CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS

I am on a fairly restricted diet: no seeds, no nuts, nothing with “skin”, no additives, no preservatives, no colorants, no spice, nothing acidic, no popcorn,(arrgh!) no liquor, no flavor, no nothin’......probably should become a Breatharian.

My Doctor would be thrilled if I ate turkey and mashed potatoes for every meal, three times a day- for the rest of my bland and colorless life.

About ten years ago, I had several surgeries resulting in the inability to enjoy food again. Ever.

But, of course, that’s another story.

Suffice it to say that occasionally....maybe a few times a year- my taste buds revolt and cry out for something baaad. Preservatives, additives, technicolor snacks that will force my dinner plate into a state of chemically enhanced frivolity- taunting my palate with demonic glee.

It’s true what they say- “You are what you eat”- and every great once in a while, I wanna feel goood!

I crept out at 10:30 P.M. under the cover of darkness, to satisfy my wanton lust for some verboten treat- something that would make the tree hugging, wheat germ huffing, organically correct, over zealous staff at Whole Foods literally gag.



I set my sights on Cocoa Puffs, hold the soy milk.


As I perused the cereal aisle scanning all of the other choices (Lucky Charms, Count Chocula, Frosted Flakes!) I noticed that the word “sweet” was conspicuously absent from the psychedelic boxes designed to lure the kid in all of us. I began to tremble slightly and wondered if I was about to actually swoon over the possibility that even Corn Pops (nee Sugar) had morphed into something ‘healthy’.......

The room began to spin as I stretched out my quivering hand for the treasure. Cocoa Puffs within my grasp, I hit the floor and everything went black.

When I came to I noticed several things at once. I was surrounded by a mound of cereal boxes, there were people screaming.....and my head hurt baaad.

Apparently, I had passed out cold while convulsing uncontrollably, writhing on the freshly buffed floor of aisle nine. Naturally, I was a bit confused - gazing helplessly into the eyes of several panic - stricken strangers, some on cell phones, one woman weeping, amid the clatter of paramedics screeching around the corner, gurney at the ready.

As they came to my aid, I attempted to sit up but realized I was in pain and slumped against the mountain of Rice Crispies - slurring some words in answer to the barrage of questions hurled at me. Did I know my name? Who the President was? Where I lived?


I answered them all, pleased that I had passed their weird test- and then the ultimate question.

The cute guy in the blue jumpsuit pointed to the timepiece on my left hand and asked me what it was. I looked at my wrist and pondered his question. Nothing came to mind.

I looked at him and then at his equally adorable partner. I looked back at that thing with the numbers on it- it was clearly marking some sort of passage of time- and yet what it was still eluded me. It was then that I realized something was wrong. Something baaad.

After what seemed like an hour, I cleared my throat and announced that it was a clock. A clock......sounded right to me. The guy who couldn’t make it through medical school patted me on the head and said “That’s good, Jonathan- not the answer I was looking for- but good”

By now I was on the gurney and informed I was going to the emergency room. I sat up and yelped back that I was not and that I was fine, no worries. It was then that it occurred that I was drooling (ever so slightly) and that my left arm was swinging freely, unencumbered by that pesky socket. I suggested a compromise. I would go to the hospital if they would allow me to drive myself and asked mock-doctor McDreamy if he had any idea how much a joyride in an ambulance costs these days.

He shook his tousled mane (not unlike the Breck Girl of days gone by) and told me that he had no choice. The state of California apparently dictates how he handle the situation, much to my chagrin.





The next few hours are a blur. I remember being asked a LOT of questions. Calls to my personal physician, tests, tests, tests.

Slowly, as if in a dream I began to hear the doctor’s words. I had endured a seizure and suffered a small stroke (Hmm) . Apparently, while I was doing the “Horizontal Mambo” alone (So what else is new?) on the highly polished dance floor, I self-inflicted a “Severe Brain Injury” (heretofore known as S.B.I.)and dislocated my left shoulder. My left eye drooped a teeny bit. I couldn’t make a fist with my left hand, nor walk with my left leg.
I looked gooood.

