Happy 5774

Unless you live in Beverlywood, where they will stone you for washing your car on a Saturday morning. Or your kids go to school in Beverly Hills, where they were officially closed for two days. You might have missed Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.

Unlike other New Year's celebrations there were no fireworks.

No humungous crowds gathered in city squares.

There was no giant corporate-sponsored electric ball dropped from the nearest skyscraper.

There were no streamers, party hats or awkward interviews with Ryan Seacrest and Dick Clark.

There were no dragons, countdowns or semi-platonic kisses at midnight.

The rabbi read from the Torah.

Some pimply-faced kid, who won't get laid until he's a junior in college, blew a horn.

And some apple slices were dipped in honey.

The Riot Police slept fitfully that night.

The truth is, and I've said this before, we Jews suck at holidays. Even our most joyous holiday, Purim, doesn't elicit a single smile from the costumed 6-year olds pictured above. I've seen happier faces at a funeral for a poor aunt.

So what is it that prevents us from cutting loose and tossing all our inhibitions in the ocean to enjoy a single moment of debauchery and unfettered joy? I attribute it to Jewish neuroticism. And the realization that, "yes, things are great today, but they can, and probably will, get worse tomorrow."

Speaking of which, Happy Yom Kippur.

I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to paying $500 for the privilege of slapping on my wool suit, sitting in a hot temple with 900 grumbling altacacas and abstaining from food for 26 hours.

Good times.