Chapter 35 The Big Brother Butcher

                                                             Chapter 35

The Big Brother Butcher

 

It’s not easy to eat Kosher. If not for the whopping 2 kosher meat stores in all of Westchester County, NY, or the Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods in Danbury, CT, Joshua would be screwed. But in all seriousness, Joshua was going weeks without Kosher meet a time, even months sometimes, because he felt like a total selfish, fat slob for eating almost the entire mound of Kosher fried chicken all by himself because everyone else in the house at pescatarian. The main reason he refrained from making another overpriced, 40 dollar slab of scrumptious, well marbled brisket, in a homemade barbeque sauce in the Instant Pot, instead waiting to be reincarnated 5 times over into Vince Vaughn with a less obnoxious sounding cackling laugh in the older than Yiddish, slower cooker, was because Joshua wanted to everything within his power to avoid hearing his wife utter with jealous laced disgust, “Did you wash the cutting board with disinfectant?” Joshua claims she was jealous of his devour heavy Kosher meat feasts because she had nothing to do with giving him such wow, worthy pleasure. Joshua was taken a page out writer Ayn Rand’s book, by no longer living to please others has much. Joshua realized, relying on others, even loved ones, to give you sustainable pleasure, was bound to lead down the path of crushing, let down disappointment again and again. Granted, his 3 kids were perfect, who were only guilty of being too much in Daddy, insisting on stroking his scratchy beard and smell his armpit one last time before he tucked them in a bed to determine if Daddy was wearing deodorant or not. Obviously, Joshua had zero problem with his children manhandling him any chance they could get, especially in front of his wife, knowing how much it proved Do It All Dads matter.  His 3-year-old son Samuel loved to be hoisted up to ceiling with his bum touching the ceiling so daddy can say, “You want to be Spidey baby?” After a double bath bomb special, 3 year old Samuel would ask daddy to wrap him up like a baby to the bedroom before giving back to back to back, elevator drops, where he’d pick him with the towel wrapped around his back and drop him down to bed to repeated, shrieks of joy and endless request, “One more daddy.” Before Baby Samuel would instruct his Daddy, “Now tell Alexa to play, No More, No More by Aerosmith Dada. No more elevator drops, the last one almost shattered my teeth.”     But if Joshua had to endure his wife guilting his daughter into giving forced, emotive praise in honor of her brown poopy liquid looking black bean soup, he’d start sneaking in cut off pieces of Hebrew national franks into kids Heinz baked beans in a NY minute.

Growing up, shopping at the Kosher meat store with his Dad was weird. The Hebrew lettering on the meat exuded a mystical, holy component to it more in retrospect, since Joshua got closer to God and started to acknowledge his existence on a daily morning and evening basis. But back sometime in the 1980’s, the Hebrew lettering imprint, on the sticker price tags, designating it’s Kosher meat status was just perceived as another unwelcome reminder of another boring slog through Hebrew School.  Again, Joshua had a hard time getting excited about trips to the Kosher butcher back then because he wasn’t into cooking for himself, or embracing making a Kosher fried chicken in 30 bucks worth of Peanut oil from the Corona Virus laden, now closed down Chinese grocery store, within the derelict, strip mall stretch one floor below the DMW in White Plains, NY.  Joshua got a tad chummy with a butcher at the Farmer’s Market by the Grove in West Hollywood, when he started making homemade meatballs based on the recipe from the Soprano’s Cookbook, a NY Times Best Seller pre-fakes news, when he actually read the paper of record on a religious basis, to make him feel smarter and more informed in the process, after learning Walt Clyde Frazier read it religiously since he got drafted by the Knicks to expand his stupendous, ever expansive vocabulary with such nimble, “feline quickness.” Joshua loved these meatballs, because they combined ground veal, ground sirloin beef and ground, pinkish pork, back when eating some occasional pork didn’t bother Joshua one bit, despite his rapidly developing fondness for thick, double stacked, Turkey burgers from Astro Burger on Santa Monica Blvd, slathered with mayo, shredded lettuce and gooey slices of American cheese draping the mouthwatering bomb burger throughout. Joshua even introduced the same butcher to his mother during one her visits to the city of angels, which were always nice. What’s there not to like about LA, except the brutal bumper to bumper traffic and Hollywood producers, studio heads and directors giving the green light to rape kid actors at will?  Corey Haim Gen X’s dear lost boy, included.

