Happy Halloween, everybody. I spent my Halloween Eve in my condo generally ignoring the rest of the world. Work was tiring. Plus I ate too much leftover candy in the office.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could draw up formal contracts before entering any sort of courting, dating, or mating ritual? Expectations and rules would be obvious because they'd be written into the contract.

For example, if I could do such a thing, I'd write in a guaranteed minimum number of dates (say, three). Undoubtedly, also written in would be the ettiquette of payment and intimacy on said dates (who pays, who initiates contact, etc.).

Of course, this whole idea is unworkable in reality because as a lawmaker once said "you can't legislate passion". It's a good premise for a comedy sketch, though. You see a man and a woman sitting at a table as if negotiating a divorce or something, then you realize they're working out the terms of their first date. It would end as follows:

MAN: So, see you Thursday then?
WOMAN: Sure. But if you try to cop a feel, I will sue you for breach.

If such a contract system did exist, what would you write in it?

It's a lazy Sunday, so I'm blogging in the afternoon.

On Friday, I went to a cousin's birthday party. Last night, I went to a Halloween shindig dressed in my trademark cloak with some writers and saw some familiar faces.

At the party, I was talking with some people about the roles of each sex in dating. An interesting question was brought up by Joel: at what point in a relationship is it okay for a woman to ask a man to hold her purse for circumstances such as when a couple is waiting on line in a department store and she has to run somewhere else in the store and he stays to keep their place? Joel's theory is that such a request can only be made after the relationship has entered the intercourse stage.

I don't know what to do on Halloween tomorrow after work, if anything. What is everybody else doing?

Tonight I watched Bananaman get defeated by Zorro. The wuss didn't even put up much of a fight.

So, if masturbating were an Olympic sport, what medal do you think you'd win? I think I'd get Silver.

The number of hits I'm getting is decreasing back to normal. I guess there's only so long that a mention in the Village Voice will work.

Went to Movieoke tonight. Very cool.

To begin some thoughts on my future as it relates to my career, I will now do some self-analysis:

What do I like to do? Well, the blog obviously. Perform (improv, comedy, song or theater). Write. Draw.

In what industry would I prefer to work? Publishing, media or entertainment. I wouldn't mind government work, if only to not have the pressures of a competitive market.

What were my favorite classes in college (undergraduate)? Various literature classes (Shakespeare. Comedy. Sci-fi). Film Analysis. Theater appreciation.

If money weren't an issue, what would I be doing for a living? Probably acting and writing.

Do I like computer programming? Yes. It combines my ability to logically think things through with my creativity. It's fun like a crossword puzzle or sudoku. I don't like the super-competitive nature of the industry nor the constant training it requires due to rapidly changing technology.

I went with my boss to this meeting with two female vendors tonight. He asked me to go and I agreed because I figured I'd get a free meal out of it (and I did. It was at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station and it was pretty good).

However, the meal had a price. As my boss had more drinks, he was flirting with the two women. And they were flirting back. He began mentioning items about my personal life to them (my stand-up comedy. The fact that I might be getting a new TV for my bedroom soon). Then, during dessert, he asked "do either of you blog?". At this point, I politely excused myself and went to Trivia. I won't write of the breach of ettiquette that mentioning my personal blog to strangers would create. Needless to say, I will not go to another such dinner with him. A free meal with him isn't worth the price.

Even worse, during the dinner, a woman I met with once last week for a dinner "date" (and I use the term loosely, because she didn't think it was a date) called me to say she couldn't meet up again. Details are unimportant. I was already depressed as a result through the dinner. The women at the dinner did flirt back though. Perhaps I should call one of them and make sure the boss isn't around if we meet again? I don't know. I'm still slightly buzzed from the merlot at the dinner. Time to sleep.

With the weather currently being a unique combination of rainy and shitty (yep. Autumn is here), it's time to stay in and blog. To make matters worse, nobody could leave comments today. Stupid Haloscan.

I often wonder why last year was so much better for me in terms of meeting women and dating. It was really a banner year for me, although for others it would probably seem like a dead year.

