Off the List

Sandler as host equals Oscar gold

I’m sick of everyone calling Billy Crystal a real pro. A pro that’s past his prime, a pro, that’s lasting on fumes from Analyze That and a pro that’s more dated than mob bosses using pay phones to avoid wiretapping. His edgiest joke during the Oscars was about Jonah’s Hill’s weight loss and how they were offering cupcakes after the show. Sly take down there City Slicker. And why did Jonah Hill bring his Mom to the Oscars? To show the world that he forgives his mom for raising a fatty. Billy Crystal is a war horse but a worn out one, that shouldn’t be put out to stud when he looks like a piece of Pickle Herring, in moldy, cream sauce.

This year, the Oscars felt real pathetic to me because it felt like everyone was so desperate to relive the glories of the nineties when comedies ruled, when comedic turned dramatic actors like Tom Hanks, John Cusack, Michael J. Fox, Steve Martin and Michael Keaton were peaking, big time. Back then, Hollywood was pumping out classic star vehicles for all the comedic studs like Murray, Candy, Chevy, Eddy, even Jim Belushi for Christ sake. But now we have to get excited about Jonah Hill getting dramatic, an overabundance of Paul Rudd, an overreliance on Jason Bateman, endless hyped, Judd Apatow, anointed productions, unwelcome Kristen Wiig bra shots, and Zack Galifianakis silly toned punch-lite musings. As Billy Crystal, pussy footed throughout the remainder of his final lap as Oscar host, it was impossible to not think of what Hollywood star could take over the hosting reigns and put crack-less Crystal out of his misery.

Jack Black would work if he could sing jokes, the entire time. Sarah Silverman would be great and make Ricky Gervais and Chris Rock seem like unik’s in comparison. But she’s not a movie star, got dumped by Jimmy Kimmel and is losing her slacker, hot Jewess, appeal which is strike three against her. What host could advance the art form of hosting, be edgy about it and ooze tremendous, bankable star power all at the same time? Will Ferrell, not unless he dressed an as Elf or got immersed in some character which doesn’t fly because then the show is more about his performance and not about the nominees themselves. The Rock would knock it out of the park yet letting him host would be Hollywood’s way of acknowledging WWE wrestlers as actual actors so that’s not happening either. Rosie O’Donnell would be funnier than Whoopee Goldberg and not nearly as predictable or preachy. Plus, her personality has more pop than Ellen and she outshined Larry David in every scene from Curb this year which Tina Fey isn’t pulling off, anytime, sorry. Wanda Sykes would be great at hosting but unless you’re a black, academy award winning actress that has done one woman shows on Broadway and Ted Danson in black face, you’re not getting that chance. At this point, I’ll just get to the point considering you already know my preferred Oscar host selection if you read the title up top and could stomach my pro-feminist rant in favor of new female comedians hosting the Oscar’s. The man that would make the greatest Oscar host of all time is a bomb proof, gold weaving comedic overlord. He’s the movie mogul that never gets enough credit, the miracle worker that made Hanukah sound like a cool inclusive event for a change, Adam; show me your cock and balls, Sandler.

Adam Sandler is the biggest movie star of this generation. Screw Will Smith, Sandler doesn’t need to play off aliens or be a drunken super hero in order to pack fans in the seats. If anyone has the embraced the concept of Hollywood family it’s this guy. His comedy buds are in all of his films and everyone wishes that they could get in on the action because nobody is having more fun than these guys. He’s also consistently reaching out to comedians that he wants to include in his growing fraternity. Sandler contacted Nick Swardson after seeing his stand-up special on Comedy Central. Years later, Nick co-wrote Grandma’s Boy and is a proud, proflic member of the Happy Madison family which is a farm team that everyone envies like the Yankees in the early nineties. Sandler also recruited Russell Brand from overseas after he was interviewed by him on MTV right before he got fired for dressing like Osama Bin Laden and consuming half of Afghanistan’s poppy crop that Arab spring. Moving making is a collaborative art form, which is the real glue that keeps the Hollywood family together and Sandler is the coolest overseer and fixer of that.

Sandler’s speeches at award shows and prepared jokes for talk shows are always funny. The only other star that delivers that much charisma and consistently funny goods on talk shows like Letterman is Howard Stern. Yet deep down, Howard is jealous of Sandler because Sandler has been racking in twenty million pay days since the early nineties and has more money than he does. And he didn’t have to wake up at 4 in the morning and fill up five hours worth of radio for the past thirty years while doing it either.

Also if you’re going to host the Oscars, it’s important that someone be able to quote lines from the movies you were in. For Steve Martin that would be check, Chevy Chase check, David Letterman, nada. Chris Rock gets a half a check for the line, “how much for one rib.” Adam Sandler has more quotable lines from Billy Madison than from all of the Judd Apatow produced films combined, including Funny People which managed to strangle out every last drop of funny in his DNA.

At the Oscar’s, Sandler could verbally abuse, Clooney and Tom Hanks and not sweat any career repercussions because of it. If Sandler hosted this year, he’d attack Clooney and say: Say what you want about my stoner slacker attire but I rock a Hawaiian shirt better than you do Clooney. And nobody is calling me a genius for it. Spielberg is a great director but he’s not known as a great comedic director who managed to strip Belushi of any funny in him in 1941. It would be great if Adam made fun of his spit filled, lisp or the fact that he hasn’t hooked up his wife with an acting role since the Temple of Doom. If he gave his wife one more juicy role to play, she’d at least have a higher a social standing than Tom Hank’s wife. I also hear that Sandler can throw down with the best of them in real life so watching him make fun of Vince Vaughn or Mark Walberg without holding back would be a joy to behold.

