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.

Jews Against Usury

A note (of credit) from Simon

I just finished paying off a $10,000 loan to a bunch of Jews.

Before you leap to any stereotypical conclusions, here's the twist: It was an interest-free loan.

That got your attention, didn't it?

Oh, and you don't have to be Jewish to qualify.

The Jewish Free Loan Association may be a relatively unassuming organization, but what they're doing for people is undeniably hot. Because although I qualified for a business loan for my fledging company a few years ago — and believe you me, that money was crucial in getting us off the ground — most of JFLA's lending is done in the form of emergency loans to low-income residents of Los Angeles and Ventura counties.

And while predatory lenders are everywhere, right down to the paycheck-cashing rackets that rip off poor folks who don't have bank accounts, JFLA actually gives moneylending a good name.

So when I wrote my last check to them this week I vowed that I'd mention their good work on the blog.

JFLA began in 1904, and its earliest loans paid for sewing machines and pushcarts. Over the years, when people were dislocated by World War II, the Watts Riots, the Northridge earthquake and countless more prosaic emergencies, the org was there with needed funds.

The organization is attempting to redress California's shortfall in nurses with the Brandman Foundation Loan Fund for Nursing Students, providing interest-free loans to future nurses of up to $5,000.

What JFLA does is humbling and inspiring. If you know of someone in immediate need, let them know about this amazing organization. If you're fortunate enough to be "comfortable," as our people like to say, consider making a donation.

Just don't ask us to lend it to you.

Would you like to get an e-mail notification when the blog is updated? E-mail VeryHotJews@aol.com and we'll put you on the list.

Very Hot Jew Leading Men(sches)

a postcard from the edge from Sera

Gosh, who knew being a producer meant I would have to produce so damn much?

I've wanted to check in with you in a hot, Jewish way, but I've been waylaid by the challenges of trying to not go all Apocalypse Now with the budget of my current TV episode. In fact, I'm still ... well, not in the heart of darkness, but certainly heart-adjacent ... let's call it the lung of darkness. So this post will be brief and scattered, like a phone call home from college during midterm week. Here goes.

Much has been happening, my feverishly hot friends! For example, I have been digging into that Michael Chabon novel. It's terfrickinrific. Sime lapped me — he's done — and I keep telling him to shut up about the book because I'm terrified he'll let slip some juicy detail I haven't yet gotten to. I watch so much TV that I sometimes forget I'd rather read a book.

Another tragic thing about watching (and writing) so much TV-- I barely ever go to the movies, unless I'm on hiatus. I'm dying to see Michael Moore's new one, for instance. And that Irish indie, Once? I'm full-on white-on-rice when it comes to anything involving Irish guys singing. Yes, there's a story there, and it's a true story, and it does in fact involve my standing on the rainy streets of Dublin at one in the morning while a motley band of smoldering countrymen drunkenly serenade me, but that's a story for another post. Possibly a post about how I exaggerate stories.

The last flick I caught was a surprise Jewy treat. Knocked Up. Didja see it? It feels odd to say that, since you probably saw it long before I did. It's because I'm so busy working and reading Perez Hilton and listening to the tousle-haired Irish troubadours who sing softly in my ears. Really.

Anyway: Seth Rogen plays a menschy young man doing right by his splendiferously bosomed fling-turned-babymama. His posse is mostly Hebraic as well. They represent a woefully underrespresented demo I know well — the nice Jewish boy with a bong. They're secular as all get-out, but they do groove hilariously on their own Jewishness. And the brass tacks of 'em is that they're simply good guys. In that way of being raised right by a couplea Jews. Their slackerliness is thoroughly benign. They're devoted to their stoney girlfriends, if they have them. Their get-rich schemes are for the public good — yes, we do need websites that tell us the exact moment a starlet disrobes in an otherwise B-minus movie; they save us time and discomfort.

And while some of the nice Jewish boys in the flick are a tad immature, the message is clear: when they choose to step up, they really step up. Knocked Up is a testament to the warm-fuzziness I feel when my friends email me and say, "hey, I took your advice and went on a date with a nice Jewish boy and HOLY FUCK!!!"

Hello, Stealth Hotness: Seth Rogen.

