Luke Ford

I just got a spam text: “I miss the times we had together. How are you doing? I’m worried.”

Me too. I start getting verklempt, like Tony Soprano watching TV commercials, but then I remembered I’m not the needy Luke you used to know. No! I have a lot going for me these days. I have three AI subscriptions!

What are some spam texts I deserve?

I asked Grok:

From: Cindy Jackson (1977): “Hey Luke, it’s Cindy from sixth grade. Still waiting for you to answer my note. Wanna grab a smoothie and talk about why you teased me into oblivion? I’m worried you’re still frozen at that desk.”

From: Costa Rican Paralegal (2003): “Luke, I miss our wild night—your gashmiut was banging, but that methadone clinic t-shirt? Oof. I kept your Dish book as a ruchniut lesson. You okay, or still exiled from shul? Worried about you.”

From: Rabbi Moshe Cohen (1998): “Luke, it’s your old rabbi. I miss our talks. Come back to shul. Worried you’re still a rebel without a mechitza.”

From: Haley Rivers (2004): “Yo Luke, it’s Haley, your ex-porn star flame. Miss our Bush election night deal—your best BJ ever, right? Stop chasing eroticized rage and get a nice Jewish girl. Worried you’re still stuck in my videos.”

From: Glib Medley (2025): “Luke, it’s Glib Medley. I’ve reconsidered and decided to give you my number. Miss clowning you, man—you’re still social cyanide! That lawyer chick’s status tanked after your jury duty look in front of the partners. Drop the smoothies, find a shul that’ll take you. Worried you’re still a bottom feeder.”

From: Dennis Prager (1998): “Luke, it’s Dennis. Miss your zeal, but your porn blogs? Not my Torah. You’re no pisher—you’re a mensch in training. Quit the gashmiut, embrace ruchniut. Worried you’re still blogging about me. Ouch, my neck hurts. At C3-C4.”

From: Your Therapist (2011): “Luke, it’s your shrink. Miss our chats about your God-shaped hole. Your eroticized rage is so 2003—quit chasing Cindy Jackson’s ghost. Try intimacy, not intensity. Worried you’re still dodging Teshuvah.”

From: Jeanette Walls’ Dish (2003): “Luke, it’s your stolen Dish book. That paralegal chick swiped me, but the NYT plagiarized me! (Slate) Get a new copy and stay sober. Worried you’re still chasing my pages.”

From: Gavin Brown (1974) “Luke, mate, it’s Gavin from second grade. Miss those Cooranbong days, but not your horse manure-throwing vibe. Sorry we didn’t want you at my birthday bash. Worried you’re still that awkward Aussie kid, banned from shuls and blogging porn. Come back for a smoothie, not a shanda!”

ChatGPT:

Spam Texts from the Universe You Deserve

“Your rabbi misses you. Click here to rejoin the WhatsApp group you got booted from in 1998.”

“This is Cindy. I finally found your note. It said ‘Yes.’ I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.”

“You’ve been selected for advanced placement in Teshuvah. No essays. Just show up and cry sincerely.”

“Your crush from 1987 just Googled you. She’s more impressed by your amends than your follower count.”

“We saw what you wrote on your blog in 2002. We forgive you. But you still owe us that Jeanette Walls book.”

“A spiritual community is willing to accept you exactly as you are… unless you start quoting Dennis Prager again.”

“Your Amazon order has shipped: 1 tub of protein powder, 3 volumes of Rashi, and one more chance at love.”

“Your ex didn’t block your number. She just spiritually ghosted you.”

“Your old therapist finally figured out what you meant. She sends regards and recommends hydration.”

“Hey, it’s God. You’re not disqualified. Just… stop streaming.”

Gemini:

From a Ghost of Girlfriends Past

(UNSAVED NUMBER): “Hey stranger, it’s me. Remember that night after the Dennis Prager singles event? I never got your smoothie recipe. Also, my therapist says I need closure. Please return my dignity. I’m worried.”

(UNSAVED NUMBER): “Hi. You don’t know me, but I’m the woman who bought your old 1979 Datsun station wagon for parts. Just wanted to let you know it’s still more reliable than your love. Hope you’re well. I’m worried.”

(UNSAVED NUMBER): “This is Cindy Jackson from 6th grade. It’s been a while. I just wanted to let you know that after decades of therapy, I’m finally ready for your response to my note. But to be clear, the answer is still no. How are you? I’m worried.”

From a Bot with a Grudge

(SHUL_ADMIN_BOT): “NOTICE: You have been ejected from this text message. Please return the tefillin. We’re worried.”

(THERAPY_BOT_3000): “Your file has been updated. Diagnosis: Histrionic/Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Primary need: Narcissistic Supply. Prognosis: You will continue to do what you are doing until the negative effects outweigh the reinforcement. We are worried.”

(KABBALAH_CENTRE_NO_REPLY): “We noticed you’ve been searching for meaning. Have you considered that eroticized rage might just be your soul trying to tell you to buy our blessed water? We’ve seen your credit card debt, so we’re offering a special rate. We’re worried.”

From the Universe Itself

(THE_UNIVERSE): “I saw your journal entry about being the greatest writer of your generation. Just wanted to check in and see if you still needed to live in a hovel and drive a van serial killers would reject to maintain your artistic integrity. I’m worried.”

(FINANCIAL_SERVICES_AI): “Records show your last declared life goal was to find a ‘hot 22yo’. Our models indicate this may be difficult with your current debt-to-dignity ratio. We have loan options available. We’re worried.”

(SPAM_LIKELY_FROM_GOD): “I saw you’re trying to choose life and be a good Jew. Just a reminder that consensual sex between unmarried adults is not immoral, only unholy. You seem to have really run with that one. How’s it going? I’m worried.”

You might think that with my hundreds of Youtube views, I’ve forsaken the path of Torah for the path of influencer. Not true!

In pursuit of spiritual growth, the ruchnius, I fed the Youtube transcript of my last six Youtube livestreams into Grok to analyze for lack of self-awareness. Certain themes came up.

Grok:

1. Overdramatizing Personal Slights and Misinterpreting Social Cues

Lack of Self-Awareness: Fails to recognize how his emotional indulgence and choices shape his perceptions of rejection, clinging to a victim narrative.

2. Hypocrisy in Sensitivity and Criticism

Accuses others of denying reality (e.g., Lisa McCray on immigration, 6-11-25, 1:15:43) while ignoring contradictory evidence himself.

Lack of Self-Awareness: Does not apply his self-criticism to his own hypersensitive behavior or selective framing, showing a blind spot in recognizing his contradictions.

3. Inappropriate Responses to Serious Issues

Evidence: Uses ChatGPT to craft a sympathy-seeking social media post about a friend in hospice or uses crude analogies.

Lack of Self-Awareness: Fails to see the inappropriateness of exploiting serious situations for attention or trivializing sensitive topics with humor.

4. Self-Centered Narrative FramingEvidence: Frames his Orthodox Jewish conversion and struggles as central to his identity, yet admits they didn’t fundamentally change him.

Focuses on feeling like an outsider (14:28–16:34) without examining how his behavior may contribute to isolation.

Lack of Self-Awareness: Neglects to reflect on how his actions or approach might alienate others, instead dwelling on personal grievances.

5. Emotional Bias Overriding Claimed Neutrality

Evidence: Claims neutrality on U.S./Israel strikes on Iran (6-15-25, 22:44–22:50; 6-22-25) but expresses visceral satisfaction at Iran’s “humiliation” (6-22-25; 6-24-25, 13:32–13:38). Emotionally supports Trump’s policies and Israel’s actions (7-4-25) while dismissing critics as “blinded by hatred.”

Lack of Self-Awareness: Does not acknowledge how emotional biases (e.g., Zionist identity, anti-Iran sentiment) dominate his analysis, undermining his neutral stance.

6. Uncritical Engagement with Speculative or Biased SourcesEvidence: Relies on low-credibility YouTube channels like “Leis Real Talk” for geopolitical claims (7-6-25, 5:37–5:42). Amplifies speculative narratives about Iran (6-11-25, 1:01) and accepts Israel’s intelligence claims without skepticism (6-15-25, 1:37:46–1:37:59).

Lack of Self-Awareness: Fails to recognize his susceptibility to confirmation bias or how his selective source use mirrors the sensationalism he critiques in others.

7. Contradictory Ideological Positions

Evidence: Supports nationalism and group interests (7-4-25) but struggles to reconcile his Zionist advocacy with “America first” principles. Critiques elite self-interest (6-9-25, 11:14–11:21) while defending similar behavior in Trump/Musk (41:04–42:14). Opposes U.S. intervention generally but entertains it against Iran (6-15-25, 5:01–5:22).

Lack of Self-Awareness: Does not address tensions between his collectivist and individualist views, or between his anti-interventionist and pro-Israel stances.

8. Overgeneralization and StereotypingEvidence: Generalizes about immigrants destroying social cohesion. Claims “most Americans” support Israel (6-15-25, 18:17–18:31) without evidence.

Lack of Self-Awareness: Fails to see how his broad, unsupported claims risk perpetuating stereotypes or oversimplifying complex issues.

9. Dismissal of Process, Evidence, or Opposing ViewsEvidence: Dismisses legal concerns about Trump’s strikes (6-22-25; 6-24-25, 52:28–53:00) as “unhuman.” Rejects economic arguments against deportations (6-11-25, 1:11:05) without data. Ignores dissenting analysts like Mearsheimer (6-15-25, 4:00:04–4:00:18) or downplays blowback risks (6-22-25).

Lack of Self-Awareness: Does not recognize how his dismissal of process, evidence, or alternative perspectives undermines his claim to prioritize reality.

10. Failure to Reflect on Platform’s Polarizing Impact

Evidence: Uses inflammatory terms like “thugs” or “illegals” (6-11-25, 43:05) and calls diversity a “cancer” (41:04). Frames gay rights as opposing religious freedom (6-9-25, 27:19–27:49). Dismisses his influence as negligible (7-4-25) despite attracting extreme audiences.

Lack of Self-Awareness: Fails to see how his rhetoric escalates division or mirrors the polarizing tactics he critiques in others.

11. Projection of Bias Onto OthersEvidence: Accuses critics like Mearsheimer of ideological blindness (6-22-25) or McCray of denying reality (6-11-25, 1:15:43) while ignoring his own emotional bias toward Israel (6-15-25, 22:57) or selective evidence use.

Lack of Self-Awareness: Projects bias onto others without examining how his own ideological leanings shape his commentary.

