My Neuroses: Collect 'Em All!

(by Simon)

How's this for a non-bombshell: I hate going to the dentist.

No, I mean really. I have sleepless nights beforehand. And despite an oral-hygiene regimen (I brush and floss regularly and even go after the plaque every now and again with a tiny, steel-tipped implement of torture) that is a vast improvement on the days when I munched peanut brittle in bed and used the toothbrush exclusively to clean my voluminous collection of die-cast Civil War figurines, I always anticipate the worst news from the cheerful octogenarian of the Tribe who's been my mouth-care specialist since I was a lad.

When I say "the worst news" I don't just mean an expensive and painful (and painfully expensive) new procedure that will entail drilling, bleeding and cement.

I mean news that comes in a glowing red box borne by a phalanx of winged demons who reside deep in my psyche. News like "We will be knocking out all of your teeth with a sledgehammer today, and you will wander the streets mumbling like Gabby Hayes," or "We will be replacing your lower jaw with a hinged piece of balsa wood, so you might consider never being photographed again."

Do you get the picture? We're talking about neurosis here, the kind of phobic tumble into unreality that (unlike, say, voices that tell you to kill) generally seems quaint and funny to others.

Perhaps it's because I go to the same dental practice (and pretty much the same aforementioned cheery practitioner) I've seen since I was a tot, when inspection of my choppers was so darkly terrifying that I had to be pried from the family sedan with a crowbar. The walls of the children's practice were then (as they are now) plastered with happy cartoon stickers. The kiddies who'd had their cavities drilled were invariably led to the "treasure chest" of toys, where their swollen faces hovered over a sea of plastic doodads from which they were to select a consolation prize for the oral invasion they'd endured.

Back then, I'd have preferred to climb inside that chest and hide until it was time to go home. If claustrophobia hadn't been one of my other neuroses.

Anyhoo, I went to the ol' Riverside-Coldwater Medical Building yesterday under a particularly ominous cloud of trepidation, as I'd been experiencing some pain in a tooth and I hadn't had X-rays in a year.

Oh, perhaps now's the time to explain that I have such a powerful gag reflex that I can't even look at a tongue depressor. So dental X-rays are, for me, about as appealing a prospect as waterboarding would be to a housecat.

In fact, I had to interrupt the dental hygienist repeatedly as she made the rounds of my molars, what with the ol' reflex kicking in.

You would think, from all of this nightmarish anxiety — prompted by an experience most people consider routine (and some even find pleasant) — that I were going to see this doctor:

...instead of this one.

Okay, so it was a LOT of worry over nothing. No X-rays required. No work required. And here's the real upside, and reminder of why I still go to see Doctor N after all these years: What a mensch! Gentle, patient, good-humored, he always manages to disarm my closely guarded, ancestral horror with a few deft and haimisch words, the last of which are usually, "Please say hello to your family for me." He is a very cool Jew.

But of course, our neuroses are always doing push-ups in the corner, aren't they? They have at least six months to get me geared up for my next visit.

Sincerely Yours, The Very Hot Jews.
(by Sera, flying solo while Simon jetsets through... Michigan, I think.)

This is not part two of the post on Dreaming About Kissing Hot Writer Man. That will come soon, i.e. when I can muster the level of concentration necessary to write it.

This is, instead, a sweet little post about sincerity. No, really. Stop laughing.

I was a teenager in the 90s. The age of grunge, and the Scream movies, and just generally a time in which deep emotion was expressed through eye-rolling, sarcasm, and the layering of flannel shirts. Occasional whining was also allowed (think Winona Ryder in... every movie she ever made). If you were actually yelling about something, you were advised to look down, whereupon you'd doubtless discover you were holding an electric guitar and the yelling was singing and the guy standing next to you was Stone Gossard.

I get the sense irony hasn't exactly gone out of style. So allow me to be way, way uncool and step over that steaming, java-scented pile of cynicism and over to the frolicing happy gnomeland of sincerity.

Not that I haven't been known to affect a fairly convincing Sylvia Plath glower when the weather turns crisp. There's something about fall that's innately depressing. I chalk it up to the influx of cold, the sooner sunset, and the traditionally Holocaust-heavy Yom Kippur sermon (with special bonus discussion of how the current Israel situation is shittastic) that you have to sit through when you're really, really hungry. Summer's all bye-bye, and with it that lazy feeling of entitlement: of course you're doing something - you're enjoying the weather!

I live across the street from a non-descript apartment building that seems to house a large number of Orthodox Jews. I suspect it's some kind of co-op situation, with a synagogue/preschool on the ground floor, lots of yarkulka'd men and women in long, unflattering skirts, and ancient big wheels in the yard. If I could read Hebrew without the vowels, I'd be able to tell you what the sign over the door says, but alas. Let us live in the mystery.

The thing about the Jews across the street is that they sing their asses off at the slightest provocation. Friday night, Saturday night, mysteriously important non-Sabbath-related nights, holidays, and potentially also just for the fuck of it. Classic, nasal Chazan type singing. LOUD. Till, like, midnight. And lately there's also been some bangin' and some poundin', and I walked Mojo by their place the other day to discover a nice plywood Sukkah in their yard. Ah, yes, of course, Sukkot. Forgot about that one. The redheaded stepchild of Rosh Ha'Shanah and Yom Kippur.

Sukkot makes me happy. Why? First, because it carries itself with charmingly little gravitas. Build a tent, shake a palm frond, sniff a thingy that's not quite a lemon. In Day School, Sukkot always called for lots and lots of crafting. Long construction paper chains fashioned to hang from the rafters. Plus drawings involving glitter. It wasn't about a New Year in which you were kindly advised to do way fucking better than last; it wasn't a Day of Atonement marked by endless crazy praying of the beat-your-chest variety and, in my family's case, Mom fainting from low blood sugar. It was about making fun art.

