I am sitting on my balcony right now eating a sugar cone of Breyer's cookies and cream ice cream. I have been thinking about this cone ever since the weather got really, really hot and by god, it is really, really hot.
All around the city new hot-weather treats keep popping up for our attention, gelato chains have sprung up like chicken pox on a 6 year old, I can't even count how many frozen yogurt places have appeared, each with their own "recipe", and water-ice, that hometown Philly favorite of mine, seems to want to try to stand in my way of a decent walk home from work, no matter what route I try. But none of these can really compete to that once ubiquitous ice cream. These days, if a parlour does not include singing attendants or 40 different items mixed in, it wont open. This is a shame. I fear my kids will grow up dreaming about tiny spoonfuls of gelato when the weather gets warm. If this happens, what else could go wrong? At the Rita's around the corner from me, they have gone against the water-ice unwritten code that says you MUST have cherry, chocolate and lemon. Usually, I am promised, at best, strawberry and mango. What gives? With all of the slow food, 100 miles foodies around, how come we can't get a basic, and amazing, ice cream places where I can get my sugar cone fix.
As a kid, we were promised that if the weather was hot, and the family was feeling relaxed, a trip to the local 31 flavors was in order. My dad can eat a chocolate sugar cone like a champ. My folks would take my sister I to the local dairy and where she would always get a cone of bubblegum ice cream. There is something about competing against the heat, trying to beat the melt, and stop that sweet, creamy sticky ice cream from getting on your hands. There is something amazing about the almost ingrained tongue dexterity most humans seem to have to work a non-uniform mound of ice cream into a perfectly formed cone with just their tongue and their determination that speaks to us a people.
On this day of 104 degree heat, I applaud you ice cream cone makers and consumers of America.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
carrot
I will try my best to reiterate this anecdote, as told to me by my then super pregnant sister who has since given birth to the awesomist niece in the world who will one day care for my tired, sick, aching, smelly, pain in the ass, aging body. This one is dedicated to you Sadie Pearl. I can't wait to assign you chores!
My sister's water broke Tuesday morning and she and her husband made their way to the hospital. The call went out across the Kohn family grapevine with my mother and father sharing the news like Edward R. Morrow to the greater Philadelphia Jewish community. They stopped over at the local deli to pick up my sister a corned beef sandwich, her one request as she had been abstaining during her pregnancy, and drove as fast as two confused grandparents to be can be expected to drive from Philly to New York. Shockingly, they did not get lost going into the city and made their way up to the hospital room. I don't know what the trip from the parking garage to my sisters room was like, but I have a feeling it involved my mother proudly boasting about her granddaughter to my sickly people. She is a ray of sunshine in an otherwise painful world right?
She burst into the hospital room and, in her frantic way, attempted to keep herself busy. Since she couldn't physically give birth or act as mid-wife, she did the next best thing, she tried to feed people. I am guessing that she was in such a rush to get out of Philadelphia that she didn't have time to actually pack real food, so she sat down, pulled out a bag of whole carrots (not baby carrots) grabbed the vegetable peeler that she also seemed have packed and began to peel carrots in the hospital room. I forgot that New York 2010 reverted by to shtetl life. I will have to remember to supply her with a bag of potatoes and beets for the next birth.
My sister's water broke Tuesday morning and she and her husband made their way to the hospital. The call went out across the Kohn family grapevine with my mother and father sharing the news like Edward R. Morrow to the greater Philadelphia Jewish community. They stopped over at the local deli to pick up my sister a corned beef sandwich, her one request as she had been abstaining during her pregnancy, and drove as fast as two confused grandparents to be can be expected to drive from Philly to New York. Shockingly, they did not get lost going into the city and made their way up to the hospital room. I don't know what the trip from the parking garage to my sisters room was like, but I have a feeling it involved my mother proudly boasting about her granddaughter to my sickly people. She is a ray of sunshine in an otherwise painful world right?
She burst into the hospital room and, in her frantic way, attempted to keep herself busy. Since she couldn't physically give birth or act as mid-wife, she did the next best thing, she tried to feed people. I am guessing that she was in such a rush to get out of Philadelphia that she didn't have time to actually pack real food, so she sat down, pulled out a bag of whole carrots (not baby carrots) grabbed the vegetable peeler that she also seemed have packed and began to peel carrots in the hospital room. I forgot that New York 2010 reverted by to shtetl life. I will have to remember to supply her with a bag of potatoes and beets for the next birth.
Friday, May 21, 2010
gymfail
I am failing terribly at trying to uphold a tough-guy image at the gym. A few months ago I almost fell on my ass trying to put on a pair of long johns. This AM, while I was trying to get my towel from my locker (which was surrounded by a pride of juice-heads), I accidently pulled not just my towel out of my locker, but a pair of Cathy's lacy black panties which had attached themselves to the towel in the dryer. The upward thrust of the towel caused the hidden underwear to detach themselves mid-air and fly into the center of this group. I tried to give a look like "Sup dudes, yeah, these are my chicks. Yeah, I have seen her naked" but I think it read more like"hey pals, I swear I don't wear these (I totally wear these)."
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Sherry Kohn For President
My mother is running (unopposed) for Democratic Committee person in our home county. I honestly had no idea that this was an elected position. I hope she remembers that with great power, comes great responsibility for graft and petty larceny. If you think that George Bush mumbled words, wait until the Bucks County Currier Times has to spell my mothers made-up Yiddish words.
If our history books tell us anything, now is the time that my mother will have that affair she has always been threatening my father with. Most likely with one of her junior staffers. Sorry dad. That is what happens with you marry a politician.
What do you think the best campaign slogan for her is:
Sherry Kohn "A Brisket in Every Pot"
Sherry Kohn "I Am So Proud of my Children"
Sherry Kohn "That's the Story"
Sherry Kohn "My Future Daughter-in-Law is Chinese"
Sherry Kohn "No Running in Hallway"
If our history books tell us anything, now is the time that my mother will have that affair she has always been threatening my father with. Most likely with one of her junior staffers. Sorry dad. That is what happens with you marry a politician.
