Chapter 29 The Path of Most Resistance

 

 

Chapter 29

The Path Of Most Resistance

 

Joshua never underwent Psychoanalysis.  Still, it didn’t take some fake news deep shrink who majored in Psychology at Tufts, to realize Joshua pursued the comedic pursuit of making strangers laugh for a living because being shipped off to sleep away camp in Kent, CT 3 months a year every summer, without any burning desire to attend, never gave him the impression of being the center of his parents universe.  It’s not as if Joshua was such a perpetual drag on his parent’s time after they came home from work. He’d hear them talk about their workdays over dinner and then retreat to his room to play with his blocks, bang his GI Joe toys together way past the appropriate age to do so, as he used to Gung Ho to turn Cobra Commander into his personal gimpy, bitch in his own innocuous, pubescent form of Pulp Fiction. When Joshua got a bit older, he’d organize his Basketball card collection, consisting of almost every rookie who played for the original USA Dream Team, MJ an the Bird, MJ combo rookie card excluded, because together they cost more than ounce of Maui Wowie. That’s so good, you take only one hit of delicious, crystal flecked green, watch the entirety of Pink Floyd Wall Sophomore Year in college and think you comprehended all the symbolic nuances from start finish, back when Roger Waters was more pro wall but no so much in Israel’s case to prevent more blatantly unnecessary death. Later, after Joshua in Junior High, he’d decorate the walls of his bedroom with an unoccupied top bunk, with cut out pictures of all his Hair Metal Gods from Circus Magazine, which included non-pretty boy faces such as the Freddy Kruger of shredding Mick Mars from Motely Crew. But sometime in the early 1990’s, Joshua’s parents decided to repaint his lost in fantasy island room. The Italian painter took one look at Joshua’s wailing wall of metal and says, “There’s a lot of dolled up men on your wall.” In Joshua’s Heavy Metal High pilot trilogy, which he pitched to the EVP of VH1 Classic in Manhattan, his character replies to the Italian painter with, “I’m sorry are blush covered cheeked Bret Michaels from Poison not manly enough for you Dominick I Ain’t No Fag Scholanti.”

Joshua would never forgive himself for letting his father bully him into inviting his friend Ari to see Motley Crew in the 6th grade at the Nassau Coliseum, during their revitalized, hit heavy Dr. Feelgood tour, with Warrant as the opening act, after promising his closer friend Coop, with his far deeper ties at the time.  Coop didn’t talk to Joshua for a solid 5 years afterwards and they hung out plenty in Elementary School, going to movies at Movieland in Yonkers all the time because Coop was an only child, whose parents were both Lawyers, at the same law firm, the father owned, so the could afford a pair of smoking hot, au pairs from Switzerland who tasted good inside and out guaranteed.  Coop was a mensch. Before he became a top realtor in Manhattan, he was the Nino Brown of weed dealing at Hartford University and would let Joshua’s younger brother, sell major weight for him back home and let him off the hook no problem if he was ever light 500 here, 800 bones there. Plus, when Joshua had his stand-up comedy bringer show at the New York Comedy Club, Coop’s presence among his high school class of 99 caused the biggest stir. Coop also delivered the most touching, emotive praise after Joshua’s friend Ari, who was still a mensch in his own right, simply stating in a stupefied, teetering on awe inspired state, “Awesome.” Coop approached Joshua outside the New York Comedy Club and said, “Great show, very funny stuff bro” with all knowing stony Buda assurance. Joshua replied, “Thanks Coop, but I’m still so broke my Hebrew name is under Judicial review.” Coop refused to give into Joshua’s feeble attempt at self-deprecation, which never captured his true funny man essence entirely and says, “Stick with it, you’re funny.”

Understand, this is more emotive encouragement Joshua ever received from his own flesh and blood, being his younger brother and 2 parents. But as they says, the 1st hilarious Bat Men Lego movie, you get to chose your friends, not your family and Coop’s push for Joshua to continue down the pursuit of getting Lady Laugh off long time was a noble pursuit worth fighting for with all this funny Jew bone, God blessed might.  Joshua developed a later in life, cast iron dense strong friendship with adopted valley brother Jay from Southern California, who knew the real him inside and out and gave him an even more rousing, inspirational, Mick type pep push from Rocky when he said, “Never lose your edge JK.”

 

Now, Joshua was 43 turning on 44, still pursuing the path of most resistance. His parents wouldn’t acknowledge his debut comedy record nor would his younger brother. Joshua’s wife claims to overhear portions of his Do It All Dad Year Podcast from downstairs because he’s such a loudmouthed, crazy man Jew, but 150 episodes in, had never listened to one from start to finish.   When Joshua had moved back from LA after living out there for 6 years, in West Hollywood, Hermosa Beach and Sherman Oaks in the valley, another old school high bud saw him do an open mike set at some shit hole bar east of Madison Square Garden in Midtown east, total no man’s land and he said with stupefied bewilderment, “You’d be ok with dying alone. You’re really in no rush to be in a relationship again ever.” The reality is, ever since Joshua fell in love with making Lady Laugh, laugh, he never felt alone again.  God didn’t give Joshua 3 unplanned kids to have panic attack over it. If Joshua was out with his 3 kids by themselves, which was often, a stranger would say, “You got three.” And he’d say, “All 3 were unplanned. Obviously, I never planned the art of the pump fake.” Then, Joshua would hear the same random stranger comment on how pretty his lucky number 3 Samuel is and he’d reply in a relaxed manner because he was accustomed to the unsolicited praise so often by now, “He’s a very pretty he. I envision a future where he’ll be fronting a Poison cover band no problem” These lines would generate streams of laughter every time. Joshua wasn’t ready to relinquish his God given edge just yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 26 Fucking Hipster Canadians