12. Overconfidence in Assessments

Evidence: Asserts Iran’s strategic failure (6-15-25, 0:23–0:30) or Israel’s “stunning success” (6-15-25) prematurely. Celebrates Trump’s policies (7-4-25) or strike outcomes (6-22-25) without considering long-term risks or incomplete data.

Then I fed those results along with my online autobiography into Grok, Gemini and ChatGPT to create love, light and jokes. I then punched them up and made them mine, just like I do for my women:

Gemini:

On Social Life & Self-Awareness

“My therapist says I “treasure perceived slights.” I told her that’s absurd—and I’m deeply wounded she’d even think that.”

“I wasn’t invited to a Shabbat dinner with the curvy chick. It was the worst social rejection I’ve had all week. I haven’t felt that excluded since my rabbi found my old blog and returned my $600 donation—with interest, in moral judgment.”

“According to AI, I lack self-awareness. So I’m using that as my new pickup line: “Hi, I’m Luke. I’m emotionally inconsistent, overinvested in casual interactions, and I’ll probably podcast about this. Wanna get coffee?””

“I’ve been kicked out of five Orthodox synagogues. At this point, I’m not a convert—I’m a platinum member. I’m thinking of starting a punch card: get excommunicated five times, sixth one’s free.”

“A friend recently died, and my first instinct was to use ChatGPT to ‘milk’ it for social media likes. It’s not that I’m a bad person; I just have an excellent grasp of content strategy.”

On Career & Religion

“For years, I was known as the ‘Matt Drudge of porn.’ Now I’m a 59-year-old unsuccessful YouTuber. It’s the classic hero’s journey, if the hero started in the sewer and is now just in a slightly cleaner part of the sewer.”

“I’m a convert to Orthodox Judaism and a former porn journalist, G-d forbid. People ask how I reconcile the two. I tell them it’s simple: on Saturday, I can’t work, and the other six days, I create work that ensures I’ll have a lot to repent for on Saturday.”

“The New York Times once plagiarized my blog. It was the peak of my journalistic career. It’s all been downhill from there. Now, I’m lucky if my own family reads my stuff.”

“I used to get death threats from the porn industry. Now I get passive-aggressive emails from the synagogue sisterhood. I’m not sure which is scarier.”

“My dad was a famous Seventh-day Adventist heretic who got kicked out of his church. I’m a Jew who’s been kicked out of five synagogues. In my family, excommunication is our version of a Bar Mitzvah.”

On Dating & Relationships

“I told my date that my greatest strength is my vulnerability. She said, ‘That’s fascinating,’ and then blocked my number. It’s a work in progress.”

“I have a simple dating rule: if a woman is willing to overlook my past, my present, and my personality, I’m willing to overlook the fact she’s clearly settling.”

“I wrote in my journal that I wanted a ‘hot 22-year-old.’ Now that I’m 59, I’ve revised my goals. I’m looking for a woman who has low expectations.”

“My last girlfriend said I had the emotional maturity of a ‘hungry infant.’ I was offended. I’m at least a toddler. I can use a fork.”

On The Grandeur & The Reality

“In my journal, I declared myself ‘the greatest writer of my generation.’ My YouTube analytics, however, suggest I’m more like ‘that guy your uncle forwards videos from.'”

“I’m a walking contradiction. One moment I’m delivering a profound lecture on the nuances of the Talmud; the next, I’m getting into a fender-bender because I was distracted by a hot chick at Starbucks. I contain multitudes, most of them embarrassing.”

“I’ve been described as ‘an enigma wrapped in a brisket.’ I think that’s fair. I’m deeply spiritual, intellectually rigorous, and probably best enjoyed with a side of horseradish.”

ChatGPT:

I told my therapist I felt excluded from a Shabbat dinner. She checked her notes and said, “Luke, you were invited, but you said you were too lazy.” I replied, “Exactly. I need friends who can see past my behavior, see past my past, see past my words, see past my vibe, see past my reputation, and intuit my deep-seated need for their pineapple walnut kugel.”

I tried to milk sympathy likes when my friend entered hospice. Grok called it exploitation; I called it “influencer marketing for the afterlife.”

I tweeted that converts are hypersensitive. Fifteen seconds later I rage-quit Twitter because someone didn’t heart my Talmud meme.

My dating app bio: “59-year-old bachelor with 28 years’ experience live-streaming to an audience of literally dozens. Swipe right if you like vulnerability—just don’t criticize it.”

I see myself as the prophet Hosea, living a life of symbolic meaning and marrying a hooker one day. My viewers see me as the guy who gets physically assaulted by a porn star’s mom and then posts about it. So yes, a prophet.

Nothing changed me—conversion, therapy, medication. Guess it’s time to try the last frontier: reading the instructions on my webcam.

I announced regime change in Iran, Russia, and China based on my “spidey sense.” Turns out it was just the Wi-Fi dropping.

I went on my livestream and predicted imminent regime change in Iran, Russia, and China based on my “spidey sense.” It turns out my spidey sense was just my blood sugar dropping. I really need to eat more leafy green vegetables.

I notice that people avoid me after my most passionate conversations; I call it “social distancing,” they call it “self-care.”

Grok:

* My dad got kicked out of Adventism for preaching truth over dogma. I got kicked out of a shul for blogging truth over… well, good taste. Now I livestream to an empty chat, yelling ‘Hallelujah!’ to crickets. Like father, like son—just less employed.

* My father was a famous heretic who told his church, “Here I stand. I can do no other.” Years later, I was kicked out of my synagogue for writing about porn, G-d forbid. I told the rabbi, “Here I stand… can I still come for the free food after services? And can I court your daughter?” Dad and I — we’re both martyrs, just with different catering requirements.

* My therapist says I’m a “hungry infant” for attention. I said, “That’s unfair—and also, are you mad at me? You seemed distant last session.” I overanalyze everything. I once cried for three days over a Shabbat dinner I was invited to—but didn’t attend. Because I was tired. And a little dramatic. And I just wanted to cry for a few days. Isn’t that normal?

* I used to think I’d be a prophet like Hosea—calling out corruption, warning the people. Turns out, I’m more like Hosea’s underemployed nephew livestreaming to 11 bots about geopolitical prophecies. Close enough. Still chosen. Just not… clicked on.

* My dad got excommunicated for preaching Jesus over Adventist dogma. I got excommunicated from shul for blogging about… less holy fluids. Now I livestream to an empty chat, wondering if God’s got a spam filter for my prayers.

* My dad was a theologian who wrote 20 books on Christianity. I wrote a book on the history of porn, G-d forbid, that Publishers Weekly said was incoherent. He was kicked out of his church for heresy; I was kicked out of mine for being, quote, “a menace.” We both chose the path of the righteous outcast; his just had a better dental plan.

* I livestream about Iran getting smoked by Israel, thinking I’m Edward R. Murrow. My community thinks I’m just the guy who can’t land a wife. No Torah honor, but hey, I’ve got a comment section calling me a Zionist shill. Living the dream!

* I livestream geopolitical analysis to an audience of dozens, feeling like a modern-day Bernard Weinraub. Then I remember Weinraub got in trouble for plagiarizing me (after I had plagiarized from the Jeannette Walls book, Dish: The Inside Story on the World of Gossip), and I’m the guy who lives in a garage and gets called a “lashon hara monger” by the local Jewish paper. It’s a very niche level of fame.

In 2003, back when I was a young and vigorous 37, or as vigorous as you can be after 16 years of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and Narcissistic Personality Disorder, I went to a Dennis Prager singles event wearing my one nice suit that my sister bought me in Brisbane, Australia in 2000. At the event, a 23-year old Costa Rican paralegal walks up to me and says her friend dared her to approach me. I have a philosophy that it would be morally wrong of me to say no to a woman. So we exchanged numbers. Then she called me up later. I asked her to dinner. She asked if it would be ok if she stayed the night. I was flummoxed, but decided it would be morally wrong to say no to a woman after she has extended herself. She asked me if I was Orthodox. I said I was. She said she came to the Prager event because a Jewish woman at work said she should go, but that she should avoid any Orthodox men because they will only want to fuck her. I admitted that was probably right. She came over that evening. We went to dinner. We went back to my place. I offered her a massage. She asked if it was OK if she took off her clothes. I was flummoxed but I figured it would be wrong to say no to a woman who is making herself so vulnerable. I know I’m not the greatest host, I wanted to build on the patriarch Abraham’s tradition of hospitality, so I said yes. It was a wild and crazy night. I’m a 19th Century Victorian Gentleman. I’m old fashioned. I don’t kiss and tell. I won’t give you any details about my crazy night. In fact, I’m ashamed how easily I descended into lust and sin. In the morning, I made her one of my patented frozen fruit smoothies. She asked to borrow my Jeanette Walls book, Dish: The Inside Story on the World of Gossip. I reluctantly said yes, fearing I would never get it back. I was going to meet her at her law office at noon for lunch. I didn’t realize she wanted to show me off. I show up in a ratty t-shirt and ratty old shorts and she’s incredibly embarrassed. She thought I’d wear my nice suit. She goes to lunch with me but she’s mad. I never hear from her again. She never returns my book.

Oh well, any date that doesn’t end in a haze of pepper spray is a win.

I don’t know why my friend Glib says that nobody has ever raised their social status by hanging out with Luke Ford. Please write me some jokes.

According to Gemini:

In Judaism, Gashmiut and Ruchniut represent contrasting, yet interconnected, aspects of life. Gashmiut (or Gashmiyut) refers to the physical, material, and mundane aspects of existence, while Ruchniut (or Ruchniyut) refers to the spiritual, transcendent, and divine aspects. Essentially, gashmiut is the world of physicality, and ruchniut is the world of spirituality.

While these two concepts are often presented as opposites, they are not mutually exclusive. In fact, Judaism emphasizes the importance of finding a balance between the two. One perspective is that even seemingly mundane, physical activities can be infused with spirituality and holiness when performed with intention and awareness. For example, even a simple act like eating can be elevated through prayer and gratitude.

Examples:

Gashmiut:

A person’s desire for a new car, the pursuit of wealth, or the enjoyment of physical pleasures.

Ruchniut:

Studying Torah, praying, performing mitzvot (good deeds), and striving to connect with God.

In essence, Judaism encourages a life that integrates both gashmiut and ruchniut, recognizing the value of the physical world while striving for spiritual growth and connection with the divine.

