Freddy S. Zalta

DataJack!

2011-07-31T16:15:00.000-04:00

How many times have you needed a flashdrive?
How many times have you kept trying to connect to the internet but could not get a signal?
Well those days are over - And we are talking about the DataJack - Jack!

The DataJack is provides high speed internet access nationwide. The DataJack works on any PC or MAC computer and can also be used to store music, videos and backup files.

Soundtracks: Living With Bob Dylan

2011-03-21T20:49:00.000-04:00

Part I
   Music has always been a very big part of my life. Songs were a way for me to express my mood or feelings at each given time. I love music with lyrics a lot more then just instrumentals - though if you list to John Coltrane and Duke Ellington- words are seldom required. I grew up listening to artists like Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, The Beatles, Elton John(with words always by Bernie Taupin) and so many more - too many to mention.
   I was born in 1966 in Brooklyn, New York. That was smack in the middle of one of the most influential decades of the 20th Century. There were assassinations, a "Police action" Vietnam, a lot of hatred and a lot of love. Bras were burned, rocknroll grew up with a bit of an American twang and a British Accent.
   I was thinking about what growing up knowing that once you turned 18 years old, you would be drafted into the Army did to ones mindset and outlook. Of course rebellion was ripened by the prospect of being sent away at 18 years of age. The war in Vietnam where kids were going and not coming back, or coming back but never in one piece again, in body and or spirit, was a war that the American people did not rally around. The kids who went there to fight were never appreciated, celebrated, the way they should have been. It wasnt the war that they chose but they went because it was their obligation to serve their country. No arguing about whether the war (or police action or foreign conflict whatever they call it - its a war by any name) was just or not - they went and fought because of their moral and ethical aptitude.
   Back to my soundtrack - just wanted to give you a quick backdrop to what was happening while I was a baby. With all the anxiety around during that time period no wonder my generation suffers from anxiety attacks and depression - it was probably instilled in us along with the bottled milk and blaring headlines. There were some Miracles in the 60's - the Equal Rights Amendment, the trip to the moon, me being born, and of course the "Miracle Met's of 1969" to cap it all.

Miracle Met's

One of the best things to come out of all this craziness of the 60's was the graduation of Rock-n-Roll. In my house the only one in my family with a record player at the times was the oldest kid in our family, my brother Maurice. He also supplied the records and unwittingly influenced our musical tastes. On that turntable played, amongst others, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, the Rolling Stones, Elton John and Bob Dylan.

: Dylan circa 2009

While the rest of these artists remain on my "Most played" list on my ipod - I have to say that Mr. Dylan has had the biggest impact for me and has been the soundtrack to many of my life events My brother let me use the turntable as long as I never touched the disc itself - lest it scratch and cause skipping or repeating on playbacks. The three albums left there most were; Dylan's "Bringing it all back Home," (side A) Simon and Garfunkels "Bridge over Troubled water" (Side B) and the Beatles "Sgt Peppers Lonely hearts club Band" (Side A). I learned each word, each musical twist and turn and incorporated each skip, scratch or repeat. I would lay there on my brother's bed and hold the album cover - reading it as the songs played. They all had lyrics on them besides the Dylan album. But that had this write up on it that I read many times - but have since forgotten. I should look that up!
I remember Side A starting with Subterranean Homesick Blues and end with " Bob Dylan's 115th Dream" I knew and still know each second of each song - even the scratches from the original vinyl - I still expect to hear them each time I hear the songs. For instance during the first verse of "Bob Dylans 115th dream" (after the retake) he sings,

"I was riding on the Mayflower, When I thought I spied some land,I yelled for Captain Arab, Arab, Arab,Arab,Arab,Arab - I'll have you understand...

Well every Arab after the first was one Arab too many. It was because of the scratch on the record...My brother blamed it on me and whether I was guilty or not - that didn't matter. It didn't stop him from letting me listen. Nothing could have - music was my outlet, inlet and cathartic therapy that till this day saves me with its consistency and its ability to translate into different languages and emotions each time - well, I listen to my Ipod. Where I once needed 4 or 5 boxes to store my "Albums, CD's" I now carry in the palm of my hand thanks to Steven Jobs. Sorry Jon Bon Jovi - You must have forgotten what its like to not have people carrying things for you.

Dylan had some off years in the late 70's to the mid 80's (Well off for me - I am not into Christian Rock - so I am prejudiced to this as I have only heard the songs once or twice) when he released "Infidels." With songs about religion, loneliness and regret. Of course what kind of album would it be without his usual ability to forsee problems before they occurred or is it that life is nothing but a series of repeating events in different times? He speaks about the Unions how it "Sure was a good idea, until greed got in the way." And how Satan comes as a man of peace;

"Well, he catch you when you’re hoping for a glimpse of the sun
Catch you when your troubles feel like they weigh a ton
He could be standing next to you
The person that you’d notice least
I hear that sometimes Satan comes as a man of peace"

My favorite song though is "Neighborhood Bully." A blunt and honest take on the persecution of the Jewish people and the state of Israel - calling Israel a "neighborhood bully,"

"Every empire that’s enslaved him is gone
Egypt and Rome, even the great Babylon
He’s made a garden of paradise in the desert sand
In bed with nobody, under no one’s command
He’s the neighborhood bully."

: Dylan at the Wall in Jerusalem

My divorce in 1993 had "Blood on the Tracks" at its backdrop. "Simple Twist of Fate,"

People tell me it’s a sin
To know and feel too much within
I still believe she was my twin, but I lost the ring
She was born in Spring and I was born too late
Blame it on a Simple Twist of Fate.

My second marriage was precipitated my playing "To Make You Feel My Love" to my wife as I popped the question. This is from his "Time Out of Mind" comeback Album.

The storms are raging on the rollin’ sea
And on the highway of regret
The winds of change are blowing wild and free
You ain’t seen nothing like me yet.

It was on September 11, 2001 when I actually picked up his Album "Love and Theft" as the ashes from the towers were still raining down on Brooklyn. The lyrics to the song, "High Water (for Charlie Patton)"

"High water risin’, six inches ’bove my head
Coffins droppin’ in the street
Like balloons made out of lead"

: September 11, 2001

So many events in ones life - so many songs we all hear. We can relate to some and others songs can get our heart beating to the rhythm we need to get through the days and nights - or as Mr. Dylan put it in the last song on"Empire Burlesque"

"Oh, time is short and the days are sweet and passion rules the arrow that flies
A million faces at my feet but all I see are dark eyes"

So many other songs have had so many different places in my life and have been cited by me as Bob Dylan's words. My favorites are all over the place and I could go on for pages and hours - I'll spare you - for now.

In my life I have made choices that were unpopular and criticized. I have been looked at as if I was out of my mind or simple minded at best. I have never really cared what others have thought about me or my decisions. I walk, I write, talk, sing and act the way I act because that is who I am. I used to think there was something wrong with me but now I have come to understand that I am the way I am - well, because that is who I am.

One more quote from Mr. Dylan;

"If I’d thought about it I never would’ve done it, I guess I would’ve let it slide
If I’d lived my life by what others were thinkin’, the heart inside me would’ve died
I was just too stubborn to ever be governed by enforced insanity
Someone had to reach for the risin’ star, I guess it was up to me."

: The Poet - The Bard of Multiple Generations

Writing that Down

2011-02-20T16:01:00.001-05:00

Writing it all Down – Part One

I have taken many writing classes in different schools, been given countless words of advice and criticism by countless readers and teachers. My favorite writing teacher was the one who told me to express myself the way I felt like expressing myself. "Don't worry about word choice as much when you are first writing down your feelings. You can always go back and edit and change things around. Just take the pen to the paper and let it bleed."

In giving a writing class the first lesson to be taught is individualization and visualization. In fact writing is all about the "-tions."

Close your eyes, take some deep breaths, visualize where you want to be or what you want to express. Go to that location, become a fly on the wall and watch as the emotions begin to evolve into expressions. Then, report. Report the surroundings, the placement of the sun or the moon, what they characters were wearing, the tears that were welling up in their eyes as they smiled and expressed their feelings of…

We are all natural born reporters. We begin by reporting what our siblings did to their rooms. We report on the goings on in school and then the work place. We tell stories of friends, strangers, co-workers, family members and ourselves.

If we can report it – we can write it down.

To be continued.

Classes begin in March – email me for more information fzalta@gmail.com

Taxi – Based on the song by Harry Chapin

2011-02-19T19:30:00.001-05:00

Taxi - A Rainy night in San Francisco*

Lately I have been poked with memories of the time I spent in High School on the outskirts of San Francisco - the songs we sung, the plays we acted out and the love we shared. The calendar has turned its way into a half of century of too many words wasted, miles used up and love that has left permanent scars like a misplaced tattoo on old sagging skin.