Also: my fave thing? They totally have the Munich conversation! You know the one-- we ourselves had it on this very blog eons ago. Apparently we weren't the only ones stoked to see the smorgasboard of semitic manliness that movie offered. Knocked Up is rip-roaring in general, and also kind of touching, not that I cried or anything. Except for, like, four times. But don't get the wrong idea, it wasn't like Leaving Las Vegas bawling — more like Denny-dies-on-Grey's mistiness.

There's also Harold Ramis, who plays the father of Seth's character. He's been married a few times, and looks at his son's relatively arrested lifestyle with cool amusement. He's not your typical movie dad, by any stretch of the imagination, but there's a scene in which father and son sit across from each other — the son in distress about his life — and Ramis, positively glowing with love for his boy, shows us with a few deft strokes what's magical about Jewish menschiness. It's one of the most accurate presentations of a certain kind of Jewish parental affection ever put on screen. Let's say that tissues were required. We wish there'd been more of him in the flick.

So, yeah, see it if you haven't. It's pretty sweet, even if you're not a Jew. And if you are, there's the added bonus of feeling pretty okay that you're a big fat stoner — as long as you'd at least consider trading in that skull-shaped pipe for wedded bliss with Katherine Heigl.

The One True Alchemy

Religions, both mainstream and cultish. Politics, both mass-mediated and underground. The Secret and scads of other poorly copyedited loaves of self-help twaddle, along with their attendant TV specials, CDs, DVDs, workbooks and decoder rings. Miracle diets, pills, soaps and herbal suppositories.

What do all these phenomena of human hype share? They all purport to offer some sort of transformative formula for human experience.

They'll show you six practical steps to change your life for the better. They'll stretch your sagging flesh into a burning canvas of desirability. They'll save your soul and unite the world. They're gonna take ya higher, baby. They've got a deal on two tickets to paradise.

Is every single one a shallow, disappointing scam when it comes to delivering the goods? Far be it for us to say yes. But yes.

As Sera has carefully elucidated in a previous post, The Secret is all box and no cereal. Religious ritual is all well and good, but it's had quite a few millennia to turn us from our brute nature, and how's that coming along?

And politics? As the TelePrompTers say, pause for laughter. Meanwhile, if you think you can shop your way to a better you, lotsa luck.

These are all fascinating chapters in humanity's search for the philosopher's stone, that alchemical holy grail that will change base metal into gold, and perhaps give its possessor eternal youth in the bargain. If you only know it from the title of the first Harry Potter movie, you should know that the stone preoccupied scientists and mystics alike for many, many moons.

In a way, it's the ultimate intersection of faith and knowledge — and what better illustration of that concept than the Mutus Liber, a "silent book" consisting only of illustrations that purports to be an instruction manual for creating the stone?

So they searched and searched. They filled their vials and beakers with every substance, fastidiously tracked a virtually infinite series of chemical interactions and mapped the zones between air, water, fire and earth. But no dice. To put it another way:

Not one gold nugget
Was made from lead
Not one grey hair
Turned black on a head
The fabled stone
Did not exist
But undeterred
Was the alchemist.

We call that denial up in my neighborhood. But brothers and sisters, I have good news. There is true alchemy in this world. There is a way to transform dross into gold. But it isn't through some elixir of mysticism and science. It's through art.

Art is the one true transformative magic we humans possess. It enables us to take pain and turn it into joy. Its miraculous process dissolves misery into laughter and discovery and illumination.

We can suffer and, in the telling of our suffering, be redeemed. We can narrate our awful stumbles and they emerge as slapstick. We can turn dread uncertainty into delicious suspense. In the crucible of creativity, it's all possible.

We say this not to offer some treacly, up-with-people empowerment product (buy our life-changing 10-DVD course! ) but as a reminder, in these dreadful times, that you've got better stuff inside you than about 99.9997 % of the ideas, beliefs, platforms and antioxidant lotions being launched at you by the giant marketing slingshot that is commercial culture.

Here's where we get all controversial on your ass: We think the key to the survival of vibrant Jewishness in very hot times is not JHVH. Nor is it arming ourselves to the teeth and dropping bombs on whomever The New Republic tells us is an "existential threat." The key to our survival, through diasporas and donnybrooks, through pogroms and pilot seasons, through Torquemadas and Theocons, has been our ability to turn death and despair into deidel-deidel-deidel. You dig?

