Off the List

How My Girlfriend Domesticated Me

So I'm filling out a health insurance form for my new job and I paused for a second, staring down, the box that said domestic partnership like a sexually confused teenager, not knowing how feel about that label, exactly. I've been living with my girlfriend for the past three years yet I don't think domestic partnership is an accurate description of our relationship, it's more primal than that. Plus, domestic partnership sounds inherently gay and I'm not organized enough, stylish enough or cheery enough for that label. I'd describe our relationship as more like a circus act, my girlfriend is the Ring Leader of the Circus and I'm the tall, freak. Let me rephrase that, my girlfriend is the Animal Tamer and I'm the knock kneed, freak on stilts. So as I'm staring down the box that says, domestic partnership, I started thinking about how my girlfriend has domesticated me, the freaky, giant who burps loud, stomps loud, laughs loud and screams loud in the middle of the night like a scared little girl, my girlfriend calls him them night screams, but I call them freaky shrieks.

 

Above all else, my girlfriend domesticated me by forcing me to use baby wipes, so I can do a better a job of cleaning the inside of my bum. About one year into the relationship, my girlfriend, had seen one to many pairs of brown streaked boxers which is unacceptable behavior unless I was on death row in the OZ state penitentiary who could hear my fellow innmates get fried in the electric chair.  In fact, she told me that I could die of toxic shock, if I didn't wipe my bum better. Now, many things scare me but dying from a dirty bum would make the top of the list, so I've been using baby wipes ever since. In other words, my girlfriend potty trained me like a stupid, smelly dog. What would happen if I died from a dirty ass, I mean toxic shock? What would my girlfriend say at my funeral, I told you he was a dirty Jew, but what do you expect, dirty mind, dirty mouth, dirty bum. What would my obituary say, blue comic dies from brown boxers? My girlfriend has domesticated me in other ways besides potty training. I hang up towels now, after I wipe my load on it. I wash the dishes when my girlfriend mops the floor and scrubs the tub, I think it's a fair trade-off. I recycle all the plastic, glass and paper, so I'm helping save the ozone layer, my soul and my relationship all at the same time. My girlfriend also stopped my chronic belching by telling me to eat slower and take smaller bites. In the past, I would inhale her veggie burgers like I was sucking them out of a bong. She has helped me with my drinking problem in the sense that she placed a liquor ban in our apartment because when it's there, it never lasts, past that morning or evening. I'm a slower drinker now. I no longer down beers like Dixie cups filled with water. I no longer suck down beers with that desperate edge you have at the close of happy hour. My girlfriend has turned me on to tea, so that's domesticated me, in the sense that I'm beginning to act more like an English fairy, every day. My farting has decreased also. She force feeds me these anti-inflammatory farting pills, called Beano, so between those pills and all of those soy based veggie burgers, my colon has neve been cleaner. Sexually speaking, she wishes that I acted more like my sexual beast of old. Our apartment has become a safe cocoon of sorts yet the subway still brings our my inner gorilla, at times I find myself swinging from a subway pole as I grope her body and press up against her so, she could feel my banana.

 

Looking back, my girlfriend has done wonders on me. That woman has domesticated me like a great Dane. She must be a softy for big, stupid, hairy animals. I mean, why else would she take me in? I guess our relationship is a domestic partnership of sorts, now that I hang up my soggy towels and wipe my bum with baby wipes. Are domesticated men, better men because of it,yes, are domesticated men, better lovers, yes,are domesticated men better sex hounds no. But my sexual bark hasn't lost it's bite altogether. At least, the sexual beast comes to life on the subway which is like an overcrowded jungle. So that's my story, that's how my girlfriend domesticated me, how's that for toxic shock. 

 

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recession Special

I'm starting a new sales job on Monday so I'd like to reflect on my sales career and what a long ego trip it's been. I don't need steroids to get a bigger head than I already have. But why is that, how did my ego grow,what gave it such confidence? My first trace of ego, was Senior Year in High School, I had finally gone to first base with an Israeli girl the summer before. I came back to school a changed man, there was a bounce to my step but I stilled walked on my tippy toes, so it looked like I was walking through the high school gym in high heels instead of high tops.   

