Are You Kosher? (2 page)

Chapter 1

Misconceptions

How does a person begin his memoirs when he has almost six thousand years to write about? In my case, I actually think the answer is quite simple. Can you think of a race that has been more falsely written about in the history of the world than vampires? I sure can’t.

There are a great many misconceptions about my kind. After all, we live in the days of HBO, the World Wide Web, and Anne Rice. She is perhaps the worst thing to happen to Jewish vampires since Barbra Streisand kissed Omar Sharif; Bubbe is still trying to recover from that one. Anne Rice may be a very talented storyteller, but what makes people think that she is an authority on vampires? Woody Allen is a very talented storyteller and the only thing that he will ever be accused of being an expert on is neurosis.

Who is she to presume to be an expert? Has she ever feasted? I doubt it. Has she ever been attacked by a crazed mob wielding stakes and screaming for her head? I think not. So she lives in New Orleans, big fucking deal! I’ve been to “N’awlins,” as they call it, many times. Do you know how many vampires I met when I was there? Three—my friends Shlomo Wienreich, Jerry Bloomberg, and Dartavious Jackson, or as we call him, DJ.

Back to the bitch—oh, I’m sorry, the storyteller. She is like one of those yentas who sit on their porches looking for anything to talk about without gathering the facts first; then they call all of their friends to spew their misguided tales.

I want to take this time to tell you a couple of things that are actually true about being a vampire and start the process of dispelling the myths.

For one thing, it is true that we are very strong. She was not making that up. I could personally dismember you if I were so inclined. As I stated before, we are gorgeous, but we have the ability to alter our outer appearance to blend in with our surroundings. I’m not saying that I can become a
shvartze
if I wanted, but I can change the color of my hair or the texture of my skin, adding wrinkles, moles, and such. Bubbe has the ability to make herself come off as a supermodel, but that thought in itself is just too terrible to even think about. She makes herself look old so that nobody is aware of the fact that she is immortal. It is a true talent, and one that requires a great deal of practice.

I’ve told you that I do not believe in wasting time with nonsensical jibber-jabber, so I am just going to let you in on a couple of popular misconceptions that need to be addressed tonight. Hopefully, you will have a better understanding of my kind by the time I have finished these memoirs and will be a little bit more understanding and not so inclined to listen to or believe everything you hear or read.

I prepared a list, a top-ten list, if you will, of some of the more outrageous misconceptions that I plan to cover tonight. Here it is:

1. Vampires die in the sun.

This is not true.

2. Vampires are afraid of crosses.

Only if the vampire in question happens to be an altar boy.

3. Vampires hate holy water.

Maybe, but it’s good mixed with Jack Daniel’s.

4. Vampires are immortal.

That’s a relative term; it depends on what you call immortal.

5. Vampires don’t eat human food.

You go to Katz’s Deli and not order the pastrami on rye.

6. Vampires sleep in coffins.

I am the proud owner of a Sealy Posturepedic.

7. Vampires can turn into bats.

Just what I need, my own airline so I can become the target of Muslim terrorists.

8. Vampires don’t reflect in mirrors.

Anything this sexy has to reflect on something.

9. Vampires are bloodthirsty monsters.

I refer you back to the Katz’s Deli remark.

10. Vampires always keep a coven of female slaves.

If you consider my mother and Bubbe a coven, then you are really fucked up.

I believe that this is a good way to get our conversation off on the right note. All of these topics will be addressed in due course, but bear in mind that I am still Jewish and therefore a talker. A lot of topics need to be addressed before this night is over, and I’ve got the time. Hopefully, you have the mind to listen.

I have to go take a pish right now, so I am going to have to excuse myself for a few moments, but I will be back. Get up, get yourself something to drink, and prepare to start hearing some juicy tidbits about historical characters. First I want to tell you about the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. After that, I think that you should hear about Jesus and the twelve Shmendriks.

Chapter 2

Jews Taste Like … What Is That?

I can vividly remember the first time I saw her, Julia Rubenstein. The most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes on. An absolutely perfect example of untouched Jewish perfection. I was sitting on my front porch in our home in the Marine Park section of Brooklyn. The Mets were beginning their miracle run at the World Series, the birds were singing, the sun was shining, and this gorgeous little thing was walking by.

It was the summer of 1969, not like the song; she was coming home from grocery shopping with her father, who was the local rabbi. A taciturn man to say the least, I think he was born without the ability to smile. The air was crisp on that perfect August morning, even though I knew that by noon it would be as sticky as a Turkish bath.

