Nowadays, we’ve got many Rabbis without semicha. We even have some semichas without the Rabbis. -Anonymous

The below audio is an excerpt of Shlomo telling over the story of how got semichah from HaRav Hutner ZTZ”L. He did this at the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s insistence. Classic matzav.

Shlomo Gets Smicha from Yeshiva Guy on Vimeo.

Direct download link here.

(Hi Resolution image on my Flickr stream).

Place was nice, without question. The neighborhoods are setup nicely, and the streets are hilly, but pretty. Unfortunately, the place is “k’shmo kein hu“; i.e, very, very hot. I think it felt hotter than Yerushalayim mostly because there aren’t any tall buildings around to provide shade. So walking in the street is a killer, and definitely not recommended.

But since we’re about the good, not the bad, find below, in no specific order, are some of the more notably enjoyable things about my Shabbos in RBS:

• The minyan I davened at (Aish Kodesh). Neat, varm, BT/Ballabatish/Yeshivish/Heimish cholent mix of a place. Quite enjoyable. The JB/YU books in the back also provided ample reading material for Bein Gavra l’Gavra .
• Friday morning basketball (9AM-11AM). That was some serious olam that played there. Older crowd (I was likely the only >25 yr old there), but quite competitive. I won’t be announcing my stat sheet for the morning, so forget it. Some of the local Twitter chevra also play in the game.
• I chapped a velt of hana’ah from the mix. MO/Yeshivish live close by each other. That isn’t to say that there aren’t politics, but, nu, politics are the spice of life, right?
• The hostess made the most awesome pecan pie. Seriously, I would take the bus there and back just for the pie. Forget about the cookies. I have serious tz’dadim they serve that stuff in Gan Eiden. Hmmm. Would that be pie-in-the-sky?
• I walked away with a free sefer (from my host). #EmeseMaaseh
• They have a real life Yiddle League (that’s Yiddishe Little League, for those of you not from Brooklyn) there. Baseball! Can you imagine?
• Some of the streets there have real houses. Not apartments. And, of course, the corollary; central A/C!
• I met the most amazing 6 year old yingeleh Friday morning. He didn’t stop speaking, and the entire time, I couldn’t stop laughing. I’m shtark choshed I’m gonna have to switch to MO if they consistently produce such kinderlach, although the Abba claims he’s one in a million.
• I heard a great vort from a YU R”Y…my host was a YU talmid, and I pressured him for some YU Torah. He delivered. Sweet.
• Seudah Shlishis at the Goldmeier’s. They have a great English Jewish library, and the chocolate mousse was impressive. Had fun.
• Did I mention that pecan pie?

Frummie - Same as above. I’ve never heard a frummie say frummie.
(What should be used: Yeshivish, Frum, Greased, Chanyuk).

Pashut Pshat – Another frequent loshon often misused by wannabe yeshivaleit. Even in the course of learning, this one rarely crops up. Stay away from it.
(What should be used: Pashtus)

Rav - (with a long “A”) – This is only used in reference to one person, and almost always only derogatorily. It is not used to refer to a Rebbe, Rov, or respected yungerman.
(What should be used: Rebbe, Rov)

Maidel – While the topic is generally avoided b’chlall, if push comes to shove, other euphemisms are employed. Not maidel. I blame the Blogovelt for this one.
(What should be used: Osoh Davar, It, Them, etc. SG’s, of course, are entitled to far more caustic adjectives. V’hamayvin Yavin).

Follow these hard and fast rules, and you’ll find yourself on the road to stardom faster than you can say pashut pshat, shtarker guy.

Ad astra per aspera. Good luck.

Yes, this is a rant against making Pom Pesachs. No, I have nothing against Pomegranate per se. Yes, if you go to a hotel for Pesach you aren’t even on the map as far as making Pesach is concerned. No, I am a RW’er who is talking out of his boich; it’s almost impossible to celebrate a koshere Pesach in a hotel. OK. Disclaimers aside, let’s get cracking.

Info Notice: For those of you who haven’t heard of Pomegranate (yes, they take email orders, according to their site), it is a gourmet supermarket located in Midwood (that’s in Brooklyn, NY) on Coney Island Avenue. They’ve got anything and everything a kosher pays merveilleux should have. Dedicated fine cheeses created exclusively  by them and for them, a high-end deli with hot pastrami that will make your eyes roll, a bakery, coffee section, valet parking and more make it a one-of-a-kind shopping experience for the kosher consumer.