Eddie Murphy would've been a great Oscar host yet he blew that chance by backing his new boy, Ratner. It would’ve been poetic justice if he made fun of the academy for firing Chris Tucker’s meal ticket, but that time has passed. Its Sandler time, no Oscar host can go down smoother. Everyone wants to be a bud in his crew. Sandler as host would be Oscar gold. It would cement his legacy while Jim Carrey prays for someone to write a sequel to Ace Ventura, Nature Calls or Liar, Liar. Given the chance, Ben Stiller would try too hard and be unable to match Sandler’s irresistible mix of silly, sweet and profane. Fuck you EDDY, Sandler is the real Golden Child.

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth

How my painter painted me as gay

I hired a painter to paint my apartment. My manhood was under siege right after he saw the paint I chose when he said: “So you chose the purple. Was that not manly enough for you Dominick I ain’t no fag Scholanti.”  

He said so you chose purple like I chose to be gay instead of taking my life. “So you chose the purple. You might as well have painted a bull’s eye on your asshole. I respond with: “But it’s not your normal purple it, its purple haze. Your still abnormal and might as well have had me paint purple veined cocks on the wall as far as I’m concerned.

The End

By

Josh Kornbluth

Somebody to Love

If Patrice O’Neal never heard of a comedian like Anthony Jeselnik at the Charlie Sheen Roast, you were just another open miker and a “fucking nothing” to him. Now, Anthony Jeselnik is a headliner in real life but Patrice never heard of him so when he called him a nothing open miker, I lost it entirely because I still haven’t graduated from the open mike stage  and could relate to the idea of feeling like an ineffectual non-entity in the comedy game when you perform in front of the same eight comics every week. The Elephant in the room made Anthony Jesnelnik feel like some expendable extra that got crushed in that African charged Elephant stampede in Alexander. 

I got a tad misty when I found about how fast Bernie Mac died and how lost and betrayed he looked in front of his wife on his death bed as if the Comedy Gods betrayed him at the last minute.  But my heart sank even deeper when I found out about Patrice O’Neil being taken from us because his comedy was even more accesbile to me. Plus, he transcended race and wasn’t your typical black comic similar to Bernie Mac which is why Bernie stopped doing Def Comedy Jam after his career making performance on that show for all those comedy historians taking notes at home. 

 
I felt closer to Patrice caused he was real open about his sexually deviant behavior but never came across as excessively sleazy about it, just honest and funny. Patrice once said that he wanted to be likeable enough where white people would be willing to fight for him and claim him as a member of their team the way he would want to fight for Carlin and not just let white people claim him as their own.  I love that concept so much. Great comedy is great laughs with major league attitude, intelligence and balls behind it and Patrice embodied that ideal and made comedy gods like Carlin proud.  

Of course Patrice would do the stupid white girl voice and love to make white couples squirm the way only a big ass, gap toothed black comic can do.  I’m sad that Patrice is gone because he also spoke with real moral authority without being preachy unlike Paul Mooney. Paul Moony is a good joke writer and is black pride incarnate but how much can you enjoy Blair Underwood’s dad in a Doo-Rag on a bar stool talking down to the audience for hour plus sets?  It wasn’t just his physical size, Patrice really filled out that stage with his big booming spirit regardless if he was sitting hunched on a stool or looming large over another sold out crowd at Carolines on Broadway.  

For a while I considered moving to London with my wife who has English citizenship so I could do stand-up comedy there and find my voice the way Patrice O’Neal did and Bill Hicks before him. You have to give Patrice props for hitting his stride in London. Prior to him, the last major league black entertainer to find their mojo in Europe was Josephine Baker.  Chris Rock did his international comedy tour with stops in Australia, South Africa and England  but at that point, he was already set up for life like Heather Mills. 

Patrice got some bit TV and film parts but nothing that showcased the full flavor of his comedic persona the way Eddie and Martin Lawrence have been able to do. Even the Fat Boys were able to do Disorderlies which was HBO heaven back in the day. But in Hollywood, you don’t have any major black comedic directors besides Keenen Ivory Wayans so that’s a tough hurdle to clear unless you're Jim Brown and was given the shot to punch out Aliens in Mars Attacks.  

For all of his race mining material that made strong comedic points like his last bit about how pretty white girls are searched for longer by the police than any other ethnic types, he was really best at breaking down sexual roles and describing his own sexual obsessions and real life experiences with such punch line hidden panache. They say the real trick in comedy is to manipulate your audience into thinking that what you're saying is just spontaneously flowing off the top of your creatively jacked dome and nobody did that better than Patrice. In one of his comedy specials he’s talking about an asian girl’s skinny ass and described it as being as skinny as a CD Case. Funny joke but nothing was obvious about the delivery. He tossed off the one liner without it sounding like a one liner. The line was tossed off easier than Eddy Curry’s towel after he called in his Limo Driver into the bathroom to see if he wanted to be ridden around in for a change. 

I discovered Patrice on Tough Crowd with Collin Quinn along with Greg Giraldo who is another fallen great one as I’m sure you know if you're still reading this tribute. Giraldo always got more laughs from me yet Patrice carried himself with such nonchalance, gravitas. Patrice was one of the last towering stand-up comics that I really wanted to see live at Carolines on Broadway.  I know he’s from Boston but to me I think of him as the king of underground New York Comics that’s was a monster comedic creation that only the city can create when you consider the 24/7 stimulus, perpetual hostility and endless amount of clubs to perform in.

