I was half of a pair; my friend Liz was an angel, which although factually less accurate was a good fashion move since she’s half-Puerto Rican and has beautiful dark skin and I vaguely resemble the inner contents of a milk carton. We spent the morning with the rest of the girls listening to a valiant few lain (which is basically reading in a tune) Megillat Esther (i.e. the book of the Bible we read on Purim) aloud and then headed off to the Jewish Quarter of the Old City (aka “the Rovah”), where we discovered that a girl named Tovah (Tovah from the Rovah!!) was having a party. We promptly invited ourselves and got plastered among other be-costumed Jerusalem-dwelling strangers in Tovah’s apartment, a ridiculously well-located domicile with an unparalleled view of the center of the city, a view which was made infinitely more astonishing by the appearance of a rainbow.

Imbued with the magic of pretty colors and vodka, we then set off for the Burger King on the hugely touristy promenade of Ben Yehuda Street, where we ran into a guy I knew from camp. For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to rant to him about some guy I’d hooked up with the year before who was pissing me off. I still have no idea how or why this happened.

Then I ate a hamburger. The rest is sort of a blur.

I know what you’re thinking–what a shameless lush weirdo Dahl is, parading around in odd outfits and yelling at people–but no! Actually, most of my behavior (not the screaming part–sorry, Solly) was quite in the spirit of the holiday!

And that’s because Purim is the most awesome holiday ever.

Like all the other wacky we stuff we do, the Purim traditions are steeped in the Bible–in this case, that little book at the back I referred to earlier called The Book of Esther. The gist of the story in said book is this: A billion years ago in the exotic land of Persia, there lived a king named Akhashverosh (usually transliterated as Ahasuerus but I’m not sure why) and his wife, this chick named Vashti. One day, Akhashverosh got plastered during one of his parties and demanded that Vashti be paraded in front of everyone but she refused. (There are a couple of legends here–that he wanted her to come out naked, that she had a tail, etc.) As a result, she got banished and Akhashverosh began the search for a new queen vis a vis a beauty contest between all the hotties of the kingdom.

Now, in the kingdom there was a Jewish guy named Mordechai whose orphaned cousin Hadassah was a total babe. Hadassah, who then became Esther, which I guess is more Persian (like Ishtar) and also means something about hiding yourself in Hebrew, has no choice but to offer herself up. Now, I know what you’re thinking–no chick named Esther can be hot. I mean, maybe she was hot 80 years ago, but now she just sits in Miami and plays Mah-Jongg. But you’re wrong! First of all, the hottest girl in my grade in high school was Persian, so, picture that. Second of all, Esther is my namesake; if ever you’ve wondered what the E in DahlELama stands for, well, now you know.

But I digress.

Esther entered the contest, and due to her total babe-ocity, she kicked ass and became queen, all the while hiding her horns underneath that lustrous Persian hair of hers.

And now, flash to a random scene where Mordechai overhears two guys plotting to kill Akhashverosh and tells him. Akhashverosh is very grateful and writes it in his diary like the good teenage girl he is. And now, flash back!

Now, while this stuff is going down, Akhashverosh gets himself a new vizier, who’s a total prick. Picture Jafar with a three-cornered hat. (Yes, for some reason we decided that his hat has three corners. Both our traditional Purim cookie, Hamantaschen, and one of the traditional Purim songs are based on this fact.) Anyway, Jafar, whose name was actually Haman, instituted a law that everyone had to bow down to him, but we Jews are stubborn and Mordechai, who’s basically chilling in the courtyard of the palace 24/7 to babysit his cuz, refused.

This pissed Haman off immensely and he decided to kill all the Jews, because that’s obviously the natural reaction.

So, he cast a lottery (i.e. a Pur in Hebrew, hence “Purim,” which is the plural) and the 13th of the month of Adar came up the winner of Holocaust Day Bingo. He tells the whole capital city of Shushan and it results total chaos. Somehow, Esther remains totally clueless as to what’s going on until she hears that Mordechai is publicly mourning in the courtyard, but she goes out to ask what’s up and he tells her that they’re all gonna die and she needs to save all their asses.

