He was pathetic with the ladies. He was always scheming and begging them to sleep with him. Finally got a cutie to marry him, but she didn’t care about him. And she became the executor of his estate.
He died young. He was sick much of his life.
Bloody pathetic.
I’m suffering through another CFS relapse, the fourth in as many months.
I can’t get an even break.
He responds to my inquiry:
There is an ancient strain of Hebraic sources which are sometimes called the Mystery of the Cherubs which talk in elliptical terms about what I call – integrating the erotic and the ethical.
By erotic here I do not mean sexual but that rather Eros in the sense that Plato uses it; a kind of vital life force or energy. Aspects of this traditions finds later expression in Christianity and the Da Vinci code novel is an inaccurate popularization of this moment in spiritual moment in Christianity. The reason this idea was important to me is because it has huge ethical implications. My basic teaching was and is – all failures in Ethics are based in a collapse of Eros. That is to say – when a person feels empty on the inside – they will try and fill up that emptiness. Emptiness is another way of saying non-erotic in the way I am using the word. So when i feel empty I try to fill up with Eros – but if I cannot find real Eros -because real Eros demands work, discipline and commitment I fill up with what I have sometimes called pseudo eros. Examples of pseudo eros might all forms of rage and hatred and persecution.
I feel empty do I fill myself up by attacking you? My righteous indignation fills up my emptiness. That is why self righteous people always seem so puffed up or full of "hot air".
In true Eros a person is deeply on the inside of existence. When a person cannot access true Eros – truly being on the inside – they fill themselves up by making someone else on the outside. "If you are on the outside then I must be on the inside." This is the beginning of hatred and war. That is why accessing true Eros is so important to me from an ethical perspective.
Why does this nice white Jewish girl get treated like a negro by the police?
Stop the harassment!
From my live cam chat:
LeahKleim: hey Levi, your ego seems mighty healthy these days
YourMoralLeader: what’s new leah?
LeahKleim: I just got outa jail again
YourMoralLeader: you were innocent right?
YourMoralLeader: what was it for?
YourMoralLeader: busting on hubby?
Jenna: PLEASE
LeahKleim: of course i was
Jenna: SAY HELLO TO ME
Jenna: JENNA IS MY NAME
LeahKleim: DUI and driving an ATV on the road
YourMoralLeader: how’s the marriage working out?
Jenna: YOURE IGNORING ME
Jenna: SAY IT OUTLOUD
LeahKleim: al pi halocha its not a marriage, just a shanda
LeahKleim: shut up jenna
Jenna: IVE ATTATCHED A BOMB TO YOUR WEBCAM
Jenna: AND IF YOU DONT SAY HELLO
Jenna: IT WILL BLOW DETINATE
LeahKleim: are u on the rag ?
Jenna: YES
LeahKleim: i thought so
Jenna: PLEASE
LeahKleim: well go find caring ppl some where else
Yisroel writes: "I think the deli owner and operators are young Lubavitchers from NY."
According to SFNewYorkDeli.com: "Welcome to the S.F. New York Deli. Here is our unique style blend of the real New York Deli experience and San Francisco. At the S.F. New York Deli we are committed to you and your desire for the real taste of New York Deli dining. From our Delicious Hot Pastrami Sandwiches to our born and bred New York Staff, we strive to bring you the real combo of the "City that Never Sleeps" and the "World’s Favorite City"."
From the Beit Midrash Ohr HaChaim posting board: "Please let everyone know that the S.F. New York Deli, a kosher deli that has been operating in Embarcadero 5 in San Francisco for the last 2 years is looking for a buyer as soon as possible. They are not restricting the sale to purchasers who want to keep it kosher. If you know anyone who might want to buy the business and keep it kosher, please have them contact Yissi, the owner, at (415) 788-0422."
Above the pope’s throne, Michelangelo depicted Aminadab (left), a Jewish figure in the Bible, with a yellow "badge of shame" to reprove Church leaders for their mistreatment of Jews. Photo permission granted according to the GNU Free Documentation License |
In the heart of the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel is the site of the conclave where every new pope is elected. It is without doubt the holiest chapel in the Christian world, and draws more than 4 million visitors per year. Most of the world knows it best for its magnificent frescoes painted by the great Renaissance artist Michelangelo Buonarroti. What has remained a little-known secret, however, is that within this citadel of Christianity lies perhaps the greatest subversive act in the history of art.
