Author’s Note: I know I promised to reveal my pick for “”The One Summer Movie I Dragged My Ass Out to See” – but, sadly, the demands of my so called “real job” have prevented me from doing any real meaningful Seething. That is to say, any meaningful Seething, which I feel comfortable sharing on this blog. Ahem. Cough. Ugh. So instead, I’ve decided to share this classic Califronia Seething, in which I explore the sheer idiocy of my chosen artform with the hope of inspiring young people. Seriously, if just one aspiring theatre professional with stars in his eyes reads this post and decides to go to Law School instead, I’ll consider my work here done. I’m joking, of course! I love what I do, and if you are a young person who is interested in theatre, I encourage you to follow your heart. Hell, the job market is so totally crappy now that you’re hopelessly fucked no matter what field you go into, so you might as well be unemployed from doing something you might love. That way, at least you’ll be excited to interview for the jobs you don’t get. Enjoy!   OK, all kidding aside, it’s very important that all of you come see my show when it opens. Not just because the actors are amazing (which they are), and the director is brilliant (which he is) and the writer is halfway decent (name rhymes with Flakespear- and I don’t mean Blake Steer, renowned Cherokee porn star). You should all come because I’ve been working my ass off on this show for no money or hope of professional advancement and I need as many people as possible to validate this incredibly stupid and self destructive life choice that I’ve made....

When I want to sound cool and mysterious, I say I was raised in the desert. When I want to explain why I’m loud, stubborn, cynical, opinionated, dramatic, charming (in an overbearing sort of way), and obsessed with protecting my territory and feeding everybody hummus, I say I was raised in Israel. And when I’m listening to Californians whine like babies about the weather, I say I was raised in Albany. (Not to mention how I was shaped by all the crazy years spent on the New York theatre scene trying to “make it there” and, ipso facto, “anywhere”  during which time I worked as an Elf at Macy’s, cleaned up vomit at comedy clubs for stage time and tips and gave out sandwiches and fruit on the subway in the South Bronx for $50 a day + “donations” – but I’ll save all these tales of struggle for my motivational seminars: “Reach for the Stars — Fall on your Ass — Get a Real Fucking Job with Some Health Insurance” and “Artists Starve – Arts Administrators Get Fat, So Come to the Break Room of Life Like I Did and Grab Your Piece of the Pie (actually day-old birthday cake)”. Anyhow, the desert. The characters in Hari Kunzru’s Gods Without Men spend an awful lot of time schlepping around the desert looking for aliens. I spent my fair share of time schlepping around the Israeli desert as a young teenager, but I was just looking for snakes, lizards and scorpions to sell to the creepy American zoologist who lived in town. He said he was buying these critters for research, but I think he REALLY didn’t like falafel and hummus, if you catch my drift (He ate them. Fuck subtlety- I’m Israeli!). Anyhow,...

The small prop plane suddenly drops out of equilibrium, careening sharply into the volcano.  It swoops down, losing altitude as it tilts at a nearly 90 degree angle.  The three other passengers and I hold on for dear life certain that we’re about to crash into a crater.  A moment ago, we were placidly snapping photos of a cool geological feature.  Now we’re more or less certain that the volcano is the last thing we’ll ever see.  Steam jets from a crevasse that can’t be more than 20 feet away from us.  I can almost feel the heat. I’m one day into my 35th year and I’m about to die.  It’ll be like a bad joke:  Two Americans, an Australian, an Israeli, and an Austrian crash into a volcano. . .Of course. Every year, I like to do something interesting for my birthday.  I’ve confronted my religious prejudices, gone on the Dr. Phil show, skydiving.  All sorts of stuff.  This year, I decided to go camping in Alaska.  Up until this whole airplane incident, it had been going well.  I’d met new friends from England, Australia, Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Israel.  We’d all slogged through the rain to a vast glacier together, cooked together, gone kayaking with porpoises, seals and sea otters.  The group had surprised me with a birthday cake on my actual birthday and we’d eaten it on a beach, snowcapped mountains visible through a faint misting rain. Not bad.  Then I went and pushed my luck by signing up for this scenic bear viewing flight. It all started so promisingly.  We arrived at the airfield on time.  The pilot outfitted us with hip wading boots that would keep us dry as we tracked bears along a river.  We took off into...