So, the sight of that Sukkah stoked me. Shook me out of my traditional High Holiday snit. Gently coaxed me to notice the general yumminess of Santa Monica in fall. October (sorry, rest of the world with your shitty weather) is Indian Summer here in Los Angeles. Balmy in the sunlight, curl-up-chilly at night. I think of it as flavored-Starbucks-latte-appropriate weather. Perfect for walking. And so last Sunday I took the opportunity to do my own hemi-quasi-Jewish ritual.

In fairness, it's only really Jew-adjacent. Well, call it Jew-inspired. It's this simple yearly thing I do right after the High Holidays, aka those Holy-ass Days I don't particularly enjoy. What I do is get through the HH one way or another. This year, I skipped services and instead helped throw a disco. I recommend that for all of you who, like me, are made jaw-achingly depressed by the HH. Yeah, I know, apples and honey, fresh start, blah blah. Some of us find the HH as viable as the Hannukah/Christmas season when it comes to lying on the couch feeling all Jean Paul Sartre about the world. So - I wait till they're over, and then I do all the contemplation. I'm a good little contrarian. Here's what I did:

Got up, tossed my laptop in a bag, leashed Mojo, and took an early morning walk to the Mom and Pop cafe five blocks up. I passed the plywood Sukkah, and actually gave it a happy little wave. And then I counted my blessings.

Yep, that's the yearly post-HH ritual:

1.take walk;

2. count blessings

(3. now with special bonus French Bulldog!)

Mojo, enjoying quality time with his bone. We know: he's hot.

I know, counting blessings sounds so lame-alicious. I'm with you. I'm kind of embarrassed to even write it, because I know all you bitches are sitting there with your ironic glasses and your ironic haircut and your vector-line-drawing tattoos, judging me for my cringe-worthy Chicken Soup for the Soulness.

I can only deal with it myself by keeping things really simple and not at all Oprah-y. So: no gushing. Just: I am stoked to live in Santa Monica. I am stoked to have such a great writer job. I am stoked to not have a traumatic brain injury that knocks 40 IQ points out of my head, thereby ending my great writer job which would cause me to lose my apartment in Santa Monica. That sort of thing.

Mojo and I took the patio couch. The weather was fantastically room-temperature. The coffee was just bitter enough. (Yes, fine, I'll go ahead and quip it, "like my men." Happy?) The horror script I was working on hummed right along with pep and vim and an appropriate number of eviscerated corpses. The other patrons were using their indoor voices, which I appreciate. The fountain in the center of the patio tinkled soothingly, as if to say, "I am rocking the ace feng shui, my brothers." Mojo curled up next to me and fell asleep, and I thought: I want for nothing. I'm totally blessed up to my eyeballs. Whatever comes my way from here on out is pure, sweet icing. The irony coiled deep in my bones, in my darkest proteins, somehow deactivated, and I just sat there, sincerely liking my life in the way you like someone in grade school that inspires you to work on their valentine for two whole weeks. Wow, I thought, I'm feeling so happy. I'm so... sincere. This is awesome. Also, I'm really glad no one's here to see it.

Later that day, things kind of devolved, but that's to be expected. (What can I say. I'm not just Jewish, I'm Polish Jewish. I'm never surprised by entropy.) Sometimes you get a perfect moment, and when you do, I think you should at least blog about it. Especially when your secret motive is to subtly start a revolution of sincerity that's not syrupy or fake. More like wabi sabi sincerity. Caffeinated sincerity that occasionally falls off the wagon and smokes half a pack of cigarettes in four hours. You know: no-bullshit sincerity.

Up with no-bullshit sincerity, people! Try it for a week. Report back.

Existential Threats
Yet another rant by Simon

OK, campers — time for today's thought exercise.

Pretend, just for a moment, that the President of your country is a total douchebag. A smirking bigot who milks religious prejudice for political gain. An anti-Semitic, homophobic jerkwad who treats indisputable scientific and historical facts as, at best, untested hypotheses. A tyrannical hyena who fecklessly utters terrifying threats against sovereign nations. A power-mongering shitheel who's gutpunched a modern country until it staggered backward in the direction of the Middle Ages.

I know, I know. But try to picture it. Stretch that long imagination of yours!

Got it? Good for you. Now let's say that a seriously huge, badass foreign power has decided that your President is a threat to the security of the region and, indeed, the very globe. You might even be inclined to agree; fact is, if President Scumbucket choked on a lamb shank or a pretzel or something, you'd be unlikely to slip on a black armband.

But here's the catch: The danger posed by your leader, the big foreign government declares, necessitates that bombs fall on your neighborhood, your electricity grid, the closest hospital, the little market where you buy vegetables, all nearby sources of potable water, the buildings housing ancient treasures of your civilization, TV and radio stations, etc. Perhaps one of these bombs will fall right on your home, scattering the limbs of your relatives and pets into an interspecies jumble.

As much as President Creep makes your gorge rise, you might be thinking that this is not the preferred way to bring about regime change.

So as the weird reverberations of Ahmadinejad's visit to New York begin to subside, as the Liebermans, Podhoretzes, Cheneys, Bushes and other bloodthirsty excuses for human beings populating the political class amp up their demand for military strikes right now just in case Iran might one day build a nuke, I want you to forget about the leaders for just a moment and pretend you're just somebody who lives on a street in a city where bombs might go off.

Speaking personally, even if I believed our weapons could surgically scrub only evil leaders off the planet without collaterally singeing the flesh of the innocent, I'd still be agin it. America should finally hang up its illegal-foreign-intervention jersey once and for all. It was always wrong, and now it isn't even accomplished competently. But the fact is, our bombs aren't as smart as our leaders say they are. They can't tell a Caligula-like dictator from an apple-cheeked schoolchild, and guess which one is better equipped to survive an explosion?

