I've never been that big a fan of Good for the Jews. Super nice guys, catchy songs, and they're great at thinking on their feet (and, if Rob was here, I'm sure he'd insert a snappy line here about what they are off their feet) -- but, you know, I'm of the opinion that you can only hear a certain number of circumcision-joke songs a certain number of times before the humor, much like the Manischewitz, wears off. And I'm sad to say I probably exhausted that number listening to 2 Live Jews as an impressionable and easily-amused 11-year-old.

And I guess this all mirrors my fears and expectations in my last month of pre-fatherhood -- of my writing career, and of not making enough to pay for our next-of-kin's extravagant lifestyle. And I have to say, I was super jealous of the amazing-sounding Heeb Magazine/Good for the Jews tour, blogged about right here. But last night, I dreamed that I was standing ouside one of their concerts like a protester, hatin' on them, and on life itself, because Heeb didn't offer me to sponsor my tour (my spoken-word poetry tour or something, I guess -- I don't know, it's a dream, dude).

And then, like a weird angel manifesting in American Pie or Can't Hardly Wait, Rob appears beside me. (In real life, by the way, I have never had a spontaneous manifestation. I've barely spoken to the guy. We were at a conference together once, but that's it, I swear.) He sits down on the curb next to me, channeling Jerry O'Connell, reaches his arm around my shoulder and gives me a pep talk: "This life -- this whole damn Jewish art thing -- it isn't sustainable. Things like this," he says, pointing to my stomach, which isn't pregnant like my wife's but we both know what it means -- "This is sustainable. You can write till you die, man, and they'll keep reading even longer than that. But kids -- the remarkable thing about kids is that they live."

And then he proceeded to jam out in a band with Mike, my dead best friend and favorite guitarist, and Carrie Brownstein from Sleater-Kinney, my other favorite guitarist. But I wasn't even listening. I was just blown away.