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I drive to the Israeli Independence Day Festival, Sunday morning, May 7, 2006. With the price of gas, I'm only doing it for the glory. A documentary film crew is supposed to meet me and record my religious journey for posterity. It's a nice change from the topic I'm usually asked to comment on (the political philosophy of Leo Strauss). I never find the documentarians (nor any hot chix who'll give me the time of day) but on the up side I spend most of the day with Mensch publisher and editor Matt Lipeles, who's written for the Jewish Journal. His whole Orthodox life is a great piece of performance art. Yasher koach! Video of a hot blonde Israeli singer from 5 p.m. Sunday. I consider stopping by the Jewishspermdonor.net booth and making a donation. "The festival is like Israel -- filled with garbage and smoke," says a friend. I walk past Chabadniks throwing a football around outside their Camp Gan booth. My allergies act up and I go through four paper towels blowing my nose. I'm not the only one exploding with sprays of wet sneezes. I stumble out of the bathroom and get weirded out by some freak singing scales. I look closer. It's Sam Glaser preparing to go on stage. I tell Matt that I want to talk to these wanton girls about tzniut (modesty). "Hey good looking, don't you think you should cover up a bit?" suggests Matt. "I don't think that'll work." A man comes up looking for a restroom. "They are over to the left," says Matt. "Be a mensch," I reprimand. "Tell him to go anywhere." "Everyone's nice," reflects Matt, "but nobody's buying." "It's not about the money," I say. "It's about the work." He stares at me. I smile. "That's the funniest line you've said all day," he says. Matt, who's sunk thousands of dollars of his own money into this venture, has a 250-pound bruiser named Jay going around collecting ad sales. "Buy an ad or I'll break your legs," is the implied message of Jay's body language. "Don't call him a thug," reproves Matt as I dictate my column into my tape recorder. Matt has a form where people can sign up for information about subscribing to the magazine. Over the course of eight hours, about 20 people sign up. I figure it's just a way Matt can snag names and addresses of hot chix. Anyone who comes near the booth is immediately jumped by Matt or his friend Stephanie. "Hi, would you like a free copy of our magazine? Please write down your name. We're going to be selling subscriptions. Would you like to advertise?" Most people shy away. My theory on sales is that you offer your product to the public while you stay cool and collected, reading a book in the background. Those who want to talk to you will come up and interrupt you. I plough through 130 pages of Steve Stern's A Plague of Dreamers while less intellectually-minded persons than myself talk to their friends. Slumped over with fatigue and rejection, Matt walks off to meet Dennis Prager, who was a gracious master of ceremonies. Matt returns ten minutes later energized. He met the great man, who said he'd read Matt's magazine. Matt wants him to write for it. Matt's excited. He's ready to walk the grounds. Nothing can hold him back now. Outside the Mentsch booth is a Chabadnik asking Jewish men if they'd like to wrap tefillin. A girl about six years old wants to put on tefillin. The Chabadnik explains that tefillin is a mitzvah for men only. She's disappointed. Much of the day, Matt can't even give his magazine away. Luckily he has me by his side to offer a continual stream of encouragement. "I feel like a member of the Mensch team," I sigh. "Just don't expect a check," says Matt. "A chick? I object to that objectifying language." I see my friend Scott, an engineer confined to a wheelchair since he was 19. I put my hands on Scott's shoulders and say, "By the power of Jesus Christ, I command you to rise." Scott doesn't budge. Oh well, it was worth a try. "As an observant Jew, you would've been in a dilemma if that had worked," says Matt. I try to date Scott's leftovers. He meets some hot chix at Starbucks and if he doesn't want them, I hit him up for their contact info. I almost got one date with a gorgeous blonde before she came to her senses and read my blog. "As the Talmud says, the greater the man, the greater the yetzer hara (lustful impulse)," I intone. Matt suddenly develops a guilty look. "Is all the food sold here kosher?" he asks. For the first time since they moved in five months ago, I have a chat with my Israeli neighbors. "Good fences make good neighbors" is an American poem. It's not the Israeli way. "I've been like a zombie all day," Matt complains. "I only got two hours sleep last night." "What were you doing? Don't spare any juicy details." "I was printing up press releases." "You always were the master of the metaphor." As Matt scrambles to get away from me, he runs over a little kid. "Suffer the little children to come onto me," I preach. "I will tear down the temple