This year Alex Butzbach has decided to celebrate each day of Hanukkah by honoring a different member of Wu-Tang Clan each day Day 2 (Ghostface Killah) I think I'm doing pretty well for a first timer. All I've consumed today is a Pretzel and some coffee. The pretzel was big and soft and came from the same glassed-in heating case that some bagels were in, so there was probably some transference via osmosis of Judo-Particulate Matter. Food: check. On Seinfeld, they were always in that fucking coffee shop. Drink: check. There were a fair amount of calories in that meal, so I don't need to worry about some Holocaust-survivor grandmother telling me that I'm too skinny and that I need to eat eat eat! The fact that today is the Ghostface Killah night of Hanukkah makes me think a lot about the traditions of my adopted people. Just like the Jews thought that there wouldn't be enough light in their temple to outlast whatever it was they were trying to outlast, the Wu-Tang Clan thought that their guns wouldn't have enough bullets to outlast the popularity of West Coast music. As luck would have it, like the Jews the Wu-Tang Clan says that Cash Rules Everything Around Me (C.R.E.A.M.). And like the Torah, the Wu-Tang Clan's B.I.B.L.E. gives them Basic Instructions Before I Leave Earth. Another famous Jew that I've been thinking about a lot lately is Albert Brooks. While you might remember him as the wholly flappable father-in-law to Michael Douglas' son in The In-Laws, others remember a proud little boy born into the Jewish faith as Albert Einstein in Beverly Hills, California in 1947. I'm not making that shit up. I can only imagine what it was like as a child growing up in rural, destitute Beverly Hills with a name like that. Actually, it was probably pretty cool. Other kids would probably see him do something dumb like fall off the teeter-totter, and they'd start to say, "Ha! Way to go, Einstein!" But before they could get the mocking name out of their mouths, the reality of the situation would cause their brains to implode. Little Albert then probably picked himself up, dusted himself off and crossed his arms in grim satisfaction. The equation "E=MC^2" would glow faintly above his head, and he'd have gotten like at least 657 Experience Points. He was then able to use Grimlock's Helm of Brutal Defeat and totally storm the Caverns of Dargoth. That last part was mostly taken from the Book of Judges in the Torah. I've been boning up on my Hebrew Scripture. Today's menorah candle is lit in honor of Regina Spektor. There's not really a lot to say about Ms. Spektor. She's just one of the many ladies born into the Jewish tradition which have stolen my heart. My last name might be German, but my ancestors from that country certainly came to the United States before World War II. I had nothing to do with it. That's all I'm saying. There's nothing as American as baseball, besides rampant consumerism and a fetish for capitalism. With that in mind, I believe that Jewish ballplayers are Living Treasures who ought to be on display in glass cages which hang from the ceiling of the Rotunda in Washington D.C. From there, tourists could marvel at what perfect American specimens these devout hurlers and mashers were. Try asking Kevin Youkilis if he gets on base more with or without his yarmulke on under his cap. I think the answer's pretty obvious. I just can't wait for the days when little Bobby Cho tugs on his father's sleeve while taking the sight in on a trip to the nation's capitol. He'll ask his father if he can go to Rabbinical School in the hope of becoming the next Sandy Koufax. His father would chuckle and tell his naive son that these days, it's much easier to simply take a gene sample from the perfectly preserved pitcher's stem cells and splice them with his own. But nice try, kiddo. My alimony payments wouldn't even come close to covering those school bills. Get real. Mazel Tov. U-God awaits. holiday review by Alex Butzbach