I wasn't ecstatic at my job, but I had just gotten out of a miserable one and was fairly happy about that. I had decided that I wasn't going to meet anybody and gave up trying. With that philosophy, I also acted like it didn't matter what I did with women because they wouldn't be interested anyway. As a result, I acted more overtly flirtatious with the opposite sex.

I've tried to get back into that frame of mind, and I can't. Some heavy weight in my gut and soul keeps me bogged down, and I don't know what it is. The symptoms are fear, insecurity, depression, and the feeling of being trapped. Since I tend to project my emotions, it's a big turn-off.

I want it gone.
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Other news -- I'm first writing of it on the blog now because after the new year it will occupy much of my time and effort and I don't see myself being able to avoid writing about it. I'm announcing my candidacy for President. I intend to have a little soiree on the Sunday of President's Day weekend to kick it off (which is remarkably close to my 35th birthday, so it'll probably double as a birthday party). I intend to invite readers of this blog and my family will also be in attendance (all of whom remain blissfully unaware of this blog). The effect of such a mix would probably be akin to throwing a lit match into an ammunition dump. Should be fun.

I try to fight it. I try to keep busy and not think about it. But between a lack of relationship opportunities (and failures when the opportunity actually arises), the situation at my job and the sense that everybody else is hooking up but me, I'm really fucking depressed.

I went on a date with Sarah last night. She might disagree with my use of the term "date", as we have different definitions. We went to eat at a bar/restaurant called Tonic (I think that was what it was called. I didn't really like the BBQ Chicken Pizza) and saw the Sweeney Todd revival on Broadway.

I will begin my review by stating that I'm not a big fan of Stephen Sondheim's work. He tends to overuse dissonant chords and strange melodies (rarely do people walk out of a Sondheim musical whistling a tune from it). I also dislike Patti Lupone's singing, which is not very melodic and displays her diva-ish tendencies.

With all that said, I enjoyed Sweeney Todd. Sondheim's musical style matches well with the disturbing nature of the plot (about a barber and shopkeeper in 19th Century London that murder people and use the flesh of the bodies to sell meat pies). Patti Lupone, as the owner of the pie shop Mrs. Lovett, toned down her belting and her need to be the center of attention and cranked up her acting a few notches to produce a very darkly humorous role (one only has to listen to her version of the song "A Little Priest" to understand this).

I never saw the original 1978 production with Angela Lansbury (certainly not live, and while it is available on DVD I've never watched the entirety of it). I have seen clips, and of course the movie "Jersey Girl" ends with a scene from the show. Something to note, however, is that the producers of this revival go out of their way to make it a very unique style and extremely different from the original production.

Sweeney Todd is played my Michael Cerversis, who looks very different from the Todd of the original production (he is bald and looks much younger than I envisioned the murderous barber). He is excellent in the role. There are no set changes (the entire set looks like the inside of a very tall shack littered with various eclectic memorabilia from the period) and most of the props are used metaphorically. This is how they can trim a half-hour from the running time of a three-hour show.

Of course, the biggest surprise of the show is that the cast of ten also doubles as the orchestra, playing their instruments for each song whenever they are not in a scene. Most of the cast are unknowns and this is why. They needed cast members who could also expertly play musical instruments as well as act and sing (even Patti Lupone takes a tune or two on the tuba). Finding these players and coordinating it on stage must have been nightmarish for director John Doyle, but he succeeded in his vision and produced a very memorable musical that is both old and new at the same time.

If you like a deep, dark, disturbing story with music that goes with the style, I recommend this show. Otherwise, go see "Spamalot".

Things continue to deteriorate at the current job. It wouldn't surprise me if I posted in the next six months that the job and I part company. Hopefully, it will be because I've found another, and not due to a decision on the boss' part. To help keep costs down in anticipation of this possibility, I may take in a border for the guest bedroom of my condo.

What is it with women and Halloween? Every woman I know just loves the holiday. It ties with Christmas as their favorite of the year. They love to dress up in costumes. I recall one woman mentioning to me that she starts planning her next costume on November 1st of every year. I can prove it right now. I want everyone reading this board to tell me what they will be dressing as for Halloween. Every woman will have a costume (or two or three possibilities) and every man will say he doesn't have one planned. There are exceptions of course. There always are.

