Chap. 20 The Crown Heights Connection

Chapter 20

The Crown Heights Connection

The Jewy Manhattan Book Club represented Jewish pride, pride in New York City being the muse for many successful, celebrated Jewish working artists, including singer songwriters like Lou Reed, Neil Diamond, novelists such as Ayn Rand, stand up comedians such as Don Rickles, Broadway playwrights like Neil Simon, Arthur Miller or Tony Kushner if Upper East Side society fixture business gals were in a more forgiving, generous mood than usual. Tonight, the focus was on Ayn Rand’s highly controversial novel, Atlas Shrugged, which clocked in around thousand plus pages, which made Tony Kushner feel terse in comparison for the 1st time in his charmed, theatre penning life.

Golda, the fire breathing, conservative radio host got the book club discussion of Ayn Rand’s novel Atlas Shrugged, underway. “First, I hate this title. Atlas Shrugged, I bet it made Jack LaLanne limp at 1st glance of it. Also, why would an author write a one-thousand-page novel? Does she enjoy time working with her Editor at Random House that much? Did Ayn Rand think her writing was in the same league as Tolstoy? Filling 4 hours of dead air on the radio every five days a week, in the pursuit of never boring your audience to sleep is much more difficult feat to perform. Now, I’m thinking David Foster Wallace wore all those bandanas to cover his initial misaimed, self-inflicted gun shout wound, resulting from trying to plow through this heap of philosophical nihilism, to justify her scruple free existence during some writing retreat at Kenyon College, all expenses paid. Ayn Rand found a married man to bang her and struggled so much at the end she had to collect social security, just saying.” Alte the comedy club owner interjects, “Ayn Rand’s writing is like Joan Rivers on Adderall, minus the colorful, punch flourishes of schtick along the way.” Frieda the Soul Cycle teacher star of SOHO Equinox expresses her opinion on the book, “I think everyone is being hyper critical of Ayn. She was no beauty by any stretch of the imagination. Still, she became a successful screenwriter in Hollywood in the 40’s, way before Nora Ephron, divorced acne scar face Bernstein, and wrote her divorce tale, turned Hollywood snooze feast Heartburn. I like Angelica Houston better when she looks sheik dowdy, rolling perfect joints in West Anderson films.” Ester, the Persian owner, of star executive tech staffing firm, Silicon Alley in NY moves the conversation toward the positive attributes of the ideas expressed in the book itself. Ester says, “I love the line, “wealth is a product of man’s capacity to think.” Personally, I’d prefer she’d use the pronoun woman, but nobody’s perfect. Joshua enters late to the Jewy Book Club meeting, with a bottle of Cab Franc from Rutherford, California in hand. All the woman stand-up the moment once they hear Joshua knock on the door awaiting his presence, knowing he’s running behind a couple of minutes for his first Jewy Manhattan Book Club Meeting. Ester, answers the door. “Hi, Joshua, for a second, I didn’t think you were coming.” Joshua replies, “And miss the opportunity to give you grand dames a chapter sample reading of a lifetime from my upcoming Novel, The Great American Jew Novel, Chapter 3, Gimmel Be Good. Joshua is so anxious to read the sample chapter Gimmel Be Good, he doesn’t bother to take off his prized leather bomber Faconable jacket, which he bought from the 1st writing check, he ever received, after getting paid to write all the TV host music video intros for VH1 Classic’s America’s Hard 100 in Manhattan. Joshua says, “I brought a cab franc from North Fork Long Island, it’s pretty young, so it won’t need time to breath like Hillary Hammer Time Cankles on the campaign trail in 2016.” All woman the woman in the Jewy Manhattan Book club, crack up in unison, sharing zero love, for that evil, cackling wench. After Joshua places the Cab Franc down on the kitchen counter, he whips out his smart phone and stars to read, Gimmel Be Good. Gimmel Be Good is a story about the kid who invented the dreidel game to distract the Romans from his forbidden Torah stories, so they’d think, another degenerate Jew gamble kid, nothing out of the ordinary here. All the grand working gal dames of the Upper East side spit out gobbles of laughter again. Joshua starts to read a sample chapter from his upcoming novel, Gimmel Be Good.

Gimmel Be Good

Once upon a time there was nice Jewish Boy, Michael the Greek Kornbluth. Every day, he’d study his Torah as God commanded him to do so. He’d refrain from intermingling with fetching looking gentiles like the Princess of Persia because he didn’t want to turn away from God, which was guaranteed to happen, whenever the porcupine puss princess interrupted his Torah studies again, forcing him to blow off Tefillin to mount her booty luscious round of mound from behind instead. Michael The Greek Kornbluth’s only vice was betting on the Greek Chariot Racehorses. He’d study the Greek Chariot Racehorses Forums, detailing, past racing performances and odds with divine powered zeal on par with his Torah study. Because one day, with his winnings, he’d wanted to become the head financer behind restoring the great 1st Temple destroyed by the Romans, because following in his father’s footsteps selling quicksand maps and Hebrew Alphabet blocks wasn’t going to get the job done.

One day, the Hellenization of Israel got ugly fast. Now, there was a new Greek Ruler in charge who claims to be a descendant of Arie’s Anti-Semite brother, who had a worse credit rating with Jewish money lenders, than Alexander’s Great, trust fund baby with Cleopatra, Lenny Kravitz Junior, no Jewish lender in Israel wanted to show any royal respectful love his way because he already blew through his fortune on the loser Chariot Horseraces and on a wind powered hashish farm in Damascus, resting on top of a pile of quick sand. The new Greek ruler in charge of Israel now, Pontificutus The Putz was in charge. A new hot shot Rabbi, Rabbi Mason, moonlighting as standup comedian on the rise came up with the nickname and it stuck like the fake news rumor of Jews heckling the Romans into crucifying Jesus despite Twitter not being existence yet.

Now, with Pontificutus The Putz in charge, any Jew caught studying the Torah at home was sentenced to death. But first those Jews would be forced to eat ham and cheese sandwiches for 20 days in a row, washed down with rotten camel’s milk, till they puked up their innards, establishing the roots of Greek hazing to be used on the American Greek university level centuries later. Circumcision was now banned, despite Alexander the Great, never being into the Greeks at the spa, sporting the inch worm hiding its head in its holster look. But Michael The Geek Kornbluth loved to study his Torah because he knew it made God Happy and he loved to grow closer to God every day, yeah, yeah. What’s a poor white Jewish boy, who can do long division equations with eight zeros in his head like a young Donald Trump without any startup investment money growing on olive trees in his favor to do? Michael had to come up with a diversionary tactic, a new gambling game to play at home, to divert attention from his cherished Torah studies, but knowing his stellar reputation as betting advisor to top Greek Senators around, coming up with a new gambling game for kids to shift focus away from their forbidden Torah studies wasn’t enough.

So why was Pontificutus the Putz such a Jew hater again? Because he was a slower runner than they? Because he was bankrupting his kingdom from all his non-stop gambling losses on Chariot Racehorses and loser bets on the Gladiators versus gangs of rock throwing Palestians from the neighboring Syrian Slingshot League. Never being confused as a professional gambler great like future great, Arnold the Brain Rothstein. Pontificutus the Putz also got herpes from a half Jewish prostitute, just like Hitler did before his herpes sores inflamed his desire to annihilate all of Europe on Crystal Meth. Also, similar to Hitler, Pontififcutus the Putz, had artistic ambitions, he even applied to art school in Athens, but he got rejected because his sculpture creations were crude like the Swastika symbol for instance. I don’t care that it was a photoshopped Hindu symbol. The Swastika still looks like a 2 stick figures doing a sixty-nine on Crystal Meth. Still, Pontificutus the Putz, bulldozed his way to the top and became a ruthless ruler of the Greek army for a guy who can pass for a little Greek landlord Astoria in Queens, NY any day of the week. What made Pontificutus the Putz such a killer warrior turned general, was his color blind, condition, so all he saw in life, was black and white death. Plus, the herpes always seemed to flare up before every major war against the Turks, he’d pierce with a spear as easy as an inserting a skewer into a fresh out the womb piece of Lamb Shawarma.