So nu, if you're full to bursting with feelings you don't know what to do with, blog! Draw! Sing! Squirt mustard onto an old math textbook! Not because it'll make you famous. Not because it'll let you look into the iris of the Divine. But because it will transform your terrible, unfathomable feelings into something beautiful or funny or scary or odd or in any case fathomable.

They didn't call the philosopher's stone a holy grail for nothin'. And as with other grails we could mention, it's right there. Right next to you.

Um, Sorry.
A Message From Simon

Could we really call this a Jewish blog if we didn't periodically get too busy and then neglect to update it for long periods of time, feeling horrendously guilty all the while? Even if our neglect can't always be chalked up to a hectic schedule, and is sometimes a byproduct of many hours spent browsing hotties on MySpace? And even if feeling the guilt required more psychic energy than banging out a few amusing paragraphs? Genug!

We're sorry, is my point.

We're sorry because we know you've taken the time and effort to steer the majestic craft that is your browser over to our Jewy little marina more than once and found the same old stale posting there. Perhaps you've huffed off, vowing never to darken our splash page again. Or maybe you were wracked with concern — are Sera and Simon OK? Has something happened to them?

That said: Sera has been busily crafting killer-chiller scripts for a TV show and tending to the myriad needs of her burgeoning canine, Mojo. I, meanwhile, high-tailed it out of town (accompanied by the lovely Julia) for a largely DSL-free vacation in the glorious state of Washington.

During that time, I spent many blissful hours with my nose in Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union, a cracking good novel set in an alternate reality where the Jewish state, Sitka, is in Alaska. It's a noir thriller mixed with Pynchonian magical realism and a ton of Yiddishkeit. Nu, read it. One of the book's most vivid characters is a half-Jewish, half-Tlingit detective; he was much on my mind as I surveyed the Jewish guests of a wedding party at a lodge on an Indian reservation abutting a rainforest. Colliding worlds make great fiction and fascinating reality, no?

We spent a few days in Seattle, but the revelation was staying on the Washington coast (thanks to the offices of our beloved pal Mollie and her generous family), where the weather was largely sublime and where we saw quite a few of these:

That's right, people: bald eagles.

Making their way over a vast, flat stretch of surf between the ocean and a prototypically Northwestern stand of Conifers, rousted by crows, they flaunted their magnificent wings as their white keppes glinted in the sun. It was if they were saying, "I am this close to being removed from the Endangered Species list."

And they were finally delisted mere hours after we returned home, thanks in part to the offices of meshuggeneh nature people who took bald eagle eggs from nests in order to fertilize them in labs (they left fake eggs in their wake, which must've been awkward for the eagle parents).

We spent a lot of time spying on the eagles — sometimes squinting through binoculars, sometimes just gawking right underneath whatever tree one happened to be perched in. I learned a lot, especially about the gap between an eagle's patience for sitting and my own.

If I'd had DSL, I could've given him a run for his money.

I promise a more substantive post soon. It will confront big issues like art and the soul. And Jewish identity. Or something.

Oh, and don't worry. We're fine.

Thanks to Mollie for taking this pic.

Jews Who Need a Time Out

a rant, by Simon

Look, we'd rather be talking about hotness. We'd rather talk about the 50 or so amazing women, many of the Hebraic variety, who recently attended the home of Simon (though he was sent into local exile while the all-girl party transpired) at the invitation of the lovely Julia. Or the incredibly hot style of Jewish-British chanteuse Amy Winehouse. We'd rather go on about drinking red wine in the hot tub under the twinkling stars.

But instead we need to talk about some Jews who are not only not hot, but who are truly pissing us off.

One is a politician and the other a pundit. They have both publicly called for the U.S. to start dropping bombs on Iran. One of them has done so very much in the context of what's "good for the Jews."

They are Sen. Joe Lieberman, that weasel-tongued toady of the Bush regime and delusional cheerleader of the Iraq war, and ultraconservative columnist — and candidate for a rainbow assortment of psychiatric Jujubees — Norman Podhoretz.

Here's what Lieberman said on the risibly titled TV show Face the Nation:

If they don't play by the rules, we've got to use our force, and to me, that would include taking military action to stop them from doing what they're doing.