I have drank too much, smoked too much and inhaled way too much. The brain cells that once sang and danced with the memories of a romantic past have become dormant and unresponsive to my calls. it could be that my turning 50 has brought up some feelings of vulnerability or it could be that I am just feeling achy and old.

it could also be that the success I have experienced in the second portion of my life has caused me to talk about myself so much that I have become even more self-absorbed then I ever was.

My name is Harry Cross and this is a love story set somewhere between the first part of my life and its second act.

* Based on Taxi written by Harry Chapin

Chapter One

I was born and raised in a small town outside of San Francisco. The only the son born to a hard-assed son of a US Marine who one day decided to leave his family to join his girlfriend in a small town outside of Portland. Typical story with a different ending – traveling salesman finds himself in a small town hotel, feeling small town himself, sees pretty girl showing him some attention, has an affair and goes home. The difference being, Mr. William Cross chose to go back and marry the woman he left behind, therefore leaving a wife and three kids to fend for themselves.

I was twelve years old when Old Bill left; before he left he took me aside and gave me his advice.

"Never settle for the ground beneath your feet, its so limited, shoot for the sky and the limitless possibilities of undiscovered worlds." I pushed him away and ran to my room to hide. I heard his car door slam outside and the engine starting. I ran to the window and saw that son of a bitch drive away.

My mother cried for an hour, stood up and gathered us in the dining room.

"Your father left, the part of human beings who make mistakes based on their own self-preservation has caused him to leave his wife and children. Perhaps the responsibility became too overwhelming for him to deal with. I don't want to hear any of you say anything bad about William Cross. He had his dreams once and now they are gone – he has simply gone out to dream once again. He'll be back."

He did come back – maybe ten times in the next fifteen years before he just disappeared all together. He did marry the woman he left Ma for – but then left her and their two kids once he was bored once again.

Mom got a job with a Doctors office and went from answering phones to being a full blown nurse. My brother and my sister each took jobs and I began to deliver the newspapers each morning. it wasn't much but we made it through. Whenever I walked on the streets outside my home – I couldn't help myself from looking up at my "undiscovered worlds."

Chapter Two

I was eighteen and a senior in Compton High, a running back for the football team, with the lead actress of the Senior Play as my girlfriend. Sue Browning and Harry Cross would spend days and nights together – saying goodbye and hello at her front door. This went on for the last two years of High School. We were part of six couples who all hung out together. We would sneak away in my brothers Dodge and spend hours kissing and dreaming. She was going to win an Academy Award and I was going to touch the sky. Nothing was going to stop her ascent or my flight. We parted as friends a week after graduation – she went out to find the spotlight and I was going to learn to fly.

The years pass quicker then you could ever imagine and before you know it eighteen is thirty one and you have nothing to show for it but a rundown apartment and some stains on your clothing. The words are written and then stashed away for some sort of prosperity – nothing you can actually define or explain – it just doesn't feel right tossing them away.

"Harry you have to grow up – be a man." Thats Gloria speaking to me after I lit up a roach that I left from the night before.

"What does that mean, grow up?" I ask as I inhale and destroy another memory of another regret.

"it means you clean yourself up, get a real job and then take responsibility for making a difference in this world."

"There is nothing I can do to make a difference in this world – who am I the President? A Prime Minister? All I am is a poet and a cab driver. I make good money doing that and I enjoy it." I replied in defense of my Pan tendency of not wanting to change.

"I am leaving Harry, moving back to New York. I cant stand living with someone who just goes through the motions of living without ever making any decisions other than where to buy the weed or who to sleep with on which night. I am leaving because you are a let down, because you'd rather sit and talk rather than act." With that she took her two bags walked towards the open door turned to look back, gave me a sympathetic smile and walked away. I made no motion to stop her – as I always did, I just sat there and watched her walk out of my life.

Four years passed, no love to discuss – just some empty caloric love making and a lot of miles on my cab. Sitting in the front I made my pick ups and drop offs, counted the cash and did it all again the next day. I drove from around lunch time to after mid-night on most days – I would make some good money and since the medallion was all paid up – my only expense was the gas and minor repairs on my old cab.

Chapter Three

It was raining hard and I needed one more fare to make my night. Not many people out on the street when the rain is falling so I decided to head towards Embarcadero Square theres always someone with their hands up looking for a cab.

Growing up my dream was to fly a jet plane or to fly to the moon. Those dreams never did come true - so instead of flying I took to smoking weed and driving a cab. I do write songs and sing with some of my friends in a garage and sometimes at a club one of our friends owns. But thats neither here nor there - just some information on who I am. I write some stories - by the time i've sobered up to see clearly I cant read my handwriting so I toss them aside.

So tonight I stopped driving for a half-hour - took some drags and began to fly. I closed my eyes and fell asleep in a parking spot - woke up from the sound of the rain hitting my windshield. Here I am now driving looking for the one last fare.

She was standing outside a fancy hotel, arm stretched out and no umbrella. I pulled up slowly and she got in.

"Where you going to, my lady blue? its a shame you ruined your gown in the rain." She looked out the window and said, "16 Parkside Lane."

Something about her was familiar - the shape of her face against the window, something. Even her voice - something that reminded me of something I had forgotten.

I asked and she said, "I am sure your mistaken." With a crooked smile that showed a million emotions with different definitions of being lost in a world full of rain and cold breezes. I knew who she was - I could never forget her smile or the sound of her voice. I felt a bit ashamed to be sitting here driving this cab while she sat in the back dressed as a Princess. I had big dreams once and she was the one who shared them with me. Learning about love during our long nights parked looking over the bay in my brothers Dodge and then sitting and talking for hours as the sun would rise and we'd sneak on back to our homes. She was going to be an actress - her dream was to be on Broadway and to have a playwright write a play with a part special for her. She would shine on the stage - the spotlights hitting her eyes, her arms around a bouquet of roses and the audience standing and throwing "Bravos" in her direction.

I was going to join the Air Force and flight for America - but when my eye site was determined to be below par I decided to become a rock n roll singer and put together a band. Success doesn't always come running towards me - in fact it seem to avoid me. I ended up taking this job as a taxI driver this past year after several failed jobs in different places.

She glanced at the license for my name a smile seemed to come to her slowly - that same sad smile, just the same.

"How are you Harry?"

"How are you Sue? Through the too many miles and the too little smiles, I still remember you."

We spoke for a couple of minutes as the rain came down harder and we seemed to hit every red light and then she tapped my shoulder.

"Pull over here Harry - lets go get a drink." We pulled over and stopped at a place called, "Big Johns."

We sat at a booth and she told me all about how she was living the best life. She knew a lot of actors, politicians and leaders of industry. She was acting, just on a hiatus while she enjoyed herself and had fun hobnobbing with the socially elite. She was laughing and straight out giddy.

"How are you doing, Harry? What happened with the flying?" She asked.

"Well I changed my mind - I decided to throw it all away so I can drive a cab in San Fran - hey you never know who you are going to pick up." We both laughed and she made a toast.

"Oh Harry. We had some great times - do you keep up with the old gang?"

"Well, here and there. Frankie got married, has a couple of kids I hear. Tommy is out there too - I saw him last Christmas he was back in town for the week. He's living out in South Caroline, or maybe North - same thing, no?" I laughed. "its not the same once the water rolls under and over the bridge - time changes us Sue - but you, you look amazing." She smiled and took my hand.

Her eyes began to well up. She looked away and I placed my other hand on hers and we both let out a chuckle.

"Dreams don't always come true as we once imagined them, Sue, sometimes the dream turns out to be reality we wished we'd never known."

"No, Harry, I am happy - my dreams are coming true. I am living in a beautiful building, I have a lot of friends, famous friends - friends who take me places and buy me things. What can be wrong with that?" She didn't seem convincing but I didn't argue with her.

We spoke about our lives – how I never could stay in our small town and needed some room to grow. I traveled from Compton to New York, to Louisiana to San Antonio and back to Compton. I tried to find a way to fly – settled for drink and smoke and dreams of the clouds.

She told me she moved to Los Angeles and stayed with a cousin over there for a while until she got a call from a casting agency in New York. She worked some off-off Broadway theater and then got into some film. She told me I wouldn't know the films or the shows, I let it pass.