I had heard about her from some friends of mine but had not actually seen her until this moment. The hype was not exaggerated. She was as perfect as an untouched Fabergé egg. Have you ever seen a woman like this? I can tell you that in almost six thousand years of existence, I’ve only come across this three times. Delilah—yes that one, the one from Samson’s glory. Nicole Kidman—we all know who she is. And Julia Rubenstein.

As soon as I set eyes on her, I was hooked. I had to get to know this little piece of falafel and I did not care if her father was there or not. I ran down my porch steps and asked the rabbi if I could do a
mitzvah
by helping him and his lovely daughter home with the groceries. To my surprise, he was all too happy to oblige. He smiled at me, no small thing, thanked me for being such a “good boy,” and even pinched my cheek. The shmuck even made a formal introduction to his daughter.

We walked the four blocks to the rabbi’s home; I listened intently to every word that came out of the old man’s mouth, trying to look interested, but meanwhile sneaking a glance at the beautiful object of my desire at every possible moment.

I was totally intoxicated by her beauty. She smelled of sweet talcum, and it was obvious that living under this tyrannical man had worn out its welcome with her. She was ready to experience life, to find out what pleasure could be, to do something that she knew her father would not approve of, like see what a real penis looked like.

As we approached the rabbi’s home, I slowly made progress talking to his lovely daughter more and more. There is one thing that I should tell you about vampires that is no myth whatsoever—we are gorgeous! Let me put it this way, compared to me, Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio, and George Clooney look like what I leave in the toilet every morning.

I laid on the charm pretty thick and it was obviously working. I was invited in to help unpack the groceries. The rabbi’s home was adorned in the traditional manner of any good Jewish house. A
mezuzah
on the door, a menorah in the dining room, and to my surprise and chagrin, a picture of the Lubavitcher Rebbe hanging on the wall. They weren’t just Jews; they were fanatics!

Julia gently brushed against my body at every single chance she had. I was very receptive to this, but also wary of catching the ire of her father. She was incredibly beautiful and I was watering at the mouth just thinking about what it would be like to be with her.

Her father called me into his study to show me an ancient copy of the Torah that had been passed down through his family from generation to generation. I feigned interest. After all, I could care less about his Torah; I wanted his daughter. The rabbi also told me how hard it had been on him trying to raise his daughter the proper way since his beloved wife had passed away when Julia was still a baby; it was not easy for him since he did not grow up with any sisters and he was glad that there was at least one nice boy in the neighborhood. I felt slightly guilty because of my ulterior motives, but it soon passed. He thanked me again for being such a good boy and told me to be sure and say good-bye to Julia before I left. What a shmuck. Does the term “the wolf watching the sheep” mean anything to you?

Like a good boy, I went to the kitchen to say my farewell to the lovely little Jewish blossom; and thankfully, she asked what I was doing that evening.
Mazel tov
to me. We spoke in hushed tones, so as not to alert her father, and agreed to meet at my house just after midnight that same evening.

I yelled one more good-bye to the rabbi and winked at Julia. I hurried home to wash and get the house ready. How was I going to get my mother and Bubbe out for the entire evening? That was a problem. For about an hour, I argued with Bubbe about leaving the house, trying not to look too suspicious. My mother already had plans, so she was not going to be a problem. Finally, I called Lizzy Markowitz—you’ll learn more about her later—and convinced her to invite Bubbe over for a game of bingo. Of course, I had to agree to weed her garden for the next two summers, and no, that is not a sexual innuendo!

The witching hour approached and Bubbe had just left. The only thing to do now was get ready for a night to remember. I sat out on the front porch waiting for that little jewel to arrive. Midnight came and she still had not. Twelve-thirty, no Julia. One o’clock; this was ridiculous! It was not like I could call her house. I had just about given up all hope when I saw her approaching in the faint yellow glow of the Brooklyn streetlights. She was a vision of beauty and had that special glint in her eye.

She stepped up onto the porch and attacked me. The two of us were in a frenzy of passion that I could not compare with anything else in all of my years. She tore at my clothing, ripping my shirt off of my body, and I did the same. Before anyone who might have been lucky enough to be walking by at the moment could realize, I was inside of her. Vampires love sex, maybe more than the average human because we can appreciate the beauty and art of it. She moaned; I moaned. I opened her blouse and saw her perfect breasts that looked like two perfect knishes in the moonlit night. I kissed her all over her body and drew my gaze to her pulsing neck. I could feel her blood pressure rising as I went in to feast. I sunk my teeth deep into her and began to draw upon her essence. It was warm and soothing coming in, but there was something that I could not quite put my finger on. A taste that was not familiar to me. It was not bad, but definitely something that was not usual to the common Jewish girl.