To paraphrase Elan Kornblum’s tagline on TFusion Steakhouse (also located in Brooklyn):

“It is not like Manhattan; it is Manhattan”.

Pomegranate isn’t a shopping  experience, it’s an adventure.

A massive, wildly pervasive (and successful) ad campaign coupled with innovative marketing (think a Lipa concert on its one year anniversary) only fueled its meteoric rise to the top of every Flatbush housewife’s grocery grocery list.

To begin with, I’m a massive Pom chossid. I shop there, spend time there, and browse the spacious mahogany floors with wide eyed wonder like some out-of-towner who landed in NYC for a day (or a Bein Hazmanim). Slowly wheeling my heavy, exotic fruits and food laden cart through the rows of gastronomic, gluttonous gashmiyos, I freely admit to being hypnotized by the endless array of kosher food on display. Admittedly, I am only there a few times a year, and I am not certain if I would shop there on a regular basis. Then, too, there is the fact that I am not the primary shopper for my household; that responsibility lies with my Angel Mother. Personally, I am not sure I could justify spending the money on the slightly inflated prices just for the extra geshmak that shopping there brings, but who knows. Maybe I would. But I digress; the financial fressing isn’t what bothers me. Not at all.

It is the chisaron of the traditional Pesach experience that the Pom crowd is lacking. I am determined not to launch into the “our ancestors prepared for Pesach through months of hard work yada yada” speech, so suffice it to say that this is not our way…

Prepackaged seder keoros? Not our mehalech.

Buying Shulchan Aruch seudos from start to finish? Not our mehalech.

Endless plastic containers of 100% pesach’dik candy? Not our mehalech.

And the final, unspeakable horror?

The endless assortment of cakes and cookies from multiple bakeries.

Rabbosai, permit me to wax poetic here for a moment. (Or don’t- I’m going to anyway). Pesach is, and always has been, a time of going back to the basics. Of fundamentals, if not fundamentalists. Ever hear of m’mish nisht? No?

That’s the worst symptom of a society gone increasingly goyish in an insane attempt to keep up with the Goyimses. Don’t you see? We’ve got it… all. Our Pesach tradition of returning to the nuts and bolts of gastronomy, and in a more metaphorical vein, of life, was not created as a response to any need or desire on the part of G-d. It is an endgame unto itself.

People, just roll with the basics for a couple of years. Try it, and you’ll see the (candle)light.

Less is more.

(Photo Credit to Eating in Translation)

Walking back to my seat and chavrusa, I pause, then resume walking, slightly slower. I’m trying to figure out exactly why it is I continue this little friendship/schmoozing partnership with a fellow I don’t have anything in common with, and truthfully, don’t particularly like. Well, don’t like might be harsh. But it’s apparent to me that he doesn’t enjoy what he does. He takes no pride in what should be and is the most amazing, joyous job in the world. True, “Al tachazik atzmecha, etc.”, but that shouldn’t suck all the joie de vivre out of his visage, right? He seems as if he’s laboring to fulfill a task that he isn’t required to perform. He’s done his fair share, certainly… “Lo alecha hamlacha ligmor“, and all that. Is it out of some perverted sense of noblesse oblige? (Yeah, I know, this one is heavy on the Avos and the French ma’amorim. Tough noogies, I’m in the mood).
I don’t know. Whatever it is, though, he’s gotta do something about it…I’m starting to get tired of his mournful face. But getting back to our question…

Do I speak with him out of pity? I think not. It’s more than I don’t consider myself to be such a major ba’al chessed; I know that I don’t suffer people that I don’t relate to at all very well. So what is it?

I reach my seat and chavrusa, and slide onto the hard oak seat. Leaning back, I leaf to the relevant section where the acharon is discussing the sugya we’ve been learning. And then, just as I’m about to dive back into the yam shel Torah, I figure it out.

It isn’t that I pity him. Halevai I should be so magnamious to spend time schmoozing with uninteresting people. Nope…the pshat is pashut.

I pity me.

I’m worried that I’ll wind up one day like this guy; an uninteresting fellow in a dead-end yeshiva who’s lost the chiyus he used to have for life and learning. Who knows no other way than the mehalech hachayim he’s used to and is too lazy or helpless to find another. I pity the me that might become him. So I spend time speaking with him now, as a sort of subconsious insurance policy against being that guy.

Amatuer psychoanalyzation over, I return to the yellow pages in front of me. At least for now, for me, I can find chiyus in them. Baruch Hashem. And Baruch Hashem I can take pride in that, and in the work I do, the most important work in the world. At least for now.

“There’s a hafganah tonight!”