                                                       Chapter 26

Fucking Hipster Canadians

The only time Joshua ever got into real trouble with his parents was during a family trip to Montreal, when he insisted on sending his younger brother back to the hotel in a cab, so he could pass out on top some bushy Canadian’s girls’ mountain of muff, unable to get it up for some boom, boom because of all the strip club day drinking prior, before those high octane Canadian Labatt Blues came back to knock him on his ass, after maintaining the same rock steady, pounding pace at the dance club soon after. Joshua had attended Ithaca College, in Upstate, NY, otherwise known as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor, located only a 4 hour drive from the Canadian border. So, he spent many weekend getaways in Montreal with his college buds to wreck more brain cells and feel more retarded than usual, tearing through an eighth of outdoor Tompkins Country weed every other 3 days wasn’t helping. If Joshua could do it all over again, he’d bribe the DJ at the strip club in Montreal with a 50 spot, so he could play the 20 minute version of the Allman’s Brother’s Whipping Post from the their famed Filmore East show, so he could maximize his erect, arousal, one lap dance per song moment for all it was worth like any good, shrewd, predatory Jewish New Yorker, not bright enough to pass the Series 7 to become a Investment Banker would. Joshua was never obsessed with getting lap dances from strippers, but clear memories of blowing off his homework in the 9th grade to watch the Cherry Pie video on MTV, the VHS Kiss doc, Exposed with lead singer and songwriter Paul Stanley, philosophizing on the art of being playmate bedding rock star on a bed flush with nothing but perfect busty tens. In addition to endless repeat showings of the equally titillating, Motley Crue doc, Uncensored, including plenty of clips from the their slickest, most arousing, rock star affirming video, Girls, Girls, which takes place in the actual strip club on the Sunset Strip, where Joshua used to lived down the street among the more homoerotic, rent controlled land of boys town in West Hollywood, didn’t discourage Joshua to seek out the occasional lap dance of a glittery, stripper’s embrace, before he got married, if he had the money burn, one bit.

But Montreal wasn’t all about the icy, cracked out looking, vixen, strippers for Joshua. Because he loved his out of nowhere, fluffy, thick, succulent, locally sourced, in retrospect, Canadian ham loaded Omelette at some random greasy spoon diner, giving him more long lasting joy than any fleeting, blue balls destined, lap dance, assuming he was wearing jeans and not sweat pants. Joshua also learned during a trip to Montreal hungover the next morning again, how the French Canadian’s just don’t serve you a regular egg and cheese sandwich there. Instead, they’ll throw in some tasty baby spinach greens, on top a mayo slathered Croissant, if you weren’t eating pork again, which Joshua wasn’t because some psychic in LA prior told him his Chakras were more clogged than his freshman one hitter. The same psychic who Joshua paid in what felt like the entirety of his inherited Pfizer stock from his Jewish Grandmother on his dad’s side, insisted Joshua abstain from pork and beer for a 30 day purification period. Joshua wasn’t complaining about the final results, looking slim and trim doing something more constructive with his time than binge like DMX before he got into character at the recording studio that day, to rap, “ I’m slipping, falling and can’t get up.” At the same time, Joshua will never forget about how he relished his In and Out Burgers in LA, animal style, which is twice the cheese, twice the patties, on top of their specialty, never burnt, French onion, syrupy sweet, fried onions nestled between their buttered, specialty sauce slathered buns. Actually, Joshua had an old high school bud, another groomsmen at his wedding who visited him in LA during a work week, so he just drove Joshua to and from work, while smoking plenty of primo icky, sticky, California loving weed, from his contact in the valley, when he wasn’t revisiting In and Out, on back to back to back days, winning the tubby bitch, trifecta, New York style. Also, Joshua will never forget how delectable scrumptious, his behemoth of a triple cheesed burger was, which disintegrated into his mouth at such a man meant to eat meat, in what one felt like an extended, never tasted so wholesome bloody bite from the infamous dead cows hanging in the window entrance chain from Fuddruckers in Palo Alto with his ex, to celebrate the completion of his 1st purification feast.

