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Dave’s Gone By Skit: RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #135 (1/17/2016): David Bowie

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RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #135 (1/17/2016): David Bowie

Aired Jan. 16, 2016 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_goP2CmBVI

Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of January 17th, 2016.

It is time to say a sad Shalom to David Bowie, the super-talented singer, songwriter, rock star, and icon who died of liver cancer on January 10th. Most musicians find one persona in a career and stick with it: Joe Smith sings country, Edna Whatever does dance pop, Mordecai Ben David does . . . whatever he does. But David Bowie changed his look, his style, his sound more times than I change my underwear. Well, maybe that’s not the best example, since I’m kind of lazy in the laundry department, but you know what I mean. He started with twee British pop tunes like “Come and Buy My Toys” and “Love You `Til Tuesday,” songs that weren’t meant to last even until Monday. But they pointed the way towards freaky folk and post-Apollo weirdness and “Space Oddity,” the story of a man who gets completely lost in space and never comes back—like Gary Busey.

Wearing dresses and cavorting in transgender weirdness, Bowie pushed the conventions of behavior and attire—which could only mean one thing: he was destined for rock and roll. He created Ziggy Stardust, a rock idol with a comet-like trajectory and really, really tight pants. Suddenly, just going onstage and playing songs wasn’t enough anymore. You needed costumes and makeup and pyrotechnics and huge hydraulics. Long before Grizabella rose to cat heaven and Bono started singing from a claw, Bowie was ascending on a cherry picker and cavorting with glass spiders.

And when all that got too weird and dangerous, Bowie changed again. He became a Thin White Duke, white because he was basically covered head to foot with cocaine powder. But the music remained: “Rebel Rebel,” “Somebody Up There Likes Me,” “Young Americans”—soul music for white people. And believe me, we needed it, because up till then, the closest we got to soul music was Donovan. But even Bowie’s “plastic soul” was the real thing—so real that James Brown stole Carlos Alomar’s riff from “Fame”—not the other way around. They even asked James Brown about it, and he said, quote, “(series of grunts).”

But seriously, Bowie eased off the drugs just a little to save his sanity and then moved on to yet another incarnation: krautrock. He and Brian Eno found themselves in Berlin mixing electronic music and hard rock in a delightful way that could only come out of a country that murdered 40 million people. Bowie would never reach those musical peaks again, and indeed, his most commercially popular years were filled with dance-club pop and sometimes desperate attempts to stay trendy by incorporating that 1980s sound that we all loved so much. (Insert sarcastic facial expression here.)

Did he stay there, though? Of course not. He was David Bowie. He returned to arty, experimental, and often difficult music and stayed there for another two decades. He may not have gotten on the radio with songs like “Slip Away,” “Never Get Old,” and “Fall Dog Bombs the Moon,” but anyone with iTunes and ears can find them and hear their worth.

After that, for awhile, David Bowie laid low (no album-title pun intended). He pushed his back catalogue and old concerts and didn’t tour because of a heart condition. But then two years ago, he jumped once more into creativity, secretly recording new tracks with old colleagues. He put out “The Next Day” in 2013, then started working on an off-Broadway show, then released another album on his birthday this year. We all now know the reason for this 18-month burst of activity, and it may be the biggest Bowie takeaway of all. He knew his days were literally numbered. He knew the liver he was punishing 40 years ago was coming back like Rocky for a knockout. He knew he had so much more to do and so little time. So he did it. He pushed himself because any day, he would fall to earth.

Most of us, thank God, don’t have such a diagnosis hanging over our heads. Except we do. Who knows when HaShem will send a drunk driver careening towards us on the highway? Or a Muslim with a backpack? Or a mutated cell that will turn prostates into pancakes and ovaries into rotten eggs? Every day we’re still alive is a challenge to make that day count. To bring something new into the world that wasn’t there the day before.

Maybe it’s a poem. A painting. A table. A scarf. A youtube video of your pet doing something adorable. Okay, maybe the world doesn’t need more of that, but the impetus to strike while our irons are still hot is, perhaps, the greatest function of our human DNA.

Go figure it took a space alien, diamond dog, and spider from Mars to remind us. Thank you, David Bowie. You were a musical hero for a lot more than just one day.

This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, New York.

RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #134 (12/31/2015): Farewell 2015

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RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #134: Farewell 2015

aired Dec. 31, 2015 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8L8JvYAnkF4

Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the new year! January 1st, 2016.

It has been an interesting year, this 2015. Not terrible. Not miserable. Not even a dull headache like most years. 2015 had its ups, it had its downs—kind of like Liza Minnelli’s medicine chest.

Let’s get the bad stuff out of the way. This was the year when terrorism said, “I’m baaack.” Not that it ever went away. Not that jihadists haven’t been wreaking mayhem all over the world since 9/11. Since before 9/11. But this was the year it hit home again: the year animals shot up a Paris cafe because they didn’t like Charlie Hebdo magazine’s cartoons. I mean, Gasoline Alley, I understand. Marmaduke, Rhymes with Orange—never funny. Even Hagar the Horrible is looking a little long in the tooth, but you’re gonna go psycho over French cartoons? Put down the Koran and eat a brioche.

But poor France; one attack wasn’t enough. The religion of peace struck again in November, when 130 people were killed in coordinated attacks and bombings. The murderers, of course, had ties to Isis. But whether it was chocolate isis or lemon ices, I don’t know. The good news is that Paris pushed back and killed the ringleader of the carnage, just weeks after three American friends on vacation in Amsterdam jumped on a knife-wielding turbanista and foiled his plot on a train. I guess he didn’t learn from New York that the best way to terrorize people on a train is to start breakdancing, yelling jokes, and then asking for money.

Wait, what? You’re not satisfied? You want more terrorism? Okay, let’s go to San Bernadino. I mean, who hasn’t wanted to kill everyone at a bad office party? But you had this couple – Sayed Farook and his charming wife, Tashfeen, being helped by a Hispanic neighbor to slaughter a group of white, Asian and African co-workers. Who said America can’t be multicultural?

And of course, not all murder is Mohammedan. Yes, you’ve got a civil war in Syria, where the Arabs are killing each other—so who cares? But this autumn also saw Robert Dear enter a Planned Parenthood in Colorado Springs and kill three people in the name of Jesus. “I’m a warrior for the babies,” he said. No, asshole, you’re a warrior for little blobs with heartbeats that no one wants to take care of. I just think the guy’s pissed because he looks like Nick Nolte on a bad hair day. Well, even-worse hair day.