Grok:

“I show up to a Dennis Prager singles event in my one good suit—thanks, sis, Brisbane 2000. A hot 23-year-old Costa Rican picks me out on a dare. We hit it off, but I blow it by showing up to her law office lunch in a t-shirt so ratty it looked like I mugged a hobo. She wanted Armani Luke; she got ‘just rolled out of a dumpster’ Luke. Moral? Never trust a convert. We’re all nuts.”

“I rolled into a Prager singles event in my one good suit—Brisbane’s finest, thanks, sis. A 23-year-old Costa Rican picks me on a dare, we have a wild night, but I tank it by showing up to her law office lunch looking like a Victorian gentleman who fell into a Goodwill bin. She ghosts me, steals my gossip book, and I’m left thinking, ‘At least no pepper spray. Too much winning!’”

“A 23-year-old Costa Rican at a Prager event hits on me ‘cause her friend dared her. I’m like, ‘Morally, I can’t say no to a woman’s courage.’ We have a wild night—dinner, massage, the works. Next day, I show up to her office like a thrift store reject. She’s mortified, ghosts me, and steals my gossip book. Lesson? Why would I need a lesson about the most glorious night of my life? Not everything has to be philosophical.”

“I wooed a Costa Rican gal with my patented frozen fruit smoothie after a night of, uh, biblical hospitality. She borrows my Jeanette Walls book, then ghosts me after I show up to her office looking like I crawled out of a laundry hamper. My smoothie game’s A-plus, but my fashion sense? Straight F-minus. She kept the book—guess gossip’s her type now.”

“She asked if I was Orthodox. I said yeah. She said her friend warned her Orthodox guys just wanna bang. I nodded, ‘Probably true,’ then proved it with a massage and a wild night. Next day, I show up to her office in shorts that screamed ‘homeless chic.’ She ditched me and my book. Guess my extra Jewish soul was too much for her.”

“After a night of Abraham-level hospitality, I lent her my Jeanette Walls book—big mistake. She ghosts me, keeps Dish, and leaves me in ratty shorts at her law office like a rejected TMZ intern. Moral? Never trust a hot 23-year-old with your gossip lit or your heart. When I do intimate things, I feel intimate. I’m the victim here!”

“At a Dennis Prager singles event, I channeled Abraham’s hospitality—dinner, massage, naked Costa Rican guest. She warned me Orthodox guys only want one thing. I said, ‘Guilty,’ and delivered. Then I showed up to her office in a t-shirt that screamed ‘garbage fire.’ She stole my book and ran. Dennis Prager would be proud—I’m the patriarch of bad decisions.”

“She wanted to show me off at her law office lunch—thought I’d rock my Prager suit. Nope, I roll in looking like I just fled a squat. She’s fuming, ghosts me, and keeps my book. I’m not saying I’m a catch, but I’m the catch you throw back with a restraining order.”

“I sealed a wild night with my patented smoothie—frozen fruit, Victorian charm. She borrows my gossip book, then dumps me after I show up to her office like a homeless philosopher. Glib says I’m a social status black hole. True, but my smoothie’s a banger.”

ChatGPT says:

OPENING – SETTING THE SCENE
So back in 2003, I was 37, still single, still hopeful, and still clinging to my one nice suit—bought for me by my sister in Brisbane. When your fashion is sponsored by family across the Pacific, you know you’re killing it.

I wore that suit to a Dennis Prager singles event. I figured nothing says “dateable Orthodox man” like polyester and Zionism.

THE DARE – ENTER COSTA RICA
This 23-year-old Costa Rican woman walks up to me—23! She says her friend dared her to talk to me. And look, I’ve never been the kind of guy women approach… unless it’s for directions or to report a leak in the bathroom. So I took this as divine intervention. Like, this is how Hashem works: through dares.

THE CODE – MY MORALITY
Now, I have a personal philosophy: it’s morally wrong to say no to a woman. I may not be a great catch, but I’m polite. I’m like an Orthodox Canadian—sorry, eh?

So when she said, “Can I stay the night?” I was flummoxed. But how could I say no? She was being vulnerable. I wanted to honor her courage… and also I was deeply horny.

ORTHODOXY & THE TALK
She asked if I was Orthodox. I said yes. She said, “My coworker warned me—don’t go near Orthodox men, they’ll just want to sleep with you.” And I was like… “Yeah, that tracks. But I also make a killer smoothie. So I’ve got layers.”

THE HOSPITALITY BIT – ABRAHAM CALLBACK
We had dinner. We went back to my place. I offered her a massage—like a gentleman from the 19th century who’s also creepy in the 21st.

She asked, “Is it OK if I take off my clothes?”
Now… I was raised with values. I wanted to channel the patriarch Abraham. He welcomed strangers. He washed their feet. I said, “Absolutely, take your clothes off. Would you like a towel? A parsha? Sparkling water?”

Because I’m not just Orthodox. I’m Middle Eastern hospitality Orthodox.

THE MORNING AFTER – VICTORIAN & SMOOTHIES
It was a wild night. But I’m a Victorian gentleman—I don’t kiss and tell. I sin and serve smoothies. That’s how I process shame: one frozen banana at a time.

THE BOOK LOSS – GREATEST TRAGEDY
She asked to borrow Dish by Jeanette Walls—about the gossip industry. I said yes, reluctantly. I should’ve said no. That book’s out of print. And unlike women, books don’t ghost you.

THE OFFICE VISIT – WHERE IT ALL UNRAVELS
She invited me to lunch at her law office. I didn’t realize she wanted to show me off. So I showed up in a ratty t-shirt and old gym shorts—like a guy who just lost a custody battle over a ficus.

She was mortified. I think she wanted Wall Street, and I gave her Walmart in crisis. She ate lunch with me, angry, in public. And that was the last time I ever saw her… or my book.

MORAL WRAP-UP – ETHICS & GLIB CALLBACK
Look, any date that doesn’t end in mace or a lawsuit is a win. That’s my bar now.

And my friend Glib says no one ever raises their social status by hanging out with Luke Ford. But that’s not true. I once helped a woman realize she could absolutely do better. That’s a mitzvah. That’s growth.

CLOSER – ABRAHAMIC ETHICS
So yeah, I descend easily into lust and smoothies. But I try to live by the values of Abraham: welcome the stranger, serve them well, and if they steal your book—let them go. Just don’t lend first editions.

Gemini:

I have a strict moral philosophy. It is always wrong to say no to a woman, to a young attractive woman. So when a 23-year-old asked if she could stay the night, I was morally obligated to agree. It was a test of my character. I passed. Several times.

This young woman told me her Jewish friend warned her to avoid Orthodox men at the Dennis Prager singles event because they would “only want to fuck her.” I, of course, confirmed this was probably true. I consider it a mitzvah to be an accurate source of information.

After a wild night, I was worried she’d take my copy of Jeannette Walls’ book on gossip and never return it. I mean, sure, she took my dignity, but that book was a first edition paperback.

We had this incredible, wild night together. The next day, she wanted to show me off at her fancy law office. I showed up in my rattiest t-shirt and shorts. She was mortified. I don’t get it—I thought after seeing me naked, my wardrobe choices couldn’t possibly be a disappointment.

I’m a modern-day Abraham, committed to hospitality. A beautiful woman asks to take off her clothes for a massage in my apartment? It would be inhospitable to refuse. It’s in the Torah… probably in a commentary I haven’t gotten to yet.

I took a 23-year-old migrant out for dinner. She came back to my place and we had a crazy night. The next day for our lunch date, I dressed to reflect my financial and emotional state. She never called me again. I could’ve given her a green card! I don’t hold a grudge. I didn’t even call ICE.

A 23-year-old woman hit on me at a singles event. I’m 37. She stayed the night. It was amazing. The next day, I dressed for our lunch date. She got so mad. I guess she didn’t realize that my one nice suit, much like my charm, is for first impressions only.

Gemini:

On Being a “Gentleman”

I’m a 19th-century Victorian gentleman. So when a 23-year-old woman I’d just met asked to spend the night, my strict moral code kicked in: a gentleman never disappoints a lady… who’s already overcome her better judgment.

I’m old-fashioned. I don’t kiss and tell. I do, however, offer a detailed, chronological account of everything that led to the kiss—annotated, footnoted, and followed by a long monologue about shame and smoothies. It’s called propriety.

She said her friend warned her that Orthodox men just want to sleep with women. I told her that’s… basically accurate. I believe in truth, Torah, and full disclosure before sin.

On Abrahamic Hospitality & Priorities

She asked if she could take her clothes off for a massage. As a devout Jew, I was flummoxed. But then I thought—what would Abraham do? He welcomed strangers into his tent. So I offered her hospitality, a towel, and some scented oil. It felt… deeply biblical.

After our wild night, she borrowed my book on celebrity gossip. I never saw her again. I’m not upset she ghosted me—I’m upset she took Jeanette Walls. Some things are sacred. That book had underlining. That book, I took a line from it that Bernard Weinraub in the New York Times plagiarized from me! Then in its apology, the New York Times called me a journalist!

In the morning, I made her one of my patented frozen fruit smoothies. It’s the least I could do. Abraham offered guests a calf. I offer mango, protein powder, and a crippling sense of moral ambiguity.

On Social Status & The Aftermath

My friend Glib says no one’s ever raised their social status by hanging out with me. That’s harsh. That woman went from promising law student to “woman who hooked up with a 37-year-old Orthodox blogger.” That’s… elite company. There’s like, two of them.

She wanted to show me off at her law firm. I showed up looking like I’d just been rejected from jury duty and the methadone clinic. In my defense, she’d already seen me naked. What do you expect? I’m not like you. I don’t live in a world of gashmias, of physical status, I live in the world of ruchnias, of spirituality. I can’t be bothered by worldly things like finding nice clothes after I have already been abundantly satisfied.

Any date that doesn’t end in pepper spray is a win. This one ended with her reassessing all her life choices and me losing a $14 paperback. I call that a draw. Spiritually, I think I still owe her postage.

She got mad that I wore a ratty t-shirt to meet her at her law firm. I had to explain to her that I live in the world of ruchnias—the spiritual. I said, “Our connection last night transcended the gashmias, the physical world. This morning, we’re purely in the realm of the spirit. And in the realm of the spirit, we don’t worry about matching socks.”

Let me explain Jewish philosophy through my dating life. Gashmias is wearing your one nice suit to a singles event to impress a 23-year-old. Ruchnias is showing up the next day looking like you’ve just been rejected from a methadone clinic because, spiritually, you’ve already closed the deal.

My friend says nobody has ever raised their social status by hanging out with me. I think he’s wrong. I met a promising 23-year-old lawyer, and in less than 24 hours I gave her the humbling experience of being seen in public with a man who looked like he’d lost a fight with a lawnmower. That’s a spiritual service.

