Dik Picks

You want proofs of God? I’ll give you proofs of God.

How is it, that the word Zayin, which means both Fuck and Dick in Hebrew, looks so amazingly like a dick when turned on its side?

Checkmate atheists.

And it’s the 7th letter in the Hebrew alphabet, which we know is the holiest of letters. Kabbalistically, this is be

cause sex is actually a huge, throbbing mitzvah when done in the right way and in the right time, which is not at all and never.

Double checkmate.

Here’s the original amazing text that inspired this all:

Thank you Miss Mandelbaum, for making this a school I want to go to.

Things eventually became colorful, as the verse sayeth “And I shall cast the rainbow in the cloud”.

Bonus video:

Conditioning for Pleasure

I’ve been working with a coach on experiencing pleasure. It’s not that I haven’t experienced it at all, but it was few and far between, and I did not enjoy my day-to-day existence.

I can probably say I started experiencing joy for the first time about a year ago.

My default mode of going through the world was surviving. I am now working on thriving, which requires a completely new way of being to come online.

As always, I am struck by where I come from. How it promised it all and delivered nothing.

My mother would wax poetic about how Eskimos have 100 words for snow (they don’t) and how jews have a hundred words for joy. Because we’re so fucking joyous, right?

“Worship God with Simcha. Come before him with Renana.” If you sang it with enough fervor, maybe you’d start feeling it.

Noach Weinberg’s fundamental, absolute beginner class was The 5 Levels of Pleasure.

Leave it to that dude to take what is supposed to be a felt experience and turn it into an hour-long mental masturbation meta-analysis of what pleasure was supposed to be like. Including deeming certain pleasure “counterfeit”.

Figures, this coming from the community that taught the secrets to a happy marriage before they all got divorced.

And so, as usual, I am building it all up from scratch, experientially instead of intellectually. And instead of starting from zero, which would be sad enough, I am starting with a deficit, unlearning all the bullshit that was ingrained in me by my parents, aish, and orthodox Judaism.

I’d tell them to go fuck themselves, but they might enjoy it.

And that wouldn’t be allowed.

Shlemple Joins the Army

Join Shlemple on a whimsical journey of soul crushing death and destruction. Sure to be a direct hit for the whole family.

I Hate Being Jewish

Cards against Humanity is one of my favorite games. It’s funny, it’s simple, and it’s not very competitive.

When it’s my turn to judge, those who know me know that certain cards are automatic winners. Cards I deem so hilarious that everyone else can just give up and go home.

Auschwitz.

Hitler.

Self-microwaving burrito.

What even is a self-microwaving burrito?

Teiku. No one knows.

As a child, the term self-hating jew was thrown around a lot.

Especially when certain names were mentioned, like Noam Chomsky.

My mother brandished the term with particular frequency, and I recall the particular derision in her voice.

The amount of judgement that only someone who deeply hates themselves can muster up.

Hating your Jewishness is frowned upon.

Hating your very essence is the most Jewish thing you can do.

What even is a self-hating Jew?

It feels just as magical, as self-sufficient, as capable, as a self-microwaving burrito. “Instead of needing to rely on others to be hated, you just do it to yourself.”

I hate being Jewish.

At this point, not because of anything I’ve done personally or that we’ve done as a collective.

As it’s been pointed out, for most of history we’ve been victims, not perpetrators.

I hate being Jewish because contending with anti-semitism is a royal pain in the ass.

It feels like an amplification of the general human condition, and my anti-natalist views towards being born.

To be alive is to suffer.

To be Jewish is to suffer more.

My reaction to human suffering, and the despicable behavior of humans who often perpetuate it, is revulsion to the point of not wanting to share the same earth with these creatures.

To be alive is to suffer, and I think we should think deeply before dragging more people into this world of suffering.

If you’re predisposed for additional suffering, I think this requires even deeper contemplation.

If you’ll be giving someone a genetic disease, for example.

Or if you’ll be making them part of a persecuted minority.

You’re setting them up for extra pain.

To be Jewish is to suffer in ways that many people don’t. I don’t believe it’s metaphysical, but I do think Jews have suffered disproportionately throughout history, and up until today.

To grapple with the immeasurable suffering of our ancestors. To struggle with simmering antisemitism that is always right beneath the surface, or, as the case currently seems to be, right above it.

It boggles my mind that people’s reaction after the holocaust, or after October 7th, is to double down and bring more humans into this godforsaken earth.

I don’t comprehend the concept of being proud because you’re disproportionately hated. It’s not necessarily an indication that you’ve done something wrong, but hey, wouldn’t you rather be proud about being universally loved?

I resent being human, grappling with the suffering that is part of the human condition.

I resent being Jewish and grappling with the extra suffering that is my lot.

The least I can do is not perpetuate this upon anyone else.

“But then they’ll have won,” you’ll admonish, clutching your Jewish star. “In the battle of good and evil, it’ll be evil who’s prevailing.”

Maybe it will be.

Returning to Footsteps

My partner and I recently attended a retreat organized by Footsteps, the organization that supports (mostly) Orthodox Jews leaving religion, especially in the New York area.

The retreat was wonderful, and I am grateful to the organization for creating such an enjoyable experience, with a lot of generosity, abundance, and acceptance, all traits that I was sorely lacking during my upbringing.

I learned to juggle. I taught acro yoga. I played laser tag for the first time in my life. I hosted the largest ever game of Kiruv vs. Orthodoxy, and shepped loads of nachas as people laughed at the cards.

Below are some additional observations, in no particular order.

How lucky I am

I had a fucked up childhood, and yet other people’s lives are so much worse. People at the wrong end of a custody battle, with little access to their children, and no support from their families. Contrast that with my partner leaving religion like I did, our aligned values around raising our kids together, and the partial acceptance my parents have shown.

The more conservative your upbringing, the more fucked up you’ll be

I was fortunate to be raised with fluent English, with secular education being celebrated, to a degree, even if as a means towards an end. You can see the difference in how messed-up Yeshivish/Lithuanian families are compared to the far-worse Hassidic families are. The latter gives you even less education and marks even the English you speak with a distinct accent that sets you apart.

The predominance of Queer and Neurodivergent People

It’s hard to know if this is the cause or the effect, but it was clear that religion becomes a whole lot less tolerable if your sexual preferences are different, or if your brain works differently than others on an intellectual, emotional, or social level. Footsteps also probably disproportionately attracts these types of individuals, because of the extra support and community they feel they need.

The presence of trauma

Trauma is everywhere, right beneath the surface. It’s in the lack of eye-contact and the nervous mannerisms. It’s in the laughter around dark personal stories that aren’t funny. It’s in the rampant sexual abuse that is implied and almost explicit in some people’s journeys. It’s in the costumes many people put on as they prepare to get on a bus back to their closeted Orthodox lives.

How far I’ve come

I was at the last retreat, pre-covid, four years ago. It was interesting to have a milestone to see my progress since then. How much I’ve healed from my traumatic past. How much I’ve moved on from my identity as an ex-religious person. How much my social skills have improved. I saw some people I recognized from four years ago, and not all of them have fared as well. For my growth too, I am grateful.

Never was it more obvious that the more religion equals more pain than at the Footsteps retreat.

Fuck religion. Thank god for Footsteps. They may not be perfect, but their heart is in the right place.

I don’t think I’ll be going on another retreat, because of how far I’ve come. But I’m grateful for the experience and what I learned in this one.

Asking the Big Questions

A recent memory came back to me.

At the age of around 14, I remember bursting into tears in front of both my parents. I didn’t understand, I told them, what the point of all the Torah study I was doing that I engaged in for about 12 hours a day. What was the point of it all? It was so obviously irrelevant from anything to do with reality.

I remember my parents being at a loss, both intellectually and emotionally.

My mother told me father to give me a hug. So he did.

They tried to give reasons, it didn’t go very far.

We went for a walk, and bumped into the neighborhood Rabbi, Avigdor Nebentzal. “Let’s ask him,” my mother suggested.

He gave a beaming smile and explained. Something about Torah changing us, or supporting the world, or something like that.

My parents asked if I understood. I said yes.

They asked if I felt better. I said I did.

—

A few things stand out to me in this story, beside my mother delegating affection to my father and him awkwardly complying.

How plagued I was by existential questions from the youngest of ages. How the importance of knowing why I was doing what I was doing stood out as a crucial requirement. (apparently not everyone works this way? Apparently Simon Sinek needed to write a book about it?)

And also, how my parents had no answers. How they sent me to school every day to do something that they couldn’t articulate. That they were placated by answers delivered by random rabbis on random street corners. Until they met them, or had they arbitrarily not done so, things were still just fine.

To me, the artificial application of meaning on top of something that viscerally felt meaningless is metaphorical for much of my experience of around religion. There was a brute-forcing of my own intuition into the squareness of religious practice.

The will of God is so. This is how it’s done. Now figure out how to be happy around it.

Embracing Uncertainty

Growing up, in school, we’d be reading the same page 40 times, when the Rabbi would stop the class for a spot check. If you had lost your place, you’d be publicly shamed – yelled out, or sent out of the classroom.

We were reminded that in the olden days Yemenite kids would read with oranges under their chin. If they looked up and the orange dropped, they’d be beaten. We’d never had it this good.

(I got very good at playing along while letting my mind wander, or skimming the page to find the right spot if a surprise check was suddenly initiated)

Not knowing, uncertainty, became a very dangerous thing.

Religion demands certainty.

You must be certain that your butthole is clean. That you concentrated during the first paragraph of Shmone Esre. That you remembered to say Ya’ale Veyavo on Rosh Chodesh.

In return, Religion promises certainty.

Certainty that you’re the chosen people. That God is listening to every word. That everything you do matters. That these times, indeed, are the end of days.

It takes greater courage to live in uncertainty.

To not know the point of it all. To not know what your role is. To not know who to turn to when the going gets tough.

And yet, uncertainty is an essential part of life.

Essential for humility, to continue to learn and admit what you don’t know.

Essential for the scientific method, questioning even things that we seemingly take for granted.

Essential for spontaneity and play. No one wants to play a game where the outcome is a given.

Over the years, I developed an aversion to uncertainty.

A clenching of the stomach when I woke up, around the day’s many unknowns.

An artificial confidence for spouting answers even to things I know nothing about. (this is known in professional circles as “bullshit Shore confidence”)

A deep dislike of replying with an “I don’t know” to the endless questions my 10 year old poses to me (you are usually only about two follow-up questions away from an “I don’t know”)

For me, it also combined with an obligation around masculinity, to be a provider and protector. It wasn’t enough to try, I had to succeed. I had to take responsibility for outcomes far beyond my control. A surefire recipe for anxiety.

I am actively working on accepting ambiguity.

Of deliberately playing in the unknown.

Of feeling safe even with no guarantees of safety.

Because, despite what religion claims, reality would like a word. And that word is uncertainty.

Hashgacha Pratis Generator

Are you in need of some chizuk in this trying times?

Do you need an anecdotal story that will remind you without a shadow of a doubt that hashem is looking out for your every move to make sure you are safe and protected?

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The Hashgacha Pratis generator

Hasgacha Pratis Generator

An Unbelievable Hashgacha Pratis Story

This is the story of .

So there he was, on his way to fulfill his holy mission, when suddenly , in a shocking, but not surprising, display of antisemitism.

He was sure all was lost, and that he was a dead man. He muttered a final Shema to himself and prepared to return his soul to its creator.

Then he looked down and saw that instead of penetrating his own body, it had simply pierced the that he carried around with him at all time.

He let out a sigh of relief. He knew in his heart of hearts that his salvation was due entirely to the .

The stranger looked at me. “And you know who that person was?” He smiled.

“Who?” I asked.

“That person,” he replied slowly, “was me.”

Joseph Joins the Army

My brother joins the Israeli military tomorrow.

My main emotion is sadness, which is saying a lot because I don’t usually let myself feel much sadness.

