tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90021033857824238402024-03-13T13:39:21.162-07:00Poverty to the PrivilegedThe Suicide ArchivesJoshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-42051294925612824452014-02-09T19:10:00.001-08:002014-02-09T19:10:06.765-08:00On a typical Sunday eveningWalking the long path back<br />
from reprieve you thought well earned<br />
ever steady on the track<br />
and so gracefully returned<br />
one wonders about purpose<br />
and the course lives must take<br />
barely scratching at the surface<br />
of a heart too tired to break<br />
<br />
Again we pass into the night<br />
with sadness setting in<br />
all glasses once full now empty<br />
except sorrow's at the brim<br />
elsewhere there is warmth and life<br />
in strangers' beds so far away<br />
yet there is no such delights<br />
in the one where I must lay<br />
<br />
the morning will bring no comfort<br />
as the black burns to gray<br />
walking the long path back<br />
wishing for a different wayJoshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-52337098879508524042013-10-22T22:46:00.002-07:002013-10-22T22:46:16.755-07:00Never forget the weapons you have...There's this girl, right? And she has this guy. Been with him a long time. Really smart dude. Not smart enough to know about me sleeping with his girl though. Been doing it a long time, too. She could be playing him. She could be playing me. All emotion aside, it doesn't matter. This girl's got a sister. She's into me too. Not too bad looking either. Do you see where I'm going with this?<br />
<br />
I really love this girl. It's a really dicey situation, as you could surmise from that introduction. Does the girl leave her guy for me? What happens then? Where does this rabbit hole go?<br />
<br />
Women have pulled the rug out from under me before. Read this blog. Go back as far as you want.<br />
<br />
I get better at it every time.<br />
<br />
Much like two opposing armies in total deadlock, we enter a 'war of attrition' where both the girl and I shoot each other down emotionally until one cannot take it any longer. I've weathered these little storms. I've endured heavy losses. I cannot be beat here. Well, I can...but only in one sense.<br />
<br />
She has to man up and shut me down. Tell me she is done. That she loves her man and will not be leaving him. She has to swallow that bullet of pride. She has to go back on all the little sweet whispers she told me about planning to break up. Yes, she wins in that she determines the ceasefire. Technically, I get dealt the "broken heart" and have to march my troops back home.<br />
<br />
But sometimes it's not about winning. Sometimes it's just about sending a message.<br />
<br />
I can have her darling sister bedded and packet of text/photo materials sent to her boyfriend easily out the door within 12 hours of the receiving her 'dreaded' news. I can have her whole world shut down with literally a press of a "SEND" button on my phone. All my evidence is backed up. In fact, the text messages alone would be enough. I'd only throw in the sister for fun. Unnecessary but extremely entertaining collateral damage. Delicious.<br />
<br />
You see...never forget the weapons you have. Life likes to put us in situations where we feel there is no way out. We imagine no options for ourselves. We think we just have to accept the mistreating. Take it like a bat in the teeth. "Incorrect" I say. I am fully equipped for this showdown. If somebody out there is willing to hurt me like this....lead me on...for almost a year...emotions drained as promises are swept away like they were never made....oh no, my friends. Do not fuck with someone who has nothing to lose.<br />
<br />
Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Sounds like a plan to me.<br />
<br />
You<br />
<br />
Are<br />
<br />
So<br />
<br />
Fucked.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-32949195774356937612013-10-10T13:28:00.002-07:002013-10-10T13:28:24.079-07:00Sick with your own echoI'm floating through another period of unemployment. The production industry likes to do this to those who have no established position or talents. Putting you through the ringer, seeing how bad you want to be there. It's such a great opportunity, you know? To stand there on a set, drinking coffee, standing striking distance from some movie star as he or she sleepwalks through their job too. Such a great fucking opportunity. Truly blessed all of us in the industry must be.<br />
<br />
I don't want to keep spitting that "in the industry" phrase. It means less than nothing. The remedial jobs I've worked as someone's assistant or office gopher are no different that things some intern for an online advertising company would do. You just get yanked around. Do this. Do that. All with a smile on your face and a manufactured enthusiasm for your workplace. I'm sorry to tell you this but no occupation will make you genuinely feel that. The alarm clock sounds the same for everybody's job and you'd rather spend the day in bed watching cartoons. I promise you.<br />
<br />
But this is America and so much must be achieved. You must wear the uniform of the 'go-getter' and make a name for yourself. You must earn your possessions and your female companionship. You must earn your weekends. You must earn the free time you get to invest in little hobbies. Then you must wave the flag of all that in someone else's face - because that's how people should act. A long stream of never-tiring accomplishing, punctuated by milestones and victories, undeterred by momentary defeat as that will only propel your further and faster into the next great challenge. This is the disgusting disease you have to live with as you take down your boss' breakfast order and skip off to Subway...so fucking grateful for these intial opportunuities to prove your mettle.<br />
<br />
I'm dreading the next phone call. The next job. "Are you available? Can you start tomorrow?" They will ask. "Yes sir! Of course!" I will answer as another fate will get sealed. The machine will start to rumble as the gears stutter into motion. Back I will go. Into the grinder. Another couple months of being yanked in a hundred different directions. Everyday. For nothing. When I hear that phone ring that is all that I really hear. The death machine charging up. You have to earn that next couple weeks of unemployment, after all. So in you go.<br />
<br />
I know this as I lay in bed at night, unable to sleep. I know it is coming. My mind wanders into other arenas like how the woman I want isn't there. Or how I need to fix a dozen things with my car. It tries to justify the great leap into that next hungry grinder. Maybe these things will make it worth it. Truth is, it probably won't. A couple more months without sex or any type of affection. Let's add a couple more. Meanwhile, back into the grinder you will go. Twelve hours minimum everyday at minimum wage, earning your keep. To come home to nothing. To reach out for nobody. To be awarded with the vague promise that you'll get to do it again. They'll starve you just enough so you will say 'yes' one more time and the nail can get driven in a little deeper.<br />
