Poverty to the Privileged

The Christmas Bonus

2011-12-17T19:39:00.001-08:00

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!

2011-10-20T14:30:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-08-25T11:08:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-17T12:11:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-08-07T17:31:00.000-07:00

I quit that fucking job.

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

Your move, fucker.

Nice to meet you, Annihilation

2011-07-26T10:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Who needs re-runs when you got the box set?

2011-07-01T23:57:00.000-07:00

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.

It is a waking fucking nightmare.

Perfect Rendezvous

2011-04-04T17:06:00.001-07:00

Another poem - you still are not allowed to laugh.
--------------------

"Perfect Rendezvous"

She was supposed to meet me at 10:30

She didn't

I knew she wouldn't

but I spent my money

and showed up

and waited

because I knew she wouldn't
and I like being right

She was supposed to meet me
the next night

She didn't

She was supposed to meet me
in New York

She didn't

She was supposed to meet me
at the altar

She didn't

I showed up
I waited

because I like being right

I'm always right

it's easy

when everybody else
isn't me

and their words

could be folded up

like paper airplanes

and sent into the breeze

blowing around

with leaves and spiders

and other things

that carry no weight

except poison

She was supposed to meet me again
somewhere

I think it was tonight

or tomorrow

or yesterday

I don't remember

It doesn't matter

maybe she can spend some money

and show up

and wait

Then I could do her the favor

of making her feel

like she was right

everybody deserves

to be right

for once
but that isn't her
because she isn't me
and she can't make
a promise
worth keeping
or an explanation
I'd ever believe

so somewhere tonight
a table will stay empty
a waiter won't get annoyed
with my complicated order
and a busboy
won't have to mop up
a spilled glass of wine
and other patrons
won't be annoyed
by an obnoxious
conversation
she'll get to stay at home
making up stories
I'll stay at home
waiting to hear them

she won't have
to apologize this time
because somewhere
there is a table
that stayed empty
and quiet
where two people
never appeared
and a perfect
rendezvous
was finally
achieved

at a table somewhere
empty
and quiet
like me

Last Rites for Those Who Died Laughing

2011-03-23T21:07:00.000-07:00

If 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.

Because that means I must be making good art.

And good art comes from suffering.

But you wouldn't know that.

If you weren't suffering.

Haha.

Strings

2011-03-15T15:48:00.001-07:00

Ok, so I wrote a poem. Don't laugh.
------------------------------------------

Have you ever had a guitar?
Have you ever had to string a guitar?
Most guitarists hate it
It's the closest thing to labor
a musician is willing to do
Because just when everything sounds right
Something happens
And you have to start all over again
Kinda like a relationship

You have your guitar
She sounds wonderful
She feels and plays just as you'd want her to
But you get a little lazy
Maybe a little rough
And suddenly that low E
Snaps back at you
Like you insulted its mother

Then you find yourself
Sauntering over to the music store
You don't want to be there
The clerk doesn't want to be there
But you suck it up
And pluck your money on the table
They don't have the exact strings
You had before
Instead you have to settle for pack
That looks the most like
Your old strings

You walk back home
unsure if you made the right purchase
and you begin your new struggle
sliding them up the neck
tightening, loosening and tightening
as it refuses to cooperate
Sometimes you just give up after a while
You walk back down the street
Have a cigarette
and stare at your new blisters
because the damn strings
are still brand new
and feel like barbed wire

You compose yourself
and resume the challenge
after a few weeks
and many hours
the strings settle in
and start to behave themselves
you can bang the guitar around
and it stays in tune
you're pleasantly surprised
you almost forget about
the pair you had before this one

everything snaps and pops
as it should
your friends even mention
how nice it plays
and you actually feel some pride
for those damned strings
because you put the time in
and the love
seems to come back to you
as easy as the next chord

so you get a little lazy
and a few months pass
and those brand new strings
are getting that special mix
of grease and rust
that strings like to do
but you don't mind
that they're starting to sound poor
they're comfortable
and familiar
and already there

but the day comes along
in the middle of a jam
just when you thought
everything was fine
when that low E
or high E,
or maybe the A
whips itself back at you
just like your old pair did
and every mistake you ever made
with a pair of guitar strings
you are instantly reminded of

about how you were too lazy
too selfish
too reckless
too proud
too ignorant to know
what those strings needed
until they broke
right in front of you
right in your hands
and how you knew it would happen
the split second
before it happened

now you find yourself
at the music store
with a clerk
who seems more like a bartender
that doesn't want to hear your story
about how you need
a new pair of strings
that will sound like
your old pair of strings
because no matter
what you come home with
nothing will sound like
your old pair of strings

Interview from SleazeRoxx.com

2010-09-09T14:55:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the 4th episode of the increasingly popular "Local Heroes" segment. Its the part of the show where we profile one of our very own Sleaze Roxxians and their own music.

This week we chat with the ever talented, and hilariously funny, musical genius that we all know and love as Joshua A.D.!!

Joshua A.D., welcome to Local Heroes!

Hello!

We are not all from LA, so we haven't seen you doing your magic, so as an intro tell us a bit of who you are.

I'm not from LA either, thank christ. I originally grew up north of Baltimore, Maryland on a horse farm. Pretty boring. I was about 30 minutes from Baltimore, an hour south of Philadelphia, 3 hours south of New York City and an hour and a half north of Washington. You'd think it would be interesting but it really wasn't. I moved away when I was 17 to New Orleans for college. Spent 5 amazing years there, did 10 months hanging in Chicago and then made the Maryland to California cross country drive last summer.

That's just locations. If you want to know "who I am"...read on I suppose...

So what is your band? What are you doing musically at present?

My band is Joshua A.D., my first ever venture into being a "solo" artist. It's sloppy hard rock, punky I guess, with a sense of humor about itself. It's both intentional and unintentional. I write serious songs about things I think about, but at the same time I can't take anything seriously. So onstage playing original music for strangers, I have always devolved into humor. It's like the lowest common denominator in entertainment. I always get good feedback, and it takes a lot of pressure off. The band's music is like The Dictators meets Thin Lizzy meets AC/DC and Motorhead. I'm by no means a good musician, so the humor takes the edge of that. Bands often do that to insulate themselves to criticism. I guess that's true for me as well. But even when I played in serious bands it was always more fun to make the audience laugh. 75% of the time they can't hear the words or understand the songs live anyway.

Very cool HMJ, lets talk live shows - what is a HMJ gig like?

All fun, no pressure. I want to actively engage whoever is watching the band. A lot of times bands can switch into live-auto pilot. They pull off the poses and the songs, but they're just not really 'there' you know? I write new jokes and skits and segues for each show. That's done so if someone in the back of the bar is trying to ignore the band, I'm throwing different shit out there besides music to get their attention. It works. Even if they go back to ignoring me once the next song starts. At least they heard SOMETHING I said. Being a performer is inherently desiring attention. It's about ego for most. It's more philosophical for me. "HEY LOOK I EXIST! AND I INTERACTED WITH YOU!"

So it's a whole show of music/comedy that pulls everyone into being self-aware of 'rock music'. I try to take that delicate mystique of music and shatter it. It's more honest and funnier that way.

Do you do any of your comedy in your routine? We know you are the forums premier funny man.

It's hard to detect the sarcasm here when it's in text and in an interview that was emailed to me. But yeah, see my above answer. You have to be funny. I've played in metal bands where you bludgeon your audience with heavier content. It's not fun. You can't expect strangers to get off on that.

Here's an example of a joke I do live. We finish a song and I say "Hmm, that one didn't sound quite right. Let us consult the big book of rock n roll music theory." Then I hold up a playboy magazine and study it. "Ahh, here's what we did wrong...we played that C diminished and these Cs are clearly augmented." Yeah, sounds silly, but it always gets a giggle from someone. Even if it's just the bartender.

How long have you been doing this & what is a highlight for you?

The solo "Joshua A.D." band started in January 2010. I had given myself months to get situated once I moved out to Los Angeles. Prior to that I was in a punk band Urban Search & Destroy in New Orleans and Chicago that fizzled out in November 2008. Writing duties in that were split 50/50 but since my songs had their own sense of humor to them compared to the other guy's...it made sense that one day I should just do it myself. That's where I got a taste for comedy in rock music. Before that I was in a metal band called Exigence that recorded lots of demos and played parties - but Hurricane Katrina fucked it all up and half the band formed a death metal band shortly there after.

Before that was a classic rock cover band I had with high school friends in Baltimore. Zeppelin, Beatles, Floyd and all that usual stuff. Typical 'first band' experience.

What are your hopes for your musical career?

Absolutely none. I am well aware most people won't like the songs I write, especially considering how I sing them. I get off more on the whole "entertaining" thing, and taking a room full of people who don't give a shit but suddenly feel compelled to applaud. It's like winning. Being successful in music is just like any other job. You have know the right people and get a lot of favors done. Friends of mine run in that racket. It seems like more stress than fun to me. My band and I laugh onstage. I encourage that. Shitty sound? Who cares! If you're having fun, people sense it. They can sense bullshit too.

The whole goal of Joshua A.D. is just to put myself out there in the L.A. scene. I offer a pretty unique experience and I might as well get out while I'm young and try.

You've got guts to do what you do - especially the stand up comedy - do you get much negativity & if so how do you deal with it?

Only online. Where it is easiest to throw stones. Among friends, everyone loves it. They do because they know that I love it. It's pure fun. Believe it or not, audiences love it - especially other bands. I often get the "I can't believe you do this stuff" reaction, but in a good way. The off the wall nature of it is what keeps in interesting. If I was just your regular rock musician, I'd feel pretty lost. Cutting out a clear identity for yourself is the hardest part - but once you got it down, you're golden. And the best part is, only you need to feel that way.

Any music for sale? How do we check you guys out?

All of our live rehearsal demos will be up at http://www.reverbnation.com/joshuaad for anyone. If and when we get the money to go into a studio to record regular demos or an album (which we can easily do, we have 10 original songs ready to roll) then I'd simply give it away for free. It's not about selling CDs or t-shirts. I have a day job, and acting as musician/performer is a hobby. I get off on having people tell me how much they laughed at something or what song they really like. That's all that matters. In this day and age, you can't ask for much more. I wish the god damn concerts were all free, but the promoter would kill me.

You're in LA, in the clubs, rockin on - what is the scene like for Glam Rock these days?

I guess it's fine. You have to remember that most young bands gigging in LA take their shit to heart. They are trying to make it and get noticed. That doesn't leave a lot of room for scenes and friends. In other cities, yeah definitely, but In LA everyone is kinda out for blood. Not always, but you get that feeling. A lot of the musicians are kinda dicks too. That's why I love what I do. It's like showing up to a funeral with a birthday cake.

But it's just with people in my age range, their 20s, and such. Older guys are always cool and laid back. So I guess at one time there was a kick ass scene going on. Maybe there still is. Honestly, I have not gotten out there that much. Once I am regularly gigging in Hollywood I will get back to you.

We love the people who are out there doing it - any advice for the young viewers at home?

I cannot stress this whole 'have fun' bit enough. So many people into playing music don't seem to. They want to appear fun and cool and crazy. But they're not. So if you're going out with your band...just be honest with who you are and what you want to do in a performing sense. Once you got that, ENGAGE your audience. Be borderline combative with them and other bands. You got to give people a reason to care. When I am at a local show....I really DON'T care....so fucking come at me with something. No fear, no regrets, blah blah blah...

What is next up for the Band?

We are playing this Saturday at Harper's in Tarzana, CA. After that...more gigs that are TBA. Recording a demo and album would be nice too. I'd love to get out of the Valley and down to San Diego for some shows. My style is very niche it seems, so simply getting exposed to as many people as possible is the highest priority. I suck at networking and promotion....so that's an uphill both ways kinda battle.

Who is in your band?

The band name is Joshua A.D. - I sing and play bass, write all the songs, plan out the shows, and so on. My cohorts are Justin Salmons (from Dallas, TX) on guitar and Stefano Ashbridge (from Utah) on drums. They do an awesome job tolerating my ideas.

I also do a weekly podcast @ http://www.noantennaneeded.com as just another way to 'get out there' to speak.

I'd also like to say thanks to you, Easy. I never get to do stuff like this. Even at a small scale.

Joshua A.D. - It's been a pleasure, love your work man!!!