Silence ensued and then he looked at me with her moist eyes and smiled. "What happened with us Harry? We had some wild conversations about our dreams, you remember? I was going to be the next Katherine Hepburn and you were going to fly high in the skies, a fighter pilot ace that would be the archetypal to replace em all!"

"Some times life happens – I made my dreams, dreamed them and kept at it. My eyes 'lacked the proper vision' or something to that effect." I took a swig from my scotch and looked away, aware that the moisture was now in my eyes. What is it about speaking with old friends that bring out the pain you have found a way to numb away or at least avoid for so long?

"So what happened in New York?" I asked her.

"Well, nothing, thats the problem. I got involved with the wrong crowd, a bunch of losers who I admired in my naivete. There were some really poor reviews on my 'performances' which caused the requests to stop coming in. I decided to move back to Los Angeles and stayed with my Aunt until she died a couple of years ago. My cousins, her kids, didn't want me staying there from the beginning and they sure as hell didn't want me once she kicked the can." She took a deep inhale of her cigarette and slowly blew the smoke in a quick straight line. "I came home. But home wasn't home anymore, you know what I mean? I went back to the old folks house and my room was now a small office with books, a desk, a chair and several typewriters. I slept on the couch in the living room. I started getting these panic attacks and got out of there when I was offered a maitre'd job at this really expensive restaurant. I made some friends there and began to make enough money to get my own place. I am acting Harry, acting every day and I get paid really good for it and I am happy."

"What about you Harry? Tell me more about your life. Did you ever get married? Any kids?" She asked.

"I never did get married nor did I have any kids. Been running, flying I guess, from a lot of my broken dreams and avoiding getting my heart broken as well. I sing with a band here and there – I love to write songs, poems – whatever. Words serve me well when I write them down and can also cause me hell when I speak them." I laughed, she just looked into my eyes.

"Sue, your acting and I am flying, I guess both of our dreams came true." I said to her and then as our eyes met we quickly looked away.

"Think its time I get back home, I need to jump on a plane tomorrow – I am going to Palm Springs tomorrow with a friend of mine. its sort of a business – vacation trip."

We walked outside and the rain had stopped – there was now a crisp cool in the air. I took off my jacket and draped it around her. She smiled and put her arms around me.

"When I get back, lets get together again, Harry. You are my only link to whatever once was." She said it sincerely, she must have truly believed it but something inside of me knew it wouldn't happen.

"Yeah Sue, i'd like that a lot." I opened the door to the cab, she asked to sit in the front with me, but there was too much junk thrown around so she got in the back.

"Come here Harry – sit with me just like the old days. Remember those nights in the back of the Dodge?" I opened the door and sat beside her and she put her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes.

I stayed awake. I felt like something had awakened within me. As if a part of me, that had fallen asleep or seemingly died had come back to life. I felt as if I was sated by a fresh cold glass of water waking me out of this self-induced coma I had been in for so long. An illumination of life of a yearning to be alive an feel once again. Now I know i've got something inside of me, something that can make a difference in this messed up world. There is a wild man – wizard within me just hiding within me, just waiting to break free. Something inside of me more then what my life has been about – i've been running from some self-historical ghosts that have haunted me for so long.

Suddenly I felt Sue shaking, she was crying. I didn't bother waking her – I just held her tighter. I know why she is crying, she's crying because she is dying, aren't we all?

I moved away slowly and then began to drive her back home. She woke up and she whispered my name.

"Thanks Harry, lets get together again." The fare said $2.50, she gave me a hug across from the back seat and handed me a twenty dollar bill. I went to give her the change but she said, "Harry, keep the change."

Part of me was angry, part of me was hurt but then I looked at her and realized she needed to do this more then I needed the cash. I stashed the bill in my shirt.

She walked away in silence, its strange how you never know. Those dreams we used to dream – they came true. But like everything else in this world, they came true on their own terms.

We were together once but then we needed to say goodbye. You see, she was going to be an actress and I was going to learn to fly. She went off to find the footlights and I took off for the sky. Here she's acting happy inside her handsome home. Me? I'm flying in my taxi, taking tips and getting stoned. When she left I said to myself, "I go flying so high...when I'm stoned." Then I broke down and cried. I cried for the love, the dreams and the time – lost, gone and never coming back. I cried for Sue and I cried for myself. Then I flipped the "No service" light and headed back home.

Chapter 4

I went back home when my Grandfather was in his bed dying. He had hours, maybe a day or two left in his life. He was a painter but mostly an artist. I went to see him in his home and it broke my heart to see him lying there.

"Hey Grandpa, its Harry." I said.

"Hey my poet! How are the words coming?" He said clear as day.

"You know, they come and go. Whats this I hear that you are checking out?"

"We all have our time kid. Don't be sad, I've lived my life a good life. Your Grandma, my children, grandchildren...my painting." He stopped and asked for some water.

"Harry you are wasting your time here." He said kind of sternly.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Harry, there are different kinds of living. There is the living where you live the life you choose to live, you fight for the things you believe in and you make this world better for at least one person each day. But you have to start with yourself." He takes another sip of water.

"Kid – I am ready to die now, I am not trying to sound morbid, just trying to let you understand that I have lived my life. I have made a difference in this world. I would have wanted to have been able to spend more time painting my art rather than peoples living-rooms, but I have no regrets. I am tired because I lived – not because I am dying. If you were dying would you be able to feel that way?" He asked me this question not waiting for an answer. I looked away and just stared into space.

"Don't worry kid, you have a lot of time to live – I just want you to live. To live out loud, to give out loud and to make this world spin. When in doubt, do something."

"Grandpa – I don't understand. But I will try."

"That's it kid. As long as you start thinking, the understanding will follow and you'll figure it out. You will be given a lot – don't ever forget to give back."

My grandfather died that afternoon with a smile on his face – what more can you ask for.

He got me thinking and he got me questioning every decision I had made – I began to write more and I began to think, think and think. The time that I had lost – but there was still time left. The dreams that were forgotten I would let them be and dream again. The words that I never said, that were not yet sung – I would sing them out loud. This poor heart inside of me would beat again and it would beat for myself and for the ones around me who are listening.

I would be flying – maybe it was time to map out a destination. I wasn't doing anything and I remembered what he said, "When in doubt do something." In this case it meant stop living my non-productive life and go out and live. To live out loud. To love each moment and at the end of my days to lay down and let the spirits take me. To be able to smile when I say goodbye.

What more can I ask for?

2010-12-17T14:06:00.001-05:00

Yum

2010-10-17T12:23:00.001-04:00

First Day of Rosh Hashanah 2010 Sermon delivered by Rabbi Schlomo Lewis of Atlanta

2010-09-27T20:38:00.002-04:00

EHR KUMT
First Day of Rosh Hashanah 2010
Sermon delivered by Rabbi Schlomo Lewis of Atlanta

I thought long and I thought hard on whether to deliver the sermon I am
about to share. We all wish to bounce happily out of shul on the High
Holidays, filled with warm fuzzies, ready to gobble up our brisket, our
honey cakes and our kugel. We want to be shaken and stirred – but not too
much. We want to be guilt-schlepped – but not too much. We want to be
provoked but not too much. We want to be transformed but not too much.

I get it, but as a rabbi I have a compelling obligation, a responsibility
to
articulate what is in my heart and what I passionately believe must be said
and must be heard. And so, I am guided not by what is easy to say but by
what is painful to express. I am guided not by the frivolous but by the
serious. I am guided not by delicacy but by urgency.

We are at war. We are at war with an enemy as savage, as voracious, as
heartless as the Nazis but one wouldn’t know it from our behavior. During
WWII we didn’t refer to storm troopers as freedom fighters. We didn’t call
the Gestapo, militants. We didn’t see the attacks on our Merchant Marine
as acts by rogue sailors. We did not justify the Nazis rise to power as
our
fault. We did not grovel before the Nazis, thumping our hearts and
confessing to abusing and mistreating and humiliating the German people.
We
did not apologize for Dresden, nor for The Battle of the Bulge, nor for El
Alamein, nor for D-Day.

Evil – ultimate, irreconcilable, evil threatened us and Roosevelt and
Churchill had moral clarity and an exquisite understanding of what was at
stake. It was not just the Sudetenland, not just Tubruk, not just Vienna,
not just Casablanca. It was the entire planet. Read history and be
shocked
at how frighteningly close Hitler came to creating a Pax Germana on every
continent.

Not all Germans were Nazis – most were decent, most were revolted by the
Third Reich, most were good citizens hoisting a beer, earning a living and
tucking in their children at night. But, too many looked away, too many
cried out in lame defense – I didn’t know.” Too many were silent. Guilt
absolutely falls upon those who committed the atrocities, but
responsibility
and guilt falls upon those who did nothing as well. Fault was not just
with
the goose steppers but with those who pulled the curtains shut, said and
did
nothing.