So how does a nice Jewish boy from Tel Aviv earn the nickname Michael The Greek Kornbluth. Well, he was genius at picking the Chariot Horseraces, making fortunes for all Greek senators who would ask him for race advice, in exchange for wine and challah for his hapless Dad, Joshua Kornbluth, who was known as the Willy Loman of quicksand maps and alphabet blocks. Michael’s father Joshua would get too wrapped into telling Gentiles Versus Jews jokes, to be taken seriously by even Jewish customers. He’d say, “What’s the difference between Jews and Greeks? Jews are in no rush to pledge their allegiance to the God of loud rain. Too soon for Zeus jokes. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”

Today, was different, because the Super Bowl of Chariot Racehorse races was happening and Pontificus The Putz needed a winner, or else, his army would take him out Marc Anthony style for backing such a perpetual loser after all these years, regardless if he’s related to Arie’s anti-Semite brother or not. Pontificus the Putz, enters Joshua’s, humble hut abode, which made a young Luke Skywalker’s adopted home on Tatooine look like Trump Tower. Michael The Greek Kornbluth, hides his Torah underneath his pillow and replaces it with some alphabet blocks his father carved himself but with Greek letters on it instead of Hebrew ones. Michael spins the dreidel. Potififcus blurts, “What are you playing with there Michael? Is your dad selling Hebrew Alphabet blocks that spin now? You do realize that’s not Kosher anymore kid? Then, Pontificus picks up the dreidel an says, “Oh, the letters are Greek.” Michael replies, “With you in charge, everything is Greek to me.” I tan nude at the beach like I’m a Greek senator on Holiday at the Red Sea.” “Alright, enough small talk, Michael, I a sure bet for the Chariot Race this Saturday”, Pontificus the Putz says. Have I got a horse for you Pontificus, named, Gimmel Ge Good. You haven’t heard of him yet because he’s a black horse from a Kibbutz in the Golan Heights, they say he’s faster than Hermes with a horny Medusa on his tail. He’s a 15-1 long shot, let it ride.”

Gimmel Be Good did good and won the race. And Michael the Greek Kornbluth was able to resume Torah studies without any interruption again. His father Joshua was granted a performance space to do a one man play, Greeks Versus Jews, which received much nonstop praise, Plato’s grandson, called the one-man act, “Socrates smart, flush with big time, funny man Jewish heart.” More importantly, Michael The Greek the Kornbluth, later changed the lettering on the Dreidel to Hebrew Lettering, knowing Greeks were on the look-out for Bibles whenever they raided Jewish homes and had a harder time recognizing Mythological bullshit than basic Hebrew lettering for that matter. And pretty soon, the Maccabees had enough of submitting to the Greek way of life, and reclaimed Israel as their Jewish homeland again.

Michael The Greek Kornbluth wasn’t able to parlay his billion-dollar betting brain and help finance the restoration the great Temple of King David. But more importantly, he was able to help preserve the roof over his head, that he shared with God and his dear Aba Joshua, which was that much important, since their mom died from childbirth along with his newborn brother, who he never got to study the Torah with. At least now, every night, dear Abba, Hebrew, for father, could study the glorious reflection of the all mighty in his son’s Michael’s, worry line free face, and give thanks and praises for the most high, for giving him the divine gift of fatherhood, which made dear Abba feel more blessed than the rest.

The End

Ester is the first one to speak. “You’re a really talented writer Michael. Are you represented by William Morris Endeavor?” Joshua laughs. “I wish Ester. I wanted to make a strong 1st impression, proving a funny man Jew writer is who has every justified right, bash less punchy, fake news deep, Jewish writer luminaries sucked off the literary establishment back in the day at large. Golda interjects, I know a very funny, hipster rabbi in Crown Heights, who fashions himself as a less marble mouthed Jackie Mason, whose chummy with the editor of Tablet Magazine, who I can totally see publishing your historical short story with a mix of magical realism thrown in. His name is Rabbi Levite, he’s also a real foodie and loves his double IPA’s to unwind after intense Zohar tutorials with Ron Pearlman’s kids, you know the CEO of Revlon, Ellen Barkin’s West Village Townhouse bequeather. He’s not as hardcore Hassid as other rabbis in Crown Heights. Plus, he’s a too tall Jew like yourself, so he won’t resent your big man funny stature from the start either.”

Chapter 18 The Spiritual Bankrupt Jew

                                                              Chapter 18

                                                The Spiritual Bankrupt Jew


Sure, when Joshua lived in LA for six years, he always tracked down some random Synagogue on Yom Kippur, even on the UCLA campus one year, where he spotted the Blossom gal, during her stay at home Jewish housewife years, before the Big Bang Theory sent her salary demands into heavenly heights, thanks to the continued emergence of nerd power in Hollywood here to stay.  Still the entire concept of a real, pulsating Godly presence in his heart, body and soul only emerged after he fell in love the craft of writing joke heavy stories and serving lady laugh with all his freakish, crazy Jew, wailing might.  Specifically, Joshua was fond of paraphrasing singer songwriter, rock legend of the Bowery, Lou, waiting for my man and I got to balls sing about it, motherfucking Reed, when he described his creative writing process by stating, it’s a spiritual release, because my lyrics are way smarter and deeper than I am in real life. That’s exactly how Joshua felt about the entire act of creation since he wrote his first Friend’s spec scrip by himself, without the assistance of his girlfriend writing partner, Erica who couldn’t compare to what powers of higher power might, he’d channel from God whenever he took the deep dive into emotive, expression land in his mind and onto the keyboard again. Joshua would occasionally write out ideas with a fancy felt tip pens from Staples, which he’d charge as his big-time lavish business expense while working as an IT headhunter in Century City and beyond, so his handwriting developed a smoother, more defined, less all over the place, crazy man Jew sprawl. But Joshua was definitely born for these digital times because with the aid of machine gun lap top to blast out his torrential downpour of far flung ideas and flowing streams of back and forth dialogue driven thought, he’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle, because his regular handwriting stroke would never have been able to keep up, period, nor be legible let alone presentable to the archaeologist, Josh Bernstein, his wife’s dreamy celebrity lay, despite his Master’s Degree in Hieroglyphics, making him capable of deciphering the most obscure, unrecognizable letter shapes in the whole universe.

Joshua attempted to express this sentiment once, in front of his parents, Cousin Stanley on his father’s side and his partner, but it was received better than a resurgent herpes sore on the spot. His converted Mom who hadn’t attended synagogue now, in a gazillion years since her breakdown senior in high school over abandoning her southern, Christian identity for the semi-upper middle-class strata of east coast yenta gossipy land USA.  Joshua was talking about his time back in California calling it his spiritual home, because that’s where he found God, writing and creating, believing in his powers of creation, which he equated with believing in God himself, which was in sharp contrast to his time growing up back east, “a spiritually bankrupt Jew”, who never had any philosophical conversations about God growing up with his friends from Hebrew School nor possess any deep longing need to acknowledge his glorious, beauty making presence on daily basis or feel compelled to even watch Yentl HBO, with any real impassioned, must pay homage to overtly looking Jewish entertainers desire.

