So all of my neighbors have returned safely from Burning Man with the usual starry eyes and “Oh, man, I can’t describe it, you just have to be there” platitudes.

It gets annoying, but I could be jealous. (For those of you have never heard of this naked, free-for-all, artistic, boundary-breaking, consciousness-searing, pyromaniacal party in the dust of a dry lake in Nevada, don’t ask me, ’cause I’ve never been. So catch up here instead.)

Some crazy girl from work invited me to go to Burning Man years ago when I was single, and I suspected it was only because I had the perfect vehicle (’85 VW Westfalia pop-top, with sink, stove and fridge. Did you ever have something coveted by other people who tried to create a false relationship with you because of it? That van was the only thing I’ve ever had like that.) Continue reading →

So what if I have no idea what context our Austrian friends at
Die Jüdische intended for this little guy, he’s cute, nu?

Some of you may have noticed that in the cleaving of this blog from Jmerica, the plural narrative voice became singular. This could mean that I’ve got my multiple personality disorder under control, or just that writing “we” when there’s only lil’ ol’ me sitting on my tuchus has given me a bigger ass than I deserve.

Either way, you got yer very own yenta here. I’ll answer your questions honestly. I’ll do my best to bring you Jewishy news you can use. With pink hair dye, the Zohar and the six brain cells that didn’t come out my uterus, I hope to redefine the image of the Jewish mother.

Just as soon as I figure out this fancy new blogging program.

It’s oh-so tempting to tear into Britney Spears for the following comment concerning her devotion to Kabbalah but I just can’t get behind harassing a pregnant woman anymore, no matter how dingy:

“I read the Kabbalah books and I meditate on them,” but “They are all in Hebrew. I don’t understand everything. But it’s kind of OK that you don’t.”

I’ll just say “A little ulpan goes a long way, honey” and leave it at that.

Not that I am fluent in Hebrew. But if I was going around calling myself a “kabbalist” you’d be sure as soap I’d learn.

As much as I detest the Kabbalah Center’s bubblegum version of Judaism’s mystical tradition and the media circus surrounding it, I appreciate some of the self-help ideas it pushes, such as taking personal responsibility for one’s behavior and operating from a place of equanimity rather than reaction. But when I hear about Cheeto-chompin’ bimbos “scanning” the Zohar for wisdom, it just sounds ridiculous.

Especially when there are women out there who are truly working, learning and passing on the real stuff.

It’s Labor Day, which means the local WiFi coffeeshop should be empty since the whole town usually decamps for Burning Man ’round this time of year. But it’s packed; perhaps being stranded in the desert with a bunch of crazies with pyromaniacal tendencies has lost its charm?

Everyone is discussing New Orleans, FEMA, rats chewing on dead bodies, global warming, Bush’s ineptitude (don’t bother trying to defend him here; this is a well-off group of liberals in Northern California) and which aid group has already been wired money. One mama I know who had been avoiding t.v. and newspapers all weekend sat reading the San Francisco Chronicle with tears in her eyes, green tea latte untouched.

“If I didn’t have kids,” she said, “I’d be on a plane right now.”

I appreciate the sentiment sister, but really, what is the most effective way to act right now?

Chaim Steinmetz writes in today’s JPost that “our obligation in the face of a catastrophe is to act: to comfort and aid those who have suffered, and to use human creativity to prevent future catastrophes. The only Jewish response to tragedy is to restore human dignity and rebuild the world.”

Seems to me flying from California as an untrained, however concerned, citizen, would just add to the clusterf*ck. After all, things are already so disorganized that medical teams and triage units can’t even do their jobs. Chronicle guest columnist and passionate do-gooder Sean Penn has kids, but that didn’t stop him from flying to New Orleans and making himself useless.

Rather than sending a gaggle of well-meaning ordinary folks with no idea what to do or where to go (or celebrities loading up their tiny, sinking boats with personal photographers,) what the Gulf Coast needs is leadership, decent management and more money. I can provide neither of the first two services, and my measly fifty bucks isn’t going to save anybody, but it’s all I can do and it has to be enough for today.
(Have you given yet? Pick one organization from Instapundit’s comprehensive list.) It’s all adding up, but I wonder how quickly that money will be converted into hot food, hot showers and soft beds.

As I read my way through the blogosphere (blog roll to come soon, people) and eat my way through a bag of banana chips, and I’ve come to this conclusion: Helping isn’t bitching about all the things I wish I could do, then driving out and filling my van up with gasoline.

(The photo is by Michael Macor of the SF Chronicle; if you look closely the man has a mogen david tattooed on his right arm.)

Before the kids, before the husband, before my need for Strivectin eye cream, I was a sorority girl. It was a very short, drunk chapter in my life, and I like to save it to shock the other punk-rock mothers at the health food store snack bar when things get too crunchy.

Though about half of my Zeta Tau Alpha sisters were Jewish, this was an anomaly for our University of Arizona chapter. I seem to have fuzzy memories of someone mentioning Jesus during initiation (the supersecret induction ceremony preceded by tequila shots) and I still can’t remember why I didn’t choose to join one of the two Jewish sororities on campus.

(That’s a lie. I remember, in spite of the boozin’, that one house was full of the snotty, spoiled young women who had ostracized me at TYG events all through high school and the other was known as “The Fat Ugly Brigade.” Forgive me for having no desire to align myself with either. I was 19 and had more interest in getting laid and pretending my way to a bachelor’s degree.)

It didn’t occur to me to look for a Jewish experience within Greek life; that’s what Hillel and going home for the High Holidays was for. But many do seek out Jewish fraternities and sororities as an extension of culture, religion and family. Tova Fructman of The Atlanta Jewish Times explores how “Greek Jews” walk the line between separating themselves from the rest of their college campus and accusations of “not being Jewish enough.” Some houses are considering adopting a heavier Jewish identity, while others insist on bacon for breakfast. Everyone agrees, however, that it’s an excellent way to find a Jewish mate.

As for me, I was only Greek for two semesters (as opposed to Jewish from birth ’til the day I die.) I got bored of keggers and boys who wore their golf visors backwards and discovered the fiction department and boys who wore black and listened to Bob Dylan. And ended up marrying a Jewish frat boy anyway.