—he'll cope. In short: he's Jewish not Muslim.

Heidi Klum II brushes past me and breathes: “Thanks much.”

Wow, totally Tyra ready, for not only is she beautiful but gramatically challenged.

My Hasidic friend looks up at me, smiles and says: “Thank you. You are very kind. You see—”

I cannot resist the moment. I'm totally Clark Kent revealing his identity as Superman.

“I understand, tznius.”

Mia Sara as the modest Hasidic Leah in A Stranger Among Us,
screenplay by yours truly.

A huge smile lights up my Hasidic friend's face.

After take-off, we exchange names, play a bit of Jewish geography, determine that we are not related—amazing—and then David (not his real name) asks me what I do for a living.

“I'm a writer.”

“You write, what, novels, newspaper stories, technical manuals of some sort?”

“Movies.” I confess, barely a whisper.

“Hollywood movies?” I think David now wishes he was sitting with Heidi Klum II.

I nod. Just once, hoping to skate past this rather inconvenient profession.

David narrows his hazel eyes. Thoughtfully twirls his thick, slinky peyes.

At this point I expect The Lecture. How can an Orthodox Jew, in good conscience, write such dreck, waste, be involved in spreading such notorious ideas and images.

“I was in a movie,” David dead-pans.

“Something from work, an industrial film?”

“No, no. A big Hollywood movie. I was an extra.”

"Shut-up.”

“I wouldn't tell just anybody.”

"Your secret's safe with me. What film?”

“It's called A Stranger Among Us. Have you ever heard of it?”

As I said: There are worlds within worlds.

“I wrote and produced A Stranger Among Us.”

David does a silent movie double take. He's like a Hasidic Harold Lloyd.

“No.”

“Yes.”

I could say “no” again and David could say “yes” but sheesh, that's a complete waste of precious dialog.

Eric Thal as Ariel and Melanie Griffith as Emily Eden, A Stranger Among Us.

“You know, we met on the set. I heard that the writer was a frum Jew and I just couldn't believe it and I asked around and I came over to you and thanked you for providing kosher food for all the Hasidic extras and you were very nice and asked me if were were being treated properly by the assistant directors.”

I shrug, I have absolutely no recollection.

David explains: “That time in my life was very difficult. Finances and bills, we didn't know how we were going to pay the rent that month, that's how bad it was. And then I heard about this Hollywood movie that needed extras and was paying good money for real Hasidim. But you can imagine what the community thought about such a thing. But my wife said, do it, no one will know, we need the money. And do you know how many other Hasidim had the exact same idea? We all met in the casting office and we all were so ashamed to look at each other, but in the end, the money was too good, and we were treated well and all the halachos were followed by production people, so we knew that somebody important knew what was what.”

”Did you ever see the finished film?”

"Yes, my wife and I rented it and watched it on a monitor after it came out on video.”

There's a long, awkward pause. I know what comes next. I've heard it before.

“I have to tell you that when, what was the boy's name, the Rebbe's son?”

“Ariel. The actor was Eric Thal.

“Ariel, right. I have to tell you, and no disrespect intended, but when he kisses the girl, what's the actress?”

“Melanie Griffith.”

“When Ariel kisses the Melanie Griffith woman, I did not think this was necessary. Did you have to do that?”

“Yup. It adds conflict. It's forbidden romance. Classic stuff. And look, in the end, Ariel marries the Rebbe's daughter, who is played by Rena Sofer, the great, great, great, great grand daughter of the Chatam Sofer.”

“Really? Really and truly? Amazing. I only saw her from afar, but oy, such an eidel kallah. And the chuppah, that was authentic and beautiful, the singing and everything. It was all fine except for the kiss. Oh, and when Ariel explains to her about the Kabbalah and sex. That would never happen.”

“I know. That was just a bit of screwball comedy. I was playing it like Cary Grant and Irene Dunne.”

David has no idea what I'm talking about.

“It's true, the scene is highly unlikely in real life, but this is a movie and motion pictures are exactly like real life—except I rewrite the boring parts.”

After we land, and as we step off the plane, David says: “Twice you have helped me, all those years ago when you gave me the job on your movie and now when you sat next to me. I wish there was something I could do for you.”

“There is.”

This Shabbos, in a Hasidic shtibl, synagogue, my Hasidic friend will make a b'racha, a blessing, over our new granddaughter, Maayan Ariel.

Eric Thal embraces Mia Sara, A Stranger Among Us, 1992

For a nice companion piece to this story, see Seraphic Secret's amazing encounter in a Apple Store: Shut-up! Shut-up! Shut-up!

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:11 AM | Comments (56)

December 30, 2007

Baby Jake Arrives!

Mazal Tov to Seraphic Friends Jake and Adar Novak, proud parents to Yael Amira, which means to rise with strength. This beautiful name lovingly compliments her sister, Jordan Ahava, which means flowing with love. Baby Yael Amira weighs 7 lbs. and is 20 inches. Mother and child are doing just fine. Dad is floating in the stratosphere, no doubt working on Jake's Ten Top Reasons Why It's Better to Have Daughters.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:41 PM | Comments (9)

December 25, 2007

Merry Christmas, 2007

Karen and I wish all our Christian friends a very Merry Christmas. We thank you for your friendship and for your support.

And here's a wonderful blog post about why Jews should all be saying Merry Christmas and not Happy Holidays.

I have come to see quite clearly that even if there are politically correct, multi-cultural, morally relativistic, post modern progressive busybodies who would like us to believe that our Christian friends’ and Neighbors’ spontaneous Christmas wishes are somehow injurious to us and our culture, they are nothing of the kind. A sincere “Merry Christmas is better for you than the blandest, most guarded “Happy Holidays”

To read the complete post, go to Breath of the Beast

*******

Today's Links:

Soccer Dad tells us about the incredible shrinking Christian population under Muslim rule. Religious intolerance is state policy in Saudi Arabia. In Yemen, Tunisia, and Algeria there are virtually no indigenous Christian communities left. The Christian presence in the Palestinian territories may hold out for no more than 15 years due to Muslim persecution in Gaza, Judea and Samaria. Bethlehem is now less than 20 percent Christian, after centuries in which Christians were the majority. The exodus of Christians from Bethlehem started a decade ago, after the Oslo accords, when Bethlehem fell under the control of the PA. In Gaza, 3,000 Greek Orthodox Christians have been under siege by the hostile and aggressive Muslims who refer to the Christians as "Crusaders."

IDF Dogs Hunting Terrorist Dogs Hat Tip: Seraphic Bensonhurst Friend, Ari Kinsberg

Want to know why Israeli soldiers don't rape Arab women. Do you think it might have something to do with being a Jewish army, with Torah, ethics, with the doctrine of the purity of arms? Well, think again. According to a, sigh, Israeli academic, the lack of military rape merely strengthens the ethnic boundaries and clarifies the inter-ethnic differences—just as organized military rape would have done. Hat Tip: Seraphic Friend, Shayne Zucker.

So: if IDF soldiers should, G-d, forbid rape, they dehumanize the women. When they do not rape they also dehumanize the women.

Got it.

We have a question. If you punish a rapist for the crime of rape, do you now punish a non-rapist for the non-crime of non-rape?

Another question: Does this bizarre logic only apply to Israeli Jews? What about, say, Chinese? What happens if you discover that they do not rape Tibetan women?

It seems to us this paper has all the earmarks of modern day Nuremberg logic. Mazal Tov to Hebrew University for supporting such morally corrupt nonsense.

Finally: Al Jazeera would run this as a useful sound byte save for one problem: The Arab media is saturated with false stories of IDF soldiers raping Arab woman.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:23 AM | Comments (15)

November 01, 2007

The Battle of Be'er Sheva: Once Again

This wonderful post from my good friend Treppenwitz.

Treppenwitz recounts a proud day for Australia, an observance of the 90th anniversary of the Battle of Be'er Sheva and the magnificent charge of the Australian Light Horse.

By the way, Treppenwitz is too modest a man to tell you this, but you should all be aware that Treppenwitz and other generous Israelis volunteer on a regular basis to maintain the cemeteries and graves of the British troops who perished fighting the Turks.

May the memory of these brave soldiers be a blessing.

Yesterday was a magical day in Beer Sheva. Ghosts of the city's distant past returned to walk the dusty streets... and across the desert landscape outside of town.

No, this isn't a Halloween post. I'm talking about yesterday's observance of the 90th anniversary of the Battle of Beer Sheva and the famous charge of the Australian Light Horse which was key in turning the tide... and ultimately defeating the Turks.

To read the entire photo-essay, please click here

There's a wonderful film called The Lighthorsemen, about this battle, directed by my friend Simon Wincer. Highly recommended.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:56 PM | Comments (1)

October 28, 2007

Fire: Up Close and Personal

This from Seraphic friend Karen, who has been a faithful reader and commenter for several years. Karen is a firefighter and is now with thousands of other heroic firefighters battling the hellish Southern California blazes.

We thank Karen for her hard work and for taking the time to report on the situation from the front.

Robert,

Finally got some access—just been too busy. Here's how things went this week:

The Rice fire started Oct 22 at 4:10 am in Rice Canyon, (caused by power lines during the Santa Ana wind event) and after jumping the I-15, activated the trigger point to evacuate Fallbrook—the entire town, except for the folks who "knew nothing was going to happen" and refused to leave. Just like the couple who waited on the Witch fire nearby and wound up dying in their garage. For them, they waited too long. Interesting when one talks to individuals who were evacuated and have decided they are going to ignore future evacuations. Personally, as a firefighter, who has seen lots of these fires up close and personal, there is no way anyone could convince me to stay with an approaching fire front. My mama didn't raise a fool.

Anyway, when I can get photos downloaded, I will send you some of a trailer park that burned in the first hours of the fire. 130 homes gone, most belonging to lower income folks who can ill afford to lose everything. Looks like a bomb went off. Very disturbing to walk amongst it all.

Spent Shabbat talking to evacuees and trying to encourage and affirm their decision to leave in the evacuation. It has been very hard for them. Some stories just break your heart. Most people are very grateful for the work that has been done on their behalf.

Well, unfortunately, I just lost my access to this computer. Sorry this is so short.

B'shalom,

Karen

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:04 AM | Comments (3)

October 12, 2007

Shut-up, Shut-up, Shut-up!

“What seems to be the problem?”
“The spinning soccer ball is showing up way too often, and the computer is just generally sluggish.”
“Okay, open her up, let me take a look.”

