I think I would like to glow red hot

With madness

Something to talk about, you know?

Instead of forging conversation

Upon general concerns

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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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So it's been 2 weeks since my last post. What have I been doing?

• Starting a 'new' job - tutoring high school students in Math and Science... which is what I do during the year, but this time it's in a more structured environment.
• Figuring out for myself what femininity means. This might be a post of its own at some point. Or even a series of posts.
  
• I spent an awesome Shavuos (it's a Jewish holiday) at the Chabad of Chandler. And I've come to the conclusion that teaching from a text is like telling a story... the base part of it is there, but your audience likes flourishes... and that takes expressing yourself.
• ... it's hard for me to express myself in front of people I don't know.
• Arranging things such that I can go to yeshiva in July! I'm all registered and I just bought the plane tickets for it today! Woo!
  
• Being sick from a cold and thus staying home for Shabbos.
  

Look for more content from me in the coming weeks.

A child, two years old, will start a trek from the living room to outside, upon seeing an open door.

A parent, upon seeing this, will pick up the child and redirect them, causing the child to now sojourn in the safety of the house.

G-d seems to do this to me sometimes when I'm just about to say something.  The person I'm about to speak to will come up with some other topic, and before I know it I'm swept away from the direction I was going.

Yet, sometiems I do find my way outside.  And sometimes it is indeed scary.

I'm sick of thick jaw lines, masterbation and restriction,

I cannot voice my issues, as this ruler inhibits diction.

Schooling preaches insolence, I'm whoring for good grades,

If I pull an A in conformity, I can take a B in dropping blades.

This social scene of raging angst can't be blamed on hormones,

All I know in this sea of sweat is used condoms and pheramones.

So when I say I'll be home late, parents, don't fret or worry,

After I've strip danced to a good GPA, I'll blow college and be home in a hurry.

It's 11:23pm on Sunday, May 18, 2008.

I had a decent day.  However, I'd felt all day, even last night at 4am, that there was something special about the date.  Something that I couldn't quite put my finger on.  Someone's birthday.  A couple of you might know what I'm talking about already, but it took me until bedtime to realize that today was Paul McCartney's birthday.  He turned 66.

Those of you who are Beatles fanatics, and those of you who know how much of one I was, are probably wondering how I could forget.  Those of you who don't know are probably thinking "Who cares?" or are confused.  Basically, from 7th grade, all through high school, I was obsessed with The Beatles.  I checked out books about them from the library, wrote reports about them in school... the whole bit.  But slowly, it's fading.  It's been fading for several years, really.

I'm not who I was in middle school, and I'm not who I was in high school.

Growing up is weird.

Happy birthday, Paul.

DAMNIT now my sandwich is facedown on the floor, and all I know is how I lost the words I wrote before...

A perfect night for destruction, perhaps I'll stab you in the back,

A loss of appetite when my lunch leaks out from it's sack,

The loss of a friend once loyal, thrice missed and twice removed,

Be careful now, do you allow? his words flow unapproved....

I'm lying, preaching chastity, my belt is WAY too tight,

And when I'm done with prayer I'll spread my legs for you tonight,

'Cause in my black sketchbook, you stain my pages more and more,

Your blotting ink is no longer just a doodle I'll ignore.

So I'll paint my face and pierce my tongue, and preach till my palms are red,

Because the only reason for my faith in God is your movement in my bed.

Okay, so I finally joined ouropenmic.com after going to the live open mics each week this semester. For those of you who have come, you may know by now I am not particularly eloquent.... but then again, using the word eloquent just kind of makes me sound that way, doesn't it? Anyway, I figured what better way to improve my writing than to actually write, and what place would be better to do that very thing on other than this website. At least people can comment on how much it may suck, or if I actually write something worthwile. So this first blog will hopefully start a line of creative and interesting topics, and I hope I don't just end up making an ass of myself. Well, I guess that is really it. Farewell to all until my next blog.