Somewhere around three A.M. I was informed that I was to be admitted. By this time I had heard the theme song from “The Adams Family” play endlessly in my head a thousand times, begging the nurses to make it stop. I was told this was not “uncommon” (WTF?)

I begged the attending to get my Doctor on the phone again and cried into the mouthpiece. He gave me the choice of going home to my own bed, after being told that they were just going to ‘observe’ me as I pointed out that I was not made of money (“Insurance only covers eighty percent you know!”.....)

I agreed to let the staff get me a cab rather that waking any of my neighbors at that Godforsaken hour and slinked out of the wheelchair into the grimy back seat of a taxi, trying my best to appear chipper to my driver, Achmed.


I slipped him an extra ten to take me to the grocery store parking lot where he unceremoniously dropped my ass off and sped into the night, cursing the stupidity of all Americans.

With diminished faculties, I revved the motor of my trusty pickup and drove off, suddenly realizing how difficult and challenging driving a stick shift can be when you only have one hand, one eye and one leg.

Hilarity ensued as I wound my way down Colorado Avenue, weaving drunkenly and narrowly avoiding crashing ‘round every bend as I traversed the six blocks to my crib (Crib? No, that didn’t sound right at all!)

Once I was home, safe (yet not quite sound) I collapsed onto my bed and began the long, slow adventure that would be my healing process......a journey that I am still on. I can walk (albeit a bit cockeyed), I can once again make a fist (albeit slowly) My eye no longer droops, yet I see the world in an entirely different way. The headaches have diminished ( although my S.B.I. haunts me from time to time) and I lost the entire summer to a pack of rehab ghouls who clearly enjoyed torturing me into submission (under the guise of “good health”)

Apparently, I am going to make a “full recovery” (still waiting for THAT to happen!) and have cheated Death once more.......Every once in a while, I have to slam my shoulder back into place while debating the pros and cons of surgery to make it permanently honor the agreement between ball and socket.



Have not worked in a while.....although my overall likeness to the “Hunchback of Notre Dame” could come in handy, now that Halloween is upon us. Managed to go camping once, a few weeks ago. But of course, that’s another story.

Lions and Tigers and Bears!

Every year at this time, I wait with anticipation for the opening of "Buckhorn", my favorite campground in the greater Los Angeles area.......although 'season' is supposed to be from April 15th to November 15th- this seems to NEVER be the case & I start dialing the ranger stations for updates in early May. This year was no exception and my fingers (and nerves) were practically raw from constant inquiries regarding same.

Finally, my persistence paid off & Buckhorn opened it's heavily wooded gates last Friday. Sometimes I think they open it just to shut me up- I probably called 20 times in 2 weeks and no doubt John the ranger was glad to get me (figuratively) off his (way too hairy) back.

Leaping around the living room with manly glee, I pinched myself (I still think a nipple-twist would have been more effective) to be sure I wasn't dreaming and began to mentally ready myself for the task at hand-

I looked at Liza the wonder dog and shrieked "let's go camping"! (Again, in a very manly way). As I flew (as if on gossamer wing) to the closet crammed with camping accoutrements, I began to envision using my new fire-engine red spatter ware dishes that I had received for Christmas.....I suddenly remembered that there were also some new "flameless" candles packed away for 'ambiance' on the picnic table. (How did Ellen put it? oh that's right- "Yep, I'm gay"!)

although we (me and the dog) often go camping alone, it is fun (sometimes) to bring along a friend or two. Once in a while, we even make NEW friends in the woods- but that's another story.....

Sure enough, a friend immediately jumped at the opportunity to go along and I agreed to having her join us, even while recalling that she was THREE hours late for departure last year........a mental note that was still stuck in my craw (wherever THAT is).