I'm sitting at the Genius Bar of the Apple Store. My life depends on my Powerbook and I'm worried that maybe some sectors of the Apple OSX system have been corrupted—maybe I'm headed for a crash.

Sitting right next to me is an attractive young woman with iPod problems. She's got a tattoo on one ankle, a blood-red rose, and on her shoulder there's some kind of elegant Asian lettering—probably Japanese—Gothic red outlined in black. Her hair is Gene Harlow white-blond and she's got one too many piercings in her ears and one in her nose. I wonder if it hurts when she sneezes.

Where are her parents?

Anyway, I flip open my Powerbook, terrified that the genius is going to diagnose some kind of terminal mother board problem.

The logo for Seraphic Secret is visible for a few seconds.

“Hey, I read Seraphic Secret.”

It's the young lady with the tattoos, with the nose ring, with the white blond hair.

"You read Seraphic Secret?”

My readership never ceases to astound.

“I love Seraphic Secret. You read it too?”

“I write Seraphic Secret.”

She stares at me for a long moment, then, really loudly:

“Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up!"

I immediately shut up.

“You're Robert?”

I nod.

She frantically looks around.

“Where's Karen, where is Karen? I gotta meet Karen.”

“She's in her yoga class.”

“Shut-up!”

The Genius says: “People, I need to interrupt. I think OSX is corrupted, we can archive and reinstall. Is all your data backed up?”

“Uh-huh.

“It'll take about ten to fifteen minutes.”

The young lady says: “I'm like so dying to meet Karen. I just love when you write about how you fell in love with her when you were 10 years old. S'that really true?”

“Absolutely.”

“Wow. Did Karen think you were like weird when you finally told her how long you were in love with her?”

“I waited until she got to know me.”

“Smart. Otherwise she might think you're like some crazed stalker.”

“I was always socially appropriate.”

“This is so great. Now I've finally got something to talk about in therapy. Enough that my father didn't pay enough attention to me, enough with my mother who was like totally overbearing. You know how tired that gets?”

“I imagine it gets repetitive.”

“You must think I'm such a ditz.”

“Not at all.”

“Are you gonna write about me?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Well, hellooo!”

“Okey-doke.”

“Thing is, I usually dress much better. Look at me, I'm wearing my clod-hopper shoes.”

She extends her leg. Yup, she's wearing dopey sneakers with graffiti inscribed on the canvas.

“Y'see, I read your blog, I remember when you wrote about the costume designer who said that he could tell everything about a woman by her footwear.”

“Well, him, not me.”

“Oh, right. You watch What Not to Wear. You even give fashion advice to Karen. I should have worn heels. Now I really have something to talk about with my shrink. I'm like completely humiliated. Hey, Bloomingdale's is right there, we can bop on over and you can help me pick out some outfits. ”

“Um...”

“Sorry, sorry. I'm kind of hyper. I guess you can tell.”

“You're enthusiastic. That's a good quality.”

“Shut-up. That's like totally adorable. I knew you were, just reading your blog. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

"Remember when you wrote about how you wanted to fight for Karen, how you wanted to enter the lists and clash swords for Karen, fight a gunfight for Karen?”

“Um, not really.”

“Take my word for it, that's what you wrote. I read it like a thousand times. I was like: where do I find a man like that?”

“It's a problem.”

“Anyway, here's what I want to know: what's happened to men? They're like all pussified—excuse my language—they're so sensitive they're barely men. Look around the store: half the guys in here are wearing more jewelry than I am, and that guy over there—”

She points to a man who looks sleek as an Italian sports car.

“Metrosexual. Uh-huh. That's like code for gay, right?”

I say nothing.

“Wisdom, wisdom, I need some wisdom in my life.”

“Did it ever occur to you that the way you dress and display yourself attracts a certain kind of man?”

“Oh-oh.”

“Look, I don't know you. I'll shut-up.”

“No, I wanna hear.”

“The ink, the dye job, the piercings, they present an image. A face to meet a face, so to speak. I'll be honest, I saw you before you spoke to me and I was put off by how you looked.”

“Y'see, I should have worn my Jimmy Choo's.”

“Look, you have to ask yourself, what kind of men are going to be attracted to you; but even more important, what kind of men are not going to be drawn to you?”

“Oh, wow.”

“Sorry.”

“It's cool.”

“I feel terrible.”

“The tats? What can I tell you, I thought it was cool. I was with this guy and blah, blah, blah. He's history. I actually hate them now. And my piercings?”

She shrugs.

“You really thought I was weird?”

”I wondered if it hurt when you sneezed.”

She laughs: “Slight vibration. Just kidding.”

The Genius comes over and hands the young lady her iPod. All fixed.

“How come my shrink never told me any of this stuff?”

“He's non-judgemental and you pay him by the hour.”

“Oh man, don't even ask how many hours.”

“You'll be fine. You know G-d created the heavens and the earth, man and woman, and all the creatures in seven days. You know what he did afterwards?”

She shakes her head.

“He saved the hardest job for last. G-d made all the matches between men and women that would ever take place. It was much harder than the work of creation.”

“I don't remember that from the Bible.”

"It's Midrash, Biblical legend.”

“Coolness.”

She gathers up her iPod, stows it in her incredibly heavy shoulder bag, slips off the stool.

”I gotta bounce. This has been like fab-u-lous. Just one thing. Stop writing so much about politics. Jeez, I wish the Israelis would just bomb those Arabs back to the stone age already so you'd concentrate on writing about how you married Karen.

Hmm, never quite thought about the Arab/Israeli conflict in those terms.

“Love to Karen.”

The young lady walks out of the Apple store.

The Genius checks my Powerbook, nods, satisfied with the progress of the install program and says to me:

“Dude, I gotta start me a blog like yours. Awesome chick magnet.”

Karen and I wish all our friends a lovely and profound Shabbat.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:17 AM | Comments (30)

August 13, 2007

Contempt

“My favorite thing in your blog is the How I Married Karen series.”
"Oh, thanks so much.“
“Which is why I'd like to ask your advice about my girlfriend.”

Karen and I are attending a wedding and a Young Man has just introduced himself to me, tells me how much he enjoys Seraphic Secret.

“I'm not a therapist, you know. Far from it. I'm just a dumb Hollywood screenwriter.”
“Yes, but you and Karen, your story is just so wonderful, maybe you can offer some ideas.”

Oh dear. What choice do I have?

Suffice to say that the Young Man's girlfriend is very beautiful.
Suffice to say that the Young Man is smitten.
Suffice to say he is on one end of the political spectrum and she is on the other.
Suffice to say he is more religious than she.
Suffice to say the relationship is built on the dopey notion that opposites attract.
Suffice to say that they had a huge fight.
Suffice to say that cruel words were exchanged.

But here's what really captures my attention.

The Young Man says, “I told her I have contempt for her, for her ideas.”

“How did she respond?”
“She told me she never wants to speak to me again.”

I hold out my hands as if checking for rain.

“The thing is, I miss her, I want to try again,” he pleads.

Karen once told me that most any marriage can be saved except where contempt is felt and expressed between husband and wife. Contempt is an emotion that cannot be overcome.

“So, any ideas on what I can do, Mr. Avrech?”
“Yes. I know exactly what you should do.”
“Great.”
“Do you have a garage?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Perfect. Go into your garage, build a time machine, travel back in time and take back every terrible thing that you and your girlfriend have ever said to each other. And while you're at it, rebuild your entire personalities so that both of you hold the same values. Because as far as I can tell you're obsessed with her essential hotness.”
“You're saying we're wrong for each other.”
"I'm saying, not every relationship can be saved.”

The Young Man watches the chosson, the bridegroom, a blur of motion, a chaos of joy.
The Young Man looks sad. But in an instant he brightens.

“Where's Karen, I'd love to meet Karen face to face. I wish I could find a woman like Karen.”
“We're sitting at Table #21. Drop by, say hello. She just got a new haircut, looks like Louise Brooks.”
“Who's Louise Brooks?”
“Silent film actress. I'll blog about her some day.”

Politely, the Young Man thanks me, and walks off.

He does not introduce himself to Karen. But I have a feeling that he is watching our table from a safe distance.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:52 AM | Comments (25)

August 01, 2007

Seraphic Secret, Jake Novak , Rupert Murdoch: The Untold Story

We've been waiting to let you in on Seraphic Secret's secret connection to the Rupert Murdoch takeover of the Wall Street Journal.

Here it is: Jake Novak, frequent Seraphic Secret contributor and commenter has accepted a position as an Senior Producer at the FOX Business Network. There, he looks forward to helping Rupert take over the world.

When Jake is not shaking up the FOX Business Network, he will be calling Football Broadcasts for Columbia University.

Jake has been a good friend to Seraphic Secret since we went online over three years ago. He and his lovely wife Adar paid a shiva call in Brooklyn after Karen's father died last year. From Jake, almost daily, there have been too many notes of support and good cheer to count.

Such friends are indeed rare.

We wish Jake the best of luck in his new job and sincerely hope that he still has time to send us his Ten Best lists and grace Seraphic Secret with his fine and articulate comments.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:00 PM | Comments (13)

June 24, 2007

Call for Community Prayer

I have just been informed that a very young child from our community nearly drowned on Thursday. She is now on life support at Cedars-Sinai Hospital. Obviously, her medical condition is dire.

Please daven, pray, for Batya Rafaela bat Hadassah.

Thank you.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:00 AM | Comments (4)

June 22, 2007

Jake Wins!

Mazal Tov to Seraphic Friend Jake Novak for winning the LA Press Club Award for his comic strip "Shmooze or Lose."

Click here for the link, scroll down to "D$ Editorial Cartoon" for the citation and comments.

Jake is a frequent Seraphic Secret commenter and contributor; his words always provide a unique perspective on all things social, and political.

Most of all, Jake's insights into the connection between Jane Austen and Kabbalah have been nothing short of ground-breaking.

Just kidding.

Truly, this award is well deserved. We are proud that Jake is our collegue, our friend. And as we all know JIASF.*

*Jake Is Always So Funny

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:48 AM | Comments (5)

June 21, 2007

The Kesher with Kesher

Honestly, I expected her to be John Wayne tall.

Reading her posts all these years I've been really, really, really intimidated by her incandescent intelligence and serene ability to cut to the heart of the matter in all things.

“This is one smart woman,” Karen said after reading a Kesher post that dealt with Israel and the rather complex history of the Ottoman Empire.

When Karen labels another person smart, I know that person is like beyond brilliant.

And so when Judith Weiss of Kesher, possibly the oldest Jewish political blog, informed me that she was going to attend the Ariel Avrech Yahrtzeit Lecture I was honored, excited—and terrified.

