Though my Los Angeles Dodgers of Los Angeles were mathematically eliminated earlier this week, the 2007 baseball season will officially put an end to our misery on Sunday when the Blue Crew finish out their 162nd game of the year against the San Francisco Giants.

Though this season started out full of hope, with many fans and analysts picking a Dodgers-Angels World Series, only eight teams not named after Brooklyn’s now-disintegrated trolley system will continue into the playoffs. LA, currently 80-78, will go home and regroup for next year.

I’m not going to analyze the Dodgers’ season over what went wrong. I’m just going to think about a time when my favorite baseball team WAS magical.

It was 1988, a season that should not — could not — have happened. The Dodgers won 94 games in a year that started with a first-pitch homerun by Steve Sax and ended with Orel Hershiser on the mound in Oakland. That was a year when the names Mickey Hatcher, Tim Belcher, and Mike Scioscia took on mythical meaning. When the number 59 became synonymous not just with Orel’s record scoreless streak but became as ingrained in my memory as 755, 56, and .366.

Game 1 of the World Series, of course, featured the greatest moment I have ever seen.

Down 4-3 in the 9th inning against a powerful A’s team, Kirk Gibson came up to bat with the tying run on base. He could barely walk. He could barely swing. I was at home watching in my bedroom, sitting on the edge of my bed as my mom yelled at me to take out the trash, staring at my 13-inch TV hoping against hope Gibby could draw a two-out walk against Dennis Eckersley, then the best reliever in the game.

My best friend Blue was actually at the game. I saw every Dodger fan, more than 54,000 in attendance, on their feet. Gibby worked the count full and then hit the most dramatic homerun in Dodgers history, belting it deep into right field as Vin Scully uttered the lines that, to this day and even as I write them, give me chills:

“In a year that has been so improbable, the IMPOSSIBLE has happened!”

Wait ’til next year.

He was shorter than I had expected. Still imposing, stocky and wide, the perfect build for a running back who amassed 11,236 yards in his NFL career.

His right hand, the one that didn’t fit into the infamous leather glove, was huge. Larger than any hand should be. I had introduced myself as the news editor for my school paper. He took my hand and shook it, looked me straight in the eye, and said “Nice to meet you.”

All I could think about was, “This is the hand that butchered two people.”

It was a quiet evening in my apartment. I was a 21-year-old senior, the news editor of my school newspaper, sitting on the couch watching “Beverly Hills, 90210″.

A loud knock on my apartment door disrupted my watching of Brandon, Dylan, and Brenda. I opened it to find my then-girlfriend British Liz who was supposed to be in a 4-hour evening class panting, trying to catch her breath.

“What are you doing here? What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“Oh Jay…Simp…son…is…on campus…you have…to go…interview him.”

“Who?”

“OJ fucking Simpson!!!”

“But 90210 is on,” I said.

Unable to convince her that Kelly, Steve, and Donna Martin Graduates! were more important, I grabbed my notebook and headed to campus. I got the back story on the way.

It seemed that one of our school’s criminology professors had served as one of OJ’s lesser-known defense lawyers in the sensational “Trial of the Century”. He had furtively invited OJ to speak at his class and had notified no one – not the press, not university officials – of his arrival.

British Liz, during a break from her class next door, had seen the commotion and peered into the classroom, only to find The Juice himself standing in front of what looked like 100 students. She had skipped the rest of her class and run to my apartment to tell me (this was before the ubiquitous age of cell phones).

I arrived and walked right into the classroom, confident that no one would stop me. They didn’t. I stood about 15 feet away from OJ for nearly two hours, listening to him lecture to these sycophantic students who had obviously been convinced he was innocent.

When he was done, and amid the roar of applause, I immediately walked up to him and introduced myself before the professor or anyone else could stop me.

He stuck out his meaty paw and we shook hands for 3 seconds. I told him I was a reporter for my school paper. He didn’t pull out a knife so I interviewed him. Students clamored around him, asking for an autograph. He signed blue books, old football cards, and notebooks. Someone even brought in a football for him to sign.

