Off the List

A Window into Dada's Old, Ugly World

 

Fade IN:

INT: Backseat of the Impala- Early Evening 

Mama is driving the car home and Dada is sitting in the backseat next to his Genius Little Girl.  Dada hiccups and sounds like he's on the verge of puking up a ton of beer.  Genius Little Girl looks concerned.

Dada:  Hey babe, can you roll down the windows? The window is locked.

Mama: Sure hold on.

Dada: Too late.

Dada hurls on the floor.

Genius Little Girl: Give this man a bib. 

Dada hurls again.  

Genius Little Girl: Stay at home dad is staying in tomorrow. 

Dada hurls again which sounds like he’s puking out his entire insides.

Genius Little Girl:  I think, I'll sleep in my bed tonight. 

                                                                                              As We Fade Out: 

The End

Written By, 

Josh Kornbluth

 

 

 

Honey, I gotta talk about sex with our Genius Little Girl

 

Fade In:

INT: Bedroom-Scarsdale Apt.-Night

Genius Little Girl (2) sucks on mama’s boobies while Dada stares at his watch which says 10:35pm.  Dada strokes the back of her hair. 

Dada: Buckaroo, you can’t sip on boobies all night long, this is our bedroom, not an open milk bar. 

Genius Little Girl continues to suck on both of mama’s boobies.

Mama: Dada is right you’ve had enough boobies for one night. And last call was one hour ago.  

Dada: Why do you think the lights are still on?

Mama pulls away her booby and baby genius girl cries in protest.

Dada: Calm down Meryl Streep; you need to get your boobie abuse problem under control. You’ve got a history of addiction on both sides of the family.  You’re just like Uncle Lou, you can’t cut yourself after one drink. And that’s before he does coke and only hears last call from the bathroom stall.

Genius Little Girl cries on.

Dada: I’m on your side, kiddo. I love Mama’s boobies, especially her pre pregnant ones that didn’t get foamy from sucking on the tip. By the way babe, how much longer will your tits taste like the end of a regrettable non-fat latte?  

Mama: Forever honey bun like how long you’ve been out of work now.

Dada: My point kiddo is that I love boobies and wish mom had bigger ones for me to suck on, so I understand your obsession with them, trust me.

Mama: What daddy is trying to say is that he loves the idea of perkier, milk free boobies on me that have zero in common with mine.  

Dada: That’s obvious. But the real issue in this conversation is mommy and daddy reclaiming our bed from you buckaroo.  You come up to my knee yet you manage to take up the entire bed.

Genius Little Girl:  You have to reclaim your bed? What does that mean?

Dada:  It means that our bed used to be like a bouncy castle before you crashed the party.

Mama: Honey, don’t you think it’s a little early to be having a sex talk with our daughter, she’s barely 2.

Dada: Of course, not, she’s a genius. She’s smart enough to know that were not speed freak, sex addicts but not risk-averse prudes either. 

Mama: Sounds like someone is letting themselves off the hook easy. 

Dada: Let me explain the situation this way; forget the bouncy castle analogy. You own a pink fairy mobile that you ride whenever you’re in the mood. Well Mama is Dada’s fairy mobile that grants me joy rides whenever she’s in the mood. But if you don’t sleep in your own bed, Dada get can’t break any new speeding records, kapeesh!   

Mama: That was a joke about Dada not lasting very long in my speeding lane.

Dada:   Do you understand what we mean now by reclaiming our bed?

Genius Little Girl: Yeah, you want to turn your bedroom in your personal romper room again, I get it.

Dada:  If you understand why don’t you sleep in your bed for a change?   

Genius Little Girl: Because then I’d lose easy access to Boobies; Dada.

Dada: They don’t call her a genius little girl for nothing.

Genius Little Girl: Don't worry guys, it's not like I'm going to suck on mama’s boobies forever like the Last Emperor.   

Dada: If you do, I’ll institute a one baby policy law in this house, that’s for sure.

