Coming Home: A Love Story

This 50 sheqel note was in my wallet when I left Israel on August 15, 2001 and resided there until January 1, 2008. I had kept it for those 2,331 days in חוץ לארץ as a sign for myself, a comfort and palpable assurance that I would return to Israel to spend it. (To satisfy your curiosity, I spent those 50 sheqels on a bus ticket from Jerusalem to Eilat- a sojourn through the beautiful Negev must be a worthy expenditure for this worn, weighty bill to complete its own journey.)

Because of jet lag, I wasn't able to sleep our first night, in Jerusalem. So I arose at 4 AM and left the hotel (before the buses started running) to walk to the Kotel for prayers at sunrise (vatikin). The streets were empty, dark, and quiet. The world was so still, it felt like walking through a photograph. I had a decent memory of the 3.5 km route and set out with my old map in my backpack, for backup.

Walking around is like déjà vu, only I've really been here before, these places, these streets. Sights I haven't seen in years and I have forgotten, or those that have faded, trigger in an instant a flood of memories. It's like carrying a Geiger counter through a hot area; pockets of some potent, invisible radiation set off flurries of activity.

It absolutely does not seem real- It just doesn't make sense that I'm in Israel. And yet, I am.

I spent the first half of our trip in euphoric disbelief that I was actually back. Standing, seeing, conversing, being on Israeli soil reawakened feelings that had lain dormant, atrophied from disuse with time spent in America. During the second half of our trip, my struggle was coming to terms with the fact that I'd be leaving again.

This time around, we spent the last of our sheqalim in the airport on chocolate and chips (no, not that kind). We aimed to contribute as much as we could to stimulate Israel's economy, and we knew we'd be back to spend more.

Earlier, back in the States, a fellow extern at Creedmoor, a Jamaican Christian, was excited to tell me about her mother's Christmas trip to Israel. She asked me, "Do you have a lot of family still in Israel?" People assume we came from there and left family behind. Jamaican = from Jamaica; Dominican = from the Dominican Republic; so Jewish = from Israel, right?

They don't quite get the distinction among scales of history, but in a sense, they're right. It is we Jews who artificially, inappropriately cleave the awareness of recent generations in Europe and America from the resonance of our millennial history and our homeland.

Eyes shut tight

We in the Israeli and international Jewish communities are continually astounded by the extremes of the double standard to which terrorist Islamic extremists and the State of Israel are held. The world media, and of course the UN, condemn Israel and remain blind to the IDF's efforts to preserve all human life, at the cost of time, money, resources, security, and the lives of its own soldiers and citizens. The Arab terrorists seeking Israel's annihilation play dirty. In more formal terms, they violate international laws of warfare as a matter of tactic. Such repudiation of moral conduct alone should cause people to cease referring to them as "militants." They are not soldiers, they are not combatants, they are terrorists. Their priorities should be clear from their operations. They endanger their own civilians to protect their own lives and to provoke an Israeli response that can be vilified by the world.

The violence and deaths are tragic, the strife is saddening, but the absurd politics are frustrating and astounding. This goes beyond exclusion, selection, and confirmatory biases. This is distortion and self-delusion.

Here an IDF spokesperson shows some of the difference between Hamas and IDF tactics, and demonstrates how Hamas violates international and Islamic law.

More psychosis in the news

See my original post on psychosis here.

I've been following the sad story that unfolded July 29th on a Greyhound bus traveling in western Canada. Without any apparent provocation, Vince Weiguang Li calmly and repeatedly stabbed Tim McLean to death before decapitating him, displaying his head to other passengers (who had fled the bus), and eating parts of his body.

When arrested on the bus, Mr. Li said "I have to stay on the bus forever." Since his arrest, Mr. Li has declined to speak; aside from acknowledging his guilt, he only spoke when asked by the judge if he wanted a lawyer. Mr. Li shook his head and quietly said, "please kill me." Mr. Li was ordered to undergo a psychiatric evaluation and has since been admitted to a secure forensic psychiatric ward. Though he declines legal assistance, Legal Aid Manitoba stepped up to represent Mr. Li.

Following the case, I've encountered many comments on blogs and news sites condemning Mr. Li's actions and calling for Canada to reinstate the death penalty in his case. Many are dismissive of "this mental illness BS" and point to the fact that Mr. Li knew what he was doing. (Of course he knew what he was doing, but he was not doing it in the reality we experience- he acted according to the demands of another world entirely.) They think he should be thrown in a hole or deported back to China after revoking his Canadian citizenship. There are also those who recognize that Mr. Li cannot be considered fully (or at least criminally) responsible for his actions and that we should reserve judgment until more facts come to light.

