Once upon a time there was a biracial Korean and Jewish kid from the Riverdale section of the Bronx named Steven Park, who his friends called Bad Boy Soy Boy for unleashing his Nunchucks of fury at a block party on a bunch of black gangbangers who wore the same wife beater, corn rows and cut off jean shorts, looking like they were dressing up for Coolio Appreciation Day, who dared to call him a COIVD chink in his midst ever again, as he cracked one skull in 2 after another without breaking a sweat in a NY Minute. Son of Sam in the seventies was scary no doubt, but the surge in hate crimes against Jews and Asians in the boogie down Bronx Jersey City around the Island of Manhattan were at an all time high with no relief or added protection in sight.
Cops today, were younger, softer, and far less hardcore than their 9/11 predecessors, nobody in the force today has the balls to make on the side like 99 percent of the force in the movie Serpico. Bail was banned in NY, garbage filled the streets, rats grew the size of Lena Dunham during Restaurant Week after challenging Leslie Jones to a Junior’s Cheesecake off. But even these woke large in charge funny woman, couldn’t believe what a scary shithole their cherished concrete jungle of yesterday had become in 4 years flat.
Crazy talk slogans punctured the air such as, “Ban ICE”, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destruction years. It’s no excuse to mug Chinese grandma in Chinatown, yet the Wuhan made virus, had made New Yorkers at large crazier than ever, placing misplaced faith in a news media hellbent on feeding more unregulated hate and fear into the nation about black men in America being America’s most hunted, despite not one enlightened BLM member encouraging their fellow brothers to just stop resisting arrest, God forbid.
Every day, Bad Boy Soy Boy worked at his parents deli in the South Bronx, despite living in the leafier, more snuggle soft confines, of Riverdale in the Bronx, where abandoned torched, burnt down buildings to salvage a semblance of ROI from the insurance company were less common than a B plus Korean student at Bronx Science.
Bad Boy Soy Boy had to bite his lip at the deli every time some brother would come in there talking endless shit, yelling, “COVID Chink, this, COVID Chink that,”, despite him being fucking half Korean and half Jewish. It didn’t make a difference because cum bucket dumpsters such as Cardi B today were deemed heady, culture enriching, poets from the street, whose gaping, sloppy 3rds snatch couldn’t be beat, allegedly.
But one day Bad Boy Soy Boy, decided enough was enough, so he opened a medicinal speakeasy weed milk bar in Bergen, New Jersey as a front to offer Nunchuck self-defense classes for Asian Americans based in any of the 5 boroughs willing to make the schlep to fight for their life to live out the protracted, rapidly fading American dream with a semblance of peace of mind as they raged, raged against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas lives, holla, thank very much.
Now, Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class, became the number one tourist destination in Bergen history, not that there was stiff competition in this department. But Bad Boy Soy Boy had a college roommate from UPENN who he’d talk to on the phone every day who worked as a rock star chef for a Korean food truck in old city in Philly, known for their Korean eggroll cheesesteak hot pocket breakfast treats that had to invest in a bullet proof vest covered food truck in what was once the only really safe area in Philly outside of center city on Chestnut street. But safe spaces for Asian Americans were now deader than Jeremey Lin’s chances of gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated 7 times in a row again, especially since JR Smith bitched to Knicks management about the golden child Harvard grad who plopped in their lap out of the freaking blue, because he was hogging the Garden spotlight and bike lane all for himself.
Asian Americans including Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, who never bothered to study martial arts, thinking, it wasn’t necessary to learn from 1994 to 2020, were flocking to Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class. Bad Boy Soy Boy’s grandfather, Michael Kornbluth was a Holocaust survivor because when all the brown shirt ANTIFA members of their day banned guns, he used his own Nunchucks of fury gifted to him from his Korean father in law, and cracked NAZI skulls hyped on crystal meth all his way to freedom from Nazi persecution in NY to later establish a family of his own with his former reflexology wife therapist as a proud 1st generation deli owner, getting Jewish New Yorkers hooked on Kimchee for more reasonable outs to ever slip their wife the tongue ever again. Both young and old Asian Americans no longer had to live in helpless, paralyzed fear, all thanks to Bad Boy Boy Soy Boy teaching them the infinite beat down possibilities, using the all mighty Nunchuck strikes of fury to ensure they were never fucked with again in the name of the COVID Chink virus or not, because Bad Boy Soy Boy was on a mission from God to prove Bruce Lee’s weapon of choice, is nothing to fuck with.
Growing up, my mom’s Kosher chicken cutlets only got interesting whenever she threw some sautéed white mushrooms in garlic and parsley on top. These weren’t meaty mushrooms such as the mighty meaty Portobello, substantially chewy scrumptious Shitake Mushrooms or delectable Geisha light Oyster Mushrooms either. Whatever mushrooms they sold at A&P in the eighties and early nineties got the job done. Blue Cheese on burgers wasn’t a thing yet, Lamb Burgers forget about it. Back then, you were lucky to find a deli who made sandwiches with barely defrosted iceberg lettuce, you didn’t chip a tooth on, which looked more Bill Burr white, than sickly discolored green whenever his Dad threw on the old Golden Gloves for Saint Patrick’s Day again.
