On the second night of Rosh Hashanah, the line stretched down the block and around the corner with hundreds of people eager to enter San Francisco's most famous synagogue, Temple Emanu-El. But this crowd didn't need to purchase high priced tickets and wasn't there for a traditional Rosh Hashanah service, in fact, for most people in line, this would be the only time they stepped foot in a Jewish space during the entire holiday.

 

The crowd was instead waiting to enter Hidden Melodies Revealed, a secret celebration of Rosh Hashanah with JDub Recording artist The Sway Machinery. [Editor's note: This event was promoted on Jewcy, and JDub records is an advertiser on the site.] 641 people entered the Temple for an experience unlike any a San Francisco Temple had ever seen. As soon as Sway Machinery hit the stage, hundreds rose from their seats to dance in the aisles and the foot of the stage, in a truly unique way to bring in the new year.

 

Some in the audience commented on how they hadn't celebrated the holiday in years, for others, it was a different way to reflect on their culture and welcome in a new year. As with their LA show two days prior, The Sway Machinery put on another incredible performance, bringing new life and excitement to liturgy and prayers that have been sung and recited in familiar melodies for decades. This wasn't your grandparent's Rosh Hashanah service, nor was it Rosh Hashanah with a Klezmer twist, it was experimental, avant garde rock that brought a different perspective to one of Judaism's highest profile holidays. As the events producer, I could not have been happier with the turnout and the performance the band gave. It was a transcendent experience and I look forward to helping create more moments like this in the future.

San Francisco now has its first eruv thanks to congregation Adath Israel. Eruvs are important to observant Jews who adhere to the halakhic prohibition against the 39 acts of work on Shabbat, which prevents them from being able to carry anything outside of their homes. The eruv allows those Jews to carry within its boundaries (roughly 20 square blocks), enabling them to wheel strollers, carry purses, and ultimately allow Jewish families to attend Shabbat services together, with the little ones in tow.

Gone are the days when ensuring the eruv was still kosher meant tracking your rabbi down--the eruv has its own Twitter account and will tweet any necessary updates. Fabulous. 

Several dozen eruvs exist across the country, in places one might expect, like New York City and Boca Raton, Florida, but also places you might not, like Mequon, Wisconsin and Overland Park, Kansas. In fact, eruvim exist in 25 states and the District of Columbia. I'll admit I got that information from Wikipedia--eruv.org hasn't published their complete directory yet.

There are also a handful of college campuses enclosed by eruvim, including nine of the fifteen participant universities of Jewish Learning Initiative on Campus (JLIC), as well as Harvard University and, of course, Yeshiva University.

Debate over the construction of an eruv even played a role in the election of trustees on Long Island recently. 

Stamford, Connecticut and Norfolk, Virginia are among the "emerging Orthodox communities" enticing families relocating from more quintessentially Orthodox neighborhoods in the greater New York area and beyond. Even my home state of Pennsylvania features two "emerging communities," including Allentown and its capital, Harrisburg.

Personally, in my own learning and adapting process of finding exactly where I fit in the Jewish community, I've toyed with a lot of ideas and observances falling into the "conservadox" gray area. I'm okay with no tweeting on Shabbos and I've toyed with the idea of shutting my Blackberry off completely in favor of peace, quiet, and reading books. Prohibitions against toting my matching Coach bag along with me when I (drive) to synagogue, however, have not quite made it into my personal level of observance. Still, though, I think it's important to take note that eruvim are continuing to pop up in observant Jewish communities across the country and around the world. Whether it's a growing trend is difficult to say, as is whether their appearance means a rise in Orthodox Judaism or so-called "liberal Jews" of other movements adopting some of the more traditional observances, but it's something to think about nonetheless. Jews are staking their claim in cities and towns across the country and we're here to stay, eruv and all.

 

On a somewhat unrelated note, anybody interested in Mikvah shopping should check out Lakewood, New Jersey--by some odd anomaly, the town has ten mikvahs. That's more than even Manhattan. The only single location in the country with more? Jewcy's hometown, Brooklyn.

