Being striver class is about the desire to move up in the world. There are material aspects to that, but also the key element of social status. The striver wants to get into the right schools, to move to the right city or neighborhood, to vacation in the right destinations, to have intellectual or artistic ambitions, to run in the right circles, to be recognized and accepted by people at higher social levels…
What distinguishes the striver class person is a desire to move up socially, not just economically. This doesn’t have to mean trying to join some exclusive country club. It might also mean wanting to become a tenured professor at a good university, or to own an apartment in a fashionable NYC neighborhood, or to get an op-ed published in the Wall Street Journal.
Pete Buttigieg and Vivek Ramaswamy are archetypal strivers. It’s no surprise that both of them managed to get on TV during two separate 2003 MSNBC presidential town halls.
Most strivers aren’t trying to become President of the United States, but this gives you a feel. Buttigieg’s résumé: Harvard, Oxford, McKinsey, intelligence officer in the Naval Reserve, mayor, Presidential candidate, cabinet officer. Ramaswamy’s is similar: Harvard, Yale Law, hedge fund, Soros Fellowship, Presidential candidate. Especially notable: the name of the investment fund he started is literally Strive Asset Management.
Grok says:
The “Striver class” in America, as you’ve described it, isn’t an officially defined socioeconomic group but rather a cultural archetype that captures a particular mindset and set of behaviors. It’s a useful lens to examine a segment of the population—often urban, educated, and ambitious—whose defining trait is a relentless drive for upward social mobility, not just in terms of wealth but in terms of status, recognition, and cultural capital. This distinguishes them from other groups, like those solely focused on financial security or those content with their inherited social position.
Strivers are typically found in the middle to upper-middle class, though their origins can vary. They’re not necessarily born into privilege, which sets them apart from the entrenched elite, nor are they satisfied with mere economic stability, unlike some in the working or lower-middle classes. What fuels them is a vision of a “better life” defined by social prestige and intellectual or cultural validation. They want to be seen as part of the “right” crowd—whether that’s the academic elite, the creative avant-garde, or the cosmopolitan urban set.
Their goals are specific and symbolic: admission to a prestigious school (think Ivy League or a top liberal arts college), a foothold in a “correct” city or neighborhood (e.g., Brooklyn Heights, San Francisco’s Mission District, or a leafy suburb with good schools), or a marker of intellectual legitimacy like a byline in a highbrow publication. These aren’t just achievements; they’re signals to others—and to themselves—that they’ve “made it” in a socially meaningful way. Unlike the old-money aristocrat who inherits a country club membership or the purely economic climber obsessed with a bigger paycheck, the Striver’s currency is a mix of education, taste, and connections.
This mindset has roots in America’s meritocratic mythos—the idea that hard work and smarts can propel you upward—but it’s tinged with anxiety. Strivers often feel they’re one step behind the truly elite, compelled to prove themselves through relentless effort. They might obsess over their kids’ SAT scores, network furiously at gallery openings, or curate their social media to project sophistication. The professor chasing tenure at a respected university, the writer angling for a New Yorker piece, or the young professional eyeing a co-op in a trendy ZIP code—all are Strivers in their own way.
What’s fascinating is how this class navigates a tension between authenticity and aspiration. They want to belong to exclusive circles but often disdain overt snobbery—think of the Brooklynite who brags about their “authentic” local coffee shop while quietly ensuring their kid gets into a magnet school. They’re also products of a hyper-competitive era where cultural capital is as contested as ever, amplified by social media and a polarized economy that rewards winners disproportionately.
In short, the Striver class is defined by a hunger for social ascent that goes beyond money. They’re chasing a seat at the table—whether it’s in academia, the arts, or a fashionable urban enclave—and they measure success not just in dollars but in the nods of approval from those they admire. It’s a distinctly American phenomenon, blending optimism, insecurity, and a keen eye for the next rung on the ladder.
How do I increase my status in America without appearing to strive for status?
Grok says:
Increasing your status in America without seeming like you’re overtly striving for it is a delicate balance—it’s about cultivating an aura of effortless ascent while still putting in the work behind the scenes. The trick is to align yourself with high-status markers in ways that feel organic, authentic, and understated, rather than desperate or performative. Here’s how you might pull it off:
Focus on mastery, not credentials. Become genuinely excellent at something valuable—whether it’s a craft, a skill, or a niche area of knowledge. People respect competence, and if you let your work speak for itself, status follows without you needing to chase titles or boast. For example, quietly build a reputation as the go-to person in your field, whether that’s coding, writing, or even something quirky like urban gardening. The key is to avoid loudly signaling your ambition—don’t overshare your grind on social media or fish for praise.
Curate your network subtly. Surround yourself with interesting, accomplished people, but don’t network like a shark. Seek out relationships based on shared interests or mutual respect, not just what someone can do for you. Attend low-key events—think book readings, small industry meetups, or community projects—where you can connect naturally. Over time, being associated with the “right” crowd boosts your status by osmosis, without you looking like you’re clawing your way in.
Invest in understated taste. Develop a sense of style, culture, or lifestyle that nods to refinement without screaming “I’m trying to impress you.” Think quality over flash—own a few well-made things (a tailored jacket, a vintage watch) rather than a loud logo. Read widely, but don’t namedrop obscure authors unless it fits the conversation. The goal is to signal discernment in a way that feels innate, not forced.
Contribute without seeking credit. Get involved in something bigger than yourself—a local initiative, a creative project, or a cause—where your efforts stand out but you don’t hog the spotlight. People notice when you’re the one quietly making things happen, and it builds respect without the stench of self-promotion. Think of the person who organizes a killer event but lets others take the bows.