What do you think the best campaign slogan for her is:
Sherry Kohn "A Brisket in Every Pot"
Sherry Kohn "I Am So Proud of my Children"
Sherry Kohn "That's the Story"
Sherry Kohn "My Future Daughter-in-Law is Chinese"
Sherry Kohn "No Running in Hallway"
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The first Mr. Chung-Kohn
This past Friday, Cathy agreed to let me become her first husband. There was an opening and my credentials were stellar. With Rahm Emmanuel already married, both of the most qualified Jews on the DC market are taken. Sorry ladies.
Cathy's father, in an act of filial understanding, told her that he would be ok if we were married by a "Jewish Priest."
Luckily, my folks rescheduled their trip down to DC to this weekend, where, if all goes according to plan, the entire Kohn clan (Sherry, Lee Kohn, Rebekah, Alex) will go out to lunch with the entire Chung clan (Mr. & Mrs., Dan, Andrea, Audreybaby). No doubt, there will be awkward silences followed by loud Jewish aural blasts from the Kohn side of the table. That is how our people ROLL. We are heading to a Korean restaurant. I have told my dad I will have a print out of directions to the nearest burger place where will go IMMEDIATELY following our lunch.
People keep pestering me about how I popped the question. In order to save myself breath, here is how it all went down:
Friday night was a cloudy, wet, overcast evening. I had spent the afternoon talking with Cathy's folks and convincing them that:
A: I would be good husband material (Qualifications: I can cook a mean kim chi kugel, I learned the four questions at an early age, and, at my bris, I hardly shed a tear and lifted my foreskin triumphantly, clenched fist raised towards the sky.)
and
B: It would be unwise for me to take 10 pounds of marinating Korean short-ribs home with me.
I had a ring burning a hole in my pocket and nagging voice in my head saying, "Stop being a bitch. Ask her now."
I knew Cathy did not like public spectacle, so, I would have to go low-key. My being a romantic, and a lover of the movie Meathballs, I was pushing for something that involved long distance running and camp. However, the weather wasn't working in my favor. My sister tried to get me to hide the ring in a sausage, but we all know that Cathy loves sausage more than she loves me, and we would have never seen the ring again. I was thinking of hiding the ring in a pile of vintage clothes, but Cathy would have seen it and sold it at the store for $40 (plus tax).
So what did I end up doing? You know what, I don't think I am going to tell y'all. Next time you see me, just ask. The breath is worth it and the story is cute. In the end, Cathy shed a few tears and said yes. Or I think she said yes. All I know for sure is that there will be sausage at the wedding (beef) and that all guests will get a 10% discount at the shop.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
The visitors
My folks are coming down on Saturday. If anybody is curious as to what they look like in person, keep your eyes peeled to the area around 14th and T. If you are focused, you will probably catch my mother and I speed walking to some destination unknown and Cathy and my father slowly trailing a block or two behind, eating french fries.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Blueberries Hill
How I miss summer. I can't wait to get back on the road in the warm weather.
I secretly recorded this short clip of Cathy last year when we were staying in a little cabin on a low-bush blueberry farm in Maine. This is my own version of Watergate, except the only thing I am exposing is my lovely girlfriends digestive habits. No doubt, this is the end of a long and lovely relationship.
We would wake up every morning, pick enough blueberries to make you sick, and eat them with milk and granola. It was heavenly. Cathy did not want me to post this and says "if I (cathy) don't become queen of dc because of it then you are at fault." Sorry dear. I will make you a crown out of paper clips and gum drops.
The recording is low, so turn it up. For those hard-of-hearing, the text is as follows:
(footsteps)
Cathy: Let's go down, er, want to go up the to the hill first? Er, no, Let's get berries.
Cathy (whispering): (mumbles something that can't be made out, I wish I knew what she said. Any ideas? )
Me (laughing): ok
Cathy (whispering): And then we'll get more on the way back.
Cathy (whispering): And then I'll poop in my pants.
Me: Classy
Cathy: mmm-hmmm
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Bek
My sister has been on my case about not posting about her enough. She thinks I talk about my body hair too much. She wonders why I can't write more stories about her. I find all of this very odd, since most of her childhood was spent trying to avoid any sort of attention brought on by family. Actually, I think she spent a good portion of her childhood crying with embarrassment over something myself or my mother did.
This upcoming snowstorm reminded me of one such incident where I purposefully caused her shame.
When I was in first grade I had a babysitter who told me about a local, nearby hill that had the best sledding around. On a good snow day, it became a slick, thick sheet of ice. I had to go.
The next big storm of the season, I begged my mother to take me there. She bowed to the pressure and so she loaded my friend Jarred, my sister, and yours truly into the maroon station wagon.
When we arrived, I remember the parking lot full of kids running, red-cheeked, and full of excitement. I remember the feeling of energy in the air and the cool breeze. Before the car was even fully parked, I grabbed my blue plastic sled and ran for the first part of the hill. At age six, i was invincible.
In first grade I was still a really tiny kid. It wasn't until the summer of fourth grade that I discovered Beefaroni and Bobs Big Boy and chubbed up (forcing me to purchase my Bar Mitzvah suit from the "husky" section of Fleet's). At the top of the hill, I pounced on my sled and went flying. Quickly, the sheet of ice that the snow-hill had become took control over the sled, my tiny frame adding only enough weight for propulsion, and not enough for control. I started to spin, turning sideways, the entire sled veering to the left. Although I have no recollection of this, the hill was next to the high school football stadium, which was surrounded by an until then unnoticed chain link fence. The sled veered toward the fence. It flipped me around, and I hit the chain link, face first, somehow catching the bottom of the fence in my mouth. I was knocked completely unconscious. The next thing I knew, I was being carried into the ER, my mother screaming for help......
