Saturday, June 29, 2019

The Story

What is the ultimate story? 

What is the one story that every single person in the world can relate to? No matter how rich. No matter how poor. No matter your race or your gender. What story is so universal that people don’t even bother saying “oh hey, I can relate to that!” they say “no shit, did you just figure this out?”


The pathos.

I mean, shit, you can’t even name a Disney movie that doesn’t have sadness. Comes with the 

What is it about people and sadness? What came first, being sad, or being told sad things are gonna happen to you?

I’ve been sad for a few years now. It doesn’t effect my humor, I’m hilarious regardless. But the lest three years, have kinda taken their toll. I try to not be emotional, but recently, I went full out and decided to be happy. It fell like Icarus with wax wings. So now I have a choice: try again and let emotions dictate my actions, like a rom-com dude running through an airport, or seal them back up, let them dry up and evaporate? I’m leaning toward the second one. People are jerks. Just ask Steve Martin.

I’m trying to come up with a joke here. But that seems like I’d just be forcing it. I’ll just let the joke juice flow as it always does. Often on motel sheets and walls.

The frustrating part? People want to help. They want to make things better. And that’s not bad! But life isn’t an episode of Full House. You can’t solve problems with an ice cream cone after 22 minutes or whatever. I’m always appreciative of people looking out for me, that’s how human beings work. My last girlfriend helped me through some rough shit. But good intentions aren’t enough to fix a broken person.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not emo or The Crow or whatever. Just a dude. Just an awesome dude with biceps as swole as his brain, (wait, is that a good thing?). Anywho, just trying to express myself the best way I know how. I likes dem words.

P.S. I blame John for all this damn Kurt Cobain shit the last few months. Listen to Rafi or some shit!

P.P.S. Sorry for the short entry. I kinda ran out out steam halfway through. Those damn ninjas made me exhausted!

P.P.P.S. Oh! Cookies and cream! I'f you're offering!

Monday, April 01, 2019

Wicked Game

I’m clearly no type of poet. My prose is too flat and stilted, and I don’t have a true romantic’s heart. I’m also, obviously, not a singer or songwriter. My grasp of metaphors and fantastical imagery is severely lacking. In addition, they got it easy, they can just sing the word “love” eight times in a row, then go home, do some whip-its or whatever and still go triple platinum and get a Grammy or five. All I can do is write like I write. So here I go.

Clichés are clichés for a reason, (hell, even that is a cliché.) It’s hard to try to redefine or discover a new way to express love and joy and beauty that hasn’t already been done. 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Nah, Billy Shakes already covered that.

You’re beautiful? Nope, James Blunt got there before me.

God only knows what I’d be without you? Lovely sentiment, but the Beach Boys made that point decades ago.

And I’m pretty sure Prince has covered everything else that could be expressed about love.
There’s nothing new under the sun. But I’m gonna try anyway. Sincerely, for once.

Whew, this is hard. I’m so rarely sincere. It’s so much easier to make jokes all the time, you know? But you’ve inspired me in a way I’ve never been previously inspired. From the day I first saw you and your big Tootsie glasses and I awkwardly tried to start a conversation with you.

“Uhh, so what’s a bar like you doing in a girl like this? I mean, what’s your sign? I mean, uhh, me Josh, who you?” As you could tell right away, I’m smooth as all get out.

Over the weeks, I would sneak glances at you when possible, no mean feat for a blind dude.  Eventually, a conversation was struck and I got to discover you for being more than a pretty face. And I learned just how fascinating you are.

I specialize in interesting, non-mundane people, and you crack the top five. I know you don’t see it, but I do. We never have a boring conversation and I never get tired talking to you. I learn something new and exciting every time we talk. When we converse, it’s like a breeze on a hot day. It travels from my neck, down my spine and cools me in a most satisfying way. Hell, just being with you is like the sun radiating light after a bleak, sepulchral day. (Too many meteorological-based metaphors?)
I don’t smile. It’s one of my traits. (Gotta stave off them wrinkles!) But being with you has made me smile more than I’ve done this century. It’s weird for me to be happy, I’m not used to it. In fact, typical Josh would do something to sabotage our relationship because I don’t feel that I deserve happiness.