We talked for five minutes. I honestly don’t remember anything he said. I wish I did. I walked back home and typed up my story.

The next day, in our newsroom, reporters and editors asked me what it was like to meet OJ.

Someone inquired, “Did you ask him if he did it?”

“Yeah”, I answered sarcastically, “OJ Simpson confessed his guilt to some Orange County university paper reporter.”

I wish I still had that article.

For many Jews, our parents’ most powerful warning growing up was this:

“If you get a tattoo, you can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery.”

This dire warning, which always sounded vaguely apocryphal yet was never dismissed outright, was as “factual” to Jewish children as the requirement to get good grades. Questioning our parents’ logic when it came to Jewish law was tantamount to praying for Jesus to save us.

Credit

A conversation I might have had with my mother could have gone like this:

“Don’t ever get a tattoo.”

“Why not?”

“Because you won’t be able to get buried in a Jewish cemetery.”

“So?”

“Aye, dios mio!”

But despite such near-desperate pleas from our parents to never permanently mar our skin, all three children – led by my younger-yet-more-rebellious-sister, eventually got tattoos.

I had always wanted a tattoo. I found them meaningful and aesthetically impressive as a child. And when I graduated from college, as a present to myself, I went to a tattoo shop on Ventura Blvd., picked out an arm-band I had liked, and got my flesh stabbed repeatedly by dozens of ink-filled needles for two hours.

I kept the tattoo a secret from my parents, showing only my friends and siblings.

One day, however, while relaxing on the couch at home, my arm sleeve was pulled up inadvertently and my mom spotted a dark stain gripping my bicep.

“Que es eso?” she asked.

“Nada,” I replied, fixing my sleeve.

But she knew. She turned her head, made a stoic face, and didn’t talk to me the rest of the afternoon.

I eventually learned that though the adage that tattooed Jews can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery was a highly perpetuated myth, it did violate the Torah – specifically, Leviticus 19:28:

Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you: I am the LORD.
Of course, Leviticus also proclaims I shouldn’t turn my daughter into a whore, go to a psychic, or shave my beard, so reading the Bible takes several grains of salt, so to speak.

Credit

I still find tattoos fascinating and have been considering a second one for years. They make women infinitely more attractive (look at my new favorite photographer Cindy Frey, photographed above) and the idea of regretting mine has never crossed my mind, even 9 years later.

One of the most common arguments I still hear from the anti-tattoo lobby was, “What are you going to do when you’re old and have a tattoo on your flabby arm?”

I tell them, “If I have a flabby arm when I’m old, a tattoo will be the least of my problems.”

Besides, I could have inked any of .

The act of atonement during Yom Kippur can elicit some emotional confessions and pleas for forgiveness.

But with the relative safety of the Internet guaranteeing a modicum of anonymity, many Jews over the weekend took advantage of of the Web — more specifically, Jewcy’s message boards — to confess some pretty sick — and often humorous — sins.

As for me, I spent the weekend atoning for the following:

• Going to Cagey’s surprise birthday party Friday night, where I drank beer, ate all the food, and played Super Mario Kart
• Breaking my abridged fast Saturday night at Fogo de Chao, where our waiter flirted with The Princess while I gorged myself on Brazilian beef and, yes, pork
• Discussing celebrity gossip with HAL and J-Vo
• Driving past the Holocaust Museum after watching from Gravelly Point the planes land at National Airport and thinking about oral sex

Here are the results from Friday’s poll deciding whether fasting during Ramadan or Yom Kippur is harder (results are as of this morning). Either 87% of you are wrong or I’m just ridiculously stubborn:

There is no close date on the poll, so you can still vote here.

Tonight marks the beginning of Yom Kippur, the holiest Jewish holiday of the year and the most brutal 24 hours Jews go through outside of not calling their mothers for a week.

