Are You Kosher? (4 page)

Chapter 7

Life, Politics, and Other Forms of Dreck

I know what you’re thinking: “Where the hell does an immortal, independently wealthy, sexy vampire get off giving me his opinions on life?”

This is a valid question, but I have to ask you, who’s writing these memoirs?

I have been alive for almost six thousand years and I have opinions on just about everything. You would, too, if the roles were reversed. I’m too old to worry about hurting someone’s feelings or wounding their delicate sensitivities.

Let’s start with life. In my time, I have noticed that no matter how good or bad things are, mortals always find something to kvetch about. My car payment is late, my boss hates me, and I think that my wife is screwing Mr. Blum in apartment D4. These are things that are really not in your control.

If the economy is bad, you can’t always make your various bills in a timely manner, but never fear, they can’t get blood from a stone and as long as you don’t tell them to go fuck themselves when they call you at dinner time, you should be okay.

You have to look at the positives, because everything is just a form of dreck. There is no Black Plague consuming the earth. Health care, although not great, is better than most countries, but I think that the Democrats will figure out a way to screw that up. Al Gore is scaring everyone about global warming, but I can tell you that every three hundred years or so, another shmendrik comes along with these ridiculous ideas designed to scare the masses for their own personal gain. Just look at the check he got from the Nobel people.

Things can always be worse. I just recently started exploring the Internet. I don’t like it. Especially since I found out that my rabbi has been running a porn site where he and some of his students dress up like Noah and his sons and do horrible things to horses. How am I supposed to explain that to Bubbe? But that’s life. You very often have to deal with things that you never dreamed of. Suck it up and deal with it.

Even for an immortal, life is no picnic. If it were easy, there would be no suicide rate whatsoever. Life is dreck.

Earlier, I said that I’m a liberal but always vote Republican. Let me clarify that statement. I am not a true liberal. In fact, I feel that “liberal” is the new four-letter word. I only mean it in the sense that I don’t care one way or the other what you do in the privacy of your own home, as long as you keep it out of my face, or more specifically, my tuchas.

The latest craze today seems to be the phenomenon of same-sex marriage. I cannot understand for the life of me why anyone would rather commingle with the same sex when the opposite one is so attractive. Unless, of course, we are speaking of some of the more “butchy” ones. Make your own list; this is an interactive memoir.

Another thing is how the liberals are all rallying to take care of the human rights of those who spend all of their time attacking liberals, Republicans, and everyday citizens just trying to get by. The Palestinians are misunderstood because Israel is occupying their land. So what? America is occupying the land of the Native Americans, but you don’t hear them complaining … Okay, bad example. The point is there, though. Everyone these days has some kind of liberal cause that they rally around and try to hide behind things like the Bill of Rights.

I was at the burning of the first and second Temples in Jerusalem, and I’m not pointing any fingers, but it’s no coincidence that the most popular name of the time was Muhammed. It’s sort of like how there always seems to be a shameful truth behind all of the priest/altar boy jokes. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

We elected a new president recently, on what Bubbe likes to refer to as “Black Tuesday.” I am in no way saying that Bubbe is a racist. She is just an old woman who is very set in her ways, although, you have to admit, he was elected not so much on his merits as because he was a novelty. Like that new toy that comes out around Hanukkah that has the best commercial. It can fly, it’s impervious to destruction, and it can attack the neighbor’s cat. But when you open it up, it’s a disappointment.

I’m sure that he is a very nice man, but please give me just a small break. I do not care what his wife is wearing when they go on vacation. I don’t care what school his daughters are going to. I really don’t care that his mother-in-law is living in the White House. And I really think that in light of everything affecting those who are less fortunate than he or I are, he should not be spending so much time defending friends of his who resist arrest and cry racism. You know what I would have liked to hear? Someone cry asshole-ism! Not about the president of course; that would be illegal in this political climate. I mean his Harvard buddy.

Politicians on both sides have the patent on dreck. They seem to be born with the gift. Both sides are equally adept; I just prefer to lean toward the Republicans. Ronald Reagan was a great man, and even though she’ll never admit it, Bubbe thought he was quite the looker. For me, it’s Sarah Palin. Granted, she may not be the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but I can tell just by looking at her that she would be good feasting.

