So if you are Jewish then you are probably all up in arms today about the New, Lewd, Skrewed, and Tattoo’d Jews piece on CNN as if 3000 years of beautiful tradition and Bob Dylan, Ron Jeremy, and Mark The Cobrasnake never even existed.
Anyhow since I haven’t had a drink since Monday and don’t plan to until the week of Thanksgiving when I plop down into a chair overlooking the Mediterranean with a plate of mariscos in one hand and a handle of Spanish Fly in the other I’m going to call bullshit on this whole thing. Especially the part about the beer. Also I have had a headache for five days now.
It was actually on this day four years ago coincidentally when the Wolfman himself dropped me off after a grueling tour down to Memphis and back only to find—much like the three little bears—that not only had someone been sleeping in my bed but they had actually moved all their shit in too and set up shop. Right there on my duvet and feather pillows. That shiksa corva Goldilocks herself didn’t even have that level of chutzpah.
As if the sharp pains running up and down my spinal cord from sitting in the bucket seats of a Kia minivan—the least ergonomically designed vehicle I have ever had the displeasure of riding in for long stretches of time—weren’t enough, the entire He’Brew Beer operation was now also being run from the foot of my bed. This it turned out was the gross miscalculation of a former roommate who thought wise to let her then boyfriend have the run of the apartment.
Like any normal, logical human being I did what seemed right: I opened both of the French doors and pitched homeboy’s shit—computers, a very nice suit, some towels that he had drying on top of my record collection (anyone in the market for a water damaged copy of Axis: Bold as Love?)—out of the room. In spite of the nagging back pains, later diagnosed as serious disc problems, I was actually able to get most of it all the way to the other side of the apartment without too much effort.
We never spoke of this again but after a bitter breakup he left several bottles of that unholy swill in our kitchen which became the bane of my existence. I finally broke down and drank one and I’d just as soon be burned at the stake Inquisition-style than even taste it again.