On top of fasting (no food OR drink), we don’t have sex, wear leather shoes, bathe, or anoint ourselves with various lotions.

I’ve been for 13 years and have learned how to get through it without ripping off my own arm and eating it. I’ve also gotten pretty good at bitching and moaning at how tough it can be, especially the last few hours when your head hurts and you think God himself is telling you to stop watching so much TV.

But Muslims also have it hard.

They observe Ramadan, which entails fasting during the daytime for a month.

Both Yom Kippur and Ramadan are “cleansing” or “purification” holidays of atonement, which I find ironic considering it’s the dirtiest days of our lives.

I have argued for years that Muslims have it easier. Sure, they have to fast for an entire month, but they get to eat when the sun goes down. They get to have sex when they go to bed at night. They get to wear tanned cow corpse on their feet when they go out.

We have 24 hours IN A ROW of magnificent torture.

So I asked my Muslim friends Zaimah and Sonny to argue five ways Ramadan is tougher than Yom Kippur. Here are the results:

What do you think? Which religion has it tougher? Judaism or Islam? Which period of repentance is harder? Ramadan or Yom Kippur?

Vote below:

For an outstanding blog post on a failed attempt to seek forgiveness. read this.

I care about my blog readers. I care about what they think, how they want to be entertained, and what embarrassing incidents in my life I can write about to make them feel better about their own lives.

I even care about their search queries:

• “A Christian boy wants to date a Jewish girl, where can he find one?”
• “Did Flock of Seagulls become millionaires?”
• “How to tell your mom you want sex?”

Many pro bloggers will tell you that knowing your audience is vital to the success of your blog. But judging from some of the bizarre searches some of my readers conducted to find this blog, I sometimes think the less I know, the better.

For example, these guys might want to get together to devise the best mom-banging strategy, with or without their friends’ participation:

i wanna bang your mom
i want to bang my friends mom
i want to bang you and your mother
hot mom around 38 having sex
young kid bangs hot mom

These searchers need advice on dating Jews or attending universities with a high proportion of Jewish people:

how to date jewish girls
is it ok for jewish people to date outside their religion?
my boyfriends mom doesn’t approve of me because i’m not jewish
do jewish guys like non jewish girls
shiksa looking for a jewish man
jappy colleges

These inept Internet users are just plain horny:

girl naked in sprinklers
seeing boobs of neighbour secretly
men in their wet underwear porn

Some Web lurkers want international guidance:

argentines people advice
backpack alone guatemala
brazilian fucking on river

These confused people thought these two DC bloggers were well-endowed or Jewish:

hung
roosh hashanah

And maybe these searchers just wanted some information on:

…how to eat for free…

steal from target

…whether was animated…

alyssa milano cartoon character

…or a very specific physical ailment…

what do it mean when u have tickle in my throat to make me cough when you not sick?

I hope Arjewtino.com helped these Web users. If not, then at least they entertained you.

This post was inspired by Magic Jewball’s monthly Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions posts.

I don’t mind getting old. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.*

It finally happened, the moment I didn’t imagine would come for at least another decade-and-a-half:

A REGISTRATION LETTER FROM THE AMERICAN ASSOCIATION OF RETIRED PERSONS:

Click to enlarge

Eighteen years before I’m eligible, the AARP sent me the letter above last week indicating that the geriatric non-profit’s records show I haven’t registered for its membership benefits “even though [I am] fully eligible”. I even got a snazzy little card for my wallet.

Fully eligible? At 32 years of age?

I showed the letter to The Princess hoping for compassion and a suitable form of sympathetic outrage. She laughed maniacally and called me an old man.

I sat in my living room for several minutes looking over this letter, wondering if my best years were behind me. I felt sad and forlorn wondering how the AARP could think I would want “the resources and information [I] need to get the most out of life over 50”.

Then I realized something that was both disturbing and liberating: I already act like an old man!