He tells her she has to go to the king, but she’s all “uh, he’ll kill me.” Whatevs. Anyway, she finally decides yeah, what the hell, my life blows anyway. She fasts for three days and gets all the other Jews to do it too and then goes to the king. Turns out, he’s totally jazzed to see her even though he hasn’t summoned her to his bedside in like a month and tells her she can have whatever she wants. Perfect opening for her to be like “stop this decree and cut off Haman’s nuts,” right? WRONG. Instead, she invites him and Haman to a private party.

ZOMG totally unexpected.

Anyway, Esther clearly throws a rockin’ shindig because Akhashverosh tells her she can have whatever she wants. Again, perfect opening, right? Which, of course, just means Esther invites them to another party.

So Haman is feeling like more awesome than Regina George before she got hit by that bus, and when he feels awesome, it means Mordechai really needs to die, so he erects a 50-foot gallows on which to hang him because, sure, why not. That night, Akhashverosh gets insomnia, and I guess warm milk and porn weren’t invented yet because instead he asks for his diary. While reading it, he realizes that Mordechai saved his life and he never did crap for him. Then, he basically freaks out because he hears someone in the courtyard, but it turns out it’s just Haman and instead asks him how he can honor someone awesome. Haman, thinking he’s going to be the subject of the king’s honor, suggests that the honoree get all bedazzled in royal clothing and paraded around on a horse.

I will not address how incredibly lame it is that Robin Williams basically popped out of a lamp and offered Jafar anything he wanted and this is what he chose, but really, come on. Anyway, the king likes this idea, probably because it’s cheaper than the all-expenses paid trip to Disneyworld Haman should’ve asked for, and says “Sweet, go do this crap for Mordechai, Sucka!”

Anyway, the second party happens, and Esther finally tells Akhashverosh that there’s a guy in his kingdom who’s looking to destroy her people. The king, who possessed the insight and leadership qualities of a Middle-Eastern Dubya, asked WTF she was talking about, at which point she pulled a whole dramatic “what has two index fingers and is trying to kill the Jews? That guy!” move and Akhashverosh got so pissed off he…went for a walk.

Badass.

Haman and Esther are alone so in all his manly manliness, Haman decides to beg like a seven-year-old girl who’s just discovered a Dora backpack at Wal-Mart, literally throwing himself on her, uh, mercy. The king returns, thinks Haman was trying to bang his wife (which, maybe he was? Who knows), and orders him killed. Enter the eunuch Charvona, whose only role in this  book is to conveniently inform Akhashverosh that hey! There’s actually already a perfectly good gallows out there!

That’s right; karma’s a bitch. Haman and his ten sons totally got hanged on Mordechai’s gallows. Game over.

Only not! Because the decree still existed and apparently signet ring ink is not erasable. So instead of taking it back, it’s decreed that the Jews are now allowed to gather up and defend themselves, so they basically spent two days kicking all sorts of ass and now we’re still alive. As a result, we do a bunch of things to celebrate, including:

1. Get plastered. The official custom is to get drunk “Ad D’Lo Yadah” which literally means “until you don’t know,” and refers to getting so wasted that you can’t tell the difference between Haman and Mordechai. Why you wouldn’t want to be able to distinguish the difference between the two is a little beyond me, but whatever.
2. Give people packages of food. These are called “Mishlo’ach Manot” and they’re freakin awesome. Traditionally, these are generally full of some combo of candy, the traditional Purim cookie called “Hamantaschen”, and maybe wine, although people really love doing themes. “Breakfast” is one that’s wildly popular with people who think they’re wildly original, which gets me a lot of single-serving coffee bags I don’t really want.
3. Give money to poor people, aka “Matanot L’Evyonim.”
4. Get dressed up in costume. When the Jews are fighting back, kicking ass, and taking names on the very day they were supposed to be exterminated, it says “V’Nahafokh Hu,” which basically means “Switcheroo!” And so, topsy-turveyness ensues and I proceed to wear the same Queen Esther costume for many, many years.
5. Have a big meal, aka “Purim Se’udah.”