Genius Little Girl: Look guys, I love easy access to boobies but what I really love is snuggling up next to you all night long. This bed-sharing arrangement has done wonders for my self-esteem as you can see so far.  Life with you guys is one endless party so excuse for me wanting to pass out in my personal milk bar every night, I know dada’s done much worse in grown up bars before.

Mama: You can crash here until you turn 2.  Then you’ll start sleeping in your own bed, deal?

Genius Little Girl: What if Grandma and Grandpa get us a King Size bed for my 2^nd Birthday?

Dada: Then, I can lift the one child policy after all.

Mama: Give Mama a hug, little one. 

Genius Little Girl hugs mom. Dad hugs them both and blankets them with every droplet of love he can conjure for the most special woman in his world. 

Mama: Do you really hate my tits that much?

 

                                                                                                                                 Fade Out:    

                                                                       The End

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth                                                                                                                   

 

 

The Grateful Dead Balloon

FADE IN: 

EXT: Bethel Woods-Day

A 5 year old Matilda and her 40 year old, dead head father walk hand
in hand through a sprawling lawn where bunches of dead heads are
tailgating in upstate NY before the Furthur show begins.  Matilda
points at a Grateful Dead Bear balloon that a burnout, dinged up
hippie is inhaling nitrus from.

Matilda: Birthday?

Dada: No Burn Out Day. 

Matilda: What’s burn out day? 

Dada: It’s a day when your brain goes into hibernation mode. 

Matilda: What does that mean? 

Dada:  You know how the I-Pad goes blank from losing all power to function. 

Matilda: Yeah.

Dada: Well that’s what happens to a burnout when he does too much acid.

Matidla: Why would you do acid then? 

Dada:  Cool visuals, a closer connection to nature and God.

Matilda:  That sounds pretty sweet to me. So not everyone becomes a
burnout from taking too much acid?

Dada: Not if you’re smart enough. That’s why mommy turned out OK. The
verdict is still out on Uncle Lou though.

Matilda:  I think you’re jealous of the BURNOUT Dada because at one
point they had enough confidence in their brain’s ability to take a
licking and keep on ticking.

Dada:  Well trip out with mommy after your Bat Mitzvah then. Don’t get
me involved.

Matilda: Where can you get acid?

Dada:  I’m not telling you, Drew Barrymore. I don’t even let you
wear fairy wings around the house because you look like an overdose at
the Limelight waiting to happen.

Matilda: Alright, fine, I’ll just ask Uncle Lou then.

Dada:  Why would you get him involved?

Matilda: Getting closer to nature and god isn’t as cool as Uncle Lou.

Dada: You haven’t taken a hit of acid and your field of perception is already warped. 

                                                                                                                 FADE OUT:


                                                                      The End
Written By,

Josh Kornbluth 

 

 

Non-Grumpy Old Men By NBA Standards

According to the Chinese Calendar this is the year of the dragon which
has breathed renewed life into this past its prime cast of grizzled,
old time baller’s on the Knick’s that make me feel older than Hubie
Brown’s liver spots.

It has to be the year of the dragon because old school vets such as
Sheed and Kidd have helped set the Garden on fire as they continue to torch
their overzealous grave diggers and swoop in for the kill. 

If anything is clear, it’s that these seasoned vets are determined to
become the new kings of New York, knock Jay Z off his lofty perch and
run this town tonight till JR Smith has drank enough for eight million
strong.

Against the Washington Wizards, JR Smith did an incredibly sick
reverse Alley-Oop before he blew a kiss to the Garden faithful in one
beautiful, seamless, motion. For JR to achieve such a heightened state
of grace, you would think he experienced an out of body of experience.  But his smooth fall away game winning jumper against the Bobcats along with his gutty winning performance against the Brooklyn Nets this week just made that premise more dated than Yiddish.  

Back to the dunk, as JR Smith, basked in the instantaneous envelopment of ecstatic,
Garden jubilee, I couldn’t help but feel that this was more than just
a celebratory kiss meant for the mere purpose of topping that
dizzying, head spinning feat. It was more than that.