<br />All I am is an expense on somebody's budget line. First name, last name, middle initial. No mention of the broken heart. Broken spirit. Broken hope. I hate every moment leading up to that phone call as much as I will hate every moment that will follow it. But the key will go into the ignition. The engine will turn a few more times. I'll find myself somewhere. Being talked at. Going through the motions. Doing as I'm instructed. All with a feeling of perpetual loneliness. Disconnect. Abandonement. Swinging so hard with an axe made of air.<br />
<br />
But that's working 'in the industry' and I should glow with excitement for such a chance.<br />
<br />
Shit on the world.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-27846060059876023752013-09-03T17:13:00.001-07:002013-09-03T17:13:17.616-07:00Labor DayI was driving back from a Labor Day pool party. A festive occasion in name only, I assure you. My two roommates were cheerfully inebriated and I was stone cold sober, swerving out of one kind of chaos and into another. It wasn't because I had assumed a stoic duty of not drinking. I'm just in the midst of an unemployed streak where drinking is simply not a viable option. It grates on you, trust me. But like the convicted, eventually you get the hang of it. You're at a party, swinging back and forth like dead meat. Not saying anything particularly clever.<br />
<br />
This drive back home was colored in with a conversation about my current sex life. A personal matter, I know but you can't help but be amused when the spectators chime in. I'm involved with someone who is involved with someone else. Wax on. Wax off. I have hope, you see. My roommates felt differently about the situation. As exemplified by their graceful input:<br />
<br />
"Oh no, Josh. You're <i>fucking </i>her. You're <i>only</i> fucking her."<br />
<br />
They don't seem to hold the same kind of hope for my delinquent relationship status. They were drunk too. But that didn't matter. In the midst of me defending my position and why I'm doing what I'm doing - I had a bit of an out of body experience. Very dangerous while driving, mind you. But I was sober. So whatever.<br />
<br />
I began to hear myself talk. I didn't like it. I was listening to my own arguments about how eventually this girl was going to leave her well-to-do boyfriend for me in the near future. Until then, I was just riding it out. They (my roommates) didn't understand the kind of relationship I had with this girl. They were just going off the facts. What they knew. What they saw. That's how I usually operate. By being fucking reasonable. If something isn't working then fuck it, put it down and find something else. They were on that level as they projected how <i>fucked</i> I was in the long term. I didn't hear them. I only heard myself.<br />
<br />
And you know what?<br />
<br />
I started to feel really fucking stupid.<br />
<br />
That's not good for anyone. I don't like feeling stupid. Like someone else knows a little bit more and they are maneuvering reality around me. That's not having control. That's pretty pathetic. That's sad. The more I listened to the nonsense drip out of my mouth, the more it really sank in. Every relationship ever. The same kind of rhetoric spit out over and over until the eventual conclusion. It's always the same. I found myself watching it all unfold again. It's the kind of cinema you only earn by getting older. A big joke was getting told and I was the last one to get it. It hits pretty hard.<br />
<br />
At the end of the day, there is still some comfort to be had. The friends who were drunkenly jibing me in that car ride are still going to be there for me 10 years down the road. Maybe 20. Or 30. The woman in question, or all the women to follow her, may not be. In fact, I'd bet on it. So while it hurts to know you're stuck in the same situation where you are just being used...that the people you confess your love to just string it along until they've gotten enough...these friends are always around. They are not to be taken for granted. These gentlemen and I will surely survive the decades with true, meaningful camaraderie. This woman, who I will not name on this blog, may not see such distance.<br />
<br />
I would do anything for her and she knows I'm there, waiting, ready to be taken seriously. But her and everybody else should know...<br />
<br />
I'm not that stupid.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-87031477594008644722013-07-05T06:53:00.002-07:002013-07-05T06:53:45.397-07:00Can't help but wonder...where I'm bound, where I'm bound...I could tell she was watching me from across the patio. It was the middle of a party but I could tell she was watching me. I'm not bragging or being too optimistic about the situation, I'm just saying I could tell. My intuition is usually dead right and in those passing instances, I could suss it out. It made me think:<br />
<br />
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?"<br />
<br />
I'm sure she thought the same thing too.<br />
<br />
I tapped my friends on the shoulder and told them we had to leave.<br />
<br />
I couldn't get out of there fast enough.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-74400669445917395872013-04-23T12:06:00.000-07:002013-04-23T12:06:08.207-07:00Hold position. Position held.For whatever reason, I have somehow aged into a 65yr old man who sits around watching war documentaries all the time. I never used to be interested in these things. I don't understand it. Maybe the suicidal monotony of life has finally pressed into a fascination with more violent matters. Maybe I've just watched and absorbed EVERYTHING ELSE and this is all that's left. I minored in history, though. So I could just be making up for lost time. Whatever that's worth.<br />
<br />
I believe most of all I like the cold precision of military movements. I've always conducted myself as such. Maneuvering through life with carefully planned calculations, accounting for possible challenges and preparing yourself in advance. As written in the blog before, that's practically impossible. You cannot ready your body or your psyche for impending trauma. It's a game of nerves, discipline and flat out fucking chance. Still, I'd like to think that I am ready. I suppose cognitive dissonance is my principal field commander. I'm sure everyone else can go along with that.<br />
<br />
One predictable situation is that I always go into these introspective periods during long stretches of unemployment. As in, if I ain't busy making sure I'm somewhere for X hours a week...life turns into this black tunnel towards oblivion where there doesn't seem to a point to anytime. With General Cognitive Dissonance still standing on the parapet giving orders, you find yourself conjuring a point. Something. Anything.<br />
<br />
