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Call me Weinstein. I have lived my life of quiet desperation dominated by women. Well, not really dominated by them. More like dominated by the need for them. Controlled by the lack thereof and the pursuit therein.
I have done it all. Singles dances, volleyball games, bike rides, video dating, even (God Forbid), folk dancing. I have done it all. Done it all in search of the Golden Shiksa.
Welcome to interfaith dating hell. If you are a woman, look into the mind of a brutally honest (yet charmingly neurotic) archetypal male as he lurches through the dating scene. If you’re a man, well you already know. In Search of the Golden Shiksa is the adventure filled seven year quest our tormented ethnic protagonist journeys on in pursuit of the non-Jewish women he so desperately craves.
Along the way we meet an eclectic cast of characters: The Vibe Sucker, who wants to become more religious but doesn’t have the money for it yet; the Teutonic Chunkette, who rides low and steady to the ground but is, nonetheless, pleasing to the eye; the Commission Pimp, who gracefully fleeces customers throughout greater Boston; and finally, Folk Dictator, a matronly beast of indeterminate age, who initiates the unsuspecting Weinstein into the subtleties of folk dancing, via sumo wrestling.
And concepts? The anxiety filled hero is nothing, if not creative. He introduces us to telebation where DVD and the single life collide; and to the masturbatorium, the usual venue for the above. The shik-sa-meter, sort of a Geiger counter of ethnicity, is hooked like an I.V. to Weinstein’s tortured psyche, as he longs for the old fun. The new fun? Hard little pellets of political correctness forced on our bumbling Lothario by his new-age, soon to be, ex-wife (who nevertheless abandons him for Mr. Old Souls, spiritual heir to a Fortune 500 company). You’ve heard of elevator shoes? Our scheming landsman evolves elevator underwear, a palliative for the short-waisted, world-wide.
Does Weinstein find the Golden Shiksa? For that, you’ll need to read the book. Suffice it to say that the joy is in the journey, as we find ourselves floating in Boston Harbor (an interminable singles cruise), locked in a half Nelson with Folk Dictator (an incorrect dance step), and wondering whether to “link or go limp” while confronting police in an effort to save the whales (an ill-advised foray into the realm of leftist politics). Weinstein would rather save the shiksas, but sure doesn’t want to go limp to do it.
It is the universality of prolonged, involuntary singlehood, that the people, places and things of Shiksa articulates and brings to the fore. Weinstein Agonistes? Or cheerleader interruptus? You be the judge.

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