Moving away from religious nuts with guns, this was also the year of authorities with guns—specifically policemen shooting first and suppressing evidence later. I’m not saying all the black men shot in the back by men in blue were choirboys, but if you’re not armed, and you’re running away or chained to the back seat of a car, you should be able to live long enough for an arraignment.

And speaking of dead black people, you’d think schvartzes would be safe in church, but no. Back in June, white supremacist Dylann Roof pops into a church in Charleston and kills nine in the congregation. And you thought my sermons were boring.

Well, there’s certainly nothing boring about politics this year. Though the presidential election isn’t for another ten months, we’ve already had 12 months of mind-boggling insanity, almost all of it on the Republican side. The front-runner is a businessman who’s gone bankrupt four times, a public speaker who makes fun of cripples, and a bully who thinks he can keep all Muslims from entering the USA. In other words, Donald Trump is a man after my own heart. And his competition? Right-wing Conservative Christian crazies, a brilliant heart surgeon who doesn’t believe in evolution, a Cuban novice who wants to give everybody a gun and nobody an abortion, Rand Paul . . . `nuff said, a fat guy from New Jersey who commandeers his own highway, and Jeb Bush, a man whose whole family should have a thousand-yard restraining order from coming anywhere near the White House. They shouldn’t even be allowed near regular houses that are painted white.

On the other side, you’ve got Hilary Clinton, who will do and say anything to stay in power. Any philosopher who says there’s no such thing as objective truth had to be studying Mr. and Mrs. Clinton. But hey, half of politics is knowing what to say—and what not to say—at any given moment. Or what to say when you’re actually doing the opposite. Or what to say when you’re doing nothing at all, which qualifies you for Congress. Hilary thought she’d cakewalk through the Democratic nomination, but then comes this angry brazen Jew, a cross between Jackie Mason and the math professor who terrified you in 12th grade. No, I don’t mean me, I mean Bernie Sanders. Can you imagine Americans electing a Jewish, socialist President named Bernie? It’d be wonderful but my God, the fireside chats? The man has two styles of rhetoric: yelling and louder yelling. He takes the oath of office, half the pigeons are gonna fly in a panic out of Washington DC.

Oh, and in the lighter side of politics, the biggest Broadway musical of the century so far is not about cats, it’s not about Mormons, and it’s not even about homosexuals. How the hell did it find a theater? But it did, and “Hamilton” is doing for our first Secretary of the Treasury what A Streetcar Named Desire did for streetcars. And desires. Meanwhile, “Star Wars” is back. No, I don’t mean Taylor Swift versus Katie Perry, I mean “Star Wars: The Force Awakens,” which is already the eighth-highest-grossing movie of all time. Somehow it beat out “Human Centipede III,” but that’s just because most people watched it on GAF viewmaster. Seriously, though, Mark Kermode, film critic for the UK Guardian wrote, and I quote, “this satire of grotesque American culture is as appealing as being force-fed warm diarrhea.” Unquote. Which begs the question, is that better or worse than being force-fed ice-cold diarrhea?

It’s a question they’re asking at Chipotle, where the food looks the same going out as it does coming in. And speaking of sickening, eight people were killed in Philadelphia when an Amtrak train going 100 miles an hour jumped a curve and turned over. On the positive side for Amtrak, it was their first on-time arrival all year.

The shock of the unexpected also hit sports, where the New York Mets made it to the World Series, the New York Jets lost a quarterback to a broken jaw from a fist fight, and Caitlyn Jenner killed a guy. Well, two guys, if you count Bruce. But it was a great year for gays, as the Supreme Court voted to make same-sex marriage as legal and binding as regular marriage. And no doubt as dreary and boring and sexless. Welcome to equality, guys.

And welcome 2016, you couldn’t come soon enough. There’ll be more tragedy, absurdity, beauty, stupidity, hilarity, vulgarity, disparity and, if the economy stays good, a bissel charity. Three weeks ago, nice Jewish boy Mark Zuckerberg, announced that he is donating 99 percent of his Facebook shares to worthy causes. What a mensch! What an example for the world! Oh, did I mention that I’m starting a non-profit organization to help Rabbis with rage issues? I’m kind of a test case, and I need a lot of start-up funding so Markele, if you’re listening, make the check out to Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York. Shana Tovah, everybody! See you in the New Year.

Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection #134 (1/1/16): FAREWELL 2015

NON-FICTION – ESSAY – HUMOROUS: Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection #134 (1/1/2016): FAREWELL 2015

Dave’s Gone By Skit: Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection #133 (12/20/2015): WORD OF THE YEAR

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Rabbinical Reflection #133: Word of the Year

aired Dec. 19, 2015 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip:https://youtu.be/YIhD_FGHX7I

Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of December 20, 2015.

Well, Chanukah’s over, so I can go back to being my crotchety, miserable self. Perfect timing, too. You’ve got terrorists shooting everybody, Republicans shooting their mouths off, and, as usual, my poop chute hurts—and I’m low on Desitin.

All I want towards the end of the year is a little good news, a bit of lightness to counter the darkness and stupidity all around. So what do I get? First, Time Magazine —- remember Time Magazine?—no one does. I’m sure it’s four pages long and printed on tissue paper at this point. But Time Magazine tries to stay relevant by picking its person of the year. Now, that doesn’t always mean the honored person is honorable. Past People of the Year have included Hitler, Stalin, and the Ayatollah Khoumeini —- who are always my top three when planning a holiday party. But Time has also singled out U.S. presidents, Pope Francis, Bono—pretty much anyone who’ll sell at the newsstand.

This year, Time chose Angela Merkel, the Chancellor of Germany, as person of the year. I know, right? Your guess is as good as mine. Aside from my lingering fear of anything German—including measles, cars, and ovens—did this nice lady do anything at all that affected my life? I mean, she could have gotten me a bagel from the grocery downstairs or maybe paid forward my last meal at the deli, but pfft, nothing. All Merkel does is strengthen the Euro, which is fine for Germany but hasn’t exactly been a boon for Greece, Finland, or the American greenback.