Well, that's bad for all kinds of reasons, though typical of Lieberman's fealty to the bellicose bullshit of the Neocon elite. The "play by the rules" part is especially hi-larious, given Lieberman's smug defense of Bush's rule-flattening Iraq War and, much more recently, his de facto protection of Attorney General Gonzales, who gives lying worms a bad name.

Joe says the Iranians are "training Iraqis to kill Americans" in Iraq, which may or may not be true, but, um, there's a simpler and far less bloody way to address that problem (hint: it involves getting U.S. troops the hell out) — on which the Senator helped the Prez put the kibosh. Even worse, he's said that backing down from a confrontation would be a "sign of weakness."

In the past, though, he's emphasized a nuclear Iran's dire threat to Israel (Lieberman had just returned from a trip to the Middle East, including Israel, when he issued his call for airstrikes). But a threatening situation doesn't mean there can't be dialogue. And heightened tensions don't always necessitate the dropping of ordnance on human beings. Also, note the shifting rationales for the same preemptive military action. Sound familiar? No? Anyone? OK, OK, here's a little clue: switch the "n" in "Iran" to a "q."

So, yeah, bad. Neocon destructo-robot bad. But just check out Podhoretz's words, from an editorial splashed, not long ago, on the pages of The Washington Post (and,of course, in Podhoretz's own diseased organ, Commentary). After making a preposterous case for Ahmadeinejad as a geopolitical juggernaut of evil (bolstered by such clearly-lashed-to-the-moorings-of-reality authorities as John Bolton), he calls for — spoiler alert! — massive U.S. airstrikes on the nation of Iran. He then concludes, at the ass end of an alarmingly tender panegyric for Bush:

It now remains to be seen whether this President, battered more mercilessly and with less justification than any other in living memory, and weakened politically by the enemies of his policy in the Middle East in general and Iraq in particular, will find it possible to take the only action that can stop Iran from following through on its evil intentions both toward us and toward Israel. As an American and as a Jew, I pray with all my heart that he will.

As we've tried to explain in the past, it's a horrible thing to advocate dropping bombs on anyone. And only a crack-addled pinhead could seriously believe that bombing Iran would improve conditions in the Middle East for anyone — let alone the people on whom said bombs would rain.

But it's the "as a Jew" part that makes steam come out of my ears. The idea that these two barnacles on the hull of the U.S.S. Dubya can blithely call for fiery death to rain down on human beings on the grounds that it would be good for the Jews is so fuckingly wrong that it almost makes me believe in metaphysical retribution, just so I can visualize Joe and Norm roasting in the Devil's sauna next to another "friend of Israel" who routinely expressed the need for various people to be incinerated, Jerry fucking Falwell.

Let me tell you something: You don't need to be a foreign-policy scholar to see that Ahmadinejad's latest crackdown, wherein various marginally free forms of expression are being peremptorily trampled and various forces of liberalization further marginalized, has been helped along by saber-rattling American shitheads. After all, the Iranian President is at pains to remind his long-suffering population, this is a security emergency. The Americans could blow us up at any moment, and this Jew in the Wall Street Journal is freakin' praying for it! And this other Jew in the Senate is calling for it!

What is a liberal Iranian to say to this? Well, most Americans don't feel that way. It's just the crazies in power. It blows my mind how much I sound like a liberal Iranian sometimes, and how much my government can sound like theirs.

And does anyone seriously believe that more explosions will solve the current crises? Can anyone honestly entertain the idea that blowing more men, women and children away with tax-supported firepower will be helpful for Israel?

No, it'll make it much worse. And it'll provide the impetus for yet more terrorist explosions, which will in turn justify more bombing missions, and on and on and on.

We're unlikely to have much impact on the actions of authoritarian assholes like the Iranian president. But we can sure as hell speak up when people in our own country and ostensibly our own community try to gin up mass death in our names. It is time for the Hot Jews to stand up and tell these cold-blooded Jews to step the fuck off.

Sifting For Diamonds In A Mountain Of Ass.

Do you hate it when writers write about writing? If so, um, stop reading.

