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Jewish Unity and Inclusivity: Do we want it?

Right now, I am not high on Hashem and question his, her or its existence. Let’s face it there’s no proof.

But let’s put that aside. That debate will go on until the end of the world. Yesterday, I was gallery hopping on the Lower East Side and decided to walk over to Williamsburg. As I walked over the bridge, I saw the hipsters — the furthest thing from real New Yorkers. And of course, the Satmar. I am not sure who is more clueless. But decided the Satmar is.

Despite my intro, I would like to believe. As I walked around I saw the microcosm of the city. The Satmar mom with the stroller and numerous kids following, the kosher meat store and raggedy looking kids on their skateboards. Of course, their rags were pricey as hell. The men with their long coats and flying pais were nearby.

I had enough and knew I had to meet a friend at Penn Station in the early evening. So I went back to the City. I knew Mincha/Arvit at Midtown would be in about 45 minutes. For some reason, I decided I was going. I usually do. Not sure why. I think I’m praying to someone who is deafer than deaf.

I could have easily found a place in Williamsburg and not rushed back. But the question rises would I be comfortable praying with the people and would they let me? Not sure. But doubt it on both accounts.

A few years ago, I was at the Kotel. I love it there. And do feel a connection. But I feel a spiritual connection in summer camp and Yankee Stadium.

I had my talit, siddur and teffilin. I wanted to join a minyan. I saw one of the Chasidic minyanim assembling. I walked over and got ready. I opened my siddur and began to read. I wasn’t expecting an aliyah. I’ve never had one in Israel. One or two of the “gentleman” in their fur hats in weather that was over 100 degrees, long black coats and leggings asked me to leave their minyan. They pointed me away. I didn’t care that much. I walked away and found an amazing Sephardim minyan that was welcoming. I‘m Sephardic. I just didn’t see them when I got to the Kotel. Or maybe they weren’t there when I arrived. I prayed and went up to the wall.

Bottom line, all of the people davening there are dreaming of the Moshiach coming. Let me ask if you turn away a fellow Jew do you really expect him to arrive?

Pomegranate — Book 7

Marc finished his treadmill run. He threw on his coat and raced out of the gym. There was no need to for him to race. He had nowhere to be. He just moved fast. He was feeling nervous. Not sure why. Nothing was wrong.

He slowed down and walked toward Jewel Avenue. For some reason, all he kept thinking about was the letter, “T”.

He walked back toward the subway. But as he approached the steps leading down to the turnstiles he turned around. He started walking aimlessly. He was not happy.

What was about the letter, “T”? His mind rambled on. But he was coming up empty. He strolled along his block. He tripped over a Pepsi bottle. He got up quickly and carried on.

He heard some yelling near Yellowstone Park. He was still hashing out the letter “T” in his head. He really had no desire to play the superhero. He was obsessed with this letter. He decided maybe he’d find the answer in the park. So he hurried over.

All he saw were parents screaming at each at their children about how well or poorly they were playing basketball in the park. It was quite unruly. But didn’t see too alarming. Until one parent ran onto the court with a knife and tried to attack a young child who just missed a layup. From a distance Marc shot honey out of his eyes, followed by a pomegranate aimed at the parent’s head. She went down.

Marc wanted to leave. But a parent or two saw him. And sensed he was the one who took out the knife wielder. He walked quickly toward the park’s exit gate. Parents were following him. He never turned his head. One screamed out his name. He kept going.

Pomegranate — Book 6

Alana woke up. She had a miserable night’s sleep. She spent the night twisting and turning. She was upset about the fight she had with Marc. Of course, she knew they’d spar again.

She went to the kitchen and poured some orange juice. Her mind drifted back the year she lived in Israel and the time she spent in Tiberias. She was so happy. As she was canoeing down the Jordan, her canoe capsized. The water was calm and she is a good swimmer. But she wasn’t ready for the dead branches floating in the river. They got stuck in her personal floatation device. And she was being pulled under.