But Time Magazine is not why I am grumpy. Last week, Merriam-Webster announced its Word of the Year. Now, that’s a nice thing. In order to stay somewhat relevant in a world where dictionaries are just those clunky things we used before spell-check, Webster’s reminds everybody they still exist. How? By choosing a word that has been particularly relevant or popular over the past annum. For example, last year’s number-one word was culture. Lovely word! Culture. It means the behavioral customs of people, as well as the fine arts. And also what they take from your throat when you’ve got strep.

But you know what? People don’t listen anymore. They don’t play by the rules; they don’t follow directions. Webster’s Third International Dictionary has 470,000 words in it. That’s nearly half a million choices the editors could make when picking a word of the year. They could select words like lambrequin, which is a hood or covering for a helmet; or rasophore, which is the lowest order of Greek monk; or flabelliform, which means shaped like a fan. If people aren’t using these terms regularly, maybe making one of them Word of the Year could change all that. Undercover spies from Webster’s and Oxford could sneak the word into common usage: “Hey, isn’t that the guy from ZZ Top?” “No, he’s just a lowly rasophore. You can tell by the cassock.”

But okay, maybe these words aren’t at the top of everyone’s text-message suggestion bar. So how about cheese or synergy or the word everybody googles: porn? Somehow, even these simple words weren’t good enough for Merriam and his life-partner, Webster. As I said, they had hundreds of thousands of options for Word of the Year, and the one they chose . . . the word these scholars, in their infinite wisdom, selected as Word of the Year is: Ism. I’ll say it again: Ism.

Why do I have a problem with this? Very simple. You have a swath of geniuses using computer programs, volumetrics, and common sense to come up with a word, and the word they choose . . . last time I checked, IS NOT A WORD. It’s a suffix. Look it up! No, really, look it up IN WEBSTER’S DICTIONARY. I-S-M: it’s not a word, it’s the end of a word! Imagine if Baskin-Robbins held a contest for ice cream flavor of the year, and the winner was “ocolate!”

Now the dictionary dances around these semantics by saying that “ism” is a noun, that represents a whole bunch of words ending in ism. Which sounds to me like a tautologism. And the reason for the choice of ism this year has to do with all the web searches for ism terrorism—thanks to ISIS, socialism—thanks to Bernie Sanders, racism—thanks to Freddie Gray, capitalism and fascism—both thanks to Donald Trump, and, of course, jism, thanks the aforementioned porn.

Please understand, I have nothing against “ism” as a suffix. After all, where would I be without Judaism? Probably, happily sipping martinis on a yacht. And I’m also pretty big on Zionism, secular humanism, and the occasional aphorism. But if the sacred guardians of words can’t be bothered to find a word, what’s the world—and the word—coming to?

The answer is that it’s already come and gone. Yes, dictionary.com chose its own word of the year, identity, a gratifyingly rational decision there. But the Oxford English Dictionary—the gold standard of linguistic lexicography—they, too, had a word of the year. They didn’t pick a prefix, no. They didn’t pick a compound word or phrase. They didn’t go with slang or an abbreviation. My friends, the O.E.D. chose, as word of the year: a drawing. More specifically, the “tears of joy” emoji. You know, the Japanese-y face with the tear drops and the slanty eyebrows and one long tooth smiling while crying? This is their Word of the Year. You can’t even say it. It takes a paragraph to describe it. I thought a picture is supposed to be worth a thousand words not replace all of them!

If the best and smartest of us can’t even get simple instructions right, what hope is there for the rest of us numbnuts to solve immigration, feed the hungry, and slow down climate change? That is why I have, not one, but two words for the Webster’s and Oxford dictionaries. Each word is one syllable. The second word is a pronoun. The first word is a transitive verb that is, quote, “usually vulgar.” In case you haven’t guessed it by now, my words are—well, picture an emoji of a big yellow hand with its middle finger lifted in defiance. Or, in a different language, geh kaken oifen yam! And yes, I realize that’s a yiddishism.

This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, New York. Can I get a lambrequin for my shtreimel?

Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection #133 (12/20/15): WORD OF THE YEAR

NON-FICTION – ESSAY – HUMOROUS: Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection #133 (12/20/15): WORD OF THE YEAR

Dave’s Gone By Skit: RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #132 (12/12/2015): HANUKKAH HAIKU

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Rabbinical Reflection #132: Hanukkah Haiku

aired Dec. 12, 2015 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip: https://youtu.be/6AxN-ZfHRak

Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of December 12, 2015.

With everything going on in the world – the craziness, the killing, chaos in the GOP, E. coli at Chipotle—which is really confusing because how the hell are you supposed to differentiate noro-virus diarrhea from regular Chipotle diarrhea? Such distinctions are lost on me. But what we must not lose this mid-December is the arrival of Chanukah. Eight days of happiness and food and gratitude, and a reminder that every Jewish holiday isn’t about fasting and wishing you could afford maid service.

Sometimes we win. Sometimes the enemy who is trying to destroy us, or weaken our faith, gets a shank in the ribs. We did it to Egypt in a thousand BC, we did it to the Greeks—who bent over and took it—and one day we’ll do it to ISIS and ISIL and Al Qaeda and Boko Haram, and maybe the first guy who said, “Hey, it’s Halloween soon. Let’s put pumpkin spice in everything. Lattes, pancakes, donuts, beef wellington—doesn’t matter. Pumpkin spice is the new oxygen.” We need to get him.

Anyhoo, Chanukah commemorates a small band of Jews who would not succumb to the hellish Hellenic hellions who tried to hinder our Hebrew historicity. The second temple in Jerusalem was recaptured from the Greeks, re-consecrated as a synagogue, and retrofitted for Wi-Fi. And when the Hashmonaim were cleaning the temple, and making it minty fresh, they had only a drop of oil with which to light the holy candelabra, the menorah. And yet that oil burned day and night for eight straight days. The electric bill must have been horrendous, but the point is: miracles do happen. They happened then, they happen now. It’s a miracle that a computer can digitally print working human organs. It’s a miracle you can stare at a hole in the ground in a city block, come back six months later, and it’s an office building. It’s an astounding miracle that someone like me is on the radio.