The Very Hot Jews are also Very Hot Writers For Hire, so sometimes we write about stuff that's more writery than Jewy. But our Hebeness, as you know, permeates all aspects of our lives; so we think it counts sufficiently to run posts about the creative process. Call it Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Jew. Or, Portrait of the Jew As A Young Writer. Or, point out that we're not very young, which: shut up.

Actual, bona fide young writers email me (me meaning Sera; going solo on this post riiiiiight... now) a lot. Sometimes, what they ask me boils down to "how do I become a better writer?" Yes, good writing is subjective, blah blah; let's cut the crap, because we all know what these youngsters are aiming at. And we all want to know how to do it. Is there a certain class to take? Book to amazon? Pill to chop up and mainline, because we will if it makes the swamp of donkey dung we just composed miraculously transform itself into sparkly genius.

Despite my general joie de vivre, while working I am haunted by this nagging feeling I call The Wrongness. As in, something is very wrong with this thing I just wrote. I dunno what. But I know it could suck a lot less than it does.

I don't know the secret answer to shaking that ickity feeling. I don't know how you force your creative mind to take it to the next level already. Sorry. If someone reading this knows the answer, email it to me. Please. Be your best friend.

In the absence of solutions, I've developed strategies. Most, like the Eating More Peanut Butter strategy, have failed miserably. The only thing I've done that helps significantly is Write More. It ups the statistical odds of writing something unsucky.

I know, so unglamorous. So unrelated to playing with your dog or kissing in the park or watching movies or eating more peanut butter.

Also, who wants to write more, raise your hand? Anyone? Bueller? Thought not. We all know the fun part isn't Writing, it's Having Written. So what I do is trick myself into writing as much as possible as quickly as possible, with the understanding that most of it is going to suck ginormous monkey balls. I then sift through the mountain of ass without judging myself for it. Not that I'm a non-judgmental person. Nuh uh. It's just that even I can't really get it up to feel bad that something I typed up in 5 minutes while surfing Dlisted isn't gonna win me the Nobel Prize. And I get that 10% of the shit will turn out to be gold. Or at least pyrite. At any rate, good enough to use in some capacity.

I've got lots of systems for the prolific generation of hellaciously overwritten crapola. Allow me to share one such system here. Let's begin with a long, digressive story, because you would totally rather read it than, like, write.

Breakfast At Denny's.

When I was in high school, my social life was made possible by the architecture of my parents’ house. Specifically, the location of my bedroom. Our two-story home was built into the side of a hill, the better to enjoy our expansive view of grey smog behind which, we were repeatedly assured by our real estate agent, lay the gorgeous San Bernardino mountains. My bedroom? Lower level, with a sliding door to the backyard. Wasn’t it nice of my parents to see to it that I never had to actually crawl out a window to sneak out at night?

I encouraged as early a curfew as possible. Because the sooner we all “went to bed”, the sooner I could walk right back out of the house again.

That was the easy part. Once I’d slipped away, down the street to the Jehovah’s Witness church parking lot where my friends were waiting, we faced our true obstacle: There was absofuckinglutely nothing to do in Redlands.

More often than not, we ended up at Denny’s, nursing stale coffee and ingesting toxic quantities of mozzarella sticks. None of us had enough money for a more ambitious meal. But the coffee refills were free. We had a system, which I will describe to you with the disclaimer that my adult self is embarrassed by our treatment of the harried Denny’s waitstaff.

Our system was to ball up a bunch of paper napkins to form a little “ghost." We’d draw a mean ghost face on it. And when our cups ran dry, we’d perch the Coffee Ghost atop the napkin dispenser. If it took more than a minute or two for the waitress to spot us, we’d toss the Coffee Ghost up and down, making loud “woooooo-woooo” ghost noises. The waitress had long ago gathered the intel that we weren’t exactly gonna leave the best tip in history, and tossing the Coffee Ghost invited some of the most subtle yet pointed sarcasm I’ve ever heard from a member of the service provider industry. And I’ve shopped at Fred Segal. After between-the-lines-ing that she fully expected us to die horror-movie drug overdose deaths which on a karmic level we completely deserved, she’d fill 'er up and quickly get back to her preferred occupation, shunning us.