I'm doing this right now. I'm finding a reason to continue. Or at least a reason to push forwards and flourish - not just get by. I've been doing that for a while. I'm looking at a map and I need to put together the next attack. This past year has kind of served as some sort of haphazard vacation. I've done a lot of hard work but in general it hasn't really felt like I've gained ground. I could be wrong. But it feels as if the BIG assault has yet to be made. I can feel it coming though. A shadow on the horizon. How things are now can't possibly last. This has held true for every circumstance I've been in. As a result it becomes like a race to arms. Will I get there before the enemy does? Will I know what to do? Will I be prepared? It's so hard to tell even when I have these large stretches of introspection. Things don't necessarily become clearer in times of peace. Sometimes a hard line in the sand is absolutely necessary.<br />
<br />
Sadly, when I do step out of this comfortable trench...whether I face victory or defeat...heavy casualties are expected.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-1831456447580587622013-02-07T09:51:00.002-08:002013-02-07T09:51:31.058-08:00The Nervous Inability to Define FailureFailure is a curious thing<br />
A very finite word<br />
a punctuation, almost<br />
at the end of a sentence<br />
or series of sentences<br />
or life<br />
as we understand it<br />
<br />
most importantly<br />
it seems to be something<br />
only someone else<br />
can identify<br />
while we are left open ended<br />
questionable<br />
and as I stated<br />
curious<br />
until that someone else<br />
comes along<br />
and points it out<br />
to us<br />
<br />
only then does the abstract<br />
crystalize<br />
only then does failure<br />
pull itself out from the floor<br />
its black shadow<br />
finally manifesting<br />
before our eyes<br />
into this creature<br />
9 or 10ft. tall<br />
wildly imposing stature<br />
staring down at us<br />
hot breath dripping<br />
while we struggle<br />
to make eye<br />
contact<br />
<br />
everyone hates to see it<br />
everyone hates to see<br />
most things<br />
the footsteps they have made<br />
scattered towards<br />
an inevitable horizon<br />
now crowded by the millions<br />
of other footsteps<br />
all trophies of a million<br />
of other failures<br />
our own voices<br />
no longer audible<br />
in the white noise<br />
of the crowd<br />
<br />
be very grateful<br />
such a force exists<br />
such a force that I'd guess<br />
is one of the most<br />
powerful<br />
in our known universe<br />
a million black suns<br />
blazing<br />
their gravity pulling us<br />
towards black oblivion<br />
while failure's curious shape<br />
stands<br />
and smiles<br />
<br />
I used to think<br />
such a process<br />
could be avoided<br />
like a lawn chair that spilled<br />
out of someone's truck<br />
and now sits in the middle<br />
of the highway<br />
but that isn't so<br />
mostly all of what I thought<br />
just isn't so<br />
<br />
my own voice<br />
has bled into the white noise<br />
the shape has formed<br />
the curtain has been raised<br />
and I can't tell<br />
my footsteps<br />
from the others<br />
failure has arrived<br />
in the death mask<br />
of oblivion<br />
for us all<br />
the final insult<br />
being lack of prejudice<br />
<br />
we can't even own<br />
our own failures<br />
they belong<br />
to all<br />
<br />
how disgusting<br />
<br />
Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-20764703929717491672013-01-25T16:07:00.001-08:002013-01-25T16:07:38.103-08:00Well, that's how they do it...It was a mystery I always wondered growing up. I'd look at every empty shell of human being and wonder what the fuck happened. Where the fuck were they when that hammer came down and beat the last shred of teenage, juvenille, ignorant ambition out of of their Dover body washed bodies. What was the straw that broke that fucking camel in half? I'd be bitterly chomping away at some bullshit job and I'd encounter these much older (or maybe even only slightly older people) that seemed to just not have it anymore. Whatever IT was. They resigned to this shit life that I was only considering as a transitional period for myself.<br />
<br />
I guess that's where the problem lies with most people in my generation. Or fuck that, any generation. This disgusting, self-focused regime watching their life clock like their fucking KENO numbers are going to match up when that fucker strikes midnight. This delusional belief in self absorbed predestination that everything we are doing is leading to some grand climax. That our lives are indeed like the fucking movies we fill our deflated basketball skulls with on an hourly basis. When we lay in bed and play out our memories, they roll by in cinematic fashion - and accordingly - we plot out stupid hopes (fantasies, by and large) in the same manner. Something is coming for me, you think. Oh yes. I am suffering now but its just a slow burn to that delicious moment of glory.<br />
<br />
So you work in those trench jobs. Or whatever you consider to be 'back breaking' based on how much money your mom and dad had when they raised you, and you analyze your peers. Surely they don't have that same destination ahead. You will be the one with the brass ring. All the miserable folks you've met along the way were just the wise old janitor that you gleaned a life lesson from before you've moved on into the next stage of your bullshit movie. Everybody else gave up along the way. But not you. You had that deep rich intestinal fortitude....that gritty work ethic...instilled into you by years of toiling away. You have the edge. That's why THEY won't get and YOU will.<br />
<br />
Something you never consider though is the slow Chinese water torture of time. It makes a grand canyon of your brain. Drilling the same dullness into over and over. I'd say for the first 25 years you accept as a necessary lesson. But the grand deliverance never arrives. And the patience runs out. And the energy of youth burns the candle down to the bottom. Maybe there is no exact moment of epiphany. That's to say there was an exact moment where a 'lake' gets large enough to be called a 'sea'. It happens so slowly like the wrinkles on your face. One day it's just there. Or in this case, it's NOT there.<br />
<br />
Now I understand why people just give up. Why they just slog away in the routine. Why they are content with that steady paycheck, as pathetic as it may be in amount. When you are younger the word content is so evil and compelling. Its that awful thing you're fighting. Fuck, you're still perceiving life as a fight. There's a world outside your window that has challenged you and one day through precious due diligence you'll be awarded the title belt. Just like that.<br />
<br />
The problem is along the way, you get teased with so many little victories that your appetite just gets soured on the whole thing. You win the talent show once but no great door suddenly blows open. You bang the belle of the ball and fucking tomorrow arrives anyway. You save up for the new car and now you find yourself struggling to afford new tires for the fucking thing. The prizes you set for yourself, the spoils of your personal war, end up not being worth a fuck. This revelation comes timed perfectly with all those natural processes in your body slowing down. You creep toward middle age with not only the desire ripped out of you - but now not even a trophy worth stepping into the ring for.<br />