Now, Joshua was in Crown Heights Brooklyn for the 1st time to meet Schmendel at Kosher butcher shop, which makes brisket heroes to go, which he was going to squirt his latest and greatest planted based cheese wiz on for a taste test.   Schmendel hugs it with the Kosher Butcher Jeremiah from across the butcher counter.  Jeremiah says, “Good to see you brother. I got your 2 Brisket Bomb heroes to go, the best in Brooklyn, including Williamsburg and I don’t to rely on melted, hard provolone, which tastes better by itself cold, on top to do it. Are you the Do It All Dad Hero guy, my younger brother has been yapping about it?  Joshua says, “In the flesh, you 2 are brothers?” Jeremiah says, “We pledged Zeta Beta, can’t you tell? We figured our natural good looks and superior wit wasn’t enough to guarantee us access to all the high-end puss John Hopkins University had to offer. I’m just playing, John Hopkins didn’t have much scrumptious trim to inhale in the 1st place. Joshua says, “Do you mind we squeeze some of your big brother’s plant-based cheese wiz on top your Bomb Brisket hero? I don’t want to trigger any hardcore orthodox Jews in the process. Would you mind making an announcement to your customers, we’re not using actual cheese wiz?” Jeremiah says, “Big brother, that’s a good one. If he was the big brother and real next in line man of the family, he would’ve taken over dad’s Kosher butcher business, not me. Do you have any idea how long it takes to scrub the smell of Kosher flank steak out of your hair? But don’t worry it Joshua, stop being such worrisome, neurotic Jew. Let’s try this plant based, cheese wiz already.” Joshua grabs the can of wiz from Schmendel and sprays on his Do It All Dad Hero and takes a bite. His eyes light up and says, “Fuck stand up comedy and writing more books, I can’t even get paid fucking reviews for because I violated so called rules of hate speech. This Do It All Dad Hero is fucking delicious, even Bill Maher would suck it down if given the option of going down on 2 black trannies first.” Jeremiah says, “Brother, Joshua is growing on me already.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 26 The Non-Religious Hipster

Chapter 26

The Non-Religious Hipster

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 of a Canadian girl’s 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 a 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, Girls, which takes place in the actual strip club on the Sunset Strip, where Joshua used to live down the street among the more homoerotic, rent controlled land of boys town in West Hollywood. So Joshua never got discouraged from pursuing the 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 10 times more. This omelette in particular gave Joshua 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 or 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 from Fuddruckers in Palo Alto to celebrate the completion of his 1st purification feast, as he inhaled one yummy bloody bite after another.

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 a 12 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 the hill one bit either. And when Joshua went on the Kornbluth 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 drooping 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 the 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 of 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 so, off the list.”

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.

Chap.26 Fucking Hipster Canadian Jews

Chapter 26

Fucking Hipster Canadian Jews

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.”

Chapter 25 Persian Puss Fever

Chapter 25

Persian Puss Fever

Joshua had a very successful friend from Edgemont High School, who now lived in SOHO on West Broadway, clearing almost 400K from doing ad sales for companies at the ideal time in their maturation such as FX, when they became the new air apparent to HBO with smash, genre bending hits such as the Shield and It’s Always Sunny, which he revered as the most dynamic comedy to advance the art form post Curb without having to be overtly Jewy one iota in the process. His friend, also a groomsmen at his wedding, was the superior basketball player in high school, who he’d battle hard in games of one on one basketball and in legendary games of HORSE made a splashy move to the city of angels and worked for Hulu, selling advertising to all the dream factories in Century City and Burbank, before Harvey Weinstein’s wife finally divorced him to focus on her lifetime battle with amnesia. 3 kids later, Joshua
didn’t get out much to see his old school high school bud, but if they did connect over the phone, making his wife jealous at how much rollicking, laugh producing fun he was having without her, he’d always end the conversation the same way every time with his old school basketball bud in arms, “Bang a Persian girl for me already, because I can’t.”

