Wish You Were Here Less

“There are never enough I Love You’s.”  Lenny Bruce

New family tradition. Forsake Black Friday at the mall. Not that any respectable Jew partakes. And instead play the dark humor maestro indictments of lawless cops, arrogant judges, “chicken shit” theatre critics and petulant DA’s on Vinyl from the great Lenny Bruce on Vinyl, including Live at Berkley and Midnight Concert at Carnegie Hall. Tried Sam Kinson Louder than Hell earlier but his opening bit on wearing sunglasses because he was high and blind from banging too heart breaking puss, responsible for his off-kilter, hoarse blown hack scream failed to inspire more meaningful listening with my 3 kids home from school in attendance.

Yesterday, for Thanksgiving, I receive a text from my mom saying. Thinking of you. I have wonderful memories of Thanksgiving. It used to be my favorite holiday. And this is me, countering my mom’s passive aggressiveness in my mind. I text back. Wish you were here less and texted me less also because your presence online and off never makes me happy at all. Direct enough yet ma? But I read this line once by famed Roman Emperor Philosopher Marcus Aurelius stating “The best revenge is to not be like your enemy.” So I resisted the temptation to send a passive aggressive text back in return. Which wasn’t easy knowing my mother is a real feel good Thanksgiving killer.

3 years ago my wife Natalia applies for a middle class affordable housing grant offered in Westchester Country, NY. We scored a $30,000 grant from the government for a down deposit on a reduced price home in Northern Westchester County. I call it my comedy grant And we just made the cut. If I literally sold 1 joke to Roseanne Bar the previous year from the jokes of mine I sent her on Twitter like the one about how one of the co-founders of Yelp had doubts about Yelp succeeding as an online review site until a bunch of Asian millennial girls got hold of it and went wild.

In case you’re wondering, I was sending jokes to Rosanne 2 years before her show was revitalized after reading in some book about how she wrote 30 jokes a day till this day. I also remember reading some time ago, how she preferred to hire stand-up comedians on her old Roseanne show compared to other Harvard grad TV writers because Roesanne believes stand-up comedians are far braver. Which always carried real cool weight in my book. I’m quoting Lenny Bruce at the top of this chapter for Christ sake and no comic before or after was more fearless than Lenny. Besides the late great Joan Rivers calling Obama gay and Michelle a she-hulk and we all know how that turned out for her. Google it if you don’t believe me.  She also banned both Obama’s from attending her funeral. Plus, her daughter sued the hospital where she was getting a routine throat procedure that as a whole is complication free, leading to her premature death right after she made that comment to TMZ about Obama being gay and how everyone in Hollywood knows it. Melissa Rivers, Joan River’s only child, won the malpractice lawsuit against the hospital for the record. Personally, I could care less about Obama being gay or Michelle being his Trans wife.  I’m a big believer in the Alfred Kinsey scale of bisexuality and of Lenny Bruce’s premise of there needing to be a new term to describe gay men because they’re are no such things as homosexuals but “homosexual acts.”

For example, Lenny Bruce mentions in his Midnight Concert at Carnegie Hall, men in prison without sexual contact for too long, are animals and will do anything, “mud”, even. Plus, I agree with Joan Rivers. I think some Trans can be quite striking because of the longer, leaner figures working in their favor, although the voices can be a boner killer on the spot also. Black Friday is alive and well, I better start quoting Jim Norton jokes about She-Males and Adam’s Apples and totally strip my book of any artistic merit value according to other enlightened, moralist upstanding parenting bloggers altogether. If I’m brutally honest with myself, I really was made for blogging about modern times because I would’ve been arrested for indecent exposure and obscene projection of subdued perversions 2 paragraphs in already. If I was a pampleteer instead of a blogger back in the day like a less flamboyant, chest hair sniffing Walt Whitman.

In Live at Berkeley, Lenny Bruce throws a shout out to Henry Miller, one of my favorite writers. Whose books were banned in the US because of their graphic sexual content. It was Henry Miller’s writing about art, his menial job past, Chinese poets, time in the woods in Big Sur, sanctification of Paris prostitutes and relationship with Anis Nin which offer the main sources of appeal for me. Charles Bukowski admired Henry Miller as an interesting writer in bits but found him long at the tooth as a whole. I share that in common with Henry Miller obviously.