<br />
It's nonsense. Bullshit. Imagined by others and handed down like a fucking pocket watch from a dead grandfather. Even that fucking pocket watch is meaningless. The intrinsic value of things evaporates too. You find yourself just sitting on the steps outside whatever domicile you occupy, staring blankly across the street. You're think "Man, I should probably be thinking something important right now" and nothing ever blips across the screen.<br />
<br />
The imagination doesn't suddenly surge into motion.<br />
<br />
The career decisions never satisfy.<br />
<br />
The people come and go. The family members, the friends, the acquaintances, the fucking morning traffic.<br />
<br />
It's a long stroll through the museum of life's empty experiences. All failing to deliver on some transcendental promise. You don't even know why you think that. You just do.<br />
<br />
So now when you look across the assembly line and into the eyes (if you can even bear to look in someone's eyes) of your fellow human ilk, you don't feel different. You don't feel as if you're moving past them. You recognize yourself. They recognize you. You put your head back down. You go back to work. Probably doing something you never dreamed you'd be doing.<br />
<br />
And you'll think "Man, I should probably be thinking something important right now - like a way to get out of here forever." And nothing will happen. Nothing will change.<br />
<br />
Because everywhere is here and here is forever.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-77873425852525491942012-10-05T15:17:00.002-07:002012-10-05T15:18:39.545-07:00The Two Heartbreaks Everybody is allowed two heartbreaks in their lifetime.<br />
<br />
Two.<br />
<br />
That's all you get. Don't fuck up.<br />
<br />
Now before everyone starts pitching a fit about their own unique experiences, let's examine what I mean by the word 'heartbreak'. This is a dicey task because as I was typing "definition of heartbreak" into Google, I was worried about what awful bands that may exist using that as a name, album or song title. Thankfully I got shot straight to Wikipedia. After redirecting me to 'broken heart', this is what it had to say:<br />
<br />
<i style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">A </span><b style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">broken heart</b><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> (or </span><b style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">heartbreak</b><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">) is a common </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metaphor" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Metaphor">metaphor</a><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> used to describe the intense </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychological_pain" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Psychological pain">emotional pain</a><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> or </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suffering" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Suffering">suffering</a><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"> one feels after losing a loved one, whether through </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Death">death</a><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Divorce" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Divorce">divorce</a><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">, </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Relationship_breakup" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Relationship breakup">breakup</a><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">, physical separation, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Betrayal" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Betrayal">betrayal</a><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">, or </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unrequited_love" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-decoration: none;" title="Unrequited love">romantic rejection</a><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"><br /></span></i>
Metaphor? You mean it's not real? Nope. Not at all. In fact, historically, I'm inclined to believe that anytime a coroner wrote down 'broken heart' as a cause of death - you know, like when your grandmother dies a few months after your grandfather - he was just making a very dark, hilariously awesome joke. It was actually a heart attack that killed granny, kid. Or pancreatic cancer. Something like that. I'm not sure. What I can tell you though is that it definitely wasn't the body's most important muscle deciding to stop because it was bummed out. That doesn't mean a 'broken heart' isn't an actual psychological condition. It is. And what gets broken is far more important than your little blood piston. Your ego.<br />
<br />
You see when a romantic entanglement you are involved in gets suddenly ended against your wishes, that sickening emotion you are feeling is insult. You have been used and discarded, champ. All those wonderful qualities - your talents, personality quirks, sense of humor, appearance - were all fully taken in by another living creature and then happily returned like you were Best Buy the day after Christmas. For whatever reason, you weren't good enough to hold someone's attention longer than you did. Don't dwell on it or fret about it, though. This happens to everybody. In fact, it happens to everybody twice.<br />
<br />
The two heartbreaks. The two instances in your brief existence where your precious ego will take a head on collision with the sweet indifference of reality. Two concussive blasts from an enemy bunker. I'm only talking in a romantic sense. I can see that Wikipedia's above definition pulled death and grieving into the discussion as well. That's cold, harsh reality too...but I am limiting this to tales of love and rejection. The two kinds of which you will endure at some point on this planet. This is what they consist of:<br />
<br />
<b>1. The Sad Puppy.</b> Invariably this will always happen first. You really fall for somebody else based completely on non-sexual activities. For lack of a better term, you have a crush. You are not physically involved with the person at all. Yet, you are around them. Probably a lot. Enough that you develop these feelings and it really affects your life. As in...you tell other people you are in love with this person. The key here with The Sad Puppy is that you are not viewed in any serious, 'loving' manner. You are in essence, a puppy to the other person. They like having you around but it doesn't run any deeper. Thanks to your ego running wild though, you went a whole lot deeper. So even though you never have a physical moment between you and the other person, you still plead your undying love to them. They are baffled. They turn you down. You slink home and suffer...thinking you were robbed of some Olympic medal because you were as sweet as can be and still came up empty handed. Oh, gotta love that ego.<br />