She was upset I didn’t dress up for our lunch date. I told her, “What do you expect? You’ve already seen me naked. I can’t be bothered by worldly things like finding a clean shirt after I have been so… abundantly satisfied.” She was not moved by my commitment to a higher plane.

I’m a man of deep spiritual conviction. My primary conviction is that once a woman has agreed to see you naked, all subsequent requirements for courtship—like wearing decent clothes or, you know, basic hygiene—are rendered null and void. It’s in the Talmud… probably.

After our wild night, she never returned my Jeannette Walls book on gossip. And I never returned her sense of good judgment. I think it’s a fair trade.

On Being a “Modern Orthodox” Pornographer, G-d Forbid

I decided Haredi Judaism was too demanding. No more Aish HaTorah for me. That was medieval. I would become “Modern Orthodox”. Educated. Pragmatic. Practical. Moderate. Modern. High status. Zionist. I’ll run a movie studio. I’ll keep the Sabbath strictly one day a week, and the other six days I’ll fornicate. It’s a balanced approach to life that I learned from my hero, Dennis Prager.

People ask how an observant Reform neo-hasidic Jew can direct porn, G-d forbid. It’s simple. You just have to find a deeper, spiritual meaning in it. For instance, when the actress uses an enema kit before a scene, it’s a powerful reminder of the need for internal cleansing before performing any mitzvah.

My philosophy was to be holy six days a week and sin on the seventh. Unfortunately, due to a scheduling error, I got the days mixed up and ended up directing a gangbang.

On Directing “What Women Want”

I walked onto my first porn set, G-d forbid, feeling like a figure of light in a world of darkness, feeling like a whore in a church, ready to bring ethical monotheism to X-rated video. Then the star asked me if I could identify her clitoris. I realized my mission was more hands-on than I anticipated.

During a crucial moment in the film, I provided educational commentary. As the actor performed cunnilingus, I leaned in and asked, “Is that the Latin or the Greek alphabet you’re licking?” I was later told this is not standard industry practice.

I tried to quote my mentor Dennis Prager in my film’s introduction, but I figured in that specific context, he might prefer not to be credited.

I was on set, surrounded by fornication, my hands were ice-cold, and I thought, “How did a sincere convert to Judaism end up here?” Then I realized: it’s not that big a step from Reform Judaism to hardcore pornography, G-d forbid.

On the Aftermath

I screened my film for my friends at my Reform temple. Their reactions ranged from amusement to disgust. One woman said, “When I go to shul in New York, I get a prayer shawl. In Los Angeles, I get a porno”. G-d forbid.

My film was a commercial disaster. Distributors returned it by the case. I maintain it was just ahead of its time. The world wasn’t ready for Talmudic erotica.

People say I’m a pervert for directing a porn movie, G-d forbid. I disagree. If you do something like this twice, you’re a pervert. If you only do it once, you’re a philosopher. And I am very, very philosophical.

Grok:

I’m a Victorian gentleman, so when a 23-year-old Costa Rican begged to crash at my place, I said, ‘Ruchniut demands I honor her gashmiut desires!’ One sinful night later, she ghosts me with my Dish book, leaving me to daven away my shame. That didn’t work, so I had to blog it all out.

* After my gashmiut romp, she swipes my Jeanette Walls Dish—my Torah of gossip—and vanishes. Ghosting? Fine. But stealing my book? That’s a sin worse than my porn flick, G-d forbid. The NYT plagiarized my Dish dirt, but she stole my soul.

* After a gashmiut night of sin, I serve my mango smoothie—Abraham’s calf, my ruchniut redemption. She steals my book and ghosts. Weekly Standard called me a shaggy-haired Brad Pitt, but my blender’s no match for my shul-banished soul.

* My friend Glib says nobody ever raised their social status by hanging out with me. I think he’s wrong. I met a promising 23-year-old legal secretary, and in less than 24 hours I gave her the humbling experience of being seen in public with a man who looked like he’d lost a fight with reality. That’s a spiritual service.

* She got mad that I wore a ratty t-shirt to meet her at her law firm. I had to explain to her that I live in the world of ruchnias—the spiritual. I said, ‘Our connection last night transcended the gashmias, the physical world. This morning, we’re purely in the realm of the spirit. And in the realm of the spirit, we don’t worry about matching socks and fancy daks.’

* She’s livid I rocked up to her law firm like a jury duty dropout. I said, ‘Babe, I’m above gashmiut because post-coital ruchniut trumps clean shirts!’ She bolts with my book, unmoved by my spiritual flex. Online Journalism Review called me porn’s chronicler, but my shul called me persona non grata.

* Glib says I’m a social status dumpster fire. Wrong! I gave a 23-year-old immigrant secretary a ruchniut crash course in humility—parading her with a guy who looked like he flunked methadone rehab. She stole my book, but Panik Magazine called me a human Rubik’s cube. I’m the guru of gashmius & ruchnius!

* I told her our night transcended gashmiut, but my therapist says it’s just eroticized rage—my soul’s hole chasing sin. She ghosts with my Dish, leaving me to daven in shame. BINA heard my sex addiction spiel, but my rabbi heard about my porn past. Guess who banned me faster?

ChatGPT:

On Conversion & Porn
1.
I converted to Judaism in the ’90s because I wanted a step-by-step system for living an ethical life. Then I discovered Reform Judaism and hardcore pornography were about two steps apart. Three if you stop to pray to a guitar accompaniment.

2.
I figured: why not be holy six days a week, and on the seventh—fornicate? It’s like Shomer Shabbos, but for sin, G-d forbid.

3.
I wanted to merge with my subjects. So I made a porn film, G-d forbid. Like Abraham Lincoln meets Boogie Nights. Call it Gettysburg Undressed.

On Dennis Prager & Ethics
4.
My moral compass was Dennis Prager. I thought, “If I quote him during a gangbang, it’s basically Torah learning.” Somewhere in heaven, an angel facepalmed.

5.
I used Prager’s philosophy to justify porn, G-d forbid. Look, if quoting sources accurately brings redemption, then I was halfway to saving the world with a cumshot and a camera.

On Producing Porn In 1996! G-d Forbid!
6.
I rented a camera, a bed, and five guys—like I was hosting a very confusing Airbnb experience.

7.
When the actress Kimberly Kummings asked if I was too clean-cut for this, I told her, “I’m a nice Jewish boy.” She said, “Great, my boyfriend beats me.” I said, “I converted too!” She said, “Then what the hell are you doing here?” And honestly? Great question.

8.
I made a porn film and called it What Women Want. Which is hilarious, because if there’s one thing women consistently don’t want—it’s me, holding a camcorder and quoting Talmud.

On The Shoot (Absurdity Meets Spiritual Crisis)
9.
I sat on the edge of the bed giving a play-by-play like it was the Super Bowl of shame. “And here comes Dick Nasty, lining up for the penetration…!”

10.
During the gangbang, I asked, “Is that the Latin or the Greek alphabet you’re licking?” That’s when I realized: I wasn’t a director. I was a lost yeshiva bochur with a camera and a moral crisis.

11.
She’s moaning. I’m orating. I’m crying out, “God save the King, the Queen, and the Twelve Apostles!”—like I was trying to perform oral Torah during actual oral sex.

On Shame & Philosophy
12.
I didn’t even get off. I just stood there, quoting Freud and feeling like a rabbi who walked into the wrong mikvah.

13.
That day taught me something: if you do porn once, you’re a philosopher. If you do it twice, you’re a pervert. I’m proud to say—I am a philosopher.

On Legacy
14.
The distributors returned the movie by the case. I ended up giving it to my Reform temple. In New York, you get a tallis. In L.A., you get porn and a free smoothie. And sometimes you get avocado toast.

15.
Now whenever someone wants to hurt me, they bring up What Women Want. Not because it’s explicit—because the lighting was terrible.

16.
I screened the movie at a party once. Total silence. Then laughter. Then judgment. Someone asked, “Is that you?” I said, “No—it’s my twin brother. He’s not Orthodox. He’s Conservative.”

“Gashmias and Smoothies”

You know you’re dating above your league when she wants to show you off at her law firm… and you show up looking like you’ve just been rejected from jury duty and the methadone clinic.

In my defense, she’d already seen me naked. What else do you want from me? Once I’ve been abundantly spiritually satisfied, I’m not rummaging through my closet like it’s a Project Runway audition. I’m ruchnias, baby. Gashmias is for losers.

And these lawyers? They’re gashmias on steroids. The glass conference room glistens like the Temple of Mammon, and there’s me—rubbing my tzitzit with smoothie on my beard—explaining the theology of fruit-based seduction. “You see,” I say, “Pineapple symbolizes divine hospitality.” One guy’s choking on his kale chips. Another’s Googling ‘restraining order + kippah’.

People don’t get it. Ruchniyut means I elevate the mundane. I’m not unemployed—I’m spiritually flexible. I’m not poor—I just tithe in reverse: I keep 90% for humility.

Anyway, my girl says, “You’re going to meet my boss, so look sharp.” And I’m thinking: The last time I looked sharp was when I mistook a lulav for a back scratcher. My wardrobe has two speeds: “child of divorce” and “Torah portion of the week.” If I wear black and white, it’s not a suit—it’s Shabbos camouflage.

But back to the law firm. I walk in and immediately feel the spiritual energy. I say, “Baruch Hashem, this conference room is clearly oriented toward Jerusalem.” She says, “That’s a flatscreen.”

They offer me coffee. I ask, “Is it Chalav Yisrael?” They blink. I say, “Okay, fine, just water… do you have mikveh-filtered?”

I’m like a raccoon in a Whole Foods—technically welcome, but only if I don’t start asserting my norms. Helen Andrews would call this a territorial conflict. I call it dating in L.A.

And that’s the real tension in life, right? Gashmiut vs. Ruchniut. Materiality vs. spirituality. Louis Vuitton vs. Likutey Moharan. And dating? That’s spiritual MMA. Every date is a Chassidic parable disguised as a smoothie run.

She says, “I’m so glad we’re past the physical stuff and can focus on building something deeper.” I say, “Yes! Finally, a woman who understands the erotic power of midrash.”

She says, “Want to go back to my place?” I say, “Only if we light Shabbos candles first and talk about our boundaries until the urge dies.”

Because that’s ruchniyut, baby. Transcend desire… by scheduling it to death.

Anyway, we’re doing great now. I text her morning halachic musings. She responds with emojis that I think are passive-aggressive. But you know what? That’s okay. In love, as in Torah, interpretation is everything.