For me the kiss signified something deeper, something more soul
cementing and life appeasing than that.  I practically shed a tear
from my couch after that out of nowhere, heaven sent dunk sent the
Garden into ultra giddy, delirium in knowing that after all the years of
heart scarring betrayal, seething resentment, relentless sighing and
beaten down, resignation of inevitable, loser-dom, the Knick faithful
might actually come out on top without having to fantasize about
another partner in love.

I also saw the kiss as a goodbye to my age of innocence. It seems like
yesterday that I saw a 19 year old Shawn Kemp manhandle the Knick’s
and enforce his manhood down the Knick’s throat, jamming down one
ferocious, drooled over stuff after another.

As I take a stroll down memory lane, along my age of innocence, I
remember “The Dunk” by John Starks against the Bulls when he kept on
elevating like a rocket launched flat top sporting, Jack-In -The Box.

I also remember tearing down that “The Dunk” poster the next year in my childhood
room after Starks bombed out in the finals against Houston and
couldn’t find the rim if a cure to his lisp depended on it. But I
still had a poster of Nicole Eggert from “Charles in Charge” showing
her perfectly tanned lined, exposed naval which continued to remain
the most marquee, untradeable piece of art work I owned anyway.

My point here is that while I grew up in my suburban bubble in
Westchester County, sheltered from manhood or from balling on any level, super stars such as
Camby was kicking around Tim Duncan when he played for Wake Forest like his own personal rag doll,
giving him that cross eyed, deer in headlights look until David Robinson, the whitest sounding, most chiseled center black naval officer banged
them back into place.

 While I was in the process of waning off my GI-Joe addiction in 9th grade,
 Rasheed Wallace was in the seventh grade getting addicted to the limelight after the Philly press already pre-ordained him as the next “Wilt the Stilt” the NBA dominator, not Conan’s wooden, Mongolian dressing, lame ass sidekick player.

While I was being passed over in game of spin the bottle in Junior High, Jason Kidd was being
anointed as the next Magic that could make virginities disappear by the mere snap of his finger.

At Sleep-Away Camp in Kent, CT when I won most improved basketball
player among all the Jews and Persian Sheik’s sons form Great Neck,
Long Island., Kurt Thomas was leading the NCAA Division in scoring and
rebounding at Texas Christian University without having to throw that baggy, air bag blown back into it either.

I’m bringing this all up to illustrate the fact that these current
Knick’s are the opposite of me because due to a combination of god
given talent, desperate circumstances at a pubescent age, lack of any
financial safety nets, these men were forced into manhood  by thirteen
if not way before and certainly didn’t need a massive party with smoke
machines and strobe lights and a DJ to sell us on the legitimacy of
that passage of time or manning up milestone when their balls had been
on display since they grew a pair and could throw it down with divine
powered authority.

As these non grumpy, wise men by NBA standards make one last charge
toward basketball immortality, riding the crest of this awe
inspiring last wind that only the year of the dragon can produce, I’m
just in the process of getting my writing career off the ground at 36 which makes me a grumpy never was been by a poor man’s Rodney Dangerfield standards.

That parade down the Canyon of Hero’s will bring more than a tear to
my eye as I watch the passage of time before me that has brought me a
luminous, wife, a lifetime partner in love, and a baby girl, that’s
the play pal, dreams are made of and an NBA crown for my city, as I
draw out every last ounce of love from that final kiss goodbye to all
that was pure and all that was perfect, from my age of
innocence.

Written By

Josh Kornbluth

 

 

The Sweet Smell of Success

 

You know that you’ve entered a well off neighborhood in Manhattan when you smell
sex and weed in the air that you can’t afford.

Taking in the smell of Times Square is like smelling your co-workers farts in the office
bathroom after your lunch break, it blocks out the smell of success all
together.  

But then I’ll be in the West Village, giddy as can be, bouncing along Bank Street
hard to score, woman and weed lurk in the distance and my nose is overjoyed,
going: I love the smell of high grade bush in the morning.    