Media is a Social Disease

2010-02-18T11:05:00.000-08:00

"The man who makes an appearance in the business world, the man who creates personal interest, is the man who gets ahead. Be liked and you will never want."

~Willie Loman, Death of a Salesman

That's a fair bit of wisdom, Willie. It probably sounded real good 60 years ago. Unfortunately, we are living in a different time. A time where beloved franchises like Hooters and Pabst Brewing are up for sale. A time where Burger King has partnered with Starbucks. A time where the president is black, the mayor of New Orleans is white, the Saints won the Super Bowl, Keith Richards has given up drinking, and MTV’s Jersey Shore has been renewed for a second season. It makes me wonder how a fictional stalwart of post-WWII Americana would handle life in 2010…

He’d probably be on the Internet. With a twitter account. And a Facebook account. And a YouTube account. And an eHarmony account. If anyone was still on MySpace, he’d probably be flooding your bulletin board with invitations and exciting new business propositions. He was a salesman, afterall. People tell me all the time (slight exaggeration) that my notes are hilarious and I should be a full-time writer. I appreciate the flattery, but I don’t have a clue about writing professionally. From what I’ve observed, it involves a heavy online presence and a lot glad-handing with other internet bloggers. That’s not really a scene I’m crazy about. One might as well be going door to door selling vacuum cleaners if that’s what it all boils down to. Running around selling yourself despite not really offering any worthwhile content. You type your thoughts into a computer. Good for you. You tweet political articles and pipe in your two cents. Your ‘friends’ add their commentary. Apparently, this is modern networking. Technology has given the world a massive stage to share information with virtually no regulation and yet it remains the same old song and dance. “Hey man, check out this thing I do, if I get enough people, I get paid.”

That brings me to the whole Willie Loman symbolism. A clueless, idealistic dude with a briefcase just barely keeping his head above water. All that’s really changed is that his briefcase is now a laptop and his mistress sexts him on his blackberry. His 30yr old sons would probably still live at home, though. That occurrence will be a constant in any generation. Every morning you will wake up and log on thinking that pot of gold is just the next click away. According to Willie Loman, just being a likable person will ensure your success in the world. As far as I know, none of my friends are in jail. They’re all educated, friendly people. Where are their 60inch HD plasma flat screens? I guess there’s more to this rag to riches game than simply shaking hands and smiling.

I’m not completely disparaging this phenomenon of people turning their personal online presences into money making endeavors. That’s how the world works. Fast talking telemarketers with bargain bin office supply deals are the way of the world. Whether you’re a self absorbed blogger or a rock band trying to legitimize your talents by MySpace page views. All I want to do is eliminate this illusion that we are on the cusp of a new cultural identity and/or business model. There is no revolution in twittering. It’s an accelerated process of schmoozing and kissing ass for quarters. That’s what it was with Willie Loman in 1949 and what it continues to be today. Poor Willy worked under the guise that he was realizing the American Dream and JoeBlow.Blogspot thinks he’s on the cutting edge of communication. It’s all thinly veiled product placement, but in 2010 anyone can do it because the product is ourselves.

Okay, I just found out that 3 of the people on Jersey Shore aren’t even Italian. Excuse me while I extend this Willie Loman metaphor and vehicular suicide myself.

(Author's Note: I wrote this while on the clock at my office. Dolla' dolla' bills y'all.)

There's a place in the world for the angry young man...

2009-10-23T22:44:00.000-07:00

It's nice having a blog no one ever visits. I can post virtually anything here and it's like throwing a stone in the ocean. The ocean doesn't give a shit. There's some self satisfying thrill in it though, as if the voice(s) in your head has an audience. I guess that's delusion. Or delirium. Or schizophrenia...at least that's what google seems to think.

It makes you wonder how the fuck people make money off blogs. Especially the ones who post NO worthwhile content, or just repost from outside sources. Whatever the case, no one's reading this drivel and that affords me all the more freedom to be honest in this big, loud, empty corridor of internet land.

If you scroll back through this blog (you being illusory reader, or probably just me) you'll find an angry little note called "Gerisacaphobia" or something where I detested the notion of aging into 23. The entry ended with "I'm just really unhappy", and this was posted Nov 2nd, 2008. Funnily enough after that...I played one more gig with my band (Nov. 15th) before being backstabbed and abandoned by them (socially at least) in Chicago. I rallied back with a new job, saved money, and fucked off to Los Angeles. Here we are just about a year later and I can safely say....I'm just really unhappy. Fancy that. 365 days later. Nothing accomplished. No richer, no poorer, no thinner, nothing. Still just spinning wheels on a computer while life keeps marching on around me. It's almost disgusting. Once again, I face another birthday - 24 - and I'm quicker to grab my little white flag rather than my rifle. It's not depression. People are depressed when they are sad for no apparent reason. I know why I'm like this. I know why I'm constantly disappointed, discontent, dis-everything. Because despite my best efforts, nothing has clicked. The blurry image of what I need to do with my life has not come any clearer into focus. It's as if every move I make (geographical, social, professional, personal) is like what I mentioned earlier - throwing a stone in the ocean.

I put in my hours. I got a job. I earn my living. I motivate myself everyday to get up, work, go to the gym, stay in shape, eat healthy, practice music, etc. For what? Absolutely no gratification comes from any of it. But in the spirit of routine and vanity, I keep on trucking. No one cares and you can't expect them too. Everyone else seems to be miserable too. Mark my words, one year from now (Nov. 2010) I can bet these feelings will persist. What a fucking waste.

I'm not lamenting growing up, or my job, or issues with the opposite sex, or any of that nonsense. I just feel like I've been standing up in the front row of life for 24 years waiting for the show to start and it just ain't fucking happening. I guess that's what happens to everyone though. Heh. See that? I cannot even rest in the spirit of my own misery without understanding that everyone else is in the exact same situation and not one bit of my and anger and insecurities is a unique sensation. Fuck. That kind of circular thinking really is annoying.

Well that's enough from me. Can I get an applause?

*silence*

Another stone in the ocean.

Depression: Don't Believe the Tripe

2009-07-19T09:48:00.000-07:00

I know this will make me unpopular, but I'll say it anyway. Depression is bullshit. Sorry. I know it's nice to think you have some neurological defect that's preventing you from being that special amazing person...but...you don't. It's all in your head. Bi-Polar disorder? Mere clinical jargon dreamed up by shitty Doctors. There's bad days, there's good days, and yes sometimes EVERYONE just wants to kill themselves. In fact, sometimes that's all the time. You know what? THAT'S COMPLETELY FUCKING NORMAL.

1st quote to add legitimacy to my argument:
"Remember that no biochemical, neurological, or genetic markers have been found for attention deficit disorder, oppositional defiant disorder, depression, schizophrenia, anxiety, compulsive alcohol and drug abuse, overeating, gambling, or any other so-called mental illness, disease, or disorder." - Bruce Levine, Ph.D. (psychologist), Commonsense Rebellion: Debunking Psychiatry, Confronting Society (Continuum, New York 2001), p. 277.

I try to talk to people who claim depression. I really want to understand this phenomenon since 1/3rd of the country seems to be doped up on happy pills. "How did you know you were depressed and not just having a bad day?" I'd ask. Their answer is usually the same. "It's different, you just know. No matter what happens you feel bad all the time." Oh. Could this be the crushing reality of life? The constant revelation that no matter what you do, you will always be lost in the same haze of discontent? If you read through my blogs you could almost make a case that I'm depressed. I wake up feeling like shit everyday. I feel like I know cosmically there is no relevance to my life. I have a hard time justifying any exerted effort because I know there really is no fucking point. I don't write this off as depression though. That's life. Why do you think the most successful people in the world aren't just chilling out somewhere? They're still unhappy. They've still got work to do. Some people internalize this as a reason to get up in the morning. Other people rather just pop a pill and forget about it. They say it's a chemical imbalance. Riiiight....

2nd quote to add legitimacy to my argument:
If your doctor tells you that these drugs will correct an imbalance in your brain chemicals, please realize that more than likely your doctor got this from drug company representatives as part of the drug companies’ marketing activities. There is no scientific evidence to support such a statement. Just because you are depressed does not mean that there is something wrong with your brain chemicals." - Zoloft side effects web site

As I mentioned before though, I'm sure it's magically reassuring to some people that the reason they can't function 'like everybody else' is an ambiguous problem in their brain makeup. It's like the more scientific way of blaming everything on your parents. No, you know what, the parents thing is probably a more scientifically sound argument. If someone says they are sad or experience wild mood swings for no explicable reason, then my first instinct is "Well, you had a bad day and it finally caught up with you." They tell me I don't understand, and we continue this ballet ad infinitum. Maybe someone can give me a shot or something, so I get the symptoms of depression to see what it's really all about. Oh wait, I can't, because chemically it DOESN'T FUCKING EXIST. Sad? Bi-polar? So is everyone else, we just cover it up in more constructive ways. Some people shoot up schools. Some people gather massive toy train collections. Whatever the course, there's energy you have to burn every given day. If you don't, your body is going to give you anxiety, insomnia, discontent, and then probably a few extra pounds for not leaving the house and doing anything. Still the debate with friends rages on...

3rd quote to add legitimacy to my argument:
"I am constantly amazed by how many patients who come to see me believe or want to believe that their difficulties are biologic and can be relieved by a pill. This is despite the fact that modern psychiatry has yet to convincingly prove the genetic/biologic cause of any single mental illness. However, this does not stop psychiatry from making essentially unproven claims that depression, bipolar illness, anxiety disorders, alcoholism and a host of other disorders are in fact primarily biologic and probably genetic in origin, and that it is only a matter of time until all this is proven. This kind of faith in science and progress is staggering, not to mention naive and perhaps delusional." - Dr. David Kaiser, M.D. Psychiatrist

You know, I almost kind of wish there was a neurological disease to explain why some people are miserable douche nozzles. I could slip them some pills and they could perk the fuck up. But there isn't. There flat out isn't. If you are sitting at home feeling like the weight of the world is on your shoulders and there's nothing you can do about it - you're only experiencing clarity. Beautiful, soul destroying clarity. Think about why you're sad. There's a reason. Even if you are so sure there isn't, there is. Stop lying to yourself. Maybe you realized you'll never be that good looking. You'll never make more than a couple thousand in your life. You'll never find that perfect someone. You'll never raise those perfect kids. You'll never own that perfect house. Maybe you're just coming to grips that in 20 years you'll still be hungover, eating cheerios, and watching divorce court. Worst of all, that gut feeling that everything is wrong and something needs to change in your life will never ever ever ever ever go away. People are cruel, the world is shit, and when you break it down - there really isn't a reason to be here at all.

See? Everyone thinks like that. Go ahead and spend all your money on drugs and pretend that it's not your fault. I'm gonna spend my money on cheaper things that make me happy. Like hobbies and friends. It's a novel concept. Get out of the house, find people who like the same things as you, and get on with your fucking life. If you still can't manage that, well, that's why they put power outlets within reasonable distance of bathtubs. Ciao.

Stand Up #1

2009-06-28T01:29:00.000-07:00

Like OMG, L.A. is sooo fake!

2009-06-15T01:58:00.000-07:00

Have you heard this shit before? "Dude, man, I like...hate L.A. dude. It's so fake. It's like, super trendy. Dude, it's just fake." Really? Where do you draw your grand wisdom from dipshit? It's fake? You mean people will only associate with you based on how good looking you are or what you can do for their careers? Everyone dresses stylish to cover up their convoluted self-esteem issues? Everyone isn't automatically nice to you like they're your grandparents? Hmm. SOUNDS LIKE THE REST OF THE FUCKING COUNTRY. When someone says they hate a city, it is automatically implied that they think they are above that city. Though, when they provide reasoning like "it's fake" and not something intelligent like "I find the traffic there unfavorable", I want to very rapidly introduce my face to a plate glass window.

When I was bar tending in Chicago (there is a space between bar and tending because according to Firefox, bartending is not a word), I spoke openly of my plan to move to Los Angeles. The best reaction I ever got was a guy who used to live there. He said "Yeah man, L.A. is great. Just remember who you are." Uh huh. Remember who I am. Admittedly, he was shithammered when he slurred his words out, but that's no excuse for the utter stupidity of what he said. Remember who I am? As if Los Angeles is a black hole of soul sucking influence. If you live there, you will forget your very identity. I remember who I am. I'm a lazy, selfish, misogynistic asshole. Ha! I remembered! What that guy said applies more to a city like New Orleans. Very literally, there you will forget everything not associated with very cheap liquor. Los Angeles is like any other intimidating city, a whole lot of people barely making rent and car payments on their status symbol apartment and convertible.