For sake of argument, we'll call my friend Rosanna,

Pack, schlep, haul.......we're there. Gorgeous and serene. Vibrant and alive. Practically empty, there were maybe three other campsites with people scampering about. (It's possible the actual "scampering" might be in my head)- they were probably tending fires, playing frisbee with their dogs and reading up on the local wildlife whilst hanging between trees on a spider-web of nylon that also rolls up into a ball the size of your fist. ( I LOVE camping "stuff")

Regardless, the place was peaceful, to say the least. To my sheer (and manly) delight, my favorite site was devoid of people, welcoming me with her always outstretched limbs of wooden yearning. I swear, Buckhorn is just as happy to see me as I am to see her- a comforting (if not oddly delusional) thought.

The usual regime of unpacking and setting up began. It's become traditional to literally take everything but the kitchen sink with me. Over the years I have accumulated a huge and diverse array of camping equipment and toys- Rosanna on the other hand, had virtually nothing but a suitcase (not even a duffle bag? A suitcase?) and a bag of tortilla's. Fortunately for her, I had brought along an extra guest-tent, sleeping bags,, air mattress, etc.

After checking out MY tent set-up, she was dismayed to see that I had end tables, carpeting, a front porch (complete with astro-turf) , a tent heater (it was 37 degrees the first night!) and a portable DVD player set up for my viewing pleasure. Apparently, my hosting skills were severely lacking, since I had not provided DVD players for my guest rooms and had completely neglected to leave a mint on the pillow I had so thoughtlessly provided.

The first few days were heavenly. Good food, beautiful warm weather,(during the day, anyhow!) a roaring fire to sit by, while gazing at the beautiful night time skies. The Buckhorn experience at it's finest.

And then Rosanna decided to go on a hike.................Dumb, da dumb dumb... DUMB!

There is a beautiful, well travelled hiking trail up there called the Burkhart Trail. It is traversed yearly by hundreds of visitor's. It is a well known, well marked-yet "challenging" hike which ends in a waterfall and swimmin' hole- the perfect day time camping adventure, one which I have experienced many times and had NO intention of doing on this trip.

I had made that clear and Rosanna was going to do it alone, a notion that in itself did not concern me in the slightest. People do it all the time, myself included, so it did not occur to me that I should try to talk her out of it. Rosanna is a grown woman and she prepared for her hike, trying her best to adapt my manly demeanor and set off at two P.M.- sandwich and water bottle in tow. Ever prepared, I provided her with a walkie-talkie, made sure we were on the same wavelength, and sent her on her way with the usual cautions- "Stay on the trail", "Don't hike more than two hours on the way in" (can't forget that means two hours on the way BACK), "Pace yourself" and remember.......you are in a vast, national forest that does indeed house bears and wild cats and deer, oh my!

In other words, "Be alert, be safe, be smart and have fun-off you go"!

I was happy to have the woods to myself and had already scheduled time for napping (in my own nylon spider web), collecting pine cones ( I spray paint them in pastel colors and sprinkle glitter on them for the holidays- very manly) and maybe watch a little porn on that DVD player in the tent.......a full day at Buckhorn.

Rosanna was planning to make dinner that night (hence the tortilla's) and had alerted me to that, which meant kicking back for me, so I proceeded to scamper (for real) through the woods, high on Jesus.

I believe it was around 4:20 in the afternoon when I surveyed camp- and all my handiwork, admiring my manly outdoor skills. The pride flag was fluttering in the gentle breeze, being supported by my pair of G.I. Joe dolls, set up in their usual compromising position. There were battery operated glitter lights in the trees, "flameless" torches flanking my tent doors, replete with gold tassels and a tiny chandelier hanging inside.my manly tent. Mounds of kindling surrounded the fire pit. As I sang along with the "Pussycat Dolls", I surveyed my domain and gave a manly nod of approval. All was well with my world.