But not all of us get to wake up in the West Village, do we? Most of us regular
snooks don’t even get to live in Hells Kitchen outside of Times Square, were
forced to live in the outskirts of Astoria that were forced to constantly pump
up like it’s a deal of the century despite the poorer, depressed surroundings
and much poorer air quality in general.  

But in poor air quality areas such as Astoria or Greenpoint, you know it’s true, don’t have to remain that way forever.  Just like President Obama is committed to coming up with ways of alternative energy, I’m committed to providing the average snooks of New York with alternative ways of breathing easier again. How is that possible without me giving you a large sum of cash that a Hedge Fund Trader in CT can quadruple for you, in his spare time, so you no longer have to live month to month?  I’ve got two words for you, Air Freshener.

I’ve gotten the best Scientists from the pharma giant Pfizer in CT to capture the essence of Connecticut air and put it in our revolutionary air freshener product called, “Suburban Dream”:  Martha Stewart is our spokesperson and in an upcoming TV commercial spot she demonstrates the use the product in a Queens bodega and says to the camera “Your air of superiority awaits you”.  We all can’t afford to pay the property taxes in CT let alone Westchester County, but at least now the outer boroughs can start breathing a little bit easier again, the sweet smell of success doesn’t need to be limited to your income anymore. 

Follow us on Twitter at Suburban Dream, hash tag scent of a soccer mom.

Best
Regards,

CEO
of Suburban Dream

Citadel
Stewart

 

 

 

 

 

New Jewish New Year Traditons

Dear Dada:

The Jewish new year is here and I can‘t think of anyone sweeter to celebrate it with besides mommy’s sweet filled boobies of course.

I haven’t started Hebrew School but I know that Rosh Hashanah is a holiday that marks the start
of the Jewish New Year, so tonight is like New Years Eve for our people. You make resolutions, drink wine and go through plenty of bread.

I know that a Rams Horn is blown to mark the beginning of the year so this one doesn’t blow as much as the last.

I also know that the first day of Rosh Hashanah is on a weekday and is considered sacred enough to miss work in exchange for three hours of prayer in Synagogue that make you appreciate that you don’t have to stand on your feet for a living.

I also know that during Rosh Hannah we dip apples in honey to signify the hope of making it a sweeter new year. What if we skipped the apples and just drank a batch of black Sumatra coffee instead, would that usher in a bitter, fruitless year instead?

Dipping apples in honey is a cute tradition but it seems like an uneventful way to mark the start of a sweeter New Year.  Is asking for some handcrafted Apple Cider from Upstate New York on top of the apples, greedy of me?  You know how much I like bubbles, right Dada?
  
Instead of dipping apples in honey why don’t we dip them in my Honey O’s cheerios from Trader Joes? That way it’s a double dose of sweetness. It will be the equivalent of doubling down on a sweeter new year.  

Doing more jump rope exercises Dada, so you can increase your vertical jump past two inches off a trampoline which is all you need to dunk would be a sure fire way to ensure a rejection defying, New Year.  

Ok, I’ll stop busting your balls Dada, but I really would like you to come up with a new way to mark a sweet new year that doesn’t involve dipping granny smith apples into five thousand year old honey that’s more dated than Grandma’s Sponge Cake recipe.

When you picked me up from day care this week before the first night of Rosh Hashanah you said: There is no end to my sweetness like mommy when she doesn’t resent me for being the sole breadwinner.

I know that was just a joke but my sweetness isn’t self made, it comes from Mama’s eggs and your tree trunk.

My point Dada is that the root of my sweetness comes from a younger, less jaded you that mama brought out of premature retirement. Now, as I reflect back on this past year at home with you my heart bursts into sweet song as my happy feet shift into hyper happy drive because life around you is one endless treat and I’ll never lose my appetite for that.

I love the sweet sound of laughter we create and only see our love get sweeter the more we help each other smile and grow every single day.