We had time to kill and caffeine to burn off. So, somebody invented “Breakfast.” I have no idea how it got that name. Here is how to do Breakfast. One of you pulls out your journal. (You better believe we all had journals with us at all times.) Someone writes the first word. Say, “I.” The other chap writes the next: “never”. Back and forth, lightning-quick. Sentences, stanzas, strange stories composed word by word. The finished page, checkered in alternating handwriting, yielded surreal, vaguely English-As-A-Second-Language poetry: I never only waited forever when cars parked on heads of state past river rocks of milk carton trash at sunset on Mars.

We found this wildly entertaining. And we marvelled at the occasional profundity discovered by just letting go with no thought of making it "good." Amid the knots of quasi-gibberish were genuine diamond lines. Plus, it was fun to show poetry who's boss.

Aaaaaallll of this to say, I haven’t changed a bit. Well, I’m almost twice as old. And I don’t dress quite so adventurously. But my social life still involves Breakfast in many forms. Like this blog thing Sime and I amuse ourselves with. And I still treasure that which takes some of the teeth out of the big bad monster, writing. Like my current fave—The 30 Day Experiment.

The 30-Day Experiment.

The 30 Day Experiment has generated some of the best stuff I ever done wrote. I dig the hell out of it, and I wanted to share. Invite the emo writer types among you to try it. (I know you’re out there. Put down the Damien Rice CD and listen up.)

The experiment was born when a friend and I were chatting about how “generating inventory,” i.e. writing actual viable stuff, is an erratic and slow process and totally blows. We decided to shortcut the mad search for the spark by simply providing it for one another. That way, we could get a taller pile of written guano in a shorter amount of time. No more standing at the corner of Writer's Block and I'd Rather Be Drinking, waiting for the Inspiration Bus that never comes.

Each day, one of us would write a poem or short piece of prose and email it to the other, who would read it and then immediately write one of their own. None of that stopping to think business. Just fingers and computer keyboard. Sometimes the pieces dialogued, sometimes not. But it worked. We wrote a thingy a day for 30 days. It was like going to the writer-brain gym every morning. And what a marvelous bucket brimming with vomitously bad writing I accrued. Priceless. And I mean that unironically.

I just started a new 30 Day Experiment with this Hot Latina Novelist I have a writer-crush on. Sime's gonna start his own. We think you should maybe start one too. Why the fuck not? At the end of it you’ll have a big-ass pile of... something.... that wasn't there before. Which totally beats having no pile at all. Challenging as getting a piece of writing from heinous to decent may be, it doesn't get easier by doing it less. You don't get to skip the heinousness by staring at a blank screen. To keep with the fitness metaphor: to my knowledge, going to the gym never stops being annoying. But it's less of a drag when you're in shape.



Plus, if you do this consistently for 30 days, somewhere in your hillock of feces you will find rough bits here and there which, once cleaned up, will reveal themselves to be startlingly valuable and genuinely good.

Let us know how it goes. We'll be here. Typing.

He'll Be Comin' 'Round
the Mountain

(by Simon)

It sounded a tiny bit like something from Lost, which will give you an idea of the level at which my mind routinely functions.

Thanks to a kind referral from a Jewy friend whose respect means the world to me, I was invited to join a select group of other Semites to talk about issues of identity, culture, religion and other pressing matters at a sublime hilltop resort. The event, known as the Reboot Summit, had been happening for six years or so, and was a cornerstone of the Reboot organization's efforts to draw secular Jews back into a conversation with one another about Jewishness in its many facets and manifestations. All my expenses would be paid.

I asked them to repeat that last part and then agreed enthusiastically.

Prior to my departure, I was the subject of the kind of massive document dump one might expect from the Bush administration on the Friday of a long weekend, most of it appearing in an unwieldy cardboard box. Articles about Israel, about how secular Jews practice holidays, about cultural markers and Sandy Koufax spilled out of that carton, a veritable avalanche of introspection. Then came a document at once concise and weighty: the "facebook" informed me that the other attendees of this event were about as close to a definition of the intelligentsia as you're likely to find: filmmakers, journalists, heads of innovative nonprofits, activists, academics, authors, musicians, visual artists. There were scions of families I knew only as brands.

Why had they included me, a smart-aleck scribbler from the Valley? Simply because my blog had "Jew" in the title? I became convinced that I was welcome not for my ostensible insights so much as my penchant for a well-placed Hitler joke.