This is why Joshua cared about the need to recruit a strong, practicing, Jewish Godmother to assume control of his kid’s Jewish education once his writing or comedy performing career, took off, eventually sometime this millennium, knowing his wife was a lapsed Catholic, who was more in the nature concept of God, than actually following his 614 commandments, despite her not feeling the compulsory need to uproot her life in the service of pleasing God, because she was already on the front lines of life, revitalizing blue faced babies, in the NICU, while her more self-obsessed stay at comedian husband, spent more time checking for retweets, until he got off Twitter for good, deciding this year, he wouldn’t hide behind a computer for the majority of his time, to exert his wise ass New York witticisms with some occasional A list hardcore hitting punchlines disseminated in between about fake news Fro Collin Kaepernick for instance.  “Have you ever seen a bi-racial afro that large before? Slash gave it a shot and it was a total flop. Lenny Kravitz another famous bi-racial Jew, never made his fro bounce that way”, Joshua would say on Twitter and off to anyone wearing a MAGA hat in public, in the more safe space confines of upstate New York, during a recent summer holiday trip to Lake George and lose money on the horse now nicknamed Harlan the Hack at the nearby iconic horse track in the eloquent, southern genteel, white shutter prominent, gem of an Upstate village city, of never to be confused with the boarded up shit box of Binghamton, Saratoga Springs.  Was Joshua a beneficiary of white privilege, never having to take out students’ loans to pay for once cent of his five years of private college tuition? Does the Pope forgive and enable pedophilia among his ranks too readily?  At the same time, F. Scott Fitzgerald, didn’t go out of his way to buy his polo shirts at an outlet store in Lake George either.

Teaming up with a Jewish Godmother to impart a Jewish education to his 3 unplanned, God given bundles of unsurpassable beauty and non-stop hilarious spewing joy, was more important than ever, since accepting the fact, neither grandmother was up to or cared about fulfilling the task of being a designated, reserve Jewish educator for his 3 kids. But why give a Jewish Godmother and not a Jewish Godfather the honor of giving his kids a Jewish education? Because most men, Jewish included, were about as deep as the eighteenth hole. Plus, Joshua at a recent open mike in Pleasantville, NY, when he bombed the place to the ground on proven laugh yanking material done other where, made him realize, life is too short to waste your breath and time on trying to entertain fake news smart, fat comedy nerds spaced out pills and it’s also incredibly gay. No, Joshua always got more turned on by making woman of class, smarts, and sophistication laugh long time, as their spastic, booming, eloquent bodies convulsed with laughter, as their lost in dreamy land, enamored, sultry, burningly intense yet soft spewing eyes, begged for more.  On a train ride on Metro North, Joshua got the idea of spending more time impressing  a higher strata of swanky MILFs both gentile and Jewish after doing at least 20 minutes of random, disjointed yet some cohesive streams of material on an older 60 something, well off blond woman, who he met a the nearby Hayfields Market, in the epicenter of horse riding country in North Salem,  sporting horse riding leather boots, which looked like they cost more than their Chevy SUV, used or not. She said, “Your material is dynamite, smart and really funny. I see you performing in a tux at some country club dinner.” Joshua couldn’t disagree one bit. But doing his bit on how he wished LaVar Ball was his substitute dad growing up because he’d make sure he lost his virginity before his younger brother did, on a bunch of WASP gentiles, who for the most never cared enough about pleasing the black man, the point where they’d wait for 3 hours to audition for amateur night at Show Time the Apollo, only to bail after reading an article of how Nipsy Hussle was a peerless talent on par with socially conscious street poets of Nasty Nas, because of his association with other heralded west coast rappers like Snoop Dog, whose brain hovered a notch above porn hood hell.   According to Jewish tradition, if a father were to die prematurely, while his kids were still growing up under their parents roof, it was the Jewish community’s job to impart the Jewish education but within the ritzy, bucolic, farmland rich country of North Salem, there wasn’t much a Jewish community to be found.  So, Joshua did what any do it all dad would do in his circumstance, assume ownership of the situation and follow through with the predominant mantra, novelist Ayn Rand lived for, preached and embodied, which was making the decision to no longer live for the sake of a man. No, Joshua’s wife didn’t have a sudden sex change, but she was the sole breadwinner for the past 3 years and counting, since their lucky number 3 Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, was born, and Joshua became hellbent on ensuring his kids received the dreamy, hip, proud, Jewish Godmother, knowing those role models to emulate were becoming a dying breed among the 1.7 million Jewish New Yorkers at large, scattered throughout the Island of Manhattan, yet joining the Jewy Manhattan Book Reading Club in their gorgeous, more money than God conjuring town house on the Upper East Side, 2 blocks down from Madonna’s, all knowing, Kabbalah blessed, rotating Latin junior swallowing snatch was an attractive place to give Joshua sustained stiffage from the start.





Chapter 8 The Beshert Talent Agent

                                                        Chapter 8

The Beshert Talent Agent 


Joshua’s, Beshert, daughter agent wasn’t done selling The Jewy Manhattan Book Club on why her do it all dad would prove to be an MVP addition to their book club in no time. “Look, I understand, all you are you high powered, big city woman, who formed a book club, you don’t have to hear the opinions of know it all blah breaths who still read op-eds in the NY Times, expecting any type of deepness enlargement in the process. Does my Dad suffer from loud man’s disease? Yes, what interesting New Yorker worth spending any quality of time with, isn’t? Does my dad have a temper? I wouldn’t compare to Tony Soprano, considering the fact he grew up the rough section of Scarsdale, NY, Edgemont to be exact. Actually, his parents raised him in Forrest Queens before buying a colonial in the Edgemont, NY school district because now, he’d have a room to cry himself to sleep upstairs, which always makes the moans of despair easier to bear. My dad looks like Hugh Grant on stilts, minus the horse teeth, have I mentioned that yet? He actually gets confused for being English plenty because he dresses, dapper, business casual British, rocking Ted Baker button downs, both short and long sleeves better than duh face Orlando Bloom ever could. Plus, my dad thinks Yiddish but delivers, not just hilarious, but hysterical trains of thought in nothing in perfect annunciated English, minus the nasal, dronage prominent in Paul Reiser and yenta breaths like Jerry Seinfeld or even weird, weak Howard these days for that matter. The summer before I started Kindergarten in North Salem, NY, where we live now, daddy enrolled me in comedy camp at home because summer camp wasn’t an option because Daddy was still so broke, his Hebrew name was under Judicial Review. We made a bunch of commercials together for his creative tech staffing firm, Standup Staffer, Been Talent Hooking Since Y2K and all them are hilarious from start to finish. He made a great director and my all-star performance in F The PC Police, Say Goodbye To Palo Alto and Blond Power were all big hits. I only required 2 takes max, for each, one in case you’re wondering. You’ll love this bit. What’s a mentor Daddy? Someone who points out your flaws to work on to help you become the best version of you.  Does that mean mommy is your mentor? Because she’s always pointing out your flaws? Like, how you’re so selfish, loud and annoying. I got it kid. I don’t need a mini clone of mommy in my life right, thanks.  The Rev Bob Levy, even completed the comedy work we did together, who used to be a head writer for the Howard Stern show, before Howard fired him because he didn’t like the Rev plugging his stand up comedy shows on the air despite him paying him a paltry salary to make Howard come off as punchier, edgier and less blah brained, fake news deep in real life. You throw Hillary softball questions on your show because his ghoulish, tranny conjuring wife, would dump him to the curb, if he stopped getting invited to Jimmy Kimmel’s house for more 2 bite Chicken Parm dinners. The exact compliment from the Rev Bob Levy, always the funniest and most vicious roaster on the Howard Stern Show, outside of Nick Dipaolo, who also sucked my Dad’s Louie spec script, was, “You got it kid. Funny, relaxed.” And Nick Dipaolo, you know smarter, smoother, just as hilarious Dice, who only drops f bombs for occasional emphasis like my Do It All Dad, doesn’t go out his way to stroke funny man Hebrew descendants of Abraham either.”