Shana Tova, Dada

Love,

Your tougher, sweeter, much funnier twin



Matilda Rose

 

7 Glenwood was a friend of mine

7 Glenwood was a friend of mine, that bailed me out of trouble, like my go-to lifeline.

7 Glenwood was my fountain of youth because you’re bound to feel like a child
when you're 30 living under your parent's roof.

7 Glenwood was a place for me not to worry about rent at the cost of swallowing my pride and giving my ego a lifelong dent.

7 Glenwood kept me in the womb but now that's gone, I'm ready to bloom.

Written By,

Josh
Kornbluth

 

Rambling on Rose

Dear Dada,

It’s been a month since we saw Further at Bethel Woods but I needed some time to chill in order to move past that freak show.  I’m all for waiving the freak flag Dada, but this demented, collection of dinged up hippies, looked stoned since the Stone Age.  I’m all for tailgating but be more selective with the hippies we do pit stops with in the future unless you have to to refuel on Hemp Oil, Dada.

Remember when that late to the party, wannabe Dead Head said to me all brain fried like: I wonder if she’s tripping, dude.  What tapestry did that guy come rolling out of? Is he kidding me? A baby tripping at a Further show is no walk in the park, right, Dada?  The only thing scarier than that is being stuck in the woods alone with a burnout after taking a triple dose of liquid acid from Timothy Leary’s secret stash.

So let’s get back to reviewing the town of Bethel in Upstate NY which is like Woodstock minus half the intelligence and lack of Main Street.  Just one more comment about the tailgating, I liked those little boys that we played with next to our car section although I thought the hippie mom was a tad pretentious for a crystal caressing, caretaking hippie mom. She claims to make all of her kid’s shirts as if that makes her a more eco-friendly, fashion forward, conservationist. Her kid was wearing a B is for Bob shirt which is very cool in my baby book considering that I did my first synchronized shoulder shimmy to the evil spirit defying tune Duppy Conquerer while dancing with you Dada. 

At the same time, it’s not like she launched Baby Phat and snagged Russell Simmons during his prime time player years.  I can picture her now, stroking that chakra clearing crystal going: “I make cloths for all three of my kids,  no pass me downs or sweat shopped, Chinese tainted garmets for them, only college favored, stoner rock shirts for toddlers are good enough for my boys.”

But the do it yourself, wannabe Martha Stewart hippie mom did invite us under their tent when it started raining so my affection for her family didn’t completely fade away. At the same time, her Alphabet literate, reggae, conscious, Redemption Song strumming little boys were crowding me big time.  Call me crazy but I’m beginning to notice a pattern here.   

Whenever I show the faintest interest in boys, they can’t keep their hands off me like the hippies at the Further show that were clenching on to those balloons with all of their might, as if their high would sail away without it.  But I don’t remember anybody sucking down my birthday balloons with such reckless abandon during my first birthday bash and we had the Fleet Foxes on repeat who sound like they attract a similar, even softer hippie following.

Finally, we walk past the crowds that have rubbed me the wrong way so far and were gallivanting
through this pretty sweet, amphitheater, that had plenty of head swerving, dancing room so no hippies would bump heads or stomp on any feet which were pretty dirty to begin with.  I loved how we were able to set up shop on the side by the line of trees and bob my head off to Help On The Way and Ramble on Rose.

Overall, Bethel Woods was a great venue for any show. There is plenty of space to get your freak on, and that falafel that mom had after the show, that was already pre-made was a real American beauty.  It’s the entrepreneurial spirit that this falafel stand represented that made the parking lot scene such a liberating, empowering lesson in future tour funding for me. All of those Dead Heads with balloons that looked like they got kicked out of Clown School for forgetting their clown shoes or just shoe wear in general represented an element I’d like to avoid down the road though.