For Hanukkah, my mother always made her specialty stuffed baked, destemmed Baby Bella Bomb Mushroom with a delicious garlic, parsley, breadcrumb concoction, with some cream cheese mixed in between, to keep it Jewy enough, which helped counterbalance the Mariah Carey Christmas songs at full blast on constant rotation before Derek Jeter broke into her star studded snatch before Puff blew it up beyond recognition, holla, thank you very much. So, I was bound to try recreating some magic mushroom love on my own someday and be a tad less gun shy about munching on some magic mushroom tripping caps in college eventually. My senior year in high school, I’d order an occasional mushroom slice for lunch to, so I wasn’t fussy about eating the psychedelic, dry, woodsy, dried caps straight up with no chaser either. Illmatic lives holla thank you very much. I didn’t ask my boarding school burnout bud Gledhill at the time to place the magic tripping caps into a warmed up spinach wrap, with some arugula and goat cheese, to fend off any anxiety consumed panic attack from eating the cow shit birthed mushrooms by themselves alone, all alone, Heart lives, holla, thank you very much.
But my 1st brush with mushroom madness wasn’t from getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles my freshman year in college around my Deadhead crew within a dorm room the size of Hunter Biden’s slow days stash closet. Nor did I experience uncontrollable mushroom madness from feeling up a Sequoia tree in the valley on some magic caps in the most sensual, love thy tree like your hot neighbor with the big sun spot tits way, feeling’s God’s vibrating presence from within, before I receive a call on my pre-smart phone from my tripping roommate in the park and hear, “That light piercing through back the of your head isn’t God, it’s the police. Pull up your parents, were out of here.”
No, I had to make my own 1st batch of stuffed Portobello Mushrooms with spinach, peeled Roma tomatoes and fontina cheese, to experience my 1st brush of mushroom madness, because it felt like I was eating a dirt sandwich from a health food store in a 70’s Albert Brooks movie as I mutter to myself, “Isn’t Fontina Cheese high in cholesterol? And how do you live with yourself charging sky high prices for an overseas melting cheese not included in the Fondue set I got as a housewarming gift from Penny Marshall after Lost In America became a smash success? That’s how I got to cast Gary Marshall as the Pit Boss in Lost In America. You don’t know who Gary Marshall is? Don’t worry about it. All you need to know, is there’s no business like show business.”
The problem was I forgot to wipe the dirt off my mushroom caps from the nearby farmers market and I didn’t have a personal Shaman with an open third eye to point out my oblivious oversight. Till then, I never knew what dirt actually tasted like because I had neck surgery at 2 and my parents shielded me from high contact sports like Football, so I had no idea of what a face full of dirt tasted like until I bit through my Portobello sandwich, which turned me off from trying to unearth Portobello magic for almost a whole decade on the backyard coal grill making sandwiches with goat cheese and bitter greens on a Ciabatta roll instead. I felt so dirty after crunching on multiple bites of actual specked dirt. It felt like I was caught pleasuring myself to she male stamps ads in the LA Weekly behind a garbage dump off Santa Monica Blvd. in broad daylight on a Tuesday at hard 11am, as the smell of musky ball sack permeates through boy’s town air. Andy Dick lives holla, thank you very much.
The last time I experienced mushroom madness on this infuriatingly dejected level was this past Sunday after I made the decision to give my kids a brush with mushroom magic by making them a Moosewood classic, Moosewood being a famous vegetarian restaurant and prolific cookbook publisher in Ithaca, NY . I transferred to Ithaca College my junior year because I outgrew tripping on mushrooms and feeling up trees in my spare time for the time being. Still, I hate to be married to any script, unless I wrote it of course, but even then, I like to mix things up, and make things less dronishly, climax free predictable. So I decided to dice up the cleaned, stuffed Portobello’s, brushed with a mix of sesame and Tamari Sauce which is a thicker yet slightly watered-down soy sauce, think Jon Cho from Harold and Kumar Got To White Castle. Those same stuffed mini-UFO size Portobello mushrooms were also filled with a combo of high-end peanut butter called Smooth Operator, an old school peanut butter shop in the West Village, ginger, diced up red peppers and shredded, dehydrated firm soy. Although the funky fresh Umami twist. was mixing these bomb supreme, magically flavorful fungi with some buckwheat Soba noodles, which all 3 of my kids slurped up with instant glee, instantly. Me taking 2 plus hours to make the entire dish, helped my kids readiness factor to attack the dish to, as we listened to Too Fast For Love on Vinyl from Motley Crue from start to finish, before mama got home from work later that evening after working in Lactation playing the role of unofficial boob doctor whisperer consultant all day long.