I mean she might start talking to me and figure out pretty quickly that I'm, y'know, not so smart. That really, like I always say, it's Karen who's the brains and beauty of the outfit.

I'm just the whacky sidekick in this relationship.

Anywhoo.

Judith calls me from the car rental place to get directions.

Oh man, hasn't she read my blog? Doesn't she know that I'm geographically challenged?

I'm sweating bullets, and Karen's at work, so I have to do this.

Judith says: “I'm usually very good with directions.”

No kidding, you're like this uber-brain.

“But I just want to make sure.”

By asking the one person in the world who is guaranteed to send you to the cheerful Republic of Belarus.

Taking a deep breath I plunge headlong into the black hole of cartography: “Okay, this time of day, on Friday, you do not want to get on the LA Freeway. Very bad idea. Take the streets. Get on La Cienega, do you see it on your map?”

“Um, give me a minute... yeah, there it is.”

“Okay, take La Cienega to Pico, do you see Pico?”

“Yup.”

“Great, go all the way on La Cienega until Pico, then make a left on Pico and head east.”

“Okay.”

“No, west on Pico, sorry. Wait, I need to get oriented.”

Standing in the middle of my office, I turn round and round like a dreidel; extend my arms like a Japanese traffic cop, trying to imagine the left, right turns Judith will have to make. I must look like I've taken way too much medication. I'll bet Fernando, my UPS man, is going to walk right in and witness your humble scribe in this, um, rather odd configuration. He's already puzzled by my professional existence, wonders how I make a living staring at a gigantic poster of The Seven Samurai. Every time Fernando delivers a package, dontcha know, that's exactly what I'm doing.

Rotating as if on a turntable, I can feel a major migraine blooming in my cortex as I try morphing my analog brain into a digital GPS.

East, west, left, right, up, down; oh my gosh, I'm going to send this poor woman straight into the ocean or, gulp, Compton.

PC Disclaimer: Not that there's anything wrong with Compton.

“Okay, that looks easy enough.”

“Go east, I mean west on Pico until you get to my block, make a left. Wait, is it left? Yeah left, go down three blocks, I think that's south, um, yeah north is Beverly Hills. So definitely go south three blocks and you can't miss Casa Avrech, it's the only house on the block with an American flag on the front lawn.”

“Cool, the flag must be really big.”

“Medium, still, you can't miss it.”

“Great, see you soon.”

“Call me on your cell if you get in any trouble.”

“Oh, I'm good with directions.”

I'm not.

Head back into my office which is in back of Casa Avrech.

In my latest screenplay, the weirdest thing happens, my heroine, a crack sniper, gets lost as she drives to her latest assignment. Huh, wonder how that happened? It's kind of funny, but stupid and pointless. I've just wasted one and a half pages.

Hit the delete button.

Rewrite.

Head back into the house, peek out the window, a white compact cruises to halt in front of the house. She is good with directions, and Belarus has missed out on a great tourist.

Oh my gosh.

Judith is not John Wayne tall.

she

is

petite.

I actually feel better. I thought was going to be craning my neck, looking up at a skyscraper of an uber-woman. Instead I'm going to be craning my neck downward looking at an uber-woman.

Judith smiles and says: “I found it.”

“Thanks so much for coming.”

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:58 AM | Comments (12)

June 11, 2007

Bollywood in Shul

“Robert, what are you doing?”
“Copying the source sheets?”

Rebekah, office manager of my shul, looks in horror at the neat piles of paper at my feet. Originally from India, Rebekah speaks the King's English; she sounds very BBC. In fact, I'm so intimidated by Rebekah's sophisticated speech that my Brooklyn accent mysteriously grows thicker, my vowels even more tortured when I'm in Rebekah's presence.

“But Robert, what are you planning on doing with all that paper?”
“Uh, you know, collating and then stapling them together.”

Rebekah studies me for a moment; she looks at the neat wedge of pages at my feet; studies me as if I'm some dumb colonial officer in the British Raj and she's some fabulously wise and patient Indian princess.

In her best clipped manner Rebekah says:

“Robert, the copying machine does all that automatically: collates and staples.”

Stunned, I look at Rebekah.

“Really?”
“Really and truly, Robert.”

Now I look at the copying machine as if it might actually sit up and say, “Yup, that's what I do, the lady does not lie.”

And I was so proud of my neat bricks of paper. I was prepared to sit on the floor, collate hundreds of pages, and staple them together—all afternoon.

“Whoops.”

Rebekah lets out a shallow sigh.
“Really Robert, what a massive waste of your valuable time.”

I shrug, hang my head and stare at the threads in the carpet. Hmm, nice abstract patterns emerge, float about like some Mark Rothko canvas.

I feel like melting into the carpet.

Efficient, no-nonsense Rebekah runs out to the supply store, purchases more paper, comes back and sets up the machine. In a blur she punches buttons: beep! beep! beep!

She's like the Indian/Jewish version of Chloe in "24."

Oh my gosh!

Rebekah even knows how to use the zoom function, which is like tosfos on copying machines. Really, I've seen grown men reduced to tears trying to figure out the proper zoom ratios.

Well, this man anyway.

Like a Harley Davidson, the copying machine kicks into motion, boom! whap! boom! whap! And I actually rear back, the machine's powerful action so sudden so percussive.

“See what a clever machine it is, Robert?”
“Yes Rebekah, I'm in awe—of you and the machine.”

Modest Rebekah waves away my compliment.

Normally, Rebekah and I shmooze about what life was like for Jews in India. I find her stories fascinating. Oh, the endless archeology of ordinary Jewish life. Often we end up discussing the latest Bollywood films. We both adore the vibrant color and turbo-energy of Bollywood. Rebekah offers personal insights into these films that are cultural gems.

Now that I think about it, this whole episode: Rebekah, clueless me, and the fierce copying machine, it's like a magical sequence in some grand Bollywood musical—minus the song and dance.

I remember how Rebekah used to chat with Ariel ZT'L; he too was fascinated with her Indian heritage. Once Ariel and I looked at a picture book of Indian synagogues on Rebekah's recommendation. We oohd and aahd at every page.

As I leave shul with my mountain of source sheets for the Ariel Avrech Yahrtzeit Lecture, I feel grateful for Rebekah's generosity and decency, an unbelievably busy woman who cares enough about my time to rescue me from my own dopey, analog ignorance.

It's true that I'm something of a hermit, but I am a recluse with a talent for friendship.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:43 PM | Comments (18)

June 01, 2007

Jake Gets Some Respect

Seraphic Secret would like to extend a huge mazal tov to Jake Novak for being a finalist in the Los Angeles Press Club Awards for his wonderful weekly cartoon, "Shmooze or Lose: The Misadventures of a Hollywood Studio Executive."

Jake has been a good friend to Seraphic Secret from the time this blog went on-line three years ago. Jake's sharp comments and hysterical Ten Best lists have always illuminated our most overcast days.

In fact, Jake's sly sense of humor has given birth to this cyber-shorthand: JIASF.*

Here's the nomination page. Scroll down to the Editorial Cartoon category.

*Jake Is Always So Funny

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:50 AM | Comments (6)

May 28, 2007

Memorial Day

Karen and I wish to thank Seraphic readers who are members of the armed forces, or who have been members of our armed services. We also wish to thank all the family members of those who serve for they too sacrifice on a scale that is unimaginable to civilians.

We cannot imagine the charnal house this world would be if not for the brave volunteers of the American armed services.

Freedom is not free, and your sacrifice will never be forgotten.

May G-d bless and protect each and every one of you.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:37 AM | Comments (0)

May 14, 2007

Ties that Bind

“This is our very good friend, Mr. Avrech.”

The chosson's father hesitates a second, recovers nicely, takes my hand in a firm handshake, and gives me a warm smile.

“Mazal Tov,” I say.
“Thank you, thank you.”

The hesitation? Perfectly understandable. Let's size up the situation from the Father's point of view:

He's flown into Los Angeles from Lakewood...

“My very first time west of Chicago.”

To celebrate the L'chaim for his beloved son to the daughter of my good friends here in Los Angeles...

“Such a fine family, what a b'racha for all of us...”

And the apartment here in Hancock Park is chock full of black-hat Yeshivish couples. For this is The Other Side of Town; a mere twelve-minute drive from my neighborhood, Pico-Robertson, but when spoken, out-of-towners imagine that we Los Angelinos are describing a space as wide and deep as the Grand Canyon.

Which, I suppose, is the whole idea.

Silly, really.

“What a nice community; who knew in California?”

And all of sudden the father of the Kallah introduces yours truly, dressed in L.L. Bean khakis, a plaid shirt, tzitzis definitely not hanging out, and yes, I'm wearing a regulation black velvet yarmulke, but: this is a very good friend?

Confusing.

But the Chosson's Father makes the adjustment just beautifully.

We play Jewish Geography and discover that The Chosson's Father knows Karen's Uncle, The Rabbi from Chicago, and now we are totally cool.

“And where's your wife?"
“She's in avelut, but she wanted me to convey her very best wishes and a huge mazal tov to you and your lovely family."

The Chosson's Father actually winces, looks pained when I tell him that Karen is in avelut, still in mourning. He is a good man, it's so obvious.

I spend a few minutes with my friend the Kallah's mother.
“You know I read your blog when I'm at work—even though I shouldn't.”
“Thank you.”
“I really like it.”
“What do you like and what don't you like?”

My mini-focus group. And, naturally, fishing for compliments.

“I go right past the politics, but oh, I really love the personal stuff.”
“I hear that from a lot of women.”
“Well...”

Her daughter, the Kallah, who projects the air of a more mature and wiser woman, says to me:

“You must take home some cookies for Karen. I'm so sorry she couldn't come."

I look at the Kallah and, oh my, I feel a knot in my throat.

The Father of the bride walks me to the door.

“I have to leave, Karen's waiting for me downstairs.”
“I really appreciate that you came.”
“Listen you and I, we know how important it is to celebrate simchas.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes firmly.

Of couse we are good friends.

I look past him, at the picture of his child who died several years ago.

There's also a picture of his son who was one of Ariel's ZT'L best friends in high school; this son, who regularly sends me pictures of his wife and children, his growing family. Karen and I watch them flourish and it gives us joy, a great measure of comfort.

At the stairs my friend and I hug. “Mazal Tov, Mazal Tov.”