Once again, I rant about this because we Jews are going to hear a lot, right in the wake of making our yearly amends for tiny wrongs and insults, about how Tehran going up in flames is somehow good for the Chosen. Even though Jews will be among those blown to bits by those righteous explosives. Even though Jews will suffer reprisals from idiot terrorists who glory in the extension of the war against the Great Satan. Even though Jews will be blamed by certain parties for how it all turns out, regardless of what we do or say.

Once again, with my full throat, with the flying, curly locks of all my Semitic forebears urging me on, I say: Fuck you, Neocons. Fuck you, Joe and Norman and Dick and George and fucking AIPAC. Go to hell. Even those of you who are nominally Jewish are not good for the Jews.

Once again, I say that if I really thought that being a Jew meant I had to go along with this destructive nightmare I would become an Episcopalian. But it doesn't. Jews have been great, strong voices against misguided militarism for eons. It's time for us to speak up, VERY LOUDLY, against a new, disastrous war in Iran.

Paging Dr. Sandman

Hi, guys. Whatcha been up to? I've been dreaming my ass off. Usually, I leave that to Simon. I generally wake up with only the vaguest notion that my brain was doing something off in the corner while I slept the sleep of the dead. But not lately. Lately I have full technicolor dream recall.

I think it might be because I'm writing something about dreams for my job. I've been ruminating on the twisty logic of dream images, reading about the unconscious mind and its weirdnesses. Perhaps it's unsurprising that I've remembered a disproportionate number of dreams lately. And so I've found myself doing the thing that I do when I recall my dreams: trying to figure out what the high holy fuck they mean. What can I say - I took Psych 101 in college, but I was kind of hung over that semester.

I've had a good dose of "the usual": trying to dial a phone, but I just can't get the numbers right; going someplace else but inexplicably ending up at my therapist's house; getting a tattoo I instantly, vehemently regret; discovering that a dead loved one has been alive all this time; and, of course, the one where I wander down to the ocean and everyone's taking their clothes off and jumping in. (Yes, I know that one's about sex; even I got the memo on water imagery.)

Dream of this tattoo, wake up screaming.

I've had dreams lately that have proved fantastically useful. I've plagarized them for work, for one thing.

And I had a dream where I ran into a writer who's in the middle of a ginormous and daunting project - a guy who'd slipped my mind for months. (In my defense, he lives in New York, which is really, really - check a map - really far away.) I woke up doing the "I shoulda had a V-8" head slap and emailed him copious good wishes. Because God knows that when I'm the one gnawing a hole through the outer limits of my brain (did that metaphor work? I'm thinking no) trying to write something hard, I like to be reminded that someone out there assumes my work is going passably well. So, file that one under Dreams Leading To Mildly Menschy Behavior.

And I had this other dream, about this other person, and in the dream I was beating the shit out of her. I didn't check the credits, but my guess is - directed by Tarantino. It goes without saying (I hope) that in life I rarely punch people so hard my hand goes all the way through their sternum. But in the dream, I was a total cartoon ninja supreme. I was scary. I was She Whom You Shouldn't Have Fucked With. It felt awesome and queasy, like a roller coaster ride at an amusement park known to occasionally kill a customer or two. And I woke up not angry but the opposite: in this zenlike state of blissful calm, fully aware for the first time that I really. Don't. Like. That person. At all. And therefore have a great excuse to use that new word I've been hearing tossed around, "frenemy." How awesome is that word? Wish I'd had it in high school. Coulda applied it to everyone!

And then. Oh, and then. I had this dream.

In the dream, I run into a male acquaintance. Someone I know casually. You know, a friendofafriend. (Quick, someone coin a shorter word for that.)

We're on some mazelike studio lot, don't know which - kind of like in waking life, where I've gotten lost on every lot in Los Angeles. I once walked around the Paramount lot for a fricking hour trying to find my car. And no, it's not that big. Anywho. He walks me to my car. We give each other a friendly hug. And then, out of nowhere, incredible, movie-caliber kissing ensues. If that kiss has really happened? Top five of my lifetime so far. No joke.

It bears mentioning that this gentleman has been entirely off my radar in real life. You know, the Radar Of Bangability. Never once thought about it.

So, naturally, I wake up feeling all tingly, and, well, slightly obsessed with that particular man. But more important to you, oh faithful Blog Reader, I woke up asking myself the appropriate question, which is, "What the fuck was THAT? What did it MEAN?!"

I've decided to stop at nothing to answer that question. But let me tell you, it's not simple. There are just so many rows to hoe when it comes to interpreting the Unconscious As Auteur. I asked a lot of people, and I got a lot of contradictory opinions. Then, I remembered this is a tangentially Jewy blog, and I emailed a real life rabbi. Posed the question to him: what's the proper Jewish way to interpret dreams?

I have so much to share. I'll tell you all about it... in our next installment. Unless there's an installment in between, which could happen. But point is, I'll be getting back to you, with rabbinical fruits of wisdom. In the meantime, enjoy your nap.

5768

Great to see so many foxy Jews at the Dip't in Honey par-tay at the Echoplex. For those of you who couldn't attend, you missed a devastating spread from Provisions (the apple tartlets! the red velvet cupcake tree!); Jill Soloway's rockin' PowerPoint slides, which mixed sumptuous imagery with stirring messages; Mocean Worker's spontaneous DJ duet with a shofar blower, which was pretty much the essence of Reboot; Paul V's devious mash-up mixology; thought-provoking materials from PJA, Mazon and other forward-looking organizations; and lots of joyous schmoozing among a cross-section of sexy chaverim.