She gasped for air. She managed to pull herself up. She swam to shore. Her canoe floated down the river. She saw a family enjoying a Fig2

picnic. They asked if she needed help. She nodded she was ok. Their little ones offered her some apples and figs. She thanked them and started walking.

The apple was decent. However, it was a little too hard. She spits most of it out and hit the figs, which were not much better. Her arms began to shake. She was feeling slightly ill. But she did go through a crazy experience in the river. She figured her nerves were making her nutty. Not the fruit. She loved all fruit and is a nature girl. Not long ago, she had a spiritual connection with these fruits. She started breathing heavily. Her body shook a little. Then she started firing apples out of her hands and figs were coming out of her eyes

She remembered when she was in the seminary. She and a teacher were privately discussing the forbidden fruit. And the symbolism the figs have for the Holy Land.

She knew she loved Israel and wanted it to remain strong. She felt sick that night. She figured apples and figs would cure her. Over the next few days, she ate them like an addict. She got better. But noticed she was getting stronger. She credited the fruits.

A day or so later she fell down the steps leading toward the Jaffa Gate. She hit the ground hard. But didn’t get hurt. She decided it was because of her recent intake of apples and figs. They were medicinal. She did not know that they helped her grow both physically and spiritually. And would empower her. How she’d use the power was up to her.

As she walked on, she was scared, yet excited. She started to practice her aim. And hoped she’d be able to release these fruits at will. She figured she could use them to do good or bad. Wherever her mood took her.

She thought about getting Marc. But how would she get him?

Pomegranate — Book 5

Book 5

Early, Tuesday morning, Marc boarded his Amtrak Acela headed for D.C. He was going on a business trip. He loved going to D.C. His dad, may his soul rest used to have biz apartment in Alexandria, Va., Marc crashed there on and off for months. When not working he would have a beer with an old college friend. And he’s also having dinner with one of his besties and her beautiful family.

He found a seat in the quiet car, opened his Nook, and began to read. He was still thinking about Jen. But was thinking much more about Alana. He was unnerved after their battle. But he’d be ok. Man did he like her.

Marc developed his powers years ago while praying in Amuka. He was hoping his prayers would find him a wife. Instead, he became very powerful. During his meditation, he heard whispers telling him he was going to gain powers and must use them for good. He wasn’t sure what to believe. And chalked it up to the wonderful glasses of wine from he sipped in the art district in Safed. He sipped them with fresh laffa bread, olive oil, and hummus. He thinks about that day all the time. He was wondering how Alana developed her strengths and if it was only apples. Of course, he thought she had more powers. Somehow he knew she would unleash them on him. He hopes only on him. He could fight back. Others would go down.

He was worried she might use them to go after people. She was always a little vindictive. The train pulled into DC’s Union Station and he jumped on the Metro’s Red Line toward the Marriott.

He checked in and went to his office. Things were going as planned. He’d work for several hours and then trek out to Rockville on the train. Not on a bus. Boy does he have a song for everything and loves R.E.M.

Things were quiet in his company’s D.C. office. The illiterates were out. The NYC office was not much different. Marc had a friend or two in both. But for the most part, hated them. He grabbed his laptop and headed to the Metro station. He was going to see his friend, Rebecca, and her wonderful youngsters.

He was walking down Pennsylvania Avenue. The usual crazies were protesting. It happens daily. His mind was drifting in thoughts about tonight’s Yankees-Red Sox game. He’d catch it on the TV at the hotel’s bar when he got back from Rebecca’s.

As he approached the Metro, he saw an elderly man being beaten by young thugs. The man was gasping for air. Marc really didn’t need this. He knew he couldn’t let an old man get hurt. Not only was this happening, but an out of control woman was also trying to fight with some of the protestors, who were loud. Yet they very peaceful. He was perplexed as to how to handle multiple fights. But he knew he had to.