But maybe, for once, I do. And I thank you for that. I’m becoming a positive person in some ways. More optimistic. I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks. Every day with you is the first day. A new beginning. Another chance. When I was at my lowest, even though you barely knew me, you were at my side, dragging me, kicking and screaming out into the light. It’s kind of humbling. You saw me fragmented and not as the cool, suave guy that everybody knows and loves, and you didn’t run away.

I can only hope to make you feel the way you make me feel. That I can bring luminosity to your cloudy days and maybe make you smile with one of my terrible jokes, (just kidding, all my jokes are hilarious.) God, this is the corniest, most awkward thing I’ve ever written. Like I said, I’m not used to being sincere in my work. It’s easier for me to end this by saying ninjas jumped out of nowhere and killed everybody with throwing stars, than it is for me to be honest.

Anyway, all of this is just my way of expressing my love and happiness. And hell, I didn’t even get into the fact that you’re also smoking hawt. Totes out of my league.

Simply put, this is my love letter to you. Keep it twerkin’.

Friday, September 21, 2018

By The Power Of My Blanket!

Going to bed growing up, for me, was agony.

It wasn’t because I’m one of those “takes forever to fall asleep” insomniacs, requiring me to go to bed at least an hour before I actually want to go to sleep.

But seriously, I was absolutely no fun at sleepovers.

“Hey guys, I know we’re all having a lot of fun talking about big boobs and imagining what beer tastes like, but it’s already 9:30 pm and I gotta get up early to play with my G.I. Joes and watch Mystery Science Theater 3000.”*

That was my first and last sleepover experience in a nutshell.

And no, it wasn’t agony because I don’t have the ability to turn off my brain like most of you dum-dums, so I could get some rest. I had/have an active imagination and laying tucked into bed in my He-Man sheets was the perfect time to think about our mortality and the concept of the infinite.

As a kid, I used to imagine being dead forever as riding a bike down a street that was always curving to the left. So you could never see what was coming up, you never knew what the future held. This, of course, is because there was no future. No past either. Just an eternity of riding a bike downhill with nothing ever changing and nothing to look forward to.

This is why I dabbled in Christianity for a bit when I was young. I figured if I was going to die, I at least wanted to spend the rest of forever in a place where I could play Super Mario and eat all the Domino’s pizza I wanted.**

No. Neither of those things were the authors of my agony. No.

It was those goddamn monsters.

Look, you’re all rational adults, (probably not if you read anything I write, to be honest.) Let’s say we’re all semi-rational adults, right? We know what’s real and what’s not. Trees? Real. The Snallygaster? Not real. Mr. Brooks? Real. Climate change? Not real. But none of us can disagree on the fact that monsters do exist. Just ask anybody who lives in Tokyo. Or that chick from The Babadook (by the way, that movie was shit.)

There are many types of monsters in the world, from the Jersey Devil to Donald Trump. We simply don’t have the time to get into all of them! So let’s narrow it to the collective monsters of our childhoods: bedroom monsters. They fall into two categories: closet monsters and under-the-bed monsters. I’m not too worried about under-the-bed monsters (UBM). For some reason, they never scared me. I mean, if I slept on a mattress on the floor, they were immediately ass out. My biggest fear was the closet monsters (CM).

The nightly ritual was textbook. After getting rubs and pats from my mom, she’d leave the room and I would gird myself for battle. The set up was simple. I was like the Jason Bourne of frightened children. My bed was set up so that I had unfettered lines-of-sight to my closet door and the door to my room simultaneously. The floor was kept clear of debris in case a quick getaway to my parents’ bed was needed. The door to my closet was closed AT ALL TIMES! For five years I never entered that damn thing, and by the time I had the balls to open the door, everything in there was four sizes too small.

