Kaldor As An Actor

Please Mark Zuckerberg, Help, I’m Jewish!

Letter To Mark Zuckerberg

Dear Zucky,

Please forgive the informality, but guys who have Zuckerberg (EnglishTranslation Sugarmountain) for a name were always called Zucky in my old Brooklyn neighborhood.

I know you come from Scarsdale or some ritzy place but I’ll bet you were still called “Zucky” as a term of endearment…and above all, I want this letter to be endearing.

Because you could lterally save my life

Here’s how. I am a broke, hasbeen actor/writer. I currently have a flop at the Motion Picture Home for the aged. It’s not a bad place—it’s just not for me. Though I’m deep in my eighties, I still have hope, and there’s little of that around here. My fellow denizens walk around (if they can still walk) constantly complaining about their aches and pains. They also bitch about the lack of visits from their ungrateful children. But one visit they don’t complain about and that’s the one that’s inevitable, is the visit from the Grim Reaper.

I’m putting him off too because I still want to live like I used to. And I once  lived pretty good in Hollywood. But with alimony, bad investments, and the ever-shrinking job market for altercockers,(old man) I can’t find work!

Now by the grace of Hashem,(For those who are not MOT ( member of the tribe ) that’s how we Jews refer to God. As I was saying, by the grace of Hashem I finally got a helluva job and you Zucky, got it for me.  You recently made the first Facebook television commercial…it was a beaut. It depicted many people from around the world who use Facebook which essentially means the entire world and I was a featured player in that commercial. An Arab sheik.

And that’s where the trouble began.

Facebook TV Commercial

But I’m no sheik.

And this is the real, real me.

Mark Zuckerberg Letter

I know you didn’t know that I was  MOT because of the costume and my professional delivery. My consummate acting chops sold me as an Arab Sheik …

And here comes the rub for who knows for whatever reason, despite my stellar performance I was left on the cutting room floor.

Administrative oversight no doubt, but one that can be corrected by you for this Jew who looks like an Arab.…

It would be a mitzvah (blessing) and would allow me to rent a pad in Hollywood, where I could hang out with my buddies from the Super Bowl Taco Bell commercial.

I hope you can take care of this Zucky. Pick me up off the cutting room floor.

I will be eternally grateful.

And if you need further proof that I’m Jewish, I’ll show you my circumcised schmekel (penis to you Christians). I realize Muslims are circumcised as well as many Christians, so to proveI I’m Jewish I’ll recite The Shema (our holiest prayer). Of course I won’t do this at the same time I’m exposing myself, that would be sacrilegious.

Anyway in closing I hope you give this letter and my pleas some consideration.

Mazel Tov (Luck) to you and your Chinese wife. I hear that Chinese-Jewish children have the highest IQ’s in the world. L’Chaim (Life) to you Zucky.

Yours Truly,

Eric Kaldor

My Time With The Great Jack Warden

I’ve been writing for TV for 40 years and I haven’t been impressed with many actors. Nor am I a star fucker—although I’ve tried to have my way with various “starlettes” but I’ve always been unsuccessful.

But I’ve digressed. There actually was one actor that once impressed me. He was the redoubtable, Oscar winning, all-around good guy, Mr. Jack Warden.

I didn’t meet Jack professionally, but we were introduced on a tennis court and soon became buddies. I’ve never met an actor like him. He was without artifice and accessible to everybody, probably because of his background.

Jack was born in humble circumstances in Hoboken, N.J. When he was 18, he was shipped out in the Merchant Marine and spent the next 10 years in the world’s oceans. He once told me there wasn’t a deep sea port on earth in which he hadn’t got “stinkin drunk in.”

Somehow during that rough and tumble time he realized he was made for something other than fighting, drinking and drifting around the world as an able body seaman. He realized he wanted to be an actor, even though he had never even seen a play!

Jack quit the Merchant Marine and took odd jobs around New York City. At one time he was a salesman at Bloomingdales, a Salvation Army Santa, and of course, he worked sporadically as a waiter and cab driver like most actors do. But unlike those want-to-be actors, he clicked right away and started getting small parts that kept getting bigger and bigger.

I know why he was almost immediately successful. He approached acting as he did life—honestly. I mean, who can forget him as the coach in Heaven Can Wait?

But there was more to Jack than appeared on stage. I remember taking a bus with him after his car broke down. His fellow passengers were immediately aware of his presence. There was the usual stifled “ohs and ahs” and sly stares and hard stares, and finally, one of the passengers spoke up. She was a little, old lady with a foul mouth.”What the fuck are you doing here, Jack?” She asked.

“The same thing you are dear,” Jack said, “Ridin’ the bus.”

“But why?” I think she actually said, “But why the fuck are ya doin’ that?”

Jack answered truthfully. “Because I have too many DUI’s and they took away my license.”

“But you should hire a fuckin’ chauffeur.” The old lady said.

Jack replied, “I don’t go in for that fancy fuckin’ stuff.”

And the entire bus, including the driver, broke into applause.

One time, I too applauded Jack in public—or kind of in public. We were at his beach house in Malibu when a contingent of 20 picnickers showed up at his front door— steps from the Pacific Ocean. Jack’s house in The Malibu Colony was patrolled and guarded. It was a safe haven for the movers and shakers and stars of Hollywood. Jack’s then wife, who was termagant of the worst order, went crazy. She got on the phone to the guard shack and demanded that a contingent of rent-a-cop come to her rescue and rid of the offending sight of “50 Mexicans eating tamales in front of my window.”

Jack immediately cancelled that order and he and his harridan of a wife had a terrible fight. I’d never seen Jack this angry, but he won, and that’s when I applauded. The harridan wife then demanded that I leave the house. Jack would have none of that. He said, “My buddy stays right here.”

And his wife said, “It’s either him or me.”

“That’s no contest. He stays and incidentally I’ve invited a few friends for dinner,” said Jack. And with that, he opened the doors to his house and invited all the interloper picnickers inside.

By the way, the tamales were delicious. And shortly after that picnic, Jack filed for divorce.

When Jack was 80, he quit acting and moved to North Carolina and lived with his extraordinarily beautiful and understanding new wife on the beach. I never visited him there, but I’m sure if any stray beach goers camped in front of his beach front door, they were welcomed.

That’s just the kind of a guy he was. Jack died a few years ago and the theatre and movies goers, bus passengers, and beach wanderers are missing a great man.

And so am I.

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