I don’t know if it’s growing up during the early nineties and watching Gorilla Girls, Scandal in the Mansion or Taste of Amber on Porn VHS 1 too many times but I never understood the tenseness or prevision involving watching porn, talking about porn or even paying for some nice, nice, knowing it’s a safety rail preventing real affairs of the heart. I never found Bukowski’s tales of banging his writing groupies in his late forties that big of a deal, nor too graphic to the point of it reading those passages, thinking the writing was mere dirty notes from a 1 track minded man. Who waxed poetic about the torrential onslaught of spitfire gusto that sprang out of Gustav Mahler’s symphonies on his home transistor radio, radio.

But back to my mother for just one second longer than I want to. Talk about totally going off track after talking about us scoring the affordable housing grant from Westchester County. It was divine intervention. We hit the lotto and had to cash in our ticket with 2 kids already.

So 3 Thanksgivings ago, my mom starts to cry in front of me and says. I can’t believe I raised you in a nice suburb of New York, sent you to camps and college. Only for you to need a handout from the government for a home. At same time, I’m thinking, we couldn’t afford a down payment on any home without some financial assistance. So it’s either from you or the government. What difference does it make? Besides, you feeling like failure of a mother and everything

But seriously, I didn’t seek out this affordable home housing grant, my wife did. I certainly wasn’t going to hold it against her after my mom shat on our good fortune, which didn’t require her opinion and outside meddling. Despite her, dropping by the house to check it out, only to tell us. We’d have a black neighbor. Well, his name is James mom, and he’s a Vet, served time in Vietnam, lost friends that your generation shat on when they returned home from hell on earth. And he lives in permanent pain. He’s asked me. Who are you sending your jokes to? And one time during 4th of July, I’m blasting Bruce outside with the garage door open and James says to me. They lied to us. They lied to us. My heart breaks writing this sentence.  So how do you like that ma? James the war vet, my black neighbor, has shown more belief and interest in my comedy writing career than you have, my own mother, my own flesh and blood, the woman that’s supposed to be in my own corner. Propping me up, not tearing me down, not urging me to throw in the fucking towel to become a garbage man. I also don’t see James going radio silent if I texted him a pic of your grandchildren hugging flags either. And I call my mother in law the unhuggable cunt.

I so didn’t want to write about my mother ever again because I know I come across as a thankless son. Well fuck you Shakespeare, you’d be singing a different tune, if you impressed your comedic role models and received direct written compliments from Margaret Cho and Nick Di Paolo after they read your stories in the forms of TV pilots and spec scripts, only to have your own mother insist your writing is still shit and that just because you support a President who works for free. Who God forbid is out to protect American citizens 1st and keep our families safe. Just because of my desire to keep my countrymen and woman safe, I’m deemed a deplorable piece of shit who should sling shit for a living. Talk about throwing in towel on the behalf of my non-beliver mom prematurely. And I’ve worked as a bus boy, bartender and waiter before. Plus, I’ve changed diapers on not 1 but 3 babies so far. Plus, my 3rd isn’t potty trained yet. So, it’s not like I’ve acted above getting my hands dirty either.

I love how people take offense at Trump saying he never changed his kids diapers. I wish I could make that claim. It would mean I had my shit together for a change. And not be an unemployed comedian/father of 3 whose been fired more than a Palestinian Slingshot. Due to entitlement issues, which I’m obviously, not over completely. But the major difference is I know where I’m most needed now and it’s at home with my kids to keep our house in order and our kids striving and thriving under my comedic educating tutelage, not on a fucking garbage truck yet. At least not until, I finish writing my book Stay At Home Comedian  Because I’ve developed a hefty nose tolerance for yuck, yuck, stink bomb droppings and working as a garbage man would give me some good material to sample on parent student occupation day. So my name is Michael Kornbluth and I sling garbage for a living until I can make more money slinging jokes less shittier than Jim Gaffigan’s latest offerings. Because talking about Pops Tarts, is so edgy, edgy, edgy.

George Washington said “It’s better to be alone than in bad company.” Preach on President Washington. George totally would’ve gotten stoned with Lenny Bruce in his corn field while Martha went to the well to get fresh water for Bill and Ted’s Dancing Bear Grateful Dead Bong from the future.  There are never enough I love you’s. I agree Lenny. Love you man. With all my heart. And thanks for keeping Joan going for all those years. You know what you said after she bombed for 2 straight weeks. “You’re right and they’re wrong.” Acting as a Medium for dead comedians can be my thing on my Do It All Dad Year Podcast after all.

 

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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