Mardi Gras: Roll, Roll, Roll Your Float Gently Down the Dream...

It's not usual to be drinking at 9 in the morning. Or 10 in the morning. Or any time before your local cantina's maligned 'happy hour' special. It is usually a paradise reserved for the degenerates of our fair society. Otherwise known as our creative forward thinkers, depending on who you ask. But this time we are talking about Mardi Gras, in New Orleans. The strangest mish mash of cultural hoopla and history mixed together in a big purple, green and gold pot. Kind of like gumbo, another proud tradition in these parts. On one end of the spectrum, you have the juvenile 'girls gone wild' scene where women flash their goods and a crude barter system for plastic beads is enacted. That's been the streamlined version of Mardi Gras (and the city of New Orleans in general) for the past 30 years or so thanks to movies and well, 'girls gone wild' late night TV propaganda. I consider it my duty to inform you, the reader, that women can provide you with cheap thrills in exchange for petty gifts in any region of the world, at any time. Go ahead and try it. Your welcome.

To say that the whole scene of tourists that floods Bourbon Street, New Orlean's most infamous route, is all that is Mardi Gras is ludicrous. Which makes this all the more dumbfounding. Mardi Gras in its purest essence is just a big party before Ash Wednesday, where people of the Christian persuasion give up some bad behavior for Lent. However there's loads of other things that factor into this holiday equation. Some parts of Mardi Gras feel like a giant 4th of July cookout, where instead of fireworks there are beads and music. Parents are hoisting kids on their shoulders, families are coming together and people of all colors, from all different types of backgrounds are dancing in the street in wild celebration. Then you walk one more block and a bunch of twenty-something fellows are shotgunning cans of Natural Lite and passing out jello shots. And maybe just passing out. Trust me, I tend to find myself in this type of company. But then you drunkenly stumble through a happy family of five's cookout and realize there's a whole lot more going on. It is a weird menagerie of events all happening at the same time and yet it all makes sense in its absurdity. By every evening's end (if there is one) beads are hanging from trees like a neon canopy, flags are flying from every house and the crowds have shuffled into the thousands of local bars. Once again, you're in a whole new world.

Time and again I'd find myself in the middle of this dance, trying to piece together another haphazard plan of attack for every nightfall. After a day of watching parades charge down elegant St. Charles Avenue (while drinking) and attending dinners (while drinking) I was often being led off to another place (while drinking) and always eventually, into the heart of the beast - the French Quarter (while drinking). Every morning it certainly would catch up with me but by the same time everyday, I was back on the almost mechanized process of Mardi Gras yet again. Everything turns into a multi colored waterfall, spilling into glasses of different shapes and sizes, just before it all goes black. I'd run into faces and names I'd have not seen in years and just as easily lose them again as they disappear into the crowd. They are the people you only meet in a dream. Because that's what this really is, a dream. Fully realized and pumped into our physical world. The happiness and brotherhood that sweeps you up while your swimming through a sea of strangers is very hypnotizing. To a point where you don't realize that just mixed tequila with whiskey and wine. And that you still have work in the morning. Your blindsided by the spectacle and everything else falls away. The best part is while your nursing your hangover in the days that follow, you can count on it coming back the next year, bigger and more overblown than ever.

I know this sounds really spiritual, but consider this - I'm not really a spiritual person. Not in the slightest. I'm one of the more hardened, cynical assholes you'd find creeping around a diver bar in the most questionable of neighborhoods. All I'm saying is that if you ever wanted to make a proper argument for there being 'one united consciousness' of humanity, come down to the Mardi Gras. I'll see ya there.

The Christmas Bonus

I didn't really have a weekend to look forward to, working 3 jobs took care of that but it was still Friday and that meant it was payday. Even with this information obvious to everyone in the office, the boss (let's just call him what he really does - checkwriter) still waits until 5:29pm before he starts printing and signing paychecks. I guess he likes to see the dogs line up and slobber at his door. Whatever. I'm generally too exhausted to get outraged these little tricks so I just stand their patiently and wait for my few hundred dollars of insult to be placed in my hand.