I compiled a list of ways I have already outstripped my corporeal age and decided that waiting to join the AARP in my golden years would only be a waste of time (and benefits):

• I hate “kids today” and have vowed to keep any Frisbees, baseballs, or tennis balls thrown into my yard
• I like to hike up my pants to above my belly button, much to The Princess’ embarrassment, because it feels more comfortable
• I do an awesome impression of Jimmy Stewart
• I fully enjoy buffets
• I drive too fast on the Beltway and too slow on small, suburban streets
• I can’t hear people anymore and punctuate a typical conversation with the cupping of my ear and shouts of “What??!!”
• I forget little things like where the toothpaste is and what cheese looks like
• I find TV commercials about furniture interesting
• I accuse fictional people of “messing with my stuff”
• I’m looking forward to dementia and The Princess thinks it will be a seamless transition for me

Yes, AARP CEO William D. Novelli, on second thought, I WILL join your organization and reap the rewards of membership! Obviously, judging from my list above, I qualify.

Now if I could only find my cane.

*I’m paraphrasing a classic Woody Allen quote from his book Without Feathers.

The artist formerly known as recently got engaged to her very lucky boyfriend. As is apparently standard in Catholicism, they met with a priest to discuss their pending marriage. After sending me an eye-opening e-mail on this strangely exotic event, I asked her to write a guest post.

Though she broke many hearts when she ended her extremely popular and entertaining blog, the Bird has launched a new blog, Bridal Bird (it’s all about the branding), where she will document her proverbial tapdance toward wedded bliss:

My friend the Argentine Quarter-Jew is fascinated with the wacky trappings of my Catholic religion, so he practically clapped his hands like a giddy little schoolboy when I wryly related that I had to pass up the last blogger happy hour to meet with the priest at the church I hoped to marry in. (Got engaged a couple weekends ago.)

I say “hoped” because just a few hours before we were to meet with him, my fiance informed me that he does not believe in Jesus.

“I believe in God, of course, just not that Jesus was anything but a philosopher,” he told me while tossing the keys to the valet. “The resurrection story is a good myth, though.” A fun little curveball, that.

This is the first I had heard of this theory.

“That’s fine,” I told him. “But do me a favor. Don’t bring that up.” If he had decided to go all Nietzsche in front of the priest, I swear to Jeebus/Superman that I would have kneed him in the balls.

He later agreed as we walked into the church to adhere to a don’t ask/don’t tell policy, so as not to deliberately scuttle our chances of having a decent backdrop for our pictures.

In order to get married in a Catholic church, you have to meet with the priest to make sure neither of you have been married, convicted of murder, or excommunicated. Then at some point you have to haul yourselves off to Jesus camp for the weekend to sit around and listen to some chirpy lobotomized couple talk about how they didn’t have premarital sex and how they now use the rhythm method for contraception because the Pill is the Devil’s cough drop.

My co-worker and her fiancé actually went to Jeebus camp. At one point, they were supposed to write an emotional soul-baring letter to a family member about their experience and how they were really getting to know their future partner in Christ because of it. She and her fiance wrote a letter to their parents saying they were hating every minute of it and wondered how their dogs were doing.

In our case, the priest was very chill, as I’d hoped he would be based on his sermons, which are long on the common sense and light on the eternal damnation. However, the meeting started with him having my fiance sit in one parlor of the rectory (editorial note: she said “rectory”) while he worked through a questionnaire with me in another one.

His two paunchy black Labradors kept an eye on us in our respective rooms. The questions included, “Are you in any way being coerced into this marriage?” and “To the best of your knowledge, are you related to your fiance?”

The priest didn’t seem to mind when I giggled while answering them. He also took down some administrative details, including my address. It wasn’t until I was in the holding parlor while my fiance was answering these same questions that it occurred to me we might be in big trouble when he gave his address. On account of it being identical to mine.

When we were finally back in the same room the priest started out by shifting a little in his chair and suggesting ever-so-gently that, technically speaking, the Catholic Church frowns upon pre-marital cohabitation.

