What was the highlight of my week? Having lunch with my wife, only to tell her, “I’m done with drinking. I’d rather become famous and wealthy than fight with you again, shitty constellation prize.”
My highlight last week, after coming back from an open mic in Nyack, was deciding to start reading a Diary of a Wimpy Kid book that my youngest son had been pushing me to read all month, Hot Mess. I read it on half an edible in one sitting when my wife and two other glorious children were asleep last Friday night. I made swordfish for the family in an exotic Sicilian green olive, caper, and cherry tomato concoction that I threw together on top after frying up the swordfish in nothing but avocado spray on the cast iron beforehand. I also made time to gather around the kids for our Friday Shabbos candle prayer and a wine prayer for kosher grape juice. In my book, The Koshertarian Comedians, I wrote about getting closer to my children by inspiring them to follow my new kosher diet, as I used my kids like open mics as our new gourmand Koshertarian chef, aiming to deliver more double fisters and less yuck, yuckers. My book The Koshertarian Comedians is available on Amazon. View it as a tremendous antisemitism-qualifying gift for the upcoming holiday season.
In my book, The Koshertarian Comedians, I also talk about how cooking with my kids and doing Shabbat prayers with my children is holy bonding time. Any activity that I get to share with my children, like Stickball Shiva, which I did with my two sons, Studs Alerts on The Loose, and my old dear friend from high school, Chaim, a total mensch and a half, is precious bonding time that allows my heart to shine. It’s been two months since my father passed, whom I always affectionately called Big Guy. I got closer to him in ways I couldn’t when he was alive by finishing my play In Defense of Hanukkah after he passed. We were barely on speaking terms before his death. The last time we spoke, I talked about taking his two pitch-perfect grandsons to the Knicks parade as I yelled at the top of my lungs to Knicks Nation, “Leon Rose Park, Leon Rose Park, Dynasty Begins, Dynasty Begins. I haven’t been on social media all day. Has Wemby jumped off the Eiffel Tower yet? Has Frogger Freak taken the leap?”
Deep down, I knew it hurt my dad that I got to share this once-in-a-lifetime moment with my sons, knowing he’d never make the schlep on my behalf. Not my favorite conspiracy theory, but it’s up there. On the Metro-North ride up to the city, the Knicks fans sitting behind us told us that the subways were packed to capacity. So, I loaded my sons with Matcha Lattes, and we walked 42 blocks to the subway before taking a transfer that got us off at Broad Street. We saw a Knicks fan in a free Oakley shirt during our trek down to the parade along the Canyon of Heroes, which was worth the schlep alone. Again, any purposeful hangout time is always holy bonding time with my sons, AKA, A Plus Ashkenazi twins, their big sis Big Beat included. Matilda, my oldest child, my Bashert in my book The Great American Jew Novel and in real life, is the endlessly empathetic older Jewish sister I always wanted. Now, she’s in the High Honor Roll Society, a straight-A student starting middle school in 10th grade, who just played her first sectional finals game at the Westchester County Center and is a writer for her school newspaper for the second year in a row.
She’s given me endless nachas since she was born and makes this aspirational do-it-all dad the most touching, creative birthday cards imaginable. I can’t picture myself not coming through for her because she’s always been there for me.
One year for Hanukkah, I made a comedy record called Big Mouth Moses and schlepped my three kids all the way up to Troy, NY, in the dead of winter, total no-man’s-land, just so I could snag Schmaltz Brewing’s Lenny Bruce’s RIPA, a fantastic beer and one of my all-time favorite IPAs by far. It tastes like royal purple. Later that night, I’m celebrating Hanukkah as if it’s my own high-end Mardi Gras, drinking my Lenny Bruce RIPAs, a nice Cab, and an obscene amount of semi-pricey Kentucky bourbon. Later, I got comfortable on my daughter’s bed as she went to sleep, and I passed out beside her. Sounds like a pretty innocuous night so far: no puking, no blackout, no angry outbursts, just a fun-loving Hanukkah night in the Kornbluth household, in the presence of Big Mouth Moses, our new famed nutcracker that resembles old-school Old Testament Moses and is displayed prominently on the comedy record cover for Big Mouth Moses, along with my book The Great American Jew Novel, the Lenny Bruce RIPA beer, and, of course, the menorah for Hanukkah.
But God works in mysterious ways, because the following morning I realized that my pants were drenched, which meant I had lost control of my bladder and my crazy hick DNA again. My dad was a Jewish kid from the Bronx, and my mom was a Southern belle who grew up in Louisville, Kentucky. Soon after, I did a year without beer as I continued to write my book The Koshertarian Comedians to prove to my kids that I could control Dad’s crazy hick DNA. I also wanted to lose some weight, conquer my white man’s disease, and dunk a basketball in front of my kids, finally proving to them and my father that I was no longer a Waste of Height. Naming my debut book of flash fiction Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories wasn’t getting the job done. Then, one muggy August day, I finally did it. I dunked in front of my three glorious seedlings. I flew to the hoop. When I landed, I said, “It’s got to be the bat shoes, made in Wuhan, Wuhan, Wu Tang forever, Challah, thank you very much.”
