Long ago in a faraway time, before the introduction of the personal computer I trundled off to LA from the uncozy confines of Chicago to join the cultural revolution and write hit singles.

But those were the years when cocaine wasn't addictive, so I pounded my way out of that fantasy and into a carpentry gig for a Moroccan Jew who had adiosed from the Magreb when his Muslim neighbors began insinuating that he was dabbling in sex trafficking. They couldn't tell a good party when they saw one. And Maurice knew how to throw a good party. So he vamoosed to Venice, California and hired me for a renovation project for which I was as competent as that hippie in the Gospels. "Ca va, Albert?" "Bien, Maurice."

I thought I had finally found something sensible and remunerative when the late Corey Fischer asked me if I wanted to create a two-person theatre work based on fantastical tales that grew up around a wonder rabbi from Western Ukraine. I had no idea what he was talking about. This was LA. Jews could part the Red Sea. But Corey had been in several Robert Altman films and he was the only person that I knew in LA who would finish a project. So I said, yes.

I also said yes to naming this would-be theatre experiment A Traveling Jewish Theatre. Corey had returned from New York where he performed in the late Joseph Chaikin's production of the Dybbuk at the late Joe Papp's Public Theatre. In the production was the late Bruce Meyers, who had a 50-year collaboration with the late Peter Brook.

Bruce had wanted to create a traveling Jewish theatre, traveling to remnants of Jewish communities throughout Eastern Europe and developing theatre from their stories. But he was unable to secure funding.

Corey asked if he could take the name. Bruce said, yes and I reluctantly, I agreed. It was my very reluctance that got me to say, yes. This Jewish thing was always a problem, especially in Chicago where everyone was fighting World War II through their kids. There were a lot of mean motherfuckers--Lithuanians, Irish, Italian, Poles, Croats... The Presbyterians and Episcopalians were neatly ensconced in the Northern Suburbs with covenants in their mortgage documents, ensuring racial purity. 500 Serbians in the world and they all went to Bowen High School. Mistovich, Delich, Popovich, Lolich, Ogrisavich, Visalovich... And I liked the Serbs, except for the little greasy Pudgy Navakovich.

Taking on a name with 'Jew' in it... It was now 1979 and one of our first performances.