Whether Christian, Jewish, Muslim, atheist, art lover or merely the curious, almost none of the visitors who enter the Sistine realize that they are gazing upon secret messages embedded by Michelangelo in his artistic masterpiece. They would certainly be surprised to learn that, in the pope’s own chapel, Michelangelo employed these secret messages to advocate for a revolutionary change in Christianity’s relationship to Judaism, and that the code itself was rooted in the Jewish tradition.
Michelangelo became fascinated with Midrash and Kabbalah as a teenager, studying with private tutors provided by his patron, Lorenzo de’ Medici. Using his knowledge of Judaism and its mystical symbols, he later incorporated messages, via painted images, on the chapel’s walls dangerously contrary to the teachings of the Church. In this way, he criticized the corrupt spiritual leadership of the time, and condemned the Church’s failure to acknowledge its debt to Jewish origins.
Expressed 500 years before the more liberal contemporary theology of Pope John Paul II and "The Good Pope," John XXIII, discovery of his secret code and heretical views might have cost Michelangelo his life.
It’s not even 10 a.m. and I’ve already made $9 from Adsense.
I had acupuncture today. It was a new girl. She had lots of tats. She was so sweet. She looked in my eyes like she really cared. She yearned to hear about all my aches and pains. She wanted to soothe my suffering.
She looked like nothing would give her greater pleasure than to please me.
When it came time for her to take my pulse, I had to close my eyes and drift away.
I was scared of the intimacy.
She asked me to stick out my tongue.
I just left it there hanging low for her.
I started to pant as the saliva dripped down.
When it was all over, she put one hand on my shoulder and the other on my chest and said, "I’ll see you outside."
Oh yeah, there’ll be a second date. Fer sure!
Most women react with laughter when asked if they are romantically involved with someone who’s but a platonic friend.
This is devastating to the male ego.
It feels like she’s saying he’s not in her league.
This is how a woman should react in such a situation:
She should shake her head till tears come to her eyes and say with a tone of sorrow, "No. Not true. I’m not worthy. My Moral Leader has such high standards, it’s hard for a plain girl like me to measure up. Oh, if only. Dear Lord, I want to throw myself into the lake of eternal fire."
I’m a very very bad man.
I borrow a friend’s Saturn and drive to the Luxe on Sunset Monday night for the David Horowitz Freedom Center event promoting Sharansky’s new book, Defending Identity: Its Indispensable Role in Protecting Democracy.
I park a few hundred yards away on a side street to get free parking.
I notice I’m in the red, so I try to restart my car.
The key won’t turn in the ignition.
I struggle, I curse, I twist and turn.
Nothing.
Behind me, two Mormon-looking Hispanic blokes are trying to fix a tire.
They exude inner peace despite outward distress.
They ask me for the nearest Pep Boys. I say it’s five miles away on Pico and Westwood Blvds.
I’m freaking out.
I pull out my cell phone to call my friend.
Her phone is out of commission.
I try to send a text.
My cell phone says my battery is about to die. I just charged it. Damn, I’m gonna have to buy a new cell phone.
There goes that new set of shas (Talmud) I was hoping to buy.
I race to text "Emergency: Key won’t turn" to my friend before the battery dies.
I just pull it off.
I’m a sweaty nervous wreck.
What Sharansky went through with the KGB is nothing compared to my suffering.
There’s a big crowd. Over 100 powerful people. Lots of Jews. Some youngies. Some hotties.
My mind is on the ignition.
My psyche is locked. My Mac Attack won’t fire.
I run into this Japanese woman who can barely speak English.
I say my name.
She holds my gaze.
After ten seconds, just as I’m about to look away, she says, "Luke Ford. Such a Biblical name."
"Thank you. It’s my real name."
"I know. I can tell. You’re very authentic. You have this deep calmness. You are pure. You are pure like water. Like you can see right through to the bottom. Some people are like dirty water. You don’t want to look at them. I don’t bother with them. I’m an artist. I don’t paint objects. I paint what my heart tells me. Abstract paintings. And sculpture."