He quickly followed it with, “not that I’m telling you to move out or anything, just, you know, think about living the celibate life until the wedding.” Again, he seemed cool when I giggled.

Then he gave us a present:

Our very own copies of the Catholic catechism! That’s three inches of unmitigated fun.

I like the church of the 2000s: now with 85 percent less guilt and you leave with swag.

While coming back to our 8th-floor office from an early morning coffee break yesterday, six of my co-workers and I took the elevator.

As a practical joke at the expense of the four female co-workers, my friend Mamilad looked at me and our other male colleague and said, “Ok, ready? One, two, three…”, at which point the three of us instinctively jumped in the air and landed with a thud.

Which tilted the elevator.

Which stopped it from running.

Which shut it down. For good.

We pressed every button. Nothing. We used our security cards. Nothing. We smacked the doors. Nothing. We pointed fingers at each other.

The elevator was stuck on the 4th floor, halfway up our otherwise 20-second trip and stubbornly unable to operate.

I pressed the red button, which made the alarm sound. After a few seconds, security came on and asked what was going on.

“We’re stuck in here.”

“Is everyone ok?”

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

“We’ll get you out soon.”

Being stuck in an elevator can do weird things to you. You imagine how long you might be there. You wonder whether you’ll have to crawl through the doors and onto a landing like Keanu Reeves did in Speed. You blame the three guys who thought it’d be funny to jump up and down.

What you don’t do, though, is panic.

For the next 20 minutes of our “ordeal”, the seven of us sat on the floor of the elevator and talked about the following things:

• Other co-workers’ attitudes
• Other co-workers’ odors
• Possible drinking games we can play while waiting
• How many firefighters will break down the doors to rescue us
• Whether we can get the rest of the day off because we’re “just too shaken up to work”
• Who will be the first to hyperventilate
• Climbing through the elevator’s ceiling
• Using physics to determine how fast the elevator would go if it went into a free-fall
• Agreeing that if we jumped a second before impact we’d survive unscathed
• Who we’d eat first if we ended up stuck in there for weeks

This last item was met by a unanimous decision that Cam, a small Vietnamese chick, would be the first to be cannibalized.

“Why?” she asked, incredulous at our collective agreement of her fate.

“Because you’d probably be the tastiest.”

“No way, man, I have my period.”

“We’ll eat around that area.”

Luckily, 10 seconds after this last comment that completely grossed out me and the other two guys, the elevator moved. We pressed the first-floor button and started laughing with relief.

The doors opened at the ground level and we were met by no one.

No firefighters. No security. Just the lobby welcoming us anti-climactically.

“I can’t believe it took us less than 20 minutes to discuss who we’d eat first,” Mamilad said.

“I know,” I said, “even the Uruguayan ruby team that crashed into the Andes waited a few weeks before feasting on each other.”

BBstucco, a prolific and talented writer at This Is By Us, recently experienced a hysterical encounter with some Orthodox Jews. Hilarity ensued and, in honor of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, I asked him to guest blog about his episode with the Extreme Chosen.

L’Shana Tova!:

I am not Jewish.

Actually, that statement’s not 100% accurate. My Grandfather WAS Jewish, but he left the Faith and Family to marry my un-chosen Grandmother. So by blood, I’m 1/4 Jewish. However, by culture, I’m a gentle gentile, all the way.

Back in about 1 or 2 B.C. (Before Children), Wife and I were invited over to Shabbat by good friends of ours who are Jewish and, for the purposes of this article, are named Gustav and Helga. We were both quite honored, and very excited, because 1) Helga’s a great cook, and we were interested in what sort of “Holy” food she’d be making, and 2) we wanted to see Jews in their natural habitat, as it were.

In fact, Gustav’s parents were in town as well and his father was an actual Holocaust Survivor (he was a very young boy at the time, and does NOT speak of his memories at all). So there was something very solemn and cool about the whole thing.