Shkoyach.

“Modern Orthodox: One Day a Week”

[OPENING: CREDIBILITY]

You know you’ve made it in journalism when The New York Times plagiarizes your porn research.

Bernard Weinraub, Hollywood correspondent, lifted a paragraph from my website about a corpse, a camera crew, and a publicity-hungry private eye. And the Times—God bless ’em—confirmed it in an Editor’s Note. So I’m now officially a footnote in the decline of Western media ethics.

And that’s how I became the Matt Drudge of porn. Only less stylish. Less political. And more Shomer Negiah (don’t touch women) on Yom Kippur.

[BIT: ORTHODOX & PORNOGRAPHIC]

I used to go to morning minyan, study Talmud… then spend my afternoons on porn sets interviewing people named things like Krystal Kuntz. Don’t worry, it’s spelled with a “K”—it’s classy.

Jews would ask me, “Do you think you might be a sex addict?” And I’d say, “No, I just think I’m curious. Also lonely. Also fascinated by the intersection of eros, economics, and the female gaze in post-industrial America.”

They’d say, “Yeah, that’s what a sex addict would say.”

[BIT: EROTICIZED RAGE]

Five months into therapy, my therapist hits me with this term: “eroticized rage.” I say, “That sounds like the name of a band that opens for Nine Inch Nails.”

He says, “It’s the idea that your sexual fantasies are fueled by anger.” And I think back to every time I’ve had sex with someone and had to close my eyes to imagine someone else.

You know it’s bad when you’re with a beautiful woman and the thing turning you on… is spite. “Oh, yeah baby, tell me again how your last boyfriend had better abs.”

[BIT: SPIRITUAL CONVERSION]

I converted to Orthodox Judaism. Not just any conversion. I went from Marxist to Modern Orthodox, from Trotsky to Tzitzit. Most people convert out of love or marriage. I converted because I thought the Torah was a good system for making a better world.

Also because porn wasn’t paying what it used to.

You know how people ask converts if they really believe? I don’t care. I didn’t convert because I thought Moses definitely split the sea. I converted because Judaism worked better for me than therapy. Also, the snacks are better. Kugel beats Prozac.

[BIT: WHAT WOMEN WANT]

In 1996, I directed a porn film titled What Women Want. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t the Mel Gibson version. He stole his title from me!

I got a $4,000 check to research women’s desires. You know how normal people research women’s desires? They go to therapy. Or Barnes & Noble. I booked five male porn stars and one girl with cocaine damage and daddy issues. Then I narrated it with quotes from Dennis Prager. Because that’s what women want: a gangbang with Torah commentary.

[BIT: MODERN DATING]

Dating while writing about porn is hard. I once went out with a nice Jewish girl who said, “Before I can date you, I’d need to test you for every STD under the sun, wrap you in plastic, and deep freeze you for a year.”

I was flattered. That’s the most foreplay I’d had in months.

[BIT: 12-STEP WISDOM]

I eventually joined a 12-step program for sex addiction. I’d walk into these meetings and it was like a casting call for To Catch a Predator.

You’ve got guys saying things like, “My bottom line is no more prostitutes on business trips.” And I’m sitting there thinking, “My bottom line is… no more quoting Dennis Prager during oral sex.”

[BIT: GASHMIAS VS. RUCHNIAS]

Orthodoxy teaches the balance between gashmias—the physical—and ruchnias—the spiritual. Which is why I always say: “I’m not broke, I’m elevated.”

I’m not underdressed, I’m transcendent.

I didn’t ghost you, I’m in retreat. On a higher plane. Watching YouTube in sweatpants.

[BIT: SMOOTHIE THEOLOGY]

So I’m dating this brilliant Orthodox lawyer. She makes six figures. I make smoothies. She says, “What do you bring to this relationship?” And I say, “Pineapple. Symbol of hospitality.”

She brings me to her firm. I show up looking like a rejected contestant from Survivor: Yeshiva Edition.

She’s in Gucci. I’m in Goodwill. She’s defending billionaires. I’m defending my blog from angry ex-porn stars and Chabadniks with DSL.

[BIT: DENOUEMENT / PAIN WITH A PUNCHLINE]

Every time people want to take me down, they bring up What Women Want. As if that movie, made for $4,000 and shot in a room that smelled like death, is the sum total of my soul.

I used to laugh. Now I wince. But here’s what I’ve learned: you only become a pervert if you do it twice. You do it once, you’re a philosopher. That’s what I tell myself at night. That, and the Shema.

[CLOSING: THE TORAH OF SHAME]

In the end, I’ve tried everything: Marxism, porn, religion, smoothies, therapy, Orthodox women, reform shuls, confession via comedy.

But I keep coming back to Torah. Because even when I was face-deep in sin, I always wanted to mean well. Even when I made porn, I was quoting the sages.

I never wanted to be holy seven days a week. Just one. Just enough to remind me that there’s more to life than gashmias… but also that if you’re gonna fall, you might as well write a book about it, get plagiarized by The New York Times, and turn it into a tight 60 minutes of stand-up.

Baruch Hashem and goodnight.

Let’s build on that, CHATGPT:

Title: Modern Orthodox: One Day a Week
[ACT 1: CREDENTIALS & CONFESSIONS | 0:00-30:00]
Opening Beat: My NYT Moment
• You know you’ve made it in journalism when The New York Times plagiarizes your porn research.
• Bernard Weinraub lifted a paragraph straight from my blog. The Times confirmed it in an Editor’s Note.
• Look, if you can’t trust a Hollywood reporter married to Meryl Streep to credit his sources, who can you trust?
From Drudge to Shul
• They called me the Matt Drudge of porn. That means I was breaking news and breaking moral codes simultaneously.
• I covered the porn industry like Woodward & Bernstein… if they wore tzitzit and couldn’t make eye contact with women.
Orthodox by Day, XXX by Deadline
• My morning: Minyan. My afternoon: Anal on a soundstage in Chatsworth.
• Talmud study until 9 a.m., porn set by 10.
• I had one foot in the mikvah, the other in a sea of silicone.
Eroticized Rage & 12-Step Revelation
• Therapist tells me: “You’re driven by eroticized rage.”
• I said, “Sounds like an album by Tool.”
• Turns out most of my fantasies were just vengeance with better lighting.
Dating While Contaminated
• Tried dating Jewish girls during my porn years. That went well.
• “I’d need to freeze you for a year and test you for everything under the sun.”
• That was the most foreplay I’d had in months.
12-Step: Confessing to Weirdos
• First 12-step meeting felt like a sex offender version of AA.
• Guys confessing to lap dances, prostitutes, parking lot voyeurism.
• Me? “I quoted Dennis Prager during cunnilingus.”
Bottom Lines & High Hopes
• One guy said his bottom line was no more prostitutes on business trips.
• Mine? Stop bringing Jeanette Walls books to first dates.
[ACT 2: THEOLOGY OF THE BODY | 30:00-60:00]
Abrahamic Hospitality Meets Porn Star Ethics
• Woman asks if she can take off her clothes for a massage.
• I think, “What would Abraham do?”
• Abraham washed feet. I massaged thighs. Biblical enough.
Gashmiut vs. Ruchniut
• I don’t dress nice because I’m not in the gashmias.
• I’m in ruchnias. I transcend pants.
• I’m not broke. I’m just spiritually elevated.
Smoothies & Torah Commentary
• She brings me to her law firm to show me off.
• I show up looking like I’d just been kicked out of a halfway house.
• In my defense, she’d already seen me naked. The mystery was gone.
Porn as Midrash
• I didn’t write about porn for the smut. I wrote for the sociology.
• It’s just anthropology with cumshots.
• You think Song of Songs is tame? That book is a rabbinic endorsement of foreplay.
Torah of Shame
• Shame is underrated.
• Most of my spiritual growth began with shame.
• You want Teshuvah? Try watching yourself in a low-budget gonzo documentary and then going to shul.
The Gift of Failure
• Every time I thought I hit bottom, the floor gave way.
• Thank God.
• I found God not in the heights but in the face-down, carpet-burn moments.
[ACT 3: MODERN LOVE & IDENTITY CRISIS | 60:00-90:00]
Love in the Time of Teshuvah
• Woman said she couldn’t date me because she feared catching something.
• I said, “You might catch spiritual insight.”
• She said, “I’d rather catch herpes.”
Smoothie-Based Theology
• I don’t bring flowers. I bring blended mango and repentance.
• Abraham brought calves. I bring almond milk and protein powder.
• Same tradition, fewer animal sacrifices.
Being a Victorian Gentleman in 2025
• I don’t kiss and tell.
• I just blog, livestream, and write memoirs about it.
• It’s called restraint.
The Curse of Excommunication
• My dad got kicked out of Adventism.
• I got kicked out of five synagogues.
• In my family, excommunication is a spiritual bar mitzvah.
Who Wants to Marry a Porn Blogger?
• I once wrote in my journal: “I want a hot 22-year-old.”
• Now I pray for someone with low expectations and a decent sense of humor.
Smoothies as Sacrament
• Our night ended with blended fruit and Torah talk.
• She left with my Jeanette Walls book.
• I lost a woman and a valuable piece of gossip journalism. That’s a tragedy.
Closing Sermon
• The Talmud says: where a baal teshuvah stands, even the righteous cannot stand.
• I stand somewhere between a YouTube comment section and Leviticus.
• I’m not righteous. But I’m standing.
End Scene: Baruch Hashem and Goodnight.

Gemini:

Good evening. It’s great to be here. A little about me: I’m a 59-year-old bachelor. I’m a blogger, an unsuccessful YouTuber, and a convert to Orthodox Judaism. So naturally, my first book was a history of pornography.

My family wasn’t thrilled. My stepmom read my work and asked if I was devil-possessed. I told her, ‘Mom, if the devil possessed me, I’d have better sales figures.’

See, I invented my own branch of the faith: Modern Orthodox. It’s very simple. You’re holy on Saturday… and you fornicate the other six days. My moral guidelines came from my hero, the radio host Dennis Prager. He taught me that consensual sex isn’t immoral, just… unholy. And who wants to be holy seven days a week? I figured that was my path to becoming religious and real.”

(Bit 1: The Dating Story – Gashmias & Ruchnias)

“So I decided to apply these high-minded principles to my dating life. Back in 2003, I went to a Dennis Prager singles event. I was 37. I wore my one nice suit my sister bought me. A stunning 23-year-old Costa Rican woman walks up to me. She says her friend dared her.