Ester, the gorgeous, exotic, long black haired, black leather panted fitted, bootylicious recruitment owner of Silicon Alley Staffers, dares to break up Matilda’s killer flow. “So, Matilda, do you need a job? You’d be animal on the phone and even more impressive in face to face meetings with CTO’s in Manhattan, who couldn’t resist your irresistible mix of punchy, Punk Brewster panache and zero bullshit directness, via Tatum O’Neal in the Bad News Bears. Granted, we’d have to work on the taking breaths between your long-winded pitches, to assess whether the other side is still listening or hasn’t been overwhelmed by sheer force of personality overload yet. Matilda replies. “I appreciate the offer Ester but the only talent I represent is my daddy. I have zero interest in selling the billable brain of power of coders for a living, even though I like to code, during computer lab at school because I’m also wired like that. Once, my grandfather on my mom’s side, big referral for my dad when worked for Robert Half in Manhattan, was an ABAP developer who needed subtitles in order be understood. My father would’ve had an easier time penning a Bollywood Musical than making a placement fee on this guy.”  Also, Big Tech firms like Google make it impossible to be a patriotic, loving American these days who support Israel’s right to defend itself against radical Islam’s non stop kidnapping of Jewish Children in UN funded tunnels and nonstop rocket attacks in their backyard, whenever the whim washes over their demented, twisted souls again.  Also, enough with Israeli aggression, if you shoot 700 rockets into Israel’s backyard, don’t expect an edible gift basket in return, with a thank you note written in Farsi.  Alte, the comedy club owner interjects.  “Have you considered doing stand up comedy for a living kid? Your timing is impeccable, and your material is A grade all the way.” Matilda replies. Thanks for the offer, but my killer comedic timing is direct result of spending so much time with stay at home dad for the past 9 years and counting. Plus, he’s always sampling material on strangers at the post office, deli, bookshop, anywhere outside of the house away from Mama really. Dada always says the world is your stage like Shakespeare says, so there’s no reason to limit your gem joke dissemination to Park Slope lesbo coffee shops or at some townie Irish bar among a bunch of burn out, hicks in Northern Westchester either. Did you know the mayor of New York City is married to a woman who used to be hard core Park Slope lesbo? Yet we’re supposed to believe garlic breath converted her? Golda, the woke, libertarian radio host interjects. “Matilda, your voice projects so well. Would you be interested in being my intern this summer? I hate the mayor of NY more than Jim Acosta wannabes at CNN. Does CNN just shove a mike in front of anyone with good hair? Who doesn’t look too Tommy Lee alt-rightish?  Matilda replies. “I plan on getting a sports scholarship and dunking out in school by the 6th grade, so I’ll have to pass because all that time on my bum will take away from basketball camp and my rigorous box jump schedule my dad plans on doing me with this summer, to help conquer his white man’s disease once and for all.”  Freida, the star Soul Cycle Instructor of SOHO Equinox, interjects. “Matilda, you’re core physique is fantastic and I don’t think you’re capable of running out of breath. Would you consider teaching a Soul Cycle Class for our older baby boomer clientele, so they’re not easily intimated by much younger instructors, with already filled out hard bodies? But before you answer I wanted to thank for emailing me your proposal to meet with you on the behalf of your father. In all honesty, prior, we never considered adding another member to our Jewy Manhattan Reading Club, but we don’t get cold emails from 9-year-old requesting a face to face meeting with our club, ever either.” Matilda replies. “Teaching Soul Cycling sounds fun but not if I’m just teaching baby boomers on how to feel better about being out of state, virtual grandparents, who refuse to identify with even the part time occupation of Grandmother, because it infringes upon their spacious lifestyle away from Uni Brow Maddow on MSNBC.  My dad always blames Facebook for making Baby Boomers, the laziest grandparent generation of all time. Lifting a finger is liking a picture.   My dad also just another piece published on the Good Men Project, The Last Self-Loving Jewish New Yorker, securing his good guy non-divisive status but not really. The piece is a letter to God about my dad apologizing for breaking his spiritually elevated, Kosher diet as of late, because mommy, a gentile, pushed the issue and he didn’t want it to become one, ruining their date to see Cheap Trick at the Capital Theatre on Valentines’ Day.  Can I borrow someone’s phone? I’ll read the piece to you right now.  4 phones come flying at Matilda and she manages to catch every single one. Matilda says. Just one is fine, here we go. And don’t worry about my Dad, he got a great spot. He’s with my two younger brothers now at the Lego store by 30 Rock.  He wrote a 30 Rock script that made him a Recommended Writer on TV Writer ages ago, back when he used to live in Brooklyn with mommy, then girlfriend, when Lena Dunham had much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself.

Not To Marry Gentiles (Deuteronomy 7:3-11)

3 unplanned kids later with my gentile wife, it’s a little late for that God, sorry. I never mastered the art of the pump fake. I did marry the mother of my 3 kids under a Chuppah, built by my hippie bud Marshall from Ithaca College. You know Cornell’s mentally challenged, next door neighbor. I even had Jewish naming ceremonies for three of my kids, my last one being for my lucky number 3, Samuel Teddy, Yitzhak Kornbluth. Because I love the story of a hundred-year-old Sarah getting knocked up well past her eggs’ expiration date, like Sarah Silverman 10 years ago. And unlike other, so-called brilliant comedians like Sarah Silverman, I at least outgrew, my truly tasteless jokes phase at sleepaway camp in Kent, CT. Despite me needing the comedic relief, knowing I was the 2nd worst athlete after the Sheik’s son from Great Neck and to had endure the insufferable elitism of the blah breath kid from Dalton on the Upper East Side, who thought reading a book on Jim Morrison at 15 was the height of deep probing thought. Compared to portly, freckle faced Stork, who read op-eds by Peggy Noonan on how Regan wouldn’t be anybody without her writing his aw-shucks, smile inducing witticisms because he was just an over the hill pretty face, yokel from Northern Cal, who looked good on a horse. If stand up great Bill Hicks wasn’t impressed with Regan’s speaking prowess, then Regan must have been a zero-talent dope, with or without Peggy Noonan pushing for him to name our space missile defense system Star Wars over Space Force instead.

I’ll get to the point now God. I broke my Kosher diet streak of 4 months at a gastro pub in Portchester, NY 1 hour before seeing the legendary pop rock band Cheap Trick with my wife for Valentine’s Day and I feel awful about it, sick to my stomach really. I don’t care how scrumptious my wife’s Shrimp and Grits were or the Duck Roll wrapped and fried in paper thin won ton paper, stuffed with the most non-sour pungent, highly delectable shreds of Sauerkraut nestled inside each bite from Gentile heaven.

It all started with my gentile wife, originally hailing from Brisbane Australia, urging me to try one bite of her Shrimp and Grits, knowing full well, I’ve been a proud beneficiary of my spiritually elevated, Kosher diet regulated meals as of late. We wanted to get married in Australia on Mother’s Beach, yet my mom shot down that dream. On the phone she says to me, “Son, Australia is a long flight from New York and your father doesn’t love you that much.:”

But back to my Gentile wife pushing me to take a bite out of her Shrimp and Grits. I wouldn’t say it felt like she was trying to hard sell me on still giving the Passion a shot after all these years, knowing my younger Jewish brother broke his Mel Gibson movie strike and rushed to see Apocalypto opening weekend. Now, I wouldn’t say my wife’s repeated attempts to make me try her succulent forbidden, Gulf Shrimp felt like total overkill. But her big, bulging eyes became more enraged, the more I resisted a bite out of her deveined, broth rich, fleshy, chunky cooked morsel of southern love accentuated Shrimp.