Brooklynites have an expression: “I can smell bullshit a mile away.” These days, it can be smelled from a couple hundred miles away, in Washington. Both sides are chockful of shmendriks; the difference is that the Republican side of the argument is a little better at making decisions that don’t bankrupt the country. Everyone loves to blame George W. for the collapse of Wall Street and, subsequently, the economy. But if you have half a brain in your head and don’t act like a zombie of the liberal left, you would know that this chain of events was put into place by none other than good ole’ Bill “Where are the new interns?” Clinton.

This is not a political memoir that I am writing, however, so I’ll move on to other forms of dreck. People today love to complain about how horrible their lives are, but get serious pleasure out of watching the fall of others and gossiping about things that really do not concern any of us. It’s time that you all start taking some ownership of your own lives and take the advice of someone who is a lot older than all of you.

How does your life improve by any margin if you have inside information about the birth of Brad and Angelina’s baby? It doesn’t; it is dreck. Are you a better person because you hounded some poor English woman to the point of her being institutionalized? No; it is dreck. The
meeskite
that we affectionately call the first lady wore short-shorts on her vacation and it was the top story. Did that pay for dinner? No. It is unbelievable dreck; whenever her name comes up, dreck is usually not too far behind. Over one hundred fifty million people turned out to vote this year because we actually had a true-to-life, in flesh and blood, shvartze, or at least half shvartze, running for president. Did your life improve? Or was it more like when your favorite football team wins the Super Bowl? You know the answer: it’s just bragging rights. It’s total dreck.

I know that these are not topics or views that are going to make me any friends, but as I said, I’m way too old to worry about such mishegas.

Life is what it is. No matter what period of time you live in, and I lived in most of them, the problems are always the same, perhaps skewed a little to the times, but still the same. I hope that I have helped to put things in a little perspective and that you have all come out of this with a slightly new slant on the way that you look at things. Of course, if I have totally pissed any of you off, please send the angry e-mails and letters to my agent, because I’m terrible at opening mail.

Life, politics, and everything that fall somewhere in between are just different colors and smells of the same old dreck. Dreck stinks.

Dreck happens.

Chapter 8

Holy Sheygets

I realize that for the last couple of chapters, I’ve been Mr. Doom-and-Gloom. This is not my intention at all, so let’s discuss something even more horrifying. The dating life of one’s mother.

I appreciate the fact that there are greater sins in the world, like writing a memoir on the Sabbath, which technically constitutes work, but we are not talking about me right now. We are talking about my mother and the shvartze sheygets that she is currently dating. It’s no big deal that he happens to be black, or that he is not even Jewish, but when it comes to my mother …

(Musical interlude. Hum to yourself for a few moments.)

That was really close. Bubbe came into my room without knocking for a change. Can you imagine if she caught me writing on the Sabbath? My screams would be heard throughout the four corners of the globe.

“What are you doing in here all this time, Izzy?” she asked.

“Just relaxing, Bubbe, waiting for that deliciousness to hit my stomach,” I replied. Bubbe can often be distracted by compliments regarding her cooking.

“Whatever,” she replied. “Your mother just told me that the shvartze is coming over for dinner tomorrow night so you better not even think about going anywhere.”

“Bubbe,” I said, concerned, “I already invited Jerry and Shlomo.”

“Yes and I have the Markowitzes coming. A surprise guest, how do you think I feel? Why is it always about you?”

“I don’t know, Bubbe. Where could I have possibly gotten that from?” She glared at me with that look that said
Don’t be a smart ass; my wooden spoon is only a few steps away.

She left the room and now I’m obviously back writing. I swear, you better not tell her, or else we are all dead!

As for my mother, sometimes vampires require intimate relationships, not just feasting targets. My mother has obviously decided that the man of her current dreams is a big bowlegged shvartze named Dwayne. He is a nice guy from the little that I’ve had the opportunity to speak with him, but to be perfectly honest, I can’t understand a word that comes out of his mouth.

