The German Bride: nary an 'oy' to be foundThe German Bride, Joanna Hershon’s third novel, is that rare thing: a historical novel that unfolds organically without a whole lot of “Look at me! I’m a historical novel!”

Her first two novels, Swimming and The Outside of August, both beautifully drawn contemporary narratives, prepared me not at all for this imaginative, deeply researched tale of the American frontier as inhabited by German Jews in the nineteenth century. It’s not exactly the usual “Jewish” setting we’ve come to expect from contemporary “Jewish” novelists (you know, mix-and-match: psychiatry, the Holocaust, masturbation, Yiddishism), which is perhaps why the New York Times couldn’t quite figure out how to properly essentialize: the title and opening of the Times review are pretty goddamn idiotic and offensive given that Hershon’s novel has nothing whatsoever to do with Yiddish culture.

But hey! It’s a “Jewish” novel about 19th century pioneer Jews in the great, untamed west -- throw out an “Oy” and a reference to “Blazing Saddles” and that oughta do it, right? Um, no.

If you’re interested in a somewhat more nuanced, thoughtful peek, check out the fascinating interview Hershon gave to Ha’aretz.

And pick up a copy of this gem for your more discerning literary friends. (Your other friends will probably do just fine with this.)

Apocalypse: something for everyone!There are bottled-water-packed bunkers full of theories about the end of the world. Google "End of the world 2012" for a laugh, a scare, or general justification of your internet misanthropy. The questionable facts are legion; take your pick: the Mayan calendar, Gematria, sun-storms, the reversal of the poles, exhaustion of our natural resources, big atom-smashing machine being built by evil scientists, and more! To be fair, "the end of the world" doesn't necessarily mean hail and brimstone. It could mean we all die violently, but it could also mean we all experience a collective shift in consciousness a la mass acid trip. Radical human re-awakening or cannibalism and Cormac McCarthy? Enlightenment or decimation? New Eden or No Hope? No one knows for sure, but hey: no time like the present to waste wringing your baby-soft hands and reading internet theories.

A debt of gratitude, then, to Rob Kutner, the man responsible for lots of funny stuff in several media for throwing us all a demystifying bone. In "Apocalypse How" (now a national bestseller, because you assholes just love reading books without too many words in them), Kutner illuminates our inevitable collective fate with just the right brand of realistic-terror-fueled humor.



Need more proof that the end is near? Here's what Amazon customers are buying alongside Kutner's opus:
Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex, by Mary Roach
World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie, by Max Brooks
Nine Lives, Steve Winwood
Third, Portishead
I Am Legend DVD
Infected: A Novel, by Scott Sigler
A Practical Guide to Racism, by CH Dalton
And last but not least, The Zombie Survival Guide, by Max Brooks

Frieda Kahlo: knew how to rock the uniIt's kind of odd how this New York Times article on teens battling unwanted facial hair pretty much sidesteps the whole question of ethnic identity (even as it spotlights an Indian girl). We Jews are a swarthy people. It's not hard to be the hottest girl at Jewish Day School: the sixth grader without the full moustache usually wins, hands down. Hair removal is part and parcel of the modern-day Jewish American experience.

It doesn't take a Liberal Arts degree to note that the expensive, humiliating, Sisyphean task of removing our naturally occurring, pretty much universal, and persistent-as-hell hair is something of an attempt to pass as (choose one):

1. white
   
2. pre-pubescent
   
3. manufactured-by-Mattel
   
4. all of the above
   

I'd be a huge, hairy hypocrite if I said teenage girls should just, like, roll with their hirsutism—if hair removal methods were drugs, I'd've been the motherfucking Keith Richards of Camp Ramah. But honestly: "excess" hair has pretty much come to mean everything but eyelashes. And that just 'aint right.

Every so often we encounter someone bold enough to own her shit (see: Jennifer Miller, self-proclaimed circus freak); on occasion you'll hear a half-assed defense of the full-brow via mention of Frida Kahlo. But where's the protest? Where's the outrage? Where's the ethnic pride? Where's the New-Jew/hipster/I-Have-Chin-Hair-Like-My-Grandma-And-I'm-Proud movement? Where are the "Hitler Can Kiss My Hairy Jewish Ass" T-shirts?

For the record, and only slightly off-topic, my mostly heterosexual research has shown that adult males who are bothered by standard human adult female body hair are, with no exceptions, abominable lays.

Wish you were here: Produce on sale in TeruelHola from Teruel, Spain (please don't call it "te-roo-ell" like an Ugly American, okay? Roll that "r"!), where I'm living, off and on, this spring. My beloved got a Fulbright, and I'm along for the ride, my understanding being that when you have the chance to live in a random mountain town in the middle of Spain, you do so. Just 'cause.

It's a cool town. Around Valentine's Day, when I got here, they were having their annual, massive festival de Los Amantes, which is about a medieval Romeo & Juliet (Isabel and Diego) who basically love each other a lot and both wind up dead as a result. There's a story, but it's convoluted. Romantic!

Hundreds of people were hanging out in full costume and roasting shit over open flames and selling tinctures. There was even a "Jewish quarter" with actors playing the three Jewish families who apparently lived here before they met their various heinous fifteenth-century ends. We hesitated before exclaiming "Somos Judios!" and were met with blank stares.

Anyway, it's far away from home. There are none of the global chains that have invaded many an international metropolis. It's quiet and chill. No one speaks English. There's a café in town that serves little cups of the thickest, crazy-good spicy hot chocolate, which you consume with a little spoon.

A fine romance: Isabel and DiegoBut it's also kind of far away from home and no familiar chain stores and no one speaks English and really quiet and ever so slightly depressing (I mean, if one were prone to depression in the first place, which I wouldn't know anything whatsoever about; I've got serotonin to spare). Ah, life: the bad in the good and the good in the bad. I know you've got to roll with travel, and that the discomforts and compromises required can yield enormous rewards. But it invariably takes me a little longer than I'd like to get into the swing of that.

And the food. The food has been a problem. I'm a hard-core vegetarian. (Skip the next few lines if you hate airtight conviction.) I think eating animals is completely amoral. It requires an inexcusably willful ignorance. It's totally irresponsible in light of our current environmental quandary, and it's just plain disgusting in general. (It also, for you self-identified Torah freaks, goes absolutely against the spirit of the laws of Kashrut. Like, one thousand million percent.)

And since the diet here consists almost exclusively of animal products (giant bloody rumps of dead pig hanging in every third store window, along with ubiquitous sausage, which in combination make me think fondly back on my first eye-opening read of The Sexual Politics of Meat) eating has been a challenge. I kid you not, they sell Pringles con Jamon in the supermarket. It's made me reflect on the many ways our food choices mark and distinguish and separate us. And how eating restrictions can be a powerful statement of personal ethics and priorities. And how adherence to personal ethics can be a pain in the ass. And also, how much I miss Perelandra in Brooklyn Heights.

Spanish boots of Spanish pleather: It's tough being veggie in SpainThankfully, after a few days of extremely crankily (sorry, babe) subsisting on bread and cheese and potatoes in some kind of orange mayo-sauce (they're not huge on greens, either), my beloved found me not only a little produce market, but an honest-to-goodness health food store to boot! (Now that, Los Amantes, is love... and no one wound up dead). I wandered the aisles caressing the tofu and green tea and seitan and olive oil soap in a trance. Life's been much improved ever since.

It's really hard to appreciate badass 15th century Mudejar architecture when you're hating on an entire country's eating paradigms, you know?

Related: From Krakow, With Love