Are You Kosher? Read Online Free Page B
Author: Russell Andresen
is the people. Everyone is willing to kibitz. This was evident on the horrible morning of September 11, 2001—or more accurately, afterward.
Everyone pulled together. They all had a story of survival, whether it was a friend, a relative, or an eyewitness account. There were no bias attacks by mindless goons looking for revenge. Total strangers were providing the proverbial shoulder to lean on, and yes, the opportunity to kibitz.
In pain and sorrow, New Yorkers found common ground. It seemed as if everyone had a tale of loss or survival—in many cases, both. Kibitzing got them through it. I remember riding the subway on one of the first days that trains were running over the Manhattan Bridge and being amazed at the silence. As we went over the bridge, an unannounced moment of silence fell over them all. But when they arrived at their destination, I witnessed hugs, backrubs, and kibitzing.
New Yorkers did not take any hostile action against those who had the wrong color skin or religious affiliations, but they all spoke about what they would like to do to those that were responsible for this insane act of cowardice.
Me? I wish that I was a real-life Superman who could have come flying out of the sky with my red cape flapping in the wind so I could use my super-breath to extinguish the flames and catch those who were so desperate that they threw themselves from the towers. I wish that I could have flown to save the other planes and to bring those miserable bastards to justice. I wish that I could find that coward Bin Laden and his followers in whatever shit-filled cave they are hiding in and force them to listen to a recording of Harvey Fierstein singing “Hava Nagila” and then turn them over to the victims’ families.
But I’m not. I’m just a vampire with a domineering bubbe and an alcoholic mother. I’m a New Yorker by adoption—it’s the city I’ve adopted. I’ve experienced many losses over the course of my lifetime, the centuries that it has covered, but few losses hurt as much as this one or inspired such pride.
My time on this earth will someday come to an end and I want to be buried in the Beth-David cemetery in Borough Park. This is the greatest place on Earth to live, love, eat, laugh, cry, heal, and yes, kibitz. Those of you who have never experienced it or just go with the stereotypes that you’ve been fed: I feel for you. This is truly the greatest city in the world. I could probably write an encyclopedia on the many things I love about it, but if I have to explain, you won’t understand.
To quote Forrest Gump, “That’s all I have to say about that.”
Chapter 6
Vampires Are Afraid of Crosses
There are a great many things that one can claim to be afraid of, vampire or no.
Being stuck in an elevator is a good one. A plane crash can scare the crap out of anybody. A hideous car crash plagues all commuters in New Jersey. Catching an intestinal bug in some foreign land or having to listen to Roseanne Barr sings the National Anthem. Waking up and finding Rosie O’Donnell snuggling next to you affectionately. These are all legitimate concerns.
Some people feel that vampires are afraid of crosses and this just makes no sense at all; in fact, it always makes me laugh. I’m more afraid of Bubbe’s wooden spoon, which she can still wave around like some crazed Samurai warrior if I even dare screw up by putting one of her fleishik plates in her milchik sink. Do not mess with kosher tradition when it comes to Bubbe.
The percentage of people who should actually fear the cross is limited to a few small demographic groups: Native Americans, African Americans, and any cherub-faced altar boy. I could also mention Jews, Muslims, and anyone else who does not agree with the witless banter of whichever feygelah happens to be Pope at the time, but I know I’ll receive letters and I’m trying to keep the chapters short. The three groups I mentioned have the biggest axes to grind. They are the
Everyone pulled together. They all had a story of survival, whether it was a friend, a relative, or an eyewitness account. There were no bias attacks by mindless goons looking for revenge. Total strangers were providing the proverbial shoulder to lean on, and yes, the opportunity to kibitz.
In pain and sorrow, New Yorkers found common ground. It seemed as if everyone had a tale of loss or survival—in many cases, both. Kibitzing got them through it. I remember riding the subway on one of the first days that trains were running over the Manhattan Bridge and being amazed at the silence. As we went over the bridge, an unannounced moment of silence fell over them all. But when they arrived at their destination, I witnessed hugs, backrubs, and kibitzing.
New Yorkers did not take any hostile action against those who had the wrong color skin or religious affiliations, but they all spoke about what they would like to do to those that were responsible for this insane act of cowardice.
Me? I wish that I was a real-life Superman who could have come flying out of the sky with my red cape flapping in the wind so I could use my super-breath to extinguish the flames and catch those who were so desperate that they threw themselves from the towers. I wish that I could have flown to save the other planes and to bring those miserable bastards to justice. I wish that I could find that coward Bin Laden and his followers in whatever shit-filled cave they are hiding in and force them to listen to a recording of Harvey Fierstein singing “Hava Nagila” and then turn them over to the victims’ families.
But I’m not. I’m just a vampire with a domineering bubbe and an alcoholic mother. I’m a New Yorker by adoption—it’s the city I’ve adopted. I’ve experienced many losses over the course of my lifetime, the centuries that it has covered, but few losses hurt as much as this one or inspired such pride.
My time on this earth will someday come to an end and I want to be buried in the Beth-David cemetery in Borough Park. This is the greatest place on Earth to live, love, eat, laugh, cry, heal, and yes, kibitz. Those of you who have never experienced it or just go with the stereotypes that you’ve been fed: I feel for you. This is truly the greatest city in the world. I could probably write an encyclopedia on the many things I love about it, but if I have to explain, you won’t understand.
To quote Forrest Gump, “That’s all I have to say about that.”
Chapter 6
Vampires Are Afraid of Crosses
There are a great many things that one can claim to be afraid of, vampire or no.
Being stuck in an elevator is a good one. A plane crash can scare the crap out of anybody. A hideous car crash plagues all commuters in New Jersey. Catching an intestinal bug in some foreign land or having to listen to Roseanne Barr sings the National Anthem. Waking up and finding Rosie O’Donnell snuggling next to you affectionately. These are all legitimate concerns.
Some people feel that vampires are afraid of crosses and this just makes no sense at all; in fact, it always makes me laugh. I’m more afraid of Bubbe’s wooden spoon, which she can still wave around like some crazed Samurai warrior if I even dare screw up by putting one of her fleishik plates in her milchik sink. Do not mess with kosher tradition when it comes to Bubbe.
The percentage of people who should actually fear the cross is limited to a few small demographic groups: Native Americans, African Americans, and any cherub-faced altar boy. I could also mention Jews, Muslims, and anyone else who does not agree with the witless banter of whichever feygelah happens to be Pope at the time, but I know I’ll receive letters and I’m trying to keep the chapters short. The three groups I mentioned have the biggest axes to grind. They are the
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