<br />
<b>2. The Used Car.</b> Eventually, through sheer time and numbers, you will get sexually involved with someone that you actually like. It's rare but it does happen - if only to fulfill the prophecy of the 2nd heartbreak. It may not necessarily be the first person you copulate with but if I were to ballpark it, I'd say this experience is somewhere in the first 25. The worst part is, the moment you start swapping fluids with the opposite sex, this experience waits for you like a skinned knee after your first bicycle. There is no way to avoid it. You will get really attached to someone you are sleeping with. They will at some point move on before you are able to. You will be devastated. Sorry I had to be the one to tell you. For some reason the added physical intimacy of this heartbreak will make it appear harder than The Sad Puppy. This is just an illusion. They are two sides of the same coin. You thought you were doing your best in a situation, then when the coach posts the final roster on the bulletin board you find out you didn't make the team.<br />
<br />
Ideally, one should get these out of the way as quickly as possible. For me, I got The Sad Puppy at 18 and then The Used Car at 21. In between I remember thinking that I was due for #2 but even then, in full awareness, I wasn't prepared. No one can be. Even by reading this there is no way YOU could use this information to protect yourself. I'm just stating one of those unfortunate truths of the universe.<br />
<br />
Keep in mind, just because there are 2 finite forms of heartbreak doesn't mean they won't stop happening after you have already survived them. You could still fall for someone from a distance and get spurned. You could still develop feelings for a fuck buddy. Who knows. The point is those new experiences won't be as hurtful to your ego. Your ego will have already survived its bootcamp into adulthood. Think of it like a piece of burnt wood. Have you ever tried to ignite a piece of burnt wood? It doesn't work. When those circumstances crop up again, you won't really be all that bothered. You have learned the most important lesson of all: <b>nobody gives a fuck about you.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Now, as for there being a possible 'third' heartbreak....there isn't one. Just a 'first' suicide.<br />
<br />
Oh that wacky ego.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-30369271849372907912012-09-21T12:11:00.002-07:002012-09-21T12:11:22.555-07:00Dear Great-Great-Great GrandfatherYou were born in Strasbourg<br />
in 1821<br />
at least<br />
that's what this website says<br />
and if I do my math<br />
correctly<br />
that was 164 years<br />
before I arrived<br />
on a lightning strike<br />
somewhere else <br />
<br />
So tell me something<br />
great-great-great<br />
grandfather<br />
what was it all for?<br />
I'm sure you baked cakes<br />
and farmed<br />
and ate sausage<br />
but where are you now?<br />
what did you learn?<br />
and how would I know?<br />
<br />
Maybe it was you<br />
or probably more likely your children<br />
that got on a boat<br />
one day<br />
and went from one pile of mud<br />
to another<br />
where I intervened<br />
shortly thereafter<br />
when the cirumstances<br />
were deemed<br />
acceptable<br />
<br />
Well great-great-great<br />
grandfather<br />
I'm sitting here in air condition<br />
not baking any cakes<br />
though I could<br />
or eating any sausage<br />
but there's a store down the street<br />
that sells some<br />
no farming<br />
necessary<br />
<br />
Was this<br />
what it was all for?<br />
great-great-great<br />
grandfather?<br />
These little privileges? <br />
I guess we'd both<br />
like to hope so<br />
because you're long dead<br />
long, long dead<br />
<br />
and I don't plan on visiting<br />
Strasbourg<br />
anytime<br />
soon.<br />
<br />
Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-53687301224107914942012-09-19T15:22:00.000-07:002012-09-19T15:26:20.941-07:00Lose the Arm: How I Learned Every Life Lesson from Robo Cop<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Ask me what my favorite movies are and I will always respond with these three: Ghostbusters, Batman and RoboCop. This is no coincidence. I was born in 1985. Ghostbusters was released in 1984. Batman in 1989. RoboCop in 1987. I grew up watching these films, for better or for worse. They are part of my makeup as a human being. That sounds ridiculous, I know. But very true. Especially if we look at possibly the most important film of the three I listed, RoboCop.<br />
<br />
First and foremost, RoboCop is a fucking violent movie. It is full of visceral bloodshed. It teems with adult language. It takes place in a future-version of Detroit. Need I say more?<br />
<br />
Do the math. If I was born in 1985 and the film came out in 1987...I was 2 years old. Obviously I didn't see it in theaters so let's assume my father brought home the VHS sometime in 1988. This would have made me around 3 fucking years old watching RoboCop for the first time. I was 3 years old and enjoying such endearing scenes as...<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Murphy getting ritually executed by a gang of thugs. I have this scene memorized. Line for line. I shit you not.<br />
<br />
Not only did I absorb this film at such a young, tender age. I had all the god damn toys too! Nowadays, they don't even bother manufacturing tie-in merchandise for children when it comes to Rated-R movies. Back in the 1980s things were vastly different. Robo Cop was Rated-R. A hard fucking R. This film still contains some of the most Over-the-Top realistic violence I have ever seen. The only thing that could <i>maybe</i> compete was the last Rambo movie 2008. Did they make toys for that one? Absolutely fucking not.<br />
<br />
But back in 1988 or 1989....I had all of this shit....<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
It wasn't just action figures either. I had the car, the motorcycle, the full on costume kit that had the RoboCop helmet and Gatling gun accessory. Fuck man, they even made a toy of E.D. 209.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Yeah, that's right. The machine that basically mutilates some OCP executive within the first 30 minutes of the movie. Remember, these are toys aimed at children. The company must have made the assumption that <b>yes indeed children were seeing this horrifically violent movie, recognizing the characters and purchasing the toys.</b> It is stunning when you think about it. We truly live in a different time.<br />
<br />
Back to the point of this blog. I saw this all - fully took it in - at a very young age. I also derived a codified set of values from the movie that not even the force-feeding of organized religion could challenge. In so many words it can be summed up like this: If somebody hurts you...strip away the humanity, eliminate the weakness, come back stronger...and shove a steel ice-pick thing through their neck.<br />
<br />
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<br />