Outside, Karen is waiting for me; I wave to the love of my life, and smile through my tears.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:50 AM | Comments (2)

May 02, 2007

Not Financial Advice

"Mr. Avrech, I want to tell you how much I like your website Sephardic Secret."
"Thanks so much, actually, it's Seraphic Secret."
"Seraphic?"
"Uh-huh."
"Can you spell that for me?"

I've just exited shul, and one of my Persian acquaintances has stopped to talk to me. I have no idea what his name is, I only know it has lots of o's and u's in it, and when I hear it pronounced I'm pretty sure I'm in Klingon land.

I spell Seraphic.

My Persian friend maps the word in his head, making a mental picture. I'll bet he's clicking a different blog entirely.

"Ah, Seraphic, like the angels."
"Right."
"You have the picture of Ariel, alav ha-shalom on the side, what a wonderful young man."
"Thank you."
"So I like your site so much, I just want you to know."

Listen, I'm a writer, a sucker for praise. I live for compliments.

"What is it you like best?"
"Oh, your financial advice."
"WHAT?!"
"You said to buy Apple and I did, when it was at 84, and now it's in the 90's, and I have you to thank."

Oh boy.

I sweat blood writing my political posts, I pour my soul into hideously embarrassing personal confessions, and don't ask how I stomp on my heart with the How I Married Karen series.

I know, I know, I'm way overdue with another chapter.

"Listen. I'm glad you've made some money. But I really didn't tell people to buy."

Confession: I'm terrified of lawyers, of being sued, so I make sure to let everybody know that I do not give financial advice.

"Yes, yes, but you hinted."
"No, no, no hints. I was just telling people what I do. Me."

"So, what do you think, should I sell, take profits?"
"Are you kidding! Of course not. Apple's probably going to go to 115, maybe 120 this year. Hold. Hold. Hold."

He grins.
I heave a great sigh.

"I'm just telling you what I would do."
"Yes, of course. And tell me, are there any other stocks you like very much?"
"Oh man, I love Elbit Systems, Ltd. Israeli company. Talk about socially responsible corporations. This company makes weapons systems that kills jihadists. Can't get any more socially responsible than that. I just bought a ton of shares. But now hear this and in bold type: this is not financial advice. It's just what I do."
"Yes, yes, I understand. Any others?"
"Love Genuine Parts. Not sexy. Not high profile. Car parts. That's it. Solid as a rock. This company even made a profit during the depression. Buy, and hold."
"Thank you, thank you."
"Um, listen, is there anything you like on my blog beside when I write about Apple?"

My Persian financial whiz looks perplexed. He frowns, he fidgets, he looks really pained. But after a moment he brightens:

"Yes, I like when you say to bomb Persia. That is very good advice."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:52 AM | Comments (21)

March 23, 2007

Cathy Seipp's Funeral

The funeral for Cathy Seipp was well attended, and for all, deeply moving.

We spoke to Cathy's 17-year old daughter Maia, and offered some measure of nechama, comfort. It was difficult and tragic beyond words.

Cathy's friend, Greg Critser, spoke beautifully and appropriately. He discussed death, he spoke of the bottomless grief the great Jewish sage Rambam, Maimonides suffered after his brother David drowned at sea.

I went over to Greg at Cathy's graveside and thanked him for his lovely hesped, eulogy.

We helped shovel earth over Cathy's grave, as tradition requires.

After washing our hands, we drove home to prepare for Shabbat.

Baruch Dayan Emet.

Karen and I wish you all a lovely and meaningful Shabbat.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:21 PM | Comments (1)

March 22, 2007

Cathy Seipp

Our friend Cathy Seipp passed away yesterday after a long battle with lung cancer.

Here is the obituary from the Los Angeles Times, a paper she fearlessly critiqued.

Over the years, Cathy and I used to meet at Farmer's Market, for Cathy loved its old Los Angeles ambience. We would sit and schmooze for hours.

Cathy was a ferociously opinionated and intelligent woman. Often she would ask what I thought about some great, or small, question of the day. I'd venture some dopey opinon. Cathy would lean forward and say: "Oh, Robert, that's all wrong." And she'd patiently explain why I simply had to change my mind. And I usually would. She was that smart.

A Democrat for most of her life, Cathy became a Republican, she explained to me, once she became involved in local school-board politics. "When I saw Democrats in action on the local level, well, there was no way I could stick with the program."

For in the end, Cathy was a lioness when it came to her daughter Maia, and the local school-boards and their squishy, politically correct politics were simply too appalling for Cathy to deny or ignore. Cathy had to protect her daughter, all children, from the perceived barbarians at the gates.

Laughing, Cathy described herself as the only Republican in Silver Lake.

Cathy was endlessly curious about Orthodox Judaism. It wasn't for her, she freely admitted, but she was always respectfully machine-gunning questions at me. Cathy kept me on my toes. Around Cathy, I could never be intellectually lazy about my Judaism, and that was refreshing.

When she and her daughter Maia and our good friend Jackie Danicki came to Offspring #2's wedding a year ago, Cathy told me how grateful she was to attend.

Though ill at the time, Cathy looked positively radiant.

There is a moment that will always stay with me.

We were in the Farmer's Market, the sun was setting and shards of golden light were nesting in her white blond hair. We had been talking about children, the joys, the sorrows, mostly how it is our job, our most important job as parents, to see them grow up to become good people, people with strong values.

Cathy said:

"I can understand how you and Karen feel about losing Ariel at such a young age."

I looked at her.

"I'm going to die before Maia really grows up. That is just unbearable."

Baruch Dayan Emet

Services will be held at 10 a.m. Friday at Mt. Sinai Hollywood Hills, 5950 Forest Lawn Drive, Los Angeles.

Instead of flowers, Cathy has requested that people make donations to the Humane Society.

Michelle Malkin has a fine entry on Cathy.

A unique group of bloggers and friends write straight from their broken hearts about Cathy; put together by the invaluable LA Observed.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:35 AM | Comments (37)

March 21, 2007

Shul Dinner: 4th Generation Conflict

SCENE ONE: Find Your Gun Shop

"You know where your gun-shop is?"
"Uh-huh."
"Drive to your gun-shop. But do not stop and buy any weapons, Robert.
"Okey-dokey."
"Keep going along Washington Boulevard, not Washington Place, drive for about a mile-and-half and then you'll come right to the hotel. Make a left, and pull right in."

My shul is having it's annual dinner and Karen is making sure I do not end up in Orange County. Or the Mojave Desert. I have, um, cartography issues.

I have to attend all by my lonesome. Karen is still in the eleven month period of avelut, mourning for her father ZT'l.

Thank heavens for my trusty gun shop. To get me where I need to go, all Karen has to do is reference its location and then I can easily orient my way around greater Los Angeles. I'm telling you, rip my eyes out with red-hot poker and I'm pretty sure I'd still be able to find my gun shop.

Mapquest? The biggest fraud in the universe. They send you, literally, to Beirut, in order to get to the other side of town. Karen hates Mapquest the way I hate Hizbullah. Never believe their directions. Ever.

I'm driving towards my gun shop. My palms start to sweat. I pump the break. But I only slow down to about 15, 10, okay, 5 mph. I imagine the new Springfield Armory Enhanced Micro Pistol .9mm that I'm dying to own. Do I park, enter, and schmooze with my buddy Carl the ex-Marine sniper? Do I casually try on the new Springfield for size?

I do not.

I call on a Higher Power for I know that I have no control over my life. I press pedal to metal, and blow past my gun shop—and right past a red light.

Whoops.

SCENE TWO: Chinese Farm

At what point did Orthodox shuls decide to go baaaaad?

The music, and I use the term loosely, hits my stomach like Jack Bruce's lowest bass register. A deep, very uncomfortable thruuuuummm.

I feel vaguely nauseous.

Men who have been in war know the feeling. You're about to land in a combat zone, jump out of a freezing cold helicopter with absolutely no idea how much steel-rain awaits you. You also know that the intel you've been given is absolutely wrong. It always is. So your gut is churning because whatever is out there in the LZ is going to be ten times worse than your imagination could ever conjure.

Anyway, that's what it's like stepping into the smorgasbord.

There's a DJ in a dopey, hip/cool/whatever 50's hat, spinning so-called music. Speakers are set up every ten feet, so there is absolutely no escape from the gosh-awful racket. The corridor is submarine narrow, and the food tables are double-trailer wide. The guests, dozens of ravenous people, are packed six or seven deep.

There was an important battle in the Yom Kippur War, the Battle of the Chinese Farm. Perhaps the most furious, most bloody, most awful battle fought in that awful war. It was hand-to-hand combat, it was, according to friends who survived, according to men who I interviewed, "the end of the world."

Anyway, I'm not in the Chinese Farm. Obviously. But for some perverse reason, I'm strongly flashing on that bloody field.

I don't do well in crowds.

People have to shout to in order to be heard above the so-called music. And there's just no room to manuever. Basically, people have to shove in order to walk a few paces.

I'm telling you, ordinary life easily turns into low-intensity conflict.

Phone Call #1

Me: Hello?
Karen: Robert?
Me: Hey.
Karen: You get there okay?
Me: Uh-huh.
Karen: Good. How is it?
Me: Loud.
Karen: Come home early.
Me: I will. But I have to, y'know, make sure the Rabbi sees me, and the honorees, once I find out who they are.
Karen: You okay?
Me: I miss you.
Karen: You'll be fine.

SCENE THREE: You Destroyed My Novel

I tuck myself into a corner. Nibble on a carrot. A friend from shul approaches, and I gird myself for a few months ago he asked me to read his novel and give him some "honest feedback."

I did.

I am an idiot.

"Hey Robert, how you doing?"
"Okay, how about you?"
"Well, ever since you destroyed, pulverized, pounded my novel into the earth—okay, I guess."

Long pause.
I nibble my carrot. Whoops. No more carrot. I'm actually gnawing my index finger.

"You, um, didn't have a main character." Once again, I point out the obvious.
"True. True. You were right. And I appreciate your criticism. Really I do."
"So, are you rewriting?"
"Yes, it's much better now."

Silence.

Do I offer to read the new, improved draft?

I do not.

It's official: my friend hates me.

SCENE FOUR: What're Ya Workin' On?

I make my way to the far end of the room. Why? Because it's there. The crowd has thickened. The volume of the so-called music has risen to a decibel level that could be used to extract valuable information from terrorists. I think I'm losing some hearing. Sheesh, all those hours on the shooting range with my .45 and it's the shul's annual dinner that ends up blowing my eardrums. I'm gonna write a letter to the NRA and tell them about this. File it under i-r-o-n-y.