I saw Patrice as part elephant, part clown, part lion tamer, part muscle man and part tight rope artist, all wrapped into one on stage.  He was a one man circus that held court in royal underground comedic caves like the famed Comedy Cellar on MacDougal street in New York that’s now made even more famous by another comedy great, Louie CK. I’ll miss Patrice’s heart rendering honesty the most. I just saw clip on Youtube from Jimmy Fallon when he admits to being scared the first time he heard NWA going:” Straight from where. I’m out of here.”  He then addressed the afro drummer from the Roots and commended him for admitting that he was scared of them as well which takes courage when: “You’re  a black man that doesn’t act it”, classic Patrice. What better way to show the white world that he wanted them to love him by showing what a pussy he can be.

41 is so young. I’m 35 and don’t even have a proven ten minute set yet I wouldn’t even know that because I’m an unemployed first time daddy that can’t chase down open mikes with reckless abandon until I move out of my parents house. The NY Times was right, most comics would envy his comedy career. Patrice got all the HBO and Comedy Central specials that every comedian dreams of.  More importantly, he earned the title of being a comic’s, comic which is having the respect of all the other comedic heavyweights that he used to crack up at open mikes when everyone was a nobody together. That's s what makes his legacy so impressive and inspirational to me.

My favorite memory of  Patrice is the hero’s welcome he got when he appeared on Jim Norton’s Down and Dirty.  Sure it was an Opie and Anthony crowd which he was a regular guest on yet it was obvious that the audience knew that they were in the presence of a black comedy hero that they’d be willing to fight for. Patrice made the stand-up comedic proffesion a much deeper, holier, pursuit than any of his draping silver chains and trench coat mafia coats would indicate. I would’ve loved to make Patrice laugh at the Comedy Cellar and hear that soulful, spastic, he-haw laugh that envelops a room and screams touchdown.  I have no right to claim you as one of our guys Patrice because you're way too cool and much too black but Mike Epps has a shot though.  Rest in peace big fella. In my eyes, you’ll always be somebody to love.  

Rest in Peace 

From an aspiring somebody 

Josh Kornbluth 
 






 

 

My Little Greek Landlord Throws a Toga Party

                                
I live in a new shimmering three level orange colored apartment building right off the East River that is decorated in the middle by a wrap around balcony that drapes around the waist of this Toga Palace which is where my Little Greek Landlord lives with his incredibly bang-able without any makeup on, Greek accented wife that hails from a prestigious Olive Oil family off the Island of Crete that made it’s fortune for coining the expression Extra Virgin which was used as a PR ploy to downplay the horny devil gene that made the female side of this family so hog wild. Last Saturday night my Little Greek Landlord threw a giant Toga Party in honor of Apollo who inspired him to make his Toga Palace look like a rich, deep sunset as it  skinny dips into the Mediterranean. Meanwhile, I’m one floor below with my new born and wife watching the Fabulous Baker Boys on a Saturday Night not feeling so fabulous in my new cherished Addis sweat pants which have become my stay in gear of choice along with a faded V Neck Gap Shirt which is a far cry from the orgy proper gear worn above. 

Europe always trails behind America in pop music by a solid decade and Greece is no exception because on this night we heard a dated stream of  poppy techno that came off cheesier than Joey Fatone. Everyone always praises the big Greek Community in Astoria which I’m not apart of tonight which makes me feel like a loser freshman all over again.  

The doors just opened to this Toga Bash and the half bald, Aristotle types and out of work Philosopher Professors trip over their robes as they make a mad dash to the kiddy table so they can play footsie with the little undeveloped Greek kids under their toga sheets before they dart up to dance to Dancing Queen. My Little Greek Land Lord puffs out his chest as he puffs his millionth Marlboro Red while casually leaning up against his balcony while being surrounded by heated lamps on both sides which give the balcony party scene an LA rooftop sort of feel yet the view across the river from his wrap around patio is of the beaming, twinkle towering Manhattan skyline not hollow Hollywood, which compels him to keep that chest puffed out knowing how small my Little Greek Landlord must feel under it’s larger than life presence. 

A Tzatziki white Greek Woman jugs a bottle of red wine while everyone around her cheers with ravenous delight as you see her own jugs juggle at an equally ferocious rate. By the time she finishes jugging the jug of wine, she throws the jug down with authority outside the balcony window which picks up speed as it flies by my Little Greek Landlord on the balcony as he tilts his head at the last second to avoid getting smashed yet the jug ends up clipping his cigarette in two before it comes crashing down on the street which makes a deep, hallow pouncing sound because it was made of plastic. Glitzy lights, Heated Lamps and Plastic Jugs is the closet thing you can get to an  LA party scene in Queens and it’s those tiny details that made this Little Greek Landlord’s Toga Party shine above the rest. 

By now the Little Greek Landlord’s Greek brothers are getting incredibly smashed and taking turns making out with the framed Sophia Loren picture on the wall. My Little Greek Land Lord points at the Tzatziki white Greek woman that is running around the apartment with her wine stained shirt off, exposing only her bright red bra. And he says to his friends in an objectifying way: Just like her father’s Diner, she’s always open for business, she’ll take you in any time no matter how drunk you get.  