Thanks to Julie and Mitchell for the use of the hall, to Jane for organizational wizardry, to Lisa for going all out in the sweets department, to Adam and Paul for rocking the tunes, to Jill for inspiring visuals, to POM for bringing the juice, to Neil of Gilly Flowers for a typically wicked centerpiece, and to everyone else who helped make it happen. Can't wait for the next throwdown — it's always great to see your pretty punims.

Dick Clark's Rockin' Rosh Hashanah

Yo, my peeps! What year is it? A new one, we're told, although your loyal ultra-secular pals freely acknowledge that we don't really spend much time cozied up with the ancient calendar. In the past, we further admit, our Rosh Hashanah activities have been limited to the pro forma get-togethers coordinated by our relatives.

So it's a new thing for us to be co-sponsors of Dip't in Honey, the Happy Jew Year spectacular set to go down at L.A.'s Echoplex next Tues. night (9/18), also brought to you by Reboot, Pom and the fine folks at KCRW.

But we're getting into the spirit, and we hope you will too — not only by attending, if you happen to be in town, but also by submitting your holiday blessing/wish/invocation, which will appear on a big screen as DJs Mocean Worker and Paul V lay down the smokin' grooves, Provisions LA's Lisa Feinstein serves the primo treats and scores of attractive Jews (and sundry chai-curious gentiles) sip on tangy, holiday-appropriate Pomtinis and shake their groove things.

So: Send us the good word, chaverim, and when we say we'll see you next Tuesday, be assured we mean it in the nicest possible way.

Today Marks an Important Anniversary.

So, it's Sept. 11 again, and it seems like an appropriate time to remember something that happened a few years ago.

Well, yeah, that too. We mean, six years ago, when we were all clammy with fear and despair and body counts were rising and dire reports were raging and the newscasters and Republican politicians tried very hard to conceal their boners, we had an inkling this date would, you know, go down in infamy.

But 9/11/01 was also the day Sera and Simon's better half, Julia, had a date to drink tea together, and they decided — amid the shockwaves of that rough beast smashing into America's Jerusalem — not to cancel. Chado Teahouse was closed, even though they said they'd be open, so Sera and Jules proceeded to Elixir, where their disbelief was mingled with conversation about a host of other topics. The sense that "everything has changed" hadn't yet sunk in.

Sera came back to Julia and Simon's dingbat apartment in North Hollywood and they watched cable news reports of the unfolding nightmare; Simon, newly stricken with Hepatitis A (a delightful story in its own right), was stretched out on the couch, viewing the horrible footage with a literally jaundiced eye.

But despite the surreal terror of it all, there's a nugget of sweetness at the heart of this dreadful memory. Because we all became much closer, dearer friends that day.

Indeed, it was such a milestone in the history of our bonding that Sera came over to Julia and Simon's house five years later to commemorate the anniversary. And on that night, in addition to recalling the disorienting events of that prior 9/11, we proceeded to celebrate our friendship anew with quite a bit of champagne.

Out of that joyous round of toasts on 9/11/06 came a great deal of squealing, uproarious laughter and the first tenuous steps down the road that became this blog.

As we've mentioned in the past, Sera and Simon first envisioned a book, but stupid, stupid literary people were for some inconprehensible reason not prepared to cut us an enormous, debt-annihilating check. So, after a couple of weeks, we turned the scribblings engendered by our bubbly blowout into the nascent Jewy bleatings you've come to know and love.

So, to reiterate: 9/11 is, in addition to everything else, the anniversary of the birth of the VHJ. It's also a sacred holiday that honors a miraculous friendship for which we're hugely, incredibly grateful.

In a way, it was a foregone conclusion that right-wingers would see the fiery death of thousands of our people as an opportunity to shove their wretched Christo-fascist vision down our collective gullet. And it was probably inevitable that terror alerts would eventually become fodder for Jay Leno and that the "war" would simply be a new frame for the standard U.S. policy of blowing up whatever stood in the way of the oil supply. The solemnity of those first freakish hours and days gave way mostly to a bitter but not entirely un-hilarious comprehension of the frailty of our own system and the venal unworthiness of our so-called leaders.

But what are you gonna do, lay down and die? Not these Jews.

We don't laugh at the tragedy so many people are reliving today, but we go on laughing in spite of it. And we're able to do so in large part because we have some fantastic fuckin' friends.

How I Crashed My Immune System

by Simon

I know quite a few people who live in perpetual cringing terror of catching some nasty bug. They don't shake hands (some give a non sequitur "namaste" gesture instead, while others prefer the Clintonian elbow grab); they have a dispenser of antibacterial liquid rigged into their sleeves like James West's derringer; and they swallow a daily bolus of mysterious, system-enhancing supplements.

I'm not like that; I maintain my health with the time-tested virtues of a positive attitude, gallons of coffee and at least seven hours a day resting on my divan watching premium cable. But sometimes I slip. I'm now enjoying day six of a delightful cold, and I blame it on too much of a good thing.

That good thing? Trayf, my friend.

Cards on the table time: Julia and I don't just celebrate our birthdays. We celebrate the entire birth month (and I've lately been lobbying for the birth quarter, but I don't think I have the votes). My birth month, a veritable orgy of comestibles and libations, came to its 1812 Overture of a climax with a meal at Cobras and Matadors, a tapas joint with a menu that can induce fainting spells in your average gourmand.

Faithful readers of this blog know of my fondness for pig meat. I have written passionate verse in its honor, and thoughts of its golden hue, crisp yet pliant texture and explosive bursts of fatty, salty flavor on the tastebuds forever distract me from whatever task is allegedly at hand. Still, I was half-joking when I asked Julia if she thought it would be possible to have a meal consisting entirely of The Other White Meat.