I love you Dada, for exposing me to such out there, grown up playground, pastoral rich surroundings.
But I’d hold off on exposing me to anymore tailgating venues till I’m old enough to blow my own balloons which are nitrous free of course.  Don’t get me wrong, I love to get a glimpse into your  playful, still stuck in the past, never going to hear a perfect recreated Dead set in your life side, just don’t expect me to trade in my glow in the dark, Sea Dragon for a pink Grateful Dancing Teddy anytime soon.

Still,I loved to dance to the soul tingling Sax solo during that great rendition of Eyes of the World which was almost on par with the one from Without a Net. I know that you didn’t hear your favorite song from freshman year in college, Cosmic Charlie but I met him in the parking lot and that was enough for me.  Thank god, he’s not the one to take me home, now that’s something to be grateful for.

Love,                         

Your rambling
twin, Matilda Rose

What do we lose when Lebron wins?

Lebron is on the bench alone in a close eyed ,deep prayer before the
series shifting game four begins  while Durant makes a less showy
display on the other end of the court by himself, open eyed, quietly
thinking: Now the king is humble, now he prays for help.  I thought
his prayers were answered when he teamed up with Dwayne Wade and got
the confidence to predict a dynasty. Doesn’t getting a tattoo that
says chosen one on your back eliminate the need for prayer knowing
that your destiny is already established?

It’s hard to like Lebron because we’ve been force fed the legend of
Lebron since his high school games were advertised as must see TV for
those that lived to see MJ get dethroned  in their lifetime.   All of
the best ever hype before lacing up for the pros reeked of Eric
Lindros except Lebron is concussion proof until proven otherwise.

Post Decision,  post NBA finals, press conference dump job on the
petty, common hater in all of us, post Rocky 4 seclusion in a Rocky 3
home and the alleged great one is on the verge of stuffing his
pre-ordained, prophecy down our throats to become the real king of
thrones without any blood on his hands.  And he will have earned  it
for fulfilling his promise, making the most of the his god given
talents and for confirming that Magic is the only personable,
consistently clutch legend that you would ever want to grab a beer
with, especially if Cookie is out of town that weekend.

But what do we lose when Lebron wins it all, assuming Durant doesn’t
get a hold of some magic spinach in the land of OZ or have Anne Rice
make some voodoo Lebron doll with an ultra tight turtle neck to ensure
he chokes the series away?  Seriously, what do we lose if Lebron wins
it all, our imaginary sense of superiority over him that’s faker than
Dwayne Wade’s eye glass prescription?  When Lebron wins, NBA fans
definitely lose the ability to degrade and diminish Lebron’s endless
upside. Plus, there’s only one MJ argument loses some major
credibility and makes that forced ass kissing job seem more forced and
premature than ever before.

I’m a 36 year old, die hard Knick fan and saw Jordan rip out our
hearts out in his prime and then waive it in front of the Garden like
the guy from Temple of Doom except he’d palm it up high in front of
our faces and do  a couple of pump fake motions, as he squeezed the
life out our championship dreams that might never occur again.  Still,
I don’t dislike Lebron enough to say that he isn’t about to become
a bigger heart crusher than Tom Cruise in Rock of Ages, that isn’t
capable of rolling through the Thunder tonight and tossing the hey
men,  he’s a loser label off his back for good.

My father, a lifetime Knick fans hates Lebron and wants him to lose
because he rejected the opportunity to play for the Knicks and  hold
court at Legal Seafoods  in White Plains with Landry Fields after an
intense day of practice in Sunny Purchase.  It keeps my father up at
night, so much that he had a near overdose on Lunesta like Issiah
Thomas except he didn‘t blame it on his kid, at least not on the
record with a reporter.

The deeper reason for why my father is rooting for Lebron to lose is
the reason everyone else is. Nobody likes winners that call their
shots and then deliver on them in such a triumphant, in your face,
knew all it along, fashion.  The fact that Lebron is a boastful, new age
African American only adds more fuel to the fire burned Cleveland
Cav's jersey whether our racially charged Obama hating country wants
to admit it or not.

