Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of December 25, 2016.
Events of the past few months notwithstanding, it is not yet the apocalypse. However, we do have a stunning occurrence coming upon us: as we speak, Chanukah and Christmas have arrived at exactly the same time. I have spoken before, some would say at unconscionable length, about not conflating the two holidays. They come from two very different, irreconcilable religions. I don’t begrudge my Christian brethren and sistren, but don’t put a Jewish star on top of a Christmas tree and expect me to feel grateful.
In fact, the only thing I feel gratitude for these days is that 2016 is coming to a merciful end. I don’t need to tell you what a long, meshuggenah trip it’s been. Or maybe I do, in verse form.
`Tis the first night of Chanukah From Tampa to Tulsa
The candles are burning Just like my ulcer
The dreidels are spinning The latkes are frying
The Muslims are killing The people are dying
The year has been tough That couldn’t be clearer
So Twenty-Sixteen Here’s your rear-view mirror
The campaign for president took a dark journey As Democrat dummies picked Hil and screwed Bernie
Huckabee, Kasich, Rubio, Paul The louder they got, the harder they’d fall
Jindal and Christie, Carson and Cruz But then Donald Trump bubbled up from the ooze
He battered Ms. Clinton for being a female She stumbled and fumbled and mishandled email
Trump lied and insulted and mocked with each Tweet But then he fell in with the party elite
And lo and behold, as he, alone, expected The con-artist clown is the guy we elected
If that’s not enough to make us all retch There’s plenty more reasons about which to kvetch
There’s Brexit and Brussels and murder in Mosul While Syria looks like a garbage disposal
All across Europe, security sucks Who’s teaching these young Arab men to drive trucks?
The Istanbul bomber ignited our fears Another putz shot up a club full of queers
Mosquitoes with zika came in for the kill While lyin’ Ryan Lochte shamed us in Brazil
Hurricane Matthew brought death and disaster A wild Turkish cop shot the Russian ambass’dor
An EgyptAir plane crashed into the sea And North Carolina won’t let trannies pee
All over the world, ISIS steps up attacks While our police fire at black people’s backs
If that’s not enough to make you all wince 2016 took Bowie and Prince
Gene Wilder, George Martin, and Elie Wiesel Scalia and Castro — well, they went to hell
So long, Leonard Cohen Farewell, Harper Lee
Goodbye, Abe Vigoda . . . finally
We lost Garry Shandling, who wasn’t a sick man We lost Alan Thicke, and Alan Rickman
Muhammad Ali is no longer standing And hero John Glenn came in for a landing
Merle Haggard, Ed Albee, and Zsa Zsa Gabor And Fyvush and Blowfly and too many more
But okay, let’s admit the pipeline was stalled The Cubs and the Indians played ball in the fall
The stock market zoomed to new heights every day And Hamilton swept all the Tonys away
Manatees moved from endangered to threatened And a new subway line was built in Manhetten.
So though it was harsh, absurdist, and mean Shalom to the year 2016
The lesson it taught us with every new curse: As bad as things are, they’re bound to get worse.
Happy American Rosh Hashanah everyone! See you in 5778! This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, New York. Shanah Tolerable.
RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #141 (11/6/16): Electile Dysfunction
click above to listen (audio only)
Aired Nov. 5, 2016 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cX5zCpfhuk&feature=youtu.be
Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of November 6, 2016.
Well, my friends, this is it. In three days, we drag ourselves to the local junior high school, sign our names in a guest book, hold our collective noses, and pull the lever to choose which nightmare we wish to endure for the next four years.
On one side, we have Hillary Clinton: experienced, resilient, hardworking, honest as the day is long. At the South Pole. If you ask this woman, “what color is the sky?”, her answer’s gonna be, “Well, depending on the time of day and the light refracting away from various planets, we could be somewhere in the azure-like spectrum. But until I’ve done more research, I have to reserve comment on that.” Hillary Clinton gets a memo with a giant “C” on it for “Classified,” and she thinks the “C” stands for, “Come, put this on your home computer — where you haven’t updated Norton Utilities in three years.”
And two-faced? This woman has more faces than Mount Rushmore in a hall of mirrors. She tells rich fatcats she’s for open borders, but then she tells middle-class Democrats she’s for protecting trade. She bashes her opponent as a sexist pig but persecutes any woman who humped her husband. Which is a full-time job, by the way. Hillary promises to get tough on America’s enemies, but when was Secretary of State, the Middle East turned into Terrorist Disneyland. Heck, Hillary Clinton wouldn’t even be the nominee if Debbie Wasserman Schultz and her party apparatchiks didn’t treat Bernie Sanders like a naughty puppy who was soiling the carpet by lifting his leg to the far left.
For all his faults, people still love Hillary’s husband, Bill. He’s got the twinkle, he’s got the polish; he’s got another box of cigars at the ready. But that popular love just doesn’t transfer to Mrs. Clinton, who’s been in the political game too long to ever be a real person again. Even people who don’t dislike her understand that if she’s elected, the country will stay the same. The economy will still grow at a pace that makes photosynthesis look like the Indy 500. ObamaCare will put more people in hospitals . . . with heart attacks after they see their premiums. And America will still lag behind the rest of the world in everything except obesity and unwatchable cable TV channels.
And yet, of the two candidates running for the two major political parties, Hillary Clinton is the better choice. I know that’s like saying a bowl of chocolate-covered horse radish is preferable to a dish of month-old sheep vomit, but if you had to pick, you go with the maror over the moron. No question, Donald Trump is a wildly successful businessman. He’s successful, and he’s wild. I like that he has balls, but then again, what else do you shoot with a loose cannon?
Now, I don’t hold against Donald Trump that he’s gone bankrupt a couple of times. It takes a savvy entrepreneur to pick yourself up, dust yourself up, pay your creditors two cents on the dollar, and start all over again. And I don’t mind that he hasn’t paid any taxes since the Hoover administration. If I could find a legal way not to pay sales tax every time I bought a pastrami sandwich, I’d be owning Trump Hotel. Which would be especially ironic since neither of us owns it. For all his building development, Donald Trump does not own most of the buildings he has his name on. But I don’t hold that against him, either. After all, if my last name were Parkinson, would I want my name on a disease?
What I do begrudge The Donald are his deals with the devil. When The Orange One first announced his candidacy, his whole shpiel was about being an outsider. He wasn’t a lifelong politician and therefore took no money and owed no favors. That’s tremendously appealing, especially when you’re also plain-speaking, pro-Israel, and promising to play by your own rules. Had Mr. Trump gone with a third party or created his own party—and I don’t mean the kind of party where he offers a supermodel $10,000 to polish his cornerstone—I mean Ross Perot-ing it. Saying “shtup you” to the Pelosis and the Paul Ryans, because he could. Between his bank account and grass-roots support among the kind of white people who think Canadians are as exotic as foreigners should be allowed to get, Donald Trump could have funded a truly “outside” campaign.