“Hey, tough guys. Does beating up an old man make you feel strong? Are you that weak?”

The three 20 somethings looked at Marc. One pulled out a knife and ran toward him. As he approached Marc backed up and landed a kick in the guy’s chest. He went down. The other two pulled out their silencer-equipped Glocks and aimed. Marc didn’t even quiver. He stood there waiting to take the shots. The men pulled the trigger. Marc’s perfect vision tracked the bullets. He stood firm and his hands began to twitch. He opened his closed hands and shot cannon strength pomegranates, which deflected the bullets. The guys tried to fire again. But Marc shot several blasts of honey into the barrel of both guns. The guns backfired and the assailants fell down hard onto the concrete.

Meanwhile, the woman was still attacking the protestors. He did not have any time to waste. He approached her. They quickly looked at each other and she picked up a fire extinguisher and fired at the protestors. He jumped in the middle of it and barley flew out of his hands, while honey ejected from his eyes. She aimed the extinguisher at him and fired. He ducked. She missed. He returned fire with six pomegranates. They hit her all over. She screamed. She keeled over. Marc ran to the Metro station. He hopped on the Red Line and was safe in Rockville.

Pomegranate — Book 4

Marc enjoyed his drinks with Jen. She was as pretty and nutty as ever. Just the way he liked his ladies. They spent about two hours in the bar, kissed on the lips, and went to their respective train stations.

They didn’t make plans to see each other again. But knowing in due time they would. That’s how it goes. He hopped on the arriving E subway and headed back to Forest Hills. Little did he know the woman who was following him earlier was in the next car. She walked between the cars and sat several seats away from where he was standing. Marc was not drunk. He was just calm and happy that he spent time with Jen.

The woman was dressed in all black — black running pants, a black athletic skirt and a long-sleeved black tee shirt. She wore red lipstick, black nail polish, and had a chamsah chain dangling from her neck. She’s in great shape. Her ear buds was in her ears and was listening to Bauhaus.

Marc got off the train and so did the Goth chic. Marc hiked over to Duane-Reade to pick up some stuff. For a guy who orders most of his stuff online, he spends way too much time in stores.

He was moseying down 108 Street. Alana, the girl who has been tracking him was not far behind. She slowed down for a moment or two. Marc also stopped. He was paranoid. Not alcohol. Jen.

He sensed he was being followed. He knew people might catch onto him eventually. But he was doing good things. He heard Alana’s footsteps getting closer. He turned around and there she was. Her gorgeous green eyes with black eyeliner and perfect body were approaching him.

“Alana Elias?”

“So you remember me?”

“Of course.”

“I always liked you, Marc. I know we played a little. Remember when were both always dressed in all black? I know you still do.”

“Yeah. We had some good times.”

“They were limited. Hell, I refused to admit it. But I even enjoyed when we cut few days of college and went to that camp you call your temple. I complained. But thinking back those two or three days in the middle of nowhere and swimming in the lake were the best for me.”

“I loved our bathing suits, ha, ha…”

“I bet you did. But you burned me. I really liked you.”

“I burned you? Nah. You were always talking about other guys. I asked you not to.”

“Because I’m just a little daffy. But I’m better now. And I will have you. “

Her eyes turned blood red.

“Maybe you will.”

She looked so hot.

“Are you still lighting candles on Friday nights? “

“Yes. But I have my vices. Sometimes I light black candles or red ones. Sometimes I need to play Joy Division, as I’m lighting and keep listening. How about your vices?”

“Well yeah, I try but I have them. When the Yankees play well, Friday night and the boys from ‘da Bronx are needed. Sometimes a Brennan & Carr roast beef sandwich is needed. We all have issues.”

Marc smiled, waved goodbye, and started walking down the block. He loved her. But knows she’s a head case. So is Jen. But Alana is tougher to handle. They grew up together. As he was walking, Alana yelled at him for going. She started to scream. He didn’t want to fight.