My Little Greek Landlord’s wife overhears the insult and slaps him on the cheek which generates a ohhhhhhh from the Greek Electrician, Plumber, Cable Installer, Restaurant Owner, Mechanic, Diner Greeter and that’s just his brother.  She freezes for a second, unsure of whether he’ll strike back which would be a death blow to the Toga Party. Instead, he grabs her hip and rams up against her with controlled force and starts to kiss her deeper and more passionately than the day he plucked her off the Island of Crete in his Calamari Boat with promises of a brighter, richer, fuller life in Astoria even though it’s dirty, smelly and unkempt and a poor place to raise two daughters with no playgrounds in sight. The Greek King and Queen catch a breather from their love filled Toga torching kiss. Then, their two beautiful olive oil skinned daughters come running up to them and grab on to a leg a piece and hold on  with all their might, wishing the party would go on forever as the first hushed winter over breeze blankets the wrap around balcony which is the only play ground these girls need. At this moment, my Little Greek Landlord is able to block out the grime, graffiti and burnt down, infested , abandoned plots around him knowing that he’s king shit around these parts, the big Bronzini in a small pond. Tonight, he welcomes Spring, toasts the Apollo God for his sun palace, and celebrates his prized family knowing that for now his two beautiful daughters remain extra virgin, including mine. 
                                                                                  

                                                                                                 The End  

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth  





 

What would Greg Giraldo say at his own eulogy?

What can you say about a prolific, highly intelligent, dark edged, pseudo political, drug plagued, comic that never found a hit TV vehicle, resented the road for it who died in his prime? But enough about Bill Hicks.

As pathetic as it sounds, I’m the only comic of my generation who came close to touching Bill Hick’s poetic, super tight, anti-authority edge except that I wanted to sell out but wasn’t likeable or marketable enough for the studios or networks to rally behind and push me as the next big thing or anything bankable really.

How is it that I overdose on prescription pills but Artie Lang screws up his stabbing suicide attempt? If anyone is going to die from overdoing anything it’s Artie, not me. Overeating hasn’t killed Artie, neither has overheating in that Babe Pig outfit that he wore for that sketch on Mad TV. Artie isn’t capable of overacting, because his acting career was declared over after his failed suicide attempt. Then again, Owen Wilson is still getting parts, so what do I know.

Hey, Artie some words of advice, if you really want to kill yourself, next time, bypass the straight heroin that you used to pick up from Delaware and overdose on Oxycotin, my death was accidental and premature but your death was supposed to be intentional and overdue.

I left four kids behind. It looks my consecutive shitty, father streak is intact. All I got to say to my  kids, is that regardless of whether my overdose was ‘accidental or not”, I still love you, more than your mothers ever did.

Then again, are any overdoes ever accidental? To start off with, you have to take a shitload of drugs, way over your normal average in order to overdose which requires multiple trips to the ATM machine and plenty of commitment to getting zonked and numb as humanly possible so how accidental is my slip up after all?

Heath Ledger, Marilyn Monroe, John Belushi, I’m not going to say they intentionally overdosed, but taking a shitload of pills, and heroin wasn’t accidental either.

At least, I overdosed at the top of my comedy game which is more than you can say for Belushi or Farley. Before they went not so gently into the sketched out, ultra dark night, no studio would insure them. Then again, I don’t even know what the inside of a movie studio looks like.

Hey Lisa Lampanelli, I know your busy packing more weight than Michael Douglas’s son but would it kill you to tweet a nice sentiment about me once I was declared dead by TMZ? You know the celebrity tracking site that you would crash if you were on it based on you pixel size alone.

Lisa talks dirty but she’s a real romantic at heart. When the comedy world tires of her recycled, only black men will sleep with my fat ass shtick, she can pose on the cover of black romance novels as the flabby Fabio.

I had a good time on the Collin Quinn Show. I appreciate the exposure Collin. As expected, it did nothing for my career except make me look like smuck when Dennis Leary came out with Rescue Me five years later after I called him out for not writing enough jokes to keep his previous shows alive.

My buddy Louis CK, gave me a nice a shout out on Twitter. Now that I’m gone Louis CK is the only twenty year, headlining, NY comic that can actually do family material on having kids besides Rich Vos but who cares about that buck toothed, pizza pie maker, his TV exposure is minimal at best, you can’t TIVO his name, without TIVO filing a missing comic’s report.

I was known for my scruffy, unshaven look. But that’s a sign of comedic genius, and that’s why Nick Dipalo is that one of a kind Italian incapable of growing a stub of a goatee.

What else is there to say? It was a nice run. I should’ve been happier knowing that I never had to work a real office job more than a year in my life while my other comedic colleagues suffered much longer and were bailed out from their parents more times than they’d like to remember.

I learned to kill with precision, I dominated every roast, and sold out my New Years Eve show at Comix with ease. My kids can grow up and say that I was the Bill Hicks of my generation and considered a grade sharper than the rest of my comedy class. As for my two ex-wives, you can’t suck my will to live any longer, the Comedy Gods have forgiven me for my sins, you should try too, make sure my kids don’t stay half a tards forever, banning them from prescription pain medication would be a smart start.

Rest In Peace,

Greg Giraldo

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'd prefer a girl

Whenever you tell a casual friend, overbearing mother or complete stranger that your having a kid, the immediate response is, what sex is it. You just announced the most natural, divine act that mankind is capable of yet the mad obsessions with sex already begins, this kid won’t even know how to play with his private parts for the next decade yet the so called grown ups are already fixated on the sex of your sperm scoring, fetus forming infant. I don ‘t care what sex the kid is because were committed to having it, abortion was never an option because it was sort of planned and my wife turns 30 next month and her eggs aren’t getting any fresher, so the sex of the kid is insignificant at this point and has no impact on my satisfaction level, sanity, sex life or sure-fire sperm shooters that got her pregnant after only firing of a couple of initially construed practice rounds by a cornfield while hippies blared Grateful Dead tunes like Not Fade Away which hummed outside our baby creating, top the line, just broken in, tent.