Some joke. Here's what we had, I kid you not:

• Bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with Cabrales and almonds, in a honey-port reduction


• Bacon-wrapped prawns on toast points in a garlic cream sauce


• Serrano ham and Manchego sandwiches on Catalan bread


• Albondigas (veal-pork meatballs)


• Breaded pork loin stuffed with bacon and ham

In addition to this pork-ucopia, we inhaled socca cakes in honey, beet salad with goat cheese and an onion conserve, a bottle of great wine and several glasses of killer sherry. It was an epic culinary debauch, and I delighted in watching Julia's customary gesture of food-induced ecstasy — her eyes rolling back in her head — almost as much as I enjoyed stuffing my face.

Then we got home and rolled into bed. Then I rolled out of bed. Then I tried to sleep on the couch. My head felt funny. My stomach rumbled ominously. I was visited by the ghosts of St. Augustine, Edith Piaf and Buddy Hackett, none of whom offered much encouragement. No sleep was forthcoming.

Julia is at pains to point out that among the first symptoms I experience with a cold is denial. I try to pawn it off on allergies or some damn thing, because admitting that I'm about to plunge into a vision quest of sniffling, coughing, throat-clearing and general whiny misery is too much to contemplate.

In any case, my immune system crashed like the L.A. power grid during a heatwave. Also, there was a heatwave.

Sera suggested the possibility that God was punishing me for my excessive flouting of the Chosen Peeps' dietary laws. I reject this hypothesis for several reasons. Among them:

1. Julia didn't get sick, and she ate all the same stuff.
2. Why hit me now, when I've been consuming the cloven-hoofed for ages?
3. I don't believe in God.

The question is this: Would I go back and substitute a healthier meal in order to dodge this bout of stuffed-up bullshit? I would not.

And that's what makes me the trayf-lovingest Jew in all of Christendom.

In fact... I could totally go for some bacon right now.

Harry Potter and the Very Hot Jews

"Cheeky Blog’s Jewish Obsession Strikes a Funny Bone of Contention."

When we read the title of that article, we thought for sure they meant us! Cheeky? Check! Blog? Check! Jewish Obsession? Pass the Paxil!

Turns out the blog in question is Gawker, which made some not very funny Jew jokes while hashing out a recent controversy. Then, when called on it, the blog made more Jew jokes, in that defensively "ironic" way that clues you in on the author's vague understanding of what irony might be. So, Jewish Daily Forward: The next time you're looking for a cheeky blog with a Jewish obsession you'll do a little better, no?

Oh, the aforementioned controversy? It's about Israeli booksellers breaking the sabbath in order to put the final installment of Harry Potter into the country's hot little Hebraic hands the very nanosecond it was released. Apparently, certain among the Orthodox made a big-ass mountain out of what seems to us a tiny little shmidge of breakin' da law of God. I mean, it isn't like the youth of Israel were indulging in murder or mishandling holy scrolls or surgically reconstructing their foreskins. But we, like, don't really get the Orthodox thing anyway, so who are we to say?

Well, duh, we're us, so we're gonna say lots.

First of all, the fact that Harry Potter is responsible for more tsunamis than that fucking butterfly in China with its insistence on flapping its wings cannot be denied. Oh, the endless issues people take with poor rich happy blonde J.K. Rowling — for not being literary enough, for not making kids read other books besides her own, for spreading the word of Satan, for spitting on the Sabbath. We at VHJ disapprove of her excessive use of the adverb, but otherwise have found her work charming and benign.

Until recently. Recently, those fanciful books have become an interesting study in perceived-anti-Semitism sensitivity. As in: If enough people tell you that something is anti-Semitic, can you avoid seeing the hate yourself?

The verdict: not entirely. It bears mentioning that we have no idea how J.K. really feels about Jews. We've never met her. We concede that this could be a case of widespread misunderstanding. All we really know for sure is that she thinks goblins are very culturally different from magicians.


And yet, reading Harry Potter has come to feel eerily reminiscent of college Women's Studies classes. By the end of a good lecture, every billboard in town seems to be screaming sexism, sexism, sexism. Every magazine is exploitative. Every miniskirt is a lightning rod. So too with The Noses Of Harry Potter.


I (Sera) have a dear friend, a hip and secular tribesmember, who insists that Harry Potter is deeply anti-Semitic. He believes the goblins described therein are based on caricaturized Jewish moneylenders, and equates Rowling with Mel Gibson in her obvious hatred of our peeps. Here is a quote from the email he sent me in response to the above-mentioned article:

HOWever, lost in this gerbil-in-a-wheel argument is the true problem with the harry potter books. it's not when they go on sale, young sera, but what's inside...

Believe me when i tell you, the harry potter books are so stereotypically and virulently jew hating as to be dickensian in scope.


the bankers, sera. they're small, grunting, hunchbacked little men with big noses and crooked teeth who care about nothing but money. sound familiar?

I initially scoffed at his assertion. "In your head!" I cried. "Paranoid! Lay off the wacky tobacky!" I exclaimed.

Until I cracked open the last tome and got to this description of possible-bad-guy Severus Snape wherein Rowling calls Mr. Evil (Or At Least Gross) Dude "hooknosed."

Something in me bristled. "Oh REALLY?" I thought. "Is that the shorthand for untrustworthy? Gosh, it's been a while since I've read that word. Probably because people avoid it because it seems, how you say, not very cool in light of the long history of anti-Jewish propaganda featuring evil noses that hook?"