I decided to start a blog series about growing closer to my youngest son, Samuel, by getting familiar with all these Diary of a Wimpy Kid books that have touched his soul, brought him joy, and stimulated his joy of reading for reading’s sake. When my son was having trouble sleeping, I recommended that he start reading at night and explained how that helps make your brain sleepier eventually. So, my wife got him a night light for his room, and he’s reading up a storm now. Caring parenting matters, so I’ve decided to launch a new blog series, Diary of A Sober Dad, where I can get closer to my son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, by getting familiar with these Diary of a Wimpy Kid books so we have another thing to share together, something he initiated rather than the other way around, like me pushing the Knicks on him, especially after we got Karl-Anthony Towns, when I boldly predicted to my two sons, “My protest of the Knicks for throwing Charles Oakley in Garden jail ends now. With the Big Bodega, the Knicks can win it all now, watch.” I never believed that Melo was going to bring us a ring. And Melo doesn’t deserve to be in the same Corona commercials as perpetually clutch Eli Manning. The only thing Carmelo Anthony should be the spokesperson for is Tampax Tampons. Name another ex-Knicks player responsible for stopping so much flowage.
I’m also starting this mini book club with my son because, deep down, I believe my son pushed these books on me so I could recognize aspects of him in these stories that have touched him so much. That’s worth the journey for me. Before my dad passed, I proposed that we start a Bob Dylan record review club to reconnect and bridge all the mezuzah miles between us, knowing that music was always our thing. It never happened. That’s all the more reason to make Diary of A Sober Dad a mindful, healthy exploration of a father’s likes, loves, and aches that bring us closer together than ever before. I don’t want to bomb at parenting. I want my kids to always seek out my embrace as they get older, without any financial bribery, emotional manipulation, or shameless Jewish-laced guilt involved.
Now let’s answer the million-dollar question: Did I really read Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Hot Mess, on half an edible last Friday night but still have the balls to call this blog Diary of A Sober Dad? Yes, edibles are just psychoactive gummies, man. Seriously, Diary of A Sober Dad is about writing my way out of obscurity and achieving a book deal sometime this century. Diary of A Sober Dad is not about becoming a sanctimonious bore who quits drinking because I want to follow Silicon Valley or Joe Rogan’s lead. It’s about getting serious about being the best writer dad I can be again. It’s about unearthing perfect laugh lines; it’s about accentuating and emoting about the God-given beauty unplanned fatherhood has bestowed upon thee. I’m also making the commitment to read all these Diary of a Wimpy Kid books because none of the writing has made me insanely jealous one bit yet. That’s what Shel Silverstein is for. Already, I’m thinking about a new collection of short stories to write next, starting with Personality Type Crisis. David Johansen lives, Challah, thank you very much. The late, great New York Dolls frontman, songwriter extraordinaire, Mr. Chatter Box himself, co-penned “Personality Crisis,” and along with New York Dolls guitarist Johnny Thunders, is the reason Kiss and Mötley Crüe exist. You better recognize, Generation Z.
What I loved most about Hot Mess, one of the most recent installments of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid, is the wimpy kid’s insistence on questioning everything the way all great, red-pilled comedians do. The Wimpy Kid might as well be Katt Williams in pale face. Now, we’re cooking, America. Bernie Mac lives, Challah, thank you very much. My son was quick to point out that his best friend in the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series belongs to a country club. We went without heat last winter because our boiler broke and we couldn’t afford to replace it. So, I understand why Greg’s relationship with his best friend Rowley would carry more meaning to him that way. We have ductless mini splits now, but last winter our house was colder than Harvey Weinstein’s casting couch at the Four Seasons. Last winter was endless fun on tap: working for a minor league hockey team, doing sponsorship sales in Danbury at the Danbury Ice Arena. My commute was literally from one icebox to another.
Already, I see why my son connects with the Wimpy Kid, not because he’s a pushover putz, but because he questions rules and wants to do things his own way while valuing his own private-island space. I like how the Diary kid isn’t a social whore who needs to be around people 24/7. I like how the Diary kid bonds with his grandma on a deeper level because of his mature soul, the way my son bonded with me and my late father when he used to school my dad in Uno repeatedly, with such special, sparked self-assurance.
I did my speed-reading thing because I can only tolerate so much spoon-fed dialogue. Still, the Diary kid is feistier than the book cover portrays. And the title of this installment, Hot Mess, pertains to his family, my own, and most others, really, the Manning family excluded. I’m excited to take deeper dives into these wimpy stories as he continues to emerge stronger, wiser, feistier, and less battle-shy about meeting new people and trying new things, as his personality becomes mightier and less reclusive, while inspiring me to get more serious about doing the same as I give my precious IPAs another overdue break for a change, with pricey Cabs and high-end Kentucky bourbon during Hanukkah included.
Michael Kornbluth