Ideas I’ve Yet to Steal

This isn’t something I’ve written. I just put this section here as a promise of more to come. A promise unmoored from lessons in the history of personal websites.While you’re here though: if all ideas are derivative, there was presumably one original creative idea or at least primitive innate idea, or set of such. What do you suppose that original idea was? Do you think we could reverse engineer it? Could we show that “from these ideas we can derive all other ideas?” Would they be boring and axiomatic like “some things have more of a property than other things” or would they be surprising like “Fluffernutters are—hands down—superior in every conceivable way, in every conceivable universe, to PB&J sandwiches”?

Inaccessible Truths

Where I get anxious about there being even more things that I can’t know, except these things aren’t things I can’t know because of a physical limitation. Lord knows there’s lots of those. These are truths that I’m physically capable of knowing, but are inaccessible to me because they are incompatible with the systems by which I access other truths. Importantly, certain social problems might be unsolvable because the truths used in the manifestation of those problems make the truths necessary to solve those problems inaccessible.Verdict: As unfalsifiable as it is unverifiable. A lot of worry over nothing. An easy pass.

Why-Questions Don’t Exist.

Ever wondered why? I sure haven’t. I’ve only ever wondered which.Verdict: A proper rejoinder to any young child’s nagging, existential questions.

Antisemites Love to Love Jews

I always thought of myself as gullible, then I considered that I had been naïve all along, yet later I realized I was optimistic. But I’m not optimistic, at least no longer, just gullible. My sister is gullible too, somehow more gullible than me, yet she’s no mark and neither am I. From a young age we both had a keen sense for someone was trying to take us in. Country club Jews can’t resist the flattery and the borsht are too humored or curious. I will not be conned by people who say they love me. Well, at least not those who say they love me because I’m Jewish.Verdict: Antisemites say Jews are at fault for antisemitism. I feel like that’s a catch-22, but here goes nothing.

Pressure & Strife

I don’t really buy social contract theory, so I made something else. I write about principles I derived from a more general observation of interactions between and within social networks.Verdict: As armchair philosophy goes, you sure got for yourself a doozy here Ari. The corpus of political philosophy at your fingertips and not one citation in the whole piece? Nice.

Courageous Knowledge Can’t Exist Online

Initially I wanted to follow up on my Inaccessible Truths piece. That piece is going to be about how so many people feel adrift, unable to put their finger on what’s wrong. I want to propose that complex societal Common Knowledge is yet to emerge, and that those feelings we have are the mutual knowledge roiling beneath the surface, waiting to be fused in just the right way and expressed as Common Knowledge. I realized though that Courageous Knowledge is a necessary precursor. I also realized that our society’s fascination with online media is inhibiting our progress toward this Courageous Knowledge, so I wrote this piece first.Verdict: Direct social critique is new to me but overall more successful than previous pieces. I’m afraid I’m not much close to that followup on Inaccessible Truths though.

Jewish Deontology or "Geier's Izmel"

You might be under the impression that the myriad traditions, disagreements, and unanswered halachic questions make Jewish ethics a complex minefield of greys. No qualms now my weary Jew. This one tool will solve most of your normative ethical predicaments.Verdict: You’ll still be a bad person, but at least you’ll have done the right thing.