How am I celebrating, you ask, because I am so wonderfully interesting? Well, I’ll tell you! First of all, I found an old floppy hat I had with a flower on the brim which gave me the inspiration to dress up like Blossom. Then I realized I have nothing else for this costume. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that if I just wear the hat, people will still know who I’m supposed to be, so I think I’m going to take advantage of my peers’ 90s nostalgia and rock the flower like nobody’s biz.

Secondly, I’ll be making totally uncute mishlo’ach manot because really, who has time for this crap? My husband made hamantaschen though, which are delicious, and those will be making an appearance in the little plastic boxes we bought to give out to our friends. There will probably also be chocolate, because it’s easy and I like eating the leftovers. I will also be doing the less fun things of listening to the Megillah being lained at synagogue, both on Saturday night and on Sunday morning because that’s just how it works; giving money to poor people (which is nice but admittedly not fun, per se); and also fasting on Thursday, because that’s a thing too. (Fun facts: Ta’anit Esther, which is the name of this particular fast, is the only one of the six annual fasts that is in commemoration of a happy occasion. I suspect that this is why many people ignore it. Traditionally, it falls out the day before Purim, but because fasting is forbidden on the Sabbath, when Purim falls out on a Sunday as it does this year, the fast is the Thursday before.)

And finally, I will be throwing a Purim Se’udah at my apartment for 15 people. For those foodies who’d like to know what’s on the menu and why, I share the following:

• Homemade challah, because my husband’s been on a challah-making binge and because every holiday meal is supposed to begin with challah
• Chicken wontons and sweet potato kreplach (which are also basically wontons) with apricot dipping sauce, because Purim has this whole thing with “hidden miracles” and so this is stuff wrapped in stuff
• Minute roast, because it’s been in my freezer forever and I need to get rid of it
• Jambalaya, because Purim is always somewhere around Mardi Gras
• Garlic-ginger-glazed chicken wings, because I didn’t feel like cleaning bigger chicken pieces and there are always those annoying people who don’t eat red meat
• Sweet potatoes with vanilla rum sauce, because it’s got liquor
• Drunken noodles with tofu, because it’s got liquor and I’ve got two vegetarians coming
• Some weird quinoa stew with squash, because that’s what my friend offered to make and I really didn’t want to cook any more for vegetarians
• Persian rice, because that’s what another friend offered to make and this whole thing took place in Persia
• Napa cabbage salad, because it’s easy and girls like salad
• Veggie slaw, because…I’m actually still not sure. I just thought we needed another vegetable thing and this sounded cheap and easy.
• Hamantaschen, because, well, if you don’t know why, you should probably have read the post
• Ad D’Lo Yadah cake–seriously, that’s what it’s called in the kosher cookbook. It’s chock full of Amaretto and vodka, then iced with some more.
• Copious amounts of beer, wine, and liquor, because if you leave the meal sober, you’ve done something wrong.

And that’s that. Happy Purim, everybody!

We’ve looked odd for praying in public, we’ve planned trips around kosher food access, and we’ve asked people to hold keys, push elevator buttons, and let us open our own wine bottles. Honestly, at this point, I can longer explain all the things I do, and I have never been able to say with complete 100% certainty that I am sure there is a God. Intellectually, I suppose you would say I’m an Agnostic, because no, I don’t think you can prove there is a God, and there’s no part of me that believes that it’s rational or moral to believe that it is. But I don’t care, because I like what being religious–or, perhaps, observant is a better word–has done for me. It ensured that there would be at least one day a week in which I would spend time with my father, because even though work had him coming home around ten or eleven every night, Sabbath forbade him from taking time away from his family on Friday night and Saturdays. It gave me a community that felt like a home away from home at a college that is notorious for, well, feeling like anywhere but home. I could go on, but there’s no point–all I really mean to say is that I like being an Orthodox Jew, not because I “need God in my life” but because I like what it has given to my life. Had I not been born into it, I don’t think I would have ever sought it out–I find religious observance neither a necessity nor a virtue–but I was, and I find it agrees with me.

