My Jewish family has our own special way of celebrating the holidays — we get really depressed. I don’t even really have a reason to get quite so depressed, but my dad always has, and my mother gets mad at him for this, and then she gets depressed about it, so there’s an infectious vibe of sadness in the house.

We have a fairly traditional Jewish Christmas — in the afternoon we go to the movies. At night we go out for food, either Chinese or KFC, and then we pile into the family sedan, barely fitting with all our winter coats and drive around New York looking for Christmas lights. I’m pretty sure my father hates these affairs. We never quite have a destination in mind and usually end up disappointed and lost. A few years ago, we discovered Dyker Heights in Brooklyn, which is where all the retired Italian mafia mansions are. These people know how to do Christmas decorations. It’s better than the windows at Lord & Taylor.

I decided to sidestep this whole ordeal and spend the first half of my break in Texas, trying to learn things about America that are obscured by my upbringing as a New York Jew. Mostly everything south of the Mason-Dixon line and everything pertaining to Christ. I was hoping that spending Christmas with a Catholic family would give me some insight about the world that would make me a better writer. I would’ve settled for getting a good story idea out of it too.

Spending time in Austin, however, was not the way to see the South. Austin is quite possibly the hippest town in the US. Other towns have HOV or bike lanes — Austin has a musician unloading lane. On a random Monday night I saw better jazz than I did on a Friday at the Village Vanguard in New York.

Austin is so progressive, they’re nearly in favor of electing Kinky Friedman, the Jewish Cowboy, for governor. A man who recorded the classic “They ain’t making Jews like Jesus anymore,” a song so offensive, even I declined to play it during a two-hour KZSU set of songs about Jesus. A man whose campaign slogans include “Why the hell not?” and “How hard could it be?” However, he has my vote for his “No teacher left behind” plan. No Child Left Behind deserves ridicule and teachers need better salaries, more respect and more freedom not to teach to a test. Ride ‘em, Jewish Cowboy.

University of Texas at Austin is so hardcore that their drag is populated by gutterpunks. I love gutterpunks. I almost wanted to give them hugs for being so dedicated to counterculture — then I realized how often they probably shower and thought better of it. The town is so cool that all the thrift shops got together to make a map for visiting hipsters to find their way to every bizarre vintage nook.

Thrift shops and me don’t get along as well as I’d like, though. Whenever I walk into one I get the distinct sense that I’m neither cool enough to be there ironically nor poor enough to be there out of necessity, so I end up feeling like a jerk for wanting to buy a suit for the sole purpose of wearing it to co-op parties. There’s a paradoxical minimum bar to entry: you need to already look the part to walk in the door. If you’re not wearing a vintage t-shirt and a beat up sports jacket, the other hipsters will engage you in a contest of sneering and looking disaffected at the same time, until I’m forced to leave like a disgraced Alpha Male. I always find myself wondering why the clothing is there in the first place. This is a dangerous mental game to play. Did the last owner use it to mop up carcinogens? Did they have lice? BO?

The only Texan part of the trip was driving three hours immediately after getting off the plane (making this drive to see a theatrical satirical lounge act was not). Three hours is apparently not a long drive when you live in a state larger than most sovereign nations. And everyone in Texas makes that drive in a giant truck. I saw Ford F-series trucks that looked large enough to have four-digit model numbers.

Oh, and eating at Whataburger. It’s like In-N-Out with an actual menu — not as good, but open 24 hours a day and located about every 5 miles on major highways. Whataburger is so beloved by Texans that it was declared a “Texas Treasure” by the state legislature (a governmental body designed for maximum inefficiency by only meeting for six months out of every two years). This fact is displayed proudly on the door of every establishment.

All of that was nice. Being able to listen to Christmas music without wanting to vomit was also very pleasant. But something was off, something was missing.

I figured out what it was a few days after returning to New York. I stepped out of the subway into the frigid Brooklyn night and was bathed in an anemic blue light. I looked up to see a gigantic menorah. That was what was missing. I’d forgotten to celebrate Hanukkah (the Trail of Lights in Austin was no replacement for the holy Festival of Lights). Alone on a dark street in Brooklyn Heights, I said my family’s own special Hanukkah prayer — when most families would say the tradition Hebrew prayer when lighting Hanukkah candles, my Dad’s has always been “Oh God, don’t let the house burn down.” Much more practical.

I would like to say that following this, a miracle occurred, that I bought a one-day Metrocard and it lasted for eight whole days! But it did not. Instead I ended up at a small Italian restaurant with a friend of mine from high school, nursing an Irish coffee and wondering why there aren’t more East Coast girls in my West Coast life.

Tune in to KZSU this Thursday at midnight to hear David Blackman play his top 25 tracks of 2005. Next week: Dave & his gay car.