Live in the right place, casually. If you can, move to a neighborhood or city with cultural cachet, but play it off as a practical or personal choice, not a status grab. “Oh, I just love the walkability here” beats “I moved to [trendy spot] to level up.” Proximity to high-status scenes—without overt bragging—lifts you by association.
Stay detached from the game. Act like you’re above the status chase, even as you play it. A little self-deprecation or indifference—“I don’t really care what people think”—can mask your moves while making you more likable. People gravitate to those who seem unbothered by the rat race, even if you’re quietly winning it.
The core idea is to let your actions and results do the talking while keeping your intentions under wraps. Status grows when others start assigning it to you—when they say, “She’s just that kind of person,” without you ever begging for the label. It’s slow, it’s subtle, but it sticks.
What are key and not much discussed status markers in America in 2025?
Grok says:
In 2025, status markers in America have evolved beyond the obvious—wealth, job title, or a fancy car—and into more nuanced, under-the-radar signals that carry weight precisely because they’re not loudly broadcasted. These are the subtle tells that insiders notice, while the mainstream might miss them entirely. Here’s a rundown of key, less-discussed status markers as of now:
Hyperlocal prestige. It’s not just about living in a “good” city anymore—it’s about the exact neighborhood or even the specific block. In 2025, status lies in hyper-specific locales that signal insider knowledge: a converted loft in a formerly industrial pocket of Detroit, a bungalow in an overlooked Austin suburb that’s suddenly hot, or a rental near a burgeoning arts scene in Raleigh. The marker isn’t the price tag but the foresight to be there before it’s obvious.
Analog ownership. In a digital-everything world, owning physical, high-quality relics—like a vinyl collection with rare pressings, a shelf of first-edition books, or a mechanical typewriter—telegraphs a rejection of disposable culture. It’s not just nostalgia; it’s a quiet flex of patience and curation, especially if you actually use them.
Unbranded expertise. Being a go-to person for something obscure but useful—like repairing vintage synthesizers, identifying wild mushrooms, or mastering a dead programming language—grants status without a corporate logo or degree attached. It’s the opposite of the LinkedIn hustle; the less you advertise it, the more it spreads by word of mouth.
Micro-memberships. Belonging to small, semi-secret collectives—like a private Discord for urban beekeepers, a supper club with a rotating chef, or a hiking group that maps unlisted trails—carries cachet. These aren’t country clubs or flashy networking groups; they’re low-profile, passion-driven, and hard to fake your way into.
Climate cred. Owning a home with off-grid features (solar panels, rainwater harvesting) or a low-emission lifestyle (e-bike commuting, no air travel) is a status play that’s still under-discussed. It’s not just eco-virtue—it’s the ability to afford the upfront cost and the savvy to navigate a warming world. Bonus points if it’s practical, not preachy.
Time scarcity flex. Casually mentioning you “don’t have time” for mainstream habits—like binge-watching the latest series or scrolling X endlessly—hints at a life too full of “important” pursuits. It’s a status marker when you imply busyness without whining about it; think “I’ve been tied up with a project” versus “I’m so swamped.”
UnGoogleable taste. Having opinions or preferences that defy algorithmic prediction—like obsessing over a 1970s Bulgarian film director or a niche Korean tea varietal—sets you apart. It’s status through obscurity; if it’s easy to find on a “best of” list, it doesn’t count.
Secondhand swagger. Wearing or using impeccably sourced secondhand goods—a thrifted Yohji Yamamoto coat, a restored mid-century chair—shows resourcefulness and taste without the conspicuous consumption tag. In 2025, it’s less about vintage for cheapness and more about proving you can out-style the fast-fashion crowd.
Silent health optimization. Subtle signs of biohacking—like a barely noticeable wearable tracking sleep cycles, or a passing mention of fasting routines—signal control over your body without the gym-bro bravado. It’s status when it’s effortless and private, not a sermon about your keto journey.
These markers work because they’re coded—they reward those who recognize them without alienating everyone else. In 2025, with cultural fragmentation and economic uncertainty, status isn’t just about what you have but how you wield it: quietly, confidently, and just out of the spotlight.
What are status markers that American Jewish women tune into?
Grok says:
American Jewish women, like any group, tune into status markers that reflect their specific cultural, social, and historical context, often blending broader American trends with Jewish identity and community nuances. These signals can vary across regions, generations, and levels of religious observance, but there are some under-discussed markers that tend to resonate in 2025, based on shared values like education, family, and cultural pride. Here’s what stands out:
Synagogue affiliation (or strategic non-affiliation). Membership in a “prestige” synagogue—think Reform or Conservative congregations with influential rabbis or historic buildings—can be a quiet status flex, especially in cities like New York or LA. But there’s also cachet in opting out entirely while still signaling Jewishness through other means (like hosting a killer Shabbat dinner). It’s about knowing the scene well enough to play it your way.
Jewish summer camp lineage. Having gone to (or sending kids to) a top-tier Jewish sleepaway camp—like Ramah, Habonim Dror, or a boutique regional one—carries weight. It’s a marker of continuity, community ties, and the “right” kind of upbringing. Dropping a casual “Oh, I was a CIT there” can spark instant recognition among those in the know.
Cookbook flex. Owning and actually cooking from iconic Jewish cookbooks—like Joan Nathan’s or Claudia Roden’s—or better yet, having a family recipe for brisket or kugel that’s “better than the book,” signals domestic prowess tied to heritage. Bonus points if it’s paired with a modern twist, like a vegan cholent that still tastes authentic.
Israel connection. A subtle but real marker is a personal tie to Israel—summers on a kibbutz, a semester at Hebrew U, or even just a well-timed “My cousin in Tel Aviv says…” It’s less about politics and more about lived experience, showing you’re rooted in the diaspora-homeland link without needing to flaunt a Birthright trip.