In my last post on this topic, I expressed sadness at the horrors that can befall the mentally ill, their families, and bystanders. This time around, I'm saddened by the intolerance and misunderstanding still prevalent in many people's perceptions of mental illness.

On the Velocipede (or, with apologies, Zen and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance)

So I bought a used bike on Craigslist. My last bike was stolen when I was in 11th grade and I've been wanting a new one more and more in recent years. I could use the exercise, and I could use the activity to help with the doldrums of an isolated summer at home trying to make progress on my Master's thesis (more on that another time, maybe).

When I want to buy something, I research it to death. On Craigslist, my options are more limited, but I ended up buying a really good used hybrid bike I wouldn't otherwise be able to afford new. Of course, I also had to research to death a helmet, multi-tool set, mirror, bell, kickstand, lock, cyclometer, etc.

There's a hole-in-the-wall bike shop down the street from me where I went to pick up some parts. My experience corroborated the refutation of the fallacy of of of of of... HELP! I'M MIXING UP ACADEMIA AND MY BLOG!

Well, what I was trying to say was that some people believe that abundant options are an indicator of happiness, or freedom, or fresh breath or something. We talk about "Freedom of Choice" and about not being constrained by limited options. In America, one can choose to do or be anything they want! In actuality, people are easily overwhelmend by an abundance of choice, it causes anxiety, panic, and uncertainty (a source of anxiety).

So I realized that though Amazon might make available 218 types of bike lubricant, I can be much happier and at ease deciding between the two brands in my local bike shop (LBS). What's more, I can be out on my way that much sooner.

Using the awesome videos at bicycletutor.com (including one on "How to Choose the Right Lubricants" - I guess that guy would be the Lube Guru, helping anxious, confused, unhappy people make the right choice), I quickly learned my way around the morphology (uh-oh, it's happening again!) and maintenance of my bike. I got my hands dirty and felt like a real bike mechanic. So, I was ready to ride. Today, after the thunderstorms cleared up, I climbed in the saddle and took off to the Hudson River Greenway. Here's the round-trip route I took:

Now, early on I came to realize what starting off a ride in Washington Heights means- you better be sure your brakes work for the initial steep downhills, and that your knees and thighs don't give out on the return's uphills. Here's an elevation map of my trip:

I'm proud of myself, but also realized I have a lot yet to re-learn about biking.
Any suggestions for saddle-soreness? I'm hurtin!

Birthday Manifesto 1999

Though Russell provides an explanation below, here's a more recent preface. Wow- nostalgia can really make you wince sometimes, but I'm not one for (much) revision of history.

Well, here I am. I've come upon yet another birthday. In the past year I've made some new friends and, unfortunately, lost others. But the world abides to spin 'round, regardless. For the newbies, I'll let my associate Russell fill you in:

Hi there. My real name's not Russell, but I thought a pseudonym would be appropriate for this occasion, as I don't wish to shame my family name or myself. For the past several years, [PH] (or Case # 6655321, as he may be known to some of you) has followed a tradition of issuing a bombast-laden proclamation to the inhabitants of his world at large on the occasion of his birthday. If you did not hap to receive any of the previous ones, do not fret. Please don't take your exclusion as an expression of [P]'s feelings towards you, he wasn't fortunate enough to know you at those times. If he did, I apologize for him; he's just a little slow. Unfortunately, most of [P]'s ramblings from the past were consumed in the Great Brine Shrimp Fire of '97. Only that year's proclamation survived, joined by last year's. These promulgations are available to view on the World Wide Web. Future issuances will be added as they occur. The address is as follows:
http://members.aol.com/rugachover/bday.html

Thank you for that, Russell, I sincerely appreciate it. Now that everything is in order, I would like to address the issue of competition, as well as righteous pride. I realize that it's a bit of a diversion from the usual focus of this letter, but I was made all too aware of its caustic, disruptive invasion into our lives by a dream I had one stormy night, several weeks ago. I dreamt that Ronald McDonald and Colonel Sanders were fighting over my soul. Now that in and of it would not be particularly disturbing, but what really shocked me was that this affray took place in the courtyard of a dilapidated building in downtown Omaha.

It became painfully obvious to my therapist and me that something would have to be changed, as far as my bedtime snack was concerned. We cannot be certain if it was the pickled blueberries, the imitation poppy extract, or the aged tandoori, but I was not going to risk future slumbers (and possible somnambulations) on continuing any part of this reprehensible diet.