The two of us climaxed together, something that I happen to be very good at for all of you ladies who might be wondering. We lay there on Bubbe’s porch for a few moments, and she rose, got dressed, and took the walk of shame home.

My head was a little light. I can’t quite explain it. Something about all of this was wrong. When a vampire feasts on a victim, he takes in something of them, but there was definitely something not kosher about this kosher girl. What was it?

I watched as she walked away from my house and tried to figure out what it was that I was tasting. Suddenly, I began to feel nauseous. This is rare for me. I never throw up. I could no longer fight the feeling; here it came. I vomited all over Bubbe’s porch and immediately realized why. This perfect example of Jewish beauty, this daughter of a rabbi, this girl whose father followed the Lubavitcher, had been secretly eating pork! Bad pork on top of that. I know what pork smells like. There are plenty of Chinese restaurants in my neighborhood. How could she? How could she be so deceitful? How could she lie to her father like that? How was I going to explain to Bubbe why her porch smelled like pork vomit?

This was a lesson that I had to learn the hard way. One that I have never shared with anyone, ever. It is an example of how the little head can truly dictate how the big one behaves. I’ve never told Bubbe this story and I hope that we can keep this between ourselves.

I hope in some small way that I have shown you trust so that you appreciate the fact that I am never going to bullshit you, and that you can believe everything that I say, because if you think that was good, wait until you hear my
interesting
stories.

Chapter 3

Jesus and the Twelve Shmendriks

Back in the day, when I was living in the small port town of Galilee, I was fortunate enough to meet one of the truest mensches that has ever walked the face of the earth. As I have already said, I believe in Jesus; I just don’t personally agree with his politics. He was something else. To quote Madeline Kahn in the great western epic
Blazing Saddles
, “What a nice guy.”

The other day, I was down in Brighton Beach walking along the boardwalk, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the beach, and it immediately took me back to the day that I first met him. There was a great deal of
mishegas
floating around the community about someone who claimed to be the son of you-know-who. Right, and Bubbe is Lainie Kazan.

I remember relaxing on the beach when a terrible storm moved in. It was as if it came out of nowhere. The wind was whipping, the sea was exploding in a fury, and I just lost the sun that I was trying to perfect my tan with.

There were a few shmucks out in a fishing boat and people on the shore had been yelling to them to get their
tuchases
back to the shore to no avail. “Hey, that storm looks bad, you shmucks! Step lively!” I believe that was what they were saying—I paraphrase.

Suddenly, a very strapping looking fellow came from what appeared to be thin air and calmly walked to the edge of the sea. “Shush,” he whispered, calmly putting one finger to his mouth. The storm went silent. I thought he was talking to the
meshugenahs
on the beach who were screaming; shows what I know. I’ve seen some crazy shit in my day, but this definitely takes the cake. I know you’ve heard this story before, but it is a good one, and how often do you hear it from an eyewitness account? Bear with me.

This man walked across the water and led those shmucks back to safety. Now that is something that you don’t see every day.

Jesus returned to the shore with the shmendriks and was immediately met with a parade of fans who wanted autographs, hugs, and proposals of marriage. I was personally very impressed. Even a vampire can’t do that. I went and introduced myself to him and invited him over for dinner. Bubbe made him stuffed cabbage. This turned out to be a nightmare—anyone with a Jewish mother and bubbe will understand what I’m talking about.

Bubbe, my mother, and I sat down for the meal with our strapping guest. My mother had already been hitting the wine pretty hard, and she decided to go into her conversational banter. “So, Jesus,” she asked with a hint of flirtation, “you have a lot of girlfriends?”

Jesus responded awkwardly, “No Mrs. Glassman—”

“Oh call me Itsa, you big silly,” she slurred. “Mrs. Glassman is the alter kocker sitting at the other end of the table.” She chuckled.

