Tales from Jew Camp: An Introduction

I had planned to write this a week ago, started several times, scribbled on a sheet of paper. But I sat in front of this laptop and this blank Blogger screen... and nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.

Normally I can let my fingers go on autopilot and cede control of all creative functions to the right side of my brain. Call it talent, call it subconscious, call it whatever you want. It just happens. But this week has produced only a series of words, a jumble of meaningless phrases that don't matter to me in the least.

I guess when you try to write about something that is so very close to your heart, no matter how silly it is, it's hard to be blithe about it. Trust me, I've tried. I'm a firm believer that sarcasm and self-deprecating humor can be applied to distance to a situation, whatever that happens to be. Any regular reader of this blog can attest that many of my entries are rife with that sort of writing style. This, however, cannot, will not, be translated into a light article.

As I write this, I can guarantee that I will be blushing. I suppose I get embarrassed over how juvenile it is (or seems to be). Okay, I'll just say it.

Camp.

A Jewish girls camp, to be specific.

For the last ten years, I have been attending the same camp, either as a camper, trainee, or a counselor. Same camp, same activities, same people.

See? Blushing.

Oh, how I wish I could just sit here and make fun of the whole thing, the whole concept! Like how Jewish parents send their girls to this camp specifically to meet Jewish boys at the neighboring camp and how, ironically, more lesbians come out of the camp than marriages. But then I think about how many camp marriages do last and how many points your cool factor goes up if you are a lesbian at camp... and I can't make fun of it anymore.

Know why? Because that is part of the charm of camp. At camp, I am brave enough to smash gigantic spiders while issuing my shrillest war cry. I can wear the same dirty old hat everyday. I can give a sermon or two at Shabbat morning services. Camp did more for me as a woman than any Spice Girl ever could. And I couldn't be more grateful.

On Tuesday, I leave to begin my tenth and final year at my dear, sweet camp. After three years as a counselor, I need to begin planning for real life, taking internships, travel. I must leave my mountains behind to enter a world where the only mountains I will climb are metaphorical in nature. But I still have one last year. One last fling at childhood before entering a new life.

So, I invite you to join me in my final journey. Though I will not be able to write everyday, I hope to share my stories with you at least once a week. Perhaps I will finally be able to convey my feelings for this place in my own idiom, instead of stilted flowery prose.

Until then, goodbye!

K.

PS. Please feel free to leave comments if you so wish. I hope to be able to check my e-mail while at camp (if their sporadic internet cooperates). I'll definitely respond if I have the chance. :)

"Goodnight, Michelle."

Ever know someone from your childhood who portrays a certain image throughout their lives? And then you meet them later in life to find out that they have taken a 180 degree turn?

Case in point: Bob Saget.

(Warning-- Language.)

K.

Lay Off the Thrills, Buddy

I was going to start my series of entries about Jewish summer camp, but I got seriously distracted by current events. No, not Zarqawi or bombings in Israel or Tropical Storm Alberto-- Ben Roethlisberger.

Yep. That Ben Roethlisberger.

For those of you not up on American football news, Super Bowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelers' quarterback Roethlisberger was involved in a motorcycle accident a few days ago (Sports Illustrated has a full list of the player's injuries). Roethlisberger has been upgraded to "fair" condition, which bodes well for his recovery to playing condition. The franchise has yet to determine his career future.

Frankly, I don't care about his playing ability. Sure, I'm a Pennsylvanian and I cheered for the Steelers during the Bowl, but whether the kid can ever throw a ball again isn't foremost on my mind. What does irritate me, however, is the fact that Roethlisberger was not wearing a helmet. Not only that, he is not even licensed to operate a motorcycle in the state of Pennsylvania!

Listen up, athletes. You sign contracts for millions of dollars per game with huge franchises for the express purpose of entertaining millions of fans. The football fanatics turn up to games, buy your jerseys, which provides billions of dollars to the franchises. So, in all but the legal sense, you, as a professional football player, are owned by both football fans and franchises. You are obliged to not take such idiotic risks. It is irresponsible not to.

So, Mr. Roethlisberger, I suggest that you think very carefully before taking anymore unnecessary risks. Your value to any professional team with drop precipitously if they believe that they can't count on you. Advertising spots will dwindle away as your bench time exceeds your playing time. Finally, even your fans will abandon you to follow bigger and brighter prospects.