Along the way, I tapped into my age of innocence with renewed fervor and played an inspired air guitar version of Too Fast For Love with our broom stick, hailing Motley Crue’s guitar slayer, Mick Mars as the Freddy Kruger of Shredding. Who I need to write an article about one day in the hopes of selling it to fucking Pitchfork, Guitar World, or just posting another non billable blog post such as Shredding Hackneyed Hair Metal Cliches, anything but bearing the brutal thought of not letting the world know more about the most underrated metal guitar shredder of all time. Too Fast For Love, Motley Crue’s debut album, which they recorded in 2 weeks straight max, is by far the their most melodic ferocious, heart thumping, power punk pop record, ever put on wax by the 4 Hair Metal horseman. Too Fast For Love is the Hair Metal version of Exile on Main Street by the Stones, when Mick Mars, the oldest band member of his crew, made the guitar sound like a fucking buzz saw, shredding those strings to shreds as if the child support payments from his 1st marriage in his late twenties depended on it. Now, I’m not comparing my leisurely recreation of some Sunday slow mushroom magic to Mick Mar’s playing with his back against the wall on Motley Crue’s Too Fast For Love, although paying child support felt like the incoming imminent reality later that evening, after I flip out on my wife for pointing out how the food was great, but “The kitchen needs cleaning.” Words of wisdom ladies, when your husband bangs out another all-star dinner after looking after the kids all weekend, with no virtual grandparents in sight, resist the urge to minimize the specialness of the meal by treating him like like the neutered fucking help. Next time my wife wants to get intimate on E pills for old time sake, I’ll say, “But you haven’t gotten me that promised boob job 3 kids later yet. I think I’ll just feel up our tree in the garden instead. You’re not the only stump humper in this relationship, you know.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t cry at the end of Rudy?”, Dr. Tearjerker says. Fred, a bald, bearded, stumpy 45-year-old recently remarried furniture salesman from Nyack, NY replies, “Was I supposed to cry? It’s just a movie doc.” Dr. Tearjerker takes a deep breath to compose himself and says, “I think your incapable of experiencing joy for others.” Matt the furniture salesmen replies, “How you can say that from only talking with me now, after I paid you 300 dollars an hour to watch Rudy for the past 2 hours?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “My sports movie crying therapy bought me my house in Nantucket, a spacious 3-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side on York and a Victorian Mansion in Mount Vernon, NY, Denzel Washington’s childhood stomping ground by the way and I’m not a Long Island hack like yourself, that’s how I know motherfucker.” Matt says, “Doc, take it easy. You sound like my ex-wife already and we just met. Look, I’m only hear because I just got remarried yet my kid from the previous marriage is already causing a strain in our marital relationship. All the melatonin gummies in the world, can’t help my daughter sleep better at night, regardless of whether she thinks my new wife was pretty enough to replace mommy with or not. My new wife hates how I can’t cry at the end of schmaltzy happy movies like Rudy to and questions whether I really want to have a do over baby with her after all.” Doc says, “What the did movie Rudy make you think about?” Matt says, “I don’t know doc. How Vince Vaughn let his looks go to shit. I was never too into Sean Austin Green’s melodramatic lisp, regardless, if The Lord of The Rings franchise being huge for his career or not. I thought about my Dad spending more time watching the Knicks stink up a joint as a kid than helping me develop a half away decent hook shot or believable pump fake in the post. I thought of how my parents reserve their most emotive cheerleading efforts for my younger brother instead. I thought about the time my mom had me get her phone which she left in my car, only to glance at a text for my younger brother, to realize she uses a nickname for me Scoops, for my younger brother to. If your mom regifted a nickname to younger brother, the mama’s boy, because he’s always been her idealized romantic partner based on her sloppy slow dance display at his wedding, would you have issues crying at the end of Rudy to?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “How did that make you feel to learn your mom uses the same nickname on younger brother? Matt he furniture salesman says, “It made me feel like a used furniture salesman, a nobody, an unwanted futon with bed bug bite marks after college. I’m open to more sports movie crying therapy doc, I just want to start resenting my mother less than my wife. Since I became a dad, I started morning prayer, yet I’m worried about God taking my good fortune away since giving me a daughter because I don’t respect thy mother’s opinion on how and what I should be doing with my life, when she’s barley around to help with my kid in the 1st place. Dr. Tearjerker says, “Why do you resent your mother besides her not being around to help with your daughter as much as you’d like?” Matt says, “Whether I visit her in Florida, or she visits me back east, she’s always sulking whenever my daughter gives me another jump hug, which saddens her because our bond will never be as close, I guess. Fuck radical empathy Doc. My mom’s default sour puss mode around my happiness spewing daughter will always piss me off, more so than her misspelled texts inquiring about how I’m handling the weather back east, after I regrettably text her another video of her granddaughter sledding on her Snow Screamer with hardcore funky smoothness from start to finish. Either you’re excited about your 1st born raising a girl who won’t turn into the cum bucket drenched girl from the Fallen Angel video or not. I get it mom. You really wanted your favorite to have given you a grandchild instead, but he was too busy snorting coke for 4 decades straight, developing a mysterious stomach irritation out of the blue, yet somehow blames it on him being lactose intolerant. When all else fails, don’t look yourself to mirror to change your depraved ways, just scapegoat fucking Lada Lakes. But I’m glad my mom decided to keep crib for my daughter Matilda around their house in Florida to symbolize positive thinking, wish fulfillment at it’s finest. And my wife calls me the unstable one for yelling at my mom the last time she visited after insisting, “I get a maid, which I can’t afford or that I express my displeasure with my younger brother personally for not acknowledging my daughter’s 10-year-old birthday whatsoever. Bet he’s got distracting demons to contend with, got it. All I know doc is my mother would never break into constellation of canker sores over worrying on my behalf.” Doc says, “Why do you resent your new wife? Didn’t you just get married? Matt says, “I love her doc but it’s not role to criticize my daughter so soon. 4 years down the road sure, but my daughter will be out of the house by then. So, if she chooses to live like a slob then, it’s her business, not mine. And no, I don’t want to get my daughter tested for ADD. I talk this much off Adderall doc. I actually stopped taking Adderall during my 1st marriage to focus less on how annoying my wife could be. It didn’t make a difference really.”
