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I was inspired to write a series of blogs about the view of women in Judiasm after studying Judaics for five weeks in NY. It really peaked my interest...

A couple of months ago an acquaintance of mine mentioned that he thought the morning blessing which states "Thank you G-d for not making me a woman." was chauvinistic. My reply to his statement was that this translation alone with out interpretation can be misleading. I told him that to most people who have not had the opportunity to learn about the morning blessings will more then likely take it the wrong way, but in reality there are a few ways of explaining this blessing that are not so un-P.C.

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hey guys...sorry i havn't posted in a really long time.

 

i'm in NY right now studying for a few more weeks (i've already been here for 3 weeks, hense the posting delay), and we have limited internet access. i will post something cool when i get back...perhaps my term paper i'm writing while i'm up here.

 peace

“ Hey Ren, you’ve got five minutes.” said Joe, the stage manager for Saturday Night Live. He nudged Ren’s shoulder encouragingly, and walked off to give the rest of the band their time cue. The cigarette Ren had been smoking was almost gone, but his nerves were still as shaky as they were when he first was told that his band, The Drones, would be playing S.N.L. He threw the remainder of his fix to the floor, and ground the heal of his black leather boot into the steaming ashes.
        Ren paced the stage wing, trying to keep his composure, but he could feel his heart in his throat, and his mind had left him. He had worked so hard for this: his chance to claim his rightful place in the pop culture universe. “Two minutes.” called Joe. This meant Ren had to collect himself, fast. He turned to his drummer, Randy. “We got this, don’t we?” Ren muttered, choking on his words. Randy flashed him a sly grin, and confidently replied “Yea, we got this.”
        “Show time. Good luck guys!” Joe announced in a volume that could be heard throughout the entire back stage area. Ren grabbed his guitar, and took a big gulp in the back of his throat. As he stepped out on to the stage, the florescent lights blinded him. The audience was roaring with anticipation of the brilliant performance they were about to see. Then Ren fell under the crowd’s trance, took the microphone, and started to…
        RIIIING…RIIIING…RIIIING. The phone in Ren’s three room apartment screamed. “Dude, where are you?” he heard Randy‘s voice from the other end of the line. Ren looked at the clock that hung on his living room wall. “Aww man…9:00...” he muttered worriedly. Ren hung up the phone, packed up his guitar, and took off for The Drones gig at the local grunge club.

 I wrote this for my friends from high school: Hannah, Josh (Joshi), Karin, Sarah (Sarita), and Ost.

 

    “Closing time…Open all the doors and let you out into the world.” Hannah and I sang to the sound of Semisonic’s Closing Time, which was playing on Joshi’s cell phone. We were sitting on the couch in Ost’s living room. In the background we could hear shotgun bangs that blasted from videogame Tom and Ost were enticed in. “Your frizzles going down fo sho, m’kaaaaay?” Ost randomly prattled at the bad guys on the T.V. screen. Sarita and Karin cuddled at the other end of the couch, listening to our voices as we continued to sing our favorite song.
    By definition a home is a shelter, but what it protects you from is not specified. I guess that means there can be many different ideas of what a home is. Some are concrete, like a house or an apartment. That is not the case for me. Mine is much more abstract in nature. It is not a physical object, but rather, a feeling. The tricky part finding what makes me feel that way. So the big question is not so much where my home is, it’s how I get there.
    “Closing time…time for you to go back to the places you will be from.” I heard Hannah’s beautiful voice harmonize with mine.“Closing time… this room won't be open 'til your brothers or your sisters come.” As I sat there surrounded by my best friends, all I could think about was how lucky I am.“So gather up your jackets, and move it to the exits… I hope you have found a friend. Closing time… every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.” We Kept singing while Ost protested “ Yeah, I know who I want to take me home. I know who I want to take me home. I know who I want to take me home. Take me home...” During that last verse of the song Hannah said something I will never forget. She smiled and sighed “I want Sami to take me home.”

 

The Rat Pack (remake of someone else's art I came across somewhere)

 

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I didnt actually take this photo, but I croped and edited it.

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A collaborative poem by open mic participants:

 

 

Sam:
It must have been fate that Elad the Great started Open Mic
Which Elates all of his Mates at Eddie’s here tonight
He’s done his part to make the web a place to voice your thoughts
So people can read and conceive instead of letting their minds rot
He’s shown us we can use the net as something powerful and bitchin’
For other things then finding porn to watch and choke the chicken
We think he’s Bomb we love his dreds and his innovation
So we each wrote a stanza to show our appreciation

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i made this short documentary sophmore year of high school...hope you all like it ;)

 

You know how people are always saying that you judge yourself by a more ridged set of standards than others do? I guess I've always ascribed to this theory, but only really applied it to small things like appearance or performance. An encounter with an old friend made me rethink this assumption.

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After every early dismissal of my middle school career my friends and I would walk half a mile down Thirty-second Street to Wendy’s. During that two-year span I can’t remember ever receiving my meal the way I ordered it. This was no doubt due to the lack of English speaking employees. Most of them could not speak English well enough to produce exactly what customers had ordered. Me and my buddies never cared much about this because 1) the only other restaurants in walking distance were much more expensive, and 2) none of us were old enough to drive anywhere else. But that was not the case for most of the other customers.
We had seen a lot of unhappy people walk out of Wendy’s. A non-English speaking employee would inevitably mess up an order, the customer would complain, and then the two would have a banter session. This was a fairly common occurrence, and, although slightly annoying, was somewhat entertaining. Even though a lot of these unsatisfied customers were angry upon their departure, one couple takes the cake as all time most pissed people to ever grace the Thirty-second Street and Shea Wendy’s with their presence.
This middle age couple had apparently made a very large purchase, which was served to them obscenely differently then they had ordered it. After sending it back three times in hopes of receiving what they had actually wanted, the husband threw a fit. He began barking profanities at the Wendy’s employee. Of course this was to no avail because said employee had no clue what he was saying. The man stomped off dragging his thoroughly confused wife out the exit door.
Watching the man get really ticked off had some extreme entertainment value, but I also soaked up some sociology from the incident. I determined that people just don’t know when to give up.
Letting small stuff slide is something most people have some real trouble with. It seems to me that many of us are so stubborn that, no matter how unimportant the issue may be, we can’t seem to drop it. I think people in general would be a lot happier if we could learn to, in the words of Mr. Kenny Rogers, “know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run.”