Sounds peachy, right?

Sorry to be harsh, but the sooner you find that out, the better.

K.

If Only Ignorance Was Always This Funny

While catching up on the comics that I missed from this weekend, I stumbled across this query in "Dear Abby":

"Dear Abby:

I have reason to believe that a young man in my family may be gay. (He is 15.) I have been thinking a lot about this lately, and have been wondering if circumcision would cure it. What do you think?" --Grandmother in Missouri

Uhhhh...

Thankfully, Abby (Jeanne Phillips) had this to say:

"Dear Missouri Grandmother:

Homosexuality is not an illness, and therefore there is no need for a 'cure.' I predict that your family will be happier if you accept you relative exactly the way he is, love him, support him, and stop trying to think of ways to cure him.

PS. Circumcision is a sacred rite of the Jewish religion. If your theory were valid, then there would be no Jewish homosexuals. And yet, among the successful, gay, Jewish men who are 'out' are Harvey Fierstein, Michael Finestein, Barney Frank and David Geffen-- to name a few. (Oops! And let's not forget Isaac Mizrahi.)"

Right on, Abby. Right on.

K.

Joys of Jersey?

And then there was silence. The violin legs of the crickets ceased their sawing; the croak of the bullfrog was utterly absent. Within this magnitude of quietude, a still, small voice was heard:

"Oops."

Yes, before my travels into the Garbage-- uh, I mean Garden State-- I irresponsibly neglected to ask what kind of internet my hosts used. Sadly, it was dial-up. E-mail did not get checked, entries did not get blogged, and valuable time that could have been spent looking up articles to make me giggle was lost. Pity.

Not that my trip to New Jersey was ruined by my lack of internet connection in the least. I perused the boardwalk of Seaside Heights, was berated for my lack of knowledge about carpentry in Allair State Park, and managed to watch nine Johnny Depp movies in the first annual Depp-athon. Even the facts that (1) Six Flags Great Adventure was shut down for some Boy Scout shindig, and (2) I was actually having fun in Satan's trash heap of a state didn't lessen my enjoyment of the long weekend.

I still reserve the right to make fun of their full-service gas stations.

K.

PS. I mean, really, why can't these people pump their own gas?

Signs of the Apocalypse

I admit it; I'm jumping on the bandwagon. Today is June 6, 2006, otherwise known as 6/6/06. Many Christians and "Revelations" analysts maintain that the number 666 is the mark of the Beast, otherwise known as Satan. The coming of the Greatest Scapegoat's favorite day has spawned at least one movie premiere, endless Satanist parties, and-- the most evil event of all-- the arrival of Ann Coulter's new book. Now, it would be completely irresponsible if I didn't comment on an event that only happens once a century, even if every other blogger has already had a whack at it.

Since I am not an expert on numerology or New Testament theory, I cannot give anyone a fact-laden essay about 666. Therefore, I decided to do something different.

Inspired by Sports Illustrated's weekly quote, I present...

Signs of the Apocalypse

• Brought to you by Dave Barry's blog, here is The PhotogenicMask. Leave it to the Japanese to think of one of the creepiest things imaginable. I'm sure the end of days will include souless people with souless faces walking around. (Don't worry, you can press 'cancel' if they ask you to install a Japanese language pack.)
• A man, sure that invoking the name of G-d would protect him from danger, was mauled by a lioness. Before the fire falls from the sky, G-d will definitely ignore the pleas of the faithful, especially if the faithful are stupid enough to CRAWL INTO A LIONESS'S CAGE!! G-d don't hold with no idiocy.
• I had an article from MSNBC about people finding eight heads in a box in Iraq, but the article magically disappeared from the site. Apparently, MSNBC knows that the Devil's house-warming gift before the end of days begins is a nice set of heads in a box. Here's a different article about it, anyway.
• After examining a jarful of rainwater, scientists have concluded that the red cells within the water are aliens. "Revelations" has got to have something about killer red aliens falling from the clouds, right? Anybody?
• CNN is now teaching children how to rob banks. Clearly, Satan has contracted Ted Turner to turn our kids into sinners in order to counteract Hell's population drop after the Baby Boomers move through.

And there you have it, folks. These are just several signs of the impending apocalypse! Do you have your Homeland Security-issue duct tape and plastic sheets? Good, you should be alright. then.

Good luck!

K.