The 1st time Joshua got sexually charged around a mountainous chesty, pursed lipped, dark tan, olive smooth skinned, slightly broad shouldered, bootylicious Persian minx was during interoffice meetings with one his IT recruiter agency colleagues who worked in Westwood, California on Wilshire down a couple of blocks for the nearby Boylston Group. She had graduated Georgetown University and was the brightest, bustiest yet classiest, highest biller in her team who placed mostly Oracle DBA’s among various Internet startups through Southern California by far. Joshua learned not to place too much value on someone’s undergrad college education but he was a tad more east coast elitist back then, and knew Georgetown wasn’t accepting any dummies, so him being a tad of a college snob, touting the Bachelor pedigree degree of his past summer wind love Katy who graduated Duke in 3 years as a double major, so this Persian beauty in his eyes, who wasn’t petite by any stretch of the imagination, who was a brainy busty sweetheart rainmaker on top, turned him on longtime. If Joshua had any major balls back in the day, he would’ve made a move on her, but upper management told their naive, cultish minions getting jiggy with it with their fellow coworkers was a fireable offense, and Joshua was finally enjoying being off his parents nip of dependence, so he never did. It was only after he got fired, did Joshua learn the rule was fake news bullshit, and managers were banging co-workers at will left and right, but at least he developed a modicum of character building self-discipline in the process. The Bhagavad Gita lists the 3 portals to hell being lust, greed and anger and at the time Joshua wasn’t even aware of being fooled into passing on such a prime opportunity to pounce on his 1st Persian bombshell beauty, so he didn’t have too much to be enraged about in the process either. Still, Joshua had one month on the job at nearby Remington International, where he did deals with Coke O Cola, Zenith National Insurance and some obscure Internet startup Creative Planet, placing a gazillion Unix Administrators, earning his firm almost 100K in placement fees and a seat at the all-stars dinner at the Sunset Room. Which made Joshua feel like a hot shit for the 2nd time in his life after his 1st sales raise dinner at Morton’s on Beverly Hills, inhaling a porter house for 2 and shrimp wrapped in Bacon, thinking, life doesn’t get better than this on top of what the fuck what was my dad thinking, denying me exposure to what scrumptious heavenly sales promotion dinners awaited as a result of sheer hard work and self-possessed determination, despite at the time being the only schmuck in a headset to graduate from a top communication school in the country with a career crippling stutter. Which Joshua eventually overcame, through relentless, repetitious, around the clock cold calling heavy, exposure therapy.

Joshua’s escalating, all consuming, fixated desire to mount the scrumptious, highly inhalable, star Persian IT agency recruiter reached peak interest on their drive to work together the morning after their All Star Sales award dinner at the Sunset Room, that she attended of course. Because today, he wasn’t driving to work in his used yet cherished hunter green Honda Accord but in her BMW,l but she was still only 22 max, so this means she came from money also, schwing. Never before had any sexy gal Joshua fantasized about titty blasting had offered a leather interior BMV to drive, so he knew the sexually charged interest was mutual. But as Robert Dinero says in the movie Copland, starring the holy trinity of actors Harvey Keitel, Ray Liotta and Sly Stallone, “I gave you a chance and you blew it.”