If I had to chose, I’d prefer a girl because then the kids will stand a better chance of becoming more like it’s mommy. I don’t want to pass down my knocked knees, can’t sit Indian style comfortably limbs to a boy that can’t go to a yoga class without feeling like he got the deformed end of the stick. Also, if we have a boy, I just know that he’ll inherit my trip over paved sidewalks while digging into my wife’s back heal, level of coordination which he’ll resent me for forever. I’m also not even close to closing that gap between being a shishy bitch and being a man’s man so at this point, I’m unprepared and unsuited to teach my kid how to be a real man let alone end my own humiliating, pussified, panic stricken state around power tools, bar fights or under the hood of a car while an oil covered mechanic hovers over me, raping me for all I’m worth from behind.

How can I teach my kid how to be a man when I’m barely clinging on to that title? I don’t know how to throw a punch, change a tire or avoid getting raped by an Italian Mechanic as stated before, so what type of man defining wisdom do I have to offer my potential baby boy? Thank god that your tall because nobody really messes with you even though they don’t know that your father’s only contact with boxing was him experiencing a boxer’s fracture after he punched a stationary door after missing an easy pool shot in some loser, sightless, bar outside of Hermosa Beach on the day of Rosh Hashanah where he had no business day drinking in the first place. What other pearls of man exerting knowledge can I can teach? Triple A is the most dependable friend a Jewish man can have. If you want to become a real man, you’ll tell me to not pay for your Bar Mitzvah and take you shopping at Home Depot instead.

I’ll also make to sure to prevent my kid from listening to all of my old hair metal records and to ban him from reading any collectible issues of Circus magazine so his bedroom doesn’t look like a house of She- Males, pursing lips, doing splits and licking their guitar shafts. If you want to be a real man kid, I’ll send you to Wilderness Ventures so you can learn how to hone your outdoor, survival instincts, scale mountains, start fires and stare down bears without trickling pee down your leg like a tepid tranny caught taking a pee in a back alley in the Meatpacking District in front of a group of drunk, horny, frat boys, about to strike.

I also hate this half a fag notion that you receive whenever I tell someone that I’d actually prefer a girl over a boy as that’s the most repulsive, sexually repugnant, hell damning statement an alleged straight man can make. I’ve always gotten along better with woman, and always found for more woman than men to spend my free time with. Having a warm, juicy, glory hole for me to nestle my macho man, maligning, monster inside certainly helps but once I’ve surpassed that sweaty sex period of the relationship, I’m spending what, five minutes a day inside there, tops.

Besides blah brained, vacant, yenta yuksters, woman are more interesting conversationalists than men because the majority of men are about as deep as the eighteen hole and as humorous as the blank faced, dead eyed, sleepy time, emotionally numb skulled Andy Roddick.

 Let’s face it guys suck. Guys cheat, get fat and try to get co-workers fired for challenging their corporate authority like humorless shriveled up pee, pee heads. In my previous piece, I placed slight emphasis on the female reaction to our baby announcement which was far from storybook but what these woman fail to realize is that I just expect a better showing from them in comparison to dudes who are supposed to be the ones that act stupefied, confused, and emotionally ambiguous from such uprooting, Christopher Columbus, new world opening discoveries.

I hate guys that drop lines like, I got to have a boy like an extension of them is crucial for the advancement of mankind or that his holy seed will give birth to the next incarnation of the Dali Lama. These guys always demand to know what the sex is ahead of time so they can mentally prepare themselves for the prospect of not generating more of them which was pretty sleazy, cheap and thoughtless last time I checked but brace away for not being able to perpetuate such a lovely, refreshing, concoction.

The main concern any father has for a girl is her being sexually assaulted yet my potential daughter will be well versed in the martial arts and will be shoeless until she earns her black belt so I’m not sweating out that outcome so I can wish for an annoying, loud, unsophisticated, run of the mill teenage boy. Wishing for a boy just seems beyond cliché and not all that unique. If we have a daughter, that kid has a strong chance of becoming a bad ass, long legged, hilarious, artistic, laugh out loud, balling beauty. Child Molestation has nothing to do with my desire to bang out a girl by the way. In the end, I’d prefer a girl because the world needs more super sweet, cool, funny, tree hugging, big hearted, gentle yet strong, love filled spirits that shine inside my wife and with some luck will be passed on to our child.

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Were having a baby!

Were having a baby! That’s the most mature, decisive, life changing announcement you can make. The only comparable proclamation a couple can make is: Were getting divorced, were adopting an Asian baby or were going to form a comedy team, move to Australia and form a love triangle with some exotic, wildly erratic, multi-lingual beauty that Woody Allen would claim credit for creating.

We didn’t tell our parents about the incoming baby till after we got married . In short, we didn’t want our unformed, colorless, turnip size baby to steal any attention from us because in five months we won’t be able to make a purely selfish decision ever again. We also held off on telling them because we didn’t want to deal with any potential, worrisome resistance, unwelcome, dreaded, I don’t think your capable of raising it, silence, or unpleasantly surprised sighs of disbelief. Telling our friends, siblings, parents and other close family members about our first, incoming, bloodline perpetuating, family creating love child has given us an immediate feel for how freaked out it made them in both the positive and encouraging and deflating, resentful, you don’t know what your getting it into sense.