"Robert."
"Moshe." (Not his real name)
"Where's Karen?"
"She's in avelut."
"Ah, forgot."
"That's okay."
"So, Mr. Screenplaywriter, what're ya workin' on?"
"Oh, you know, this and that."
"What kinda story?"
Moshe wears a black hat, his tzitzis, fringes, hang outside his pants, and he always makes a point of telling me that he does not go to the movies because he's way too religious. Which is fine.

So, why all the questions about my corrupt Hollywood career?

"Moshe, I actually don't really like talking about my screenplays while I'm working on them.
"No, how come?"
"I don't know, I guess I'm kind of superstitious."
"That's avodah zarah, (idol worship) you know."

Moshe is the kind of guy I really hated in high school.

"Strike superstitious. Let's do: eccentric."

Phone Call #2

Me: Hello?
Karen: Robert?
Me: Yup.
Karen: Where you up to?
Me: Just about to go into dinner.
Karen: Half-way home.
Me: I don't know most of the people here.
Karen: What else is new.
Me: The perfume is overwhelmiing.
Karen: If you feel a migraine aura, come right home.
Me: And I'm talking about the perfume on the men.
Karen: Keep me informed.

SCENE FIVE: My Cholent Buddy

Speeches. Awards. Chinese Auction. The waiter spins round the table pouring wine. Everyone says, "Puh-leese." Just look at them put it away. And I thought Jews didn't drink.

Boy, if this keeps up I'm gonna have to be the designated driver for my entire table.

The waiter comes to your humble scribe, and I shake my head from side-to-side: "No thank you."

And guess what, everyone is staring at me.

The guy next to me says: "Don't drink, Robert?"
"Nope."
He continues gazing at me.
"I understand," he says.
"You do?"
"Uh-huh."

It takes me a moment to puzzle this out. Then it hits me.

Robert does not drink
Robert is a Hollywood screenwriter.
Thus: Robert is an alcoholic.

"I'm allergic," I practically shout to the table. "I get migraines from wine and liquor. Heck, I even get migraines from perfume."

They just look at me with pity.

Obviously, I'm in denial.

I give up.

I actually feel like having a drink now.

Hey, look at that, My Cholent Buddy from the early minyan is wearing a tux, and he's schlepping a violin. Wonder what's going on?

Now, he's being called up to the podium. They flash a picture of My Cholent Buddy from one of the major Israeli newspapers. He's sitting on an IDF Merkava tank with a violin, about to enter Lebanon last summer.

My Cholent Buddy is introduced with a resume that's way beyond cholent. Turns out My Cholent Buddy attended all these music schools in Israel, and hoo-ha conservatories in Europe that have these pain-in-the-neck compound Germanic names that just never seem to end.

Who knew?

Anyway, My Cholent Buddy's playing his violin.

Oh
My
Gosh

I know nothing about music and even I can tell that My Cholent Buddy is a genius.

And I just thought that he was tall, and liked his cholent really hot.

SCENE SIX: FFF

I step outside to call Karen and tell her all about My Cholent Buddy.

Just as I'm about to dial, a woman I do not recognize boldly walks up to me.

INTERPOLATION:

A few years ago, I was working on a film and the genius Costume Designer explained to me his theory of how he gets to the core of a woman's character through wardrobe:

"It's all about footwear, Robert. Show me what shoes a woman wears and I'll tell you everything about that woman's character—from her soul to her flesh."

"Everything?"
"Everything."

The secrets yours truly learns on location. It is mind-boggling.

END INTERPOLATION:

Anywhoo.

This woman is wearing, I kid you not, the latest Manolo Blahnik lizard stiletto pumps which, I believe retail for a cool $750.000.

She's also wearing an outfit that, ahem, modestly sheath her shoulders and knees—frum in word—but it's Azzedine Alaia tight. Which is to say: her skirt and jacket look like they have been spray-painted on.

This is a new phenomenon. The FFF: The Frum Femme Fatale.

Does this woman actually go to my shul? She looks way too dangerous.

"Are you Robert J. Avrech?"
"Um..."
"You are. I know you are."

She sounds like Joan Crawford—after about ten vodkas.

"You wrote Body Double."

I have been scolded for this film so many times in the Orthodox community that I've come up with this really clever answer.

Pay close attention:

"No, actually that was the other Robert J. Avrech."

She licks her lips and smiles like a Black Widow who has just eaten her young. Wow, the lip gloss she uses really kicks light. I should ask what brand she uses. Karen would definitely like to know.

FFF leans in close, puts a hand very lightly on my shoulder. Her nails are lacquered red as a Chinese vase, they're sharp as daggers.

She whispers: "I adore your film. I've seen it like twenty times. It. Is. Awesome."

Striding away, she shivers as she walks; high heels like ice-picks.

Phone Call #3
Me: Hello?
Karen: Robert?
Me: I'm in the car, on my way home.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:03 AM | Comments (42)

March 16, 2007

The Heart of Yocheved

By Dan Dzindzihashvili

Dan Dzindzihashvili, a Seraphic Friend, has been a faithful reader for many years. Dan is a baal teshuva, born in Israel, and raised in Queens. He received his MFA from NYU where he studied with Tony Kushner. His plays have been presented at various off-off broadway venues, such as Soho Rep, HERE, Immigrants Theatre Project, and Ensemble Studio Theatre. His short play "True Confessions" has been published in an anthology by Stage and Screen, edited by Daniel Aukin. He currently does kiruv with his beautiful wife Tami and learns gemara at Chofetz Chaim Yeshiva in the evenings.

My wife and I just returned from Israel yesterday morning.

It was her first time there in seven years and my first time in sixteen years.

Coincidentally, we were there at the same time as our Rabbi, Aharon Chein and his family.

The vacation ended in tragedy.

On Friday, March 9, 2007, Rabbi Chein’s wife, Yocheved Chein and her mother Rachel Tzedek Schneerson were killed in a rear end collision. Rabbi Aharon Chein survived with many broken ribs and a broken heart. It turns out that there were seventeen car accidents that day.

My wife and I are close friends of the Chein family. My wife is especially close to the Chein's two daughters as they are the same age.

A few weeks ago we were visiting the Chein's after Shabbat meal on Saturday afternoon. It was then and there that my wife and I decided to go to Israel. Rabbi Chein and his wife were also going to be there for the yahrzeit of the Rebbetzin’s father, Rabbi Shmuel zt’l. Also, it was going to be Rabbi Chein’s niece’s bat mitzvah.

We had a scheduled wonderful experiences in Israel for that whole week covering every area we could in a short period of time, including going to the Dead Sea, Haifa, Yaffo, the graves of the tzadikim in Tiberias, Tzfat, and Meron, etc. On Friday afternoon, March 9, 2007 we were supposed to meet the Cheins for a quick pizza in Jerusalem at 10:30AM.

We got a call on our cell phone from their daughter that the meeting was cancelled and she hung up. She called an hour later and said that her grandmother was killed in a car accident.

Then she called another hour later and said that her mother passed away on the operating table in Kaplan Hospital in Rechovot.

My wife and I were supposed to spend Shabbat in Jerusalem in the neighborhood of Mea Shearim at the home of another Georgian couple who had made aliyah. Instead, my wife and I spent Shabbat in Kaplan Hospital with Rabbi Chein. Tzippie Traimen was there with us too as her husband had to stay in Beth El with their two beautiful children.

It turns out that Rabbi Chein and his wife and his mother-in-law were on the way to the cemetery to visit the grave of Rabbi Shmuel zt’l. Rabbi Aharon had rented a car that week. He was the driver and the front seat passenger was his mother-in-law. Yocheved was in the back. They were at a full stop for a red light when a truck driven by another Jew, rear-ended their vehicle. Based on the pictures in the media, the car looked like an accordion. Rabbi Aharon’s mother-in-law passed away on the spot. Rabbi Aharon and Yocheved were taken to a hospital in Rechovot.

Alex dropped us off at the central bus station in Jerusalem so that we could take the next bus to Rechovot before Shabbat. My wife and Tzippie read Tehillim and intercepted various frantic calls coming from NYC on their cell phones.

It turns out that the only organ still working in Yocheved was her heart. The doctors asked if they should still continue trying to save her. The answer from her children was, “Hell, yeah!” Some time later the news came and Rabbi Aharon cried. The last time I saw him cry was during services of Yom Kippur as he was giving it his all for the refuah of his ill father.

I received a call from my aunt in Or Yehuda asking if I wanted to spend Shabbat with her. I told her it’s my Rabbi. He needs us. Luckily, Kaplan hospital has a special lounge with couches in separate rooms for men and women whose relatives are patients and need a place to stay as those folks staying are assumed to be shomer Shabbat.

So many striking images come to mind as I recall that Shabbat in Rechovot.

First of all, there was a brit milah in NYC on the morning of March 1, 2007. An acquaintance had her grandson’s brit milah that morning. I was late, but still able to catch the father of the baby to say mazel tov. There was no meal served, as that was the day of the Fast of Esther. As I was exiting the synagogue, Yocheved, who also happened to be there (her flight would be the following Monday night) blessed me for a safe trip and that she’d see us there. Then she quickly handed me $2 so that I could give that money as tzedakah as well as a segulah to fulfill my mission as a messenger, etc.

Once a month Yocheved would make cholent for the youth minyan of our shul as an attempt for kiruv. Now, there is no one to make cholent.

Her eldest daughter, Nechama Dina, was relating a story of how her mother didn’t want to come on this trip. Though she eventually went on this sojourn, she was resistant in going to the cemetery. It turns out that her father, Rabbi Shmuel zt’l was 44-years old when he passed away on the 19th of Adar 23 years ago. March 9, 2007 was also the 19th of Adar. Yocheved was also 44-years old. Now the family observes three yarztzeits on the 19th of Adar. Rabbi Aharon said little during our stay in the hospital. He quoted something from the gemara, which says that when a person reaches the same age as the age that one of his or her parents passed away, that that person should be especially careful that year. Furthermore, it turns out that Yocheved’s mother, Rachel, had a dream in which she saw the end of her days.

Also, the night before, it turns out that Yocheved called her four sons in the U.S. She called many other people. It turns out she called everyone close to her – a cryptic good-bye?

Two nights before, Wednesday night, was the bat mitzvah. Yocheved took pictures with practically everyone there. There’s one picture, a group picture, where Yocheved is standing outside the group smiling at everyone.

Pesach is coming and it turns out that Yocheved was almost finished in with her cleaning for chometz. In her home in Queens, she took out all of her clothes and laid them on top of her bed and covered them with a white sheet. Common sense would say that she wanted to prevent dust from gathering on the clothes. From a spiritual perspective, one could see that she made everything easy for everyone.

