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The teacher, a working stand-up comic named Mark Pooley, who looked exactly like Garth from Wayne’s World, took the stage. Mark: Nobody wants to hear about what you like. There’s nothing less funny than hearing about the stuff you have fun doing. Fun isn’t funny. Comedy is pain. It’s struggle. So, when thinking of what to write about, don’t ask yourself, “What’s funny to me?” Ask yourself, “What bothers me? What frustrates me? What do I wish I could change? What can I just not fucking stand?!”
My house was messy. I wouldn’t say dirty but kind of…cluttered. There were always little piles of things everywhere. I’m not saying this is a Jewish tendency specifically, but almost every Jewish parent’s house I’ve been to is like this. Nothing is put away. Everything is laid out in organized little stacks that are everywhere. Jews like to see all their belongings. We like to know what we’ve got at all times, just in case we gotta pack up shop and get the fuck out of town.
Driving in Israel was totally crazy, and we had to make it all the way across the country, stopping in a hotel thing for a night along the way.
A friendly Israeli man in his fifties answered the door: “Shalom! Baruch Falafel Latke!” (This is not what he said, but they are Hebrew words I know, so they’ll do.) Mom: Uh…we don’t speak Hebrew. Israeli Man: Shalom! He gestured for us to follow him and led us through his house to a back room with two twin beds. Mom: So, we stay here? In your house? Israeli Man: Knish! Yes! Mom: Uh…okay. Perfect. Thanks. The guy eyed us for a second. Israeli Man: No! Not perfect! I make perfect! Rosh Hashana! He then started awkwardly trying to push the two heavy metal bed frames closer together. Israeli Man:
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There’s stuff that makes our lives better that hasn’t been stigmatized, and nobody gives those things a second thought. Nobody thinks about why they have a strong desire to wear shoes. Nobody says that people who wear shoes are denying reality. Instead, the consensus on shoes is that we use them to adapt to reality. If we don’t wear them, our feet will hurt. They make our journey more comfortable, and we don’t judge ourselves for wearing them. They don’t make walking any less “real.” Nobody’s ever like, “You’re not really experiencing walking. You’re under the fog of footwear.” They’re like,
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Me: I just turned eighteen and moved out from living with my parents! I don’t wanna be roommates with a forty-five-year-old man! Ray: I’m forty-two! (Which seemed like a crazy distinction to make at the time, but as I get older, I get it.)
Jewish summer camp is somewhat mystifying, mostly because of the degree to which Jews just fucking love it. The fact that the combination of the terms “Jews” and “camps” hasn’t diminished our enthusiasm is a real testament to how psyched on the whole notion we are.
For the most part, the counselors were the sons and daughters of Vancouver hippies, but every once in a while we got an Israeli fresh out of the army who seemed bent on repaying whatever Full Metal Jacket–type hazing they’d received on soft Canadian Jewish boys, the absolute softest of all Jewish boys, who are already predisposed to being soft as fuck. Israeli Jews are different. They’re not fluffy like North American Jews. They’re sinewy and leathery. They have bodies like Madonna: veiny, lean, and immersed in the ways of Kabbalah. Also, they’re aggressive, and they would essentially torture
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