It was impossible not think of hot to trot love, at the Polo Lounge Restaurant on 5th Ave, as Joshua was surrounded by a myriad of oil paintings of mo-money making star race horses like Man O War and other Arabian race horse beauties, as Joshua also took in the tall, slender, sculpted, high cheek bone pronounced, Persian beauty, Ester has he continued to scroll, through the menu, trying to decide what limited Kosher items to choose from on the menu during their 1st power lunch together. Joshua get’s his Kosher inspired rant underway, “Ralph Lauren, baby, I love your overpriced Polo shirts because they’re sturdy, classier alternatives to schmatta Tommy Hilfiger wigger polos, weird sized numbered, instantly shrinkable, Lacoste shirts and Vineyard Vine shirts because I’d rather dress for old school, scrappier, Bronx bred, pre-smart phone success. Still, what the fuck were you thinking, making your marquee sandwich, a corned beef sandwich with swiss on marbled rye, knowing pastrami rubbed brisket is ten times more soul tantalizing scrumptious 8 days a week? Also, marble rye, are you freaking kidding me? Was pure rye too overtly Jewy for your country club, Gentile loving tastes?” Esther, the star executive search owner of Silicon Alley replies, “You’re too funny Joshua. How are you not working?” Joshua replies, “Because God has a wicked, sense of humor. But I appreciate the invite here, to be surrounded in such a posh, clubby, wannabe be a rich gentile setting.” Esther says, “I feel like an unwanted outsider in here also, for what it’s worth. I don’t care that Giselle is sitting next to Tom Brady one table over.” Joshua says, “Eli Manning is a bigger pimp daddy than Tom Brady for ruining his shot at perfection. So, Tom Brady is married to Giselle, big deal, she’s 80 in model years. Also, why isn’t Terry Bradshaw even mentioned among the best quarterbacks ever? He won 4 rings and never lost in the Super Bowl once. Plus, he was also known for airing it out. Fine, that much he shares in common with Brady. I read some article recently about how Tom Brady did some comedy sketch on Netflix about Patriots owner Bob Kraft’s fondness for happy endings, denying the jokes were about him. Because his ex-owner could never be guilty of exploiting underage sex trafficking, because he only insists on using older happy enders who weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday.” Esther finishes spitting out more mouthfuls of laughter and says, “I’m an LA girl, born and raised, so I’m a Raiders fan myself, but I don’t care for Tom Brady’s personality all too much either. He also dumped his pregnant ex actress wife, the moment he fell in love with Giselle’s uppity, lispy snatch, just saying.” Joshua says, “I’m glad you found my contact info on LinkedIn like any Executive Recruiter with a brain would. I love the fact how you became a consummate rainmaker in the startup tech recruitment agency game, I was much more of a trickeler.” Esther says, “I envision mucho dinero money shots in your future Joshua.” Joshua says, “Well, I do have this idea for a food truck. Would you know of any super angel investors you can get me a meeting with? My vision is to create a food truck, which sells the Do It All Dad Hero, which is a Kosher rib eye, cheese steak, with a mock cheese wiz substitute. And I’d launch a viral bash campaign against the Hallall guys, about who would you rather submit your cheese steak urges to, all mighty God or all the blood thirsty, rape happy, throw gays off roof tops preaching Allah? I read on Chowhound.com, Hallall guys have to pray to Allah, before their ritual slaughtering, versus Kosher slaughtered cows, who don’t use the stun gun, who unlike the Hallall guys, aren’t required by law to give any praise worthy shout outs to a God who instructs his true believers to treat woman like disposable bee keeper punching bags.” Esther says, “I agree with everything you’re saying and would recommend softening your viral attack campaign against the Hallall guys just a bit. Still, I love your fierce, fiery, fighting style. You’re more Bronx bred scrappy than you think big boy.”