This is just what I need — an affirmation of my purity.
I’ve got enough platonic female friends to vouch for my purity.
They keep me pure through their lack of interest.
It’s better that way.
I put my bag down up front. Gotta save a seat close to the great man.
He went up against the KGB for his beliefs. He spent more years in prison than I spent wanking. He’s a hero.
I can’t wait to hear him talk.
I just want to lay my eyes on him.
I want to be able to drop into conversation, "When I was talking with Natan Sharansky the other day, he agreed with me that the best way to get a woman’s phone number was to…"
I get a cup of hot mint tea.
I come back and find that my seat has been usurped.
I’m a man and I must act in a manly fashion even if all the women in my life think I’m safe.
I shove the books on to the next seat and take my rightful place.
I strike up a conversation with the bloke next to me.
"Luke?" he says. "That’s not a Jewish name."
A beautiful blonde comes over. Georgette Gelbard — the Aussie publicist/manager to the conservative stars such as Daniel Pipes.
"Luke, you’re in my seat," she says.
"This is my seat. Look I had my bag here."
"If you want to protect a seat, you can’t just put your bag under it. You have to drape something over it.
"It’s the three of us."
I can’t believe I’m fighting for my seat against a beautiful woman.
Where are my values?
Where is my decency?
Where is my pride?
I’m such a putz.
What happened to my pure soul?
"I’ll move over a seat," I say.
Georgette and her friends sit down.
I push the bloke next to me over one and keep grumbling about how I put my bag down so I could have the seat I just gave up.
Why am I whinging about such tawdry matters when a leader of the Jewish people is about to speak?
After the introductions, Natan Sharansky takes the mic.
I’m excited.
I’m going to learn about goodness and freedom and courage from a modern hero.
I listen intently to his gravelly heavily accented voice and, HaShem strike me down right now, it’s just not erotic for me.
I don’t like Natan Sharansky’s voice. I don’t like listening to him. I find I don’t give a flip about the importance of identity. If this is what freedom means, then I want to be a slave.
Noooooooooooooooo!
I can’t take it.
I want to be in a hot tub with my lawfully wedded wife.
I want to get a massage right now.
I want to study Torah with a beautiful rabbi.
I want to watch television.
I want to go bowling.
I want to do anything but sit here and listen to Natan Sharansky.
If he wasn’t such a big freakin’ hero, I’d get up and walk out right now.
When is he going to stop?
It’s been an hour.
I’m dying.
I can’t handle this much goodness.
I need some sleaze.
Help me, I’m drowning in righteousness.
Oh lordy, Rosh Hashanah services weren’t this boring.
If Ovadiah Yosef is so smart, how come he can’t speak English?
What is the world’s shortest book? Luke Ford: What I Believe.
I’m such a bad bad man.
I can see myself at Mount Sinai. "Five commandments? Enough already! Who needs more? When is this guy going to stop speaking? No adultery? What a downer! Man, as soon as this Moses bloke is gone, I’m going to organize an orgy and sacrifice to a golden calf. Egypt was better than this. At least we had cable TV. We could pick up dirty magazines at the 7/11. The discos were open late."
I’m brutal and impatient.
I don’t know how I manage to keep my license.
I’m way to quick to toot my horn and push my way to where I wanna go.
I’m a menace.
I should be illegal.
On rare occasions, I suppress my brutal urges.
When I’m first dating a girl, I’m nice.
But sometimes I can change during the course of one date.
Case in point — 2002.
We met at Stu and Lew’s Christmas party.
She was an executive.
I love powerful women.
We had our first date at the Magic Carpet on Pico Blvd.
She wasn’t as concerned about my past writing on —- but that I was too religious for her.
I was Orthodox and she was Conservative.
Lunch went well enough for us to go out again.
We went to a movie in Santa Monica.
On the drive there, I was very careful.
Then I got us into an argument on abortion.
She thought it should be legal and guilt-free. I was more gloomy.
We watched the movie.
I drove back brutally.
"I can see you’re no longer trying to impress me," she noted as I raced through a yellow light and smacked into a few bumps.
Damn, women are so intuitive.
How do they pick up on these things? How can they tell I no longer care so much?
If I can ever learn to fake caring, I’ll be the complete loving package.