For my mother, the scene at the top of the hill played out something like this:
My mother, sister and friend Jared all ran to the hill after me, thinking they were in for a fun afternoon of sledding followed closely by hot chocolate. My mother watched as I hit the ice and started to loose control. She watched as I nailed the fence. She screamed my name. She screamed it a few times. Then she stole a sled from some kid (awesome) and came down after me. Helped by a couple of father's who were hanging around, they removed the fence from my mouth and carried me up to the car. My mother, directing my sister to stay behind with a known-adult, sped to the nearby hospital, where I was patched up.
For my sister, the scene played a little more like this:
After her annoying little brother jumped out of the car, Bek grabbed her own sled and walked slowly behind my mother, making sure that nobody would think she was related to or knew any of us. In fact, her hope was that, despite her bright pink snow suit and boots stuffed with plastic bag liners, the older kids would think that she was passing through, just another 8 1/2 year old on a smoke-break or back from a date with Chad Allen. Soon, she heard her mother (as usual) causing a scene. "God" she thought, "can't I go anywhere without her drawing attention TO ME?" In her mind, she re-lived a scene a few days before where, fearing that her son was stolen at the local kiddy-city, her mother walked the aisles screaming "Joshie!!" as loud as she could. At that moment, she could have killed to be whisked-away to the life she so desired, away from her annoying family, and living in a mansion with an indoor, rideable train set. Maybe she would even have a black butler.
Eventually, she made her way to the top of the hill, only to see her mother steal a sled from some cute older boy, and go down the hill herself. What was her mother thinking??? The older kids would make fun of her forever for this one. An old lady sledding? Just another stunt her mother was pulling to mortify her. Soon she realized that something was wrong with her brother. Was he hurt??? The action of the hill-side came to a halt as everyone attention focused on her mother and brother. Whatever happened, she felt, Josh MUST have done it on purpose. Soon her mother came storming up the hill, her brother draped over her shoulders, shoving kids, sleds, and parents out of the way. Tears of embarrassment filled Bek's eyes watching the scene. She started to tremble. She just knew, deep down, that whatever happened, she was going to have to move or run-away after this. There was no-way she was going to live this one down. The next thing she knew her mother was yelling at her (as if she did anything wrong?), telling her to stay behind with a neighbor, and she placed Josh in the car and drove off. There was no doubt about it, this was the WORST day of Bek's life.
This upcoming snowstorm reminded me of one such incident where I purposefully caused her shame.
When I was in first grade I had a babysitter who told me about a local, nearby hill that had the best sledding around. On a good snow day, it became a slick, thick sheet of ice. I had to go.
The next big storm of the season, I begged my mother to take me there. She bowed to the pressure and so she loaded my friend Jarred, my sister, and yours truly into the maroon station wagon.
When we arrived, I remember the parking lot full of kids running, red-cheeked, and full of excitement. I remember the feeling of energy in the air and the cool breeze. Before the car was even fully parked, I grabbed my blue plastic sled and ran for the first part of the hill. At age six, i was invincible.
In first grade I was still a really tiny kid. It wasn't until the summer of fourth grade that I discovered Beefaroni and Bobs Big Boy and chubbed up (forcing me to purchase my Bar Mitzvah suit from the "husky" section of Fleet's). At the top of the hill, I pounced on my sled and went flying. Quickly, the sheet of ice that the snow-hill had become took control over the sled, my tiny frame adding only enough weight for propulsion, and not enough for control. I started to spin, turning sideways, the entire sled veering to the left. Although I have no recollection of this, the hill was next to the high school football stadium, which was surrounded by an until then unnoticed chain link fence. The sled veered toward the fence. It flipped me around, and I hit the chain link, face first, somehow catching the bottom of the fence in my mouth. I was knocked completely unconscious. The next thing I knew, I was being carried into the ER, my mother screaming for help......
For my mother, the scene at the top of the hill played out something like this:
My mother, sister and friend Jared all ran to the hill after me, thinking they were in for a fun afternoon of sledding followed closely by hot chocolate. My mother watched as I hit the ice and started to loose control. She watched as I nailed the fence. She screamed my name. She screamed it a few times. Then she stole a sled from some kid (awesome) and came down after me. Helped by a couple of father's who were hanging around, they removed the fence from my mouth and carried me up to the car. My mother, directing my sister to stay behind with a known-adult, sped to the nearby hospital, where I was patched up.
For my sister, the scene played a little more like this:
After her annoying little brother jumped out of the car, Bek grabbed her own sled and walked slowly behind my mother, making sure that nobody would think she was related to or knew any of us. In fact, her hope was that, despite her bright pink snow suit and boots stuffed with plastic bag liners, the older kids would think that she was passing through, just another 8 1/2 year old on a smoke-break or back from a date with Chad Allen. Soon, she heard her mother (as usual) causing a scene. "God" she thought, "can't I go anywhere without her drawing attention TO ME?" In her mind, she re-lived a scene a few days before where, fearing that her son was stolen at the local kiddy-city, her mother walked the aisles screaming "Joshie!!" as loud as she could. At that moment, she could have killed to be whisked-away to the life she so desired, away from her annoying family, and living in a mansion with an indoor, rideable train set. Maybe she would even have a black butler.
Eventually, she made her way to the top of the hill, only to see her mother steal a sled from some cute older boy, and go down the hill herself. What was her mother thinking??? The older kids would make fun of her forever for this one. An old lady sledding? Just another stunt her mother was pulling to mortify her. Soon she realized that something was wrong with her brother. Was he hurt??? The action of the hill-side came to a halt as everyone attention focused on her mother and brother. Whatever happened, she felt, Josh MUST have done it on purpose. Soon her mother came storming up the hill, her brother draped over her shoulders, shoving kids, sleds, and parents out of the way. Tears of embarrassment filled Bek's eyes watching the scene. She started to tremble. She just knew, deep down, that whatever happened, she was going to have to move or run-away after this. There was no-way she was going to live this one down. The next thing she knew her mother was yelling at her (as if she did anything wrong?), telling her to stay behind with a neighbor, and she placed Josh in the car and drove off. There was no doubt about it, this was the WORST day of Bek's life.