Antisemites Love to Love Jews

Every Friday, after picking my children up from school, we walk to Johnny D’s to buy fruit. Johnny D’s is the extant member of several long-dead species: an affordable cash-only produce store, barely large enough to accommodate a minyan. John DePietro has worked in produce all his life, and while he’s had his own store for 30-odd years now, he got his start at Russo’s.I grew up near the Watertown line and my mother would take my sister and I to Russo’s almost every week. Back then Russo’s wasn’t hoity-toity. The storefront held two dozen tall wooden produce stands, almost too tall for the nonnas, inspecting each apples with both hands, every finger joint rolling over the surface, turned and massaged again before placed in the plastic grocery bags they’d washed, line dried, and reuse a dozen times; waxed cardboard cartons of produce stacked below each stand for ready replenishment, hanging planters the only adornments.Still, a lot of the best produce was in the back, the large cinder block warehouse that catered to Russo’s restaurateurs. The thick plastic flaps of the doorway were opaque and warped with age, doing little to keep the cool in, such that on humid summer days the door would be completely obscured by mist that would lap at your feet unexpectedly from as far as the potato stands, the chill traveling up the inside of your leg, and as you tread across the dew-laden concrete the portal’s sole sublunary sign was the faint beep of a forklift from beyond. In the back, my mother would take us past each berth, lifting the large rubber flaps, inspecting the produce with her other hand, letting it fall from her fingers before asking my sister and I to hold out doubled bags we had collected from the storefront. Those bags were so flimsy, even the green beans would pierce them.I’m sure there were Jews who went to Russo’s, but I never noticed them, or they never made themselves noticed. I was too young to put my finger on what didn’t make it Jewish and now I’m too old to remember. Maybe it could have been an Old Chelsea Jewish, but it certainly was not a Metro West Boston Jewish. I only noticed Jews–and the WASPs–at Russo’s once they renovated the storefront into what most people remember it being, with all of the prepared foods, tall ceilings, lacquered pine paneling, and artisanal canned decor. It was nothing I ever needed, though I did appreciate that they switched to high quality produce bags.John asked me once if I knew some Shmuel, the purveyor of his produce bags, apparently. When Russo’s closed, Shmuel was stuck with too many bags on order. No one else wanted bags with a (former) competitor’s name on them, so he cut John a good deal to take them off his hands. John is still using those bags years on now.This Friday my daughter’s preschool was closed, so after dropping off my son, swinging by the tailor (he wasn’t open yet, despite it being 9:30am with the sign flipped to “open”, which isn’t atypical for Sam), we stopped by Johnny D’s. We’d get the fruit later, but I needed some vegetables to prepare for Shabbos.We crashed a class at Star Dance School, about which time my daughter started asking me for a treat. She had been conditioned to. Shabbos isn’t Shabbos without a Shabbos nap (for mywife and myself) and a Shabbos treat (for the kids). After stopping by Johnny D’s on Fridays, the kids get to pick out their treats. If they want Kinder Eggs then we’ll make the trek to CVS, otherwise we’ll go to the convenience store next door before heading home. Invariably they eat it well before Shabbos starts, so I wasn’t categorically opposed to her getting a treat before noon but we would have to backtrack to the convenience stores, and I didn’t want to lug four large bags of produce, including two grotesquely elephantine kobachas–my mistake for loving them–, any further than I had to.There was one store open between the dance studio and our home, the eponymous “Beef & Turkey”, which was also a “Beef & Turkey & Chips & Drinks & A Moderately Sized Candy Selection”. I never checked their meat selection–why would I?