One of my diramates is gushing (do bochurim gush? Or only women?) on and on about the huge, massive demonstration taking place near Kikar Paris to protest the building freeze set into place by the formerly hawkish government.

“So, nu, Yeshiva Guy, are you going? I hear there is some serious action going down”. I, as it happens, have already been there, but I can’t tell him that. “Do you know what it’s about,?” I question evasively. “Yeah, something about the buildings in the settlements…anyway, who cares! I hear there is some action…let’s go!”

“Nah, I’m going to sit this one out”, I tell him. His face falls. Oh well, he’ll find someone else to go with him, I think. Meanwhile, I retire to my room to do my equivalent of smoking a cigarette to think this one through. For some reason, I’m a little disturbed by this exchange. My puzzlement at this point, however, is due to the fact that I wouldn’t typically me disturbed by such a comment.

I think back to the rally/hafganah. It was amazing sight, really. Tons and tons of Jews, many of them apparently bussed in from the settlements, had gathered in the streets. The ruche was, to borrow a cliched term I never tire of hating to see, palpable. An interesting point that I noted was the age demographic- mostly younger. Which was odd, since I’d though that Zionism, or at least this type of idealistic firebrand Zionism, was a dying breed. Color me surprised.

And thinking about it made me realize; it is no wonder that I’m disturbed that my friend is going just to see the action or rioting—he doesn’t identify this kind of hafganah with anything serious.

And I realize, belatedly, that neither did I…until tonight. Hmm…food for thought.

Thursday night. The mere mention of this date/time combo can and does have Bochurim everywhere drooling. The Yeshiva Bochur’s single and only true vacation during the zman. Fridays don’t count because, well, the oilam is poofing from the Thursday night extravaganzas. And even upon the eventual wakeup from that fitful slumber induced by pounds of pitzuchim plus the breweries of beer bottles consumed, one must prepare for Shabbos, etc. This leaves only Shabbos, which of course is no fun. Not that it isn’t relaxing,kadosh, and all that, but it ain’t fun. Motzei Shabbos is somewhat of a contender, but since Sunday is a regular day in the life of a Yeshiva Guy, not to mention Israelis in general, a self-imposed curfew is adhered to by most serious guys. Which leaves Thursday night.

So what is it, exactly, that we do on these vacation nights?

Before I continue, allow me to caution you, the dear reader, to pause for a moment and reflect before reading further. If your musag, your idea of Yeshiva Bochurim are rows and rows of white-shirt clad teenagers sitting in front of old, musty tomes and smoking up a storm whilst debating the intricacies of theGeonim of ages past, read no further. Not that the latter isn’t true (especially the smoking part), but the fact of the matter is that everyone needs a breather. Bochurim have three. Bein Hazmanim (Succos, Pesach, and Summer), Bein Hasdorim (After davening, in between 1st and 2nd seder, and in between 2nd seder and night seder), and Thursday nights, which are a little of both.

And now, onwards and upwards delving into the mind of Bochurim. A final word of caution. It can be a dangerous place to spend too much time in, so if you are reading this and aren’t a bochur, caveat lector.

We are highly pressured individuals. This is a fact. For those who have never personally experienced the Yeshiva world, try to imagine the intellectual rigors of Advanced-whatever college subject you studied, magnified tenfold. Then delete whatever activities you used to kick back and relax, be it sports, clubbing, or even reading a novel or two. Such delights are by and large forbidden to us, with good reason, and we require other forms of relaxation. Enter Thursday nights.

Your average bochur returns to the dira between 11-2 on a Thursday evening. Depending on what time he ended night seder, there may or may not be a cholent place still open. Options range from the reigning king of cholent, Deitsch in Meah Shearim, to Nehadar off of Malchei Yisroel, or other assorted grease joints that offer their own semi-homemade pots of the stuff for sale exclusively on Thursday nights. Alternatively, for the hard up among us, or those connoisseurs who simply can’t stand the oil filled pots sold in Yerushalayim and prefer their own oil filled crock pots full of the toxic batter/brew, there is the homemade option. Which of course has bochurim the world over in an uproar over the pots that inevitably don’t get cleaned for months on end…

(Have you ever seen leftover cholent that has been left to its own devices for a half year? I have. It isn’t a pretty sight. Except to the petri-scientists worries about the potential extinction of fungus. And even they cringe, or so I’m told.)

