Daughter asks. Daddy, did mama tell Arthur to say he’s proud of me for getting my white belt in Kung Fu? Little brother Arthur says. No she didn’t. I reply. I’m not surprised. Mama isn’t that sweet.
When my sweeter, funnier, 1st born twin, Singing Rose Matilda Kornbluth, who has my genetic makeup all over her face. Proclaims, daddy, if Uncle John doesn’t show up to your funeral. I’m going to kill him, literally. I have to take some credit for nurturing such a supreme sweet daughter with dark humor maestro leanings of a female Jim Norton in the making.
I’m not dying, in case you’re wondering although as a result of my steady use of concrete comedy language on my 7 about to turn 8 year old daughter, deltoids dawn strong, Matilda, Rambling on Rose Kornbluth is more than familiar with the do or die verbiage embedded within the art of performing stand-up comedy or pitching jokes with the intent of ripping out a lasting stream of laughs long time. For example, when I used to perform open mikes at local townie bars in northern Westchester Country about a couple of years ago on a twice a week basis, I started to develop a hot streak again. Which angered mommy, because whenever I’d come home from an open mike, I’d emerge in our living room victorious. Filling up a room bigger than an IT nerd schlepping back from his Business Analyst job as an overpaid peon at a fabled hedge fund in Westport, CT. Who records all their meetings and encourage employee confrontation to talk out their feelings versus leaking them to CNN. Then as usual, my opening address to my 2 kids before my lucky number 3 Samuel was born in front of my wife on the couch was: What did daddy do tonight? And my 2 kids yell with effortless giddy delight: Daddy, killed. You bet your tuchus I did. From there, I go into bear hug my 2 biggest fans in the universe since mama started resenting my stay at home, dependent she male comedian status. And she’s fuming, shooting off death stares with her eyes, which scream, you only exist because of me. But I’m glad your 2 kids adore their comedy giant dad for scoring laughs from townies in Northern Westchester Country for free. Those bearhugs from my 2 kids were the best after killing at those open mikes. Which aren’t easy to kill at for the record, no open mikes ever are.
What I loved about being immersed in these post kill circles of gene pool love, is how happy my children were for me doing the best version of me, my inner rock star, my rebellious side, with it’s back against the wall. Who still refuses to accept such consistently shitty, bare minimum perceptions from what ex teachers, friends, siblings, parents and wife think I’m truly capable of achieving. When my 2 kids reply with: Daddy killed. It reconfirms rock solid belief in daddy making it to the big show and being a big deal, comedic heavyweight knockout artist for the laugh starved world at large. Under the April fresh scented embrace of my 2 kids, hugging daddy with all their might, no mountaintop of comedic dominance, feels out of sight. I’m sure Matilda, felt the same way when she was sandwiched between her 2 baby brothers at her white belt ceremony for Kung Fu, future ruckus rouser, graduation class.
Little brother, Chosen Curls, Samuel wraps around her legs behind as if he feared her flying up, up and away like Crouching Tiger, Flying Dragon in her fighter fierce black DOJO attire with her extra long still of the night black, long braided hair looking much more the part than Hillary Swank did in Karate Kid. And to the right of big sister is her loving, adoring, beautifully blond, baby brother, squeezing her tight from the other side with extreme nachas. Nachas is Yiddish for extreme pride fueled joy. Normally it’s a transfer of soul warming, heart tingly, palpable, unshakeable, you can’t take that away from me joy between father and child. But my unusual artist family pushes the boundaries of what constitutes emotive love among blood on blood siblings, which is normally relegated to a constant state of bad mouthing belittlement.
The other parents in attendance couldn’t help but vicariously derive good vibration vibes, rolled off our circle of love. Which didn’t require a 3 hour a show by the Dead in the streets of San Francisco or from primo puffs of the Maui Wowie from Jerry’s personal stash either. Nope, this moment was a direct result, of effortless love, because when you really love somebody, you don’t need a big check, for a reason to call once a week. Effortless love is given with flowing grace because it emanates from a heart full of wonderous, age of innocence delight. Effortless love never feels strained or hard sold into because effortless love knows no ego. Effortless love gives the best of your heart’s love for goodness sake.
