This is your Bar Mitzvah, Goldberg. Today, you become a man.

My theory on subway entertainers: if I don't listen to your music--in particular, don't tap a foot or nod to the beat--I need not tip.

This morning, waiting for the L-train, my usual Mexican guitarist was shredding his old Mexican axe and wailing along in Mexican. According to plan, I had my iPod on full blast. Not one spanish note seeped through. A normal Friday morning.

Then Shlomo came along, in full Frumster regalia, dancing the hora right down the platform. This guy was into it. Really, really into it. The beauty of such a symbiosis of cultures was only outshined by the pure misery of the dance moves. Spins, side-steps and arm waves. It was quite a scene.

So when the song ended, with a big smile, I watched Shlomo reach into his pocket. Now there's a man, I thought to myself. There's a man that subscribes to the theory on subway entertainers. Unfortunately, I appeared to have made an ass out of you and me. Honestly, what was thinking? It was ludricous to assume he was pulling out a wallet or some loose change. Logically, he was only reaching into his pocket to sate his 9:30 appetite with a lollipop.

And as I watched this fat jew dance around to the next Mexican jam, I could only continue to wonder why people hate us.