Now, in what may seem like an interesting twist, the door to my bedroom was always open. Why, you ask? Easy. With a closed bedroom, you’re stuck in there with a clown toy possessed by a poltergeist who wants to drag you under the bed for reasons I still don’t fully understand. It’s never good to be trapped in a room with a monster of any type. Why would you do that to yourself? With an open door, you encourage a steady flow of traffic, as any civil engineer would tell you. That way, monsters are free to come and free to go, watch tv and make sandwiches or whatever the hell monsters do when they aren’t scaring kids, (wait, did I just make a Monsters INC. reference? And I didn’t even see that movie! Damn you Pixar!) and everybody’s a happy camper.

Of course, there are times when it’s not possible to placate the monsters with The Good Place and open-faced paninis. Sometimes they’re looking to get their jollies by messing with you. That’s where your blanket comes into play.

Just as every child knows that monsters exist and want to eat you or teach you calculus or whatever, we also instinctively know that blankets and bedsheets are their kryptonite. Protective barriers that keep the monsters at bay and keep you safe. Why is this? Nobody knows. That wisdom has been lost to the ages. But what we do know to be true, what we know to be sacred, is the power of the blanket!
So parents, take the time to sit your kids down and let them know that they are not alone. You have been where they are currently. You know that bedtime and sleeping can get scary, but as long as they have a blanket, all will be well. All will be well.


*Yes, I was a junior in high school at the time. Shut up.

**I also dabbled in Satanism, cause that place had naked ladies and all the Popeyes I could eat.

Saturday, September 15, 2018

All Aboard the Pork Chop Express, Next Stop: Tranquility

So I was sitting at home a couple of weeks ago, watching Big Trouble in Little China for the eight trillionth time, (For this viewing I learned Chinese, so I could make sure the film makers got the details correct. John Carpenter is known to be as precise and exact as Stanley Kubrick when it comes to what appears on screen.) when it hit me: this Jack Burton guy has his shit together more than it appears at first glance. He’s a frood who really knows where his towel is.

Upon further reflection, I realized that Jack Burton (the main character is this flawless masterpiece) approaches life from a very well-defined point of view. He’s a man who has spent years in his truck, traversing the highways and byways of this great country (America?) hauling the sundries that we all so desperately need. Were you able to drink coffee this morning? You can thank Jack Burton for that. Is your lawn well-manicured? It’s people like Jack Burton who smuggled the immigrants into your neighborhood for that very purpose. Did your life-sized John Holmes “Xtra Veiny” black dildo made from Space Age polymers (and Blutooth enabled) arrive on your doorstep this week? That’s right, Jack Burton once again.

It was during his time on the road that a well-worn and time-tested philosophy formed for Jack. And he loves to shares this philosophy with others. He spends the majority of his time in his truck giving advice and life lessons to his fellow truckers. All of it from knowledge and experiences gleaned from years of being a rig jockey. Nobody asks him to, but you can be damn sure everybody within earshot of a CB radio sits in rapt attention whenever Jack Burton’s pitchy voice comes over the speaker.

And his words! The things he says can really open your mind. From the existence of life on other planets:

“Well, ya see, I’m not saying that I’ve been everywhere and I’ve done everything. But I do know it’s a pretty amazing planet we live on here, and a man would have to be some kind of fool to think we’re alone in this universe.”

To dealing with adverse weather:

“Just remember what Ol’ Jack Burton does when the earth quakes, the poison arrows fall from the sky, and the pillars of Heaven shake. Yeah, Jack Burton just looks that big old storm right in the eye and says: ‘Give me your best shot. I can take it.’”

To methods of placating obstinate bill collectors:

“When some wild-eyed, eight-foot-tall maniac grabs your neck, taps the back of your favorite head up against the barroom wall, looks you crooked in the eye, and asks you if you paid your dues; you just stare that big sucker right back in the eye and you remember what Ol’ Jack Burton always says at a time like that: ‘Have you paid your dues, Jack? Yessir. The check is in the mail.’”

To proper driving safety:

“Like I told my last wife, I said ‘Honey, I never drive faster than I can see. Besides that, it’s all in the reflexes.’”

And sometimes he says stuff that has absolutely nothing to do with eyes or vision. But not too often. Any thoughts involving eyeballs or sight are squarely in his wheelhouse.