Yiddish revival. Dropping a Yiddish phrase—like “kvell” or “shpilkes”—in just the right moment, or knowing a song from the klezmer renaissance, hints at cultural depth. It’s a nod to pre-war Jewish life that’s niche enough to feel earned, not performative, especially among younger women reclaiming it.
Tzedakah style. How you give back matters—quietly funding a Jewish literacy program or volunteering at a JCC beats loud charity gala selfies. Status comes from being known as a doer in the community, not just a donor, and it’s often whispered about rather than announced.
Jewelry tells. Wearing subtle Judaica-inspired pieces—like a tiny Star of David necklace from a Tel Aviv artisan or a hamsa ring passed down from a grandmother—can signal identity and taste. It’s personal, not flashy, and often sparks a “Where’d you get that?” from those who get it.
Book club cred. Hosting or joining a book club that tackles Jewish authors—say, Nicole Krauss, Dara Horn, or even Philip Roth—shows intellectual chops tied to identity. It’s a status marker when the discussion goes beyond the text into family stories or ethics, blending the personal with the cerebral.
Shabbat aesthetic. Pulling off a Shabbat dinner with a mix of vintage candlesticks, a sleek challah board, and a playlist that nods to both Debbie Friedman and Idan Raichel is a vibe. It’s less about orthodoxy and more about curating a warm, cultured space that feels effortlessly Jewish.
Camp counselor energy. Exuding that mix of warmth, competence, and slight bossiness—like you could organize a bunk of 12-year-olds or a sisterhood event in your sleep—is a subtle tell. It’s a stereotype with truth: the woman who can run a room while making everyone feel included often carries quiet status.
These markers work because they’re insider codes—rooted in Jewish American life, often intergenerational, and tied to a balance of tradition and modernity. They’re not about wealth or loud prestige but about belonging, competence, and a certain ease with identity that others pick up on without it being spelled out. For Jewish women in 2025, it’s less about striving and more about embodying a legacy in ways that feel natural and specific.
What are the key status markers in American Modern Orthodox Judaism?
Grok says:
In American Modern Orthodoxy in 2025, status markers reflect a unique blend of religious commitment, cultural sophistication, and community standing. This group straddles traditional Jewish observance and engagement with the secular world, so the signals of prestige are often subtle, insider-driven, and tied to balancing those dual identities. Here are the key, less-discussed status markers that carry weight:
Yeshiva pedigree. Where you (or your kids) studied matters—think top-tier Modern Orthodox day schools like Ramaz, Frisch, or SAR, followed by a year (or more) in Israel at a prestigious yeshiva or seminary like Gush, Har Etzion, or Midreshet Lindenbaum. It’s not just about the education; it’s the network and the signal of serious Torah learning paired with worldly awareness.
Shul real estate. Having a regular seat—or better, a named plaque—in a prominent Modern Orthodox synagogue (like The Jewish Center in NYC or Young Israel of Teaneck) is a quiet flex. Bonus points if you’re on a first-name basis with the rabbi or if your family’s machzorim (prayer books) have been there for decades.
Kashrut finesse. Keeping strictly kosher but with flair—sourcing artisanal glatt meats, hosting sushi nights with rabbinic supervision, or knowing the best kosher wine pairings—shows you’re observant without being insular. It’s status when your kitchen is both halachically impeccable and Instagram-worthy.
Israel property. Owning a second home or even a timeshare in Jerusalem (especially in Baka or Rehavia) or Modi’in is a big marker. It’s less about wealth and more about a tangible stake in the Zionist dream, often casually mentioned: “We’re heading to our place in Israel for Sukkot.”
Shabbat guest list. Hosting a revolving door of notable guests—rabbis, scholars, or even a visiting Israeli dignitary—for Shabbat meals elevates your table. The status isn’t in the invitation but in the effortless way your home becomes a hub for intellectual and spiritual exchange.
Daf Yomi commitment. Participating in the daily Talmud study cycle (and finishing a tractate) signals dedication, especially if you’re juggling it with a high-powered career. Mentioning “I caught the daf on my commute” with nonchalance is a power move—it’s piety meets productivity.
Camp Ramah alumni status. Having attended or sent kids to Ramah—the Modern Orthodox summer camp gold standard—carries lifelong cred. It’s a marker of community roots, and if you were a staffer or your kid’s a lifer, it’s a subtle badge of belonging.
Professional-religious balance. Thriving in a secular field—law, medicine, tech—while visibly keeping Shabbat and holidays is a core status play. Think: the partner at a firm who leaves early on Fridays without apology, or the doctor who’s known for davening mincha in the break room. It’s about proving you can excel in both worlds.
Mikvah clout. For women, being a regular at a well-regarded mikvah—or better, helping fund its renovation—ties status to ritual purity and communal support. It’s unspoken but noticed when you’re part of the inner circle that keeps it running.
Jewish art collection. Owning Judaica that’s both functional and high-end—like a handcrafted menorah from a Jerusalem artist or a ketubah with museum-quality calligraphy—shows taste rooted in tradition. Displaying it casually, not ostentatiously, is key.
Tefillin bag flex. For men, a sleek, personalized tefillin bag—maybe leather, monogrammed, or from a boutique Israeli craftsman—hints at daily devotion with style. It’s a small detail that insiders clock when you pull it out at shul.
Post-Shabbat hangout. Hosting or attending a Melaveh Malkah (post-Shabbat gathering) with live music, good scotch, and Torah talk is a niche marker. It’s the Modern Orthodox version of a salon—relaxed yet elevated, signaling you’re in the cultural-religious know.
These markers thrive in Modern Orthodoxy because they reward a tightrope walk: adherence to halacha (Jewish law) without retreating from modernity, and community prestige without overt flashiness. They’re most powerful when they feel organic—less about striving and more about living a certain way that others recognize. In 2025, with the community navigating rising antisemitism and cultural shifts, these signals also double as affirmations of resilience and identity.