I know you’re the one and only true God, who I worship with all my fighting, loving, funny man heart. Still, the Capital Theatre has been a tremendous source of joy for me, starting with seeing the final Grateful Dead show via simulcast from Soldier Filed there with an old school bud from High School, making me feel like I was at the actual concert in Chicago along with every other over the hill baby boomer, who loves to name drop celebrities they bump into at Dead Shows like the famed Bill Walton, to feel cooler by association. Truth is, Cheap Trick rocks out way harder than the Grateful Dead, they’re twice as melodic on most songs, explaining why they’re called the American Beatles for a reason. Plus, being a big Dead Head set list guy, I searched online for some recent Cheap Trick set lists, giving me the distinct impression they were going to replicate almost the entire set of Cheap Trick at Budokan, which is a legendary live album, that will transform the most hardened Gen X adult today into a true believer of the kick ass restorative powers behind hearing live, rambunctious, soul man blasting rock and roll.

So, while my wife just urged me to try one bite of her shrimp. Implying, it’s Valentine’s Day and we’re out on a date, while my mother was in town to babysit our 3 kids, which is a biannual production, so I should feel morally obligated to relish my Gentile blessed, Jesus approved Shrimp and Grits, more than growing closer to God through sticking with my Kosher diet, knowing I don’t have to do any of the slaughtering or blooding draining of cows myself. Still, all I heard in my stoned, semi paranoid head at the time was, come on, come on, try the Shrimp and Grits already, you uppity, fake news believing Jew. Then, I started to justify why taking a bite wouldn’t be the end of the world, stating, some married couples in Miami Beach go to swinging clubs on Valentine’s Day, so our thing can be my wife force feeding me shrimp and andouille sausage but having me act like I love it. For all the talk of us chosen people being the pushy ones Lord, I don’t feel gentiles get enough credit for being just as guilty of this charge if not worse. And I’ll take the Crusades for 500 Alex.

So knowing my mom was in town to babysit our 3 bundles of sunshine and my wife had gotten us the tickets to see Cheap Trick in the 1st place, I relented and tried her super scrumptious Shrimp and Grits because I feared it becoming an issue. Ruining our time together to see Cheap Trick at the famed Capital Theatre, where Janis Joplin performed her last show, which I wanted to avoid at all costs. This issue being my wife branding me as the obstinate, all knowing, morally exalted, big headed Jew. So I divorced myself from my ego, thinking, one bite of shrimp away from the house wasn’t indicative of me turning my back on you Lord because of my commitment to resume my Kosher diet the following morning, with dreams of duck rolls becoming a glorious remnant reminder, of the thrill offered by being a bad boy non-conformist, living to rock out to Cheap Trick without a worry in the world, living for the killer opener of Hello There and Come, Come On while not sweating the loss of my chosen, funny man father status just yet.

Still, when we got the Capital Theatre on the main floor, to see Cheap Trick blow the roof off the building, I lost my airy, spiritually elevated lift as of late. Granted, the fries, duck roll and vanilla bean porter, followed by an Anchor Steam on tap for old times sake before they assumed the stage didn’t help. But we had a great time together at the show Lord and I grew closer to my wife as a result, despite her nudge, playing a slight role in me veering me away from your Moses transmitted commandments. And deep down I know your main concern for us chosen people marrying Gentiles, is them driving ourselves away from you Lord, because of the odds of raising our children Jewish, falls dramatically in half, especially when our wives refuse to convert to Judaism, because they don’t believe your Jewish putz embedded DNA is the end all to the be all either.

But again, my gentile Australian wife was cool with the Jewish naming ceremonies for all three of four kids, which not every Gentile would. So, I’m not going to freak out over this gentile terror alert moment just yet. Still, my beautiful, super funny, ultra-chill wife from the land down under, also made me potato latkes from scratch for Hanukah with parmesan, which does wonders in addition to making me a Kosher Matzoh ball soup, using a real-life Kosher chicken for the stock, despite her being a veggie loving, practicing pescatarian 99 percent of the year. Thereby, proving my Gentile wife is capable of seeing through loving Kosher eyes. Even Kid Rock will give my wife an Amen on that one. More importantly, the night where I said goodnight to my Kosher diet and hello to intermarriage peer pressure at 43 years old, was more of a direct result of me not respecting your law for the night, versus fearing my wife’s semi- pushy wrath, which I didn’t want to ruin Cheap Trick, 42 years after they caused a tsunami of teenage shriekish joy at Budokan back in the day, which I wanted to experience on my own live in person, without rocking the Hello Kitty purse in the process.

Abandoning my Kosher diet for a night for Cheap Trick was a shame. It still taught me how much I need your love Lord, which requires me to make you the center of my universe, instead of the reverse. I should’ve shown your dietary laws as much love as my love of not wanting my wife to ruin Cheap Trick for me on Valentine’s Day. Surrender Shrimp and Grits, I must because I want you to love me back twice as much for making you feel like the center of my universe instead of Cheap Trick, as much as they rocked out with such divine powered authority.

The Jewy Manhattan Book Club is left enraptured in head spinning awe and incredibly moved in the process after hearing such a fresh, assertive, original, funny Jewish, disruptive, literary voice, that got them off from start to finish and Joshua’s 9-year-old Bashert agent feels incredible sense of calm and intense prideful satisfaction in knowing her reading of her dad’s piece helped seal the deal.

Matilda adds. “But the real reason my dad wants to join The Jewy Manhattan Club is to find a potential Jewish Godmother for my and 2 adorable, hilarious younger brothers and if anyone can appreciate my dad being the last funny man self-loving Jewish New Yorker in this age hysterical, resistor, kiss ass resistance, it’s you fab 4.”

Ester speaks on The Jewy Manhattan Book Club’s behalf.  “We’d be honored to have your dad join The Jewy Manhattan Book Club. But I actually like boozy, highly alcoholic, overpriced cabs from Napa. I’m pretty petite so they go straight to my head, but they also take forever to breath, so I like the anticipatory self-discipline it gives me. We just cracked open a delectable Polly Fume from France. Would you like to take a sip?”

Matilda says. “But it’s not spring break yet.” The entire room cracks up. Alte the comedy club owner replies. That’s hilarious Matilda, Ivanka Trump’s daughter would’ve just said something boring in Mandarin.”



Chapter 6 He Talks To Tombstones

Chapter 6

He Talks To Tombstones

Joshua always possessed a feel for tracking down gravesites of famous people without the aid of Waze for Tombstones. First, he tracked down the gravesite of his lesser known yet still infamous great, great, great, grandfather on his mother’s Kentucky side, Austin Gallagher, who saved his boyhood friend Abe Lincoln from drowning. At the time, Abe had his dear friend Austin swear he’d never anyone about saving putzy Abe who slipped on a real life Lincoln Log while crossing Knob Creek because he had a vision in the water, of liberating the black man from slavery and he couldn’t let his fellow Americans know he was a worst swimmer than Frederick Douglass.