 

I didn't lose my virginity till I was twenty, that was a crushing blow, to my once blossoming ego. The main problem was that my younger brother had lost his virginity before me, so for many years I felt like a perpetual loser who got tripped up at the starting gate. Once I lost my virginity, I picked up any scraps of ego that were left.

 

My first sales job was about a year out of college, prior to that, my confidence was quite shaky, I was living in Los Angeles, the only person I knew out there was my roommate and he was a complete stranger. I stuttered like the fat kid from Billy Madison except I was a grown up twenty two year old who graduated from one of the top communication schools in the country. How's that for irony, my parents blow a hundred grand on my college education and I graduate from one of the best communication schools in the country with a stutter.  My first sales job was with this IT staffing firm, it introduced me to the world of cold calling which made me the man I am today. If you ask me where I got my ego from, I'd say the phone or from sporadic one night stands. My stutter kicked into overdrive whenever I made a connection with a decision maker over the phone: Hi, I was referrrrred to you as the ITTTT Manager is that corrrrrect, wrong, click. But the more I did it, the better I got. Pretty soon, I was scheduling interviews with high level IT Managers who were twice my age,  without even sending over resumes first. Bear in mind, I never met these managers either, with just one cold call, I could pick up a potential new client because they trusted the sound of confidence that blasted through their receiver. These victories helped reshape my ego, making it bigger, bolder and more resilient than before. Ultimately, it was the idea of being able to create something out of nothing that made my ego bloom.  What I mean by that is my ability to convert a cold call in a $20,000 deal with no help from anyone besides my big headed friend.The same applied to meeting woman.  The more I approached girls, the smoother I got at flirtatious banter, the reason why is because my confidence grew, and I got more comfortable expressing myself, when did this blog turn into a self ramble from Tony Robbins. 

 

Anyone that works in sales, knows that ego knocks down doors. Without ego, the door gets slammed in your face, and then they throw a DO NOT DISTURB SIGN on the doorknob. If it wasn't for ego, I wouldn't have met the love of my life, if it wasn't for ego, I wouldn't have got my new sales job. I'm finally working for a real name instead of another sketch filled staffing firm that corrupts my soul and shrinks my spirits. As Monday approachs, I better sit down with my ego and make sure he takes nothing for granted this time around, knowing that there are thousands of New Yorkers looking for work right now, I can't say their more talented, my ego won't allow it. More importantly, I need to enjoy myself this weekend and give my ego one last stroke for all it's been through. My ego was marginalized and brutalized by dismissive hiring mangers who made me feel like a bum asking for change.  It's been a humbling experience but that's what my big headed friend needed. My ego is softened and he's a better person because of it. I guess this recession is good for something.

 

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth

 

 

White Plains is Off the List

I started a blog called Off the List, yet I have not explained what that means, so here we go. Bars in White Plains are off the list and what I mean by this is that they are no longer worth my time or my friend's money, they were the ones buying me drinks Saturday Night, that changed once I switched to scotch, my cherished mircrobrews lost their bite. I'm assuming that 99% of you don't know about White Plains unless your a guido groupie who goes to the tanning salon almost as often as your gudio boyfriend.Technically speaking, White Plains is a city located in the sleepy confines of Weschester County, it's about a forty minute drive north of Manhattan yet the locals chose to hang out there because there is something comforting about being surrounded by plastic four leaf clovers that cling to the wall like tar on teeth.  

White Plains is off the list, because it's not a real city, yet people try to spin it that way, now that the city has multiple shitty bars to waste away in whereas in the past there was only one. The city of White Plains has become a victim of it's own hype, everyone that parties there thinks that the city has arrived since Donald Trump built a condo building next to a state of the art movie theatre yet that's not enough to distract you from the dumpy stretch along Mamaroneck Ave, that's about as scenic as the parking lot outside of Yonker's Raceway. And the girls that hang out there lean toward the grimy side, their complexions are dried out the way glue sticks get when you forget to put on the cap. Plus, the girls powder their noses every two seconds, if you catch my drift. If they hear last call, chances are, it's from the bathroom stall.

