So it’s the Jewish New Year. The year: 5764. I would celebrate, but I don’t do that. I acknowledge the Jewish New Year much as I do the standard, regular, run-of-the-mill New Year, the one with all the auld lang syning and drunkenness and pathetic desperate overpriced parties on cruise boats down the river or at hotels the revelers would never otherwise set foot or ass in, i.e. I lift my eyes from whatever I’m doing, look over at whomever’s closest to me wherever I am, and mumble “Happy New Year”. So yeah. Happy New Year. Woo. Hah.
Jewish people I don’t know in real life are sending me e-mail wishes of “Shanah Tovah”, and that’s all just so very nice indeed. But I am a bad Jew, well-wishers. I know very little about this holiday, except that it’s a big one and that I linked to information about it last year. I meant to check it out to see what the hubbub was about, but I forgot.
All I know is that this holiday is one where we eat. And I think bread’s included.
And that, my dear friends, is reason enough to celebrate.
I have eaten a soy yogurt (cherry) with Zoe flax cereal (almond oats) and a banana today. And an iced coffee. These are not the traditional Rosh Hashanah offerings, but they will have to do. I do not risk venturing outside, because I do not want to be stoned (and here’s where the really hip among you wink at one another and think of your bongs, man) by better Jews on the streets who know, just by looking at my confused punim, that I have no idea what’s going on.
Happy 5764. Enjoy a nice apple slice, and be careful driving. If you must, hire a chauffeur. (And here is where I bow out now, before I say something naughty about a shofar, like I did in 5763.)