Walmart Hates Jews

Well at least Shoprite got it right…

They decided not to break out the birthday hats, horns and barbed wire and resisted the call of the Fatherland to wish a happy birthday to New Jersey’s own Baby Hitler. Walmart, however, showed their anti-Semitic roots by supplying the baby Brown Shirt and his parents with the Nazi-fied birthday treat. Unlike Shoprite, Walmart jumped to the chance to inscribe the cake to Adolf Hitler Campbell. WTF?? Wal-Mart Store

Well actually, it’s not that much of a surprise. Wallmart really hates us.

First they run their “Merry Christmas” assault on Jewish shoppers (and we do shop!). “Happy Holidays,” the inclusive seasonal wish, used comfortably for decades, is simply not Christian enough for Walmart. They see it, as do the Fox ‘News’ crew as an “assault on Christmas.” Hey idiots, it’s not an assault. It’s just that JEWS DON’T CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS, assholes!!

Walmart just has a thing for Nazis. They once sold tee shirts with Nazi symbolism emblazoned upon them. Strange. Walmart censors CD’s and DVD’s with adult content yet they sell tee shirts with Nazi shit on them? Do they really think that the Jewish community will lay down and take this? Don’t think you can fool us just because you’re selling shirts wholesale!

So go ahead Walmart. Ignore Chanukah. Sell Nazi tee shirts. And, by all means, decorate cakes for Adolf Hitler. But rest assured, we will not take your shit!

It’s simple: Walmart Hates Jews! (Oh, I now have the domain I welcome your opinions on how we can use the site to embarrass Walmart!)

MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann and Rachel Maddow weigh in:



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Tech Overload Won’t Slow Me Down (instead I’ll jiust kvetch)

Posting this from my iPhone 3G at 3:00 in the morning. No wonder I’m such a grouch lately in this suburb that goes to sleep too early. They call it the city of Los Angeles but it’s not a city by my definition.

More on that later.

Oh, and to the schmuck on eBay that committed to buy my 1st generation iPhone and then flaked: Screw you!!

I guess I’ll need to re-list…


“…my sister, my daughter.” Err, my sister, my mother.

My last spate of blog entries came in late January and, due to circumstances completely under my control, I decided I was too glum to write.  Don’t get me wrong, my misery, perhaps more than anyone I know, enjoys company. Though, on second thought, enjoys is the wrong word as I haven’t enjoyed anything at all since… Well exact dates aren’t important and clearly are not the point.

If you’ve read all of my entries you know I’ve been staying part of the time at my folks place in the suburbs on Long Island and at my sister and brother-in-law’s place in Northern Westchester. At my sister’s place there are the kids. They are completely distracting in the best possible way. I can’t get work done because I’m literally compelled to watch them and listen to them all the time: Telling each other stories; Playing — quite adeptly — on the computer; Singing, dancing and writing; and, Sometimes fighting. But they are a joy and being there is a joy as well.

It’s not quite the same at my folks house.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother as if she were my own mother (Although she actually is my biological mother I prefer to keep some ‘healthy’ phycological dysphoria on this one to keep me from jumping). I also love my step-dad. He and I have lots in common, including an unhealthy obsession to with computers and gadgets. But I’m isolated on an island of neurosis. There is never a soul on the street, or in the ‘development’ (this one created just after Levittown and in much the same way: A cookie-cutter Long Island nightmare).

Levittown, Long Island, NY

This Our house is also a hotbed of ADD, OCD, perhaps bipolar disorder and your run-of-the-mill neurosis.  My mother is a worrier and it informs everything she says and does. And, if one is not careful, it leaches out and infects everything it touches. Worrying, my friends is a disease — unless of course someone is actually following you with a gun or, G-d forbid, the government starts to mass produce yellow Stars of David.  In cases like that however, active resistance is best and any worrying should be purged tout de suite.

That perpetual progrom that resides just below the surface of most Jewish women’s brains just makes them and, in particular, their first-born sons crazy.  

Save it for when we really need it mom!! There are enough Republican Jews (akin to African-American members of the Ku Klux Klan) out there that are going to need a megadose of reality at some point! Until then…

So I’m back on Long Island searching for the impossible: An inexpensive yet perfect apartment/office in Manhattan.


It’s funny ’cause it’s true

Kids can be cruel. One of the things you can count on when the prepubescent chips are down is the love of one’s mother. Now, don’t get me wrong, I had her love. Too much love. The kind of smothering love that forces you to sleep in a fetal position. Love with the intensity of four heavy-set adults standing on your chest. Obsessive love with a squeeze so tight and overbearing a python would be jealous. That, my friends, is the love of a Jewish mother.

After a particularly horrible day at school, having been chided by the other kids (probably for exhibiting some obsessive-compulsive affectation), I came home looking for the support a son needs from a mother.

Instead, I was treated to a barrage of attacks:


“What did you do to make them so angry? “You should have just ignored them.” “Couldn’t you have asked Michael (my best friend) for help?”