So let us delight with our family, our friends—all the people we barely tolerate for fear of loneliness—and cheer the miraculous holiday of Chanukah. To do so, I have written a few short poems celebrating the Festival of Lights in haiku form. Haiku is a Japanese poetry style that is perfectly marvelous because it’s so short. As soon as you get started, you’re finished. Like a teenage boy on prom night. Your entire thought process must fit into a mere 17 syllables, which proves the Japanese not only invented haiku but twitter.

I pray that you enjoy these holiday poems from me, Rabbi Sol. Chanukah Chaikus:

Eight candles burning
On my shaky menorah.
Shit! Call 9-1-1.

Headline: Polish Jews
Suffer Third-Degree Burns When
Bobbing for Latkes

Judah Maccabee
And sons beat the Greek army
Yay for terrorists!

Happy holidays, my friends, and may all your dreidel spins come up hay. I’d say gimel, but why press your luck? This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, New York.

NON-FICTION – ESSAY – HUMOROUS: Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection #132 (12/12/2015): HANUKKAH HAIKU

Dave’s Gone By Skit: RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #131 (8/22/2015): Jimmy Carter

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RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #131: Jimmy Carter

aired Aug. 22, 2015 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip: https://youtu.be/ref1EipPIz8

Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of August 23, 2015.

Two weeks ago, 90-year-old former president Jimmy Carter announced that he was battling an advanced stage of cancer—or, as Jewish people call it (whispers) cancer. Snipped from his liver was a tumor, but they also found badness elsewhere, which is not surprising since both of Carter’s parents, his two sisters, and his brother all died of pancreatic you-know-what.

Jimmy still has his 87-year-old wife, Rosalynn, who says she will be “right there with him” throughout his treatment. So will the town of Plains, Georgia, and a lot of Americans who remember Carter as one of the smartest, most honest, and most decent of men to occupy the oval office.

My feelings are a mite more mixed, however. Just because Carter was a mensch doesn’t mean he was a good President. In fact, up until George W. Bush, he was the worst Commander in Chief in a hundred years. And considering that crop included Richard Nixon and Warren G. Harding, that’s saying something.

In case you weren’t around from 1977 to 1981, what you missed was the recession, the oil crisis, the hostage crisis, the Cold War, and the confidence crisis. You know your President is a bona fide schlemiel when he has to go on television to tell everyone, “It’s not me, it’s you. Have a little faith.” Faith is hard to come by when you’re idling at the gas station for two hours on odd and even days, or when you can’t find a job to pay what gasoline costs, or you’re turning your thermostat to 50 because the Mullahs at OPEC want you to.

And speaking of the Arabs, the Carter years were also, of course, the years of the Ayatollah Khomeini. Fifty-two American hostages were taken prisoner as part of the Iranian Revolution. I suppose we should be grateful all the hostages survived. If they were captured now, Isis would cut their limbs off and rape the stumps. Still, these Americans remained in captivity for a year and a half, until Ronald Reagan made backroom deals to have them released on the first day of his presidency.

Until then, Jimmy Carter had three responses to the Iranian hostage crisis: He barricaded himself in his office for a hundred days, because as any eight-year-old knows, if you hide in the closet, nobody knows you’re there, and all the bad stuff goes away. His second tactic was to wear sweaters, because that’ll show those big bad oil sheiks we can live without heat. And finally, he sent helicopters to try a rescue mission—and they all crashed in the desert.

It was right about then America stopped laughing at Billy Carter and turned her woeful eyes on his older brother. If Watergate was a cancer on the Presidency, Jimmy Carter was a herpes all over it.

Still, lousy as Carter’s term was, I would still want to respect the man. After all, he brokered an impossible deal between Menachem Begin and Anwar Sadat to create a small piece of peace in the Middle East. It truly was and remains an unbelievable, wonderful, and, alas, one-of-a-kind event in that region. And yet, can peanut boy leave well enough alone?

No, he spends the last few years bleeding through his sleeve for the poor, poor Palestinians. He writes a damn book with the inflammatory title, “Palestine: Peace, not Apartheid,” equating Israel with racist South Africa—even though the Palestinians are demanding land that belongs to Israel, land Israel annexed after being attacked, land that should be for Jews and Israeli citizens because the Arabs have a zillion other places to live.

Carter tries to play both sides of the fence. He sometimes makes nice-nice to Israel, saying he doesn’t support a boycott of the country over its policies. But then he turns around and chastises Eretz Yisroel for the way she conducts a war against an enemy that’s lobbing rockets in her backyard.

Like so many liberals and misinformed do-gooders, Jimmy Carter loves to invent a moral equivalency when there isn’t one. “Both Israel and Hamas are equally wrong and share equal blame,” which is not true; and let’s harp on Israel but be really gentle with the Arabs because we don’t want to make them mad. After all, Islam, the religion of peace, blows a ton of shit up, peacefully.

My main point is: considering his failure at almost every aspect of domestic and foreign leadership, and how he was humiliated by the Ayatollah—a guy who looked like Sean Connery wearing a microwavable heat wrap on his head—Jimmy Carter has as much business telling Israel what to do about the Muslims, as Michelle Duggar has telling the Pritzkers how to raise children. Of all people, Jimmy Carter should be the last one to believe you can reason with radicals, bargain with bullies, and mollify murderers.

After all, as we speak, Jimmy Carter’s body is being invaded by cancer cells that mean him only harm. Should the president’s doctor say, “Well, it’s not right to kill these invaders; it’s your fault for having a desirable host they want to live in. But tell you what. Why don’t you sacrifice so you can live in harmony with your cancer. Let them take your pancreas, your liver, your balls and your bones, and you can live side by side. And they promise never ever ever to move into your blood. Or least not for a week or two. Whaddya say?”

I say, “Jimmy Carter, you’ve done some good in this world, so I don’t wish you prolonged suffering. Still, if you had to get the big C, couldn’t you have gotten it in your mouth?”

This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, New York.

NON-FICTION – ESSAY – HUMOROUS: Rabbi Sol Solomon’s Rabbinical Reflection #131 (8/22/2015): JIMMY CARTER

Dave’s Gone By Skit: RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #130 (8/2/2015): Cecil the Lion

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RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #130 (8/2/2015): Cecil the Lion

aired Aug. 1, 2015 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip: http://youtu.be/44sQ6T8v98w

Shalom, Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of August 2, 2015.