It's the same with women and autumn. Most women I know (including my mother) have the fall as their favorite season. They love watching the leaves change color. Ladies, they're changing color because they're DYING. Would you want a bunch of terminally ill people in the same room to watch the different colors of their skin? No, of course not. My favorite season is spring. I like seeing the green spring to life from lifelessness.

Hopefully I'm not revealing too much too soon, but my blog might soon be appearing on a major Middle-Eastern media outlet. No, not Al Jazeera.

I contacted a woman from Brooklyn on Nerve. By her profile, she was very erudite, having dropped out of a neuroscience PhD program. I worked up the courage to try and compose something witty to send her.

My letter to her:
I noticed your profile and gotta say I was a little intimidated. You're an eloquent and articulate writer with distinguished tastes and I'm a computer programmer by day who owns the "South Park" DVD collection. That being said, since we've both viewed each other, I think that you're a very interesting person whom I would enjoy conversing with. If you feel the same, please send me an e-mail.

Her reply to me:
Thanks so much for writing. I appreciate it, although I don't think we're a match. But I should say, some of my favorite people are computer programmers, and I love South Park. Best of luck to you.

Nothing traumatic. Nothing new either.

Remind me to write soon about women, autumn, and Halloween.

I'm trying to figure out ways to exploit my new found blog fame. Coming soon (hopefully): Anonymous Apparel. Now I have to design the T-shirts. If anybody wants to help with the graphic design work for minimal credit and no money whatsoever, please contact me.

However, despite the fact that I don't have something to plug, other people do:

Jess co-hosts an author reading in Park Slope every other week. Check Bitty Soda for details.

Buy Caren's books.

With regards to my own book, I'm finished with the first draft. It's just over 70,000 words. I'm doing a round of revisions (which should bring the word count up to 75,000, I hope). After which I'm going to try to sell the damn thing.

Still trying to think of what I want to be when I grow up. If I grow up.

Before I begin today's topic, there are a three items I want to mention:

First, another hypothetical situation: let's say I started my own clothing line. What should I call it? Anonymous Attire? TABWear? BobWear? Suggestions are welcome.

Second, I know someone out there is reading this from Martha Stewart's company. I'm secretly hoping it's Martha herself, which would make today's topic an even more fun read.

Third, the Flash TV series from 1994 is coming to DVD. Nerds like me get excited about this sort of thing.

On to today's topic: This is going to be one of THOSE types of posts. So, if you're easily offended, um, tough noogies. It's my blog.

Ladies, nothing says "I love you" to that special man like a spontaneous blowjob.

If he's sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper or watching the football game from the couch, just go up to him with a big smile, pull down his pants, and go down on him. He'll be grateful. Believe me. He wouldn't even care if you were entertaining guests at that time.

For a man to do the equivalent for women, he'd have to come home with flowers, candy and jewelry. To do this, ladies, you wouldn't have to spend a dime.

And for all you lesbian couples, nothing says "I love you" to that special woman like a camcorder and a streaming video setup.

Okay I'll stop now.

Come to Tuesday Night Trivia at the Baggot Inn this week. Some fool co-hosts.

I got another e-mail response on the Nerve personals. Another woman hotlisted me, and when I e-mailed her, she responded that she was pursuing another relationship. For those keeping track, this was the exact same case with the last woman who hotlisted me. All those who believe in online matching service conspiracy theories, raise your hand. (I'm raising my own hand).

Congrats to Val and Jon on their wedding today! Your mother told me to tell you that she wants the first kid in the next nine months. Or maybe that was my mother. I forgot.

Hypothetically, let's say there's a 34 year old male and a 23 year old female. They're both pretty normal people. Is it okay for the male to ask the female to a dinner date? I'm taking opinions.

I went to see the movie "Good Night and Good Luck" yesterday. I won't give an in-depth review save to say that I did enjoy it, but I wonder if the gay porn version of the same m0vie would be called "Good Night and Good Fuck" and feature a sex scene between Edward R. Murrow and Senator McCarthy. Of course, that would be their choice. Okay I'll stop now.