That is how I came to calm myself before bed and temper my jangled nerves by reading or composing poetry. But do I read William Wordsworth's "Lines" (Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour, July 13, 1798)? Or perhaps "The Æolian Harp" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge? You can see my dilemma. I became so distraught by Wordsworth and Coleridge's incessant bickering in my head that to teach them both a lesson they wouldn't soon forget, I soothed my nerves with a dog-eared issue of Casper the Friendly Ghost.
There is a lesson to be learned for us all from my quasi-deranged rambling. It may well serve you in the future. Please, when you are entangled in an argument, forgo pride and think of the greater good.
You'll be glad you did.
Peace be with you.

_p

-------------------------------
perambulate through the door
retrogress to the future before

Thoughts on psychosis

Some details have been changed to protect the confidentiality of protected patient information (Thanks Ariel for the consult).

Leaving the hospital right after my session with a remarkably insightful young man who some time ago, in a psychotic and drug-intoxicated state, shot and wounded several police officers, I heard a report on the radio about the developing case of Khiel Coppin. I'm sure news reports will be more comprehensive by the time you read this, but for now you can check out the story here (be sure to read the transcript of the 911 call) and here.

Basically, Khiel, an 18-year-old living in Brooklyn, was killed in a confrontation with police. He had stopped taking his anti-psychotic meds and decompensated. His mother called 911 because of his threatening behavior. He can be heard in the background saying he had a gun. The police responded and Kyle ignored their orders to stand down and surrender. He threatened them with a knife and then brandished something from under his shirt. It was a hairbrush.

People will blame the police for firing 20 shots at him (10 hit their mark). I don't blame the police. I don't blame Khiel. I don't blame his mother. It's just so sad when this happens. No one is directly responsible. There are only victims: the ill, the police, or in the case of other patients on my ward, a father perceived to be a robot sent by the CIA, a great-aunt who was believed to be turning into a witch.

I work with people who've committed horrific, violent crimes with incomprehensible intensity and purpose. Were these people not psychotic, they would be tried, vilified, and incarcerated. Thankfully, the law recognizes their impairments and commits them (usually) under Article 330.20 of the Criminal Procedure Law (CPL), otherwise known as "not responsible by reason of mental disease or defect."

In the short time I've served on my externship, I've come to understand two major concepts:

First, when you encounter in the news someone who is arrested after committing or attempting an exceptionally violent act (like this recent case), you can usually count on reading the words "motive unknown." You can also expect that person to fade from the media's eyes. But he (or she, though usually he) doesn't disappear. He gets swept under the rug. I work at that rug. They appear on the news radar when their actions are salient and shocking, but they often get better with medication and therapy. I often encounter incredulity when I relate the story of a given patient who committed any given -cide, who is doing really well and is heading towards discharge.

Which leads me to my second discovery. These are regular people, though ill. They are not hell-spawn or terrorists and they are not sociopaths (usually, though some of our patients are). They see and hear and experience as real things we only encounter in horror movies, and worse. When psychotic, they can feel terrified, entirely overwhelmed, with no one to turn to, and especially, no one to trust. If I were seeing demons all around me, my grandmother were the devil and angels were telling me to kill her to save my life and the world, why wouldn't I follow through?

When they are treated and come out from within the delusions and hallucinations, they can realize what they've done and they express a remorse that can be existential and eternal. One patient is reconciling with his mother for killing her mother. He is working to stay healthy and lead a productive and fulfilling life in the community. He says, "I realize what I've done. I'm horrified at what I did, I'm angry at myself, and I pray for her soul everyday. I have two choices- I can kill myself or try to move forward with my life. I choose to live. I don't want that ever to happen again and I'll never go off my meds." And he means it.

When talking about the kind of people I work with, I'm often asked
whether we rehabilitate them to the point that they can then begin serving the appropriate jail time. That would be a terrible thing. The law recognizes that their crimes were not committed with an intact mind and thankfully does not punish them for being sick; it tries to ensure they are helped to heal and to cease being a danger to themselves and others. When a person like that becomes well, he is not the same person who committed the crime and doesn't deserve to suffer the criminal consequences of the act.

It is important to know that a very small percentage of people with psychosis are violent or act violently, but when I work with these cases or hear about them on the news (and I feel like I've been hearing more and more of them), it makes me so sad.

UPDATE: A follow up post on another tragic case.