Instead, he gets in bed with the elephants. The same people who gave us eight years of George W. Bush, not to mention Fox News, Richard Nixon, Sarah Palin, Strom Thurmond, and Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. So the Republicans think they can corral Trump, Trump thinks he can streamroll the G.O.P., and I think they should both go down in flames. Trump wants to build a wall to keep out Mexicans? Who’s gonna pick my etrogs for Sukkos? He’s gonna give tax credits to the ultra-wealthy so their money will trickle down? Wanna bet it trickles down into their yachts, their jewelry, their private islands . . . Trump wants to pick Supreme Court justices who will protect the Constitution. The Constitution doesn’t need protecting; it just needs an annotated edition with color pictures, a worksheet, and an interactive website. Actually, the Torah could use that, too. I’ll have to tell that to God next time we talk.
Anyhoo, Donald Trump says, “What have you got to lose?” Everything stinks; maybe I’ll stink less. Of course, the last guy who said that was Ralph Nader, and we all saw how well that turned out. So for what it’s worth, I endorse Hillary Clinton for President in 2016. It is not a ringing endorsement. In fact, it’s more of a thudding endorsement. But look at the alternatives: the Trumpster fire? The Libertarian guy who thinks Aleppo is a tiger with spots? The independent party run by a dude named “Joe Exotic?” Look him up. He’s got eight rings in his ear, a Fu Manchu moustache, and a mustard-yellow leisure suit that should be kept 1,000 feet from any building and detonated. Or the guy from the Legal Marijuana Now Party — because, of course, the most urgent problem facing our nation today is finding a place to get your mellow on with some sweet bud? Or the guy from the Nutrition Party, whose sole claim to fame is inventing the Muscle Maker Grill? I mean, I like George Foreman, but I wouldn’t want him negotiating with North Korea. Except about barbecue, and even then, kimchi would be a dealbreaker because who the hell wants to eat that? Seriously.
So we come to the long-awaited end of this contentious, obnoxious, unfathomable election cycle in America. A cycle that had one candidate call a war hero a coward and another whose every private email makes the New York Times bestseller list. Meanwhile, the rich get richer, the bridges are crumbling, the schools are stupid, the terrorists are multiplying, and Steven Tyler is making country music. We’re in big trouble. But vote anyway because if we’ve gotta choose between an egotist with a messiah complex or a liar who understands complexity, I’ll take the one who isn’t relentlessly battling crucifixion. Let’s face it…what Rabbi wouldn’t?
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, New York. Vote early, vote often, try the veal.
Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of June 12, 2016.
Lovers of the theater — and by that I mean geeks, shut-ins, homosexuals, and the desperate — rejoice! The time has come once again to celebrate Broadway — the talent and creativity that bring a bissel fun and sanity to this increasingly meshuggenah world. Huzzah for the Tony Awards.
Now, it is hard to deny that Broadway has become a playground for the rich, a parcel of real estate increasingly off limits to working people who just crave two hours of tits, tunes and tears. But remember: many places offer discount tickets and two-fers — trust me on this, I know from bargains. And even if those prices are beyond your purse, for three hours this Sunday night, you can sit in front of the TV and watch the dazzle of 42nd Street unfurl before your glazed, lower-middle-class eyeballs.
You can’t get into Hamilton? Alexander Hamilton couldn’t get into Hamilton. But Sunday, June 12th, you get a digital front-row seat to the cast of Hamilton doing a song . . . and then winning every Tony Award known to man. Actually, they won’t, they can’t. They have 16 nominations — a record! — but they have multiple nominees in some categories, and not every race is a shoo-in. So Mel Brooks’s The Producers will likely remain the all-time Tony Award winner. Ah, if only I’d bought 112 shares of that show. Quel dommage. But there are other reasons to watch the Tony Awards either in person at the Beacon Theater or on CBS, whose viewership is so old, they should be nicknamed The Yahrzeit Network.
Seriously, though, what I love to do most of all this time of year is look through the Tony nominations and find the Jews. There’s generally a batch of them, this being theater and all, and it’s a point of pride when my people are being recognized for their brilliance — and for briefly escaping Equity’s 95 percent unemployment rate.
First and foremost, let us exult that Fiddler on the Roof is back, and this time, they have a Jew playing Tevye! He’s Tony-nominated Danny Burstein, who starts off as a modern guy who comes onstage reading the stories of Sholem Aleichem. Then he takes the jacket off and turns into Tevye the milkman. This has confused some matinee audiences. I guess when you get to a certain age, it can be hard to make the mental leap of: no jacket, 1910 Russian village; yes jacket, 2016 Sears men’s department. How these audiences survive Tom Stoppard is beyond me.
By the way, in the lead-actor category, Danny Burstein is up against Zachary Levi for She Loves Me. Now, this truly is confusing because Levi has a Jewish name, but he’s a gentile. Worse, in recent interviews, the Welsh actor said he was turned down for parts in Hollywood movies because he looked too Jewish. Levi said, quote, “I guess they were looking for more of a corn-fed, white boy look. My family is from Indiana, come on!” I feel for you, Danny. It’s like that time I auditioned for the Carolina Chocolate Drops. I nailed it; sang like an angel. But did they call? Did they write? Not a word. And don’t even get me started on how I tried to get into the Celtic Women. Actually, I almost got into one, but she found out I was married.
Anyhoo, moving on to other Tony categories . . . where the hell are my people? Where are the Cohens and the Rothsteins and the Schiowitzes and the Bermans? This year gives us names like Brooks and Nyong’o and Pigott-Smith and the erotic-sounding Sengbloh. Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for diversity. But it’s not so diverse if Jews are virtually absent.
Thank God, thanks to Hamilton, we do have a featured actor in a musical: Daveed Diggs. Yes, he’s a schvartz, but his parents gave him the Hebrew name for David because he’s half schvartz and half-Jewish. So I’d let him marry half my daughter. And speaking of halvsies, hooray for Sophie Okonedo, the celebrated British actress who already won a Tony for A Raisin in the Sun two seasons ago. Yes, she looks black, but there’s cholent under the chitlins! Okonedo’s mom is a Jewish Pilates teacher, and her parents were emigrants from Eastern Europe who spoke Yiddish! As Wikipedia notes, Okonedo’s father took a powder, and her single mom raised her in unavoidable poverty, but, says the actress, “We always had books.” If that isn’t Jewish, I don’t know what is. Well, a synagogue is Jewish; that kind of is. And Hebrew. And mezuzahs, but you know what I’m saying.