Dear Jewcy,

Thanks for inviting me to be a guest blogger! I have to admit, at first I wasn't sure what to write about. I mean, I do post every so often on The Huffington Post--but those are usually impassioned tirades about the calamitous political situation. You know: how George Bush and the Republicans have destroyed the country, and the Democrats have let them do it, and how if Obama doesn't get on the stick we're in for four more years of it? But let's face it: that stuff's just no fun! 

Between the occasional HuffPo rant, and co-organizing San Francisco's Progressive Reading Series, and teaching creative writing, and promoting my new novel, Lady Lazarus, I've been pretty busy lately. Which is why I recently decided I needed a vacation. Somewhere beautiful, quiet, maybe a little on the chilly side. Somewhere slightly exotic, but not foreign, somewhere people wouldn't constantly be talking about literature, or yammering on about elections. Somewhere far off the political map.

That's how I wound up in Alaska.

And that's how Sarah Palin and I met, and fell in love - if that's what you call the hot, slippery, sexually supercharged relationship we're carrying on in secret - and how, at last, I found something to blog about.

It all started at the Baranof Hotel, a dignified old establishment on Juneau's North Franklin St., just a few blocks from the capitol. On weekday evenings the Baranof's almost-swanky lounge, the Bubble Room, bustles with legislators and staffers in snow shoes and Armani parkas, hunting rifles slung amiably over their shoulders, talking policy over scotchcicles and bowls of moose stew. Light jazz tinkles from hidden speakers, but can't drown out the baying of the sled dogs tied up outside. Everything about the Baranof says "romance," and when I made the reservation, I'd told them I wanted to splurge - what with the tsunami of royalties from Lady Lazarus, and the exorbitant salary of a creative writing teacher, I figured, sky's the limit. They gave me Suite 604, a nicely appointed suite with plush couches in the sitting area and a beautiful view of the Gastineau Channel and Douglas Island. "Home, sweet home," I thought, flipping through the television menus to see what my late-night porn choices would be. Little did I know, I wouldn't have to choose.

When I walked into the Bubble Room, I was greeted by waves and back-slaps and high fives. It seemed a little odd, but I figured Alaskans must just love left-wing Jewish artists from San Francisco. Everyone wanted to buy me a drink, and to talk about Lady Lazarus - again, I was surprised; I had no idea a book about poetry, punk rock, celebrity, and suicide would be such a hit on the Last Frontier. By midnight, when the sun had started to slant through the windows, I was in my cups, feeling pretty proud of myself for having chosen Juneau for my getaway. All that was missing was female companionship, so I called the bartender over and asked him if he knew where I might find some.

"Funny you should ask," he said, with a strange look of concern. "Someone's been trying to get your attention." I started to turn around, but he lunged across the bar and grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Be careful," he said. He squared his jaw and leaned closer. "Be strong."

At a table near the back sat the brightest bubble in the Bubble Room. She was wearing a red leather jacket, tightly belted, with big black buttons and wide lapels. Her hair was swept up and shimmering under faux-tiki torches. When our eyes met, her smile flashed with the kind of megawattage that can only be generated by fossil fuels. I was paralyzed. I tried desperately to think of how to introduce myself.

Jewcy, it was love at first sight.

Before I could come up with an introduction, hands grabbed my elbows and lifted me off the stool. Two tall, blond men in hunting jackets stood at my sides. Their sunglasses reflected the torches; their earpieces buzzed with secret instructions. They had identical clefts in their strong chins. "Time for your appointment," one said.

"Appointment?" I croaked.

"Her Babeness doesn't like your game. She wants to talk to you," snarled the other.

I looked over to where my beautiful bubble had been. Seeing a flash of red disappearing into an adjoining room, I suddenly understood.

They ushered me through the bar, slowed only by the many people trying to get me to sign their copies of Lady Lazarus. "I'm sorry!" I called back, as they dragged me through a door. The room was cold, windowless, concrete. There was a steel table on an incline, with a complicated network of tubes and pulleys overhead. Somewhere, the sound of water slowly dripping.

"If you wanted to impress me, staying in Suite 604 isn't the way." Behind me, in a high-backed leather chair, sat my lovely bubble. Her smile was the only source of heat in that chamber. She wrinkled her nose - so adorable! - as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

"W-why?" I said. "What's wrongwith Suite 604?"