5 P.M. came and went.....as did 6........By 7 P.M. I was hungry and slightly irritated that Rosanna was not back, since she was supposed to cook dinner ("Carne Asada"? What the hell IS that?) and should have been preparing it by then. At 7:30 I went off , Liza in tow ,to the trail head, actually calling her name and repeatedly paging her on the walkie-talkie. Nothing. I began to get concerned, darkness was a comin'......it had not occurred to me that she would be gone over 5 hours.......it is, basically, a 3 hour tour.....a THREE HOUR TOUR. I ran into a hippie camper down by the trail head who said he had not seen her and talked me down (momentarily) from panicking. He asked me if she had a flashlight on her (which I doubted- she had brought 3, none of which worked and had been "borrowing' mine for the past few nights, anytime she had to see anything, anywhere..... breaking one of the cardinal rules- "always provide your own flashlight" (and chair)

I allowed hippie camper to soothe my frazzled nerves for a moment and wondered (while I took a moment to check him out) where the conversation might have led, if I hadn't been about to burst into manly tears. I guess that's another story. He advised me to go back to camp and wait until actual darkness before becoming more alarmed than I already was. I was torn between mounting hysteria and keeping a clear head- somewhere between those two worlds, I still somehow thought it was 4:20.......which added to my slightly disturbed state of mind.....

I spent the hour between 8 and 9 P.M pacing around the fire muttering things like "I can't believe she would do this to me", "This can't be happening" and "What the fuck?" At 9 P.M. all sirens in my head went off at the same moment and I realized my worst fears. Something was indeed wrong and I had to spring into manly action.

Because of the abundance of wildlife in my precious forest, I could not drive off leaving multiple coolers and bags of M & M's laying about, so hurriedly packed everything edible into the back of the pickup (Manly, no?) threw the dog in the front seat and took off in search of help- flashers on- down the Angeles Crest Highway at 5 miles per hour, in case I should pass someone who could help along the way.

I got to a call box about a mile down the road and pulled off, heart racing, literally freaking out. It was pitch-black out, on a Tuesday night in the middle of the woods, and my camping guest was definitely missing. In 25 years of camping California, this was a new experience. I ran to the call box only to discover that it was ripped off the pole ( by vandals, no doubt- probably teenage boys- sounds like another story) and I was confronted with bare wires gaping uselessly at me. Back in the truck, hyperventilating, I drove off again at a snails pace, flashers on.

One other vehicle passed me but did not slow down and I found another call box after a few more (endless, grueling, mind numbing) miles. This one was operational and apparently requires a degree in rocket science to figure out how to use it, this being the 21st century and all. Very high tech. By the time I spoke, in English ( I had dozens of language choices) to a real human being, it was 10 P.M. and I told my tale, chain smoking, gasping for breath, head between my legs, blowing into a brown paper bag..... intermittently praying for death to take me.

Once 'Search and Rescue' had all the vital info, they dispatched helicopters to the mountains, a car to meet me and volunteers to begin combing the woods looking for Rosanna's mutilated, bloody corpse. I had already envisioned my trial and subsequent imprisonment for her death, should the body not be found at all- and was resigned to a life behind bars, cursing the name "Rosanna" 'till the day I gasped my last, raspy (yet somehow manly) breath.

CHP instructed me to "pull it together" and drive back up the mountain to meet them at the entrance to my (now sullied) Buckhorn, flashers on, blah, blah, blah. It took all of my effort to not lose it and just drive off a cliff. Terror was rising ( like lava at Mount. Vesuvius) and I felt as if each moment might be my last as I crept back up the mountain.

This time when a car passed, he slowed to match my crawl- unrolled his window and asked if I was Jonathan? I stopped the truck and got out while he told me that he had found Rosanna on his 112 acre orchard at his ranch in Apple Valley- a mere hour and 1/2 drive away! . Apparently, she had Hmmmm, wandered off the trail. It being 4:20 and all, she became a little 'dazed and confused' and wandered aimlessly through the National Forest for NINE (9) glorious hours! At this point, Mr. Kindly Rancher (wouldn't have happened to me ) offered to DRIVE her ALL THE WAY back to camp, apparently having a cocktail along the way to soothe HER jangled nerves!