PS. As lawsuits have a habit of flying about on the internet, I totally credit Sports Illustrated for "Signs of the Apocalypse."

PPS. Don't take this seriously. That makes babies cry.

Confirmation Agitation

This morning, my family and I sat down for the most superfluous ceremony in a young Jew's life: confirmation. More specifically, my brother's.

I've never been a fan of confirmation, even four years after my own ceremony. The synagogue itself doomed the rite for me. Back in the day, a rather jaded seventh grade Sunday School teacher informed my class the concept of a "confirmation" was nicked from America's Christian community during the fad of Jewish assimilation. Before that, he said, the concept of confirmation wasn't practiced at all in the European Jewish populace. Whether this is true or not, I quickly added this to my arsenal of reasons why confirmation wasn't necessary to become a mature Jew.

Who can blame me? I had been attending Sunday School for eleven years. Every week, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, dragged in for one hour of Hebrew lessons, then subjected to two hours worth of exceptionally dry history. (Granted, many other Jews have to suffer Hebrew School multiple times a week, to which I doff my cap. I don't think I would have survived.) To be told that I need to complete yet another year of instruction in order to take part in a ceremony not vital to Judaism was just too much.

To make matters worse, the confirmation class was taught by the Rabbi later in the evening. Make no mistake, I have a great affection for my Rabbi. His wisdom and welcoming presence has helped me during the most trying periods of my life. Even my brother, the sullen teenager, holds a tremendous respect for the guy. However, no matter how many talents my Rabbi has, none of them include the ability to speak to a group of teenagers. He just doesn't understand that no one in the confirmation class really wants to be there, no matter how engaging the conversation is. The problem is only exacerbated as kids nod off during class, causing the Rabbi's mood to move from "frustration" to "un-holy rage." Fun times.

As most dreaded events do, my confirmation passed uneventfully. Thirteen teenagers slouched on the bima in front of a sanctuary full of parents and relatives who, though unsure of what a confirmation officially entailed, firmly believed that anything that kept sixteen year olds out of trouble all those Sunday evenings couldn't be that bad. All of us, clad in white robes that seemed to be cast-offs from some church's Christmas pageant, leaned against the podium to deliver two speeches, one entitled "Why I Want to Be Jewish," the other on a subject of the Rabbi's choosing. The "Why I Want to Be Jewish" speeches were short and cliched (sixteen year olds, though they are loathe to admit, actually don't know anything and therefore cannot give ground-breaking explanations on why they picked one religion over another). The other speeches, however, were Proustian tomes. By the time the service reached my one-paragraph explanation of G-d and nature (I've always know my audience), the congregation had reached a operation-quality stupor for which anesthesiologists are usually paid the big bucks. Two hours later, the entire assembly collapsed into a chocolate-covered strawberry bacchanalia, relieved that the whole ordeal was over.

You would think that my parents, who had to sit through the whole debacle four years before, would have wisely allowed my brother to skip the whole thing. Consider said lesson unlearned. All year, my brother sat in confirmation class, gamely trying to keep his snores from interrupting the Rabbi's frenzied attempts to spark an intelligent discussion. Then, many months later, there we were, watching as my brother stubbornly refused to smile in the face of a professional photographer's antics while waiting for the service to begin.

As I look back on it, I realize that I did learn quite a bit from my stint in Confirmation Prison. The exact particulars escape me now, but I'm sure that some bit of information managed to wedge itself into my gray matter during that time period. One thing's for certain: if I have my own children, I will immediately enroll them in a confirmation class. Why? Because one thing that I'm not going to let my kids get away with is experiencing less misery than I did.

And that's promise.

K.

New Haveil Havalim Up!

Love it. Want it. Need it.

K.

Who Says You Can't Go Home Again?

A bit of homestead upheaval has thrown off my blogging groove.

I've now been at home for a little more than two weeks. In that time, I've researched, relaxed, cleaned, relaxed, packed, relaxed, unpacked, relaxed... I've also, apparently, been getting in the way of my family's established homelife. I guess I can understand. For months, my parents and little brother have been going through life without me, then suddenly, there is a twenty year old lump in the house.

I have an over-blown sense of entitlement, I suppose. It's not that I want anything out of my family; I just kind of want to sit and let the activity flow around me. I've been at the center of so many disputes and effort in the last couple of months, so I just want to shut down. Luckily, I have been very adept at letting my body veg on the couch and allowing my mind to go somewhere else.

