For a brief period of time in college, I considered becoming a Rabbi. Don’t get me wrong- I’m not particularly religious- I was just fascinated by the role that ritual could play in heightening particular moments in a person’s life and the way in which our collective need for the infinite could cause it to manifest itself on earth. I was also tripping my balls off on two hits of unbelievable liquid acid that I bought from a trio of seedy hippies suspiciously named “Soy”, “Dog” and “Liz” (“Liz” – whatever. Like that’s even a real name.) Later that night, I also briefly considered joining the Animaniacs, not because I wanted to be on television, but because I was fascinated by the idea of living in the water tower at Warner Brother’s studios and writing a whole song about an obscure South American lake just so I could say “Titicaca” over and over again on a children’s show. Living the dream!

In the cold light of day, with the drugs out of my system, I abandoned my rabbinical fantasies and made the hard-headed practical choice to stick with theatre (maybe not ALL of the drugs were out my system.) Still- I continue to be fascinated by the trappings of religion and, as a result, even though I don’t really believe in God, I still maintain certain Jewish rituals- like even though I don’t believe in Leprechauns and Democracy, I continue to eat Lucky Charms and vote (FULL DISCLOSURE: I actually do believe in voting, but only as a means to keep things from getting even worse, or at least, to slightly postpone the inevitable slide into Libertarian Theocracy. Speaking of- how sweet is it that Rick Perry cut the fire dep’t by 75% and now his state is on fire? Nice Miracle, Asshole. You just keep on denying climate change and maybe the invisible hand of capitalism will hold Jesus’ wiener while he pees on the wildfires from heaven to put them out. Also, fuck Lucky Charms. Hard little pointless marshmallows with freaky Irish voodoo shapes and unnatural colors- give me the Cap’n any day. )

Jerry Garcia died the day I left Albany for good, August 9, 1995. In an apparent murder-suicide, he took my childhood with him. (NOTE TO MILLENNIAL FUCKWADS: I don’t want to hear how old you were in 1995. Whether you were in Middle School, Elementary School or Diapers, I don’t want to know about it. And wipe that patronizing “listening to Grampa Simpson tell his Lollapalooza Mosh-Pit Stories for the 10,000^th Time” smirk off your soul-patched, hipster side-burned, weasely little face. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the suckers who showed up too late to the Great Global House Party of cheap gas, music videos and nuclear anxiety that was the 20^th Century and arrived just in time to mop up the puke, save the polar bears, and recycle our empties to pay for healthcare. Have fun with that, kids. Hey- if you’re lucky, maybe you can scrape out a little resin ball of Contentment from the huge bowl of Prosperity we smoked last century. That was some gooooood shit.)

Anyhow, I always felt like by dying right as I left my hometown for the Big City, that Jerry was looking out for me, protecting me from myself. It’s like he was saying: “Hey man, I know you’re moving to New York to follow your dreams and that’s groovy and all, but it’s going to suck major dog-balls for the first few years, so, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to go ahead and die That way, while you’re telemarketing credit cards to old people who can barely afford the minimum payment, or cleaning toilets in comedy clubs for stage time and tips, or getting turned down for that sweet job at Brookstone (fucking personality test- I was this close before they made me take that thing. Angry and anti-social my fucking balls, you ass-face corporate novelty electronics retail Nazi pigs!) you won’t be kicking yourself the whole time for not dropping out of life instead and following me around in a beat up purple school bus called the 420 Express (next stop- Terrapin Station) playing bongos and selling Super Kind Veggie Burritos in the parking lot outside Giants Stadium before scoring that miracle ticket and catching your 10,000^th show. Nope, I’m just gonna die and take this happy, hairy, hippy fantasy down to the grave with me so that you can just keep grinding away in miserable under-employment until you make something halfway useful out of yourself. I mean, what’s the alternative- follow Phish? Phuck that.”