Now, I have a philosophy: it is morally wrong to say no to a woman who has extended herself. It’s a core tenet. So when she asked for my number, I was morally obligated to say yes. When she asked if she could spend the night, again, morally obligated. When she asked if she could take her clothes off for a massage… folks, I wanted to build on the Patriarch Abraham’s tradition of hospitality. It would have been a sin to refuse.

It was a wild and crazy night. I am an old-fashioned Victorian Gentleman, so I won’t give you the details. The next morning, I made her one of my patented frozen fruit smoothies. Very domestic. She asked to borrow my book,

Dish: The Inside Story on the World of Gossip. My heart sank. I knew I’d never see that book again.

She wanted to meet for lunch at her law office. She wanted to show me off. So, I showed up. I showed up looking like I’d just been rejected from jury duty and the methadone clinic.

She was mortified. She said, ‘I thought you’d wear your nice suit!’ And I had to explain to her… ‘Honey, I live in the world of

ruchnias, of spirituality. Our connection last night transcended the

gashmias, the physical world. I can’t be bothered by worldly things like finding clean clothes after I have been so… abundantly satisfied.’

She never called me again. And she kept my book.”

(Bit 2: The Porn Movie – The Philosopher)

“That same spiritual quest led me to make a porn film. For research. For a book. It was an academic pursuit. I got $4,000 from an Israeli producer in Van Nuys whose office, I noticed, had a picture of him wearing a yarmulke at the Western Wall right next to his porn videos. I thought, ‘This is a man who understands nuance.’

The movie was called ‘What Women Want.’ Not to be confused with the Mel Gibson film. Mine was less successful and, believe it or not, more offensive. I showed up to the set in a white suit, feeling like a figure of light bringing ethical monotheism to the San Fernando Valley.

I didn’t know what I was doing. At one point, during a particularly intense scene, I leaned in with my microphone and asked, ‘Is that the Latin or the Greek alphabet that you’re licking?’ The talent was not amused. My direction mostly consisted of yelling things like, ‘God save the King, the Queen, and the twelve apostles!’

The movie was a disaster. Distributors returned it by the case. I ended up giving copies to my friends at my Reform temple. One of them told me, ‘When I go to shul in New York, I get a prayer shawl. In Los Angeles, I get a porno.’

People say I’m a pervert for directing a porn movie. I disagree. If you do something like this twice, you’re a pervert. If you only do it once… you’re a philosopher.”

(Bit 3: The Consequences – Diagnosis & The 12 Steps)

“This… unique lifestyle… has had some consequences. I’ve been kicked out of five Orthodox synagogues. The last one was the worst. The Rabbi bought me a new pair of tefillin with his own money. A few weeks later, he discovered my website and asked for them back. That’s a tough walk of shame, let me tell you. Returning holy objects because you’re too profane.

My family, trying to be helpful, paid for me to see a psychiatrist in Australia. I spent three hours with her. Her diagnosis? ‘A personality disorder of the histrionic/narcissistic type.’ She said I’m always looking for ‘narcissistic supply’—external validation. Basically, I need people to tell me who I am. So, if you see me after the show, just yell ‘You’re a genius!’ It really helps with my therapy.

Eventually, this all led me to a 12-step program. For sex addiction. I’m sitting there in a room full of guys, and the first thing I learn is my real problem isn’t sex addiction. It’s an

intimacy disorder. Sex is just how I act out.

And then I’m working the Fourth Step, doing my moral inventory, and I read this one sentence that just stops me cold: ‘As we looked at our lives, we saw that virtually everything we did and everyone we knew was exploited to meet our addictive needs.’

And I thought… ‘Oh. So that’s what I’ve been doing.’

All my life—chasing women, chasing God, chasing Dennis Prager, chasing porn, chasing controversy… it was all just me, trying to fill a hole in my soul.

So here I am. 47 years old in this story, actually 59. I have $45,000 in credit card debt. And what I’ve learned from all this… from the Judaism, the therapy, the 12 steps, the women, the porn… is that I am finally ready… to begin.

That’s great, but I need a title.

Gemini:

The Contradictory Life

These titles capture the central conflict between your religious aspirations and your career/personal life.

XXX-Communicated: A Rebel Without a Shul (Your own title, it’s excellent because it’s witty and immediately explains the core conflict.)

From Sinai to the San Fernando Valley

The Talmud and the Tabloid

Confessions of a Kosher Pornographer

Gashmias and Ruchnias: A Love Story

The Spiritual Outsider

These focus on your journey with Judaism and the recurring theme of social exclusion.

The Uninvited (Your therapist’s suggestion, it’s poignant and universally understood.)

My Five-Shul Problem

How to Lose Friends and Alienate Rabbis

The Chosen (and the Ejected)

Now We May Perhaps Begin (An ironic and hopeful line you use.)

The Psychological Case Study

These titles are drawn from the diagnoses and psychological insights you’ve explored. They are darker and more clinical.

Eroticized Rage

Searching for Narcissistic Supply

A Fearless Moral Inventory

The Hovel and the Superego

Darkly Humorous & Self-Deprecating

These lean into the absurdity and your own self-aware critiques.

The Matt Drudge of Porn (A label given to you by the media.)

If You Do It Once, You’re a Philosopher (Your own punchline about directing porn.)

The Greatest Writer of My Generation (and Other Delusions)

Nobody Ever Raised Their Social Status By Hanging Out With Luke Ford

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Blogger

Provocative & Edgy

These are more in the spirit of your controversial blogging style and are designed to shock and intrigue.

Dildos of Shame (From your Topco story.)

The Kinky Kike (From your own list of considered titles.)

I’m a Wasp Who Stings Slugs (Your girlfriend Paula’s description of you.)

Hee Hee (Your mother’s name for your “evil” personality.)

I need more.

ChatGPT:

The Kiss That Saved My Life (But Only for 90 Seconds)

I want to tell you about the moment I peaked emotionally.
Not professionally. That was when The New York Times plagiarized my porn blog.
Not spiritually. That was when I fasted for 25 hours and still couldn’t stop staring at the rabbi’s daughter.
No—emotionally. I peaked in 10th grade. In a church loft. On New Year’s Day. 1983.

There’s this freshman girl. Blonde. Sweet. She tasted like Lip Smacker and Protestant repression.
We’d been talking for maybe an hour. That’s all it took.
I kissed her. And she kissed me back.

But she didn’t just kiss. She glided.
This girl was the Simone Biles of makeouts.
She glided, she sucked, she bit—lightly, like a promise.
Her tongue entered my mouth like it had RSVP’d.

This wasn’t a kiss. This was a layup line to salvation.
For 90 seconds, I was free—from shame, from failure, from Jesus.
I’d gone from homeschooled to home base.

But like all good things in my life, it ended with me saying something awkward.
She looked at me, dazed, and I said, “So… you go to Placer High?”
And just like that, the gliding stopped.

I didn’t know how to stay in a good thing.
That’s a theme with me.
Like the time a girl left a note on my desk in sixth grade that said, “Do you want to go with me?”
And I responded by… publicly mocking her love life for a week.

I’m the kind of guy who gets what he wants… and then tackles it in a swimming pool.
Just ask Jeanie.
We were supposed to play keepaway.
I played waterboarding.
I was like, “You want affection? Let me dunk you first.”

Because love was terrifying.
You know what wasn’t terrifying? Porn.
Nobody ever rejected me in Club International.
Those girls always smiled. Even with six guys on top of them.

That 10th-grade kiss? It was a miracle.
But I didn’t build a cathedral around it.
I built a masturbation shrine in the woods behind my house.
I laminated pages. I had a filing system. I was the Marie Kondo of smut.

And then, I found God. Or maybe just an E-cup Jewish girl. Same difference.
I gave up porn. I grew a beard. I wore tzitzit and guilt.
I told myself: “No more gliding. Only modest side-hugs and dairy-free kugel.”

But still, in quiet moments, I’d think about that girl.
That first kiss.
That 90-second miracle when I wasn’t broken, or bitter, or bukkake-adjacent.
Just a boy. With lips. And hope.

The Kiss, The Shame, The God-Shaped Hole

The most wonderful thing that ever happened to me… and the moment that most perfectly predicted my future dysfunction… happened in sixth grade.

It was a few months after I moved to California from Australia. This was 1977—there was no Google. Nobody had looked me up yet. Nobody knew how deeply, catastrophically messed up I was. The American dream was still possible.

Since third grade, I’d wanted a girlfriend. I didn’t want to hold hands. I didn’t want to make out. I just wanted… affectionate exclusivity. I wanted someone to choose me. Publicly. Without shame.

And then it happened.

Cindy Jackson—the most beautiful girl in the class, the queen of sixth grade—dropped a note on my desk. “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

It was a golden ticket. A straight shot to love and the popular lunch table.

And what did I do?

I froze.

My brain said, “Yes.” My heart said, “YES.” But my nervous system? It said, “Abort mission.” I didn’t respond at all. I sat there like a stunned kangaroo in a Mormon wedding.

I felt unworthy. I couldn’t reach for what I wanted most. I wasn’t connected to anyone enough to ask for advice. No friend, no parent, no rabbi. I just sat on it.

And what did I do instead?

I teased her. Ruthlessly. I made her life miserable for months. Because I couldn’t handle her wanting me.

It was Orthodox foreplay: no touching, just years of verbal cruelty and passive aggression.

Eventually I worked up the courage to ask her to be my girlfriend.

She said, with the most radiant joy I’ve ever seen in a human face: “No.”

And honestly, I deserved it. You can’t neglect a mitzvah that hard and expect reward.

But something formed in me that day. A template. The Cindy Jackson template:

Long for love.

Feel unworthy.

Sabotage it.

Apologize too late.

I’ve been running that script for decades. Not just in romance. In friendship. In community. In every shul I’ve ever joined.

You see, excommunication is just Cindy Jackson, but with a mechitza.

I come in hungry for belonging. For love. For God. I say all the right things—at first. I daven. I show up. I try. But deep down I’m still that sixth grader who can’t believe he’s wanted. So I push. I provoke. I blog.

I make myself impossible to hold onto.

And then I get what I expect: the door closed. The letter. The silence. The rabbi’s furrowed brow.

I used to think I was kicked out because I told the truth.

Now I think maybe I just couldn’t bear to stay.

That’s what eroticized rage is: it’s longing that’s been twisted by shame. It’s a kiss you wanted, poisoned by the belief you didn’t deserve it.

But Teshuvah is different. Teshuvah says: you can return. Not to Cindy Jackson. That ship sailed in 1978. But to yourself. To God. To a community you don’t have to sabotage just to prove you were never worthy.