I'm still waiting on the hordes of plastic women. I've seen no more here than any other place I've lived. How shameful of these rich, famous celebrities. Flashing their wealth around. How dare they. Why, if I ever made a lot of money I wouln't ever......wait, yes I would. I would coat my skeleton in gold. I'd live like a god damn Egyptian Prince on a Persian bender. I'd have more arm candy than a chocolate octopus. I'd get a diamond plaque that reads "Hollywood Trash" and nail it to my face. That's why people make money, so they can do meaningless shit like that. But no, everyone else in the country says "Oh L.A. is too fake for me" as if they are simple, humble, bible thumping goodie goods. Ah wait a second, aren't people is those rugged places more real? Grounded? Legitimate human beings? I've lived in those places. They're not. Just because you have to shovel snow and chop wood does not make you a better person. Hard manual labor does not build character. I've done all these things, and as many of you should know - I'm a horrible fucking human being. In fact, every shovel load of dirt I've moved in my life is directly proportional to how tall that solid gold naked woman statue will be in the middle of my gatehouse fountain. Her eyes will also have light up rubies.

But Los Angeles is still full of terrible fake people. They want to use you and abuse you. Yawn. I went to a Hollywood club/bar/party last week. They were having some pornstar function. Ron Jeremy was there. Though I'm told the chance of seeing Ron Jeremy at a Hollywood social event is just as good as walking into a forest and finding a tree. Either way, it was great fun. But I suppose if I had a good time, it must've been a fake good time. I guess I really wasn't enjoying myself, right? It's far more noble to have never moved, and stayed in a quiet little neighborhood bar, correct? That's more real. Ha. Sure. Whatever. The rest of the world can keep making excuses on why they hate other cities. Have at it. All I can tell you is that it is perpetually 75 degrees and sunny here, palm trees line every street, everyone drives a European sportscar, and the people act just like how they would in any other fucking part of the world. They don't give a shit about you. Beautiful.

In short, yeah I guess everyone here is a stuck up prick. We're all stuck up pricks. We're all pretending to be something we're clearly not. We're all assholes. We're all fake.

So you were right. You don't live here because you're not like that. You're better than us. Right. I'll try to remember that.

The Economy Bar and Grill

2009-04-15T11:44:00.000-07:00

Ok, here we go...

We've heard the jargon all over television, radio, internet, and indian smoke signals. The U.S.A. is in the midst of some sort of crisis. Overspending and evil companies have spoiled the terrain, dropping the value of everything, leaving everyone fucked. Or something like that. I'm no expert by any stretch. I just thought that when your company closes up because no one is buying your product that means you suck. Apparently not. Apparently your broke government will continue to hand out free money. You get to squander that money, and then they get to ask for that money back at some bizarre rate of interest. Did I figure that right? Essentially: the government is broke, the people in charge of major companies are broke, the employees of those companies are broke, and the unemployed are broke. Seems like America got drunk, went to Vegas for a weekend, woke up with one kidney in Carson City, and doesn't remember what the fuck happened.

Which is the perfect metaphor! Because usually I can't understand what the fuck anyone is talking about unless its put into the context of something I'm familiar with. Like a bar.

Imagine you (mr. or ms. or mrs. facebook aficionado) are a hot, young, hip up and coming company. You sell adspace online or whatever. You're the bee's knees. Everybody loves you. It's friday night and you're heading out to your favorite joint. The good 'ol United States Economy Bar 'n Grill.

You've been coming here for a while, but now you're really getting comfortable. You and the manager are on first name basis. He doesn't really give a shit, but he slides you your first 2 or 3 drinks for free. You offer to pay...but nah, "Don't worry about it" he says. You feel cool. Time to play the scene. You start mixing with some of the other studs at the bar. Yeah, technically your all in competition for some of the young ladies' attention (think of them as your customers, for the sake of this ridiculous extended metaphor) it's all fun and games for now. Chat a little bit with the bank guys. One of them used to work at the bar, he's got the hook up. Perhaps you trade a joke or two with Auto Industry. He's always blind fucking hammered and embarrassing himself, but early on in the evening he's quite tolerable.

Then there's the good 'ol mortgage rate juke box. The night is young and shit is kicking pretty good early. Bad Company, ZZ Top, and Timbuk 3's "The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades" is providing you the audio lubrication to a real rock 'n roll night. A few drinks go down. Now it's time to hit up your bread and butter. The ladies. The homegrown, naive, and never thrifty American consumer. Nervous? Not you. You've got a good rap. And it works. Night after night you're taking car loads of women back to your deluxe made-for-2-dozen waterbed bank account. Life is good. So every weekend you keep on heading back to the Economy Bar and Grill. Why change? If it works it works. Besides, you're getting lazy and all those other places are scary and different. Plus the manager knows your first name...

But then shit starts to go sour. See you didn't call a couple of those girls back. They're telling their friends. You're a dirty motherfucker. One of them may have even been Auto Industry's girlfriend. He's pissed but you can't tell, he can barely talk between guzzles of scotch, and if he does he's bitching to the manager. The Newspaper Industry is pissed to. He was flirting with that girl last week. You totally fucking stole her. "Haha" you think. Haha indeed, for now not a lot of the chicks want to talk to you. They know you're game. They heard about some other place down the road where there aren't as many assholes. Less and less chicks seem to be coming to the bar. Not too much fun now. Without the girls, no one's putting any money into the jukebox. We're back to Muzak...and you can swear you're hearing some weird instrumental version of "In The Ghetto". You throw your money in and try to get the place hopping with an ironic play of "Too Legit To Quit". No one cares. You want a round of shots for the couple of hags who've stuck around. The manager ignores you. He's too busy dealing with Auto Industry. You can't leave though. Newspaper industry is wasted outside and wants to fight. You start to lose your buzz. Fuck. Gotta wait it out. You switch to the cheapest stuff you can drink. Fuck.

In fact, everybody does. Everyone's chilling at the bar on the weekend now...nursing warm Miller Lite's until the girl's show back up. Then they'll switch to the hard stuff and really get rowdy. But..they never do. The chicks are gone, dude. Europe's down the street and its poppin'. "Too expensive" you think. China has got 5 for 1 deals. "Eh, too far...and I don't know anyone there" you pine. The manager knows your name here. He'll hook it up. You go back for another round. "No dice" the manager says. "Not tonight, business has been too slow." Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck.

You order another Miller Lite that you don't really want and take a seat at the bar. Auto Industry is barely slouched up next you, staring down at a tequila/gin/151 cocktail. "This placeu doah used to bea ad tehe shiteehah..." he whines. You both do shots. "Youre cool mang...I...I...like...you...hey..you gotta a dollar...man...I just need one more." Fuck it. You give him a dollar. More shots. Still no girls coming in. A couple more people leave. More shots. The bartender gives you a dirty look. "Sir, are you alright?" Man...he doesn't even know your name anymore. You black out.

A couple hours later you wake up in a bathtub in Carson City. One kidney.

Fuck.

Disaster at your local theater: "He's Just Not That Into You"

2009-02-10T12:52:00.001-08:00

In the grand tradition of me doing things for the pure absurdity of it, I ventured out to see the brand new chick flick "He's Just Not That Into You" by myself. Being that I was the only male in the packed theater, I just pretended like I had 139 dates who weren't putting out. I'd never actually seen a romantic comedy at a movie theater before, so the "Awwwwwws" from the female audience during every tender fucking moment were almost as entertaining as the film. I also was under the impression that Ryan Reynolds was in the film too...apparently he's not...so I struggled with this bit of reality for most of the picture.

*sigh*

Moving along...

The movie is based on some book by the writers of Sex and the City, and has to do with women trying to understand men and their convoluted agendas. In short, the message is "Men aren't as complicated as you wish they were" and we get 2 hours and 9 minutes of the star studded female cast dealing with it. You're probably still wondering why the fuck I subjected myself to this. Well, the premise of the film starts with "A bunch of shallow twenty-somethings..." and I just couldn't walk away from that. Plus the film takes place in Baltimore, which is the perfect backdrop for unhappy people. Believe me.

A word to women who want to see this movie, or have already seen the movie. Please do not accept the lessons espoused in the film as divine relationship doctrine. Men aren't complicated? Is that a fucking revelation? If you aren't having sex with your boyfriend/husband, do you really have to ask someone else if "something's wrong"? For fuck's sake, swallow your pride and open your eyes. Follow the tried and true Josh-logic. Be fucking honest about how you feel, what you want, and where you think you are going. If you are living in a shiny pink fairyland and have romanticized every aspect of your sex life to a point where it resembles plot lines of your favorite 80s movies and not just 2 people drunk and fucking - you deserve all the heartache, disappointment, and suffering that you bring upon yourself you damn fucking fool.

*ahem*

Thankfully, the movie doesn't derail completely into forced happy endings so every member of the audience leaves the theater with a renewed faith in humanity. Some characters break up and stay broken up, are forced to pick up their shattered little lives, and deal with the consequences of being too fucking naive. That's only some characters. A few get the hackneyed Hollywood treatment, complete with super-creative marriage proposals that evoked a deafening "AWWWWWWWW" from my estrogen dominated audience. That really was the toughest part to stomach. The concept of marriage is damned by this movie at first, but then it does a complete about face and shoved down our throats as the logical progression of truly 'happy' relationships. That little bit of horseshit almost made me forget about the lecture that was the rest of the film. Telling me how I act as a guy. Let me just say, NEVER IN MY FUCKING LIFE HAS A WOMAN COMPLAINED TO ME ABOUT GIVING MIXED SIGNALS, BEING LED ON, OR UNFAIR TREATMENT. Apparently though, not every man on this planet is as brutally awesome as me - so if some of the aspects of this film's characters apply to you (if you're a guy) or a guy you know, please beat him in the face with a rusty rake.

The one saving grace of this cinematic experiences was a cameo by Kris Kristopherson as Jennifer Anniston's father. KRIS FUCKING KRISTOPHERSON. The most grizzled man alive. I'd pay money just to watch him eat a steak.

Adventures in Pornography Land

2009-01-25T12:25:00.000-08:00

I've never been too into internet porn. Seemed kinda redundant. It was usually very poor quality, and you'd have to wait while a video buffered just so you could skip to the ending. Yawn. Not too mention the deli-style quality of some of these girls, and the fact that I tend to get sidetracked by other details going on the in the room at the time. "Does that guy only have one ball?"..."Haha, they wrapped the couch up in plastic"..."Why is it curved that way?"..."Ugh, this lighting is sooo tacky".

BUT...when you have a laptop computer hooked up in your bedroom, curiosity will indeed come calling. After indulging my initial fantasies about horses, midgets, and derelicts...I've got a few complaints to file. Never would I have thought that I'd be disappointed with strangers fucking at my convenience, but some of this shit is not only ridiculous, but it begs the questions "What the fuck are they doing and why the fuck am I watching this? Fuck."

First off, why are some of these videos a half-hour long? At best, a porn video should only be 2 minutes in length - about the usual total time for my own sexual escapades. Beyond that, its fucking boring. Why is foreplay so prominently featured? They're not even creative, and it lasts for like 10 fucking minutes. Yeah I suppose at first analyzing how the chick is giving a blowjob is intriguing, or obnoxiously visual tongue tricks a guy uses on a chick are educational...but get to the point already. Although when they do that, it just gets more tedious. Alright, he's hitting her from behind on the couch. Now they are on the floor. Oh look, reverse cowgirl. Ok...now he seems to be going for the wheel barrow..oh wait, back to the floor into a 69. God. Throw in some color commentary and you've got an Olympic event right here. I shudder to think that people actually emulate this shit in their own bedrooms. This is retarded. Unless this is just supposed to be one big cosmic joke on me, I cannot fathom how this is a multi-billion dollar industry. Especially considering how I've continued to never pay for it.