Doc says, “Looks our time is up.” Matt replies, “So what movie magic do you have planned for me next week doc, Remember The Titans, Hoosiers perhaps?” Doc says, “So you feel nothing when Dennis Hopper’s fills in for Gene Hackman as the basketball coach after being found in his home waddling in drunken squalor prior before his son locks his beamish, proud, piercing eyes into his pa’s soul and says, “I’m proud of you dad”? Matt replies, “I can’t believe you get paid for this shit.” Doc yells, “Get out of my office. You’re banned permanently, you piece of shit deplorable.”
Dr. Tearjerker ended up in an insane asylum because his revolutionary sports movie crying therapy didn’t work on the Furniture salesman from Nyack, which made him feel like a fluke, another vastly depreciated, average nobody to, despite his own mother never reusing his nickname on his younger brother to project the aura of equal distributed encouraged love. Now, Dr. Tearjerker sports a permanent straight jacket after trying to kill himself with a basketball pump needle once during outdoor play. Who spends all his days now in a white padded room, running suicide sprints with a look of extreme determination on his face, chanting with increasing force, Rudy, Rudy, Rudy, only to add, “I still shed tears of joy for you Rudy. And if I’m deemed crazy by New York State standards for deriving happiness from other’s people’s success through the silver screen or not, I don’t care. At least I know, I’m not among the walking dead yet, ” Rudy, Rudy, Rudy.”
There’s talk about canceling Curious George now because of racial associations embedded in the story, George Avoids Aids, about a white guy in the yellow 10-gallon hat who saves an African Monkey from getting AIDS from the CIA, after making a bet with the CEO of Planned Parenthood to see who could exterminate more hoop dreams before they got off the ground.
Cancel Curious George, yet who on the left would take offense to a remake titled Bi-Curious George? Targeted toward sexually confused hipster spawn reared on Lou Reed records.
The husband wife team who created Curious George were a Jewish couple who fled Germany on a self-made bike. But some miserable Twitter Twat dares to accuse these authors of peddling picture books for white supremacists on 4chan today? Curious George Gets A Job doesn’t feed into the narrative of systematic racism. So that’s a solid reason to go ape shit online and shit over our kids age of innocence, as if wearing masks at school like they’re on vacation with Michael Jackson in Bahrain isn’t depressingly dreary with no end in sight already.
Curious George flies a kite isn’t a racist. You’d think the title was Jamal’s older brother is high on shitty commercial weed in the project hallways before the school bus arrives in the am again.
Curious George learns the alphabet in Ebonics was never written, although I think Nas could reinvent himself as child book author and give it a shot.
Curious George goes to the Pizza Party, hosted by Danny Aiello, in Do The Right Thing, when he starts dropping N bombs because Radio Rahim played Public Enemy too loud for his taste out of the freaking blue, despite most Italians being proud members of the loud mouthed bleacher creatures throwing batteries at opposing players in right field in the old Yankee Stadium before the new one was built, otherwise known as the House That Gentrification Built.
Curious George goes to the hospital from drive by gun shot wounds for wearing his customary red top while cruising through south central to pick up some discount rims for the man in the yellow brimmed pimp hat, for an upcoming 70’s fly guy, Pimp costume party for Halloween was never published either, unless Snoop Dog retells the story to his kids that way, because that’s how the sticky icky king of green puff la rap rolls.
It’s Curious George Goes To The Baseball Game, not Curious George dominates the baseball game, smacks 3 homers in the World Series, doing his best Mr. October impersonation, while Pete Rose places a bet on how many N bombs Marge Schott dropped in rapid succession after uppity, erudite, hyper articulate, clutch hitting Reggie went yard for his 3rd.
Curious George Goes To The Movies and is louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning would make a funny kid picture book though.
Curious George Visits the Dentist and samples some Bill Cosby material should be a non-divisive topic embraced by all, stating, “Female Dragon flies act dead, to avoid sexual assault from male dragon flies. Bill Cosby victims call this wishful thinking.”
Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break? Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead? If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.
Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.
Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.
The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer. For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.
Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth lived for playdates with her best friend from Columbia Shannon, who turned her on to Shakira, despite her Do It All Dad insisting at 1st, “Shakira is a belly dancing lounge act for Saudi royals on holiday.” Only for his daughter to fire back in her standard hot pitch, effortless fashion, “Actually, Shakira is the most downloaded artist of all time and those stats don’t lie Dada. Feeling good about being dejected in the presence of such all-natural sales star ease, Do It All Dad admitted defeat with playful, funny man charm by wrapping up a conversation he regrated getting into for the most part by now, saying back, “I wish mama’s hips concealed their ever-widening reality already.”
Do It All Dad also operated an IT staffing business, Stand Up Staffer from home, placing front end developers, graphic designers and now UX designers throughout the Island of Manhattan. On Stand-Up Staffer’s business card was a long stage hook like the one they would use at the Apollo on Amateur Night except in this pic, a bearded, Millennial Mouseketeer stick figure hipster in glasses is getting hooked off into the loving saving, life enriching arms of Stand-Up Staffer. The slogan for Stand-Up Staffer on the card states, “Been Talent Hooking Since Y2K”, before LinkedIn thought leadership posts by Marc Cuban would make Jack Welch shake in his penny loafers made out of Leprechaun gold teeth.
Do It All Dad was also a part-time, open mike comedian in both LA and Manhattan before Matilda was born, so his daughter Singing Rose Kornbluth otherwise known as Grace In Motion, was bound to absorb her father’s always on, constantly pitching leanings. When Matilda was only 2, she could only string 2 words together, so her Do It All Dad would mold around those limitations, understanding the always relevant adage, “less is more”, especially when you’re in the pursuit of hooking a hiring IT Director’s interest in hearing about a hot to trot candidate over the phone out of the freaking blue, without making any contact prior or intent on delivering a fumble free 1st joke difference maker, which determines whether you score a semi-respectable set with enough momentous, kickstarting oomph at another open mike in the East Village, with 5 other struggling, aspiring stand-up comics stuck in their heads, rehearing punchlines bound for comedic glory compared to your hack stabs at being professionally funny for 5 minutes straight at a time. Still, Matilda would always shine in the scripted lines her Dad gave Matilda to score laughs with at 2, so she grew up trusting her Do It All Dad’s stand-up sales wisdom even more each, day, yeah, yeah, yeah. Do It All Dad’s favorite routine at the deli back in the day, when Matilda was only 2 was, “Hey, Matilda what did Tyson Chandler give the Knicks.” And Singing Rose Matilda Kornbluth would take the nookie out of her mouth and say, “Bupkis, Daddy, Bupkis.” When Matilda was 5, her Do It All Dad enrolled his 5-year-old in acting camp despite prolonged protests from mama stating with huffy annoyed disgust, “But she can’t even read yet.” Do It All Dad snaps back with, “Will watch Rocky 2 together for pointers.” Then, the next summer, Matilda co-stared in 15 or more commercials uploaded on to YouTube for his Standup Staffer business, which later lead to her Do It All Dad scoring a retainer staffing fee to place a VP Of UX Design for a new food tech startup, FOODIEFRIEDNFORLIFE based in the NOHO section of Manhattan, billing itself as a lunch matching service, for single working professionals, who wanted to network with new business contacts over a shared Rib Eye for 2, knowing your vegetarian girlfriend never would. Plus, you could write off these pricy, big deal conjuring lunches, as a new business development expense if you worked in B2B sales, account management for Madison Avenue or as an Associate Editor for a major publishing business to woo literary studs on the rise, who weren’t complete social spaz attacks, off the page, who exuded more than 0.0 charisma off the page.
Matilda’s favorite commercial for Standup Staffer, included the one called Blond Power, where she plays a star UX Designer whose worked for 20 companies in 5 years stating, “I fall out of love easily like Trump.” Then when asked why she decided to dye her hair blond, Blond Ambition says, “Guy software engineers prefer blonds to feel smarter and superior. They’re nerds remember?” Plus, only ugly girls go to coding boot camp.” So, Matilda was no stranger to performing and selling as she started the 4th grade, especially knowing her old school go to line whenever her dear Dada used to pick up her from daycare in Scarsdale Village after working for the man Robert Half in Manhattan was, “Can I get a treat Daddy? I was fuss free today, fuss free. In short, Do It All Dad played a huge role helping transform his daughter into a supremely confident, effortlessly charismatic, logic loaded, never too overtly wordy dronish, sales machine. As a result, it pissed off Matilda to no end, when The Girl Scouts Of America denied her entry, after admitting to marching in the annual Israel Day Parade with her dear Dada, because it was insensitive to Arab Scouts in their troop despite their alleged secular, wholesome girl next door leanings, despite there being a Planned Parenthood abortion referral fee patch in the works, since full term abortions in New York State became Kosher in the empire state’s eyes under Governor Cuomo’s all-knowing watch, otherwise known as a the cold blooded Italian Reptilian inside.