Joshua spots Spike Lee waiving his hand up in the air causing a scene in front of his white privilege waiter, clearing 400 a day before 2 easy and excuses himself from the table. “I’ll be right back Ester. I want to pay homage to the Knicks jilted mascot Spike Lee.”  Joshua hovers tall over Spike Lee’s table, only learn he’s dining with Chris Rock. “Hey, Spike, sorry to hear about the Garden not letting you into employee entrance way. I’m positive it had nothing to do with your Resist This shirt, or your portrayal of all Jews in your films not being such fine people in the face of your insistence of sucking off Jew demonizing Farrakhan for all his signed bow tie collection is worth.  How does it feel knowing, still your President, Donald Trump directed the construction of Wollman Rink under budget and ahead of schedule, knowing you couldn’t do the same for Malcolm X? Malcolm X was bisexual but why didn’t you portray that in your film Spike? I thought you were all about celebrating the beautiful, strong, totality of the black man inside and out? And thanks for giving your impressionable brothers the encouraged permission to riot and burn a second generation pizza joint to the ground because they didn’t care for fake news, underprivileged Chuck D from yenta breath country in Long Island, rapping about how Elvis was no role model of yours, but Chuck Berry installing a secret female bathroom cam in his Missouri restaurant was Kosher in your book because they were just stupid white bitches, who you should’ve know better, right Spike?” Chris Rock says, “You’re move Spike. I don’t know who this crazy ass cracker is but is shit talking game is tight.” Joshua adds, “Huge fan Chris, I stopped watching the Knicks after they traded KP for a box of Cotton Candy.” But the garden faithful like yourself know deep down Uni will fly high again. And tell your boy Stephen A his take on his why they traded KP was lame. KP’s brother agent made Dolan uncomfortable because he reminded him too much of the Russian gangsters in 25th hour? Now, that was a great film you directed Spike. Positive it had nothing to do with you not writing the screenplay, the book was based on. Last, Chris, you don’t believe KP raped a neighbor in his Manhattan apartment building, the day he tore his ACL, do you? Do you see Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein trying to rape Wonder Woman played by Gal Gadot only one good leg?” Chris Rock replies, “Who are you again? And why have I never seen you the Cellar before ever?” Spike interjects, “Rock, I love your like a brother from another mother, but if you suck off his big headed Jew’s ego for one more second, our friendship is over, you dig?”  Joshua throws down his Do It All Dad Year Podcast business card for Rock on the table and says “Call me some time Chris. I’d love to write a movie or create a new TV show with you some time. Oh, and congrats on your 40 million stand up deal with Netflix because the white man, can no longer get away with paying the great Chris Rock with only one rib.” Joshua heads back to his table with Esther triumphant, after showcasing his Bronx bred scrappy, fighter instincts, back, back in a New York groove once more.

 

 

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 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 23 Fucking Australia

Chapter 23

Fucking Australia

Growing up, Joshua got the most sexually charged from the sandy covered navel of Elle The Body MacPherson on the cover of Sports Illustrated, before the magazine started sporting Muslim models in Burkini’s, screaming, “Stayed focused on my Kathy Ireland eyes Infidel.” For a native New Yorker, Australian accents never sounded too intrusive in public like some stuffy, mole faced Brit was sticking their tongue down your throat without granting them permission. Still, Joshua would always bust his brother-in-law’s balls, he grew up in Australia for a bit, for his tendency to revert back to his Aussie heavy accent whenever he hit on girls before getting married, because without revitalizing the accent of old, he had zero pick up game around woman whatsoever. Citing your time in San Diego, working as a video game tester, didn’t inspire fetching beauties in the gas light district, to mount his uncircumcised flap of mound on the spot. But Joshua would give credit where credit is earned, especially, when his now official brother in law, made a comment at his wedding, stating, “I never knew anyone who could love my sister as much as Joshua does.” Now, you can also interpret that statement as a backhanded compliment, implying, I never found the bitch too lovable to begin with. Instead, Joshua interpreted the warm-hearted homage, as a moving testament, to the power of love. Also, when Joshua had announced to his future in-laws, at a restaurant in Park Slope, Brooklyn about being engaged to their Aussie reared daughter, before the family was uprooted to Greenville, Delaware, known for it’s state slogan, “Your Nazi Gold is safe with us”, you could hear the empty bottle of poison drop after Hitler and Eva Braun croaked on a serving of self-defeat, no longer feeling so masterful against the dying of the light. Still, in spite of the prolonged period of never ending, infuriating building silence, Anna’s younger brother, showcased his inner mensch, raising his wine glass, to toast the announcement. Later, he took a friendly bonding stroll with Joshua through the bucolic, Brownstone dominated streets of Park Slope north of 6th Avenue toward Prospect Park, Frederick Olmsted’s favorite park creation even more so than Central Park for all those Ken Burns suck him off wannabes at home. Anna’s younger brother even commented on the relief their union brought him saying, “Falling in love with his sister was great for her because of her being deep into the raver scene prior.” Again, Joshua thought this was a very classy touch, knowing the love of his life, had a younger brother, who cared about her well being and overall happiness, more than he normally would make you believe.