The wonderful lesson that we take from Daveed Diggs and Sophie Okonedo is that we can integrate, we can intermarry but not lose the spark of Yiddishkeit. We will no longer look the same or sound the same. And we will probably have better hair. But Jewish upbringing, connection, and belief need not go by the wayside, even if our people are far away from Bayside.
And so, on Tony night, when Lin-Manuel Miranda is giving his 32nd speech about inclusion, please remember that we are not as excluded as it might first appear. Just look at the best-musical nominees: Hamilton, School of Rock, Shuffle Along, Waitress, and Bright Star. Hamilton deals with money, which Jews are always worried about; School of Rock concerns education, which is sacred to us; Shuffle Along is what every Jew over 70 does, and Waitress is what we all holler in a restaurant. As for Steve Martin and Edie Brickell’s Bright Star, who’s to say it isn’t six-pointed?
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, New York. On with the Tony show!
Click above to listen to the episode (audio only).
Here is the 561st episode of the long-running radio show/podcast, Dave’s Gone By, which aired on UNC Radio, June 11, 2016. Info: davesgoneby.com.
Host: Dave Lefkowitz
Guests: lyricist Glenn Slater(School of Rock), Dave’s wife Joyce, critics Joe Dziemianowicz (NY Daily News), Elisabeth Vincentelli (NY Post), Jeff Myhre (NY Theater Guide), Ed Rubin (Artes), Charles Gross (Two on the Aisle), Leslie (Hoban) Blake (Two on the Aisle), Eva Heinemann (Hi! Drama), Jeff Myhre (NY Theater Guide), Simon Saltzman (Outer Critics Circle), Ellis Nassour (TotalTheater).
Featuring: A look at the 2015-2016 Broadway season and Tony Award nominees with interviews (including Tony-nominated lyricist Glenn Slater), trivia, showtunes, Broadway Timeline, a giveaway, and Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection on the Tonys.
00:00:01 DAVE GOES IN w/ Joyce 00:18:30 LAST YEAR’S WINNERS 00:25:30 SEASON STATS 00:28:00 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 1 00:37:00 GUEST: Eva Heinemann 00:49:30 GUEST: Jeff Myhre 00:58:30 Sponsors 01:00:00 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 2 01:10:00 TRIVIA, Part 1 01:18:30 GUEST: Simon Saltzman 01:30:00 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 3 01:43:30 GUEST: Elisabeth Vincentelli 02:01:00 Sponsors 02:08:00 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 4 02:26:00 GUEST: Joe Dziemianowicz 02:40:00 GIVEAWAY 02:46:00 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 5 03:01:30 TRIVIA, Part 2 03:10:30 GUEST: Glenn Slater 03:51:00 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 6 04:12:00 GUEST: Leslie (Hoban) Blake 04:28:00 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 7 04:37:00 RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #140 – The 2016 Tony Awards 04:44:00 Sponsors 04:47:30 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 8 05:01:30 GUEST: Ellis Nassour 05:13:30 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 9 05:30:30 GUEST: Charles Gross 05:53:00 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 10 06:12:00 TRIVIA, Part 3 06:17:00 BROADWAY TIMELINE, Part 11 06:35:00 Thank Yous 06:40:30 GUEST: Ed Rubin 07:01:00 DAVE GOES OUT
June 11, 2016 Playlist: “Ring of Keys” (00:21:30; Fun Home 2015 Broadway cast). “I Still Believe” (00:35:00; Amazing Grace 2015 Broadway cast w/ Erin Mackey). “Alexander Hamilton” (01:01:30; Hamilton 2016 Broadway cast). “The Mirror-Blue Night” (01:41:30; Spring Awakening 2006 Broadway cast). “Star Tar” (02:23:30; Dames at Sea 1969 London cast). “Mega-Mix” (02:55:30; On Your Feet 2016 Broadway cast). “Here at Horace Green” (03:11:00), “Where Did the Rock Go” (03:27:00) & “Stick it to the Man” (03:44:30; School of Rock 2016 Broadway cast). “Ishi Kara Ishi” (03:54:00; Allegiance 2015 Broadway cast w/ George Takei & Lea Salonga). “Miss Celie’s Pants” (04:10:00; The Color Purple 2016 Broadway cast w/ Cynthia Erivo). “Do You Love Me” (04:31:30; Fiddler on the Roof 2016 Broadway cast w/ Danny Burstein & Jessica Hecht). “Promotional Reel” (04:58:00; Disaster 2016 Broadway cast). “Ice Cream” (05:19:00; She Loves Me 1963 Broadway cast w/ Barbara Cook). “Sun is Gonna Shine Again ” (05:27:30; Steve Martin & Edie Brickell). “Everything Changes” (06:08:30; Waitress 2016 Broadway cast w/ Jessie Mueller). “Everlasting” (06:22:00; Tuck Everlasting 2016 Broadway cast w/ Sarah Charles Lewis). “I’m Cravin’ for That Kind of Love” (06:31:00; Shuffle Along w/ Eubie Blake & Noble Sissle). “Sun is Gonna Shine Again” (07:09:30; Bright Star 2016 Broadway cast w/ Carmen Cusack).
Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of January 17th, 2016.
It is time to say a sad Shalom to David Bowie, the super-talented singer, songwriter, rock star, and icon who died of liver cancer on January 10th. Most musicians find one persona in a career and stick with it: Joe Smith sings country, Edna Whatever does dance pop, Mordecai Ben David does . . . whatever he does. But David Bowie changed his look, his style, his sound more times than I change my underwear. Well, maybe that’s not the best example, since I’m kind of lazy in the laundry department, but you know what I mean. He started with twee British pop tunes like “Come and Buy My Toys” and “Love You `Til Tuesday,” songs that weren’t meant to last even until Monday. But they pointed the way towards freaky folk and post-Apollo weirdness and “Space Oddity,” the story of a man who gets completely lost in space and never comes back—like Gary Busey.
Wearing dresses and cavorting in transgender weirdness, Bowie pushed the conventions of behavior and attire—which could only mean one thing: he was destined for rock and roll. He created Ziggy Stardust, a rock idol with a comet-like trajectory and really, really tight pants. Suddenly, just going onstage and playing songs wasn’t enough anymore. You needed costumes and makeup and pyrotechnics and huge hydraulics. Long before Grizabella rose to cat heaven and Bono started singing from a claw, Bowie was ascending on a cherry picker and cavorting with glass spiders.
And when all that got too weird and dangerous, Bowie changed again. He became a Thin White Duke, white because he was basically covered head to foot with cocaine powder. But the music remained: “Rebel Rebel,” “Somebody Up There Likes Me,” “Young Americans”—soul music for white people. And believe me, we needed it, because up till then, the closest we got to soul music was Donovan. But even Bowie’s “plastic soul” was the real thing—so real that James Brown stole Carlos Alomar’s riff from “Fame”—not the other way around. They even asked James Brown about it, and he said, quote, “(series of grunts).”