As if there weren’t already enough reasons to hate dentists, last week brought us Walter Palmer. Wally, who obviously makes a good living from his crowns and extractions, paid $50,000 to go on a hunting expedition. More specifically, he wanted to take his little bow and arrow and bring down a mighty king of the jungle. Which he did.

In early July, Palmer trekked to a nature preserve in Zimbabwe and lured a mighty lion to a spot where he could shoot him in the ass and kill him. Palmer only wounded the beast, which then had to be tracked down and shot in the head. Isn’t hunting a fair and noble sport?

The sad part isn’t just that African lions are endangered, but this was Cecil, a beloved 13-year-old jungle cat who brought in millions of tourists dollars to the preserve. Nobody wanted to slaughter him; they just wanted to drive by slowly, be frightened a little, and get the hell out of there and buy a stuffed panda at the gift shop. And yet, poor Cecil the lion spent much of his adult life in captivity only to die by assassination. Hell, even JFK left the White House to shtup Marilyn once in awhile.

Now this sadistic dentist—which Little Shop of Horrors reminded us is a redundant phrase—this Walter Palmer was not some lunatic running around like Cupid with a bow and arrow and a “George of the Jungle” fixation. This trophy hoarder is a life-long big-game blaster who used legal permits and guides for his latest expedition. Which means there were people who allowed this man to lure a fish out of a barrel . . . and give it both barrels.

What’s funny and marvelously ironic is that in the days after this yutz posted his victory spoils on social media, public outrage has been so vituperative that Palmer has gone into hiding. Faced with death threats, protests, cancelled cavities, Walter Palmer is crouching behind the high grass until the public cools off or gets bored or find another Bill Cosby victim to wonder about.

I say, what we need to do about Palmer in hiding is find the motel he’s staying at, and have two guys knock on the door and say they’re from Publisher’s Clearing House, and he’s won a million dollars. Then, when you’ve coaxed him to the parking lot – BAM! – turns out the guys are really Jehovah’s Witnesses, and boy, is he in for a miserable afternoon!

Seriously, though, I am not against hunting per se. I love steak and duck and venison and the occasional kosher muskrat. And if you are using the inside for beef and the outside for clothing, I believe you are abiding by the natural order of things. I’m not some Birkenstock-wearing vegan shouting “meat is murder” and making believe tofu actually tastes like something edible. Also, there are legitimate times when you need to thin the herd and stop a breed from over-multiplying. I wish we could do with the Kardashians.

But when you are killing just for sport, and you take the sport out of it, what’s left is bloodlust and murder. Walter Palmer may not have broken the law, but his ethics are lower than a Republican’s IQ. Remember, this is not about gun control; it’s not about the NRA; it’s not about ditching the second amendment. It’s about the rich getting away with murder. In this case, it’s literal, but you could say the same about some company that pays hush money to dump chemicals in a lake, or oil companies that bribe politicians for fracking rights, it’s about paid-off scientists who’ll fudge numbers that show Antarctica isn’t melting, it’s about the teenager next door who’ll show you her boobs for $20. All right, not all of these are bad, we can’t keep allowing millionaires to stick pricetags on everything they want, or, in other words, money must never dictate morality.

This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon. And, if you would like me to come speak at your next corporate event, my fee is $30,000. $50,000 if you want me to endorse Palestinian statehood. Hey, I’m only human. And you can find me at Temple Sons of Bitches, in Great Neck, New York.

–> https://davesgoneby.net/?p=26454 <--

Dave’s Gone By Skit: RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #129 (7/12/2015): With a Little Help

click above to listen (audio file only)

click above to listen (audio only)

RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #129 (7/12/2015): With a Little Help

aired July 11, 2015 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbnngK8Kmws

RABBI SOL: Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon, the founder and spiritual leader of Temple Sons of Bitches.

DAVE: And this is Dave Lefkowitz, host of the “Dave’s Gone By” radio show –

RABBI SOL: with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of July 12th, 2015. Take it away, Dave.

DAVE: Those of you who have seen Rabbi Sol onstage know that he loves music. It doesn’t always love him back, but the Rebbe feels that music and lyrics –

RABBI SOL: And a well-placed trombone solo –

DAVE: The combination of all those musical elements can say more in three minutes than a dozen speeches.

RABBI SOL: Or even a baker’s dozen, which is 13, and a nice deal, since you’re paying for 12, and they throw in an extra one for no charge. They should do that with condoms. Anyhoo, because music is so potent, songwriters are obligated to write lyrics that say something. Not just, “Ooh, I wanna shtup you,” or “Ooh, why did you stop shtupping me?”, or “Ooh, why are you shtupping my best friend?” or, if it’s a country song, “I love my truck.”

DAVE: And songs can also be cryptic, or indirect, with words that convey multiple meanings. Every tune is a byzantine Rorschach test for the listener.

RABBI SOL: Boy, doesn’t that sound like fun? My job as Rabbi is to help guide you, my listeners and parishioners, through the truth of these songs. The subtleties, the answers, the keys to their changing meaning and the meaning to their changing keys. I also chastise the songwriters if they’re being lazy or prurient or Michael Bolton.

DAVE: To that end, Rabbi Sol has volunteered to deconstruct a popular song, line by line, and offer his commentary. You may not agree with his interpretations, but as the Rabbi says:

RABBI SOL: Who the hell are you? Write your own Talmud.

DAVE: Today’s song is a classic by The Beatles. Written by Lennon and McCartney and sung by Ringo on their “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” record.

RABBI SOL: A concept album that pretty much runs out of concept after the first two songs.

DAVE: Nevertheless, “With a Little Help from My Friends” remains among the catchiest and most enduring of The Beatles’ pop hits. But does it stand up under the Rabbi’s scrutiny?

RABBI SOL: I dunno, does it?

DAVE: Let’s find out. I’m gonna sing “With a Little Help from My Friends,” and Rabbi Sol will interrupt when he has something to say. Or even when he doesn’t.

RABBI SOL: Wait a minute. You’re gonna sing? You’ll do more damage to The Beatles than Yoko!

DAVE: Very funny, Rabbi.

RABBI SOL: You’re telling me! I saw you in a nightclub once where you promised to sing an entire album by the Beatles. You asked for audience requests. Everybody said, “Help!”

DAVE: All right, all right. Are you ready?

RABBI SOL: Am I ever?