But then we get to the southwestern style mayonnaise center of thisl roast beef hoagie. The money shot. The facial. The Cream Pie. The Anal Explosion. The Grand DNA Inquisition. The EXTREME facial. Its hard to keep track. The titles of the videos lend little help: "Hot Teenage Asian Gets All You Can Eat Hot Cock Buffet, Pumped Full of Cream Sauce". Okay. Right. After you've seen pregnant woman porn or bukkake, that last description doesn't even phase you. Beyond that, these money shots are not only more ridiculous than all the gravity-defying-sport-fucking, they get downright science fictional. I refuse to believe that these girls are actually getting covered in jizz head to toe. I may be actually getting into the video...you know, really enjoying it...and then here comes 2 shark looking dicks blasting what seems to be a gallon of krispy kreme donut glaze for about a minute. This causes me to throw computer across room is frustrated disbelief. NOT physical ecstasy. Then the girls just sit there half laughing half crying with their mouth forced open into a smile like they are waiting to catch a raindrop. All the while, the glaze train keeps coming and coming and coming. Biologically, this is impossible. Even David Copperfield's going "Wait, how the fuck did he do that!?"

So I then close up the computer and feel something between anger, discomfort, and shame. I don't even want to go into bukkake, which is a word that somehow SOUNDS just as stupid and disturbing as the act it describes. Its not even that I have a puritanical approach to sex, I assume I like it just as wild and crazy as anybody else, but I sincerely hope these videos are made purely for comedy purposes. Or at least, watched for purely comedy purposes. I still can't understand why a guy would watch a video featuring the phrase "HUGE COCK" since for me, I'd just feel inadequate and have to resume my relationship counseling. I'd rather not know how big some of these guys' dicks are. At the same token, I don't really want to know how far some of these plasticized girls can squirt across the room. Although I'm glad there's an industry giving all the abused and molested children of the world an outlet for their talents, and that the emotionally crippled are getting as close to actual affection as they're ever going to get - just try not to hit me with those cream cannons, eh?

I don't know. Call me old fashioned.

The REAL Night Before Christmas

2008-12-22T12:48:00.000-08:00

Twas the night before christmas, I'm drunk and alone
flipping through names in my cellular phone
"I'm hung like a stocking, your chimney beware"
I text to some chick, but she isn't there

Nestled all comfy on a couch in the den
On demand movies, in lieu of friends
"A Christmas Story", now there's a good one
Ralphie's like me, we both want a gun

When on the next channel, there's breaking news
Auto-sales plummet right down to their shoes
three thousand lay-offs, maybe four, maybe five
workers are clamoring "that bailout is mine!"

Bollocks I mutter, "I'd stop all those crooks!"
but I'm far too busy checking facebook
a notification, a message, or poke?
a party invite may be my only hope

Some friends are gathering at a bar later on
but they can't be out late, for tomorrow they're gone
they have girlfriends to please and families to greet
I need to do something or I’ll fall asleep

"Hey buddy! What's up? Glad you are here!
This is Kate, we've been together one year!"
She's kinda fat, but I don't make a fuss
she doesn't talk much, which is always a plus

She says "nice to meet you" and I walk away
I'm scanning the bar for way better game
"Not a prize in the bunch" I hiss to myself
"More whiskey I guess, from the top shelf"

I drink 'til I'm witty, 'til my pockets are bare
'til I'm being escorted back down the stairs
on through the crowd, and out of the door
the bouncer decries "You're welcome no more"

He was dressed in a hat, and that made me stop
oh fucking shit, that bouncer's a cop
He took down my name as I sat in his car
too drunk in public, I'd gone too far

"On christmas eve, that's surely a shame"
He said with a slight tone of disdain
I kicked and I screamed and I blamed all my friends
"They're drunk too! Why don't you get them!"

He wrote me a ticket, and said I could go
“No more drinking, get a cab home”
I said that I would but it was a lie
There’s no way I could pay for a ride

The bars were now closed, my friends had all left
They didn’t try to call, not even a text
I find a dark alley and empty my bladder
Laughing “Haha, she’ll only get fatter”

When from the shadows a stranger appears
“Hey you drunk get the hell out of here!”
I reach for my zipper, get some on my pants
To tame such a beast requires both hands

I race for the street, flailing about
For you know that it was, still hanging out
With hand on my crotch, I screamed through the night
“MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, ESPECIALLY YOUR WIFE!”

Gerascophobia

2008-11-02T12:50:00.000-08:00

The fear of growing old.

I definitely qualify for this one, but not for the obvious reasons. I'm not that fond of my mortality, but I understand it. If death is really just a more violent type of falling asleep, I'll welcome it with open arms. I am pretty tired. No more bills. No more stress. Most importantly - no more fucking expectations.

But enough about how great being dead would be...

Since I'm turning 23 next week, the cold stark walls of reality seem to be closing in at a very distressing pace. No more can one say "When I get older I'll..." because one IS older. This is the time where I'm supposed to be super motivated and productive, right? I should be clicking my heels, sprinting at every opportunity like Jesse Owens. My education is complete and the world is my oyster! Huzzah! Huzzah! Celebrat good times. Come on.

No. Its not like that at all. And it never will be. That's why I started this blog with a musing on how great it would be to be dead. Mmmm.

Gaping natural disasters/political uprisings/nuclear wars aside, I pretty much know how my entire life will play out. Stroll through any local cemetary. Even better, watch "Death of a Salesman". The only thing I can say I really enjoy is being young. I like doing young people stuff. Being irresponsible, only having to worry about myself, and the like. In 10 years, I will not be young, thus I'm fearful to think that I probably won't be enjoying life very much. Now your older folks will say "Oh, you'll change". Like last week when I told my Uncle's girlfriend that I see no point in owning any pets and she said "Oh, you'll change". Or when I make it clear that I'd never want a girlfriend, a wife, children, a mortgage, and other very hackneyed shit. "Oh, you'll change". Great. Just fucking great. All of these opinions that I hold very sacred are met with "Oh you just say that because you're young, when you get older...." No. NO. NO. NO.

But it gets fairly obvious that everyone around me is going to fall into that category. It's almost like everything has already happened. Family members will keep getting older and dying. My friends will pocket their first big paycheck, get married, have kids, and move somewhere very boring to save money all in the same breath. Some will probably get killed in car accidents (doesn't everybody know someone who has died in a car accident). Some will just disappear. I'll probably be the funny joke they talk about at dinner. "Whatever happened to Josh?" they'll say smugly as they fork through peas and carrots. "Oh you know he still acts like he's 20" and everyone will have a good chuckle. All because I'm thoroughly unsatisfied with that happening to me. Yeah. Poor fucking me. Not wanting to grow up. What a novel fucking concept.

It saddens me that I know a lot of people who will probably have that exact conversation. I wasn't joking or being facetious at all. Let's say at best I get 60 years on this planet. When I turn 23, that leaves roughly 37 more years of mind fucking myself. I suppose if I got one of those nifty jobs with benefits, I could tune out, get fat, and coast all the way to the grave. I could talk about buying property, erectile dysfunction medicine, taxes, and other boring shit people talk about. CNN bored me when I was 5, it bored when I was 15, and it still fucking bores me. Yardwork sucked when I was a kid, so why the fuck would I want to buy a house? Oh, the equity? Yeah save all your fucking money so your fat kids can have a flatscreen. God forbid they watch their Pixar movies on anything less than a blue ray disc. Can you imagine a life where the highlight of your week was buying a new TV? Oh good fucking christ.

Admittedly, there's no right or wrong way to live your life. If you like middle management or painting houses, fucking one woman, being unappreciated by loud, messy children, then I suppose you're free to do that. It's just wildly depressing to me. I'll turn 23 and all of that shit is going to come clearer into focus. I can fight it off, but one by one I'll watch my entire social circle dry up as friends move on to duplicate their parents lives note for note. It may not happen tomorrow, but its going to happen. Worse off, I've been saying this shit my entire life. But 10 years ago I had that vague hope of "well, something will change" but as you can read, I'm still bitching so that must not be happening. I guess if I had a job, I wouldn't have time to think about this shit. Then again, when I was working all I did was have lucid sucidal fantasies, so I guess that's not the answer either.

I'm just very, very unhappy.

Earth Women for Dummies

2008-10-19T19:58:00.000-07:00

Navigating the volatile terrain of the human female...

I'm a creative person, right? I need an outlet, I need to put some thoughts down, so strap yourselves in 'cause away we gooooooooooo...

Let's break the female form into a few categories, because I've learned nothing pisses people off more than categorization. For the sake of this little diatribe, I require the simplicity of labels. Yeah, yeah, you were all brought up differently and I'm sure all the nuances of girl's personality are wonderful, but that's all going out the window for a while. We have 5 different types of girls: hardnosed task-oriented powder kegs, artsy fartsy free spirited dreamers, red white and blue midwestern tom-boys, pompous little wannabe princesses, and self satisfying pleasure seeking crazies of the loose contigency. Did I leave any out? Yeah you'be probably just thought of four or fiver more random examples. Fuck you, I'm writing this.

The hardnosed task-oriented powder keg is a working woman. She's got all the personality sparks of a granite kitchen counter top. She wants it her way, she gets it her way....because quite frankly she's such a bitch no one feels like arguing with her. They're never happy, but that doesn't mean they're sad, they're just writing off their persistent disappointment as professional slackery. They could be making all the money in the world but will still come off as a frosty piece of glacier. Although, they do look great in a uniform. And they are called 'powder kegs' because all that inner 'oh my god i must do better' turmoil could explode at any moment.

The artsy fartsy free spirited dreamer can usually be spotted with a camera (what is the fucking deal with girls and photography? Is it because an image of something imprinted in a roll of film is the only piece of reality they'll ever really be able to control or manipulate?) or book about eastern philosophies. They think they are the reincarnated spirit of Clara Barton or Calamity Jane or Janis Joplin or some other shit. They are usually enchanting in that 'oh I've never met a girl like you before' until you meet 30 more of them and realize the local hemp shop or used bookstore cranks a few dozen out a day. It's ok, they usually date musicians and we all know how that cheese melts.

Red, white, and blue mid-western tom boys are raised in families with a lot of males (father, brothers, abusive uncles) and are usually seen as 'one of the guys' until 'one of the guys' fucks them and blows the whole illusion. These girls are great additions to your social circle though...they'll hang out drinking beer all day and talk about how bitchy other chicks are with you. It's cute. They think they're being all different and independent and not-girly. Like the aformentioned dreamers, its easy to fall for one of these girls because its 'oh man i've never met someone as down to earth as you'...until you meet the next bunch. They're everywhere, usually surrounded by a crowd of guys, and you can never figure who's hitting it because showing affection in public is...afterall...girly.

Pompous little wannabe princesses pretty much explain themselves. They came up either in a rich household, or a very small town, where they were lavished with extreme amounts of attention. By the time they come of age, they are well aware of their appearance's perks, but lack the charm of a dreamer or tom boy and the drive of the hardnosed powder keg.. So they manufacture an attitude, usually copied from something they see on TV about how teenage girls act, and 'wa-la!' they seem fake when you meet them. They always have nice cars though, banging bodies, and if they are fucking anyone its probably some random european guy that leaves you wondering 'whats the appeal?'. It's all part of the decor, something they learned on E!'s 'wild on morocco' or something.

Pleasure seeking crazies of the loose contingency are the most honest of them all. They fuck out loud, so to speak. Every girl has one of these inside of them, buried by all that extra bullshit we've already gone over. See, you may think its sexy when your conservative tom boy reveals her kinky side, but these girls wear it on their sleeve even when they aren't wearing a shirt. You could call them sluts, but these women define themselves by having a good time. In effect, they are more tom boy than the tom boy. Best of all, they are the last ones to get attached or feed you any type of emotional bullshit. You know the movie "Leaving Las Vegas" where the girls says "You can come on my face, just keep it out of my hair, I just washed it." Yeah, it's like that. Business. They are not to be looked down on, because when any of the other girls break your heart, its in these girls' beds that you end up. Poetic, no?Now that I've successfully judged women, feel free to add a whole bunch of other categories...just don't tell me I left any out. If you want to do this than you blatantly ignored my original warning of fucking off. And if you ignored that, whose to say that you glossed over other vital parts of this blog, hmm?