But seriously, Bowie eased off the drugs just a little to save his sanity and then moved on to yet another incarnation: krautrock. He and Brian Eno found themselves in Berlin mixing electronic music and hard rock in a delightful way that could only come out of a country that murdered 40 million people. Bowie would never reach those musical peaks again, and indeed, his most commercially popular years were filled with dance-club pop and sometimes desperate attempts to stay trendy by incorporating that 1980s sound that we all loved so much. (Insert sarcastic facial expression here.)
Did he stay there, though? Of course not. He was David Bowie. He returned to arty, experimental, and often difficult music and stayed there for another two decades. He may not have gotten on the radio with songs like “Slip Away,” “Never Get Old,” and “Fall Dog Bombs the Moon,” but anyone with iTunes and ears can find them and hear their worth.
After that, for awhile, David Bowie laid low (no album-title pun intended). He pushed his back catalogue and old concerts and didn’t tour because of a heart condition. But then two years ago, he jumped once more into creativity, secretly recording new tracks with old colleagues. He put out “The Next Day” in 2013, then started working on an off-Broadway show, then released another album on his birthday this year. We all now know the reason for this 18-month burst of activity, and it may be the biggest Bowie takeaway of all. He knew his days were literally numbered. He knew the liver he was punishing 40 years ago was coming back like Rocky for a knockout. He knew he had so much more to do and so little time. So he did it. He pushed himself because any day, he would fall to earth.
Most of us, thank God, don’t have such a diagnosis hanging over our heads. Except we do. Who knows when HaShem will send a drunk driver careening towards us on the highway? Or a Muslim with a backpack? Or a mutated cell that will turn prostates into pancakes and ovaries into rotten eggs? Every day we’re still alive is a challenge to make that day count. To bring something new into the world that wasn’t there the day before.
Maybe it’s a poem. A painting. A table. A scarf. A youtube video of your pet doing something adorable. Okay, maybe the world doesn’t need more of that, but the impetus to strike while our irons are still hot is, perhaps, the greatest function of our human DNA.
Go figure it took a space alien, diamond dog, and spider from Mars to remind us. Thank you, David Bowie. You were a musical hero for a lot more than just one day.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, New York.
Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of December 12, 2015.
With everything going on in the world – the craziness, the killing, chaos in the GOP, E. coli at Chipotle—which is really confusing because how the hell are you supposed to differentiate noro-virus diarrhea from regular Chipotle diarrhea? Such distinctions are lost on me. But what we must not lose this mid-December is the arrival of Chanukah. Eight days of happiness and food and gratitude, and a reminder that every Jewish holiday isn’t about fasting and wishing you could afford maid service.
Sometimes we win. Sometimes the enemy who is trying to destroy us, or weaken our faith, gets a shank in the ribs. We did it to Egypt in a thousand BC, we did it to the Greeks—who bent over and took it—and one day we’ll do it to ISIS and ISIL and Al Qaeda and Boko Haram, and maybe the first guy who said, “Hey, it’s Halloween soon. Let’s put pumpkin spice in everything. Lattes, pancakes, donuts, beef wellington—doesn’t matter. Pumpkin spice is the new oxygen.” We need to get him.
Anyhoo, Chanukah commemorates a small band of Jews who would not succumb to the hellish Hellenic hellions who tried to hinder our Hebrew historicity. The second temple in Jerusalem was recaptured from the Greeks, re-consecrated as a synagogue, and retrofitted for Wi-Fi. And when the Hashmonaim were cleaning the temple, and making it minty fresh, they had only a drop of oil with which to light the holy candelabra, the menorah. And yet that oil burned day and night for eight straight days. The electric bill must have been horrendous, but the point is: miracles do happen. They happened then, they happen now. It’s a miracle that a computer can digitally print working human organs. It’s a miracle you can stare at a hole in the ground in a city block, come back six months later, and it’s an office building. It’s an astounding miracle that someone like me is on the radio.
So let us delight with our family, our friends—all the people we barely tolerate for fear of loneliness—and cheer the miraculous holiday of Chanukah. To do so, I have written a few short poems celebrating the Festival of Lights in haiku form. Haiku is a Japanese poetry style that is perfectly marvelous because it’s so short. As soon as you get started, you’re finished. Like a teenage boy on prom night. Your entire thought process must fit into a mere 17 syllables, which proves the Japanese not only invented haiku but twitter.
I pray that you enjoy these holiday poems from me, Rabbi Sol. Chanukah Chaikus:
Eight candles burning
On my shaky menorah.
Shit! Call 9-1-1.
Headline: Polish Jews
Suffer Third-Degree Burns When
Bobbing for Latkes
Judah Maccabee
And sons beat the Greek army
Yay for terrorists!
Happy holidays, my friends, and may all your dreidel spins come up hay. I’d say gimel, but why press your luck? This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, New York.
Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of March 29, 2015.
Much to many people’s surprise, Benjamin Netanyahu was elected for a third term as the Prime Minister of Israel. Everyone assumed Labor would win. Everybody thought Netanyahu’s hard-line, status-quo policies were on the way out, and peaceniks were on the way in. Well, pre-April fool! Or technically, Adar fool, since it’s the Jewish calendar we’re dealing with.
But let’s be clear: for all Israel’s weariness of war, and for all the country’s gratitude to the United States for support, for money, for defense, for money, for money, for money . . . Israeli voters nevertheless sent a strong message and a mandate. The safety and security of Eretz Yisroel comes before everything else. It comes before friendship, before negotiations, before swallowing the latest Palestinian PR. They said to Netanyahu: “Give us strong borders and a promise that you won’t sell our country down the river—Jordan or Nile—and we’ll vote for you again.” He did, and they did.
Therefore, much to the chagrin of President Barak Oblivia, Bibi is back. And the shocking part is: he did it, not by kowtowing to the left, not by lying about the potential for peace with our sworn enemies, but by facing facts. The Arabs hate us, they won’t even recognize Israel on their maps or GPS systems, and any chance they get, they’d gladly send the Jews on a blind date with Robert Durst.
In his campaigning, Bibi went so far as to say that on his watch, there would never be a Palestinian state, which is harsh to hear even for a die-hard Zionist like yours truly. I’ve always said, I have no objection to a Palestinian state . . . in Algeria, in Curacao, maybe somewhere north of Omsk. The two-state solution, however, just seems like a disaster on the drawing board: unsafe, untenable, and you know it would just turn Jerusalem into a ping-pong ball. Filled with explosives.