In WWII we won because we got it. We understood who the enemy was and we
knew that the end had to be unconditional and absolute. We did not stumble
around worrying about offending the Nazis. We did not measure every word
so
as not to upset our foe. We built planes and tanks and battleships and
went
to war to win….. to rid the world of malevolence.

We are at war… yet too many stubbornly and foolishly don’t put the pieces
together and refuse to identify the evil doers. We are circumspect and
disgracefully politically correct.

Let me mince no words in saying that from Fort Hood to Bali, from Times
Square to London, from Madrid to Mumbai, from 9/11 to Gaza, the murderers,
the barbarians are radical Islamists.

To camouflage their identity is sedition. To excuse their deeds is
contemptible. To mask their intentions is unconscionable.

A few years ago I visited Lithuania on a Jewish genealogical tour. It was
a
stunning journey and a very personal, spiritual pilgrimage. When we
visited
Kovno we davened Maariv at the only remaining shul in the city. Before the
war there were thirty-seven shuls for 38,000 Jews. Now only one, a
shrinking, gray congregation. We made minyon for the handful of aged
worshippers in the Choral Synagogue, a once majestic, jewel in Kovno.

After my return home I visited Cherry Hill for Shabbos. At the oneg an
elderly family friend, Joe Magun, came over to me.

“Shalom,” he said. “Your abba told me you just came back from Lithuania.”
“Yes,” I replied. “It was quite a powerful experience.” “Did you visit
the
Choral Synagogue in Kovno? The one with the big arch in the courtyard?”
“Yes, I did. In fact, we helped them make minyon.” His eyes opened wide
in
joy at our shared memory. For a moment he gazed into the distance and
then,
he returned. “Shalom, I grew up only a few feet away from the arch. The
Choral Synagogue was where I davened as a child.”

He paused for a moment and once again was lost in the past. His smile
faded. Pain filled his wrinkled face. “I remember one Shabbos in 1938
when
Vladimir Jabotinsky came to the shul” (Jabotinsky was Menachim Begin’s
mentor – he was a fiery orator, an unflinching Zionist radical, whose
politics were to the far right.) Joe continued “When Jabotinsky came, he
delivered the drash on Shabbos morning and I can still hear his words
burning in my ears. He climbed up to the shtender, stared at us from the
bima, glared at us with eyes full of fire and cried out. ‘EHR KUMT. YIDN
FARLAWST AYER SHTETL – He’s coming. Jews abandon your city.’ ”

We thought we were safe in Lithuania from the Nazis, from Hitler. We had
lived there, thrived for a thousand years but Jabotinsky was right -- his
warning prophetic. We got out but most did not.”

We are not in Lithuania. It is not the 1930s. There is no Luftwaffe
overhead. No U-boats off the coast of long Island. No Panzer divisions on
our borders. But make no mistake; we are under attack – our values, our
tolerance, our freedom, our virtue, our land.

Now before some folks roll their eyes and glance at their watches let me
state emphatically, unmistakably – I have no pathology of hate, nor am I a
manic Paul Revere, galloping through the countryside. I am not a
pessimist,
nor prone to panic attacks. I am a lover of humanity, all humanity.
Whether they worship in a synagogue, a church, a mosque, a temple or don’t
worship at all. I have no bone of bigotry in my body, but what I do have
is
hatred for those who hate, intolerance for those who are intolerant, and a
guiltless, unstoppable obsession to see evil eradicated.

Today the enemy is radical Islam but it must be said sadly and reluctantly
that there are unwitting, co-conspirators who strengthen the hands of the
evil doers. Let me state that the overwhelming number of Muslims are good
Muslims, fine human beings who want nothing more than a Jeep Cherokee in
their driveway, a flat screen TV on their wall and a good education for
their children, but these good Muslims have an obligation to destiny, to
decency that thus far for the most part they have avoided. The Kulturkampf
is not only external but internal as well. The good Muslims must sponsor
rallies in Times Square, in Trafalgar Square, in the UN Plaza, on the
Champs
Elysee, in Mecca condemning terrorism, denouncing unequivocally the
slaughter of the innocent. Thus far, they have not. The good Muslims must
place ads in the NY Times. They must buy time on network TV, on cable
stations, in the Jerusalem Post, in Le Monde, in Al Watan, on Al Jazeena
condemning terrorism, denouncing unequivocally the slaughter of the
innocent
– thus far, they have not. Their silence allows the vicious to tarnish
Islam and define it.

Brutal acts of commission and yawning acts of omission both strengthen the
hand of the devil.

I recall a conversation with my father shortly before he died that helped
me
understand how perilous and how broken is our world; that we are living on
the narrow seam of civilization and moral oblivion. Knowing he had little
time left he shared the following – “Shal. I am ready to leave this earth.
Sure I’d like to live a little longer, see a few more sunrises, but
truthfully, I’ve had it. I’m done. Finished. I hope the Good Lord takes
me soon because I am unable to live in this world knowing what it has
become.”

This startling admission of moral exhaustion from a man who witnessed and
lived through the Depression, the Holocaust, WWII, Communist Triumphalism,
McCarthyism, Strontium 90 and polio. – Yet his twilight observation was –
“The worst is yet to come.” And he wanted out.

I share my father’s angst and fear that too many do not see the authentic,
existential threat we face nor confront the source of our peril. We must
wake up and smell the hookah.

“Lighten up, Lewis. Take a chill pill, some of you are quietly thinking.
You’re sounding like Glen Beck. It’s not that bad. It’s not that real.”
But I am here to tell you – “It is.” Ask the member of our shul whose
sister was vaporized in the Twin Towers and identified finally by her
charred teeth, if this is real or not. Ask the members of our shul who
fled
a bus in downtown Paris, fearing for their safety from a gang of Muslim
thugs, if this is an exaggeration. Ask the member of our shul whose son
tracks Arab terrorist infiltrators who target – pizza parlors, nursery
schools, Pesach seders, city buses and play grounds, if this is dramatic,
paranoid hyperbole.

Ask them, ask all of them – ask the American GI’s we sit next to on planes
who are here for a brief respite while we fly off on our Delta vacation
package. Ask them if it’s bad. Ask them if it’s real.

Did anyone imagine in the 1920’s what Europe would look like in the 1940’s.
Did anyone presume to know in the coffee houses of Berlin or in the opera
halls of Vienna that genocide would soon become the celebrated culture?
Did
anyone think that a goofy-looking painter named Shickelgruber would go from
the beer halls of Munich and jail, to the Reichstag as Feuhrer in less than
a decade? Did Jews pack their bags and leave Warsaw, Vilna, Athens, Paris,
Bialystok, Minsk, knowing that soon their new address would be Treblinka,
Sobibor, Dachau and Auschwitz?

The sages teach – “Aizehu chacham – haroeh et hanolad – Who is a wise
person
– he who sees into the future.” We dare not wallow in complacency, in a
misguided tolerance and naïve sense of security.

We must be diligent students of history and not sit in ash cloth at the
waters of Babylon weeping. We cannot be hypnotized by eloquent-sounding
rhetoric that soothes our heart but endangers our soul. We cannot be
lulled
into inaction for fear of offending the offenders. Radical Islam is the
scourge and this must be cried out from every mountain top. From sea to
shining sea, we must stand tall, prideful of our stunning decency and moral
resilience. Immediately after 9/11 how many mosques were destroyed in
America? None. After 9/11, how many Muslims were killed in America?
None. After 9/11, how many anti-Muslim rallies were held in America?
None. And yet, we apologize. We grovel. We beg forgiveness.

The mystifying litany of our foolishness continues. Should there be a shul
in Hebron on the site where Baruch Goldstein gunned down twenty-seven Arabs
at noonday prayers? Should there be a museum praising the U.S. Calvary on
the site of Wounded Knee? Should there be a German cultural center in
Auschwitz? Should a church be built in the Syrian town of Ma’arra where
Crusaders slaughtered over 100,000 Muslims? Should there be a thirteen
story mosque and Islamic Center only a few steps from Ground Zero?

Despite all the rhetoric, the essence of the matter can be distilled quite
easily. The Muslim community has the absolute, constitutional right to
build their building wherever they wish. I don’t buy the argument – “When
we can build a church or a synagogue in Mecca they can build a mosque
here.” America is greater than Saudi Arabia. And New York is greater than
Mecca. Democracy and freedom must prevail.

