From the Publisher
“One of the funniest books you’ll ever read about the sometimes absurd alternative reality of the IDF.... What drives the book – which is named after the nickname Chasnoff’s commander gave to the unit – is Chasnoff’s uncanny ability to nail the various idiosyncratic elements of the Israeli psyche as mirrored in the 18-year-old boys he’s thrown his lot in with for a year.”—The Jerusalem Post
“An unusual story, humorous but not without heartbreak, told well by an intelligent and funny person.”—The Forward
“Laugh-out-loud funny.... [Chasnoff] has some serious and even shocking things to say about Israel and its relationship with American Jews, and I promise you that you will not think about your own Jewishness in quite the same way after you finish his smart, funny and provocative book.”—Los Angeles Jewish Journal
“Through the humor, the tone dips deep into tenets of Judaism, Middle East politics, discrimination, racism and more. Ultimately, the author offers a poignant account of attitudes and policies that are bound to fail the region. And sadly, it's funny as hell.”—Colorado Springs Independent
“Part Stripes, part Camp Ramah, comedian Joel Chasnoff presents a new kind of coming-of-age story in his memoir and first book, The 188th Crybaby Brigade.... Chasnoff’s comedic timing and honest heart shine throughout the narrative as we follow his journey from supposed zero to Israeli hero.”—Jewish Book World
"In The 188th Crybaby Brigade, former Israeli soldier Joel Chasnoff [describes] his service as a passionate defender of Israel in an army that seems to be collapsing into tactical mediocrity and a widespread indifference to duty... A pleasure to read... that make[s] war a personal journey through a hazy political landscape." —Washington Post
"A great tale, a Jewish Jarhead. It's a book about war, peace, marriage, the Middle East, titty twisters, and Spam. A funny, thoughtful, and poignant story." A. J. Jacobs, New York Times bestselling author of The Year of Living Biblically
"In this illuminating work Joel Chasnoff does for the IDF what Mailer did for the Pacific campaign and O'Brien for the war in Vietnam. This is a chilling book." Anthony Swofford, New York Times bestselling author of Jarhead
"This comic coming-of-age memoir is as touching as it is tough, as insightful as it is funny. The 188th Crybaby Brigade is an unsentimental but moving portrait of a soldier's heart and mind." Lauren Weisberger, New York Times bestselling author of The Devil Wears Prada and Chasing Harry Winston
"Joel Chasnoff writes like Woody Allen channeling Leon Uris, with altogether charming results. As hilarious, unsparing, and surprisingly tender a memoir as they come." Elisa Albert, author of The Book of Dahlia"Joel Chasnoff's fascinating account of his time in the Israel Defense Forces is a rare window into the real Israel. If you really want to understand the Jewish state and its army, put away the propaganda and read this unusually funny and honest book." Sam Apple, author of Schlepping Through the Alps and American Parent
Some of the book is the numbingly standard stuff of military memoirs, but it's a pleasure to read in spite of that typical problem.
The Washington Post
What's a nice, liberal Jewish boy from Chicago doing in a Merkava tank along Israel's border as Lebanon sets up ambushes against Hezbollah guerillas?Stand-up comedian Chasnoff is not the first or last American Jew to join the ranks of the Israel Defense Forces out of love for the Jewish homeland. But it's certainly unusual for an American IDF veteran to pen an account of his disillusionment with Israel, with Israelis, with the war in Lebanon and with the way the IDF trains for and fights the war. Not that Chasnoff had become anti-Israel or anti-Zionist by the end of his experiment in military living. His idealism and faith-some might say, his naivete-as his odyssey began were strong enough to withstand the blows of ordinary real-world experience. But his illusions about the IDF being the perfect fighting force and Israel being on a purely moral mission were slowly stripped away with each little humiliation, absurd policy and selfish act of a colleague he witnessed in training and in combat. Near the end of his tour, Chasnoff suffered the ultimate insult of being deemed insufficiently Jewish in the eyes of the Rabbinical Council of Tel Aviv. "[I]f I do die during these next thirty-nine days," he writes, "they won't even bury me in a goddamn Jewish cemetery." The author often writes humorously-the physical examinations at the hands of very different authority figures that bookend the main narrative are horrifyingly hilarious. At times, as when he describes the landscapes in the Negev Desert and in Lebanon, the prose approaches the poetic. But often the writing comes across like a film treatment, with the laughs calibrated to a sitcom level. A little more poetry and a little less shtickmight have served the story better. Serviceable boot-camp comedy. Agent: Dan Lazar/Writers House
Read an Excerpt
The Russian is poking my balls.