Having been sensitized to the possibility of anti-Semitism, I zeroed in on that, my stomach turned ... and I didn't really enjoy the rest of the book as much as a wanted to. Those banker goblins pissed me the fuck off. I tried to let it go. I mean, I really like the Harry Potter books, and I've been looking forward to the finale for eons. I tried to decide it was nothing. But, in the end, my sudden fear that all you non-Jewish folk hate the shit out of the Jews won. Bad for reading pleasure — but, hey! Good for blogging!

My imagination, all this? I dunno. All I do know is, I'm leading a by and large sheltered, Jew-friendly existence here in LA-LA land. I interact with lots of secular Hebes, my social circle is a multi-culti gaystravaganza, and nary a spraypainted swastika confronts me on my daily dogwalks. I'm able to pretty well convince myself that anti-Semitism is way '06, that it's just not of the now, that it's o-vah, babycakes. And then someone points out a perceived, subtle prejudice, and when I behold it ... well, at the very least I understand a little better what it must be like to walk around being all foreign or not white or lesbionic. Casual jabs coming at you from all sorts of unexpected places, like bland TV or children's books.

(Okay, so this Amber chick — from Cameras-In-A-Locked-Whorehouse reality show "Big Brother 8"— is a raging fucktard, but still, it's the obvious bland-TV example of anti-Semitism. I found this girl's words shocking. And it hurt my feelings, Amber. I think you should apologize. Or henceforth wear a t shirt that clearly warns viewing audiences that you're an uneducated bigot with bad hair. Oh, wait, everyone already sees that last part.)

Here's what AIN'T my imagination. The people that commented on the article linked at the start of this here entry? Some of those bitches need schooling. Look at this:

Bill said:

Perhaps if Jews were not the 'average New York media professional', and some other ethnicities were allowed to amass in any real numbers in media professions; they would be ridiculed as well. But we'll never know, will we? I guess Jews will have to be satisfied with world domination, and work on mind control in their free time (if they wish).

Thu. Jul 26, 2007


I'm not here to get all indignant. I hear it speeds up wrinkles, and I'm too vain for that shit. But, um, allowed to amass? Excuse me? Now, I know I happen to be a Jew working in a media profession. But I nevertheless must call not only foul but also asshole on young Bill, if that is in fact his real name.

Bill, my darling? If there were some kind of Jewish media mafia holding deserving goyische pros — like, I assume, yourself — down? In order to hoist less-deserving Jewlicious pros like Simon and myself up, up, up? Then God knows the VHJ would have gotten some kind of phone call by now, inviting us to come, like, control the media. And I promise you, had we gotten such a call, we'd have blogged about it by now. We're nothing if not blabbermouths. Forget invited - I'd gatecrash, if only I'd heard of such a thing, which I haven't for some reason that I assure you is unrelated to my hardy Hebrew heritage. Perhaps I should call some of my most intelligent friends to ask them to explain it to me. Oh, wait — they're struggling Jewish media professionals. It's been hard for them to break in. That's odd. You'd think they'd get in quick on that Chosen Folk Fast-track. Oh well.

At least we've got our world domination to fall back on.

Just Think About It—No Rosh

There will be dancing, courtesy of incredibly hot DJs from both coasts.

There will be drinking, with cocktails augmented by thematically appropriate sponsor Pom Wonderful.

There will be schmoozing, courtesy of Jews and their Chai-curious friends.

There will be incredible nosh from new catering phenom Provision L.A.

It will go down on Tues., Sept. 18 at The Echoplex, in the basement of the fabulous Echo in Echo Park.

It is Dip't in Honey, a dazzling night of Rosh Hashanah debauchery and introspection co-sponsored by Reboot, Very Hot Jews, Pom and local public-radio giant KCRW.

Another thing the event will feature: New Year's resolutions from you. So submit 'em, baby! Let's hear what you've got. How are you going to expand your horizons, deepen your soul, soften your heart and harden your resolve? These Jews wanna know.

So mark your calendars, put Yellow Cab on speed dial and burnish your dancing shoes, and we'll see you on the 18th.

Breaking: Simon Gets Older, Hotter.

The Very Hot Jews are in need of Advil and a fatty breakfast this morning, my friends, because last night we celebrated the birth of our masculine half.

Many knuckle-bitingly attractive Jews (and reasonably appealing Gentiles, we might add) attended the festivities, several bacon-themed gifts were bestowed, and a methuselah of mysterious mixed beverage called "Geisha's Kiss" was consumed.

We thought you might enjoy some photographic proof of Simon's ever-deepening hottitude. Snaps by smoldering Hebe Josh Pickering. (Just goes to show you, your mama was right when she said, "Honey, some things you leave to professionals.")

Oh, and the mustache, while slightly reminiscent of the trademark lip-garnish of He To Whom We Stick It, is emphatically not a Hitler 'stache. If we cut it in half, maybe. As it is, it's a hirsute hybrid of Inspector Clouseau, You Bet Your Life-era Groucho and a smidge of Edgar Allan Poe; on this chart, it probably falls somewhere between "box car" and "business man."

Let's just say that a ride on this puppy'll cost you more than five cents.

Speaking of which: When Sera wears it? Extremely porn-o-rific. Who knew she bore such a striking resemblance to generously endowed tribesman Ron Jeremy?

Unsurprisingly, Sime's Semitic goddess wife looks positively edible rocking the Coffee Strainer Of Hotness:

We wanted to photograph each party attendant In 'Stache Delicto, but it stopped sticking. Plus everyone was in the hot tub by then.

We don't offer this slideshow merely as proof that the Yin and Yang of VHJ are genuine pals and more than a partnership forged by Hollywood dealmakers, or to vouchsafe that our communication is not always by IM. We present these photos as a tribute to the most important thing in life: Having a loving mishpuchah.