It's time for one of those lame Friday nights in that us cool people do (usually involving laundry). For the benefit of all my new Village Voice fans, I will give some random dating thoughts (some of which have been expressed on the blog before):

Men have it tougher in dating than women. They plan. They ask. They pay. Women only have to show up. Yes, there are exceptions, but for the most part the aforementioned is the case. I think women should take more initiative and ask men out.

When women get dressed up for dating, they're doing it for themselves. Not for men.

My most recent dating escapade involved being invited down to Philadelphia by a woman for wine, cheese, and the "let's be friends" speech.

The "let's be friends" speech is bogus to begin with. None of the women who want to be my friend would lend me fifty bucks.

There is porn for women. Examples of this include Oprah, Cosmopolitan Magazine, the Oxygen Network, and Carrie Pilby.

On these online profiles, why do so many women want a bottle of wine on the first date? Do they really want to get drunk at that time?

Thanks to Dave, Phil, and Esther for the shout out. Esther's hosting an improv dating thing in March. Details on her blog.

The official link is up. Thanks to the Village Voice and Joel for the publicity. My hit count has increased a lot as a result. To all you new Village Voice people surfing in here, leave a comment and buy Caren's novella.

And here's the dating post I promised:

I like dating California women.

It has nothing to do with being blonde or having a bubble-bod or anything like that. It has more to do with the attitude.

I think the constant good weather of the sunshine state affects the brain (and I mean that in a good way). Or maybe this is the case with every other state and New York/New Jersey simply has an added dose of extra cynicism.

The Cali women I've dated have been more forthcoming, more honest, more ebullient, more optimistic, and easier to converse with. In contrast, with the East Coast women I have dated, the first and second dates have been like a chess match, where we are trying to guess what the other person's actual motive is for their last statement.

I just finished Yom Kippur services, and I even noticed this attitude with our rabbi, who is a transplanted native Californian. He peppers his sermons with jokes. My favorite from today was this: a boy goes to his grandmother and asks what her age is. She responds "I'm holding at 39". He then asks, "What age would you be if you let go?"

Perhaps the West Coast is just as jaded, but they hide it better. Perhaps if my relationships with them lasted longer, I would see more chinks in the armor (they tend to not like the jaded, cynical me). But the first dates are always fun.

And that's today's dating analysis. Any questions? You, who just surfed in from the Village Voice, did you raise your hand?

UPDATE for all you Village Voice folk: thanks for surfing on over here from the ad on page 48 (although it would have helped if they included the link). For your benefit, I will talk about dating tomorrow. Honest. Please visit again tomorrow.

I constantly have these great ideas that other people steal.

For example, in the early to mid 90's, I thought "The Producers" would make a great stage musical (as it was originally intended). I even conceptualized a few songs ("The King of Broadway" is a direct rip off of my idea for "Bialystock the King". Mind you, my concept diverged because I kept the character of L.S.D. in the show). A few years later, Mel Brooks steals my idea for stealing his idea.

Then, on the last page of the "Infinite Crisis" comic book that was just released, yet another idea of mine was stolen.

It is for this reason that I have to get that novel published a.s.a.p. before someone steals that idea too.

(P.S. 3000 words finished today at work. I'm up to 66,000. There's nothing like getting your Internet access restricted at the same time you hit an important part of the book when things flow again)

Tonight, I cheated on someone.

Specifically, I cheated on the Baggot Inn and Tuesday Night Trivia. Instead, I went to the Trivia Night at the Liberty Bar in Hoboken, which is closer to my home.

I must say I found the Trivia there unsatisfying. It was slow, long, and hard. If it was sex, I would have found it most satisfying. But it wasn't sex. It was trivia.

Maybe I'll go again. Maybe not. It depends on if I'm in the mood for it.

I went on a writing binge today. I'm up to 60,000 words. Some of which I even like. The goal remains 85,000 words.

60,000 words is an important milestone because that's where another major event happens. For a while I was struggling with things to write. Now it should flow smoothly for quite possibly the remainder of the book.

How do writers do it? How do they pump out a novel? I think I've been working on this for five or six months already, and it's only the first draft. I loathe about half the stuff I've written, but I still keep writing it just to keep the plot moving along. I'll work out logical inconsistencies during revisions. Plus, I haven't done a lick of research for it. That'll come later. Maybe.

