When I walked by that hole in the wall in Tel Aviv I yelled in, “I want to write as well as Etgar Keret!” Supposedly if you yelled into the hole in the wall your wish came true. When I went home I turned on my desk light and started typing on a typewriter. I typed extremely fast. So fast that it sounded like I was cranking out row after row of fat Cuban cigars, the kind that refuse to light. I typed so many pages that the stack went from floor to ceiling. It was quite a sight, cranking reel whizzing back and forth with that machine gear twackatatwack only associated with typewriters and wound toys. It reminded me a lot of a man swimming across an Olympic pool with the slooooooooooooow breaststroke followed by a lightning quick butterfly stroke. I took a break and looked at some of what I wrote. It was in Hebrew and I couldn’t read a word of it. The next day I yelled in the wall, “I want to be able to read Hewbrew!” At home I reread my voluminous stack and found that I had just rewritten everything that Etgar Keret had ever written word for word. I even had a screenplay that I was unaware of until I found a tiny little blog that mentioned it briefly. Evidently he scrapped it because he didn’t like it. I put all of the paper in a huge suitcase, actually six suitcases and I called a cab. The cab pulled up with screeching tires and we shoved every case in: trunk, passenger seat, back seat, and I hopped in the back as well. I could barely see the cab driver but he asked in English if I wanted to go to the airport. “No, just head over to where that old Western Union Station used to be across from that old coffee shop that got blown up last week.” He took me there and I got out with two suitcases dragging behind me. The cabbie helped with the rest. I paid him and tipped him a bit extra and then I took all of the paper and stuffed it right into that hole. I left a note for Mr. Keret saying how sorry I was for stealing his ideas.