This time was different though. It was Christmas time. That would usually mean the elusive holiday bonus was sniffing around nearby. That shadowy ghost only few people catch a glimpse of in their lives. Given that this job was online retail and our profits had sure tripled everyday since Thanksgiving, I was rightfully curious as to whether or not I'd see this delightful beast, The Christmas Bonus.

By the way, I'm not calling it the holiday bonus. It's not because I'm self righteous, I just don't care. Christmas bonus sounds better. Sounds fatter. Like Scrooge himself delivering a turkey to your door.

My boss hands me the usual paycheck envelope of shame...and with it...and additional envelope! The unmistakable boxy Christmas card shape and carefully scribbled "Josh" on the front was a dead giveaway - this was it, the Christmas bonus! I mumbled my thanks yous, clocked out and shuffled down the hallway. I didn't want to open it in front of anyone, that's generally bad form. Especially in a work place. I crashed through the giant glass doors of the faceless industrial complex building I call 'work' and rushed to my car. There, alone in the dark and surely out of the sight of any coworkers, I opened the envelope.

Typical Christmas card, red...green...gold....ambiguous greeting, whatever. I cracked it open to find a little handwritten message. Ever so slightly personalized in that it starts with "Josh..." which I thought was a nice touch. That wasn't the point though. Tucked inside of the card was the real treasure, the real city of El Dorado, the sure deliverance of the past few weeks of shitty holiday hassle that comes with working online retail. My eyes began to widen.

The first thing I noticed was that it wasn't a gift card. A good sign in most cases. It wasn't a check either. It was just money. Grandmother style. Now I was concerned. The bill looking up at me was none other than crazy-eyed Andrew Jackson. A $20 bill. I hesitantly reached for the cash and noticed there another 2 bills under it. $100s, perhaps? I peeled them apart in the dark, quiet of my car - which I still hadn't started. A $20, and then another $20, and then...a $10. That was it. Fifty dollars. "Nice work helping the company make a couple extra hundred thousand dollars this year, Josh, here's 50 bucks, happy holidays!"

I wasn't sure if I should be happy or mad, pissed or grateful. As I mentioned before, I was too tired to really occupy an emotional state. I just tucked the money away in my backpack and stared out through my car window, still waiting to start it. It's those minutes of silence I always have in my car that I really cherish. When you have the unlimited capabilities of 4 wheels, an engine and a tank of gas right under your foot. And you think about your 65 hour work week and the crumpled $50 in your backpack that's sitting next to you in the passenger seat. It all makes sense in that minute. Where it's quite obvious you'll never win and the clank of champagne glasses at a holiday party is something you'll only get to hear in a movie.

I started my car, turned on talk radio and tried to block those thoughts out. At least I'd gotten something for a Christmas bonus, most people get nothing, right? That's what I imagined friends would say if I told them about it. I guess I should just stay tight lipped and be grateful. At the same time though, in the deep, dark scarlet red of my blood, was a different opinion. One that required no voice or argument. It bubbled and popped as I pulled my car out onto the highway to sit in the usual cascade of brake lights on the 101 Freeway.

Pop Journalism for Pop Music!

Behold this gem of an article from Buzzfeed: http://www.buzzfeed.com/daves4/12-extremely-disappointing-facts-about-popular-mus

(not trying to promote that site, its content or its content providers)

Do you see that? Another handily constructed list for your avergae web surfer to cruise through in between gulps of cheetos and Snapple. The internet is full of them. For some reason, countdown style writing was selected as the optimum mode of communicating one's point as soon as the Internet was born and everybody with a keyboard inherited a journalism degree. The subject (or victim) in this article is music. Typical fare for every hip, tongue in cheek website out there. Something that will draw a lot of folks in by cramming as many different keywords (ahem, artists) into the article as possible. Keep in mind, referring to this as an 'article' is just something I am doing out of habit. It's big, bubbly bullet points with a bold title.