The two Aryan goons started to snicker. "Like you don't know," one said. "Why else would you be here?" said the other. "All you New York journalists come here because of 604." In the chair, Her Babeness tilted her head and blinked a lot. I said I wasn't from New York, and I wasn't a journalist - which seemed to confuse the goons. "But... you look like a New Yorker."

"I'm a novelist," I said, somewhat indignantly. "From San Francisco. I'm on vacation."

"Boys," said the bubble. "Maybe you should take a lunch break."

When they had left, she motioned for me to have a seat on the steel table. I said I preferred to stand and she giggled, then stood and shoved me backward. I sat.

"See, not many people request Suite 604. It's got what we Alaskans call ‘a history.'" That's when she explained about VECO, the oil pipeline company that bribed basically the whole state legislature, not to mention Alaska's only U.S. congressman, Don Young, the ornery senator, Ted Stevens, and for good measure, Stevens's son Ben. The Feds had caught them by bugging Suite 604 and capturing some pretty incriminating discussions on tape. Suddenly I understood the warm welcome I'd gotten from all the government staffers: they thought the gravy train was back!

It turned out that my bubble of charm and sex appeal was none other than the governor of Alaska, who'd made much of her reputation by denouncing Alaska's good ol' boy system of corruption, even while she worked hard to help Stevens continue to extract pipelines full of pork spending from the federal government.

"Not a bad trick," I said. I pressed my palms against cold steel. It may have been the chilliness of the room, but I was shaking like a kid at the eighth grade dance.

"I know!" she said, biting herlower lip. "I like to play both sides."

I was sure now that Her Babeness was flirting with me. How I longed to pull her close! But I didn't dare.

"Governor of Alaska," I said. "And so smart, and so, um, physically, you know, attractive. You're doing pretty well for yourself."

That's when Sarah Palin put her hand on my chest, leaned close, and said, "It gets better than that, even..."

Jewcy, I'm sure you're reading this with your mouth wide open. I'm sure it's as hard for you to believe as it was for me - but I swear every word of it is true! As she led me out through a back door, and up a hidden staircase to the sixth floor of the Baranof, she told me something that blew my mind: She'd been chosen to run for Vice President. Of the United States!

Needless to say, by the time we arrived at Suite 604 the governor and I were weak-kneed and frothing with desire. She shoved me into the room and dimmed the lights and we fell onto the couch in a sweat. I fumbled with the belt of her jacket, but she pinned my arms under her knees and whispered in my ear, "Is it true about Jewish men? Are you really the Chosen Ones?" How to describe the look on her face? She was still smiling broadly, but her eyes pierced me with intensity, drilling into my skull as though I were a coastal plain in the ANWR, and she'd just caught a whiff of light, sweet crude.

Sarah unbelted her jacket, undoing each button with an unblinking wrinkle of the nose. What do you think she was wearing underneath?

"I like novelists," she said. "I like them a lot. In my administration, we're going to outsource the fiction to professionals. That way, we can privatize, and keep our hands clean, at the same time." Stark naked except for her mukluks and the latex gloves, dazzlingly beautiful, Her Babeness glanced around Suite 604 with a proprietary, satisfied look. "You know," she said in a husky voice, "a lot of people have gotten royally fucked in this room..."

Somehow, though my throat was parched, I managed to whisper, "Why do you think I requested it?" Sarah threw back her head and laughed. Then she picked up the remote control and tossed it in my lap.

"Stop talking, novelist," she said. "Save your words for the next war. They comped us the all-night porn package. You'd better conserve your strength."

Tomorrow: Sarah takes me on a moose hunt; the Secret Service roughs me up while Sarah watches; First Dude Todd Palin suspects something...

Andrew Foster Altschul, author of Lady Lazarus, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and he'll be here all week.  Stay tuned.

Apollo Creed wants his hat back: San Franciscan nutjob Joe WebbWell, the Nazis have noticed us. Okay, not lots of Nazis, just one. We were finishing a soundcheck for our San Francisco show at the Great American Music Hall, the sixth of thirteen cities on the Good For The Jews national tour, when the lighting guy shouted, "Well boys, you've made the big time. You have a protester outside." We're two guys who sing funny and profane songs about being Jewish. Who would protest that? My family's not impressed, but I don't think they'd follow me to San Francisco and picket.