Still, you’re not allowed to say that. If you’re a diplomat or a head of state, you’re supposed to make believe there’s always room for negotiation, that the Arabs really will lay down their arms and be all neighborly-like. Because, hey, they’ve been such good citizens in Yemen, Tunisia, Iraq, Syria, Libya – fill in the name of a country; the Muslims have probably terrorized it.
Our President won’t admit that, of course. It’s like he’s living in the movie “Candyman.” If you say the name “Moslem” five times to a camera lens, the bad guys’ evil will be unleashed. But here’s news, Mr. Pres, the bad genies are already out of the bottle, and if there’s one country on earth that knows not to trust the Bedouins, it’s their Semitic brethren.
Now, for the sake of diplomacy, Benjy Netanyahu has already gone back on his pre-election speechifying. He says he didn’t really mean there was no solution, that he’s always willing to schmooze with Abbas, and we should take his posturing with a grain of hummus. He’s a politician. He says what he has to to get what he wants. Once he’s got it, then he can be more truthful. Not completely truthful, but a percentage.
Meanwhile, the President, who has been going through an otherwise impressive stretch of lame-duck vigor, is pitching a hissy fit over Bibi’s bonanza. Obama wants to be the next Jimmy Carter, brokering the all-but-impossible peace deal that will cement his legacy for the ages. But lemme tell you, Barack, if you’re listening, which I know you are: with Israel and Egypt, Jimmy Carter did an amazing, impossible, fantastic thing. No one can take that away from him. But if you ask anybody about the legacy of James Earl Carter, 39th President, the response will be: hostages, oil shortage, inflation, Cold War, losing the Panama Canal, and a general American bad mood. In other word, that peanut-brained peanut farmer had as much business ruling the free world as Bill Cosby would have running a rape crisis center. So if Obama thinks he’s got anything to gain by twisting Israel’s arm into a phony truce with terrorists, he’s in for a rude awakening.
And yes, it was rude of Netanyahu to visit America and gab with Republicans when the White House all but begged him not to. But I repeat: maybe, just maybe, Bibi knows whereof he speaks when he cautions that trusting Iran to scrap its nuclear program is like trusting Bill Cosby to run a rape crisis center. I know, I already used that joke, but I’m hungry, and I want to finish this stupid essay and get to my brisket.
Folks in Washington are saying that relations between Israel and the United States are nearly at an all-time low. But I think—or at least, I hope—that’s overstating the case. Deep down, both American parties are very committed to Israel and realize how strategically important it is to the West, as well as its moral right to exist in a post-Holocaustal world. If Obama wants to rattle his saber—and you know, those people are blessed with long sabers—it could be the same kind of bluff and bluster Netanyahu was using to win his election. What actually goes on behind the scenes . . . that’s for statesmen to know and Aaron Sorkin to fabricate.
So I hope this is all just smoke and mishegoss, and that the Democrats—especially their presumptive 2016 candidat-ess—remember that what’s good for Auntie Israel is what’s most prudent for Uncle Sam. Or, put another way, don’t throw the Bibi out with the bathwater.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York.
Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of December 21, 2014.
Happy Chanukah, everybody; happy festival of lights, latkes and love. It’s the next best thing to Christmas, and at least when we go to shul, we don’t have to look at a statue of a guy bleeding to death and ruining our appetite.
Speaking of appetite, in honor of this joyful week, I am going to regale you with a story, a fabulous fable for the holiday. So children, gather `round. Or don’t, I don’t really care. Either way, I am going to relate to you the story of “Little Yomo and the Corned Beef Sandwich.”
The story is called, “Little Yomo and the Corned Beef Sandwich,” copyright 2014 by Rabbi Sol Solomon, all rights reserved. Use of this material in any form, written, digital or audio is prohibited by law and punishable by…I dunno…a year in Gitmo or something.
Little Yomo and the Corned Beef Sandwich.
Once upon a time, there was ten-year-old boy named – you guessed it — Little Yomo. He was a good little boy living in Boston with his mama, his papa, his know-it-all older sister, and the family cat, Noosh-Noosh. Little Yomo loved the Jewish holidays – or certain aspects of them. Finding the Afikomen on Passover, dressing up as a Ninja Turtle on Purim, dancing and gorging himself with candy on Simchas Torah. But most of all, Yomo loved Chanukah. The colorful candles on the menorah, the fun songs to sing, beating his sister seven times out of ten at dreidel and taking all her pocket change.
Little Yomo also loved seeing his family on Chanukah. Cousins and other relatives from miles around would come visit on the first and second nights to partake in the festivities around the front window. They would bring him presents or sweets, and they’d talk with him just like he was a grownup. He loved gramma and grampa, Cousin Ida and her boyfriend, Aunt Evelyn and her twins — who were two years younger than Yomo and great to play hide-and-seek with. Honest to gosh, there was nothing about Chanukah Little Yomo didn’t like . . . except Uncle Victor.
Uncle Victor. Respected in the garment district. Loved by his own grown children. Kindly if noticeably obese, Uncle Victor. Victor would always come both nights on Chanukah, and he always did the same thing to Little Yomo. He’d hold the boy by his shoulders and say, “Ooh, you’re getting so big. Pretty soon you’ll be bigger than me! Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha.” So funny.
And then Uncle Victor, reeking of aftershave, would reach into his back pocket and give Little Yomo the special gift that every child loves on Chanukah: gelt. Not real money, that would be amazing. But holiday money made of chocolate. Small gold coins – or, more precisely, golden foil wrappers covering chocolate disks made to look like coinage of old. Few gifts are so perfectly presented. It starts with the visual appeal of the golden-yellow bag of loot. Then, you cut the thin strings and hold your first coin, shiny and delicate yet so solid. And then peeling off the top wrapper, pulling it back to reveal a perfectly round circle of milk chocolate. And the final joy: hooking your fingernail under the lower foil to free the confection from its condom and taste the cocoa-ey bliss within.
Now, you might be asking, why would Little Yomo despise his Uncle Victor if the man was giving him delicious candy money twice a year? The reason was that Uncle Victor, as we’ve said, was a big fat man. A man who drove two hours from Pennsylvania to come visit Yomo’s family. And since Boston is freezing cold in the middle of December, Uncle Victor would roll up the window of his Buick Skylark and put the heat on, full blast, for the entire trip. All of this was fine for Uncle Victor, but by the time he would get in the house and greet little Yomo in his hilarious way, he was a cloud of sweat, body odor and Walgreens aftershave. Worst of all, when he’d reach in his back pocket to produce the Chanukah gelt, what would emerge was a bag of melted, crushed foil, covered with brown goo and smelling like horrible Uncle Victor.