When living in stroller mom central in Park Slope, with his girlfriend now wife, Anna, he couldn’t resist the idolized worship of thick cut, Applewood country, smoked crisp Bacon served at all the various, overpriced, never sexy enough for his standards, brunch spots sprinkled throughout the Brooklyn enclave, referred to famed novelist turned boxing Journalist Norman Mailer, “as the most secure place” for a Jew to live on our planet earth. Still, Joshua growing up in a Kosher household always felt a tad uncomfortable frying up any piggy in their apartment, which still didn’t stop him from throwing a12 inch Kielbasa on the grill in their garden outback, from the drab, bare bones, stuck in 1940, utterly colorless and humorless, Ukrainian meat shop on 4th avenue, only a 2 avenue stroll down hill one bit either. And when Joshua went on the Kornbluth family European vacation in college with his parents and younger brother to Italy, which included stops along the Amalfi Coast in Italy, right off the mighty Mediterranean coast, he wasn’t kvetching about breaking God’s commanded law to not eat pork, as he suckled down one more mound of svelte, Prosciutto di Parma with more fresh, crackling sesame loaded, Italian bread with bits of semi-hard, mind blowing fresh, put hair on your chest provolone either.

But now Joshua was 43 going on 44, eating kosher and getting closer to God every day, yeah, yeah. So giving 2 shits about projecting any cool man foodie, over the hill Park Slope hipster cred among other piggling sucking, bearded hobbits, to conceal their dropping neck fat, in their best Paul Bunion gear, held out less appeal for him than liking and encouraging more pics of Lena’s Dunham’s frumpy, let it all hang look on Instagram. These were type of thoughts swirling in Joshua’s head, as he took in the dinning scene at Mile End in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, waiting to meet with the Rabbi’s much touted brew master genius Schmendel any minute. Losing patience with Schmendel, Joshua decides to start ordering at the counter but has some questions first. “Hi, the smoked meat Montreal Pastrami sandwich on Jewish rye is Kosher, right? The lady behind the counter with decked out tattoos hanging on for dear life off her droopy, too cool for school flabby arms says with immediate repulsive, disgust, “No, we don’t serve Dr. Browns cream soda or offer complimentary Kosher spear dill pickles either.” Joshua barks back with menacing, pissed off, slightly disproportionate in return fury, “But you’re a Sunday Morning Bacon Jew, who believes only wolfing down more locally soured bacon on top of your fucking fries and poutine, makes you the more progressive, evolved, Jew. Who watched the Daily Show with religious devotion throughout your time at McGill, so you’re too sophisticated to ever identify yourself as a mere religious, old school, easily duped, observant, proud Jew, got it, flaps.” The cashier burns a death stare through Joshua’s swelling, noggin and screams, “Get the fuck out our store. You’re banned, permanently, no smoked Canadian meat for you.” Joshua begins to leave and fires back one last time with, “I was already leaving. Good luck finding a reformed Jewish cemetery plot big enough, to wheel barrel your fat ass into the ground, frumps. Fucking Canadian Hipster Jews are off the list.”

 

 

Cheesesteaks To Remember

Chapter 27

Cheesesteaks To Remember

The best cheesesteak Joshua had ever was at some random place in New Jersey, on the border of Philly, during a road trip back from Washington University outside of Saint Louis, with his far smarter, more infinitely together friend Ari and some of his college buds, including a cuter, prettier, less pale freckled, smokier eyed, sultry looking version of Parker Posey, minus the Richard Linklater film credit. In high school, during lunch breaks in Scarsdale Village at the local Muller’s Deli on Garth Road, the cheese steak was your standard array of warmed up roast beef, with some American cheese melted on top, nestled between a respectable, hoagie, with some occasional grilled onions on top, nothing to give Joshua and buds sustained stiffage, but it did provide some much needed variety from their standard chicken cullet on a roll with lettuce, tomato and mayo or Russian if the Edgemont crew was feeling more indulgent instead. But nothing had prepared Joshua for the Philly style cheese steak with shredded thin lettuce, edible, well sliced, non-Subway conjuring, Jersey tomatoes, on top cut of delectable pieces of rib eye steak, with semi-strong melted provolone on top with even layered smothered mayo throughout the bomb warm, Jersey hoagie, which got more inhalable scrumptious per bite. Later in life, when Joshua was working as a journey man IT agency recruiter/still wannabe sitcom writer scribe, on 39 Broadway all the way downtown in Manhattan, south of Wall Street, post 91l, when nothing but the haunting, swallowing hole of death lingered forever, until the Freedom Tower was built many years later, his boss from Jersey took him to a cheese steak institution transplant from Philly, insisting ordering a cheesesteak with cheese wiz and fried onions was the only way to live. Joshua agreed, whole heartedly. When Joshua sucked down his 1st Philly style cheese steak in downtown Manhattan, with nothing but cheese wiz and grilled onions, he thought of the time, the security guard at the Y in Park Slope told him he looked like Vince Vaughn. Joshua had heard this before, so he replies back with, “I get confused for Vince Vaughn pre-insomniac. Understand, this time, Swingers came out a decade ago and Vince had packed on some major poundage since then, promoting the security guard at the Y to shout out loud in the great, Vince Vaughn’s defense, “Good living, good living.” Although if Joshua had to choose, the more legendary line uttered at the same Y in Park Slope, Brooklyn, was the time Joshua was showing flashes of a scrappy, Larry Bird minus, the eyes behind his head and impeccable ball dishing skills but his relentless hustle on defense and tearing down of rebounds anyway he could, prompting the line of all lines from a brother on his team, who never played with Joshua before, declaring, “That boy’s hungry.”