Friday, January 22, 2010
T is for
Dear world, although I don't consume swine, I am formally nominating myself as your sausage man.Cathy and I got back earlier this week from a fantastic jaunt to Austin to where we ate a ton of food and hung out with awesome friends (in that particular order). Upon our return, Cathy declared the food in DC better than the food in Austin. I believe her reasoning is based primarily on the lack of Asian diversity. Speaking of which, we went to a bar our last night there to pick up some food. While Cathy and I were standing at the bar, shoulder to shoulder (sexy, right?), an older gentleman pointed to her but asked me "Vietnamese or Japanese?" I found that it was very understanding of him to both pick countries that were not China, and to ask the question of me, since you just never know who might be deaf & mute & from Asia. Cathy was not amused.
Our first day there was spent in the Czech-settled region outside of Austin. But first we ate some BBQ!
Then we headed out to the hinter-lands where we stopped in on a few of the amazing painted Catholic churches built by these Czech communities 100 years ago.
The next morning was spent in Molton where we went to a family sausage making. The men stayed outside butchering and grinding freshly slaughtered hogs, drinking beer and listening to Texas-Czech polka music. The woman were inside making amazing strudel. What does it say about me that I felt more at home with the ladies in the kitchen? Although I did not consume any of the swine, Cathy ate for the both of us. (although she ate and drank a ton while in Texas, the following picture is not Cathy)
The rest of the weekend was awesome but less picture friendly. We stayed with our wonderful friends Stuart and Larny who are the most amazing, hospitable people on earth. For some reason we ended up with a ton of pictures of Stuart and only one of Larny. What gives?
This is the closest thing I have to a shot of both Stuart and Larny.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
J is for?
Oh no.
Josh S just wrote to me to let me know that technically Joshua IS Jesus in English since both Joshua and Jesus shared the hebrew name Yohoshua.
See Etymology below.
But here is the real issue. Cathy's REAL name in Korean means Jesus (since she as born on Christmas) and my name means Jesus (since I guess secretly my parents wanted a Christmas tree or a kid who could turn water in to Manishewitz for cost savings) I guess am living with myself. Oy.
Etymology
Josh S just wrote to me to let me know that technically Joshua IS Jesus in English since both Joshua and Jesus shared the hebrew name Yohoshua.
See Etymology below.
But here is the real issue. Cathy's REAL name in Korean means Jesus (since she as born on Christmas) and my name means Jesus (since I guess secretly my parents wanted a Christmas tree or a kid who could turn water in to Manishewitz for cost savings) I guess am living with myself. Oy.
Etymology
See also: Yeshua
"Jesus" (pronounced /ˈdʒiːzəs/) is a transliteration, occurring in a number of languages and based on the Latin Iesus, of the Greek Ἰησοῦς (Iēsoûs), itself a Hellenisation of the Hebrew יֵשׁוּעַ (Yēšûă‘) or Hebrew-Aramaic יְהוֹשֻׁעַ (Yĕhōšuă‘, Joshua), meaning "Yahweh delivers (or rescues)".[31] "Christ" (pronounced /ˈkraɪst/) is a title derived from the Greek Χριστός (Christós), meaning the "Anointed One", a translation of the Hebrew מָשִׁיחַ (Messiah).[32][33]:274-275 A "Messiah" is a king anointed at God's direction or with God's approval, and Christians identify Jesus as the one foretold by Hebrew prophets."
I got rid of the beard since I am off to a conference in NCY today. Sorry dudes. Here is a picture of it and my hairy shoulders.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Long John Sliver
Yesterday, after a serious spinning class at the LA fitness (where the instructor referred to me as Mr. Scruffy, in reference to my increasingly face-overpowering-beard) and following the realization that the holidays and my travels packed an extra 9 pounds on my ass, I took a shower.
It was a fine shower with shitty LA Fitness dial soap. My post shower routine usually has me drying off, and then putting on my underthings before I head back into the locker room area, so as not to flaunt my covenant with the lord. Yesterday, however, I wore long johns under my jeans, since it is was cold as Cathy's heart outside. Not wanting to drag my long johns into the shower, for obvious reasons, I opted to walk from the shower into the locker area with my mini-towel held over my person-parts. Then, I decided that it might be embarrassing to change right into the long johns in the middle of the locker room, what with them being baggy, and my desire not to look completely like a mountain man lost in the mean city. So, what I attempted to do was slide both the john and the jeans on AT THE SAME TIME. This was a failure. With three Congolese guys laughing at me (I could tell, even if I didn't understand what they were staying) I tried to insert myself, one leg at a time, into my outfit. My first leg got caught in the johns, and I started to hop around, bare assed, nearly knocking one of the laughing men over with my hirsute backside. Then, when the leg started to go in, my big toe got caught on the underwear and ripped a hole right though, causing me to fall forward, cathing myself at the laft moment on a bench. Finally, after a good five minutes of public struggle I was able to assemble myself like an adult. I hate the winter.
The following is shot of people getting down in Colombia, where it was considerably warmer than 20 degrees F.
It was a fine shower with shitty LA Fitness dial soap. My post shower routine usually has me drying off, and then putting on my underthings before I head back into the locker room area, so as not to flaunt my covenant with the lord. Yesterday, however, I wore long johns under my jeans, since it is was cold as Cathy's heart outside. Not wanting to drag my long johns into the shower, for obvious reasons, I opted to walk from the shower into the locker area with my mini-towel held over my person-parts. Then, I decided that it might be embarrassing to change right into the long johns in the middle of the locker room, what with them being baggy, and my desire not to look completely like a mountain man lost in the mean city. So, what I attempted to do was slide both the john and the jeans on AT THE SAME TIME. This was a failure. With three Congolese guys laughing at me (I could tell, even if I didn't understand what they were staying) I tried to insert myself, one leg at a time, into my outfit. My first leg got caught in the johns, and I started to hop around, bare assed, nearly knocking one of the laughing men over with my hirsute backside. Then, when the leg started to go in, my big toe got caught on the underwear and ripped a hole right though, causing me to fall forward, cathing myself at the laft moment on a bench. Finally, after a good five minutes of public struggle I was able to assemble myself like an adult. I hate the winter.