I’ve been trapped in this dank examination room since nine o’clock. In five minutes it’ll be nine-thirty, and I feel like a dope, what with my boxer shorts at my ankles and my dick in my hand so the Russian can get a good view.
“Hmm,” he says.
It’s Tuesday morning, the eighth of July, and I’m at the Israel Defense Forces Induction Center outside Tel Aviv. I arrived in Israel three weeks ago. Today is my first pre-army checkup.
The Russian says something in Hebrew, but I can’t understand him through his thick Russian accent.
“Huh?” I say.
He switches to broken English. “You pee-nus hurt you?”
“Lo!” I say in Hebrew, and shake my head. “Penis tov! My penis is
The Russian scoots forward on his knees. He’s about sixty years old and bald. Even though he’s a doctor, he’s dressed like a plumber—plaid short-sleeve shirt, dirty jeans. I imagine that back in Russia he was a brain surgeon. Now he checks gonads for the Israeli Army.
“Up,” he says.
I lift my penis until it’s flat against my stomach.
He squeezes my testicles gently as if trying to pick the perfect peach. His forehead is inches from my belly. I’m a hiccup away from a dishonorable discharge.
“Cough,” he says.
He pulls his enormous Clark Kent eyeglasses off the crown of his head, presses them onto his nose, and jots a note on his clipboard, while I, in the meantime, try to think about anything in the world besides how much I hate holding myself while a nearsighted, balding Russian takes notes.
I try to name every team in the National League.
Cubs. Phillies. Mets.
My visit to the Induction Center began at eight this morning, when I showed up at the front gate without so much as an appointment. “I can’t let you in without draft orders,” said the soldier guarding the entrance. He was a chubby kid, with blond hair, sunglasses, and an Uzi. He stood in a white booth next to a chain-link fence. A hundred yards behind him were the three redbrick buildings that made up the Induction Center com-
I explained in Hebrew that because I’d immigrated to Israel less than a month ago, I hadn’t yet received my draft orders. “But here,” I said, pulling out my brand-new national ID card. “I’m Israeli.”
The soldier scrutinized my ID card. Then he looked at me, then back at the card, and then back to me. “Where’re you from?” he asked suspiciously.
“The United States,” I said.
“America,” he purred. “Where?”
“Chicago Bulls!” he cried. “Michael Jordan!”
“I’ve driven past his house,” I said.
He handed me my ID. “Straight ahead. Inside the middle building.”
The Russian grabs the edge of his desk and hoists himself to his feet. “Bend over,” he orders. He must see the look of horror that flashes across my face, because he quickly adds, “You can put on your pants first.”
I bend over and touch my toes. The Russian taps my spine. “Your back’s crooked,” he says.
“It is?” I shout through my legs, trying to sound surprised.
“You ever have back pain?” he asks.
The way I see it, I have two options. Option One: tell the truth, that is, confess to the Russian doctor that I was diagnosed with mild scoliosis when I was nine and that, three months ago, during a pickup basketball game at the JCC, I collapsed to the gymnasium floor with back pain so severe it took the paramedics thirty minutes just to roll me onto the stretcher. I would then have no choice but to inform the Russian that my personal physician in the States, Dr. Zielinski, had advised me not to enlist in the Israeli Army—not that Zielinski had thought the IDF would take me. “I can’t speak for Israel,” he’d said, “but a back as messed up as yours would never be allowed in the Marine Corps.”
The problem with Option One is that if the Russian finds out about my back, he will assign me to a noncombat desk job. But I don’t want a desk job. I didn’t immigrate to Israel to type memos or change tires. I’m here because since I was seventeen years old, I’ve dreamed of jumping out of planes, charging up mountains, and hiking the desert with a pack on my back as a combat soldier in the Israeli Army. For this reason, I choose Op-
“My back’s perfect,” I say.
“Hmm,” says the Russian.
He massages the glands in my neck. He studies the soles of my feet like they’re a map of the sunken treasure. He sticks an icy stethoscope into my chest and orders me to breathe.
I sit. He sits across from me at his desk. “Tell me about your family,” the Russian says. “Any medical history I should know about?”
I shake my head.
My mother has multiple sclerosis, walks with a cane, and at times is confined to a wheelchair. “Nope.”
My dad’s back is worse than mine—so bad that he’s had surgery on it twice. “Nothing comes to mind.”
One of my younger brothers has Crohn’s disease. The other had croup, two hernias, and an undescended testicle. “Not that I can think of.”
The Russian scribbles on my chart. “You’re going combat,” he says.
I pump my fist and smile. My scoliosis has been overlooked! My feet are arched! My balls are worthy of a medal!
I skip to the door. “Chasnoff!” the Russian barks.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says.
© 2010 Joel Chasnoff