Nothing has changed too much since that time in Park Slope Brooklyn 15 years ago, Joshua was hungrier than ever for sustainable big city success. Gene Simmons says, “Men crave 2 things woman and success.” And Joshua knew, he’d always be deemed another so called bitter, raving, crazy man lunatic, until he made his mark in this world and brought home more than veggie bacon to provide for his family. He recently read a book distilling the Book of Proverbs, which highlights the absolute necessity of joining forces with a business partner to achieve big deal, long lasting success. Forever, Joshua equated such a business partner as a literary agent or TV agent, to get Joshua in a room with studio heads to pitch his latest and greatest pilot like Horsing Around With Hinduism. But now, things have changed. Joshua had hosted his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, Dad friendly entertainment for you and me, for 3 years straight since, his son Samuel Chosen Curls was bound to woo was born. He grew accustomed to being his own boss, marketer and star content creator by himself, without being overly reliant on anybody for his awe inspiring comedic output outside of giving thanks and praises to the all mighty above, for granting him with the continued ability to make others laugh, warm hearts and bring God’s children closer to him in the process. Now, off the Adderall, Joshua wanted more than the high of laugh generation and the ego tickling stroking, which ensues. He wanted to build a family business, to grow closer with his 3 unplanned kids, which he equated with growing closer to God, which meant more than pulverizing all the myriad of highly poundable muffs on display in Paul Stanley’s bed in the Kiss Exposed video back in the day. Now, Joshua wanted to please God and his 3 glorious, beautifying, consistently, buoyant, hilarious children more than anything else in this world. Getting a hack Creative Director in Manhattan to take a peak at his writing portfolio, so he could slave away for some soulless, ad agency conglomerate, who puts fake news fro, cop hating fermenting, Collin Kaepernick on a fucking pedestal, after he got the NFL to cut him the largest unemployment check ever recorded in the name of fucking “collusion”, was so yesterday’s news. But being able to marry Joshua’s killer comedic instincts, promotional flair, imaginative thrust, idea machine power and shishy bitch leaning tastes toward the development of the most outrageous, hilarious, religiously sound, food truck business to sling his Do It All Dad hero, kosher style cheese steak was just what the doctor ordered. But without a Kosher Cheese Wiz brother in arms, partner, he was up shits creek without a paddle. Joshua will also relish the 1st time he showed his 1st born daughter Matilda the Blues Brothers movie, only for her to quote the movie at the refreshed, modernized Pizza and Brew on Central Ave the day after, “Daddy, have you seen the light?” Do It All Dad Joshua had, what he wanted more than anything in this world now was to please God, his children and grow closer to both in the process. Making the Do It All Dad Hero Truck become an undeniable success could please all his favorite beings in the universe and make them feel the most high. He just prayed, the Rabbi’s master brew maker Schmendel could put his degree in organic chemistry and microbiology to good use in helping him create the killer Kosher String Cheese in a can, to make the dreamy Kosher cheese steak truck monster success and turn his dreams of at oneness with God and increased time with his blessed, pitch perfect children, on the food tuck front, so they could make enough money to forgo paying 75 grand a year for Joshua’s kids to attend Cornell University to defend Israel’s right to exist more than making Dean’s List.

Chapter 24 Memories of Meh Brisket

Burnt anemic, miniscule steaks was Joshua’s idea of eating Kosher, growing up in the hilly, leafy, pine tree rich, Colonial and Tudor lined streets, of Edgemont, New York. Sure, his converted mother made Brisket on a special occasion for Rosh Hashanah, cooked in margarine but not butter because of the rule prohibiting mixing dairy and meat, accompanied with a killer, sultry yet sweet onion based, brownish, teetering on Burgundy red gravy, which beat kosher ground meat burger night, minus the melted Landa Lakes American cheese on top any day of the week. Understand, Joshua’s mother was a good converted Jewish wife, who found the time to make Kosher prepared meals, ready to be served around 6:30 almost every night, even after she started commuting to the big city again to work as a high ranking Loan Officer  JP Morgan Chase  in their corporate office in Midtown Manhattan, which was no easy feat to pull off, on Adderall or off. Still, Joshua felt a tinge of sadness on his mom’s behalf, when she recently asked him what was his favorite meal growing up a kid, which had nothing to do with his Dad’s  hurried, half ass scramble eggs on some random Saturday morning before basketball practice before more hamstring tightening suicide drills ensued. If Joshua was reared on more than just P and J sandwiches throughout elementary school and got off his ass to jog around the local track instead of trying to win Metroid on Nintendo or beat Mike Tyson in Mike Tyson’s Punchout one more time, than others could, his hamstrings wouldn’t have felt like mint jelly after running suicide drills his 1st day of Basketball practice, seeped in Mineral Ice all over either.  But now that Joshua was a parent of 3, in charge of getting his kid’s breakfasts and lunches ready every day before school and realized there’s only so much time in a day to be a do it all dad mom, especially when he made the extra effort to make all of his dish creations for his Pescatarian raised kids with, love, so he could inspire more yummy dances from kids as they’d all run around the kitchen table through the adjoining living room and back, declaring, with soul glowing glee, “Best daddy ever”, or simply proclaim, “This is so yummy, I don’t want to stop eating to run around, proclaiming best daddy ever.”