Fast forward, to a couple years after Joshua’s wedding in a sculpture garden, 10 minutes outside of Woodstock, NY he’d went on a camping a trip at KOA in Woodstock, embracing his inner gentile, watching his wife install their wedding gift paid for tent from REI doesn’t count. After splashing his 2-year-old daughter, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth up and down into the KOA poo yelling, “Breaking baby”, to freak out the locals, showcasing his shock comic influence underpinnings. They grabbed a fancier lunch in Woodstock than Morning Star black bean veggie burgers and Joshua splurged on a fluffy omelet stuffed with outback grown, sautéed Hen of the Wood mushrooms and gooey Manchego cheese drenched from within, lost in purified, shishy bitch heaven. Feeling flush with high end giddy fullness, adding an extra bounce to Joshua’s step, the Vietnamese Coffee, ultra-dank, condensed, highly sweetened, super strong coffee helping, he decided to visit the local graveyard in attempt to track down Rick Danko’s grave from the Band. Rick Danko in case you’re wondering, millennial mousketeers was a star voice in the Band, who became the Band because they used to open up for Bob Dylan back in the day and created their best work at the Big Pink, which was their house up in Woodstock, away from the crazy, partying awaiting them in Manhattan the second, they arrived. Joshua felt bad for Rick Danko, because he believed famed drummer, southern bad ass, crooner stylist, Levon Helm had literally worked himself to death, while fighting a crippling heroin addiction, touring non-stop to support his family and kids, after Robbie Robertson, prematurely announced their last concert being The Last Waltz, while collecting the lion share of the profits. Robbie Robertson’s reason for sending the band off to retirement earlier than later because of the road claiming all the greats before them like Hendrix and Joplin. Still, that’s how Rick Danko ironically enough, went wailing against the dying of his light. In particular, Joshua always had soft spot for Rick Danko’s high octave, big time soulful crooning on It Makes No Difference. But Joshua’s love for the dreamy blend of folksy, rhythm and blues fused, electrified, gospel tinged, ramshackle brand of character driven story Americana rock and roll, The Band personified, stemmed from his father introducing to him to rock doc film, The Last Waltz, growing up, showcasing all star performances from whose who of Rock Royalty back in the day, such as Van, The Man Morrison, the Jewish Elvis, Neil Diamond, a coked out his mind, Neil banshee squeal incarnate Young, blues man and half Muddy, I’m a motherfucking man Waters, and baby boomer arrogance never dies, unofficially lord and savior, Bob, Rolling Thunder Dylan. Joshua cherished this special musical connection with his father, because he’s aware that other Jewish kids he grew up within the comfy, leafy confines, of Edgemont, NY did not. Nor did their Jewish dad’s ever tuck them in, regaling them with tales from their time working in the Catskills as a waiter, like the other crazy, scrappy Jews from the Bronx during their summers off from college, before crashing the original Woodstock, only to wake up from a post Acid induced haze, to hear Sly and the Family Stone, serenade the tripping balls crowd, with, “I’m Going To Take Your Higher.” Joshua found Rick Danko’s grave and thanked him for helping provide such rich filled memories between himself and his dear Abba, who he inherited his sense of dressy, flamboyance from, good taste in music and funny Jew bone from, before his younger brother got arrested for blow one 2 many times and got his father addicted to Ambien and becoming almost 24/7 humorless now as a result.

Now, Joshua was still in NY but in graveyard in Valhalla to visit the gravesite of Ayn Rand with his youngest child, Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo Kornbluth. Joshua contemplated not taking his 3 year old son, but he showed interest after he asked him if he wanted to join him and pay homage to a great Russian Jewish American writer Any Rand and his son Samuel replied, with a resounding, “Yes, let’s do it, Poopy Face. You’re boring daddy.”

So, Joshua found the famous tombstone again without too much, lost in time, totally forgetting where he parked his car in the parking lot after a Dead Show in high school type of schlepping. What appealed to Joshua so much about Ayn Rand, was her insistence on not living your life for the sake of someone else, which Joshua identified whole heartedly with, especially since his own mother encouraged him to become a garbageman to feed his family, “do something”, she implored over the phone, after flat out admitting, she couldn’t respect him as a man for failing to be a consistent financial provider for his family so far on God’s bountiful, green earth. But Joshua’s mom not respecting his true authentic, creative writer self, even after getting his TV writing break in Manhattan 3 years ago, was no news flash. Plus, his wife not respecting his role a cook, coach, writer, podcast hero, stay at home comedian and fawned over father from his fuss free 3 kids for the most part wasn’t breaking news either. The pursuit of happiness, for that moral sake, alone, it this philosophical approach to living the life he wanted and did everything in his power to achieve, after God threw him 3 unplanned curveballs, by delivering him 3 unplanned kids. Which would’ve made most lesser cocksure, men, thrown in the towel on their dreams of being more than just a mere Schmuck in a headset, glamorized indentured servant agency recruiter/new business development advertising sales rep ages ago, but Michael knew deep down God blessed with him Unplanned fatherhood because God only he gives children to only the lonely and this comedy giant, was now three times as strong, no longer alone and was just getting his yack pipes and banging keyboard warmed up.

Chapter 5 Lit On Shabbat Again

Chapter 5

Lit On Shabbat Again


Had weed done more harm than good? Joshua pondered while taking in the holy glow of the Shabbat candles in the otherwise dark kitchen, shining a beautiful blanket of light on top of torn up egg Challah, resting on the reformed ordained Challah plate from Target, minus the Hebrew lettering on it, as he lounged on the couch in the TV/play room in honor Shabbat, the ordained night of ceasing all working, which is in his case meant, giving his creatively jacked brain a rest from trying to make the universe laugh for a living for free from home while playing stay at home podcast hero and super involved father of 3.

Joshua’s wife was at work tonight, which was the normal routine on a Friday evening, which was a welcome respite from the horror show Shabbat morphed into last Friday night, when mama was home to get tense over her proud Jewish husband, trying to please God by following his commandments by performing Shabbat and the standard prayers in Hebrew for lighting of the Shabbat candles, and prayers sanctifying the wine and Challah, although Joshua was skipping the wine prayer because he promised his son Arthur he wouldn’t resume his recreational, lush filled, weekend ways, until he could dunk a basketball with a regular size basketball on a regular size basketball hoop with divine powered authority this summer. Because his son Jerimiah is fixated on the back book cover image for his Dad’s 3rd book where his Do It All Dad dunks the ball and proceeds to slam a Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA seconds right after while still hanging from the rim, feeling a big man acting his size on the rise for once in his life.