Can they build? Certainly. May they build? Certainly. But should they
build at that site? No -- but that decision must come from them, not from
us. Sensitivity, compassion cannot be measured in feet or yards or in
blocks. One either feels the pain of others and cares, or does not.

If those behind this project are good, peace-loving, sincere, tolerant
Muslims, as they claim, then they should know better, rip up the zoning
permits and build elsewhere.

Believe it or not, I am a dues-paying, card carrying member of the ACLU,
yet
from start of finish, I find this sorry episode disturbing to say the
least.

William Burroughs, the novelist and poet, in a wry moment wrote – “After
one
look at this planet, any visitor from outer space would say – “I want to
see
the manager.”

Let us understand that the radical Islamist assaults all over the globe are
but skirmishes, fire fights, and vicious decoys. Christ and the
anti-Christ. Gog U’Magog. The Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness; the
bloody collision between civilization and depravity is on the border
between
Lebanon and Israel. It is on the Gaza Coast and in the Judean Hills of the
West Bank. It is on the sandy beaches of Tel Aviv and on the cobblestoned
mall of Ben Yehuda Street. It is in the underground schools of Sderot and
on the bullet-proofed inner-city buses. It is in every school yard,
hospital, nursery, classroom, park, theater – in every place of innocence
and purity.

Israel is the laboratory – the test market. Every death, every explosion,
every grisly encounter is not a random, bloody orgy. It is a calculated,
strategic probe into the heart, guts and soul of the West.

In the Six Day War, Israel was the proxy of Western values and strategy
while the Arab alliance was the proxy of Eastern, Soviet values and
strategy. Today too, it is a confrontation of proxies, but the stakes are
greater than East Jerusalem and the West Bank. Israel in her struggle
represents the civilized world, while Hamas, Hezbollah, Al Queda, Iran,
Islamic Jihad, represent the world of psychopathic, loathesome evil.

As Israel, imperfect as she is, resists the onslaught, many in the Western
World have lost their way displaying not admiration, not sympathy, not
understanding, for Israel’s galling plight, but downright hostility and
contempt. Without moral clarity, we are doomed because Israel’s galling
plight ultimately will be ours. Hanna Arendt in her classic Origins of
Totalitarianism accurately portrays the first target of tyranny as the Jew.
We are the trial balloon. The canary in the coal mine. If the Jew/Israel
is permitted to bleed with nary a protest from “good guys” then tyranny
snickers and pushes forward with its agenda.

Moral confusion is a deadly weakness and it has reached epic proportions in
the West; from the Oval Office to the UN, from the BBC to Reuters to MSNBC,
from the New York Times to Le Monde, from university campuses to British
teachers unions, from the International Red Cross to Amnesty International,
from Goldstone to Elvis Costello, from the Presbyterian Church to the
Archbishop of Canterbury.

There is a message sent and consequences when our president visits Turkey
and Egypt and Saudi Arabia, and not Israel.

There is a message sent and consequences when free speech on campus is only
for those championing Palestinian rights.

There is a message sent and consequences when the media deliberately
doctors
and edits film clips to demonize Israel.

There is a message sent and consequences when the UN blasts Israel
relentlessly, effectively ignoring Iran, Sudan, Venezuela, North Korea,
China and other noxious states.

There is a message sent and consequences when liberal churches are
motivated
by Liberation Theology, not historical accuracy.

There is a message sent and consequences when murderers and terrorists are
defended by the obscenely transparent “one man’s terrorist is another man’s
freedom fighter.”

John Milton warned, “Hypocrisy is the only evil that walks invisible.”

A few days after the Gaza blockade incident in the spring, a congregant
happened past my office, glanced in and asked in a friendly tone –

“Rabbi. How’re y’ doing?”

I looked up, sort of smiled and replied – “I’ve had better days.”

“What’s the matter? Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?” he
inquired.

“Thank you for the offer but I’m just bummed out today and I showed him a
newspaper article I was reading.

“Madrid gay pride parade bans Israeli group over Gaza Ship Raid.” I
explained to my visitor – “The Israeli gay pride contingent from Tel Aviv
was not allowed to participate in the Spanish gay pride parade because the
mayor of Tel Aviv did not apologize for the raid by the Israeli military.”

The only country in the entire Middle East where gay rights exist, is
Israel. The only country in the entire Middle East where there is a gay
pride parade, is Israel. The only country in the Middle East that has gay
neighborhoods and gay bars, is Israel.

Gays in the Gaza would be strung up, executed by Hamas if they came out and
yet Israel is vilified and ostracized. Disinvited to the parade.

Looking for logic?

Looking for reason?

Looking for sanity?

Kafka on his darkest, gloomiest day could not keep up with this bizarre
spectacle and we “useful idiots” pander and fawn over cutthroats, sinking
deeper and deeper into moral decay, as the enemy laughs all the way to the
West Bank and beyond.

It is exhausting and dispiriting. We live in an age that is redefining
righteousness where those with moral clarity are an endangered, beleaguered
specie.

Isaiah warned us thousands of years ago – “Oye Lehem Sheh-Korim Layome,
Laila v’Laila, yome – Woe to them who call the day, night and the night,
day.” We live on a planet that is both Chelm and Sodom. It is a
frightening and maddening place to be.

How do we convince the world and many of our own, that this is not just
anti-Semitism, that this is not just anti-Zionism but a full throttled
attack by unholy, radical Islamists on everything that is morally precious
to us?

How do we convince the world and many of our own that conciliation is not
an
option, that compromise is not a choice?

Everything we are. Everything we believe. Everything we treasure, is at
risk.

The threat is so unbelievably clear and the enemy so unbelievably ruthless
how anyone in their right mind doesn’t get it is baffling. Let’s try an
analogy. If someone contracted a life-threatening infection and we not
only
scolded them for using antibiotics but insisted that the bacteria had a
right to infect their body and that perhaps, if we gave the invading
infection an arm and a few toes, the bacteria would be satisfied and stop
spreading

Anyone buy that medical advice? Well, folks, that’s our approach to the
radical Islamist bacteria. It is amoral, has no conscience and will spread
unless it is eradicated. – There is no negotiating. Appeasement is death.

I was no great fan of George Bush – didn’t vote for him. (By the way, I’m
still a registered Democrat.) I disagreed with many of his policies but
one
thing he had right. His moral clarity was flawless when it came to the War
on Terror, the War on Radical Islamist Terror. There was no middle ground
–
either you were friend or foe. There was no place in Bush’s world for a
Switzerland. He knew that this competition was not Toyota against G.M.,
not
the Iphone against the Droid, not the Braves against the Phillies, but a
deadly serious war, winner take all. Blink and you lose. Underestimate,
and you get crushed.

I know that there are those sitting here today who have turned me off. But
I also know that many turned off their rabbis seventy five years ago in
Warsaw, Riga, Berlin, Amsterdam, Cracow, Vilna. I get no satisfaction from
that knowledge, only a bitter sense that there is nothing new under the
sun.

Enough rhetoric – how about a little “show and tell?” A few weeks ago on
the cover of Time magazine was a horrific picture with a horrific story.
The photo was of an eighteen year old Afghani woman, Bibi Aisha, who fled
her abusive husband and his abusive family. Days later the Taliban found
her and dragged her to a mountain clearing where she was found guilty of
violating Sharia Law. Her punishment was immediate. She was pinned to the
ground by four men while her husband sliced off her ears, and then he cut
off her nose.

That is the enemy (show enlarged copy of magazine cover.)

If nothing else stirs us. If nothing else convinces us, let Bibi Aisha’s
mutilated face be the face of Islamic radicalism. Let her face shake up
even the most complacent and naïve among us. In the holy crusade against
this ultimate evil, pictures of Bibi Aisha’s disfigurement should be
displayed on billboards, along every highway from Route 66 to the Autobahn,
to the Transarabian Highway. Her picture should be posted on every lobby
wall from Tokyo to Stockholm to Rio. On every network, at every commercial
break, Bibi Aisha’s face should appear with the caption – “Radical Islamic
savages did this.” And underneath – “This ad was approved by Hamas, by
Hezbollah, by Taliban, by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, by Islamic
Jihad,
by Fatah al Islam, by Magar Nodal Hassan, by Richard Reid, by Ahmanijad, by
Sheik Omar Abdel Rahman, by Osama bin Laden, by Edward Said, by The Muslim
Brotherhood, by Al Queda, by CAIR.”

“The moral sentiment is the drop that balances the sea” said Ralph Waldo
Emerson. Today, my friends, the sea is woefully out of balance and we
could
easily drown in our moral myopia and worship of political correctness.