As we spent Shabbat in the hospital, our concern was for Rabbi Aharon. He needed help moving around and was told to walk as much as possible to prevent an infection of the lungs from the broken ribs. Helping him walk was easy. Keeping his spirits up was difficult.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe had many personal photographers. One of them was Mr. Eli Yonah. He walked 2.5 hours to visit Rabbi Aharon Shabbat afternoon. I sat in the room with Mr. Yohah and Moti, a young friend of the family. Moti is the son of a prominent Georgian Rabbi in Kiryat Atta. Moti also has a beautiful voice. We sat there singing Shabbat and Chabad nigguns. We all knew that you have to be happy on Shabbat, no matter what.

Earlier in the afternoon, it turns out that the other daughter, Devorah Leah, had approached one of the nurses about seeing Yocheved’s body. He was agreeable on the condition that we caused no balagan, no chaos. We were escorted to another side of the hospital where the corpses are held in refrigerators. Yocheved was in box number 6. I could not believe my eyes as the nurse unzipped the body bag. Yocheved had a smile on her face. I thought that she’d wake up and ask us to keep the noise down.

We left the room and washed our hands. We stood outside dividing and assigning chapters of Tehillim.

Shabbat passed and numerous calls came along with many visitors. Nothing could take away Rabbi Aharon’s pain.

On Sunday, at the levaya in Kiryay Malachi, there were 2,800 people gathered. There were many prominent Chabad Rabbis there. All of them mentioned Yocheved’s big heart, her love of the Rebbe, her zest for life, love, and mitzvot, as well as all Jews. Sometimes in our community, there are still some events with mixed dancing. Yocheved would grab the kallah and try to get at least fifteen minutes of separate dancing. Who can fill her shoes now?

It was a dramatic moment at the levaya as the remainder of her children grabbed the first plane out of NYC on motzei Shabbat. They arrived in Kiryat Malachi towards the end of the levaya. The crying from those attending the funeral was overwhelming. This was no movie. This was true pain. The procession took her body to Jerusalem’s Mount of Olives. Yocheved’s mother, Mrs. Rachel Tzedek Schneerson, was buried on Friday, two days earlier.

Yocheved is the mother of six children. Two are married. One is close to obtaining a smicha. Now she won’t be there to dance at the simchas for her other children. But, I do know that she’ll be there in spirit, smiling. That’s the last image I will have of her – smiling and at peace.

I also have to acknowledge just how important Yocheved was to my wife and I. It was Yocheved who went with my wife to purchase her first hair covering. It’s because of Rabbi Aharon that I started to wear Rabbeinu Tam tefillin.

Yocheved was also an inspiration. Yocheved enrolled in an undergraduate institution in Queens where she would be a double major – English and computers. This past semester, she had 3 A’s and one A-. It gave her such pleasure to learn to communicate with her children via e-mail.

What about her special salad dressing that she was famous for? This may sound silly, but that was a part of my oneg Shabbat.

Why do bad things happen to good people?

I’ve attended many funerals and being emotionally moved. However, this is the first funeral where I cried a running sink of tears.

I recall a lecture I attended that Ohr Sameach hosted. The esteemed talmid chacham, Rabbi Berel Wein was one of the speakers. He has a special speaking style and one thing he said was, “We want Mashiach now? What chutzpah?! Hashem decides when Mashiach will come!” I have to disagree. We as a Jewish nation have to demand his coming right away. The pain in this galut has to end.

There are times we can all recall Yocheved saying something in Georgian to many people as a point of encouragement. She’d scream, “Wake up, you ostriches. Mashiach is coming!”

Dan's pain and his emunah are deeply affecting. Baruch Dayan Emet.

Here is Kumah, the aliyah organization Dan is involved with.

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

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:36 AM | Comments (12)

February 27, 2007

The Guest Who Talks to Food

I'm attending a L'chaim for friends here in Los Angeles. For those of you who don't speak Yeshivish, a L'chaim is a low-key Orthodox engagement party. Friends and family gather, food is served, and the chosson, the groom, usually delivers a d'var Torah, a short Biblical exegesis that often thematically ties in The Parsha, the Torah Portion of the Week, the wonders of marriage, how lovely and smart the kallah, the bride is, and how blessed are both families — whew, that's a lot to pull together, but believe me, it's usually done with intellectual elegance and genuine feeling.

I have to attend this L'chaim without Karen because she's still in the eleven-month mourning period for her father ZT'L, and not permitted to attend public celebrations. Let me tell you, it's not easy for yours truly to go anywhere without the love of my life. I'm like some amputee, feeling phantom pain from the missing limb. But what I feel is a very real physical disconnect. It's like: who am I without Karen?

Answer: Spectral.

Anywhoo.

The family celebrating the simcha is one of the nicest, most prominent here in Jewish Los Angeles. They have a lovely home, they are incredibly generous to all charities, and they are active in most community Jewish affairs.

When I enter, the host, the Father of the Kallah hugs me and says: "My hero. I love this guy."

Everybody stares. They have no idea why this good and prominent man is hugging the local weird screenwriter.

Father of Kallah explains: "Robert writes the greatest blog ever. He tells it like it is."

Blank stares all around.

Here's the thing: Seraphic Secret is read world-wide, but completely ignored in my very own community.

My host smiles, releases me, and tells me to keep up the good work. I thank him for his support and wish him a huge mazal tov. He and his wife and all his children are really the good guys of the world. Rare people indeed. And I do not just say this because he's a reader of this blog. He's the real deal.

One of the local yentas flutters over to me.

Yenta: You have a website?
Me: Uh-huh.
Yenta: Gave up screenwriting, didja?
Me: I multi-task.
Yenta: What's your website, shopping and schlepping and all that mall stuff?
Me: Exactly.

Everybody from the Los Angeles Jewish community is here.

I stand by the pool chatting with my stockbroker. I have this huge urge to blather on about the day I decided to buy Apple stock and he sort of hesitated and now it's totally turbo-charging my portfolio.

"Where's Karen?"
"She's in avelut?"
"Right, sorry, I forgot."
"No problem."

I stand by the food table chatting with a cardiologist. I have this huge urge to tell him my theory that the only reason my heart still beats is because Karen loves me.

"Where's Karen?"
"She's in avelut"
"Oh yes, I knew that."

I stand in a corner, all by myself, yearning for Karen's presence. A good friend approaches.
"Saw that article about you in The Jerusalem Report."
"No kidding, you're the first."
"You come off kinda pompous. Hope you don't mind me saying."
"Karen thinks it's the most accurate article ever written about me."
"Then you're in real trouble."

The host calls everyone into the house. It's time for the chosson's d'var Torah.

It's really crowded. And moi mentally melts when in the presence of more than three people.

I hang in the backyard with the Mexican waiters, but I can still see and hear the chosson, a fine young Rabbinic student. He speaks clearly and articulately. His parents and sisters have tears puckering in their eyes. I do too.

I'm such a wuss.

Oh-oh. Someone is murmuring. Loudly. And it's not the Mexican waiters. They're totally cool and respectful.

I turn my gaze to the food table.

Oh boy.

It's one of the guests.

Sigh.

The Guest is talking to the food.

But I smile. I am happy. Because in any other community, in any other social set this Guest would probably be ignored. This Guest would never even be invited to such an event. But here in this lovely and generous community, this Guest is treated with love, respect and dignity.

I return home to Karen and tell her all about the evening, all about the Guest, and Karen wisely points out that:

"That Guest is the only person in this community who calls me Dr."
"True."

The Guest has genuine respect for Karen's Ph.D.

Abruptly, I remember something vital about the Guest:

"You know what the Guest calls me?"
"What?"
"Maestro Screenwriter."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:06 PM | Comments (22)

January 17, 2007

Men Who Talk, Women Who Listen

"Have you been going out?"
"On dates?"
"Uh-huh."

Sarah heaves a weary sigh. It is Friday night. We have invited one of Karen's best friends to join us for Shabbos evening dinner. Sarah is a lovely woman: attractive, intelligent, articulate, well educated. A few years ago she went through a terrible divorce. Any other woman would be steeped in anger and resentment, but Sarah won't do that to herself, to her children. She just picked up the pieces of her life and soldiered on.

I adore Sarah. I also adore the home-baked challe, braided Shabbos loaves, she always brings when she comes for Shabbos dinner. Karen warms it up in the oven, and when I come home from shul the house is drenched in an aroma so delicious I feel dizzy.

"I don't skimp on the vanilla," Sarah confides to me as I bite into her challe, and lavishly compliment her baking skills.

Anyway, back to Sarah's date:

"I went out with a man and he just, well, he just talked the whole time."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, we went to dinner, and he told me about his business, and then all about his children and his grandchildren -- in great detail."
"He never asked you about yourself?"
"No, not really."
"No interest in your life?"
"Apparently not."
"Did somebody set you up?" Karen asks.
"Oh, yes, friends, they thought it would be a very good match."
"Did you try and talk about yourself?" Karen probes.
"To what end? He was quite overbearing."

Sarah sips wine, and says: "I just don't know."

Karen and I exchange baffled looks. Personally, I hate talking about myself; I like nothing better than questioning others--especially women--then listening to them talk on and on about the details of their lives.

"Any other dates?" I ask.
"I'm afraid so."
"Spill."
"This one started out quite nicely, we met at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, in the Tea Room. It's so nice. Anyway, he started talking and it soon became clear that he was quite, what's the word? Miserable. Yes, that fits quite nicely."
"Miserable about what?" Karen asks.
"Everything. His whole world-view was so dour and negative. He went on and on about how awful this was and that was --"
"Did somebody set you up with him?" Karen asks.
"Yes, friends who thought he was very nice -- he is a physician, presumably appropriate."

Match-making is not for amateurs.

"He went on to tell me that his children no longer speak to him."
"What a shock," I say.
"Indeed," Sarah agrees. "At one point I even asked him if there's anything in his life that he's happy about, and he actually could not think of one single thing."
"What a catch," Karen observes.

Sarah falls silent.

"He did all the talking." I state the obvious.
"Mostly."
"You deserve better."
"Well..."
"It's going to happen for you," Karen says, "I'm optimistic."
"Are you really?"
Karen nods.
"Maybe it's me," Sarah muses.
"No. It. Is. Not." I separate my words like cobblestones.