לא תקלל חרש ולפני עור, לא תתן מכשל

Last semester, I took a course in Cultural Diversity as it relates to psychological and clinical practice. It was enlightening, though remarkably biased. You see, the instructor is black and virtually all the case studies presented were of black people who had achieved great success despite backgrounds of poverty, abuse, neglect, and/or discrimination. These were all great and inspirational stories, but the curriculum seems to have gotten swept up in the mistaken notion that diversity=minority. (If you think this is racist, get an education, see the world, and have a neurologist check out that knee-jerk.)

Anyway, we had a guest speaker one day, a hearing psychologist who had worked for many years in the deaf community. The presentation was fascinating and enlightening, but I learned one thing that greatly disturbed me.

Because they cannot hear, deaf people often miss out on a lot of background information. Think about it; how much useful information do you collect every day by overhearing (not eavesdropping)? Because of this information deficit that leaves them out of the loop, deaf culture tries to glean the information directly and places a great value on information. The consequence of that is that deaf people are very self-disclosing and will ask very personal, intimate, and private questions (e.g., "How much do you make?" "Were you always overweight?" and the like). When communicating with a deaf person, it is considered an affront to deny them information; it says you don't trust them.

The guest speaker related a conversation she had with a supervisor about how to respond to these probing inquiries if disclosing the information made her uncomfortable. Her supervisor told her that there is a practice that has arisen among interlocutors of the deaf. The solution is to simply lie. That way you're not disclosing and not insulting.

Personally, I find that even more insulting and disrespectful. I learned growing up and in my professional, clinical development that the way to demonstrate your respect for someone (and indeed, to actually respect them) is to be honest with them. Sometimes the truth is scary, painful, or inconvenient. You don't have to deliver it with a sledgehammer, but you don't sugarcoat it, beat around the bush, or lie about it. The truth with compassion is the ideal.

This earth is blessed with myriad overlapping cultures. It is inevitable that many of them will clash. The mature, productive reaction should be to address the clash and reconcile differences; it doesn't mean everyone will walk away happy, but they should feel respected. Shirking away from this responsibility by misleading or misinforming the deaf, in this case, is a twisted, selfish, and cowardly response to personal discomfort.

Now that I've expressed my criticism, what solution do I have, what would I do? I would consider the nature of the question asked of me. I may find that though I am unaccustomed to disclosing the requested information, I may not really take that much issue with it and wouldn't really mind that much answering the question.

If I truly don't want to reveal the information, I would tell the deaf person that I understand their culture's value of self-disclosure and that while they are not lacking for my trust, my cultural background makes me uncomfortable answering the question. If the deaf person is sufficiently mature and culturally responsible, he or she would endeavor to understand or at least respect my culture (which Randy Cohen failed to do) while accepting that I am not being insulting.

This may not occur, and the deaf person may adopt a view that hearing/male/Jewish/etc. people are culturally obtuse and offensive. That would be sad, but at least I would have met my responsibilities.

Birthday Manifesto 2000

In 1997, I wrote my first birthday manifesto, an epistle I sent out in a mass email on my birthday. I continued the tradition for a number of years until life got too busy (READ: lazy) to compose new ones. For those of you who did not have the pleasure of knowing me in those days or the privilege of being in my address book, I am posting them here, not necessarily in order.

This particular one, from 2000, received the most vocal and appreciative responses. Friends said it helped jar their perspective a bit, enough to regroup and pursue their goals with renewed purpose and vinegar- um, vigor.

Well, the year 2000 has come. I remember thinking years ago, "Man, I'm going to turn 21 in the year 2000." It seemed so far away, so foreign. What was once the future is now here, and will soon be past. Time is a funny thing, it can seem to resist our wishes to just move along or it can slip through our fingers in blatant disregard of our need for it to slow down and give us pause for rest. Sometimes though, things are simply perfect. But that passes, too. As human beings, we are fickle, and the world changes around us. This is not pessimism, it is fact. So we must learn to deal with it.

I once made a sign that I posted on my desk to motivate me to work when I was slacking off or got distracted. It said, "Lost seconds count." It was meant to remind me that as a conscious entity, I am aware of the passage of time, on a scale of seconds to years. I can count seconds as they pass by. One, two, three, four... These very seconds can be spent working productively or they can be wastefully squandered. Whichever seconds I spend "playing" are lost forever, I never again have the opportunity to spend them more wisely. These lost seconds count as part of the sum total of my allotted time on this planet (before they call me back to my home planet). I can't disqualify them and say, "Those don't count, I didn't mean them. Let me do them over." The sign worked. I would look at it, realize how foolish wasted seconds are, and get back to work. What was once future is now here, and will soon be past. What is now future will soon be here...

There are intrinsic elements to my life now that I could not have possibly imagined in the past. That is another property of time and our place in it: we only know the past (one would hope), occasionally the present, but never the future. The future will bring what you make of it, what you make for yourself, with an added dose of FATE thrown in for good measure. I see people I know and care about get frustrated by the pace of their lives, saddened at the absence of certain things that they feel should have been achieved, granted, or found by now. To these people I say, there is a "before", a "during", and an "after", nothing else. If you are at the "before" part of your life, there will be a "during". It will come. It just hasn't yet. If it is not yet to be, there is nothing you can do about it. But if it will be, it will be. Effect change when you can, but accept when you cannot.

Patience is a virtue. It is an elevation past the base state of "I want it now, it's not fair." You can't change the passage of time, but you can change your perception of it. The old adage, "A watched pot never boils" comes to mind, as does "Time flies when you're having fun." When you can relax and let go of your need for a premature future, things happen smoothly. They happen in what feels to be (because it actually is) their right time. Things have a tendency to fall into place with a perfection that can't be anything but divine.

What is now future will soon be here...

Which brings me to the closing.
Thank you, everyone, for your love, your friendship, your support, help, and good wishes.
Zei gezunt.

What life asks of us

As stressful as life can be, we usually have a good handle on what we're supposed to do. I know I have to pick up my dry-cleaning or I won't have anything to wear for Shabbos. I know I have to use a pot holder or I'll seriously burn myself. Some decisions may be nagging, but ultimately don't invoke much responsibility because their consequences are not significantly influential for our future. Should I order the pasta or the fish? (The pasta- I don't like fish.)

And then there are times where life asks more of us, times where our impotence to really control our destiny becomes painfully obvious. During January/February, I was applying for externship positions for next year. I sent out five applications and was called in for three interviews. Awesome.

The first interview was on a Wednesday with my last choice hospital site (my fall-back). I considered it a practice interview. At the end of the interview with the training director, she offered me a spot for next year and asked me to let her know my decision within a week. My other two interviews were the following Tuesday. I told each interviewer about my offer and the pressure for a decision and asked them if they could let me know, in a non-binding way, where I stand. They understood my predicament and explained their predicament, which was basically that they couldn't really tell me because they weren't finished interviewing and would contact me the following week. One advised me to go ahead and "make [my] decisions."

Tough situation, right? It was literally "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." So what do I do? Take the ho-hum sure thing and feel I didn't get the exciting, prestigious placement or hold out hope but risk ending up with nothing for next year? What would you do? This was one situation where I wished I could just know one relevant piece of information from the future. That would ease my decision and give me the serenity of certainty.

So many times we ask life for its meaning, what it expects of us. Viktor Frankl, in his seminal work, Man's Search for Meaning (an explication of his experiences during the Holocaust and how they contributed to his theories of Logotherapy and Existential Analysis, which posit that our greatest drive is not towards pleasure (as per Freud) or power (as per Adler and Nietzsche), but toward meaning- buy and read this book!) informs that it's the other way around.

"Ultimately, man should not ask what the meaning of his life is, but rather must recognize that it is he who is asked. In a word, each man is questioned by life; and he can only answer to life by answering for his own life; to life he can only respond by being responsible... [In the concentration camps] we needed to stop asking about the meaning of life, and instead to think of ourselves as those who were being questioned by life - daily and hourly. Our answer must consist, not in talk and meditation, but in right action and in right conduct. Life ultimately means taking the responsibility to find the right answer to its problems and to fulfill the tasks which it constantly sets for each individual"
-Viktor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

The responsibility is upon us to discover, define, and pursue our meaning. So, my friends, where does this leave us? Well, I'll tell you what I did.

I called the director of the first site on Wednesday and blubbered a request for more time to decide. I tried to frame it in a way that didn't convey that "I don't really want to go here, but you may be my only hope." It's like this- T. pointed out that people tend to respond more positively to requests based on a principle than just a סתם request because "I want/need it." I told her that I try to make my decisions with knowledge of all my options, that if I didn't want to go there, I would tell her, but I wanted to find the placement I would gain most from and could contribute most to. She very tactfully did not point out to me how full of it I was and graciously offered me a couple more days to decide, as they expected to fill all positions by Friday. She said she'd call me when they'd all been filled (not, of course, when there was one spot left I could still accept). That bought me more time, but not enough.