Let me go on the record as saying that I do not mind that he is black as much that I mind him dating my mother. Put yourself in my shoes and you tell me how you would feel, and try and keep your syrupy, liberal, new-age way of thinking to yourself. Imagine if Bill Clinton’s widowed mother had started dating, especially a shvartze. Does the term lynching mean anything to you?

You see, when it comes to me, it’s bad enough that she is dating, but to be dating a sheygets is beyond belief. What is a sheygets? Before all of you NAACP types get your afros in a tizzy, it is the Yiddish word for Gentile male. It is the opposite of shiksa, which is a female. The term was made popular by Seinfeld; I don’t remember any of you getting pissed off then, so get off of you high horses now. When it comes to my mother, the only thing I can say is that if that shvartze sheygets tries anything inappropriate with her, I’ll personally see to it that he burns in the hottest fires of hell.

Come on, who wants to come home and see anyone, shvartze or no, making the sweet talk in their mother’s ear? Do you? If you said “I really don’t mind,” than you are really a fucking liar. Bubbe is almost at the point of hysteria, although she won’t admit it. Bubbe has always stayed true to the notion that we, as vampires, should stay as discreet as possible. Bringing a boyfriend around complicates matters. She is convinced that this could be the first sign of the Apocalypse.

Like I said earlier, she is not a racist … okay, maybe she is a little racist, but I challenge you to find someone who is not. If you lived her life, constantly hiding from religious bigots and vampire haters, you would be, too. I said that I can’t understand a word that comes out of his mouth and neither can Bubbe, and that scares her. She is convinced that he is speaking some kind of code into a hidden microphone. I used to be fluent in gibberish, but I cannot understand Ebonics. I’m still trying to figure out why ‘Bitch’ is a compliment.

So the sheygets is coming to dinner. I have two of my friends joining us, and Bubbe has invited some of hers. Tomorrow night is going to be very interesting. Maybe I should videotape it, since Bubbe does not care what comes out of her mouth, and her friends are too senile to know any better. This should be good. It will be a night to remember. Eight Jewish vampires and one shvartze at the dinner table. There will be Manischewitz, ignorance, and a high, heaping serving of guilt. Can you think of a better way to spend an evening? I didn’t think so.

Right now I have to go take a pish, so I am going to hide the book somewhere because I don’t trust that alter kocker. I know for a fact that she is just waiting for me to leave the room so she can do one of her impromptu cleanings. I also know for a fact that she carries her wooden spoon in her apron. Maybe if she catches me, I can convince her that using it on me would technically be work.

Chapter 9

Bloodsucking 101

I know what you’re thinking. What
kind of vampire story is this without tales of gruesome carnage?
Well let me tell you, it is not like that. The simple fact is that nine times out of ten the act of bloodsucking, or feasting as I prefer to call it, is actually a very sensuous, erotic thing. We don’t just go out every night and mindlessly attack unwitting victims and drain them of everything they have. We like to act more along the lines of suitors, wining and dining our victims; I hate to use that word, but for all intents and purposes, that’s what they are.

A trip to a museum, good conversation, flashing a little cash. A good bottle of wine can be just as effective as brutality, and often much more enjoyable. My personal modus operandi is to act as if I am some mysterious dilettante. Draw them in with my extraordinary wealth of knowledge; who cares if they don’t realize that the only reason I am as wise as I appear is because I am almost six thousand years old? What they don’t know will taste really good later.

Another tactic that I like to use, especially if she is a shmendrik, is to just go with old-fashioned romance. Make her feel like the most glamorous person in the world. You would be surprised at just how often this works. Women like to refer to themselves as the more intelligent of the species, but I can tell you that if that were true, I would be a very hungry vampire.

I can remember almost all of them. Sweet, young, vibrant young ladies, a few older ones, and yes, even a few men, even though I am no feygelah. It’s sort of like when you wake up in the middle of the night really hungry and the only thing in the fridge is a jar of olives; it’s better than nothing. I can recall running my fingers through their hair, kissing them gently on the lips, undoing their blouses, dresses, or sweaters to reveal tight, firm flesh and perfect breasts. Exploring who they were with my fingers until the glorious moment of sinking my teeth into them and drawing the essence of who they were into my mouth. Feeling the warmth of their blood enter my body as they convulse and moan, not knowing exactly what it is that I am doing to them. Whispering, “Mazel tov to me,” as I know that yet another feast has been completed. The euphoria I feel when I realize that the feast has been unspoiled. This a rare and beautiful gift.

