Tag: Rabbi

Fire

Marc and Alana went to celebrate Lag B’Omer. Marc built the fire. He was not pleased. He was a master fire builder. Too many super-religious folks got in his way. He was anxious and annoyed. But finally, some of the cute kids made him smile. Of course, Alana was there looking hot in her all-black clothes and makeup. The two of them do not like rabbis. Toss in HR and real estate people. Anyway, the rabbi had to play religious music. Alana had her iPhone cranking Joy Division and Bauhaus. The fire lasted. But not long enough. But too many people thought you just keep feeding and pouring olive oil on it. It was a comedy of errors. The food usually was delicious. Sadly, the temple screwed that up, too. It was so dry.

Marc lit the fire hung with his friends, and sat hand in hand with Alana. Many people were upset with them. They are not married. They will never wed. Marc, at one point, wanted to get Alana a ring. He knew that would end their relationship. He would need many sessions with the Woodsman if that happened. We know the Woodsman rarely comes out. The rabbi was selling candles and trying. Marc and Alana were in the back of the yard, hiding from everyone and acting like teens in love. Their lips were locked, and their hands were all over each other. You could hear the Cure and New Order cranking from Alana’s phone.

The two didn’t anticipate any fighting that night. They were ready. They always are. Anat was having a nicer Lag B’Omer on the Upper East Side. Ben and Gillil helped build the fire. Dan ran the grill. All was quiet. How long would it last?

The Naming

It was a warm Thursday morning. Anat debated about doing the naming at shul or in her apartment. She was not a fan of rabbis. Marc could not stand them. Anat could have easily gotten a nice Sephardi stand-up Torah in her apartment. But she thought of her grandmother, who was devoted to her volunteer work at her shul. So, she decided the naming would be there, and the party would be in her penthouse.

A decent-sized crowd headed into her shul. She was a member and donor. She just disliked going. The phoniness of many of the congregants made her nauseous. Dan got up the amud and davened shacharit. Marc took out the Torah. Dan was not super religious. But he knew the ropes. Dan and his beloved are both Kohanim. He read the Cohen aliyah. They called up Tzipora’s husband, Elan, a Levi, for the next reading. He knew it all. Jake did shlishi. With tears, Dan held up his little jelly and latke-shooting baby. The rabbi read the prayers, and his little bundle of joy was named, Gillil. Anat was in tears. She picked the name after her grandmother. She wished she was here to see her baby at her happiest time.

They exited the shul and went to her place for a delicious or, as some would say, lish feast of bagels, bialys, cream cheese, lox, sable, white fish, cookies, and cake. The Arak was flowing. Everyone gathered around Gilli. People were snapping images. The professional photographer was an old friend of Marc’s. He was so happy it was a dairy party, he offered his services at no cost. Gillil was calm. She has not had any incidents with her powers since her birthday. But Anat and Dan knew Gillil would be a handful. Marc and Alana were briefed on what she could do. They smiled and just waited.

Pomegranate 23 — Marc is hospitalized

Marc went to Staten Island to visit mom. She barbequed hamburgers and hot dogs for lunch. She had all kinds of salads.

She had honey cookies for dessert. I love honey cookies. “Hey, how come you didn’t add any barley or pomegranates to the salad,” he asked.

“Oh stay away from the cookies. Forgot about you and honey.”

“What?”

“You won’t remember. But when you were about three on Rosh Hashanah your grandmother had honey, pomegranates, barley and other stuff. You started eating it all and nearly died.”

She went out to tell him the story. This had been kept from him. His grandmother came around with all of his is so called weapons. He started eating them and turned bright red. He began to shake and become short of breath. His mom flipped out. Everyone figured it was an allergic reaction. He was panting and shook even more. His mom raced him outside to the car and took him to the ER.

He was triaged. The doctors kept him for a few days. He suffered from anaphylaxis and infant botulism. His little arms and legs grew hives and were swollen. His face was beet red. He was put on an IV. He was discharged. The end result was that honey caused the problem. He suffered allergic reactions to the barley and pomegranates. Apparently, the mixture of all three items was nearly deadly.

His mom never let him have these items again. He was told to not to eat them because he might be allergic. He had no memory of trying them again. He was wondering if this is what sparked his powers.

He emailed a trusted rabbi in the Old City. He knew he’d call him back. He always did. While he waited he kept thinking about what happened to him. He wanted to pull the medical records. Of course, this incident happened over 40 years ago. But he sent an email to the hospital.

The rabbi called him back. He opened by blessing Marc. They made some small chit-chat. Marc gave him an abridged synopsis of what was happening. The rabbi was very interested in this. He thought of some of the prophets. He told him he would check some Talmudic scriptures and get back to him. He blessed him again.

As they hung up the hospital records arrived on his phone.

 

 

 

 

 

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

Do we live for likes?

I reluctantly joined Facebook in 2008. I resisted for quite a while.  Then I got an invite email saying two of your friends are on Facebook.  The two were paired together. One was a very pretty ex-coworker, who looked like she was ready for the beach-bleached blonde hair, low cut shirt and shorts. The other was a Chasidic rabbi, dressed in the traditional wear-black hat, white shirt, long black coat and beard. Seeing the two of them together prompted me to join.

I remember my early days. I got annoyed when people would write, “I just sipped a diet Coke” or “I’m doing laundry.” Who cares?  I wrote about my dismay. Within minutes, dozens of friends wrote on my wall that they were doing laundry or having a Coke.

 

Posts from friends include political rants, photos of their dogs, children, deceased relatives, vacations, cars and more. Much more.

I have friends who’ve posted throwbacks from way before Facebook burst onto the scene and way before people were regularly online.  Some complained they were devastated because no one commented or liked their photos or statements.

I post plenty of photos. I want to get exposure for them. Some have been taken at events of groups I belong to. Most were shot in parks and on the street.  I get some likes, reactions and comments.  Do I care? Not really.

Some of my friends who received no likes or were not satisfied with the comments picked up the phone to tell me about their disappointment. I tried to console them. But it was to no avail.  They said they were either going to pull their photos. Or never post pictures again. My response was no one would care.  They didn’t get it.

I know certain posts will get over 100 likes within seconds. Days, even weeks later, these folks will still be reeling in the likes.  The “hot properties” are often reluctant to have their photos taken. They know they will wind up on someone’s wall and the post will be shared.  At times, I’ve posted photos featuring two or three of the most liked people in one shot.

But most of my photos get zero likes or comments.  I post because I like the work I produced.  Someone told me to take pride in my work.  I try.

I’ve never been upset or counted likes. I will admit at some events, I may take more photos of the top likable folks. That is done to promote the event and inspire more people to show their own work.

Well, if you like my thoughts great. No worries if you don’t.