Matilda fumes to her best friend Shannon over the phone about being denied more primo face time with her friend through The Girl Scouts Of America, saying, “Israel not the country, who fires rocket into their neighbor’s backyard, expecting nothing more than an Edible gift basket in return. Hamas terrorists in charge of their government, are supposed to be trusted partners in peace, 8 days a week, my chest.” Matilda also admitting to Dude Looks Like A Lady being her most liked song on Spotify, didn’t warm her up to The Girl Scouts Of America either, especially since the Boy Scouts started admitting girl men like Juno into their ranks to.
Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was intent on revenge now, for being denied more face time with her best friend in the universe and launches Standup Sitter Club, an accelerated sales camp for kids, which unmasks the power of cold calling, for those interested in scaling their babysitting business to the next level. Because of that, the head PTA Mom calls a sit down with Stand Up Staffer who runs his own IT staffing firm from home who gave his daughter the idea of recruiting burnt out goodie two-shoes from the Girl Scouts Of America in the 1st place. Matilda started Cold Calling Camp seminar lectures with lines such as, “Smartphones Don’t Come With Balls To Make Cold Calls For You” and, “You spent enough time on your ass doing more remote learning from home. The 1st rule of Standup Sitter Club is no chairs when cold calling.”
Now, the head PTA mom in charge of her local Girl Scouts chapter calls Stand Up Staffer to demand a sit down, threatening to report his daughter to the better business bureau for unfair recruitment practices since Matilda’s Cold Calling Camp For Kids Camp depleted her group dry, by offering commission heavy rip profits. Babysitter sounds so passe. Matilda’s stable network of enterprising babysitters were rebranded on LinkedIn as Creative Play Consultants.”
Stand Up Staffer meets the head PTA mom at a local coffee shop and says, “You can’t knock my daughter’s Cold Calling Camp For Kids. The only way to get ahead in life is to cold call yourself into stranger’s hearts. I wasn’t introduced to my wife of 10 years through a friend. I didn’t swipe her over to my lap at a new cider bar opening in the east village. I didn’t overcome my zero confidence, shyness stutter from a fancy internship connection to the agent training program at Creative Artists Agency. I didn’t break through the soul destroying, mentally crippling door of dependence on my parents to pay rent for my apartment in West Hollywood through being bequeathed some cushy IT Account Manger role to wine and dine IT Directors who worked for wine distributor behemoth Southern Wine and Spirits, to secure more job orders to fill, without having to throw my balls on the line in the service of winning over the trust of new clients through sheer audacity and relentless, houndish delight while minimizing my sprinklings of spamish overtones until I became more polished in between.”
Stand Up Staffer adds, “More importantly, your daughter Maya is making bank at Standup Sitters, earning hefty referral babysitter fees up the wazoo. Also, let’s not depreciate your daughter’s increased ability to listen better due to her hardcore cold calling camp training, making it easier for her to bear drawn out conversations with you with more emotionally presence awareness and concern, next time, you start moaning on about your immovable belly rolls, 3 kids later, or how life offers rapidly depleted meaning once your daughter outgrows the need for mama’s nurturing hugs, as you pop open another boozy, mommy seltzer again, for head lightening relief. PTA mom says, “If I can’t knock the cold call, then can I hit you in the face really hard once? It might turn you on actually.”
If identifying myself as Gender Fluid will increase my chances of getting a job interview for a paid remote writer position, then I have no problem filling out that hole. Why not write myself a starring part in a modern update remake of Tootsie, except instead of an out of work actor dressing up like a woman to get work, I’ll play a Gender Fluid blogger who dresses up like Bobby Doll from Poison for Zoom calls based on his make up complexion on the record cover Look What The Cat Dragged In? I’ve also been a stay at home dad and our in-house gourmand chef for my 3 kids much longer than your typical paid time off maternity period. So I’m more than accustomed to my nurse wife treating me like her gimpy, bitchy underling for sometime actually, the way weapons maestro maker Destro would constantly belittle Cobra Commander’s commanding heft or leadership authority of the Crimson Twins, relegating them to nothing more than, “Overrated, Trust Fund Terrorist Babies.”
Stay At Home Dads, regardless if they more than 800 followers on their WordPress blog or not, are more than used to subduing their urge to dominate a conversation and play the role of submissive puss next time the subject of whether stay at home mom’s should get paid because they’re not fake feminists who suffer from severe egotism as much either.
So now for the million dollar question, how you can make baked ziti at home for your kids while in the process of making it feel more manly about doing it? Easy, make gender fluid pink ziti. Wear out the pseudo feminent label on your rolled up button Ted Baker sleeve or live the remainder of your life scared of being outed as a shishy bitch enricher. Also, get extra flamboyant with your presentation and announce to the world in a loud and proud fashion, ” Blanket your Baked Ziti with herbed Rosemary bitches. It’s only Alice Water’s favorite herb, which she told Bill Maher on Real Time once. Oh, that’s right, only gay guys know the names of brand name female chefs, my bad.”
Using an excessive preponderance of over the top spreading of ricotta in your gender fluid pink ziti, doesn’t make the preparation of making this old school Italian classic, make you feel anymore rough and tumble manly, that’s for sure. I’d also refrain from considering the subbing the use of cream to add that pinkish, alluring glow, in favor of using Coconut Milk, if sticking with the Koshertarian Diet to please God isn’t a predominant consideration if you decided to throw meh diced up chicken bits of protein in there either.