We peer up into the heavens sending probes to distant galaxies. We peer
down
into quarks discovering particles that would astonish Einstein. We
create
computers that rival the mind, technologies that surpass science fiction.
What we imagine, with astounding rapidity, becomes real. If we dream it,
it
does, indeed, come. And yet, we are at a critical point in the history of
this planet that could send us back into the cave, to a culture that would
make the Neanderthal blush with shame.

Our parents and grandparents saw the swastika and recoiled, understood the
threat and destroyed the Nazis. We see the banner of Radical Islam and can
do no less.

A rabbi was once asked by his students….
“Rebbi. Why are your sermons so stern?” Replied the rabbi, “If a house is
on fire and we chose not to wake up our children, for fear of disturbing
their sleep, would that be love? Kinderlach, ‘di hoyz brent.’ Children
our
house is on fire and I must arouse you from your slumber.”

During WWII and the Holocaust was it business as usual for priests,
ministers, rabbis? Did they deliver benign homilies and lovely sermons as
Europe fell, as the Pacific fell, as North Africa fell, as the Mideast and
South America tottered, as England bled? Did they ignore the demonic
juggernaut and the foul breath of evil? They did not. There was clarity,
courage, vision, determination, sacrifice, and we were victorious. Today
it
must be our finest hour as well. We dare not retreat into the banality of
our routines, glance at headlines and presume that the good guys will
prevail.

Democracies don’t always win.
Tyrannies don’t always lose.

My friends – the world is on fire and we must awake from our slumber. “EHR
KUMT.”

Krauthammer: Those troublesome Jews

2010-06-04T14:25:00.000-04:00

Krauthammer: Those troublesome Jews Post a comment!!!

Going it Alone

2010-06-03T17:36:00.002-04:00

On Wednesday, two days after Israel acted alone, as is usually the case, to stop a "Flotilla" from breaking a security barrier, a young boy in Los Angeles, California, acted alone to protest against a Pro-Palestinian group. The group calling for the destruction of Israel - was forced to scream louder and throw stronger death wishes as the young boy just stood his ground, kept composed and walked alongside them with his Israeli Flag, IDF Tee-shirt and Yarmulke covering his head.

Israel and Jews in general, have always been on the low end when it came to population and size of land owned. The disproportionate, David vs Goliath, if you will, has had to be backed with a proportionate amount of force to just survive while encircled by Rottweilers always on the attack. So here we have One Country, roughly the size of New Jersey, against 4 countries who border it (Egypt, Lebanon, Syria and Jordan) and they stand tall. Israeli's are educated, the country is at the top of the economic scale in the world, Top in medicine, genetics, technology and so on.

I could go on for days about the Pulitzer Prize winners, Nobel winners and the breakthroughs made by Jewish innovation - I wont. I will say this.

Israel goes one against many - to push ethics, humanity, peace and improvements in the world. They are the first country to send assistance to other countries in need. They stress security because without security they would not exist. They have the best Air Force in the world because they need to watch and fight from above.

That kid walked into the crowd and waved his flag because he knows that good triumphs evil. The power of the One can overwhelm the power of the many - and he knows this and that's why he was able to walk there, head help up high, waving the flag and singing the songs of survival and faith.

Not just on Sundays or once a year

2010-06-03T10:32:00.000-04:00

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Queen of Hearts - Happy Mothers Day

Tired look on her face as she walks through the house picking up some stuff on the floor, making sure the kids have eaten, been bathed, did their homework and now are all ready for bed. She walks towards them and then stops - they are all sitting together and no one is fighting. One has their blanket over them, the others are sitting and watching the TV. Not the best thing to be doing - but she knows its been a long day for them so she just stands and watches.

The time has flown, from diapers, to pull-ups to spider man and then to grown up underpants. The time has flown, from pacifiers, to sippy cups, to soda and then to a hot cup of coffee.

Where did the time go? She stands there watching.

The birthing rooms, the first drive home, the feeding and the mid-night crying. Only mommy could calm them to sleep - only mommy could bring out their smile, crooked and sly.

Seasons come and change - the snow, the sun and the rain that brings on the flowers. The grades climb higher and higher from Kindergarten to College, from marriage to grandchildren.

Where does the time go? She stands there staring out the window.

Five o'clock dinners, "How was your day?" as if she has to ask. To this day my mother has this scary ability to know how i am feeling without even speaking or seeing me. She'll call me on the phone and ask, "How you doing?" In her voice I hear her concern and I love her for it.

She sits there watching and can see through the facades, the jokes and the smiles. Mother's Day is once a year - but we know its every day of every year. They never rest. Fathers will sit on the couch and fall asleep - Mom's will be watching, cleaning, cooking and worrying.

I remember times in our lives where she stood there giving us strength while we were crumbling. Ignoring our comments when we should have kept quiet. Defending us from others and telling us to be strong.

Mommy opened her doors to our friends and never complained about the noise or the mess. (well maybe about the mess) Our friends came over and ate over - the memories still are cherished and held close to our hearts. Of the Saturday afternoons - boys and girls hanging around - on the porch in our livingroom. The aroma of the Friday evening left overs being warmed up.

The years do fly on by and mommy has been a grandma for over twenty years now. I remember being a kid and knowing just how much she loved me. We all felt that she could never love anyone as much as she loved us. The that grandchildren came around - we were old news.

We all have the same open door policy that she kept - the kids all come over and hang around, talking, laughing and comfortable. Those kids become like our own - creating memories that are cherished and held close to their hearts, and ours.

Love for our parents is, or should be, expressed more often then once a year with flowers and a phone call.

If love could be measured in space and time her love for her children and grandchildren would encompass the universe and beyond. Our love for this special Queen of Hearts can never be defined, what love can? Most love cannot be defined, measured or even ever fully understood. All we could do is stand there in awe and admiration and let her know, "We love you and Happy Mother's Day."

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Vote Now And Win!

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Time for Music, Time for Games and time for fun!

What else is there in life?

Not Six Million By Freddy S. Zalta

2009-04-21T11:09:00.002-04:00

Not Six Million Written By Freddy S. Zalta for Image Magazine 2000 When people speak about the Holocaust the number “Six million” comes up and people pause. Sometimes they pause because they are in awe of the number; sometimes they pause because they just cannot imagine six million people being extinguished for no other reason but hatred. Sometimes they pause because the number has been repeated so many times that it doesn’t even faze them anymore but they feel that a pause is necessary. We have all seen the footage of the atrocities carried out by the Germans; we have seen the footage of the emaciated Jews looking into the camera; we have all seen the footage of the piles of bodies; men, women and children. The stench of death will never be forgotten and the blood is on the hands of every leader of every country that knew about the atrocities yet decided to turn away. Six million souls? No, not six million souls. The souls of the six million live on forever; it is the souls of the murderers that have been obliterated or are still burning in judgment somewhere. Six million Jews? No, not six million Jews. Each one of those six million would have contributed much more to this world then just taking up space. The cure for cancer could be in the ashes of Auschwitz. The cure for war could be in the ashes of Bergen-Belsen. The percentage of the six million who had yet to have children or marry could have led to another 20 million Jews by 1960; in turn another 40 million by 1980 and another 60 million by 2000. Six million? No not six million. Think of the music that could have been composed. Think of the stories that could have been written. Think of the art that could have been created. Think of the millions of lonely souls searching for love…The millions who have lived a life full of sadness and emptiness that one of those “six million” could have filled with their love, their caring and their warmth. Think of death and you cannot fathom the lives these unborn souls would have lived. Think about life and the right to choose to live or die and you can’t help but remember the choices that the unborn will never have. Think about the amount of the six million who had yet to fall in love; who had yet to see a beach; who had yet to watch a baby being born…the millions more who will never even get the chance. The ashes of the camps are filled with dreams that will never be dreamed; cures that will never cure; love that will never again love or be loved; children crying out for mommy or daddy… Six million is just a number. The Germans did more then kill Six million Jews they destroyed a world that could have been, should have been brighter, healthier and full of love and peace. Six million? No. An infinite amount of people will be paying the price of the death of the living and the death of the unborn for an infinite amount of time. The generation of the survivors is aging and in a short while there will be no more witnesses. That is why we must teach our children over and over again the importance of never to forget. The importance of the words…Never again.