Joshua loved the tour group he met during his trip to the Great Barrier Reef on his honeymoon, after they erupted in laughter from his old bit about them wanting to get married in Australia but making a compromise, stating, “Babe, assuming we have a boy together one day, instead of hiring a Moyle for the circumcision, will hire Crocodile Dundee, just so we can hear a room full of Jews, say, now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Before Joshua, took a recent trip to London for the 1st time, with Anna he reached out to Jim Jefferies manager, accessing his email address on good old IMDB Pro and emoted about the incredible body of masterful comedic work, they’ve amassed together, inspiring Joshua to exploit his own catchphrase, “unhuggable cunt”, for all it was worth, considering the Aussie funny man’s fondness for his serially unapologetic, consistently hilarious use of the word himself for profitable gain. If a wannabe, funny man, resistor Twitter twat, couldn’t handle sticking to being a poor man’s, woke Bill Simmons, at Deadspin like Drew Magary and actually exuded more impactful, jealous inducing, ha, ha inducing prose or palpable, likeable gravitas of any kind, Joshua would feel compelled to call him an unhuggable cunt also. Jim Jefferie’s manager gave Joshua a very warm response, offering to send his demo stand up reel to the gate keeper in charge of the Edinburgh comedy festival, where Dennis Leary launched his famed comedy career back in the day, before he started fashioning himself as a political comic, you should give 2 shits about like a lesser, Nick Di Paolo minus the millennial fan base catering slobbering placation.

When Joshua went to Australia on his honeymoon with his pregnant wife Anna, he swears by hearing the hum of the universe as he floated on his back in a brook among the great, Daintree Rainforest near, Port Douglas, tapping into a deep, holy, lost in time when the Dinosaurs roamed there back in the day vibrations. Joshua struggled with summoning enough faithful courage to stop fighting against the unnatural act of breathing out of a fucking snorkeling breathing device, to prevent you from drowning to death, as he showed a spec of manhood and took a mini plunge into the pristine, clear blue waters of the Great Barrier Reef, taking in a Kaleidoscope of God’s most colorful fishes and finest finger painting handy work down under. Similar to when Joshua drove cross country to California his senior year of college for his last semester of school, he didn’t want his time immersed in such awe inspiring, God decorated, mind blowing, soul soothing beauty to end.

Joshua will never forget an encounter he had with an older than dirt car driver on his Honeymoon in Victoria, during their stay at a gorgeous, Victorian Chalet as Joshua relished reading books in their study from the highly readable, English writer, DH Lawrence, who wrote with actual flowy, accessible, expressive felt feeling. Joshua and Anna were off to some vineyard for lunch and the writer driver got a tad huffy, confrontational with him during their short drive, saying in so many words, you’ll never make it as a successful writer, I wrote a couple of novels and I’m driving you around fucking Victoria in a monkey suit to pay my alimony payments as I fight the temptation to drive straight into Mother’s Beach right now, and take the 2 of you love birds with me. But Joshua was a New Yorker, born and raised, and wasn’t going to let any fucking hack Australian dictate what he’d achieve in this world because most Americans don’t even know who Jim Jefferies is, case closed, let alone Jon Safran, the erudite, never been accused of raping his daughter Aussie, alternative, Yeshiva schooled, version of Woody Allen, who Joshua was more impressed with funny man, thought wise, if he had to choose.