However, like I said, my husband is a little more religious. This manifests itself in ways that are generally irrelevant, like that fact that he prays every morning donning a tallis and tefillin (i.e. a prayer shawl and phyllacteries) or wears a yarmulke everywhere, even to work. Occasionally, this manifests itself in ways that erupt in little disagreements, like when we discover that we’ve accidentally left the refrigerator light on over the Sabbath and I don’t give a rat’s ass but he thinks we should immediately take out all the food we need for that meal so that we don’t need to open the fridge again. To these incidents, I have my stock response: “Leave me the hell alone when what I’m doing in no way affects you.” And no matter how many times he gets annoyed about it, to his credit, he does.

There’s something about that stock response that holds a ton of weight to me. I am doing what I think is acceptable, what I think makes sense. I do not have a problem with my actions, I do not consider them a sin, and I am not asking to be rebuked or even saved. So F off.

Even the most religious of us pick and choose when it comes to our religious observance, whether it’s praying every single morning that you’re cheating people and charitable foundations out of tens of millions of dollars, or committing murder to combat immodesty, or condemning homosexuality while committing adultery. Sometimes, it’s as simple as refusing to turn on the TV on the Sabbath but being OK with opening a fridge with the light on. And yet, on the whole, despite the fact that essentially every religious person displays enormous hypocrisy in some form or another, nearly everyone who claims to be representing religion in the public eye seems to pick and choose the exact same Thou Shalt Nots. Thou shalt not love who you want to love. That shalt not marry whom you want to marry. Thou shalt not abort a fetus even if you are in no condition to care for it, even if giving birth to it will endanger your life, even if you fit into every freaking one of the State of Oklahoma’s Thirty-Seven Excellent Reasons Why Not.

But they do not speak for everyone. Because many, many of us have picked and chosen in a completely different fashion. Many of us have abstained from sex before marriage, but fully believe that accurate sex education needs to be taught in schools (which it was in my Yeshiva high school, by the way) and that easy access to condoms and other contraceptives is an extremely important issue. Many of us follow everything from Leviticus to observing the Shemitah year in Israel to not getting tattoos, but refuse to accept the description of the act of homosexual love as an abomination and 1000% support gay marriage. Many have us have chosen to support a woman’s right to choose. Period.

In case you haven’t guessed, I count myself among those “many.” As far as I’m concerned (and yes, I am confessing that I have strongly Libertarian leanings), all people need to be treated like me and my troublesome refrigerator–leave them the hell alone when what they’re doing in no way affects you. On the whole, Gays and women seeking abortions are doing what they think is acceptable, what they think makes sense. They do not have a problem with their actions, they do not consider them a sin, and they are not asking to be rebuked or even saved. This means that it does not fucking matter if you find “opposite marriage” unacceptable because your Bible says so. You pick and choose every fucking day. So pick basic civil rights. Pick equality for everyone. Choose to let a woman save her own life, whether literally or metaphorically. Choose to try to “fix” someone who steals or cheats, not someone who is looking for happiness with the person they love. Choose to discard “homosexuality is an abomination unto the Lord” the same way you’ve chosen to discard “Do not wear clothing woven of two kinds of material.” Pick and choose basic human decency over being afraid of something you just don’t understand. Pick someone’s brain about what it’s like to be discriminated against. Choose not to be an ignorant asshole claiming to represent the entire religious right.

Because I am one of the religious right, and you sure as hell do not represent me.