and rebuild it in three days." Matt flees. I consider hanging out at the teen tent but upon reflection decide it's not a good idea. I'm torn between pony rides and the rabbi rubbing tent. Matt wants to date a woman who takes his magazine. "She's looking for marriage," a friend tells him. What's all this dating mishegos? The Torah believes in marriage. Lunch With Mensch Magazine Publisher Matt Lipeles I've been acquainted with Matt for about a decade but only hung out with him at the Israeli Independence Day festival May 7. We have lunch at a kosher restaurant May 21, 2006. As I set up to wait for him, reading through my Steve Stern book Lazar: Malkin Enters Heaven, I realize I left my tape recorder at home. I charge out of the Magic Carpet and up the street where I see a bearded Matt drive up. After I abuse him ("I told the waiter that if he sees a hairy ape man walk to tell you to sit down because I'll be right back"), he gives me a ride home so I can get my recorder. "How come Emilio Estevez is a nobody when Charlie Sheen is a superstar?" asks Matt as he parks near Pico Blvd. "It makes you question the existence of an all-powerful and all-good God," I reply. As we sit down, Matt's yakking on his cell phone, wielding his power in the community. "You're like Tony Soprano," I say. Matt admits that he sometimes fantasizes he's Tony Soprano. "I just wish I could whack people," he muses. Playa, you can't get in the game unless you're willing to swing the bat. "Rob Eshman would be swimming with the fishes," I realize. We both order the Sephardic choulent. I have two urgent concerns uppermost on my mind -- the attributes of fitness model and journalist Neka Hite. This girl is smoking hot. Ever since I got her business card last Thursday night, I've not been my high-minded self. I seek spiritual counsel from Matt. After all, he's the publisher of Mentsch magazine. And this girl's not even Jewish. I must put her behind me and Torah before me. I lay out her business card before Matt and ask for his views. He's astounded. I assure him that it is OK to be a man and to want manly things. Only he must control his behavior for the greater good of the Jewish community. "I don't know how to respond to this business card," I whine. "I know I'm responding to this the wrong way and I know it is not what God intended for my life." Why can't I just respect her as a journalist and not want to look upon her with my objectifying male gaze? "Matt, would you hire this girl as an intern for Mentsch? Ever since I got her business card, I've been thinking about her." Matt: "The easiest thing to do would be to tear up her business card. "This is like the business card for a hooker. "I don't know if you want to put that comment online." Luke: "It's out of your mouth." Matt: "What was going on in her head? "I don't have interns. Now that I'm publishing this magazine, I have to particularly watch my behavior and stay away from any scandal." As I walk Matt back to his car after lunch, he tells me a frustrating dating story. "I met this Persian girl on Frumster.com. She's traditional. We met for our first date and we had a terrific time. "I wasn't sure I could eat anything at her house. I thought I'd take her miniature golf. It's the single best date especially..." Matt won't say this but I will: Miniature golfing is a good excuse for getting your hands on a woman while you show how her to putt. Matt: "I looked up on Google what was the best miniature golf place in the city. She liked a certain kind of literature. I bought her a classic in that genre. I washed my car. "Having said this, she was not a large-breasted woman. Normally, that's a deal-breaker for me. If a woman is deficient in that area...but I really liked her. I decided I would let that go. "She had wanted to meet some place. I said, 'Don't be ridiculous. It's far from here. I'll pick you up.' "I go to pick her up on our second date. Her mom was there. I get the typical Sephardic interview. I knew I would have to do it anyway. "Her mom says, 'It's soon for her to be driving in your car.' The girl was 28. "I had gone out with Persian girls before. I had never experienced this. "The mom said, 'This place you're taking her is too far. It's got to be right here in Beverly Hills. "I'm sitting there in her house thinking, 'Is this the way it's going to be for the rest of my life with your small-breasted daughter and her mother tells me what to do for the rest of my life? I'm an observant guy. I probably can't eat your food yet you're telling me I can't take your daughter in my car? I'm wearing a yarmulke on my head. I'm going to rape your daughter?' "That was it. "I was just in shock. "It was a Sunday afternoon. We did go to a museum but I was livid the whole time. "I had to think about it for a week and then sent her an email saying, 'Sorry, this will not work. It's not you. There's no way I can be in this family structure.'" |
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