DAVE: This is “With a Little Help from My Friends” . . . and from Rabbi Sol.

(play song with commentary)

DAVE: “What would you think if I sang out of tune?”

RABBI SOL: I’d think, “why are you singing? What, do you wanna torture me?”

DAVE: “Would you stand up and walk out on me?”

RABBI SOL: No, I would probably stay until the end of the song; I would be polite. But I would not be buying the CD.

DAVE: “Lend me your ears, and I’ll sing you a song.”

RABBI SOL: You just told me you sing out of key. Why are you gonna sing me a song?

DAVE: “And I’ll try not to sing out of key.”

RABBI SOL: Oh, you’re gonna try. Oh, thank you. Oh, thank you so much for your mercy! I’m gonna try not to vomit in my mouth.

DAVE: “Oh, I’ll get by with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: Ah, don’t we all?

DAVE: “Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: You must live in Colorado.

DAVE: “Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: Yeah, try harder.

DAVE: “What do I do when my love is away?”

RABBI SOL: Flirt with teenage girls on Facebook?

DAVE: “Does it worry you to be alone?”

RABBI SOL: Worry me? I love being alone! I have 21-and-a-half children; I’m never alone!

DAVE: “How do I feel by the end of the day?”

RABBI SOL: How do you feel by the end of the day? Obviously, not exhausted by singing lessons.

DAVE: “Are you sad because you’re on your own? No, I get by with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: Maybe you need some more help.

DAVE: “Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: So, basically, your friends are enablers?”

DAVE: “Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: I really hope they’re helping.

DAVE: “Do you need anybody?”

RABBI SOL: Yes, I need a roofer.

DAVE: “I need somebody to love. Could it be anybody?”

RABBI SOL: Well, it’s carpentry work, so I would prefer Irish.

DAVE: “I want somebody to love.”

RABBI SOL: Yes, you and me both. Natalie Portman, are you listening? And do you charge by the hour?

DAVE: “Would you believe in a love at first sight?”

RABBI SOL: Yes! Me and a pastrami sandwich!

DAVE: “Yes, I’m certain that it happens all the time. What do you see when you turn out the light?”

RABBI SOL: When I turn out the light, it’s dark. I don’t see anything. What are you, a moron?

DAVE: “I can’t tell you but I know it’s mine.”

RABBI SOL: I don’t know what’s yours but don’t be touching it in the dark. That’s just perverse.

DAVE: “Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: Oy, again with the friends.

DAVE: “Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: Again with the high? Have you tried edibles?

DAVE: “Yes, gonna try with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: Keep trying.

DAVE: “Do you need anybody?”

RABBI SOL: I need a minyan this Friday night.

DAVE: “I just need someone to love. Could it be anybody?”

RABBI SOL: We’ll take men, women, dogs. Doesn’t really matter.

DAVE: “I want somebody to love. Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: You need a lotta help, buddy.

DAVE: “Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: I get chai with a little help from my friends! Heh heh.

DAVE: “Yes, gonna try with a little help from my friends. With a little help from my friends. With a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: So, nu, where are these friends who are supposed to show up already?

DAVE: “With a little help from my friends.”

RABBI SOL: Oy, I need a lotta help from my iTunes if it’s playing this shit.

(song ends)

RABBI SOL: Well, that was painful. But I hope you all learned something about not taking songs for granted. The composers are trying to tell you something, so it’s important to listen, digest, and make up your own mind. Or make up your own lyrics. (sings, “There’s a bathroom on the right…”) Speaking of which . . .

DAVE: Oh dear, it’s the Rabbi’s private time. With his privates. So this has been a Rabbinical Reflection with me, Dave Lefkowitz. (sings) Her majesty’s a pretty nice girl, but she doesn’t have a lot to say.”

RABBI SOL: Count yourself lucky. I got a queen at home; she never shuts up! Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York. and ani, Rabbi Sol Solomon

Dave’s Gone By Skit: RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #128 (6/28/2015): Scalia

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RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #128 (6/28/2015): Scalia

(aired June 28, 2015 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip: http://youtu.be/TzqQMAOhz7g)

Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of June 28, 2015.

Well, it’s taken awhile, but I know what I wanna do when I grow up. I wanna trade places with Antonin Scalia. Appointed by Ronald Reagan, he’s the longest-running chief justice on the U.S. Supreme Court. Thirty years on the bench voting strictly along conservative lines and interpreting the constitution so narrowly, you couldn’t fit a dragonfly’s wing between “we” and “the” in “we the people.”

This man has held back—or tried to—the progress of American civilization, be it women’s rights for abortion, minorities facing discrimination, immigrants facing deportation, and gays being able to do their thing…gaily. They should just pull Antonin Scalia off his bench and replace him with a television airing Fox News; it’d be the same thing.

Of course, Scalia got his head handed to him twice last week. First, the Supreme Court upheld Obamacare. Surprisingly, they voted the spirit of the law–rather than the letter of the law. “So what if the wording is vague,” said the Court. “The President meant well, and he’s trying to help people.” Six justices agreed, including all the liberals, plus Roberts and Kennedy. Scalia dissented, angrily, as did Alito and the schvartze.

Twenty-four hours later, the court made another historic ruling, this one on gay marriage. They’re for it. Well, five out of nine of them were. Amazing how this Court had more consensus on a twisted insurance law than they did on two people wanting to tie the knot.

John Roberts was the stick-in-the-mud this time. He argued that he had nothing against same-sex chupahs, but making it the law of the land somehow circumvented peoples’ rights to vote yes or no on it. Whatever. The fun part is reading Scalia’s dissent. In challenging the idea that sanctioning gay marriage would expand personal freedom, he argues: “hey, on what planet has any marriage ever expanded freedom? You’re stuck together, day in, day out; you can’t leave unless you separate or divorce, and in the bedroom…?” I think comedian Chuck Bartell put it best when he said, “If you enjoy watching the same porno film over and over and over again . . . you’re great marriage material.” So Scalia has a point when he writes, quote, “One would think Freedom of Intimacy is abridged rather than expanded by marriage. Ask the nearest hippie.”

Granted, the last time anyone saw a hippie was 1973, but you get the gist.

Unfortunately, it’s the gism that bothers Scalia, and he’ll torture the words of the constitution to make sure that his good religious values aren’t ruffled by anything as upsetting as two dudes feeding each other cake on a dais.