Frying up some peeled off bits of garlic, diced fine bits of shallot in butter and virgin, cold pressed olive oil, interspersed with cut off specs of rosemary dust before plopping the pre-made Rao’s marinara sauce, doesn’t make you feel like Rocky pulling Pauli in a sled during his training sequence in Rocky 4 either.
Using locally sourced pecorino from Yonkers, DMX’s hometown, adds some salty, hardcore edge to your overall gender fluid baked ziti presentation but not nearly as much as you’d think. It’s getting pretty hot pink in here, I thought while revealing my gender fluid pink ziti, which my family inhaled with scrumptious glee. So if making delectable pink gender fluid ziti, makes it hellish hot up in here, so be it. The endless sporadic Mmmms, were worth losing whatever masculine edge I have left.
Nobody wants to be born on January 3. At that point, everybody is either partied out or enacting New Year’s resolutions already. Honestly, by day 3 of partying in a row, whether you’re just drinking, or doing drugs, combining the 2, or you’re just dancing the days away at a 5-week rave Germany, based on pure adrenaline and highly charged sexualized vibes alone, you’re still dragging like Hunter Biden on any given Monday soon afterwards. If God gave you the universe, you morphed into Art Show USA, who was born on New Year’s Day, inspiring his dear Dada to call him Number 1 Capricorn. His dear Dada didn’t nickname him Number 1 Capricorn to make him an insufferable, know it all twat bore, but to praise the almighty, the most-high, Hashem, for perfecting human civilization with his beautiful boy, who he blessed with out of this world good looks, hilarious acting chops and a beautiful builder artist mind, ripe with unlimited imaginative topping possibility. I’m also positive Art Show USA would make a great looking brother like Rick Fox if he used the black face filter through Instagram to. Every day, Art Show USA’s best friend Shawn Wayans-Stein resented his existence half the time, because he was born on January 3rd and had less birthday rocker gathering memories than the Elephant Man had bottles thrown at his head for trying to crash games of Spin The Bottle after his black-tie makeover.
One day, Art Show USA was having lunch with Shawn at school and says, “Why don’t we trade birthdays Shawn.” I was born on New Year’s Day, as you know, which everyone treats like their own personal birthday celebration, so everyone is in a perpetual state of good cheer, until they strike out at midnight in their desperate dash to suck face with the nearest available girl to love. So, you don’t feel like a loser benchwarmer scrub in Junior High again. When you’re born on New Year’s Day, everyone is out of the house to celebrate their unique brand of specialness with their planned lifetime’s partners in love, whether it’s not done of out of begrudging spite or not. The point is even if you’re stuck home alone on New Year’s Eve, have zero friends to party with or parents who never reserved much personalized bonding time with you ever, you can still make out with your blown up balloons with pretty drawn on faces, and not feel completely deflated for making out with a poor man’s blow up doll because deep down, you know you’re not the only one making an extra effort to reward yourself with some extra good loving on New Year’s Eve or not.” You’re my best friend and I love celebrating your birthday on January 3 with just you, like the one year we went Duck Pinning and had the entire place to ourselves, or the time we had an entire Laser Tag room to ourselves, or the time we snuck into weird, weak Howard Stern’s floor seats at Madison Square Garden to see the Knicks, because he was still debloating at home from eating one too many Turkey Burger salads at Jimmy Kimmel’s house for New Years. Still, it feels cooler to be in Manhattan on your birthday, than in an abandoned duck pin bowling alley in Danbury, CT, that looks more dated than the low rent, white out paint job on the walls. Shawn says, “I appreciate the gesture Art Show. I’ve thought about what it would feel like to have myself celebrated on New Year’s Eve instead of on January 3, which gives sloppy thirds a bad name. And you’re a good friend for offering to trade birthdays for the year. Now, I know why you spent all the time watching those graphic design tutorials on YouTube to make me a fake ID, reflecting my New Year’s day birthday, just so I can hear a bouncer at some swanky club in the city, look at my ID and say, “Oh snap, happy birthday New Year’s boy. Don’t forget to pace yourself. I’d postpone New Year’s resolutions till January 2, because you’re not sleeping tonight.”