Unfortunately, my parents have a different plan for me. To them, there are now three adults in the house, so there will be three adults doing three adults' worth of work. So we have two conflicting goals.

I think I've forgotten how to live with a family and that lack of knowledge is showing more and more everyday as I steadily become more exasperated. All the little niceties of a well-run home have become quite foreign to me. I'm now used to living with my own requirements, by my own rules. However, that's not how things work anymore. I'll just have to get used to it.

As a peace offering, I traveled with my mother to Boiling Springs to meander through a craft fair. Afterwards, I made some badly-formed cheese blintzes with my father. I guess I just need to survive until I leave for camp.

Just keep thinking happy thoughts, Kate, happy thoughts...

K.

Spying for the Man

My father is an international security consultant who specializes in information brokering. When I tell my friends what my Dad does, they whistle, impressed: "Wow, your father's a spy!"

Whee hee hee.

Not quite, but his job is pretty cool. Sometimes I sit and listen in on his business calls, interested in just how he gets his information. He has a pretty unique network, which includes several international sources in Africa, Europe, and the Middle East. And now... me!

Well, sort of. See, I offered my post-university-pre-camp time to him, presenting my research skills, my persistence, and my laptop. I would allow him to boss me around for a mere pittance. Eagerly, he accepted and immediately put me to work looking up English-language jihadist websites located within the United States.

Jihadist websites? I thought, plopping myself down in front of the Google homescreen. Easy and interesting! Type in "jihad," add a little "Islam," and websites will pop up easy-peasy. After all, Neo-Nazi and KKK sites are easy to find, so why not violent anti-Americans?

Go on, type in those keywords into Google. I'll wait.

Find something? I'm sure you did. In fact, you found 10,300,000 somethings. See anything to suggest a website run by jihadists within America? If you did, you must be seeing something that I'm not.

I found websites defining jihad (the real jihad, not the convoluted definition that extremists use), JihadWatch (normally very useful, but not today), and sites/blogs raving on about the entire world's population of Muslims wanting to crush the West (bullshit). No jihadists.

So I tried to get a little more specific. I tried adding "American" to the mix, then "destroy," then "Detroit." No luck. After two hours of scouring the web and only picking up bits and pieces, I stumbled upstairs to confront my father.

"Dad," I frowned, "these sites don't exist. Not in English, anyway."

"Yeah, they do."

"Nuh-uh."

"I know they do. Go look again. That's what I'm paying for."

"Ugh!" I stomped back to the computer and stared at the screen. Finally, I began typing again. Here's what I searched for:

Destroy American dogs

I had always heard translations of terrorist speeches referring to Americans as "dogs" in order to dehumanize them. Unfortunately, Google cheerfully provided me with sites on how to euthanize my pitbull.

Murder Americans

Err, not what I'm looking for.

Al-Qud

You know they are making a pair of jeans specifically for Muslims to store gear in during prayer? Called Al-Qud jeans? I didn't know that either.

Ask.com: How do I kill Americans?

And they say that Ask.com has all of the answers!

So, I haven't found any sites about radical Muslims hating Americans. That was a bust. But I did find a load of sites about Americans hating Muslims. All Muslims.

Pathetic. Pretty soon we'll be running all Muslims-- good, bad, or indifferent-- out of our American cities with pitchforks and buckets of tar. Brilliant.

Before we complain about the hate others feel towards us, perhaps we ought to address our own deep-seated hatred towards those who have never harmed us.

K.

PS. Sorry for the crappy, cranky, unorganized post. Things will improve, I promise.

I Wish I Had This Much Time on My Hands

25 people suffer bumps and bruises in English cheese chase.

K.

Shatner's Woodland Trail for Peace

A horse is a horse, of course, of course...

Why the hell not? :)

K.

Excuses, Excuses, Excuses

A long soccer weekend and death in the community has left me too little time to write this weekend. I hope to remedy that in the coming week.

Have a wonderful Memorial Day.

K.

Pleas of a Literature Major

I've fallen into a literary rut.

For the last several days, I've been skipping from book to book-- from Dan Brown to Margaret Atwood to Salman Rushdie. I read the first couple pages, then my mind floats away from the words on the page. One minute Gibreel and Chamcha are plummeting to earth; the next minute I'm thinking really hard about how nice a turkey sandwich would taste.