“Mom,” I interjected, “Jesus tells me that he is actually more interested in doing his father’s work.” She looked at me, confused. “What father wouldn’t want his son to learn the ways of the woman?” She winked at the Messiah and topped off his glass of wine. “I heard that when you got to Jerusalem, women were practically throwing themselves at your feet! Those Jerusalem girls are known for being sluts,” she said with disdain. I had to change the subject quickly because he did not look comfortable. Unfortunately, Bubbe had her own plans.

“Speaking of sluts, tell me, Jesus,” she said with that tone that announced to those who knew her best that the boom was coming.

“Oh, Jesus …” I said.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Nothing,
gornischt
!” I replied and dropped my napkin.

“What is this that I hear about you hanging around with that Mary Magdalene person?” Bubbe asked.

Jesus slowly looked up at her and uncomfortably said, “Well, anyone who thirsts for knowledge of my Father is welcome to hear the word.”

Bubbe smirked at him and said, “Let me tell you something about that little
shiksa
. You be a smart boy and stay away from her. She has more mileage on her than an Arabian caravan.”

He put down his utensil and said, “Take the rafter out of your own eye before worrying about the splinter in your brother’s.”

Oh shit! Don’t ever contradict Zena Glassman.

Bubbe put down her glass of wine, while Mom started her fifth, and said, “Let me tell you something. When you are a parent, you’ll appreciate the loving advice of an old woman who is looking out for the well-being of a nice young man who is far from home.”

“Did you get a lot of numbers from the pretty girls in Jerusalem?” my mother asked. “I wish Izzy had more friends like you instead of those two shmucks Jerry and Shlomo that he hangs out with.”

The painful evening continued for a few more hours until Bubbe finally told me to walk him home. She even gave him a doggy bag. He loved it as I recall, although I’ll never forget her asking him how he got involved in all this nonsense with the Pharisees, and did he appreciate how dangerous a stunt that was that he did on the water?

I do remember, however, the sad day that I had to inform her that he was executed. “Fucking Italian bastards,” Bubbe said. “Nothing changes.” I tried to explain to her that he was actually put on trial by us Jews, but she argued that we were not the ones with the hammers and nails. You really can’t argue with her logic sometimes.

As for the shmendriks on the boat, they all became apostles of his. You would think that a man as intelligent as he was could have chosen a little wiser. They were just the tip of the iceberg.

For the most part, every single one of them was a very affable person, but some of them were—
Oy vey
! You would think that a perfect man could pick better.

There was Matthew, the tax collector. Or, as Bubbe called him, “Matty the sheister.” He was a complete and total prick. If he could tax your shit, he would. I remember him evicting his own mother because she was late filing.

Mark was a spoiled brat who was the product of a broken home; he split time between his parents. His father was a successful lawyer and tried to make up for the lost-dad time by showering his son with every conceivable gift you could imagine. The worst thing about Mark was that he would rub everyone’s face in the fact that he was privileged. He had the entire set of “Marauder Moishe” action figures and never let anyone play with them. Prick.

The term “doubting Thomas” started with the shmendrik Thomas. Here you have a man who walks across water and calms a violent storm and you still don’t believe every word that comes out of his mouth? Shmuck! I knew him personally and I still can’t understand how he survived childhood. He probably didn’t even trust his mother when she tried to breastfeed him.

And there is Judas. I’ll tell you this, my friends. He is lucky that he’s dead because he still owes me thirty pieces of silver. Do you have any idea what the interest on that is? Not to mention the fact that he was a “hash-head.” More on that later.

John was insecure and was always asking Jesus if he really was his favorite or if he was just blowing smoke up his tuchas. It might have been the one and only time that I wish Jesus just up and smacked somebody.

Obviously, with twelve of them, I have a lot to say, but those were the most interesting. I mean, I could tell you about Philip who once tried to sell me a gimpy camel. Peter—do I really need to say more? And of course there’s Bartholomew, who still is on Bubbe’s permanent shit list because he never finished painting her fence when she paid him up front.

Basically, they were all good guys, except for Judas, but if you knew what kind of a mother he had, you might be a little more understanding of him. Being a shmendrik does not make you a bad person, and in the case of these twelve, sometimes it can even open certain doors for you. Perhaps Jesus picked them because they collectively made him look better. I don’t know, it’s just a theory.

I can hear every single one of you shaking your heads right now, saying “I can’t believe he just went there.” Let me tell you something, I’m too old to worry about offending anyone. I am writing my memoirs to tell a story of a very eventful life, and if you don’t have the stomach for it, stop reading now. This is just the beginning, my friends.

Now, let’s get to that list.