Making homemade hummus sandwiches for his kids, with ground up sesame seeds in place of pre-made, always chalky tasting Tahini, fresh lemon squeezes throughout, in addition to generous heaps of salt, and a diced up garlic bulb thrown in between, in addition to a vibrant, pinch of fresh grated carrots on top of good country white bread, was the least Joshua could do for his kids playful radiance and around the clock shrieks of joy, giving him nothing but generous, long lasting tastes of heaven on earth.  Using pre sliced cheddar slices for his kids peach jam sandwiches on good old country white bread wasn’t good enough for Joshua, regardless if those cheese slices were sliced and shipped from the Cabot cheese company in Vermont. No, Joshua insisted on not circumcising his children’s collective, endlessly budding happiness one bit, by forgoing the easy, half ass route in favor of taking only a couple of extra minutes to bust out the good old cheese shredder and grate some Seriously Sharp Vermont Cheddar for his kids Peach and Cheddar sandwiches on Country White Bread that morning, because he knew it imparted a juicer, fresher, more delectable, highly superior bite. Plus, Joshua incorporated feedback from his kids when Mama just plopped the pre-cut cheddar on instead, realizing, the extra effort always paid off. “God is in the details”, is what Joshua would sear into his children’s creatively jacked craniums ad nauseum, which he picked up from a book on songwriting by the legendary scribe Stephen Sondheim before his bundles of happiness spewing joy were born.  “God is in the details”, which explains why Joshua took such tremendous pride in his headline hooker prowess on display when The Good Men Project published a myriad 24 of his blog on parenting this past year, encapsulating the true definition of click bait, including such A plus titles such as, My Clown Origin Story, written after he saw the new Joker film, What Gen X Parents Understand, Wishing My Son’s Birthday Never Blows, Children Are Family Upgrades, Pride On My Side, The Last Self-Loving Jewish New Yorker, Born Again Newborn Dads, alright fine the last title is a tad long winded confusing but you should get the gist by now.  “God is in the details”, furthered evidenced by the tremendous nachas he received from getting his son’s Social Security card in the mail, reading, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. Understand, the Yiddish word nachas is exclusively used to describe the swelling of sweet, prideful emotion, a Jewish parent derives from their kid’s accomplishments like getting into Cornell, early acceptance or Billy Crystal signing on to do a movie with your infinitely less talented, dweebier seed of a son. But not every Jewish dad, native New Yorker or not has the gaul to name their 1st born Arthur Morrison Kornbluth after the most charismatic, dark prince of poetry rock, who’s easier on the eyes than Patti Smith, that being, Jim, mother fucking, Mojo Rising Morrison.  Plus, similar to the self-proclaimed Lizard King, Joshua wasn’t one to follow the rules of so called, normal, Waspy, lobotomized, monotone you to fucking death, bourgeois behavior either, knowing he wouldn’t hesitate to break conversation with his old school recruiter bud, Gary mid stride while passing the corporate office of JP Morgan, only to hail down the great comedy writer actor and operator of Triumph The Insult Dog, Robert Smigel and proclaim, “Hey, Smigel, next time you see Sandler, tell him to put you in more of his films already. Joshua always loved Smigel’s brief cameos in Adam Sandler films like him playing he borophyil science teacher in Billy Madison, or the once aspirational hand model turned cell phone salesman in Don’t Mess With the Zohan. But Joshua didn’t stop there, feeling the compulsory need to impress Smigel with new schtick, fresh off the press, so Smigel would feel extra blessed. Joshua noticed Smigel wearing a Brooklyn Nets hat and says, “I thought you were  aKnicks fan, Smigel. I used to lived with my girlfriend now wife in Park Slope, Brooklyn ages ago, back when Lena Dunham had much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself. I’m a father of 2 now. Just named my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. For a moment, I considered giving him the middle name Brooks in honor of the great Albert Brooks but then I changed my mind because I didn’t want to give my son the permission to be a Jewish pussy.” Smigel laughs out loud long time. In the end, Joshua pitched his impossible to remember website of old, DearDada.com without a business card to share at the moment.  Being an oasis of organization was never Joshua’s forte but fearlessly bombarding famous actors, stand up comedians and WGA represented writers was.  Sometimes, his cold calling conjuring, celebrity reach outs didn’t always materialize so smoothly.  Once, Joshua was with some old high school buds after having a couple of J&B scotches on the rocks in his system, Rodney Dangerfield’s preferred, reasonably priced, scotch of choice and bum rushes the comic’s comic Dave Attell outside the Comedy Cellar smoking a cigarette with another of his black comic buds, Joshua didn’t recognize and still doesn’t considering he never thought enough of him to remember his name afterwards despite him delivering the far superior laugh line to anything Joshua uttered during this punch drunk love, wannabe make out session with the personification of zero bullshit cool Dave Attell. Joshua goes into this lengthy, roundabout summation of Dave Attel’s career going, “I knew you were doing late night sets at the Cellar for 10 years at 2 in the morning in front of 2 sailors in town for Fleet Week, if Allen Ginsburg, hadn’t tied them up captive in his rent controlled apartment in East Village just yet”, blah, blah, blah. Then, finally without flinching, Attell says in a ball busting yet strangely uncomfortable manner, “Thanks a lot Ryan Seacrest.” Which, still makes Joshua laugh till this day, making him realizing the highly under-appreciated, under-celebrated talent of distilling the bare bones, funny essence of a moment in real life, with such razor sharp, crystal clarity, only a battle hardened, 300 a shows a year comic, can fart out at will, when the moment calls for it like the great Dave Attel.  But again, the best line of this evening, was uttered by Dave Attell’s black comic friend sitting next to him, outside the Cellar, who after taking in Joshua’s long winded, career retrospective of Dave Attel’s career, where he just finished sucking of the totality of his career peaking arc for all it was worth says, “What am I chopped liver?”