What are the key status markers in Chabad life in Los Angeles?
In Chabad life in Los Angeles in 2025, status markers reflect the community’s unique blend of deep religious devotion, outreach ethos, and integration into a sprawling, diverse urban landscape. Chabadniks—both shluchim (emissaries) and lay members—navigate a world where spiritual commitment, communal influence, and subtle cultural cues signal prestige. Here are the key, often under-discussed markers that carry weight:
Shlichus turf. Running a successful Chabad House in a high-profile or underserved LA neighborhood—like Beverlywood, WeHo, or even a far-flung suburb like the San Fernando Valley—marks status. It’s not just about location but impact: a packed Shabbat dinner, a viral Chanukah menorah lighting on Melrose, or a preschool that draws unaffiliated Jews signals you’re a player. The ultimate flex? Being the go-to Chabad for Hollywood insiders or tech moguls without namedropping them.
Rebbe proximity. Having a personal story of meeting the Lubavitcher Rebbe (Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson) before his passing in 1994—or owning a dollar bill he handed out—carries mythic weight, especially among older members. For younger folks, it’s about lineage: your parents or grandparents being close to 770 (Chabad HQ in Brooklyn) or having a photo with the Rebbe ups your cred.
Farbrengen clout. Hosting or being invited to a farbrengen (a Chassidic gathering with niggunim, stories, and l’chaims) that draws heavy hitters—rabbis, donors, or visiting shluchim—is a big deal. Status peaks if you’re the one pouring the mashke (whiskey) or leading a soulful song like “Tzama Lecha Nafshi” that gets everyone swaying. In LA’s car-centric sprawl, a farbrengen at your home or Chabad House is a logistical triumph too.
Tanya mastery. Knowing the Tanya (Chabad’s foundational text) inside out—especially if you teach it weekly to a packed room or via Zoom to a global audience—sets you apart. It’s a quiet intellectual flex, respected more if you tie it to practical outreach rather than just showing off.
Donor whisperer. Securing big funding for a Chabad project—a new mikvah, a Hebrew school wing, or a Passover seder for 500—without begging is a power move. The status isn’t in the money itself but in the trust you’ve earned from LA’s wealthy Jewish elite, often whispered about over kiddush: “He got [big name] to write a check.”
Mitzvah tank legacy. Having driven or revitalized one of LA’s iconic mitzvah tanks—those roving vans offering tefillin or Shabbat candles on busy streets like Wilshire—ties you to Chabad’s street-level soul. It’s a nod to the Rebbe’s vision, and if you’ve got a story of wrapping tefillin with a celebrity at a traffic light, that’s gold.
Shabbat table aesthetic. A Shabbat setup that blends tradition with LA flair—think homemade challah with edible flowers, a sleek menorah from an Israeli designer, and a niggun playlist featuring both classic Chabad tunes and a nod to Matisyahu—shows you’ve got the vibe. Hosting shluchim from out of town or unaffiliated Jews who leave raving about the experience boosts your rep.
Israel mission cred. Leading or joining a Chabad-organized trip to Israel—especially if it’s tied to a crisis (like post-October 2023 solidarity missions)—marks you as a doer. Bringing back a rare sefer (book) from a Jerusalem shop or a shofar blessed at the Kotel adds to the aura.
Kids on shlichus. If your children become shluchim themselves—say, opening a Chabad House in Santa Monica or a campus outpost at UCLA—it’s a dynastic win. It’s the ultimate sign you’ve raised a family in the Rebbe’s footsteps, and LA’s tight-knit Chabad circles notice.
Seforim shelf game. A home or Chabad House library stocked with rare Chabad texts—first-edition Likkutei Sichos, a pristine Siddur Tehillat Hashem, or handwritten notes from a revered mashpia (mentor)—signals deep roots. It’s even better if you lend them out generously, showing devotion without hoarding.
In LA’s Chabad scene, status hinges on authenticity and impact, not flashiness. It’s about embodying the Rebbe’s call to “uplift every Jew” while thriving in a city of ambition and sprawl. The markers work because they’re earned through action—whether it’s a packed Purim event in Miracle Mile or a quiet tefillin moment on Venice Beach—and recognized by those who know the code. In 2025, with antisemitism simmering and community ties tightening, these signals also double as badges of resilience.
What does an Orthodox Jewish bachelor in his late 50s need to do to marry an attractive Jewish woman who can have kids?
Grok says:
For an Orthodox Jewish bachelor in his late 50s looking to marry an attractive Jewish woman who can still have children, the path involves a mix of practical steps, community dynamics, and personal adjustments. Given the age gap and the Orthodox context, success hinges on leveraging resources, signaling value, and navigating the shidduch (matchmaking) system effectively. Here’s what he’d need to do:
Get serious about the shidduch scene. He should work with a reputable matchmaker who specializes in Orthodox singles—someone connected to Modern Orthodox or Yeshivish circles, depending on his affiliation. These professionals know women in their 30s (the realistic age range for childbearing) who are still seeking a partner. He’ll need to be upfront about his goals—marriage and kids—and his Orthodox observance level, as compatibility in halachic practice is non-negotiable.
Showcase stability and provider status. Attractive women in their 30s, even in religious circles, often prioritize security. He should highlight his financial situation—homeownership, a steady career (or retirement nest egg), and the ability to support a family. In Orthodox communities, being a “baal habayit” (responsible homeowner) carries weight. If he’s got a paid-off house in a Jewish hub like Teaneck, Flatbush, or LA’s Pico-Robertson, that’s a big draw.