Look girls, I think its great and cute when you do all the little things you do. You have all earned your own special place in the world. Just keep in mind I see through all the charades, the makeup, the attitudes, the stupid way you talk like you're in the movie Clueless or the cute way you talk like you're from Little House on the Prairie, the way you dance or the way you feel like you're above it, the fashions, the hobbies, and of course the middle finger you'll give me when I call you out on all of it. Don't fret though, odds are I'm probably going to marry one of you and settle into that blissfully constant argument that starts at middle age and ends with a flatline. You know the one where we constantly draw lines in the sand about you're a woman and I'm a man, the stuff that makes stand up comedians their small income on the club circuit. It's a beautiful thing.

Me? Well just because I'm reading the labels doesn't mean I'm writing them. I've got my own little square and I'm doing quite well. Ideally, I'd like to be that dashing, tragic, heroic, manic, clever, strong, and hopelessly romantic fellow you see with the beautiful girl. Maybe I'll even be decked in the prerequisite guitar, or on a motorcylcle, or in a really expensive suit, fulfilling that last fantasy of absolute freedom that every woman pines about.

Rest assured though, I'm doing it for the chicks. Even though you are all decorated in the categories above, as stupid and lame and as contrived as they are, you still stir up some damn good feelings. Good fucking god, is there a better reason out there?

I don't think so.

Homeless people can fuck right off!

2008-10-19T19:56:00.000-07:00

On any given day, the one block stretch between my apartment and the closest 7-11 has exactly 3 homeless guys on it. Asking for change. They sit pretty much 20yds apart from each other, positioned in front of the exits to different stores. A marvelous tactic, but each day I have to duck my head, wave my hand in a "go away you homeless piece of shit" fashion, and then...almost feel guilty about it. I almost feel fucking guilty because I am ignoring 3 homeless, unemployed, and (most likely) junkie wastes of life on my street en route to getting a dinner *I've* starved for all day.

I'm sorry, but something's wrong with that. I shouldn't feel guilty. Jesus christ, even the foyer to my apartment building...not the lobby...the foyer...the area between the outside door and the door you need a key to access...has the occassional homeless dude crouched in there because its too cold outside. Too cold? Yeah, that's why people have jobs...SO THEY HAVE FUCKING HOMES WHEN IT GETS COLD OUTSIDE. I'm not sure if I've ever encountered a counter-argument to my bitching. Everyone I know pretty much hates homeless people too. Nay, they despise them. So how the fuck does this continue. Why is a guy fucking sleeping in my foyer and no one is doing anything about it? Is it in bad taste to call the police on that? Fuck, I guess its not *THAT* big of a deal, but the point remains: GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE BUILDING I'M PAYING FOR.

I also love the approaches of the homeless. You can always spot them in your peripheal vision a block away. They single you out and say something like "Hey big man, you think you can help me out?" I almost want to jingle the change in my pocket loud enough so hears it and say "NO." Or when they're ex-marines or something, that's funny too. Yeah, use that one. I don't care if you used to be a fireman, a surgeon, a senator, or a puppy. You're homeless. Go away. You want my money? Learn some tricks and entertain me. It's a barter system, asshole. I can't even start to fathom the overweight people in motorized wheel chairs that ask for money. Not only are they beggars, they're fat, they're ugly, and of course - they make me feel the worst. Once again, WHY THE FUCK DO I FEEL BAD IF I DON'T HELP YOU OUT. God damn...fuck this puritan country's imposed system of morality. You can't shovel coal, get the fuck off the train.

Anywayz...to alleviate my guilt, here's some proposed solutions:

-The diamond trade. Why break the backs of little South African kids when we can ship our strapping homeless population over there with DeBeers work permits. Less homeless, more bling bling.

-Write a book. "Homeless in America" would be 'hilariously insightful' possibly according to Maxim, and Joe Crusty Beard can tour the talk show circuit and fund his meth habit all at once. Hurrah.

-Bring that manned carriage thing to the states. You know, the ones you see in China. Have the homeless just trucking around people in the city, offering cheaper rates than cabs. Why the fuck not.

-Cure depression. All these drug companies make billions on bullshit medicine. I say, sell homeless people off as "friends" to sad people. Think of them as Paid-Mood-Slaves.

-Gas prices too high? Give every homeless fellow in the country a shovel. One fresh tuna salad sandwich goes to the first one who strikes oil. The sandwich would of course be garnished with crack cocaine.

-Include the homeless in our national surveys on obesity. When averaged out, I'm sure the overall weight of americans would drop 30%. Uh...I guess that really doesn't solve the problem though.

These are just a few ideas I'm throwing out there. I left my more radical "FINAL SOLUTION Pt. II" ideas out of it because...well, it's facebook, and I'll save my homeless-into-dogfood machine blueprints for the book. I also think beer companies like Pabst and Schlitz would benefit with more honest campaigns about who drinks they're product. "PABST BLUE RIBBON: It won't make your teeth fall out. That's just a coincidence" or "SEAGRAM'S GIN: Because you didn't do a fucking thing all day." Although, in a way, I guess laying around on the street all day wrapped in newspapers is the most 'liberated' thing a person could do. I guess instead of incinerating them, I should be patting these folks on the back? Could they even be more American than our greatest heroes? Is being a homeless, jobless, drug addled, toothless, street urchin beggar truly living the dream?

Nah. Fire up the ovens.

Ticketbastard (or how AC/DC taught me to appreciate rape)

2008-10-19T19:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, amidst the 12.5 hours of moving cinder blocks from one pile to another, I found the time to spend $417. On what you ask? Certainly nothing that will improve my mental health. No, I opted to charge a whole week's worth of shit work to my debit card for the only thing worth doing anymore - seeing fucking AC/DC in concert, October 30th, Allstate Arena, fuck (FUCK!) yeah.

It's not as much a concert as it is a religious experience. So, like a battered wife who just blocks out the fact that her husband is a dangerously violent alcoholic, I just won't think about why it cost me $417 dollars....that's right...$208.50 per ticket. Steve and I are the only ones with the financial fortitude and stupidity it seems to spend that kind of money on a rock concert. It's worth it right? It's AC-fucking-DC on what could possibly be their last American tour ever. Dude.

Now in the past I've paid 70 dollars to see The Who...and even 90 dollars to see the Rolling Stones, two fairly big bands....so why the fuck does AC/DC cost so much. On ticketmaster, at 10am yesterday when the tickets went on sale, there was only one price: $89.50. Needless to say, I couldn't get through - and after about 30 tries of "Your tickets could not be found", I jumped to Ticketfuckers affiliate Ticketsnow or something, the official "resale" site that is not officially endorsed by the band. Essentially, all the tickets are already paid for before the on-sale time to the general public. Paying only 90 dollars? Mere pipe dreams, my boy. You have to pay jacked up resale prices (like I did) to find a fucking seat. In the end, I had to settle for 2 $175 tickets, the cheapest I could get at ticketsnow.

Then...why is my final price $417? Oh don't be stupid, silly. Convenience charges! I logged on to their website out of my own free will, and as a dubious reward, I should be righteously fucked out of another 50 dollars. It doesn't end there, though. Let's not forget the heavy charge of mailing two paper tickets to my apartment. That's another 20 dollars right there. Even if you go to a in-person Ticketmaster vendor, you still are charged a convenience fee. What the fuck is so convenient about having to drive down to a Tower Records or Jewel Osco to get tickets? You can't buy from the venue directly, so do you have any other choices? NO! You're fucked. Any way you slice the pie, it still gets loaded into a shotgun and blasted right up your ass. Blueberry sphincter, that's what they'll call you.

I ignore these bombardments of thought, however. It's AC/DC, the last band left on my "Why do you make lists about concerts you're attending, jackass?" list. I can't be angry with them. Well, I suppose if their show isn't the audio/visual equivalent of the apocalypse crossed with all the hype and hoopla of the final (and moving) episode of Cheers, I will take to the streets. Waving burning ticket stubs and demanding a refund of the small fortune I spent on them.

To AC/DC, I love you - don't let me down like a woman. To Ticketmaster, I will get my money back you fat wristed wallet fuckers. I will get all of it back and more. You're fucking 'ticketsnow' resale scam is going to hit a fucking brick wall. They're gonna rename the state of Kansas "How bad Josh fucked up Ticketmaster" when I get done with your filthy shit stained cock mongrel asses.

But no, seriously, AC/DC, you're still cool.

Presidential Election '08 Breakdown '08

2008-10-19T19:53:00.000-07:00

The purpose of this note is so that no one can ask me who I am voting for.

Nobody.

Why? Well, firstly I'm not even registered. That usually messes me up everytime I go to vote for all those smashing city council celebrities. (Read: Local councils are usually/always made up of: 5 white guys who's dads were in the same council, 3 super-empowered bitter housewives, 1 super motivated black dude, 1 super motivated bitter overweight black chick, and 1 uppity annoying fresh out of college cocksucker of any denomination)

Secondly, government politics not only are boring, they feature people none of us can stand. Remember that fucking kid in high school who had to run for everything in every fucking bullshit high school election? Those are the people that grow up with the notion that they can be president. Do you know what kind of psychology that requires? "Yeah, I'm great, everyone should agree with me. Ooh, what's this? A check? Thank you unnamed charitable organization."

OBama is not super hip. McCain is not a crusty war monger. All that's coming out of their mouthes is the same 'ol drivel that comes out of all politicans mouthes. "Change". What the fuck? OBama can't lower gas prices, which as far as I'm concerned, is the only issue anyone should give a fuck about. He can't. McCain can't either. They're just going to stand on a fucking soap box, roll up their sleeves like a high school counselor, and tell the lowest common denominator of the American population that they deserve better. God its so fucking redundant. And I'm supposed to have an opinion on which one of these fuckers is better? Fuck that. I'm going to judge these people the old fashioned way. Their appearance.

BARACK OBAMA: Yay, the black dude. He's cool by default in that his voice is deeper AND he's got a whole section of clothing dedicated to him at Urban Outfitters. They've been gunning this guy as a celebrity the day he raised his first dollar for a YMCA basketball court. Just because he has a cool name. I'm pretty sure that's it. His god damn wife is on the cover of every fucking woman's magazine on the rack, as if people looking up recipes for cherry cobbler have any fucking right to evern FORMULATE an opinion on the state of the economy. I'm a bit burned by OBama because here in Chicago, his dick's so far down everyone's throat that waiting to see who wins the state of Illinois is not only a bygone conclusion, but a complete waste of fucking time.

JOHN MCCAIN: As charming as any vietnam vet can be, this guy went from being the 'make fun of himself' dude on Comedy Central 8 years ago to a vertiable psychopath. Since every clueless American is having a love affair with OBama, all McCain can do is either...well, AGREE with Barack...which he has done on debates (that makes no sense to me, or the entire history of open elections and democratic government) or polarize his views and be the complete opposite of OBama says. He's done that too. It doesn't make fucking sense. Remember, the visibility of presidential candidates is based on how much money has been pumped into their campaign. You are not voting on the opinions and leadership capabilities of one man, but the personal and professional agendas of the highest bidder.

Doesn't that sound really fucking depressing? Jaded? It probably sounds like exactly what would be coming out of a 22yr old's mouth who doesn't have a fucking clue what he's talking a bout. That's why I'm not voting. Unless the gestapo burn down all my 7-11s, pillage my tiny studio apartment of cds, and smash my bass - I'm just going to assume everything's peachy in Washington.

No matter who wins the election, I'm sure every stand up comedian will still be bitching about whoever the President is. It never changes. People bitched about Clinton, now they bitch about Bush, and soon they're gonna bitch about the next guy in line. Yawn.

And that, ladies and gents, is about as political as I'm ever gonna get.

Profiles in Slurpage

2008-10-19T19:51:00.000-07:00

I'll be honest, I go to 7-11 like everyday. Many times a day. It's like on every fucking corner, open 24/7, and has not once tried to sabotage my health with expired goods. It stomps, pisses, and shits on any previous convenience store I have ever encountered. I mean, I'm not on first name basis with the staff yet, but Hadji-Hadji Jihad knows who I am. There's no exchance of pleasantries or anything...just business and commerce. I've got my chicken salad sandwich, and he's pretty much got my total memorized by now. However, the biggest selling point of the 7-11 empire is the one, the only, the motherfucking...

BIG GULP.