She had turned the entire incident around to somehow make it my fault. And, to add insult to injury, she would have handled it much better, of course. Embarrassment turned to frustration and then, inevitably to anger.  I screamed back at her:


“Mom, you’re ruining my life!”

With a cool, earnest yet indifferent tone she responded,

“Well someone has to.”

I went to my bedroom, got into bed and lay in the fetal position.


Funny, you don’t look fluish.

Science ChannelIt’s Sunday night and I’m back in my sister’s Arctic basement watching the We’re-All-Going-To-Die Channel, also known as the Science Channel, and I must say that I feel a whole lot better about, well, everything.

“Pandemic: Bird Flu” is the kind of disaster programming that allows you to enjoy your mortality, from a distance. The show’s disclaimer warns that it’s based on “actual events” that have been dramatized — and, correct me if I’m wrong, but that haven’t actually happened yet. The program’s disclaimer confused yet fascinated me. It seemed to indicate that the program’s producers are working within a TV industry-only space/time continuum. 

They are using the fabric of space itself to increase ratings and audience share of a soon-to-be-dead demographic and they  avoid dealing with the writers strike because it has already been resolved in their dimension!  Genius!

Space/Time ContinuumVery clever indeed.

Also, scaring me with a horrible pandemic for the sake of ratings makes me feel warm and safe, like nothing at all has changed.  Or has it?


You’re very lucky to be miserable!

One of my favorite quotes is this one from “Annie Hall”:

“I feel that life is divided into the horrible and the miserable. That’s the two categories. The horrible are like … terminal cases … blind people, crippled. I don’t know how they get through life. It’s amazing to me. And the miserable is everyone else. So you should be thankful that you’re miserable, because that’s very lucky, to be miserable.” -Alvy Singer


Good to the last drop! But not in my bathroom!

So what I’m going to tell you actually happened on the 7th day of Hanukkah, December 11th, but I’ve been too depressed to blog. Everyone says that being depressed is actually the best time to blog, but that’s a blog topic for another blog post… Menorah



So back to what I was telling you. You already know, or you should, that I’ve been forced to live with my mother and stepfather due to a horrible moving mishap. And you may not know that while my mother is a lovely, intelligent, intuitive person that looks incredible for her age, she is also insane.

I’m absolutely sure she is obsessive compulsive, to a fault. And she has a Type-A+++ personality. She is overbearing, as any OCD, ADD Jewish Mother should be, and I am the object of her domineering need to obliterate me with her love. (Reading this would kill her!)

The Flying Nun




For more than 2 weeks I had been putting up with the Hovering Jewish Mother (Sally Field’s Flying Nun has nothing on my mom!) when she finally broke the camel’s back with that proverbial straw. I had just returned from taking a tinkle to “my” desk in my sister’s old room when I heard a knock on the door. I really did not want to answer but I did. She opened the door and had a coy, almost coquettish grin on her face. I knew I was in for it but I really had no idea just how far in.

“I really have to teach you how to pee,”

she said with a silly grin on her face. 
As if I hadn’t heard what I clearly had heard, I replied,


She said,

“I had to teach your step-father how to pee correctly too.”

As if that confession would relieve the retched strains of embarrassment I was now feeling. 

I was already broken, like a prisoner of war, and all I could muster was,

“We are not having this discussion.” 

That was it. She had, at the very least, just undone years of therapy. What a waste of time. Of money. And I had nothing left. Yet she went on.

“Alan, this is serious. You’ll ruin the marble floor! Marble is porous!”

I told her I’d be more careful and then, after she left and had closed the door behind her, I searched the floor for my balls.


It could be worse…

I have heard the phrase “it could be worse” too many times to count in the last few months. First, a breakup. Then surgery. Then credit card debt. Then the landlord is suing. Then the IRS wants its money now. Then trying to find a new place to live. Then packing and moving and the ex is not around to help.Then moving day.

Oh my G-d, everything is going smoothly… Too smoothly. And then, the person I’m moving in with — who is subletting the place illegally from the coop’s owner — has not secured the permit necessary for me to move in! My belongings sit on an idle pod (people move with pods now) in the parking lot of a 60’s-era low- to medium-income cooperative housing development that feels like Soviet-era Russia.  

Soviet Apartment Block





Do Not Blab


Security guards surround the moving truck KGB-style, though they’re jabbering in Spanish, not Russian like the KGB or, ironically, like my movers, and just stare at me like I’m the enemy of the people, just daring me to move a single possession out of my pod.



So I have the movers re-load the pod and send the moving van to Long Island, to my mother’s house. Now all of most of my boxed stuff (and this was my step-father’s request) is confined to a 3 by 15 square tile area on the basement floor. The rest of my stuff is in the garage and they’ve already made plans to rid the garage of that small line of boxes by exiling them to the neighbor’s unused garage. So here’s the point: Every single one of the above-mentioned trauma’s have caused my friends and family to tell me “it could be worse…”

Well folks, it can and it does get worse. So do me a favor and don’t tell me it could be worse! Here I sit, in the suburbs and I’m not happy. In fact, I’m downright depressed and probably having a nervous breakdown.

And my biggest fear, at this moment, is that it could be worse.