Mind you, I fully expect this story to be purchased by nobody. I will collect my rejection letters and use them to wallpaper my office.

In related news, Caren is doing a reading on December 1st. See her blog for details.

And now, the new two reviews:

Family Guy: the Stewie Griffin Story: disappointing. There were a few cute scenes, but overall I find the show somewhat disappointing since its rescue from cancellation. Rather than intelligent toilet humor, the show seems to stick to unintelligent toilet humor, like your average Adam Sandler movie. There are clever tidbits, such as the view of Condeleeza Rice during her college years, but I was overall unimpressed. However, I'll keep watching the show in hopes of improvement.

Carrie Pilby's New Year's Resolution: what a smeggingly fantasic novella. I don't even need to read the other two short stories in the anthology "Scenes From a Holiday". This one had me hooked. When Carrie single-handedly fought the army of Ninja Cyborgs on the Las Vegas strip. Sheer genius. I was stunned at the social commentary when Carrie went back in time to design the city of Atlantis and poor construction of the levees in the surrounding dams caused the city to sink beneath the ocean. When Carrie quantum leaped into the body of Monica Lewinsky? Brilliant. When Carrie travelled to another dimension and fought her evil counterpart? Superb. When Carrie burned down the house formerly owned by Yassir Arafat? Excellent.

Okay, none of that actually happened in the novel. It was a good read, and I enjoyed it very much. I recognize much of the dating philosophy of the main character from commentary on this board as well as personal discussions with Caren. I also saw certain references that gave me a chuckle, such as "Lunch Club".

Of course, any review of the novella I give could be said to be biased, so I encourage everybody to read it for yourselves and decide.

Due to the crappy weather, I decided to stay in tonight. I was invited to something, but decided to cancel. I went out on Friday, so the feeling of being a stay-at-home loser was kind of diminished.

If I didn't mention it before, I joined Nerve.com for a month. I had some credit there and decided to use it. I redeemed my points for a gold membership and am sending out some e-mails. Hopefully, I'll get some funny stories out of it. In fact, here's one now.

One woman put me on her hotlist, so I e-mailed her. She e-mailed me back. Here is some of her letter, edited for privacy's sake:

You rightly noticed that I'd placed you on my "hotlist" at the new and improved Nerve personals site--and I see why: you seem really intelligent and attractive.

I'm actually seeing someone right now, and while I am not clear where that's going, I am clear that it is, for the moment, exclusive.

I wrestled with this, and asked some friends, and I'm told that it is OK cyber-dating etiquette to say the following: I would like to meet you in the future if at some time we are both single.

Hopefully that doesn't seem like a weird thing to say. In any case, I wish you good luck on nerve.
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I responded to her saying that I appreciated her e-mail and if she wanted to get together for a friendly chat to let me know.

So what would have been your reaction?

This will be one of those long, rambling posts where I do some self-analysis to try and vent from a very shitty beginning of a Jewish New Year.

Sometimes things set me off, such as a name spoken or a gesture taken. I am suddenly flooded with anxiety or anger or fear or elation or a combination of them. I've been told that I feel too much. It may be true. Throughout my life, I've always had poor self-control with regards to this.

I was asked tonight about the "picky" comment that was said to me a few days ago. Here's the short version: I worked in community theater with a woman whom I fancied (and I have fancied many a woman over the years). I never tried anything because I knew would say "no" based on my conversation with her. She's now 36, married, and pregnant with her first child. She complained she was "late" (as in, late to getting pregnant).

I rolled my eyes and said sardonically, "Yeah, you're late".

She responded "You're just too picky."

Picky? PICKY? She didn't know anything about me. We hadn't spoken in a few years, but she tells me I'm picky. I suppose I should take it as a compliment, since she's telling me that I actually have a selection of women. But if I'm so great, why didn't SHE pursue me? It's like getting the "you're a nice guy, but" speech (which translates in my mind to "I'd fuck a lot of guys, but you're not one of them").