 

I'm coming down hard on White Plains because I partied there Saturday Night with some old, dear friends to celebrate my new job, well that was my reason, some came for the eye candy, some came for the steady flow of booze, some came to disappear in the bathroom for hours at a time while others came to just enjoy their friends when they weren't groveling over some sweaty browed,Irish lassie who was about as stable as a bi polar actress studying at Julliard. My problem wasn't so much with the bar, but the fact that we were partying in White Plains on a Saturday Night which is amusing in your twenties but depressing in your thirties. Will we ever outgrow it?  When it's all said and done, we revisit our old stomping grounds because it's predictable and convenient which isn't a recipe for getting laid last time I checked, especially when you consider our group history of striking out. On a more personal level, White Plains is off the list because it reminds me of my lower self and the perpetual drunken haze that choked off my soul during my twenties. Also, it represents my aimless past, and that's not something I want to associate with anymore.

 

If anything, this past Saturday night, reinforced to me why, I turned into such a lush.  More importantly, it made me see how much White Plains sucks. White Plains is a sorry excuse for a city, it has no skyline, no diversity and no personality. The only thing this place has going for is that it attracts feisty, young Irish girls yet most them can't hold their liquor let alone hold themselves up against the bar without slipping away into the drunken night like a washed up barmaid, who wouldn't know what class is, if it fell into their clammy drink. My advice for all of you White Plains groupies, get out while you can, before you become another moldy fixture like the disheveled looking four leaf clovers surrounding you. Suck it up and take Metro North into the city. At the very least, you can enjoy a skyline that isn't limited to a mish mosh of decrepit looking Irish bars that are drowning in delusions of grandeur. But if you want White Plains, you go it, that city is a stationary spot to nowhere, it's stuck in a permanent rut of indifference to the world outside it, it can't break free of it's loser past, that's why White Plains is off the list. 

 

Written By, 

Josh Kornbluth  

Mr. Brown Nose

Today, I reached out to Perez Hilton, the famous celebrity blogger whose known for outing gay celebrities on his website which he thinks is just fabulous, call it divine intervention, if you believe that Jesus was a closeted homosexual who believes in liberating celebrities so they can love thy neighbor without having to hide it or live in perpetual shame. So I send an email to Pez, telling him that I liked his book and that the pictures were great, it was the best I can do, I read through it at Barnes Noble by the time I finished my espresso.  By the way; Perez is openly gay and originally from Cuba, so that must make him the pitcher in the relationship, considering the country’s reputation for churning out such great major league pitchers like former Yankee great, El Duke. And I’m sure he knows a thing or two about spit balls, that will be the last gay joke, I promise, Senior Hilton won’t mind and neither should you, the man is a shameless horror, his website is bright pink for Christ’s sake, not that I have anything against pink, I wear it well myself.

 The point here is that I contacted Perez so he could read my blog on Mickey Rourke, figuring that he would love it because it’s a funny piece about Hollywood, then, he would direct thousands of his followers in my direction because his recommendations carry some weight in social media circles. But before I said, hey Perez read my blog about Mickey Rourke breaking the golden globes curse, I threw him a compliment which was sincere; the book really has some great pictures. That’s how this blogging game works; you stroke blogger egos by commenting on how great their blogs are so they can check out yours and recommend it their friends, which will spark one giant blog off.  Writing positive comments is hard to do because there’s usually not much to work with, but that’s the price of admission if you want to play ball.  The idea is, I scratch your back if you scratch mine, but you if write something unflattering and make a digital heckle,  they’ll delete you forever, it’s all very grown up don’t you think?  My blog get’s no comments, that’s why I’m trying to connect with celebrity bloggers like Perez so he direct his fan base my way, he really does bring out the social climbing diva in all of us.  With that said, I understand the importance of leaving comments but writing one that’s false, for the sake of more readers, so you can latch onto his crowd is shallow, desperate and gay as far as parasites go. When my blog get’s off the ground, I will try not to invest too much into comments because most of them are made by gun shy kids who confuse brain farts with writing worth reading.