Which is why I belong up there in Washington DC holding forth on legal and moral issues, while Scalia would kill on radio and TV. The man’s got a gift for phrasing, like when he likened Roberts’s opinions to the contents of a fortune cookie. Or back when he was asked whether he found it difficult to vote on complex issues. “The death penalty?” he said. “Give me a break. It’s easy. Abortion? Absolutely easy. Homosexual sodomy? Come on. For 200 years, it was criminal in every state,” unquote.

So this is a dangerous guy, but a funny guy. He doesn’t b.s., and like Bill O’Reilly, he gives really good soundbyte. He expresses himself with crystal clarity — even when his morality becomes a fatality. So he’d be terrific doing these mini-sermons, my amusing, Robert Fulghumian ruminations. Meanwhile, I should be in the Supreme Court, agreeing with Justice Kagin, arguing with Justice Thomas, diapering Justice Ginsberg . . .

See, I can spout crazy, offensive things, and the occasional brilliant, profound thing, and listeners can take it or leave it. I’m an entertainer, a pundit, a gadfly, a horsefly even. And so is Scalia. It’s just that his word is law, literally.

We do have commonalities. Scalia is a devout, Italian-American Catholic; I’m a depraved Jewish-American Jew. But I’m not sitting on the highest court in the land trying to turn the clock back on social progress.

So Anto, bubbie, let’s do celebrity life swap. I’ll take your robe; you take my tallis. I’ll listen to people drone on and on about the most tedious minutiae; you listen to my wife talk about her day. I’ll make laws that advance human rights and personal freedoms; you get on the radio once a week and tell prostate jokes. Whaddya say? I’ve even come up with your catchphrase: “Buongiorno Cazzo!” Heh? Not bad, right? Scal, my pal, this looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York. Court is adjourned.

Dave’s Gone By Skit: RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #127 (6/21/2015): Jenna Jameson

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RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #127 (6/21/2015): Jenna Jameson

(aired June 21, 2015 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip: https://davesgoneby.net/?p=26942 )

Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a Rabbinical Reflection for the week of June 21, 2015.

After World War II, the nation of Israel was so depleted that Hitler’s final solution felt most of the way there. But we survived, and at least the way the Orthodox are being fruitful and multiplying, we’re on the right track, and on the welfare track, but still. . . We also must be grateful for converts: people from other religions who are crazy enough to switch from Benson and Hedges to Bernstein and Hedgowitz. Sammy Davis Jr., Elizabeth Taylor, Tom Arnold, Joan Lunden, Helen Reddy, the late Anne Meara–they all put down the rosaries and picked up the rugelach.

Most of them did this for marriage. The nice Jewish boys these women hijacked from their mothers, the boyfriends said, “Look, I’d like to marry you, but the idea of a Christmas tree in the living room, or our baby, Herod, taking communion–it’s just too much. It’s like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof tolerating every obstacle except intermarriage. Jewish boys will date a debutante, they’ll shtup a shikseh (if they’re lucky), and they’ll even co-habitate with a Catholic. But when you bring marriage into it and the continuation of the Jewish race, well, it’s easier for you to give up Jesus than me to swear off Purim.

Now, the issue of who is a Jew–convert or otherwise–has been plaguing the various sects of Judaism for decades. For some, if your mother’s Jewish but your daddy’s not, fine, have a brisket. If your daddy’s Jewish and your mommy’s not, goodbye, get a ham sandwich. If they’re both Jewish, but they like mayonnaise and sailboats, that’s confusing. Talmudists wrangle with all sorts of permutations to ensure the so-called purity of Jewish lineage. I understand the impulse, but from where I stand–which is usually three inches away from the refrigerator–I say we must welcome those who wish to join our people. It’s not as if we have such a surplus of Jews that we can afford to turn away a few hundred. So if converts are willing to abide by the rules–and I don’t even mean kashrut, daily prayers, and the holidays–I just mean no New Testament and, at 68, you have to move to Florida. If you’re willing to be part of our misunderstood, maligned but magnificent people, by all means welcome. Bring pastry.

I mention all this because news broke last week that Jenna Jameson—oh, don’t make believe you never heard of her—Jenna Jameson, the former pornographic actress, will be converting to Judaism. She’s marrying an Israeli Jew, a diamond merchant noch besser, and to make him happy–though I’m sure she makes him happy in other ways–Jenna has begun keeping shabbos, cooking Jewish foods, and doing all the things a Jewish wife does, like . . . bitching and nagging.

Some Jewish feminists are not happy about adding Jenna Jew-ison to the fold. They ask, “How can this woman who’s had so much sex on camera become Jewish, since Jewish women never want sex anywhere?” These ladies find Jameson’s behavior degrading to women, not to mention that her husband to be is a typical Jewish man: instead of going out with dumpy J-Dates, he has the hots for a skinny blonde shikseh.

I object to this objection to Jenna Jameson’s years as a sex object. Who among us, Jewish or not, is without blemish or has no kinky fetishes? Me, I like to dip my testicles in warm borscht while I’m being spanked with a yad. As did Rashi, by the way. Let he who is without sin throw the first stone. The rest of us will enjoy her skin and grow the worst boners.

For even if Jenna Jameson had not retired from the intercourse industry, what’s so terrible and anti-Jewish about her past? She showed off her beauty? She gave men a thrill? She proved that a tuchas could be used for more than constipation and proctology?

I just hope that if she ever goes back into the porn business, she’ll bring some Jewishness into her films and even her film titles. Instead of her famous, “Where the Boys Aren’t,” she could do, “Where the Goys Aren’t.” Instead of “Jenna’s Built for Speed,” she’ll do “Jenna’s Built for Shopping.” Instead of “I Love Lesbians” she could do . . . well, she can still do “I Love Lesbians”; that totally works for me.

So if Jenna Jameson Judaifies, God bless her, literally. If some frummie wummies resent her intrusion into our culture, maybe that isn’t prudishness at all. Maybe they just feel threatened by a woman who made it rich on her own, can whip up a gourmet meal, can boink like a buffalo and is used to faking it, and doesn’t mind putting something in her mouth bigger than a Midol once in awhile. So welcome, Jenna Jameson, and baruch habah, which literally means “blessed is the comer.” You may find it hard at first, and sometimes you’ll blow it, but I hope you can feel me deeply behind you.