The following is shot of people getting down in Colombia, where it was considerably warmer than 20 degrees F.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Up
Cathy and I just finished watching "Away We Go." Until she hit play, I was under the assumption that this was the movie about the fat kid and the flying house. It turns out that is another movie altogether.
The movie was very sweet and romantic, but Cathy spent the entirety of the film loudly complaining about the soundtrack, which was chock-full of low-level Nick Drake-like drivel. I was able to get past the maudlin music and focus the gooey-stuff, but Cathy held onto that rage like bun to a hot dog.
The movie was very sweet and romantic, but Cathy spent the entirety of the film loudly complaining about the soundtrack, which was chock-full of low-level Nick Drake-like drivel. I was able to get past the maudlin music and focus the gooey-stuff, but Cathy held onto that rage like bun to a hot dog.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
gee wiz
I know it has been FOREVER. I have been around the hemisphere and back. Colombia, Montana, Virginia, BERLIN NEW JERSEY. What a bunch of weeks.
I have a killer family story tell you all that involves intrigue, skin discoloration, hillbilly masks, and acts of hubris. And my mother of course. Sadly, she has forbidden me to to discuss this story or share the amazing photo. So instead I will put up the equally freakish image of Cathy's niece. Isn't she a monster?.
I started my month heading down to Cartagena, Colombia for a very, VERY last minute trip (I found out about it two days before I got on a plane). It was mostly a talent scouting trip but I was able to sneak in a scuba diving excursion. At least 5 different people I met seemed to be confused about my name, asking if Joshua was English for Jesus? It's not.
The trip to Colombia was amazing and that country has a wealth of musical assets. It reminds me of a compact Brazil. Cartagena was almost unbearably hot and humid, the temp hovering at around 97 with 80 percent humidity. I soaked through most of my clothes while the locals strutted by in jeans and long sleeve shirts.
The next week I was in Montana where it was 7 degrees.
Moving on...
I have taken time off life and worked at my families store in Berlin, NJ since I was 13. The one year I failed to show up to work for the holidays my car was doused in gasoline and burnt to a crisp while parked at the local Jewish Community Center. The blame for this act was placed on some hoodlum for Northeast Philly, but I think my father played a part in scaring me into a work ethic. Maybe it was his recipe for a version of Jewish scared straight. Anti-Semitism+ignoring of filial ties+removal of mode of transportation+being stranded in Northeast Philly=work for the family biz every Christmas for the rest of your life. Thanks pop.
It is always great to see my family in action of the holidays and even if my mother was incapacitated by injuries, she still was able to cook up some mean soup.
It was Cathy's birthday on Christmas day and if you failed to wish her a happy birthday you will burn in Christian hell. As a gift of Santa or Jesus or something, she has those sorts of magical powers.
I have a killer family story tell you all that involves intrigue, skin discoloration, hillbilly masks, and acts of hubris. And my mother of course. Sadly, she has forbidden me to to discuss this story or share the amazing photo. So instead I will put up the equally freakish image of Cathy's niece. Isn't she a monster?.
I started my month heading down to Cartagena, Colombia for a very, VERY last minute trip (I found out about it two days before I got on a plane). It was mostly a talent scouting trip but I was able to sneak in a scuba diving excursion. At least 5 different people I met seemed to be confused about my name, asking if Joshua was English for Jesus? It's not.
The trip to Colombia was amazing and that country has a wealth of musical assets. It reminds me of a compact Brazil. Cartagena was almost unbearably hot and humid, the temp hovering at around 97 with 80 percent humidity. I soaked through most of my clothes while the locals strutted by in jeans and long sleeve shirts.
The next week I was in Montana where it was 7 degrees.
Moving on...
I have taken time off life and worked at my families store in Berlin, NJ since I was 13. The one year I failed to show up to work for the holidays my car was doused in gasoline and burnt to a crisp while parked at the local Jewish Community Center. The blame for this act was placed on some hoodlum for Northeast Philly, but I think my father played a part in scaring me into a work ethic. Maybe it was his recipe for a version of Jewish scared straight. Anti-Semitism+ignoring of filial ties+removal of mode of transportation+being stranded in Northeast Philly=work for the family biz every Christmas for the rest of your life. Thanks pop.
It is always great to see my family in action of the holidays and even if my mother was incapacitated by injuries, she still was able to cook up some mean soup.
It was Cathy's birthday on Christmas day and if you failed to wish her a happy birthday you will burn in Christian hell. As a gift of Santa or Jesus or something, she has those sorts of magical powers.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Hey kid, watch out for Gizint.
A few years ago, when both of my folks were going though an unusually difficult time regarding their health, my father sat me down and talked about grandkids. Only half jokingly, he implored, "I don't care how you do it, or who you do it with, I want grandkids soon. I don't care who it is that you pick-up off the street to make this a reality." How very sweet. He even promised to help out financially since, at that time, I was hardly employed, and the employment stability of the proposed future-mother-of-my-children was directly tied to the level in which the Williams administration punished ladies of the night.
Thankfully, both of my parents have been in great health(physically) for some time, and my sister has since gotten hitched, so the responsibility for reproducing has fallen on her shoulders with the weight of 10 Passover briskets. My mother puts on her best old-Jewish mother voice and kvetches to her other old-Jewish mother friends "Ahch, she will never give me a grandchild!."