Well, lo and behold, one night, the original came on in the car, and I must admit, I liked the original as well. However, I argued, I still think there’s merit to the cover.

“But it’s not good!” bitched Herr Lama.

“It doesn’t even sound that different,” I pointed out.

“Then what’s the point?” asked Adon Lama.

Here, he believed he had trapped me, but he was wrong, because I then proceeded to describe how the songs conveyed different emotions (weariness vs. angry frustration, etc.) and therefore served different purposes, which made it a valid cover, and naturally, a discussion of what constituted a valid cover followed shortly. In brief, my feelings were thus: covers are valid* if they

A) bring a totally different sound (e.g. if they’re performed in a different genre or by someone of a different gender), or

B) bring something new to the general message, feeling, or expression of the song, or

C) take a really well-written song by someone who’s lyrically and musically gifted but vocally not so much and make it palatable to the general masses

*Valid, in this case, meaning it is acceptable that they were created. Please note, however, that any destruction of songs or general suckage completely renders this validity null and void. Step the fuck away from the Nirvana catalog, Tori Amos. Yes, I’m looking directly at you.

That said, I bring you my favorite covers of all time (organized by category), and strongly encourage you to share yours (or eviscerate mine) in the comments:

Just Plain Awesome

1. All Along the Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix–because category C was pretty much created for Bob Dylan
2. Hallelujah by Rufus Wainwright–ditto for Leonard Cohen, or at least, according to my personal taste. I also don’t much care for the Jeff Buckley version, or the version by that chick who did it.
3. Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door by Guns ‘n Roses–see #1
4. Where Did You Sleep Last Night by Nirvana–originally called “In the Pines”
5. Hurt by Johnny Cash–This is one of those cases where I love both the original and the cover, but the emotions conveyed are so radically different that there is definitely room for two. Just don’t be one of those ignorant assholes who makes a stupid comment about how Nine Inch Nails ruined the song, because that gets a throat punching. Being older doesn’t always mean you got there first.
6. And I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston–you know how sometimes you find out something’s a cover and you’re incredibly shocked because there is simply no way that song could have ever been done right by anyone else? Well, no disrespect to the wonderful Dolly Parton, but that moment came for me with this song.
7. Video Killed the Radio Star by The Presidents of the United States of America–because I just can’t listen to the Buggles version but I love how the sentiment continues to ring true even as reality kills the video star
8. Live and Let Die by Guns ‘n Roses–what can I say? They make some good choices, and Axl may be crazy but he’s got outrageous pipes.
9. Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) by Marilyn Manson–a controversial choice, I know, but the second he roared “some of them want to use you,” I was so, so sold.
10. Higher Ground by The Red Hot Chili Peppers–no comments, just solid goodness. Anthony Kiedis, if you’re reading this, call me.

Best Gender-Benders

1. I Will Survive by Cake–this one definitely belongs in my top 10. Forget that I like sound and the minimalism of it; what gets me about this cover every time is what a great representation it is of the stereotypical male view of a bad breakup–it completely lacks the feelings of urgency and self-empowerment of the original and simply says, “whatever.” Listening to this song makes me want to break up with someone just so I can feel that kind of apathy. (And even if her reasons aren’t the same, I’m glad to see that LargeLimbedLady is on board with this choice!)
2. Baby, One More Time by Fountains of Wayne–this is more because I love Fountains of Wayne, but their mellow, acoustic version of the song that made Britney a star is as pleasurable to listen to as anything else they’ve got to offer.
3. Maybe I’m Amazed by Jem–OK, so this might be sacrilegious, but what can I say? I dig it.
4. Fell in Love With a Boy by Joss Stone–whatever happened to her, anyway?
5. Sweet Child ‘o Mine by Sheryl Crow–not because it’s great, but because it’s nowhere near as bad as it should’ve been, and for that, I respect her greatly. Limp Bizkit’s cover of “Behind Blue Eyes” falls under this category as well, but I can’t list it officially or I suspect Senor Lama will leave me.