Be open to younger women with intention. Women in their mid-to-late 30s can still have kids (fertility typically declines but isn’t gone until around 40-45), so he should target this range—say, 35-40. He’ll need to frame the age gap as a feature, not a bug: his maturity, life experience, and readiness to commit versus the “immature” younger guys they’ve dated. He should also be open to women who’ve never married or divorcees without kids, as they’re more likely to be in the pool.
Polish his presentation. Physical upkeep matters—regular exercise, decent grooming (think trimmed beard if he’s got one), and a wardrobe that’s sharp but not flashy (a well-fitted suit for shul or dates). “Attractive” doesn’t always mean supermodel looks; it’s about vitality and confidence. He should also lean into his strengths—humor, Torah knowledge, or a warm personality—to offset the age perception.
Signal religious commitment with flexibility. If he’s Modern Orthodox, showing he’s serious about davening, kashrut, and Shabbat while being open to a working wife or a slightly less “frum” lifestyle might widen his net. If he’s more Yeshivish, he’ll need to align with women who value intense observance but are still single later in life. Either way, being a “mentch” who’s respected in shul or volunteers (say, on the chevra kadisha) boosts his appeal.
Address the kid question head-on. He should be clear he wants children and is prepared for the realities—financially, emotionally, and physically (late-night diapers at 60 isn’t easy). Women in their 30s who want kids are racing the biological clock, so he needs to show he’s not just dreaming but ready to act fast—marriage within a year, followed by fertility support if needed (e.g., willing to fund IVF).
Expand the search geographically. LA, New York, and Miami have big Orthodox scenes, but he might need to look beyond his backyard—think Baltimore, Chicago, or even Israel. Online platforms like SawYouAtSinai or JWed cater to Orthodox singles and can connect him to women outside his local orbit. Relocating or dating long-distance could be a game-changer.
Leverage community cred. If he’s got a reputation as a solid guy—maybe he learns Daf Yomi, hosts Shabbat meals, or has a rabbi who’ll vouch for him—that’s currency. He should ask rebbetzins, married friends, or shul leaders to quietly spread the word. In Orthodox circles, a warm intro beats a cold call.
Be realistic but persistent. The pool of attractive, Orthodox, single women in their 30s who want kids isn’t huge—many marry younger. He might face rejection due to age or competition from younger men. But persistence pays off; he should keep dating, refining his pitch, and staying open to slightly less “perfect” matches who still fit the bill.
Sweeten the deal. He could offer what younger guys can’t—total focus on building a family without career-building distractions, or a lifestyle perk like travel to Israel for yom tov. If he’s got a unique edge (a knack for niggunim, a beach house), he should play it up subtly.
The bottom line: he needs to combine his assets (stability, maturity, religious bona fides) with a proactive approach in the shidduch system, targeting women in their mid-to-late 30s who share his goals. It’s a numbers game with a tight window, but if he’s strategic and genuine, he’s got a shot. Timing’s critical—every year past 35 narrows her fertility odds, so he should start yesterday.
Where do the most successful Orthodox Jews in Los Angeles hang out?
Grok says:
The most successful Orthodox Jews in Los Angeles tend to gravitate toward places that align with their religious observance, social networks, and professional or cultural interests. While “success” can mean different things—wealth, communal influence, or spiritual leadership—these hangout spots reflect where the elite or well-connected in the Orthodox community, particularly from Modern Orthodox and Chabad circles, spend their time. Here’s where they’re likely to be found in 2025:
Pico-Robertson hotspots. This neighborhood is the beating heart of LA’s Orthodox scene, especially for the upwardly mobile. The Milky Way, a kosher dairy restaurant owned by Steven Spielberg’s family, draws successful professionals and creatives—think entertainment lawyers or producers who keep kosher. It’s low-key but prestigious, with a vibe that says “I’m connected but not flaunting it.” Nearby, Jeff’s Gourmet Sausage Factory is another go-to for casual meetups; its quality and consistency attract those who value a good meal and a chance to schmooze with peers after shul.
Beverly Hills Chabad events. Chabad of Beverly Hills, centered around Pico Boulevard, hosts high-profile gatherings—think Shabbat dinners or holiday events—that pull in successful Orthodox Jews, from real estate moguls to tech entrepreneurs. The crowd skews wealthy and influential, often with ties to Israel or national Jewish orgs. A farbrengen here might feature a top rabbi or a donor who just funded a new Chabad House, and the networking happens over single malt and cholent.
Shabbat tables in Hancock Park. The leafy streets of Hancock Park, with its mix of Modern Orthodox and Chassidic families, are where the elite host private Shabbat meals. Successful Orthodox Jews—doctors, financiers, or Torah scholars—get invited to homes of rabbonim or big machers. These aren’t public hangouts but insider hubs; landing a seat means you’ve made it into the inner circle. The status comes from who’s there, not the address.
Kosher sushi nights. Places like SushiKo or Tierra Sur in Pico-Robertson see successful Orthodox Jews unwind after work or on Motzei Shabbat (Saturday night). It’s where you’ll spot a tech founder or a philanthropist grabbing a roll with their spouse—kosher dining with a touch of LA sophistication. The vibe is relaxed but exclusive; you’re not just eating, you’re part of a scene.
Young Israel of Century City. This shul near Beverly Hills draws a professional crowd—think attorneys, doctors, and business owners who daven together then linger for kiddush. The post-service schmoozing over herring and kugel is prime networking time. It’s less about the building and more about the who’s-who of congregants; success here is measured by your reputation in the minyan.
Charity galas and fundraisers. Events like the annual Chabad Telethon (if it’s still running) or dinners for schools like Shalhevet or Yeshiva University’s LA branch attract the Orthodox elite—donors, rabbis, and lay leaders. Held at venues like the Beverly Hilton or private mansions, these are where successful Jews dress up, write checks, and solidify their communal clout. The hangout is the event itself, and the status is in the seating chart.