In keeping with the millenial style of having an undeserved tone of authority, the author(s) chastise the current state of pop music by comparing it to a time 50 (and in some cases, 60) years ago. You see, human beings like to think yesterday was this amazing thing. A grand, missed opportunity. Where everything was different. And better. In the case of Americans, our culture is locked to that idealistic period from the 50s and 60s. Then when it comes to music - everything NOW just fucking sucks. Yawn. We get it. This carousel keeps going. An infinite loop of whiny young adults, jaded adults and kids who just don't give a shit. From my perspective, I'm not sure why it matters so much. People don't listen to the radio. Music television doesn't really exist (outside of countdown shows, yet again with the lists) and the concept of the album and/or rockstar is as outdated as the idea of PAYING for music. Ha!

This Buzzfeed article opens up with Creed selling more albums than Hendrix. Once again, let me remind everyone. Music is art and thus not quantifiable. The only empirical data idiots have to judge it on is album sales - which even then, barely cover the entire spectrum. Then also imagine this...hold on...take a deep breath...MAYBE NOT EVERYONE WHO BUYS MUSIC IS A HARDCORE MUSIC ASSHOLE. MAYBE THEY JUST HEARD A SONG ON THE RADIO AND BOUGHT THE ALBUM AT WAL-MART LATER. MAYBE WHAT EVERYONE DOES WITH THEIR IS MONEY IS NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS.

Seriously, imagine if all these critically acclaimed music heroes were the ones every listened to and paid for. What would change? Nothing. Music press and assorted college kids would still bitch and moan. Yet here we are, filling up more space on the Internet talking about this nonsense. People need to realize that pop music (like The Beatles, another common catch-all for the Jesus Christ of modern music) was still just 'pop' music in the 1960s. Kids bought it. It was on the radio, it was on TV. It was everywhere. Now, thanks to overpopulation, we have more kids. And they buy what's on TV and the Internet. They don't know any better. Oh well. Maybe when they get older, they can turn into pissy 25yr olds with 'refined and obscure' tastes. What the hell makes Springsteen or Nirvana better than Katy Perry anyway? Do you expect a 14yr girl to connect with some kid in the 70s singing folk songs about growing up in a small New Jersey town? Integrity in the music business is an illusion. It's a faded black and white photo in Rolling Stone with the artist looking distant and poor. It's horseshit. Always has been.

Hopefully, all of you will live to see the day when Katy Perry, Shania Twain and Flo Rida are looked back on and heralded as heroes from a lost age. It sounds silly now, sure, but look at what bloated legends Kurt Cobain and Elvis have become? Really just thanks to t-shirt sales and more god damn TV specials doing stupid countdowns. Yes, I understand, websites like this pump out content just everyone at their shitty desk job has stuff to glance over while procrastinating, but it still perpetuates this idiotic ideas that somehow in 2011 we missed the boat and no more good music will ever come out again. And if it does, it won't be popular? What a crying shame. Since when has anything popular ever been fucking good? Eh?

Fucking never. Go enjoy your good old days, Planet Earth. I live in 2011 and [insert band]'s latest album was fucking awesome! Suck it!

T.F.N. (Too Fucking Nice)

Alright enough with the pondering of existence. We have established that there ain't that much to ponder. Let's a do a little Josh-Life-Update. What I'm working on and why nothing's working out. Let's call it T.F.N. as in Too Fucking Nice as in Josh is Too Fucking Nice.

I quit my job and started another one. I put in my 2 week notice, you know, typical process. It is over 4 weeks later and I'm still here. Slogging at my old job while I balance shifts at my new job. 14 hour days are really amazing things but don't need to be experienced consecutively. I could have just quit and walked out. Had a short, easy going vacation and started my new job. No, instead I offered my services in finishing all my tasks and training a replacement. See? Too Fucking Nice. The funniest part is...I'm still fucking here! Right now! Being Too Fucking Nice. Saying "Yes I will do whatever you need" as I barely keep my brain awake.