Because when you come right down to it, there's nothing quite like having friends who just "get you," friends who can detect your tiniest eyebrow movement and chime in with "I know, right?"

This is what it's all about. We are blessed.

Why The Internet Doesn't Suck.

Hi, Sera here. I just spent the last two weeks thinking about how the Internet really sucks ass.

I think it's because I reached saturation about Britney Spears, finally, after all this time. I got to work, did my usual morning round of the gossip blogs, and there was a picture of her, out at night in clothes she hemmed with a pair of cuticle scissors, wig askew, gum lodged in the edge of her maniacal laugh. And I had this sudden moment of clarity: that young woman is seriously mentally ill.

I mean, here's a thought exercise: Think of a dear friend or family member, someone you adore. Got it? OK, now picture that person engaging in all the same droolingly oblivious self-destruction we've seen from Britsay Lospears et al. Horrific, right? Now imagine that your dear one's every intoxicated misstep is chronicled everywhere for the amusement of the general public, with whole industries springing up based on poking fun of said beloved person as he/she swirls down the drain.

Some among you might wonder what took me so long. Others might be shaking their heads, thinking, "That Sera, what a goodhearted sucker. Brit's just drunk and acting out."

Whatever: two Jews, three opinions. I'm just saying that, as someone who has never met Britney Spears, is not a mental health professional, and is in no other way qualified to make this assessment, I believe the chickie has biopolar disorder. She has that look about her. I've seen people having that kind of episode. They tend to do a lot of drugs and shave their heads and stuff.

And when I realized that without serious help the only people fucked-er than Brit are her kids, the whole enjoyment-of-trash-blogs went sour for me. Not that I stopped looking. I just felt nauseous and unsatisfied while I smoked my fix of Perez-- who, by the way, logged something like 8 million hits the day Lindsay got arrested.

Let's not mince words: I'm in the fix-it cycle of tabloid addiction. The highs aren't fun anymore, because I'm having them at the expense of people who are actually in serious trouble. For a long time, I was cool with that, because they're driving drunk in fabulous clothes surrounded by a hilarious entourage. But now, I'm going back to a well that's run toxic.

I thought about this here blog. How it's so much easier for me to discuss Amy Winehouse's jailhouse tattoos, dime-sized pupils, nickel-sized ass and white-hot death wish than pick a new Jew topic of substance to write about. I mean, Amy's Hebraic, but she's not exactly an example plucked from from the median average of our people. And, oh, how I'd rather discuss deeply non-Chosen preacher's daughter Ashlee Simpson's surgery than the kerfuckety Middle East clusterbang going on even now. And I though, well, I suppose I'm part of the problem. Might as well throw in the proverbial blogging towel.

Then, while clicking vaguely from celebretard site to celebretard site on my embarrassingly long list of Bookmarked Fave Sites That Prove My Liberal Arts Education Was For Naught, I accidentally clicked postsecret. I played the little video below, and I rememebered that the Internet, when used for good, has as-yet-unmeasured power.

So, enjoy the vid, ruminate about how alike all us weird weird weird odd strange Jews and non-Jews are, and check back in soon. We've got a thing or two to say about the fucktard anti-Semites on Big Brother 8.

On Bringing the Funny

A lot of y'all have been asking Sera about how to get into TV writing, because you envision a candy-flavored world of inspiration and fame and nice clothes and nonstop validation from strangers.

You are mistaken, of course; like any other comparatively gainful employment, writing a show involves a lot of squinting at your monitor with a feeling in your gut that's not unlike the grind of threshing spikes, along with a lot of weird politics that leave you distinctly uncomfortable; bouts of sleeplessness; prodigious ingestion of alcohol; occasional feelings of worthlessness, hopelessness, friendlessness and fatness; and periodic bouts of homicidal rage.

And that's on the good days.

Now, we know that many of you apple-cheeked show-biz aspirants won't be deterred in the slightest by such non-utopian testimony, and that's just fine. Just fine. But the really good news is this: You can stop asking Sera for advice, because your nice Jewish pals are gonna give you the hook-up.

That's right: We're going to tell you where to send your comedy script so that influential professional funnyfolk will look at it and give you feedback.

Oh, that is so sweet, but please, put your clothes back on. A simple thank-you will do.

Here's the deal. There's this thing called The Un-Cabaret here in La-La Land. It goes down at M Bar in Hollywood and features comedians and comedy writers doing a very intimate, personal kind of performance. It's not about setups and punchlines; the Uncab performers get personal, finding the funny (and sometimes the poignant, and more often the foignant) in the most difficult, challenging areas of life. It's always inspiring, even when the featured performers aren't comedy superstars like Margaret Cho, Patton Oswalt and Julia Sweeney or writers of shows like Curb Your Enthusiasm, Sex and the City and The Simpsons.

Uncab was founded by two amazing people, Beth Lapides and Greg Miller. They came here from New York with an idea that comedy could be deeper, more meaningful and just plain better than the dude-with-microphone-in-front-of-brick-wall monotony that had prevailed since the '80s.

Soon their events grew so popular that they expanded, offering Uncab Labs for fledgling comedic performers, putting out CDs, gathering brilliant un-aired pilots for exhibition via The Other Network, and much more. Beth herself is a wonderful performer and writer and motivator; during Uncab nights she serves as a hilarious foil to the featured artists. She writes haikus and does yoga and is, in general, what you'd call a peach. Greg is a brilliant producer, organizer and evaluator of comedy talent, not to mention a funny, wonderful guy.

Together they run a little thing called the Other Network Comedy Contest. For a nominal entry fee (and please, no tirades about entry fees — no one owes you a freakin' contest, you whiny baby, and by the way, if you want to be in TV you'd better get a thicker skin), you can submit your stuff if it follows the following Other Network guidelines:

- Can be an original piece of writing or a 'spec' of a TV series that has aired

- Any comedy format on paper, tape, disc or file (sketch, short, animation, monolog, etc.)