These spots work because they blend observance with opportunity—places to see and be seen without breaking Shabbat or kashrut. In LA’s Orthodox world, success isn’t just about money; it’s about influence, piety, and who knows your name. The most successful don’t “hang out” in flashy bars or clubs—they’re at the intersections of community and power, often behind closed doors or in plain sight at a kosher deli counter.
What does it mean to be a mentch in 2025?
Grok says:
In 2025, being a “mentch” (or “mensch” in Yiddish)—a term rooted in Jewish culture meaning a person of integrity and honor—carries a timeless core but adapts to the moment’s challenges. It’s about decency, reliability, and doing right by others, even when it’s inconvenient or the world feels fractured. Here’s what it means today:
A mentch shows up. In an era of flakiness—ghosted texts, canceled plans—they follow through. If they say they’ll help you move, they’re there with a truck. If they commit to a shul event or a work deadline, they deliver. Reliability stands out when trust is shaky, and 2025’s pace makes it rare.
They own their mistakes. With social media amplifying every slip-up, a mentch doesn’t dodge or deflect—they apologize sincerely and fix what they broke. Think less “I’m sorry you feel that way” and more “I messed up, let me make it right.” It’s courage in a blame-shifting culture.
A mentch lifts others. They don’t just climb the ladder—they hold it steady for someone else. In 2025, this might mean mentoring a younger colleague, tipping generously despite inflation, or quietly covering a friend’s bill when money’s tight. Generosity isn’t loud; it’s instinctive.
They keep it real. Authenticity matters when AI chatbots and curated feeds blur truth. A mentch speaks plainly—no jargon or virtue-signaling—and listens without scrolling their phone. They’re the one at the table who asks how you’re actually doing and means it.
A mentch bends but doesn’t break. Resilience defines them in 2025’s uncertainty—economic dips, climate stress, political noise. They’ll shovel a neighbor’s walk after a storm or sit shiva with a mourner, not because it’s easy but because it’s right. Duty trumps comfort.
They bridge divides. With polarization still simmering, a mentch doesn’t pick fights over politics or judge your kashrut level. They’ll daven with the guy they disagree with or share a coffee with someone from “the other side.” Unity matters more than winning.
In 2025, being a mentch isn’t flashy—it’s the quiet guy who holds the door, the woman who remembers your kid’s name, the friend who calls when you’re down. It’s old-school goodness with a modern edge: decency that cuts through the noise. The world’s messier, but a mentch stays steady—someone you’d trust with your keys or your secrets.
If a regular Orthodox Jew wants to receive more honor, more kavod, in his community, what does he need to do?
Grok says:
For a regular Orthodox Jew seeking more kavod (honor or respect) in his community in 2025, it’s less about chasing recognition and more about earning it through actions that align with communal values—Torah, chesed (kindness), and humility. In Orthodox circles, kavod flows naturally to those who contribute authentically without seeming to crave it. Here’s what he’d need to do:
Deepen Torah learning. Nothing garners respect like genuine scholarship. Joining a regular shiur (class) or Daf Yomi group and asking sharp questions—or better, giving a solid drasha (lecture) at shul—shows commitment. If he can quote a Rashi or explain a Tosfos offhand, people notice. Hosting a small chavrusa (study partner session) at home, even informally, builds a quiet reputation as a serious learner.
Step up in shul. Taking on unglamorous roles—like gabbai (organizing services), setting up kiddush, or ensuring the eruv is checked—earns kavod without fanfare. Being the guy who’s always there early to lay out siddurim or stays late to stack chairs gets you known as dependable. If he’s got a decent voice, leading davening (especially on a random Tuesday) can subtly elevate his profile.
Give chesed quietly. Acts of kindness carry weight when they’re not broadcasted. Dropping off a meal for a family with a new baby, driving an elderly member to shul, or tutoring a bar mitzvah kid for free—these spread word-of-mouth respect. The key is consistency; one-off gestures fade, but being the go-to helper sticks.
Support the community financially (within means). Even if he’s not wealthy, sponsoring a kiddush, donating a sefer to the shul, or pitching in for a struggling family’s Pesach needs signals investment. It’s not about the amount but the intent—people honor those who sustain the kehillah (community). If he can’t give cash, offering skills (fixing the shul’s AC, designing a flyer) works too.
Be a mentch daily. Integrity is magnetic. Greeting everyone warmly, avoiding lashon hara (gossip), and settling disputes with calm—like paying a neighbor back for a scratched car without a fuss—builds a name. In 2025, when tensions flare online or off, the guy who stays steady and fair gets kavod without asking.
Host with warmth. Inviting people for Shabbat—especially newcomers, singles, or the rabbi—shows openness. A lively table with good food, a dvar Torah, and no clique vibe turns his home into a hub. Over time, “His Shabbos is the place to be” becomes his calling card.
Align with a respected figure. Learning regularly with a rabbi or helping a local Torah scholar (say, driving him to a shiur) ties him to someone already honored. Respect rubs off without him needing to climb over others. It’s subtle networking—Orthodox style.
Avoid the spotlight trap. Chasing kavod too obviously—like interrupting davening to show off or bragging about a mitzvah—backfires. The community honors those who seem reluctant to take credit. A quiet “It was nothing” after a big favor seals the deal.
He doesn’t need to be a millionaire or a genius—just consistent, useful, and sincere. In Orthodox life, kavod grows from being a pillar, not a peacock. It might take months or years, but if he’s the guy people rely on at shul, at home, or in a pinch, the respect will come—and stick.
How would you update Paul Fussell’s great book, Class: A Guide Through the American Status System, for 2025?