"Were the men divorced or widowers?" Karen asks
"Divorced."
"Better off dating widowers," Karen advises. "They make much better prospects."
"Hey, that's a great idea for a comedy: a woman sets her sights on a man, only problem is he's married, she decides to bump off the wife and them move in on the bereaved husband."
Karen groans. "That is awful, Robert."
"I know. I'm sorry. I've been working in Hollywood way too long."

Sarah says: "I don't know, it's so hard for women my age. Men my age are looking for younger women, and...." Sarah hesitates. "Well, whatever happens it shall be fine."
"Do you really think so?"

Sarah smiles, but it's forced and lacks conviction.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:45 AM | Comments (36)

January 11, 2007

Petraeus: A Personal View

Seraphic Secret is blessed with ferociously intelligent readers and commenters, a high percentage of whom, we are proud to say, are members of our armed services, all branches, present and past, and all branches of The Israeli Defense Forces.

A close personal friend, and frequent commenter here on Seraphic Secret, is Maj. Virgil Hilts ( a pseudonyn, obviously, for the name is Steve McQueen's memorable character from The Great Escape.) Anyway, Maj. Hilts knows LTG Patraeus, has fought in Iraq with him, and would crawl through broken glass for the man.

Maj. Hilts has graciously jotted down his impressions of the man President Bush has just appointed as Commander of the Iraq War. We thank Maj. Hilts for this, and of course for his service.

*******

Your question asking what LTG Petraeus' promotion and assignment to MNFI (Multi National Force Iraq) will mean for the war effort is a tough one. Soldiers (officers and enlisted) either love him or hate him. I would crawl through broken glass for the man, and I believe that he our best chance for success in Iraq. I will offer a few observations, and leave it for you to decide if he can save a situation many now say is lost.

I met LTG Petraeus in September 2004, shortly after he took over the Iraqi Army's training. He needed proven combat arms leaders to reinforce the scratch team he inherited, so he begged, borrowed, and stole a number of us from a variety of stateside assignments.

My immediate boss in Iraq had just finished commanding an infantry battalion in the 101st Airborne Division, a friend with extensive service in the Rangers was pulled from Fort Benning, and I had previously done some work training armies in Asia and Latin America. We were three of many.

When I arrived, LTG Petraeus brought me into his office, told me his expectations, sincerely thanked me for my service, and sent me to the hottest city in Iraq. In every case, he found the right talent for the particular mission, and then made sure that we felt appreciated.

Robert's observation that Hollywood is based entirely upon personal relationships is applicable elsewhere, to include the Army, and LTG Petraeus is one of the few generals who instinctively understands this. A good number of gifted staff officers will be finding their way on to the MNFI staff over the next few months. All will be volunteers -- very few will be "yes men."

I went to a brigade specially recruited from veterans of the old Iraqi Army, so that we could quickly get Iraqis fighting and winning some of their own successes.

Our first fight was Second Fallujah, and despite the high visibility of the mission, we had less unhelpful "help" from his headquarters that I have had on many peacetime training exercises. Petraeus showed up to look us over shortly before we attacked the city, had dinner with us, and sent us on our way. Compared to many other generals, his entourage and security force was tiny.

Later, while my brigade helped to secure Mosul for the January 2005 elections, I watched him interact with local civilians, including many he had known when he was there a year earlier He looked as though he were running for mayor, and he would have won in a landslide. He also gave the media wide latitude to see what they wanted and report what they liked -- we all understood and could speak about our mission, but we had no artificial talking points we were expected to spoon feed them.

At a post-election Arab-style lunch with local political, military, and police leaders, I observed Philadelphia Inquirer columnist Trudy Rubin as she chatted with me and several second-tier Iraqi leaders (the head table had few Americans, and no reporters) about our operations. It rapidly became apparent that she was as impressed with LTG Petraeus as I am (she still is--read the column she wrote today). Other reporters were as well.

I am not optimistic enough to believe that Petraeus is likely to turn Sadr, Zawahiri, or the news media into U.S. style red-white-and-blue patriots, but do not discount the ripple effects of his engagement with the local population, and his willingness to answer questions plainly for reporters. I remember that he had the public approval of both Joe Biden and Donald Rumsfeld while we were in Iraq -- can't get much more diverse support than that! He must have true successes to communicate (fluff won't work), but he is more than able to communicate the ones that MNFI and Iraq get.

After he returned from Iraq, LTG Petraeus took command of the Army's staff college at Fort Leavenworth, an assignment widely regarded as a graveyard for generals who have outlived their usefulness. Far from dead, LTG Petraeus worked tirelessly with his staff and the Marines to create a joint counterinsurgency (COIN) center that is producing new doctrine for Iraq and future fights, and is sending out training teams to almost every US brigade before deployment to spend a week each trip teaching key leaders the fundamentals of fighting in a COIN environment. He is certain to redefine the role of MNFI within the first month of his command, taking it in directions nobody expects and dramatically improving its effectiveness.

How will LTG Petraeus fight the next phase of the war in Iraq?

I have no idea. I do believe that he will fight the war on its most important battlefields: the hearts of Iraqis and the minds of Americans, as actively as he will on the critical, though less important, field of battle.

He is undoubtedly the right man for this job.

Maj. Virgil Hilts

*******

Those who are interested in glimpsing LTG David Patraeu's thoughts regarding war and counterinsurgency should read this scholarly article by LTG Patraeus."Learning Counterinsurgency: Observations from Soldiering in Iraq."

Soccer Dad just sent us his link that has information about LTG Patraeus by the NY Time's John Burns.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:12 AM | Comments (12)

January 01, 2007

Seraphic Secret Simcha

It is with great joy and gratitude to HaShem that Seraphic Secret is pleased to announce that long time friend, reader and commenter Lance Fogel, who recently made aliyah to Eretz Yisroel, is engaged to be married to Cigal Shene. The entire Seraphic Secret community wishes the fine couple a huge mazal tov.

Here's the page from only simchas.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:49 AM | Comments (5)

December 15, 2006

Seeking Home

"This is the story of a boy. He’s 12 years old. He was removed from his home when he was three. Since then, he has lived in five or six homes, I’ve lost track. He lived with us for a couple of years. For the past three years, he has lived in institutional residences to treat certain psychiatric and emotional issues..."

Seraphic Friend MoChassid posts about a foster child who is looking for a home of his own.

You may not be aware of it, but there are Jewish foster children out there who need love, who need homes; children who come from broken homes, unstable environments, and abusive parents.

Maybe you can help.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:43 AM | Comments (2)

December 08, 2006

"You Like Me!"

Seraphic friend David Bogner AKA Treppenwitz, has been nominated for the Weblog Awards, apparently quite a big deal. David writes a fantastic blog and c'mon a few clicks and you can make him gush like you-know-who on Oscar night: "You like me, you really like me."

Mazal Tov, David! Well deserved.

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

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:59 PM | Comments (0)

Paul Revere in Shul

Okay, the Iraq Study Group is out and it's a replay of Munich 1938. James Baker wants to have a Middle East forum--without Israel. Lebanon's government is about to be wiped out and replaced by Hizbullah, Iran is hosting an international forum of, ahem, "scholars" to determine if the Holocaust really happened, and these same people are racing towards an Islamic bomb; and let's see what other horrors are threatening western civilization?

Cologne in shul.

More specifically, as it is so clevely labeled in Marisha Pessl's fine novel Special Topic in Calamity Physics: Paul Revere Cologne, because it announces itself a good two minutes before the man doused in it makes an appearance.

I daven, pray, at the early minyan, quorum, of Young Israel of Century City. We start at 7:15, only two or three women ever come to this minyan, so perfume is not a problem, one of the reasons I started attending the early minyan ten years ago.

Perfume, need I say it, gives me migraines.

Oh, how wonderful the early minyan was. No chatting. No speeches. Just real serious davening, and every week our Rabbi came and gave a wonderful D'var Torah, exegisis on the Portion of the Week.

But several years ago--cue a foreshadowing musical sting here--Something Happened!

Prepare yourselves for a wild cultural generalization.

No offence intended, but --

-- but what is it with Persian men and cologne? It's always the Persian men who are absolutely drenched in the stuff.

The scent is so powerful that I can actually taste the cologne on the tip of my tongue.

The scent is so powerful that my head starts to throb and I get a migraine aura in about ten-seconds flat.

I'm not kidding, it's sheer torture.

I mentioned it, really politely, all culturally sensitive, you'd think I was a whiny Liberal, to one of the Persian men, he looked at me, smiled hugely and said: "It smell so nice. You cannot have problem."

Case closed.

I don't get it. Why do men want to smell like, well, a bordello?

Not that I've ever been in a bordello, but I'm using a literary cliche here.

Or, how about this:

Why do Persian men want to smell like, well, women?

Cheap women.

Not that I'm on intimate terms with cheap women.

Just using another literary cliche here.

Sheesh. I better quit with the cliches.

Here's what happens: I sit in my seat. The fragrance wafts towards me, like a gross John Carpenterish fog, and then a few seconds later, a Persian man arrives and plops down in the seat right next to me. He smells like a field of rotten flowers. I'm pretty sure I'm going to upchuck in about a minute -- so I crawl to another seat on the far side of the Beis Midrash. I get dirty looks from the Persian man: "What, you're too good to sit next to me?"

This happens quite often. Actually, almost every Shabbos.

Anyway, the shul sent out a Polite But Firm Perfume Memo a few weeks ago asking women to go easy on the perfume, because quite a few members have fragrance allergies. Truth is the shul was enveloped in a scrim-like haze so thick, so sweet, it was absolutely nauseating, like a poppy field in Afghanistan -- a veritable public health hazard.

But guess what? The Persian men have paid no attention to the Polite But Firm Perfume Memo. They continue to slather it on by the gallon. I guess they figure perfume and cologne are entirely separate categories, and thus they are exempt from the Polite But Firm Perfume Memo.

I'm thinking of wearing nose-plugs to shul. Or starting a break-away No Perfume, No Cologne Minyan.

But really, what is it with Persian men?

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:22 AM | Comments (20)

November 10, 2006

Project Valour

Project Valour IT is still on and Team Air Force needs your help! Help us make our fund-raising goal to provide voice-controlled laptop computers to wounded Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Marines recovering from hand and arm injuries or amputations at home or in military hospitals. The team is lagging behind. This is the weekend to pitch in. If you've already given, reach in and give a little more. If you haven't given, what are you waiting for!?

Donating to this cause is a tremendous mitzvah. Please give generously to this important tzedakah before Shabbos.

And I hope to see you at the Liberty Film Festival, Hollywood's only Conservative Film Festival. I'll be appearing on a panel with Michael Medved, David Zucker and Frank Price on Sunday Nov 12, at 2:45 where we'll be discussing Hollywood and Israel.