- Multiple submissions & re-submissions OK (but please do a serious re-write!)

- Material that's been optioned by another network is NOT OK (this contest is about opening a pipeline for people who don't already have access to the business).

Once your work has been received, it'll be evaluated by people who actually know what the hell comedy is, because they make their living at it. This is not the Kamp Komedy Kollege of Ha-Ha. Recent winners of the contest got scripts into the hands of key execs at Comedy Central and got notes from showrunners who said they'd like to be attached to the projects. Yeah, baby. Others had their work reviewed by agents at William Morris and UTA, managers at Brillstein-Grey and TV comedy wizards like:

• Bob Odenkirk (Mr. Show, SNL, Tenacious D)
• Cindy Chupack(Sex and the City, Everybody Loves Raymond)
• Brent Forrester (The Office, King of The Hill, Undeclared)
• Rob Cohen (The Ben Stiller Show, The Simpsons)
• Jon Kinnally (Will & Grace)

and tons of others.

These folks don't promise you riches and fame. But no matter what happens, you'll get genuine feedback that actually means something from people who know what the hell they're talking about.

Nu, enough already. Just go to the contest page and follow the instructions. Just don't forget us if you get, like, all famous and junk.

Full disclosure: Very Hot Jews are an affiliate of the contest. Call us pisher.

Whither Hotness?

A bittersweet incantation by Simon

So, my birthday's coming up and I'll be 43 years old. And I co-write a blog called Very Hot Jews and lately we haven't talked very much about hotness, though we have talked about stuff like interest-free loans and TV writing and repairing sewage pumps.

I've started to feel a little guilty (I know, try to stifle your disbelief) that our little Jewblog wasn't really living up to its name. After all, do people really come to this site to read about our petty foibles? Do we have regular readers (or at least momentary visitors) in Iran and Saudi Arabia and China and Norway and Tuscaloosa because we write so tellingly about the myriad headaches and meager rewards of modern existence? No, I say! Folks from all over the world click over our way because they long for tall tales of Semitic hotness.

And yet. And yet.

Well, here's the thing. As the hooded specter of advancing age swings its razory scythe over my form, graying my hair (fuck me, even the chest hair), inscribing ever-deeper crevices into my once-pillowy flesh, I feel my cherished sexual vanity dissolving like a bar of Irish Spring in a volcano.

I know! Unbelievable, right? But it's a thing with guys. Bear with me.

Look, I'm an educated man. Probably too educated. I recognize that most of the capering image-circus known as pop culture is, for reals, a vast truckload of perfumed pigshit. Do I understand that the seamy fakeworld of advertising cultivates our insecurities the way ants corral aphids? I write ad copy for a living, fucker! Do I realize that all publicity photos are airbrushed, that perfection is a matter of lighting and camera angles, that the glistening fleshpots in all torrid love scenes are daubed with Vaseline by pot-bellied union guys? I do!

And yet.

I want to feel hot like the hot people on the hot shows! I want to be a sparkling object of desire! I want my wobbling midsection to be taut as a snare drum — not as a result of agonizing daily crunches but simply because I'm young and supple, though I consume multiple cheeseburgers at a sitting! I want that terrifying avatar of a double chin to revert permanently to singlehood!

Most of all, I want the look from babes in the street. I want that hungry slide of female eyes over my chest. I want to be openly fantasized about on girlblogs. I want to be surreptitiously phone-surveilled and texted about by desiring co-eds. Is that so terribly much to ask?

Cut to shot of once-chunky Irish Spring bar, now a pale-green sliver.

I am at some upscale shopping mall in a commercial neighborhood that bears a striking resemblance to Pasadena. At every turn there are fair-haired hotties who sport the all-knowing mien of the sophomore. Their skirts are microscopic. Double entendres stretch enticingly across their T-shirts. Their satiny feet are shod in flip-flops made of solid gold. They smell like gardenias and vanilla.

And I look down and realize that — for reasons having to do with my having been too preoccupied to do laundry of late — I am wearing shorts with black socks.

This is, to employ the technical term, the attire of the gross old guy. And if these terrestrial angels notice me at all, it is to mark my shorts and black socks with a snort of derision.

Not, as they say, too hot.

Here's the question caroming around the spongy interior of my brain like a queasy drunk: Have I passed the point of no return? Am I consigned to either invisibility or gross-old-guyhood from here on out?

And the answer should itself be a question — something like, Why, silly man, do you give one solitary shit whether or not you're appealing to a bunch of nattering girls at the mall? And yet.

I see all the forty-plus guys on TV who still look great, like David Duchovny, who's in a new show all about being a writer of a certain age swimming in pussy, and the little caged monster of diminishing self-regard shrieks Why not me? When the answer should be: That is a TV show, a fiction to stoke the dreams of premium-cable subscribers.

This is the madness that causes men, silly, vain men of a certain age who used to be objects of lust, who were once a coveted demo but now see the gilded surface of their erotic confidence flaking away and revealing a dull, lead-colored redundancy, to plunge headlong into midlife crisis. You know the story: One day, receding hairline or limp dick or, heaven forfend, black socks with shorts. Next day, ill-advised cherry-red convertible in which to troll for pneumatic girlfriend.

I have stared into this abyss, people, and been rescued. Hallelujah.

How? By love, of course. Because I share my life with someone who celebrates my birthday all month long, who sees me stumble into the muddy pool of my own wounded ego and pulls me out.

She looks at me and, apropos of nothing, says: "You're hotter now than you've ever been."

And you know what? Fuck it. She's right. Happy Birthday to me.