She caught up to him and grabbed him by the neck. She then started kissing him. She was slapping him, too. He threw her down. She hit the ground hard. But bounced up so fast that he didn’t even see what was coming next.

Her tan face turned red. Her hair was flying. Her green eyes were blood red. Her toned arms wound up like a pitcher. She waved them a few times. She gritted her teeth. Alana’s legs stomped down. Marc was not sure what to do. He didn’t want to unleash his powers on her. He didn’t trust she wouldn’t put onto YouTube. He tried to back up. As he did she pitched several bright red enlarged apples. They flew at a high speed. One of them hit him right in the jaw.

He retaliated. His eyes bulged and he looked straight at her face. He unleashed a few pomegranates laced in honey. The two of them volleyed their weapons back and forth for several minutes. They were in incredible form. If only they were partners. Unlikely.

Marc was about to release barley as an apple smacked him the head and broke open. Apple seeds infiltrated into his mouth, nose, and eyes. He was momentarily blind. Alana didn’t stop.

Marc shot out the barley and stuck her hands together with honey. She looked at him and took a breath.

“This is just for starters, Marc my boy. I’m sure our paths will cross again shortly.”

She walked off. Marc just stood there.

Pomegranate — Book 3

Marc got off the R line and was back in Forest Hills after a typical workday. Nothing unusual happened. Everything was chill. He strolled down 108 Street towards his apartment.

He saw all the usual folks along the way — The elderly with their aides taking them to the store, kids on their bikes and the religious folks with their noses deep in a prayer book as they walked down the block. It was amazing they could walk without tripping or walking into a tree. Perhaps a greater power was watching over them?

He strolled past his block and went to a few stores and started walking home.

Nothing unusual was going on. A light rain started. It didn’t bother Marc at all. He strolled along 108 Street. He passed a few of the shuls and went toward his apartment building. He walked in. Made chit chat with the doorman about his beloved Yankees. He checked the mailbox. As usual, he got nothing in the mail.

He was about the turn the oven and bake chicken when his phone rang. It was a friend he hadn’t heard from in a while. He always liked her. Years ago, they date. She said she was thinking about him and was wondering if they could meet in Long Island City for a beer. He grabbed his coat and raced to E train.

The train actually got him there quickly. He went to Citibank to get some cash and walked over to the bar. On his way, he heard some loud noises and saw some smoke. So he detoured a block or two to see what was going on. He saw a bunch of teens lighting M-80s and setting things on fire in the park near MOMA PS 1. Some parents were screaming at them. Their young children were getting scared.

Marc just wanted to see Jen. He always liked her. He dated many Jens in his life. They were always pretty, sweet, and a bit off the wall. Just what he lived for. But he knew he had to take care of things. He picked up his pace toward the park.

Quickly his eyes scanned the terrain. He noted there were four kids wreaking havoc. Two little boys were crying. Their moms were trying to calm them down. It seems the mischief-maker’s wares landed near the kids who were having fun on the slidin pond. They fell off and scraped their knees.

As Marc approached them a quarter stick of dynamite glazed his right arm. He began to convulse. People thought he was going to pass out. It didn’t look good. A lady came over to him to see if he needed help. As she approached him he began to shoot barley out of his eyes. The obnoxious teens started to laugh and taunt him. They quickly shut their mouths when the barley was making its way down their throats. They started gasping for air and choking. Marc backed up. He took a look around. People were staring at him. He knew he had to go. He took a look at the kids. They were still choking but coming around. As they got back on their feet he pomegranates flew out of his fingers. The kids were down for the count.

Marc checked his phone. He had about 10 minutes to get over to the bar and see Jen. Boy did he need a beer. He texted her and said he’s on his way. He started walking over there. Little did he know another woman was following him.