I was reminded of an incident at the last wedding I attended, where I was discussing my lack of dating, and my sister-in-law called me a wimp. I got so mad that I gave her an overly harsh and very meaningful "fuck you". Two of them, in fact. I made her cry at the wedding.

In the "picky" instance, I just said "I'm not going there", and the topic was changed. I suppose I could have handled it with greater aplomb. In comparison to the past, I handled it with deft elegance.

I'm not single because I'm picky. I'm not single because I'm a wimp. I'm single because I can't control how other people react or feel. I can only accept it. I'm single because I lack some sort of charismatic spark that a lot of other lucky bastard guys have. Finally, I'm single because I didn't try very hard until after I turned 30, because I wasn't ready then. Try learning the lessons of your teenage and college years while everyone else gets married. As I find, I'm still learning.

Another issue is my self-control. At the risk of promoting stereotypes, I react like a woman. I think it comes from being my mother's child. My self-control has improved over the years, but is far from perfect. I react sometimes like the immature, spoiled brat. You can tell when you've set me off, because I mentally retreat and don't react at all.

I judge myself by comparing myself to other people and finding them to be smarter, stronger, faster, and more charismatic. In short, I judge people by how much better they are than me.

I don't want to compete. I lose the competition then beat myself up for losing. I just want to be me.

So I go into the office after Rosh Hashanah and find my Internet access restricted again (third time in a year and a half, I think). I wasn't the only person in the office to have this either. I know of one other. I think it's kind of cowardly to do it when I'm out, but such is life. This time, according to the powers that be, it's permanent.

This means that I'll be restricted to home or wherever I can catch a free hotspot for blogging and other Internet-related activities. I won't be reachable via home e-mail during the day. I can still probably sneak out once or twice during the workday and use the free hotspot a block away (if smokers can take a break, so can I), but it's not the same. Plus, the weather is getting colder.

What this means for you: virtually no comments during the day, plus fewer posts altogether. I'm probably going to cut down on my blog posts because I'm sometimes busy at night and can't necessarily get to the computer and do a post before going to sleep. The good news is that when I want a distraction at work, I can work on my novel, unless I'm also eventually restricted from Microsoft Word.

Still have to post about the "picky" comment. And about Caren's novella.

Another Rosh Hashanah come and gone. As usual, I ate too much.

I skipped my improv class and went to the Lolita Bar to watch Caren debate a woman named Boni on the relative merits of New Jersey vs. New York (can you believe it's been a year since I started going to debates for the Jinx Society? That first debate was quite memorable. I doubt I'll ever forget that night. But enough of that...).

I wanted to give a running play-by-play of the debate, but Blogger chose that moment to be down for maintenance. Here's the run down: Caren put Boni in a side headlock, which Boni kicked out off. Boni tried pulling Caren's hair, but the moderator Todd saw it and put a stop to it.

After several minutes of back-and-forth, including a few moonsaults, some hurricanratas, an STF, and a backslide, Caren finally put Boni in a sleeper hold. She would have won too, but the moderator Todd took a barstool and wacked them both on the sides of the head, knocking them out. He screamed "CONNECTICUT RULES" as he ran out the door.

What will happen now? You'll have to go to the Jinx Society meeting on the first Wednesday in November to find out.

LIVE FROM MY BROTHER'S HOUSE, IT'S THE BRIS BLOG!

I'm going to sneak away from the ceremony whenever I can to give a live play-by-play of Denephew's bris. This will be exceptionally difficult since I'm trying to keep the blog a secret from the family.

It is now 2:38 PM.

2:50 PM: The guests have started arriving for the removal of Denephew's manhood.

4:15 PM: The ceremony is over. Tried to save Denephew by grabbing him during part of the ceremony and leaping out the window. Sadly, the window was some sort of tough plexiglass and I slammed into it and slid down with a loud squeaking noise. The baby was unharmed. Until the actual ceremony, where he was harmed.

Now, we eat.

5:20 PM: Most of the guests have left. Many presents have to be opened. Denephew is sleeping. He probably won't remember this. If he did, he sure wouldn't be able to sleep.

Remind me to write about the woman who told me tonight that I'm too picky with regards to the opposite sex. It kind of set me off.