So typically, we kick back with a cholent, or whatever other form of sustenance is available to us, and we’ll swig a swallow of beer (or two, or three) and schmooze. That’s it. Just schmooze. About everything and nothing. You know those intelligent fellows you meet up who shock you with their “worldliness”? Yup. It all comes from those Thursday night b**l sessions. Long, intense, and wide-ranging, there are almost no limits as to the topics they can cover. I’ve schmoozed with , or heard guys schmoozing about, on one random occasion or another, the following diverse concerns:

Quantum physics, cooking/recipes, nanotechnology, Mayan anthropology, genetics, secular authors like Grisham and others, solar physics, Chinese politics, and other such sundry subjects.

As mentioned above, liberal amounts of beer or other light alcoholic beverages are consumed, as well as cigarettes by the carton. Marlboro Lites are the preferred cancer stick of choice, although the more hard-core among us may prefer Reds at times. The story goes that the Rabbonim of a number of Yeshiva’s were planning on banding together to levy a ban against these Leil Shishi parties. Supposedly, the execs at Phillip Morris caught wind of the plan, and donated a new wing to BMG (Lakewood) under an assumed name- (Rachein Vaiter)- and to this day you can find that name on the “In Memoriam” plaque in Yoshon (the old Beis Medrash in Lakewood).

And so the next time you find yourself in the embarrassing position of losing a debate to a Yeshiva Guy in a secular subject, simply challenge his source for his argument/data. And watch him cave like a dira of cards, and thank The Yeshiva Guy inside.

And so until next Thursday night, it’s me, your loyal Yeshiva Guy, bringing you the inside scoop of everything Yeshivish. Stay holy brothers!

Old men are different. People expect old men to die.
They look at them with eyes, wondering when.
People watch them with unshocked eyes…
But the old men know when an old man dies.

– Ogden Nash

I’m scared of being old. Not just being old, but being old and… unimportant.

When you’re young, it’s easy to plan on making a difference. Always in the future. Always tomorrow. Some of us even start acting towards that future now. But then the cold world does a number on our ideals and the fiery enthusiasm of youth. And the fire that was is doused out by the icy indifference of a world that cares not.

I spent some time with an aged Chasiddishe Yid recently. A relic of times gone by. Very real. Not some storybook Rebbe, but a real, live example of a Jew from times gone by. He reminds me of an old, gnarled walking stick that has been used for many years. And through that sustained usage, has become splintered and broken to the point of, well, no return. He’s been used, leaned upon, and walked on for so long that I fear… I fear there is very little left.

His zmiros are a defiance of the properties of song. Singing, crying, moaning and groaning mixed together until I don’t think he himself could differentiate where zemer ends and gebetenin begins. He cries out “Oy, Bashefer Zeesah, Heiligeh Bashefer”, calling on the Creator to… I don’t know why he calls, exactly. Perhaps he doesn’t either. He’s weary, bone weary with the exhaustion of age, the exhaustion of pushing and pushing for so long.

And now, in the twilight years of a long, storied life, he has little to keep him company. Little family, and few close friends or students. At one point, I try to give him a compliment. I tell him that I like the minyan, the davening. He rejects this with a careless wave of his hand- “The Bashefer darf “liken”, he answers humorlessly. Such bitterness. Such overpowering… depression? Despair? What drives a man who feels he’s already completed the race? Who feels that he should have received the trophy, and that the cheering crowds are shouting exuberantly for the wrong runner?

Spending time with such a man is wearying, really. He had planned on making a difference. Perhaps he even did, at one point. So what happened? How did it come to pass that he sits in a large, empty house, bemoaning all that is wrong with the world, without the vision to see himself? He cries out against the usage of mirrors (for vanity reasons), but has clearly never used one- he doesn’t know how he looks, and more, doesn’t know how people look at him. Wearying doesn’t quite cut it, however. Scary is more like it. Terrifying. Will I grow old and despondent, like him? Having never made a difference? Railing against a world that has passed me by? I hope not.

So what can I do to make sure this doesn’t happen?

I don’t know. But I’ve got a few ideas. Never stop working on myself. Never stop loving people. Never give up hope in Am Yisroel. In the power of the Jewish People, and all they can accomplish. Always strive upward. And to ask myself, every day, every morning: How much closer I am to my goal(s) than yesterday. Because without constant movement towards, backsliding is probable, if not certain.

And yet, this old man- a remnant of a world that was, that never will be again- has in him, dormant, mostly, the oil and flame that must have fueled him so many years ago. No doubt he’s been through troubles, pain and experiences far worse than I can imagine with my limited view of suffering. Perhaps that is what has extinguished his fire. But I tell you; I wouldn’t want to be an old man without that fire to keep me warm.