Pomegranate — Book 2

It was partly cloudy Thursday afternoon. Marc was bored at work. He had some time to kill. He usually brings lunch and eats at his desk. He decided to take a walk to mincha services (Jewish afternoon prayers). He liked the spirituality of the services. He also loves the rituals he did in the scouts based on the Lenni Lenape Indians. He quickly walked over to the temple. He often wondered which he liked better and mean more to him.

He listened to the rabbi speak after services for a few minutes and left. He took a call on the walk back to his office. He strolled along Madison Avenue and made it back to the dump he worked in.

About two hours later he went to the gym. He trained and had his usual discussions with his fellow gym rats.

He decided to run to J.Crew after the gym. As he walked through Rockefeller Center to the store, he heard a little girl crying. He kept walking. But her screams got louder. He figured it was nothing. She must have tripped or didn’t get ice cream. It happens every day over there. The kids run around too much.

He went into the store and tried on a few pairs of pants. He bought two and went outside. He still heard the kid shrieking. He heard her saying, “Please mommy. No more. Not again. Leave me alone.”

He turned his head and saw the poor child in a corner near the ice skating rink being slapped around. He was never one to rubberneck. But he did look for a moment. He walked over and asked the kid if she was ok.

“Mind your own business,” shouted her mom.

“No., mister, please help me. I get hit a lot. Mommy is so mean. I miss my daddy. We tried so hard to be a family. But mommy wasn’t nice to any of us. She lied so much. Daddy left,” cried out the little girl.

“He was bad,” yelled the mom.

“No. He went to work every day and was nice to everyone. You spent your days drinking. He tried to ask you to stop. But you wouldn’t listen. I can’t wait to see him this weekend. We are going to Bronx Zoo and getting ice cream.”

“No, you’re not going. I won’t let you,” she blurted out as she punched the kid again.”

“I am going. Daddy gets to see me. And I am going to live with him. And you can never see me.”

The mom stared at Marc. “Why don’t you walk away? My daughter and I need to be alone.”

“No. Please help me. She’s only going to take me home and lock me in the closet. She won’t even let me out to go to the bathroom. The last time I had to go in my pants. And they were the new ones that daddy bought me,” she started to cry.

The woman reached into her purse and pulled out a makeup case. She lunged it at Marc. Onlookers were waiting for what was going to happen next. Someone called the police to report the woman. The 911 operator promised they’d get an officer over there right away.

Meanwhile, the enraged woman tossed more junk from her handbag at Marc.

Someone yelled over to him to see if she is ok. He didn’t hear that. His neck started bulging. His fingers got slightly longer, while the tips of them opened. He swallowed a few times. Then he began shooting date honey out of the openings in his fingers. The honey spattered all over the woman. He shot so much it was strangling her. She lost her grip on her daughter. The girl ran toward Marc. But he shot one more blurb of honey that knocked mom on her butt. The cops were arriving. The crowd made way for them to walk through. As they did, Marc walked away. They never even looked at each other. pomengrante

Pomegranate Man-Book 1

Marc woke up and said Modeh Ani, the wake up prayer. He slurped down a glass of Tropicana while wolfing down a bowl of Frosted Flakes. He put on a grey dress shirt, black pants and sneakers. He’d change into his dress clothes when he got to work.

He grabbed his bag containing his teffilin, talit and siddur and exited his apartment. He opened his shul and put on his religious materials and began to pray while awaiting a minyan.

Slowly folks strolled in. Prayers were said. People left.

Marc took off his kippah and went to the train. Marc is a good Jew. He doesn’t classify himself. He certainly isn’t a Chasidic or Ultra-Orthodox. But an observant person. Many people don’t even recognize him as a Jew. He looks like your typical New Yorker. Half the time he’s wearing his Yankee hat and t-shirt. The other times he’s in his usual Lacoste shirt and Gap jeans or dress pants.

He hopped on the train and went to Midtown to his office. He exited the M train and began to walk down Avenue of the Americas. The usual breakfast carts were bustling with customers. New Yorkers moved in their hurried way to them and raced to their offices.