About a week ago, I received a text message on my phone.  Pretty boring, right?  However, I don't have a text messaging plan, so every message I get charges me an extra 15 cents.  If it's someone I know,  it's mildly irritating, but at least there's a point to it.  This time, I was txtmsg'd spam.  Bad enough my email inbox gets spam, but for me to have to pay for it...!

So I got to thinking.  Okay, everything happens for a reason.  If G-d didn't want it to happen, it wouldn't happen.  

So why would G-d send me spam?

This time, it was garbled stock tips.  A month ago, it was picture-messages of porn.  I could make sense of the porn (don't ask--and whatever you're thinking, it's most likely wrong).  But stock tips?

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1. I think the real reason girls wear tight pants is to make it harder for guys to take them off.

2. Am I going to remember and appreciate all the wonderful people I met in the last month, year, years in Arizona when I leave?

3. I have so many personalities, I'm starting to forget who I am. There's Manic Elad, Depressed Elad, Yetzer Hora (Animalistic) Elad, Yetzer Tov (G-dly) Elad, there's Hitting On Girls Elad, there's Online Elad, there's Balanced Elad, there's Crazy Elad. If I found Plain Ol' Elad, would he just be added to that list?

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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.”

Did you get your tickets yet? 

To what?

The gun show of course. 

As you can see I don't wear sleeves anymore.

My biceps are just too monstrous.

Monsters.

Semis.

Boulders.

Stallions.

Jackhammers.

Samurais. 

 Kegs.

Monoliths.

Widowmakers.

These are just a few of the names people have used to describe my guns.

I  prefer pythons. 

Or  cannons. 

Or bazookas. 

Or dirigibles. 

Or Missles.

Or Bengalese tigers.

You want a piece of me?
Step off or
I will break you.

I'm hitting the gym 7X a week.

Curl.

Lift.

Flex.

Pose.

Repeat.

Which way is the beach?

Let me show you while I flex my guns.

Check me out. 

I'm cracking walnuts with my arms.

I'm Curling volksenwagen beetles.

My guns are mountains of muscly, sinewy striations of perfection.

So are you  going to give my arms a Squeeze or

am I going to have to give you a squeeze?

 

 

Here's one of my short scenes from the play...

Before one of the interviews with a woman from the Ultra-Orthodox movement, Chabad, I was helping her to cook for a Shabbat dinner. The theme was Jewish Chinese food and I was put in charge of making egg rolls. I had never made egg rolls before and neither had she and when I asked her what to do, she said just put in the carrots and cabbage, add what you think. Don’t worry. It will be delicious, Baruch Hashem. So I began to throw things together and made a pretty nice mix, but still didn’t feel completely comfortable. Don’t worry she said. They’ll be great, Baruch Hashem. And we kept working. And every time she came over to look at my progress she would say something and then without fail another “Baruch Hashem.” And it really got to me after a while. “But I was the one making the egg rolls!” I thought. This woman keeps saying “Baruch Hashem” “Baruch Hashem” What about me? Didn’t she appreciate that I was trying too? And eventually I finished them and tried one and it tasted great actually. Baruch Hashem! She exclaimed. And for some reason all of my anger melted away. This woman was seeing God in an egg roll and who am I to say that God isn’t there, that God wasn’t responsible? And you know what, everyone loved the egg rolls and after than Shabbat dinner there wasn’t one left. And I couldn’t help but think, Baruch Hashem.

Jewish Dictionary: **Baruch Hashem means something to the effect of "thank God" **

 

 

I’ve apologized to the sky

one thousand times

 

…I’m still haunted by your eyes

 

I left you buried in lies and

baptized after death with the tears I cried

but it’s no surprise;

God hasn’t replied since I’ve brought you to your demise

 

A smile to break

A child’s mistake

A lesson to be learned and a trial to face

 

Bled, love spend on nights served with

Red blood wet on white fur.

 

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