So for all of those that want to start a blog and impose your opinions on the world, you need to make comments first and lots of them. I can’t say that I’m excited about the project either. But first, write some blogs, so you’ll have something to reference while you circle jerk the blogosphere to its knees. You can’t get into the upper echelon of blogging circles without an endless amount of brownnosing, praising and gazing at other people’s blogs as nauseating as it sounds. Don’t think you can just cut in front of the line, and get buy on your good looks alone, I mean how many of us have a body built like Tila Tequila.  They might check you out by the door, but they won’t let you into their world of bookmarking, linking and blogging to people more connected than you unless you’re willing to satisfy their two comment minimum, who knows maybe one day you’ll compliment me. In the meantime, I won’t hold my breath.

Written by,

Josh Kornbluth

Generation Yelp

I grew up in what historians call Generation X, the Internet hadn’t taken off yet, people didn’t go online to search for Tapas Bars or porno, we were content eating double stuffed Oreo cookies and catching a glimmer of Emanuel 6 on Showtime After Dark before we fell asleep; it was always on way past our bedtime, how times have changed.  We didn’t read movie reviews on Netflix, mainly because DVD’s hadn’t been invented yet, I know, I’m older than Nintendo. Now, I can’t make a decision until I read a review on the Internet.  Who cares about my instincts when I can get advice from any schmuck with a wireless card and a laptop? How did I turn into such a pathetic copycat?  I bet you Generation Yelpers, are too hip for that expression you over digitized, super opinionated, Ritalin addicted, web surfing whores.

It was only after eating at this overhyped, overrated Malaysian Restaurant last night did I realize how dependent I’ve become on these user generated reviews that you read on websites like Yelp or Citysearch.com.  I didn’t even have to look at the menu, I knew what I was going to get the moment I entered the door, now where’s the adventure in that, so much for being spontaneous and free. When the waiter asked me if I wanted to hear the specials I froze, thinking: Oh my god they have specials, why didn’t they mention that in the review, now I’m all mixed up. 

It doesn’t end with restaurant picks either, I let these people affect what book I buy from Amazon, what DVD I rent on Netflix and what duvet cover I buy from Overstock.com like these people know the difference between a 500 thread count and a pile of hay. What is about an online review that looks so official? I guess it’s the personalized nature of it and the fact that someone took the time to write something, so it must be dead on or in my case last night dead wrong.  Last time I checked, movie critics were at the bottom of the food chain yet these days their treated with respect, especially bloggers, how did this transition happen?  I’m surprised that there’s aren’t more people out there who call out these new age critics for being the gutless, hunched over, talentless hacks that they are.  It’s not like these people went to Northwestern School of Journalism, I bet half of them are one credential short from printing out their degree in blogging from the University of Phoenix. Also, let’s not forget the fact that most of these bloggers are in their twenties, so their taste in music, movies, books and food is going to be different from what you grew up with, so the standards might be significantly lower from what you’ve accustomed with. For example, Dane Cook is no Andrew Dice Clay, Justin Timberlake is no Vanilla Ice, John Mayer is no Steve Vai, The Flight of the Concord Guys are no match for Weird Al Yankovic, Seth Rogan is no Chris Farley, and Ellen Page is no Janeane Garofalo, as much as she wants to be.  

I don’t mean to get sentimental about the good old days, when mixed tapes were a labor of love, and not just something you cut and paste, when MTV showed nothing but heavy metal videos with bombshell groupies that were passed around like hot potatoes, when kids didn’t own cell phones and rack a thousand dollar worth of texts just so they can tell their new BFF about what celebrities have herpes and what to take for it.  We’ve turned into a review driven culture, and the Internet dictates our tastes, that will be the legacy for Generation Y, the generation after mine, the one that supposedly got Barack Obama, elected President of the United States. I’m all for a steady stream of opinions as long as you’re not controlled by them. Do user generated reviews, reflect democracy at work, yes, it’s not like the Chinese can hop on the web and find the nearest abortion clinic in downtown Beijing,  let alone find a good Tibetan Restaurant. At the same time, I think that too much choice overwhelms our senses, so were forced to consult these reviews for direction as we run around with our heads cut off, surfing this boundless digital world.  If anything, we should all take a breather and remember; what it was like before blogging, texting and yelping and realize that you didn’t need to read five thousand reviews in order to make a decision. So if you want to preserve your inner voice, do yourself a favor and log off the Internet, don’t turn into a mindless, copycat like me.