But back to Lebron, the real life terminator that’s about to blast
away any memory of him being a failing, sham shackled savior by
shooting the lights against the Thunder tonight with the ruthless,
cold blooded efficiency of an Obama ordered drone attack  that we
never saw coming, Pat Riley included.


Even though we live in a digital, ultra connected age of
self-promotion we still treat Lebron like the Anti-Christ for
believing in his inner greatness. Why is that?  It’s because nobody
likes extreme confidence in one’s god given ability when most of us
weren’t blessed with such awe inspiring gifts in the first place no
matter how many times we blow our own horn or load up more pictures of
our genetically blessed offspring for all of our fringe friends and
faceless connections on Facebook to admire.


Nobody likes the dreamer that exerts his will over all the doubters
that question his toughness, courage and sheer ability to will a must
win when his credibility as a savior is on the cutting board.  Nobody
likes the performer that performs at the highest level on the biggest
stage possible when they remain sideline spectators that feel small
inside from the permanent kinks that remain knotted in their necks
from spending a lifetime looking up at stars that inspire awe and
beauty that they can only dream of producing.  Nobody wants Lebron to win
because it’s an inevitable, reminder of our modicum of talent,
cubicle contained bits of creativity and rare flights of imagination
that barley get off the ground.

In the age of Facebook and social networking, everyone is intent on
sharing their newly empowered, less dweeby, could never close the deal
with a chick  in high school if their life depended on it,  lost Bugle
Boy jean wearing selves.  And that’s fine, but if you really believe
that you're better than the rest of us mere, mundane, mope faced
maligned, mortals, then you aim higher, show more balls by shooting
more and always follow though when chasing greatness, especially when
your credibility as a potential great one is on dire life support just
like MJ did after the Pistons pistol whipped him two years in a row as
he was coming into his prime.

Tomorrow morning, Lebron wakes up in his palace in South Beach
snuggled up next to his NBA trophy, looks up at the ceiling mirror
above his mini air craft carrier of a bed, and says. Mirror, mirror
right above, who’s bound for more non-capped glory and endless
self-love.  And the mirror says:  Dwayne Wade, if you think Gabriel
Union is the most legendary stuff  ever.  Just kidding, Lebron, you’re
the chosen one bound for more unmatched glory, when a good corner man
like Mick was nowhere to be seen this year.  Win a football title for
the Dolphins and even Bo Jackson will admit, Lebron knows best.

Lebron knew greatness was in him and printed the chosen one on his
body to remind us that his future body of work would be a great
tapestry of art on par with the Sistine Chapel or anything else done
by the high powered Michael Angelo. MJ called MSG the Mecca of
basketball which is a spiritual stretch for an NBA, self-anointed
messiah not named David Stern especially knowing that MJ loved to
gamble with thy neighbor in order to crush his spirit, and break his
will live to just feel better about himself.  Now, South Beach is the
sight of a modern day messianic resurrection that has even inspired
Bill Maher to believe in a higher power that delivers on his promises.
Tonight, I predict that King James will deliver his finishing
prophetic punch and knock us all off our high horse for ever doubting
his ability to take the Jews of Miami to the promised land again.

When Lebron wins tonight, non-believers like myself lose the greatness
assessment challenge yet what we gain is faith in man’s will to win no
matter how big the resistance.  When Lebron wins we win, in knowing
that faith in your potential for greatness, will ultimately leave your
doubters in the dust like easily discarded road kill. When Lebron
wins, we win because it inspires us to dig deep and unearth the
greatness that’s within us all. Some of us just need to aim higher if
we want shine like stars do so our doubters can finally look up to us
and say,  I want to be like him after all.

Written By ,
Josh Kornbluth

Dada's Dirty Little Secret

 

“She never worked a day in her life”

Hilary Rosen

I’m a stay at home Dada and don’t consider it work. I’m not saying that because I don’t mind rolling up my sleeves and getting my hands dirty. I’m saying that because my baby isn’t a big baby. This makes my work load barely detectable. I feel less worked than any of the Kardashian kids. And since when is working from home considered work? Since when is dancing with your baby to Bob Marley at eight o clock on a Monday morning a heart palpitation waiting to happen?