I let Friday come and go (along with the phone call that all positions had been filled) and hoped for the best the next week. Monday I received a call from one of the other two places, rejecting me. I should have seen it coming. The director told me that it wasn't becasue of any lack of qualification, but that they generally seek externs with more experience. As such, they usually interview applicants for 4th year externship poistions, a preference the director informed me of during the interview. I was applying for 3rd year externship. They called me in for an interview because they were impressed with my CV and wanted to see what I 'm about. In the end, they went with 4th years across the board. I should have put the pieces together earlier. 20/20 hindsight, right?

Later that day, I got a call from my last hope. The director asked if I'd accepted the other offer I told her about at the interview. I responded cooly and calmly that I hadn't and in fact preferred a placement at her site (READ: I reallyreallyreallyreallyreally want you to take me because I have nowhere else to go). She said she'd let me know their decision on Wednesday. On Wednesay, I got the good news. I'm really excited to extern next year on two MICA wards with ex-convicts and oodles of psychopathology. In addition to the experience, this institution's name on my CV will help take me places in the future.

Does this mean I made the right decision? Not necessarily. As much as I got the outcome I'd desired at the time, I still have no way of knowing what the consequences of my decision may ultimately be.

When I called the director to accept her offer, she told me that they were very impressed with me when we met (on Tuesday the week before), but that they had to finish all the other interviews [as a formality]. So it turns out that at the very time I was troubled by uncertainty and the decision required, the conclusion was already there (she could have saved me a lot of stress had she told me then!). Of course, I could have chosen the fall back.

I'm curious to hear your about your throughts and experiences.

Update 12/28/08:
At the end of the following year's application process, I was in a similar bind. I had an offer from one place I thought I'd have been very happy with, but still had another interview, with another place I also thought I'd be happy with. At the end of the interview, I frankly told the interviewer my dilemma and empathized with her position (having come to understand it from last year's process). This time around, she offered me a position on the spot! She didn't make me accept right away, but I did ultimately accept the position and am very happy there.

Hey Al, your slip is showing

Injustice in the world? Al Sharpton to the rescue. Well, let me emend that.

Injustice for the black community? Al Sharpton to the rescue. Wait, wait- one more time.

Injustice or actual justice for the black community? Al Sharpton to the rescue.

If you couldn't already tell, he really irks me. He is an opportunistic, oratorical tornado of righteous indignation who touches down wherever something unfortunate happens to people of minority communities as a result of some action or inaction by the majority community or authority (two of the NYPD officers involved in the Sean Bell shooting case are black) that he perceives as unjust. He takes advantage of grieving families to further his own public exposure and political ambitions, claiming to represent their views and their furor, while often slipping into first person ("I will not tolerate..." vs. "they" or even "we").

What infuriates me more than this clown and his traveling circus is when he or others like him, when interviewed or holding a press conference before a verdict, hope or demand that "justice will be served." Now, correct me if I'm wrong (you can comment below), but the justice system generally performs justice whenever it gives a verdict (of course, I acknowledge exceptions).
What these people are really saying is, "I demand a judgment in my favor" and vesting this selfish, biased demand in the sheep's clothing of impartial, uniformly desired "justice."

AARGH!

Anyway, here's a clip of Rev. Sharpton (I will not refer to him as Dr., as he sometimes calls himself, because he never earned a doctorate or equivalent) recently speaking his true mind.

Fine feathered friends get soggy feathers when it rains

I emailed some friends in Israel to say hi. They’re not doing so well. Life can be really hard even for people who aren’t “suffering.” But we all have to go on. Sometimes it’s ok to be sad or lonely, you don’t have to put on your happy face if you don’t feel like it.

I realized for myself and for them how important it is to have friends. A loving spouse is a blessing from God, but when the two of you are going through the hardships of life, it can be important to have others on whose shoulders you can cry. Sometimes you even get to let your hair down a little more with friends because you don’t have to be as strong and stable as for your spouse.

On Friday night in shul, I met an old friend of mine. We’ve been meaning to reconnect on and off for months and months. Now it’s on again. He asked me if I would be his friend. Oy, such a sweet human being as he is shouldn’t be so needful of a good friend. He was married, but his wife was not his friend. It is an honor for me to be his friend, but I have to work on staying in touch with people even though my life feels so busy (or so tiring) all the time.

כל ישראל ערבים זה לזה, I am personally responsible for my brother’s welfare and I know it’s good for myself, too.

Love someone today,
P.H.