and, so, too-face, also, though, but-book

it's in the title of my blog too.

if you've never noticed

;)

it's a little joke...e

but it has a lot of connotations

about the sillinesses and stupidities and just small tiny nuances-

that make up everything we are.

yknow?

We need to live

http://baldyblog.freshblogs.co.uk/2008/06/this_latest_award_i_dedicate_t.html#more
oh may G-d bless you Adrian... your life shines, and it will keep shining
always.

in Your hand..

Pick one; start from there.
Any single idea properly worked through, methodically, will lead everywhere. ~S

Song:'till the end of time, L-rd of Abraham...I believe by Ron EliRon

...talk to the sea

"Talk to the sea; it's great therapy. And everything tastes like tears afterwards- your fingers, your clothes- so you don't feel so alone, if you know what I mean."

And that is why, I love my friends like I do.

bodega

for anyone else who was a'wondrin, and CUZ I CAN post whatever i like when i like how i like cuz i like:

bodega: the local name for a small market (originating from Spanish)

...speaking of stories of Rabbi Levitansky A"H, we would like to share an anecdote that he often repeated about his own grandfather: (shmais)

“My grandfather was a traveling salesman in the Jewelry trade. His travels took him to small cities in the mid-west and northern United States. One day in the early 1930's as he was traveling through a rural town, he saw a fire on a farm. He stopped to look and saw the farmers from all the neighboring farms form a fire brigade. All their efforts unfortunately failed. The farmers stood around and mourned the loss. 'Poor John,' they said 'everything is gone.' 'John, we are so sorry.' 'My Zaide hearing this spoke up in his European accent, 'I'm shorry ten dollars vorth, how much you shorry.' His words took the farmers by surprise. Not only that he was sorry, but that he was putting money where his mouth is ($10 in those days was a handsome sum). Each farmer, taking my Zaide's cue spoke up one by one, pledging a dollar or two to help poor John. Eventually enough money was collected to rebuild the farm."

O the rest.

and then I searched it online and found the poem in its entirety. O, the wonder.

Some say that love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pajamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does it's odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
it wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all it's time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of it's own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.