You may just see it as a fountain soft drink, but its much more. The Big Gulp has evolved into a fucking parliament of thirst domination. Gone are the days of Small - Medium - Large. Yawn. That went out the window with the Olsen twins' food pyramid. It almost gets as complicated, but that's why I'm here to lay down the law. Keep in mind, I don't seriously have this information floating around in my head - I have to google this shit. Did you know wikipedia had an article on the Big Gulp? Ha! Of course they fucking did, LOSER!

Let's break it down:

Gulp - 20oz of your favorite poison - This one's for the women. If I see a dude sipping on just a Gulp, I'm gonna smack it out of his probably well-manicured metrosexual douche bag hand.

Big Gulp - 32oz - the original gangsta...and while I respect it, it's still not enough. I've long since gone beyond this one. It's like if your girlfriend got a boob job, but you were always offered the opportunity to play with the "old" version of girlfriend too. Boo! Obsolete!

Super Big Gulp - 44oz - ahh, this is more my speed. Don't get me wrong though, while I can certainly fit a lot of Mountain Dew in the cup, there's certainly been times where I've chugged this sucker empty, leaving me to yearn for...

Double Gulp - 66oz - Jackpot motherfucker. This bad mama jama never lets me down. No matter what, I cannot fit 66oz of fountain soda into my stomach at one time. I just can't. I probably shouldn't even try. Nevertheless, this hallmark of pure American gluttony is the ONLY choice for real, 7-11 going men.

But now it gets complicated. For all the wonderful things 7-11 has done for my life...they have to go throw THIS cog in the wheel:

Ultimate Gulp - 66oz - Yeah. That's right. They dared to jump another level in name value, but didn't even have the presence of mind to up the fucking amount of liquid you could get? What the fuck? Why call it ultimate then, assholes? Well...the Ultimate Gulp is like a giant plastic thermos, shrink wrapped and covered in pictures of NFL players or whatever. You have to purchase the container. Then open it. Pull out the "Free Drink" sticker thats inside. Go fill up your monstrosity. Then check out again and redeem the sticker. Who the fuck would buy it? I admit, I *was* tempted until I got a measure on the ounces. Fuck you, 7-11. You dare to charge me more when I can just buy the Double Gulp instead? Not today, comrade.

I challenge 7-11 to go for the gold. I wanna see a real Ultimate Gulp. 80oz of shut-the-fuck-up and suck me. That's a task in itself, because these giant Big Gulp containers require like 2ft long straws. You don't wanna know how many miles of bright orange 7-11 straws I have in my small studio apartment. I feel bad just throwing them away. Pedro Penniless in the Dominican could probably use them to build a hut or something...or at least fashion the into some sort of bizarre indoor plumbing.

I also feel bad throwing the cups away. Perhaps the only guilt I've ever felt in my life. They're made of fairly sturdy plastic. I mean, this is shit you can keep. I reuse mine all the time, though I still collect more - so my kitchen sink looks a lot like the drink fountain at 7-11. Just pick your size.

However, at my house we only have Super Big Gulp and Double Gulp. That's how I roll, nancy boy.

It's not a downward spiral - it's a straight drop

2008-10-19T19:49:00.000-07:00

I heard it on the speakers at some bar. I'm not sure where or when or how drunk I was when it happened. All I know is that it hit me like a ray of sunshine radiated from the golden face of god. It was at that moment everything made sense. Everything fit. Every synapse my brain was firing off in chemically induced disarray aligned for a mere second of total suspended clarity.

"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."

I was, indeed, in the line for the bathroom. I looked over to my left and low and behold, there were *girls* in the line for the bathroom. I understood. They understood. This careful ballet of saturday night lunacy fluttered in perfect harmony as these words shot across the bar's soundscape. Some people were actually singing along. They must have heard it before. To my surprise, a human being must have decided to play this song more than once. Then I thought: Well, this could be happening at every bar, club, and after hours burger joint in the country right now.

"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."

I pondered this sonic epiphany for only a few more mouse heart beats. I moved on to the larger ramifications of the statement. There are, of course, girls in the line for the bathroom. Being in line myself, I questioned silently why my gender wasn't included in this tribal shout but quickly bored myself with the semantics. More importantly, what does this song mean? What can it tell me about myself? What can it tell me about the world I...we...live in? I was able to deduce several things, as I was still in line for the bathroom and it really wasn't moving as fast as I'd liked it to be.

1. We are, collectively, all waiting for something to happen in our lives. If this rat race of a world is summed up in a single metropolitan dance club, most of us are really just standing in line for the bathroom.

2. A bathroom is relief. Escape. Not only for its obvious biological purposes, but its an oasis among the chaos. It's quieter. You've suddenly gone from a crowd to by yourself in a stall, or at least shoulder to shoulder with strangers who share your predicament. We all know women go in there to talk about the more pressing matters of the day. Point is, it takes you away.

"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."

Unbelievable. My faith in humanity had utterly been shaken to its rocky foundations. This was something I honestly didn't expect when I excused myself from idle bar talk to relieve myself. Still standing in line, I was amazed at what new world had opened up to me in merely a few seconds. My spirit escaped itself, no longer trapped by the confines of a line, society, or the entire human race. I floated, disconnected from the selfish plights of bar going twenty-somethigs, outside of myself and above the madness.My glowing essence finally came to rest by the DJ, the fixture responsible for bringing this delightful nirvana to my being. My amorphis ectoplasmic hands formed two giant hammers, akin to that of Thor's. They solidified into stone as I became a force of pure strength and universal determination.

THEN I SMASHED THE FUCK OUT OF THE DJ, HIS FUCKING COMPUTER, HIS FUCKING TURNTABLES, AND HIS FUCKING IRONIC SPARKLING HAT AND I SCREAMED THAT IF ANYONE EVER PLAY THE GOD DAMN FUCKING POP BULLSHIT BATHROOM SONG ONE MORE FUCKING TIME I'M GOING TO PERFORM DEEDS SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN THE HOLOCAUST AND TYPICAL FUCKING SUNDAY DINNER AT JEFFERY DAHMER'S HOUSE YOUR IGNORANT FUCKING GARBAGE SUCKING ZOMBIE EXCUSES FOR MUSIC MAKERS. I HOPE EVERYTHING YOU EVER LOVE DIES IN AN UNINSURED ELECTRICAL FIRE.

Top 10 Things to do with a Dead Girlfriend

2008-10-19T19:47:00.000-07:00

So it's finally come to this, eh? Little Miss "Seemed like a good idea at the time" mistakenly bumped her head on an airborne toaster oven and has made herself your kitchen's newest floor decoration. Yes, we know it wasn't your fault. Her incessant nagging and unpredicatable criticisms conjured up weird indoor wind patterns strong enough to project appliances at skull-denting speeds. Her impatience with you and your friends meant there would be little blood spatter on the wall. Her talking during Sportscenter inexplicably made the volume of the TV go up at the moment of blood-curdling-scream impact.Whatever the case may be, you've got a dead girlfriend. But before you go all 'call the copsy' on yourself, let's examine the finer points of this situation:

10. Try out that new flying machine you've been building!
Obviously you've been too strapped for cash to pick up an actual crash test dummy. Hell, you couldn't even afford a used copy of "God Shuffled His Feet", the breakthrough effort by the actual Crash Test Dummies. But now, with a little duct tape and balance, the cardboard wings you cut from the box your refridgerator came in and lawnmower engine will finally get its chance at the sky. This is almost guaranteed to work if your girlfriend's name was Amelia.

9. Holiday Picture Time!
Before she gets grave waxy, suit up those red 'n green sweaters and start printing Christmas cards. Even better, caption them with "Sharon wishes she could be here this year, but she's hunting with her estranged Father in Vancouver. Much love!" No one's ever been to Vancouver. It's just that far away and imaginary to be believable. Afterwards just leave her dressed up, wouldn't you want to be found dead wrapped in holdiday spirit?

8. Argh, bills...bills...bills...
Damn the mail man you say! Nothing but poor bank statements and late notices. Well if you're gonna mail those checks (and christmas cards!) whose gonna lick those stamps and seal those envelopes? You have not got the saliva, my friend. It's your lucky day though, as you've got a sack of rapidly decaying salivary glands at your disposal. She *was* the one who convinced you to get H.D. cable afterall, so she should have to pull some of the weight too. It's only fair.

7. Add New Contact? FUCK YEAH!
Obviously Johnny Law and the Coroner's Office Brigade are going to confiscate all of your sweetheart's possessions. Including her cell phone. But then....how are you going to grieve with all of her hot friends at happy hour? Get those god damn numbers now. Anna was pretty smoking for a red head. Your girlfriend did used to get jealous when Kate would talk to you at parties. Stacy was way hot but kinda out of your league...and wasn't she dating that boxer? Then there's Ingrid. She seemed easy. Didn't Kevin sleep with her? Yeah.....Ingrid.

6. Feed the homeless!
Weren't all your friends always giving you shit because you never did any charity work? Well I hear the soup kitchen downtown needs some volunteers, and what a coincidence, you can bring some of your homecooked girlfriend pot pies along with you. I know it might be hard dicing up the girl who used to be so hypnotizing in that little red dress she wore, but then again...how can you really appreciate your girlfriend's curves without battering them with garlic and red win vinegarette, served under sauteed onions and green peppers?

5. Hot or not?
You know that deep down inside, you were always insecure about how good looking other people thought your girlfriend was. No one wants to be that guy with the ugly girlfriend. Well, that's why baby Jesus gave us webcams. Snap a few quick pics (use toothpicks to prop up her smile) and let millions of web surfers arrive at a verdict for you! 7.9? Not bad. 8.4? Heh, alrighty then. 6.5? Aww, she's better than that at least. 9.8? HEY DUDE BACK THE FUCK OFF THAT'S MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND!......Oh, wait.

4. Lego My Eggo, bitch.
So since your toaster oven broke for whatever reason, you've had to make the trek to Sears and purchase a replacement. Sit your girlfriend up in a chair in the kitchen (shouldn't be hard, she was already on the floor there) and have her be witness to you actually cooking breakfast. Remember how she always would bitch at you for not cooking? Well how did these blueberry waffles get here? Make her a plate, and while you guys are enjoying Dr. Phil, ask her if she likes her meal. Then take her plate away and tell her she should stick with the diet. The memories of this moment should make prison bearable.

3. Doesn't she kinda look like Nicole Kidman?
Isn't that what some of your half witted buddies would say? Well, crack out her makeup kit (she probably kept it at your place) and do some A list hollywood work on her. See if you indeed can make her like Nicole Kidman. He skin and bone structure should be a little more malleable. Afterward, once you've nailed the likeness down, call the press and tell them you have Nicole Kidman at your house. See if they care.

2. Get a CLUE.
Yes, it was in the kitchen with the toaster oven, but why not in the study with the candle stick? Or in the parlor with the knife? Invite some friends over and play a game of Clue. You can be the charmingly delightful host, and your house which was once gruesome murder scene, is now a place of alcohol fueled mystery and intrigue on a weekend when most of your friends are out of town. Your girlfriend never let you throw parties, so afterward use her head as a mop to clean the den where the beer bong contest got a little out of hand.

1. Welcome to Wal-Mart!
Duh! Second income! Benefits! Discounts on products that's prices were already so rolled back its ridiculous. All she has to do is not be creepy, so use that box of crayola permanent markers to give her the kind of smile that says "entry level employee, doesn't have a fucking chance at management". Sync up a recorded greeting with the automatic doors, and cram it in the orifice you find most fitting. Realistically, judging from the health and dental breaks, it'll be the best thing you ever crammed in her.

********
So there ya go. Before your story becomes fodder for Forensic Files or CSI: Baton Rouge, have a little fun. I left out the blatantly redundant options of making a nice throw rug or raincoat out of her. Or even a retractable awning. Come on dude, she was your girlfriend. Use a little god damn imagination.

Disney Land is for Depressed People

2008-10-19T19:46:00.000-07:00

What’s so magical about the magical kingdom? Well for the price of a few peasant workers from El Salvador, it can accomplish all the things years of therapy would otherwise do: fulfill all the bullshit unrealistic ideals about your life and finally cement into your skull that a) you are special, b) somebody does love you, and c) you were better off frozen in the mental state of ignorant six year old girl.

I have several qualms about Disney World not relating to my absolute jealousy of their muti-billion dollar empire of essentially creating and destroying children’s dreams. That’s fucking awesome. I don’t like the way people my age and older treat it like an escapist paradise. Like you’re 47 and going to see Bon Jovi because that one song they play reminds of the first time you felt up your 14yr old girlfriend in the back of her dad’s sedan. Some kind of lame nostalgia trip or unnatural opiate that makes everything in the world seem fucking peachy. Thousands of underpaid workers serving overpriced shit food, miserable teenagers sweating inside Donald Duck costumes in the middle of the Florida summer, and rickety carnival rides dressed up to look like shitty Disney movies. And yet, when someone steps foot inside these magical gates, this becomes a world of pure bliss. They might as well prescribe a fucking trip to Orlando right next to your Zoloft.

Let’s avoid the obvious targets of mass consumerism. Hey if I could sell as many t-shirts as Mickey Mouse, I would. I’m going for the throat here. The ’oh I feel like a kid again’ shit. Everyone does this, cause everyone’s a fucking zombie. You know - you *DIDN’T* have to stop playing with Barbies or Legos. You *DIDN’T* have to stop jumping on the bed. You chose to. You chose to grow up. You chose to fucking get a job, get involved in a relationship, pay bills, drink coffee, and be god damn moody. Fuck, when I walk into Wal-Mart I still shoot straight for the toy aisle. A six inch action figure of Captain America is still fucking COOL and if I didn’t enjoy eating so much, I’d fucking still be buying them. I still watch cartoons, I still like my ice cream covered in chocolate and gummy bears, and I still think the local news is boring.

And let’s not forget, the whole time you were a ’kid’ you just couldn’t wait to get older and do all the things grown ups do. Drive a car? FUCK YEAH. Drink loads of beer? HELL YEAH. Drive a car and drink loads of beer? FUCKING HELL YEAH. Look what you’ve moved on to: you have the money and you have the freedom to do whatever you want. You can god damn live at Disney World if you wanted to. Everybody gushes like a twelve year old at a Hanson concert when they go to that big budget amusement park, but when they go to Los Angeles they complain that everyone is fake. WHAT. THE. FUCK. You are knee deep in fake at Disney Land, and its the god damn happiest you’ll ever be? I’m not knocking Walt Disney’s grand vision of bulldozing miles of delicious Orange orchards for a plastic castle. To this day, Space Mountain is the shit and the girl walking around pretending to be Cinderella is hot.

So yeah if the pressures of being all ’grown up’ are grinding you down day by day, interrupt your medication of pills and alcohol with a trip to the beautiful Magic Kingdom. It’ll be like Daddy never slipped his hand up your skirt that one time.

(By the way, he *did* tell all his friends about it)

The Depth of Being Shallow

2008-10-19T19:43:00.000-07:00

I must come off as a real asshole sometimes. In fact, all the time. However, just like a mack truck that turns into a giant galactic warrior, there's more to that than meets the eye.

For example, being in this asshole state I am enabled to identify other assholes who may not be as honest in their quest as I am. We exist on the same common battle ground as the rest of the world - eat, shit, fuck, sleep, repeat - it's just that some people don't know how to act in the present of you folk. You being the normal, non-asshole, god-fearing, peachy keen saint that you are. That's the difference between the fun loving "give you a hard time" douche bag that I assume I am, and the obnoxious dipshit who won't leave the bar at last call. So being that I am not better than THAT guy, I am proposing my one good deed that will get me into those pearly gates when the time comes. I will pass down my wisdom on how to point out who that douche bag is, at a distance and early enough, before he or she ruins your evening/morning/day/lifetime*.

It's as simple as looking at what they are drinking.

DOMESTIC BREWS - (Bud, Bud Light, Miller Light, etc) Usually a good indicator of someone who goes out all time...or just doesn't have a whole lot of money. They are the drinking equivalent of guerilla warfare, as you never know how many shots of other stronger liquors they have done, since they're nursing a bottle of piss water. So that annoying drunk asshole can come out of nowhere it seems. If they are just drinkng Coors Light though, they're probably just as exciting as a god damn can of Coors Light. Unless you're friends, avoid.

CHEEKY LOCAL BREWS - I guess here it would be Abita products. Decent beer I must say, and most of the time associated with decent people. That aside, it is just a localized version of the domestc brew dumbshits. They are drinking that because they simply don't know what else to drink - typical of the close minded, ass munching supermen. Don't mistake their pride in their local beer for actual amusement, as its the same kind of thinking that buys a Ford truck just because "well, my dad had one". You're dad had an asshole son, too. And...good god, if they are ever wearing a T-SHIRT pf that beer company, they'll also fill you in how their high school football team is doing even if they are 35. I'm ignoring Dixie beer here because it fucking sucks.

BOTTOM OF THE BARREL MIXED DRINKS: This is fairly easy, as any number of years experiencing the Discovery Channel that is working in a bar, you can figure out what the fuck is going on.Vodka Cranberry's - if its a guy, gay (or extremely John Wayne style straight because he obviously doesn't give a shit). If its a girl, she's either has only been to a bar 3 times of just wants to get fucked up (easy).

Jack 'n Cokes - Guy version of vodka cranberry. Typical of someone rarely in an organized drinking scene that isn't a bunch of liquor bottles on mom's coffee table. Just as clueless as domestic beer guy, only more drunk.

Red Bull/Liquor - Going in for the long haul (drinking for many hours) which means he or she is just trying to get laid.

Tonic Water/Liquor - Probably the easiest drink in the world to sip on, and usually indicative of someone who feels compelled to drink alcohol rather than actually WANTING to.

Anything with milk in it - Idiot.

Girly martinis - Definitely a bitch, and request for fruit means they are still craving food since their abusive boyfriend/husband/father won't let them eat full meals. Otherwise, its a person who went to bar not knowing what they like to drink at all. That's the equivalent of going to a circus and not knowing if you're afraid of clowns. If they ask for a cosmo, say you have never made that before and ask what's in it. They won't know.

Margaritas - This guy thinks he's the life of the party. The optimal word here is "thinks".

Anything on the rocks - Oh he's a real hard ass. He's probably overweight with a little dick. (Editor's note: I am not overweight and my dick is delightfully average)

Random exotic shots - The same person who orders these is the same kinda person who eats chicken tenders at your house and asks if you have any dfhoadfoafhkahfklah sauce. You don't. Because you have never heard of it. Becuase they only make it in Micronesia. DOUCHE BAG.

Jagermeister - I'm so tough rah rah rah dickhead. Worse when combined with...

MID- LEVEL BEERS - Heineken, Corona, Michelob, and so forth. The worst of the worst because this person is presuming they are BETTER than the piss water swilling domestic assholes and more mobile so as to not be aware of the cheeky local brew. As I said, these people will probably also be shooting Jagermesiter or Goldschlager. They might as well be wearing neon signs that say "Don't Talk to Me".

GUINESS - We get it. You're great grandparents' neighbor's uncle was straight off the boat from Ireland. Hooray. Now take off your stupid hat. (Editor's Note: I like my stupid hat)

TOP SHELF BREW - Negro Modelo, Peroni, Sierra Nevada, and assorted ciders. This person thinks they are just the bee's knees because they're older and have moved on past their wilder corona days. In truth, none of this beer is any good, and the person will still fuck you over in true heineken fashion. They'll just have a fancier bottle in their hand.

Really the only safe bet on a decent person is a person who knows what they are drinking and why they are drinking it. If they can't explain either of those things, then they are as clueless as a squirrel in a trashcan. You see, me, I am constantly thinking of what I am doing and I what I look like while I'm doing it. Because I am just so absolutely full of myself and get a little high when my name turns up in one of your sentences.....

and that's why I'm an asshole.

*I was talking about your actual life, not the TV channel, moron.

The Testicular Chart of Music

2008-10-19T19:41:00.000-07:00

Some would say music is measured in decibels. Now take out the mathematical prefix of 'deci' and what do you have left? "Bels". Hmm, could this just be a historically mispronounced version of the word....I don't know...

BALLS?

I do belive I am correct. God damnit Josh, you've done it again.

So let's move on to the long overly drawn out task of rating all of music by how much "BALLS" its possesses. We'll start from highest to lowest.

99.999999% BALLS: AC/DC
Let's cut through all the assumed bullshit right here. There is no doubt that the most ballicious music in the world is AC/DC. Somewhere in the congo a newly wedded tribal couple is doing the horizontal hammer to the sound of "You Shook Me All Night Long", "Beating Around The Bush", or "Let Me Put My Love Into You". Never in my life have I ever seen an acoustic guitar onstage with AC/DC let alone HEARD one on an album. Are they guilty of basically rewriting the same song over and over? Yes, but that song is about sex, and probably has a narly guitar solo. The only points they lose in balls is because they recorded a lame soundtrack for an 80s Steven King movie. But even then, that movie was about cars. Cars that killed people.

92% BALLS: Rick James
Now I'm using Rick here as an example of all the pimp masters of funk rock. I could have said a number of people, but Rick has them all beat. First of all, most funk rock requires a certain level of 'talent' per se. White people practice for years to get it, black dudes naturally have it. In the video for "Superfreak" Rick is wearing a bass guitar, but...you know...I don't think he even plays bass guitar. I could be wrong, but he certainly doesn't in the video. What this says to me is that Rick James was so busy doing blow and fucking underage girls that he had the audacity to wear a bass guitar in a completely bass guitar driven song and not even play it. And he still got famous. Are you shitting me? Did I mention he was banging Linda Blair - the girl from the exorcist? He was literally statuatory raping THE DEVIL. He only loses points for co-writing shitty music with Eddie Murphy, right about the time Eddie Murphy stopped being funny.

84% BALLS: Gene Simmons & Paul Stanley & Friends (also know as KISS from time to time)
Always accused of being money hungry merchandising hounds, KISS literally set the standard in male compensation. Fire, blood, hydraulics, more fire, more blood, comics, toys, and so forth. When interviewed for The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years, Gene opted to be in a lingerie store while Paul went the more stoic route and had the camera aimed down at him in bed with several women. Now all of this is pure balls, especially the whole 'take off the signature makeup and still go multi-platinum' move, or the 'we'll organize our own conventions so we don't even have to play music but our fans will still show up, then act surprised when Ace or Peter or any other estranged ex-member shows up coincidentally' move. Not to mention that Gene Simmons has fucked EVERYONE. Literally, everyone. Diana Ross? Done. Cher? Done. That cute girl who lived across the street from the house you grew up in? Done. They only lose points for being in a really gay movie about phantoms or something.

79% BALLS: Wendy O'Williams and The Plasmatics
This chick used to chainsaw cars in half onstage and she didn't even have a penis. When doing her video for "It's My Life" (which Gene Simmons produced, so he probably fucked her too) she performed her own stunt of leaping out of a convertible onto a helicopter-connected rope ladder just before the car plummets off a cliff. How did she eventually bite the bullet you ask? By literally trying to bite the bullet and committing suicide via gunshot by herself in a forest. Now Wendy was only around in the limelight for a short time, and a female, but good god she has more balls then 6 harley davidson engines shoved into a Buick chassy and tied to a rocket shaped like the middle finger. She is only going to lose points in this chart by simply still not being around to murder all the people who flocked to Lilith Fair. Why did you leave us Wendy? So many cars still yet to be chainsawed.

70% BALLS: tie between Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson, and James Brown
Usually a person's balls is determined by simply asking one question. Is this person alive? No. Then follow that question with another question. SHOULD this person still be alive? If the answer is yes, then they simply had too many balls for a single lifetime. Jackie Wilson had a heart attack while performing in Vegas at age 41, left comatose, and still held on for almost 10 more years. Sam Cooke was shot at age 33 by a hotel manager because he burst into her office naked and raving. James Brown beat em all and crackheaded his way to 73. His funeral? A concert. With him laying right in front of the stage. The only drawback to these tremendous singers was that they all honed their voices by singing in church choirs. Church is gay. Sorry dudes. But seriously, put on any of these guys records and then watch American Idol and you should get a bird's eye view on why old people say "Music was better when I was a kid".