Marc bumped into a friend on the way to his office. They chatted momentarily. “Hey, Marc Russo, what’s up my bud?”

“Nothing, Jimmy, you?”

“Marc I was invited for Pesach dinner at a friend’s house? What kind of wine do I need to bring?”

“Just make sure it is Kosher for Passover. To be safe get a bottle that is also mevushal. I doubt the people that invited you are ultra observant. I’m willing to bet they don’t know what mevushal means. But go that way to be safe. Bear in mind, we have so many dietary rules, we don’t even understand them all. Someone at the Seder might,” chuckled Marc. They fist bumped and went to their offices.

Marc’s friends ranged from Chasidic to secular Jews and people other faiths. He is always happy to explain customs to his friends. He’s a firm believer that understanding each other will promote a healthier lifestyle. Most goyim know of Chanukah, Rosh Hashanah and Pesach. But the reality is they really don’t understand the customs and meaning behind the holidays. Or Yom Tovs as Marc and his fellow Yids would say.

He got to his desk and tried to login. Of course, the network was down. That’s the routine in his office. He checked in with his IT buddy. He was told they expect to get things going in about 20 minutes. He waltzed over to the kitchen for a glass of water and grabbed an orange. from the fruit tray.

He did a little work. He put on his Yankees jacket and decided to jump on the train to get a haircut at lunchtime. The people he works for are clueless. He was sad when he saw the number of homeless on the train’s platform. And really disgusted when he saw a rat on the tracks. They usually come out in the evening. But the city so overrun that they come out anytime. Two late aged male teens started harassing a homeless man.

They started taunting him and laughing at him.

“Why don’t you kids shut up. If you only understood my situation maybe you’d have some sympathy,” blurted out the homeless man, who was about 30, frail with blonde hair.

The kids just teased him and said he’s probably a junkie.

“No, I’ve never touched drugs. A beer or a shot of Vodka once in a while, but I’ve done nothing else. My brother and uncle sexually abused me. When I spoke up about it, I was beaten and thrown out of the house. I’ve lived here and there all of my life.”

The teen huddled and one yelled out, “Great story sounds like a load of BS.” Then they opened a Coke and poured it all over him.

Marc was pissed. He hated the way these obnoxious have it all, never worked for anything kids acted. They were walking around with $1,000 iPhones and the latest in everything else.

“Why don’t you guys leave this poor soul alone and jump on the approaching train,” Marc bellowed out to the kids. “Shut up you dumb Yankee fan. Boston rules.”

Marc decided not for to get too crazy walked down the platform. He was surprised he even opened his mouth that much. He normally was not confrontational. He thought he was done with the chaos when a Coke bottle hit him in the head. He turned around and saw the belligerent kids approaching him.

“I’d get walk back to the other side of the platform if I were you guys. Or better yet, exit the station and forget about your little episode,”

“Why Yankee what are you going to do? There are two of us and we are bigger than you.”

“And stupider,” chuckled Marc.

The teens ran toward him. He moved away and they fell on fell on their butts. But were up quickly and readied themselves to throw punches at Marc. The taller kid tossed a punch. Marc blocked the punch. The other kid tried to kick Marc in the stomach.

Marc laughed harder. The two kids started screaming. A small crowd gathered. Someone dialed 911. But lost the connection on their iPhone. The crowd continued to gather. But no one approached any of the three. They were a captive audience. All had their phones out ready to shoot away. It says little about our society. That people would rather snap photos of criminals than trying to help the victim. But Marc was no victim.

The kids lunged at him. All of a sudden Marc tensed up, his muscle toned arms got bigger. His head started to shake. His huge legs stomped down on the platform. He quickly reached his enlarged left hand into the pockets of his jeans. In his hands was bright red oversized pomegranate. He held it up to the sky. Then he let it loose with the precision of a game closer waiting for the third out in the World Series. While airborne it split in half and nailed each kid in the knees. The kids fell down. One started to cry. He reached back into his pocket. As he reached in he heard the kids beg for mercy. Another pomegrante magically appeared. He wound up and let it loose. It nailed the first kid in the face and ricocheted off and smacked the one in the arm.