The Gustavs lived in a small neighborhood off Melrose near The Grove in LA. This area is HIGHLY Jewish. In fact, though Gustav and his family (including his Holocaust-surviving father) are moderate, there are a TON of very strict, Orthodox and Hasidic Jews all around.

We met one.

After dinner, Wife and I had said our goodbyes and walked out to our car. A woman comes hurrying up to us, dragging two little children behind her, panic on her face.

“Excuse me, are you Jewish?”

I was about to launch into the story of my Grandfather, and how I’m 1/4 Jewish, and so I feel their pain, and all that. But Wife, knowing where that was going, stopped me and told the woman that, no, we weren’t Jewish.

“Oh, Thank the Lord. I assumed you wouldn’t be since you were about to drive a car on the Sabbath, but..” (and here she suspiciously eyed the home of our hosts) “…some Jews aren’t as observant as others.”

Well, there we go. That was lovely. And she stood there, awkwardly waiting. Not sure what for. A friendly handshake? Some praise in uncovering my non-Jew-hood? We took another step towards our car, she followed. Still waiting. Starting to freak me out. Gustav, who was standing at his door having waved us goodbye, ran up to us and took me aside.

“She wants help with something. But she can’t actually ask you for help, not on the Sabbath. It’s a sin.”

So Wife and I looked at each other, then over to the Woman, who could certainly hear our conversation. Yet still she waited. Smiling. I stepped forward.

“Do you need some help?”

Silence. She was desperately trying to find a way to answer that wouldn’t be a sin. I hadn’t asked the question quite right. I tried again. “Can I help you with something on this fine Sabbath?”

That must have done the trick, because she finally opened up. She and her children were locked out of their house. The husband had gone to spend the night with his parents. She and her brood had walked next door for Shabbat with a neighbor, but hadn’t left the door unlocked. See, they can’t actually use a key on Sabbath. That would be a sin. It would be “work”. So they leave all their doors unlocked on the Sabbath if they go out.

Only, her doors were locked.

She couldn’t call a locksmith because she’d be asking someone to work on the Sabbath, and besides, she can’t use the telephone on the Sabbath. Something about unnaturally extending her voice or some such. She couldn’t ask any of her Jewish neighbors for help, because it was a sin to ask fellow Jews to break the Sabbath. But me and Wife, we’re already heathens doomed to an afterlife of torment and misery, so we’re cool.

Now in my day, I was, in fact, pretty good at breaking into a house. Not like a burglar or anything, I mean I’d trip the alarm if there were one. But I could get in when friends locked themselves out. Except not tonight, because every single window is covered by bars. Even the really, really small bathroom window on the second floor that a canary couldn’t even squeeze through. It’s like the entire house is the set of Oz or something.

So we’re back at square one. Except I can tell she has another idea, but can’t offer it unless I ask the right questions. Let me just say, playing 20 Questions when you’re trying to do a huge favor to total strangers is a pain in the ass. But play we did. Eventually, we figured it out. Her husband has a key with him. He’s staying with his parents. They live about 12 blocks away. It’s too far for her kids to walk, so she can’t go and get the key. (Remember, they can’t drive. It’s the Sabbath.) But here again, the non-Jews can save the day.

We get the address, hop in the car, and drive over. The place is dark. No lights anywhere. Quiet as a tomb.

We knock. No answer. We ring the doorbell. No answer. We call out to whomever may be inside. No answer. We return to the stranded family.

“He’s there. They just didn’t answer you because they don’t know who you are.”

Well, how do we get them to come to the door and give us a key so you can get in your house and we can go home and start drinking wine? They’d open the door for you, right?

Of course, but she can’t get over there. It’s a sin. So.. do the parents have a phone? Yes, but they won’t use it. Not tonight. Do they have an answering machine? Yes. Will they hear a message as it is being left on the machine? Yes. Can we call them? She can’t use the phone. Can she speak loudly when a phone happens to be being used?