His attitude on life is so refreshing and unique. His method of coping with setbacks, from his truck being stolen to having to fight demons from the underworld, is to shut up and just get it over with. Sometimes without shutting up and usually without actually getting it over with either. But it never really matters in the end because things work out for Jack anyway.

Thus inspired, I decided to apply Jack Burton’s lifestyle to my very own, to see how a day in his vaguely racist tank top, unnecessarily tight jeans and stylish boots would suit me. But without having to wear any of that stuff, because come on. Halloween it ain’t.

The next day I drove in to work. I don’t actually have a CB radio in my car, but that didn’t stop me from monologuing into thin air about whatever random shit popped into my head, (how the hell did Norm manage to be a regular at the Bull & Finch if he never paid his tab?) This exercise helped to prepare me for the day to come.

As I stepped into the office, a coworker ran up to me in a panic. It seemed that over the evening hours, our systems may have crashed, costing us many important files and potentially erasing the payments of several of our customers. Were this true, it could be a disaster for the firm. I had to act fast. I had to calm this guy down and set his mind at ease. So I grabbed his shoulders as they shook from his feminine crying fit and looked him dead in the eyes.

“The check is in the mail,” I said. And walked away. The company filed for Chapter 11 two days later.

Continuing my Jack Burton experience, I headed to a nearby food truck for lunch. Unfortunately, the line for “Hot Mess” the ironically-named gazpacho food truck, was far too long for me to stand in for a bag of soup (they sell soup in a bag, what can I say?) I just didn’t have the patience for waiting.  And why should I? I’m Jack Burton now goddam it! I’m a VIP! So I pushed my way to the front of the line.

Whenever I passed grumbling nobodies I would favor them with a smile and say “Ol’ Jack says…what the hell?” This did nothing to help clear up my behavior and actually made a few people more irate. Which, in turn, led to my involuntary gazpacho shower as patrons pelted me with bags of soup. I barely made it away safely.

So far, my experiment had failed me. Jack Burton made it look so easy. He was able to simultaneously quip, smooch the ladies and fight people who shoot lightening from their fingers. Why was I having such trouble?

That evening I went to my favorite watering hole, The Hill, to enjoy some adult beverages and try to piece together where I went wrong. I couldn’t understand it. As far as I could tell, Jack Burton had it all figured out. He was but a few short steps away from Nirvana and complete universal harmony. Meanwhile, here I was, probably out of a job and covered in tomatoes and pureed veggies.

After sipping on my fourth gin and tonic, I realized what I was missing. See it’s not enough to try and just follow Jack’s advice. If one wants to truly know enlightenment, one must commit to walking the same path as that great man. I would have to go out and buy a truck. I’d have to get married and divorced a few times, probably have a bastard child or two out there somewhere. I’d need to get into gambling and playing Mah Jong (probably) at grimy city docks in the wee morning hours. I would need to become stupider and more obtuse. And most importantly I would need the experience and hemorrhoids that only come with untold hours of sitting in a truck. I understood that all of these things were too much for me to attempt as a simple social experiment. I would have commit to a complete life overhaul. And since Love it or List it was going to be on in a few minutes, I just didn’t have the time.

I had to abandon my experiment there. But not all is lost, for I know that someone, somewhere out there, must be replicating what I did. But going further. Trying harder. Somebody out there is close to tasting spiritual oneness with Jack Burton and the cosmos. And to that person, whoever they may be, 

I can only say:

“Sit tight, hold the fort, keep the home fires burning. And if we’re not back by dawn…call the president.”

Or something like that. Whatever. It’s not an exact science.

Wednesday, August 08, 2018

How To Live Like A Universal Local

So there I was, sitting in Zengo, enjoying a nice brunch of dim sum and antojitos and reading the latest issue of LunchBox. There was a fascinating piece comparing the prices and tastes of a Ricky in Chinatown versus a Ricky in NoMa (one locale prefers the more traditional bourbon, whilst the other favors the more plebian gin. Natch).