So we went outside to find a surly, nervous man holding a sign that said "I WANT YOU TO DIE FOR ISRAEL." He'd spelled the S with a swastika. I asked him if he was affiliated with any group. "Yeah," he growled. "I'm a Nazi. And you can publish that." Sure, I knew Nazis existed, but I never expected to see one up close. It was like standing in front of the Great Wall of China, or the Mona Lisa – it's startling, no matter how many times you've seen the image, to confront the real thing, in three dimensions. His sign had small plastic skulls dangling from the top, and he was dressed as Uncle Sam, in a red, white and blue hat, though in truth he looked more like Apollo Creed. He cooperatively posed for pictures, even when I asked him to raise his arm a little higher.

The Nazi identified himself as Joe Webb, a retired corrections officer in his 60s, and he told us he'd been looking for movie listings in the newspaper—he wanted to see No Country For Old Men—when he read an article about Good For The Jews. Since the film would still be playing after we'd left town, he put on his best patriotic costume, Xeroxed some pamphlets and came down to the Tenderloin to protest the worldwide Jewish conspiracy. If there is one, how do I join? I'd like to be staying in nicer hotels. "I bet you'd like to punch me in the face," he said to me. "Yeah, that sounds pretty good," I agreed.

Soon, a squad car pulled up outside the club – summoned by Mr. Webb himself, who insisted the police a) protect his First Amendment right to protest, and b) arrest me for threatening to assault him. The two officers—a woman of color and a man I'm pretty certain was gay—were not sympathetic to his cause.

My friend who grew up in San Francisco, and is the daughter of two Auschwitz survivors, says that when her family went to Jewish events in the early 1970s, there was often a small group of Nazis outside, jeering at the Jews. San Francisco is famous for its permissiveness, so I guess it's a good place for a Nazi to live. The weather's better than Idaho or Montana, and there are lots of freelance Web designers to help you build your white-pride web site.

The Tenderloin is home to every group Nazis revile, and pretty soon, Mr. Webb was being heckled and jeered by blacks, gays, Asians and even a few trannies. Another police car arrived, then a few more, until there were five cruisers with their red lights running. One of the club's security men, a half-black guy in cargo shorts, tossed his cigarette butt into Mr. Webb's burlap bag. By the way, the San Francisco Weekly reported this story on their blog, adding, "Nazis give the best PR."

Not terribly sympathetic: The cops Our Nazi's pamphlet listed sixteen things he'd dubbed "NOT GOOD FOR THE JEWS," beginning with "Jewish behavior" and "Shiksas who figure it out" and moving on to "5 million Palestinians who want their land back" and "Jewish ownership and/or domination of almost all the media." The name of our band, he wrote, typified "the Jewish categorical imperative," as well as Jewish racism. "How is that old Jewish sense of humor doing?" he asked at the end. "Are you laughing yet?"

And no, I wasn't laughing. Any Jew, when confronted with a Nazi, is going to feel a mixture of fear and rage. I was wondering how many other people also thought six million dead Jews wasn't enough. The police insisted he remove the plastic skulls, which kept hitting pedestrians as he marched in front of the building. He tried to pull off the string that attached the skulls to the sign, but couldn't do it. "Officer, can I borrow a knife?" he asked. "Unfortunately, sir, I'm not allowed to hand a weapon to a civilian," the cop said. "Especially not a civilian who's a Nazi," I added.

Right about then, the cigarette butt did its work, and his burlap bag began to smoke. He complained to the officers, emptied his bag onto the cement and began beating the bag to put out the spark. The Jews who'd come outside to gape at him laughed, and then, en massed, we went back inside the club, relieved that this particular Nazi posed no imminent danger. In fact, he'd kind of unified everyone there: As comedians say, our show killed.

Tour scorecard

Cities we've played: Cleveland, Milwaukee, Chicago, Seattle, Portland, Los Angeles, San Francisco

Cities still to come: Denver (The Soiled Dove), Orlando (The Social), Boca Raton (NY Comedy Club), Baltimore (Recher Theater), Washington, D.C. (Birchmere) and New York (Highline Ballroom).

[Read the entire Good for the Jews Tour Diary here.]

