Amusing, unpretentious recollections by a TV-comedy writer (Mr. Peepers, M*A*S*H) who grew up Jewish in Buffalo--where Pop made credit tire retailing history, but nothing to match Grandpop Goldenberg, a penniless immigrant who became the candy king of Goldenberg's Peanut Chews. (Grandma was another story, with her ""mild paranoia"": ""Rose dear, I want you should burn my white shoes. . . the refugees put microphones in them, and they're talking."") Young Er, however, was a non-achiever, flunking out of MIT, preferring airplanes--so he became a WW II Navy flight instructor, won third prize in a Navy Show contest, and went to N.Y. to become a writer. Despite Cheryl and her orgone box, however, Manhattan was a near-starvation disaster, so off went Ev to Paris to try to bluff his way through a G.I.-bill-funded year at the Sorbonne, knowing no French. Not a success, educationally or romantically (""Juif! Juif!"" shrieked his only near-conquest when seeing him naked). Thus, back to Buffalo, where ""Greenbaum's Gallery"" became a local radio hit, sloppily wacky enough to win encouragement from a big N.Y. agent. So this time Ev's assault on Manhattan was a little easier, though there were lots of bit-actor jobs before getting the call to come in and help out on Mr. Peepers. Happy years of collaboration followed, despite the loathed David Susskind (""This is where my son David keeps his writers,"" Mrs. S. would announce to Hadassah tour groups); later on there'd be stints with un-simpatico George Gobel (so different from sensitive Wally Cox) and lovable Andy Griffith (""My Lord, Everett. . . you are surely an active Jew!). Nothing earthshaking--just a few anecdotes and observations from a modest, unabrasively comic fellow.