It was impossible for Joshua not  to reflect on these random encounters with the upper crest of Jewish entertainers on the Island of Manhattan, as he stared down the menu at the Polo Lounge.  Sitting across from Silicon Alley, Executive Search owner star Ester as Spike Lee enters the bar, Joshua got visibly annoyed scrolling through the menu, not seeing much to order outside of buckets of caviar, knowing a corned beer on marble rye with melted Swiss wasn’t going to cut it either, since Joshua decided to be more a stylish, proper Mensch and fear God’s wrath for not sticking with his God commanded Kosher diet, despite it meaning bullshit to fake news good guy guardians of morality like Bill Maher, who never would’ve been accused of pussy grabbing in the age of meto because he’s only 4 foot 2.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 12 The Herring Cart Provider

 

                                                                   Chapter 12

The Herring Cart Provider

Joshua’s family wasn’t flush with entrepreneurs but his Great Grandfather Fishil was one, who could afford to take his 4 daughters to the Yiddish theater every Sunday during the Great Depression because of his successful Herring push curt business, the food truck precursor of his day.  His 4 daughters would heckle the actors boring them to death at the Yiddish theatre, for doing another annoying reenactment of Anton Chekhov’s Three Sisters because the writing in it was more dronish dreary than crowd pleasing funny. “Jewish doctors aren’t funny.” “You call this high art.” “Russian dramatists are overrated.” “Where is Milton Berle when you need him?”  “This play stinks more than an egg salad sandwich on the subway.”  At the time, Joshua’s other great Grandfather’s was out of work during the depression because there wasn’t much work for Horse Collar makers in the Lower East Side in the 1920’s either, knowing the Budweiser Horses weren’t even conceived yet. As a result, all his Great Grandfather Murray could afford to feed his family during the Great Depression was potatoes 3 times a day. Once the depression was over Murray, couldn’t stomach the idea of eating another Knish at Yona Schimmel’s ever again, let alone swing by McSorley’s for a beer and complimentary cup of potato leek soup, for Saint Patrick’s Day.

Joshua definitely got his height and abnormally large hands from his Great Grandfather, Fishil. Some would say, Fishil was larger than life, who enjoyed a hearty laugh and a crisp, German pilsner more than most of fellow Jewish brethren after schlepping his herring push car from Houston to Essex and back, especially knowing he didn’t have the luxury of sporting orange crocks like a wannabe Mario Batali in the making. Out his 4 daughters, Joshua’s grandmother, Ethel looked most like Fishil, inheriting his huge, beamish smile, firm, pronounced cheery cheek bones and special glint filled light.  Ethel tried to follow in his father’s Entrepreneurial footsteps when she was retired from working as high-ranking assistant for Pfizer and went on an art buying spree, during her manic yet happy and productive bi-polar high, years. In particular, she was found of southwestern Indian American art with her only son Steven, who was celebrated for his cannon of an arm on the stick ball streets of Pond Place in the Bronx but uncoordinated in other ways, earning the boyhood nickname, Trips on Curbs, before his best friend Sil who became the head DA leading the Office of Special Narcotics, reporting directly to head DA, Robert Morgenthau himself, renaming my father, the Colonel, after he fell in love with Joshua’s mother at Lake Forrest College on full paid scholarship who hailed from Louisville, Kentucky.  Growing up, Joshua’s mom told her son, “Kentucky is known for 2 things, horses and pretty woman.” Joshua replies, “Keep your sundress on mom, before you tell me Dad is hung like Seabiscuit.”

