Hugging Old Glory Good

Hug what you love. My 3 kids do and hug Old Glory on Main Street USA with rushes of unabashed, patriotic powered delight. And it makes this do it all dad proud to be an American, in a country where my children are free to hug their patriotism around their sleeves.

I’m no Vietnam vet, but an American loving Gen X Dad who was in LA working as an IT headhunter, when “my city” as Walt Whitman used to call Manhattan back in the day had its twin hearts blasted to pieces.

My patriot act back then before raising 3 kids in the grand USA, was writing a pilot, Don’t Laugh, I live in Newark, about an unlikely, heavyset Ethiopian TSA worker. Who saves America from another terrorist attack by Too Tall Turban through detecting a known terrorist on the No Fly List through using a scanner triggering the sound of Jimmy Hendrix’s version of the Star Spangled Banner. The part in the song where Jimmy turns his guitar into an instrument of war, conjuring raining hellfire of bombs on top of the Vietcong.

But now I’ve got 3 children to raise in my abundently blessed USA, land of the free and home of John Coltrane, NY Yankees, Hulk Hogan, The Grateful Dead, Les Paul, the band Boston, Bill Hicks, Andrew Dice Clay, Don Rickles, Brian Wilson, Hank Williams Junior, Danny McBride, Charles Bukowski, Marc Maron, General Patton, Johnny Cash, Axel Rose, Nikki Six, Albert Brooks, Randy Newman, the Zucker Brothers, Wayans Brothers, Derek Jeter, Michael Jordan, Muhamad Ali, Walt Whitman, Chuck Zito, Chuck Norris, Jim Brown, Stan Lee, Kevin Smith, Bon Jovi, Mr. Rogers, the Beastie Boys, Dennis Hopper, Rudy, Red Foxx, Chris Rock, Larry David, Sly Stallone, Gene Simmons, Jim Norton, Jeff Ross, Patrice O’Neal, Vince Vaughn, Stryper, Adam Sandler, Joan Jett, Henry Miller, Robert Frost, Marilyn Monroe, Joan Rivers, Howard Stern, president Donald J. Trump.

Why would I include, Donald J. Trump on this illustrious list of American heroes dear to my heart forevermore? Because he inspired my children to hug old glory after I showed them a picture of our President doing the same. They say, a picture speaks a 1000 words, no amount of spin semantics and propaganda brainwashing can mistake our President’s love of flag, vets and fellow hard working Americans, free to exert their will onto this universe in the effort to enact their most deep rooted dreams of opening a business or providing for their family without being totally miserable into a glorious, real life unfolding reality.

I showed my children a picture of our president hugging an American flag with his arms wrapped around tight, exuding a boyish, young at heart, grin, screaming I love my country and my flag because it represents a land where I was free to pursue my dreams and make ball busting great again. A place where his scrappy, hard work was rewarded, to become everything he dared to dream into doing and becoming. Now, our President wants to ensure other Americans still have the same shot of doing the same. And wasn’t it the crack dealer turned hip hop lyrist genius Jay Z who coined the expression, “You can’t knock the hustle?” But knocking Obama’s lack of hustle every time to address a terrorist attack last summer means you’re a jealous hater, forever now, whatever.

In the car, earlier, I told my son Arthur, I didn’t want to make this chapter political. Son, says, “What’s a political?” I said, “Anything political is very opinionated.” Son replies, “Yeah, opinionated pieces aren’t as funny.” I reply, “Sometimes they can be, but I want to focus on more heart-warming feelings instead for this piece like when you hugged the American flag lined street in our old stomping ground of Pleasantville, NY in northern Westchester County. We were renting a home back then, we still have no money in case you’re wondering. But I got 2 books coming out soon and if I taught my children anything it’s that hard work pays off. I’ve decided to self-publish because I’ve decided to triple down on my belief in me. Also, I don’t want some “wise ass New York Jew”, as Randy Newman sang, to edit and water down my deep-rooted love of Americana’s stars imprinted on my heart forever. My last name is Kornbluth, I’m entitled to call out a wise, New York, self-hating Jew when I see fit, end of story, oh.