“Now boys, I think you’ve learned your lesson. Let this be a warning if you ever harass anyone, I will unleash the other weapons in my arsenal. I don’t want to get into fights. But I won’t stand for troubled people getting hurt.”

The kids nodded in acceptance. The R-train pulled in and those on the platform shoved their way on.

How hard is it to purchase sneakers?

10-23-17-SNEAKERSDSC_0004 copy

By Mitchell Slepian

My Asics have been gym worn for far too long. I have a tendency to fall in love with a pair of sneakers or be too lazy or cheap to go to the store and purchase a new pair.

I finally owned up to the fact that I’d get a better workout with new sneakers. I strolled into City Sports and saw the same pair I’ve been wearing for the last two plus years. See how long, I dragged this out?

I wanted more variety. But I knew, I needed Asics. They rock. So I walked to the Asics store across the street from Bryant Park. I found a few pairs that I fell in love with. I asked one of the sales associates a few questions. He answered and went to the next customer. I picked out a pair or two. Now keep in mind, I have a rule when it comes to sneakers. There is no need to spend much more than $70. Yeah, some of those $150 pairs are nice. Maybe they’d help me get a better workout. But I’d likely wreck them quickly. I train a lot.

I asked another sales associate if they had them in 6.5 or 7. Her jaw dropped. She said, “no, we start in 8.5”. I looked at a few other pairs with the price range I set for myself. Same deal. She did mention that a pair, which was way up high, is in the size I want. It was quite nice and cost $150. I said no way. She seemed to agree and recommended the Runners Shop, which is down the block. I was pissed. I tried a week ago in Modell’s. Same problem.

I went back to City Sports and asked for the pair I saw moments ago. I looked towards one of the higher shelves and saw another pair of Asics that were really nice and about $10 more than my price range. I said what the hell. I asked the sales associate to bring out both.

She said the pricier ones they only have in 13-14. Are they selling to Bigfoot? I suppose. They searched and searched. Eventually, they found the last pair in a 7. They were shocked they even carried that size. I didn’t need to try them on. But alas, I did. They fit perfectly. I paid and walked out. I now have a new pair of identical sneakers. Both were purchased at City Sports.

But boy was I pissed. I mean why can’t stores carry sizes for all people. I realize the smaller sizes may not sell as well. But can’t they carry some of them?A year ago, I went to Skechers. Their sneakers’ are great for hanging out. I was looking for that kind of shoe. The ditz in that store said, “These are really nice. But we I don’t think we have 6.5s or 7s. Let me check”. I patiently waited and she came back and said, “Why don’t you try these 8s.” I walked out. Thankfully, Skechers.com had the size I needed.

You know, I train almost daily. I can bench around 40-50 pounds above my weight. I run at 7 mph on the treadmill. I feel so discriminated against that these damn stores and shoemakers do nothing to accommodate me.

Anyway, as I walked down Ave. of the Americas with my new Asics, I passed a man carrying a bag full of cans and bottles that he likely got from rummaging through trash cans. I’m sure he only wishes his major piss offs were the failure of footwear companies and their merchants to make sneakers for those of us with small feet.

Yeah, I felt for the guy. Let’s face it if I wanted to buy the $150 Asics I could have. While this man put things into greater perspective, I must admit, I am still pissed that every time I go shoe shopping I encounter this issue.

Farewell: Larry Leshay and other scouting greats

By Mitchell Slepian

Yesterday, I had the sad occasion to attend the memorial service for a dear friend and mentor “Scouuuut” Larry Leshay. I first met Larry during the summer of 1983 when I went up to Chappy Hill, Ten Mile River Scout Camps (TMR). My parents drove me up to camp for the first time. We pulled into Kunatah and were given permission to drive on the dirt road over to Chappy.