You can stay. You can be held. You can answer the note this time.

“Yes.”

[INTIMACY: THE KISS THAT SAVED ME]

I peaked emotionally in the 10th grade. New Year’s Day, 1983. A church loft. Blonde freshman. Taste of Lip Smackers and suppressed Baptist desire.

We kissed. No—she kissed me back. And that changed everything. Her lips didn’t just move; they glided. She wasn’t kissing. She was conducting a symphony with her tongue. A slow, confident one. Like Leonard Bernstein, but horny.

For 90 seconds, I felt accepted. Whole. Human. Not the awkward Seventh-day Adventist with a bowl cut and a library of shame. Not the kid who stood on the playground pretending to be too into books to notice no one was playing with him. No. For 90 seconds, I was chosen.

Then I ruined it. “So… you go to Placer High?”

Just like that, the magic dissolved. But I held onto that kiss. I filed it deep in my emotional hard drive under: Proof I Am Lovable.

[SHAME: THE SHRINE IN THE WOODS]

Of course, I couldn’t sustain intimacy. That kiss opened a door I wasn’t ready to walk through. So I built a shrine to lust instead. Behind my house. In the woods. Laminated Playboy pages. A milk crate throne. I was the Porn Rabbi of Placer County.

When the girls at church didn’t return my desperate, overthought letters, I retreated into that little cathedral of thighs and validation.

I didn’t need intimacy. I needed release.

I didn’t need a hug. I needed a centerfold who smiled like she meant it.

Years later, when I got paid to write about porn, people said, “You’re just doing this for the smut.”

No. I was doing it for the structure.

Porn had rules. Positions. Money shots. Consent was discussed like a union contract.

Intimacy? That was chaos.

[SPIRITUAL LONGING: THE 12-STEP TORAH]

Then came the therapy. The 12-step rooms. The 3 a.m. existential panic attacks.

My therapist said, “Your fantasies are eroticized rage.”

I said, “I’m Batman with a hard-on.”

She didn’t laugh.

I started going to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. I thought it would be a circle of perverts. It was. But they were my perverts. And they spoke my language:
Loneliness. Projection. Worshiping the person who texts back.

Judaism calls it the yetzer hara—the evil inclination. The part of us that says, “You’re not good enough. So take. Consume. Escape.”

But the Torah also says: You are not your worst impulse. You are not the folder of browser tabs. You are not the email you regret. You are not even the person who ghosted the one kind girl who kissed you in the 10th grade.

You are a soul. Longing for connection. Covered in layers of denial, compulsions, bad lighting, and Craigslist meetups.

And even there—especially there—God waits.

[THE REDEMPTION: SMOOTHIES & TEFILLIN]

I still fall short. Spiritually. Emotionally. Pants-wise.

But now I pray. I wrap tefillin and beg God to help me see women as whole people, not puzzles I can solve with enough charm, Torah quotes, or mango smoothies.

Because real intimacy isn’t a kiss, or a lay, or even a good blog post.

It’s showing up. Over and over. With all your awkwardness. All your shame. All your hope.

And trusting that someone, somewhere, might glide back.

Gemini:

One-Liners & Punchlines to Build On:

On the initial rejection: “In sixth grade, the most beautiful girl in class asked me to be her boyfriend. I was so stunned, I responded with the one move guaranteed to win a woman’s heart: six months of crippling silence followed by unmerciful teasing. I was playing the long game.”

On ‘Orthodox Foreplay’: “My approach to her was basically Orthodox foreplay: no touching, just years of passive aggression and a deep-seated fear of intimacy.”

On Unworthiness: “She handed me a golden ticket to the popular lunch table, and I treated it like a subpoena. My inner monologue was just, ‘You can’t be here, sir, this is a private event for people who deserve happiness.'”

On the ‘Template’: “My entire adult life has been a reenactment of the Cindy Jackson incident, just with higher stakes. Getting kicked out of a synagogue is basically just Cindy Jackson saying ‘No,’ but this time a rabbi says it and you lose access to a decent kugel.”

On Eroticized Rage: “My therapist says I have ‘eroticized rage.’ I thought that sounded kind of cool and kinky. Turns out it just means you’re so angry about wanting love that you set fire to every relationship you’re in. It’s less ’50 Shades of Grey’ and more ‘Fahrenheit 451: The Dating Years.'”

On Teshuvah: “Now I’m practicing Teshuvah—the Jewish concept of return. It’s great. It means you can’t go back and fix things with Cindy Jackson, but you can stop asking the new girl at shul if she’s ‘dared’ to talk to you.”

A New 5-7 Minute Routine: “The Cindy Jackson Template”

(You take the mic, a bit more reflective this time.)

“The most important thing that ever happened to me happened in sixth grade. It was 1977. I’d just moved to California from Australia. This was before Google, so nobody knew my whole story yet. For a glorious few weeks, I wasn’t ‘that guy.’ I was just the kid with the accent.

And since I was in third grade, I’d wanted a girlfriend. Not for the romance. I just wanted… affectionate exclusivity. To be chosen.

And then, it happened. The queen of sixth grade, Cindy Jackson—a girl with that perfect 1970s TV star hair—walks up and drops a note on my desk. It says, ‘Do you want to be my boyfriend?’

My heart exploded. This was it. The golden ticket. The key to the city. A direct path to the popular table. And what did I do?

I froze. Utterly. I sat there like a deer in the headlights of a conversion van. I felt so completely unworthy, the only logical response was to do… nothing. And then, when doing nothing became too awkward, I pivoted to my other core skill: cruelty.

For months, I teased her mercilessly. Anytime she even looked at another boy, I was there. ‘Ooooh, young love! Isn’t it beautiful!’ It was my version of flirting. You could call it Orthodox Foreplay: there’s absolutely no touching, just long periods of emotional distance and passive aggression.

Eventually, I got up the courage to actually ask her out. She looked me in the eye, and with a joy that could power a small city, she said, ‘NO!’ And you know what? I deserved it. You can’t neglect a mitzvah that big and expect a reward.

But that moment created a template for my entire life. The Cindy Jackson Template. Step one: Long for connection. Step two: Get an opportunity for connection. Step three: Feel unworthy and sabotage it. Step four: Apologize way too late, usually on a blog, decades after anyone cares.

I’ve run that script everywhere. Getting kicked out of five synagogues? That’s just the Cindy Jackson template, but with a

mechitza and a board of directors. I show up, hungry for God and community. I daven, I volunteer, I bring the kosher snacks. But deep down, I’m still that 11-year-old kid who can’t believe he’s wanted. So I find a way to make myself impossible to love. I blog about the rabbi’s sermon. I ask the rebbetzin if she’s read my book on porn. I become… me. And I get the same result: the polite but firm ‘No.’

My therapist calls the root of this ‘eroticized rage.’ It’s a longing for love that’s been so twisted up with shame, the only way to express it is by destroying it. It’s wanting the kiss so badly you punch the person in the face just to make sure you don’t have to feel the pain of them saying no first.

But now, at 59, I’m trying something different. It’s a Jewish concept called Teshuvah. It means ‘return.’ And it’s the understanding that you can’t go back and say yes to Cindy Jackson. That ship sailed, sank, and is now an artificial reef somewhere off the coast of 1978.

But you can learn to answer the next note. You can learn to believe you’re worthy of being invited in the first place. You just have to sit with the vulnerability, look the beautiful girl in the eye, and say the one word that’s taken me a lifetime to learn.

‘Yes.’

Thank you.”

Grok:

“Rebel Without a Shul”[Opening: Set the Scene, 1 min]
(Stride on stage, wearing a yarmulke, holding a smoothie cup, smirking like Larry David with a secret.)
So, 2003, I’m 37, a freshly minted Orthodox Jew, living for ruchniut—y’know, the spiritual life, not gashmiut, the material world. I roll into a Dennis Prager singles event in my one nice suit—thanks, sis, Brisbane 2000! I’m feeling like Abraham, ready to offer hospitality to any weary traveler. (Wink, pause for chuckle.) A 23-year-old Costa Rican lawyer struts up—on a dare from her friend. She says, “My pal bet me I wouldn’t talk to you.” I’m like, “Babe, my moral code says I can’t say no to a woman’s courage.” (Smirk, pause for laugh.) We swap numbers, and I’m thinking, “Baruch Hashem, I’m about to daven my way into her heart!” (Big grin, crowd roars.)[Build: The Wild Night, 2 min]
She calls me up, I invite her to dinner, and she goes, “Can I stay the night?” I’m flummoxed—like a rabbi caught with bacon—but my Abrahamic hospitality kicks in. Can’t deny a traveler! (Pause for chuckle.) She asks, “Are you Orthodox?” I say, “Yeah.” She goes, “My Jewish coworker warned me Orthodox guys just wanna bang.” I nod, “Probably true, but I’m a gentleman Jew.” (Wink, crowd laughs.) We go to dinner, back to my place, I offer a massage—y’know, mitzvah vibes. She says, “Can I take my clothes off?” I’m shook, but I’m like, “Ruchniut says yes to vulnerability!” (Pause for big laugh.) It’s a wild night—let’s just say my gashmiut took over, and I’m no longer praying for a virgin bride. (Smirk, crowd roars.) Rolling Stone called me a porn muckraker, but that night, I was a Torah muckraker! (Pause for huge laugh.)[Turn: The Smoothie and Book Theft, 2 min]
Morning comes, I’m feeling holy, so I whip out my patented mango smoothie—Abraham served a calf, I serve regret with a straw. (Sip smoothie, pause for chuckle.) She asks to borrow my Jeanette Walls book, Dish—y’know, my Torah of gossip. I’m like, “Sure, but I want it back.” Spoiler: she ghosts me and steals it. (Shrug, crowd laughs.) I’m not mad about the ghosting—any date without pepper spray is a win—but stealing my book? That’s a sin worse than my lust! (Pause for laugh.) Funny thing? The New York Times plagiarized my Dish notes in 2003—called me the Matt Drudge of porn! (Slate, 2003) But her theft hurt more than their apology. (Pause for sympathetic chuckle.) My ruchniut soul’s still crying over that $14 paperback. (Crowd roars.)[Escalation: The Law Firm Flop, 2 min]
She invites me to her law firm for lunch—wants to show me off like I’m her gashmiut trophy. I show up in a t-shirt that screams “methadone clinic reject” and shorts that lost a fight with a lawnmower. (Act out looking disheveled, crowd laughs.) She’s mortified, like I just davened in flip-flops at Yom Kippur. I’m like, “Babe, I’m above gashmiut—our night transcended socks!” She’s not buying my spiritual flex. (Pause for big laugh.) My pal Glib says nobody’s raised their social status hanging with me. Wrong! I gave her a ruchniut lesson in humility—being seen with a guy who looks like he flunked jury duty. (Crowd roars.) Village Voice called me a bottom feeder (XXX-Communicated), but I’m a spiritual guru of flops! (Pause for huge laugh.)[Reflection: The Porn-Shul Clash, 2 min]
Here’s the kicker: I’m a sex addict. (Pause for shock.) My therapist called it “eroticized rage”—anger turned horny, thanks to a childhood of getting whacked by Adventist rulers and my stepmom’s PMS rage (rage10). I’d close my eyes during sex, fantasizing about porn stars, ‘cause intimacy was too scary. (Pause for nervous chuckle.) I told BINA in 2011, “I’d daven at shul, then hit porn sets to interview starlets.” (BINA talk) They thought I hated women. Nah, I just hated my social status—exiled from five shuls for my Lukeford.com gossip. (XXX-Communicated) Rabbi called me “tame”—impure. (Pause for Jewish laugh.) Panik Magazine called me a human Rubik’s cube, but my shul saw a porn puzzle they couldn’t solve. (Crowd roars.)[Close: Redemption and Sobriety, 1 min]
So, I’m in recovery now—12-stepping my way to sanity. (BINA talk) No porn, no wanking, just smoothies and therapy. (Sip smoothie, pause for chuckle.) My therapist says my soul’s got a hole—narcissistic personality disorder, needing “narcissistic supply” from every woman I meet. (Autobiography) But I’m learning to connect, not just conquer. (Pause for nod.) Glib says I’m social cyanide, but I’m rewriting my love map. (rage10) I’m not the Captain anymore—just Luke, trying to find an ordinary world without screwing it up. (Pause for applause.) And if I can keep my Dish books and my sobriety, maybe one shul will let me back in. (Big grin, crowd cheers.) Thank you! (Wave, exit.)

