In Mosey’s Dream

Remember when your mom walked in on us singing, No Mosey No Cry for my final goodbye? You were in the Bubble again, sparkling like the Lion cub of Judah under the hot Ethiopian sun with your chosen curls dancing in the name of the Lord. And your mom asked in semi-hurt disgust, “What does Mosey no cry mean Mosey?” I say, “Were just humming some Bob Marley love songs for Michael’s bubble, nothing new here, Ms. Kornbluth.” Your mom being a banker for Chemical Bank had no idea who Bob Marley was, so she couldn’t feel too burned yet over our Lazt Waltz together before your parents moved to the suburbs so you could cry it out in your crib upstairs, which always makes the more muffled moans of despair easier to bear. Then, there was the time, when your mom walked in on you calling me mommy in the Bubble, which hurt her much more inside. She says, “Did my son just call you mommy?” And I say, “It sounds like Mosey doesn’t it.” That’s probably why your mom calls herself Me-Me around your children now. Your mother added, “Son, your being raised in Forrest Hills, Queens, not Jamaica, Queens.”

The sun wasn’t shining in my heart that day. I mean, Jamaica, Queens is fine if you don’t mind dirt weed blowing through the air as you push your son on the swing to chants of, “I’m going to take you higher.” Your dad never cared for that joke reference despite him always telling me the story about waking up in a post Acid haze to hear Sly Stone serenade 400,000 hippies with, “I’m going to take your higher”, at Woodstock only 9 years earlier because I was Jamaican, and he assumed I smoked weed at some point in my life before I decided to clean my act up and become a nanny for the prettiest boy in Forrest Hills. You were such a gay baby, Michael. You’d even choke on the rattler for fun. But I’ve been sobor for 40 years and I have you to thank.

You see I grew up in the prosperous part of Jamaica when my father was a big-time record producer for Island Records. Peter Tosh was my Godfather and taught me how Marco Polo introduced the Europeans to Lassie Soup after traveling to China, who also believed in evil Spirits like Rastas do. Bob was a was Duppy Conqueror, meaning an evil spirit conqueror, which means one who conquerors worried plagued fear. My dad never conquered his Duppy spirit and got addicted to the hell water, thinking it was his only way to conquer his doubts of having golden ears, after he passed on signing Bob Marley and The Wailers. So, once the fire water rum took over his life, he was forced to become a Janitor at Ska parties in Trenchtown on dirt roads with no electricity as he scrounged for roaches at the end of Punky Reggae parties to lift his sagging spirits, which is where the term dirt weed arose from actually. At first, I dated a Rasta bum who sold coconut water on the street in Times Square during the summer before it became available at your local 7/11 but that was it. I fell in love with his falsetto voice, he reminded me of a young Bunny Wailer really. But he smoked so much ganja, his handwriting wasn’t even legible anymore whenever he tried to write me love songs, but this was before Apple had released their desktop computer in 76, because he wasn’t the best speller on the typewriter before either. Plus, he insisted on calling Wite-Out colonial imperialism against commas to break up his killer flow, or something like that. He was higher than Richard Pyror at Freddie Prince Junior’s funeral, far from looking good. But I cut him out of my life and fell in love with a black Israelite Marcus, who became a public defender for the DA’s office, who taught Shofar lessons to rich kids in Riverdale, to pay for our wedding in Israel by a resort beach town in Eilat. Marcus wanted to visit King Solmon’s grave, who was known to have a steamy affair with the Queen of Sheeba. Bob Marley mysteriously inherited the ring King Solomon possessed, that traces back to the time when he was tapping the Queen Sheeba’s ass on the regular, did you know that? Anyway, your father always called you the cleanest boy in Forrest Hills, of course this was before you’d live in West Hollywood for 3 years and end up recording Pretty Dirty Mind for comedy record 76, I think. So, my obsession with cleaning up my life spilled into me giving you 3 bubbles a day, Michael. You were so happy in that Bubble, as I hummed you more Bob Marley love songs, which was permanent rainbow country for me. And I passed the dreaded typing test before getting a job at Apple in 76 before becoming the VP Of Sales for their floppy disk game division. I made the game Oregon Trail, the best-selling floppy disk game in America before Carmen San Diego came out as a flasher perv, stalking Bill Walton at Padres games, whenever the Grateful Dead were in town. I know that you’ve been suffering from night screams, feeling evil spirits strangle the life out of you in your dreams lately. But recently, those dreams have abated, and that’s because you haven’t lost faith in the sweet Lord, all mighty Hashem, being your protector, redeemer and ultimate celebrator, or else you wouldn’t have produced all these amazing books and comedy records to move, touch and make the universe laugh with, coming together as one. United we laugh, you prove it every day. I’m your biggest fan, always have been. Although I like this idea of you selling furniture for Bob’s Furniture in Norwalk, CT. I think this 1st interview will materialize into more good fortune for you. You’ll be inspired to get back on stage once you get out of the house again. Your soul is too pure and big for the cramped office life. Plus, I want you to write that story about triggering a Canadian furniture designer, living in Northern Westchester County who designs bookshelves for Chelsea Handler, only to tell him face to face, “Bob’s Furniture has way better stuff than this shit. And you’ll have a leg to stand on, which will be an empowering, duppy spirit conquering place to be Michael. Don’t give up on your dreams of making a living off comedic song for a living eventually. Bob worked at the Chrystler factory in Delaware before he became Bob Marely. No money, no cry for now, but earning some for a change will help remove those talking blues. Deep down you have to believe your funny enough to fill out those clown shoes.

Michael Kornbluth

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