OK, all kidding aside, it’s very important that all of you come see my show when it opens. Not just because the actors are amazing (which they are), and the director is brilliant (which he is) and the writer is halfway decent (name rhymes with Flakespear- and I don’t mean Blake Steer, renowned Cherokee porn star). You should all come because I’ve been working my ass off on this show for no money or hope of professional advancement and I need as many people as possible to validate this incredibly stupid and self destructive life choice that I’ve made. Again. This, BTW, is actually the subtext of most peer-to-peer grassroots arts marketing – in fact, you could change of names of most shows in LA to “Somebody Tell Me I’m Not Wasting My Life” or “Hug Me- I’m Broke!”

Milk in a Bag!I’ve been making theatre for most of my life. I founded my first theatre company in 3rd grade in Arad, Israel. For those unfamiliar with Arad (i.e. anyone reading this who’s name does not include the word “Sims”) it’s the sort of idyllic small town that Norman Rockwell would have dreamed of if he fell asleep on the toilet after eating some bad schwarma sold to him by sleezy Russian immigrants. There were three of us in the company, so we called ourselves Ha Shlishia- which, loosely translated from the Hebrew means, “The Three” (pretty fucking clever for a bunch of 8 year olds, if you ask me). As our fame grew, so did our aspirations. We expanded by leaps and bounds- fast becoming Ha Revieya (“the Four”) and, at the peek of our success, Ha Hameshia (“The Five”.) Tragically, we lost two members due to artistic differences over action figures (Boba Fett was our Yoko Ono) and were back to being Ha Shlishia. (Fortunately we weren’t in the American public school system, so addition and subtraction were no problem for us.) It didn’t matter, though- we were Rock Stars- bold, brash and out of control- guzzling chocolate milk by the bagful (don’t look at me- they sell it that way) , wolfing down Krembo (phallic Third World Malomars) and fighting off the girls with a stick (mostly because they wanted to play Smurfs with us and that was NOT fucking happening.)

On May 21, 2011, the world once again failed to end. Honestly, I’m fine with that. It’s the kids I feel bad for. This was their first big apocalypse, they’re not used to disappointment. They don’t remember the purple sneakers of Heaven’s Gate (Little known fact: Ishtar was the second choice cult name) and the total let-down of Y2K when we all rushed into the streets at 12:01 AM, only to find that everything was working just fine, and we had to sheepishly drink up all the bottled water and eat all the Progresso soup we’d been hoarding in giddy anticipation of total collapse.

Plus, the kids, they’ve got a lot of big challenges ahead of them and they were really counting on the apocalypse to bail them out. For me, things aren’t quite as bleak. All I’ve got to do is scratch out a living for a few more decades; slurp up the last soggy Apple Jacks of Social Security and pink Medicare milk from the bottom of the government cereal bowl; drive around a bit in an RV; and die as expensively as possible. They have to figure out how to find jobs, pay off student loans, clean up this bankrupt shithole of a planet and somehow retire at the end of it. It’s like returning a rental car after a long road trip. I feel a little guilty about the condition, but mostly glad that I don’t have to do anything about the dog hair in the back, the Cheez-Whiz stains in the front and the pervasive stench of Sausage McMuffin and Ass.

It takes a special kind of asshole to scream on the phone to a total stranger:

“Fuck the Air Force, lady- we had a contract.”

On April 11, 2011 at 10:45 AM, I became that asshole when I was told that the short-term apartment rental which I had arranged for my Passover trip to Albuquerque for me and several family members was not going to be available after all. Evidently, the Air Force officers occupying the space would not be departing according to the previously established time-frame (insert Iraq joke here.)

After a brief, stunned silence, Loretta from Albuquerque Apartments responded:

“Sir, here in Albuquerque we honor the Air Force.”

The courtesy in her voice was stretched to the breaking point by revulsion and shock, like a waitress explaining to a party of cannibals that human testicles are not on the menu and politely recommending they try the patty melt instead. I felt appropriately sheepish.