Joshua was staring at picture of Fishill standing tall and proud over his herring pushcart one day in his home office and an idea emerged. Why not create a food truck business for his kids to get involved with, but what could they sell, now that Joshua was following God’s commandments, sticking to a Kosher diet only? Last time, Joshua checked only 1.7 million Jews lived in New York City and in the year 2020 they were about 34 practicing Jews left, after all the older altacockers eventually died out. All of Joshua’s old school buds from High School, talked a big game about identifying with being Jewish because of their heightened appreciation of Marc Marcon’s Jewy, neurotic neurosis on display podcasts or with Albert Brook’s push over laced self-hate, in Defending Your Life.  But they didn’t perform Shabbat, keep Kosher or even fast on Yom Kippur for that matter. All they did was act smug superior in all spheres of life, claiming a connection to the use of humor for a persecuted group of people, despite never having to make a cold call in their life or exhibit even a smidgen of balls, by trying out their so called exalted funny man, chosen status at an open mike sometime in their ho hum, I do ad sales to encapsulate my whoopty freaking do existence. Some sold life insurance, others were financial advisors, or non-trial paper pushing lawyer peons, in the grand, whatever, who cares,  sweep of their lives, who had less interest in eating Kosher than a radical Jihadist has for Madonna’s stretched out beyond repair, camel toe dipping snatch, looking like it dipped onto a landmine in the occupied territory while fantasizing of being stuffed by former Miami Heat’s center Ronnie Seikaly for old times’ sake. But those old school high school buds still appreciated barbeque brisket from Virgil’s in Times Square or their grandmothers for that matter, assuming, she wasn’t a full blown Jappy Grandma from the five town in Long Island who never met a takeout menu she didn’t like. Joshua missed cheese steaks the most since he started his Kosher diet. But what if Joshua could find a hipster science wiz from Bronx Science or a Yeshiva school in Crown Heights, to create a killer mock cheese wiz substitute for brisket smoked cheesesteak and only accept exact cash, ten dollars a pop for the Do It All Dad Hero. Joshua’s son genius artist son Jerimiah could design the truck, his bashert agent Daughter Matilda, could be his PR agent, running his social media feeds, booking him appearances on the Today Show to promote and sell the shit of out it. And his youngest, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, could co-star in the commercials, Joshua would craft, funny, scripture inspired, commercial for, who would help minimize Joshua’s New York bred assholeishness, ensuring he’d come as more commercial friendly and less Crazy Eddy than before. Plus, Joshua could put his handsome mug to good use and be the face of the franchise, becoming a new age, food personality like the late great Anthony Bourdain in the process, without going out of his way, to display his erudite, hyper articulate, punk rock culture rich leanings in your face nearly as much. Plus, Bourdain adopting New York City as his adopted hometown, originally hailed from New Jersey, whereas Joshua was born in NYU Hospital on the day of Easter no less. Carrying on the spirit of Fishill as a Do It All Hero Pusher personality, could be his way of making his indelible, big deal mark, getting him invite to tables at Rao’s in East Harlem one day after all.

 

 

Back to Hebrew School

Can we grow closer to God without following his commandments?

How do we know if your wife is on your side or her parents?

Why do atheists act so smug superior over actual believers?

What kind of an asshole, professes to be a practicing Catholic, but only confesses to never going to confession?

Why are some Christians intent on defining whose Jewish and whose not?

Should you divorce a mother of your 3 children because her parents have zero Jewish friends, no respect for your Jewish traditions or interest in embracing them and insist on doing grace in your Jewish home?

Why do certain Christians fail to respect Jews just believing in a different Messiah, nothing more nothing less?

Do self-hating Jewish New Yorkers learn self-loathing from their dads or from society flush with more athletic, chiseled, taller Gentile man who know their way around a power tool or under the hood of sports car than they do?

Why does a Jewish New Yorker feel more strongly about his Jewish identify than a Jewish accountant from Kansas City?

What makes a man fight to preserve the Jewish heritage he was raised with?

What’s more important to Jewish New Yorker’s money, success, love or God’s grace?

Why are writers do quick to discredit God when the prose they write is deeper and more impressive than anything they say off the page in person?

Does God want me to re raise myself Jewish and go back to Hebrew School to prove my worthiness for being a chosen funny man Jew for hire?

Why is raising my kids Jewish an important crusade?

How can you express your Jewishness in the most soulful, inspiring fashion?

Why are signs of Jewish pride the best way to combat Jewish hate?

Why do certain gentiles pretend to love the Jewish people or Israel as a whole just because they love Mel Brooks films?

Once a Jew hater, always a Jew hater, why is that?

If you’re not a true Christian believer than why is converting to Judaism such a big deal after all?

Why do woman who attended Catholic school fear upsetting their parents more than God?

Why does advertising your Jewishness make gentiles so uncomfortable knowing crosses around your neck or way more prevalent than Stars of David last time I checked?

Michael Kornbluth

 

Do It All Dad Does Pleasantville

According to LinkedIn, the Ellen show is looking for a Digital Marketing Manager. What are the must have requirements for this job, besides being pro Bush?

Is it me or does Robert Dinero on the View look like Betsy Ross, falling apart at the seams?

If Google doesn’t manipulate search results, then why is it harder to find positive mentions of Trump on Google, than finding a film blogger on Rotten Tomatoes, who called the Irishman underrated?

Imagine Greta Thunberg debating President Trump on climate change on Pay Per View.