Chap.22 The Beamish Rabbi Levite

Chapter 22

The Beamish Rabbi Levite

Rabbi Klein wasn’t a huge fan of Joshua, as he helped him study his Haftorah portion for his Bar Mitzvah, but he didn’t treat him like an ineffectual jerkoff, moronic putz of the most deplorable either. He recalls, Rabbi Klein even making warm hearted comment about his friends during a mini-summation of Joshua’s character, which makes him smile now, because it was before certain friends tried to depreciate his TV writing break, after he was hired as the Head Writer in charge of writing all the TV host music video reads for WWE Chris Jericho, on VH1 Classic, America’s Hard 100 years later, inquiring, “Did they even pay you for it?” No, they just paid Joshua in cum stained, zebra print Spandex, from David Lee Roth, the Hard Rock Café, choose to pass on in favor of an autographed empty bottle of Slash’s Jewy curl activator.

Joshua met Rabbi Sarah at a nearby Synagogue in Mahopac, NY recently who was funny, and very personable, coming off like a flat chested, higher IQ Judy Gold. He had no idea if she was a bush muncher or not. Still, he loved how she made the Saturday Synagogue services very upbeat, welcoming and business casual without stripping the house of worship of the deep-rooted holiness preening through the flawless, stainless glass windows, with the original super Jew, Jesus Christ in sight. But what bothered Joshua about the Rabbi, was a conversation over some Challah noshes after the service, when he tried to gain a stronger grasp, on why Jews got so tense when the mere name of Jesus was brought up in conversation, especially when Joshua would get into his Pescatarian schtick about how if a diet of fish and veggies was good enough for Jesus, the original super Jew, it was good enough for him. Back then, when Joshua references his pescatarian diet, he was basically referencing his diet of Fish Fillets from McDonald’s, Smoked Salmon scrambles made from home, veggie loaded soups with a stream of sneaked in lentils from his wife, and the occasional Fried Shrimp feast, draped in golden, glistening, panko breadcrumbs from nearby Stu Leonard’s in Danbury, CT, before he went all in on the Kosher diet, to obey God’s law, show some mastery over his carnal appetites and feel like a less all over the place Jew for a pleasant change of pace. Not too long ago, Joshua took a break from reading his kids the Old Testament book, with some accompanying, colorful pictures for kids because the wrath of God in the Noah’s Ark Story, he could tell was freaking out his a 9 year old, daughter, so he decided to lighten the mood and start reading to his daughter Matilda and her 2 younger brothers from the Bhagavad Gita, later inspiring Joshua to write a pilot titled Horsing Around With Hinduism, about a talking horse trainer who helps whip his stand up comedy act into shape, before taking his act on the road for Barnstorming Farmer’s Markets USA. One time over a reading of the Bhagavad Gita, Joshua’s daughter, askes her Dada, “What’s meditation Dada?” Joshua says, “A bunch of breathing exercises, with a mantra for some thrown in between, to make your feel like a less all over the place Jew.” Daughter says, “You’re not very good at meditation are you Dada?”