This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York.

—> https://wp.me/pzvIo-1UA

Dave’s Gone By Skit: RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #126 (6/7/2015): The 2015 Tony Awards

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RABBI SOL SOLOMON’S RABBINICAL REFLECTION #126 (6/7/2015): The 2015 Tony Awards

(aired June 6, 2015 on Dave’s Gone By. Youtube clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZeVn-yaW9-g)

Shalom Dammit! This is Rabbi Sol Solomon with a special theatrical Rabbinical Reflection for the week of June 7, 2015.

You know, 69 is a very fun number — but get your minds out of the gutter! I’m talking about the 69th annual Tony Awards, happening June 7th at Radio City Music Hall. This is where Broadway people pat themselves on the back–or, considering the number of homosexuals involved, pat themselves on the tuchas.

In a completely subjective and almost arbitrary way, some of the actors and directors and designers are vaunted over bunches of others, with arts journalists voting their hearts and producers on the road voting with their pocketbooks. Still, I love the theater, and any excuse to celebrate live artistic entertainment is a blessing in a world of Angry Birds, X-boxes, Netflix and other pastimes that are more sedentary, solitary, and affordable.

Of course, me being a Rabbi, I focus on other factors in the Tony nominations besides who’s the best and who’s long overdue, and which show kept my mind off my weak bladder, even late into the first act. Since Jews are a cornerstone of modern American theater, I keep tabs on where the Jewish race is in the Tony race. For example, the front runner for Best Musical is An American in Paris. This features music by George and Ira Gershwin, of the Russian-immigrant Gershowitz family that settled in Brooklyn, New York–which is about as Jewy as you can get without moving to Haifa. Or Florida.

Competing against An American in Paris is the new chamber musical Fun Home, which tells of a budding lesbian and her closeted-faigele dad. Although the graphic novel upon which Fun Home is based was written by a lapsed Catholic, the musical’s bookwriter, Lisa Kron, is a Jewess–daughter of a Kindertransport Holocaust survivor and a mother who later converted to marry him. That’s enough baggage for a miniseries, let alone a 90-minute musical.

But let’s not leave out one other tuner: The Visit, by John Kander and the late Fred Ebb (they of Cabaret and Chicago and Zorba and Kiss of the Spider Woman and The Scottsboro Boys and you get the idea). When John Kander was seven years old, his teacher caught him daydreaming in math class. “What are you doing?” she kvetched. “I’m writing a Christmas carol,” he says. Not only wasn’t he punished, they performed the song at the holiday assembly, but not before that excellent teacher asked for Kander’s parents’ permission: “I know you’re Jewish,” she said. “Is this all right?” (Why little Kander couldn’t have written a Chanukah song is a mystery. Four million Christmas carols out there, and just three Chanukah numbers: “Dreidel Dreidel Dreidel,” the Tom Lehrer song, and the Adam Sandler song, and the last two weren’t even written yet. Goddamn Christmas.)

Anyway, as you can see, Jews are well represented in musicals this year. But plays? Meh! Not one play with a Yiddish theme or, so far as I can tell, a Jewish playwright. I’m not sure about Simon Stephens, who penned The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Simon’s a Jewy first name, and a previous play of his featured an anti-Semitic character getting his comeuppance. But the other plays in the category?

They’re all soaked in religion, but none about Judaism. Hand to God features a satanic hand puppet in Christian bible school . . . I guess I should be grateful that one’s not set in a synagogue. And there’s Wolf Hall, Parts 1 and 2, which spends six hours watching Henry VIII making an end run around the Catholic Church so he can divorce women instead of lopping their heads off. Now, see, if he were Jewish, he wouldn’t have either option. He’d just avoid his wives by hiding in the basement with a hobby.

The other Best Play nominee is the Pulitzer-winning Disgraced, by Ayad Akhtar. As you can tell by all the Khhh’s, he’s a Muslim. But he’s so anti-fundamentalist and so distrustful of Arab culture, if a Jew had written Disgraced, he’d be accused of anti-Muslim hate speech. Oh, sure, there’s a Jewish character in the play, and he’s a jerk, but compared to everyone else onstage, he’s Mister Rogers. Well, Mister Rogerstein.

Scrolling through the acting categories, I notice an alarming dearth of Jewish names, the closest being featured actor K. Todd Freeman – and he’s a schvartz! Thank God, therefore, for Featured Actor in a Musical nominee Brandon Uranowitz. Yes, Uranowitz. With a name like that, he must be a whiz!

I am also delighted to note that this year’s winner of the non-competitive Isabelle Stevenson Award is Stephen Schwartz. He’s getting an award for service to the industry, which, in his case, meant a bunch of charitable work and being president of the Dramatists Guild, which looks out for playwrights’ rights, right? Now, Stephen Schwartz did help create Godspell, which is all Jesus-y, but he also wrote Wicked, so he’s obviously drawn to myths and science fiction.

I should mention that two play revivals this season boast Jewish authorship. One was The Heidi Chronicles, Wendy Wasserstein’s look at a nice girl discovering feminism and motherhood, all in 160 very long minutes. Elisabeth Moss, the scientologist shiskeh who was Peggy on Mad Men, is Tony nominated for playing the non-Jewish Heidi. But the standout was Jason Biggs, a shaygitz in real life who plays Heidi’s schmucky boyfriend, Scoop Rosenbaum. That is, of course, the first and only time I’ve ever heard of a Jew named “Scoop.” In fact, the closest Jews ever get to a scoop is when we’re putting half a cup of flax flakes in our All-Bran.

The other play with Hebraic heritage is the classic, You Can’t Take it with You, by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart. It’s about a family of creative eccentrics who don’t quite fit into society, but they mean no harm, and, in most ways, make life better for everyone around them. Come to think of it, that’s a pretty good description of my people.

Of course, on Sunday night, my people are theater people, reveling in the joy of performing, working, sharing, showing off and calling their agents. I’ll be watching, rooting, bitching, cheering, and biding my time. After all, next year they’re reviving Fiddler on the Roof, so can Shalom Dammit! be far behind? Well, yes. Yes it can. But a man can dream. Which is what theater is all about.

This has been a Rabbinical Reflection from Rabbi Sol Solomon, Temple Sons of Bitches in Great Neck, New York.