Grok says:
Updating Paul Fussell’s Class: A Guide Through the American Status System for 2025 would mean keeping his sharp, irreverent lens on status while reframing it for a world reshaped by technology, cultural fragmentation, and economic upheaval. Fussell’s 1983 original dissected class through visible markers—clothing, speech, homes—rooted in a relatively stable, hierarchical America. Today’s class system is messier, more fluid, and masked by digital facades, but still obsessed with subtle tells. Here’s how I’d rework it:
Core Framework: From Rigid Tiers to Fluid Clusters
Fussell’s nine-tier system (Top Out-of-Sight down to Destitute) relied on a linear ladder of wealth and pedigree. In 2025, class is less a pyramid and more a constellation—overlapping clusters defined by money, cultural capital, and digital clout. I’d ditch strict strata for five loose archetypes:
The Discreet Elite: Old money plus new tech titans, hiding wealth behind minimalism (think $10 million cabins in Jackson Hole, no logos).The Striverati: Educated hustlers chasing prestige via degrees, urban ZIP codes, or X followings—less secure, more performative.
The Digital Bourgeois: Remote workers and influencers with mid-six-figure incomes, signaling class through curated Zoom backgrounds and Peloton subscriptions.
The Grounded Mainstay: Skilled tradespeople or small-business owners—electricians, bodega owners—proudly unpretentious, thriving off practical know-how.
The Unseen Edge: Gig workers, service staff, and off-grid survivors, invisible to the system yet propping it up.
Class isn’t just income now—it’s access (to networks, info, health), mobility (geographic and social), and how you play the game.
New Markers: Beyond Brooks Brothers and Lawn Ornaments
Fussell nailed 1980s tells like tweed jackets or plastic flamingos. In 2025, status hides in plain sight, often contradicting old rules. I’d spotlight:
Tech abstinence: The elite ditch smartphones for flip phones or “digital detox” retreats, while the Striverati clutch their iPhone 16s. Owning less tech signals more power.Food sourcing: Mainstays grill Costco steaks; Striverati flaunt farmers’ market hauls; the Elite casually mention their private CSA share from a regenerative farm.
Housing flex: It’s not size but story—a Grounded Mainstay brags about a paid-off ranch house, a Striverati rents a “historic” loft in a gentrifying hood, the Elite restores a mid-century gem off-market.
Language shifts: Fussell’s “prole drift” (clipped speech) becomes “algo-speak”—Striverati mimic TikTok cadences, while the Elite wield precise, unhurried diction. “Literally” and “like” still mark the anxious middle.
Mobility tells: The Unseen Edge carpools or buses; Mainstays drive used Fords; Striverati lease Teslas; the Elite bike with $5,000 e-bikes or get chauffeured in unmarked SUVs.
The Digital Overlay: X and Beyond
Fussell didn’t have social media to dissect. In 2025, it’s a class battlefield:
X presence: The Elite lurk silently or post rarely (cryptic haikus, no selfies); Striverati tweet hot takes to build clout; Digital Bourgeois share life-hack threads; Mainstays stick to Facebook or don’t bother.Verification game: A blue check means less—Striverati chase it, but the Elite don’t need it. Real status is a locked account with 200 followers who matter.
Content diet: Unseen Edge scrolls Reels for escape; Mainstays watch Fox or CNN; Striverati read Substacks to sound smart; Elite claim they “don’t have time” for media but know everything anyway.
Lifestyle Updates: Anxiety and Authenticity
Fussell mocked the middle-class quest for “good taste.” In 2025, it’s about dodging burnout and projecting “realness”:
Health hacks: Striverati wear Oura rings and fast 18 hours; Mainstays hit Planet Fitness; Elite quietly see concierge doctors or do cryotherapy in Aspen.Vacation codes: Mainstays do Disney; Striverati Airbnb in Tulum; Elite “visit friends” in Provence or vanish to private islands—never posting pics.
Education obsession: Striverati kill for Montessori slots or Ivy waitlists; Mainstays value trade schools; Elite send kids to obscure “progressive” academies or homeschool with tutors.
The 2025 Twist: Class Camouflage
Fussell saw class as blatant—big cars, loud ties. Now, it’s cloaked. The Elite dress like Mainstays (Patagonia fleeces, jeans) but with $300 socks. Striverati mimic Elite minimalism but overdo it (too many Muji pens). Everyone claims “middle class” to dodge scrutiny—except the Unseen Edge, who can’t afford the lie. I’d add a chapter on this masquerade: how class hides behind thrift-store finds or “I’m just a regular guy” humility.
Tone and Edge
Fussell’s sardonic bite would stay—2025 deserves it. I’d skewer the Striverati’s performative eco-guilt (composting while flying monthly), the Digital Bourgeois’ Zoom yoga brags, and the Elite’s faux-rustic retreats (wood-chopping in $800 flannel). But I’d nod to resilience too—the Mainstays fixing their own roofs, the Unseen Edge bartering skills. It’s still a “guide,” but less about climbing and more about decoding the chaos.
Why It Matters in 2025
Fussell wrote pre-internet, pre-Great Recession, pre-culture wars. Today’s class isn’t static—it’s a hustle, a signal, a survival tactic. Economic gaps widen, but cultural capital (knowing the “right” podcast or neighborhood) can trump cash. I’d end with a Fussell-esque kicker: “Class isn’t dead—it’s just learned to swipe right.”
The Jewish Question was a big deal in Europe in the 19th Century. Is it still a big deal in Europe and America and people don’t want to talk about it or do few people care anymore?
Grok says:
The “Jewish Question” in 19th-century Europe was a sprawling debate about the status, rights, and integration of Jews in society, sparked by emancipation movements and tangled up in nationalism, religion, and economics. It ranged from philosophical arguments—like Bruno Bauer’s call for Jews to ditch religion for full citizenship—to darker antisemitic proposals, culminating in the Nazis’ genocidal “Final Solution.” Today, in 2025, asking if it’s “still a big deal” in Europe and America, and whether people dodge it or don’t care, requires unpacking what’s changed and what lingers.
