Oooops.

I just realized I've been writing diligently my blog but have forgotten to save. Apparently, I just closed without saving or posting. Oy.

America's Next Top Rabbi.

Last night Sylvie had on the television and was watching a show called America's Next Top Model. In the show, which is hosted by Tyra Banks, a famous model (and maybe something of a head case), a couple dozen young ladies, too skinny by about twenty pounds or more, compete in order to be the eponymous "top model."

A sad show it is. Women who put outer-beauty ahead of any depth or intelligence. Most of the women competing can't speak. They seem unable to see the world except through their extremely narcissistic lens and so they act as if this competition were a matter of the gravest importance.

That said, the show got me thinking. What if there were a similar competition for America's Top Rabbi? A sermon competition. A private consultation. Interpretation of the Liturgy, the Torah. Service to the congregation. Service to the community. Service to the world. And, of course, the food at the Oneg Shabbat!

There was an earthquake in California tonight...

Which, despite what Sylvie says proves that everything ISN'T my fault.

Boston won, four games to...

Boston won, four games to...

Mr. Norman Podhoretz, you can kiss my tuchas.

Norman Podhoretz is a macher. The long-time editor of Commentary, and the "Godfather of Neo-Conservativism," has just published a book called "World War IV," which is what he calls the war he as pushing for--the war against Iraq, Iran and "Islamo-fascism."

Norman "the Pud," I call him or putz.

Personally, I am no fan of the Iraqis or Iranis or Hamas or Hezbollah or any other of the radical groups that seem to be dominating the Middle East. But, Mr. Pud, unless you're will to unleash a torrent of nuclear bombs on these people, you will not defeat them. There are too many of them and they are too fanatical. So, there's your choice, Pud. Kill a billion. Or find an alternative.

I happen to be on the side of Mr. Thomas Friedman in this matter. Friedman believes that Islamic extremism is the result of Islamic poverty and the extreme oil wealth concentrated in the coffers of a few shieks in bathrobes. You want to make the Islamics crawl back in their tents? Stop buying oil and build for them a bissel infrastructure.

At handball, my father was good.

Yesterday was warm in New York and all our windows were opened and you'd think we'd get a little cross (or Magen David) ventilation. But no, there was none. It was as hot inside as a chafing dish at the Weinstein Bar Mitzvah, so out I went for a little walk around the neighborhood, looking for a breeze.

Minutes after leaving our building I found myself in John Jay Park, which abuts the FDR Drive and a charming little block called Cherokee Place, which sits between York Avenue (Avenue A with a nose job!) and the drive. Once in the park, which I seldom visit because Carl Schurz Park is closer, I came upon some Puerto Rican boys playing handball against a wall that was erected for that purpose. These boychiks were whacking at the ball and running around like chickens, all of them, on their returns. Seeing them, lithe and athletic, made me think of my father, Schmuel (Samuel), who was neither, may be rest in peace.

Schmuel was one of the great handball players of the Lower East Side, dominating the territory between Orchard and Houston, all the way up to the Asher Levy baths. And you know what, he could have beat these kids in a wheel chair. Schmuel knew every angle and how his shot would set up his opponent's. Therefore, he could stay virtually still, stationary while forcing his adversary to run around like a dervish or my mother on Passover serving the Seder meal.

I'd play the old man now and again, when I was young and fit and he was old and heart-attacked. My initial impulse in playing him was to take it a bit easy--he was old and had had a coronary. After two minutes and invariably finding myself down nine to nothing, I'd try to rally but by then it was too late.

There's a lesson here somewhere. When you know the angles, you shouldn't have to schvitz so much. Hear that Puerto Rican kids?