I stood in the middle of the Angeles Crest Highway and wept like a (manly) baby. I thanked him, took his name and number and turned around once again, to call off the posse. I spent 25 minutes in
call- box- from -the- future hell, and finally managed to stop the taxpayers from spending three hundred thousand dollars on "helicopters for Rosanna" ( sounds like a worthy telethon)

I drove back to Buckhorn, re-learning how to breathe, and found her- safe and sound. I fought the urge to scream and hugged her tight, truly thankful that she was alive and well, while making a mental note to screen my camping guests even more rigorously from this point on. Camping is not for sissies.....and if it is- they had better provide their own glitter!

Mirror Mirror.......

How do I look? Apparently........ the answer is open to interpretation.

When I woke up this morning and Gazed dreamily into my manly, yet jewel-encrusted vanity- I had trouble recognizing myself. I looked as if I had just climbed Mount Doom over the period of a year with Gollum as my only companion. Call me crazy.

Wasn't it JUST the other day that I got CARDED at Ralphs while trying to buy a pack of cigarettes without anyone taking notice? The young lady at the checkout asked to see my I.D. when I whispered my secret request. I'm pretty sure I cackled like a crazy old woman and informed her that my JACKET was over 30 years old! Still, she insisted on looking at my license and then.... her eyes bulged out of her head.... she gasped, clutching her bosom and began to chortle (en Espanol) to the (again, quite young) lady next to her station.

When she regained her composure, she asked me how old I really was. I asked her what the birth date was on my license? She looked again and said 1954. I then asked her to do the math. As I saw the puzzled expression criss-cross her bonita (and young) visage, it began to dawn on me that it was possible she might not be the brightest star in the galaxy. Call me crazy.

Was it possible, after all, that I did NOT actually appear to be somewhere between 18 and 21 years of age? My ego-crash (mere seconds after my boost) was a crushing blow. I drove home (chain smoking ) and flew to the mirror. It was only the week before that a "gentleman caller" had commented on how many mirrors there were in my home (Commonly known as the DOLL HOUSE). I had never really given it any thought but I remember looking at him quizzically (THIS, I remember- his name, not so much) and honestly not comprehending his thought process. He said that he had been watching me all afternoon- and that whenever I moved more than say, a FOOT, that I looked at myself in one reflective surface or another and that while doing so, checked out my HAIR each and every time. Honestly, I was flabbergasted. I stopped to think about it, reflect upon it, one might say.

TWELVE- Yes, I counted. Twelve mirrors in 650 square feet of living space. Didn't count the ones hanging outside in the garden (is that cheating? Oy.) Is TWELVE too many? The question hangs in the air like a grotesque spider delicately balanced on a whisper-thin dewy and glistening magical thread. The answer?

MAYBE.

I really was completely unaware that I had (what some might say) a LOT of mirrors (most of which are after all, DECOR!) and not even conscious of the fact that I was looking at myself in each one of them as I gesticulated wildly, not unlike a frenzied Gypsy Peasant Girl (To be fair, my "friend" did not actually USE those words, yet they were still somehow implied). Call me crazy.

I'm still thinking about it all, still unsure that it's a BAD thing. My sister once suggested that it was possible that I cared too much about my appearance.......much to my chagrin. While it may be true that I look at myself periodically throughout the day, it is a rare thing indeed, to find that I am pleased with what I see. It DOES happen, truth be told. and I will admit that I have said the words (aloud)- while gazing (again-dreamily, of course) at my reflection- "Jean Claude Van Damme I look good" ! ( I heard it somewhere- I think the "Fresh Prince") Call me crazy.

Only tomorrow will tell. I may get a great nights sleep (courtesy of the Valley of the Dolls) and awake refreshed. After a shower and shave along with moisturizer from head to toe, I'll rub a little Jergens 'Natural Glow" on my face and arms (It "creates a healthy summer glow- all year long"!) and put a little product in my (cut every four weeks) hair. I find a combination of "Sheer Blonde" Healthy Attitude leave-in nourishing spray and Redken "Outshine" anti-frizz polishing milk- is just the thing. Somewhere between a splash of cologne and deciding on whether to wear 501's or board shorts- I MAY glance at myself. I might look okay. I might look like Methuselah .....but apparently, I'm going to look. Is it a bad thing?