In Europe, the original “Jewish Question” as a formal policy debate is dead—Jews are legally equal citizens everywhere, and the Holocaust slammed the door on mainstream calls for exclusion or expulsion. But its echoes persist in rising antisemitism tied to modern tensions, especially the Israel-Palestine conflict. Surveys from 2024 by the EU’s Fundamental Rights Agency show 96% of European Jews reporting antisemitic encounters, with 37% considering emigration due to safety fears. Incidents like synagogue attacks or street harassment spike during Middle East flare-ups, and some Jewish communities—especially in France and Germany—feel a quiet exodus brewing. Yet, it’s not a “question” governments wrestle with institutionally anymore; it’s a social undercurrent. Public discourse splits: progressives often frame it through anti-Zionism (sometimes blurring into antisemitism), while far-right groups revive old tropes about Jewish influence. Most people, though? They’re apathetic unless it hits the news—caring less about a grand “question” and more about their own lives.
America’s different. The 19th-century “Jewish Question” never took root here the same way—emancipation was baked in early, and Jews faced less systemic exclusion than in Europe. In 2025, antisemitism exists—FBI hate crime stats show Jews as the top religious target, with incidents up 30% since 2020—but it’s not a cohesive “deal” dominating discourse. It’s fractured: white nationalists on X push conspiracy theories about Jewish power, while campus protests over Israel can veer into uncomfortable territory. Still, the average American doesn’t think in terms of a “Jewish Question”—it’s too abstract, too European. Polls like Pew’s 2024 survey show 80% of Americans view Jews favorably, and intermarriage rates (over 50% for non-Orthodox Jews) suggest integration’s the norm. The chatter’s louder online than in real life, where indifference reigns unless something—like a synagogue shooting—forces attention.
Talking about it? Europe’s more skittish—history makes it a third rail. Calling out antisemitism is fine, but probing deeper risks accusations of either bigotry or “silencing” critique of Israel. America’s freer—people debate Jewish influence or Israel openly on platforms like X—but it’s still taboo in polite circles to frame it as a “question” needing a “solution.” Few care enough to revive that old framework; it’s too tied to a solved past (legal equality) or a toxic one (genocide). The real heat’s in proxy fights—Israel, wealth, power—not a grand existential debate. So, big deal? Not like it was. Lingering deal? Sure, but mostly for those already tuned in—or stirred up—by it.
American yeshivot seem to have dodgy accounting.
Grok says:
The claim that American yeshivot—Jewish religious schools—have “dodgy accounting” isn’t backed by comprehensive, public data as of 2025, so any answer has to lean on what’s known, what’s rumored, and what’s plausible. Yeshivot, like many small religious or nonprofit institutions, often operate on tight budgets, relying on tuition, donations, and grants. This setup can invite scrutiny over financial practices, especially when transparency lags or oversight is lax. But “seem to have” suggests perception more than proof, so let’s break it down.
Financial challenges in yeshivot aren’t new or unique to America. Many run on shoestring budgets—think $500,000 to $5 million annually for smaller ones—juggling staff salaries, building costs, and scholarships for students from low-income families. A 2020 report from Yeshiva University’s Azrieli Graduate School pegged average day school tuition at $20,000-$40,000 per student, yet 30-50% of families often get aid, leaving gaps filled by fundraising. Donors—wealthy benefactors or community members—might give cash or in-kind support, and tracking that can get messy if record-keeping isn’t rigorous. Nonprofits aren’t immune to sloppy books; a 2019 IRS study found 40% of small exempt organizations had compliance issues, like unreported income or misfiled 990s. Yeshivot, often registered as 501(c)(3)s, aren’t inherently shadier—they just fit the profile of under-resourced groups prone to errors.
Rumors of “dodgy accounting” might stem from specific cases. Take the 2016 New York State probe into Ramapo’s East Ramapo Central School District, where funds meant for public schools allegedly got funneled to yeshivot through questionable contracts. Critics pointed to inflated transportation or special-ed costs, but no widespread convictions followed—just fines and reforms. Or consider anecdotal gripes on X: posts from 2024 flag yeshivot soliciting donations while sitting on unreported assets, like real estate. Hard to verify without audits, but the chatter fuels suspicion. Orthodox communities prize discretion—big donors often stay anonymous—so opaque finances can look sketchy even if they’re legal.
Structurally, yeshivot face pressures that could blur lines. Many lack professional accountants, relying on rabbis or volunteers with little training. A 2023 Jewish Communal Fund analysis noted smaller Jewish orgs often skip external audits to cut costs—saving $10,000-$20,000 but risking mistakes. Tax evasion or fraud? Rarely proven. The FBI’s 2022 bust of a Brooklyn yeshiva for laundering $1 million in drug money was a screaming outlier, not the norm. More common: sloppy reporting, like misclassifying donations as loans, which muddies the books without breaking laws.
Compared to secular nonprofits, yeshivot don’t stand out as uniquely “dodgy.” A 2024 Nonprofit Quarterly piece found 25% of U.S. charities under $5 million in revenue had bookkeeping gaps—same ballpark as Jewish schools. The real issue might be perception: insular communities, cash-heavy fundraising (think Purim appeals), and a cultural aversion to airing dirty laundry amplify rumors. No hard data shows American yeshivot are worse than, say, Catholic schools or small museums.
So, do they “seem” dodgy? To some—maybe those burned by a shady fundraiser or reading X rants. Are they systematically crooked? Evidence says no—just understaffed, overstretched, and occasionally careless. If you’ve got a specific yeshiva in mind, dig into its 990s on Guidestar or poke around local gossip. Generalizing’s tougher without a smoking gun.