Art Show says, “I did make you a fake ID for your birthday. I know you don’t drink alcohol like me, but I wanted to give you the feeling of being a number 1 Capricorn for a change.” Shawn says, “Again, I appreciate the gesture Art Show, but I actually prefer the celebrities born on January 3. Eli Manning was born on January 3rd and he’s a bigger stud than Tom Brady. He’s NFL royalty. Plus, Eli beat Brady in the Super Bowl and prevented his perfect season from happening due to him asserting his big-time clutch gene. So, Brady is married to Gisele, big deal. She’s like 80 in model years. Robert Loggia from Scarface was born on my birthday, who plays Tony’s Jewish mobster boss for a bit who drops the hilarious line, “Never underestimate the other guy’s greed.” Art Show says, “I hear you Shawn. JD Salinger was born on New Year’s Day like me, and he became a reclusive freak who spent 4 decades in the New Hampshire wilderness, writing books for himself like a tweaked Holden Caulfield, on an endless trust fund, funded retreat, with all his time-release Adderall delivered to his doorstep by his various pharmacist groupie fanatics at large. So how much did he relish the company of others on New Year’s Eve? Which I never really thought about until now. J. Edgar Hoover was a glamorized peeping tom, also born on my birthday, New Year’s Day. It’s not as if Mini Me born on New Year’s Day could boast about a sustainable, career with legs after Austin Powers 3. “
Shawn says, “But we can’t let your killer fake ID go to waste Art Show. I read about a Beastie Boys cover rap trio group performing at some dive bar on the Lower East side on New Year’s Eve, this year. Why don’t we go there together and get our bodies moving to some Intergalactic Planetary? Will have to fight for room to dance because of the ban on smart phone devices to make old-school hip hop city life great again.” Art Show says, “Didn’t you say the name of this gastro pub on the lower East Side was called Hip Hops? Shawn says, “You got it Art Show. With a friend like you in my corner, I’ll always have a bigger hop to my step than the rest.”
LaVar Ball’s son Lonzo Ball got him a Bentley for his birthday. Do you think a son would hook up his dad with a Bentley for his birthday, if he wasn’t the driving force responsible for him signing an NBA contract with the Lakers, so he could become everything he dreamed to be and that much more?
Barry Bonds had Bobby, Ken Griffey had Senior and Brandon had Bruce Lee, Grant Hill had Thomas Hill, Luke Walton had Bill. Are you touched yet? Do you have any interest in learning how these Do It All Coach Dads bonded through coaching with their new and improved seed, especially knowing their genetically blessed offspring, were also prime beneficiaries of such remarkable, war won wisdom to derive from the start?
Regardless, if you’re dad or not, it’s impossible to not derive some vicarious form of do it all dad pride from mere pictures of father son athletes done good like the one of Rick and Hall of Fame father Brent Barry after he won an NBA Championship for the Spurs.
What drove these Do It All Coach Dads to assume ownership of their kids life education? Because aren’t all coaches, at least the good ones, life coaches who instruct us how to become leaders of men on and off the court, if they push those to the limit, who inspire others through their sheer hard work, passion, grit, imaginative play, commanding flair and developed communicative touch?
When I think of my favorite movies, which fill my soul with infinite do good, empowered, fighting back possibility, I think of the relationships between Rocky and Mick, Mr. Miyagi and Danielsan, even Drago and his son in Creed 2. The one scene, where Drago’s son storms out of their dinner meeting with his mom and the Russian dignitary she left Drago for after losing to Stallone in Rocky 4 was brutal to watch for me, especially, when Drago’s son says to his Dad soon after on their way out the door, “She abandoned us.” I cried on the spot when watching this scene. Drago had done some hardcore bonding with his son through coaching to say the least. Dragon’s son in Creed 2 also represents all of his unfulfilled dreams, which is a common theme most Dad star athletes of yesteryear can identify with and I’ll take Glory Days by Bruce Springsteen for 500 Alex.
Do It All Coach Dads Podcast will give coach dads their long overdue praise and the much needed star studded spotlight they deserve because it’s their opinions about the enduring importance of faith, the power of positive thinking, visualization, preparation, goal setting, will power, practice, hard work, motivation and grit who I care about learning from the most. It’s those Do It All Dad Coach Dads who disperse experience informed tips on what ultimate success looks, feels and acts like as teammates, co-workers, husbands, fathers who I care about learning from the most on a sports educational podcast, not from some random 19 year old rookie in the NBA on Twitter who still educating himself on Hitler, sorry.
Who taught Do It All Coach Dads about how to bounce back from defeat? Who taught these Do It All Dad Coach Dads that the only way to feel like a winner is to win again? How were these Do It All Dad Coach Dads raised to hate losing more than I-Tunes jamming more unasked for singles from U2 down your throat?
Do It All Coach Dads Podcast sells Do It All Dad Pride in raising strong kids, who live to compete because the act of competition and pressure packed adrenaline from performing live in front others, is responsible for bringing out their best fighter selves, while team sports offers the more emotionally expansive opportunity to achieve a greater sense of wholesome purpose and blood on blood unity, which is hard to replicate in the boardroom or in the office kitchen for inclusive, Taco Tuesdays, with plenty of vegan options, after their college playing days are long gone.
Do It All Coach Dads sells do it all dad pride in raising inspirational leaders instead of sheepish followers, doers instead of talkers, creators instead of consumers, builder uppers, instead of belittling, put’um downers.
Bonding through coaching can make our kids great again. Do It All Coach Dads will tell sports related stories of triumph and comeback success, through interviews with Do It All Coach Dads and their kids sometimes together, to focus on the holy, unique bond formed among father coaches and their cherished student athlete children, who receive the greatest gift a father could give their child, like the late great Jim Valvano once said, “My Dad believed in me.”