First, we told my wife’s friends because her bachleorette party was coming up and she thought it was the respectful, thoughtful thing to do considering their shared history of lushing it up together since college throughout their high liver living, mostly care-free twenties in Brooklyn and Manhattan. So based on her friends shocked reaction to our baby announcement it seemed that we just yanked the plug out of their non-stop party machine existence yet to them it felt more like last call as the light at the end of the baby tunnel illuminated the stale, past its expiration date, binge drinking life that we just left behind and blew off for good. Two of my wife’s friends don’t plan on ever having kids while the other one does but struggles to find a man that worships her enough to give the middle finger to a lifetime of freewheeling, non committal brushes with lust while also granting her exclusive play rights to his penis pounder for all eternity.

My friends were a little shocked by the announcement but there is nothing comical about their responses that is worth exploring here. Yet I do derive a sense of perverse power over not sharing the news with former friends that I don’t value enough to share my blessed fortune with. At the same time, my friends as opposed to wife are older and already have kids and are mentally checked out from that spontaneous hook-up, hot pursuit lifestyle already. The only remnant of their unscripted, exploratory single city life is the bottle openers on their key chains although those probably went out the window along with their surging self-esteem when they finally decided to ditch a life of loneliness for a life of sharing blankets, meals, lube, rent, and in-law, scarring angst, myself included.

Now, her parents reaction to us having a baby was less stellar than I expected which wasn’t much. My wife tensed when I signaled for her to make the announcement so I came to her immediate rescue, my husband protect mode kicked into full gear as I said: Were having a baby, your going to make wonderful grandparents, congratulations. At that point, the mom who was already sitting on the couch, let out a confused, don’t know how to take this sigh and leaned her head back on the coach in a dramatic slow motion like we just told her that we couldn’t decide on the name of our kid because it’s going to be a cross eyed, Hermaphrodite. What do we call this cross eyed sex monster, beaver or butch? As her mom let out another surprised, tiresome sigh, I wanted to shake her out of this dumfounded, non motherly, emotionally retarded comatose state that was tearing my wife apart at a painstakingly, awkward, heart burning pace. At this point, it was up to the father to make up for her mom’s stupefied, incredibly annoying, glaringly inappropriate, sloppy reaction, no such luck. The man was tongue tied, speechless, all he can garble out was, I didn’t expect to hear this. Well, I didn’t expect you to instantly ruin the most special announcement of our lives with such clumsy, thoughtless precision. I know that your not excited about the prospect of having to spend any more time me than you have to but can you at least make an effort to conceal your glaring disappointment and displeasure in our family founding, soul lifting, divinely connected, humanity cementing announcement. If I knew you’d react like this, I’d have your daughter hide the pregnancy till the third trimester so you’d have even less time to cope with being such an unwilling, unsupportive, under whelmed, un-grandstanding granddaddy.

You might think I’m being overly sensitive or a tad judgmental for accusing the father of intentionally ruining what’s supposed to be a classically wonderful father, daughter, Hallmark scene or for making no attempt to heal such a broken, can never take it back moment.

As the extended awkward aura of bewildered silence hovered over the room like the ghost of spooked out past, her father rose the insensitive stakes and made a remark about how my father should be happy about being a Grandfather considering that he just had a heart attack and didn’t expect to see a grandchild before he died. Well, thanks for the pep talk there pops, just because you run marathon’s, doesn’t mean you can outrun the Grim Reaper. But I appreciate the projected highlighted contrast in reactions because it gives your daughter one last chance to be given an all loving, all enveloping, non judgmental, deserved, overdue, expecting mother embrace. As usual, my wife’s brother picked up the emotional load and infused much needed empty space with love and palpable excitement. My parents shed tears of joy when we told them that they’d be grandparents real soon which became that much more special knowing how much my wife’s parents squandered this insanely joyous, pro life-affirming, starting our own family announcement. Her parents must think it’s a rushed, non-thought out, financially unsustainable idea without their financial assistance. Apparently, having kids doesn’t stop you from always thinking about yourself after all.

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fear and Loathing in Coney Island

Were stuck in traffic on the Belt Parkway and a semi bald, pony tailed, pot bellied, George Carlin Dead Head type in a purple and green tie dye tang top emerges from a tree off the road that I never knew existed, were talking about the Belt Parkway for Christ sake. Catching this frenetic poster child for Baby Booming Dead Heads in decline run back to his car after taking a pee off the side of the Belt Parkway was a tripped out sight for my bloodshot eyes as we braced ourselves for the loony horror show we’d witness on the streets of Coney Island before we stepped foot inside the concert stadium to see the last living members of the Grateful Dead perform a show in front of the hippie bobbing, Indian style sitting, dread lock dangling Dead Heads that are basically lifelong stoners that will jump at any chance to show off their hippie roots and tie dye colors again. Dead Heads wear their tie dye shirts as a badge of honor that says: I won’t be interning for Goldman Sachs this summer. Trading Grateful Dead show tapes isn’t the trading experience Goldman Sachs is looking for and selling Grilled Cheese Sandwiches to thousands of desperate, munchie crazed stoners isn’t comparable to selling unwanted, complex, crappy mortgage related stocks either.