MAYBE. Call me crazy.

Let My People Go

Well, Pesach in California was fine, sort of a mellow, laid back, somewhat jovial homage to enslaved Jews the world over. The scene in Florida, not so much.

ACT ONE:

MOM has long ago given up the desire to be scraping gefilte fish off the ceiling for months following the event, so she (quite smartly) has long since passed the baton to younger and stronger relatives. The performance this year took place at a theater I have attended before- the Boynton Beach Playhouse located in the southern region of the always charming (I mean sweltering) southern tier of the Florida panhandle.

Even though MOM is seventy-five years old, still works for a living and has a loving-but-not-always-with-it HUSBAND, AUNT had no qualms about asking MOM to prepare somewhere between nine and fourteen traditional holiday dishes. Never mind that MOM has a bad back, a bad arm,a bum leg and difficulty breathing (I mean smoking) and barely has the time to apply her usual parrot-green eye shadow- AUNT , who has a state of the art kitchen, grown children (BOY and GIRL COUSIN) of her own and UNCLE to assist (I mean complain about) .......still asked MOM to cook. (WTF?)

Maybe it has something to do with this particular holiday (I mean Passover). If you require someone to act like a slave, enlightenment will follow.

So MOM does what is asked of her, saving the discussion (I mean complaining) of same for me; The ne'er do well son who can't be bothered to get on a plane & haul his ass to Florida to see his MOM on this all-important holiday, even though it "could be her last, God forbid"

The Kugel is made, the tsimmis is cooled, the chopped liver sprinkled ever so lightly with a dusting of boiled egg....the stage is set!

MOM loads the all purpose dolly with enough food to supply a third world nation and loads the Jew Canoe (I mean car) in only three trips from the eighth floor of her condo, stopping between trips to catch her breath (I mean smoke). She straps HUSBAND in (after explaining for the fifth time that they are going to AUNT and UNCLE's) and silently prays that he doesn't pee before reaching their destination.

ACT TWO:
MOM and HUSBAND arrive at the "planned community" (I mean prison) that AUNT and UNCLE call home and ring the bell. DOG barks. HUSBAND asks if they are at the bank. DOG- delirious to see new people who aren't screaming at each other (I mean yet) knocks the bundt cake right out of HUSBAND's hands, sending him and GRANDMA's antique platter to the floor. (somehow, no hips are broken in the process)

As MOM huffs and puffs to the kitchen laden with dishes, BOY and GIRL COUSIN ignore her and continue bickering over which of their BABIES is taller/cuter/smarter- BABY BOY or BABY GIRL.

AUNT, meanwhile, is spied in the kitchen, inspecting her nails and checking out her reflection in a butter knife. As they sit to begin the solemn Seder service, BABY GIRL begins to shriek. Apparently, an alligator has smelled children (I mean brisket) and has ambled up to the lanai to check it out, wreaking havoc in the dining room. Clearly this is all too much for GIRL COUSIN (who immediately begins to cry) and she races out of the house to collect herself (I mean snort coke)

By the time GIRL COUSIN returns (sans appetite) they are already on the third glass of wine (I mean vodka) and AUNT is still hollering at UNCLE to get rid of the alligator (who isn't taking "no" for an answer).

BOY COUSIN has a (possibly LESBIAN) WIFE who refuses to eat a thing, reminding everyone that she is a vegetarian. MOM points out (tearfully) that she slaved (there's that word again!) over several dishes prepared especially for LESBIAN (I mean vegetarian) and can't understand why the words 'Chef Boyardee' mean nothing to the WIFE- if anyone understands meatless, surely it's the world famous chef, himself!

