Growing Up Pushover Putzy
Reformed Hebrew School in Scarsdale, NY was a walk in the park compared to the Conservative Synagogue Joshua used to attend in nearby White Plains, NY which is parents stopped attending because the Rabbi called Jackie Mason overrated and hard to understand, even for hardcore Hasidic Jews, or something stupid like that. By the time Joshua started Hebrew School in Scarsdale, NY he already had a firm grasp on how to read Hebrew better than his far smarter classmates from nearby Edgemont, NY who didn’t to take the SAT’s untimed, only to finish them by the time his friend Ari declared his major sophomore year in college at Washington University, Harold Ramis, being the most famous, brainy funny man alum. Still, Joshua found solace in his parenting efforts compared to Harold Ramis after reading a book written by his daughter, titled Ghost Buster’s Daughter, learning, that having an open relationship with his wife wasn’t enough, choose to divorce his wife, letting some strange perv live with his developing daughter, who he on weed rolling detail prior, inspiring Joshua to create one of his earlier Do It All Dad Year Podcasts, titled, I’m A Better Father than Harold Ramis because. Superior munchie control one was one of the reasons on the list, oh yeah, that taking the time to read a film review or actually screen the movie before taking your daughter to see Harvey Keitel pleasure himself on screen in the Bad Liuentant.
The Scarsdale kids who attended Hebrew school were super soft, compared to the Edgemont crew Joshua was apart of, meaning, his friend Coopy would fling Nerds at super feminine, reformed Cantor in the making, Daniel Farber and never fear any retaliation in the process. Joshua and his dear Ari would spend ,most of their time, writing the names of obscure Heavy Metal bands they just learned of in Circus magazine on the covers on their jean jacket conjuring 3 ring binders, holding what inside at the time, Joshua couldn’t tell you now, if his funny Jew bone depended on it.
Joshua remembers how proud his dad was of his performance during his Bar Mitzvah both on the Bema delivering his Haftorah portion, stutter free, in a pretty enough octave, before his voice changed after becoming the last kind in his 9th grade class to get into the puberty party years later. Truth is, Joshua remembers spending more time with his dad practicing his Haftorah portion, under the scent of his Dad’s Aramis musk, more so than him recalling his Dad ever going out his way to teach him the intricacies of a half formed, half ass looking hook shot, with his back to basket in the post. The reason Joshua’s father, really rose to occasion when studying with his 1st born for his Haftorah portion is a result his more serious, learned Hebrew school upbringing in the Bronx off Pond Place, due his brilliant, chemist, father, who graduated high school at 16 only to win the Bronze star in the World War 2, later becoming the Vice President of his Synagogue, which isn’t chopped liver either.
Joshua always asked his father, questions about his dead Grandfather Murry, because he died before he was born, who was literally on his death bed, which they had to roll in during my father’s wedding to my mom in Queens, in the mid-seventies, before future President Donald Trump was old enough to be branded as a culturally deficient con artist by Mr. Personality himself, Philp Roth, who exuded less colorful oomph off the page than Ann Coulter on the rag. But every time Joshua would ask his Dad to share something about his Grandfather, who he never got know, he’d always respond the same, “What do you want to me to say? He never talked to me. Your grandfather didn’t even attend my college graduation. If he spent any time together, he’d call me a moron whenever I asked him for help on a Calculus or Physics assignment.” So, Joshua growing closer to his father through his Torah study preparation for his Bar Mitzvah was special time for his father, which always held a scared place in Aba’s heart, Hebrew for father because he was able to spend quality time with the somber spirt of his departed father again in the service of preparing his son for his Bar Mitzvah, feel valued and nor longer feel like talked down moron of yesteryear.
Joshua’s father could even exhale a breath of relief, after seeing his son slow dance with the Australian implant, Joanne Matthews, without showcasing too much upper body, stiffness in the process, which would’ve made the slow dance a total bust. Also, out of fear of nobody showing up to his son’s Bar Mitzvah, Joshua’s parents invited the entire class, despite Joshua having a crew of nice Jewish boys back then like Ari, Coop and John. You know your parents think very little of your social ranking in junior high when they invite the entire class to your party, to ensure their son could be spend more time alone upstairs in his room playing with his GI-Joe figures well past the accepted playing age but at least now have a six CD changer, to play one Hair Metal record after another like Poison Open Up and Say Ahh, and Cinderella Night Songs, thanks to Joshua being flush with gift certificates from the Tower Records and the Wiz for his Birthday Bar Mitzvah bash. And you definitely know it’s a reformed Bar Mitzvah party bash, when your dad’s chef friend from the Bronx off the Grand Course, caters the party with nothing but veal parm and meatball parm heroes, which always miraculously tasted ten times more delicious the next day, resulting in Joshua never forgiving his father for dumping all the leftovers from the party. Later in life, Joshua learned Carmine grew and bottled his own Roma tomatoes from his Yonkers estate compound garden, while using noting but primo cold pressed olive oil and fresh basil also plucked from the Garden, in addition to chunky shards of garlic, which Joshua became hellbent on replicating once he got into cooking for himself, getting the burnt out more frost bite burn from Turkey burgers bought at Costco in bulk in LA after he graduated college back in the day, discovering comedy writing as a way to fight back, get in the last word and no longer feel so perpetually pushover putzy.