Now, Joshua was being called into Rabbi Levite’s office in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. He saw Gold Medal wins from the Great American Beer Festival, hung prominently on his office study walls throughout. Joshua also notices a signed framed record cover of Hello Nasty, the last Beastie Boys Album, which Joshua always considered an underrated classic. Later, Ad Rock from the legendary Beastie Boys trio had called the record, the Beastie Boy’s finest and Joshua agreed. An old school Hebrew School bud, who showcased Jappier preppy tastes than Joshua did later in college for the sole fact he always rocked the matching brown belt, in perfect unison with his brown berks, always commented on Joshua’s rock solid taste, after he went off one of his impassioned rants about how the movie Bugsy, was Warren Beauty’s best film by far, and on par with Godfather 1, 2 and even Carlito’s Way for that matter. “Ester and Scarsdale is none of your business”, Joshua was fond of acting out in front of his old school Hebrew friends, when they got older and drank away another Christmas college break at local bar JP’s in Hartsdale Village, proving Jews could hold their liquor better than most, even when you combined major weed puffage in between, proving, some of the chosen people had more brain cells to burn than most. Joshua also noticed, a signed autographed picture of Vin Diesel and the Rabbi during his shooting of the film, Knockaround Guys, where Vin Diesel, plays a bad ass Jewish knockout artist and gives the intimidating, pysch out speech of all time, before unleashing his freakish Hank Greenburg walloping strength and knocks this poor hick’s skin off his face, all over the bar room floor, “500, 500 fights, 500 street fights and youcould consider yourself a legitimate tough guy. You need them for experience, to develop leather skin, so I got started.” Rabbi Levite, comments on Joshua’s eyes fixated on the Rabbi’s pic with Vin Diesel. “Super smart guy, Vin Diesel, huge fan of our people. Loved the Vin man in the overlooked Sidney Lumet gem, Find Me Guilty. Vin was a bouncer at the Tunnel during my hard-core Ecstasy phase back in the day. He’d kick the shit out of Ryan Reynolds after funneling a 12 pack of Molson Canadians, easy. How can I help you Joshua? I hear from Golda you’re a budding scribe on the rise.” “Rabbi, I’m questioning my desire to hide behind the page forever. What I love best about the art of creation is tapping into the divine and surprising myself on the page instead of doing pre-written jokes of mine on my Do It All Dad Year Podcast, dad friendly entertainment for you and me. My great, Aunt Marion saw me do a stand-up comedy set at the Broadway Comedy Club ages ago, and I’m not one to let others labels limit my creative firepower, but her insisting, I was more of a rant type guy, stuck with me. Then, I recall my best bud growing up Ari, insisting I could be a good stand up but a great writer. I also think about what Neil Simon said about how when you’re a comedy writer, you’ll always be relegated to the kiddy table, which I don’t mind so much, because I prefer the company of children over most adults any day of the week, especially my own. Still, I’m so tired of hearing lines such as, “the jokes write themselves,” which they never do. Plus, I’m so tired of giving 2 shits about the opinions of so-called friends regarding any new material I create, when I’m still not getting paid for it. Joining a bunch of other 40 to 50-year old’s for singing lessons, to sing Allman Brothers tunes, doesn’t do it for me either. I just want to be my unique, original, semi-ranty, super punchy self and become a semi working artist before I die. Please, interject anytime before I run out breath Rabbi, I’m begging you.” Rabbi Levite says, “So you want to do more than just write behind a computer, because it makes you like an ineffectual, Jewish pussy like the rest of us artist types in our tribe, correct? “That’s correct, Rabbi”, Joshua says. Is it my fascination with Jewish tough guy stars like Bugsy Seagal and ones who play them like Vin Diesel in Knock Around Guys, a dead giveaway?” Rabbi says, “Fret or fight, that is the question. My advice is you fight by any means necessary for what you believe in Joshua. God didn’t make you to be more a indecisive Jew than Jared Kushner at the salad the bar at the Bellagio. You were a born a star personality, I can feel it, so make your inner light shine the best way you know how. And try to limit your IPA intake to the weekends, because they’re 400 calories hop bombs and the camera adds ten pounds to your enormous yet well proportioned head. You should give my younger brother, Solomon a call, he’s a hipster Hasid who just launched his own brewery and he’s looking for a big viral video idea for his new flagship release the beer, the, The Great Jewish American Pale Ale. He got a perfect score on his Barron’s chemist exam, after taking it the 6th grade, graduated John Hopkins in 2 years flat with a degree in Microbiology. You can be the branding bashert partner he’s been looking for. Or you can relearn how to read Hebrew and get a Bar Mitzvah again to exert your manhood in a more erudite way.” Joshua says, “I got 3 kids Rabbi, out of state of grandparents on both sides and I still haven’t recruited a Jewish Godmother, who could make up for my religious education shortcomings. I’ll give Schmendel a call instead. Thanks for your help Rabbi Levite. You’re the best of the rest.