There are, of course, varieties of Jewish experience in this strange country we’ve found ourselves in. My grandfather was a soft spoken electrician with coarse hands. His son, my dad, is a generally easy going and well adjusted lawyer in a Borscht Belt village upstate. But I am not like either of them. I’m the Jew you would recognize from pop culture over the course of the last 50 years. I’m the guy you might’ve overheard complaining about day-old bagels in a diner with Jerry and George, or haggling over the price of an eighth in Washington Square Park in a Larry Clark film.
‘Bug Shit from Heaven’: A live diary from the Knicks season opener