Why did Joshua’s gentile wife get tense during some harmless Shabbat prayers this Friday night, as his three kids all stood up in an erect, serious fashion, did their best to annunciate words in Hebrew to please God and their papa all at once? Because deep down, Joshua couldn’t shake the chilly feeling, of his wife, thinking, “Great, he’s actually following through with it, raising our kids Jewish after all, and they’re all in hands on deck, looking up to Daddy like some exalted, good guy Jew, who was unemployed the last the 3 times I got pregnant and had to resume work earlier than I’d like. I bet he’s thinking, I win, you lose gentiles, go push your Jesus dominating, religion someplace else.” But Joshua wasn’t feel like a resounding winner for too long after he cited the prayer over the Shabbat Candles because out of nowhere, seconds after her lights the candles, his wife feels compelled to scurry into the TV/Play Room and haul in her supposed to me non-denominational, white painted, plug in bare, yellow lit, poor man’s excuse for a Christmas Tree as a barrier like sandbags used in Vietnam to hide behind the rising onslaught of such in your in your face Jewishness, which her Jesus loving, guilt ridden soul, could no longer bear. Originally, when Joshua and his wife Anna living in Park Slope, Brooklyn during their sweaty sex period, when the bed actually elevated from some hardcore boom, boom, despite the perpetually drilling down of the bed, defying all laws of gravity all together. Back then, when preservation, continuation and deepening of his Jewish identity wasn’t of the most paramount importance, before Joshua even became a Recommended Writer on TV for his 3rd place winning sample 30 Rock script, The Kings of Comedy, he only cared about killing at Bar 4 after bombing hard last, prompting, a girl afterwards, to give him an embarrassed, sorry you sucked so bad pad as he sulked on the door more despondent and sad shrouded than normal. Sure, back then Joshua really wanted to get a lit agent and be staffed on a show like Family Guy, but the entire reason he got into stand up was because some alum from Ithaca who wrote for Everybody Loves Raymond, recommended he start doing stand up if he wanted to start writing for TV as big deal funny man scribe for hire, so he did. Finally, now back in New York Joshua would score some laughs here and there, but bombing to a packed room full of working professional hipsters and freelance photographers was tough to bear. It’s not as if Joshua never bombed hard before, but inner torment and ganged up on beat down sensation, tearing apart his insides was a direct result of him never bombing on such a grandiose scale in front of so many people before, in a hip bar at a hot time, with semi good looking woman in attendance, who didn’t dress too much dowdy dumpy in their silk scarves and various flower print ensembles, we’re still in Park Slope, mind you.  What Joshua had learned from his 1st year of non-stop bombing in LA with no support network in sight outside of his dear friend Jay, and Shakes who had helped find a job at Raytheon during his IT recruiter days in Hermosa Beach, he even let him sleep on his couch before getting the job, was to write new jokes you thought, would yank out laughs long time and do it again, and again. So that’s what Joshua did in Park Slope now, until he returned back to Bar 4 triumphant scoring huge laughs, even with his retooled story about the time he snorted crystal meth, thinking it was cocaine, because after one line he felt like a coked out Tony the Tiger, shouting, “This shit is great.” Only to find out later, the crash was the opposite of great. Reconnecting with his drug pal who fed him the stuff, on the phone. Joshua says, “Dude, what was in that coke, rocket fuel?” Drug pal replies, “Dude, you didn’t snort cocaine, you snorted crystal meth. I though you knew the difference.” Joshua blurts out in extreme disgust back, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was taking the fucking Pepsi Challenge.”  After the set, Joshua passes by an older Dead Head who was chatting up prior and says, “You’re my new hero”, as his eyes danced and flickered in the dark because the energy level of the room was now at optimal, peak happy capacity man.  So back then when Joshua and his girlfriend, now wife, lived in Park Slope, she says in the Kitchen out of the blue, “I don’t think it’s fair for me to give up my relationship with Jesus.” Joshua had no problem with this then, stating, “Fine, but assuming we have kids one day, we have to raise our kids Jewish.” She says, “Not unless we raise them pescatarian.” Joshua replies, “Deal” and they shook on it.” Jesus is the original super Jew as Joshua likes to proclaim to make his gentile in-laws tense after another forced saying grace in their own house in NY with a Mezuzah on the door post, signifying it, on top of their daughter marrying one, who had a Bar,  Mitzvah, been to Israel on a Masada teen tour, had cousins killed in the Holocaust because the failed, zero talent artist, Hitler got herpes from a Jewish prostitute, flaring up his desire to annihilate and they didn’t have the luxury of hiding behind anonymous Twitter handles like Roger Waters Rules no matter what.

Now, Joshua’s wife is about to place her leftover, bare bones, white Christmas tree next to the Shabbat candles, nestled within beautiful Shabbat candle holders from Israel, which were harder to find than you’d think in Westchester Country. Joshua sprung in action, threw caution the wind, knowing, he’d trigger his Shabbat resistor wife all of sudden and demanded, “Get the tree away from the shabbat candles please. I’ve fallen in love with holy after glow from these Shabbat Candles by themselves, without having to compete with your non-denominational, white Christmas Tree for attention. At least, you didn’t whip out the Christmas Elves on the table to show your true colors.” Wife freaks as expected. “I was just trying to do something nice yet you’re making feel like I was being disrespectful.” She was and Joshua went down the garage to puff a one hitter from his cherished green to calm his enraged nerves a bit, “Thinking, so this what God meant about discouraging us Jews from marrying gentiles, my chest.” Then, a wave of instant calm, engulfed his soul as the scrumptious high-end green, quenched the fire burning up his enraged, slighted soul, as Joshua got an idea, a rarity on the weed, but a solid idea, nonetheless. How could an unemployed father of 3 regain leverage in his life over his wife? Easy, put his old school IT recruitment background to work and recruit a more prosperous, sexier, older, Jewish MILF Godmother for his 3 kids to make mama insanely jealous about, thinking she might turn out to be a Jewish MILF Godmother with benefits.






Chapter 4 Growing Up Pushover Putzy

Chapter 4

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.














Chapter 1 Rabbi Mendel Schneerson Lives

Chapter 1

Rabbi Mendel Schneerson Lives


Joshua loved his Grandma. Without her Pfizer stock money, he never would’ve been able to take the plunge into open mike stand up comedy during his recovery year living in Sherman Oaks, California with his dear bud Jay, who met during his IT recruiter days of yesteryear. Growing up, his stylish, rambunctious, art loving, bi-polar Jewish grandma would tell her eldest Grandson, “Slow down.” And her grandson wasn’t even addicted to time release Adderall yet. Nor was he an unplanned father of 3 who never mastered the art of the pump fake yet, trying to get his Do It all Dad Year Podcast on to I-Tunes New and Notable list without no immediate grandparents on both sides to help out with the kids in sight.

Joshua felt like his entire life was a cold call since graduating Ithaca College, which he calls Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. Still, Joshua also likes to advertise his 2 decades worth of pot abuse and add, “But he attended the distinguished Roy H. Park School Of Communications, so he could puff bong hits of exceptionally strong outdoor and managed not to stutter every other 2 seconds.”  Becoming an IT Headhunter paying his own way in his world, after his parents finally cut him off at 23 made him the man he is today. Now, Joshua being a father of 3 tends question of the everlasting value of his college education, knowing he was the only putz to graduate a top communication school in the country with a debilitating stutter. But cold calling through his heavy pain period of being hung up on by IT Directors twice his age he cold called non-stop from 8 to 6 each day pre-smart phones in 99 when you actually had to call information for phone numbers when dial up Internet Access through a fucking Earthlink account wasn’t available in your office yet either. Still, despite crying it out in the bathroom stall at work after another crushing day of endless, dejected defeat from being hung up on all day long, not knowing how the hell he was going to make a living to support himself in this world, he plowed forward, out of sheer desperation, being totally optionless in life, possessing zero leverage over anything despite his adamant refusal to throw in the towel and quit the job, despite his Garbage Man son’s boss from Queens, giving the option out, stating, “How many more times can you deal with being hung up on exactly?” Joshua was never strong with numbers, having to count with his fingers for simple arithmetic, explaining why he’d constantly call himself a degenerate Jew, leading to a recent exchange with his 9-year Bashert daughter, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth. She asks. Daddy, how many zeros are in a trillion? Daddy, do you really have to Google that? Daddy are you financially illiterate. Is why you call yourself a degenerate Jew who still counts with fingers for simple arithmetic after all?

5 months later Joshua’s persistence was rewarded. Finally, he was able to slam his phone back on the receiver triumphant, yelling out loud for the entire open office of IT agency recruiters to hear, “Deal.” The room erupted with instantaneous jubilee, as all of his fellow IT agency recruiter took at time out from their daily cold call assaults to come over and give the traditional high five to a recruiter who just closed their first deal and broke his cherry, feeling a semi-capable, functioning human being the business world for a change.