We finally pull off the Belt Parkway and are stuck behind a beat up looking VW van that sported Kentucky plates which could easily pass for a Cyrstal Meth lab on wheels. The back window was covered up to the top with grimy looking cloths that looked like laundry leftovers from the original Woodstock that never tried properly. Within seconds, an unwashed, tom boy in a wife beater and jeans hops out of the car and starts moving around to check out the traffic all around her as if it was closing in on her. Then, two seconds later a couple of backwoods, long haired, sketched out, inbred hicks hop out of the van and scurry around it like the Crystal Meth Lab inside just blew up in their faces which looked worn and ragged beyond their years. While being stuck in traffic, were surrounded by decaying row houses with stoops full of acne scarred, beat up Native American types that look liked that they had just spent the past thirty years in hibernation within a cut up whiskey bottle. But today, they came out because Coney Island isn’t used to visitors, this city was left for dead ages ago. The only thing left spinning is the Wonder Wheel, no spin classes are offered around these parts. Without the sudden influx of tie dye shirts throughout Neptune Avenue the only vibrant color is from the faded neon Nathan Sign, everything else that surrounds the area is bleak, run down and war torn in the harshest, poorest, post-apocalyptic sense. Were not in standard Grateful Dead country no more, if you catch my drift.

Finally, we turn along the main drag outside the baseball stadium that runs parallel with the famous boardwalk that is washed up, washed out and washed over by waves of poverty that drown out any glamour or allure that the Boardwalk used to offer. The Boardwalk isn’t revitalized or being brought back to life anytime soon. For now, it remains a neglected stretch of skid row as far as boardwalks go. As we turn on to Neptune Avenue which is the main decrepit drag along the boardwalk we find out that all of the parking lots are full which forces us to drive along the outskirts of Coney Island in order to find parking which is forcing us to question our desire to see this concert in the first place. What’s worth more, the tickets or our lives?

We pass the baseball stadium and turn onto a side street by a project building with a basketball court outside that actually had glass backboards which stuck out like a Dead Head that never smoked out of a glass bowl before. The real horror show began when we drove further down the side streets on the outskirts of town that is decayed and rotting from years of neglect and endless consumption of rock candy otherwise known as Crack. At one point, we catch a group of yoked out Black Guys in a back alley full of stripped off car parts and stacks of hub caps that obviously haven’t been flying off the shelves lately. The more circling we did the more half naked men we spotted on the street looking hard and mean as if they were sentenced to hell for not having the proper interview attire.

Finally, we find a parking spot by the Aquarium after two hours of circling around the hippie populated ghetto. We walk along the Boardwalk toward the Stadium and notice a group of blacks and Latinos dancing to techno of all music which is usually druggie white music but I wasn’t complaining, at least now, there were signs of joy in the face of such pervasive poverty and unshakable sense of hopelessness that infiltrated every last plank on that boardwalk by the polluted, rough looking sea. The walk along the boardwalk was my own Hunter S. Thompson version of a walk along the Vegas Strip mainly because I felt high from just inhaling by surroundings which were dominated by defeated walks of life that hobbled along boardwalk that possesses a dead feel knowing that most of the people enjoying a stroll by the beach on their Saturday night off weren’t in the position to travel to a place any more exotic than this.

Now, we get to the security check which wasn’t much of a check at all. My white skin got me a free pass on that one. You got the impression that they just handed security guard shirts to random middle aged white guys that were passed out face down in the sand.

Now, were inside the baseball stadium and the grass field is covered by this cheap, metallic floor which made us feel like caged in, acid freaks. You can’t move an inch without inhaling hemp oil. We dance to the music as Bob Weir sings, “One More Saturday Night” with a renewed, soul strengthing verve. A picture of the grizzled, bearded, legendary, number two in command of the Grateful Dead, Bobby Weir, pulsates on the big screen as he lets off a heavenly howl after the chorus for, “One More Saturday Night.” He looks like a chiseled monk god that Jerry Garcia would have been if he ever took up yoga instead of heroin. Just when you think the song was over, Bobby blares out one more Saturday Night chant which drives everyone into an higher state of ecstasy that only a life long Dead Head can achieve.

The song ends and the first set ends with it. At that point, I take one look at my fiance and say: I certainly don’t need anymore Saturday nights like this. So we headed back to the car, and drove along the the BQE and witness a fourth of July worthy display of fireworks along the Brooklyn waterfront, the Empire State Building and the Brooklyn Bridge provided the perfect backdrop, standing as prominently as ever. It turned out that all of the traffic came to halt to view this miracle of lights the weekend before the Forth of July. Hope was renewed and beauty had been restored to the universe. Coney Island seemed like a distant bad dream and fireworks injected new life into sky that seemed so constrictive and limited before. We saw flashing fireworks, flashing Nathan Hot Dog Stands and flashing Grateful Dead Ti-dye shirts all in one night, experiencing the good the bad and ugly of America all the way down the line. The only thing missing on this American Road Trip for the ages was Hunter S. Thompson offering ether to hitchhikers like the redneck hippies from Kentucky after their car got jacked in Coney Island by the junk yard dealers that needed another hub cap addition to their ever growing collection. Coney Island is no American Beauty but what remains of the Grateful Dead and what remains of the real New York skyline certainly is.

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth

What I learned from Andrew Dice Clay

 
His revised nursery rhymes set the comedy world on fire which later came back to haunt him as the constant request for Mother Goose lines grew tired.
 
Crowds didn't mind getting dumped on by Dice as long as he gave off that endearing wise ass smile that said, relax buddy, I'm just breaking the ice.
 
His drawn out introductions threw the crowd into the hysterics from just coming up with original ways to play with his cigarettes.
 
Dice talked about sex in a casual, relaxed manner as if he was hanging out with the boys in Vegas in their own private cabana.
 
Other comics resented his rock and roll stature because his cock sure attitude cut through their lame airplane jokes like an extra sharp razor.
 