There's a similar message in Rocky movies too. If you lose, train hard, come back and win. In RoboCop, no training necessary. You get rebuilt into a callous machine. Since I was a child I always had an affinity for callous machines and 'phoenix rising from the ashes' stories. Now you know why.<br />
<br />
When a scientist working on RoboCop tells OCP executive Bob Morton that they can save the human right arm of Officer Murphy, Morton mechanically responds, "Lose the arm." It is a scene that happens very fast but it is incredibly important. You replace the human aspect of the creature and you get something stronger. RoboCop functions on directives. That's all. At one point he remarks that he can feel his family, but does not remember them. My little brain soaked all of this up.<br />
<br />
RoboCop is one of my absolute top 3 favorite movies for a lot more reasons but this one always seemed the most paramount. It taught me that the cold execution of a plan was the surefire method to get something done. Leave no room for error. Error is human. Humans get blown apart.<br />
<br />
Directive 1. Serve the public trust.<br />
Directive 2. Protect the innocent.<br />
Directive 3. Uphold the law.<br />
<br />
Directive 4 is, of course, classified. ;-)<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, and one more thing...<br />
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Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-30526919110788243532012-09-18T14:31:00.001-07:002012-09-18T14:32:39.095-07:00I'm a Shitty World TravelerThis summer I logged another international visitation. I spent 2 weeks in Thailand (not getting laid, but that's another blog) with layovers in Tokyo and San Francisco. All places I'd never been before. My last continent hop was in 2007 when I spent a summer in Dublin, IRE. Before that I had also made sojourns into Canada and Mexico, the usual for most Americans. I've learned this:<br />
<br />
I suck at traveling.<br />
<br />
Not the mechanics of it. That actual enjoyment of the moment. You can drop me anywhere in the world - show me the sights, the activities, introduce me to customs, try different food, whatever...it does not move me in the slightest. At the end of any given day, wherever I am, I want a cool bar to hang out in and female company when I go to sleep. That's it. I don't get a charge from anything else. I don't stumble back to the U.S.A. with bags full of useless trinkets. Shit, I force myself to take photographs just so I have evidence that I was somewhere else. I spent like a total of 5 days in Bangkok. I couldn't tell you shit about it. Except that I didn't get laid. Again - that's another story.<br />
<br />
Excuse my tunnel vision but that's the truth. I spent 2 weeks sauntering around beautiful beaches feeling generally nothing. Ko Tao, Thailand may as well have been fucking Pensacola, Florida for all I cared. A beach is a beach. Sand and water. Some are prettier than others but all give me the same sensation. Sand and water. I get wet and then I get sandy. Then I get back in the water to get the sand off. Then I get sandy again when I sit back on the beach. Maybe I have a drink with me. Maybe I don't. Some beautiful women walk past me and nothing happens. I can do this anywhere. Trust me, I'm working on it.<br />
<br />
Besides that, there is the obvious culture shocking that also goes completely over my head. Yeah I know other places do things differently. I am not surprised or impressed by this. Living in thatch huts by the beach? Fucking great. Good for you. I'll take an air conditioned hotel room with a toilet that flushes. I will always take that. I will also eat all your 'neat' indigenous cuisine. Does it amaze me? No. I've had all sorts of food before. It's just fucking food. Noodles do not taste better in Thailand. Or Japan. Or California. Or Delaware. They taste like fucking noodles. These are just more examples of scenarios where I almost feel guilty for not feeling a single shred of excitement over anything. Except at that last second I remember that I don't feel guilt. Then I move along.<br />
<br />
I've watched my fair share of travel shows. I've talked to a lot of my peers. I read people's online profiles where they list their interests and "Traveling" is always fucking somewhere in the mix. Maybe I'm doing it wrong. Fuck, maybe I'm just completely being a human being wrong. You go fill up the daytime hours with whatever you want. Hiking? Swimming? Meditation classes in some Buddhist temple? Yeah, sure, have at it. That's all boring nonsense to me. Maybe if I were running drugs across borders this shit would be more enthralling. Alas, it is not.<br />
<br />
Maybe if I had gotten laid I'd have more to report about the whole Thailand experience. The irony of traveling to a place renowned for sexual tourism and having my dick stay completely dry is not lost on me. In fact I thought about it every night for two whole weeks. Yep. Every night. Staring up at the ceiling. For two weeks.<br />
<br />
You know what I WASN'T thinking?<br />
<br />
MMMM THOSE NOODLES SURE WERE GOOD!!Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-67568368679504434282012-09-18T09:01:00.001-07:002012-09-18T09:01:30.681-07:00My All Purpose Solution to Drug AddictionIf a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?<br />
<br />
If a drug addict has no one to burden with their horseshit, do they fucking matter?<br />
<br />
No!<br />
<br />
I'm not going to type a catch-all guide to brain repair for people with drug problems. I don't fucking know how to rewire someone's brain synapses. I'm going to write out a solution for YOU, the person who has to deal with the shitty behavior of a drug addict. Maybe they were your relative. Maybe they are a friend. Maybe you even got duped into dating one. Do yourself a Darwinian favor...<br />
<br />
WALK AWAY.<br />
<br />
Don't get all fucking humanitarian and altruistic and think you can amend this person. If a person's brain stem is severed, they lose motor function. You can't teach them back into walking. Similarly, the case for 'drug addition' is a case closed scenario. Some people are just wired to love things like drugs, alcohol, sex, work...more than anything else. If it bothers you OR affects your life that much, just leave. If you live somewhere shitty and you are unhappy, just move. It's that simple. Pull the trigger. Pack your shit, gas up the car and get the fuck out. Form new relationships with people who aren't inconveniencing you. It's that simple. Hell, even if its your mom. She's addicted to happy pills. POOF! Sorry, mom! GONE!<br />
<br />
I'm only trying to save you future trouble. You won't listen to me of course. If you are set in your ways of being an enabler to your shitty drug addled constituents...then much like your addicted brother, sister, mother, boyfriend, girlfriend or roommate....you are not going to change. Enjoy the drudgery of a life where you have basically relinquished your independence and control. Drug addicts are notorious for bad punctuality so let's see how late they are to your funeral. They probably won't even show up.<br />
<br />