I was not far wrong, I believe, but more about that in a moment.

This Jewy gathering went down in a most un-Jewy place: the glorious, mountainous confines of Wasatch, Utah. Just outside of Park City, this majestic place is home to some ski runs that would be declared "awesome" by someone who liked to ski. I, on the other hand, would say they're "vertiginous," but I mean that with a great deal of respect. More importantly, this Shangri-La in the Land of Microfilm boasts the Stein Eriksen Lodge, an enchanted place of civilized repose with stunning mountain vistas, a spa with shvitz and a landscaper who suffers from the now-arcane disorder known as Tulipomania.

But man, those tulips. I mean, look at them:

Still, meeting this insanely accomplished, frighteningly smart, appealingly funny and certifiably HOT bunch of Jews was the most beautiful thing of all.

The Summit marked my first experience with so-called Open Space methodology, wherein people who are keen to discuss a particular subject present their idea to the larger group, then smaller groups convene to bat around said issues and — where appropriate — formulate "action plans." Then everyone meets up again for reports on these conversations.

We talked about defining Jewishness, about religious belief, about geopolitics, sexuality and creativity. We even talked about the International Jewish Media Conspiracy — as both an anti-Semitic fantasy and an ironic description of our cultural penchant for writing and performance — and decided, rather glumly, that Jewish conspiracies are impossible. We can't even agree about lunch.

All told, it was a lot like graduate school, only better, more amusing and totally haimisch.

We even heard "the world's greatest Jewish joke," and though the jury's still out on the joke's ultimate stature, it did make me laugh. I will tell it to you, but only if I see you in a bar. In point of fact, the Summit helped me recognize how central jokes are to my sense of Jewish identity, and how the personality I'd formed as the youngest sibling dropping wisecracks around the dinner table was an irreducible component of my self-definition. And as soon as I sat in the giant circle of Rebooters, I thought: Oh yes, I know how to work this room.

There were also lovely, very inclusive Shabbat and Havdallah services conducted by Amichai Lau-Lavie (about whom we've kvelled before), discussions of who thought who was hot and even a talent show. In case you're wondering about the talent show, I sang "Alison," accompanied by the extremely gifted David Green on guitar; thanks to the superhot and angelic-sounding Jen Cohen for the pic.

OK, it was like graduate school crossed with Jewish summer camp.

It was stimulating, hilarious, infuriating, exhausting and exhilarating, with tons of equally impassioned chatter going on during the breaks, meals, shvitzes and evening drink-a-thons. I got about nine hours of sleep all weekend, but I just didn't care.

Reboot's strict "off the record" policy forbids me from going into detail about the intensely involving jaw-wagging in which I was immersed; suffice to say that my brain was full to bursting with ideas, concerns, conflicts and questions.

A lot of these will, I'm certain, find their way into this blog — and as my memory catches up with the headlong rush of experiences I had in Jew-tah, I'll tell you more. But for now I just want to express my gratitude to my Reboot mishpuchah. You'll never be rid of me now.

The Future, Brought To You By Sera.

I know, I know, my blogging has gone from charmingly erratic to about as frequent as Haley's Comet. I won't apologize, because I warn you all the time that I'm nothing if not inconsistent. But I will offer an excuse: it's because of staffing season. That TV-industry-wide game of musical chairs has come to an end, so here I am, ready to regale you with tales of my great adventures in the mythical land of Burbank.

Staffing season is the time of year when all the TV writers dash around in their nicest "studied casual" clothes and meet with anyone who might be able to give them a job. The majority of those anyones are the creators of new shows that may or may not actually make it onto the fall schedule.

Adding to the general chaos is the fact that many writers are under contract at shows that may or may not return. In other words, writers who might not be available are meeting with showrunners who might not have a show.

Plus, we're all writers. We're stressy and overcaffeinated -- and, often, the very portrait of Woody Allen 2.0-level neurotic Jewness -- even at the best of times. So as the upfronts (when the networks throw a big shindig in NY to unveil their new shows) draw close, everyone gets tenser and tenser. You walk into offices manned by zombie-eyed, ashen assistants making a futile attempt to organize the mountains of sample scripts sent by every agent in the solar system. They offer you water. You take the water. After the meeting, during which you are as chipper and charming as you can possibly be without coming off as a total douche, you leave with the water. Soon, the passenger seat of your Solara boasts an environmentally tragic pile of half-empty, never-to-be-finished bottles of Lake Arrowhead's finest.