As his mama and papa pointed out again and again, it would be rude of Little Yomo to turn down a gift brought by a family member. So the poor child had to hold out his hand, smile his biggest, toothiest grin, and thank his uncle with a big a hug. And then, to prove how excited he was to receive this thoughtful gift, Yomo had to open the bag and eat three coins, while Uncle Victor beamed and pointed and watched. “Look at him,” Victor would say. “I know it’s spoiling his dinner, but he loves it so much.” Meanwhile, it was all Yomo could do to keep from vomiting against his teeth.
This ritual had gone on for years and years, since Yomo could remember, and probably even before then. Ten-year-old Yomo, however, had endured enough. It was Chanukah time once more, and not-so-little Yomo dreaded encountering Uncle Victor and his smell, his chocolate, his whole nightmarish persona.
So Little Yomo decided to do something about it. “I’m going to beat him at his own game,” the little boy told himself, in the way little boys tell themselves things. Three weeks before Chanukah, Little Yomo started saving up his allowance. He needed fourteen dollars. Oops – plus tax; fifteen, just to be safe. I’ll explain. Little Yomo set aside four dollars a week of his allowance for the Unkie Fund. He needed three more dollars, but it was no problem beating his sister at dreidel and getting the extra dough. Once he had it, the day before the first night of Chanukah, little Yomo took his bundle and walked – almost ran – the four blocks from his apartment to the Kosher delicatessen on Pelham Street.
“Shalom, Little Yomo,” called the owner. “Did your mama send you on a grocery run?”
“No Mr. Hersh,” replied the boy. “This is special. I’m getting a sandwich for my Uncle Victor.”
“Well, I’ve never met your Uncle Victor, but I’m sure he’s a terrific guy, and I’m gonna make him a beautiful sandwich. What would he like?”
“Corned beef,” said Little Yomo. “On rye with two pickles and Russian dressing on the side.”
“Your wish is my command,” laughed Mr. Hersh, impressed with Yomo’s gravitas.
Two minutes later, the deli man was handing Little Yomo a bulging bag and his change. And a free hot dog to go. “Yomo,” he said, “have a great Chanukah!”
“You too,” Little Yomo called back, skipping out of the store and eager to get home and continue his plan.
The corned beef sandwich, fresh and juicy, smelled so good in the brown paper bag, but Yomo resisted having a bite. He was saving every crumb for Unkie Victor. And when the boy got home, he ran to the kitchen, but his mother was there starting to fry that evening’s latkes.
“What’s that?” asked his mama.
“Oh, just something for Chanukah,” said the little man. “It’s for daddy’s brother.”
“Awww…Victor? I swear to HaShem, you are the sweetest boy.” Mrs. Birmbaum hugged and kissed her son, which made the boy blush and grimace at the same time and squirm to get away. “I’m gonna go up and do my homework,” said Yomo slipping out of his mommy’s reach.
“Wait, don’t you wanna put that in the fridge?” his mother called.
“I have to put the card with it first!” Yomo called back as he headed towards the sun room.
But Little Yomo had no Hallmark on his mind. Instead, when he was sure no one was around, and the sound of frying oil would mask the sound of his crinkly paper bag, he took out the corned beef sandwich and held it delicately between his fingers. Carefully, he lifted the slice of rye bread off the top. He then knelt down in front of what the family called Noosh-Noosh corner. That was just a nice way of saying the cat’s litter box. Little Yomo placed the rye slice face down on the litter and the rest of the sandwich in a heap at the corner of the box. He then sprinkled a light layer of clay dust over both and called the cat over from across the room. “Noosh-Noosh! Hey kitty! Come see.”
Noosh-Noosh swished her tail and hesitated, looking disinterested, as cats do, but eventually made her way over to her corner. Sniffing at the litter-littered sandwich, Noosh-Noosh gave a low purr, then lifted her tail, and her leg . . . and did her kitty-cat business. “Good girl, Noosh-Noosh,” exulted Yomo. “Okay, shoo!”
Little Yomo whisked the cat away and then, with the tips of his fingers, lifted the soggy sandwich out of the box with one hand and the top slice with his other. Once the delicacy was put back together, Little Yomo wrapped it, stuffed it back in the paper bag, and deposited said bag in the fridge. Washing his hands thoroughly – which, for a little boy, is about four seconds with an eye-dropper’s worth of soap – Little Yomo ran upstairs to do homework . . . and wait.
The hours crawled until, finally, the sun set, and guests began arriving. There was Aunt Evelyn and her girls. There was Cousin Ida, talking a little weird because she’d had a stroke that August. And the neighbors from down the street. And Mr. Claremont, the token goy, from dad’s office. But no Uncle Victor. Not when Yomo’s sister was going around serving appetizers. Not when the family sat around the big-screen TV watching a rerun of “Everybody Loves Raymond.” Not even when the assembled gathered by the living-room window, and said the special prayers. Not even when mama lit the shamash and handed the big candle to Yomo and warned him, as always, “tilt it, so the wax doesn’t drip down your hand.”
Yomo obeyed and began lighting the first candle of Chanukah. Just then everyone heard the squeak and clatter of the screen door. “Did I miss the latkes?” came the familiar voice. “Uncle Victor!” shouted Yomo. And then, Ow!”, for, not paying attention, Yomo held the shamash vertically and let a teardrop of blue wax drizzle down his finger.
With barely contained excitement, Yomo placed the candle back in the menorah and ran to greet his Unkie Victor. “Sorry, everybody! Traffic was insane,” Victor sighed.
“You should’ve taken Horseneck Beach,” cousin Avrum said. “I-91 is a disaster at rush hour.”
“I know, I know,” said Victor, grabbing his beloved Yomo by the shoulders. “How’s my favorite nephew? Ooh, you’re getting so big! Next year, you’ll be bigger than me! Ha ha ha, ha ha ha!” So funny.
“I think you know what I have for you,” grinned Unkie Vic. “Lemme just reach. . .”
“No, wait!” cried Yomo. “Stay right there!”
Uncle Victor made an astonished face and shrugged at the family. “You’re not the only one who can give gifts,” laughed Mrs. Birnbaum. “Yomo has a surprise for you.”
“Ooh, I love surprises!” Victor yelled, loud enough for Yomo to hear.
“Be right there!” Yomo called from the kitchen, where he had opened the refrigerator, dumped out the sandwich, unwrapped it, slapped it with Russian dressing, and shoved it into the microwave for 55 seconds. “Come on, come on!” squealed the boy, hopping back and forth on the balls of his feet.
At last, Yomo heard the familiar ding. He popped the door open and reached for the sandwich, burning his fingers slightly in the process. He placed the corned-beef edible on a plate and scurried back to the living room where the grownups were already talking grown-up stuff.
“Uncle Victor!” shouted Yomo, louder than he wanted to. “Happy Chanukah!”