–but I assumed they didn’t sell any pork; that “beef and turkey”, sans the other white meat, was a dog whistle for halal, so chosen as to not chafe the discriminating palatte of police officers at the D-14 station across the street.It still mystifies me how so many restaurants on that corner had failed. More “joints” than restaurants, they could serve subs, sandwiches, grinders, gyros, you name it, and they would always fail despite their proximity to the police station and Saint E’s. Perhaps they’d do better if they sold spuckies.I don’t know why a sandwich shop opens before 11:00 (maybe that was part of their problem) but there was no one at Beef & Turkey when we showed up, not even the clerk. The brown fellow who eventually rolled out of the back had an unusually entertained demeanor for someone who doesn’t own this sinking ship. He was patient too, as my daughter considered every option–with both hands–before landing on the vial of Mini M&Ms.I picked out a chocolate bar, a chocolate bar that happened to contain hazelnuts. As my wife admonished me for later, it even pictured hazelnuts on the package. But I don’t notice such things. All I saw was “bueno” emblazoned on the front and I figured it must be good for me.—“How are we doing? Still groggy?”My eyes are encrusted in sleep. They sting, the lashes pulling on each other as I pry each eyelid apart. My face is so bloated I can feel the taut reverberations in one eye as the other blinks. I can tell there are several nurses here with him–Saint E’s sends a whole cadre to each patient for no good reason; The Brig never does that–and my vision is so blurry I must be tearing, but through the pain of the pulsating warmth of my cheeks I can’t tell, and I can only tell which one is the doctor by his posture.“I’m going to hold you here overnight.”No “okay?” ICU doctors don’t mess around, but this one was particularly stern.“You could very well have a secondary bout of anaphylaxis.”Is he Indian? Maybe. He’s no brahmin though. He’s very dark. Pakistani?“This IV is just saline, but you still have epinephrine in your system and you haven’t had a bowel movement yet.”Pakistani. My eyes have cleared up enough. His name is Syed.“It’s not about how you feel. I need to be sure you don’t relapse.”I can only imagine the flak he’s gotten from other Jews in Brighton. It’s already past shkia so I’m not going to fuss regardless.He looks at me expectantly. “Understood?”“Yes.”—Along the B Line, between the stops overrun with BC students and the stops overrun with BU students, catty-corner at Washington and Comm, are two convenience stores: Lee’s and Babushka. Despite their ethnic origins, both are now owned by Indian families, and apparently–according to the junkies that congregate on the median by the bench between the Stanley Kaplan war memorial and the jukebox-painted utility box while waiting for the methadone clinic to open–there is an intense rivalry between the two stores, and I should–at the very least–never shop at Babushka.Lee’s is adjacent to a large public housing project and caters to the Black and brown crowd, while Babushka, next to the B'nai B’rith elderly housing, caters to the old Soviets. One must choose between nearly getting run over by devil-may-care delinquents or standing patiently behind ration-sensitive babushkas peeling their bananas at the register because they aren’t about to pay per pound for peels they won’t eat.I prefer Babushka because they carry whole filets of herring, but I usually shop at Lee’s; it’s on my side of the tracks.I’m no teetotaler but I drink so rarely that a beer run is an occasion and this evening I felt like having a beer. My son insisted on accompanying me to Lee’s. He took his scooter, which I had to carry through the store. I circle past the fridges in the back to the beer when a guy up the aisle exclaims “I’m with you!”Oh Jesus, not this.“I’m with you brotha!”My son had already turned to stare. I pause only just long enough.He is a hefty Black man, not even as tall as me, West African, Nigerian if I had to guess. Black shirt, black leather jacket, an imposing filigree cross hanging from a Cuban chain. His fist is raised.“Thanks.” I down-nod."You know what I'm talking about brotha? I'm with you! I have my sister.” He taps his earpiece. “She love you too. We're with you!" He pumps his fist, still raised.“Much love to you and your sister.” I start thinking about how much I could go for a chilled beer and I do my best saunter to the fridges in back.He’s still talking to his sister, with much naches, about the Jew he’s run into at the store.My son is pestering me to get the “orange beer”, Blue Moon, as I try to find a stout that isn’t imperial.“Look! Look!” The man’s hand is on my shoulder. He shoves his phone in my face as he scrolls through his collection of pro-Israel Facebook groups. “... yes yes…” He assures his sister as he pulls back his phone just as eagerly as he offered it and assumes a comically stiff upright posture. “My sister, she is very sick. Please, can you bless her?” He closes his eyes in anticipation.“I’m... just some guy.” He opens his eyes, positively discomfited. “I hope your sister gets well and I’ll pray for her along with everyone who is sick. I don’t have any special powers though.”