I'm currently deep into The Last Jew by Noah Gordon, a novel about the Spanish Inquisition. The dialogue is entertaining, the characters are well-rounded, and the topic is interesting. However, though these are the required criteria to make it on my reading list, I don't know how long this book is going to last. I've been too unpredictable to judge.

Personally, I believe the problem is that I no longer have an assigned reading list compiled by a herd of professors. During the long haul of the school year, I scour the great works of literature required in class, all the while dreaming of the other books that really wanted to read. But now I have the free time and, well, I've read all the books that I had dreamed about during the year. What now?

Dear readers and lurkers, please give me some reading recommendations. Classics, summer reading, bestsellers-- it doesn't matter. Is there a book that stuck in your mind? Made you think? Made you laugh? Made you cry? Tell me about it.

Seriously. Tell me about it.

Because I may soon end up bringing cheesy romance novels to my brother's soccer games, which would be awwwwkward.

K.

Say What?

Taylor Hicks is the new American Idol.

Whoa.

K.

When Is a Convert Not a Convert?

No doubt this subject has already been covered by people more educated and up-to-date on the subject than me, but once I saw the article, I had to say something.

While browsing the Jerusalem Post, I came across an opinion piece about the Orthodox Rabbinate not recognizing the divorces and conversions carried out by many Diaspora Orthodox rabbis. In order to be legitimate, such ceremonies must be conducted by rabbis on the Rabbinate's approval list.

Far be it from me to question the decisions of this exalted body, but I can't help thinking that the Rabbinate is trying to create a monopoly within its own sect. Get converted by an A-list Orthodox rabbi or the whole thing is null and void.

It's almost like the Rabbinate is forming a Jewish Vatican-- the be-all to end-all of the Jewish faith. What next? Will the Israel's Chief Rabbi suddenly announce that G-d regularly visits for bagels and shmear in order to talk business? Will he join the Pope as the Lord's own mouthpiece?

Maybe it's just me, but I don't like the idea of a bunch of alter kakers thousands of miles away making declarations about just who can be a true Orthodox convert. If a person who follows the teachings of the sect and follows the traditional process of conversion, they are a convert!

But, you know, the Rabbinate has the right to think what they want. If they want to believe that anyone who doesn't follow their edicts isn't a Jew, then I can't do anything about that. However, I have a right to my own beliefs, as well. And if I believe that the Rabbinate spends much of its time acting like a pompous windbag of an organization, then that's my right.

The right to question authority: that is why I am a Jew.

K.

PS. Spell check keeps wanting to replace "rabbis" with "rabies." Sometimes I wonder...

The Kimono Collection Get an Airing-Out

It might be my stomach virus's doing, but I feel compelled to post about something near and dear to my heart: my kimono collection.

I'm not Japanese by any stretch of the imagination, but something about these graceful garments has captivated me. Therefore, as I'm too weak to do much else, I'll put up some of the pictures of my little collection. It requires, unfortunately, that reader uses his/her imagination since my house is in no way a photographer's paradise.

So, we begin!



Though technically not a kimono, this haori is by far the most "useful" to me of the bunch. It's traditionally used as a kimono overcoat, but I wear it to synagogue to cover my shoulders.



A detail from the haori. It's the design that really made me fall in love with this piece. The colors, the trailing ribbons, the way the fans are situated-- very appealing.



Next, my tomesode. Tomesode are worn by married women to formal occasions, such as weddings. I believe that I got this particular kimono because I really wanted a tomesode and this one was cheap on Ebay. Being a student of very little means, I can't be incredibly choosy. No matter, it's simple and I like it.



Detail of the tomesode's embroidery. I believe that it's a lion, but it could be a Korean dog. Whatever the animal, the green color is beautiful.



Here's a rather fetching furisode that has been, unfortunately, been hung rather haphazardly on the wall. It's also unfortunate that the picture had to feature my ancient paper weight of a computer; the hanger is too high for me to reach. Furisode, by the way, is Japanese for "swinging sleeves" and is worn only by young, unmarried women. It is said that in order to attract a husband, women would wear sleeves long enough to flutter when they walked in order to catch a man's eye.



The final kimono in my collection is an uchikake, a wedding kimono. This picture doesn't really get across just how massive this thing really is; it's the width and length of a single twin bed. The hem of the garment is stuffed with cotton, lending to the kimono's surprising weight. My mother is convinced that I will get married in this kimono, but I doubt I would even be able to lug the thing down the aisle.