I will write the wrap-up for this post later tonight.

8:35 PM: The bris, party and clean-up are done. I remained to help carry and clean. I grow weary of my role in the family of "old reliable". It's like being called the "nice guy" by a woman as she is dumping you. I yearn to act like an asshole.

Circumcision was definitely invented by a woman. Even with the threat of disease or infection, I don't know of any guy who would willingly get the tip of his penis cut off. People tell me that it's a tradition that dates back to King Solomon. I respond "No, it's a tradition that dates back to King Solomon's WIFE".

I find the entire concept barbaric. With modern medical technology, there must be an alternative method of prevention. Hearing Denephew scream for what seemed an eternity makes me not want to have children of my own. Or change my religion. Or both.

I hate the Jewish high holidays, but not for the reasons you think.

I mean, sure services are boring, and there are only so many times you can play your Gameboy or Ipod during services or heckle the Rabbi's speech before you're thrown out yet again, but there's another reason for my dislike.

Ever since I was a wee bairn, I went to services in the same synagogue. The same faces, and many new ones, appeared over the years. It has come to the point that services remind me of the stagnancy of my life.

All my peers have moved away, had kids, and gotten on with life while my status remains the same. Sure, I've changed jobs and moved somewhere else, but it's always the case of "this one is engaged, this one had her second child" etc., etc.

Why do I put myself through the same aggravation every year? Because I love my family more than words can convey.

L'shana Tova to all whom such a statement is applicable.

By the way, one of us was just asked to be the Godfather of Denephew. Here's a hint: it wasn't you.

Friendster now has a feature in which you can view anybody who has looked at your profile. You know who's been viewing me? Nobody. Story of my life.

On Friday night, I went somewhere with two people that was frightening.

On Saturday, I went on a fishing trip with some people from work. I didn't actually fish, but I did turn bright red as a result. On a side note, Cape May is gorgeous and I'm considering a road trip there at some point. Afterwards, I saw Denephew. On Saturday night, I saw the movie Serenity.

SPOILER WARNING

SERENITY, the review - I dragged along a friend who wasn't into sci-fi, westerns, or horror. Nor was she a fan of the short-lived series "Firefly" on which the movie is based. Not surprisingly, she didn't like the movie. She thought it was too dark and violent for her. I mention this to give an alternative opinion before I start kissing Joss Whedon's ass.

WHAT A GREAT MOVIE! It was my kind of movie. Smart, funny, action-packed, and with the most clever writing I'd seen in any movie in a long time. I think Joss Whedon's mastery of dialogue alone is reason to see this movie. Of course, it helps that he created the characters.

You can look up the backstory online. It's a future story, involving spaceships. The culture of the galaxy is an amalgamation of the old West of United States history and China (which is why Chinese lettering appears all over the place in the future and people curse in Chinese). Even the music in the opening credit of the movie is a western tune done with Chinese overtones.

One of the complaints from my friend about the movie is that the Simon/River relationship seems a little incestuous. I argue that given the different culture, perhaps that's normal in the future. Plus, they're flying in a spaceship. Jeez.

I confess I would have liked a little more background on the Reavers. How can such a barbaric culture be so organized as to get along and fly spaceships? If you get bitten by one, do you turn into a Reaver? One cool aspect of the movie is that much of the Reaver violence is done off-camera, leaving their barbarism to the imagination.

Two characters who regularly appeared in the short-lived series die. One was the voice of reason and wisdom. The other was the witty jokester. One was killed by the Alliance. The other was killed by the Reavers. I think Joss was trying to say something about the nature of evil. By killing cast members, it does give the message that this is a movie rather than a television show.

Since this movie was made more for fans of the show and genre fans in general, I doubt it will do well (as of this writing, it was #2 at the Box Office with a take of $10 million). But, for the genre, it's the best example since "Star Wars" and "Raiders of the Lost Ark".

I could write a lot more about this movie, but I'll leave it at this: if anybody out there hasn't seen the movie yet and wants someone to go with, I'd see it again in a heartbeat.

Two topics to write about in the near future: an advance review of Caren's latest novella (which can be purchased here) and circumcision.