The central, moral governing philosophy of the Jewish faith is the act of Mitzvah, which is performing acts of kindness without any self-serving, reciprocal agenda like Donald Trump working for free as President of the United States on the verge of denuclearizing North Korea. As opposed to Hillary Hammer Time Cankles selling our Uranium reserves to Russia. With the sole intention to score hefty donations for the Clinton Foundation and lucrative speaking fees by Russian banks, despite Trump claiming she overpaid on her house in the leafy, sedate, confines of Chappaqua, New York.
Effortless love is the only real kind of love because it doesn’t expect anything in return. They say charity starts at home. So it brings this do it all dad, tremendous nachas in knowing my family is morphing into a modern day, jade free hearted, Walton’s family, sorry dad. He’ll really be pissed off when I buy his granddaughter her own steed and lavender Lambo for her Bat Mitzvah after Matilda kills with her rendition of November Rain with a 12 piece orchestra backing her up of course. Like the big Donald says, if you’re going think, think, big. Or even better, “dream bigger” like my Kung Fu fighting daughter says with effortless, whole hearted powered, real faith powered love.
Once, in our old one bed room apartment when it was newborn Arthur and Matilda when she was only 3. My wife barges into the bathroom after I puffed a justified, well earned one hitter prior, before running the bubble for Matilda. Only after cold calling my brains all week, for the evil empire Robert half in Manhattan. This required major ego swallowing, after writing for Vh1 and Vh1 Classic in Manhattan in the past year prior. Wife could smell the natural mystic still lingering in the air despite me blowing it out the window before. Wife says with extreme disgust, “You’re such a stoner” and slams the door, almost breaking off the hinges. Then, sweet, so effortless sweet Matilda declares without even understanding what mommy just said replies: Daddy isn’t a stoner, daddy is a rock star.” I reply: That’s right Matilda. Daddy isn’t a stoner because stoner’s aren’t doers and daddy is a doer. Granted, I haven’t done much of mommy since your baby brother turned our bed into a 24/7 open milk bar but that’s besides the point.
Effortless love is the biggest deal imaginable. Effortless love trumps all, especially Hollywood’s fake new cries of unity when all they’ve done for 2 years is attempt to tear this country apart. Last night, all my mom had to say about the magical white belt ceremony pic was “great pic.” Just for that I’m taking Matilda to the shooting range in Arizona for our next forced arranged visit. I’ll tell her Matilda is up to catching bullets in her teeth now, no thanks to her emotive encouragement along the way. And I’ll throw a MAGA hat on their precious, blatantly favorite grandchild to test the real measure of loving tolerance. Which fake news hippie baby boomers believe they possess an exclusive clasp on within this country. When in fact it’s the effortless love, non’race baiting, non-baby killing, Trump supporter faithful rallies which encapsulate the demonstration of true effortless love. Which no current Democrat party, can buy, borrow or steal.
Effortless love trumps all but Bill Maher thinks Americans who love President Trump actually give 2 shits about the Oscars since Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein, the past king purveyor of cultivated, high art filmmaking taste was exposed for the rape empowering monster with the rest. But the silver lining in this instance, is that Harvey’s Weinstein’s wife finally ditched the dirt bag. To focus on her lifetime battle with, amnesia.
Did I watch the Oscars? No mom, I’ve got 3 kids and a pitch perfect, bad ass dynamo in the making daughter. So I don’t have the luxury nor the inclination to develop amnesia for the purposes of propping up my moralist grandstanding, know it all elitist world of infanticide, empowering murdering illegals, treasonous deep state scum and mope maligned media talking heads part in trying to subvert the will of the American people because they voted for baby boomer mom not knowing best.
No, I didn’t watch the Oscars mom. I don’t need to watch projected ideas of real love from Rape Wood during the Oscars. No I don’t, especially, when I’m in the constant embrace of my love circle supreme in the form of my 3 biggest tiny dancer fans because effortless love trumps all. Effortless love trumps all and it makes this do it all dad feel like the most star powered comedian in the universe.