Disclaimer

2009-04-07T00:12:00.005-04:00

All written by Freddy Zalta "The events depicted in these chapters are fictitious. Any similarity to any person, company or entity living or dead, in business or out, is merely coincidental. (C) 2008-2009 F-Train Publications Brooklyn, NY ISBN-2126-546718

CPA and Just Another Day

2009-04-07T00:12:00.003-04:00

Below are the first 5 chapters of my next book. It has not been edited and is very raw so be very understanding...to be continued.

Chapter 1 - Ride to NYC

2009-04-06T20:38:00.001-04:00

On a beach somewhere…its hot but there is a soft caressing breeze blowing and I can sense the feeling of relaxation seeping within me. The water is a clear aqua blue and the sky is azure. White powdery sand covers my toes…I can feel someone touching me and suddenly I feel a numbing pain in my balls. A loud announcement screams, “The news watch never stops, you give us 22 minutes we’ll give you the world. Good morning its, 14 degrees outside and cloudy on this January 18th I am Judy Deangelos.” I hit the clock…my daughter laughs. She is on top of me and her foot has inadvertently (?) kicked me in my groin. My wife rolls over and says, “Good morning.” I roll over and smile, in pain, “but it was such a nice dream…” Under the shower the water pressure suddenly drops. Shampoo in my hair begins to drip unto my face and then my eyes. I spend the remainder of my shower trying to wash myself under a dripping spray. As soon as I go to shut the water, the pressure returns, too late, I shut it. I put on my clothes and my pants are tighter then usual. “Honey I think my pants shrunk.” I say. “I don’t think it’s the pants that have changed.” She says with a smile. “I haven’t gained weight in one week. These pants fit me perfectly last week and then you had to clean them.” “They were dirty, you want to wear dirty clothes?” I lose the argument and just wear them unbuckled with a sweater covering the belt area so no one can see. I walk downstairs and make myself a cup of instant coffee. It tastes, well, like instant coffee; instant gratification without the actual gratification. But its ok, its caffeine and its Monday morning, so it’ll do. I have come to lower my standards on this and lots of others things I once seemed to hold to higher ones. Music, movies, books and coffee; some examples of too many expectations that have fallen short and less then have they risen to the occasion. I once believed that life was supposed to be seized; you know “carpe diem” and all that. Yeh, well, I have come to realize that’s a bunch of bullshit spoken by poor artists who didn’t have to raise a family and pay for a mortgage that was refinanced 3 times just to make ends meet. Fucking assholes; infecting us with all that “make the most of your day” crap. Yeh seize ‘this’ buddy. I walk towards the elevated platform on Avenue P and McDonald Avenue to take the F train into Manhattan. I live in Brooklyn, have lived in Brooklyn my entire life. Its in my blood and I will probably die here and be buried somewhere in this Boro Capital of the world. I wait on the platform and see the familiar faces; the Russian girl who thinks she is hotter then she actually is, the Asian girl who is hotter then she thinks she is, the religious Jew who carries a big book in his hand, the Talmud and then the Giant man who scares the crap out of me. He is well over 6 feet tall, really heavy set with over sized features on his head. Bit mouth, giant ears and big nose. He can pass for a modern day Frankenstein, in any case he scares the shit out of me. He lives in my area because I often see him walking alone and one time I saw him walking alone in the dark. I didn’t know what it was walking towards me, looked like a walking tree, but as he got closer I realized who it was, the giant from the F train. The train rolls in and we all walk onto the cars and scramble for a seat. Its usually not a problem since we are one of the first stops from Brooklyn to the city. I sit down and look around. Once again, I see the usual suspects sitting in their usual spots. Young girl mouthing prayers very quickly while the woman next to her applies make-up to her face, as if it’s going to make a difference. Its funny thing about makeup, sometimes I see a beautiful girl walk on looking all fresh and then she sits down and puts on make up that makes her look older and less pretty then nature intended. I don’t know, I am just happy I aint no chick, I don’t know if I could be so obsessed with my appearance just to impress others. I am sitting on the first seat next to the door and there is an Asian woman and her little son sitting next to me, one seat apart. She is speaking extremely loud to him and I have no idea what she is saying but she seems quite pissed off. She keeps speaking like a fucking siren in the middle of the night screaming and blaring. I say Asian because I have no idea if she is Korean, Japanese, Chinese or whatever. I am a Jewish Man from Brooklyn and I have no idea how to differentiate. That might sound racist, but I mean it in a non-racist way. What does piss me off about them is their loud voice. They can be sitting inches apart and they scream to each other as if they are a block apart. What's up with that? 18th Avenue and the Hasidic Jews walk onto the train, seats are scarce and people are beginning to be stuck standing for the duration. I open up my paper and read about the same old news. Bailouts, unemployment, Obama’s change is basically the same old story and the only change is the color of the skin which is the only reason he was elected in the first place. People all talk about how its such an amazing accomplishment that we have elected a black president and I guess to some extent I agree, but I feel the opposite is true. People want to convince themselves that they are better the generation before then so they vote for someone who, despite all the reasons not to vote for him, lack of experience, past affiliates, etc. vote for him because of his charisma and his call for change. I am hoping he turns out to make a difference simply because this country needs serious help. So I will stand behind him and hope for changes for the better. We go underground and hit Church Avenue; a large man walks in and decides to sit between the Asian lady and me. It takes a couple of seconds but the smell begins to make its way towards me. I stand up and walk towards the other side of the car. I cant believe I got screwed like that but, what am I gonna do? We hit Jay Street and a mass exodus occurs, I run and find myself a seat next to the chick who was praying before. She is listening to her ipod now and oblivious. No problem at least she smells nice. She looks at me and nods her head as if she is disgusted with me. “What?” I asked. “You just sat on a some yogurt or something.” She says. I put my hand on my butt and notice its wet now and all I can say is I hope its water and not yogurt. Black pants and yogurt don’t go well together and we have a meeting today with the boss and some board members. There have been rumors of lay-offs and cut backs, we already did not get any bonus this past New Year and its no secret that the company gambled 7 million dollars on a product that was at its peak and was now in decline. So this meeting was called to discuss the future of the company and its employees. The train stops in between East Broadway and Delancy Street, no announcement until 5 minutes into it. “Ladies and Gentleman we are being held here because of a stalled train on Delancy Street, we hope to be moving shortly.” Ten minutes pass by and the smell from my former neighbor across the car starts to make its way towards us. I stand up to walk towards the other side and the train jumps. We get to Delancy and throngs run onto the train.

The Thing About Dreams

2008-02-08T12:12:00.002-05:00

It’s late September; last day of September actually. The summer is still hanging around, although the wind has been trying its best to push it away. The summer was something this year. Blue skies, trips to the beach, baseball, no homework, and cuts and bruises all around. When I was younger, summer meant no school and the sounds of baseball on my transistor radio. Each spring I would eagerly count down to the first week in April for opening day and the start of a six-month journey where dreams are encouraged and the daylight lasts straight into the evening. I remember playing softball in the schoolyard down the block from our home. We would begin early in the morning and defend our field until the sun just couldn't stay up any longer. We would play and we would become our heroes; I would be Tom Seaver pitching and then I would be Dave Kingman hitting. The dreams I held tightly in my heart were encouraged by the success I had between the lines; I was a fast runner and I would plow my way around from home plate to home plate. Bruises, scrapes and cuts leading to scars on my body. The journey around the bases was exciting as I dared each player to try and catch me; the dream of success encouraged. I didn't always get the hit and strike out the hitter; in fact I was not the best player on the field. But I had more fun then anyone else. How can you go wrong when you are living your dreams? The summer evenings were always hot. Air conditioners were not the norm back then and the windows would be wide open all night. I would keep my transistor radio underneath my pillow and listen to the sounds of baseball being played somewhere. Dreams encouraged; dreams being celebrated as the summer months peaked. I remember the summer of 1977: blackouts, heat, killer on the loose, dirty streets and death that seemed to follow us wherever we turned. Charlie Chaplin, Groucho Marx, Elvis Presley and so many others. The daughter of the owners of the diner across the street on Kings Highway, killed by the media's ‘Son of Sam.’ Of course there were also the dreams that died that year for me; the dream that loyalty meant something. On June 15th 1977, the Mets traded my heroes Tom Seaver and Dave Kingman and just like that, all in one night, they were gone. Loyalty seemed nowhere to be found on or off the field. The summer went slowly that year and I waited for it to end. Dreams seemed to be turning into nightmares and I felt out of control. The thing about dreams is that they are rarely encouraged; they are looked upon as if they’re a curse and when something goes wrong we’re told to wake up and deal with reality. The thing about dreams that brings feelings of unease is the way they are discarded, forgotten and replaced—just like Seaver and Kingman. The summer is finishing now and I can tell you that I've had my share of ‘dreams’ gone wrong. Dreams of loyalty, support and courage. It’s not how the dream ends; it’s how much heart and soul you put into it to make it the best journey possible. The baseball season ended for me this September. With the Mets losing, all the success of the months before had been negated. The heart and soul of the team was lost somewhere in the dog days of August. Now the cool winds will blow more consistent, the chatter on the streets will grow faint and days will last only for several hours at a time. The comfort of the daily games are gone and the sounds of the ball hitting the bat muted. Life is too short to let go of all your dreams; our dreams can be part of our reality. In dreams there are no failures; the only failures are the dreams no one dares to take a chance on. There’s no such thing as failure, because without failure, who are we? I’d rather speak with a man with scars than one with a clear complexion. Who are we if we have not yet fallen on our face and stood up to try once again and again and again? I have my scars. Most people are sympathetic; I equate my scars with trophies—inspiration to stand up again, walk onto the field, hit the ball and run around the bases. Although these days I am much slower, I know that I will find my way back home via the base paths. Each base is its own goal and reward— integrity, respect, love and responsibility. That responsibility in knowing I am not the only one on the field and that there are others who are running ahead and behind me. It is my responsibility to clear the way for them to find their way back home. _________________ Freddy S. Zalta lives in Brooklyn, living the impossible dreams

July 10th 2007

2007-07-10T11:23:00.000-04:00

Hot summer day; 4th of July passed; love conquers all...it does. Money is unimportant when you have a lot of it. Money is important. Health and Happiness go hand in hand...God bless you. I didnt sneeze... No i meant...ok. Keep your chin up and keep on passing those open windows. you dont have to entertain to be loved but you can love to entertain. Do unto others as you'd like done to you...the rest is all commentary. Good night, Irene. (who is Irene?) Dont stop dreaming...ever!

In Memory of Ezra Abraham

2005-10-27T14:28:00.000-04:00

Jacobo Hassan

2005-01-09T19:20:00.001-05:00

This past week we lost someone who lived and loved to the fullest. Newly married and so in love he died knowing he saved his wife from his own fate. His body has been found, but his soul and smile is everlasting. Tsunami is a word that will never be forgotten. In memory of Jacobo Hassan, please do a good deed today!!! Give charity, visit a sick person, respect your parents a little bit more then usual, kiss your kids and spend some time with them without the TV on and with your cell phone shut off. Smile to a stranger and hold the door open for the person behind you. Give your seat to someone because they seem to need it more then you. Cook a meal for a family that really could use one... Get involved! We all have the ability to change this world; let us change it for the better. Get involved with a local group that helps the poor, the unemployed, the sick and the lonely. Dedicate ten hours a year towards doing this in memory of all those who died too soon. Make up with your friends and your family; stop hating...start understanding. We are all individuals with our own individual faults...forgive each other...life is too short. To everyone who have stopped talking to each other because of money...start talking and stop arguing. it doesn't matter who each of you think was wrong or right; in the end it doesn't matter. In memory of my cousin who died living...let us all do our part to make this world a better place. Thank you, Freddy S. Zalta
fzalta@gmail.com

Superman

2004-10-12T08:37:00.000-04:00

One night in the early 80's I was walking with my friends on the upper west side of Manhattan when I suddenly saw a familiar face walking quickly and carrying the Sunday New York Times. I double took the way you do when you think you saw someone you know and then I noticed it was someone I knew. Although, much to my naive teenage feelings of owning the world, the person I saw didnt know who the hell I was and I think I actually scared him. "Hey, thats Superman." I blurted out to my friends loud enough for him to hear. "And your a jerk." Scowled the man of steel. At first I was in shock; he looked more like Clark Kent then Superman; then I was angry; who is he to call me a jerk! then, a couple of hours later, I understood. Here was a man walking with a newspaper on a saturday night; clearly trying to disappear into the New York City life where no one bothers you if your famous, (they ussually just smile or nod) and here I was speaking loudly and annoucing his presence. Throughout the years I have told the story of how Superman saw right through me and called me a jerk. he was right; I was a jerk. many years later I heard the bulletin on 1010 WINS in New York. Superman was hurt in a horse accident and was not expected to survive. Later it was reported he would survive but would be a quadripolegic. It was unbelievable; superman...unable to be super...it was a quick reminder to all of us, "jerks" of just how vulnerable we all are. But Christopher Reeve was a bigger and better man then Superman. Superman did his good deeds and then turned away and hid behind glasses and a nerdy haircut. Christopher Reeve was quickly surrounded by friends...friends who took it upon themselves to be there for him. Not just when he was super, but when he was the best of all his characters...Human Being. His wife is every mans dream of a wife; there for you through thick and thin; holding you when you cant stop shaking and giving you the will to live when all you want to do is die. Superman had nothing on Christopher Reeve. Christopher Reeve swore that he would walk again. Christopher Reeve swore that he would stay in shape and breath on his own. He did. Imagine, a star the magnitude of Mr. Reeve, totally unable to move; going to capital hill; using a tube to help him breath and then speaking in a voice louder then Pavarotti's; "I represent nearly 400,000 spinal cord-injured Americans and millions more around the world who now have a legitimate reason to believe that the day will come when they will rise out of these wheelchairs. Scientists are successfully exploring one of the last great mysteries of medicine, the frontier of inner space, the diseases of the brain and the central nervous system." His voice was stronger then a speeding bullet, stronger then a racing train...today when we are all in a postion where we feel weakened and unable to even take our next step...we will look up into the sky and not see a bird, a plane or superman...we will see a man standing up from his chair and walking home.

Another preview "That Old 66 Chevy"

2004-08-22T10:37:00.000-04:00

That Old 66 Chevy

Preview from "Collection of Words" by Freddy S. Zalta

2004-08-17T14:20:00.000-04:00

There is no beauty that is equal to the beauty of a woman. The smile that can heal you; the sun glistening off of her as she throws her hair back; the heart she surrenders to youâ€¦her lipsâ€¦ one night as you wander the house unable to sleep; thinking about the morning and what it will bring you...more bills, less money... you hear a cry coming from upstairs. You walk quickly and you come to you babyâ€™s room. You look down into the crib and she smilesâ€¦you smile and you return to your bed; you lay awake and you listen to the rain falling outside and you smile. Your wife turns towards you and smiles; you lay there hypnotized by the turn of her lips and the light that emanates from her mouthâ€¦ You smileâ€¦you sleep. All is Ok. When She Smiles. The earliest memory I have is of being a child of around 5 or 6 years old. I was running around our apartment and I fell and got hurt. I began to cry and cry, my brothers tried to console me by promising me lots of things that I liked at the time. My sister promised me a yodel. Nothing worked; nothing stopped me from crying, until I saw her smile. My mother came into the room and smiled at me, hugged me and suddenly everything was all right. When she smiles, my wounds suddenly heal. When I was ten years old my parents sent me to summer camp. At first I was nervous because I did not know anyone who was going to that camp. On the first day, I swear I remember this as if it were yesterday; I saw her smile. Danielle was her name and she was my first love. She was standing with her group and she was laughing and talking. She had dark blonde hair, a crooked smile and soft brown eyes. From that day on I was inspired to come to camp everyday. I never did work up the nerve to speak to her, although I did offer her a piece of gum once, which she took and quickly walked away. But I still remember her smile, some twenty years later. I was fourteen years old and she loved Bob Dylan. Brown hair, brown eyes and dark skin. I carried her books home from school more then once and I loved to watch her smile. Sixteen years old and many smiles later, I found myself on stage in front of a crowd. So many people staring right at me, but I can only see one pair of eyes. I was scared up there at first until I saw her smiling that smile. Sometimes even now, when Iâ€™m on stage in real life, I see her smile and Iâ€™m at ease. There have been a lot of tears fallen from my face and Iâ€™ve tasted her tear drops as well; but there comes a time when even a smile cant stop the pain and thatâ€™s when you know that its time to move on. They say the sun always comes out after the rain and that the long winter will always come to an end. Just like a lonely man finds a new friend to help him smile. One night while walking along the river searching for some answers and a reason to smile. I caught a glimpse of a shooting star and I knew it was time to live again. Phone calls and long dinners lead to a lifetime of smiles and a woman I can call my best friend. When I saw her smile, my heart began to beat again. One night, after the type of day at work where you question everything, I walked into my daughterâ€™s room. I stood above her as she slept in her crib. I put my finger in her hand and I saw her smileâ€¦ And the answers Iâ€™d been searching for came to me in the shape of a smile.