Because they love DRUGS! Not YOU!<br />
<br />
Pack up your shit and move on...or suffer some hilarious (to me) consequences.<br />
<br />
It's your funeral.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-26187963353341076772012-09-12T08:31:00.003-07:002012-09-18T09:03:43.801-07:00The Fine Art of Compromise and the Finer Art of Not Compromising and the Finest Art of Simply Not Listening to Women Give Advice"Never settle, Josh."<br />
<br />
That's what she said. I'm being completely serious. We were standing in a bar, our usual after-after hours haunt and she was somehow slipping in sacred guidance before the first round even arrived. This was many years ago, mind you. I'm not sure why I'm bringing it up now. It was one of those nuggets of conversation that never left me. Even if I did end up getting smashed that night, I'll always remember her saying that. It sounded really stupid then and it sounds just as stupid now. "Never settle, Josh." What the fuck does that even mean? That's the problem when women take psychology courses, I guess. You find yourself cornered in a situation like this.<br />
<br />
I used to fuck this girl. Years ago. It ended badly I suppose - I wanted to keep fucking and she did not - but time passed and the residual emotional energy was eradicated. That is a beautiful process in itself but it still did not stop the conversation I was now having from happening. For some reason, we were out together again. Sharing that mutual dead space that people 'who used to fuck' usually do. Banal, polite conversation that isn't supposed to veer into anything too serious. Yet there she goes dropping inane statements like "never settle" and I'm left completely dumbfounded. And I wasn't even drunk yet.<br />
<br />
We must have been talking about dating or the people both of us were currently fucking. I had long since passed the stage where I cared about who she was with, so I don't even remember what she said. I must have spouted off about some girl I was half interested in - leading to her eventual comeback of 'not settling' as it were. This left me confused because advice like this sounds heavy, in theory. Like the person listening to you actually thought about your emotional state and doled out their best possible wisdom. I knew this girl didn't give 2 transparent fucks about my emotional state. Hence, my bewilderment. She was just shitting words out of her mouth and for some fucking reason...all these years later...I remember them and they still irk me. God damn it.<br />
<br />
Listen. Listen to me very carefully. Despite all you have heard from the likes of Emily Dickinson, the women you love will never feel as lonely or betrayed as you. These are beautiful women with a lifetime of being lifted up on to pedestals. They live in a different world. At any given moment they have lines around the corner of men wishing to entertain them for an evening. They can have this every evening. Meanwhile you will sit in your room, no one calling you on your phone and you will stare at the walls. You will continue to stare and contemplate suicide every fucking second. Not too seriously. Not like an overly emotional teenager. You will coldly think about to all your life experience and compare the victories to the failures. For every grand night you won, there were a thousand spent like that. Staring at a wall.<br />
<br />
These beautiful women never had that. Yet here she was saying "Never settle, Josh" as if she knew something I didn't about the human relationships, human fate. The narcissism was sickening. The tone. The eye contact. The charade. It was enough to make you wish you were back in your room, alone and staring at the wall again. The walls don't lie to you like that. They tell the truth. They offer nothing but silence. Their tomb is the real meat of existence. Some fucking women offering you dating advice from her lofty social balcony is not. It's not real. None of it is. The thought that I once looked forward to fucking this girl every night was revolting now. The thought that I actually missed her when she was left was worse. The hollowness of the human condition is never more apparent than in that circumstance.<br />
<br />
That said, look at me now. Still standing around the same bars making idle conversation. Still staring at four walls waiting for them to cave in. Still not being called on my phone while I watch the beautiful women of the world dance around in their palaces of attention and ease. They have the liberty of imagining their own dramas and tragedies. They come and go as they please.<br />
<br />
And yet here I remain.<br />
<br />
I never settled, Lauren.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-40157510945119336612012-09-12T07:50:00.001-07:002012-09-12T07:50:42.687-07:00Sinking Above GroundA shared human experience<br />
I can assure you<br />
is that sensation<br />
of falling<br />
as your stomach twists<br />
when you learn<br />
something unsettling<br />
very suddenly<br />
through one of your<br />
five delightful senses<br />
and your body reacts<br />
with a biological<br />
boxing match<br />
where your mind<br />
has thrown in the towel<br />
but the referee<br />
doesn't see it<br />
and the body blows<br />
keep raining down<br />
until the knees buckle<br />
and the lights<br />
go out<br />
<br />
later on<br />
in the silence<br />
of the locker room<br />
when the fight is over<br />
and there's no more blood<br />
left to spit out<br />
the scene replays itself<br />
over and over<br />
the unexpected right jab<br />
when you were<br />
throwing a hook<br />
<br />Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-21188478918073094572012-02-28T12:49:00.002-08:002012-02-28T12:55:15.989-08:00Mardi 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-63763166375062565492011-12-17T19:39:00.001-08:002011-12-17T20:11:58.285-08:00The Christmas BonusI 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.<div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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!"</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div>Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-56448648357254864892011-10-20T14:30:00.000-07:002011-10-20T20:11:33.475-07:00Pop Journalism for Pop Music!<div>Behold this gem of an article from Buzzfeed: <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/daves4/12-extremely-disappointing-facts-about-popular-mus">http://www.buzzfeed.com/daves4/12-extremely-disappointing-facts-about-popular-mus</a></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>(not trying to promote that site, its content or its content providers)</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>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!</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>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?</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>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!</div>Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-36597669381518993192011-08-25T11:08:00.000-07:002011-08-25T11:23:26.420-07:00T.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.