I continued reading the magazine as I hopped onto the Green Line --while jamming out to some Rare Essence, of course-- past the Borf mural, down to U Street for a quick little nosh at Ben’s Chili Bowl. Following that, I snagged a conveyance from the Bike Share and made my way to Anacostia to pick up an eight ball of Hinckley and a quart of mambo sauce. With those tasks completed, I wandered over to the Hawk ‘n’ Dove for my shift running the glory hole in the men’s room.

The magazine article that really caught my eye was about living like a native in this fair city. The places to go, the places to be seen, the things to do and eat, what to wear, what to do, what people to hate and the myriad other things that differentiate living in this particular city from any other city in the world.

And it was all the most egregious of bullshit.

See, I live in the Washington D.C. metro area. I was born in the city proper and grew up right outside its august gates. As far as I can tell, there are at least three separate D.C.s:

1. There’s the touristy portion, full of free --or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, needlessly expensive-- museums, national monuments, hot dogs cooked in toilet water and crappy tee shirts stitched together in Indonesian sweat shops.

      2. The political side of D.C., which is anything around Capitol Hill, (or just “The Hill” as smug, self-important assholes call it).

3. And the actual, honest-to-goodness locals, the groupings of which can be divided into sub-categories, ranging from the scared white people in Georgetown, to the scared black people in South East.

The group that tends to lead the charge when it comes to these stories about being a local and fitting in to the area, is the second group mentioned. More specifically, the people we call “transplants.” These people are usually political staffers in their 20s and early 30s who amble into town for a few years and irritatingly mandate what’s “hot” and “in” around here. Then, after the transplants have left as annoyingly as they came, we locals wash their stink off of us, have a good laugh at their expense and continue to do whatever the hell it is we do. I think it has something to do with driving like insane people.

For years, I would occasionally see these stories pop up on the laziest of “news” websites. But over time, I noticed that those kinds of pieces were appearing more and more frequently, and not just for D.C. but for all major American metropolitan areas. And even non-metropolitan areas. Which makes no sense. I don’t mind that I’m not a native of Abingdon, West Virginia. I certainly don’t need to know the proper local etiquette for asking my first cousin out.

But back to the D.C. articles; I would quickly look over their checklists of local behavior to see how I measured up, and I often found myself wanting. I would panic, because I felt that I wasn’t living right. Yet, like an addiction, I would feel compelled to read about how I was a failure as a native Washingtonian. I would pick up a newspaper, --or, more likely, click on a link, because we live in Buck Rogers times now-- and thick, sour rivers of sweat would pour down my face as I read about the restaurants and bars that I’d never heard of, but everyone was going to, including my loved ones and family pets.

I was forever baffled. I couldn’t understand how I, as an indigenous dude, had missed the double-decker tour bus on all of these wonderful things that absolutely everybody I’ve ever known had been doing for years. And then it hit me: these lists aren’t written by, or meant for, locals. They’re written by outsiders. The Unbidden. Those who have weird geography identity issues and are OCD about classifying humans. And, on top of that, the lists are so esoteric as to be meaningless to anybody who reads them beyond a two-block radius of the author’s pretentious coffee house of choice.

You see Washington D.C. is a large city, using land appropriated from more than one state. It has about nine dozen distinct neighborhoods and a population of “oodles” according to the US Census Bureau website. The point is that the day-to-day life of a citizen in Tenleytown can be the polar opposite of that of a resident of Ward 8, but they’re still both inhabitants of the same city. Just two different parts of this multicolored, patchwork quilt we call The Former Murder Capital of these United States.

Anything I have done as a local is automatically something that a local does. It’s one of the simplest truisms to ever make itself known to me (the other being Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy). And it’s one I wish I was famous enough to abuse. Because then I’d be constantly walking around town in footie pajamas, walking my pet llama on a dental floss leash and eating only pineapple rinds, making sure that all the tourists got a good steaming gawk at me. And then, when I was sure I have everybody’s attention, I’d scream at the top of my lungs “Welcome to the Nation’s Capital! I’ll be your guide!”

I can see it in my mind’s eye. My “Living Like a Local” tour would be a smash hit. Buy your tickets now.