When you sell out Madison Square Garden, there is nowhere else to go but down especially when your reputation is built on being the most foul mouthed clown.
 
Film critics didn't give Ford Fairlane a fair review cause there is nothing critics can't stand more than a good looking, funny Jew.
 
Dice hasn't aged well in those leather coats but that's what happens when you light up all those smokes.
 
For a man of his acting talent, he didn't have much of a film or TV career but I guess that's what happens when you drop the F Bomb on MTV for the entire world to hear.
 
If you ooze confidence like Dice you'll never get the gong, especially while performing bits like 42 Too Long.
 
Written By,
Dice Disciple, Josh Kornbluth

Back Where It All Begins

“Binge Drinking is the culture of today”

Wall Street Journal

Binge Drinking gets old when you’re the oldest guy in the bar. You look around at the younger girls and think: I’ve overstayed my welcome. I’d like to go out on top but instead I see myself passing out while doing a final bow on top of these half eaten mozzarella sticks. My tolerance is surprising because I never pledged a frat or played ruby in college. Plus, I have no relation to Hunter S. Thompson even though my mom hails from Kentucky like the great Gonzo Journalist which explains my ability to pound bourbon as if my crazy hick credentials were riding on it. I never needed cocaine to help me house a flask of Hennessy. I drink it straight up with no chaser as a young NAS would say. I have not missed a weekend of binge drinking for the past fifteen years. For all of the baseball fans out there, this streak makes me the Cal Ripken of Binge Drinking. My liver has taken more beatings than the coastline of Louisiana. Take my liver please.

You start to question your binge drinking ways once you realize that you’re the oldest lush in the bar. You question the wisdom behind your irresponsible yet casually routine weekend lifestyle of pounding, hollering and passing out before you even leave the house at 10 on a Friday Night. Once you’re the oldest lush in the bar you ask yourself: How about taking a weekend off for once? Your liver hasn’t had a vacation since the tenth grade.

I beat myself up thinking: Isn’t there anything else better that I can do with my time than binge drinking during my free nights knowing that I can sleep in the next morning? Is going to a bar every weekend for the past decade and a half the extent of my planning ability? Don’t I have any desire to graduate from these unimaginative, partied out surrounding? What’s more played out, this faded looking jukebox playing Creedence Clearwater ballads, my two dollar per first drink tip, or my obsession to waste my go out nights at bars that depress my spirit and accelerate my passing out process even further?

I hate to come down hard on bars because bars are my first true love; that is where my love of binge drinking was born. The first time I reached first base was at a bar. Not at camp like everyone else but at a shitty bar in New Rochelle. Knowing that the bar gave me my big break wouldn’t you be hung up on her too? I didn’t pop my cherry at the bar but I did my pop my asexual bubble that sheltered me from manhood. Now that I hooked up, I was no longer the bitter boy in the bubble.

 The release I got from this suffocating surge of teenage angst is why I fell so deep for bars and hold such strong feelings for them today. Bars are the only wing man I ever needed. I’ll never get over bars, no matter who I meet, my fiance included. The bar is where the action is. Binge Drinkers go there to get silly, let loose and expose those buried desires. Of course that is my positive, playful, white collar spin while most dudes get plowed at the bars during the weekend so they can hang out with their most reliable companion… misery and from there inflict it on anyone that invades their hard earned space away from bills, responsibility and civility around co-workers and disapproving In-Laws.

 Binge Drinking has many different phases. In High School, it’s your puking, stumbling, I don’t know how to handle booze and woman phase. In College, you hit the blackout/fumbling around with condom wrappers for the first time phase.  And then it’s the real world of getting sloshed with your co-workers on Thursday nights because you entered, the I don’t know any better phase. Finally, you’re about to hit your mid thirties and you reach the holy shit; I’m the oldest lush in this bar phase.  At this point, you can feel sorry for not graduating to swankier, more posh watering holes or continue to pound away while eying random girls like you’re the bomb as you revel in your off the market status rather than being stuck in the here all alone, coming off as excessively desperate phase.

 Drinkers don’t normally describe themselves as Binge Drinkers because it sounds like a term Nancy Regan would use, that AIDS denying bag of bones.  To me, Binge Drinking is more urgent sounding than recreational drinking. Binge Drinking is not setting limits on your alcohol intake. With that said, nothing encourages Binge Drinking more than an Open Bars. I stare down Open Bars at Weddings the way big time fighters stare down their opponents before championship fights. I give off this icy glare that says: Whatever shot you got, I can take Open Bar. When they close up, you’ll be wheeled away like Apollo and I’ll be the one left standing.

 Binge Drinking becomes a problem when it’s no longer fun. When you only do it because you’re in a bar, it’s there for the taking and you have money to burn.  Is Binge Drinking an alcohol abuse problem? Yes. Is it a manageable problem as long as you limit your binge drinking to the weekends? Depends on who’s buying and how much free time you have on your hands.  What draws me back to binge drinking again and again? Is it the warm giddy way it makes me feel inside, the way music hits me in just the right spot or the way it enhances my funny side and loosens up my yapping pipes? Binge Drinking still has a hold of me because it gave me a sex life and much needed confidence that helped fill out my lanky, unsure, virgin frame. I’ll never really get over bars because they provided me with a stage to test out my new founded MOJO. I’m grateful for bars the way I’m grateful for Open Mikes at Coffee Shops. They gave me the chance to roll the dice, let loose and get off all at the same time. The rambunctious spirit of bars brews inside of me as we speak. After all, it’s Friday Night and the Bar is calling me again, which is back where it all begins.

 Written By,

Josh Kornbluth