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<br />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.
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<br />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.
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<br />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.
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<br />And I'm Too Fucking Nice.
<br />Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-29670460104633989022011-08-17T12:11:00.000-07:002011-08-17T12:45:53.320-07:00Accidentally Here for No ReasonThe 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.
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<br />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.
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<br />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.
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<br />I guess we'll have to dig up Edgar Allan Poe to see if he's laughing.
<br />Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-21217831912425129692011-08-07T17:31:00.000-07:002011-08-07T17:32:49.708-07:00Guess who's holding the dynamite?I quit that fucking job.<div><br /></div><div>So here we go again, Universe. You, me and the infinite.</div><div><br /></div><div>Your move, fucker.</div>Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-18901936600360706572011-07-26T10:27:00.000-07:002011-07-26T10:40:16.105-07:00Nice to meet you, AnnihilationI'm sitting at work right now.<br /><br />Bored.<br /><br />Contemplating.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I have band practice tonight. That's comforting. It's been too long and I've got a lot to say.Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-86275517541565349982011-07-01T23:57:00.000-07:002011-07-02T10:52:37.777-07:00Who needs re-runs when you got the box set?<div>I live in an infinite loop of insanity where the same behaviors get repeated and beget the same horrible consequences. A never ending loop of two fun-house mirrors facing each other. Each additional dimension more warped than the one before. 5 years ago may as well be 5 years from now. It is terrifying in concept but absolute madness in reality. A cancerous blob that absorbs all my new life experiences and twists them into the same counterproductive mass of spiritual waste. I am driving down a road and I keep passing the same mailbox. I cannot move forward. I cannot pass Go. I cannot collect 200 dollars. It is a living, breathing malevolence that wraps itself around my shoulders like an albatross. I have to make myself laugh to block out its laughter. That of which follows me into my dreams and snickers as I visualize realities of progression and accomplishment. I then wake to its sour breath of morning, where all potential has been exterminated. I repeat this cycle everyday. Like my own personal Flying Dutchman, sailing the high seas of oblivion.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is a waking fucking nightmare.</div><div><br /></div>Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-24193955831718322572011-04-04T17:06:00.001-07:002011-04-04T17:09:16.039-07:00Perfect RendezvousAnother poem - you still are not allowed to laugh.<br />--------------------<br /><br />"Perfect Rendezvous"<br /><br />She was supposed to meet me at 10:30<div>She didn't</div><div>I knew she wouldn't</div><div>but I spent my money</div><div>and showed up</div><div>and waited<br /></div><div>because I knew she wouldn't<br />and I like being right<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>She was supposed to meet me<br />the next night</div><div>She didn't</div><div>She was supposed to meet me<br />in New York<br /></div><div>She didn't</div><div>She was supposed to meet me<br />at the altar</div><div>She didn't</div> <div><br /></div><div>I showed up<br />I waited<br /></div><div>because I like being right</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm always right</div><div>it's easy<br /></div><div>when everybody else<br />isn't me<br /></div><div> and their words</div> <div>could be folded up</div><div>like paper airplanes</div><div>and sent into the breeze</div><div>blowing around</div><div>with leaves and spiders</div><div>and other things</div><div>that carry no weight</div><div>except poison</div> <div><br /></div><div>She was supposed to meet me again<br />somewhere<br /></div><div>I think it was tonight</div><div>or tomorrow</div><div>or yesterday</div><div>I don't remember</div><div>It doesn't matter<br /></div><div> maybe she can spend some money</div> <div>and show up</div><div>and wait</div><div><br /></div><div>Then I could do her the favor</div><div>of making her feel</div><div>like she was right</div><div>everybody deserves</div><div>to be right</div>for once<br />but that isn't her<br />because she isn't me<br />and she can't make<br />a promise<br />worth keeping<br />or an explanation<br />I'd ever believe<br /><br />so somewhere tonight<br />a table will stay empty<br />a waiter won't get annoyed<br />with my complicated order<br />and a busboy<br />won't have to mop up<br />a spilled glass of wine<br />and other patrons<br />won't be annoyed<br />by an obnoxious<br />conversation<br />she'll get to stay at home<br />making up stories<br />I'll stay at home<br />waiting to hear them<br /><br />she won't have<br />to apologize this time<br />because somewhere<br />there is a table<br />that stayed empty<br />and quiet<br />where two people<br />never appeared<br />and a perfect<br />rendezvous<br />was finally<br />achieved<br /><br />at a table somewhere<br />empty<br />and quiet<br />like meJoshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9002103385782423840.post-61301715009684619652011-03-23T21:07:00.000-07:002011-03-23T21:15:51.446-07:00Last Rites for Those Who Died LaughingIf the best art comes from suffering, then as an artist I am sort of an 'ambassador of suffering'. I get to remind you of the worst day of your life - then sing a song about it. This pleases me immensely. I couldn't think of a better occupation. Ambassador of suffering. Here to dispel crooked wisdom through cynical prose and the vibration of rusty metal strings. The best part is that if I do it really well, you'll cheer for me. You'll cheer for your own battered experiences, bitterness and plague of insecurities. I'll hand you a general admission ticket to your own personal hell and you'll try to get as close to the stage as possible.<div><br /></div><div>Because that means I must be making good art.</div><div><br /></div><div>And good art comes from suffering.</div><div><br /></div><div>But you wouldn't know that.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you weren't suffering.</div><div><br /></div><div>Haha.</div>Joshua A.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13498901802042223963noreply@blogger.com0