Of course, there are times when this is done out of vengeance and anger.

I recall telling you earlier that even though we are immortal, we are not invincible. In the light of day, we are, in fact, vulnerable. There is one incident that I would love to tell you about. It always makes me chuckle.

It happened in the late seventies; sorry, I mean the late
nineteen
seventies. I was walking home with a few bags of groceries from the local Waldbaum’s and was attacked by a few Irish thugs. I’m not sure why; maybe they don’t like Jews. Can you imagine that? In this day and age, people not liking Jews?

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure why they attacked me; all I know is that it’s a good thing that they were Irish since everyone knows that they are usually so drunk to begin with that they couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. Unfortunately, they still beat me pretty bad. It was daylight, so I was vulnerable. The worst part of the whole ugly situation was that they stole the groceries. Bubbe was planning to make matzo ball soup with those.

I picked up my yarmulke, dusted myself off, and limped home. My face was throbbing, my back hurt, and the fact that there would be no soup was not helping my disposition. I somehow avoided Bubbe and slid into my bed. Yankel, my cat—more on him later—snuggled close to me and we both took a nap. When I woke, it was after dark, and I was not only healed and replenished, I was pissed.

Eventually, I will tell you about some of the special skills that go along with being a vampire, but for now, let’s just say that the events of that evening were priceless. I heard Bubbe yelling at my mother—something about how I still had not returned home with the ingredients for her soup and how she had to do everything. I snuck out the back door and went looking for my little red-haired goyem friends.

Lucky for me, they were as drunk as they were stupid. I found them hanging out in a schoolyard on Quentin Road and East Thirty-third Street. They never knew what hit them, but I can tell you that they knew who hit them.

This is one of the few times in my life that I was vicious in my retribution. When most vampires attack, they will take a little sip and leave the victim numb, wondering what the hell just happened. On this night, I outdid myself. I swept down on them in a flash of fangs and fists. Throwing one into the school wall while kicking another in the chest, I could hear the breath leave him. I grabbed another by his hair, sunk my teeth deep into his throat, and drank long and hard. I punched another across the face; I can still remember the sound of his jaw shattering on impact. These tough guys were already whimpering and screaming for help, but I did not plan on being around that long. I drank feverishly on every one of them and made sure that they knew that what they had done earlier in the day was the worst mistake they could ever make in their entire lifetimes and it was in their best interest to keep their mouths shut about it.

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” the scripture goes. I’ll add to that, “Don’t fuck with a Jewish vampire’s yarmulke or his bubbe’s groceries.

To this day, when I am walking the streets of my neighborhood and some Irish larva refers to me as “Mr. Glassman,” or when Bubbe comes home and tells of how the nice boys carried her shopping bags home, I smile.

Please do not get me wrong. I do not have a bad temper, but right is right, and sometimes, meshugenahs need to be given a hard, somewhat brutal lesson. If you want to act like a tough guy, know who you are dealing with beforehand. It’s that simple.

Bloodsucking or feasting is fun, exhilarating, tasty, and com-plicated. Sometimes it is erotic. Occasionally it is done out of anger. And every now and then it is done to teach a lesson that will not soon be forgotten. It is a complicated art form and must be handled just so. If we all went around terrorizing the local populace, we would become as cliché as those horrible fiction novels that have swept the mainstream media.

Feasting is a necessity for my kind, but not our only source of sustenance. We’ll get more into that soon. I promise. Have I lied to you yet?

It is a very rewarding experience for the vampire and, more often than not, the prey. With everything, though, comes side effects. We will get into some of those in due time. You didn’t think that I was going to give it all up in the first ten chapters, did you?

First and foremost though. I know that you are all asking yourselves the same question: “Izzy, where did you come from?”

Good question. Let’s get into the answer. Bear in mind, though, that my being Jewish is going to result in the classic case of a short story being long.