Here's another scenario. A friend visits me, one of those "I'm absolutely in love with you but there's nothing I can do about it since we're friends" deals and I spend 4 or 5 days playing host and what not. All fun and games. For anyone who has been in that situation it's like getting punched in the stomach every hour, on the hour. Just absolute powerlessness. Your ego fights back by making you think you can will yourself into someone's romantic favor. But you never can. I've tried 9,834,372,000 times. It never works. You continue to make yourself available, helpful and generally wonderful to this person. Too Fucking Nice. The girl runs off with some piece of shit and I wake up with a bargain bin discount chick I picked up at a bar. Wax on, wax off. Too Fucking Nice.

Then friends of mine hilariously think of me as a 'terrible person' for some of my less reputable actions. Because that's what I show. They never see the long days of work, the dedication to my music, the discipline in my diet and exercise routines, the time I spend talking to people about their personal problems and legitimately helping them out with advice, the genuine love I feel for someone. No one sees that. My brain tells me "Josh, you're Too Fucking Nice" but all anyone else knows is my cartoony disposition. This would be fine if one day I get buried in a cartoon coffin in a cartoon cemetary but I won't. I get buried in a real one. Because I'm a real fucking person.

And I'm Too Fucking Nice.

Accidentally Here for No Reason

The human condition is something we all struggle with. Nothing makes sense, bad things happen to good people, suffering is abundant and it never seems to change. We invent platitudes like "Gotta have the sour to enjoy the sweet" and continue on our merry way. What is even more disheartening is that you can't prepare yourself for the violent ramifications of existence. Nor can you try to help anyone else. You are forced, in your sacred first person perspective, to withstand infinite punishment without the benefit of explanation or compensation. We have named this tedious process 'life' and made ourselves believe that it should be cherished. Oh, silly human condition.

As I stated, you cannot prepare yourself for this experience. Education means nothing - words, history. math and science are glorified hobbies when put up against the universe. No clever wisdom will shine a light on your mundane humanity and no learned lessons will be of any good to your children and their children. Like getting attacked by a shark, it is impossible to imagine the situation accurately without being - you know - attacked by a shark. Thus, you and the rest of reality are thrust into the great unknown, learning the limits ourselves (physically, mentally) little by little with each consecutive deliverance of pain upon our being.

In this sad state of affairs, illusions are absolutely necessary. Religion works as a great pacification tool but things like love and wealth fall into the same category. A human being fulfills its needs for food and shelter. Then it moves onto the next. This is part of that infinite process. One million unanswered prayers doesn't stop that one millionth and one prayer from being made. A dozen broken hearts doesn't stop the romantic. A string of bad business ventures doesn't distract the entrepreneur from his next scheme. It is ingrained in the human condition to carry on despite the very obvious lack of reason. There's no grand goal or finish line. There is only ebb and flow, high tide and low tide. With full understanding of this absurdity in tow, death seems to be the obvious punchline to this cosmic joke.

I guess we'll have to dig up Edgar Allan Poe to see if he's laughing.

Guess who's holding the dynamite?

I quit that fucking job.

So here we go again, Universe. You, me and the infinite.

Your move, fucker.

Nice to meet you, Annihilation

I'm sitting at work right now.

Bored.

Contemplating.

I'm fairly convinced that even though things have been shitty for a while now, they are about to get a lot worse. Like burning alive but still flinching because someone is about to stab you. It would be nice if all this punishment would somehow cancel each other out. Then I could return to some sort of normal state. Not the case, however. It's going to continue in this aggressively unremarkable style. The only fashion sense reality seems to know. I wish the knife would push in and we could get this all over with. At least that would be dramatic and somewhat glorious.

Instead all I get is death by average. A long assembly line of death by average. Genocide by average if you will. Mediocrity, obscurity and absurdity. With a splash of unwarranted disappointment. Because you should have never expected anything more in the first place.

I have band practice tonight. That's comforting. It's been too long and I've got a lot to say.