60% BALLS: Nine Inch Nails
I'm not going to lie. As pathetic as a song as "Hurt" is, "Closer" has bedded countless "Oh I think I'm so alternative, my daddy doesn't know I'm bad" girls. As stupid as industrial music is, as bad as Trent Reznor's haircut ever was, and as lame as their album titles are (Pretty Hate Machine? Wow, deep) that single song will make girls fuck like they actually want you to fuck them. Novel concept, right? We're treading close to failing territory in terms of Balls, but Nine Inch Nails barely makes the grade. They also lose a lot of points for the bullshit fashion trend they helped exploit in the industrial scene. Fat pale chicks in fishnets and pleather boots? That looks like squeezing cream cheese out of a pair of old black socks. And Trent's hair brings me to my next subject...

54% BALLS: The Cure
Once again I cannot deny that The Cure have a lot of catchy whimsical songs. Robert Smith also has this artsy fartsy attitude that women just seem to swoon for making believe its all a contrived put on. And all his recent Cure reunion comebacks is only further proof that Mr. Depressed Hopeless Romantic is only in it for the dollar bills. Which is great, because that's what earns him his meager percentage of balls. If you can get onstage and whine like a bitch 20 years ago when it WASN'T IN FASHION (hi emo kids, how ya doin?) and make a small fortune then by all means, do it to it. Decent music aside (The Smiths are better, like way better honestly) Robert Smith has also perpetuated ugly fashions that have given women devoid of sunlight the ridiculous notion that they could be attractive. I thought those guys were CURING something. Bad joke. Sorry.

48% BALLS: That one song Bryan Adams, Rod Stewart, and Sting all collaborated on
It was called "All For Love" and you can watch the video on YouTube. Does anyone remember this? Now I've excluded the individuals from this chart because I really can't decide on where to place them. Bryan Adams is fucking brilliant pop rock, but admittedly he's some really homosexual songs. Rod Stewart is pure fucking pimp, but his songs are so soft and wishy-washy you can't really stomach two of them in a row, and Sting....well....that's not hard, Sting has close to no balls. But anyway, they all got together for this MTV gimmicky collaboration and if you ever listen to it, you can feel a vagina start to form where your dick should be. I'm sure for middled aged suburban women this song was like a brand new minivan, but the rest of the world could have been spared. Whoever's idea it was should be taken out and beat with a shovel.

41% BALLS: Elvis Presley
Do you ever notice how Elvis just disappeared in the 60s? It's like when you think of the sixties you think of hippies and vietnam and John Kennedy applying fresh paint to the interior of his car, but you never think of Elvis. He was there in the 50s, fuck he was HUGE, then he was gone, and then by the 1970s he was a broken down lounge singer. That's because he was joining the army, making shitty movies, and figuring out how many more shitty people he could add to his entourage. He could have been the President of Pimp, our Commander in Briefs, but instead he shit it all away. Literally. Your Elvis fucking Presley...how do you fuck that up. Notice how when you dress up like Elvis these days its a giant joke? That's fucking sad. He loses points for that. For becoming a worthless shell of himself. Watch his 1968 comeback special where he's in a full leather suit. Did you know that he turned himself on so much that night that he actually CAME IN HIS PANTS. 10 years later he's dead because of addiction to pills and ham sandwiches. Man, fuck you Elvis. But at least you'll always be better than...

30% BALLS: The Beatles
Gay. Gay. Gay. Gay. How do you go from the swinging sounds of pimps like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, to fucking annoying British pop. How does Johnny Cash tour the country to zero fanfare at the same time this bunch of bowl cut kids with accents are exploding on the Ed Sullivan show. Do you know how to write a Beatles song? Come up something nonsensical and repeat it in a high pitched liverpool accent. We all live in a Yellow Submarine. I am the Walrus. This is a perfect example of contrived American fads. Elvis pussed out, Buddy Holly was dead, and Willie Nelson didn't give a fuck. Who's left? The Beach Boys? Way to drop the ball guys. Nope, America got stuck with the fucking Beatles. George Harrison was the only ballsy one of the bunch - and you heard about him the least. John Lennon ran off with his girlfriend and made naked pictures and terrible albums. I would have shot him too. Paul McCartney is still making money, but for some reason Michael Jackson ended up with a large chunk of their royalties? How the fuck? Thank god The Who showed up a year later and proved that not ALL of England was gay.

24% BALLS: Anything related to the term Teen-Pop
Backstreet Boys, New Kids on the Block, Tiffany, Brittany Spears, and so forth all belong in this category. Their music is overproduced drivel, and when you think of Johnny Cash flipping off a warden at Folsom Prison and then watch one of these groups' music videos you'll understand this whole BALLS chart a whole lot better. These people are so backwards in heterosexuality that when one of them comes out of the closet no one is shocked, even though this person spent his whole career singing about women! C'mon! If George Clinton came out everyone would lose their shit. If Nick Carter came out, so what? The only points awarded here is that their terrible music somehow makes women want to dance, and that usually is an indicator that they want to do some other more interesting activites. I've danced to this music, I know, but I'm not ashamed because it was a necessary evil at the time.

17% BALLS: Lenny Kravitz
Personally, I hate Lenny Kravitz. I think his songs suck, he's a pompous artsy musician, and yet all he writes are perfect pop radio jingles. He was born into stardom via his mom who was in The Jeffersons. I don't like people like that. You got to have dirty under your fingernails so to speak if you're gonna get onstage and claim to the audience that you're playing rock 'n' roll. Your fancy fucking clothes and repeitive songs are going to sell me on that. Oh you did a song with Slash? Nope, still not convinced. Every song on your new album is about sex with girls? Nope that's like Prince - you still seem gay to me. Obviously though everything Lenny does Prince has done better. Fuck Kid Rock has more legitimate credibility than Kravitz. That's saying a lot. If you feel like you can introduce a musician to your parents and he'll fit right in then something is definitely wrong. It's like no matter how many more random piercings or tribal tatoos you get - you're still safe enough for 12 year old girls to listen to. And safe is not BALLS.

10% BALLS: Today's Pop Rock
I guess it stems from shit like Radiohead and Beck crammed into a blender with Ben Folds Five. Whatever the case may be, it's really gay and the only Balls it gets is because it is obviously making money and pulling chicks to the shows. Why? I have no idea. I could walk right by the singer from Gomez or Cold War Kids in the produce aisle at Piggly Wiggly and have no fucking clue. Fuck he could sit down in front of me and start playing a piano and singing and all I would think is "Wow this sucks, this guy should give up on music". I mean not all music needs to be balls to the wall volume and macho pomp all the time, but it also doesn't have to be mopey pretentious shit all the time either. Maybe its because I only hear the hit singles and the really rocking tracks are on the albums that I'll never buy. Pop rock really stalled out in the 90s once 'grunge' deflated - the world got Creed, 3 Doors Down, and Puddle of Mud. Wow. Man when you line up those 3 bands in the same sentence its really fucking depressing.

5% BALLS: GREEN DAY
They successfully took the most angry, angst driven form of music, ripped its heart out, drew a smiley face on it, and said "Yeah this is still punk rock." I'm not gonna go into the whole "punk is dead" debate because I don't care. That was all a marketing trick too. Listen to The Ramones and then listen to Green Day. Start to get it yet? Somehow Green Day got shuffled under this punk monicker and now sits up in the charts with the heaviest selling rock bands. That inspires more tongue and cheek fun punk like Blink 182 and The Offspring. All well and good, more markets mean more money, but its music for children who haven't come of age yet to have that 'punk is dead' revelation at lunch time in high school. Where the older cooler kid smacks you and walks off in a jacket covered in Exploited and Minor Threat patches. What's worse is that they won't go away. You think they'd just have a few hits and WHAM there you go with another hit album and bunch of terrible new singles constantly on the radio. I'd say their bass player is the coolest one. Talk about a free ride.

0% BALLS: U2
All of you saw this coming. So let's get it over with. Fuck Bono. The end.

Josh and His Issues - December 2007

2008-10-19T19:38:00.000-07:00

Issue number 1: Fuck the streetcar. It should have stayed dead. Putting a giant slingshot at Lee Circle that just fired people in the general direction of their destination would be a more constructive form of public transportation. If I can beat the streetcar (on FOOT) to Jackson & St. Charles from Napoleon and St. Charles, then what's the fucking point. So now I like to wear headphones and walk deliberately in the path of the streetcar so it gets stuck BEHIND ME. Ha! Take that you rusty fucking disney ride. You know...we had this technology at the turn of the fucking century...it's time to hang it up. Seriously. And if I ever make it to San Francisco, I'll say the same fucking thing. Tag it and bag it.

Issue number 2: Hippie chicks. Just what exactly does this accomplish? I know it's really novel of you to buy all your clothes from the salvation army, wear purposely ugly dresses, vintage purses that hang down your shoulder like a gym bag, and not manage your hair to set yourself apart from the plastic fake crowd of girls....but c'mon. A lot of you are potentially very fucking hot. Why do you insist of fucking this is up? It's simple, some nice form fitting jeans, a bit of makeup, and a desire to do more than just bum weed off your friends. I have to say, I really should have heeded that warning that Chattanoogah (that can't be spelled right) was a hippie town. Good fucking christ. Do you know what kind of plot I'd have to hatch to get in with those kind of girls. I'd have to pretend to enjoy their shitty music, pretend that I enjoy getting stoned with a crew of losers who collect checks from either a coffee shop, music store, or their parents, and pretend I share their outlook on life as a spontaneous one-with-nature existence. I'm sorry. That's way too much fucking work. Can't I just get you drunk? Please?

Issue number 3: Stores that can't fucking restock. Yesterday I picked up a half gallon of milk because I've got a giant bag of home cooked cookies my mom brought me last week. I want fucking milk and cookies. That's all. So on the way home from the gym, I got half gallon of 2% reduced fat milk. Shame on my for not checking the date. I thought for sure I would not have to worry about these fucking things. It's like checking your eggs at the grocery store to make sure they're not already broken. THAT ISN'T YOUR GOD DAMN JOB. Those fucking hippes from my previous issues are stumbling around your local grocery store breaking down boxes at a snail's pace. They can check the fucking milk. They can check the fucking eggs. So now when I get home, and open the milk - take a sip - WELL HEY! THAT DOESN'T TASTE RIGHT AT ALL. Issue number 3.5: So last week I got food poisoning (and believe me, laying on my basement floor with a rotten stomach and fever, I was fully ready to let go, I had it all planned, after 2 or 3 days, someone would eventually need to collect money from me - hence try to find me - and my bloated carcass would be discovered in the basement - I really really really just wanted to die) and now the forces of evil tainted my milk in a second assasination attempt. Thank god I didn't pour that shit on fruity pebbles or something. I might have just walked outside with a baseball bat and Barry Bonds'd a puppy.

Issue number 4: The weather needs to make up its fucking mind. Yeah I know New Orleans is the 'northern most carribbean (I know that is spelled wrong too) city' or whatever, but its fucking december and 100 miles in any direction the weather is normal. If it wants to be cold, stay cold. I have no climate control to speak of in my apartment. So if the temperature outside keeps carouseling around, there's about 20 minutes in a given 3 days where it is actually comfortable in my bedroom. And please...please don't tell my to just call my landlord. I can't. If he enters my apartment I'm fucked because I broke the door in a drunken rage - there's garbage everywhere - and that 'you need to replace the AC filter once a month' speech is SOOOOOO boring. So my discomfort has been blamed on mother nature instead. It's your fault, cunt.(was "cunt" too much? Eh.)

Issue number 5: Why I am actually writing this blog? Am I really that bored, or even that presumptuous that people would want to read this in between bites from a ham sandwich or finger dives into a bag of cheetos? Has my life sunk that far? I really only walked down to Loyola's library to check my mail and burn some AC/DC on to a cd. Little did I know that they were updating all their computer systems, completely fucking me out of my plan. Which is fine, I understand - any excuse to simply get out of the house and delay the streetcar (or Retard Rail) is good in my book. Buy here I am exiled to using their shitty Macs and typing away. I can't burn a cd, and all I have really left to do is go to park, have a meal, shower, and...uhh...drink? Why should I drink? I drank last night. Oh yeah....BECAUSE NOTHING ON THIS FUCKING PLANET MAKES ANY GOD DAMN SENSE - EVERYONE'S A PIECE OF SHIT - AND I CAN'T BUY A SINGLE PIECE OF FOOD NOW WITHOUT WORRYING THAT SOMEHOW IT'S GOING TO KILL ME.

You know what?

It's christmas.

Fuck it.