So, after waxing nostalgic, I swung into action and took the boys to see the Rebbe.

To set the scene, there are two batei midrash(im), one above the other, each the size of a football field. On the front right side of the upper one, there is an entrance to a small room from which there is an entrance to another small room, where there is a door to the room where the Rebbe sits.

In the inner small room people stand on line along the walls spilling out into the outer small room and often out into the beis midrash. Reb Chanina, who has been shammes to the last four Rebbes, sits next to the Rebbe's door and as far as I can tell doesn't do much else. Fleischer is the bouncer, directing traffic and keeping people out as necessary; his girth and authoritative manner would easily qualify him as a bouncer at any trendy club. People in the inner room spend their time on line writing kvitlech or saying tehillim or speaking in hushed tones about what time mincha'll be tomorrow.

Here is who was not there: a cigar-chomping gold-hunter with maps of the Australian outback seeking the Rebbe's advice; a cowboy-hatted magnate from Louisiana seeking a bracha to optimally scam insurance companies; an animal lover seeking a refuah for his parakeet. None of these people were there. And mostly there were no women in the inner small room, the outer small room, either beis midrash or within three blocks of the building. Not gonna happen.

What there was were thousands of big chassidim with big peyos in big bekeshes and big spodeks (but, who knows, maybe some of them write subversive blogs). I wore a suit, a hat and a gartel and my kids wore proste white shirts and kipot srugot; we might as well have shown up in paisley pajamas with Mickey Mouse ears. You want to see variety go to some small-time miracle-working Galitzianer or Hungarian. This is strictly Raccoon Lodge. Members only.

The only way to cut the line is to jump on an express train for shulem geben only -- which means you pass the Rebbe and mumble a git yur or some such without breaking stride. I hopped on to one such train but the door shut again before I made it in. Then the door stayed shut for a half hour. Stuff happens.

Eventually we did get in and here's what didn't happen. The Rebbe took both my hands, looked soulfully into my eyes, smiled broadly, pulled me close and whispered into my ear "Astros over the Sox in five. Bet the house." Then he quietly farhered my kids on the mesechtas they're learning, giving each a hug and some kind advice. He asked us to make very sure that we give his personal regards to my father and to wish him and my mother a git gezint yur. None of this happened. Nor, by the way, does it ever happen except in the fashionable new literary genre of fantastical shtetl stories (Rebecca Goldstein, Alan Hoffman, Mark Helprin, Nathan Englander et al).

What actually happened was that as I passed the Rebbe, I almost broke stride to breathlessly mention my kids names and I believe I saw the beginnings of a scowl. I kept moving. It was one of the most meaningful fractions of a second I've spent since nodding off on the couch after the chulent this afternoon. But it was worth it because at least my kids will know that the Rebbe they won't go to isn't some Hungarian or Galitzianer charlatan.