Some of you may remember that in my last post, I embarked on a celebration of all of February’s bullshit secular holidays and got as far as Valentine’s Day. So, it turns out that I pretty much used up all the good holidays, but here’s some stuff I pulled out of my ass for the rest of the month- enjoy!

Grammy Awards- Feb 13

A Grammy is one of the greatest honors that a person can receive for excellence from an irrelevant organization in a dying industry which is desperately clinging to an outmoded business model – – right up there with Blacksmith of the Year, the Pulitzer Prize for Journalism and Knighthood. This year the theme was “Come as Your Favorite Protein-Rich Food,” but unfortunately, only Lady Gaga got the email and came as an egg. Several artists later apologized, including Justin Beiber who said that, had he known, he would have come as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off; and Katy Perry, who said she would have come as a mouthful of Russell Brand’s spunk.

Let’s say you’re someone who really enjoys fasting (bear with me, this is going someplace.) You don’t have an eating disorder and you’re not protesting anything, you just like to find any excuse you can to be really, really hungry. Well, if you’re a Muslim, you’re psyched. You’ve got Ramadan, a whole glorious month at the all you can’t eat buffet. If you’re Jewish, you may not get a full month, but there are still ample fasting opportunities: you’ve got Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement), Tisha B’Av (commemorating the destruction of the Second Temple), Tzom Gedalia (the fast of, um, Gedaliah?) and other fast days sprinkled throughout the year.

But what if you’re a Christian? If you’re Catholic, then you might fast by giving up Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for Lent. If you’re a Protestant of some sort- well, the closest you’ll get to fasting is running out of Light Miracle Whip so you can’t bring deviled eggs to Bible study or skipping lunch after church because snake handling makes you queasy (I don’t know what you people do.).

There are 3 types of Yiddish folktales (bear with me, this is going somewhere):

1. Be nice to smelly beggars when they come to your door — not out of love or compassion, but because God might be testing you, and you could win a free chicken dinner and slammin’ new candlesticks.
2. Look at the wily little Jew trick the big, bad Goy and save his village from certain destruction for at least a week.
3. Life is terrible. Enjoy it before it gets worse.

This third category includes stories related to home improvement- of which the best one is:

A little Jewish couple live with their many children in a tiny run-down house in a quaint Eastern-European Jewish village that hasn’t yet been burned to the ground by Cossacks. The man, Shmulik is always being hassled by his wife, Tiffany, because the house is so small, loud and crowded. Finally, at his wits’ end he goes to the Rabbi.

For the record, Chanukah is one of my favorite holidays. Nothing beats the combination of lighting candles, opening presents and making Christians feel like dirt when they accidentally wish me a Merry Christmas (“Merry CHRIST-mas to me. Oh, how nice. You have yourself a very Merry I’m-a-Ignoramus-Who-Assumes-Everybody-Believes Exactly-the-Same-Stuff-I-Do and a truly Happy Funny-You-Don’t-Look-Jewish-Because You-Don’t-Have-Horns, too. Maybe you should ask Santa for a diversity seminar- that is, if he can fit in under the tree between the burning cross and copy of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion. And stop ringing that bell at me, I’m sure as hell not giving you a quarter now, I don’t care what Army you’re with.”)

I know it sounds like I’m not feeling the holiday spirit — but remember, my holiday isn’t about wussy crap like “Peace on Earth” and “Goodwill to Men” – it’s about eating fried food and jelly doughnuts, getting presents for EIGHT WHOLE NIGHTS and, most importantly, celebrating the crazy-ass bunch of Jewish rebels who kicked the ancient Greeks out of Israel and stretched one day of oil for more than a week. That’s right, ass-kicking, thrift, cholesterol and shopping — throw in the guilt over not calling my mother, and you have all the pillars that the Jewish faith is based on. The only thing more awesome would be a holiday celebrating Israeli Airport Security — and I don’t mean National Opt Out Day.