“Oh, my goodness!” responded the man, feigning amazement but also honestly thrilled to see a corned-beef sandwich presented before him. “Thank you, Yomo! Much as I love your roast turkey, Susan, a corned-beef sandwich is from another planet,” kvelled Uncle Victor.
“Enjoy,” beamed Mrs. Birnbaum. “Yomo was so excited to get it for you.”
Uncle Victor held the plate with the warm sandwich. He sniffed and smiled in ecstasy, smelling only the juicy Kosher beef, sliced thick and liberally drizzled with Russian dressing. Perhaps a thinner man without asthma would have noticed a faint uremic stench to the sandwich, but not Unkie Victor. With his meaty paw, he lifted half the sandwich off the plate and brought it to his wet, porcine lips.
“Don’t you dare!” came the voice. Ah, that voice. The voice of Aunt Dora, Victor’s wife of 38 long, long years. “If it’s a heart attack you want, go ahead, eat the sandwich. But personally, I’d rather see you live a few years longer.”
“But darling,” Uncle Victor sighed. “It’s Chanukah. And the boy — ”
“Yomo is an angel,” Aunt Dora nodded, grinning at the crestfallen child, “but what does he know from cholesterol and prediabetes?”
“But I’ve been so good,” whined Unkie Victor. “What’s half a sandwich? Two bites!”
“You’d better listen to her,” said Mr. Birnbaum. “You know your wife won’t let you live it down till next Shavuos.”
Panicking, Little Yomo piped up, “But it’s just bread and meat. It’s not bad like candy or soda. Can’t Uncle Victor have just a little, pleeeease?”
“I’m sorry, darling,” Aunt Dora said, kneeling in front of Yomo. “When you’re older, you’ll understand that I’m doing what’s best for your daddy’s brother. I your Uncle Victor to live a long, long time.”
“Sure, so she can torture me for years to come,” sighed Victor, surrendering the plate to his sister-in-law while looking, with just a hint of affection, at his martinet wife. “But I am so appreciative, Little Yomo, that you thought of me. Ooh, what a beautiful gesture, am I right?” called Uncle Victor, looking around at the assembled.
“I think,” said Mrs. Birnbaum, “that Yomo deserves a reward. A tasty reward.”
“Oh, the gelt, of course,” said Victor, reaching for his back pocket.
“No,” Yomo’s mother responded. “Our Little Yomo loves corned beef almost as much as you do. Let him eat it the sandwich.”
“Don’t you think that’ll ruin his dinner?” asked Aunt Dora, concerned.
“He can have leftovers tomorrow,” laughed Yomo’s father, not noticing the increasingly pale young man to his left. “A hot corned beef sandwich is not to be denied – even for my wife’s turkey.”
“But dad, it’s okay. We can leave it for tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” boomed Uncle Victor. “In fact, I would take it as a personal insult if you didn’t gobble down every morsel of that juicy, spicy, fragrant, magnificent sandwich.”
“Victor, take your pills,” said Dora.
“Go ahead, Yomo,” said Mrs. Birnbaum. “We don’t want to be rude.”
“Yes, mom,” gulped Little Yomo. “Oh boy. Corned beef.”
With trembling hands, Little Yomo approached the plate that his father had put on the coffee table. Holding the sandwich and his breath, Little Yomo took a big bite, and then another, and another. Finishing half a sandwich as quickly as he could.
“Look at him go!” announced Mr. Claremont. “He eats like a big boy.”
With further familial encouragement, Little Yomo wolfed down the remaining section of the corned beef sandwich. His eyes watering, his gag reflex tested to the hilt, Yomo took a bow and made his way to the kitchen, where he poured and emptied three glasses of Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda in quick succession.
The rest of the evening passed without incident as Yomo joined the family in holiday festivities. However, the next morning, poor Yomo was not feeling so well. He felt even worse by the afternoon, and worse still when his mother left the second Chanukah party to rush the boy to urgent care.
Not wanting to admit his deception, Little Yomo left the doctors guessing, which only made his treatment more difficult. The next day he was hospitalized, and on the fourth night of Chanukah, Little Yomo, emaciated, green and septic, slowly closed his deep brown eyes and died.
Two days later, all the family wept at his funeral. The Rabbi spoke and said God has His reasons for pulling little boys up to heaven decades before their time. Uncle Victor began a short speech but found himself too overcome with emotion to continue.
Eventually, the whole mishpocheh braved the frigid winter weather to gather at the cemetery. The Rabbi sang prayers in Hebrew and continued extolling the virtues of this tragic young mensch. When it was time, he handed a heavy steel shovel to Yomo’s father. The distraught Mr. Birnbaum stood for a long minute before willing his wobbly legs to the foot of the grave.
“Wait,” called Uncle Victor, his face blurry with tears. “Ooh, to go with him. Something he always loved.”
The assembled shivered in silence and then shuddered each time at the sound: plink, plink, plink – the sound of rock-hard, frozen chocolate coins hitting the lid of a small pine box. The end.
Happy Chanukah everybody! Again, this story is copyright 2014 by me, and I have lawyers, so don’t even think of infringing.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York. Chag Sameach.
Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of November 23, 2014.
And here I was, all set to do a gentle sermon about Thanksgiving. How grateful we should all be for friends and co-workers and family — well, maybe not family — but for all the loving, helpful people in our lives. How we must be thankful to HaShem if we still have good health, functioning limbs, working brain cells, food on the table, a roof overhead — preferably one with a fiddler on it — a decent job, a couple of hobbies, a warm winter coat and a not-bad summer vacation.
Saying grace after every meal has never been my thing. What, I should sit there thanking God for his bounties, and by the time I’m finished, the food gets cold? No wonder goyim are so skinny; by the time they finish praying, their entrees are back in the microwave. Nevertheless, a couple of times a year, it’s good to remember that everything comes to us by the courtesy of God above and the hard work of our peers and forebears.
How lovely to offer a Rabbinical Reflection on such a spiritual and fraternal topic. However, the news this week forbids me from doing such a gentle, joyful sermon. I am, once again, detoured from being my usual snuggly marshmallow of delight into sounding like a vindictive, vituperative expounder of hate and revenge. Last Tuesday, two Palestinians armed with guns and meat cleavers burst into a Jerusalem synagogue and began firing and chopping. They murdered five people, including a policeman, three American Rabbis and an Orthodox Jewish Brit. For their troubles, the assassins, Ghassan Abu Jamal and his cousin, Oday Abu Jamal, were sent to martyrdom and their 72 ugly-ass virgins in the sky.
As an extra-punitive measure, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu then ordered that the killers’ houses be demolished. Honestly, I don’t know how upsetting that is to a dead terrorist. What’s he gonna say? “Aww, I was gonna make hummus tonight. No wait, I’m being shoveled into an unmarked grave. Gee, I’m gonna miss the sun room.”