Well, all of that changed when a few months ago Bek found out that she will become a mother. My father cried when he found out, mother mother screamed, my aunt did this really funny dance and shouted "all right, all right!." (watch video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=57L0YpsDgQ4)
My sister and I are super close. She is hands down the funniest person I know and we get along very well. But this was not always this case. She and I, especially as children, were very different. She could most often be found crying in public, tears streaming down her face, embarrassed at some benign action of my mothers (grinding with drunken Polish mummers during the mummers parade for example). I on the other hand, was a soft spoken, complacent kid, happy to ponder why tears came so easily to my sister.
As we got older, our relationship took on new dynamics. For example, my folks would often punish her for some transgression or another, and then would put me in charge of carrying out her punishment "Josh, Bek has been grounded from TV for the night, we are going out for a while, make sure she doesn't get near the TV." These actions would often leave me with bruises, broken skin or both.
Recently, she married a man, who like my mother, will happily embarrass her in public. He has a life-size Lawrence Taylor cutout, a once large collection of pleated pants, and a sense of humor directly connected to the degree in which my sister will get red in the face. He is a good man. Last Thanksgiving I witnessed a truly epic fight in which my sister discovered that the peanut butter she uses for breakfast was the same peanut butter that her husband dips their dogs bone into everyday. It was awesome. Back to the point of this long winded tale...
Bek is going to make a rad mother. But she will have to learn to deal with a child that will turn out almost exactly like me. Hairy, drawn to loud music, lover of beefaroni from a young age, critical of most events around him. It should be an interesting fit and one that I intend to laugh at and nurture with smiles, joy, and secret packages of metal records and leftist literature.
Thankfully, both of my parents have been in great health(physically) for some time, and my sister has since gotten hitched, so the responsibility for reproducing has fallen on her shoulders with the weight of 10 Passover briskets. My mother puts on her best old-Jewish mother voice and kvetches to her other old-Jewish mother friends "Ahch, she will never give me a grandchild!."
Well, all of that changed when a few months ago Bek found out that she will become a mother. My father cried when he found out, mother mother screamed, my aunt did this really funny dance and shouted "all right, all right!." (watch video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=57L0YpsDgQ4)
My sister and I are super close. She is hands down the funniest person I know and we get along very well. But this was not always this case. She and I, especially as children, were very different. She could most often be found crying in public, tears streaming down her face, embarrassed at some benign action of my mothers (grinding with drunken Polish mummers during the mummers parade for example). I on the other hand, was a soft spoken, complacent kid, happy to ponder why tears came so easily to my sister.
As we got older, our relationship took on new dynamics. For example, my folks would often punish her for some transgression or another, and then would put me in charge of carrying out her punishment "Josh, Bek has been grounded from TV for the night, we are going out for a while, make sure she doesn't get near the TV." These actions would often leave me with bruises, broken skin or both.
Recently, she married a man, who like my mother, will happily embarrass her in public. He has a life-size Lawrence Taylor cutout, a once large collection of pleated pants, and a sense of humor directly connected to the degree in which my sister will get red in the face. He is a good man. Last Thanksgiving I witnessed a truly epic fight in which my sister discovered that the peanut butter she uses for breakfast was the same peanut butter that her husband dips their dogs bone into everyday. It was awesome. Back to the point of this long winded tale...
Bek is going to make a rad mother. But she will have to learn to deal with a child that will turn out almost exactly like me. Hairy, drawn to loud music, lover of beefaroni from a young age, critical of most events around him. It should be an interesting fit and one that I intend to laugh at and nurture with smiles, joy, and secret packages of metal records and leftist literature.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Lee Kohn at 70, or, if the world converted its primary energy source from petroleum to fart jokes there would be universal peace
On November 3rd, both the great fulgelhornist, Chuck Mangione and my father, Lee (short for Lee) Kohn will celebrate their birthdays. My father is a year older than Mr. Mangione and would have told him where to shove his flugelhorn if they had gone to high school together (answer: where the sun don't shine).
My father's influence has been vast. Andrew Richman probably would be half the man his is today if it weren't for my father. Ed Brant would have never learned the word "pisser." Rebekah Klipper would have far less jewelry. Berlin, NJ would still be receiving their gold purchases in brown paper bags.
My father has an active and inventive mind. I have hung around my fare share of dads over the years, and generally, they put their mental energies towards your typically fatherly obsessions- golf, piss-poor carpentry, pondering the best shortstops throughout the history of the Phillies franchise (answer: Dickie Thon). These were not activities that ever interested Lee Kohn. Instead, my father has spent much of his down time doing one of the following:
1. Napping: No man can match the athletic prowess that my father shows in his napping abilities. Even Cathy is outmatched.
2. Watching cooking shows: He can watch a mean cooking show. I have only really seen him "cook" boiled hot dogs, shrimp scampi, and an occasional bloody mary, but the amount of cooking he should have amassed over the years would put Emeril to shame.
3. Mediocre financial planning: My father is a champion average investor. Ask him for advice, he will give it to you.
4. Getting manicures: the man likes well-maintained nails, what can I say.
5. Coming up with jokes/stories/insults that would appeal to a 13 year old boy/Andrew Richman: Seriously, my father is king of the bathroom humor which makes him my hero.
This final (and most important) time-consumer leads me to one of my father's greatest inventions, and one of the true great ideas of the last century:
ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, SICK THING!
When we were young children, the Kohn family (Sherry, Lee, Rebekah, and yours truly) would take long and painful vacations to such educational destinations as Williamsburg, VA (I purchased a clay pipe, Bekah scowled), Bar Harbor (I purchased tadpoles, Bekah scowled) Niagara Falls (fresh peaches! Bekah scowled) and many a colonial military base (I purchased a fife, Bekah scowled). On these excruciatingly long car rides, my father had to come up with something, anything to keep Bekah from abusing her poor, innocent brother, and thus, the game "Animal, Vegetable Sick Thing" was born. The rules are as follows:
1. Basically, the game runs exactly like "Animal Vegetable, Mineral" but "Mineral" is replaced by "Sick Thing" since seriously, nobody wants to try to figure out that you are thinking of zinc.