You can buy tickets here.

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

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:32 PM | Comments (4)

Happy Birthday!

Happy 231st Birthday to the US Marine Corps. And a tremendous thanks to all who have served under their proud banner! Mazal Tov!

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:26 AM | Comments (2)

November 08, 2006

Going Home

"Well, if you want to make an announcement, I'm letting you know that I have been officially accepted into the Nefesh B' Nefesh program, and I will be making aliyah on Dec. 26, 2006."

Seraphic Friend and frequent commenter Lance, sent me this note a few days ago. Yes, Lance has been in Israel arranging to make aliyah, literally, to "go up," that's how Jews think of going home to Israel.

We wish Lance a huge Mazal Tov and hope that he will keep us up-to-date on the progress of his aliyah, of his new life.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:12 AM | Comments (5)

October 30, 2006

Project Valour

From Seraphic Friend John at the fine military blog Op For comes this story about Project Valour:

Project Valour - IT, in memory of SFC William V. Ziegenfuss, provides voice-controlled laptop computers to wounded Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Marines recovering from hand and arm injuries or amputations at home or in military hospitals. Operating laptops by speaking into a microphone, our wounded heroes are able to send and receive messages from friends and loved ones, surf the 'Net, and communicate with buddies still in the field without having to press a key or move a mouse. The experience of CPT Charles "Chuck" Ziegenfuss, a partner in the project who suffered severe hand wounds while serving in Iraq, illustrates how important this voice-controlled software can be to a wounded service member's recovery.

Click here to read the rest of this story and to make an important contribution.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:33 PM | Comments (2)

The History of Things

"Nice bag." I say.
"Y'like? It's a Judith Lieber, but I didn't pay full price. No way. Uh-ugh. No, y'see, I got this great deal because they had a private sale at Saks. It was unbelievable, close to 40% off. Can you believe it?"
"Unbelievable."
"Only problem is..."
"Yes?"
"I can only carry like two aspirin in the bag it's so small."
"Yeah, but it shimmers."
Allison's face lights up with true joy.

It's Sunday morning and I'm attending a bar mitzvah here in Beverly Hills.

I'm alone.

Karen is in avelut, the year of mourning after her father's ZT'L death. Thus, she's not allowed to attend any functions where there will be public diplays of joy.

Without Karen, I get bored and twitchy, and I decide to indulge in a totally useless social experiment nourished by my eye for aesthetics. Actually, it started by accident. I complimented one of my friends on her Hermes scarf. Oddly enough, she gave me the long tortuous history of its purchase. Hmm, that's interesting, I thought. And so I moved on to a few other women from my community and proceeded to compliment some of their... things.

"Hey, Esther, cool shoes."
"You like 'em? Jimmy Choo. And I didn't pay full price. No way. Got 'em on sale. Nordstrom's. Actually, they have some kind of defect in the leather, but it's so small you like need a microscope to see it."
"Killer heels."
"Tell me about it. My arches are killing me. I'm practically crippled. But hey, are they gorgeous or what?"
She yells to her husband: "Hey Moshe, Robert likes my Jimmy Choo's!"
Moshe grunts, "Mazal Tov."

"Malky, nice outfit."
"Well, doesn't Karen have you nicely trained. Loehmann's, naturally. You think I'm like these other women, I'm gonna run to Saks and pay full price? What am I a moron? Look at the lining, silk, the stitiching. Ex-quisite. It's definitely D&G. You wanna know what I paid? I can't even tell you. It's almost a crime."

I tell Sarah that her Victorian-style earrings are beautiful.
"Antique. I got them upstate Vermont about fifteen years ago from this little pisher shop. They were all tarnished and broken but I saw immediately that they were special. You know how much I paid for them? You couldn't even begin to guess. Twenty-five dollars. Can you believe that price or what? I showed them to an auctioneer from Christie's and he said they were worth like fifty-times that much."
"They're right out of a Masterpiece Theater."
"Totally! That's what I tell my shmegegie husband, but he says: what's Masterpiece Theater? Well, I can tell, Karen's taught you well!"

I sit at my table. Next to me is a friend from shul. He's wearing a really nice Cartier Roadster.

"Nice watch, Alan."
"Yeah," Alan shrugs, completely uninterested.

Alan rises to get in line for the buffet.
I notice that Alan's wife is carrying a great hand-knit bag that must have cost the earth.

"Nice bag, Eleanor."
Eleanor's face lights up. "You noticed. Bless you. Let me tell you about this bag..."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:09 AM | Comments (24)

September 15, 2006

Oriana Fallaci: 1929 -- 2006

One of the most eloquent, prophetic and anti-Jihadist voices of this generation has just passed away.

Oriana Fallaci was a woman of the left, but because she stood for truth above all, she was demonized by her former comrades. The left in Europe and in America are faithful apologists for terrorists and jihadists. Fallaci's enemies could not, would not forgive her uncompromising stand against Islamic fascists.

Fallaci never stopped accusing the European left of being what they are: spineless appeasers and Jew-haters.

Fallaci understood that the West is in a life and death struggle with radical Islam and their fellow travelers. She correctly perceived that Europe is a dying beast -- and for this belief she was excoriated by the chattering classes in the European capitals.

Some major bookstores refused to carry her books; she was labeled a fascist, an ideological traitor.

Seraphic Friend Jeremiah has posted a lovely tribute to La Fallaci.

And here, from Pajamas Media, are many, many more fine memorials for this great woman.

And finally, on Friday nights, Shabbos evening, in every Jewish home all over the world, the husband sings the Eishes Chayil, The Accomplished Woman, to his wife.

Here is the opening verse which I offer as a memorial for Oriana Fallaci:

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

*****

Here are the first few pages of her magnificent book, The Force of Reason.

"I don't like to say that Troy is burning. That Europe is by now a province of Islam or rather a colony of Islam and Italy an outpost of that province, a stronghold of that colony. Saying this amounts to admitting that the Cassandras really do talk to the wind, that in spite of their screams of pain the blind remain blind, the deaf remain deaf, consciences reawoken soon relapse into sleep, and the Mastros Cecco die for nothing. But the truth is just this. From the Strait of Gibraltar to the fjords of Soroy, from the cliffs of Dover to the beaches of Lampedusa, from the steppes of Volgograd to the valleys of the Loire and the hills of Tuscany, the fire is spreading. In each one of our cities there is a second city. A city superimposed and equal to the one that in the Seventies thousands and thousands of Palestinians set up in Beirut installing a State within a State. A government within the goverrnment. A Muslim city, a city ruled by the Koran. An Islamic expansion's stage. The expansionism that no-one has ever managed to overcome. No-one. Not even the armies of Napoleon. Because it is the only art in which the sons of Allah have always excelled, the art of invading and conquering and subjugating. Their most coveted prey has always been Europe, the Christian world, and shall we run a rapid eye over the History that Mr. Doudou would like to control or rather cancel?

"It was in 635 AD, that is three years after Mohammed's death, that the armies of the Crescent Moon invaded Christian Syria and Christian Palestine. It was in 638 that they took Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchure. It was in 640 that after conquering Persia and Armenia and Mesopotamia, present-day Iraq, they invaded Christian Egypt and overran Christian Maghreb. That is, the present Tunisia and Algeria and Morocco. It was in 668 that for the first time they attacked Constantinople and laid a siege that would last five years. It was in 711 that after crossing the Strait of Gibralter they landed in the most Catholic Iberian Peninsula, took possession of Portugal and Spain where despite the Pelayos and the Cid Campeadors and the other warriors engaged in the Reconquest they remained for no less than eight centuries. And whoever believes in the myth of peaceful coexistence that marked the relationships between the conquered and the conquerors should reread the stories of the burned convents and monestaries, of the profaned churches, of the raped nuns, of the Christian or Jewish women abducted to be locked away in their harems. He should ponder on the crucifixioins of Cordoba, the hangings of Grenada, the beheadings of Toledo and Barcelona, of Seville and Zamora. (The beheadings of Seville, ordered by Mutamid: the king who used those severed heads, heads of Jews and Christians, to adorn his palace. The beheadings of Zamora, ordered by Almanzor: the vizier who was called the-patron-of-the-philosophers, the greatest leader Islamic Spain has ever produced). Christ! Invoking the name of Jesus meant instant execution. Crucifixion, of course, or decapitation or hanging or impalement. Ringing a bell, the same. Wearing green, the colour exclusive to Islam, also. And when a Muslim passed by, every Jew and Christian was obliged to step aside. To bow. And mind to the Jew or the Christian who dared react to the insults of a Muslim. As for the much-flaunted detail that the infidel-dogs were not obliged to convert to Islam, not even encouraged to do so, do you know why they were not? Because those who converted to Islam did not pay taxes. Those who refused, on the contrary, did.

"From Spain, in 721 AD, they passed into the no less Catholic France. Led by Abd al-Rahman, the Governor of Andalusia, they crossed the Pyrenees and took Narbonne. There they massacred the entire male population, enslaved all the women and children, then proceeded towards Carcassonne. From Carcassonne they were to Nimes where they slaughtered nuns and friars. From Nimes they went to Lyons and Dijon where they pillaged every single church... And do you know how long their advance in France lasted? Eleven years. In waves. In 731 a wave of three hundred and eighty thousand infantry and sixteen thousand cavalry reached Bordeaux which surrendered at once. Then from Bordeaux it moved to Poitiers, from Poitiers it moved to Tours and, if in 732 Charles Martel had not won the battle of Poitiers-Tours, today the French too would dance the flamenco. In 827 they landed in Sicily, another target of their voraciousness. Massacring, beheading, impaling, crucifying as usual, they conquered Syracuse and Taormina the Messina and Palermo, and in three-quarters of a century (which is what it took to break the proud resistance of the Sicilians) they Islamized the island. They stayed for over two centuries, in Sicily: until they werre cleared out by the Normans. But in 836 they landed at Brindisi. In 840, at Bari. And they Islamized Puglia too. In 841 they landed at Ancona. Then from the Adriatic they moved back to the Tyrrhenian Sea and in the summer of 846 landed at Ostia. They sacked it, they burned it, and moving upriver from the mouth of the Tiber they reached Rome. They laid siege to it and one night they burst in. They plundered the basilicas of St. Peter and St. Paul, sacked both, and to get rid of them Pope Sergius II had to stipulate an annual tribute of twenty-five thousand pieces of silver. To prevent further attacks, his successor Leon IV had to erect the Leonine Walls.

"Having left Rome,