Driving cross country to Los Angeles for my last semester of college, was the most patriotic experience of my life, which I never saw coming. The surge in patriotic pride hit me like a battering ram as I drove around the Grand Canyon with Bruce Springsteen’s greatest hits playing as the perfect soundtrack backdrop to all the wonderous, beauty piercing natural wonder around me and my friend Aaron.

For the 1st in my life, driving around the Grand Canyon, taking in such a beauty spewing tapestry of sandblasted, orange hues and violet shades of red bursting color, it was impossible to not feel like I was in the haunting, holy presence of God’s finger-painting best work.

I also lived in LA for 6 years after spending my last semester of college out there, interning for a talent agency called the House of Representatives no less. I sold wine in California. Took many girlfriends to day trips in Santa Barbara because I couldn’t afford to stay in hotels when I sold wine. Because I was working on commission only and made enough money to only buy a dime bag but we’re talking about the sprayed kind, which tastes like Windex.

How can my various girlfriend getaway adventures to Santa Barbara on PCH up through the winding hills of the Santa Anita Mountains, to stop off eating the most delectable, scrumptious Tri Tip sandwiches of my life make me hate America one bit? Knowing I get to take PCH up through Santa Barbra for the most part, becoming at one with the mighty Pacific.

Where that lucky old son, Brian’s Wilson’s favorite muse, bounces, skips and prances in a scattered, flickering glorious light over such a breath-taking oceanic stretch of deep, soothing, soul penetrating streams of blue.

Now, my son’s favorite toy is the Blue Angel plane I got him after taking my 3 kids to their 1st air show. I had never been to an airshow before either. Just picture the parking lot scene of a Kid Rock show, but with more wide-eyed kids and not as much tore up looking talent from the nineties since Kid Rock went platinum.

I have a framed picture in our bathroom with my son Arthur and his older sister Matilda posing in an old school fighter jet, with real deal pilot helmets on and cool looking shades on. You’d think they were posing for a subway poster of a more child friendly remake of Iron Eagle for Nick Junior.

I’ll still never forgive my mother for never responding or even acknowledging the picture of them from the airshow. Because my mother is no better than Lena Dunham expressing the desire to move out of our country because they’re so embarrassed to call themselves Americans all of a sudden. After Trump won, I did pray for the Canadians to build a big, beautiful wall around the strip clubs in Montreal, so Lena Dunham wouldn’t scare away all the clientele.

Patriotism is taught at home. On Presidents Day, I taught my children this year how our 1st President George Washington, freed all his slaves eventually and paid them reparations in the form of a giant buyout severance package.

My children know about Lenny Bruce Live at Carnegie Hall and how his attacks on organized religion ruling by fear versus love was his God given, American right to do so, paving the way for the truth bomb hurlers who followed such as Carlin, Bill Hicks and their do it all dad naturally.

Every year on 4th of July, I bust out my original Dream Team USA tang top jersey from 92 for Christ sake before Magic made HIV disappear. That’s teaching your kids patriotism folks. Especially, after stressing to my kids, how Americans pride ourselves on our killer number work ethic compared to the world at large. And having our college players lose to Spain in the Olympics the prior year because of Alonzo Mourning’s faulering hook shot from 4 feet away from the basket wasn’t acceptable. But the legendary MJ, Bird and Magic were following the illustrious footsteps of other all star American Olympians such as Mark Spitz, Greg Louganis, Hitler middle flexing, Jesse Owens, Edwin Moses, Arthur Ashe, Carl Lewis, Sugar Ray Leonard, Jackie Joyner-Kersee. Can we make Usain Bolt an honorary American for the purposes of this conversation, considering his brash, super charismatic, obviously influenced by Iron Mike’s, big time brash bravado in some capacity?

My son’s going to join the Boy Scouts, next year when he starts Kindergarten, which is as American as Reese Witherspoon holding up a tea cup to blockade her enormous drooping chin on the cover of her new cookbook Whiskey in a Teacup. And it’s my God given, American right, to bust her balls about it her one facial flaw because I read once in a Kevin Smith word vomit diary book edition about how Reese treated him like a fat hack at some LA party in Bel Air once. So, fuck Reese, and her debutant, picture perfect upbringing in Tennessee. Kevin Smith is an American treasure who gave us Jason Lee, Clerks and Mallrats although Reese was a total bad ass in the Oliver Stone flick Freeway. So, she’s forgiven.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

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