This is the only obi I own, but I guess that's a good thing as it costs about as much as a really nice kimono on eBay. The length of silk is doubled over on itself, so it's actually about as long as I am tall. It's kind of an obnoxious orange color that doesn't match any of the kimonos I own, but the crane is nice.

So that's the extent of my collection currently, but I am expecting a large box of random kimonos in the near future. If I'm satisfied with them, I'll take pictures.

If you have an interest in kimono and would like to learn more, there are several books I would recommend.

The Book of Kimono by Nario Yamanaka-- My first book on kimono. Some very nice pictures with short explanations dealing with the history of the clothing and how to wear it.

Kimono: Fashioning Culture by Liza Dalby-- I highly recommend this book. Dalby was the first Western woman to become a geisha and, as an anthropologist, has written a brilliant and entertaining history of the kimono.

Kimono by Paul Van Riel-- Not big on information, but has tons of full-color pictures.

I would also say that eBay is a fantastic source for very nice vintage kimonos.

Anyway, thanks for hanging in there with me!

K.

PS. Update: The Llara Brook count is now up to 958 on Google and has (somehow) made it on to WilliamShatner.com.

Car Ad Betrayal

Car advertisements seem to think that they have me pegged. They know that I'm desperately searching for a car to boister my flagging ego. They know that I am intensely attracted to bright, flashy colors. They know that I will only purchase a car if it has appeared in an action film starring Harrison Ford. They can read my poor, poor shallow mind.

So what I don't understand is how they would get it so very wrong this time around.

Yes, I'm talking to you, Honda Civic. What happened? We were so simpatico for a while. You were the only one who understood my penchant for spouting pretty little fish and tree frogs from my mouth while driving through tree-lined roads, much like a fairy princess cursed at birth by an evil sorceress to have toads leap from her lips at inconvenient moments. It was like... you got me.

Suddenly, you come out with a commercial populated by butterflies, snakes, and spiders. Ah the miracle of rebirth: a young butterfly wriggling out of its cocoon, a snake gleefully shedding its skin, baby spiders pouring in a veritable deluge from an egg sack. Nature at its finest, is it?

What's going on, Civic? You know I hate two out of three of those creatures!

For example: spiders. Civic, you know that I have called for jihad bis saif on those eight-legged bastards for the last twenty years! I don't heed the call of arachno-apologists who claim that spiders are actually our friends. "Ooooh," they say, "spiders kill insects that irritate us! They keep the population down!" Well, so does a bug zapper and you don't see me taking one of those into a passionate embrace!

And now you want me to associate your car with an animal-- nay, a creature-- that I despise?

I could have dealt with the spider thing. We have been through too much together to fall out over that. I would have questioned our relationship for a moment or two, but I would have fallen back on the idea that one can make a mistake every once and a while. That is... until you included that... other... thing.

That's right.

Butterflies.

What the hell, Civic? How could you not know that I hate butterflies with more fiery passion than can be promised by twenty Latin men simultaneously?! Don't you realize that when I swerve while driving on a deserted country road, I am actually trying to lodge one of those stupid things in the grill of my car? How could you not understand the basic butterfly conspiracy: butterflies sending out their lowly moth cousins to flutter in your face while you're trying to light a camp fire and you swat at them with the lighter fluid which splatters all over you and the fire decides to finally ignite and--poof!-- you have no eyebrows? How could you have missed something so simple? Honda Civic, you claim to be all "in" with the tree-huggers and the left-leaning Blame-America-Firsters, but how could you ignore the plight of the proletariat moth, who sacrifices itself while the bourgeois butterflies lean back in their pimped-out cocoons, sipping spiced nectar from the skulls of their enemies?

Shame on you, Civic, shame on you.

We're through. You'll find your stuff sitting in a pile outside of my door. Don't bother knocking.

K.

Thank you, The Colbert Report, for the "voice" of this piece.

G-d Bless the Blogosphere

It's interesting how fast news spreads. Llara Brook, the girl who was wrongfully arrested in Baltimore, MD, now has 631 mentions in Google.

Well, at least one of us from the synagogue has made it on Google! :)

K.

The Story Continues

Llara's encounter with the cop made it on to The Drudge Report and on the Rush Limbaugh show.

I can't believe I put those links on my blog. :)

K.