Best Punk Covers, Using the Word “Punk” Liberally

1. 99 Red Balloons by Goldfinger–originally “99 Luftballoons,” so, obviously an improvement for those of us not fluent in German. Also, one of my favorite covers of all time.
2. Smooth Criminal by Alien Ant Farm–when you dare to dabble with the greats, sometimes it pays off.
3. Breathe by Smartbomb–makes me like Faith Hill just for OKing it
4. One Tin Soldier by Me First and the Gimme Gimmes–it’s really hard to narrow down the top of Me First and the Gimmes Gimmes, who, if you’re not familiar, cover pretty much every song in existence, from “The Phantom of the Opera” to the Cheers theme, to “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina.” Some are more successful than others, but this and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” are my favorites.
5. I Think I Love You by Less Than Jake–excellent for those with no attachment to the original
6. The Freshmen by Mustard Plug–I completely forgot about this one until I Googled punk covers to make sure I didn’t miss anything, since I don’t listen to these nearly as often as I used to, but I was obsessed with this one in high school, and, ya know, memories.

And what list of covers would be complete without mentioning the great atrocities of our time [which haven't already been ripped to shreds by the illustrious WhoreOutMyFurniture]?

The Worst of the Worst

1. Smells Like Teen Spirit by Tori Amos–No. Just no. This is everything that’s wrong with music in the whole world.
2. Faith by Limp Bizkit–because unless you’re being brutally attacked, that kind of screaming is just not necessary.
3. Satisfaction by Britney Spears–did enjoy the striptease though!
4. American Pie by Madonna–seriously, it was long enough the first time.

OK, I need to interrupt this already too-long post to say that the Israeli radio station I stream at work and just turned on for the first time all day was playing “I Will Survive” by Cake when I tuned it. Tell me that’s not fate. Go on, tell me.

Hmm, well, I guess that wasn’t an interruption because I think I’m done. Phew!

Boom by Anjulie (the original offender)

U R A Fever by the Kills (Gossip Girl)

I Hear the Bells by Mike Doughty (Veronica Mars)

Ashes by Embrace (Veronica Mars)

The World Should Revolve Around Me by Little Jackie (90210)

*Not even remotely close to the greatest scenes in recent television history, except maybe the first Veronica Mars song, which is also probably the best song of the bunch. Also, I’ve omitted any renditions of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah because it’s been so overdone, but Rufus Wainwright+The OC=magic.

For those who’ve never heard of it, it’s a website that allows you to input the name of a band or song, and then it creates a radio station for you based on the information you’ve input. For those who have heard of it, isn’t it great? My favorite stations of my creation are “Nirvana,” “Weezer,” and “The Eels,” but I’ve many, many more to go…

Below, three of my favorite Pandora “discoveries”:

The Seed (2.0) by The Roots

No Sissies by Hawksley Workman

You’re the One by The Black Keys

Whatever. There was no chance in hell I was going to like a friend of theirs.

I met Mike the first or second week of school. He lived a floor above me, looked nothing like I expected, and had clearly gotten more religious over the last year because he was certainly not kissing any girls by the pool at the bungalow colony as per all the stories. I was so surprised that this serious, lanky guy with a cutting sense of humor had been friends with the three dim-witted JAPs I’d lived with all summer that when we met, my first words to him were something along the lines of a disappointed “you’re not God.” Delightful, I know. I make a bad first impression--just ask my husband.

But I digress, because Mike and I ended up becoming really good friends, and I credit him with introducing me to two great bands: The Decemberists, who I really should’ve known anyway, and I Am Kloot. And now, Mike is married, has a baby, and we don’t talk as much as I’d like, but I still listen to I Am Kloot--which I stole off his laptop--on my iPod all the time. They’re one of the only bands I can play in the car who don’t piss off my husband, and I take that as a sign that they’re meant to be shared with the world. So, behold: I Am Kloot.