I actually toyed with going to the evening service for Rosh Hashanah this year. Maybe a little prayer for the New Year would help? Not the full monty experience just the evening service. Then I realized that if there was a G-d she would see thru my half-assed effort and scoff at my attempt to sneak into favor.
Simultaneously, I was jonesing to see the last show of the summer season at the Hollywood Bowl: A celebration of the 300th birthday of New Orleans with Harry Connick. Jr., Bonerama opening. I knew I could probably get tickets high in the tree top section, and when I say “high,” I’m not kidding. Those seats come with a free contact high. That section is referred to as the “smoking section” because of the abundance of reefer. Isolation from the bourgeoisie comes with some freedoms—but no matter where you sit parking is still $22. So I just kept dreaming and not doing.
Then, as if to prove the existence of a deity or the power of positive thought, I got a text from a friend who asked me to join them at The Bowl for the last night of the Harry Connick. Jr., show, which coincidentally fell on the eve of the Jewish New Year. The theatre has always been my holy place of choice and, unlike synagogue, the closer to the action the better. This wasn’t just a New Year’s present; it was a gift for all the holidays of all the religions put together. The seats were “Poo