“Oh, no no no no no… You a Jew. This is your rite! God blessed the Jews. He chose you! Please bless us.”I could just pretend to bless him; his eyes are closed again. But what does it even mean for me to bless him? For anyone to bless another? What does it mean to him? “When I pray later tonight I’ll include prayers for your sister’s health.”The cross jangles atop his trembling girth, jowls sucking in and out like a hyperventilating bullfrog. “Thank you… Thank you my Jewish friend. My brotha.”—“He meant well, but it was dehumanizing. He was telling me what it meant to be a Jew. I was just some sort of talisman for him. Eventually my son and I escaped with a six-pack of Breakside Stout and the Blue Moon.”“Okay. I see what you’re saying.” He slapped his hands on his knees. Freckles peek through the sparsely hairy ridgeline of his forearms, the undersides as pale as Mary’s bosom. He leans back while rolling his shoulders, readying to stand.He brought this on himself.I was here in the ICU overnight, over Shabbos, with nothing to do. My wife had brought me Rabbi Jaffe’s newest book on Isaiah, but my swollen sinuses felt like they would nearly push my eyes out of their sockets every time I focused on the page. So when this nurse popped in during his break, asking if I didn’t mind a few questions about Judaism, I was happy to humor him.He wasn’t spouting the standard J-for-J lines. He and a nominally Jewish friend of his had fallen down some messianic WhatsApp groups, spiraling over some prophetic Israeli rabbi. I tried not to remember too much. I’m not going to deprogram this sap during his forfeited smoke break. The substance is never the root of the problem anyway. He’s certainly been polite and demure, concerned that he’s imposing on me, holding me hostage. No sir, you’re trapped in here with me.“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think you’re an antisemite–not inherently. I’ve said racist things; doesn’t make me a racist–, but a lot of Christians don’t see how their love can be bigotry.” His shoulders turn out, so rigid he can no longer stand. “I appreciate your interest and enthusiasm and you can absolutely believe what you believe without any of the bigotry. But your enthusiasm comes from your love of Christianity; Jews as a tool to a Christian end, not Jews left to be Jews.”“Well I, I wouldn’t want you to be anything but Jewish. I know you only follow the Old Testament and that’s what this rabbi does too, so I was just wondering what you thought of the possibilities.” Despite the assurance his eyes narrow to an apprehensive “why?”, quaver with a pleading “why? Why do this?” His hands grasp the edge of the seat toward me as he shifts, putting the back between us.“I keep the Torah, and maybe this rabbi does too. He might be a pious Jew misunderstood by others, but what we do is besides the point. Most Jews don’t follow the Torah. Most, including the overwhelming majority of Israelis, are like your friend, secular.”“Really!?” He’s surprised only for as long as his eyes take to go wide, then sheepish again.“Yes. So you want us to be Jewish, but most Jews don’t want to be religious Jews. And no religious Jew wants Jesus” I preemptively hold out my hand. ”So is that what you want? And I know what you’ll say.” And I do–his mouth slightly open, shoulders hunched over the back of the chair, one hand limped up–I know what he’ll say. ”’That our messiahs will be the same. I get that you’re espousing what you think is best for both of us. Heck, I want what’s best for us from the perspective of what Judaism considers best. But just because your vision of the messiah has Christians and Jews arm-in-arm, that’s not a Jew any Jew wants to be. Jews, at least most of us–there are Chabadniks,–but most of us don’t think about the messiah too often. There is a world to come, but Judaism mostly concerns itself with the acts and consequences in this world. Yes I wait for him every day, though he tarries, but I am not party to your salvation.”He’s made his way across by the foot of the bed, yet despite being within reach of the door, he can’t leave. I haven’t let go.“So what happens in 20 years or 50 years or whenever Jews are supposed to help you all bring the messiah? What happens when this messiah ultimately doesn’t come? Will your pastors bear the blame? What will they say to those in a crisis of faith? Will they admit wrong? Will they still shower their love on uncooperative, unrepentant Jews like myself?”“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”“It was no bother at all. Any time.”