UNCLE takes a break from drinking the traditional twelfth glass of wine (I mean vodka) to step out to said Lanai and smoke. BOY COUSIN ( who only smokes in secret) demands that he stop immediately, lest BABY BOY inhale the noxious fumes and AUNT takes BOY COUSIN's side. This upsets GIRL COUSIN, (who once again breaks down in tears) and she runs out of the house to locate BABY GIRL's pacifier (I mean snort coke)

After the smoke clears it's time for something extremely fattening (I mean dessert) and the search for the Afikomen (I mean a piece of matsoh wrapped in a napkin that smells slightly of cat urine).
Although the youngsters in the house are the "chosen one's" to tear the house apart looking for the urine-soaked unleavened bread, GIRL COUSIN doesn't feel that enough attention is on her, so she quite naturally begins sobbing and flees to the bathroom to fix her makeup (I mean snort coke) -meanwhile her own HUSBAND has long since retired to the extra bedroom (I mean den) to watch baseball and MOM"s HUSBAND decides this would be an excellent time to pee- forgetting altogether that he is sitting on the divan (I mean couch)

ACT THREE:

MOM gets out the inhaler so that she can breathe (I mean smoke) and declares that this is absolutely, positively the last time she works like a dog (who is still licking cake off the floor) to be faced with the drama that is her (I mean my) family.

She collects HUSBAND (while quietly flipping the couch cushion) , declares that not only can they call a caterer next year, they can also kiss her flat white ass and marches (I mean hobbles) out the door, swearing under her (labored) breath.

UNCLE smiles and waves, wondering aloud if there is any wine (I mean vodka) left, while flinging a piece of brisket to the alligator. GIRL COUSIN violently blows her nose, oblivious to the fact that blood is coursing down her cheek. LESBIAN (I mean WIFE) checks her pant suit to make sure there is no meat on it- BOY COUSIN measures height of BOY BABY one last time and AUNT touches up her nails.

MOM and HUSBAND zoom off at seven miles per hour and the curtain falls. Like all Jewish Holidaze, the story needs to be told. After all, It's a classic.

Passover- No Chocolate Bunny For Me!

It's that time of year again....gnashing of teeth, copious weeping, family dysfunction and a general air of despair seemingly reserved for the Jew in all of us, but what does it all really mean?

Every year at this time, I am reminded that the Good Sweet Lord Above was either a. far more interested in us during biblical times, or b. a major drama queen who's histrionics peaked early on. It never escapes me that life was far more colorful and exciting while Moses was bossing his extremely aggravating flock around. Apparently, every one of the Pharaoh's slaves were far too preoccupied with drunken cavorting and casting false idols (Sanjaya comes to mind) than they were with getting the hell out of Dodge.

Forty years seems like an awfully long time to be wandering aimlessly in the desert-enough time to reach the Holy Land a thousand times over-but no time to bake a decent loaf of bread!

I can't remember even one instance of Divine Intervention during my tenure on the planet. No burning bushes, no voices from on-high. As far as I know, the Los Angeles river has never parted, even to allow gang bangers to scribble their homie's names on it's fabricated banks.

What happened to learning life-lessons via plagues, pestilence and smiting? When was the last time you heard on the evening news that some nasty evil doer had been "smote" ? I'm telling you, in comparison to the days of yore, life is just plain dull.
Maybe we have become boring and the bearded one has moved on to a different Universe- one where the common folk are still awe-struck by lightening bolts, hoardes of insects (I guess Dow Chemical showed him a thing or two!) and where the Angel of Death packs less of a wallop than, say, the Easter Bunny.

That would explain a lot. Rosie O'Donnell, for instance. Or for that matter, our obsession with finding the next Pussycat Doll. I would love to live in a world where I could smear my electric bill with pigs blood, nail it to the front door and pray that the Edison Company would soar over Santa Monica, leaving me to my own devices.

Honestly, a good locust attack might just wake us all up a bit. Imagine how "Survivor" would play out if one of the challenges involved building a pyramid out of chopped liver, or smelting earrings into the Ark of the Covenant.