We climbed muddy steps and went into the “Palace,” our camp’s office. There was Larry sitting at his desk with the camp bank and his Smith-Corona typewriter. I made the rounds of the first day of camp and went to sleep. Actually, I didn’t sleep. I never slept in camp.

The next morning, I woke up much earlier than wakeup call and sat at the picnic table adjacent to the Palace and Larry’s leanto (a three walled structure with screening on the front that served as our sleeping quarters). Larry was coming back from his morning shower. He saw me and said what are you doing here? I said, I got up early and came here. He decided I was a vampire. And let the other scouuuts know. From that morning on, I was Chappy’s vampire. That name stuck with me during my entire TMR experience. Last summer, at the reunion weekend, people were talking about the day I became a vampire.

Under Larry’s leadership, I spent the best years of my life on the Hill. I became a patrol leader, senior patrol leader and was on staff for two years. Larry and I had many adventures. During my early years in camp, I earned several merit badges from him. One winter, I mailed him merit badge work. I hand wrote it. Those were the days before everyone had a printer or could email it. I didn’t have a typewriter as 12 or 13 year-old. My penmanship is poor. Up until the day we lost Larry, he still reminded me of the struggle he went through to read my work. He said I understood the badge requirements but it took him days to figure out my writing.

Every Saturday, we would swim in the Delaware and Ten Mile Rivers. Most of us would hike to and from the rivers. Larry always got a ride in the “Whomobile” or whatever beat up auto served as the camp car. Once Larry got back to the site, we would often stroll down to Rock Lake and I would paddle him around in a canoe.

Eventually, I was one of the people driving him around for the camp food pick-ups at the Kunatah or headquarters dining halls or the rides out to Peck’s and other stores. One day in the “Truckster,” a beat up blue station wagon, I got so lost. We wound up in Hawley, along the Lackawaxen River in Wayne County, Pennsylvania. We laughed about that trip forever.

One of the finer things about Larry was his graciousness and love of his scouts or “little funkys” (he used to broadcast a weekly or daily show “Uncle Funky”). I used to play Meteu in the Order of the Arrow ceremonies. So did he. I did many ceremonies in TMR. Sometimes older scouters would stand the during the ceremonies with the scripts and penlights to see how the kids playing the roles were doing. Then after the ceremony, they’d tell you what mistakes you made. This infuriated Larry. None of these people ever did a ceremony and in most cases that was the first time they ever looked the script. Larry always let us know that. And let the kids know how well they did.

Our last summer was 1988, the OA’s highest honor, the Vigil was bestowed upon me three weeks before camp started. Every Wednesday night was OA night. We wore our sashes to the dining hall. Troops would line up and they would ask all of the Vigil members to march in first. There weren’t many. One night it was only Larry and me. Everyone knew being Vigil meant the world to me. Much more than being Eagle. Of course, Larry helped me reach Eagle. They asked all the Vigil members to walk in. I started walking and realized I was alone. Larry hid in the back with his sash. He knew what it meant to me to be the only Vigil to enter when they called us.

That summer ended a few weeks later. But our friendship went on to the end. I will always have him in my thoughts.

Larry’s passing leaves a huge hole in my soul. I feel like we have an empty bucket. A little more than three years ago, Dr. Karl Bernstein, Larry’s closest friend passed away. Karl was TMR. In 2016, Staten Island Scouter Marty Poller left us. Marty, a Meteu taught me the role and how to build the fire. He was Aqeuhongian Lodge. His guidance when I was chief is immeasurable.

My dad passed away shortly before these great scouts. Of course, he played a monumental role in my scouting career. He had a similar scouting history.

I feel empty. I cling so much to my childhood. I cherish the learning, love and fun times I had with all of them. Until we meet again. Keep the fire burning.