My dad, the over-protective Jew, had a couple of mantras. One was never ride on the back of a motorcycle. Another, never go for a ride in a small plane.
Uh-oh. I did both. Behind his back.
By the way, I can say Jew, because I am one. You can’t. I mean, if you’re not. Just saying.
The girlfriends I made growing up were the ones who went to school on Jewish holidays, along with the other six kids in Beverly Hills who weren’t Jewish. I don’t know why, but I was drawn to gentiles. I’ll be making a point in a second. I often went with these friends and their families to church, and never once, including with my own family, did I enter a temple. I wasn’t a religious churchgoer; I just sort of tagged along on a Sunday morning if it followed a sleepover the night before. Trust me; even then, I never wanted to wake up before noon.
On many weekends, I was the guest of my best friend Susie at the Gun Club. Yeah, that’s right, Gun Club. A Jew at a gun club is an oxymoron. Susie and I made an odd couple – she, the athletic tomboy, and me, the undersized neurotic Jew. Here’s how different we were. For her 13th birthday, Susie’s parents gave her a rifle, a Browning 22, along with deodorant, an ironing board and an iron. She remembers walking to Kerr’s Sporting Goods, at the corner of Peck & Wilshire, across from Saks Fifth Avenue, with her rifle wrapped in brown paper, so that she could get it fitted to her size. On my thirteenth birthday, the doorbell rang and a bouquet of red roses was delivered with a note from my dad telling me how beautiful I was. If you want to see just how beautiful, check out the photo below! (more…)