If raising my baby was work, would I be happy to greet her in the morning before my coffee kicked in? If looking after my baby is a job, then why am I not hiding out in the bathroom for twenty minute stretches at a time that blocks out the smell of victory all together?

The idea of looking after two babies stresses me out yet taking care of a behaved one is literally child’s play. I get to play with blocks again and showcase a creative side that my parents never saw strong enough to build a career on. Every day my daughter’s Fisher Price Farm is something different. Today, it’s a revitalized Hop Farm in Upstate New York, tomorrow it’s a Belgium Farmhouse that produces monk patented, sour ales.

They say if you love what you do then you never work a day in your life. I’d like to revise that sentiment and say that if your baby isn’t a bossy asshole, then the pressure is off because there isn’t that much tension to manage; which makes the job of parenting less work and more of an act of love if you don’t resent their time sucking existence. If I didn’t have the option of dropping my baby off at day care twice a week so I can get writing done I’d be singing a much angrier, Rage against the Machine tune.

Managing my baby is a walk in the park compared to managing a sales desk that has to be constantly replenished with leads and prospects to pounce and exploit for all their worth. Updating my wife on what our baby bit or spat out isn’t updating manger info in Salesforce. I’m also not making up made up activity to show my wife that I’m not jerking off on the job either. Placing my daughter in her high chair isn’t hustling to place core Java developers with Directors of IT by making cold calls all day like a glamorized telemarketer.

For me work is a laborious, passionless, time robbing job that you do to just get by while constantly fretting about getting fired and having to ask your parents for help with rent. Still, when Hillary Rosen said that Romney’s wife never worked a day in her life, I said to my wife: Should I be offended? How dare she demean my 24/7, smoke free, Punky Reggae Party with my daughter and infer that’s its mere play time devoid of all resume building potential. Where does she get the balls to characterize all stay at home parents as sheltered bums? I don’t aspire to maintain my status as the most spoiled, boastful, stay at home dad of all time. But getting to learn, play and grow with my improved twin during my time away from the real working world has been ten times more enriching than any dollar generating job I’ve ever had. If there is a golden trade, parenting is it. Just don’t call it work, or labor of love, its 99% joy, especially when your kid gives love pecks on your cheek like Matilda Rose.

Written By

The most spoiled dada in the world

Josh Kornbluth

Legend of Levon

Levon Helm was the most charismatic, soul stirring, heart pulsating, rebel rousing, authentic southern rock star that’s ever lived. Greg Allman is perpetually dour; Elvis was the king of hip shakes, karate chops, lip furling and rocking out in glittering robes while Jerry Lee Lewis always looked like an albino on fire.

John Fogerty from Creedence Clearwater comes real close, but he never performed the greatest recreationalist, southern stand against greedy union pillaging in, "The Night they Drove Old Dixie Down." Nor could the Unfortunate Son creator ever match this howling, rallying cry with such reverberating, defiant, chills down the spine producing, southern, accentuated verve.

Johnny Cash is the master southern stud when he owns the song, "Been Everywhere Man", yet he never made me feel like I missed out on god cementing nature bonds with mother earth nor did he make me feel the hushed, uplifting mountain air chill and sheer contemplative impact from living in such pastoral, farm forest surroundings.

The lead singer from Lynyrd Skynyrd soared like an American Flag bandana wearing Eagle in "Free Bird" and bitch slapped Neil Young in "Sweet Home Alabama" yet never crooned lines about longing for the land of Coca Cola on the Spanish Steps with such heart wailing, non-cheesy sentimental stylings. Plus, Levon never had to sell his southern cred by rocking out in a Confederate General Hat either.

Only Levon Helm could make the dirt caressing, live off the land, Walden Pond penning existence seem like a lively, spirit filled, transcendent topping; self revealing experience without being bored to death by it. Rest in peace Levon, only a legend like you could paint such a lovely masterpiece.

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth