I’m tired of being mad and sad.
Yeah, a cold cruel wind blows through Pico-Robertson, but I’m leaving the hovel.
Friday evening.
I walk up Pico Blvd as a driven leaf. Brittle. Fragile. Alone.
I enter shul and begin to unthaw. I jump up and down. I join a conga line. I shake hands and kiss my hand after each squeeze. I get happy.
I have dinner with a friend from ten years ago. Aish HaTorah days.
What a sumptuous organic vegetarian spread.
These folks take their Jewish thing seriously.
They’re all into getting something out of Shabbos.
I like it.
We’re each asked what we’re grateful for (a Lou Rudolph question) and what we’d do with a billion dollars.
I’d fund the best writers to go to shuls and write reviews.
"Don’t give me a bad review," says my rabbi friend.
"I don’t have many friends," I tell him. "You’re protected."
Shabbos afternoon. I want to show how ticked off I am by staying away from my home but my only other frum choice is a place where the fat smelly guy goes and I don’t want to endure that.
I’m gonna swallow my pride. I’m going home. Maybe I was suspended or maybe I was banned for life. It’s time to find out.
I have a long walk ahead and I’m on the other side of the street and 25 yards behind the rabbi.
I feel myself scrunching and skulking and slowing and tightening and wrecking six expensive weeks of Alexander Technique classes.
I run into a friend and pretend to be all hip and carefree with him.
I grind my right hand into a tree until it is covered with soot and sap.
"I’m going in," I say.
I haven’t been this nervous since I was on the cover of the Jewish Journal.
I love doing my own thing but I can’t live without community.
It’s time to face the music.
I walk inside. There are no security guards to boot me. There’s no hostility. There’s no "Sorry, pal." There’s no, "Levi, I’ve got a heavy heart, I hate to do this, but I’m going to have ask you to leave."
There’s just my friends. And Mincha.
I pick up my siddur with more piety than I’ve put on in a long time. I follow along with the Torah reading with an intensity I haven’t felt in years.
I greet my friends in a big showy fashion.
I want to demonstrate my religiosity and camraderie. Not only do I love Torah and love observing Torah, I also love my fellow Torah Jews and am loved by them in turn.
I am an ideal Jew. I am every rabbi’s dream. I am a gift to this shul.
TheSageoftheUWS: I am here to proclaim this truth: DOW 36,000 . . . someday
TheSageoftheUWS: That’s the title of a book from 2000 – "DOW 36000"
TheSageoftheUWS: There also is a book with the title "DOW 100,000"
TheSageoftheUWS: You need to be making more money
TheSageoftheUWS: Unless you plan on marrying well and by well, I mean rich
YourMoralLeader: i got back into my shul
TheSageoftheUWS: Meaning what?
TheSageoftheUWS: They’ve decided to let you out of their closet?
TheSageoftheUWS: What was/is so great about belonging to that shul? Why not attend gay friendly happy minyan type shuls where your future shiksa bride can feel welcom?
TheSageoftheUWS: you should move to New York and become a lion of the Jewish world here
TheSageoftheUWS: If you made the move, you could have your own shul within 2 years
TheSageoftheUWS: …Although they were right that you were wrong to name that 18 year old girl
TheSageoftheUWS: you need to choose your targets more carefully
YourMoralLeader: what’s wrong with naming that girl?
TheSageoftheUWS: She’s just a kid, and did not deserve to be shamed.
TheSageoftheUWS: Choose bigger targets as befits a man who is well into his forties.
TheSageoftheUWS: Did you wave a chicken over your head this year?
TheSageoftheUWS: kipporis
YourMoralLeader: I don’t believe in chicken waving
TheSageoftheUWS: At Bnai Amalek, we use duck
TheSageoftheUWS: And scoff at the chicken waivers