“Cindy Jackson’s Curse”

[Opening: The Sixth-Grade Miracle, 1.5 min]

(Stroll on stage, yarmulke askew, holding a smoothie cup, with a wistful Larry David smirk.)

It’s 1977. I’m 11, fresh from Australia to California’s Napa Valley. No Google, no X—nobody knows I’m a walking disaster yet. (Pause for chuckle.) Since third grade, I’ve dreamed of a girlfriend—not for kissing, just to be chosen. Publicly. Like a mitzvah with pigtails. (Jewish chuckle.) Then, boom! Cindy Jackson—sixth-grade goddess, think Jane Seymour with Lip Smacker gloss—drops a note on my desk: “Do you want to be my boyfriend?” (Act out heart pounding, crowd laughs.) It’s my ticket to love, popularity, and the cool lunch table! My brain’s screaming, “YES!” My heart’s screaming, “HELL YES!” But my nervous system? It’s like, “Mate, you’re a kangaroo at a Mormon seder!” (Crowd roars.) I freeze, unworthy, and say… nothing. (Pause for sympathetic groan.)

[Build: The Sabotage, 2 min]

I’m Desmond Ford’s kid—raised on Adventist whacks and no candy. (Mimic ruler smack, crowd laughs.) Love? I’m not worthy. So what do I do? I tease Cindy. Ruthlessly. For months. (Mocking tone.) “Oh, Cindy and Marky Friedl, young love! So cute!” (Crowd laughs.) It’s Orthodox foreplay—no touching, just verbal cruelty. (Pause for Jewish laugh.) I’m too scared to say “yes” to her note, so I make her life hell. Finally, I muster the guts to ask her out. She beams—radiant, joyful—and says, “No!” (Mimic her joy, crowd roars.) Deserved it. You can’t ghost a mitzvah that hard and expect a shidduch. (Pause for laugh.) That moment cursed me with the Cindy Jackson template: long for love, feel unworthy, sabotage it, apologize too late. (Softer tone, crowd nods.)

[Turn: The 2003 Echo, 2 min]

Fast-forward to 2003. I’m 37, a Modern Orthodox convert, hitting a Dennis Prager singles event in my one nice suit—thanks, sis, for that 2000 Brisbane bribe! (Wink, crowd chuckles.) A 23-year-old Costa Rican lawyer picks me on a dare. We have a wild night—my gashmiut steamrolls my ruchniut. (Pause for laugh.) Morning comes, I serve my patented mango smoothie—Abraham gave a calf, I give regret with a straw. (Sip smoothie, crowd laughs.) She borrows my Jeanette Walls Dish—my Torah of gossip—and ghosts me. (Shrug.) No pepper spray? That’s a Luke Ford win! But stealing my book? Worse than my lust! (Crowd roars.) Funny thing: the New York Times plagiarized my Dish notes in ’03 (Slate), but her theft cut deeper than their apology. (Pause for media nerd laugh.)

[Escalation: The Shul-Shaming Template, 2.5 min]

Cindy’s curse followed me everywhere. I’d join a shul, hungry for God, community, love. I’d daven, show up, try hard. But that sixth-grade fear—I’m not worthy—made me push. Provoke. Blog. (Pause for chuckle.) My Lukeford.com porn gossip got me banned from five shuls. (XXX-Communicated) Rabbi called me “tame”—impure. (Jewish laugh.) Glib, my pal, says I’m a social status sinkhole. Right! I took that lawyer from hotshot to “that chick who banged the porn guy.” (Crowd roars.) Rolling Stone called me a porn muckraker, but shul bans hurt more. (Pause for laugh.) I showed up to her law firm lunch like a methadone clinic dropout. (Act out disheveled walk, crowd laughs.) “Babe, I’m above gashmiut—our night transcended socks!” She wasn’t buying my spiritual flex. (Crowd roars.)

[Reflection: Eroticized Rage, 2 min]

My therapist nailed it: eroticized rage. (Pause for shock.) My longing for Cindy got twisted by shame into anger-fueled lust. (BINA talk) Adventist rulers, stepmom’s PMS rage-fests—my childhood was a whack-a-thon. (Mimic ruler smack, crowd laughs.) I’d close my eyes during sex, fantasizing about porn stars, ‘cause intimacy was scarier than a rabbi’s glare. (Pause for nervous chuckle.) I told BINA in 2011, “I’d daven at Aish HaTorah, then hit porn sets.” They thought I hated women. Nah, I hated my God-shaped hole. (Jewish laugh.) Panik Magazine called me a human Rubik’s cube, but my shuls saw a puzzle too tame to solve. (Crowd roars.) I was that sixth-grader, teasing Cindy ‘cause I couldn’t say “yes” to love. (Pause for sympathetic nod.)

[Close: Teshuvah and Sobriety, 1 min]

Now I’m 12-stepping my way to sanity—no porn, no wanking, just smoothies and therapy. (Sip smoothie, crowd chuckles.) My narcissistic disorder craves “narcissistic supply” from every woman I meet. (Autobiography) But Teshuvah says I can return—not to Cindy, that ship sank in ’78—but to myself, to God, to a shul I won’t torch. (Softer tone, crowd nods.) Glib calls me social cyanide, but I’m rewriting my love map. If I keep my Dish books and my sobriety, maybe one rabbi won’t furrow his brow. (Big grin.) So here’s to answering Cindy’s note this time—“Yes!” (Raise smoothie, exit to applause.)

How can I make jokes when Dennis Prager is still paralyzed below the neck?

Grok:

“I got a spam text: ‘I miss you, Luke, I’m worried.’ Thought it was Cindy Jackson from sixth grade, but nope, just a bot. Then I read Dennis Prager’s still paralyzed below the neck from his fall—C3, C4, no movement. His son says his voice is back, though, ‘100% there.’ That voice! It’s the one that turned me onto Judaism on KABC, like God Himself. Meanwhile, I’m paralyzed by my own God-shaped hole, banned from five shuls for blogging porn (well until 18 years ago!). Dennis is fighting to get back on air, and I’m fighting to get across the mechitza. Who’s got the tougher rehab?”

“Dennis Prager’s in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the shoulders down after a ladder fall. (LA Times, 3-24-25) But his wit’s intact, his Torah series continues via dictation. (Facts Verse, 7-1-25) Me? I’m mobile, but my gashmiut’s stuck in 2003, chasing a Costa Rican lawyer who stole my Dish book. (Autobiography) Dennis is dictating The Rational Bible, while I’m dictating my eroticized rage to a therapist. (BINA talk) He’s got PragerU, I’ve got Lukeford.com—guess whose platform got me called ‘tame’ by a rabbi? (XXX-Communicated) At least Dennis’s fans send him prayers. Mine send spam: ‘Luke, I’m worried you’re still a shul reject!’”

“My pal Glib says I’m social cyanide—nobody’s status rises hanging with me. (Autobiography) Dennis Prager, though? He’s paralyzed below the neck, but his fans still flood him with love letters. (PJ Media, 3-4-25) I’m like, ‘Dennis, share some of that narcissistic supply!’ (Eroticized Rage) I tried sending him a get-well smoothie—Abraham gave a calf, I give mango regret. (XXX-Communicated) But my shul banned me for less. (The Jerusalem Report) Spam texts tell me, ‘Luke, I’m worried,’ but Dennis gets prayers. Maybe if I fall off a ladder, I’ll get a fanbase too!”

“Dennis Prager’s spinal cord took a hit—paralyzed below the shoulders, but he’s ‘clamoring’ to get back on air. (PJ Media, 5-1-25) Me? I’m paralyzed by shame since sixth grade, when Cindy Jackson’s note made me freeze. (rage10) Dennis is dictating Torah; I’m dictating porn gossip that got me called ‘tame’—impure—by five shuls. (XXX-Communicated) Rolling Stone called me a porn muckraker, but rabbis called me a shanda. (Autobiography) Spam texts say, ‘Luke, I’m worried,’ but poor Dennis, he can’t even autograph Bibles anymore.”

“Dennis Prager fell after a shower, paralyzed from C3-C4, but he’s breathing better and planning a radio comeback. (lukeford.net, 7-1-25) I fell off the moral ladder in ’03, chasing a lawyer’s gashmiut and losing my Dish book. (Autobiography) Dennis gets prayers; I get spam texts: ‘Luke, I’m worried you’re still a porn blogger!’ (XXX-Communicated) His spine’s incomplete, my soul’s incomplete. (BINA talk) Panik Magazine called me a human Rubik’s cube, but Dennis keeps gaining status even when he falls on his face.”