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and Bagels What: Mystical reflections of Yom Kippur When: Saturday, September 22, 3:45 PM Where: Quadrangle Club, 1155 E. 57th St Why: Explore the oneness of time, space and consciousness with a totally far-out discussion by Rabbi Yossi Brackman on the mystical dimensions of Yom Kippur.

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and Bagels What: Yom Kippur meditation and break-fast When: Saturday, September 22, 9 AM Where: 1404 Greenfield Ave #1

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and Bagels What: Yom Kippur services with special speaker Cindy Sheehan, followed by vegetarian potluck break-fast When: Saturday, September 22, 9 AM Where: St. Mark's Lutheran Church, 1111 O'Farell St. Why: This might just be the ultimate hippie Yom ...

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and Bagels What: Interactive Yom Kippur services When: Friday, September 21, Kol Nidre 7:30 PM; Saturday, September 22, Morning Service & Yizkor, 10 AM; Neilah, 4 PM Where: The Lincoln Theater, 541 Lincoln Road, Miami Beach Why: The Mosaic club’s goal is to bring Jews together and promote environmental awareness through worship and outdoor activities. They’ll all be at these services in ...

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and Bagels What: Maayan Tikvah's Yom Kippur services and break-fast When: Saturday, September 22, 4 PM Where: Rabbi Allen's home (email for address: rabbikza@verizon.net) Why: Like you, ...

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and BagelsWhat: Tashlich drum circle and nature hikeWhen: Thursday, September 13, 4 PM and Friday, September 14, 9 AM Where: “where Venice Beach meets the sand”Why

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and BagelsWhat: Kabbalistic erev Rosh Hashanah servicesWhen: Wednesday, September 12, 8 PM Where: The ...

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and BagelsWhat: Jewish Drum CircleWhen: Sunday, September 9, 2 PM Where: North Lakeside Cultural Center, on Sheridan Rd just north of GranvilleWhy:

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and BagelsWhat: Interactive Rosh Hashanah ServicesWhen: Wednesday, September 12, 7:30 PM through September 14 Where: The Lincoln Theater, 541 Lincoln Road, ...

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and BagelsWhat: Tashlich, a nature work, and a pot-luck vegetarian dinnerWhen: Friday, September 13, 5:00 PMWhere: Meet up at Rabbi Katy Z. Allen’s home ...

Diverse Jewish events abound around the holidays, but they tend to concentrate around certain cities (especially New York), and they’re none too easy to find. Luckily, we’ve done the legwork for you. To match our readers up with the best Rosh Hashanah events in the country, we’ve identified seven common Jewish archetypes and found events for each of them in six major U.S. cities: New York, Boston, Miami, Chicago, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. From traditional services to drum circles to the ubiquitous Chabad hoedown, there's something on this list for every Jew. Which one are you? Options below: The Hippie: Dreadlocks and Bagels ...

The Hippie: Dreadlocks and Bagels What: Vegan Rosh Hashanah dinner at Sacred ChowWhen: Friday, September 14, 7:30 PM Where: ...

I've had a hard time writing about my trivial dalliances with The Secret since the shootings on Tuesday.

Until I think of something to say, here's a funny article in the Times about a quirky San Francisco restaurant that espouses the philosophy.

Cafe Gratitude Review by Christine Muhlke

While I’m in San Francisco, it seems like a good time to mention Rabbi Alan Lew, the “Zen Rabbi.”

I first came across Lew when I read his truly amazing book about the High Holidays. But then I discovered he was a pulpit rabbi, and I was so excited, I flew him to Iowa (where I was working for Hillel) to lead services, and do a guided meditation with my students.

He’s the rabbi of a really interesting synagogue here in California, with a noteworthy focus on Buddhist meditation, but also on social justice.

And Lew is worth mentioning for many reasons, obviously, but right now I’m thinking about the way he has seamlessly blended the paths he’s trod. I admire that a lot. He’s taken the riches of the varied chapters of his life (monastic Buddhist meditation, MFA writer, Jewish roots and education) and made something new from them.

It’s easy, when you try on different lives, to discount the prior choices you’ve made each time you make a shift. To reconceive yourself entirely, and understand the world through that particular temporary lens.

It’s much much harder to find a way to blend your selves, to find a home for your many incarnations in one mature body and mind. But when it’s done well, as in Lew’s case, it’s startling, and innovative, and creates new models for the world around you.