Still, hurrah for any action by the Israeli government that warns Arabs we will not stand for such horrors as violence, murder and television programs featuring Jane Velez Mitchell. Let there be no doubt: bloodthirsty Palestinians may not storm into a temple in Yerushalayim and start executing people. Not unless it’s the high holy days and they bought a ticket.
Seriously, do you know why these terrorists embarked upon their rampage? Was it eye-for-an-eye revenge? Were they mad about Jews who went on a killing spree in the local Falafel Mart? No, because that didn’t happen. The Palestinians were irate because Jews have been visiting a holy site on the Temple Mount that the Arabs think should be off-limits to Hebrews. Doesn’t matter that Arabs in East Jerusalem can go anywhere they damn well please; Jews are forbidden from going where the Arabs don’t want them. Apparently, the penalty for trespassing in the Arab world is being hacked to death. Which makes sense, since the penalty for stealing is cutting off a hand, and the penalty for adultery is, well, let’s just call it extreme circumcision and leave it at that.
Following the synagogue attack, lame-duck President Obama is calling for peace and restraint on both sides, downplaying the savagery of the event and, as usual, doing nothing. Hey Barry! We had three Americans murdered by agents of a foreign regime. Isn’t that like, war, or something? I know the dead Rabbis weren’t black, but you could at least raise an eyebrow.
In the weeks ahead, you can bet your burqa Israel will do a lot more than snivel and call for moderation. There’ll be raids, roundups, demolitions and, alas, probably some vigilantism, too. I won’t deny that there’s a back-and-forth, you-did-this-so-I-do-that element to Israeli/Arab conflagrations. Remember last time? They killed those hitchhikers, so some misguided, hyped-up Israelis murdered some soccer-playing kids. Much as I hate the radical Arabs, killing innocent people is never an answer to anything. In fact, that’s what got us here. If the Palestinians would stop being terrorists, we’d stop being enemies. And if we stop being enemies, they can visit our synagogues, and we can be tourists at their shrines. And we’ll talk, and we’ll laugh, and we’ll bitch about the government, and we’ll share music and art and sports and do business deals, and food! We’ll sit down together with pastrami and goat and borscht and eggplant and kugel and yogurt, and we’ll watch TV, and we’ll fall asleep, and you know what we’ll call it? Thanksgiving.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York.
Hey Hey Hey! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of December 7, 2014.
How much smoke does there have to be before we cannot deny that there is fire? Well, when my wife is cooking, that’s almost every meal. But in the case of crime and accusation, at what point do look at hearsay and more hearsay and still more hearsay, and think, “It would be nice to have proof, but it’s time to presume the guy’s guilty until proven innocent.” Sounds ridiculous, but there is a logic to it. Does anybody in the world believe O.J. Simpson refrained from chopping up his ex-wife and her boyfriend the way Ted Nugent slices a deer? Can you hear the name Michael Jackson and not think, “He was bad. He was bad. Sham-on. You know.”
And now another black celebrity – well, Michael Jackson wasn’t exactly black, but be that as it may – Bill Cosby, beloved comedian Bill Cosby, has gone from “I Started Out as a Child” to finishing up in various teenagers. For years, Cos has been the cause of whispers, accusations, unsavory speculations and sub rosa scuttlebutt. There was even a civil suit – to continue the alliterations — but it was settled out of court, because a man of Cosby’s wealth could pay families off and leave the world guessing at his motives. After all, even if he was 100% innocent – which he may well be – he’d still have to hire a team of lawyers and endure his name being dragged for months through courts and headlines. And if he’s fully exonerated, the muttering won’t stop: “Oh, he probably did it. Those famous people get away with everything.”
At the same time, so many women, so many similar incidents, so many pointing fingers. Or something stubby pointing at their fingers. Janice Dickinson may be out of her mind, but was her night with Fat Albert what drove her there? And what about Judy Huth, the first accuser to actually subpoena his penis? Last week, Huth filed a lawsuit against the “I Spy” guy for drugging and raping her when she was 15. Too many years have passed for a criminal trial, but at least she’ll have her day in court — though it will still be a case of “he said, she said, he said, she said, he said, she couldn’t say because her mouth was full.”
Cosby is counter-suing, possibly because at this point, he realizes that “no comment” and “I didn’t do it…that time, or that time, or that time” won’t be enough to convince a cynical public – or all the movie and TV people he’s trying to make deals with. They’re all pulling out. Okay, you have five seconds to make your own joke about that, but seriously, Bill Cosby obviously had enough cash, power and influence in the last 40 years to make evil deeds go away. But did he? The burden of proof belongs to the accusers. It’s a little too late for DNA, hotel registries and presidential dry-cleaning bills, so their memories of couches, beds, baths and beyonds better be unimpeachable.
And by the way, I’m really not one of those people who blames the victims – or alleged victims – in rape or sexual-assault cases. But this woman who’ll be suing Cosby four decades after the fact… She was 15 years old when she met 40-year-old Cosby in the park. He took her and her friend to a tennis club where he bought them drinks – and I don’t mean Gatorade; more like a Get-`er Aid – and then he asked them back with him to the Playboy Mansion. I don’t care how naïve girls were back then, if you’re a teenager, and a guy your dad’s age asks you back to the Grotto, what the hell do you think is gonna happen? You think he wants to hear how you’re doing on the debate team? Well, in this case, yes! She helped him master-debate. Supposedly against her will. And against his willy.
And people scratch their heads. “If even half the allegations from different women are true,” we think, “how’d he get away with it? How did he get to be Cliff Huxtable instead of Inmate #42837?” But then again, look at Jimmy Savile over in England, and Rolf Harris in Australia. Beloved entertainers who did more – and worse – than Cosby, and didn’t hit the skids until years after their indiscretions. So, alas, there is precedent for extreme crime and delayed punishment.
What a rotten year it has been for comedians. David Brenner dead from cancer. John Pinette dead from weight issues. Joan Rivers killed by minor surgery. Robin Williams going through a period of belt tightening. Carlos Mencia…still not funny. And now, one of the top five greatest comedians of all time, Bill Cosby, not exactly having the last laugh.
I still hope none of this is true, and these are just gold-diggers or mass hysterics or bitter has-beens who never got the ingénue roles and music careers they wanted. But the realist in me realizes that the star of “Mother, Jugs and Speed” was a mugger with drugs and spooge. I know you were in “Let’s Do it Again” – but did you have to do it again and again and again? Oh Bill, how could you disappoint us this way? After all, it takes a special kind of genius to do something even more vile, even more unspeakable and horrible than “Leonard Part 6.” And no, I won’t be giving my children your chocolate pudding pops.
This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York.