2. You get 20 questions, or actually you get as many questions as you want since the Kohn's were never really that good at math.
3. Although the answer might be anything that falls under the three main catagories, the truth is, the answer is always:
1. Enema Bag
2. Diarrhea
3. Vomit
4. Fart
5. Poop (while you might think diarrhea and poop would be the same, they, in fact, warrant their own categories.
And that is the game. The key to winning the game is not getting the answer, but asking the grossest leading question to get to the answer.
Example round (answer is fart)
Bek: Does Josh smell like this?
Dad: yes
Josh: Did Bek just do this?
Dad: Yes
Bekah: When Josh trys to be cool, does this sometimes happen?
Dad: yes
Sherry: Is is a birthday cake?
Dad: no
Josh: Is it ugly like Bek's face
Dad: yes
Bek: Do you want to stay away from it like all of Josh's "friends"
Dad: yes
Bek: Is it a fart
Dad: YOU WIN.
As you can see, my father is a great man.
Happy 70th pop. I hope you eat a lot of meat and do not let one damn vegetable on your plate.
Friday, October 30, 2009
hirsute
This morning I was zoning out, listing to music on my headphones while enjoying a shvitz at the gym. An Ethiopian man came into the room and starting making frantic motions in my direction, making circles around his shoulders with his hands. I took off my headphones, and caught that he was asking me if my shoulder hair ever stops growing out, like two balloons that can be blown up forever......
For those of you who have never seen me with my shirt off (I am sort of like a super hero, with my hirsute costume neatly tucked under my button-down shirt), I am old-school man-hairy. I have the full, long sweater - back, shoulder's, ass, chest. My shoulders are puffy, as if I transplanted the afro's from two teenage kids in my neighborhood on either side of my body. But there is of course a limit to my body hair growth. It is not like the hair on your head where it could grow on forever, creating a long shaggy coat. Duh.
I informed the man of the reality of my body hair, and he proceeded with the (of course) logical follow-up question, "Is it true that woman like very hair men because the hair feels sensual on their skin?" Uhh...what? Has this urban myth been going around? How have I never heard of this before? Who asks this to a half naked man-beast taking a shvitz? My answer was, of course, "Yes, I am a more advanced sensual being." This was a lie (just ask Cathy), but when a hairy man is pressed, he must defend his honor. I think usually my hair just makes me overheat and causes me to have to clean the drain in the bathtub more often.
I have been openly vocal about my positive feelings regarding my body hair. There have been some summers where I get Cathy to trim me down (sorry dear) due to the increased insulation, but in general, I regard my bear-like self-image as a positive. Recently, as Cathy and I rounded the four year mark on our relationship, I started to worry that if we produced any male offspring, it would probably be a smooth-chested creature. This is no good. This child would view me as a freak, would not be out in the world increasing the numbers of hairy men, and would generally be a weaker being, incapable of surviving the revolution and coming ice age that will grip the world during his lifetime. This is very bad. The only solution will be for Cathy and I to adopt a child from Eastern Europe or maybe a cute young Indian boy.
For those of you who have never seen me with my shirt off (I am sort of like a super hero, with my hirsute costume neatly tucked under my button-down shirt), I am old-school man-hairy. I have the full, long sweater - back, shoulder's, ass, chest. My shoulders are puffy, as if I transplanted the afro's from two teenage kids in my neighborhood on either side of my body. But there is of course a limit to my body hair growth. It is not like the hair on your head where it could grow on forever, creating a long shaggy coat. Duh.
I informed the man of the reality of my body hair, and he proceeded with the (of course) logical follow-up question, "Is it true that woman like very hair men because the hair feels sensual on their skin?" Uhh...what? Has this urban myth been going around? How have I never heard of this before? Who asks this to a half naked man-beast taking a shvitz? My answer was, of course, "Yes, I am a more advanced sensual being." This was a lie (just ask Cathy), but when a hairy man is pressed, he must defend his honor. I think usually my hair just makes me overheat and causes me to have to clean the drain in the bathtub more often.
I have been openly vocal about my positive feelings regarding my body hair. There have been some summers where I get Cathy to trim me down (sorry dear) due to the increased insulation, but in general, I regard my bear-like self-image as a positive. Recently, as Cathy and I rounded the four year mark on our relationship, I started to worry that if we produced any male offspring, it would probably be a smooth-chested creature. This is no good. This child would view me as a freak, would not be out in the world increasing the numbers of hairy men, and would generally be a weaker being, incapable of surviving the revolution and coming ice age that will grip the world during his lifetime. This is very bad. The only solution will be for Cathy and I to adopt a child from Eastern Europe or maybe a cute young Indian boy.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
sorry state
(I am totally beat by the time this photo was taken on Sunday afternoon)2009 festival season is FINALLY over. I am exhausted but ready to move on. I am also a little weirded out by that last post. What was I thinking? Gross.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Pisspot
UPDATE 8/21: My father just left me a phone message to let me know that his restroom would have wall to wall carpeting to capture any spill-over and absorb the aroma for generations to come.
=======================================
While taking a leak today, I started to think about Cathy's store vs. my father's (and Aunt's) jewelry shop.
Cathy's concept has to do with creating an atmosphere where items can be highlighted without too much clutter or interference with the thought that minimal stock will allow the quality to stand out. My father is old school and likes to put as much product in front of the costumer as possible, with the thought that low prices and lots of variety will drive sales.
Both are merchandising concepts with their own positive attributes and the truth is that both can work. When done well, both can lead to a lavish lifestyle for yours truly.
However, while taking said leak earlier today, my thoughts wandered and I began to wonder, "what if these two visionaries took their individual concepts and brought them to the design of the men's rooms?" My vision was this.