Trump says. Fracking reduces our carbon emissions Greta.

Greta freaks out. So, Neil Young is full of shit now?

Trump says. Neil Young doesn’t take showers to reduce his carbon footprint. That much you share in common babe.

Did you know can you be fined 250 thousand dollars for using dehumanizing language on an Illegal Alien in New York City, like no speak English? Whose translating these insults for Juan exactly? Now, an illegal immigrant in New York City gets a driver license to vote and a hate speech translator to bankrupt Apu, at a Bodega in Flushing.

Do blind men get the beer goggles? Assuming they do, does the seeing eye dog offer a second opinion? We better pass on this one Stevie. You can feel her face, but I can smell her snatch, woof, woof.

This is Ziggy Marley interviewed by High Times Magazine. How did your Dad Bob have 7 kids? Doesn’t ganja drain your life blaster dry? Fake news man.

I have 3 kids now. I’ve aged well I know. Despite my wife bemoaning, I’ve sacrificed. She acts like an aspiring stand-up comedian in his twenties while living in Queens wanted kids ever.

And can we stop calling Queens hot, it’s not. Compared to Manhattan and Brooklyn, Queens is the sloppy 3rd Kardashian sister. You know the extra greasy one, who’s easy to pound at 3 in the morning, like a lamb gyro in Astoria.

My daughter believes in God but she’s always looking for ways to disprove his existence: Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God? God went back in time in a time machine made by Elon Musk. Real convincing Dad. Thanks for making me an atheist at 4.

My mom asked me if my daughter watched the Woman’s March on Washington, around the time my daughter was learning how to read. Daughter tries to make out one of the protest signs, “Daddy, what’s, pa, pa, Pussy Power? Is that a new show on Amazon Prime?

My wife works at night in the NICU revitalizing blue faced newborn babies for a living. This makes me feel like a total narcissist because all I check for is for retweets.

1 kid only, means your diaphragm is for walls after all.

Actress Rosario Dawson flirting with one-time presidential hopeful, Corey Booker:

Would you run into a burning building for me Corey?

Was it you or Chloe Sevigny who got Aids in the movie Kids? Just kidding. In the end, that white bitch, didn’t feel so privileged after all.

Have they taken the Rocky statue down yet in Philly? Because it promotes white supremacy.

Fuck China. Chinese made Fentanyl has killed more crackers in this country, than Lena Dunham kicking it with Taylor Swift on Instagram.

The NY Times, says mothers who juggle jobs outside the home today, spend as much time with their kids than stay at home mom’s in the seventies. So, all the stay at home moms from the seventies slept on job on one 2 many Quaaludes, haunted by images of Cosby’s family friendly sweaters. I don’t get it.

Wish I subbed my no show, whiny Jewish Grandma for a wise black Grandma for my wedding. Post an ad on Craig’s List. Tyler Perry impersonators are welcome. Must be comfortable performing in front of white audiences only.

I don’t believe ex Knicks all-star Kristaps Porzingis tried to rape a girl in his apartment building the day he tore his ACL. First, going strong to the hole was never KP’s forte. Last, do you see Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein trying to rape Wonder Woman played by Gal Gadot on only one good leg?

Deplorable is anyone glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.

48 people have been fired at Google for sexual harassment. But Software Engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls. Plus, I don’t think their typical Perl script command is, “Massage my Carpal Tunnel, ho.”

Whenever my son whose 3, get’s fussy around mama. Mama says. “Baby gets bored whenever he spends too much time with me.” Always knew he was a quick learner.

Quotes about Mother’s Day aren’t the best sales pitches to use on Millennial Mouseketeers relishing their non-mom status.

It’s difficult but rewarding.

Being a mom has made me so tired yet happy.

Tina Fey doesn’t smirk anymore.

Enough with Israeli aggression. If Hamas fires 700 rockets into Israel’s backyard, don’t expect an Edible Arrangement gift basket in return, with a thank a note written in Farsi

Hillary giving a speech on Cybersecurity is like Kevin Durant giving a Ted Talk on how to ignore cyber-bullying.

Hate is good because it motivates you to seek out places where you feel more valued and appreciated like at a Trump rally behind your wife’s back, to make your sex life above average again. Put my man meat in Indiana MILF, I’m ready to play, play.

John Snow from Game of Thrones, going to rehab in Connecticut for 75 grand a week ruins everything. John Snow was supposed to be the more alpha dog Orlando Bloom in a beard, yet now you get the impression he’d startle easily from a cutting stare by Gordon Ramsey on an episode of Master Chef, celebrity edition for his take on Dothraki Lamb burgers.

Chef Ramsey yells:

This burger tastes like burnt villagers John Snow. And what the fuck were you thinking making Dothraki Lamb Burgers with a rosemary, roasted garlic aioli John Snow? Dothraki’s are never confused for shishy bitches like yourself John, no offense.

What I love about President Trump, still your President, is his relentless optimism and over the top salesmanship. If Trump was diagnosed with HIV today, he’d tweet the next morning. Do I have HIV yes? But my T Cell Count Numbers have never been stronger.

Michael Kornbluth

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