There’s this long pause. She’s weighing her odds. Possible sin vs. staying outside with her kids all night. She can’t ask another Jewish family to take her in on the Sabbath, that would be.. well, you know. Of course, one of the other families could, in fact, OFFER to take her in. But I get the feeling they don’t like her, because they’re all watching us and nobody’s lifting a finger. Or maybe they were just laughing at the silly Gentiles jumping through hoops.

Eventually, we go back to Gustav’s to use the phone. Except, of course, the woman won’t let Gustav or Helga use their own phone. So she gives me the number and I make the call. The plan is, the woman will be having a loud conversation with Wife while I randomly hold the phone up. The message beeps, I hold up the phone.

“It’s so nice to meet you on this Sabbath. I have locked my family out of the house. My husband has a key, but he is staying at his parent’s house. They live at 69 Boogiedown Lane. His name is Simon.”

“That’s nice to learn. I think my husband and I will drive over to that house for you and see if we can pick up the key.”

“Oh, that is so very kind of you. I wouldn’t want to impose or ask you to do any work on the Sabbath.”

“It’s no problem. We’re not Jewish. You’re not asking us to do anything. We were going to drive in that direction anyway, so it’s no trouble at all. We’ll leave right now.”

I hung up. This had better work.

So we drive back to the parents’ house. Still dark. Still quiet. I knock. We call out. Finally, there is movement. The door opens. Simon appears. He’s a nice enough guy. Looks like your every day, average Orthodox Jew, like straight out of Witness. (They were Amish, but the look is similar.)

I smile, introduce myself, hold out my hand.

He smiles and ignores my hand, his own clasped in front of him, solemnly. Wife, growing impatient, jumps into it. “So your wife and kids are locked out of their house. Do you have the key?”

Silence. He completely and utterly ignores her. Smiles at me. Waiting. A growing suspicion creeps into my mind. Very weakly, I ask, “Do you have a key we can bring to your family?”

“Yes. Thank you for helping my family. Let me get the key.”

He turns and walks back into the darkness. I slowly turn to Wife, who is fuming.

“He… didn’t.. even.. look.. at… me.”

“Now Honey, I’m sure you, as a Gentile woman, are just one big temptation into sin. So he can’t acknowledge your presence. The temptation would be too great, one look and he’d start sinning you right in front of me. Nobody wants that.”

She growls. We’re going to need more than one bottle of wine when we get home.

Simon returns, hands me the key. We turn to go.

“Could I ask one more favor?”

Well, no. But at this point, I’m pretty beaten down. So I turn back.

“Could you carry the key in your shoe?”

This is LA. So at this point, I figure I’ve been set up all along and am being filmed. Perhaps I was and Synagogues across the world watch the video of the Stupid Non-Jew Who Carried The Key In His Shoe and laugh their asses off. But if so, Simon put up a good front.

“My shoe?”

“If you’re not carrying it in a normal way, then it’s not, officially, work. We’ve spent many years coming up with ways to… get around some of the more restrictive rules of our Faith.”

Yes, it’s become quite obvious this evening how well that’s working out. I take the key. I remove my shoe. I place the key in the shoe, and we leave. I put metal to the pedal and we return to woman and children. I promptly remove my shoe and withdraw the key. She looks at me quizzically.

“Why did you put the key in your shoe?”

“I.. uhm.. your husband.. said….” I give up and offer her the key.

You think I’d offered her a heaping pile of sin or something, the way she recoiled in horror. I mean, OK, it’d been in my shoe, but I don’t think it smelled or anything. But no, to return to the initial problem, she can’t use a key on the Sabbath. So I open the door for her, and the problem is resolved. She now insists on feeding us, some very scrumptious baked goods that we scarfed down as quickly as possible so that we could leave, go home, and drink.

Eventually we said our goodbyes and walked back across the street to Gustav’s. He met us at the door, electric lights on all through the house, and put his arms on my shoulders.

“On behalf of My People, I’m really sorry. We’re not all like that.”

And his Holocaust-Survivor Father, sitting in the chair reading a People magazine, looked up, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Those Jews are nuts.”