The Mustard House Is For Sale

Once upon a time in 1903, there was a Stay-At-Home dad Bukowski Kornbluth, who lived in the derided Mustard House within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, 40 miles north of the original Yankee stadium known as Hilltop Park in Washington Heights, before it became a cocaine pick up haven for suburban kids in the eighties throughout Westchester Country, who required more stimulation that what the leafy suburbs and colonial house populated streets, offered, knowing the only thing getting blown on a regular basis there were leaves.  

Every day, Bukowski Kornbluth would stare at his newborn son Arthur and bemoan, “I can’t believe Hasbro, rejected my game Condiment Land over Candy Land, those Anti-Semite, bastards.”  Prior, Bukowski Kornbluth worked as a shoeshine boy outside of Grand Central, making enough to live off Hebrew National dogs but that was it. Now, he was developing a stomach ulcer at ripe old age of 25, and was married to an Irish nurse, Chloe Duffy, who he got pregnant by mistake because pulling out on time was physically impossible, knowing Bukowski Kornbluth blew his load in 1.1 seconds flat.

After Chole Duffy’s prominent fireman lieutenant dad died, she inherited some money and made a down payment on the Mustard House, while using her collection of rare Irish whiskies her father collected, tracing all the way back to Rob Roy times for collateral because Bukowski Kornbluth was still so broke, his Hebrew name was under Judicial Review.

Even during his shoe-shining days, Bukowski had dreams of becoming a professional songwriter because growing up in a cramped tenement on the Lower East Side, with 9 other siblings, it was the radio, which filled him with dreamy, big city success wonder, which made going to sleep still hungry again a tad more tolerable knowing his dad’s career as a pickle sales rep for Kosher Dill Delights wasn’t getting them a townhouse on Park Avenue anytime soon either.

Now more than anything, Bukowski Kornbluth wanted to write a better song than, “The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous, to take him out of his Mustard House jail, so he could finally enjoy some bright lights, big city success for himself.

But one day, things changed when Bukowski had the radio on at home to hear the Yankees play, after he started throwing Cracker Jacks at his newborn son Arthur because he was hungover from drinking too many Rob Roy’s alone, because his nurse wife worked nights and he was stuck at home with his son again on Shabbat, with nowhere else to go but down self-pity lane, which was getting tiresome and beyond boring at this point in his life.

Growing up in the Lower East Side, Bukowski Kornbluth was a solid Stick Ball hitter, earning him the nickname, Yard Blaster, which certainly beat the nickname his putz prone, younger brother earned on those same streets, Trips on Curbs. What if instead of writing songs about ex-loves and depleted dreams, Bukowski Kornbluth could refocus his attention on baseball and dreams of being a big shot at the ballgame for a much cheerier, less depressingly dreary change of pace. 

Bukowski Kornbluth continues to pelt his son with more Cracker Jacks, yelling, “Duck, Cracker Jack attack.” Then an idea ẻmerged and Bukowski Kornbluth says , “I finally got it this time kid. I’ll write a song about going to the ballgame, for anything except more fucking hotdogs to remind me of this damn Mustard House. But what if the object of universal interest I focus my song on is Cracker Jack. Old Bet, the famous circus elephant was buried ín Sommers outside the famed Elephant Hotel in nearby Sommers, so I’ll write about grabbing some peanuts at the ball game in his honor to. There’s no reason why I can’t write a hit song about America’s favorite pastime and pigging out at the ball game. It’s a home run kid. Where can I find a pencil? Arthur, give me those crayons, if you haven’t eaten them up already. Despite me being miserable about being an unemployed Stay At Home Dad in the sticks, it doesn’t mean I love you any less Arthur. But Stay At Home Dads can’t survive unless they got something grander to aim for in life besides being a loving, proud dad and this is my last shot, to hit one out of the park kid. Never stop swinging hard for the fences Arthur. You’re an all-American slugger like daddy, I can feel it in you, just by the way you made me partially deaf from smacking me in the ear with your rattle once.”  

Bukowski Kornbluth wrote Take Me Out To TheBall Game as his son Arthur finally got to sleep in a pool of his own Cracker Jack vomit.  One year later, Bukowski Kornbluth got introduced at Yankee Stadium, then known as Hilltop Stadium and waved his Yankee Hat to all the adoring fans in attendance, raining down hollering praise for the man, who wrote the official father son bonding anthem for baseball games in America. Now, his son Arthur pulls on his Dad’s leg as the cheers grow even more vociferous for the Do It All Dad done good and says, “I got a Honus Wagner rookie card, dad.”  Bukowski Kornbluth says, “Stop ruining the moment kid. They just sell you the cards for free gum.” Arthur says, “I think it will be worth something someday dad. Also, can you remind why I’m can’t stomach the idea of eating another Cracker Jack again?

The End

Michael Kornbluth

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