The Cathy inspired men's lavatory vision:
One large 20 x 16 cream colored room with just one white urinal in the middle and a basic faucet in the corner. No sink, just a drain in the floor. I imagine a man in a double breasted suit and wingtips walking silently into the room, standing in front of the urinal, unzipping, doing his business and departing. He doesn't wash his hands. A few seconds later, another similar looking man enters and follows the same routine. This continues infinitely as the line outside of the door has no discernible end. In the corner of the room calmly sits a Labrador retriever puppy.
Lee Kohn house of piss men's room:
One cramped 20 x 16 green and brown tiled room with hundreds of urinals inches apart. Some of these urinals are on corners, and their piss-catcher-tips nearly touch. Large troughs of disinfected water serve as hand washing stations. While starting empty, hundreds of large men, from what seem to be an Eagles game, pour into the room and work their way into the urinals. Since they are all so close together, men touch thighs, feeling awkward, shout homophobic slurs at one another. In the middle, an older man has dropped his trousers to his ankles, farts while taking a piss. In a few seconds all of the men, feeling creepy, but with infinitely less in their bladder, bolt for the door. None of them wash their hands. In the corner, Christmas decorations are hung, but are not turned on since it is August.
=======================================
While taking a leak today, I started to think about Cathy's store vs. my father's (and Aunt's) jewelry shop.
Cathy's concept has to do with creating an atmosphere where items can be highlighted without too much clutter or interference with the thought that minimal stock will allow the quality to stand out. My father is old school and likes to put as much product in front of the costumer as possible, with the thought that low prices and lots of variety will drive sales.
Both are merchandising concepts with their own positive attributes and the truth is that both can work. When done well, both can lead to a lavish lifestyle for yours truly.
However, while taking said leak earlier today, my thoughts wandered and I began to wonder, "what if these two visionaries took their individual concepts and brought them to the design of the men's rooms?" My vision was this.
The Cathy inspired men's lavatory vision:
One large 20 x 16 cream colored room with just one white urinal in the middle and a basic faucet in the corner. No sink, just a drain in the floor. I imagine a man in a double breasted suit and wingtips walking silently into the room, standing in front of the urinal, unzipping, doing his business and departing. He doesn't wash his hands. A few seconds later, another similar looking man enters and follows the same routine. This continues infinitely as the line outside of the door has no discernible end. In the corner of the room calmly sits a Labrador retriever puppy.
Lee Kohn house of piss men's room:
One cramped 20 x 16 green and brown tiled room with hundreds of urinals inches apart. Some of these urinals are on corners, and their piss-catcher-tips nearly touch. Large troughs of disinfected water serve as hand washing stations. While starting empty, hundreds of large men, from what seem to be an Eagles game, pour into the room and work their way into the urinals. Since they are all so close together, men touch thighs, feeling awkward, shout homophobic slurs at one another. In the middle, an older man has dropped his trousers to his ankles, farts while taking a piss. In a few seconds all of the men, feeling creepy, but with infinitely less in their bladder, bolt for the door. None of them wash their hands. In the corner, Christmas decorations are hung, but are not turned on since it is August.
Buddy Holly & blueberries
These "Cricket" mobile phone store are popping up all over DC like swine flu in an elementary school. Does DC really need more commercial eyesores? Cathy's store sits about a block and a half away from a new one of these places and almost helps to create a karmic zeroing of their aesthetic banality. What a waste of positive visual space.
This past weekend we put up the permanent sign for the space. It was one of the first pieces completed, but the DCRA was maddening as usual, and the sign permit ended up taking a back seat to more pressing paperwork. Finally, Cathy succeeded in showing enough leg to get the permits, and we were off. Unlike with the Cricket Mobile stores, we have done most of this work ourselves or with the help of good friends who have a high tolerance for aggravation. Using a 24 ft. ladder, a hammer drill and the keen ability to ignore common sense, I was able to secure the sign in place. Many of our new neighbors came out to smoke, talk shop, and watch the semi-semi-professional work up close. 3/4 of the way through the process I removed a dull drill bit that had been stripped. As with all of the small tools I was using, I placed it in my left shirt pocket. What I didn't think of was that the drill bit has gotten molten hot and, while precariously perched atop the 24 foot ladder, and I had to struggle to get the bit away from my person before I set myself on fire. Thankfully I didn't fall, but my left nipple did not fare so well.
The Montana festival feels like a lifetime ago at this point. Cathy and I are gearing up for the Maine festival where I will run around like a mad man making sure that the hundreds of artists are happy while Cathy will be digging for old clothes and stuffing her face with lobster and blueberries (often all three at the same time).
This past weekend we put up the permanent sign for the space. It was one of the first pieces completed, but the DCRA was maddening as usual, and the sign permit ended up taking a back seat to more pressing paperwork. Finally, Cathy succeeded in showing enough leg to get the permits, and we were off. Unlike with the Cricket Mobile stores, we have done most of this work ourselves or with the help of good friends who have a high tolerance for aggravation. Using a 24 ft. ladder, a hammer drill and the keen ability to ignore common sense, I was able to secure the sign in place. Many of our new neighbors came out to smoke, talk shop, and watch the semi-semi-professional work up close. 3/4 of the way through the process I removed a dull drill bit that had been stripped. As with all of the small tools I was using, I placed it in my left shirt pocket. What I didn't think of was that the drill bit has gotten molten hot and, while precariously perched atop the 24 foot ladder, and I had to struggle to get the bit away from my person before I set myself on fire. Thankfully I didn't fall, but my left nipple did not fare so well.
The Montana festival feels like a lifetime ago at this point. Cathy and I are gearing up for the Maine festival where I will run around like a mad man making sure that the hundreds of artists are happy while Cathy will be digging for old clothes and stuffing her face with lobster and blueberries (often all three at the same time).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
![Us:](<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kohn/3422505979/" title="BBQ by thetour, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3596/3422505979_203e0bab65_m.jpg" width="240" height="180" alt="BBQ" /></a>)