Now, Joshua is with his dad, his best friend from the Bronx, affectionally known as Uncle D, his Grandma’s sister’s son Bernie and Wife Ruthie along with a Rabbi in a damp, blistery cold day in a graveyard in Queens,  staring down a barren, wooden box his Grandma is buried in. At this point, Joshua realizes he’s never been to a Jewish funeral before, so the stripped-down proceeding of the bare, non-ostentatious bare as can be coffin, chills him to the core. The final enormity of death pulled at his heart like a ton of bricks. All of his Grandma’s friends were dead now, so not one was there to pay their final respects. She also spent he remaining years, in fancy old age homes, she never cared for, off her bi-polar medication, which eradicated her special spark. Now, she was better off Joshua thought, reunited with his Jewish Grandfather who he never knew, who died before he was born, most likely from the nuclear radiation considering his close proximity to the big one in Japan, when he served as medic in the army, winning a Bronze Star for bravery in the process. Understand, Joshua had no intention to speak at his Grandma’s wedding because was frankly still pissed off at her for blowing off his wedding because he married a Gentile. In fact, since Joshua started pursuing a career in stand-up comedy, he’d do a bit, stating,” I wish I snubbed by whiny, no show Jewish Grandam for a wise Black Grandma at my wedding. Post an ad on Craig’s List, stating, Tyler Perry impersonators are welcome. Must be comfortable performing in front of white audiences only. Truth is Joshua being a native New Yorker, always enjoyed making the a New York brother laugh long time, considering his affinity for the New York Knicks, which he describes as forced marriage his father pushed on him, despite there never being a ring in his lifetime to show for it. Before Joshua even became an unplanned father of 3, he experienced an epiphany while on a run at his old high school, within bucolic, mountainous, tree topping, surroundings, of Westchester Country, in Edgemont, NY. As he picked up the pace to finish his final lap around the track where he used to drink flask of Southern Comfort and forties of old E from the local bodegas in White Plains who never asked for ID, Joshua thought, we learn our behavior from our dad. Which explains why I became a fat fuck in high school, sitting my ass on the couch, eating like shit, watching the Knicks stick up the joint on TV again and again.  Growing up, Joshua’s father would call him a waste of height because the highlight of his basketball career in high school was scoring a whopping ten points against an all Japanese team based in Westchester Country. Joshua in his act would say, “It wasn’t hard to score against these Japanese players who half my size because every time I’d drive to the hoop, they’d run away scared from me like they were movie extras in a Godzilla film, except instead of saying, Looking Godzilla, they’d say, look Hugh Grant on Stilts.” Raising a benchwarmer could’ve made Joshua’s dad beam with pride, especially senior year, knowing he’d schlep from his VP of packaging sales job in Jersey to high school a gym in Eastchester, NY only to see his son ride the pin because he never got his never putz energy under control, still hadn’t lost his virginity yet and started to have a more active social life involving, getting drunk with his friends at bars along North Avenue In New Rochelle to Oh, What a Night and smoking sprayed weed from the Bronx at a fake news Jamaican Record store, that taste like Windex. Joshua had also taken up smoking cigarettes because he his good friend Ari got him into on top both of them being enamored with Dice, the king of heavy metal hair comedians back in the day.

After Joshua spent a summer in Israel for a Masada teen tour, which is late Grandma paid for, he finally felt like man on the rise with a semblance of mojo working in his favor a change. Sure, hooking up with 2 Israeli girls the week he stayed on Kibbutz, that summer, did wonders for his self-esteem. Because prior, he was consumed with heavy heart, knowing his younger brother of 3 years had not only achieved puberty before he did but also banged the 3 hottest girls in his class, which he tried to jerk off to at the time but couldn’t, making him feel like a big brother bust, like Eddy Curry on the Knicks, with an even shittier, less reliable hook shot.  Chances are that Joshua doesn’t have the senior yearbook staff coin the award Grooviest in his honor if his Grandma never insisted on sending her eldest Grandson to Israel for the summer. Nor would he win the International Award, for hooking up with the two Israeli girls during his Masada Teen Tour. Prior, the only award Joshua ever won was for Most Improved Basketball Player at sleep away camp in Kent, CT, marking another award invented in his far less cocksure manner. Joshua was overwhelmed with emotion, when he won the Most Improved Basketball Award, knowing he was such a shy, unsure kid, he’d skip out on Canteen mixers with the neighboring girl camp in favor of doing defense shuffling slide drills at night, which he got laughed and ridiculed for. That is when he wasn’t reading Cracked Magazine in his bunk alone yet happy or trying to jerkoff to a Playboy magazine one night with his flashlight while the entire bunk was full without having the entire cabin to himself. Thinking things through was never Joshua’s forte.

Now, the Rabbi had asked if anyone wanted to speak about his Joshua’s dead grandmother, Ethel.  Joshua was consumed with a lofty spirit of some kind and finally reached peace with his grandmother blowing off his wedding because he married a gentile. He said, “I loved my grandmother. With her giving me Pfizer stock money amassed from her years of working as an executive assistant in the Manhattan at their corporate headquarters, I never would’ve been able to throw myself into my dream of becoming a strong enough stand up comedian to get a job writing TV sitcoms like American Dad or pilots of my own creation for a living. But what I cherish more is a book she gave me once, which was a first, titled, The Teachings of Rabbi Mendel Scheerson.  “Think good and it will be good.”   He also talks about not allowing yourself to be controlled by fear, knowing how mercurial humans can be. So, it’s a total time suck and way too emotionally draining to invest so much into caring so much about the opinions of others knowing how fickle we can be. Of course, I’ll never forgive my younger brother for writing some girl’s phone number on the inside cover. But he’d didn’t know any better, I’m assuming. Nor did Grandma know any other way but to always be brutally honest and bust balls because that’s what Jewish Grandma’s did back in the day. Later, the Rabbi, approaches Joshua, moved by his warm words about his grandmother asks Joshua, “Tell me about this dream your Grandma helped make true. What do you write for now Joshua?” Joshua can’t help but laugh inside and says, “Myself Rabbi, lady laugh, take your pick.” And the Rabbi’s face turned from glow filled acceptance to dejected dread, considering the Rabbi’s imagined success for Ethel’s too tall Jew, grandson prior.








Crazy, Good, Dada

Chapter Titles for my upcoming novel Crazy, Good Dada.


Chapter 1 

More Commercial Friendly, Less Crazy Eddie

Chapter 2 

Art Sells Genius

Chapter 3 

The Great American Jew Novel

Chapter 4 

Advertise on Better Than Boobie

Chapter 5 

The Last Self-Loving New York Jew

Chapter 6 

Jewish Milf Godmothers Rule

Chapter 7 

Identifying With Upper West Side Cat Ladies

Chapter 8 

The Jewy Manhattan Book Club

Chapter 9 

The Comedy Gold Mobile

Chapter 10 

Stay At Home She Male Comedian

Chapter 11 

Sperm Implanter or Sperm Terminator

Chapter 12 

Taking Men’s Reproductive Rights Back

Chapter 13 

Convert for your Putzy DNA?

Chapter 14 

Kosher Cheese Steak Truck

Chapter 15 

Do It All Dad Does Lent

Chapter 16 

The Comedy House Grant

Chapter 17 

The Boob Doctor

Chapter 18 

I Love How You Kiss Blondie

Chapter 19 

Best Halloween Ever

Chapter 20 

The Hebrew Nationalist

Chapter 21 

Waste of Height

Chapter 22 

The Art of The Pump Fake

Chapter 23

Tricklers versus Rainmakers

Chapter 24 

The Letter From Hell

Chapter 25 

My Beshert Agent

Chapter 26 

Elitist White Trash

Chapter 27 

Pizza Maker In Heaven

Chapter 28 

My Happy Jewish Afterlife

Chapter 29 

Shooting For Shit

Chapter 30 

The Overgrown Garbage Pale Kid

Chapter 31 

I Hear My Bus Coming

Chapter 32 

He’s My Best Friend

Chapter 33 

Back To Hebrew School

Chapter 34 

614 Commandments Mel

Chapter 35 

Do The PTA Daddy, Do It

Chapter 36 

The HR Hack A Thon

Chapter 37 

The Company In Pitch Peak

Chapter 38 

Failing the Coke Challenge

Chapter 39 

The Non-Functional Stoner Club

Chapter 40  

Shylock This

Chapter 41 

The Original Super Jew

Chapter 42 

Death Stares On Metro North No More

Chapter 43 

Manhattan Is Yesterday’s News

Chapter 44 

8000 Hanukkah Gifts



Michael Kornbluth