Yearbook

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.

The first is the Typewriter, which involves pinning your child victim to the ground with a knee over each of his arms to incapacitate him. You then tap on the child’s chest, HARD, as though you are Tom Hanks testing out a vintage Imperial, and then SLAP the child in the face to reset the reel. (Yes, that is a reference to Tom Hanks’s well-known love of antique typewriters.)

Maybe that’s why Jews are Jewish. It’s more vague and casts a wider net than other religions. “I’m a Hindu.” “I’m a Muslim.” “I’m Jew…ish.” Less commitment is involved when “ish” is in the mix. I’m not starving. I’m hungry-ish. I’m not freezing. I’m cold-ish. I’m not a Jew, but I’m for sure Jewish. Who isn’t? Even Idris Elba does some things that are Jewish.

The Magic Castle is a social club for magicians that was built into the side of the Hollywood Hills. The building itself is a bit of a magic trick, in that from the outside it looks like a small chalet, but once you get inside, it’s a massive social space with bars, theaters, and a steakhouse. Getting inside can be…tricky? (Feel free to burn this book now.) You actually need to be invited by a member, and in order to be a member, you have to be a magician.

Whatever Disneyland is for kids who like cartoons is what Burning Man is to adults who like hallucinogens.

But dictators aren’t bears. Bears are animals that don’t know any better than to follow their natural instincts. Dictators are pieces of shit who deserve ridicule.

When I woke up, I realized maybe I should have made the meeting second or even third thing in the morning, because I was still incredibly high. I’d say about 64 percent high.

Note: No good joke requires the words “just kidding” at the end of it.

Dad: Where are you going?

Me: Amsterdam and then Paris.

Mom: You’re just going to do drugs.

Me: No. We’re also going to Paris.

Me: I didn’t want to move in with you!

Ray: Why not?!

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.)