I'll just skip ahead -- Spoiler Alert!-- and tell you, all those meetings went well but proved unnecessary because the show I've been working on is coming back. I'm even getting a promotion, so my name is followed by a fancier title. Don't be fooled, though, I'm still just a writer. Although in honor of the "title bump" (one quippy friend's response: "Hmmm, title bump. Sounds snortable.") I did buy a wristwatch. Not that I need one; I also bought a crackberry, from which I shall never, ever be parted for even a second unless it is the only condition under which Hugh Laurie makes sweet love to me; and said crackberry is indeed equipped with a highly accurate clock.

But I associate wearing a watch with being professional. Sure, I still show up to work in a cardigan over a dress over jeans, and yeah, maybe my hair is so unruly I tend to just tie it in a knot, and perhaps that knot just gets frizzier and frizzier throughout the day because it is my genetic legacy to never, ever be in control of what is happening on and around my own head... but now? One look at my right wrist (I'm left-handed, as you probably guessed long ago) and the security guard who buzzes me in to Warner Bros each morning will think, "Wow, look at that chic yet eminently professional Michael Kors wristwatch. I used to think she was a coffee gopher, but it's clear to me now -- that chick must be a producer."

And this goes without saying, but I went with Michael Kors so that every time I checked my watch, I'd see his name and flash to his friendly orange face as he bashes some poor Project Runway contestant's latest fiasco with ninja-like catiness skills. There is nothing I love more than a rich queen calling someone's earnest creation a fat peasant dress made out of trailer bathroom wallpaper. Every time I glance at my watch, I'll think of Michael Kors. And no matter what kind of day I'm having, I will smirk. Because for the record, the dress is totally hideous. And that's okay. In fact, it's great, because it gives Michael Kors something to cat about. See how my watch is singlehandedly going to keep me optimistic, whatever comes my way?

What is going to come my way, you ask? Well, I have the answer to that question too, for two reasons.

Reason #1 is that I read and/or saw every drama pilot produced this season. So I can tell you that this fall is going to bring me a show I have long wished to see, i.e. one that takes place inside a giant pie. I do like pie. (The show is by Bryan Fuller, who made Wonderfalls and Dead Like Me, and it's not just about pie, but the premise is definitely pie-heavy.) It's good to know that among the weekly pile of dead cop-show hookers and twittery, self-conscious professional women with catastrophic personal lives, I can look forward to an hour of TV that isn't about how sex fucks up your job or kills you.

Reason #2 that I know what will come my way: at the mindfuckiest height of staffing season, I saw a highly regarded astrologer who read my tarot cards.

That's right, I admit it. My name is Sera, and I visit fortune tellers. I tend to visit them when I'm stressing out about things that are entirely out of my control, like for instance the future.

Basically, I am paying someone to give me some dubious shred of information to irrationally clutch in times of great uncertainty. It is totally worth the money-- because it actually works. I tend to go, okay, Mercury's in retrograde, I'm not quite sure what that means or how this stuff could possibly be real or accurate in any way, but if it proves I'll end up with a cool gig at the end of all this, gimmee the kool aid. And then I'm all calm and serene for a couple of days. Judge me if you want, but I find if I see a fortune teller once (or, um, twice) per staffing season, I can get through it without the truckload of valium that might otherwise be necessary.

So, here is what's in store for me (according to the universe, as evidenced by what was going on with various planets the night I was born and also the order the tarot cards fell into when I shuffled them): I will meet a man in June. I will also be too busy with fancy new writing projects to hang out with him. There will be a work lull in October followed by an upswing that leads to great success and my purchasing a really indulgent car, "like an Astin Martin."

There you have it. If, one day soon, you're sitting on the patio of the Santa Monica Coffee Bean, and you see what you believe to be James Bond driving down Wilshire, only when the car gets closer you realize it's a wildly successful Jewish lady TV writer with a fantastically accommodating man friend riding shotgun? Then check your horoscope, baby, cause that shit is for real.