Yosef is joining a special-forces unit, which means he’ll be doing harder, more brutal training, get exposed to more dangerous situations, and do all this for an extra year longer than most Israelis.

I’m sad because I don’t want him to lose four years of his life to an institution, where you alternate between sheer boredom and risking your life, emerging at the age when most Americans have graduated college with nothing to show but trauma and a burning desire to get of Israel, at least for a while.

I’m sad because of the training he’ll be going through. Another brother who also served, was traumatized just by the training. Of crawling until you bleed. Of soldiers crawling through their own vomit. I have no desire to see the army make a man out of my brother. I prefer he stay the boy, the joker, the computer game playing socialite that I know him to be.

I sad because I don’t want him to die. Yosef is the best. He has less edges. Hilarious, intelligent, and easygoing, he’s beloved by all who know him. If this sounds like a eulogy, it’s because it seems like its the best that die young. The assholes live until they are 95, chain smoking and harassing the rest of humanity.

Yosef Daniel is named after a soldier who died, killed by a sniper while conducting an arrest in Jenin. The killer was arrested, and then released in the Gilad Shalit prisoner swap. This tells you all you need to know about the futility of serving in the Israeli army.

You get looped into the endless cycle of violence that is the Middle East in general and Israel in particular. You become part of the endless trauma that is the large population of men who’ve seen combat, or oppressed minorities, or who lost their friends, all so that we can supposedly “never again” experience just that.

I know Yosef felt a duty to serve his country, to sacrifice on behalf of others just as others had sacrificed before him.

To me, it’s incredibly arbitrary. Speaking with him, a fluent English-speaker, well versed in the ways of TikTok and gen-z, you could easily imagine him growing up in New York. Where even Jews don’t serve in the army, especially if they were raised Orthodox like we were. The fact that he’s sacrificing so much because of where my parents chose to live – a sacrifice which my parents themselves never made – infuriates me.

I don’t believe Israel is worth dying for. I don’t believe it’s worth giving up years of your life for. I don’t believe it’s doing anything to preserve the continuity of the Jewish people, nor do I believe that there is anything inherently valuable about the Jewish people sticking around as a distinct identity.

All this to say, if Yosef is killed, I will never forgive my parents. For placing him in harms way. For moving to a war-torn country to make a point.

There, I’ve turned the sadness back into anger.

The Spirit and The Letter

Overall Judaism doesn’t concern itself as much with attitude. It’s mostly about endless laws that you either did or didn’t do. Usually the laws pertain to actions, sometimes to intention, like the obligation to concentrate fully during the first blessing of the Amida prayers.

More rarely, it gets involved with attitude. Examples that come to mind include the directive to not end Shabbat or holidays immediately at the time, to take your time when taking three steps backwards in your Amida service, and in general to “worship God with Joy”.

I have written in the past about the loopholes in Jewish law, and how absurd they are, and I am again struck by this when the parallels are more stark. My grandfather just died, and they rushed to bury him before sundown, and then “sit Shiva” for about 5 minutes so as to shave off one day from the 7 days.

If Shiva is a good thing, if it’s the word of God and good for you, does it make sense that 5 minutes is enough to do it? If God really has your best interests in mind with every law he gives you, why do you spend so much time and effort getting around it? I’m reminded of all the times Orthodox Jews just didn’t eat bread, to avoid the need to say a long convoluted blessing afterwards.

Why is ending your Shiva as soon as you possibly can, different than rushing out of Shabbat at the earliest possible opportunity?

It’s telling, every time Orthodox Jews do whatever they can to avoid the laws that supposedly “enhance” their life. It’s an indication that deep down, or not-so deep down, there is a sense that the whole thing is a burden.

Which makes sense, because you’re taking a set of laws that range from absurd to actually decent and then applying them as a blanket law for everyone to follow equally. I think Shiva is actually an emotionally intelligent way to process grieving. Forcing people to do it for exactly seven days, not so much.

And so the law loses its spirit, and the followers of the law lose theirs.

Freidom Fighter – Mockery Will Set you Free